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tales-unique · 3 years ago

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FAITH, LOST IV

Oh honey she starts off so spicy! Hence why it's all under a Read More since I don't wanna get done for showing the nasty straight out the gate. Minors better beware! ;3

Tagging the boos, for obvs reasons @chelseareferenced @buckysbaby1 hope you all like it! 😘😘

Chapter 4

It begins as soon as your eyes flutter open. The darkness, familiar, like an old friend, coerces your senses into a heightened state. Exposed, your skin prickles at the coolness of the room, writhing against soft sheets. You exhale in exhilaration; you know what’s to come. It starts small, a low thrum of electricity in the air that tickles your bare flesh. Then it builds, tantalizingly slow, a measured surge of power that has you twisting yourself in knots. You want more. Only He can give you more. His arrival is heralded by the scent of oil and whiskey, leather and smoke. It caresses you, embraces you, and sends you into overdrive. It’s instinctual, a primal desire. It corrupts your mind, the sequence disjointing in its take over. Thick boots echo on a wooden floor, your mouth falling open with a heated breath. Your back arches when you feel his weight dip the bed, heat radiating from him. The contrast has you trembling, body wired. His hands, strong and calloused, grip the backs of your thighs easily. A simple tug and you’re at his mercy, legs parting easily in his strong grip. You moan, he growls. He likes what he can see, those beast eyes glowing a dangerous red in the blackness. Sharp indents form against delicate skin, his claws marking your inner thighs. His little lamb, so sweet and so ready for the slaughter. Then there’s movement, the shuffle of fabric, the chink of a belt buckle. You tense, but you’re ready. The air surges with the oncoming crescendo, the room spinning, or maybe it’s you? You’re not sure, preoccupied with the molten heat that pools suddenly between your legs. You feel his grin, all teeth and tongue helping to blot out the sharp stab of pain. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned—

The sudden chaos of a burst steam pipe in the hallway outside your room abruptly shocks you from your slumber, a cacophony of sounds assaulting your sleep-hazed senses. You hear Heisenberg shouting, the scraping of metal being reshaped at will, the harsh hissing of escaping steam. Groaning at the rude awakening you flop back against the lumpy couch cushions, kicking off your blanket in protest. A light sheen of sweat covers your body, making your nightclothes stick to you in an uncomfortable way. As you stare up at the ceiling you try to decode the meaning behind your dream. You recall with an embarrassing amount of clarity just what it was you were doing and who you were enjoying it with. Humiliation blooms within you, coloring your cheeks a shade of scarlet. It wasn’t as though you hadn’t indulged in the past, you just never had desires so blatant before. Especially for someone who was your superior in every way. “Hey, you awake in there?” Heisenberg’s voice cuts your thoughts short. All the racket has stopped, there’s just the usual hum of the Factory. “Y-yes!” You squeak, stomach clenching uncharacteristically as you sit up, “I’m awake!” “Well get your ass up, we have work to do!” He claps his hands hard to exaggerate his point and you lament your new found torture as his footfalls recede down the corridor. Oh merciful Mother Miranda how were you supposed to face him anymore?

Heisenberg is, for lack of a better word, pissed. It surges through him and it shows in the haphazard, volatile approach he takes with his work. It isn’t rational, this level of response on his part, but he can’t help it. You’ve barely spoken a full sentence to him all day. Now, he’s under no illusions that you were going to become the best of friends. After all, you had been sent to him by Mother Bitch herself to be his servant and he knew that you were three sheets to the wind over this religious bullshit, but he’d thought that you’d been showing progress in becoming your own person. At least, you were , until that little incident where he had you pinned against his desk and decided to take his teasing to the next level. It isn’t often that Heisenberg considers that he may have gone too far with something, or someone , but he’s definitely considering the possibility now that you seem to be avoiding him wherever possible. You’d even brushed off his blatant last ditch attempt, an offer to accompany him to see his forge and the projects he’d been working on, in favour of praying to Mother Miranda. It’s the exact opposite of what he wanted to happen. You’d been so close to opening up, to no longer being a tool, but instead you’re become even more the meek little lamb of Miranda’s flock. Frustration bubbles within and his temper, short-fused as it already is, takes a critical hit. As a result everything he does has a sharp, volatile edge to it; even something as simple as opening a door is menacing in his current state. It serves to further deter you from him, giving you the space you so desperately desired. That is, until Heisenberg reaches his limit. “Just open up already! You can’t ignore me forever!” He thunders where he stands in the hallway, gritting his teeth in a vicious snarl. When he’s met with your persistent silence he howls in frustration, throwing his arms up in the air. The irony of him choosing to remain outside your door doesn’t go amiss, since it’s well known that he could easily rip the door from its hinges with the flick of his hand because of his nifty little ability to manipulate metal. Which, coincidentally, nearly everything in this Factory is made of in some form or another. But he doesn’t and you’re thankful for that, even if you still don’t want to face him. It continues on relentlessly, neither side backing down, and without realizing it, the whole thing becomes a game in its own right. One that pits you against one another to see who cracks first. So it’s a surprise when it’s Heisenberg that seeks you out first. It’s a situation of his own making, having followed you on the gritty live feed from his security cameras. With ease he catches you off guard on your way out of the elevator, taking your fright in his stride. “Easy now!” He exclaims, his hands raised in surrender. You’re cagey, looking for a way out. He isn’t going to give you one because he’s had about enough of you giving him the cold shoulder over a goddamn joke . You’ve pressed yourself tight against the wall, watching him like a hawk. He can hear the frantic flutter of your heart, the sharp intakes of breath, and his jaw tightens. He can’t get distracted now, he needs to focus — this was not the time to enjoy your distress. “Now I know that I can be a bit of a handful,” he starts, then falters, mouth working to try and word it just right, “but, really, hasn’t this gone on long enough? I didn’t mean any harm by it! Just a little teasing, you weren’t meant to get upset.” Oh, he thinks this is because of that time. You stare up at him in utter disbelief. You want to slap him. It’s the first time you’ve ever felt the innate burning desire to inflict bodily harm on anyone, but here you stand, about ready to knock those glasses right off his face. “You have literally no idea how you make me feel , do you?” You accuse him, incredulous, your posture straightening. Things might have slipped back to the way they were before all of this if he had just let you be, allowed you to warm back up to him, and maybe you might have been content with that. This was a turmoil of his own creation, after all, so why not let him stew in it a while. But now? Now you were at your limit. You’re tired of constantly tip-toeing around yourself because of him and his stupid games. If anything, you’re even more tentative to rekindle whatever this relationship is that you have with him, to throw in the towel and tell Mother Miranda she’d been wrong about you. It made you sour to think that what little progress you had made had been lost and it’s taken its toll on you. There’s a harsh look to you that has Heisenberg’s head spinning, apprehension gripping him. “H-Hold on a minute,” he attempts to defend himself, an uncomfortable blend of emotions sitting like a stone in his stomach. He’s conflicted over your new found confidence. You’re no longer the mild-mannered devotee that was wound around Mother Miranda’s finger, standing tall. You’re practically shining. It’s a good look on you, but he’s not exactly thrilled to be the one on the receiving end. “No!” You snap, squaring up to him. You see his brilliant eyes widen behind his circular glasses and for once in your life you feel powerful and in control . “I’ve done nothing but try my best here, trying to make something good out of this situation and you made me feel like a complete idiot !” The words feel heavy on your tongue, but you feel lighter now that they’re out in the open. Who knew that having your shame out in the open could feel so liberating. You take a deep breath when you feel the pinpricks of tears sting your eyes, trying to ground yourself. You wouldn’t forgive yourself if you cried in front of him. Not in this lifetime, or the next. Heisenberg stares down at you with a look of realization on his face, now fully aware that there was more to this than your feelings of inadequacy, that you were little more than a joke to him. It’s always been there, in the way your heart races when he gets just that little bit too close or how your eyes soften when he’s agonizing over his work. He goes to speak this revelation but you shake your head, lower lip trembling. “I was just trying to help .” The way your voice breaks has him in a tailspin, the look of pure anguish in your eyes cutting him deep. This is in no way what he had envisioned when he spotted the chance to clear the air with you. “Oh come on, don’t cry!” It’s a desperate plea, something you never thought you would hear from him. “You’re making me feel really shitty here!” “That’s because you are!” You sob, unable to hold it back anymore. You feel like such a pathetic idiot. That overwhelming monster of self-degradation looms, fueling your misery. If only a dark abyss could just swallow you up and save you from this embarrassment, but you know that’s not going to happen. There’s only this awkward moment, lingering between you. You whimper, trying desperately to wipe away your tears. They stream down your cheeks, burning against your already flushed skin as you sniffle. Suddenly his hands are encasing your own in a firm grip. With a surprisingly gentle touch he tugs them down, exposing you. The whites of your eyes are marred with tiny lines of red and your long lashes clump together from your tears. You’re a mess, but he doesn’t mind. In fact, he finds you oddly endearing in the moment. Swallowing, you try to understand what’s going on. Your hands are still held in his, the feel of soft leather almost comforting against your skin, and you wonder if you’re dreaming again. Something stirs in you, glowing embers kicking up from ashes, and you try to pull away. It’s an admirable attempt but Heisenberg easily catches you, holding you in a vice-like grip against him. You whine at the harshness of his grasp and he frowns, loosening his hold just enough to make it bearable. “I’m sorry, alright?” He mumbles, hesitating. It’s been so long, too long, since he’s been in such close proximity to someone who wasn’t prey. You aren’t fighting him, you aren’t trying your damnedest to get away. In fact, you look as though you’re captivated by him. It’s a side of him that no one has ever seen before, the dejection of a man twisted into being a monster. Something inside you breaks anew at how lost he looks, the last and most dangerous of the Lords at Mother Miranda’s disposal. He’s nothing more than a dog on a choke chain, to be used when it’s suited and then discarded afterwards. Just like you. “Heisenberg,” your voice is hushed, woeful. The words are so genuine and your heart isn’t yet made of stone to be immune to their plight. When you shift in his grasp there’s no resistance and you reach up to gently cup his cheeks in your hands. The stubble on his face tickles your palms and his skin is warm and smooth to the touch. You find you quite like it, the contrast of textures. He does little in the way to stop you. In fact, he encourages you. His hands find purchase on your hips, thumbs brushing the delicate spots just below your rib cage. It elicits a soft gasp from you, your body stiffening beneath him. Glistening eyes stare up at him, a swirling maelstrom threatening to drown him along with you. He’s curious whether or not you’re ready to commit to this. Heisenberg knows what you want, or better yet, what your body wants, but your mind eludes him. He waits with bated breath to see what path you will take, the uncomfortable feeling of anxiety creeping in his bones. It’s like poison, a crawling taint that threatens to take over him. What have you done to him? The exact same thing he did to you. It’s a disquieting notion, one that almost overtakes him, until it doesn’t. The doubts are suddenly banished and relief washes over him at the feel of your silken lips against his in a tender kiss. The chain breaks; you're both suddenly free, and it feels euphoric .

#RE #RE8 #RE 8 #Resident Evil #Resident Evil 8 #Resident Evil 8 Village #RE Imagine #RE Imagines #RE8 Imagine #RE8 Imagines #Resident Evil Imagine #Resident Evil Imagines #Karl Heisenberg #Karl Heisenberg Imagine #Karl Heisenberg Imagines #Karl Heisenberg x Reader #Heisenberg Imagine #Heinsenberg Imagines #Heisenberg x Reader

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cherryblossomtease · 3 years ago

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In The Fairest Season ~ Part 2

18+only

warnings summary masterlist

~JUNE~

The first time you sing for the Baron you haven’t even met him yet. In fact, you have no idea that he is in the audience.

Your solo, the lone aria not sung by Serena, the lead vocalist who will never let anyone forget it, opens the second act and it is your chance to show the world, or at least the city, that you are meant for greater things.

You give the song everything you have. Living it, breathing it, exhaling it out across that stage until the audience is moved to tears. You can’t see them for the lights, but you can feel it.

Follow that, you think as you glide offstage, passing the undeserving diva who strong armed her way to top billing. You don’t like to fight amongst your own kind, but if she suddenly lost her ability to speak you wouldn’t be sad about it.

Curtain call confirms your intuition. You are pulled front and center by your cast-mates and their own applause is drown out by the roar of the crowd.

The people love you.

Accepting your praise with a truly humble heart, you curtsy under a wave of roses. All the while, one man sits watching from a private box.

He is the last to stand. Not because he disagrees with the ovation, but because he’s been rendered immobile since the moment you opened your mouth.

You didn’t know it then and neither of you would be certain right away, but it is clear to any who see the way he looks at the aspiring songbird dipping low as she thanks the audience with tears in her eyes— Baron Helmut Zemo is already falling in love with you.

While finding out as much as he can about you is easy for a man like the Baron, your only knowledge of him is gained the same way as most outside of the elite circles— through rumors and whispers— and those tell the tale of a powerful man who has gained the love and devotion of his fellow soldiers and countrymen while at war with an enemy state. Though some say his tactics were less than honorable…

Either way their war was too distant, both in time and setting to matter to anyone here, but it changed the Sokovian people forever, reshaping the land and claiming so many lives.

Zemo’s wife and child among them.

You’d heard the story in passing and found it heartbreaking but hadn’t felt the need to think of it again until today, thanks in large part to the kindness of Colonel Nicholas Fury and his wife, the Lady Valentina a former Countess through marriage with a taste for danger. It comes as little surprise to those in the know that the Colonel, or his Lady wife would know someone like the Baron, who happens to be a former Colonel himself, though there are many secrets kept about their history and just how such a friendship was made.

Today however, none of it matters as the Colonel and Lady Valentina are holding a lovely benefit for the local children’s home, and while it is a reason to show off their mysterious guest, as the Baron will be staying with the pair for the season, you’d agreed to entertain long before rumors of this Baron began to make the rounds. The Colonel pays prices most girls won’t see after a month of work, and with nothing expected from you but your voice at its best and your personality front and center to charm the upper class, this is the sort of performance you look forward to.

Accompanied by piano in the grand solarium, the performance is by your own standards a very good one; Understated, gentle on the ear, but, as is evidence by the looks on the faces of the Lords and Ladies in attendance, no less impactful.

“Haunting” Is what you’re told by those who greet you afterwards and you wear that word like a badge of honor over your heart as you mingle.

It is between sets while standing at the piano that you feel the lightest touch on your shoulder.

Fingertips, brushing your bare skin with a hesitancy but such longing that your attention is grabbed instantly.

You’ve been touched like this before, but this is different—you turn around feeling curiosity instead of dread.

You aren’t quite sure how long it takes you to speak. Maybe it’s seconds, perhaps some minutes or more before you find your words, the point is, time feels irrelevant.

His gaze is as bold as the sun and you are held there, left to feel the trails of heat along your skin in the wake of it—up your arms, across your shoulders and neck, your lips— you’ve never had a man look at you this way before and not felt the urgent need to run. Instead, you take a step forward.

“Madame. Allow me to introduce his Lordship, Baron Helmut Zemo.” The Colonel announces.

With a slow bow of your head you lower into a small curtsey to show respect for the man above your station. Your eyes lift to meet his as you rise up and watch his mouth curl into a hint of a smile.

“Madame y/n” He exhales when he says your name as though he is relieved to know it and you feel the little hairs on the back of your neck rise as if he’s whispered in your ear. “It is an honor.”

You smile and thank him “The honor is of course mine, my Lord Baron.”

“After today I’ve had the privilege of watching you perform twice now. But I was beginning to fear I might never meet you in the flesh.”

Something about his choice of words makes you feel warm all over. “It seems the stars have aligned and brought us together after all.” You say with a genuine smile.

He gives a hint of a laugh and glances at Fury. “Yes a, Man shaped constellation” He teases making the Colonel grin.

“Forgive me Barron Zemo,” You say a little timid. “I hope I don’t embarrass you or myself by speaking freely, but… your accent? Please, tell me the name of your country. I’ve heard it said before but can quite recall.” You’re unable to hold back your curiosity and the way he forms words has you eager to know more.

“Ah.” He flashes a quick smile. “Well, you see I am only here to visit my friend as you know.” He says glancing at Fury. “A summer abroad. A summer away…” You catch a hint of sadness but he presses on. “I am from Sokovia. A small country but there is none that can compare to its beauty.”

“Sokovia?” You say it slowly “Yes, in passing I’ve heard it said but I am ashamed to say I could not point to it on a map. Though I’m sure it’s as beautiful as the tone you take when speaking of it.” You pause to look him in the eye. “I can hear the love you hold for your homeland in your voice Baron.” You are being polite but the truth is, you are struck by it. He has a sort of rasping tenor that comes out in a hesitant whisper, as though he wants to say more but fears saying too much.

I can take it, you think and find yourself drawing your bottom lip between your teeth as you study his. He has a wonderfully wide mouth and the way his lips move when he speaks is hypnotic.

“I will never hide my love for my country. Not after everything we have been through.” He says.

You smile reading between the lines. “I see that. And while I’m only a singer who has had her travel limited.” You admit. “I hope to perform across the world. Tell me the best Sokovian stage Baron and perhaps I will stand on it one day.” You say, aware of how eager you sound but know that it’s the truth.

The Colonel laughs like all wealthy men do when they hear the dreams of women, but the Baron does not. No, he looks at you as though you’ve just spoken your deepest desires aloud and he feels blessed to have heard them.

“One day, yes. Perhaps you will.” He says and you hope he doesn’t notice how your breath catches in your throat, but the way his eyes fix on yours makes you feel seen.

The three of you fall silent and you’re very aware of Colonel Fury watching the two of you. You see his coy smile from the corner of your eye and its clear that he thinks the Baron will have you down to your stockings by the days end, but nothing is further from the truth.

Baron Zemo doesn’t try to take your dress off, not even when you wander inside and into the library alone with him. Instead he listens to you tell stories about the parts of your life that are easy to share and with what seems to be genuine interest.

You tell him about your mother who was a singer before you, though she never made it to the big stage. You still send money home to her and your sweet father who is too sick to work but still manages to paint when he’s feeling up to it.

“So you are the product of true love.” He says and while there is an edge to his voice, he is not trying to tease. You feel him watching you touch the spines of the many books along the shelves in the dimly lit room.

“Why do you say that?” You ask, your back still to him.

“A singer and an artist who marry do it for no other reason.” He says, confident in his statement. You can hear the smile in his voice and your own grows across your face. Coming from anyone else this would be an insult. Coming from him, it turns your ordinary origins into something romantic.

“Love, with the hope of fame and money.” You correct with a smirk and find him over your shoulder.

He is standing in the light of the large south facing window and you have no choice but to turn and face him. It’s nearly unfair that any man should be so beautiful.

You’d noticed the way the other women in attendance looked at him in his exquisite jacket and vest, looking the very picture of fashionable victorian masculinity; and done without effort it would seem. Just his natural air of confidence. Honestly you’re convinced Zemo could make a workhouse uniform look like the kings cape.

What would those women do now, you wonder. With his brown hair looking almost black in the library shadows, so thick and pretty as it falls in his eyes in lovely contrast to his fair skin.

As the clouds part and a strong band of light breaks through the windows casting a warm glow over the man, you smile imagining the socialites batting their lashes and dipping into quaint curtsies to attract him, but it seems none can manage to take his eyes from you…

They would all say it’s because you’re a stage whore, a woman of ill repute with the gift of song. But they are wrong. They always are.

“Tell me Baron Zemo, how long did you say you’ll be staying” You ask crossing the room to step into the sun with him.

He looks down at you and you notice for the first time the flecks of gold in his eyes. “I must return at the end of August.”

“Oh.” You look away. It’s already June.

His body language changes a bit, like someone has splashed cold water over him and he goes stiff. Quickly as if desperate to do so, he takes hold of your hand which startles you as much as it excites you. You try not to let him see the way he’s made your own body respond but your heart threatens to leap from your chest.

“Would it be forward of me to ask you to join our small party for dinner this coming Saturday?”

Your eyes dart up finding such hope in his. “Not at all. So long as you understand what it is you’re asking?” You hate to turn the mood, it was so nice, but this needs to be said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well dinner with a performer of course. I suppose it could be seen as the Colonel’s kindness… but Baron please don’t tell me you’re so naive to the ways of the country you summer in.”

He gives you a curious frown “I forget where I am often. Your ways here will always be a little strange. You see in Sokovia, to possess a gift such as yours would see you walk among the people who look down on you here. We lift those better than ourselves up in my country.”

You feel light headed at the idea. Imagine being seen as important for what you are born with, and not for what you are born into. “It sounds wonderful.” You say, fully aware of how soft your voice is when you’re standing so close to him.

Him, this man you do not know. You pull your hand free from his.

Taking a step back you give a small curtsy. “I must go back, we have a few more songs to perform, but thank you for the walk, and for the invitation. I look forward to it!”

He smiles politely and offers to escort you, but you know better. No need ruining his reputation or starting rumors about your own.

You go back to the solarium and take up your place next to the piano and proceed to sing the heartbreaking aria that can decimate even the strongest of defenses.

Your eyes scan the room as you sing, finding hapless victims to serenade until finally you land on the Barron standing behind the rows of chairs.

The man is stricken by your words of love and loss and you think perhaps you could have warned him about your song.

When you find him again, it is an accident.

You’d gone off looking for your pianist when you find the Baron standing alone in the garden just off the parlor.

You almost speak but notice the way he stands there without moving. He is looking down at a bush of flowers; large white Lillies.

You brace against the doorframe and lean in to watch him for a moment before you realize… he raises his hand and wipes a tear before slipping it back into his pocket.

Tears over flowers? No. Not flowers, and then you understand. The war you know nothing of, took everything from him.

You feel guilty. Of all the songs you had to sing you chose the one that could break a healthy heart, what had it done to this shattered thing probably held together by nothing more than string and sheer determination.

Your own ached for him and you’d never longed to hold anything or anyone so much in your life, but you did not know him yet and quietly slipped back inside.

Your last interaction with the Baron that afternoon had been no more than a sweet goodbye, but your thoughts are preoccupied with him over the week.

You find your self thinking of the way he’d touched your shoulder while you dress for your performances, and onstage when you shut your eyes you see his looking back at you, golden in the sun.

When Saturday comes around, you ignore the teasing of your best friend Brigitte who watches the way you’re fussing over your hair and pinching your cheeks after dressing in the small apartment you share with her over the theatre. Thankfully no one keeps watch over the costumes and so you wear the pale yellow dress from last years production that you think looks best against your skin.

Brigitte asks if he’s proposed yet just to set you off, but only because she’s never seen you nervous, but then she’s never seen you so excited over a man. Presumably because none has ever managed to hold your attention for so long.

The carriage arrives to pick you up and you try desperately not to be won over by the fact that he’s sent his own.

You know that it is his.

You run your hand along the silk lined walls, inhaling deeply, picking up the faintest scent of his cologne as you sink into the seat. Your smile grows wide with no one there to see as the driver sitting high above steers the horses through the city streets, the light jostle inside keeping you alert as you imagine the Baron standing at the threshold of the estate waiting for you. It begins to feel wonderfully indecent to be surrounded by him so intimately.

And what would it feel like if he really did hold you close? Would it feel this warm and safe? Would you rest in his arms as you do his carriage, rushing past the world feeling untouchable?

Your eyes close for a moment; you are lost in a sea of daydreams until a wheel hits a large hole that jolts you back to reality. Eyes going wide, you quickly blow out the tension built up in your chest through your lips and shake you head trying not to smile. The man has held your hand one time old girl. Calm down!

You are still flushed and breathing hard when you arrive. When you see Baron Zemo waiting for you in the hall of the estate, in his dinner jacket and tie, you feel as though he knows every indecent thought you had on that incredible ride through town. If he does however, the Baron does not humiliate you, only showers you with complements on your appearance tonight.

And though the night is perfection, dinner in the city would not be dinner without a scandal. And so it goes that yours is candlelit and ripe for the pamphlets.

Colonel and Lady treat you as their guest of honor, though it is the Baron who attracts the attention of the others in attendance.

As he escorts you to the dining room, Baron Zemo dares to whisper in your ear. “If I could have entertained you and you alone, I would have made it so. But this is —not allowed —on these foreign shores.” He says and you see the way his dark gaze fixes ahead. You aren’t sure if it is Lord or Lady who earns his contempt but all you can do is hold back your laughter.

“It’s perfectly fine. The rules are there for them, so long as I am in their world I will play along. To be perfectly honest Baron… ” You look up at him in the door way and he lays his hand over yours, resting in the crook of his elbow. “This is exquisite.” You say. He smiles looking a little relieved and you notice that he’s been watching your lips as you speak and you feel yourself blush.

That however is not the moment to cause the scandal. Nor does it come from the Baron expressing his rather progressive views which he offers up like a complement to the soup course. It comes when he asks your opinion and you, shock of all shocks, give it.

The Lady Hawthorn who is also in attendance tries to cut you off, but the Baron hushes her and urges you to go on.

With him backing you, you find yourself feeling quite free to express your desire to see all people treated equally, and end your monologue by announcing that you know such a utopia could never exist so long as the wealthy are pleased and the poor too overworked to notice. This sends the Lady over the edge and Fury into a fit of laughter.

Only Baron Zemo hears the truth and he looks at you through the deep yellow glow of candlelight with pride.

Unfortunately that, is not what they print.

Rising star flies too close to the sun

“What a ridiculous thing to say” You huff carrying an armful of gowns over to the mirror in the little dressing area of your apartment.

“Maybe, but you’ll sing to a packed house tonight” Brigitte grins as she lounges on the settee in the middle of the small but colorfully decorated room. “The audience loves a spectacle.” Her French accent makes everything sound cute but it is nothing short of annoying in the moment.

“It’s hardly a spectacle Brigitte. Just bored, sad, empty headed people with nothing better to do than twist your well thought out words and opinions. My, well thought out words and opinions.” You speak with conviction while trying to ignore the sinking sense of embarrassment as you hold each dress up over your underclothes, one at a time. You are angry of course, those damned pamphlets are nothing more than a way for them to openly indulge in gossip and cruelty about you and your kind. Granted you’re not above reading them from time to time and this isn’t the first experience you’ve had with being a feature (poor Lord Quinn. He did fall in love so easily) but this is the first time that you care.

“You’re quite the radical aren’t you.” Brigitte says sitting up and sipping her tonic.

“Yes, a woman with an opinion, how will the world move on.” You roll your eyes and sling the yellow dress aside.

“Those aren’t costumes.” Brigitte says suspiciously and sits up on her knees, her arms hanging over the back of the sofa.

You look at her in the mirror and sigh. “No. I can’t keep borrowing them and besides, these aren’t for the stage.”

She’s waiting but you hesitate. “Tell me! Who are they for? It’s him right? Your Baron.”

“He isn’t mine.” You scold. “But yes, Baron Zemo has asked me to accompany him to the festival tomorrow night, and…” You pause glancing at yourself in the mirror. “I’ve said yes.”

“Of course you have, silly girl.” Brigitte giggles and gets up, coming over to you. She stands at your back, her long elegant fingers resting on your shoulders. She presses her cheek to yours and you feel the swell of love for your oldest friend rise.

The two of you have been through so much together. From escaping the cruel and often times corporal punishment of St. Augustine’s school for girls, to the deadly grasp of the streets. You’d been fighting along side one another until you both managed to sing your way onto the stage.

While Brigitte is technically better, you’re the one who sings with heart and that small edge is why your likeness will hang from the posts and not hers, but she is your friend in all things and as you gain notoriety, you have every intention of bringing her right along with you.

“I don’t know why I think anything will come of it. He’s a Baron for goodness sake.” You say scrunching your nose up at the lavender dress.

Brigitte is waiting, knowing you’ll answer your own suspicions.

“But, he looks at me and it’s as though these barriers don’t exist. I might as well be the daughter of a Duke when he smiles.”

“In his eyes, perhaps you are.” She says kindly. “Now, put those dresses away, you’ll wear my white one and look nothing less than angelic tomorrow. Tonight, you’ll sing like one and win your place in the Barons heart for good.”

As fate would have it, Baron Zemo was not at the performance last night. It means nothing though, that much is clear. He is as taken with you as you almost allow yourself to be with him. It is a dangerous game you play, one that could see you broken by the end of summer, but it is so hard to stay away…

You stroll causally behind The Colonel and Lady Fury through the park grounds along the pea gravel paths lit by paper lanterns with sparks flying from swirling machines and flames that shoot up from small bonfires.

Brigitte and your friend Eloise are bringing up the rear, but it feels as though there isn’t another soul alive. Just you and him and the beautiful menagerie that surrounds you.

The festival is one you’ve heard of but never attended and you’re almost happy you never have because as far as firsts go this one is magic.

A show of sight and sound engages every sense. There are acrobats, jugglers, stilt walkers and sword swallowers. You smell the food being sold from small carts and hear the music of the far off bandstand. You have a hard time not running around like a child as you point and shriek at the shocking, and squeal with delight at the fun. Each beautiful display of oddities and wonder that seem to never phase the Baron amaze you, though he does take great joy in watching your reaction.

When a fire breather spits yellow flames in your path, you jump back with a scream grabbing Zemo’s arm which makes him laugh.

You’re suddenly aware of how jovial his voice can be and when you look up, he smiles like you’ve never seen before and closes his hand over yours.

You think he might let go, but instead he begins to walk again, happy to keep you close.

You take in the sights on either side of the lawn, until it all begins to feel like a dream. Perhaps it was the champagne you had on arrival…

“Thank you my Lord, I’ll never forget this night.” You say under the cover of a trellis dripping with wisteria just outside of the wonderful chaos.

“It has been quite the show” He says looking back at the distant festivities before settling on you again. He quickly takes off his black topper, his hair falling into his eyes. “Unlike anything I’ve ever seen” He says looking at you with such an intensity that you can not hold the eye contact. You smile and look away spotting a servant with a large tray of champagne stacked like a pyramid of glowing gold.

Baron Zemo sees how you look at it and waves him over, taking two glasses from the top giving one to you, and raising his glass in salute.

“What do we drink to?” You ask.

Zemo thinks while looking into your eyes. Finally he raises the glass a little higher. “To the continuation of our friendship.”

You feel your cheeks flush and your mouth go a little dry. To declare a friendship between you is something you almost wish he wouldn’t say, but, it’s already been done. Still, what future can there truly be, you wonder looking up at this man who, had you been born into a wealthy family would have been yours weeks ago. But then, something about the Baron tells you not to fixate on what could have been, and to always expect the unexpected.

The sound of your glasses clinking is drown out by the boom of fireworks in the distance.

You tip your glass and drink. The champagne is sweet and cold and bubbly. You swallow with a smile only to shut your eyes when he strokes your cheek with the back of his hand, his thumb daring to glide across your bottom lip.

You inhale the moment and open your eyes to find his wanting, but not here. Not yet.

“To our future.” You say, needing him to know that you wish to push forward.

The Baron nods and takes another drink, watching you do the same over his glass. “I must insist on seeing you again, you understand?” He asks as he finishes.

“Yes of course.” You say. “I have one week, and then the show continues.” You tell him feeling sorry for it. It’s not easy to balance a life on and off the stage, in fact you’ve never really had too before, but for him you will try.

“A week.” He says it with finality. “Then let us have this week as our own.”

The next few days are a whirlwind of unforgettable moments. You are convinced any other man would be trying to impress you with his knowledge and access to things privy only to someone of his status, but with the Baron it feels as though he simply enjoys sharing his world.

From a private showing of the Kings’ collection of antiquities, to a small garden reading by one of your favorite authors who Baron Zemo happens to know personally, you spend your time together as near equals, exchanging ideas and thoughts as easily as you would with your oldest friends. It surprises you to find it so easy to speak to a man you’re only just starting to know.

Perhaps that is because he never once reminds you of the gap between your status. You are cautious to believe anything a man of such wealth says, but when the Baron speaks he seems to do so truthfully, and when he listens, he does so without judgement.

“How is it my Lord, that you seem to rise above the constraints of society while moving through it so elegantly?” You ask as he escorts you home to the theatre one evening.

You are arm in arm, the lamps are lit and the air has a certain joie de vivre that radiates from the passersby. You smile and nod hello to a couple before looking up at the Baron’s handsome profile. He walks in silence for a while and you know him well enough by now to understand that he is just thinking before speaking, which is something you greatly admire.

“I hope my manner is not offensive.” He says with a deep frown. “I simply wish to be as honest with you as possible. To pretend that I see you as someone unworthy of my attention would be a lie.”

You turn your face to hide your giddy smile but he stops walking, your hand slipping from his coat.

Confused, you spin to face him. “Baron? What is it?”

“Do not hide.” He says in all seriousness. “Your face, it’s so expressive. There is such an openness in the way you show your emotion and I fear someone has told you to keep it hidden?” He asks and you avert your eyes instinctively but quickly look back up at him.

Feeling sure, you confess. “When my parents were too poor to keep me, I was sent to Augustines as I’ve mentioned. It was there I was taught that to show joy is a sin. To cry is a sin, to be angry is a sin. Frustration, even a simple smile, all sins. Everything beautiful about who we are as living creatures must be suppressed” You say, still bitter.

The Baron scoffs shaking his head. “Nothing is a sin when you stop believing that there is someone to sin against. Your smile is a gift mala ptica, a glimpse at your pure heart, just as your tears are an expression of the pain you feel inside. People can be very cruel, and I am sorry you were ever told such lies.” He says and you see that it truly hurts him to picture you as a child, scolded for what comes naturally. “Please, do not feel as though you ever need to hide either from me. If I am the reason you smile, then I consider myself to be a fortunate man.” He pauses, looking at you as people pass by. “Conversely If I ever make you cry, well, the pain of hurting you will be my deserved punishment.” He says and though you stand apart on the dark sidewalk, you feel the warmth of his affection reach out and close its arms around you, holding you close enough that you can hear the drumming of his heart.

The week ends with a picnic, just a small luncheon taken outside with all the delightful indulgence of the spoiled upperclass.

You sit at the edge of a large blanket, covered by a spread of fruit and cheese and bread. There are biscuits and cakes, small sandwiches and of course tea— and what looks to be chopped pheasant being carried out by a young servant all the way from the house. You are thankful for the shade of the ancient tree you sit under with the women; Lady Valentina, her neighbor, who has brought her daughter-in-law, and their two cousins, all of you laughing as the men play a lazy but entertaining game of rugby in their shirts, their jackets thrown down in the grass.

You applaud for the Baron and Lord Wessex the neighbor’s son who has come home for a quick visit with his wife. They make a great team, and though the Baron insists he’s too old for sport—which he is most certainly not— he is fast and strong and shows just a glimpse of the man he must have been during the war.

“He cuts quite the figure.” One of the cousins says to the other with a wicked little grin.

You eye her prim face, almost jealous but the energy would be wasted. You know who he smiles at as he crosses the lawn.

“Yes, but I hear he’s engaged.” Says the other

“Oh? To who? Certainly not to anyone here.” Lady Valentina says sipping from her cup.

You are silent as you watch these women who you know in name only. You don’t know their hearts, but you guess them to be as cold as the pheasant.

“No. A Sokovian Duchess I believe.” The cousin says and you stare at her.

“Then why on earth is he here?” The daughter-in-law asks.

“Must not be a very happy engagement.” The cousin says, her tittering laughter joined by the others.

You smile but set your tea down and look over, watching Baron Zemo toss the large ball across the lawn to his partner. He trots backwards and calls something out, clapping a few times before stopping and resting his hands on his knees. As though he can sense your eyes on him, he looks over from his bent position, that lock of hair fallen out of place.

He told you just a day or so ago to never hide your feelings from him, and so you don’t. Honestly, given what you’ve just heard, you couldn’t if you tried.

You can only imagine how you must look because he stands upright, rakes his hair back with his fingers and stares at you, his own face long, his jaw tight.

He knows something has happened. Immediately the Baron calls for a break in the game.

You look away eyeing the women. “Please, excuse me. I believe my legs are going a little numb.” You shrug, feigning a smile at the ladies and quickly get up, brushing your skirts and walking off.

“Poor circulation from all that time standing onstage.” You hear one of them say.

“And lying on her back” Another whispers loudly to the shocked laughter of the others.

The insult stings, more so than it normally would, and you shut your eyes as you march off towards the house ready to leave.

Of course they think you’re just here playing the whore to the rakish Baron. Why you ever thought they would accept you as their own or that he would be better than the rest is beyond you.

But what truly shames you, is that you believe their gossip, even after spending time with him. And why shouldn’t you? Isn’t this what men do? Lie? Especially to women of your profession.

It’s when you’ve reached the manicured part of the lawn that you realize you’re hardly breathing and that your heart feels like it’s been run through with one of the picnic bread knives. You clutch your chest, angry at the pain as the tears that well in your eyes burn, and you curse yourself for letting him have such an effect on you at all.

“Wait.”

You gasp, startled by his voice vibrating deep in your own chest as he has come up on you by surprise; his body so close to yours you feel his breath along your neck as he takes you by the arms and pulls you into the shaded privacy of the garden trees before you can protest.

He turns you around and the look on his face is a mix of curiosity and worry, to which you find yourself surprisingly angry. “What’s happened? What have they said to you?” He asks.

“What’s wrong Baron? Are you worried that I’ve found out?” You ask and move to wipe your eyes, but you let him see, just as he’s insisted.

“Found out? mala ptica, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you?”

He just stares down and you realize you’ve never seen him confused before. “Baron? What do you think they said?”

“Some insult? A way to make you feel inferior as seems to be their casual form of amusement.” He says clearly very angry and possibly ready to march back and defend you.

You feel your anger falter. This is unexpected and you shake your head. Now you’re the one confused. “No. Baron… I—I’m afraid I’ve made something of a fool of myself if you truly have no fear of any secret being found out?” Your voice rises as you question it.

“You are not a fool y/n” He says with a hint of irritation in his voice.

You look down, steadying yourself before looking back up into his eyes. “I never expected anything from you, you know? Your friendship has been nothing short of wonderful, but I fear that in getting to know you, I’ve found it impossible not to let my romantic heart lead the way. But what can we expect from a product of love.” You toss your hands up flashing a sardonic smile.

The Baron steps forward and your eyes close reflexively when he lays his palm to your cheek. “What have you heard? Tell me.”

“That you are engaged.” You answer not wanting to prolong it. “To a Sokovian Duchess no less.”

He smiles, looks off then back down at you and you hope he never stops the gentle, rhythmic stroking of your face. “I was, and it was a mistake. I broke it off before I doomed us both to a loveless marriage.”

“I was under the assumption that people of your wealth marry to acquire more of it.”

“You assume wrong.” He says even closer “It is beneficial, but, should I ever marry again, it will be for nothing less than a love to repair what is left of my heart.”

You’re breathing faster. He is so close. It seems to happen so quickly. One moment you’re ready to leave, angry and hating that you’ve even come, embarrassed that you’ve been swayed by a Lords influence. And the next you’re standing in his shadow gazing up into his eyes…

“May I kiss you?” He asks in a way that would be very hard to refuse.

“You may” You whisper. His fingers inch along to the back of your head, his other hand pulls you in by the waist until his hips are pressed against you and his lips part; the heat of his skin so warm from running touching you before his mouth does.

It is the force and passion of his kiss that surprises you. Not overly aggressive or unwanted, it is unexpected, as though he has been longing to do this as badly as you have and now, he can not let another second pass without tasting more of you.

His tongue on your own is warm and soft as he gently enters your mouth and it is not the demure touch of society but of two people who feel a great many things, not the least of which is an urgency to do more.

The Baron pulls away, your lips leaving his slowly. You look at your hands resting on his chest over his white shirt. His cravat is a little askew letting you see a hint of skin and the shimmer of a very thin necklace that makes your stomach flutter. Your eyes flit up to meet his as he exhales very slowly.

“Thank you mala ptica” He says and kisses your forehead and you think there are many reasons for him to say this, but for now you let it be, though something else has always made you wonder…

“What does that mean?” You ask curious, eyes closed

He leans back to see your face. “What?”

“Mala… mala ti..”

“Mala ptica” He says with an amused smile. “It means—little bird actually.”

You scrunch your nose wondering why this is what he’s taken too calling you and he chuckles a little with a sigh. “Your voice is like the song of a bird, a thing of natural beauty. Forgive me for having been so familiar. It—slipped out.” He says simply.

You grin, you can’t help it and close your hands to fists in his shirt and pull him down kissing him again.

It is hard and fast but he is a most willing partner.

When you let the Baron go, you bite at the corner of your lip feeling such an urge to go down to the cool grass with him here and now, understanding why everyone seems so preoccupied by it, but the truth is no man has had you and you refuse to be the woman they expect you to be. You will not succumb, not even for a Baron, not even for this one. But he will challenge you to no end.

He smooths his hands over your face and sighs. “What now hmm?”

You mimic his movements smoothing the wrinkles you’ve caused in his shirt. “I can not go back. I don’t belong here.” You tell him.

He takes hold of your hand on his chest and holds it there. “No, I don’t believe I do either. Not today.”

“My next run begins in two days, I won’t have time to go on so many adventures with you.” You smile.

Zemo pulls your hand down but does not let go. “Then I will wait until you are free to enjoy the rest of the season with me.”

“Will you?”

“Of course.”

“It’s almost over my Lord, you’re going home at the end of summer.”

“Yes,” He says and tilts his head to find your eyes. You look at him and smile wide. “But perhaps I might persuade you to come with me.”

#baron zemo x you #zemo x reader #zemo x y/n #zemo au #baron zemo fanfiction #victorian au #victorian era #mcu au #baron helmut zemo #helmut zemo x reader #baron zemo #zemo fanfic #zemo x you #zemo in love #Baron Zemo romance because thats what we want

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ladyblogger-margie · 4 years ago

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Motel Adventure - Chapter 2

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x F!Reader

Summary: You’ve chosen Frankie for your Motel Adventure. You’re about to learn that Frankie is filthier and sweeter than you previously realized.

Word Count: 1749

Warnings: 18+ ONLY (oral M and F receiving, cum eating, unprotected sex, general smut)

a/n: I was really intimated to write for Frankie because there are just so many amazing writers who have already done such an amazing job with him so I hope my contribution is alright! I’m happier with it than I expected to be.

Back to Chapter 1

Frankie “Catfish” Morales

You watched Frankie look at his own feet and shuffle awkwardly in place. You wished he would just look at you, give you some sign he wants you to pick him as much as you want to.

Thankfully after a breath, he did. He looked straight at you, his brown eyes open and locked on yours.

“Fish?” you asked, short, simple, soft.

He nodded with an unrestrained smile and said, “Of course, hermosa.”

In the room you suddenly felt nervous. You watched him, watch you. Neither of you approach the bed, the only bed in the room.

“Should we call it a night?” he asked. He fidgeted as he spoke, fixing his hair under his hat.

“Sure, do you need the bathroom?” you asked.

“After you,” he gestured for you to go first.

You took your bag to the bathroom and looked at yourself in the mirror. Sure you hadn’t packed cute pajamas but surely you could improvise.

You emerged from the bathroom, touched up and wearing nothing but a thin tank top and your panties.

You felt a warmth in your core as Frankie looked you over, his eyes hungry, the exact reaction you were hoping for.

“Um,” he cleared his throat, “Do you have a side of the bed preference?”

You smiled at him, “Frankie,” he looked at you desperately, “Do you really want to just sleep in this bed?”

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath before he lunged at you.

He wrapped you in his arms so tight and clashed your mouths together wildly. His actions unrestrained and passionate. You knocked his hat off his head as you grabbed handfuls of his soft, curly hair to pull him closer to you.

You led him to the bed and sat him on the edge. You straddled him on his lap and lifted his shirt over his head. Your fingers grazing his exposed flesh, lingering over the slight pouch of his stomach and he flinched.

“Not exactly in game shape anymore,” he apologized.

“You’re perfect,” you told him.

He tried to argue with you, but you wouldn’t let him, stopping him with a kiss.

“Let me show you how perfect I think you are,” you whispered in his ear, sending a shiver through his body.

As you slipped off his lap and moved to your knees between his legs, you noticed the long mirror at the end of the bed, and knew he could watch himself take pleasure from you. The knowledge brought a delightful pool of arousal in your panties.

You kissed his stomach several times before you pulled his pants and briefs down to his ankles. His cock was hardening under your gaze and you were impressed by the size of him.

You kissed his inner thigh as you gripped his calves, taking your time. You made your way to his balls and took them in your mouth, drawing a hitched breath from him.

As you sucked on his balls, you felt his stiff cock twitch against your face and you smiled. You locked your eyes to his, and you noticed his pupils were blown wide.

“You okay?” you asked him in a sultry voice.

“Y-Yeah, you’re amazing at this,” he said, dropping his head back as you draw your tongue up the bottom of his shaft. You swirled his leaking tip in your mouth, gathering his precum on your tongue. You opened your mouth and pulled back, a string of precum and spit keeping your tongue attached to his cock.

He licked his lips and groaned at the sight of you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, “You like to be a little messy, don’t you?”

You nod and lick your lips before you dive back down to deepthroat his cock, taking all of him through sheer will.

He bends over you and yanks the neckline of your tank top down to expose your breasts and erect nipples which he twists in his fingers.

You’re desperate for some relief for the building tension between your legs, so you raise your hand to his mouth as you pull off his cock with another obscene string.

“Spit,” you ordered, and he did, soaking your hand which you bring to the hemline of your panties and slip beneath the delicate fabric. You touch yourself, moaning at the relief.

Frankie freezes beneath you, as you touch yourself and suck his cock. He recovers from the shock and brings a hand to the back of your head, encouraging you to take him deeper until you choke and he shudders.

“If you’re not careful, I’m going to cum down your pretty little throat,” he informed you.

You pulled off his cock, your face a mess, and you wiped your swollen lips.

“Do it then,” you tell him as you pump him in your hand and you watch him barely unable to contain himself.

You take your hand off your clit and use both your hands to leverage yourself to take him as deep as you can. You suck hard on his cock and pull his shuddering orgasm from him as ropes of hot, sticky cum fill your mouth and drip down your chin.

As his shuddering slows, he lifts you from your knees and pulls you onto his lap. He kisses your face all over, lapping up traces of his own cum off your face.

“Thank you,” he said, holding your face in his hands and you smiled at him.

“You’re really sweet, you know that?” you asked. And it was true, sure you’ve never been that sloppy before and the sight of him licking his own cum off your face awoke something new and primal within you, but he was still in the end, Frankie, sweet, gentle Frankie.

You lifted your tank top back up to cover your breasts, but he stopped you.

“You don’t think I’m going to leave you unsatisfied, do you?” he asked.

“You don’t have to, I had fun,” you said with a shrug.

He licked his lips at you, “Hermosa, don’t even start to talk like that. I know I don’t have to, but I want to. I need to taste you.”

You trembled under his intense gaze, your breath shallow and you couldn’t do anything but nod.

“Lay on the bed. I want your head to hang off the end so you can watch me eat that dripping cunt until you can’t see straight. Understand?” He told you.

You moaned and laid out as instructed, watching yourself upside down in the mirror at the end of the bed. You watched Frankie hover over you and yank your tank top off over your head. Then he took the soft flesh of your breast in his mouth and sucked a love mark to the supple skin.

As he covered your skin in bites and kisses, up and down your body, you ran your fingers through his curly hair. You rubbed your thighs together, the tension unbearable.

“You've been such a good girl for me,” he whispered into your skin, “If you’re a little more patient, I’ll take care of you. Can you do that for me?”

You whimper and still your legs, “Yes, I’ll be good.”

“That’s my good girl,” he said into the fabric of your panties. He sucked your clit through your underwear and you arched your back in bliss. You watched yourself upside down in the mirror grip the bedsheets and tremble under his mouth.

He pushed your panties to the side and ran a finger gingerly through your slick folds. He brought the finger to his lips to taste you.

“You taste so good,” he praised you, “Sweeter than I imagined.”

You squirmed under his words, relishing in his admission that he had thought of how you tasted.

Without further delay, he lost himself in your sweet heat, his nose pushing against your clit as he tongue fucked your entrance.

His eyes looked up and saw your eyes closed in bliss and he stopped. Your eyes fly open, seeking explanation.

“Eyes open, hermosa, I want you to watch,” he said, cocking his head, pulling your gaze.

When you nodded, he sucked your clit in his lips and slipped a finger to stroke your fluttering walls.

“I’m-I’m gonna cum,” you stuttered, overwhelmed. He didn’t stop as he brought you through your peak. He took his time lapping up your juices as you calmed your breathing.

When he crawled up your shaking body you could see his moustache wet with your slick and when he kissed you you could taste yourself on him.

You reached between your bodies and found he was hard again. You smiled into the kiss as you pumped him in your hand and lined him up at your still fluttering pussy.

“I love you,” he whispered into your ear as he pushed into you. His voice was quiet but there was no doubting the resolve in his words.

You ran your fingers through his thoroughly dishevelled hair as you said, “I love you too.”

Then he made gentle love to you. He stretched you fully but carefully, his movements slow and deliberate. He whispered simple praise and words of adoration against your skin, and kissed you along your collarbone as you wrapped your legs around, holding him close to you.

The simplicity of the act only added to the intimacy of the moment. You felt that your bodies were connecting to the same level you souls were now intertwined. The end of the road for mutual pining, resolving in reciprocation.

He pulled another orgasm from you, this one less binding, but you felt it almost melt and reshape something deep inside you beyond anything you’ve ever felt before.

He came quickly after you, pushed over the edge by your orgasm induced clenches. He pulled out of you slowly and kissed you.

He got up and returned to clean you up thoroughly and delicately. Then he tucked you both into bed together, kissing every inch of your available skin as he did.

As he fell asleep in your arms, you ran your fingers through his hair and hummed to him softly. Nothing recognizable or even very good, but something low and comforting. You forced your exhausted eyes to stay open and watch him sleep curled up against your chest.

Outside you could hear the storm rage terribly and you silently thanked the rain, praying for it to hold strong and keep you stranded in this little room of paradise just a little bit longer.

Back to Chapter 1

#triple frontier #frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales x f!reader #motel adventure chapter 2 #Pedro Pascal

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shera-dnd · 3 years ago

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AND WE’RE BACK BABY! WHO IS READY FOR SOME ANGST?

Well you better be ready, because I packed this one full of it

The campfire crackled between them, fire lighting their faces and smoke rising into the night sky. Silence had fallen over their camp, and none dared to break it. Belladonna, the Black Cat turned Black Knight, held her knees to her chest, tail wrapped protectively around her body. Though she easily towered over her companions, now she felt so small and frail.

“I knew there was something wrong with Taurus,” Amitola spoke first. She could still remember the way Belladonna looked at him like he was the most beautiful thing in the world, and how he looked at her like she was nothing more than a valuable asset.

“And I should have known much sooner,” Belladonna replied, quietly.

Weiss, for her part, stayed quiet. Amitola wasn’t sure if this was due to having her words taken from her, or out of respect for their conversation.

“He lied to us,” she said, and red tinged her skin as her anger rose, “he said the humans took you. That we should avenge your death.”

“Of course he did,” Belladonna sighed, though there was no disappointment in her voice, there was still sadness, “I shouldn’t be surprised that he turned my defiance into more fuel for his revenge.”

“When I saw you I thought...I thought you had faked your own death to escape us, that you had left us,” that you had left me, she thought, but did not dare say it out loud, “when you had only left him.”

“Could you claim you would have been more accepting?” Belladonna asked, looking her in the eyes, “that the court wouldn’t have slain me the moment I spoke of my plan.”

And once more there was silence, tense and agonizing. Holding the Black Cat’s gaze in that moment was like holding your breath, and there was only so long Amitola could keep that up.

“No, I cannot,” she spoke, red shifting into blue, “even now I doubt this plan will ever work.”

Belladonna let out a sad chuckle, “sometimes even I have my doubts.”

“Well, I don’t!” Weiss declared, breaking her silence. Though Amitola could only shake her head, the Black Cat looked at her with something almost like hope in her eyes. “You are a fae who has clad herself in iron, and refused to burn. You have done the impossible once, Lady Blake, I cannot see how you couldn’t do it a second time.”

“I appreciate your confidence, my lady,” Belladonna thanked, “but I have done nothing more than accept Lord Ozpin’s gift.”

“Then accept my gift as well,” Weiss insisted, taking the Black Cat’s hand. Jealous greens and reds marred her at the sight, “I shall take my father’s seat at the council, and my sister shall take Ironwood’s once she becomes the Witch of Winter. Together we can sway the council in our favor, we can reshape Atlas. We can build the bridge from our side too.”

Light returned to Belladonna’s eyes and she smiled, “I didn’t take you for the kind to have big dreams, Lady Weiss.”

“This isn’t a dream,” she countered, “it’s a plan, and my plans don’t fail!”

Amitola couldn’t help herself. “Haven’t your plans for the festival failed miserably?”

“Things have certainly not gone the way I expected, but I must say…” Weiss took her hands away from Belladonna’s and looked directly at Amitola, with a smirk on her face that set her skin into a riot of colors, “I much prefer it this way.”

Her body seemed to decide that yellows and pinks were the colors of choice for the moment, as much as the fae herself found it profoundly disagreeable, forcefully changing it back to its natural colors.

“This still doesn’t speak well for your planning skills, Schnee,” Amitola argued, “and here I thought your whole family knew how to scheme from birth.”

“Actually, we have a scheming tutor,” Weiss played along, “though I can’t say I paid much attention to mine.”

“I take it you were too busy daydreaming about sword fighting and rescuing damsels in distress to pay attention to your classes,” Amitola joked, finally getting her revenge by making the human blush for once.

“You are…not incorrect,” Weiss answered quietly.

This whole time none of them seem to notice the bright smile on Belladonna’s face. Genuine and full of joy, only growing as they continued to playfully argue. It was only when laughter escaped her lips that her cheer was brought to their attention.

“Are you well, Lady Blake?” Weiss asked, a little worried by the sudden display of mirth from the fae.

“I’m more than well,” she answered, another chuckle escaping her, “you two just reminded me of why I chose this path in the first place.”

Weiss looked oh so very pleased with herself, smiling back at the Black Cat. Amitola on the other hand was utterly disgusted at the implication, and at how happy it made the Schnee. She forced her skin to shift a sickly green, before faking a gag.

“Don’t be rude!” Weiss complained, nudging her with her elbow.

“Bite me, Schnee!”

Belladonna could only laugh at those two, comfortably leaning back and watching them go at each other once again, her tail swaying contently behind her. To see a Schnee and an unseelie play around like this, it made her mission feel just a little bit more possible, and the slightest hint more rewarding.

It was unfortunate then that Amitola did not quite see the value in Belladonna’s pursuit.

In the days that followed Amitola continued to fulfil her roles in Fennec and Corsac’s plan. It started simple, spying on the human nobility, taking on different faces so she could listen to their never ending gossip.

Then came the rumors, spread through words she spoke in the wind, or through faces that weren’t her own. Small things, little twists on the truth, small lies here and there to rile up the nobility. Soon fear would spread among them, the fear that there was a spy in their ranks, that one of the kingdoms was conspiring against the others, during a celebration of peace no less.

Amitola did not delude herself, she knew this wouldn’t be enough to spark a war between the nations, this was simply the first step, gathering wood so someone else may light the pyre of war. But once the fire was lit, she had made sure that it had enough fuel to keep on burning until Atlas was consumed whole.

And the Schnees along with it.

Not a month ago she would’ve been filled with pride at having a hand in the destruction of that damned family, and their accursed kingdom with it. Now it was difficult to find any joy in this. When every night she returned to that same smile from across the campfire, the smell of the meal she had prepared for them, the sound of that playful voice. It stripped her heart of any joy it could find, and in its place left only the terrible weight of guilt.

She knew peace wasn’t an option, that Belladonna had deluded herself, and that this could only end in war. This was her only option. If this could only end with one side destroying the other, then she had to make sure her side was the one to survive.

She had to do this. They had to burn so her people wouldn’t have to.

Even when Penny stumbled onto her again and again, every time offering little apologies riddled with that sweet giggle of hers.

They had to burn.

Even when the Branwen sisters sang and recited beautiful poetry about their home, their family, the people they love.

They had to burn.

Even when she saw that sparkle in Belladonna’s eye whenever she talked about the future and all the amazing things they’d achieve together.

They had to burn.

Even when Weiss smiled so sweetly. When she snarked and bantered with Amitola over something silly. When she gave Amitola space, because she knew when to back down. When she laughed. When they sparred. When she looked at her, her real self, as if she had never seen something quite so beautiful.

They had to burn.

But Amitola didn’t want to be the one to light that torch.

Days passed, and the tournament grew ever nearer, with now only two nights between them and the great event they had been waiting for. It was half heartedly then that Amitola continued her job, that she continued to don the faces of strangers and speak words she did not care to remember.

It was perhaps of this indisposition that she did not catch the pair of eyes that followed her as she left the tents of the vacuan emissaries.

“Lady Ilia,” called the last voice she wished to hear.

Amitola did her best to pretend not to hear it. She turned to leave, but there she was.

“I’ve been looking for you all evening,” Weiss informed her, “where have you been?”

“None of your business, Schn--Gigas,” Amitola snapped.

There was some annoyance in her expression, but she put it away and did not push. Curse her for being so understanding.

“How did you find me anyways?” Amitola continued, trying her best to stay angry at her companion.

“Mostly luck, but with some unwitting help from Lord Marigold,” Weiss answered, causing the fae’s eyes to go wide in attention, “he was attempting to spy on you for some gods forsaken reason, but I sent him scurrying away before he got the chance.”

Oh no.

How much had Marigold seen? How long had he been following her? Damn it all, if he saw something she couldn’t risk letting him tell anyone. But silencing him would require…

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay. He didn’t see anything,” Weiss assured, offering Amitolla her arm, “how about I walk you back to camp?”

Or maybe she could ignore the little lordling for now. It’s not like anyone with any real power actually believes a single word he says. Oh, curse the Schnee again for having this effect on her.

“I...wouldn’t be opposed,” she sighed, resigning herself to a fate of wanting to spend time with a Schnee and genuinely enjoying it.

And so they crossed the festival grounds, arm in arm in a way that Amitola vehemently refused to acknowledge. Part of her worried that people were watching them, making assumptions as to the nature of their relationship, but it was clear the festival goers could not care less about a single minor noble and her little knight.

Weiss on the other hand was trying her best to not look profoundly pleased by this turn of events. She was failing miserably, of course, but it was clear that she was trying. Another curse, this time for being so endeering in her awkwardness.

“You know, I meant what I said,” Weiss spoke, quietly, so only the fae could hear it, “the festival hasn’t gone the way I expected it, but I think I’m much happier with how things turned out.”

Amitola did not answer. It was hard to, when it felt like Weiss had just impaled her heart.

“As a kid I always wanted to come to the festival. I wanted to be a knight like my sister, and compete in the Vytal tournament,” she continued, unaware of the pain in her companion’s heart, “this is my first festival, and I’m glad I get to enjoy it with you.”

They had to burn.

“This is my first festival too,” she informed, voice naturally even, as she did all she could to hide the turmoil building inside her, “my parents used to show me the tents when I was a kid, and they told me that someday, when I had mastered my glamours, I would get to walk among the humans and enjoy the celebrations with you.”

“They must be happy for you then,” Weiss offered with a smile, but she was wrong.

They had to burn.

“I’m certain that they would be.”

There was a question stuck between Weiss’s lips, something she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer to, so instead she stayed silent. Thankfully they had reached their camp and Amitola finally had an excuse to escape the Schnee’s terrifyingly comforting touch.

“Where is Blake?” Amitola asked, trying to escape the topic.

“She plans to spend the night with Lady Yang,” Weiss answered, “I believe she wishes to tell her about her nature.”

“Of course,” was her only reply, now wishing for nothing more than sweet silence.

For a while Weiss obliged, focusing all her attention on making them both supper. Allowing Amitola to enjoy some momentary peace, even if her mind and heart denied her any. It was unfortunate then, that even this flawed blessing was also a fleeting one.

“That’s why you hate my family, isn’t it?” Weiss asked, though she already knew the answer, “we’ve hurt you and your family.”

“Always so clever, Schnee,” Amitola mocked, half heartedly, “yes, your family is the reason why my parents and my entire village are gone.”

Shock and horror spread through Weiss’s face, “I did not know.”

They had to burn.

“Of course you didn’t, you were probably just a little girl back then,” Amitola offered, “I was barely old enough to understand what was happening.”

She only noticed she was crying when she saw the stains from the teardrops on her dress. It had been so long and yet that memory still wracked her with such terrible sadness. Even back with Taurus, when he insisted that she allowed that tragedy to fuel her rage, she could not find any anger in her, only sadness. Anger and hate were things she had to learn.

“Your family’s men had pushed my village further down river, so they could open up a new iron mine,” she told her through the tears, “for a while we thought that would be it, that if we just lived our lives away from your people, that maybe we’d be allowed to live on,” a sad chuckle escaped her, “but things just couldn’t be that easy. One day that mine flooded, and the iron your father had mined now poisoned our river, and my village burned.”

“I’m sorry,” Weiss whispered, tears streaking down her face as well, “I’m so sorry.”

They...had to burn.

“I know.”

Amitola couldn’t look at Weiss right now, she couldn’t bear to see the genuine sadness and worry in it, so she looked away. So she was surprised when she felt Weiss’s arms wrap around her in the terrible comfort of a hug.

“I--I promise I won’t let anything like this happen again. I swear it, I’ll do everything within my power to keep this tragedy from repeating itself,” Weiss swore once more. Yet another on the long list of oaths she has made to Amitola.

And yet, this time, she believed her. She genuinely and truly believed every word Weiss said. She was a human, a Schnee, and Amitola couldn’t help but trust her implicitly. But that wasn’t the worst part - no - the worst part was the revelation that came next.

“They would have loved you, you know?” Amitola said, voice cracking with every word, “my parents. They would’ve been truly happy that I met you.”

Weiss pulled away, just enough to look into the fae’s eyes. Perhaps it was all the tears clouding her vision, but to her the Schnee’s expression was unreadable.

“I would have been honored to meet them.”

They...

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t keep tearing herself apart, she couldn’t keep doing this.

“Curse you, Weiss,” Amitola whispered, “why must you be kind? Why can’t you be the monster I always thought you’d be?”

Weiss wiped away her tears, looking at her now with clear confusion, “what?”

“Things would be so much easier if you were some hateful monster. It would be so much easier if I didn’t care,” Amitola accused as she shoved her away, “but you had to be so trusting, you just had to be lovely, did you not? You had to make this hurt.”

“Ilia, I don’t understand.”

“I betrayed you, you fool!” Amitola shouted, “I’ve been spying for the fae for days now, and you just let me, because you were enough of an idiot to trust me!”

Weiss tried to stand up, but roots and vines had grown around her legs while she was distracted.

“Ilia!” She called, desperately trying to get rid of damned plants.

“Curse you, Weiss Schnee,” she repeated, more softly, with every hope that Weiss wouldn’t hear, “curse you for making me love you.”

She left for the woods before she could hear her answer.

#rwby #prismatic ponytails #weiss schnee #ilia amitola #blake belladonna #angst #copious angst #medieval au #fanfic

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sneezefiction · 4 years ago

Text

falling for you

Tsukishima Kei x reader - Scenario

a/n: ok so, trying to portray fluff with Tsukki was a challenge characteristically, but i’ll be damned if i don’t try. lemme know who i should try next~ i’m open for requests :)

warnings: slight cursing, mentions blood/wounds (nothing angsty)

wc: 1680

---

Tsukishima never intended to get to know you.

He had actually been avoiding you for quite some time.

You see, you got under his skin in the most irritating ways.

It wasn’t like how he loathed Hinata or Kageyama. Or his annoyance with incredibly slow grocery clerks. It wasn’t even similar to the exhaustive irritations he experienced toward the end of a full volleyball match.

Yes, these things are problematic, but Tsukishima can handle almost any obstacle.

You see, his cold, calculated presence soaks in every detail of life for the purpose of learning how to dismantle an issue. He resassesses, maneuver, and overcomes. There’s a reason the boy is so good at blocking.

However of all the problems he could have... this one is the worst.

Previously, he had everything he possibly could, under his control.

But when you came along? Oh, he had absolutely no experience with handling this level of meddling.

Because it isn’t even your fault.

You just somehow manage to interrupt all of his patterns and sneak your way into a majority of his thoughts.

Every. Single. Day.

So it isn’t a surprise that Tsukki, a master of mental strength and strategy, would be enraged by his inability to pin down his feelings for you.

For example, last week, you accidentally bumped into his arm, stumbling a bit. Tsukki grabbed your arm before you could hit the floor, but as his hand meets your skin he feels as though he’s taken a fall of his own.

His heart fluttered.

And when you immediately turned to him, apologizing and thanking him sweetly and sincerely, his whole mind went numb.

You make him feel confused. Uncertain. And… real.

But that doesn’t mean he likes those feelings. No, he doesn’t, Tsukishima tries to convince himself.

So why is it you that he pictures your figure whenever he closes his eyes? Or that your laugh echos through his head after someone tells you a cheesy joke from across the classroom? Or how whenever you call his name, he can’t help but temper his irate disposition?

You’ve got him spinning in circles and it’s driving him wild.

Because Tsukishima doesn’t want to need anyone. Not a friend. Not A lover. And he definitely isn’t in the market for another disappointment.

However, as much as he tries to avoid you, your touch, your smile, he can’t seem to stop running into you. He can’t bury his feelings for you, as much as he wishes he could.

Even though he’s tried to find reasons to hate, laugh at, or ridicule you, he simply can’t. Because the reason you are so bothersome and so obnoxious has nothing to do with you. It has everything to do with his inability to cope with how relentlessly wonderful you are in his eyes.

---

Your walk home conveniently crosses with Tsukki’s own path and every so often he’s out of volleyball practice just in time to run into you. An increasing occurrence over the past couple of months.

Tsukishima may not realize or want to admit it, but he treasures the rare moments where he’ll walk in sync with you. His stride subconsciously copies yours, slowing him down significantly, and somehow it’s okay.

You, harboring your own feelings toward the blonde, always try to make small talk or ramble about your day, doing your best to find some type of common ground with the tall boy next to you.

He finds himself responding to you again.

He’s tried for so long to not get involved, but over the past few days, he can’t help but let his thoughts flow. You make him uncomfortably comfortable, if that’s at all possible.

His snarky comments are (currently) nonexistent. His abrasive nature, moderated.

I mean, of course he’s dripping with sarcasm, but Tsukki wouldn’t change that part of himself for anyone.

Today something seemed to have clicked between you two, likely due to Tsukishima briefly relinquishing his stubbornness and fear of connection. It’s infrequent, but with your consistency, he’s finding himself far more capable of seeing outside of his past.

As the conversation picks up speed, so do your feet. The pebbled path you walk doesn’t help you keep your footing, so you find yourself unsteady and sliding every once in a while.

Suddenly, your feet are out from under you, and similarly to the week before, you plummet to the earth.

You’re not quite as fortunate this time, because as quickly as Tsukki swoops down to catch you, your hands and knees are already covered in dirt, sand, and bits of rock. Scraped and bleeding, you do your best to calm yourself down and assess the situation… so you turn to Tsukki.

Poor boy looks so awkward, unsure of what to say, but still attempting to keep his cool demeanor.

“Are you okay?” He asks, crouching down to meet your eyes. As masked as it is, you see a flicker of concern in his expression.

He takes your hand in his, trying not to let his feelings intervene with your pain, and studies the tears in your skin.

“I- I’m okay,” You stammer, partially from the pain, but mostly from his gentle touch.

“Okay… let me see if I have anything that’ll help.” Turning toward his bag.

It aches and the grimace on your face shows just how nasty the gash on your knee really is.

He gently lets your hand down, taking out tissues from his backpack and uses one to wipe off your knee while you use another to apply pressure to your hands.

The air is very still, almost as though it chose to pause for this moment.

“Hm, the weather actually is nicer down here for you short kids. I’m envious.” Tsukki jokes, breaking the tense silence.

“Haha, very funny. Maybe if you ever fall down, I’ll actually be able to catch you, since I’m already down here.” You retort playfully.

“Okay captain sassy, whatever you say.” He shoots back, “Now how ‘bout we see if you can actually stand up.”

He offers you his hand once again, the feeling making your heart race and his face go blank.

You attempt to straighten out your legs entirely, moving a foot forward, but find yourself in extreme discomfort.

Tsukki notices and without skipping a beat, suggests,

“Well, I can… y’know, carry you?” He turns his head, the lightest dusting of pink touching his cheeks.

You, still using his hand for support, look down, your face becoming red.

“I think that may be the, uhm, best option. It hurts a lot.”

He silently stoops down, placing his arms under your knees and behind your back, making sure to not agitate the wound any further.

The walk continues in a nervous, but intimately close manner. Neither of your eyes knowing what to focus on.

So you decide to fixate on him for a moment,

“I’m sorry about all this… I should’ve watched my step.” You express, “But… I’ve really enjoyed our walk together.” You crack a warm smile.

Tsukki returns your gaze, pulse jumping slightly, his honey-brown hued irises capturing your soft (e/c) eyes,

“Yeah, dumbass. You should’ve at least remembered how big of a clutz you are.” He smirks.

“But I guess this was nice… not so much the falling part…” He takes a moment to consider his next few words, breathing a little deeper.

“But these walks, speaking with you…” He averts his gaze,

“Just you, actually, y/n.” If your blush wasn’t already apparent, it was clear now.

He’s approaching your house as he finishes his sentence, but it feels as you’re both walking through time and space. A small galaxy opening up just for the two of you.

Reality stops in moments like these, Tsukki notes.

And it doesn’t feel… bad.

It feels right. Nice, even.

Before making it up to your front door, you reach your soft hand toward Tsukishima’s forcibly stoic face.

While outwardly, he’s kept his composure, his insides are producing so many SOS signals, it’s not even funny.

You lean forward, hand resting on his jaw, and place a short kiss to his cheek.

Leaning back, you catch a look of adoration in his eyes. Something he has no idea he’s physically showing right now.

He takes this chance to capture your soft lips in a kiss.

He hasn’t really done this before, but Tsukki gets how a kiss should work.

What didn’t cross his methodical, logic-based brain was just how good it would feel. Like a cloud, back-lit by golden sunlight, or a perfect chord progression to the most touching ballad.

It’s imperfect, but it’s electric.

Your lips melded with his so well, every second melting away his icier emotions. It began to introduce him to a new reason for life and a new meaning to love.

He eventually sets you down in front of your door.

But he has your hand lightly held in his, careful not to disturb the scrapes.

A huge grin spreads through your face, eyes lit up.

And he now knows why he can’t stop thinking about you. You really are a necessary part of his life. Worthy of breaking routines. Special enough to stop his flow and grumpily facetime you. Important enough to reshape himself to account for your existence.

With this final realization, Tsukki goes to his next line of action.

“So, are you free Friday?” He inquires.

“Actually, yeah! Can we go see that new dinosaur movie? I’m kind of obsessed with it.”

“Well, damn. This is gonna be even better than I expected.” He smirks, leaving you confused, but smiling at his response.

No, he wasn’t going to tell you about his discoveries from that day.

At least not in great detail.

But, thanks to this… to you, Tsukishima is learning to open himself up again. To take chances on himself and others. A process that is never too early to begin.

All it took was helping you back onto your feet to get you into his arms.

Something that both literally and relationally makes a whole lot of sense for some reason, Tsukki concludes.

#lmao my titles are so cheesy #the fic isn't tho #just fluffy and sweet #tsukishima #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima kei #haikyuu!!#haikyu #haikyuu fluff #tsukishima fluff #hq fanfic #hq #hq imagines #hq scenarios #tsukishima scenarios #tsukishima oneshot #tsukki #sneezefiction

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writefightandflightclub · 4 years ago

Text

A heart in stealth mode: (Cara Dune x fem!reader)

Summary: Cara has been fighting for so long she doesn’t know how to let her guard down. Your love, though? That crept up on her.

Author’s note: my FIRST TIME writing for my space wife so PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK?! I wanted this to be angsty + hazy + romantic and hope I pulled it off but who knows? EDIT: This was written b4 the G*na drama. I like the fic, so I’m keeping it up, but may not write any more for the character, sadly.

Mood songs / song quote inspo:You can't start a fire / You can't start a fire without a spark / This gun's for hire / Even if we're just dancin' in the dark- Dancing in the Dark, Eddie Berman

You take it all for granted, then you leave / And then it takes a while to realise what you need / If never you find what you're looking for / Come on back to the front porch - Front Porch, Joy Williams

Word Count: 5.5k(ish). It got long, I’m sorry.

Warnings: 18+ for the smut. F/f: vaginal fingering; oral; strap-on penetration. Language. One reference to a character death. As usual, angst and typos.

Tagging: @demigod-dragonrider-schoolidol, @darksideofclarke, @lokiaddicted, @mandoplease, @misssamx, @courageinthemidst

GIF: by @fataldusk

She had fallen from the heavens quite unlike an angel, leaping fearlessly from a metal mouth and tearing through the Endorian sky, parachute wings cascading behind her. She met the ground already in motion, already ferocious and flanked by her squad, combat boots pounding the ground like the clamour of horses’ hooves. She was muscle and brawn and power and thunder, and you had never seen anyone so beautiful. In that, Carasynthia Dune was alike to an angel. An angel sent to your planet to tear down warlords and dismiss them to hell.

You had caught her off-guard. Not many people could do that. Your stealthy, light feet had picked a careful path through the forested terrain, tailing her squad as their route threatened to encroach on your camp. Your upper hand has lasted only as long as her surprise before strong arms held you. Still, whilst you were the one flipped, grappled and pinned, the instant the shock trooper looked into your eyes you had a hold over her more inescapable than any she’d known.

Even as she pinned you, you couldn’t help but be enthralled by her bright brown eyes and the sweep of her raven hair. You couldn’t help but enjoy the weight of her settled on top of you, her muscular legs straddling your hips, your arms pinned over your head, and a mossy cushion of earth at your back. You had gone through the motions of struggling ineffectually against her, until you were simply squirming beneath her for the hell of it. Just to feel her clamp down on you.

“Stealthy, for sure. Strong, for your size,” Cara had assessed. “But you’re not a fighter, are you, Princess?” she had asked, eyes bright and inquisitive as she surveyed your civilian clothing. You clearly weren’t an Imp, and you had a rifle which you’d neglected to use. That had told her you were far too trusting to be any kind of soldier.

“More of a lover,” you had half-smiled as she tightened her grip on you. “But I usually like it a little more gentle,” you had purred, arms straining against her grip and not knowing what had come over you.

She had narrowed her eyes at you in interest, the corners of her mouth twitching in amusement. Once you had talked yourselves allies, Cara finally released you, though her hold on you was never truly relinquished either, beyond that moment.

During the months that followed, your community’s humble camp had provided safe haven to the shock troopers. They had fanned out to surrounding villages to take out the warlords who had driven you from your homes in the first place. Forced you to hunker in tents and hide like animals. Between missions, Cara’s squad had returned to your base for healing, of whatever kind you could offer.

If wasn’t long before Cara’s wolfish gaze had begun to find you in the nightly fire glow. It wasn’t long before she had sought out your gentle hands to bind her wounds, your tentative touch brushing against a bared thigh or an arm or a stomach. Your eyes trailing over bust lips and fingertips over bruised cheeks, generating all that heat under the guise of healing. You had felt like a flare every time she looked at you, your desire exposed like a raw fuse line. You felt like metal becoming molten in a forge, every interaction with her stoking this fire in you. She had you ready to be remade and remoulded to fit around her body, as snug as the armour which hugged her shapely contours.

There had been no wooing; there was no convincing to be done - no resolve to chip away at. Cara had no pretences and you had no reservations. Instead, there were knowing smiles. There was you, teetering on the edge of her, always in her orbit, eyes tracking her as though she were a mark. Cara knew fine well what you wanted and she wanted it too. She didn’t like dancing around things. She was a soldier, and she preferred a clear mission. She preferred to act. To be in motion. To talk with her body.

The first night it happened, Cara had been seated on a felled log, legs splayed wide and feet planted, elbows resting on her knees. Her body was hunched yet poised, as though she could spring into action at any moment, if she needed to. She had caught you looking, gaze trailing keenly over the solid mass of her, defined arms and thick thighs and a certain fullness you enjoyed. She had openly appraised you in return, letting you know she liked what she saw too. Casually, looking half-amused the whole while, she had polished off the dregs of her beer before setting the bottle down. Then she had stood, heading away from the commotion of the camp. You simply watched her, tracking towards the clearing where the tents were pitched, until she turned back towards you, with a tilt of her head to beckon you over to her.

“You coming?”

The glint in her eyes and her confident smirk had your stomach tied-up in knots, and yet you had tried to play it cool as you padded towards her, despite the flush rising in your cheeks and the giddy grin which spread over your face the moment she wrapped her arm firmly around your waist, leading you to her pitch.

She had guided you into the cramped tent by the hand, making your humble surroundings feel positively regal. Your bodies had no choice but to press against one another as you settled down on the mats. Cara had laid on her back, arms folded behind her head, a cocked eyebrow and a disarming smile inviting you to make the first move.

Eagerly, you had crawled right on top of her, straddling her hips and pressing your palms to her folded elbows. Cara had laughed musically, her eyes creasing, when you had suggested you had her pinned, this time. You both knew already - it was a foregone conclusion that Cara was going to take control- but, still, she had humoured you.

“You’ve got me in your snare alright, huntress,” she insisted earnestly, her eyes blazing. “I think I’m a goner.”

You had become entirely bashful in response, that irresistible, half-amused smile cracking her face again as you fumbled for words and helplessly fluttered your eyelashes at her.

“So. Now that you’ve got me, what are you going to do with me?” Cara had purred with an impossibly sweet smile, her voice dropping lower in her throat and her eyes trained on your lips and your breasts which were thrust towards her as you maintained your position.

“You’re too hot to kiss,” you had breathed. “I don’t know if I’ll survive it.”

She had shifted an arm free from you to lift a palm to your face, trailing fingers over your cheek and sweeping her touch over your hair.

“I’ll be gentle with you, beautiful,” Cara had promised, a hard swallow bobbing in her throat.

“Don’t be,” you had challenged, and something about the combination of your shyness and boldness made her eyes become so wolfish they practically growled at you.

As the lust gathered in your darkening eyes in return, Cara had lurched her head up like a sprung trap. She had captured your faraway lips and you had sunk down to meet her, mouths melding and tongues trying to fold themselves into one like molten metal. There was a rising heat as you melted into the kiss. That heat like a forge, reshaping you and fitting you to her every contour as your bodies merged; became liquid.

She had rocked you in the depths of the jungle, in the sticky night, sweat beading like jewels embroidered on your skin. Her reverent touch had made you feel royal, even when you had nothing but your wits and your rifle to call your own. She whispered “my Princess” into the shell of your ear, the words like the breeze parting leaves in the dark depths of night. Like the fingers plunging to part your folds in the dense black. You had whimpered rhythmically for her like the cicadas and crooned for her like a songbird. Your sounds had seemed to fill the whole expansive space of the forest, from whispers in thick grasses to wails in the canopy, even as your tent enclosed you both, barely wider than your bodies writhing there. Never has anyone felt so transcendent when so close to the ground, you could swear.

After that first time, those hot, sticky embraces kept coming. You had collided, and now there was nothing you could do but release the energy like a storm. You had pleasured each other until she growled like thunder on top of you. Until you jolted like lightning beneath her. Together, you had equalled a squall which could sway the outer reaches of the forest, and you raged until you were spent. Until there was nothing left but calm in the centre of it all.

At times, she had taken you gently, rolling you on top of her, your back flush to her pillowy chest, her knees coming between yours and spreading your thighs until they strained from being parted. She had slid her hand to your folds, her touch beginning on your clit as soft and rhythmic as the patter of a raindrop. Then, her touch would build you up until your pleasure was akin to a waterfall tumbling from a cliff edge - enough force to erode mountains. Her fingers had curled into you; two then three of them filling you up while she held you firmly in place, until she had you spasming in the throes of pleasure, your arousal trickling down beyond you to coat her stomach and thighs, merging with her own heat.

She had always showered you in praise and compliments, breathing pretty words into your ear in the near dark until you felt like you could take no more.

“So perfect. You’re so beautiful. I know you’re beautiful when you come for me. Show me. Show me. Show me. That’s it, Princess.”

Sometimes she was rougher, when you wanted it, topping you all brawn and ferocity and as thunderous as the day you saw her fall from the sky. Sometimes the strap-on she looked so damn good in would slam you, skin slapping against yours as you gripped Cara’s muscular arms either side of you, your biting fingers ensnaring her like the barbs of a trap and refusing to release. You had been enthralled by the way her breasts would bounce and undulate with each motion, until she would pin her body flush to yours and almost crush you with the force of her, buckles and straps digging in at your hips until it stung. You hadn’t cared. You had liked it. When you were close, Cara would dip her lips to you, her tongue twining with yours and her sweep of raven hair brushing over your face and neck like feathers, the softness of her sending you over that edge as you wrapped your limbs around her, clinging on for dear life as she hit your sweet spot until you whited-out.

It was rare that she had let you take control, and when she did you would make the most of it. When you’d come down from your high you would keenly trail your mouth over every inch of her. You had marked her neck and dragged your tongue over her collarbone. You had sucked her nipples into your mouth and circled your tongue languidly around the peaks of her. You had sunk your mouth to her heat to taste how wet it had made her to fuck you, your tongue lapping and writhing against her folds, fingers finding purchase again like wolf’s claws digging into her full thighs. From the way she would moan for you as you dipped your tongue towards her entrance, you’d think you had wrestled her into submission. You’d think she was powerless against you. Perhaps that’s how she truly felt when you had made her come undone.

No matter how she took you, afterwards Cara would always hold you. You had spooned and you had nuzzled your head into her breasts, or across her thighs, seeking out all the softness of her. You had traced your fingertips over her body and learned every muscle and every scar so well you could find them in the dark. You had gazed into her pretty eyes in the low lamplight and you had spiralled. Spiralled into her. Into her beauty and brawn and the way she had rocked you and held you in that sticky night.

Then, abruptly, after a string of nights like this, it was time for her to move on.

On your last night you had teased, “I bet you have a lover in every camp.” Cara had shaken her head, looking tortured as she replied, “No. No, there’s only you.”

You had cried in the morning when she said her goodbyes to you, and she had tugged you into her chest and wrapped you in her strong arms. She had walked away with what remained of her depleted squad and you had simply watched her go, half expecting her to turn around with a tilt of her head -like she had that night- and ask “You coming?”.

But she didn’t look back. Carasynthia Dune couldn’t bear to.

Cara was a soldier. She preferred a clear mission with a clear exit strategy. This time, she had neglected to plan how she might leave with her heart intact. You though, you were a builder, a protector. You had made a home here for this community, however humble, and you had kept them safe. You had done the same for Cara too. It turned out you had caught the shock trooper off-guard in more ways than one. She had never expected to fall so hard for you, but your love had crept up on her and had never stopped tailing her since.

It was years until you saw her next. Until she had begun visit you in your wooden house out on some Sargon backwater. You were barely surprised the first time she showed up with a firm knock on your door, all muddied combat boots and charming smile as she stood shyly on your wraparound porch, chancing that you would greet her like an old friend and not an enemy.

Cara had been a mercenary by then, an Alliance tattoo on her cheek, and you had sat out on your porch for hours. You had talked and smiled and drank tea and circled the inevitability of it until your hands had accidently brushed, and even as your breath stalled in your chest Cara was already on you. You had practically climbed her in need before you fell to the floor together in the doorway, not even making it inside before you unravelled your clothes and each other.

She had still held you afterwards. Had wrapped you up in her warmth and kissed your hairline and whispered how much she had missed you. You had missed her words curling in the pit of you. Had missed all of her, in fact.

From then on, Cara would come and visit whenever her missions allowed her to return to this sorry backwater you so loved. Sometimes, in the night, she had whispered her dreams to you in the dark. Pretty words about retiring and starting anew. But, like all dreams, they always faded in the stark light of day. She had always left you with the rise of the sun, as if she could only dance with you in the dark. Like fire glow, which licks idly and prettily at shadow, and whose display dissipates with daylight.

Sometimes, she rocked-up fresh from a bloody excursion, bloody herself and looking outwardly like a wolf fresh from a kill. Behind the armour though, you knew this strong, ferocious woman came to you delicate and quaking like the wings of a dragonfly, her rabbit heart fluttering and nervous as your gentle hands deftly tended to her wounds.

Years ago, you would have always suggested that it was you who was the rabbit and she the wolf. However, you had always been hungry and bold with your love. It was Cara who had been flighty and nervous in matters of the heart. She didn’t like to feel exposed. To feel weak. And you? You made her melt.

When she already felt vulnerable, after battle, she had both sought you out for comfort and shrunk back from you all at once. She needed to bask in your warmth, but she also feared that your licking flames might burn if she came too close whilst too open. Over the years, she had built up her defences, and try as you might you could no longer peel them away. Whenever you moulded to her body she was always wearing armour of some form. Always trying to hold you at arm’s length in some kind of way.

Cara would pleasure you and hold you still, but she wouldn’t allow you to touch her. She wouldn’t let you have her liquid beneath you. If she became molten, how would she ever put herself back together? You had softened her like nothing else, and defenceless is the last thing a solider wants to feel. She had seemingly forgotten the softness of those nights in the forest, when you had stripped every kind of armour away from her, and still, you could never deny her when she came to you, because you hoped and hoped that somehow you might revive her heart, buried as it was beneath her breast plate. You hoped that you might light the fuse and revive the love hiding there in the dark.

One particularly sticky night in the Sargon summer, Cara had come to you after months apart, troubled and unnervingly quiet. She had been covered in blood, which had dried liked peeling rust on her skin. Not her blood, she insisted. Not her quarry’s either.

You had opened your door and she didn’t even step over the threshold. Her eyes had been alarmingly hollow instead of bright, and when you reached for her hands they were trembling like leaves. This time, Cara didn’t deny your touch. Didn’t protest when you bundled her towards your refresher. She had leaned gratefully into your palm as you caressed her hair and her face and slowly stripped her armour away. Her eyes had encouraged you; pleaded with you, as you gently eased her beneath the warm water and let it soothe her.

You had smoothed a cloth over her whole body, delicately soaping the blood and dirt from her skin, hoping that your touch felt like something akin to worship. Hoping that it made her feel as safe and as royal and as revered as her touch had made you feel, back in those long-lost forests of Endor.

“Cara?” you had asked finally with a broken voice, after as much silence as you could bear. “What happened?”

She had finally looked up at you, her eyes turbulent, brows knitted together as the water sluiced over both your bodies. Her soft voice had come out in monotone.

“I didn’t make it in time. The quarry killed someone’s wife before I could…”

“It’s not your fault, baby” you venture, wanting to reach out and hold her, but not wanting her to bolt away from your touch. Her muscles were tensed and she had looked ready to run like a tumult of horses breaking free.

She sniffs. “I know that. It’s the fault of the fucker who did it. I took him down right after. Didn’t make it too clean either. I just… The husband… he’d lost everything he loved. That’s what he said... and I...”

Cara had gripped on to your hands for dear life as tears had cascaded down her cheek, mingling with the water. She had seen a lot of death. But this one had really got to her.

Oh. Oh.

No wonder she had buried her rabbit heart under so much armour.

It was soft. It was soft. It was soft.

You had smoothed your palm over her cheek. You had swiped her tears away with the pad of your thumb.

“My angel,” you soothed fondly, with a soft and steady smile, knowing that all you could offer was comfort. “Let’s get you dried and get into bed, okay? We can cuddle, or you can rest. Whatever you need.”

Her brows had still been knitted together but Cara allowed you to bundle her into the bedroom, to tuck her under layers of toasty blankets. She had been tired. You had slotted yourself behind her body and held her. Her hands had clung on to yours as if you were a parachute cord – the one thing she knew not to let go of. Her lifeline. Her canopy. You had stayed until you had felt her relax, her breathing sleep-ridden, and you had quietly extricated yourself to the porch.

The sky had darkened, and familiar sounds were swelling around you from the depths of the forest. You had lost track of how long you had been sitting there in the muggy night. Sweat clung to your skin like that first night with her, but suddenly you didn’t feel like royalty. The beads were no longer jewels. The spark had waned. Cara still made love to you, but it had lost some of its tenderness. It was as though she had convinced herself that your states were fixed; she was a fighter and you were a lover. You didn’t know what else to do. You didn’t know how else to fight so that she might let you love her. So, for a while you had just sat there on your porch, remembering, and letting a mug of tea grow cold in your grip. Letting the nostalgic sounds of cicadas and songbirds wash over you.

You had almost startled when Cara appeared in the doorway, her movements uncharacteristically light and careful. You had yearned for her. You had yearned for her desperately even as she stood right in front of you.

“Can I sit with you a while?” she had asked softly, as if you might dream of saying no, and the absurd question tugged a gentle laugh from you.

You didn’t say anything but you had smiled with your eyes and patted the bench next to you. She had taken a seat, and you wrapped your arm around her, easily folding her into your embrace, her head nuzzling into the crook of your shoulder. Cara remained there in silence for a while, perhaps letting the sounds of the night wash over her too. Perhaps remembering herself. After a moment of contemplation, she had tugged in a sudden deep breath as if coming back to life. She had sat up and twisted her face to look at you. You had met her gaze, surprised to find her eyes more unguarded than you had seen them in a long while.

Slowly, unsurely, as if it were your first kiss, Cara had dipped her head towards you, letting her nose bump and nuzzle against yours. Letting her lips hover, hesitant but wanting as her breath fanned over you.

“I want…” she had whispered a half-completed thought, and you pressed her to finish it. Begged her to finish it. Sometimes you couldn’t comprehend the way she hesitated with you, even after all this time, as if you were a wolf holding her beating heart in your teeth. “I want you to touch me.”

At her words, you had blazed like a flare all over again, your desire for her on show like an exposed fuse line as your voice trembled, catching in your throat.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Yes,” Cara had insisted, and now it was you who reacted like a sprung trap, lips crushing to hers like you had never known touch. Like you were starved and had suddenly learned to hunt. Like your lips and tongue sought to encase her and ensnare her and devour her. She had moaned into your mouth, her sounds billowing and soft and needier than you’d ever heard her, almost a protest but entirely a surrender.

You led her to your bed by the hand, as if your surroundings were regal and she was a Queen. You had laid her out on the covers, tracing your lips softly over her mouth, her neck, her collarbone. Another act of worship. In moments, her pleas and praise encouraging you, you were peeling her top over her head and shimmying her shorts away from her full, sturdy thighs until every gorgeous contour of her was visible. Drinking the sight of her in, you trailed kisses over her breasts, her nipples pebbling beneath your tongue. You kissed her stomach, all the way down to the neat, dark trail of hair guiding you to her wanting core. Nestling in between her thighs, your sure hands had parted her legs until she was entirely exposed to you, her folds so readily glistening and her moans spurring you on.

You had sunk yourself into her heat, eating her out like a parched woman dipping her head into the soft babble of a stream, tongue lapping gratefully at a refreshing, life-giving deluge. Your tongue had shimmied all the way down from her clit to her entrance, dipping over every contour and sweet spot like a river finding its course. You worked her with your lips, sucking at her swollen nub, your tongue probing and dipping into her entrance to collect her arousal, tasting her sweet release. You practically submerged yourself, and you had no reason to come up for air.

Cara hadn’t come undone like this in so long. She had moaned prettily into the air for you, her core practically molten, hot and wet beneath you. Knowing how good you made her feel and how much she wanted you was everything you’d ever craved. It was everything you’d ever been hunting for, and her response as you worked her had you moaning into her heat too. Your hands had gripped on to her thighs even more firmly, clawing at her as she began to buck her hips and writhe herself desperately on your face, your mouth and nose and chin all pressing in to her and becoming slick with her.

“Beautiful. You’re so … beautiful,” she had gushed, in between groans, gazing down at the sight of you nestled in between her thighs. You had looked up at her all laid out and squirming for you and you were overcome. She was your angel. She was still the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

Unable to respond with words you had simply dug your tongue into her folds with renewed vigour, gliding a finger into her slick and smiling as you watched her fists clench desperately into the blankets. As you watched her clench her teeth and tip her head back to growl in ecstasy, the sound sending a shiver right through you.

It had been so long since Cara had surrendered. To anything. But she had finally surrendered to you after so long. She had unravelled beneath your touch and your tongue, moaning for you as if overcome by a storm so powerful it could split the sky clean open like thunder. Whilst you weren’t sure whether she was ready to surrender to love, you were so deeply happy that she had trusted you enough to be vulnerable like this again.

When she had floated down from her high, you had cleaned her up, and you had sat together on your porch in nothing but your pants, the warm night surrounding you like a blanket. Like an old friend. You had clutched mugs of warm, sweet tea and clasped each other. Laughed together. You had sat there even as the rain fell in the forest around you, letting the sounds and sensations of night enclose you. The patter of the rain. The smell of petrichor and camomile. Cara had even taken your hand and dragged you into the clearing, circling her arms around you and swaying you to silent music as your bare feet became muddied and the rain tumbled down to wash any last trace of her armour away, the heavens opening to cleanse their angel.

You had held her tightly, while you could hold her. You had a nagging feeling that she would be gone again in the morning, all of this magic fading in the harsh light of day.

You knew fine well that Cara could jump headfirst out of a spaceship. She could run headfirst into battle. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to run headfirst into you. Cara had always been on the move. Always in motion. Her heart was always a moving target, in case it ever got pinned down.

In the morning, she had watched you sleep, her eyes glowing with gentle awe and admiration. And then, she had gotten up to leave you anyway.

You had stirred and awoken as she slunk out of your house. But this time, instead of watching her walk away from you, like usual, you had run to the door and called after her, you voice ringing clearly into the forest.

She turned back towards you, outwardly looking hard and impenetrable - but you knew better.

“Din got word on a new bounty. Gotta ship out from town later,” she had explained apologetically, shifting her weight guiltily between her feet.

You had tracked down the porch and onto the forest path where she had stood, finding conviction in your steps. If Cara couldn’t be brave enough, you guessed that one of you would have to be. If she couldn’t be a lover, maybe you would have to be a fighter.

“Carasynthia Dune,” you had begun, leaning up to press a chaste yet loving kiss to her lips. Your gaze had remained steady, lips curled up into a soft smile. “You’re my angel. My thunder. My calm. My heart. Come back to me safe, will you?”

“I always come back to you,” she had admitted, looking up at you shyly from beneath her lashes, even as she looked taken aback by your words. “Can’t help it.” The hold you had on her was too strong to resist. Even after all this time. Especially after all this time.

On this occasion, you had been the one to turn away from her, padding back towards the house. This time, Cara had to watch you walk away from her.

“I don’t know what I’m so afraid of,” she had called out to you, voice wavering as it rang through the clearing.

You had stopped in place and turned slowly towards her, your eyes warm and sad at the same time. You had taken a few small steps towards her and Cara closed the remaining distance, even as she looked tortured by the words she had blurted out. You hadn’t known why Cara’s heart was in stealth mode, but you knew that sooner or later she would have to uncover it. Let her heart live as ferociously as the rest of her being.

“Me neither,” you had admitted, with a small shrug. “You jump out of spaceships with nothing but a parachute and trust fate. I promise if you jump into this love, I will give you a soft landing. I’ll protect you.”

As soon as your confession was through, you had become bashful again, all fumbled words and batting lashes and every single thing Cara could never resist on you. “Assuming that you... I mean... if you feel...”

Suddenly, Cara was no longer afraid. She knew you. You were a protector. You were her protector. Even if her heart was in your teeth, she had suddenly known it would be safe there.

All that time ago, your love had crept up on her. And ever since, when she had moved forward it had always been with a quick glance behind her, to check that your love was still tailing her. She was afraid of being hunted, but as soon as you had turned away, she knew that she was far more afraid of losing you. Of looking back and not seeing you there at all.

“I do. I love you. I’ve loved you since Endor,” she had breathed, her brown eyes sheening with emotion.

“I’ve loved you since you fell from the sky,” you had replied, feeling nervous, as if you had ensnared a bird and its wings thrummed against your rib cage.

You examined Cara’s expression, and an when unguarded smile had inched across her face, you had tilted your head to beckon her over to you, trying your best to mimic her most classic move.

As soon as she had obliged and stepped closer, you had grabbed her and pulled her on to your lips, circling your arms around her sturdy circumference as you both melted into the kiss. When you broke for air, you were both wearing bright, even smiles, and Cara was every bit as giddy as you had been that first night. Happiness had fluttered in your chest like all the birds in the forest were contained there.

Your eyes had glowed as you gave her a small, encouraging nod. “So I’ll see you when you get home then?” You had stolen another quick kiss from her plush lips, and this time as Cara left, she had held your hand as you walked her to the edge of the clearing. “Oh, you should bring Din and the Child to visit too.”

Cara had smiled but looked sceptical, ruffling a hand through her sweeping hair. “Din already teases me about how soft I am for you. I don’t know if I could bear to give him any more ammo.”

You had grinned widely at the revelation, joy swelling in your chest at the thought of her speaking fondly of you. “Just tell Din that if he dares to tease you I’ll fight him.”

You had reached the edge of the clearing and Cara paused to face you, knowing you wouldn’t go any further in your bare feet.

“Bold talk, little one,” Cara had smiled, cocking an eyebrow, her cheeks appling in a smile.

“Oh, you don’t think I could take a bounty hunter?” you mocked, indignantly. “I pinned you, didn’t I?”

The smile which inched over Cara’ face was positively wolfish, and you thought she might devour you. Instead, she had inched her body towards you, tipping her head forward until her voice billowed over the shell of your ear. “I’ll be back home soon, my Princess, and I dare you to try it.”

This time, when she had turned from you, it didn’t feel like losing her. You knew there was a promise in her eyes to return. Cara Dune’s heart was no longer in stealth mode. It was still soft, but you believed it could also be ferocious; this time, both a lover and a fighter. You had watched your angel go, knowing she soon would be coming back to where she belonged.

#cara dune x reader #cara dune #carasynthia dune #mandalorian #mandalorian fic #the mandalorian #cara dune angst #cara dune smut #cara dune fic #star wars #sw #gina carano #wlw

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howtosingit · 4 years ago

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Fic: can’t take my eyes off of you

Carlos Reyes is thrown by the arrival of a new firefighter in Austin.

A missing moment from 1x01.

1.2K | Also on AO3

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Carlos grips the steering wheel in front of him tightly, his gaze shifting to look at the entrance to the bar through his windshield. He can feel his heart hammering in his chest, blood pounding loudly in his ears, and he clenches his jaw, trying to get himself under control.

He doesn’t know why he’s being ridiculous. Except, he kind of does, especially when his mind flashes back to a pair of soft blue-green eyes staring at him through the rain, shining in the flashing lights from his patrol car.

He’s always been a sucker for bright, pretty eyes.

Carlos takes a deep breath, leaning forward to rest his forehead on top of his hands. He knows he needs to stop this train before it goes any further off the rails. He doesn’t even know anything about the firefighter, other than catching his name when one of his crew members yelled at him to get in the truck. Honestly though, one look is all it took for him to become completely enamored with TK Strand.

There was his smile, for one, and the way it reshaped his entire face, making him look even more youthful than he already did under his helmet. He glowed with pride for his father, almost as if his love for the other man was a raging inferno that lit him from the inside. Carlos might not know anything about the New York transplant, but his care and devotion to his family was clear as day, and it just made Carlos want to know everything about him.

He’s pulled from his memory by his phone chiming next to him. He glances down, seeing a text from Michelle, telling him that he better be on his way or she’s going to give him hell the next time they see each other. He smiles, leaning back to rub at his tired eyes. With a sigh, he reaches for the door handle, deciding that he doesn’t have to stay out for too long.

-----

“Man, it seems like these people could dance until dawn,” TK says, breathing heavily as he leans against the bar, gazing out across the dance floor. “I’m wiped, and they’re acting like the night is still young.”

Carlos laughs, settling in next to TK. He’s closer than he would normally be to a near-stranger, but it doesn’t seem like TK minds. After their fourth dance together, they’ve settled into a comfortable rhythm together, and Carlos can’t help but to be drawn to him. He’s still mindful of keeping a little space between them, though; he doesn’t want to make the other man uncomfortable.

“Some of them will definitely be here until closing time,” Carlos shares, his eyes locked on TK’s profile. There’s a sheen of sweat on his skin from the crowded bar and non-stop dancing, and try as he might, Carlos can’t stop thinking about how he might taste on his tongue. It makes his heart pound and his stomach clench, a long-awaited want building under his skin. “Can I buy you a drink?”

TK pulls his gaze away from the crowd to finally look at him again, turning to face the bar. “Just a water,” he says, shrugging when Carlos raises a brow. “Need to stay hydrated.”

Carlos nods, waving down the bartender and ordering two waters and a beer. He taps his fingers on the bar top, wondering what to say next, when TK pipes up.

“So, I don’t think I caught your name, Officer Reyes.”

“Carlos.”

“Carlos,” TK repeats, and Carlos catches a glint in his eyes. “I’m TK.”

“I know,” Carlos tells him without hesitation. Now it’s TK’s turn to raise a brow. “I may have heard one of your crew members calling to you on the scene. And, I also may have then confirmed it with Michelle, just to be sure.”

Their drinks arrive, and he watches TK take a sip, the corner of the straw placed in the corner of his mouth. It’s adorable, and Carlos feels a heat rise on the back of his neck that has nothing to do with the earlier dancing.

“You’re a really good dance partner,” TK remarks after a moment, a smirk rising on his lips.

“I just know how to move my hips,” Carlos says casually, shrugging as he slides a little closer. TK looks up at him from beneath his eyelashes, his pupils clearly dilating even in the dim bar light. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

TK huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he glances down at the glass in his hands. Before he can second-guess himself, Carlos reaches forward to brush his fingertips along the firefighter’s knuckles. The glass shakes in TK’s hand, a bit of water sloshing over the rim.

“I was… not expecting this,” TK breathes out, swaying into Carlos’s space.

“Expecting what?” he asks, running his fingers along TK’s forearm to his elbow.

“To be hit on by a really hot cop my first week in Texas,” TK admits, looking back up at him. There’s a weight in his gaze, heavy with obvious lust and desire, and Carlos licks his lips hungrily, almost as if he can taste the tension between them.

“I’m willing to do way more than hit on you in a bar,” he says, wrapping his fingers around TK’s bicep and squeezing gently. “If that’s something you’d be interested in.”

He watches as TK’s jaw drops, the forward invitation clearly taking him by surprise. Carlos smiles, knowing that there’s no way this evening isn’t ending without the two of them screaming each other’s names.

But then, as if Fate is determined to remind him where he stands, their moment is broken by the sudden appearance of Captain Strand. Carlos quickly pulls back, giving the two men a little space. He watches as Owen coughs into his arm slightly, clearly a little out of it as he tells TK that they should probably head home.

Carlos glances back towards the younger man, seeing concern clearly painted across his face. His heart thumps painfully in his chest, knowing that their night is now over.

Which is why he’s surprised when, after telling his dad that he’ll meet him in the car, TK turns back to him, holding out his phone.

“Put your number in, Carlos.”

Carlos stares at him for a moment, the determined look on TK’s face reigniting the fire inside him. He takes the phone, entering his information and pressing save before handing it back.

TK moves back into his space, this time wrapping his own fingers around Carlos’s bicep and squeezing gently. Carlos feels a shiver run down his spine at the feeling of TK’s hands on him.

“I’m interested,” TK whispers, his lips pressed close to Carlos’s ear.

When he pulls back, his gaze is heavy once again, this time accompanied by a wicked smile. He turns to follow his dad to the car, leaving Carlos to stare longingly after him, contemplating their next meeting.

It feels like the start of something big.

#tarlos #tarlos fic #tarlos fanfic #911 lone star #tk strand #carlos reyes #I wrote a thing #tarlos missing moments collection #lone star 1x01

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digitalcirce · 4 years ago

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Oh, This Feels Strange (woman to pig transformation)

“Oh, what a strange dream,” Evie murmured, as wakeful thought slowly returned to her. “I could have sworn it was real!” But even so, her memories of it were rapidly slipping away, leaving just sensations – powerful, undeniable animal sensations that beat in her heart like a primal drum. Moving with her… friends? Group? No, herd… Feeling their presence… even… giving herself to them? A flicker of tantalizing memory arose from the fading impressions, of herself on all fours, and a man – no, not a man, exactly, but her mate – filling her and taking her to the horizons that can only be found in dreams. It was just… Evie was almost sure of it… in the dream, her lover had been a pig. And so… so had she. Had she?

But it was all slipping away. She felt a gurgle in her stomach, which she assumed was hunger, and idly rubbed her belly. Her pink robe had pulled open, exposing her intimates, and the flesh of her bare belly was warm to the touch. Evie hoped that she wasn’t coming down with a cold or something…

But her health was not in jeopardy. She was healthy now; and would be healthy in half an hour. She just wouldn’t look the same. Because her dream had been a portent – a calling, from the unknown primal part of her soul, beckoning her back to her true nature. A heritage she didn’t even know she had. But it had always been there, just below the surface, and it was more aptly who and what she was than the beautiful, busty, brunette beauty that she assumed herself to be.

The gurgling and heat in her stomach were not hunger or illness, they were metamorphosis. Starting in her womb, she was changing. Her uterus stretched, becoming longer and thinner and spitting towards the top into two horns, curving into much shorter fallopian tubes. Her ovaries swelled large, each and every human ova inside her changing like she was, until they comfortably nestled not human gametes, but pig eggs, in accordance with her prophetic dream. Evie was no longer capable of bearing a human child, but she could get pregnant with as many piglets as she wanted!

Below her porcine womb, her cervix and vagina twisted, reshaping to cradle the coiled tumescence of an amorous boar – the type of lover she was meant to have. The type of lover she would come to desire most. Then, the first visible change began, as her soft, smooth vulva grew rosier and thicker, the lips twisting a little further backward to make mounting her easier. A flush of pure pleasure overwhelmed Evie as her clitoris changed, swelling to six times its original size and sticking out as a ruddy, wrinkled love button that would bring her untold pleasure over the years.

Above her privates, a nub of flesh formed at the apex of her heart-shaped ass, twisting out rapidly until she had grown a wiggly pig’s tail. The sow-to-be didn’t notice, still breathing hard after the sensation of her clit reshaping, but the cute, energetic thing was clear evidence of the animal she was destined to become. Below it, her demure little butthole widened, the wrinkled starfish swelling large and leathery between her sexy cheeks. It bulged outward a bit, so that when the four-legged animal pooped, it would fall past her pussy with no risk of touching it.

The transformation then rocketed back up her bowels, shrinking intestines into more robust coils, and expanding her stomach to take larger meals. Heart and lungs changed as it passed upward, going up her throat and shifting her tongue even as canine teeth began to develop into tiny tusks. At that point, her nose began to turn upwards, and Evie’s heavy breathing began to take on the overtones of grunting.

“What the hell? This feels strange,” Evie managed to say, but she was not yet aware that she was really a pig; that her transformation was a perfectly natural thing. Instead, she thought she was suffering from some kind of indigestion. The gorgeous girl tried to stand, but just flopped back on her bed. By now, the former bottom of her nose was growing blunter and more sensitive, and her ears had begun to enlarge, pushing out beyond her rich brunette tresses. Her toes stared to harden and swell, and as one leg flopped over the other, she felt the hard rubbing of what would become her hooves. Evie shook her head, trying to clear it. If she crossed her eyes, she could see the end of her growing snout. And the wiggling behind her… she reached back, touching her tail for the first time.

Evie gasped, taking in her mutating body. What was happening? But she knew. Deep down, she knew. Only one animal had a tail like that. In a rush, the sensations of her dream came back to her, confirming her fears. “No – not a pig!” Evie squealed, overwhelmed. But her transformation wouldn’t be arrested by such trite little protests. She looked down at her hands, gasping as they shifted too, hands and feet both deforming into blocky hooves. Her thumbs and big toes were lost entirely, the outer digits reshaping into dew claws and the main ones capped with a hard shell of keratin for her to walk on.

“No, no, no! I don’t want to looEEEEEse my hands!” the sow-to-be squealed. Her hooves seemed so ugly to her, so useless! But if she needed to pick anything up, the pig could always use her trusty snout. The busty brunette was still in denial, but she would find her new body well adapted to all of a pig’s needs. She snorted and grunted, finding it harder and harder to make intelligible words.

Along her belly, twelve little welts formed, plumping up into thick, piggish nipples. Teats that could feed the many piglets she realized she was now capable of bearing. The dream image of the boar on her back, filling her so perfectly, both warmed her loins and turned her blood to ice. Yes, she might well become a mother pig, and sooner than she thought.

Then, Evie started to fatten, bulking up like a true pig. Her belly took the brunt of it, becoming a flabby potbelly until her back lengthened to spread her into a characteristic barrel shape, but her thighs plumped too, and her butt, as her sexy cheeks swelled to support lovers bigger than a quarter of a ton. And that wasn’t all. Pure pork meat layered on over her back, too, and her neck and face, as her throat swelled out and tipped her head forward. The brunette sow knew she was becoming a quadruped, and that her clothes were becoming uncomfortably tight. As best as she could with her hooves, she twisted out of her robe and pushed her bottoms down. But she was too clumsy to unhook her top, and felt it strain against its new load.

Evie’s arms and shoulder blades rotated downward, shrinking to become a pig’s forelegs, and her thighs and long, sexy legs compacted into ordinary hind legs. Her smooth gorgeous skin thickened and developed a few sparse bristles, making her profile much more piggish. Her new vulva and clitoris and butthole were brazenly displayed, beyond the young sow’s ability to conceal. They twitched as her once-beautiful butt sloped into her thighs, all semblance of her human cheeks eradicated.

The pig continued to squeal as her head changed, snout stretching before her, and her brainpan flattening around a swiftly changing mind. She had a pig’s brain now, and pig’s instincts infected the sow’s thoughts. Instincts that recalled and normalized her dream, preparing her to live among her new species. Her body continued to fatten until she weighed over four hundred pounds, her sexy pink top finally bursting from the strain and freeing her big, magnificent breasts.

Evie’s boobs flopped under her, pushed together by her forelegs into dramatic cleavage. But her big feminine treasures were as unnecessary to her new life as her hands had been, and slowly they deflated, becoming smaller and smaller until they resembled her other dozen teats. The sow had once been blessed with an extraordinary bosom, but now she didn’t have breasts at all. She squealed as they failed her, but she couldn’t save them anymore than she could prevent any of her other changes.

Then, the fat sow’s rich brunette tresses started to regress, retracting into her flatter scalp and revealing the full glory of her ears. Her hair was long, so it took a while, but the end result was a bare pig scalp. It itched terribly as it became very short, so the fat pig was horrified to realize that she was relieved when it was gone. Then, finally, her eyes changed, the expressive brown orbs darkening, becoming dark, beady little pig eyes buried in sockets on either side of her rooting snout. She blinked, the reds in the room dulling, as her animal vision became noticeably inferior to her senses of hearing and smell.

At last, it was finished. Where once a beautiful, buxom woman had sprawled on her bed, now a fat sow squealed forlornly. Awkwardly, she flopped down to the floor, her small, sensible hooves holding up her bulk perfectly. She waddled about, the voice of instinct helping her navigate her unfamiliar form. It wasn’t like she forgot her human memories, but with her pig’s brain, it was so easy to listen to that voice…just listen, and obey… obey… be the sow she was meant to be…

The fat pig laid down on the rug, snuffling sadly. She was revolted by the thought of submitting to the instincts of her new species, but the sow’s options were suddenly quite limited. Evie was a pig now, and would just have to get used to it. She didn’t know yet if she was a pig for life, or a kind of were-pig that would return to her true form every time she dreamed prophetically of swine. But the future didn’t matter as much because in the present she was definitely a pig, in no danger of turning back anytime soon. And she was hungry. With resignation, the grunting sow pushed herself to her hooves and waddled downstairs, looking for something to fill her empty belly.

Stock image used available from Shutterstock at https://www.shutterstock.com/image-photo/beautiful-model-posing-on-bed-underwear-1253972950

#pig #piggirl #pig transformation #pig tf #transformation #tf #hog #sow #swine #digital circe #digital #circe

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westerhos · 4 years ago

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Our Story: Chapters 2-3

Thank you to everyone who has sent such lovely messages about this story! Happy to hear some of you are re-reading it while others are discovering it for the first time. Now for the next two chapters, which really should have been one...

[December 24th, 1990]

Their home is a modest one—a studio clinging to edges of the city, not far from where they first met. It’s an older building, mid-19th century, with pipes that freeze in the winter, burst like Scottish primrose in the summer. There is a single window on its western side, which welcomes the December-white sun at each day’s end. And it is here, lined along this sill, that Claire’s plants reach hungry towards the sky, try to trap this silver sliver of heat inside their veins.

Save for the flowers, theirs is an ascetic sort of décor. Sparse like a monk’s quarters—though Jamie and Claire hardly mind. They decorate the empty corners with their future, hatched in whispers during the night.

One day, Jamie promises, they’ll have Persian rugs and a four-poster bed. One day, they’ll own a leather sofa, its cushions like butter against Claire’s bare thighs. “And a vase!” she adds. “All fancy people have vases.”

But for now, they sleep on a musty twin cot, their belongings stored in the trunk at its foot. Jamie’s manuscripts are stacked inside, their pages marked in ballpoint scribbles and soil-dusted fingerprints. (“I canna read what this says anymore!” Jamie yells. “S’okay,” Claire says. “That paragraph was rubbish anyways.”) He’s an editorial assistant, the paltry salary worth the power of the red pen, which reshapes the written world to his liking. It buys food and rent, and covers what med school tuition Claire’s scholarship does not.

It’s a quiet life, but a happy life.

Claire yawns. “Did you know that every Christmas Eve my uncle told me a story? Made it up himself, right on the spot.”

“Are ye trying to tell me ye want a story?”

“I may be hinting at that, yes.”

“Ach,” Jamie says. Her favorite sound, every inch of him encapsulated in this strange, Scottish scoff. “Your subtly always turns me on.”

“Oh, hush. C’mon.”

He runs a hand through his hair, auburn and cinnabar limned in moonbeam.

“A good story on the spot? That’s no small amount of pressure, Sassenach.”

“How about a request then?” she offers, and Jamie raises a brow. “How about my favorite?”

“Yer favorite?”

“Don’t play coy. You know. The one you always start incorrectly? She is wearing a holiday sweater, a confection of silver bells and sequined penguins…”

“Weel, it’s a much better beginning than the ‘curl of my lips’…”

“Debatable,” Claire replies, tongue tracing the valley of his cupid’s bow.

But Jamie nods, chooses a different beginning this time: “It was immediate…”

He twists one of Claire’s curls around his finger and inhales. She still smells like the springtime, earthy and ripe, and perhaps there’s a hint of his own musk now, too. He likes it this way, enjoys finding proof of his existence somewhere beneath her skin. Permanent.

“Immediate!” Claire echoes, a one-woman Greek chorus. She is pressed into him, feeling his chest curve around her spine. It always surprises her how their bodies fit so perfectly, their limbs folding and molding to fill all their negative spaces. (And she has so many, our Claire, between her toes and between her ribs. Vacant rooms where her mother, her father, and her uncle once lived.)

“Aye, from the minute I saw ye, I ken you belonged wi’ me.”

“Mmm,” she hums, not saying, “Of course I felt the same thing,” or “Of course I loved you from the very first.” Because, of course, Jamie knows this already. (Strange, they both think, how the heart can move faster than the speed of light.)

“Speaking of which…” she says.

“Ye don’t want to hear the rest?”

“In a sec,” she replies. “But your friends seem to think we should get married. Dougal especially.”

“They do,” Jamie says softly. “And Dougal does—to him, maybe.” He brings Claire’s hand to his lips, smiles into the Christmas present he’s wrapped around her finger. A ring: one mounted pearl, taken from his mother’s necklace. (“No’ an engagement ring, mind,” though they both knew it meant forever.)

“Do you, though? Think we should get married?”

“I’ll do anything that means I can call ye mine.”

“You already can.”

“Aye, but I dinna think the law agrees wi’ you.”

“Devil take the law.”

Jamie laughs. “I reckon the Devil doesna want the law either, Sassenach. He hates the law.”

“You’re avoiding my question.”

“Which is?”

Claire turns towards him, remembers this past year together: their first date (Italian restaurant, 9PM showing of Pretty Woman), their first fight (broken coffee mugs, a noise complaint). She remembers the first time they made love in this small, crooked flat: middle of the floor, surrounded by packing boxes and crumpled newspaper. The bubble wrap had crackled beneath them—pop-pop-pop!—as if they were dancing on fireworks. (“I never want to leave this place,” she’d told him. He thought she’d meant the flat, but she’d meant his arms.)

“Which is…Well. Do you want to marry me, James Fraser?”

He squints. “Is that a proposal?”

“Yes.”

“Then why aren’t ye on your knees?”

“You bloody—”

Claire’s elbow swings towards his face, but Jamie catches it, stretches her arm back so that her palm lies flat against the wall. He rolls on top of her, leans down and lets her heart beat against his lips. Wills it into him until his blood thrums with it. The sound of their story.

“Yes,” Jamie says. “I want to marry you, Claire Beauchamp.”

“You mean Claire Fraser?”

He laughs; she smiles (they are both winners on this day).

“Aye. Beauchamp, Sassenach, Fraser.” His voice drops, a whisper: “My wife.”

[December 24th, 1991]

While Jamie and Claire’s studio remains the same, the flowers change with the turn of seasons: baby-skinned petals become felted cloth, neon-bright as they hang from a child’s mobile. The pots along the sill are gone, their soil-dust trails swiped away and their roots transplanted to a community garden. In their place, sits a collection of shiny, new tools for a shiny, new crib, which stands half-assembled beside the cot. The flower mobile blooms above it, suspended in silent wait for spring. For Faith.

Come April, Jamie and Claire will bring the sunshine into their home, no longer needing the single window and its lancing, evening light. Come April, they will have marigold walls, yellow linens, and bright rubber duckies floating in the sink. All of this for the baby that will sleep inside the shiny, new crib beneath the flowers that will never die.

Faith. This is the name they have given their future, no longer an unfurnished corner in their studio, but a growing presence inside Claire’s belly.

“Ugh!”

“That bad is it?”

“Worse than bad. I look like a whale who’s just fucked a Christmas tree.”

Jamie opens his eyes, his wife framed by his fingers, and he moves his hands to stifle a laugh.

“And a few wee penguins at that…”

“You’re not helping,” Claire whines, examining her reflection in the mirror. Rounded cheeks, rounder stomach; sharp lines blurred by months of pregnancy. All afternoon, she has scolded and cajoled, bribed and threatened, her cottons and nylons. But the fabrics have been stubborn, loath to surrender their bodily claims to the child pushing against them.

“Jamie, I can’t go out wearing this.”

“I dinna see how you’ve much choice in the matter, Sassenach. We should've gone to Waverly yesterday,” Jamie replies. The sweater—the same one she’d worn the evening they met—hugs her stomach. Tight but still discreet, the purest flash of flesh above her waistline. “Party’s at 8. We’ve no time to go shopping for a proper outfit. It’s either that or what God gave ye.”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be a treat? A naked, pregnant woman sipping virgin egg nog in front of the buffet. Happy bloody Christmas!”

“Angus wouldna mind.”

“Well, so long as the host is happy.”

“I wouldna mind.”

Claire snorts and twirls, as if to say, “Are you sure of that?” (He is, absolutely, and to the marrow of his bones.)

Jamie sighs. “D’ye want me to wear mine too?”

“You mean your lager-stained pullover? With the Santa looks that looks like he’s got vomit in his beard?

“Aye, that’s the one.”

“Yes,” she replies, grinning. She remembers where it lies amongst the rest of their clothes, just as she remembers its wooly scratch against her breasts two years before. Jaime’s hands (so much larger than hers, even then) lifting it up and over, laying her bare beneath the fluorescent lights of his dorm room. “Yes, I want you to wear your Belligerent Santa jumper.”

Jamie nods.

“And no beer for you, either. Just store-bought non-alcoholic egg nog. My misery needs company.”

“Fair is fair.”

“And—”

“There’s more?”

“Much more.”

“Ach, weel. Anything for the most beautiful woman in the room.”

“Oh, Rupert will be so grateful you think so, Jamie.”

“What are friends for?” He draws closer, vibrating. “But what about you, Sassenach?”

“Me? You’ll look more ridiculous than I will. I’ll be peachy and taking shots of fake egg-nog!”

Claire finds the sweater and throws it to Jamie, watches him catch the frayed and wrinkled ball of it. The hem is still an unraveled spool, which she winds and winds around her finger. Once, twice, three times until it marks her skin in a pale, white ring. She pulls it taut, feels the slow draining of her finger as the blood retreats, towards her husband. Electricity between them (the pipes groan, the winter thaw come at last).

“Now,” Claire purrs, “put that on so I can take it off you.”

“D’ye think we have time?”

“Of course we do,” she says. "We always have time." (Not always, not forever.)

“Well then,” Jamie says, bowing. “Your servant, madam.”

At this point, I still had no idea where I was going with this story, and I think that’s abundantly clear here. Regardless, I was very much taken with the “romanticism” of being poor, in love, and bohemian in New York City—so these two chapters are basically my written daydreams about being a young Patti Smith. Luckily, that never happened! Although I did wind up living in a tiny long-term Airbnb with an opera singer, a grand piano that took up the. entire. living. room., and a very uncomfortable futon that I slept on for my first 6 months in Brooklyn.

These are really the last ~~happy~~ chapters for a while, which is totally a reflection of the fact that I had moved to Brooklyn and was scared, lonely, and just generally very angsty, lol. So my apologies for what lies ahead.

One closing thought: Why did I choose Pretty Woman as Jamie and Claire’s first date movie, lol? Had I just watched it? Did I just associate the ‘90s with Julia Roberts romantic comedies? Did I not bother researching other movies that came out in 1990? Your guess is as good as mine!!!

#myfic #outlander #jamie fraser #claire beauchamp

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nikibogwater · 4 years ago

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A Moment to Breathe

“You....left because of me?” Douxie felt his breath hitch as a warm, happy feeling shot down his chest. He had never counted on even being remembered, much less the reason behind Nari’s change of heart.

Short Missing Scene for Episode 8 of Wizards. Douxie takes a moment to prepare for the battle ahead, and makes an unexpected connection with a demi-goddess.

Thank you @poetryinmotion-author for once again being my beta-reader! ❤

Read on AO3 (author’s notes are there as well, in case you’re interested)

Or below the cut:

Hisirdoux Casperan was exhausted.

His arms were sore from swinging his staff around, he was fairly certain Morgana had cracked a few of his ribs, the cut under his right eye was stinging like hellfire, his magic reserves were down to the last feeble dredges, and he was so damn tired.

His brain was too foggy to keep up with the various conversations all floating around him, so he left the others in the main lab of Hex Tech and slipped quietly into a small storage room, letting the door slide shut behind him with a groan. There were only a few dim floor lights shining around him, and the darkness pressed on his eyelids like a cool rag against a fevered brow, coaxing them closed. But there was no time for sleep or recuperation. He had to find a way to rescue Jim without endangering Nari. He had to fix this. He had promised. He just needed a minute’s silence to think.

Ideas were not forthcoming. Instead, he found himself fixated on how unbelievably uncomfortable he was. On top of his various physical and magical injuries, his Camelot-era clothes were scratchy and tight-fitting, the cloak weighing heavily on his slumped shoulders. Well, he couldn’t do anything about his cracked ribs (he’d never been able to master healing magic), but he could slip into something a little more comfortable. Taking a deep breath, he reached out with his magic, weaving threads of sorcery into the outdated garments, pulling and reshaping them into something more appropriate for the era. He breathed a sigh of relief as the cloak melted into a familiar lightweight hoodie, his boots shrank into flexible high-tops, and his itchy shirt re-formed into an airy tank top that settled like silk against his skin.

He scarcely had a moment to relish before the door was sliding open again with a mechanical hiss, and he let out another groan and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I know, I know, just give me a minute, Master, I’ll figure something--” He cut himself off as he turned to see, not the Master Wizard he was expecting, but the tiny forest goddess he was supposed to be protecting. She was looking up at him with an odd expression--part curiosity, part sympathy, part apology, but the automatic door slid shut a moment later, plunging them back into darkness. “I--sorry,” Douxie fumbled, feeling incredibly awkward. Nari did not acknowledge his greeting, but instead approached him cautiously, her ancient, luminous eyes wandering up and down his figure in a way that left him feeling uncomfortably exposed.

“You are in pain,” she murmured, reaching out to him, searching for his aura. “More than the others. And your spirit is stretched terribly thin.”

“That’s....one way to put it, I suppose.” Douxie found himself chuckling. He knelt down to her level. “We were never properly introduced. I’m Hisirdoux Casperan. Or just Douxie. Whichever you prefer.”

“Merlin has spoken of you,” Nari replied, her hand coming to rest on top of his head. Her eyes squinted, and her brow furrowed. “And I recognize you. You were at Killahead, leading the charge alongside Arthur and Merlin.” Her hand moved inquisitively from his hair down to his shoulder. “I remember feeling your soul. It was kinder than any of the others, even as you ran into battle. That is why I left the Order that day. Because I knew I could not kill someone like you.”

“You, and others like you,” Nari said softly. “I could feel the pain we caused that day, the suffering of countless souls. For so long, I had endured it, because I wanted to believe that all humans deserved the punishment we inflicted. But seeing you and your friends...I could no longer blind myself to the truth. I had to make reparation for my sins.” Her hand drifted from his shoulder down to his chest, where it hovered above his heart. Her eyes closed, and Douxie felt her aura reaching out to him. It was gentle, cool like a shady nook beneath a tree, yet brimming with vitality. “Please open your heart for just a moment,” she whispered. “And I will do what I can to heal you.”

At any other time, Douxie would have questioned her intent. He was alone in a dark room, half-dead from fatigue, and hunted by the most powerful wizards in the world. If ever there was a time he shouldn’t open his heart and willingly allow another’s magic to flow through him, it would be now. Yet there was something about the sincerity in her voice, the warmth of her magic as he felt it touching his spirit, that made mistrusting her seem ridiculous, even downright foolish. Immediately, and without hesitation, Douxie opened his aura, and let it merge with hers, feeling her magic pour into him gently, like a slow-moving stream. Warmth crept up his neck and pooled in his cheeks, mending the cut beneath his eye. It swirled around his battered ribs, closing fractures and repairing damaged muscle. It slid down his arms and into his fingertips, easing weariness, lifting the feeling of weight that had been dragging at his limbs ever since he returned to the twenty-first century. He could feel his own magic regaining its strength, feel the pull of sleep fading from his eyes. He sighed in relief, relishing in the feeling of his lungs expanding without pain. Nari’s hand left his chest, but her warmth and vigor remained.

“I do not know what the future will bring,” she murmured, opening her eyes and meeting his gaze. “But I do not wish for the humans to suffer any longer. Especially you. Whatever battles you may face, you will always have my blessing.”

“...Thank you,” Douxie breathed, feeling both humbled and encouraged. Nari smiled and gave a short nod.

“I am afraid the spell does not last forever. The weariness will return eventually, and your ribs may ache again, but I hope that this will see you through the fight ahead of us.”

“I’m sure it will,” he replied, giving her his most reassuring smile. “Thank you, Nari.”

“I sense conflict arising in the others,” Nari said, glancing at the closed door. “Perhaps we should return to them.”

“That’ll be Merlin and Claire,” Douxie groaned, getting to his feet. “I don’t think they’ve gotten along since he turned her boyfriend into a troll.” Nari looked up at him with an expression of confused curiosity. “Long story, and even I’m not clear on all the details.” He held out a hand to her, and she took it, her small fingers closing tightly around his. “Whatever comes our way,” he added as the door slid open and the light from the lab assaulted his eyes once more. “I’m glad you’re with us now, Nari.” She beamed up at him and squeezed his hand.

“As am I, Douxie.”

#tales of arcadia #toa #wizards: tales of arcadia #wizards: toa #douxie #nari #the beginning of the Magical Siblings #missing scene #fanfiction

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mollymauk-teafleak · 4 years ago

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I will love you if I never see you again (chapter three)

Look...I’m sorry. I’m just sorry.

Huge thanks to my beta readers, @minky-for-short and @spiky-lesbian, sorry I made you both cry at work, love you

Please consider reblogging or leaving a comment on Ao3, it really makes my day!

Chapters: 1, 2, 3

----

Juno was exhausted, down to the marrow of his bones, but sleep didn’t find him. He didn’t want it to, either.

The apartment was in almost total darkness but for the squares of streetlight that came in through the bared windows, sharp and distorted cut outs of yellow that only put the shadows in sharper relief. One fell right across the top half of Juno’s face, on his remaining eye. He could have got up and drawn the curtains at any time but he didn’t.

He didn’t want to sleep, he wanted to see.

He’d put Bianca’s moses basket on his bed, taking up the half that was really meant for another person but would always just be where he sprawled himself as he tossed and turned through any number of nightmares. He held himself very still, ready to set her down if he started to nod, frightened of pushing her off the bed in his sleep. But sleep didn’t find him.

Juno was too lost in looking at her, focused the way he would focus on his work, a problem to solve that would consume him until it became unhealthy. He couldn’t have looked away even if he’d had a mind to. He just laid awake and watched the rise and fall of her tiny chest inside her sleep suit, watched the play of muscles in her face as she dreamed and shifted in her sleep. His arm was still draped over the edge of the basket from where he’d gotten her to drift off by slowly opening and closing his fingers just above her head and letting her grab for them. Sometimes, when she moved just right, the tips of his long, scarred fingers would brush her tufts of wispy black hair or the powder soft skin of her face. And whenever that would happen, he would feel a tug in his chest he didn’t want to feel.

It was so easy to think that Nureyev had simply woven Bianca from starlight, that he’d stolen her into existence and Juno had never even been part of it. When he told himself that it was easier to breathe. He didn’t feel that numbness in the very edges of himself that signified panic setting in and taking root, that had always made him want to run and put his fists up, ever since he was a kid. It didn’t send a thousand questions running through his mind that he knew he’d never be able to pin down and solve.

It made it easier to know that this was all temporary.

If you didn’t have something, you couldn’t lose it. And Juno had lost so much already.

But whenever he felt her hair under his fingertips and that tug of a connection being pulled, he would become aware of the small part of his mind that was already doing just what he knew he couldn’t do, trying on labels to see how they fit, seeing Bianca in a way that would only cause hurt to everyone.

Which is why he didn’t want to sleep. If he wasn’t keeping a short, careful leash on his mind, who knew what could grow and spread and what it could ruin.

And he was also enjoying watching Bianca sleep.

So Juno stayed still and stayed quiet, keeping his eyes on the sleeping baby, listening to her feather light breathing. And sleep didn’t find him.

“You are in a mood today.”

Bianca answered with a miffed sounding string of nonsense sounds, waving her hands in the air.

“Yeah,” Juno nodded, “You are definitely in a mood.”

He’d ran through all the usual fixes, feeling like Rita hacking the office computer into something it was definitely never meant to be while he’d sit at his desk with his comms and forget how to work the volume again. He’d fed her, he’d changed her, she was fresh from a nap. He’d held her, cuddled her and walked around the living room so many times that he’d probably worn a groove into the floor. It seemed like she was just determined to be fussy this afternoon, squawking for some kind of entertainment but pushing away everything he offered.

He was starting to feel a lot of sympathy for anyone who’d ever had to deal with him when he was in one of his difficult moods.

“Well, there’s a dust storm warning so we can’t go to the park,” Juno drummed his fingers on his cheek as he thought, “And that’s a pretty damn powerful scowl, little lady, but I doubt it can stop a hundred kilometer per hour wind. Fifty, maybe. But not a hundred.”

Bianca made it clear what she thought of that, making a kitten-like yowling sound that Juno amused himself by mimicking back to her. She looked at him in complete and total shock for a second before scowling even harder. Juno pulled the exact same face, scrunching up his broad nose and furrowing his brow exaggeratedly. Bianca didn’t find it as funny as he did.

“Let’s see if we can find a stream for you or something,” Juno eventually sighed after she’d burst into annoyed wails, “I don’t know where the kids channel is but...maybe if I just push some buttons, I don’t know…”

He plonked her down on the sofa, propping her up so she didn’t fall over or roll away in her indignation. He picked up what Rita called his ‘dummy’s remote’ where she’d put clear labels on every single button telling him what it did, after she’d gotten exhausted of his constant questions. He flicked through channels, looking for something that looked vaguely soft and kid friendly, quickly scrambling past several screens full of bursting blood or bare skin, wondering if he should be covering her eyes. He’d never had cause to worry about the moral state of the stream network before but he was starting to see what people were complaining about.

And in the flickering flashes of colour and nonsense, clipped noise Juno suddenly saw familiarity that connected with the blunt force of a punch to the gut.

A tall, powerful woman hefting a sword as tall as she was with ease, speaking with a voice that propelled him backwards to a different time entirely. Suddenly he was sitting cross legged on the fraying, stained carpets that came standard with every house in Oldtown, eyes wide and heart full to bursting, not even hearing the shouting from the other room or feeling his brother tugging on his sleeve or knowing everything around him was falling apart, as long as the screen was still on and he could still hear that voice.

For a few blissful hours, feeling brave. Feeling strong and sure and certain and like he mattered.

Juno went to press the button again, everything too sharp and too real all of a sudden, wanting that woman and that music out of his current moment as quickly as he could. But as soon as he did, the screen changing to show some documentary about the history of dome development, Bianca shrieked in dismay.

Juno turned to look at her, seeing her waving her hands and babbling with clear upset, pedalling her little feet.

“Really?” he groaned, “There’s nothing else you’d want to watch?”

Bianca blew a long, loud raspberry. Even someone who’d only had a baby around for two weeks could see what she was trying to say.

Juno sighed heavily and flicked it back, filling the screen with Andromeda the Chainmail Warrior. Andromeda and the Sea of Sinners, if he was any judge. He knew that soundtrack anywhere, he’d hummed it so many times while scaling the sofa with a collider on his toddler curls, swinging a stick from the park with abandon.

Bianca made a cheery little hooting noise, shoving her fist in her mouth and gumming at it contentedly, happier than she’d been all day. Juno pulled a face, trying to focus on how relievingly content she was, rather than the uncomfortable tightness in his chest at half of his brain still being in his past. He tried to only hear her happy murmurs, her gasps when the screen would fill with colour, and not the long dead voices crowding in his head.

Eventually Juno reached over and cupped the back of her head. He told himself it was to support her better as he noticed her starting to curl in on herself but as soon as he wound his fingers through her airy curls, he felt his heartbeat slow down to a much more comfortable level and the air came into his lungs so much easier. The voices seemed further away, like they were almost back in the past where they belonged. Almost.

Bianca had no complaints, leaning back into his palm, dark eyes still on the screen. She was as hooked as Juno had been the first time he’d heard that voice.

He wondered if she felt brave. If she felt like she could do anything, watching Andromeda fall again and again but still manage to get back up and win with ten minutes of runtime to spare. He wondered if the music made her burst with energy too, if everything she wore would suddenly feel like chainmail, if anything she held would become a sword.

Juno knew he was being facetious. She wasn’t old enough to be thinking any of that stuff, she probably just liked the noise and colour, but it was so hard to see the attentiveness on her little face and not think of the toddler he’d been, equally as swept up in the bliss of it all.

But Juno didn’t want it to be as temporary for her as it had been for him. His joy had been so short lived, life had quickly squared up to show him how powerless he really was, how it had all been a silly daydream, how no fantasy could protect him.

He wanted Bianca to feel strong all the time. He wanted her to know she was brave and true and that nothing could harm her. He wanted it to be real for her, in the way it never had been for him. He wanted her to win.

And he knew he would do anything to make it happen.

Juno sighed softly and ran his thumb across the crown of her head. Was this what it was? To want the world to be so much better for them than it had ever been for you? To be willing to break your fingers reshaping it all for their sake?

Was it supposed to hurt? Was it supposed to terrify you?

Juno felt every single day go past. At first, it had been like carving a tally into a prison wall, just trying to survive every one.

Now he wasn’t sure. But he certainly felt it still.

He jumped at every single shadow he saw from the corner of his eye. Every time he walked back into the apartment with an armful of groceries and Bianca on his hip, his heart stayed in his throat until he could turn the light on and see an empty sofa. Any footstep he couldn’t immediately place or scrape at the door set his teeth on edge. And as the weeks turned into a month, it only got worse. Even worse that he couldn’t decide whether he was anticipating or dreading, unsure of what emotion would flood him when the sword finally fell.

Juno should have known all his paranoia would never prepare him, that Nureyev would find a way to still make it a shock.

Juno woke up with a head that felt like it was full of cotton wool, shaken from deep sleep and looking for something to hold on to. He sat up, blinking and running his hand through his matted hair, lurching towards the moses basket to check on Bianca, as was habit now.

He didn’t believe what he saw at first, thinking he was still in a nightmare. The blanket was dented, rumbled, moulded to a little body that wasn’t there. She wasn’t there.

Juno was on his feet while his brain was still gaping in horror, moving before he really knew where he was going. A raw and frantic kind of panic he hadn’t felt since the worst day of his life fired through his nerves as he surged forward, throat ready to cry her name.

And then he stopped dead, seeing the silhouette in the living room, outlined in the streetlight glare. Sharp and angular, he would know it anywhere.

Nureyev hadn’t noticed him yet, for all the crashing he’d done. Juno didn’t think he’d have noticed a sandstorm sweeping in through the window, he clearly only had eyes for Bianca. He held her to his chest, speaking softly, lips pressed to her head, clasping her like he was never going to let her go. There was so much love in it, in the way he held her and the gentleness of his tone, that for a second Juno couldn’t breathe.

He hadn’t known love like that could really exist.

He waited to see what he would feel, looking for an emotion he could name. Nothing obliged him.

“Nureyev,” he eventually murmured, scared to shatter the scene before him, like he was seeing something he wasn’t meant to.

Dark eyes turned to his, looking dangerous before he registered him and they smoothed into calm professionalism, like they were at a business meeting that just happened to take place in the middle of the night in a dark room.

“Ah, Juno. My apologies, I never meant to involve you in this but I must have lingered too long.”

Juno blinked, still unsure if he was sleeping or not, “What? You...you were just going to take her? Leave me wondering?”

Nureyev’s expression could only be described as careful, mouth falling open to show his sharp teeth, “Why, Juno, I appreciate your dedication to the favour I asked of you. I would have left a note.”

Juno swallowed hard, taking a few steps forward, “So the...the complications you were dealing with, that’s all over?”

“As if they had never been,” Nureyev answered airily, as if Juno had asked for the time, “My reputation is restored to its usual spotlessness. And so I continue on into the stars, dear detective.”

Juno felt his throat tighten, “Already? You know...you can stick around a bit. Have a drink or whatever.”

Nureyev gave him a long look from behind his neat, cat eye glasses, “I would have thought you’d want her out of your hair.” His voice sounded more clipped now, like he was watching a play go on longer than he’d like.

“Come on, Nureyev,” Juno’s voice heated, “I spent a month with her, you’re going to leave without so much as a thank you?”

“Forgive me, have I committed a faux pas? What wine do you bring to the good lady who promised you his heart then left you not an hour later, with child, and has now reluctantly done the bare minimum while you had to go bloodily clear a path back to anonymity?”

Juno flinched, patience evaporating like water on a hot stove, “Fine. You don’t have to be an ass about it.”

He turned to sulk back to his bed, heart hammering sickeningly, pulsing anger through his veins. But there was a soft, sad sigh behind him.

“Juno,” Nureyev said, voice quiet, “I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry. It’s been a long night and...and, well, I don’t think I’ve quite forgiven myself for leaving her here. But I am grateful to you.”

Juno turned back, heart straining towards that softer, kinder Nureyev he’d known who had apparently magically reappeared in his darkened living room, “You’re welcome...look, just take a damn seat, would you? You look exhausted, you can rest for an hour at least.”

Nureyev still hesitated, though he was rather outed by the bruise like shadows under his eyes and the way his hands trembled lightly, like holding himself in his usual position was exhausting him. Eventually he took a seat with an expression like he’d have preferred to put a towel down first.

Juno rolled his eyes and went to the kitchen. He’d started actually stocking it in the past few weeks, now when he opened the cupboards and reached in, he actually saw tea and cans, clean mugs and packets rather than spiderwebs, dust and maybe a rat. He picked up two teabags, accepting that he wasn’t going to be getting back to sleep tonight.

“See?” he looked over at Nureyev, clearly assembling the mugs of tea where he could see them, “Not poisoned, you can watch me.”

Nureyev tisked, most of his attention still on Bianca, “Dramatic…”

She’d nodded back to sleep, though her hand was still fastened on the front of Nureyev’s shirt like she would never let go. So gently, Nureyev removed it, pressing a soft kiss to the curled little fingers before easing her into her basket with practised ease, leaving his hands free to take the mug that Juno offered.

“No wine?” Nureyev hummed in a tone that reassured that he was joking, he was clinging to the heat of the tea like a lifeline.

“Nah,” Juno sat as far away as the sofa would allow, “Got rid of the booze after you dropped Bianca off.”

Nureyev stilled, eyes flickering to his and suddenly the distance between them felt like nothing, “I see.”

Feeling awkward, Juno looked away and cleared his throat roughly, “She’s, ah...she’s a good kid.”

“I know,” Nureyev said softly, with all the conviction of a parent, “She looks...well. Thank you, Juno, I do mean it.”

“Like you said,” Juno shrugged, “Bare minimum.”

Instantly, the air between them froze so hard and fast it was a wonder their breath wasn’t visible. Juno cringed internally, cursing himself. Why did he always have to do that? Why was the first word out of his mouth always confrontational, pushing away anyone who got close?

He tried to save himself, adding quickly, “I just mean...I had it easy. You’ve been doing it all on your own since...you know, since then.”

Nureyev sat a little straighter, clearly already building one of his walls, “Well. When I make a decision, I give it my all. There’s no sense in doing it any other way.”

Juno risked a glance over to him, “But this isn’t stealing a mask or robbing a bank or whatever. It’s raising a kid. And you just...you just decided you were going to do it?”

There was a pause, like he was deciding how much to say and how to say it. Juno realised somewhere in the middle of that pause that he had no right to any of this information and was about to take it back when Nureyev spoke, his voice soft and far away.

“I’m a selfish man, Juno. I act purely in my own interest, as you’ve observed. And the decision to keep Bianca was a selfish one, I can’t pretend otherwise. Please don’t think of me any other way.”

Juno felt his hackles rise though at what he couldn’t say, “I’ll think of you how my head tells me to think of you, Nureyev. I think you’re brave and selfless and...and everything you’ve done for Bianca is amazing. Believe me, I know shitty parents and you are not that, you are everything she deserves. She’s lucky. And if you don’t like me thinking that then...well, you’ll just have to deal with it.”

Nureyev looked at him, hands clasping and unclasping, “Detective, I have to say, you are one of the strangest and most perplexing people I have ever met on this and every other planet.”

Juno shrugged, unsure of how else to respond, still working on whether it was a compliment or not, “Well...I just don’t like to see you beating yourself up over nothing. You owe Bee Bee more than agonising over her existence.”

Nureyev’s eyes widened and he sat back, “What...what did you just call my daughter?”

Juno flushed red, “It’s what Rita calls her, shut up, it slipped out.”

Nureyev shook his head, caught between laughter, indignation and bewilderment, “My god…”

“Shut up!”

He spread his hands placatingly, “Fine...and you are right, detective. It is far too late to be second guessing myself. Whatever reasons I had for keeping her, they don’t change what I have to do now which is to make the best life I can for her.”

Juno watched his face set into determination and confidence, as he’d seen it do so many times before, the set in his shoulders and upward tilt of his chin that had told him from the very first time he’d met him that Nureyev could do anything he set his mind to. That he could will things into being, change the shape of the world with sheer conviction and hard work and a clever plan. He would do right by Bianca, Juno knew that. He could continue to be the galaxy’s most notorious thief and would do it with her in tow.

But still, he had to open his stupid mouth.

“All by yourself?”

Nureyev looked at him, really looked at him, with eyes that had seen the stars and yet had still seen him as the most beautiful thing in the universe. Juno was reminded of the night they’d had together, how he had held him and touched him and made him believe in things he’d thought only existed in stories. Moment after moment, like fireworks going off against a dark sky, and Juno had wondered if the goddess he was named for had ever received worship so complete and devoted.

He’d made him think that hope didn’t have to be more pain than it was worth. He wanted to feel that way again.

Acting without thinking, as he’d made a habit of all his life, Juno closed the distance between him and Nureyev and kissed him. Every time before it had been the other way around but this time he kissed him.

It was a heartbeat before Peter’s hands came to rest on the side of his head and tilted him to deepen the kiss, press their mouths together more earnestly. Mirroring their first kiss but with the roles reversed, Juno pushing, Nureyev following, Juno throwing, Nureyev catching.

And he could see it so clearly. He could be Dahlia Rose or pick a new name entirely, as long as it matched with his. He didn’t have to feel the fog inside him any more, he didn’t have to feel like he was pushing a boulder up a hill only to have it roll right back over him but he had to keep going because there was no one else to push. He didn’t have to be what a whole careless, unfeeling city needed him to be. He could be what he chose, he could feel happy as a default and not as a shock. He could be part of a family, father, daughter and mother.

And that was what ruined it. That single word. That word with all it’s bitter memories and bruises that had never really healed and broken promises loomed up over him and stared him down.

And he flinched.

Nureyev felt it and drew away, seeing it written plain as day on Juno’s face. And the walls came up higher and thicker than ever though not fast enough that he missed the heartbreak in his eyes, no less painful for it’s familiarity.

He stood up and turned away, so fast it was like Juno’s skin was burning him suddenly. He pressed his fingers to his temples and bowed his head, “Why...why is it always you, every single time, of all the people in the goddamn universe, why are you the only one who can hurt me…”

Juno winced, “Peter…”

“Don’t!” he snapped, whirling round, “Don’t you dare, Juno Steel!”

Certain things were known to be true. Rain fell downwards, the Sun was the centre of the Solar System and Peter Nureyev did not cry. But there it was, his eyes glassy and shining in the light with fire and unshed tears that were moments away from spilling over. And it sent Juno reeling.

“You know something?” Nureyev stepped forward, looking like his hand could go to the knife at his thigh any moment, “I wanted to call you so many times. Even when I couldn’t leave that goddamn hotel room on Brahma, my hand itched every day to go to my comms and call you and tell you everything. When she was being born and I’d never felt so alone and I thought I was dying, I came two presses of a button from doing it. Because part of me always wondered, always hoped, if I’d told you, if I’d dialled that number burned into my brain and told you I was pregnant would it have made a difference? Would it have changed your mind? And now I know.”

Nureyev wouldn’t let his tears fall but Juno did and they burned on his cheek, “Peter, I’m sorry, but this isn’t fair, you’re angry at me for not wanting something I’m just not ready for…”

“Do you think I was ready?”

His shout filled the small space and then Bianca’s cry shattered the night, piercing and frightened and heartbreaking. Both of them went for her at the same time but Nureyev bared his teeth so fiercely that Juno recoiled instantly. He softened as soon as she was in his arms, curling around her protectively and murmuring softly to soothe her, standing.

“My treasure, it’s okay, everything is fine, I’m here now…I’m sorry, daddy’s sorry...”

Eventually her crying stopped, turning to spluttering as she buried her face against his front like just the smell of his cologne comforted her and allowed those delicate, long fingered hands to hold her. Juno felt a stab of absurd jealousy that made him hate himself even more than he currently did.

Nureyev took a deep breath as soon as Bianca was calm again, it came out as a shudder. And when he looked up, there were no more tears in his eyes.

“I wasn’t ready to be faced with the decision that fell into my lap,” he spoke coldly, like he believed in his words with all his heart because it was the only thing he could do, “But I didn’t get the luxury of pushing it away. And I made my choice, for whatever reasons. And I am living with them as best I can.”

Juno slumped on the sofa, feeling like his limbs were made of lead, “Peter…”

“You know my father, Juno, don’t you?” Nureyev bulled past his words, sensing there was nothing behind them, “You saw it all, you know everything. He was soft, he was kind, he was brave and he thought the world of me. And he was a lie. A fantasy cooked up by some two bit con artist who wanted to use me for his own gain. The father I’d hung all of my hopes and dreams and personality on was a complete fiction.”

The pain in his voice was so raw and so real, Juno was consumed with the twin urges to hold him and turn and run from him.

“But I have made him real,” there wasn’t a shake in Nureyev’s voice any more, “I have remade myself into that lie from the ground up and I have brought him to life and stepped into his skin. All for her. All for my daughter. So don’t you dare dangle false hope in front of me now and yank it away. Don’t you dare ruin everything I’ve made for her with your cowardice.”

Juno looked at Bianca, perfect and beautiful and so fragile, clutching Nureyev but looking at him with uncertainty, not liking the raised voices and the sharp words, not liking that he was crying. She could become anything she wanted to be but whatever it was, it would be amazing.

And he would see none of it.

“I think you’d better go,” he rasped, voice thick and heavy with tears.

“I agree,” Nureyev’s voice was clipped and professional again, like the outburst embarrassed him, “Goodbye, detective. Enjoy saving Hyperion City.”

He shouldered the bag of Bianca’s things he’d apparently already packed and quickly made for the door. But as he did, Bianca piped up, squawking, reaching her hands out over her daddy’s shoulder. Reaching for Juno.

Nureyev’s expression turned to ice, seeing his daughter straining to reach the man who’d broken his heart three times now. His eyes snapped to Juno to see what he would do.

Juno looked at her, swallowed hard and turned away towards his bedroom. The fog inside him had never felt so thick, thick enough to choke him, enough that you would get lost in it and never find your way out. Already he could feel his senses dulling, the inability to care settling over him like a wet blanket, like the worst kind of drenching rain.

“Bye kiddo,” he murmured, not looking back.

He heard Nureyev’s noise of satisfaction, sounding ever so slightly forced, and Bianca’s soft sound of dismay. And he heard the door shut.

He walked back to his bed and laid on his side, staring into nothing, not feeling the salt dried onto his cheek, not feeling the ache in his chest. Not feeling much of anything.

Rita would be shocked at his call the next morning, telling her sharply that they were reponening and to get herself back to the office. She would see his absent arms, the downward turn to his mouth that had returned when it was so close to disappearing forever. She wouldn’t ask where Bianca had gone, she wouldn’t ask to come over for dinner again, though it made her heart hurt so fiercely. She would nod and go sit back at her desk.

Things would return to normal, Juno back as the PI trying to do some good in a city where the word had lost all meaning, He would throw himself into cases where he’d rejected them before, just to have something to do. And he would fall into something bigger and more dangerous than he could imagine.

But that was for later. For tonight, he would lie there and recognise the raw edged hole in his heart that he couldn’t feel. And exhaustion and a desire to simply not be conscious any more would eventually claim him.

And he would dream of birdsong and soft dark hair beneath his fingertips.

#the penumbra podcast #junoverse #juniverse #trans pregnancy #trans peter nureyev #peter nureyev #jupeter #juno steel #tpp #tpp fic #dad au #angst #very much angst #oc: bianca

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xxpadfootxx · 4 years ago

Text

🐾Won’t Leave You: Chapter 4 (The Rescue Squad)🐾

The night was dark and cold despite the fact that sunrise would arrive soon. The chill settled into the students’ skin even with their costumes on and caused them to shiver. Nobody spoke as every student slunk over the silent meadow like cats going on a hunt, their shoes muffled by the thick mud that was clumped around the grass stalks.

The moon shone high in the sky like a large beacon, it’s light reflecting on Aizawa’s metal scarf, the capture weapon glinting like a knife in the darkness. Their eyes were sharp even in the dark, and their ears were strained for any noise that would break the natural orchestra of sound emanating from the night around them.

Izuku stood right at the front, Aizawa’s back directly in front of him as they were led through the field, Izuku having demanded to be the one to find Ochako since he deemed himself responsible for her loss. More bitter memories flooded his brain and he twitched his head ever so slightly as a way to attempt to clear his head of the horrible events that had taken place that very night. The images began to fade but Ochako’s scream as she was sent tumbling to the ground by a bullet rang in his ears loud and clear, no matter how hard he tried to shake it off.

Aizawa paused ahead of Izuku, raising his head and looking around, resembling something like a black panther as he searched the surrounding territory for any sign of danger or a clue to their destination. After a moment though, Aizawa pressed on, holding his capture weapon in both hands to avoid having it rustle on the surrounding brush.

Izuku remembered how Aizawa had been so attentive when they had gone to investigate the crime scene, his face scrunching as he scrutinized every single piece of evidence until he had a grip on something, following every trail until it faded and disappeared. It had been Aizawa who had gotten the group this far, tracking the villain through his destructive, almost drunken manner of travel through town and to the edge of this field. They had been following the villain for a couple of hours, their bones creaking and their feet protesting with every step, but nobody complained as they trekked further and further away from U.A.

Suddenly, a loud bang echoed across the field, causing Aizawa to freeze, his body standing stock still in the grass. The other students copied him without even realizing it, their breaths suspended as every head whipped around directly to their right. Aizawa held up an unnecessary hand (even for Bakugo did not even dare think of tearing off on his own) as a signal for them to wait, his eyes narrowing in that direction.

A pause.

Soon another, louder bang echoed across the field, this time followed by a small scream. Aizawa, Izuku, Bakugo, Todoroki, Tsuyu, Yaoyorozu, Tokoyami, Kirishima, Iida and Shoji all moved at the same time, their steps still silent, but rushed as they bolted across the marshy grass towards the sound of their friend in pain.

The sounds faded and the group stood still once more, listening intensely for any more hints to Ochako’s location. Izuku forced himself to plant his feet as he felt the familiar itching feeling to start pacing with worry. He could barely contain himself, he wanted to rush in there and protect Ochako with his life, to make sure she was okay and to promise her that he would never leave her side again, no matter the danger. Again, he forced himself to remain still in the now dead silent meadow, the normal nighttime chatter had died down completely at the sound of the scream.

They waited for what felt like hours, the chill of the night sinking even more so that their breaths came out in clouded puffs and their skin felt icy to the touch. Aizawa dipped his head and used his hand to part the grass, nobody moving as he seemed to discover something, his eyes thinning into slits and his hands gripping his capture weapon even tighter than usual.

Aizawa moved forward slightly, his feet making no sound as he stepped through the grass. Then they all heard the slight whirring sound. If any nighttime noises had still been floating through the night, they would have missed it. As soon as the whirring sound stopped, a terrible scream pierced the night like a sharp sword, stabbing through their hearts in a way that sent an icy chill down the spines of the group.

Ochako.

Without even thinking, Izuku rushed forward. He barely registered Aizawa calling his name or his classmates pounding behind him, his head filled with rage and worry and his vision obscured with red. The screaming continued for what felt like an unbearable amount of time, cutting into Izuku’s heart deeper and deeper with each renewed voice of pain. Finally, Izuku skidded to a stop where a steel door stood ajar in the ground like a metallic hole. He did not even hesitate to jump in, the screams surrounding him on all sides as he slid down what he imagined was a tunnel, darkness covering his eyes and suffocating his other senses. The cold was nearly unbearable in the tunnel, the darkness and the depth of the tunnel contributing to a chill that Izuku had never felt in his life. It was so cold that his teeth burned when he opened his mouth to suck in a breath.

But then he hit the bottom of the tunnel. The transition from severe cold to extreme heat was almost enough to make him pass out, his head swimming as the temperature change rocked his body. Wherever he had landed was just as dark as the tunnel, his senses completely obscured by the darkness that swallowed him. He ventured one small step forward, his hands reaching out cautiously as he searched for any kind of wall, table or tool to grab ahold of. All of his senses were on high alert, so when a loud gasp and a soft, “Damn it!” sounded behind him, Izuku jumped out of his skin. He felt someone’s hand wave around him before hitting him in the face. He let out a small noise and shook his head.

“Deku? Is that you, you damn nerd?” Bakugo whispered from directly to his left.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“It’s fucking hot in here,” Bakugo said, his voice so low it was almost a rumble.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you should gripe about it Bakugo,” A soft voice said from Izuku’s right.

Both students had to clamp on their tongues with their teeth to avoid calling out as Aizawa shuffled around beside them, his hands digging through the pockets of his costume for something.

Suddenly, a small click echoed in the room and the bright light of a flashlight chased away the surrounding darkness. All of the students had made it down the hole, although Tsuyu was shaking the sleep from her eyes (caused by the cold-induced hibernation state from her frog quirk) and Yaoyorozu was trying to wake Kirishima, who had fainted from the intense heat.

“What now?” Iida asked, his arm resting on a nearby wall for support, his face pale and his glasses askew on his face, his eyes dull as if he had a fever. Aizawa didn’t answer but instead held up the flashlight with one hand and held up his metallic scarf with the other, scanning the room. The room was almost completely empty, save for a few metal cabinets that were lying dented and broken on the floor and some rubble that surrounded them.

Aizawa stretched out a hand behind him. “Everyone please file behind me, I don’t want anyone getting hurt on this mission.” He said. The students knew that this was unlikely given their situation but followed Aizawa’s orders silently and without hesitation. Izuku once again stood at the front, his bright green eyes flashing with the reflected light as they wildly shot to every corner of the room in search of his friend.

Then Aizawa’s light moved to the very far back right corner of the room, a corner blocked by metal cabinets and showered with rubble. A limp figure was suddenly bathed in that light, her back facing them so that the light would not reflect on her eyes.

It was Ochako.

“OCHAKO!” Izuku cried out, using her first name without even thinking and rushing forward to meet her.

“Midoriya, no!” Aizawa called behind him but followed Izuku at a slower pace anyway. Izuku skidded to a stop at Ochako’s side, dropping to his knees and using a gentle hand to flip her over. Her eyes were closed and her face had a few bruises but it was otherwise unharmed. Again, without thinking, Izuku lowered his head to her chest and placed his ear there, listening for a heartbeat. Tears welled up in his eyes and when he closed them they ran down his cheeks, creating two lines that cut through the dust on his face.

She was alive.

He turned to tell Aizawa and his friends when one of the cabinets in front of him shifted slightly. Everyone froze except for Izuku, who pulled the unconscious Ochako close to him, his arms holding her protectively so that the pain of her wounds would not wake her. He realized that she felt surprisingly light and small in his arms, his muscled biceps gently but firmly holding her to him so that one arm was curled beneath her legs and the other supported her upper back and shoulders, causing her head to rest in the crook of his neck.

The cabinet moved again, this time creaking and cracking. “Midoriya get out of there!” Aizawa said, his voice cracking with worry and urgency. Izuku made to stand up when the cabinet seemed to explode, the otherwise small piece of metal expanding and reshaping until the villain with the eight arms stood before him with a devilish smile plastered on his face.

“I would like it if you would please not steal my trophy from me.” He said his voice sending chilled needles cascading down Izuku’s spine before he launched at the pair of them, his arms outstretched.

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