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internalsealpanic · 4 years ago

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Thorn part 2

summary: You really should check who’s watching or not.

a/n: My quest to cram as many kinks into a fic continues. Special thanks to @littleredwing89 for helping me finish this and proof reading. Also, yes, I am trying to convert as many people as humanly possibel into Slade simps

warnings: voyeurism, exhibitionism, bondage, blindfolds, degredation-ish, spreader bar, threesome, (what do you call stuffing panties into someone’s mouth), oral (male receiving), vaginal fingering, orgasm denial, dirty talk, spanking and probably somethings I forgot.

villain’s masterlist

main masterlist

part 1

Something’s been bothering you for the last few days- an itching in the back of your mind that made the nerves in your hands prickle even as you leafed through the notes piled high on your desk. You flex your fingers, reading over a transcript of a witness’ statement. There was something wrong.

“Give us a good show.”

Heat trails up your neck at the memory of his skin against yours but it also agitated something in you. It was probably nothing but the way he said it bothered you. There was something you were missing. A joke. A hint. A pun. Something. Maybe you just hung around Nicky too much. Maybe, but that didn’t still your mind. It was Slade.

You haul March’s fluffy body on to your lap. She rumbles but makes no move to get up even as you thread your hands through her thick fur. In some lazy retaliation, she pads her little front paws against your papers but you don’t find yourself minding since you’re already too distracted. You gaze into her dark fur, a sea of black pooling and shifting on your lap like a dark mass of shadows. Your mind buzzes with too many details. That night was cluttered with too many… sensations. You cup your hand over your face feeling the heat rising on your cheeks. March’s ears perk up and the inky mass in your lap twists to face you. Her golden eyes leering at you questioningly.

Your stomach plunges. You remember Slade's eye, how carefully it inspected the corners of the room, how it would wander to them while you were… The prickling in your mind told you something was wrong. You set your notes down to the side and begin to move March but she yawns contentedly on your lap so you let her be. You drag your laptop closer to you, arching your back carefully so as not to move March. The scratching in the back of your mind definitely has something to do with the Thorn. Who knows maybe it was something relevant to the case this whole time? The dread rising in your stomach says otherwise.

Then there it was. Of course, it was in the fucking fine print.

High ranking clientele have 1 week to accept or decline the option to keep their private room videos private.

You swore viciously, putting your face in your hands. Your blood rushes to your ears. Of course, they would have cameras! You groan curling in on yourself. March bristles and shifts trying to pry your body open but you can’t make yourself budge not when you just want to implode. March, having given up on your sorry ass, squeezes her way out of your hold and hisses at you as if to tell you off.

“Yes, March. I know. I know. Oh my god- Shit, I know.”

Her judging gaze did not waver even as she flicked her tail at your papers. You look at her pleadingly but she does not relent and even turns away from you. God, even your cat thinks you’re an absolute dumbass. Did Sita know? Did Nina? Did Anthony? Sita, probably not. She wouldn’t throw you under the bus like that. Ok, she would but not this badly. Nina, yeah probably. Anthony, definitely. But those two probably thought you were ok with it. This was such an amateur move.

You bite your lip and drum your fingers against the keyboard staring at the clock on the corner of your screen. Your eyes flick to your eyes to your notes and the grumpy cat making a nest out of your papers. There wasn’t much you could do with the case right now, not until Sasha made good on her end of the bargain. That would likely not be for a few hours and …

You didn’t exactly trust Slade to keep this between the two of you. Besides, shit like this? Shit like this had a bad habit of leaking to other sites and whatever weight you pulled in the force would vanish in an instant. You ruffle your hair in frustration. Of all the mistakes you could make, why him?

“Such a good cockslut.”

You bury your face in your arms as the heat creeps up to your ears. Out of habit, you put some pressure on the back of your neck but instead of quieting your mind, it slung your mind back to when Slade’s hand wrapped around your neck. You could still feel his calloused fingers grazing your sensitive skin, his breath fanning against your shoulder. How the hell were you supposed to fight him when the mere thought of him made you so flustered?! You were a goddamn professional! You want to scream or to be swallowed by the floor or both. Both sounds better.

You sigh, exasperation bleeding through the sound. You don’t regret it. Not really. You just wished this wouldn’t end up being career suicide. Sadly, you weren’t lucky. March’s tail flicked angrily at the thought. You say a nasally apology. She, appropriately enough, does not accept your apology.

You look at your phone. 1 AM. The thorn should be busy right now, meaning the guards should have their hands full. You could definitely- Fuck it. You need to delete that thing.

You spring out of your bed, launching yourself out the door not bothering to change out of your pajamas aside from throwing on a jacket and a pair of tennis shoes. It would be a quick in and out job if you did it correctly.

“See ya, March! Don’t wait up!” you call out from the door, waving your jingling keys. The sound makes March stir but she doesn’t look at you. You snort but the fondness in your features wins over the anxiety and the annoyance.

“March?” Anthony’s voice rises above the echo of sensual music coming from the main room. You freeze, the movements of your limbs stuttering along with your heartbeat. “Uh hey,” you answer, voice infinitely more stilted than you were envisioning.

In the low light, you can see Anthony tilting his head, a wrinkle of concern marring his perfect brow. “I thought you were supposed to be off for a day or two since-” his statement falters when his eyes flicker to the hickeys dotting your skin. You fight down the urge to zip up your hoodie. “-since Mr. Wilson likes to play rough.” Anthony continues both from not really being able to stop the words and the need to get more information out of you.

You smile easily. For once, you’re thankful for the low lighting of the club. The corners of your lips twitch unconvincingly. “I- Mr. Wilson called me about an hour ago and told me to meet him here- same room- He said something about an offer and considering the tip he gave me… I found it hard to turn down.” You lie, shrugging your shoulders casually and giving him a look roughly translating to ‘eh what can ya do’. You will your muscles not to wince or fidget. Maybe your lie would be convincing enough.

Finally, after a long pause, Anthony gives you a knowing look and says “Well, don’t let him work you too hard.” You give Anthony a wry smile unsure what to say. “I won’t. Promise.”

You wait for Anthony to disappear before letting your shoulders roll into a slump. You wonder if he’s ever…

You shake your head. That wasn’t your business but that doesn’t stop your mind from wandering.

The security guard in charge of the monitors was almost insultingly easy to take out. Given, he had his hand crammed down his pants and he wasn’t exactly paying attention to the surroundings. Then again, could you really blame him when part of his job is just watching porn?

You drag his unconscious body to the closet, jamming the door with the guard’s chair. You would think this place could afford a rolly chair. Nope. You suppose they had to cut corners somewhere. They probably should have cut it at the cameras but then again you weren’t the one running the joint.

Just as with the guard, getting into the system was fairly easy. The universe may be telling you something. It likely was but you ignored it in favor of the screen lighting up with dozens of thumbnails of naked men and women. You fight down the spike of embarrassment that rises in your chest. The idea that one of these guards watched you as you… It was mortifying but something in your stomach stirred. It was a mix of humiliation and something unexpectedly warm. You shake your head doing your best to ignore the feeling bubbling in your stomach.

Underneath each thumbnail was what you assumed to be the client’s initials and what looked to be the dates of each video. Well, they’re horny but organized which really helps you. You type in ‘S.W.’ just to shorten your agony.

The screen flickers again and when it lights up with another set of thumbnails, your mouth dries and the blood rushes to your face and to your groin. You bite out a curse for letting your eyes wander to the images. The first one your eyes land on has his back facing the camera in all his naked glory. You scan the image, eyes tracing over the scars littered all over his body and the rippling back muscles you could only see through his shirt. You groan in frustration. You can feel yourself growing wetter. Because of course, you didn’t account for your body’s reaction to him factoring into the speed of your work. You slip up and play one of the videos, the vulgar sounds permeating the room and reverberating in your bones. You scramble to pause the video. A part of you is hesitant to. The better, more logical part of you wins out. It was either propriety or jealousy that won out. Either way, you weren’t eager to investigate, not when the aching between your legs made itself so pronounced. You swear but it came out more whiny and breathless. You tighten your grip on the desk and the mouse. You had to find this thing before you turn into a runny mess on the floor.

“If you wanted a copy, Kitten, you could have just asked,” a gravelly voice drawls into your ear. You attempt to twist, your body brushing up against something solid. Strong arms and a toned body cages you against the desk. The man certainly knows how to use his large build to his advantage. You twist and wriggle, a mix of irritation and panic traveling up your spine. Behind you, Slade groans as your ass brushes against his growing bulge. You freeze. Heat creeps up your face and a swelling pool of warmth in your groin makes itself known. The close proximity makes your hackles draw up with all the force of the ‘fuck you’ you felt but you reign it in along with the shiver suffusing through your frame.

You take a steadying breath. “How the hell did you know I was here?” you snarl, voice caustic. Unaffected and more amused than anything, Slade leans in closer, his hot breath fanning against your neck. You shiver. Your nose is overpowered by the mix of musk and gin permeating off of him. The scent was delightfully potent making you squirm in discomfort.

Slade kisses up your neck, taking his time answering. His teeth catch at your skin once or twice making you gasp. This feels so good. The thrum under your skin worsens. Your mind was starting to become fuzzy with anticipation. This man was definitely trying to kill you.

“Anthony told me,” Slade says in between kisses, and the anger that statement should have drawn out of you was nowhere to be seen. “He told me that you were waiting for me in my usual room. Imagine my surprise when you were nowhere to be seen.” You roll your eyes at him.

“Let’s see what you’ve been looking at, Sweetheart,” Slade murmurs against your skin, his lips brushing against your jaw as he maneuvers the mouse away from you. A large hand settles on your hip, calloused fingers toying with the top of your shorts as his thumb traces circles against your bare skin. You whine and lean into his touch not even minding the obvious distraction.

You feel him smile against your skin as he reads through the dates on screen. You know he could just zip through these dates, his meta powers enhancing the rate at which his mind processes things. You know he’s only slowing down to make sure you see the sheer volume of videos he has. Your mind tries desperately to shrink away, to carve out some sort of irritation or maybe even disgust but all you could feel was a rampant tinge of jealousy and you weren’t entirely sure what to make of it.

The obscene sound of your desperate moans fills the room, making you flush with embarrassment. On the screen, you watch as your fingers dip in and out of your core. The slick sounds blaring from the speaker make you drip and clench together but you do not look away. Your eyes are fixed on your trembling limbs and your gasping, kiss-bitten lips. You can feel it even now, the way your body greedily soaked up the sinful atmosphere. Your body aches from the memory.

You yelp when Slade’s fingers slip past the waistband of your shorts. You buck against his touch, letting his calloused fingers brush up against the bare lips of your pussy. “You making a habit out of not wearing underwear around me?” Slade teases bringing you out of your haze only through the need to defend your last bit of dignity but whatever sharp or witty comeback you have dies on your lips when he curls his fingers inside you. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

So much for your dignity.

Your hips rock against his hand, doing your best to fuck yourself on his fingers and brushing against his bulge. Sure, you were horny as all hell but that didn’t mean you weren’t still the pettiest little shit in existence. You close your eyes and look away from the screen trying to concentrate on the feeling of his hands inside you. But you can’t deny how the sounds from the video made this way hotter than it already was. Gripping your neck with his hand, Slade forces you to look back at the screen.

You open your eyes and see yourself bouncing desperately on Slade’s engorged cock. You groan, pussy clenching on his thick digits.

“Such a good cockslut, look at how well that tight cunt of yours is taking me in.”

Shame ravages your entire body as you hear yourself pant and whine at the statement. You recoil looking away wanting nothing more than to dissolve into seafoam at the moment. You don’t get to revel in your shame when the hand on your neck shifts and is pushing you down and closer to the screen. “Didn’t I tell you to keep watching, Kitten?”

“Yes, sir,” you breathe, mouth pressed against the meat of your arm. You try to concentrate on the video- the needy little noises you try to bite back, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, the wet squelching noises as his cock drills into you. You really do.

You hear the click of the mouse. Your eyes watch as another video loads. On the screen, Slade rolls up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, showing off his powerful forearms. There is a woman on the bed blindfolded, obediently keeping her arms in place as Slade binds her limbs to the bedposts with silk ribbons. Her parted legs show off the slick between her thighs flowing down to the sheets. Wordlessly, Slade drags a riding crop against her sensitive hole. You groan almost loud enough to snuff out her cries for him. A prickle of jealousy tugging at you makes you go rigid under his touch.

“Jealous, kitten?” he whispers, hand sliding into your shirt, large hand grasping the soft round flesh of your breast. You shuffle trying to kick him but stop when you feel him roll your nipples between his fingers. In the reflection on the screen, you can see him leering at your face twisting in reluctant pleasure. You can feel it against your ear. “Don’t worry, I have plenty of ideas for a good little slut like you.” You hear another click.

In the next video, the first thing that registers is a high keen, a mangled version of Slade’s name, accompanied by a low buzz. In the corner of the screen, Slade’s toying with a remote, flicking the slider up and down with no real thought behind it. The woman whines, a frustrated sound, and you can understand the frustration as you grind your barely clothed pussy against the swell of Slade’s cock.

“Sir, please- Ah!”

“Please, what, sweetheart?” he coos, turning the vibrator inside her back down to the lowest setting.

“Plea-” her plea is cut off by Slade flicking it back up to the highest setting then back down. You make a strangled noise of frustration at both the Slade behind you and the one on screen.

“Sir, please. Your cock. I need it. Please fill me up.” Tears are streaming down her face. Slade uncrosses his legs and stands up, smiling like he’s just been served something particularly delectable. “Such a good slut,” he purrs, turning the power back up to the highest setting.

The camera angle changes. You watch as Slade’s engorged cock sinks into her fold, vibrator still buzzing inside her. “You think you can take something like that? Can your tight little cunt of yours take that much?”

“Yes, sir,” you answer, rolling your ass against him. He grunts and you grin into your arm. “This tight little cunt can take your large cock,” mouth shaping itself, showing off your pretty lips, “and whatever else you can give me” you say, voice breathy but even. You inject all the cocksure you can into the words trying to sound more challenging rather than pleading. Slade chuckles into your flesh. “We’ll see, kitten.”

Slade clicks on another video. The camera trails over the swell of a woman’s ass down to her sopping core. Her face is pressed against the leather cushions of her couch while her limbs are locked to a spreader bar leaving her open and helpless to Slade’s ministrations. Slade, in all his naked glory, pumps his leaking cock lining it up against her greedy hole. She’s shaking and whimpering, trying to push her ass flush against him but his bruising grip keeps her in place. She cries out and your walls clench on nothing when Slade plunges his cock roughly into her folds. You whimper and buck against him, mimicking the way her ass bounces against his hips. The movement draws out a sharp ‘fuck’ from Slade’s clenched teeth. His thumbs press into the dimples of your back as he pins your hips to the table.

“Do you want me to fuck you like I fucked her?” he asks, threading his hand through your hair and yanking you up to his chest. You gasp, the pain making your blood sing. “Do you want that, kitten?” You nod. “Take off your shirt.” Slade pulls himself back, still pinning your hips against the table with his. You shimmy out of your shirt and jacket eyes glued to the screen. You want him. You can feel how much he wants you too from the possessive way he cages you into the way his fingers curl inside you. They’re crooked just the right way to let you fuck yourself at just the right angle but it’s not enough. They fill you but it’s not the burning stretch you crave. You watch as he fucks into her relentlessly, jealousy boiling over in your veins as her eyes roll into the back of her head, completely and utterly lost in the pleasure. “Maybe we’ll try one of those on you next time,” he whispers, pulling down your shorts and letting them fall to your ankles. Once again, your body bends over, presenting your bare ass to him. This time willingly as if to ask him to just fuck you however he wants.

"Tell me what you want," Slade licks a stripe up your spine, tasting sweat and desperation on your flesh and stopping at the back of your neck. You can feel him nip at your flesh. "What do you want me to do?"

All of that, you thought greedily. I want you to fuck me, use me, make me cum over and over. I don’t care how you use me.

"Would you rather I tell you what I want to do to you, kitten?" The hand shoved between legs is rubbing shallow circles on your clit. The motion easily cuts off whatever coherent reply was resting on your lips. You bow your sweat-drenched back into his chest. The hairs on his chest prickle your back. “I’ll tell you exactly how I intend to use a pretty little slut like you.” He grabs your neck, giving it a light but firm squeeze, his thumb brushing against your pulse. “I’m going to have you gagging around my cock as fuck your throat raw,” he growls. It sounds like a threat but it sends shivers up your spine. “Don’t worry, kitten, I won’t come down your throat. You know me better than that. I’d rather give you a string of pearls to decorate your wonderful breasts,” he says squeezing one roughly in his large hand. Your tongue lolls out thinking of just how much you want this. Slade brings down his palm against your ass; the same broad palm kneads your flesh feeling the familiar heat emanate from the red blooming on your skin. “Then I’ll fuck that tight little ass of yours.” You gasp as he enters your pussy in one swift thrust. The rhythm of his thrusts mimics the one on the screen, slowing down when he feels your insides strangling his cock. He whispers every filthy promise you don’t even dare dream of.

“Do you want to cum?”

“Yeees,” you sigh into your arms. “Please.”

“Ask nicely.” You’re going to kill him.

“Please, Slade. I-”

“Oh errr-” You freeze. You turn your head to look over your shoulder. You make a horrified bleat when you see one of the security guards standing meekly at the door. He doesn’t bother to hide how blatantly he’s watching as Slade continues to fuck into you drawing little sighs and gasps out of you. Your walls flutter around Slade, sweet and tight drawing a growl out of him. Slade looks over his shoulder as if he’d just noticed your audience. “Patrick, do you think you could give us a few minutes?” Slade grunts slowing his movements. Patrick seemingly surfaces from his slack-jawed haze. “Yes, of course, Mr. Wilson! Right away.” He scampers off shutting the door in a violent haste.

“You know him?” you gasp, twisting your body to scowl at him. His pace slows even more as he pretends to thin his answer over. “He’s caught me a few times,” he says offhandedly. You have no idea why this surprises you. “You’re not the first slut I’ve fucked over this desk.” You shiver as Slade pushes you back down onto the table, keeping you still with a hand around your throat. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he teases, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades. “You’d want me to fuck that tight little cunt while he watches.” The hot breath fanning against your skin draws a shiver from you.

“What do you think, kitten?” he asks, nipping at your ear. “Don’t worry he won’t mind. No one would mind watching that cute little ass of yours.” You whine in a half-hearted protest. It’s loud and you think you’ll get caught again. Slade seems to think so too as he instructs you to open your mouth. Your skin feels too hot and your mind is hazy so you obey fully expecting to press his fingers into your mouth. Instead, he stuffs a lacy piece of cloth into your mouth. You make the mistake of flicking your eyes back to the screen to investigate. In your mouth was your lacy underwear from the other night and on the screen was...

There he sits with the ease of a hedonistic king while one woman sucks on his cock, tears pricking the edges of her eyes, and the other riding his fingers chasing her own high as he devours her mouth. The satisfaction of your jealousy heats Slade’s veins. “Sometimes double is better, don’t you agree, kitten.” You make a dissenting whine cresting over your lips. “Don’t worry we’ll let you try it at some point.”

“Men would pay good money to watch you like that-” Slade tilts your chin, squeezing your chin and forcing you to look at the screen as Slade fucks the woman's throat raw. “or like this-” Slade’s cock plunges into you, deep and filling and hitting all the right spots. Your nails drag against the desk feeling your insides clench around him. He leans into your ear, voice a husky whisper. “They’d pay even better money to have their cocks where mine is-” thrust “-right-” thrust ”-now.” You whimper around the cloth in your mouth. You tighten around him at the thought of other people vying for your attention and Slade claiming you as his while they looked on with jealousy. Slade barks out a laugh, gripping hard above the arches of your hips to bounce you back on his cock. You’re so close. You’re going to cum. You cum with a shrill cry. Slade fucks you relentlessly through your orgasm, grunting loudly against your ear.

He takes his cock out of you. You feel something warm spill all over your ass. It’s sticky and hot and you don’t need to look to know what it was.

He takes your panties out of your mouth. Your breath, greedily sucking in air but it turns into a gasp when you feel the lacy cloth rubbing against your oversensitive skin.“Gotta keep this place clean, kitten- This is a high-class establishment after all.” You don’t protest as he tosses your cum covered panties into your pile of clothes. You simply press your body against the cool surface of the table and let out a tired little sigh.

“Feel free to delete the videos if you want. I already have my own copy,” he says casually waving a USB stick as he walks towards the door. “As I said before, just tell me if you want a copy. I’ll happily give you a copy… for a favor.”

“Fuck you.”

“Anytime, kitten.”

You hear the door close. You’re going to have to work to get your clothes back on. Your limbs feel like noodles but first, you click on your video and delete them. You saw several people on the members' list you want nowhere near you or your videos. Your skin heats again at the thought of those people bidding just to- You push it out of your mind and hit the delete button.

You breathe a sigh of relief.

Bonus:

Slade brings his phone up to his ear after typing in a familiar set of digits. “How did you like it?”

“Wilson, you’ve got her trained well,” Roman’s gravelly voice, says roughly strained from arousal as he replays some highlights.

“Indeed, I do.”

“How much?”

Slade hums, taking his time to answer. “How much are you willing to pay?”

“You would be surprised.”

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THANKS FOR READING

Tag list: @batarella , @anothertimdrakestan , @lucy-roo , @multifandomgirl-us , @idkmanicantenglish ,@birdy-bat-writes , @americasmarauders , @l-inkage , @arestorationofbalance , @cloudie-skay , @wunderstell @hyp-oh-critical @glorified-red

#slade wilson smut #slade wilson imagine #slade wilson x reader #deathstroke x reader #deathstroke #slade wilson

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princess-of-riviaa · 5 years ago

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Tastes So Good

Pairing: Walter Marshall x Reader

Summary: He’s your best friend’s step-dad, but that hasn’t stopped you from lusting after him since day one.

Author’s Note: Dark(ish) oneshot with Henry Cavill’s Walter Marshall from Night Hunter. Although he has a daughter in the movie, the character Ana is made up for this story.

Warning(s): age gap (reader is 18), daddy kink, size kink

Word Count: 4.1k (I’m really sorry, this was supposed to be short but my Henry-Cavill-thirsty ass can’t shut up about this man)

YOU

“I’m gonna go get a drink,” you told Ana as you climbed out of the pool, water droplets sliding down your body.

Your best friend didn’t even reply, too caught up in the conversation she was having with her boyfriend. The pool was filled with people and the backyard was loud. Ana knew a lot of people and had invited at least thirty people to her seventeenth birthday. Your birthday was last week, and though it was a milestone--18 years old, you were finally an adult!--you had opted to just spend the day with Ana at the mall.

You walked inside the house. Everyone was busy partying outside, so the living room was completely vacant and quiet. You entered the kitchen to find Mr. Marshall standing at the island with a cake, looking very much out of his depth. You giggled at the look on his face. He wasn’t one to get overwhelmed easily. And he clearly had yet to realize he wasn’t alone, otherwise his face would have been a blank mask. It was impossible to tell what your best friend’s dad was thinking at any given time.

That was the main reason you’d refrained from making a move on him all these years; that, and the fact that, as a loyal follower of the law, he wouldn’t have gone anywhere near you as a minor. So you were left to your own fantasies of what those muscled arms would feel like wrapped around you and exactly how skilled those hands were at certain activities.

But now you were an adult. And currently, you were half naked, dripping in his kitchen. You mustered up your courage and moved closer to him. “Need help with the cake?”

He looked up at you, then eyed your outfit and the way it did little to cover up your intimate parts. Though his eyes lingered, his face was unreadable as always. He said, “I didn’t hear you come in, Y/N.”

You gave him your sexiest smirk. “I’m good at sneaking around.”

Whether he caught the double meaning in your words or not, he said, “This is embarrassing but, uh, I can’t seem to figure out this icing.”

You laughed and walked around to his side of the island. He held the icing container in his hands, though the cake was still undecorated.

“I’m not exactly an artist,” he admitted.

You held your hand out to him. “Good thing I am.” You weren’t an artist actually, but you did know how to cook and bake, and you’d been decorating cookies and cupcakes since you were a little girl.

He handed the container over to you and began your work. You were only half aware of the way he watched your tongue stick out slightly in your concentration, though the majority of your attention was on the icing. It took no more than five minutes to cover the cake and write “Happy Birthday Ana” on the top. Your body had stopped dripping with pool water by the time you finished.

“Thank you,” Mr. Marshall sighed, clearly relieved. “The cake would have been a horror show if I had touched it.”

You giggled.

He grabbed the container and slid some frosting onto his finger before handing the container to you. “Want some?”

You nodded, but instead of taking the container you grabbed his hand. His eyes were locked on you as you put his finger in your mouth and licked the icing off, keeping your eyes on his the entire time. You continued licking his finger long after you’d gotten all the frosting off and moaned before saying, “Tastes so good.”

“You really don’t know when to stop,” he said, but he didn’t pull his hand away, his focus locked on your mouth.

You watched his gaze darken as you added a second finger to your mouth and began sucking and licking, showing him just how good you could make him feel if you had another part of him in your mouth. You pulled his hand back just to say, “I’m eighteen now, you know.”

His blue eyes jumped back to yours. For a second he looked between your eyes and your mouth, and your stomach clenched because you thought this is it, he’s finally going to kiss me. But he looked away and sighed. “You’re Ana’s best friend.”

“She’s thinking about graduation and college and her boyfriend,” you pointed out. “I doubt she’s really going to care who her father is fucking--”

He snapped back to look at you and brought his hand back to his side. His expression was hard, cold. “I never said anything about sex, Y/N.”

You raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “So you don’t want to fuck me? You don’t want me on my knees for you, my tongue teasing the tip of your co--”

He closed the distance between you and grabbed your chin in his hands, making you shut up. “Don’t say another word.”

“Tell me you don’t want me,” you dared, your hand trailing down his chest. “Tell me you don’t want me to touch you, or you don’t want to see me naked, or you don’t want me writhing beneath you and moaning your name--”

His mouth was against yours a second later. The kiss was fast and rough and dizzying. His beard scraped against your jaw and the feeling made your stomach knot with need. You moaned into his mouth, half out of surprise and half out of lust, and he wrapped an arm around your waist to pull you tighter against him. The outline of his erection pressed against your bare stomach. You wrapped your hand around his length and began to stroke him over his jeans.

But as quickly as he’d kissed you, he stepped back. A shaking hand shook his curls out of his face. You stepped towards him but he spun and put his back to you. “I can’t do this. You’re a child.”

“Mr. Marshall--” you began, but he was gone before you could finish your sentence.

...

WALTER

The house is quiet when he comes home from work. Ana is at her mom’s until summer break, so he has the place to himself for the next two months. He tosses a frozen, pre-prepped dinner in the microwave and waits for it to warm up. One glance at the island, at the spot where he’d kissed Y/N less than forty-eight hours ago makes his stomach knot. She’d offered herself up completely for him, the picture of temptation, and he’d almost given in. He’d almost fucked her right on the island besides his daughter’s birthday cake. His dick twitches in his pants at the thought of it. Ana’s best friend. Of all fucking women to be attracted to, it had to be his daughter’s best friend.

The microwave beeps and he jumps, startled from his thoughts. He takes the steaming food out--an unappealing meal of chicken and steamed vegetables--and grabs a fork before moving to the living room. He opens the file of his current case and begins reading the overviews of the top three suspects.

Walter’s only halfway through his meal before there’s a knock at his door. He’s instantly tense. Ana is at her mom’s. There’s no one else who should be knocking on his door at eight in the evening. He grabs his gun from the kitchen table, where he’d set it down after coming home, and heads to the front door. One look through the peephole tells him it’s Y/N. He sighs and tucks his gun into the back of his jeans before opening the door.

She’s dressed in a black trench coat and heels. It’s May, so the weather doesn’t warrant the need for a trench coat, and Walter’s instantly suspicious. He can see the faint shine of lipgloss on her mouth and her hair is hanging around her shoulders and wavy--she didn’t straighten it like she normally does (which is definitely not a feature he’s noticed about her, that she can’t stand her natural hair and straightens it every morning before going anywhere).

“Y/N,” he sighed, hating how his body reacted to the sight of her--his hands longed to reach out to her; his mouth ached to kiss hers; and his dick was suddenly alert and awake. “Isn’t it a school night?”

“I graduated last year,” she reminds him. “You keep forgetting that I’m a year older than Ana.”

Ana. The first and foremost reason Walter couldn’t claim Y/N as his own.

“She’s not here,” he told her.

“I know,” Y/N confessed. “I just finished hanging out with her an hour ago. She’s cramming for her AP tests next week.”

“Then why are you here?” Walter questioned. It came out colder than he’d intended for it to, but if being mean made Y/N go away then he’d do it, even if he didn’t like it.

But it seemed to have the opposite effect. Her eyes lit up, making the brown of her irises look golden. “Can I come in?” When he opened his mouth to say no, she added, “I’m thirsty.”

He sighed. It would be ungentlemanly to turn her away while she was needing a drink, so he stepped back and let her in. He walked to the kitchen and she followed him. She stayed back as he poured her a glass of water. But when he offered her the glass, she didn’t take it.

She looked up at him through long lashes. “That’s not what I’m thirsty for.” Before he could respond, she untied her coat and let it fall to the floor. She didn’t wear anything more than a bra and underwear underneath. They must have been a set because they were the same shade of baby pink and had the same lace designs. Walter’s dick jumped, straining against his jeans that were suddenly too tight.

“What are you doing, Y/N?” He questioned, but his voice came out weak and breathy. God, the things he wanted to do to this girl.

Y/N stepped closer to him and said, “I’m proving to you that I’m not a child.”

YOU

Your heart had been racing as you’d knocked on the door, when he answered it, when he finally let you in... But the look on his face when you took off the coat had made all of it worth it. He wanted you. You knew that without a doubt now. And tonight you were both going to get what you wanted.

“Y/N...” he said as you knelt in front of him. His tone was a warning, but he did nothing to fight you off as you reached for the button of his jeans.

You pulled down his jeans and boxers enough to release his cock. You gasped at the sight of it, already hard. Hard for you.

“What are you--fuck!” He cried out once you wrapped your mouth around his tip. You ran your tongue along the sides of his cock, teasing him. “I’m going to hell for this,” Mr. Marshall moaned as he closed his eyes and let himself enjoy you.

You spit onto his head and wrapped your hand around him, moving your spit up and down his entire length. He was large in length and girth and you struggled to fit all of him in your mouth. The tip of his cock brushed against your throat and you struggled not to gag and you continued taking in all of him. You struggled to breathe through your nose as he gripped your hair and began moving your mouth along him to a speed that he liked. You coughed and gagged, your throat tightening around his length with every other thrust, but he didn’t stop fucking into your mouth. Your eyes began to water. Your tears mixed with drool but you didn’t care. You’d wanted this for so long, wanted to taste him and let him use you, and now he finally was. God, you loved being legal. His cock twitched in your mouth. You’d been with enough guys to know that that meant he was close to coming. You moaned around him and he grunted as he began thrusting into your mouth faster, faster, faster--

And then his cum was shooting down your throat. It was warm and salty--addicting. You wanted to taste him again and again. After several moments he pulled out of your mouth. The kitchen was filled with the sound of both of you breathing heavily.

You looked up at him, your eyes still watery and vision still slightly blurred. His eyes met yours and he cursed under his breath. With the tears and drool all over your face, you probably looked disgusting. You stood up and stepped towards the sink, wanting to clean yourself off, but he just pulled you against him and kissed you. His lips were soft but rough against your own, a completely different feeling from his cock. His tongue pressed against your mouth and you parted your lips, letting him lick inside your mouth. He was rough and needy and impatient, fighting for dominance against your tongue. You let him win, basking in the way his tongue licked inside your mouth and made you feel like he was kissing every inch of you at once.

“Jump,” he breathed into your mouth. He moved his hands under your thighs and you understood what he wanted. You jumped and he wrapped your legs around his waist, your mouths never leaving each other. You gripped his curls in your hands, clinging to him. He began walking somewhere but you didn’t know where. You were too busy kissing him like your life depended on it to notice what was going on around you.

He finally set you down against something soft and warm. You pulled away from him to see you were now in the living room. He’d lain you down on the couch, still slightly warm from where he’d been sitting a few minutes ago. There was a TV tray to your left, upon which sat a plate of chicken and broccoli, half-eaten, and a folder with work documents inside.

“Mr. Marshall,” you said as you looked up at his body hovering over yours.

He frowned and said, “Don’t call me that, Y/N.”

“What would you prefer?” you wondered.

“I’d prefer for you to stop talking so I can kiss you,” he said before latching his mouth onto yours.

You moaned into his mouth and reached for him. You clutched his shirt in your hands and struggled to take it off. He understood what you wanted and pulled back just long enough so he could take it off and toss it on the ground. He leaned towards you again but you pushed his chest back, wanting to admire all the muscle and hair on his chest. He looked even bigger without a shirt on. You hadn’t thought that was possible. He was twice your size and ripped with muscle, from his shoulders to his abs. His arms were huge too, veins barely visible along his biceps. You eyed the dark hairs that swirled around his pecs and the hair along his stomach waist, which disappeared beneath his jeans.

“Like what you see?” The words were joking but his voice was serious.

“You have no idea,” you admitted before reaching for his jeans. “Take these off.”

He paused and considered something. “Tell me you’re not a virgin.”

“Would you still fuck me if I was?” you wondered, purely curious.

He thought about it. “I don’t know. I can’t say yes, but I can’t say no either. Your first time should be right. You should be with someone you care about, a boyfriend that’s actually your age.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his sweet words. “Well then it’s a good thing I’m not a virgin,” you said as you began tugging at his pants.

“Someone’s impatient,” he noted as he rose to his feet and undressed himself.

“I’ve been wanting you to fuck me for two years,” you admitted. “Of course I’m impatient.”

“With that filthy mouth, I’m not sure why I ever thought you were a virgin in the first place.”

You didn’t reply. The words had been lost in your throat as you took in the sight of him in front of you. His thighs were thick and sculpted with muscle like a greek god. You wanted to ride those thighs, to feel them clench and press against your pussy as you came on top of him... You eyed his cock, already growing hard again. His body was so perfect it was unreal. The thought of this man fucking you... You moaned.

He was back on top of you a second later. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pressing him against your clothed core as he looked down at you. He took in your dark, lustful gaze; the way your mouth parted with need; the way you arched your throat for him to kiss.

“How bad do you want me, baby girl?” he whispered in your ear before sucking on your earlobe.

You threw your head back and latched onto his shoulders. You were dripping for him already. You had no doubt you’d already stained your thong--the thong you’d bought specifically with him in mind. He pressed his bare thigh to your core and applied just enough pressure to make you moan. “Fuck, daddy!” you cried out, and then you froze with embarrassment. You couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Daddy, hmm?” he growled into your ear. “I like the sound of that, little one.”

You moaned and writhed beneath him, bucking your hips up against his thigh.

“You’re dripping,” he breathed, feeling your wetness pool in your underwear. “Already so needy for me.”

“Fuck me,” you moaned.

“Ask nicely,” he replied with a smirk as he kissed down your neck and chest before grabbing your breasts between his hands.

Your body warmed under his touch as he massaged your breasts in his large hands, which made you look so tiny underneath him. “Please fuck me, daddy!”

“Shit, baby girl,” he breathed before burying his face between your breasts--

And then ripped your bra clean off. You gasped in surprised and looked down to find your breasts bare to the world, your nipples hardening in the cold air. “That was a hundred dollars!”

His blue eyes jumped to yours. “I’ll buy you a new one,” he promised before taking one of your nipples in his mouth and squeezing the other one between his fingers.

You moaned and clenched onto his hair as he made your body writhe with pleasure. “Daddy... I need you inside of me.” Your hips continued to buck up desperately. You rubbed your core along his thick thigh, but that wasn’t enough. Not right now. You needed his cock. You needed him to make you come undone.

“Okay, baby girl,” he agreed before pulling back and resting his weight on his thighs. He eyed your thong and smirked mischievously. “Well, since your bra’s already ruined...” In one quick pull he ripped your panties in half. “Might as well finish these off too.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he raised your underwear to his nose and sniffed the mere sight of that filthy act made your walls clench around nothing.

“You smell like heaven, baby girl,” he muttered. “I can’t way to see what you feel like.”

You whined and reached for him. He let you hold onto his forearm as he lined himself up with your entrance and entered you. You cried out, both in pleasure and in pain at the size of him.

His gaze jumped to you. “I really don’t want to stop, but if you need me to--”

You shook your head. “Just go slow.”

He hesitated before pushing himself further inside of you. Your walls clenched so tightly around him that you thought you were going to cum before he’d even bottomed out. He leaned forward and kissed you softly as he entered you further. Your moans and occasional whimpers were swallowed in his mouth between kisses. It took a full minute for him to fit all the way inside of you. Even then he didn’t move for another minute, letting you adjust to his size. He kissed you deeply as he began to move inside of you. His hands grabbed onto your breasts and began massaging them again. You cried out, already feeling yourself too close to the edge.

“You gotta stop,” you breathed, “or I’m gonna cum.”

“That’s the goal,” he replied against your lips and moved even faster inside of you.

You cried out, clutching tightly to him as your vision went white and you came around his cock. He didn’t slow his pace, didn’t show any mercy on your body as he claimed you as his own.

“Fuck daddy...” you whimpered.

“You feel so good baby, feel so good around daddy’s cock,” he murmured, clutching tightly to you as he picked up his pace again. “I want you to cum again. Cum for daddy, baby girl.”

Your legs were already clenching tightly around his waist as you neared your second orgasm. He felt like pure heaven inside of you. His cock was so big, touching every inch of you as he pounded away. Within a matter of seconds you threw your head back and came again, milking his cock with all the energy left inside of you.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck. “You’re gonna make me cum, baby girl.”

“Cum inside me,” you moaned, only half aware of everything in your blissful state.

He continued fucking you hard as he said, “As much as I want to, and you have no idea how badly I wanna fucking cum inside your tight little pussy, I’m not about to start something I can’t finish.”

“Then cum in my mouth,” you compromised. “I wanna taste you again.”

He groaned at your words and tightened his grip on your hips, chasing his own high. He let out filthy groans and grunts as he fucked you. The look on his face was so fucking hot--the way his mouth fell open in a grunt, how his eyes and nose scrunched up in absolute pleasure. God, it was filthy. He pounded into you a few more times and then pulled out of you in a flash.

“Get on your knees,” he barked.

You complied and a second later he shot his load straight into your mouth, your lips wrapped around his cock. You swallowed every last drop of his warm seed, savoring the bitter aftertaste.

He pulled out of you once he was done and sat down on the couch. The look on his face was impossible to read. “You should get home. It’s late.” He wouldn’t look you in the eye.

You shook your head, though he couldn’t see. “No. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to have your way with me and then just kick me.”

His eyes were cold when they flicked up to you. “That’s what you wanted.”

“I wanted the first part,” you agreed, “not the part where you treat me like a whore after.”

He looked like you’d slapped him. “Y/N, we shouldn’t have--”

“But we did!” you exclaimed. “And we both liked it.”

He breathed in deeply. “You’re right. I’m sorry. You’re not a whore, Y/N. I care about you, and that’s why I can’t let this happen again.”

“No,” you were sobbing now, your heart breaking right in front of him. “You don’t get to do that either. Don’t act like you’ve had your fill of me!”

“What the hell do you want me to do?” he shot back. “It’s not like you can be my girlfriend. I can’t take you out on normal dates. Even if you were closer to my age, my lifestyle... I don’t have room in my life to date someone.”

“You mean you can’t risk it,” you clarified. “You can’t risk losing someone.”

“No!” he agreed. “And I sure as hell can’t risk losing you!”

The fear was clear in his eyes. You didn’t know what to do to comfort him. So you just straddled his lap and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, hugging him for as long as he needed it. Hesitantly, he hugged you back.

“Okay,” you agreed. “We’ll figure this out. But you don’t get to shut me out.”

His arms just wrapped tighter around you in answer, like he was never going to let you go.

#henry cavill #henry cavill smut #henry cavill kiss #walter marshall #walter marshall smut #night hunter #geralt the witcher #clark kent #superman #charles brandon

1K notes · View notes

chibinekochan · 4 years ago

Text

Angel in Hell Season 2 part 3

part 1 | 2 |

Gen. reader insert.

Words 2k

Taglist:

@gothjuulpod ; @purgatoryhall ; @sibit360 ; @a-personnamed-ace ; @romy350-romyakari

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

Simeon comes not long after. You have never been so glad to see his concerned face.

Your face lights instantly up, strange how Simeon simply entering a room brightens your day so much.

Simeon lets out a deep, relieved breath when he sees your smile. He must've been so worried about you.

He looks at Beel and Belphie, who are laying on the bed without a care in the world.

Then Simeon looks at you. "What happened?"

Belphie answers nonchalantly. "Satan lost it and is now a danger to our angel here."

Simeon is very surprised. "Wait, I don't quite understand."

"I don't think anyone can completely understand him right now, but he suffers from this obsession with MC being back. He just can't grasp the truth." Beel casts his eyes down, concealing all his sadness. He folds his hands, like this will prevent him from falling apart.

You nod. "It must be so hard for him to see me." Your heart feels heavy.

"This is not your fault," Simeon reassures you.

You find this hard to believe.

"He is right. Even if you would look different, I don't think it would change anything. Ever since MC… Ever since that day. Satan has been getting more and more obsessed with finding their soul, bringing them back. I tried talking sense into him, but he is like a black hole." Belphie sounds frustrated.

Beel nods. "Yeah, he only hears what he wants to hear. That's what caused him to get so angry before you came… he just wouldn't stop about MC coming home. When I notified him that it's not like that at all, he just lost it. It was frightening." Beel looks defeated, guilty like he somehow did something wrong.

Seeing his own brother like this must be so painful. You feel bad for Beel.

"This must've been very scary for you. I have already made arrangements for you to stay in our room, just in case. After the stunt that Lucifer pulled yesterday, Diavolo came personally and put an extra bed in the room. It's a bit cramped now, but it will be best for you to stay with us. At least until Satan and Lucifer see reason again." Simeon seems very troubled, but at least he has taken action.

"I think you are right." You don't know if it's the right choice, it's just the best thing right now.

You know with Simeon and Luke you will be safe.

"He is right, and don't think too harshly of Satan right now he is…" Beel tries to find the right word.

"Crazy." Belphie chimes in.

"He is so sad it consumed his mind." Beel can't seem to find the right words, but you get the sentiment.

"I don't think he is bad. He is just lost." You can't really understand how much this must torment Satan, but you feel deep in your heart that he wasn't always like this. In moments like this, you are grateful for your connection with your former incarnation.

"You are so kind." Simeon smiles at you, with mingled emotions on his face.

"Don't worry, I will talk to him again. He will eventually understand." Beel gives you a light smile.

"Better give him a good beating." Belphie shakes his head.

"I will do that if it's necessary." Beel doesn't even hesitate.

You didn't expect Beel to go this far. "I hope it won't come to that. "

Simeon shoots you a glance filled with sympathy. "I hope so too."

Beel nods in agreement, none of you want to fight. Especially not your family.

There must be a better way. You clench your hands.

Simeon places a hand on your shoulder. This somehow causes your body to relax.

“Don't worry there are many people here that will support you no matter what," Simeon speaks with a soothing tone.

The warmth of his hand assures you of his support, and you feel grateful.

"Thank you, Simeon, and thank you too." You look at Simeon and the twins, not wanting to neglect them for their help.

You have to put together something delicious for Beel once everything has calmed down.

"No problem, make sure to eat something later." Beel has seen the food you left behind in the kitchen.

"I will try. Take care of yourselves." You smile at both brothers.

Belphie casts a slight, troubled smile, your way. Beel nods with a light smile. "We will."

With this, you and Simeon leave.

Simeon looks around, he must be on edge with the latest threats. You feel like a considerable burden to him. He has been nothing but kind and supportive, but here you are causing problems.

Simeon notices the look on your face. "No one is blaming you for this mess. Don't think you have to fix it in any kind of way."

You look at him, unsure of what to say. You know he is right but yet you have this deep urge to fix everything. Deep in your hearts are feelings that don't seem to be your own. Probably from the human that you once were. It's painful.

You barely nod.

Simeon adds nothing else until you are in his and Luke's room.

The room is indeed a bit crammed with the extra bed squeezed in between the other beds.

It almost looks like one huge bed.

"Hey Luke, I'm sorry to intrude. I didn't even ask you for permission to stay." You feel guilty about this.

"Don't mind it. I think we should have done this from the start." Luke is very supportive, which gives you immense relief.

"It seemed to be the right move at the time." Simeon has a complicated expression.

"How about some tea. I have some freshly made cake." Luke has everything already prepared. He made your favorite cake and has this hopeful expression on his face.

You can't say no to this. "Sure, thank you, Luke."

In your head, you apologize to your body and sit down with them.

You eat some very delicious cake, but you just can't shake this feeling. It's been nagging at you ever since yesterday, maybe even earlier.

"Don't you think it would be best for me to return to heaven?" With pleading eyes, you glance at Luke and then at Simeon. Your eyes linger on his face. He bites his lips.

"I don't want to tell you what you should do, but you should know that would mean they will cleanse you." Simeon is very conflicted about this.

You look at your own hands. "Wouldn't that be best for everyone?" Your heart aches. With you being here how will everyone ever heal?

"No, it wouldn't be best for everyone," Simeon says sternly as he almost yells, you are surprised by his sudden tone shift. It's almost like he is upset by this thought.

You are confused as to why this would trouble him.

Simeon notices your surprise. "Sorry, I don't want to get loud." He looks away.

"You might not know this yet, but cleansing would mean your memories will be completely erased, and you will be retrained. You might never see either of us ever again, and even if you do, you wouldn't recognize us…" Luke ends with a pained tone in his voice.

Your eyes widen. "I had no idea." Your memories with Simeon and Luke are so precious, you don't want to lose them.

"He is right. That is why I don't want to take you back to heaven. At least not without the archangels agreement to leave your current memories intact." Simeon looks at you with a complicated expression.

You draw a sharp breath. This means that Simeon is currently defying the rules of heaven for you. "Why would you do that?" You know very well what this could mean for Simeon. He could receive severe punishment, even if the archangels agree to Simeon's request.

"I simply don't want to lose you." Simeon gives you the saddest smile that you have ever seen.

A simple answer that bears so much weight. Your mouth opens and closes, unable to say anything. Your head is a mess.

"I feel the same way. You are a precious friend to both of us, right Simeon?" Luke chimes in.

Simeon hums in agreement. The word friend makes you feel complicated. You don't know why. Maybe you just don't want to know.

You finish your cake. A swirl of thoughts in your head.

You excuse yourself to take a shower.

Your head just starts to go off all on its own.

Leaving might be the best for the brothers but yourself? You aren't sure about that.

There seems no way out of this mess. If you stay you hurt people and are in possible danger. But if you leave you will lose yourself and the people dearest to you.

Then there is Lucifer's threat. You can't be sure he wouldn't try to get you back no matter what.

That seems to be the biggest issue right now.

The last thing you want is a celestial war. Could you prevent that by regaining the memories of MC?

It doesn't sound like it would be easy at least.

What would happen if you would remember all the old memories? You would essentially become two people.

It probably would solve some issues but what about you?

You might lose yourself.

Unable to let that thought go, you finish up and approach Simeon once more.

Luke has gone somewhere else.

"Do you feel a bit better now?" Simeon still sits at the table.

"I couldn't shut my brain off." You feel almost bad about this.

"It's alright you are dealing with many things right now. Take your time." Simeon gently offers you a seat next to him.

You gladly take the offer, even when you also feel like you could just curl up and sleep for the next hundred years.

"Something kinda bothers me." You sigh and look at Simeon. Where should you even start?

"You can tell me anything. You know I have your back no matter what." Simeon gently encourages you.

He is right, there isn't anything that you can't tell him.

You take a small breath. "What Satan said about getting the memories from my previous life back… Is that really possible?" You anxiously bite your lip.

Simeon thinks for a moment. "Usually it's impossible, but your case is different. I'm not sure why but the connection between your current and your previous life wasn't completely severed. The proof being your looks but also the fact that your pacts remain. Frankly, I have never seen or heard about anything like this. So to make a long story short it could be possible." Simeon himself seems unsure about this.

"If it's possible what would, that mean for me?" Your eyes waver when you look at Simeon. His expression mirrors your uncertainty.

"I'm unsure. You might end up losing your mind, or your memories will just flow into each other. This is completely uncharted territory. I think I will have to call an old friend for some information on that." Simeon isn't sure what to say, but he has an idea.

"An old friend?" You wonder who it is.

"He was an exchange student here before. He is a very powerful magician from the human realm." Simeon smiles with a slight hint of fondness.

"So this wizard knows about MC?" You wonder what kind of person he might be.

"Yes, we all got along pretty well." Simeon nods.

"Will he help Lucifer or us?" You aren't sure if you can trust him.

"Well, he will definitely find this very interesting, and I'm certain he will leave the ultimate decision to you." Simeon smiles, somehow that gives you some confidence.

"Sounds pretty good." You smile weakly and suddenly you start yawning.

"You must be very tired. You should rest." Simeon feels bad he just noticed.

"You are probably right. I just don't think that I will be able to sleep." Your head feels all jumbled, just as much as your heart.

"That's alright, just lay down and try to rest. I will watch over you." He speaks so softly, yet his words have a deep impact on you.

"I will do that. Thank you, Simeon." You almost add more, unsure of what more you want to tell him.

You lay down on your brand-new bed. The sheets smell and feel unfamiliar. It's hard to get comfortable. You fight with the blankets, trying to find a way to get comfortable.

The issue isn't the bed; it's you.

"Want me to sing you a lullaby?" Simeon sits on his bed. He is very close, you can see him with his usual smile when you peek from under your blanket.

You laugh softly. "You know I'm not a child right?"

"Of course, I just thought it might help. It's alright if you don't want it." Simeon almost seems offended when you call yourself a child.

You are unwilling to miss this rare opportunity to hear him singing. "Please sing for me, Simeon." You plead with him, even giving him some puppy eyes.

Simeon laughs a little. "Alright, I might be a bit rusty." He clears his voice. "Close your eyes first." Simeon is uncharacteristically embarrassed.

You smile and do as he tells you.

His song is an old angel lullaby, he is singing so softly that it soothes your head. Slowly your breath calms down, and you find yourself fast asleep. You must be very exhausted.

Before your consciousness fully slips away you can hear Simeon whisper, "Good night."

It also feels like he caresses your head but that might be nothing but wishful thinking on your part.

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

Coming next: Our favorite shady wizard boy.

#obey me #angel in hell #obey me fanfic #obey me!#omswd #obey me angel au #obey me shall we date #obey me simeon

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anon-natalia-romanova · 3 years ago

Text

By the time we clear the door into the Hydra base I’m trembling. They push you left and pull me right, down a different hallway and when I can’t see you anymore, I feel unadulterated fear for the first time. Until now I was hiding it with a thick blanket of rage but as the space grows between us, I realize that I was stronger with you around. I don’t have time to dwell on that realization when I’m shoved down into a chair in front of a doctor and my limbs and head are strapped down.

I wince when he wrenches my mouth open, my lip splitting in the same place Madame B backhanded me. I don’t make any sounds, but I catch the soft laughter of the handlers when my tears start to spill, the tugging of wires as they’re removed burn and ache. Everything feels like a violent intrusion. I don’t like people touching me. I don’t like men touching me. I want to cut all of their hands off and watch them writhe in pain and it’s that thought I hold on to while the doctor works. A rough gag comes from deep within my chest as the feeding tube is removed.

When everything is finished the doctor looks from me to my two handlers. “Лечится сразу после солдата.” (She gets treatment directly after the soldier.) Treatment? For what? I’m not ill, but I don’t have a whole lot of time to wonder what that meant. My limbs are freed and I’m hauled up from my seat by my arms. This time they don’t let me walk on my own. I’m dragged a couple inches off the ground and while they weren’t gentle before, this level gruffness is new and alarming.

____

The first thing I notice when I enter what I assume is the treatment room is how many people are there. This must be their main attraction. The thought turns to ash in my mind when I realize that you’re in the middle of the room, shirtless, restrained, with a bite guard. Concern paints its way across my face in brilliant red when your screaming starts. I try to rip my arms from their grasp so I can cover my ears but it’s no use and my eyes spill a fountain of tears again as you convulse.

“Стой! Перестань! Ты ему больно!” ("Stop! Stop it! You are hurting him!")

It’s the first words I’ve uttered in weeks and they’re screamed. My throat burns from strain but no one pays me any attention. Not even a second glance and I could swear that I've turned ethereal to everyone in this room. It feels like an eternity before you go slack in the chair, chest heaving, body shining with sweat, eyes trying to focus. The halo lifts and your head lifts, fixing me with a thousand-mile stare that pierces right through me. I didn’t know you that well, but I felt like a reset button on who I did know had been pounded violently.

I don’t even realize that I’m openly sobbing as I try to find any signs of life in your face, but I don’t find anything. You’re empty and I feel my heart crack like concrete ceilings.

“Солдат?” (“Soldier?”)

“Готовы соответствовать.” (“Ready to comply.”)

“Посадите ее в кресло.” (“Put her in the chair.”)

I watch your jaw lock and your gaze settle on the only “her” in the room. My head starts to shake wildly. “Нет, пожалуйста, нет. Стой, не делай этого. ПОЗВОЛЯТЬ –“(No, please, no. Stop, don't do this. LET -) My pleading is quieted by the metal hand around my throat. The handlers release their grasp on my arms and I pound at your wrist like a toddler. You carry me by my throat from my spot in front of the cabinets to the chair. My incessant kicking at your torso does nothing. This is the Winter Soldier. This is the Fist of Hydra.

My back hits the cold vinyl of the chair and your hand migrates from my throat to my chest, using your weight to anchor me in place. The mouth guard comes up in front of me and I know that if I don’t take it, it’s likely that I’ll rebreak my jaw from sheer bite force. I open to accept it and your fingers cram it all the way into the hinge of my jaw, your hand comes back covered in spit and tears and everything is out of focus with how my eyes spill out of the well of my fear filled chest.

Metal plates clamp down over my arms and a fresh wave of terrorized pleas come from my chest. The halo lowers over my face and I look to you, standing where I was previously. One last pleading look before it's too late. You don't return anything. I should have known better.

I can’t tell if it’s the color of your eyes or the voltage running through my veins but everything turns electric blue.

@fallen-winter-soldier

#wonderboy and the prima ballerina

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degrassi-fanatic · 4 years ago

Text

Your Father’s Son

With his back towards the door of the master bedroom, Reid rests on his side as he attempts to even out his breathing. Though the house is completely silent, he can barely register the sound of the front door clicking open over the breaths he has to heave into his lungs, nor does he notice the footfalls steadily making their way towards his direction, not until Aaron is stood in front of him.

Reid doesn’t bother making eye contact, only dropping his focus to the wooden panels of the bedroom floor and the socks adorning Aaron’s feet.

“You okay?” Aaron asks, the worry evident in his voice as he sits down on the empty space beside Reid.

The only response he receives from Reid is a barely-there nod.

“Doesn’t seem like it.” he says softly.

Without another word, Aaron tugs the younger man upwards, just enough to be able to slide in and sit behind him. Arms wrap around Reid’s midsection, while Aaron pushes his chest further into Reid’s back.

For a while, the two of them remain quiet. Reid doesn’t say anything and Aaron doesn’t ask him anything else, only waiting patiently for him to gather the courage to say whatever it was that was bothering him.

How could he, though?

Everytime Reid merely thinks about what happened, his throat closes up and his eyes begin to sting.

God, it’s just like him to be dealt a mortal blow by a seven year old’s words.

The day had started off as a regular Saturday for the three of them; Aaron went for his daily run, while Reid watched over Jack, who was practicing his soccer drills in the backyard. They all ate breakfast together and soon Morgan was calling Aaron, asking if he was available to help him fix up some houses.

Once Aaron had left Jack and Reid alone in the house, all hell had broken loose. All Reid had done was ask Jack to go finish up his homework so he wouldn’t be cramming Sunday evening, and soon the two of them were arguing over nothing.

For someone with an eidetic memory, his brain didn’t seem to want to recall the details for once. Perhaps, his brain was only trying to protect him from the worst of it all.

Yet, Reid has no clue what could be worse than hearing your son shout that you weren’t his father?

“He said I wasn’t his father.” Reid croaks out, water already collecting in his eyes.

“What?”

“We had a disagreement,” he explains before swallowing hard, in an attempt to keep himself from crying, “Then, suddenly, he was shouting at me that I wasn’t his father.”

Palms run up and down the sides of Reid’s arms to help soothe him but it’s to no avail as he begins to hiccup uncontrollably; tears rolling down his face and dripping down his chin. He presses his face into the side of Aaron’s neck, as if to hide away from all of his problems.

“Jack doesn’t know what he’s saying.” Aaron murmurs softly, almost unheard over the sound of Reid crying.

“Sounded like he did.”

“He’s just a kid,” he says, “Jack didn’t mean it.”

“Easy for you to say.” Reid mumbles into the skin of Aaron’s throat, “You’re his father.”

He hears Aaron sigh before his fingers lace through the thick strands of Reid’s hair, tugging him up to face Aaron. Using the ends of his sleeves, he wipes away at the tears pooling under Reid’s lashline and his runny nose.

“How about this?” he begins, “I’ll get Jack to apologize to you.”

Before he has even finished speaking, Reid is already shaking his head in refusal.

What’s the point? He knows Jack means it, that he doesn’t think of Reid as his father, no matter how many times he calls him Papa.

“Don’t be like that.” Aaron admonishes gently.

Before Reid can start on a disapproving tangent, Aaron gets up from the bed, and heads out of the bedroom, marching down the hall to Jack’s own.

Knowing that there is no way out of the situation, Reid takes a deep breath in as he forces himself to calm down and get a hold of himself; Jack may not be his son but he refuses to let him feel guilty at the sight of Reid crying.

As Reid focuses on drawing in consistent breaths, he hears the telltale sound of sock-clad feet hitting the floor and he looks up to find Aaron carrying Jack. The boy is frowning, and just the sight of him makes Reid want to start crying all over again.

Reid positions himself so he’s sitting cross-legged as Aaron sets Jack down right in front of him on the comforter. Beside the bed, Aaron hovers over Reid with his hands on his hips as he looks at his son expectantly.

“Jack, don’t you have something to say to your papa?” Aaron questions.

In front of him, Jack scrunches up his face in disdain before folding his arms across his chest and pointedly looking away from the two of them.

At his reaction, Aaron loudly exhales before bringing a hand up to wipe at his face, while Reid tries his absolute best to rein in the tears.

“Jack,” Aaron says sternly, “If you don’t apologize to your papa, you’re not going to the planetarium with him tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere with Spencer.” Jack sneers as he finally turns to look at the two of them again.

“Don’t call your papa by his name.” Aaron scolds.

“Why doesn’t Spencer go with Henry, huh?” Jack retorts.

What?

The words are enough to pull Reid out of his little pathetic episode as both he and Aaron twist to look at each other; sharing a look of confusion at the abrupt mention of Henry.

Why on Earth did Jack mention Henry? He had nothing to do with this.

Or did he?

Before anyone else can get another word out, Reid reaches out for Aaron’s hand. He tugs on it to gain his attention before tilting his head in the direction of the door. Needing no further prompting, Aaron leaves both Jack and Reid alone before shutting the door behind him, giving them some privacy.

“Why did you mention Henry?” Reid questions.

“Who cares?”

“I care, Jack.” he says, “Okay, listen, I just want to know why you said I wasn’t your father.”

“Whatever.”

This was going to be a lot harder than Reid thought.

“Jack…”

Scooting closer to the boy, Reid reaches out for Jack’s hands, only to have him yank them away from his grasp. The reaction has Reid biting back a sob because before this afternoon, Jack used to cling to him at every available opportunity. He used to hold Reid’s hand no matter how many times his cousins teased him for not being a big boy. Jack used to climb into Reid’s lap for his bedtime story. He used to—

Jack never used to move away from Reid’s touches.

What had happened to the two of them? What did Reid do to them?

“Why don’t you go ask Henry?” Jack snarls.

And what did Henry have anything to do with all of this?

“What is your problem with Henry?” Reid asks, exasperated, “I thought you two were friends.”

The frown on Jack’s face tapers off. Instead, his brows come together as if he is deep thought. Soon, he drops his head down to stare at the comforter, in place of looking at Reid.

“He is my friend.” he answers back, slowly as if he’s confirming with himself.

“Then, why do you keep mentioning him?”

“Because he’s your godson.” Jack says as if that’s an answer.

“I still don’t know what’s going on, Jack.” Reid pleads.

Jack’s arms fall away from his chest. His tiny hands forming fists in the comforter he’s clutching between his fingers.

“You don’t remember do you?” he questions, quietly.

Reid has no clue where this sudden streak of sadness came from but, all he knows is he wants to remedy it as quickly as he can. He lowers his head enough to meet Jack’s eyes, which are now full of unshed tears.

“Remember what?” Reid asks, gently.

“Last week, you forgot to come to my science fair.” Jack explains as he lifts his head up to look at Reid, “I spent so long making my project and I was going to show it to you and I kept waiting and waiting and waiting but you never showed up. When I asked Dad and Aunt Jess where you were, they thought you already told me you weren’t going to be there.”

Reid had missed Jack’s science fair?

It shouldn’t have been that terribly big of an ordeal except Reid had promised to be there. Jack said he was going to make a project that even someone as smart as Reid would be impressed by, proud of even.

Little did Jack know, Reid was going to be proud, regardless of what he made.

Except he couldn’t be because he had somehow missed it, which should have been impossible with a memory like his and even if it wasn’t, Reid had written it into every single calendar in the house and at the office, and he had Garcia help him set a reminder on his cellphone.

“I thought your science fair was next Tuesday.” Reid admits, brokenly.

How could Reid have missed Jack’s science fair?

“No, it was last Tuesday.” Jack says.

Suddenly, Reid knows exactly why Jack has been mentioning Henry this entire time and it makes his chest ache.

“The same day I went to Henry’s soccer game.” Reid states.

“You picked Henry over me.”

“Hey, that’s not what happened.” he says desperately, “I’m sorry I missed your science fair but I was just confused. I would have been there.”

“No, you wouldn’t have.” Jack corrects as he shakes his head, “You’d probably be helping Henry with his own project.”

“Are you…” Reid begins, “Are you jealous of Henry?”

He doesn’t get an answer from Jack. No nodding or head shaking, no verbal reply, not even a physical movement that Reid could have interpreted.

Yet, Jack’s silence is more than enough of a response.

“You know you’re important to me, Jack?” he reminds him, “I love you.”

“No, you don’t.” he cries, tears finally spilling down his cheeks, “You don’t love me because I’m stupid and I cry like a baby over stupid things and I get nightmares and I mess things up. I make your life suck. I make Dad’s life suck. I make Aunt Jess’s life suck too.”

As Jack takes in a ragged breath, he drops his gaze before shoving his hands underneath his armpits, curling into himself. Sobs wracking through his tiny body with such intensity that it has Reid worried the boy is going to make himself sick.

Reid’s hands move out of their own volition and soon he’s dragging Jack into his lap as he wraps his arms around him, guiding him to rest his head on Reid’s chest. He rubs a palm down his back as Jack lets out sob after sob into Reid’s shirt.

“Hey, shh, you don’t do any of those things.” Reid whispers.

Hair tickles Reid’s neck as he feels Jack shake his head against his chest.

“I do.” he says, “Which is why you love Henry more.”

“I don’t love Henry more.”

“Why not?” Jack asks as he lifts his head off of Reid’s chest, the tears still streaming down his face, “You’ve known him since he was a baby. You’ve only known me for a couple of years.”

“That’s not how love works, Jack.” he explains as he smooths a hand down his hair, “You can’t compare it, and you certainly can’t put its value in time.”

“Henry’s smarter than me too.” he admits as if that’s enough to convince Reid to love him less, “He gets the highest marks in class and he’s not like me. He doesn’t need help with math or reading big words.”

“There’s nothing wrong with needing help.” Reid says, “Everyone needs help at some point.”

“You never need help with reading big words.”

“Well, I’m not like most people.” he reminds, “I’m weird.”

“A good weird.”

A soft smile appears on Reid’s face. It was just like Jack to comfort other people, even when he was the one in need of it. He really was his father’s son.

“Henry is my godson.” Reid says as he cradles Jack’s face with his hands, “But, you Jack? You’re my son. The love I feel for you is different than the one I feel for Henry but, one’s not better than the other; just different.”

Jack darts his eyes downward and stares at the collar of Reid’s shirt, instead of Reid himself. The tears in his eyes have come to a gradual stop.

“So, you’re not gonna get sick of me?” Jack asks quietly.

Later, Reid is going to figure out how on Earth Jack could ever entertain the notion that he, or anyone for that matter, could get sick of him. He’s going to figure out how that idea got into his head and make sure it never does again.

Now, Reid just leans over and presses a soft kiss to Jack’s forehead, his palms still encompassing the boy’s face.

“Never, Jack.” he swears, “Are you gonna get sick of me?”

“Never.”

After a moment, Reid’s palms fall from Jack’s face but the boy doesn’t let him stray far; he grabs at Reid’s fingers and holds his hands in his own like he’s done every other time.

“Why don’t you show me that project you made?” Reid asks.

“It’s okay.” Jack says as he shakes his head, “It’s not that good anyway. I didn’t win anything.”

“Anything you make is award-winning, even if it isn’t to others.” he answers, “After all, you’re my son.”

At his words, Jack flashes Reid his toothy grin.

#criminal minds #hotchreid #~fic~

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sickfic-with-kiko · 4 years ago

Note

hey i love your writing and i was wondering if i could get a flu-y oikawa who is super nauseous but can’t get anything up. cue iwaizami coming and saving the day 🤗. can in have that with lots of burps and fluff ❤️

Take all the time you need I know you’re busy right now! Could you Maybe write something with a sick oikawa? And he hides it from iwa? But then just feels so awful and ends up going to iwa? I’ve never asked something before so I’m not sure How this works? hope this is ok? (｡•́︿•̀｡) I LOVE SICKFIC could you do an iwaizumi one? I don’t care if he’s throwing up or the reader is, or Oikawa is, I really don’t care as long as he is involved haha please I can and will die for any and every oikawa sickfic. all i ask is for emeto and a comforting Iwaizumi :,)

Everything is burning. And for once, Oikawa isn’t exaggerating. He feels like the world is actually on fire, but no. The only thing doing that is his own body, which is arguably the same thing.

He’d finished his report the day before, thank goodness. But that relief does little to help the pain in his… everything. It all feels awful, from his head to his stomach. He hopes he won’t have to throw up.

“I’m going to finish my assignment soon. I’ll be free in a few hours.”

Iwaizumi had said to him, and retreated back into their room to focus on his work. And Oikawa had smiled and waved, ignoring the strange ache in his stomach.

Ten minutes after, Oikawa’s head had started feeling warm. And when another ten minutes had passed, he was certain he had a fever. There was nothing he could do except curl up and wait for it to pass.

After an hour, Oikawa is certain the sickness isn’t going to pass. It’s worsening, for certain. He can feel the queasiness in his stomach pushing and pulling, his breathing hot against his lips.

He wants to go to Iwaizumi, and cling to him for comfort. But he’s busy with his college assignment, and had respected Oikawa’s space when he was cramming words into his report. Oikawa can’t disturb him just because he’s feeling under the weather.

Oikawa grabs a blanket and drapes it over himself, curling against it to get whatever warmth he can out of it. Sleeping on the sofa isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s the softest surface he can lie against.

A groan slips past his lips. Drops of sweat begin to gather on his skin, and a shiver passes through his spine. His upper stomach feels like it’s being stabbed with a blunt object. Tears begin to form in his eyes.

The dizzy feeling in his head presses against his eyes, until it begins to hurt. Before he can do anything about it, it develops into an awful headache. It spreads into his eye sockets and down into his jaw. He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his face against the cushion.

Oikawa wants to cry. His condition has worsened exponentially in a matter of minutes. His stomach is gurgling painfully, and his head pounds periodically, different from his usual migraines. He can barely move without his head swimming.

He attempts to get down from the sofa, and the moment his feet touch the ground, something shifts in his stomach. A dry heave escapes him, leaving his stomach cramped and sore. He crawls onto the floor, still tangled in the blanket.

The trip to the bedroom seems too long, as he drags his feet across the ground. The door is right in front of him. The sudden overwhelming urge to cry strikes him. He’s going to disturb Iwaizumi and ruin his grades. He’s an awful boyfriend. His head hurts so much.

“Iwa-chan…” Oikawa calls out, pushing the door open slightly. He sees the back of Iwaizumi’s head, as he works away at his laptop. A stabbing pain in his stomach makes him whimper and crumple onto the ground.

Whether it’s Oikawa’s miserable voice or the thump that gave him away, Iwaizumi stops what he’s doing. He turns around, and sees the normally sturdy Oikawa in a heap on the ground. “Oi, what’s wrong?” He tears himself out of his seat, making a run towards him.

It’s a moment of acknowledgement for Oikawa, and he breaks. “I feel really unwell,” he sobs, as Iwaizumi puts his hand on his forehead. “My head hurts. And my stomach.” He leans into the touch, not needing to play up his symptoms like he sometimes does. He’s actually sick.

“Shit, you’re sick. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Iwaizumi’s voice is rough, in contrast to his tender touches. Oikawa only manages another choked sob, which resonates like a steel ball banging against his head. His skin is boiling, and he still can’t stop shivering.

“I’m sorry. Didn’t want to disturb you.” Oikawa sniffles, hugging Iwaizumi to keep him within reach. He’s on his knees, barely able to stand up.

Iwaizumi picks up the blanket tangled around Oikawa’s limbs, and wraps him up. “I wasn’t trying to blame you, idiot.” He lifts him onto their shared bed, pulling the covers up over his warm body. “Sleep it off for a bit. You probably have a fever.”

“I can’t,” Oikawa whines, wrapping his arm around his stomach. “I feel nauseous and my head really hurts.”

Iwaizumi huffs, stroking Oikawa’s hair. “I’ll get some painkillers for you. Try not to puke until I come back, if you can.”

He leaves the room, and Oikawa shifts on the bed with a groan. His stomach feels bloated, despite the lack of food put into it. An airy burp escapes him, worsening the sickly feeling in his stomach.

��Still feeling crappy?” Iwaizumi asks, coming back into the room with a plastic basin and a glass of water. “If you feel like throwing up, you should probably take care of that before having any medicine.”

Oikawa nods, keeping the basin within a safe distance. His stomach tugs at him, gurgling ominously. “I feel sick, but I don’t know if I can throw up. I just feel queasy.”

A hand is on his back, rubbing firmly up and down. “You won’t feel good if you’re just sitting there nauseous all day.” Iwaizumi says, and Oikawa lets out a hiccup in response. “Try and get it up.”

“I don’t know how to.” Oikawa holds the basin, wishing he could hurry up and get the nausea out of his stomach. His stomach is queasy and bloated enough to make him burp a couple of times, but nothing more happens.

Iwaizumi hands him a glass of water. “Have a drink. I’ll press on your stomach, maybe that’ll help.” He suggests, and Oikawa gulps. Iwaizumi’s sheer strength would probably make all of his internal organs rise to his mouth. The mental image isn’t very pleasant.

Oikawa gulps down the water, and immediately feels a change in his body. His stomach is trying to reject it. A wet belch passes through his lips, and Iwaizumi pats his back to try and coax more out of him.

“It’s okay, Oikawa. It’ll be over soon.” Iwaizumi says, hand slipping down to press on his stomach. “Get it all out, okay?” He gives a few comforting rubs, before applying enough pressure to make Oikawa gag. He doesn’t throw up, but comes close to it.

Oikawa shivers underneath the blankets, waiting for the inevitable to happen. “Fuck,” he spits into the basin, shoulders rising and falling. His stomach feels like it’s being churned.

Iwaizumi presses inwards on Oikawa’s stomach, moving his hand upwards. That combined with a firm rub on his back seems to have done the trick. A gurgle comes from Oikawa’s throat, and a splash of vomit lands into the basin.

Oikawa lets out a shaky breath. Another wave of nausea makes his stomach clench, and he feels the vomit rise to his throat. Iwaizumi pats his back gently as he pukes, urging him to get everything out of his system.

“It’s all right. I’ve got you.” Iwaizumi holds him as he throws up, stroking his hair. Oikawa sniffles, gagging once and vomiting a thin stream of liquid. His mouth feels disgusting, and his stomach heaves even when there’s nothing left.

Iwaizumi offers him a glass of water, to rinse out his mouth. Once he gets rid of the bitter aftertaste, he feels a little less awful. His stomach feels empty, and although his headache is still there, he feels marginally better.

“I wanna sleep, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa murmurs, curling up into the pillow. He feels Iwaizumi’s hand on his head, stroking his hair.

He closes his eyes, knowing Iwaizumi is there for him. He’s okay. He’ll feel better soon, and he’ll ask for as much attention he can squeeze out of him.

#emeto #sickfic #vomiting #oikawa tooru

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yodawgiherd · 4 years ago

Text

Guess Who's Calling

>>>Read on AO3<<<

Rating: M Prompt: Phone sex College Eren eating Gothkasa out. That's it.

Yup, just more cope from my side. More leaks are coming, making me even more anxious, so here I am writing smut to make me forget for a short while.

Mikasa should probably spend the evening studying. When Eren asked her to come to his dorm, saying that Armin was visiting his grandpa, she should have said no, said that she’s busy. But she didn’t.

So, instead of doing her best to cram the economics lessons inside her brain, she was procrastinating. Again. Eren was a bad influence on her. Sure, the sports scholarship she got thanks to the facts that Mikasa was literally unbeatable in kickbox was nice but studying was important.

Then again, lying on a couch and cradling her boyfriends head on her chest was important too. He was sprawled on top of her, so warm that it made her skin tingle. She was dragging her fingers through his hair, frowning when some of the strands got caught on the multitude of her rings. Being goth did bring some dangers into a relationship, but Mikasa was not about to change. Eren didn’t seem to mind, as having his hair violated was a small price to pay for resting on such a comfortable pillow that was Mikasa’s incredible body.

The phone rang, invading the nice moment she was sharing with her boyfriend. Boyfriend. Booooooyfriend. Boy. Friend. Boyfriend. Her boyfriend. Boyfriend, that belonged to her.

It still felt weird on the tongue, even after a year of them being together.

“I’ll get it.”, Eren said, pushing himself away from the nice pillow that her chest was and rolling from the couch.

He crashlanded with a faked scream, making Mikasa giggle and hide her face. Dork. He was a dork. Scrambling up from his terrible fall, Eren walked over to where her phone was, grabbing it and making his way back. Close to her, he attacked, once again tackling her form and sending Mikasa into another giggling fit while she did her feeble attempts at fighting him off.

“E-Eren! The call?”

With a flourish, he handed the phone over.

“Your lovely brother is calling. Please don’t tell him that I’m in this close physical vicinity to you, I don’t want him to kill me before my finals.”

The phone rang again. She took it, looking at the screen and confirming that it was indeed Levi calling. But before she could answer, the sound of a zipper entered her ears, making her look down.

Eren was busy with unzipping her skirt and stealing it away from her hips, leaving Mikasa’s lower half in nothing but her underwear. That done, he busied himself with pushing her black top up until her stomach was in full view, even going as far as exposing her small breasts. A year back, her mind would explode from seeing it and she would immediately put the guy who dared to do this to her in a hospital. But with Eren, who broke so many of her barriers already, this wasn’t the first time and probably very far from the last. Still, she was just about to speak with Levi, so his actions deserved to be called into question.

“What are you doing?”

“A game..”, his mouth ghosted over her abs, “Stay on the call, if you hang up, I’ll stop.”

And he dipped down, truly putting his tongue to work. He flattened it against her heated skin, licking Mikasa’s stomach, collecting the tiny beads of sweat. With the tip, he traced those incredible abdominal muscles. Her heart in the throat, yet excited nonetheless, Mikasa answered the call.

“Levi? H-hi.”

“What the hell took you so long?”, he fumed, “We need to talk.”

“Wha- Ow!”

Levi frowned at the other end.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing…”, with a quick gesture she flipped off Eren, who was just tongue-soothing the savage bite he planted on her left thigh, “It’s nothing.”

Those thighs, that was something to die for. Eren loved how the muscles there shifted beneath his mouth, how firm and strong and so deliciously thick they were. So delicious that he, despite her staring, sank his teeth into the right one too.

Mikasa hissed in pain, her hand reaching down to tangle in Eren’s overlong hair. Her black nails scratched against his scalp as the goth took a possessive hold of the strands. With a firm grip, she shook his head like a bad dog’s before planting it, nose first, right between her legs in an obvious gesture of: “Get on with it”

For someone so easily flustered whenever they did as much as kissed in public, Mikasa could be very demanding once turned on.

“Okay then.”, she heard Levi over the phone.

At the same time, Eren finally obeyed, pulling her panties down her long legs. In full view, he met her eyes before sniffing the underwear, making her eyes widen.

“Oh god, you’re such a pervert!”

“What’s that?”, that was Levi, and Mikasa realized that she just said it out loud.

“N-Nothing! Th-That was the tv!.”

That did not sound like tv, but Levi was willing to drop the issue.

“Whatever. Listen….”

Mikasa wanted to pay attention to what her brother was saying, but she couldn’t. Eren was now kissing her inner thighs, so close to her slit yet so far, it was making her blood boil. He was teasing, the bastard, his tongue caressing her outer lips, unwilling to give her what she craved. Tilting her hips, Mikasa made the best pleading expression she could, nudging him gently. Eren must have been feeling generous tonight, because the tip of his tongue finally slipped inside her, probing.

As was her luck, Levi picked precisely that moment to ask her something. The thing is, Mikasa had no idea what he was talking about. To make matter worse, when she opened her mouth to answer, Eren increased the tempo of his actions, making her pleasure spike. His tongue was now writhing around in her heat, lapping at the wetness caused by his actions.

“Levi I… hng I’m not sure that… mmm”

Alternating, now he was licking her in long wide strokes, flattening his tongue against her sensitive skin.

“Brat, what the hell are you doing?”

“M-Me? N-nothing, nothing at all. I… Oh god!”

His tongue brushed against her clit.

Levi’s brows pulled into a flat line as he listened to these strange moans and groans his sister kept doing over the phone.

“Listen, I don’t know what is going on, but I don’t like it. I’m hanging up now, call me when you get your brain back.”

“No! No please, don’t hang up!”

She heard Eren’s evil laugh from between her legs. To punish him for being such a bastard, Mikasa squeezed his head between her thighs, hard enough that he saw stars before she finally released him. Pulling back, he cracked his aching neck, left and right, meeting her challenging stare.

“Touché.”

And he dived back down.

“As I was saying, I need to know when your exams are finished, so I can line up the training regime for you.”, Levi repeated his question slowly, hoping that she will understand this time, “You need it before the tourney.”

“R-Right. My… Ex… mmmmm Exammmmms.”

Eren went deep, angling his head and shoving all of his tongue inside while his mouth worked her. His jaw was beginning to ache, but he ignored it. If there was something Eren learned, it was that his usually cold and stoic girlfriend could be reduced to a quivering mess with the right approach, and some pain was totally worth it. Eager to taste her, he licked inside, rapidly darting his tongue left and right, everywhere that he could reach. He was moving his head too, shaking it, anything to stimulate that wonderful place between her legs. Mikasa’s hips arched from the bed and she slapped a hand over her mouth to keep the loud moan in. Still, some of it escaped.

“What did you say?”

“I said I’m… aaah I’mmmm..”, she couldn’t do it, so angling her head away from the phone, Mikasa panted for air.

Down below, Eren withdrew from her and immediately attacked her clit, sucking on the firm nub.

“Hey! Mikasa! Hey!”, Levi’s voice was loud enough for Eren to hear.

Knowing that if he hangs up the fun will be over, Mikasa forced herself to press the phone against her ear.

“I’m… I’m here.”

“Are you okay? What’s happening?”

“All’s fine! Great!”

“You don’t sound like it.”, Levi said, “Are you sick?”

With a pop, Eren released her abused clit, wetting two of his fingers in his mouth. He met her gaze, grey eyes with their pupils blown, gave her a wink and went back to work. Pressing his digits into her tight heat, he glided along the silky walls searching for that one place that made Mikasa go crazy. She could feel it inside her, feel his exploring hand, the fear that she won’t be able to keep quiet rising at the same rate as her pleasure.

“N-No not sick. I’m…”, a way out, she needed a way out, otherwise Levi might start suspecting something. With her mind basically blank, Mikasa blurted out the first thing that appeared there.

“I’m drunk!”

“You’re drunk?”

“Yes, I’m…oof,” Eren’s fingers moved, curving upwards, “Drunk and…”

He found it. With a gentle press of the fingertips, Mikasa’s vision went white as her body clenched and she moaned out loud, not fast enough to mute herself.

“Damn it brat. You’re underage.”

“I’m sorry!“, she squeaked out before quickly muting herself on the call properly and moaning again, so loud.

At home, Levi massaged his temples, staring at the phone. So Mikasa was drunk, probably not handling it very well judging from the sound she was making. Guess that’s college for you.

“Do you need help?”

There’s silence on the other side. What Levi doesn’t know is that Mikasa is muted again because she is moaning her heart out right now. Eren turned up the dial again. His tongue was deep inside her, licking the wet walls of her cavern, while his fingers were hard at work on her clit, pressing against the magic button in deliciously short intervals.

“Mikasa! Do you need help?”

“N-No! Eren will come and aaaaaah…”, unable to continue, she tilted her head away.

“Eren huh? That guy…”

That guy who was now at the finish line of teasing the orgasm out of his little sister. Not that Levi knew that. Mikasa’s chest was heaving, her thighs clenching around Eren head but he ignored the flares of pain it sent into his system. Mikasa could squeeze hard, and there were times when he was forced to stop in the past, otherwise his neck was at risk.

Not now. Now he was determined to make Mikasa come, and nothing would stop him. He practically abused her clit, rolling his thumb against it while he ate her out without holding back. The rougher treatment seemed to be just her thing, and the goth was losing her mind at an alarming rate. It was noisy and dirty, but he couldn’t care less. Sharp thrusts of his tongue, deep inside her and she was writhing around on the couch, phone forgotten in her hand. Until Levi spoke again.

“All right, I’ll trust Eren then. Call me when you get better, okay?”

“Yip!”

And then the phone was gone, Mikasa let it fall onto the carpet as the orgasm truly overtook her. She screamed, her face contorting in pure pleasure while all the impressive muscles in her body contracted before releasing. Outside, Eren had already positioned his hands tactically, doing his best to keep her thighs from crushing his skull. It helped a little, but not too much, as he had no chance of overpowering Mikasa’s legs. Inside, Eren’s tongue was being squeezed too, the feeling borderline painful. He groaned at that, making the wet muscle still deep in her vibrate and Mikasa was thrown headfirst into the stream of happy hormones. The electricity tickled her brain in the best of ways, her hips moving against his tongue, practically riding Eren’s face. She was contracting again, more waves and Eren felt her pulsate inside. At the moment when her muscles were relaxed, he quickly withdrew his tongue to save it but wouldn’t let her be yet. Changing it into wide licks against her trembling sex, he kept pleasuring her, drawing the already amazing orgasm out even longer.

When the wave of wetness hit his face, cushioned between her thighs, Eren didn’t really have a choice in what to do. Caged in as he was and unable to move, he drank her in, collecting all of her release inside his mouth. His tongue slid around, licking every piece of her sex, dipping in to tease out as much of her essence as he could. Eren wasn’t lying when he said that he enjoys how Mikasa tastes, no matter how much it made her blush. And when there was nothing more, when her orgasm was truly finished and her legs released him from their crushing embrace, he kissed his way up until he was looking down at her red face.

“Wanna taste yourself?”, he asked, a question that would make her slap him if she didn’t just come back from cloud nine.

Instead of answering, Mikasa pulled him in for the kiss, tasting herself everywhere. In Eren’s mouth, on his tongue and face, every nook and cranny was filled by her. Getting a proper taste of herself, of her release, she pulled back but didn’t let go, keeping their foreheads pressed together.

“I love you.”, she confessed, her feelings all jittery thanks to the overdose her brain was currently recovering from.

Eren chuckled, thumbing away the few tears that leaked from Mikasa’s eyes during this whole ordeal. They were smearing the goth’s dark eye shadow, but she was very far from minding having her makeup ruined.

“Hey, I love you too. Wanna know why?”

She smiled at him, all warm and fuzzy and happy. It went straight against her style, but Mikasa was too far gone to care.

“Why?”

There were a hundred and one reasons why, but Eren wasn’t about to list these. Instead, he had a new one in mind.

“First of all, you let me eat you out while calling Levi, and that was quite an experience.”

She slapped his shoulder, but it lacked the usual strength, and Eren continued uninterrupted.

“And second, because you keep me grounded.”

She was counting the hairs that fell over his wet face.

“What do you mean?”

“There are days when I wake up feeling like I want to destroy the whole world, but then I turn around, see you and…”, his hands slid low, groping her firm butt, “I’m like, nah, I’ll settle on destroying this ass instead.”

Eren ignored her half-hearted attempts at smacking his hands away, made so weak by the giggling fit Mikasa fell into.

“God, you’re….”, she pushed out, “you’re such a dirty perv!”

“Says the woman who just came all over my face.”

She gasped, hiding her blush beneath her hands. But Eren was relentless, moving and peeling her fingers, one by one, away with his teeth. They clicked against the cool metal of Mikasa’s rings, but he didn’t let her armor dissuade him from the task at hand.

“Don’t hide from me, raven beauty.”

“Cheesy too.”, she accused him, “How the hell did we end up dating?”

“I don’t rightly know, things sort of clicked together.”, with her fingers successfully removed by Eren’s actions, they were face to face, so he was free to caress her cheek, “It is weird when you think about it.”

It was weird. It was weird that Mikasa, who never even considered dating before, fell for him so quickly. It was weird that Eren, whose only goal in life was to become a good doctor, was now spending so much time doting over her, because seeing Mikasa happy brought him incredible joy. It was weird because they fell together so quickly, letting each other into parts of their lives that nobody ever visited before.

It was weird, but neither Eren nor Mikasa were willing to question it because, for whatever reason, the stars were aligned for them. He with her and she with him, they were home.

Tilting her head, Mikasa accepted the kiss Eren offered as an explanation, her midnight lips molding into his so naturally. It was hard to believe that they weren’t made for one another, carefully crafted so they would fit together perfectly.

But you know what? Maybe they were.

#eremika #fanfic #snk #this is how i cope

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steppedoffaflight · 4 years ago

Text

Summer’s a Knife - Chapter 9

Catch up on Chapter 8 here

You grin, your heart light. “So, why are you calling me today, Van McCann?” You tease. “Are you looking to get off, or pressure me to run away with you again?”

Van chuckles. “You said your hometown was in Michigan?”

“It is,” You confirm.

“Is Detroit somewhere close to it?”

You sit very still. “Um. Really close, actually.” Your brain knows where this is headed but you can’t get your hopes up. Especially after how harshly you’d scolded yourself for your impulsive Phoenix trip. “Why?”

“We have a show there on Wednesday. So I’m calling about the latter.”

You’re going home.

Word count: ~12.3k

Chapter Nine June 2019

The rush of realizing you’re in love with someone felt so foreign yet so achingly familiar all at once. It completely consumed you. You watched the rest of the show in complete euphoria, eager for that moment when Van would finally be off stage.

And when he finally burst through the door, high on post-show adrenaline and dripping with sweat you leap up from your seat, so happy to see him. If he thinks your excitement is out of place he doesn’t mention it, glowing with the satisfaction of putting on a great show.

“Let’s get back to the hotel,” He pants, grabbing for one of the provided towels and vigorously rubbing at his hair.

“Don’t you shower here?”

“Didn’t bring my stuff. Figured you wouldn’t wanna sit here and wait for traffic to die down anyway.”

He’s gathering his things up quickly, stuffing them into the backpack he’d brought with him. He grins over his shoulder. “Think you can stand the smell?”

It’s easy to hide your smile as you hunch over your bag, gathering your own things. “Might be hard, but I’ll try.”

The other boys flit in and out of the room, running around like chickens with their heads cut off, eager to return to the hotel. It’s not long before you find yourself crammed in an SUV with four extremely foul-smelling men as the driver attempts to navigate the short drive to the hotel, eventually pulling up to the back entrance so the boys can avoid the small crowd of fans milling around in front.

It’s a relief to return to your hotel room after a long day, to finally be alone with Van.

He seems surprised that you ask to shower with him. It is completely out of character for you, but you’re too happy tonight to care.

The shower is all business, but afterwards you’re laid out on the bed, hair dripping all over the sheets as Van fucks you, hard. Sex is the only time you get the opportunity to kiss him, and you don’t let it go to waste. Even as his thrusts jar your body and creak the bedframe, you try your hardest to keep your lips connected. Maybe you go overboard, but Van’s noises suggest it’s a good thing.

You’re so pent up that when you come you practically scream, muffling your noises with one of the hotel pillows. The sexual tension in the room is so suffocating that coming feels like it amplifies it rather than releases it. Rather than tense up with oversensitivity your body relaxes, pliant for Van as he continues to break a sweat, grunting with each movement. Instead of dissolving into his usual sloppy thrusts he stays painstakingly consistent, beads of sweat forming on his hairline. When he comes he doesn’t moan so much as gulp for air.

Even when he’s finished he keeps fucking you, gritting his teeth against his own tenderness. You don’t understand what he’s going for until you feel his calloused fingertips return between your legs, stimulating your clit roughly. This orgasm comes easier, floods over you with more intensity, and leaves you helplessly whimpering, scratching up his back in the process.

He’s barely gotten the condom off before he’s climbing off of the bed and stuffing his legs into a pair of boxers. “Smoke with me.”

You scramble after him, tossing a shirt over your head and slinging on the pair of pajama shorts you’d packed before stumbling out onto the balcony.

He’s slumped over in one of the chairs, cigarette already lit.

Your cheeks burn against the cool night air, and you know your hair’s a mess. Van looks as wrecked as you. Without a shirt on you can see the scarlet flush on his chest.

You shift around in your seat as the nicotine relaxes you, trying to get comfortable. No matter how you sit, the throbbing between your legs is prominent.

“You sore?” Van asks.

When you widen your eyes, confused at how he’d know that, he laughs. He rests his elbows on the arms of his chair, imitating your position. “You look like you’re trying to hold yourself up,” He explains.

“Oh. Yeah. It’ll fade, though.”

“Sorry if it was too much.”

You shake your head vigorously as you suck in a hit. “Don’t be.”

“So much adrenaline from the show,” He runs his fingers through his hair. “And looking at you in the shower afterwards, I was just like… Holy shit.” He shakes his head like he can’t believe he’s telling you this.

You shake your head at his compliment to hide the way your cheeks burn hotter and your heartbeat skips.

“I felt the same,” You tell him. If he’s worried he fucked you too hard he must not have seen the way you were sneaking glances at him any chance you had. “Sorry I tore your back up.”

Van laughs. “You can do whatever you want to me, woman.”

“Oh my god. Shut up,” You giggle.

Van throws his hands up. “I’m being honest!”

He’s finished his cigarette, dropping the butt on the ground. “I gotta have another. You?”

For once, you take him up on it.

The next day consists of a terrible emotional hangover. Nothing brings you down from cloud nine faster than time away with the person you love coming to an end. Even worse, tour was kicking off with a bang, and Van didn’t know when he could expect to be back in town again. He was jetting off tomorrow to the next city, and from there the band would finally have a bus and be traveling by road.

Knowing your time was limited should make you appreciate it more, but it has an opposite effect. You’re in a bitter mood the entire drive home. Van notices but keeps pretending not to, a fact that irks you more. You brush it off as dread at returning to work, just to throw him off your scent. As much as your new feelings demanded to be declared to the world, you knew nothing would scare Van away faster than you ruining this casual arrangement.

He drives himself home so that you can drive the Range Rover back to your place. You help him get his bags inside, your chest aching at this time coming to an end.

“Alright,” Van sighs when he’s sure he hasn’t forgotten anything, clapping his hands together. “I’ll see you when I’m back, yeah?”

You try not to flinch at the uncertainty in that sentence and try your best to seem cheerful. You know you fall flat. “Of course, duh.”

Before you know it Van’s wrapped you up in a warm hug, holding you tight.

“Keep your head up, alright?” He says quietly into your hair, rocking you back and forth. “Don’t let work get you down.”

You nod into his chest, and he lets you go. He presses the car keys into your palm.

“And take a nap when you get home,” He tells you, his eyes still locked with yours. You wish you could kiss him goodbye so bad it makes your throat ache. “You’ll feel so much better.”

“I will,” You croak. He gives you a nod, and with that you turn away, your feet feeling like lead as you force yourself down the porch steps and into the car. He gives you a wave as you head for the gates, and you return it with a grimace and one of your own.

And when you get home, you keep your promise to Van. You don’t even bother to unload the car before marching inside, diving into your bed, and bawling your eyes out into your pillow until your heart feels empty and you fall asleep.

It takes every ounce of strength you have in every bone in your body to drag yourself into work the next morning. And the morning after that. And then the weekend arrives, two days of pure emptiness.

You hated being alone but you also couldn’t think of anything more unpleasant than being around other people right now. You spend the weekend consuming vodka at an alarming rate and scrubbing any surface you can spot in your house before falling into bed at night physically exhausted.

By Monday, you’ve decided you’re angry. First it’s at Mary. She knows how you are with relationships. You two have always joked that you dated to marry. As soon as you realize you can’t envision a future with someone your desire for them fizzles out, inevitably souring your connection. Why did she force something between you and Van knowing that it would be temporary? She’s out of line meddling in your love life, and now there’s a price to pay. When she asks about Arizona you practically one-word her, seething about what she’s done.

And then it’s yourself. What Mary did was unforgivable, but you’re the one who went along with it. You’re just as much to blame. You had your fun in San Diego, but of course that wasn’t enough. You kept going back for more. How stupid of you! You knew there was no way things could work out with Van, so you’re an absolute idiot for sleeping with him again, and again, and again. You were playing with fire this entire time. Like, really, taking time off work for a six hour road trip to hang around your ‘friend’? It was so childish. You needed to save your vacation hours for the holidays to spend time with your family.

And Van. He had to be some sort of sociopath, texting you months after your first meeting to take you out to dinner. Why would he take someone out if he wasn’t planning to date them? It had clearly been a ploy to get in your pants, and you’d been so gullible. Now he was off having the time of his life and you were the one suffering in silence.

But as mad as you want to be at Van, you miss him so much it hurts. Having no sure future to look forward to means every day without him is agony. And while you might get angry, it never sticks. How could he have predicted you’d be stupid enough to fall in love? Surely he couldn’t have known you’d do this to yourself. He was too sweet to do something so malicious.

You flip flop between these moods. In the back of your mind you know you’re not being the slightest bit rational, but the hurricane ripping through your heart is not to be reasoned with.

You find a pack of Van’s cigarettes at the bottom of your purse on Wednesday. You’d thrown them in your bag at the venue in Phoenix so he didn’t forget them, but apparently you’d forgotten about them too. For the first time in years you smoke alone. It calms the ache in your heart while you do it, recalling all the conversations you two have shared during your smoke breaks. In that small moment of clarity you know that no matter how much you’re hurting, every moment you spend with Van is worth it all. And when you’re done with the first cigarette you light another, just like he does.

By Saturday you’ve leveled out, embarrassed about your week-long tantrum. You start texting Mary again, spinning a lie about getting over a nasty cold. Everything in your house is spotless, so you’ve started on those untouched books. They help keep you distracted, even if you picture every romantic lead as Van in your mind.

You’re curled up in one of the chairs on your porch, smoking a cigarette and reading when your phone buzzes with a call in your pocket.

Seeing Van’s name on the caller ID pumps pure joy through your veins. Swiping to accept feels like you’re swiping away the awful heartache that’s been plaguing you all week.

“Where are you?” You ask excitedly as your greeting. You enjoy living vicariously though Van’s travels, even if it stings that you can’t be there with him.

“The lovely city of Chicago,” Van replies. You can hear the smile in his voice. “Where are you?”

“On the porch.” You fold the corner of your book, setting it aside and taking a hit of your cigarette.

“Are you having a smoke?”

“I am.”

“Me too,” Van says. “We’re in sync.”

You grin, your heart light. “So, why are you calling me today, Van McCann?” You tease. “Are you looking to get off, or pressure me to run away with you again?”

Van chuckles. “You said your hometown was in Michigan?”

“It is,” You confirm.

“Is Detroit somewhere close to it?”

“We have a show there on Wednesday. So I’m calling about the latter.”

You make a noise into the phone. It’s overjoyed and exasperated all at once. “Ugh, Van! Why do you always put me on the spot like this? I hate you!”

Van’s laughing. “Let’s save the argument, then. See you Wednesday.”

“No, no, no,” You chant, but you’re already grinning. He’s already won. “I can’t fucking roadtrip to Michigan!”

“You’re not gonna. You’re gonna fly. I’ll get you a ticket.”

Of course you’re going. The one loophole in your vacation time was that you’d promised yourself you’d use it for family time, and if Van’s offering to pay for the flight there’s no way you could turn down the chance to surprise everyone at home. It’s a win-win, family time and Van time. Your heart is already bursting with excitement.

You don’t know what to say. Van’s right, you might as well save the argument.

“You don’t have to do that, Van,” You still insist out of guilt.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m being selfish, actually. I’m glad you’ll get to see your parents, but promise you’ll save some time for me.”

“I promise.” It’s the easiest promise you’ve ever made. “Where are you playing?”

“Saint Andrew’s Hall. Seen anyone there?”

“I have!” You exclaim, thinking back to your teenaged days. “But always with my ex-boyfriend,” You confess.

“Christ. So I’ve got competition, then.”

“Guess so,” You taunt.

“I’ll have to make it extra memorable, then.” He doesn’t lose an ounce of smugness through the phone.

“Can’t wait,” You gush.

“Me either.” There’s a happy silence as you two have sealed your plans. Then: “What have you been watching lately?”

“I’m burned out of everything,” You sigh. “I’ve been reading, actually.”

“Reading what?”

“Um.” You pluck the book up from the seat next to you, reading out the title. “It’s some mushy romance thing I bought forever ago, I dunno.”

“What’s it about?”

You hesitate. “Um… I mean… romance?”

“I get that,” Van laughs. “I mean, I’m going mental with nothing to do. Tell me about the book. What happens in it?”

“Oh, um.” His interest shocks you. “Well…”

Without fail, summers had always been a dreadful time for your workload. It was when most of your coworkers wanted to take advantage of their company-provided vacation days, days that you preferred to save for the fall and winter holidays when you could fly home. That meant that their projects had to be distributed among the handful of employees that were in the office reliably, and you knew that your boss directed more of the burden to you than your coworkers. Not as punishment, but simply because she felt she could trust you with the more important work.

The boss in question, Denise, had been who you’d worked under since you’d been hired at the company fresh out of college. She’d even been who you’d conducted your interviews with, save the final one where she’d been joined by a few other directors. And although coworkers had come and gone over the last couple of years, you two had remained a staple in your department, leading to a pretty solid professional relationship between you. That’s how every summer Denise managed to treat each extra project like praise until you’d accepted too many and were drowning in paperwork and emails.

But for the first time ever you were reaping the rewards of your hard work. There had been no raises (considering you were still pretty young and inexperienced), no promotions, only good comments on your performance reviews (which meant very little, really). Instead, your rewards came in the form of emails approving your time-off requests, even on the ridiculously short notice that Van was forcing on you. There was hardly any uncertainty hanging in the air; you’d send the request first thing in the morning, and usually by the time you got back from lunch you’d have the approval sitting in your inbox. And because now you were one of the employees sporadically missing from the office during these summer months, the requests to take on more work were dwindling.

You made Van wait until you’d gotten your approval email before he booked the your flight, and he’d been texting you most of Monday morning pestering you about it. Once you let him know you’ve gotten the green light, there’s only a short half hour of silence from him before he’s sending over screenshots with ticket information and departure times. He’s booked you a flight bright and early, departing at 7 am tomorrow morning. Considering his eagerness, you’re surprised he doesn’t have you taking a red-eye after work.

What surprises you even more is that on Tuesday afternoon, stumbling off of your five hour flight into the familiar airport of your hometown, Van is standing at the gate waiting for you.

As soon as he catches your eye he grins, rushing towards you while you blink at him in shock.

“What are you doing here?” Are your first words to him. He pries the handle of your rolling carry-on suitcase from your fingers, wrapping his own palm around it as he tucks you under his arm, giving you a squeeze as he starts to direct you towards the doors that lead outside.

“Picking you up!” He responds, as chipper as ever.

“I thought I was gonna take an Uber!” That had been the plan, according to the numerous texts you two had exchanged over the weekend.

“I ended up having some free time,” He shrugs. He’s in the same dark jacket he’d been wearing the night you met him, unbuttoned to expose his usual dark button up. You notice this one isn’t black, though.

“A navy button up?” You gasp in faux dramatics, giving the fabric a playful tug. Van’s arm has fallen from your back, you two walking side by side.

He grins as he peeks down at his shirt. “Look at that. All dressed up for you.”

“You are,” You agree. “How are you even in this jacket?” You hadn’t stepped outdoors yet, but you knew without a doubt it was sweltering outside.

“It’s cold in here.”

His words make you realize the crisp, air-conditioned breeze blowing over your arms, and you shiver, clutching the hoodie you’d taken off on the plane tighter to your chest.

You still can’t wrap your head around the experience of Van pacing around the airport, waiting for you. “How did you even get here?” You ask as he directs you towards a set of doors. You can see the waves of summer heat radiating off of all the cars parked on the pavement through the glass.

“Dave drove,” He explains, pressing his palm into the metal push bar to swing the door open for you. A scorching burst of heat instantly greets your body, and it’s so humid it’s hard to breathe as you step out. “He lemme borrow his car.”

You’re quiet for the rest of the walk to the car, trying to process everything through your jet-lag. You’d boarded the plane at seven, been in the air for almost six hours after the delays, and yet when you glance at your phone it’s minutes away from 4 pm here, hours evaporated with the time difference. Van leads the way, dutifully rolling your suitcase to the parking spot where he had parked Dave’s car before popping your carry-on into the trunk and helping you into the passenger seat. The interior of the car has you sweating in the short time it takes Van to round the vehicle to the driver’s side, and you realize he’s been waiting inside for you longer than you’d thought.

There’s not much catching up necessary during the drive, considering you and Van had been texting consistently. You tell him about the toddler that threw a tantrum on the plane, and a woman in the row in front of you that spilled her drink all over the person sitting next to her during turbulence.

Although evening was descending upon Michigan, in typical June fashion the sun was refusing to go down, and therefore the heat simmered just as violently as it did during the early afternoon. That’s why when Van maneuvers the car to the parking lot behind the hotel, you’re shocked to see all of the boys lounging about in the heat, the only slight shade provided by the towering tour bus that was parked back here as well.

As Van pulls Dave’s car into a parking spot, everyone perks up.

“Look who it is!” Bondy calls from where he’s shading his eyes from the sun as he smokes.

You think he’s talking about Van, but Bob stops kicking the soccer ball against the building and gives you a polite wave. Benji gives you a nod in greeting, pacing around with his phone pressed to his ear. You return the wave and the nod, lagging behind Van as he makes his way towards the side of the bus.

“How are you?” Bondy asks, reaching one of his arms out for his usual half hug. He always treats you like you’re one of his own friends, and your heart swells in gratitude.

“I’m good,” You tell him. “Excited to be home.”

“That’s what Van said. We’re in your territory, huh?”

Van was distracted for a moment by Benji, but before you can respond he claps Bondy on the shoulder. “Bondy’s just been to L.A. pride,” He announces before promptly turning back to Benji, pleading to speak on the phone. His sudden interruption leaves Bondy clearly confused.

“Were you also at pride?” He asks, head tilted.

“No,” You laugh. “I think he’s saying that because I’m bi.”

Bondy laughs, the confusion clearing. “Right. Well, cheers.”

You shake your head in amusement, watching Van stalk Benji over the blacktop. Benji is dedicated to keeping the phone for himself, walking backwards away from him, but Van is undeterred.

“Who’s he trying to talk to?”

“Benji’s mum. She adores Van.”

That doesn’t come as any surprise to you.

“He’s already in a better mood.” Bondy speaks so quietly it sounds like he’s musing to himself.

You turn to look at him instead of watching Van’s antics. “I couldn’t imagine Van in a bad mood.”

“Yeah,” Bondy snickers. “Because he’s always in a good one around you.”

You blink at him, unable to think of a response. As you open your mouth to change the topic, Van flounces back towards you two.

“Let’s get your bags,” He chirps. “I’ll show you the room.”

You’re still contemplating what Bondy’s said as Van unlocks the car, helping you take your things up to the hotel room. It’s the same as any other, but it doesn’t have a balcony like the one in Phoenix.

“Where have you been smoking?” You ask, grinning when Van rolls his eyes in frustration.

“Outside. I’ve already gotten locked out of the side door on accident.”

“Aw. That sucks.”

“It does, actually,” Van scoffs at your giggle.

You get your phone plugged in, checking any notifications that have come in since you landed.

Van plops down on the bed. “What are your plans?”

“Um…” You’re distracted while you respond to your mom’s multiple messages. “I’m going to spend today at home, and then my parents can drop me off back here for the night, and tomorrow I’m all yours.”

Van seems pleased with that arrangement. “How are you getting over there?”

You shrug. “I can Uber.”

“I can drive you, if you want.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever works.” You bite down on the inside of your cheek to suppress a smile.

“Turn where?”

“There!” You try to gesture to the intersection Van has clearly passed through.

“Fuck,” Van sighs, immediately having to reroute.

It’s always trippy being back home. As Van struggles to navigate you gaze out the window, looking wistfully at the homes, businesses, and parks that have shaped your childhood.

“This is my old elementary school,” You tell Van when he pulls into the parking lot as part of redirecting.

“Yeah?” He squints at the playground in the distance. It seems like it snaps him out of his frustration as he absorbs that information.

“Could you imagine living in the same area you grew up in?” You ponder aloud as you think about it. “Like, most people at least move a city over, you know what I mean? But imagine being in the exact same place. Like, if I sent my kids to that exact school.”

You watch the school become a blur as Van drives away from it.

“That’s what Llandudno is like, actually. We’ve got, like, one of everything nearby. So if you stay there, then yeah, you’re going to that same school and shopping at that same shop all your life. Which is fucking weird, like you said. You have kids and they live an exact repeat of your life.”

You go silent as you’re lost in thoughts about creating a family of your own, interjecting only to direct Van.

When he’s pulled up to your house you feel your heart start pounding.

“Did you want to come in and say hi?” You ask him as you gather your things.

Van is quiet for a moment. You hope he’s considering it. “Oh, that’s alright,” He says. “This is your time with them.”

Your heart sinks, but you press on with the rest of your pitch that you’d been mentally rehearsing. “Are you sure? They’re gonna ask about you anyway. You can stay for dinner if you’re hungry.”

Van’s expression is unreadable, but then he shakes his head. “I’m okay. Go catch up with them!”

“Okay,” You try to shrug it off. “See you later.”

“Text me when you’re ready!” Van says cheerfully as you exit the car and close the door. You give him a small wave as a final goodbye before turning to head up to your house.

Your family has already been alerted of your arrival, standing in the doorway excitedly. They wave eagerly to Van, who you catch out of your peripheral vision waving back as he pulls away.

You have less than a minute to try and swallow down the lump in your throat before you make it to the porch. The embarrassment over his rejection burns at your cheeks and makes it hard to breathe. You were stupid to even ask. Why would he want to meet your family? That’s not something you do with casual friends.

It’s easy to push it out of your mind once you’re in the front door, surrounded by people who loved you and were overjoyed to see you.

“Y/N, my God,” Your mom immediately pulls you into a hug. “Who was that who just dropped you off?”

“That’s Van.” When your mom releases you you’re immediately pulled into a hug from your dad. “He’s the friend in the band.”

“He’s good looking!” Your mom exclaims, eliciting a laugh from you. Your older brother had cleared his schedule to see you, and you hug him as well. It’s weird how much closer you’ve become to him as you two have aged. You were always at each other’s throats as children.

“He’s the lead singer,” You explain when you’re finally not in the middle of a hug. “So he’s the one everyone goes crazy for, yeah.”

“You should have invited him inside!” Your dad chimes in.

The lump in your throat is back with a vengeance, and you have to swallow it down quickly to speak. “I did. He’s got something to do with the band,” You lie.

“Probably made him nervous with mom and dad standing there,” Your brother laughs.

You laugh weakly. “Yeah… So, dinner?”

The food’s not quite ready yet, so you spend the first part of your time with everyone helping to prepare it. It’s always chaotic trying to cook with your mom watching you like a hawk making sure you’re doing everything exactly right, but with your dad and brother also crowded into the kitchen so as not to miss a second of catching up you feel suffocated almost immediately upon arriving.

For once, you notice you’ve got things to talk about. You’ve usually got very little to say no matter how many questions your family asks; There’s only so many ways to tell them that work is going good, you’re still single, and disperse an entertaining story about a night out here or there before the conversation runs dry. But tonight you find yourself suddenly remembering so many moments you’ve had with Van that you excitedly relay to everyone. Your mom asks what’s good on Netflix, and you find yourself talking about the show you and Van have watched. Your brother asks about a photo you’d posted on Instagram of a desert landscape and you tell them about road tripping to Arizona and hanging out backstage.

When dinner is done and everyone has migrated to the living room, your brother’s shoes resting at the door suddenly remind you of Sam Fender’s. You introduce your family to his music and describe how funny he was when you met him at the party.

“His album is coming out in the fall,” You gush to everyone when they seem impressed with his voice playing through your phone speakers.

“Jesus, sis, you sound like you’re living it up,” Your brother laughs. “Going to celebrity birthday parties? Backstage at shows? Who are you?”

“I thought the same thing!” Your mom agrees, gesturing wildly with her hands. “What have you done with my daughter?”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” You sigh, exasperated. “You guys act like I was the most boring person in the world!”

“Oh stop,” Your mom scoffs. “We’re only kidding, honey. We don’t think you’re boring. I just think you seem really happy! I’m glad to hear you’re having a lot of fun!”

“You are absolutely the most boring person in the world,” Your brother assures you solemnly. “But at this rate I would encourage you to keep doing whatever drugs you’re on.”

Your mom’s face goes serious. “Are you on drugs, Y/N?”

You give your mom an expression that you hope conveys how crazy she sounds. “No, I’m not on drugs! He’s making a joke!”

“You do smell like cigarettes,” Your dad interjects. “Don’t tell me you’re smoking.”

“That’s from Van.” It’s only a half lie, really.

“Is Van an addict?” Your mom sounds alarmed.

You roll your eyes. “He is about the farthest thing from an addict, mom.”

“Okay, okay,” She throws her hands up in surrender. “I only worry with the whole rockstar thing. I don’t want you dating some junkie.”

You cringe at the word rockstar. “He’s not a rockstar, ew, he’s in a band,” You correct her. “And we’re not dating. Not even close.”

Your mom doesn’t look like she believes it. “Right. Well, if he makes you this happy and he’s as nice a boy as you say he is, maybe you should think about it.”

“We like being friends,” You insist, and it’s the truth. If being friends with Van was the closest you could get to him, you’ll take it in a heartbeat.

By the time Van arrives to pick you up, you’re all talked out. Time had slipped by unnoticed, and it’s past midnight by the time everyone is dispersing with goodbye hugs and promises to be together for the holidays.

You slump into the front passenger seat, exhausted from your long day.

“How was it?”

“It was nice. Dinner was good. Lots and lots and lots of catching up.”

“Yeah? Did they say anything about me?”

You grin. “Of course they did. My mom said you were good-looking, for starters.”

“She couldn’t see me properly,” Van grins. “She didn’t know what she was saying.”

You filter through your mind for anything else you can tell him. You choose to keep talk of how he should’ve joined you and how you two should date to yourself. “She also asked if you were an addict.”

“Christ. What’d you say?”

“I said no. But then I told them about all the weed and your cocaine benders and the molly and actually, I think they’re right.”

There’s a terse moment of silence in the car. You watch Van grip the steering wheel tighter. “You’re taking the piss.”

“Uh, yeah!” You scoff, watching him relax. “Holy fuck, you really think I’d tell them all of that? What the fuck?”

“I dunno what you talk about with your family!” He argues, accidentally turning a corner too fast.

“Not your personal business,” You mumble, crossing your arms. It started out as a joke, but his apparent lack of faith in your ability to keep his secrets actually made you angry. “Nice to know you trust me.”

“I do trust you!” Van insists. “I wouldn’t tell you things in the first place if I didn’t trust you, so stop. Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?”

“Mad. Don’t be mad at me.”

The atmosphere in the car relaxes, but you’re still tense. Between your flight, the long conversations, Van’s refusal to have dinner with you and now his lack of trust in you, your muscles were aching from the stress and you were ready for bed. You stay quiet the rest of the way to the hotel.

Van sighs as he puts the car in park. “C’mon,” he urges you quietly.

“I’m not mad,” You tell him, your voice strained. “It’s not a big deal. It’s whatever. I had a really long flight, and a really long day. I’m just really overwhelmed.” You can feel the tears prickling behind your eyes.

Van turns the car off, the space cloaked in silence. You’re both quiet while all of the lights fade until you’re in darkness.

Van looks at you. “I’m sorry.”

Your eyes water. “I said I’m not mad. It was a stupid joke to make.”

“It was pretty fucking good, actually,” Van snorts. “You got me. But I should’ve known better, you’re right.”

His attempts to calm the situation only make everything worse. Of course he’s being sweet after a disagreement. As if you couldn’t love him any more than you already thought you did. And you’re full blown crying now, probably having the opposite effect on him.

“Sorry,” You sniffle pathetically.

“Don’t be. I get it. Jet lag really fucks you up.”

You nod into your hands, wiping your tears away.

“I’m gonna smoke before we head up,” Van starts the car in order to crack the window.

“Crack mine,” You tell him, and he does before he shuts the car off.

It’s only after the first hit of your borrowed cigarette that you break out into a watery laugh.

“My mom and dad said I smell like cigarettes,” You explain to Van, who’s looking at you curiously. “They asked me if I smoked and I lied and said no.”

Van thinks that’s hilarious judging by his fit of laughter. “Your parents don’t know you smoke?”

“Fuck, no! All my life they warned me about cigarettes. They weren’t a big fan of the few times they caught me with weed, but the thought of me smoking sends them through the roof. They’d fucking kill me.”

“So how’d you explain the smell?”

“I blamed it on you,” You admit sheepishly. “And that’s not a lie. I’m sorry.” You try to give Van your best puppy dog face in hopes he’ll take pity on you.

Thankfully, he finds the situation funny. “You’re spineless,” He teases. “I’m kidding. That’s fine. I’ll be your scapegoat.”

You’re getting to the point where waking up in hotel rooms doesn’t confuse your brain. What does confuse you is the position you wake up in, much different from how you’d fallen asleep on Van’s chest last night. He’d offered the cuddle as a consolation for your jet-lagged tears, and you’d never been so happy to accept a consolation prize in your life. But somehow you two must have untangled in your sleep, because now you’re on your side facing away from him.

The whole room is still dark and you can hear Van snoring. For once you’ve woken up before him.

As you stretch out to grab your phone off of the nightstand your body brushes Van’s, who you’re suddenly aware is right next to you. Without meaning to you stop breathing, nervous to wake him up. You retract your arm slowly, momentarily forgetting about your phone.

You crane your neck carefully, trying to see exactly how you two were laying. He was on his stomach, the curve of his ass and legs the only thing you can make out beneath the comforter. You flip over to face him as carefully as you can.

His head is resting against the edge of your pillow, and whatever isn’t supported by the pillow is resting in the crook of his bent arm. His mouth is ajar but he’s breathing out of his nose, evident by the snoring that’s intensified by the way the fabric of the pillow is blocking one of his nostrils.

You’ve been as physically close to him as two human bodies can get, but the opportunity to gaze at him can not be wasted. You’re studying the features of his face carefully, your eyes tracing over the contours of his lips when suddenly his phone alarm goes off, startling you.

It doesn’t disturb Van, who only shifts slightly before dozing back off. The phone is too far away for you to do anything about it. You sigh.

“Van?” You’re hesitant when you speak.

“Hmph?”

“Your alarm is going off.”

At that Van starts to shuffle underneath the blankets. One of his arms unfolds so that he can wipe the hair out of his face before he uses his other elbow to support his weight, grasping for his phone.

In his stretch to grab his phone he causes the blankets to slip down, leaving you both mostly uncovered. Instantly your skin protests at the cold hotel room air, and you grasp for the edge of the comforter to haul it back up. It’s slipped just below Van’s thighs, exposing the boxers he’d slept in. As you grip the fabric Van’s finished shutting the alarm off, putting his phone back on the bedside table and flopping onto his back. His readjustment means that you clearly see the way he’s tenting in his boxers.

You tug the blankets up quickly, eyes wide. Van looks like he’s already in the process of drifting back off, eyes closed where he’s laying, oblivious to what you’ve seen. You rest your head back down on the pillow.

“Are you falling back asleep?” You ask after he’s been still for a bit.

“No,” He croaks, but you’re not convinced. He only further proves your point when he gets back on his stomach, curling up into the position he had been in minutes before.

One moment you’re admiring the way his t-shirt stretches across his back, the next your hand has moved of its own accord, your fingers gently scratching him through the fabric. You truly hadn’t meant to do it. But he’s in a white shirt instead of his usual black, and his skin is visible against the cotton, and you’ve been yearning to touch him any chance you get. The fact he was hard only made you crave it more, knowing that he wanted you to touch him as bad as you wanted to touch him.

At the first graze of your fingertips against his shirt you freeze, realizing what you’re doing. You pull your hand away.

Van makes a noise of distaste against the pillow. It sounds like he says something, but you can’t make his words out.

“What?”

“Tease,” He huffs.

You frown. “How?”

“Because,” He mumbles sleepily, shifting against the pillow so that he’s looking at you. “Scratch my back.”

“We gotta get up.”

“After you scratch my back.”

You reach out and run your nails over his shirt as if you’d done it a million times. He smiles, closing his eyes in bliss as you humor him, loosely guiding your hand up and down his spine and over his shoulders.

“Ready to get up yet?” You ask in amusement when Van relaxes into the mattress even more.

“No,” He groans. “I’m so fucking tired.”

Without thinking about it your fingers slide under the hem of Van’s shirt, so that now you’re scratching his skin. You can feel his muscles twitching beneath your fingertips.

“You’re never tired,” You point out.

“I am when I’ve been jet-lagged for a week straight. Fuck.”

Even while he’s huffing about waking up he’s preening under your touch, clearly enjoying himself.

“I’ll get coffee going,” You tell him before slipping your hand out of his shirt, earning yourself a dirty look.

When you head for the coffee machine is when Van realizes you’re not coming back, finally yawning and forcing himself to sit up.

“I gotta get in the shower.”

He’s rubbing his eyes as he finally emerges from bed, stumbling to grab his toiletries from his luggage. You chance a peek at him when he stands up straight, but he’s strategically carrying a pouch with stuff for his morning shave so that his hard on’s concealed.

You busy yourself preparing both of your coffees, filling two disposable cups. He finally makes it into the bathroom, flicking the lights on and getting the water running before shutting the door, the knob clicking as he locks it. You’d been hoping he’d invite you to shower with him, but apparently he was serious about being exhausted.

You start to go through your own things, getting yourself ready. Jet lag had caused you both to sleep well into the afternoon, and it wouldn’t be long before the ride to the venue was here. As long as you try to avoid it, eventually you need to use the bathroom sink, tapping nervously at the locked door.

“Are you knocking?” Van’s voice echoes from the shower.

“Yeah!” You yell against the heavy wooden door. “I need to use the sink!”

There’s the wet slap of footsteps before the knob rattles and the door opens.

Van��s already disappeared behind the curtain by the time you’re in the bathroom. You focus on getting ready through the steam that’s forming on the glass. In perfect timing, once you’re about to complain that it’s too hard to see the spray cuts off, Van stepping out.

He’s dripping water all over the floor, his skin pink from the heat. He doesn’t have a towel immediately in reach, causing him to meander around looking for one, leaving the room for a moment. The steam escapes through the door, helping to clear the mirror.

When he comes back in he’s got one towel wrapped around his waist, another slung over his shoulders, and a hairbrush in hand. When he turns to brush his hair you can tell that he’s soft now.

You suppress a smile at what that implies.

The whole route to the venue you’re engrossed in the familiar sights. The landmarks, the major streets, a restaurant here or there that you’d eaten at after concerts at the very venue you were headed to.

Saint Andrew’s hasn’t changed much, although you can tell there’s been some renovations. The walkthrough with the band feels like deja vu, your body familiar with the layout of the building even though you haven’t been there since high school. Bondy asks where a restroom is, and before one of the staff can answer you point him towards the door without thinking about it. Only once you’re actually backstage, where your brain doesn’t have any material to push memories to the forefront of your mind, do you feel more normal.

You’re good about staying away from the public areas until soundcheck, which you don’t intend to miss. Watching everyone perform as friends rather than professionals in such a laid-back atmosphere has become one of your favorite perks of being a guest. You’re comfortable enough to stray from the wings this time around, instead choosing to venture on stage with the boys. You sit down in the corner, your legs dangling off of the edge, as out of the way and as far from the amps as you can get.

“Eh, didn’t sound right to me,” Bondy jokes after they’ve checked Sidetrack. “Felt a bit flat.”

“Aw, fuck you,” Van tells him, his footsteps vibrating the stage as he makes it back to his microphone. “Focus on yourself. Pretty sure I heard you play the chorus wrong.”

“That was you, actually.”

They do this all rehearsal, all of them poking at each other with no real malice. But you can tell the boys are having an extra dose of fun today with you around.

“Did that sound right to you, Y/N?” Bondy asks. “Maybe it’s just me, I dunno.”

“Yeah, let’s ask Y/N, our true impartial listener,” Van says into the microphone. It reverberates around the empty hall.

“Stop asking me!” You whine, looking over at them. “Everyone sounds great. Grow up.”

Everyone seems to find your irritation funnier than picking on Van.

“What about the drums?” Bondy continues. “I think Bob missed a beat there.”

You shake your head, not justifying him with a reply. Everyone snickers.

They go through their next song in fits and starts as adjustments are made, and your mind drifts away as they talk quietly amongst themselves. You gaze at the polished wooden floor the audience will be standing on later tonight, and your eyes travel up to the high, detailed ceilings of the room. It’s impossible not to remember all the times you’ve been under this ceiling, standing atop this exact floor, watching a band perform on this very stage with your then-boyfriend. You were always here with him because these had been his favorite bands, his group of friends that you two met up with. Looking around the room now feels like being somewhere haunted, like if you close your eyes you can see your life exactly the way it used to be. The way it was when you thought you were content where you were, when you felt your whole future was laid out in front of you and you didn’t have a problem following that path. When you didn’t know what else was out there for you.

You’re startled out of your thoughts by Van plopping down next to you, chugging a waterbottle. You realize they’ve finished soundcheck, everyone starting to quietly disperse.

“You okay?” He asks, gazing out into the space with you.

“Yeah,” You say, distracted.

“We’re only teasing, you know that, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” You brush his concern off. “I know that.”

“You seem upset.”

You shake your head. “I’m not upset. It feels weird being here.”

“Wanna smoke?”

You nod, hopping up to go follow him outside.

Once you’re out of the back door, greeted by a stifling wave of heat and humidity, Van meanders away from the venue. You follow along, looking at what’s changed on the block since the last time you’ve been. The building directly next to the hall is clearly abandoned now, and there’s a lone tree growing in a patch of grass in the narrow strip between that building and the store next to it. Van gravitates toward it, and you’re happy to be in the shade.

“What used to be here?” Van asks, nodding towards the abandoned lot. It’s evident that concert goers seem to know about this little space, considering there’s graffiti etched into the bricks. People’s names, random dates, mysterious phone numbers. There’s some actual tags spraypainted in various spots on the wall, but you’re more interested in the smaller messages.

“A bar. It was cool. Right after the concert everyone would go directly here. I wonder why they closed down. No doubt they made a ton of money.”

“You went?”

“Eh, occasionally. They’d be so packed right after a show you could weasel your way past the person checking IDs sometimes.” Your brain provides you with more memories of your past from the seemingly endless supply it has today.

“Why’d you break up with your last ex?” You blurt out. It’s so nosey and off topic you immediately want to kick yourself, but Van is unfazed, finishing his hit of his cigarette.

“I thought you hated talking about exes,” He points out.

“I do. Guess I’m just feeling really… reflective today.”

Once you were outside Van had slipped on the pair of sunglasses he’s kept dangling from the collar of his button up, so his expression is unreadable. His lenses just reflect you smoking back at yourself, so you look away.

“We were a bad match,” He says. “Always at each other’s throats. I didn’t see as much of a problem with it as the boys did. She did not like them and they did not fucking like her. They had to talk some real sense into me. But I’m glad they did.”

“Why were you with her? If she didn’t get along with anyone?”

“You know, this is gonna sound like such bullshit, but I really think I just forgot what love felt like. When you’re younger, and going to school and what have you, you know who you’re into, you know? Does that makes sense? If you’re in a class with thirty people, it’s easy to pick out who you’ve got a thing for.”

You nod, following along.

“So I met my first love in school. The thing is, though, nothing feels like your first love. Right? So when that’s said and done, you’re trying to find that feeling again, but it’s never the same, whatever. So for a while I would date girls and we would either be intensely in love or have no spark whatsoever. But then you’re an adult, and you’re working, and I’m not in one place very long. If I meet someone I like they’re not someone I see regularly because I’m always doing band stuff. So before you know it you’ve been single forever. Then it’s kinda… alright, our connection isn’t crazy, but it works. I started settling, I guess.”

You nod enthusiastically, his dating history resonating with your own.

“Anyway, when I met her, we had a lot of passion. So to me, I’m like, fuck, okay, I’m in love again. And when we got along, things were-” He gestures smoothly with his hand. “But we never got along. I swear we actually fucking hated each other most of the time. But at least I was feeling something for someone, so I figured we could work things out. Um, but we didn’t. And the fighting was unbearable. Interrupting rehearsals, nights out. We were always leaving early and always screaming in front of people. Bondy and Bob and Benji just got sick of it. Told me to cut it out. So, eventually I did.”

“That was pretty deep,” You remark, and Van laughs. “When’d you break up?”

“Right before Christmas,” Van tells you. “She absolutely freaked. But I got home and my mum and dad were so fucking relieved she wasn’t with me. That’s when I knew everyone had been right.”

“She met your parents?”

“They actually came to see us at a show while she was with me. She was starting shit with me all day, holy shit. They met her that one time and then avoided anything having to do with her like the plague.”

“That sounds genuinely awful.”

Van shrugs. “It is what it is. Learned a valuable lesson. Got some good songs out of it.”

You suppose relationships gone bad do probably hurt less when you make your living off of them.

“Let’s hear yours.”

“My last ex?” You ask, and Van nods.

“Eh. He was cheating on me.”

Van winces. “That’s shit.”

You shrug. “It wasn’t a big deal, honestly. I know that sounds crazy. I didn’t have any real spark with him, I didn’t really care. What I hated the most was how he thought he was so fucking clever and I knew the entire time.”

Van snorts. “How’d you figure it out?”

“Ugh,” You roll your eyes, “It was so easy! He was so stupid! First, when we became official his profile was still up on Tinder. Mine was still up too, okay, whatever-” You hold your hands up in joking guilt, “-But I would catch him actually on the app. And he had previews turned on for his notifications! I would literally catch girls texting him!”

Van chuckles along at your animated storytelling.

“And that’s it, really. I let it go on for a little bit because I was lonely at the time, but then it wasn’t funny anymore and it was over.”

“And when was this?”

“Psh. Long, long time ago. A year ago, at least. Year and a half, maybe.”

Both of your cigarettes are long burnt out. You add them to the collection of the other butts lying in the dirt around the tree.

“Have you ever cheated?” You decide to ask Van. Maybe if he has, you can convince yourself not to be in love with him. You’d have a sensible reason why it’d never work.

“Christ. I have, don’t judge me.”

At his words you perk up, eager to find a flaw.

“I was fifteen,” Van groans when he sees how intently you’re watching him. “It was nothing. I was technically dating a girl in my maths class but I kissed another girl under the bleachers after football practice.”

You laugh so hard your stomach hurts because of course, of course that’s Van McCann’s story of cheating. He tries to keep a straight face, looking rather remorseful, but eventually he cracks too, laughing along.

When you’re here with Van, sweating to death and laughing about innocent heartbreak, you forget all about the ghosts that follow you around this place. It occurs to you then that what’s most important is now. It’s nice to know about Van’s crazy ex, but it’s even nicer that he’s here with you instead of arguing with her. And it’s nice to remember times when you were younger, when things were simpler, but you realize that during your friendship with Van you’re probably happier than you ever were in the past. And it’s wishful thinking, but you can’t help but hope that maybe he feels the same way.

“So, do you actually ever use the bus?” You call to Van in the bathroom. He’s got the door open, fresh out of his post-show shower. You’re kicked back on the bed, texting about the show with Mary.

“Uh, we do,” Van laughs like it was a stupid question. “We’re practically on it twenty-four seven. We’d usually be on it tonight heading to the next place.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“I asked to stay the extra night because I was meeting up with you.”

At this your eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean? We can’t get driving to the next place when you need to be at the airport in the morning. I said I had a friend coming in and could we stay an extra night because she has to fly. And they said that was fine with the schedule.”

You immediately shoot a text to Mary relaying your conversation. Just found out Van asked to adjust the schedule for me???

Mary’s reply pings back immediately: EXPLAIN?!?!

You’re typing a summary of what Van’s just said when you hear him speak from the bathroom. You don’t catch what he said.

“I can’t hear you!” You call to him.

“I said,” Van appears in the doorway, shirtless with a pair of sweats slung low on his hips. “Have you ever seen a tour bus?”

“No. Aren’t they like an RV?”

“A what?”

“An RV?”

“What the fuck is an RV?”

You look up at him in exasperation. “You know-” You gesture with your hands, “Giant things, you drive them, you take them camping. They have a kitchen and a bed and stuff? Like a house on wheels?”

Van cocks his head. “A motorhome?”

“Yes! A motorhome, sure.”

“Right. No, they’re nothing like that.”

“Okay, then I have no clue what they’re like.”

Van speaks again while he’s tugging on his t-shirt, successfully muffling his words. Yet when he pops his head through the collar, he’s looking at you for a response.

“I did not hear a word you just said,” You tell him with raised eyebrows.

Van rolls his eyes. “I said, do you wanna see ours?”

You do, but you hesitate. “Are we going to be bugging anyone?”

“Nah. Everyone’s in rooms tonight.”

“Then yeah, I do wanna see.”

Van stuffs his feet into a pair of slippers. “Then c’mon, get some shoes on.”

You hadn’t realized he’d meant right this second, but you get up from the bed, tucking your phone in your pocket and slipping on the flip-flops you’d brought for the shower. He pockets one of the room keys as you follow him out of the suite and down to the parking lot.

There’s nobody around considering the late hour of the night.

“Do you have a key?” You ask curiously when Van approaches the bus empty handed.

“No. You use a code.” He hits a combination of numbers on a small keypad, and with a beep he’s able to slide the door aside, letting you head up the stairs before him.

It looks like a regular coach bus when you look around, like the ones schools rent for long field trips. There’s two pairs of leather seats that face each other, and a small table dividing them.

Van appears behind you, stepping around so that he can lead the tour.

You couldn’t see it from where you were standing, but once you follow Van you see a narrow countertop nestled on one side. There’s a minifridge, a coffee pot, and a microwave nearby in the small space, and a small restaurant-booth seat where you presume people eat.

“Here’s the little kitchen,” Van says, gesturing to the countertop and booth.

Although it’s clear that the space is lived in, given the various foods lined up on the surfaces, there’s no trash or mess to be seen. “It’s really clean.”

Van snorts. “We’re slobs. It’s all thanks to the team.”

“They clean up after you?”

“They take care of the trash. Throw out the old food, get us some new stuff, that kind of thing.”

Van clicks open a door, showing you the inside of a new room. “Bathroom,” He explains, and you peek your head in, surprised to see a sink. You didn’t really consider there was running water in these things.

You’re almost at the end of the bus, and you haven’t seen any bunks. “So, do you, like, recline those seats to sleep? Like a plane?”

Van glances over his shoulder at you. “No. The bunks are upstairs.”

“How do you-” You start to ask, but before you can finish your sentence Van has started climbing up to the second level using a staircase in the corner.

You struggle to keep up with him, amazed as you climb up the steps to a whole new area. Lined against the walls are the actual bunks.

This area hasn’t been cleaned, considering each mattress is piled with rumpled bedding and various belongings. Some bunks were clearly being used as storage instead of a place to sleep, suitcases resting on them instead of blankets.

Van leads you to one of the top beds on the left side. It’s been messily made.

Van pats the colorful quilt resting on top of his sheets. “Here’s mine.”

“It’s made,” You remark, also reaching out to feel his blanket. “This quilt is really nice.”

“I try to at least throw it together in the morning.” He shrugs. “And my mum made me this, actually.”

“What?” You lean in closer to try and examine his quilt. Van messes with something before a light in the bunk comes on, illuminating the small space. “This looks amazing! Like it’s from a store.”

“Yeah. She’s handy with a sewing machine. She made it for me when I was leaving for New York. Now it’s my official touring blanket.”

His story makes your heart swell. You’re quiet as you continue to admire Mary’s work.

“Wanna hop in?” Van interrupts your thoughts.

It takes some maneuvering, but you managed to wriggle your body onto Van’s mattress. It’s about the same size as a twin bed, but the walls on three sides of you mean there’s no luxury of sprawling out.

“How do you fit in here?” You ask him. When you stretch out all the way, your toes bump the opposite end of the bed. You can’t imagine Van fits in here comfortably considering how tall he is.

“Eh, bend your knees a little. I’m used to it.”

You were already short on space, but things start to feel a bit claustrophobic when Van hops into bed with you. You’re stuffed between him and the wall.

“This is a squeeze,” You point out. Van’s pressed so close to you that when he exhales you can smell the toothpaste on his breath.

“You’re telling me.” You can feel his voice rumble through his chest.

There’s a moment of quiet when a thought suddenly pops into your head. “Oh my God, have you ever had sex in here?”

Van exhales a quiet laugh, and you feel his fingertips fussing with the hem of your shirt. “What, hoping to be the first?”

It’s hard to keep your train of thought straight when you feel his fingertips brush over your hipbone. “I’m only asking!” You manage to say.

“Ha. Yes I’ve had sex on a bunk,” He admits. “But, like, a long time ago. This might surprise you, but it’s not the most comfortable experience.”

In retaliation for his sarcasm you slip your own fingers underneath his shirt, pinching his side.

“Oi!” Van cries out in surprise. The space is so small that it sounds like he just shouted at full volume. You cringe.

“Don’t be so fucking loud,” You complain, pinching him again for good measure. “Right in my ear!”

“Well don’t pinch me!” Van scoffs.

“Fine, I won’t,” You hiss before tickling him.

“Cut it out,” Van pleads, twitching helplessly under your fingers. Before you know it he’s pushed your shirt up, tickling you roughly in retaliation.

One second you’re both squirming around, commanding each other to stop, and the next second Van’s lips are on yours. You freeze in surprise.

When he catches you by surprise he kisses you harder, his body shifting so that he’s hovering over you. When your brain catches up you relent on your attack, your arms wrapping around his shoulders instead.

“What are you doing?” You ask when he pulls back.

He grins. “Getting you to stop.”

He’s got a satisfied smirk like he’s won. If only he knew that losing felt like winning first prize to you.

“Well you better keep going,” You taunt him, teasingly tickling at the back of his neck. “Or else.”

You feel his smile as he kisses you again, pressing your lips open with his own so he can deepen it.

When it’s your turn to smile through the kiss he slowly pulls away, eyebrows raised. “What?”

You don’t answer him for a second, happily taking in the features of his face. You move one of your hands away from his shoulder to cup his jaw, running your thumb along the prominent line of it. His morning shave means his skin is silky smooth, no scratch of stubble against your skin. He’s still waiting for a response.

“I missed you,” You tell him. It’s the closest words to ‘I love you’ that you two exchange. “I missed you, like, a lot.”

Van grins, his body shifting so his face is inches away from yours. The feeling of his stomach rubbing against yours, even through your layers of clothes, sends a spark up your spine.

“Miss me?” He chuckles quietly. “I’m right here.”

“Now,” You argue, running your fingers through his hair. It’s still wet from the shower, making your knuckles damp.

Van laughs, kissing you again. This one is lacking heat, just a sweet, quick press of his mouth to yours. “Aw. I missed you too.”

“I’m right here,” You mock him, playfully poking one of the darker freckles on his cheek.

“Oh, I’m aware,” Van teases, leaning forward for another kiss. “And if you don’t mind, I’m prepared to take full advantage of that fact.”

You hate to crack the mood, but at his line you let out a laugh that’s too loud considering your proximity. “Oh, that was smooth, that was smooth,” You praise him, ruffling his hair.

Van looks proud of himself, lowering his chin to your chest and beaming up at you.

“But yeah,” You tell him, sliding your hands over his back, “It’d be a shame if you didn’t.”

With your approval Van starts to heave himself out of the bunk, a tangle of limbs too long to be confined into this space.

“Are we going back to the room?” You ask as Van helps you down.

“No. Somewhere where there’s more space.”

His fingertips are cold as he loosely tangles them with yours, gently tugging you away from the bunks, in the opposite direction of the staircase. It’s not quite hand-holding, but it’s close enough to stun you, gazing down at your entwined hands as Van leads you the short distance to a door. He releases you so that he can swing it open, and by now you’re used to being ushered in first.

He’s led you to a tiny room that only contains a couch, a television in the wall, and a PlayStation surrounded in a tangle of wires on the floor.

“Of course,” Van sighs under his breath as you two take in the couch. It’s covered in clutter, mostly dirty clothes and the PlayStation remotes. Within the blink of an eye he’s crossed the room, starting to toss whatever clothes have been abandoned here onto the floor. You help too, taking care of the remotes, beer bottles, and cigarette boxes. The end result is a clean couch and a messy floor.

“Yeah,” You say to nobody in particular as you relax into the couch, which is long enough to stretch out on. “There’s a lot more space.”

Van tugs his t-shirt off, tossing it onto the floor with the mess. You follow suit.

Only once your shirt is off do you notice the lighting. The small lamp in the bunk had been cozy, but this room is shrouded in the sort of lighting public bathrooms had; it was fluorescent yet dim, casting a yellow glow, and doing everything in its power to illuminate any flaws. Immediately after looking down at your exposed body you wish you could pull your shirt back on.

“I hate these lights,” You declare to Van.

“Hold on,” Van grunts, wriggling around as he searches for something. “We’ve got something better.”

After some commotion the wall the couch is pressed against is suddenly illuminated with a soft glow. It looks as if there’s lighting installed into the back of the couch, but when Van crosses the room and flicks the lightswitch off you realize that the boys have a string of fairy lights resting against the edge of the seats. The atmosphere of the room is suddenly much more welcoming.

You hadn’t realized your shoulders were tense until you feel them sag in relief. At the sight of Van approaching the couch again, however, you tense up again.

“Condom?” You check, terrified of an Arizona repeat.

“Right, right,” Van clicks his tongue, heading for the door again. “I’ll be right back.”

With nobody else on the bus, you can clearly hear the shuffle of Van looking around. Thankfully he returns with a foil packet in hand, locking the door behind him.

When he sits down on the couch, he holds the packet close to the string of fairy lights, squinting at it.

“What?” You ask as Van struggles to read the text on it. You notice it’s an orange color, not the blue of Van’s usual trojans.

“It’s ribbed. Will that work?”

“Sure,” You nod. Truthfully, you’ve never tried them, but you will tonight if it means getting the show on the road. “Whose is that?”

“Bondy’s.” Van sets the condom aside on the floor, proceeding to strip away his sweatpants. “I’ll have to remember I owe him one.”

He says this so casually, as if they borrow condoms from each other regularly. You shake your head at how odd men are as you finish stripping your clothes away.

Once the clothes are off and you two gravitate into the same position you were in on the bunk, the mood starts to come back. It hadn’t gone far, considering Van was still hard. He busies himself with your foreplay, his fingertips gingerly searching for a good spot against your clit.

“There,” You say quickly, when he’s gotten it right. But he’s already moved, the sensation lost.

“Where?” Van tries to move back into his previous place. He’s almost got it right, but it’s slightly off. “Here?”

You reach down between your legs, Van’s fingers going pliant as he allows you to readjust him. “There.”

He adds pressure, moving in his usual wide circle. Your nerves light up with it, your hips twitching up instinctually. He knows he’s gotten it right by your reaction.

In reward you reach down to work on him. The back of your hand brushes his dick. It’s swollen and radiating heat, and a smear of precome brushes over your skin. Van practically jumps out of his skin. You don’t want to bring him any closer to the edge than he already is, so you decide to slide your hand lower instead, gently cupping his balls.

“Shit,” Van hisses, flinching.

You freeze. “Do you hate it?”

“No, no,” He breathes, and you feel him relax.

“How do you like it?”

Van shakes his head. “Never had it. Go easy on ‘em.”

You don’t have the mental space to process what he’s said, too consumed by the way he’s touching you. With his request you keep your touch gentle. You’re both hypnotized, the foreplay going on for longer than usual, and you’re almost tempted to call off the sex and come only from his fingers. You can tell he’s becoming more familiar with your body, his hand keeping the right rhythm as he kisses the spot on your neck that always makes you moan. But he’s not the only one that’s been studying, and instead of your usual breathy moan you let his name slip just to rile him up more.

That seems to snap him out of his daze, and with a playful nip to that spot on your neck he pulls away, stretching down to grab for the condom. You let your hand fall away from his balls, rubbing his inner thigh instead while he slides his foreskin back and gets the condom over himself.

“Any special requests?” He asks as his way of checking in, and you feel the gentle pressure of him nestling into position.

“Yeah,” You reply as you shuffle to make sure your hips are at the right angle. “You better not pretend I’m the girlfriend you fucked in the bunk once.”

Van gives a loud scoff, his eyebrows furrowing. He looks down at you like you’ve just grown a second head.

“Are you kidding?” He asks, cocking his head. “Have you looked at yourself? Why would I fucking want to?”

It had mostly been a joke, but there was always a small part of you that wondered if Van used your arrangement to relive past experiences. It always hurt to consider, especially since he was the clear winner out of everyone you’d ever physically been with. At his sincerity you gulp, giving a small nod.

He shakes his head at you in exasperation. “Christ, Y/N. You know, I’ve never met anyone like you.”

You eye him wearily. “Okay, that sounds like an insult, but to be fair, I’ve never met anyone like you, either!”

Van chuckles as he starts his first slow thrust inside of you, effectively shutting you up. “Deffo not an insult.”

Something about his response makes you unexpectedly emotional. You chalk it up to a heady mix of love hormones and the relaxation that sweeps over you at your anxieties being assuaged. It was in the way he responded enthusiastically, rather than brushing you off. As you two get started it still takes you a minute to shake off the memory of his face peering down at you like you were absolutely insane for even insinuating such a thing. Even then, his words linger.

You know, I’ve never met anyone like you.

#summer's a knife #catfish and the bottlemen #catb #van mccann #van mccann fic #van mccann fanfiction #vanfic #catb fic #please enjoy me waxing poetic about saint andrew's hall

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bottleofspilledink · 4 years ago

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God's Watching, Put on a Show || Chapter I

September 10, 1993, St. Agnes School For Girls

Eve stared at the bible she was so desperately clutching, her nails creating indents on it's fine, leather cover.

"Hail, holy queen,

Mother or mercy,

Hail, our life, our sweetness, and our hope..."

Her stomach twisted as she switched from one prayer to another in her head.

"Glory be to the Father,

And to the Son,

And to the Holy Spirit..."

She wasn't even sure if she'd finished before beginning a different one, thoughts continually straying, focus nearly non-existent.

"Our Father,

Who art in Heaven,

Hallowed be thy name..."

If she was more aware of herself, she would have thought it miraculous that the book didn't simply slip from her grasp.

They had just finished the first gym class of their senior year and she could still picture it so vividly.

Airy sighs of relief echoed through the showers, mixing with the sound of running water and murmured complaints of aching limbs.

Warm water cascaded down them all as her chestnut eyes wandered, gaze flitting from the floor, to the nude girl next to her, to the faucet knobs, then to the floor once more.

She couldn't help but envy Claudia's soap, the lilac bar sliding over the soft, supple skin of her thighs, gliding over the gentle swell of her breasts, leaving sweet smelling suds and translucent bubbles in their wake.

It hardly got better when she towelled off. Girls roamed around the room in various states of undress.

When the prayers didn't work, she brought her sweaty hands up to palm at the rosary that, despite dangling at her neck, had always felt too tight.

Just a bit.

Her face flushed as even more of earlier's memories surfaced.

She recalled how her classmate, Tabitha, leant down to ask for a turn with her brush, entirely bare save for a towel that, instead of covering her body, had been used to wrap her wet hair.

She recalled how Naomi had slipped on the wet tile, bumping into her in an attempt to stay standing, wet hair dripping onto Eve as she was pressed into the locker, body hot against her back even with the towel between them.

And once that failed to purge the thoughts from her head, she shifted her gaze to the crucifix above the whiteboard, exchanging prayers for pleas so desperate that would make anyone who heard it cave and help her.

Though unfortunately for Eve, no one was listening.

She wanted to stop the thoughts.

She needed to stop the thoughts, the frantic beating of her heart, the pulsing heat that came from between her legs, lest she risk losing everything in this life and the next.

"Please," she thought, eyes clenched shut, her ivory hands were slick and shaking as she brought them together, fingertips growing red with each pleading squeeze, "help me."

"I know you wouldn't put me through this if you thought I couldn't handle it, but I'm begging you, help me." The words were now a mantra, repeating over and over til it lost all meaning, words meshing together in her mind in a senseless fashion, fading into the background of her thoughts all together.

Her amber eyes brimmed with tears at what could happen to her, to her soul, if she wasn't able to stop, if this wanton depravity escaped her mind, if she decided to go forth and search for ways to fulfill this sick fantasy of hers.

And through some miracle or curse, her prayers had been realized in the form of the shrill shriek of the fire alarm. Her heart beat in panic instead of longing and arousal receded, replaced by fear.

"Get in line, girls. Remember our drills," Sister Jane said, calmly rising from her seat, somehow immune to the fear and worry that now permeated the air.

At the order, lines were formed, rushed and frantic and the complete opposite of their usually pristine formation as they speed walked through the cloisters.

The place was bustling with life, tiny heels clicking and voices buzzing as the already crooked lines dissipated completely as people shoved and bumped into each other.

Eve could barely move, her right side pressed firmly into the walls. She shuffled along as best she could, making way for one of the nuns fighting against the crowd trying to reach the telephone to call the fire department.

They arrived at the courtyard quickly and despite the attempts to settle them, some girls were running all over the grass, shouting names, looking for friends and ensuring their safety.

Though the source of the fire was still a mystery, it was clear that calming the students would take a good while.

Eve was shivering in the crisp autumn air, a crunchy leaf smacking her in the face as she rubbed her hands together. In all the commotion, she had left her coat behind, the thick wool remaining draped over the back of her chair and utterly useless to her now.

Just when the sisters were at their wits end, one of the more elderly nuns and girls in aprons rushed out of the west wing door with their hands and handkerchiefs covering their mouths.

They donned flour stains on their school-mandated black aprons and reeked of smoke. Most were violently coughing, one of them dry heaving onto the grass because of the force of it.

The girls were far too distracted to notice one of their fellow classmates slipping away from them.

"Sister Agnes!" The women rushed over to her as she fell to the ground, habit nearly slipping off when her frail body collided into the damp grass.

"What happened? Did all the girls make it out?" Mother Cecilia asked, nearly hysterical as she knelt by her fallen friend.

"Thank the Lord, I believe so, yes." Sister Agnes pushed herself up and hid the bit of hair that escaped her hood. "Oh, I don't know what happened! We were just baking, and- and I- That girl! She put it in the oven! That wretched girl! She must have started the fire!" The woman marched over to her students, face distorted in rage.

"Where is she?! Where's Lilith?!"

Eve, being so far from the commotion, hardly noticed it all as she sat alone on one of the wooden benches. She was far too occupied with warming herself. A violent shiver went through her as her leg brushed against the cold metal nail of the seat.

"Feeling chilly?" A girl with striking red hair asked her, taking off her oven mitts and waving them at Eve.

"Oh! Uhm, no, I'm fine. Thank you, though." She said, straightening herself. A gust of wind had blown past them, allowing Eve to catch a faint whiff of the smoky scent emanating from the girl.

The other merely smirked, "Shy? There's no need to be. Besides, I can see you shivering."

The blonde gave an awkward laugh, feeling her face flush as she was caught lying.

"You got me there! But really, I'm fine, it's nothing I can't handle," Eve tried reassuring the girl, who only raised a brow at her.

"Sure about that? I don't mind letting you borrow them, it's not like I'm using them or anything." The girl practically insisted on taking the oven mitts, holding them out to Eve.

Even from afar, she could feel it's warmth, her hand gave a tiny twitch, completely revealing how much she wanted it.

"If you're sure..." She reached out and took the mittens from her, their fingers briefly brushing together.

And for a second, a single, fleeting moment, the overwhelming desire to hold the other girl's hand overtook her, and she froze, head spinning at the other's heat.

She wanted to feel her smooth skin, her warmth, and have her soft hands encompass her own.

But no such thing happened and Eve pushed the thought aside to slip the oven mitts on.

"Thank you. I honestly don't think I could have taken it much longer, I have more goosebumps than an actual goose at this point."

The girl laughed at this, hearty and loud and absolutely stunning as her frame shook with the force of it all. The autumn sun made her hair shine like a ruby, it's tips grazing her apron as she moved about.

"My name's Eve, by the way." She clumsily brushed her own hair from her face, oven mitts making the task more difficult than it should have been, then stuck out her hand for the other to shake.

"That's pretty. It suits you," the girl said nonchalantly. Eve would have thought it to be sarcasm if it weren't for the seemingly genuine smile still on her face.

"I'm-"

"There you are!" Mother Cecilia pushed through the crowd of students and grabbed the dark haired girl's outstretched hand, preventing it from reaching Eve's and pulling her up. "Come with me! Now!"

And so, the girl was gone before Eve could make a sound. She could do nothing but watch as people around them parted to let the two pass, not wanting the wrath of Mother Cecilia to befall them too.

They stayed out there for another fifteen minutes before the fire department arrived.

The girls were craning their necks as they crammed themselves at the windows to get a glimpse of the firemen as the ran through the halls, hose trailing behind them. Whispers of excitement ran through them as one of the men actually entered the courtyard to talk to the nuns.

After an hour long role call, they were ushered back to their classes, chatter untamable due to all of the events that had transpired.

There was only one girl who stayed silent through it all.

Eve was still staring at the red oven mitts when she reached her seat, wondering how on earth she would return them, til the answer presented themselves through the tag that slipped out when she took them off.

On that tag, scrawled messily in a thick black marker was the name Lilith Damien.

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elizabethemerald · 4 years ago

Text

Dreams of Drowning: Chap 13

AO3

Please Reblog!

It's finally time, for... The Arcadia Job.

“We understand Jimbo.” Toby waved from the ground. “Go do your hero thing. We’ll back you up if you need it. As soon as the world comes back into focus.”

Toby laid on his back in the middle of the street trying to catch his breath as Jim’s car turned the next corner out of sight. His arms felt like they were full of lead. Even lifting his head took more energy than he had.

“How does Jim do this magic stuff all the time?” He asked to no one in particular.

“He’s had his magic longer than either of us have.” Barbara said.

She was also sitting on the ground not far from Toby, her legs splayed out in front of her. After a few deep breaths she tried to force herself to stand. She got to her feet a little unsteadily.

“Is anyone injured? I can-whoa.”

Barbara took one step while she was talking and would have fallen flat on her face had Zelda not dove to catch her. She carefully held Barbara for a moment before lifting her up into her arms in a bridal carry.

“If anyone is hurt we can heal on our own. You need to rest before you do anything else.” Zelda said as she carried Barbara to the house.

She stepped carefully over the wreckage of the living room to set her wife down at a chair in the dining room. Toby watched them go, then rose with a groan and dragged himself to the house. Strickler stepped up to him and threw an arm over his shoulder to help him to the door. He kept his phone pressed to his ear with his other hand.

“Yes I know I haven’t called in forever, will you just listen?” Strickler was saying into the phone. “Angor I’ve got a problem I need your help with. What do you mean you’re not in the country any more? Cambodia! Why are in you in Cambodia?”

Toby zoned out of the conversation as he sat at the table next to Barbara. He rested his head on his arms, Jim’s mom seeming equally exhausted. Zelda was bustling around the kitchen, quickly getting some food for Toby and her wife. When a small plate of food and some tea was put in front of them, Barbara smiled up at her, exhaustion and love showing in every line of her face.

“Thank god one of us can cook.” Barbara said. “Thank you my love.”

Toby took out his phone while Barbara slowly took a sip of her tea. He fiddled with the phone idly while he thought. Some how he would have to tell Darci about what happened. Tell her that he had magic. Also explain that the truck was probably totalled from Bular flipping it. As he was about to call her he froze. To his right Barbara gasped, her cup slipping from her limp fingers to shatter on the ground.

“Something’s wrong.” He said.

“Jim-” Barbara whispered.

The two of them looked at each other. They could feel Jim’s fear and anger. Then a wave of pain and exhaustion washed over them. Zelda dashed to Barbara’s side as she groaned and steadied her as she wavered in her chair. Toby’s vision faded to a pinprick for a moment as he struggled to stay conscious.

And then the scream. It tore through his mind, shutting down the entire world. He couldn’t hear it over the scream in his head, but he was screaming out loud as well, his scream tearing its way out of his throat.

Time stood still. Toby could see through his own eyes. He could see the floor of the Lake-Nomura house where he had collapsed. He could feel Strickler’s arms on him keeping him from hitting his face on the floor. Brilliant orange fire roaring around him.

He could see through Barbara’s eyes. The navy light that shone from her, was mixed with a neon green light. He could see through Zelda’s eyes, her skin shifting and changing like rocks sliding down a cliff, revealing different skin tones in flashes of green. They held each other while they both screamed.

He could see through Darci’s eyes. Her magic moved like a whirling wind pulling her dreadlocks. She screamed by herself, alone, on the floor of the Domzalski house kitchen. Her hands were desperately wrapped around her belly, as her magic picked up to what seemed like a cyclone.

Toby could see through Jim’s eyes. He could see his best friend and first love get pulled slowly toward a pool filled with some strange dark material. He recognized that it was somehow linked to the corrupted heartstone that Jim had been so afraid of. Toby realized he couldn’t sense Claire at all in that moment.

Time suddenly returned to its regular pace. The fear disappeared like it was swallowed by the sun. Toby struggled to catch his breath. His throat hurt from the force of his scream. His hands were shaking as he grabbed Strickler’s arm for support. He could hear the ragged breathing of the Lake-Nomuras as they too recovered from what happened. Barbara was the first to speak.

“Is Jim…?” Even though she didn’t finish her sentence the others knew what she was trying to ask.

“I can’t sense Jim at all now.” Toby said. He stood, expecting to be exhausted, but instead he felt energized. He felt better than he had in years, probably since being a teenager. He flexed his arms and his flames roared to life around him. Strickler took an astonished step back. Barbara was shining with her navy light and beside her Zelda’s skin continued to shift and change like tectonic plates. Each shift was accompanied by a flash of green.

“We have to go after Little Gynt.” Zelda said. Though her voice currently sounded like Coach Lawrence and her body looked like Strickler’s. Her voice followed her body, slowly slipping into Strickler’s posh British accent, while her body shifted again to look like Toby. “Whatever happened, whyever we can’t feel him, we need to try and rescue him.”

“And Claire.” Barbara said. She let the light fade from her eyes, though it still shown and moved under her skin. “Jim was willing to risk his life to save her, and whatever else we can’t let anyone else suffer these feelings, especially not someone we love.”

Toby snapped his fingers.

“That reminds me! I have to call Darc!”

He looked to where his phone had fallen when he collapsed. He lifted his hand and orange flames whirled around the phone and brought it flying to his hand. However before he could even dial the phone announced an incoming call. He answered it quickly when he saw who it was.

"Hey Darc-"

"Is something wrong with Jim?" Darci interrupted. Toby blanched at the tone in her voice.

"No! There's nothing wrong with Jimbo!"

"Don't lie to me! I can tell when you're lying!" She hesitated and Toby could feel the wind pick up around her as if he was by her side. “I can tell when you’re lying.”

Toby took a deep breath. There was no point in playing around any more.

“Ok, so Jim lost contact with Claire and went to go check on her. I awakened my magic powers about an hour ago when Bular came to try and kill us again. Now you and Zelda have awakened your powers as well. I can’t feel Jim at all, and we are going to have to go in and save him with only a half baked plan and marginal chance of success. So do you want to come over and kill me yourself before I get arrested?”

Darci was silent on the other end of the line for a few moments.

“I’m on my way. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Toby hung the phone, then stared at the screen for a moment.

“Good news, bad news time. Darci is on her way, and her magic is awakened as well. On the other hand she didn’t clarify whether or not she was going to kill me when she arrived.”

Several minutes, one hurried explanation and multiple calls later, Darci was up to speed on what had happened and what their plan up to this point was. Toby thought it would take a bit of convincing to get the police to leave, so they weren’t left doing paper work for the rest of the night, but apparently along with being a human lie detector, Darci could now tell any lies she wanted and they were believed without question. Once she was caught up, and the authorities mislead about the gunfire that had been heard, they all left for 49B.

“Alright, just to review everyone’s jobs one last time.” Strickler said as he drove. Zelda was next to him in the car, while Darci, Toby and Barbara were crammed together in the back. “I’ll be in the car running mission ops. I’ll keep you updated on everything from here. Zelda, you and Mrs. Domzalski are on infiltration. Get in, find out what’s become of Young Atlas and get out. Meanwhile Barbara and Mr. Domzalski will be targeting the generator room that Jim trashed. Apparently its tied to whatever equipment they used to keep Claire in captivity, and possibly now Jim as well. Once the generator is destroyed and we know Young Atlas’s whereabouts we, well, improvise to extract him and his lady fair.”

“Just what I like in a plan. A massive question mark right in the middle of the operation.” Zelda growled to herself, before her body shifted to take on the appearance of an industrial inspector.

They pulled up to 49B far too soon. Toby cracked his knuckles nervously as he and Jim’s mom stepped out of the car. Barbara wore Zelda’s motorcycle helmet to hide her face. Toby wore a pair of welding goggles and a bandana from his truck. Zelda’s identity was already hidden by her transformation. The only one exposed was Darci. Toby glanced nervously at his already visibly pregnant wife.

Toby and Zelda stared each other down. “Take care of her.” “Keep her safe.” They spoke over each other, both anxious about being separated from their respective wives. Barbara put her hand gently on Zelda’s chin for a soft second before they both turned away. Toby moved to follow Barbara and he felt a tickle of air flutter around him. He smiled and in an instant all four minds were connected.

Toby could feel their fear flowing easily, fear of failure, fear of capture, fear of what had happened to Jim. He could also feel the hole left by Jim’s absence. There was a very clear spot where he belonged in the fabric of their minds. A place where his love should be. A place where he would have been able to steady them and encourage them to move forward. The hole ached in Toby’s mind.

He and Dr Lake-Nomura quickly reached the rear door. He paused for a second, watching in his mind’s eye as Darci and Zelda approached the main entrance. The wind picked up around Darci each time she lied to the guard to get their way in. Then once they were out of sight of the first guard Zelda changed to look just like him as she escorted Darci.

“Look at the card reader.”

Toby refocused on his current surroundings at Barbara’s words. The card reader that employees normally used to unlock the door had a small burn mark, like it had been shorted out. He tried the door itself and found it open. He pulled his hammer from his back and opened the door slowly.

There was no one at all inside. They quickly ran down the hallway until they were outside the door to the mechanical room Jim had trashed earlier. He paused, and glanced through Darci’s vision. She and Zelda had just made it to the security office. Zelda had incapicated the guard inside and assumed his form.

“TP, All the cameras for the facility are already off. They didn’t want anyone to know what they were doing today.” Darci’s voice slipped into his mind.

“And it looks like all security officers were ordered to avoid the basement level.” Nomura’s thoughts followed Darci’s. “Classified experiment on Entity 001 and Entity 002. Per orders from Gunmar Black.”

“That must be Jim and Claire!” Toby cheered. “We’ll trash the generator then head down to get them out.”

“Stay safe you too. It’s about to get dark.” Barbara thought.

The door to the mechanical room was locked, which wasn’t too surprising considering what Jim had managed to do to it last time. However it was the work of a moment to push some of his fiery magic into the key hole and in a moment it was unlocked. He opened the door for Jim’s mom to step in.

“Would you like to do the honors?” Toby asked, gesturing to the array of recently repaired machinery.

Barbara hesitated, her thoughts whirling through their shared connection. She wanted to take a small revenge by destroying the equipment, but was terrified of someone getting hurt and wanted to reserve her magic for saving Jim if that was necessary.

Toby nodded his understanding, putting a comforting hand on her arm. He double checked that Darci and Zelda were safe, they had locked the security office, Zelda sealing it by warping the concrete around the door frame, then he ignited his hammer.

Orange flames whirled around the room and it only took a few precise hammer blows for the lights to fail again, but that wasn’t enough. He was getting his best friend out of this facility and no one would ever use it to hurt people again. Broken sheets of metal flew into the air as he hammered away. Each piece floated for a second before joining a growing sphere of metal that was forming in the center of the room.

He focused, putting the full might of his gravity magic to the task. The sphere grew as more metal and debris were pulled to it, then compressed as he forced the material into one solid. Before too long he had a sphere just a touch taller than he was, all of solid metal. He strained, putting more and more magic into lifting the ball up to the ceiling. His arms were shaking, and sweat poured down his brow, only to evaporate in the heat of his magic. Finally when he couldn’t take the strain any more, he slammed the sphere straight down into the floor.

The floor of the mechanical room gave way like wet paper before the concentrated weight of the sphere. A rumbling crash echoed through the room as it impacted, and passed through the floor below them.

Toby didn’t hesitate to jump down into the pit he had created, Jim’s mom right behind him. He used his magic to slow their descent. They both landed safely in a hallway that was now completely filled with dust. They both dimmed their magic so they wouldn’t give themselves away prematurely. They froze at the sound of coughing ahead of them.

“The entities must have outside contacts” A woman’s voice could be heard through the dust. “Get to the security booth! I’ll make sure they don’t break containment!”

They both recognized the voice of Dr. Le Fay, the woman who had imprisoned and tortured Claire and surely orchestrated Jim’s capture. Toby waved his hand in the air and the orange flames of his magic swept forward, settling the dust instantly. Barbara was already charging the woman in gold.

“That’s my son you bitch!” Navy light shone from her fist as she punched Le Fay in the face.

Gunmar turned with a growl, but before he could do more to react Toby had cocked his hammer back and threw it with all his might and magic. It hit him right in the chest and blasted him backwards through a wall.

The rumbling that had started when Toby had dropped his meteor, suddenly picked up again, shaking the whole room. Barbara stumbled as a horrific growling filled the room. The noise seemed to go on and on without stopping, and it was coming from the room Gunmar had just been flung through. As they watched a massive hand burst through the ground. Another followed shortly after.

Something emerged from the hole. It was massive, had stone skin and incredible horns that swept back from its head. It opened its mouth, revealing huge tusks, and roared. The roar was powerful enough to shatter glass. Toby and Barbara crouched their hands over their ears as the roar rumbled through their bodies. Finally the roar ended and they could both breath again.

Toby stood, drawing the thing’s attention. Blue eyes glowed in the darkness, and blue flames licked out of the creature’s mouth and nostrils.

“Jim? Is that you? Jimbo?” Toby called to it, a tremor in his voice.

“Please Jim, we’re here to free you!” Barbara stood next to him, reaching out her hand for whatever this thing was.

Instead of answering the creature, that towered over them both, growled, more flames pouring out of his mouth. Toby reacted on instinct, grabbing Barbara and pivoting with her so he took the brunt of the fire on his back, sheltering her. If this was Jim, what had they done to him? If this wasn’t, then they had no chance of saving him.

#jim lake junior #claire nunez #Barbara Lake #toby domzalski #darci scott #zelda nomura #dreams of drowning #writing emerald #tales of arcadia #Trollhunters #please reblog!

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bluesey-182 · 5 years ago

Text

We Have To Stop Meeting Like This - Chapter 8

holy shit??? i finally did it??? i finished this chapter??? amazing. since there are so many chapters now i’m just going to start linking the fic on ao3 instead of linking all the posts separately. i hope that’s okay. now, without further ado, here is the update:

--------

“Hey, I didn’t think you’d answer.”

On the other line of the phone came the blasting sounds from a video game as someone shot a simulated gun. “Why?” Cardan asked. It sounded like he had his cell on speaker phone. “Cause it’s one in the morning?”

Jude couldn’t help herself--she rolled her eyes even though he wasn’t there to see it. “No, Cardan, because I thought both of your hands had been gnawed off by a giant rat. Of course because it’s almost one o’clock.”

There was uproarious laughter--deep and male--from the other end that didn’t sound like Cardan’s laugh. His roommate, probably. But if he had heard her, that confirmed her theory about being on speaker.

“First of all,” Cardan’s amused voice cut through the laughter. “The only rat that would be big enough to best me in a fight is an R.O.U.S from The Princess Bride and they don’t actually exist. And second of all, darling, I’m a nocturnal creature, so of course I’m awake to answer your late night booty calls. Now what can I do for you?” Machine gun fire continued in the background from his end, joined with shouting from Cardan’s roommate to “watch out, dude, watch out! damnit now you’re dead. way to go, geezer.”

“I just,” Jude began but quickly cut off, unsure of how to proceed knowing that someone else was listening in on their conversation--even if he was clearly wrapped up in whatever violent video game the two boys seemed to be playing. “Um…”

“Hang on, Jude.” There was some mumbling from his end as words were exchanged, then a click like a door being closed, and suddenly the game’s noises were gone and Cardan’s voice was closer. He had taken her off speaker. “Okay I’m alone now, sorry. Is everything okay?”

“I just,” Jude started again and trailed off once more. “I can’t sleep.”

It had been almost a week since her last seizure. A week since Cardan broke down her door to find her on the floor laying in her own blood. Six days since Madoc hired someone to fix the girls’ door, five days since Madoc ordered Jude to move back home until they could get her seizures back under control, and two days since Vivi finally helped Jude convince their father to let her stay in her own apartment. The last week had been exhausting and yet Jude was restless. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t scared after what had happened.

“Do you want me to come over?” Cardan offered helpfully, and the sincerity of his offer nearly brought tears to Jude’s eyes.

“No,” she admitted. “No, I want… out. I don’t want to be here right now.”

“Where do you want to be?”

“I don’t actually know.”

A brief silence washed over them, interrupted only by the sound of Taryn’s cat meowing from somewhere in the apartment. Finally, Cardan said, “I’m on my way to pick you up.”

--------

The first thing Jude noticed when she got into Cardan's car was his wild hair. The perpetually messy curls were somehow even more unkempt than usual. The second thing she noticed was that Cardan was wearing sweatpants that fit him in a very pleasing way underneath a hoodie that some primal part of her begged to steal from him. The third thing she noticed was his smirk at her noticing him.

"Good evening," Cardan said in a mockery of a stereotypical vampire voice.

"What, are you Dracula now?" Jude teased.

"I think I'd be more of a faerie than a vampire, actually."

"Then why the vampire voice?"

"Jude Duarte: ever the critic."

"Spare me.” Jude tugged the seatbelt across her body and buckled it with some effort--the buckle itself was coated in a sticky substance that was likely spilled soda. She hoped it was soda. “Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise."

"Cardan--"

"I promise there's not immediate danger to your person, if that's what you're worried about. Just trust me?"

Jude searched Cardan's face for any trace of deceit but came up empty. Hesitantly, she nodded her assent. Satisfied, Cardan put the car into gear and drove down the street like a person who decidedly deserved to have their license revoked. At Jude's surprised shriek, he laughed, earning himself a scowl from Jude.

"I thought you said there was no immediate danger to my person," she said.

"I just floored the gas a bit, it's not like I ran a red light into oncoming traffic."

"You really are such a terrible driver, you know that?" Jude asked once Cardan had stopped laughing. Instead of a verbal response, Cardan reached for the volume nob on the radio and turned his music up to deafening volumes. As he had done before in the car, Cardan began singing along to the words--the sound more shouting than singing--as he occasionally looked over to Jude to sing parts of the lyrics to her. His face was so openly happy and carefree that something in Jude’s chest tugged on her like a line trying to reel her into him. Watching his lips form the words made her want to kiss him. Hearing his terrible singing made her want to join in. Watching the streetlights flash across his face made her feel free, alive, happy. Her mind told her heart that she was right where she was supposed to be.

The song changed and Cardan flashed a grin over to her but soon frowned at whatever expression was on her face. Quickly, he spun the volume back down to near silence and asked Jude ever so gently, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she croaked. Really, nothing should have been wrong, but her chest was aching in a way she couldn’t place. It was the sort of feeling of being happy but fearing it at the same time--a fear that it would end. “Can I play a song?”

Cardan looked as if he didn’t quite believe her answer to his question but nevertheless waved a hand to his phone on the dash in permission for her to pick it up. A cursory search through his music library showed her mostly alternative rock and pop music and loud punk songs, but in his playlists she found one with a promising title of “Chill Music.” She also found a playlist with her name on it. Jude pretended not to see it, even though her heart skipped a beat, and instead clicked on the first playlist.

Khalid started playing through the speakers as Cardan turned into an unlit parking lot in front of a chain of mostly darkened store-fronts. The stereo continued to play even after the car was shut off before finally turning off completely when Cardan crawled into the backseat and opened a functioning door to get out of his crap car. He came around to her side of the car and opened the door for her, holding his hand out to her like some fairytale prince asking a princess for a dance instead of a boy in a dark parking lot on a late night outing in his sweats who had also just clambered around his own car like a jungle-gym.

“Shall we?” He asked. Jude rolled her eyes at his dramatics--eliciting a laugh from Cardan--but accepted his hand and allowed him to guide her out of his car.

“Are you ever going to get your dented front bumper fixed?” Jude asked when her eyes caught on the evidence of their first meeting. She was surprised that even after all that time had passed he still hadn’t taken his car into a body shop. He clearly had the money for it. “Or your door, for that matter?”

“Nah, it pisses my dad off that I’m ruining the car.”

“Makes me wonder if you crash it on purpose,” Jude teased.

“Maybe I do,” Cardan admitted flippantly, his voice at odds with whatever flashed in his eyes. “I do a lot of reckless shit. But crashing into you truly was an accident, in case you're wondering. Now, let’s go inside before all my precious fingers fall off. It’s cold out here.”

"Are you going to tell me where we're going now?"

"Well there's only one place still open right now," Cardan said, indicating with his hand one of the only lit buildings in front of them. A half burnt out sign above the doors proclaimed the place to be Ginkgo Garden and the smell of Chinese food drifted through the air. Jude inhaled deeply and looked to Cardan for confirmation of food in her near future. He smiled softly before offering her his hand to hold. Somehow, in the dark, it seemed like no big deal to hold onto him. She took his hand and they strode towards the restaurant.

“Why are they still open?” She wondered aloud. Beside her, Cardan shrugged.

“We’re in a college town and they do late night deliveries to the panicked students trying to cram everything into their brain at once?” He suggested.

“Makes sense.”

Inside the front doors they were blasted with a rush of hot air coming from an unseen heater in the ceiling. Jude welcomed it and, beside her, Cardan shivered one final time as if to shake the cold from his body for good. He released her hand to pull open the second set of inner doors for her, and Jude tried not to mourn the loss of his hand in hers. The restaurant's interior greeted them with green chairs and wallpaper patterned with mandarin trees. Soft music played softly over the sound of clinking dishes coming from the kitchen. Other than the young man standing behind a counter to the left of the door, no one appeared to be in the front house of the restaurant. Cardan exchanged familiar greetings with the smiling guy at the counter as Jude further took in the beautiful and elaborate decorations all over the place. It felt more like a home inside than a restaurant with its cramped but lovingly decorated space. Behind her, Cardan and the man kept chatting like old friends and Jude wondered just how often Cardan came here.

“Jude, this is Harry,” Cardan interjected into her train of thought, confirming her suspicion that he was a regular here. “Harry, this is Jude.”

“Hey, nice to meet you,” Harry smiled at her with so much genuine warmth that for a moment Jude was caught off guard by the open kindness from a total stranger. On its own accord her face seemed to smile back, but something told her it came out a bit more like a grimace. Cardan grinned at her and turned a conspiratorial grin towards Harry.

“I’m afraid Jude doesn’t smile much,” he said.

“You’re such a dick,” Jude remarked.

“She does, however,” Cardan continued, “say sweet nothings such as that to me all the time.”

Jude rolled her eyes as the two boys chuckled and decided it was best to tune them out. When her efforts proved fruitless (Cardan had proceeded to start listing all the “wondrous, heartfelt names” that Jude had “very fondly” called him since they had met for Harry to laugh at in increasing volumes as the names got more creative) Jude caught sight of a sign near the back that read "Bathrooms" with an arrow pointing in the wrong direction. Over her shoulder she caught eyes with Cardan long enough for an exchange of nods--one from her indicating where she’d be and one from him acknowledging that he understood--then ducked into the single stall restroom and locked the door behind her. Sounds from outside the small room reached her through the thick door as if from underwater. Everything sounded distorted and far away. Though she could hear the undertone of Cardan’s voice, all distinct words were drowned out, leaving behind only a melodic quality to his speech. She loosed a heavy sigh and turned so her back was against the door. From this new perspective, she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

She liked to think that the mirror was hung unusually high but knew the reality was that she was too short to see her reflection below her shoulders. In the mirror she could see the dark circles under her eyes as evidence of her sleepless nights. Not for the first time, she wondered what Cardan saw when he looked at her. Did he see the girl in armor or the girl beneath it? Was she pretty to him? Or were her edges too sharp?

Jude tore her gaze away from her reflection and stepped forward to the sink where she turned her attention to the drain instead. As if on autopilot, she absently reached out to turn the sink handle, cupped some cool water into her palms, and gently splashed it onto her face. Droplets of water ran down her arms into her rolled-up sleeves as she allowed herself to stand there for a moment with her hands covering her face. Finally, she took a deep breath, snatched a paper towel from the dispenser, dried herself off, and walked out of the bathroom to find Cardan playing on his phone at one of the tables.

“All good?” He asked.

“Yeah, I got an eyelash in my eye and needed to rinse it out.” The lie came easily, but then again they always did.

“I ordered some food to go, Harry just ran back to get it for us. I was thinking we could take it back to my place and watch TV? I’ll even let you pick the show, as long as you don’t pick something that sucks.”

“Says the guy that watches Criminal Minds,” Jude teased, falling back into their easy banter.

“Hey,” Cardan pointed an accusatory finger in her face as she sank into the chair opposite him and she batted it away like an annoying gnat. “Criminal Minds,” Cardan continued regardless, “is interesting. It’s interesting to me how someone can be so fucked up to do the things they do.”

“And why do you do the things you do, Cardan?”

“Because my family didn’t want me so now I must act up to get attention.”

“See? That didn’t take fourteen seasons to explain.”

Just as Cardan made to reply, the kitchen door opened to reveal Harry carrying a large brown bag. Cardan stood and took the food, goodbyes were exchanged, and then Jude and Cardan were walking back into the cold. Before the doors closed all the way, Harry’s voice called out, “It was nice meeting you Jude!” and she waved over her shoulder and tried for a real-looking smile this time. When she turned back around, Cardan was standing with the passenger side door open for her.

“You know I can get my own doors, right?” She said with no real heat behind it.

“Yes, well, I keep getting to the doors before you and it seems foolish to stand and wait for you to open them for me.”

“I hate you, do you know that?”

“You’re lying. Do you know that?” Cardan grinned his wicked grin and Jude considered stomping on his toes. Instead, she got in the car. Cardan jogged over to his side of the car and pointed at the window controls as a request for Jude to roll it down for him. She shook her head in mockery, pretending not to understand what he was asking. Cardan gave her a withering look and mouthed at her to roll down the window. With her left hand she reached over for the controls and locked the doors.

“Jude,” Cardan groaned through the glass barrier as Jude began to laugh. “C’mon, my balls are freezing off.”

“Fine, fine.” She unlocked the car. Cardan glared at her and Jude continued to laugh.

Finally the sight of him shivering out in the cold, as well as the beginnings of a snow storm drifting through the air, became too pitiful and Jude rolled down the driver’s side window for Cardan to crawl through. Immediately his hands reached for the heater and he turned to her with a scowl as she laughed.

“I so want to be mad,” Cardan said as he reached into the backseat to set the bag of food onto the leather backseat, “but your laugh is distracting me.”

“I’ll stop laughing then,” Jude replied, trying to school her features into a more serious expression. The efforts sent her into a laughing fit again.

“No,” Cardan said softly. His lips curled up into a small smile while he watched her. “Don’t stop. I like your laugh.”

At his confession, Jude’s laughter finally petered out. The sudden silence in the car felt deafening as the two of them sat at stared at each other. The air felt charged with--something. All Jude knew was that if she didn’t look away now, her feelings were going to overwhelm her.

She looked away.

Cardan cleared his throat as Jude played with the hem of her jacket. Neither of them spoke as he turned on the car, connected the bluetooth on his phone to the stereo. Not a glance was exchanged as the music started up again and Cardan turned to look through the rearview window to back the car out of the parking lot. When the car pulled up to the third stoplight in a row, Cardan broke the awkward silence.

“Do you want me to take you home?”

“No,” Jude whispered. “No, I’m sorry. I’m just…”

“It’s okay.”

Jude resumed fiddling with the hem of her jacket as the streetlight washed over them in green and the car proceeded with its progress down the road.

“I’m scared,” Jude found herself saying.

“I can take you home,” Cardan offered again softly, looking over at her with those dark eyes that she could so easily drown in.

“Not of you,” Jude said. “Just… this whole… seizure thing has had me messed up lately.”

“Understandably so.” Though he still looked concerned, Cardan seemed to have relaxed slightly at her words.

“I mean… What were you thinking?” Jude continued.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Jude started, then stopped abruptly. “I mean what were you thinking when I called you? When you found me just laying there? Were you thinking ‘oh god she’s so pathetic’ or--”

“Jude,” Cardan interrupted, stopping her words with a gentle hand placed over her knee. “Please don’t ever think that I’d feel like that.”

“Then what were you thinking?” Until now Jude hadn’t noticed the moisture in her eyes. She tried to hold the tears back, but Cardan noticed them anyway and pulled over onto the side of the road. As the car rolled to a complete stop, all of Jude’s emotions finally poured over and she was crying, she was crying, she was crying. Distantly she registered Cardan’s fingers brushing against the backs of her hands. He asked a question, asked if it was alright to touch her, and took her hands in his when she nodded. Gingerly, he cradled her hands in his. Reached out to wipe away the streams of tears rolling down her cheek. Whispered to her until his voice finally reached her and she began to calm down. His thumb was rubbing soft circles into the back of her hand as his other hand trailed gently through the hair framing her face. Slowly, slowly, Jude came back to herself, back to the car, back to him. She forced herself to look into his eyes because the only other option was to let the shame of her tears consume her. In his eyes, though, was only a gentle understanding. Any judgement or disgust she may have expected was missing from his gaze. The Cardan sitting in front of her was so far away from the Cardan that she had met when he rear-ended her, or the Cardan she had ran into at Valerian’s stupid party. The Cardan in front of her was without armor and she longed to take off her own.

“Do you really want to know what I was thinking?” He asked her gently. Jude nodded, unable to speak. Instead of answering right away, Cardan looked down to where he still held her hand and watched his own fingers draw circles on her skin. His voice cracked when he tried to speak. "When you called me…. when you called me, I had some joke ready to make you laugh or call me a jackass or roll your eyes at me. But then I answered and you didn't say anything at first and I knew something was wrong. I know you don't remember, but I do. You said help. Just help, that was all, but you sounded so scared and my heart started beating out of my chest. I asked you where you were three times before you were finally able to tell me you were at home and then you were completely silent. I drove like a bat out of hell to get to you, pushing the speed limit by 20 in some areas and daring the cops to pull me over, because there was no way in hell I would stop for anything. I was on the phone with you the whole time, just hoping you'd say something else, anything else, but you never did. I got to your place and… you wouldn't answer the door, Jude.” He looked up at her, his eyes glazed over. “I have never in my life been that afraid or that desperate to get to someone. So I broke the door in. I didn't even know I could do that,” Cardan laughed without humor and turned his eyes to look through the windshield. “I was just so goddamn panicked. And then I saw you there, and you were crying, and that was the only way I knew you weren't dead. There was so much blood, Jude. And you weren't moving. And all I could think was ‘I can’t lose her. I can’t lose this girl that makes me feel like I’m more than the fuck-up my family has always seen me as. This girl that makes me feel safe enough to laugh without cruelty, who smiles so rarely but so brightly, who calls me a jackass even though her eyes seem to be begging to say something else. I can’t lose this girl when I’m just finally getting to know her.’ All I could think about, Jude…” When he looked at her this time, it was his eyes full of tears. “Was that you had to be okay. Because I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t.”

Was she crying again? Instinctively Jude’s hand tightened around his and she cradled his hands like he had done to hers. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if there was anything to say. She felt useless as Cardan gathered himself back together without a word from her, but then he brought her knuckles to his lips and brushed a kiss across her skin.

“Thanks,” she whispered lamely. “For saving me.”

“Sorry for breaking your door.”

“I didn’t like it, anyway.”

Cardan laughed, but it was a shadow of his usual one.

--------

At midnight Jude awoke having to pee. Yuri On Ice still played quietly on the television that washed the room in a soft blue light. Empty containers of Chinese food were spread haphazardly around them on the comforter. Cardan was sprawled out on his bed beside her, mouth open slightly as soft noises of sleep escaped him. At the sight of his peaceful face Jude stopped to look at him for a moment. The planes of his face looked softer in sleep--his cheekbones and jawline less like they could cut her heart to pieces, his beautiful mouth so invitingly soft and begging for her to make them smile. And those beautiful black curls of his were a halo on the pillow. He was so heart-achingly beautiful.

She thought she might love him.

The revaluation jolted her out of bed and she rushed to the bathroom while her heart jackhammered in her chest. With the bathroom door closed and safely separating them, Jude tried to reason with her own racing thoughts. Love was a complicated thing. Love was a distant memory that came with her mother spinning her around in her arms and sticky fingers from popsicles and chasing her father around the living room when he snatched her blanket from her. Love was something she chased to get from Madoc, something she found late at night curled in bed with her sisters as they laughed to hide their shared heartbreak, something the morning light seemed to wash away once reality set back in. Love was something that could die, and the thought of losing Cardan hit her like a punch to the gut. For a moment she couldn’t breathe.

No, she couldn't love Cardan. But back in his bedroom, when she crawled into bed and he immediately wrapped his arms around her without waking up, she wondered if maybe it wasn't just possible--but undeniable.

She felt him shift behind her until their bodies were pressed together and then his soft voice spoke into her hair. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she replied a little breathless. "Just had to use the bathroom."

Cardan hummed a response and was likely already halfway to being asleep again when Jude rolled over onto her other side to face him. His eyes reluctantly opened to look at her, bleary and half open. He really was beautiful. Jude’s chest tightened with want.

No, she couldn’t lose him. And yet...

"Cardan," she breathed before she could lose her nerve. "About what you said at the hospital. About you telling them you're my boyfriend…"

"I didn't know what else to s--"

"What if I want you to be. My boyfriend, I mean."

A small, sleepy smile spread across Cardan's face as his eyes drifted closed once more. He pulled Jude into him more so that her head rested against his chest--planted a kiss on top of her head, and said, "Then I'm yours."

Moments later he was softly snoring.

#jurdan #the cruel prince #the folk of the air #the wicked king #my writing #jurdan au #text post #okay to reblog

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ertrunkenerwassergeist · 4 years ago

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Born Into the Wilds - Chapter 14

I did it! My brain is mush now, but I managed to finish it. XD My patience is zero.

Here’s the Link to AO3.

In which invitations are issued, future plans for the war are made and a wild Gladio appears.

Featuring: family drama, Galahdian Clan politics, crafty old men, a bitter old woman, a training exercise, Iris being a precious bean, Gladio being Gladio, Nyx and Libertus being idiot dorks, Tredd the flame brain and many more

Warnings: mention of not-quite incest (the relation is 3rd cousins, so quite close)

Hadnissa glossary:

oirkar = chief, clan head; lit.: leading person; a title makti-oir = war chief, commander-in-chief, warlord; lit.: leading/first hunter limeschti = traditional welcoming tea mahir = mother; woman who birthed me; affectionate form gisdrauht = Storyteller ahtri = spirit; umbrella term for everything from actual nature spirits to the presence of their ancestors wognesfahli = insult; lit.: cloud head; describes a thoughtless and/or reckless person

Organizing a Gathering of the Clan Heads on top of everything else was a logistical nightmare. They were all a very prideful bunch, which meant that over the next few days, while Insomnia slowly imploded with speculations, Nyx visited every single oirkar in person to announce the Gathering. It wouldn't have been half as bad, if he hadn't had to suffer through half an hour of drinking tea with every single one. Even Murus Ostium, Libertus' uncle.

It got especially awkward when he had to go to Clarice Utris. The old woman was oirkar of her Clan and also a relatively close cousin to his mother and held a strong dislike for everything with the name Ulric. It was so bad she had nearly cut all Clan support Alyxa Utris was due, when she had married Ilias Ulric against the wishes of her Clan Head.

“To what do I owe you the pleasure of your visit, makti-oir?” Clarice Utris asked with a caustic voice.

She had been old when they had still been on Galahd, and now she was even older. Her wispy snow-white hair was done in her Clan's braids – two thick braids that started at the temples and held the rest in a bun at the back of her head; men tended to pull it into a tail – and her gaze was as sharp as ever. Nyx felt like a child again that tried not to cower in front of this intimidating woman with her tall stature, wide shoulders and muscular arms.

“Thank you for granting me entrance to your lands,” Nyx intoned, despite the fact that none of them currently had any lands to grant entrance to, and held out his left hand.

He knew Clarice Utris was left handed and hated it, when people greeted her with their right hand. It was ridiculous, but right now he needed to be on her good side. Well, as good as he was ever going to get. She eyed it like a gryffin would its prey, before she grabbed his wrist in a greeting of equals.

Her grip was strong and firm despite her old age. Normally a oirkar would have declared a successor by the time they hit 70 at the latest, but the Utris Clan was one of the few exceptions. Age didn't count so much as the ability to swing a hammer in the forge did. As long as Clarice Utris could do that she would remain oirkar, even at the age of 87.

“No harm shall come to you, makti-oir, while on the land of the Utris Clan. Be welcome and take rest at our hearth,” Clarice Utris said with no inflection whatsoever in her voice.

Nyx nodded and followed her inside the apartment. It was small and utilitarian, with the largest room barely fitting a small couch, an armchair, a coffee table and a huge shelf. The highlight was the actual fireplace, which was most likely why the old woman had chosen this place to live. One of the only frivolities – if one wanted to call it such – was the wooden fire bird statue by the entrance.

It must have once been a large town house, made out of brick with large windows and an unusually sweeping roof. Located at the upper edge of Little Galahd, it was close to the stairs that led up to the main highway of the city. Nowadays five apartments were crammed inside.

Clarice Utris offered him the armchair to sit and wait, and vanished into the kitchen to make some tea. Nyx sat down and plugged at the clothes he wore. Tunic and trousers were a hunter's grey at the base and melted into intricate patterns of different shades of browns and greens with splashes of other colours in between. Athina had practically shoved them into his arms after rooting through his closet and declaring most of its contents unfit for meeting the oirkari in his role of makti-oir.

A tray with two earthen cups and a round bodied tea pot was set down on the coffee table. Clarice Utris did not spare him even a glance as she prepared what Nyx now identified as limeschti – the official welcoming tea.

Despite having already greeted him, she set a cup down in front of him and took her own in her hands and spoke the traditional words: “Be welcome. We grant you safety in passage through our lands, and a place at our hearth for as long as you wish to stay. No harm shall come from me and mine. Fire and sun as my witness.”

“May your hearth burn strong and bright. No harm shall come from me to you or yours, during my journey through your lands. Fire and sun as my witness,” Nyx said, raised the cup until it was level with his eyes and then took a sip.

The tea had a very smoky quality to it.

“Now tell me, makti-oir,” Clarice Utris spoke after she set her cup down, “why do you come to me only after you have already visited the Lazarus?”

Nyx blinked and bit the inside of his cheek to not blurt out the first thing that came to mind. Instead, he took a calming breath to keep his words as polite as he could make them.

“The Lazarus are brokering an alliance with Clan Ulric. Allies take precedence over the other Clans, as a woman of your standing is, without a doubt, well aware.”

“Family takes precedence over allies.”

It took everything Nyx had not to bark a bitter laugh. Though judging from her expression, the smile he gave her was too sharp. Family. What a joke. An Utris had been his mother. An Utris had been his sister. But where had the rest of that Clan been after Ilias Ulric's death? His mother had barely managed to feed the three of them during the winter afterwards.

“For there to be familial ties, they must be acknowledged first, Oirkar Utris.”

The wrinkles on Clarice Utris' thin face grew even more pronounced. “You had a mother and a sister that were counted amongst this Clan.”

“Mahir and Selena were family before they were members of Clan Utris.”

The old woman's lips twitched as she glared at him. Nyx was very careful not to let any of his inner conflict show on his face. He would have loved to call the members of Clan Utris his family. A long time ago. Now he didn't quite know how to feel about them, other than the dull ache he always got when he saw Archyll and Ariadne. They had been his sister's and his favourite cousins.

“Alyxa would have been happy with the match we had for her,” Clarice Utris said, and it sounded like a challenge.

“Maybe she would have. Maybe not,” Nyx said, trying to be as diplomatic as possible about this. “But in the end she found her greatest happiness with Ilias Ulric.”

“You could have been one of ours,” she said then, something wistful in her eyes. “You could have been my grandchild. The name Ulric brings nothing but death to those who are close to them.”

This time Nyx felt his jaw drop open. “You don't get to do that,” he whispered. “You don't get to do that. You don't get to hide your bitterness behind what happened to my Clan. The simple matter of fact is that mahir did not want to marry her third cousin, no matter how much you wanted it to happen.”

Fuck.

Nyx closed his eyes for a second in the following silence. He should not have said that. No matter how true it was.

“Out,” Clarice Utris breathed.

Her face had gone bone white behind her natural tan. Her hands shook as they balled themselves into fists on her knees.

“Get out!”

Nyx heart thundered in his chest as he stood up. For a moment he looked down at the old woman seething with anger, then he spoke the words he had come for in the first place.

“Clarice, Oirkar of Clan Utris. You are hereby invited to the Gathering of Clans, which is to commence in three days time at midday in the storyteller's yard.”

He marched out of the apartment without another word, down the stairs and out onto the street. The air was humid and it smelled nauseatingly of exhaust fumes. Nonetheless Nyx took a deep, calming breath. This could have gone better. Why couldn't that old hag simply let it go? He glared up at the underside of the road above him, as if his gaze alone could make it catch fire.

No, he told himself firmly. No, don't go there. Down that road lie too many painful memories.

With an annoyed grunt, he turned around on his heels and walked into the mass of alleyways leading further into Little Galahd. This had not been the last home he would need to visit today.

Ethin Sarcina welcomed him into his home with a jovial laugh and a firm shake of his wrist. The man was a welcome distraction with his good mood and truly delicious chocolate covered blackberries. Nyx listened for nearly ten minutes to the glowing praise the older man had for his grandniece, before he managed to inform the man of the Gathering.

“Clan Sarcina is honoured to be so high in your regard,” Ethin said with a solemn gravitas that was only pronounced by his mane of shoulder length hair.

Nyx didn't even bother to ask how he knew.

“It was a wise decision to go to the Lazarus after talking to the Ostium,” the older man continued and subtly shifted his weight on the cushion.

The Sarcina came from the smallest island in the south. There, tables were low and people kneeled on cushions on the ground. Nyx had no ideas where that custom had come from, but he certainly was no fan of it. His toes were growing numb.

“If I may be so bold in asking: whom will you visit next?”

Nyx' gaze wandered over the tea set on the table between them. From the tea cups without handles made out of porcelain, to the flat teapot that looked like a disk in Nyx' eyes and the wide rimmed snack bowl, all set out on an intricate table cloth depicting colourful birds.

Should he answer? On one hand he didn't want to inflate Ethin's ego even further, on the other, he would know soon anyway.

“Khara and Najad,” he said at last. “Then the Arra, the Bellum, the Patientia and the Altius.”

Ethin hummed, gaze thoughtful. “A packed schedule you have there, Nyx Ulric.”

“Yes,” Nyx agreed and made a face.

Tomorrow would be even worse. He'd have to take a free day to manage them all, and if he was really unlucky, he would have to ask Libertus to tackle the lowest ranked Clans. Which wouldn't go over all that well.

A calculating gleam entered Ethin's eyes. “You went to the Lazarus after the Ostiums because you're brokering an alliance with them. But that can't be all. A personal favour? No matter. The Najad are high up the list because they were personal allies to your father. The Arra are the record keepers, they are always amongst the first ten Clans to be invited. But why the Patientia after the Bellum? The oldest gisdrauht is a Patientia, after all.”

It took Nyx a second to realize that this was a question he was supposed to answer. “Because it was the Bellum that got so many of us out of Galahd. They deserve to be honoured for that.”

“Very true. But following that logic you will deal the Pontos Clan a grave insult. Didn't they help as well?”

“The Pontos were amongst the first to flee, took nearly all of their ships, loaded them with what goods they could, and lost half of them to the waves anyway. Regard for them is low.”

In Nyx' opinion they had gotten what they deserved, though it pained him to think about how many Galahkari lives had been lost in their foolishness.

“And you would risk insult to everybody else should you place them too high,” Ethin nodded and took a sip of his tea.

Nyx tilted his head in acknowledgement and bore the older man's renewed gaze. Approval was clear in his green gaze, it made Nyx feel like he had just been tested without realizing it. It was disconcerting.

“Now, don't look at me like that, Nyx Ulric. You may have the standing, but I would never give my grandniece to an idiot.” Another lingering look. “I will personally see to an outfit for you to wear during the Gathering.”

Ethin held up his hand to pre-empt Nyx' attempted protest.

“Please, do not protest this. If we were on Galahd, this wouldn't nearly matter as much, but the sad reality is that we're not. The mainlanders will notice sooner or later and when they come to investigate, we need to make the most of it. For them, illusion is more important than fact, and it's high time we use that.”

This would be a lot easier a pill to swallow, if Nyx wasn't the figurehead in all of this. He had no particular desire to play into the Lucians grand notion that he was a king.

“Thank you for your help, Oirkar Sarcina,” he chose to say instead of all the other things tumbling through his head.

“Of course,” the older man acknowledged.

Thankfully the hard part of this conversation was over after that.

After a light lunch and a change of clothes, Nyx went to work.

“I'm thinking of getting some units back into the old stealth tactics,” he said to Luche as they watched a mock battle between Troop Zwihr under Libertus, and Troop Kihna under Kepho No-Name.

Both troops consisted mainly of heavy hitter front line fighters. Libertus tended to go more in the direction of ambush tactics, while Kepho was like a hard hitting hammer. Blunt and blind force, but when directed very effective. Right now Libertus' people were winning.

Next to him, Luche frowned. “The tried and true method of hiding in trees and attack from above? That worked in the jungles, but won't do so on plains and within Niff bases.”

On Galahd the trees grew strong, sturdy and tall, able to carry people many metres above ground without trouble, but here on the mainland, trees were feeble things that looked more like tall bushes.

“That's not what I meant.” Nyx cast the blond a look. “What do you know about the Ostium way of fighting?”

Luche took a few seconds to contemplate his answer. Down in the field Libertus and his hunters had managed to encircle Troop Kihna, whose members started to drop out of the fight even faster now. It spurred them to fight with a grim determination.

“Very strong, but also very fast. They are most likely the only ones who can wrestle a gekkan bare handed and not only not die, but also win. They are cunning to a surprising degree.”

Nyx nodded. “Most people tend to only focus on their strength. But they forget the Ostiums also have a very close bond with snakes. Snakes are fast, snakes are cunning, and they also know how to hide, how to camouflage themselves and strike from an unexpected position.”

“You want to turn Zwihr into another stealth troop? That's not a good idea, Nyx.”

“That's not what I meant.” Nyx gave an exasperated sigh. “But it would be beneficial, if some of our units and troops weren't so static in their functions. Libertus makes a great front line fighter, he's strong and knows how to use the hunters under his command for maximum impact, but half the time I want to put him with Tahrolin Troop for an ambush. What if we make Zwihr Troop into both front line fighters and an ambush force?”

“It might work. Might, mind you. You'll need a diversion. A force that will manage to absorb first contact with minimal losses and stand it's ground.”

They both watched as down below Kepho managed to rally his remaining hunters into a circle formation facing outwards, using localized shield spells to defend themselves. No, that was not quite right. The hunters formed pairs, where one cast shields and the other attacked. Right at that moment it turned into a battle of attrition. If this were a real battle, losses would be heavy on both sides, though the defending force would make the enemy bleed for each step they took. Nyx whistled in appreciation. So Kepho was not just blunt force, he was also a tree with deep roots and a thick bark.

“I guess we found our diversion,” Luche stated.

A few minutes later the fight ended in a stalemate. Libertus stank of sweat and Lucian magic when he stepped up to them, after making sure his people were alright.

“Kepho's one tough son of a bitch. Hadn't expected that. Wait, since when are they here?”

“Who?”

Nyx turned around and saw Gladiolus Amicitia along with whom he assumed was his younger sister, lurking at the edge of the training compound.

“Don't turn around like an idiot, you dumbass,” Libertus hissed.

“Alright, alright. Still, what are the Lord Shield's kids doing here? Don't they have lessons or something?”

“His Grace must have told them the Gilgamesh story,” Luche concluded after a moment.

“'His Grace'?”

“Yes, Nyx, 'His Grace'. I learned some of the finer points of Lucian nobility – like you should, as well. The Lord Shield is a Duke, the Duke of Taelpar to be exact, and as such is addressed as His Grace. Lord Shield is the title used to show his capacity as the Shield of the King.”

“Great, that's just great,” Libertus grouched and rolled his eyes. “I'm not dealing with that. If those two want to talk, they better not expect me to come to them. So, any conclusions to that exercise?”

“Yes, actually. Luche and I were just talking about it. How do you feel about being the snake hiding in plain view?”

Libertus blinked, then grinned. “Ah, a snake amongst the leaves. You think it'll work?”

Nyx nodded. “If we take the initiative and attack instead of defend, yes. Everything east of Tealpar Crag is mostly clear of Niffs. If we find a way to stop their sovereignty over the airspace, it'll be firmly within the Crown's hand again. The enemy has currently only two bases on the western side of the Crag. The closest is Tollhends Stronghold. It guards the main crossing over the Crag. We have that, they can't just move their ground troops further inland.”

“Hmm. A surprise attack from within?”

“Basically yes. That's the general idea for now. Can you do it?”

Libertus scratched his stubble in thought. “With a whole lot of training, maybe. I'd need to talk to Draskelio, Ares and Nube about it.”

Draskelio Furia, Ares Bellum and Nube Dala were the lead hunters of the units under Libertus' command. All three of them were good hunters with Draskelio being the oldest in his mid forties and Ares the youngest at 33. Nyx didn't know them very well, but he was confident they would be able to pull it off.

“What do you think, Luche?” he asked.

“Ares will me on board without much prompting. Put a strategy in front of him and he can come up with the tactics to make it happen. And the bloodier a nose the Niffs get, the better. Draskelio is very forward, and he very much prefers to hit the enemy straight in the face, so to speak. But if you convince him to do it, he will keep to the plan. Nube I don't know very well either, but from what I have seen and heard, she fights smart instead of running straight ahead.”

While Luche talked, Libertus' eyes had flittered multiple times over Nyx' shoulder where the Amicitia siblings were lurking. Nyx concentrated and heard quiet shuffling over the sounds down in the training field, where Arl Unit was setting up a perimeter now that he fight was over. The next exercise would be a capture the flag kind of deal.

Libertus' face morphed through several expressions before it settled on annoyed. Nyx shared a look with Luche, who returned his gaze, eyebrows raised.

“Alright,” Nyx said. “Libertus, after the Gathering you'll start the preparations. Do we have a plan or something for the Stronghold? One of the demolition units could rig something up for training, if we do.”

“I will look into it,” Luche nodded.

“What? Uh... yes, okay,” Libertus said. Then, he switched into Lucian. “Damn it, kids. If you want something come here and say it!”

There was a light scuffle behind his back, at which point Nyx decided to turn around. The moment his eyes landed on the Amicitia siblings, they both froze. At once the boy pushed his younger sister behind him and gave a deep bow of respect. The girl brushed off her brother's hand to do the same.

“Your Majesty,” the boy said. “We are very sorry to disturb you.”

His younger sister nodded.

Nyx made a face at being called that, yet again. Behind him, Libertus gave a snort.

“Don't call me that.”

“But father said you're a king,” the girl chirped from half behind her brother.

How old was she? Ten?

“That's not a title we use,” he answered, patient.

The girl just didn't know any better.

“Well, what do you use then?” she wanted to know.

Stumped, Nyx looked at Luche, who was looking at the siblings in consideration. The blond man was definitely planning something. The question now was: How much of a pain in the ass would it be for Nyx?

“If you need to use a title for him,” Luche spoke up, “then call him makti-oir.”

Gladiolus tilted his head. “Makti-oir,” he repeated carefully.

All three Galahkari did their best not to wince at the butchered pronunciation. The 'r' was articulated to far back in the mouth, the 'a' was too long and the 't' sounded wrong.

“What's that mean?” the girl asked.

“First Hunter,” Libertus spoke up.

At once both Amicitias' eyes were on him. The boy's considering, searching, and the girl's just plain curious. What by Pitioss had the Lord Shield been telling them? Before one of the two could open their mouth to ask another question, Libertus asked one of his own.

“What are you two doing here? You should know how dangerous it is to walk into an active training field!”

“Gladio wanted to see you, so I decided to come along, so he wouldn't do something stupid,” the Amicitia girl said and walked around her brother, more confident now, though she still stayed close to him.

“Iris!” Gladio hissed.

So her name was Iris. Nyx should really make more of an effort to remember it. Giving a charming grin, Nyx crouched down so he was closer to an eye level with her.

“Thank you for making sure your brother wouldn't get into trouble,” he said and winked.

“You're welcome!” Isis grinned.

Nyx did his best not to laugh at the face her brother made. “Now, would you tell me why you and your brother came here?”

Iris looked up at her brother who gave her a nod. “Father told us about the Blademaster, and the story Lord Ostium told him and King Regis. Is he really our cousin? We never had much extended family before. Father also said that Lord Ostium is your Shield now, because he beat the Blademaster in a fight, and that Gladio had to learn how to be a proper Shield.”

“You better ask him that yourself, Iris. It's very impolite to talk about people like they aren't there, when they're standing right next to you,” Nyx said and stood up.

The siblings looked expectantly at Libertus, though Gladiolus looked decidedly more embarrassed than Iris. He was not exactly a boy anymore. His features retained no baby fat, which made him look older than he was, though Nyx guessed him to be in his late teens. He was taller than all of them, and had a solid musculature that faintly reminded him of an Ostium, though that might just be him seeing things.

Libertus looked between the two siblings, clearly considering things, before he sighed in defeat. He had never been able to say no to kids, and had often looked after his younger relatives. Still did, when time permitted it, and to Nyx, it looked like the Amicitia siblings had just been added to the list, no matter how much his hunting-brother may grouch and complain about it.

“Okay, first of all don't call me Lord Ostium. Neither of you. I ain't no lord. I just make sure that guy-” he jammed his thumb in Nyx' direction “- doesn't kill himself with one of his stupid ideas.”

Nyx made a scandalized sound, which caused Iris to giggle. Gladio frowned, thoughtful.

“But you beat the Blademaster and proved yourself worthy of being a Royal Shield. You deserve being called a lord.”

No one who didn't know him well would notice, but by this point Libertus started to struggle to keep his temper in check.

“For you Lucians, that may be so. But to us Galahkari, it was justice served. We don't give people titles like lord, for doing something we deem important.”

It was Iris, with all the wisdom a child possessed, who asked the most important question: “What do we call you then?”

“... Libertus. Just call me Libertus.”

“Nice to meet you, Libertus! I'm Iris and this is my brother Gladiolus.”

Libertus gave a solemn nod as a greeting. Nyx had to stifle a grin at the scene. Iris' face gained an expression that was probably supposed to be business like, but could only be called cute.

“Are you going to do it?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“Teach my brother.”

Gladio hissed something at Iris while the Galahkari present shared glances. Libertus looked pleadingly at Nyx, who looked at Luche, who looked at them both in exasperation. They were saved from having to answer by a small explosion going off on the training field.

At once, Nyx whirled around, lightning crackling along his arms and hands, and hissed like a startled cat, ready to pounce at the source of danger. Only there was no danger. Down below, Tredd gave off a slew of creative curses, before he called up to their group.

“We're alright, in case you wanted to know!”

“Tredd!” hissed Nyx. “You fucking idiot!”

From the corner of his eye he could see the Amicitia siblings startle. Gladio had pushed Iris back behind him and gone into a ready position, a summoned sword in hand. Libertus had positioned himself at Nyx' shoulder, ready to fight, while Luche was ready to take the rear.

Now, Luche actually rolled his eyes and muttered something about idiot distant relatives, while Libertus spat his own curses back at Tredd, before making sure the siblings were alright.

“Fuck you, too!” Tredd yelled back, much to the scandalized looks of Gladio and Iris, who may not have understood the words but certainly their intent.

With a quiet growl Nyx jumped down – to the loud protest of his hunting-brother – and warped with the clap of a lightning bolt. This was still strange, warping without using much, if any, Lucian magic. Though his control of it was still pretty much hit and miss, so he overreached himself, stumbled, and tumbled to the ground.

Above him, Tredd laughed.

To save some of his dignity, Nyx could only do one thing: He kicked Tredd's legs away from under him. With a thud and a curse, he landed in the dirt next to Nyx.

“Very mature of you,” the redhead grumbled.

“Right back at you,” Nyx shot back, voice still a deep rumble.

“Whatever got your whiskers in a twist,” he heard Tredd mumble, but chose to ignore it.

This time.

They stood up and dusted themselves off as best as they could. Both of them were dressed in a strange mix of their Kinglsglaive training uniform and their traditional hunter's garb.

“What exactly were you doing?” Nyx asked.

Instead of answering, Tredd waved him over to where the rest of Arl Unit was standing. Two of them were putting out the burning dirt, while another tried to scrub off the soot from her face, and the rest were discussing amongst themselves what might have gone wrong.

On the scorched ground, still half visible, were lines made out of crumbled coal. They had been part of a circle along with a few sigils and runes. Nyx raised an eyebrow.

“A daemon trap? You tried to make a daemon trap with a fire element? No wonder it exploded.”

“Yes well, if it works with water as a base, I don't see why it shouldn't work with fire.”

“Maybe because fire is fickle with too much of a temperament?” Damn, that had sounded condescending, hadn't it?

Tredd sneered. “You got a better idea? We're nowhere near the ocean, and using earth as a base is a really bad idea anywhere close to Duscae.”

Nyx scrunched his face in thought. “Lightning?”

The redhead opened his mouth to argue, blinked, and closed it again, a thoughtful look on his face. The fingers of his right hand trailed over his chin.

“Damn,” he whispered. “That might actually work.”

Without another word he turned around and started barking orders. The members of Arl Unit scrambled to obey them. With a good-natured huff, Nyx turned away to leave the nut jobs to their work. Tredd knew all about weapons, true, but he was also an artisan, and one of their duties had always been the construction of new wards and other things.

That's what the Arl and Sevah Units were at their core: Trap and ward specialists respectively. Most of their members belonged to the Furia, Lazarus and Sarcina Clans as a result.

He warped back up to Libertus and Luche in two quick bursts of Lucian magic. This time he stuck the landing perfectly. The Amicitia siblings watched him with large eyes. Nyx ignored them for the moment. Maybe they would go away? Unlikely, but a man could hope.

“So what did Tredd do?” Libertus asked in Lucian.

Nyx raised an eyebrow but responded in kind. “A fire based daemon trap.”

It was amusing to see how Luche's face grew slack and his eyes became unfocused as soon as the words registered. Meanwhile Libertus did a passable impression of a fish on land.

“He did what?” Luche demanded after he composed himself.

“You heard me.”

“That idiotic ahtrii damned wognesfahli...” The rest grew intelligible as Luche turned around and marched off. The last thing Nyx could hear was something along the lines of “That fire brained dumbass could have blown us all to Pitioss and back!”

Nyx looked at Libertus, who looked back. His lips twitched and the next moment both of them were howling with laughter.

“Did you see his face!”

“He was gaping! Gaping!”

They looked at each other and burst out laughing again. Nyx' cheeks started to hurt and tears gathered in his eyes. It took a while to calm down enough to notice that the two Amicitia were still there. Both were staring at the grown men like they had lost their heads. Nyx nearly laughed again.

“Shouldn't you two be at school or something? Does your father know you're here?” Libertus demanded.

Gladiolus' face gained a defiant expression. Oh dear.

“Lo- Libertus, I would be honoured to spar with you in the future.”

His hunting-brother tried to stare the boy down, but he held his gaze, head held up and spine ramrod straight. It came very close to a parade rest. After a while Libertus sighed and threw his hands up.

“You know what? Fine. You've got guts, kid. But we're going to talk about this. This evening, 19:00 straight at the Rose's Thorn. You're late even one minute and this whole deal is off.”

“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!”

The kid saluted. Actually saluted. Nyx bit the inside of his cheek and did his best to make a serious face.

“Thank you,” Iris parroted.

They both bowed to Nyx with a mangled “Makti-oir” and finally left the Glaive's training ground. Nyx and Libertus stared after them.

“Libs.”

“Hmm?”

“I'm proud of you.”

“Fuck you, too. What the fuck did I just do?”

“Seems like you got yourself a little apprentice.”

“I don't even have a job that warrants an apprentice. And he's way too old anyway!”

“Now you're just being mean.”

Nyx grinned and took a step away from Libertus. His hunting-brother sputtered, then threw himself at his best friend with an echoing war cry.

#ffxv #born into the wilds #nyx ulric #blue mage!nyx #libertus ostium #luche lazarus #tredd furia #tredd is an idiot #gladiolus amicitia #iris amicitia #there's also a whole lot of worldbuilding #I just realized that #ups?#inter clan politics #galahd #galahdian culture #my fics #geist writes

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kylosbrickhousebody · 4 years ago

Text

Ch. 4 of Quiet Hours is up

Ch. 4 of my super weird sadfic about KyloRen/Reader is up. If you liked Mercurial, you will probably (eventually) like this, too. NSFW

She stares at it for a long time—longer than she truly has to spend given that she’s already been separated from her work group. Her taskmaster is probably terribly confused; she’ll probably already face a beating when she goes back.

Still, the wonder of it holds her in place.

A credit.

Kylo Ren gave her a credit?

It’s there, unmistakable, on the table.

She blinks once, twice, three times, pressing her eyes closed tighter with repetition.

It just seems unbelievable. She’s never seen a real credit up close before.

She stares dumbly for a moment longer before realizing she should probably return it to him.

Having a credit on her person—well, it’s likely not even legal. Slaves can’t own anything, let alone carry currency. Possessing a credit is probably some sort of high crime.

She runs over to the doorway, peeks her head out into the austere hallways.

“Sir?”

She looks left; right.

There’s no one there.

Little legs carry her to one end of the hallway, where it splits into two leading to and away from the Bridge.

“Sir?”

Nothing. No response, no one in sight.

She runs to the other end, a little panicked now, whipping her head from side to side to try to catch a glimpse of him—the coattails of his cape, maybe, turning a corner somewhere in the distance.

Again: nothing.

She bites a lip and hurries back into the small room where he once sat.

It’s still there, still on the table where he’d left it.

She peers back at the doorway before she shoves it into the scratchy lining of one of her frock’s pockets.

Then she scurries out the door, into the foyer, down the passageways leading back to the Bridge. It’s critical that she re-join her group. If she doesn’t, she won’t be accounted for in the next check, and that means a guaranteed beating. Even worse, losing track of one’s group means she’ll likely miss both the next feeding and her next refresher break.

She nearly runs into one of the huge blaster doors guarding the entrance to the Bridge.

She bows her head at two of the elite squadron Stormtroopers stationed as guards.

“Could you please—erm—could you please let me in? My group was assigned to cleaning duties here, and—”

“Scram, filth.”

“I—yes, sir, I understand—but please, I need to rejoin my group, and—”

“I said,” one of the troopers says, shoving the butt of his blaster into her ribs, “scram.”

“Yes—yes, sir. Yes—”

She turns, quickly, and hurries down the hallway.

The cold sheet metal venting on the floor digs into her bare feet as she scurries out of the Stormtroopers’ line-of-sight.

They’re not going to let her in, and she certainly isn’t going to get away with tailgating an authorized person into the Bridge. She looked terribly out of place there—well, all the slaves did—and she wouldn’t even pass for a servant. The raggedy, unwashed standard issue of the slave uniform see to that all on their own.

She pauses to catch her breath in one of the less frequented tunnels. She presses her back up against the wall, the cool metal pressing into her shoulders. It grounds her a little, reminds her that she’s still alive somehow.

She waits a long moment, trying to clear her thoughts, savoring how pressing up against the wall slightly soothes her aching lumbar region.

She’s lost. So, so lost. She’s never been to this area of the ship before. Usually she cleans servant sleeping quarters, or the hallways in the hull: areas with predictable designs, created to maximize space and cram the greatest number of bodies and workspaces into the confines of the ship.

It’s clear now, though, that she’s very far out of her depth. The series of hallways she finds herself in doesn’t match the maze that she’s used to. This area of the ship is clearly designed for something else: comfort. Luxury. Flashiness.

None of it looks familiar at all.

She walks down more hallways, timid, trying to project as much feeble respect as she can in case she gets spotted. She presses her right hand up against the right walls, making every right turn she’s presented with. That should eventually get her somewhere, right?

Right?

It’s because of this frantic, desperate strategy that she finds herself actually relieved when she encounters another station of Stormtroopers. They stand guard against glass walls which look somehow familiar—maybe she passed them with her group—and she approaches as respectfully as she can.

“I’m afraid I’m lost, sirs,” she starts.

No answer.

The troopers look between each other. No doubt that she’s a strange sight.

“I was stationed with my group—we were cleaning—and I got pulled away for, erm, a specific cleaning assignment. Pulled away by a superior, I mean,” she adds quickly. “I didn’t just leave! I tried to go back to join up with my group again after I finished, but I couldn’t locate them again. I think by now they’ve likely moved on to another area of the ship. Could you possibly help me, please?”

One trooper tilts his helmet.

“Yeah, we could help you, honey. We could both help you. Right over in that break room, in fifteen minutes, when we get off shift. We’ll help you real good.”

She swallows, hard, shuffles a little bit in her place.

“Erm. I—no, thank you. I appreciate, uh…” she trails off. “Could you please tell me what time it is?”

It’s the other one who replies.

“11:43.”

Oh.

Much later than she’d thought.

She’d must have wasted precious time navigating the ship—or maybe the time spent with the Supreme Leader lasted longer than she thought—

She realizes, with a severe pang of regret, that she’s missed her daily feeding and one of only two refresher breaks.

“I—oh, okay, thank you—um—” she pauses, fraught with indecision about what she could possibly ask that might receive a real answer. “Do you know where I might be able to report to?”

“No idea,” the first trooper answers, sounding harsher this time, “but down those steps would be a good start. I’d get going before we report you for trespassing up here.”

That makes her blanch all the way white.

“Yes—yes, sir—of course—”

She hurries in the direction indicated, down a flight of stairs made from metal grating which tears at the underside of her dirty feet.

She emerges into a small atrium, simply relieved that she’s been able to get this far without a keycard.

Perhaps she’ll run into someone more approachable—an enlisted person, or maybe even a servant—who can direct her back to an overseer or taskmaster, back to her group. All she wants is to lay low, to do her work, to get the day done with.

She takes a right and walks down an arterial hallway lined with black pillars. There are sounds up ahead, she thinks; there’s faint clacking, fainter voices. She follows the noises, hesitant but nevertheless ready to accept her punishment and get it on with it, and soon finds herself tiptoeing closer to a broad sheet of glass windowing.

She peers in, obscuring most of her body behind the opaque paneling next to where the windows begin.

She discerns quickly that the room is some sort of feeding center; it’s set up similarly to the ones used to feed slaves, but this one is bigger, cushier. Cafeterias, she thinks they call them.

Multiple stations with multiple different kinds of foods line the walls. The people within—enlisted officers, it seems—actually talk to one another. Some even smile.

There are real tables and chairs—comfortable-looking ones—and refreshers off to the side for use at any time. It baffles her a little to watch the officers within just excuse themselves from conversations to use the refresher whenever they want.

And there: she spots what will become the primary temptation of the room. There, towards the edge of the feeding room, closest to her, sits a small table. She’s not sure exactly what the sign says, but the intention is clear. A small coffer rests beneath the sign emblazoned with some words and then the symbol for a credit. To the right and left of the coffer sit an arrangement of baked goods: odds and ends of assorted breads, day-old buns and pastries.

Just the mere sight makes her stomach rumble.

Slaves are usually only fed a porridge-like gruel once a day—it’s packed with all the nutrients you need! they say—and left to live life perpetually hungry for something more.

She’s certainly no stranger to hunger. It reflects in her body: in her lack of strength, her hair and her nails, the constant acidity that tinges her mouth from a stomach completely empty and angrily rumbling for more.

How bad would it be—truly be? —if she snuck into the room, placed her newfound credit into the coffer, and took a piece of bread?

She wouldn’t be stealing, she figures. After all, she truly does have the required credit.

And, true, while slaves aren’t supposed to eat food they aren’t explicitly given, its clear that the table is for cast-asides, for goods from yesterday.

She wouldn’t really be hurting anybody if she took something to eat on her way back to her group, would she?

The intense rumble of her stomach seems to provide an answer. She swallows back the newest wave of stomach bile and acid and walks into the room, confidently as she can muster, over to the table.

She tries not to look out of place, tries not to glance around to see if anyone is watching her: that would only draw more attention than her appearance does on its own.

She digs into her pocket and grasps the credit, then drops it quickly into the collecting coffer.

Her eyes survey the goods on the table a little greedily. There’s a half-torn bagel; a very dry-looking croissant; small end pieces of stale bread.

It takes a few moments before she sees it, but when she does, she knows its for her. It’s a small raisin bun, less stale-looking than her other options, small enough that she might conceal it in her pocket. She takes it and, indeed, pockets it, making quickly for the entryway.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” She turns, nervously, open-mouthed, to meet the eyes of an officer. “I just watched you steal, slave.”

“I—no, no, sir—I paid for it. I paid for it; I swear.”

“Paid for it with all that money they give you, did ya?”

“No—really—I had a credit, and—”

“You had a credit. Of course. And I have a luxury villa in Canto Blight, that’s why I work as a jailsman in the First Order. Please.”

The man moves forward, takes her by the arm.

“I know just the place to send you for punishment today. Consider yourself in luck. You’ll be getting a very special treat.”

“No—please—truly, I paid for it—”

“And even if you did,” he cuts across her, “you have no business in the cantina of your betters. You were trespassing at a minimum. And where exactly is your post? Aren’t you worked nearly all hours of the day?”

“I—well, see, that’s the thing—”

“Right. That is exactly the thing.”

“I—”

“Be quiet, slave-girl.”

She blanches white for the second time that day, falls completely silent. Her heart pounds out of her chest. She feels delirious.

He leads her back nearly the same way that she came: up the stairs, up past the two troopers stationed nearby, down an adjacent hallway.

He stops clear of a heavy metal door, which he unlocks manually with a set of keys tied to a clip on his waistband.

He rips the raisin bun out of her pocket just before shoving her into the room.

“I’m sure he’ll enjoy practicing his mysticism on you. Very painful, or so I’ve heard.” He cocks his head, considering. “Well, based on all the screams, that is.”

The door slams shut.

She manages only to make it to the other side of the room—a hexagonal cell, gray and dark and ominous—before she sinks down to her knees, the adrenaline rush shakes proving far too much for her joints and weak muscles to handle.

It’s exactly here that she curls up for the better part of an unknown amount of time.

The acid from her increasingly angry stomach burns her esophagus.

The hotness of her tears streak down the dry skin of her cheeks.

This is how she lies some number of hours later, slipping between light sleep and terrifying reality when the door opens again.

Heavy footsteps echo on the plate floors.

The metal door locks with a clang.

A tall, black figure stares down at her from within the shadow of the doorframe.

Kylo Ren.

#kylo ren #reader #ben solo #supreme leader #reader-insert #fanfic #star wars

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hermannsthumb · 5 years ago

Note

Hot tub sex??? *eye emoji*

scientists in a hot tub……what will they repress……..

18+/not safe for work below cut!!!!!

————————————-

Hermann is no stranger to shoddy motel rooms at this point in his career–indeed, on the shoestring PPDC budget, it’s more or less all he and Newton can afford when they’re shuttled out for conferences–but there’s a certain veneer to the crumbling Art Deco design and dusty plastic palm trees of this one that’s left him feeling strangely unsettled. It’s as if they’ve stepped into the past. As if the very motel is frozen in time.

“Stop being so dramatic,” Newton says. “It’s just a stupid gimmick. Hold this, will you?”

He shoves his duffel bag at Hermann and (ignoring Hermann’s indignant hm!) continues, unsuccessfully, to cram a keycard into their door lock. “It’s upside down,” Hermann finally says.

“No it’s not,” Newton says.

“Yes it is,” Hermann says. “Flip it.”

“It’s not upside down,” Newton says.

“Flip the bloody card, Newton.”

Newton flips the keycard. The lock lights up green with a click. “Huh,” he says.

Their room is small, a bit cramped, even, with two twin beds (mercifully, they won’t have to share again, not like they did last time) draped in pink bedspreads, two nightstands, a beaten-up wooden wardrobe, and a single desk jammed in the corner. The pseudo-vintage wallpaper matches that of the hallways and lobby; the carpet, meanwhile, is too faded to make out what the pattern was once meant to be. “How terribly charming,” Hermann remarks, sarcastically.

“I call bed next to the window,” Newton says, pushing past him to claim it.

Hermann busies himself with unpacking his belongings from his small carry-on suitcase as Newton takes stock of the room: poking around in the nightstand drawers, flicking through the wrinkled Gideons Bibles, fluffing his pillow, sniffing skeptically at the bars of soap resting atop their pillows. Hermann’s nearly finished settling in when Newton–flinging the door to their in-suite bathroom open–startles him with a sharp crow of surprise.

“Holy shit,” he says. “Take a look at that!”

Hermann sets down his last sweater on the bedspread, not bothering to look up. He can’t quite say he fancies finding out what kind of horror awaits them in there. “Roach infestation?” he sighs. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“It’s a fucking hot tub, dude.”

Hermann does look up at that. “Hot tub?” he echoes sharply.

Newton pushes the door open wider. Sure enough, around his shoulder, Hermann can make out pink tile and the deepest, most elaborate bathtub he’s ever seen, complete with its own set of stairs. “There are jets,” Newton says. He lunges for a bottle on the edge of the tub and waves it excitedly. “Look, they gave us bubble stuff, too!”

“Oh,” Hermann says, not quite able to cover up his delight. There are very few things Hermann loathes more than flying: the cramped confines, even with disability accommodation, which leave his leg stiff and him tense and irritable–the fine layer of grime he’s certain sticks to him afterwards–how wretchedly exhausted he is when the whole affair is finally over. He can, frankly, think of nothing he’d like quite more at the moment than stripping down and getting into a hot soak in that tub. However filthy it may be. (And Hermann expects it’s quite filthy.)

He steps up behind Newton for a closer inspection. Pink. Dingy, but less so with grime, more so from age. Curved seats. Enough jets to already make Hermann feel woozy. Newton turns and shoots him a grin. “How many people do you think have screwed in there?” he says.

“Ugh.” Hermann winces.

“I’m serious,” Newton says. “It’s at least a dozen.” He nudges the faucet with the toe of his boot and laughs. “God, it’s so fucking sleazy. Why the fuck did they put this in here?”

“Perhaps the staff anticipated overstressed travelers would appreciate the opportunity to relax,” Hermann sniffs.

“Or perhaps,” (Newton says this in a crude mockery of his accent,) “the staff thought people like us might want a little extra bang for our buck, if you catch my drift.” He waggles his eyebrows.

People like him and Newton. Unable to help himself, and feeling suddenly rather flustered, Hermann blushes. “You’re so crude.”

“Maybe you just have a stick up your ass,” Newton says. He shuts the door. “Anyway, I’m gonna get a burger from the place next door. Do you want something?”

Hermann chooses not to remind Newton that he is a vegetarian. He’ll presumably remember it at some point on the walk to the restaurant–it’s rather a poignant thing to forget about one’s self. “No, thank you,” he says, and then, after reconsidering, because he is hungry, “Actually–yes. A sandwich. You know the sort I like–something with turkey. Or cucumber.”

“It’s a hamburger place,” Newton says, as if Hermann is a particularly dull toddler.

“Surely they don’t only sell hamburgers,” Hermann says.

“Guess we’ll find out,” Newton says. He scoops up the keycard from where he tossed it on the dresser, pats his pocket for his wallet, and nods at Hermann. “I’ll be back in twenty. Don’t have any wild hot tub sex without me.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause.

“That’s not,” Newton says. “Uh. See you.”

Newton’s not been gone five minutes when Hermann finally caves in and starts the tap for the hot tub. The water comes out hot–nicely hot–and the jets–oh, the jets--Hermann is suddenly frightfully glad he allowed Newton to talk him into packing swimming trunks in the event they’re able to make it out to the beach before the weekend is up. Though tub is just as much a bathtub as a jacuzzi, it still feels strange to enter it nude. Especially after Newton’s lewd comments.

The tub takes the better part of Newton’s promised twenty minutes to fill, and it’s still not quite finished when Hermann–now stripped down to nothing but his bland pair of navy-blue swimming trunks–grips the metal bars at the stairs and eases his aching, tense body into the steaming water. He tilts his head back against the pink tile; he groans, a little louder than he means to. The relief is quite instant.

Perhaps a bit embarrassingly, his prick begins to stiffen.

It’s automatic, of course. Pavlovian by nature. He’s not at all thinking of Newton’s implication that people like them have appropriated the hot tub for other purposes, nor of his slip-up right before he left to get them dinner. It’s only that Hermann prefers to reserve certain personal activities for when he’s in the bath. He’s more relaxed–the undercurrent of pain in his leg less distracting, and indeed, even nonexistent. Anyway, it’s not as if he’s about to start pleasuring himself here, in a bloody hot tub, where Newton could walk in and find him at any moment…

(A small, warm twinge in the pit of his stomach; Hermann parts his thighs just a bit wider, only to make himself comfortable, of course.)

Then there’s a small click in the main room: the door lock. “They literally only had hamburgers, dude, like I said,” Newton is saying. “So I got you–Hermann?”

“In here,” Hermann calls back lazily.

Newton practically kicks the bathroom door down, glaring ferociously, greasy takeaway bags cradled in one arm. “You asshole,” he says. “You’re using it without me!”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you mean,” Hermann says.

Newton sets the bag down on the sink counter and kicks off his boots. Then he begins to strip out of his t-shirt. Then his jeans. Hermann sits up in alarm. “No, no,” he says. “What are you–?”

“I’m getting in, that’s what I’m doing,” Newton huffs.

“No you are not.”

“I am,” Newton says. He reaches for the waistband of his purple boxers.

“No,” Hermann says, a little louder, and then begins to splutter indignantly when Newton ignores him and slips those off too. “You brought–we have swimming trunks. Why are you–?”

“You’ve seen me naked before,” Newton says with a shrug. The motion, full-bodied, causes certain elements of his anatomy to move. Certain elements of Hermann’s anatomy begin to move, too, in response, but for an entirely different reason. “It doesn’t have to be weird.”

This is true; Newton’s had enough lab accidents in their career which require use of the emergency decontamination shower that, hypothetically, Hermann should know his body like his own at this point. This does not make it any less alarming. Or any less exciting. Newton’s sturdy bare legs, verging on too-hairy, small scars on both his knees from what Hermann knows to be a rollerblading accident when he was twelve; Newton’s tattooed arms, muscled just enough from the demands of his lab work; Newton’s tattooed chest, his rosy pink nipples; Newton’s pudgy stomach, his love handles; between Newton’s soft thighs, his perfectly sized–well–

Hermann forces himself to tear his eyes away as Newton climbs in across from him. They’re so close their knees knock together. “Wow,” Newton says, and wolf-whistles. “This is awesome.”

“Mm,” Hermann says.

He chances a small glance over. Newton has slipped off his fogged-up glasses; his body is a colorful blur beneath the bubbling surface of the water, but his chest, and his chest piece, are on full display, and his head is titled back in such a way that his soft throat is bared in a way that Hermann might call sensual. How terribly lovely he is. How terribly light-headed Hermann feels from the hot water–surely it’s why, not even bothering to pretend he’s not ogling Newton, he blurts out “What a marvelous tattoo that is.”

Newton furrows his eyebrows. “What?”

“Your tattoo,” Hermann says, and–for some reason–reaches out and grazes his hand down Newton’s sternum. He hears–no, feels–Newton’s breath catch in his throat. “It’s very interesting. I’ve never seen it properly before.”

Newton laughs nervously. “Oh,” he says. “I thought you hated my tattoos.”

“Of course I don’t,” Hermann says, and he’s surprised to find he means it. “I can’t say I approve of the subject material, but one would be a fool to deny their artistic value.” Hardly believing his own daring, he settles two fingers on Newton’s left pectoral, just above his nipple, and traces the edges of the great green kaiju’s head. “Was it terribly painful?”

“Nn,” Newton squeaks.

“Hm?” Hermann says.

“No,” Newton says. He sounds breathless. “Hey, uh, you almost done–” The edge of Hermann’s thumb accidentally grazes his nipple, and Newton squeaks again, the rest of the sentence coming out in a high-pitched wheeze, “–uh, feeling me up?”

Mortified, and finally realizing exactly what it is he’s doing, Hermann snatches his hand away. “Ah–Newton–” he stammers, ears going hot, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” Newton chooses precisely the wrong moment to glance down. Difficult though it is to make out definite shapes through the water, there is no denying that Hermann’s swimming trunks are quite tented. Newton’s eyes widen. “Hermann?”

“Oh, hell,” Hermann says. He buries his face in his hands. “I’m sorry, Newton, I didn’t mean–”

There are strong, calloused fingers on his wrists, prying his hands away, and Hermann opens his eyes to see Newton’s face above his, Newton kneeling in the vee of his legs. His breath is warm, and smells like the bottle of soda he bought at a vending machine in the airport. “I’m gonna kiss you,” he declares.

Hermann blinks.

Newton’s tongue–pink–darts out to wet his lower lip–pinker. He presses his mouth–soft–to Hermann’s. For a minute, they move awkwardly, chastely, against one another, stiffly, even, and then Newton gives a tentative swipe with his tongue at the seam of Hermann’s lips.

The floodgates of desire open within Hermann all at once. A filthy moan rises in the back of his throat; he seizes Newton’s shoulders, drawing him forward, closer, until their chests are flush together; his mouth parts open eagerly for Newton, and he draws Newton’s tongue forward with his own. “Newton,” he breathes out. Newton tastes like the soda, too–sugary, too-sweet. “Oh, Newton–”

Impatient, over-excited, Newton shoves his hand gracelessly down Hermann’s trunks and wraps around his prick. “Fuck,” he pulls away from their kiss to whine, “were you jerking off before I got here? That’s so fucking hot. God. What were you thinking about? Were you thinking about me?”

Hermann had not been jerking off, but if Newton’s libido will be stoked to greater heights with a little bit of flattery, he can’t see how a small lie could do any harm. “I was,” he says.

Newton begins to slide his hand up and down Hermann’s prick. He’s very skilled at it. The other hand, he settles at the back of Hermann’s neck. “Fuck. Were you thinking about doing me in here? Over the side? Or me doing you?”

“Er,” Hermann wheezes out. “Yes?”

Clearly pleased, Newton begins to wank him faster. “Guh,” he says. “Touch my chest again, that was so hot. Please, please–”

Hermann obliges gladly. He splays his hands over Newton’s pectorals, squeezing, and–once he realizes how terribly sensitive Newton’s nipples are, because twice now Hermann’s only grazed one and produced a full-body shiver in the man–focuses his onslaught on those instead. With every small pinch, Newton cries out. When Hermann lowers his head to take one in his mouth, Newton straddles his right thigh and begins humping his hard prick against it in earnest.

“That’s so debase,” Hermann pants into his chest, blushing. “Really, Newton, you ought to just let me use my hand.”

“Guh,” Newton whines again. “No, no, I want you to touch me instead.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere,” Newton says. “Anywhere, anywhere…”

His hand is flying over Hermann so fast it’s difficult to think, let alone to consciously grope and explore Newton’s body, but–resuming variably grazing his teeth and flicking his tongue over Newton’s nipples–Hermann obliges again, dragging his nails down Newton’s sturdy back, digging his fingers into the soft skin of Newton’s backside and kneading at him gently. Newton’s movements against his thigh turn graceless, and Hermann is excited to feel small slide of sticky precome on his skin before the churning water quickly washes it away.

“I’m gonna come,” Newton pants. His head is tossed back in wild abandon, the image of hedonistic pleasure. It’s a wonder he can even still formulate whole sentences: Hermann imagines if he were as overstimulated as Newton obviously is, he’d black out. The simple handjob is almost too much to bear. “Yeah, I’m gonna come, are you–?”

“Kiss me, and I will,” Hermann says.

Newton stoops down, mashing their mouths together happily, and light fizzles behind Hermann’s eyelids as he spills over Newton’s hand. Newton gives a few more needy thrusts against his thigh; his cry echoes off the bathroom walls, and Hermann feels more sticky warmth on his skin. He slumps on top of Hermann when he’s finished. He’s shaking.

Hermann pats his back. “Well done,” he says, weakly, and Newton giggles just as weakly. He could go for a nap, he thinks. Preferably with Newton curled up next to him. The twin bed will be a tight fit, but they’ll manage.

#newmann #Anonymous #maria's fanfiction tag

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