#Cold's mesmerizing eyes... They hold everything it has seen in its wanders...

[phospolipid-bilayer]

Hello. I really like your guys :] (this is salty-an-disco's main)

AHHHH OH MY GOS YOU DRAW THEM SO CUTES little mochis...🥹 Squishing them in my hand...🥹 Thank you so much I'm really glad you like them!!!!

[elena-reina]

A Soul - Draco Malfoy x Reader

Request: Can you make one where Draco and a female reader were hooking up in secret? Draco falls in love just to find out she has a muggle parents but is magical herself? Basically a mudblood but more emphasis on muggle - chaoticdeanzonkland

Warnings: some fluff, angst

Y/H: Your house- ie. Slytherin, Hufflepuff, etc. 

Y/H/C: Your house color

Part 2

A fire crackled in the Slytherin commonroom projecting long shadows on the surrounding area. The light casted by the flames danced across the dark shadows of the room in obscure shapes and provided a small radius of light. The warmth of the fire fillled the room with its warm embrace. The flames were mesmerizing to watch, colors of orange and red gave way to yellow and white near the centre, where the emanating heat was the greatest. 

You exhaled a quiet sigh snuggling closer to Draco. The sun had already tured itself over to the moon permitting it to be evening. Everyone else had been long gone in their rooms sleeping, or so you thought. You didn’t know what hour it was, but it must’ve been late because you could feel Draco becoming more sluggish as the minutes passed by, not that you minded. This was one of the very few times were the two of you could enjoy some peace and company together. 

The truth of the matter is that the two of you had been meeting in secret for the longest. It started off as a light friendship of the two of you teasing each other and then grew into a blossoming affection for one another. With Draco’s hard exterior and a few secrets of your own, you both thought it was best to keep your relationship a secret.

Your thoughts were interupted by soft snores coming from the boy you loved above you. Gazing up at him, you smiled warmly. You raised your arm and cupped his cheek, gently rubbing it with your thumb.

“Draco,” you whispered softly. He stirred a bit and tiredly opened his grey eyes. They were slightly red from how exhausted he was from throughout the day.

“I’m sorry love, I didn’t mean to doze off there,” he mumbled still trying to wake himself up.

You shook your head and sat up, now longer leaning on him. He was tired and it would not be fair of you to keep him up. “Go to bed, it’s alright-”

“No,” he cut you off, “This is one of the handful of times we get to be with each other unbothered.”

You smiled as he leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to your lips. Pulling away, you gazed back into his eyes.

“We will still see each other more, but it’ll be better when we are both well rested, don’t you agree?” you grinned. 

A yawn escaped his mouth in response, scratching the back of his head.

“Good answer,” you laughed and stood up, holding out a hand for him to grab onto. He begrudgingly grabbed it and hoisted himself up. Towering over you, he cupped your cheeks placing, first, a kiss on your forehead, then your nose, and lastly your lips.

“I think..,” he began, “No, I know I’m falling head over heels in love with you.”

A blushed rose to your cheeks. You couldn’t contain your excitement as you smiled from ear to ear. He’s never said this before.

Draco Malfoy, the Slytherin Prince, just said he was in love with you.

“You really mean it?”

Grabbing your hand and placing it on his chest, right above his heart, he spoke. “With all my heart.”

Throwing your arms around his neck, you crashed your lips to his once more, savoring each kiss. You couldn’t believe this was actually happening. Never in a million years did you think you’d ever get to talk to Draco Malfoy, let alone get a confession.

Pulling away, you couldn’t stop smiling. “I will see you tomorrow.”

“Till tomorrow,” he mumbled quietly, but lovingly. Letting go, you walked to your Y/H bedroom.

The next morning, the first ray of sun beamed through the Y/H/C curtains, turning the stillness of the night into a peaceful morning. A fleck of sunlight glittered on the window pane, reflecting the light into the room. You sat up letting a yawn escape your lips. Remembering the events of last night, you held your rosy cheeks, you still couldn’t help but blush. Stepping out onto the hardwood floor, you shuddered at the cold as a light breeze greeted you for a good day ahead.

You got dressed in your usual robes and exited to the Grand Hall for breakfast. Everybody’s eyes were on you, but you were oblivous to it. Sitting at the Y/H table, you were greeted by your friends.

“G’mornin’ Y/N,” Sylvia chirped.

“Morning!” Adrian said.

“Good morning you guys,” you smiled warmly. 

The moment you slid into your seat, Sylvia and Adrian began filling your plate with food: Eggs, ham, piles of fried potatoes, fruit, and an elegant glass of orange juice.

“What’s with all this?” you laughed. They never served you before, naturally making you suspicious of their actions.

“When were you going to tell us the news?” Adrian grinned.

Your heart dropped and your voice grew quiet. “..What news?” You began to stuff your mouth with some of the food, to inevitably buy yourself more time for what’s to come.

“Not going to lie, I am a little hurt that you hadn’t told us before,” Sylvia piped in.

“About..?”

“Aboooouuut you and Malfoy! Duh!” she exclaimed.

Oh no. No, no, no, no, no!

No one was supposed to know about your relationship, at least not yet. Draco hasn’t even learned that you are not a pure-blood, or so you think. His reputation meant everything to him and you just wanted to be able to have one thing to yourself that you wouldn’t have to feel ashamed of. A look a worry washed over your face, your friends took note of this.

“Hey, Y/N,” Slyvia began, “Are you alright?”

Snapping out of your thoughts, you regained consiousness in your conversation. “How did you guys find out? Who did you hear it from?”

They looked at each other and shrugged.

“I don’t really know, we over heard some third-years talking about the two of you oddly, but we don’t know who they heard it from,” Adrian mumbled, “Although, I must say I am surprised that he does not mind dating a person of your background.”

Your furrowed your eyebrows, somewhat offended.

“Excuse you.”

“He didn’t mean it like that. I believe what he’s trying to say is that Malfoy doesn’t really date, and if he does we would assume it would be with someone that’s pureblooded, again no offense to your background because we love you,” Sylvia cleared up. 

You rolled your eyes and looked over to where Draco would usually sit for breakfast, however he wasn’t there. Instead a random Slytherin was there, making kissy faces to mock you. Scrunching your nose in disgust, you turned back to your plate and continued to eat.

Throughout the whole day, you’ve been waiting to bump into Draco. But to no avail, somehow he managed to be missing all day. 

As a matter of fact, you hadn’t seen him for the past coming weeks going on since people had found out the two of you were “official,” if you could even call it that. And on top of it all, you still had no idea how anyone found out in the first place. You spent sleepless nights just waiting for the day you could talk to him, let alone just be able to see him wandering around somewhere.

All the spots you would usually meet up with Draco, he was never there. It was like he had disappeard from existence and left the school. You would go early to the Dining Hall somedays to try and see him, but he never showed up.

After weeks of having no luck to find him, luckily, there was a Quidditch game between Slytherin and Ravenclaw that was going to end soon. You never really went to any of the games, but this time you did in hopes of finding Draco because you knew he would be there for his team. 

Fortunately, you arrived in just enough time before the game was about to end and Slytherin had ultimately won. Soaring around on his broom stick, you saw that familiar head of platinum hair. A feint smile rose to your cheeks as you walked down the stairs and waited at the end of the field that the players have to walk through to go to their locker rooms. You stood off to the side, out of the way of everyone as both the Slytherin and Ravenclaw players were walking back. Slytherin was cheering as they won this one and Draco had a genuine smile on his face. 

He walked past you, not noticing you were there, until you spoke up.

“Draco!” you called. He then heard you and clenched his jaw, but kept walking picking up his speed.

“Draco, wait up!” you yelled after him while clumsily bumping into some of the Quidditch players while doing so. 

“Hi, passing through-.. sorry... excuse me..- I’ve just- Hey!” you repeated over and over trying to get through them and reach him. Getting just close enough, you grabbed onto his robe, the only thing within reach, and held him back.

“Draco,” you breathed softly as you finally reached him.

He snapped turning around, glaring down at you. “It’s Malfoy to you.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, taken back by his sudden reaction and demeanor. You stiffened up not knowing what to say. You hadn’t seen him in weeks, you didn’t know what you were expecting but it certainly wasn’t this.

“I.. what’s going on with you,” you frowned, attempting to put your arm on his shoulder but he dodged it immediately.

“What, Y/N. What do you want.” he said frustrated, looking back at the hall behind him at the doors to the locker room.

“I want to know what’s going on with you! I haven’t seen you for weeks, with no letter, no call, no explanation-”

He scoffed cutting you out of your thoughts, looking off to the side.

“What?”

You managed to keep your composure, but you wanted to break down from frustation.

“You’re in no position to be asking me for an explanation of any kind. You’re the one who owes me one,” he snapped, keeping his cold and hard stare on you.

You remained calm, not wanting to match his energy. You shifted on your feet and crossed your arms over your chest. If it’s stern he wants, then it’s stern he gets.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stated truthfully.

“When were you planning on telling me?”

You groaned. “Telling you what, Draco-”

“MALFOY.” he snapped immediately.

“Malfoy.”

“That you lied to me. You’re no pureblood,” he spat, his face looking in disgust.

Is that what this is about? There has to be something else underlying it, because not even he treats the golden trio this way. Where was the caring Draco a few weeks ago who was just professing his love.

You held up your hand to stop him from going any further. 

“Dra- Malfoy, I never lied to you. I never told you I was a pureblood, you just assumed!”

“You never told me you weren’t! Just to think I told someone like you that I loved you,” he sneered, “And to make matters worst, you go around parading it to everyone the very next morning.”

Your heart sank in your chest. Draco was hurting very much on the inside, but he was blinded by his own insecurities and cold exterior. Something he was very much famous for, not giving a care in the world to anyone but himself. You made sure not to show it but his words hurt you deeply. Before you could let any more of his words hurt you, you stood up straight gazing into his grey eyes.

“I never told a soul,” you whispered, spun on your heel, and walked away.

[lcksndkys]

Pairing: hobi x reader

Rating: SFW

Genre: dancer!hobi x bff reader

Word count: 1,474

A/N: This piece was written as part of the btsghostiewriters drabble marathon!! Dialogue prompt #3: “Do you take constructive criticism?” “I only take cash.” Enjoy and feel free to talk to me about it! I'd love to hear what you think!! As usual, s/o to my peoples @jinpanman and @wwilloww for the support and encouragement!! Also, the song is Permission by Ro James.

Summary:  Hoseok wants to audition for a position as an exotic dancer at The Pied Piper, a new strip club that provides entertainment for all. He wants your opinion of his routine. Except, you’ve been silently harboring a tiny (re: massive) crush on your friend. 

OR

You accidentally tell Hoseok you don’t find him sexy.

01, 02

"You wanna strip?" you ask, cocking a brow. 

“I need the job,” Hoseok explains. “I wanna buy Dynamite from Sejeong Hyung and run my own dance studio. Plus, it's not stripping, it's called exotic dancing.” 

“What about a loan?” you try to counter, ignoring the second part of his claim. 

“I wouldn’t even qualify for one big enough for Dynamite. This job will pay well enough to cover whatever expenses are left over after the loan” he continues.

The new strip club, The Pied Piper, provides entertainment for all and is currently hiring male exotic dancers. According to Hoseok, the type of dancing is sensual, but classy. He even pulled up a video advertisement to show you proof.

He sets his laptop on the ground in front of the two of you and presses play.

The characteristic beats of a familiar song ring through the air. Pony, how cliché. You watch the men on the screen gyrate their hips along to the beat of the greasy song, body-rolling around the stage in nothing but their fitted jeans. The physique of each man is eye catching to say the least.

The choreography is complex with each dancer making small stylistic adjustments so that they look in sync, but not matching entirely. Clearly, many of them are classically trained and/or professionals. 

Enraptured, you watch as their bodies move sensuously with the music. The clip shifts to one of the male dancers who pulls a woman on stage. A sparkling white and silver sash looped around her torso indicates she’s a blushing bride-to-be. She’s helped to a chair and approached by one of the dancers. Before the clip is over, Hoseok is closing his laptop and looking for your reaction.

“So, do you think I could do it?” he asks you eagerly.

You look into his hopeful eyes and your heart melts a little bit. He’s your Hoseok. Sweet, shy, sensitive, scared-of-everything Hoseok. You still remember how he cried when he was stung by a bee during dance camp in high school. How he has a 1.5 drink limit- half a drink better than when you both started college years ago. You try to imagine your friend dancing like the men you just watched on the screen.

“Well, those men- they’re really...” you struggle to find an appropriate term. You settle on “They’re really sexy” and then immediately regret your choice of words.

“You don’t think I’m sexy?” 

Looking at Hoseok’s crestfallen face, you rapidly launch into damage control. 

“I just mean- I’ve never seen you dance like that, Hobi”

There’s a few tense seconds of silence as Hoseok regards you before he slowly releases one long breath through his nose.

“I’ve been practicing,” he claims.

You swallow the lump in your throat at the dark look he’s suddenly giving you. It looks like danger. 

Hoseok digs a folding chair out of the dingy closet of your modest dance studio. He drags it across the floor, props it open, and gestures for you to have a seat.

Sitting on the cold metal folding chair, you cross your arms and legs. You affix the carefully crafted neutral mask over your face. Secretly, you’re proud of your ability to hide the secret crush that has been quietly brewing over the last year.

“Can I show you what I’ve been working on?” he asks.

You nod your consent.

“Good. I’d like your feedback” he smiles. 

You watch as Hoseok browses through his playlist and assume he’s looking for his audition song.

The sensuous music fills the little studio, echoing against the hard walls. The blank expression on your face hides the nervously pitter pattering of your heart. 

With your permission

Tonight I wanna be a little me on you

Your skin prickles with heat as you watch Hoseok start to dance slowly to the beat. Limbs fluid with practice and hip swaying, you’re mesmerized by his movements. 

He suddenly dives for the floor, twisting his body in a quarter turn mid-air, catching himself in a near handstand position before slowly lowering his chest, then pelvis to the floor. On hands and knees, his head swivels to make eye contact with you. He parts his legs, lowering his hips and thrusting against the ground making you gasp softly. Desire pools deep in your belly and for the first time in your life, you wish you were the flooring of this grimy, old studio.

Flipping over, Hoseok keeps his knees bent and plants his feet on the ground. Thighs spread wide, he bucks his hips up towards you. Your eyes follow the undulating of his hips as he pumps himself against the air.

Come on give me that green light

And you can let your hair hang down

But only if it feels right

You grit your teeth together to keep from panting.

He gracefully stands, adding a flourish to his movements, and begins unbuttoning his shirt as he approaches you.

At the last button, he sweeps open his top exposing the lithe planes of his chest and abdomen. Although not as muscular as the men in the video, his body is perfectly proportioned with well toned pecs and abs and delicate collarbones.

You gulp, hoping Hoseok hasn’t noticed how he’s affecting you. Watching him dance for you is alarmingly arousing.

There's a whole lot of motherfuckin' lovin' that's way past due

I owe you

With your permission

I'ma do all the things that I said I'm gon' do

Hands on your thighs, he uncrosses your legs then arms with a smirk. He straddles your lap and pulls your hands up to cup his ass. 

You feel heat lick its way up your neck and cheeks. 

This close up, you see every detail in Hoseok’s beautiful face. His perfectly sloped nose, the mole on his upper lip, every lash framing his usually warm eyes.  

Encouraging you to hold onto him, he grinds his hips against you to the beat of the song. With both hands clutching his tight gluts, you can’t help but feel every sensuous movement of his pelvis. Your mind drifts to his stroke game, sending another wave of arousal through your core. He brings one hand to your neck, long fingers wrapping around you to lock your eyes together. The other holds onto the backing of the chair he is currently defiling you against.

Satisfied with your gaze, you feel him bury his fingers in the hair at the base of your skull, scratching luxuriously against your scalp and you nearly moan out loud. Instead you bite the inside of your cheek and hold your composure.

Your hands start to wander up the planes of his back and sides, feeling the bumps and grooves of muscle and bone. 

Hoseok continues to fuck you against the chair until he draws a whimper from between your sealed lips.

He smiles in victory and buries his hand in your locks at the base of your skull and pulls. He noses along the column of exposed skin while he grinds against you making you shiver with need.

There's a tension, between us two

Red light special, girl you're special

You a blessing, so let me bless you

As the song winds down, Hoseok pulls back, eyes blackened with desire as he stares down at you. 

Like magnets, you are drawn towards each other. Hoseok presses his soft lips against yours in a tender, chaste kiss- a stark contrast to the dirty grinding of his body against yours. Hand still in your hair, he tips your head to the side sending his tongue out to lap against the seam of your lips. You part for him feeling the warm, wet muscle glide into your mouth and stealing the air from your lungs.

By the time he pulls back to study your reaction, you’re dazed and scrambling to find something coherent to say.

“Do you take constructive criticism?” you choke out, trying to sound casual.

“I only take cash” he quips back at you holding a hand out as if asking for a tip.

“Ok, well you probably shouldn’t kiss any of the patrons” you advise quietly thinking it was a planned part of his routine. 

Disappointed by your seemingly lackluster reaction to his kiss, Hoseok pulls back from you dropping his hand from your neck. 

“Is that all you have to say?” Hoseok grunts and climbs off you, no longer smiling.

“It’s just so cliché,” you try to explain.

“Yeah, well, so is falling for a friend” he throws back, hurt.

You gasp. 

“I never-” you panic.

“- I wasn’t talking about you” Hoseok effectively cuts you off.

You swear your heart stops for a second as you process Hoseok’s words. You’re speechless as he quickly packs up his belongings and takes one last look at your bewildered face before he leaves you sitting in the middle of the studio. 

[rotworld]

The Truth in Masquerade

usurpers part 7. previous | next

derek gives in. izsák reaps the rewards.

->derek/oc. explicit; contains d/s dynamics, degradation, biting/blood drinking, descriptions of violence and torture, and the usual derek things.

.

.

.

It takes less than a week for curiosity to eat through Derek’s resolve completely. Izsák speeds things along by bringing up weird shit every chance he gets and then waiting, perfectly poised, for a shift in Derek’s expression. It’s always some off-handed mention when it’s just the two of them. Izsák will help him prepare for another guest appearance at another dreadful party, presenting him with a fresh towel after a shower, tying his tie, and then he’ll sigh in a wistful way and say, “You never have liked these little soirees. It was much easier when Ferenc was here, wasn’t it? He bore the burden of public scrutiny with such ease.”

And what the fuck is Derek supposed to do? Not ask questions? Not think about why Izsák will stare, studying his face expectantly, and then suddenly laugh and mutter, “Pay me no mind, sir.” He tells himself it’s just Izsák being his usual freaky self, but has he always been so strangely in tune with Derek? Did he always stand so close and act so concerned over every little thing? Fussing over him when he bangs his knee on a table, or after a particularly public breakup? It’s fucking weird. Derek tells him it’s weird, and Izsák just smiles peaceably and goes about his business.

Three days after the museum, Izsák is drinking tea at the kitchen table while Derek eats lunch. His father is out with Clarice and the house is blissfully quiet. Derek is texting Emilia, who is hysterical and wants to break up with him again over some new bullshit that Derek can’t remember and doesn’t care to figure out from the vague hints she’s dropping. He’s sure he can talk her into a night out and a quick fuck with the right combination of sweet talking and apology gifts. He wouldn’t bother, but his father chewed him out about how it looks when he brings a new girl to every social function. People notice, his father claimed, and people talk. Derek rolls his eyes just thinking about it. His father keeps a girlfriend for a few months and now he thinks he’s some kind of fucking expert on monogamy.

And then, out of nowhere, Izsák breaks him out of his thoughts. “Are you feeling restless, sir? I had something in mind, if you are interested.”

“Unless it’s something to get Emilia to calm the fuck down, I’m not interested,” Derek says. He only looks up from his phone when he hears the scrape of Izsák’s chair across the table and sees him coming closer. He stands behind Derek, rests a hand on his shoulder, and leans in to peer at the phone screen. His touch, light, weightless, totally innocent, makes Derek burn with desire.

“I see. She’s upset that you have taken other partners.” 

Derek rolls his eyes. Of course it’s that. Nobody can keep a goddamn secret anymore. He wonders which one of them couldn’t keep their mouths shut. Regina? Francine? Couldn’t have been Laney, because Laney...

Derek swallows hard at the thought, the memory. Standing here in the kitchen when Emilia called him sobbing, saying her two-faced bitch of a friend was comatose in the hospital. Car accident. She never woke up. Izsák had looked up from organizing his father’s day and watched as Derek took in the news. There was something knowing in his eyes, and Derek remembered suddenly how Izsák had uncorked a vial of chicken blood and flicked it after Laney.

There’s no way. Derek repeated that in his head like a mantra whenever he caught himself starting to believe it. The blood of a black-feathered hen. No fucking way. He looks over his shoulder at Izsák, at the eyes gazing back at him and awaiting—something. 

“You got a spell for this?” Derek says. He’s perturbed when Izsák smiles, like he’s delighted to be asked.

“Of course, sir,” he says. He retrieves his tea and strides quickly to the kitchen sink, dumping the rest of it down the drain. Derek watches him pluck the damp bag of herbs out of the cup, shaking the rest of the water out, and setting it on a plate. “You may watch if you’d like,” Izsák says.

“I don’t care,” Derek says. And he shouldn’t. But his gaze is drawn back when he sees Izsák pull a lighter from his pocket and flick it until a little wavering flame appears. It looks like he’s trying to light the tea bag on fire, but it’s too damp to catch. Some foul-smelling smoke sizzles to the ceiling. Izsák whispers something, not in English, and Derek just stares.

That’s when Emilia messages him back after a solid ten minutes of the silent treatment. She says she can’t stay mad at him and asks to meet up later that night. Derek stares at the text in disbelief, then looks up and finds Izsák standing there, watching him. Smiling.

“You may ask me questions, if you have any,” Izsák says. “I wonder if you remember this one.”

“Where exactly am I supposed to remember it from? I’ve never seen that shit before.” 

Izsák answers automatically, like he’s been waiting for this. “Csejte, 1578. I performed this spell for you for the first time.” 

Derek doesn’t know how to react, so he doesn’t. “You did not.” 

“I did,” Izsák insists.

“You fucking didn’t. That doesn’t make sense.” Izsák frowns, opening his mouth to disagree, but Derek gets up, leaves the table, and goes out to the pool to soak his feet and avoid whatever it is that’s happening. Izsák knows better than to pursue him and gives him space, but it’s too late. Derek is thinking about chicken blood. He’s thinking about headless girls encased in ice. Which is weird because he’s never seen that before, but something about the statue at the museum, about the things Izsák said, put a distinct image in his head. He’s hungry. He wants to taste somebody’s blood. He feels himself salivating when he remembers biting Izsák’s neck and he wants to feel skin give beneath his teeth.

“What the fuck,” he mutters to nobody. He kicks at the water until dusk, until his erection is gone and his father comes home with Clarice and Izsák is busy with other things so Derek can avoid his eyes and that look that knows too much.

*

Four days after the art museum, Derek wakes up and his dick is so hard it hurts. The dream snaps out of place and tries slipping away before he can remember it, but he holds tight to everything that’s left;

A castle. Stained glass windows. Stone archways. The snow-covered courtyard with its frozen women like grotesque, grasping trees. Long corridors and echoing screams. He stood eclipsed by flickering candlelight and writhing shadow, walking barefoot through puddles of blood. There were bodies dangling from the dungeon ceiling, hung from meathooks and impaled in iron cages. Slit throats. Dangling entrails. They wept and moaned above him, and their blood rained on his skin. These were his kills. He hunted them himself, hung them like trophies. He reveled in their pain. Silhouettes played across the walls, human and beastly shapes that grew and warped and twined together in obscene dance. Derek felt these shades watching, but he didn’t fear their gazes. There was no need to perform for them. 

And Izsák was there, smiling gently. He wore nothing. He was deathly pale, unmarked as though the blood couldn’t touch him. Derek was possessed by the need to dirty him. He reached desperately, his grasp leaving bruises, dragging Izsák through red rain and filth. He was tainted slowly, a splatter across his shoulder, a rivulet dripping down from his scalp. It fell in heavy clots in his lashes. Derek pressed him against the cold stone wall, his wandering hands smearing abstract shapes over Izsák’s skin, and then he licked it off of him with long, slow drags of his tongue.

It was so fucking stupid. He’d never do that in real life. But just thinking about it gets him even harder. Derek palms himself through silk pajama pants, shivering, leaning back against the headboard. He’d never be so tender and gentle. But in the dream, Izsák looked at him with this passion, this reverence, like Derek was God and that castle dungeon was their private, depraved heaven. It was so vivid. The musk of all that flesh and blood was heady and visceral. He slips his hand beneath the waistband of his clothes. It’s pathetic. Jacking off has never been so disappointing. He can see it when he closes his eyes, dreamlike and hazy; bodies and darkness. Izsák beneath him, his hands framing Derek’s face, his eyes glazed with wanting. He twists his palm around the head of his cock and imagines it’s Izsák doing it, Izsák between his legs and covered in blood.

It’s not the first time he’s fantasized about Izsák, but it was always different before. More impersonal. Izsák’s mouth around his cock. Izsák’s hips moving against his. The way Izsák’s back arches and his muscles all go taut while Derek fucks him raw over his father’s desk. But this is so much more heated and detailed. It’s not just the sensation or the view, it’s how Izsák looks at him, how he talks to him. It’s how he knows Derek in intimate and frightening ways, and doesn’t expect anything more of him.

In the dream, Izsák worshiped him. He got to his knees and the sight of Derek’s body, his apparent desire, the hard cock swollen against his abdomen, seemed to mesmerize him. He looked up at Derek as he pressed a kiss to the head of his cock, drool and precum on his lips. His tongue caressed Derek’s length from base to tip and his hands smoothed along his thighs. He moaned shamelessly, the sound vibrating against Derek’s flesh as he suckled on the sensitive underside. He mumbled something, unwilling to pull away and cease pleasuring Derek for even a moment, but Derek understood somehow. He knew what he was trying to say; I’m yours.

Derek bites his lip so hard it bleeds, desperately fucking his fist. It’s too hot. He has to throw off the sheets and pull his pants down around his thighs but he’s still sweating, his head pounding. He still feels the stagnant dungeon air, the blood drying to his skin. He remembers the way Izsák bobbed his head, the hot slide of his lips and his tongue at the base of Derek’s cock when he started to deepthroat him. Izsák gagged and squirmed but he didn’t pull off, didn’t even try. Derek wasn’t holding him still because he didn’t have to. They didn’t speak to each other, but he understood in that moment the depths of Izsák’s devotion to him. He knew Izsák would do anything for him. Would kill for him. Would give his own blood, his own body, if it would satisfy Derek.

“I’m gonna cum,” he says, panting. Izsák is too hot and wet and perfect around his cock. He thrusts deep, feels his balls slap Izsák’s chin and he grinds against the back of his throat, and Izsák chokes on a moan. His worship becomes even more fervent. His hands grip the back of Derek’s thighs, squeezing his ass, spurring him into more violent movements and keeping them locked together. He wants everything Derek has to give him. He accepts it all, the hunger and brutality, his every whim and desire. When Derek cums down his throat, Izsák gags on it, his hands tightening on Derek’s legs, but he stays. He looks up at Derek through hazy eyes and swallows obediently. He lets Derek soften in his throat, sucking gently as though to milk him of the last of his climax.

Derek lays there, dazed and confused, realizing he’s alone and his sheets are soiled. It takes time to catch his breath. He lies in his own mess, eyes closed. He’s still there, in the castle dungeon. The dreamfog begins to clear. He isn’t standing anymore. He’s reclining, encased in liquid warmth. When he moves his hands, red swirls around them. He licks it off his fingers. It’s hot, metallic, and sickly sweet. It’s so clear, so detailed and real, that Derek is startled to open his eyes to the dark ceiling of his own room again. 

Just a dream, he tells himself. His heart is still racing.

*

Five days after the art museum, Derek’s determination to ignore all the strangeness is shot. Pretending that everything is fine and he isn’t turning into a fucking vampire goes from a chore to a battle of epic proportions against his own body. He’s hungry all the time, his libido is out of control, and he has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep himself from sinking his teeth into anyone else. He takes Emilia out to see a movie and he can’t focus on anything but her neck. The way the light plays across it, the moving shadows, the outline of her muscles every time she swallows or laughs. He imagines himself biting her, his jaw clamping down on her throat like a wild animal. He tells her he has to use the bathroom halfway through and jacks off in a stall fantasizing about tasting her carotid artery.

Asking Izsák is out of the question. His pride won’t allow it. Izsák is already smug as fuck about all of this, sneaking up on Derek constantly and asking very pointed questions about how he’s feeling or whether he’s had enough to drink, all with that fucking smile on his face. He retreats to his room in his father’s house, blessed with a rare moment of privacy, and gets online. The tentative approach doesn’t get him far; a quick online diagnosis gives him two types of cancer. In desperation, he starts trying the things he’s heard Izsák casually mention, names he can’t remember right and places he can’t spell. 

Inevitably, he finds her. Frozen in time, she gazes back at him from her lofty position atop a webpage detailing her atrocities. One hand rests daintily upon a faded red tablecloth, the other holding an embroidered handkerchief. She isn’t smiling and there’s a weariness to her regality, a thinly veiled disdain in her eyes. Derek feels that he knows her, that he recognizes that quiet sneer. He’s seen it in the mirror before. A strange, twisting feeling knots up his stomach, and he doesn’t fully understand it, doesn’t know what all of this means, but he knows something has happened to him. Some change has taken root. 

He skims the page absently, the words washing over him both exhilarating and deeply familiar. Torture. Mutilation. Bloodbaths. The stories are fantastical, too incredible to be true, and yet there is no shortage of them. Derek searches further, needing to find her, needing to know exactly who she was. Elizabeth, Erzsébet, the Bloody Countess—no matter what she’s called, Derek finds kinship in the morbid details. Born into wealth and excess, thrust into the noble’s spotlight, and utterly disinterested in it all. She was on a quest for timelessness, to escape the mundane world. She performed as Derek does, marrying, attending to her courtly duties, wearing the mask of contented civility, but she also indulged and hunted, relishing in the viciousness of it all. Derek looks at her portrait with newfound emotion, something heavy yet freeing.

He almost isn’t surprised when Izsák speaks as though suddenly materialized behind his chair, “Your father sent me, sir. I am to prepare you for this evening.” Derek turns and examines Izsák, searching for things he hasn’t noticed before, or things he didn’t want to notice. His easy, eager submission. His smile. His eyes that know Derek, know what he wants, what he needs before Derek himself is even aware. Eyes that have seen centuries.

“Which one?” Derek asks. 

Izsák tilts his head, silently seeking clarification. He’s smiling very slightly. Did the Blood Countess see this same smile? Did it greet her before grand balls, assuring her of the safety of her secrets? Did it welcome her to the dungeon, her private sanctuary?

“She had accomplices,” Derek says. “Servants who helped her keep things quiet. Some of them were questioned at the trial.” He doesn’t clarify; doesn’t have to. Izsák listens patiently, his smile widening as though this is precisely what he’s been waiting for. How long has he waited? Derek wonders. How much longer was he willing to wait? “There was one man who helped her torture her victims, but the rest were women. One was her old wetnurse, and one was one of her personal servants. The other two were witches or something. Right?” Dorottya and Darvulia. He didn’t bother to learn the rest of the names, but he memorized those. One of them was important. One of them mattered more than all the rest.

Izsák hums thoughtfully. “That is what many people say, yes.” 

Derek stands up and hits him. It’s sudden, impulsive, happening so quickly that he doesn’t realize he’s done it until his hand starts to sting. Izsák touches his reddened cheek with soft, uncertain strokes, as though he’s just as surprised. The way he looks at Derek is wrong. Not disdain. Not disappointment. Elation. The joy of a long-awaited reunion.

“Which one are you?” Derek asks.

Just like in the dream, Izsák sinks to his knees before Derek. The movement is slow and graceful, as though he’s done it a thousand times before. He takes one of Derek’s hands in his and holds it as though it’s something precious. “I am the one who did not betray you,” he says, pressing his lips to the back of Derek’s hand. The gesture is gentle and intimate, stirring something violent within him. He wants to hurt Izsák. He wants to dirty him. He wants to thank him for coming back after all this time, saving him from suffocating in his own constant performance, but he only knows how to lie about gratitude, not show it for real.

The one who didn’t betray him. Derek turns the words over in his mind to admire like precious stones. He remembers—did he read it somewhere, or does the knowledge come from somewhere else?—that the countess’ servants were called to stand trial. Each one confessed to the atrocities, the beatings, the bloodletting. The man. The wetnurse. The servant. Even Dorottya broke her vow of silence and servitude to testify against her mistress. They all betrayed her.

All but loyal Darvulia, her devotion unending. She wasn’t there that day. Already dead, some stories say. It doesn’t matter. Derek knows what became of her now. He threads his fingers through Izsák’s hair.

“I don’t get it,” he admits. “I don’t get how it works. But I believe you. I see pictures of her, and I know we’re the same.” 

Izsák nuzzles against Derek’s palm like an animal, a pet seeking affection. It’s intoxicating, the power he holds, the total submission Izsák gives him, unchanged by the centuries. It feels right. It makes sense the way a dream does in the midst of it. “I couldn’t save you,” Izsák murmurs. “I was not strong enough then. This time will be different.” 

Derek is too caught up in the thick need in Izsák’s voice, the curve of his spine as he leans into Derek’s touch, to understand the words right away. “Save me from what?” he asks, but Izsák is already standing, stepping away from him. Derek isn’t done with him. He yanks him back by the forearm and bites him without warning, leaving the shape of his teeth in his earlobe. “Save. Me. From. What,” Derek growls, each word punctuated with a nip to Izsák’s delicate skin. He bruises so easily. 

“From your family,” Izsák gasps. He holds onto Derek, moves against him shamelessly. Derek feels how hard Izsák is and smirks against the fluttering flesh of his throat. He slides his thigh between Izsák’s legs, giving him the privilege of rutting against it. Izsák is so needy, so desperate to serve and explain as he chases his own pleasure, his words coming in breathless pants and whines. “Just as it was before, your own blood plots against you. Your father, he—oh, sir, please!” 

Derek can’t pay attention to whatever Izsák is trying to tell him. It doesn’t matter. Nothing is more important right now than getting inside of Izsák and tasting him. “On the bed,” he demands, and Izsák obeys without question. They’re all over each other. Derek savors the roaming worship of Izsák’s hands down his biceps and across his chest. It feels good. It feels right. He can’t get undressed fast enough, still shedding clothes as he nips and licks at Izsák’s tempting neck, and Izsák is so good and obedient, turning his head to give Derek better access. “You really are mine,” Derek says.

“All yours, sir,” Izsák says. Derek has barely touched him and he looks blissed out already, eyes glazed, a delirious smile on his face as though just being in Derek’s presence is the greatest of pleasures. He unbuttons his shirt further, exposing a tantalizing flash of his collarbones and old, faded marks Derek left days ago. “Take me. Drink from me. Do with me whatever pleases you.” Izsák’s nails sink into his shoulders as he pulls himself up enough to whisper against Derek’s ear, “Please, master. I’ve waited for you.” 

The final, worn string of Derek’s self-control snaps. He bites into Izsák like he’s meat. He hears skin and tissue give beneath his teeth, splitting, squelching open, tastes the tangy burst of Izsák’s lifeblood on his tongue. He ruts against Izsák’s hard, twitching cock, trapped between their bodies, and Izsák’s head falls back in ecstasy. Derek sucks at the wound and tastes Izsák’s tenderness, the sharp sweetness of him. It’s so good, so right and familiar. Izsák was born for this, born for him. He would never belong to anyone the way he belonged to Derek, would never know anyone as deeply, would never want anyone as wholly. Somehow, arched and gasping, Izsák moves himself, grinds slowly against Derek’s achingly hard cock. He reaches between them and guides Derek to his twitching, anticipating hole. Derek slams inside of his welcoming, tight heat and his eyes roll back in his head. Nothing has ever felt so good.

“You’re mine. My loyal little toy. My cockslut,” Derek hisses, unclamping his jaws from Izsák’s neck just to find a new, fresh spot to taste. Izsák shudders around him, beneath him. His legs open wider. Derek hooks Izsák’s ankles over his shoulders and bends him in half. It’s new, doing it like this. He’s fucked Izsák while looking at him a couple times but never staring like this, never pressed chest to chest and sharing breath. Izsák’s lips are right there and he moves without thinking, swooping in, crushing their mouths together. So soft and tender. His teeth crunch through Izsák’s lower lip and blood gushes into his mouth, heady and intoxicating. “Can’t get enough of you,” he moans into Izsák’s mouth.

Izsák’s nails rake down his back hard enough to draw blood. Derek lets him. It’s better that way, more raw, more wonderful. He pulls back to admire the blood and saliva smeared across Izsák’s lips, dripping down his chin. It feels like the desert in his room, the heat, the intensity, a soft body surrendering beneath him. He slams his cock into Izsák’s helpless body over and over again, relishing the sensations, the sounds, the desperate raggedness of Izsák’s breathing. He crushes Izsák against the bed and this time he kisses him. He should’ve done it earlier. Izsák’s mouth is so hot, so soft and slutty and wanting him. He sucks on Izsák’s tongue as he fucks him into the mattress, hips pistoning, cock drilling into his pliant, shaking body.

Izsák has been wanton and shameless before, but this is more than that. This is devotion, Derek thinks. This is what he’s always deserved. Izsák’s thighs quiver as Derek pounds into him, so hard and fast his own legs are straining but he can’t bring himself to stop. The pleasure is blinding, a liquid heat in the pit of his stomach. He’s kissing Izsák in filthy, hungry ways that he’s never done with any of his girlfriends, licking into him, tangling their tongues together, sucking on the bite he left for every bead of blood that bubbles to the surface. He’s going to cum. He’s going to claim Izsák so thoroughly, so completely, that he’ll never be satisfied by anyone else ever again. He’ll worship Derek’s cock just like this with his whole body. He’ll beg for it. He’ll beg for a chance to suck his dick under the table at dinner parties. He’ll thank Derek when he cums down his throat and swallow every drop.

Izsák is his. He might be Derek’s father’s assistant on paper, he might spread his legs for him sometimes, but he’s Derek’s. He’s been Derek’s across centuries, across continents. He’s come all this way just to get on his knees before Derek, where he belongs. Derek squeezes Izsák’s ass, digs his nails in. This is mine, he thinks. This body, this mind, this entire being. He stops kissing Izsák to nose against the other side of his neck, licking and teasing the unbroken skin.

Derek smirks against Izsák’s hammering pulse. He’s close. He’s going to cum. He fucks Izsák deep, grinds against him, feels his balls roll over Izsák’s smooth skin. “Beg me to bite you,” he purrs. 

Izsák clings even more tightly, begs even more sweetly. “Please, give me your bite,” Izsák cries for him. “I need it. I was born to receive it. Please use me, make me yours. I should always belong to you, master.” 

Derek cums hard, buried deep inside of Izsák. Everything whites out, sight and sound and understanding consumed by orgasm. There’s a sharp stinging sensation somewhere on his body, a pain that crests with the pleasure, intermingled too tightly to process on its own. Izsák writhes and whimpers through his own orgasm, his own cum splattering across his chest and Derek fills him. It feels like the aftershocks last forever, heat rushing through him, waves and pulses.

Derek is trembling when he pulls out of Izsák, watching Izsák’s hole clench obscenely around emptiness as cum leaks out of him. Neither of them speaks for some time, basking in the completion of it all. Derek feels the world swaying as though he’s riding a metronome, the call of sleep smothering and irresistible. He can’t believe how hard he came. There’s still blood on his mouth and he licks his lips, humming at the taste. He feels someone touch him; Izsák, gentle and reverent. Tracing his muscles. Caressing his chest. He doesn’t cuddle, but when he’s this tired, teetering on the edge of oblivion, he can’t complain.

He wonders if they did this before. If Countess Bathory laid with sweet, loyal Darvulia, cuddled like lovers. Just this once, he thinks, he’ll let Izsák get away with it. For old times’ sake.

*

—murmurs. Someone calling him. Calling his name. Softly and distantly, then loud. Close. Not Izsák. Not respectful enough.

“Derek. Get up.” 

A rustling sound, the scrape of curtains rising. Blinding, burning light assaults Derek’s eyes and he groans, rolling over. God, what time is it? Sleep clings stubbornly to his mind, clouding his thoughts. He’s sore, mostly in his legs and back. Right, it’s coming back to him. He and Izsák fucked last night. Izsák, Darvulia, hundred year old Hungarian witch, whatever. It was some of the best sex of his life. But usually, it’d be Izsák who comes and gets him in the morning, so why is his father here, looming over Derek’s bed and refusing to leave? 

“What?” he says, groggy. His father is frowning in that tense, disappointed way that turns Derek’s stomach. He sees it directed at other people mostly, former business partners, overambitious rivals, people who really, really fuck up. Derek’s mouth goes dry. “What?” he says again, struggling to sit up straight. What happened? What did he do? He can’t be mad about Izsák, right, it’s not like they were being subtle. Did he forget something?

Derek looks at the window and fuck, it’s late,he must’ve slept through an event he was supposed to go to or some shit. He rubs his eyes, pushing himself to remember. He thinks, maybe, there was some kind of afternoon social he was supposed to make an appearance at, but the details are foggy. Why is his head pounding like that? It’s like having a hangover. He feels like he slept for decades.

His father paces halfway across the room. Derek follows the movement with his eyes and spots something at the foot of the bed. Is that blood? Dirt? Some kind of ugly stain on the sheets. They really got carried away last night, he thinks, but then he sees an arm.

Just an arm. 

Not Izsák’s. He’s not sure why his mind goes there immediately, but it’s not, he knows it isn’t. Izsák doesn’t wear flaking pink nail enamel with glitter. He just knows there’s a severed human arm on his bed and a bunch of stains around it. Definitely dried blood, but there’s dirt, too, like someone dug up a grave, and.

That’s cum. That’s definitely a cum stain. Derek’s eyes slowly trail up to meet his father’s. His father looks down at him and doesn’t say a word. Derek swallows hard and tries to think of something, anything, that he can say. Nothing comes to mind.

“I’ve had concerns,” his father says. Derek can barely hold his gaze. That judgment, that cold scrutiny—he works tirelessly to escape it, to put on the most convincing performance he can. “You don’t know the first thing about discretion. That’s one thing. It’s another that you think I’ll clean up all of your messes for you.” 

Derek glances at the arm, sprawled grotesquely over his sheets. “I don’t know what that is,” he says hoarsely. Obviously he knows what it is, but he doesn’t know how it got there.

“I’ve been lenient,” his father goes on, as if Derek never spoke. “Too lenient. I’ve turned a blind eye to most of your deviancy. But this? This crosses the line. I should have listened to Izsák sooner.”

Derek’s blood goes cold in his veins. “What does that mean?” he demands. His father turns his back on him. Derek throws himself out of bed, rushing after him. “What the fuck does that mean?” 

“It means you’re cut off,” his father says. He doesn’t even look at him when he speaks. “I want your things out of here by tonight, but don’t go too far. The police want to speak with you. Something about graverobbing and desecration of a corpse.” 

Derek stands there numbly, watching his father walk out and the door slam shut behind him. No. He didn’t do it. He didn’t do any of this. He looks back at the arm hatefully. What the fuck is it doing there, ruining his life? Heat rises to his face, shame, humiliation. Maybe he was getting a little arrogant, brazenly packing his bags for his desert outings, leaving things lying around in plain sight, but it was always so easy to explain away. He’s good at his performance. No one suspected anything. If he’s going to get caught, it’s not going to be for some bullshit he didn’t even do. He wipes angry, helpless tears out of his eyes and storms downstairs. Izsák. He needs to find Izsák.

He runs into other housekeepers who pale and dart out of his way. Derek ignores them. He doesn’t care about any of them, his gaze lingering only if they’re the right height, wearing the right uniform. No sign of Izsák in any of the usual places. No one in the kitchen. Not a soul out by the pool. He scares a gardener when he comes storming through but finds nobody else. His father has retreated elsewhere in the house and Derek finds his office abandoned, paperwork strewn across his desk. Derek sees several financial forms and summaries, land deeds, company assets, stocks and bonds. A copy of his father’s will sits in the corner and Derek’s heart stops.

Under the section for inheritors, his name isn’t listed. Neither are any of his siblings or cousins. Not even Clarice shows up anywhere. But one name does appear, getting absolutely everything his father could possibly leave behind.

Izsák Varga.

There is one moment of silence. A lack of comprehension. Derek reads the name several times before it makes sense. Then comes the storm building, the fire and venom churning inside of him, a tight, clenching pain in his chest. Disbelief. Bitter humor. A hatred so powerful it makes him lightheaded and hot in the face. He goes through the stages of grief in the span of a millisecond, mourning something he didn’t realize he even wanted, and a crazed smile stretches across his face.

Calmly and quietly, he goes upstairs and begins going through his things. He shoves his dresser out of the way and pushes aside a false wall panel concealing a large, musty-smelling duffel bag. He unzips it, checks the contents. Grains of sand trickle from an open compartment. Good. Everything he needs. He’s angry. He can’t remember the last time he was this angry, his hands shaking, his whole body seeming to vibrate with the need to stab and strangle. But there’s an excited edge to it, the sort of anticipation that comes with his vacations.

I’m going to fucking kill him, he thinks. I’m going to make him beg for death.

He’s smiling too big, too honestly. He feels giddy and he can’t hide it. A woman dusting in the hall gives him a wide berth when he passes, plastering herself against the wall. He’s a predator passing, a wolf with better things to do and bigger prey in mind. He licks his lips. His mask fails him. He doesn’t even try to pretend anymore.

[princess-of-riviaa]

My Captain

Pairing: Captain Walter Syverson x Reader

Summary: You are the only one by his side to heal him after Captain Syverson gets attacked in the field. As an army medic, you do your best to stay professional, but Syverson makes it a bit of a challenge.

Warning(s): gore, injury, mentions of suicide, handjob, blowjob, dirty talk, slight voyeurism/exhibitionism

Word Count: 3,930

A/N: Apologies for no gif, i couldn’t find any that fit this scene and I didn’t want to settle for a random one of Sy, so I put nothing:(

The door to the bathroom slams open as you half-limp to the bathtub, your captain struggling to remain conscious. Syverson is a big guy, even for military standards, but your thorough army training allows you to help keep him on his feet, though you struggle to do much more than that. You place him in the bathtub but accidentally lose your grip at the last second. He falls with a cringeworthy thud that is sure to leave a deep bruise on his glute.

“Shit, I’m sorry--I lost my grip,” you get out as you hurry back through the captain’s main room--damn, his quarters are way nicer than yours; he’s living like a king in comparison to your shared dorm--and find his emergency aid kit. There’s enough gauze and stitches in it to cover his wounds. You rush back to the bathroom and turn on the faucet. Hot water comes pouring out, instantly filling the room with steam.

Syverson’s eyelids droop. That’s a worrying sign, especially since the skin around his mouth is still blue.

You reach for your swiss knife on your belt--the last clean weapon you have--and slice open the captain’s bloodied shirt. He isn’t much help in getting his clothing over his shoulders and down his legs, but after a minute or two of awkward struggling you toss the ruined clothes in the corner to deal with later.

By now the tub is halfway full, sloshing around Syverson’s legs as you maneuver around his body, trying to clean out the wounds on his arms before stitching them shut with half-shaking hands. You’ve dealt with wounded soldiers in the field before, too many times to count, but this is different. This is your captain, your leader, the person you and the rest of your unit turn to for guidance on anything and everything, and he’s bleeding out right in front of you--while simultaneously suffering from hypothermia.

Syverson mumbles something, but he speaks too softly for you to understand him. Still, the sound of his voice gets your attention and you look up to see his eyes closed. You tap his cheek three times to get him to wake up again.

“...fucking hurts,” you hear him mumble.

You nod. “I know, but it’s almost over. You just gotta hold on, okay? Keep your eyes on me, okay?”

You turn your attention back to his bicep, pulling the thread through your last stitch to his bullet wound. You sigh in relief just as you see the water begin to stir. One glance down at Syverson’s body tells you that his legs are shaking--he’s shivering.

“I shouldn’t be… shiverin’ … in hot water, right?” He struggles to get out through waves of fatigue and pain and cold.

“It’s good,” you assure him. “Shivering means your body is warming up again. You were too cold to shiver before. The blood loss wasn’t helping either, but your wounds are closed now, so that should help.”

Silence passes between you. He makes an obvious effort to keep his eyes open and not let his teeth chatter. You watch as the color in his face returns to normal, a lively red filling his cheeks and lips again.

You begin to rise to your feet. “Okay, I’ll wait in the room--”

He grabs your hand before you can move. You stare down at it, your brain trying to process the sight in front of you. He didn’t just grab your hand. He laced his fingers through your own. He holds your hand with a desperate grip, a terrified grip. Syverson has never let himself look like anything other than a god of war in front of his men. But right now is different. Your captain is in enough pain to make him scared; ten minutes ago he was giving death a stare-down, so you can’t entirely blame him. It’s just… alarming. You’ve never seen him look like this before. He’s never seemed so… human.

Just one more thing to add to the neverending list of things that makes Syverson hot as fucking hell.

“S-stay,” he whimpers out. His voice is so weak that you suddenly feel bad for ogling over him, even if it was only for a few seconds.

“I won’t go anywhere,” you promise him and move to sit beside the tub.

The water fills with blood and dirt and grime quickly. You have to drain the tub and refill it twice before the water is anything close to clean. By that point Syverson is back to his senses and refuses to tell you how bad the pain is, no matter how many times you remind him that you’re the medic and it’s crucial that he be honest with you.

I ain’t dying, so quit acting like I am, is all he says.

Now that the mood in the room has settled, you can no longer ignore the fact that your captain is completely naked in front of you. You force yourself to keep your gaze on his wounds, refusing to look anywhere south of his chest, but the temptation is still there. A taut warmth makes its home in the pit of your stomach. It takes everything in you to not focus on the… particular body parts you can sneak into your peripheral vision.

Stay professional, you scold yourself.

“I’m dirty as all hell,” Syverson says suddenly, breaking the tense silence. He nods towards the sink. “There’s a sponge under the sink. Hand me it, will ya?”

You find it easily, though hold back from laughing at the fact that Captain Walter Syverson owns a pink shower puff.

“Don’t you dare.” He scowls as he takes it from you and begins to scrub his arms clean of dirt, careful to avoid his fresh stitches.

You hold your hands up innocently. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“You were thinking it.” Syverson struggles to reach his shoulders and winces as he stretches to scrub his back.

You move to sit behind him and tell him you can do it. He offers you the shower puff and you slowly, gently begin to clean his back, mesmerized by the artpiece between his shoulder blades. You’ve never seen Syverson completely shirtless before, so this is your first time seeing the tattoo. It’s two rows of dates written in thick Roman numerals: 08.12.1980 - 09.11.2001. You’ve seen these kinds of tattoos before. They’re in remembrance of someone you’ve lost, usually their birthday to their death date. You get the urge to ask Syverson who died, who he lost, but you know him well enough to know that he’d be grateful if you didn’t pry. So you stay silent, instead continuing to scrub his back and the parts of his arms he missed.

Once his back is clean you move back to his side and start to clean his legs, starting at his ankles and working your way up. You’re so focused on the water and soap in your hands, in every scar and fresh cut your hands rub against as you clean him, that you hardly hear him speak.

“It was my brother,” Syverson says.

You look up at him, not knowing what he’s referring to. “What was?”

“The tatt,” he confesses. “I know you saw it.”

You’re quiet, resisting the urge to voice every question you’re thinking right now. You never knew Syverson had siblings, let alone a brother that he’d lost.

“Thank you,” Syverson says as you make your way to his knees, your heart racing faster the further up his leg you move.

You pause. “Why are you thanking me?”

“You didn’t ask about it,” he explains. “Most people are too curious to be respectful and shut their mouths. And you didn’t look at me with pity when I told you it was my brother. Everyone does. I fucking hate it.”

You shrug. “It’s your story. You shouldn’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“You’ve lost someone,” he realizes.

You’re quiet. It’s hard to grow up in a military family and not have lost a few people. Of course you’ve lost someone. Doesn’t mean you ever want to say the words out loud. But Syverson told you, and it’s only fair. “My cousin. He, um… he killed himself.”

Syverson doesn’t say anything, just nods, but the look in his eyes when he holds your gaze… you feel seen. You feel like he’s heard everything you didn’t say. It’s a weird feeling. Not bad, but not exactly good either. But it helps.

You return to cleaning his legs. You move as slow as you can, making sure to clean over every inch of skin twice, but it’s only a matter of time before you make it past his thighs and have nothing left to clean but his navel.

“Um…” Shit, your breathing is unsteady. He can no doubt hear the nerves in your voice. You avoid his gaze as you ask, “Do you want me to…?” Do you want me to clean your navel? I’ll happily clean your cock too, just say the word.

Instead of answering he grabs your wrist and draws your hand and the shower puff towards the pit of his stomach. Your heart skips a beat. Two. Fuck, you can feel how wet you are suddenly. For the first time you let your gaze drop to his manhood. He’s blessed with a good eight inches and thick girth, so thick you have to wonder how the hell he can get inside a woman without splitting her in two. Dark hairs curl above the base of his shaft, and his balls look heavy and smooth. Heat rushes to your face as you feel your mouth begin to water. What the hell is wrong with you? You have no doubt that Syverson is aware of exactly which part of him you’re staring at, and you can practically feel him gloating. Still, you can’t bring yourself to tear your eyes away from him.

“Sy--”

“I want you,” he confesses.

You swallow, unable to meet his gaze. He’s delirious from the blood loss, or maybe the heat in the room is getting to you and you’re hallucinating--

“I’ve wanted you since that night you walked in on me and Captain Gonzalez,” Syverson continues, and his words bring back a flood of memories that, until now, you’ve managed to suppress.

You’d been wandering to the captain’s quarters--you were bringing something to him, but now you can’t remember what it was--and stopped to knock on his door when you heard the sound of someone moaning in what you thought had been pain. So you’d opened the door, your mind switching from Sergeant to Medic in less than a second, and froze when you saw what was actually happening.

Captain Gonzalez, one of the three captains on base, was on her hands and knees. Her black hair--normally combed back into a perfect low bun--was knotted and sticking to her face with thick droplets of sweat. Her eyes were closed in what could only be described as pleasure so intense it’s borderline painful. She gripped the  bedsheets in front of her like they were a lifeline while Captain Syverson fucked into her from behind like a dog in heat. The muscles in his stomach and arms flexed with each thrust, and the way his brow furrowed in concentration on top of the animalistic grunts he made with each movement made you gasp. Luckily, Gonzalez didn’t hear and therefore didn’t open her eyes amidst her blissful orgasm, but Syverson heard. Syverson looked from his lover to you. His pace didn’t stop, merely slowed as he held your gaze. And then, when he realized you couldn’t seem to look away, he sped up his movements, pounding into the other women with such strength and intensity that the headboard banged against the wall. He was putting on a show for you. A predator toying with his prey, making you completely aware of every ounce of power inside his body. Making you aware of everything he was capable of, the pain and pleasure he was able to make someone drown in. For several seconds you stood frozen, unable to walk away from this side of him. He was the pure embodiment of strength and dominance--though there was nothing pure about it. You raced out of the room as soon as your brain figured out how to work again. You didn’t dare look back.

You thought he’d forgotten about it. You thought you’d imagined him catching you. You thought the entire encounter had been a dream.

But Syverson’s words make your worst nightmare come true.

You pull your hand away, dropping the shower puff and letting it bounce on the surface of the water. “I’m so sorry, I never meant to walk in on you--”

“But you were glad you did,” he says. “I can see it all over your face. You haven’t been the same around me since that night. You barely look me in the eyes anymore. Because you liked it, right? Because you liked watching your captain fuck someone, liked knowing I can make a woman scream so easily, huh? Tell me, did you touch yourself to the thought of me when you went back to your dorm that night?”

“Syverson--” you begin.

“Would it make you feel better if you knew I jerked off to the thought of you, too? The way you looked at me, that cute little blush on your cheeks and your eyes glued to my body--fuck, it left me unsatisfied even after Gonzalez had had her fill.” He lifts his hand from the water and grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to look him in the eyes. He searches your face for something. “I want you, and I know you want me.”

You open your mouth but he beats you to it.

“Am I wrong?”

You hesitate before shaking your head, admitting what you always swore you would keep secret. “But you’re my captain.”

“I don’t care about rank,” he insists. “Not in here. Not right now.”

You swallow, unable to walk away from him. You want this--god, do you want this with him. You didn’t realize how much until that night you walked in on him, but it was undeniable after that. And you’ve spent too many nights since then getting yourself off to the thought of him fucking you just like that, doing your best to muffle your moans into your pillow so as not to wake your roommate. You’re tired of just using your own hand to find your release; you want to know what it would feel like with his fingers between your folds instead.

“I want you to touch me,” Syverson says. “But I won’t force you. You’ll only do this if you let yourself.”

You hesitate. You don’t even know where to start. “H-how?”

“The way you’ve thought about doing since that night.” His voice is barely more than a whisper, but it sends shivers down your spine and steals the breath from your lungs.

Before you can talk yourself out of it you lower your hand into the water and wrap your hand around the base of his shaft. He’s long enough that his tip breaks the water’s surface. You can see how red it is, and you can’t tell if it’s bath water or precum making his tip shine, but you want to taste it nonetheless.

“Fuck, you’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to see this,” Syverson curses. “How long I’ve wanted to feel your hand wrapped around my cock. Go ahead, baby, move your hand up and down.”

You’re hesitant at first. Even once you begin to move, your hand is shaky and unsure. Syverson wraps his hand around your own--fuck, he makes your hand look so tiny, it’s almost laughable--and guides you up and down his cock at a pace and grip that he prefers. He closes his eyes in pleasure. The sight of him like this--open and vulnerable and lustful and godlike--makes your thighs clench together. You almost lose yourself in the sight of the blissed-out expression on his face before remembering that you have a task to do and you turn your attention back to his shaft. He drops his hand back to his side and lets you continue. You take pride in the fact that you know how to do it now, and when he releases his first “fuck!” and a deep moan quickly after, you’re practically glowing with pride. Or you would be, if the sight of him and the sounds he’s making only for you weren’t so arousing. You speed up your ministrations and even add a second hand to the water to begin massaging his balls. You’re not entirely sure what you’re doing--you’ve never actually been physical with a guy before--but you’ve watched enough porn to know the basics. Syverson’s breathing speeds up and he throws his head back. You watch with lustful adoration as his abs clench and unclench with every breath he struggles to take.

“Does this feel good?” you dare to ask, your voice breaking through the quiet in the room.

“Shit, baby, you’re gonna make me cum if you keep that up,” he growls.

The way he says baby with that Texan accent of his makes you swoon. How can he make such a simple word sound so dirty?

Your hand moves up and down his shaft twice, three more times before he squeezes your wrist to make you stop. You freeze, thinking you’ve done something wrong. When you look up at him, his blue-eyed gaze is on you.

“I ain’t wasting my seed in this bathwater,” he says. “The only way I’m coming is if it’s inside of you.”

Your eyes pop. The alarm must be written all over your face because he’s quick to explain himself.

“Your mouth, baby,” Syverson says. “I wanna cum in your mouth.”

His candor leaves you speechless. Your entire face is burning with an intense blush and your mouth is dry. You know you won’t be able to answer him verbally. So instead you turn towards the drain and pull it up. Syverson’s gaze is so intense that it burns a hole in the side of your face, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him. He’s turned you into shaking putty, but you’re not complaining. The way he makes you feel wanted more than any other woman with just his words, the way he makes you feel sexy and powerful with the way he looks at you… it’s definitely startling, but it’s addicting too.

“When I’m healed,” Syverson begins, “and I can actually move without it feeling like every bone in my body is breaking, I’m going to fuck you.”

He’s not asking for permission. He’s telling you. There’s something so dominant about that. It makes your toes curl.

“I need to be inside of you, darlin’,” he continues. “I need to know what you feel like when I enter you, need to know the sounds you make when I fuck you to your fifth orgasm. You got that?”

You finally bring your eyes to his and nod. Somehow your body is burning up yet covered in goosebumps. Have you ever wanted someone with the intensity that you want your captain?

The last of the water finally drains out of the tub and you hop inside. Syverson is large enough that it’s a tight fit with the both of you, but you manage to fit between his legs. You move to your hands and knees, staring at his cock just inches from your face.

“Put me in your mouth baby,” he moans.

And you do. The salt of his precum hits your tastebuds instantly, but it’s not a completely horrible taste. You manage to fit the majority of him inside of your mouth, something he’s clearly surprised about.

“Fuck baby, have you done this before? Let other soldiers fuck that perfect little mouth of yours?”

You don’t answer, instead just focus on not gagging too much around his shaft. You don’t succeed for long. By the time you pull back and take in a deep gasp of air, spit is running down your chin and your eyes are watering.

“You’ve no idea how fuckin’ hot you look right now,” Syverson says, sounding like he’s under a trance.

His filthy words spur you on and you put him back in your mouth. You begin to bob your head up and down and move your hand along the base of him, which you still can’t manage to fit inside your mouth. He only lasts a few seconds with you in control. You jump when you feel his good hand move to the back of your hand.

“Can I fuck your mouth?” he asks.

You moan in response, and you hope he knows that means yes.

He knots his fingers in your hair and begins to move your head along his shaft at a much faster pace. You can’t breathe through your mouth anymore and instead focus on getting air through your nose as your eyes water again. Syverson makes a sound you’ve never heard from him before--a sound of someone tumbling over an edge, a sound of losing control and loving every second of it--and a second later your mouth is filled with the warm, salty taste of his cum. You swallow every warm drop that falls against your tongue.

It’s only when you finally pull away from him that you realize the gravity of what you’ve just done. You just gave your boss a blowjob. You just bathed him while he was completely naked. You just admitted that you have a crush on him, even if you didn’t use as many words.

“Shit,” you breathe out.

“What is it?” Syverson asks, still fighting through his haze of pleasure.

“I can’t believe we just did this,” you admit. “I can’t believe I just…” You can’t even say it out loud. What had you been thinking?! You hadn’t been thinking, that much is clear.

“No one has to know,” he assures you. It doesn’t make you feel any better. So he adds, “And if someone does find out, which I’m sure as hell won’t happen, I’ll tell them the truth.”

You frown. “The truth?”

“That I came onto you,” he says. “And with me being your superior, you didn’t want to say no.”

“Syverson, that’s not true--”

“No one needs to know that,” he assures you. “I ain’t gonna let you get in trouble for this, alright? You gotta trust me.”

Well… he’s never let you down before. He’s kept his promises. He’s a good, trustworthy leader. You have no reason to not believe him. But still… “I can’t let you take the fall for this.”

He shrugs, then winces, instantly regretting the nonchalant movement. “The worst that’ll happen is I get probation. I won’t be able to go out to the field with y’all for a month. You’ll probably be under Gonzalez’s jurisdiction for a bit. That’s all.”

“That sounds serious,” you say.

He just brings his good hand to the side of your face and brushes his thumb across your cheek. “I knew the stakes when you carried me in here, Sergeant. I took the risk anyway. I’m gonna be the one who takes the fall for it. But trust me when I say it’ll be okay. I ain’t letting anything happen to you.”

And with the way his blue eyes shine with sincerity, you can’t help but believe him.

***

Tag Squad:

@agniavateira​ @hnryycvll​ @littlefreya​ @celestial-vomit​ @lestersglitterglue​ @watermeloncavill​ @honeychicana​ @penwieldingdreamer​ @mary-ann84​ @elixasays​ @buckysgoldenheart​ @noz4a2​ @trippedmetaldetector​ @omgkatinka​ @lunedelorient​ @aphrodites-punch​ @yespolkadotkitty​ @sweetybuzz25​ @iloveyouyen​ @deathonyourtongue​ @utterlyhopeful​ @wondersofdreaming​ @tsukuyomi011​ @the-soot-sprite @desperate-and-broken​ @jayismz @emelinelovesjc @palaiasaurus64​ @wolvesandhoundshowltogether​ @henrythickcavill​ @secretlyactivated​ @madbaddic7ed​ @persephonehemingway​ @geralt-of-baevia​ @stargazingfangirl18​ @thedarkplume​ @spookypeachx​ @pensieveforyourthoughts​ @aletheladyinred​ @littlemissthistle @designerwriterchic​ @becs-bunker​ @angelic-kisses13​ @captainbigdy​ @sestrasasylum​ @boundtomyfate​ @wednesdaybraids @harlotforhenry​ @radkesgirl83​ @xuxszx​ @kitkatd7​

Let me know if you want to be added/removed from my taglist!

[just-another-obsessed-fangirl]

slow motion, double vision in rose blush (Renora College AU)

Summary: Ren doesn't need alcohol to know how gorgeous his best friend is or to admit to himself (kind of, sort of) that his feelings towards her aren't exactly platonic. Apparently, he just needs it if he wants to be unable to ignore those facts.

Warnings: Drinking alcohol, some suggestive thoughts

Fic under the read more or can be read on AO3 here

I wrote this for Flower Power Week, but I didn’t see that there was a rule to keep works PG-13 until I was almost finished with this fic, and I figure this fic is already inherently a bit more mature than that, so I don’t think I should use the tag or tag the blog.

Hope you enjoy!

Parties wouldn't really be considered Ren's "thing".

 He much prefers the slightly-hectic-but-relatively-calm get-togethers of his friends that they manage to schedule every week or so amongst all their university classes. But it was the end of some particularly grueling midterms and everyone in their little friend group (and apparently, everyone on campus) had wanted to let loose and let wild after being cooped up with only their textbooks and their stress for so long. So that, and not enough displeasure at the plan to do anything about it, is how Ren ended up in the corner of the front room of some frat house with a red Solo cup in his hand.

 He doesn't know where most of his friends have gone. Ren hasn't seen all of them in one place since basically when they first arrived and Yang had shoved shots of - Ren hasn't drunk enough alcohol in his life to know for sure, but he would assume it's whiskey - into each of their hands. He didn't have much desire to down it in one go like most of the group, would rather let its burn come in little bursts than have all of the pain all at once. By the time he had finished it, Yang had taken Blake somewhere promising to dance, Ruby heard a rumor of a ping pong table and had set off to find it with Weiss so they can challenge each other, and Jaune and Pyrrha went… somewhere. The only friend who hadn't wandered off was Nora, who immediately upon finishing her shot had started pouring ice, orange juice, and maybe a tad too much vodka into a Solo cup.

 She had immediately come back to his side, expressing how much this was needed for her after midterms. Nora then starts rambling about what lengths she had gone to in order to make the information stick and the stomach aches she got from the stress and how she was shaking during her last test partly from how little sleep she had gotten in the past month from projects. At least, that's what Ren was pretty sure she was talking about. The music was so loud that he had to lean in pretty close to hear what Nora was saying, and even then he couldn't pick up half the words said. Which was a shame, because as much as people seem to believe he just ignores her, Ren does listen to everything his best friend wants to say, and he likes listening to everything she says.

 Nora must've noticed how close Ren was leaning in, or his discomfort at the loud music, as she then grabs his hand and walks them somewhere else, still talking all the while. The farther they walk, the quieter the music gets, the more Ren can hear Nora. They arrive at some far-off corner and Ren is more than content to stay there and listen to Nora for the rest of the night. But then a girl dressed more like she was going to a full-out rave rather than a college party rushes up to Nora and begs her to be her partner at beer pong.

 "Kobalt and Ivori are ‘too cool’ for it, and Flynt's our DD, so obviously he can't drink, and you're fun enough and I bet you'd be super good at beer pong-"

 Ren can tell Nora wants to say yes, but she keeps looking at him from the corner of her eye like she doesn't want to leave him alone. If he really had heard her correctly, then she is certainly deserving of some fun right now, and it might be a little awkward standing here alone but it wouldn't be the worst thing.

 "You should go," he says.

 Nora turns her head fully to him. "Are you sure? You gonna be okay here all by your lonesome?"

 Ren gives her a little smile. "I think I can manage."

 "Great!" the girl says with a clap of her hands. "So it's settled". She grabs the cup that Nora was holding and hands it off to Ren. "Now be a good boyfriend and keep this safe for her."

 Nora's face flushes, and Ren can feel that he does too. "Oh no, Neon, we're not-" but before she can continue her denial, Neon yanks her away to the beer pong table.

 They're a little ways away, but they are perfectly within Ren's eyesight. He can see that they're playing against Sun and Neptune. He doesn't know them too well but he hasn't known them as anything other than friendly. Well, Jaune might disagree at least where Neptune's concerned, but it's been ages and he's since got over his crush on Weiss, so he's probably okay with him now. They start their game and on her first try, Nora lands the ball cleanly into one of the other team's cups. She jumps and pumps her fist in the air, showing off that usual bright beautiful smile in her joy that always seems to lighten up every room and flood Ren's insides with warmth.

 He looks away a little, not wanting to acknowledge what that feeling really meant, even if he had finally admitted to himself that what he had felt for his best friend wasn’t exactly platonic. The admission itself is a barely-there kind of thing because no matter how much Ren would prefer it, he couldn't be in complete denial over it for the rest of time so he'll just settle for being as close to that as possible. Nora's his best friend, what they've had since they were kids - it's good. For the most part, he's completely fine with the way things are and Nora seems to also so why potentially ruin or try to change something that's practically perfect already? Before he could uncomfortably spiral into that thought process anymore, mercifully, he is interrupted. But not so mercifully, that interruption is from Nora, laughing so loud and wonderfully that Ren just plummets even deeper.

 Something funny must have happened. Or maybe not. It doesn't seem to take much to send Nora into a fit of laughter. He likes that about her, that she can let joy or other emotions in so easily and that she doesn't really care about how it may look or what others might think. He's glad there isn't some insecurity that keeps Nora from laughing so often. She has such a nice laugh and Ren likes knowing she's happy and it's nice that she does it so much. And her lips are so pretty, especially when she smiles. He can't help but keep his focus on them. That is until she throws her head back, showing off the nice smooth skin of her neck. Ren then starts to wonder what it would be like to press his lips to the side of it and just how she'd react before he realizes the nature of just what exactly he's thinking.

 His mouth goes dry. Without thinking, he raises Nora's cup to his lips to make it go away but it isn't until he's already swallowed and surprised himself with the hefty burn it leaves in his throat that he remembers what was in that cup. Yeah, he definitely took a much bigger sip than he should've, and there is definitely too much vodka in that. But the orange juice masks the taste of it for the most part and the ice soothes away a good amount of the burn, so it's definitely not the worst alcoholic drink Ren's ever had and might actually be one of the more pleasant ones. He takes a smaller sip of it out of a measured curiosity.

 Ren's eyes drift back to Nora. If he had any sense left in him, he'd focus on anything else, keep trying to avoid feelings he doesn't want to feel and thoughts that might be inappropriate, or definitely inappropriate. But it's as if Ren's field of vision can only narrow down to just her. There are clouds of pink on the edges of what he can see, threatening to fill up the entire room, and it seems as if the only way it won't happen is if he keeps Nora right in the center, where all her movements seem to be in slow motion.

 She picked a green top tonight, a color more associated with Ren more than Nora. She bears a little more skin in this top too, the two spaghetti straps unable to hide the nice, toned muscles of Nora's arms and shoulders along with her delicate collarbone. Ren had already noticed this top when everyone was on the way to the party, trying to figure out if it was new as he's pretty sure he had never seen it before. He must've been more obvious than he should've, because Pyrrha had nudged his shoulder then, giving him a coy little smile. "Green's a good color on Nora, isn't it?" Pyrrha had said, as if he hadn't already known that. Nora doesn't have a lot of green in her own wardrobe, but Ren does, and the times when she has worn the color were usually because she was wearing his clothes. She's done it often enough - stolen his sweater to fight the cold in the café while they were studying, hung his jacket from her shoulders walking around town, switched into one of his tees and sweats when she needed to crash at his dorm for one reason or another. It always feels nice seeing Nora in green, especially when it's his green. Ren would let Nora borrow his clothes any time just to see it more often.

 Nora's skirt is still her signature pink, but without the usual volume or swish ability that she loves so much. No, this skirt is… tighter. It clings to the shape of her quite well, accentuating her curves very nicely. She's doing a little dance right now, and it looks like she's singing too. Nora's a really good singer when she wants to be but he can't imagine she's deciding to be that right now. She bumps her hip against Neon's and spins around, does some shimmying movement. Ren's mouth goes dry again. He's starting to feel really warm. He should look away. Nora's his best friend. He shouldn't be getting mesmerized by the movement of her hips or tracing his eyes over the muscles of her arms, or even noticing how her outfit and especially that skirt, while she’s dancing, makes certain areas of Nora more prominent and - okay Ren's taking another drink. He's taking another drink because he needs another drink, because he needs to stop ogling Nora and thinking these kinds of thoughts about her.

 The burn hurts. It's a deserved punishment.

 He's a little woozy right now but he still feels guilty. Nora is beautiful. She's always been beautiful. Ren has known that even before realizing he liked her in that way. But that doesn't give him or anybody else the right to objectify her like that. It's obviously not like her being gorgeous is the only thing to Nora, and neither that nor the idea of them being physical together are why Ren fell in love with her in the first place.

 Love.

 Well, that is… definitely true. It's definitely true but Ren doesn't think he's ever admitted that much to himself before. In fact, he knows he hasn't because emotions are uncomfortable and scary and often irrational and he doesn't like dealing with them especially when it could ruin probably the most important relationship he has. Why did he have to realize this now? Why did he have to realize this at all? This is uncomfortable. He might be panicking. He feels off balance. Ren takes another drink just so that he can distract himself from all of this but it doesn't quite work by the time he's finished off the rest of it.

 There's nothing of this too-much-vodka concoction left and it is immediately apparent to Ren that that was not his brightest idea. He doesn't really drink too much, even at social gatherings. Their friends usually appoint him the designated driver, and he doesn't mind. If he does drink, he'll usually stop by the time he feels a hint of a buzz. This was… more than a hint. He's more off-balance than before, the room sways a little more and he thinks it's grown even pinker. His head feels cloudy. And this is the longest a burn has stayed in his throat. And he is so warm. Ren leans his back against the wall for some stability.

 His eyes come back to Nora because if Ren couldn't stop it before, he can't stop it now. She's still there, being beautiful and charming and full of life, laughing with the people around her, and of course Ren is in love with her, how could he ever try to deny that fact. Neptune comes up to her, leans in kind of close to say something. Ren doesn't like that, or the way he's looking at Nora. Maybe Jaune was right about him. Maybe the problem with Neptune is that he's too friendly. Neptune points his thumb somewhere and - wait, is he pointing at him? He must have because Nora immediately turns her head and catches Ren's eye. There's some expression on her face and she immediately sets off in his direction.

 There's something in Ren that tells him to act casual and he raises the cup to his lips one more time but is immediately reminded of the fact that there's nothing left in it so he figures he just looks stupid.

 "Hey," Nora says as she stops in front of him. "You okay?"

 Ren looks up from his empty cup and pushes himself off the wall. He probably used a lot more force than he should've and stumbles a bit, which Nora remedies by putting her hands on his shoulders. She laughs a little, and he can't help but feel even warmer.

 "Guess that answers my question," Nora giggles some more.

 "I'm fine," Ren says. He is very aware of how her fingers are splayed out on his shoulders, the pressure she's putting that's just enough to still him. It keeps him calm, but also doesn't, and his heart is beating so hard she must feel it where her hands are.

 Her eyes scan over his face. "I've never seen your face so red." Ren's sure it only gets redder then. "How much have you had to drink?"

 He wordlessly brings his attention back to the empty cup in his hand, which Nora follows. "You drank all of it?" she points at the cup, her eyes widening. "Ren, I put a lot of vodka in that!"

 Ren blinks a couple times, having to more manually process what Nora said while he was trying not to stare at her mouth. "I can tell," he says, maybe a couple of seconds too late.

 Nora raises an eyebrow. It's another cute look on her. "You don't really drink that much. There a reason why now?"

 There's genuine concern in her voice when she asks that question, and it's so sweet and Ren's heart beats a little faster and he wants to take that concern away from her. But he doesn't think answering that question truthfully is going to help that. Ren's pretty sure the best-case scenario of saying 'you're pretty and I love you' to Nora is causing her confusion to the point of distortion.

 "I was… thirsty." And that's really about as close to the truth as he can get. Ren shakes his head, but not too hard because the room is moving too much already and… ouch. "I'm sure you've had more tonight," nodding towards the beer pong table. She must've, shouldn't she? Is it just his alcohol-addled mind or does Nora not seem any bit of drunk at all?

 She scoffs. "Maybe not. Sun really doesn't like putting too much beer in those cups. Besides, that's beer, not hard liquor. And I'm more experienced with it than you, so it takes a bit more to get me down. I've had more practice."

 Nora shoots him a cheeky grin, a little closer to his face than she was before. She leaned in a bit when she was talking, migrated her hands closer to the base of his neck. It's nothing new. Nora being so physically affectionate is one of her trademark qualities. And Ren's happy to let her do that to him at any time, but he knows he generally seems unresponsive to it. But what if he responds to it now? He's not going to, he's absolutely not going to, but it's easier to fall into that daydream than usual. Ren could wrap his hands around Nora's waist, lean into this little space between them to ultimately close it. He could press his lips to that grin on her face, and Nora would be a little surprised, but in no time at all, she'd be kissing him back. She'd wrap her arms a little easier around his neck and she could press herself a little more against him, the idea of having any distance left between them as unappealing to Nora as it is to Ren.

 "Uhh, Ren?"

 He falls out of the daydream. "Oh! Ah… umm… huh?" She hasn't been saying anything. Ren has been very focused on Nora's mouth for the past couple of minutes, so much that he had missed the blush on her face. He must've missed something happening. Did he say something? The thought of that mortifies him to no end.

 He might've been emoting his thought process on his face because Nora chuckles. "Yeah. That's definitely more alcohol than you're used to." She grabs his hand and leads him over to a couch nearby. Nora lightly pushes him down next to the armrest. "You stay right here," she says firmly, but full of fondness. "I'm gonna get you some water. And I probably need some too." Nora pats his cheek a little, brushes it with her thumb. Ren almost leans into it but she pulls away too soon.

 Nora turns around and goes in search of some water, and characteristically of him tonight, Ren can't help but keep her eyes on her, until he's forced to because there are too many people in that direction. He sighs, sinking into the cushions as he closes his eyes, feeling the warmth bloom in his chest. She's just so caring. Nora is just so caring and she loves people so much. And she's not afraid to give away all that love and care, to allow people to really see that that's what she feels for them, does it without a second thought. That's one of the big things, Ren thinks. That's got to be at least one of the big reasons why he fell in love with Nora.

 She comes back to him with two large water bottles in her hands. Nora tucks one under her arm in order to open the other, which she gives to him. Ren takes it and continues watching Nora as she settles right next to him, sitting down then kicking her legs up onto the couch. She leans back into the cushions and shifts herself more towards him, letting her head rest closer to his shoulder. Nora moves her head a bit to drink some water and then it actually touches his shoulder. Ren loves her so much. Moments like these are so small, and it's not like they don't happen between them very much. But maybe one day Ren will be brave enough to let them happen a lot more often, and those moments will have a slightly different meaning between the two of them than it does now.

 She looks so pretty in this light. Nora looks pretty in any light.

 Nora catches his eye again. She pushes her hand up beneath the water bottle Ren had forgotten that he was holding. "Drink up."

 And who is Ren to refuse her? He starts to sip his first non-alcoholic drink of the night and already his head is starting to feel less like it's filled with cotton. He drinks until the room feels still again, until everything stops looking like it's in slow motion, until there's no more pink clouds on the edges of his vision. Before he knows it, Ren's finished the whole bottle and his throat feels the best it's been all night.

 Despite the lack of pink clouds and an apparent increase in sobriety, Ren still keeps looking at Nora. She's giggling now. He doesn't know what exactly is so funny but that doesn't really matter.

 "Feel better now?" She asks. He nods because he doesn't know just what he'll admit to her right now if he allows himself to speak. "Great. I'm glad they set out those really big water bottles. That really saved me another trip. And you probably didn't drink enough that you'd need ibuprofen or something. I would've said to take some just in case, but I'm not sure what taking meds when something isn't really wrong with you could do to you. I think you should be fine now. Don't think you'll wake up in the morning with a hangover."

 Ren just keeps looking at Nora, without a word. He doesn't need them right now. He doesn't think he needs to do anything else besides look at Nora and hear her talk for the rest of time.

 But something must be wrong because Nora turns her head away a little, shrinking a bit into herself. "Are you mad at me?"

 That surprises him. "No," that is very much not what he was feeling towards Nora right now. "Why would you think that?"

 She heaves out a heavy sigh. "Neptune said you were staring at me the whole time we were playing." Ren's heart stops a little. Nora keeps shrinking down and her voice feels smaller.  "I don't know- I just figured you might be angry at me for leaving you alone at a place I know you'd rather not be."

 Ren straightens up, shifts fully towards her so she can more easily believe what he's about to say. "I told you to go," maybe he's leaning more forward than he usually would, makes more direct eye contact with Nora. "And being here isn't too bad. I just- uh- I uh-" He puts his head down a little, taking some time to find the right words. How does Ren explain the staring? That he just loves the way she exists and who she is and she deserves good times and it's nice when she gets them?

 "You were having fun," Ren brings himself to look back at her, says these words in all earnest. "I like when you have fun."

 That takes her back a little. Nora's eyes widen but her face softens. For one terrifying but almost hopeful moment, Ren thinks she might've understood what he really meant underneath those words. She smiles and brings her hand up to his face. She uses a couple fingers to sweep his bangs to the side. Ren's eyes almost close at the contact.

 "You're so sweet," Nora says, almost like she's in disbelief. "You wanna go back home? I can walk you back."

 "Are you sure?" That does sound like a good idea to Ren, but he doesn't want to take Nora away from something she enjoys just for him. "I'm honestly fine here. I know you were really stressed, I don't mind if you wanna unwind a little more."

 Nora smiles a little wider. "I think I've had a good amount of unwinding here already. If I stay here any longer and leave you unattended, who knows how many more screwdrivers you'll drink." She moves her hand from his forehead down to his cheek. "And you need to get home safe. For the most part, you seem all right now, but I just… I need to make sure."

 Ren leans into the hand Nora has on his cheek. It's a bit more than he'd usually do, but it feels right. "Alright then."

 "Can I crash at yours' too?" she asks. Ren chuckles a little at that, because when has Nora ever needed to ask that.

 "Of course." And then some daydream starts again. They get back to his single dorm and it'll be just like the other times Nora's slept over there. She'll switch tonight's outfit out for some of Ren's pajamas and she'll look just as good, if not better to Ren. They'll lay down and fall asleep in his bed, and that's all they'll do tonight. And then the morning comes and there's no trace of alcohol in their systems and everything's in the clear, and Ren will kiss her, soft and sweet. Nora will kiss him back because she has wanted this just as much as he has. He'll keep a hand on her cheek and maybe she'll tangle her fingers in his hair. Then maybe they end up never leaving the dorm that day, or even the bed. They'll talk, of course. They'll say what needs to be said, about their feelings and anything else. It's decided between them that Nora can sleep at his dorm a lot more often. And when she does, they don't need to struggle as much to fit together on this twin size XL bed, because Ren can wrap himself around her and they can let their legs get tangled together. He can wake up and bury his head into the hollow of Nora's shoulder and just breathe her in. The next time they see their friends, Ren and Nora won't act all that much different, but it won't take long before they realize something's up. They'll get it out of them, and they'll be happy, and then they'll be mercilessly teased because how did it take you two this long? Ren will get a bit embarrassed, but Nora will take it in stride. She'll kiss the blush on his face, and he'll just blush harder, and she'll laugh a little until he does too.

 But Nora in this reality grabs his hand and forces him to stand. He doesn't know if it's just how much he was in that daydream or if he's still a little buzzed from the alcohol, but it's a little disorienting as he makes movements.

 Before he knows it, they're out the front door and into the cold night air. It's a little windy out. Ren wishes he had a jacket to give to Nora.

 They walk at a leisurely pace in the direction of his dorm. Their hands are still intertwined, their arms swinging in between them. They don't speak, not uncommon at all for Ren but a little surprising from Nora. Ren might've wondered at this if we weren’t lost in his own thoughts.

 How close is that daydream to reality? How close could that daydream be to becoming reality? Is it just Ren or are there enough pieces in place for that to happen? All this time he's been worried about losing their friendship, what they already have. But what kind of future could they have? What could they gain? Is all that Ren really needs to do is get over himself?

 Maybe he's still not in his right mind. It certainly can't be that easy. But he can recall a few times when he's caught Nora looking at him. And maybe some of the comments she's passed off as jokes had more truth to them than she lets on.

 Everything about this still feels scary, but not as scary as it was before. He is at least very lucky to fall in love with such an incredible, amazing woman who's already his best friend. He doesn't know what will happen, but he does know what could. And yes, that may include losing the person closest to him. But as devastating as that is, there's another possibility that is at least that amount of wonderful.

 He peers at Nora from the corner of his eye. She's tucking some hair behind her ear to keep it from flapping in the breeze. Her hand is so warm in his.

 Ren's not going to do anything like confess to her tonight. Or the next morning. But looking at Nora, and holding her hand, and thinking about the good possibilities - he thinks he's starting to build up the courage.

[penguintransporter]

Winning The Game Called Love (Hector Bellerin) PART IX

Hello! Chapter IX I believe. Who would have said I’d go this far, hahah! Have no time to ramble, it’s way past my bedtime. So, read, enjoy, and tell me what you think about it - my ask box is always open! 

Staring at herself in the mirror, Aida let the water run over her hands — never breaking the eye-contact with her reflection. 

Standing there with her fingers numbing ever so slightly under the cold stream, Aida knew that she was about to start overthinking again. Her heart and her mind were still having a heated battle in which she could only observe, but not do anything to stop it. And, although, she didn’t want to admit it to herself, she was slowly beginning to feel a certain type of fear, and what bothered her the most wasn’t the emotion itself but rather lack of justification she had for feeling it in the first place.

She had no reason to be scared. 

It wasn’t as if she was forced into doing something she didn’t want to do. 

Fancying Héctor was easy — kissing him and letting herself go whenever he merely touched her, to her astonishment, even easier, and not even once did she question her feelings towards him. Aida wasn’t clueless – she knew that he was making her weak — both mentally and physically, and deep down, she firmly believed that everything that was happening between the two of them felt right, but still, she couldn’t help herself.

Moving closer to the mirror, she closed the tap with ease before placing both of her hands against her warm cheeks. The coolness of her palms sent the shivers down her spine, and this time, they weren’t caused by a certain someone who was on the other side of the doors, probably wondering why she had been absent for more than five minutes, locked inside his guest bathroom at the end of the corridor instead of spending time with him. 

If she was to be honest, she couldn’t say either why she decided to pretend that she needed to use the loo for no real reason, as if sitting on a toilet seat and flushing the empty bowl while she pondered her future with Héctor would help her in any way. If anything, it only made her overthink more.

“How did I end up here?” Aida whispered to herself as she took a step back, smoothing down her clothes before wincing at the amount of the lint swirls along the edge of her jumper. A thought that she probably needed to do some shopping entered her mind quickly, but she dismissed it — she had no desire or spare money to do so. 

Softly, she closed the doors behind her as she exited the bathroom before making her way back into the sitting room, only to find it empty, but now the blinds that covered the windows were pulled all the way up, letting the last bits of sun inside — its shadows scattered on the parquet floor. Excited and with a wide smile, Aida walked along the dining table — finger running against the shiny surface before stepping in front of the windows, finally getting the chance to see for herself what Héctor was talking about. 

He was right.

The view in front of her was beautiful, even in the miserable and barely sunny February late afternoon, and as she let her eyes wander, taking in all the tiniest details, Aida couldn’t help but feel the urge to go outside, knowing very well that the ground was probably cold, muddy and soaked with all the rain that showered the city in the past few weeks. Even if she knew that it would make her look crazy, she still wanted to step out and tiptoe over the raised porch, touch the wet leaves of the green shrubbery with her fingertips and feel the last rays of sunlight on her skin as they fought their way through the naked branches of the tall trees that shielded Héctor’s garden from curious eyes. 

As she stood there quietly, Aida could barely hear Héctor in the kitchen — the sound of drawers and cupboards opening and closing the only giveaway that he was present in his house with her. Apprehensively, she glanced over her shoulder for a second before looking in front of her again, covering her eyes as she observed the orange glow of the late afternoon through her spread fingers, focusing on the tiny dust particles that danced in front of her eyes. 

“One, two, three…,” she whispered, barely audible, enjoying the wave of calmness that settled over her breaths almost instantly, “one,two—,”

“—What are you up to?”

Aida quickly turned around, dropping her arms to her sides as she felt the blush creep up to her cheeks, embarrassment at her own behaviour filling her up on the inside. In front of her, Héctor stood with an amused look on his face as he held two mugs in his hands — his small smile stretching into a toothy grin she liked so much, easing her discomfort in an instant.

He lifted the mugs ever so slightly in her direction, and she didn’t even have to ask what it was  — the strong aroma of cocoa had already started to tickle her nostrils. 

“Just enjoying the view,” Aida responded after a few moments of silence where they just quietly looked at each other; observing and trying to read each other’s face expressions.

Héctor set the both mugs on the coffee table, pushing away some magazines to create some space before lifting his gaze and meeting her eye - a smirk appearing on his face. Straightening his back, he pointed his index finger at the windows and then back at his chest, raising his eyebrows in question, and Aida couldn’t help but roll her eyes at him. 

He was so silly.

“What? I have to ask,” Héctor innocently shrugged before running both of his hands through his hair, twisting it in a bun with ease with a thin hair-tie that rested on his wrist, and just for a moment, Aida froze, mesmerized by the simple act.

Trying to compose herself and her thoughts, Aida shook her head a little, looking at him. 

“You know, sometimes I wonder,” she pondered, taking a step closer and ignoring the butterflies in her stomach that whimpered at the up-close sight of him, “there has to be a switch somewhere...” she paused to give him a silly grin, “to turn off your ridiculousness, right?”

As soon as she said it, Héctor let out a genuine laugh — the sound of his voice surprising her and making her stop for a second. Aida took a step back - her heart fluttering at the sight in front of her. 

She couldn’t say what it was, but there was something about the view in front of her that made her heart take a leap. There was something about seeing him laugh at her joke like he did - lost in the tiny moment, in his own safe space, surrounded with the things that made him as a person, with the things that were part of his life, and where he was most comfortable — no shoes, relaxed, and dressed plainest Aida had seen him. 

The way his eyes squinted in laughter, and the way his shoulders dropped just for a slightest, Héctor looked like as if all the bad games he had played were tucked and locked away, all the goals that he had missed were forgotten, and he was hidden away from all the spotlight and mean comments. He was being just himself; not another ‘baller’ or Arsenal’s number two.

He was just Héctor. 

“The green mug is yours,” he spoke softly, making her blink her thoughts away, and she quickly followed his eyes where he was looking at the mug that was filled all the way up with the hot cocoa, wondering about how long she was out, whisked away in her own bubble. She couldn’t help but smile to herself, noticing that it was the same mug that she held that night when they first talked in his kitchen, and as silly as she was, she wondered if he used the same one on purpose today.  

Looking back at him, Aida smirked a little, feeling like she needed to make a joke to lift the veil of quietness away. “Why? Is it poisoned?”. 

Héctor only grinned at her in response, moving closer — his fingers touching hers, almost as if he was trying to tease her with his touch before he finally took a hold of her hand, pulling her closer. With a happy sigh, Aida closed her eyes for a second, thankful that he decided to take the lead this time.

She couldn’t lie to herself, she was craving his attention; craving his closeness, and as they stood there in silence, their bodies barely touching, she could feel his warmth embracing her, but despite it all, she was still shivering lightly. 

You can always hug him, you know?

“What’s up?” he asked after some time, giving her a knowing look, and without even trying to answer, Aida knew that he was, yet again, trying to pry his way into her mind — something that he seemed to be very good at, and this time, instead of being annoyed with him for doing it, she welcomed it. 

The atmosphere around them was shifting slowly, and Aida couldn’t dismiss the feeling that reached the boiling point in the very pit of her stomach. She knew, that if their life was just a movie, and the two of them main characters, the scene that they were in would end up in one of the two ways. They would either start a fight that would turn them into sworn enemies, or they would kiss feverishly until they ended in between the bedsheets, doing things that she didn’t dare to think of in the state that her mind was in.

He was still looking at her intently, and Aida, embarrassed at her own thoughts, lowered her gaze, focusing on the necklace around his neck as it rested on top of his white t-shirt — sunlight from the outside reflecting on the shiny, golden cross. 

“It’s silly—it’s nothing,” she answered quickly, shaking her head.

“Now, is it silly, or is it nothing?” Héctor questioned with a smirk, letting his hand drop from hers, and the sudden lack of contact made Aida look up at him again. There was still a smile on his face, but Aida could hear the slight worry in his voice as well. “Y’know, unicorn, I can tell that there’s a storm inside that pretty head of yours,” he added softly. 

Aida couldn’t help but smile gently before taking the few steps around him, needing to sit down in order to gather her thoughts. Once she felt the soft cushion of the sofa underneath her, she reached out for the mug that was on the table in front of her before blowing lightly on the steam and inhaling deeply. 

It was warm, comforting, and it made her relax just a tiny bit. 

“I just…” she started but stopped for a moment, watching him grab a matching footstool from the side of the room before placing it down in front of her and sitting down. Aida had difficult time to come to terms on how handsome he was looking as he interlaced his fingers under his chin, looking at her patiently – eyebrows knitted in understanding. “I am probably overthinking, anyway,” Aida added, giving him a half-smile, but judging by the look in his eyes, he wasn’t buying her poor attempt at joking.

Trying to gain few more seconds before speaking again, she took another sip of her hot drink.

“I said it earlier, but I don’t mind saying it again” Héctor suddenly started — his voice lower for an octave, “it’s always good if we talk about it, innit?” Aida didn't know what to say, so she only nodded once  in response. “So, if you’re unsure of something, or if you don’t want this, you need to tell me, Aida.” 

The way he said her name, and the way it rolled off of his tongue made her stomach flip in excitement. It was breathy, tender, but with a hint of apprehensiveness and perhaps a little disappointment added to it - Aida couldn’t tell for sure.

“I do want it,” she reassured, blushing, trying to keep her voice calm as possible as she met his eyes. “If there’s one thing I’m bad at, it’s hiding the way I feel about you, and you know it.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, the cocky smirk and the devilish look in his eyes reappeared, and even if she didn’t want to admit it, she enjoyed seeing it very much.

“Oh, do I, now?” he asked, leaning back slightly, shaking his head before motioning for her to continue as he mouthed a small ‘sorry’. 

Aida nodded yet again, setting the mug back on the table before pulling one of her legs up to her chest, tucking her knee underneath her chin. “You know, it’s really difficult to focus on what I want to say when you’re looking at me like that.”

“What do you mean? Looking at you like what, unicorn?” he asked knowingly, not bothering to change his face expression as he picked up his own mug, wrapping his fingers around it before taking a sip - the corner of his lips moving upwards. 

“You know,” Aida moved her hand around, motioning at his face as she tried to hide her smirk, “like that.”

“I can put a compost bag over my head? Would that help?” he asked, still grinning at her.

“Jesus, you’re seriously impossible.”

He chuckled, taking another sip before setting the mug back, and moving forward so that he could stop her from scratching at her jeans-clad leg — something she wasn’t aware of doing.

“Seriously now, what’s up?” he asked as he squeezed her hand gently, and Aida breathed out quickly, nodding.

“The thing is, and I’ll be straightforward—,” she began, running her free hand over her face, “ —this…us, it’s scaring me so much that I could piss my pants,” she stopped for a second, giving him a chance to make a bad joke or a stupid comment on what she just said, but he kept quiet, waiting patiently for her to continue. “I probably should, but I just cannot ignore the fact that just few weeks ago, you didn't even know who I was and if my name was Aida—,”

“And how do you know I wasn’t just pretending?” he gave her a small wink, and she only raised her eyebrows at him in question, but he refused to elaborate. "You need to know that having a girl working at the club is not something that lads keep quiet about."

“Really?" Aida raised her eyebrows and him curiously. "But, you barely acknowledged my existence while I worked at the Training Grounds.”

“Come on, unicorn, you have to admit that your questions about the weather were highly repetitive,” Héctor smirked, folding his tattooed arms across his chest. “It’s either rainy, windy or bloody freezing in London."

“It’s called being polite,” Aida retorted.  

“And, we are officially having our first argument,” Héctor smirked cockily, making her snort quietly.

“Wanna put the note in your calendar?" she asked, before letting out a sigh, "But, honestly now, the truth is that we barely know each other, and — wait, why are you rolling your eyes at me?” Aida huffed a little in annoyance, planting both of her feet on a thin rug as she leaned forward a bit. 

“‘Cause you’re being silly.”

“I am being serious, Héctor,” she answered, refusing to look at him.

There was something about the way he knew which buttons he needed to push to make her both infuriated and attracted to him.

“And I like how you pronounce my name when you’re pissed off with me. You roll your ‘rrr’s’ beautifully.”

Aida looked back at him, trying to keep her smile locked away even though she knew that she was failing at doing so. “Seriously, Héctor,” she began again, putting the emphasis on his name, making him chuckle. “What if you change your mind once, you know we become...uh, once we start—,” Aida cut herself off before she could finish the rest of her thoughts.

Was she even allowed to say it out loud?

Was there a word that she was allowed to use when it came to what they were?

Date, see each other, court, go steady with, be romantically involved, step out with…? Plenty of expressions in the Oxford Dictionary, Aida.

“You can say it, y’know?” Héctor teased, moving closer to the edge of his seat — his knees touching hers. 

“Stop it,” she muttered quietly, looking at her lap.

Héctor smiled as he lifted her chin with his index finger. “One. Are you Spurs fan? Maybe that would explain the fact that you don’t have the annual ticket for my matches,” he muttered the last bit as Aida shook her head - confusion etching itself on her face. “Second, will it piss you off if it takes me more than half an hour to get dressed?” Yet again, she shook her head, not sure where the conversation was going. “Third. Do you fart in your sleep? Not that I mind, I am a heavy sleeper anyway—,” 

Aida held up her hand, stopping him, “—What’s that got to do with anything? And I don’t, or at least—… I don’t know if I do. I cannot hear myself when I am asleep… Wait, why are we having this conversation?”

“Because, although, I understand your point,” Héctor answered with a simple shrug of his shoulders, “you really have no reason to be scared that I’ll change my mind, unicorn. After all, I put too much effort and time in that bloody excel sheet, so give me some credit…,” he trailed off as he got up from the footstool. “But, we can always go on a proper date if you want. Dress up, eat somewhere posh...”

“You don’t strike me as candlelight-and-violins-in-the-background kinda lad,” Aida smirked, moving a little as he sat next to her. 

Reflexively, she shifted in her seat so that she was facing him, relaxing as he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. His finger trailed down, over the side of her neck, stopping just where her collar-bone was starting before going back up and settling below her jawline. Aida shuddered lightly and he grinned, obviously aware of the effect he had on her. 

“Actually, I am more of a street-food and John Legend kinda lad, but I am always willing to make an exception, if that’s what you’d fancy,” he responded — finger gently across her cheek. 

“Nah, posh is not my style,” Aida grinned, snuggling closer into him.

“And what about a takeaway, some Netflix and then after the dessert, I show you my garden?” Héctor asked, making Aida look up at him with a smirk, blushing at the thought.

“You're never letting that one go, am I right?"

Héctor grinned, but didn't say anything, and he didn’t need to, because she knew the answer already.

————

Cheesy as fuck, I know! But thanks for sticking around. Tell me what you think!

[me-and-your-husband]

Honey, I’m Home (Part 2)

Summary: After Steve went on the run from the government after the events of civil war, you await the day you can see him and your daughter again. When that day comes, a new hope s found.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader, Dad!Steve Rogers, Mom!Reader

Warnings: Angst, fluff, bearded steve

Word Count: 2.1k

Part 1

Sam opened the back door of the black Cadillac Escalade for me to take a seat inside. I did so as Bucky took his place in the passenger’s seat. When Sam got in, he started the car, put his seatbelt on, and put the car into drive. We sat in silence for a few moments, before I finally spoke up, the empty noise becoming too much to avoid.

“Where are we going?” I questioned as Sam’s eyes briefly met mine in the rearview mirror. Bucky drew a deep breath and huffed it out.

“After what happened at the airport, we brought Jane to a safehouse in Germany. After everything transpired and Steve broke the rest of the team out of custody, we all became fugitives. We’ve been on the run for the past year and a half,” Bucky clarified.

“Steve and Jane are in another safe house in the Canadian Rockies with the rest of the team that were on his side,” Sam added. I hummed in understanding and turned my face to look out the window.

Soon after, we were boarding a plane, using fake passports, of course. Once the plane successfully took off, Bucky put on a set of headphones and Sam nodded off. I noticed a small pad of paper and a pen in the seat pouch in front of me, and so I took it out and began sketching. My hand danced around the rough paper, crossing over lines and margins. I sketched from memory, and from what I remembered my daughter to look like.

I stared down at the completed sketch, coming out quite like the way I remembered three-year-old Jane. It was not as smooth and professional as Steve’s sketches, but you could still be impressed by it. My eyes started to fill with tears, the realization finally hitting me like a tsunami hits a small island.

I was finally going to see my family. After all this waiting, suffering, I was finally going to run my fingers through my daughter’s hair and tell her it was going to be alright. I was finally going to kiss my husband goodnight after a day of playing games at the beach and having a family picnic. I was finally going to have back the life that I missed so dearly.

I let a few tears make their way down my cheeks, before wiping them discreetly with the back of my hand. I looked to my right to see Bucky slipping his headphones off, a loft jazz tune revealing what he was listening to. Steve listened to the same type of music. It reminded him of a time when things were not so complicated.

“She looks almost identical to you, now,” Bucky said, staring down at the drawing on my lap. “She still has Steve’s blue eyes and blonde hair, but if not those then she would be your twin,” Bucky said as a smile crept onto my face, just imagining her. My five-year -old girl. My five-year-old girl. So much time has passed.

    I sit in silence and can’t help but wonder to myself the worst. What if she doesn’t remember me? She will. She has to, right? I’m her mother, there’s some type of bond there where you just, know, right?

My overthinking is interrupted by the flight attendant letting us know we’re landing over the intercom.

               When we land, I get out and am immediately glad I decided to wear a jacket. I never really believed people when they said that Canada was that cold, until now. I rubbed my hands up and down my arms, trying to create some friction induced heat, but that did little. Luckily, Sam packed accordingly.

“Here, put these on over your clothes,” he said as he handed me a fluffy parka, a pair of sweatpants, a weird beanie (which I would later find out they called “toques” in Canada), some mittens, and winter boots.

“People actually live in the cold like this?” I queried, to which both Sam and Bucky chortled.

“Yeah, I guess so. I mean, we’ve been doing it for the past couple of months,” Sam stated.

“You think this is cold? Try spending a winter in Saskatchewan, Jesus, it’s got nothin’ on Alberta,” Bucky added.

“Is that where we are?” I questioned, and Bucky confirmed it with a hum.

Sam led us to another car, this time it was a black Dodge Ram. I guess if we were going to the mountains, we would need a heavy-duty vehicle, one meant to trek mountains.

I stepped up onto the foot rail, and hoisted myself in. We fastened our seatbelts, and I managed to read the time over Sam’s shoulder; 4:39 PM. It was already getting dark, a behavior I assume was regular during Canadian winters.

Sooner than later, my head fell against my chest as I slept a bittersweet sleep, thankful for the rest, as it would pass the time and bring me closer to seeing my family, but also not wanting to miss a single second of the journey to my imagination.

 When I awoke, it was to Bucky shaking me lightly and whispering my name. I blinked back the sleep, and drowsily climbed out of the truck. I took in my surroundings. It was pitch black outside, but it only felt like nine or ten. I spun around, to see a huge, cozy looking hotel with trees and snow surrounding it. My mouth hung agape as Sam and Bucky ushered me into the hotel.

Sam checked us in for a one night’s stay, and as much as I wanted to see my family, the sooner the better, I knew that not Sam nor Bucky were accustomed to drive through the snow in the dark.

Bucky and Sam ended up sharing a bed, whilst they insisted upon me having the other one to myself. They made it out to be them just being courteous, but I really think they knew Steve would destroy them for sleeping in the same bed as his best girl.

               The morning consisted of a quick pot of coffee to wake us up, and then we were right back on the road, Bucky driving this time. Casual conversations were made, just them asking me what I have been up to for the past while. Nothing much had happened, but I didn’t want to seem like a bore, so I only told them the interesting bits.

               Soon, we were in the mountains, occasionally stopping for gas and snacks at random pitstops. I couldn’t help but feel like a little kid on a road trip, constantly wanting to ask, “are we there yet?” or “are we almost there? How much longer?”. Eventually, Sam announced that we would be there in about five minutes, which really grabbed my attention.

“By the way, he doesn’t know you’re coming,” Sam said, which barely fazed me, as I was too excited. My leg bounced up and down like a giddy teenager during an exam, and I could feel my heart beating in my throat.

          In a short amount of time, we pulled onto a gravel road, which had recently been neatly shoveled. It weaved through a thick forest, sometimes catching deer in the headlights. The path was shadowy and was barely lit, considering the trees looming over us blocking the sun. The rocky sound of driving across gravel and freshly packed snow filled our ears as we made our way down the trail.

         Soon enough, which felt too long even in itself, we came to a clearing. In the middle of that clearing, was a huge, three story log cabin, with multiple vehicles, varying size, type, model, year, color, and brand, scattered around the lot. Before my jaw could fall off its hinges, a familiar female giggle caught my attention. I turned my head to look through the window, to where I saw Wanda and Vision having a snowball fight. I guess Vision must have reconciled with Wanda, and realized that our side was the right to be on.

      The truck pulled up to the front of the house, and I slowly, as if mesmerized, took of my seatbelt. Wanda and Vision greeted Bucky and Sam, and they froze when they seen me. I gave them both a small wave and a smile as my feet hit the soft snow, and I may have come across as rude for not greeting them properly, but that could be saved for later. I turned my head to Sam, who quickly understood what I was getting at.

“Inside,” He stated, gesturing towards the big double doors of the manor. My heart skipped a beat as I clambered up the few steps leading to the porch and grasped the wood door handles. I took a breath in and swung the doors open. My eyes wandered the wood interior, before getting caught in a movement at the other end of the hall. I sprinted to where I saw that movement, and looked to my left, where some type of bedroom was located.

       Clint sat on the bed, holding a framed photo of his wife and kids. Before he could see me, I made my way back down the hall, and started frantically running around the maze of a place, trying to find my family. It was around noon, so it was very likely that they could be in the kitchen, eating.

      When I finally reached the huge kitchen, nobody was to be found. I let out a small sigh, but before I turned to walk out, I heard a voice coming from the next room over.

“Okay, Janie! Ready or not, here I come!” said that voice I knew all too well. Butterflies erupted in my stomach as I took fast steps to the entrance of that room, the living room.

        Standing beside the fireplace, was Steve Rogers, but he was different. His back faced me, but I could still see him in the mirror above the fireplace. He had a harder look to him, but those soft eyes I always adored were still there.  He had grown out his hair, and now had a nicely trimmed beard. I took a sharp breath in, which must have alerted him that someone was there. He always joked about me being the only one who could sneak up on him.

       His eyes met mine in the mirror, and his clenched jaw softened. He slowly lifted his head and spun around to face me. My breaths were shaky as he slowly took a step towards me.

“God, please tell me it’s you, Y/N, because I think if I have to convince myself that I’m seeing you one more time, I’ll go crazy,” He pleaded, his brows knit together.

“Yes,” I said, my voice cracking as my vision started to blur with tears. “It’s me, I promise you it’s me,” I said, as I ran towards him, immediately wrapping his arms around me and pressing his nose into the crook of my neck. I inhaled a long, sharp breath through my nose, missing the way he smelled, as well as the way he felt, the way his voice sounded in the morning, the way looked as his muscles flexed under his shirt when he was working out, and the way his lips tasted on mine. After I felt my tears had permanently stained his gray Henley, I pulled away. His blue eyes were so easy to get lost in, but the overwhelming need to kiss him, to feel him again, outweighed anything else in that moment. Our lips were together in an instant, in a passionate kiss. My hands rested at the back of his neck, and his on my cheeks, his body heat instantly warming me up from the chilly climate of Alberta. After we both pulled away for a breath, he rested his head against mine. I ran a hand down his beard clad cheek, and scratched it gently, to relay that I liked it, which elicited a smile from him.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

“I-“

“Daddy! What are you doing, are we still playing hide and seek?” said a little girl’s voice. My breath caught in my throat. Steve looked over my shoulder, and back to my eyes. He gave me a knowing look, and I slowly turned on my heels.

“Mommy?”

“Baby…”

“Mommy!” Jane screamed as she dropped her stuffed rabbit and sprinted towards me. I fell to my knees and held my arms open for her. I held her in my arms like that, like the day she was born, for what felt like forever. I don’t even remember exactly when Steve wrapped his arms around us. Silent cries and sniffles could be heard coming from either one of us.

Finally, I was where I should be, home.

Thank you guys so much for the support on the first part :)

Would you guys want an epilogue?

[summonerscenarios]

How about quality time with Zao? My mind is blank right now so I can't really think of a scenario... 😅

Man first time taking a crack at Zao but I had too cute of an idea not to make it ridiculously fluffy sdfghgfd thank you so much for requesting, I do hope I did him justice~!

----------

It’s still dark outside when you find yourself waking up. Stretching with a sigh you’re reluctant to leave the warmth of your sleeping bag, the fabric far more comforting than you thought it would be when you’d first burrowed into it for the night; so instead of leaving you roll over onto your side, fully prepared to pester Zao with idle chatter until you’re able to fall back asleep, after all, he’s almost always awake during this time. 

But the space beside you is empty, and his sleeping bag is rolled up.

“Zao?” you mutter out, yawning into your hand as you lift yourself up onto your elbows and look around the tent.

Sure enough, he’s nowhere else in the tent, and the flap to the entrance is unfastened, but from where you’re sitting you can just barely make out a light seeping in through the small gap. Blinking the sleep from your eyes you glance between your side and the entryway a few times, humming to yourself as you allow your brain to catch up on what you’re seeing. And once you do you reluctantly shuffle your way out of your bed, pushing yourself up onto your feet as much as the space around you will allow - it’s a snug fit, but you’re just glad it’s still warm inside as you move you peek your head out of the flap.

Being so high up you should have expected it to be chilly, but the wave of cold that hits your face has you cursing under your breath, expression twisting in response in an attempt to stop the stinging sensation that blossoms across your cheeks and nose from the sudden temperature change. It would probably be a good idea to duck back inside and burrow through your pack for your climbing coat before you venture out into the night, but right as the idea strikes you, you catch sight of the light source that had initially drawn your attention.

The campfire that the two of you had set up earlier in the day has been reignited, the warm orange flames licking at the air and casting the ground around in a soft glow; and next to the campfire you can make out a familiar bulky silhouette, back turned away from you and facing towards the flames. 

Ah, there he is. 

You’re quick to shuffle over to the campfire, both eager to join him and get close to the heat source hoping it’ll warm you up, and you can’t help but chuckle as you approach.

“And here I thought you’d run off while I was asleep” you tease, dropping down into a sitting position beside him. “What’s wrong, restless? Couldn’t sleep?”

Zao turns away from what he was staring at and glances at you as you make yourself comfortable, scooting closer towards the campfire seeking out the warmth it provided.

“Mhm, something like that” he responds, and you make a noncommittal whistle of acknowledgment as you switch your gaze between him and the campfire.

A few moments pass before you speak up again.

“So, what were you looking at?”

Zao opens his mouth to respond, but you start to speak again before he can say anything.

“Let me guess” you hum “just wanted to just take in some of that good ol’ mountain air?”

“No, I-” he tries to cut in but you’re still going with the speculation.

“Ooh, or maybe you were planning on wandering around? - there’s a river closeby, right?”

You vaguely register the frustrated look that he’s giving you, but honestly it’s too fun not to try and get another guess in as you muse.

“You know, a cabin would fit right in around here~ Maybe I could convince Andvari that a mountain lodge would make for a good investm-” 

You’re cut off when a hand presses against the back of your head, and your gaze is pulled upwards to look at the sky. Whatever you were saying next trails off as your jaw goes slack, eyes widening as you take in the sight presented right above you.

It’s beautiful - you’ve never seen the sky look so clear.  

So far away from civilization and Tokyo’s city lights, the stars light up the sky like gold on a deep blue canvas. And it’s not just blue either, the sky itself is like a mesh of purples, whites, teals and numerous other rich tones, all fusing and merging together like something right out of a painting. You’ve seen pictures, seen videos, but it really looks as though the galaxy is stretching out before your eyes; and here, so high up, you almost feel like you could just reach out and run your hands through that very sky, swirling those stars between your fingers just to know what it would feel like and touch. 

“Oh, wow”

You’re mesmerized, so much so that you only catch yourself getting lost staring in awe when you hear a laugh from beside you, and you glance away to sneak a peek at Zao. From the corner of your eye he’s smiling, clearly proud of himself at the sight of your speechlessness, and you turn to fully face him, shooting him a withering pout.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up - I guess I’ve gotta admit, it is a pretty amazing sight”

His hand, that’s still on the back of your head, moves further up and ruffles your hair and you whine in protest, swatting his hand away even as you try to hide the fact that you’re smiling. Right on cue however, you receive a none too subtle reminder about just how cold it is, as a particularly sharp chill runs up your spine suddenly enough that you yelp at the sensation. Even the fire before you does little to block out the cold like you’d wished, and you pull your legs closer to your chest in the hopes that they’ll take the brunt of the next breeze. 

Zao notices your reaction and shoots you a pointed look - honestly with how often he’s out here you wouldn’t be surprised if he’s way more acclimated to the climate than you are; you’ve gotta admit, that’s kind of funny to think about. 

“Cold? Did you not bring your coat out with you?”

You want to retort that you’d been a bit more focused on your missing mountaineering buddy than clothes but hold your tongue, shuffling closer to the fire trying to seek out its heat to combat the incoming cold. Trying to focus on the movement of the flames to distract yourself you watch  tiny pieces of kindling breaking off and disappearing into the air for a little while, resting your head atop your knees in an attempt to get comfortable until you decide to head back to the tent.

But you don’t stay like that for long, as after a few moments of silence passes an arm wraps around your side, and just like that you’re being moved from your spot, picked up like you didn’t weigh a thing and settled back down so that your back is pressed flush against Zao’s chest. You’re glad for the warm hue of the flames, as they provide a good excuse for why your cheeks feel like they’re burning up. 

Yep, it’s because of the campfire. Definitely...maybe. 

You probably would have said something, made a quip or teasing remark to get a reaction out of him, but he’s so warm that you can already feel the heat creeping up your back, spreading across your shoulders in a way that you just about melt back against him. But the warmth isn’t the only thing that you feel; twisting to look at your shoulders you find that Zao’s draped a blanket over the two of you, and you reach for the two sides draped over you, pulling them closed with a perplexed expression.

“A blanket? Where did you get…?”

In response, Zao pats the space next to him, and it’s there that you finally spot the trusty pack by his side. You swear he’s got anything and everything in that bag; you’re tempted to ask if he’s got any drinks stashed in there, but for now you’re content with just the blanket, and the mountain man that comes with it.

Allowing yourself a moment of respite, you let your eyes flutter closed, your previous hours of sleep catching up to you as the added warmth lulls you into a relaxed state. You can hear the campfire cracking before you, the rustling of the nearby trees and the occasional shrill hum of the wind as it brushes past; it makes for some damn good ambiance to listen to, and right behind you, you can hear Zao’s breathing, working in tandem with the rise and fall of his chest in a steady rhythm. It’s kind of calming, and for a few seconds you focus on listening to all the things that you can hear.

Eventually, a  sigh from above you catches your attention, and you tilt your head up trying to catch what he says.

“Hah, what a troublesome little mountaineer”

You crack one eye open, gazing up at him as you grin.

“Aw, come on, Zao - you know you love me, really~”

Zao sputters, and you have three glorious seconds where you watch his face reddening at your words before his hand’s back on your head, ruffling it hard enough that your gaze is pushed back to the floor as you howl with laughter.

“Hey! What have I said about mocking your elders!? I’m taking the blanket back!”

“Noooo! I’ll behave, I swear!”

“We both know you won’t!”

You laughter echoes across the clearing, breaking the peace of the otherwise quiet night as you make a dive for the blanket stubbornly pulling it close, and while Zao’s words may seem harsh to anyone else, you still catch him fighting off a smile of his own as the two of you fight for the fabric that wraps you up together.

[mshermia]

No.23 - Just Outside The Door

Whumptober 2020 Prompt No. 23 - What's a Whumpee Gotta Do To Get Some Sleep Around Here

Exhaustion | Narcoplepsy | Sleep Deprivation

Peter did it. He found his mentor and brought him back, but sometimes it all just seemed too good to be true. Sometimes, his mind played tricks on him and he just couldn't sleep, wondering if he had really brought Mr. Stark back or if it had all just been a desperate dream.

###

I'm using my own Fix-it to Endgame "Like You'd Know How It Works" as a basis for the timeline, though the prompt will work fine without having read that story. The important part is, that Tony's not dead.

Baseline: a few days after Tony is brought back from the multiverse.

###

AO3 Link

###

His room was dark. In fact, the entire house was dark as it should be at 1 o'clock at night. Dark and quiet. It wasn't the darkness that bothered Peter. It wasn't total darkness. After all, the light of the moon still shone brightly enough for him to make out the little imperfections in the paint on the ceiling. The moonlight and his enhanced senses. It was the quiet that bothered him, that made his chest seem a little too tight, his breathing a little ragged. It had been just 3 days since Mr. Stark had enhanced the walls in the upstairs bedroom and ever since when Peter was lying awake at night, when a nightmare pulled him out of his sleep in the early morning hours like it had the past days, he couldn't hear his mentor anymore.

He was just a couple of doors down. Logically, he knew that. Logically, he was... he was pretty certain of that. And while Peter had always stopped himself from listening in on anything too personal, there was just a sense of calm that came over him when he heard the man turn in his bed, the low snores he sometimes pushed out, the steady beat of his heart. He would have to concentrate and really listen for the familiar rhythm but once he would pick it up, he'd be okay. He'd remember that Mr. Stark was right there, well, and very much alive.

But not anymore.

There was only silence in his room now unless you were to count the frantic beat of his heart and the deep shaky breaths he sucked in and blew back out. It hadn't even been a nightmare this time, not truly. He hadn't really fallen asleep in the first place. Exhaustion was tugging at the edges of his consciousness and that's where his thoughts had started to spiral.

Mr. Stark was okay. Peter was... he was pretty sure of that. He had succeeded, had brought him back home and now he was okay. But there was a little voice in the back of his head that kept nagging, that kept telling him that maybe... maybe he was wrong. Maybe it had all been a delusional dream, too good to be true, Peter wishing something into reality that was unobtainable. He had seen his mentor die after all. He had died right in front of him, the memory etched into his memory, right there whenever he closed his eyes. Dimensions, time travel... was that really real?

A cold shiver ran down his back and before he knew it, his feet had swung off the bed, silently carrying him to the Stark's bedroom door.

Peter was highly aware that this was a little creepy at best and highly inappropriate at worst. Only for a moment. He wouldn't stay for long. He just needed a few minutes to... to quiet the nagging doubts that were persistently working its way up from the back of his mind overwhelming any rational thought.

As he sunk down to the ground and came to sit his back leaning on the frame, he pressed his ear against the door. There were just enough sound waves vibrating along the sturdy wood for him to hear. It had been a little pathetic how he had come to realize that. How three nights ago at 4 o'clock in the morning he had stolen out of his room and crawled up to the door, out of his mind in panic from the nightmare that had roused him. He had clung to the wood and heard the soft snores on the other side that hadn't been Pepper's.

He could hear them now too, both of them. Peter closed his eyes, letting the noises from the room wash over himself and calm his nerves. Two healthy hearts beating almost in union, deep breaths - a little elevated maybe but nothing critical - and Mr. Stark's low raspy voice, only a whisper. He couldn't quite tell what his mentor had said but the corners of his mouth twitched as Pepper breathlessly giggled in response. They were fine. Mr. Stark, he was right there, talking and moving around if the creaky sounds of the bed were anything to go by he was—

Peter's eyes popped open wide and with a fast push, he shoved himself away from the door. There had been so much force behind his movements that he slammed into the sideboard that stood right opposite the Stark's bedroom door. His heart was beating loud in his ears but his senses were dialed up all the way. He could almost feel Pepper's vases on top of the sideboard swaying back and forth from the impact. Thank god for his senses. His hand reached out faster than his thoughts could follow and caught the first vase as it tumbled towards the ground. He caught the second one, too, but well, despite the spider bite, he still only had two arms to work with.

The third vase fell to the floor and exploded into a thousand pieces just next to him.

For a brief moment, Peter was frozen in shock. For a brief moment, he thought maybe... maybe the soundproofed walls would save him. Maybe nobody had heard.

There was a little light that streamed into the hallway from the Stark's bedroom. "Pete?" His mentor's voice was raspy as his head peaked through the open gap, looking down at him. "You... you okay?"

Peter hurried, his face hot with embarrassment as he tried to gather the shards in the low light of the hallway. "Sorry... sorry!"

"What... what happened? Why are you out here in the dark?"

"Nothing, I just... just needed the bathroom and... and bumped... just... bumped this."

Mr. Stark cleared his throat. "You know, that room of yours has an en suite."

"I... I didn't..." Peter's hands were shaking, his thoughts racing. "I meant... meant kitchen. Just wanted— fuck!"

"Hey, you okay? FRI, lights 30%."

The man leaned over him and reached for Peter's hand. The low light from the ceiling was enough to reveal the dark blood flowing along his skin where he had just cut himself on a pointy porcelain shard.

"Is everything okay?" Of course, Pepper had to poke her head out of the door as well.

"Everything's alright. Go back to bed, darling." Mr. Stark's hand on his shoulder pushed him a little, a clear sign for Peter to get on his feet. "Come on. Kitchen then."

Pepper gasped. "Peter, you're bleeding!"

"It's fine, darling. I'll take care of this." Mr. Stark pulled him towards the stairs. "You... just... just go to sleep."

Mr. Stark exchanged a look with his wife, his face almost apologetic while Peter's was on fire. He hesitated only for a second though before he followed his mentor. Definitely preferable to have only of the two adults hover over him in the kitchen than both of them in the hallway. There was enough light now for Peter to easily find his way towards the stairs and then down to the kitchen. His heart was beating in his throat as he desperately racked his brain for an excuse.

"Little more light, FRI." FRIDAY didn't answer, just followed the man's order. "Run that hand under some cold water and then take a seat, buddy."

"Right," Peter muttered.

The cold water was soothing the sting on his hand. The shard had cut the index and middle finger on his left, the two middle parts, and then there was a deep gash in his palm. It was bleeding freely now and Peter watched almost mesmerized as his blood was swirling down the drain mixed in with the water. The cut was deep enough to hurt, nothing that his body wouldn't be able to deal within a day or two though, three max. Mr. Stark had put down a paper towel for him next to the sink. When Peter's face felt it had mostly regained his original color again, he pressed the paper towel against his hand and shuffled onto one of the bar chairs at the kitchen island.

His mentor had his back turned while he had halfway vanished into the pantry. A little red first aid kit in his hand, he joined Peter at the table. His head was bent, not looking up at the man in front of him. His thoughts were racing, trying to think of something, some kind of excuse as to why he was wandering around the house in the middle of the night, something better than the vague bathroom-kitchen excuses he had blurted out in the hallway.

"Having trouble sleeping, hm?" It was a rhetorical question, that much was clear. Mr. Stark's hands were busy rummaging through the kit until he came up with a couple of anti-bacterial wipes, gauze, and some medical tape. "What's on your mind, kid?" His voice was low and calm, making an effort to keep the mood light.

It didn't change anything about Peter's heart racing of course. Didn't do anything about the blood pulsing in his ears. "I wasn't... I wasn't trying to..." He sounded pathetically breathless even to himself. "I just... I happened to... to walk by and then I just—"

Mr. Stark's hands were warm. They felt even warmer with the chill that the water had left Peter's hand with. One hand curled around Peter's wrist then squeezed him. "Kid, you know I can tell when you're fibbing."

"I... I'm just..."

Another squeeze of his arm and Peter looked up, finding the man's eyes waiting for him. "Nightmares?"

He couldn't lie, not when Mr. Stark had that piercing look in his eyes. "Just... just the usual."

His mentor cocked his head only a fraction to the side. "Titan?"

Goosebumps spread through him starting at his nape down his back, then along his arms. Even Mr. Stark could feel it for his eyes flickered down to where he was still holding Peter's wrist, then back to his face.

"It's... it's not that," Peter whispered. It wasn't even a lie. It hadn't been the orange dust ball that had kept him up, not tonight.

"Kid..." The man blew out a breath, eyebrows pulled closely together.

"I... I swear, it's... it's not!" He almost flinched back at that look in the man's eyes that gleamed an awful lot like disappointment.

Mr. Stark looked away from his face only long enough to find a piece of gauze and replace the soaked paper towel, applying firm pressure to his wound. "You don't sleep."

"I do sleep, tonight was just—"

"Your vitals tell a different story, Pete," his mentor interrupted.

Peter's mouth popped open. There was something other than adrenaline and embarrassment rushing through his veins now. Shock and... and a pinch of betrayal. "You... you have FRIDAY monitor my vitals? Karen?"

"Both of them, actually." Mr. Stark didn't look away from him, only gave his shoulders a slight shrug. "Do I have a choice?" Peter would have turned away from him if the man hadn't still been pressing the gauze to the cut in his hand. "You were snapped and then went on a trip through the Quantum Realm. Of course, I'm monitoring your vitals."

"I'm fine!" His voice was squeaky. He sounded fake even to himself.

"Pete... Talk to me. Is it nightmares or is it something else?"

"Can we just... I don't want to do this right now."

"Alright." Mr. Stark looked away from him. He pulled the blood-soaked gauze off Peter's hand and replaced it with a fresh piece.

This seemed too simple to be true but Peter was going to take it. "O-okay. Good."

"FRI, schedule a call with Helen for tomorrow morning. We need an appointment for Peter. CC Rhodey and... and might as well let Rogers know."

"No. Mr. Stark—"

The man shook his head, eyes on Peter's hand. "You don't have to talk to me about all this. That's fine. You'll talk to someone though. You'll not go out there until this is resolved."

"What? You can't be serious...." Peter pulled his hand away from the man at last.

"I am."

"Are you grounding me?"

His mentor's eyes were on him as he shrugged his shoulders then sighed. "I mean not like... to your room just out of the suit."

Peter got to his feet. "But Mr. Stark—"

"You won't be out there Avenging anything until you've talked to someone about what happened the last time you went out there. That decision's final."

His hand forgotten, Peter paced back and forth between the table and the sink. It wasn't until he rubbed his hands across his face with a frustrated grunt that he remembered the cut. He cursed freely, not just because of the sting in his hand but because he had rubbed blood all over his face. Shaky hands turned on the faucet and for a moment, he was almost thankful for the mishap that had forced him to wash his face for his eyes were burning with frustrated tears.

"Kid, come and sit with me." The man's voice was way too calm, it riled Peter up even more.

"I don't want to!"

"You don't want to sit with me?" He could almost hear in Mr. Stark's voice how his eyebrows must have been pulled up high, his head cocked a little to the side.

"I don't want to talk about this with Rhodey, or Doctor Cho. Definitely, definitely not with Rogers! It's none of his business!"

"Kid, come on..."

"No!" He turned around, facing the man. "You don't get to make those decisions anymore! You're retired!"

"I'm not that retired!" The men went for a light-hearted smirk that surely was meant to calm Peter but only infuriated him more.

"Yes! Yes, you are!"

"Are you firing me from being your mentor?"

Peter froze. Mr. Stark's voice wasn't all that soft any longer and the gravity of the situation suddenly hit Peter all at once. "N-no. No, I—"

"Well, it's not like I want you to talk to them instead of me, but if you don't want to talk to me you leave me with very few options, Peter."

"I'm fine. I... I promise it's—"

"You sat in front of my bedroom door in the middle of the night, Pete." The man shook his head.

"I was... was just being... stupid. I just... just overreacted a bit, I don't—"

"Kid... Come." He pointed at the bad stool next to him. "Come and sit."

Peter swallowed hard. This was so dumb. What had he been thinking? His head bowed low, he slowly shuffled back over to the table and let himself fall back onto the chair. Mr. Stark took his hand again and pressed another fresh piece of gauze onto his cuts. The bleeding had slowed considerably, but Peter couldn't deny that it made him feel a whole lot better how his mentor literally held his hand through all this. It was a little pathetic and childish, but also... also grounding and soothing.

"I... I can't sleep," Peter whispered.

"I know, buddy." The man's other hand squeezed his lower arm. "It's okay."

"I do... I do have nightmares but it's..." He blew out a breath, eyes still low on his hand. "Sometimes, I just can't... can't quite tell what's a nightmare or... or a dream and what's real and if... if all this now, if... if this is just the dream. That's.... that's the worst part."

His lower lip was caught between his teeth and Peter risked a quick look to find his mentor's eyes shining with concern, waiting for him to continue.

"I can't..." He shook his head. "This is so stupid. It's... I'm just being dumb, you really—"

"Hey..." Mr. Stark's hand cupped his face and tilted it up so Peter's eyes would meet his. "You are not being dumb and none of this is stupid."

"I..." Peter tried to swallow the tears that were threatening to overcome him. "I can't... hear you anymore. Since you... since you soundproofed the walls."

"Yeah, well..." The man frowned at him. "That... that was sort of the point, kid."

"I... I know. It's just I..." He turned his eyes to the side, hating how the teardrops were already hanging onto his lashes. "When I wake up and then I don't... I don't hear you then it's like... like before. Like you're.... you're not here and I just... I can't... I can't." He couldn't stop himself from blinking any longer and at last, the tears fell heavy onto his cheeks. "I'm sorry. It's weird. I know, it's super weird."

"Is that why you were in front of our door?"

He wanted to pull away but Mr. Stark still cupped his face, unwilling to let him retreat even an inch. "It's... it's stupid. I don't..."

"Shhh, stop saying that." His hand moved from Peter's face to his neck and a quick tug pulled Peter into a tight hug.

He pressed his eyes tightly shut, his voice muffled against the man's t-shirt. "I can... I can hear you there. Right... right at the door, I'm close enough even with... with the soundproofing. I can still hear you there."

"I'm right here, buddy." His hand was on the back of Peter's head, the other one squeezed his hand almost too strongly. "I'm not going anywhere."

They stayed like that for a while. Peter leaned heavily against him, hiding his tears in the tight embrace. Mr. Stark didn't do much other than hold him and from time to time whisper to him that they would be okay, that he was back now, and how everything would be alright. He repeated those words over and over again like they would stick the more times he'd say them. And maybe that was true. Maybe that was why Peter's pulse slowed down, why his tears dried against the man's shirt, why he calmed enough for Mr. Stark to get back to treating his hand.

Mr. Stark nodded to himself. "Okay, so here is what we'll do from now on." The antibacterial wipes burned and the man froze at Peter's hiss. "Too much? You okay?"

Peter cleared his throat. "I'm fine," he croaked and then grimaced at the sound of his own voice. "Really, I'm fine."

"I know it burns a bit but it's just a moment and we can't have this get infected, okay?"

"I know, Mr. Stark. Just... it's fine."

Peter's eyes were turned down watching as the men wiped the large cut a couple more times, before he first secured gauze over it, then wrapped it in a bandage and proceeded to tape the two smaller cuts on his fingers.

"Okay, two things... Pete, can you look at me?"

"Right," he breathed, his eyes finding his mentors.

"First of all," the man blew out a bit of a sigh. "I think we need to transition away from that 'Mr. Stark' of yours."

His eyes went wide. "But, Mr. Stark—" Peter bit his tongue.

His mentor on the other hand flashed a crooked smile. "Yeah, I thought you might try to fight me on that one."

"I'm not..." Peter shook his head, eyes still round. "I'm not fighting you, I just... it's... you're... you're my mentor and—"

"I am and I'm happy to mentor you for as long as you'll have me." The soft expression on the man's face was comforting and pulling at Peter's nerves in equal measure. "Kid, I'm not really worried about any lack of respect from you going forward. It wasn't..." The man blew out a low huff. "It wasn't my intern that I missed those past years. Though... it's not that I didn't miss that part, I mean..." He crossed his arms in front of himself, eyebrows raised. "It was more work than reward trying to teach Morgan to carry a cup of coffee down here, I can tell you that."

Peter snorted out a light laugh and rubbed his good hand across his eyes.

"It wasn't my intern or... or Spider-Man who I missed, just... just my kid. Just you, Pete."

12 days. Not even 12 days, that was how long his mentor had been lost to him. 5 years? Peter couldn't, well... maybe he could. In a way. He didn't want to think of Ben now though, of his mom and dad.

His mentor blew out a low sigh. "Also, Morgan has started to call me 'Mr. Stark' and just... try with 'Tony'? Please?"

Peter bit his lip, then shrugged. "What if she starts calling you Tony then?"

"Well..." He shrugged. "I just thought that going from 'Mr. Stark' to 'Daddy' might be a bit much to ask of you."

Peter couldn't contain the nervous laughter that bubbled out of him. "I'll never call you that. That's just... no way!"

His mentor's smile stayed on his lips but Peter could shake the feeling that there was an air of disappointment between them.

"That's okay, buddy. Let's stick with 'Tony' then, hm?"

"Right," Peter breathed.

"The other thing... your nightmares. I... I can't really... I can't have you lurking in front of our bedroom door for reasons that... that we don't have to get into right now." He grimaced and Peter could have sworn there was a faint red flush on his cheeks. "But if you can't sleep or if you wake up and you need me—"

"It's... it's fine, Mr—" Peter pressed his eyes close with a cringe. "Tony. It's fine, really, I was just—"

"Hey." His mentor had leaned forward, both hands on Peter's lower arms. There was no hint of humor or reserve in his features now. "This is not a polite offer, kid. This is an assignment. Instructions to be followed."

Peter swallowed hard, his voice cracking. "Yes, Sir."

He didn't even flinch at all as the honorific slipped over Peter's lips, just stared right at him. "I want to help you. I want to be here for you, whenever you need me. That's why you brought me back, right?" His eyes were searching Peter's face for a reaction. "You said that you all still needed me. Morgan and Pepper. And you. That's why I came with you, kid."

Peter's eyes were burning, the memories still fresh from how he had begged and pleaded with the man to trust him, to abandon his mission and come back home with him.

He squeezed Peter's arms, his face still tense. "I want you to tell FRIDAY when you have these nightmares or... or when you panic. I'll find you. I'll sit with you."

"You don't..." He shook his head at the very idea. "You don't have to sit with me."

"Pete..."

"I'm not a kid anymore!"

"You are my kid, kid..."

Peter's mouth fell shut at that. The man's voice was soft, so earnest.

"Just let me help you."

"Okay," Peter breathed.

"When you're not here, when you're at May's or anywhere else, I want you to call."

Peter nodded, his eyes on his mentor's hands. They were still closely curled around Peter's arms but he couldn't deny that it felt more grounding than restricting.

"Promise me."

Peter sucked in a shaky breath before he looked up. "I do, I... I promise, I will."

They stared at each other for a long moment before Mr. Stark's hand reached up and rested on Peter's cheek just long enough for the man to nod at him. "Okay, buddy. Come on then."

Peter didn't have to ask what his mentor was up to, he had a pretty good idea of what would be happening now. His head bowed, he followed along, back upstairs to his room, his thoughts still circling around his mentor's order. That's what it had been, not an offer, not even a request. It had been left unsaid between them what would happen if Peter didn't ask for help, but he could make an educated guess that those consequences would not just be discussed between the two of them.

His bed was cold as he slipped back underneath the covers. Mr. Stark— Tony had closed the bedroom door behind Peter and pulled a chair close to his bed. His feet crossed and elevated on Peter's bed, he had sunk into the chair, one hand resting on the top of Peter's head.

The house was quiet now. His room too, except for the beat of his own heart and that of his mentor. The idea had seemed excessive and childish but now that Peter was lying in the dark, the man's fingers knotted in his hair, he couldn't deny how easy it was to close his eyes. How easy it was to remember that the man was here, alive and well. How all that pain and loss was in the past now.

He had just wanted to blow out a deep breath to settle himself but it wavered in his throat, came out like a bit of a whimper.

"Shhh." Mr. Stark's fingers rubbed back and forth over Peter's scalp. "I'm right here."

"I... I know." Tears rolled off his face into his pillow as Peter pressed his eyes close, his focus on the weight of his mentor's hand. His voice was shaky but what did that matter now? "I'm just... just happy you're back."

"Me too, buddy," he whispered. "Me too."

### 

I finally managed to write an actual One-Shot. A little amazed with myself, not gonna lie ;)

Hope you liked it! More whump and more for this timeline will come soon!

The Fix-it this is based on: Like You'd Know How This Works

[ivegotthefanficinme]

The Princess and the Butler 3

Chapter 3 John Constantine X Reader A Highcastle Abbey AU

Summary: She has a troubled history and both her parents are dead. Adopted by Mrs. Logue of Highcastle Abbey she hasn’t left its grounds since she was small. A new butler by the name of Mr. John Constantine is hired and everything starts to change. Quickly betrothed to a man she does’t know. But something dark is coming for her soul… What is it about her past that makes hell want to rise up and greet her? Will she be able to save herself? Will John Constantine, the Hellblazer himself, be able to save the woman he would go to hell and back for? Or will everything they have ever known crumble around them?

Warnings: In this chapter.... Nudity, violence, threatening of rape, language, magic?, tooth rotting fluff, soft!John, almost freezing to death

Words: 2.7K

Links: Chapter 1    Chapter 2          Masterlist 

After John had left you alone in your room you locked the door and finished undressing. Finally, you sit down in the armchair facing the window in just your shift, the cool satin fabric clinging to your skin. 

For a while you just watch the sky, picking out constellations you had learned from one of the hundreds of books in the library. The stars are comforting, so far away and peaceful. Eventually, your mind wanders back to John and your predicament with the Duke. 

You shift in the chair, pulling your knees up to your chest. Whether this Duke was actually a man or a demon sent from hell, you are not going to marry him, no matter what you had to do. You had promised yourself long ago that you would marry for love, that is what your mother had wanted for you. She promised you when you were young that she would never force you to marry a man you don’t love. 

You want a man you can rely on, a man who makes your heart flutter, a man who cares, a man who is willing to do anything for the woman he loves. 

Your thoughts slip back to John and how wonderful it felt to have your face pressed to his chest and his arms wrapped around you, or how his hand felt in yours.

Moving to your bed, you strip off your shift and slide underneath the blankets, soft against your now bare body. You keep these thoughts in your head, doing everything you can to not think about Mr. Animae.

***

“You have such a beautiful face,” drawls Mr. Animae. His icy fingers brush against your cheek.

You try to move away from him, squirming in your seat, but you are unable to stand, nor move your arms to push him away from you. You are frozen unable to move as he strokes your cheek. 

His dark eyes burn into you but they are so cold.

“You will make such a fine bride, my dear. And then,” his voice lowers, “You will be all mine, your body, heart, and soul.”

His hands begin to trail lower, down your neck, then tracing the swell of your breasts through your dress. 

You try to tell him to stop but no sound seems to come out of your mouth. 

You gasp for breath as that seems to be the only thing you can do other than blink.

Mr. Animae pulls a chair up in front of you that just seemed to appear out of thin air as everything around you is dark.

“That pesky butler of yours sure does like to meddle in things he should stay out of, but then again, when has John Constantine ever minded his own business.”

You stare at Mr. Animae quite confused by this. 

“Oh,” he concludes, “You don’t actually know all that much about him do you?” He leans in closer, “Wake up.”

***

You wake up with a jolt drenched in sweat, your sheets clinging to your legs.

Suddenly, there is a knock at your door. Wondering if it is John, you slip your silk robe over your shoulders, tying the sash as you walk to the door.

You open it and jolt back surprised when you find the dark eyes of Mr. Animae staring back at you.

“Hello to you too, my dear,” he says as he pushes the door open more and steps into your room.

“Leave,” you say plainly, “This is inappropriate of you to be here.”

He only glances at you briefly before walking around examining your room. “Don’t bother ringing for your butler,” he orders as if you were his to command. 

As he stops at your vanity to pick up one of your shining trinkets, you bolt for the sash to call John. There was no way you were going to let the Duke waltz into your room to be alone with you.

You manage to give it one good tug before Mr. Animae wraps an arm around your waist and drags you away from it. 

“You will need to learn to be more obedient, little wife,” snarls Mr. Animae.

You struggle against him as he presses his chest against your back, “I will never be your wife!”

He gropes at you, your soft skin molding to his cold rough hands.

“Get your hands off me!” you exclaim trying to push his hands away, tears welling in your eyes.

His hand slides up to your neck, putting pressure harshly on your throat.

You gasp for air as he whispers in your ear, “You will obey me, after all, your body, your soul, they belong to me.”

You claw at his hand wrapped around your neck, your lungs screaming for air.

Your struggle against him is futile as you grow weaker from lack of air.

“Should I take you right here?” he asks as something hard grinds against your rear, “Break you for good?”

Whimpering in horror at his statement, tears finally slip down your cheeks. 

He murmurs something and suddenly you are frozen, unable to move or speak. Finally releasing you, he starts to tug on your robe.

Pulling at the end of the sash, it comes untied easily. You close your eyes, silently praying that John would appear and save you. Mr. Animae pushes your robe over your shoulders and it falls to the ground.

You stand there, unable to move, completely bare in front of him. He walks around you as if circling his prey, mesmerized by your curves.

He is going to ruin me, you think. Actually, you tell yourself, you are already ruined just standing in front of him completely naked. No man of any stature would risk his reputation for a soiled woman. 

Just as he moves in to catch his prize, John bursts through the door. 

Mr. Animae turns to greet him, a sly smile on his lips. It’s like the temperature in the room suddenly plummets, a small cloud from your breath hangs in the air. The cold nips and bites at your bare body, unable to move, unable to shiver, you stand there as the cold sinks into your bones. 

“I don’t believe you are needed here, Constantine. You may return to your duties as butler,” snarls Mr. Animae.

“Oh I think not,” John’s eyes sweep across you quickly, checking for any injuries before turning back to the Duke.

For a moment it’s like they just stare each other down, trying to figure out what the first move of the other will be.

John sees your lips turning blue from the cold out of the corner of his eye, “Just leave, Edex. This is not the place.”

The Duke chuckles, “Do you not want to reveal to her what you really are?”

John frowns as he peels off his white gloves and drops them to the floor. Following his gloves, he slips his evening coat off. He is disheveled, likely from trying to dress quickly and get up to your rooms. Without his coat you see his white button-down untucked from his trousers as he wears no vest, the cuff around his wrists unbuttoned, and the buttons along the front of the shirt are hastily fastened, having missed one here and there. You can see the skin of his upper chest in the moonlight.

Pushing his loose sleeves up his arms he glares at Mr. Animae, “You know what will happen if you continue this.”

“Try me,” the Duke laughs.

It feels as though frost has settled on your lips and your tears have frozen on your cheeks in the relentless cold that had descended on your room.

John suddenly stomps his foot, thrusting his bare hands out in front of him, “Ignsa.” Flames appear in his hands, dancing on his fingertips.

You long for the heat of the flames, the warmth of John’s hands against your skin.

Mr. Animae chuckles, “That’s all I needed you to do. Show her who you really are. I have such big plans.” He turns back to you stroking your cheek, “See you tomorrow little wife…” 

“Leave her be,” John warns stepping closer. 

The Duke’s hand suddenly grips your jaw harshly, “Mention a word of this to anyone, either of you, and I will kill you and everyone in his house.” With that, he pats your cheek once more and vanishes. 

The second he is gone John rushes to you muttering, “Te libero.”

With those words, you collapse to the floor shivering and shaking violently from the cold and the sobs that rack your body.

“I-I-I-” you are barely able to speak through your shivering.

“Shhh, you are safe now,” John whispers. He picks up your robe from the floor and wraps it around your shoulders.

Your trembling hands can’t even manage to grasp the edge of the fabric so John pulls it tightly around you. He sets his hands on your shoulders and closes his eyes, “Frigus ex te mitteo.”

You shudder as the cold leaves you. John brings you into a hug as tears start to slide down your face again.

“Shh, shh, you are alright now,” he gently rocks you.

“I’m ruined,” you sob.

“Hmm?”

“He has seen me…” you can’t even finish the sentence, “He-he touched me.”

John shakes his head, “No one will ever know.”

“But I will!” You still shiver occasionally, your body confused by switching from the extreme cold to the warmth of John’s body. “How could he do that, make me freeze? H-how could you do those things?”

You can barely think clearly enough to know that what the Duke did, what John did, should be impossible.

John sighs, pulling away from you. He gently brushes your hair from your face.

“The nightmares?” He asks, changing the subject, “They have been about him haven’t they?”

“How did you-“

He gives you a sad smile, “Love, I know more than I let on.”

You shakily hold your head in your hand, trying to take deep breaths.

“Yes, they have been about him…”

“And what happens in them?”

“In the first one… it was as though he was sucking out my soul… and the last one, he-he was terribly inappropriate,” you stutter out, avoiding John’s eyes.

He sighs, obviously, this news does not please him.

“What do I do, John? He has ruined my reputation and threatened to kill us all!” Tears begin to slide down your cheeks again. 

He tips your chin up so you can see his face, his fingers are warm against your skin, the rough pad of his thumb brushes the tears from your cheeks. 

“Do not worry, love. I’ll take care of him.”

“But what will you do?” You ask.

He chuckles, “Might as well tell you this now.”

You stare at him, confused.

“Are you religious?”

You hesitate, “what does this have to do-“

“Well, they all have something a little right,” John says, “Demons and Angels do exist, so does Heaven and Hell. God is more like… well Gods, truthfully, just immortals. Reincarnation is not unheard of, I once knew a bloke who was a tiger in a previous life.”

You just stare at John in shock.

“And I’m… well… A warlock, among other things. That’s why I can do things like this,” he brings his hands up to his face, whispers, “pulveres splendidos voco.” He blows a puff of air into his hands and you are showered in golden sparkles.

He gives you a sad smile, admiring how beautiful you looked with the gold shining in your hair, “I am both blessed and cursed with these abilities, love. And sometimes they only do more harm than good.”

You just sit for a moment in awe at John, “Are you truly a butler?”

He chuckles, nodding, “I am, I just have a knack for choosing employment where my enemies have decided to take up residence.”

“Do you believe me? That he must be a demon?” You whisper.

He brushes some of the sparkling dust from your cheek, “I believe you, love. I have seen things far more fantastical.”

You lean into his warm hand, your eyes meeting his brown ones.

Shivering again, you draw your robe closer to you. John shifts so he leans against the side of your bed, his arms open, he beckons you over.

“Let’s get you warmed up, love. I’m afraid you might catch your death otherwise.”

You hesitate, the things he is doing go far beyond the duties of a butler, but then again, he is your friend now. Isn’t this what friends do for each other?

You crawl up in between his legs and lean back against his chest. He wraps his arms around you, bringing you even closer. 

It’s like his warmth envelopes you, and you sink into the rich smell of smoke and him. Your eyes slide closed in bless, reveling in the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Finally, your body stops its occasional shudder since John’s warmth had fought it off. 

“How do you feel love?” His whisper is like the quiet rumbling purr of a cat.

“Mm,” you sigh, “Much better.”

The two of you sit there in silence for a few moments.

“What do we do now, John?” You ask.

“We will do what we can to either run the demon off or banish him back to hell where he belongs,” he says.

You nod, as you rest your head back in the dip between his neck and his shoulder. 

“And what about me? Why has he set his eyes on me?”

John doesn’t reply for a moment as he slowly tilts his head to rest his cheek against your forehead.

He takes in a small breath to speak but stops suddenly like he had decided against saying whatever it was.

“It is hard for me to say for sure, love....” He trails off, thinking hard on the words he is about to say. “It could be because you are the most beautiful women I have ever seen.” He was so quiet when the words slip off his tongue. 

The words go straight to your heart, and a new kind of warmth spreads through your body.  You can feel the tenseness that had suddenly appeared in his neck, shoulders, and arms. He slowly slides his hands into yours, as if he is unsure whether or not you would be welcome to his touch.

His hands almost radiate warmth as his rough fingers lace through yours. You give his hands a small reassuring squeeze, but the closeness of him makes your own heart race. You can feel his hot breath linger in the air in front of you.

“Honestly, love, I do not know what has drawn him to you, but I will tell you this,” he takes a deep breath, “I promise that I will do everything I can to make sure you do not wed that monster, and I do not take the promises I make lightly.”

Your breath hitches as his voice drops, “I may have an idea that will, at the very least, delay him. However, I will have to do a bit of reading to make sure. In the meantime, you need to get some rest love, you have had quite the night.”

He starts to pull away from you to stand. “Wait,” you say, “would you- would you please stay with me? For a little while longer at least?”

Settling back down again with you in his arms, he lets out a quiet, contented sigh.

“It has been… a long time since I was last this close to someone,” he whispers.

You smile, “And I have never been able to curl into anyone’s arms and feel safe… save for my mother and now you.”

John releases your hand and gently brushes your hair from your face, running his fingers through it in a calming manner.

“Get some rest, love. Tomorrow will be a long one,” he breathes.

Taking a deep breath, you settle yourself comfortably in his arms, feeling safe from whatever creatures may roam the night as you fall asleep.

To be continued...

A/N: Thank you all so much for reading! Sorry about the wait for this chapter, but it plenty long to make up for it. Yes, all of the Latin in this chapter is real as can be, I translated it myself, so I apologize if there are a few Latin grammatical issues! Also, I can include a translation list in future chapters if anyone is curious!

Tags: @theregalrogue​ @with-the-words-all-wrong​ @thecaptainsgingersnap​

Let me know if you want to be added to the tags!

[voldemorthatesnose96]

Delirium

Chapter 10

Previous chapter

It’s a fairly long chapter, you’ve been warned 🙈🙈

Winter is here. Snow covering the concretes and roofs, the Whomping Willow shakes its branches to get rid of the snows, Black Lake is completely frozen—sometimes Jens is wondering how’s the giant squid coping with all this cold inside the water. Is it also frozen? Or already move somewhere else warmer, maybe a month before?

The hell am I thinking? he thought to himself. Apparently too much orange juice is doing ridiculous thing to his brain.

He is now sitting alone in the Great Hall, with an empty cereal bowl and Daily Prophet spread wide in front of him; showing the commercial part of the newest released of broom cleaning kit, and spicy chocolate chip cookies. Last night was another sleepless night for him, but it’s all because he’s too giddy and happy that today’s finally the day where he and Lucas will go to the Hogsmeade, together. Of course, his three bestfriends are quite sad that Jens couldn’t go with them, but it’s not long before they actually giving him supports and a few winks.

Just like another human being in love but insecure of their clothing before a date, Jens already checks his appearance in the mirror many times in the bathroom before heading here and waiting for Lucas to come. Part of him is worrying about the possibility that the boy won’t be here or worst, bails at the last seconds. Not gonna lie, he’s this close to believe that sad thought, before the sight of the certain person he’s waiting for is walking inside the hall. Jens instantly notices that Lucas is also styled his hair a bit; making it looks shinier, wearing an oversized emerald knitted-sweater that’s making his beautiful blue eyes pops.

“Morning.” Lucas smiles brightly—making it such a contrast to the gloomy weather outside.

It takes few seconds for Jens to finally coming back to earth and replies, “good morning to you too.”

“You look nice today, Stoffels.”

Jens feels like flying, “you’re not so bad yourself.”

Lucas grins, “well, shall we go now?”

“Let’s go!”

Hogsmeade is what dreamy village looks like. It’s small, secluded, crowded but in a good way, and you can find almost everything here—of course, Diagon Alley is still the place to go to buy any kind of things you need for daily life, but it’s always packed and Jens hates it. The snow is finally has stop falling, and even though the sunlight’s not here yet but Jens takes this as a good omen.

“Would you like to go to the Zonko’s first?”

“No.”

Lucas tilts his head, confused.

“I mean, my dumbass friends would be there and I don’t want them to ruin our good time, or probably making you feel uncomfortable by their presence.”

Hearing this, Lucas playfully nudges Jens’ shoulder, “did you realise that you’re the dumbass now? I don’t give a damn about what people may or may not think about me.”

“So, you still wanna go there?” Jens smirks.

“No,” Lucas answers. “Let’s go get warm coffe first. I’m freezing.”

“To the—”

“Madam Puddifoot’s, yes,” Lucas cuts him, then narrows his eyes a little. “Why? You changed your mind?”

Jens lets a sigh, and without thinking, he takes Lucas’ hand in his and leads the way to the place. For a split second, Lucas is quite taken aback by this sudden act, but he doesn’t mind it at all; instead, it feels nice. Why would it feels nice? It’s not like the first time that someone holding his hand before. Why does it feels different? It’s just Jens. Right?

Before Lucas can process anything much further, Madam Puddifoot’s voice bursts his thoughts. His hand is still in Jens’.

“Table for two?”

“Yes, please.”

“Right this way, gentlemen!”

Madam Puddifoot’s leads them to the nearest spot beside the window; looks like snow is falling again just now. Jens takes a glance at the boy in front of him, who’s furrowing his brows in full concentration while reading a small baby-pink booklet menu. Somehow Jens can smells a slight scent of strawberry cake from it.

“What can I get for you?”

“A coffe and a slice of banana bread,” Lucas looks up. “You?”

Jens shrugs, “same.”

“Will be back in five minutes! But first,” Madam Puddifoot clicks her fingers and a basket full of freshly-picked roses floating right towards them. “Each of you should pick a flower for your partner (both Lucas and Jens holding a choking sound when they heard her), then these roses will speak the message they hold. Have fun!”

It looks like the basket won’t leave until the boys do as they told earlier, because it keeps nudging their arms and shoulders and even heads for almost five minutes.

“Alright, I’ll do it first! Stop budging me, basket!” Says Lucas in his most annoyed tone. He picks the longest rose and places it in front of Jens. “Your turn, Stoffels.”

“Here.”

Jens gives the rose—which its petals look like a rosebud—directly to Lucas, who’s a little surprised. Right after he does it, the basket floating back to its place as if it wants to give them some privacy.

“So? Where’s this message?” Jens lifts his rose and examines it. “Should we talk to it first or—”

“Don’t be stupid,” Lucas rolls his eyes. This whole thing is ridiculous. The message is probably just some sort of corniest romantic joke. “I’m sure she’s just bluffing.”

Much to their shock, Jens’ rose starts to speak out of nowhere. It feels like as if it comes from a tiny speaker : your scent is reminding me of the forest in the night when I wander aimlessly. Wet soil and crisp fallen leaves. Warmth of your smile is like a hot chocolate.

“What the—”

And as if their roses are somehow connected to each other, Lucas’ rose is now speaking : Your blue eyes mesmerizing, captivating. O, you wouldn’t know how much I adore those angel’s gift of yours. Drown in there forever and never go back to the surface.

A stone-cold, awkward silence falls between them. Both looking anywhere and everywhere but at each other. Lucas is suddenly no longer feeling cold or even had guts to eat his warm banana bread, while Jens absentmindedly whistling and looking up at the ceiling as if it’s the most interesting thing he has ever seen. None of them talking to each other until the last drop of their coffes are clear.

“Wanna go somewhere else?” Jens offers, who’s now way calmer than before. He puts two Galleons on the table, and the tablecloth said “thank you. Come again!”

Lucas only nods, grabs his coat and leads the way outside. Somehow he can’t breathe properly. Wet soil and crisp fallen leaves in the forest? These are his personal favorite things whenever he turns into his animagus form and wandering alone in the night, especially in autumn. No... it can’t be... no!

“Are you okay?” Jens asks, looking concern.

“I’m great,” Lucas replies a bit too fast. He shows a wide smile and points at the Three Broomsticks. “Can we go there first? I wanna buy few bottles of butterbeer.”

Jens grins as he takes a relief breath seeing Lucas is alright, “sure.”

The date (or so Jens thought) is going exceptionally well, even though snow is still falling. Lucas buys a lot of things from Zonko’s to Honeydukes, and when Jens asks if Lucas is actually need all these, the answer he gets is only “I love to do some shopping sometimes” from the Slytherin boy.

After they heads out from the Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop, Jens accidentally bumps into someone around his age with eyes as black as the raven, dark blue hair and skin as fair as the snow—making him look like a mannequin he and Lucas saw at Gladrags Wizardwear earlier.

“Sorry.” Jens says.

The boy doesn’t say a word, but he’s only looking at Jens for a few seconds before placing one hand on his shoulder and goes away. What a weird person, Jens thought.

“Stoffels, what’re you doing?” Lucas demands. His cheeks are now as pink as the booklet menu at Madam Puddifoot’s. “I looked behind my shoulder and you were gone?”

“I accidentally bumped into a strange boy.”

“As strange as you only stood here like an idiot?” Lucas rolls his eyes. “Let’s go back to the castle. I’m done sending my letters!”

Though still a little bewildered of what just happened, Jens follows Lucas lead, both are seemingly drowning in their own thoughts until Jens breaks the silence when they finally arrives at the viaduct courtyard. He pulls a small box from his coat’s pocket and says, “for you.”

“What is this? When did you buy it?” Lucas asks, still not taking the gift right away.

“I didn’t. Dad gave it to me when I got accepted here. I always have it with me, as a lucky charm,” Jens explains calmly as he looking straight at Lucas. “But now it’s yours.” He smiles when the Slytherin boy’s expression is clearly surprised.

“No.”

“No?”

“How could you give me something that you had for years?” Lucas demands. “YEARS, Stoffels! Not to mention that your Dad gave it to you. No!”

Jens sighs. He grabs one of Lucas hand and places the box on his palm, then closes it, “it’s mine to do whatever I want with it. Open up.”

Though Lucas still wanted to refuse, but the moment when he sees what’s inside the box catches his eyes immensely; it’s a brooch which shape is an anchor, made from gold with the word “virtus” engraved on it. Lucas absentmindedly touches the brooch with his thumb.

“What is this mean?”

“Virtue, worth, bravery. Whichever resonates with you.”

Lucas bites his lower lip, his eyes examining what Jens unusual gift for him, “are you sure about this?”

“Do you like it?”

“Of course I do. It’s beautiful. But...”

“Then it’s yours now,” Jens cuts him. His tone is final. “I feel like you need it more than I do, anyway.”

“Why? Why me?”

“I already told you the reason just now, silly.”

“Why me, Jens? ME!”

The other boy isn’t answering right away; instead, they’re only looking at each other. One is searching for answer, one is thinking if he should just tell the truth or not. But Jens thinks that even though this moment is the right time, but somehow there’s something inside him that’s holding him back from saying that he gives his most beloved possesion is because he’s in love with Lucas. As cliche as it can be, but he never lies about his feeling all his life. Gryffindor never lies. 

Jens caresses Lucas rosy cheek with the back of his hand and says, “because you’re a very important person to me.”

[andreil-protection-squad]

So I wrote some Kevin x Seth smut and here you have it

Please excuse any grammatical errors, english’s not my first language and I’m still trying to learn how to proper use it in a text lol

Anyway, my second attempt at ever writing smut, please be kind.

__________

“I can’t fucking take this anymore,” Seth mumbles. He mumbles something more, but Kevin can’t quite make it out.

“Don’t be such a bitch,” he replies. “The game starts in about an hour.”

“Not everything is about fucking exy, you fucking maniac,” the other boy answers. “I mean, I really need some pot right now, ‘cuz I am so fucking stressed.” Seth groans loudly, which gathers the attention of his other teammates, but he doesn’t even spare a second glance to them. “Fuck off,” he mumbles in their direction.

Kevin’s face scrunches, as he thinks about high Seth, who is so much more chill than the regular Seth. The red in his eyes is almost calming and the slow movement of his limbs can be described as mesmerizing, if it wasn’t for the fact, that Kevin would always think about all the times, he had the horrible thought, that Seth wouldn’t be able to play exy again after smoking_._ Fortunately, Seth was always able to throw a punch and a ball, no matter how much he smoked, so there really wasn’t any reason to worry about him at all.

“You know what, Day? I’m gonna smoke in the bathroom and you’re gonna cover me.” Seth stands and Kevin raises his eyebrows.

“Why should I do that, Gordon?” he asks. “And why would you rather smoke than watch the report on the team?” Kevin glances at his teammates, who all watch the report, while being busy with doing their usual routine before a game. Nicky texts Erik, Andrew is half-asleep in Neil’s lap and Allison is painting her nails, even though she will have to do it again once the game is finished. But atleast everyone – besides Seth and Andrew – has their attention focused on the right thing: Exy.

“You could also suck my dick, but I guess that won’t happen either”, Seth suggests snarky. “You need to chill the fuck out with your exy bullshit, dude. There are other things in life, too.”

“Like pot?” Kevin asks.

“Like pot”, he agrees. “See, you understand me. So, excuse me, while I go smoke some.”

Before Seth can go, Kevin reaches out and catches his wrist. “You can’t fucking smoke some pot before a game, Gordon. You won’t be able to do shit.”

“Bummer.”

“I mean it, Seth. If you make us loose, then I will shove all of the opposing teams exy racquets up your sorry ass.”

“Jesus”, Seth mumbles and gets his hand free. “You are such a lame fucker, did you know that? Loosen up a bit, will you?”

“I will, if we win this game.” Kevin raises his eyebrows again.

“Fine. Fine, I won’t smoke. But I need to piss.” He walks a step, then stops and turns around again. “Unless you don’t believe me and want to check, that I really am only pissing.”

Kevin growls in defense. “Actually, I need to go to. So yeah, I will keep you company.”

“Great, I can’t even take a piss without you playing my watchdog,” Seth mumbles. As they both begin to leave the waiting room for the Palmetto State Foxes, none teammates even notice it. And even if they would have, it wouldn’t be that uncommon of a sight – Seth and Kevin both leave together for the bathroom several times a month. It’s a natural sight, really. Not even Aaron has the audacity to leave a snarky comment for them, because he doesn’t have to.

The second the bathroom door falls in place behind them, Seth checks all of the stalls to see, if anyone is still in there, then he takes the trashcan and the potted plant in the corner and shoves both of them right in front of the door. “No lock,” he says. “But better than nothing.” He winks at Kevin before he relocates into one of the empty stalls farthest away for the door. “What’re you waitin’ for, Day? Get that ass in here.”

Kevin chuckles and blushes. It’s also nothing new for him and Seth to fool around when they both want to. It’s kind of their thing, like Andrew and Neil have their roof, or how Allison sneaks her hand into Renee’s when she thinks no one’s looking. There is really nothing more to it than some sex. But Kevin would lie, if he didn’t think of it as more. Every time they do it – in an empty bathroom, on his bed in the dorm while the others are out or even in the dark and shadow-y bushes outside of the Foxhole Court – he has this feeling in his chest, that it’s something more, at least for him. He actually and generally likes Seth, even if he would never tell him that because then Seth’s gigantic ego would explode.

Before Seth can grow impatient, Kevin moves in front of him. Seth sits on the closed toilet but is still tall enough, that Kevin doesn’t has to bend down too much to kiss him hard and fierce. Seth’s lips part in an instant and he grasps Kevin’s neck with one hand to pull him even closer to him. A moan hangs between them, like the hot air between their mouths. Kevin smiles as Seth’s mouth begins to wander to his throat, where he slightly bites his skin. Cold shivers run through him, Seth’s finger trace the little hairs on the back of his head and begins to suck on his skin. Kevin throws his head back to let out another groan, then he slips his legs between Seth’s legs to stand even closer to him. He could feel the hard on of the other boy pressing on his thigh.

“Come ‘ere,” Seth mumbles. He presses his finger in Kevin’s neck to pull him closer to him and then they are kissing again, licking each other’s lips, biting them, playing with their tongues. Seth tastes like smoke and mint bubblegum and Kevin enjoys everything about that.

He buries his hand in the other boy’s hair while his own dick just continues to grow. He can feel it itching against his jeans, longing to be freed. Kevin’s free hand begins to wander down Seth’s chest, just past his hard nipples that poke through his shirt. Seth groans again but Kevin just kisses him harder. Just hearing him breath is enough that Kevin grows impatient himself. He wants him and he wants him now.

“Hey.” Seth looks breathless and hot as Kevin stops kissing him, but his brows are tight. “Why’d you stop, Day?”

“Ask again and I won’t continue, you shithead,” Kevin answers while he reaches his destination with his hand. Seth’s dick is hard against his pants and the moment he lays his fingers on the bulge in the other boy’s jeans, Seth moans.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

“Yeah, that’s what’s gonna happen,” he says grinning. Kevin opens Seth’s zipper and Seth start to stand and pulls down his pants and boxer in one go. The many times he now has seen Seth’s dick are enough, that Kevin doesn’t admire the view anymore but gets to work. He strokes the skin before he reaches out to hold its entire length in his hand. Seth groans even more and sits again. He presses one arm against the stall wall while Kevin begins to gently rub his dick up and down, up and down again.

“You fucking,” he begins to mumble but stops and bites his lips the second, Kevin touches the tip of his dick.

Instead of saying something back and ignoring the fact, that several thoughts in his head are screaming about the lack of hygiene on this bathroom floor, he kneels between Seth’s parted legs and begins to blow the other boy. It’s something he’s done many times now, but every time feels like another life where he just begins to experience this side of his sexuality anew. Being with a boy was so much different than being with a girl. Maybe Nicky really had a point and he, Kevin, too needed someone to lean against. Sucking someone’s dick was never really on Kevin’s to-do list when he started to have feelings for other people, but now that he’s done it more and more times, he really can’t tell why he never thought about the fact, that he might be into this. It was always girls when he discussed his sexual preferences and maybe this was all Riko’s fault, who stole his virginity and also his free will to experiment, but whatever it was - it lead to Kevin leaning on a bathroom floor with his teammates just outside the door and licking the tip of Seth’s dick who looks already like he might cum any second.

“I swear to god, if you cum before I even got a chance to get touched, I am going to murder you,” Kevin says as he stops blowing. “Like, seriously. It’s like you can’t hold out for another minute or what?”

“It’s been days since my last shot,” Seth grumbles. “Also, you’re too good at this. You’re making me feel things.”

“What a wonder,” Kevin laughs. “I’m making you feel things while I literally devour your fucking dick. I guess everyone would feel things when I had their cock against my throat.”

“I fucking hate you,” Seth says. He grabs Kevin by the shoulder and forces him up, before he kisses him hard and hot. “Get that pants down,” he mumbles between two breathless kisses.

Kevin does as demanded. His dick springs out as his pants and boxer drop to his feet. The cold air feels good against his skin but even better is the feeling of Seth’s fingers on his cock. Ever since their first time, Seth would give Kevin a hand job whenever he felt like it. He didn’t even care that other people could see them. Whenever Seth was feeling horny enough, he would stick his hand into Kevin’s pants. This time, though, as he was stroking Kevin’s dick with his hand, he pushes himself up, spins them around without ever breaking their lip contact and then forces him away from Kevin’s mouth.

“I will suck you so hard, you won’t be able to remember your own name,” he says before he drops to his own knees.

The sight of Seth swallowing Kevin whole was a real blessing, even though Kevin quickly closes his eyes and throws his head back, as the wet and hot feeling of Seth’s mouth was doing things to his dick. An animalistic groan builds in his throat, but he is able to hold it a bit longer in him. The slurping sound that Seth makes whenever he opens his mouth and takes a breath is just another sharp knife in Kevin’s stomach, twisting with the longing after releasing and more pleasure. He grabs a fistful of Seth’s hair, just to feel this boy even closer to him. He moans loudly.

“Be a bit louder and everyone can watch in a minute,” Seth complains with wet lips and saliva sticking to his chin. Kevin, throbbing and pulsing and hot, lets out a quick whine, before Seth rolls his eyes and swallows him again. This time, as Seth lets his teeth make some good and honest work on Kevin’s dicks skin without hurting him, he puts a hand over his mouth to contain the next moan that was already escaping him. The feeling of a river pulsing in his skin grows stronger with every lick and touch and hot, wet kiss Seth does to him, so much that Kevin must pull his teammates mouth away from his dick. “So fast?” Seth asks grinning. “And you’re one to complain.”

Seth stands again and wipes his mouth before Kevin can pull him close again. It doesn’t even bother him, that Seth now tastes like his own dick. He just kisses him, licks his lips, grinds his tongue again Seth’s, bites the sensitive skin right next to his lip corner. Seth moans into his mouth. “You got a condom?” Kevin asks.

“Always for you, dear,” Seth replies against his lips before he parts away from him to reach in his jeans pocket on the floor. “Will you do me the honor?”

“Fuck you,” Kevin says but catches condom and rips it open before pulling it over Seth’s throbbing, hard cock.

“No, I think, I’ll rather fuck you,” Seth says with a sly grin.

Kevin turns around and bends over. He feels one of Seth hands on his shoulder, massaging his hot skin, before he feels two of his other fingers entering his hole. Another beastly moan builds in his throat, as Seth begins to widen his ass, entering another finger just a moment later. They didn’t bring any lube, but they did it so often without that Kevin was sure, that it didn’t matter now. He could hear Seth spitting in his hand and then the wet, cold touch of his fingers, rubbing all over his hole. His dick twitches and he uses his other hand to work on himself while Seth was busy preparing him.

Seth’s hand slides down from his shoulder to his lower back and the next thing Kevin knows, is the tip of a dick entering his ass. This moan he couldn’t contain anymore. Beastly, loud and deep it escaped his mouth the second he presses his hand on it. “Fucking be quiet, Day, I know I’m good.”

“Fuck – fuck you, Gordon,” Kevin is able to reply before Seth slides all the way in.

The feeling of a dick entering him was also something Kevin never thought he would experience, but as Seth now slowly began to widen Kevin’s ass by pulling his dick out and entering again, he was sure it was something he wouldn’t want to miss again. A girl could never, he thought as Seth enters again. This was nothing compared to his own fingers or that one dildo Nicky gifted him as a joke a year ago. Feeling Seth inside him was real and raw and just unbelievable hot. He wanted every inch of him and more. Everytime Seth pushes himself in, Kevin loses his mind. His hole itched and tightened around the cock in it, but he knows it was just preparing itself for all the other pounds that were coming. Seth laughs and moans.

“This is better than pot,” he says while pounding again. “Guess you were right, Day.”

Kevin can’t answer. He is too busy with blocking his own mouth from messaging their teammates of their little game in here with a loud and hot moan, that’s already tickling in his throat. His eyes roll back into his skull, while Seth builds up speed and power, pounding faster and harder into him. Seth’s dick inside of him should be enough to make him cum, but Kevin just fastens that process by stroking his own cock with his other hand. Masturbating alongside Seth fucking him is just the best relaxation before an important game and while Kevin feels his cum building up in his balls, he hears Seth’s balls slap against his cheeks with every pound.

“Fuck,” Seth groans. “I could fuck you all day.”

“I would let you,” Kevin can say before he presses his hand against his mouth again. He feels the cum leaving his dick just as a hot feeling runs through his whole body. Anticipation is dead and the new king of his body’s name is pleasure.

“I’m gonna –,” Seth starts, but he cuts himself short.

The next thing Kevin feels, is Seth grabbing a fistful of his hair and pressing his dick as far inside Kevin’s ass as he can. Then there are waves and waves of hotness in him, throbbing feelings and wet salvia against his hole. Seth releases another load into the condom that’s thankfully still on, but even with that Kevin can feel it in him. They both pant and breath for their lives. Seth chuckles as he presses a soft and lazy kiss against Kevin’s shoulder blade.

“Nice one,” he breaths.

“You’re better be relaxed enough now,” Kevin replies breathless. His own skin buzzes. He feels himself in every pore, everything is more colorful. His heart races against his chest and he counts the seconds Seth still remains inside of him.

“I could go for another round,” Seth admit sheepishly.

“Fuck you,” Kevin says. “We don’t have the time.”

“Bummer,” he answers and sighs, before pulling himself out of Kevin. “It was a good ride though.”

“It was,” Kevin agrees. “Maybe,” he starts and turns around to witness Seth pulling the filled condom of his dick, “Maybe we can have round two when were back in Palmetto.”

Seth catches his eye and grins. “You little bitch,” he says. “You’re really starting to enjoy this, huh?”

Kevin growls angrily. “Don’t start_ _with that, Seth. We both know that it’s not really easy to not enjoy this. Also, we’re both really good at doing it. I don’t think I would have this much fun with another guy.”

“I feel loved,” Seth says with a sarcastic grin before he throws the condom into the toilet. “Clean that up,” he then adds and points at the sticky white marks on the ground. With a smirk on his lips, he leans forward and kisses Kevin again, hot and wet but also soft and more affectionate. “Maybe I really enjoy it too, Day.”

Even though Seth is a fucking bitch who wouldn’t say shit to save his own life, he really makes Kevin feel good whenever they kiss and fuck. It’s not even his primordial instinct kicking in, telling him to enjoy the warm body next to his while he can. It’s a feeling deeply buried in his heart that he’s way too afraid to tell without knowing if Seth could even reply to those feelings with enough thought and meaning. Kevin smiles and pushes that thought away. For now, it’s good enough for him that he can have Seth whenever they please. He doesn’t need the conformation that it’s something more for both of them, because he knows it is for him and he knows he is the only one entering Seth’s bed.

They share one last, lazy soft kiss before Seth walks over to the sink and cleans himself up and Kevin admires the muscled, toned back of his – boyfriend? Lover? Something different? It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. He loves that it’s Seth and he loves every second with him, even if they only throw snarky comments at each other before they make out in an empty bathroom stall.

Kevin Day doesn’t have to love Seth Gordon but maybe he just does.

[kurowrites]

Snow - Chapter 5

Entire fic. AO3. 

---

As soon as they leave the apartment building, Wei Ying unabashedly links his arm with Lan Zhan and snuggles up to him. It shields him from the cold winter breeze as much as his hold on Lan Zhan will keep him from slipping on the half-frozen snow. He’s decided that as long as Lan Zhan doesn’t object to it, he’s free to do whatever he wants. And far from objecting to it, Lan Zhan actually wraps his arm around him, so that Wei Ying really ends up stuck to Lan Zhan’s side.

He smiles up at Lan Zhan happily, and Lan Zhan squeezes him once in reply.

If this is a dream, he never wants to wake up.

They make the tour of the park like that, walking slowly as Wei Ying points out all the best sights to Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan listens to whatever Wei Ying has to say, and seems a little mesmerized by the ducks sliding clumsily over the frozen surface of the pond to get to the food that some generous soul has left for them.

“Do you like ducks?” Wei Ying asks when they’ve been standing there for a while, watching the ducks slide over the ice in search of food, and Lan Zhan still makes no move to continue their walk.

Lan Zhan doesn’t reply immediately, so Wei Ying gets in his face and pouts, “Lan Zhaaaan. Talk to me.”

Finally, Lan Zhan turns away from the ducks.

“I prefer rabbits.”

Wei Ying laughs. “Rabbits! I see we’re sticking to a theme. Snow hares and Lan Zhan; a very good combination. Very fitting. I like it. Do you keep rabbits?”

“No.”

“Aw, no! You deserve some cute, fluffy rabbits!”

“I was not in a position to take care of them properly.”

Wei Ying leans into Lan Zhan’s side, thoughtful. “I’m sure you’d take care of them very well. You should get some, Lan Zhan. I’d come visit you, too, to see the rabbits.”

Lan Zhan doesn’t reply, but for some strange reason, he places a soft kiss on Wei Ying’s temple. With that, he finally moves on.

They finish their walk around the pond and leave the park through the gate closest to the department store to do the shopping Wei Ying has been wanting to do. It’s Saturday and the department store is full of people, all trying to get their weekend shopping done. Couples are parading past them, dressed in their nicest date outfits, but Wei Ying is here with Lan Zhan, so really, who’s the lucky one here. They wish they were as lucky as Wei Ying. They walk past a popular coffee shop, and Lan Zhan offers to buy him a coffee, which Wei Ying gladly accepts. He hasn’t had any caffeine for days.

The coffee is delicious, and he would give Lan Zhan another kiss in thanks, but he’s not sure if he should do that here, in public. Later, he tells himself, when they’re back in his apartment. After he’s teased him a little bit more about the rabbits.

Wei Ying originally only wanted to pop into the department store to because he’s run out of envelopes and wanted to buy new ones, but Lan Zhan seems to be in a shopping mood. He takes Wei Ying to the household section of the department store and wanders through the aisles, picking out things here and there, comparing items and their functionality. Wei Ying helps him make the correct decisions, or at least the correct decisions in Wei Ying’s opinion. He teases Lan Zhan by telling him he should buy everything in red, because red is obviously the best colour. It clashes horribly with Lan Zhan’s all-white approach, but that’s half the fun.

Lan Zhan, oddly, listens to him and picks a fancy kitchen knife with a red handle, a red coffee machine, and more items that have the colour option red. Only when Lan Zhan is already paying (even Wei Ying’s envelopes managed to land in Lan Zhan’s basket somehow), it strikes Wei Ying that all the stuff Lan Zhan is buying is not intended for Lan Zhan at all. It’s all for Wei Ying. 

“Lan Zhan,” he says, panicking a little. “You can’t buy me all this stuff!”

Lan Zhan ignores him stubbornly and pays for everything.

“Lan Zhan!”

“We should also get some groceries,” Lan Zhan says, completely refusing to even respond to Wei Ying’s protests. He waltzes on with his newly acquired shopping bags in tow; a force that cannot be stopped. If Wei Ying didn’t know better, he would say that Lan Zhan is amused about Wei Ying’s inability to stop him. But such things are below Lan Zhan.

If there’s one thing Wei Ying is very good at, however, it’s being obnoxious. So, when Lan Zhan is busy picking out some food in the grocery store, he vanishes into a different isle and picks up something else. When he returns to Lan Zhan’s side, he drops his loot into the shopping basket Lan Zhan is holding with an impertinent grin. Lan Zhan stares at the objects for a moment and then shoots Wei Ying a look. To Wei Ying’s delight, he leaves the items in the basket and heads to the cashier to pay.

With bags full of groceries and other items, they return to Wei Ying’s apartment.

Once again, Lan Zhan prepares them a delicious late lunch, and when Wei Ying is full and feeling lazy, Lan Zhan sets up the new coffee maker and gets it running.

“Yessss,” he moans when Lan Zhan hands him a perfect little cup of espresso. “Caffeine.”

The caffeine revives him enough to remember the shopping he did earlier. Enthusiastic, he digs the items out of the pile of shopping that they haven’t cleared away yet and holds them under Lan Zhan’s nose.

“So,” he says with a grin. “I have plans for you this afternoon.”

He knows by now that he can’t always anticipate Lan Zhan’s reactions to his teasing, so honestly, it’s a gamble every time. But Lan Zhan paid for the lube and condoms Wei Ying put into his shopping basket without complaint, so he can’t imagine Lan Zhan suddenly having any moral objections now. Lan Zhan takes the items, but then, instead of eagerly jumping Wei Ying and debauching him on the spot, he puts them aside. Instead, he wraps his hands around Wei Ying’s waist and draws him close.

“I would stay,” he says, and he sounds actually sorry, “but I have to leave soon.”

Wei Ying lets his face drop on Lan Zhan’s shoulder and whines. “Lan Zhan, way to burst my bubble.”

“I am sorry.”

Another kiss finds its way on Wei Ying’s temple.

“And tomorrow?”

“I have an appointment with my family.”

Wei Ying whines again. He had hoped he could spend the entire weekend with Lan Zhan – there goes that dream.

A sudden thought strikes him and he jolts up.

“Wait – don’t tell me you have a wife and children waiting for you at home.”

Lan Zhan looks at him with an expression so offended, Wei Ying can’t help but laugh.

“I will be with my brother and uncle,” Lan Zhan informs him primly.

“Sorry, sorry,” Wei Ying apologises, still laughing. “But I would kick your ass if you made me a homewrecker.”

“No.”

The answer is so immediate, so absolute, Wei Ying has no doubt that Lan Zhan is entirely serious. He would never do something like that.

“Fine,” Wei Ying sighs. “I’ll let you go. But I’ll miss you.”

“Mn.”

Lan Zhan makes sure that everything is in order and Wei Ying has everything he needs before he leaves him. He also gives him his phone number and promises him that he will contact Wei Ying soon. Wei Ying is happy about the promise, but it still leaves him with a sense of worry. Lan Zhan might step out of his apartment and decide that Wei Ying isn’t worth the effort, isn’t worth coming back. He likes Lan Zhan. He doesn’t want to lose him. Not now. But he also can’t hold onto him, has no claim to his attention or time.

He sighs again when Lan Zhan puts his coat on, but accepts Lan Zhan’s goodbye kiss gracefully.

Lan Zhan’s fingers linger on Wei Ying’s cheeks, stroke the skin there before he finally lets go, and it’s the only gratification that Wei Ying has – that Lan Zhan seems equally as reluctant to leave Wei Ying as Wei Ying feels reluctant to let Lan Zhan go.

“Take care, Wei Ying,” he says, finally, and vanishes out of the door.

---

Sunday is boring. Wei Ying should be perfectly used to being alone in his apartment, but it feels far too empty now. So many things in here remind him of Lan Zhan – all the things that he brought Wei Ying, even the food that he bought for Wei Ying to eat. The bedsheets in which Lan Zhan had embraced him. The beautiful red coffee machine. It’s distracting, to be reminded of Lan Zhan everywhere.

He originally planned to catch up on his work since he missed university on Friday, but he finds he’s unable to concentrate and can’t get on with his work at all. Whenever he’s reading a text, he finds his mind wandering, wondering about where Lan Zhan is right now, if he’s thinking of Wei Ying, too. It’s unbearable. He’s like some lovesick young maiden, pining for her lover at war. It’s pitiful. He’s known Lan Zhan for all of three days.

He’s moments before losing patience with himself when the doorbell rings.

Wei Ying’s heart hammers in his chest. Could it be? Could it be Lan Zhan?

He practically flies to the door.

But when he opens the door, he isn’t greeted by a tall figure in a white coat. A a short, mustached delivery man waits for him. When he sees Wei Ying, he hands him a package, mumbles something in his mustache, and vanishes down the hallway before Wei Ying can even give him his thanks.

He hasn’t ordered anything, so why on earth did a package land on his doorstep?

But his name is written on the label of the package, along with his address, so he takes the box to the kitchen and opens it, peeking inside curiously. He picks out a few air cushions that are in the way, and there –

It’s a rabbit plushie.

It’s a giant, fluffy, white rabbit plushie, and it can only come from one single person.

He takes the rabbit out of the box, and its fur is so soft he can’t help but hug it, squeeze it, and scream into its fur a little. He’s full of emotions and they need to be expressed somehow. Lan Zhan sent him a rabbit plushie.

It’s the cutest plushie he’s ever seen, perfectly white, with powdery pink inner ears and shiny black eyes. It’s absolutely perfect.

Still holding the plushie, he digs for his phone, snaps a photo of him and the plushie, and sends it to Lan Zhan with a quick message.

 [Wei Ying] LAN ZHAN. ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME? (((( ;°Д°))))

[Wei Ying] This is the cutest rabbit I have ever seen!! I’m happy now. I don’t need you anymore. ヾ｜*￣ー￣｜

[Wei Ying] That was a joke by the way. I need you…. and the rabbit. ( ˘ ³˘)❤

[Lan Zhan] I am glad that you like the rabbit. It will be there for you when I cannot.

[Wei Ying] _(:°з」∠)_

[Wei Ying] You’re killing me, Lan Zhan, you’re killing me.

[Wei Ying] I will take good care of it, I promise.

[Lan Zhan] Good.

Wei Ying squeezes the rabbit to his chest, giving it a little kiss in place of its owner.

Lan Zhan is the absolute best. He listened to Wei Ying’s whining and sent him a rabbit plushie to cheer him up.

With a sigh, he closes the book he’s been trying to read and heads for his bedroom instead. He’s not going to get any more work done today. But he has a rabbit for company now, so he might start with a nap.

[delicrieux]

amortentia [young!tom riddle x reader] -final-

premise: two students start developing feelings for one another despite having too many secrets to count.

tagging:  @cheshirecatbyul @junieyes @whaledenwtf @xoxomioxoxo @cherryvblossom @adidabach @sissieliang @patronusfire @rianrawr @gravitygemjj @aquariemm @storiiteller @fortisfiliae @imagines-all-day-everyday @redrupees @kurara-black-blog @pleuviors @songforhema @zaybmocx @justeveeeee @importanttyrantruler @sissieliang @milkchocolatepretzel @wontyoustandbyme

warnings: angst, sexual themes, descriptions of death, very morbid + disturbing imagery

a/n: this had been brewing in my mind since i read les diaboliques! thank you all for all the wonderful comments and kudos and all that jazz. truly. i started this project because there were no tom riddle fics, and if there were they were not nearly disturbing enough for my tastes. this last chapter is from tom’s point of view and i think you can already guess why. let me know what you think! thank you again for this amazing journey. it is finally time for the curtain to fall. p.s. thank you immensely to my seraph @macchiavellii for the aesthetic. divine, as per usual. 

xx d

amortentia masterpost | masterlist | support me | commissions! |

10. The Crimson Curtain/ Odette

There is not enough substance in this world to feed Tom Riddle’s desire for power – power over things that cannot be controlled, and power over people that simply adore him. He had always fancied himself completely in control; since moving to Hogwarts, he had built a new image of himself, a skilfully crafted mask that no one would question, or peer behind it if they did. He is charming, and handsome, and devilishly sly, yet he presents a tender disposition of a diligent student – everyone’s dream.  To him very few things matter and nothing matters very much. Yet there is this girl from his house, this gentle, naïve creature that had enough heart to defend him from bullies that years later would worship him on their feet; the same, graceful, roseate cheeked figure giving him the upmost respect and adulation of which she, herself, has none. He was her first everything and he knew this and held this secret with silent pride: her first love, her first kiss, her first everything. And as fitting, or so he thinks, clearly and coldly, it started with him and it shall end with him – she will die in his hands like a swan taking her last bow on stage, in her prettiest white dress and refined movements, so precise they are hurtful, and it will be the most beautiful thing to witness and he anticipated that moment with bated breath and morbid, dark eyes, wild with wonder, drunk on lust.

The days slip by slowly at the Riddle Manor, its strange halls dark and the outside fields misty. The roses that had bloomed in the garden had wilted from the harsh wind; alien grey clouds dotted the sunless sky like a picture void of all colour, of all happiness. Then it got hot again, humid, the stench of old wood and the lingering whiff of death and blood floated in these halls as if a permanent tenant, unable to leave, bringing nothing but a sense of melancholy and acceptance. The nights are cold, bigger than imagining; black and gusty and enormous, disordered and wild with stars. It brought a sense of tranquillity, its vastness, though a looming sense of finality, too. (Name) had long ago accepted her fate as a soul to be sacrificed to the Mighty Death itself and Tom had no qualms about that: she accepted it with his first tender touch in confession, accepted it again on the train ride to Little Hangleton, and reconfirmed it with a scorching, delicious kiss. He wanted to devour her like Saturn devoured his sons, like Goya in fretful grey-brown colours depicted on the verge of his madness. He could not share her with anyone else; she is too precious to even bathe in the curious eye of anyone else. It pained him horribly to even imagine it.

Her room is on the second floor, the very last one, spacious and adorned with viridian sheets and cheerful depictions of the Victorian past via paintings framed in glossy wood. Her window overlooks the dead roses and the faraway cabin of the caretaker, who, for days oblivious, stumbles about his home, in his mind certain he had conversed with the Riddle family and watered the flowers, cut the grass, cheerily gave the children candy he used to love as a child himself. A red curtain, satin, soft as her skin, hung above the aforementioned window, swayed from the breeze. They had spent many nights within this room, it now trapping many whispers and groans of his name, embedded into the walls, into the pillows, and the taste of kisses and metallic blood only fuelled this famishing carnal desire.

And it is dark again and he is drawn to her door like a soul is drawn to the afterlife, feeling, in a dreamlike state, the air tonight being electric and different. The hallway is shadowy and he makes no sound as he moves to the handle, his hot hand burning from touching its cold metal surface. The door opens with a ghastly creek and he enters the cool, moonlit room. She sits on the edge of the bed, staring somewhere outside the open window, a candle burning on its sill and flicking with the curtain of rouge behind it, twirling, caressing the air in its sensual dance. She slowly turns her head to him, her features lily-like, submerged in water; she appears as a seraph that climbed down from heaven to wait for him by the foot of the bed. Though this seraph, this divine, lovely creature has its wings clipped, and blood streams lazily from her nose, drips on her nightgown, appearing black in the shade.

“Were you waiting for me?” He asks, knowing the answer. She faintly nods, tilting her head and watching her feet with an empty, lonely look. He approaches her vigilantly, not yet ready to let go this picturesque, medieval image of her, so waxen, so completely lifeless. He sits next to her, his hand coming to rest on hers. Hers feels like marble, cold and sculpted. He brings the hand to his lips, kisses it softly, thinking he shall warm it with his caress, all the while watching her closely in wonder and curiosity. She barely reacts, only the sides of her pale lips quirk upwards, and the faint glow of love lights up in her eyes, and she gazes back at him, through him, drifting between this world and the next. Still grasping her hand, his other lands on the back of her neck, careful to hold her as if she was something pitifully fragile. He lays her down onto the velvety, glossy sheets.

He looks into her eyes and he sees the ocean in their barren depths. It mesmerizes him, makes his breath hitch in his throat; the trickle of red dyes her cupid bow in the prettiest rouge lipstick. He kisses her, a kiss that is strangely unlike him, a kiss full of emotion so strong his heart nearly lunges out of his chest to beat for hers. Her pulse drums helplessly in her lips, on the side of her jaw where his hand moves to rest. He pulls away slightly, enraptured, and she rasps something melodious in blood written notes.

“Ma mort…” Her voice is an alluring siren’s call.

“Ma vie…” He whispers in between kisses.

She unfolds in his grasp like a rose, breathless and beautiful, and he kisses her neck, her collarbones, retraces the spots he had marked the night before with growing eagerness. He captures her lips again, this time void of any tenderness he had exhibited prior, and she returns it with unexpected keenness. Her limbs sputter by her sides as if she wants to grasp him, yet her hands fall back to bed before she has the chance to run her fingers through his hair. He growls, deep, in the back of his throat, because she tastes like heaven, his heaven, his own personal Eden.

Her last dance, her last arch to his roaming lips as they trail down the curve of her breasts.  He calls her name with a gentle groan, barely a whisper. Her skin is frost. It does not heat no matter how much he touches it, and the night is dead silent suddenly, and the hand that had been wrapped around her throat feels as if something is amiss. He pulls away from her, sits uptight, and for a moment, or perhaps a minute, or a whole eternity, he stares at the pale, haunting body of a girl laying eerily still. Her eyes gaze into oblivion with alarming emptiness, and the light of the flickering candle reflects warmly in her eyes.

He cannot explain this feeling, cannot trap it within the constraints of his lexis. He trembles, lightly at first, then almost violently, her blood still warm on his lips. He feels horror grip his throat; settle in the pit of his stomach like a serpent. And he feels awe hitting him in waves of opalescent ecstasy. Beauty, true beauty, is terror. He had never seen something so absolutely sublime.

In a daze, Tom Riddle stands and wanders to the window. White wax drips from the candle. He leans in by the fire, exhales sharply and the fire sniffs out leaving put spirals of grey smoke. He slowly closes the window, his hands still shivering. Lastly he draws the curtain over it. What little light was in the room is now replaced by a sinister red glow.

He never felt so powerful, never so ethereal. Finally… it dawns onto him.

It is happiness he feels. Happiness scorched with abysmal pain.

fin.

[moonstomars]

This is a gift for @the-curious-lady-blog for the @creators-anonymous exchange! The prompt was “Lanterns”. I hope you’ll like it Nica Chan, enjoy!

The longer he walks away from the festival, the darker it gets, until the cobblestones under his feet become almost indiscernible - but he can still feel them, cold and hard, through the soles of his shoes. Escanor holds the parchments tighter to his chest, his eyes wide open as he ventures into the darkness. The roads are barely lit by the scarce torches that have been left burning. There is no need of much light, here, almost all the city has gathered in the main squares and streets, leaving the outskirts like a dark, empty shell, at least for a few more hours. Even the clamour and the laughter, with the warm light of the fires, abate, leaving him alone in the blackness, yet he doesn’t stop, nor he looks back. 

He could, of course. He could stop and turn around and join the celebrations again, let loose and join his comrades and more of that, finally enjoying the festival the city organized for Samhain night. Isn’t this something he has always desired? He sighs and closes his eyes, his pace slowing down; he remembers the last time he had fully celebrated the end of Summer, back then when he was still a prince and he was free, when his biggest problems were his brother’s vexations. He was so young, his memories are a bit hazy, yet he can’t forget the way the light of hundreds of lanterns illuminated the capital. He was still a child and couldn’t join the celebrations in the streets, but he had watched the crowd from the window of his room, mesmerized by its chaotic movements and twists - it looked, he had thought, like an enormous swarm of ants, gathering on the top of the anthill. He had wanted so much to be part of it - and he would have had, Rosa had promised him that night. Once grown-up no one would have been able to stop him to go there and join his people, not even Diamond. And Escanor had fallen asleep with a smile on his lips, hoping that that day, the day he would have been part of something so alive and beautiful, would have been soon.

Continue on ao3

Then ... then there had been his curse. And Diamond’s screams, his parents’ cries, the sound of the guards’ footsteps on the stone. Then there had been Rosa’s last words and her tears and the roar of the waves as they hit the barrel, the cold water soaking his clothes. 

And then, there had been the solitude, the constant wandering, escaping from the path of destruction that his other self seemed to leave behind him. During those years, he had seen more than once the fires lightening up in distant villager during the nights of Samhain. He remembers observing them from afar, his heart pounding and his hands wringing, torn by the desire to join the people, to not be alone anymore and the fear of what would have happened if he had - would have they rejected him, a vagabond with no money, no family, nothing but his bones and soul? Maybe they would have. Maybe if he left before dawn, before the curse could grasp him with its claws … maybe it would have been alright. One day, he always told to himself, one day, he would have cast aside the fear and walked in one of the cities of Britannia, and he would have spent there the night, dancing and singing and simply living, until the sun would have started to lighten the night sky - only then, he would have left.

He never did. 

But tonight - tonight is different. King Bartra himself gave him and his comrades the permission to enjoy the festival - though they had to promise not to mess up, he added, glaring at Meliodas, who simply smiled and thanked. Of course, they have taken advantage of the offer. Escanor saw Meliodas and Ban engaged in a very competitive drinking contest that they both very well knew how would have ended - yet, the fact wasn’t stopping Ban from gulping down something that looked like half of a barrel of ale. King had observed curiously the celebrations around him, then had spent all the time chatting with Diane, floating some feet from her head and eventually leaving only to grab her some food or drink. And Gowther - Escanor saw him as he left, sitting not far from Meliodas, with a book in his hands. He nodded when Escanor passed by his chair, yet he didn’t ask where he was going. Escanor was grateful because he is not sure he would have been able to tell him where he was headed, let alone why he was leaving. 

It’s difficult, even for him, to wrap his head around the knot of feelings that weights at the base of his throat like an iron ring. For once in his life, he knows he could stay. He has comrades - friends - with whom he could spend the night, he doesn’t have to fear the rejection from the people, and more than that, he has found someone who can stop him, even when the sun is high and energy courses through his veins like molten gold. He still doesn’t fully understand his Captain, and he doubts he ever will, but he trusts Meliodas, and he knows that he will do what’s necessary if things go wrong. 

Yet, Escanor keeps walking. Silence has wrapped its tendrils around him, broken only by the night birds’ calls, and the scarce lanterns do little to illuminate his path. It’s not that he doesn’t want the other Sins’ company; even though the thought still amazes him, he knows that none of them would mind having him around, and he does like them, really. They are … so different from him, all of them, and the reason why Meliodas has formed a group of so peculiar people still escapes him, but it’s the first time in years that Escanor feels … happy. For real. No, he is not avoiding the company of his friends, and if he is honest with himself, he is aware of what is pushing him away from the lights and the games and the drink. It’s - it’s the crowd, he thinks. And the deafening noise of the laughs and the yells and the people pushing against him from everywhere and the smell of smoke and food and alcohol blending and getting stuck in his throat, and the expressions of happiness and amusement and innocence on everyone’s face. Everything mixing together and clamping his neck and clenching his chest. After years of solitude, it’s too much altogether. It’s stupid, he knows, but it almost scares him, to be able to finally walk amidst the throng, like a normal person and not a cursed beast, a lion in sheep’s clothing. It’s reassuring and yet terrifying and it’s too much - he needed to get away, at least for a while, after he failed to find an anchor to hold onto.

Maybe … maybe if she was there, he would have stayed, but Merlin made clear that she wasn’t interested in the Festival the moment Meliodas had proposed to go all together - she had some experiments going on, she shrugged when the Captain looked at her, brow flinched, and she had all the intentions to work on that night. She is probably still in her lab, her pale skin illuminated by the soft light of the candles, her hands moving in the air as she manipulates her magic - or maybe she is still, lips pursed and barely furrowed brows, thinking about what she has to do next. Escanor swallows at the thought. If he was bold, like his other self, he would grab two pints of ale and some food and join her - by now, he knows the way by heart, every step and turn. He would sit with her and ask her how her work is going, and then he could spend hours listening to her mesmerizing voice as she explains things that he can barely understand - but it doesn’t matter, because they make her lips curve in that slight smile and the pyrite of her eyes shine like gold under the sun. Or, if she doesn’t want to speak, he would be content just watching her in silence as she works, observing the movements of her hands, listening to her breaths and murmurs.  

But the sun has set hours ago, and this Escanor is not bold, nor brave, and surely not worth her time; he would just bother her, and that’s the last thing he wants. Yet, he has no intention to return to Liones’ castle, where he and the other Sins reside - he knows that now it’s most likely teeming with life, steps and laughs echoing in its halls and corridors, and right now, Escanor feels like he needs to be alone. He presses his lips together, uncertain for a moment, and when he raises his head, his eyes meet the dark shape of Merlin’s castle, standing solid against the blue of the night sky. He almost stops, but then he takes a deep breath and keeps walking. He is not going to her, of course, but he has grown fond of the garden that surrounds the high ground that hosts the castle. It will be a good place where to stay, waiting for the celebrations to end - or for the unsettling feeling that still weighs down his heart to mitigate. 

He doesn’t meet anyone in the streets, nor when he finally embarks the path that leads him to the soft grass and the trees of the garden. Even though her castle is huge, Merlin has never had many servants, and she most likely let them go for tonight, leaving her alone with her work. Now though, he can't help but think, she is not alone anymore. He is there too - not actually with her, of course, but - close enough. The thought that he is somehow keeping her company makes his smile, and he finally starts to relax, enjoying the familiar smell of fresh grass and moss. It’s even darker here, the moon is crescent and its light is not bright enough to filter through the branches, but he is not afraid. Once, he feared the dark. He remembers spending his first nights in the land of Britannia curled up in the darkness, eyes wide open and body stiffened, jerking for every single creak and whisper that reached his ears, too scared to even move. It took time, to get used to it - but he had to. After all, Escanor is himself - this himself - only in the murk of the night and so with the time, the same blackness that had scared him became familiar, somehow even reassuring, like a shell hiding and protecting him from the outside world. He can't deny that the thought of what can hide there still scares him, but now he is in Liones, and this place is Merlin's home. He is safe, here. 

A smile forms on his lips when he catches sight of a stone bench, almost hidden between the trunks, and he picks up the place. Only when he has sat and took a moment to look around, still filling his eyes with the beautiful sight of the trees illuminated by the light of the stars, he finally leans the sheets of paper on his knees. It wasn’t difficult to find them at the Festival, he even managed to get a little pencil from a kind old lady, and that’s everything he needs right now. After years of solitude, he is used to writing surrounded only by the darkness, and he doesn’t even have to look at the pencil as he traces the words on the paper, straight and elegant - exactly how his tutors taught him when he was a child. His first verses are about the night, about the stars shining silently in the sky and the shadows embracing the roots of the trees, then, when his gaze lands on the distant lights of the city, he starts to describe how it felt to be there - the continuous motion of the people and the way the fire illuminates the walls of the houses, and the joy that purs from everyone, and the rumble that surrounds everything and makes it difficult to hear any other sound and - 

And he swallows, his breath hastening, and has to force himself to look away not to feel overwhelmed by the memory. Soon his eyes find the walls of the near castle and it’s almost like his hand moves of its own volition as it writes about the mysterious and beguiling creature who inhabits the place, so beautiful and yet powerful - and so brave that she didn’t even flinch in front of him at noon. It’s easy, to lose touch with reality in moments like this, when it’s just him and his poetry, words flowing in his mind like a river of which he is by now used to riding the waves. After a while he stops for a moment, lips slightly pursed as he tries to find the right word to describe her curiosity towards everything, no matter how dangerous or damaged. The corner of his mouth turns up, and he sets the tip of the pencil of the paper, barely scratching its whiteness and -

“The Festival was not to your liking?” 

Escanor jerks, the pencil slips through his fingers and hits the ground before rolling under the bench. He tightens his grip on the sheets of paper as he turns around, his mouth dry when his eyes find her. Merlin stands in the space between two trees, not even six feet from him, her arms crossed and a little smile on her lips. He swallows, and his mind suddenly blanks as he admires her, her skin pale under the dim light of the stars and the obsidian of her hair blending with the blackness of the shadows. He remembers that he should answer only when her brow flinches a little. "I - it's not like that, the festival was, uhm, good," he stutters, rubbing the back of his neck. 

"Yes," Merlin nods as she gets closer, her skirt moving slightly around her legs, "it can be said that the citizens of Liones value the night of Samhain. Yet, you are here," she states, stopping right next to the bench, "for quite a while, actually."

“How do you -”

“I sensed you the moment you set foot on the grass,” she interrupts him, “I don’t like to have unexpected guests.”

There are spells all around the castle, Escanor realizes, and he feels his cheeks burning - he should have known, of course. “I didn’t want to bother you, I know you are working,” he hurries to explain, moving his hand in the air - he is gesticulating, he notices, and he should stop. “I just needed somewhere quiet to write, and I - ah, I love your garden.” Oh Goddesses, now he is rambling too. With an effort, he puts his hand on the paper again, his body stiffening on the bench as he looks right in front of him, avoiding her gaze. “I can go away if you want -”

“Escanor.” He closes his mouth and dares to look at her, but this is probably a mistake because when he does, she gives him and half-smile that makes his heart jump in his throat. “You didn’t bother me.” She says softly, “I finished a couple of minutes ago. I was just wondering what were you doing here.”

“I was … I was writing poetry.” He feels his blush spreading on his ears under her stare, yet now that is looking into her eyes, he realizes that he can't look away.  

“That I see,” she says, before sitting next to him. Escanor hurries to move away to give her space, but she stops him with a wave of her hand. “But it’s the night of Samhain. Shouldn’t you be at the Festival with the others? You looked happy when Bartra told us we could go.”

“I was! I - I am, it’s just …” Escanor pauses, not knowing exactly how to express the strange feeling that lingered in his chest all night.

“You don’t own me any explanation,” she reassures him, “we can talk about something else.”

“But - Ah!” Escanor presses his lips together. He likes to be around Merlin - well, he loves it - but she always makes his heart beat faster and his cheeks burn and his thoughts slow down like flies trapped in honey. Swallowing hard, he forces himself to hold her gaze. He does trust her. She saw him in his most miserable times and still, she is there, with him, and she talks with him and is his friend - and if seeing him miserably crying over his curse and burning with pride and energy under the midday sun didn't change it, this won't make any difference. So, he lets the words spill out of his mouth. “There were so many people and so much noise," he admits, slowly, "everything was so ... so much. And I - I was there, and I could have been part of it, of everything, just another face in the crowd. It felt so weird, to be able to be part of something so big, without none of the people around me knowing who I am, what I am." He stops, chewing the inside of his cheek for a moment, trying to translate the emotions he feels into words. "I have wanted this," he murmurs, "for so very long. To be just a man among others. But I can't forget who I am. Not even now, that I have you - ah, the Captain, and the Sins. And I can't fake it. It's not - it doesn't feel fair. It doesn't feel right." Shily, he finally looks away, his gaze landing on his joined hands. "You'll probably think I am a being silly. Throwing away the occasion to enjoy something I wanted for so long just because I can't bring myself to forget at least for one night."

His heart pounds in his ears and his face burns as he waits quietly. Probably, he mulls, his words weren't clear but there is no way he can think about to make her see what - 

"You are not being silly," she whispers, and Escanor blinks in surprise, turning towards her. Merlin is not looking at him anymore, her eyes wandering over the wood though it's obvious her mind is lost somewhere else. She takes a moment before continuing and when she talks, her words are slow and thoughtful. "In the place where I was born,  they used to celebrate something similar to Samhain, early in November. When I was a child, I enjoyed observing the preparations, and I desired so much to attend the celebrations and the rites in the city. But I was too young to go alone, and my father hated it. He said it was a waste of time. He took part in the occasions he had to, but no more." 

Escanor blinks, mouth half-open, enraptured by her words. Before tonight, he didn't even know she had a father - well, of course she had one, yet it's the first time she mentions him in his presence. It's the first time she alludes to her life before the Sins as well, and he feels incredibly honoured that she chose to tell him about that. 

"I remember clearly the first year I decided I was done waiting and sneaked out one of those nights," she continues, crossing her arms, "and so I remember how incredibly disappointed I felt. The games, the jokes, the recitals, they all felt so frivolous. Even though I had observed it for years, I couldn't mix with the merry crowd. That wasn't my place to be. And so I returned home and stopped waiting for that festival like it was something special. I have never tried to join the celebrations again."

She purses her lips, then turns towards him, her golden irises shining in the darkness. "Sometimes," she says, "things are not how we imagined them - and that can be confusing, scary or even disappointing. But it's part of the process of discovery, and once you have accepted this, it will become easier. And Escanor," she adds, tilting her head, "remember that nothing stays the same forever. Things can change, and one day, you could be able to walk among people and feel like you are just part of the crowd, a face between many.  Or you'll be able to accept that you are not. Not because you are less, but because you are more - you are an extraordinary man," she smiles to him, "even though you fail to see it."

Escanor feels like his body is burning and freezing at the same time, but he manages to nod, trying to process everything she just said -  she didn't really tell him he is extraordinary, didn't she? That part has to be a dream, a fantasy taking life in his mind. Actually, all this conversation - Merlin trying to comfort him and telling him about her childhood and everything - has to be a dream. Maybe he fell asleep while writing. But the emotions that are overwhelming him feel so real and so the cool of the air and the soft essence she emanates. 

"Take your time to think about this," Merlin shrugs, shifting on the bench, probably not fully aware of the storm she caused in his mind.  “Do you mind if I stay here for a while?”

Escanor needs a moment to realizes that she is actually asking something. “Yes! I mean, no, I don’t mind at all,” he moves his hands in front of his face, flushing. “It’s your garden after all - you can stay here as long as you want!”

The noise that comes from Merlin sounds surprisingly like a chuckle. “Well, then. It’s the case to make this place a bit more illuminated.” 

She snaps her fingers, and in a moment the wood explodes in lights. Escanor’s eyes widen as he looks around, gaze wandering on the lanterns that appeared everywhere around them, their wooden structures hovering in the air. When he finally looks at her again, for a moment he is lost observing the way her lashes shades her cheekbones and her eyes glow, gold nuggets in the dark. 

“Would you mind to let me hear it?"

Escanor blinks, not entirely sure he heard her correctly. “Uhm, what?”

“Your poetry,” she smirks, “I find it quite enjoyable. Would you like to read it for me?”

"Oh." He swallows, his eyes dropping on the paper again. It wouldn't be the first time he does that, Merlin seems to appreciate his poetry even though he is not quite sure of what she thinks about the verses he wrote about her. He has not even reread what he wrote and surely, it's not his best work, yet ... "Alright. I should still work on it," he admits, glancing at her before. "Night," he begins, "has its tendrils wrapped around the wood ..."

Slowly, his body relaxes and the words leave his mouth steadier and confident. And then ...  maybe it’s the way dozens of lanterns illuminate the place like fallen stars and the fact that under their light Merlin looks ethereal, almost unreal, like a spirit of fire or an ancient deity. Or maybe he has lost his mind - no, he has definitively lost his mind, because as he reads, his hand finds hers on her bench, and he doesn’t move it away - no, he moves it closer, until their fingers are brushing. His cheeks are warm again, and his throat is dry, but he keeps reading, eyes fixed on the paper. He expects Merlin to move away any time, and is surprised when she doesn’t - yet she knows, she feels her fingers moving, a so slight shift that it's barely noticeable, but they are not getting away - no, they are getting a bit, just a tiny bit, closer. 

He shouldn't read too much into that gesture. Merlin is a mysterious woman and people seem to think that she is distant and cold, but she has always been kind to him - she is probably just being nice, now, because she pities him. Escanor knows that. Bur her skin is warm and her soft breath is like a song to his ears and tonight, under the lights of the lanterns and the sky full of stars, it doesn't matter why she is still here. One day, Escanor will tell her about the feelings that the mere thought of her awakens in his chest, but for now, this is enough for him.