#“It's not stalking it's research! How else am I supposed to know what he likes?!” - Alec | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

diaphragmjellyfish · 4 years ago

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Research

Finally wrote something again! Sorry it took so long.

How exactly do you get a dog to lose your scent? Because avoiding your werewolf boyfriend Embry was proving a lot harder than you had anticipated. Last weekend was… eventful. You guys had finally done it. Gone all the way. After 6 months of dating and an imprint bond, you both finally decided you were ready to take that next step. And you’ve only had one thought since that night.

That shit hurted.

It was borderline unbearable. The pain was searing. You lied there until Embry was done, faking moans and even faking the Big O, and you were less than eager to do it again. Were you broken? He seemed to enjoy it, so obviously you were to blame. He’d been super clingy and lovey since that night, even more so than usual, and you didn’t have the heart to be around him knowing you had faked it like that. What if he found out? He’d be crushed. What if he wanted to do it again? You couldn’t take that pain another night. What if he faked it too and was going to break up with you the next time he saw you? Yeah, no. Avoidance was the way to go.

He wanted to take you out to see a movie. You mysteriously came down with a case of allergies in the middle of winter.

He wanted to pick you up after school and give you a ride home. You had the sudden urge to join a club that was meeting after school that day.

He called, your phone was on silent.

He texted, you suddenly became illiterate.

But he kept trying. God, why was he making this so difficult?! Thoughts like this swirled through your head as you walked the long way home from school. He knew your usual route, so obviously that was out of the question. You took a path through the woods that would eventually spit you out right by the beach where you could sit and think. The forest had always felt like a second home to you. Peaceful, comfortable, private. You walked for some time before hearing twigs snapping in the distance. Probably a rabbit or something. Louder snapping. Bigger sticks. Definitely not a rabbit. You halted, waiting for the creature to pass, when a large gray wolf stalked out of the trees.

Damn.

He was wearing the softest, cutest, most “kicked puppy” look on his face that you had ever seen. Head bowed, he walked up to you slowly, whining. So he had noticed your avoidance. You held your hand out to him, petting the thick fur between his ears. He sniffed your hand, giving it a soft lick.

“Hi,” you whispered. He whined louder at this. “Embry…” you started, before he crouched down, a silent cue for you to get on his back. He waited.

Guess this was inevitable. And at least him showing up in wolf form gave you some time to think about how exactly you would explain what had happened. With another soft sigh, you climbed up on his back, holding the fur tightly as he trotted off into the trees. After about 5 minutes, you realized that he was taking you to Sam and Emily’s house. You weren’t in the mood to be around the rest of the pack right now.

“Embry, I’m kind of busy today. I don’t really have time to hang out with the pack.”

He ignored you, trotting along as if your statement was the buzz of a mosquito in his ear. When you reached the house, however, you quickly realized that no one else was there. They must all be out. It was a Friday afternoon, after all.

When you reached the lawn, Embry stopped and crouched once more so you could dismount. When you did, he ran off behind the house, walking back out several minutes later as the inky-haired boy you had grown to love. His face was full of sadness, yours full of anxiety.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he said.

You silently followed him down the path that led to the cliffs, waiting for him to say something else. He never did, only kept walking. You struggled to keep up, but were too stubborn in your silence to ask him to slow down. You both finally reached the rocky cliffs jutting out over the frigid ocean. He stopped, staring out at the horizon. You paused next to him, waiting. After another several minutes of silence, you grew impatient.

“It’s supposed to snow Monday,” you said.

You waited. Silence.

“The news said they might even cancel school.”

A pause. Nothing.

“I don’t know about you, but I could definitely use a three day weeken-”

“Is there something you want to tell me?” he cut you off, seeming agitated. For as long as you’d known Embry, he was never in a bad mood. Never anything but happy. Maybe sad on a few occasions, but never angry. Never frustrated. And it was making you nervous.

And now it was your turn to be silent. Yes! You wanted to say. You hurt me! But you couldn’t. Wouldn’t. He didn’t do it on purpose, so why would you make him feel guilty about something that was your problem and your problem alone?

“Because, if I’m counting correctly, it’s been 5 days since I’ve so much as heard from you. Barely a text back. Not a call, not a ‘hey! I’m super busy this week.’ Why are you avoiding me? I thought… after last weekend, we should be more in love than ever right?! Did it not mean anything to you?”

You remained quiet, tears pooling in your eyes. You gave no sign that you were going to respond, so he kept going.

“Just tell me where your fucking head is at, Y/N. You can’t keep brushing me off like this. Did I do something wrong? Do you regret what we did? Am I, like… not ripped enough for you or something?”

“Embry, no,” you pleaded. You could see the insecurity behind his eyes. You had to tell him what was going on, but you knew it would crush him. “It’s not that at all.”

He waited. “Then what?”

You closed your eyes, a tear slipping down your face. You wiped it away quickly before taking a deep breath. “I have been avoiding you.” You looked up at his face at this, finding tears building up in his own eyes. “I love you, Embry. But last weekend, just… I can’t do that again.”

He clenched his jaw, looking anywhere but your face and nodded. He was hurt. You definitely could have worded that better.

“Let me explain,” you pleaded. He wouldn’t look at you still, but didn’t walk away, so you kept going. “I think I might be broken or something, because that… It didn’t feel right.”

At this, he looked back at your face, switching from hurt to concerned almost immediately.

“Why would you think you’re broken?”

Another pause. “I know you would never hurt me on purpose…”

“You were in pain?” he panicked, fresh tears pricking in his eyes.

“It’s not your fault,” you hurried. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that? Why would you let me keep going?!”

“I’m sorry!” you cried, causing him to walk up and embrace you. You sobbed into his chest as he pet your hair, all signs of anger gone. “You were having a good time, and I didn’t wanna ruin it, but it hurt so bad…”

“Shhhhh,” he cooed as he rocked you from side to side, letting you calm down. “It’s okay.”

After several minutes, you finally stopped crying. He didn’t falter in his embrace, only left light kisses on your forehead and cheek.

“Y/N, I am so sorry,” he whispered into your hair.

“It’s not your fault,” you replied.

“Yes, it is. I’m supposed to take care of you. It was my job to make you feel good, and you were hurting that bad and I didn’t even notice.” You sniffled, just enjoying being in his arms. A few more minutes passed as you both calmed down.

“To be fair, I did take a drama class last semester. I’d say I put on a pretty convincing performance,” you added weakly, an attempt to lighten the mood.

He huffed a laugh, if for no other reason than to make you feel better. “Had me fooled,” he added.

You smiled, looking up at him. “I’m sorry for avoiding you.”

“It’s okay. I just wish you would have told me as soon as it started to hurt that you wanted to stop.”

“I know. I should have, I just got all in my head about it.”

“And I’m sorry for hurting you. I’ll never forgive myself, and I understand if you don’t want to be with me anymore,” he answered, nervously awaiting your response.

“I forgive you. And of course I still want to be with you, Embry. I love you. We just need to work on our communication skills a little bit,” you laughed.

“We do. And I’ll start. I would really love another chance to make you feel good. If you promise to be honest about how you’re feeling, I know I can do a way better job. But I understand completely if you wanna wait a while… or if you never wanna do it again. You’re in charge here.”

His words had your heart melting. He really did care about you, and you knew that if you had told him in the moment that you were in pain, he would have done anything to get you feeling good. You were always his first priority.

“I’d be willing to try again, but what we did last time didn’t work. I think we need to think of some new techniques or something,” you mumbled shyly.

“Tell you what. I’ll do some research, get some stuff, and you can come over tonight… if you want to. And we can maybe try again? And if you get there and aren’t feeling up to it, we can just watch a movie and cuddle. No pressure… I just miss you.”

You thought for a second. Worst case scenario, you’d cuddle on the couch and eat junk food. You trusted Embry completely, and if you said stop, you knew he would.

“Okay,” you replied.

__________________________________

After a long shower, some fresh makeup, and a cute-yet-comfortable outfit, you were ready to go over to Embry’s. Sure, the nerves were kicking in, but you trusted him when he said he would do some research. When you pulled up, he was already standing in the doorway smiling. You ran out and gave him a giant bear hug (or wolf hug), and he picked you up and carried you into his room, kicking the door closed with his foot.

“I missed you,” he said, face buried in your hair.

“You saw me like 3 hours ago,” you giggled in response.

“Yeah, but I haven’t seen you all week! Gotta get my Y/N fill or I might die!”

You laughed loudly, hands threading up into his hair as he sat down on the bed with you seated in his lap.

“Yeah, yeah, just try not to crowd me,” you cheekily replied.

He raised an eyebrow before tackling you back onto the bed, tickling you like a maniac and placing playful kisses all over your face and neck.

“Like this?! Don’t crowd you like this?”

“Embry stop!” you laughed, trying to suck in a breath between his manic tickles. When he finally stopped, he was lying between your legs, one hand grasping both your wrists above your head, the other propped beside you so as to not crush you. He stared lovingly at your face before leaning down and placing a soft kiss on your lips. His grip on your arms loosened, as if to say You can stop me anytime, but you didn’t. You kissed him back, arms staying in place to tell him that you were okay.

The kisses grew slightly more heated, but Embry kept them gentle. And every time you thought he was about to take things to the next step, he’d just kiss you some more. You were growing slightly impatient, breath labored and blood pumping fast. Your stomach became slightly warm, and every time you leaned up, he’d pull away.

“You’re being mean,” you whimpered.

He just looked at you and smirked before leaning down and capturing your lips once more. You could feel your blood heat in every part of your body. From your head to your toes, you felt warm and fuzzy, yet desperate for more,,, more touch, more pressure, more Embry. Growing frustrated, you hooked your legs around his waist and tried your best to pull him closer, unintentionally grinding your hips into his. When he brushed up against your core, you let out an involuntary sigh. It actually felt nice. He smiled into the kiss, pulling his lips away from yours and dragging them down to your jaw, and then your neck, suckling and sucking and leaving light red marks that made your head spin. The hand that was holding your wrists came down behind your back and up into your hair, firmly pulling your head back to give him better access to your neck.

This movement made your entire back arch up into his body. His grip in your hair tightened slightly, lips sucking your skin up into his mouth as he nibbled, before soothing with his tongue. Your toes curled, legs pulling him impossibly closer. When he felt this, he ground his hips down into yours. The combination of his hands, lips, and weight on top of you made you let out a gasp. Your hands held onto his shoulders for dear life, pulling his shirt up in an attempt to take it off. He got the hint and sat up to remove it, being away from your body for far too long for your taste. He didn’t lower fully back down, however, instead sliding his warm hands under your shirt and onto your stomach. You sat up, taking your sweatshirt off and throwing it violently across the room. His eyes widened as they looked down at your bare chest in an almost feral fashion. He gripped your thighs, tugging you down the bed with ease, and resuming his position on top of you, hands roaming all over your torso. He cupped your breasts gently, rolling your nipples softly between his fingers. You shut your eyes and threw your head back, enjoying the sensations. His kisses trailed from your neck and down to your chest, softly. Lovingly. When he reached your nipples, his tongue poked out and licked around each of them, before taking them into his mouth and sucking. His hands continued to caress your back, and he took his sweet time switching from one breast to the other, and back again, until he felt your skin grow almost as hot as his. You were writhing underneath him, panting as your mind tried to comprehend the sensations. And his mouth, God it was so warm. You felt him kiss the undersides of your breasts, and then your stomach, and then lower…

When he reached the waistband of your leggings, he brought his hands up as if to pull them off of you. He stopped, looking up at you for permission. You gave a lazy nod Yes, and lifted your hips to help him. He pulled your underwear off as well, spreading your legs and almost salivating at the sight of your soaking pussy. Not wanting to waste another second, he once again began placing kisses on your lower stomach, and then down to your hip bones, scraping his teeth lightly against the skin, which had you shuddering. He trailed lower, to where your thighs met your core, and began to suck lightly and the soft skin there. Your clit was throbbing by now, desperate for any sort of attention. You thrust your hips up, desperate for his mouth on the place you needed him, but he only pulled your legs over his shoulders and brought his arms across your stomach to hold you in place. Your hands went to his hair in an effort to control any aspect of this situation, but the boy was strong. He teased and teased and teased, until you thought you might very well crawl out of your own skin if he didn’t properly touch you soon. Embry brought his face right up to your center and licked into your entrance, making your toes curl once more. His hands gripped your hips as he brought you as far onto his tongue as he could, nose not quite brushing where you still needed him.

“Embry…” you whimpered, about to tell him what you needed.

“I know, baby. I got you,” he spoke, as he finally brought his warm tongue to lick a firm stripe up to your clit, swirling it around and sucking the swollen nub into his mouth.

You let out a moan. A real one. Your first real one. And it only encouraged Embry, as he began to suck and lick with a steady rhythm that caused your legs to shake. You felt your stomach start to coil after several minutes of this, hands fisting Embry’s hair even tighter. It felt amazing, but that coil wouldn’t snap. He started to notice you coming down slightly, orgasm fading away, when he brought his index finger into your mouth. You sucked on instinct, before he pulled it out and brought it down to your entrance. He swirled the digit around a few times and began to push in slowly. One knuckle. Then two. And then he was fully in you. Sucking your clit into his mouth yet again, he rubbed his finger up into your front wall, massaging the ridges there.

“Oh… Embry, oh my God,” you moaned. He used more pressure, and then brought his finger out and added another, slowly pushing them in together and resuming the ‘come-hither’ motion. You felt your muscles shake, losing all control, and the coil in your stomach tightened rapidly once again, only this time, it broke. Your back arched, eyes shut tight, mouth open in a silent scream as you came hard. Waves of pleasure drove through you, hands holding his head firmly onto your center. When you came down and opened your eyes, you looked down at his face to see an excited grin.

“If you tell me that was fake, I think I’ll cry,” he chirped.

You calmed your hard breathing enough to mutter a “That was real.”

“Do you wanna keep going?” he asked.

You nodded, taking note of the obvious tent in his shorts. You reached a hand down to grasp him, when he grabbed your wrist and said “Nuh-uh, I’m still making it up to you.”

He stood up off the bed and went over to a plastic shopping bag on his desk. He opened it and pulled out a condom, some lube, and a small pink toy. Your eyes widened, and he cockily stated, “told you I’d do some research. Come here Sweetheart.” He held a hand out to help you up, and moved you so that you were on your hands and knees, bum facing him as he stood at the edge of the bed. He tore the condom packet open with his teeth and rolled it on, and then opened the bottle of lube and slathered it all over himself. He then brought what was left on his hand up to your sensitive core, distributing the substance gently. Throwing the bottle onto the floor, he lined himself up with your entrance.

“You sure you wanna keep going?” he asked. You nodded in response. “I need you to say it, babe.”

“Yes, I want to keep going, Em,” you almost cried.

“Okay, but I need you to tell me if it hurts even a little. Promise?”

“Promise.”

He grasped your hip with one hand, guiding himself in with the other. Slowly, carefully, he became fully seated inside you, giving you a moment to adjust. You felt no pain, just a delicious stretch inside your walls. When Embry saw that you were relaxed, he pulled himself out a couple of inches and softly thrusted back in, looking for any signs of discomfort. He found none, and continued. He dragged himself in and out of you at a torturous pace that made your breathing pick up yet again. You needed more. You began rocking yourself back onto him, begging for a faster pace, and he complied. He pulled out several inches more this time, shoving back in at a quicker pace that had your toes curling and your moans going up in pitch. At this, he stopped holding back. Embry began pounding into you, hands gripping your hips tight enough to leave the good kind of bruise. You were moaning loudly, brain turning to mush. This is what sex was supposed to be like. What you’d always imagined it would be like. Passionate, loving, amazing.

Embry found himself reaching the edge, but would not allow himself to finish before you. He reached down onto the bed for the small pink toy that you had forgotten about. He flicked it on, brought his other hand down and around your throat to pull you up against him, and held the small vibrator right onto your clit. The pounding pressure of his dick paired with the fervent vibrations had you seeing stars. You came. Hard. You didn’t know how long the orgasm had lasted. When you came to, you were lying on your back on the bed, breathing still labored, as Embry cleaned your thighs off with a damp towel. He noticed you looking up at him.

“Hey, Sweetheart,” he cooed.

“Hey,” you responded weakly.

“How ya doing?”

“Really good,” you laughed.

“Yeah?” he beamed at you as you nodded in response. “Good. I’m gonna get you some water and then we can cuddle, okay?” You only smiled in contentment as he walked off into the hallway, returning shortly with a cup of cold water. “Sit up for me?”

“Can’t,” you answered, eliciting a laugh from him.

“C’mon, I’ll help you,” he spoke as he gently held the back of your head, supporting you as you leaned up to drink from the cup he was holding up to your mouth. After you took a few sips, he seemed satisfied and placed the cup on the floor, lying down next to you and pulling you close. “If you start ignoring me after that, I might have to kill you,” he teased.

“Don’t worry. I won’t ever ignore you again.” You sighed in contentment, listening to Embry’s soothing heartbeat, before you began to wonder. “By the way, what the heck kind of research did you do?”

He huffed a laugh before responding, “Some guy on the internet called Owen Grey.”

#twilight #wolf pack #embry call #embry call x reader #embry call smut #twilight smut #sam uley #jacob black #paul lahote #quil ateara #seth clearwater #jared cameron #leah clearwater #edward cullen #embry call x reader smut #paul lahote x reader #paul lahote smut

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aoi-moved · 3 years ago

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extermination.

[ baizhu / gn! reader ]

[ notes: i love baizhu so much it’s unreal mihoyo please more content i beg of you. uhh content warnings: murder, talk of insects, baizhu is a weirdo but he’s sexy so it’s ok ]

“Ah, there you are, my dear.” Baizhu greeted you, as you walked into Bubu Pharmacy once more. You were always rather sickly, visiting the pharmacy on a regular basis. Baizhu knew you well by this point, maybe more than you were aware.

“Here for another medication refill?” He asked, writing something on a sheet of paper. You couldn’t see what he was writing, but it was likely some formal doctor things.

“Hello, Dr. Baizhu…” you said quietly. “Yes, that’s what I am here for.”

“Like I said,” Baizhu waved his hand. “Just call me Baizhu. I don’t need formalities from you, are we not friends?”

You wouldn’t really call your relationship friendly, per se, you always saw him as this distant figure. He was a renowned doctor, with a rare vision, at that. How could you hope to be friends with him? Besides, you were his patient. Well, technically, Herbalist Gui was the one who did the checkups and diagnoses, while Baizhu was very busy with much more important work than you. You wanted to be friends, of course, and he always acted very friendly, but you couldn’t help but feel like he was out of your league.

“Ah… sorry for visiting you so often, Doctor.”

Baizhu frowned at the title. “Well, it’s certainly fine, it is my job after all.”

“I know…” you avoided his piercing yellow eyes. They were almost like a snake’s, watching your every move. He seemed different today. “It’s just… I’ve been under some stress recently. Someone has been sending me these letters. I don’t know who, but it sounds like they’ve been… stalking me? I suppose…?”

Baizhu stilled for a moment before regaining his composure. “I see… Well, don’t worry. I’m sure by tomorrow it’ll all be sorted out.” He smiled at you.

You gave him a half-hearted smile back. He always seemed to like it when you smiled at him.

He handed you a bottle of liquid medicine over the counter. “Here, what you came for.”

“Thank you.” You turned around to leave, feeling his eyes burn into you. He really did seem different today.

Baizhu watched you leave. Once you were out of sight, he started biting his thumb, a shadow over his face. “So, someone else is after my beautiful jewel…?” He muttered darkly to himself. It seemed he would have to fix this.

Once he had figured out just who it was that had been harassing you, he knew what to do. As a doctor, he has access to all types of medicine. Some weren’t even medicine, but poison. A useful tool, really.

He called the man to the pharmacy.

“You wanted me, Doctor?” The man mumbled.

“Yes.” Baizhu gritted his teeth, forcing a smile. “Let’s go out back, shall we?”

“So? What is it?” The man said shortly.

“Say… that young person you’re interested in. Tell me about them?”

“How did you—“ the man blinked. “Uh, they’re sick, like all the time. You probably know them, but there, like… I don’t know, really weak? Easy lay, you know? But no one knows anything about them, ‘cause they stay inside all the time. So I did some research, like you do.”

So he didn’t even have feelings for you, he was just some… scum. Baizhu felt ill. He didn’t deserve you. He had to be exterminated. You deserved the very best, the world. You deserved Baizhu. He was your meant-to-be, not this insect. Baizhu picked up a small flask.

“I’ve noticed some abnormalities in your behavior. Take this, it should help.”

The man didn’t question this. Why should he? Baizhu was the famous doctor that was renowned for his cures. Surely, he knew what he was doing.

The man took the drink, blinked once, and collapsed.

“Hmph.” Baizhu kicked the man’s body. Really, usually the poison took a few minutes to kick in. He must be weak.

Of course, he was weak like some sort of bug, sprayed with pesticides. You, on the other hand, were delicate, like a flower, or a glass ornament. He had to protect you. He had to.

“Dr. Baizhu? What’s going on?” A young girl’s voice sounded.

“Ah, my little Qiqi.” Baizhu turned around. Qiqi glanced at the body on the ground.

“Is he dead?”

“Yes, he is. He was a bad guy, you see. I had to save people from him.”

Qiqi simply nodded, as if this made perfect sense. “Do we have any coconut milk?”

“We do not, I fear. I shall have to get some later.”

“Is the sick person coming today?” Many sick people came to the pharmacy, but Qiqi knew you as the sick person. It wasn’t personal, that was just how her memory worked.

Baizhu sighed. Now, to clean up. He would seek you out later.

#ahhhh this is long and very vague sorry #yandere #yandere x reader #also @ the ppl who will be like omg qiqi would never!! she kills treasure hoarders and fatui. also she knows baizhu is using her and is fine #with it. look at her voice lines. anyway #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #baizhu #baizhu x reader #qiqi #genshin impact

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leatherednlace · 3 years ago

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Life In The Fast Lane

Aaron Hotchner x Male reader

You are paired up with Hotch to share a room for the night, time alone costs your cover when Hotch hears his name slip from your lips whilst showering

Tags - NSFW+18, M x M, Smut, Sexual tension, Implied Masturbation, Hotch overhears, Confrontation, Touching, Dom!Hotch, Blowjob, Praise, Facials, Hotel sex, Hotch is kinda a dirty boi, Aftercare, Soft boi!Hotch, Cuddles

A/N - I had too…

——————————————————————————

“Hotch I’m fine…just tired is all” you finish your sentence with a stretch of your arms, reaching out into thin air as your body twitches, a yawn escaping your lips.

Hotch chuckles at the movement, eyes watching you closely. As much as he trusted you he never really believed a word you said when it came to your well-being, he knew how much you over worked yourself always wanting to make a good impression.

“Please by any means get some rest, I’ll clear up the case and try and get further with my research…it’s been a long day”

You fight the urge to ignore him but he was right, you were tired…but you were also distracted by the way his hands squeezed your shoulders within a reassuring grasp…Hotch was never one to be very touchy feely with pretty much anyone, but you…

You shuddered and Hotch felt that, slowly releasing your shoulders from his calloused arms. “I’ll just be over here” he smiles sweetly, pointing to the desk placed neatly beside the bed.

“Okay…I’m off to shower, i feel disgusting” you both chuckle once again, watching as Hotch took his classy suit jacket off, slumping into the bed as he wipes at his eyes.

You stalk towards the door, feeling yourself stir in your pants at the glare Aaron had on you. It was obvious you both had a connection that was rather to close for friends…even Derek teased you about it.

“Fuck” you mutter underneath your breath as you lean against the door, sighing as your boner simply wont go away, twitching inside of your boxers like no tomorrow…thanks to Hotch and his sinful glare…shoulder rubs…god you were down hard.

You really wish you were paired with anyone but Hotch, how were you suppose to survive a night with your boss, the man you had a HUGE crush on…the impossibility was growing rather quickly.

You begin to undress, the tiredness leaving you once you pop out of your pants with a groan, cock weeping and standing at attention. You shook your head, releasing any thought of him as you stepped underneath the shower head, twisting the nozzle as the warm water sprays over your weak body.

“Jesus…” you chuckle to yourself, bathing in the warm water as you feel your sore body relax. Your hands move across your body slowly but surly, with each movement you travelled lower until you gasped, finger tips brushing against your hard on.

Grasping at your cock, wanting fingers wrap around yourself gently, you feel yourself now tugging yourself back and forth, thoughts of Hotch and his hands flooded your mind, nothing but filth for that man had you wanting more.

“H-Hotch” you whimper lowly, making sure he couldn’t hear you…so you thought. You felt so dirty, such as a sinner would, but it was oh so right…

——————

You feel a wave of relief across your freshly smelling body but you infact were settling in for the night, placing the towel you used to dry yourself around your neck, you rub at the back of your head as you walk out.

Hearing the faint breathing of Hotch you stop in your tracks to turn to tiptoeing, closing the door behind you softly as you travel over to the shared bed trying your best to be quiet as possible not wanting a grouchy boss in the morning.

Once you were settled you sank into the sheets, head resting softly against the silk pillows. Closing your eyes you feel yourself slipping away into sleep.

“I heard you…”

Even with a whisper he made you jump, eyes opening to be met with his deep hazel orbs staring back at you. Even in the semi dark room you feel the blush rise in your cheeks.

“I-I” you had no words, none at all, but that was okay because he silenced you with one of his thick digits, your lips sealing shut as he pulls it away. “Do you mean it?” He questions, hands moving to wrap gently at your waist, pulling you closer to him.

You swallow thickly, feeling his breath fan against your cheek which had you practically melting, but you nod very eagerly. Hotch smiles sweetly, slowly meeting you half way with his lips embracing your own within a passionate kiss.

A sudden rush of adrenaline washes over you, your legs now scrambling to crawl into his lap, lips still latching together, his tongue now fighting against your own for dominance obviously winning, not that you minded at all.

You grind against his lap like a bitch in head, feeling him grin against your wet puffy lips as his hands rake up your back, helping you push into him as he takes away your innocence…you surly will regret this in the morning not that you cared right now…you just wanted him.

“Let me make you feel good” you breath against his skin, lips sealing around the skin on his neck, but this time you go slower, your free hand lifting up the thin sheet that stuck to his hip revealing his hardening member.

Hotch hadn’t been this way with anyone since Haley, he didn’t want to be….until you. He anticipated your lips as you trailed down lower, peppering kisses from his throat to his slightly hairy chest, his large hands coming to grasp at your neck.

He groans once again at the feeling of your fingers snaking around the base of his cock, his balls drawing up as you begin to continue your quest to help pleasure him.

You almost forgot how big he actually was down there, your hand now exploring the cock you know as Hotch’s, each ridge, each ridge sliding back and forth as his foreskin slowly overlaps the bulbous angry tip.

“I-I am i doing good?” You question, eyes looking up into his lustfilled ones, his mouth slightly agape as he takes in the sight of you, mouthing at his balls as you slowly jerk him back and forth.

Several moans escaped his open mouth as your tongue drew a long strip of saliva up towards the tip. His grip grew tighter as you kitten licked at his slit, pre-come oozing out onto your tongue giving you a mouthful of his taste.

Humming you stopped your teasing, Hotch’s deep grunts and his bossy hand tangled within your hair ordering you to wrap your lips around the sensitive head.

You wrapped your hand around him, pumping what you couldn’t fit in. Hollowing your cheeks, you bobbed your head up and down slowly. You completely took him from your mouth, releasing him with a pop, looking up at him you smile seductively.

He groans, pushing you back down until your nose is buried deeply in balls, tears pricking your eyes as you choke around him, retching at the intrusion in your throat. Using his hand he pulls you off.

You took him back into your mouth, glancing through your lashes at him, you sucked in a breath through your nose. Moving your hands upwards, you placed one hand on his slightly toned stomach, taking him back into your mouth, you sink all the way down, nose brushing against his navel. You gag but keep yourself there for a few seconds before he pulled you off again.

Your lips were covered in a thick layer of saliva, a string connecting you to his cock still, taking in every detail had Hotch cumming already all over your pretty, abused face, each shot covering a different part of your face.

Aaron’s face is fucked out, flush from the pleasure as he grew soft in your grip. A few slaps of his cock to your face you grew tired, your cock aching between your legs as he pulls you up to his chest.

You look slightly sad knowing you’ll be aching for hours more. “We aren’t done sweetheart”

——————

You woke up to large arms wrapped around your waist, you were held closely to a slowly rising and falling chest, presumably Aaron’s.

You had flashback’s from the night before and all you could think about Hotch…How good he made you feel…how he really felt about you.

You could feel him stir, a sleepy chuckle escaping his lips as he kissed you on the cheek several times. “Morning sleepyhead” you smirk, pecking him on the lips as you fist his jet black hair.

“How are we going to explain this to the team…we weren’t exactly quiet last night” Hotch takes in your sleepy form, he couldn’t help but smile warmly at you.

“I don’t care…i want everyone to know you are mine now…nobody else’s…”

#x male reader #male reader #smut #aaron hotchner #hotch #criminal minds

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sturchling · 4 years ago

Note

Adrien salt where Adrien tries to date a girl he thinks is Ladybug, but she's already dating someone and honestly doesn't like Adrien since he keeps pulling the poor little rich boy act. Adrien doesn't give up and it gets him in trouble.

Adrien was practically vibrating with excitement. Today was the day. Today was the day he would ask his lady out on a date as civilians. He had been working for weeks to determine who her civilian identity was. Adrien was sure that would prove to his lady that his affections were genuine. It had taken several weeks, but he was sure he had figured it out.

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

He had spent weeks pouring over security camera footage surrounding akuma attacks, and any students in the city that had unexplained absences or were frequently late. At first he didn’t see anything, and began to feel like it was pointless. Then Adrien noticed the same girl showed up on different security cameras around the city, near where Ladybug had just disappeared to detransform.

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

At first Adrien thought it had to be a coincidence, this girl didn’t look like Ladybug. Sure, her hair and eyes were the same color, but her hair was much longer. And she was more tan then Ladybug. But the more times she appeared on camera, the more Adrien was sure. After all, his miraculous makes his eyes completely green, who is to say the miraculous couldn’t shorten his lady’s hair and make her more pale. This had to be her. Adrien was sure. Plagg kept trying to talk him out of it, but Adrien was sure that Plagg was just trying to keep the secret. But it wouldn’t matter soon, once Adrien and his lady were dating, they would deal with whatever consequences came from knowing each other’s identities. He was sure their love could overcome anything.

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

After a little more research, he found that the girl from the security cameras attended his school, and even used to be in Mrs. Bustier’s class before she transferred to Mrs. Mendeleiev’s class. Now it all made sense why Ladybug’s kwami had been at his school, Ladybug herself went to his school. That even explained why the kwami had been in Mrs. Mendeleiev’s classroom, because that is Ladybug’s classroom. Everything made perfect sense now. This girl had to be Ladybug, it was the only thing that made sense.

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

The only problem now was during his research, Adrien found out that this girl, who he learned is named Chantelle, is already dating someone. Of course Ladybug had told Adrien that she was already in love with someone else. But Adrien believed that she had said that to try and keep them from knowing each other outside the mask. Once Chantelle knew the lengths he had gone to prove his love, and that he already knew her civilian identity, she would leave her boyfriend and then they could finally be together.

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

Sure in his plan, despite Plagg’s best efforts to convince him otherwise, Adrien left for school, excited to profess his love to his lady. He got to school early, hoping to find his lady alone. He got lucky and found her in the library, reading. He walked up behind her, and said, “Good morning my lady.” Chantelle whipped around to face him, looking confused. “What did you say?” Adrien smirked, “I said, good morning my lady.” Chantelle rolled her eyes and turned back to her book. “I am not your lady. I’m not your anything.” Adrien hesitated a moment, before reassuring himself that his lady was just playing hard to get, and wanted to pretend at still have a secret identity. If that is what she wanted, he would play along.

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

Adrien switched gears, putting away his Chat persona for now. He and his lady could discuss their identities another time. All that mattered is that he made her his girlfriend. “I just wanted to tell you that I like you a lot and would love to take you out sometime.” Chantelle stood up, gathering her things since the late bell had just rung. She was just going to reject him as nice as she could and then leave. “Look, your Adrien right? While I am flattered, like I said, I’m taken. And while I’m flattered, I don’t feel the same way. All I ever see or hear you do is mope about how your father doesn’t treat you well. And while I feel bad for you, I don’t like this poor little rich boy act you do. So, sorry, but I don’t like you the same way. I have to go, I’m late for class.” Chantelle leaves the library in a rush, and Adrien is left standing there wondering what had gone wrong.

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

By the end of the day, Adrien was frustrated. He understood her wanting to keep identities a secret, and had even played along. But she still rejected him. Surely she could feel that they were destined to be together. Why didn’t she react to his confession the way she was supposed to? She must have thought that Adrien wasn’t serious. That he was just being Chat and playing around. But Adrien would show her she was wrong. He would prove his love. No matter what it took, she would be his.

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

The next several weeks, Adrien would constantly try to contact Chantelle. He had found out her phone number, and her email. He texted and emailed her constantly. And he still tried to talk to her during school. But Chantelle continued to play hard to get and wouldn’t give him the time of day. She even had the nerve to start running from him when she saw him coming. She had even started having her friends escort her to and from school. Like she was afraid of him. But Adrien knew it was all part of the game, and she was making him prove he loved her.

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

Adrien started to become angry. As much as he enjoyed this little game, he wished his lady would just stop with the nonsense and admit she loved him too. So he decided to prove his love as best he could. He had found out Chantelle’s home address by following her friends when they went to pick her up one morning. Adrien decided to send her a dozen roses. When Chantelle went out that morning and saw the flowers, she initially hoped they were from her boyfriend, trying to cheer her up. But deep down she knew they weren’t. The note on the flowers simply said, I hope these flowers prove how much I love you. I will never give up on you my lady. - Adrien. Chantelle was horrified that Adrien had found out where she lived. She slammed the door shut, and locked it with shaking hands. She started to panic at the realization that Adrien was truly stalking her and wouldn’t stop. Then an eerie calmness washed over her and a soothing voice introduced itself as Hawkmoth.

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

Adrien arrived at the akuma fight slightly late, but was happy to see his lady. Surely after his gift this morning, she would be willing to speak with him after the battle. The akuma was a girl scared of a stalker. They quickly deakumatized her and Adrien was shocked to see Chantelle sitting there. Ladybug offered to help her with the stalker and Chantelle instantly burst into tears and explained the whole situation to Ladybug. Marinette was shocked to hear what Adrien had been doing to this girl, it didn’t seem like him at all. But this girl was obviously scared, so she knew something had happened. And when Chantelle mentioned that Adrien kept calling her my lady, Marinette felt the pit in her stomach grow as she realized that Adrien and Chat Noir were one and the same. She turned to face her partner, who was still staring at Chantelle in shock.

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

Adrien was standing in shock, just staring at Chantelle. She isn’t Ladybug? She had to be! It was the only thing that made sense. Adrien was so shocked, he didn’t notice Ladybug approach him and remove his ring. The transformation dropped, revealing himself to everyone watching. He turned to Ladybug, “Why did you take my ring!?” Ladybug glared at him, speaking in a cold tone. “After what you did to her, you don’t deserve this ring.” Adrien desperately tried to plead his case. “Please, I thought she was you! I was just trying to prove my love. I didn’t mean to betray you!” Ladybug’s glare somehow became colder. “That isn’t the issue. The issue is you have been stalking this girl for weeks and terrifying her. Someone who does that isn’t worthy of a miraculous.” Ladybug signaled to officer Roger, who had been observing the scene for a while and heard everything, for him to come over. Officer Roger placed Adrien under arrest for stalking and took him down to the station. The whole way to the car, Adrien pleaded with Ladybug to reconsider and to help him, but she just turned away from him. As Adrien sat in the police car, he wondered how things could have gone so wrong.

#ml #ml fic #ml fanfic #ml salt #ml salt fic #ml salt fanfic #adrien salt #stalker adrien #miraculous tales of ladybug and chat noir #miraculous ladybug #miraculous fic #miraculous fanfic #miraculous salt #miraculous salt fic #miraculous salt fanfic

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azaisya · 3 years ago

Text

late submission for qijiu week day 2 (curses/blessings)! have roughly 3k of lighthearted fic feat. outsider pov and getting together. rating: t

When Qi Qingqi returned from a mission with Yue Qingyuan’s unconscious body slung over one shoulder, the entirety of Cang Qiong Mountain imploded. Disciples ran everywhere like chickens with their heads cut off, and half of the Peak Lords followed suit.

Mu Qingfang didn’t know—or care—about any of that. He was the one that Qi Qingqi dumped Yue Qingyuan’s unconscious body on, and so it was up to him to try to find a cure.

For a sleeping curse, of all the absurd things.

The demon had supposedly been putting entire villages to sleep so she could feast on their dreams. The stories had been alarming enough to warrant sending two Peak Lords to deal with the problem, but everybody had agreed it was probably overkill.

Well. Apparently not.

At least Qi Qingqi had managed to behead the thing after it’d cursed Yue Qingyuan.

Demons rarely used sleeping curses. It was an impractically complicated method to get something that could be achieved with simple knockout powder or any blunt object.

Unlike knockout powder or a blunt object, Mu Qingfang didn’t have the cure sitting readily on his shelf.

He was just starting to sift through what he did have when the distant crash of his door slamming open interrupted his concentration. He grimaced. One of these days, Shang Qinghua was finally going to snap and go after Liu Qingge for destroying so many doors.

“Where is he?” a voice demanded, as low and snarling and dangerous as any demon.

Mu Qingfang hastily put down his things and made for the entrance room as the danger level ratcheted up from Liu Qingge to Shen Qingqiu.

Sure enough, Shen Qingqiu was standing in the doorway, glaring one of Mu Qingfang’s disciples into a nervous wreck. “Tell me where he is, you sniveling brat.”

The poor boy looked like he was about to faint. Mu Qingfang came into the room and smiled pleasantly. “I would appreciate it if you could refrain from insulting my disciples, Shen-shixiong.”

Shen Qingqiu whirled on him, and the little disciple let out a squeak and ran for it. Mu Qingfang would have to scold him later, but he wouldn’t be too stern. All his disciples were terrified of Shen Qingqiu, and for good reason. The man looked absolutely livid, his usual affected loftiness abandoned for a raw fury that even Liu Qingge couldn’t draw from him. At his hip, Xiu Ya rattled in its sheath. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

Mu Qingfang’s smile didn’t slip. “Zhangmen-shixiong is currently resting in a private room.”

“Resting,” Shen Qingqiu repeated, the word dripping with derision. He opened his fan with a sharp snap of his wrist, and his dark eyes glinted over its edge. “Let me see him.”

“Ah.” Introducing an element as volatile as Shen Qingqiu to a sick room was invariably a terrible idea. Explicitly telling him so was an even worse one. “Shen-shixiong, I’m afraid that Zhangmeng-shixiong’s state is currently very delicate. It would be best if he didn’t receive visitors right now.”

If looks could kill, Mu Qingfang would be a smear on the floor right now. “Was I asking?”

As mildly as ever, Mu Qingfang said, “I wasn’t aware that Shen-shixiong and Zhangmen-shixiong were close? If Shen-shixiong is truly so worried, then I suppose a brief visit would not be remiss.”

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes widened over his fan. “I’m not worried,” he snapped, “I am merely doing my duty, as the lord of Cang Qiong Mountain’s second peak.”

Got him. Mu Qingfang smiled, not at all smugly because he still had common sense and Shen Qingqiu still had Xiu Ya. “Shen-shixiong is truly admirable. Zhangmen-shixiong is still sleeping, and this one was just about to create a cure.”

Shen Qingqiu floundered as gracefully and loftily as he did anything else. After a beat, he closed his fan with a snap and whirled around. “Fine. Do it quickly.”

“Of course.”

Shen Qingqiu drew Xiu Ya in a dramatic sweep and leapt into the air. Mu Qingfang squinted after him. He was heading in the direction of Xian Shu Peak, which was not where he should be going if he was truly “doing his duty as the lord of Cang Qiong Mountain’s second peak.”

Which— interesting. Mu Qingfang hadn’t been aware that Yue Qingyuan’s frankly painfully obvious affections were returned with anything other than reluctant tolerance.

He could think of no other reason for Shen Qingqiu to go haring off to Xian Shu Peak if it wasn’t to harass Qi Qingqi for more information about the demon that had cursed Yue Qingyuan.

Well. At least that was a better use for his energy than pestering healers who had work to do.

Mu Qingfang gave it an hour before either Shen Qingqiu or Qi Qingqi got fed up enough with each other to draw a blade, which should give him at least an hour and a half before anybody came running to him for emergency healing.

With a sigh, he got to work.

---

It took them forty minutes. Mu Qingfang barely resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose as a hysterical Xian Shu disciple babbled about how Shen Qingqiu had attacked Qi Qingqi—

“Like a beast! For no reason at all!” the girl cried, “He’s going to kill her!”

Mu Qingfang considered his options. He didn’t like Shen Qingqiu, but he would never deny the man the respect he deserved. He was acerbic and impossible to work with, but he would never just attack Qi Qingqi for no reason. It was far more likely that she’d snapped at him and he—in his state of heightened stress—had overreacted and then she had overreacted too.

Mu Qingfang smiled his most dangerous smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I heard you properly. Would shizhi mind repeating herself?”

The girl made a vague choking sound and hastily dropped into a bow. “This humble disciple apologizes for her disrespect! She—humbly—requests that Mu-shishu sends medical aid to Xian Shu Peak!”

Mu Qingfang kept smiling, because otherwise he was going to make a very unattractive expression. “What exactly did Shen-shixiong and Qi-shijie get themselves into?”

The girl wavered, still refusing to meet his gaze. “This disciple is unsure. Guo-shijie sent this one here as a— as a precautionary measure before anything terrible happened.”

Mu Qingfang did not have time for this. He sent her away along with a handful of his best disciples to assuage her wide-eyed look of terror and irritably returned to his work. If Shen Qingqiu or Qi Qingqi got themselves hurt badly enough to need his help, then they’d need to wait their turn.

---

Thirty minutes later, there was another knock on his door. With a heavy sigh, Mu Qingfang gathered himself and went to open it. To his surprise, Shen Qingqiu was standing outside. He had his fan raised to cover the lower half of his face, and his hair and robes were only mildly ruffled by his flight here and whatever brawl he’d gotten into with Qi Qingqi.

Mu Qingfang just smiled and waited. It would do Shen Qingqiu some good to have to actually ask for what he wanted.

Those dark eyes narrowed over his fan. “Have you made any progress in your research?”

Mu Qingfang kept smiling, because otherwise he’d probably bang his head into the door. Did Shen Qingqiu think that constant interruptions were the ideal environment for productive work? Is that what was happening here?

It didn’t seem like he really wanted an answer, because Shen Qingqiu continued, “Qi-shimei shared the details of the incident with me. I would like to inspect our Zhangmen-shixiong’s condition myself.” He lowered his fan to reveal a smile that suggested it wasn’t a question.

Mu Qingfang did sigh this time, because apparently Shen Qingqiu cared about Yue Qingyuan! Who knew! Definitely not somebody who’d been forced to sit through their sniping at meetings, that was for sure. “Shen-shixiong may come in,” he allowed, “so long as he maintains the peace of the chambers.”

There was no point keeping him out, after all. He was practically vibrating with stress as it was, and there was no way he wouldn’t cause some other disaster if Mu Qingfang turned him away now.

“Of course.” Shen Qingqiu closed his fan with a snap. “No need for Mu-shidi to chaperone. I’m sure he has much to do.” Without waiting for a response, he strode past Mu Qingfang and through the door to Yue Qingyuan’s sick room.

Which. Great. Excellent.

Mu Qingfang spent exactly three seconds valiantly staring at his work before giving up and following after Shen Qingqiu, fully prepared to do some kind of damage control. To his surprise, the other man was standing motionless in Yue Qingyuan’s doorway, toes barely over the threshold. The hand holding his fan was white with tension.

Cautiously, Mu Qingfang said, “Shen-shixiong is free to enter.”

Shen Qingqiu’s shoulders tensed. He turned, unfolding his fan with a smooth, languid motion and bringing it up to cover the lower half of his face as he peered at Mu Qingfang. “Mu-shidi should get back to work. Cang Qiong Mountain needs our sect leader, after all.”

Mu Qingfang stared at him. Shen Qingqiu’s eyes were the color of lakewater at its murkiest. They were a deep grey-green, and they were filled with something terrible and unreadable, something that was somehow even more frightening than his usual hissing, spitting fury.

Ah, he thought, suddenly.

“I’ll find a cure,” he promised.

Shen Qingqiu’s fingers tightened around his fan. His eyes narrowed, as if he were about to scoff, but in the end he just looked back through the door at Yue Qingyuan’s unconscious form, arms tucked neatly at his sides and blanket drawn up to his chest. Without another word, he turned and stalked out.

---

Mu Qingfang read many, many scrolls. He looked through all his notes, attempted all his usual solutions, but the demon’s sleeping curse was tenacious. It clung stubbornly to Yue Qingyuan, locking him in dreams no matter what Mu Qingfang tried.

In the end, there was only one solution left.

. . . Shen Qingqiu was going to eviscerate him.

---

“Are you telling me,” Shen Qingqiu hissed, all but vibrating with poorly-disguised fury, “that the only solution is to sleep with him?!”

“Dual cultivation with a suitably powerful partner, yes,” Mu Qingfang replied evenly, smiling as if he wasn’t sweating bullets. The other Peak Lords, summoned for an update on their sect leaders’ condition and now attempting to melt into their chairs to avoid Shen Qingqiu’s rapidly building wrath, happily avoided eye contact. Liu Qingge had probably zoned out two sentences into the meeting.

Shen Qingqiu tilted his chin up, both dismissive and derisive all at once. “You have access to resources of the most powerful sect in the cultivation world, and the best you can give me is dual cultivation.”

Mu Qingfang did not flinch. It would’ve been a near miss, but Shen Qingqiu’s now obvious affection and concern for Yue Qingyuan had diminished his wrath to the hissing of an overprotective kitten and also Mu Qingfang was probably running on a few too many days without sleep. So he said, “Unfortunately, yes, that is accurate.”

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes locked onto him. Several tense moments passed. Shang Qinghua, several chairs away and not at all involved in the action, was nearly purple with stress. Finally, Shen Qingqiu stepped back, drawing his anger into some secret part of himself until nothing was left but a cold, cruel elegance. “Well! How far the majesty of Cang Qiong Mountain has fallen.” His lip curled into a sardonic sneer. “If I am ever cursed and the only solution is to sleep with my unconscious corpse, then just slit my throat and put us all out of our mistry.”

Somewhere in the back of the room, somebody mumbled, “Please.”

Shen Qinggqiu’s teeth clicked together. “Mu-shidi,” he said, in the same voice that made Mu Qingfang’s disciples piss themselves, “Surely there are some books on my Qing Jing Peak that you haven’t yet looked over. How can you make a diagnosis when you haven't done all the research yet?”

Mu Qingfang considered slamming his head onto the table. Unfortunately, he doubted that Shen Qingqiu’s mood was permissive enough to allow such dramatics.

. . . it was never permissive enough to allow such dramatics.

With the pleasant smile of a man who had definitely already read every single relevant book on Cang Qiong Mountain, he said, “I suppose I may have been remiss in my responsibilities. Zhangmen-shixiong’s condition is in no danger of worsening, and so there is no harm in further examining what information we have.”

Shen Qingqiu’s smile might as well have been fanged. “Good. I will drop them off as soon as possible.” With one last glare at the rest of the Peak Lords, he turned sharply on his heel and strode from the room in a flurry of green silks and danger.

Shang Qinghua sagged into the table. Qi Qingqi snorted and patted Mu Qingfang on the shoulder. “Good luck with that one, Mu-shidi.”

Mu Qingfang carefully did not stop smiling.

---

He waited until he was safely alone in his workshop before slamming his head on the table. It didn’t solve anything, but it did technically give him several seconds of shut-eye and that was better than nothing.

He was interrupted—once again—by the sound of his door violently slamming open.

“Shen-shixiong,” he said, peeling his face off his desk.

“Mu-shidi.” Shen Qingqiu sat down next to him and folded his hands neatly in his lap, deceptively demure. “Is dual cultivation really the only way to cure Zhangmen-shixiong of his curse?”

Mu Qingfang peered at Shen Qingqiu’s sleeves. They didn’t look very full, but there was no telling how many books the man had shoved into them. “There may perhaps—” Theoretically, possibly, somewhere. “—be other alternatives.”

Shen Qingqiu tilted his head down in acknowledgement, but his eyes never left Mu Qingfang’s. “But this is the best solution.” He didn’t wait for a response before adding, words crisp and only mildly colored by the revulsion he’d displayed in the meeting room earlier, “Dual cultivation with a suitably powerful partner is the best solution.”

“Yes,” Mu Qingfang said, not even bothering to summon his usual smile. It was what he’d already said in the meeting, after all, and Shen Qingqiu wasn’t looking for his smile anyways.

Shen Qingqiu’s lips turned white as he pressed them together. He didn’t speak, but the glint in his eyes made it clear that he was waiting for something.

Mu Qingfang had absolutely no idea what. If anything, all he’d learned from this entire affair—beyond the surprising effectiveness of sleeping curses—was that he could not read Shen Qingqiu whatsoever. Here he was, pale and tense and snappish for a man that the whole sect was convinced that he hated.

“Would—” Shen Qingqiu began, before stopping and scowling at the wall. “Would. My cultivation level. Work.”

“Oh.” Mu Qingfang wondered if he should even bother being surprised anymore. At least this was one thing he’d already known about his Shen-shixiong: he was an absolutely abysmal communicator. “Um.”

Shen Qingqiu’s cheeks colored, and he quickly said, “Not that I want to do this. But Zhangmen-shixiong deserves better than some brute like Liu Qingge, and there’s hardly a wealth of cultivators powerful enough to match him. So excuse this lowly one for his flawed foundation, but—”

Ah, what?! Mu Qingfang had not asked for any of this??? Hastily, before Shen Qingqiu could ramble himself into changing his mind, Mu Qingfang said, “Shen-shixiong, you are one of the most powerful cultivators in the world.” There was a reason that he’d been able to last as long as he had in duels with Liu Qingge in their youths. “You would absolutely, ah, work.”

Shen Qingqiu’s fan opened with a snap. It did little to hide the redness of his face. “Ah. Well. Good.”

“Right,” Mu Qingfang said.

They stared at each other.

Shen Qingqiu bristled, shoulders tilting upwards again, and Mu Qingfang realized abruptly that he was about to get eviscerated if he didn’t leave very, very soon. Quickly, Mu Qingfang exclaimed, “Well! Good. I’ll take my leave first, to allow you and Zhangmen-shixiong your privacy. You know how this works?”

“Of course I know how this works!” Shen Qingqiu yelped, too indignant to maintain an even tone.

Mu Qingfang smiled. It was perhaps his first genuine smile since Qi Qingqi had absconded after dumping Yue Qingyuan’s body in his arms. “Good. I’ll leave Shen-shixiong to it, then.”

Before Shen Qingqiu could figure out how to stop spluttering, Mu Qingfang gathered his things and quickly vacated the premises.

---

Well. He supposed that was one way to do things.

---

Yue Qingyuan was up and about by the next day. Any assumptions Mu Qingfang had had about Shen Qingqiu wanting to be private about his affairs were quickly dashed. Yue Qingyuan walked into the next Peak Lord meeting with, ah, marks visible high enough on his neck that his collar couldn’t cover them, and he seemed utterly incapable of keeping his eyes off of Shen Qingqiu.

Shen Qingqiu ignored him as usual, but Mu Qingfang was sitting close enough to see that they were holding hands under the table.

Which. Great. Excellent. Exactly what Mu Qingfang wanted to see at every sect meeting for the rest of his life.

“It’s all your fault, you know,” Liu Qingge said.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Mu Qingfang protested.

“No, it absolutely is,” Qi Qingqi said glumly, “I can’t believe we have to watch Zhangmen-shixiong making bedroom eyes at Shen Qingqiu every single month.”

Mu Qingfang put his head on the table. Maybe if he just ignored everything, it would all go away.

“Did you see them yesterday?” Qi Qingqi continued, “They were wearing matching outfits.”

Shang Qinghua, inexplicably, shot Mu Qingfang a strange gesture with both thumbs sticking up. “Nice.”

“No,” Liu Qingge said.

“Absolutely not,” Qi Qingqi agreed.

[ao3 link]

#qijiuweek2021 #shen jiu #mu qingfang #yue qingyuan #qijiu #svsss #svsss fanfiction #candleswriting #scumbagged villains #i will post this to ao3/twitter um. eventually. maybe over the weekend #also! humor is not normally my forte but this was a lot of fun. hope you guys like it!

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welllpthisishappening · 3 years ago

Text

Emma Swan, Olympian is not a phrase Emma Swan, totally normal person, ever expected to hear.

But she never expected one night at a party hosted by her college's baseball team to change her entire life, either. So, it should really come as no surprise that Emma Swan, Olympian, is now something of international sensation. Or that her husband has become a bit of a social media star.

——— Rating: Teen with sports feelings Word Count: 7.5K AN: As promised and because of who I am as a person, I wrote Olympic fic. I can neither confirm nor deny that there is an actual plot here, but there is a surplus of fluff and sports-based feelings. So, that’s something. Thanks to the Detroit Lions, specifically, for posting this Tweet and to my husband who is very much aware of what content I want the internet to provide me. Operation: Make Killian a New York Yankee as often as possible continues.

|| Read on Ao3 if that’s your jam ||

———

No one told her the questions would start to blur together.

That would require media training, Emma imagines. And no one is giving a first-time Olympian in a sport that only a handful of people marginally believe warrants notice from the IOC any sort of media training. She got, like, an orientation packet. With a lopsided staple in the top left corner. On her commercial flight. That she booked herself.

Twenty-plus hours crammed into a seat that she’s only a little concerned did permanent damage to her right knee, with a meal that was so chewy Emma was about four seconds and one exasperated, entirely exhausted exhale from asking if it was, in fact, made of plastic.

Mostly, the staple is what’s still managing to frustrate her. As frustrated as she can be at the Olympics. No one is supposed to be frustrated at the Olympics. Not really. Not while experiencing the pinnacle of athletic achievement, the calluses on Emma’s fingertips some sort of badge of honor that she’s wearing with at least a modicum of national pride, and everything is fine.

Her qualifying time was absurd. Where absurd is a compliment and very close to a record she’s suddenly determined to shatter.

So, she’s alone.

Big deal. So is everyone else. This Olympics, at least. Plus, Killian wouldn’t have been able to come no matter what the state of the world was. Even so, the quiet stands are admittedly weird. All these empty arenas with empty seats, the distinct lack of a roaring crowd no more obvious than when the world’s best athletes step to the line. Staring at the climbing wall in front of her four hours earlier, Emma swore she could hear every single beat of her heart echo between her ears.

And that’s—well, solitude is par for the course with an adolescence like hers, half-filled suitcases and brand-new faces in brand-new towns, but she’d gotten used to one town, and the town is actually a city, and the city has long since felt like home, and her fingers reach for the rings dangling above her Team USA t-shirt. They did give her an absolute shit ton of t-shirts, so that was nice.

Except—

Something keeps tugging. Nagging at the back of Emma’s consciousness, almost like she’s forgotten her keys on that flea market table they found in Park Slope two weeks after they moved into the apartment. Because for as well-versed Emma may be in that singular sort of existence, she’s also well-removed from wanting it, and at least three of her knuckles crack. Curling around her rings.

Muscles in her cheeks stretch, another nod and quick blink to avoid the threat of blinding via camera flashes. Someone really should have told her about this. She probably should have assumed. Human interest is the driving force of at least three-quarters of the stories in sports, and Emma’s not used to being the story, per se, but even she has to admit most of hers makes for a good one and they are still asking her questions.

Emma blinks again. Hopes she doesn’t look like a serial killer or the weird blonde, slightly sweaty cousin of the Joker, her smile starting to feel as if it’s painted on her face. She nods. Hums. Listens to questions that are startling in their tonal similarity to Charlie Brown’s teacher, and Emma wonders if Charlie Brown ever got a different teacher or what the school structure of the Peanuts’ universe is and, God, how old was Charlie Brown, even? To withstand that sort of consistent bullying. Was Linus the same age as him? No, right? How long did he carry the blanket around? Was Linus the same age as Sally? Why didn’t the red-headed girl with curly hair get a name?

She nearly falls out of her chair.

That might make the front page of several blogs. Possibly even the back page of a New York tab.

Careful to keep her feet on the ground, Emma lifts her head, directing her eyes toward the source of a question that must have been asked several times if the note of amusement mixing with deadline-based exasperation is anything to go by. Her smile definitely makes her look like a serial killer.

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma mumbles, and none of the oxygen she does her best to inhales makes it even close to her lungs. “I, uh—what was the question?”

The reporter grimaces.

“I wanted to know if you’d seen the video of your husband yet.”

Ice runs down her spine. Every single drop of wholly disgusting sweat falling in rivulets down either one of her cheeks freezes. Oxygen disappears from the room. Or so Emma assumes, what with the crushing feeling pushing down on her lungs and whatnot.

Her mind whirs. Races through possibilities and pitfalls with a speed that would be impressive if Emma weren’t already so close to that record, and she is going to break that record. Somehow she manages not to fall, though. From her chair or the metaphorical climbing wall in her brain, ignoring the sudden dryness of her mouth and the increasing size of her tongue.

Her nails are going to leave little half-moon creases in her palm.

“I don’t—” she starts, and eventually she will wish she was more articulate. For what turns out to be a very nice story.

Standing up, the reporter’s seat creaks as she moves toward the desk they deposited Emma behind after even. Several Olympic officials move to block her, but Emma shakes her head again, and she’s not exactly high-priority on the list of defensible athletes, anyway. So, none of them flinch when the reporter slides a phone closer to Emma, her crazed thoughts briefly lingering on how many phones a reporter could possibly need, but then her eyes drop, and she’s not sure if her ears can actually perk, but Emma certainly tries because she hears him yelling before she sees him.

Her smile shifts.

And the cameras flash again.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s collegiate life, because Anna demands it.

She’s only half-listening, so Emma can never be entirely sure what it was, exactly, she was agreeing to, but in her experience, the agreement doesn’t matter so much as the action, and her roommate’s younger sister is unstoppable when it comes to action. So, Emma is dimly aware of a plan. Something about the baseball house and that one left fielder is in a handful of her classes.

David—something.

He’s got a girlfriend, too. A nice one. Who always smells like sugar when she slides into the seat next to David whatever his last name is, sitting in the row in front of Emma during their Tuesday-Thursday statistics class.

Emma hates statistics.

She doesn’t hate Anna, though. Or her roommate, one of the better college-based surprises, and either Anna has magic or Elsa is an enormous pushover because somehow all three of them are ready at the same time, and the walk to the baseball house isn’t far.

First-year players guard the door — passing out color-coded wristbands that absolutely do not do their job because it takes about six seconds of well-meaning flirting and batted eyelashes between Anna and a mountain of muscle masquerading as the team’s starting catcher to get them inside. With purple wristbands and two tickets for jungle juice instead of the keg.

“Victory,” Anna cries, twisting through the crowd. Half of it is already teetering on the edge of drunk, the rest free-falling into the pit of imminent hangovers, and Emma isn’t sure she’d classify their drinks as a victory, but it’s definitely better than watered-down beer.

And it doesn’t take long, really. By Emma’s shaky count, it’s not even a half-hour before the muscle — who introduces himself as Kristoff, and really is pretty cute, actually — returns, standing unnaturally close to Anna’s left shoulder, furtive glances shared out of the corners of their eyes. Emma rolls hers. Elsa’s appear perpetually stuck to the ceiling. It looks oddly sticky up there.

“Go,” Elsa says, and it’s not an instruction. Barely counts as more than a whisper, really. Anna lights up all the same. Like an alcohol-fueled Christmas tree.

Who does not need telling more than once.

Hands reach and smiles widen, Kristoff mumbling something that sounds like it was nice to meet you before he’s following Anna back to the beer pong table, leaving Elsa and Emma standing in the middle of a sea of raging hormones. All of which want to be there way more than either one of them does.

“Well,” Elsa mutters, “that was polite.”

Emma snickers into her glass. A mostly empty glass. That’s surprising. “Got that going for him.” “Plus, his on-base is nuts this year.”

“Say that again.” “On-base percentage,” Elsa repeats, making sure to do it slowly for maximum sarcastic emphasis. Emma’s eyes are going to fall out. That won’t end well. There are too many shuffling feet in this room.

“What does that mean?” “How often he gets on base.” Opening her mouth does nothing. Closing it does even less. Elsa looks overjoyed. “I know things,” she shrugs, “and I’m pretty positive Anna and Kristoff have been not-so-secretly dating since the start of the semester, so—” “You stalked your sister’s secret boyfriend?” “Stalk’s a very dirty word, don’t you think? No, no, there was no stalking. There was light research. One Google search and a single click to the team’s roster, and now I know he’s from Minnesota, too.” “Awfully convenient for the romance of the century.” Humming, Elsa takes a larger-than-usual sip before scrunching her nose in displeasure. At her empty cup. Emma has no idea how they ended up with empty cups so quickly. Suddenly the baseball house feels a bit like a time warp. Enter and drink and find the love of your life. Or something like that.

“I got next,” Emma says, ignoring Elsa’s laugh because she is not the sort of person who says things like that. It’s this house. This place. With its music and its happiness, and she’s not really a sports person. Can only marginally understand the joy of watching other people accomplish something. She has no idea what on-base percentage is.

Still.

Her feet move. Fingers curl over the rim of red solo cups, like the most cliché version of her college self. Her drinks get refilled. And it’s just as Emma’s about to let herself wonder if, maybe, sports aren’t all that bad and might even possess a bit of inherent romanticism, she slams into something.

Someone, more like.

Taller than her, he has to peer down his nose to glare at Emma. That’s fair. They’re both far more damp than they were ten seconds before. Some of that moisture ensures that the hem of his shirt sticks to his stomach. A very flat stomach. That draws Emma’s eyes because she’s human and slightly intoxicated, and it takes quite a lot more than she’s willing to admit to lift her chin, but then she’s glad she does. Even with the understandable glare.

“Shit,” she breathes, “your eyes are stupid blue.”

He narrows them. She hates that. Which is about all it takes for her to get royally pissed off, too.

“Can you pay attention to where you’re walking?”

The stupidly blue eyes blink. Darken a shade, like all his frustration is centered directly around his pupils, and the shirt he’s wearing is team-branded. Another baseball player, then.

“You ran into me!” Oh, Oh. Well, that sucks. He’s got a good voice, too. Eyes and voice and the few strands of hair that fall toward those eyes when he continues to glare at Emma likely aren’t supposed to make her stomach flip.

It’s the alcohol’s fault.

Or sports. Like, in general.

“Because you take up so much space,” Emma snarls He leans forward. Looms, really. Over her and around her, smelling like punch and body wash. It’s gross and absolutely wonderful. “Gotta pick a lane, love. Either I ran into you, or I was in the way.”

“It can definitely be both and there is nothing resembling love here.”

“So I can see. You have a name, wrecking ball?” “My shoes are never going to unstick from this floor.” To his credit, he does waver. His lips twist — which makes it all too obvious how much Emma is staring at his lips, but, seriously, the alcohol. Plus, it’s so hot in this house she can barely think straight. She wonders where he buys his body wash. He smells better than he should in this house. So, it's clear he considers. Ponders, even. Until his hands dart out and those hands are somehow warmer than every person in this house combined, heat scorching through Emma’s t-shirt as he lifts her off the ground.

Only to deposit her approximately fourteen inches to her left.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” “Look,” he grins, “you’re unstuck.” “Bastard!” “Eh, not technically.” “What?” “Not technically a bastard. Orphan, I suppose. But that’s kind of a mood ruiner, don’t you think?”

Emma’s fish impression is really going great. The grin becomes a smirk. Her stomach refuses to stay still. “Is there a mood to ruin?” “Might be if you tell me your name.”

Emma wavers, that time. Considers and ponders. Weighs the pros and cons while laughter drifts past her ears, consummate collegiate experiences that she’s only ever let herself be passably jealous of. A dark-haired girl’s talking to Elsa in the opposite corner.

And the hand hanging in front of her wiggles its fingers.

It’s still ridiculously warm when she grabs it. “Emma Swan.” “Killian Jones.”

Anna’s secret relationship becomes a real relationship no less than sixteen hours following what Elsa begins to call the Drink Incident.

And they become—

Baseball people.

Becoming baseball people is not bad. Not really. Emma likes the baseball team. She understands what WHIP is, now. Kristoff adores Anna, so that’s good. David, who does, in fact, have a last name, continues to be as nice as assumed, and his girlfriend sort of quasi adopts Emma. Mary Margaret Blanchard brims with positivity and an innate sort of joy that would usually annoy Emma, but most of that joy also serves as a direct counter to the snark that Killian Jones appears flush with. So, it’s something of a wash, really.

Plus, he’s a very sore Monopoly loser.

And Emma finds it endlessly entertaining.

“Stop that,” he grunts, glaring at the board with the sort of force Emma’s become accustomed to in the last few months, while she taps on the space in front of her, “I know how many spots it is.” Emma smiles. “So move, then.” “I’ll be bankrupt.” “Capitalism does that.” “Tell me more about capitalism, Swan.”

She doesn’t startle, so there’s that. Not much else, though. Not when a noticeable bit of equally familiar heat skitters down her spine. Her head tilts. His head remains frustratingly still, staring at the board like the spaces will change or Mary Margaret will tear down some of her hotels on Marvin Gardens.

Neither thing happens.

The heat pools. At the small of her back, inching dangerously close to that space between her hips, like it’s trying to tether her to this spot and this moment and its people. Baseball people. People who so clearly care about everything so much that even the cynic in Emma can appreciate it. Plus, they’re all ridiculously competitive.

David had to take a walk when Mary Margaret bankrupt him earlier.

“That’s about the extent of my capitalism knowledge,” Emma admits with a shrug, “I sucked at economics.” Pulling his gaze away from the board, Emma’s less prepared for the force behind Killian’s eyes than she was for the appearance of a nickname that might not warrant the title. It’s just her name, after all. But it sounds like more than that. Sinks under her skin with alarming ease, the precise tone of it wrapping its way around a variety of internal organs until they’re all beating at the same tempo and— “Move my piece for me.”

Kristoff groans. Mary Margaret chuckles. Elsa looks far too sure of herself. Knows everything, indeed.

And it’s not really a command, but there’s that same sense of something that found its way into the sound of Emma’s name and Killian’s voice, and he catches her by surprise. On a variety of levels. His fingers jump the moment hers reach out, all heat and an alarming size difference, his brows lifting when she turns her head.

“You’re taking this game way too seriously, you know,” Emma says. What she doesn’t say is more important, though. Because they’re not friends, really. They’re—acquaintances. Some kind of appropriate metaphor regarding a planet’s many moons and the tendency of those moons to orbit something far bigger than them. But they like each other, too. As much as they dance and twist, do their best to avoid getting hit in the batter’s box, Emma’s more comfortable bantering with him than just about anyone she’s ever met, a challenge in every conversation, and she’s rather loath to realize she’s memorized the different ways the blue in his eyes flash.

Now it feels a bit like a spotlight.

“Matter of pride, Swan.” “Is it just?” If there are other people laying on their stomachs in that living room, half-empty glasses by their hands and equipment stacked in various corners, Emma forgets about them. Quickly. Immediately. Killian doesn’t move his fingers.

He nods.

And Mary Marget only kind of gloats when she bankrupts him.

She dances when she wins, though.

It’s embarrassing. It’s absolutely, goddamn wonderful.

Realizing that baseball is a game of statistics ruins kind of Emma’s day. It makes Killian laugh. Her favorite sort of laugh. Where he throws his head back, an arm around his middle, and his shoulders shaking. Those same strands of hair she noticed that first night fall back toward lidded eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting in an angle Emma is sure she could determine if she just didn’t hate math so much, and it takes about four seconds, her head tilting back and forth twice and one swipe of her tongue to lean forward on the couch they're sharing, tilt her head up and press her lips to his.

Press is a vast understatement.

Crash, more like.

A bases-clearing double into the left-field gap.

She knows so many baseball terms now, it’s ridiculous.

It’s because she keeps going to games. With Anna. Without Anna. With Elsa. Without Elsa. With Mary Margaret every single time. And it creeps on so slowly, she’s practically a Jane Austen heroine, but then Emma finds she cares as much as everyone else. Screams herself hoarse at every crack of the bat. Jumps and fist bumps with startling regularity. Experiences the flutter of butterflies in her flip-prone stomach before ninth-inning rallies.

She memorizes statistics. Killian’s statistics, especially.

Because the Draft is a week away, and the nerves rolling off him are even more potent than his body wash. Bought in bulk from a locally-owned company, she learns.

Killian hates capitalism, too.

Which is only part of the reason she likes him, but right now all of the reason is centered around how it feels as if the world is shifting on its axis and what, precisely, he is capable of with his tongue. Quite a lot if this first time at bat is anything to believe.

Emma laughs.

Joy bubbles from the very center of her, pushing at the seam of her lips, and it’s not much of a seam when her mouth is open to accommodate tongue, but it’s enough of a sound that Killian pulls back. No glare. Definitely eyebrow movement, though.

“That’s not the best confidence boost, you know.” “I’m straddling you,” Emma counters, nodding toward the knees on either side of his, and she has no idea when her fingers found his hair. It’s very soft.

“How did that happen?” “What was that about confidence?”

Dropping his head, she gets a different sort of laugh, one that’s just as potent in its ability to settle into her bloodstream and the empty spaces around her heart, and sports have turned her into a sap. “I like you a lot,” Killian murmurs. Emma’s heart explodes. Metaphorically speaking.

“Good.” “Expand on that, for me.” She pinches his side, almost prepared for the way it leaves him bucking beneath her. Less prepared for the mutual groan it causes. Killian’s eyes widen. “I like you a lot,” Emma repeats, and his arms tighten, and her heart knits itself back together, and the second time through the kissing order is even better.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s nearly-adult life, because Anna demands it.

“I just think it’ll be fun,” Anna says, not for the first time. And, not for the first time, she ignores the pointed look Emma and Elsa exchange. Elsa’s lips have all but disappeared behind her teeth “Think about it,” Anna continues, “we need something to do before the game, anyway. This way we’re—you know, staying active.” Emma’s eyebrows jump. Fly. Soar into her hairline where the level of her disbelief sits, all too aware of the ring hanging around her neck.

A Draft Day gift. As much as a family heirloom can be a gift. But Killian claimed it was good luck, his brother��s ring, because turns out that snark is at least a partial product of a wholly depressing childhood, and Emma supposes there’s something to be said for common ground. Understanding, too. Stories shared over weeks that turned to months that turned to years and seasons in the minors, and it absolutely figures Killian’s Major League debut is happening in Cincinnati. Where Kristoff plays.

It’s ridiculous how in love with him she is.

Killian. Not Kristoff.

Anna is still talking. “There’s nothing else to do in Cincinnati,” she reasons, which seems unfair to the city itself but not entirely untrue, and even the concept of chili on spaghetti grosses Emma out. “Also,” Anna adds, sounding as if she’s reached the final bullet point on her list of possible arguments, “I’ve got a Groupon deal for this place.”

Elsa blinks. “I didn’t realize Groupon was even still a thing.” “Surprise!”

Emma’s laugh isn’t entirely honest, but her sigh of acceptance is and—

Turns out she’s pretty good at it.

Goddamn fantastic, actually.

At rock climbing. Indoor rock climbing. Her feet push her up the wall with ease, the steady ache in her arms welcome and wonderful and a slew of other alliterative adjectives. That leave Killian grinning like a maniac, but it’s been a weird and equally wonderful day, without a hit, but two walks, so that ups the on-base, and Emma’s really, seriously in love with him.

“I don’t know what it was,” she says, preening just a bit under Killian’s stare. Hotel lighting casts shadows on his cheeks, slumped as he is against every pillow they could find. Even the ones in the closet. He’s not supposed to be in here for much longer, both of them aware of the team-ordained curfew hanging over them, but the pre-game nerves are long gone. Replaced instead with exhilaration and endorphins, the kind that could win Elle Woods a headline-making case. “But,” Emma continues, “I just kept moving, and the guy said it was, like, a course record. Is course the right word, you think?” Killian lifts a shoulder. Even as it’s covered in ice and tape. The play he made at third is going to show on loop. On TV. In Emma’s memory. She’s never yelled that loud before.

People took pictures.

And then she cried. Like a giant sap.

“This is your show, Swan,” Killian chuckles, pride infusing the words. As if she’s the one who deserves the pride today. It’s entirely possible she cried for multiple minutes after that play. They definitely showed that on the YES Network. Mary Margaret texted her no less than forty-seven times.

“I was really fast.” Killian hums, fingers fluttering enough to make it clear he wants her closer. Emma doesn’t argue. They’re a mess of limbs and mouths and that tongue thing they’ve collectively gotten better at giving and receiving over the years, hands that warm with the sort of confidence borne of repetition. Some joke about BP and finding your swing.

“Plus,” he says, a soft laugh at Emma’s noise of displeasure when talking means far less kissing, “becoming a rock climbing savant means more upper-body work, and you know how I love your arms.” Guffawing the way Emma does is not particularly romantic. Doesn’t matter. The sound comes, and the joy remains, a steady stream pumping through all her extremities and clouding her thoughts. In the best way possible. Before Killian, Emma didn’t know this could be that. Fun and easy, not quite simple, but something she’s willing to work for. Athletes are notoriously determined, after all.

Part of her wonders if a proclivity to rock climbing makes her an athlete, too.

“Please,” she says, laughter clinging to the letters even as she finds herself moved directly over Killian’s outstretched legs, “provide, in detail, everything you enjoy about my arms.” “I didn’t say enjoy.” “Were you misquoted, Jones?” His eyes flash. Glow, honestly. At her and because of her and athletes also know how to work their opponents. Goad them into making mistakes. Something about a pitcher’s duel and a battle in the box. Where the box is this bed. And Emma’s winning.

“I love your arms,” Killian says. Dragging his mouth against the column of her throat leaves goosebumps on Emma’s skin. Her back arches. His hand flattens. The compliments continue. Turn into promises. Guarantees. Of a future that’s spread out at their feet now, if only they reach for it.

Turns out Emma’s pretty good at reaching for things. When she wants them.

“This isn’t, like, free-scale, though, is it?”

Her heart cannot be expected to handle much more of this.

“Don’t worry,” Emma says, “all proper safety precautions were taken. Plus, I wouldn’t fall off the wall.”

Killian’s expression shutters. Not in any of that frustration Emma so clearly understood when his shirt was damp, and her shoes were unsalvagable despite his best efforts to get the school’s equipment manager to dry-clean them. No, it’s—it’s something big and important and unspoken, and Emma pulls his hand up. To rest directly over the rink that’s still tucked beneath her t-shirt.

His t-shirt.

It’s got his last number on it, at least.

“Would you catch me if I fell off the wall?” He doesn’t answer at first. Doesn’t mention the absurdity of a question that does not make sense, but those literal and metaphorical clock hands are ticking, and if they don’t replace his ice soon, they’re going to destroy these sheets. “Every single time, Swan.” “Right back at you.”

Killian doesn’t miss curfew, but it’s pretty close.

And Emma wakes up to twelve texts with links for indoor rock climbing gyms in the greater New York City area.

“Holy shit, this is hard.”

Grunting more than laughing, Emma’s fingers curl around the rock in front of her. Chalk cakes itself on the pads of those fingers, stuck beneath her nails and, somehow, the bend of her elbow. “Are you not an All-Star?” she asks, glancing at Killian.

“I do not see how that factors into this at all.”

“Huh, weird.” “Suspiciously sounds like an accusation.” “Weird,” Emma repeats. They’re halfway up a wall only one of them is really supposed to be on, but the other person several feet below them is faring far worse than the pair of them combined, so, that takes precedence in her mind. “He knows a lot more curse words than I realized.” “He’s showing off,” Killian grumbles, forehead resting against the wall.

Will Scarlet hasn’t moved in five minutes. Possibly six. Maybe a round ten. He's much better at second base.

“I cannot feel my arms,” he calls, and Emma’s laugh is better that time. Purer, somehow. As if happiness can actually have a sound. Even happiness that comes with sweat on her temple and a noticeable ache in her triceps and she sort of loves this.

Sort of is a vast understatement.

“Showing off, huh?” Emma asks. She finds her next footfall with ease, happiness blooming into confidence that’s become nearly consistent these days and weeks and years. It does not take her long to feel the stare that’s lingering on her. On her ass, specifically.

She glances over her shoulder. To find her fiancé smiling at her. And staring at her ass.

“Can I help you, love?” “Whatcha doing?” “Ogling you, obviously.” “Forearms feeling good?” He nods. Sort of. There’s a distinct slope to the back of his neck and more sweat on his brown than Emma’s. Not as much as Scarlet’s, probably. “Fantastic,” Killian drawls, “keep going, Swan, someone’s got to show us how to do it.” “Try not to fall off the wall, huh? Last thing we need is the might of the Yankees front office coming after us.” “I don’t think I can move my hands,” Will shouts. Killian doesn’t move. It’s impressive forearm strength. Blushing on the wall is not usually how Emma’s days go.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises, and Emma moves. He follows her. Up the wall and to the top, a quick brush of his lips against her shoulder that leaves Scarlet cursing even more, despite his presence on the floor, but then there’s lemon-flavored water and exceptionally soft towels and Emma’s caught a bit off guard by the question.

“Are there leagues for this?” Will asks. “Because you should probably be winning things for this.” Emma blinks. Considers. Wonders. Turns to Killian.

He’s still smiling. Broadly, in fact.

“We could look.” They do. They fill out paperwork. Buy fancy climbing shoes that Emma claims cost too much, but Killian’s a pushover and even more stubborn and she wins the first race she signs up for.

Plus, ten more after that.

Emma climbs indoor rock walls. Killian hits home runs. Occasionally they do these things simultaneously, and it usually leads to her nearly falling off the wall because everyone in her Tribeca gym knows what it means when WFAN is playing on the speakers.

Sometimes they shout out John Sterling’s home run call with him.

She gets better. He gets better.

They do end up destroying sheets in various hotels across the country. For various reasons. Not all of them post-game or ice related. There are games and events. Wins and losses. Back page spreads that Emma frames and hangs on their apartment walls, right next to other, smaller frames, with the same smiling faces who, once upon a time, called a sticky-floored baseball house home, and Killian’s fingers are warm in hers when the tears prick her eyes at Anna and Kristoff’s wedding.

There are stories. Think pieces and hot takes on a variety of drive-time radio shows. Those are all about Killian, though. He’s the athlete. The true one, some stories say. It’s impressive what Emma does, they admit, but it’s a hobby, and she’s got a grown-up career, anyway. So, she’s got more climbing records than she knew ever existed, but she’s not doing it for press, and both Mary Margaret and Anna weep at her and Killian’s wedding.

She wears her ring on a chain next to her other one when she climbs.

Every time Killian notices them hanging there, Emma swears, his eyes brighten. It’s her favorite thing in the whole, goddamn world.

“What is this?” He doesn’t answer. Just holds the sheet of paper he must have printed out in the clubhouse because they certainly don’t have a printer at home, and one of the edges is bent. Like he had to fit it in his back pocket.

“Going the stoic route, huh?” Emma quips, but there’s a noticeable hitch in her pulse. One that’s been there for weeks. Since the rumblings started, and the rumors began, whispers of possibility, and first-ever has a very nice ring to it. One side of Killian’s mouth tugs up. “Oh, that’s not fair.” “I’d like the record to show, that the only reason I didn’t know immediately was because I was in the trainer’s room, so—” “What were you in the trainer’s room for?” Killian ignores her. Well, sort of. His eyes shift, and his gaze holds, and Emma knows. Right down in the marrow of her. What the paper is and how Scarlet is the one who printed it out, but she’s even more confident Killian carried it home, and that does something funny to her entire worldview. Widens it and minimizes it at the same time, focusing on this and them and the possibility that creates.

In an athletic sort of way.

“My shoulder’s kind of sore.” Emma scoffs. “Oh, that’s pointed.” “I’m sure your shoulders are fine. Golden, even.’ “This is not your best work, you know that?” “Look at the paper.” “Did you fold it yourself?” “And then took a car back home. You really didn’t see yet?” Emma shakes her head. He knows the answer, too. He’s the one with the Google alert, after all. Because she’s still a bit of a pessimist at heart and an adult with a real job, and this is too much and abjectly terrifying, and the last thing she expects is for Killian to crouch in front of her.

One of his knees cracks.

“Don’t,” he warns, even as Emma does her best to swallow her laugh. Warm hands land on her thighs, a quiet steadiness that helps the state of her pulse and makes the possibility of the unknown a little less overwhelming. The lines crossing the center of the paper are absurdly straight. “You’re going to go.” “Oh, that sounded like a decree.” “A suggestion.” “A strong one.” “Mmhm, with the utmost confidence.” Emma makes an impressive sound. “Who’s doing your media training? What an impressive vocabulary you’ve got on you.” “Ready and willing to use it in a persuasive manner.” “Keep talking like that, and you won’t have to.” The smirk disappears. Evolves into a grin that is only Emma’s and only appears in moments like this, support clinging to air molecules and the ends of hair that constantly seems determined to fall into Killian’s eyes. “Passed, huh? All cool with the IOC.” “Decidedly cool. Officially an Olympic sport, now. Although the name could use some work. Sport climbing lacks a little oomph, don’t you think?”

“What would you call it?” “Emma Swan wins Olympic gold.” “Kinda wordy.” “Prophetic,” Killian corrects, hands shifting and pulling, and Emma has to widen her legs. His head’s at a very good kissing angle. “You’ve already got the qualifying numbers.” “You looked at the qualifying numbers?” “Don’t insult me like that. What do you think I did in the backseat?” “Planned the entire 2020 Olympics, apparently.” “Not the entire Olympics,” Killian counters, "just the part involving you. And maybe my individual expectations regarding the United States baseball team, but that’s another conversation altogether.”

“Naturally.”

“You’re using that voice.”

Widening her eyes does nothing. Emma didn’t expect it to. Not after years and games and events because rock climbing has events, and one time Mary Margaret made her a sign. Killian held it. He’s taller, that’s why.

“Don’t,” Killian repeats, “this is happening.” “Yuh-huh?” “You heard me. It’s your turn, now.” Melting is an impossibility. Like, for a human. Even so. Emma feels like she’s melting. Some of that pessimism evaporating under the warmth of Killian’s gaze and his hands and the determination in the precise angle of his chin. Same one he uses when he steps into the box with runners in scoring position.

Lumping herself into that group isn’t as insulting as Emma once believed it would be.

“God,” Emma groans, “that’s romantic.” “You’re really selling it, love.”

“This is supposed to be a hobby.” “One you’re exceedingly good it. World record good at it.” “I like you.” “That’s my end game, yeah.” She laughs. Smiles. Continues melting. Which is easier once they get rid of their clothing, and their bed is way more comfortable than any hotel they’ve encountered. And she falls asleep with Killian’s lips against her ear, Emma Swan, Olympic gold medalist whispered on loop like it’s a mantra he’s been practicing.

They postpone the Olympics.

It sucks. Everything sucks. Baseball sucks. Gyms are closed. Emma gets creative, and Killian gets research-prone. They build a makeshift wall. She tosses him BP.

People write stories about it.

It doesn’t help.

Until—

Time passes. Some things change. Others don’t. Their wall stands up to the elements of their building’s courtyard, and Killian’s hitting better than ever this season, a victory Emma’s going to claim as at least partially hers. And then the Olympics are back, and it’s qualifying and racing and a record that’s just out of reach, but she’s good enough even without it, and, this time, she’s the one packing a suitcase.

He kisses her.

Does the tongue thing.

Holds onto her like he’s only a little afraid she’s going to fall off the wall, but now the wall is international competition, and Emma’s freaking out a little.

“I love you,” she says into the crook of his neck.

His arms tighten. “I love you too.” “Gold medal?” “Gold medal.” “Hit some home runs while I’m gone, huh?” Lips graze her temple. Her forehead. The bridge of her nose. Emma might be crying, and Mary Margaret’s definitely recording, a small mob of red white, and blue surrounding them. “I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises.

“Good.”

He hits three before her first qualifying round. So, Emma takes that as a challenge. She’s an athlete now.

It’s why, she figures, her fingers don’t slip on her first run.

Her feet are sure. Her breathing is steady. There’s no one cheering her name, but she’s long since memorized the exact way Killian’s voice lifts above a crowd. How he pushes up on his toes to watch, as if standing up taller makes sure he’s closer to her. Should she need him when she falls off the wall. Only, Emma doesn’t fall, and she’s got no intention of ever falling and—

Her laugh shudders out of her in a watery sort of way that makes the journalist still standing in front of her flinch ever so slightly. Twitter makes sure the video starts playing again as soon as it finishes, which is somehow the best and worst thing that has ever happened to her. Best because, well, Emma’s honestly not sure she’s ever seen her husband like this.

Worst because she’s very nearly goddamn crying. Again.

Bobbing on the balls of his feet in front of his locker, whoever’s recording the video — it’s Scarlet, obviously — is practically frenzied behind the camera, barely able to contain their laughter. Killian doesn’t notice. He’s holding his own phone, all five of his free fingers firmly entrenched in the back of his hair. It’s gotten softer with age, Emma thinks.

She can’t stop watching him.

Every inhale is a clear struggle, the bobbing turning into pacing and quiet mumbling she can hear perfectly. As if she’s standing right in front of him.

Or at least slightly to the side. So as not to stand on the logo in the middle of the clubhouse.

Athletes are notoriously superstitious, too.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Killian chants, another noticeable snicker from Scarlet, “right there, right there, and pull, pull—Swan, pull up!”

“I did pull up there,” Emma mumbles. To the reporter, maybe. Or the world. Possibly her husband. Who was definitely more nervous about the first run than her.

God, that’s romantic.

Killian’s still talking. Shouting, more like. It’s a miracle Scarlet hasn’t fallen over yet.

“Faster, faster, you can go faster than that, Swan—” Emma clicks her tongue. “That’s kind of insulting.”

There’s an appropriate titter of laughter from the peanut gallery, which is a joke she was not trying to make, but she’s also dangerously close to swooning in the middle of press and she should have asked the Yankees for media training. Someone would have made sure she didn’t make a total ass of herself.

“Show me the time,” Killian yells, another demand that isn’t that. It’s too wobbly a string of words to hold any real power, just the supportive sort of desperation Emma’s felt in a variety of ninth innings and series-clinching moments. “Faster! Faster!” “Talking to the time or the judges or your wife?” Scarlet asks.

Killian nearly snarls.

Emma blinks. Hyperactively. Crying is not usually her shtick. More camera flashes...flash, Emma barely noticing them with her eyes glued to a phone screen that isn’t hers because she at least knows not to bring her phone to a press conference, and she can only imagine how many text messages she’s gotten.

Even on the other side of the world.

They post the times.

She knows because Killian gets some rather impressive height on his celebratory vertical. Fingers abandoning his hair, his fist pumps the air, and Scarlet’s not laughing so much as he’s whooping, a steady stream of yeah, yeah, yeah in the background. And for about half a breath, Emma’s worried Killian may turn one of his ankles on his landing, but he’d think that was insulting, and she’s really just full-on swooning now.

“How many people have seen this?’ she asks the reporter, already knowing the answer.

The reporter smiles anyway. Emma should learn her name.

“Pretty much the whole world.” When Emma was a kid — the sort of kid who believed alone was better, and there was strength in singularity, that would have terrified her. Bowled her over, really. Left her running without looking back, desperate to shed any sort of notoriety because notoriety meant attention, and attention meant inevitable disappointment.

Maybe that’s why she was never much of a sports person.

Sports disappoint you. They build you up and let you down, a sharp and sudden fall without a safety net. But sometimes. Sometimes, every so often, something wonderful happens. Sports lift you. Right up an indoor wall. Because, she knows, sports’ power comes from belief, from surrendering yourself to something bigger and better, and she’s back on that alliterative kick, but the tears are barely clinging to her eyelashes now and Emma herself is bigger and better, now.

In an international, decidedly romantic sort of way.

The video’s playing away.

“Let’s go,” Killian cries, and there it is. Her sound and their sound, cheering across an ocean and time zones that are still kind of messing with her sleep schedule.

Emma’s smile stretches.

“Let’s go,” she repeats.

It ends, as with most things in Emma’s gold-medal-winning life, because Anna plans it.

Stepping out of the terminal, it takes less than a full breath for the cheers to start. For the banners to lift and the tears to flow, a small platoon of support covered in the sort of patriotic gear they definitely got from the Old Navy in Herald Square.

Flashes burst behind Emma’s eyelids because she’s got to blink or she’ll definitely fall over. Her legs wobble beneath her, contending against a wave of triumph and jubilation, which is sort of the same word, but they’ve got a game at the Stadium tonight, so she doesn’t expect, she just hopes and reaches, and he has to twist around both Anna and Mary Margaret.

It’s wonderfully cyclical.

As is the way Emma slams herself against him. On purpose, this time. Killian’s arms tighten, more cheers and shouts, and people a few feet away start chanting USA over and over. Emma barely hears them. Her feet aren’t touching the ground, so she’s kind of preoccupied.

They’re all arms and mouths, and her legs wrapped securely around a body that probably shouldn’t be supporting hers when she knows he slid into second two nights ago, but Killian clearly has no intention of letting her down, and the medal around her neck bumps against her rings.

“You’re a very good cheerleader; you know that?” He hisses. In what, Emma can’t imagine. Embarrassment, if the red tips of his ears are anything to go by, and she’s got ideas as to why that is and how long the conversation about social media with Scarlet went, so Emma does the only reasonable thing.

She slams her lips against her home-run hitting husband’s, doing her best to make sure the gold medal doesn’t mistakenly impale either one of them, and the world tilts again. With victory and sports-based support and the sort of love that comes from believing in something bigger.

And better than Emma could have ever imagined.

“I didn’t want to steal your thunder.”

“Please,” Emma scoffs, “don’t insult me like that. Plus, I’m claiming every one of those home runs as my own, so comparatively—” He kisses her before she can say anything else.

That’s for the best, probably.

“Your arms looked ridiculously good the whole time.”

Her laugh doesn’t even sound like her when Emma hears it played back — another video that someone tells her goes viral, only she doesn’t care about hits or site traffic, just about the particular shade of blue in Killian’s eyes, and she wears her medal to the game that night.

Because they’re a sports power couple, now.

Or so the New York Post back page claims the next day.

Emma frames it.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #hook heel #this is also apparently my 50th work on ao3 #which is just patently nuts #so if you guys have been clicking and reading all these words know that i am a little in love with you

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bluejayblueskies · 4 years ago

Note

For the kiss prompt thing, could you do 34 and/or 66 with Jontim, please?

kiss prompt list!

34 - Returned from the dead kiss | 66 - Staring At The Other’s Lips, Trying Not To Kiss Them, Before Giving In

i did both! set in an au where tim survives the unknowing. additionally, in this au jon and tim were together in research and season one but then broke it off in season two for canon-typical reasons

cw for mentions of injury and grief, mentions of death, suicidal ideation (mild), mentions of hospitalization, mentions of paranoia and stalking, and swearing

Ao3 link in source!

Jon’s been awake for two weeks and three days when Tim finally works up the nerve to see him.

(He’s not nervous, he tells himself. It’s not nerves twisting his stomach and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth and making his hands shake ever so slightly where they grasp the doorknob on Jon’s office door. It might be guilt, but he dislikes the thought and discards it immediately. Hatred? That doesn’t feel right either. He’d shed that anger a few months prior, body still aching from being crushed underneath a building’s worth of brick and mortar and holding Martin while he cried at Jon’s bedside, hiccupping into the fabric of Tim’s shirt, He’s not waking up, Tim. He's never waking up.)

He opens the door and sees Jon sitting at his desk, hair pinned up in a haphazard topknot and a jumper that’s much too large swallowing his body whole. Jon looks up at him, his eyes widening a bit, and oh.

It’s relief.

Tim lets the door swing shut behind him and leans against the wall next to the doorframe, hands coming up to grip his elbows as he hugs his arms close to his chest. One arm is still mottled with angry red scars, spiraling patterns of shrapnel laced along his skin. He rubs a thumb over one of the larger scars near the crook of his elbow absently as he says, “Hey. I… I heard you’d woken up.”

Jon just stares at him for a moment, like he’s not quite sure what he’s looking at. Just as it’s bordering on the edge of annoying, Jon finally says, “Yes, I… I have. A- a few weeks ago.”

“Right.”

There’s another long moment of silence between them, this one tenser than the first. Jon’s avoiding Tim’s eyes, his face pinched and unhappy. His hands are fiddling with the cuffs of his jumper nervously, and something within Tim knocks loose at the sight. “I’m not here to yell at you, okay?”

Jon startles, his eyes finding Tim’s for a moment before darting away again. He’s never liked direct eye contact, Tim remembers, but this is something else. Tim gets the distinct feeling that it’s at least partially his fault. Maybe a bit more than partially. Then, quietly, Jon says, “Why not?”

Great. With a weary sigh, Tim steps away from the wall and drops himself into the ratty armchair that faces Jon’s desk. “Because it’s been six months, Jon. A lot has changed.” He makes a humorless noise. “I mean, it’s all the same shit—spooky monsters and fucked-up situations and a job I can’t get rid of. But, you know.” He rubs his thumb over the scar, shrugs his shoulders. “The Circus is gone. Thought I’d be gone with it, but I’m not. And you were gone, which made things easier for a while. Less complicated, because I didn’t have to look at you and feel—”

Tim makes a sharp, irritated noise. He doesn’t know how he felt. “But you were just… there. Dead or- or asleep or whatever, it didn’t really matter. You were there, and I was here, and we both know it was meant to be the other way around.”

“Tim—” Jon starts, the pity in his voice palpable.

“No,” Tim says, giving Jon a firm look. “I don’t want an apology or- or pity or whatever. That’s not the point of this.” He sits back in the chair, takes a deep breath, and says, “I don’t remember when I stopped feeling angry. I didn’t visit you at first, in the hospital, but when I did, I… I don’t know.” Tim shrugs and looks at the floor. “I guess I just decided that you wouldn’t have chosen that. To- to be half-dead and dreaming while the rest of us lived.”

Jon’s quiet for a long moment. Then, he makes a sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t so bitter. “No,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “I didn’t. But I did choose to wake up. I made a choice, and I- I think it was the wrong one.”

“What,” Tim says, “because you chose to live rather than to die?”

Jon shakes his head, just once. “Because I chose to be this.” He gestures at the desk, at the room around him. “The… the Archivist.”

Tim takes a moment to consider. Then, he says bluntly, “Fine. Let’s say you did. You chose to go full monster, give up the mantle of humanity entirely, and then—what?”

Jon blinks at him. “What?”

“What are you going to do now?”

Jon opens and closes his mouth a few times before finally saying, “I- I suppose I’ll just… work?”

Tim can’t help letting out a short, clipped laugh. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Jon makes an indignant noise. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I just—” Tim pauses, looks at his hands. There’s a worm scar between his middle and ring finger on his left hand that never healed quite right, that’s now a twisted knot of scar tissue. He focuses on it as he says, “You’re still you, you know? Even before, with all the shit you pulled—the stalking and the murder accusations and the questions—it was… it was still just you. And whether or not you’re still human, you’re still Jon.”

“Oh,” Jon says, the word empty and hollow. “Is… is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

Tim doesn’t know yet, not really. The relationship between them is still flayed open and raw, ripped apart by months of poor choices and hurtful words. But he meets Jon’s eyes, sees that familiar brown that he used to wake up to in the mornings, takes note of the small cluster of circular scars just beneath Jon’s temple, and decides that if it’s not good, it’s certainly on the way there. The thought leaves him feeling a bit weightless, and he realizes with an aching in his chest that he’s missed Jon. Not in the physical sense, because Jon’s always been here, conscious or not, and his presence has been burned into the back of Tim’s mind like a brand, an itch he can’t quite scratch. But still, there had been an empty space within him that he hadn’t been able to cover or fill, shaped like warm sunlit mornings and shared bottles of wine and kisses on foreheads and noses and lips. And it had ached, as much as Tim wished it hadn’t. That that Jon was gone and this Jon had taken his place. The resentment Tim felt at the fact was bitter and heavy and painful.

It’s still not the same Jon, sitting in front of him now and worrying his ring between his fingers in a familiar nervous tic. But he’s not the same Tim either. Affection doesn’t come easy for him anymore and everything hurts and there are so, so many things he can’t forgive Jon for. That he doesn’t know how to. But at some point, the blanket of revenge-fueled anger had melted away and he’d just been tired.

“I don’t know,” Tim says, because it’s true. But it’s also true when he continues, “But I want it to be good. It might take some time, and I- I can’t just forget about what’s happened between us, but…” Tim’s chest tightens, and his next words come out choked and a bit forced. “I missed you. And I’m glad you’re not dead, okay? I don’t know if you’ve convinced yourself that I wouldn’t be, but I am.” Quieter: “God knows I’ve already lost enough.”

“Oh,” Jon says again, barely more than a whisper. Then, hesitantly: “I… thank you, Tim. I’m also glad that you… that you’re still here. For what it’s worth.”

“You don’t have to…” Tim pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, lets out a long breath. “Never mind.”

“I know,” Jon says, something terribly vulnerable in his voice. When Tim opens his eyes, Jon’s looking at him, a faint ghost of a smile on his lips. Tim can’t stop looking at it. “But I want to. I… I still care about you, Tim. I always have, even if I- I didn’t always show it.”

The Tim of six months ago would probably have laughed at that. Would have said that it didn’t matter if he cared or not, or that if he really cared he wouldn’t have spent half a year tracking his every move and thinking that Tim was even remotely capable of killing him. (That bit had hit particularly hard. Tim had gone home afterward and scrubbed every reminder of Jon from his house, every picture and favorite mug and lingering jumper and that one souvenir from his trip to Spain that Jon had once rambled about for two hours. It had hurt, and when he was done, he’d felt hollowed out and empty. Enough room for the anger to begin to creep in, he supposes.)

Instead, Tim sighs and says, “You know, that was the worst part. The fact that after everything, even when I hated you, I still couldn’t stop myself from caring.” He digs his fingernails into the soft skin of the inside of his wrist. “It hurt to care, so I pretended like I didn’t. But all the shit that happened to you—Christ, Jon, I’m not so much of an asshole to think that you deserved to be tortured and kidnapped every other week. I don’t know if anyone ever told you that you didn’t deserve it, so there it is.”

Jon’s looking at him with wide eyes and lips slightly parted, and Tim feels something in his chest ache at the sight. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like- like what?”

“Like I’ve—” Like I’ve hung the fucking moon. “Look, that’s just basic human decency, okay?”

“Okay,” Jon echoes quietly. He’s still looking at Tim and his lips are still slightly parted and the ache in Tim’s chest amplifies until he can barely stand it. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he’s reminded of the first time he asked Jon, standing halfway inside the doorframe of his house after their third date, if he could kiss him. How Jon had looked startled, all wide eyes and parted lips, and after a moment had nodded wordlessly. How Jon’s hair had been soft beneath his fingers as he’d cupped Jon’s cheek and how Jon’s lips had been warm against his and how Jon had inhaled slightly at the contact, like even though Tim had asked, he was still surprised that he’d followed through.

Tim looks at Jon, at the still-familiar shape of his lips save for a small circular scar near the left corner, and tries to convince himself, just for a moment, that he doesn’t want to kiss him.

He’s never been very good at self-control.

So he stands, braces one hand on Jon’s desk, and reaches forward with the other, stopping just shy of Jon’s face. When Jon doesn’t move away, he rests his palm lightly against Jon’s cheek, his thumb coming to rest just underneath Jon’s eye. “This doesn’t fix things,” Tim says quietly. “But I’d still like to kiss you. If you’re okay with that.”

Jon hesitates. Then, barely more than a whisper, he says, “Okay.”

“Okay.” Tim pauses a moment more before tilting Jon’s head slightly up, leaning forward, and kissing him.

It’s still as easy as breathing.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #tim stoker #jontim #my writing #my fic

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gay-otlc · 2 years ago

Text

Tma/Kotlc AU (incomplete)

So, I'm never gonna finish this, but the 800 words I did write were pretty good. And now I am posting them.

@aphelea @solreefs @xanadaus (i didn't get past season 1 so it's spoiler free) @ anyone else who is in both fandoms, I don't remember

Prentice is Jon, Tiergan is Martin, Cyrah is Sasha, Juline is Tim, and Sophie is Jane Prentiss (funky worm lady <2)

Uhhh content warnings for canon typical worms and canon typical worm sex

Without further ado

Prentice: Well, this statement is obviously fake.

Cyrah: (amused) You can't just say that abouteverystatement.

Prentice: All of them sound so fake! Listen to this. "I was stalking my weird neighbor who ate paper and then she turned into a completely different person. But conveniently, no one else noticed that Biana is 'Not!Biana' now."

Cyrah: Maybe it's real.

Prentice: You would think, if some malevolent entity were to take over Biana's life, they would be thorough enough that no one else noticed. Or if they were sloppy enough that Stina Heks could give a statement about her, someone else would have noticed.

Cyrah: Maybe they're very good at making sure only one person notices, and no one else. Maybe I'm Not!Cyrah and you have no idea.

Prentice: That's not funny.

Cyrah: (jokingly eerie voice) I am possessed by the Wraith! Everything about me has changed. I love math now! The horror, the horror!

Prentice: That's really not funny.

Cyrah: Maybe you're Not!Prentice. (bad imitation of Prentice's voice) I trust every statement I read, I hate garlic bread, and Tiergan is my best friend now!

Prentice: That is not what I sound like.

Cyrah: Don't be ridiculous, that's exactly how your voice sounds. Why would it take the Wraith possessing you for you to like Tiergan, anyway? He's not that bad.

Prentice: I don't know. He just gets on my nerves. He's completely unqualified for this job and his handwriting is theworst so I can never read his reports and-

Cyrah: And he's cute?

Prentice: Listen, if you're not going to help me organize these statements, you can get out of my office.

Cyrah: Okay, okay. (pages flipping) This statement isn't supposed to be funny but it is. Imagine you're Maruca Chebota and some shady dude delivers a coffin to you, so you use it as a coffee table for a year. You don't report it to the police or anything. It's just your coffee table now.

Prentice: See what I mean? There's no way that really happened.

Cyrah: How are you gonna work at the Loki Institute and still be a die hard skeptic?

Prentice: I'm just special, I guess.

---

Juline: Have you read the worm sex statement?

Tiergan: ...the what?

Juline: The worm sex statement! Did I stutter?

Tiergan: No, I have not read that. What the fuck.

Juline: Oh. Well, basically, the statement is by Fintan Pyren. He was flirting with a guy named Bronte and while they were talking he found out Bronte was recently attacked by someone who matches our description of Sophie Foster. Then they had sex. Then Bronte exploded into worms. The end.

Tiergan: ...wow. Okay. Does Prentice think it's real?

Juline: You know him, he doesn't think any of these statements are real. I think it is, though. You can't make up shit like that.

Tiergan: Yeah, it sounds too weird to be fake. I'll do some research into this Sophie Foster worm person.

Juline: (sarcastically) That sounds really fun.

Tiergan: I am not getting paid enough for this shit.

---

Prentice: Where's Tiergan?

Juline: Awww, you're worried about him?

Prentice: What- no- I- (clears throat) I wanted to know if he'd done any more research on the death of Jensi Babblos.

Juline: Which one was that?

Prentice: The one who was afraid of spiders.

Juline: Right. Anyway, he said he was going to check out Jensi's old apartment, but I haven't heard from him since.

Prentice: Hmm. I'm not surprised he can't be bothered to come in to work today. Or even finish his investigation.

Juline: Maybe he was attacked by worms.

---

(door slams open)

Prentice: Tiergan, please, I'm in the middle of something-

Tiergan: I was attacked by worms!

Prentice: ...that's unfortunate.

Tiergan: No shit. The Loki Institute might want to install a worm security system.

Prentice: A worm security system? What, exactly, does a worm security system entail?

Tiergan: Fire extinguishers.

Prentice: Fire extinguishers?

Tiergan: The worms were attacking my house, so I defended myself with a fire extinguisher-

Prentice: You defended yourself with a fire extinguisher?

Tiergan: I panicked, okay? And it worked.

Prentice: Fine. The Institute can get more fire extinguishers. You think Foster might attack this place?

Tiergan: There's a chance. I haven't seen her in a while, but she might still be following me. I don't think she likes me very much.

Prentice: (muttering) Well, the worms and I have something in common.

Tiergan: What?

Prentice: Nothing. Thank you for letting me know. Is that all?

Tiergan: Yes.

Prentice: Great. You can go now.

---

Tiergan: I don't think Prentice likes me very much.

Cyrah: (with fake surprise) Oh my god, really?

Tiergan: What did I ever do to him?

Cyrah: He's just kind of an asshole. Why do you care if he likes you, anyway?

Tiergan: ...no reason.

Cyrah: Are you going to go write sad gay poetry about him in your notebook?

Tiergan: (clearly lying) No.

#what a wonderful ending. tiergan writing sad gay poetry #tma/kotlc au #that is all that will ever be written. might publish my outline later #we'll see #anyway yeah. lmk what you thought i guess

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believeitseeitdoit · 4 years ago

Text

A Defiled Uniform

Steve x reader x Bucky , Steve Rogers x reader , Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: the boys find a particular garment in your stuff, and set out to fulfill an old fantasy in the bedroom

Rating: 18+, don’t touch this if you are under age please, and sweet Jesus wrap it up folks,

Warnings: CW brief discussion of religion and old style school punishments, SMUT, 3 some, if it isn’t your style, don’t read (I’ll be less offended if you ignore it than if you read it and get cranky), blowjobs, spanking, man on man kissing, dirty talk, language, teacher kink … let me clarify the reader is 100% of age and consenting to the scene!!!

The boys are helping you pack up your apartment so you can move to the compound up North with them. Natasha is helping you wrap dishes in the kitchen while Steve and Bucky tuck your clothes into suitcases from your closet. Classic rock plays throughout, windows open letting fresh air flow, and you can hear Sam bickering with the spiderling about what order to pack your furniture into the moving truck. Nat hands you another champagne flute from the top rack when you hear Bucky call your name.

“Y/N! When did you get all these shirts?! You literally wear 3! And since when do you wear so many shoes???” He yells from the closet, tossing your stuff at Steve, who patiently chuckles and sets them down in his organized fashion.

“It’s called variety, Buck, you’re not a woman on undercover missions. I need options!” You chirp back at him and set the wrapped plate into the box.

Bucky continues to mutter over your items and sighs happily when he can finally see the other side wall of the closet. Only 2 hangers left to go, he thinks gratefully. He grads an aged, faded green hoodie with your university logo and puts it to his nose so he can soak up your scent on it. Your choice fabric softener and hints of your favorite perfume, Black Opium, waft through and he thinks fondly of how much he loves those scents. Tossing the top to his best man, Bucky grabs at the last hanger. Huh, never seen this skirt before, he thinks while holding it up to the light.

“Hey Stevie, have you ever seen her wear this? Looks awful small for mission gear.” Bucky aims the skirt at Steve, giving it a gentle shake for dramatic effect.

“No, Buck, can’t say I have. You know what it reminds me of though? Those uniforms they used to wear at the all girls school across the road from the park back in Brooklyn.” Steve looks from the clothing to his boyfriend suggestively.

“Oh yeah! Those nuns sure kept the girls in line, remember the stories Dot and Molly would tell us about the rulers and paddles? Shit today that’s corporal punishment!” Bucky pulls the skirt off the hanger and folds it, placing the garment in your overnight bag rather than the suitcase.

“You gonna do something with that?” Steve nods to the new addition to your bag.

“Just gonna ask a question later is all Stevie.” Bucky winks at his partner and smiles.

Later that evening, the apartment is signed away and no longer your monster to manage, and the three of you are celebrating the next step in your relationship and life with your men. Lounging on the couch between them, your back against Steve and your legs curled up on top of Bucky’s, sipping a whiskey coke. Steve reaches to your chin and tips it up to place a chaste kiss on your lips, while Bucky rubs up and down your calves softly. You return his peck by sliding your tongue across his teeth, asking for permission to deepen the kiss. As he obliges, he lets his hands drift around your waist to rub your breasts and knead at the full flesh.

In your lustful haze, you hear Bucky speak up. “So where in hell did a good Catholic student learn how to kiss like that? I’m pretty sure they didn’t teach you how to moan like that in school princess.” His eyes are dark with desire and he rests his hands on your knees, locking them in place. You turn your eyes away from one man to the other, bewildered and slightly warm.

“What do you mean Bucky?” You ask with genuine uncertainty. Regardless of the commentary, your arousal grows with the ministrations from both your lovers.

“Well see doll, we did a little research today while you were unpacking. Shield likes to keep full files, and boy was it satisfying to learn that our sweet girl was an innocent little catholic school student. Went to church twice a week and everything.”

Steve whispers in your ear while rubbing a nipple between his fingers.

“And what better detail to find than your old uniform hanging in the closet. Blue is really our favorite color princess.” Bucky adds while snaking his vibranium hand up the inside of your thigh. He ghosts a finger across the seam of your panties, and gives them a quick snapping tug.

You turn to hide your head in the couch cushions, an attempt to cover the blush spreading across your cheeks. They weren’t supposed to find it! How could you slip up with that , as a SHIELD agent??! That fantasy was to remain deeply hidden.

“Don’t hide princess, we want to see that face when Steve tells you what happens next.” Bucky continues working your mound with his metal arm while he previews the future of the evening.

“Now sweet girl, you are going to go upstairs and open your overnight bag. You are to strip out of these clothes, put on the items in there, NOTHING else. Understand me?” Steve’s voice drops an octave as his mind shifts toward his dominant state.

“When you’re ready, I want you to sit at the desk, ready for the bell to ring.” Bucky adds his request as you nodded toward the blonde.

You swing your legs off the couch, palms sweaty with the anticipation of fulfilling the fantasy of defilling such a symbol of purity and innocence. As you turn away from your boyfriends and head to complete your task, each man takes a palm to your ass and smiles. You yelp, and scurry to the bedroom to find your drag bag placed at the foot of the bed. With shaking hands you peel the zipper apart to pull out your wardrobe. A white button down blouse, white ankle socks, the soon to be defamed plaid skirt, and the most ridiculously padded fire engine red bra you’d ever seen. With a chuckle, you peel off one layer of clothes and begin re dressing with the second. Not knowing how much time you have until the “class” begins, you hastily throw your hair into a ponytail and slap a little lip stain on before sliding into the large desk chair and crossing your ankles.

Moments later, you hear heavy boots scuff the floor and the stairs creak under the weight of two super soldiers. Your thoughts drift to dirty places and you imagine seeing bucky’s vibranium hand slide under the skirt while Steve massages your flushed and heavy tits through the top half of your given uniform. A shrill school bell pierces your thoughts and a heavy thud from the door forces your eyes up.

“Now who do we have here? Looks like Miss Y/L/N was sent in for a dress code violation. Mr. Rogers, would you please identify the specifics on why you have sent this young lady to my office?” Bucky looks you up and down as if he were stalking his prey.

Steve looks over his reading glasses and gives you a once over. “Well Mr. Barnes, this young lady clearly has no respect for the rules. I guarantee that skirt is far too short, bet you can see her backside if she stands up.” He begins to circle you as well, and pulls at your blouse. “This shirt is practically transparent, I’d say that’s a bra redder than a sunburn on the Fourth of July.” He grabs a strap and allows it to snap sharply back against your shoulder.

Bucky reaches out to you, asking for your hand. “Now young lady, I am a pretty lenient man, but disrespecting the code of conduct is an inexcusable offense. Mr.Rogers didn’t even mention that lipstick you have on. I happen to know for a fact your lips are not that shade of plum.” He swipes a thumb across your lips to smear the stain. “I think we should allow him to assist in your punishment since he had to leave his duties to discuss this with us.”

“I haven’t used a ruler on this one yet, will that suffice Mr.. Barnes ? She looks a bit delicate for much else.” Steve comes up behind you and begins to caress your thighs, not yet going past the skirt.

“I think a palm should get the point across rather eloquently, perhaps 10?.” Bucky keeps hold of your hand and reaches for your other to pull you close to him.

Steve releases your legs and allows Bucky to take you away. With his vibranium hand, Bucky pulls you to the opposite side of the desk, and leans you across it bringing your chest flush against the mahogany. As he releases your hands he whispers in your ear. “Now princess, I want you to count them and just maybe this will be your punishment for not telling us about your dreams sooner.”

Your thighs clench as a wave of wetness rushes through you, and your breath comes in pants as you hear the pair of them come to face each other over you. Bucky grabs your hands again, and brings them together in front of you so he can hold you down, while Steve runs a hand up your legs and slots one of his between your knees.

“I knew this tight ass couldn’t hide under that skirt, such a bad girl princess,” Steve says as he pushes the skirt over the globes and gives each one a squeeze. “Damn Bucky, can you tell how turned on she is? Dripping all over the place, ready to cum still all dressed up.” He continues kneading your backside while ignoring your moans and wiggling frame.

“Wait til you’ve finished her punishment, bet she’ll be ripe and sweet like a peach for us to taste Stevie.” Bucky growls as he pushes you back down onto the table.

Distracted by Bucky’s words and touch, you nearly miss the sound of air moving as Steve’s palm cuts through it toward your ass. You Yelp again, and whimper at the prospect of not sitting for a week. Bucky taps on your shoulder, reminding you of your duty. “What did I ask you to do princess? Are you going to be a good girl and count for us?”

“Yes, One Sergeant.” You groan out the count.

Another smack comes down to the same spot, right above the crest of your cheek. You gasp into the desk and suck in a breath from the sting. “Two Sergeant.”

Steve continues doling out your punishment to your backside, by the time he hits nine tears are welling in your eyes from the sting and pleasure building in you. Your legs are shaking with effort from standing and your voice is wrecked from garbled use.

“Ten, Sergeant. Thank you Sir.” You whisper after Steve finishes his smacks and begins to rub the marks in soothing circles.

“Good job princess, you did that so well, now it’s time for your reward.” Bucky releases your arms and Steve pulls you up from the desk, the pair of them sandwiching you between them as you all move toward the bed. Your blouse is pulled over your head between frantic kisses with Steve, while Bucky strips his clothes. As they switch positions, you go to unzip the skirt and wrap your legs around Bucky, but he catches your hand and yanks it behind your back.

“Who said you were allowed to take that off? Class is in session, and you must be ready to learn.” His eyes glow with desire as he leans in to kiss you.

Once Steve has rid himself of his clothes, he returns to the bed and comes to lay behind you as Bucky sits you up. “Today’s lesson princess, is the art of how to keep sucking while you cum.” Steve is stroking his member while watching your eyes roll shut with want as he explains the plan to you. Bucky houses you forward into Steve’s chest and pulls your backside to him.

“Damn Stevie, those handprints won’t be gone for a week. She’ll have to find a softer surface to sit on.” He admires his boyfriend’s handiwork while getting his girl set. With your head down and ass up, Bucky slides his flesh hand between your thighs and begins to run two fingers along the outside of your slit. Using your arousal to coat his fingers, Bucky pushes two inside you and begins to work them slowly. He picks up speed as you begin moaning and looks up at his partners nodding to Steve to fill you from the other end.

As Bucky’s fingers move against your walls with vigor, you moan and writhe seeking out more friction on your clit. Steve takes the opportunity to place his hard cock against your open lips, and waits for you to begin sucking. No motivation needed, you lean into his groin and take him in one swallow. Moving your head back and forth, you swirl your tongue against the shaft, and as Bucky adds a third finger to your pussy, you let a moan vibrate through your body, sending a secondary shiver through Steve as well. You relax your jaw and allow Steve to begin fucking into your mouth as his own release builds, the sounds of skin slapping and your muffled moans driving him wild with want. Bucky withdraws his fingers and reaches under you to lift you higher onto your knees. With this motion, Steve lifts into a kneel of his own and makes eye contact with his boyfriend. You pay them no mind as greedily sucking down your boyfriend's dick takes precedence and the prospect of getting fucked by the other makes you giddy with anticipation.

Bucky grabs a fistful of your skirt and slams your ass into his hips, setting your pussy ablaze with the slide of his thick curved cock against your walls. You groan against Steve’s painfully hard member, and before you can take him all he grabs your ponytail and pulls you off. Bucky’s brutally fast and deep pace has you close to the crest and Steve wants you to remember the rule of the scene.

“What did we say about today princess, you need to be able to keep sucking my cock while Bucky makes you come. Don’t stop, go it?” He wraps his hand in the ponytail and as you nod he allows you to take him in your mouth again.

Bucky’s thrusts are getting frantic as he chases everyone's peaks, and he reaches his vibranium hand to your clit while grabbing Steve with his opposite hand to pull him in for a hard kiss. Both men are panting as they pound into you from both sides, a hand touching each body as your body grows tight with the desire to orgasm. Bucky pinches your pearl and he tells you to come, giving a final hard thrust as he feels your walls clench around him. Like a rubber band, you snap into oblivion, no longer aware of what occurs beyond the throbbing in your pussy and the perfect fullness that surrounds you. You feel the waves of pleasure crash through you, and still both men continue their chase. Hypersensitive and fuzzy, you relax your jaw again and take Steve all the way to the hilt, and you bob your head quickly, sealing your lips around his large base trying to finish him off. Bucky’s thrusts have gone shallow as your walls have him locked like a vice, but you feel him begin to shatter as well. With a final thrust from both men, they spill into you with heavy grunts.

Bucky pulls out of you and Steve lifts you off his softened member, laying you onto the pillows.

“Did we properly defile the uniform, princess?” Steve kisses your forehead as Bucky pulls the garment off you with a smile.

“Yes Sergeant. Thank you Sir.” You nod sleepily, thank each man, and curl into their frames as Bucky climbs under the sheets. “If I had had either of you for teachers, it would have been a shameful garment way sooner,” you chuckle as they share a kiss above you.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #marvel #stevebucky #steve rogers #steve x reader #Bucky Barnes x reader #Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes #stucky #smut

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killian-spey · 4 years ago

Text

Death Would be Kinder [ch.1]

[Drusilla/Spike/Calendar!Reader]

Words: 2626

Fic Concept: Jenny Calendar’s sister spends some “quality time” with the Season 2 Vampire Squad. [Ch.1 takes place in BtVS S2 Ep14]

TW/CW: Kidnapping, Violence, Nightmares.

AN: Check out the [Prologue] first if you haven’t already! :D

Tags: @prose-for-hire , (Comment below or send an ask to be added!)

You had run through the sewers for hours before you pulled yourself out of a manhole halfway across town. Escaping from the factory had worn you out completely, and you made your way home, hoping that Angel and Buffy had done the same.

When you got home, Jenny was asleep on the couch. It looked as though she'd been waiting up all night for you. You tucked a blanket over her and took her empty tea mug to the kitchen before going upstairs, where you flopped into bed and immediately found sleep.

You opened your eyes in the dark and two stormy grey eyes were staring into yours. You sat up confused as your eyes adjusted to the dark. A moment passed, then a new pair blinked into existence; they were blue, cold and unmoving. Their faces grew recognizable and a pit of anxiety grew in your stomach. Spike was leaning against your window sill. Drusilla was laying on your bed, reaching for you with one hand. You stumbled backwards with a yelp, falling onto your floor. Yellow eyes flashed once in your peripheral and then everyone was gone, just as quickly as they'd all appeared.

As you stood up, you found yourself in the factory. It was brighter here, but cold and empty. You spun, looking for an exit. Flashes of images knocked you off balance like punches. A red dress, flowing ribbon, blonde hair, black hair, crooked smiles, pointed teeth. Bells rang in your head, you saw a wheelchair, then painted red nails, then a ridged face. Your head was spinning. You were spinning. Faster and faster until you felt nauseous.

It stopped suddenly. A single thought pierced your adrenaline-rushing head. Soon-

You opened your eyes with a gasp, staring at the ceiling of your bedroom. It was morning and your alarm was going off. You stayed there a few minutes, snoozing the alarm so you could let your heart catch up with reality -or rather slow down to reality- before you got ready for the day and hopped in the car with your sister. Seems Buffy wasn’t the only one having bad dreams about vampires that should've been dead. Lucky you...

As it turns out, Buffy and Angel didn’t check in after last night’s screw up at the factory; thankfully Buffy came into school a couple minutes later to confirm she was still alive. The same couldn’t be said for Angel though, so tensions were high among the Scoobies while researching the Judge.

You were asked to use your artistic skills to draw the Judge to the best of your memory while the others looked into tomes with written references. The world tended to pass you by when you were drawing, so you almost didn’t notice when your sister left the library. She had been summoned by your Uncle, but for what you didn’t know. Not long after, the lights went out.

You stalked out of the library, seeing Xander, Willow, and Angel in the lobby of the school just down the hall. Willow was making her way towards Angel when-

“Willow, get away from him.” Jenny came from the left, holding up a cross as she stepped towards Angel. Oh. Oh no. You pulled a stake from your belt and called out to Willow as calmly as you could muster.

“Willow, walk back towards me.”

“What are you two talking about? It’s just A-”

Angel lunged forward and grabbed Willow by the neck. Familiar yellow eyes peered out of the darkness of the hallway as Willow yelped, struggling against the choke hold.

“You’re not Angel anymore, are you?” Jenny walked closer to Angel.

“Wrong. I am Angel, at last.” He pulled Willow back away from Jenny, “I’ve got a message for Buffy.”

“Why don’t you give it to me yourself?”

The two of them exchanged words and fought, allowing Willow the opportunity to escape Angel’s clutches and join your huddled group on the outskirts of the fight. Buffy got shoved into the water fountain, dumbfounded as Angel walked out the door laughing. The fight was over as quickly as it started, and a blanket of stunned silence covered the whole group. After what felt like an eternity of numb, unmoving shock, you and Jenny gave each other a knowing look. You’d failed. Angel was gone.

You don’t remember how long you’d been sitting in the library, vaguely listening to the group tell Giles about the confrontation with Angelus. Jenny was trying to keep Giles from panicking, and you sat numbly with your guilt. You only looked up when Buffy fled the room, Giles calling after her. You wanted so badly to apologize, but if Buffy ever found out what you’d known, she might kill you herself. You excused yourself from the library, mumbling to Jenny that you’d be in the studio back home.

-----

The garage door creaked as you lifted it. Jenny had given you one of the car bays to use as an art studio while you lived in Sunnydale. Your studio was one of the only places you knew where you could truly be alone with yourself. Jenny had never judged you or your art. Ever since your parents died, she’d stepped up and been supportive of you. You brushed your hand along the top of your canvas stash, picking a large, almost square canvas and setting it on your easel.

Painting had been a way for you to cope with strong emotions for as long as you could remember, but with the events of today you felt lost. You sat on your stool in front of that blank white canvas for what must have been hours. You eventually decided that nothing could convey what you were feeling in the moment, so you decided to paint something the opposite.

You used cream-white, gold and rust to block out a background; it was light, idyllic, and serene. It would be a white-stone conservatory, full of hanging candles and lanterns with a mezzanine balcony covered in ivy. Over that you dropped bright, vibrant tones of yellows and reds and greens. You blocked them into the spaces you would put dancers in flowing gowns and painted blues where you would place their partners. It would be full of life. You stood back a moment, studying. The scene was missing something; joy and innocence, maybe. You place a few, short splotches of pinks and light yellows for younger girls. They were running in a small stampede, weaving through the forest of colorful silks on the dance floor- chasing after fairies or some magic that existed only in their imaginations. There it was. You had vague shapes and a vision, and you were intent on chasing it.

You painted all through the night, and well into the morning. Jenny had left for the school hours ago, but hadn’t said anything. The painting was finally done. You sat in your stool and wiped your hands on your jeans. It was done, you had worked for hours, you had cried for Angel, you had smiled for the imaginary children, and for a moment you were satisfied... Then you noticed it.

In the center of your painting was a lone dancer. She wore a red gown with dark lace over the bodice and had equally dark hair. Your painting was somewhat post-impressionist, preferring interesting shapes over pinpoint detail, but it was unmistakable. In a ballroom of strangers, you’d painted her. Drusilla. You didn’t know what to think about that.

You stared at Drusilla in the painting, stuck in an introspective daze until a creaking sound pulled you back to reality. Your uncle had opened the garage door and stepped into the studio bay with two cups of coffee. You pulled up a stool for him and he handed you one, sitting beside you in front of the painting.

“Janna called,” he began cautiously. “She is on her way home with your friend, Buffy. I don’t know how, but she knows.”

“She’s going to hate me for this,” You scanned the sweeping lines of a yellow skirt somewhere else on your painting, trying not to let the tears prickle at the corners of your eyes.

The door to the garage opened behind you both and you looked down into your mug, anxiously tapping your nail against the ceramic. You couldn’t bear to look Buffy in the eyes, your guilt returning in full force.

Your uncle lit a pipe and stood up as he spoke,

“She told me you would be coming. I suppose you want answers,”

“Not really.” The voice wasn’t Buffy’s.

You snapped your head towards the door to find Angelus leaning against the door frame, blocking your exit. You scrambled, picking up a fistful of wooden paint brushes off your work table in a desperate search for weapons. You spun back towards Angelus just in time to watch him snap your uncle’s neck. An arm smacked against your leg as he dropped onto the concrete floor- a sensation you would no doubt remember the rest of your life. You snapped a large paintbrush in half to give it a pointier edge, but Angelus grabbed your wrist before you could even make a move on him. This was the sickening moment you realized just exactly how tall Angelus was. Exactly how far above he loomed over you.

“Ah, ah.” He tutted at you with a smirk. “Wouldn’t want to go angering the guy who holds your life in his hands, now would you?” He twisted your wrist until you let go of the brush, then wrapped his other hand around your throat and pushed you onto the worktable.

“You know, it really is embarrassing that you’re so darn fragile!”

He was laughing, but he was right. In comparison you were a mouse fighting a lion, you had no chance against him. You clawed fruitlessly at his hand, but he just squeezed harder. Your vision was already fuzzing out, and it was getting difficult to even see Angelus’ face clearly as he taunted you.

“Oh, stop squirming, you’ll be unconscious in a minute, kid. Lucky for you, I need some bait. So you get to live for a while, isn’t that exciting?!” His voice was giving you something tangible to focus on, but it was no use. Another moment and you were unconscious.

-----

Your head pounded like a drum when you woke up. You opened your eyes, but it took a while for them to adjust to the dim light. You tried to rub your eyes, but your hands were tied down to the armrests of the chair you were sat in. Your eyes darted around for any sign of Angelus, but found none. Everything was empty. Silent. Against your better judgement, you called out into the empty factory.

“Hello?”

You waited. No one responded, but you felt you were being watched.

You didn’t know how much time had passed before you heard a small, soft melody coming from behind you. Humming. Your heartbeat kicked up a notch as you scanned the room.

“I can hear you going pitter-patter from here,” Drusilla had spoken from a place you couldn’t see. You heard each of her footsteps click closer and closer behind you until you could feel her standing just inches away. You let out a shaky breath and she shushed you quietly.

She ran her hands through your hair, dragging long red fingernails across your scalp. She began detangling your hair with her fingers, idly humming once again. You let your head tip back as she picked lightly at a particularly bad snag, dismantling it and continuing her exploration of your hair. By now you’d noticed you were crying, silently terrified and unnerved by the ministrations of the vampire behind you. She yanked a new snag in your hair and you couldn’t help the small yelp that escaped you.

“Is the doll hurting?” She pulled her hands away when she realized you weren’t going to answer her. She walked agonizingly slowly around your chair, stopping directly in front of you. “It’s rude to ignore people.” You stared at the floor, avoiding her gaze. You did notice, however horrified, that she was wearing a new, yet familiar, red dress with black lace.

You could feel her staring down at you, almost willing you to look at her. When you didn’t, she dropped to her knees to meet your eye line, resting her cheek on your knee. You studied her face as she ghosted her hand up and down your left thigh, occasionally picking at the smatterings of paint that were still all over your jeans.

“You’re an artist. I like artists,” She picked up her head and you chuckled nervously as she looked at you. In a morbid way, you were glad she liked you, whatever that meant. It might mean I live a little longer.

You looked up at the ceiling uncomfortably, then scanned the room for an escape, for something, anything you could do. She dragged her finger from your thigh up to your neck as she looked up at you. For a moment, you were scared she’d slice your throat, but she wrapped her hand around your jaw and pulled your face down gently to look at her.

“You’ll be my little pet Artist. We’ll have lots of fun together,” She stared into your eyes with a dangerous smile. She rubbed her thumb against your jawline -her hand still holding your face as she stood up- until she burst into a fit of giggles. She dropped your face and pulled her hands together, close to her chest, as she walked backwards a few paces.

As if she’d sensed him coming, Spike rolled into the room and stopped his chair just next to you. Drusilla gracefully perched herself on Spike’s lap and after a few minutes of flirting, Angelus came down the spiral staircase with the Judge, who voiced that he was ready to leave.

“About time.” Spike gave Drusilla a kiss and told her to have fun.

“Too bad you can’t come with, huh?” Angelus was taunting Spike and -despite your fear- you were studying the interactions for a better understanding of the relationships at play. Spike was staying behind under the pretense of watching you, but it was a thinly veiled jab at his current handicap. You watched silently as Angelus practically stole Drusilla off Spike’s lap before they left the factory. Spike stared at the doorway they'd left from for a while before he glanced back at you, staring at him. You dropped your eyes immediately, but it was too late.

“What are you lookin’ at?” He wheeled himself to the other side of the table.

“I won’t be in this chair forever. I’ll get back at him.”

“Of course you will.”

He squinted at you, probably just as surprised as you that’d you’d actually spoken back at him. He turned his chair and got up close to you again, murder glinting behind his eyes.

“Are you being funny? ‘Cause I could kill you in half a second, you know.”

“No, no jokes,” You shook your head at him, weakly lifting your hands within your restraints in surrender. The last thing you wanted was for him to prove just how tough he still is.

“Good, cause I would,” he pointed his finger at you as he continued on, “...kill you, I mean.”

“Right.” You squinted, processing.

“You’d do well to remember that.”

You pressed your lips together and nodded awkwardly. He stared at you about 7 seconds longer than he needed to before huffing and rolling off to another room. As soon as you were alone, you sighed in relief and stared up at the ceiling; only one thought in your mind.

Oh. My. God.

#spike #btvs #tv: btvs #buffy the vampire slayer #drusilla #drusilla x reader #drusilla x Spike #Spike x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #multichapter #chapter 1 #angel #angelus #ats #jenny calendar

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melanielocke · 3 years ago

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Lost in the Shadows - Chapter 15

AO3

Taglist: @nott-the-best @foxglove-airmid @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @justanormaldemon @styxdrawings @ipromiseiwillwrite

Previous Chapter: Chapter 14

Next Chapter: Chapter 16

Will covered his face with his hand. ‘I do not understand why after yesterday you’d want to return to the woods,’ he said. ‘Well, I understand the recklessness of some of you, but I was expecting a little more sense from Alastair.’

Lucie had to agree that if any of them had the common sense not to run towards danger, it was Alastair.

‘If we do nothing, we stand little chance of saving Thomas,’ Alastair said, his voice betraying no emotion but he did seem a bit stiff.

‘Excellent point. I’ve heard I am to congratulate you, by the way, Alastair. And Thomas too, of course. Here I was hoping that after James and Cordelia broke up, I’d have another chance for a Carstairs in the family with you and Lucie.’

Lucie wished she could disappear. She deeply regretted telling her father about her crush on Alastair, almost two years ago. Nowadays, she realized she’d probably just looked up to him, she had been grateful for the way he’d defended her. She had liked him better than most boys in school, and had mistaken that for a crush. However, when it came to boys in school, the bar was on the floor.

Alastair, for his part, looked horrified. ‘That will never happen. I’m gay.’

‘So am I!’ declared Lucie. She figured this was as good a time as any to bring it up, and she’d been meaning to tell everyone anyway.

Everyone stared at her. Alastair looked amused. ‘Well, that is one way to come out. Congratulations, Lucie.’

Her father looked surprised. ‘Really? You always told me about boys you liked.’

Lucie shrugged. ‘Yeah, that’s weird,’ she said. ‘I think at some point I started looking at girls and realized what I felt for boys didn’t really compare.’

Lucie wasn’t sure that made sense, but on the internet she’d discovered plenty of lesbians had had crushes on boys before realizing. Feelings were confusing for sure, and the longer Lucie thought about it, the more she began to understand those oblivious book characters who were obviously in love but had no clue.

‘I didn’t realize,’ Will said. ‘But I’m glad you told me. Can’t wait until you tell us about any girls you like.’

Considering her father’s fondness for the Carstairs family and how determined he was to bring one into the family, Lucie wasn’t sure telling him how she felt about Cordelia was a good idea. She didn’t doubt her father would think it a good idea to help, which would end in disaster.

Lucie felt that was enough said about the topic for now. ‘Back to our plan,’ she continued. ‘We need to find the selkie skin, which according to our source is located in the woods, in the land in between. The same place Alastair and Thomas ended up finding yesterday. There was a trap door they couldn’t open, but cortana could cut through the lock, so that’s our way in.’

Lucie didn’t mention the minor risk of getting trapped all the way in the realm of the thief of souls. Nor were they completely sure the trap door hid the selkie skin, but it had to hide something interesting, right?

‘Hold on, whose selkie skin, and why?’ Will asked.

Cordelia summarized last night’s visit. ‘Grace needs that skin, or she will be forced to use her power on us. Even if our plan has its risks, the risk of doing nothing is falling under the spell of a siren.’

‘I thought you said she was a selkie,’ Will said.

‘Something in between, I think,’ Cordelia said. ‘She is a selkie, but she has the voice of a siren. Something about myths being muddled. I don’t know, I can’t say I have much experience with the lovely ladies of the sea. That’s what she called herself, by the way.’

Lucie had to admit Grace was indeed quite lovely.

Will sighed. ‘I guess you’re right that someone has to go. I’d do it myself, but there must be a reason she asked for Cordelia specifically and I don’t have any weapons. But I do want you to be back by dinner. Now hurry before Tessa, Gideon or Sophie learns of your plans.’ A playful smile appeared on her father’s lips. ‘And if anyone asks, this conversation never happened.’

Lucie quickly put on some walking shoes, heart beating fast until the four of them were out of sight and she was sure her mother couldn’t stop them anymore. Her father might be lenient when it came to recklessness, but her mother was not.

‘If anyone gets mad at us, I’m definitely blaming your father,’ Alastair announced.

‘That’s not fair,’ Lucie protested. ‘He covered for us.’

‘Let’s just focus on our mission,’ Thomas offered. ‘Yesterday, we took this path and it took us to the ruins.’

She followed Thomas and Alastair, who remembered how they’d come upon the ruins yesterday. It was a nice route, Lucie had to admit that, with a small pond on the side. In the end, after a long walk by Lucie’s standards, they exited the woods back where Lucie had entered to follow Tatiana, at the side of the village.

Lucie frowned. ‘Are you sure that was the right route?’ she asked. ‘I didn’t see any ruins.’

‘Perhaps the entrance is somewhere different today,’ Thomas suggested. ‘Maybe we should go back and try another path.’

After trying several paths and walking for hours, Lucie was getting tired. She wasn’t used to taking walks this long like Thomas and Alastair were and she was pretty sure she had blisters on both feet. Determined not to complain, she trailed behind the two boys, who kept exchanging longing stares. They really were adorable together. Thomas at some point took Alastair’s hand in his, which caused Alastair to stop in his tracks. Lucie nearly bumped into him.

‘Why isn’t this working?’ Cordelia asked.

‘Well, yesterday was the first time we found the ruins,’ Thomas said. ‘Before that, the forest was normal. Apart from some gnomes, things like that. Nothing unusual, at least. Perhaps today, the gateway isn’t there. Or perhaps there’s another trick to reaching it.’

‘Is there anything we did different yesterday?’ Alastair wondered.

‘We didn’t intend to find the land in between,’ Thomas said. ‘What if we cannot find it now that we’re actively looking?’

‘Then how would Tatiana find it?’ Alastair asked. ‘If that’s where she hid Grace’ skin, she can’t have stumbled on the ruins by accident like we did.’

‘Could be part of the deal she made, her learning how to come there,’ Lucie said. ‘Is there anything else you did differently?’

‘We were there earlier,’ Alastair added. ‘Thomas decided to sleep in today, whereas yesterday he and I went into the woods early in the morning.’

‘I think I was on my way there when I followed Tatiana,’ Lucie added. ‘When I returned, Cordelia said I was gone for an hour when it didn’t feel that way, just like you were gone for a whole day.’

‘I’m not sure stalking Tatiana until we can follow her there is such a good idea,’ Alastair said. ‘Perhaps we should try it again tomorrow morning.’

They tried again the next morning, and then in the evening for a short walk, but no result. She had patched up her feet with blister band aids from her mother’s first aid kit and kept going, even if her feet were still hurting and it was getting worse. It wasn’t the time, it turned out, and Lucie started to get frustrated. Grace hadn’t come back, and how were they supposed to get her skin if they couldn’t get back into the land in between?

The third morning, after another fruitless attempt to find the land in between, her mother was waiting for them in the hallway when they returned to the house.

‘Where have you been all morning?’ she scolded.

Lucie realized none of them had a good excuse for this morning. Most of the time, no one had noticed them return, and they had been ‘reading’ the whole time in their bedrooms. At least for Thomas and Alastair, it was believable that they’d want to spend time together in a bedroom “reading” any time of the day. She looked around to see if anyone would come up with something. At least Cordelia was a decent liar. But no one offered a believable excuse and Lucie had no inspiration.

‘We were looking for a way back into the land in between,’ Lucie said, deciding not to reveal her father’s role in their adventures. ‘But we couldn’t find it. So no harm done, we weren’t in danger and the only injuries sustained are my blisters.’

Her mother sighed. ‘You’re just like your father, Lucie. But I’d hoped some of you had more sense.’

Her mother looked at Alastair, her expression stern. ‘I thought you could be a voice of reason among them, Alastair. I don’t understand why you’d do something so reckless. Promise me you won’t go into the woods again.’

Lucie agreed that out of the four of them, Alastair probably had the most common sense, but it was almost painful to see Alastair respond. Lucie knew her mother often came across as harsher than she meant, but Alastair probably didn’t. His face went blank, he retreated back into his shell. Lucie might not have noticed anything was wrong if Cordelia had not looked so concerned.

‘I’m sorry to have disappointed you, dr. Gray,’ he said and before anyone else could say anything, Alastair disappeared inside, presumably to his bedroom.

Her mother had a PhD and did all sorts of medical research, Lucie knew she liked it when people called her by her title, but at the same time she’d hoped Alastair was close enough to her parents to call them by their first names.

Thomas and Cordelia also made their way inside before her mother could get angry with them too, Lucie remaining behind.

‘It was for Thomas,’ Lucie said. ‘We needed to find the place in between again. We needed to find Grace’ selkie skin or else Tatiana will force Grace to enchant us with her voice.’

Tessa sighed, putting her hand on Lucie’s shoulder. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Lucie? We could have gone in your place.’

Lucie figured she shouldn’t tell her mother her father had encouraged her to go.

‘I didn’t want you to put yourself in danger,’ Lucie said. ‘Cordelia has cortana, Alastair has his memory, so they had to go. I think you’ve upset Alastair, I better go check if he’s alright.’

Tessa sighed. ‘No, I will check on him. You’re right, I was too harsh on him. I didn’t consider… Never mind, I’ll go. But don’t think you’re out of trouble, young lady. You’re not leaving the house until otherwise specified.’

Lucie groaned and went inside, taking off her shoes and replacing the patches on her blisters. She had a pair of fit flops she could still wear, and Lucie decided that even if those shoes weren’t the most suitable for the forest, she would wear them for their next walk. If she was ever allowed to leave the house again, that was.

She wasn’t sure where Cordelia or Thomas had gone, upstairs to find Alastair? Perhaps she should join them, but her father found her first.

‘Tessa caught you,’ he concluded, sitting down next to her.

Lucie made a face. ‘Now I’m not allowed to leave the house.’

‘I’ll talk to her,’ her father promised. ‘Have you found anything yet?’

‘No,’ Lucie said. ‘I don’t understand why. Thomas and Alastair one day walked into the land in between on accident, but now we can’t find it and it’s frustrating and my feet hurt and these blisters are bursting open.’ She paused. ‘Did you see where Thomas and Cordelia went?’

‘Upstairs,’ Will said. ‘I’m thinking they’re talking to Alastair. He seemed rather upset. Is everything alright with him?’

Lucie sighed. ‘I think it’s something mom said. She didn’t mean to hurt him, but because he’s the oldest out of the four of us and definitely the one with the most common sense, she said that she’d expected more from him.’

She couldn’t explain it exactly, she didn’t always understand what upset Alastair. But she suspected Alastair felt like he didn’t deserve to be here, or that her parents liking him was very conditional. Perhaps in Alastair’s mind, all love was conditional, and any mistake he made meant he’d lose someone’s love. Lucie was trying to understand what was going on in his head. As a writer, she should be able to understand how people thought and why they did what they did. As a friend, she should be able to offer support. She wasn’t sure she was doing a good job with either.

‘I imagine that’s difficult for him to hear,’ Will said. He sighed. ‘This is all my fault. I’ll talk to your mother, and tell her I encouraged you to go.’

‘Mom will be very mad with you,’ Lucie said.

‘Now she’s angry with you, and I deserve it more,’ Will said. A playful smile lit up his face. ‘Besides, you’re not little princess Lucinda who needs to be locked in a tower, that’s for sure. What’s life without a little risk?’

Lucie wondered if he’d feel the same way after facing her mother.

She went outside into the garden on her fit flops to feel the sun on her skin after reapplying sun screen. The weather was nice today, not too hot, a soft breeze against her cheek, and only a few clouds in the air. That could change any moment though, Scotland was known for is changeable weather. A good atmosphere for a nice romantic scene, or bonding between friends or family. Or just fun scenes that might not need to be in the book but balanced out the dark ones. Lucie felt a book should be balanced in that sense. While she loved drama and darkness, she did not like gritty stories where everything was dark and terrible. She liked to balance out the darkness with a sweet romance or gentle characters still remaining kind and hopeful in the worst circumstances. Or characters who might have turned bitter, but were trying to be better. Thomas had a bit of a weakness for those, which totally wasn’t because that archetype resembled Alastair.

The garden still counted as the house, right? She suspected Thomas and Cordelia were both still with Alastair and she didn’t think it would be a good idea to join them. She didn’t know Alastair as well as Cordelia did, she feared she’d only say the wrong thing. Besides, Alastair didn’t seem to like people taking care of him or fussing over him, Cordelia had told her she sometimes had to force him to let her protect him for once. Lucie feared her mother’s comment had reinforced some deeply held belief of his that he was worthless, even if she had never intended to make him feel that way.

She wondered how she’d never seen something was not right at the Carstairs home. Cordelia hadn’t either, but she remembered how when she was young, Cordelia would sometimes come to her for sleepovers, whereas Cordelia’s parents had rarely invited her over at their house. Of course, when she was little Lucie would get homesick and preferred having sleep overs at her own house anyway, so it had never bothered her.

And when Lucie was little, her father would always come sing her a Welsh lullaby. He was Welsh through his father, whereas the house here in Scotland had been in her grandmother’s family for some time. He was a horrible singer, and it was hilarious how he kept trying and did not care what people thought. It was sweet and Lucie had always felt safe and protected when her father came to tuck her in and sing his horrible songs. Cordelia had told her it was usually Alastair who sang her good night songs and tucked her in. That had made sense too. Alastair had a beautiful voice after all, and who wouldn’t want to listen to him sing? Back then, Alastair had seemed much older and wiser than the two of them, but really, he’d been a child too.

And Cordelia had regularly had to cancel plans because her father was sick and she couldn’t leave him. Lucie had understood, although the disappointment never quite faded. But when Lucie’s father was sick, he might whine and moan like a typical man flu patient and complain that he needed uncle Jem’s care and support, but he would never have asked Lucie to choose taking care of him over spending time with the few friends she had.

None of those things had struck her as odd in childhood, but now she was thinking maybe they should have. Maybe someone should have seen something was not right at the Carstairs house. Perhaps then Alastair wouldn’t be in so much pain now.

‘Lucie!’

Lucie looked up, but didn’t see anyone calling out her name. Nor did she recognize the voice. It was a smooth, feminine voice.

‘Over here!’ the voice hissed and Lucie followed the sound to the trees and recognized Grace.

‘What are you doing here?’ Lucie asked.

‘Tatiana left me alone. She didn’t realize I had enough free will left to come here.’

‘I’m sorry, we don’t have your skin yet,’ Lucie said.

Grace rolled her eyes. ‘I know. I’ve seen you walk in the woods once or twice. Honestly, that was embarrassing.’

Lucie frowned. ‘How so?’

‘You never even opened the gateway,’ Grace said.

‘How are we supposed to do that? We’re not Tatiana!’ Lucie exclaimed. ‘And Alastair and Thomas entered the land in between by accident.’

‘It sucks people in sometimes,’ Grace said. ‘But rarely by accident. Alastair was targeted when he and Thomas came there, Tatiana found out he has a memory ability and she thinks he’s a threat to her plans. I think she’s scared her brother will remember something. That’s why the werewolf was after him.’

Lucie frowned. ‘They know about that?’

‘Yes. But they do not yet know about you,’ Grace said. ‘I figured it out when I realized you could see Jesse. You better get my skin back before she realizes what you are. She’ll want you dead for sure.’

‘What I am?’ Lucie asked.

‘You have power, Lucie,’ Grace said. ‘You’re a witch.’

‘No, I’m not,’ Lucie said. ‘I just see ghosts. That’s all.’

‘I know you see ghosts. You talked to Jesse. Do you have any idea how rare that ability is?’

‘I’ve never met anyone else who could do it.’

‘Exactly!’ Grace exclaimed. ‘You have no idea what you’re capable of. You can open a gateway into the land in between. And even more important, if you find yourself trapped you can open the way back.’

‘How do you know?’ Lucie asked.

‘Because I have heard legends of one other person like you. A witch who was born centuries ago. She wasn’t like other humans who used magic, she used dark magic, but hadn’t acquired it through a deal and there was no price to pay to something powerful. As a little girl, all she knew was she saw ghosts. And when ghosts stayed around her, they became stronger. But she learnt there was much more she could do and grew stronger. She learnt to open those gateways and use them as a weapon, she learnt to control the dead.’

Lucie was horrified. She could do such things? ‘What happened to her?’

‘As a woman of her time, and an odd one at that, she was treated badly of course. At some point she snapped and became a dangerous, evil witch. Who can blame her, honestly. She was defeated by the ancestor of the Carstairs, the one who carries cortana. Before he could deliver the killing blow, she jumped into the sea and drowned herself. She lost her dark magic, but came back to life as a daughter of the sea, a mermaid. She repented, changed, and lived her life peacefully in the sea. That is how we know her story.’

Lucie frowned. ‘I don’t want to be an evil witch,’ she said.

Grace’s grey eyes were cold and void of emotion. ‘Then don’t be. Just because magic is dark doesn’t mean it’s evil. Be a good witch or a neutral one or whatever you want to be. But you can’t change that you are a witch, and I need you to find my skin. You, the bearer of cortana, and the one with the memory. Without you it can’t be done. But you need to know what you can do, you need to open a gateway.’

‘How?’ Lucie asked.

‘It’s your power, not mine,’ Grace said. ‘Go figure it out. I need to get back before Tatiana realizes I am missing. They say when the witch wanted something, all she had to do was ask. So be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.’

#Lucie Herondale #Alastair Carstairs #Cordelia Carstairs #Thomas Lightwood #Lucelia #Thomastair #fanfiction #tlh #the last hours

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