#would this count as slight nudity I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable

[speechlessxx]

Mailing Back The Memories

(Chris Evans x Reader)

Summary: In which the reader reminisces on what was…  

Warnings: self-serve fic, breakup, emotions, slight nudity (but SFW)

Word Count: 2.6k

I hope you guys enjoy!

Your newly purchased bed – that was a full instead of the queen that you grew accustomed to sleeping in – felt too big. Your apartment felt emptier now that his things had been packed up into boxes (that you put off mailing). You never realized how much of his things essentially became yours when he left them behind. He’d always say “keep ‘em, what’s mine is yours” when you brought them up.

You remembered when you came home to your apartment for the first time without him. His jacket that was hung on a kitchen chair welcomed you. Photographs framed were hung on the wall. Polaroids strung through twine like the Pinterest posts you copied. Your cabinets and fridge stored his favorite foods and snacks – that soon became your favorites when your relationship transformed from a fling to a promising future. Even your queen-sized mattress had a Chris-sized impression.

For the first few months, you wallowed in your sorrows. No one could blame you. The relationship was strong, healthy. Neither you nor Chris brought in any toxic traits that nipped at your bond as time went on. Your bond was strong and it felt unbreakable. Communication was effective. Emotions were pure. The intention was to end up at the altar although the question was never officially asked – but everyone knew that’s where you both wanted to go with each other.

None of your friends or family wanted to ask about what led to the relationship’s demise. They were curious, but no one wanted to pry. It wasn’t their business after all. Of course, there were assumptions, but no one truly believed infidelity or toxicity was the cause of the breakup. You and Chris loved each other – anyone could tell just by the way you both would look at one another.

But in truth, every good thing comes to an end. The phone calls became shorter. The getaways were always interrupted. The prying eye of the public wasn’t an issue in your relationship’s earlier days, but when they poked and prodded at your insecurities, it just became too much. When the “I love you”’s felt clipped and forced, you both had to admit something was off. The fire that glowed bright between you slowly faded. And as much as both of you tried to reignite it, the damage was done. And like perfect matches, the relationship had burned out.

It hurt to live in your own apartment, to be surrounded by the memories – his clothes in your dresser and closet, his cologne in your sheets. Hell, even your body didn’t feel like yours. You could still feel his hands on your waist, his lips on yours. Your heart still called out his name on those lonely nights.

But eventually, you found the courage or a faux sense of it – whatever could get you by. With shaky hands, you cleaned up your apartment. You scrubbed at the tiles of the bathroom until they gleamed. You wiped down the wooden floors until they sparkled in the sunlight. You took out the photos in the frames that reminded you of a happier time. The frames were now empty, hanging pictureless on your walls. The twine of Polaroids was taken down completely. The snapshots stored away in a shoebox under the bed. You bought a new mattress – telling yourself you were due for a new one anyway. You opted for a smaller bed, so that it wouldn’t feel as empty (not that it worked. You still felt alone).

You even packed everything that was his into those boxes that sat dauntingly in the corner of your apartment. And although you could fake the confidence – you could tell your friends and family you were doing fine, you could post on Instagram and tweet about new beginnings – you just couldn’t mail back the memories.

It felt like you were closing the door on Chris forever by giving back the pieces of him that you still had.

Like his Red Sox baseball cap –

You laughed and gently slapped the visor of the cap down after Chris made an attempt at a stupid joke. “Hey, hey! Watch it I’m driving!” He retaliated, letting go of your hand to fix the hat. “I’ve already got speeding tickets to pay off. I can’t get into an accident, especially with you in the car.”

You reached over and took his hand in yours, fiddling with his fingers. “You know the hat is a really stupid disguise, right?” You asked. You had the urge to flip the cap off just to annoy him but decided against it, knowing he’d overreact.

“That’s why I’ve got sunglasses,” he said.

“That you don’t wear?”

“There’s no sun.” He clicked his tongue. “I could get you the same hat. We can match!”

You scoffed. “I prefer the Yankees.” You honestly didn’t. You just liked to push his buttons.

He gasped with mock offense. “I think I should just pull over and tell you to walk home.”  He pushed your hand away. You burst out laughing and he couldn’t help but join your hysterics.

Chris looked over at you. The moonlight was hitting you in a way that made your skin gleam. Your head was thrown back as you laughed, and your eyes squinted from your smiles. You didn’t realize he was still staring at you when you had calmed down. You looked forward and gasped. “Chris, red light!”

His head snapped back towards the road as he passed up the streetlight that glowed the angry color. Thankfully, there were no cars or pedestrians. No one but you and Chris (and maybe the street camera) witnessed it.

“I’m gonna pretend you never said that because I love you.” He told you.

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t run the red because I love you … and the Yankees.”

“Ignoring you.”

Or the Montblanc timepiece you bought him for his birthday that he left the very last time he was over –

“You didn’t have to!” He shook his head as he stared down at the watch in awe. “Seriously, babe!”

“No, no! I wanted to get this for you!” You beamed and kissed his cheek.

It was a simple watch. A chestnut brown leather band with gold hardware. It was simple, versatile. Something he could wear on his day to day or for formal events.

“Look on the back!” You urged as he unboxed the watch.

He shook his head and gave you a look of disbelief. He wasn’t into overly flashy things and he didn’t like to put down thousands of dollars on material goods – like a watch. (He owned the same sweatshirt in 2 different colors). Chris loved to spoil his loved ones – he loved to spoil you – but he didn’t know how to react when the tables were turned and he was on the receiving end of expensive gifts.

On the back of the watch, was a small engraving. The man at the store told you that they didn’t do message engravings – “only names and initials,” he told you – but you insisted even when he said that the message would barely be seen.

I love you forever and a day.

It was a stupid, cheesy saying that Chris drunkenly confessed to you one night over the phone back when you two were barely serious. As the relationship heated up, it became a catchphrase, sometimes an apology, a promise. Words that meant the world to both of you.

He began to tear up. You gasped and wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders. “Chris, baby, noo! Don’t cry!” You pleaded. “I didn’t think you’d cry!”

He put down the watch and turned his body towards you so that he can engulf you in his arms. You felt wet tears on the skin of your neck where his head took shelter in. You shushed him and robbed the back of his head, soothingly as he cried. You loved how emotional Chris was. He was never afraid to be vulnerable in front of you.

“I love you.” He murmured.

“I love you, baby… Forever and a day.”

Or the painting of you he painted which you had hung over your bed –

“Stay still, (Y/N)!” Chris scolded.

You groaned. “I’ve been posing for the last 2 hours. Are you done, yet?”

“Painting takes time.” He told you. “Stay where you are!”

“The sun’s going down, Christopher.”

Chris had mentioned that he wanted to be a painter when he was younger. You teasingly asked if he was any good – you knew he was (he was good at almost everything). Of course, he never backed down from a challenge.

You regretted saying yes to becoming his personal art model. You didn’t realize you were signing up to sit on an uncomfortable stool nearly stark naked for hours on end. Your arms were aching from holding up the thin scarf that teasingly covered your breasts and draped over your front. Your bottom was sore from sitting on the wooden stool. “I’m getting tired,” you whined. “Couldn’t we just take pictures?”

“No, you wanted to know if I was any good, and besides, painting you in only a scarf is much more intimate.”

“But pictures are intimate, too!” You argued. You had several explicit, teasingly explicit, intimate Polaroids stashed away in your room to prove that. “Plus, I feel like you’re making a Picasso-esque painting and I’m going to be very offended when I take a look.”

“I’m almost done.” He laughed. “And you’re not going to be offended. I promise.” You gave him a playful glare. He seemed a little too confident.

“So, if you’re almost done, can I put on clothes now?” You muttered.

Chris laughed as he glanced up at you from his canvas that was propped up on an easel. He looked you up and down then licked his lips before smirking. “I think I prefer you like this.”

“Perv.”

“Only for you, babe,” he winked before picking up his paintbrush again. He swiped for a few more minutes despite your complaints before dramatically throwing his hands up in the air. “Magnifique!” He exclaimed in – what you assumed to be – a fake French accent. “Come look!”

You hesitantly got up from the stool. Your legs had fallen asleep several times throughout the two hours you were sitting. You covered yourself as best as you could with the sheer scarf – not that Chris minded the view. You made your way over and gasped when you looked over your boyfriend’s shoulder.

Saying that it was “magnifique” was an understatement. No words could describe the artwork in front of you. In fact, you weren’t even sure if Chris had painted you or if Chris painted it at all. He could’ve just bought a painting and had you sit naked in front of him for two hours.

“You did this?” You gaped.

“Duh.” He laughed. “I need to add a few finishing touches. A couple shading here and there. But it’s done. And my poor baby,” he pulled you over to sit on his paint covered lap, “was getting sore and tired.” He kissed your shoulder. “You like?”

“I love!” You said. “I don’t even look like that!”

He scoffed. “Yeah, you do. You’re a goddess.” He kissed the part of your neck where it met with your shoulder. “You should model for me more often.”

“I think I just might. It’ll boost my ego.” You joked. “I love it, Chris, really.”

“I love you.”

The boxes were full of memories. Memories you couldn’t just ship off. You couldn’t just let them go.

But months after the breakup and several encouraging speeches from your friends, you finally caved. With a nervous sigh and shaky hands, you put the shipping labels on the boxes. You weren’t sure if you should’ve added a letter – a piece of closure for you and maybe for him – but you decided against it. You weren’t sure if you could write down how you felt without breaking down again and backing out of sending them off.

You needed to do this. If not for him but for you.

-=+=-

When the packages arrived, he was very confused. Who sent him boxes? Did he order anything and just forgot? But when he read the labels, his heart sunk. Your name and address printed in small letters on the corner of the label.

He slowly went through the things. The memories unfolding before him as he unpacked. The baseball cap he thought he had lost, the watch he was desperately looking for days ago to wear for a red carpet (it brought him a sense of comfort. It soothed his anxiety knowing he had a part of you with him during big events – during anything really.), the painting of the goddess that ruled over his heart – and still did.

It hurt him thinking that you spent months probably packing away things he had left in your apartment. It hurt him thinking about you crying as you rediscovered each item again. It hurt him staring at the watch that boldly read the promise you both swore to keep.

Dodger, as if sensing his dad’s anxiousness, nestled against his leg. He looked up at Chris with sad eyes and nudged his leg as if to tell him it’s okay, dad, don’t be sad.

“I should call her, huh, bud?” Chris asked his dog. It’s been months. Months since the relationship ended, since the story was over. The pain should’ve dulled by now – for both of you. But it was still there. A sharp, ache that raged in your hearts.

Chris fumbled with his phone. His finger hovered above the telephone icon with mobile written underneath it. Your contact picture smiled brightly up at him.

Don’t do it. Your picture said to him. Let us heal.

Chris sighed and locked his phone, shoving it into his pocket. He wasn’t sure if he should shoot you a text and thank you for his things back. He wasn’t sure if he should call you and ask for a second chance – would you even want a second chance?

But instead, Chris decided to do the same.

In the next few days, he packed up each and every one of your items that you left in his house. Toothbrush, hairbrush, clothes, Polaroids that you took of him, of you, of both of you. Everything. He shipped them off with a letter thanking you for sending his things back, telling you that if you ever needed him that he was one phone call or text away. He thanked you for your time together, telling you that it was, truthfully, the best time of his life. He ended it with an I love you forever and a day although he wasn’t sure if he should’ve – if you would’ve wanted to be reminded of your sacred promise to each other.

When he shipped it off, he felt as if his home was hollow. He didn’t realize how much of you he still kept around. But he took a deep breath and nodded to himself. It needed to be done.

Chris walked back up to his bedroom. But he didn’t send everything away… He wasn’t ready to shut the door on forever and a day just yet. He pulled the top drawer of his dresser open and pulled out the scarf from the painting. He inhaled. Your perfume was still strong. It still smelled like you – like happier times. He couldn’t let go of every part of you – not yet.

Similarly, you kept one of his sweatshirts. It was an old one that he slept in. It was years old – you often joked it was older than you. You sometimes slept in it. It still carried his scent. A part of Chris you still kept. Similarly, you weren’t dead set on goodbye either. Perhaps – and you hoped – that this was just a see you later.

But nevertheless, this was a new chapter – for both of you. And if the story were to bring you back together, then you would both welcome that. And if not, you’d welcome that, too.

[majesty-madness]

Warm Water (Arthur Morgan x Reader)

https://tenor.com/view/arthur-morgan-red-dead-redemption2-gif-12884898

Summary: While their relationship isn’t very new, Y/N realizes the lack of intimacy between her and Arthur. She feels like Arthur is hesitating so she makes the decision to try to show him exactly how she feels. 

Word count: 4800+

Warning: Cursing, fluff, nudity, light sexual themes

It was an incredibly slow day. The sun that seemed to rise then immediately set was prolonging it’s stay in the great blue sky.

It didn’t help that there was nothing to do around camp. The laundry was already cleaned and hanging up, dishes were piled neatly onto a table saved for later, Pearson was not currently preparing any meals for the day, and most of the men had gone out to hunt or collect more money.

Camp was silent. All except for the crackling coming from the nearby fire pit.

Y/N sat quietly by that fire with a book propped in her lap. The novel was opened but not being read, Y/N had gotten bored and opted for staring at the orange-yellow flames of the fire.

Unbeknownst to Y/N, a brunette had noticed her intense fascination with the fire and tapped her shoulder.

The contact caused Y/N to jump and Abigail pulled her hand away. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

“No it’s okay, I was miles away.” Y/N replied, finally closing the book that had remained open without being touched for who knows how long.

Abigail scoffed as she sat down next to her. “I could tell.” The y/h/c picked up on the scoff.

“I’m just so bored! The day just seems to be going on forever.” She exclaimed, throwing her arms in the air.

“I know what you mean.” Abigail chuckled, deciding to also stare into the flames.

There was a moment of silence between the two women as they sat near the fire pit, admiring the warmth while simultaneously being repulsed by its close proximity.

“So, how have things been between you and Arthur?” Abigail suddenly asked, interrupting the silence.

Y/N sighed and looked to the ground. Abigail turned her gaze, a knowing expression on her face. “That bad?”

“No.” Y/N quickly defended. “It’s just-” she paused.

“Just what?” Abigail inquired.

“It’s just… it’s been seven months, and there still seems to be this wall between us.”

Abigail bobbed her head up and down in a slight nod and leaned back away from her lap. “I see.”

“I mean it’s not like he won’t talk to me or that he’s avoiding me or anything like that, but when I try to be more physically affectionate he-... Well, I feel like I make him uncomfortable and it breaks my heart.”

Abigail smiled. “I really don’t think that’s the case.”

Y/N scoffed this time. “What makes you say that?”

Abigail explained. “Arthur’s been through a lot, I’m sure you know that. He’s opened his heart up to people, and was shot down by the ways of the world we live in.”

Y/N knew what Abigail was talking about. She knew Mary had broken his heart and he continued to put up this metaphorical wall to keep anyone from getting too close. Who could blame him really. Though Mary wasn’t the only one who hurt Arthur. Two other names came to mind.

Eliza. Issac.

The mere thought of their names brought tears to her eyes.

It wasn’t their fault though. They were ripped away from Arthur by the barrel of a gun. It was their deaths that made Arthur realize the real cruelty of reality.

Not many people in the gang knew about Eliza and Issac and the fact that Y/N knew meant that he trusted her despite the lack of intimacy in their relationship.

“But you don’t make Arthur uncomfortable. I see that everytime he looks at you.”

This caused Y/N to look back up to the mother sitting next to her.

Abigail continued. “I’ve known Arthur a long time, and I have never seen him as happy as he looks when he’s with you.”

Y/N smiled.

“I know it’s hard for him to be close to someone, but it’s because he cares for you that he doesn’t want to make a mistake.” Just then there was the sound of horses and chatter approaching the camp.

Abigail and Y/N turned to see that most of the men had come back. Arthur had come back.

The brunette stood up from her spot and started to walk away but before she got far, she turned her head to look at Y/N. “I think you should tell him how you feel and maybe...maybe he’ll open up a bit more.” And just like that she walked away.

Y/N sat and thought for a minute then looked up. Her eyes shifted to admire Arthur’s tall, stocky frame, he was currently talking with Pearson.

She watched the way Arthur carried himself, one knee bent as he stood to show he was comfortable being casual at camp. The way he scratched at the stubble growing on his face from where a beard used to be. The way his lips curled up into a smile as he made a joke about Pearson. The way his laugh reverberated from his throat into the open air. The way he did anything really.

Oh, she was so hopelessly in love with him.

A smile had found a home on Y/N’s features as she sat there staring at the man she loved. Abigail was right, she should tell him how she felt. At least that would get things out in the open and they could discuss where to go from there in their relationship.

The y/h/c hopped up from her spot trying to look casual as she walked over to Arthur who was still talking to Pearson.

“Come on, Arthur.”

“I just got back and now you want me to head back into town for food?” Arthur rhetorically asked, the annoyance palpable in his tone.

“We’re running low on supplies.” Pearson added.

“So go get it yourself.” Arthur retorted. Y/N giggled at his snarky remark.

Arthur whipped his head over to see his girlfriend standing there with a smile on her face. He hoped she couldn’t see the blush on his cheeks.

“Please Arthur? You’re the only one who’ll actually get what I asked for. All these other fools waste money on things we don’t need. Besides, it won’t take long. Ten minutes tops.” Pearson continued to beg.

“I don’t-.” Arthur started but was interrupted by his significant other.

“Why don’t we both go?”

Her suggestion surprised Arthur. Usually, he was the one to ask if she wanted to go into town with him for supplies. Not the other way around.

“You wanna go into town?” Arthur questioned, continuing to hold his unlit cigarette between his fingers.

“Why not? I mean it’s not like I hate going into town.” Y/N paused before adding. “And I’m bored.”

Y/N nearly fainted when Arthur chuckled at her response.

He stood there silently for a few seconds as he thought it over, though Y/N knew she had already roped him in. She knew him too well.

“Arlight, fine.” Arthur huffed then threw his cigarette to the dirt ground.

“Great! Let me go put this away then we can go.” Y/N grinned running off to toss her book back into her tent.

Though Arthur tried to be annoyed, he was secretly glad that Y/N had suggested the idea.

Spending time with her made him forget what he was, what he had done in the past, and that he was an outlaw through and through.

That’s what scared him.

He would fall so deep into every moment he spent with the woman he loved that the dangers that constantly followed him around drifted from his mind, but the world did not forget.

The world always remembered and would remind Arthur of his past deeds by throwing obstacles right back at him.

Damn, the world Arthur often thought to himself.

One part of him wanted to get away. To live a peaceful life with Y/N by his side, hopefully with a ring around her finger and a cabin all to themselves on a plot of land that they’d own. However another part of him understood that he was an outlaw who’d committed many crimes and killed many people so he accepted the fact that he would never truly get away from ‘the life’. He mentally scolded himself for thinking such things when he knew he didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve her.

Arthur was pulled back to reality when Y/N came rushing back over to him, a giddy smile still formed on her lips.

“Ya ready?” Arthur asked with a slightly sarcastic undertone.

Y/N nodded dramatically. “Yes sir, Mr. Morgan.”

“Alright then, let’s go.” The outlaw said gesturing to the wagon that sat off to the side of camp.

“Thank you. Both of you. Make sure to bring back what we need.” Pearson called out as the couple made their way toward the wagon.

Arthur grunted as his response to Pearson’s demand about the supplies. If he didn’t love Y/N so much, he wouldn’t be going back out.

“Don’t worry, we will!” Y/N called back amused by Arthur’s lack of interest.

The stocky cowboy stepped up onto the wagon first then extended his hands out for Y/N to grab. She took them firmly in her own and helped Arthur to pull her up onto the wagon as well then on their way they went.

The couple spent the first several minutes basking in silence. It was a bit awkward only because they didn’t know what to say to each other.

Arthur loved spending time with Y/N however, lately he felt as if he were avoiding her in a sense and he wasn’t sure if he was capable of discussing the reason why.

Y/N was glad that they were alone, but she needed to talk to him, tell him how she felt so that way they could get everything out in the open.

Despite her and Abigail’s talk earlier, she was hesitant.

“Beautiful today, isn’t it?” Y/N stated in an attempt to spark a conversation.

The outlaw nodded. “Yeah. Real nice.”

Silence again.

‘Beautiful today? Damn you, Y/N! Talking about the weather.’ Y/N mentally scolded herself.

Why did she have to be as awkward as Arthur when it came to starting a genuine chat?

Something else. She had to talk about something else, something that she could eventually steer in the direction of how she felt.

“Find anything in town? Any solid leads?” She opted for asking about what Arthur had been doing earlier.

Arthur spared her a glance then turned back to the dirt road. “Yeah uh...turns out there’s a train that’s gonna pass through town tomorrow then head into a bit of deserted country. Me, Charles, and John thought about hittin’ it.”

“Hope it’ll be worth it. There’s nothing worse than going through all that trouble only to get a small take from it.” Y/N said with a small chuckle of amusement following as if she were trying to make a joke.  

Arthur scoffed in response. “From what I hear, trains full of rich bastards taking a trip somewhere so it should be a decent score.” He turned the wagon into another dirt road that led into town.

“I’m glad.”

“Glad?” Arthur asked, confusion lacing his voice.

She then realized how odd that must have sounded and was quick to add. “I mean glad in the sense that we’ll have some more money and are that much closer to finally moving on from this place.” Her cheeks were now flushed red.

“You’re glad about us robbing trains and rich folk?” Arthur inquired his lips curling to form a smirk.

Y/N giggled. “No! I just- Oh you know what I meant, Arthur Morgan!”

Arthur laughed along with his girlfriend, admiring the sound of her embarrassed giggling.

The sight made his heart skip a beat like nothing ever had, not even back when he was with Mary.

Yes he had plenty of good times with her, but with Y/N it was by far the best experience he’d ever had.

Soon their laughter settled down and Y/N took a deep breath, plopping her hands in her lap.

For a moment Y/N had forgotten all about her troubles, but with the silence closing in on them again, she suddenly remembered the ache in her heart.

Abigail’s words echoed in her head.

I think you should tell him how you feel.

Should she do it now? Was it too soon?

Her heart willed her to say something while her mind held her back. However, the ache in her chest was growing, pushing her to be honest with him.

Y/N looked up to Arthur, admiring his features. She could tell he was lost in his own thoughts as he directed them toward the store.

The way that the sun was hitting him caused her heart to pound away. It was a sensation that reminded her of when he’d lean in for a kiss. She was overwhelmed with love and admiration for him. It wasn’t like anything she’d known.

She needed to do it now.

Do it. Now.

Y/N opened her mouth. “Arth-”

“Let’s head in and get what we need.” Arthur said as he climbed off the wagon.

Y/N stared at him surprised, mouth still hanging open. She had not realized how close they were to the market. She didn’t even feel the wagon come to a halt.

“You okay?” Arthur asked, seeing as how Y/N was continuing to sit up on the wagon in a daze.

She was snapped back from her thoughts, shaking her head. “O-oh. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Okay. Let’s head in then.” Arthur suggested, walking off toward the store.

Y/N climbed down from the wagon and followed close behind Arthur.

As they shopped for all the materials and ingredients Pearson had asked for, Y/N kept getting distracted.

She kept thinking about what happened outside the store. As soon as his name was leaving her lips, Arthur was quick to intervene, suggesting they head in and start gathering supplies.

Did he know what she wanted to say? Was he aware that she wanted to talk and was trying to avoid it?

She really wasn’t sure. But she did know, now was not the time to talk about it apparently.

Besides, trying to discuss honest feelings inside a food market was not very intimate anyway.

It took a little while but Y/N and Arthur were eventually done buying the supplies. Arthur loaded them into the back of the wagon and was quick to climb up onto the seat.

Y/N walked over to the side of the wagon, where Arthur was sitting and once again helped him to lift her up.

Arthur snapped the reins, pushing the horses to go, and rode down the town’s path back toward the woods.

Just like on the way to the town, Y/N and Arthur didn’t say much. Instead of the teasing banter from earlier though, nothing was being said.

Each individual thinking miles away.

Y/N felt an obsessive need to somehow discuss her inner feelings to him while trying to be considerate to his feelings as well.

Arthur, on the other hand, was occupied with what happened back at town. Y/N had said his name, and yet he had interrupted her. She said she was okay but she seemed really distracted while they were shopping.

Was she about to say something? And if so, what was it?

As they rode further down the dirt path, Y/N caught a glimpse of another diverging path on her right.

She got an idea.

“Hey Arthur, turn up this path.” Y/N said, pointing to the dirt road they were getting ever nearer to.

“Why? Going that way takes longer to get back to camp.” Arthur stated.

Y/N turned to look Arthur right in the eyes.

“Please Arthur. There’s something I want to show you.” She pleaded, her voice soft and gentle almost like a whisper.

Hearing her voice that way, so quiet and fragile, made his heart skip a beat.

When she asked him for anything in that tone, he gladly did it. If she had asked him to burn down the entire world using that voice, he’d do it.

No problem.

Arthur’s gaze softened, silently turning onto the dirt path.

“I know this path is longer, but it’s more romantic.” Y/N stated a smile spreading across her face.

“Romantic? You tryin’ to butter me up?” The cowboy asked a slight tone of sarcasm.

Y/N laughed. “No, well maybe. I’m just trying to set the mood.”

Arthur smirked which made Y/N turn to him. “Why would you want to set the mood just for me?”

Y/N jabbed his arm with her elbow. “Don’t be like that. Is it so hard for you to believe that I’d want to do something special for you?”

He shook his head, a smile teasing his lips. “I guess I never thought I deserved it.”

“Well it’s not true.” Y/N added shortly pausing before speaking again. “Actually there’s something I really need to talk to you about, but I wanted to wait until we got there.”

Confused, Arthur looked over to his girlfriend, his half smile dying down. “What do you mean?”

She rested one hand on his back and used her other hand to hold Arthur’s arm. “Guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”

He chuckled. “I suppose so.”

It was a few minutes when Y/N suddenly patted Arthur’s arm, telling him to stop. He pulled hard on the reins until the horses came to a stop.

Arthur could immediately see the pep in Y/N’s step after she hopped off the wagon and treaded down a small hill, trying her best to avoid rocks and loose dirt.

“This way Arthur!” Y/N said absentmindedly, her eyes fixated on whatever was in front of her. Then her figure disappeared behind the edge of a small cliff.

“Hang on a sec…” Arthur blurted out as he made his way down the steep slope.

When he reached the bottom he was met with a medium sized pond surrounded by tall trees, patches of grass and flowers while a modest waterfall continuously flowed from some unseen river.

The cowboy stared at the beautiful environment as he stepped up beside Y/N who was also admiring the view, standing just an inch away from the water line.

“Isn’t it pretty?” She beamed, her eyes never leaving the shining surface of the water.

Arthur nodded. “Yeah. Real pretty.”

The couple took a moment to admire the scene in front of them. Both set of eyes wandering along each strand of grass, every flower, ever ripple in the water, trying to memorize every little detail as if they would never see it again.

And it was entirely possible.

The next day they could very well run into trouble, either from the O'driscolls or the Pinkertons or whatever bastards wanted to mess with them. They’d have to pack up and move again.

That was the harsh reality of the life Arthur and Y/N were a part of. Which is what gave moments like this more meaning, made them more special.

They might never see it again, but if they could remember it, they could dream about it.

Y/N’s eyes ran along the waterline eventually meeting back to Arthurs figure. Her gaze crawling up from the ground to finally land on his features.

His blue eyes, brown hair, his growing stubble, the scar on his chin. As much time as she had spent observing his features, her memory could never compare to the real thing.

“Hey Arthur?”

“Yeah?” He replied, his gaze not moving away from the pond.

“Let’s go swimming.”

That seemed to grab his attention as Y/N watched his head snap over in her direction.

“Swimming?” He asked in a near whisper, not sure he heard her right.

She smiled. “Yeah. Swimming.”

Y/N could see a redness rise from his neck up to his cheeks.

Arthur lifted up his hand to massage the back on his neck, like he was attempting to wipe away the blush. “I -I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. We’ve been gone long enough, I think it’s better to just head back.”

This time Y/N turned her whole body to face the man she loved. “Please, Arthur? Just this once.”

That damned voice. So soft, so gentle. God, she had him wrapped around her little finger.

He let out a sigh before saying, “Alright. If that’s what you want.”

With a light squeeze on his arm, Y/N stood up on her tippy toes and kissed Arthur’s cheek. “Thank you.” 

Arthur let out a small nervous chuckle as he tried to think of something to say. Unfortunately, he came up blank.

“I’ll head in first then you can follow me in, that okay?” Y/N asked, still pressed into his side.

He hesitantly nodded. “Y-yeah. That...that sounds good.”

He could feel the moment that Y/N stepped away and when he finally looked up, he could already see his girlfriend starting to undress herself.

The cowboy was quick to turn his back once he witnessed Y/N unbuttoning her shirt.

Even though she was the one to suggest the idea, Y/N could feel her own hesitation beginning to rise within her. Her heart started hammering in her chest, her face became hot, and short breaths puffed out of her mouth as she tried to control her breathing.

Why was she so nervous now?

She knew the answer because behind the confidence she had just displayed, she had never exposed herself in front of a man before, let alone the man she loved.

This was just as new for her as it was for him.

Y/N shook her head from those thoughts and proceeded to take her clothes off. She had already come this far, there was no need to feel so hesitant now. She loved Arthur with all her heart, and now she needed to show him that.

Once her undergarments were off, the woman stepped toward the pond, slowly sinking further and further into the water. 

She felt delighted when her skin came into contact with the shining liquid. “Wow, the water is warmer than I thought it’d be!” She called back to Arthur who was standing as stiff as a statue.

The sound of her voice caused Arthur to look over his shoulder to see Y/N’s clothes lying on the grass.

He closed his eyes for a second mumbling to himself. “Shit…”

The cowboy reached up to grab his hat then tossed it to the ground. Slowly but surely, he began taking off his clothes, one piece at a time.

Once he was completely naked, his anxiety was screaming at him. He had never felt so exposed in his life and he knew it wasn’t just because he was wearing nothing out in the open.

He turned to face the direction of the pond, quickly realizing that Y/N had her back turned to him. He also took note of how she was nearly completely submerged in the water, only the top of shoulders and up were visible.

When he stepped into the water, he was surprised.

She was right, the water was warm. It was probably thanks to the scorching hot days they had to deal with.

It took a couple of more seconds as his body was covered more and more by the murky water.

Based on the sounds coming from behind her, Y/N sensed that Arthur had already entered the water and was approaching.

She turned around meeting face to face with her boyfriend, who had stopped just a few inches away. While she’s not surprised it does distract her for a minute as she eyes his muscular chest. It was no secret that Arthur Morgan was built like an ox but seeing it up close like this was quite intriguing.

Arthur noticed Y/N’s eyes looking him up and down, but he made no indication that he wanted her to stop. He simply let her look.

Though his breath hitched in his throat when Y/N inched her way over to him, stopping just a few inches away, their bodies almost touching.

“Arthur, you know that I care about you right? And that I trust you with my life?”

Not being able to come up with a coherent thought, he nodded.

She continued. “Recently, I’ve noticed that when I...try to be more intimate with you, you seem….” she paused, not knowing the right words to use.

“You always seem so...uncomfortable. Like you don’t want that.”

Arthur’s eyes drooped to the water in deep thought before Y/N spoke again.

“I know you’ve been through a lot of pain in your life, and you opened your heart to people who ended up breaking it.”

He knew who she was talking about.

“So I’m not gonna make you do anything you don’t want to do. I love you, and the last I’d ever want is to make you uncomfortable or… make you feel you’re obligated to do things for me.” She raised her hand to cup his cheek.

Feeling him flinch made her want to retreat her hand almost immediately.

“Because you’re not. I just…” She paused again, wondering if she really should say more. She decided yes.

“I just wish you’d talk to me about how you feel and…..and what you want.” She finished, taking in his pensive expressive a clear indicator that he was taking her words to heart.

He didn’t say anything for several seconds. Fairly deep in his own mind.

Y/N let out a nervous, airy chuckle as if she were trying to diffuse the tense atmosphere. “I hope that I’m making sense and not rambling.”

He nodded again. Not saying anything still.

His silence was starting to make Y/N feel insecure, and made her think that maybe doing this was a bad idea.

She pulled her hand away from his face. “I’m sorry. Maybe we should go back.”

Y/N started to walk away when a hand grabbed her arm. She whipped her head back to the cowboy in utter shock.

Arthur stood frozen, his hand tightly gripping Y/N’s arm as he contemplated what he wanted to do right now. It was obvious he was in inner turmoil, trying desperately to come to terms with his own anxiety and hesitations.

However, when he heard Y/N whisper his name quiet enough that he just barely heard it, his resolve became crystal clear.

He yanked Y/N closer to him, pressing her body snugly against his as he lifted her up. He slid one hand under her leg, keeping it wrapped around his waist and used the other to wrap around her back.

The gasp that left Y/N’s mouth caused him to groan as he shortly pressed his lips to hers in a passionate infused kiss.

Y/N could only describe it as absolutely intoxicating. She felt drunk off his love.

In all the time that they had been together, Arthur had never kissed her like this. A perfect mixture of rough and tenderness.

Where had this been all her life?

Unfortunately breathing was becoming a factor so the couple pulled away from each other, panting for air.

“I’m...sorry, Y/N.” Arthur suddenly apologized.

The love of her life had just given her the most amazing kiss she had only ever dreamt of until now and he was apologizing?

How did she deserve him?

She grinned. “Sorry for what?”

“For how I’ve been the last couple of months. I should’ve talked to you sooner.” Arthur explained.

Y/N shook her head. “That’s nothing to be sorry for. You had your reasons.”

“That’s still no excuse.” He paused then added, “I knew I liked you from the beginning but the longer we were together, the more I realized how much I loved you. And it scared me because I thought that by me loving you, I might lose you like ....” He stopped himself, not being able to finish that sentence.

Y/N caressed his cheek again. “It’s okay. I know how much you’ve been through which is why I didn’t push it. I just wanted you to know that you can talk to me, be open with me.”

Arthur nodded his head. “I know I can. I trust you. It’s just most of the time I think of all the bad things I’ve done and can't help but worry about what could happen to you.”

“We’ve all done bad things, but what’s important is how we try to make up for those mistakes, and try to live a good life.” Y/N reassured, wrapping her arms around his neck.

She heard Arthur chuckle. “I’d be willing to try livin’ that good life as long as you’ll live it with me.”

Y/N smirked though a smile soon broke out after it. “Always.”

Arthur smiled back before he leaned in and captured Y/N’s lips once again.

This time, the kiss was much softer than the previous showing that this wasn’t based on lust, but rather originated from an unyielding love.

They pulled away to catch their breath.

“I love you, Y/N.” Arthur whispered as he locked eyes with his girlfriend. The woman he thought he didn’t deserve, but would try with every fiber of his being to do right by her.

Because second chances didn’t come by often, and if she was his, he’d do anything within his power to be a man she could be proud of.

Little did he know, she already was.

Her smile turned into a grin. “I love you too and I always will.”

______

Series Masterlist

[queenraeken]

“You’re Different” - Part III

Story Description: Scott and Stiles find the Reader in the woods - without any memories about what happened to her. They take her to Derek’s and there’s something about Reader that’s fascinating to the big bad sourwolf

Part Description: Reader learns that humans actually put on clothes

Warnings/Labels: nudity (non sexual), adorableness

Word Count: 1,292

A/N: Something I had actually forgotten about but I thought it was really cute, so here you have it

____________________________________________________________________

Peter lounged on one of the couches in Derek’s apartment, a glass of bourbon in his hand and his ankles crossed. Derek sat on the other one, doing some research as to where you could’ve come from and what you were. Although you smelled like a human and looked like one too, you had some strange aura that made him doubt that you were actually human. Then there were also those strange memories you had of his childhood - he’d already thought of the possibility of you staging the whole thing just to get close to the pack and then harming them, but it didn’t seem too likely. To him, you didn’t seem as if you could hurt anyone. 

Both of the men heard when the running of water stopped in Derek’s bathroom and turned their heads into the direction of the hallway. Soon after, you stepped into Derek’s living room. Naked.

„Oh my god!“, Derek hissed surprised and immediately looked away, punching Peter lightly when he just smirked and still looked at you. You were confused. Your long (y/h/c) hair was still wet as you stepped into the living room, the air cooling your damp skin.

„What?“ You asked as Derek stood up, still trying not to look at you and ushering Peter towards the stairs, who just winked at you before disappearing upstairs. 

„You’re naked“, Derek said uncomfortably when they were alone and you bit your lip.

„Is that wrong?“, you wondered, looking at the werewolf with big (y/e/c) eyes, confusion apparent. He looked as usual, a slight grim look to his face, although his cheeks were slightly pinker than the last time you had seen him. Derek now looked you into the eyes and seemed really tense. He opened his mouth, trying to say something but then shut it again without a word coming out. Then his face got a bit softer and he stepped closer to you, still keeping a respectful distance without letting his eyes wander lower. 

„We usually wear clothes“, he said hesitantly, adding that event to the list he had to do some research for. You really didn’t seem accustomed to the usual things humans or people raised with humans did. „Come“, he said and you followed him to a big closet. Derek pulled out a black shirt and some pants and gave them to you. „Those will do until I’ll get you something that fits tomorrow“, you nodded thankfully, pressing the clothes to your chest and suddenly feeling very self conscious - what the hell did you think? Of course did humans wear clothes! Right now you could hit yourself because of your stupidity. But Derek didn’t seem to care too much about your lack of clothes and merely left the room so you could get dressed. 

____________________________________________________________________

You could hear voices downstairs when you finally finished getting dressed. You couldn’t have imagined how complicated it was to find out how clothes worked, especially which part belonged where. But after some time you had figured it out and looked at yourself in that reflective piece of glass. You felt strange looking at your face and not recognizing it as your own body - you had bright (y/e/c) eyes, framed by dark lashes, cheeks rosy. Your hair had already started to dry and you pushed it over one shoulder, to be able to move more freely. 

Then you took cautious steps out of Dereks room and started descending the stairs to where the voices were coming from. When you stepped down from the last step, the whole apartment was silent and you turned around to the group of people that was seated on the couches and chairs around the little table in the middle. You smiled slightly and gave them a small wave, something that was quite authentic human behavior, you thought. There were many different children and you were surprised to not only see other lycanthropes, but also another human girl and a banshee.

„That’s who we were talking about“, Derek cleared his throat and gestured for you to come over to him, while the others smiled at you warmly. 

„Nice to meet you“, the red haired banshee said and you smiled wider and nodded to her, not knowing what the best answer to that would be. The others murmured their own greetings as you went over to the older lycanthrope - or werewolf how they called themselves. Derek made you sit down next to him and as he reached forward to get you a glass of water from the table in front of him, your eyes lit up and your smile got even wider. Since Derek had discovered your excitement over that drink he always had a glass waiting for you - you loved it.

„Look how happy she is about that glass of water“, Peters voice snarked and you threw him a half hearted glare, too happy about the cool glass in your hands. You had learned soon enough that you had to put Peter into his place quite frequently or he would exploit your patience. But Derek shut him up and threw the human boy a dark glance, who had sniggered quietly. You scrunched up your nose at the coldness of the water and then looked up again with a big smile on your face.

„It’s sparkly! And it tickles“, you said happily, rising the glass so everyone could see the small bubbles raising to the surface of the water, making a really quiet rustling sound. The human girl smiled wider and you and you saw the redhead and her exchanging a look.

„So you really don’t know how you ended up in that forest?“, she asked softly and your face fell. You had tried really hard to remember anything, aside from the weird memories of the fire in the forest years ago. At least you were told that it was years ago. Sometimes you randomly remembered the feeling of rain on your skin, or the sounds of the forest but that could’ve also been from the time you lay around on the ground in the forest. You shook your head and the dark haired girl smiled at you in such a warm way that you no longer felt too sad about it. You knew that Derek was already looking into it and as far as you were concerned he could do everything. 

„So how does it work when she doesn’t know anything about being human?“, the boy with dark hair, Scott you believed, asked Derek who had put your empty glass back onto the table. Derek opened his mouth but Peter beat him to it. 

„Oh just splendidly“, he replied while sipping from the golden liquid in his glass, a small smirk on his face. Derek scrunched up his eyebrows while glaring at the other werewolf and you watched it all with wide eyes, confused at what that meant. 

„But sadly Derek taught her to put on clothes“, he snarked and you felt the embarrassment creeping into your cheeks, coloring them a rosy color. Scott gasped and the boy next to him almost spit out his drink, the others looked at you with wide eyes. You would’ve loved to just disappear into the couch but Derek just threw his head back and laughed, patting your knee softly.

„We’re getting there“, he finally answered and your face still felt hot. The human boy stared at you and it made you uncomfortable, so you inched a bit closer to the tall werewolf next to you.

„I mean… I could take her in if you want“, the boy stuttered and you flinched as Derek snarled at him, eyes dark and eyebrows drawn together. 

„No“, he barked and with that, the discussion was over. 

[yeoldontknow]

Time Runner: 6

Author’s Note: welcome back to chanvember! thank you all for being so patient with me. i really do love this story so much and i hope you all enjoy it too <3 | this work features graphic content that may be triggering and themes not suitable for an audience under the age of 18. these themes include but are not limited to: discussions of PTSD, mentions of character death; graphic representations/discussion of blood, themes of war/violence, and explicit nudity. please do not read this story if any of these topics make you uncomfortable or if you are under 18. Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Genre: time travel!au; suspense; thriller; drama; romance; angst; sci-fi/fantasy Rating (this chapter): R Warnings: discussions and references to PTSD/trauma; mentions of character death; themes of abandonment; graphic representations and discussions of blood; graphic themes of war/violence; explicit nudity; explicit language; heavy angst || do not read this story of these warnings make you uncomfortable Word Count: 5,832

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You snuck into Macy’s on 34th Street just as the last customers were beginning to leave, the closing chime a mechanical noise that briefly gave you pause, eyes wide and knuckles taught. The shrillness of the clicks made the hairs on your arms stand on end, awakening the gooseflesh of shock and awe for man made things and inviting you, once more, to your reintroduction to society.

Your footsteps were not cautious, the harshness of your pressure luxuriating in solid tile and the way it did not bend or give beneath your weight. In the distant recesses of your memory, you wondered when you had started to take the solidness of architecture for granted, but then, you supposed there were millions of nuances you had learned to ignore simply because they were rather than could be.

Chanyeol followed behind in silence, hot on your heels and nursing a fire within his core. Even as he kept his slight distance, you could hear the racing thoughts and the words that splintered, unspoken and unuttered, at the back of his tongue. If you had learned anything in your year apart, you had learned patience, the gift that comes with learning to accept time and the chronology of desire - the way it continues, unspoiled, even when you wish it would rush towards you. Behind you, Chanyeol had wanted to speak, but you kept your jaw clenched tight, forcing him to silence and ensuring he, too, learn what it means to wait. 

Thousands of questions burned in your throat like bile, but you’d lived a full year without pandering to his acquiescence and your priorities had changed. You needed clothing, food, things vital to your survival as a person. Over time and long without him, you’d built yourself into a beast, and only with rows and rows of finely pressed shirts and soft denim, neat and clean and organized all around you, did you remember that you were a woman born into polite society.  

Rather unceremoniously, you stripped out of your clothes in the center of the woman's clothing aisle. You'd climbed the metal stairs of the escalators with a hurried excitement, enjoying the rattle of mechanical objects as they warped against your touch. Finding clothes reminded you of bounty, of the way you had gone hungry and gone empty, alarmed, now, by all the things you had taken for granted when you were selfish and not wise enough to truly know the difference. 

You did not bother to shield your naked body from Chanyeol. Over time, you’d grown used to undressing in open spaces, unshy and unmoved by watchful eyes - if they wanted your skin, they would do their best to claim it, and you were always ready for the fight. In turn, Chanyeol did not bother to turn around, his gaze on you hard and unyielding, repossessing what he could and eyeing you as a phantom, certain you would disappear if he looked away. Jaw clenched and arms crossed over his chest, he watched you peel your garments, your armor and the ripped flesh of dead things, away from your skin, with grim, thin lips. 

He watched your motions with a morbid curiosity, concerned yet devoted to the marks on your skin. The dried dirt and blood peppered your exposed breasts, caked into thick layers, the smears having been there for days, weeks, months. Hygiene had been a luxury, a difficult luxury to find in the cold months of winter. The water had just started to raise its temperature when Chanyeol decided to show his face, your weary feet walking along the river bank looking for a clear expanse of water, free from the undercurrent of frost. A younger version of yourself would be concerned you hadn't the time to get clean for him, to make yourself into, something soft and warm and pretty, but you did not bother to mourn that version of yourself. You were different now.

And, apparently, so was Chanyeol. 

With each new reveal of your bruises and marks, he simply watched, impassive, yet, paradoxically, enlightened, unwavering in the way his gaze traversed your bones. Something about the fierceness in his eyes put a fury in your knuckles, a new side of him being revealed alongside your bruises, the side that does not weep for the ravaging of beautiful things. He watched you with understanding, the appalled displeasure of affection mixed with knowledge, guilt, and expectation - as though he had imagined worse, relieved you were alive while acknowledging, with the bitterness of remorse, that you were not whole.

As a challenge, you kept your eyes on him just the same, standing fully naked before him and demanding that he see you. Tongue pressed against the back of your teeth, you were glad for the battle that had ripped your goodness away, glad that you were now his equal - full of lies, and secrets, and deception. He would never know all the things you had learned to break in his absence, even if he was forced to live with the knowledge of breaking you. 

When he did not look away, simply regarded you with a hesitant awe that made your head raise high, you turned away, studying the fashion you had learned to forget. With careful hands, you tugged shirts off of hangers, lips downturned in a serious frown as you walked down the aisles, dropping the items that displeased you. Your hands gave pause over the clothes, lingering too long on each fabric as you rubbed it between your fingers. The sheerness of modern materials suddenly seemed so impermanent, beauty without function and designed without art.

But even these fabrics were rough in their harshness, the cotton worn away without a pre-wash and mixed with materials never meant to be pressed against the supple softness of skin. Alone, you grimaced and you laughed, skin tight and aching with the complexity of memory - the nostalgia of the distant comfort of poly-blend, merging with the ache for the supple protection of leather. 

It was only when the silence of his watchful eyes became oppressive, your tongue adopting a burn that whispered of the sourness of betrayal and  with the sour taste of betrayal and contempt, that you started to speak. 

‘You didn’t come back for me.’ 

A simple sentence, accusatory in its weight. As you spoke, your voice felt bitter, a dry expanse of disappointment tarnished with the embers of love and longing. Even then, you weren't sure when questions had become statements, prideful in the slow realization that you were the one leading illuminating the direction of the conversation. Now, you were the one in a position of authority, wise and dominant and mighty enough to demand action, but you would not apologize. 

After everything, this small, accusatory sentence was all you could manage. 

Leaning against a large square pillar, home to a long, clean mirror, Chanyeol pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and began to speak in shaking tones.

‘I did!’ he protested, words little more than a hiss of passion

‘No.' How odd, you thought, to speak with your full voice and tongue, unafraid of being heard by anyone, including yourself. You smiled, pulling a pair of jeans from a shelf on the wall with an apathetic tug. Sizes had become arbitrary things. All that mattered was that you were clothed and clean. ‘If it were me, I’d have come back for you in the space of a breath.' With this, you turned to face him, looking him in the eye and demanding he wither by the force of you. 'I would have run right back to you, and you left me.’

'You have no idea what I did to get to you,' he shot back, the tightness in his voice warping his words into a plea that spoke of anguished hostility. 'You have no idea how badly I wanted to find you. I thought you would trust me enough to give me the benefit of the doubt.'

Each of his words dripped with a pain that spoke of knives - knives against skin and knives against the malleable, fragile muscle of the heart. Chanyeol kissed his words with a desperation that made you pity him, the simplicity of his hurt almost infantile compared to the torment of abandonment. Love lingered in the spaces between his words, the words that spoke of trust and desire and wanting. 

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you felt your expression harden, glancing over your shoulder to cast him a harsh stare. Trust was a thing he had consistently bent beneath his greedy hands, taking it from you surreptitiously, even though you so willingly had given it to him, eager to be wanted. Even when you were together, he still walked over the truth as though it were eggshells, delicate in its presence as though he feared it. 

Long ago, you would have waited and bit your tongue, urging him to continue. Now, he had no choice but to listen.

‘They don’t care about me,' you explained, turning away to find a shirt rather than a bra. Your hands clutched the jeans with a tightness you had adopted over years of watching things get ripped away, holding them close and hoping they remain. 'They aren’t after me.’

Chanyeol scoffed. 'Whether or not they were didn't affect my effort to get to you. All I cared about - all I continue to care about - is keeping you safe.’

He was tired, you could hear it in the way he clipped his words, pushing back against your combative nature with a bite of his own. Tired as he was, the words dripped from his lips with a passion that made your spine tingle, invigorated by the violent compassion.

‘I wasn’t.'

‘I know,' he agreed, vehemently. 'I’m -’

‘Don’t say you’re sorry,’ you said, cutting him off as you pulled a button down shirt from a hanger. Turning to face him, you angled your chest towards him. ‘I meant, and continue to mean, nothing to the men after you. You had to cover your own ass.’

‘What am I supposed to say?’ he snapped, taking several stops forward with vigor. ‘Can you really blame me for -’

‘Yes.' It was a bark of a statement, one that made you glide your tongue over your teeth as you flashed him a glare. ‘I can.’ 

‘And what would you have had me do?’ The lilt of exasperation in his voice was exhilarating. You needed this confrontation, needed to hear him break. Pushing him to the edge was the only way you could get a deluge of honesty out of him. ‘Risk both of us getting captured and sent back to 3148 just to die? I can’t do that again!

There he was again, spewing more secrets and mysteries your way as though they made any reasonable form of sense or logic. Dropping the clothes, you whirled around and walked towards him until your feet were inches from his. At once and by habit, you found the small circle of his nose freckle, so prettily on display at close proximity, and you willed yourself to hate it. 

He was the ice of a winter storm that fed the fire in your veins. In that moment, you wanted to kill him or kiss him, bleed him beneath your tongue, fill the ache in your heart with him, and run from him all at once. There had never been a moment when you could truly trust him, but still and after everything, you loved him. Through all your fragile and tarnished expectations in a lost year, the breath from his parted lips said more about his loss than yours.

‘You have lied to me so many times.’ Your voice was low, trembling with a rage that turned your fisted knuckles white. ‘How many people have you done this with? How many people have you dragged backwards and forwards through time just to leave them to die?’

‘None. I promise. It's only ever been you,' he said, shaking his head. At once his expression changed, brow furrowed in offense, appalled at the very idea. 'Do you really think I could? You have to let me -’

‘What?' you barked. 'Finish that sentence. I have to what? Believe you? Let you explain? I don't have to do anything you want me to.' 

Going to war with him like this felt liberating, a flood of woe and resentment and violence unfurling from your tongue. The words hurt to say, but hurt more to keep them in side - it hurt to have felt them for so long, aware that your breaking was a long, slow event that only bled once he pulled you back. 

'You left me in a Medieval Holocaust, Chanyeol!’ you shouted, voice raw and blunt as the edge of a knife. ‘I’m not me anymore!’ 

The sound of your voice resonating off the high ceiling briefly made you panic, the loudest you’d been in over a year, and you almost withered beneath the strength of the echo. But this, the glory of your cadence and the wrath of its tenor - the way it terrified you to witness the birth of your rage - made you smile. 

Finally, the only thing you had to fear was yourself. 

You were confident there was nothing left of you for him to love. Standing before him, you were a shattered, frayed ghost of a girl who had been soaked in bloodshed and brutality. Digging your feet into the tile, you felt not unlike a crow, the talons of your toes latched to a position you not be moved from. He would confront you, see you, and know you. Now, you were no longer fresh faced or warm, able to love him back to safety or even love him to a state of comfort. 

You would not, most grievously, be able to tell him that it would be ok. You were not fine. We would never be fine.

Instead, you had returned to him a general. A survivor. A woman. By slipping through time, he had escaped the delicate nuances that came with aging, while you had greeted them, though not altogether gracefully. Even as this thought crossed your mind, you fathomed it a bit unfair, but the cruelty of it felt like yours. 

‘You are exactly who I expected you to be!’ he yelled back, matching your tone with his own venom. This, too, was the loudest he had ever been. With you, he had always offered kind, gentle words, but something in the tick, richness in his voice told you he longed for this. Alive with passion, his eyes bored into yours, desperate. ‘You, in this moment, are exactly the person I thought I’d found in the library!’

‘For once,’ you demanded, vocal cords scratching together in a metallic, brutal sound, ‘can you give me the entire fucking truth without sparing me the details, like I’m a goddamn child?’

‘I met you when I was twenty, Y/N!’ 

He placed his hands on either side of your face, fingers carrying the same tightness and ferocity as the day you met. Part of you wanted to reel back from his touch, but he held you with a confidence and an aggression that mirrored your own, as though he had lived the year with you, by your side as a phantom limb. The guttural instinct to pull away faded almost immediately, replaced by awe as you marveled at his strength. This was not the touch of a man surprised into a state of fear. 

This was the touch of a man who knew how to handle flame, unafraid of being burned.

‘You were always older than me,' he explained, emphatically. 'Always smarter, and distant like you’d seen war, every inch of a history I just didn’t have access to. Y/N, I was twenty. I’m forty-six now and you, this you, is the woman I met as a boy and fell in love with. I’ve seen all of you now, only in the wrong order.’ 

When he finished speaking he released your face and backed away, chest heaving with the roughness lost breath, hands on his hips, bereft. Your brow furrowed deeply as you regarded him, processing his words with a loss of your own breath. Eyes wide and chest flushed, you leaned forward, urging him to continue. He ran his hand beneath his nose, gathering sweat, or tears, or both, lips wet and red. Words rose and died on your tongue, partly swallowed by your desire to hear him explain himself and party burned to ash by your own shock and bewilderment. There simply could be no way. 

‘Half my life has been wrapped up in you,' he finished, looking past you with a defeated, almost longing expression, looking through time to an age when things were hopeful. 'Two whole timelines have been filled with you, and I still want more.'

Perhaps what infuriated you most was that nothing about his tone said he meant to placate you. This was not his way of smoothing your edges, not even an implication that he would want to, simply his form of honesty that demanded you believe him. 

It only stoked the fire that had ignited in your veins, the mere idea of his narrative revisionist at best. Breathing long and slow and deep, you tried to fathom it - time and chronology and the distance in between, as if you were ever able to break away from it without his hand to show you how. 

‘Is that supposed to be comforting?’ you managed, mirroring his pose and placing your hands on your hips.

Chanyeol simply shrugged, no longer feeling the need to kiss the art of convincing. ‘If it comforts you, then yes. But it’s the truth.’

You laughed, cocking your head back to regard the ceiling, cold and hollowed. Looking back at him once more, you narrowed your eyes and shook your head. ‘No, it fucking isn’t,' you spat. ‘How would I have met you twenty years ago? Tell me.’

‘I found you, or maybe you found me,' he tried, walking towards you once more, emboldened by his own honesty. 'I don’t know because you never told me. And believe me - I asked, hundreds of times. Every time, you just shook your head and told me you had your own secrets.'

‘Well,’ you sneered, feeling vindicated. ‘Isn’t it funny how the tables turned.’

‘'Don't you dare act like it's the same,' he hissed, his own eyes narrowing on the impact of your implication. 'I asked out of love, and I stopped asking out of trust. From the moment we met, I trusted you.'

The pain of synchronicity struck against your heart, pulling at your ribs to put an ache in your soul. Biting your lip, you felt the blood rush from your cheeks, down and into your heart, your mind awash with memories of a time that belonged to another life, another you. You were not so different from him, once, young and foolish and vain, finding a man in a library who looked at you as though you were the center of the universe, wanting to always remain in that light. 

You ran, just as he did, with a stranger who promised the stars.

'Every secret,' he continued, 'I’ve kept from you has been for your own good.’ At this, he laughed, glancing down at his feet with a sheepish suppression. ‘And, fine, maybe I was selfish. I needed to know why - why it's always you, and why it's always us. All this time, I’ve been learning as we go. You've been learning time, and I’ve just been learning you.’

Your heart sank deep into your chest, pressing against your sternum in its trajectory. A younger version of you would have run to him, seeking the comfort of his arms or seeking to comfort the flush that had spread into his neck, but you had learned to only allow yourself the experience of comfort after the ugliness of humanity had been revealed. Luxuries only came when deserved, and you still had too many questions to let the night become easy.

‘Where am I in your timeline?' you asked, slowly. 'The woman you met, not the girl you found.’

‘You ran with me after I stole the key. I-' Chanyeol cut himself off, swallowing thickly before he lifted his gaze to yours, eyes wet and expressive, anguished and lost and so terribly hollow. 'I watched them kill you in front of our city center. You went to them willingly and they made an example out of you. They hoped it would encourage everyone else to find me.' 

Looking at Chanyeol, his wide eyes regarding you, still, as a treasure he had twice lost, the blood in your veins stilled. Only then, naked and vulnerable and reconciling the reality of your own death, did you begin to feel cold. Death, within and without time, was inevitable, a doom clock that left little room for escape, even if it was by your own hand. Suddenly, you understood the weight of his careful treading - having pushed him to the limits of his emotional strength; you understood the Ministry and their casual disinterest, your existence little more than an interesting afterthought, dealt with and succinctly witnessed in reverse. 

In one fell swoop, you realized you were as good as a stolen key, a treasure in his eyes and heart. 

‘So that’s why they don’t want me.’ Your words came as a hollow whisper, words that did not need to be spoken, but felt real, and tangible, as you spoke them. ‘They already know my fate.’ The weight of it rendered you back into a child, petulant and tempestuous at the understanding you had survived an inquisition just to choose another. And even as you spoke, your mind raced, began formulating plans and strategies, ways to fight and ways to live. ‘I’m already dead.’

Saying it out loud made your vision clear and brought Chanyeol close to you once more. At such close proximity, you were finally able to see him - to see him and witness him. The grey hair behind his ears spoke, now, of a life long lived and long experienced, so full and wrought with emotion that it swept through the strands like wind. Wrinkles tucked themselves into the corner of his eyes and lips, the nodes of his pores speaking more of worry and anxiety than the good natured laughter that many wore through time. Before you, he stood as a pillar of age and wisdom, and suddenly you realized you had learned nothing - always too selfish to see him for who he truly was.

Yours, always, and aged by the brutality of your existence.

He sighed heavily, tired and lost, giving over to your poison and to the old, fractured man he had so suddenly become. ‘You went willingly to them,' he repeated, soft and gentle and careful. 'I realize now you already knew how we would end.’ Fixing you with an affectionate stare, he attempted a smile, the thin line of his lips unable to believe the warmth of it. 'You made the choice already knowing that, eventually, you would.'

‘Why...didn’t you ever tell me?’ you asked, stepping forward. Your hands ached to reach for him, but you pressed them against your sides, fists curled into a ball to stifle the effort. 

‘What,’ he sighed, cocking his head to the side, exasperated, ‘that I knew everything about you before you’d actually become the person I knew?’

‘No! That you’d known about me and this since we met!’ This was the moment, you thought. The first time you could feel the fabric of the universe pulled in every direction, the void in between pressing against your shoulders. ‘What is the point, then, Chanyeol? I had a right to know!’

‘Because there's still so much of it I don’t understand,’ he pressed. ‘You ran with me, willingly. I asked because I needed to know, and you came because you wanted to.’

Pressing your hand to your chest, you clung to the one thing you could truly believe in. ‘I deserved to know!’

Closing his eyes, he chuckled to himself, cocking an eyebrow in interest when he looked at you cones more. ‘Would you have come?’ he asked. ‘If I told you, would you still have come? Don’t you think there’s something sacred to letting people live their life without knowing when they die?’

You didn’t have an answer for that, felt your fire and will begin to crumble beneath the weight of his stare. Falling silent, you felt your chest rise and fall, shallow breaths rattling through your lungs as you considered all the ways you had underestimated him. As though he wasn’t prepared for you, as though he wasn’t battle born himself. Now, confronted by his perception of the truth, so experienced in the handling of moral philosophy, you felt terribly small.

‘So you just wanted me there?’ A weak and selfish argument, one that spoke to your emotional turmoil, pulling back the armor of your heart to reveal the lost, and fragile soul kept within. 

‘I always want you with me.’ He said the words with a smile that was neither warm nor inviting, tragic in its honesty and acceptance of this truth, but still remained reassuring. Something about the way he looked at you said he was just as small and lost and desperate as you. ‘I don’t understand how to be without you. I did that - for a long time - and it was awful. I can’t -’

‘So this is my fate?’ you whispered, cutting him off. ‘To run with you forever?’

 A cold phrase, when you really meant to say needed. Was your fate to always need him, and be needed by him.

‘It seems fair, doesn’t it?’ he countered, the hope in his voice leveling your will to ash. ‘I’ve been in love with you forever, because this relationship stretches for an eternity. We are laced through history, you and I.’ His words came in a rush, passionate, emboldened, painting a universe in which time was moved by your hearts alone. ‘Tell me what the difference is!’

‘The difference is that forever is absolutely meaningless with you!’ It was your turn to step forward, letting yourself be close and captured in his warmth. It felt natural, comfortable, easy to be in his blanket again, close enough to remember why you’d run with him, always. ‘Don’t you see? It’s inconsequential and childish, because you render it tangible.’ 

Your voice was quiet and resolute, silencing him and all his echoing protests. Along your nerves, an itch to touch and feel him started to rise, wanting, all at once, to be handled by him, and to handle him with the new strength that had burrowed between your knuckles. He kept his gaze on yours, searching your face with a mystified expression, awed by the way you were both his and yours, his memories of you overlayed with the reality standing before him. A chill walked along your skin, and you welcomed it, glad that you had never learned an immunity against the glory of his eyes.

He was emboldened by the conviction of his love, the force of it nestling beneath your pores, rooting itself in your marrow. This time powerful, this time adult, this time raw. You shivered again, willing yourself to speak with a wisdom that echoed his own.

‘Forever bores me,’ you explained, voice calm and quiet, demanding to be heard. ‘Forever is scattered and non-linear, plot points. It’s charted data to be stumbled upon, found like a fucking surprise. Forever doesn’t fucking exist, Chanyeol.’

‘That’s funny,’ he murmured, ‘considering I’ve devoted my entire life to giving you every tomorrow.’

You wanted to laugh, amazed he could still cling to the words that would have soothed a younger, more fragile version of you; torn, in the end, by the contrast of your spirit. 

‘There hasn’t been a tomorrow for a long, long time,’ you said, softly. ‘Tomorrow and the future never comes, it just is. All there is, is now. Give me the present and make that stretch onwards. That’s how you tell someone you love them. You give them the present and you fight for it.’ Now, you let yourself take his hand, twining his fingers together with a roughness that spoke of cosmology and chemistry, the bonds of the cosmos and the bonds of atoms, stitched together by science and magic of choice. ‘Like this - this is a war you refuse to let die.’ 

In the silence that lingered between you both, he leaned down, resting his forehead against yours, sharing your breath. For a while, you remained this way, tactile, alive, and united, fighting for one another and fighting for a life that was meant to be shared. Eventually, his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you to him with a tightness that felt desperate. You followed suit, looping your arms over his shoulders and letting your fingers stroke idly at the hair at the back of his neck. 

Sharing breath with him grounded you back in the physicality of your body, blood warm and rushing to places long ignored. Your thighs ached, your chest heaved, your tongue wet - not with fear, not with rage, but with wanting - with Chanyeol. It hurt, in a sense, to be so aware of your skin, your limbs, your heart, the folds at the center of your core - awakened back into a person rather than a soldier. Chanyeol did not touch you with an urgency that spoke of wanting, just with a confidence and a power that said he knew what it meant to remember your soul, the person behind the skin and the human in the mind. 

It felt natural to be held this way - as if it was always how you wanted to be held: tightly, securely, violently. You clung to him, eyes starting to feel wet with tears you did not know had started to spill, cheeks scorched on contact with the fire of your emotions. Pulling back slightly, he regarded you with reverence, brought his hand to his mouth, pulling off his glove with his teeth before using his thumb to wipe the tears on your cheek away. He never took his eyes off yours, never apologized - aware you would not let him, aware that he could not - simply let you be held.

Resting his forehead against yours once more, he cupped your cheek with his hand, eyes closed and heart thundering against yours in his sternum.

‘I’m going to kiss you,’ he whispered, so unlike the way he used to ask.

Now, it was a warning, rather than a request, an announcement to be prepared for the totality of him, his longing, and his desire to protect you. The raw honesty of his statement rendered you silent, eyes half-lidded as you nodded, brought yourself closer to him, to the roughness of his clothes and the warmth of his skin that radiated from beneath. He whined at your acceptance of this, his own resolve collapsing beneath the relief of having you again - safe, and whole, and his.

He came to your mouth with a calculated vengeance, careful in the way he his hands handled you while his lips dripped loss and anguish into your blood, the force of his lips against yours a wild fire. You clawed at him, kissing him messily, unpretty in the way you handled his mouth, all teeth and tongue, the violence of war and hunger and grief pulling at his shirt by the strength in your fingers. For a year, you’d been charged, forced into a new shape that was both reductive and carnal, fierce yet so very fragile. He moaned into the kiss, and so did you, unsure if the wetness on your cheeks were your tears or his, though, in the end, you supposed it did not matter. 

This grief, you realized, was shared - scattered, out of order, and impossible, but shared just the same. 

Chanyeol tore through you with the full velocity of love, while you tore through him, full of lust and longing. Needing to catch his breath, he pulled back, smiling sweetly at your whimper of loss, your own lips wet and swollen. Tugging at his neck, you urged him back, wanting more, needing to feel him in places that were just was warm and moist as your mouth. He shook his head, ran his hand up your neck to tilt your head, leaning down to the tender skin with a gentleness that made you tremble.

Softly, he kisses your scars, gentle and warm and adoring, the quiet serenity and devotion of this pulled a sob from your chest, your hands clinging to him as though the kindness of this action was a trick. He kissed and kissed at all the things that had tried to unmake you, giving you the opportunity to get used to love, and loyalty, and veneration once more. With each touch of his lips, you felt yourself choke on a sob, realizing you’d missed him beyond imagination - his voice, his touch, the way he held onto words as though they were sacred, the way he held onto you, always reluctant to let you go. 

You’d punished him, spent an entire year and hours into the night punishing him, a projection of the way you had punished yourself, demanding he hurt with you. And even after all that, after the change and bloodshed and the violence, he still kissed you as though you deserved to be adored.

Eventually, he pulled away, laced his fingers through yours and led you to a bathroom. You kept your eyes on his while he cleaned you, wetting paper towels with hot water, letting you get used to the sting with gentle caresses. With each passing swipe, you decided, resolutely and confidently, that time had accounted for so many things, but it had never accounted for you. With each swipe, Chanyeol removed the dirt and the blood and the clay, revealing the essence of you that lingered beneath. 

You had played a hand in the manipulation of history, had survived an Inquisition and would live to see another, and decided, that if you were born to see the shift and movement of time, then so would you shift and move your fate.

Time had accounted for everything except your choice. 

Time would never erase you so swiftly, not after everything you had made with Chanyeol. You would not hand yourself over to a Ministry that had no power or governance over your path - they had proven you existed outside it, beyond it, and you did not matter to its rules or structure.

You would fight and you would create the change.

Your fate was not theirs to control.

Your fate was not theirs.

[you-guys--are-losers]

Spideychelle Week: Day Six!

//Second to last day, fam! Thanks to @spideychelleweek for the week of incredible creativity and stepping out of our comfort zones, because I was initially nervous about writing this and now I am SO ready. You guys down for this crap? Because guess what: today is College AU day! 

I wrote one of these before, but we’re gonna try another, and I’m going to use a prompt this time! I’m using a prompt from @veronicabunchwrites again, and this time it’s from their lovely list of college aus!

So, the prompt I’m using is this: “I post an ad looking for someone to be my model for my art project and the interviewing process has been a little awkward until you answer it.” I changed it a bit, just because I’m not comfortable writing someone fully nude, but that doesn’t mean we can’t do a little bit of spicy writing. ;)

Summary: MJ is having a hard time finding a model, so when Peter Parker volunteers to do it for her, MJ is extremely grateful. She’s known him since they went to high school together, so it shouldn’t be too hard, right? 

But as soon as MJ sees those abs, she realizes that nothing about this is going to be easy for her. 

Characters: Michelle Jones x Peter Parker

Word Count: 4,399

Warnings: Sexual tension, college-age stupidity, nervous quips, partial nudity

Sculpted

Screw this,” MJ mutters, shoving her phone away from her and leaning her head back on their couch with a groan.

One of her hands rises to her forehead, shoving her hair back from her face in a frustrated movement as she closes her eyes. “I’m dropping out of art school. I guess I’m gonna have to settle for the lame shit you losers are doing.” 

“You mean computer programming?” Ned hums from the futon across their apartment, not looking up from his laptop. “Yeah, sounds reasonable. I mean, it’s kind of a fallback, major, but, y’know…”

“We both know that after some of the modifications I made to the Bugsuit, I would have no problem getting a scholarship,” MJ points out, still not opening her eyes. In any other setting, with any other group of people, she knows it would sound conceited. But her loser roommates know that she’s screwing with them, and more importantly, they know she’s right. 

“What is it this time?” Peter pipes up, and MJ’s eyes open as he returns from the kitchen with the industrial-sized bag of gummy worms they’ve been working on for a week. “Shading? Digital perspectives? Visualizing a room layout?” He plops down on the other end of the couch, swiping the remote from between them and quickly switching the show from the later seasons of Parks and Rec to The Office. It’s been a running feud between roommates the past few weeks, but MJ is too irritated with her work to even acknowledge it tonight. 

“No,” MJ responds morosely, leaning across the couch to steal a few of the sour, sugary gummies from the bag before she settles back in to explain. “It’s not even the art. It’s the prep, which is not the part I was expecting to have trouble with.” 

“What are you working on?” Ned asks, eyes seizing upon Creed and Meredith as he asks the question. “Is it another of those digital ones? I like those.” 

“No, this one’s an oil painting,” MJ answers, leaning her head on the armrest as she allows herself to sink into the show. “But it’s supposed to be a figure drawing partially in the nude, and-”

Ned’s eyes widen across the room, and a strangled cough of alarm escapes his throat as he whirls to look at her. MJ doesn’t have to look across the couch to know Peter is doing the same-- the sound of the gummy worm bag dropping to the floor more than confirms it for her. 

“It’s just a waist-up of a male model, you testosterone-fuelled monkeys,” MJ remarks simply, taking advantage of the moment to steal the remote Peter has just set down. The two stop staring at her like she has just sprouted another set of arms as she switches the show to Parks and Rec again, and Ned lets out a slow whistle in relief. “Well, if I could find one, anyway.” 

“What do you mean?” Peter says slowly. 

MJ lets out a puff of air through her nose as she settles down again, allowing the beautiful sight of Amy Poehler in a lime-green pantsuit to relax her. Yes… That’s better. Leslie Knope is all that MJ will ever need to calm down. 

“I can’t get anyone to pose for me,” she replies after a moment, letting her eyes close again as she explains. “I need someone with fairly defined chest muscles, since we’re supposed to be working on the shading of human muscle. You’d think it would be easy to find someone with all of the guys I see in the gym every morning, so I put up an ad on the bulletin board asking if anyone was interested.” 

“Oh, yeah, I think I saw that,” Ned says slowly. “Betty pointed it out on the way back from pilates.” 

“You’re doing pilates with Betty?” Peter asks incredulously. “Dude, I don’t even know what that is.” 

“Pilates is what you do when you love someone,” Ned replies sagely, causing MJ to let out a soft groan. 

“Gross,” she comments. “I’d think that you’d be fine without the gym, considering the amount of tonsil tennis you two play. You’re practically Serena and Venus.” 

Peter draws in a sharp breath, and a sudden outburst of coughing fit ensues as Peter nearly inhales a gummy worm. Between the sounds of their best friend hacking up a lung, Ned’s eyes narrow, and he shoots her a look. “Continue with your story about how you’re trying to get a guy half-naked, then.” 

“Gladly.” 

After Peter is no longer in danger of asphyxiating, MJ lays out her dilemma. “The problem is that I can’t get anyone who’s serious about it. All of the messages I’ve been getting have been assholes who think I’m looking for a hookup. Please… Like this is some high schooler’s YA story.” 

“I mean, it does sound kind of sexual,” Ned points out. “I think the words ‘nude model’ will do that for you, even if it’s just above the waist.”

Peter lets out a final sigh as he catches his breath, closing the bag of gummy worms. MJ tries to feel bad that she may have killed his gummy worm craving for the evening, but really, she’s just glad there’s more left for her. She’s expecting him to make some comment about how none of them checked to see if he would be okay, and she is already preparing her comeback (“Please, Parker. We know we don’t have to worry about your super-esophagus.”) when he says something that catches her completely off-guard.

“I mean… I could do it.” 

MJ’s eyes fly open, and both MJ and Ned turn to him in shock. Peter’s eyes widen as he finds himself the object of both of their attention at once, and he raises his hands defensively. “What?” he stammers. “I’ve got muscles!” 

“I know,” Ned says, speaking up before MJ has to, “but that’s just… Weird. I think MJ wants to draw, like, a statue-bod kinda guy.” 

Peter’s cheeks heat up, and he looks slightly miffed now. “I can lift a bus, in case you forgot,” he points out, his tone slightly flustered. “And-and I held a ferry boat together.” 

“For, like, two seconds,” Ned muses. 

Before Peter can fire back, however, the unthinkable word drops from MJ’s lips: 

“Okay.” 

Both of them turn to her this time, and now she is the focus of shocked attention. Her cheeks heat up, and MJ turns to the TV, fixing her eyes on the screen and praying they take it for nonchalance.

“What did you just say?” Ned stammers. 

“I said he can do it,” MJ replies, forcing any breathiness out of her voice. “This thing is due in two weeks, I need a model yesterday. And if I don’t have to deal with guys sliding into my DMs and getting my hopes up, that’s a bonus.” 

For a minute, things are quiet. Then, finally, Peter says, “Okay. When do we start?” 

MJ glances away from the TV and makes eye contact with Peter, trying not to notice his bright red ears and the slight catch in his voice. For a minute, she nearly forgets to answer his question. “You can show up to the studios on Friday at four, if that works. Um, unless it doesn’t. I could also do Saturday, or Sunday… Or, um, Monday, right. Because that’s what comes next-” 

“No, uh, Friday works,” Peter interrupts, running a hand through his hair. They both look away at the same time, and for a second silence stretches out as they vehemently avoid looking at one another. MJ tries to focus on the beautiful goddess that is Leslie Knope, but after about thirty seconds she finally gets up. 

“I’m gonna head to bed early,” she decides, not looking at either of them as she chucks the remote at Ned. It narrowly misses his head, and Ned fumbles with it for a moment before catching it. This gives MJ the time she needs to make a quick exit, and then her bedroom door shuts behind her, and she is alone. 

In the dim light of her room, MJ quickly changes into a pair of sweats and a loose t-shirt, trying not to think about what just happened. Nothing happened, she reminds herself as she slides under the covers of her bed, shoving her head onto her pillow. I have a model. That’s it. 

It’s not weird; it shouldn’t be. They’ve been friends since high school, and MJ has seen him in that stupid suit enough times to know that his muscles are developed. It’s not anything uncomfortable. 

But still, the voice in her head whispers, you’ve never had to focus exclusively on the abs. And the pecs. And the obliques, and the- MJ shuts that train of thought down with a frustrated groan. 

Whatever. Peter is attractive; she’s known that since high school. It’s not new, and it’s not weird to admit it. It would be weirder if she denied it. She’s not blind; I mean, she’d expect him to admit she’s attractive, too, because she knows she is. It’s just objective truth. 

Why, then, does the idea of him admitting that fill her with tingly warmth? 

No, nope. Bed. It’s bedtime. MJ repeats it over and over again in her head, Bed time, bed time, for the better part of ten minutes. 

When she finally falls asleep, MJ dreams of brush strokes and blending and oil paint sliding across her skin, of painting on a canvas of freckles and stretch marks and dimples as fingers massage pigment into the contours of her body, making it permanent. 

-

Friday comes with a vengeance, seeming to hurtle into existence a million times faster than any day has before. 

It probably helps that, over the course of the week, MJ forces herself to think of anything but Friday. She focuses herself on schoolwork, social life, and her two best friends, who luckily make everything return to normal the morning after the decision has been made. 

The project fades into Ned’s distant memory, and Peter doesn’t bring it up at all over the course of the week’s antics. In fact, with how little they even mention school, MJ wouldn’t have been surprised if Peter forgets to even show up. 

But, sure enough, 2:00 finds MJ in her favorite studio in the building, and 2:03 brings Peter Parker into the room. He finds MJ there, with a canvas on an easel, setting up her paints and her pallet. Across from the canvas is an old sofa, something that she found in the back of the studio and figured would serve their purposes. The windows of the studio are open to let in natural light, and the sofa is positioned beneath a skylight in a way that will allow her to paint him with lighting from the angle she wants. 

“Um, hi,” he greets her, offering her a grin. The smile relaxes MJ because it is familiar. It is dorky and earnest and slightly sheepish, and all of those things are so Peter that she knows this will be alright. 

“‘Sup, loser,” she greets, nodding in his direction before returning to her pallet. She’s wearing old painting clothes, and her hair is pulled back into a messy sort of ponytail that will keep it out of her face while she works. She has a habit of getting herself a little bit streaked with paint when she’s not paying attention, and it’s a pain to get out of her hair. 

Peter begins to walk around the room, studying the various tools and the setup. MJ has to keep herself from subtly observing him as he does it, even though she wants to take in the endearing wonder written on his face. 

“This place is cool,” he comments, his voice relaxed and curious as he studies a posing chart hanging on the wall behind her. “Do you come here a lot?” 

“For most of my projects, yeah,” MJ hums. “It’s my favorite studio, so I may or may not have started a rumor that someone died in here so it’s always available.” 

Peter snorts in amusement behind her, and though MJ isn’t looking, she can’t keep away a grin now. “Why didn’t you ask the ghost to pose for you?” he asks. 

“Well, it was an axe murder, so that might be a bit messy.” 

Peter laughs for real this time, and then for a moment, they lapse into a comfortable silence. Peter watches as MJ begins mixing her highlight, and then he queries, “So… How do you wanna do this?” 

MJ is careful to control her urge to stiffen. Right… This is why they’re both here. It’s no big deal. 

“Um, right,” she breathes, glancing at him for a moment before returning to the pallet. “So you can, uh, take your shirt off.” 

“You’re not gonna buy me dinner first?” Peter jokes. His cheeks are pink, however, and his voice is slightly constricted as he pulls his shirt off, and MJ hears the fabric drop to the floor. It takes all of the self-control in her body to refrain from looking. 

“Nah, not unless you want the cold paella in my bag,” she hums. “I think it’s from, like, yesterday.” 

“I’ll pass,” Peter comments, and MJ grins. For a second, she forgets about her situation and looks up. 

Craaaaap. 

To preface: MJ knew that Peter was kind of jacked. She has seen the muscles through the suit before, has seen them in action on Youtube videos, whatever. She is supposed to be prepared. 

She is most certainly not. Nothing could prepare her for this. 

Her eyes find it immediately: Peter Parker’s muscular chest, standing before her in all its glory. His jeans ride slightly low on his hips, meaning that the ‘v’ of his abdomen is what catches her eye first, more defined than it was on any of the example sketches. She hurriedly drags her eyes away from that, up higher, but that isn’t any better. If she looks there, she has to focus on the clearly defined abs that are staring her in the face, begging her to touch them to see if they’re as firm as they look. It doesn’t get any less defined as her eyes travel up his body, to defined pecs and muscular arms that cause her to swallow, quickly looking anywhere else. 

Finally, her eyes find his face. Peter’s cheeks are pink, but his gaze is awfully intense as it meets her own, causing her heart to pound faster than it already was. 

“I- Uh- Um, right,” MJ stammers, forcing her eyes to give him a quick once-over as if she was only examining them from an artistic standpoint. “Alright. Yep, that’ll do.” In her own ears, her voice sounds an octave too high as she begins to mix the colors on the pallet, not looking up. “You can, uh, sit on the couch, I’ll tell you how to position yourself-” 

“MJ.” 

Peter’s voice interrupts her, and MJ can barely breathe as she looks up. When she does, he’s grinning sheepishly. “Shouldn’t I get oiled up first?” 

It’s a bad joke, but it causes MJ to laugh anyway. She’s grateful to think about something, anything other than the muscles that seem to be calling her name, the ones she’s somehow going to have to depict without being blinded by all of their splendor.

“Shut up, loser,” she instructs as she continues mixing. “If you keep talking, I’m gonna charge you a commission fee.”

“I’m the one doing this for you,” he points out playfully as he takes a seat on the sofa. “It’s not like I want to hang this in my room.” 

“Why not? It’ll be a tasteful layout. We’ll do some pin-up poses.” MJ examines him, and for a moment, she thinks maybe she can do this. “Alright. I want you to turn a little to your right, but keep your legs straight. Then flex for me.” She’s got this. 

Peter obeys her, and MJ’s blood rushes to her head. 

Nope. Nope. She does not got this. 

After he’s in place, MJ busies herself with getting music playing on her phone. She needs something, anything to occupy her mind as she does this. “Sunflower” by Post Malone starts playing, and almost immediately, MJ relaxes. She looks up, and this time, she manages to keep her cool as she studies the shade of his skin tone. Sure, she’s never gonna be able to unsee this, but for now, she can do it. 

After she’s mixed the paint, they settle into a rhythm, and then MJ loses herself in the work. She is completely focused on the art: the colors, the blending, the highlights, how she wants to do the shadow. Each stroke is precise, intentional… Everything is exactly where she wants it, and every step is clear to her. 

Sure, the muscles are rather lovely. But as long as she steels herself before looking up, she manages to keep herself from drooling over them for as long as it takes her to make a quick assessment and return to the work. 

The muscles are a new variable, something she hasn’t had to battle with before. But the work? The work she knows, the work she understands. Its beat is one she has heard a million times, and it carries her along with ease. 

An hour or so passes, with the silence stretching on comfortably. Every so often, Peter warns her that he has a muscle cramp, and MJ watches carefully so that she can guide him back to the position after he’s adjusted a bit. Peter is a good model. Sure, he has to move a bit more than most of the people they’ve painted in studies, but he also doesn’t complain. He just follows her direction, letting his eyes wander the room or sometimes close as he soaks in the sun. 

And, every so often, MJ wonders if she can feel those eyes on her. 

It’s about half an hour in when MJ looks up from her canvas, really looks, for the first time since she posed him. There are flecks of paint all over her fingers and upper arm from where she carefully used a nail to remove an excess of pain, or just from when she forgot about the pallet in her hand while adjusting the canvas and supplies as the light changed. Her hair is determined to escape from her ponytail, it seems, and it hovers on the edge of her vision in several curly tendrils that she ignores. She knows she makes faces while she’s concentrating, and between the paint on her clothes, hands, and a spot by her temple where she brushed away some hair, the stiffness of her body and neck, and the mess of her hair, MJ knows she looks disheveled. 

That’s why, when she looks up and find him studying her like he’s been studying the beautiful prints of art on the walls, she stops still. 

His eyes, when they meet hers, hold the warmth that makes them Peter’s, but they also hold something else. Whatever it is in insistent, piercing as it works its way to her through their shared gaze, and penetrating as it seems to search her from head to toe. 

Whatever it is takes her breath away. 

MJ draws in a sharp breath, and her sudden change of posture causes Peter to stiffen, too. His eyes go wide upon the realization that he has been caught staring. However, he doesn’t look away. After balking for a moment, his gaze actually becomes more intense, almost as though he is determined to prove himself. 

MJ sets down her brush, and Peter’s eyes track her motion expectantly as she turns to look back at him again. 

“Peter,” she finally says, her tone tight and controlled. 

“Yeah?” Something earnest enters his eyes, then his voice, too, as he waits for her to respond. 

“You moved.” 

When he realizes what she means, his face falls for a fraction of a second before he becomes composed again. “O-oh, right. Um, let me just-” He attempts to take up his former position, and MJ busies herself comparing it with the likeness on canvas in order to ignore the warmth in her cheeks. After looking from his position, to the painting, and then back to him again, MJ shakes her had. 

“Not quite,” she says slowly. “You need to twist more at the waist.” 

Peter attempts to angle his body more to the side, but he still is twisting his upper body more than his lower body. MJ watches, then shakes her head again, biting her lip. “Nah, it’s more-- here.” 

MJ sets her pallet on the floor and strides over to the sofa. She is painfully, painfully aware of the amount of Peter’s bare skin in front of her, bright in the golden sun, but she struggles to ignore it as she sits on the ground in front of him and raises her hand to hover in front of his abs. 

“You need to twist more here,” she says, gesturing to the muscles. 

He’s already moving, however, so rather than her gesture hovering in front of him, her loose hand crashes into his muscles. MJ’s eyes widen as her the palm of her hand presses against his lower abdomen, and her whole body stiffens for a moment before she can register that she should pull back. The muscles are warm beneath her fingertips, solid and firmer than she could have imagined. 

“MJ-” 

She pulls her hand back immediately, but a sinking feeling enters her chest as she realizes what happened. Her paint-covered fingertips have left smears of paint across his skin, the highlight that MJ was attempting to scrape off her knife with a nail before she looked up. The paint clings to him, and instinctively, MJ reaches out to brush it away. 

All she succeeds in doing is rubbing it in further with fingertips that dance across his skin. MJ can barely breathe, and her head is spinning as she tries again, only making it worse. “Shit, Parker, I’m sorry,” she stammers, shaking her head. The loose curls go flying, and a few brush against his skin from where she is seated. “I forgot about it, let me get-” 

“MJ.” 

Slowly, MJ raises her eyes to his, her breath caught in her throat. 

Peter is staring down at her, his lips slightly parted as his eyes scan her countenance. His cheeks are crimson, and he still looks like her loser as he blinks several times, taking a sharp breath as his eyes explore her face. There is awe in his eyes, and a hesitant gleam, as he looks down at her. She can’t look away, can’t breathe, can’t even move her paint-covered hand from where it lingers on his abs. 

Peter opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. His hand finds her other hand, one with streaks of wet paint on the palm where she was testing colors. The paint transfers from her hand to his as he links their fingers together, and she exhales as their fingers lace into a lattice. 

“You have paint all over you, now,” she breathes, blinking once, then twice. 

Peter swallows, his eyes not moving. He looks as if he regrets even having to blink as he drinks in her eyes. “Then…” His voice falters, and so Peter swallows and tries again in a voice that is slightly raspy, catching in his throat. 

“Then what’s the harm in a little bit more?” 

Before she knows it, MJ is standing, and Peter’s hand in hers helps guide her to her feet. She does not let go of his hand. The fingers on his skin dance across his lower chest experimentally as she looks into his eyes, leaving little trails of pale pink in their wake. Her eyes don’t leave his, and his skin is warm underneath her fingers as her hand travels greedily up his chest, taking its sweet time. Peter’s eyes flutter shut and he leans into th contact, breath hitching whenever her touch grows heavier.

Finally, after she has explored his chest in detail, her arm snakes around his neck. Her hand plows a path through his hair, lightly tugging on the curls to bring him closer to her as she leans down slightly. Her lips crash into his, then, and their linked hands rise as Peter tugs his free to cup her face. Paint kisses her cheekbone as Peter caresses it with a thumb, and her other hand is happy to join the first in flecking his brown locks with pink and white. His other hand impatiently pulls her hair free of the ponytail, causing her to hum against his lips, tipping her head so that their lips fit together more closely. 

For one slow, delicious moment, MJ drinks him in, and he does the same for her. The kiss is insistent and intense, and more than anything, it’s an exploration. Her lips learn the dance of his own soft ones, and his hand traces the contours of her face, blazing its own line of highlight across her cheek and down her jaw. 

Finally, when they both need to come up for air, MJ breaks the kiss apart. Her breath comes in greedy gasps, drinking in the air of the studio as the golden light sinks into their skin, turning the shadows longer. The paint is cool and prickly on her skin as it begins to draw, and a smile crosses MJ’s swollen lips as she drinks in the strange sensation, eyes closed. 

“Told you you should’ve oiled me up.” 

Peter’s cheeky comment causes a laugh to leave MJ’s lips, closely followed by an insistent hum and she dives in for more. 

Maybe she has a project she should be working on… But, then, MJ has found a new canvas, and one that she much prefers. After all, Peter Parker really is a masterpiece… And MJ looks forward to studying every shadow, every contour, and every new perspective of her best friend in detail with her artist’s eye. 

After all, painting may be rewarding, but in the warmth of the studio, MJ decides that when it comes to Peter Parker, she prefers being the canvas to being the artist.

[marvel-witch]

Remember Me - Part Five

Summary: The reader has lost all memory of her beloved team. Her beloved boyfriend. The past five years a total blank. Bucky has to keep a watch out for her until she is ready, but will she ever be?

Warnings: Cussing, slight nudity, lots of cringy embarrassment

Word count: 3430 words

Silence. That’s all there was. The drive over to the Avengers compound had a tense unspoken bearer between you and Bucky. The last few years rushing back to you in a matter of minutes, well expect the last three years. You were missing three whole years of your life. Your heart was beating wildly in your chest. You were going somewhere you couldn’t even remember with people you didn’t remember. Your mouth suddenly felt dry as your hands began to get clammy.

There will be an awkward air once you enter the compound. But as soon as your foot entered that building, you were completely wrong. Hugs and shouting were surrounding you. Tony came up to you first ruffling your hair around on your head. “Tony!” You swat your hands in the space between you two.

“That’s Y/N alright.” The Burnett to your left side said. There was a smug tone in her words and she held a beautiful smile. Her accent. Oh wow. You turned towards her holding out your hand. “Hello. I don’t believe I know you.” The girl’s smile fell. The simple action has made your own smile fall.

“Oh.” The room seemed to still for a brief moment. You reached forward and gently grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember you. I promise I will try my hardest though.” The smile you gave her was bright. The wondrous smile reappeared. “I’m Wanda.” From the corner of your eye you could see Natasha with a smug smile and a raised eyebrow. You ended your exchange with Wanda.

You walked up to Natasha and punched her shoulder. “What have you been up to dummy?” Natasha laughed pushing you back. “Waiting for your slow ass to recover.” You roll your eyes looking over to Vision. You take a long hard stare at him and you can tell he becomes uncomfortable. “So what’s the deal with you?” He mutters something along the lines of you always being so straight forward.

The sun setting over your unpacked bedroom. You know this is your bedroom, it just doesn’t feel like it’s yours. It’s spacious, and has tan walls. There is a wall by your bathroom door covered in plants. That makes it feel more homey. They don’t look like they have been without care for several months. Someone must have being taking care of them. I make a mental note to find out who and thank them. A soft knock came from the other side of your new bedroom door breaking you from your thoughts. As you turned to face the door, Steve popped his head through. You raised an eyebrow at him and he gave you a confused look in return. 

“How is it someone so large could knock so delicately?” The smug smile on your lips made Steve roll his eyes. He walked in, and carefully closing the door behind him. You plopped yourself onto your queen sized bed. Steve leaned against the wooden bed frame. “How are you holding up?” You locked eyes with him for a moment, before looking down at your fingers. “Honestly?” He let out a little chuckle. “Yes, Y/N.” You felt like you wanted to morph with your bed to become one. “Everything hurts.” Steve stilled for a moment before sitting beside you. He slowly rests an arm around your shoulders, and you fall into his much larger body. 

“There are people here who care for me so deeply. I can’t even remember them. I remember most of my life, but it feels like I’m watching from the side lines. They feel so distant. Yet, I know they’re mine.” You snuffle, hoping that Steve doesn’t notice. You hate crying, but it was something you did often. You didn’t want him to know that though. He forces you to look at him. “It’s alright. No one is blaming you. They understand. We understand.” He lets the room in silence for a beat, before a smug smile appears on his face. “But luckily you remember your best friend, who is absolutely wonderful.” You stare at him and he winks at you. You push him off your bed. “Stupid.” You are laughing as he rubs his head.

You both walk to the kitchen together arguing back and forth about something meaningless. You stop in your tracks. There sitting at the island was Bucky shirtless. Sweaty as well. You had grown to close to Bucky in the last few months, but now everything felt so different. You only had half of your memories back. Yet, none of them included Bucky. Which made you sad. Ever since you met him, or maybe you should say met again? Either way, you were drawn to him. He was an incredibly impeccable human that’s for sure. He treated you like you were just a fragile baby, and that was something you were never used to. No one, not even your own mother had treated you that way. They all knew how powerful you were, and no one had ever doubted the fact that you could take care of yourself. 

It was different with Bucky though. You liked it. It made you feel more feminine. Not that you would ever admit to anyone else that you liked that. You were always one to get embarrassed if you were caught trying to make your make-up look perfect or fawning over a pair of pink heels. You liked to keep your feminine side to yourself. People can see it as weakness and pray on your vulnerabilities. You were always strong, and everyone knew it. Doing anything to make anyone think differently made you uncomfortable. 

Steve was already ruffling through the fridge, stopping to give you a weird look. You were always one to get wrapped up in your thoughts. Just then Bucky turned around and started to walk over to the sink. He was built like a god. The abs on this man were unbelievable. His hair was in a low hung bun, as your eyes trailed down his body you realized his sweat pants were just barely hanging onto his hips. His v line very prominent. You feel like you could drool just from the sight alone.   

“Uh, Y/N?” Bucky said in his low gravely voice. It sent shivers down your spine that’s for sure. You saw Bucky giving you a curious look, while Steve was standing behind Bucky with a smirk and gave you a wink. Once you realized what was happening you could feel your cheeks turn pink. “Geez, it’s like all you ever are is in my way Barnes.” You laughed slightly, pushing him to the side.

Bucky rolled his eyes and with a smile walked out of the room. Once he left you punched Steve in the chest. “What the hell man!” Steve only laughed. Damn, even with no memories of him she’s starting at him like a meal. Steve thinks laughing even harder at his thoughts. “I think there might be some drool right there.” Steve says, pointing at the corner of his lips. 

“Steve!” Your voice was harsher this time. Steve held his hands up in surrender. “Whoa, whoa. I didn’t embarrass you. You did that all on your own.” You rolled your eyes and groaned at his statement. He was so right. You didn’t mean to though. Bucky just took you by surprise. A sudden thought breaks me of my embarrassment. “Hey, was anyone watering my plants while I have been gone?” Steve seems a bit confused at my sudden change in attitude. “Uh, Wanda wanted to make sure they were still alive whe-” 

“Thanks, Steve!” I cut him off as I’m running down the hallway. I stop once I get in the elevator. I almost hit my forehead at my stupidity. I have no idea where I am going. “Hey, Jarvis?” I wait a few seconds before a female voice pops up. “I am sorry Miss Y/L/N, Jarvis hasn’t been with us for a few years. I am Friday.” A long whisper of a ooooohhhh. “Um...Friday?” She pops up again, “Yes, Miss Y/L/N?” “Where is Wanda’s room?” I wait with my fingers hovering over the elevator buttons. “Level two, room with the black door.” 

Acting quickly I push the level two button. Once the door opens I teleported outside the black bedroom door. I softly knocked on the door. “Hello, Wanda?” The door slightly opened under my touch, so I figured it was a good to go. “Wanda?” Walking around the wall separating her bed from the door. There she was with her beautiful light skin shining in the sunlight. Her bare back facing me. Her back curved perfectly then her ass plumped out. Her jeans hugged her so well. Her long brown hair up in a bun. She must have just gotten out of the shower. Wanda quickly turned around covering her top half with a small t-shirt. 

Her face was bright red. You took a few steps forward with your face burning red as well. “Y/N!” She whisper shouts. You stumble backwards knocking into the wall. “I uh the door was...and I just wanted...” You tired to say a sentence, but yet could not form a full sentence. You couldn’t help but let your eyes wander her body. She was beautiful. She lifted her hand and used her powers to push you out the door, and slam it shut. “Fuck.” You fell on your ass. You opened your eyes and there was Bucky leaning over you. His cheeks red as well. “That was an interesting encounter.” He chuckles. Your eyes go wide. His eyes are locked with yours, but you are too embarrassed to return the stare. 

You let your eyes wander everywhere but his own. You did not think your face could get anymore red, until your eyes landed on the large bulge in Bucky’s pants. I scramble up to your feet, and start walking down the hall. “Y/N.” You face Bucky once more. “I..got to go.” You teleport back to your bedroom. The look on his face was such a mix of emotions. This day was too much to handle. You cuddle up under the blankets on your bed. “Time for bed now.” 

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