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wolf-and-bard · 4 years ago

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The Geraskier Soccer Parents AU of my dreams (in an early morning strike of weird-brain):

-Geralt knows he isn't the best dad ever. He tries so goddamn hard, but his job is demanding and consumes so much time and even with Ciri being seven already, he still has essentially no clue what he's doing. He sometimes falls into bed, half-dead, and she is the one to give him a good-night kiss. He sometimes forgets she prefers cheese and puts ham on her sandwiches. He is sometimes too happy to have her sleep over at her friends rather than invite them to their house. He doesn't read her all the children's classics, doesn't go trick-or-treating with her, doesn't even pretend Santa Claus is a thing. He isn't the best dad ever. He tries.

-There is one thing he never, ever fails to do and that is take Ciri to soccer practice. Ciri picks up and drops hobbies, interests, even tastes by the week, still unsure what she wants to pursue, but soccer isn't only her favourite pastime, it's theirs. Practice is twice a week and they have a ritual for it. Geralt picks her up from school and drives her there, she tells him about what the dumb boys in her class said, how her art project is going etc. Geralt is there throughout practice, tucked in between Foltest - a guy who is constantly worried for his daughter Adda to get hurt and also very much anxious for her to do well - and Tissaia - a woman who has not one, but three girls in Ciri's age group and several more in others, and knits like a magician - and watches. He takes notes, silently cheers for Ciri.

-After their games and while Ciri changes, Geralt chats with her coach Vesemir - who used to be Geralt's coach, but now prefers to train the girls' teams - about the progress of the team, upcoming tournaments etc. Sometimes when Vesemir is indisposed, Geralt even leads the practice. When Ciri is all done, Tissaia usually has another hat or mitten finished and Geralt and her drive with their girls to whatever food place the girls are in the mood for. They have an early dinner in which Tissaia lectures the girls on their form and in which Ciri is sometimes allowed to sit on Geralt's lap - but only if Fringilla or Yen don't tease hear about it - but in which she definitely gets to steal his milkshake (Geralt hates milkshakes). Geralt only praises her when they're back in the car and Ciri tells him he's too much of a softie with her and should be more like Tissaia. Should maybe marry Tissaia. They both laugh because that is never going to happen.

-Life is good that way. It's not perfect, it's not without bumps, certainly not without tears and scrapes, but whatever the job, whatever injury Geralt carries with him, however long he has to drive, he never, never ever misses soccer practice.

-The season's just kicked off in the year of Ciri's eighth birthday when Geralt and her arrive early on the field to find the stands empty save for a girl in the most ridiculously colorful excercise clothes and blond hair that is braided intricately around her head. With her is a man, maybe five years Geralt's junior. Ciri bolts towards them with a bright grin and Geralt is hesitant to follow. He knows neither the girl nor the man, but from what he can gather she wants to join the team which is just what they need as they're one girl short this season. "Hi, I'm Ciri, I adore your braids." Geralt holds back on the eye-roll. It's nice Ciri can make friends this easily, but his house already is a shrine for role-playing and board games, dolls and random DVDs and another friend means more things Ciri will want to try out. "Thank you," the girl replies and tilts her head to better show them off. "My uncle Jaskier braided them for me, I'm sure he can do yours too." Both girls look up expectantly at the man and Geralt only really notices him then. He is averagely built with bright blue eyes and an even brighter smile. His floral print shirt has three open buttons and his pants barely reach his ankles. He has the look of a flippant music teacher or a hipster coffeeshop owner. His eyes meets Geralt's and, wait, did he just wink? "I'd love to, dear," he says in a smooth voice that absolutely does not go straight to Geralt's guts. Geralt turns on the spot and decides to pressure check the balls, but he can hear the others giggling as Jaskier braids Ciri's hair. "I'm Priscilla by the way. What's up with your dad?" - "Oh, don't mind him, he's bad with meeting new people." - "Very intense." That's Jaskier. Oh, Geralt will show him intense.

-Ciri invites them to their after-practice dinner. Geralt wants to begrudge her that, but she and Priscilla have latched onto each other in record speed and Jaskier actually fights Tissaia on some of her more strict stances and he braids Yen's and Sabrina's hair too, only Fringilla doesn't want him to touch hers which he respects. Geralt and Tissaia glance at each other. Come to a silent agreement. They may not befriend Jaskier, but he's sunny and so good with the girls and they can use someone like him among their ranks, someone who doesn't have Calanthe's tendency for swear words or Crach's tendency to break out beer in the middle of practice or even Nenneke's tendency to relate everything to the workings of god.

-Jaskier is as faithful as Geralt, perhaps the only one who shows up every time without fail. Shani's parents only drop her off and Crach switches between Cerys' and Hjalmar's practices and Tissaia sometimes texts Geralt to pick up her girls. Jaskier is there, every time, earlier than any of the others. He chats with Vesemir about his day-to-day, brings home-baked cookies for everyone, he cheers and whoops and tries very hard to understand soccer even though it's evident he doesn't. Geralt never wonders why it's him and not Priscilla's parents that come, it's none of his business. He begins to tolerate Jaskier, but he knows that is where he has to draw the line. He has his hands full with Ciri and his job and his brothers too. He can't afford friendships that extend beyond the field.

-Jaskier doesn't let him off though. He always takes the spot next to Geralt (technically an improvement over Foltest's sweaty visage) and prattles on and on, at least until the game begins. When it does, Jaskier divides his attention between the girls and the stack of paper on his lap which he annotates during practice. It's often either sheet music or the illegible scrawl of pre-teens or wonkily drawn instruments. Jaskier already told him, but from that too it is obvious that Geralt's hunch was right, he is a music teacher. Geralt finds his eyes darting to Jaskier's long fingers, nimble and calloused from the various string instruments he plays. Finds himself glancing at where Jaskier's tongue peeks out in concentration. He listens to the man's ramblings and hums his replies and comes to dislike the days when Vesemir isn't there and he has to focus all his attention on giving the girls a good practice. Not that he doesn't want to, it's just that having Jaskier at his back unnerves him.

-(Jaskier for his part doesn’t care at all about soccer, but he cares about Priscilla so he convinced her parents to let him take her; after that, she said it would be fine if he dropped her off and picked her up again, but Jaskier pretends he is super invested in the sport and the team and he is, but mostly he’s invested in charming Geralt)

-After an entire season of mutual pining and obliviousness, Tissaia decides she's had enough and rallies the other parents. She has Foltest organize a big party at his country house, has Nenneke promise to look after the girls (the woman doesn't drink) and has Crach whip out the finest spirits he has in storage. Calanthe makes a phenomenal playlist and it's Tissaia's job to get Geralt to the party (Jaskier's not a problem) and dress up nicely. Only Aridea, Renfri's stepmother, refuses to pitch in, but she's been a bitch anyway.

-When Geralt picks up Jaskier at his downtown flat he has to grip the wheel of his rover hard in order not to short-circuit. Jaskier has done something to his hair that Geralt can't name but that makes him go woozy inside. He wears a plain shirt that compliments his eyes and hugs his body just right and he looks high on life with color in his cheeks and the most dazzling smile. He's gorgeous. "Darling, don't you look dashing," Jaskier says excitedly and props his feet up on the dashboard, only after kissing Geralt on the cheek. Which is not fair. "Likewise," Geralt mutters, then blushes furiously. He didn't want that to come out, oh no. Jaskier either didn't hear or acts like it and they drive in silence to Foltest's country house. Well, aside from the songs Jaskier hums under his breath, some new composition no doubt.

-At first, Geralt thinks it's a nice enough party for someone who doesn't like parties. Foltest's grilling burgers, they all have cocktails, the music is mellow. Not that that stops Jaskier from swirling an already quite drunk Calanthe over the terrace in dazzling moves. Geralt wants to be swirled like that. "You really have it bad, don't you?" Crach comments when he notices Geralt staring. Geralt downs his beer (he's no cocktail drinker) and tries pointedly not to stare at how Jaskier's swinging his ass around.

-The buzz makes it easier and he relieves Foltest at the barbecue for a bit. But then Jaskier walks up to him, a little short on breath and grinning his most flirtatious little grin. It gives him fucking dimples. Sigh. "Hey you big strong man," Jaskier says. He smells like pineapple and coconut, but isn't even a little drunk. "Jask," he says, pointedly flipping a burger. "Foltest says he has an old karaoke machine in the shed, but it's too heavy for me. Help me?" - "...fine." Geralt gestures for Foltest to keep up with the meat and he and Jaskier make their way along a garden path that winds through thickets and by a small pond. The shed is painted blue and white and Geralt and Jaskier find it very much cluttered, but not dirty which is nice. Geralt only understands it's a trap when it's already sprung on them. The tiny click of the look is almost inaudible over Jaskier's anxious commentary of their search for the machine. There is only one small window and no light Geralt can see. Fuck.

-"Ehm, Jaskier?" he reaches out and gently touches Jaskier's shoulder which has the other man yelp and jump. Which doesn't bode well for what Geralt has to tell him. "I think we're trapped." The effect is immediate. Jaskier goes rigid, his breath catches. Is he afraid? Claustrophobic perhaps? Shit, so he can't be in on the joke. "Jask?" - "Geralt. I know we aren't the closest, but I need you to hold me right now." And he launches himself at Geralt. Maybe he is in on the joke? No, he's trembling too hard for that. Geralt catches him and does as asked. "I am absolutely going to die," Jaskier whines into Geralt's neck and Geralt can't help a small chuckle as he rubs Jaskier's back soothingly. This is... surprisingly nice for a trap. Also likely Tissaia's doing. Geralt has a rare idea. "What if I distract you until someone finds us?" he murmurs against Jaskier's hair and Jaskier draws back a little. In the half-dark his eyes glisten, widen when they meet Geralt's. "You would?" - "Close your eyes, Jaskier." Geralt feels a surge of daring, perhaps granted by the intimacy and seclusion of the situation. He catches Jaskier's lips with his own. When they part, Jaskier grins, shaking from something other than fear. "I thought you didn’t much like me," he whispers. "I thought I got on your nerves." - "Idiot." They kiss again and, faintly, Geralt can hear someone cheer from outside.

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theyarebothgunshot · 4 years ago

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jib 6 breakdown and analysis

standard disclaimer: i am not gonna be linking to every single thing i talk about, but i will try my best to link to the moments that stand out to me the most. i have read long posts about this panel before, so not everything in this post is gonna be original or said for the first time ever, simply because there is a good chance that information has stuck in my mind and has subconsciously formed my view of this panel. this is also in no way, shape or form gonna be coherent, unfortunately. i’m just gonna hope that the cockles hivemind will be able to make sense of this regardless. love and light. and lastly, this is all in good fun, so don’t come at me if you think this is too out there please and thank you.

if i would have to give this panel a signifier, i would say this is the panel of the inside jokes. it’s the panel that shows us how well they know each other, to the point that they finish each other’s sentences and start telling the same punchline to a joke at the same time.

but besides all of that, it was also the panel of the shoulder touches, husband behavior, and rescuer misha. let’s dive into it.

i adore the fact that they are laughing and joking with each other from the first second they get on stage. the way that they tell that story about how they planned to have misha nap and have jensen drink whisky and humm, really reminds me of something that i mentioned a lot during my jib 7 analysis: they are very much in sync.

jensen slinging his arm around misha of course had to be compensated with a manly face and manly grip. the rituals… i know they are intricate.

it’s kind of cute how misha tried to both encourage jensen to try that step, and wanted to make sure he wouldn’t hurt himself lmao. dare i say husband behavior? (i do dare and i will do it again, bam bam!)

something about the way they talk about j*red just makes me feel like they are such a team, if that makes sense? like, they both think the same things about j*red’s antics and talk in such a united way about it (“and jensen and i were like…” “i don’t even care. he [points at misha] doesn’t care.”) that it just sounds kind of coupley to me. *whispers* husband behavior.

i love that jensen’s first instinct after talking about missing j*red was to go over to misha, put his hand on his shoulder, and talk about his fucking flirting way of pranking misha versus j*red’s painful pranking of misha. “with you it’s like my friend and protector is....” i truly wish the audience wasn’t as loud as they were in that moment because i would love to fully hear that sentence.

the look on jensen’s face when misha says “save it for when we take off our pants” is just priceless. ‘oh god here we go again, when will he ever learn’ but the funny thing is, he will make the same face later on in the panel, after talking about riding a dragon. that’s the face he makes when one of them goes slightly too far. just thought that was interesting.

what stands out to me the most is his reaction when misha turns around just as he is ‘fake unbuttoning’ his pants like: ‘i’m just kidding i’m innocent’ literally no reason to respond like that if misha is just his buddy.

misha’s “what are you doing?” as jensen is tying his flannel around his waist also stands out to me. he clearly does not like the look and can’t keep his mouth shut (“that was bothering me too”). why would you find the need to comment on your buddy’s fashion choice. (....husband behavior.)

just wanna take a moment to say that it’s very fucking funny that jensen said “don’t take selfies” when you know that just a few years later he would take the chest to chest selfie with misha. oh, jensen.

we have all heard the “jensen pranks misha on set by flirting with him” story countless of times, but it’s still funny to me how flustered misha seems to get by the fact that jensen can get to him that easily. and jensen’s laugh here is so cute, he fully knows what he is doing.

misha jokes that he spends more time sunning on rocks now as a merman than he used to, and jensen immediately starts to walk to the apple juice, something i have noticed that he does whenever he wants to avoid something (be it a question or a situation that’s happening on stage). it almost feels like he is stopping himself from making a comment or something. it’s interesting, because he just turns right back around and starts telling the grasshopper joke without getting anything to drink.

which leads to one of my favorite moments between them: misha, beaming, says that he has heard it before but he wants to hear it again, and mouths the words to the punchline along with jensen. he looks at the audience as if to say ‘good one, right?’ and when jensen goes “is this thing on?” misha immediately tries to distract him from his failed joke by using an inside joke (the first inside joke of the panel) with him. aka good husband behavior.

something tells me that “i’ll see you again, grasshopper” is another inside joke, so we’re counting it: number two.

jensen. jensen pspsps come here. can you please explain to me why you are so horny for misha’s indianrussian accent? i cannot believe him (i can), trying to get him to use the accent to ‘help the girl in the audience’.

so uhm. i think i just heard something while i was rewatching this panel that i never caught before. when misha reads what is on the box that was put on stage, he says: ‘please take this box and open later in private - daniella.’ and jensen goes: ‘yeah that’s from me’ with a flirty Look on his face like. hello??? why have i never seen anybody talk about this??? i’m??? internally screaming??? rest assured i had to take 5 when i saw this shit.

can we take a second to appreciate the fact that jensen gave misha a once over when misha says the glitter is everywhere, and then jensen said “fairy herpes”. why did your mind go to a sexual reference jensen? why? (we know why).

“i hate when you get that look in your eyes. don’t! i’m sorry!” is one of the most coupley things to say, ever. just wanted to point that out.

i love the playful vibe they have during this portion of the panel: jensen asking misha what he will do for the audience (thinly veiled excuse for wanting misha to do something that jensen will also enjoy), throwing the rings at misha, both of them “panicking” and lapping up the spilled apple juice.

look, i couldn’t not include the shirt lift. i had to. especially because of the way he looks at misha afterwards lmao and misha, darling misha, tries to defuse the situation by making a joke and it works because of course jensen does his signature unicorn laugh. sidenote: how cute is jackles when he grabs the guitar, begging people to erase the picture jsfhs. gotta love that man.

“you done messed up” inside joke number 3.

you know what is funny to me? the fact that jensen and misha often pretend not to know certain things about each other when they are on stage together. one example of this is during the underbear debacle, when jensen asks misha to proof he wears orange underwear and pretends he is shocked, even though the whole world knows that misha wears orange underwear.

in this panel, it happens twice. the first time is here, when misha asks jensen ‘do you actually not smell?’ as if he isn’t one of the people in this world who would know that best. and then he, of course, immediately takes this opportunity to sniff jensen’s armpit. i mean. okay. which is extra funny because jackles doesn’t play along with the whole ‘i have no clue’ bit and just goes “yeah you’re not a stinker” without checking because, clearly, he already knows.

i love jensen’s little smirk when he hears misha’s dragon would be pink + misha’s reaction to it.

before i read this post i always thought jensen meant that his own dragon would be salmon colored. but now i think that it’s not far fetched to believe jensen was actually thinking about the fact that he has stated he was wearing a salmon shirt. which means that, in this moment right here, he was implying that instead of pink, misha’s dragon (aka jensen) would be salmon. which makes his reaction (looking down, laughing but shaking his head as if he can’t believe himself) very understandable. remember what i said about that being the face he makes when one of them takes it too far? yeah.

but then, something happens that is quite remarkable to me. instead of backing down from what he said, he fully commits to it. he turns to misha, and goes “if i could ride a dragon”. listen to the way he puts extra weight behind “ride” and “dragon”.

then he asks if he understands the question correctly and repeats “what would it look like?”, the girl in the audience says “yes, but also any special abilities…” but jensen just ignores that because obviously, in his head the dragon is misha and he is not gonna shake that thought process any time soon. so naturally, he goes “i think my dragon that i would want to…” but stops JUST before saying “ride”, the guy KNEW what he was sounding like. lmao jensen i gotta give it to you buddy, good effort. you did well. you came far. you even said “look, i’m just gonna go for it here” even though misha’s face speaks volumes. i love you for that. because everything that came out of your mouth right then sounded very not straight.

in fact, it’s only because of misha’s interference (a reoccurring thing during these panels) that he stops himself completely and goes to talk with misha. i really wonder what would have happened if misha didn’t stop him. i also REALLY wonder what misha and jensen discussed when they turned their backs to the audience. sigh.

now we get to the juicy stuff. jensen’s little slip up here is really really strange, when you think about it. he says “i have kids” before quickly covering that up with “i have a kid now.” i’m not saying the ackles and the collins are one big happy family or anything like that, but i do think that they are close enough for him to slip up like this. maybe the kids hang out together a lot. maybe they have given each other enough support during those early days of raising kids that it sometimes feels like he had multiple kids at that point in time. idk. but in any case, i don’t think that’s a slip up you’d make unless there was some sort of truth in it. he also kind of stumbles over his words right after that. [before anybody runs to my inbox to tell me that j/2 tinhatters think this is about him and j*red raising their kids together: trust me, i know, but we’re not talking about that.]

misha’s cheeky “i thought you were talking about danneel” followed by the both of them simultaneously saying that jensen does not tell her what to do, made me grin like a fool. that is all.

the way jensen says “misha, apparently you were looking pale and you need some sugar. there you go.” is so SOFT AND CUTE idek how to explain what i am feeling but it’s just. a lot. oh wait a minute, i do know what to call it: HUSBAND behavior.

“by the way we’re gonna pay so dearly when we get home” “yeah we are” lmao the jdmv vibes are strong in this one.

look. i know it’s possible that misha woke up alone after that dream, thought to himself ‘i miss her’, went for breakfast, saw jensen, and told this story to him verbatim. but misha is literally telling the story from the pov of waking up from a dream and saying that out loud. it would make sense that he would explain that dream to the person who he woke up with, and that he would follow the dream explanation up with “i miss her”. plus jensen is REPEATING IT as if he was right there when misha said that. add to that the way jackles stumbles over his words here and gets flustered and sits down? and misha’s face? yeah. you done messed up jackles, part 2.

jensen doesn’t know what to do with himself. just look at his face right after he sits down. and misha, once again, comes to the rescue, trying to continue the conversation about poop in order to distract both jensen and the audience. bless his soul.

it leads to the second instance of misha pretending that he doesn’t know something about jensen, namely that jensen can’t stand poop even from his own daughter. misha goes: “no? not for you?” as if he didn’t already know that.

round of applause for the jib team, for putting on ‘this thing called love’ to get jensen and misha to dance……. just saying.

jensen’s little nod to misha right here? husband telepathic communication at its finest. even their silly dad dances are in sync.

jackles you are NOT being slick we can SEE you tossing the mic to your other hand so you can pull misha in by the waist (or honestly maybe his hand landed lower idk idk it’s possible).

it really is something special, though, what happened right here: jensen, macho masculine grumpy performative jensen, is smiling and laughing and enjoying dancing on stage, doing some ballet moves, all because of misha (and by some extent felicia). not just with felicia or by himself, but with rob, osric, etc. honestly it’s heartwarming to watch. it makes me smile so much.

and that was jib 6. thanks for reading everybody <3

#cockles #jib 6 #i used a different method to add the timestamps and i really hope it works this time #as always please feel free to share your thoughts ! <3

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seancekitsch · 4 years ago

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Dislocated

A/N Warnings: description of injury, references to violence, oral sex, penetrative sex, diego being a soft little angel but also very sexy hot sex man, cursing, diego has long hair but other than that no spoilers, mild product placement because me and u and everyone else are slaves to capitalism, references to diegos comics powers

“Fuck. Where do you keep your bactine?”

“My what?”

“Bactine! You know the spray stuff I use. It would really help that split knuckle of yours,” Diego sounds exhausted, but there's a hint of teasing, or maybe pride in his voice as he rummages on his hands and knees in your bathroom cabinet. The knuckle on your middle finger of your left hand is split open, oozing blood and angry looking. Your bathroom, and the two of you, look like a scene out of a horror film tonight. There is his shirt, which was white earlier tonight, now a red and pink and brown tie dye with blood, some of it yours. You have your hand, and a bruise blooming under your eye.

“My knuckle wouldn’t need anything if those people hadn’t come after us,” you snap, “Who were they anyway?”

“Oh you know, someone with something against someone in my family,” Diego offers as he digs, as if it's commonplace to fight off attackers on date night. As if this was something normal people from normal families dealt with. Of fucking course, you think.

“Someone? Or you specifically, babe?”

He sits back at this, and a hard look crosses his features, not at you, contemplating, then breaks into the slightest grin as he looks down at the gauze and neosporin in his hands and nods. Thats fair. From where you're sitting on the rim of the tub, he looks like some kind of action hero in the night. Some real die hard shit in your dimly lit bathroom. Normally, it's you in his position, but you doubt you look like this. He's got his vigilante bullshit, which frequently has him showing up during booty call hours needing to be bandaged up before thanking you with a little action of your own. You wonder if he's going to be as good a nurse to you as you are to him, or if he's genuinely a little angry at your role in what transpired tonight. You didn't even make it to your dinner reservation, opting to walk because the weather was nice, before two men dressed exactly the way unnamed baddies in a die hard film grabbed at you from behind and the two of you had to defend yourselves. Only some of the blood on his shirt was yours. This is probably why he always wears black. He looks damn good in black.

“Anyone ever taught you how to fight? Throw a punch?”

You tilt your head, which is a bad move because it feels a little heavy, giving him a look that says of course no one did.

“Right,” he nods and you figure that once you heal he will probably be changing that. Diego never wanted to rope you into anything having to do with the academy or what he does at night, unless it was seeing his siblings in almost real people circumstances like dinners. But seeing you get hurt tonight means he obviously has to make some changes to that mindset, you have to be able to defend yourself if for ever some reason he can't. You're going to have to get sweaty, and not in the way you like to. But anything for your safety, Diego thinks. He cannot risk losing you after having lost so much.

He resigns to this as he helps you up, puts you on the bathroom counter with the vanity, you now sitting on the edge of the sink so he can sink down and sit while he cleans your hand. You were lucky that it was just the left hand. Your right hand had been spared from your left’s bloody fate because of the way your right hand tried to seek out Diego while your left threw a clumsy punch, but the hardest one you'd ever thrown. Your whole arm aches and your bracelet had been broken, but you have to say you're lucky for this being your only injury. Diego clutches your hand, a bit harder, but that's because he knows you're not going to like the feel of the neosporin as it makes contact with your skin. He has a substantial amount on his fingers of the hand that's not holding yours, and looks you in the eye as he makes the ointment meet your skin. No matter how gentle he can be when he wants to, it stings. It's supposed to be that way so it doesn't get infected and kill you, but you can't help the hiss that leaves your mouth and the wince across your features. As he rubs it in, you can feel yourself getting used to the pain. It doesn't subside but it becomes more manageable as it becomes something more familiar. Is this what Diego feels each time?

It feels worse again when Diego stops rubbing it in, and reaches for the bandages. Maybe because you don't want him to stop touching you, but maybe it is because of more exposure to the air. He uses the hand holding yours to hold it in place as he wraps, gently again, but so the wrap is pulled tight. You have some movement, but you won't be making a fist again for a while. He ties it off, tapes it to make extra sure, and then kisses the knuckles over their bandage as you smile down at him and laugh. Hes a perfect romantic gentleman when he wants to be.

He stands and reaches behind you, arms going around you on either side. You reach to hug him back tightly, only you hear him chuckle as the water of the sink turns on behind you. He's washing the chemicals from his hands. After he scrubs real well, dries his hands, he returns the hug, burying his face in your neck and squeezing tightly as if he's trying to make sure you're still there. His relief fans out as an exhale along your neck and you can physically feel his entire body relax against you now because you're safe. You're going to be okay.

“How'd I do, baby?” he asks, still burying his face in your neck, “Good enough that your nurse gets a tip?”

“Nurses don't get tips.”

“You usually do.”

“I didn't say you wouldn't be rewarded for your efforts, did I?”

He pulls back to look you in the eye.

“So what do I get?”

“Anything you want, baby.”

Diego’s hands are gentle as they trail from your shoulders down your sides, gripping fistfuls of the flowy shirt you wear and pulls you to the edge of the counter. Still gentle. Still full of fear for you. Maybe mixed and speckled with relief.

The way his hands continue south, to unzipper your pants, pulling them off slowly, gently, an act of love and service more than an act of lust. He inches the fabric over your ankles, your feet, discards them somewhere outside the doorway into the hall with a small toss. Rises back to his knees for a moment, takes a pause to wrap his arms around you in a hesitant hug, like he could break you, his arms warm. Your arms instinctually settle on his shoulders to cradle the back of his head in your bandaged and loved hands before he snaps out of the moment and moves on to your shirt. He pays special attention to the buttons, one after the other slow and meticulous. If this were another night and a shirt you didn't care much about, there's a good chance he would have just cut the shirt from your frame. But tonight he's doing things like a holy man with an intricate ritual. When the last button is unfastened and free, his palms flatten, slowly slide up your torso over your stomach, over your breasts, and to your shoulders where he moves the fabric from them with the feather light touch taking extra time to feel your left shoulder, the one that swung the momentum of the punch that split your knuckle. He’s checking to see if its dislocated, you realize.

“D? Baby, I’m okay. You're good at playin’ nurse,” you reassure him.

He seems to understand, as he next pulls the straps from your bra down your shoulders, slides his hands behind your back, and makes sure you feel the heat from his hands as he makes work of the clasp. Your underwear is next, and a hint of Diego on a normal night shines through, with one hand splayed across your back he uses the other to pull the underwear down from one hip, then switches sides and tugs on the other side. He makes quick work of them, unlike the tempo he had going. They end up somewhere in the doorway near your pants, but you don't really care about their location because he's pressing his lips against your chest just around your sternum and his facial hair tickles. You still weren't completely sure where he came back from or what he went through a few months ago, but the way that he loves you and treats you like the most precious thing is definitely welcome. As was the new lack of haircut and the less groomed facial hair. He kisses lower and lower, making you shiver with anticipation of what's to come, before he settles where he's needed now.

Diego moves slowly, glacial. The way he licks you open has no purpose, merely exploratory and drawn out. Mapping you on his tongue. But it doesn’t fail to have you mewling above him, one hand gripping the counter and the other buried in his hair as his strong calloused hands hold you open for him to drink full. He dips lower, where you need him, then travels north again as if oblivious to your reactions. He could do this all night. He stays there, meandering; savoring the taste lazily as you grow more impatient at the non-committal non-specific way he licks and kisses and moves. You feel like you are hors d'oeuvres and not a meal for a starving man. And then Diego does what Diego does best. He surprises you. A hard suck to your clit has you inhaling sharply, gasping through your nose as your toes curl and your eyes flutter shut. You lean back over the sink, back of your head resting on the mirror as you try to present yourself at an easier angle for him. He dives into licking you in full-heartedness now, fucking you with his tongue, kissing and sucking at your clit, absolutely killing any coherent thought coming through your mind right now. The benefits of dating a man that can hold his breath indefinitely was definitely what he did with his mouth to you when you were alone.

He adds a finger and you automatically think you've died. He knows exactly what he's doing when he fucks you like this, his mouth adding to the wetness dripping from you as he works you over, putting just enough pressure behind each thrust of his hand to have you seeing stars. Your eyes roll back as a wanton moan tears from your throat and it sounds like someone elses voice desperately chanting his name as he has you coming, coming, and coming on his face and hand. He stays down there, the one hand still on your thigh to hold you in place, to give you a light squeeze, release some of the muscle tension built up while he licks his other hand clean sucking the digit into his mouth obscenely while he smiles up at you like an angel. He rises up from his knees and kisses your cheek with his wet mustache and beard and wraps loose arms around you, a sweet and lazy gesture.

Diego incites a passion in you that's rare. You can't recall ever wanting a person this much. So despite being sensitive from the absolute divinity of what he'd just done to you, you can't help but to jump off the counter. You reach for his pants, taking the time to feel his hard length under the fabric before you pop the button and unleash the teeth of the zipper. You pull them down just enough to free him from his boxers, and then turn yourself around to bend down against the damp counter you'd just been sitting on, looking at him through playful eyes in the mirror as he stares back, dick out and hesitant. He puts a cautious hand on your hip.

“No, not like this. I wanna see you.”

You meet his eyes in the mirror and tap on the glass with your good hand. He reaches for that arm and slowly turns you to face him.

“No baby,” he refutes, cradling your face in his strong hands, “I n-need to see you.”

So you nod, understanding that he needs this, and reposition yourself to lay on the small woven rug you kept on the floor. The bathroom floor is not the most comfortable place to lay, but this is for Diego and his peace of mind. You yield to his touch and his control over the situation as he finishes undressing and sinks down onto the floor to take his place above you. To indulge in the relief that you are okay, to bask in your gratefulness at how well he patched you up.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your neck as he kisses you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Because you got hurt? Because he needed more tenderness than you originally wanted to give him? Because earlier tonight he was so fucking afraid he’d never get to look into your face again that he has to look you in the eye when you make him come tonight?

Your bandaged hand finds its way into his hair and holds him there, close, as your fingers go to work to massaging words of comfort into his scalp. He kisses your neck once, twice, three times before lining himself up with your entrance and pushing into your cunt. You're wet, so excruciatingly and devastatingly wet and god it almost hurts him to bottom out inside you the same way something so hot can almost feel cold when it touches your skin and puts your nerves into overdrive. You're so sensitive from his mouth that you have to bite into the skin of his broad shoulder to muffle the scream that rebels against you to break into the air. Your teeth in his skin is his only relief from the soft tight burning taking over him from where your bodies join. He only moves when your teeth recede, his thrusts slow and short and deep, savoring the feeling of being connected, of being inside, of being home. His arms hold you in place while he thrusts just as much as they hold you just to feel you against him at any point of connection he can find. A vow to keep you close, to keep you where you both need each other to be. He moans deeply into your neck, the side of your face, kissing the moan into your jaw like a promise. It's more real than any declaration of love and more spontaneous than any act of romance. It's Diego.

You can feel yourself getting lost in this, in him. He's pushing you to the edge again. For you, one is too many, and a thousand is never enough with Diego. Its you selfishly moving your hips against the rhythm of his, making you both a little shocked but not embarrassed (never embarrassed) at how close you both are already. There's a desperation in both of your actions, and he pulls back just enough to see you, to let himself be seen by you. Only you. Is this what you look like when you make love after setting stitches in wounds that will definitely scar? You hope so, because he looks like heaven itself. He fucks you through your high (with a scream of his name and tears on your cheeks), fucks you through his own(with a stuttering chant of your name and deadly eye contact), then gives you one more with his mouth on the bathroom rug (with quiet whimpering and praise from both of your lips). Diego lifts you up on unsteady legs and you both tumble into bed. You sleep in late the next morning. You miss calls from his siblings that all go to voicemail. You're home safe.

#diego hargreeves x reader #diego hargreeves smut #diego hargreeves fanfic #diego hargreeves imagine #my work

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princesssarcastia · 3 years ago

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Just wanted to say I love your tag "the last great american queerbait" bc yeah. It really does feel like we'll never see this level of bait in a major media property again. Which is probably a good thing, but it makes spn all the more unique...

thank you! that's from @biggersons on this post here. excuse me while i now ramble about this bullshit

i'm sure someone else has said this before on this hellsite, but YES. supernatural is one of the last of a dying breed, certainly one of the most iconic. supernatural was thee CW show to end all CW shows before it was cool. one of the last shows with such a dichotomous fan base, with dudebros vibing with all supernatural's surface level masculinity and violence on one end, and queer people screaming into the void about intricate rituals dean creates to touch the skin of other men on the other. hell, it was one of the only popular shows on TV in 2020 that still did 22 episode seasons; certainly nearly the last sci-fi/fantasy shows to do it.

remember that post about the difference between queerbaiting, queer coding, and subtext? FOR 15 YEARS SUPERNATURAL DID ALL THREE SIMULTANEOUSLY. its a work of art. homophobic, homophobic art. also racist. and sexist. why am i enjoying this content again?

There were so many different writers and directors and showrunners and camera operators even, that you have:

the showrunners and the marketing gurus running a long-con advertising will-they-or-won't-they-(they won't) queerbait on the queer people screaming into the void because the execs want their money AND the dudebro money but hate the queer identity and the fact that they kept rubbing their queer little hands all over supernatural's manly man masculine characters...

the writers who Been Knew queer coding dean and cas and getting it under the homophobic execs' noses, to the delight of their queer audience...

and the writers who were just monkeys at typewriters churning out nonsense with moments of shakespeare who kept loading on more and more subtext that made the queer audience want to take them by the shoulders and shake their heads right off.

frankly given this mess the only person left who gets to speak with any authority is misha collins, which—

this combined to make a show that is near incomprehensible as a whole but can be sanely consumed in smaller chunks or through fanfiction that burns out the stupid stuff. There's NO way it makes sense if dean and cas aren't madly in love with each other. none. the plausible no-homo ship sailed in like season 7, or like the second time one of them watched the other die and grieved like a widower.

and yet. those dudebros, with allll their money and viewership, are still there. still watching. and so the CW tries to have its cake and eat it, too. for fifteen, fucking, years. because they fear the homophobic backlash if they just fucking commit.

they were too afraid that they would stop making something profitable to realize that they could have made a work of art, that they could have made HISTORY.

no one else will do it like them again. no one will ever even get the opportunity. i can't see anything ever again coming close to having the kind of cultural impact supernatural has, that weird mix of americana and masculinity and brief flashes of themes that make your breath catch and crave more. supernatural was a mirror of american culture in the best and the WORST way, and I don't know that TV creators have the range or the desire to ever reflect us back to ourselves like that again.

there are more explicitly queer shows now that are so much better and more heartfelt, with production teams that aren't remotely predatory. I adore them all! we need them! we deserve them! I want more of them! supernatural should not be a template for anyone ever because it was objectively terrible!

but their was something magical about the tentative hope in the air while it was still going, that little voice in the back of your mind that says, it's been fifteen years!, maybe it will grow beyond its origins, maybe they can learn from their mistakes, maybe they can reach for the happy ending that is right in front of their faces if only they would look past their prejudices long enough to see it. to see us. that's why the show blew up again in the fall of 2020, during the U.S. election, because on a meta level it was reflecting our culture and the moment back to us once again.

of course, in the grand american media tradition, they set that hope on fire. one last queerbait for the road.

so. yeah. its the last great american queerbait.

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someobscurereference · 3 years ago

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absolutely LOSING it at the thought of awakening trio pining/friends with benefits.

Laslow thinking this is as good as it's gonna get so even if he keeps joking like "haha at this rate I don't even need to pick up ladies, you guys would be enough for me... jk... unless?"

Selena trying to convince herself that really she doesn't need MORE than this, she just needs people she trusts to relieve pent up tension and that's IT, thank you very much, no she does not have intricate rituals to touch the skin of her friends outside the bedroom to what are you talking about

and then there's fucking Odin, who probably outright whispered to them that he loved them but in such a roundabout way that they assumed it was his version of dirty talk (what's the alternative? that he LIKES them? laslow's awkward ass, whom he hated as a kid? selena's imprefect self, still riddled with issues?) so Odin is just "Oh! I should adapt to their pace :) I know they're both kinda shy about that kinda things :) I'm gonna observe how they act and mimic them" which means toning down the affections to the max because laslow znd selena sure ain't gonna take the initiative to hold hands in public

(prev ask) They have!! So much shared history that makes being friends with benefits so comfortable! But also 👀 that shared history is what also causes the pining. No one will ever understand them like they understand each other.

Laslow!! Would absolutely make those jokes!! Constantly, because Pining, until it just became background noise. And if anyone asked him about it, he'd absolutely brush it off with a smile and a laugh like, "No, no, I'm just saying we're such good friends. Besides, what would the lovely ladies in the market say if I was off the market myself? 😉" (Flexing his fingers while he says this because he wants to hold hands)

Selena: "I know the rules to FWB. Mixing feelings up in that is stupid and usually not real. I'm not going to be the one to make a mistake here. FWB means sex only, and that's it!!"

I think you nailed Odin perfectly, lol. His natural style of talk is so roundabout that Laslow & Selena don't just think about it anymore, and if he says something too direct, their insecurities! Get in the way! And then that reaction tells Odin to not say things like that anymore!! So nobody learns!!!!

I love... mutual pining... FWB pining... They are besties and they kiss and they are in love, your honor...

#awakening trio ot3 #my text #asks #fe14 #queue

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nochiquinn · 3 years ago

Text

exandria unlimited episode FINAL: there are no endings here

(hey if you’ve ever reblogged these saying you enjoyed them or sent me asks about liking them thank you so much I am just yelling into the void but it’s nice to know the void appreciates it)

I am not prepared

aabria what

MATT WHAT

here's hoping that sets the tone (MATT)

"we respect a crit in this house"

I miss my bluetooth earbuds, I want snacks

this is the first outfit of aimee's that I Do Not Understand, that looks like the least comfortable thing to sit in for four hours

I step away for two seconds and matt rolls a natural twenty (on initiative)

map?

MAP!

who invited ruin ruin

Big Cool Fuckboy

THAT is some spellcasting flavor

SCATLING GUN

[sydnee mcelroy voice] fecal-oral route

"what did you call me?!" "nuthin" I love this motherfucker so much

GROUND TENTACLES

sweet potanope

hwat

"I'm going to kill you all." "noted."

"y'all are cute as hell" correct

yeah MATT how do those legendary actions feel on the other side of the table?!

I'm not bitter

the saddest aimee

"it's an 11, but I'm pissed off about it"

the most badly

I wonder how much of this game has been influenced by aimee not being familiar with the game and nobody being able to sit next to her and help (it would probably be liam)

back OFF creepy lady

opal frustrates me sometimes but I love every time aimee and aabria do the thing

back to back

aabria does have some serious cyberpunk vibes going on

mote of possibility but like...more??

(sometimes I miss watching in the archives where I could pause and go bonkers in my notes without worrying about keeping up)

WOLFEARNE

BIG OL' BITE

human teeth dice

aabria's squeaky gasp at "it's a throat bite"

WHY DOES IT HAVE A FACE

WHY IS IT A HAND

"this is fucking cool. I hate it." matt saying what I said every episode at the tail end of c2

dariax is literally too dumb to be tempted

"I didn't realize what I was doing until just now"

"I AM BECOME VAX"

the advent children reference

"doody poopoo plus four"

leave my boy ALONE

[chasing the spider queen away from dorian with a broom]

"fuck off" YEAH

same vibes as magnus’ “I’d fucking hate it, shut the fuck up”

aabria vs matt's bless

aimee looks like a cat stuck in a vase I'M SORRY

"I'd kiss you but I'm invisible"

I left for TWO SECONDS what did she do to dorian

aabria angry

"I can't hear you, I'm unconscious"

liam is carrying this ENTIRE combat on orym's tiny halfling back

"add a d4" "goddammit"

"I get to be the clippy of this game!"

fearne direwolf supremacy

that's so many dice

the literal SOUND of so many dice

right in the FACE

this is what matt was saving all his good rolls for

somebody save dorian

NOW WHAT

"I like it less!

HWAT

EXCUSE ME

WHOMST

APOTHEOSISTER

my longest "no dorian" ever

hey at least it resets his death saves!

"he's DEAD no BLESS"

"I forgot you when he fell" he only has room for one brain cell and it is focused on dorian

dariax!!

oh I don't like that

"I hate that! I HATE THAT!" mood

I don't like anything that's happening right now

fuck all the way off

"do I do the mean thing?" "NO!" "yes!!"

"I RESCIND MY EXCITEMENT"

"don't worry I'll kill him for you" "thanks"

"gonna fly back up to my boy"

"what's it gonna cost me?" "AN ACTION"

hi I didn't ask to cry tonight

(we all knew I was gonna cry tonight)

aimee :(

matt getting aimee to verify his 20

"blood of the mountain in me, bitch"

I love him

oh no the cleric

I mean also dariax but oh no the cleric

I remember what happened the last time there was no cleric

BARKOUR

mister :(

"do it" matt you fucking chaos gremlin

"I just want to touch dariax somehow" the rituals are intricate

"you have failed me for eight weeks" [rolls it again anyway]

"my dead friend told me to"

dislike

gay

I mean gay but also dislike

"we're starting over, it's a dating sim now"

aabria just clicking the nails

CUDDLE PUDDLE that's a dad swear

FINALLY

the writers are SO good

"HOLD ME"

"put spider bitch back on the phone"

OH liam's wearing the pride shirt

I'm so soft for everyone encouraging aimee's roleplay decisions

OPAL

goth queen opal GO

I need an animated series of this so hard

aimEE

everyone approaching opal so carefully

not as an enemy but just as a friend who is Not Okay

OH LIKE A GOLEM

sigrun changing the meaning of nith's name vibes

(please read edda-earth)

I'm just so incredibly affected by the idea of everybody coming together to literally define everything that their friend is, everything that ties her to her sister and connects her sister to the world

"he doesn't realize it's a head" dariax

praying to the universe at large

"for another time" this is the last episode give me the angst lore

(I know there's a wrap-up coming I just have THEORIES that I want VALIDATED)

misterrrr

"you were doing murderbites"

"I don't feel evil"

"we end" "no"

ashley "four more hours" johnson

[bangs fists on table] season two, seasON TWO

I love him

I love this

I love this whole idea

opal just immediately throwing in that she's staying with them, no hesitation

(dariax immediately committing to taking care of opal and everyone agreeing just as quickly)

"let's just keep going" lays in the floor

"as long as I'm with you" lays in the floor harder

“FIRST SEASON” IMPLIES MORE SEASONS

“I didn’t kill ANY of you and I wanted to SO BADLY”

makeup!!

season two mob story

#critical role #exandria unlimited #spoilers #liveblog #reaction post #crititag #exutag

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hearts-hunger · 4 years ago

Text

dralshy’a ka’ra (brighter stars): chapter two || din djarin x reader

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

chapter one

Series Summary: In the lake country of Naboo, you and Din romance each other under summer’s brighter stars. || Part Two of Jate’kara (Lucky Stars)

Chapter Summary: Din takes you to bed, and you both realize something you’ve been wanting but haven’t spoken to each other about.

Pairings: Din Djarin x Wife!Reader

Genre: Fluff, smut | Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: smut, skinny dipping, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, talk of babies and birth control, gratuitous mando’a (special thanks to this translator!)

A/N: This one’s tender, y’all ♡ Mr. and Mrs. Djarin are very partial to soft giggly lovemaking, and I hope you are too! ♡

“Din... how many more kriffing steps am I going to have to walk up tonight?”

He stopped and looked back around at you, at least five steps ahead, looking no worse for wear even though he was the one in tons of beskar. He cocked his head and you thought you could see the tell-tale shake of his shoulders as he laughed.

“Not that many more,” he soothed, his voice amused. He closed the distance between you and held out his hand to you. Mollified by the gesture, you took his hand; before you could thank him, you surprised even yourself with a squeal of protest as he tossed you over his shoulder like a wayward child.

“Din!” you half-laughed, half-yelped, your hands flailing uselessly against his back. He gave the back of your thigh a firm pat as he started up the steps again, carrying you up the incline like it was a stroll in the park.

“You don’t have to carry me up, Din,” you giggled. You rather liked being toted around so ungracefully, and you liked the way his arm stayed snugly over the back of your thighs.

He gave a light grunt, the only indication that carrying his wife up a staircase on the side of a mountain was the slightest bit difficult.

“Didn’t want to listen to your whining any more,” he teased. “Besides, we’re almost there.”

You settled as much as you could over his shoulder, content to let him take you the last bit of the way up. You’d gotten off the ferry - which you’d thoroughly enjoyed - and started up the winding steps carved into the mountain towards wherever Din was taking you. It really wasn’t that bad, but you were impatient to get there and a little fussy at how Din didn’t even seem short of breath. You should probably invest in a little Mandalorian-style endurance training; then again, when you had a very fit Mandalorian-style husband, the matter didn’t seem that pressing.

You had been nearly there, and Din set you down gently after a few minutes. He kept his hands on your waist, and you raised a brow at him.

“Close your eyes before your turn around,” he said. You smiled and did as he said, letting him steer you until you were facing, presumably, the place where you’d be staying through your trip.

“I don’t know if you’ll like it,” he said, and he sounded endearingly nervous. “I tried to pick somewhere I though you would like, and I... I hope it’s ok.”

You gave a soft laugh. You weren’t picky, and you were sure whatever place Din had picked out would be lovely.

“Okay,” he said. He rested his hands on your shoulders, their familiar weight comforting to you. “You can open your eyes.”

You did, and you couldn’t believe Din had been nervous about it at all. It was a gorgeous little villa, all light stone and climbing vines, warm and inviting. You looked back at him with a grin and hoped he knew how well he’d done.

“Can we go in?” you asked.

He chuckled. “Of course.”

You opened the front door and saw it was even prettier on the inside. You left Din’s side to look at everything, to explore every room - it was open for the most part, and most of the main room was taken up by a huge, inviting bed and a large fireplace set into the wall with a cheery fire crackling away in the grate. The entire right wall of the main room led out onto a shaded terrace with a pool that overlooked the lake and the surrounding mountains, so you’d be able to watch the sun rise from your bed in the morning and enjoy the sunlight all day.

“Oh, Din,” you gushed. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said affectionately. “I’m glad you like it.”

You put your arms around his neck, wanting to be held; he obliged you and wrapped his arms around your waist.

“You didn’t have to do all this for me,” you said, a little bashful.

He tapped his helmet against your head. “I wanted to,” he said. “You deserve it, for putting up with me and all the trouble I get us into.”

You laughed. “I like trouble. And I like you very much.” You kissed his visor. “But, I also like that pool very much.”

You unwound yourself from his arms and decided to be a little spontaneous; you undressed for him then and there, discarding your clothes in a heap on the floor without a care in the world. You smirked a little at how he watched you - you could imagine how high his brow had quirked in surprise and intrigue - and teased him further by unhooking your bra and offering it to him, dangling it by the strap.

“Um, thanks,” he said, his voice cracking a little. It was so sweet that you almost took pity on him, but you liked knowing how you affected him and gave him a coy smile as he took your bra from you and held it a too-tight grip.

He looked so collected, hidden behind his beskar, and you desperately wanted to see him; you wanted to see how he looked at you, to see the expression on his face as he watched you. More than anything, you wanted to touch him; you wanted to feel his skin on yours, to feel his warmth. You resisted the urge to help him undress and gave him one last tease instead.

“Come have a swim with me, Mando,” you said, tracing a finger down his chest plate. “Don’t take too long getting your armor off.”

Before he could answer, you walked out onto the terrace and dove into the pool with the practiced ease of someone who’d spent every free moment in her youth swimming in the lakes and rivers of Naboo. The water was wonderfully cool on your skin, and you surfaced to a darkening sky with the first stars shining brighter than you’d ever remembered them.

You swam over to the edge of the pool, propping your arms on the edge and watching your husband with unabashed attention. He was always careful with his armor - even in your more frenzied trysts, he always took the time to put all his armor together so he could find it easily if he needed to. The gloves and belt came first, then the thigh and shin plates, vambraces, and pauldrons. His chest plate followed, then his boots. It was an intricate ritual, the putting-on or removal of his armor; you’d always loved to watch it, to see how methodical he was with it.

He turned to place his armor neatly on the settee at the foot of your bed, and didn’t turn back towards you when he took his helmet off. You smiled to yourself; it was his own way of teasing you a little, making you wait to see him. He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the beautiful brown curls, and placed his helmet next to his armor.

He made quick work of the flight suit, and you felt a warm and comfortable desire as you saw the planes of his back, the ridges of his lean and hard-won muscles. When he turned to face you, your breath caught in his chest; maker, he was beautiful, and you almost couldn't believe he was yours.

His dive was graceful, but he surfaced with a grin and a little splutter. He swam around for a minute, enjoying the feeling of the water on his skin, basking in the warm night air; you watched him with a lovesick smile, endeared by how much he was enjoying himself.

“It feels so nice,” he said as he swam over to you, his expression happy and relaxed and open. You loved how expressive he was; he had never really learned to make his face unreadable, and was more honest and open in his expressions than anyone you’d ever met.

He took you in his arms, drawing him close to you; you rested your arms on his broad shoulders and sank into the feeling of his skin on yours.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, studying your face like you were something precious. You kissed him deeply, sweet and messy and wanting.

“Did you like my little show, earlier?” you asked, tracing your thumb over his bottom lip. He grinned.

“Yes, I did,” he said. “I wanted to come in after you, beskar and all.”

You laughed at the mental image of your husband in the pool in all his armor. “Good thing you have a little self control, then.”

He gave an affectionate hum of agreement as he nuzzled against your neck, kissing light love marks into your skin. You tilted your head back to allow him better access and carded your hands through his wet curls, pressing against him as closely as you could.

He pulled you close and led you into deeper water; when you couldn’t touch, you let him carry you. You wrapped your legs around his waist and felt a thrill of pleasure at the way his breath caught in his chest.

He made to kiss you again, and though you knew he wanted more, you only gave him a quick, chaste kiss. He raised a brow and watched your face for an explanation.

“Patience, my love,” you said with a smile. “I want to do something first.”

You put a hand to his cheek, tracing over the features you knew so well; he relaxed and settled for rubbing circles against your hips.

He was beautiful, the ruggedness of his strong features softened by the gentleness of them. His brow, dark and noble; his mouth, soft and quick to smile. You brushed back a few dark curls that fell over his forehead and traced down the line of his nose; his expression scrunched up a little at that, and he gave a gentle laugh.

He let you take your time like you wanted, gazing at you with his lovely brown eyes framed by dark lashes and laugh lines. You brushed your fingers over his jaw and dipped your fingers to his collarbone, feeling his pulse jump a little at your touch.

You put your fingertips on his mouth. “I love you.”

He kissed your fingers. “I love you too, cyar’ika.”

You moved your fingers and kissed him, softly and slowly. He was patient and deepened your kiss gradually, groaning softly against your mouth when you pressed your hips against him. You felt the way he responded to your touch and felt yourself respond as well, that familiar tight heat making itself known between your legs.

“I want you,” you said, already a little breathless. He kissed your collarbone and moved his hands to the small of your back.

“Now it’s your turn to be patient, cyare,” he said, his voice warm and full of desire. “Lean back for me.”

You did as he said, letting him support you with his hands on your back; the stars were brilliant now that night had truly fallen, thousands of them in the cloudless sky. You fleetingly wondered if you remembered any of the constellations, if you -

“Kriff, Din,” you breathed, all thoughts of the stars gone the second you felt his mouth on your breast. He chuckled against your skin, steadying you as you gave a soft moan.

“Do that again,” you said.

“Don’t worry,” he assured you. He swirled his tongue over your nipple, moving one hand to knead your other breast, gentle and determinedly patient.

“So beautiful,” he said, kissing down your breastbone. Then, his voice deepened a little as it always was when he spoke his native tongue. “Mesh’la, ner cyare.” Beautiful, my beloved.

His voice and his mouth on your skin made you flush with desire, and you raised yourself up to kiss him, impatient and needy. He kissed you back just as deeply, his hands moving all over you; you gave a choked moan when his cock met your heat, and you couldn’t stop yourself from pressing against him, needing friction.

“You asked to take me to bed,” you said against his mouth. “Take me, then.”

His grip on your waist tightened, but his smile was gentle as he realized how much you wanted him, how needy you were for him. “As you wish, riduur.”

You didn’t want to spare the time, but you didn’t want to get the bed soaking wet either, and grudgingly took a moment to towel off as you got out of the pool. You consoled yourself with watching Din dry off, seeing the way the water shone on his skin in the firelight.

“Come here,” he told you, tossing his towel over the arm of the settee. You did as he said, tipping your face up for a kiss; he gave you one, but it was clear he had something different in mind. He picked you up by the waist and laid you back on the bed, standing between your legs, hovering over you and giving you feather-light kisses all over your body.

“Din,” you whined. As sweet as it was, you needed him to touch you with more than these teasing little glances.

“So needy,” he cooed, lowering himself to his knees between your legs and pulling you closer to the edge of the bed. He kissed your thighs, his scruff rasping against your skin. “What do you want, my love? Tell me what you want from me.”

You gave a little gasp as he nipped at your inner thigh. “Um - I need - ” You almost blushed. “Touch me, please, Din.”

He hummed in agreement, inching closer to your heat. “How do you want me to touch you, cyar’ika?”

Oh, hang it all - he was enjoying this little game, and you knew you’d have to play along. You bit your lip; how could he still make you as nervous and fluttery as a schoolgirl after all this time?

“Your tongue,” you said, the words coming out a little tight. “Please, Din.”

He gave a soft, pleased laugh, and you knew you’d given him what he wanted.

“Hmm, like this?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he spread your legs further and licked a slow stripe over your heat, maddeningly patient as his tongue swirled over the places he knew made you moan. He was rewarded for his efforts as you keened and twisted the sheets in your grip, utterly entranced by the feel of his tongue on your heat, his nose nudging against your clit.

“Jatisyc,” he rasped in Mando’a, giving a last skillful touch to your entrance before he moved to suck on your clit. You tangled your fingers in his hair.

“What - ” you gasped. “What does that mean?”

He lifted his head and grinned at you as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Delicious,” he said, hovering over you, leaning on his forearm beside you. He kissed you, and you gave a gasping moan as he eased two fingers into you.

“Please,” you managed. You weren’t sure what you were asking for, but he seemed to know; he rubbed his thumb over your clit and you saw stars.

“Din,” you said desperately. He took his time and set a steady pace, stopping his kisses every so often to watch your face, and his look of adoration alone was almost enough to drive you over the edge. You gripped his shoulder and moved your hips against his hand, feeling yourself come unraveled beneath him.

“Oh, Din, ‘m gonna cum,” you gasped.

“Maker, you look so beautiful,” he said, his voice deep with pleasure. “I love you so much, cyar’ika. Cum for me, my love.”

You could feel every callus on his work-hardened hands, strong and yet holding you like you were the most priceless treasure that might break apart with too strong a grip. He curled his fingers and hit the spot that made you tumble over the edge, moans and breathless curses falling from your lips.

He caught your moans against his mouth as he kissed you, drawing out your orgasm as long as he could for you. You babbled your thanks as you tangled your fingers in his hair, bringing him down to lay on top of you, deliriously happy in the crush of heat and limbs and kisses.

“I love you,” you said breathlessly. “Thank you, thank you.”

He chuckled and gave you sweet, sloppy kisses under your jaw. “My pleasure, cyare. Thank you for letting me.”

You kissed there for a few minutes before you realized it couldn’t have been that comfortable for him, and you parted just long enough for both of you to get on the bed. He hovered over you and kissed you everywhere he could reach, worshiping you with his touch and his steady praise.

“My love, ner cyar’ika riduur,” he murmured against your skin. “Mesh’la dala, my dear heart.”

You were almost embarrassed when you felt the sting of tears; sometimes you couldn’t believe how deeply he loved you, how desperately he desired you.

He gave a soft, sympathetic laugh when he kissed away a single tear. “Cyar’ika,” he said gently, trying to soothe you before he even knew what was wrong. “What is it?”

You hid your face against his shoulder. “It’s silly,” you said quietly. “Sorry.”

“No, cyare,” he said, kissing your neck with every gentleness, the roaming of his hands turned from teasing more to comforting. “Tell me. Are you unhappy?”

You kissed his cheek, nosed against his jaw. “No, I’m... happier than I’ve been in a long time,” you said truthfully. “Just... thank you for loving me the way you do.”

His smile was soft and a little wobbly with his own emotion when he lifted his head to look at you.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I know I could live a thousand lifetimes and never love you like you deserve, but I vowed to love you faithfully, and I will be pleased to do so until my dying breath.”

You allowed yourself a little smile; he was always so poetic when he got romantic and emotional, and you wouldn’t have him any other way. You kissed him, feeling the depth of his conviction to live by your riduurok, your love-bond, your marriage vows.

“Vercopa baar bal runi tome solus, cyar’ika,” he said against your skin. You knew it was Mando’a, but you could only translate some of the words.

“Tell me what that means,” you said. He smiled.

“Let our bodies and our souls be together as one, my beloved,” he said tenderly.

“Oh,” you managed, a little dazed with pleasure at the thought. “Oh, Din, you should say that to me more often.”

He chuckled and settled himself between your legs. “Alright, my love?”

You nodded and carded your fingers through his hair, feeling the softness of his curls. He took his time easing into you, catching your moans against his mouth until he was buried to the hilt inside you.

“Beautiful,” he said, like he would never say it enough. He brushed your hair back from your face and studied you with so much love that you couldn’t help but give him a beaming smile.

“That good already?” he asked, low and affectionate.

You laughed softly against his mouth as he kissed you. “It’s always that good, Din. Even just being with you.”

“Hm. I’m not sure if that’s a vastly generous compliment of my company or a low blow at my sexual prowess.”

You really laughed then, and he laughed with you, and it was a heady mix to hear his laughter and feel him deep inside you. You thought of what he’d said - let our bodies and our souls be together as one.

“I love you,” you said. “And I love your company, and I think you’re mind-blowingly good in bed. How’s that?”

He smiled as he kissed you, and you gave a shaky breath when he started to move.

“Very sweet of you, cyare,” he said affectionately. “I’ll do my best to be mind-blowingly good for you, alright?”

You knew as soon as he snapped his hips against yours, he’d have no problem with that whatsoever. He was slow and patient, as he always was, careful and attentive and tender. He rocked his hips against yours fast enough to make you desperate for him but slow enough to bury himself deeply with each thrust and kiss you like he wanted, making you moan and twist with pleasure beneath him.

“Din,” you said, over and over. His hand found yours and held tightly, like you were the only thing tethering him in the whole galaxy. You felt your pleasure crest between your hips.

“Oh, please, right there,” you said. He rubbed your clit in time with the steady drag of his cock in and out of you, and you knew you were close.

Then, with a clarity that snapped you out of the haze of pleasure and made you gasp with realization, you remembered something very important.

“Din!”

He stopped immediately, hearing the change in your tone; you knew it had to have been hard for him, and his expression held a slight grimace as he looked to you.

“What is it, love?” he asked, breathless.

You met his eyes and almost didn’t know how to say it.

“Um - I - ” You blushed. “I’m not on my birth control.”

He looked a little bemused, and with good reason - you’d been taking birth control for as long as you’d been married, and you’d never talked about coming off of it.

“You - you what?” he asked. “Since when?”

“I ran out of them,” you explained. You hadn’t meant to come off of them, but you’d completely forgotten it had even happened. “I ran out of them right before we crashed on the frozen planet, and in everything that happened after, I...”

He nodded. “Yeah, I can understand forgetting it in all the confusion.” He glanced between you and then looked back at your face in question.

“Should we stop?”

And oh, you were so in love with him you thought your heart would break with it.

“No,” you said quietly, thinking about your conversation earlier, when the plural “kids” had slipped out, and how much you’d wanted to tell him then and there - you wanted to have another baby with him.

“I...” You felt nervous and shy, even though you knew you didn’t need to - you could be honest with Din, even if you didn’t know what his response would be. Even if he didn’t want more kids, he’d be kind and gentle with you when he told you so.

“I want another baby,” you said softly.

You waited for him to answer, but you saw it on his face before he spoke.

“Really?” he asked, delighted and eager and more in love with you than you deserved. “You really want another baby?”

You nodded, and you couldn't help a smile when he laughed out loud.

“Maker, I love you so much,” he said, kissing you with that big grin on his face. “I want another baby, too. I can’t believe how lucky I am to have you.”

You were a bit overwhelmed with relief and happiness and sheer adoration for your husband, and you held his face in your hands as he kissed you.

“Let’s have another baby,” he said.

He looked so beautiful to you just then, his smile soft and warm, his curls catching the firelight, his strong body relaxed and comfortable against you.

“Okay,” you agreed, happier than you had ever been. “Let’s have another baby.”

With a kiss that said just how deeply he loved you, he started to move again, steadily bringing both of you back to the edge you’d very nearly been at before. Each snap of his hips seemed more deliberate now, intentional - he wanted to please you, and he wanted to make a baby with you. You hoped it wouldn’t take long to achieve the latter, but you knew neither of your would mind trying until you got it right.

He drew you to your orgasm with skill and tenderness, and he followed soon after as you tightened around him and breathed his name over and over. He kissed you fervently as you came down from your high in each other’s arms, praising you and thanking you and telling you how happy he was.

He cradled you tenderly against him as he lay beside you, running his fingers over your skin, soothing and gentle. You pressed against him, wanting his warmth, wanting to be as near to him as you could.

“Remind me how you say ‘I love you’ in Mando’a,” you said, putting your hand to his cheek. He smiled.

“Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum,” he said, his voice warm and tired and affectionate. “I hold you in my heart forever.”

You repeated it back to him, fumbling a little on the finer points of the pronunciation - you loved it when he spoke it to you, but Mando’a had never been your strong suit. He didn’t seem to mind, though, as he kissed you and held you closer.

“I love you too,” he said. “I could never tell you how much, cyar’ika.”

You cuddled closer to him as he drew the blankets over you, resting your head against his chest as you listened to the crackling of the fire mix with the sound of his steady breaths that were evening out towards sleepiness. He gently brushed his fingers through your hair and hummed a gentle lullaby, and his kiss on your forehead was the last thing you felt before you fell asleep safely held in your husband’s arms.

Read chapter three!

pedro pascal character taglist: @punkgeekchic, @tv-saved-the-teenage-girl, @stardust-galaxies, @theorganasolo, @qhbr2013 ♡

series taglist: @kyjoraven, @sarahjkl82-blog, @remmysbounty, @bitchin-beskar, @cosmicbreathe ♡

let me know if you’d like to be added to either taglist! ♡

#ahh i rlly like this chapter #it's very soft and tender #din djarin x reader #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin smut #din djarin fluff #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #maddie writes stuff!#dralshy'a ka'ra

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angeltrapz · 3 years ago

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I watched the last key just to read ur fic first off, second off, tell me about the Intricate Rituals tm of lawrence and adam

CRIES??? YOU WHAT??? anon pls that is literally so sweet omg... I've never had someone tell me that b4 but I'm sitting here beaming. I hope you liked it/it helped things make more sense!!!!! <3

Okay so. Intricate Rituals™️. They actually have a few. (Touch is a VERY big part of Adam's love language in particular, so you know... intricate rituals that allow you to touch the skin of other men...)

On the mornings that Lawrence has to go to work, he will always kiss Adam's forehead before he leaves, no matter what. Even if Adam's not even awake yet (and let's be real, he probably isn't... not a morning person whatsoever). Does he need to, technically speaking? No. Does he feel uncomfortable if he doesn't + will it bother him for the rest of the day? Yes. I've touched on this before but in any scenario where Lawrence ends up with Adam, he is much more open with his love and, in turn, with his affection. He tells Adam he loves him often, shows that he loves him often; beyond that, I like the idea that he's just a hopeless romantic at heart, and having the life he's always wanted deep down, even if the circumstances were far less than ideal, well... Adam brings it out of him, what can he say? So he always makes sure he kisses his boyfriend's forehead before he goes to work. (And he lets Adam call him/he'll call Adam sometimes on his lunch break just to talk... not every day, but often enough <3)

On the mornings where neither of them have anywhere to be/anything to do, though, Lawrence can often be convinced to stay in bed for little while after they both wake up because, as he's long since learned, sleepy just-woke-up Adam is very, very cuddly. Literally all he has to do is just be like "Please?" and kiss at Lawrence's jaw a little bit and every single time, without fail, Lawrence will just sigh and be like "I suppose..." But make no mistake, he loves it just as much. I think both of them are very like... unused to touch? Especially like this - cuddling purely for the sake of cuddling, no emotional distress to be spoken of, it's purely just to hold each other because they can... this extends to more than just the morning, too; Lawrence's hand on Adam's lower back or his shoulder or his knee when they're close, Adam keeping an arm around Lawrence's middle or leaning against his shoulder or resting his head against Lawrence's back from behind. Adam is definitely more inexperienced with this kind of affection than Lawrence is, but they're both starving for it and if the opportunity presents itself, neither of them will turn it down. Shameless plug but I've written a fic abt this particular concept!

Anyway! Once they get out of bed, though, Lawrence will start a fresh pot of coffee for Adam + Adam will get Lawrence's morning cup of tea ready (it's so funny bc Larry can't stand coffee and Adam has yet to try a flavour of tea he likes... the things they do for love). Lawrence typically makes breakfast for them on these days, because Adam isn't at full capacity yet and because Larry honestly doesn't mind doing so; he kind of likes being able to do that for Adam honestly? Adam has issues with eating (i.e. doesn't eat many meals, doesn't eat with regularity, often feels nauseous + unable to eat, usually eats the same foods... part of that is, naturally, that he's autistic, but also because he's gone so long eating so little that it takes him a while to adjust to the fact that Hey, I Don't Have To Do That Anymore), and Lawrence is very familiar with those issues, so to see Adam eating like three blueberry pancakes and enjoying them makes Lawrence just 🥰 bc he knows it's hard for Adam.

So Lawrence will be at the stove, watching to make sure he knows when to flip the pancakes, and then Adam will walk up behind him and wrap his arms around his waist and lay his head against his back. Sometimes he just rests there, sometimes he leans up a little so he can leave kisses on the back of Lawrence's neck, but the motive is always the same: touch. Lawrence might not say anything in acknowledgement, but he'll always lean back a little bit in Adam's arms to just be like hi, I know you're there, I love you. And they'll stay that way for a while, because why not? They've earned this gentleness, this tenderness, have they not? Eventually they know they'll have to separate so that they can get plates out and silverware and such, but while Lawrence is cooking, they're content to stand and sway a little together.

Another example of Lawrence's romantic tendencies is he'll pull Adam's chair out for him. I firmly think Adam wouldn't care for this if it were Anyone else, but he'll just smile at Lawrence and thank him and sit down because the fact that Lawrence wants to do things like that for him, something so simple but that speaks volumes... he really, really appreciates it. When they sit down he'll knock his ankle against Lawrence's under the table just because he can and Lawrence will do it back and they'll be sitting there grinning like fools bc!! It's so silly but it makes them so happy? And I think they deserve to be silly sometimes. Again, they've earned it.

Um!! Another big one is what they do before bed every night. So when Lawrence gets home from work, after he's had a little bit of time to relax, Adam will herd him into the bathroom and help him to sit on the edge of the bathtub, help unstrap his prosthetic, and he'll get out the special basin + soft washcloths they have specifically for this reason and he'll help Lawrence wash his stump. It's something that Lawrence used to hold so much shame over it, refused to accept any sort of help + made things harder for himself (which I've touched on in my reply to an ask frm @1ceblock), but at one point Adam found him struggling with it and was just like. "I've got this, it's okay. I want to help you. Will you let me help you?" and that's how this little ritual came to be. Once he's done and he's made sure the stump is properly dry, he'll press a kiss or two there and it will always make Lawrence sigh and smile because Adam doesn't have to do that. He does it because he wants to. That means a whole lot to Lawrence, and he always makes sure to let Adam know by kissing him before they leave the bathroom.

After that, once they've changed into their pajamas and are comfortable, Lawrence will get out whatever novel he's been reading lately and settle back against the pillows, and Adam will rest his head on his shoulder and sling an arm over his waist and just. Let out the biggest sigh. He always does, and he does it because he's warm and comfortable and happy and because he loves Lawrence, and Lawrence will rest his cheek against Adam's head and they just lay like that for a while. Sometimes if Adam's interested, Lawrence will read out loud so Adam can hear too, because he's often too tired to read along. They can stay like this for a good hour and a half, honestly. Sometimes Adam falls asleep like this, feeling safe and contented, and it always warms Lawrence's heart. It makes him so happy to see Adam so relaxed just because they're close.

Eventually though, when Lawrence is finally done reading for the night, one of them will pull the other's back to his chest (they act as big/little spoon interchangeably) and whoever it is being big spoon will also put his arm around the other's middle. Of course they stay as they are if Adam's already asleep, because Lawrence doesn't want to wake him up if he's sleeping well, but if not, it depends on who wants to be held more. It took Lawrence a Long time to admit he wanted Adam to do that sometimes, but once he got the hang of it, he's completely unashamed about it; Adam doesn't mind at all + honestly finds it kinda sweet, actually. Again, that kind of thing wasn't exactly smth Lawrence allowed himself before Adam, so it's unfamiliar territory for a good while, but he finds himself quite at ease with it with time <33

Other than those particular tendencies it's the little things; sitting hip-to-hip on the couch despite having plenty of room Not to do that, one resting his head on the other's thigh while they're watching TV/a movie, bumping hips while doing the dishes, stuff like that. They're both a level of touch-starved (Adam more so than Lawrence, I think), so they're kind of navigating this together and are more than happy to indulge in it whenever the opportunity arises.

#im. literally yelling tht my fic got you to watch the last key dude!!!!!!!#am I projecting w adams eating issues? yeah probably but thats fine. I feel it in my heart #anyway! thank you so much this genuinely made me feel better... free serotonin #'you create intricate rituals that allow you to touch the skin of other men' hits hard honestly #saw #adam #lawrence #they. deserve to be happy and soft. I feel it with my whole heart

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eldritchqueerture · 3 years ago

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Chapter 7: Threads

Hello! Long time no see! The delay was unplanned and I'm sorry about that. I had an idea in the meantime to add more fluff chapters before shit starts to go down but then I couldn't get to writing them while telling myself that I will write them eventually, and then I had other ideas, and I was writing for Summer in the Archives, and so we are where we are. I decided to just keep posting what I have and if I do feel like adding fluff that would be happening in the meantime then I will just make a separate work in the series. I'm aiming to go back to my weekly schedule (haha), so I hope I can get the next chapter out next Friday. As always, please leave me a comment or come yell at me here on tumblr, it always brightens my day and keeps my motivation up! Enjoy <3

Martin looks at Jon’s sleeping face and thoughts swirl inside his head like tendrils of the mist that has been following him, tendrils that meet in one specific place – his feelings for him. He’s not proud of the fact that this is where his thoughts end up turning every time he thinks about Jon, considering the severity of the situation Sasha explained to him, but he cannot help wondering – despite his better judgement – if Jon doesn’t share them. He replays the worry in his brown eyes, the tight hugs, always ensuring he’s there, safe, and whole… He might be adding meaning to otherwise ordinary actions, of course, but he can allow himself to hope, for when that hope sparks inside him, the fog withdraws.

Jon is wrapped in a blanket on the cot in the storage room, where Martin has laid him. They found him sleeping on the desk in his office, his eyes all red-rimmed and puffed up; they didn’t comment on it. Martin carried him to the storage room and placed his glasses nearby. Tim went to take Sasha home, so she can get some rest, too, and was supposed to come back with lunch; the events of the morning are laying heavy on all of them and have left them quite hungry.

Martin closes the door to the storage room and comes back to his desk. Working seems a bit pointless when you know that your boss is scheming an apocalypse somewhere behind your back and you can’t quit the job, but he finds himself needing a distraction, so he opens up his computer to do some follow up research on Jason North and the alleged ritual site he found in the middle of a Scottish forest. Martin’s never been good with research, not like Sasha, so he soon stumbles upon a dead end. He ends up researching pictures for Scottish forests and cottages, and he daydreams, with his poem notebook by his side. How nice would it be to just move to Scotland, to a cottage like that and forget everything. Grow your own vegetables and herbs, welcome the sun every morning with a cup of tea; go down to the town for some groceries, meet some good cows; and maybe Jon is there with him, and he finally gets through to his head that he shouldn’t make tea in the microwave, and they cuddle on the couch while reading—

“’scuse us,” comes a deep voice and Martin looks up, startled, to find two delivery men standing there, in the Archives, with a big package next to them.

“Looking for the Archivist,” the other man says, but Martin figures that just because the voice is coming from a slightly different direction. They sound exactly the same; he finds they look similar, too. Their clothes are identical; they’re different makes and all but somehow, he can’t tell these two men apart. There’s… something off to them.

“Sorry, are you two meant—” Martin blinks, but one of them interrupts him.

“Won’t take up your time.”

“Just got a delivery.”

Martin opens his mouth, trying to process the fact that they seem to be two parts of the same whole. He wouldn’t be able to explain this thought if asked, but this is what runs through his head.

“Look, you really can’t actually—”

“Package for Jonathan Sims.”

“Says right here.”

He looks and yes, there, on the package, says ‘Jonathan Sims’ in a very ordinary, unassuming writing. He glances over at the door to the storage room and back at the two men.

“Well, he’s not—”

“We’ll just leave it with you.”

“Be sure he gets it.”

Martin struggles for words.

“Okay, I will, but you really have to actually—”

“’course. Much obliged.”

“Stay safe.”

“I’ll… try?” He responds with the first thing that goes into his head.

“Your recorder’s on, by the way.”

“Might wanna change that.”

Martin looks at his desk and he notices a tape whirring steadily in the recorder.

“Oh… so it is. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“At all.”

They both turn as one and leave Martin, the recorder, and the package alone. He hums, looking from one to the other and back.

“Well, I know for a fact that I did not turn you on,” Martin speaks to the recorder. “Maybe Tim felt in a mood for a prank. It is April Fool’s after all,” he huffs out a laugh. “Would be his style to do something, even with… all this happening.”

He stops the recording and turns to the package; before he can do anything else, though, the recorder clicks itself back on. Martin gives it a sideways look and his heart picks up the pace. He frowns and clicks stop again. One second. Two. There; it clicks the red button on its own.

Martin stands up and takes a step back.

“What the hell,” he breathes out.

Suddenly he hears a familiar laugh from the top of the stairs and energetic steps running down. Tim emerges from the doorway and gives him a surprised look.

“You okay, Marto?” He asks and places a paper bag on his desk, then points his chin at the package. “What’s that?”

“Uh…” Martin collects himself in a second. “Two delivery men just came by. It’s for Jon, apparently.”

Tim places a second paper bag and his coffee cup on his desk and walks around the package.

“No sender. Interesting.” He strokes his chin and looks at Martin with a grin. “We should open it.”

“Tim!”

“Look, boss is asleep, the package came to the Archives and not to his house, how private can it be?” Tim throws his arms up but seems to be watching Martin’s reaction more carefully. He doesn’t look very bothered, Tim assesses; he seems to be equally interested in the contents. He sighs and tosses him a letter opener.

“Fine, but you’re taking the blame,” Martin rolls his eyes with mock exasperation, and Tim’s grin gets wider.

“That’s the spirit!” He cuts the tape at the corners and opens the packaging to reveal an old wooden table; there’s a hole in the centre, Tim reckons about six inches square, and its surface is covered in intricate patterns resembling optical illusions. He frowns at it. “Huh. A table. Why would Jon…” He trails off as his eyes follow the hypnotizing patterns. “Interesting…”

Martin watches as Tim drops the letter knife to the floor, enraptured by the table. He wants to say something, to call out his name, but the fog from the edges of his vision spills out at the sight of the table and it blocks out the world; Martin stops feeling the chair underneath him and finds himself stranded in a sea of grey, thick fog.

“Tim? Tim!” He calls out but there’s no answer. There would be no answer, ever; he’s all alone here.

—

Jon wakes up to a nagging feeling that something is wrong. He blinks, trying to get rid of the sleep weighing heavily on his eyelids and gathers his bearings. He realizes he’s on the cot in the storage room, a blanket thrown to the floor next to him. He still feels too hot, and he takes off his sweater vest. What’s this feeling, gently pricking at the back of his mind?

He gets up, wobbly as he feels, and makes his way to the door. As he opens it, a voice makes its way to his ears.

“…friend mentioned poetry?” Jon squints his eyes, as light reaches him, yet he immediately recognizes the voice.

“…Gerry?” He asks and blinks – yes, he can make out the thin and long figure dressed in black, sitting on top of Tim’s desk. Tim is there too, leaning against Martin’s desk in front of Gerry, and Martin sits in the chair, his cheeks coloured just a little with faint pink. They all turn to him with surprise when he emerges. He can feel tension in the room, and he acknowledges the presence of something that looks like a table covered with a blanket in the middle of the room; the nagging in his mind grows into anxiety. “Something happened.”

“God, Jon, did we wake you up?” Martin jumps up to him with genuine worry and Jon smiles slightly, as he shakes his head.

“No.” He blinks again, to chase away the sleep and looks at Gerry and his inscrutable expression. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching a zombie rise from the dead, apparently.” Gerry gets down from the desk and crosses his arms. “Also saving the lives of his assistants by accident. I know you said you’re a mess but good God.”

Jon frowns with worry.

“Gerry, I’m serious.”

Something in Gerry’s demeanour changes as he sighs, and his expression clears.

“Well, I wanted to tell you that I’m in,” he says. “Whatever your crazy plan is, if you even have one, I want to hear it or help you make it; you weren’t picking up your phone, so I decided to come, pay you a visit.” He glances towards the table and his eyes cloud with a shadow. “And it turns out it’s good that I did.”

“What is this?” Jon walks over to the table and three pairs of hands shoot out to stop him. Gerry’s touch lingers comfortably, because apparently that’s what he does, and Jon isn’t so sure he minds it.

“An old table, with weird, hypnotizing patterns,” Tim says, and Jon detects a tinge of guilt in his voice.

“Did it have a hole in the middle?” He asks urgently and Tim nods.

“We need to get rid of it,” Jon looks in the direction of the stairs. “Put it in the Artifact Storage and make sure it’s covered.”

“Are you familiar with it?” Martin asks and Jon nods.

“Amy Patel case; the one where a person got replaced. Why would they—” Jon’s face falls and he turns to Martin and Tim. “Who delivered it?”

“It was two delivery men, really big, quite intimidating, but—uh, now that I think about it I can’t remember what they looked like…”

“Shit,” Jon sighs and rubs his face. “Okay, we really do need a plan.” He looks over their faces and his eyes stop at Martin’s disgruntled expression. “What is it?”

“What you need is rest,” he crosses his arms. “You pulled an all-nighter with Sasha, and you haven’t even slept for two hours now.”

“You do look like shit,” Gerry offers his insight and Jon fixes him with a glare.

“I can’t protect you when I’m asleep,” he says and looks pointedly at the table. “Clearly. Tell me wha—” He stops when Gerry squeezes his arm sharply. He takes note of the static in the air and clears his throat. “I want to know what happened.”

Tim sighs.

“Alright, it is kinda my fault,” he admits looking away. “I insisted on opening your package to see what’s inside. But in my defence, I thought it would be something funny; at least a bit humiliating for you, and we could laugh it off. The mood’s been horrible lately,” he grimaces. “The lines kind of… hypnotized me. I couldn’t look away and I started getting lost in them. It… It felt like being trapped in a web; the more I struggled to look away, the harder it was. I don’t know how much time had passed before your resident goth intervened. Then I came back to myself and Martin… he was grey again.”

Jon glances worriedly at Martin, who starts fidgeting with his fingers.

“I didn’t think you guys could see that,” he confesses. “It’s… it’s that fog you mentioned,” he says to Jon who nods, his lips pressed together. “It was… stronger this time.”

“He was a step from disappearing,” Gerry says, looking at Jon curiously. “I thought you guys were new here.”

“We are,” Tim says, looking at Jon pointedly. “You said you know why that happens.”

“I did,” Jon sighs and leans against the desk, next to Gerry. “I’m—Martin, I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

Martin looks away and he mutters something along the lines of “don’t worry about it”.

“The fog is… another one of the fears; called The Lonely or The Forsaken,” Jon says, looking somewhere into space. “It’s the fear that you’re all alone, that you can’t connect with anyone. Martin…” He exhales. “I have reasons to believe that your connection to the Lonely might have appeared in this… reality, along with my memories.” He finally looks up at Martin; there are no emotions on his face. “When did the fog first appear?”

“S-Sometime when I got transferred into the Archives,” he nods. “I thought it was just anxiety, but… y-yeah, it makes sense, I suppose.”

“You still don’t remember what you did to end up here?” Gerry asks and Jon shakes his head; Gerry clicks his tongue.

“So, what do we do now?” Tim looks at Jon. “What is Elias’ plan?”

“I…” He rubs his forehead. “I don’t remember exactly. I…” He trails off looking at them. They are waiting for him to tell them what to do. Martin, with colour in his eyes and something else there, something Jon doesn’t let himself think about; Tim, whom he hasn’t hurt yet, who still has hope and who isn’t filled with bitter anger and sorrow; and Gerry who’s alive, here with him, offering his help. Jon thinks about Sasha, the real Sasha who’s still there. He can’t protect them all from other Entities and Elias. Even with all of his knowledge, Elias still has more power here than him, and Jon sees that his threats weren’t a bluff. Jon deflates with a sigh. “We need to know if there’s a way to fill the tunnels with CO2 before the Hive attacks; and I need the table sealed shut - it’s not getting anyone this time. Other than that, I think we need to work the statements, like before.”

“Are you kidding?” Tim raises his eyebrows. “Elias is serving an Eye power and not letting us leave, and I’m supposed to still work for him?”

Jon swallows.

“Elias… He’s dangerous. Even with everything I know, he can still hurt us. I’m not risking an open war with him.”

“What is he gonna do, kill us?” Tim scoffs but he goes quiet when Jon gives him a hard stare. “Fuck off.”

“Murder isn’t usually his style of dealing with things, he generally prefers threats and blackmail, but he can definitely do that, too,” Jon says. “Let’s just say we don’t want to piss him off more than is necessary.”

“You literally punched him in the face today.”

“Yes, I know.” Jon grits his teeth and looks away. Tim narrows his eyes.

“He threatened you, didn’t he?” He asks and takes a step towards Jon. “What did he say?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jon says coldly. “We need to get back to work.”

“Oh, no, you’re going back home and getting some sleep,” Martin shakes his head. “Or we refuse to work.”

Jon groans but Gerry places a hand on his shoulder.

“Go, Jon, I’ll keep an eye on them,” he promises and after a second of searching his face, Jon gives in.

“Fine. Be careful.”

“You, too,” Martin says and hands him the paper bag from his desk. “Eat this.”

Jon gives him a grateful smile and, with a last look at them, walks to the stairs and climbs up.

—

Gerry Delano sits comfortably on a park bench with a cup of coffee in his hand and sips on it slowly; he thinks about the things the new Archivist – Jon – said to him this morning. He looked tired; the bags under his eyes, the messy hair, the absolutely horrendous smoking habit (at that Gerry just chuckles to himself) and the clean but messy clothes speak for themselves, and Gerry didn’t want to say it, obviously, but it was this entire image of an absolute mess of a confused man that made him believe him. The marks are curious, yes, but Gerry has seen many things which he doesn’t understand, and he’s okay with that. No, this man is clearly in need of support and if he’s really taken over for Gertrude (and, judging by the sheer amount of his energy just screamingBeholding, that was very probable), he is in for one hell of a ride.

If Gerry would have to describe his perfect life, with his mother and Gertrude gone, he’d probably say he wants to find a normal job and get some peace and quiet; that being said, he did try that as a teenager, running away from his mother and her life. He told himself then that he didn’t belong in the normal world and would always find his way back to his mother. He abandoned that dream for a while, until Gertrude offered to help him get rid of his mother’s ghost. He thought that maybe if he helped Gertrude for a while, burned some Leitners in the meantime, maybe he’d have enough and manage to build a life that didn’t always border on getting killed by something supernatural; and so his life went on and he never really grew to feel at home in the “normal” world. He’d about accepted the fact that he’ll probably die on the job with the old Archivist, and he wasn’t very surprised to find how quickly he accepted it. It seemed fitting; much more so than getting a job at a coffee shop or other, and just living among people who had no idea what’s really out there. Then he got shot in Pittsburgh – a Slaughter case he’d tried to prevent – and he was forced to stay behind in the hospital. In some fleeting moments of consciousness he saw Gertrude holding the Catalogue of the Trapped Dead and he prepared himself to wake up as a ghost any time; instead, he woke up to an empty hospital room and a note in her handwriting – “Build your life here. Stay safe.” He thought if this weren’t his chance to build the life he’d imagined for himself then it would never come; and he was right. He soon discovered that making friends is way too difficult when you’re able to tell which Fear Entity marked them in that supernatural encounter they’re too scared to talk about, and he returned to London, searching for Jurgen Leitner himself. He thought he found him, but he ended up beating up someone who turned out to just be some pathetic old man. And here he is, back in the world his mother dragged him into without his consent. Gerry sighs and takes another sip of his coffee. Maybe the universe simply needs a pyromaniacal, angry goth who did in fact end up in the business of helping strays.

He directs his thoughts back to Jonathan Sims and the Institute. They need to form a plan and Jon said he would fill his assistants in on at least the basics. He takes out his phone and checks the time – 1 PM. He rules that’s enough time to explain the basics of the metaphysical functioning of the Fear Powers in the world.

He finds his last messages and opens the one Jon sent at his request for contact saving purposes – “Here. – Jon Sims”. He’s a creative one, isn’t he? Gerry saves the number as Jon Archivist, then changes it to Jarchivist, and grins; then swipes to call.

No answer. He tries again and it still goes to voicemail.

Gerry shrugs and finishes his coffee. He burned his last Leitner in the alley just before he met Jon, so he doesn’t exactly have any new leads. He thinks he might as well pay the Archives a visit; it’s been a while since he was there last time, with Gertrude.

The street is quiet when he walks up to the building. The aura of Beholding is quite strong here already and he looks at the Latin words above the entrance. “I watch, I listen, I wait.” Tacky.

He comes inside and turns towards the stairs leading down. He’s not surprised when the lady at the reception calls out to him.

“I’m sorry, sir! Can I help you?”

Gerry turns to her. She’s a small Chinese woman with a bob cut and huge glasses; she smiles but Gerry can recognize a customer service smile when he sees one.

“Oh, actually, I’m a friend of Jonathan Sims, the, uh, Head Archivist. Saw him this morning, I promised I’d drop a few notes.”

“Notes?” She glances over at the papers at her desk. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Gerry Delano,” he tries to smile as she checks something.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I have you anywhere as a potential source—”

“Oh, that’s weird. I worked with the previous Head Archivist, Gertrude Robinson? Jon had a couple questions about her management style, you know how it is,” he waves his hand. “New job can be stressful.”

She looks over his clothes and tattoos with a frown for a second and then sighs.

“Alright, Jon’s office is right downstairs, through the Archives, Mr. Delano.”

“Thank you very much,” he nods his head and runs down the stairs.

Gerry doesn’t know what he expected to find down in the Archives, to be honest. Probably Jon being interrogated by his assistants, or maybe no one at all; he definitely did not expect to find one tall man staring into swirling patterns of a table that gave him very mixed signals of the Web, and another man in his desk chair, staring into space with a very unnaturally grey stare and his form dissipating into mist.

“Oh, I swear to God,” Gerry curses under his nose and looks around. “Can’t I meet people normally once in a blue moon?”

He picks up a blanket that lays stranded on the ground and covers the table. He then snaps his fingers in front of the tall man’s face and waves his hand.

“Hey, you still there?” He asks and the man draws in a breath, rapidly, and blinks, then looks around in confusion.

“Wh-Wha…” His eyes land on Gerry and he frowns. “Who are you?”

“Someone who just saved your ass from something nasty,” Gerry says, turns to the other man and touches his shoulder. Still there.

“Oh, God, his eyes are grey again.” The tall man grabs his shoulders and shakes him. “Martin? Martin!”

“How did he manage to go so deep into the Lonely with you there?” Gerry asks and moves to look inside the Head Archivist’s office. Empty.

“Into the what? Martin!” He shakes him again and Martin blinks and exhales but does not acknowledge him at all. “Do you know what’s happening to him?”

“Where’s Jon?” Gerry looks at the man sternly.

“Jo—who the hell are you?” The man exclaims. “We need to snap him out of it!”

“It’s not that easy.” Gerry rolls his eyes and looks through Martin’s desk. “What does he love?”

“What?” The man looks at him confused and Gerry stifles a groan of frustration.

“Martin. He needs an anchor, something that he loves that will bring him back here.”

The man’s eyes search the desk frantically.

“Come on!” Gerry rushes him and the man groans.

“Can he hear me?”

“Allegedly.”

“What does that mean?!” He looks at him pressingly.

“It means I don’t know!” Gerry grabs one of Martin’s hands. “He might, if he’s not too far gone.”

“Martin,” the man grabs Martin’s other hand. “Martin, think about tea. Poetry. Um, about—” He’s cut off by Gerry’s groan of frustration. “What?!”

“That won’t work,” he shakes his head. “He’s in the fogs of The Lonely; he thinks he’s alone and that it’s never gonna change; that he can’t ever make meaningful connections with other people.”

The man’s eyes move frantically as he puts something together in his brain.

“Martin,” he squeezes his hand again. “I’m here with you, you hear me? You’re not alone and Jon is here too, and Sasha will be here soon, and we will all be with you here because we are your friends, okay? We’re—” His voice catches when Martin’s grey gaze lands on his face. Gerry unknowingly nods for him to continue. “Look, I know you’re convinced that you’re no help here because of that fake resume that everyone pretends not to know about, but you’ve been such an amazing friend through these couple of months and—” he searches for words before continuing. “And I know you have feelings for Jon, and you need to think about him because if you ask me, he’s head over heels for you too, and you’re just too oblivious to realize, both of you,” he laughs and a tear streams down his face. “So you need to think about him because he needs you to be here and stay here, and we need you too, okay, Marto, we—we really do…” He inhales, as Martin squeezes his hand back and blinks. The man sighs deeply with relief and leans his forehead on their joined hands.

“Tim…?” Martin speaks up with a very gentle, detached voice and then his gaze lands on Gerry who has now let go of his hand and stands back up. “Who’s that?”

Tim looks up and wipes away another stray tear, then stands up to face him.

“Yeah,” he frowns. “That’s a good question.”

Gerry smirks and climbs up to sit at one of the desks.

“Seeing how I just might have saved your lives; I’d rather think some thanks are in order.”

“I’m not kidding, who the fuck are you?” Tim crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. Gerry notices he stares at his tattoos like he’s trying to remember something.

“Eh, fine.” He rolls his eyes. “Name’s Gerry Delano, but you may know me as Gerard Keay.”

Recognition flashes in Tim’s eyes.

“We had a statement about you!” He says and immediately frowns. “You killed a man.”

Gerry chuckles.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

“What are you doing here?” Martin asks and Gerry crosses his legs.

“Waiting for Jon, actually. I thought I may find him here, but it appears I must have found his assistants, am I correct?”

“And you know Jon how?” Martin follows up; his voice gains a bit of depth to it, and he tilts his head, much more present than a second before.

“We met in an alley outside the Institute this morning,” Gerry shrugs. “Or, late night. Morning might be pushing it. He didn’t mention it?”

Tim sighs and rubs his face and Martin shakes his head.

“Eh, that’s fine. You two look like you have enough information to process for the next two months.”

“Something like that,” Tim nods and leans against Martin’s desk. “Jon’s getting some sleep and we’d rather have no one disturb him. It’s been a… hard morning.”

“He did look like he hasn’t slept in a week, I’ll give you that.” Gerry shoots a glance at Martin; his skin is regaining color, but his eyes are still unnaturally grey, and the edges of his form are blurry; the fog still lingers. “Hey, um… Martin?” He asks and Martin looks at him with surprise.

“Yeah…?”

“Just getting your names since you haven’t introduced yourselves. But that’s okay, I’m good at picking up from context.” He smiles and continues before Tim can speak. “So, Martin, what is it that you do here?”

“Uh… excuse me?” He blinks.

“I’m just interested, tell me what your usual day consists of. What do you do for fun? Your friend mentioned poetry?”

He notes the blush on Martin’s face with some satisfaction; the dark green colour returns to his eyes, though, still, his edges remain blurry. Martin can’t answer however; as he takes a breath, he’s interrupted by the door to the storage room opening.

Jon looks, frankly, even worse than he did before; in addition to everything aforementioned, his eyes are now puffed up from sleeping and he has apparently ditched his sweater vest, leaving only a creased, light blue shirt.

“…Gerry?” He frowns at him and takes in the room. “Something happened.”

“God, Jon, did we wake you up?” Martin shoots upright and the edges of his form become solid for a second. Just a second.

“No,” he shakes his head and blinks at Gerry. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching a zombie rise from the dead, apparently.” Gerry jumps down from the desk and crosses his arms. “Also saving the lives of his assistants by accident. I know you said you’re a mess but good God.”

“Gerry, I’m serious.” Jon gives him a look and Gerry sighs, but it’s a sigh of mock exasperation which hides only fondness. From the moment he learned Jon is the Head Archivist, he knew he would be a lot different than Gertrude; even if at first it was “this kid is a proper mess” contrasted with Gertrude’s calculated craft. He can see that what actually makes him different, better, is that he cares. Even though Beholding has him in its grasp far stronger than it ever had Gertrude, he has that spark of human empathy that she deemed an obstacle. He wouldn’t be the kind to sacrifice his own assistants to stop the Apocalypse, which maybe doesn’t give them big chances of success, but makes Gerry trust him. It makes him feel safer and it makes him stand stronger, and maybe that is exactly what is needed. And that one detail, that seriousness in his voice when he asks what happened to his assistants – to his friends – and the worry in his eyes when he checks if they’re okay, that’s what fully convinces Gerry that this man is worth his effort. If they can’t save the world with a strength like that then maybe no one really can.

—

Martin opens the door to Jon’s office to see the man reading something in a book. He looks up at Martin and his lips twitch towards a smile.

“Hello, Martin,” Jon says and immediately yawns. “God, sorry.”

“I was about to ask you if you’re still working.” Martin takes a look at his desk; there’s two empty mugs pushed to the side, a tape recorder (not recording), and some books and papers. Martin notices Jon’s glasses are still where he left them after he found them near the cot in the storage room. “You’re wearing contacts now?” He asks and Jon raises his eyebrows.

“What?”

“Well, I- I noticed you didn’t wear glasses today,” Martin shrugs and points his chin at them. “You forgot them yesterday.”

Jon’s eyes stop at the pair of glasses, and he frowns.

“Huh.” He rubs his chin. “Checks out, I guess.”

“What?” Now Martin frowns and Jon looks up at him, breathing in.

“The, uh—The Eye powers,” he grimaces. “This happened before too. I don’t—I don’t need them anymore.”

“Oh.” Martin shifts. “Well, I just wanted to tell you, you should get some rest. It’s—It’s late.”

Jon smiles fondly, staring into the air. Martin wonders what he's thinking about. Is he going back to memories he doesn't have?

“I really should, shouldn't I?” Jon asks no one in particular and sighs. “Thank you, Martin.”

“F-For what?” Martin laughs a little bit confused, and Jon looks at him for a moment before he shrugs.

“For caring. For being there.”

Martin looks away and shifts awkwardly again. Jon's stare, though gentle, is piercing; overbearing. Martin can't yet decide if it's good or bad, but it is certainly a lot.

“I should—”

“Could you—”

They start at the same time and look at each other. Jon shakes his head and gestures with his hand.

“Please, go first.”

Martin takes a deep breath.

“Could you tell me what—what it is that you want me to remember?”

Jon opens his mouth and closes it. His forehead ripples.

“I...” he begins and sighs, looking at his desk. “I don't think it was you. I mean—I think that... that it was a different version of you. In my past.” He looks up and his brown eyes are sad. “So it makes sense you can't remember because it never actually happened for you.”

Martin deflates with a little “oh” and looks down. The hole in his mind is settling nicely in the fog and he doesn't question it. Why would he? It was always there. He’s only lived this life, not anything else – if anybody would know it would be Jon. And obviously, it was a different Martin that Jon fell— That Jon cared for.

“Were we…” Martin stops, the word “together" left hanging in the air, and Jon looks at him for a second before something flashes in his eyes.

“We don't—I mean, I can't really— It's, it wasn't you so...”

‘I can’t really expect you to have the same feelings now’ is what Jon does not say, but Martin, of course, has no way of knowing that.

“Right,” Martin nods, and he can see Jon's cheeks blush, much the same as his own must right now. Martin swallows the awkwardness and nods again. “Alright, I'll, uh... I'll leave you to it. Then. Get—uh, get some rest.”

He closes the door and exhales deeply. Well, that was disastrous; he thinks, as he walks towards the document storage. There’s something heavy weighing down on his chest but he chooses not to dwell on it; it wouldn’t provide him with any insights he didn’t already know.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma oftm #jonmartin #niki.writes #new posting format because i have not heard of consistency in my life #we're back at it!!#also i promised myself that i would finish this #i Will Not abandon this #we are powering through #and we can Do this

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fereldenturnip · 4 years ago

Text

But Don’t You Ever Let Me Go (2)

Primo Nizzuto/Majid Zamari Sugar Daddy Fic

Part 2/ ?

(Part 1)

[nsfw towards the end]

Majid spends most of his days trying his hand at an honorable job. 'Try' being the operative word. He's never had the head for dull drudge work, giving up his warehouse position in Utrecht before he ever got started. It's boring. Routine is shit-boring. He’s already burnt out on three separate jobs so far.

Currently, he’s an auto-repair mechanic trawling through motor oil and brake fluid. It’s exhausting and frustrating, sweating through his overalls and busting his fingers. He absolutely hates it when some rich-prick comes swaggering in, throwing the keys of some hot rod in his face like he’s a robot and not a person. Swallowing the all-consuming rage gets harder with each asshole.

These trust-fund babies always want the same thing, “Fix it by noon!” with not even thirty minutes to spare assessing what component they broke to make it sound like shit. Majid always manages to get the cars purring again, and he’s half-tempted to just steal one and ride off into the sunset like he used to. The dumb-struck look on Pastel Polo Shirt Paolo’s face when he returns to an empty shop is one of Majid’s fondest daydreams.

No. Instead he fixes the damn car, hands over the keys, and lets jock twits rev dust in his face.

To make matters worse, he goes home to a dank and miserable, overpriced flat above a busy deli. Unwinding is next to impossible when your floors reek of salami. At night, Majid listens to his neighbors pound away at each other. The luck of others only underscores his own nonexistent sex life. It’s been almost a year and he hasn’t gotten laid since his trysts with Tessa. Lying on his bed that doubles as a couch, Majid glares at the ceiling when the telltale thumping begins. There isn’t even a television to block out the noise or silence his depressing memories. Majid suffers the entire night, sometimes with half a stiffy that no amount of palming will relieve.

Just when Majid’s day (his week, his month, his life) spirals out of control and he wants nothing more than to throw himself into the Tiber, Primo returns to whisk him away. Cheerful and unrepentantly persistent as expected.

It's as if the older man is psychic--either that or he actually does have informants all over the city. He rolls up in a sleek Mercedes, his driver popping out to open the door obediently. From the dark interior Primo’s elegant hand uncurls, beckoning him forth. Into the lion’s den.

And every time, Majid lets himself be coddled into the back seat. If this is a dance then he’s clearly not the lead. Does he mind? Glancing back at the auto shop, he’s hard-pressed finding a reason to say no.

Majid sinks into the warm leather seats and only mildly feels self-conscious as he clashes with his luxurious surroundings. Primo never disparages his workman’s clothes or the grease in his cuticles. He passes Majid an ice-cold water from the built-in fridge, unperturbed by the possibility of soiling his fine outfit. It’s just the opposite--Primo is ecstatic to be in Majid’s company again and again.

They’re chauffeured around, chatting and laughing amiably (and wow, Majid never believed he’d laugh again, not after what he’s been through), searching for a meal befitting the hour. Fancy, decadent, expensive. Breakfast, brunch, lunch, and dinner. Sometimes a combination of several depending on Primo’s schedule. And that’s a loose term.

Of course, there are events and fundraisers, meetings and phone calls Primo must attend to. Primo also owns half of Italy. The rules he operates by are malleable to suit his whimsy and if he wants to play hookie with Majid, there’s no one around to tell him no.

No one can stop Primo, not even the devil himself. It’s unwise, every time Majid hops in Primo’s car and feels his stomach automatically growl rather than churn. Who is Majid, a deadbeat thief with anger issues, to the Don of Calabria? One wrong move, one dumb mistake, and Primo can have him sleeping in the Tiber with whomever else is lying there too.

++++

“Ach,” Primo grimaces, “The Netherlands? I could never go there. It’s too cold!” He laughs though, warm and toothy, pouring more sparkling water into their glasses. The Mercedes makes another loop around the Colosseum, the tinted windows colouring the ancient stone in shades of blue and grey. The driver is a consummate professional, the ride is smooth and untroubled. Nevertheless, Primo curls in towards Majid to keep the drinks from spilling.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Majid smiles and clinks the crystal together. “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t born there.”

Primo makes a noise of interest and gestures for him to continue. It would be so easy to forget who this man really is. Primo slouches comfortably in Majid’s presence, his blazer and tie removed, collar unbuttoned to reveal skin. He’s human underneath. It relaxes Majid enough to spill details of his childhood spent in the Moroccan sun. To his credit, Primo listens attentively, chin in hand as he rests on the centre console.

Unsurprisingly, Majid’s nostalgic and full of homesickness by the time he finishes detailing his family’s migration.

“Thank you for telling me,” Primo nods his head seriously, as if Majid’s words are an important gift worth all the gravitas in the world. Stunned, Majid actually believes he’ll cherish them.

“What about you?” Quid pro quo, right? Intimacy for intimacy.

Primo tilts his head and peers coyly at him through his eyelashes, “What about me?”

Majid is curious. Living in Rome is like living in a soap opera; Majid has heard a wide gamut of rumors, from the comedic to the tragic.

Some say Primo assassinated his uncle to do it, hid in the trunk of a car under the cloak of darkness and blew the old man’s brains out. Others scoff, they’re quick to point out how his uncle was nothing more than a destitute goat farmer and what could killing him possibly achieve? No, clearly Primo kidnapped some millionaire’s kid, burnt him alive on the beach and ran away with the ransom money.

When Majid asks, which is it? Primo smiles and weaves a story about a young man whose ideas were just too big for his small town to contain. How he longed for more until finally the Italian government benevolently loaned the young entrepreneur enough money to build his empire from the ground up. It sounds realistic. It’s also just another story and Majid is no where closer to the truth than he was before.

He huffs, unsatisfied.

Sitting on Primo’s left, Majid is close enough to feel the heat rolling off him and smell his musky cologne. Primo turns suddenly and that’s when Majid realises he’s drifted too close into the other man’s orbit. He can spot gold flecks in Primo’s irises, faint laugh lines on his cheeks, and sun-induced freckles over his nose.

Majid freezes like a deer caught in a rifle’s scope. A finger grazes his knuckles and he shivers from the soft touch. Primo’s desire is spelled out loud and clear, yet he makes no move to act on his impulses.

The car rolls up to the curb outside his flat. The parking brake shifts and whatever’s going on in this moment between them dissipates. Majid darts away, totally missing the narrowed eyes and minute smirk.

Primo, courteous as usual, professes, “I enjoyed spending my afternoon with you, Majid.”

Majid’s hand clasps the door handle--passerbys must think it strange seeing such an elegant car in this seedy neighborhood. Already halfway outside, Majid isn’t thinking clearly when he replies, “Me too.” Immediately, Primo preens. He could shudder from the liquid warmth swimming in Primo’s alluring gaze.

“Just tell me one thing,” Majid says, plucking the courage to stay a minute longer. “What’s the truth?” For a moment he thinks he’s confused the older man, either that or inserted his foot into his mouth.

But Primo’s mind is sharp, always several moves ahead. He knows exactly what Majid means.

“It was all that and more.”

That’s…not an answer. It’s grandiose and enigmatic (vague and frustrating) and perfectly sums Primo up. The bastard knows this and has the audacity to grin while he shooing Majid out.

“Until next time,” Primo asserts, stroking his greying goatee. He finishes with a soft declaration, “my boy.”

++++

The long-anticipated ‘other shoe’ drops while Majid is standing alone in his barren kitchenette and wistfully wishing he’d accepted Primo’s invitation to dinner. It’s a devastating epiphany, a slip-up he catches way too late. He finally sees the intricate spider’s web the Don has woven, and Majid went and entangled himself in lines, enticed with food and stories. Primo has done a good job sinking his claws into Majid without him even questioning it.

Midnight arrives. Rest doesn’t.

Majid rolls around in his bedsheets, unable to catch a break from the set of green eyes plaguing his erratic thoughts. Sleep is just right around the corner waving at him, Majid can almost taste it. His eyelids droop and that’s exactly when the horny couple’s headboard begins it’s nightly clacking ritual. Majid screams his anguish into his pillow. Of course! He’s fate’s favourite punching bag!

As usual, his cock weakly hardens--Pavlov to the rutting behind thin walls. Pathetically, he rubs his face and sniffs. Then sniffs again, deeper this time.

Somehow, spending hours with the Don has Primo’s aromatic cologne--notes of amber, tobacco, and rum--clinging to his skin and clothes. Majid considers showering himself clean. It would be the responsible thing to do, right? His cock twitches.

Wrong.

Majid wants to be irresponsible, rash, foolhardy. Recklessness conjures up a low-lit room filled with cigar smoke. Impulsiveness takes shape in the form of Primo Nizzuto stalking him from across the room, eyes steel-grey as he looms and strokes up Majid’s arm.

“My boy,” Primo growls in a low octave that sparks a flame in Majid’s guts. Heat pools in his hips and straight away he’s tugging his aching erection out of his briefs. His white cotton t-shirt gets rucked up and over his nose so Majid can inhale lungfuls of that intoxicating scent. The neighbors’ mediocre fucking gives way to Primo rasping in his ear--my boy, my boy--sultry as smoke curling around his head. Majid moans, touching himself with both hands, one twisting his throbbing wet head and the other cupping his balls. He frantically strips his length, feet planted wide and flat so he can hump into his fists. My boy...

When he comes, Majid nearly chokes on the shirt wadded in his mouth. His orgasm rips through him like a runaway train flying off the tracks. Globs of sticky come coat his hands, his abs, his shaking thighs. Everything’s a soaking mess. Shirt digging into his armpits and underwear around his ankles, Majid really ought to clean up. Unfortunately, his exhausted, empty body is too busy floating high from the rush of endorphins.

It’s so damn easy to slip into sleep after that.

#my fic #trust fx #wolf 2013 #Trust the Wolf #primo x majid #primo nizzuto #majid zamari #But don't you ever let me go

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ohblackdiamond · 4 years ago

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little t&a (gene/paul, nc-17) (part 29 of 29)

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12 part 13 part 14 part 15 part 16 part 17 part 18 part 19 part 20 part 21 part 22 part 23 part 24 part 25 part 26 part 27 part 28 part 29

Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul’s been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS’ finances, Paul’s comfort levels, and Gene’s libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. In this chapter: One last temptation, and one last conclusion.

Notes: As this story draws to a close, I wanted to go ahead and thank everyone who's reviewed or even just read for their support. It makes my day, every day.

I would like to thank a couple people in particular: @baycitystygian, who read/commented over an early draft of the last chapter, @tanookikiss, who read/commented over several chapters, sometimes multiple times, and finally, most particularly, @planet-neun, who offered suggestions and advice (particularly on the final sex scene) on nearly all drafts from chapter six onward, and endured my various complaints and concerns over this story with an unfathomable amount of patience.I would also like to thank helena_s_renn over on Rockfic for her sticking with this story this entire time and providing amazing feedback every single chapter and step of the way.

He was back at his parents’ old apartment, watching T.V. Same station, different airing. Hollywood Squares instead of Neil Armstrong. Paul Lynde rattling out some campy zinger. Beyond, in the next room, he could hear his mother on the phone, her tone low and worried, but he couldn’t tell what she was saying.

Marbas was sitting next to him again on the couch, languid, nearly casual. No pretenses, no masks of Julia or Carol or any of the dozens of other girls who’d wandered in and out of his life. Paul tried to focus on the T.V. set, only daring to look at Marbas in fleeting, sideways glances, as though full acknowledgement would be too much to bear.

“You took your time,” the demon said simply.

(i guess it’s done now)

“If that’s what you’d like.”

(carol said—)

“My powers are hardly dependent on a child’s understanding. You performed the ritual. But the end result is up to you, Stan.”

(i’m going back to normal)

(i’ve got to)

“Why?” Marbas didn’t look surprised. Those yellow eyes were glinting with nothing but mild interest. “You took to the curse readily enough, once you saw what it brought you.”

(i—)

“I said you’d have been no different if you’d always been this way. I said you’d never have given yourself up to him. But I was wrong. You did all that was required.” His teeth glistened with spit. “You enjoyed it. You could keep enjoying it.”

(i don’t—)

“What’s a body to you, Stan? Something imperfect. Something to despise.” Marbas’ fingers reached over and lifted a curly lock of Paul’s hair, right at his temple. He felt the air on the remnant of his right ear, and cringed, trying to pull back. “Your insecurity makes you so malleable. What ties you to that other form? Nothing but familiarity. You’d be anyone at all as long as it gained you favor.”

(you’re wrong)

(i’m not like that—i’m myself, i have a self, i—)

“You hate yourself.”

Paul didn’t answer.

“I could give you less to hate.” Marbas’ human hand cupped the stub of his ear without actually touching the cartilage, just the surrounding skin, pushing against the side of Paul’s face, easing his line of sight completely towards the screen. Paul inhaled sharply, unable to turn his head away from where Marbas was tilting it. His eyes were fixed to the television screen in front of him, the image fuzzing out, becoming his own. His face smiling at him. Only his teeth onscreen were straight and white. The longer he stared, the more changes he noticed. Subtle ones. Nothing that made him unrecognizable, just pushed him past sort of attractive and maybe almost into beautiful. More delicate, symmetrical facial features than he really had. A better figure, one with an actual waist and ass to go along with the tits, and a thinner frame overall. The kind of girl that Gene would want to have on his arm. The kind of girl that Gene was used to having on his arm.

(gene said he didn’t want a playboy playmate)

(gene said he wanted me)

“Are you so sure about what he wants?”

(he proved it)

“He slept with you once.” Marbas’ voice was low and strange. “Would he have done that in your old body? Would he have ever considered it?”

(no)

“What makes you think he’ll consider it now?”

(because he)

(because he said there might be something after, that’s why)

“He couldn’t make a guarantee.” The words seeped thick as honey, sticky against his soul. Nothing he wasn’t aware of. Nothing he could fault Gene for. “I could make it for him.”

(we completed the ritual. y-you said so.)

“Take a closer look, Stan. You might find something that appeals to you.”

The girl on the T.V. tugged a hand through her curly dark hair without hesitation, pushing it away from her face, back behind a perfectly normal right ear. Better than any result he’d ever seen in those cosmetic surgery leaflets. Confident. So confident. The way everyone else was. The way everyone else must feel, all the time, with nothing to hide, nothing— and part of Paul was horrified at his own aching desire.

(but—)

(you can’t, there’s no way—)

“Do you want to try it?” Marbas didn’t wait on an answer. His fingers, still curved around the remnant of Paul’s right ear, began to stroke it. Paul’s breaths were coming in short, sharp bursts, and this time was different, this time the stub of cartilage was shot through with sensation. It felt like far too much, the tingling, prickling feeling radiating outward, across his face, slipping in deeper, past his skin, all the way to his bones. The sensation traveled down his neck, spreading all the way through his chest and limbs, leaving him gasping, crying out.

(what are you doing?!)

(please, please stop, it hurts, it hurts!)

Marbas let go of him, hand returning to rest on the back of the couch. Paul could move again, and he reached with shaking, disbelieving fingers to his ear. The folded-over stub was gone. It felt just like his left ear. And there was sound, clearer than he’d ever heard before in his life, more encompassing, more surrounding. Almost too intense and vivid to be believed. The whir of the fan on the floor, the buzz of the T.V., even his mother on the phone in the kitchen sounded so much more distinct— he could hear what she was saying, though her voice was strange and low—

(are you okay)

as tears started to sting his eyes and drip down his cheeks. Oh. Oh.

He wanted to get up, to play every record in his collection and find out what he’d missed, what subtleties he’d lost out on. Catch all those intricate melodies and sound layerings in a way he’d never, ever been able to before. He wanted to go to all the parties he’d been too afraid to attend because he couldn’t distinguish the conversations. He wanted to play his guitar. He wanted to go onstage and fully hear that crowd for the first time in his life. He wanted to tell Gene—

(paul?)

His mother was still calling out from the kitchen, oddly questioning. Couldn’t have been speaking to him. She never called him anything but Stanley. He ignored her, stumbling off the couch, one hand still on his ear. A glance down at his breasts only briefly dampened his excitement.

(what about my family? what about my career?)

Marbas didn’t answer, but Paul knew it in his heart. They’d be forfeit, or altered so heavily they might as well be forfeit. He’d never be able to see Ericka again as her uncle. He’d never be able to reconcile with Julia. Never even be a son to his parents.

Then there was KISS. But a price had to be paid for everything, didn’t it? He didn’t think Ace would fault him over it, once he knew why. Peter, either, not really. And— and besides, if he made the choice, he wouldn’t just be getting a normal body. He’d get a normal relationship with Gene. Nothing under wraps, no open secrets. He could really be with Gene the way he knew Gene had to want him. Comfortable. Happy.

His parents’ old apartment spun and dissolved to nothing, Marbas disappearing with it. He was lying on his side on a bed. It wasn’t his own, but it smelled faintly of his cologne. It smelled like Gene, too— Gene, who was beside him, a little worry on his face.

Paul tried to say his name, but couldn’t quite get the word out, throat thick and heavy. His face was still wet, he realized.

“What’s the matter?”

His head felt like concrete, almost impossible to shake. He managed it, just barely. His fingers tightened around his right ear, hiding it from view, tracing helplessly across the cartilage. Gene reached over, touching his wrist.

“Does it hurt?”

Paul shook his head one more time.

“You sound… you sound so good, Gene.”

There was nothing to hide anymore. He knew it. Nothing wrong with that ear at all, and yet Paul dug his fingers into his scalp anyway, tugging a couple curls forward to cover it before wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. Gene’s expression softened.

“I’m glad.” His lips met Paul’s, brief but warm. “You look even better.”

Paul glanced down reflexively. He was in a black, lace-encrusted teddy. He’d barely glanced at those when he’d looked through the lingerie section of the boutique. Not just because of the uncomfortable-looking clasp at the crotch, either; he knew a teddy was all wrong for the way he was built. Even as a girl, he had a certain boxiness to his figure, his breasts the only thing of consequence really breaking up his torso. Now it was different. He filled the lingerie out properly, the thin fabric clinging to every newly-pronounced curve. His waist was smaller, and the bit of stomach fat that had carried over so hatefully from his male body had evaporated entirely.

He ran his tongue across his teeth. They were straight, perfectly even. His hand shifted from his hair to feel around his face. He couldn’t really tell a difference there without a mirror, but that didn’t matter much. The rest of his body had given him a damn good idea. He looked like the girl on the T.V.

Beautiful. Whole. He’d never been either of those things before, not in his entire life.

“You haven’t gotten used to it yet.”

“I—no. I-I guess not.”

“Does it bother you?” Gene didn’t elaborate, and Paul wasn’t sure how to answer.

“Being like this?” Paul hesitated. He didn’t know how to put it into words at all. He didn’t feel badly about it; he couldn’t possibly. This had to be the ticket, more bafflingly generous than he’d ever be granted otherwise. He’d—he’d gotten elevated. He’d be someone else entirely now. Not just physically. He’d throw off all the insecurities and neuroticism that had plagued Stanley Eisen and Paul Stanley, because all the reasons for them had disappeared. He’d be the person Gene had to want him to be, in and out of bed. He’d be better to everyone this way, even to himself, especially to himself. He’d be happy.

“Yeah.”

“No. It doesn’t bother me.”

Gene started to smile.

“Okay.” He snapped one of the drooping straps of the teddy. “Might wanna get dressed sometime. We’re supposed to be negotiating your advance from Casablanca today.”

An advance from Casablanca. So Gene had gotten him in somehow. Gene and all the guys, probably. A solo deal. He’d still be able to sing. He’d still have an audience, even if he never got the crowds he had with KISS. Even if none of them ever did. Paul’s stomach cartwheeled with his own selfishness.

“You’d… you’ve done all that for me?”

“It wasn’t that hard. We got all the songs you’d started, made some demos… Bill thought you were great.”

“He always has.” Paul watched Gene start to skirt a hand across his thigh, and he batted it lightly away before Gene’s hand could get between his legs. “Hey, I thought you said I should get dressed sometime.”

“Sometime has about two hours of leeway. And you’ve got to get undressed first.” Gene’s hand wandered back like an unrepentant puppy, and this time, Paul let him get a grope in. Gene cupped his ass, not even half-contained within the teddy, fondling and squeezing it lightly. “... You sure you’re okay there, Paul?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” He hesitated. “Gene, things are good, aren’t they?”

“Things are good.”

“Things with us, I mean. I mean— you’re happy, aren’t you? You don’t resent—”

“There’s nothing to resent.”

Gene slid his hand up from his ass, slowly stroking his way up Paul’s back through the thin fabric. Paul closed his eyes, trying to relax into the touch.

“But the band. I know I cost everyone so much money, not… not going back, you can’t say there’s nothing to resent when I pulled that kind of stunt—”

“I know why you did it.” Warm, steady fingers massaging his shoulders, then urging him closer in. Paul found himself closing the rest of the gap between them willingly, helplessly, pressing himself against Gene’s chest. “It’s all right, Paul.”

The words didn’t ease his mind as much as he’d hoped. Paul opened his eyes, shifting slightly, pushing a kiss to Gene’s mouth. Gene didn’t deepen the kiss immediately, a surprise, given how he’d been fondling him earlier. His hand just coursed up past his shoulders and neck, tangling through Paul’s hair. Not just stroking it the way he had before. He was trying to smooth and push it back, fingers inching towards his right ear. Paul jerked away with a start before Gene’s fingers so much as brushed against it.

Sorry was on his lips, but he couldn’t manage it. His face was burning. Gene didn’t look surprised at all, only resigned.

“You always worry so much. You don’t need to anymore.”

Paul didn’t say anything. Gene reached for him again after a bit, arm draping over his back. It should have been soothing, but it wasn’t. He knew too much. He understood too much. Paul’s gaze drooped down to the lace edging the bottom of the teddy, down further, to the long, tanned legs that were and weren’t his, and then he finally managed to speak again.

“I haven’t changed at all, have I?”

“Paul, what do you mean?”

“Just what I said. I-I thought that… I thought I’d be better.”

“You’ll get better. This is still new for you.”

Paul shook his head.

“I got it all fixed.” His heart felt like it was being tugged and twisted, warped out of recognition. “I got everything fixed up and I’m… I’m still myself.”

“Paul—”

“It’s no good. I’m the same. Don’t you get it?” The pressure of Gene’s arm around him seemed lighter with every word out of Paul’s mouth, though he hadn’t moved at all. “It’s no good at all.”

“Paul, wait—”

“I don’t want it.”

The last faint touch of Gene’s skin against his back faded into nothing. The whole scene melted out in front of him, Gene’s bedroom replaced again by his parents’ apartment, Marbas sitting beside him on the couch. His expression hadn’t shifted.

(i’d be no different)

(i’d be no good)

“Would you have to be good for him?”

(you don’t understand, this isn’t all about him)

All his life trying to belong. All his life, knowing there was something he was missing, that he couldn’t hope to achieve but tried to snatch at anyway. Self-confidence he’d only been able to mimic onstage, draped in leather and feathers, done up in high heels and lipstick. Brightness he’d only been able to reflect, never possess on his own.

None of that would come from just having this body. All the old foibles and fears wouldn’t be banished. They might even be magnified. A girl had a whole other set of worries, one he’d mostly been protected from. A whole other set of expectations he couldn’t meet. He wouldn’t be any more at peace with himself; he’d be struggling to put on in a dozen new ways and still find himself lacking.

No magic pill. No wish upon a star, no becoming a real girl for him; it would still be skin-deep at best. He couldn’t erase the parts of himself he despised. There wouldn’t be any inherent reinvention in getting a better body and guaranteeing Gene’s interest. Guaranteeing Gene’s love. And even that was only according to Marbas himself. No guarantees anywhere, that was what Ace had said. It didn��t matter. He couldn’t run away from himself.

(that’s okay, stan)

The words seemed to come out of nowhere at all. Not the T.V. screen, not Marbas, not his mother on the phone. That familiar, clear voice that enunciated everything so carefully. Gene.

Paul actually turned around on the couch, expecting to see Gene there. He felt stupid as he stood up, bare toes digging into the thin carpet, and started to look around the room, as if anyone but the demon was there with him.

(gene?)

(you’re okay)

Gene had said that seven years ago, on a cold wintery afternoon, to some shy, fat teenage boy he must have brought along out of pity. He’d said it, and Paul had never stopped craving that reassurance, never stopped wanting Gene for it, the longing warm and heavy in his heart. He’d said that when Paul had nothing at all to offer him, not talent or money or a pretty face or a body he could’ve wanted. He’d said it, already knowing the worst of Paul, already knowing all the parts of himself he’d tried to keep hidden. All the parts he’d wanted to be rid of. All that, and Gene had still found something to accept.

(you’re okay)

The sentence draped over him like a boxer’s medallion, empowering as a mantra. There was a fullness in his chest, in his throat, that for once, even his own neuroses couldn’t break through. Though he wasn’t enough for himself, he’d been enough for Gene all that time ago. He’d be enough for Gene now, even if they never slept together again.

The demon finally spoke up from the couch, lifting his head to look at Paul. His amber eyes were unreadable.

“He’d take care of you if you stayed this way,” Marbas said quietly. “He’d take care of you the rest of your life.”

The air in the room was suddenly swelteringly thick. Like those dirt cheap hotels and motels down South, from before they could afford places with air conditioning. For a brief moment, he thought he felt Gene’s hand brush against his face.

(he already does)

(he already will)

Gene lay there with Paul’s head resting on his chest. Paul didn’t move at all for a long time. His breaths were so rhythmic and perfectly even that it was eerie. An enchanted sleep.

Gene remembered the old monster movies he used to watch on T.V. as a teenager. The Wolfman, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, all that. The frame-by-frame shifts from human to creature and back again. It was probably going to be profoundly bizarre, and in a way, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to watch—but on the same token, he didn’t want to leave Paul alone, in case the transformation ended up hurting him.

So still. After half an hour without any change, Gene gingerly sat up. Paul’s head lolled back; his whole body seemed boneless. Gene rustled a bit, struggling to pull some of the covers they’d been laying on over them both, deciding Paul’s dignity was more important than his own curiosity. Gene wrapped an arm back around Paul, and kept waiting.

Almost over. Gene wasn’t sure how he’d feel. No. No, that wasn’t quite true anymore, if it ever had really been. Drawing the contours of Paul’s face had solidified what he’d already known, deep down. Paul didn’t resemble his sister nearly so much as he resembled himself.

Paul shifted, finally. Those fidgety movements he had always been prone to in his sleep, like those nerves of his never really got a moment to ease up. He’d nudged his knee against Gene’s thigh. He was mumbling under his breath, something Gene couldn’t decipher. His eyes opened.

Gene’s stomach felt like it was dropping to the floor. God, Paul’d woken up without turning back at all.

“Are you okay?” But then, staring at the blank look in Paul’s expression, the total lack of response, Gene realized he wasn’t awake, for all his eyes were watering up. “Paul?”

He started tapping Paul on the shoulder, then squeezing his hand. No response. Paul’s eyes shut just as quickly as they’d opened—Gene wiped at them with the back of his hand—head slouching to the side, face pressed against Gene’s shoulder, the pressure burning hot and suddenly strange. For a second, Gene almost swore he could feel the shift of bones against his arm, the gradual, weird sensation of stubble scratching against his shoulder, before he fell asleep himself, into a nap as short and dreamless as any other.

He woke up to exactly what he’d expected. Paul was still lying there beside him. His breaths against Gene’s skin were natural now, not that almost metronomic regularity. Gene didn’t even have to move the sheets to know he was back to normal. He still had an arm around Paul; he could feel the difference just in the width of his shoulders. Paul had moved more in his sleep, too, facedown against Gene’s chest again, the scruff on his chin and jawline insinuating itself there, all smoothness gone. He thought he’d mind that much more than he did.

Instead, he just reached over with his free hand, tentatively stroking his fingers through Paul’s curls. He was going to have to dye his hair again before the tour, Gene realized mundanely; the jet-black had started to fade out around the roots to his natural dark brown. He’d probably been meaning to get a touch-up right around the time he’d been cursed. Paul was like that, noticing flaws way before anyone else did.

Paul was like that.

He started to stir right around the time Gene’s fingers caught and tugged against a tangle a little too hard. Slowly, with a small grunt, Paul raised his head off Gene’s chest, turning to look at him, eyes half-shut and squinty. The slightly softer, more delicate female face Gene had woken up to for the last several days was gone. In its place was Paul’s face as he’d known it for eight years now. Paul as he really was.

“Welcome back.”

Paul opened his eyes fully. For a second he didn’t quite seem to react. Gene watched as he threw off the covers and looked down at himself, tracing a trembling hand down the right side of his face, then his flat, hairy chest, breaths hitching as his fingers coursed over one hip, to his stomach, finally to his cock, confirming it was all there. Everything restored.

He didn’t quite expect Paul’s arms around him, tugging him in tight, inadvertently pinning him against the bed. Broader, stronger arms than what he’d gotten used to lately. No softness to his chest. Less give overall. The pressure was so different, different but familiar. The scent of him, too. He wrapped his arms around Paul in return, almost on automatic, his fingers making small, brief circles against Paul’s skin. The side of Paul’s face was buried against Gene’s neck, and he was still breathing hard as he spoke.

“Gene, Gene, w-we did it. We did it!”

“We did it.”

“We—we can go on tour. I can go see Ericka, Gene, I… you don’t know how much this—I don’t know how to… how to thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for.”

“There is. You’ve got no idea. You wouldn’t believe it. I can’t…” Paul shook his head rapidly, his hair brushing Gene’s lips. Guileless in his own relief. Like it still hadn’t quite occurred to him that he was straddling him naked. “I couldn’t have gotten back without you.”

“You could’ve.” Gene smiled despite himself. “Give yourself more credit than that.”

“But it would’ve been awful.” Paul seemed like he was struggling for the right words. “You don’t understand. You made me feel… like I was all right. You always have. Nobody’s ever…” Paul stopped, shaking his head again. “You’ve been so good to me.”

“I really haven’t—”

Paul kissed him. The motion was quick, almost apologetic. Two seconds at best of Paul’s mouth pressed against his, the slight scrape of his stubble against Gene’s skin as he pulled back. It didn’t feel the same, being kissed by him. It wouldn’t be the same.

“I’m sorry.” Paul seemed to realize it, too, abruptly climbing off of him and sitting up on the bed. Gene sat up, too, back against the headboard. “I know you couldn’t promise anything.”

“Paul.”

“I’ll just get dressed. I’ll call the guys up in a minute.” Paul hesitated, then swung his legs off the side of the bed. He didn’t get up, just sat there, running his fingers down his own arms and chest, as if he were cold or something, or else getting his bearings. Maybe he was just trying to feel around for himself, make positive there wasn’t any residual trace of that female body left—but Gene didn’t think that was all of it.

“Are you really going to leave it at that?”

Paul stiffened. His eyes darted towards him, then back towards the covers. His teeth were sunk into his lower lip. Gene had seen that mannerism so many times. The fragility and insecurity that were a part of him, regardless of his body. No faith in himself. That was all right. Gene had enough faith for the both of them.

“Leave it at what?”

Gene scooted over until he was sitting next to him on the bed, bare feet on the shag carpet. He reached over, resting a hand on Paul’s thigh. Paul glanced at him again, quickly, hesitantly, before finally placing his own hand on top of Gene’s. The way he’d done in the car, on the way to Central Park. His hand was broader, larger, but just as warm, and just as much his as he laced his fingers between Gene’s. It still seemed to belong there. Even more when Gene turned up his wrist, to hold Paul’s hand properly in his, squeezing it tight.

“I missed you,” Gene said. “I really missed you.”

Paul shook his head, made a sound like a laugh. Trying to protect himself even now. It hurt to hear it. But his hand stayed clasped in Gene’s. He wasn’t pulling back. Gene would never give him a reason to, not now.

“C’mon, I know you liked me better…”

“I like you better happy.”

“But I—” Paul swallowed. His expression was open, vulnerable. He looked like he wanted so badly to believe. He looked a little afraid. “I’m not what you want anymore.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s true. I know it. I-I figured all along it wouldn’t turn out. I really did.” Paul took a breath. “I don’t blame you. I mean, look at me, I’m not—”

“I’m looking at you. I’ve been looking at you this whole time. ” Those same big brown eyes, same slightly crooked chin and full lips greeted him as all those days ago on the front porch. The same soul. Gene let go of Paul’s hand, reaching out and cupping the left side of his face, tracing his fingers down from his temple to his jaw, to the pulse of his neck, all the way down to his flat, hairy chest. Everything he’d explored before. Every touch was different now, but the same warmth and want was spreading through him. It hadn’t gone away. Hadn’t faded. “I’m looking at someone I wanna be with.”

“Gene—it’s just not gonna be like it was, you know that.”

“I know that.” Gene moved his hand, tracing one nipple before sliding his palm directly above it. Paul’s heartbeat was pounding beneath his hand. “It’s gonna be better.”

“I’m a lot less cute to wake up to this way.” Paul started to try and smile, mouth wavering. His brows were furrowed. For a second, he raised his hand like he was going to push Gene’s hand away, but instead it rested on top of it again, Paul’s fingers pressing down against the back of Gene’s hand. No full, heavy breast to squeeze and toy with anymore. “I-it’s a real bad trade-off. I’ll wear out all your razors.”

“You’ll have to do better than that to talk me out of you.”

Paul faltered, and he looked away. Gene let his own gaze shift from Paul’s face to his bare shoulder. No dress strap to fix anymore, either. But the same handful of small moles were still there, the rose tattoo just as sharp and clear as ever against his skin.

“I’d… you couldn’t be seen with me, not… not like in the Park—you like that, don’t you, showing some pretty girl off, I couldn’t—”

“I love you, Paul.”

Four words. Four words he hadn’t managed before. Not in the basement, dancing to that old record. Not when he’d first kissed him at Studio 54. Not when he’d taken him home from CBGB. Not in the rowboat, and not those few hours ago when Paul himself had finally said it. But it had been true even then. He realized that now. Paul had his heart all along.

Paul was staring at him, eyes wide, color spreading on his face. Gene leaned in, fingers curving around his chin, meeting Paul’s parted lips with his own, nothing brief or cautious, but full. Trying to impart all he couldn’t manage to say, all that would spill over and be meaningless if he tried to give it words.

At first, Paul only seemed to yield to the touch. But then his mouth pressed back against Gene’s, warm and wet, as his arms found their way around Gene’s waist.

Each kiss felt more certain and firm than the last, each movement more fluid, their bodies fitting and molding against each other just as easily and naturally as before. Gene was swept up in it, almost overcome, every touch its own affirmation as he explored the contours of Paul’s body with his hands and mouth. So much to discover, now that he had more than that single chance to be with him. Everything that was and wasn’t new at all, there for both of them. Paul seemed braver now, too, steadier than he’d ever been. Far more sure of himself now that he was himself again. That physical disconnect Gene had only ever noticed in passing was gone.

Paul tugged Gene back down with him to the mattress, both of them on their sides. Paul didn’t straddle him. He just held him there for a long time. Long enough that the cadences of their heartbeats almost seemed to match up; long enough that Gene could fully catch the scent of him, how it had changed. Still Aramis and the remnants of hairspray, but the musky scent of his sweat and body was markedly different, stronger and maybe a little earthier, almost, but plenty intoxicating. He breathed it in eagerly, letting himself get enveloped in Paul as readily as Paul was getting enveloped in him.

The only other sound was the dull tick of the clock on the nightstand, until even that was interrupted by the phone ringing. Gene just made a grunting noise, too comfortable to want to move. Paul, though, scooted a bit, murmuring quietly.

“It’s probably Ace. I told him I’d call him back.”

“Let the machine get it.”

“Nah.” Paul unraveled himself from Gene, reaching over him to grab the phone. The cord ended up draped along Gene’s chest. “Figure I’ve got plenty of good news for him. No tour delays, no summoning up demons or paying off witches…”

“And no putting you in a cute costume.” Gene paused, amused glint in his eyes, pushing the phone cord behind him.. “Well, not onstage, at least…”

“Not offstage, either.” Paul tapped him on the shoulder with the back of the receiver, His cheeks were going pink as he put the phone to his ear. “Hello? Ace? Yeah, I’m all fixed up. Yeah. No—shit, Ace, I just got back, I haven’t made sure everything’s…”

As the conversation trailed, Gene shifted, one arm around Paul’s waist. Paul smiled, and Gene felt Paul’s ankle catching his leg, tangling them back together, secure and warm in the shape of each other.

#kiss the band #kiss fanfiction #gene simmons x paul stanley #gene simmons #paul stanley

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solar-bean · 4 years ago

Text

So I recently heard the question " how would you survive in a horror movie?" and my mind just had to go on make this random story. So here's me rambling about a horror movie I'd like to see even though I'm terrified of the horror genre:

So our protagonist is a poc free lance artist in their mid to late twenties. They live in a small town that they moved to a year prior to when the film starts. Well they don't live in the town but rather an old cottage in the woods next to the town.

We start of by seeing their normal routine. Wake up to an amazing view of the forest, eat breakfast with fresh fruits from the garden and going into town. They visit a few friends they've made and go to a home depot-like store for some gardening supplies and paint. The guy the cash register is another friend they made. Lets call him Ed.

They chat since no one else is in line because its night time.

" The monster won't like that your painting his cabin. You already made him mad for remodeling it. " Ed comments.

" For the hundredth time. There's no monster in the woods. And if there was it would've shown up by now. "

" Didn't you say you were noticing weird stuff after you got the electricity to work?"

" Yeah but that was when I first moved in. I just wasn't use to living there yet. I mean come on. It's in the middle of the forest. You're bond to get a little paranoid. "

" True true. But if you ever need help feel free to call me ok? "

They make their way out when Ed asks when they started gardening. They say that they just started last week. Which will make no sense to the audience because the fruit they ate was fully grown.

They drive back home along the dark path. The forest is beautiful yet terrifying at night. Soon their nestled in their bed and when all seems peaceful a claw comes into the frame and glides over their shoulder. Then the scene changes to the next morning.

The rest of the movie switches from the protags normal life and thrilling scenes. For example, they paint the houses walls and paint over a spot that looks like claw marks. They step on a stray thorn vine that grew out of the floor crack but the next time their foot is shown it's completely healed. In a few scenes you can make out a pair of glowing dots in the background or a large figure before the scene changes.

At one point the protag invites their group of friends over minus the home depot guy to get drunk. Their friends say how they always wanted to visit the fabled witch's house. One talks about how their parents wouldn't let them because it was cursed ground. Another recalls the old tale of the evil witch that summoned a demon to kidnap people for her rituals and that it had to be true cuz a good amount of town's people went missing at that time. But they all agree that the cabin isn't scary at all and kind of a let down.

Morning comes and the protag is hungover and in no mood to clean up. But they come to find that everything is put away. They text their friends in the group chat to thank them for cleaning up. They all reply that the house was already clean before they left.

As the movie gets close to it's end we see the protags nightmare of them on the floor backed up against the wall with a knife yelling " Leave me alone! " They wake up in a cold sweat and get up to get some water. They see that the newly painted walls are covered in claw marks. Some spell " leave " and " get out. "

The next day the protag gets more paint and tella Ed what happened in a panicked voice.

" You've got to get out of there. It's not safe."

" Ed please tell me your not on about the monster thing again."

" Even if it's not someone's obviously out to get you. Look there's a motel you could stay at in the mean time while this all gets sorted out. "

" I can't leave. It's my home. I'm not gonna just run away."

Ed sighs and clutches his brow. They're being really dumb right now.

" Just...just stay safe alright. And if anything happens again call me or the police or anyone. Ok?"

They nod and go back home. They're in their bed about to fall asleep when foot steps are heard outside of their door. The audience is given the persepective of someone else stalking through the cabin. The door creeps open and a claw comes into the frame just like before. But just when it's about to touch the protag the person is ripped away and thrown at the wall in the hallway.

We see a person in a dark hoodie with a mask, night vision goggles and gloves with makeshift claws at the fingertips. They're seen scrambling away before long thorned vines spring from the ground and grab them. A much larger comes into frame and reaches to the person's face with big clawed hands attached to muscular arm covered in what looks like a mix of fur, feather and tattoos.

The creature takes off the glasses and mask to reveal none other than Ed. He's unable to speak as a snarling mouth full of long fangs comes into frame mere inches away from his face.

" You've got some nerve trying to pose as me. Ed. " The creature growls out in a deep, threatening voice.

" H-how do you know me?" Ed stutters.

" I told him about you."

Enter the protag from their room. They stand next to the creature. We are now shown his full form albiet not completely visible due to the darkness. He wears a few pelts for clothing along with some jewelry and wooden charms. He's covered nearly head to toe with fur, feathers and intricate tattoos. The tattoos also twist down his menacingly long, lizard like tail. He has haunched legs like that of a wolf. His face appeared mostly human aside from the, pointed ears, massive twisting horns and feathered mane like hair that went down his back.

" If I hadn't left this wouldn't have happened."

" You had to visit your kind at some point. Besides this was bound to happen. Don't feel bad."

" But I need to protect you."

The protag gently caresses the creatures face to which he nuzzles back lovingly.

" You've got to he kidding me!" Ed exclaims. " What have you been doing with this thing huh?! You chose this monster over me?!"

" Oh I'm the monster? I read you're mind and saw all the vile things you were going to do to them."

" I...I just wanted to protect them. I wanted them to choose me."

The protag tsked.

" I made it pretty obvious that I wasn't interested in you. You're such a creep."

" You've got some nerve judging me when you've been doing god knows what with this thin- mmh!" more vines covered his mouth.

" What shall I do with him dearest?"

" Wipe his mind and put him somewhere far away. Maybe he'll turn out to be a better person."

" So merciful. Just like your great aunt."

After Ed is pulled into a void screaming, there is a flashback to the protag hold a knife like in the dream. The creature gently puts their hand down and tells them he won't hurt them. There are more scenes that help explain their relation. Such as him using his powers to grow the garden, heal the protags cut and clean the house while their friends were sleeping. It ends with them cuddled up in bed. A clawed hand on their shoulder.

#scary movies #horror movies #thriller movies #monster #monster boyfriend #plot twist #the monster is more of a forest spirit #witches #befriend the supernatural so theyll protect you from the real threats #monster x human

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