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fortheloveofwonderland · 4 years ago

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A Memory Locked In The Heart - Spencer Reid x fem! Reader

A/N - Requested by the lovely @overduelibrarybooks I hope this was the kind of thing you were looking for!

Find my masterlist here.

My taglists are open and requests are open.

Requested: Yes l No

Request: "could u ever write a spencer reid x reader where reader def works for the cia but more as a translator who’s kinda forced into doing agenty things in order to gather intel and on a mandated break she finds out the UNSUB before the team does so she uses herself as bait, and shoots the guy all very badass fashion n then gets interrogated bc ms girl just shot him coldblood and halfway thru she recognizes spencer bc her mother and his mom lived in the same care facility??? idk sorry my mom has paranoid too so it just hits different but u don’t have to write this if u don’t want to i love ur writing <3"

CW: disclaimer: I know next to nothing about the CIA and what they investigate so please go easy on me here. This is all made up so hopefully it makes some kind of sense. Mentions of violence and sex work, schizophrenia, Alzheimer’s, some swears. Mentions of drug use and overdose. Spanish used towards the end is from Google Translate so I apologise if it isn’t completely accurate. Italics indicate flashbacks.

Plot: Eighteen years ago you met a boy named Spencer Reid whilst visiting your mother at Bennington Sanitorium. This time you are meeting under entirely different circumstances; across the table of an interrogation room.

WC: 5.3K

—————————————————————

How did I end up here?

That was a question you kept asking yourself as you rolled into your third hour of sitting in that cold, dimly lit interrogation room at the FBI headquarters in Quantico, Virginia.

Well you supposed you’d have to go back to the beginning to truly work that out.

The CIA and FBI joint task force for a country wide sex trafficking ring they believed to be operating out of DC.

When your team at the CIA had started investigating it was estimated that the ring had close to a hundred women who had been abducted and forced into the sex industry.

A lot of women were believed to have been taken trying to cross the border. Your job as a translator had involved spending a lot of time in Mexico, helping interview witnesses and family members who didn’t speak English.

The FBI involvement had come when women believed to have been part of the trafficking ring started turning up dead.

At last count they were up to twenty bodies. The Behavioural Analyst Unit had given their profile of the man they believed to be running the show.

White male in his mid to late forties. Bilingual. Possibly born in Mexico or an area surrounding the border but grew up in DC, they assumed based on his knowledge of the area. He’s attractive, charming and has a good level of education, he’d need to be able to charm the women into trusting him. He doesn’t have a full time job because he wouldn’t have time for one. All his time and focus goes on his girls. He was tech savvy, incredibly so, he’d have to be, to be able to set up the network on the dark web which enabled his customers to pay for his services.

It hadn’t been going well. Bodies kept dropping and the task force was no closer to catching the person responsible.

This went on for six months. Everyone was exhausted. You kept hitting brick wall after brick wall. It was demoralising.

Your boss had called for mandated time off. You’d all argued but she had been absolutely adamant. You’d all been working yourselves to the bone and she didn’t want you burnt out entirely.

You’d argued but your words had fallen on deaf ears.

“Can I get you a glass of water or something?”

The voice startled you out of your thoughts. You looked up to see the lanky, messy haired agent who called himself Doctor Reid, sticking his head through the door.

“Is coffee an option?”

He smiled brightly at you, a smile you swear you’ve seen before.

“Coffee is always an option.” He told you. “How do you take it?”

“Strong and black. Please.”

“I’ll be right back.”

With that the door closed leaving you to your thoughts once more.

There was something so familiar about the Doctor. His dark yet sparkling eyes, his awkward smile and the way he dressed. You couldn’t place it. But there was definitely something about him that stirred some memory buried deep in your brain. You just weren’t sure what it was.

He returned a few minutes later, bringing your coffee into the room and placing it on the table in front of you.

“Hopefully you won’t be stuck here too much longer. It’s just standard procedure.” he spoke sweetly, his voice stirring the hidden memory.

“Yeah I know. I get it.” you sighed as you spoke, wrapping your hands around the coffee. “Thank you for this.”

“You’re welcome.” he smiled before he started backing out of the room. You wished you could ask him to stay because you felt so much more at ease with him around. But you knew you couldn’t.

He turned to you in the doorway.

“You look cold in that.” He smiled a little sadly at you.

You’d forgotten about your outfit choice. No self respecting CIA agent dressed like you were right now.

“I guess I am a little.” You shrugged.

Spencer instantly shrugged his blazer off of his shoulders and laid it in front of you on the table.

“Thank you Doctor Reid.” you spoke again before he disappeared out the door.

“Goodbye Agent Y/L/N.”

The door closed, his voice reverberating in your ears, dragging you into a long forgotten memory.

As you slipped his jacket on, your eyes fluttered closed, his scent wafting up your nose.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Spencer. Spencer Reid.”

“Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N.”

Your eyes shot back open, a frown on your face.

“Spencer?” you muttered under your breath. “Spencer Reid.”

Where had you pulled that name from? And why did it feel oddly connected to Vegas?

You tried to push the thought away, you already had enough on your mind. There were much more pressing things to deal with than a vague memory from your hometown an undetermined amount of time ago.

***

You’d been instructed to switch off. Your time off should be used to recoup, relax and not to think about the case.

Easier said than done you thought.

Before you’d left the office on your mandated leave you’d taken photocopies of some files and slipped them into your bag. You knew you’d be in trouble if you were caught but you couldn’t help yourself. You wouldn’t be able to relax with this case still open.

As far as you were aware the BAU was still working on it but it provided you little comfort. In your time with the CIA you’d never gotten to be involved so heavily in a case. Your skills were mostly utilised in interview capacities and then you were sidelined.

You’d never had the privilege to work on a joint task force or investigate a crime so brutal.

You felt personally invested in this case. You thought if you could just find that one missing puzzle piece you could crack this case wide open.

And then you’d found it. The golden ticket. The smoking gun. The missing piece.

It had taken five days of your leave and copious amounts of coffee but you’d connected the dots no one else had.

You knew how to draw the unsub out. And you were going to do it tonight.

***

“Let’s start again from the beginning shall we?” Agent Rossi linked his fingers together on top of the table as he looked across at you, still slowly sipping your coffee.

“Oh goody.” You sighed. “Could Agent Jareau not fill you in what I’ve already told her?”

“Humour me.” The old man shrugged.

You didn’t have any ill will against him. Far from it. You were actually a big fan of David Rossi. But you were sick and tired of being treated like a criminal.

“Tell me how you managed to work out how to find him.”

You took another long sip of the coffee.

“All the pieces were there, they just hadn’t been put into place.”

“And how did you piece them together?”

“There was a pattern to where the women had been last seen. It was a guess more than anything. A lucky guess.”

“And the pattern was?”

You sighed in frustration.

“As I told agent Jareau,” you sipped your coffee. “The bars they were last seen in all had ties to Mexico. I’m not a native to DC but I know the area like the back of my hand. They were all either Mexican owned, had a Mexican name or were previously establishments such as Mexican restaurants. I made an educated guess that he frequented places such as these looking for his targets. I just got lucky I picked the right one.”

***

You felt incredibly exposed, but you supposed that was the point.

If you were going to get this guy's attention, you had to do this right.

It was a long shot. Just because Western’s bar was known for its famous tacos did not mean it would be the place he chose to pick up girls.

You just had to hope.

You wore a skimpy skirt that barely covered your ass, knee high boots and a crop top that accentuated your assets.

Your firearm was hidden in your left boot.

Your outfit garnered a lot of looks as you headed through Westerns towards the bar.

You felt men’s eyes on you from every angle, making you feel extremely self conscious. But you needed to keep your cool, exude confidence.

If your guy was here he needed to see you shine.

You ordered a soda to keep your head clear and sat at a table over the far side of the bar. From there you had a good view of the entrance and most of the room. And more importantly, the room had a view of you.

Three hours you sat there nursing your soda. It was a huge stab in the dark, you weren’t really surprised.

You finished your drink and headed out onto the cool DC street.

You made it five steps before you felt a presence behind you.

Just as you were about to turn, something covered your mouth.

You struggled against a pair of strong arms.

A smell wafted up your nose seconds before you lost consciousness.

Chloroform.

***

“Why didn’t you tell your unit chief before you went in?”

“Because I thought it was a long shot.” And because she would have been furious I was working the case.

“So you chose to use yourself as bait?”

“Yes.” You shrugged nonchalantly.

“Do you know how dangerous that could have been?” Rossi raised an eyebrow at you.

You had to refrain from rolling your eyes.

“Yes agent Rossi, I’m well aware. But I had a lead and I wasn’t going to ignore it.” You pulled Doctor Reid’s jacket tighter around your scantily clad body.

You caught his scent again. Coffee. Old books. A hint of peppermint.

Another long shut off memory wormed it’s way to the surface.

“So are you here visiting someone?”

“Yeah.” You smiled sadly. “My mom.”

“Oh.” He returned your sad smile. “Me too.”

“Agent Y/L/N?”

You were brought back by Rossi’s concerned voice.

“Hmm?”

“I said, what happened next? You were chloroformed and then what?”

You shook your head, your mind clouded.

“Can we take a break? I could really use some air.”

Rossi sighed with a small nod.

He stood from his chair and motioned you to follow him.

You got some odd looks from his fellow agents as he led you to the elevators. They all recognised what you were wearing as Spencer’s jacket.

You followed Rossi into the elevator and he pressed the button for the ground floor.

“Agent Rossi, can I ask you a strange question?” You asked as the doors closed.

He gave you a curious look.

“I suppose.”

“Doctor Reid. As in Spencer Reid?”

“The one and only.” Rossi frowned unsure what you were getting at.

“Where is he from?”

Rossi’s frown deepened, not sure he should tell you such things about his team. But you were an agent and you didn’t pose a threat to the team.

“Vegas I believe.”

Vegas. Of course.

“Ok.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I don’t know.” You chewed your lip. “I think I might have known him.”

“Oh?”

You wished you hadn’t opened your mouth. This was not the time or place.

“I’m probably wrong. Just forget I said anything.”

The elevator came to a stop and the doors opened. As you stepped out you pulled Spencer’s collar to your nose and sniffed it.

No you weren’t wrong.

***

Las Vegas, Nevada - 1999

“Hi again.” You smiled at the lanky man, Spencer you’d met a few days ago. “How’s your mom?”

“Still angry at me.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and stubbed the toe of his shoe on the floor.

“She came in recently?”

“Yeah a few months ago. I turned eighteen and I was able to have her put into care.” He blanched, clearly feeling guilty for his decision.

“Do you want to grab a coffee?”

“Uhm sure.” He shrugged.

He followed you through to the day room. It was late and there were only a few patients inside and a few nurses milling around.

You got two cups of coffee from the machine and the two of you sat at a table together.

“Do you mind me asking what’s wrong with your mom?” You dared as you slid him the drink.

He sighed heavily, gnawing on his bottom lip as though his life depended on it.

“She’s a paranoid schizophrenic.” He spoke clinically, words he’d had to say too many times in his life. It was as though he’d distanced himself from it. Like he was giving a patient a diagnosis rather than talking about his own mother.

“Mine too.” You gave him a wry smile. You had something in common, just not something you would like to have in common.

“How long has your mom been here?”

“Three years. She got really bad and my dad couldn’t take care of her anymore. She’s been doing much better since she moved in here.”

“That’s good.” Spencer nodded. “I hope my mom realises I did this for her. For her well being. At the moment she’s just so...angry.”

You reached across the table and placed your hand on top of his. He seemed a little startled by the physical touch but you didn’t move your hand.

“This is the best place for her. I assume from what you said earlier your dad isn’t in the picture?”

He used his free hand to sip his coffee with a sad shake of his head.

“He left when I was ten. He couldn’t handle mom's illness.”

You gave his hand a small squeeze.

“I can’t imagine what it was like for you to have to look after her by yourself. It was hard enough with my dad there. Really makes you grow up fast.”

“It really does.” He agreed. “I’m not sure I ever got to be a kid.”

“I know that feeling.”

After that you spent hours chatting about anything and everything until way into the night. It wasn’t until a nurse came and asked you politely to leave that you realised how late it was.

“I’ll probably see you around?” You spoke as you stepped outside together.

“Maybe. In a few weeks I’m heading out of state. I’m working on a PhD.” He didn’t want to tell you it was actually his second PhD.

“Oh. Ok.” You tried to hide the disappointment from your voice.

Despite the circumstances you’d enjoyed talking to someone like minded, someone who understood. You didn’t have anyone else your own age you could talk to about this kind of thing.

“Maybe we could exchange numbers?” You blushed a little.

“I don’t have a cellphone.” He shrugged.

“Oh.”

“It’s not an excuse.” He sensed you didn’t believe him. “I’m not so into technology. I don’t even have email.”

Normally you would have thought it was just a bad excuse to get out of seeing you again but the look on Spencer’s face told you he was being genuine.

“Ok.” You gave him a shy smile. “Well maybe I’ll see you again before you leave.”

“I hope so.” His eyes sparkled as he looked at you on the dark street.

There was an air between you, some kind of thick tension but you didn’t know what it meant.

“If I don’t see you again,” you spoke trying to ignore whatever it was. “It was really good to meet you and I hope your mom gets used to the facility.”

“You too.” He smiled so genuinely at you, it made your heart skip a beat.

And then you went your separate ways.

***

“Ok, so what happened next?” Rossi wasted no time once you were back in the interrogation room.

“Well I blacked out after I was chloroformed so excuse me if I don’t remember.” You gave him a sarcastic smile.

“What’s the next thing you do remember?” He reworded his question.

“I woke up in a large basement. It was gritty and dingy. And there were other women there too.”

“How many?”

“At least twenty.” You sighed letting your mind travel back to the basement you never wanted to go back to. Not even in your mind.

***

You woke with a start, your head pounding. You gasped for air as though you’d been drowning.

You blinked your eyes trying to adjust to the dark room you found yourself in.

It was cold and damp and you could hear a pipe dripping in the distance.

You tried to roll over but your arm wouldn’t budge. You were met by a loud clanking sound when you tried.

You tugged your arm, hearing the same sound and being met with a sharp pain in your wrist.

“Good luck.” A woman’s voice scoffed. “They don’t come loose.”

You blinked a few more times, looking over to your left arm. There was a heavy metal cuff right around your wrist that was attached to a metal bed frame.

That’s when you realised you were laying on a small cot on top of a ratty, itchy blanket. You were still dressed, thank god.

You suddenly remembered your firearm concealed in your boot. You patted your left calf and sure enough you felt the hard weapon still inside.

That was something at least.

Oversight on their part.

You remembered the voice you’d heard before and turned as much as you could with your arm cuffed to take in the rest of the room.

There were at least forty other cots close together lining the walls, with at least half of them containing the body of other women.

The voice you’d heard belonged to a woman in the cot next to you. She gave you a smile but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Her eyes were broken.

“Hi,” you croaked. “I’m Y/N.”

“Delilah.” Her accent was Spanish. You were sure Delilah wasn’t her real name either.

“How long have you been here?”

She sighed, playing with a strand of curly black hair.

“What month is it?”

“September.”

“Oh.” She frowned. “Not that long then. I’ve been here since July.” She looked confused as though that couldn’t be long enough.

“Delilah?” You narrowed your eyes on her. “What year do you think it is?”

“2018…” she saw your face drop and knew instantly it was no longer 2018.

“Oh gosh.” You felt for her, tears welling in your eyes. “It’s 2020.”

“Oh.” Her face fell. “Wow.”

“It’s ok.” You lowered your voice. “I’m CIA. I’m going to get us out of here. I promise I’ll keep you safe.”

***

“Delilah.” Rossi opened the file in front of him. “Was that Roberta Suez?”

He pulled out a photograph and slid it across the table. You averted your gaze.

“Yes and please I don’t need to see it, I was there.”

“How did she end up in hospital fighting for her life?”

“You know how.” You huffed. “Look I’m starting to get fed up with this now.” You folded your arms. “Carlos Ramirez was a sick son of a bitch. If I hadn’t done what I did he would have killed all those women. I don’t regret what I did.”

“How did she end up in hospital?” He repeated.

“Good lord.” You grumbled. “I’ll talk but I don’t want to talk to you.”

Rossi narrowed his eyes on you.

“No? But I’m so compassionate.” He spoke sarcastically.

“I won’t say another word unless it’s to Reid.” You looked up to the two way mirror. You didn’t know why but you had a feeling he was there.

Sure enough it was barely twenty seconds before the door opened and Doctor Reid himself stepped in the room.

“I got this Rossi.” Spencer told the older man who stood up with a shrug.

Rossi left the room while Spencer took the seat he’d been occupying.

Did he remember you? It had been close to twenty years since you’d last seen each other. Had it not been for the olfactory memory that struck you when you put on his jacket you might never have remembered him.

But you knew the rest of his team was behind the two way glass, or at least some of them were so it didn’t seem an appropriate time to ask such things.

“So agent Y/L/N,” he smiled softly at you. “Can you please tell me how Delilah ended up in hospital?”

“You already know the answer to that Doctor but since you asked so nicely,” you leant your elbows on the table, entwined your fingers and rested your chin the little bridge you’d created. “She had a drug overdose. But you and I both know it wasn’t her who administered the drugs.”

“And who did?”

“I did.”

Your words hung in the air between you and Spencer. He knew the answer, the whole team did. You’d already told Agent Jareau everything.

This was a huge waste of time.

“I administered the drugs because he told me if I didn’t he would kill me. I needed to stay alive so I could save those women.”

“Who said he would kill you?”

“I don’t know his name.”

“It wasn’t Ramirez?”

“No.” You shook your head. “If it was Ramirez I would have shot him. But it must have been one of his right hand men.”

“How would you know that? You’d never met Ramirez correct?” Spencer had a soft tone to his voice which made his line of questioning easier than Agent Jareau’s.

“I’m not a profiler but I’ve been to enough seminars over the years. He didn’t fit the bill. He was young, scatty, he didn’t strike as much fear into the other women as I thought the boss would. I made an educated guess and I was right. If I’d shot at him I would have blown my chance at getting Ramirez.”

***

“Shit shit shit!” You pulled yourself as close to Delilah’s cot as possible with your restraint. “Delilah, keep breathing, try to breath. Fuck I am sorry.”

Tears rolled down your cheeks, the empty needle you’d been made to inject in her vein between your cots on the floor.

He’d held a gun to your head and said he would shoot you if you didn’t do it. You didn’t think he was bluffing.

“It happens a lot.” A woman opposite spoke up. “You’ll soon find out. If she wakes up she’ll have the pleasure of returning the favour.” She gave you an almost manic grin.

If she wakes up. It was the if you were having the issue with.

“Who’s in charge around here?”

She shrugged.

“Don’t know his name. Big guy. Tattoos. Mustache. You can’t miss him.”

“Does he come down here often?”

Again she shrugged.

“Being down here you have a way of losing track of time.” She clicked her tongue. “But he’ll be here for you later. He has to test his new girls.”

Your blood ran cold.

“Test?” You swallowed, pretty sure you knew what she meant.

“He can’t very well expect you to make him money if he doesn’t know how good you are.”

Oh god.

Your heartbeat raced. No, it was not going to come to that. You were a CIA agent and you were armed.

It was not going to come to that.

***

Spencer’s face paled a little at your words. You hadn’t told Agent Jareau that part.

“He was going to...he didn’t…”

“No.” You cut him off, pushing the memory back down. “I had a gun, remember.”

You offered him a wry smile.

“So you know what comes next.”

“I’d like you to tell me.”

The way he said it was more like he was a therapist than an FBI agent. As though he wanted you to tell him so you could get it off your chest, unburden yourself, rather than for interrogation purposes.

“Ok.” You nodded. “He came for me later that night. And that’s when it happened.”

***

“Ahh look at you.”

A deep, Spanish voice woke you.

Your eyes fluttered open and landed on a strong, tattooed man with a mustache standing over your cot.

This must be him.

“Tan hermosa.”

So beautiful.

You tried not to shudder.

You sat up wiggling your legs in your boots to make sure you could still feel your firearm. You could.

“Su nombre es Rosa.”

Your name is Rosa.

Guess again.

“Su nombre es Y/N.”

“Tú hablas español?”

You speak Spanish?

“Si.”

“Eres perfecta.” He grinned menacingly. “My clients will love you.”

He reached in his pocket and fished out a key chain. He reached over you and unlocked your cuff.

You rolled your wrist to try and get your blood circulating again.

“On your feet.”

You complied and stood up. Your legs were shaky.

He grasped your wrist, hard enough so you couldn’t wriggle free but not hard enough to leave a mark. He started dragging you across the room.

With his free hand he undid the four locks on the large steel door and pulled your through it. Once on the other side he took care to lock them all again, keeping a firm grasp on you the whole time.

You were dragged down a long, narrow corridor towards another steel door, this one with just one lock on.

He slid the key in and opened it, pulled you inside and locked it behind him.

The room was much smaller than the one you’d been held in and only housed a single cot.

He licked his lip as he looked at you. His large, thick fingers stroked your cheek and you had to try and hide your disgust.

“En la cama. Ahora.”

On the bed. Now.

You had to pick the opportune moment. You had to plan this just right. You had no doubt he had a gun on him so if you faltered even slightly, he would kill you.

“Qué tal esto.”

How about this.

You made a show of licking your lips and then dropping to your knees in front of him.

“Whoa, feisty. I like it.” He grinned, his meaty hands going to his belt buckle.

Yes. Right where you wanted him.

While he was fumbling with his belt, you reached your hand back into your left boot, drawing your gun in one swift move.

You head butted him in the crotch, sending him stumbling backwards, crying out in pain.

“Mierda!” Shit. “Usted puta!”

You whore!

You were on your feet in a second, your gun trained on him.

“You will never hurt another woman again.” You spat, furious tears suddenly streaming from your eyes.

He looked up at you, his mouth opened to speak.

But the words didn’t come out as your bullet hit him between the eyes.

“Who’s the puta now?”

***

“I would say,” Spencer chewed his lip. “You did what you had to do to survive.”

You breathed a sigh of relief.

Thank god.

“Thank you.” You smiled softly. “And I did. If I hadn’t shot him, who knows how many other women would have died.”

Spencer pushed his chair back and stood up.

“Just so you know, we got word from the hospital a little while ago. Roberta Suez, Delilah, is going to be just fine.”

“Oh thank god.” You felt tears brimming your eyes.

He opened the door and turned back to you.

“Are you coming?”

“I can leave?”

“You were never under arrest.” He smirked at you.

You couldn’t help but laugh.

You got up from the chair and Spencer motioned you out of the room.

“I’ll walk you out.” He showed you across the bullpen towards the elevators. There was an awkward air between the two of you.

Did you say anything? It didn’t seem as though he remembered you, was it worth reminding him?

He motioned you into the elevator first and he followed, pressing the button.

The elevator started its descent.

Time was running out.

“So uhm…” Spencer turned to you and turned too. “How’s your mom?”

A smile broke out on your features.

“I didn’t think you remembered me.”

“Are you kidding?” He laughed. “I recognised you the second you walked in.”

“It’s been twenty years.” You laughed.

“Eighteen years, seven months.” He corrected you. “But I could never forget your face.”

You blushed a little, averting your gaze.

“My moms doing ok. Thanks for asking. How’s your mom?” You looked back at him.

“Recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.” He told you sadly.

“Oh gosh I’m so sorry.”

“It’s ok. These things happen.” He shrugged. “Made it to thirty without having a schizophrenic break but now I have to wait until I’m older to find out if I’ll develop Alzheimer’s.”

The doors to the elevator opened and you stepped out, Spencer close behind.

“I really am sorry Spencer.”

“It’s ok.” He shrugged. “Is your mom still at Bennington? I used to see her when I went to visit my mom but I moved her out a little while ago.”

“Yeah she’s still there. She likes being close to my dad.”

You both hovered by the exit, not ready to say goodbye.

“Can I take you for coffee? If you don’t have anywhere else to be.” Spencer blushed as he spoke.

“I’d like that. A lot actually. But I’d really like to shower and change out of this getup.” You laughed. “How about dinner?”

“Dinner sounds perfect.” He grinned at you.

You gave him a smile and turned to leave but before you made it to the door Spencer spoke again.

“Y/N,” he called your name, his voice cracking a little. “You uh...you forgot something.”

You turned to face him curiously.

He walked closer to you and without a second thought, placed his hands on your face and kissed you.

For a second you stood frozen, in shock of what was going on.

But after a few moments you wrapped your arms around his neck and opened your mouth to deepen the kiss.

When the kiss ended you were both smiling at one another.

“What was that for?” You asked softly.

“Oh you know…” he shrugged with a coy smile. “Just something that needed to be done.”

“I’ll meet you back here in a few hours.” You told him, touching his chest briefly.

“Ok.”

“Bye Spencer Reid.”

“Bye Y/N Y/L/N.” He croaked.

And with that you sauntered out the doors but not out of his life.

***

Las Vegas, Nevada - 1999

“Spencer?” You’d only made it a few paces away from Bennington before you stopped in your tracks, calling his name. “You uh...you forgot something.”

He turned to face you curiously.

You walked closer to him and without a second thought, placed your hands on his face and kissed him.

He stood frozen, in shock of what was going on.

It was just a brief kiss, Spencer was too confused to do anything but stand there dumbly.

“Wh-what was that for?” He swallowed.

“Just something that needed to be done.” You smiled. “Bye Spencer Reid.”

“Bye Y/N Y/L/N.”

And with that you sauntered back down the street, hoping that one day, the universe would lead you back into each other’s lives.

—————————————————————

Taglist (let me know if you would like to be added) -

@muffin-cup

@andiebeaword

@mggsprettygirl @measure-in-pain

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #david rossi #jennifer jareau #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fem!reader

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duskandstarlight · 3 years ago

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Embers & Light (Chapter 39, NSFW Nessian)

Notes: Well, over a year you've had to wait for these two to seal the deal... BUT NO LONGER. And because I'm thankful to you all for sticking with this story, I've granted you with over 16k of sinful naughtiness. I think it's safe to say this is NSFW but you guys have read my smut before, you know the drill.

Embers & Light has always very much been the alternative story to Habits, but I couldn’t help but write in some crossover moments here to highlight the differences in events--timeline is a fascinating thing! Lemme know if you spot the moments :)

Please let me know what you think :) Comment and kudos will make my day!

I won't be able to write much of August (wedding & mini-moon) but I'll be doing my best to get you guys something as soon as possible. Hopefully by the end of the month, anyways <3

Oh! And I got a bookstagram. Find me at bookships.and.fandoms (and bear with me, I cba to take pretty pics atm)

Chapter 39 Cassian POV

Cassian stared at the doorway and the staircase beyond it, his gaze fixed and unwavering. Nesta had slipped out of the living room to follow Feyre up the stairs over ten minutes ago and he was already consumed with the biting sort of worry that gnawed at your insides.

He wasn’t concerned about what Nesta might be discussing with Feyre—that was her business—but because he couldn’t help but fret when it came to Nesta’s wellbeing.

It was a myriad of concerns that trampled through his mind like a herd of cattle. Had she slept enough? Had she recovered from being caught in the crowds the day before? Was her conversation with Feyre going to have her take three steps back rather than one forward? Cassian had spied the book of fairytales she’d slipped into her bag. Had guessed what she’d intended to do with it.

And then there was the fact that Nesta had left the bed before he’d woken again. Cassian couldn’t help but feel disappointed that she’d not been there when he’d opened his eyes, especially after the night before.

But that was how it was with he and Nesta. When the sun dipped below the horizon, Cassian often felt as if they were on the right path; as if once the world shut its eyes, the pressure was off and their play could continue. But as soon as light bled back into the sky, things weren’t the same. They weren’t cold… but Cassian felt suspended in a limbo of flirtatious banter and respectful distance. Which was hard, when all Cassian wanted to do was be as close to her as possible: to hold her hand and wind a hand through her hair. To kiss her brow and mouth and sink his teeth into her neck—

Cassian’s jaw tightened. He wanted to do wicked things. He wanted to make her moan and shatter. Wanted to know how she felt wrapped around him. Wanted to see if she’d gasp awake as he pushed inside of her.

Their trip home was going to be a turning point. Or at the very least it would be a milestone—a hammered notch as they progressed towards something. Yet, Cassian wasn’t naive: he wasn’t expecting Nesta to fall into his arms and never leave. But he hoped that it might make Nesta see their connection—not the tie between them, but the chemistry that Cassian knew would forever exist even if the mating bond was severed.

From the very first moment his gaze had settled on the haughty, vicious sister Cassian had known. Had nearly been brought to his knees—the heart-stopping moment so powerful, it suspended time as he felt something turn inside of him, as if something that had lain dormant had finally snapped open an eye.

And because of that Cassian would willingly allow Nesta to forge the reigns when it came to whatever it was between them. He could go slow. He would take the chance that Nesta might grow to accept him, even as he was seized by the terror that she might grow bored and draw a line under things before he had the chance to prove that he was worthy.

Cassian took a deep, steadying breath that made his ribcage heave. Thought of the lullaby that sat in his room at the House. Used that to ground himself and banish the painful thoughts.

Nesta had cared enough to gift him a piece of his past that nobody else had ever gone to the effort to find for him. And that was… everything. It was everything to him.

“I can hear the worry grinding gears in your brain.”

Rhys was standing where Mor had been a few moments earlier, his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers, his eyebrows raised. Cassian hadn’t noticed Mor slip away. Couldn’t even recall what she'd been saying to him. Had he ignored her? He didn’t know. Didn’t really care. They all knew he was head over heels when it came to Nesta anyway.

Cassian blinked. It took him a moment to process Rhys’s words, but his body finally caught up. An instinctive grin tugged at the corners of his mouth and he commanded his eyes to sparkle, even though it was all fake. “I was under the impression you didn’t think I had one.”

Rhys didn’t chuckle or retort with something dry. Sometimes his brother allowed him to indulge in his self-deprecating behaviour, but it didn’t seem like today was one of those days. Instead, he cut to the chase. “They’re fine.”

Cassian bristled. Didn’t bother to pretend his mind wasn't solely on what was happening upstairs. “Feyre’s speaking with you now?”

Nesta would hate that. Would know if her sister was communicating to her mate whilst they were talking.

His brother’s laugh was as smooth as velvet. “No, she locked me out. It’s a habit she’s started recently and it’s usually coupled with the mental finger.”

This time, Cassian’s smile was genuine, as was the chuckle that chased it. “Feisty.”

“You have no idea,” Rhys responded with a wink.

Mor, who had breezed back to Cassian’s side with a new cup of coffee, rolled her eyes. “We do actually, you two are like rabbits.”

“We’re mated,” Rhys replied with a wave of his hand. “It’s to be expected.”

Mor lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “Cauldron, I need to bed someone rather than hearing about my cousin’s exploits with my best friend.”

“Head to Rita’s and find yourself a pretty fae,” Cassian drawled, tugging Mor into a one armed hug.

“Mmm,” Mor hummed, but she chewed on her lip again. Glanced nervously at Azriel, who was in deep conversation with Elain. His shadows were tucked in neatly to his frame rather than trailing, ever-moving and loose around his body, but Cassian knew he could hear them.

Cassian dropped a friendly kiss to Mor’s head before he let her go. Tussled her hair, grinning mischievously when she squawked in disapproval.

As if sensing that his cousin wanted a change of subject, Rhys looked square at Cassian. “Azriel will come over later to update you on the latest movements.”

Cassian sobered as if someone had poured icy water down his back. “Not later,” Cassian corrected firmly.

Tomorrow. No the day after that. Cassian couldn’t guarantee that he’d be able to stop once he’d had his first proper taste of Nesta.

But of course they couldn’t do that—wouldn’t. The situation in Illyria was too dire for them to be so selfish as to lock themselves away for days.

It didn’t mean Cassian didn’t want to, though.

“You’ve got plans?” Rhys asked lightly and Mor froze.

You’ve got no idea, Cassian thought. But then realised his brother knew. Of course he did. Surely everyone in this room knew how desperate he was to get back to Illyria. To have Nesta in his bed again, writhing and moaning, their bodies slick with sweat as they moved in unison.

Clenching his jaw, Cassian grounded that desire between his teeth, until it was nothing but broken, delicious shards that scraped down his throat. His blood coiled. “Yes. Maybe.”

If she doesn’t change her mind.

“It has to be tomorrow, Cass.”

Biting back a sigh, Cassian nodded. “I know. Come at noon. I suppose I’ll be camped out in Illyria for the foreseeable future.” He cast a stern look at Mor. “Send me letters.”

“You have a housemate,” Rhys reminded him. “You’re not going to be entirely alone.”

Mor grinned slyly. “A very beautiful housemate.”

Cassian was more than aware of that.

He grunted and unable to stop himself, he voiced the fear that always niggled away at the back of his mind. “For now.”

But Rhys just loosed another manicured shrug, that was at odds with the ground-breaking revelation that followed it. “For a long while. Nesta has expressed her desire to remain in Illyria long-term despite the discontent. Assuming you don’t mind sharing your bungalow.”

It felt as if an iron band of hope was clamped around Cassian’s chest. He stared at his brother. Tried not to blink. Crossed his arms firmly over his chest, protecting his heart. “And you know this how?”

“Nesta spoke with me. We have arrived at a truce, of sorts.”

That must have been what they’d spoken about yesterday on the balcony. He wanted to know more—everything—but Cassian would not press Rhys. If Nesta wanted to tell him, she would. He had to respect that.

So, he bit back his curiosity and grumbled, “About time.”

Rhys clapped his hand on Cassian’s back, but there was something wary in his expression, as if there was something he wanted to say but wouldn’t. Finally, he said, “Patience is a virtue, brother.”

“I’m not the patient sort.”

“You are when it counts,” Rhys countered, and Cassian didn’t say anything because they both knew what he was referring to. Rhys had been the first to know. Had witnessed Cassian in a tangled web of despair and longing and unwanted visions. His brother had immediately put two and two together. Because he’d been there, too. Knew what it was to want someone you thought you couldn’t have. To hope that someone might finally grow to see you in colour rather than in black and white.

Cassian cast another look towards the empty doorway and the quiet hallway beyond it.

A shiver of anticipation ran through him. It was time for them to go home.

***

In the end, Cassian folded to his worry and had Elain fetch Nesta from upstairs. It was time to go, he’d insisted, even though there was no true reason as to why they needed to leave quite so quickly.

“No guesses required to identify why you want to head back to Illyria,” Mor muttered out the side of her mouth, as the creak of the stairs a few flights above heralded the sisters return. Cassian jabbed his elbow into his friend’s ribs and Mor yelped through her grin, even as she had to sidestep, the nudge throwing her off balance. “What? It’s all over your face. You think I can’t read you after five hundred years?”

“Don’t announce it to the room,” Cassian muttered darkly under his breath, “and you won’t find yourself torn to pieces.”

Mor briefly bumped against his arm, the jostle affectionate. Unfazed by his threat, she glanced sideways at him with rich chocolate eyes. “I won’t. We just want you to be happy, you know.”

Cassian’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “Now isn’t the time for a lecture about finding a more suitable mate.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, hadn’t meant to voice what he’d kept inside for so long.

Mor’s eyes widened, but she wound her arms around his waist. Cassian allowed her to tuck herself under his arm. His friend scented of citrus and cinnamon. When she craned her neck to look up at him, her expression was glowing with sincerity and Cassian realised that she hadn’t been insinuating that Nesta wasn’t right for him at all. “We’re all cheering you on from the sidelines, Cass, I promise.”

The muscle in Cassian’s jaw flexed. He looked away from her, towards the doorway again, unable to help himself. “Don’t say anything.”

She tightened her grip on his waist. “I won’t. I promise.”

“She doesn’t want it.”

Mor untangled herself from him. Shook her head in disagreement. “She does. She just isn’t ready to admit it yet.”

They both fell quiet as Nesta walked through the door with Elain and Feyre. The first thing Cassian noticed was that she scented of water and salt—tears.

Heart pattering with concern, Cassian quickly scanned Nesta’s expression and body language, searching for clues. But Nesta remained close to her sisters rather than apart, her fingers snagged in Feyre’s, her expression not in tatters but smooth and calm, like still waters.

“Ready to go?” Mor chirped from beside him. “I can winnow you back when Sala arrives.”

Nesta’s grey-blue eyes slid to Mor. “I called her on my way down.”

“Then you have time to see the snowdrops you gave me before you leave,” Elain responded eagerly, tugging at Nesta’s arm. “The cuttings took well to the soil. I planted them beneath the shade of the birch trees near the river.”

Cassian watched Nesta disappear into the garden. Surveyed the way a strand of golden brown hair that had escaped her loose braid floated on the breeze, as if it was part of the element rather than separate, as Elain bent to show her the snowdrops.

Yet despite the clear ease to Nesta’s movements, Cassian couldn’t help but ask Feyre whether everything was okay when she came over to hug him goodbye.

“We’re fine,” Feyre assured him, as together they watched Mor tentatively sit beside Azriel on the couch. For once the Shadowsinger’s shadows didn’t lighten, but Azriel still turned to her, drawn by some magnetism as she began to speak with him.

Slim fingers closed around his. Squeezed. “Thank you for fetching the book of fairytales for Nesta.”

The strand of ebony hair that had wrangled free of Cassian’s hair tie tickled the side of his forehead as he inclined his head. That had been a long time ago, when Nesta was a viper that he dared to poke with a stick, just so he could get a reaction. “Of course.”

“You travelled all that way on barely healed wings just to fetch a book.”

It wasn’t just a book, but Cassian knew Feyre understood that, so he only grunted, “Az took me most of the way. He waited to winnow me back.”

But Feyre’s eyes were burnished, as she asked, “Is there anything you won’t do for my sister?”

“It depends,” Cassian replied honestly. Because although he’d rather die than see Nesta hurt, Cassian wouldn’t hesitate to stand up to her when her fire was ill-wrought. And that’s what he liked about the both of them: if he was an ass Nesta told him straight, and he did the same for her. A grin slashed across his face. “Your sister has claws and teeth when she’s angry.”

It wasn’t long before Sala landed on her four large paws in the garden, prompting goodbyes. Mor winnowed Nesta and Sala, whilst Az’s scarred hand closed around Cassian’s arm.

Together, Cassian and his brother passed through realms of shadows and light and raging wings. Then Illyria was taking shape before Cassian bit by bit: there was the sting of winter on his cheeks, the crunch of snow beneath his feet, the scent of pine and untamed air. It felt like that wonderful first heave of your lungs after being starved from air. It alerted Cassian senses—woke him up.

Not bothering to say goodbye for the second time, Azriel bled straight back into shadow, but Mor raised a hand in a parting wave from where she stood beside Nesta and Sala. Her long golden hair caught on the breeze. It tussled behind her like its own puff of wind, before she vanished into nothing.

When Cassian’s eyes snapped to Nesta, he found her standing with her eyes closed, breathing in the wilderness of their surroundings. After a few beats, Sala jumped onto her hind legs, climbing up Nesta’s body with her snow-crusted paws to knock her head impatiently against Nesta’s.

A breath of laughter clouded in front of her as Nesta ruffled Sala’s ears. She murmured something Cassian couldn't identify in the manticore’s ear, before Sala dropped onto all fours and padded through the snow in the direction of the main camp.

Cassian watched the manticore go. He suspected Sala was going to seek out the widows camp and check everything was in order. It was the kind of thing Nesta would fret about—that whilst she was warm and fed, others might not be extended the same courtesy.

Or, the dark part of his mind whispered, she wants Sala out of the house.

You can fuck me wherever you like in the bungalow, Cassian.

The many needles of thrill pierced through him just as Nesta met his stare from across the snow. Suddenly, Cassian didn’t know what to say. His tongue felt swollen and thick in his mouth, words suddenly as viscous as tar. The atmosphere had altered—the aura surrounding them despite the distance suddenly heavy with promise: a change that pointed to something new.

The siphons on the back of Cassian’s hands glowed in anticipation. Nesta merely raised an eyebrow at him. Turned. Walked towards the house just as he caught the thick scent of jasmine and vanilla on the wind.

Cassian’s nostrils flared as it wound around him; invisible ropes of arousal. And then he was moving, following Nesta’s footprints.

His friends had winnowed them to the back of the house, halfway between the small stone outhouse and the backdoor. They weren’t far from the bungalow, but it felt like miles as Cassian stomped noisily after Nesta, his boots compacting the snow as if they were grinding shards of glass into powder.

When Cassian drew up behind Nesta, she already had a hand half-raised towards the door. Even though he wasn’t touching her, she was a whirlpool of warmth. It sucked him in, begging him to line his torso against her back, so when she cursed, realising she hadn’t taken her gloves off, Cassian didn’t hesitate to reach over her shoulder and rest his palm against the wood, encasing her.

The touch of his bare skin—or Nesta’s—was the key to the magical lock. A thunk sounded as the bolt released but Cassian didn’t push open the door—was too preoccupied with the female before him—who had twisted to stare up at him.

As soon as their gazes snagged, history began to knit together in a rush of thread, until it was a tangible, living thing. Because this moment had been written in the stars as soon as Cassian had seen Nesta in her amethyst dress in the human realm; her hair wielded into a mighty crown, her expression haughty and defiant, yet burning with the potential of a life not yet lived. They’d denied that history, even as it waited patiently in the wings. It had watched as they danced around each other, fumbling and snarling their way to this very moment—

They moved in unison. Cassian’s head bowing just as Nesta reached upwards; her body bowing to his, her palms sliding across his jaw until they were around his neck. Their lips met with a force that rattled Cassian’s bones. This wasn't a brush of a kiss. This was immediate and awakening: Nesta tasted like life and breath, like destiny. And yet again, Cassian knew with startling clarity that they were meant for this, he and Nesta. They were meant for each other and nobody could tell him otherwise, including her.

A soft breath whooshed out of Nesta as her back hit the door, but then Cassian was pushing it open, guiding her inside in a whirlwind of noise and wreckage.

The scrape of wood on the flagstone tiles sounded as Nesta’s back knocked against the table before Cassian turned them, his wings grazing against cupboards and the cool walls. Items clattered and shattered, but Cassian used his wings to keep a check on his surroundings, the touch guiding him to the left-hand wall where he could press her against the wall and devour.

Because Cassian could not tear his mouth from Nesta’s. Couldn’t stop tasting her. Couldn’t stop craving the roll of her tongue and the sound of her guttural moans. It fuelled a fireball inside of him; it roared into life in the centre of his heart, before spreading throughout his limbs, rushing through his body until it settled deep in his groin, aching and burning—screaming for relief.

When they finally hit the wall, the thud of their bodies shook the cabinets and the porcelain within it. Without thinking, Cassian took the brunt of it, his hand flying to cup Nesta's lower back and head to purposefully shield her from the hurt.

Because he was coarse and rippling, galloping towards a primal sort of wilderness that Cassian wasn’t sure he could control.

If Nesta was ignorant to the fact or wholly aware Cassian didn’t know. All he knew was that her hands were scrabbling at his leather like dancing flames, tugging him closer.

When he pressed his body over hers, aligning every inch of her to every inch of him, she whined.

Cassian swallowed it. Slanted his mouth across hers. Tucked his wings in tight as every muscle in him tensed in anticipation.

Nesta tasted of chai and vanilla and embers with a destiny to roar.

Another strangled noise came from her throat as Cassian sank his hands deep into the hair at her scalp, coaxing strands free from her braid as his fingers threading through her hair, just as he had done the night prior when he’d coaxed her to sleep. But this wasn’t a soothing touch. This was a touch to startle every nerve ending to life.

Time began to bleed around them, but Cassian only registered the fluidity of the frantic dance they had not learnt. The way Nesta arched into him as his palm slid back to span her waist. The pant of her breath against his skin. His heaving chest. The way his wings began to spread again of their own volition, like a fan unfolding to reveal a secret pattern—as if they were controlled by nothing but the ache of his cock as it strained against the leather of his pants.

As if in acknowledgement that his body was no longer ruled by him, his hips slanted upwards of their own accord. It was a desperate bid to relieve the ache, and his throat vibrated with a thunderous growl as Nesta dug her nails deeper into the leather of his jacket, using it for leverage as she arched into him.

Something turned further inside of Cassian, like a lock beginning to grind as a key turned. And then it felt as if he were plunging beneath water; ducking into the depths and travelling beneath an invisible barrier before emerging on the other side buoyant and surging with power.

Ruby crashed through his veins, like the walls of a dam broken free and… singing light. Magic roared so loudly in Cassian’s ears that he no longer heard the galloping beat of his heart or the sawing of their breath.

Reeling, he tore his mouth from Nesta’s. Her eyes were just as wide, puddles of startled moonlight—endless mercury—and Cassian didn’t need to look down to know that her hands were wreathed in silver.

For a moment they stared at one another. Time slowed until it was sluggish around them and then the feeling receded, as if Cassian was being carried by a wave as it was dragged unwillingly from the shore on thundering feet.

Sound bled back into Cassian’s ears, like raindrops slowly blotting paper. A moan whispered on a wind carried through him, the words fleeting—her name three times, like always—before they dispersed into nothing and ragged breathing filled the hole.

Fuck, they needed to be careful. He needed to be careful if just kissing her led to some transcendental experience. Cassian knew Nesta became open during sex—had seen tumbled images of tangled limbs and heard her moans—and he couldn’t afford to lose her when she had finally let him in. Couldn’t let her down, even though he wanted nothing more than to finally be found worthy by someone.

That twisted rope between them couldn’t widen and strengthen. Couldn’t finally open and click into place with a consensual snap.

Because Cassian had heard stories of mates who had gone to bed. Who had fleetingly accepted what they wanted in their hearts but not in their minds. And after they had both finished and life had been breathed into that bond, only death could sever their Cauldron-blessed connection.

Cassian would not have a mate with regrets, but he didn’t have the will-power to deny himself of her any longer. Not when he could scent how much Nests wanted him. When he could feel it like an unquenchable ache in his bones—an ache which made him tremble and shake. His rocky warrior exterior ground to nothing but sand.

As if Nesta could read his thoughts she tipped her head back, baring the column of her neck.

A resounding guttural sound dragged from his throat. The noise was animalistic and unchained. A booming crack ricocheted around the walls, the muscles in Cassian’s back burning as his wings snapped outward.

Something toppled from somewhere and crashed to the floor, but Cassian didn’t bother to raise his head to look at what it was.

And then time seemed to both slow and drive into a frenzy. Cassian launched at Nesta’s neck at the same time he tugged at her hair, urging her head to fall back even farther.

His lips were against the column of her throat in the blink of an eye; his teeth scraping, his mouth sucking until her blood pounded in his ears. Nesta’s knees buckled but Cassian quickly pinned her body to the wall, holding her up, his knee sliding firmly between her legs…

And… nothing. There was no panic or sensation of being trapped—no sudden fire launching him back thirty feet—but Cassian still tore his mouth from Nesta’s neck. Had to know she wasn’t panicking. “Ok?” he rasped.

A frown burrowed Nesta’s brows. Her swollen lips parted in confusion. Somehow it made her look more beautiful.

Cassian raised a shaking hand to trace it away. “Nesta. Are you ok?”

Understanding dawned like millions of unfurling petals.

When Nesta spoke she was short of breath, the words an exhale. “Don’t hold back.”

Cassian practically arched into her at the words but he made himself remain still, even as his body vibrated with tension. His bones creaked but he held fast.

That stubborn, beautiful chin lifted and Nesta’s eyes glinted wicked yet pure. Always an oxymoron, his Nesta.

“Don’t hold back,” she repeated, her voice stronger this time. She pushed her hips against his thigh and the friction had her lips parting, a shaky breath tumbling from her lungs. “I can take it.”

The words were like slashing knives of pleasure, severing the leash on any control Cassian thought he had.

The subsequent rush of air Cassian loosed was akin to a snorting horse.

Then he was moving and their mouths were fused together again, their tongues a delicious push and pull of control and pleasure before he yanked away.

“Thank fuck,” he gasped. His hands flew to her hips, guiding her to ride his thigh. “Thank fuck, Nesta.”

The friction had Nesta moaning, her fingernails digging so hard into the leather of his jacket Cassian was sure she had dented the material. But he didn’t care. Didn’t care about anything but the living fervour that clawed at them.

His hands were everywhere at once. Tangled in her hair. Sliding over her cheek. Cupping her ass. Attacking the buttons at the back of her dress, until they popped and scattered. Until he could pull the material down her arms, exposing tantalising creamy skin.

At the first sight of her breasts, Cassian growled. He bowed his head to capture a nipple sharply between his teeth before he laved over it with his tongue, smoothing over the wound. He relished the way Nesta cried out. Arched into him. She began to tear at his jacket. It snagged on his wings but Cassian shrugged it off until it hit the floor with a thud.

The first slide of Nesta’s palms beneath his tunic was like oil sizzling in a pan. Cassian hissed as the callouses of her palms scraped deliciously over his skin and scars and ink. Snarled as she made quick work of the stays and fastenings. Tried to focus on her other breast as she inched her hand beneath the tight leather fabric and eased him free.

Fingers wrapped sinfully around him, causing Cassian to snarl around a peaked nipple—to buck sharply—pressing them more firmly against the wall.

“Don’t bother,” Nesta moaned as Cassian wrenched desperately at the fabric of her dress, trying to coax it further down her body. She ground down onto his thigh as it to emphasise her point—her need—and the heat of her burned.

It was all Cassian needed to hear. He fumbled desperately with her skirts until a hand was under the material and sliding up her thigh. Until fabric ripped and her underwear fell away in what Cassian imagined to be a ripple of lace.

In one swift movement, Cassian lifted Nesta’s body upwards, until her legs were gripped tightly around his hips and her back was flush against the wall. Her hands flew to find purchase, grappling at the back of his neck, and when she was steady she raked her hand purposefully through the hair which had come loose from his tie. Tugged at the leather until his hair fell over his face. Whined. Tangled her fingers through the ebony strands as if they were her reigns.

Cassian splayed the hand that wasn’t supporting her body against the cold wall. Tried to catch his breath, but the position evened out the height between them. Just a slight movement would allow him to capture her lips with his, and Cassian couldn’t deny that demanding tug that drove him to devour. Nesta seemed to feel the same way. Moaned in relief as Cassian tasted her as if he couldn’t get enough, gave back as good as she got. Over and over they moved, until they were nothing but an undulating wave of tongue and teeth and groans. The pleasure was a surging, roiling entity. It was all consuming. It overtook Cassian’s body, demanding that his hand drag from her ass straight to her core.

When his fingers slid through wetness, Cassian’s groan sounded like thunderous defeat. He dropped his head to Nesta’s collarbone. Gently pressed his lips to her clavicle. To her shoulder. Tried to ground himself as he slid straight to the spot that made her keen—as pleasure ignited down the bond like a crashing wave. Brushed over it again and again and again. Relishing in the noises he coaxed from her. At the curling fists of desire that clenched agonisingly inside of him.

Cassian had to see Nesta fall. Had to look into her eyes as she broke.

But he wanted to be inside of her when it happened.

Cassian was reaching for his cock at the same time that Nesta let out a broken moan. “Do it,” she breathed. There was no bite of authority in her voice, as if all of the energy she had directed in the pursuit of pleasure had smoothed over the serrated edge of her personality he loved so much, leaving a softer version in its wake. “Please. Just—”

A satisfied snarl ripped from Cassian as he felt her want. And in that moment, Cassian knew there would be nothing gentle about how this was going to play out. It was going to be rough and frantic, riding a wave of pleasure that had been building for too long. Knew afterwards that they would sink to the cold floor in a mass of tangled limbs and mingled breath.

And Cassian wanted that. Had never wanted release so badly in his life.

Something clambered in the back of his mind. Something he needed to remember, but his limbs were moving of their own volition. He didn’t even bother to pump his cock or squeeze it to relieve the tension. Only cared about finally being inside of her.

The heat and slickness of her was sinful and divine when he lined himself up at her entrance. The hand he had braced against the wall came to span her cheek. It relied on Nesta clamping on tightly to his waist with her legs and the press of his torso against hers, but they managed it.

Shaking, Cassian raked back the hair that had fallen free from her braid back from Nesta’s face, just as she tugged him in for a bruising kiss.

There was a moment when everything paused and trembled. As Nesta pulled away and stared at him, her eyes swimming silver—glowing with it—her pupils obscured.

His magic surged at the sight of it. Crashed against his skin as if it was trying to escape. His siphons burned bloody.

“Cassian,” Nesta panted. Despite the keen desperation, there was cushion to his name. Gently, Nesta bowed her head until her forehead rested against his. The gesture was surprisingly tender. It tugged at his heartstrings, triggered his hips into movement as they finally pushed forward.

The tight heat that wrapped around him like velvet was so immediate that Cassian swore. Sweat trickled down his back and seeped into the tunic Nesta hadn’t gotten round to discarding. He trembled as Nesta’s breath stuttered and he felt the burning pain mixed with pleasure as he sunk in an inch. Felt the stretch of Nesta’s body as it strained to fit around him.

Claws dug into his back—Nesta’s nails—biting into his skin, until the metallic tang of blood infused the air.

Cassian’s body stilled before he even had a second to register that he needed to stop. That instinct buried deep to make sure she never hurt.

And then a knock rapped at the front door.

“No,” Nesta moaned. She shifted her hips and Cassian sank a little deeper. That pain flared again through the pleasure and Cassian grip on her turned vice like.

Sense stumbled into his desire addled brain, like a fawn on gangly legs.

But then it righted itself.

Another sharp rap at the door cleared his head completely.

He bowed to bury his face in the crook of her neck but Nesta whined. Tilted her hips again, urging him deeper. “Nesta, stop.”

“No.” Her whimper was doused in frustration, but all Cassian could feel was that sharp needle of pain.

He tried to pull back, but Nesta clamped down around him with that incredible strength of hers. The strength that only seemed to appear at times of desperation or anger.

Cassian’s jaw flexed, his features hardening. “I’m hurting you.”

“You’re not,” Nesta countered, defiance colouring her expression.

“I am,” Cassian retorted, not allowing for a passing beat of their hearts to pass before he replied. “I’m hurting you. Don’t pretend that I’m not.”

I can feel it, Cassian wanted to explain, but didn’t. Knew somehow that if he did they might not end up joining at all.

Desire fogged Nesta’s mind and it fuelled the punch to her next words. “I don’t care.”

Ire punched through Cassian’s desire enough for him to see red. “Well, I do,” he snapped.

Nesta’s nostrils flared at his tone and her eyes burned silver. Cassian wondered how everything had gone southward so quickly—they were on a sinking ship and he needed to patch it up. Knew she felt rejected. So, he kissed her and pushed back that unquenchable ache he felt for her. Knew it hit home because she gasped softly into his mouth, her surprise tart on his tongue.

He pulled out. As soon as his cock fell free that pain throbbed and ebbed. But Nesta moaned all the same.

Moaned again as he drew his head back to stare at her.

She surprised him when her eyes remained open rather than closed off. There was no hard shield. Nothing but want and a vulnerability that made his heart squeeze.

It gave him the courage to do the right thing.

He kissed her again. Trailed a thumb across her swollen lips, ignoring the desire that roared as Nesta sucked it into her mouth, her tongue darting across the top before the bit down lightly.

“This is how things are going to go,” Cassian murmured lowly, pulling his thumb out of her mouth and across her jawline, trailing the wetness all the way to the sensitive spot behind her ear. Nesta shuddered.

“I’m going to get the door and send whoever it is away,” Cassian continued. He paused to let the words sink in. Lowered his head to trace a path with his nose, up the slope of her shoulder, all the way up her neck until his lips were grazing the shell of her ear. “You will go to your bedroom. When they’re gone, I’ll find you.”

Another shiver coursed through Nesta’s body. Her fingers tightened around his neck.

When Nesta next spoke, Cassian knew he’d piqued her interest. “What then?” she demanded.

“Then I’m going to make you come until you see stars.”

Nesta’s entire body froze. For a long moment, she didn’t so much as breathe, but Cassian felt the throb of her blood and magic as it pounded against her skin.

Then, Nesta’s hands worked between them, until her small palms were splayed across his chest. She pushed firmly, indicating that she wanted to get her down. Her body slithered to the floor, her lean legs falling away from his body.

The sudden distance between them felt like miles.

Nesta lifted her chin. “Hurry or I’ll start without you.”

A breath heaved at Cassian’s lungs and he felt his pupils contract, pushing out his irises until they were swallowed by black. The image of Nesta sprawled on the bed wearing nothing but skin, her legs open, a hand moving between her legs had that coil within him tightening to the point of pain.

A growl spiked through the air as another knock sounded at the door.

Nesta must have known she’d wrangled back control, because she arched a cool eyebrow at him. “I thought you were going to answer the door?”

A dark chuckle forced its way out of his chest, but it was mechanical rather than true. Because there was nothing funny about resisting Nesta right now and his body seemed to know that.

Cassian reached for her before he knew what was happening. Rested his forehead against hers. Breathed once. Twice. “I need to calm down,” he confessed.

Nesta snickered, but the sound fell flat as her breath hitched upwards at the end. It betrayed the effect he had on her, even as she said silkily, “Did the image of me pleasuring myself get you hard?”

“I was already hard,” he growled. He pressed a lingering kiss to her mouth. “As you well know.”

A hand reached between them. Stroked over him—the touch feather light but tantalising enough that Cassian bucked into her touch.

And then cunning words, “Maybe I’ll let you watch.”

A string of swear words left Cassian’s mouth. He yanked back from Nesta, as if someone had tugged firmly on a leash. Tugged up his pants and jerked ruthlessly at the ties until they fastened, trapping his cock back into the leather.

With a growl, Cassian waved a hand towards the living room—to Nesta’s room to the right of it. “Leave before I fuck you against the wall, Nesta,” he barked.

Nesta’s sly laugh skittered over his skin, and without pulling her dress back up to cover herself, Nesta sashayed through the nearest arch and disappeared.

*** It had been Mas and Roksana at the door, laden with bags full of groceries and supplies from the market. With full access to the house, there was no reason why they shouldn’t have just come right in. Which meant Mas had suspected somehow, enough so that she had left the bags on the front step and remained standing with Roksana a few feet back.

“I am sorry Sinta, but the meat might spoil,” the housekeeper had apologised as soon as he’d opened the door, his hair a tangled mess from where Nesta had yanked it free of its tie. He hadn’t had the sense to recover it from the floor, but he had righted his tunic and fastened his pants.

And thank the Cauldron for that, because Roksana peeked up at Cassian with wide eyes from her position of safety behind Mas’s legs. He didn’t know when Lorrian had brought the youngling back to the camp, but Cassian guessed it hadn’t been easy on the two of them to take a little girl out of the warmth and back into the snow.

Cassian tried to soften the eyes that he knew were a little wild. He raked his hands through his hair and sent them his most disarming smile, but there was fuck all he could do about his scent. So he thanked her, trying to keep his voice light and conversational. Ordered her to take the rest of the day off.

To the housekeeper’s credit, she did not linger. Had merely nodded and rushed Roksana back into the snow, towards the main vein of the camp.

Yet, whilst the housekeeper’s interruption had been unwanted, it did grant Cassian some breathing space as he rammed perishables into the cool box. Because even though Cassian would allow Nesta to decide how this all played out, he needed to lay down a rule of his own: he could give her the space to decide what she wanted—for him to prove that he could be what she needed—but there was one thing he could not suffer through.

And if they had stormed ahead in a hurricane of lust; with Nesta’s back against the wall as Cassian pounded into her… Well, it would be too late for Cassian to lay down his one condition once they were sweaty and sated. Nesta was more likely to get up and walk away. To not look back.

Cassian found Nesta sitting at the dresser in her room re-braiding back her hair.

Leaning against the doorjamb, Cassian opened his mouth to explain who had been at the door, but an iron band closed fast around his chest, robbing him of breath.

“What are you wearing?” The words came out of him eventually, entirely uneven to the point of being choked.

Because Nesta was wearing his shirt. It was the same steel blue shirt she’d worn that first day in Illyria. The shirt that was an identical match to her eyes, purchased before Cassian had realising what his subconscious had done. A shirt he’d had to hide away in the spare room because Cassian hadn’t been able to bare seeing it in his closet—of being reminded that his mate was a ghost who had banished him away.

Go home, Cassian.

Nesta met Cassian's eyes in the mirror. Announced with cool simplicity, “You ripped my dress.”

“And this is your way of torturing me?”

An indifferent shrug. “Why wear my own clothing when I know what fate it will suffer?”

Cassian knew his nostrils billowed, but he remained propped up against the doorframe. Pretended he was stuck to it like glue because his body was trembling for him to launch across the distance and claim her mouth. Her neck. Her.

The silence seemed to unnerve Nesta. Cassian knew that from months of living with her. From months of studying her slight tells when her masks slipped.

Right on cue, Nesta reset her posture—a gesture that most people read as defiant. But Cassian knew it was also a sign of nerves. She shrugged with feigned indifference, even as her throat tightened and that damned pulse fluttered temptingly against her throat. “You liked it the last time I wore it.”

Cassian huffed a breath. He had liked it the last time she wore it, even if she’d been so gaunt that he’d worried she might wither away. But the shirt… it had put images in his mind that Cassian had long tried to store away, imprisoned in rock and flame: her in his clothing, not fucking other males but him, her lithe legs wrapping around his waist as he sank deep—

Which brought Cassian neatly to the point he needed to discuss with her…

Nesta’s eyes tracked Cassian in the mirror as he peeled himself out of the doorway and came to stand behind her. When their eyes locked into place, it felt as if someone had punched him in the chest. There was something deep in Nesta’s gaze that made it feel as if he was tumbling down a rabbit hole, that magnetism between them drawing him in like gravity.

When Cassian’s fingers brushed Nesta’s neck—ran down the braid she had draped over her shoulder—Nesta shivered. “You had your hair down then,” he rasped. Didn’t wait for her to protest, as he slowly coaxed the tie free from the end of her hair.

Nesta turned preternaturally still, watched him gently part her hair in the mirror until it fell free from her plait, his calloused fingers brushing over her skin as he coaxed her hair to fall down her back.

The pulse hammering at her throat and the warmth radiating from her skin were the only indications that Nesta was alive rather than stone.

Only when Cassian had finished and lifted his hands from her neck, did Nesta come back to life.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. But she cocked her head slightly to dissect him. “It’s a nuisance like this. It gets in the way.”

“It’s beautiful,” Cassian corrected, his voice rasping, like sand scraping against skin. He ran a hand through her hair as if to emphasise his point, his fingers running down, down, down until her waist.

When Nesta stood and turned into the warmth of him, Cassian scented what she wanted. But there was something else simmering in her expression—surprise. As if she’d caught the truth in his words and hadn’t expected someone to truly think her beautiful.

She stepped closer, until the lines of her torso ghosted his. Until Cassian’s heart pounded so hard he could hear the frantic tempo of it in his ears. Nesta tilted her head back so she could stare up at him and Cassian’s hand weaved through the mane of her hair before he could stop himself.

He was desperate to touch her again. Desperate.

But Cassian waited. Waited for Nesta to reach up on tiptoes and press her mouth to his.

The kiss was not like their bruised, desperate kisses from earlier. It was coaxing and unsure; the tentative beginning of something that was not merely fuelled by ardour. But it soon blossomed into something more, like a snowball rolling down a mountain blanketed white, gaining speed as it grew and grew—

Dragging his mouth away from hers, Cassian fought for breath. Battled to remember what he needed to do and say. But then Nesta was tugging his head back down again, her fingers tangled in his hair, the gesture indicative of an insistent need that Cassian knew would not go away.

As always, Nesta tasted divine. Addictive. He could taste the curl of her power on his tongue—silver and white, life and death—and he wondered if she could taste his. Knew his siphons were glowing scarlet—

“Nesta,” he murmured hoarsely, her name a caress against her lips. He couldn’t invoke a distance between them, couldn’t stop touching her. His nose brushed hers as her drew back an infinitesimal amount. Closed his eyes. Inhaled deeply, summoning courage. “You can dictate how this goes between us. But if we do this, I can’t—there’s no-one else. Just you and me.”

The subsequent pause was one of the worst of Cassian’s life. It was barely a breath. The blink of an eye. But it felt as if it was malleable and elastic, drawn out by the hands of fate as everything suspended in time.

He didn’t want to open his eyes, but in the end he managed it. Caught Nesta’s eyelashes flutter downwards, casting shadows on her skin. Her fists tightened in the fabric of his tunic, anchoring him to the moment.

She swallowed. Shook her head. Agreed with a conviction he had not been expecting, “No-one else.”

The relief that swooped through Cassian was so fierce it was painful. But he still didn’t dare to believe it.

He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger so Nesta could not look away. So he could look into the deep waters of her irises and know she was telling him the truth.

But her gaze was steady and unwavering, as he demanded, “Say it again.”

His voice cracked but Nesta didn’t appear to notice. Her grip on him tightened. “No-one else,” she repeated on an outward breath.

A low, ravaged moan sounded from Cassian’s throat. “Diyosa,” he murmured, slipping into Illyrian. Goddess.

“Bruha,” Nesta corrected. She fumbled over the pronunciation but Cassian felt as if he had been an ember that had burst into flame. Witch.

He let out a rough bark of laughter. Then he swore in a long, drawn out moan. “No Illyrian,” he ordered roughly. Pressed his mouth firmly against hers, the kiss searing. “Otherwise this will be over far too quickly.” Another kiss. “And I want to take my time.”

The smile Nesta painted against Cassian’s lips was feline. “You’ve made a lot of promises, General. I hope you don’t disappoint.”

Cassian snarled. Spun her body until her back was cradled against his chest. “I have, haven’t I?” he mused lightly, even though the hammering of his heart must have beat a betraying rhythm against her shoulder blade.

In the mirror, Nesta’s expression grew less poised and controlled. Delight mixed with anticipation clung to her features at this game they played; this tussle for control. She did not try to wrangle free from his hold or shift uncomfortably in his arms at having her back enclosed against his.

It thrilled him—that trust. Enough so that when he met her eyes in the mirror, Cassian found that his irises had been swallowed by his pupils until they were only a ring of chocolate gold.

Slowly, Cassian brushed Nesta’s hair over to one shoulder with his left hand. Traced his fingers down the arc of her neck to her collarbone. Continued a path down the centre of her chest, to the pyrite which glittered between her breasts.

When his fingers met the first button of his shirt, Cassian toyed with it. Purposefully grazed his nose against the shell of her ear. “Shall I start here?” he murmured. “Undress you in front of the mirror whilst you watch?”

Nesta suppressed a shudder, but Cassian caught it. Could swear he felt her blood boiling beneath her skin as he slipped the button free of its hole. Then another. And another. Until there were no more buttons and the material hung free.

Leaning back into his body, Nesta rested her head against his chest. Curved her back slightly so her chest thrust upwards, silently instructing him where she wanted his hands.

And Cassian couldn’t deny her. He turned his palm so it was face up and curled into a loose fist. Brushed his knuckles down her sternum all the way to her bared naval, before bringing it back up. His fingers ran up the side of the material free of buttons, until he was at her collarbone—her shoulder—leaving a litter of goosebumps in his wake.

This time, Cassian snickered when she shivered. Dropped a slow and deliberate kiss to her bare shoulder as he slowly, slowly inched the material down, down, down over her arm. Repeated the motion on the other, until the shirt pooled onto the floor, exposing her bare body to the mirror: endless creamy skin, divine curves, the luscious full weight of her bare breasts, and… lower.

Nesta’s eyes, which had been tracking the fabric as it fell away, snapped to his as a feral growl ripped from him. And she moaned at the expression on his face. Grabbed at his hands, pulling them to her body.

“Touch me,” Nesta hissed, but it came out strangled. Almost pleading. Another crack in her armour as it broke and fell away.

The sight was enough to threaten Cassian to his knees. He guided her body backwards, his hands splaying firmly across her stomach despite her whine, until his legs hit the edge of the mattress

Neither of them broke eye contact in the mirror. Not when Cassian coaxed Nesta down to sit on the bed with him. Not when he pulled her between his legs, her back firmly against his chest. Not when he bowed his head to kiss the slope between her neck and shoulder.

When Cassian finally brushed a thumb over her nipple, Nesta back bowed so fiercely Cassian was thankful he had an arm strapped across her stomach.

The small noise she loosed fuelled his fire and Cassian held on to her. Stroked over that peaked nipple again as Nesta careened into his touch. Followed it with a firmer roll with his thumb and forefinger. Used the fingertips of his other hand to draw slow, tantalising circles across the silken skin of her lower stomach, before he moved southwards…

The air around them hushed when Cassian’s fingers stilled. Anticipation built and only when it vibrated with tension did Cassian slide his hands to cradle Nesta’s hips.

A snarl of frustration, but Cassian paid the sound no heed. Only grazed his thumbs over Nesta’s hipbones. Watched her expression in the mirror—the way her face contorted as she squirmed into his touch as if she was a puppet on strings. Ground back onto him, pressing into that building ache that was bordering on painful.

Fuck, Nesta.

Cassian wasn’t sure if he had spoken out loud or in his head, all he knew was the blessed, fleeting relief he felt as he bucked into the small of Nesta’s back on instinct. He was rock hard and thirsting to be touched, but the thickening scent of Nesta’s arousal pulled his focus.

A groan rumbled from Cassian’s throat as Nesta’s hand darted between her legs. He caught her wrist just in the nick of time. Kissed the heart of her palm. Rumbled into her ear, “Not yet, sweetheart.”

His voice was coarse enough that Nesta shivered, the goosebumps travelling down her skin like a cresting wave. She didn’t struggle against him, nor did she move to disobey him as he dropped her wrist. Instead, she waited, trembling and shaking at every pass of his thumbs over her skin.

Cassian buried his nose behind the shell of her ear. Breathed Nesta in, steadying the drum of his pulse.

Not once did he take his eyes off of hers in the mirror, especially as he murmured, “Shall we find out if you’re wet for me?”

Nesta squeezed her eyes tightly shut, as if the movement would steady her. Swallowed hard. It was so unlike her to take stock, to show any signs that she was rattled, that Cassian softened. He nuzzled at her neck, trailed a line of kisses instilled with promises. A hand flew up to tangle in Cassian’s hair, keeping him there.

“Yes.”

The word stuttered out of Nesta on several staccatos, but she forced her eyes open and met his gaze in the mirror. Watched as he pulled her tighter against him and hooked her legs over his thighs so she was spread wide. Slipped his hand across and down…

The first ghost of a touch had Nesta panting through her nose. The second had her gritting her teeth. The third had her moaning, her back bowing so sharply as he skimmed straight over the place she wanted him the most.

Her head hit the centre of his chest with a resounding thud that had his bones creaking, but she did not look away from him. Seemed to know the game they were playing without him having to express it.

When Cassian brought his fingers lower and discovered just how wet Nesta was, he had to force his wings in tight to his back to hide his surprise. Growled, “You’re soaked.”

Pleasure and embarrassment twisted in Cassian’s stomach, and Cassian wanted to tell her that it was not something to be ashamed of, that he wanted her just as much as she clearly wanted his fingers between her legs.

Her eyes glinted steel, her stare commanding. “Make me come—“ she ordered, but Cassian chose that moment to roll his finger over that spot at the apex of her thighs.

The command bottomed out of Nesta as she inhaled sharply. Satisfaction bloomed inside of Cassian; because he may have done this countless times before but barely enough with her. And nothing seemed to matter apart from him seeking out her satisfaction. Of learning about what made her body freeze with pleasure and what made her come undone. “There?” he murmured into her ear, repeating the movement, before he passed his fingers down further. Until they were at her entrance, playing gently before he drew upwards and circled.

This time, Nesta groaned. Her hips jerked sharply beneath him, tilting, guiding him to just the right place.

Picking up on the cue, Cassian increased the tempo and friction until Nesta’s hips were rolling in a punishing rhythm against the hard length of him.

And Cassian snarled in satisfaction, his fingers tightening around her hip in a plea for her to keep moving—to not stop pushing back on him—because it was blissfully good. The rapid tightening in his groin was almost painful, the cord so tight that Cassian thought it might snap. But he couldn’t stop Nesta, not when she looked so bewitching, the arousal so stark on her face as he stroked and circled and pressed.

Burning pleasure clambered to its peak and Nesta’s eyes grew so heavy they fluttered closed. Something unintelligible left her lips, her head tipping back into the heart of his chest.

When Nesta’s arms wound around his neck, her knuckles accidentally grazing the leather of his wings, Cassian part-snarled, part-roared. Swore. Held her even tighter as his wings snapped out high and mighty behind him. They wrapped around Nesta’s body before Cassian’s pleasure-fogged mind could stop them curling towards her, starved for her touch.

Fuck, he was unhinged. So desperate for relief—in the scent and feel of his mate—that his control was barely there. Enough so that he didn’t react when Nesta reached out her hand—

Sense knocked Cassian for six only when Nesta’s fingers were millimetres from touching the membrane. He drew back his wings so fast the air around them stormed, but he swooped in before surprise could register on Nesta’s face. Dipped his chin and coaxed her head even further back so he could claim her mouth.

The taste of her lips was as vital as breathing, the scrape of her nails on his scalp grounding. He moaned into her mouth at the same time as she whimpered. His hand was still moving between her legs, interchanging the same three patterns over and over again, mixing things up as soon as Nesta’s moans grew too untamed: he wanted to draw out her pleasure, not sate it with a few choice strokes.

Pulling away, Cassian pressed a kiss to her forehead. Coaxed her to dip her chin until she was looking back at their reflection in the mirror: ebony and golden brown, tan and cream.

Nesta’s irises were wisps of silver, but when he traversed past that bundle of nerves so he could slip two fingers inside of her, they flickered into living flame.

That was indication enough that she liked what he was doing. Cassian had quickly learnt that Nesta became completely readable between the sheets, that mask slowly crumbling away until she broke completely.

Curving his fingers as much as he could, Cassian pressed upwards hard—again and again— revelling in the strangled sounds Nesta made. The way she writhed but tried her best to hold his gaze.

Cassian dropped a lingering kiss to the crown of Nesta’s head. Murmured into her hair, “Is that good, sweetheart?”

The only response Cassian received was a long moan which extended into a whine as he withdrew his fingers. Then a sharp cry as he swept them upwards, swirling them in a well-practiced motion that had Nesta’s lower half seizing in pleasure.

Cassian circled again. Again. Firmer. Faster. Nesta’s cries grew louder, her breathing became more laboured. A silver wreathed hand flew to his forearm—not to stop him, but to keep him there.

Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

The bond between them creaked and cracked as it expanded.

Nesta panted his name.

“Are you going to come for me, sweetheart?” Cassian scratched out.

In vain, Nesta attempted to burrow her head into his shoulder, but Cassian’s voice dropped out of soft and into the role of general within the fraction of a heartbeat. “Eyes on the mirror, Nesta, or I’ll stop.”

It seemed to take all of Nesta’s energy to fight her leaded eyelids and meet his dark eyes in their reflection. When she did, Cassian’s magic roared and pounded beneath his skin, as if it was trying to break free and join Nesta’s. There was a pressure and power fuelling the sensation that was separate to him. It was like the magnetic force which rules the relentless ebb and flow of the tide—that desperate crash followed by a scrabbling, thundering retreat.

That twisted rope between them grew corporeal, tugging at their ribcages as if it was clambering to remind them both of its existence. Of the cost of this exchange.

Something deepened in both of their gazes, but if Nesta had felt what Cassian had, she gave no indication. She only arched her hips back into his, grinding backwards.

Cassian loosed a rough groan that skittered across the shell of her ear. Her gaze was purposeful but hooded, as if she was in a continual battle with the pleasure weighting her eyelids.

“Good girl,” he praised as Nesta’s eyelashes fluttered from the strain of maintaining eye contact. And then his fingers were everywhere at once and Nesta’s moans fell away to short gasps that rose in volume.

Nesta tightened her fingers around his neck, scrabbling for purchase, for some sort of tether as her pleasure launched high into the air. The hand that had been at her hip, steadying her, encouraging her to roll back on him moved to her breast; cupping and pinching and rolling as she stuttered pants and words that Cassian couldn’t make out.

When Cassian slid two fingers inside of her again and pressed down firmly on her clit with his palm, Nesta’s cry was wild.

“Look at me,” Cassian ordered as Nesta’s eyes flew shut. His voice was resonant—startling—even to him. It punched through the bubble that had encased them—their entwined scent—and Nesta’s eyes snapped open.

For a beat, time seemed to stand still around them. Their gaze fastened back into place and for a moment, Cassian could see a conflict of thoughts swirl in the magic of Nesta’s irises.

He froze just as anguish crashed down that bond, right into the heart of his chest.

It knocked the breath from him. Confusion rattled inside of his head but he came up empty of answers. Had he gone too far? Had he hurt her somehow?

“Sweetheart—“ he started, but stopped. Unsure of what to say because he could still smell how much she wanted this. Could feel how soaked she was. But perhaps that was what the mating bond did. Fooled reason with an overwhelming drive to pleasure and claim.

Cassian went to draw his hand away but Nesta’s hand whipped out, her fingers curling around his wrist. Desperation flooded her next words—the plea in them stark. “Don’t stop.”

As if to punctuate her point, she rolled her hips. His fingers slid over her of her own accord and she stumbled a moan. Light barrelled down the bond and Cassian’s blood spiked, thrilled as he felt the truth of her words, as she ground back into him again.

“Fuck that feels good,” Cassian grunted into her ear. His hips pushed into the small of her back, accentuating his point. It chased the delicious reprieve from the ache in his cock, even as he knew this moment wasn’t about him. As he pulled her back into the solid muscle of his chest, steadying her movements so he could pick up where he left off: so he could watch the pleasure whip away her conflicted expression until her eyes were once again blazing with the promise of flame.

Silver mist climbed from Nesta’s fingertips into the air. It crawled over the glowing ruby siphons across the backs of his hands, past the corded muscle of his forearm and the rolled up sleeves of his tunic, to his chest, his neck…

A sheen of metal shone in Cassian’s eyes, flickering across his irises so they appeared to turn a metallic gold. The lick of Nesta’s magic didn’t burn. It was a rush of heat—the tender caress of a lover’s kiss instilled into his skin over and over again, ascending Cassian to another realm of pleasure, as if he’d climbed a staircase to an entirely new place.

It felt like an extended method of foreplay Cassian had never been privy to before, lighting up every nerve ending until he was so hard he could cut stone.

Gritting his teeth through the pain-cloaked pleasure, Cassian focussed instead on Nesta’s bare skin.

The tempting fullness of her breasts. The way desire had completely rewritten her countenance. The way she whimpered and then cried out.

Cassian sped up his movements. Until his fingers were no longer teasing, but dancing over her with sure, quick movements designed to thrust her towards a crescendo.

Nesta’s magic swirled into flame, the heat of it a licking promise down Cassian’s limbs. He groaned, swore at the exquisite pain on her face as she hung at the precipice, ready to plummet into rapture.

Her climax became a tangible, living thing and Cassian wanted to see it play out for as long as he possible could. Wanted to see her break for him again and again and again.

So, he waited until she reached the summit and when she was there he slowed down his movements. Ordered through her whimpering, “Look at me Nesta.”

Metallic irises met his, and then Nesta was trembling and shaking in fits and bursts as her release ripped out of her like a taut cord cut loose. Cassian drew her orgasm out as best he could, suspending that pleasure until finally Nesta slumped against him, spineless.

She turned her head to bury it in his shoulder and Cassian let her. Stroked her hair. Pressed a kiss to her sweaty head. Murmured, “Good?”

Slowly, Nesta nodded, but for a long while, that was the only communication he received. But Cassian let her recover. Watched the way her ribcage moved as she heaved for breath. Relished the way her body was splayed out over him, her legs held wide open from where they were hooked over his thighs.

Unable to help himself, Cassian brushed over her sex. Delighted in the way Nesta shuddered rather than batted him away. Fresh desire reignited across her expression and Cassian played gently for a few minutes, revelling in the wetness that had gathered from her release.

Finally, Nesta lifted her head to meet his gaze again. “Did I burn you?”

“No,” Cassian replied hoarsely, his heart squeezing at the genuine fear in her words. He let out a rough laugh, passed his fingers lightly over the knot at the apex of her legs for the last time before he withdrew them.

Nesta moaned softly, even as her brow twisted into a small frown.

“It felt good,” Cassian elaborated. He kissed her shoulder at the same time that he pushed his hips into hers as if to demonstrate just how much he’d liked her magic. “I’m being strangled to death in these pants,” he confessed.

When Nesta cocked her head, her hair moved in a golden tangle. Then she smirked. Unravelled her limbs from him and turned.

Nesta slung her legs over his waist so she was straddling him just as Cassian’s hands caught in her hair. A booming sounded as his wings snapped out and fanned behind him, settling like falling fabric.

“We can’t have that,” Nesta remarked, her breath a whisper against his skin.

“No,” Cassian agreed roughly. “It’s your favourite part.”

Nesta snorted a laugh, but it was not derisive. “Egotistical bat,” she muttered.

A slow, smug smile was Cassian’s only reply. Because he was more focussed on her mouth. With the feel of her silken skin beneath his palms as he ran them up her legs and over her rounded ass. His touch was a promise as he tugged her into his body and ground up into her core, the seam of his trousers doing nothing to relieve the damning ache in his cock.

Together they gasped, and then, as always, they moved at the same time, their mouths slanting one another within a fraction of a second.

The heat of Nesta was liquid, the touch of her smoke—feverish and everywhere all at once. It was the same heat that had roared into existence when Cassian had pinned her against the wall earlier, yet… better somehow. Passionate and awake rather than fogged with lust. Life-giving.

A shuddered groan was pulled from Cassian’s chest as Nesta’s hands slid beneath his tunic and met his burning skin. And then the tunic was on the floor—the rest of his clothing was torn from him soon after. It all happened at such speed Cassian could barely keep up, but when Nesta reached for his bare, burning skin—the tattoos on his arms and the faint scar on his stomach—her fingers were gentle.

“Battle scar,” Cassian panted in explanation, as Nesta’s fingers lingered on the silvery tissue that wound over his lower abdomen: a permanent reminder of what had happened to him during the final battle with Hybern. “The trauma was too great for Madja to heal completely.”

“I remember,” Nesta replied shortly and she looked so fierce that Cassian reached for her. Cupped her cheek with his palm.

“Still breathing, Nes.”

Nesta nodded, but when she kissed him this time there was something fierce and desperate about it, her fingers burying deeper into the mane of his hair.

And then a hand was trailing down his skin and closing around his cock. The touch was sinful and a glimpse of the heavens. When he hissed into her mouth, Nesta gripped tighter—until pain laced the pleasure—just how he liked it.

His groan was that of rumbling thunder as she began to move her hand. It was everything Cassian needed, but it was too much, too good. He scrambled to hold on to some sense of control, because he’d never been this close to losing it from just a few touches.

Then Nesta stopped. Glanced downwards—

The realisation thumped through Cassian so loudly his heartbeat punched like a fist against his ribcage.

“Don’t you dare,” Cassian choked out.

Nesta’s eyes shot to his, but rather than looking startled she arched a challenging eyebrow.

“If you so much as try to put my cock in your mouth I’ll explode,” Cassian rasped.

Before she could protest, he was gathering her to him and had slipped a hand down between her legs.

Just the touch of his fingers had Cassian seizing back control. Nesta stilled at the sudden pleasure, as if she was trying to coax time into suspending the sensation.

“Still so wet,” Cassian purred against the tip of her ear.

Gliding his fingers over the centre of her, Cassian paused briefly at the apex of her legs, toying with her clit, before he ran them back down. When he drew his fingers back, rubbing them together and raising them to the faelight, they glittered.

Nesta’s nostrils flared as if she was an animal in heat. And Cassian knew before he spoke that his voice? would be what pushed them over the edge. But he said it anyway, his voice dropping impossibly low, “Is this all for me?”

Nesta launched at him until their mouths collided, until they were nothing but a clash of teeth and tongues, their skin so flush they may as well have been fused together.

Burying her fingers deeper into the tangled mane of his hair, Nesta tugged sharply. Met his gaze head on. Demanded, “Fuck me.”

All it took was those two words. Cassian moved, flipping them so Nesta’s back was flush against the mattress. He covered her body with his and Nesta whined at the contact, her body bending and arching towards him as if she were a plant and he was sunlight.

Cassian ran a hand up her bare thigh to her ass, coaxing her leg to bend, but Nesta was too impatient. She broke free from the weight of his body, repositioning herself until legs were wrapped tightly around his hips.

An uneven laugh choked out of him. “So stubborn,” Cassian chided darkly, but he allowed his hips to fall into the cradle of hers. Hissed as he loosed his control and thrust so his cock could glide through her centre. “Fuck,” he grunted. “Nesta, fuck.”

Nesta’s breathy whine fuelled the sparks of pleasure that crackled through him like static energy. He kissed her hard. “There’s a high probability I won’t survive this.”

The snort Nesta loosed tried to sound unaffected, but her voice shook as she accused him, “Liar.”

But he wasn’t lying. And Nesta knew it. She had to know it because his walls were now shattered around them in splintered shards.

Yet, Cassian found himself assuring her. “Not lying," he grunted as he passed over her again. Pressed a lingering kiss to her mouth—a parting goodbye as he moved to kiss the underside of her jaw, down the column of her throat. Down further, to flick his tongue and scrape his teeth over both nipples.

He moaned when she moaned; their sounds a chorus of want until he couldn’t take it anymore. Cassian’s claws clipped around the metal of the bed frame at the same time that he pushed off of the palms that were framing her face, until he was on his knees before her.

Despite the desire coursing through him, Cassian’s head was nothing but clear as he slid his hands under Nesta’s ass and lifted her effortlessly, positioning her so that the undersides of her thighs were flush against his knees.

Nesta’s hair was tousled over the pillow, her lips swollen and parted as she surveyed him. When she tried to wrap her legs back around his hips, Cassian held firm. And despite the fact that Nesta listened to nobody, she allowed him to bend her knees and press his calloused palms to the insides of her thighs in silent instruction.

They fell open and a growl rumbled in Cassian’s throat. His hand was fisting his cock, lining it up to her entrance before he knew what was happening. But then he remembered the pain from before. And even though Nesta was more than ready for him, the thought of hurting her made him feel physically sick.

When he moved away, Nesta let out a strangled noise. A hand shot out, closing around his wrist. “You said you’d fuck me.”

Cassian wanted to explain, but that meant alluding to that tie between them, that instinct that couldn’t allow him to see her hurt. Cassian knew Nesta wasn’t ready for that. Knew that if he so much as breathed a word about it that this precious moment would fall away.

And Cassian was selfish. He had to see how this played out. Had to know if Nesta could grow to accept the bond between them—deem him worthy enough to accept something that was Cauldron blessed.

So, he only drawled, “Patience is a virtue, sweetheart.”

One swift movement had Cassian gathering Nesta into his arms. This time, he allowed Nesta’s legs to wind around him. She gripped him like a vice and Cassian knew it wasn’t from fear of him dropping her. When he sat back against the headboard and guided her onto his lap, Cassian expected her to bite out a comment about doing all of the work, but Nesta only let out a pleased sound. Weaved a hand back into his ebony hair. Wrapped a tight fist around his length, twisting once at the tip, before she guided him to her entrance.

Cassian hissed a curse as she closed around the head. Murmured her name into her mouth. Gripped tightly at her hips when she didn’t stop sinking down on him, as he felt that pain mixed with the sweetest pleasure.

“Nesta.” The way he said her name was firm and commanding, but he still had to dig his fingers hard enough into her skin that he was sure it would leave temporary bruises. The thought made him falter, but then that sharp pain flared again as she resisted against him, and he knew that the bruises were a necessary evil. “Nesta,” he barked, “Go slowly.”

Something creaked and cracked between them. A stretching, growing pain reached its fingers down that bond, the sensation strong rather than constricted as it fought to make its way down their usually thin tie.

Nails dug into Cassian’s neck. A whimper sounded in his ears as Nesta fell forwards, burying her face into his neck. “Please,” she whined in frustration. “Cassian—”

She broke off as she clamped down around him and Cassian felt an ebb of pleasure cut through the pain—that promise of something more.

“Don’t make me hurt you, sweetheart,” Cassian pleaded and the rawness in his voice stopped her resisting against him. He eased a hand between them, touched her right where she wanted him. Allowed her to tug his face upwards so she could kiss him. It was infused with desperation and Cassian eased his hold on her hip. Allowed her to lower herself downwards until she had slid another inch deeper. Continued to stroke her until Nesta began to shake.

“I’m going to—,” Nesta gasped against his mouth. Her body trembled and Cassian’s blood roared at bringing her to the edge again so soon, despite the pain. “Cassian—”

Abruptly, Cassian moved his hand away.

Nesta’s snarl whipped around the room, but Cassian smoothed the sound away by fusing his mouth on hers. She stopped shaking but the sharp bite of Nesta’s glare pierced its teeth through his flesh in a flash of silver.

“It will be better if you wait,” Cassian gritted out in explanation when they parted. Nesta’s breath gusted against his skin. “And I don’t think I can hold on if you come so soon. You feel so good, Nesta. So tight.”

As if on cue, Nesta contracted around him and Cassian ground his teeth together so hard that the muscle in his jaw worked. But he let Nesta slide down on him another inch. Then another. And another. Until their hips were finally flush with one another and that pain had bled away until it was nothing.

The moaned words that fell from Nesta were indistinguishable, but he felt her tremor. Felt that surge inside of him as Nesta repeated herself with a whine that indicated she was toppling over the ledge of control, like a glass teetering before it fell.

And then she was moving and Cassian let her. He was unable to think or breathe. Could only focus on the feel of her.

“Fuck,” Cassian groaned. His head thunked back hard against the headboard as she ground her hips into his, testing the feel of him. “This is better than I’d dreamed.”

No soft snicker, only an untamed whine. Then teeth scraping a sinful path down his neck to his pulse.

Cassian’s hips kicked up hard as her teeth nipped.

“Sorry,” he gasped, because even though Nesta had told him not to hold back, he was still concerned about hurting her. But Nesta’s fingernails bit into his skin and her body moulded to him—a delicious second skin—as she inhaled sharply. “Again,” she demanded with a fierceness that did not allow disobedience. “Do that again—”

It didn’t take a second command for Cassian to thrust up hard. And true to her word, Nesta took him all. Did not change her mind and ask him to hold back. Instead, Cassian knew that this was exactly what she wanted—no, needed. She needed this punishing rhythm just as much as he did.

And it felt… incredible. Beyond anything Cassian had ever felt before. The blood roaring in his ears intermingled with Nesta’s cries and the slap of his hips meeting hers, was the only thing he could hear, his senses narrowed down to the sensation of her wrapped around him, so tight …

It was too good. It threatened to break him, to take everything that he was and reform it entirely, as if he was going to shatter and be pieced back together as someone else entirely. The air around them became taut with pressure, tanning leather stretched too tight over a rack, as if their joining controlled one of the essential elements.

“Cassian.” That one word threatened to break him. Not bat or it or you, only his name falling from her lips as if it was their secret. “More.”

Exhaling a curse, Cassian planted his feet firmly on the mattress and thrust up with as much vigour as he could muster. The movement had them slipping from their upright position and Cassian’s claws absent-mindedly closed around the metal bed frame, strapping them in for the ride as his body coiled and tensed as he slammed into her over and over.

Nesta cried out. Grabbed fistfuls of his hair as they moved together as if they had been made for this moment, their wild gasps melded together until they were one.

Only when release teetered too close to the edge did Cassian drop the rhythm. Cupped the breasts he had dreamed of more times than he could count. The breasts he’d had the privilege of seeing bare and glorious only twice before.

Capturing a nipple between his teeth, Cassian scraped his teeth hard enough that Nesta stopped rocking and angled her hips until he was pressing impossibly deep inside her. She whimpered. Clenched and unclenched. Throbbed in a way that told him she was as close as he was—that if he wasn’t so close himself, he could drive her over the edge with a few well-timed thrusts.

The understanding had him letting out a jagged groan. “Are you close, sweetheart?”

A whine in response, but Cassian didn’t let it go. He raked back the hair from her sweaty forehead. Pressed his lips to her swollen ones in a lingering kiss. Watched the frown that knitted her brow as she was overtaken by the feel of them.

“What do you need, Nesta. Tell me and I’ll give it to you.”

Nesta wound her hands around his head, buried her face into his neck. Began swaying and circling her hips in a rhythm that was dictated purely by the chase of pleasure. “Just… this,” she panted. “I just need this.”

Then it was only the licking fire of her breath against his skin. The magic that curled around them like a heated blanket and the building anticipation of both of their releases, which pulled at him like a strange sort of magnetism, begging him to fall with her in unison.

“Cassian—” Nesta began in warning, but he had already felt her begin to quake, as if the ground was moving beneath their feet—the mountains trembling.

That pull became a driving force—a cresting wave of pleasure so profound that Cassian felt that twist inside of him—that signal that he was about to join her.

He groaned, jerking his head back so it collided with wood, the pain grounding him enough that he could say, “That’s it, sweetheart. Come for me.”

As soon as the words left his lips, Nesta broke, as if she’d been waiting for him to ask it of her. Her cry was muffled and Cassian wanted to tear her mouth from his neck—to hear her break for him—but then she was sinking her teeth into his skin right over his pulse.

Roaring, Cassian kicked his hips up hard on instinct as she marked him, but the shock distracted him. Clouded the desperate clamber of his release so he could hold himself back.

Cassian held tightly onto Nesta as she slumped against him. When she lifted her teeth from him, Nesta whined like an animal. Dragged her tongue over the dent she’d made in his neck—once, twice, three times.

He shuddered. Couldn’t help it. Turned his face into her hair. Breathed her in. The gesture was tender, like an animal tending to the wound of a significant other—its mate.

And wrapped in this moment, Cassian could almost believe that this was something more than sex for Nesta as her forehead came to rest on his collarbone. As she kissed the hollow of his throat. Then the knot. His lips.

“Good?” Cassian asked softly. He lifted a hand to her face, ran a calloused thumb over her cheekbone.

Nesta made a rare, content sound that vibrated through him like a balm. She leant into his hand, her eyelashes swooping down.

When she finally pulled back to survey him, her eyes were still dark. She shifted her hips. Moaned quietly. Rasped, “You’re still hard.”

It was a miracle Cassian hadn’t followed. If it hadn’t been for her teeth in his neck, Cassian would have been wrestling with the embarrassment of finishing too soon.

“I was too preoccupied with your teeth in my neck.”

A flush crept its way up Nesta’s face, like vines reaching their wicked encroaching fingers up a wall. But she raised her chin. “You wanted me to do it.”

It was true, he had wanted her to. And he wanted to do the same to her—to mark her as his so everyone would know that she was off limits for the brief hours before her body healed.

“And what about you?”

The patter of Nesta’s heart broke into a sprint. It was the only thing that betrayed her feelings, her expression devoid of any reaction. “What do you mean?”

Cassian leant forward until their noses brushed. Lifted his eyebrows. “Do you want me to bite you, Nesta?”

Nesta’s nostrils flared. If she had wings, they’d have flung wide by now. Would have collided with furniture and cut through air.

That was answer enough.

In one movement, Cassian lifted himself up and over, until Nesta was on her back and he was pressing her body into the mattress. Breath gushed out of her lungs but it was not from fear, not as Nesta turned herself out bare and tilted her chin for him—for once not in defiance but as an act of vulnerability—of complete and utter trust.

Every instinct in Cassian clambered to the surface, but he closed a fist around it until its life fluttered against the cage of his palms and fingers: his to control, rather than the other way around.

Slowly, Cassian lowered his nose to the exposed skin and breathed her in: her scent and the life that pummelled beneath her skin, the roaring of her blood as it crashed through her veins. It took everything in him not to move inside of her, to thrust up hard and feel the way her breasts would move against his chest.

“I could do it right here,” Cassian murmured, his mouth ghosting over the pale column of her neck until he came across that pulse. He brushed a tongue across it.

The movement was a mirror of what he’d done before in the human realm and Nesta knew it. But this time she did not jerk back from him demanding what he’d done. Instead, her body drew up beneath him, exposing more of her neck, begging for more.

Cassian groaned, raking his teeth over that swell at the same time that he pushed in deep. Nesta’s groan was guttural and everything. His blood turned molten, so hot that he expected his skin to melt away until he was nothing but bones.

“Please,” Nesta panted, her fingers tightening around his back.

Another flick of his tongue over her pulse. “Do you want me to bite you or fuck you?”

“Both.”

That was enough to loosen the fist on Cassian’s control. He sat back on his knees, prying her hands from his neck, coaxing her fingers until they were above her head and clasped around the railings of the headboard. Nesta’s breasts rose with the movement, her peaked nipples so tempting he bent to take one into his mouth. Then the other. Suckled until she mewled and her nipples were no longer rosy but red from his attention.

Cassian lifted his head and surveyed Nesta. Warned her, “Hold on tight.”

And then there was no thinking, no worrying or desperation to hold back. It all came as easy as breathing, their tempo,the snap of his hips and the shift of the mattress as her body shouldered the impact. At some point, Cassian’s body fell over hers, needing to feel every inch of her against him. His wild, punishing rhythm dropped into a rough rocking that was intimate at the same time it was claiming.

Nesta didn’t seem to mind—let out a pleased moan of consent, her legs clamping tighter around his hips until they were flush with hers. When he next moved she whined, and Cassian felt that change inside of her—somehow—that twisting fist of pleasure that glimmered down the bond, pushing against the walls of that thread, pushing it wider and wider, like a heart expanding.

Silver-wreathed fingers tugged his head down until Nesta could claim his mouth, fusing them together so they were complete. Cassian shuddered as her fire cascaded from her fingertips and down his body. His magic, attracted to hers, began to suck out of his pores, but it didn’t leech him of power. Instead, it was like his magic was searching for its mate, desperate to be reunited.

Then that sensation again, as if Cassian had ducked beneath something and had come up for air somewhere else.

Ruby greeted silver like a long-lost lover, blending until their magic was a metallic sheen of scarlet—a fog that misted their bodies, rubbing tantalisingly against their skin as they rocked and moaned their way to release.

“Don’t stop,” Nesta begged desperately through stuttered breaths, and Cassian wondered how many times she’d reached this pinnacle with other males only for it to be taken from her.

Cassian’s hand found its way to her face, his thumb stroking over her cheek as that coiled release twisted across her devastatingly beautiful face. “Can’t,” he panted honestly, his other hand searching for hers across the mattress until he was clasping it—holding on for dear life. “I’m so close, sweetheart. You have no idea how good you feel.”

“Come with me then,” Nesta pleaded. Her eyelashes had fluttered downwards as she took in a sharp breath of pleasure, but now they opened. Stared deep into his soul. “Come with me—”

Then her body turned both loose and taut, clamping yet completely molten as her release ripped out of her.

“Fuck,” Cassian swore. Invisible hands clasped around his ass, tugging him deeper—deeper. Everything in him tightened as Nesta crashed around him, and that siren called to him, singing her name, over and over as pleasure clawed at him, desperate to whip out of him.

Nesta, Nesta, Nesta.

Cassian launched at her neck, his teeth sinking deep enough to claim as Nesta cried out, her body trembling as he continued to thrust into her, wringing out her release at the same time he desperately clambered towards his own.

He managed to pull out just in time, his teeth still deep in her neck, his release spilling hot onto her stomach in bursts of pleasure.

And even though Cassian had vowed to bite her and Nesta had already marked him, he found himself apologising at the red, angry dents in her skin. How was it that he couldn’t bare to hurt her but biting her neck was a completely different story?

“Sorry,” Cassian rasped. His mouth was as dry as a desert as he gingerly touched his fingers to the marks, but Nesta’s fingers clasped around his, halting him. Then she raised her other hand and brushed her knuckles over the identical marking on his. Reminding him that she’d done the same—had been the first to do it.

“I liked it,” Nesta admitted brazenly, but she didn’t stop him from dragging his tongue over the marks. Shivered instead. Held his head to her.

“That was intense,” Cassian rasped eventually against her ear, after the quiet had settled over them like a blanket. He nuzzled at her neck again, unable to help it—just one more precious moment like this until he had to pull away.

When Cassian pulled back to meet Nesta’s eyes, he found that the blue bled back into her irises. “It was always going to be intense,” she replied frankly.

Then Nesta looked down at her body, as if she’d only just remembered how he’d marked her in a different way. “You didn’t have to do that—pull out. I can take a tonic.”

Cassian hadn’t wanted to pull out at all—and neither had that tie which bound them together—but that wasn’t the point. “I’d rather be cautious,” he explained—a little too shortly, because Nesta bristled.

“Neither of us have had a tonic in a while,” Cassian elaborated when Nesta’s expression hardened.

He tried not to think about how his body had been desperate to spill inside of her. For him to press as deep as he possibly could until he was spent.

Climbing off of the bed, Cassian disappeared down the hallway and into the bathroom. When he returned, he was holding a wet towel.

“A while?” Nesta queried, picking up their conversation, as he began to clean her up.

Cassian cocked an eyebrow, but he didn’t dare meet her eyes lest she read him. His shoulders turned rigid at the thought. “Have you been sneaking people in and out of the bungalow that I’m not aware of?” he asked.

They both knew that Cassian would tear any male she brought back to the bungalow to pieces, but neither of them voiced it.

“You go back to Velaris,” Nesta accused. “You visit the other camps.”

For a moment, Cassian stared at her. Did she believe that he’d been fucking other fae? She had taunted him in Velaris the other day, but Cassian had thought that it was just their extended, agonising tussle of foreplay.

Perhaps you should go in search of some female company tonight.

Cassian managed to huff a breath, but it wasn’t one of amusement. He knew that his expression was steely as he said, “I told you that I don’t sleep with Illyrians. And I haven’t been fucking around in Velaris.”

From the way Nesta’s expression darkened, Cassian wasn't sure she believed him.

She opened her mouth to throw back a retort, but Cassian wanted the discussion to end. If she knew he’d barely touched another female since he’d met her, she’d run the other way. It was too intense a confession for someone who didn’t know what they wanted.

“It was self-inflicted,” Cassian supplied, his tone flinty enough to warn her that he wasn’t willing to discuss the subject any further.

Climbing off of the bed to further his point, Cassian extended a hand towards her. Banished any of the rigidity to his posture. “Come stand in the tub with me.”

There was a sinful promise behind the order. Already Cassian could envisage how he’d press Nesta against the tiles, his lips trailing open mouthed kisses as he kneeled before her—

Nesta must have thought similarly, because the pleasure that sparked in his stomach was not his own. But still she studied him, her head cocked as if she was trying to figure him out. Her hair was a muss of golden brown, her skin glistening with sweat that Cassian wanted to lick off.

Nesta parted her lips, taking stock, but Cassian didn’t allow her to speak. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he vowed. Meant it. Because already he was turning hard again, that desire to have her roaring.

He’d known this would happen. Knew that finally being inside of her wouldn’t sate him but stoke the embers into flames. But Cassian didn’t hide it—utterly unashamed of this need for her. From the way Nesta’s nostrils billowed, he knew she'd marked the change in his scent.

Nesta’s eyes flicked to his cock and the she-devil smirked, her lips curving in a way that had Cassian thinking about how they might wrap around him—how her tongue might feel, how warm she’d be…

In one supple movement, Nesta stood. Took his hand, her slim fingers threading around his large ones. Raised her chin and levelled him with a smoky blue gaze that promised wicked, wonderful things. “Then lead the way, general.”

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#embersandlightfic #duskandstarlightwrites #nessian fic #nessianfanfic #nessian smut #acosf #acosf fanfic #acotar #acotar fanfic #sjmaas #nesta x cassian #nesta archeron #cassian #morrigan #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #feyre #elain archeron #rhysand

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johnsamericano · 3 years ago

Text

𝔖𝔲𝔤𝔞𝔯 ℜ𝔲𝔰𝔥 𝔧.𝔧.𝔥 •2•

Hi hi! I'm back with another chapter. This one might not be as good(?, it's a really fluffy chapter so bear with me.

warnings: sugar daddy jae, he's a big baby, tooth rotting, kinda long.

sugar rush m.list.

taglist: @thoreeo @trustmahluv @sunny-nyu @nanascupid @silent-potato

“Sir, there’s a girl asking to see you.”

“Hey, I’m not a girl!” He chuckled as his finger pressed the button to communicate with his secretary.

“Let her in.”

Only a few seconds later, your head was peeking through his door.

“I brought you coffee.” You extended your hand out, showing him the carton containing two iced drinks. “Are you busy?”

“Not at all, come in.” You sat on the elegant, individual sofa in front of him, his desk serving as a separation. “Are you here to spy on me? Don't you trust me with your father's case?” He pouted, typing something in his keyboard while your palms started sweating.

How could you not trust the man with the highest case winning index in the whole country?

Briefly, after your encounter with the other lawyer, you'd googled him as well as his company. Because of his incredibly high fees, he didn't have many clients, but those few who had enough money to cost him were almost assured to be on the winning side. So then, why hadn't an excellent lawyer like him popped up when you'd first looked for popular firms? Simple, he wasn't popular.

Just like a hidden gem, only a few had the pleasure to know Yoonoh, and you felt beyond grateful for paying that stupid membership weeks ago.

“No, no!” You were quick to defend yourself, frantically shaking your hands to support your previous statement. “Just wanted to be of help.”

Truth to be told, after receiving your first weekly allowance, an unsettling feeling had been squeezing your heart ever since. Call it guilt or whatever, but it didn't set right to be receiving si much help from him when you hadn't had the chance to do anything in return. The least you could do was trying to be polite.

“You shouldn't be spending your money on me. I'm the one supposed to spoil you, remember?” He grabbed the plastic container by the lid, sipping the bitter liquid with an amused smile. “But thank you.”

“I paid my rent yesterday.” You blurted out, trying to avoid the uncomfortable silence threatening to settle between the two of you. “And I still have money left to save for my father's hospital bills, maybe even buy a present for my aunt.”

He admired how noble you were, making sure those around you had enough before even thinking to do something for yourself.

“I have a party this Friday, would you like to attend with me?” Your presence wasn't required as it wasn't a big event, but by the look in your eyes, he knew you were itching to do something in return for his kindness.

“Yes, of course!” Your orbs sparkled with excitement, finally feeling yourself useful.

“If you don't mind waiting, we can go buy something for you to wear right after I finish with this.” For what seemed like the tenth time in less than ten minutes, small beads of sweat rolled down the back of your neck. Thank God he wasn't able to see them. “Oh, come on, don't give me that look!”

“You’ve already done so much for me. I can buy the clothes myself, don't worry.” With a deep sigh, Yoonoh rose from his chair, taking long strides to surround the desk separating you. “W-what are you doing?” Now kneeling on the floor beneath you, his face was dangerously close to yours, coffee breath crashing against your nose.

“Using mind control to convince you to let me take you out.” He stared at you for a couple more seconds before saying: “Is it working?”

“I think your mind control is broken.” You whisper, unable to hold back the small giggles bubbling at the back of your throat.

“How about now?” He batted his eyelashes, trying to act cute despite his bold features. You shook your head.

Just as you thought it was over, his hand went up to cup your jaw, his thumb drawing uneven figures on the ticklish skin.

“How about now?” He repeated. You stammered, unsure of what to say. “Sorry, that was inappropriate.” Aware of your awkwardness and the rising heat in your cheeks, he stood up, walking back to his chair. “But I do want to get you something, would you let me?”

With your mind busy and your guard low, you nodded, unaware of the silly smile on his face.

“I have a few novels on my shelf in case you want something to kill time.”

“Thank you.” You moved to the huge bookshelf facing his desk, grateful your face wasn't visible anymore.

The books were ordered by genre and size, starting from the biggest law-related textbooks to pocket-sized novels, ending with the smallest one he had. The little prince.

Your eyes widened in disbelief. Yoonoh didn't seem to be the type to read that kind of heartbreaking yet beautiful book. Nonetheless, as many said, you can't judge a book by its cover.

An hour or two later, you were halfway into the first book of flowers in the attic, immersed in the small world the author had created. Yoonoh had finished his work a few minutes before, but distracting you when you were reading so vividly, seemed like a crime. He enjoyed the way your eyebrows would knit together every time something shocking happened, clearly too immersed in the novel to notice his intense gaze.

“Y/n...” He whispered once he noticed you were starting a new chapter. You blinked twice, hands clutching the book tightly as you noticed he had finished his work. “You can take it home, don't worry.”

“Sure?” He flashed his pretty dimples as his eyes turned into half-moons.

“You can come back for the rest of the saga when you finish this one. Take as many books as you please, I’ve already read them all.”

“Thank you.” Another act of kindness you had no way of returning. His favors just seemed to be piling up before you could even return any. “Would you like to have dinner with me today? I'm a great cook, or so did my father said.” You blurted out quickly, twisting your hands nervously as you waited for an answer.

“I’d love to. But I might have to attend some work calls if you don't mind.”

“I don't, maybe I'll even have time to bake a cake while you're at it.” God, how bad he wanted to take a picture of that adorably nervous smile.

“Great, so it's settled. Dinner at your place after we go shopping.” He had already put his blazer on, offering his arm to guide you out. With shaky fingers and sweaty armpits, you grabbed it, walking by his side with his secretary’s gazed glued on you. So much for a girl, huh?

Once seated in his car, with the book resting on your lap, you allowed yourself to relax. Yoonoh wasn't a bad person, on the contrary, he was very kind, so there was no use in keeping your guard up when he was around.

“Ready to roll?” You cringed at his use of slang, making him drop his head back to laugh. “What? Isn't it a thing you cool young adults say?”

“Maybe twenty years ago, Yoonoh.” It was the very first time you used his name so informally, and, oh how good it felt to hear you saying it?

“Fine, I won't use it anymore.” He poked your arm like a little child, and for a moment, you wondered if he was actually more than a decade older.

Several bad jokes, two dresses, and a quick stop at the grocery store later, you arrived at your apartment. Yoonoh held everything while you entered the passcode, struggling not to drop a can of vegetables that was starting to bend the edge of the paper bag.

“Ready, hand me something.” You both entered with your hands packed with different things. You went to your room to leave the new dresses while Yoonoh set the paper bags down on the kitchen counter.

“So...” He clapped loudly. “What are we cooking?”

“I bought the ingredients for lasagna. Is that okay with you?” He nodded, lips pressed and dimples in display. “Alright, let's do this.”

It would've been of great help if Yoonoh had told you he didn't know how to cook. But of course, part of the fault was yours for not noticing when he tried to add ketchup to the recipe.

“I burnt it.” He looked at the semi-carbonized pasta with disgust, feeling ashamed of having ruined your dish. “Let’s just throw it away and order something.” He was about to touch the hot container until your grip on his wrist halted his movements.

“We just pulled it out of the oven.” You shook your head in disbelief at the man standing in front of you.

“Sorry.”

Despite Yoonoh’s endless complaining, you ate the lasagna. The flavor wasn't that bad when you scratched off the burnt parts, especially when accompanied by a cold glass of wine.

“It’s not that bad.” You repeated over and over again. A phone call interrupted him from self-pitying any further. “Go on, take it.” You continued eating while he spoke in the living room.

It wasn't until a couple of minutes later that you realized he was whisper yelling at whoever was on the other line. It was your first time seeing him angry, and you didn't like it one bit. The way his face turned completely stoic, his eyes cold as his hand rested on his hip. Sweet, caring, Yoonoh was gone.

“I told you I needed it for today.” He said through gritted teeth. “You better get it before I arrive back at the office, or you can find yourself another job.” Even after he hung up, Yoonoh stood in the middle of the shared area, clutching his phone so tightly, it seemed like it would break any minute.

You wanted to ask if everything was alright, if he needed any help, but most importantly, if the things he needed were related to your father's case, but all the words stuck to your throat like insects in a spider web.

“I need to go.” He simply said, not even bothering to fake a smile. “Thank you for dinner, I'll see you on Friday.” With his free hand, he grabbed the coat hanging from his chair and left, slamming the door on his way out.

Was that the real Yoonoh?

A shiver ran down your spine. What had you gotten into? From what you'd seen, it was only about time he would show his true self to you as well.

All the trust you'd built up during the day, had crumbled down in a matter of seconds. The worst part? You didn't even feel entitled to be scared, not after all he'd done for you.

‘Just keep your distance.’ You repeated like a mantra as you got ready for bed, leaving the book you'd borrowed right where he'd left it, afraid it would burn your fingertips even with the slightest touch.

(...)

The week wasn't nearly as long as you'd wanted it to be, and soon enough, you were struggling to zip the dress you'd bought days ago. Your makeup was done, and Yoonoh had texted you he was on his way, yet, you'd been fighting with the zipper for at least ten minutes. Your fingers were cramping, and the clock was ticking.

Just when you'd finally started to drag the small piece of metal, the doorbell startled you, causing you to let go of it.

“Fuck!” Have you ever felt so desperate that tears start pricking your eyes? Well, that was the exact case happening at the moment.

You opened the door with the salty water collecting at the corner of your eyes, surprising Yoonoh, who was wearing his best dimply smile.

“What’s wrong?” He had a bouquet poorly hidden behind his back, probably to apologize for the night he abruptly left and almost knocked down your door.

“I-I can't zip up my dress.” Your voice came out shaky, giving away the emotions burning your gut. Thankfully, Yoonoh didn't seem to notice, and if he did, he didn't mention it.

“I’ll help you.” He, not-so-discretely, put down the bouquet, gently turning you around to your discomfort. His cold hands touched your back as he dragged the zip up, noticing how tense you were but deciding not to comment on it. “Oh! You haven't moved the book from where I left it.”

“I haven't had time to read.” He hummed, crouching to reach for the bouquet and hand it to you. “Thank you.”

“It’s my way of apologizing for the fit I threw a couple of days ago.” A fit? That was one way to call it.

“It’s okay.” You lied as you pushed the corners of your lips to form a credible smile. “Let’s get going.”

The flowers were left on the kitchen counter before you left. The ride in the elevator was awfully quiet, and Yoonoh had no idea what had happened. You were so chatty the last time he saw you, so of course, he was taken aback by the sudden change.

“It’s not going to take long, so we can head out for some drinks later if you'd like...” You nodded, for you knew speaking would only expose your discomfort. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah! Just nervous about the party, that's all.”

You stood by Yoonoh’s side for the rest of the evening, smiling and nodding at his acquaintances’ comments. At one point in the evening, a man, not much older than you, approached you both with a wide smile.

“Dude, I hadn't seen you in ages. Stop sending your workers and come see me yourself.” They hugged. Why were they hugging?

“Y/n, this is my brother, Sungchan.” The man with puppy-like eyes embraced you tightly, almost as if welcoming you to his family. “Sungchan, this is y/n, my girlfriend.” He said it so naturally, it’d take a detective to figure out the truth about your relationship.

“I’ve heard a lot about you. I'm sorry for your father. But don't worry, we'll take those bastards down.”

“I’m not following...” You blinked repeatedly, eyes going back and forth between Yoonoh and his brother.

“Sungchan is a doctor. I asked him to look at your father's case for further evidence. My assistant was supposed to pick up the report the day we had dinner, but she forgot to drop by. Now we’re a day behind schedule.” The dark cloud surrounding him seemed to be slowly dissipating as you heard his explanation. “This is an important case, and I want to be as meticulous as possible.”

Thank you didn't seem the right thing to say at the moment, at least not with Sungchan standing there, so you simply grabbed his hand, squeezing it to let him know how grateful you were.

To your surprise, he didn't even flinch as he locked your hands together, causing a small giggle from Sungchan.

“Okay, love birds, I'll get going.” He waved you goodbye, making his way to another table where his friend waited for him.

“Can we talk?” You whispered in his ear, afraid one of the numerous attendants would hear you.

“Sure.” Without letting go of your hand, he drove you to a small, private garden just outside the ballroom. “Are you gonna tell me what's wrong now?” His thumb caressed your knuckles with gentle strokes.

“I’m so sorry.”

“What for?”

“I pushed you away at the minimum trouble when you were only helping me.” He hummed as if he already knew about it. “And it will probably happen again, so please, be patient with me. I'm going through-” Your face collided against his chest as his arms draped over your shoulders, squeezing you tightly.

“Call me reckless, but I've wanted to do this for a while.” Your hands hung at the sides of your torso, unsure what to do next. “You can push me away, I'll understand...”

Instead, your palm found its place in his back, rubbing up and down the designer jacket. Your hair started turning messy from the night breeze, some strands striking Yoonoh’s chin as his embrace only grew tighter.

“Let’s get out of here.” He mumbled, crawling the back of your head with his hand. “Sungchan can deal with my father's friends.”

“Are you sure?” His hum vibrated through his chest, making you giggle at the odd feeling.

Once seated in his car, his hand found yours like a magnet, the warmth emanating from it comfortably enveloping your skin.

The calmness of the atmosphere was interrupted by a call from his brother, who seemed to be anxiously explaining something through the phone.

“Just tell him I had a work emergency.” With that said, he hung up, placing his hand back again on top of yours. “Sorry, he said it was urgent.”

“It’s okay.” An unsettling feeling pinched your stomach, but you decided to dismiss it, immersed in the chilly weather of the dark streets.

You arrived at the river, where Yoonoh asked you to wait for him while he bought a couple of beers. It was a sight to see, both of you clad in fancy clothes, barefoot and chugging down can after can.

“I think I like being with you.” You declared, mind fuzzy from the alcohol intake.

“I think I like it too.” The tips of his ears were rosy, revealing he was as intoxicated as you, maybe even more.

“Would you like to visit my father with me tomorrow?” The words flew out of your mouth before you could even realize. Afraid you'd killed the mood, you tried to excuse yourself, only to be interrupted by his lips grazing your ear, placing a timid kiss on your lobe.

“I’d love to.” It was the sweetest peck, no ulterior motives behind it, just pure affection.

“Are we going too fast?” In your drunken state, what you had felt like a real relationship, not a simple agreement. And this sure felt like a first date.

“We’re moving at our own pace, I believe.” He dropped his head on your shoulder, pressing against it to relieve the dizziness clouding his mind. “Are you okay with that? Maybe you don't want to be with an old creep like me, and I'd totally get it. Just don't let me get my hopes up if that's the case.”

“You might be old, but definitely not a creep.” Your fingers combed through his abundant hair as your mind wandered into the future, grateful for the fact that he wouldn't become bald soon. “Or are you?”

“I don't think so.” Anyone who walked by would've seen a couple of goofs, too intoxicated to talk without slurring the words, but you were living in your own, comfy bubble. “I should get you home before it gets too late. Come on, I'll call a driver.” He tried getting on his feet to no avail, stumbling back a little before falling back on his ass.

“My apartment is nearby. You can stay for the night.” You grabbed both pairs of shoes as his arm surrounded your shoulder for assistance. “If you keep supporting your whole weight on me, we're both gonna fall.” People on the street shot you a couple of funny looks, which was understandable since it wasn't usual to see two drunk idiots walking barefoot in the middle of the night.

“How long till-” Hiccup. “-we get there?” His stare seemed to worsen with every step. “God, I think I might throw up.”

“Stop acting like a teenager, we're almost there.”

As soon as you arrived at the small apartment, you sat him down on the little step where you changed your shoes. You left both pairs on the rack, proceeding to put on slippers to enter the house.

“Don’t leave me here!” He whined, stomping his feet like a little kid.

“Just wait for a second!” His attitude was starting to get on your nerves to the point where you couldn't feel the effects of the beer anymore.

You grabbed a rag from the kitchen cabinet and dampened it under the sink. Yoonoh was half asleep when you walked back to him.

“My head hurts.” He mumbled as you sat in front of him, placing his left foot on your lap. “What are you doing?”

“I don't have any slippers that will fit you, and I don't want your dirty feet making my house dirty.” With utmost delicacy, you wiped away the dirt from his toes, noticing the small scratches caused by the gravel he walked on.

He touched your hair while you finished with his other foot, tangling the strands with fascination.

“Done, get up.”

He followed your indications as you guided him to your room, where you laid him down on his side in case he threw up.

“Are we visiting your father tomorrow?” He asked while snuggling under the covers.

“Sure.” You cleared his forehead from the strands falling in it, grazing the soft skin of his forehead. “Sweet dreams, gigantic baby.”

#nct au #nct imagines #nct ot21 #nct smut #nct x reader #nct #nct scenarios #nct 127 #nct angst #nct fluff #nct jaehyun #nct jung yoonoh

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permanentcrossfics · 4 years ago

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Twelve Hours in Miami // h.s. - Part 2

Read Part 1

“Did you really just ask the front desk for a condom?” you asked.

“Intimacy kit,” he corrected you, still pink. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “Comes with all sorts of things.”

“Ordered a few of them before?”

He looked at you, then, and stammered. “I just thought-- we don’t have to-- but I thought if we--”

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8:35am.

You’d fallen asleep just like that -- tangled up, skins stuck together with sweat. Two hours later, you had to peel yourselves apart with whispery snickers and pounding heads. It would’ve been gross -- it was gross, to be honest -- except it was him. You smelled like him, he smelled like you, and it poured satisfaction into a well of need for this specifically that you hadn’t known existed until it was full.

“Stay with me.” Deep, rumbled, and just a little slurred, the words made you smile, and you curled up, eyes closed, when he dragged his warm hands and mouth along your back, shoulder, arm, chest, and stomach. One of his legs was wedged between yours, and he was leaving spongy, scratchy kisses up and down the back of your neck that made you scrunch up. “C’mon, darling,” he sighed hotly against your skin, slipping his arm firmly around your midriff to squeeze you back into his chest. “Stay w’me,” he mumbled with honeyed persuasion that needlessly gilded the spider web of his you’d found yourself in.

“I have work, you know,” you drawled without any real conviction. Hang work -- hang it all. It was partially because of your work that you’d missed every attempt of his to connect like this over the past few days. You weren’t set to fly out that day, not just yet, but he was, and then he’d be gone and you didn’t know when you’d see him next. You’d been gifted with twelve whole hours, and almost three of them were already gone.

“Get sick,” he said, the demand muffled by your neck, and you laughed, turning into your pillow.

Were you really going to leave him there, in your bed, knowing he wouldn’t be there when you got back and that the hours you did have were wasted?

You’d gone to dinner last night, and something hadn’t sat well with you. That was the excuse you used when you made your calls, trying to sound as hoarse as possible, and when the last one was done, he rolled on top of you and you laughed and tried not to focus on how easy it was for him to settle his hips between your thighs as he peppered kisses up and down your jaw and neck, all but gloating in his gratitude.

He ordered breakfast at 8:50am and answered the door in your robe at 9:20am, giving a tip and a smile while you burrowed under the blanket and searched for the television remote somewhere in the sheets.

It was a lazy affair, with both of you reclined against the headboard, captive audiences of the bad local news station you’d turned on to catch up with the day. Every now and then, he’d chuckle or snort or offer his commentary with a sort of bemused delight similar to a wizard discovering a toaster for the first time. “Strange, innit?”

“What is?” you murmured, breaking off a piece of blueberry crumb muffin.

“This!” He waved his fork and the strawberry speared on the end of it at the talking alligator on screen. “Bizarre.” He pulled the fruit off the fork with his teeth and chewed, shaking his head.

“This is not the strangest thing you’ve ever seen.” You brought a piece of your muffin to his mouth and he opened it without breaking focus.

“Didn’t say that, but it doesn’t mean it’s not weird.”

“Weirder than LA? New York? Texas? London? Tokyo?”

“What’s your point?”

You snickered and took his fork from him to steal a grape from the bowl.

“What is this?” He all but wheezed, hand on his belly over the butterfly’s wings as he stared at the screen, eyes crinkled with incredulity.

“Open,” you said, and he did as you asked, tongue darting forward to meet your fingers. “Harry, you licked me!” you cried when you felt the wet slide over the side of your finger.

His jaw stopped midchew, focus broken, and heat burst through you when his puckered mouth twitched and then flattened with suppressed laughter.

“I--”

He swallowed and the bed shook with his silent chuckles. “Didn’t think about that one before y’said it, did you?”

You made a noise in your throat and rolled away from him as he laughed behind you. “Go away,” you said into the mattress. He was still laughing when you heard the clink of dishes being set aside and when he slid up behind you to get close.

“Have to wait a few hours for that,” he mumbled, kissing the back of your shoulder. “Couple more hours at least. Wouldn’t throw me out in the cold, would you?”

“It’s Miami,” you said, voice muffled. “You’ll be fine.”

He turned you on to your back and slunk his way under your arm and you held your breath when he came all but nose to nose with you. You could see everything, good and less good -- every pore, every hair, every slight scar, every mole, every beginning of a pimple, all of it. “Not gonna throw me out, are you?” he repeated, huskier and warmer in a delicious way you didn’t think you were supposed to know could be this good.

“No,” you whispered.

He hummed, mouth curved in triumph, and you could see his mind working very fast behind his clear, green eyes. Where you’d been howling your outrage seconds ago, you were pretty sure you were both painfully aware of how close you were right then. Wordlessly, he nuzzled the warm point of his nose against yours and your eyes closed as your breath hitched. Your lips parted just as his tongue touched you lower one, and you sighed, hands slipping up his warm, strong back when the kiss deepened. He tasted sweet -- a little like the strawberry, and a little more like the blueberry and sugar from the muffin. He lowered onto his elbows and you absorbed his weight and warmth without complaint and opened your mouth wider. His groan made you shiver and when you broke, you were both panting. Gulping, he licked his lips.

“M’gonna make a call,” he said. “Downstairs, t’get us some….” He trailed off. “Where’s the….” He grabbed the phone off the bedside table and dropped off to the side of you, jamming his thumb into a button before lifting it to his ear, and you kissed his chest and shoulder, nuzzling the warm skin.

“Hi, yes,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I’m calling for-- I’m wondering if there’s an intimacy kit on hand?”

You looked up at him but he kept his eyes on the ceiling, though his cheeks were flushed and he was breathing heavily.

“Right, yes, thank you, if we could-- have that sent up, that would be… but bill it to room 2201… thank you.” He hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed.

“Did you really just ask the front desk for a condom?” you asked.

“Intimacy kit,” he corrected you, still pink. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “Comes with all sorts of things.”

“Ordered a few of them before?”

He looked at you, then, and stammered. “I just thought-- we don’t have to-- but I thought if we--”

You kissed him, then, cutting him off, and his hands slid over your bare back as you clambered onto his lap over the sheet. Belatedly, his hands fell into the small of your back, and you were very aware of where you’d be if there was no sheet between you then. “I like this,” you confessed. Maybe you shouldn’t have, maybe it was too much to feel or vocalize, but you did, as quietly as possible so he could miss it if he wanted to.

“Yeah,” he rasped, hand slipping down to the curve of your ass. He swallowed and you kissed his throat, inhaling the smell of his shower and the sex he’d almost had since. He was warm, and where hair didn’t tickle your mouth, he was also shockingly soft. You had no reason to think he wouldn’t be, you’d just… never thought about it, you guessed. You’d thought mostly about how his muscles would feel -- his arms, his chest, his stomach, all of which were moving heavily as he gulped and breathed deeply. It must’ve been taking his every effort to stay perfectly still underneath you.

You tapped one of his nipples lightly with your index finger before circling it in a featherlight stroke. He huffed a laugh and you glanced up at him, smiling mischievously as his own lips quirked. Without looking at him, you kissed his nipple pertly and he tensed his stomach with a muted, “Oh, fuck.” Giggling in a whisper, you followed the kiss with a playful bite, and his hand slid down to your bare ass.

“I’ll be good,” you said, moving to kiss down his chest and down his stomach, each one slow and lingering, tongue touching his skin. “I’ll be good,” you promised again over his navel, chin once again on a thin line of dark, soft hair, and you pressed kisses to the leaves of the ferns fanning over his hips. Under the sheet, you could see -- feel -- his cock hardening again, and above you, he struggled to keep his eyes open and on you, with his hands curling into fists alternately at his sides and on his head. “Is this ok?” you whispered.

Harry nodded with a strangled sound in his throat. He inhaled sharply, nostrils flared and lips smashed together, but he kept his eyes on you as best he could as you eased the sheet down with shaking fingers. For a moment, your mind went blank, and your lip twitched with an almost laugh when you realized. No dick was that good that it should rob anyone of coherent thought, but his was, apparently, and all yours had gone out the window -- laughable in and of itself.

“I’m sorry,” you wheezed, pressing your forehead to his hip. “I just had a moment.”

“Think that’s a first,” he admitted in a strained drawl above you, but he was chuckling, too.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated. “You’re great, you’re--”

“Y’not helpin’, y’know,” he said, laughing more regularly. “Gonna make a man self-conscious.”

“No.” You kissed his abdomen. “No, I’m sorry, I’m fine now, I just… forgot for a minute.”

“Forgot what?”

Everything was too much to admit to, and instead you wrapped your hand around his cock and he groaned quietly, shifting. Hard, but getting harder still, you pumped with a touch that was much more confident than you felt. Every throb pulsed into your palm, and above you, his throat bobbed as he cleared it, jaw clenching and releasing as he shifted his legs. He was the perfect grip -- big enough to fill your whole hand, but not so much that you felt ineffectual. He was smooth, and he looked so--

His groan when you sucked his head gently echoed through the room, and you felt him twitch on your tongue as you ran it around and around his head. Slowly, your eyes rolled up and closed. He felt good even in your mouth -- smooth and silky -- and he tasted like…. You lowered down, thumb touching your lower lip as a guide down his shaft, and you moaned softly, bobbing your head slowly.

“That’s nice,” he said thickly. You heard his breath rattle in his chest and you cracked your eyes open. His own were in barely open slits, and his lips were parted, left arm thrown over his head, stretching his tattoos out ever so slightly as his muscles flexed every time he opened and closed his hand in a fist. “Shit, that’s so nice,” he intoned in disbelief, smiling with a breathless little laugh. “So soft… bein’ careful w’me, aren’t you?”

You blinked and pushed him into your cheek with your tongue, sucking a little more, and he groaned loudly, eyes closing completely for a moment. “Jesus, that’s it,” he praised, and a knot tightened in your stomach. You ran your tongue up and down in short sweeps along the vein you could feel and his whole face crumpled as his stomach rose and fell. He dropped his hand and linked it with his other one over his chest in a basketweave, and his knuckles went white as he took slow, deep breaths.

The rush from looking at him so powerless and vulnerable and open and trusting and absolutely in awe of every little thing you did? Intoxicating. You were shaking from it and you could feel how wet you were between your thighs -- you were dripping, like he hadn’t just licked up every bit of you he could as if his own life had depended on it.

For a moment, with your eyes on him, you allowed yourself to imagine what it would be like to just pull your mouth off him and straddle him to sink down on him. You let yourself think of the feeling -- the full stretch, judging by the way your jaw was just about popping -- and the look on his face. You let yourself revel in the groans he’d make as his face crumpled, and how his chest would heave, and what his skin would look like with the tracks of his fingers over it as you struggled to find your proverbial footing. You’d both be sweating, and grabbing the other, and the thought of his teeth finding your sensitive skin made your hair stand on end and you whimpered.

“Like it?” he whispered. “S’it good?”

You nodded, and pulled off him with a wet gasp before licking a stripe along the underside of his cock, from base to tip and back again.

“That’s good,” he said. “Get all over, s’ok… shit.” His throat bobbed and he unclasped his fingers to grip the bedsheets. “Get all over me, get everywhere, it’s ok, it’s f-fine--” He made an almost pained noise and lifted his hand, and brushed it over the back of your head before dropping it to the bed as he squirmed. “Get my balls,” he mumbled, head rolling against the headboard. “Oh, fuck, please….”

His breath stuttered and he gulped, eyes opening wide and unfocused on the ceiling. Cock wet from your tongue, you pumped your hand up and down while sucking one ball and then the other into your mouth, ears prickling from the soft, pathetic noises he was making. “Holy shit, s’incredible!” he gasped. “Shit, I’m….” Harry trailed off, choking on his words, and his hand came to rest on the back of your head when you wrapped your mouth around the tip of his cock again. You suckled, with alternating pressure, and bobbed up and down, eyes closed and head swimming from his guttural grunts.

“M’gonna cum,” he said, his mumble punctuated with a wordless shout when you twisted your hand around his wet cock and squeezed. He throbbed against your palm and you heard him take a sharp breath as his fingers tightened on the back of your head, but without pressure to push you down. “Don’t stop,” he breathed, heaving by then. “Don’t stop, m’gonna cum so… gonna cum so hard, I’m--”

You whimpered around him and your other hand pressed against his stomach. He clapped his free hand over it and held it there, wheezing, and you opened your eyes briefly, catching a glimpse of his face contorted in the most erotic agony -- cheeks and chest pink and sweaty, hair mussed, teeth bared with his shout, and the vein in his neck popping -- before you tasted the first salty, tangy string. You stilled, tightening your lips, absorbing every groan as his thighs tensed and released under you in his effort to not squirm and buck you off. He let go of your head to clutch your hand against his stomach with both of his, and your palm slipped against his slick skin. With some effort, you gulped, mouth still holding him, before you relaxed and pulled off him. You ran your tongue over his head and released him with a soft pop before sitting up slightly, neck and jaw both aching and throat just a little inexplicably sore.

He, beyond a shadow of a doubt, looked spent. His eyes were closed and there was a slump to his shoulders, and his chest rose quickly with each shallow breath he took, and he still hadn’t let go of your hand. “Think….” He cleared his throat and swallowed hard. “Think y’really did summat to me,” he rasped. When he looked at you at last, he was dazed, and a dumbfounded smile pulled at the corners of his mouth before his eyes slid shut again. “Fuck,” he sighed.

“Are you going to nap now?” you asked, voice thick and husky. He laughed.

“Don’t,” he said. You crawled up his body, unsteady knees guiding you on either side of him. “Don’t tease me, m’only… I’m trying my best, aren’t I?”

You grinned, and you’d just gotten to perch on his thighs when a knock at the door startled you both. Your head whipped around just after his eyes flew open and he gripped your hand tighter.

“That’ll be the kit,” he said, breathing heavily.

“Oh.” You’d almost forgotten he’d called down for it. “Right. I can….” You pulled your hand free from his. “I can get it.”

“If you--”

“I can,” you repeated, nearly toppling over as you swung your leg off him. “Stay.” You flung the sheet haphazardly over his waist and he chuckled as you stood and pulled your robe on, glancing at the clock on the bedside table as you did.

11:37am.

#harry smut #harry styles smut #harry x reader #reader insert fanfiction #harry styles fanfiction #harry fanfic #harry blurb #harry styles blurb #harry styles one shot #harry one shot #permanentcross #original writing #twelve hours in miami #twelve hours in miami 2

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i-need-entertainment · 4 years ago

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Haikyuu!! Boys getting stuck places and having to ask you for help

Characters: Akaashi, Washio, Konoha, Kita, Suna, Ushijima, Yahaba, Iwaizumi, Futakuchi, Daishou, Numai and Iizuna

**Today has been pretty bad, but my sister, @foodacoochie gave me this idea and it made me giggle and inspired🥺🥺 thanks dude💙**

Warnings: Drugs in Washio’s but they’re for a surgery and being used responsibly and for pain, just the boys getting stuck and not being able to get out of places/things lol

Akaashi Keiji:

Akaashi had been over at your house, you guys were ‘chilling’ and what not, just wasting the Saturday away.

Your family had recently done some renovations on your house, and one of those renovations was changing all of the door nobs.

Your mom had called you downstairs to come talk to your grandmother on the phone.

You knew that you’d be on the phone for a while, so you told Akaashi to do whatever until you got back. You had been gone for 5 minutes when Akaashi needed to use the bathroom.

Luckily, you had one connected to your room!

He walked in the door, shutting it behind him before he froze at the small ‘click’ he heard.

Whipping around he immediately tried the door nob, only to groan when he realized it was locked.

From the outside.

You see, you had insisted on putting the door nob on yourself, but when you did so, you had managed to put the lock on the wrong side of the door.

And when you showed him what you did, he could distinctly remember you locking the *then open* door.

So as soon as he shut it, it locked.

He sighed as he shook his head. He had also distinctly remembered you telling him it would be at the very least 30 minutes before your grandmother would let you go, so he was going to be here awhile.

He did his business then sat on the edge of the bathtub, sitting and waiting until you came back upstairs.

When you came back up to your bedroom, you were surprised to not see Akaashi sitting on your bed where you had left him.

You softly called his name before hearing him sigh and a defeated sounding ‘in here’ from your bathroom.

You raised an eyebrow before trying the door nob, slapping a hand over your mouth when you realized you had locked the door.

Unable to hold in your giggles, you unlocked the door, almost snorting at the deadpan look your boyfriend gave you.

Washio Tatsuki:

**he may seem out of character, but it’s because he just got his wisdom teeth out, and as someone who has recently had that done, I know that for some people their personalities do a 180 switch**

Washio had just had his wisdom teeth removed.

At first his mom was going to take him home, but she had to go into work, so you offered to take care of him and take him home from his surgery.

When they walked Washio out into the waiting room, you hurriedly walked over to him, because as soon as the nurses let him go, he started to go down. Giggling when you struggled to hold him up.

Now, keep in mind, Washio is a big guy. He’s 6′2 with a broad build and lots of muscle, so he’s not exactly light.

Seeing as he had just had a major surgery, he was very doped up on drugs, and seeing Washio drugged up was nothing short of hilarious.

He was very clingy and very giggly, laughing at anything he found remotely amusing. A night and day difference from his usually calm and stoic demeanor.

After you somehow managed to get him in the car, you began to drive him back to his house.

You got to his house and pulled into the drive way.

Before you could help him out of the car, you had to make sure he had a clear path to the couch where he would be sitting.

You had left the keys in the ignition and the air conditioning on because it was a hot day, and let’s face it, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Walking back out to the car you went to open his door, only for the handle not to budge.

Your brows furrowed as you tried to open it, looking to the inside of the door only to see all of the doors locked.

...uh oh..

You knocked on the glass, gaining the attention of a very drowsy looking Washio who just lazily waved when he saw you.

You, who had no way to actually get to him, started frantically pointing to the unlock button, him looking at you like you had grown 3 heads.

He finally tried the door handle, only to find it didn’t open.

You could faintly make out the words ‘i’m stuck’, when he realized he was ‘stuck in the car’.

You watched as he grew more and more frustrated with the door not opening.

You were pointing to the unlock button, him then pressing every button except for the unlock button.

Thankfully, he pressed the window button, rolling it down so you could reach your hand in and unlock the door, finally being able to help him inside.

Konoha Akinori:

Not everyone knows this about your boyfriend, but he is very competitive.

He just so happens to have a younger sister, who is also very competitive.

On this particular day you had been over at his house, his sister had been in the living room with you guys when a movie about dancing or whatever came on.

Konoha jokingly scoffed when the ballerina did the splits, stating that “I could do that” while you rolled your eyes, but his sister laughed, “Yeah okay boomer.”

Glaring Konoha turned towards his sister, who simply narrowed her eyes back at him, “What was that?” She stood her ground, you nervously watching from the sidelines.

“Boomer, and I stand by it. You have the flexibility of an 80 year old man.” He narrowed his eyes at her before he laughed, standing up and walking to the middle of the floor.

Without any warning he, albeit slowly, fell into the splits, cringing when he got like 5 inches away, entire body shaking.

“s-see?” His sister was laughing as he stayed there, high pitched sounds of pain escaping him.

He, finding himself unable to stand or move for that matter, continued to suffer, heavily contemplating every decision he had ever made.

“y/N, hELp”

Kita Shinsuke:

Kita was very responsible, so you never had to worry about him getting himself into silly situations he couldn’t get himself out of.

But, everyone has their moments.

You and Kita were spending the day with his grandmother!

You guys had gone through old photo books, and made some desserts, now she wanted to teach you and Kita how to finger knit!

It seemed easy enough, and in no time you had gotten the hang of it and were on your way.

Kita however, was having a little more trouble.

He had gotten how to wrap it around his fingers and how to pull it but...

Somewhere along with way, he messed up.

And he messed up bad.

He didn’t really know how it happened, but before he was aware of it his fingers were caught in a tangled web of yarn, somehow he managed to knot both of his hands together, eye brows furrowed as he looked down to his hands.

You held in your laughter when you saw him, hopelessly caught in strings, as he tried to figure out how to get out of them.

It took 20 minutes and both you and granny to release him from his self-made prison.

He stuck to a different activity after that.

Suna Rintaro:

You had a big project coming up, but your boyfriend did not, and wanted to hang out with you.

You, who also wanted to hang out with him, let him as long as he let you work.

He promised he would cause no such distraction and be like a fly on the wall.

That doesn’t mean you believed him, but it was nice he made an effort.

Anyway, after just under an hour he got bored just scrolling through instagram.

So, he got up from his position on your bed and sauntered over to your vanity where he sat.

You didn’t pay him much mind, he was 16 so it’s not like you had to babysit him.

Er- you shouldn’t have to babysit him.

Fiddling around with the things on your desk, he stumbled across the small dish you kept your rings in.

There was one ring in particular that really stuck out to him.

It had a silver band and a dark blue gem, it was really pretty. He remembered you saying you didn’t wear it often, but he couldn’t remember why so he just shrugged and slipped it on his left middle finger.

He had been holding his hand up, looking at it, cause it really was a pretty ring.

All was fine, all was nice, until he tried to remove the ring. Then, some problems were presented.

The most prevalent of those problems being the ring was stuck, like really stuck.

And the second being he remembered why you didn’t wear the ring a lot, it was a size too small, for you.

So it was much too small for him.

Claiming defeat he called your name, defeatedly holding up his hand, and cringing as you called his name.

Ushijima Wakatoshi:

The team had finished practice and were fooling around in the locker room, making stupid bets and doing stupid things

Underestimating just how competitive (and curious) their captain was, Tendo and Yamagata bet 25 dollars Ushijima couldn’t get into a locker, Kawanishi and Shirabu each bet 35 dollars saying he could, and Reon bet 45 saying he would get stuck.

Being genuinely curious what would happen, and being heavily encouraged by his teammates, Semi found an empty locker, rigging it open before ushering the ace in.

It was quite small, and not a comfortable experience at all, but he was also never one to turn down a challenge.

So after some major manipulation and hitting his head, he got fully into the locker.

Tendo and Yamagata forked over their 25 dollars, imploring Reon to do the same before Reon shook his head.

“Let’s see if he can get out before I pay my money.”

All eyes were back on the ace, whose eye brows were furrowed in...concern.

He was stuck.

Bad.

Not wanting to face the wrath of the demon coach, they called the next best candidate to deal with this kind of situation, Ushijima’s girlfriend, you.

Your jaw dropped when Semi told you that your boyfriend was stuck in a locker because...hOw?!?!

Reon made a lot of money that day~

Yahaba Shigeru:

He had been over at your house and the two of you were taking a nap in your bed.

You had both since woken up, and were now on your phones.

You, still very sleepy, weren’t paying attention and before you or Yahaba could stop it your phone had slipped down the crack between your bed and the wall.

You groaned as you dragged your hand down your face, Yahaba, being the wonderful boyfriend he is, offered to get it for you.

He laid on his side as you used his phone to shine the flashlight down the side of your bed.

He stuck his arm down, but it was just barely too short.

Without realizing it he had slipped to the very small edge of the bed, inevitably slipping off only to be caught between the wall and your bed.

He groaned as he felt like he had been stuck to a wooden plank, unable to move any parts of his body.

You felt terrible, seeing as he had offered to get your phone for you and had proceeded to get himself stuck.

You grabbed his arm and shifted yourself to the opposite side of your bed, and after lots of tugging and sounds of pain from your boyfriend, you were able to roll him back onto the bed.

You rolled your eyes with a smile as he waved your phone in the air, a dorky smile on his lips as he had, despite being put in a very uncomfortable situation, managed to get your phone.

Iwaizumi Hajime:

Hanamaki had bought this bag of ‘tricks’ from the dollar store, for fun and what not.

One of the things that had been in there was a Chinese finger trap.

He brought a few of the things into his bag, hoping to trick at least one of the members.

But most of all he wanted to trick Iwaizumi, if nothing else he thought it would be funny.

So, when the Seijoh 3rd years met for lunch in the club room, and you, Iwiazumi’s girlfriend had of course joined them, he decided then was the perfect time to try.

“Yo, Iwaizumi! C’mere!” Iwaizumi, recognizing the teasing tone in Hanamaki’s voice, was instantly on guard, expecting something crazy to be suggested.

“What?” Hanamaki smiled, pulling the finger trap out of his bag, Iwaizumi looked at it, raising an eyebrow at the wing spiker.

“I heard no one has ever been able to put two fingers in this at the same time without getting trapped.” Iwaizumi rolled his eyes, grabbing the trap from Hanamaki and mindlessly stuck on finger in each end of the trap.

Just a few seconds prior, you had looked over Hanamaki’s shoulder, recognizing the trap, but before you could warn your dear boyfriend, he had already stuck his fingers in the trap, and pulled it, tight.

“Hajime...do you know what that is?” He shook his head, eyebrows furrowing when he tried to pull his fingers out, only to have the trap get tighter.

“Hajime, it’s a Chinese finger trap!!” Iwaizumi’s eyes widened before he turned his head to glare at Hanamaki, curses ready on his tongue as Hanamaki and Matsukawa just about died of laughter, Kunimi snickering in the background.

It took 4 people and approximately 7 minutes to free him from the trap.

Futakuchi Kenji: **in tribute to my dear sister who locked herself out of her bathroom today🥰**

You and Futakuchi had gone to the beach with your family for the weekend, and the two of you were relaxing on the beach.

The beach had these lounge chairs, the ones that fold?

Well, you and Futakuchi were getting everything set up, he had just finished setting up the umbrella and you had laid out a large towel and set the bags down.

You guys both sat down and enjoyed the warm sun, and relaxed to the sound of the waves crashing on the shore.

About an hour later, Futakuchi decided he wanted a drink, and after asking what you wanted he left on his way.

Unknown to him, these chairs were really tricky.

They were good chairs and really comfortable, but you had to be careful how you sat in them.

After about 10 minutes he returned with the drinks, setting them down on the small cooler.

He went to sit on the lounge chair, expect that he more like flopped onto it, and before he could react the thing had snapped in two, you sitting up after hearing your boyfriend yelp.

You turned your head to see your boyfriend, squished in half by the lounge chair, with no signs of being freed.

After recruiting the help of your dad and a few kind passerby's, you were eventually able to free him of the lounge chair...

but that was after you took a picture and sent it to Aone.

Daishou Suguru:

You and Daishou had been on a date, nothing too fancy, just strolling around the city and what not.

You were just talking about random things when your eye spotted an empty park nearby.

You smirked as you nodded towards it, dragging your boyfriend towards it, you knew he couldn’t resist you if he tried.

You two were just fooling around, him chasing you around and you evading him like you both were 5 and it was ‘boys vs girls’ tag.

You had ran away from him when you spotted the set of toddler swings, y’know, those ones with the leg holes?

Yeah, those ones~

Anyway, you decided not to get in one because ✨danger✨

But your boyfriend took that as a challenge.

Without warning he grabbed the chains and jumped, sliding his legs through the very small holes and sinking into the seat.

You slapped his arm as you laughed, hand on your hip as you judgmentally looked at him.

“You’re gonna get stuck, there’s no way you’re getting out of that by yourself.”

He rolled his eyes, smirk still present on his face as he started to slowly swing back and forth.

You shook your head, shifting your weight to one leg as your arms crossed in front of your chest.

“Okay then, now try to get out.”

He rolled his eyes at your tone, grabbing the chains as he tried to pull himself up.

Only to bring the seat with him.

Your eyes widened as it set in, his smirk disappearing and his own eyes widening when he realized it as well.

He was stuck.

And at that moment, some of the Nekoma boys volleyball team members just happened to be passing by.

Kuroo’s laugh rang throughout the park as you desperately tried to free your boyfriend.

Numai Kazuma:

You and Numai were hanging out at your house, it was Halloween night and you guys were just gonna chill out and watch some movies and eat candy.

But before that, you guys were going to take your younger brother out trick or treating!

Your little brother decided he wanted to be a cowboy, and his outfit came with a pair of plastic handcuffs.

You were helping your little brother get his costume on while Numai messed around with the handcuffs.

He had latched one side onto the table leg, mindlessly scrolling through his phone as he fiddled with the cuffs.

He doesn’t know what came over him, but without thinking he latched the empty side of the handcuffs onto his wrist, tightly onto his wrist.

He didn’t think much of it, until it sunk in.

Had he really just done that??

You were fixing your brother’s costume when you heard your boyfriend call your name.

“Uh, Y/n?” You hummed, continuing to work on his costume.

“Where’s the key to the handcuffs?”

“Oh, they got thrown away with the package, that’s why I set them..over...there..Kazuma.”

You turned around to see him nervously smiling while his hand was indeed handcuffed to the coffee table.

You blanched as you remembered the trash had already been taken out, so they key was gone.

Glaring at your boyfriend you sighed, shaking your head before you started to laugh, hiding your mouth as you continued to laugh at his misfortune.

Eventually you did help him.

It took 3 tries and 4 different tools, but with the help of your dad you were able to get his wrist free of the handcuffs.

Iizuna Tsukasa:

Iizuna has 2 sisters.

1 older sister, and 1 younger sister (ayyyee middle children let’s go-)

You just so happened to be very good friends with your boyfriends sisters, and you guys often had a lot of fun together~

One of the wats you guys had fun was messing with your boyfriend.

Todays scheme: Dress Tsukasa up as a girl. Simply because you could.

And seeing as he lost a bet to you the other day, he couldn’t refuse it.

Luckily, his older sister had a dress she accidentally ordered in a size too big, it would still be snug on him, but it would do the job.

His older sister did his make up, you worked on his outfit as the youngest fixed his hair, him sitting through the whole ordeal trying not to take away too much trauma from it.

Leaving the room so he could change, you all patiently waited as he got changed into the dress, laughing at the pained noises he made as he slipped on the dress and shoes.

You couldn’t help the laugh that burst out of you as your boyfriend stumbled out of the room, heels way too small and dress uncomfortably tight.

You all snapped the pictures you needed and he sacrificed what was left of his dignity.

Waving off you three, he hobbled back into his room, kicking off the heels and attempting to pull the dress over his head.

I say attempting because as he tried to move his arms to grab it he made a very disturbing realization.

He couldn’t grab the hem of the dress...

he couldn’t even reach behind him.

He was stuck.

And the only ‘help’ he had was his sisters and his girlfriend.

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wiypt-writes · 4 years ago

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Barking Up The Wrong Tree

Ransom Drysdale One Shot

Summary: It’s the Annual Pre-Easter meal at the Thrombey’s and Ransom and you are in attendance. As usual, there’s fireworks, a lot of swearing and there’s only one way you know he can get rid of his frustrations…

Warnings: Bad Language words. SMUT (NSFW) NO UNDER 18s!

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N: So this was originally written last year for @jennmurawski13 who requested a smutty one shot with an Evans character of my choice for her birthday. It was coined from a Brainstorming sesh me and @icanfeelastormbrewing had for our intended Ransom x OFC series (we might get round to it in 2022…so by then you’ll have forgotten if we use it again.) FYI Eighteen year old Ransom is totally Bryce from Fierce People, you can’t convince me otherwise… I also very much now see this being the same Reader as in mine, @ohthankevans13 and @sweater-daddiesdumbdork’s Real Life Tasks With Ransom Drysdale series.

Your brown leather, knee high Saint Laurent boots (a gift from the man whose lap you were curled up on) were on the floor by your feet leaving you in your grey, woollen over-knee socks. One of your boyfriend’s large hands was resting on your left shin, the other just at the top of your right thigh, almost on your ass cheek. You were well aware your black sweater dress was riding up so went to shift and shimmy it down a little, conscious that you were, after all, sat in the large drawing room at his grandfather’s house whilst the rest of his family milled around as the pre-Easter dinner, which always took place the weekend before the actual holiday, was being prepared.

“You okay?” Ransom looked up at you, noticing you shift on his lap and you smiled.

“Yeah, just don’t want to flash everyone too much if you get my drift.”

Ransom cocked an eyebrow at you, then peeked around the room, before he gave a snort as his eyes fell on his cousin Jacob who was watching the pair of you.

“Yeah, we wouldn’t want Adolf junior getting a boner now would we?”

You gave a chuckle as you re-arranged your dress, making yourself more comfortable.

“He’s just a kid, Ran.” You soothed.

“He’s a deviant, Princess.” He replied, his voice quiet.

“So were you when I first met you.” You grinned, looking at him as you bent closer to whisper into his ear “Still are when the mood takes you.”

Ransom pulled back to look at you, his face inches from yours, his eyebrow raising slightly as that dirty smirk spread across his handsome face. “Stop it.” He warned, and you shrugged innocently, as he placed a soft kiss on your mouth.

“Come on son, put her down.” Richard’s voice rang across the room and instantly you felt Ransom’s entire demeanour change. Gone was the relaxed, jokey, happy Ran you knew and loved and in his place was Hugh Ransom Drysdale, asshole extraordinaire.

“Piss off, Father.” He shot back, his head moving back from yours, fixing his dad with a steely glare.

“Hey.” Richard glowered “Don’t speak to me like that…” he turned to Linda. “Did you hear that Linda?”

“Ransom…” Linda said lazily, not looking up from her phone. “Don’t speak to your father like that.”

Ransom rolled his eyes and you gently looked at him, shaking your head, silently telling him to stay calm. It was always the same with the Thrombey family gatherings. Ransom despised them for the simple fact that Harlan was the only one he had any time for, bar his mother on a good day, and you were inclined to feel the same way. It always ended in chaos, each individual nuclear sects within the extended family trying to get one up on the other, prove they were the best players in the game.

Frankly, they made the fucking Lannisters look normal.

All your friends were constantly asking you how you managed to stay tangled in this web of dysfunction, but the answer was right in front of you, his crystal blue eyes now narrowed as he shot a sarcastic reply back to his mother.

The simple truth was, you loved him and couldn’t walk away if you tried.

It hadn’t always been that way, mind. When your High School had been asked to submit nominations for the coveted position of Harlan Thrombey’s Summer research assistant, you’d been short listed along with 15 other candidates from the New England area. Each of you were asked to produce a five-thousand word thesis on a literary subject of your choice to be submitted for reading by Harlan. You’d been ecstatic when you received the call from his Publishing Company to say you’d made the final three and were requested to attend an interview.

You’d been and bought a new suit. Nothing fancy but decent enough quality. You made sure your hair was tamed, your make up was as on point as you could get it, and had driven the thirty minutes or so out to his mansion from the home you shared with your Nanna in Brookline, following the directions on your GPS to the area near Pierce Park where the Thrombey Mansion was located. You were greeted by his housekeeper and shown into the large office where the man himself was waiting. Harlan was nothing like you had expected him to be. He was eccentric, sure, but also dmaned good fun. He’d asked you a few questions about why you wanted the position “I’m going to major in English at college and I hope to work in publishing when I graduate, this would be an invaluable experience.” He had then discussed your paper with you and after a few more general questions he had reduced you almost to tears of laughter by telling you a about an incident when he had been at college and was almost caught climbing down the trellis of his girlfriend’s parent’s house following a late night rendezvous of the very naughty kind “Don’t think too badly of me, we ended up married for forty-seven years…”

Then, just as he was showing you out of his study a tall, well-built young man, your age you had correctly guessed, with a strong jaw, dark hair flicked to the left side of his forehead, and a pair of the bluest eyes you had ever seen, waltzed down the hallway. He was dressed in a pair of riding breeches, a polo shirt and wore a long pair of tan leather riding boots.

"Ransom?” Harlan looked at the young man “I wasn’t expecting you till this afternoon.”

“Yeah well, the fucking horse I should have been riding is lame.” Ransom shrugged “Which means I can’t ride, and I probably can’t compete this weekend.”

“Dressage?” you had asked, your mouth speaking well before your brain had engaged, for some reason thinking it was a good idea to comment. Ransom had looked at you with disdain, scanned you up and down and cocked his head to one side, his eyes cold as they locked onto yours.

“Polo.” He had answered, a sneer on his face “Do I look like a dressage rider to you? Mind you, from the state of your cheap high-street dress the nearest you’ve probably ever been to a horse is those shitty little trail rides they run at kids parties.”

“Ransom!” Harlan had snapped sternly “Enough!”

You felt the heat rise in your neck and cheeks, and you drew yourself up to your full height, folding your arms as you looked at the ass hole stood in front of you. One thing your Nanna had told you was that, despite your humble origins, you were as worthy as the next person, no matter how much money, status or self-importance they may have.

“My apologies. I always thought polo was played by arrogant, snobby, stuck up pricks.” You retorted as you made a show of looking him up and down in the same way he had done to you. “Actually, on second thoughts, I should have guessed.”

As soon as the words were out of your mind you let out an internal groan. Way to go, flush your chance of landing this summer internship down the fucking toilet by insulting Harlan’s grandson. Nevertheless, you held the gaze of the man in front of you who stared back, his expression and face utterly stoic bar the blink of surprise his eyes made.

You heard Harlan chuckle behind you and the old man dropped a hand to your shoulder. “Fran, could you see Miss Y/L/N to the door.”

Two days later Harlan had personally called you to offer you the position, and it had turned out to be everything you ever wanted, and more. Three weeks into your internship, to your utter surprise, Harlan confessed that he had been looking to fund a worthy, local candidate through college and as the successful applicant it was yours for the taking. Some strings had been pulled, and in the last week of September thanks to his generosity you started your English Major at Harvard.

And so did Ransom.

He pursued you with a dogged determination, seemingly viewing your indifference towards him and his advances as some kind of challenge. You weren’t fooling yourself, however. He was devastatingly handsome and your traitorous vagina and that part of your brain that controlled your libido harboured a deep desire to fuck his brains out, a desire you finally gave into at the end of your first year when, following your final exam, you got drunk and woke up the morning after in his bed.

It wasn’t all puppies and roses though. You were on and off more than his boxer shorts, as simply put, Ransom was a player. And it didn’t bother you to start with. He was a hook up, a way to relieve tension when you needed to, and he was a very handy person to know with his seemingly endless network of connections. But by the time you graduated you knew you were head over heels for him, and needed to break this seeming cycle of being in and out of his bed. So you turned down Harlan’s offer of a job at Blood Like Wine and were ready to move away from Boston after landing a job at a publishers in Manhattan…but then your nanna had been taken seriously ill and suffered a stroke meaning you had to stay.

As a result of her illness, your nanna was unable to live in your house in Brookline alone and so you were forced to sell it so she could afford to move into a supervised Retirement Village a five minute or so drive away. You were now jobless, drowning with the house-sale which would leave you homeless, and your emotions and been all over the place. You had no other family since your Grandfather had died at the start of your senior year so had no one to turn to.

Enter Hugh Ransom Drysdale.

You’d called him one evening, drunk and emotional and needing a release and he came over alright, but instead of fucking you into the mattress he made sure you drank water, ate something, and then got you into bed. The next morning, Harlan had shown up, telling you the job offer at his company was still open, and then to your utter surprise and initial horror he had offered to buy your nanna’s house, meaning you could remain there as a tenant. At first you had refused, insisting you weren’t a charity case but Harlan had simply waved your concerns away by insisting it was an investment. After a little discussion he agreed to allow you to pay rent which, all things considered, was a pittance in comparison to what other properties the same size in that area commanded but it was a rent nonetheless and made you feel better.

And you knew all of it had ben Ransom’s idea.

This was the side to Ransom he very rarely displayed to anyone. A softer side, a caring side, a gentle side. A side that held you as you cried at the thought that your nanna was growing old and may soon leave you behind, a side that made you a sandwich when you hadn’t eaten in days, a side that helped you pack up and move your Nana’s stuff to her new home, a side that turned up at 9pm with several tubs of ice cream and a bottle of wine after you’d messaged him earlier that afternoon to tell him what a shit day you were having when his Uncle Walt was being a dick at work.

The rest, they say is history. History which meant you were now curled up in his lap some eight or so years post that initial meeting in the hallway of this very house, listening to him bicker with his family, feeling his leg beginning to shake in that way it always did when he was agitated.

“Ran…” you said gently, squeezing his arm and you felt him take a deep breath and he looked at you, his mouth closing as you shook your head “Don’t.”

He turned away, looking to the other side of the room and his face glowered as he spotted Jacob once more had his eyes trained on your bare thigh. God the pubescent creep did his fucking head in, and if he stayed here he was going to end up putting the lanky streak of shit through the wall.

“Can we go?” Ransom looked at you, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“We’ve not even had dinner yet.”

“Please.”

That single word was enough to make you understand. It was a word he hadn’t learned until he’d met you, when he realised that his demands and arrogance got him nowhere with you. He still rarely used it mind, but when he did, you knew he was in desperate need of what he’d asked for.

“How about we take a walk?” You suggested “If you still wanna go after then we will”

He took a deep breath as he considered what you had said. Compromise was another word that hadn’t been in his vocabulary until you. His eyes locked onto yours and you looked at him, encouragingly and he took a deep breath, nodding.

“Okay.”

You uncurled yourself from his lap and stood up, him following so you could sit down and place you boots on.

“Are you leaving?” Linda asked, looking up for the first time.

“For a walk.” Ransom said simply, grabbing your hand and pretty much dragging you from the room. He didn’t say a word as he reached the coat stand and retrieved your lightweight Ted Baker belted mac, holding it out for you to slip your arms into, in a display of chivalry he reserved only for you. Once you’d done it up, he took your hand in his and you headed through the kitchen and outside into the reasonably mild April afternoon.

“Don’t let them get to you.” You said softly, leaning into him a little and he sighed, untangling his fingers from yours so he could drop his arm round your shoulders. He hated the fact his family could make him feel like this, like he wasn’t in control, like he was insignificant in the grand scheme of things. He could quite happily go without seeing any of them, well, bar maybe his grandfather, but you had told him he would regret it if he pushed them away completely because you had always wished you’d had a large family unit like that. So, despite the fact he knew deep down that was a load of bullshit, he played the game. He attended the damned gatherings more for your benefit than any as you adored Harlan and seemed to get on fairly well with Joni, Meg and his mother. He hung onto a glimmer of hope that maybe one day it would all change and he’d feel part of it.

But it never did. And he never did.

The two of you walked in comfortable silence across the Mansion grounds, round the lake where Ransom stopped by the small pier, looking out over the water.

“You know my most vivid childhood memories are of this spot.” He mused, his gaze focussed over the lake “Grammy used to bring me down here to feed the ducks.”

“It’s beautiful down here.” You agreed, snuggling further under his arm. “Peaceful.”

“Yeah unlike that fucking house.”

You gave a chuckle, as his hand curled over your shoulder, absentmindedly rubbing over the smooth material of your coat. He was agitated, you could tell, and there were very few ways in which he could calm down when he was like this. One was riding his beloved BB- a polo horse Harlan had bought him for his 21st, one was the pair of you curling up on the sofa with snacks and a good scotch or bourbon, getting drunk and watching Trashy Films, in particular horrors-you both loved to pick plot holes and insult the main characters, declaring the victim a dumb bitch for running up the stairs and not out of the door and the other, well…

You glanced around, checking you were alone before you pulled away from him, taking his hand and tugging on it slightly.

“What?” he asked looking down.

“Come on.” You gave his hand another pull.

“Y/N?” he questioned again, but followed nonetheless despite you not answering. You tugged him away from the lake, into the thin thicket of trees a little further round. You could still see the house here but you knew there was no way anyone from up there could see you.

“Seriously, Y/N what the fuck?” he groaned, as he stepped in the slightly squelchy mud “You’re gonna ruin my Gucci’s…” “Should have worn something a little more substantial then shouldn’t you?”

“I didn’t know you were planning on going fucking hiking in the fucking woods.”

“That’s not what we’re doing.” You said, stopping in front of a large oak tree, looking up at him.

“Then what are we doing? Reconnecting with Mother Nature? Or are we on the hunt for Oberon, Titania and Puck?”

“Ooh, good Shakespeare reference.” You grinned at him and he rolled his eyes as you slid your hand up over his navy blue lightweight Barbour jacket which was done up to his sternum, leaving his plain white, Armani t-shirt slightly visible at the neckline. “Does that make us Lysander and Hermia?”

“You got a hidden suitor called Demetrius I don’t know about?” he arched an eyebrow, his hands falling to your hips.

“Nope, I’m all yours Tiger.”

The sound of your ridiculous nickname for him drew a large smile across his face and he shook his head, giving a genuine chuckle. Here, with you there were no annoying voices to listen to, no family politics, nothing to care about but the gentle brush of the wind as it blew through the canopy of trees above your heads and the faint sounds of birds as they went about their business and Ransom felt a sense of comfort. Because you were his rock. The one person that saw through his bull shit, the woman in his life that knew all his horrible personality traits as well as his slightly less horrible ones and loved him all the same. The girl that had rounded off his harsher edges no matter how much he protested to the contrary.

You were his better half for sure.

“Well that’s good, because I don’t like sharing.” Ransom smirked, dipping his head to capture your lips in a soft kiss.

“Don’t I know it.” You mused against his mouth. His fingers flexed on your sides, pulling you closer to him as he slid his tongue across your bottom lip. You opened your mouth slightly, allowing him control over the kiss, knowing that’s what he craved when he was like this. His lips were soft on yours, tongue domineering as he kissed you deeply, slowly. Eventually he pulled back, his nose bumping yours slightly as he gave a little chuckle.

“I know you’re trying to distract me from those shit heads in the house.” He said, his tone playful and you loved playful Ransom. Another side to him only you really got to see.

“Is it working?” You played along.

“Yeah.” He nodded, his lips pressing to yours again.

“Good. Now why don’t you let your inner deviant come out to play?”

“You don’t need to ask me twice, Princess.” The words were barely out of his mouth before he had pressed you into the harsh, earthy bark of the tree behind you, kissing you hard again, groaning as you palmed his crotch through his designer denims. He grabbed your wrist, pinning it above your head before he did the same with the other one, easily holding both in place above you with one large hand, his other softly tracing up the outside of your thigh, fingers skating under your skirt.

“Is this why you wore this?” he smirked, toying with the material slightly. “So you could tempt me away for a fuck in the woods?”

It wasn’t, it was because it looked and felt good, but you decided to play along “Maybe. Was it a good choice?”

“Damned right it was…” he growled against your mouth, his long, soft fingers sliding your lace panties to the side. His index finger traced a path up your slit and you gasped at the feeling as he gently began to toy with you. Soft, teasing touches, his eyes never once leaving yours. That was one of his things, he liked to see your face, watch as your expressions changed as he undid you, fuelling his ego. Your hips gently started to move in time to his strokes as he played you, like an instrument from which he could always draw a tune. And in no time at all, he was listening to the music as you let out a soft keen, a purr almost as your head fell back against the tree, your mouth parting slightly.

“Like that?” he asked, and it was all you could do to nod, panting brokenly as the familiar feeing began to rise in the pit of your stomach, the fire growing hotter and hotter. “God you’re a fucking minx. Come on, cum on my fingers, you know you want to.” And you did, hard, your knees trembling, as you let out a loud cry of his name as the lights exploded in front of your eyes. Ransom pressed into you, his erection evident as it dug into your stomach, keeping you pinned between him and the tree as he coaxed you through your orgasm, before he moved his hands, allowing yours to drop to his shoulders as you held onto him tightly.

The clanging of a belt buckle, then the zipping of trousers and the rustling of fabric broke through the post-orgasm haze as Ransom undid his flies, reaching into pull out his painfully hard cock. He gently pushed forward, sliding the tip against your folds, gathering your slick as you gave a moan, the feeling of him sliding against your clit sent lances of red, hot desire through your veins.

His hands gripped the back of your thighs as he pulled you off the ground and you hooked them round his slim waist, ankles locking at the base of his spine. In a swift, fluid moment, no teasing, no gentle ease, he buried himself inside you with a deep thrust making you cry out as he filled you. His lips crashed onto yours as he drew back, then thrust back in hard, his cock dragging against your walls inside, hitting that spot that he knew would leave you seeing stars.

Yes, if there was one thing on this Earth Ransom knew he was good at, it was fucking you.

His lips traced a path from your mouth to your jawline, then to your neck, biting and sucking at any bit he could get to, his hips moving back and forth in a slow but deep pace which was torture, and you needed more.

“Ran, harder…” You groaned, digging your heels into his ass and he gave a dirty moan of his own as his hands held your hips.

“You’re such a needy little slut.” He smirked against your lips, not waiting for your reply as he picked up the pace, his hips snapping back and forth with a vigour that was merciless as he pistoned in and out of you again and again. Your hands gripped his shoulders tightly as you kissed him, teeth clashing together as your back repeatedly brushed against the harsh, rough surface behind you as you clawed desperately at the material of his jacket.

It wasn’t long before you felt another orgasm brewing and your head fell forward, teeth nipping at his ear drawing a growl from his throat. Your hands moved into his hair and you pulled sharply back causing him to hiss and look up you.

“Fuck, Y/N….” he groaned, the pupils of his eyes blown wide with a desire you would never tire of seeing. You pushed your hips down against him causing him to drive deeper and you let out an almost primal cry, the noise you made simply revving him up even more, his rapid movements growing even more urgent.

“Fuck Ran…” you moaned as your head rolled back against the tree, hands back on his shoulders, as once more that snake in your belly moved. Ransom felt the tell-tale flutter of your heat tightening round him and he continued his voracious pace, his eyes locked onto yours.

“You feel so fucking good…” he panted “So fuckin’ good Princess...”

His words made you moan again, and he pushed up once more, stilling slightly, grinding up against you as opposed to thrusting and a few rolls of his hips later you were done. The world faded around you as you came hard, with a loud scream before your head dropped to his shoulder, as you moaned his name, again and again whilst he pounded through your orgasm chasing his own.

“Shit, Y/N…I’m…fuck…” his words tumbled into your hair as his movements became desperate and he came a short while later with a loud yell. You felt him fill you up, as his hips stilled and he groaned, face buried into your neck, his chest heaving, sweat beaded both his brow and yours as he simply pressed into you, panting and shaking.

Neither of you had any idea how long you stayed like that, but eventually Ransom managed to gain enough control to pull his softening cock out of you and set you gently on your feet as he brushed the tendrils of your hair that had fallen over your face back with a tenderness he reserved only for you. He said nothing, simply looked at you, his lips gently greeting yours in a soft, loving kiss, a stark contrast to the violent ones you had shared moments before. You smiled at him, unadulterated love in your eyes as you moved your hands to brush his hair back before you leaned up and kissed him again, your nose sliding against his.

“I adore you Hugh Ransom Drysdale. Don’t ever forget that.”

“Don’t fucking call me Hugh.” He grumbled and you chuckled as he pulled you to him, nuzzling into your hair as he sighed. “But for the record, the feeling is mutual Y/F/N, Y/M/N, Y/L/N.”

You gave a laugh and were about to reply when you felt his head snap up, and his entire body tense and he let out an angry cry causing you to jump.

“Jesus Fucking Christ! The perverted little shit!”

“Ran?” You saw his face contorted in anger as he pushed back from you, striding away from the tree, rearranging his jeans as he went before he broke into a sprint. You watched him go and then, to your horror, saw the retreating back of a smaller male running away from the thicket of trees on the curve of the bank to your left and you felt yourself grow cold.

Jacob.

How long he had been there Ransom had no idea but he chased the little fucker all the way to the house, yelling insults and threats as he burst into the kitchen. Ransom finally caught up with him just as he ran into the hall and grabbed the kid by the collar, spinning him round and pinning him to the wall, arm crossed over his windpipe. “Enjoy the show did we?!” He yelled, the noise drawing the rest of the family out from the sitting room into the tiled hallway. Walt started to shout angry threats about what he was going to do to Ransom if he didn’t take his hands off his son, which then sparked Richard to bite back at Walt saying if he touched Ransom he’d give him a damned good hiding. If Ransom hadn’t been so focussed on the dirt little bastard he had pinned to the wall he would have laughed because the idea of his dad fighting anyone was hilarious, he couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag.

“Give me your phone.” Ransom demanded.

“I didn’t…” “GIVE ME YOUR PHONE NOW YOU PERVERTED PRICK!” Ransom yelled, and reached into Jacob’s pocket, grabbing his hand where it was curled around the offending item, bending the boy’s fingers back. Jacob gave a yell, pulled his hand out of his trouser pocket and Ransom seized the phone, yanking it out, just as you walked into the hallway.

He looked at you, then to Jacob and saw you pale as the realisation washed over you that you’d not only been seen but recorded or snapped, by a twelve year old boy nonetheless.

“Unlock it.” Ransom demanded, thrusting it back at him.

“Now listen here…” Walt started until Harlan turned to him.

“Walt, shut up.” He barked, turning to Jacob “Unlock the phone, now Jake.”

Jacob sullenly took the phone from Ransom and did has he was told, Ransom snatching it back. He glanced down at the screen, flicking to the Gallery and let out an angry noise as he saw not only footage of you both in the woods but ten or so photos of your bare thigh and close ups where he had attempted to see up your skirt when you had been on his knee before. Thankfully from the snaps there wasn’t really anything visible, but still the fact he had even taken them in the first place made Ransom apoplectic with rage.

“You dirty little prick.” he mumbled, looking back up at him. Jacob visibly recoiled under Ransom’s glare.

“Ran?” You questioned as you gently touched his arm and he tilted the phone so you could see the screen and your eyes widened, your entire body growing warm as you saw the close up of your thigh on the screen.

“How the fuck dare you?” You exploded, glaring at Jacob.

“Can you explain what he has supposedly done?” Donna, Jacob’s mother spoke for the first time and you turned to face her, your pretty features contorted in rage.

“He’s…” You shook your head “Taken photos of me, before up my skirt.”

Noise erupted in the hallway, Joni and Meg screaming about you being violated, Richard and Linda yelling at Walt and Donna whilst Harlan shook his head, making a noise of disgust. Ransom ignored them all as he selected the photos and images, deleting them, and showing it to you.

“Gone, Princess.” He turned the screen off before he leaned over and kissed your temple.

“Look, he’s a teenage boy…” Donna was protesting “He’s a bit curious…”

“He’s a dirty bastard.” Richard snorted and the irony wasn’t lost on Ransom as he’d seen his father eyeing you up on more than one occasion. He looked at his dad, eyebrow raised as Jacob bit back at the dig.

“I’m a dirty bastard?” The pre-teen snapped, his eyes flicking from Richard to Ransom “I’m not the one that was having sex against a tree!”

Everyone paused and their heads turned to you and Ransom. You gave a groan, your hands sliding up to your face to hide your utter embarrassment, but besides you Ransom’s expression never changed because, well frankly, he couldn’t give two shits about everyone knowing what you had been up to.

“I’m a grown ass man.” He snarled “If I wanna fuck my girl outside on private property I will”

He held Jacob’s phone out to him, but as Jacob went to take it Ransom opened his hand, dropped it to the floor with a loud “oops” and stomped on it, the metal and glass crunching under the heel of his expensive, leather boots.

There was more yelling, and Ransom simply turned, taking your hand in his. “We’re leaving.”

This time you didn’t argue. The pair of you walked away, ignoring the screaming which grew fainter as you headed down towards the large front doors, only to hear Harlan calling after you. Ransom stopped, took a deep breath and tuned to face his grandfather.

“Y/N are you ok?”

“Of course she’s not.” Ransom snapped but you gently squeezed his hand, shaking his head.

“I’m okay Harlan, thank you. But I think its best we go before Ransom commits murder.”

“Well, I can assure you I’m not far off killing the little turd myself.” Harlan shook his head, sighing. He then took a deep breath, looked at Ransom, and there was a flash of something which you knew only too well to be amusement in his eyes. “Which tree?”

Ransom frowned “What?”

“I asked which tree you two were doing the naughty against.”

You groaned as Ransom blinked and then shrugged “Just in the thicket to the south side of the lake, near the little jetty. Why?”

“Well, instead of barking up the wrong tree so to speak, next time stick to the North side.” Harlan grinned cheekily “It’s in the dip and no chance you can be spotted by anyone unless they’re a foot or so away.”

Ransom’s mouth curled up into a smirk as he looked at his grandfather then to you.

Meanwhile you simply wanted the ground to open up and swallow you.

Harlan bid the two of you goodbye as you headed out to Ransom’s Beemer. He stopped just besides it, turning to you, his hands falling to your hips again. “Well, I don’t know about you, Sweetheart, but all that excitement has made me a bit hungry. Seeing as we’re not getting dinner here, how about I take you to Asta?”

Your face lit up at the mention of your favourite restaurant and you gave an eager nod before you frowned “Aren’t we a little underdressed? And it’s Saturday evening, we’ll never get in.”

“Baby girl, enough money can get us in anywhere, and you look fine.” He said, dropping a kiss to your lips before he grinned “You might wanna brush the twigs outta your hair though.”

#ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale smut #ransom drysdale fic #chris evans #chris evans characters

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scapegrace74-blog · 3 years ago

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New Ways of Turning into Stone, Chapter 6

A/N Where does the time go? I lugged my laptop 7,000km round trip with the sole intention of working on this fic, but that apparently didn’t happen. For those who found the last chapter hard to bear, I apologize in advance. I am not quite finished being cruel. With that said, trigger warning for character death, childhood disease, suicide ideation. The chapter title is Sleeping in the Clouds.

The first five chapters are available on my AO3 page.

Five Months Later

A persistent mechanical bleating lifted Claire from the indeterminate depths of medicated sleep. The emergency contact number she provided to all her patients was programmed to forward to her mobile, where a particularly aggravating ringtone ensured she would never miss a call. Even at one am on a Tuesday night.

Fumbling for the device, she glanced at the unfamiliar number before answering.

“Doctor Beauchamp speaking.” Her voice was gritty and rough. She reached for a half-filled tumbler of water while waiting for the caller to identify themselves. Over the line she could make out muted traffic noise, and perhaps a distant foghorn, but no-one spoke.

“Hello?” she inquired, torn between concern that a patient needed her and frustration that she might have been woken by a misdialed number.

“If you’re one of my patients, you need to talk to me so that I can help you.”

There was an intake of breath, a weepy sniffle, and then the click of the call being terminated. A prickle of gooseflesh washed over her. She couldn’t say exactly how, but she knew who had called, and that he needed her.

One of the grim perks of her job was that she had backdoor access to reverse look-up for telephone numbers, in cases where there was a threat of self-harm or harm to others. As Claire hastily donned socks and grabbed a winter coat, she waited on hold for the PSAP operator to provide an address.

“We’re in luck, Doctor Beauchamp. It wasna a mobile number. In fact, tis a telephone booth. Gote Lane, in Queensferry. Down near the... umm, next tae the bridge.”

Without so much as a thank you, she hung up and frantically punched the app for an Uber.

Fifteen nail biting minutes and an excessive tip later, she stood in front of an empty phone booth. Predictably, the directory had been torn out, leaving only a thin metal cord and car-key graffiti inside the cramped interior. But on top of the phone itself she found a familiar ecru business card, her name and credentials embossed in black font.

“Damn it, Jamie,” she muttered to herself, palming the card.

If he’d hung up and started walking towards the bridge, she might be able to catch him if she ran all out, but something called her towards the nearby shore instead.

The tide was out, leaving a narrow strip of beach and sharp, slimy rocks exposed to the heavy air. Her nostrils were assaulted by the briny vegetative rot of the retreating sea.

On a weathered bench facing the river, encircled by a cone of foggy streetlight, sat a man, his eyes trained on the smudgy lights of the Queensferry bridge hovering high above. Even bundled in a heavy black jacket and watch cap, she would recognize his long limbs and the set of his shoulders anywhere. She let out a long breath of relief.

She approached the bench cautiously, not certain if her presence would be welcome. Instead of turning to greet her footsteps, Jamie addressed the bridge.

“Maggie passed t’day. I called ‘cause I wanted ye tae know, but then I couldna find the words tae tell ye.” Despite his refusal to look at her, his words were calm and without a hint of the bitterness she’d expected.

“Oh, Jamie. I’m so terribly sorry. I didn’t know her well, but she was a very special little girl who loved you dearly.”

He nodded in acknowledgement of her words, but didn’t reply. She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, suddenly aware that she was still wearing her pajamas, her hair doubtless a veritable cumulus of tangled curls.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked. “I still have some contacts at the hospital, I could...” she broke off, knowing it was ridiculous to offer professional assistance when she’d been the one to sever their relationship.

“Would ye, if it’s no’ too much tae ask, would ye mind jus’ sittin’ here with me fer a bit?”

He finally turned to look at her, and she could see the spider web of red veins that surrounded his irises, testimony to his heartbreak. His mouth, usually such an accurate barometer of his mood, was strangely inert. She nodded, unable to deny him such a simple request.

It was the time of night when the daytime symphony of the city broke into its component parts, every passing car, every lapping wave a single instrument singing its own plaintive song. They sat in silence for long enough that she could feel the damp creeping up the legs of her pajamas.

“Maggie loved tae cross that bridge,” Jamie said at last. “She’d lower her window, rain or shine, and stick her wee arm out, sayin’ it felt like she was flyin’.”

Claire smiled at the image, trying to picture the little girl with the giant imagination.

“What colour was her hair, Jamie?” she asked. “Was it red, like yours?”

“Nah, dark, like Jenny’s and our Da. But wi’ curls like mine and my Ma’s. A little like yours, actually, Sassenach. That is, before the chemo took it away.”

She grimaced, not knowing what topic to choose that wouldn’t lead Jamie on a path directly back to his grief.

“She fought sae hard,” he continued before she could attempt another distraction, “but the cancer wouldna let her win.” Tears were rolling down his cheeks, glinting in the sodium light like stars, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. “She was the best person I knew. Sounds strange tae say of a wee lass, but she truly was. An’ it made me a better person tae love her. What the fuck am I gonna do now?”

Jamie was looking straight at her, as though he truly expected her to offer useful guidance. All her training, her professional distance, fell away in the face of one broken man. She swallowed, searching for words that weren’t a platitude.

“You’re going to go on living, because she can’t. Because your happiness, when you are ready to feel it again, will be a gift to her memory.”

Jamie sniffed, then wiped his sleeve across his face. He placed his hand on the bench between them. Without allowing herself to think, Claire reached for it, finding his skin surprisingly warm. There was an agonizing fermata, when all the instruments held their breath, and then he turned his palm upwards to meet her own. Beneath the fog the river slipped by, blending endlessly into the sea.

"Look, Jamie, I know it’s not the right time, but I want to tell you that I’m sorry. For the way I treated you, and ended things, and...”

“Nay, Sassenach, it’s me who should apologize. I had no right tae throw my diagnosis at ye like some kinda weapon. An’ when I think of how I heedlessly brought up yer becoming a mother. I, of all people. Weel, suffice it tae say I’ve spent many an hour regretin’ my words an’ actions.”

She squeezed his hand, wordlessly declaring them equal in remorse.

“How have ye been?” he inquired, peering at her as though trying to read her state of mind on the planes of her face. She chuckled, looking away when the intensity of his gaze became too much.

“About the same, I suppose. Better some days than others. Geillis has started ordering my lunches for me, so I no longer have any excuse not to eat.” Jamie nodded, seemingly pleased with this news.

“And you? Are you still seeing Dr. Rafferty? I... uhh, I know his office requested your file.”

In fact, Giles Rafferty had called her the week after her confrontation with Jamie, wondering why his new patient’s record of treatment contained no more than his biographical details and the time and date of each of his appointments. She told him the same thing she’d told Geillis when she asked the same question in significantly cruder terms: that her weekly interactions with Jamie had never led to a professional diagnosis or a recommended course of treatment.

“Aye. He’s a good man, although tragically immune tae my charms. Unlike some.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Fraser,” she warned, although his rakish grin warmed her from the inside out.

“I’ll be darkening his doorway wi’ some frequency, after t’day,” he continued with a return to solemnity.

And yet you called me, Claire wanted to say, but didn’t. When his beloved niece had slipped away, hers had been the number he had dialed, despite everything. The very idea made her thoughts flit about like fireflies.

“I missed ye, Sassenach,” he confessed quietly after a time.

“I missed you too, Jamie.”

They sat together through the thin hours of the night, talking, sharing memories of Maggie, but mostly in silent companionship. As dawn brightened the eastern sky, the fog began to lift, revealing an overcast sky. The lights of the bridge blinked out, and the city’s music began anew. Claire wished futilely that day would never break, knowing that it would bring them both the pain of two very different kinds of goodbye.

Her hand, when Jamie finally let it go, felt strange, as though it had been separated from its source. She tucked it quickly into her pocket.

“I.. errr, I need tae be goin’,” Jamie said by way of apology. “Ian and Jenn will be needin’ me.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll just, um, call myself an Uber.”

They were both standing, neither seemingly knowing how to part.

Jamie opened his mouth, paused, shook his head in frustration, then looked away. Her traitorous hand escaped her pocket and found its way to his chest.

“I’ll be thinking of you. All of you. If there’s anything, anything at all..”

“How long until your no’ my doctor anymore? Ethically speakin’.” He was looking at her in a way that made the fireflies whirlpool about.

“What?” she asked to buy herself some time to breath.

“Before I go an’ face everything that is wrong about t’day, I want tae ken, how long must I wait before I can kiss ye again wi’out riskin’ yer reputation?”

“There’s no written timetable,” she stalled. “It’s a question of a doctor exerting undue influence or the exploitation of the patient’s trust, and there’s really...”

“Those rules are meant tae protect the patient, aye? So I should be allowed tae waive them, no’?”

“Jamie...”

“Fine, let me rephrase my question. Doctor Claire Beauchamp, when can I, James Fraser, ask ye tae look upon me as a potential suitor and no’ a former patient? Six months? A year? Two years?”

“You really are the most infuriatingly stubborn man,” she huffed.

“Aye, I ken. Sae, two years? Do we have an agreement, Sassenach?”

“Fine, yes, two years, but Jamie, I don’t expect you to...”

A finger was placed across her lips, silencing her protests.

“Two years are naught if I can kiss ye again once they have passed. Until then, Claire, please take care of yerself.”

She stood by the bench long after Jamie was gone, staring out across the river. A flock of geese flew by in formation, broad wings nearly touching the surface of the water as it reflected the steel gray clouds above. She thought of little Maggie, and her birdhouse surrounded by clouds. A sob wrestled its way up her throat, surprising in its urgency. And then, she allowed herself to cry.

#my writing #outlander

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romanoffswifey · 4 years ago

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Point Blank Part 2

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: Natasha struggles to deal with the aftermath of that night, and life still has a few surprises left to throw at her.

Contents/Warnings: mentions of serious injury, some angst (but don’t worry too much)

Words: 2,280

AN - As promised here is the second part to Point Blank. I’m so sorry that it took me so long to get this out (uni came along and kicked me in the head) but I hope that you still enjoy it

PART 1

Natasha stares into the bathroom mirror, barely recognising the woman who gazes blankly back at her. All bloodshot eyes and puffy eyelids, her face red and blotchy as loose strands of hair cling to the slightly damp trails that mar her cheeks.

She swallows thickly against the soreness of her throat and raises a shaky hand to her reflection. The skin of her fingers raw from where she had scrubbed at them. As if she could simply wash away the feeling of your blood on her hands.

You had started to feel so cold when Steve had finally pried you from her arms, he and Tony quickly rushing your limp form from the room. Leaving her frozen there. Watching as her world imploded around her, haunted by the knowledge that she’d been the one to cause it.

The muscles in her jaw and hands clench as realisation washes over her again. Her vision blurs as tears well in her eyes, and she draws back her fist, letting out a grief stricken roar as she slams it into the wall in front of her.

She has no idea how long she stays there, weeping quietly, before Wanda’s hands wrap around her arm. Gently taking her hand away from the web of cracks she’d just created and pushing it under the stream of water once more.

The redhead tenses when she’s led back into the main part of the room. A wave of nausea hitting her as she catches a glimpse at just how much of your blood now stains the bed sheets.

The younger woman notices her reaction and hurriedly guides her down the hallway to her own room, knowing that the redhead wasn’t going to stay in your shared room any longer but certainly not trusting her to be in her spare room alone.

Natasha spends the rest of the night laying awake next to the brunette. Staring at the ceiling as silent tears run down her face, as every time she closes her eyes she’s back there. Reliving that moment over and over again.

Morning comes, and a small part of Natasha is glad for Wanda’s grounding presence as Tony leads the pair to the labs. A warm hand on her shoulder helps to calm her when he begins to place machinery around her head, the billionaire hoping to discover the cause of her actions.

It turned out that when she was separated from the team during your last mission, she had actually been captured by a set of Hydra operatives. The agents deciding to try out their latest form of brainwashing on her. A type of subliminal suggestion.

Clearly they had underestimated her skill as she had put up one hell of a fight, even while under the influence of whatever they had given her. This, combined with the approaching battle from the rest of the avengers, meant they had been forced to let her go before they were finished. Only managing to implant a small piece of their directive into her mind.

But a piece is all they had needed.

To take out even one avenger would be a win for Hydra, and you were the obvious target. Your relationship with Natasha meant that it was normal for you to be in close proximity with each other and for you to have your guard down around her. All she had to do was stick by your side as usual and the programing would kick in and do the rest.

This knowledge did nothing to lessen the pain and the guilt that filled her. Did nothing to change the fact that she had been the one to pull the trigger.

She can’t stand the looks of sympathy that the others keep throwing her and the way they don’t seem to hold her accountable. So she avoids them. Choosing to forgo team meals and quickly dismissing their offers of company.

But she doesn’t go down to see you either. She thinks whatever is left of her heart would crumble if she saw you now. How could she sit next to your bedside when she was the one who put you there in the first place? She’s not sure you would even want her there if she did.

Over the last 5 years you had provided her with everything she had searched for her whole life. Giving her all your love and support, and helping her believe that she was deserving of it. She felt like she was where she belonged when she was with you, like she had found her home. You were the only person she’d ever had the desire to spend the rest of her life with, and she had repaid you by putting a bullet in you.

When the day drags into evening Wanda gets fed up with watching her self destruction and puts her foot down. The Sokovian forcing the redhead to get something to eat or drink before she makes herself sick.

Natasha now sits quietly at the kitchen table, her dull eyes fixed on the grain of the wood as Wanda busies herself off to the side. The sound of bubbling fills the silence followed shortly by the clanking of metal on ceramic.

Careful hands come to adjust the blanket around her shoulders, and a mug is placed in front of her. The scent and colour tell her what it is immediately; Yorkshire tea, milk, two sugars. Your hot beverage of choice.

She finds it laughable that she should seek comfort from your favourite drink while you could be fighting for your life right now. And yet, some traitorous part of her still does. The familiarity of it ghosting soothingly over the ache in her chest.

Her gaze remains drawn to the rising steam but she’s aware of the way Wanda moves to join a couple of people by the door. A small hint of anger flaring within her as she registers the happiness in their hushed tones. Her annoyance grows after she hears only two sets of footsteps walk down the hall. Leaving her with the feeling of being watched by whoever stayed.

“You know, I was a bit upset that you didn’t come and visit me at first.” Natasha’s head snaps up at your voice. “But then I realised that you’re probably stuck in that beautiful ginger head of yours.”

“How?” is all she manages to rasp. Gaping at you as you stand leaning on the doorframe like nothing had happened.

You walk over to her, not missing the rough quality of her voice or the way she still squints slightly against the soft light of the room. Your heart twinges at how small and broken she looks as she sits there.

Green eyes watch intently as you kneel in front of her and pick up the tea, humming at the taste as you take a sip, then blowing gently over the brim before offering it to the other woman. Your lips quirk into a small smile when her fingers brush over your own as she takes it from you.

Natasha has to admit that it does feel nice against the scratchiness of her throat.

“How are you up here right now?” she asks a bit easier this time, setting the tea back down and hesitantly reaching out for your hand.

“Well, it turns out that enhanced physiology and the best medical treatment a billionaire can buy are very useful when you get shot,” you explain with a half-smile. “In fact, they said that I'll be perfectly fine and left with minimal scarring.”

You place a kiss on the back of her hand and push it under your jumper, guiding it up towards the tender spot at the top of your abdomen. “See, it’s not that bad.”

Through the bandages and the gauze that lay across your skin, the redhead can feel a small rough patch. It’s barely bigger than her finger tip. But she still frowns as she traces over it.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes, dropping both her gaze and her hand, “I’m so sorry.”

Your brows furrow this time. “What have you got to be sorry for, dorogoy?”

“I did this to you, Y/N. I was supposed to protect you and I shot you! You should hate me! You should want nothing to do with me, not be sat here calling me darling!”

“Hey, look at me.” Her teary eyes reluctantly meet your own as you cup her face. “Hydra did this to me, not you. We both know how their brand of mental warfare works and I’m not going to let you torture yourself over it. I love you too much for that.”

“But I still hurt you. I could have done something to stop it and I let you down,” she argues.

“No you didn’t. You tried to fight it. You knew that something wasn’t right and tried to warn me.” You let out a huff of amusement. “Even subconsciously you did try to protect me, just like you always do.”

Her eyes become more focused and her ragged breathing slows down, showing that she was listening to what you said.

Natasha stands and you follow suit, watching quietly as she studies you for a moment before pulling you into a fierce hug. She buries her face in the crook of your neck while her fingers dig into the thick knit of your jump, clutching at you tightly as she breathes in your scent. She sighs softly as you begin to rub comforting circles across her back.

The pair of you stay like that for a few minutes, just enjoying the embrace. Glad to be back in the other's arms once more.

When she pulls back, you bring your left hand up to caress her face and a small glint catches her eye. The Russian finally noticing the ring you’re wearing.

“You found it,” she murmurs as she runs her finger along the metal band.

You flash her a sheepish smile. “It was an accident I swear. And in my defence, for a super spy you do sometimes pick terrible hiding places.”

The place she had chosen to hide it was not the best, she had to give you that, but at the time she was kind of freaking out. She had known for a while that you were the only person she wanted to be with but the actual purchasing of the engagement ring had been a spur of the moment decision, and once she’d returned to the compound the panic had set in.

Despite the fact she had long since learnt that everything the Red Room had spouted about love was a lie, she couldn’t help the hint of fear that rose in her at what her desires meant. What that ring represented. And then there was the worry that you wouldn’t actually want to spend the rest of your life with her. Even though you had been with her for so long already. After everything that had happened recently, the latter of her fears only seemed to grow.

She looks away, nervously picking at the edge of the blanket as she voices her thoughts. “Would you even want to?”

“Would I want to what?” you ask, biting the inside of your lip to keep from smiling as you try your hardest to play dumb.

Her eyes flick back to yours. “Would you want to...get married?” she trails off quietly, finally saying the words you were waiting for.

A bright grin appears on your face, and she can’t help the way her own lips tug upwards as she rests her forehead against yours.

“Of course I want to get married, moya lyubov.” You bump your noses together playfully. “Though, I’ll only do it on one condition.”

Natasha hides the flash of panic that runs through her. She’s not entirely sure she can cope with any more emotional turmoil.

You pull away slightly so you can reach into your pocket, pulling out a small velvet box that you hold up in front of you. When you open the lid the redhead lets out a little gasp at its contents. “That condition being that you, Natalia Romanova, would be my wife.”

For the first time that day the tears that well in her eyes are ones of joy.

Placing one hand over the ring you’re holding and winding the other around the back of your neck, she pulls you into a bruising kiss. The passion behind it makes you weak in the knees and you can’t help the moan that escapes as her tongue pushes into your mouth, brushing over yours in a way that has no business feeling as good as it does.

After a while she releases your lips with a soft pop, leaving you both breathless and not quite able to open your eyes just yet. You can still feel her smirk though.

“I take it that’s a yes then,” you murmur against her lips.

She chuckles and responds by drawing you into another kiss.

Later, once you’ve made sure she’s eaten properly and she’s helped you with a very relaxing bath; you lay in bed together. Natasha wrapped around you protectively while you read a dog eared copy of your favorite book.

She hums contentedly into the side of your neck as she presses herself closer to you. Her smile widens when she glances down to where you’re absentmindedly playing with her fingers. Knowing that soon you won’t only have each other’s hearts, but each other’s names as well.

Natasha L/N-Romanoff had a nice ring to it, and she has a feeling it’s the one that she’s finally going to keep.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #black widow x reader #black widow imagine #natasha romanoff fanfic #marvel imagine #avengers x reader #marvel

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thestuffedalligator · 5 years ago

Text

On a small farm outside of a small town in Canada, a horde of four-hundred thirteenth-century Mongol soldiers on horseback rode out through a hole in time and space.

One of them had a thick leather glove, on which a golden eagle perched. Its handler reached up, slipped the little hood off the eagle’s head, and flicked his wrist. It took off, caught a thermal, soared in a lazy arc, dove, spread its talons forward, and then hit a window with a thunk.

Daniel DiSebastian, who was fifteen and on the other side of the window, stared. The eagle had managed to sink its talons into the mesh of the window screen before it stunned itself. It was hanging upside down. Over it, Dan saw a horde of four-hundred thirteenth-century Mongol soldiers standing in formation in his neighbour’s field.

He stared for a moment longer. Curiosity won over self-preservation, and he walked out onto the porch of the house for a better view.

There was a ripping noise, the sound of panicked flapping, and something huge and tawny swooped low over Dan’s head. He ducked and only just managed to see the golden eagle fly in a wide circle back towards the horde of waiting soldiers. He heard a distant shout. Then two-hundred-and-forty of the soldiers drew their bows and fired into the air, creating a screaming cloud of arrows that blotted out the sun before raining down in a lethal shower.

Eighty-seven of these arrows hit Dan.

Dan died instantly.

He got better. When he did, the horde was already gone.

Eleven months later, Dan was mostly sure that whatever had happened that day eleven months ago had not, in fact, happened.

He was very happy to accept that it hadn’t happened until he walked into a Tim Hortons for a coffee and a donut and walked out to find a golden eagle perched on the sign for the drive-through.

Dan blinked. The eagle blinked. It took off with a heavy thump of wings, and Dan noticed the four-hundred thirteenth-century Mongol soldiers on horseback in the parking lot.

There was a whistling noise. Dan was hit by one-hundred-and-seventy-nine-arrows.

Dan died instantly.

He got better. The horde was gone again. One of them had stolen his donut.

It was already dark when Dan and Cameron Burnaby walked out of the theatre.

“God, what a bad movie,” she laughed. Her breath came out in puffs of vapour in the November air.

“Like not even so bad it’s good,” Dan said. “It’s so bad it goes all around the world and crosses back into bad.”

“It’s supposed to be the last one, right?”

“That’s what I heard?”

Another puff of laughter. “Hope,” Cameron Burnaby said, grinning. “That’s what you hope.”

A huge bird took off from the sign over the theatre. Cameron Burnaby oohed at the sight and watched as it flew away.

Dan looked at her. This was nice. It was slow, but it was nice. It was nevertheless slightly spoiled by the little anxious voice that banged around in his hindbrain. It had been a year since his last attack. It was bound to happen eventually, and he had no idea how to bring it up in conversation. ‘So, I see you like the Mongolian beef and broccoli. Speaking of Mongolia, have I ever told you that I’ve been killed by Mongols four times?’

He had to tell her. But maybe he didn’t. Maybe they were done. It had been a whole year. Maybe killing him four times was enough for them. Surely killing somebody once was enough for most people, right?

Cameron Burnaby turned back at him and grinned. “So!” she said. “Was it the worst horror movie you’ve ever seen?”

He shook himself out of a vision of archers on horseback. “Nope, not even,” he said, walking forward again. “There was this one movie that came out last year. It’s about a guy who kidnaps tourists and turns them into walruses, it’s amazingly—”

Dan slipped on the ice. His leg flew up from underneath him. He felt sudden weightlessness and there was a crack as he landed on the sidewalk.

Everything hurt. Stars flashed across his vision. They faded to reveal the face of Cameron Burnaby, mittens clasped over her mouth. “Are you okay?” she asked.

No, Dan thought. “Yep,” Dan groaned. He pulled himself up onto his elbows. “Trust me, I’ve had worse.”

Cameron Burnaby offered him a hand. He took it, she pulled him up to his feet, and the two were suddenly standing much closer than he had expected.

Dan swallowed. He was suddenly aware of a thousand tiny details. The snowflakes that hung in her hair. The freckles on her nose. The shape of her lips. The terror in her eyes which were looking at something just over and past his shoulder.

He was briefly aware of seventeen arrows hitting the back of his skull.

Dan died instantly.

He got better. Cameron Burnaby was retching in the snow.

“What the fuck was that?!” she finally said, wiping the corner of her mouth with a mitten.

Dan considered a variety of responses. He decided that they all sounded stupid. He settled for the only one he knew was accurate. “A horde of four-hundred thirteenth-century Mongol soldiers,” he sighed.

“They – you—” She gestured wildly. “Your face.”

Dan winced and eased himself onto the sidewalk. “I didn’t want you to see that,” he said.

There was a pause. “Has this happened before?” Cameron Burnaby asked.

Dan thought. “Yeah,” he said. “Five times, counting this one.”

“So this is just a thing that happens.”

“It – yeah,” he said. “I think so. It is.”

Cameron Burnaby nodded. “Oh. Okay.”

Another pause. A car drove past. Cameron Burnaby stood up. “I’m going to go.”

Dan nodded. “Right,” he said. “Some other time?”

There was no answer. Dan closed his eyes. He laid down on the sidewalk and listened to the crunch of snow under boots until they died away. Snowflakes landed on his face, tiny pinpricks of cold which stung and faded almost instantly as they melted.

There was a thump. Dan opened his eyes and looked over. There was a golden eagle standing there, twisting its head to glare at Dan.

Dan glared back. “I hate you,” he said. “I really, deeply hate you.”

The eagle, apparently satisfied with the answer, took off.

Another two-hundred-and-forty arrows sprouted from the sky.

Dan died instantly.

He got better. Physically, at least.

Dan had made the account because it had been five years since his date with Cameron Burnaby.

He looked it over again. The picture wasn’t great – he had tried several different angles and decided that he just didn’t have any good angles – but he was at least a little proud of the summary. Bi fella seeking someone to run from these time-travelling Mongol hordes with. Is that a metaphor? Contact me now to find out. Likes: coffee shops, people watching, history podcasts, dislikes: horses, arrows, people on horses with arrows, the CW show Arrow.

It was a long and glorious joke. Just like him.

He closed the app when he reached his car. He needed to drive. He didn’t have a specific location in mind. He just needed to drive somewhere. Anywhere.

Sometimes on drives like this, he’d drown out his thoughts with gory history podcasts. This time he let his mind wander.

Here he was. Daniel DiSebastian, twenty-four, killed by time-travelling Mongols twelve times. The butt of some cosmic running gag. Living in a cheap, empty condo in the city.

He turned a corner. Even the streets were empty this late at night.

Supposed to be empty. Dan turned onto the highway and was faced with a horde of four-hundred thirteenth-century Mongol soldiers.

The car squealed to a stop. Dan stared. He’d studied – or at least, he’d listened to a few podcasts about the Mongols. They could pull back the string of a one-hundred-and-sixty-pound bow twelve times a minute and could carry one-hundred-and-fifty arrows in a quiver.

A part of his brain wondered what they could do to a 2004 Chrysler Sebring.

The rest of his brain said: Fuck it.

What happened next happened very quickly. Dan heard the engine scream as he floored the gas. He heard one-hundred-and-twelve arrows drum on the roof of the car. He saw another twelve as they punched through the windshield. Through the web of cracks he thought he saw movement, saw the cavalry part like a sea.

Then he was in the middle of the horde. Horses and men and spears were tangled around him, a whirlwind of screams and smells. He felt the car lurch as it ran over something. A few bodies threw themselves onto the hood of the car and were thrown off. Something landed with a thump on his roof.

And then he was on the other side.

The car screamed through the dark until it found its way back to the parking lot of his condo. Dan parked quickly, threw open a door, ran out, and retched onto the asphalt.

“Who’s the joke now!” he screamed between gags. “I’M DANIEL MOTHERFUCKING DISEBASTIAN!”

The parking lot echoed his name. His breath was ragged, and his throat burned. He felt his heartbeat slow to the point that he could make out individual beats, and then he noticed the arrow stuck in his sternum.

He touched it gingerly. “Oh fuck,” he hissed. He tried to pull it out. “Fuck me, seriously.”

Something went thump behind him. Dan turned. A thirteenth-century Mongol soldier had let go of the roof of his car.

He was holding a curved knife.

Dan died slowly.

It was, he decided, a lot worse than dying instantly.

So here he was. Daniel DiSebastian, twenty-four, lying on the asphalt, killed by time-travelling Mongols thirteen times. He stared up at the sky, trying to see stars through the haze of the city.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A profile picture of a man with a beard and a tattooed feather on his neck had sent him a message.

I’ll bite. Is it a metaphor?

Dan looked at the profile picture. He looked up at the sky. He wiggled his thumbs in thought before he tapped out a response. That’s a great question.

Their first date was that Saturday.

They went to an old book shop. They bought each other a book. Theo had bought Dan a copy of The Song of Achilles, and Dan had almost managed not to laugh, and promised Theo that he’d explain the joke later.

They walked out of the shop together.

The sun was blotted out.

Dan died instantly.

He woke to the sound of running feet.

Panic started to seize up in his chest – oh god they were here they wanted to crush their enemies and see them driven before them and hear the lamentations of the women – when he heard the shrieking giggle.

Panic paused. Mongols didn’t giggle. Did they? No, not as far as he knew. So it wasn’t Mongols. Who giggles? Kids?

The kids across the hall. Of his apartment. Yes. This was fine.

Adrenaline sizzled on contact with relief and boiled into seething indignation. “Somebody’s daddy should have been castrated,” he muttered.

Theo twisted beside him. “It’s like, eleven in the morning, babe.”

Dan glared at the stucco surface of the ceiling. “Fine,” he said. “They get a pass. This time.”

Theo snorted. He turned his phone of with a click, and he rolled to wrap his arm over Dan’s chest. “Don’t get maaad at them,” he said, nuzzling his chin into Dan’s neck.

“I’ll get as maaad as I want,” Dan said, the whine of the defeated.

An hour later, Dan pulled on his pants. “Remind me what we need again?”

“No, I’ll go with you,” Theo said. “I can’t trust you to buy groceries anymore.”

“Rude.”

“Rude and true. We still have fifteen bags of Tostitos.”

Dan sighed. “Is that just going to be a thing now?” he asked. “The Tostitos Incident?”

“I already have your tombstone planned. ‘Here Lies Daniel DiSebastian. He Once Bought Twenty Bags of Tostitos Chips By Accident.” Theo wiggled his fingers in the air to draw quotation marks around the words ‘By Accident.’ “We Don’t Know How It Happened Either.”

Dan wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, it’ll look great next to yours. ‘Here Lies Theodore Oliveira, Stung By Bees Forty-Five Times Specifically On The Crotch.”

“Now hold on.”

“We Don’t Know How It Happened, But We Can Guess!”

Theo shook his head. “Cool,” he said. “Cool, cool, cool. So because I learned a thing about Cleopatra, I’m the guy who wants a vibrator made of bees.”

Dan shrugged as he pulled his coat on. “I mean, you seemed pretty keen about it.”

“Fuck you, Tostitos.”

“Mm. Love you too, Cleo.”

When they were in the parking lot, Theo said, “You know I love you too, right?”

Dan looked over. “Yes?” he said. “We’ve been living together for a year, babe.”

“I know, I know. It’s just—”

“If you didn’t then I’m shit at reading signals.”

Theo grinned. “Yeah, your Bi-dar is total garbage.”

“I can’t connect to the Bi-Fi.”

“You need some…” Theo grimaced. “Bi-focals? To see who’s attracted to you?”

“That was terrible, Theo.”

“Yeah, but you’ll get bi.”

Dan snorted. “Jesus Christ. Anyways. You were saying?”

Theo shrugged. “I dunno. I said fuck you, and you said love you, and…” He blew the air out of his cheeks. “This is the longest I’ve been in a relationship, and I think I know what’s normal for us? But sometimes I’m not sure I know.”

Dan laughed, grabbed the lapels of Theo’s jacket, pulled him down and kissed him. “Fuck, I don’t know either. But I haven’t been normal in years, Theo. This is a ‘not normal’ I can take.”

Theo smiled. “How’re you feeling today, by the way?”

“Good!” Dan grinned. “I’m feeling good.”

There was a thump. Dan looked over and saw a golden eagle take off from the tailgate of a parked truck.

“Actually, hold that thought,” he said, taking a couple steps back.

Two-hundred-and-thirty-nine arrows came screaming out of the sky.

Dan died instantly.

He got better. He heard Theo asking if he was okay.

“Please tell me you saved the donuts,” he muttered.

There was a pause. “Y’know, you keep saying that, and I’ve never actually seen them steal anything from you.”

Dan screwed open an eye to glare. It didn’t last. Theo was squatting on the pavement next to him with his chin in his hand and a smile crinkling the corners of his mouth, and goddammit, he was cute.

He tried anyways. “Excuse you, how many times have you been killed by thirteenth-century Mongol soldiers?”

Theo shrugged. “Exactly zero,” he admitted. “But I’ve seen you get killed by thirteenth-century Mongol soldiers three times now, and I have the benefit of watching what they do while you’re out of it.”

“Oh, what, so someone else stole that donut? Some asshole was like, ‘Oh dope, a dead kid and a donut, yoink!’”

Theo grinned. “I’ve seen weirder things happen.”

Dan stared up at the sky. “Y’know what?” he said. “Totally fair.”

Dan got up and lived.

At least until eight months later. But he’d get better.

#narrativia #fantasy #writing #fantasy writing #absurdism #posting an old story because #look #i've had a bad day #i just want to post a story i know is good

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misstrashchan · 3 years ago

Note

Hi!

I have seen you are into podcasts? I wanted to try consuming some stories in this media format because I am curious... however, I do not know much.

Do you have any suggestions?

Thank you!

Okay, so I don't know what kind of genres or stories you might like or be looking for, but the majority of podcasts I'm familiar with and can recommend are mainly horror, or have horror elements. So, fair warning there. (Most podcasts on this list include trigger warnings in the episode descriptions too)

The Penumbra Podcast- I'd say this is a good, safe starting point to see if you like consuming stories in podcasts. The first season started out as an anthology series for a variety of stories, ranging from sci-fi noir detective mysteries, swashbuckling westerns, haunted houses, knights slaying monsters, etc. The main premise of the podcast is "stories you've heard before told in ways you'd never expect".

There are two reoccurring storylines, Juno Steel (sci-fi/noir) and the Second Citadel (fantasy/adventure) that the show focuses on more so as it goes on and drifts away from the anthology format, but you can choose to just focus on one and come back to the other later, as the two stories are completely seperate from each other and don't need to be listened to understand the other. Same if you don't want to listen to the horror anthology episodes like Shaken and Home and would rather skip them over (though they are fantastic if you do like horror). It's very engaging, fun, diverse and energetic, and excellent voice acting and sound design. Just a good time all round.

Currently there's three complete seasons out, episode runtime ranging 30-45 minutes and a currently ongoing series. Here's the teaser:

Alice Isn't Dead- So this is just a firm favorite of mine in podcasts, hell, it's one of my favorite stories in general. Keisha, the narrator – a truck driver who is driving across America, delivery to delivery, is looking for her missing wife, Alice. We listen to her speak into the truck radio, partially musing to herself, partially addressing Alice as though she is leaving her a voicemail describing her travels and the bleakness of the road ahead – and worse, the potential of what follows her. It's a horror, a psychological thriller and a mystery, told in short, sharp chapters. The way in which the story is told makes excellent use of the audio medium and actively incorporates it into how the story at hand is being told, which I just adore when podcasts do. (There's a book version out and it just doesn't quite hit the same mark as it does in podcast format). In general it makes for a very intense and intimate experience that just keeps you hooked all the way through.

The story is complete at three seasons with 30 episodes each with a 20 minute runtime.

The Magnus Archives- If you follow me, or if you've been on Tumblr in general, you might already have a vague awareness of this series because of how popular it is, and for good reason too. It's a completed slowburn 200 episode cosmic horror/tragedy/drama that at it's core is an anthology series, every episode being a seemingly self contained short horror story.

Given as "statements" by people who have had paranormal or esoteric encounters to the Magnus Institute based in London, which is dedicated to researching such things, is then recorded onto tapes by the narrator and protagonist Jonathan Sims, (one of my favourite tragic heroes) the newly appointed Head Archivist after his predecessors mysterious death, who appears to have purposefully disorganized the Archives, much to his annoyance. But then patterns begin to occur within the statements, characters and previous statement givers appear in other's stories as they intersect like a huge web, and it's clear that there's something much larger and sinister at play as an overarching narrative comes into view that then draws the Archivist in.

Similar to Alice Isn't Dead, the Magnus Archives makes use of the audio medium and actively incorporates it into how it tells the story with how every statement is recorded onto tapes, as well as the events of the strange happenings in the Archives that the main characters (the Archivist, his research team, and the head of the Magnus Institute) experience themselves. Though without spoiling anything, the tapes themselves have a far more relevant and a active role in not just telling the story, but as the story and world itself.

This was a passion project for the writer, Jonathan Sims, (yes that is the name of the main character which he also voices, yes it is confusing) for a long time, and you can absolutely tell with how planned out the meta plot and intricate lore is, as well as just the quality of the writing in general. It covers all kinds of horrors and explores the concept of human fear itself, our personal relationship to it, which ties into the themes of agency and humanity the series also explores.

(trailer starts at 1:00)

The Silt Verses-

Let Me Speak First of Revelations

And Next of Dark Deceit

Then I'll Speak of Champions

Of Lovers, Gods and Beasts

My Song is Long and Twisted

It Winds, it Worms, It Rends

It Carries Few, It Drowns Many

And Those I Love, It Rends

This podcast is a fairly recent newcomer compared to the rest on the list, the first season is still ongoing, with only nine episodes out so far out of its fourteen with a season two planned ahead as well (with a roughly 40 minute episode runtime) but is absolutely divine. I'm genuinely frustrated that I'm not articulate enough to properly describe just how clever this series is, and can't recommend it enough.

A folk horror/religious fantasy serial drama that follows Carpenter and Faulkner, two river worshippers of an outlawed god, travelling up the length of their deities great black river, in search of revelations. As their pilgrimage lengthens and the river’s mysteries deepen, the two acolytes find themselves under threat from a police manhunt, but also come into conflict with the weirder gods that have flourished in these forgotten rural territories.

If you like themes of religious existentialism, how capitalism will commodify everything once deemed sacred, the indescribable horrors that arise from religious fanaticism/cults, rich lore and world building and complex morally grey protagonists who act as fascinating character foils to one another, lyrical and poetic narration, an eerie atmosphere, and don't mind the occasional intense scenes of body horror, you will love this podcast.

Oh, and crabs.

(I would also highly recommend I Am in Eskew by the same writer, his previous and completed podcast at 30 episodes, about a man living day to day within the monstrous city Eskew, but as an overall story and characters the Silt Verses is the much stronger of the two.)

#hope this is helpful!#sorry if it's a bit much #I get a bit overexcited when I get a chance to talk about podcasts #the penumbra podcast #alice isn't dead #the magnus archives #the silt verses #i am in eskew #podcast recommendations #asks

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presumenothing · 3 years ago

Text

we’re doing it to ourselves (or so the saying goes)

(AO3)

Jiang Cheng swears up a storm and a half when he shoves open the investigation room door the next morning to find someone already there.

The red ribbon hanging long down Wei Wuxian’s back blends in so seamlessly with the red thread strung all over the murderboard that it takes slamming his hand against the wall switch to shatter the sudden imagination of his brother’s photo up there with the rest of the clues, just another person they’d failed to save from this case.

Wei Wuxian gives a hiss of half-startled annoyance, blinking from the abrupt brightness, but it frankly serves him right for standing in the dark like a burglar with only the corridor emergency lights filtering in. Had he even been able to see anything? Even demonic cultivation doesn’t give you night vision, last he checked. “Good damn morning to you too, Jiang Cheng.”

“I’m not even going to ask how you got in here,” he replies, because at least half of what he knows about breaking into places he’d learned after Wei Wuxian taught himself how to one boring rainy day in high school. “Tell me all this has nothing to do with you.”

He doesn’t specify what this is, because there’s no need to. Wei Wuxian hasn’t moved from his frozen stance in front of the board of clues, crimson lines running between the serial murders like a bloody taunt, a web Jiang Cheng has stared at long enough over the past week that the afterimage feels burned into his eyelids.

There’s nothing of Wei Wuxian’s usual brash overconfidence in the answering shake of his head. “No. I meant it when I said I’d never go vigilante again, Jiang Cheng. And I haven’t. I’ll swear it again on anything you ask.”

In a different time, Wei Wuxian would already have sworn up and down that the heavens should strike him down right then if he’d lied, but maybe that’s exactly the problem – he had already been struck down once, in almost every way that mattered, and worst of all is how it makes Jiang Cheng more inclined to believe him now.

It’s still not quite enough, though. “Swear it on Jin Ling’s life.”

He doesn’t need to see Wei Wuxian’s expression to know he’s not happy about that. Which doesn’t matter, because neither of them are; the space Jin Ling occupies among them has been almost sacred especially after they’d nearly lost Yanli-jie, but it’s also exactly why Jiang Cheng is asking him to swear on this. He can’t accept anything less.

Wei Wuxian has to know that, too, because he doesn’t argue, only says, “I swear on Jin Ling’s life that I don’t have any direct involvement with this case.”

Jiang Cheng raises an eyebrow and pointedly does not look relieved. “‘Direct’?”

“Duh.” Wei Wuxian gestures, wide and too-careless, at the grotesque web on the wall. “You’ve got a copycat killer, and a surprisingly thorough one at that. I’d be surprised if the original Yiling Patriarch isn’t tied to this somehow.”

“Careful, they might not be able to see your ego from space,” Jiang Cheng bites right back, even though he’s been thinking the same for probably about as long as Lan Wangji has, for all that they hadn’t acknowledged it aloud until the day before yesterday. “How the hell did you even find out about this?”

“Wen Qing did most of the autopsies, didn’t she?” Wei Wuxian answers, pretty much as he’d been expecting. “And before you think about going to yell at her, she didn’t actually reveal any case details to me, just that you and Lan Zhan were investigating something that I might be interested in. Also that she might snap and add one or both of you to the body count if she has to mediate even one more argument between you two.”

How Wei Wuxian’s presence could possibly do anything except exacerbate that, Jiang Cheng has no idea, but it’s not like he can afford to alienate the best medical examiner they have across all the districts. (And he doesn’t want to, either; Wen Qing’s clear expertise had single-handedly silenced all of the brass who’d had issues with hiring a Wen, but there’s never any telling what might get them started up again.)

Still. “I wouldn’t call that mediating,” Jiang Cheng mutters.

Wei Wuxian laughs, because he still doesn’t have even half an ounce of self-preservation, even against someone who could and would immobilise people with just three well-placed needles. “Speaking of which, how much longer are you gonna lurk there, Lan Zhan? I thought the Gusu bureau had a rule against eavesdropping and all.”

Jiang Cheng gets a crick in his neck from how fast he turns, and sure enough – there’s Lan Wangji stepping out of shadows that had hidden him far too well for someone in so much white. (Even after having no choice but to work this case together with him Jiang Cheng still has absolutely no fucking idea how Lan Wangji keeps his clothes spotless even at crime scenes; he’s starting to suspect it’s some kind of cultivation-related trick designed specifically for this purpose.)

“Eavesdropping would require neither of you to be aware of my presence,” he says, like that isn’t just some bit of pedantry, and inclines his head. “Wei Ying. Jiang Wanyin.”

And that’s definitely intentional, putting his name last like Jiang Cheng cares what order Lan Wangji addresses people in. Which he really, really doesn’t, especially not before inhaling at least half the thermos of coffee that always resides in his backpack in avoidance of the acidic slop from the pantry machine.

Wei Wuxian smiles at Lan Wangji, because of course he does, but it’s strangely gratifying to note that he hasn’t put any effort in making it look convincing at all. “Well, Lan Zhan – do I need to swear my innocence in this case to you too?”

“Unnecessary. I believe you,” Lan Wangji says, bearing regal like he’s some monarch issuing a decree, and Jiang Cheng snorts. How easy for him to say that when Wei Wuxian hadn’t cost his bureau and family almost everything they’d been.

It doesn’t make the back of his throat taste any less bitter when Wei Wuxian’s expression warms a little at that, but at this point Jiang Cheng doesn’t think anything ever will. “Enough chitchat,” he snaps. “The paperwork?”

Lan Wangji retrieves a folder from his briefcase and slides it over to the centre of the table wordlessly, while Jiang Cheng crosses his arms and scowls at Wei Wuxian until it sinks through his stupidly thick skull that the paperwork is for him.

The answering groan, at least, is entirely sincere. “What the hell is that for? You know I hate paperwork, Jiang Cheng, I didn’t quit over it but I very well could have.”

Yes, he’s very aware of that, seeing as their weekly paperwork grudge-match marathons from before everything had gone to hell had been held in his office. “Just read and sign the damn thing, Wei Wuxian, it’s the only bloody reason I haven’t already arrested you for breaking into bureau offices ten minutes ago.”

And that has to be enough for Wei Wuxian to already know, because bureau policy hasn’t changed that much in the years since his defection except to get more annoyingly onerous, but still he looks surprised at the contents of the contract. “A civilian consultant?”

“You have a skillset that could be invaluable to resolving this case. It would be highly remiss not to bring you on board.” Lan Wangji still looks perfectly neutral, as far as Jiang Cheng can tell, but that’s more sarcasm-free words in a row than he’s ever heard from him since the start of this investigation. Possibly since their first acquaintance with each other.

“I wouldn’t call ‘being the prime suspect’ a skillset, exactly,” Wei Wuxian mutters, which is something Jiang Cheng can definitely agree with at least. Though the only reason this is possible at all is because there’d never been an official conviction in the original Yiling case, for a whole chaos of reasons including the public uproar in support of whoever had taken down Wen Ruohan and his cronies for good, and because they already had reasonable evidence to suggest Wei Wuxian’s non-involvement in this spate of murders.

The non-suspect in question is still flicking his way through the clauses of the contract, which Jiang Cheng would feel insulted by except he’d also gone through each and every one just as closely, taken his concerns to Yanli-jie who’d taken them to Jin Zixuan until they could be sure this arrangement wouldn’t jeopardise Wei Wuxian in any way.

He reaches the last page, and from the skip of his gaze Jiang Cheng knows instinctively what Wei Wuxian has to be looking at – the grid of signatures starting with his own and Lan Wangji’s as primary investigators of the case, dated clearly to two days before this conversation had even occurred, followed by Lan Xichen’s confirmation both as Lan Wangji’s superior and because Jiang Cheng can’t very well second his own recommendation even as the Yunmeng bureau chief, and finally a space for Wei Wuxian’s chickenscratch initials.

(It’s frankly mystifying, why someone who can draw talismans that flow like the finest art has never bothered with a more elegant signature, but it’s not a mystery Jiang Cheng cares to solve. Better that than the unmistakable signatures the Yiling Patriarch had left at his scenes, at any rate; even he has had nightmares about that.)

Jiang Cheng tosses him a pen, anything to break the sudden silence, and Wei Wuxian catches it without looking but of course doesn’t get right to signing, because that would be sensible. “What is this for, then? There are easier ways to keep an eye on me. Cheaper, too.”

“The forensic evidence is scant, and the culprit has done something to keep the victims’ souls beyond my ability to communicate with,” Lan Wangji answers without further prompting, which is probably more information than they should be giving out to a not-yet-contracted civilian but Jiang Cheng’s not the one with a stick up his ass about protocol in this room and anyway Wei Wuxian had already broken in here. “An alternative method might help.”

“Last I checked, no one likes the alternative when it means resurrecting th– ah,” Wei Wuxian cuts himself off with a flick of his gaze between them, and has the gall to look amused. “So the old coots are desperate enough by now that anything goes?”

“Not anything,” Jiang Cheng grates out, just to be clear. Wei Wuxian hadn’t been wrong; the investigation methods favoured by each bureau differ even just among the four major ones, but the dislike of the way Wei Wuxian had done things since somehow escaping being taken hostage by Wen Chao had been almost universal.

(There’d been a brief period when it seemed like things might work out after all, when Wei Wuxian had demonstrated how undeniably efficient demonic cultivation could be in comparison to their regular methods – even the Gusu musical techniques couldn’t beat speaking to the victim in the flesh, as it were. But then everything had gone to hell in a massive speeding handbasket and Wei Wuxian had been most of the one who’d sent it there.

Possibly Jiang Cheng is being monumentally idiotic in not assuming this time will turn out exactly the same way, but annoyingly enough Wei Wuxian is also correct in that they need this case solved, or everything might just go to chaos anyway.)

“I’m pretty much the definition of anything, I think,” Wei Wuxian retorts, which Jiang Cheng ignores like the obvious nonsense it is. “Don’t blame me if you lot regret this.”

“Pretty sure it’s already too late for that,” Jiang Cheng grumbles, swiping the thermos out from where he’d set his backpack down.

Lan Wangji can deal with filing that paperwork, if he’s just going to stand there in stoic satisfaction. Jiang Cheng needs his damn coffee.

#mdzs #mdzs fic #fanfiction #mine #long post #once again i blatantly plagiarise richard siken for a fic title #yes this was supposed to be the sort-of-pushing daisies au but things happened #/elaborate and unbothered shrug emoji

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whirlybirbs · 4 years ago

Text

✶ — las rosas están cayendo ; j.m.

summary: you're a figurehead in a far-reaching criminal underground operation that's offered jesse mccree haven and work in the last few years. your relationship with the cyberized cowboy is complicated but oh-so lovestruck.

pairing: jesse mccree / reader, est. relationship

tags: fluff, angst, good guy falls for the bad guy who’s not so bad

a/n: i’m simping, it’s fine

( read on archive of our own ! )

Jesse McCree likes the Silkroad's End. Always has.

The place's very namesake pays homage to some dark web marketplace that operated back in the 10s; it's fitting, Jesse thinks, since the entity itself certainly fits what he'd imagine the personification of that very digital market to be. Dark, a bit shady, and always crawling with folks who aren't really who they say they are.

Staff changes every three weeks. Location, too. Lucky for him, the only thing that stays the same is the barkeep. Everything else is rotating, always moving, always changing. It's best that way.

Truth be told nothing in the States offers true anonymity, anymore. All that's long since past. Every damn street corner has a camera watchin'. But, the Silkroad's End is good — and discretion is their business. They offer what people like Jesse McCree need:

Trustworthy resources.

Even still, knowing about the Silkroad's End is one thing.

Getting in is another entirely.

Jesse's learned not to be startled when a stranger ambles up and slips something in his palm — might get 'im killed someday, but for now, he offers a gentle tip of the hat to whatever camera is eyein' his current move in whatever city he's in.

The chips — obsidian colored and round — are few and far between. There's a chain-code implanted in the micro-computer inside that registers a location on his personal data-device; but without that chip, he ain't gettin' inside. It's one use, one time only.

This time, the den is a quiet little place on a side street in New Orleans.

This chip was delivered to Jesse in a seedy bar bathroom — and as he shoved it into his pocket and muscled up his tawny-colored jeans, he was left grimacing. Bastard that gave it to him didn't even wash his hands. Just pissed and dropped it on top of the urinal.

The den is downstairs, and Jesse turns in his chip after finding the little location to a towering omnic who reminds his a little bit too much of a certain butler he once knew.

"Might wanna wash that."

Spurs tinker on the wooden steps, and when the door's eye slot slams open, Jesse is met with the gaze of a human this time — an unknown staff member with a tattoo that crawls up the side of his head. There's a tense silence. Then, the slot slams shut.

With a quick yank of the three-inch durasteel door, Jesse finally steps foot into the Silkroad's End.

And, with an elated sort of smirk, he swaggers right in your direction.

Jesse reckons it's been four months since he's seen you — the ever-present barkeep and present owner of the Silkroad's End — last ; could be that you're one of many owners and operators, as he suspects but... Well, Jesse never had enough to go on that hunch.

There he was, as always, distracted.

You know the sound of his spurs from a million others. In an instant, your lashes are flicking up from the bar and through the crowded back room. Tonight is busy — seems a good few members decided tonight would be the night they cash in their chips. You shouldn't be surprised to see Jesse McCree, but...

He's always had a way of knocking you off your game.

"Have I ever told you," comes the low croon as a set of cyberized knuckles rap on the mahogany bar, "that you make the best drinks around?"

Your smirk settles into your words. You move slowly, reaching for that top-shelf whiskey he likes so much.

"Is that why you keep coming back, then?"

Jesse smirks. His trademark hat finds a spot beside him at the bar, and he leans back to run a hand through his dark, wild hair. "One of a handful of reasons I could list, sure."

The drink that lands in front of him is coupled with your full attention.

Jesse feels awfully big in it.

His fingertip tinker against the glass. The sound is pleasing.

Your elbows meet the bartop. You lean. Your eyes drift across his face, and for a moment you find a rush of relief bloom at the realization that there are no new scars. He looks tired, but well.

Alive.

A lot for a man with a bounty of sixty million on his head.

You work hard to keep that very bounty out of the Silkroad's End 's docket. That ledger of his, deep and relentless, has become harder to ignore in recent months. With word that Overwatch was recalled... Jesse's name had been floating around more than you liked recently.

It made you worry.

Your voice is soft. So is your smile.

Jesse, the sap he is, is glad he's sitting down for the sight of it.

"You look good, Jesse."

He scoffs into the whiskey. His eyes, a dark brown and warm like the run, roll at the remark. You grin.

"M' gettin' old," he rumbles, "And things are changing' faster than I can keep up with."

You don't pry. A habit. A good one, mostly. Jesse has a habit of being an open book. Given the chance, you'll pry later. For now, you opt to air on the side of wistful interest. Fleeting and light.

Your chin finds your palm.

Long ago, you wouldn't have dared to let a soul see you so engaged with a member like this, but... This operation ran on trust. Discretion was a part of the bigger equation and the people in this room? You've known most of them for years now.

Bounty hunters, arms dealers, drug peddlers.

They know better than to bite the hand that feeds.

"You been busy, then?" you ask, watching the way his eyes stick to you, even when he reaches to dig out a cigar from a pocket beneath his serape. In a flash, he's procured a gilded lighter and flicked it open. The flame dances between you both, and you watch as he puffs the cigar. The embers burn red.

He exhales and smoke swirls around his head like horns — Jesse's lips slip into a lopsided sort of look; more playful than anything.

"That lead you gave me," he drawls, "It worked out. Paid good, too."

Your smile is slow.

This song and dance is always fun.

"Been savin' a few for you," you say, "You're one of the few I can trust to actually bring people in alive."

"I haven't even been here fer more than a minute an' you're already talkin' business, pumpkin," Jesse grins, all toothy and scruffy, and takes another puff of his cigar, "That all you ever do?"

"You know me, Jesse," you slide your fingers across the underside of the bar, sending the partition up and allowing you to step around. You shrug your shoulders and hang your hands. The way his eyes flick across your figure isn't lost on you.

You cock your head towards the back office as you speak. "Always scheming."

If that ain't the god damn truth.

You're a smart little thing. All devilish wit and pulled strings. You have enough dirt in your back pocket to bring a few governments down, Jesse supposes. Nothing to bat an eyelash at.

He follows with ease; hat tucked upon his head once more, cigar and whiskey held in his hands. He follows you, looming over your shoulder, as the sea of patrons part with sidewards glances and half-aware nods. Everyone has their own business to attend to. You're simply attending to yours.

The back office isn't really much of an office — if anything, it's a refitted storage room. There's a desk, a handful of monitors, and enough security barring entrance to the windowless room that Jesse's roughed up every time.

The omnic patting him down isn't gentle. He tugs the peacekeeper from his hip holster and grunts. Jesse scowls.

That ain't never been a problem before, though.

You, all poised with your arms crossed, wave it off. The gun is shoved roughly back into Jesse's holster. If both hands weren't preoccupied, maybe the bouncer would get more than the nasty snarl Jesse manages as he's waved through. Maybe.

As the door slips shut behind him, the sound of your heels is all he hears.

"Beefed up security, huh?"

Your sigh is tight. He can see the tension along your shoulders when you round the sleek desk in the middle of the room and unlock a drawer. If you'd thought he'd move past your silence, you're wrong.

Jesse isn't like you.

He has a bad habit of asking plenty of follow up questions.

"What happened, pumpkin?"

That damn nickname is enough to spur you to straighten yourself, to set the datapad down gently on the desk in front of you, and to frown.

"There was an incident."

His worry is palpable.

"Nothing dramatic," you wave it off, shooing him slightly when he nears the desk. You walk around it and lean, settling on the edge, "But it was enough to spook a few staff members into being more mindful of who carries in the establishment. Especially behind closed doors."

You've had enough guns pulled on you in your life to know that one could have been the last — but it wasn't. It was fine. Might have earned you a few restless nights and a few connections to clean up, but the disgruntled member was dealt with. That was a month and a half ago now. Distant.

Jesse frowns. He sets his whiskey down on your desk, then leans and smothers the cigar in a fizzle of ash and smoke in the ashtray there.

His voice goes low, gruff, and serious.

"Pumpkin, I ain't a good man," he breathes, eyes low beneath the brim of his hat, "You're better off not trustin' men like me."

He does this every time.

A glimmer of self-consciousness towards his own character.

You know him better than to believe that shit.

"Jesse, if anyone was to put a bullet between my eyes," you mutter, unlocking the datapad with a flick of your finger, "I'd be honored if you were the one to do it."

That earns you a low grumble.

His weight moves to shift beside you. His hip bumps yours. His shoulder saddles right up against your own. You can smell the cigar on him, the burn of the whiskey on his tongue. Jesse is warm. He laces his own fingers together. You can feel his eyes on you as you sift through the files of bounties — and you try not to seem startled when he says your name soft enough it could pass for a lullaby.

"... You alright?"

It's not often you're asked this question.

You were right before — you were always talking business. Personal matters were kept far from any business dealings you did on a daily basis. It was pertinent. Kept the machine well-oiled.

Things with Jesse, though... They'd been different for a long time.

Things changed when the two of you had forgone professionalism once a handful of years ago now. It wasn't long after the first time you'd met him the cowboy had stolen himself into your well-guarded feelings. You blamed the charm. He believed it was luck. Despite knowing nearly nothing about you, he'd become enamored, and — when you'd initially thought the sex was something to sweeten the deal, Jesse quickly made it plenty clear he intended on keeping the sex and the business separate.

The feelings grew between those two things.

Now, in the center of his attention... Well, you feel small.

You let out a slow exhale.

"I missed you, y'know," you say slowly, eyes still trained on the names staring back at you on the datapad.

"Yeah," he breathes, "I missed you, too. Ain't fun bein' gone so long."

"As if either of us has a choice?"

Another hum. This one a bit sadder. Jesse supposes you're right, that it isn't exactly ideal — and it's not as if he's allowed himself to be vulnerable to anyone else these last few years. Not when he's a wanted man. Not when gettin' someone tangled up in the danger is the last thing he wants.

It was different with you. You knew the danger. You...

Christ alive, he wishes now things were different.

Back then, it was easy.

Coming to terms, now, with the numbing loneliness that hangs itself over the both of you hurts a bit worse. Time is ticking by. He'll be older than he is younger soon.

"You ever wish you could leave it all behind?"

His question is met with a tired scoff. Your cheek finds his shoulder. Your hair falls along his arm.

"And become the world's most wanted woman?"

"What you've got is an empire," Jesse drawls, a hand slowly reaching for your own, "M' sure someone would wanna call it theirs ."

"And then what happens to the tired, old queen? The queen who knows what makes that empire strong?"

Your quirk your brows. Jesse sighs.

"... Point taken."

"I made my bed," you say with a measured sense of finality, "And I've gotta lay in it, Jesse."

His eyes dance alight when something then that's tempered with fire; he blinks down at you through thick lashes as he speaks.

"Wouldn't mind layin' with you..."

It's husky. Drawn out. Nearly a sigh, especially when his fingers slip along the curve of your wrist and draw up to your cheek.

"I'm starting to think you come here," you mumble with an edge of sarcasm as his nose brushes yours, "For more than just business ."

"Oh, sweetpea," Jesse grins as he whispers, "It's been that way for a long time now."

The kiss is bruising — the sort you missed horribly in those months apart. It's lip and teeth and scruff; the brush of his beard is enough to make you smile, enough to make you abandon the datapad on your desk.

Enough to keep you distracted enough that you don't notice Jesse McCree tapping an encrypted data transfer skimmer over your datapad.

You'll notice in the morning.

And by then, he'll be long gone.

#jesse mccree x reader #jesse mccree imagine #jesse mccree x you #jesse mccree fanfic #overwatch imagine #overwatch x reader #WHOOPS #i go radio silent then write a whole FIC FOR. THE COWBOY.

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morgana-ren · 4 years ago

Text

Come Down to the Black Sea (II)

Here’s the second part to this fic! In case you’re not caught up, here’s the first! (Part One)

There’s a sickly sweet sense of satisfaction that tugs his blistering lips into a sharp grin when you inevitably return. You couldn’t stay away from the ocean even after your traumatic encounter with him. The pull is too strong, and while any normal person would stay far, far away from the shoreline after learning what stalks beyond the edge of the sand, you’re not any normal person, are you?

Oh no, you’re much too brave for that. Or maybe much too foolish.

The next time he sees you, he has to admit, you look different than what he’d gotten used to. Maybe a little less aloof. Maybe a little more vigilant. Perhaps even a hint of visible bitterness that his presence taints your peaceful metaphorical sanctum. Your thinly pulled sneer and cautious glances hint at something akin to spite and he’s unsure if the snub intrigues or enrages him further.

You keep your distance at first, sitting far back on the concrete curb only a few meters from the tarmac of the dimly lit parking lot. You look out, squirming uncomfortably as you stare long to the ocean as if you're trying to relax but failing miserably. The souring experience with the sea creature has poisoned any semblance of tranquility you found before, and your resentful vigilance is written plainly on your features. Even as your muscles pull taut from the tension you’re holding in, the skin beneath your eyes still crinkles as you occasionally search out in the distance for the telltale sign of silvery hair or leering crimson eyes beneath the murky waves.

He lets you have your comfort days, keeping himself hidden well in the shadowed waters as you regain your footing and attempt to trust the thought of the ocean and her creatures again. As he predicts, every moonrise, you move slightly closer to the sea. Only slightly, but it's more than most of your kind would do given the circumstances.

He's curious if you believe he's moved on by now. After all, he's been a good boy. He hasn't drowned any swimmers in weeks, and more boats have made it to dock than usually do when he’s skulking the depths.

Humans expect most other creatures to react to their presence being known in one way; fear. In all of your novels, movies, all of your self indulgent garbage, the creatures flee in the face of the mighty human race or face ultimate destruction. Your hubris blinds you. He's not going anywhere. Not until he's gotten what he came for.

Not long after you return to the beach and his impatience reaches an insurmountable peak. He pops his flaxen head up to the surface and studies you until you inevitably realize you’re not alone. Your initial reaction is one he expects, and that’s fear. Your secondary reaction however? That one is the one that grates at him. Irritation. You’re irritated at him.

You don't flee from your spot like he thought you might, but you visibly tense up for a moment. Once your rationality takes over once more, he swears you shake your fucking head at him as you tear your eyes away from his general direction. The unmitigated gall of some humans. He cannot deny that it sparks his interest, though.

He stays the night with his gaze fixed on you; a gaze you don't return. In fact, you actively keep it pulled away for the duration of your stay. It irks him more than it ought to. Are you trying to pretend he isn’t real?

How dare you ignore him. You didn't even know he existed until recently and you think you can go back to pretending you don't know? Is your arrogance so overwhelming that you'll turn a blind eye to him over petty hurt feelings?

Okay, maybe he tried to drown you, but if you had just returned his call, it never had to be this way. You would be dead and he would be miles down the coast, wreaking havoc on some new stretch of land. Instead, he's stuck here in a battle of stubbornness with some human idiot because you couldn't just die like you were supposed to.

What makes you so goddamn special?

Well to hell with that and to hell with you. You’re nothing. Just another ordinary human girl, and he'll drag you to the trenches if it's the last thing he does. He swears it.

That night and every night after, he allows you to see him. His eyes might as well be the lighthouse to his location, and if that wasn't enough, you can always make out the silver mop of hair somewhere in the distance. He calls to you and he knows you can feel it. He sees you jerk instinctively towards the ocean, having to consciously keep yourself rooted to the ground, but you always manage to resist somehow.

It infuriates him, rage building deep in his gut as he sees trickles of light from the sun climb over the horizon and paint the sky with yellows and lavenders as a harbinger of the daylight, and thus the end of his time with you. He watches the rising tide erase your footsteps every morning only to be replaced the following evening, inching ever closer to his territory.

'Patience' He reminds himself.

Sure enough, one evening as the moon pulls over the sky, you're situated yourself once again on the rocks where you first met, albeit further back than he'd like. You learn from your mistakes, it seems. Unfortunate. For him at least.

He cautiously swims to the edge of your makeshift perch, hoisting himself up slightly out of the water once more and resting his head on his crossed wrist as he blinks his large red eyes up at you. You still refuse to return the favor, despite the fact he knows that you’re aware of him based on the way you pull your body further into itself when he makes his appearance. The silence lasts for several minutes before he opts to speak, growing weary of being ignored.

"I knew you'd be back."

You don't even so much as nod.

"It's rude to ignore someone. Where are your manners?"

Despite his persistence, you refuse him the attention he craves. Something wells in the pit of his stomach that feels a bit too much like the humiliating sting of rejection, and he doesn't like that one bit. He doesn't like being ignored.

He brings his arm back and spreads his webbed fingers, letting the water pool around the center of his palm before slapping his hand in your direction. Stark cold sea water drenches the entirety of your front and he watches in amusement as your skin pimples and you recoil, frozen in shock for several seconds. He can't help but chuckle when you begin to screech, angrily wiping your face and yanking at your doused clothing that slaps against your skin with each movement. Try to ignore that.

"What the FUCK!"

"Don't ignore me, brat."

Your face contorts and soon you're hissing and sputtering, unable to formulate words in your fit of pure rage. A smug little grin plays on his mouth as he rests his head in his palm, watching as you fail miserably to find some venom to spit back in his face.

"Are you kidding me? You tried to fucking drown me and you’re pissed I’m ignoring you?"

He shrugs, huffing out his cracked lips like you're the biggest drama queen on the planet. "You're still breathing, aren't you?"

"I wonder if I'll get a special price when I sell you to a fucking sushi restaurant!"

The smile fades from his face and he scrapes a talon against the rock. Apparently dark humor is only funny if it’s not being aimed at him. "I'd like to see you try, human."

You two glare each other down for a moment before you sigh and tear your attentions from him to his dismay. "Just go away. Whatever you are, I don't care. Just leave me in peace."

"You know my name." He spits through gritted teeth, instinctively rising a little higher in defense.

"Yeah, I also said I don't care. Go away, fish."

You are so fucking lucky he can't reach you.

"No." His answer is simple and deliberate, trying to keep the urge to slither onto the rock and dig his nails into your yielding human flesh at bay. Land is your territory, and he rather enjoys the home field advantage.

"Why? You have an entire ocean to go be a dick in. Why do you have to bother me?"

He ponders your words for a moment before settling on a less than sufficient answer. You aren’t sure what you expected.

"Because I can. It could all be over if you'd just quit being stubborn and get in the damn water."

"Asking me politely to kill myself, huh? That's a neat strategy."

"I've heard your kind say drowning is very peaceful. Probably better than any other way you'll die."

"Nice sales pitch, bud. Still no takers."

You sit in uncomfortable silence for a few more moments, and he decides that this is going nowhere. Obviously the shock of meeting a sea dwelling humanoid has worn off and isn’t working to his advantage any longer. He's going to have to try another route.

He heaves himself up to sit directly on the edge of the crag itself while keeping the bottom of his tail below, steady flicking back and forth in a rhythmic fashion. Shaking the water from his hair, he slicks it back out of his face and runs his fingers through the length, brushing the tresses back behind his fins. He’s allowing you an up close and personal look at something most humans will never get to see. No matter how angry at him you are, he knows you can’t resist the urge to look.

As expected, your curiosity is a bit too much for you to overcome. While you do initially move to scoot away, it’s quickly replaced with a particularly intense look, clearly marveling at the differences in your physiology versus his own.

His torso is human enough, albeit with an unusually iridescent sheen to it, until you get to the rounds of his hips. That's where thick, black scales accumulate and eventually lead into a sleek, muscular looking tail. The fins on the side of his head twitch slightly as he massages his scalp, and you wonder if it's how he hears things or if it's just a natural reaction to the stimulation. His nails are sharp but he seems to be acutely aware of their placement, avoiding harming himself at all while your cuts are still healing up under a rather gratuitously thick blood tacked bandage from when he grabbed you during your previous meeting.

His hair isn't blonde, it's literally silver. It frames his pallid face in shaggy waves that reach lazily down below his shoulders and somehow glows with unnatural shine that haloes his head in the moonlight even when sopping wet. While his eyes are that of a predator, they're oddly mesmerizing; a deep, luminescent scarlet that contrasts his pale skin beautifully. You're willing to bet that's a technique developed by his kind to disarm and lure prey, though one of his victims or perhaps another sea dweller must have tried to gouge it out, since one of his eyes has a jagged, pale scar stretching from his thin eyebrow to the chapped, baggy flesh underneath.

Life in the sea must be just as treacherous as land, as puffy, pink scars crisscross the expanse of his skin, some rounding from the front of his chest all the way around to his back. There's prominent marks around his gills as well. Small, repeated nicks just under the column of his neck. It’s a rather peculiar pattern, but he seems unbothered by them, and most look fully healed. Apparently he's become more cautious- or perhaps more skilled- with age.

How old is he anyway? He looks about your age, but it's rough to tell between the dried patches of flesh that litter his face. Even from beneath them though, you can tell he's oddly alluring; it somehow adds to his unique attraction. He's even got a little beauty mark adjacent to a jagged scar that runs through his chapped lips.

He’s like something out of the story books you read or the tales you were told as a child. The beautiful creature that haunts the darkness, another pretty mask death facades in. His appearance bodes nothing but an omen of ill will, yet you can’t bring yourself to run from him no matter how much your inner child shrieks at the danger.

Fairy tales aren’t real, and according to the rest of the world, he shouldn’t and doesn’t exist, and yet here he sits right in front of you as if it's the most natural thing in the world. Decades of fantasy stories with tales of nefarious monsters pretending to be something they aren’t just to entice the clueless protagonist into their ultimate demise should have somewhat prepared you for this moment, but you’re too enthralled with the flick of his tail and self indulgent thoughts of being special to really adhere to the rules of self preservation set forth by predecessors ignorant to his existence.

You're so lost in observing him and every oddity that his body offers up to your gluttonous mortal eyes that it almost causes you to jump when he speaks again, turning to face you with eyes crinkling in mocking amusement.

"Huh, you're staring. How rude of you. Unless it's for a different reason, that is."

"What? Wait- no!" You shake your head adamantly even as a telling darkness creeps up your neck and across your cheeks.

"Humans are bad liars." He grins, tongue poking out from beneath his sharp canines. "It's okay. You can come down and get a closer look if you'd like."

"Ha-ha. Nice fuckin' try."

"Suit yourself." He clicks his tongue and turns his attention from you, languidly stirring the water where his scaled appendage swishes just beneath the surface.

You eye it, far too curious to resist leaning your head forward slightly to get a better look at it in the cloudy water. “It looks… slimy.”

He balks at your rude admission and it’s apparent you’ve insulted his pride. For a moment, it seems like he wants to admonish you for your careless affront to his form, but he seems to think better of it. Instead, he remains quiet for a moment, trying to think of something tactful to say.

"Well, it's not. Think...." He pauses, filing through his knowledge of human creatures for a decent comparison. "A snake. They might look slimy to someone ignorant, but they're soft and smooth."

"Not if you rub them the wrong way."

"Obviously. That's why you don't do that, idiot."

"What about your-" You gesture vaguely before pointing at the scales that dot his arms and chest. "-Those."

"Are you stupid or something? It's the exact same thing." He runs a clawed finger up his own arm and then clenches his hand. "Smooth."

"Huh."

"If you'll come down here, you can feel it for yourself."

"Give it up, tailbait."

His wet hand reaches upward and scratches lightly around the scars that mar his neck. He didn't actually expect it to work, but he's irritated nonetheless. This shouldn’t be this much trouble, and he shouldn’t be putting this much effort into anything. Why does he even bother?

"Fine then."

Despite his tantrum, he knows you're tempted. He can tell by the way you keep eyeing him. You're presented with a once in a lifetime opportunity, and it’s not in your nature to pass it up. Granted said opportunity is a loaded spring trap, but still, it's rough for you to even pretend you’re not interested.

Although, to be fair, the same can be said about him. He never really talks to humans beyond the regular ‘Oh god, what are you, please help me, let me go, I don't want to die like this’ nonsense your kind spouts off when you realize what's happening. This is his first actual conversation with one of your kind. He’s not happy about the circumstances surrounding it, but he’ll take advantage of it while he has the chance.

"What about you? When your skin isn't wet, what does it feel like?"

You pause at the question, unsure of what really to say. You drag your own fingers across your arm, trying to find a way to describe it. "Uh... Fleshy? Sort of squishy? It can be soft or rough depending on where you touch. Maybe a little hairy depending on who?"

He stares blankly and you realize that's probably not the best description, but what the fuck does he want you to say? It’s such a weird thing to describe. You’ve never even really thought about it before.

You reach your arm forward to let him touch for himself, but immediately yank it back when you realize what a dumb fuck move that is. He must realize it too, because he's cackling loudly as you cradle your offending arm and look at him as if he’s the one in the wrong. He could have easily yanked you forward and taken you under if you had gone through with giving him the chance.

"You're a fuckin' dick."

"I didn't do anything. It's not my fault you're an idiot."

"Shut up." You knead your teeth into your lip, scanning him over again. "What about your magic?"

"Magic? What are you? A child?"

"What do you want me to call it, then?"

"Do you call it magic when one of your kind uses a harpoon gun?"

"No, because it's not."

"Then why would what I do be considered 'magic?"

"A harpoon gun is human technology. What you do isn't. At least as far as I know. You weren’t like… made in a lab, were you?"

He gives a grunt and scratches at his neck again. "Typical human. A tiger has claws it uses to defend itself and catch prey that come naturally to it and not to you, but do you consider it magic? Well mine is no different. We evolve different from your kind, but we're not any sort of mythical. Just because we're not known to you doesn't mean we're some sort of wild outlier. Humans aren’t the end-all-be-all of intelligent life."

You consider his point, nodding after a few moments. "You're right. My bad. It's just... it's new to me. I'm just trying to understand. Is it rude to think of you as mythic? I don’t mean for it to be, it’s just-"

He huffs angrily before you can finish, scowling again. "We adapt to our environment, same as you. Typical human arrogance. You all think you’re so intelligent and so learned. If you haven't heard of it, it must not exist, right? The mighty human race, epitome of knowledge despite knowing nothing at all!”

You break up his tirade before he starts going off, raising your hands defensively to disarm him. "Fair enough! I didn't mean to offend you or imply something offensive. Sorry! I’m still learning."

He says nothing, but the rage building within him begins to deteriorate. At least you're smart enough to recognize you're stupid.

Another stark silence, the sound of waves crashing and wind blowing is all that passes between you. A gale brings in a new bout of smells; salt and slight sulfur, the same scent that’s comforted you throughout the entirety of your life. You inhale deeply, relishing in the peculiar sense of nostalgia the sea offers you, even knowing the danger you're literally facing.

The sounds of the waves pushing and pulling with the tides relaxes you, lulling you into a sense of contentment. Leaves rustling and waters bristling on the surface. The sand stuck between your toes. The breeze in your hair. The call of the ocean.

You can't see the look of peace that overtakes his features, but he can feel it too. Eyes closed, a rare look of tranquility settling across his face as he turns from you and faces the horizon and the open water.

The wind eventually dies down and you break the unspoken moment of serenity between you. You make the choice to speak.

"Why do you hate us so much?"

His eyes snap open and you are made instantly aware of your folly.

Wrong choice.

"I'm not surprised.” He hisses, shoving away from the rock with a look of disgust that tells you that you’ve made an egregious error. “Typical human. You know nothing."

With a flick of his tail and another splash of water directed your way, he's gone, submerged beneath the water with nothing but a ripple headed off into the sea from beneath the waves. Even several minutes later when you bring yourself to peer over the edge, you can't see the silvery glow of his hair or the deep crimson of his eyes.

He's really gone.

It doesn't bring you the comfort it should.

You sit on the edge for a few moments, even rolling the dice on dangling your feet in but nothing slippery attaches itself to your ankle or threatens to drag you below. Orange tinges the horizon and birds begin to chirp, you realize it's time to go home. You don't feel the peace of mind you usually do as you begin the long trek home.

Taglist: @dubliinwaltz, @lemonzoey

#Shigaraki Tomura #shigaraki x reader #BNHA #Shigaraki #Siren!Shigaraki #I got told I'm not tagging these with the right tags to reach the x reader audience so if you have any advice lemme know

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kittybellestark · 4 years ago

Text

Falling Apart At The Seams

Part 5 of 5

Read on AO3

Read Part 4

this is v dialogue heavy and we officially see Peter again lol

uh this has been great to write and seeing y’alls reactions has been cool

Trigger warning: discussions of past rape, self-blaming and insecurities

What happened with Mary was kept out of the news.

Tony was grateful for it. Had the news gotten what had happened to him- Tony really didn’t want to think of it. But he was grateful. It was only the Avengers he needed to deal with. Just the Avengers and Peter. His son.

He had a son. A whole full grown child that he was forced to create.��

At least he already knew Peter. It’s not like he was some stranger. They already had something of a relationship. This wasn’t the first meeting, they weren’t starting from scratch. Well okay, they might be starting over but it’s not like Tony and Peter are complete strangers.

Tony had heard that Peter was already aware of what had happened. It should have been Tony who told Peter what happened, but he was glad that May did it first. With Mary’s confession in front of Peter and then May going to talk to Tony there was just too much going through Peter’s head that May needed to say something. Leaving him waiting for an explanation when he already knew half the story would have only caused Peter more harm.

It was selfish of Tony to be grateful that he didn’t need to explain anything to Peter, not anything in depth. He knew they’d need to talk about things eventually, but explaining why he was Peter father wasn’t something Tony stomach at the moment. They can talk about their relations without bringing up the why. For now, at least.

For a week Tony didn’t leave him room. He needed a week to get all his thoughts together, in a place no one other than Pepper or Rhodey would bother him, in a somewhat safe place. The week let him look at pictures of Peter, watching footage of the two of them in the lab before everything. It let Tony think through things, how he should approach Peter and what he should say. The time in his room was necessary. It gave him the smallest feeling of being safe and that was a win.

But Tony didn’t feel all that safe.

Tony knew Pepper was right when they spoke last week. But knowing that she’s right doesn’t stop him from feeling everything he’s done has been wrong. Logically it made sense, that Tony wasn’t at fault for any of it. Had the roles been changed, had it been Rhodey instead of Tony, Tony knew he would be saying the same things as Pepper. Unfortunately, it’s just too personal. Not that Rhodey isn’t personal, but there’s a difference between it happening to your friend and yourself. Logic doesn’t work when you’re brain forgets what logic is.

He wasn’t sure how to connect with Peter anymore. It seemed that once Peter received the label ‘son,’ Tony wasn’t able to go about things like he used to. The alarm bells in his head would start going off when he’d classify Peter as his child and panic would start to rise. It wasn’t fair to Peter, that Tony was hiding in his room trying to settle himself into everything, but it wouldn’t have been very fair for Peter to watch Tony break into panic attacks either.

The best part of the week, was that Tony didn’t really see Mary in Peter. Not in the pictures he had or in the interactions they had in the lab. Sure, there were certain parts of Peter that resembled Mary, the shape of his lips, the curve of his nose, even his eyebrows. There was a lot more Tony in the way Peter looked though. Peter’s jaw, eyes, smile and hair were all Tony. No doubt about it. So if Tony just focused on the parts of his child that was solely his, then it shouldn’t hurt so much.

“Fri, could you ask Peter down to the lab?” Tony’s voice shook, uncertain if that was the right move, but if entered the lab right after Peter then he could make sure that he is closer to the door in case he needed to leave.

“Are you sure, Boss?”

“Yeah. Tell him I’ll be down right after him.”

Tony waited a few minutes before making his way down to the lab. He could feel his heart pounding erratically. This was... a lot. It’s a lot. Tony just needs to face the truth and not hurt Peter too badly in the process. It’d be better if Peter didn’t get hurt at all but it’s already far too late for that.

He entered the lab, and saw Peter sitting at his own work bench, fiddling with a coiled cable. The teen look exhausted, the positive energy that seemed to follow Peter everywhere was gone. He looked pale and looked as closed off as he used too when they first met.

“Do you call me Mr. Stark because your name used to be Tony?”

That wasn’t how Tony wanted to start the conversation. It wasn’t even something he considered until he entered the lab. This wasn’t even the type of conversation Tony wanted them to have. At least it was a step in the right direction. Talking is better than no talking.

“Oh, um- not at first. Y’know before I met you, I’d only refer to you as Tony Stark, because, obviously. Then calling you Mr. Stark was out of respect, but then getting to know you it felt like it’d be weird to call you Tony because I’ve associated a lot of bad things with that name. I guess I didn’t want to associate those things with you, but it’s a little too late for that, right?”

“You’re allowed to hate me. I knew I had a child, I didn’t know it was you, but I knew there was a kid out there, that was mine. And I ignored you, the idea of a kid because I was too hurt to keep you out of an unsafe situation. So you’re allowed to hate me for that.”

“Wait. You didn’t know that I was your kid?”

Peter put down the cable and Tony sat down on the nearest workbench. The two stayed a few work benches away from each other, enough room to have the much needed separation, yet not far enough to be alone. DUM-E moved from his docking station to Tony’s side, resting it’s arm across his legs. The electronics in the room seemed to hum louder now that there was no other noise to distract from conversation, and the lab just didn’t feel all that safe.

“No, I didn’t know, not until right before you did. Do you know why I ever approached you?” There was a beat of silence before Tony continued. “Of course not, I never told you, not really. Obviously you know I approached you because of Spider-Man, but honestly I hadn’t really paid attention much to your web slinging antics before hand. Then one day this video of you went viral, right? Not you catching a bus or getting attacked by a cat in a tree, not even you getting completely toppled over by that one dog. It was this video of you as Spidey, holding this little girl in your arms. She was crying, and you kept her body covered with this blanket. You held her tight against you, and you started talking about how your babysitter used to hurt you the same way hers was. There were camera’s on you, people videoing this horribly personal moment, and you either didn’t notice, or you didn’t care. You told that little girl that your babysitter raped you, and comforted her, and let her know that good babysitters would never touch a child or anyone like that. Peter you were fourteen at the time, and I hadn’t told anyone what happened to me. That video going viral helped me tell Pepper. She was the only one who knew what happened until I told Rhodey this year.

“Because of you, I was able to tell someone who loved me a whole lot what had happened to me. I felt I had a debt to repay, so I found out who was behind the mask, and it happened to be you, an actual child. I wanted to make sure you were safe and that despite what happened to you with your babysitter, that you’d have a good life going forward and that if you continued being Spider-Man that you would have the best equipment and help on hand.

“I never intended to offer you an internship, or for you to become apart of what I consider to be my family. I genuinely did not know that you were I abandoned. I spent years hating myself, because the whole thing was my fault and then I couldn’t even bring myself to find out who my kid is, where they are, and then take them out of Mary’s care. Every time I tried to bring myself to do it, I couldn’t.

“Because of you Peter, I was able to open up about what happened to me. And because of you, I was able to start healing. It’s shitty of me to have only started to come to terms with everything that happened when you were 14, then start healing when you were 15. I’ve had your whole life to deal with it, and I didn’t. Me being able to heal should have never been put onto you, or knowing you. I should have put in the work and I should have found out who you were when she released me and taken custody of you.”

That was a lot more emotions then Tony was expecting to give all in one go. A lot more truth than he thought he’d tell Peter right away. But, if he was going to do this, try and be someone in Peter’s life that Peter can continue to go to, then this heart-to-heart, this raw honesty is necessary. Peter might hate Tony forever, or choose to not have a relationship with him, but at least they can talk things through.

“I was really angry at you,” Peter started, “when you got back to the tower and Mary was there. I was really angry. She admitted everything, right then and there, probably because I happened to be there. I blamed you for the years of trauma I was caused that I don’t even remember anymore, and every bad thing that happened in my life. My first reaction was to blame you, because suddenly Mary is saying you’re my father, and I don’t really think a DNA test is necessary to prove that. I look like you, I act a bit like you too, the team always joked about it. This was just confirmation. I blamed you though, for everything. I thought it meant you knew exactly who I was to you and that you lied. And I thought that you knew what happened to me before and you chose to stay away. It’s not like you didn’t know you had a kid right? So I thought, ‘he knew he’s my dad so why didn’t he save me.’ Then May talked to me. She reminded me of my own experiences. I had shut down after Skip- uh, I shut down after that. I was eight years old, and I wouldn’t get out from underneath my bed unless I had too. I refused to go to school, I iced out all of my friends, but I still had my aunt and uncle. I had a support system, and therapy and I got to see my rapist go to jail.

“We’re both guys, Mr. Stark. May told me you didn’t tell anyone, because you didn’t think they’d believe you. I don’t tell anyone either, y’know. Yeah, so I was raped by another man, and was also a child, and you were an adult raped by a woman, but people still have that idea that we wanted it, that we could have fought them off. It’s messed up. I dealt with my trauma about it for years, and I had people to go to. You didn’t. I don’t think you could be a father to me, like that, I don’t know if anyone could be if they were in your shoes. It’s a lot to go through, especially when you know that Mary’s goal in all that was me. My existence was her motivation in raping you. I don’t know if anyone could be a good parent, knowing that someone raped them with the intent of having a child. Mary is a horrible person, and she’s done bad things to me and worse things to you, but she’s still my mother, I can’t ever erase that. She wanted me so badly, that she was willing to kidnap and rape you for months on end. Her motivation was me, Mr. Stark. Had she not of been a horrible person who wanted to have a kid she wouldn’t have done what she did to you. But she’s a bad person, who wanted me to exist, and I shouldn’t blame you for trying your best to deal with things on your own because of Mary.”

“Kid, it sounds like you’re trying to blame yourself for something,” Tony sighed. “You didn’t exist then. She wanted a baby, obviously that’s the source of her motivation that we know, but that’s not on you. Mary is at fault here, no one else. Don’t shoulder the blame for this.”

Tony felt dizzy. This was a lot more than he was expecting. And he was expecting a lot. Crying, yelling, hatred, being blamed. But he didn’t account for who Peter is. Of course Peter would make the comparisons between the trauma they’ve both had and take on the blame himself. Peter has always been the type of person to feel guilty over something he had no control over, just like Tony. It shouldn’t have surprised Tony that Peter would have thought about what Mary did and what Tony went through so much that Peter would take on all the blame, And yet here they are, Peter finding a way to put the blame on himself and Mary.

“I know that it’s not my fault, Mr. Stark. Rape can’t be blamed on anyone except the rapist. But I was still the motivation behind it. Mary, my mom, raped you for me to exist. If she didn’t want a kid she wouldn’t have raped you. If I wasn’t put into witness protection she wouldn’t have kidnapped you with the intent to rape you, again, for another child. It’s not my fault, but I’m still the reason behind it.”

Peter’s shoulders shook, and Tony could see his eyes were red and glassy as Peter tried not to cry. Tony’s heart hurt for the kid, his kid, his son. Peter was Tony’s son, and he was here and hurting. He wasn’t even hurting because Tony abandoned him, but because he blamed himself. Peter was too good, far too good for Tony, and far too good to have come from a place of terror.

“I don’t blame you, Peter. I didn’t blame you when I didn’t know it was you either. When I didn’t try to find you it wasn’t because I thought it was your fault. It’s because the entire thing felt like mine, and I didn’t think I could be a good father, especially if you looked like Mary. You don’t look like her. You look like me. I thought I hate hate my own kid because of what happened, but I don’t hate you, Pete. I’m really grateful that you’re my son. Out of all the kids in the world that could have been mine, I’m lucky it’s you. I don’t know if I could ever be what you want or expect me to be, but I can do my best.”

“Mr. Stark- I don’t understand?”

“I don’t know what type of relationship you want, whether that means cutting me off completely or keep the whole mentor-mentee thing, or if you want the father figure thing. Whatever you want I’m okay with it. And I don’t want you to think that I’m going to take you away from May. She raised you and I won’t tear you two apart. Kid, this also isn’t me trying to make you feel like you have to what you think I want.”

DUM-E whirred leaving Tony to grab a stress ball and bringing it over to Peter. This made Peter smile, taking the stress ball and tossing it for DUM-E to fetch. The robot beeped chasing the ball and heading back to Peter. Tony stayed silent, letting Peter play with DUM-E and think.

While this was a lot for Tony, it was surely a lot more for Peter. Their situation couldn’t be considered anything less than traumatic. It’s not like Peter hasn’t had enough trauma in his life. This was selfish of Tony, he should have considered what Peter has gone through. Now Tony has put pressure on Peter about a possible relationship. Of course Peter would say he wants some sort of relationship with Tony, he hates disappointing people. Peter wouldn’t do anything if he thought it’d upset someone. Tony should have been responsible, he should have just taken himself out of the equation. Just because Tony cared for Peter doesn’t mean he has any of the right to just stomp right in and claim himself as a dad.

Tony was horribly selfish for thinking he had any claim in Peter’s life. And even more so for putting a decision on Peter that Tony should be making. Everything is being put onto Peter like there wasn’t already enough there. Tony is already failing as a father. Already, like the last 15 years of Peter’s life hasn’t already been a complete failure on Tony’s part. He’ll never be good, not for Peter, he never has and never would.

“Sorry, Pete, this was a bad idea. I shouldn’t- this wasn’t- I’m sorry.”

Tony stood up, sniffing as he brushed off his legs. He moved to leave the lab, leave Peter, quit making mistakes. For 15 years Tony has failed his son- Peter’s whole life- 16 years he’s failed himself and his child. This will give Peter time. Time to recognize that Tony was being selfish. Everything was wrong and Tony should not be entitled to Peter’s life and emotions.

Peter looked confused, his held tilting to the right, eyebrows furrowed, and a small pout. For just a moment Tony saw a flash of Mary on Peter’s face before it passed. Tony couldn’t help flinching and taking a step back, before dropping his head forward. He flinched at his own son. Tony flinched, he saw Mary when he looked at Peter. There was no way to be a good father if he couldn’t separate the person who hurt him with the person who came from that.

“You can’t just leave, Mr. Stark. I’m not something that you can just lose interest in and come back when you feel like it. I’m your kid now, if you don’t want me in your life just say it. I’d rather you just say ‘Peter you remind me too much of your mother and I don’t think I can look at you,’ instead of stringing me along.”

“I’m not trying to do that. I don’t want to pressure you into something you don’t want.”

“I don’t care. You’re the adult. You can’t say whether we’re going to be estranged or close is on me then walk out. That’s not how it works, and I don’t even know how this works. But you don’t get to walk out on me. We’re family, and you don’t walk out on family.”

“I don’t know what to do, kid. I’m not trying to walk out on you, just give you time. Everything has been overwhelming, and I just gave you a lot to consider.”

“No,” Peter stood up, still staying on his side of the room, but moving a little closer to Tony, “I’ve had a week to think when you secluded yourself. A whole week where I had to deal with this alone. Richard died, he was my dad and he died trying to get me out of a bad home. Ben died, he was my uncle and the closest thing I’ve had to a dad for as long as I can remember, he died protecting me. Then I’m told you’re actually my dad, and my mother didn’t try killing you. Instead I have to deal with the fact that I’m born from rape, that my mom is a rapist. You’ve left me alone for a week to deal with this, we’re now at the part where we get to decide what happens. And it’s not you walking out on me.”

Tony sighed and sat back down on the workbench. He ran one hand over his face before tucking his hands under his legs.

“No walking out,” Tony agreed.

“We’re in this together. I don’t know if I can go through this alone.” Peter’s voice cracked and his face became redder as he obviously tried not to cry.

“Okay,” Tony nodded, his voice choked full of emotions, “okay. Together then. We’ll make it through this, Pete, we’ll be okay.”

Maybe the words weren’t all that believable to Tony, he can’t know how things turn out. He’s been proved wrong a hundred times over. But this time it feels right. Like he wasn’t taking the first steps into a bad decision. This time Tony has Peter and even May in his life now. He may not be great at being what Peter needs, he’s got so much trauma to work through and now a kid.

Tony has people in his corner this time, and maybe now that’ll make things different. He has Peter and May and Pepper and Rhodey. They’ll help him get through this. His family will help him. Tony has a family.

They’ll be okay.

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