#I don’t know the thing last night rankled me even though it’s not that big of a deal lol

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

.

[wri0thesley]

can i request arranged marriage with toji and corruption please 🥰

wedding rings - toji x fem!reader (5k)

the zenin clan just can't stop meddling in toji's affairs. what's he supposed to do with the nervous little virgin who shows up on his doorstep and says that her family and his have said they have to get married? not fuck her?

warnings: not sfw/minors dni. arranged marriage. corruption kink. virgin reader. light cunnilingus, fingering, coming inside. light dub-con by nature of 'arranged marriage'. afab reader, fem pronouns.

[a/n: writing toji is always so much fun ;_; ]

When you showed up at Toji’s door with suitcase in hand, trembling lip and eyes all wide and frightened, he had laughed outright.

It was just like the fucking Zenin clan to be meddling in his life even now, wasn’t it? Even though Toji has abandoned them and slaughtered their ilk, their bullshit about bloodlines still leaks into every facet of what they do; and clearly the idea that Toji, even with his flawed lack of cursed energy, might be able to pass on the technique and hasn’t got a pretty little wife to impregnate yet had rankled them so badly that they’d sorted the whole situation out for him.

If he didn’t hate jujutsu society so much, he’d almost feel bad for you.

You’re clearly in the bloom of life; fresh-faced and innocent, not expecting to find yourself in Toji’s messy shithole of an apartment (why bother making it nice, when he spends so long out of it for work?). He wonders who you’ve pissed off to end up here.

As it turns out, you end up telling him yourself, a frown on your face.

Turns out, you’re . . . not quite just like him, but you’ve been fucked over by your clan just as much for not being able to be useful. You can see cursed spirits, but you’ve got no cursed energy, no technique – despite your clan usually producing good, dutiful, powerful wives. Disappointment of the family. He can understand what that feels like.

So they were probably glad to get rid of you. Might even hope you’ll bear Toji’s kid and it’ll have no technique to speak of itself, too – so both families can forget about you.

(Well, Toji thinks to himself with a grin – his family can’t forget about him, much as they want to, considering both his nickname and his line of work.)

He takes a sip of the glass of water he’s holding in his hand, green eyes focused very hard on you. You’re not in traditional clothing, like most clan members he knows would be; you’re wearing a pale blue dress that you keep tugging uncomfortably down over your thighs. Toji lets his eyes linger on your thighs, too – he might as well appreciate the view, he supposes.

Your suitcase is full of, as well as a collection of clothes in modest cut and soft, pastel colours, documents. Toji flips through some of them, nose wrinkling at the boring jargon. He does linger on a caveat about if you bear him children, they all have to take the Zenin name, and Toji and you will be ‘compensated handsomely’ for handing over the kid’s education and raising to the clan--

Bullshit.

Toji’s about to crumple them up on the floor and tell you to get the fuck out of his house, when he catches sight of you over the edge of the paper. You’ve drawn yourself in; shoulders tight, pretty mouth pressed into a tight line, eyes shining with a mixture between hope and fear. You look so lost. You look so innocent.

A little curl of heat makes itself known in the very base of Toji’s stomach; the thought of you being a good little wife, on your knees. The thought of him telling you exactly how to suck his cock.

He knows how the sorcerer clans raise women like you.

He knows you’ll be eager to please and obedient, falling over yourself to keep your man happy. He knows, too, that you’ll be pliant and agreeable – and that you’ll be pure as the driven snow. That thought gives him pause.

You’re seductive to him without realising it, in the totally guileless way you act, as if you don’t know that he’s considering how your tits would fill his hands and how tight your precious, untouched cunt would feel around his girth.

If he rejects you, what will your clan do?

You’re as fucked as him. He can see it in the shine of your eyes in his kitchen; you’re afraid he will throw you out, like he was thinking of. Leave you to fend for yourself on the streets of Japan, because there’s no way your family will want you back after even scum like Toji’s rejected you.

Would it be so bad?

He lets himself look at you critically. He takes in the curves, the dips, the contours of your body; the way you’d feel beneath him. Your face, and what it would look like lost in pleasure.

Perhaps it would be pleasant, to have someone to return to after a hit; to have someone warm his bed, curl around him, cook for him and take care of him. Perhaps it would be pleasant to take a pretty little virgin and break her into exactly what he wants in a woman. To teach her how he likes to fuck, how he likes her to act, to condition her until he can crook his finger at her and she’s bending over, presenting herself already slick and needy for his cock to use however he sees fit.

“Alright,” he says, draining the glass. “Sure, sweetheart. We’ll get married.”

Later on that night, he creeps into the spare room. You’re asleep on top of the covers in a cute pyjama set that’s all frills and froth and pale pink; elastic in the shorts digging into the flesh of your thighs, top clinging to the curve of your chest. His cock stirs in his pants looking at you. You’re so . . . innocent. There’s no mark to you; Toji wants to cling to your hips until there are bruises in the shape of his hands, wants to worry love-bites into your neck like a necklace, wants to ruin you until you’re tear-stained and whimpering and arching your hips up for him--

Calloused fingers trail along your skin. You’re so soft. Where Toji is all scars and muscle, your skin is like satin. You moan in your sleep, pretty face furrowing, and Toji wants to see your face creased in pleasure too. Your mouth drops open and he imagines thrusting his cock in it; how pretty and shiny your lips would look wrapped around his shaft, almost too big for you to even take.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, thumb skimming the exposed stomach where your pyjama top has ridden up. “Ripe for the picking, ain’t ya?”

Your eyes twitch. Eyebrows, furrow – and you blink your gaze awake, sticky-slow, to see your fiancee looming over you in the dark.

“What’re you—?” You ask, still sleep-laced, but Toji just makes a soft noise in the back of his throat.

“Just lookin’ at the merchandise, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Wanna make sure you ain’t damaged, that’s all--”

“I—I’m not!” The cute little burst of outrage is ruined somewhat by the yawn that you have to suppress in the middle of it, but Toji grins.

He didn’t think the Zenins would send you if you weren’t – they wouldn’t want to risk the precious possibility of a kid born with power and technique not really being one of theirs – but it’s nice to hear your mouth confirm what he’s been suspecting and hoping is the truth.

“Aw, baby girl,” he says, keeping his voice low and even, trying to comfort you even as his hand is sliding further up, cupping one of your breasts (his palm brushes your nipple and he feels it harden beneath his touch, stiffening to a peak – he wants to see what you look like under there so badly), “C’mon, it’s fine. I ain’t gonna hurt you--”

“M-Mr Zenin,” you say, and the tremble in your voice is so cute. His cock is straining against the boxer shorts he wore to sleep in. You’re wide awake now; your eyes meeting his. “I—I know, but--”

He’s on the bed. He doesn’t miss how your gaze strays to his veined forearms, where the muscles bulge in his biceps, the carefully sculpted and maintained abdomen and pecs – he sees the swallow in your throat, the way your cute little tongue reaches out to swipe nervously over your lower lip.

Thumb brushes your collarbone and you shudder, your eyes fluttering closed at the sensation. He sees your thighs twitch, squeeze together – he’s willing to bet if he dipped his fingers into your slit right now, he’d pull his digits back out with your slick glimmering on them.

“Just call me Toji.”

“T-Toji—” Your voice pitches, shuddering with arousal that you don’t know how to handle. He’s heard that note in women’s voice before; that desperate ‘I want to be touched, but I know I shouldn’t want it’ wobble. He’s been the cause of it more times than he can count.

“S’okay,” he soothes, his other hand rounding over your hip, his knees nudging your legs apart. “You’re savin’ yourself for marriage, yeah? We’ll get the papers signed in the mornin’, I promise, botha our families are the kind to make sure things can be rushed through quick--”

“I—” You’re a little breathless, all needy and hot under his touch. It’s adorable. “I shouldn’t, please, it’s only a few days--”

“You want to.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement, as he curls his fingers about your hip, as he settles his own muscular thighs between yours and he sees that there’s a damp spot on the pale pink shorts. Soaked through your underwear and your nightwear? He forgot how sensitive virgins can be. “Don’t lie to yourself, angel.”

He leans down, scarred lips brushing yours. You taste like his toothpaste; peppermint on his tongue as he swipes it over your lower lip and you sigh as you allow him entrance. It’s the first mark of him on you, but he knows it won’t be the last. He deliberately presses his knee against your clothed mount, grinding it just a little – and you whimper into his mouth, heated and desperate.

“We’ll be married soon as,” he murmurs to you, pulling back, looking at you with lust darkening his eyes. No man has ever looked at you quite as hungrily as Toji is looking at you right now. And he’s so handsome, his touches gentle-- “You wanna be a good girl for me, right? S’just what a wife does for her husband, yeah?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and Toji grins at you. It’s a feral, starving grin, that you feel deep inside of you as you clench around nothing and burn to be touched.

He kisses you again, hungrier. He nips at your lower lip, his tongue roughly demanding entrance – he dances against your own. You’ve never really understood the idea of kissing with tongues, but Toji knows exactly what he’s doing; hitting a spot on the roof of your mouth that makes you shudder and gasp, your hands coming up to grasp his biceps.

The muscle underneath them is so solid, and Toji can’t help but notice how soft your hands are on him. He knows you’ll be that soft everywhere else, and the thought spurs him on.

“I’m gonna undress you now,” he tells you, thick and throaty. His big fingers curve under the hem of the lacy top you’re wearing, gently tugging it up over your stomach and then your breasts. That sharp green gaze caresses every newly bared inch of you, a soft sigh escaping his lips. “Fuckin’ hell. You’re a sight for sore eyes, sweetheart.”

Your skin feels hot under the compliment, Toji’s flat palm sliding along the softness of your tummy to round over your breasts. Your nipples have pebbled and stiffened in the cool air of the spare room, and Toji flicks his thumb along one (making you shiver, again, he notices) before he bends his head to suckle the bud into his mouth, his tongue lapping at it in a way that has your back arching and thighs clenching.

He chuckles at the noise you make as his lips pop off, and he turns his attention to the other side.

“Responsive, ain’t ya?” He asks. “You’re adorable.”

You give him a trembling breath as a response, which he takes as a sign to begin a trail of wet, open mouthed kisses down from your breasts to your stomach, tongue tracing the shape of your navel, teeth grazing your hips so gently that you barely feel them. He takes the waistband of your shorts in his mouth and tugs those down using your teeth, and the vision of him between your legs like that--

“Ha,” he says, as his fingers reach to tug them, expertly manipulating your legs so he can get them off without moving from between them. “Careful there, darlin’. You’re gonna soak right through the sheets.”

His mouth, again – kissing firmly against the wet patch on your underwear, his breath fiery hot. His mouth is solid enough that you feel the jolt that goes through you as his nose pushes against your clit, even through the cotton. Toji almost smirks at how much of a cliché the white cotton underwear trimmed with pale pink lace is, but the scent of you is too heady for him to want to do anything but bury his head between your thighs.

Lower. He kisses all over your slit, hard enough that you jerk, ruing the barrier between you two. His thumb strokes circles into your inner thigh--

He seems content to kiss at you through the fabric – but really, he’s waiting for you to give in. To beg him to take them off. From just how wet his face is even with the barrier in his way, he doesn’t think it will be long – and you do not disappoint. You raise your whips, softly mewling;

“Please, I –”

“Please, what, darlin’?” He asks you. “C’mon, you can use your words – no secrets from your husband, right?”

“I—” You’re so cute, squirming and feeling like a slut for him. He loves it. He loves the tremble of your body and the fact that your eyes are glassy with need. “P-please take my underwear off, I wanna--” You swallow. “W-wanna feel without it--”

“Aww, y’should’ve just said so,” Toji says. Fingers pry beneath the gusset.

He doesn’t bother manipulating your body this time. He simply tugs hard enough to split the seams, the fabric delicate from being saturated in your slick.

(Doesn’t matter, anyway. While he’s home, you won’t be wearing underwear.)

You gasp at the display of strength, swallowing – and Toji grins at you again. Oh, you like that? He’s got more shows of strength where that came from, don’t you worry.

He props up your knees with his hands and says;

“Wrap your hands around these, keep your legs spread for me like a good girl, yeah?”

You nod, shyly averting your gaze as you do just that and the position spreads you open lewdly; your velvet-soft folds bared entirely to Toji’s hungry eyes.

You’re already absolutely dripping, but Toji can see that you’re nervous.

“Don’t worry,” he soothes you, again. He can’t help but notice how small you look; the pearl of your clit nestled between curling soft petals, your pulsing hole. He knows you’ll take him, but . . . fuck, he thinks you’ll be a stretch. Not that that’s a bad thing. “I’m gonna open you up, darlin’, alright?”

“Y-yeah,” your voice is tremulous, soft – and sends a throb right to his cock. It’s been straining against his boxer shorts since the moment he saw you, but your eyes all big and glossy with trust and the vulnerable position you’re in and the knowledge you have never been touched like this are really doing a number on it.

But fuck it, he’s not gonna hurt you more than he has to if he’s really going to keep you around. He gently spreads your plump labia lips even further apart with his fingers, so your clit stands swollen to attention. You shiver under his calloused fingers, as he leans in and a hot wash of breath fans over you.

Toji’s tongue darts out to lap a long, slow stripe from perineum to clit, and though he can’t see your face any more, he hears the way you whimper.

Another. He lets himself soak his face in your slick; lets his tongue get deep between your folds. You taste so good on his tongue; honey-sticky and sugar-sweet. The tip of the wet muscle gently flickers against your clit and your hands are suddenly wrapped in his hair, your chest heaving in sensitive gasps. You keep your legs raised, so he decides to be kind. He eases his lips off of you for a moment to mumble, amused;

“Don’t pull too hard, I’m too young to be losin’ my hair--”

Before he dives back in between your legs, once more licking and sucking at the tender flesh. Your stomach explodes in fireworks, your heart beating so fast you can hear it in your ears. Toji’s mouth and tongue against you is a wet, lascivious noise that at once makes your toes curl in pleasure and cringe in embarrassment. Is it awful and forward of you to be enjoying yourself like this? Your family have always drilled into you that a proper wife isn’t a slut, but still does what her husband wants--

Toji’s not your husband yet, but this is fine, right? To have him eating you out like you’re a desert oasis? His lips lock around your clit and he sucks and your vision whites out for a second, your hands tugging hard at the dark hair in your grip--

And he comes away with a light laugh that still manages to shiver with seduction. His face is shiny with you as he looks at you with eyes half-lidded and still hungry.

“What’d I say, huh?” He teases you. “Angel, I could have fucked you with my tongue all night--” He likes seeing how the crude words make you flinch, nervous but pleased but ashamed all warring within you. Your lips are pushed forward, the moue almost petulant. His voice drops a tone. “Don’t look at me with that cute pout. You don’t know what it does to me.”

If he didn’t still need to stretch you out using his fingers, he’d take a moment to kiss you so you could taste yourself and just how needy you’d been for him on his lips. But he’s still driving a hole through his boxers, so . . . the sooner you’re able to take him, the better.

You’ve gone back to holding your legs apart with your hands. Excellent.

Besides. He hadn’t finished what he was doing, and he thinks it’ll be easier to fuck you if you’ve already come once. Your poor, swollen clit hasn’t had all the attention it deserves. You’re being so cute, so well-behaved for him--

“Relax,” he says, softly, as he eases his fingers from spreading you open, dipping them in the mess he’s made of your slit. “This might sting a bit--”

One finger finds your hole; circles the sensitive entrance, making the muscles in your thighs tremble. But you keep your legs spread open for him like a good girl, and he’s able to gently push his index finger in, first to one knuckle, then to the second, and then to the ones at the base.

“Good girl,” he breathes, barely able to breathe at how tight you feel around him. Your insides are silky and hot and wet, clinging to him like a lifeboat in the sea. He pumps the lone finger in and out of you, rubbing the pad against the inside of your walls until he finds the spot that makes you throw your head back and give him a long, choked moan. ��There we go,” he keeps talking to you, softly, like you’re a spooked animal. “’M gonna put the second one in, yeah? You’re takin’ it like a champ, sweetheart. You wanted this, huh?”

You babble something that he doesn’t care enough to listen to but overall sounds positive. This one’s a stretch, his middle finger and index finger even tighter. But he needs to get three in you, he thinks, or you’ll never take his cock. You let go of your thighs, and he sucks in a breath – but your feet clearly need purchase on the bed, your fingers twisting in bedsheets now they can’t twist in his hair, and you breathe through the stretch so he figures it’d be churlish to tell you off for it now.

He keeps hitting that spot as he fucks you slowly on his fingers, until he can feel your cunt sucking him in, pulsing around him.

“Third finger,” he tells you, his own throat dry. “Next time I fuck you with this one, you’ll feel my weddin’ ring--”

You tighten around the other two at that. Cute. Three fingers opening you wide, scissoring inside of you, aches – but you’re being so good for him, the most that’s coming out of your mouth sweet little whines. Toji rewards you by crooking them inside you against that spot, his thumb coming to gently rub circles into your swollen clit.

He’s been teasing you for too long, and you are a virgin – it’s no surprise that the stimulation proves too much for you too quickly, and you arch your back at the same time as fireworks go off inside of you, your cunt fluttering around his fingers, tightening and loosening as waves of euphoria wash over you.

You soak Toji’s fingers with the rush of your release; the gush of liquid.

He whistles, low and impressed. So you’re a squirter, huh? Toji doesn’t mind that at all. It’s not like he’ll be doing the laundry – and it’s kind of hot, to look down at you and see what a mess he’s made of your little virgin cunt--

“That’s it,” he says, guiding you over the last low crests of your orgasm. “I think y’can take me now, sweetheart. Let’s get you comfy--”

He shows off his strength a bit, because he knows it will get you going despite the sensitivity of your body from your recent orgasm. You’re man-handled by him higher on the bed, so your head is on the mountain of pillows you’ve slipped down. He can pick you up as if you weigh nothing at all, despite the creak of the bedsprings clearly saying the opposite.

Your legs are urged to wrap around his hips.

“Don’t worry,” he tells you, again. He doesn’t think he’s ever reassured a fuck as carefully and constantly as he’s reassuring you; but then again, he’s never intended to marry one of his fucks before.

You, though ��� you’re so adaptable. So untouched. So different from women and men who come onto him at bars and flutter eyelashes and make soft little insinuations. He can corrupt you into exactly what he wants, and the thought of you knowing nothing but his cock forever and serving him like he’s the only man in the world--

It’s enough to make a lesser man come in his pants.

“You’re tired, yeah? I’ll do most of the work. You lie there and take it like the sweetheart you are.”

He’s shucked his underwear off in the man-handling, and now he shifts so that you can see the full glory of what he’s packing. Your eyes widen.

He gets that a lot. Even for a virgin who’s probably never seen a cock before, it’s obvious that Toji’s the real deal – you swallow, nervous, and whisper;

“I—what if it doesn’t fit--?”

(There’s a tremble of fear in there, that you’ve fucked up; that he still might throw you aside if you can’t take him, and now you’ve been utterly ruined.)

“Hey,” he says, all comforting and appeasing, “I ain’t hurt you yet, have I?” You shake your head, but your bottom lip is still trembling. “I’m gonna go slow with you, I promise.” He shifts forward again, the head of his cock catching against your entrance. “Just keep your eyes on me, darlin’. I promise, it’ll feel so good . . . you wanna keep your husband happy, don’t ya? I’ve already got you all stretched and prepped. Just breathe--”

He keeps up the steady stream of talk as he urges his hips forward, your cunt swallowing the head of his cock first before he’s able to push more of his shaft in. You keep your eyes on his, green eyes locked against yours – and though he can hear the shake in your chest, you don’t make any noise louder than a huff when he gets two thirds of the way in. He pauses there for a minute, letting you adjust – he can feel every minute tremble of your body, swears he can hear your heartbeat.

“Good?” He asks, and you nod – and he slides the last third of himself inside you in the same unhurried pace, until he’s settled hot and heavy entirely inside of you.

His eyes map your stomach, pleasure rushing through him at how big he must be inside of you; there’s the lightest shadow on your pelvis, as if he’s big enough to make your stomach bulge. He takes in the sight of you with all nine inches of him buried inside of you; the sore, spread-wide stretch of your cunt around him, the creamy ring of your pleasure where you’re joined.

He can’t fuck you vigorously – he thinks he’d fucking breakyou - but you’re tight enough that he’s getting plenty of stimulation just from keeping his cock in there.

“P-please,” you manage to form, through your swollen lips and your glassy eyes and your dry throat. “W-want you to fuck me, Toji--”

Oh, fucking hell.

You’re perfect.

“I will, sweetheart, don’t you worry,” he instinctively leans down and presses a kiss on your sweat-soaked forehead, flexing his hips so they withdraw the smallest amount. “Just lie there and take it for me--”

You do.

He doesn’t fuck into you with abandon, though he wants to more than he can say; plenty of time for that in the future, as your cunt moulds to his cock and it isn’t such an effort to get it inside of you. Plenty of time for you to learn just how hard he wants to rail you, until you’re covered in his bruises and there are friction burns on your knees – plenty of time for him to show you every depraved thing you make him want to do to you and make sure that you enjoy it.

He fucks you with slow, shallow strokes, taking most of his pleasure from the way you feel around of him; your eyes, your mouth, your heaving chest. You’re hot and tight and wet and grip him perfectly – his fingers digging into your thighs where they’re wrapped around his hips.

He’s been hard for what seems like hours, so it’s no surprise, either, that he feels his orgasm come quickly up on him like a steam train – it’s not like you’re going to shame him for coming quickly, you’ve never even been fucked before. So he lets the heat all gather low in his belly until he can feel himself teetering on the edge – and then, he dips his head and pulls you into a heated kiss as he grinds his hips in a circular motion inside of you and feels himself tip over the precipice.

His cock shudders and judders inside of you, shooting rope after rope of his come deep into your body; thick and hot and full. His teeth worry at your bottom lip almost hard enough to draw blood, the groan vibrating through you as he comes and pushing you into another short, trembling orgasm as if trying to milk him dry of everything that he can give you.

(You like him coming inside? He can work with that too.)

Your thighs are tight around his hips, your arms draping loosely about his neck as he kisses you. Your tongue nervously probes at the scar; the slightly raised line bisecting his mouth, and though he usually doesn’t like it being noticed or touched (he knows it gives him an air of danger, but sometimes the events surrounding it’s acquirement sting), he finds that with you he doesn’t mind.

With you, his eyes flicker closed and he just enjoys the closeness and warmth of your body, even as he gently pulls his cock out of you (you leak slick onto the bedsheets, again. He’s gonna have to buy some more laundry tablets).

“How’s that, darlin?” He murmurs to you, not moving from his comfortable place on top of you. “Glad y’didn’t save it for marriage now, huh?”

Your cheeks radiating heat is enough answer for him, Toji’s smirk so wide and smug that it threatens to split his face in two. He flops to one side of you, pulling you in, cradling you against him like a little spoon. He can’t help but notice that the curve of your body fits perfectly against his.

The two of you will fit even better in Toji’s bed, he thinks.

“We’ll get all the paperwork and shit sorted tomorrow,” he tells you, as he feels your breathing begin to even out, the tremors from your orgasm begin to fade. He could get used to this too. Someone warming his bed. Someone to cuddle up to on cold nights. Someone soft, to ease the loneliness he hadn’t realised he was feeling.

He doesn’t want to get sappy on you, though. He lowers his face to the shell of your ear, breathing gently, murmuring in a voice that’s still dripping with desire for everything you represent to him;

“The other stuff that goes with a marriage too. I wasn’t kiddin’ about wantin’ to finger you with my wedding ring on, darlin’.”

[nervousladytraveler]

The Alibi

Inspired by the kiss prompt: A + B are in an argument, then they stop, just stare at each other, and then crash their lips together, because, like i said... fuck this shit Ross and Demelza

Requested by the lovely @veryflowerobservation

---

“God damn it, Demelza! I told you not to follow me tonight!”

For the last eight miles, Ross had been looking over his shoulder while Demelza drove. No one was behind them on the dark road, and it was most likely they’d been unseen, yet he continued to anxiously watch. There was nothing that would quiet the churning adrenaline that came from such a close call.

“Well it's a good thing I did follow you, otherwise…” Demelza snapped back at him.

“Otherwise what?!” He cut her off before she continued in what sounded like another self-righteous justification. Her words rang empty to him--she’d acted impulsively and it was just dumb luck that she hadn’t made things worse.

“You seriously ask me that?”

“Demelza, I would have sorted it instead of both of us being in danger!”

“No, Ross. In case you didn't notice I just saved your skin before you had anythin’ to sort. And you can’t just sort a thing like this with the police, by the way. Not even you. But now that’s a moot point and no one is in danger. Of gettin’ hurt or bein’ arrested--precisely because I came.“

Without any warning, Demelza took a sharp left at the Blowinghouse Turn bus stop, then minutes later turned right on the B3284 towards Truro. This whole time she’d kept the tiny Kia Forte steady at 30 mph, a frustratingly slow pace that further agitated Ross--and she was well aware that it would, no doubt. But she was right in her refusal to drive any faster. The last thing they needed now was trouble for speeding.

“Why didn’t you stay on the…” he started but stopped once he caught the acid look she flashed him. “You seem to know what you’re doing,” he mumbled.

“Yes, Ross. Yes, I do.”

To their relief, the road ahead remained empty. Then again people didn't really tend to be out driving at 2AM on a Tuesday unless they had urgent business. Or shady business.

“So was this all your plan all along--that you’d come out tonight and spy on me?” he asked.

“Spy? You’re not very good at keepin’ secrets, you know,” she sputtered. “Besides, you already told me what you were up to, just not when or where…”

“For good reason! Because I didn’t want you involved. But you told me that you’d stay home--you lied to me!” Ross’s dark voice filled the little car.

“Lyin’? You’re really speakin’ to me about lyin’?” Her laugh, bitter and sarcastic, met his anger head on.

Demelza Carne had worked for Ross Poldark for years now--since she was a teenager really-- first as an all around office assistant and recently as his bookkeeper. And she’d shown him time and again that she wasn't cowed by his moods. She was one of the few people in his life who wasn’t. She was also one of the few people in his life who hadn’t abandoned him once his business prospects began to fail. He shouldn’t have expected anything different from her tonight.

“But no, Ross, I hadn’t planned on interferin’ with your business. I do have a life of my own you know...“

“Demelza--wait--are you claiming I lied to you?”

“When you omit somethin’ on purpose, that’s also a lie,” she said calmly, then a moment later her agitation boiled up again. “Jesus, Ross! What were you thinkin’?! Comin out here on your own to meet those smugglers? You didn't think it was a set up?”

Smugglers. It rankled him that she insisted on calling Trencrom and his men smugglers as though this were some 18th century French scheme or an Enid Blyton novel, rather than a simple business arrangement.

But no matter what term Ross preferred, tonight proved it remained a dangerous business. And while the charge of “improper importation of goods chargeable with a duty which has not been paid” certainly sounded less exciting than smuggling, it still carried a severe penalty.

Tonight would have been Ross’s third transaction with Robert Trencrom, a local businessman who had approached him last summer with a proposition. It seemed that from time to time Trencrom and his associates had in their possession certain goods acquired through less than proper channels. What Trencrom needed was an unassuming place to store these goods until such a time when they could be distributed without suspicion. Nampara, Ross’s derelict farm, might provide the perfect cover since there were so many unused outbuildings, several that still had solid walls and intact roofs. It had been decades since the farm produced anything that needed storing, so why not let the space to others whilst Ross made a little cash on the side?

The past two times it had been Belgian cigarettes--not massive quantities but enough that the whole endeavour still carried a risk. Yet Ross’s involvement had been truly minimal, just as Trencrom had assured him. In fact, Ross had not even been home when the goods were delivered. Trencrom’s men had tucked the plastic barrels behind some rusting mowing machines, and Ross was only made aware that the goods had been removed some weeks later when an envelope of cash was left for him in his car.

And since these were cash transactions, Ross considered hiding them altogether from Demelza, who minded his books for him. But in the end, he explained in vague details what he had done and asked her not to question him further. Clearly she hadn’t approved but she said nothing.

It wasn’t drugs or weapons--or people--so it could be worse, he’d told himself. And as soon as he just got a little more out of debt, he’d cut ties with the lot.

When Ross didn’t hear from Trencrom all winter, he’d assumed the connection had faded and sighed in relief. He’d miss the income but not the entanglement.

Then a few weeks into May, Trencrom reached out again.

This time Ross was to be more involved and actually take delivery of the cargo himself. Naturally there would be considerable compensation--a figure Ross didn’t think he could refuse considering his current financial status. Trencrom hinted he’d been worried about the loyalty of such a big crew and so for this job he wanted to keep his circle small. He’d instructed Ross to meet them at the Rugby Football Club carpark just after midnight.

In the hours leading up to the hand off, Ross was determined to pass a quiet evening at home. So when his friend Dwight stopped by unannounced for a drink and a game of cards, he’d welcomed the diversion. He was also relieved that Demelza, who lived in one of the tiny cottages adjacent to the main house, seemed to deliberately be giving him a wide berth that day. She knew about the “business” Ross had later, but having already made her objections clear, there was nothing left to say on the matter. Normally she would have stayed--she liked Dwight Enys and the two of them playfully teased Ross as only true friends could. But tonight she left Ross with Dwight and went home early.

It was around 11PM that Ross received another call--the exchange point had apparently changed. He was now to meet Trencrom’s men at the airfield at 1:30 and he was to come on foot--without his car. The barrels were already loaded in a van so there was no need to remove them to another vehicle.That last detail did seem odd to him at the time. But once Ross had left for the appointment, he found it was a mild night, and figured he’d park at the beach and enjoy the walk to the airfield.

He was still almost a mile away when the familiar black Kia pulled up next to him. His every muscle tightened and he could hear the blood pounding in his ears.

“Demelza,” he’d hissed. “Get out of here!’

“Get in the car now, Ross,” she’d said simply.

“Look, Demelza, I know you don’t approve of this...” There was something in her eyes that made him take notice. Like an animal being hunted, she was on high alert.

“Get in,” she’d said again. “It’s a trap.”

“What?!” he’d asked, shaking his head in disbelief but still he climbed into the car without waiting for a satisfactory explanation.

“Seatbelt,” was all she’d said. He could hear the tension in her voice but she concentrated on the road ahead of her and didn’t even offer him a glance. “There,” she said finally and bid him to look to the right.

She drove on without slowing down so it was only a flash to him, still the chilling sight registered in his brain. Just beyond the tall hedges at the entrance to the airfield were three police cars, and two others that looked unmarked, all waiting in a circle with their headlamps off.

Demelza had been right--it had been a trap. And one he would have literally walked right into had she not shown up when she did.

It was doubtful that Trencrom was the one cooperating with the cops--it must have been one of the others in his crew. So Trencrom did have good reason to want to draw his circle closer. Ross wondered if he’d actually known there was a rat amongst them or just suspected it.

Ross knew he should be grateful for Demelza’s timely rescue but he couldn’t help resenting that she’d been right. She may have had a right to be so smug, but he didn't have to enjoy listening to her rub it in.

“I knew this would happen…” she muttered and drove on.

“Oh, you most certainly did not,” he growled. “No one did.”

“No one?” she laughed. “Well let’s see, Ross...the cops knew and someone else most certainly knew--whoever grassed on you, that is…”

“I would have thought, knowing you as I do, that you’d understand why I had no choice…”

“No choice? What sort of bullshit is that, Ross? Have you run round in your head how that really sounds? You know that's not an actual legal defense?”

“I mean I needed the money. I have a mortgage payment due and…”

“Yes, I am aware of that, Ross. Knowin’ me as you think you do, you should have talked this over with me. I’m your bookkeeper, for fuck’s sake.”

He didn’t want to think about what he should have done and whether he’d pushed her away as she claimed. He had good reason not to involve her--he’d wanted to avoid just such an argument with her.

And he also wanted to protect her.

“Turn left up here then pull over at the top of the hill and let me drive,” Ross grumbled as she rolled into the sleeping town.

“You’re most certainly not drivin’ my car!” she huffed but nonetheless turned as he had directed and pulled into the car park at the back of the Star and Garter Inn.

It was a clever move. They hadn’t spoken it but they both knew their friend Jinny Martin would be working the desk tonight. Perhaps she could get them a room and they could wait it out there until morning.

Demelza switched off the headlamps and then after a moment’s hesitation, the engine as well.

Ross heard her take in a sharp breath--more like a hiss--and waited for the tempest to continue.

“Well, yes,” he said just a beat before she opened her mouth to speak. “When the pick-up location changed last minute, I might have seen it was a set up.” It wasn't an apology but he hoped he could buy himself some time before her next eruption. “But I never imagined anyone involved in this arrangement would ever inform on me…”

“Oh Ross! I would have guessed it, and am surprised it didn't happen sooner. Honour amongst thieves and all that.”

“They aren’t--we aren’t--thieves.”

“Ok, not thieves per se but it’s still criminal activity to take delivery of smuggled cargo. Ross, you think you’re such a great judge of character but that lot...they’re greedy bastards and they just aren't your friends.”

“And you are?”

She stared at him, wide eyed and open-mouthed, unbelieving that he’d actually questioned her loyalty when she’d just saved him from a possible seven year prison sentence.

“Demelza, that came out wrong,” he said. Again it wasn’t an apology. At least not in its tone.

“Everythin’ you say comes out wrong, Ross. Or do you actually mean to be such an absolute arsehole?”

“Can’t you just admit that you could have put yourself in danger back there? With both Trencrom’s crew and the cops?” He put his hand on her arm and was surprised at how strong her muscles felt as she gripped the steering wheel. Instinctively he pulled away.

“Can’t you just admit how stubborn and stupid you can be?” Usually so bright and reassuring, her voice was hoarse from such rough use tonight.

“I’m stubborn?” he asked.

“No one saw me, Ross. And the important thing is that the police didn't see you. So you’re safe.”

“Well…”

“I suppose even if the cops had your name as someone possibly involved, since they didn't actually catch you doin’ any illegal activity, they can’t arrest you. Besides I’m your allibi for this evenin’. We can stay here overnight in case they’re watchin’ the house, and I’ll take you back to to pick up your car in the mornin’.“

“Wait! What if there’s CCTV here?” Ross felt a renewed jolt of panic tear through him.

“All the cameras are on the front of the building and the side where the guests park. This section is for employees.” She pointed to the few other cars around them. Older, tatty, bought second hand on the cheap but still at a cost as they most likely required constant maintenance. These were the cars of service workers--night clerks, cleaners, cooks. He recognised Jinny’s old Skoda with it’s Leicester City FC sticker on the rear. That car had been in the Martin family for almost two decades now and somehow, through mechanical expertise or through sheer will, her resourceful father had managed to keep it running. No one would bother these cars with the shiny new BMWs and Audis on the other side of the hotel.

“What about traffic cameras? Back along the road?” Ross asked, not sure if he was being cautious or paranoid.

“Maybe, but Ross, there’s no law against bein’ out with a woman.”

“Who happened to pick me up on the side of the road in the middle of the night…”

“Well, let’s assume we had to meet up in the cover of dark to avoid gossip since you’re my boss...and because of your jealous girlfriend.”

“Demelza, you know I don’t have a girlfriend,” he grumbled. “This is ridiculous…”

“I know that, but the police wouldn’t. A clandestine affair--a fake one of course--is a perfect cover for sketchy behaviour. But if you’d prefer I not be your alibi…”

“This isn’t a game!” he snapped again. He couldn’t stand that she’d laughed just now. Then a thought hit him and he had to ask. “How did you even know where I was going? That I’d be heading from the beach towards the airfield on foot?”

“Dr. Enys told me.”

“What? This just gets more unbelievable! Dwight knew this was top secret--why the hell did he tell you?”

“Top secret but still you told him?” she snorted. “Well, I’m glad you did, I suppose. He couldn’t follow you himself--he’d a call from one of his ‘patients’, which I think was actually code for Caroline wanted him to come round’--so he thought I might be able to stop you. At least he has some faith in me.”

“Oh come on, this isn’t about what I think of you…”

“Isn’t it though? You clearly don’t trust me and you don’t think I can handle myself and you think I’m silly.”

“Silly?”

“Oh sorry--ridiculous was the word you just used. Anyway Dwight was wary of the whole arrangement and thought it stank to high heaven.”

“Why didn’t he tell me that himself?!”

“He said he did--did you actually listen? And before you get angry at him, you should thank your lucky stars that he was still at Nampara when Trencrom sent word of the ‘new’ meetin’ point...”

“It wasn’t Trencrom who rang me,” he corrected her. “It was Charlie who told me the meet up was moved to the airfield.”

“Charlie Kempthorne? That tosser? Are you shitting me? And you didn’t think it was suspicious that Charlie would be privy to some secret revised plan and you wouldn’t?” she scoffed. “But really, Ross, you should be fucking grateful to have Dwight as a mate. He’s a real friend, you know.”

“I never said he wasn't.”

“No, you just said I wasn't,” she snorted.

“Oh come on, Demelza. You know I didn't mean that. What are you going on about?”

“In case it isn’t clear, Ross,” she hissed, “I am still so angry at you.” She spoke through clenched teeth. “That you got involved with those weasels in the first place, that you shut me out, that you almost...”

“It’s none of your business!” he shouted. “Why are you being this way?”

“Okay, it’s not my business and I’m not your friend, just some stupid girl who works for you and is used to clearin’ up your messes--and who knows she’ll be out of that job if--no, sorry--when you get nicked. Fuck this shit. And fuck you, Ross!” Without looking at him, she stepped out of the car and slammed the door.

Ross immediately followed her, afraid that she’d keep shouting and wake the hotel. She stopped in her tracks a few yards away and stood silently. It might have been the first time in nearly thirty minutes that she’d stopped yelling at him. Ross leaned against the still-warm bonnet of the car and exhaled.

Perhaps she’d known what she was doing, parking the car in a farthest corner of the lot, under a broken street lamp. They were completely hidden in shadow, still Ross could make out her face--her narrowed, feral eyes, her gnashing teeth that gleamed in the faint moonlight. For a moment he thought she might bite him.

He cautiously took a step forward then paused to read her posture.

The chill in the air--and in the words they’d just thrown at each other--was causing her shoulders to shake. He noticed she was wearing a blue jumper just a shade darker than her brilliant eyes. The sleeves were too long, and she’d had to repeatedly push them up, but they wouldn't cooperate and now hung past her fingertips.

It was his, he then realised, the old one he usually left hanging on the peg by the front door.

He almost asked her what she was wearing--or rather why she was wearing it--but instead, aware that he’d been moved and not all sure of the reason, he did something else. He made two broad strides towards her.

Startled, she looked up at him. Her shining eyes lit the night.

“Yes, like you said...fuck this shit…” he laughed and put his hand on her elbow, pulling her towards him. He expected resistance, but he found none.

It was only a moment that they just stared at each other but it felt eternal, and then at some unspoken signal, they crashed together.

It was an untidy and urgent kiss--almost violent in its clumsiness had it not been fueled by such sincere desperation. Then, as they both found their breath, their arms found each other. A great weight had been lifted--one that neither Ross nor Demelza even realised they were shouldering until that moment.

He wove his hands through her hair and kissed her again. This time their lips worked together, carried by the flood of surging desire and long-sought release.

“Demelza, I’m so sorry I got you in this.” His voice was low but soft. Now his hands framed her face, afraid she might slip away like sand through his fingers.

“Ross, I was just so scared for you.”

He could hear the tears she was trying to hold back and understood why she’d been so angry with him. He’d been such a spectacular idiot, and in more ways than one.

“Me too. When you turned up, Demelza...my blood ran cold at the thought that I'd lured you into danger. I would never let anyone hurt you…” He ran the backs of his fingers gently down her cheek then kissed her pulsing temple.

“I couldn't leave you Ross, I just couldn't,” she cried into his neck.

“Thank you for caring for me even though I don’t deserve it. Come, you’re shivering. Let's go inside. We can talk more…” But instead of letting her go, he pressed her closer until he was certain he could feel her heart beating against his.

“I don't want to talk anymore,” she sniffled.

“Me neither. I just want to touch you and know you are safe.”

“Will you, Ross?”

Good god, I’ll never let you go, he thought.

“And can you trust me?” When she looked up at him, the hunted, defensive animal was gone. Now she was raw, vulnerable. She was softly opening herself to him, and doing so completely.

Ross understood what would happen next, what was happening now. He felt it in his gut and knew things would never be the same.

“Of course I do,” he whispered. “More than anyone.”

The darkness of the night--their secret accomplice--wrapped herself protectively around them.

Demelza lifted her face towards him and Ross kissed her once more.

[fandom-hoarder]

Baby Brother

[companion piece to Feeling Small; Dean’s POV, fluff + slight angst; don’t come at me for the gimme title]

At first, Dean has no idea why he’s suddenly conscious and not reaching for his gun. His fingers just graze the butt of it, but he doesn’t have the urge to close the distance. After a split-second of concentration, though, the reason is obvious: Sam. Namely, the soft but ragged breaths Dean hears coming from the bed behind him, growing more labored by the second; a sound Dean is, unfortunately, used to identifying. Though, it’s been awhile. Almost a year, he thinks. Longer than the last time Sam woke up with growing pains, and Dean can tell Sam’s current anxious breathing apart from the pained groans that have been more frequent lately. Dean had started to settle into the idea that Sam was finally growing out of his nightmares.

Too much to hope for, apparently.

There’s a fleeting thought, a vague hint of annoyance, at the fact that this is Sam’s first nightmare since separate beds became their default rather than a rarity and a luxury. Calming Sam down is so much easier when they’re sharing space. But it had been Sam’s decision in the first place; yet another push for independence and his own (literal) space; and Dean hadn’t argued, despite the urge that nagged at him sometimes. When your sixteen-year-old little brother insists he needs his own personal space, it looks weak and clingy to try to argue about it. So, naturally, Dean had pulled away like the ultimate specimen of machismo that he was, making sure Sam knew that Dean had only been putting up with the arrangement for Sam’s sake in the first place, and to make things easier on Dad. Making sure to gripe about it at least as much as Sam any time they had no other option but to share since then. 

Even so, Sam was usually much more pliable in the middle of the night; accepting more help with things when he was sleepy; when their world was blurry around the edges, dwindled down to the bubble that encompassed the two of them in that space between wakefulness and sleep.

He calls out to Sam sleepily, refusing to open his eyes and hoping to quickly nip this in the bud so he can go back to sleep. So they both can. It comes out more grumpy than inviting, and he inwardly winces, but he doesn’t worry long. 

He hears Sam gasp sharply and then there’s a flurry of movement as his little brother flings his covers away and clambers over. Dean braces for the chill of air on his warm skin as Sam squirms in behind him, but his little brother comes with his own furnace-like aura, especially when he’s worked up from some kind of night terror. He feels the heat of the air between them close in as Sam settles, and Dean holds still, taking his cues from Sam for how much contact he wants. 

Sam’s bony elbows press against Dean’s lower back, and he feels the barest hint of contact between the backs of his thighs and Sam’s legs. Sam’s slightly clammy forehead coming to rest between his shoulder blades, however, is enough to raise faint goosebumps along Dean’s skin. He wonders how Sam can possibly be comfortable, with the way he must be contorted. Sam’s body is way too long now for this position to feel natural.

Sometimes it kinda pisses him off that Sam is going to be taller than him any day now. It also makes him proud, though. Somehow, despite all the odds against him, he managed to raise this kid up big and healthy. But right now, it just makes him kind of heartsick for the days when his little brother was, well, actually little. He guesses he should just be grateful that Sam isn’t actually treating him like the little spoon here, but it still rankles. Dean’s still bigger than him, dammit; at least for now.

Dean keeps his eyes closed and tries to hold still; relax; resist the urge to take control and switch their positions, and just breathe. Be the type of solid comfort Sam needs right now—no matter how dissatisfying it feels for Dean, or how much he knows Sam will end up with a crick in his neck and back if he stays like this—and let both of them fall back to sleep. For a minute or two, it seems to work, but soon he feels Sam’s breathing getting worked up again; shuddering the way it does when tears are in the not too distant future. 

Dean reaches back awkwardly to run his hand through Sam’s hair, hoping the contact will ground him. Somehow, though, it only seems to make things worse as Sam lets out a sort of wounded sob.

‘Yeah, okay, that’s it,’ Dean thinks with a sigh, finally opening his eyes as he accepts his fate. He twists himself around under the covers and wraps his arms around Sam, ankle looping around Sam’s and trapping that leg between his thighs. Dean’s left hand finds Sam’s right and wraps around his bony wrist, pulling it to his chest as he re-settles Sam against him more comfortably. And there’s something intensely satisfying about how he executed this maneuver; how easily he’s still able to manhandle his little brother, despite Sam’s recent increase in size. Dean’s momentary smirk presses his cheek against Sam’s head as he reaches up to card through Sam’s hair again.

It’s full; soft and fluffy on top, but still damp on the bottom layers from the shower Sam took after Dean last night. His hair is so long and thick, past his chin in the front and curling out around the nape of his neck; it always takes hours to dry naturally, and Sam refuses to use a hair dryer. Dad’s probably going to make Sam cut it any day now for practical reasons. Dean rags on Sam all the time about his girly hair, but secretly he loves it. The kid’s always had a lot of hair, but it’s gotten thicker in the last couple of years. And Dean grew up petting his brother’s hair—it’s the only thing that could get little Sammy back to sleep most of the time, or calm him down if he was fussy; although sometimes it’d only worked if it was accompanied by Dean’s careful croon of ‘Hey Jude’—and at this point he can admit, at least to himself, that it soothes him also.

And Dean definitely needs that calming action now as he prepares himself for what he needs to do. He takes a deep breath as he comes to terms with it, and the familiar, sweet scent of Sam’s special shampoo keeps his heart calm under Sam’s hand. Good.

“Nightmare?” he whispers.

Sam nods against Dean’s shoulder and cheek, and Dean’s fingers still until the movement is over so they don’t snarl in his hair.

“Wanna talk about it?” he barely wants to give the question breath, but he knows he has to. His heartbeat stays steady as he waits for the reply, but his dread of the answer seems to make the question echo around him.

When Sam shakes his head ‘no,’ Dean doesn’t hold back from tugging at his hair a bit in retaliation. Dean hadn’t even wanted to ask in the first place, but Sam is for damn sure gonna answer him now that he’s ignored his first impulse and asked anyway.

“Can’t remember it,” Sam mumbles, and the graze of his lips over Dean’s clavicle threatens goosebumps across Dean’s chest.

Dean frowns at the reply. On the one hand, he knows Sam’s telling the truth, but that Sam could probably remember it if he tried; he’s done it before, more than once. On the other hand, Dean has never liked the outcomes of those times--the subject matter or how remembering affected Sam. After the last one, Sam didn’t--maybe couldn’t--sleep again until… well, Dean’s not even going to let his thoughts go there right now. It was all just coincidence, anyway. Sam’s subconscious taking his worries and lore knowledge and coming up with unfortunately realistic scenarios in his dreams. Side effect of being the brainy, research geek, Dean had told him, and Sam clearly hadn’t believed him but only gave a patented bitchface in reply.  

Point being: every time it happens, Dean gets closer and closer to having zero excuses left for why he hasn’t told their father yet. But, hey, if Sam can’t remember then… who’s to say what he dreamed about? Probably just a normal, stupid, run of the mill nightmare about clowns or something… He digs his fingers a little deeper into Sam’s hair, massaging into his scalp a bit to ease any tension left there from his dreams, the way he has since Sam was little. 

When Sam was about four or five, he’d woken from a nightmare inspired by a monster movie Dean had been watching on late night TV. They’d been sharing a pull-out couch in the living room of a tiny, one-bedroom apartment Dad had rented, and Dean had gotten in the habit of falling asleep to the TV in the living room when Dad was gone; he didn’t want to say it made him feel safer, but that was the truth. When Sam had woken up with a cry, covered with sweat and face sticky with tears, the TV screen had long since stopped showing the blocky colors that signaled the end of the broadcast day and was now just the staticky non-picture that Dean called ‘snow.’

Dean had woken immediately at Sam’s cries, and pulled him over into his arms, doing his best to shield his little brother’s eyes from the light of the TV screen as he shushed him and dried his tears, asking if he had a bad dream. When Dean realized it was the monster movie that caused Sam’s nightmare, he’d felt bad, and promised not to watch scary stuff before bed anymore. Then he’d tucked Sammy against him and started combing his fingers through his sweat-damp, baby-soft hair, rubbing the pads of his fingers against Sam’s head as Dean whispered to him that he had a magic trick that would let him pull the bad thoughts out of Sam’s head. For a while, Sam wholly believed it was magic, and it worked so well that Dean almost did, too. 

The dread in Dean’s gut eases slightly with the memory, but not completely. He’s too aware of the thoughts he’s avoiding.

Just when he starts to think Sam’s drifted off, the pattern of air moving across Dean’s collarbone stutters as Sam breathes, “I miss this.”

“Miss what?” Dean asks, feeling an inexplicable eagerness as he anticipates Sam’s reply.

“Feeling small.”

Immediately, Dean’s thoughts cycle back to where they’d been earlier: Sam’s impending status as tallest Winchester boy, and Dean’s continued status as big brother no matter what. This time, the ache in his heart is more for Sam than himself. There’s a happiness, too, though; he’s glad for the darkness and the creeping slumber that loosened Sam’s tongue enough to say it. 

After he’s squeezed Sam close—feeling the incredible thinness of him, the ridges of bone under newly-stretched skin a little uncomfortable at spots but all the more a comfort because of how it adds to Sam’s overall delicate feel right now—Dean splays his hand over Sam’s back, testing how much area the spread from his thumb to pinky still covers. It feels like a lot, and Dean finds himself thinking proudly that he’s still able to be Sam’s protector.

Dean rubs his thumb soothingly over the edge of skin it can just reach, and presses his cheek against Sam’s head to promise, “You’ll always be my baby brother.”

When Sam���s fingers clumsily grab Dean’s amulet, the goosebumps that have been threatening this whole time finally make their appearance. The pull of Sam’s hand on the cord is a nostalgic weight that gives his heart a little lurch. Dean feels Sam’s breathing finally even out, and allows a long, slow exhale of relief.

But Dean knows he’s not going back to sleep himself any time soon. He’s going to stay awake and hold his baby brother tight; keep the nightmares away—real and imagined; soak in the memory of Sammy still small in his arms and needing comfort neither of them will admit to in the light of day.

And he knows this will be one of the few times he doesn’t tease Sam about it in the morning, whether or not Dad comes home safe.

[karlyanalora]

Conversationalist Obi-Wan 🤣

Obi-Wan rambles in his sick state.

Obi-Wan does not get sick often. It was probably for the good of the galaxy that this was the case. But when he was about to get sick, the rest of the universe had plenty of warning.

Which meant Anakin had plenty of time to arrange a visit to The Negotiator right before Obi-Wan came down with a nasty cold. The only downside was that Anakin could only stay for a day and thus would miss most of the entertainment.

Threepwood was all too ready to take a break when Anakin waltzed into the medbay.

“Hello, Master!”

Obi-Wan’s face split into a loopy grin as he tried to get up but ran into the bedrail instead. “Anakin!”

Anakin smiles. These were the times he lived for as a padawan. “How are you feeling Master?”

Obi-Wan slumped back in his bed, head plopping into his hand with a look of pure unbelieving shock that you’d see on a teenage girl presented with a fashion faux pas.

“Horrible, Anakin, I mean I have never felt so terrible in my entire life! I’m sure I’m dying.”

Anakin grinned. “Oh really?”

“Yes! I mean, maybe I’ve felt worse. Like that time Dooku zapped me with Sith lighting.” Obi-Wan’s face morphed into pure disgust and fury. “Dooku! Ooo, I want to wring his skinny neck! How dare he chop your hand off! He is a horrible Master, horrible…” Obi-Wan petered off his face turning into pure horror.

“What if I’m a horrible Master?” he whispered.

And before Anakin could say anything to the contrary, the waterworks started.

“Oh, Anakin, I’m so sorry! I know I can come off as critical, but that’s only because I love you. I don’t know what I would do if I lost you. You are my precious baby brother and I know I was nowhere ready to take you on as a Padawan and can you ever forgive me…?”

Anakin was now uncomfortably aware of the other patients trying not to stare at them. And of course, Ahsoka chose that moment to walk in and lean smugly against the wall.

“Ahsoka…”

She shook her head, smiling. “Nu-uh, Skyguy. I’m going to hear all your embarrassing padawan stories. Every last one of them.”

Obi-Wan blinked. “Embarrassing stories, eh? Well, I’ve got quite a few. Though I’m not sure who was more embarrassed. Anakin was the worst padawan ever, always speaking out of turn. Never knew when to shut up!”

That rankled Anakin. “Now, Master, I think that might be a bit harsh…”

“‘A bit harsh?’! Anakin, you would do it all the time. In every meeting I ever had, you would do something rude, whether speaking out of turn or pulling the other padawans braid.”

“But his braid was on the wrong side, Master!”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow at him and turned back to Ahsoka. “He was constantly pushing my buttons. He was the most belligerent youngling ever to walk the Temple halls. Constantly arguing over every little thing. Never listening to me. Refusing to talk to me. He actually bit me once when I tried to hug him.” Obi-Wan paused thoughtfully, “Though to be honest that time I looked like I was preparing to hug an urchin.” Obi-Wan smiled brightly. “It doesn’t matter now; he has a padawan just like him.”

Anakin burst out laughing at Ahsoka’s offended face.

“Don’t look so offended. Just...so...you know,” he spluttered out, “he won’t remember any of this once he feels better.”

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

Satine received a comm call from Obi-Wan in the middle of the night. Whatever her fears were, they were quickly soothed despite Obi-Wan’s words.

“Satine, I think I’m dying.”

She smiled and rolled her eyes. “Obi, you don’t sound like you’re dying.”

“But I am! And I have so much to tell you!”

“Like what?”

“You’re headdress makes you look like a fathead. And believe me, your head is big enough without it.”

“Obi-Wan!” Satine protested.

But Obi-Wan was on a roll.

“I think you would look better with a tiara, something small, silver perhaps to accent the soft golden waves. Oh, how I wish I could run my hands through it one last time! Alas, all beautiful things must come to an end. Even I!”

He quickly switched gears. “What do you call a female Mandalorian? Girlorians? How do Death Watch people see everything? Do they turn their heads? Do they have sensors in the back of their helmets? Also, I wasn’t aware you had a sister. I mean I know for a fact that Korkie isn’t mine, despite what the rumor mill says. I wasn’t aware you had another boyfriend besides myself.”

“Now, now, Obi-Wan, you decided to remain a Jedi…”

“Oh, that’s right. The universe needs me even more than you do, my love. Now what to do about that other boyfriend...you don’t happen to have a sister, do you?”

“Goodnight, Obi-Wan. I hope you feel better in the morning.”

“‘Better?’ I feel wonderful!”

“I thought you said you were dying.”

“Oh, yes. That’s right. Thank you for reminding me. What would I do without your loving reminders to die?”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Then what do you really mean, Satine?” he said in a dreamy voice.

“I really mean that I have to go now.”

“And so must I, from this life into the next. May my Forced ghost forever haunt you dreams…”

Another voice could be heard. “Master, I wasn’t aware that was how the Force worked.

“Anakin!”

And that is when Satine hung up.

[angst-fairygodmother]

Hello there! Idk if you’re still taking requests, so if you aren’t, ignore this! But I was wondering if you could write Diego x reader, where she meets his siblings for the first time, and at first it’s kinda awkward, but then they get more comfortable and maybe just like fluff after when they get back home? It might be totally stupid but idk. I love your writing!💕💕

A/N: Babe, it’s totally not stupid at all. Meeting the family shenanigans is basically the perfect trope for this show.  Sort of accidentally ended up a sequel to this fic, so I ran with it.  Word Count: 1678 Content Warnings: Season 2 spoilers

“Are you sure you want to do this, Y/N?” Diego asked, gripping your hand tightly as the two of you walked toward the restaurant. “It’s not too late for us to just leave.”

“Diego Hargreeves, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you didn’t want me to meet your family,” you teased, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s one dinner, it’ll be okay.”

“You say that now,” he muttered and you rolled your eyes affectionately in response before pulling open the door and walking inside.

When you gave your names to the hostess, she smiled brightly and told you that the rest of your party was already waiting for you, before leading you to a large table in a private room off the main dining area. Four pairs of eyes turned to you appraisingly. You swallowed nervously and put on a smile of you own.

“Hi everyone, sorry we’re late,” you said, taking one of the two empty seats, somewhat awkwardly as Diego still refused to let go of your hand. “Someone didn’t believe me that traffic was going to be a nightmare on a Friday night.”

One of the women at the table, who you vaguely recognized from a cheesy romance playing on late-night cable and therefore deduced was Allison smiled in a way that felt indulgent and false; it didn’t quite reach her eyes; it was rehearsed.

“Oh he never listens to anybody, don’t take it personally, Y/N,” the smaller of the two men said, stretching across the table and offering you a broad grin and a hand with the word hello tattooed on it. “I’m Klaus, and you’re the gorgeous creature my brother’s decided to shack up with, huh?”

You couldn’t help but giggle at his greeting, shaking his hand politely while Diego glared. “Nice to meet you Klaus,” you said with a smile.

“You know, I already like you better than his last two girlfriends. You haven’t tried to arrest or kill me!”

“Sorry what? Is that a joke?” you frowned in confusion as you let go of his hand and leaned back, glancing over at Diego to see his tight jaw and stony face, clear indications that he was upset.

You hand sought his under the table and you gave it a gentle squeeze, drawing his gaze to you and smiling at him.

‘It’s all good, relax,’ you mouthed.

“No I’m deadly serious,” Klaus continued. “For a while he was with this lady cop on-again/off-again style and she’d arrest me for drugs when she caught me around. Until she was tragically murdered by time-travelling assassins who kidnapped me looking for Five. Then while we were in the 60s, he fell for this girl from the nuthouse who turned out to be a plant and totally tried to kill us!” He gave a pained little chuckle, as if to say, ‘can you believe that?’

You stared at him, open-mouthed and aghast.

“Ignore Klaus, he’s never known when to shut up a day in his life,” the woman you had first noticed said. “I’m Allison.”

Klaus shot her a look that somehow combined a pout and a glare, but fell silent. You felt some of the tension sink out of Diego beside you, though he still didn’t seem comfortable. You smiled at her.

“It’s really nice to meet you,” you said, still trying to shake off the information Klaus had given (which seemed to line up with what the small, angry brother who was oddly not at dinner had said, and was far too much to actually process at the moment).

You turned to the two who hadn’t yet spoken. “So you must be Luther and Vanya?”

The man nodded, shifting in his seat and giving you an awkward little wave. The other woman glowered at you and said nothing. You frowned, wondering what you had done to earn her ire already.

Allison cleared her throat. “We ordered some bruschetta and sangria for the table before you arrived.”

The rest of dinner passed in much the same way as those first moments: Luther was mostly silent and clearly uncomfortable (whether with your presence or very fact of being out in public seemed unclear) but he started to relax and warm up as the evening went on, even once or twice sharing a stiff joke; Vanya was cold, barely responsive to your attempts to engage with her; Allison tried to play the hostess and keep topics light and small-talk-esque, breaking long silences with new conversations, obviously trying her best but ultimately resulting in a stilted performance; Klaus blurted out evidently whatever thoughts passed through his mind, usually bizarre and outlandish, sometimes profound and deeply sad. It was like none of them knew how to be normal people or have dinner with their sibling’s significant other, or an average conversation and you couldn’t help but feel oddly warmed by that, but the fact that they were so…human.

You did your best to keep up with all of them, appreciating Allison’s best efforts, laughing at some of Klaus’s jokes or countering his philosophical points, trying not to call too much attention to Luther or make him feel put on the spot. Diego felt his heart swell with pride at how well you did, and how you took everything in stride, even as the minutes seemed to drag on and he started to fear that dinner would never end.

The only thing that kept rankling at you was Vanya’s attitude, so when she got up to go to the bathroom, you excused yourself as well, cornering her in the hall of the restaurant.

“Hey, no offense, but what the hell is your problem with me?” you asked, tilting your head to one side, more curiosity than animosity in your tone.

She rolled her eyes, trying to push past you, but you resolutely blocked her path.

“I know I’m dating Diego and there’s like a whole weird history there or whatever, but don’t I at least deserve a chance before you decide to treat me like the devil?”

She sighed, shaking her head. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”                                        

“You seem nice, and you’re…normal. Our family doesn’t do well with that,” she explained, folding her arms over her chest. “I don’t want to do the whole friendly, welcome to the family or whatever bullshit. Cus you’re either going to turn out not actually normal and screw us over, or you’re going to turn out actually normal and get hurt or bail before you do.”

You stared at her for a long, silent moment.

“I’m not going anywhere. I love Diego, and I think for all that they’re weird, I like your family a lot.”

“You say that for now, but we’ll see.”

“If there’s really no way for me to change your mind, fine, but maybe the reason people leave is just because you shove them away.”

You turned and returned to the table with that, not giving her a chance to respond. You still weren’t thrilled, but at least you felt like you understood her better now, and she seemed to soften toward you at least a little for the rest of the evening.

By the time the check came (a check you noticed that Allison picked up without even glancing at the numbers) you felt like you had really gotten to know Diego’s siblings, and seen a different side of him as he slowly loosened up around them.

As you all got up to leave, it became a chain of “it was nice to meet you”s and “we should do this again”s. Allison moved in for a hug and you returned it happily enough. Luther patted you on the shoulder awkwardly, his big hand enveloping it as if you were a child, surprising you with his size more close up than the other end of the table. Klaus moved as if to follow you home, and then pouted much like a stray puppy when Diego gave him a stern look that communicated without words that he was not allowed to do so. Then he turned to you and hugged you. But where Allison’s was polite and somewhat formal, Klaus’s was anything but, his long limbs folding around you and his chin resting on your shoulder.

“It was sooo good to meet you,” he purred in your ear. “And I’m glad Diego found you.” He pulled back to look you in the eye, his hands still resting on your upper arms. “I mean it. You’re good for him. Take care of him.”

“I will,” you said with a smile. “And you take care of yourself.”

Vanya offered you a polite nod, and you took what you could get.

~

“Y/N, I’m so sorry about tonight,” Diego sighed, running his fingers through his hair as he sank down onto the couch.

“What are you talking about D? It was fine.” You hung your coat on one of the pegs near the door and then, with a roll of your eyes, picked up his from where he’d tossed it on the floor and hung it as well.

“It was torture. In fact I think I’d rather be tortured.”

“I mean sure it was awkward, and your family’s a little weird, but I knew going in not to expect anything else.”

“It didn’t make you regret the day you ever met me?”

You dropped onto the couch next to him, leaning into his side and tilting your head to kiss him, smiling against his mouth.

“I could never regret that babe.”

His arm circled your shoulders, drawing you closer as he returned your kiss fervently. He groaned as you pressed against him and ran your tongue over his lower lip, opening up to invite you in. It wasn’t often that he let you take the lead, so you took full advantage while you could, pressing him back against the cushions and straddling his lap, running your hands through his hair.

“Besides,” you said, pulling back to smile teasingly. “Now I won’t feel so bad when you meet my family.”

[hankwritten]

Lies, Damned Lies, and Valentine’s

Day 7 of the valentine’s day event, Whole Team

“Have the RED team vandalized us in the middle of the night?” Medic asked, gazing around the common room which had been papered with tiny hearts. “What is with all the pink?”

“Ach, it’s Valentine’s day, boyo!” Demo told him with a hearty slap on the back. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

Medic adjusted his glasses, which had fallen out of place with the overzealous display of masculine affection. “My wife and I are…estranged. I have not celebrated a Valentine’s day in a very long time.”

“Well, so long as you made your cards, you’re celebrating just fine.” When Medic didn’t respond, Demo pressed a, “you did make some cards, right lad?”

“Cards for who? I told you I have not spoken to-”

“For the team ya quack,” Demo snorted. “We always make cards for each other on Valentine’s day.”

“…Like kindergarteners,” Medic asked drily.

“Don’t be such a stick in the mud doc,” Demo elbowed him. “It’s a tradition.”

Medic crossed his arms, and kicked a small paper heart that had fallen on his shoe. “Well no one told me about it.”

At that, Demo finally paused. “Ah, I suppose everyone forgot to mention it to the rookie. Don’t worry though!” This time, Medic dodged the pat aimed at his shoulder. “Everyone knows you only got here a month or so ago, they won’t hold you to any obligations.”

“What a relief.” Medic rolled his eyes.

He was able to put the ridiculous conversation out of his mind thanks to the oncoming battle, slinging on his pack with a feeling of purpose. Dealing with REDs and avoiding Spies took most of his concentration, as a day that he went about distracted was a day he’d find quite a few Sniper shots through his head. However, as much as he’d dismissed Valentine’s by the midday break that afternoon, it appeared his teammates hadn’t.

He’d followed Heavy to the cover of the sentry nest, but as his partner was filling up Sasha, he noticed that Engie had laid out a few pieces of folded paper on top of the dispenser. Medic wandered closer. It took him a moment to parse what he was seeing, but then he remembered the travesty that had become of the common room and realized Demo had been dead serious about Valentine’s Day. Engineer’s valentines were spread out neatly, all unique, all cheerfully signed by members of the team. Scout had draw a rather good rendition of the man himself standing next to his sentry, a little heart between them. Sniper had written ‘THANKS TRUCKIE’ in block letters. Even Soldier had put in some effort, as he had used red, white, and blue construction paper to make what might have been the shape of Texas if you squinted enough.

Nearby, Pyro was showing off their own collection. Scout had also drawn a picture for them (of Mayor Balloonicorn), which they had delicately set in the grass, their other cards out before them. The one from Engie they were attacking with vigor, since the Engineer had been forward thinking enough to glue tiny pieces of candy to the folded paper.

“They’re all real nice Pyro,” he was chuckling. “Though maybe put them back in your pocket? Don’t want them to get dirty.”

Pyro nodded, and began shuffling them back into a pouch within their chemsuit.

“They take this very seriously, don’t they?” Medic noted absently about the pair.

Heavy, having loaded on the ammo required, turned and saw Medic mulling over Engineer’s cards. “Oh, da! Every year. We do not spend holidays together, so for team, is closest thing.”

As he spoke, he reached into his front pocket. Something with Demo’s handwriting dashed all over it appeared in his hand, obnoxiously saccharine with its copious hearts and overuse of the color red. Yet the Heavy Weapons Guy displayed it proudly, and Medic offered him a wry smile.

“I had no idea,” Medic mused.

“…Team forget to tell you?” Heavy rumbled. “Heavy see. Heavy wondered why doctor did not give him one.”

Medic coughed lightly into his hand. “I wasn’t aware until this morning-”

“No, is alright. Heavy’s little joke.” He patted Medic on the shoulder, which was (surprisingly) more reserved than Demo’s attempt at the same. “We kill RED babies, that is gift enough, da?”

Medic agreed, and followed him off into battle. However, this time the threat of the loving spirit stuck, and Medic found himself skewered on the end of the Spy’s knife more than he was comfortable with. He tried to shake himself, to forget his teammates’ foolish obsession, but one thought kept rankling him: he might have not known to send out cards, but why hadn’t anyone gotten him anything?

They returned to BLU base with an embarrassing loss on their collars, though you wouldn’t know by looking. Everyone was in the common showing of their haul, passing around heart shaped cookies that someone had made last night and stuffed in the fridge. Medic tried one, and nearly gagged on how much sugar had been crammed into such a small package.

Apparently everyone had gotten the same memo about Demo’s cards, as each one came with a tiny novel vodka attached. Demo peeled off the last one (from Soldier with a picture of a shovel on it, saying simply I Dig You) with the utmost care, lining them up next to his whiskey bottle.

“Look!” he grinned to Soldier. “Me scrumpy’s birthed a litter!”

Soldier, who had taken to taping his own cards to his helmet, slapped him on the back. “Congratulations! You’re a grandfather!”

Scout, like Pyro, couldn’t help but flaunt his, claiming that he got the most out of anyone. When Sniper pointed out that everyone got seven cards, he pivoted to say, “yeah well mine are the best, quality over quantity Snipes.”

Medic shouldn’t have been irritated. He didn’t care about Valentine’s Day, not in the slightest, so why was he getting so terse about his teammates’ holiday cheer? Of course they didn’t get cards for the rookie, they probably would have gotten cards for their old Medic, not him.

That thought itself would have put anyone in a sour mood, but the tipping point was when he walked the corner and saw Spy delicately arranged bits of red-hued paper into a manila folder, smiling slightly as he set the last one down. Medic was close enough to read, saw Sniper’s handwriting, and also that the poem it was quoting was incomplete. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. / I love thee to the depth and breadth and height. The next two lines were missing— Medic knew enough of poetry to glean that—which meant Sniper probably had the other half. All shuffled always with the other ones he’d gotten from Scout and Engie and Demo and whoever, but the most important thing Medic could determine from the display was all those people had given Spy valentines too. Spy. Medic’s eye twitched. Before he knew it he was barreling past Spy, out past the others in order to get to the hallway. There were a couple exclamations of confusion, a few calls asking what was wrong, but Medic ignored them all.

He didn’t need their obligatory attempts to include him, he could see when he wasn’t wanted.

“Doctor! Wait!”

He considered not stopping for the deep voice behind him, but unless he wanted to go charging off onto the battlefield, his path would eventually take him back around base. He sighed, and turned to face the man behind him.

“Can I help you?” Medic snapped. There was no use pretending he wasn’t miffed.

“What is the matter?” Heavy asked. “Have not seen you this angry before.”

“Well that is not a big surprise considering we barely know each other, apparently.” Medic crossed his arms.

Heavy furrowed his brow. Always a man of few words, he either didn’t know what to say, or figured it was better not to antagonize Medic further, and so he settled for waiting for his teammate to elaborate.

Medic relented eventually, shoulders sagging as he exhaled. “I realize I am not…part of the team so to speak. I understand I am not as close to you all as your old Medic was, and I do not blame you for not including me, but it is still…difficult to watch everyone open cards and…not receive any myself.” God it sounded so childish when he said it allowed. He was a doctor for god’s sake! He should be above such petty jealousies.

As his self consciousness closed in, he hunched, and failed to look at Heavy. It took the man saying, “doctor did not get valentines? Is not possible,” for Medic to turn back around and see him shaking his head. “At very least, Heavy give card.”

“You…?” Medic unfolded his arms. “When?”

Heavy raised an eyebrow. “Did doctor not check locker?” When Medic blinked, Heavy added, “is where we put at start of day, so none get lost.”

“…Just like in kindergarten,” Medic finished the thought and pinched the bridge of his nose. “God I am such a dummkopf.”

Heavy chuckled, clearly glad to have resolved the situation. “Medic is far from. Come, we look now.”

So Medic did come, entering resupply and walking to his locker, taking a moment to brace himself as he grasped the handle. He turned it. Immediately, he was hit with an avalanche of purple, pink, and red, an absolute tidal wave of valentines rushing out to greet him from where they’d been conglomerating inside his locker like a clogged artery.

There were so many, decorated all with his class symbol or words of thanks. Pyro had made at least four, decorated with crayons and rainbow drawings, sticking slightly where the paint hadn’t dried. Medic picked one off the floor. Scout had drawn Archimedes beautifully, which was astounding considering the two hadn’t gotten along since the Über incident, and it must have been quite a strain to sit still long enough to capture the bird’s likeness. Engie had detailed out a list over every time Medic had saved his bacon in the past month, Spy had written something long and oddly heartfelt, Soldier had gifted him a coupon for one free haircut. The list went on.

It took Heavy gently touching his shoulder while he read Sniper’s uncharacteristically kind letter to realize he was holding his hand over his mouth. He cleared his throat, but despite that still couldn’t find words.

“Medic is part of team,” Heavy stated, matter of fact. “We appreciate. Do not forget that.”

Medic’s eyes fell on a large card, tucked behind the Quick-Fix in the back of the locker so it hadn’t come tumbling out with the rest. This one was unquestionably from Heavy. Medic wasn’t sure how he knew, but he did.

Delicately, he reached out and took it, seeing it was nearly the size of a proper book, made out of two pieces of paper tied with a string. He gently gazed over the words inside, drinking them all in, and then softly spoke, “thank you mein friend.”

“Is no trouble.” Heavy squeezed his shoulder, and Medic could tell his friend was smiling by the chuckle in his voice. “Now! We go. Back to party, doctor should get to show off his cards too.”

“Yes, lets. But ah…not this one though,” Medic finished, softly folding Heavy’s card back up. “This one I will keep here.”

Heavy smiled. “If doctor likes.” With that, Medic followed him back to the party.

[snowdice]

Big Bang (Sort of) Editing Story [Day 29]

I started writing this fic while editing my Big Bang story, but am going to continue doing it for other things now that Kill Dear is out. I will write and publish 100 words of the story every time I finish doing whatever task I’m doing. If you’d like to block these proceedings, please feel free to block the tag proofread stories. I will reblog this post with the parts of the story I do today. Edited chapters are linked; everything else I’ve done so far is under the cut.

My Master Post Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

I’m giving myself the night off schoolwork and going to catch up on some editing and other stuff. So, let’s have fun with the babies!

Over the course of the next three days of Virgil’s captivity, Virgil would come to the conclusion that his captors were idiots.

This thought flickered to life once again as Logan leaned into the closet to point out another constellation on the ceiling, tottering unstably on his knees as his weight shifted forward and distracted by his enthusiasm.

They were alone in the prince’s room. Patton had left only a few minutes before to help his mother in the kitchen (less because she needed help and more to not make her suspicious about why he’d spent so much time away in the last few days).

He wouldn’t be back for a while and Virgil had full mobility in the closet. With Logan leaning over the threshold like that, it would be easy to kill him or even just incapacitate him. One rough yank on his arm would have him completely in the closet. Virgil had no question that he could pin him down so he couldn’t activate the restraints, and even if he managed to do so, he’d have been drawn close enough that Virgil could use his legs. He could either force him to take off the cuffs or, since they automatically went to the second setting when he left the closet, just deal with it until he managed to get away.

It would just be so easy. Yet, he did not. He just watched Logan as he leaned stupidly over an assassin while info dumping about stars.

This was the first day that he hadn’t felt at all tired when he’d drank the provided nutrition and healing potion, though it had never affected him quite as much as it had the first day. Logan said that meant that his injuries must be healed. It was a weird feeling. He didn’t remember when the last time was that he wasn’t damaged in some way. Even before his grueling training, there’d always been bullies at the orphanage and he’d been the youngest and smallest in his age group.

He was also more well rested and fed than he had been in as long as he could remember. He felt better then he knew was possible today, and he suspected that he would only feel better after a bit more time under their care.

He told himself that is why he didn’t lash out now. He was waiting until he was as strong as possible to make sure his escape went as well as it could, even if it was a risk. They’d mentioned that the king would be gone for three weeks. After he returned, Virgil would surely be turned over to people much more capable of actually keeping him well trapped and less likely to feed him well, give him a nice place to sleep, and leave him without injury. It was a gamble to stay, because it was possible that he wouldn’t find another opportunity in time and would get handed over to his fate. Really, if he was being reasonable, he should get out now while he felt good and had a secured opportunity.

Still, he did not. He had not any of the times they’d given him the opportunity in the last few days. Logan finished his sentence and leaned back out of the closet to safety. He still was speaking though in that soft happy tone. Logan liked the stars. He liked to talk about the stars, and Virgil found he liked to listen to him. They tended to end up in this position whenever Patton was away, just talking as Virgil laid in his closet.

Eventually, Logan’s latest story tapered out. There was silence then for a few moments. Virgil stared up at the fake stars on the ceiling. The stars that Logan had made for him when he really did not have to. Virgil had not been expecting lights in the closet, let alone ones so beautiful and thoughtful. Not ones with stories behind them. Just days ago, if someone had told Virgil the prince would be keeping him in his closet for the next few weeks, Virgil wouldn’t have expected a blanket let alone all of this.

He turned his head to look at Logan. “What?” Logan asked.

“Your magic’s very beautiful,” Virgil said.

Logan seemed pleased by the complement, lighting up almost as much as the stars he made. “Well, it’s just a basic light spell,” he said, “though I did make some adjustments to them and the dimmer was a bit more difficult. Anyone could do it with practice.”

Virgil shook his head. “They’re special, I think,” he said. “Your magic’s different than most people.”

“How so?” Logan asked curiously.

“It’s gentle,” he said. “Gentle and warm, like eating the warm soup you fed me a couple of days ago.”

“And other people’s magic feels different?” he asked.

Virgil nodded. “I’ve met a lot of magic users, but it always felt bad. Usually it hurts or makes you feel sick or just makes you uncomfortable. Even healing magic always felt like bugs nibbling at my skin, but the potion you’ve been having me drink in the morning feels… safe. It doesn’t hurt or make me want to cry. It’s just good.”

“Magic often has much to do with the caster’s intentions,” Logan said.

“I think you could poison me gently.”

Logan made an odd expression. “That…” he said, nose scrunched. “That is a strange thing to say.”

Virgil cocked his head. “Is it?”

“Yes!” Logan said, shaking his head. “You are far too comfortable with the concept of death for your age.”

“I’m fourteen,” Virgil argued. “That’s old enough to be sent on missions without a blood compulsion!”

“…A what?” Logan asked.

“A blood compulsion,” Virgil said. “You know, with a multrum.” Logan was frowning at him. “One works in your gardens and you’re a prince. You had to at least have seen one or two. They take a bit of blood and multrums process it into a little bead. Then you’ve got to do what your told or it hurts a lot.”

“I know what a blood compulsion is,” Logan said. “I am simply wondering who would put one on a fourteen-year-old.”

“They don’t,” Virgil said. “They stop putting them on people when they turn fourteen.”

“And exactly what is the age range for it?” Logan asked. Virgil was almost startled by the way his tone was quickly hardening. He’d never heard him be that harsh even when he’d first woken up in his custody. It made Virgil tense up.

“They take kids usually when they’re about 8 and it’s a year of training before your sent on a mission so 9-13,” he said.

“That’s horrible,” Logan spat so violently that Virgil flinched. Logan didn’t seem to notice. “They force children to kill under a blood compulsion?”

“Well, no one really wants to do it without one when they’re that little. They get scared, and usually try to chicken out so…”

“So, they torture them unless they kill someone.”

“I mean… it’s not. They have to agree to the deal.”

“And if they don’t agree to it?” Logan asked.

Virgil thought back to the second time they’d made him get a blood compulsion. It had been with the multrum before Janus, a girl by the name of Alina. He’d made the mistake of hesitating on his first kill and faced the consequences before finally giving in and doing the job. When the second mission had come around, Virgil hadn’t wanted to accept the blood compulsion.

That had been the first time they’d made him drink a binding potion. Logan seemed to be able to get an idea about it by the look on his face.

“So, your options were to be tortured, be tortured in a different way, or murder someone.” Logan looked at him. “You said your fourteen. Have you ever even killed of your own volition?”

“I… no,” he admitted, but quickly added, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t. I know what I’m doing.”

“That explains a lot about your personality and reactions so far.”

Virgil rankled at that for some reason. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Logan just stared at him for a long moment. “What they did, what they are doing isn’t right you know?” he said.

Virgil blinked at him but said nothing. He became more and more uncomfortable in the silence that ensued.

“Would you like to learn more about magic?” he asked. “There are many uses other then to hurt. I can teach you a few basics if you like.”

Virgil was confused about the topic change but was relieved about it. “Uh,” he thought. “Sure. That would be… interesting.”

Logan smiled at him. “I’ll set up something and we can work with it in the next few days. What would you like to learn?”

“Um, I have no idea. What is there?”

Logan considered it for a moment. “We could do a hair color changing potion. Or perhaps a small protection charm or I can teach you to make fire shapes.”

“Protection charm,” Virgil said without hesitation.

Logan gave him a sad smile. “Of course. I’ll start showing you how to make them tomorrow and we can actually make some the next day.”

“Okay,” Virgil agreed.

“Would you like to hear more about the stars?” he asked. Virgil nodded. He once again leaned into the closet to point and Virgil once again did not move to attack. Nor did he attack when that afternoon Patton turned his back on Virgil for far too long when they were alone. Nor did he when they settled him to bed once again in the closet. He told himself it was strategic, but he knew it wasn’t.

Chapter 12

Logan had needed to spend some time performing royal duties today which left Patton and Virgil alone after breakfast. Patton had started out trying to teach Virgil different board games. He’d seemed intrigued at first, but after a few games of checkers seemed to grow bored. Patton had gotten a blank stare when he’d asked if Virgil had any ideas about what to do for fun, so now he was trying to figure out something else they could do. He cast his eyes around at what Logan had in his bedroom.

“How about I read you a book?” he suggested.

Virgil seemed very intrigued by that idea. “Sure,” he said.

“Okay!” Patton said cheerfully. “He popped to his feet and glanced through the small shelf of fiction books Logan kept in his room. He decided to choose one of the lighter ones that Logan and he had liked to read when they were younger. “This one is called The Never-ending Garden,” Patton said. “It’s about a group of four children and their adventures in a garden. It’s full of magic and adventure and friendship! Is that alright with you?”

“It sounds good,” Virgil answered.

Patton happily walked back over to sit next to him. “It is!” he said.

First, he showed Virgil the picture on the cover of a wild looking garden with four kids roaming through it. One of the children was in a little red wagon being pulled by another one wearing a fancy hat. One of the others was walking, looking at a map while the last had a wooden sword. After giving Virgil a couple of moments too look at the picture, Patton cracked it open.

“We start with Lydia’s perspective,” Patton said. “She’s one of my favorites!” He pointed to a picture of a girl in a raincoat at the beginning of the chapter and Virgil leaned slightly closer to see. Then, Patton cleared his voice.

“It had been raining that day,” Patton began, “but Lydia had been so bored that she still begged her father to go out and play when the storm lightened into a sprinkle. He made her change from the yellow dress she had been wearing into the one she often used to help him garden because he knew she was certain to get herself muddy. Her younger brother Marcus asked if he could come too and though part of her wanted to say no because she wanted to explore on her own without her baby brother slowing her down, her father had taught her to be a good big sister, so she agreed to let him come.”

Patton watched Virgil out of the corner of his eye as he read about Lydia meeting up with the neighbor boy, Al, and the three children started to explore the garden in Lydia’s backyard. Virgil leaned in slightly to look at the pictures and listen to the story intently as the three children traveled deeper and deeper into the garden, but never made it to the back fence. They’d just made it to the part where they heard rustling behind the blackberry bush which Patton knew was the last main character, Melly, when Patton felt the need to adjust his posture a bit. Virgil moved in kind and ended up leaning further into Patton.

Without even really thinking about it, Patton brought his arm around to touch the top of his head. Virgil flinched the second Patton made content and Patton drew the hand away immediately. “Sorry,” he said with a wince. Patton was a naturally touching person and he’d been having trouble battling his instincts to cuddle everyone and everything while around Virgil, but he knew most touch was not welcome. The poor thing startled every time Patton went to touch him unannounced and even sometimes when he’d said something before doing it.

“I-it’s okay,” Virgil said.

Patton gave him a tight lipped smiled and turned back to the book.

He stilled a second later when Virgil leaned back in and their shoulders brushed. He blinked over at him. “Oh,” he said softly. “Do… do you want me to touch your hair?”

Virgil curled up into himself a little bit but then nodded.

“Okay,” Patton said. “I’m going to put my arm around you and do that then, okay?” He drew upon his years and years of convincing easily startled cats to allow him to give them pats as he slowly moved his arm back to where it had been before and gently touched the side of his head. He tensed, but didn’t startle this time, and so Patton gently ran his fingers through the hair a couple of times. Eventually, the tension bled out of him and he sort of slumped against Patton’s shoulder. Patton just barely restrained a coo before going back to reading. He continued to stroke the side of Virgil’s hair as he described the gang meeting up with Melly and them being told she was a fairy that lived in the garden.

He'd only gotten to the part about them finding the wagon when Virgil started to shift a bit uncomfortably, his neck craned in an awkward angle. Patton kept reading as he brought the hand in his hair down to his shoulder and pushed lightly. There was the slightest bit of resistance as Virgil didn’t know what he was trying to do, but then he allowed Patton to move him. Patton leaned back a bit and picked the book up off his lap before continuing to push him down. Virgil did not help at all, seeming confused about what was going on.

Patton had to poke him around until he was on his back laying across Patton’s lap. He grinned down at the boy who was looking at him in blatant bewilderment and propped the book up on his chest. He held it there with one of his hands and stretched the other out to resume messing with his hair. Virgil relaxed into the new position after a few minutes of reading, eyes shutting as he enjoyed the attention. His eyes would flicker open every time Patton moved to show him a picture, but other than that, he seemed content to not move.

Eventually, he stopped responding when Patton moved to show him the pictures.

“Are you asleep?” he asked quietly. When he didn’t get a response, he bookmarked the last picture Virgil had responded to, and then continued reading to himself.

Eventually, there was a knock at the door. It was the one he and Logan had decided on to tell the other one that it was just them and not to panic when the door opened. The door opened to Logan a moment later.

He paused, taking in the sight of the assassin sprawled across Patton’s lap like a sleepy kitten. He shook his head fondly and walked over to them on silent feet. He bent and pressed a hand to the top of Virgil’s hand. Virgil stirred just barely, but didn’t open his eyes, pressing into the touch a bit.

Logan smiled. “He wanted to learn how to make protection charms today. I assume you’d like to join us?” Patton perked up and nodded happily, making Logan chuckle softly. “I will go set it up then. Would you like another book for the time being?”

“Just the one I was reading last night would be nice,” Patton said.

“Of course.” Logan stepped away to grab it and handed it to him. Then, he disappeared into his potion’s lab. Patton smiled down at Virgil’s sleeping face and settled the new book onto his chest to replace the children’s book. He didn’t even stir.

Chapter 13

Logan was able to quickly set up the station for making protection charms. Patton had always liked making them, though he often used his more as fun accessories than for protection. The one he was going to show Virgil how to make was a very simple low level one used for little more than to keep bugs off of yourself and, in the event of a well made one, alert one to imminent danger by changing temperature. It was a nice thing to hold in the middle of the night if one was frightened by real or imagined threats. It would be warm to the touch when your environment was safe; he thought Virgil might appreciate it.

He and Patton decided to wait until Virgil woke up naturally which only took about 30 minutes. Then, Logan brought him to his set up supplies. He explained briefly the process for making a protection charm. “I will be the one performing the enchantment for today,” he told Virgil. “I will show you how to make your own later, but I thought seeing how to make them would help with the learning process.”

“Plus, it’s fun!” Patton said.

Logan flashed a smile at him. “And that as well. I’ve prepared a small number of possible pendants for you to choose from. You can choose the shape and color, then we will put on a custom engraving, as well as decorations.”

“Glitter! Glitter! Glitter! Glitter!”

“Yes, Patton, everyone knows you’re going to choose glitter,” Logan said, amused, “but why don’t we let Virgil decide for his own pendant?”

“Fine,” Patton said, “but mine will be glitter.”

Logan grabbed the box of blank pendants and offered it to Virgil. “Choose whichever one feels right,” he suggested. Virgil moved forward and looked over the box. “You can touch them,” Logan said. “In fact, I would suggest it as it is meant to be held when it’s done and you may as well get a feel for it.”

At his prompting, Virgil did. He reached into the box and shifted a few to the side. Eventually, he started picking a few up. “I like the crescent shape for holding the most he said,” holding a blue one up, but I don’t know.”

“What’s your favorite color?” Patton asked.

“Oh, um,” he mumbled. “I dunno.”

“Well here,” Patton said, reaching for the box. He dug through it and pulled out every single crescent moon shaped pendant and lined them up. “What do you fancy?”

Virgil considered them all for a long moment and then tentatively pointed the purple one out.

“Great!” Patton said. “Then, we’ll use that one.”

Virgil nodded and Patton picked up the pendant to drop it into his hands. His fingers curled over the shape and he seemed satisfied by the choice, so Logan turned to Patton. “Your turn,” he said.

Patton happily grabbed out a heart shaped blue one, but then paused and exchanged it for a purple one. “We match!” he said.

Virgil smiled slightly at his enthusiasm, and Logan dug out a blue crescent moon shape for himself. “Now that you have your base, you get to choose the engraving.” He opened up the instruction book to the correct page and showed it to him.

Virgil looked over the two pages of designs with carful focus. He wavered between the spiral sun and the flames for a moment, but eventually settled on the flames. Patton chose the interlocking hearts design as anticipated; it was his favorite, and Logan chose the spiral sun design for himself.

“Now, I’m going to engrave this design onto yours,” Logan said getting out the thin pen like instrument and dipping it into the slightly glowing bottle of potion he’d set out. “In the meantime, Patton will show you what we have for decorations.”

He was careful to get the symbol as perfect as he could and then started on Patton’s. Patton apparently managed to corrupt the boy because both of them came back with brushes and glitter to add as decoration.

Logan shook his head and handed them their freshly engraved pendants. “Apply the glitter how you like,” Logan said, moving on to his own engraving. Once he was finished, he selected some glow in the dark paint to decorate his own.

Once he’d finished decorating his own pendant, Logan looked up. “Are you finished?” he asked.

“Yep!” Patton said, shoving his pendant at Logan while Virgil nodded. Virgil had been far less enthusiastic than Patton, having carefully brushed glitter into the flame design only whereas Patton had haphazardly covered his own all over with glitter. Logan took both pendants.

“This,” Logan said, bringing over a different potion, “is used to make sure the decorations never fall off. It basically allows the other substances to become a part of the stone. “It isn’t too dangerous, but I’d suggest you stand back for the moment.”

Virgil stepped back farther back than was strictly necessary and gave the potion bottle a wary look. Logan moved all three pendants to the prepared surface (else they ran the risk of also getting stuck to the table) and put on gloves, having learned that magically gluing rocks to ones hands was not fun years ago. Then, he carefully drizzled a bit of the potion onto each rock. The rocks fizzled loudly, and Virgil gave off a startled yelp before toppling over flat on his face with his wrist glued to his sides.

“Oh no, honey,” Patton said immediately crouching next to him. “I’m sorry. We should have warned you about the noise.”

Logan wasn’t sure what type of action he’d tried to take when the sound started up, but whatever it was, it had caused him to move his arms fast enough that he’d activated the binding potion and it snapped his wrists to his side, overbalancing him.

Patton’s hands hovered over the startled boy, but he didn’t touch. After a few moments, it was clear that the magic keeping Virgil’s hands at his side released because his hands slowly crept forward to push himself up, so his face wasn’t planted against the ground. His eyes still looked incredibly startled.

“Are you alright?” Patton asked.

Virgil blinked. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said.

Logan took his words as permission to move without risking startling him more. Virgil’s eyes bopped back and forth between him and Patton a few times as he crossed to his wall of potions and grabbed one.

He also selected a clean cloth from a basket on his way over to them. “A light healing potion,” Logan explained as he knelt in front of Virgil. He uncorked it. “May I?”

“I’m fine,” Virgil said with a frown. “I’m not even bleeding. It’s barely anything.”

“Which is why it’s a light healing potion,” Logan said. “You are sure to bruise with the way you hit. This will prevent it and make it stop hurting.”

“Okay,” Virgil agreed after a moment. Logan dribbled a bit out onto the rag. After a moment of thought, he touched the damp part of the cloth with his own finger, just to quash any fears that it would harm him.

“It will tingle slightly,” Logan warned. Virgil tilted his face to let him dab it onto his nose and the light scrape on his face. His nose scrunched up and he moved to rub the sensation away quickly only to have his arms slam back to his sides.

Patton caught him so the sudden involuntary movement didn’t cause him to fall back, and then giggled when Virgil titled his head to what could only be described as pout back at him.

“Aw, poor thing,” Patton cooed, reaching forward to rub a hand across the top of his nose and then his forehead where the potion had been applied for him.

“Better?” Patton asked.

“You’re really bad at this being captors thing,” Virgil commenting, willingly leaning back into Patton. Patton just smiled happily.

Logan took the bottle and got to his feet, before returning it, and then glanced at the pendants as Patton helped Virgil to his feet. The pendants had stopped fizzing, so Logan felt okay reaching in and grabbing them all.

He handed both Patton and Virgil their pendants when they walked closer to the table.

“And now for the actual enchantment,” Logan said. “For today, I already prepared the potion up to the last step as it has to sit for a few hours, but I will show you the last step and eventually teach you everything if you are still interested.”

Virgil nodded, but said. “No more noises?”

Logan smiled. “No more noises,” he confirmed. Then he pushed forward all of the ingredients he was about to put in the pot for Virgil to study one by one before putting them each in it in the correct order. Then he demonstrated how to stir it correctly and told him how many times, though he doubted he’d be able to retain all of the information from this one demonstration. “There,” he said, setting down his spoon. “Now we just all put our pendants into the pot, and they should be ready in 25 minutes.”

Logan showed Virgil around his potion’s lab while they waited, explaining what certain pieces of equipment did and a bit about his organization system. Virgil followed him around, looking at the things he pointed out curiously. He, however, got very distracted when Logan showed him one of the experiments he’d concocted. It was a thick liquid that was super attracted to itself and would form a small ball that could be disturbed by touching it. He seemed to like the sensation of squishing it down onto a table… over and over and over again.

“We should get him a ball of yarn,” Patton said out of the corner of his mouth. He may have been enjoying watching Virgil play with the substance more than Virgil was enjoying playing with it himself. And that was saying something.

21984

Eventually, however, the pendants were finished, and he dragged Virgil away from his new toy to show him the finished product.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Is it supposed to be warm?” Virgil inquired.

“Yes,” Logan replied. “It’s temperature changes based on if the magic on it senses a threat or not. Warmer temperatures mean you are safe.

“Oh,” Virgil said softly, hand squeezing around it. “I like it.”

Logan found himself smiling. “I’m glad. It’s yours.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“If you would like, I’m sure Patton has some suggestions if you’d desire a way to keep it attached to your person. He in particular likes to make them into necklaces or clip them to his clothing.”

Virgil looked over at Patton and nodded shyly. Patton immediately perked up. “I’ll go get some supplies!” he said.

Chapter 14

“So then,” Patton was saying. “We ran to the stables.”

“We went to gazebo first,” Logan cut in.

“Right, we tried to go to the gazebo first,” Patton corrected, “but Mr. Deknis was over there tending to the tomatoes, and we knew he’d tell Mama the second he saw us. So, then we turned around and went to the stables.”

Virgil tilted his head, listening to the story Patton was telling. Patton was not the best storyteller. He tended to get lost in the middle and embellish, though Logan always corrected him. It was still very entertaining to watch though because he got incredibly animated. He’d even toppled himself over in excitement a couple of times.

Virgil squeezed the small pillow he had in his lap. He… wasn’t 100% sure what was going on. Logan and Patton had settled him on the blanket covered ground near Logan’s bed and proceeded to feed him snacks and talk about a lot of different things. It had started with them talking about what they’d done that day, and when Patton had made reference to something Virgil hadn’t understood, the two of them ended up talking about things from their childhood.

Virgil found himself entranced by their stories about playing in and running around the castle. It was all so different from what Virgil had experienced.

“…but, right as we were about to get to the ladder to climb up into the hay loft, Logan tripped!” Patton said, arms whipping around him. “He fell into a container of grain for the horses and it spilled all over the place. He tried to get up but grabbed the edge of the water trough and apparently it wasn’t very secure because it fell over and soaked him. So, then he was wet and covered in grain. He looked hilarious.”

“I did not!” Logan protested, but it did not sound like all of the other times he’d corrected Patton’s stories that night.

Patton looked over at him. “You did! You woke up the cute stable hand and he laughed himself silly at you, and by the time we got you even partially cleaned up, your dad had already found us. That’s how we got caught.”

“I have no recollection of these events,” Logan clearly lied, his cheeks a bit flushed.

“Liar,” Patton claimed. “You complained about picking grain out of your sheets for weeks.”

“No,” Logan growled.

“Yes! It’s okay. It was a good laugh.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed on him, and he looked pissed, but a second later, his expression lightened up. “You know what else was a ‘good laugh’?” he asked.

There was a second of silence before…

“Don’t you dare Logan.”

Logan looked him directly in the eye. “Patton was thirteen,” Logan started, but was interrupted the next moment when Patton lobbed a pillow at his head. Logan grabbed the pillow and leaned forward to smack Patton back with it. “He was thirteen and had just ‘discovered boys’ as his mother and my father called it when they attempted to explain his behavior to me. The focus of said ‘discovering’ at the time was the son of an ambassador from Lamir” who was staying for the summer, a seventeen-year-old boy by the name Bernardo.”

Virgil flinched back as Patton suddenly threw himself across the semicircle they’d made with their bodies to tackle Logan to the ground. He watched as they ineffectually wrestled on the ground for a few seconds before Logan, voice strained continued to speak, while battling Patton’s hands away from his mouth.

“Patton’s only knowledge about flirting… ow… at that point was laughing at everything someone said and touching their arms and shoulders.” Logan managed to flip himself onto his stomach which was a horrible move as far as Virgil was concerned. It put him at a disadvantage to get out of the pin. However, Patton just kept reaching for his mouth and didn’t bare down on his neck to try to cut off his oxygen like Virgil expected. So, perhaps it was a rational move. “Our parents were speaking leaving Patton, Bernardo, and I in the garden,” Logan mumbled into the ground. “Bernardo said something ‘funny’ and Patton went to slap his shoulder while laughing, but shoved too hard… Patton did you just lick my face?!”

“And I’ll do it again if you don’t shut up!” Patton threatened. That was a… weird fighting strategy.

Logan paused to consider his options. “He shoved Bernardo into the fountain and when Bernardo asked him why he did that, he ran away and wouldn’t talk to him the rest of the summer!” Logan rushed out.

Patton reached over and grabbed the nearest pillow, proceeding to whack him viciously in the back of the head. Logan was lucky the nearest object was a pillow and not something any sturdier. “It’s not funny!” Patton yelled, smacking him even more, which was when Virgil realized Logan was laughing despite the pinning and pillow pummeling. “It’s not!” Patton said. “I really liked him!!”

“He was seventeen!” Logan said. “It was never going to happen!”

Patton groaned and rolled off of Logan to lay on his back and stare at the ceiling. “But he had so many muscles,” Patton said. “He probably could have thrown me 10 yards.”

“And that is… a benefit?” Logan asked, rolling over onto his side to face him.

“You don’t. Get me.” Patton tilted his head to look at Virgil. “Anyway,” he said. “That is the story of how I died at 13.”

Virgil stared at him, and Patton’s forehead crinkled looking at him.

“Is something wrong, honey?” he asked.

“What was that?” Virgil asked.

“What was what?”

Virgil just blinked at him. Patton seemed to think for a moment.

“Oh, did you think we were fighting?” Patton asked. “Like, really fighting?”

“You weren’t fighting?” Virgil asked.

“No, sweetie,” Patton said. “We were just playing.” He popped up into a sitting position. “Well, play fighting, but emphasis on play!”

Virgil looked over at Logan for confirmation. “No one is harmed nor was there any intention to harm each other,” he assured.

Patton grabbed the pillow he’d been smacking Logan with. “Like this!” he said. “Bap.” Unlike how he’d smacked Logan ruthlessly, he basically just touched Virgil’s shoulder with it.

Virgil squinted at him.

“Bap!” Patton said again, smacking him again, this time with a little bit more force and on the cheek. Virgil’s nose scrunched up. “Pillow fight!”

“Pillow fight?”

“You try,” he said, pointing to the pillow in Virgil’s lap.

Virgil glanced down at the bands around his wrist. “Um…” he said. “I don’t think I can?”

“Oh, right,” Patton said with a frown. He bit his lip and glanced over at Logan. “Maybe…”

“Ill-advisable,” Logan said.

“But…” Patton said. “Pillow fight.”

“We would have to be very cautious and make sure there were no weapons in the area.”

“No weapons but pillows!”

“Fine,” Logan relented to whatever was going on. “Let’s clear the area.” Virgil watched them with mounting confusion as they removed everything within a few meters radius of him except for pillows and blankets.

“There!” Patton said after a minute. “All done!”

“What are you doing?” Virgil said.

“We’re going to have a pillow fight,” Patton said.

“But I…”

“We’ll temporarily allow your restraints to be in the third setting like when you’re in the closet.”

Were they serious? Were they stupid? Virgil could have killed them dozens of times with the second setting and now they were giving him even more range of motion?

“You have to promise not to try to hurt anyone though,” Patton said. Virgil stared at him dumbly, as Patton held out his pinky finger. “Pinky promise.”

“Pinky promise?”

Patton nodded solemnly. “We lock pinky fingers and make a promise. It’s the most binding promise in the universe.”

Virgil looked at his finger, confused. He’d never heard of that type of deal. “What kind of magic is it?”

“No magic,” Patton said. “Just friendship.” Virgil tilted his head but brought his hand up so Patton could twine their fingers together. “Now, promise you won’t hurt anyone.”

“I promise I won’t hurt anyone,” he said.

“It’s a deal!” said Patton, squeezing Virgil’s finger with his own briefly before drawing away. “I trust you.” Virgil felt a rush of something that was no type of magic he’d ever come into contact before but was definitely far more powerful.

Logan came over to them and waved his hand over the restraints on Virgil. They buzzed slightly and Virgil looked between them. “So, I just hit you with pillows?”

“Try not to hit too hard near the face, and Lo and I should probably take off our glasses before we start, but yeah,” Patton said, taking his glasses off as he said it. It was yet another foolish move on his part. “It’s fun, and it doesn’t hurt.”

“Okay…” Virgil said.

“I will demonstrate,” Logan said as he took a pillow and smacked Patton in the stomach.

“Hey! No fair!” Patton giggled. “We haven’t started yet!” This did not deter Logan however, as he continued to smack Patton with a pillow.

“On the contrary,” he said. “It has started, and we’re getting you first.”

“No,” Patton whined, but the way he crumpled to the ground under the onslaught seemed far too staged to make Virgil worry. He didn’t even try to curl up into a ball or to protect his head, just taking the hits and giggling.

Logan looked up at Virgil and motioned with his head. Virgil inched over and looked down at Patton. Logan slowed for a few moments. “Go on,” he urged.

Virgil bit his lip and reached forward to smack Patton lightly with his pillow which seemed to do nothing to him but renew his peels of giggles. From there, it was easy to continue. Logan picked up the pace of his strikes and he and Virgil proceeded to ‘fight’ Patton until he couldn’t breath through his laughter and pushed the pillows away, curling up on his side to recover.

23897

“No what?” Virgil asked when Patton sat up.

“Now I get vengeance!” Patton said, popping to his feet and smacking Logan in the face. “Help me Virgil!” So, Virgil turned on Logan and he and Patton gave the prince the same treatment. Then, because it was only fair, it was Virgil’s turn, though they were a lot more careful with him then they’d been with each other, and really Patton spent more of the time checking in on Virgil then actually hitting him with the pillow. It was nice. Fun. And when Virgil pushed them away, they pulled back. Then, it was Patton’s turn again and they went around teaming up on each other and sometimes just smacking at each other at random.

Eventually, they slowed, and all ended up laying near each other on the floor.

“Well, that made me hungry,” Patton said, sitting up and stretching. “I asked Mama to make us a bunch of mini sandwiches with different flavors. I’ll go get them.”

He hopped to his feet to walk over to where they’d stored the food earlier in those little glowing magical balls Logan had for food preservation.

Logan and Virgil sat up too, and Virgil offered him his wrists.

“Right,” Logan said with a blink. He made a motion and Virgil could feel the magic weighing down his hands once again. He’d almost forgotten, Virgil thought with an internal sigh. They’d given an assassin free range of motion, had a pillow fight with him, and almost forgotten to restrain him again. What was Virgil going to do with these idiots?

Chapter 15

Patton strolled up to the doors to the royal wing, his arms crossed casually around his middle.

Kalani raised an eyebrow as he approached and gave her the most innocent expression he could. “Whatcha got there, Pat?” she asked.

“Hmm?” he asked, as his sweater squirmed. “What do you mean?”

She considered him for a moment. “Well, I see nothing suspicious here,” she said. “Do you Owen?”

“Nothing,” he replied without hesitation.

Patton grinned at them both.

Kalani leaned in like she was going to tell him a secret. “Who is it?”

Patton made a show of glanced around like he was hiding it from anyone passing by. Then he shifted around to pull up just the bottom of his sweater.

A small black paw reached out from the depths of his sweater and swatted at the air.

“Ah, I see,” Kalani said, reaching out to touch the little paw. “Hello, Mittens.”

Patton giggled as Owen poked the cat’s stomach gently through the sweater, making her wiggle a bit and try to bite him.

“Well,” Patton said. “I better be off with my totally normal sweater.”

Kalani nodded and stepped to the side, and Patton was free to head down the hallway to Logan’s room. Patton knocked on the door with their new extra secret knock and Logan all but ripped open the door. “I’m late. I have to go,” he said, darting past Patton.

Patton smiled, happy that his plan to be running a little late to come watch Virgil had worked so well, even though he felt a little bit guilty about it. He hoped Logan wasn’t late to his meeting, but he also knew that if Logan had noticed Mittens, he wouldn’t have let her into the room.

Virgil was already out of the closet, sitting on one of the chairs. Patton came in and smiled at him. Unlike Logan, Virgil’s attention was immediately drawn to the oddly shaped lump in Patton’s sweater.

“You’re not very good at hiding things,” Virgil said.

“It worked on Logan,” Patton defended himself.

“Logan was about to rocket into space if you didn’t show up in 5 seconds,” Virgil pointed out. Patton just shrugged, and Virgil tilted his head. “What do you have?”

Patton grinned wide and carefully pulled Mittens out of his sweater. She did not resist this maneuver at all, simply purring. He held her up for Virgil to see. “Ta da!”

“A cat?” Virgil said.

“This is Mittens,” Patton said. He then turned to Mittens. “Mittens, this is Virgil. I thought I’d introduce the two of you!”

Virgil blinked at the cat. Mittens blinked back. Patton thought maybe he should have let them sniff each other from under a door before doing this.

He didn’t need to worry though, as Mittens started purring after a moment. “You can pet her,” Patton offered. Virgil looked up at him. “Just…” he said.

“She likes chin scratchies!” Patton prompted.

Virgil reached out a hand to scratch under her chin and that was the end of it. Mittens stretched out her chin happy to get the attention and Virgil’s eyes widened at how soft her fur was. It was a work of minutes before Virgil was sitting down on the floor and Mittens was happily kneading his thighs and spinning around in circles to make sure he pet every inch of her.

“I did not understand why people like cats,” Virgil commented. “All I’ve seen of cats is people coming back with bloody scratches from trying to pet them, so I never even tried.”

“Well,” Patton said. “Cats are just like people. If you’re nice to them, they’re more likely to be nice to you.”

Virgil’s hand paused briefly on the cat’s head, but then continued with the petting a moment later. Patton wondered what he was thinking about, but didn’t press.

“She seems to like you,” Patton said.

“Don’t know why.”

“Hey, don’t be mean.” Patton scolded.

Virgil hands jerked away from the cat he’d been petting and then were forced abruptly to his side in reaction. Mittens meowed, seemed very unhappy with the jostling as well as the sudden lack of petting.

“Sorry,” Virgil said, eyes wide. “What did I do wrong. I didn’t mean to be mean to her.”

It took Patton a moment to sus out what he was talking about and felt a pang in his chest when he did. “Oh, no honey. You didn’t do anything wrong. I meant don’t be mean to yourself.”

Virgil gave him a confused look. Mittens bumped her head against his chin and with a blink, he cautiously went back to petting her.

“Of course, she likes you sweetie, you’re a good boy.”

“I came here to kill the king. I’ve killed before.”

Patton smiled sadly. “I don’t think you ever wanted to,” he said. Virgil seemed to grow very interested in mitten’s ears. Patton scooted over so he was sitting beside him and carefully brought a hand up to touch the top of his head. Virgil sort of curled into him, pressing his face against Patton’s shoulder, but continuing to pet the cat.

“It’s fine. You’re going to be okay now,” Patton said softly.

Virgil shook his head against Patton’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Patton insisted. “You’ll be okay. You won’t have to go back.”

Virgil didn’t respond for a long moment. “You can’t keep me in Logan’s closet forever,” he said softly. “When his dad comes back, you’re going to have to turn me in.”

Well, that was true, but… “It’ll be okay. No one will hurt you.”

“The kings would be assassin?” Virgil asked skeptically.

“Thomas is nice. He’ll understand.”

“He’s nice to you. He’s nice to Logan. Maybe he’s even nice to the people he rules over, but what am I? An enemy assassin who would have slit his throat if I hadn’t gotten the wrong room.”

It…it did sound bad when he put it like that, but, but… “Thomas will understand,” he promised, hugging him tight. “He will, and we’ll keep you safe and I’ll introduce you to every single cat in the castle. In fact, we’ll get you a cat to keep as a pet if you want and he or she can snuggle you as much as you want. I’ll show you all around the gardens and introduce you to Mama and help you figure out what your favorite type of cookie is. You’ll never have to hurt anyone again and no one will ever hurt you again.”

Virgil drew away a bit and shot him a half smile. He clearly didn’t believe him, and it made Patton’s stomach twist a bit. Patton knew. He knew Thomas would be nice. There was no way he’d hurt Virgil. Virgil was just a kid and with Logan and Patton on his side, there was no way anything bad would happen to him. He could see it from Virgil’s perspective though.

“I like her feet,” Virgil said, touching Mittens’ little black paw that contrasted her otherwise white coat. Mittens purred and began kneading his legs again with those paws. “I’m guessing that’s why she’s named Mittens?”

“Yeah,” said Patton softly. “‘Cause she looks like she’s wearing mittens.” Virgil leaned forward to kiss her little head and that little action made Patton’s heart ache for him. He deserved so many kitten kisses. So many.

Patton was determined to make sure he got them.

[taetaesbaebaepsae]

Third Time’s the Charm

You make a birthday wish to your boyfriend, Baekhyun, with no expectation that it comes true, but eventually, he makes it happen.

A/n: The long awaited TaeBaek threesome of @illneverrecover​‘s dreams, clocking in at just under 6k words I LOVE YOU JACKIE

Rating: EXPLICIT 

Warnings: this is porn with feelings as usual so mmf threesome, lots of oral (both f. and m. receiving), unprotected sex, vaginal fingering, as threesomes go it’s not too crazy but it’s fun

Word Count: 5683

The first time you say it, Baekhyun blows it off as a joke.

He's pouting, because that's what he does when you spend half an hour praising how handsome your mutual friend Taehyung looked in the play he'd been the lead in.

"Come on. Don't be salty," you croon, wiggling out of your jeans and he stops pouting long enough to lick his lips, look at your thick thighs, the ink on your skin that he loves to run his tongue along.

It's a reminder of who you'd been before him and he wants her, too, wants to taste that girl you'd been in another life, can't get enough of any version of you.

"You know he's handsome." You remark, sitting down on the bed to finish peeling off your jeans.

"I'm handsome too," he sulks, toying with his lip ring with his tongue before tackling you from the other side of the bed, pressing his lips against your neck.

"You are," you laugh, threading your fingers through his hair. "You know the only way to solve this is a threesome."

He growls against your throat and then nips at your collarbone and then you lock your ankles around his waist and he loses himself in your laugh and your body and forgets about it.

He should have known that since it rankled him, you'd keep it up.

The next time you mention it, Taehyung is at your shared apartment, sitting on the floor in front of you while Baekhyun sits next to you on the couch.

Taehyung wraps his arm around your leg, rests his head against your knee and Baekhyun barely notices it, Taehyung has always been a cuddler.

But then you glance at him, smirk just a little, and drop your hand into Taehyung's hair. "Threesome," you mouth, and Baekhyun huffs out a breath and kicks Taehyung in the side, pretending it's an accident.

The third time you bring it up is the time that really gets to him.

"What do you want for your birthday?" He asks idly, as if he hasn't already picked out jewelry and planned a trip for the two of you.

"A threesome with Taehyung," you chirp from your vanity table, putting on your makeup.

It feels like a punch to the gut, this time, whereas before it had only annoyed him, made something territorial rise in his throat. This time it hurts, feels like all the time he spent breaking down your walls, how long he waited, all the nights he spent wondering if you'd ever call again after you'd gotten into a spat, were for nothing. 

It had taken months to undo the damage that your previous relationship had done, months of you ignoring his calls, months of him gritting his teeth when you danced with someone else, the half moon circles his nails bit into his palms as he clenched his fists. He’d known after the first two weeks, but you’d been a lot harder to convince.

Your words, the third time you’d asked for this, made him feel like he was back there all over again, lying in his bed and looking at the ceiling with a knot in his stomach, scrambling for his phone every time he got a notification.

He gets up and grabs his keys, ignoring your protests and his phone for the next three hours.

It takes several bottles of soju before he comes to a conclusion. 

You've fallen asleep on the couch with your phone in your hand when you're woken up by a crash in the kitchen.

Your boyfriend is sprawled on the floor, one shoe off and you let out a long, exasperated breath.

"Idiot," you mumble, leaning down to pull him up. He stumbles against you and you wrinkle your nose. "Ugh."

You expect him to be defiant but he just cups your face in his hands, looking into your eyes. "M'sorry," he slurs, kisses the corner of your mouth. "Don't be mad at me, jagiya."

You had been mad, all but steaming when he had turned off his phone, but you had been teasing him too much about Taehyung and you know how insecure he can be about things like that. 

"I'm not mad," you tell him, leading him to the bedroom.

He plops down on the bed face up and you unbutton his jeans to tug them off. 

He raises his eyebrows at you and it makes you snort out a laugh. 

"You're in no shape for that, Baekhyun."

"You love it," he retorts, struggling to sit up. He tries to take off his shirt but it gets stuck halfway and you giggle for a moment before helping him.

His bottom lip protrudes a little when you get it over his head and you hate yourself a little for wanting to kiss it.

"You love me, right?" He asks, his voice suddenly shaky.

You flush a little and look away but he catches your chin in his hand. 

"Need you to say it, jagi. Please."

His eyes are so big and wet and you sigh.

"You know I do, dummy."

Baekhyun shakes his head. "Tell me," he insists. 

You look at him for another moment and you think about cracking a joke but his lip is trembling and in his state you feel like he might start crying and it makes your heart ache a little.

"I love you, Baek."

He lets out a breath like he's been holding it and pulls you closer, kisses your chin and your nose and your cheekbones.

"You promise?"

"Baek," you whine, but then he takes your hands, turns them over, kisses the inside of each wrist.

It makes your skin tingle, your heart race. You do love him, love him so much that it feels like your chest might burst with it, when he makes you laugh so hard your ribs ache or when he kisses around the corners of your eyes, where they slightly crinkle when you smile. He knows it's hard for you to say, doesn't usually push you unless it's in a teasing way, but you can feel how serious he is tonight and it makes your throat ache.

"Fine," you mutter. "I promise."

You expect him to smile, tease you, but instead he drops his head, puts his arms around you and rests his chin on your shoulder. "Okay," he breathes. "It's okay, then."

You have no idea what that means but it's only a couple of moments before he's slightly snoring against your shoulder and you laugh softly and push him down on the bed.

He whines when you sit up on the edge of the bed, mumbles your name, and so you curl up next to him, huffing as you try to shift him under the covers. He's like dead weight so you end up getting under them yourself and he rolls over to throw an arm across your waist where you're turned away from him, pulls you to him.

The next morning, other than whining about a hangover, he doesn't mention it, and you don't remind him. You still feel a little bad for all your jokes about Taehyung. As much as you did admire your friend's beauty and sure, in a perfect world, a threesome would be so much fun, you were a loyal girlfriend. You certainly wouldn't like to share your partner, even the idea of him suggesting a threesome with another woman made your stomach roll. You'd only been teasing, mostly because you knew his possessive streak and how it rankled him, made him a bit rougher in bed and you can't deny that it was fun to tease him. 

You'd never want to truly hurt him or make him feel insecure, though, so you drop it, don't even mention Taehyung the next week, except in passing.

Baekhyun is being so weird the day before your birthday, jostling his leg, all nervous energy, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"Do you have fleas or something?" You ask, staring at him.

Baekhyun lets out a long breath. 

"So, remember what you asked for last week?"

You blink at him. "Chicken nuggets with extra sauce?"

He rolls his eyes. "No. The other… thing.  For your birthday."

"You already gave me that Sailor Moon box set, and I love it very much. You don't have to get me anything else." You lean up and kiss his cheek before looking back at your phone. 

He just stares at you until you look back at him.

You sigh and put your phone down. "What is it?"

"You really think all I got you for your birthday is a stupid Sailor Moon boxset?"

"I love Sailor Moon!" You insist. 

He smiles, then, and you can't help smiling back. 

"Well, I got you other presents, but there's a...uh, a big one that I needed to talk to you about."

You raise your eyebrows. "Yeah?"

His cheeks are a little flushed and that’s strange because not much embarrasses him.

“Um, I talked to Taehyung…”

“About? Are we having a birthday party?” You sit up, excited.

“I mean...I guess you could say that.”

He won’t quite look you in the eye and all of a sudden it hits you, last week, what you’d said you wanted for your birthday. 

“Baek...you aren’t...you aren’t serious.” Your mouth has dropped open and you close it with a click of your teeth.

"I am serious. It could be...fun."

His face is flushed and you frown a little. "Baek, I don't want to do anything you're uncomfortable with…"

"I'm not!" He insists. "I'm not, it's fine."

You work your bottom lip between your teeth. "You're sure?"

"Yep," he says, looking at you defiantly.

"You're not gonna flip out halfway through?"

"I-" he falters. "I mean, maybe. But I want to try."

"Wow." You look down at your hands, shocked. You're not sure how to feel about it. On the one hand, it's always been a fantasy of yours, to have a threesome with two men, and to have them be the most attractive men you know…

On the other, you know this means a lot, because Baekhyun had always struggled with being possessive, even before you were truly exclusive.

You’re quiet for a moment, part of you wanting to make a joke about how Taehyung might steal you away but when you look up at him he looks anxious, eyes wide.

“If you’re sure,” you say hesitantly, and he relaxes, just a bit.

“I’m sure,” he says determinedly.

He’s not sure. He’s not even a little bit sure and why did he do this in the first place Taehyung is wearing this silk button down with three undone and you’re staring at him like he’s a slab of meat and Baekhyun wants to bang his head against the wall.

He goes into the bathroom and stares at the mirror for a long moment, head fuzzy from the wine you’d been drinking and the fact that he was giving you the birthday present of another man joining you in the bedroom.

It isn’t like he’s a prude or anything, he’s been with two girls and definitely been in the same room as some of his friends during a sexual encounter, especially in college. It isn’t as if he doesn’t find his friend attractive, hell, everyone does, Taehyung is like a universal type of attractive, after all.

They weren’t close enough friends to make things extremely awkward, it wasn’t like this was Chanyeol, for god’s sake, even though you’d made a couple of comments about how big he was that made Baekhyun scrunch up his nose at you.

It should be easier than this. He loves you. You love him. You live together, you’re happy, or at least you are most of the time. So one night shouldn’t be a big deal.

“It’s not a big deal,” he mumbles to himself before he walks out of the bathroom, and you have your legs up on Taehyung’s lap and he has a hand wrapped around your ankle.

His heart leaps into his throat and in the end, he feigns a headache and Taehyung goes home and you keep glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

“What?” He snaps.

You shrug, smirking a little. “Nothing.”

Then your fingers are deftly unbuttoning his jeans and he stops thinking.

You’ve accepted by now that this isn’t going to happen, but you’re having fun anyway.

The first time you’d known the second Taehyung showed up that it wasn’t going to happen. You’d seen Baekhyun’s nostrils flare when you’d curled up on the couch next to him where usually he doesn’t bat an eye at you being cuddly with your friend.

You have to admit your boyfriend is pretty cute when he’s jealous, all pouty and complaining of a headache. Also, you can’t say that you mind the extra attention from Taehyung. I mean..who wouldn’t want two handsome men vying for you?

You and Baekhyun had always had this thing, this fire, and after three years living together it wasn’t as if things were boring, by any means, but sometimes you miss the excitement of how it was when things were just starting out, how much he wanted you, that look he got when you the were flirting with someone else.

So the second time you try it, you’re not surprised when it all goes wrong.

There’s wine, of course, because you’re pretty sure if Baekyun tried to do this stone cold sober he might yell, and you’re vaguely tipsy when Taehyung grins at something you say and you impulsively kiss the corner of his mouth.

When you pull back, you immediately look over at your boyfriend because he goes quiet.

He doesn’t look angry, exactly, just...fidgety.

You’re shocked at the words that come out of his mouth.

“Kiss him.”

“Um,” is all you say before Taehyung grabs you by the waist and kisses you, slow and deep, less tongue than you’re used to after being with Baekhyun and you lean into it, make this little noise in the back of your throat.

You only enjoy it for a moment before you’re being tugged away, Baekhyun’s hands on your waist from behind and for a moment they’re both touching you and it makes your heart racing.

“Sorry,” Baekhyun mumbles. 

“Did I do something wrong?” Taehyung asks, eyes wide.

“No.” Baekhyun shakes his head, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. “No, I’m sorry. I just…” He sighs, and it makes your heart ache a little.

You reach around to thread your fingers through his hair and crane your neck to look up at him.

“We don’t have to do this,” you murmur.

He doesn’t speak, just nods against your shoulder. “I know. It’s okay. I want to.”

“No kissing?” Taehyung offers, and he licks his lips and it’s tragic that you can’t kiss him but you also would never want your boyfriend to be uncomfortable in a situation like this, at least not to this degree.

Baekhyun nods again, but you don’t like the way it’s listless, his hands tight around your waist.

“Why don’t we call it a night?” You suggest.

After you say your goodbyes to Taehyung, Baekhyun slumps down on the couch.

He looks up at you from under his eyelashes. 

“I’m sorry, jagi.” 

He’s pouty, cheeks flushed with the wine. It’s cute. He’s so cute like this, you’d almost forgotten after three years of having a (mostly) peaceful relationship.

You let out a feigned sigh of exasperation and climb onto his lap, threading your fingers through his hair. 

“Guess it’ll have to be just you again tonight,” you say sadly, and laugh into his mouth when he huffs out a breath and kisses you hard.

Your boyfriend is driving you crazy. He’s antsy, all the time, jiggling his leg sitting on the couch so violently that you kick him in the side. He’s not touching you like usual, and that bothers you more than you like to admit.  He’s clingy, usually, a hand on your leg while you watch tv, or on the small of your back leading you into a room.

Now you have your head in his lap and he isn’t even playing with your hair so you pout up at him.

“Baek.”

“Hmm?” He answers you without even looking at you, picking at the couch arm.

“Are we going to talk about this or are you gonna keep ignoring me and destroying our furniture?”

He looks down at you, eyes wide. “I’m not ignoring you.”

You huff out a breath and sit up, sitting crosslegged to face him on the couch.

“This is about Taehyung, right? And the birthday present?”

He stiffens. “No, we’re still doing that, I just need…” he trails off, looks away from you.

“Baekhyun.” You take his chin in your hand and force him to face you. “We don’t have to do this.”

He lets out a long breath through his nostrils. “Yeah, we do.”

“Why? I was just joking, you know that.” 

“You weren’t, though! I know it’s something you want and I want to make you happy.” He lets out a long breath.

“You do make me happy, you idiot,” you mutter, picking up his arm to snuggle under it and look up at him. 

“Yeah?” His bottom lip is poking out slightly and you thumb it and at least that makes him smile.

“Yeah. You know you do. Don’t make me talk about it.” You nuzzle into his chest, focus on the television again. 

“What if I want you to talk about it?”

“Tough shit,” you reply, without thinking about it.

“Jagi,” he says softly, and goddamn it.

You put your fingers on his collarbone, right over the tattoo there of a red lipstick kiss, one that you’d done on a playing card and slipped it in his pocket, maybe the third time you’d been together. You remember how it felt when you saw it, sliding your nails down his shirt to kiss him there, months later.

He’d been embarrassed, flushed. “Don’t read into that,” he’d said, breaking out into a smile, and your heart had felt so full you had to kiss him hard and bloody to hide it, tasting the metal of his lip ring.

You take a deep breath. “I love you, and I’m happy with or without this. Taehyung is beautiful, like, stupid handsome, it’s really not even fair-”

Baekhyun frowns at you and you smile.

“But I’m with you. I don’t want to be with anyone else unless it’s with you,” you finish, kissing the mark of your lips on his collarbone, fitting them around the ink.

He takes in a sharp breath and holds you close, his heart beating rapidly against your ear when you shift.

“Are you crying, you sap?” You ask, your voice muffled by his shirt.

“No,” he insists, voice trembling, and you laugh and snuggle into him more, eventually dozing off there while he threads your hair through his fingers.

Baekhyun goes back to normal after that, mostly, and it isn’t until the next time Taehyung is over that he starts to get fidgety again, tongue toying at his lip ring.

You just sit there on the floor with your glass of wine, eyes pinging between the two of them sitting on the couch.

Finally, Baekhyun sits up straight, not looking at either you or Taehyung.

“No kissing,” he says, almost too loud, and you nearly choke on your wine. 

“Okay,” Taehyung says slowly, and you try to keep wine from going down your windpipe. Baekhyun goes silent again for a moment, and Taehyung quirks up an eyebrow. 

“Anything else?” Taehyung leans forward on the couch and rests his forearms on his thighs, shooting you a smile.

That doesn’t help you choking on your wine.

Baekhyun rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know. Probably. I’ll let you know.”

You have to stop yourself from scrambling over to the couch, opting instead to slowly put down your wine and sit between them. You look at Baekhyun first.

“Are you sure?” You ask softly, taking his hand.

He smiles and you’re relieved that it reaches his eyes, making them sparkle in the way that had always made your heart feel full.

 “It’s your birthday, jagi.”

It’s actually three months after your birthday but who are you to complain?

You can’t help how your face breaks out into a grin and you bounce off the couch to kiss him on the mouth excitedly.

Baekhyun laughs into your mouth and it makes you feel less anxious about the whole thing. In fact, this birthday present makes you feel so loved and trusted and you love him and you’re tipsy so for a moment you just stare at him, still grinning.

You’re jolted out of your sappy thoughts by Taehyung’s hands resting lightly on your hips, the warmth of his chest pressed against your back.

“You meant no kissing on the mouth, right?” Taehyung murmurs and you can feel him smirk against the skin between your neck and shoulder.

Your eyes widen as you try not to react too violently, even as goosebumps pop up on your flesh, and Baekhyun squeezes your hand as if to tell you it’s okay.

He leans forward to kiss you and Taehyung is kissing and licking up your neck and it’s almost overwhelming at first, how good you feel, your skin heating up, heart racing. Baekhyun’s tongue in your mouth, Taehyung’s breath hot against your ear...you let out a sigh like a whine and Baekhyun groans against your mouth, tugging down the neckline of your shirt to expose your breasts, palming across your nipples as soon as they’re freed.

You pull away from him to gasp in a breath and when you do, Baekhyun sits back and you whine and pout, missing the attention despite the other man’s mouth on your throat.

Baekhyun grins at you and unceremoniously lifts your hips to tug down your leggings. He doesn’t even bother to pull them off you entirely, just down to your ankles before he spreads your thighs roughly and presses his nose and mouth against your cunt, tongue licking along your folds before pressing inside you.

You cry out and arch your back and when you do, Taehyung’s hands come around to your breasts, long fingers teasing at you nipples while he moves his mouth to the other side of your throat. 

“Jesus fuck, please,” you moan as Baekhyun’s tongue swipes across your clit, and Taehyung chuckles against your neck, low and throaty and it sends a new wave of heat down through your body.

“Begging already? Is she a good girl, Baekhyun?” Taehyung teases, nipping at your earlobe.

Baekhyun snorts out a laugh against your inner thigh and lifts his head.

“Have you met her?”

You can’t help but laugh too and it turns into a moan when Taehyung tugs at your nipples, harder than you would have imagined from him.

“That’s okay. Good girls aren’t as much fun, anyway.”

Baekhyun grunts in agreement, making a displeased noise when he can’t hitch your legs over his shoulders and it’s clumsy because you’ve all been drinking when he finally gets your leggings off and you can’t help giggling a little.

“Let’s move to the bedroom,” he says finally, balling your leggings up and tossing them in a far corner as if he’s annoyed by them.

You hate that Taehyung has to stop teasing your nipples but you oblige, bouncing lightly on the bed and grinning at the two of them standing in the doorway.

In the end, it’s not as hard as Baekhyun had thought it would be.

You’re so fucking hot like this, a mess as Baekhyun resumes his position from the couch and Taehyung follows suit, as if they’d talked about it before, which they hadn’t.

Baekhyun had barely talked to his friend after the conversation he’d had with him, half drunk and stuttering, about joining them.

Taehyung for his part, had just shrugged. “Sure.”

It wasn’t an overly enthusiastic yes, which honestly relieves Baekhyun a bit.

He can’t do it the first time because he’s just in his head too much, he can’t stop thinking about you and Taehyung fucking, how intimate it might be with your crush on him and his big wide eyes, shoulders wider than his.

He can’t do it the second time because the way you kissed Taehyung back, all but melted into his arms, made panic rise in his throat.

This time, it started easier, just touching, it’s all physical and there’s no emotion there and it’s easier.

Taehyung is murmuring in your ear as Baekhyun sucks at your clit in short bursts, dipping his fingers into you, and he only comes up for air when his friend asks a question.

“Can I taste her?”

Baekhyun huffs out a breath against you and you moan, eyes half closed when he looks up at you and it makes his cock twitch in his sweats because you’re so sexy like this, wanton and needy.

“What do you think, jagi?”

You blink, your eyes focusing a bit more. “Please,” you whine, rolling your hips up, he’s still got two fingers inside you and he groans, feeling you clench around him.

Baekhyun and Taehyung switch places, and Baekhyun has a moment to think that threesomes can be hard to navigate before he gets behind you, sitting you up, his hands going around your waist. Impatient, you pull his hands up to your breasts, and he chuckles.

“Needy baby,” he murmurs in your ear, and usually you’d snark back at him, but you just moan softly as Taehyung buries his face in your cunt.

You’re looking down at the other man and Baekhyun feels a surge of something like possessiveness so he grabs your chin, rougher than he’d meant to, turns your face to kiss you hard, biting at your lower lip.

You react instantly, arching your back and moving your hand around to tug at the back of his hair and it sends a jolt of pleasure down his spine. It feels like the first few times you’d been together, feels like you want him so bad it makes you angry, the way you kiss him, and he’s forgotten how exhilarating that feels.

The way you cry out into his mouth is familiar, he knows you’re cumming, your body trembling, goosebumps on your flesh since you’re almost naked.

“Please, please,” you gasp, and Baekhyun finally releases your chin, looks into your eyes.

“What do you want, jagi?”

Taehyung is enthusiastic, if nothing else, face still buried in your cunt until Baekhyun calls his name, a little sharply. He lifts his face, lips and chin shiny, to look up at you.

“I need someone to fuck me, right now,” you say, firmly, and Baekhyun laughs, kisses the side of your face.

“Who?” Baekhyun asks, and his heart doesn’t speed up as much as he’d thought it would when you hesitate.

He squeezes you around the waist while Taehyung props up on one elbow on the outside of your thigh, looking up at the two of your expectantly.

“It’s your show, baby,” Baekhyun insists, and you turn your head to look at him.

“Both,” you pout, and he smiles.

You shift to sit up and turn to get on all fours, looking over your shoulder at Taehyung, who has stood up at the end of the bed.

At some point, Taehyung had shucked his clothes off and Baekhyun can’t help but flush a bit at his friend standing casually with his dick out.

“Condoms,” he says suddenly, and then winces. “Fuck, I forgot to get any.”

“I brought some!” Taehyung says cheerfully, and Baekhyun blinks.

Your hands are already scrabbling at his sweats. “Get your dick out, Baek, hello,” you say impatiently, and it makes him break out into a laugh.

“So eager,” he teases, and your roll your eyes and God, he loves you, loves you so much sometimes he’s full to bursting.

“Ready?” Taehyung asks, lining up behind you, and Baekhyun feels panic crawling up his throat.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly, and there’s so much in your eyes and suddenly he knows that if he asked you to stop all of this, you would and everything would be okay.

It helps, the panic lessons, and he takes a deep breath and nods, leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose.

He pulls his sweats down and you give him a patented smirk before taking him in your mouth without warning, making him lose his breath.

He’d only been half hard, suddenly anxious but suddenly blood is pounding in his ears. He groans when you’re pushed forward by Taehyung entering you, rougher than he’d imagined.

You moan around Baekhyun’s cock and he’s suddenly close, his balls drawing up. He takes hold of your hair and tugs you off him and the way you look up at him, mouth parted and shining, eyes half lidded, makes him buck his hips.

“You sure she’s not a good girl?” Taehyung asks, breathless, never missing a stroke.

“Never,” you manage, looking back at him with a wink. You take just the tip of Baekhyun’s cock in your mouth, making eye contact.

“Fuck, I’m not gonna last, you’re so tight and wet,” Taehyung groans, nearly doubling over your back, and the way you whine and roll your hips back against him makes Baekhyun grab hold of your hair again before he cums in your mouth.

You pout and Baekhyun lets out a shaky laugh.

“Sorry,” Taehyung mumbles, and then you’re the one laughing.

“For what? This is the best birthday present ever.”

Baekhyun pulls you into his lap, kissing you hard and you rub your cunt against his cock, so wet and hot it makes him groan into your mouth.

“Turn her around,” Taehyung commands, voice raspy.

For a moment Baekhyun rankles at the order but you’re rocking your hips against him desperately and this is for you, after all, so he complies, flips you around easily.

“You can fuck her while I eat her out,” Taehyung explains, as casually as if he were making a decision on where to go for dinner.

“Fuck, yes, please,” you whine, and it’s easy enough to grab the base of his cock and spear into you. The hoarse cry that comes out of your mouth has him thrusting up into you right away.

Baekhyun doesn’t even blink when he feels his friend yanking off his sweats and settling between the two of you.

It’s an awkward angle, with his thighs spread to be able to fuck you, so he plants his heels on the bed instead, rolling his hips up and he’s not sure if his thrusts would be even anyway with how close he’s been for so long.

Baekhyun kisses along your shoulder, making marks, hand tight on your hips as Taehyung licks at your clit, and you’re cursing and pulling at Taehyung’s hair to get him where you want him.

It’s different, Baekhyun notices, how Taehyung eats pussy. Baekhyun always sucks on your clit first, gently and then harder, because he likes to make you cum hard and fast, likes that look on your face, the way you half sit up, thighs trembling. Taehyung eats pussy like it’s a meal, licking slow and flat. 

Baekhyun wonders briefly if you like that better, but it fades when you arch your back, gasp out that you're cumming with a line of curses and thank God because he’s about to burst. It’s so hot how you go limp, like a doll being used between the two of you, and Taehyung doesn’t let up as Baekhyun thrusts up into you, finally finishing inside you.

“Fuck,” you whisper, breathless. “Fuck, Tae, give me a minute.”

Taehyung lifts his head, brows furrowed as if he’s annoyed you’ve interrupted his meal.

“Fuck,” you say again, looking down at Taehyung, and laugh, the sound low and husky.

Baekhyun kisses along the side of your face and he can almost feel your smile.

It’s only awkward for a few moments, shifting around to put you between them, and Taehyung curls up next to you and Baekhyun doesn’t feel like the first time when he saw him wrap his arms around your leg.

He feels warm, and the way you nuzzle into his neck makes him smile as he turns off the light.

You’re waiting for it for weeks, for Baekhyun to lose it, maybe the next time you get a text that makes you smile from Taehyung or if you all see each other at a friend’s house.

It doesn’t happen until the sixth week, after.

“Did you enjoy your birthday present?” He asks, almost casually, wearing his glasses while he reads in bed.

You blink. It’d been so long that you’d finally stopped waiting, and you put down your phone and sit up in bed. “I did,” you say slowly, watching his face.

He doesn’t look up from his book, just hums in the back of his throat.

“Did you like the way he ate you out better?”

You let out a choking sound, not expecting the question.

“No, not better. It was just different.” 

“In a good way?” He looks at you over the rims of his glasses.

“I like both,” you insist.

He hums again, goes back to his book. He doesn’t say anything more, and you let it go.

The next morning, you wake up to him kissing along your inner thighs, and you spread them instinctively, threading your fingers through his hair. When he licks you slow and lazy you gasp out a breath.

“Oh,” you murmur.

Later that day, you’re sitting on top of the kitchen counter while he makes lunch.

“Hey baby,” you ask, cutely.

“Hmm?” 

“For my birthday next year-”

“No,” he says firmly, not looking back from the stove, and you laugh and hop off the counter to hook your arms around his waist.

[asthesamcroflies]

Hi can I get an imagine with Happy. The reader works with Gemma and Happy has a crush on her. One night they run into each other in a bar and they're a little drunk he takes her home where they get it on. She thinks its a one night so she gets up to go but he stops her and tells her he likes her and to stay. Definitely smutty with a cute ending please

So, I also had a separate request which just stated Happy Lowman/smutty/#26 and thought I’d incorporate the two... Enjoy!

Prompt 26: “You’re a little hostile right now...”

Night One

He didn’t usually get drunk, not in the traditional sense. He’d have to let his guard down for that and Happy Lowman did not let his guard down. Not usually anyway.

But he’d agreed to catch up with some fellow former nomads in a bar they used to frequent back in the day and had ended up drinking more than he’d intended. Not that he couldn’t hold his liquor. But yeah, all things considered, it had been a weird night. So much had changed. Just not for him.

Tank cutting out early had been the final straw. It turned out the burly biker who’d left the nomad life behind to land with the Samdino crew a couple of years ago, a man who had once swore he needed nothing more than his bike and his cut, now had an old lady and twin babies to consider. Tank, for Christ’s sake. Two babies.

Happy – fearless, intimidating Happy – found the mere thought mildly terrifying.

Actually, of the six of them – six guys known to put the fear of god in those who dared cross them or their club, six die-hard bachelors who lived their lives on the road – four were now firmly tied down in a way they’d always vowed they never would be.

That left Mouse and Happy himself still free to indulge in whatever the hell they pleased.

Where once that would have made Happy smug though, now it rankled at him. Not least because he knew nothing would please his ma more than to see him finally settle down. Landing in Charming with the mother charter had been the compromise that allowed him to check in on her, given her advancing years and sometimes poor health. But where his Samcro brothers had old ladies, kids and community ties, he still might as well have been a nomad in all but name – living out of the clubhouse, indulging in the easy pussy that flocked to the place, but never letting anyone get too close. There just wasn’t anyone who—

“Watch it,” he growled, as someone bumped into him, sending his drink sloshing over his hand. “Or I’ll… You.”

“Uh, Happy, hey. Sorry, shit, I’m such a klutz.”

The tall, gruff Son had no idea what to say to the woman stood in front of him. He never did. Not when she was holed up in the Teller-Morrow office with Gemma, not when she was casually strolling across the yard or through the garage, and especially not when she was stood before him in some dive bar in a tiny dress that barely covered her ass, those big eyes slightly hazy with alcohol as she gazed up at him.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, genuinely surprised to see her out of her usual habitat, but realising too late that the simple question unintentionally sounded less like small talk and more like some kind of interrogation.

“Uh, you’re a little hostile right now…” she said, somewhat defensively. “I am allowed a life outside TM, you know.”

Was she? Of course, she was. Well, it depended on what she meant by a life. The concept hadn’t really crossed Happy’s mind until now, and he found himself frowning at the thought of it. As far as he was concerned, her place was in the TM office. And unwittingly starring in the vast majority of the fantasies that drifted into his mind when he wasn’t entirely focused on work.

Obviously, he realised that the scenarios he pictured all too vividly were utterly incompatible with reality. She wasn’t some croweater, easy pussy. For a start, unlike most of the club girls, she had absolutely no idea the effect she had on him. For all he knew, this life she was apparently entitled to could include a boyfriend. Husband even. The thought rankled him more than he cared to admit, even to himself.

“Just… didn’t expect to see you here,” he muttered, realising he was just staring at her and shifting his dark gaze almost guiltily from those tantalising bare legs. Taking in her plump, glossy lips instead didn’t help in the slightest.

“I’ll get you another beer,” she offered, with a little eager-to-please smile, swaying on her heels just a little as she flagged down the barman. “Since I made you spill…”

And in the end, he’d let her. That was how they’d ended up talking most of the night, slow though the conversation was to ignite. Turned out she was there with a girlfriend who’d abandoned her in favour of some guy. Going back to the clubhouse had eventually been Happy’s idea. He was just surprised it was one he’d voiced out loud – and that she’d agreed. Maybe that life of hers didn’t actually include another man after all…

So that was where they’d ended up, back at TM. Both of them were now on more comfortable turf in familiar surroundings and, having raided the clubhouse bar, well on their way towards a new level of drunkenness.

“This might be the most we’ve ever talked,” she giggled, leaning against his shoulder as they sat on top of one of the picnic tables outside in the growing darkness. “You never talk to me, Happy. Don’t you like me?”

The Samcro enforcer didn’t know how to answer that. How could a man with his reputation admit that he didn’t have the courage to talk to a woman he actually liked the idea of for more than a quick fuck? As it turned out, her own Dutch courage negated the need for an answer from him.

Instead, her mouth simply crashed onto his.

She tasted of the vodka she’d been knocking back and something sweet that might have been whatever was slicked on her lips to make them look so damn irresistible and he kissed her back with a hunger that wasn’t exactly a familiar sensation for him. For once, he didn’t just want to get his dick wet courtesy of the first willing body – he wanted her. Specifically her.

“Not here,” he growled, drunk on booze and the intoxicating scent of her perfume, but not too drunk to register that they were too close to the main door to avoid an audience for long. And he wasn’t okay with that, not with her.

Making it to his dorm room was something of a blur though, as if the world flipped into fast forward, only to grind back down to slow motion when somehow she was under him on his bed in just tiny scraps of hot pink lace. He was pretty sure those delicate panties ripped in his big hands in his determination to get them off her, but he had to have her before she drove him out of his goddamn mind.

The groan he drew from her when his tongue plundered her wet heat went straight to his cock.

“Oh god, Happy…” she moaned, her short, neat nails raking over his shaved scalp and practically sending a shiver down his spine.

Part of him wanted to just eat her out until she screamed for mercy, but another part – the part of him that was achingly hard for her – needed something more. And it seemed that was what she wanted too, as instead of complaining when he pulled away, she simply lay there breathless and taking in the sight of his lean, inked torso while he retrieved a condom from the night-stand.

His hand curled lightly around her slim throat and, in one long, slow thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside her, muttering dark curses at the feel of how tight she was around his throbbing cock.

“Happy…”

His name on her lips was practically a whine as her legs wrapped around his pistoning hips, her heels digging into the backs of his thighs and her hands reaching back to grip the headboard of the bed, stretching out her gloriously naked body for him.

“Fuck, yes,” she groaned, her laboured breath hot on his ear. “Harder…”

For once, Happy did as he was told.

The hand around her throat slipped downwards the fullness of her tits, cupping, squeezing the firm flesh, pinching her dusky nipples as he slowed the pace of his thrusts, wanting this to last if it was probably going to be the only chance he got.

She bit her lower lip, her head thrown back and her hips meeting his perfectly as she focused on chasing the orgasm that seemed to be brewing low in her belly.

“Happy, please…” she ground out, one hand leaving the headboard to trail down her own stomach and between her legs, her fingers grazing his slick cock as it slipped in and out of her, before finding the tiny bundle of nerves they had been seeking out.

He only let her rub frantically at her clit for a second, then firmly gripped her wrist and drew her hand away, guiding it back to the headboard with a glare and a shake of his head. If she wanted to cum, he didn’t need any fucking help getting her there.

The biker picked up the pace again, slamming into her hard and fast as she cried out in pleasure, her eyes squeezing closed. His hand cupped her cheek at that, getting her attention.

“Look at me,” Happy demanded roughly, his own breathing getting ragged with his exertions.

Her eyes opened, meeting his and he swallowed hard, letting his thumb trace over her full lower lip, prompting her to gently suck on the digit. When his hand finally slipped away, it trailed down her body, over skin flushed and covered in tiny beads of sweat, and sought out her clit just as she had.

It was somehow too much and not enough all at once and her hips arched helplessly towards his, her thighs clenching and her body trembling as she cried out.

“Oh, Happy, fuck, fuck, fuck…” she all but sobbed. “I’m… I’m gonna cum… I’m… Oh, fuuuuuck!”

With a flare of masculine pride at the response he could induce in her, Happy held out for as long as he could, jaw clenched as he fucked her through the intensity of her orgasm. But the vise-like grip of her soaked pussy around his cock quickly won out and he soon came hard and with a roar that he muffled against her throat, before collapsing down on top of her.

“Jesus…” she sighed breathlessly, as he shifted his weight off her to lie on his back by her side, trying to get his breath back and dashing sweat from his brow with his forearm.

Neither of them spoke. Nothing that came to Happy’s tongue seemed right and the silence soon stretched out between them uncomfortably, even as his brain berated him and told him he was in danger of completely fucking up whatever the hell had just happened.

Sure enough, she started to shift away from him, awkwardness creeping in and, despite what had just transpired between them, making her wrap herself in the tangled sheets and clutch them to her chest.

“Uh, I guess you probably want me to go…” she said softly.

His head snapped towards her at that, but she already had her back to him and didn’t see the look on his face.

“It’s okay,” she continued, obviously not wanting to make the whole situation any more awkward than it had to be. “I’ve been around enough to know how it works, Hap.”

“Stay.”

His low voice was rougher than ever, more hesitant than he’d ever been about anything. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“Stay. Uh, please?”

She turned, wide-eyed. The Tacoma Killer didn’t say please.

“You… You don’t have to do this,” she tried hesitantly, trying to second-guess what was going on here. “One night, that’s the deal, right?”

He shrugged, feigning a casualness he really didn’t feel. “Doesn’t have to be.”

“So… not just one night?” she said, quiet and unsure, clearly mulling over what that might mean.

“Maybe just… night one?” Happy suggested, a rare little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he reached for her again. They could figure it out later.

[busterkeatonfanfic]

Chapter 25

On the last night that Buster Collier was twenty-five, at Constance’s Santa Monica beach house, Buster got the drunkest he’d been in a long time. It was hard to say what he was out of sorts about. The melancholy seemed to have begun over the childish overalls he was wearing. All the men were wearing overalls, in fact, and the girls short pinafores with long legs all asparkle in shiny nude stockings. Jimmy and Bobby had been to a birthday party for little Thomasina Mix that afternoon at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre where all the guests were children, which had given Dutch the idea that everyone should dress like kids for Buster Collier’s birthday party. The sight of stout Peg Talmadge in a short frock with a big floppy bow on her head licking an oversized lollipop was one that he could have done the rest of his life without. But the overalls had reminded him of The Butcher Boy and he thought of Roscoe, who should have been here to enjoy the mindless merriment with everyone else. Sometimes he wondered how everyone could go on with their lives, forgetting all they owed him. 

Natalie was angry with him, so he was cooling his heels—literally—in the freezing surf of the Pacific Ocean. He struggled to remember what had gotten her so mad. He watched the water wash over his feet, which were ghost white in the light of the waning moon. They’d gone numb, but the sting of the icy water felt distant and not at all unbearable. He hummed a tune that the Henry Starr Orchestra had been playing. 

“Buster, get back inside.”

He looked up and saw Norma Talmadge heading toward him. She had a beaver-fur coat over her pinafore and her shiny black Mary Jane shoes sank into the wet sand. It was a raw night. 

“Where are your shoes and socks?” she said.

He shrugged. He’d definitely put them somewhere.

“You’ve upset Nate pretty bad.”

Indignation rankled him. “So?”

Norma fell into step beside him, just short of the licking tide. “It wasn’t a very nice thing to say.”

Buster’s head swam, but he still couldn’t remember what he’d said to make his wife so livid with him. “You’re wrecking your shoes,” he said.

“Buster,” said Norma. She tugged on his arm and stopped him. His hair had fallen forward into his eyes and she stroked it off. He closed his eyes, enjoying the touch. “Come back inside, please.”

“I don’t even remember what she’s all fussed about,” he admitted, opening his eyes again. 

“About Dutch and Buster?” she prompted.

“Oh, that’s right.” Now it came back to him. He’d made some loud remark about Buster Collier and Constance having an affair and Nate, seeing how many people were in the room to hear, pulled him aside to scold him in a quiet hiss for embarrassing her sister. He’d bawled something at her and stormed out. Neither Buster nor Constance had announced their affair yet, but it was fast becoming as obvious as Norma and Gil Roland’s. “Don’t see what the big deal is,” he said. “She’s throwing a whole damned party for him. Anyone with half an eye is gonna know what’s going on.”

“Yes, but you needn’t have been crass about it,” said Norma, frowning. Though she was just a year his senior, she had a comforting, authoritative air that sometimes made her feel as much his big sister as Natalie and Constance’s. He trusted and distrusted her in equal measures, same as he trusted and distrusted Dutch. The Talmadge sisters were fond of him, but he knew their loyalty to Natalie would always trump whatever affection they had for him.

He tried to remember why it had been so important to open his big fat mouth about Buster and Constance. He was on the verge of recalling, but the reason slithered out of his grasp. Instead, he looked down at his ghostly feet. He thought of Nelly and the lake. Only two days had passed since he had visited her at her apartment, but the memory felt years distant and like it belonged to another man. 

“Come inside. Come on,” said Norma, linking her arm with his. He fell clumsily against her, but righted himself.

The warmth of her fur-wrapped arm against his reminded him. That was it. Both Constance and Norma had now taken lovers and he had somehow ended up with the only sister who didn’t want anything to do with sex. The unfairness of it settled on him again, making him despair. 

“Apologize to Nate,” said Norma. “Make up with her.” She tugged his arm.

Buster dug his toes into the sand, resisting. His head spun with whiskey. “I don’t wanna.” 

“Don’t be childish,” she said. 

He pulled away, walking deeper into the ocean and wetting the cuffs of his overalls. “Why are you still married to Joe?” he said. “Why not marry Gil?” He didn’t expect her to answer since he was deliberately needling her, but her voice was as clear as a bell in the cold night air. 

“He’s young, isn’t he? Maybe he’s too young.”

“And Joe’s too damn old.” Farther in now, he felt shells beneath his feet. The tide hadn’t succeeded yet in washing them up on the beach. 

“Marriage isn’t always about love.” 

That remark made him stop his slow trudge into the water. As much as he had regarded Joe, still regarded him, Joe was balding, twenty years older than Norma, and far from handsome with his shapeless nose and drooping little mouth. That her marriage to him had been a business venture was an open secret. He was still surprised to hear her say it out loud. 

“I married for love,” he said, lifting his eyes to the moon. He stumbled, his head spinning. “Least I thought I did.”

“I think I see your shoes back there on that rock,” said Norma, closing the conversation.

He waded back toward the shoreline where, numb from the ankles down, he suddenly stumbled to his knees and vomited on the wet sand. When the hot clammy crawl of his flesh had faded and he’d spit the taste out of his mouth, he looked up to see Norma standing alongside him with his shoes and socks in one hand. “C’mon, Bus,” she said, holding out her other hand. “Go inside and make up.” Nelly bicycled down to Doc’s to get groceries on Sunday morning. Task accomplished, she strapped the bag with the eggs in the rear basket and put the other two bags in the front basket, then rode back up Fairfax Avenue, enjoying the warm breeze around her legs. She was thinking idly of the salad she was going to make when she got home, with chilled ham and hard-boiled eggs. The Circus was playing at the Fox Theatre a few blocks away, and she had the vague notion of treating herself to a matinee if she finished the salad and her sweeping.

Her heart hammered suddenly when she pushed her bicycle through the door of the apartment building; there was a man waiting around the corner at her front door. Before she knew what to do, he looked up at her.

It was only Buster. “God almighty, you scared me!” she said.

“Hello,” he said with a small, apologetic smile.

“What are you doing here?” she said, a familiar flush crawling over her skin as he leaned in and pecked the corner of her mouth. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

He didn’t answer, but took her bicycle by the handles as she fumbled in her handbag for her key. “Thank you,” she said, pulling the key out. “Come on in.”

He walked the bicycle through the door for her and propped it against the sofa. “You are duty-bound to ignore any dust bunnies you see around here,” she gabbled, still caught off her guard. “I was going to sweep when I got home.” She grabbed the bag with the eggs and set it on the counter, and Buster followed obligingly with the other two bags. He turned to face her and it was only then she realized that he wasn’t himself. 

“Something the matter?” she said.

Buster shook his head, but he reached for her and enfolded her in his arms before she could get a chance to really study his face. She inhaled. He smelled clean, like aftershave and shampoo, but there was a sour undertone to his skin. Something was the matter, but she could tell he didn’t intend to elaborate. She stroked his back and buried her face in his neck. Another realization struck her: she’d missed him despite having seen him only three days ago. Desire also gnawed at her, but Buster didn’t seem to be in the mood, so she tried to set it aside.  

“I’m glad to see you,” she said, drawing back to kiss his cheek. 

Buster gave a half-hearted smile and stroked her cheek with a thumb. He leaned forward and kissed her, but it wasn’t a lingering kiss. 

“You’re not glum because of me, are you?” she said, insecurity getting the better of her. 

Buster shook his head. He smiled again in a tired way and kissed her. 

“You don’t have to tell me. As long as it’s not because of me. I was going to make a ham and egg salad. Why don’t you go sit down and I’ll put it together? You could help me with that darned LA Times crossword, too.”

“Alright.”

She began to unpack the groceries as Buster seated himself on the sofa. When he started to unlace his shoes, she relaxed. His unexpected appearance and strange mood were still mysteries that remained to be solved, but at least she hadn’t offended him. 

“I was thinking of going to see a matinee of The Circus. I can’t remember the last time I saw a Chaplin film,” she said. “Was the last one The Gold Rush? You know, I don’t even remember.”

“Last one was The Gold Rush,” Buster confirmed. “He’s lazy. The Gold Rush came out in ‘twenty-four. Imagine if I went four years between pictures.”

She glanced over and he was lying on the sofa on his back with the newspaper up to his face.  

“Have you seen The Circus yet?”

“Huh-uh.”

“What’s a bird of prey? It’s not hawk and it’s not eagle.”

“Down or across?”

“Down, I think.”

She set cans inside cabinets as Buster fell silent. She thought the small talk had failed, but—

“It’s falcon,” he said. 

“Oh. There were a couple others that were giving me trouble too,” she said. “There’s a ten-word Greek philosopher. Then there’s a clue that just says ‘a refrain.’ I have no idea what that one is.”

With the sacks unpacked, she folded them in half and set a pot of water to boil for the eggs. The silence with Buster was companionable and she hoped that the silly task of solving the crossword was taking his mind off of whatever was eating him. She began to dice the side of ham she’d left on the counter. “What’s a river in Russia?”

Buster didn’t reply. 

“Buster?” She looked back. He was fast asleep, head drooped to the side on the sofa pillow, the newspaper resting open on his midsection.

Nelly chopped more quietly, pitying him and wondering what the trouble was, whether he’d fought with his wife, was worried about his new picture, or vexed over something else altogether. She knew little at present about his day-to-day. At the cabin, most of his stories had been about gay parties, the outrageous things that guests had said and done when drunk, and his career in pictures. She felt like she knew Roscoe Arbuckle back to front now and every detail of what took place behind the scenes with Battling Butler to College, but not how Buster spent his time at the Villa. She could only imagine what his marriage was like. She was sure of just three things. One, he didn’t share a bed with his wife. Two, he wasn’t faithful to her and hadn’t been since at least last summer. Three, he seemed to believe they would be divorced in due time. She’d never forgotten his cynical remark about it the night of the party at the Villa when they’d been discussing Charlie Chaplin’s divorce. At the thought of Buster divorcing Natalie, Nelly clamped her mind closed. It was enough that he wanted her to be his mistress and sought out her company. She wouldn’t daydream about impossibilities.

The water in the pot boiled and she slid seven eggs into it, four for the salad, two for the dressing, and one for her breakfast tomorrow. Buster continued sleeping and she let him, glad that she could offer him some sort of respite. She washed the lettuce and softly shredded the leaves for the salad.

The eggs were cooling, the salad prepared, and Nelly curled in her armchair reading the latest issue of The Stage when Buster roused, asking in a voice thick with sleep, “What time is it?”

“Just after twelve o’clock,” she said, laying aside the magazine. 

He beckoned her with two fingers and she went to him, seating herself on the edge of the sofa. “Sorry I conked out on you,” he said, shading a yawn with his hand. 

“I didn’t mind,” said Nelly. “I think you must need the sleep.” She lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles. 

“Guess I must,” Buster said. His brown eyes still looked tired and a little distant, but he seemed more like himself. 

“Burning the candle at both ends?” she said, still clinging to his hand. 

He smiled. “Go ahead with your lecture.”

“Okay, I will. How much sleep do you get? You’ll wear yourself down and get ill.”

“Not as much as I should.”

Nelly pulled her legs onto the sofa and flipped around so that she was lying on top of Buster between his legs. She folded her arms across his chest, propping herself up, and he put his arms around her. His body was hard and muscled, all planes and angles. “You should get more sleep.”

“You know the last time I got any sleep worth a damn?” he said.

“No. When?”

“Those three nights with you. Slept like a baby.” He put a hand on the back of her neck and pushed, bringing her mouth down to his. 

“What are you saying?” she said, as a particular part of him twitched against her groin. 

He got serious for a moment. “Wish you could sleep over.”

“You could stay here. I wouldn’t mind, but my bed’s a little small.”

Buster shook his head, his mouth a line. “Missus expects me home at night.”

Even though she won’t let you share a bed with her. Nelly thought it, but wasn’t brave enough to say it aloud. So she said instead, “That’s too bad.”

“It is. I miss holding my Nellie Dean when I’m falling asleep.”

It was the tenderest and frankest thing he’d ever said to her, and hearing the words leave his lips, she knew beyond a doubt now that she was deeply in trouble. He’d won her heart, but his was not free to give. 

The thought evaporated as Buster’s mood turned from tender to ravenous. He began to pry at the buttons at her bodice and Nelly forgot her heart, knew only what her flesh wanted from him and was willing to give in return.

Notes: There actually was a party at Constance Talmadge’s on February 11th for Buster Collier’s birthday in which all the adults dressed as children. (The above image is reputed to be from Marion Davies’ New Year’s Eve party, so apparently costume parties where you dressed like kids were popular; there’s another image of the Talmadge women wearing kids’ clothing while posing with Peg, who appears to be on her deathbed, so it isn’t from the party in 1928.) Did Constance (”Dutch”) Talmadge have an affair with Buster Collier? Maybe. They seem to have been awful chummy around this time and I found an article from the period where they were rumored to have been engaged, though Constance denied it. I decided to run with it. The Gold Rush actually came out in 1925, but I thought it would be more realistic for Buster to get the date wrong. He did consider Chaplin lazy for the long gaps between his films. I don’t know why, but the section where Buster and Norma interact was one of my favorite scenes to write for this story so far. Other “pet” chapters include Chapter 5 and 6, and Chapter 13. Do you have any favorite chapters so far?

[thedaughterofkings]

feels like...

For my very best @ohfuckthisshit!!! I hope you like your almost 2k of eighth year Birthday Drarry fluff <3<3<3

Harry stumbles across him in one of the Potions practice rooms. They’ve gone largely unused the last couple of years, at least as far as Harry is aware. Snape was never fond of students brewing potions unsupervised, but that is no longer an issue, is it?

Still, Harry doesn’t expect to see Draco Malfoy down here, at 3 am in the morning, brewing god knows what. Harry can’t complain about the time of day, or night rather - after all, he’s still awake, too, and wandering through the castle. Turns out that the nightmares don’t stop just because the bad guy has been defeated. 

They are just nightmares now, no longer visions. Sometimes Harry thinks he preferred the visions, as horrible as they were - at least with them, there was a chance he’d learn something helpful. The nightmares are just horrible period. 

So when all he sees when he closes his eyes is blood and bones and broken stones, he gives up on sleep entirely and walks the castle, drawing comfort from the mended staircases and trusty walls. 

Hogwarts is still standing, and she’s still breathing with life, and that brings Harry immeasurable comfort. Her halls are quiet and calm at night - well, usually. Malfoy’s muttering and cursing is what draws Harry into the Potions practice room in the first place. 

He is wearing the invisibility cloak, so he doesn’t worry about being seen when he steps closer to take a look at what Malfoy’s brewing. The cloak is distorting his view a little like always, so Harry isn’t sure whether the pearlescent sheen is the potion itself or the cloak. He’s more distracted by the scent anyways, because there’s something really familiar about it. He’s so busy sniffing that he doesn’t even see the hand coming at him until it has ripped the cloak off him.

Draco is looking particularly smug, keeping the cloak out of reach, and raising a single eyebrow in silent judgement.

“Spying on innocent classmates, Potter? Whatever would your adoring fans think?”

Harry glares at him and crosses his arms in front of his chest defensively. He’s only wearing his pyjamas, and next to Malfoy, who is impeccably dressed even in the middle of the night, that makes him feel almost naked. 

“And what about you?” he returns. “What are you cooking up here in the middle in the night?” He takes another sniff and starts laughing. He suddenly remembered why that scent was familiar. 

Malfoy has raised an eyebrow and looks decidedly unimpressed.

“Are you quite finished?” he asks when Harry has calmed down again somewhat. “Care to share with the class what is so funny?”

“You are brewing up your own perfume!” Harry honestly is delighted by that revelation, and resolutely ignores the voice piping up with the question why he knows Draco’s perfume so well.

Draco’s face has become unreadable - not hostile and not quite blank either, but Harry still can’t tell anymore what he’s thinking.

“What exactly are you smelling, Potter? Harry?” he asks, correcting himself. They’ve mostly stopped calling each other by their last names. Like with Hermione and the troll in first year, there simply are some things that forge a connection between you, and surviving fiendfyre together is definitely one of them. It felt wrong to keep up a petty school rivalry in the face of that - and everything else. 

So in the name of newly forged connections and truces, Harry answers truthfully:

“Your perfume - or aftershave? Are you experimenting with the composition, though? Because there’s something sweet - treacle tart? - here that I don’t remember smelling before. And to be honest, I love Quidditch at least as much as you, but that grassy element is definitely too strong for a perfume.”

If only his first year self could see him now - discussing Draco Malfoy’s perfume with the man himself in the middle of the night. 

Draco Malfoy who has stepped around his cauldron and closer to Harry now, a hint of a smile playing around his mouth and crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Want to know what I’m smelling, Harry?” he asks and Harry shrugs, looking up at him questioningly - because Draco has stepped close enough that their height difference becomes noticeable. Up close, his perfume is even stronger and Harry barely resists the urge to scrunch or worse, scratch his nose.

“I also smell the Quidditch pitch,” he starts, and Harry nods, because yes, why wouldn’t he. But then Draco continues: “Then I smell cake, carrot cake to be precise, and chocolate frogs, and a hint of mint.” Harry does scrunch up his nose at that and takes another deep breath. But he still smells treacle tart, not any of the things that Draco has mentioned. They do remind him of something though … oh, the care packages Narcissa still sends Draco, though only weekly instead of daily nowadays. 

He opens his mouth but whatever question he was going to ask slips from his mind immediately when Draco puts a finger to his lips, smile more obvious on his own right now.

“Then I smell fire, not fiendfyre-,” here he shudders almost unnoticeably, due to their proximity Harry feels more than sees it- “but hearthfire, big logs and glowing embers. Did you know Gryffindor tower is the only dormitory to still have an open fire?” he asks conversationally, as if they are just talking about the weather. Harry doesn’t know what they are talking about, it’s certainly no longer about Draco’s perfume, but it’s also not the weather. Or hearthfires.

“The other houses have of course long switched to more modern warming charms,” Draco adds, and Harry rolls his eyes. 

“Of course,” he mockingly agrees, trying not to feel charmed by Draco’s ability to sound wistful when talking about Gryffindor’s fire in one sentence and then immediately subtly insult it with the next one. He wonders whether that alone counts as character growth - subtlety certainly didn’t use to be one of Draco’s strengths.

It is apparently now, though, because without Harry noticing, Draco has pressed in even closer and his finger has moved from Harry’s lips to his chin, gently coaxing his face upwards, until he’s looking Draco in the eye. Draco’s face is no longer blank, his eyes in particular are shining brightly, their grey almost silver, like the potion brewing in the cauldron next to them, and Harry suddenly finds himself breathless.

“More than anything else, though,” Draco starts again, voice even, but insistent, begging Harry to listen, to listen and understand, “more than anything else, I smell you, Harry.”

And without giving Harry a chance to wrap his head around that, to make any sense of that statement, he ducks down and presses a gentle kiss to Harry’s lips. Harry blinks dazedly when it’s over, realising he’d closed his eyes without intending to, and licks his lips instinctively. He almost thinks he can taste Draco on them.

“You’re not making your own perfume,” he states matter of factly.

“Ten points to Gryffindor,” Draco mockingly praises and Harry pinches his arm in retaliation. At some points his arms have wrapped around Draco’s shoulders. Harry considers removing them, but Draco hasn’t stepped back yet, so Harry doesn’t feel obliged either.

“You are brewing Amortentia,” he says next. It’s the easiest of the thoughts that are running wild in his head to put into words. “Why are you brewing Amortentia in the middle of the night?”

“Extra practice.” Draco shrugs. “Extra credit.” His voice is perfectly even, but Harry can tell how much it rankles him to have to admit to needing extra credit in Potions of all subjects. It doesn’t seem fair to Harry either, Draco’s potions skills are second only to Hermione’s in their class, if that. He’s certainly better than her at anything that requires even the smallest bit of intuition beyond precise measurements. Harry makes a mental note to keep an eye on that. Their current potions teacher is less obviously partisan than Snape and Slughorn were, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s fair. 

But they were talking about Amortentia.

“So you smell - me?” Harry asks, still not quite able to believe it.

“And you smell my perfume,” Draco answers, which isn’t really an answer at all, and an answer and another question at the same time. “And you thought I was brewing it myself!” he adds, sounding incredulous.

“Don’t you?” Harry has to ask, because it honestly sounds like something Draco would do.

But that just gets him a scoff. 

“As if! It’s imported from France obviously.”

His nose turns up so haughtily at the obviously that Harry just has to reach up and drag him into a kiss before he says anything even more obnoxious.

Their second kiss is much better than their first, if only because Harry’s brain is actually working this time, registering how soft Draco’s lips are, and how one hand has curved around his jaw, gently moving him until their mouths fit together just so, while the other has taken hold of Harry’s hip, and how its grip tightens when Harry’s tongue teases at the seam of Draco’s lips.

The kiss is also better somehow because Harry was the one that initiated it this time. He doesn’t even really know why, but perhaps because it made him feel more like an active participant? He was a Gryffindor after all. 

Draco nipping at his lower lip derailed his train of thought rather effectively and drew his attention back to the kiss and all the sensations that were almost threatening to overwhelm him, like Draco’s nose tickling his cheek, Draco’s hand slipping into his hair, Harry’s hand doing the same, wondering how soft Draco’s hair feels, slippery, silky, very luxurious in any case, which is only fitting of course. 

And then a horrible, horrid thought cuts through the blissful fog that has clouded Harry’s mind and he breaks away from the kiss with a gasp.

“You were brewing Amortentia!” he accuses, not even yet fully able to verbalise what exactly he’s accusing Draco of, but mind full of memories of chocolate cauldrons, mead, and bezoars. 

Draco’s annoyed groan drags him out of the dark spiral he was going down.

“For goodness sake, Potter, stop thinking, it’s obviously not working very well, and keep kissing me instead,” he demands and it’s so obviously, horribly, wonderfully heartfelt and obnoxious, and nothing like Ron’s poisoned ramblings, that Harry shoves aside any lingering suspicions and throws himself into another kiss, not without giving Draco’s hair a quick tug in punishment for the insult first. 

This, their third kiss is definitely the best of the lot so far, and Harry wonders whether it’ll continue like that, if he’ll keep counting every kiss, and if every kiss will be better than the one before. 

It’s a nice thought, and with that he pulls Draco yet that little bit closer and decides to turn off his brain for now. 

Perhaps this is what Amortentia feels like.

But perhaps it’s just what love feels like.

[kumeko]

Title: together alone

A/N: Almost at the end now! Just 1 more to go! =D For @quillofchoicefor the @marveltrumpshate charity auction. 

Summary: Jack never realized how lonely you could be with someone else.

…

…

…

…

“Casualties…zero…” Brock mumbled as he stood on the pristine white paper, slowly shuffling to the right as he tried to read it. With his size issues, he’d expected Hydra to at least make smaller, easier to read mission reports. Then again, he’d also expected them to make him human-sized again by now, so maybe he should just stop fucking expecting things from them. If he wanted consideration, he’d have stayed in S.H.I.E.L.D.

 Still, this proportion difference was making it impossible to keep tabs of what his team was up to. Each word had to be read slowly and pieced back together to make a sentence. It was slow, time consuming, and Brock had never been one for patience. Maybe he should have just taken Jack’s offer to read it aloud.

 Then again, Jack was handling almost everything else now and Brock didn’t want to be in even further debt with him. It rankled him already, just how much he owed this one man. For most of his life, he’d repaid favours immediately, but this was one he couldn’t do so easily.

“One…injury…” Brock frowned. Was training lax now? Did his men relax without him at the helm? When he got back, the first thing they were doing was training. Intense training. Go-to-the-mountain-and-survive training. If they thought they were getting a vacation because he wasn’t there, they had another thing coming.

 Rubbing his brow, he finished reading the sentence. It was a good thing he was left alone all day; it would take him that long to finish reading the report. Jack’s reports had always been more detailed than his own—Brock preferred to get to the point, almost bullet-pointing the results. There was no need to dress up the facts.

 “Infiltrated…properly…”

“Almost…noticed…distraction…”

 “Dodged…attack…”

 It was strange. Within an hour, Brock knew all the sordid details of Jack’s latest mission—who needed stealth practice, who did a good job at breaking in, what was taken and how. There had always been the odd mission he’d read like this, sitting on his couch and drinking a beer as he caught up with his squad’s exploits. Any good leader knew when to lead and when to step back, and it wasn’t like he could be everywhere at once.

 However, this was the fifth mission without him, the third one that had taken longer than a day. Usually he’d have his own mission to handle. Post-mission, he and Jack would swap stories, showing off new scars as they took off their clothes. There was something electric about letting Jack touch a freshly formed scab, about touching Jack’s barely healed wounds. Death had always been close, but in those moments, it had almost felt like he could taste it. He’d drink in Jack’s skin, feel his heart thrumming beneath his hand, and the border between life and death became none existent for a few minutes.  

 Now, though, all he had were these reports, black ink telling him tales he didn’t witness. His well-trained team managed fine without him. Jack managed fine without him. Part of him felt like a little kid again, watching the world instead of participating in it. His new height and the dew-sized beer he had didn’t dissuade that image.

 It was silly. The second he was big, he’d be running things again. He wasn’t losing everything he’d worked for, not really.

 All of those things were waiting for him.

 And if he pretended to sleep when Jack came back, it was just because he was tired, and nothing more.

 -x-

 At the sound of water splashing, Jack looked up from his laptop. It took him a moment to focus on the teacup on his kitchen counter. As he did, water once again spilled over the lip and he frowned. “Why are you making a mess?”

 “Do you know how hard it is to get comfortable in a teacup?” Brock snapped back, shifting his position in the cup. By now, half of the hot water had splashed out. “Add some more water, it’s fucking cold.”

 “Because of you.” Jack pinched his nose, rubbing it lightly. He didn’t wear his glasses often, only when he had to use the laptop for long periods of time, and the weight on his face felt strange and awkward. “Should I find a bigger bowl?”

 “I don’t want to swim, I want to bathe.” Brock rolled his eyes disdainfully. Irritation coloured his voice as he remembered their previous attempts at this. “And I’m definitely not drowning because you’re not around to pull me out. That would be the worst fucking way to die.”

 “That was one time.” Wincing at the accusation, Jack got up.

 “One time too many,” he snorted.

 Well, that was fair. Turning on the tap, Jack filled another glass with hot water, a finger under the spout to make sure the temperature wasn’t too hot. Last thing he needed was a hardboiled Brock. His skin was already starting to look a little red; he had never done well in the heat. Jack glanced at his housemate. A little man bathing in a teacup. It felt like something out of Alice in Wonderland, but after dealing with this for so long, the image had lost its surrealness.

 If anything, it was rather cute. He’d have to sneak a shot later when Brock wasn’t paying attention.

 “Here you go.” Jack gently tipped the water into the Brock’s teacup, watching as the water rose until it was at his shoulders. Raising the cup, he asked, “That to your taste?”

 “Good enough.” Brock cracked his back as he stretched once more, water lipping the top of the cup but not going over fortunately. While it wasn’t really all that much water, Jack was getting tired of getting up and refilling the cup. Looking up at him, Brock smirked. “Like what you see? Too bad you can’t join me this time.”

 Like Brock wasn’t the one sneaking into showers before. Jack flushed lightly as he returned to his chair, not able to think of a comeback. Or at least, a comeback that wouldn’t hurt. After all, Brock had always been attractive to him, had been from the moment they’d met. There was something rough and rugged about him and well, Jack was hopeless to firecrackers.

 His mother had always warned him against playing with matches.

 Even now, thinking of the times they spent together was enough to get him hot and bothered. Yet…there was nothing arousing about Brock at this size, where only his sexy grins and sly words were attractive. Looking at Brock’s naked body now, he could only think cute.

 Brock masturbated all the time, even when he’d been normal-sized. His sex drive had always been over the top, and Jack could only keep up for so long. Jack had never felt the need, not while they were together, but he’d never had the bed empty for this long.  He had never been by himself for this long. There were the post-mission sex and the during-mission sex and the ‘look-I-found-a-corner-and-fuck-Hydra’ sex. The bathroom sex and the bathing sex and the ‘I’m-bored’ sex. Brock’s muscular back underneath his hand, skin firm and warm. His lazy smirk as he stripped seductively. His gasping moans as he came.

 Jack’s pants tightened at the memory, and damn, he never thought he’d get a boner just from thinking about someone. Never thought he’d miss his not-quite one-night stands this much.

 But it was more than that, really—more than the sex, even if that seemed to be all Brock ever wanted out of their relationship. They’d write mission reports together and bitch about their orders and S.H.I.E.L.D. On a mission, Brock would look at him, just look at him, and Jack would know what he wanted before the words came out of his mouth.

 They spent almost every day together now. Jack had never thought himself a romantic, but he felt lonelier than he had when they’d only sneak a few hours together.

[melodramaticfanatic-blog]

Prove me wrong

Bucky x reader

Warnings: smut, cocky Bucky, definitely 18+

A/N: Smutty one shot thing (this was supposed to be a short drabble, HA!). For the record, I know plenty of women can’t find pleasure through only penetration and there is nothing wrong with that at all; do what you need to do for you, ladies! Just needed something for cocky ass Bucky to challenge her on and that popped in my head.

Gif not mine, credit to owner

“What I’m saying is, you men have it so easy in terms of sex,” you slurred slightly, gesturing wildly at the group of Avengers seated around the room. “We women really get the short end of the stick.”

“Sometimes literally!” Nat called out with a devious grin. 

“Care to run that by me again, sweetheart?” Bucky asked from across the sofa, his own voice not unaffected by the copious amounts of alcohol the whole team had enjoyed tonight. 

“You, all of you,” you said as you turned to face him, your arm grabbing the back of the couch for support while your body leaned unintentionally in towards him, “you just get up, get off and go. You have no idea what it’s like for us!”

“I’m thinking this is one of those times when we just smile and nod, Buck,” Steve suggested wryly from his seat near the pool table. 

“Don’t patronize me, flag boy!” you snapped.

Steve chuckled and held up his hands. “On that note, I think I’ll call this a night. Be good, Y/N, I know that you love me really. Bucky, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do and don’t do anything that Tony would do.”

You watched as the super soldier made his way out of the room with only the slightest falter to his step. Obviously, Steve had not had nearly as much to drink as you had. Why were you yelling about sex again?

“So tell me, Doll,” Bucky said, reclaiming your attention. “Why is it so hard for women?”

“Look, men are basically guaranteed an orgasm, right? You shove your cock somewhere nice and soft, thrust a couple of times and wham, bam, thank you ma’am, you’re all blissed out. I, like many women, do not reach orgasm through just penetration. That means that while you have achieved nirvana and are ready for a nap, I have to find a way to stimulate other areas in order to join you in happy town.”

Seriously, why were you talking about this with Bucky? Bucky, the cute, blue-grey eyed, quiet, man of mystery that you had been crushing on since he moved into Avengers Tower several months ago. Sure, you were friends with the guy but you had never talked about anything like this before. No doubt it had to do with your recent breakup and the incredible sexual frustration you had been building throughout that entire relationship. Those ingredients plus hormones and alcohol had mixed in your bloodstream to form a poison cocktail: it had killed all your filters and left you a rambling mess. 

“Are you saying that you can’t achieve orgasm through penetrative sex or that you haven’t yet?” Bucky asked, cocking his head to the side slightly as he studied you. 

“Same thing.”

“Not the same thing at all, sweetheart. Haven’t just means a man hasn’t done his job correctly yet.”

You stared back at Bucky, blinking stupidly. Was your brain so foggy because of the beer or because of the way that he was looking at you?

“See, I’m thinking we may need to do a little experiment, sweetheart,” Bucky suggested, his voice dipping lower as he moved down the sofa to be closer to you. His metal arm came up to brush against your arm on the back of the couch, the smooth cold of his touch instantly raising goosebumps along your skin, and you turned your head to look at it, perplexed by this new development. 

“What do you mean?”

“I could get you off through only penetration.” His tone was matter of fact, not a hint of bragging to it, as though he was just stating the obvious. 

“Bullshit,” you challenged without thinking. 

A large smirk broke out across his face. “That’s what I thought you’d say. So let’s test that theory.”

The wheels of your mind were turning incredibly slowly. “As far as I can see...there’s only one way to do that.”

“Yup,” he agreed with another cocky smirk. “I can only think of one way too.”

“Why don’t you tell me what your thought process was and then I’ll see if it matches my thought process,” you said slowly, not wanting to embarrass yourself if you had somehow misread the situation. 

“Well, first, we need to wait until you’re sobered up. You have to be sober so that you can give consent to test the theory, obviously. Plus, I wouldn’t want alcohol to interfere with any results. So I figure, we let you get a good night’s sleep and then tomorrow, I come and fuck you so good, you realize just how wrong you were.” Bucky finished speaking and gave you a charming smile, the kind of smile that would sell a ketchup popsicle to a woman wearing white gloves in 100 degree heat. 

You blinked at him stupidly in response. Even without the alcohol turning your brain to mush, you would not have been able to think straight. Not with Bucky’s voice, so low and tempting, speaking to you like this as his eyes seared into your own, burning more brightly than any star in the sky. 

“What do you think about that, doll? Sound like a plan?”

“Umm...yes?”

“Good,” Bucky said with a triumphant smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow then. Oh, and, don’t be alarmed when I stand up...talking about this with you has had an affect on me.”

You continued to blink at him stupidly, all ability to speak having left you. The sight of Bucky’s pants pulled taut over a straining erection when he stood to leave the room did nothing to help you recover your powers of speech and you sat on the couch for a long time after he had left the room, wondering what had just happened and more importantly, what was going to happen tomorrow.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

The knock on your door came as you were towel drying your hair after your shower. It wasn’t early morning, there was no way that you were going to be getting up early after last night’s escapades, but you had only abandoned your bed about 30 minutes ago. As you looked over at the door in response, a shiver ran along your back. You hadn’t been able to get a good night’s sleep because of the way your mind kept returning to Bucky and his promises. Were you scared or excited? It seemed like a mixture of both. Now you felt frozen at just the idea that the man of your fantasies from the last several months could be waiting for you, just outside the door. Would he remember the conversation from last night? Would he still want to prove you wrong?

“You in there, Doll?” Bucky’s voice called from the hallway. “I got coffee.”

Walking over to the door you took a deep breath to steady yourself and tried to stop your hands from shaking. Coffee wasn’t anything new; Bucky often brought you coffee to start the mornings before training. He was especially good about it if you had had a late night the night before. 

“Morning Buck,” you said pleasantly, opening the door and moving out of the way so that he could come in. 

The man was a vision of perfection: long, dark strands of hair framing his face where they had come loose from the bun at the back of his head, bright blue-grey eyes with just a hint of a crinkle around the edges, perfect, plump lips already curved into a smirk and just a hint of dark stubble along a jawline so sharp it would probably cut glass better than any diamond in the world. To complete the sublime view, Bucky carried a tray with coffee and brunch for both of you.

“Hey, Doll. I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry so I brought some stuff just in case.”

“You know me,” you tried to play it cool as you closed the door and turned to find him sitting on your bed. “I’m always ravenous.”

“Sure, just didn’t know if it was gonna be food you were in the mood for.” Bucky’s smirk grew larger and his eyes darkened slightly. Oh, shit. He definitely remembered.

“Uh, I, uh-”

The man on your bed gave a low chuckle and held out a cup for you. “Relax, sweetheart. I know you were a little drunk last night. No hard feelings if you don’t want to test that theory of yours anymore.”

“It’s not really a theory. I mean, a theory is just a belief, an assumption. This is a fact, Buck. I’ve never had an orgasm just by having sex.” Your face heated as you spoke and you had to look down and drink a big gulp of your coffee. Bucky’s eyes had never strayed from you. Why hadn’t you just laughed it off and let the whole thing go?

“You’ve never had sex with me, sweetheart.”

It rankled you that he kept challenging you and his refusal to believe you was just enough to egg you into continuing the conversation.

“Not yet, anyway...” he added with another smirk. 

“Alright,” you lifted your chin defiantly, your gaze meeting his. “so prove me wrong then. Penetration only. That means no hands wandering down to rub my clit or vibrating cock rings, you know.”

Another dark chuckle rumbled from his chest as he shifted slightly on the bed, his pupils now dominating his once bright eyes. “I don’t need gadgets to do my job for me, Y/N.”

“Get over here and do it then,” you challenged.

Bucky moved the tray off of your bed, setting it on the nearby dresser before coming towards you. You could feel your blood racing under the skin along every inch of your body; it suddenly felt as though all your life the world had been colored in sepia and Bucky had just turned on the technicolor. Everything was brighter, more vivid and more real. Just watching as the handsome man moved towards you like quicksilver was enough to make your chest heave with irregular breaths. The closer he came to you, the more alive you felt. He stopped walking with about a foot left between your chests and placed a hand on either side of your waist; one warm and soft the other cool and smooth, they easily found the edge of your shirt and slipped just underneath, brushing against your already over heated skin.

“You sure, doll?” Bucky dipped his head slightly so that he was on an eye level with you.

You nodded dumbly, staring deeply into his lust blown eyes.

“I need to hear you say it, Y/N.” Bucky brought his flesh hand up to run his thumb along your jaw bone. “Tell me that you want me, doll.”

“I want you.”

It came out as a ragged whisper but the words had hardly left your lips before Bucky’s mouth crashed against yours, hot and needy. The space between your bodies was gone, he was pressed as close to you as he could possibly be without actually being inside of you, the hand on your jaw angling your face towards his. His head tilted slowly, finding the perfect position to devour your lips from while his metal hand gripped onto your hip and held you steady. Your blood thundered in your ears as your own hands reached out to him, one wrapping a fist into the soft material of his t-shirt, the other reaching back to tangle into his hair. So much for keeping it tied back in a bun. As you tugged against his silky locks gently, Bucky let out a low moan, the vibrations causing your lips to tingle. 

“Damn, doll,” he gasped, breaking away to catch his breath. “A guy could get used to being kissed like that.”

Without giving you a chance to reply, Bucky leaned in to kiss you again, this time more slowly. He caught your bottom lip between his teeth and pulled gently causing you to whimper. You could feel him smirking against your lips as he pressed light pecks over them, trailing down to reach your jawline. 

“I think it’s about time to get you out of these clothes, Y/N,” he murmured against your skin in between smoothing kisses along your neck. 

It’s hard to say which of you was more surprised by what happened next. Bucky had been thoroughly in control of this encounter from the moment he walked in the room but without any warning, your body took over, acting purely on impulse and driven by desire. The hand that had been wrapped in his hair jerked down to his t-shirt and with a sharp pull you found that each of your fists clenched around a long, jagged piece of fabric. Bucky looked down at his ruined shirt and bare chest in shock but before he could say a word, you were on him again, your mouth claiming his as you pushed him back towards the bed. His knees hit the mattress and you both toppled on to it, your body coming to rest on top of his as his arms wrapped around you, hands splaying against your back and pulling you closer.

It was obvious from his response that Bucky didn’t mind you taking control. You could feel his bulge beneath you, rubbing against your clothed core, as he hummed happily against your mouth and rolled his hips tauntingly. His tongue darted out to gently caress your lips and you opened yourself to him, reveling at the way he licked over them before delving deeply into you, kissing you as no one ever had before. His hands found the hem of your shirt again and slid the material up, flesh and metal both raising goosebumps along your back as they pulled the garment away. You sat up, straddling him, and finished the job of removing your top, watching as his hungry eyes traveled over every inch of newly revealed flesh. He stared at you the way a man dying of thirst stares at a glass of water. His metal hand sat on your hip, his thumb making small circles on the flesh above your waistline, while his flesh hand got busy exploring. He pressed his palm to your stomach and agonizingly slowly slid it upwards, traveling along the valley between your breasts before smoothing his fingers along your collar bone. Desperate for his hands to be on you, you reached back and unclasped your bra, letting the material fall to the ground with a soft thump. 

For a long moment, Bucky simply laid beneath you and basked in your beauty. He had been dreaming about this for far too long to not enjoy the moment. In what felt like the most profound understatement, Bucky purred out, “Well, aren’t you just the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, Doll?” before dragging his hand down to capture your breast. Your head fell back as Bucky went to work, his hand groping and kneading one side as he sat up to press kisses on the other. A harsh gasp was sucked between your teeth as he bit your tender flesh, marking you slightly before sucking and kissing the angry skin soothingly. 

“Bucky, please,” you whined. Your nipples were hard peaks and he seemed to be pointedly ignoring them, both his hand and his mouth circling around them but never making contact.

“Mhmm?”

“Teasing me wasn’t part of the deal,” you panted, one of your hands wrapping into his hair again.

In the blink of an eye, the former soldier had flipped you onto your back in the bed, his body fit snugly between your legs as he hovered over you. Looking up at you from under his dark lashes, Bucky smirked and then lowered his head, capturing one nipple and sucking harshly on it while flicking the other with his thumb nail. Your body was writhing beneath him, unclear words and curses falling in a nonstop string from your lips. You had never considered yourself particularly sexual and didn’t think that your breasts were very sensitive, but under Bucky’s care you could already feel pleasure coiling tightly in the pit of your stomach. 

Moving slowly, Bucky drifted his lips across your chest, pressing soft kisses over your skin until his mouth reached the opposite nipple. His free hand began to snake down your body, expertly finding the closure on your pants and undoing them as he rasped his teeth over the hard bud. He didn’t bother to remove your clothing yet, choosing instead to simply slip his flesh hand inside the fabric, his warm fingers rubbing almost tenderly over you. You half expected him to plunge his fingers into you immediately but Bucky took you by surprise, his hand moving slowly, brushing and rubbing against your slit. 

“You’re still teasing me, James,” you groaned through gritted teeth. 

Bucky responded to hearing you say his name with a low growl. He instantly moved down your body, pushing your pants and underwear away before coming to rest between your thighs. His shoulders were so broad that you had to open your legs as widely as possible, your wet core on full display before his eager eyes. 

“Fuck, Doll,” he murmured in a voice so animalistic you had to fight down a shiver, “you’re even more perfect than I imagined you’d be.”

He began to press soft kisses to the inside of your thigh, one of his arms wrapping around your leg where it connected to your body and coming to rest with his hand just above your sex. The other hand reached out until it found one of yours, intertwining your fingers with his own in a gesture so loving you could swear that you felt your heart thump against your ribcage in a wild attempt to reach the man between your thighs. Your hips lifted off the bed, searching for contact and eliciting a low chuckle from Bucky. He knew what you wanted. Moving slowly, the former soldier traced his mouth along the soft skin of your thigh, his stubble tickling against you until his face was positioned at the apex of your legs. You looked down to see his bright eyes shining up at you as he lowered his head and flattened his tongue against you, stroking a long, rough lick from your entrance up to flick against your clit. 

“Bucky!” you cried on a wild moan.

He repeated the action, pressing a kiss against your bundle of nerves when he reached it this time. You could feel yourself getting closer to the edge. 

“This doesn’t- this doesn’t count,” you panted. “You said- ugh...you said penetration only.”

Bucky sucked your bud between his lips briefly before releasing you with a smirk. “I can’t just shove myself into you, Y/N. Christ, what kind of losers have you been fucking?” He chuckled darkly and lapped his tongue against your folds again. “I have to get you ready to take my cock first. Get you nice and wet so that you can stretch enough to fit me. Consider this a control study; we know you can have an orgasm and now I’m gonna give you one to demonstrate that.”

True to his word, Bucky went to work. His tongue pressed between your folds, dipping deeply into you as his fingers began to circle against your clit in a demanding rhythm. Your hips rose to meet him as your free hand tangled in his hair, holding his face to your body. He kissed and licked and sucked at you as though he would never be able to get enough. His mouth took the place of his fingers, covering your aching clit while his hand moved to hold you down. As you tugged against his hair, he let out a feral groan that vibrated against you and pushed you over the edge. With a moan of his name and several unintelligible words, you felt the tight coil inside you snap, your walls spasming and legs trembling with the shocks of pleasure coursing through your body. 

“That’s it, Doll,” Bucky whispered tenderly, still pressing kisses to your heated flesh as you began to go limp while coming down from your high. “Damn, Y/N, you are so fucking amazing.”

Unable to think of anything else to say, you simply panted, “you still haven’t proved me wrong, James.”

He let out a dark chuckle and moved off the bed, shedding his remaining clothing and grabbing a condom from the brunch tray he had brought along. Your head fell to the side as you kept your eyes fixated on him, your entire body feeling like mush after your recent release. Every piece of him was coiled muscle so it shouldn’t have surprised you that he was packing major length and girth below the belt. His skin shone slightly with a light sheen of sweat and your eyes traced every line of his abdomen before returning to the thick cock that was standing proudly as he rolled the latex over it. Bucky caught you staring and smirked again, knowing what was to come. He crawled up the bed, his eyes never leaving yours and began kissing you again, slowly, as his weight pressed you back to the bed. You could feel the tip of him brushing against you with each shift of his hips and it was driving you crazy with desire.

“Damn it, do you ever stop teasing?!” you huffed angrily as he moved his hips away from you again. 

“Alright, Y/N,” he said with another light kiss to your lips. “No more teasing.”

He reached down to align himself with your opening, unable to resist rubbing his cock along your wet slit once more as he did so. You hissed sharply as he began to push into your tight core. 

“You ok, Doll?” Bucky asked through gritted teeth, holding himself still with just his engorged head inside your lips.

To be honest, Bucky was almost too big. Even having this small piece of him inside you was causing a burning pain as your body tried to adjust to the intrusion, but that was why he had taken his time with his mouth earlier. You were still so wet and stimulated that after several moments the pain shifted to a kind of deep pleasure. 

“More,” you begged, your nails biting into the soft flesh of his back as you tried to pull him closer. 

Happy to oblige, Bucky slid a bit deeper into you, kissing you softly and watching your face for any sign of distress. Your head tipped back at all the new sensations you were feeling. You had never really understood why sex toys were made with veins and ridges until this exact moment. As Bucky sheathed himself fully within you, shivers ran along your skin in response to the rub and throb of the protruding veins along his thick shaft. He held himself in you, feeling how tightly you were wrapped around him and sucked soft kisses into the flesh of your neck, waiting for you to be ready. You had never felt so filled, so stretched, and although it hurt slightly, the pain was covered by the pleasure of the wet suction of Bucky’s lips on your skin, the feel of his cold metal arm at your waist, the brush of his warm fingertips against your cheek.

“I need you, Bucky,” you mewled softly, feeling his body tense in response to your words. 

Moving slowly, Bucky began to draw himself out of you again, the feeling of each vein and ridge rubbing against your soft walls setting your nerves on fire. He pulled almost all the way out before plunging back into you with a low groan. 

“Damn, Doll, you’re so tight and soft...you feel so amazing.” Each compliment he showered on you was accompanied by a thrust and roll of his hips. “I just want to worship your body for the rest of my life.”

“Bucky, I-I,” you were panting heavily, taken aback at the way your muscles were tensing and the pressure that was coiling deep within you. “Shit, it’s never been like this!”

With lithe ease, Bucky rolled you over so that you were on top, still buried deeply between your legs. He began thrusting his hips up manically as you moved to straddle him and you let out a near scream of pleasure. The new angle allowed his large head to hit repeatedly against a spot inside you no one had ever found before.

“I know, Doll. It’s never been like this because it’s never been with me. You were wasting your time with those fucking losers who don’t have any idea how to treat you.” Bucky was panting and ramming himself into you, his hands on your hips to allow him to sink as deeply as possible. You were nearly insensate with lust, your fingers clawing at his chest as he continued to pound into you. “You were made for me, Y/N. No one else compares to you. I love being inside you; I’ve been waiting for this since the day we met.”

“Bucky, Bucky, please, I’m gonna-” you whimpered, biting your lip and tipping your head back. 

“Cum for me, Doll. Please, cum for me. You look so beautiful when you orgasm.”

With a snap and a roll of his hips, Bucky sent you over the edge, your body shaking wildly as your walls clenched around him and all your muscles contracted. A few tears leaked from your eyes as you gasped and moaned his name over and over again. The feeling of you tightening around him and the gorgeous look of bliss that came over you was almost enough to make Bucky cum right on the spot but the former soldier held on, riding you through your pleasure before suddenly rolling your bodies again to place himself on top. Staring deeply into your surprised eyes, Bucky reached down and grabbed one of your legs, hitching it up so that it rested against his shoulder. 

“You’ve got one more in you, don’t you, sweetheart?” he asked sweetly, leaning down to brush his lips against yours as he resumed thrusting into you. Your body answered the question for you, tension beginning to build again. Now that Bucky had proven his point, he felt free to explore your entire body and his hand reached down to where you were connected, stroking and rubbing insistently against your clit in rhythm with his hips. 

“Oh, god...JAMES!” You knew at the volume you had just called his name there would not be a single person in the tower who was unaware of what was happening. You also didn’t care. 

“Doll...Y/N!” Bucky had become a panting mess, his hair sticking to his sweaty face as he slammed his hips against you like a man possessed. Watching you come undone for the third time under him was too much and he came with a groan of your name which he muffled against your lips. 

It took a long moment before either of you could move, your bodies too overwhelmed by pleasure. Eventually, Bucky drew your leg back to your side and slid himself languidly out of you, chuckling when you whimpered at the sudden emptiness. He moved his weight off of you, pressing his body to your side and wrapping an arm around your waist. 

“How’d I do at proving you wrong, Doll?” he teased lightly. 

“Well, technically, you did but it was only 1 out of 3. Not a great ratio,” you quipped back. 

He chuckled darkly and pressed his lips to your temple. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time, Y/N.”

“Next time?”

“Hell yes, Doll. I told you, you were made for me. You’re the only one I want. I’ve spent months waiting for you; I’m not letting you go now that I have you. And I think I just did a pretty great job of proving I was made for you too, Y/N.” He lifted a hand to your chin, turning your face so that he could look into your eyes which were suddenly feeling a little misty. “Oh, and by the way, it just so happens that I love you.”

[kriscme]

One Life To Live

Hi Readers, this is a reposting of Chapter 24.   I didn’t like parts of the ending so I rewrote it.  I hope this makes Katniss’s thought process clearer.  As always, thanks to Ronja for allowing me to write fanfic of her Hunger Games fanfic “The Chance You Didn’t Take” and thanks to you for reading.  “The Chance You Didn’t Take” is on Ao3 and FanFiction. Chapter 24

Ready to move on with my life.  I repeat this mantra at least a dozen times the following day.  I say it as I walk to work.  I say it as I clean the blackboard.  I say it as I walk past the bakery.  I say it as I pass through the Village gates on my way home.  I’m still saying it when I go to answer the knock at the door, and I say it again when I see who it is.   It’s Peeta.

He hangs back as if he’s unsure what kind of welcome he’ll get.  He looks tired, with circles under his eyes, and his clothes are a little disheveled, like they’ve been slept in.  One hand clutches a large, bulging paper bag.   A silver ring with a love knot gleams dully on one finger.   He gives me a hesitant smile.  “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” I say in return.

There are a few seconds of uncomfortable silence.  If Peeta has a reason for being here, he’s slow to get to it.  “Um, do you want to come in?” I ask.  Maybe that’s what he’s waiting for.  I step back to give him room. He hesitates for a moment, as if considering it. “Thanks, but I can’t stay.  I have to get into town.  I just wanted to see you before I left.  To give you this.”  I take the bag he offers me.  I unfold the top and see that it’s full of cookies.  A least six different kinds.  He has been busy. “And to apologize for the other night.   I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.  I know none of it is your fault.  I don’t why I did – I think it just reminded me – “ “Of another time?” I interject.  “I thought that’s what happened.  Memories are returning, then?” He nods.  “Yeah, and at unexpected times and places.  I was wrong to blame you that other time too, wasn’t I?” I shrug.  “It’s not nice to be the last to know, especially when it concerns you,” I concede.  “We – that is, Haymitch and I – thought Lace would have told you, since you’re engaged and all.  That’s why we didn’t.”  I refrain from mentioning that I had also threatened her.   “I understand.  It was Lace’s place to tell me.  No one else.”   We lapse into silence again, but even though Peeta has said what he came to say, he makes no move to go. “I missed you this morning,” I blurt out, when the silence becomes untenable.  I want to kick myself.  The plan was to pretend I hadn’t noticed.  But I waited nearly fifteen minutes for him to show when I shouldn’t have even given him one second.  He was the one at fault, not me.  As the day progressed, the anger built.  I kept it leashed when I was with the children, but when Max started on me with his usual teasing, he got the full force of it, and he left me alone.   And I know he was just dying to pester me for details of what happened at the pub.   “Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” he says, all contrition.  “I’ve had a couple of rough nights and I slept in.  I ended up taking the day off work.”

“Oh,” I feel myself soften a little.  That’s something I can relate to.   He does look very tired, exhausted even.  And there’s something about it that’s familiar, a sort of haunted look about the eyes.  I guess it takes one to know one.  “Nightmares?” “Yeah, I’ve been having them for a while now. They came with the memories, but the ones just lately . . .” He doesn’t finish, but looks away, as if he can’t meet my eye.   “They’ve got worse?” I prompt.   “No.  Not worse, just . . . different.”   I wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t. Maybe he wants me to ask.  He seems to be waiting for something.  But I don’t want to know about his nightmares. If he wants to talk to someone about them, he has Lace.   “I guess it’s the cost of finding yourself,” I say rather unhelpfully.  “But I sympathise about the nightmares.  They can be brutal.”  Unbidden, a hint of animosity creeps into my voice.   That guest room ban still rankles.   “I’ve found that out,” he replies.   “I’m sorry now that I wasn’t more understanding of yours.  I suppose you can add that to the list of the many things I have to be sorry about.” There’s another pause.  He wants me to ask what they are, I know he does.   But I’m tired of this round-a-bout way of conversing.  It’s confusing me.  If he has something to tell me, why doesn’t he just say it straight out?  I thought he was in a hurry to get into town, anyway. “Well, thanks for the cookies.  There’s enough to keep me going for weeks, but I’m sure Marcus will help out.”  I don’t know why I bring up Marcus, except to show Peeta that I can have someone too if I want.   “I’d better not keep you any longer.” He does that looking away thing again.  “You’re right, I should be going.  I have a lot to do.”  He turns back to me with a sad smile.  “Bye Katniss.  I guess I’ll see you around.” I watch him pass through the Village Gates and then disappear from sight.  He seems so forlorn, almost defeated. The nightmares must have come back with a vengeance.  And I suppose this business with Lace has knocked him around a bit too.  I have an impulse to run after him and put my arms around him, to give comfort in any way I can.  I don’t act on it, of course.  Besides, what did he mean by “I’ll see you around?”  Surely, he should have said, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”  He’s decided not to walk with me into town anymore then.  I suppose he’s realized that he can’t continue to cling to the friendship the way he has, not when he’s to marry in a few weeks.  I don’t know whether to feel anger or relief.  I decide on relief.  It will be easier for us both.  

Johanna comes over for a visit, conveniently right on dinnertime.  We sneak in a few words about Peeta while Marcus isn’t listening, but she has little to add to what she told me last night, other than the locket is still by the phone where he left it.  

After dinner, Johanna and I decide to visit Haymitch.  Marcus is occupied pouring over maps so we won’t be missed.  Unfortunately, our timing is off.  Haymitch has settled into his favorite lounge chair with a bottle of white liquor and a big paper bag of cookies beside him.   “One Life to Live” is about to start and this particular episode has been promoted as not to be missed.  Apparently, Celia is to lose the chaste in Chastely.   Johanna and I clear a space on the sofa and sit down.  There’ll be no real conversation until “One Life to Live” is over.  I sigh.  You have to be brain dead to enjoy this show.  But then I see Haymitch take a swig of his liquor.  I guess he’d have lost a significant number of brain cells by now. The show opens with Ginger having the final fitting for her wedding gown.   “She looks like a giant puff-ball,” comments Johanna. “It’s to hide her pregnancy.  It must be quite advanced by now,” I say. “Quiet!” barks Haymitch. Chastised, Johanna and I turn our attention back to the TV.   Blake and Ginger are consulting with the caterers over the menu for the reception.  Ginger wants it all to be ginger-colored to go with her name. She decides on sweet potato souffle, lobster with thousand island dressing and blood orange jelly with carrot ice-cream for dessert.  Blake is apathetic about it.  He looks like a man who’s given up all hope.  His roguish older brother, Ryder, who accompanies them, tries to cheer him up with a dirty joke, but it barely raises a smile. Meanwhile, it appears that Celia has got herself a boyfriend.  Her parents enthusiastically approve.  His name is Lance Bounder and his family owns the largest marijuana plantation in the district.   Actually, it’s grown and sold as hemp, but everyone knows where the real source of the Bounders’ wealth comes from and it isn’t rope.  On the surface, Lance is perfect for Celia.  Amazingly good looking with abs to die for.  Wealthy, charming, loves horses and small fluffy animals and, most importantly, shares the Chastely passion for organic farming. On this day, Celia is spending the day at the Bounder mansion.  The rest of the family is out, leaving Celia and Lance all alone.  Lance reaches into a dish for what looks like dried-up grass, and stuffs it into a small pipe.  After it’s lit, he offers it to Celia. “I couldn’t possibly,” says Celia. “I don’t approve of mind-altering drugs.” “It’s 100 per cent organic,” says Lance. “Oh, alright then,” says Celia, and takes a puff.   And another. And then another.   Celia loses all inhibition.  Clothes are strewn the length of the room and soon Celia and Lance are engaged in passionate sex.   “Wow,” Johanna whispers to me.  “Outside of the porn channel, I didn’t know they allowed this sort of thing on television.  Is he licking her – “ “Yes,” I say quickly before she can say the word. “It looks as if he’s trying to reach her tonsils.” After they’ve tried multiple positions, they call out for the gardener.   He’s been clipping the same hedge by the window since soon after they started.  

“What are they doing?” I whisper to Johanna.

“Making a sandwich,” she replies. Eventually, all three of them collapse exhausted.  The camera pans over Celia’s face.  The corners of her mouth curve into a satisfied smile.   “She’s going to regret it the next day,” murmurs Johanna in my ear. “Why do you think that?”  Celia seems very content to me. “Urinary tract infection.  Believe me, I know,” she answers. Next, we see Blake and Ryder on the porch of the Knightly home having a drink together.  A glorious sunset delineates the oil rigs in the distance, but Blake is blind to its beauty.  He’s sunk in despondency.  Ryder watches him, deeply worried. The episode ends with Ginger meeting secretly with the real father of her baby – the lead guitarist in the punk rock band “The Sucking Mosquitos.”  She tells him that soon after the baby is born, she intends to file for divorce and get half of Blake’s fortune.  The lovers seal their dastardly plan with a passionate kiss.  

The closing credits roll.  Haymitch fumbles around for the remote control, eventually finds it down the side of the chair, and turns off the television.   “So, what do you two want?” he asks crossly. I guess I should have remembered that Monday nights are special to Haymitch.  He likes to sit and relax with his favorite soap while imbibing a bottle or two of some alcoholic beverage.   “Can’t we just visit a neighbor without wanting anything?” I reply. “It would be a first.  So, what is it?  Information about the boy?  What makes you think I have any?” “That bag of cookies for a start,” says Johanna.   “We know he’s been here.  Peeta made enough to feed an army.   We’re concerned for him, that’s all.” Haymitch’s eyes travel to Johanna before landing on me.  He looks skeptical.  And then he shrugs.   “Memories are coming thick and fast and he doesn’t know what to do with them.  He says they’re all mixed up in his head.  He had a lot of questions about what happened in 13.” He looks in my direction. “Your reaction to his capture.  How you came to be the Mockingjay.  Questions like that.” “What did you tell him?” I ask. “The truth.  That you became the Mockingjay so he’d have immunity.  How I got the scars on my face.   Why he was rescued.” “What he did he say?” “He said you must have cared for him very much.” “And?” “That’s all.  He didn’t have any other questions.  That’s what you want, isn’t it?  Only tell him what he asks?”   “But how did he seem?  Was he happy about it?”   Haymitch pauses as if can’t decide to be truthful or tactful.   He settles on his usual bluntness. “He seemed upset.” My heart sinks.  For the briefest of moments, hope had flared.  But it was simply another false alarm, like always. Haymitch opens his mouth to add something, but his attention is claimed by Johanna.  “Did he tell you what happened with Lace?” she demands.  

Through a fog, I hear them talk about what happened at the pub and Peeta’s reaction to it.  Only one thought reverberates through my brain.  He knows!  He knows! And then: he wasn’t happy about it.   The very opposite, in fact.   “. . . making a mistake.  But it’s up to him.  Katniss, what do you think?” “Hmm?  Ah, yes.  Up to him,” I stammer out.  Johanna gives me an odd look and then goes back to talking with Haymitch. “Are you alright?”  she asks, shortly after we leave.  “You’re acting weird, even for you.” I scowl at her.  “I’m fine.  I’m just tired, that’s all.” “Better have an early night then.” Johanna lets out a massive yawn.   “Actually, I think I could do with one myself.  ‘night.” “Goodnight.”  

Johanna makes the short journey across the road to Peeta’s house, while I make the even shorter one to my house next door.  But I don’t go in.   Instead I sit down on the porch steps.  I need to think.   Was there anything I missed, in that strange conversation I had with Peeta?  There might be some hope in all that gloom.   I know Peeta had called in on Haymitch first. He must have, because he left to go into town after he called in on me.  That means he knew then how I feel about him.  I go over what was said.  He told me he’s having nightmares.  There’s nothing unusual in that, though.  Most of us who have gone through the Games have nightmares.  And then he said he has things to be sorry about.   But that’s just a natural consequence of regaining one’s memories.  Nearly everyone has something they wish they could take back, or do differently.   So, nothing he said tells me anything. But the way he acted did.   Haymitch said he was upset when he heard, and he wasn’t happy when he came to see me either.   He’d be glad, wouldn’t he, if my being in love with him was a good thing? Of course, he would.  It was unwelcomed then.  That explains why he could hardly look me in the eye.  It’s awkward when someone loves you and you don’t return it.   I remember that feeling with Gale. You feel bad.  Bad for them.  And bad for yourself, because whatever easy relationship you had can never be the same again.  That’s why he’s not walking with me into town anymore.  He knows he has to separate himself from me for my sake, as well as his own.  He can’t be with Lace, and knowingly continue a friendship with someone he knows is in love with him.   I want to crawl into a hole and die. It’s what I’ve been dreading all along. I am so humiliated.  For once heartbreak doesn’t come into it.  I’ve been dealing with that for months.  But I had my pride.  And now I don’t even have that.  How can I face him, knowing that he knows?  He’s probably gone over in his head all the clues he’s missed.  My moods, my insistence that he find his former self.  What a fool I’ve been thinking that it would make any difference.  If he loved me, he’d love me, memories or not.  The hijacking wasn’t the cause.   His love for me had simply burned out.  Or he’s been right all this time.  It was illusion.  Never real in the first place.  How stupid I’ve been.  Peeta’s been telling me all along how he feels, but I’ve refused to accept it.   I don’t know how long I stay on the porch. It’s like I can’t move, because to do so will require some kind of action, or emotion on my part.  A great weariness seems to have pervaded my very bones.  I haven’t felt this way since those early days when I returned to 12, when my entire world had shrunk to an old rocker in a corner of my kitchen.   It seems such a comforting thing, to shut the world out entirely, and not have to deal with it.  Across the road, I see the lights in Peeta’s house go out.  Johanna has retired for the night then.  Haymitch is still up.  Even from here I can hear his television blaring.  Whether I participate or not, life goes on.  

I stretch out my stiffened legs and rise from the porch.  Perhaps this is for the best, this end of hope.  I can give up this game.  That the question of whether I can regain Peeta’s love has been answered, even if that answer is a resounding no.   I’m now entirely free to act as I wish because whatever I do won’t make a scrap of difference as far as Peeta is concerned. I can survive this just as I’ve survived everything else.  I know I can. It might even mark the start of something new and exciting.  I’ll try every food at the feast.  Or I could be like Peeta.  He found love again.  What did he say to me once long ago, when I despaired that I will never again be loved as he had loved me?     “I hope that you will, and it will the kind of love where you both feel the same way about each other." Marcus has started to pack away his maps when I enter the house.   “How was Haymitch?” he asks. “He’s good.  We had to sit through “One Life to Live” though.  Celia lost her virginity and Blake is miserable.  That’s all you really need to know.” “Good to see the tables turned for a change. And no, I don’t watch it, if that’s what you’re thinking.  I’ve just seen the advertising on TV for it.” I walk over to the table and peer down at one of the charts.  It’s an aerial photograph of the lake area.  A small square structure at the edge of the lake must be the concrete house.   Marcus comes to stand close behind me. “I’ve been mapping out walks we can do from the lake.  Nothing too arduous.  I thought it would be nice if we have time to simply relax and enjoy the surroundings. Here, I’ll show you one of them.” He takes one of my hands and traces a loop that takes in a densely wooded area nearby.  I know it well.  

His body is warm against my back, and I press into it.  The hand that covers mine comes to rest around my waist to pull me closer.  Something stirs in me, something primitive and wholly physical that has been suppressed for far too long.   And there’s something else too.   The need for human contact?  Affection? Reassurance that even if Peeta doesn’t want me I’m still desirable and worthy of being loved?   I don’t know and I don’t stop to analyze it.  I’m done with thinking.  I want to be a creature purely of the senses, unconcerned with anything beyond this moment.  His free hand pushes aside my braid and his head dips to nuzzle my neck.   His beard, rough and soft at the same time, sends tiny shockwaves of pleasure down the entire length of my body.  And when I turn within the circle of his arms, his lips are waiting for me.  

[maedarakat]

Markless - Chapter 3

28th Oct: Soulmates AU // “I don’t need this now.”

Summary: A Mark showing up is like a rite of passage for young Vikings of the entire Archipelago. When Tuff gets his, he tells nobody - afraid it means what his Elders have always suspected about him. Likewise, Dagur’s own Mark remains secretive, due to his fear of making him seem weak.

Too bad the Gods never sent down instruction manuals, since they were so keen to pair humans up this way.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

—————-

Three blue lines.

That was the Mark on Hiccup; Dagur had seen it himself on their last encounter.

Granted, not in the nicest way possible - more like tackling him outright onto the forest floor on one of their many encounters. Dagur had paused to stare at Hiccup’s shoulder for far too long -  enough for Toothless to swat him off his rider and nearly bite his face off in the process.

There had been three blue lines, just like Dagur had tattooed across his eye and arm. Not exactly the same angle or shade of blue, but who cared - it was close enough that it couldn’t just be a coincidence; Hiccup was meant to be his.

The initial plan had been to find the Skrill, tame it, and then ride it in battle against Hiccup and his Night Fury.

He figured the Greek chorus that rode around with him would be distracted defending all of Berk from his Armada, while he flew in and collected his soulmate.

Hiccup would probably thank him later; he was too good, far too clever for living some sad banal existence on Berk. Even his rider friends couldn’t possibly appreciate him as much as he deserved; Dagur had often felt deep pangs of sadness and loneliness whenever he looked at the Mark on his wrist.

Even knowing that, nothing could have prepared him for whatever he'd felt Hiccup experience just three nights ago.

Dagur had woken in a cold aching sweat, heart hammering in fear. His back and hips had been in unbearable pain, for no reason that he or the hastily summoned physician could determine.  

It only confirmed the Berserker’s worst suspicions: his soulmate was being severely mistreated.

For that? Berk was going to pay dearly - just as soon as he captured and trained that Skrill.

Or so had been the plan. There was now just one teeny, tiny annoying little snag.

The Outcasts had found the Skrill first.

Despite the fact Dagur and his clan had ancestral claim to the dragon, Alvin was not interested in handing the Skrill over. The only thing keeping Dagur from annihilating the entire island with his Armada was Alvin’s threat of outright killing the dragon if he tried attacking them.

Well. A dead Skrill was zero use to him.

Put out and without any alternative choice, Dagur grudgingly agreed to work with Alvin - putting his Armada on the table in the quest to attack Berk.

At least they had a common goal, but Dagur was still going to watch for any opportunity to change things around in his favor.

Currently, all Dagur's ships were docked at Outcast Island - which gave the local wild dragons pause in attacking the village. Alvin had moved his people to subterranean caves, which accounted for the pallor and obesity of most of his men; starved for sunlight and vegetables.

They were eating wild dragon meat, cave mushrooms, and the occasional potato - which was why Dagur agreed to Vorg’s suggestion to slaughter a few boar and sheep and share out better provisions. Better food definitely made these talks go smoother, and had raised the morale of the Outcasts greatly.

Huh. By comparison, they didn’t seem too happy with Alvin. That could prove useful later . . .

He nodded to Captain Vorg, who extracted himself from the group of mingling Berserkers and Outcasts, who were playing a game of dice and cups. The man joined him in stride, as together they walked toward the arena where the Skrill was kept.

Alvin didn’t care if he went near the cage, so long as it was under guard. Dagur wanted to take a good look at the Skrill to make sure the Chief hadn’t injured her, or caused her to be unable to fly, though he’d been warned not to get too close. The dragon was angry, and had already electrocuted the wits out of some old man who had made that error.

“Sir,” Vorg inquired, jarring Dagur out of his thoughts.

“What is it?” Dagur snapped, not looking at him.

“When we gain ownership of the Skrill from Alvin, how do you plan to keep it from flying away? Have you figured out yet how Hiccup subjugated his Night Fury?”

Dagur scowled. He hadn’t figured that part out, but how hard could it be? Dragons liked to fly, didn’t they? If the Skrill wanted to fly again, then she’d just have to realize he was the boss and therefore she would fly wherever he wanted her to. Otherwise? She would just have to sit in her cage and think about it.

“If the dragon won’t obey me, there’s always chains to keep her grounded. I have no idea how scrawny little Hiccup managed to chain down his Night Fury - probably had his little friends all helping him,” Dagur snorted.

He wouldn’t need anyone helping him, though. All that dragon hunting, sparring and training had paid off; Dagur was now much stronger and faster than he’d ever been.

It was too bad Oswald had abandoned him - the weak fool might have had a son to feel proud of, had he stuck around.

Oh well, all the more reason to let people believe he’d ended his father’s life. It was rather amusing, really - and it garnered him both respect and fear.

Vorg was talking now, going on pointlessly about some kind of repair work on one of the ships, and Dagur tuned him out, approaching the Outcast who was on guard duty.

Instead of the usual slouching idiot, this one was already standing to full attention and straightened further upon Dagur’s approach.

“Sir! Your man has already begun his preliminary inspection of the Skrill cage ahead of you. I hope you find his results satisfactory.”  

“My what has done what now?” Dagur asked after a confused pause. He didn’t bother to wait for an answer, stepping past the guard and storming into the arena.

There was a thin blond boy sitting on the ground before the Skrill cage.

He was cooing at the dragon within, who looked decidedly less grumpy. She trilled back at him, blinking her eyes like an overgrown house cat.

Dagur scowled and stomped towards them both, dead set on hauling this intruder out of here and tossing him into the nearest Whispering Death hole. The Skrill hissed at him, retreating further into her cage, but the boy jumped to his feet and grinned at Dagur, running to meet him.

“Chief Dagur!” the blond shouted joyfully, and then hugged him - of all things.

As the young man’s arms encircled him, Dagur made as if to grab his elbows and shove him away. Upon skin contact, he froze - a plethora of emotions nearly crumpling him.

Relief, joy, anxiety - all crashed against his brain, leaving his thoughts a confused and tangled mess. Dagur stood still and stared at the intruder mutely, unable to help but listen to his strange babbling.

“The Skrill is doing just fine - she’s a bit under the weather, but if you feed her roasted hagfish with some onions and garlic, it’ll probably do wonders for her. Also, there’s a few patches of broken scales that need attention - I have some salve that should help.  It’s got comfrey in it, which Mom says is great for healing wounds and skin irritations. It will help you bond with her if you put it on her yourself.”

Dagur shook his head, trying to clear it. “Who are you?” he demanded, trying to sound both scornful and imposing. It was not very effective, given that the boy was still holding onto him, and Dagur had yet to enforce some distance between them.

Captain Vorg stepped in, yanking the boy away and shoving him a couple of feet back. “Answer him! What is your name and why are you here?”

“Tuffnut,” the young man answered, not appearing bothered in the least. “I’m here to help Dagur train his dragon.”

“. . . Who sent you?”

“Uh, myself? Duh. I sent me.” Tuffnut shook his head, as though Vorg had asked a stupid question. To be fair, Vorg did that sometimes. “Chief Dagur, when’s the last time she got fed or pet?”

“Pet? He’s mad! She’ll have your arm off as a chew toy if you try to pet her!” Vorg scoffed to Dagur, shaking his head. He reached for his sword to chase Tuff off, but Dagur stopped him with a gesture.

“If you want to help me train my dragon, prove to me that you can.”

“Okay,” Tuff agreed, grinning. He walked over to the bars, and the Skrill perked up, sniffing at him as he put his hand in.

She licked her nose and stood up, stretching as best as she was able. It was a tiny cell, not nearly big enough for her to unfurl her wings.

“Aw, poor baby girl,” Tuffnut murmured soothingly as she got her head under his touch, moving around so his scratching fingers got all the best spots. “We’ll get you feeling better soon and out of this tiny little kennel, I promise.”

She purred loudly under his ministrations and eventually flopped onto her side so Tuff could get under her chin.

Dagur tilted his head, more than impressed. “Okay. So she won’t attack you - that’s a good start. How long until you can get her to let me ride her?”

“That depends on you,” Tuff grinned. “You have to bond with her even better than I do. Come here, give me your hand.” He reached out to Dagur, unflinchingly.

Dagur was unaccustomed to be reached out for; by now even his most trusted men had learned to keep a careful and respectful distance. Even Captain Vorg was wincing in anticipation that the boy was going to lose his hand after all - which honestly rankled Dagur. 

Vorg didn’t know him.

Drawing himself up, Dagur put his slightly larger hand in Tuffnut’s and allowed the scrawny Viking to direct it - palm outward - to the Skrill. The dragon regarded him with an odd purring growl, but she didn’t snap at him.

Tuff sweet talked her into drawing nearer to the bars, where she sniffed suspiciously at Dagur’s fingers. Eventually, she nuzzled the Berserker’s palm and Vorg let out a breathy exhale of relief. Dagur glared at him.

“What? Didn’t think I could do it?” he snapped, tone dangerous.

“No, of course not, Chief! It’s just, you know, dragons are dangerous and unpredictable -“ the man stammered.

“Eh. They can be, it’s true,” Tuff put in amiably. “Just like people.  That’s what makes them so awesome, though. Dragons aren’t meant to be broken in - you have to earn their loyalty and trust.”

Dagur made a noncommittal noise, watching the Skrill with open admiration. “So . . . how do I do that exactly?”

“Well, you could start by trying to see things from her point of view. Some big smelly men caught her in a gross fishing net and tossed her into this awful cell - with no food or water or enough room to lie down properly. I mean, what would you do?”

“Well . . .” The Berserker Chief paused, thinking about it. “I’d start zapping people too, honestly. Huh. Good point, uh . . . What was your name again? Buffnut?”

“Tuffnut. You can call me Tuff.”

Normally Dagur would snap that he could call Tuff whatever he felt like, but he didn't quite feel like himself.

“Nice. Tuff. I’ll remember that. What do I feed her?”

The boy smiled at him rewardingly, making something in Dagur’s chest feel warm and cozy. “How about it girl? Do you want fish? Mutton? Boar meat?” The Skrill perked up at the last food mention, charring and licking her chops. “Boar meat it is then.”

Dagur grinned, surprised the Skrill was so intelligent. He liked her, and he liked this weird boy too - even if he had come out of nowhere to help him. Maybe this would be easier than he thought. “There’s a banquet this way, and I know for a fact there’s some boar roast, because it came from my ship.”

He slung an arm across Tuff’s shoulders to lead him there, not noticing when the boy hitched in pain. 

Tuff kept pace with him nonetheless, offering a shaky grin. “A banquet? What’s the occasion?”

“Oh we’re just celebrating a new alliance. Us Berserkers and the Outcasts against that sorry pile of volcanic puke that calls itself Berk.”

The boy let out a scornful laugh. “Yeah, Berk. I’ve heard of Berk. West til you smell it, North til you step in it, am I right?”

Dagur laughed, surprised, and tightened the hold on Tuff’s shoulders. His pained whimper was too faint to be noticed.

“You should eat something too. You’re way too skinny and scrawny for someone who trains dragons. Try some mutton and barley cakes. They’re my Mom’s recipe.”

“. . . Okay,” the boy said eagerly, and if Dagur thought he looked hungry now, it proved to be an understatement once they reached the banquet itself.

Tuff tore into his plate of food like a starved pup, eating like it would be wrested away from him at any moment. Dagur watched him carefully as he ate his own meal, more than once having to admonish Tuff to slow down. If the men looked at him oddly for the unusual care he was showing a complete stranger, Dagur didn’t notice - mostly because none of them dared to question him out loud.

After his second full plate, Tuff finally slowed down, looking beyond exhausted. Some of the Outcasts had unfortunately decided to sing as entertainment, despite the fact they could neither carry a tune nor remember how the song went.

Dagur left Tuff’s side briefly to load a platter with chunks of boar roast and bone for the Skrill, preferring the relative quiet of the arena to this cacophony. When he turned around, it was to a raucous cheer, mad gibberish, and the sound of blows falling.

Fantastic. Some idiots had started a brawl.

He wouldn’t have cared if not for the long blond hair of his companion visible on the floor. Dagur gaped in shock for only a second, then roared and charged forward, shoving Outcasts twice his girth out of the way.

The scrawny old man that the Skrill had electrocuted was straddling Tuff, trying to choke him. Furious beyond measure, Dagur grabbed Mildew’s arms and bodily lifted him off Tuffnut, throwing his attacker at the table with enough force to send dishes and mugs flying in all directions. His sword’s edge pressed across Mildew’s throat, irises shrunk to pinpricks of rage.

“How DARE you lay so much as a finger on MY companion?! Give me one good reason I shouldn’t RIP YOUR LEGS OFF and throw them down a Whispering Death hole!” Dagur roared.

Mildew only whimpered and babbled nonsense, pointing to Tuff, who was groaning on the floor. The attack had caught the boy by surprise it seemed, and now Dagur noticed vivid bruises on his arms as he shakily tried to lift himself up. He gestured to Vorg, who stepped in to help Tuff right himself.

Alvin wasn’t present and it must have been the leader of the Outcasts that Mildew’s frantically rolling eyes were searching for, because when they came back to rest on Dagur’s infuriated face, the old man whimpered and fainted dead away.

Dagur snorted in disdain and let him fall limply across the table. “When your village idiot here wakes up, tell him how lucky he is to still have his legs,” he snapped at the gathered men. They laughed and cheered in amusement; clearly there wasn’t too much concern held for the old goat.

He stormed over to the table and picked up the boar meat, gesturing for Vorg and Tuffnut to walk back to the Skrill’s cage with him.

Tuff, he noticed, was shaking.

“Are you alright?” he asked immediately, not liking the way his own voice trembled or the confused look Vorg was giving him.

“I’m fine,” Tuff promised, giving Dagur a strained grin. They walked toward the arena in silence, Dagur’s brain sorting through possible reasons why anyone would have attacked the boy. He had gotten the message through that it wasn’t to happen again - but he still wanted to know why.

It wasn’t until after the Skrill greeted them with chirps and excited wriggles and tucked into her platter of boar meat that Dagur asked about the incident.

“What was that back there? Does the village idiot know you?”

“. . . Mildew? Yeah, we know each other. He, uh, really doesn’t like dragons,” Tuff supplied nervously.

“Oh.” Well, that explained it. “You like them, though. So I guess he just doesn’t like you.”

When Tuff nodded hesitantly, Dagur relaxed. “Well, he won’t bother you again. You’re with me now, and he knows that. In fact, nobody will ever hurt you again.”

Tuffnut looked at him with a sharp inhale and Dagur felt his face grow warm, not sure why he’d said that. Vorg wasn’t in earshot - talking to the Outcast guards that Tuff had past earlier.

“. . . you guys are planning to attack Berk, right?” Tuff asked, and Dagur was surprised to see his face was also a bit red. “Can I ask what you’re after? I mean, I’ve been there before, and I’m good at stealing - if there’s something you’re after, maybe I can help?”

The Berserker snorted dismissively. “I know Alvin wants vengeance. Some long ago exile or something, it doesn’t interest me really. What I want is . . .”

Dagur trailed off, confused. It had been so clear in his mind what he’d wanted - less than an hour ago.

Hiccup. He’d wanted to kill that Night Fury and whoever was hurting Hiccup, and take him to where he’d be safe. But now it didn’t seem as urgent as before. “You’ve been to Berk before, you say? Do you know anyone there?”

“Yeah, I know some people,” Tuff answered guardedly.

“There’s a boy. Reddish brown hair, pretty green eyes. Missing a leg. He’s the Chief’s son. He knows how to tame dragons too.”

“I can do it better. I promise, I really can,” Tuff interjected immediately.

Dagur looked at Tuff and saw hurt written all over his face. Oh no. He was messing everything up, wasn’t he?

“Oh - don’t worry. I know you can, and I want you to. Hiccup would never help me train a Skrill, or any dragon. He hates me too much.”

Tuffnut seemed to relax almost instantly. Dagur glanced at Vorg, who was watching the guards instead of them. He leaned closer to Tuff to whisper in his ear. “Does he . . . do you know if . . . if Hiccup’s been injured recently?”

Tuff’s expression changed from heart sickness to confusion. “If he’s been injured . . .?”

“Has anyone been hurting him? That you know about? His father?”

The boy looked bewildered for a moment but swiftly shook his head. “No, his father is kind. To him at least. The Chief would die to keep Hiccup from harm.”

That brought some peace to Dagur’s mind and he sighed in relief, turning back to watch the Skrill lick the now empty platter. She picked up a nearby rib bone and sat down to gnaw on it happily.

“You care about people a lot more than you let on, don’t you?”

The question caught him off guard, as did Tuff’s sudden adoring look.

Dagur huffed and shrugged, feeling his face heat up. “No. I mean, I guess. Nobody’s son deserves to be mistreated, is all. Because ... more fathers should care about their kids. There’s no point in having a son and just knocking them around all the time. Or abandoning them when things get hard,” he sneered, crossing his arms. “Would have been better to just not have had a kid if they didn’t even want one.”

Tuff stood a little nearer to him. “Yeah. That’s true. They didn’t want to treat us better, so they got exactly what they had coming to them,” he said quietly. The boy’s words were odd, but Dagur didn’t put any thought into why.

“Right.” It was a comfort that Tuff seemed to know what he was talking about. Anyone else would have probably given him some Odin-loving drivel about how one should always be a dutiful son.

Dagur offered him a grin and decided to change the subject. “Well, Tuff - the Skrill is fed and she looks happy. What do I do now?”

“She needs salve on her wounds. Here.” Tuff walked over to a bundle of cloth that turned out to conceal a bag made of burlap. He rummaged through it to produce a tin of greenish-looking slime. “I’m gonna have you do it. But first, let’s tell her what we’re doing.”

Dagur blinked and turned back to the dragon. “Uh. Hey. So we have this stuff - smells like medicine. Does it sting?” he asked Tuffnut. The other boy shook his head. “Okay, it doesn’t sting, and it’ll heal you, so just . . . “

He didn’t need to explain any further; the Skrill purred and got to her feet, turning in the small cell and lifting a wing until her flank was pressed against the bars. Dagur beckoned for Tuff to bring one of the torches closer so he could see better, internally marveling at how smart this dragon was.

She had framed the wounded area of her scales between the bars, allowing him easy access to spread the salve over the reddened sore areas. She even raised her scale plates a bit so he could coat in between them.

“Pretty girl, clever girl,” Dagur crooned, without really thinking about it. He didn’t care how silly he sounded; in the moment, nothing seemed to matter but tending to the comfort of this dragon.

The Skrill turned and circled until he got all her trouble spots, then tried to make herself comfortable with what room she had. Dagur pulled out the platter but left the bones to give her something to play with.

“We’ll be back in the morning with something tasty, I promise. You sleep well, okay?”

A purring trill was his answer and the Skrill licked his hand before curling up, tucking her nose into the curve of her tail.

It was ridiculously adorable and Dagur found himself unable to look away until Vorg coughed. He glanced over his shoulder to see the man tilt his head meaningfully to the Outcast guards, who were watching them closely.

Tuff touched his arm, bringing Dagur out of whatever spell the Skrill had him under. “It’s okay, we’ll come back to her in the morning, like you said. I can distract the guards again.”

Dagur regarded him for a long moment. “You know, wherever you’re from - I’m really glad you’ve showed up. I don’t know why. Usually I don’t care much for strangers. Do you have a place to sleep tonight?”

Vorg gave him a look, but Dagur glowered at him until the man sighed and let it go.

“N-No. I was hoping to find someplace to lie low until morning.”

“Well that sounds dangerous, considering you were already attacked once today. You can bunk with me.”  Putting an arm around Tuff’s shoulders pointedly, he started steering them toward the docks where the Armada was waiting. Tuffnut winced as though his touch hurt, but gave him another bright smile.

“Okay. You want me to take the floor?”

“The floor? Are you being bashful?” Dagur teased. He gave Tuff a friendly side-hug, leaving his heavy arm across his companion’s shoulders. Tuffnut swallowed, looking pained again, but he didn’t duck out from beneath Dagur’s arm. His paleness sent a spark of concern through Dagur.

“Did you eat enough? I can have more food sent to the cabin. You never got to  try the mutton stew or any of the bacon-fried bread - it’ll put some weight back on your bones. You still look way too skinny.”

Tuff glowed at the attention, pressing against him. It made Dagur’s heart flutter almost annoyingly. “I’m okay. Though I wouldn’t say no to mutton stew and bread - that sounds amazing.”

Why was this guy growing on him so fast? Dagur didn’t even consider himself a friendly person, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Tuffnut was somehow meant to be here - now, and with him. And not just because he was useful and smart and interesting . . . there was just something special about him.

Despite the stress of having to work with Alvin, Dagur had to admit - he’d never felt so calm in his life. The moment Tuff had embraced him, everything had changed. It wasn’t as though the feelings of painful anger and despair were gone; no, they were still there, but there was a difference to them. They felt bearable now.

On top of it all, a Skrill liked him - a dragon actually liked him. He wondered if Hiccup might be proud of him for that, if maybe even Oswald would.

Tuff was going to have to show him all kinds of things - like how to fly on her at breakneck speeds and train her to do barrel rolls. Eventually he’d have to get himself a dragon too - probably a Nadder or maybe a Razorwhip. Or maybe he had one already.

“Do you have a dragon?” Dagur asked once they got to the door of his ship’s cabin. Tuff had gone a bit glassy eyed, but he looked up sharply at the question, like a deer caught in the hunting lanterns.

“Uh. What?”

“You know, a dragon. Surely someone who knows how to train a Skrill has his own dragon. I understand - it probably would have caused some alarm if you just flew in here on one, so you must have told the dragon to hide in a cave somewhere. Right?”

Tuff blinked and then shook his head.  “No, I rode a Gronckle here, but I told him he could take off. I figured I’d just meet another wild dragon and coax them to take me somewhere else - you know, if you’d told me to get lost.”

Dagur stared. “Well, I’m glad I didn’t tell you to get lost. But seriously - you can just go up to wild dragons and ask them for rides and they don’t bite your head off?” He looked Tuff over critically. “Are you a sorcerer?”

The boy snorted with laughter, apparently finding that hilarious.

“Okay, not a sorcerer, that’s fine. Still pretty cool. In you go. ” He opened the door to his cabin and put a hand on the middle of Tuff’s back, gently pushing the boy in ahead of him.

That wrung a sudden yelp out of Tuff and he jerked away. Dagur felt a surge of panicked loss, automatically reaching out to grab the other boy’s arms so he couldn’t retreat any further. “Sorry! Are you okay?”

Tuff blinked but instead of pulling away, he drew closer to him.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he grinned, apologetically. “Old wounds acting up. You know, Viking wounds - it’s an occupational hazard, right?”

Wounds? Frowning, Dagur lit a lantern and pulled Tuff further into the light, looking him over carefully. If that Mildew jerk had injured Tuffnut after all, he swore he was going to use the old fool’s severed head as a tether ball.  

The dragon-rider swallowed nervously, but said nothing until Dagur touched his shoulders, tugging at the material of his tunic. “I can’t have you wounded and going untreated for it. Let me see?”

Tuff looked anxious for far too long a moment - making Dagur’s chest ache.

“It’s okay. You can say no. Nobody will hurt you, remember? That includes me. But if you’re hurt, I’d like to help.”

Gray eyes widened, then filled with tears. Dagur stared but didn’t mention them, even when they spilled over to fall freely down Tuffnut’s face, leaving him shivering and leaning in close.

Where had Tuff come from? Had his family abandoned him too? Dagur made his best attempt at soothing noises and tugged again at his tunic, until Tuff nodded reluctantly and assisted in removing it.

Dagur drew in a sharp hiss of air at the marks on his body; dark purple lines of bruised flesh and inflamed blood-crusted weals. He recognized infection when he saw it.

Tuff’s wounds had been washed and treated a few times, but clearly by himself more often than with any help. As a result, he’d missed several areas and now Dagur knew why he’d been carrying that tin of salve in the first place.

Where was the salve now? He had to help Tuff treat these first -  then he could maim whoever was responsible. He’d chop their hands off, he decided. So they could never hold a whip or anything like it again. Yeah, that was what he would do - but later.

“Sit on the bed,” he muttered and Tuff nodded, obeying him.

Dagur opened the cabin door, bellowing for Vorg. His captain showed up within moments, with his ever-present scowl. He opened his mouth to give an order and then shut it when he saw that Vorg was not alone.

The captain had in one hand, Tuff’s satchel. In the other hand was the scruff of the scraggly old man who had earlier attacked his companion. The old man was stubbornly clinging to something leathery.

“Thought your guest might want his things,” Vorg explained. “So I went back for them and found this guy going through his pack like a filthy Bog Burglar. He’s apparently found something he wants you to see.”

Mildew’s beady eyes were full of terror and malice as he thrust the object out in front of him as though it could ward Dagur off. The Berserker sneered at the man but glanced at the object.

“Okay. A saddle. Was it a worthy find, you goat? Now not only have you attacked my dragon trainer, you’ve gone through his personal belongings. If he’s not offended by that, I am.” Dagur made as if to draw his sword, but Vorg stopped him.

“Sir, you should know something first. Mildew here is from Berk. He’s a traitor who has told Alvin many secrets - from Hiccup’s dragon-taming techniques to details of Berk’s new defenses and where their guards will be during an attack. It’s likely he knows your companion better than you might.”

Dagur scowled. “Wherever my companion is from, I think it’s safe to say he doesn’t miss home all that much. I need that salve.”

Vorg handed the bag over, still frowning. “Whether or not you trust him, sir, if Alvin finds out Tuffnut is from Berk, he may demand you hand him over.”

“Too bad for him because I won’t. Alvin can huff and puff all he wants. Technically, I caught Tuff, so that makes him my prisoner,” Dagur said distractedly, feeling through the bag for the salve. He found the tin and set the bag down on the floor of the cabin. Then he yanked the saddle away from Mildew and whacked the old man over the head with it.

“Listen up, old coot! I'm going to give you some free advice. Right now, my companion is injured - injuries that you no doubt aggravated with your pointlessly stupid attack. When I find out the person responsible for him needing this in the first place -“ Dagur waved the tin under Mildew’s quivering nostrils - “I’m going to hunt them down and make them wish they had never been born.”

He gave Mildew one of his sharpest most devilish smiles. “So I advise you to think about that, before you say or do anything that might cause my friend further discomfort or pain. Think about the lengths that Dagur the Deranged might go, to protect what’s his. Nod if you understood all that, and I’ll permit you to leave my sight with every limb still attached.”

Mildew, eyes wide as saucers, nodded frantically. Vorg let him go and he scrabbled frantically off the ship and down to the docks, clearly terrified Dagur would change his mind.

Dagur took a breath, pulling himself together. He noticed Vorg staring at him oddly.

“What?!”

“Sorry sir, it’s just . . . Are you certain you don't have a Mark?”

Dagur blinked, too taken aback to fume. He had assumed everyone figured it was Hiccup, that Hiccup was who the Gods had given him.

But then - why would they? Dagur had never given anyone an explanation as to why he wanted to hunt Hiccup down. For all they knew it was a vendetta thing. The son of Chief Stoick had humiliated the entire clan by his treatment of Dagur, after all.

And yet here they were - all still following him.

Dagur swallowed a sudden lump in his throat, temporarily unable to meet Vorg’s gaze.

Maybe his people were hoping his Mark would come soon to calm him, like his mother had calmed his raging father? Oswald had been a madman in his day; Dagur had grown up knowing all the legends, but he’d never actually seen his father rage.

As annoying as it had seemed to have such a kind and understanding father . . . he sort of missed it. He even missed the stupid smacking noises when Oswald chewed.

Dagur frowned, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. “I . . . will go check,” he muttered distractedly. He went back into the cabin and shut the door behind him, leaving behind his very perplexed and concerned captain.

—

Tuff was on the far edge of the bed, his tunic wadded up in his hands and currently hiding his face. His body was curled over and trembling, and Dagur approached slowly, so as not to alarm him.

He wondered how much of all that Tuff had heard.

“Hey there,” he muttered awkwardly, sitting next to him. “Um. You alright?”

After a long moment, Tuff lowered the tunic to peer at him, looking only slightly calmer.

Dagur didn’t know what to say, but he knew he could at least do something. He opened the tin and coated his fingers in salve. “We found your medicine. Lay down so I can treat you. However comfortable you can make yourself.”

He tried to keep his tone calm, like his mother’s had always been. Tuff responded to his efforts like a kitten to cream. He crawled toward him immediately, draping himself across Dagur’s lap and burying his face in his arms. Oh … okay ….

Dagur felt his pulse kick up at the eagerness Tuff showed to be so close and vulnerable to him but kept his movements slow and purposeful, gently moving Tuff’s long hair so it hung away from his back. As gently as he could manage, he started to coat the welts curling over the tops of those thin shoulders. “Who did this to you?” he asked after a while. “And … when?”

“My Elders,” came the mumbled answer after a long silence. “About three days ago.”

A formal beating. And … three days ago? Dagur's heart did a funny skip in his chest and he paused, processing that for a moment. Shaking his head, he moved on to the next cruel laceration on Tuff’s back.

“Why did your Elders have you whipped?”

Under Dagur’s fingers, Tuff started trembling again.

“Oh. You don’t have to be ashamed,” Dagur assured him. “It’s me, the ‘evil’, deranged Berserker Prince, remember? Go on, try to impress me.”

Tuff either hiccoughed or snickered, Dagur couldn’t tell. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and looked up over his shoulder. “I - I released a dragon. I wasn’t supposed to. The Skrill.”

Dagur stared at him. He’d expected something like a carelessly broken wagon or shattered prized dishes, or maybe even a theft of sheep. But releasing a dragon . . .?

“Are you Berkian? Did Hiccup catch the Skrill first? Was he trying to train her himself?” Dagur blurted. Tuff made a thin noise of distress, starting to look panicked.

“Of course you’re from Berk. It explains how you know so much about dragons and why Mildew attacked you and also why I’ve never met you until now. Look, it’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you for not telling me. Because of you, I have my Skrill, so why would I want to?” Dagur reassured him, beginning to treat the lash marks further down his back. “Looks to me like you’ve been punished enough.”

Tuffnut swallowed and looked up plaintively, trying to gather his nerve.

“It’s more than that, actually. I . . . I was a dragon-rider - one of Hiccup’s.”

Dagur stared at him, trying to jog his memory. He'd never really looked close enough at Hiccup’s Greek chorus but he’d figured there were about four others. “I don’t remember you fighting me.”

“I … generally I was just air support,” Tuff said, flushing. “We never … we never fought up close. My sister and I rode the Zippleback.”

“Oh yeah, the green one. So what made you not want to be a dragon rider anymore? Leaving Berk I understand, but … your sister? Your dragon?”

Tuff looked sad, but nodded. “My sister will take care of Belch. I couldn’t stay on Berk anymore. Some people in my family … didn’t think I’d been punished enough.”

“What?” Dagur asked, fury swelling inside of him. “What does that mean?!”

“I’m okay,” Tuff said quickly, sounding scared. Dagur took a breath and tried to calm down.

“Sorry. You’re just … I think you were overly punished for letting some dragon out of a cage.”

“She wasn’t in a cage. ” He hesitated, but went on. “She was completely frozen in a block of ice. Hiccup knew Berserkers revered the Skrill and he was scared of you getting a hold of her. But I couldn’t leave her like that. I decided I wanted her to be free to find her own way, even if she was dangerous and even if it did mean you’d find her. Hiccup went off to talk to his father and I was left with my sister and Snotlout to guard her frozen body.”

“So you just - what? Chipped her out? Melted her out?” Dagur asked, entranced.

“Blasted her out,” Tuff admitted sheepishly. Dagur gave a delighted cackle. “And within minutes, she thawed out and was able to fly away, no problem.”

“Bet old Stoick and Hiccup had piglets! Oh boy, if I could have seen the looks on their faces! I bet they didn’t like that one bit!” Dagur laughed. Tuff shifted with a pained expression on his lap and that smacked the jubilance right out of him. “Oh, sorry. Right. Yeah, that probably wouldn’t have been so great for you.”

“It’s fine. It was worth it. Hiccup wasn’t going to train or even revive her, he was just going to keep her in the same big chunk of iceberg we found her in. He cared more about you never getting to fly than what became of her. Dragons aren’t problems to solve - they’re living, breathing, harboring era of destruction and chaos! Hiccup needs to realize and respect that! I thought … I really thought we were the good guys, but I guess I was wrong.”

Dagur blinked, made solemn by Tuff’s sorrow.

“Well, it sounds like you had a good reason to free her and then leave. Now you’re here and you get to help me. I can help you find a new dragon. Probably not another Zippleback though. Oh, ooh, awkward memory - that wouldn’t have been your dragon I almost killed for dragon blood ink, was it?”

Tuff regarded him with surprise and nodded, in a way that made Dagur flush self-consciously. Of course -  it had to have been his dragon that Dagur had nearly beheaded, all for the sake of exposing a theory that Berk was secretly raising a dragon army.

Well, he’d been right about that part, sort of.

“Really sorry about that. Wish I’d had a better introduction to the fact you Berkians all loved your dragons. I mean, the Skrill is just - she’s amazing. If I’d just known what they could be like  - I mean, I don’t think I ever would have lifted a finger to -“

He was cut off by arms wrapping around his waist in a tight hug. Dagur nearly dropped the salve. He stared down at Tuff, who had curled closer to bury his face in Dagur’s chest.

“I knew you wouldn’t,” Tuff hitched after a long moment, pulling back so he could talk. “I knew that and I tried to tell them that everything was because we lied to you. We made you think dragons were still the enemy because Hiccup wanted to protect them - he wants to keep it all a big secret! I told them that if they just had explained, and given you a chance, maybe you wouldn’t have been our enemy. Everyone told me that was treasonous to say - even the Chief -“

He was getting wound up again. Dagur hushed him and coaxed Tuff to lay back down across his knees. “It’s okay, you don’t have to explain. I get it. I’ve always been the troublesome kid, so it makes sense that nobody would trust me. I’m not mad at you about it though, so just try to relax, okay?” Looking shocked, the other boy obeyed, again resting his head on Dagur’s thigh.

Dagur’s mind was a maelstrom as he worked, reanalyzing the Mark on his wrist, and how it applied to Hiccup. How and why would the Gods give him someone who didn’t trust or even like him, when this boy - this complete stranger - saw enough worth in him to help him train a Skrill? Trusted him enough to let him clean and treat his wounds?

He couldn’t help but notice each time Tuff’s breath caught painfully whenever he touched a point that two lashes had intersected. He was so thin - almost as scrawny as Hiccup - how had this not killed him? Dagur ran a careful hand across Tuff’s sides, not liking how each rib felt defined through the skin. The way Tuffnut had bolted his food earlier made too much sense for his comfort.

Normally, Dagur loathed traitors, but there was no way on Midgard that Tuff had done any of this through malice. Rather, he had spoken up against injustice and had been punished like a criminal. Dagur couldn’t honestly claim he wouldn’t have switched sides had his own family treated him like this.

If anything … if anything, Berk had betrayed Tuff.

When all Tuff’s welts and lacerations had been cleaned and coated, Dagur’s fingers smoothed down across his ribs once more, then hesitated at the boy’s waist.

“Is there any more?” he asked awkwardly. He could see the beginnings of a red welt curving down across a hip to disappear beneath Tuff’s belt. “I mean, this is the only beating you got for all this, right?”

Nobody could have punished him more, surely. Nobody could be that cruel.

Wishful thinking … hadn’t Tuff said some of his family members didn’t think he’d been punished enough?

Tuff closed his eyes, hesitant to answer. “There’s . . . a little more. It’s okay, I’ve been treating it. I can get it myself.”

“It’s not okay,” Dagur snapped and cursed himself inwardly when Tuff flinched. “Sorry. I’m not mad at you,” he reminded, voice gentle this time. “All I want is to just take care of you. My mom was a healer - she taught me a lot. This salve has comfrey in it, which is a good move. Did you make it yourself?”

“Mom made it and sent it with Ruff. My sister. She helped me get off Berk the night it all happened, and treated my wounds.”

So his sister and mom were the good guys here - that was useful to know. “What about your dad? Did he help get you free?”

Tuff swallowed and went silent, not answering. He’d started shaking at the mention of his father though, which spoke volumes.

Gut dropping, Dagur carefully started to undo the boy’s belt, sliding it off him. When Tuffnut didn’t stop him, he eased down the waistband of his leggings to be greeted with yet more welts and bruises - and something far worse.

There was a horrible burn on his hip, and worst of all, it looked intentional, as though made with a branding iron.

Dagur’s blood ran cold. “Is . . . that a . . .?”

“I'm sorry.” Tuff muttered, hiding his face behind his hands, “I’m sorry, he thought it was a tattoo - and I couldn’t get away - I couldn’t stop him -“

What? Dagur looked closer and saw a shape beneath the branded circle. He realized instantly the horror of what had been done.

“Who did this - who dared brand your Mark? Was it your father? Did he leave all these welts too?” Dagur demanded, fury thick in his voice. He was going to kill the man slowly and enjoy it. There was no excuse whatsoever for anyone to treat their own son like this.

Tuff had started shaking hard, starting to cry. Dagur cursed again as he realized his anger was probably affecting Tuffnut.

“Hey, Hey, I’m sorry - “ The Berserker murmured, leaning over Tuff. He pressed a palm to Tuff’s cheek, stroking away the tears. “I’m mad at him and your Elders, not you, though me yelling about it is probably the last thing you need to deal with right now.”

Sobbing, Tuff nuzzled Dagur’s palm, clutching his wrist tightly. “It’s fine, it’s okay,” he managed. “H-He didn’t know it w-was a Mark and then he - I had to -“

“Shh, you’re safe now, just let me see.” He stroked Tuff’s hair trying to calm him, and looked again at the Mark, making himself focus on the shape of it rather than the scarred flesh beneath it.

A Skrill. Not just a Skrill, but fashioned after his own tribe’s symbol. His heart started to pound. There were a million questions he wanted to ask Tuff, but now wasn’t the time, not with Tuff’s current state.

Dagur banished all thoughts of vengeance from his mind and leaned down to kiss Tuff’s temple gently, stroking his hair again - the only area that didn’t look too painful to touch. Tuffnut hitched and started crying harder, but he sat up on his uninjured hip and wrapped his arms around Dagur’s neck, holding on to him tightly.

For the first time in a while, Dagur felt tears on his own face. He cupped the back of Tuff’s head and held him close until the storm passed. Eventually the rider relaxed in his arms, breathing steadily and only sniffling.

Gently, Dagur coaxed him out of the rest of his clothing, then got him to lay on his stomach. Tuff nestled across his lap again, hiding his face in the crook of Dagur’s arm, leaving the other free to tend to the rest of his injuries. Tuff’s arms moved to  Dagur’s waist, clinging to him as though he was a lifeline.

He trusted him, utterly, and maybe it was the Mark, and maybe Tuff was just a brave soul - brave and courageous in ways Dagur couldn’t understand.

It boggled his mind, honestly, why the Gods thought he, Dagur the Deranged, was worthy of this boy. He wasn’t even worthy enough for Hiccup.

And a chicken? Really? The idea Tuff could appear as a mere chicken on anybody was laughable. Well, one thing was certain, he should probably end his long-fought crusade against all poultry kind and leave the poor birds alone.

He put the thoughts away for now, closing the tin and putting it aside. He drew one of the fur blankets up over Tuff’s body to give him cover and laid his back against the wall, blowing out the lantern so Tuff could sleep.

In the dark, Tuff hitched his name, sounding terrified, uncertain.

“It’s going to be okay, Tuff,” Dagur murmured. “You’re safe now, with me. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you like this again.”

Tuff gave a few shuddering breaths, saying his name again. He shifted until he could rest his head on Dagur’s shoulder, nuzzling under his chin. “N-No-ones going to hurt you either. Not Hiccup, not Stoick - nobody.”

His bold promise was utterly charming, not that Dagur didn’t believe him. It was just … nobody had ever vowed to defend him.

Come to think of it, nobody had ever wanted to cuddle with him before either.

Dagur felt a surge of protectiveness and carded his fingers through Tuff’s hair, stroking his cheek with his thumb. He was not at all prepared for Tuff’s hand caressing his face, or pressing soft lips against his. The Berserker’s heart fluttered and started to pound.

“Are you mine?” he murmured in a daze, as soon as the spine-tingling kiss was broken.

Dagur could make out standing tears in the silvery gray eyes before him, and thought to himself ‘how pretty’ before Tuff’s mouth hungrily met his again in answer.

****

Tbc