#YOU seem like you might be right for this if you’ve gone scuttling through the tags | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

snackhobi · 4 years ago

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min yoongi is the best shot in the business. you’re the best gunsmith in the city and the only person he trusts to programme his tech; to make his gear.

he likes your work. it’s a shame, then, that he doesn’t like you.

pairing: yoongi x f!reader / word count: 14.3k / genre + rating: NSFW (18+), cyberpunk!au, smut, frenemies (?) to lovers

warnings/etc: hitman!yoongi. black market dealer/gunsmith!reader. cursing/explicit language. whole lotta tension, sexual and otherwise. mentions of injury/violence. minor character death (no one important, don’t worry, this isn’t an angst fic). brief hurt/comfort. reader has tattoos. sexually explicit content. oral; fingering; multiple orgasms; overstimulation (f). unprotected sex (please take the necessary precautions irl). rough sex?. choking. creampie. brief mention of aftercare. I think that’s everything but please lmk if I missed any!

a/n: thank you SO MUCH to both @hobi-gif and @morndas for beta reading this and being so supportive, ily both so much and I owe you my life 🤧💕 as always what was meant to be a short fic turned into a huge one. also this is technically for my 1.1k milestone but it’s a billion years late, oops!

Yoongi really doesn’t like you.

You’re loud. Cocky. Arrogant. You needle him all the time, dig your fingernails in and squeeze, revelling in the way he sets his jaw, the muted spark of irritation in his eyes. You bat your eyelashes and tilt your head, throw it back whenever you laugh and reveal the easing column of your throat, dragging each interaction out with a kind of sadistic pleasure that has him gritting his teeth. Because you love annoying him, getting under his skin, tapping your fingers against the soft swell of your bottom lip as you eye him up, taking your time before you speak.

Infuriating. You’re infuriating and you know it.

It’s unfortunate, really, because you’re unavoidable.

Jungkook had asked, once, why Yoongi doesn’t just go elsewhere. They’re more than familiar with the underbelly of this heaving city, underneath all the neon lights and shimmering holograms and towering skyscrapers and legal tech; the scuttling seams of back alley traders and illegal goods, tech or otherwise. There are plenty of black market dealers, after all, plenty of other vendors he could go to to get the equipment he wants. Plenty of other skilled crafters, artificers, artisans, people who would be more than happy to create the things that Yoongi asks for, that he needs. People who can get their hands on anything you want. For a price.

Yoongi’s answer had been short and succinct.

“She’s the best there is,” he’d said, and that had been that.

Because it’s true. You might be exasperating, maddening, laughing in Yoongi’s face where others might cower or genuflect, but no one is as good as you. All of Yoongi’s gear has been crafted by you; each and every single one of his weapons, his tech, the headpiece that fits so perfectly around the back of his skull that Yoongi often forgets that it’s there, hidden in his hair, unfolding across his eyes whenever he lines up a shot to make the kill—there’s evidence of your work across every inch of his body, hidden away under his clothes, day in, day out. Even when he’s not on a contract Yoongi never leaves anything to chance.

(A walking armoury, Namjoon had called him once.)

(You’d phrased it differently.

You’re always packing, hmm? you’d hummed, rapping your fingernails in a steady beat as you’d leaned back in your chair, smiling with teeth. There was laughter in your words and your gaze, no attempt made to hide your amusement, but after your goading you’d made him a collapsible sword anyway. It’s a beautiful thing, this folding blade, bristling with plasma and energy if Yoongi needs it, lethal and deadly. One of his most prized possessions, something that’s gotten him out of multiple corners, and he owes it—you—his life.)

There’s no one on par with you. You’re a Renaissance woman, a fiercely talented polymath who doesn’t need to rely on anyone else to create the things you create. Low-tech, high-tech, no tech—you make everything from scratch, programme things yourself, hunched over each project in your own workshop with nothing but your mind and your own two hands.

It’s the only reason he puts up with you and your antics, the sharp jibes, the shameless flirting; you’re the most infuriating person he knows, but there’s no one else he would trust with the work that you do.

Unfortunately.

Which is why Yoongi finds himself here, again and again, as familiar with this studio as you are—he watches you work, sometimes, watches you sketch up blueprints and drag your fingers across your array of displays, your world cast in shifting shades of cyan and electric blue from all the tech in here, humming and alive. He likes to see how his equipment is made, after all. It can mean the difference between life and death. He takes this seriously.

It’s the one time you might be quiet. Might be quiet, because you still talk even when you work; flick your gaze between Yoongi and whatever’s set in front of you, that ever present smile spread across your lips, smug and amused. You’re only silent during the hardest jobs. Like right now, you’re intense and focused, a furrow dug between your brows as you survey his sniper rifle—almost shorn in two. (It had been the only thing to hand when he’d had to block a blow from a guard he’d somehow overlooked, no time to draw any other weapons before they’d started to brawl.)

You’d been unimpressed. You’d raised your eyebrows with all the severity of a disappointed mother, bitten words out at him with molten snideness, dripping heat and snark.

“It’s a gun, Yoongi. A gun. You know, something you shoot with? Pew pew? Blammo? I’m not sure what sort of shields and body armour you’ve seen in the past but this isn’t either of those things. Do you want me to sketch some diagrams up for you? Or maybe I could write you a book. Baby’s First Arsenal, Chapter One: The Difference Between Things That Are Guns And Things That Aren’t. Would that be helpful?”

No one else talks to Yoongi like that. No one else would dare. It’s only a rare few that know his birth name and it’s not often that he hears it, more used to the sound of Agust D falling off people’s lips. But that had been part of your price, part of the agreement when he’d first met you and asked for your services: his real name.

Yoongi had let it wash over him, had endured your tongue-lashing before putting the gun down with a heavy finality and thrust it over at you, tired of all your talk.

“Just fix it,” he’d demanded.

You’d laughed in his face.

“As always, your bedside manner leaves something to be desired,” you’d said, taking the rifle from him.

The D-2 Shadow isn’t just a weapon. It’s a piece of art, clean edges and slick lines, and Yoongi is grateful to have it back in his hands. There’s no other sniper rifle like it, made of super lightweight alloy and easy to handle; thermal scope, enhanced stabilisers for accuracy; superior kinetic coils for better shot penetration. Yoongi had asked for the best and you’d delivered. Gone above and beyond, crafted a weapon the likes of which no one else possesses, modified in ways other people can’t even fathom.

And you’d fixed it when he'd almost let it get destroyed. Made it better than new, even, layered it in more alloy to make it stronger without making it heavier, a new material of your own design. If he hadn’t known you as well as he does he’d have worried that it was beyond repair, knows that other gunsmiths would have taken one look at its crumpled body and shaken their heads, but you hadn’t.

Of course you hadn’t. You never do.

You charge him a pretty penny for your work, make him pay through the nose for everything he asks of you, but Yoongi is more than willing to do so. More than capable of paying, coffers lined with more money than he might need, one of the best contract killers there is—the real price he pays is with his sanity, worn away each time you open your mouth. He can’t help but rise to your bait, as derisive as you are; it’s only the smallest things, a sharpness to his otherwise even tone, an angry spark in his eyes, but you pick up on it all.

He’s not your only customer. You don’t extend your services to many, only to the people you want to—Yoongi’s not sure what set of harebrained criteria you have that lets you choose who you’ll sell to and who you won’t but he can’t make heads nor tails of it. He knows he’s not part of your clientele because he’s got the credits to pay, nor is it because he’s one of the most highly regarded hitmen in his line of business.

You don’t just choose people who can afford to pay or people who have a level of power and influence in this dark underworld you inhabit. You really don’t care about those things. You just pick and choose on a whim.

(Once, back when he’d first met you, Yoongi had discovered that you’d concocted an entirely new security system—practically incapable of being hacked, crawling with tech, a level of complexity even the richest elites could barely afford—for some small artist who’d worried that their paintings might get stolen. He was an unknown at the time, this V, squirrelled away in one of the dark corners in the lowest levels of the city, and you’d all but given him some of the best work you’d ever done, undercharged him something chronic.

You’d shrugged when Yoongi had asked why.

“He makes me laugh,” you’d replied.)

Yoongi isn’t your only customer but he’s certainly the only one you seem to treat the way you do. There’s a level of irreverence in everything you do, self-confidence settled across every inch of you like the obnoxious stench of a teenage boy’s body spray, but you seem to take particular pleasure in Yoongi’s displeasure. He’d brought Namjoon along, once, inquiring after an imitation greenhouse, how someone might set up the tech to raise tropical plants that wouldn’t survive otherwise (mostly above board, even; Namjoon might grow illicit plants, poisonous and prohibited, but he likes pretty flowers, too). And there had been none of the mocking that Yoongi receives. None of the wind ups. You’d been pleasant, despite your incessant snark, agreeing to take the job with a smile on your face that Yoongi never gets given.

(It had been infuriating, to know that you’re capable of not being an ass, but you just choose not to be. For fun.)

Yoongi really, really doesn’t like you, but he respects your work. Respects you, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

You keep your word. You don’t supply his competitors, although you claim it’s not loyalty to him and it’s only because they can’t pay as well as he does—winnings go to the highest bidder, you’d said sagely, as obtuse and irritating as always.

But Yoongi knows other sellers will provide anyone who’s willing to pay, freelancers who peddle their wares regardless of affiliation or alliances. You’re beholden to no one and yet Yoongi knows you would never double cross him. Never supply anyone who challenges his work, even if they have the money, even if he’s on good terms with them (it’s not personal, it’s business; Yoongi has no issue with other hired killers as long as they stay out of his way). He knows he can rely on you, which is something to be treasured in these back-crossing back-stabbing backstreets.

So when he makes his way to your door, the details of a new contract still fresh in his mind, he instantly comes to a stop.

There’s something off. He can tell immediately, years of instinct causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise, every part of him on edge. Everything looks normal, is normal, but there’s a burning in his gut that has Yoongi’s finger itching for the trigger even though there’s nothing to shoot.

You’ve granted him the privilege of access to your workshop, to the other rooms, entered the scans of his hand and eye and voice into the security systems, keep him updated on the varying passwords you cycle through, so he can enter whenever he needs to.

(He’s woken you up on more than one occasion, roused you from sleep for last minute supplies before he leaves for another contract, appearing in the dead of night like a spectre of death, clothing dark and eyes darker, overflowing with weaponry. A looming silhouette edged in strokes of cyan and magenta from the ever present, low-level neon light in your room, so much darker than the bright lights of your workshop. Intimidating.

And you always just roll your eyes and sigh and tell him to keep a better eye on his cache of equipment and climb out of bed for him. You’re so at odds to him in your sleep rumpled clothing and mussed hair, still unafraid even when he’s fully geared and ready to kill; shirt slipping off your shoulder, swathes of bare skin in the place of Yoongi's all-encompassing outfit, shimmering black light tattoos visible on your legs and arms and bare skin of your collarbones, geometric lines in the palest of blues and greens. You hand over whatever he needs and tell him the creds he owes you.

“I’ve already given you a key to my apartment and you haven’t even taken me for dinner once,” you sigh—dramatic and melodramatic—even as you hand over a bundle of crossbow bolts. The synthesised toxin inside the darts is your own concoction, of course, courtesy of the plant matter provided from Namjoon’s greenhouse.

“I’d literally rather be shot in the head than willingly spend time with you,” he replies.

“You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid,” you say, and just laugh in the face of his unimpressed deadpan. As insufferable as always.)

So he doesn’t need your permission to enter. He’s silent, light-footed as he makes his way inside, scanning each inch of this familiar interior; nothing’s wrong, not yet, but Yoongi can sense something in the air. Something heavy, settled bitter on his tongue, coating the back of his throat.

And then he walks into your workshop.

You’re meticulous. Even when you’re overrun with gear, with parts that have yet to be used, everything has its place. You prefer paper over datapads, too, tack sheets of designs and notes up on the wall, have clipboards and stacks of sheets set neatly in their place, a throwback to a time before tech ruled everything. Yoongi knows the layout of this room as well as he knows his own home, a mental map of straight lines and unwavering coordinates with you in the centre of it all.

Upheaval. Those neat lines of organised cartography have been pulled apart. Ham-handed work, to be sure, more of a statement than anything else; intent to instil fear rather than to destroy (although, Yoongi sees now that one of the monitors has been smashed, display sparking white and blue as it bleeds out electricity.). Even in the darkness of the room—overhead lights off and only emergency lighting on, painting things in shades of dark crimson and pink—Yoongi can tell that whichever interlopers have done this are already gone. The room is empty.

Then the sound of a clatter breaks the silence and Yoongi’s already got his pistol out, drawn without a thought as he approaches the sound that comes from the back room, fleet-footed and silent as he raises the gun and rounds the corner—

And sees you at the end of the barrel.

There’s a first aid kit on the floor. Packs of medi-gel and rolls of bandages and other supplies scattered around your feet. You haven’t even spotted Yoongi yet, in despair at the mess in front of you; he’s never seen you like this, never seen anything other than your veneer of enraging smugness and never-ending energy.

“Y/n?”

You flinch even as your head snaps around, eyes wide—but the second you see Yoongi you visibly relax, even though he’s still holding a gun in your direction.

There’s a bruise blossoming across your left cheek.

“Ah, Yoongi.” The smile that paints itself across your lips is almost convincing despite the dark flower that’s unfolding on your skin, blood rising to the surface and painting it in hues of pain; you wince, a little, when the smile makes your wound ache. Soldier onwards as you act as though nothing is wrong. “I know you’re always desperate for my attention but do you mind giving me a second? I’m kind of indisposed at the moment.”

Yoongi’s lips are set in a thin line. He only has one question on his mind.

“Who did this to you?”

Your gaze flickers before you break eye contact, staring at the first aid supplies on the floor. “What, this? Have you never dropped something before?”

Yoongi ignores your deflection. It only takes a few moments to reholster the pistol, to step over to you, to grasp your chin and tilt your face towards him.

“Who did this to you?”

Yoongi’s tone is quiet and low, firm and undeniable. For the first time since he’s met you it seems as though you’re lost for words, lips parted around a silent sound of surprise as you’re subjected to the full force of Yoongi’s gaze, cutting through you; past every layer of self-inflated narcissism you put on, past every deflection you might make.

There's a beat of silence.

And then you slowly but irrevocably fold underneath the weight of his stare.

You let him lead you, sit you down, bowing to his hands and his directions. You’re silent throughout, lips an unfamiliar shape as they’re pulled down into the slightest of frowns. He’s only ever seen you smile, seen you laugh, self-assured. Never like this.

You seem surprised, startled when he sits across from you and cracks open a pack of medi-gel. Yoongi’s surprised too, although he doesn’t show it, lets his instincts take over and settles into auto-pilot as he reaches for your face. He’s never seen your eyes so round, so wide, watching the hand that descends on your cheek with all the single-minded intent of a man about to fillet a fish—careful and practiced but menacing, maybe. (He doesn’t like you but you don’t deserve to have been hurt and Yoongi can’t just stand by and not help.)

And you don’t shy away. You stare at him as he stares at his fingers, layers the gel evenly across the pain of your bruise, cool and soothing.

It’s only when he’s reached for more medi-gel and touched your cheek for the second time that you finally speak.

“It was one of the Tang cousins.”

Yoongi goes still, fingers resting across your skin, slick with purple gel.

“One of the cousins?”

Yoongi doesn’t like you. But—and God knows what he did wrong in a previous life for this to be true—you’re one of his inner circle, one of the very, very few people he trusts. You’re not friends and he doesn’t like you, but he owes you, owes you a hundred times over, owes you for every successful kill, every silent infiltration, every averted detection. All thanks to your tech and the work you put into it for him. He’s indebted to you.

Yoongi always pays his debts.

“I didn’t even catch his name.” You sound dismissive. Normally you’d laugh, deride the person you’re speaking about, but instead you just sound tired. “One of the low down ones. New kid on the block; someone I didn’t recognise, with some lackeys or similar. Trying to make a name for himself, I think. He demanded that I build weapons for him. I said no.”

The Tang family is a big one, a criminal empire that has its tendrils dug in everywhere. You don’t deal with them, have no interest throwing your lot in with them intentionally or not; it’s a big, formidable family, but it’s not the only one around. You’d be dumb to get involved in that mess of generational, cross-family conflict. You’ll sell things to the highest bidder, shift illicit high-tech stock, build generic modifications that people can buy—but you don’t make bespoke weaponry for just anyone.

You don’t even sell to the heads of the Tang family directly, let alone to some back-alley sewer rat who probably barely has the faintest ties to the family, a single vein of Tang blood in his body, just enough to give him an in.

Whoever this cousin was he must be really fucking stupid to not know that. Stupid to think he could demand anything from you. Stupid to think he could hurt you when you laughed in his face and said no. Anyone with half a brain-cell should know not to fuck with you, know that it’s an honour to even be allowed inside your workshop, that to be told ‘no’ by you is a privilege.

Stupid to think that he wasn’t going to pay for that stupidity.

The pack of medi-gel is empty, the deflated pouch forgotten on Yoongi’s knee as he stares at you. The flecks of biomatter in the gel catch the light, sparkling like glitter in the lavender that’s seeping into your skin; all the surprise is gone from your eyes and instead you’re just watching him, stolid and steady. Analytical.

(You’re smart. Yoongi knows you are. For all that you talk shit and play foolish, he never forgets about that fierce intelligence. Never underestimates you or how perceptive you are. He only wonders what’s on your mind right now; what it is that you see in front of you.)

“Next time don’t let someone in unless you’re certain you’re going to sell to them.”

You scoff in his face. “Alright, Dad. Do you want to update my curfew while you’re at it? Make it ten p.m. instead of eleven?”

Yoongi blinks slowly. You’ve got both eyebrows raised, surveying him with a mixture of amusement and disbelief that he’s trying to tell you what to do (because no one tells you what to do; they wouldn't dare). But you don’t pull away, your knees still touching his, body bowed towards him from when he’d coaxed you closer so he could reach your face—so he knows you don’t mind. Not really.

(Knows you don’t care about anyone’s opinions or rules, only sticking to your own. The fact you’d been shaken from that place of confidence by some thug—even for a moment—doesn’t sit right in Yoongi’s belly. That bitter taste is back in his throat and it’s ice cold, icicles prickling through his blood.)

(He doesn’t like you but you’re one of his people and no one fucks with Yoongi’s people.)

The bruise is still there days later, after you’ve rearranged your workshop back to the way it was, sourced a new monitor to replace the one that was broken. You’re back to smirking, already ready for his request, more bullets for his weapons and super-charged plasma to recharge his sword, but the bruise is a stark reminder of what you’ve been through. So is, too, the new blueprint he spies half finished on your open displays: an automated security system that scans thermal signatures, guns unfolding from the ceiling whenever aggressive movement is detected from an unfamiliar person. Anyone who’s not listed as familiar in the security logs.

(Yoongi used to wonder about that. Why you didn’t have security mechs set in place, programming their AI to protect you, but you don’t like to use mechs. Don’t like to use them, even if you could afford to build them, because you compare it to forced servitude. You’ve never needed them before now, anyway. Safe in your reputation, knowing that you’re in a position of power, that people come here because they know you’re the best of the best.)

(But it seems like you don’t trust that any more. Don’t feel safe.)

Yoongi keeps as silent as always, bites his tongue when you cut him off mid-sentence with nothing more than a raised finger.

“Ah, ah, ah,” you tut, wagging the finger back and forth like the slow pendulum of a grandfather clock. “No more crafting requests. I’m still working on the concentration mod you asked for and I’ll let you know when it’s ready. I don't rush for anyone. Patience is a virtue, baby. Did no one ever tell you that?”

“Don’t call me baby.”

“Okay, handsome.” Your reply is instant, unruffled, and Yoongi grits his teeth.

But still. For all that you’re acting like normal, workshop set back into place, white lighting shining overhead, as neat and presentable as always—Yoongi can read uncertainty in the way you move. Discomfort. You don’t feel safe in your own space and it’s obvious, even if you don’t realise it.

“Come back any time,” you say coyly, and Yoongi, as always, ignores you. Transfers the creds he owes you in silence before he takes one last look at the bruise that’s still painted across your skin, dark eyes touching yours for the briefest moment before he turns and leaves.

For the first time since you met, Yoongi buys from someone who isn’t you.

It’s not bad. Well made, decent tech, Predator pistol sitting easy in his hands when he brings it to the light and watches it unfold from its holstered state, the way plasma bursts to life in the barrel; weaker than bullets but easier to reload in the field. It’s no surprise that the Yeom family gets their stuff sourced from here. The body armour, too, isn’t bad, engraved with the family crest and cast in their colours.

It’s not bad, but it’s not as good as it could be. Not as good as Yoongi needs his tech to be, demands it to be—but quality doesn’t matter. Not today. He has a job to do.

It’s easy to find his mark. Scum gathers in stagnant water, in the dirtiest and dankest places, and this is where Yoongi finds Tang Lee. Finds him spilling beer and money in the backroom of some grimy strip club where the holograms flicker from age and the strippers are tired, trying their best to scrape a living from the seething riverbed of filth that runs underneath the bright neon lights of the skyscrapers in the levels above.

Lee isn’t alone but it’s so easy to take them out it’s laughable, men drunk from cheap alcohol; Yoongi catches one in a chokehold, smashes another’s face into the glass table with enough force it shatters, faces Lee once they’re the only two standing. The music outside is too loud and the room is sound proofed for privacy and so Yoongi isn’t interrupted as he brings Lee to his knees, thrusting his face into a smear of blood that drips from his now-broken nose, courtesy of a quick jab of Yoongi’s right fist.

It’s not a quick kill. It could be. Yoongi could have ended this in moments, caught Lee off guard and ended his miserable life almost effortlessly—but he doesn’t. He takes his time, makes it count, teaches him a lesson, has Lee on his hands and knees as he sobs out apologies and snivels for mercy before he takes the pistol and blows his brains out. Yoongi doesn’t feel sorry for the man, eyes the body impassively, not even worth his disgust—he only feels sorry for whoever finds the chaos of the room and the bodies inside, the distinct plasma burns he purposefully leaves in the wall with the Predator pistol, the entire scene he’s created here: a scuffle gone wrong, fast.

You’re not the only person Tang Lee has crossed but you’ll be the last. Yoongi checks the pulses of the other two men, finds one dead and the other still alive, barely, just like he’d planned—and his work is done. It’s the Yeom family’s problem now, any fall out from Lee’s death pointed at them, a repayment of a slight Lee had made to a Yeom supplier only a few weeks ago. (Yoongi wagers that neither family will care, will draw a veil over this moment and let this settle without raising arms, no one important enough to go to war over.)

He discards the pistol and armour once he’s done, incinerates it all, no interest in keeping subpar equipment. It’s not even worth dismantling for parts. Hoseok finds him in their basement, eyeing the blue flames that lick their way around the discarded armaments; he just watches Yoongi, inscrutable and calm as he eyes the blood on the clothing before it bursts into flames.

“Not a contract,” Hoseok says. (It’s not a question.)

“A job.” Yoongi replies, watches the cloth turn to ash through the thrumming display of the incinerator. “Something that needed to be done.”

He doesn’t tell anyone what he’s done. There’s no point in it. Yoongi decides something needs to be done and he’ll do it, whether that’s building a new chair for Jungkook after he broke his old one or killing a man who hurt you.

The next time he sees you your bruise is practically gone, faded into your skin. You’re intent on something on a monitor but when you notice him you turn, swivelling in your chair in one smooth motion as you lean back and put your hands behind your head, cross one leg over the other, dripping self-satisfaction, your smile sharp and full of teeth.

“Ah, Yoongi.” You look so smug that Yoongi has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Welcome, once again, to my laboratory. Is this visit for business or pleasure? Either way, you know I'm happy to oblige.”

“I’m here for the mod you promised me,” he says bluntly, and you just keep smiling, even as you hold out a hand for the sniper rifle, handling the D-2 Shadow with as much reverence as Yoongi does as you affix the mod.

It’s perfect, of course. All that Yoongi asked for and more. The software links with his eyepiece, biometric sensors that help him find his target, software to adjust to his pulse and breathing.

“You can even change the colour of the HUD,” you say, as if it’s some sort of buy-one-get-one-free offer, some fun little feature, rather than another helpful piece of software that you’ve created. Dismissive. An afterthought.

(You act like you take nothing seriously. Yoongi is your stark opposite, weighing everything in his hands and treating it with the level of attention it deserves, intent and focused.)

He’s staring down the scope when you speak once more. Light and easy, for once, rather than loud with your usual exaggerated exuberance or silken with unnecessary suggestiveness.

“I hear that they found a Tang family member dead.”

Yoongi just hums in response. Keeps his eye on the scope, wills the colour from dark green to white using the affinity link he has synced with his headpiece, watches the lines of the heads up display of the scope repaint themselves without even a single flicker, transition smooth and effortless. (Perfection.)

“It seems like the Yeom family did it,” you say, tone still conversational.

“Is that so.” Yoongi sounds disinterested, face impassive as he draws the gun away from his face, eye piece automatically folding away from his eyes. “Can I ask about other mods now that this one is finished?”

One of your brows rises, a perfect curve of discontent. “Say thank you first, Yoongi.”

Yoongi’s eyes cut into yours but you don’t back down, watch his blank face as he eventually says: “Thank you. Now I need more mods.”

You throw your head back as you laugh. “You’re insatiable,” you say, but you don’t say no. “What do you want now?”

(It’s not that you never say no to Yoongi. Because you have, and you do, and you will. But never because you can’t make what he asks for—and only because you refuse to make things that might endanger his safety, illicit bio-mods that other hired hitmen use, things that degrade the body from the inside out.)

Yoongi’s just holstered the Shadow, ready to go, when you speak one final time.

“Yoongi?”

He’s never heard you say his name like that, soft and quiet.

“Thanks.” You’re staring at him, regarding him steadily, solemn in a way that he’s never seen. You’re smiling, as always, but the expression is lightyears away from what Yoongi is used to—just the barest hint of an upturn to your lips.

Yoongi stares back at you. “I don’t know what you’re thanking me for.”

Your smile grows, a warm thing, unfurling like a flower. Almost affectionate. “Sure,” you say. “Of course. Silly me. Slip of the tongue.” And then, as if your brain’s only just caught up with what you just said, the smile turns salacious. “On the note of slipping the tongue—”

“Bye.”

Your cascading laughter follows him on his way out, cutting and shining with amusement.

Yoongi’s been getting more contracts. He’s finally buckled under Jungkook’s insistent whining and has agreed to get gear for him, too, to train him how to shoot. Hoseok has more than enough contacts in the underworld to get jobs for them both—he’s the most powerful information broker around, after all, sitting in the centre of a web he’s woven after years of work, all that sharpness and darkness hidden behind his deceptively bright smile.

(Yoongi’s lucky to consider him a friend and not an enemy.)

So that’s why he’s here with increasing frequency. That’s why he finds himself at your door more often than not. To get those orders in place, to make sure they’re progressing as fast as they need to.

You never react when Yoongi steps into your workshop. Well, you do, you lean into your hand and smirk at him, pursing your lips around each snide remark, each suggestive comment—but you never question his appearance. You just go with the flow, unbothered by his presence, even when there are other people there—other customers who eye him with unveiled curiosity and confusion (some Yoongi recognises, some he doesn’t, well-known faces and unknowns alike; none of them know who he is, though, unrecognisable as Agust D without his battle gear on). Yoongi keeps a close eye on their stances, any unchecked aggression or hostility towards you. Keeps a watch on the tension of your shoulders and spine, because of… habit. Battle instinct. Nothing else.

“You know my policy, Yoongi.” You’re analysing something in your hand. It looks like an antique spyglass, something from the decades before technology overtook the world, but it’s jammed full of tech; it doesn’t just magnify to a terrifying degree, it also amplifies sound, connected to an earpiece that’s sleek and easy to overlook. ‘A small project’, you’d called it, as if it isn’t something that people would pay a fortune to own. “If I’m making something for someone I have to meet them first. If you want me to make anything for this ‘JK’ then it’s not happening until you bring him here. Just like with your friend RM.”

Yoongi is lolling by your monitors, half-asleep in your chair (which had moulded to the shape of his body the second he sat in it, designed to be too comfortable for its own good).

“I know you can’t pull yourself away from me,” you continue, glancing up from the scope. “But you have to spend time with your friends sometimes. I know they’re not as pleasing to look at as me—”

“Stop.”

You shift the spyglass to one hand and lean your chin on the other, regarding him with sharp eyes and an amused quirk to your lips. “I love that you think you can tell me what to do.”

Yoongi resists the urge to make a noise at the back of his throat, opting to keep mum instead.

He’s too tired to argue with you. He’d come straight after a contract, blood still on the edge of his sleeves (not his), watched the way your eyebrows had risen when you’d casually taken in the state of him before offering to wash his jacket. You know the reality of this world you both inhabit, operating in the shadows, survival paid for in blood; you might not be on the high ground, lining the shot up to take the kill, but you craft the trigger that Yoongi pulls.

(You might be aware of this reality but you’re far removed from it, shaken by violence on your own door. You never should have been faced with it. You’re an inventor; a creator. Not a killer. Not like Yoongi is. He’s not going to let that happen again. He doesn’t like you but you shouldn’t have been subject to pain—shouldn’t still have your motions edged with a held breath, as if you’re waiting for it to repeat itself.

No matter how well you hide it, Yoongi knows that there's a part of you that's still scared.)

“I know you think you’re too important to need to remember things, but we’ve worked together for long enough that you know that I’d ask to meet JK first, Yoongi,” you say. “Did you really have to come straight after murking someone just to be reminded about that? Not complaining—you know I love seeing that pretty scowl of yours—but I just figured you’d rather be resting right now. Don't tell me the infamous Agust D missed me and decided to come here instead.”

“You were on the way.”

(He’d circled around, taken a longer route, descended into the familiar maze of the lower city. To throw off the scent of any potential pursuers. You just happened to be nearby, pure coincidence and convenience.)

You retract the spyglass, collapsing it in your hands. “Either you leave right now and go to your own place to sleep, or you’re going to sleep in my bed. Your choice.”

(If Yoongi took the time to think about it, really think about it, he’d notice that the words aren’t shrouded in suggestion or insinuation. Your brows are raised and you’re looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to decide what he’s going to do—unimpressed at how tired he is, how he’s come here instead of sliding into his own bed for the rest he so clearly needs.)

Of course, Yoongi leaves. He returns home without his jacket, strips his shirt off as soon as he’s in this safe place, this base, sheds pieces of his body armour as easy as anything (you’d designed it to be lightweight and easy to don and doff, the perfect defence for someone who relied on stealth and speed); he’s just removing the last greave when Hoseok appears, rapping his knuckles against the open door.

“You’re finally back.”

Yoongi looks up. Hoseok is dressed for work, Hope Broker persona in place, tailored suit that sits perfectly with the lines of his body, handsome and stylish and entirely put together. He oozes poise and power. Elegance.

“Yeah.” Yoongi lets the greave drop, silent as it falls to the floor. “Job’s done.”

Hoseok smiles. It’s a genuine one because it’s for Yoongi. “I know,” he says, even though scarcely any time has passed since Yoongi put a bullet in the back of the target’s skull. Nothing happens in this world of theirs without Hoseok finding out about it, always sooner rather than later. “Just wanted to check in and make sure you were okay.”

“All good.”

“Good.” Hoseok is used to Yoongi’s blunt nature, his short responses when he’s tired. “Get some sleep.”

Hoseok’s elegant even as he adjusts his cufflinks. It’s just the briefest of moments, the crisp edge of his perfectly white sleeve contrasting with the shining silver, the design inlaid in them—but Yoongi recognises that design immediately.

Because it’s yours.

It’s the same emblem on each piece of his gear, small and understated, hidden away, easy to miss—but Yoongi knows it intimately. He doesn’t say anything. Lets Hoseok leave without a word. Each one of the men that Yoongi considers family, the tiny collection of people that stay in this same home as him, know that he only gets equipment sourced from you—but Hoseok had never mentioned that he’s been in contact with you, too.

It’s not important. Hoseok might be his friend and a staunch ally but there’s plenty that he gets up to that none of the others are privy to, trading information to the highest bidders, head of a huge network that Yoongi can use to his advantage but isn’t technically a part of. The people Hoseok deals with—buys his information and resources from, keeps perfectly balanced in comparison to his own power—is his own business and not Yoongi’s.

Yoongi moves to gather his armour, the hardsuit he wears like a second skin, and spots that insignia that he knows so well branded into it. To have Hoseok wearing it at his wrist—the Hope Broker, renowned trader of secrets—is a statement. You could have made the cufflinks plain and unadorned. But you hadn’t.

When Yoongi climbs into bed that night, he finds that his sleep is restless.

The smile on your face fades. “You know I don’t talk about business with other customers.”

Yoongi’s staring at you across your workbench, the light from its surface going dim as you take your hands off it, disassembled stun mine forgotten.

No one knows about his genuine friendship with Hoseok, but they do know that Agust D and the Hope Broker have an agreement; a professional working relationship. “I know the Hope Broker,” Yoongi says.

Your eyebrows rise so far they seem to threaten to ascend into your hairline, you’re so incredulous. “Everyone does. What’s your point? Do you expect me to give you information about everyone you ask about? I get paid to keep people’s privacy, Yoongi. Do you think I sell the information of your equipment, how to dissemble every defence you have? Do you think I give your name out to everyone who asks?”

There’s no touch of amusement to the line of your lips, no sparkling irreverence in your eyes. You’re genuinely displeased.

“He’s wearing your symbol.”

You scoff. “You wear my symbol too. Why, are you jealous? Your armour has exactly the same technology. Better, even, because I can fit more tech in there.”

The cufflinks generate a kinetic barrier, then, a layer of invisible shielding that lays just atop Hoseok’s skin. But no one sees Yoongi’s armour; no one sees the workmanship of your weapons, no one except him. Your insignia isn’t emblazoned on his wrist for all to see.

Yoongi isn’t jealous.

“Hope is a powerful man,” you continue. “Everyone knows that. Even people who haven’t met him know that. Even people who aren’t sure he exists know that. If I want to sell to him then that’s my business.”

Everyone who’s anyone recognises your logo, no matter how rare it is to spot it (you only craft for a select few, after all). And Hoseok’s influence is far reaching and powerful; no one would dare cross him, dare to cross anyone who’s associated with him.

“I’m looking for a new workshop.” You rise, moving away from your workbench to your monitors, touching a display with your fingers to bring it to life. Ignoring Yoongi’s presence, not even looking at him. “I haven’t got the space to modify the systems in this one as much as I want to. The walls are already full enough as it is. Do you know how hard it is to find somewhere with the specifications I need?”

Yoongi realises, then, why you’re doing this. The bruise is long gone and your skin is unmarred but you still don’t feel safe. You’ve always worked alone. Until now. Now you’re making moves to settle down, settle in, make a statement of allegiance to someone who can offer you a level of protection with their influence.

Someone who can offer you somewhere new, away from this inadequate place you’ve outgrown.

Hoseok laughs lightly when Yoongi asks about it, mentions it in passing as the two of them drink soju side by side, Hoseok in his suit and Yoongi girded in the armour under his unassuming clothes, both in the upper city for work; they stare down at the myriads of tall buildings and huge holo-boards and rainbow array of neon lights, far above the place they call home.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, utterly relaxed (and faintly amused). “I know you respect her work so I thought I’d reach out. I’m surprised she can make the things she does in that tiny workshop. You’re right; she’s very good.”

You are. The next time you meet, you give Yoongi his usual shipment and more besides, more than he’d ordered, reflected in the amount of creds he has to pay—because he won’t be able to just drop in for a while, your workshop dismantled and scraped empty in preparation for the move. Where to, he doesn’t know, but you say you’ll pass on the information once everything is up and running again.

“If you break any of your gear while I’m gone then you’re on your own,” you say. “I’m not shipping anything before my new workshop is finished.”

Two days later, Yoongi spies a new watch on Hoseok’s wrist. It looks low-tech, old style, metal strap and round clock face—but he sees the silhouette of your logo under those ticking hands and knows there’s more tech in there that meets the eye.

He looks away.

It takes a week for the message to appear, encrypted: your new location. Levels above your former workshop, one of the higher strata of the lower city—still hidden and out of the way but away from the dirt and darkness.

Yoongi goes. He finds the door panel, scans his palm, leans forward for the light to flit across his eye, murmurs a word, watches the door slide open. He’s already programmed in. New workshop, new security system, but he’s still allowed in, still one of the people you consider familiar, trustworthy.

(He doesn’t know of anyone else who fits that category. Has only ever seen you manually allow people inside, granting your permission each time, rather than giving them free run of the place. No one has as many complex orders as he does, he’s certain. It’s for ease and practicality’s sake.)

He’s unfamiliar with the layout of this new building, first corridor already longer than he’s used to; he pauses for a moment but then hears something, faint—your laughter. Follows that sound, makes his way forward, through polished corridors with lines of light underfoot, leading him down some stairs and towards the sound of you.

Your new workshop is beautiful. There’s enough room in here for everything, no need for a backroom: a central worktable, benches lining the walls, tech displays built in, everything edged with lighting, dark surfaces shining bright, large floor panels underfoot emitting a low glow. Your former home had been that underground workshop and a locked door to a ladder to your micro apartment up top, tiny kitchen and single bed in a small room with a shower cubicle in the corner. Yoongi already knows that this building is far, far bigger, and you have more space than you’ve ever had before; you’d never been discontent with your smaller home, comfort from familiarity, until that comfort had been stripped from you.

You’re smiling. The snark woven into your words that Yoongi is used to is muted, light comment falling from your lips as you sit on that central table, perched on its edge. And Hoseok, he laughs, grinning so widely his teeth are on show—he’s wearing a suit but his jacket is resting on his shoulders, tie undone and cast around his neck. A stance of relaxation, one Yoongi’s never seen from him, not when he’s working. Not when he’s The Hope Broker and not Hoseok.

He’s still smiling when he notices Yoongi, the two of you looking over when the hitman speaks.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Hoseok.”

That ever-present smirk freezes on your face for a split second, eyes widening at the sound of Hope’s real name. Hoseok just takes it in stride, his smile not dimming even for a second.

“Hey, Yoongi.” His greeting is as warm as it always is. “Just checking in. Have to make sure everything is up to scratch. What’s the verdict?”

You’ve hidden your surprise, wiped it off your face, eyes on Hoseok as you answer him. “It’s perfect.” A pause. “I take it you two know each other?”

“Sure. Yoongi is an old friend of mine.” Hoseok is still smiling, looking at Yoongi with creased eyes. Unafraid of revealing this information to you, still at ease despite the tension that’s bubbling in the air, Yoongi’s impassive face. Hoseok is always an unshaken pillar of positivity. “I didn’t realise he was coming. Am I interrupting an appointment?”

You stare at Yoongi. “No, you’re not. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

(You’d sent the message less than an hour ago. Yoongi had taken one look at the address, memorised it, pulled on his jacket and headed out; clearly you hadn’t anticipated how fast his arrival would be.)

“A happy coincidence, then.” Hoseok sounds like he genuinely means it, is pleased to see Yoongi here, his smile unwavering. There’s a languid set to his body, the easing line of his spine, hands in his pockets. A glittering in his eyes. (No one ever gets the drop on Hoseok, never surprises him, catches him off guard, no matter what they do.) “But I’ll let you conduct your business and we can catch up another time.”

He takes a hand out of his pocket as he walks past Yoongi, pats his shoulder amicably. His palm is relaxed against the tense set of Yoongi’s shoulders before he ascends the stairs and disappears out of sight, the sound of his polished shoes fading until he’s gone, one of the monitors on the wall flickering to indicate the front door is shut once more.

You’re still staring at Yoongi. The atmosphere had been heavy, even with Hoseok there—and now that he’s gone there’s nothing to alleviate that pressure, nothing to dissolve the strange twist to the air.

“Who,” you start, measured but sharp, “do you think you are?”

Yoongi returns your stare, looks back at you with his dark eyes. Doesn’t respond to your question; an unnecessary, unprompted thing, razor-edged for a reason he can’t discern.

“Can’t you hear me?” You slide off the table, stalk towards him. “I said—” you raise a hand— “who? Do? You? Think? You? Are?”

You emphasise each word with a sharp jab to Yoongi’s chest, driving your finger forward with so much force it must hurt. You keep it in place, keep it dug into the centre of his ribcage. There’s no laughter hidden in the corner of your lips. He’s annoyed you again, somehow, a familiar guest turned unwelcome interloper.

“You say that you know Hope and yet I just watched you treat him like dirt.” Your eyes are piercing, cutting through the soft frame of your curled lashes, boring straight into him. “You come into my workshop as if you’re meant to be here; like there’s something you’re owed. Do you want me to treat you like a child, send you to your room? Not let you back in here? Because I will.”

“You sent me your address,” Yoongi points out.

You let out a bark of laughter. “Please.” Your hand drops back to your side and you turn, stepping away. “I’ve sent this address to all my business associates. I can’t sell or buy unless people can find me. You’re the only one who’s taken this as an invitation to just turn up and waltz in. At least when Hope turns up he warns me beforehand. Oh, and he doesn’t say stuff like he’d rather blow his own brains out than be forced to see me. I know you just love being contrary but has it ever occurred to you to be more polite to people? You’d make a terrible waiter. You’d get fired on your first day.”

You’re in front of one of your cabinets. You reach inside for something, hefting it in your hands before returning, handling it in a way that’s completely unceremonious, dropping it to the bench at his side like you want to be rid of it. Like you don’t even want to hand it directly to him, to interact with him. “There. Nothing but a pleasure doing business with you, Yoongi, even if your customer service still needs improving.”

It looks like a flat, hexagonal panel, the same colour and material as his armour. Something to be locked into it, wired in, trailing veins of unattached tech spilling from it. He’s seen you working on this for a while, seen you draw up blueprints with a bruise fresh on your cheek, seen it turned in your hands as that mark had faded and left your skin.

It’s not something he ordered.

“What is this?”

You wave a dismissive hand. “Auto medi-gel distributor. It syncs with your armour and senses when you’ve been hurt and disperses gel in the affected area. Your armour’s always been too lightweight to have extra mods on but I’ve been working on this for a while.”

It’s an astonishing piece of tech. Usually one that’s reserved for heavier armour, restricting and hard to move in but easier to mod—but this thing is slim, compact, the same technology crammed into a smaller package without losing any of its punch. He doesn’t know what materials you’ve had to use to circumvent this, the level of tech you’ve layered into this, the amount of time and thought you’ve put into this.

“How much is it?”

The wrong thing to say. The smile that spreads itself across your lips is an echo of its usual curve, brittle and flaking around the edges, a baring of teeth.

“It’s a gift, Yoongi. Usually when someone does something for you, you return the favour.” Your lips are still upturned but your eyes are unsmiling even when your tone seems whimsical and light. You’ve got on your usual flippant façade, but there’s a pointed undercurrent to it. “You know, I don’t understand you at all. You remind me that you don’t like me but then you always hang around. You kill someone who threatened me and pretend that you didn’t do it. You say you don’t like me, but I thought you at least respected me, and yet here you are. Lying to me and treating me like I'm a fool.”

“I do respect you,” Yoongi says.

(Because he does, and as much as he would hate to inflate your ego, he doesn’t shy away from telling the truth.)

“Sure you do.” An unimpressed eye-roll, cutting under his words, knocking his feet out from underneath him. You don’t care to believe him. “This is my fault for not treating you the same as all my other business associates. Next time you come in you’ll have to have an appointment, just like everyone else. It’ll minimise the amount of time we have to spend together.”

Yoongi doesn’t like you. He finds, though, that he likes the sound of this even less; finds it pulling at his brows, his mouth, impassive expression turned to one of disapproval.

And his mouth opens. The word falls from his lips before he has a chance to think—years of battle intuition, years of following instinct, moving as he needs to in the moment.

“No.”

A raise of the brows. A purse of the lips. Incredulous. “No?” you parrot it back, mocking. “Oh, okay, sure. Never mind. You’re welcome to come in whenever you want and act like you have free rein of the place. There’s nothing I enjoy more than your scowling presence.”

Sharp tongued, sharp eyed, narrowed at him: a confrontation. For all that you needle him you never mean it, really (even if it’s still infuriating, aggravating). But right now? Right now each of your words is barbed, your sarcasm a defence, an offence. You’re running your mouth not just to rile him, but to ward him away.

“You’re really not as smart as you think you are, Min Yoongi.” You wield his name like a weapon. “You tell me right now why I should listen to you. What do you come here for? And don’t say it’s for my work because it stopped being just that a long time ago. And if it is just for my work then take it and go. Then I’ll take you off the security system and we’ll only see each other as much as is strictly necessary. In fact, you could pass your orders along via Hope—then we won’t have to even see each other at all. ”

“And then he’ll be the only one allowed free rein?”

It comes out before he’s even really thought about what he’s saying, which isn’t like him at all. Yoongi is two parts: pure, honed instinct, and careful, wary vigilance. He’s not like you, saying the first thing that comes to mind—not normally, anyway—but the words jump from his lips, from some near-silent part of him that balks at the idea. Of Hoseok stepping into your space the way that Yoongi does, appearing without warning, to be greeted with a curled smirk and glittering eyes.

“You’re a fucking idiot if you think that you’re not the only person with security clearance. My God. You’re infuriating. Seriously? I didn’t realise you were genuinely this dense. You’re the only one I’ve ever allowed in without prior agreement.” You emphasise this statement with another jab to his chest, your finger a sharp knife that cuts into him as you stab it forwards.

He catches your wrist. His grasp is firm but there’s no pressure to it; doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t tighten his fingers, just holds you in place. You’re staring at him with a challenge in your eyes, one that he finds himself rising to match, never one to back down.

“Is that so?”

Your hand unfurls, fingers splayed across his chest; he’s still holding your wrist, shifting with your movement. “Don’t be obtuse.” An irritated exhale. “Normally you complain whenever I talk and now you’re trying to get me to repeat myself. Again with the inconsistency, Yoongi. Make up your mind.”

He could do what you do whenever you’re feeling particularly aggravating. Play dumb, ask more questions, drag out the interaction until you’re bordering on snapping—but he doesn’t. He looks at the set of your jaw, the way you’re staring at him. Unflinching. You’ve never been scared of him, and you aren’t now, not with how he’s got a hold of you, how close he is to you.

He toes the line. Shifts closer. Notes the way your pupils dilate, how the tips of your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt; how the air grows heavier, a frisson of electricity crackling through it. Yoongi doesn’t like you, but he likes that feeling—how the tension in the air shivers from indignation into something different.

Because you’re still staring at him, and there’s still that hard set to your jaw, but there’s not just anger in your eyes. There’s that warm thing he’s grown used to seeing, smouldering in near silence until he’d coaxed it to full flame, thrown gasoline onto the coals when he’d shot plasma into the back of Tang Lee’s skull. He’d protected you even though he hadn’t needed to, doesn’t need to, but does anyway—because he trusts you and there’s no one else he trusts to keep you safe.

And there’s no one else you trust, either.

“You talk too much,” Yoongi says, like he so often does—but there’s no irritation in it, touched instead with a simmering heat, the faintest edge of a bite.

You tilt your head. There’s a provocation etched into the twist of your mouth, the way your lips lift. Because no matter how much you needle him, dig your fingernails into every crack of his armour and twist—no matter how annoying you are, how angry you make him—you know that he’s not mad. Not really. Not in a way that makes you afraid, but in a way that thrills you, makes you want to see him snap, to wipe away that level facade he maintains.

“Maybe you should shut me up, then,” you reply, a murmur. A challenge.

A beat. Yoongi’s fingers tighten around your wrist. A warning.

And in response?

You just smile.

The way your eyes widen just seconds later is delicious, though, when Yoongi lets go of your wrist—because he’s moving faster than you expected. Your surprise melts into delight, a spark of glee that says you’ve gotten exactly what you want when Yoongi threads his fingers in your hair, tilting your head back to bare the column of your throat. He holds you firmly in place, crowds you back against the workbench so hard its edge must be digging almost painfully into your back but not once does that glee dim, written over every line of your smile, eyes bright and teeth sharp.

Yoongi likes to take things slow. There’s the part of him that never steps into a situation without knowing every angle, every escape route, each one of his kills planned meticulously. But, he thinks, the two of you have been waiting long enough, and he’s never been patient around you—has found his composure worn thin faster than anywhere else, by anyone else. It’s this part of him, frayed into non-existence by you, that rises to the surface now, makes him move as quick as he does.

And you respond just the way he knew you would. When he presses his mouth to yours you kiss him back like you have a point to make (you always do), fast and almost reckless, all lips and teeth and tongue. There’s no finesse to it. When he presses his tongue into your mouth you part your lips so prettily, let him take his fill, slide your tongue against his and tilt your head to get even deeper—and just like always, you're vocal, letting out small noises that are caught and muffled in the kiss, lust filled. But when you try to nip at his lip with the edge of your teeth Yoongi tightens his grip in your hair and swallows down your gasp before he pulls away, holding you in place so you can’t chase after his mouth. Your lips are kiss swollen and under the bright lights above they shine, slightly parted, pupils blown as you stare at him.

(You look good like this.)

Your eyes slide shut when Yoongi lowers his lips to your neck, across your throat. There’s nothing gentle about it. He moves with single-minded intent, lips and teeth harsh against your sensitive skin—and you take it all, little sounds falling from your lips as Yoongi drags his teeth towards the hollow of your neck. And when he takes his hand from your hair, takes both hands and digs his fingers into your waist and lifts you, you go so easily; a mimicry of your earlier position when he’d stepped in, perched on the edge of the table. Legs spread so Yoongi can stand between them. He’d be surprised at how pliant you are if it wasn’t so obvious that this is exactly what you want: lifting your hips so he can strip your lower half bare.

Your bare thighs press against the surface of the workbench, tech displays coming alive under your body heat. You’ve shrugged your cropped jacket off and you’re just reaching for your top when Yoongi stops you; splays a hand in the centre of your chest and presses you back, slow but undeniable. You’re not the one setting the pace. He is. He’s the one in control, with you spread out in front of him, only a thin layer of fabric keeping you from being completely bare—thin cotton underwear, dark and damp between your legs, betraying your arousal.

“Wet,” Yoongi murmurs.

Your retort stutters on your lips when he drags his fingers upwards over your slit, barely dulled by the material in the way. “No shit,” you say, and then suck in a breath when he presses the pad of his thumb across your clit.

It’s no good, the fact you’re still talking. But that’s okay. Yoongi’s planning on changing that.

It’s lewd, the way your legs are spread, parting further at the urging of his hands. Your hands slide across the bench, papers scattering, palms flat on the work surface and white light shimmering on dark blue in reaction to your touch; an unnecessary distraction that you both ignore. There’s nothing graceful about this, the peel of underwear away from your core, already slick even with the barest of attentions; he drags his fingers down the inside of your thighs, all that soft skin, and then under, urging your hips up and towards his mouth. No foreplay to this foreplay, no dragging out this moment—he bites at that soft skin of your inner thigh, sinks his teeth into it and listens to the way you gasp in surprise—and before you have a moment to ground yourself, he presses his mouth to your cunt.

You’re wet and warm under his tongue and the smell of you surrounds him, musky and heavy, and he feels how your entire body goes tense as you arch your back. He’d normally take his time with this, have you strung out and begging, but he has different plans today—knows exactly what he wants from this, sucking your clit between his lips and feeling your thighs tighten around his head, legs slung over his shoulders as he listens to the way you moan. Each sound shudders out from your mouth like you tried so desperately to keep it in but couldn’t help it. Yoongi loves eating pussy anyway but this is even better, the way all your witty ripostes die in your throat before you can shape them on your lips, turned into breathy gasps instead.

The taste of you fills his mouth and it’s so fucking good. You’ve been watching him, how his head moves between your legs, but he can tell you’re close; you’ve given up, eyes shut as you lean into the sensation building up in you, and Yoongi thinks he likes you better like this. Forced into speechlessness under his hands and tongue. Your pretty mouth softened from sharpness into urging noises of pleasure. He slides one arm across your stomach and holds you in place, a hard line that you can’t overpower and you’re left squirming in place, hips trying to kick up each time he draws his tongue over your slit, every part of you sloppy with your own arousal and Yoongi’s spit, flushed and lovely. One of your hands is in his hair and you’re pulling, pulling hard, unaware of how tight your grip is as you try to buck your hips and sob.

You’re so sensitive, and it only takes one, two fingers pressing into you and curling just right as Yoongi slides his tongue over your clit before you’re cumming, hot around his fingers as you come apart all wet and messy. He’s never seen you so undone, back arched as you ride out your orgasm, hair swept away from your forehead as you throw your head back. Keeps his mouth open on you, feels you under his tongue, until you’re flopped on your back and your chest is heaving, legs untensed and loose over his shoulders.

You shift an arm. Your fingers barely brush the medi-gel mod you’d made him, a loose sheet of paper sliding away and joining the others on the floor.

“Just moved in and it’s already a mess,” Yoongi says, and he doesn’t just mean the paper; fingers and chin and mouth covered in your slick, your core soaked. He’s still knuckle deep and when he curls his fingers again your entire body jolts, your mouth parting almost wantonly before you seem to struggle back to reality, surfacing from a haze of arousal and post orgasmic bliss.

“That’s your fault,” you say, voice weaker than usual. “I’ll send you the cleaning bill.”

“Mm. Not my fault you’re a messy girl.”

“Fuck you.” The blunt words are softened by your breathlessness, your bonelessness; the way your breath catches in your throat when he calls you a messy girl, even if you try to hide it. Trying not to let him in on exactly how much power he holds in this moment.

“I was planning on it,” Yoongi says, as calm as ever, even if arousal is simmering through his veins and gathering in his gut—has been this entire time, the taste of you on his tongue and the heat of you under his lips and the sound of you in his ears. “Want to make your workshop even messier?”

You dig your balls of your feet into his back, legs still over his shoulders. His fingers shift inside you and you shiver. “I don’t think so,” you say. “Bedroom.”

“So you’re giving me a tour, then?”

You don’t dignify him with a response, although the noise you make when he finally pulls his fingers out of you is more than enough to satisfy him. He’s still fully dressed and you’re only half so, and it would be comical if the sight of your bare legs and slick on your inner thighs wasn’t so hot, barefoot on the glowing and pristine (papers notwithstanding) floors as you reach for his hand and lift it to your lips, sucking his fingers into your mouth and licking your arousal off his fingers with your tongue, warm and wet, before you grab his wrist and pull.

He watches the movement of your hips as you lead him, your bare ass. Shameless as ever. Confident in yourself, even now. It’s not until you’ve stepped over the threshold and into your new bedroom that your tattoos become visible, as bright as the low lights in the room, those geometric lines and stylised circuitry on your legs shifting as you step forwards.

Even with the relative darkness Yoongi immediately notices something. Cast over the back of a chair near the bed, there’s his jacket, blood stains at the edge of the sleeves gone. Cleaned. Yoongi shifts his hand so you don’t have your fingers wrapped around his wrist any more. Instead he’s the one shackling you, holding you in place as you look over your shoulder.

“Were you ever going to return that to me?” He tilts his head at the chair.

You pause. Glance over. Look back at him, all amusement and provocation, recovered from your earlier breathlessness. “But Yoongi, I get so cold.”

There’s something about the idea of you in his clothes, clothes that you know he’s worn when he’s been getting his hands dirty—he ignores the curl to your lips and moves you towards the bed, ignoring the sound of your self satisfied laughter when he reaches for your shirt and pulls, with you lifting your arms to help him, grinning at him the whole time. Even when he’s thrown your bra aside and kicked his boots off and pushed you onto the mattress, trapped you underneath him, completely naked against his completely clothed body you’re still smiling, like the cat who got the cream.

You’re stunning. There’s no doubt about it. You always have been, annoyingly so, even when Yoongi’s wanted to wring your neck; not just because you’re pretty but because you’re intelligent and confident and in control, staring up at him without a lick of fear or concern, even now. Never with him, never. He can see your tattoos in all their glory, nothing hidden away from his gaze; he sees one he hasn’t been able to see before, a sunflower bursting across your ribcage, curved under the swell of your breast, glowing red and orange in the midst of all your other cyan and teal lines, glowing in the black light. He’s pressing you down, trapped under his body, and you’re just waiting. Waiting and still smiling, smirking, letting him take you in, preening under his attention.

He wants to eat you alive.

So he does just that. Shifts back down the mattress on his knees, keeping his hands on you, pulling his hands down the easing lines of your ribs and waist and hips, before a firm tug has you lifting up—your smug facade shakes when you’re left with only your shoulders and head against the bed, the rest of your body pulled towards Yoongi’s waiting mouth once more, held in place with fingers that dig into your hips, thighs soft against his ears, your hands scrabbling at the linen underneath you when Yoongi’s lips press into the crease of your thigh, off balance.

“Safeword?” He murmurs into your skin, and you pause.

“Hoseok,” you answer, and Yoongi responds by biting into your thigh again, soothing it with his tongue when you squeal.

“Shameless.”

You’re still wet from before, slick with cum, and Yoongi doesn’t hesitate before he dives back in. He can hear more than he can see the way your fingers curl into your sheets and rumple them in your hands, anchored helplessly into place by Yoongi’s mouth and the fingers cupped under your ass, digging into the soft skin, undignified and at his mercy.

“Yoongi!” You gasp, almost a whimper as a breath gets caught in your throat. “Y-Yoongi—”

You’re so helpless like this. It’s a little hard for Yoongi to breathe, your legs tightening around him, but it’s worth it for the way he can see you shaking apart. He presses his tongue as deep into you as he can, sucks your swollen pearl between his lips and circles it with his tongue, notices the way you jolt at those wet kisses, still sensitive from before, and he doesn’t let up. Keeps going and going and going until you’re gasping for air, sensations rippling through your body as you buck and writhe; you’re trying to keep yourself together, he can tell, but you’re unravelling, smirk wiped off your face and your mouth in a pretty little circle whenever you choke out oh, oh.

You cum faster than he expects, shoulders lifting away from the mattress as you arch your back so far it must hurt and tighten your legs and he feels the way your pussy throbs under his tongue, practically gushing when you reach your peak. Your eyes are unfocused when they flutter back open but you’re reaching for him, for the waistband of his trousers, trying to touch the hard length of his cock—he’s been ignoring it, how he’s leaked so much precum he can feel how wet it is in his boxer-briefs.

He keeps ignoring it now. He catches your hands, stops you in place, stares you down with an unimpressed tilt to his brows.

“What,” he says levelly, “do you think you’re doing?”

“Want you in my mouth,” you say. You seem almost desperate for it, fingers flexing in his hold, letting your tongue linger against your lips longer than necessary. “I want your cock in my mouth, Yoongi.”

He tightens his grip around your wrists. And then, for the first time all night, he smiles.

“No.”

You look stunned. Just for a moment. Then you’re squirming in his hold, but you’re trapped, nowhere to go. “What do you mean, no?”

Yoongi’s still smiling, mirroring the self satisfaction that had been written all over your face earlier. “I mean no. You don’t get what you want. You get what you’re given.”

There’s nothing he’d like more than to sink into that wet heat, to see your smart mouth put to good use, lips spread over his cock, but this is better. Seeing the genuine frustration and disbelief written across your features.

He doesn’t give you time to line up another angered retort on your tongue. Doesn’t give you time to breathe before he’s flipping you over, the wings of your shoulder blades and curve of your spine emphasised by the lines that are traced symmetrically and shining across your skin. They shift when you move, hips lifted from the mattress by Yoongi’s hands, on your hands and knees as he fumbles his waistband and zipper and pulls his cock free. He’s painfully hard, flushed head with precum that beads at the tip, and when he tugs you back he watches the way the head drags across the curve of your ass, leaving a shining line of wetness on your skin.

And when he sinks into you he barely gives you time to adjust, barely has time to adjust himself, to all this hot tight wetness after his cock’s gotten no attention at all—you let out a moan that almost sounds like you’re singing, long and high with pleasure, the slide eased from all your cum.

You take it so well, always so good to him no matter how irritating you are, so lost in the sensations that you don’t say anything about the hard edges of Yoongi’s clothes whenever he drives his hips forward and it presses into the soft skin of your thighs. It’s messy and choppy and fast and you slump onto your elbows, entire body shaking as you take everything Yoongi is giving you. Caged underneath him when he follows you forwards, presses his front to your back, feels the way the sweat on your skin is caught against the fabric of his clothes. Grinds his hips deep and feels the way you gasp, sucking in a shaking breath, your entire body lost in it. He bites his lip and keeps his own sounds caught behind his teeth, not letting you know how you’re pulling him towards his own edge.

He’s not done with you yet.

Your clit is slick under his touch when he lifts his fingers to touch you, to layer another sensation on top of the cock inside you, and you’re sobbing. You don’t ask him to stop, never know when to quit, face every challenge thrown at you—and Yoongi can tell that you love it even if your body is crying out, that you love this oversensitivity, pulled taut and strung out. You’re beyond speech, words slurred, barely recognisable as his name and pleas of more, please, more. He can feel when you’ve crested the wave of too much sensation and fallen back into that rippling sea of pleasure, and when you cum it’s with a soundless moan, mouth wide open but no noise escaping. No more sharp retorts, no smart words, fucked into incoherency, trembling and quivering as you go tight around him and Yoongi struggles not to lose himself then and there, in your scorching, wet cunt, fluttering around him.

The noise when he pulls out is slick and lewd, just like all the other noises that have been filling the room, the slap of skin on skin temporarily halted when Yoongi rolls you onto your back. There’s sweat beading on your skin, shimmering, tears gathering in the corner of your eyes and glistening like tiny jewels in the multi-coloured low light of this room. Your lips are parted and your gaze is bleary and you’re everything Yoongi has never seen from you before, fuzzy and quiet, entirely pliant. When he reaches for you again, runs his hands over the rise of your hipbones and down the side of your thighs, you whimper.

“One more,” Yoongi says. “One more, you can give me one more.”

You’ve never known when to quit, and now is no different, even if you’re on the verge of being entirely fucked dumb. Those tears pool in your eyes and stream down towards your hairline, but you let Yoongi move you, try to help by lifting your hips but almost too gone to move at all. Yoongi almost cums when he sinks into you, your willing body; he thinks you’ve never looked better than you do now, smelling like sweat and sex and so soft under his hands, taking his cock like you were made for it, and you’re so gorgeous when you’re falling apart.

The attitude you wear normally—the one that chafes at Yoongi’s nerve-endings—has been entirely wiped away, forced out of you by mindless pleasure. But still, you know what you want, even now, even when you’re barely coherent—Yoongi feels your hand slide across his and pull weakly, guiding it across your chest and up, circling his fingers around your neck.

He swears. Snaps his hips forward hard, watches the way your eyes roll back when he gives an experimental squeeze around your throat. Yoongi’s choked people before, knows exactly how much pressure to give, how much it takes to cut someone’s airways completely or how to just leave them reeling; he lets you linger on the edge of breathlessness, feels the way you go tight around him. When you orgasm it rips through you, your thighs tightening around Yoongi’s hips as you hit your peak and cum hard, and the feeling of it has Yoongi cursing and bending forwards to shove his face in your neck and kiss the salt-sweat taste he finds there as he falls off the edge. He cums wet inside you, keeps rolling his hips through it all, lets his cum mix with yours and watches the way you just keep taking it, even when your whole body is trembling from how much it is.

And when Yoongi calls you a good girl, you don’t snap back like you normally would, don’t deride his praise. You bask in it, as tired as you are, letting out a soft noise when he pulls his softening cock out of you, unbothered by the wet patches on your sheets and how the whole room stinks of sex. When he moves to lift you, to get you clean, you go easily and without argument, every one of your honed edges dulled, and you make no move to sharpen them again, to drag them over Yoongi in the way he’s so familiar with by now. Even when you’ve lifted out of your haze and you’re back in the moment, the way you watch Yoongi is no less calm than normal, but still different.

“Stay.”

He’s in the middle of reaching for his boots, discarded on the floor, a discordant note on the clear floor. You’re wearing clean underwear and a loose t-shirt and you’re looking at him with something verging on surprise, like you hadn’t expected to see him moving to pull his shoes back on to leave.

He hadn’t been planning to.

“Just moving them out of the way,” says Yoongi, putting them upright by the base of your chair, and then he makes his way back to you. You don’t attempt to hide your pleasure that he’s listened to you, pulling him onto the bed despite the fact he’s still dressed.

“I don’t cuddle,” he says, even as you tuck yourself into the crook of his arm, and he shifts to make it more comfortable for you.

You press your face into the hollow of his neck, touch your nose against his throat, breathing in the smell of sweat that still lingers—because you’re shower soft and fresh but he isn’t, and weirdly enough, you seem to enjoy it. Seem to enjoy that contrast, the one that’s always existed between you, Yoongi immersed in blood and sweat and tears while you’re away from it, one degree of separation from it all. “You know, I like it when you do things for me.”

Normally he’d protest, say that he doesn’t do things for you, but the truth is that he does, even if he’s only just admitting it to himself.

“Like that time you killed someone for me,” you say, and Yoongi’s fingers tighten, soft skin of your waist yielding under his touch.

“I kill a lot of people.”

You let out a laugh against his skin, quietly amused. “Just admit it. You like me, Min Yoongi.”

A pause.

Then: “Against my better judgement, I do.”

And he does. Even if you’re irritating and maddening, he does like you, and not just because of the work you do for him. He thinks that even if you weren’t so good at your job that he’d find himself here anyway, caught in this push and pull you have, magnetised.

“No need to sound so begrudging,” you say, but there’s no real annoyance behind your words.

Yoongi finds that he likes that note in your voice, like you’re indulging him and his stubbornness and you’re unmoved by it. He hums in response. Feels the way you shift back, lean on your elbows to look down at him, lips curled up at the corners.

“Kiss me.”

Not a question. A demand. Yoongi stares you down, just for a second, before he lifts a hand and weaves a hand back into your hair, tilting your mouth against his. He can feel your self satisfied smile against his lips and he doesn’t mind it at all, sees it spread across your face when you eventually pull back, all flushed lips and warm eyes.

You’re still sharp, a weapon in your own right, but you willingly hand yourself over to be held in his skilled hands, let yourself be worn smooth by his touch. He weaves his fingers between your own, your palm soft and warm against his, and he likes this. That you’re unafraid of what he is, that the fact he’s a killer isn’t something that scares you or thrills you.

Yoongi likes your work. He likes that he knows he can trust you. He likes that he knows of your loyalty, to the people you choose and to yourself, your unwavering principles, as unpredictable as they might seem. He likes that you’re unashamed to be yourself and to be confident, no matter how people react to that cockiness.

What he likes even better than all that is this, though: the way you’re pressed against his side, evidence of his touch written into your skin. The feeling of your hand in his. Despite all the odds, all the months of drawn out and simmering exasperation and tension coming to a head like this, Yoongi likes you.

“I’m not going to give you a discount, you know,” you say suddenly, and for the first time since you met, Yoongi allows himself to laugh at you.

“I’d be offended if you did.”

(You’re loud. Cocky. Arrogant. You love to irritate him just for the hell of it, because you think it’s funny and you love knowing that you can rile him up—but he can rile you up too, and you both know it.

Yeah. Yoongi likes you.)

tagging: @beyoncesdragon @vensulove @gyukult @swinginpicklesuitcaseapricot @kpopheart2 @loveyoongles @muzikabijou @katbonv @jaxx-7 @yeojaa

#btswritingcafe #houseofddaeng #magicshopnet #btswriterscollective #btsguild #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #yoongi x you #bts #bts x reader #yoongi #yoongi scenario #yoongi imagine #yoongi fanfic #bts fanfic #joy.masterlist #let's see if this appears in the tags this time! fingers crossed!#wow can you believe I wrote like 4k words of smut or something close to that

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jaskiersvalley · 3 years ago

Note

I loved your fic about witchers being afraid of moths so much. I suffer mottophobia as well and the thought that witchers feel the same is nice. So thank you!!!

Nonnie, I'm so pleased you liked that story! Phobias of any kind can be so stressful, I hope moths don't bother you all that often. While I don't have another phobia story for you, I have something a little different that I hope you enjoy.

CW: Panic attacks

It had taken Aiden several years before he broached the idea of wintering together. He knew Lambert went to Kaer Morhen each season and didn't want to be rude by inviting himself to the Wolves' den. But he also didn't want to make Lambert have to choose between seeing his family for the season and accompanying Aiden to the Caravan. Really, he need not have feared because as soon as he brought up the topic of winter, Lambert was jumping at the chance.

"Want to go to the Caravan?"

Just like that, they spent three years wintering with Cats. Lambert fit right in, helping with life on the road without a hitch, messing around, teaching tricks and learning new ones in equal measure. He cooked, did repairs and was as accepted into the Caravan as a stranger could be. It made Aiden wonder whether he missed the pack feel of his own family of Wolves.

"This year-" he said with some hesitance late one summer, "-why don't we go north? Kaer Morhen has probably missed its youngest Wolf."

If Lambert's expression was anything to go by, he didn't agree. "Does the Caravan not want me this year?"

"What?" Aiden scoffed at the notion. "No! I thought you knew they all dote on you. I just thought you might want to spend a season with your family. You met mine..." Not that he'd ever say it out loud but Aiden wanted to meet Lambert's family too, he didn't want to be a shameful secret.

The terse "fine" sounded anything but fine. However, Lambert refused to discuss it any further and, come winter, he led them north. By the time they got to the bottom of the mountain Lambert was tense, quiet and anything he said was cutting. It wasn't the Lambert Aiden knew at all. But he reasoned that maybe Lambert was nervous about bringing a Cat home. The higher up they got, the faster Lambert's heart beat. Perhaps it was the excitement of coming home after so long, at least that was what Aiden told himself. He figured once they were done with the dangerous path up to Kaer Morhen then Lambert would relax. He was wrong.

They made it into the warmth of the halls and what followed was the most uncomfortable introduction Aiden had ever endured. Lambert stopped, arms crossed over his chest as he regarded the other three.

"This is Aiden. You break him, I break your necks." With that, Lambert stomped out, bristling and grumbling under his breath. Hastily, Aiden followed after a quick wave that the three Witchers looking suitably non-plussed by it all.

What was strange was that Lambert didn't settle. He was a fountain of bitter remarks, sarcastic quips and brash aggression. Aiden couldn't make heads or tails of it. The others didn't react, didn't seem like they even wanted to try and calm the situation. In the end Aiden couldn't stand by anymore and cornered Eskel, demanding answers.

"What do you mean?" The thing was, Eskel genuinely seemed confused. "That's just Lambert for you. You've known him for years now, surely you're used to it."

But Aiden wasn't. He hadn't seen Lambert like that before, so on edge. "No," he replied in the end. "This isn't how I know him. His heart rate's high, he's callous, spikey, lashing out. That's not the Lambert I know."

The look Eskel gave him was one of strange reproach. "The mutagens didn't fully take with him, his heart's always been faster than a normal Witcher's. As for the rest, I don't know what swamp water you drink to block it out but that's Lambert in a nutshell."

It wasn't. Aiden knew Lambert, spent years listening to his steady heartbeat, relishing when they fell in sync most nights. He'd seen the kindness and patience Lambert had out on the Path and at the Caravan. There was no mocking for getting footwork wrong, no calling the other person an idiot with a scoff. Nor had Aiden ever seen Lambert pace before, a restless tracing of a path between window and door of the bedroom. The growled "don't touch me" sounded full of threat, so much like a dog trying to prove he could really hurt an opponent in an effort to stave off an actual fight. Seeing Lambert like that hurt and Aiden didn't know what had provoked the change.

Things got worse when they were making repairs to Kaer Morhen, trying to undo all the damage the sacking had done. With the parts they inhabited secure and warm, Vesemir directed their work to the dungeons, salvaging what they could. Smoke stained books and scrolls along with bottles that contained the dregs of potions were pulled from partially collapsed rooms. Lambert was exceptionally acerbic, sniping at everyone including Aiden. It was all ignored until he snapped at Vesemir, "so what's the plan here, old man? Going to open up the torture chambers again to get your rocks off?"

"Another word from you and you'll be running the Killer twice before each meal," Vesemir growled, grabbing another thick book covered in ash and rock debris.

Throwing his hands up, Lambert stormed off, muttering about how he'd rather run the Killer night and day than suffer this idiocy. Nobody seemed to care that his breath had hitched and heartrate was rocketing higher. Well, Aiden cared. Seeing as none of the others looked interested in following Lambert, he took it upon himself.

"Best to leave him," Eskel called after him. "He'll probably destroy a few training dummies in a fit of rage and then calm. Ignoring him leads to the fewest injuries for all."

Not that Aiden cared. He followed the sour scent that Lambert had been coated in all winter, maybe even before that. True to Eskel's prediction, he was in the training yard but he wasn't decimating dummies. Instead, Lambert was staring blankly off into the distance, muscles locked into a tense hunch.

"Lamb?"

His name seemed to jerk Lambert out of whatever thoughts he'd gotten lost in. Whirling, he rounded on Aiden with a snarl. Not rising to it, Aiden held a arm open and stepped closer, inviting Lambert into a cuddle. His heart broke a little when Lambert reared away, spitting with rage. "Don't touch me!"

Truthfully, Aiden didn't have to, he could see the solid lines of muscles, coiled tight. Everything about Lambert screamed to be left alone but he couldn't, not when there was something so underlyingly wrong. If Aiden didn't know any better, he'd have said that anyone else behaving like Lambert was having a silent panic attack. Maybe Aiden didn't know any better. He'd rarely heard Lambert speak of Kaer Morhen or the others, and when it did it wasn't with fondness. Around them was destruction, every stone imbued with memories of a hard life. Aiden knew that the instructors were harsh, often punishing Lambert with a cane or deprivation as he grew up. Vesemir had been one of those men and Lambert had to face his tormentor on a daily basis. They'd been digging up the dungeon where the trials had been administered, pulling what they could on how to recreate the them. Each crumbling wall was another layer of memories of the sacking, of a life Lambert hated but had no idea how to leave behind. When the misery was the only thing he knew, the only steady thing in his life, it was easier to cling to it rather than embrace the terror of the unknow.

Keeping his distance, Aiden nodded. "It's okay." It wasn't but he had no idea what else to say. They were going to have to get through winter, it was too late to head down the mountain. But as soon as it was safe, Aiden was whisking Lambert away from it. He wasn't letting him face the traumas of his past again and again. It wasn't healthy to rip open those wounds, to come face to face with living memories each time he saw Vesemir and Kaer Morhen.

When Aiden stepped in again, Lambert didn't scuttle away. Instead, he was stiff as a board in Aiden's arms, quivering with pent up emotions. Slowly, Aiden rubbed his back, tried to urge him to relax into his hold. Ever so gradually Lambert did, letting Aiden take a fair chunk of his weight as the shaking got more pronounced. Without a word, Aiden held him, gave him the quiet and the space to finally fall apart. It made him wonder whether, in years gone by, Lambert would allow himself to break apart each night in the privacy of his room. Now, with Aiden there, had he been trying to hold it all together, no space safe enough to let his emotions out? Shuddering at the thought, Aiden held Lambert tighter. Come next year, they were going to spend winter with the Caravan again. Never again was Lambert going to have to face the haunting wraiths of his past. Not if Aiden could help it.

#lambden #lambert/aiden #lambert #aiden #the witcher #cw: panic attacks #tldr: lambert has silent panic attacks at kaer morhen

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nocluewhatsupg · 4 years ago

Text

Michael, Brahms, Jason, and Billy being dragged on a hiking trip

Michael Myers

What

Wack

Mildly amused by whatever he finds along the trail

Does not complain, somehow keeps that creepy speed-walk for the entire trip

You’ve got no clue how he feels, but you’re certain he’d rather be anywhere else

Might push you into the lake if he’s bored (and you’re around one)

Might try to trip you by suddenly walking both ahead of you and over you (he’s more important).

Doesn’t want to leave his signature jumpsuit no matter how much you nag, instantly regrets his decision once he’s covered in sweat and his clothes are scratched and covered in scrapes from thorns he wandered into. Won’t admit it, though.

Wears the fucking mask. You may be able to wrestle him into a short sleeved shirt and sweatpants with a lot of careful persuasion, but the mask is non negotiable. He also pours water from your bottle directly onto the mask. Maybe he drinks from the eye holes, who knows. You have no clue how it’s in such good condition.

Speaking of wandering into thorns, he’ll wander off the trail. No need to go after him or worry, he’s a real survivalist , and he’ll either find his way back to your car, or you’ll hear of a recent massacre in a nearby town...

Glares at anyone you may encounter, standing behind you menacingly. Funny, people are so rude to just hurry past you, and not greet you...

Drinks from the lake too, despite your protests. Should’ve brought him some fucking fruit juice or something.

Will find a squirrel, or whatever animal he can choke the life out of, and promptly place it in your hands.

Take him home now or you’re next.

The trip ends there, and went just as bad as you expected.

If there’s a visitor’s office, he’ll be fascinated by the trinkets for sale. He doesn’t want one, and might strangle you if you point out a magnet or key chain with his name on it. If you’re immortal, you might buy one just to fuck with him later. He shoplifts some food, mainly dried jerky, while making direct eye contact with the poor cashier (who is currently wondering if their job is really worth it).

Stares at the taxidermy animals stuffed on the walls. Idly wonders if he can get you stuffed when you eventually die. If he’s in a good mood, he’ll point to the morbid work of art, then to you until you get the point. He doesn’t want your opinion. He just wants you to know he’ll think about doing it. How sweet of him.

There are some cheap stamps on a table, meant for small passports you can buy to track where you’ve been (if it’s a large, government funded park). Michael will allow you to stamp (and maybe thirst over) his hand, but only after you’ve stamped your own hand first. Just in case. Mildly panicked when he couldn’t rub it off. There was obviously no emotional reaction, but his sharp blue eyes betrayed his fear. You quickly reassured him it would come off, and he relaxed. Looked very dead inside, and you would be dead on the outside and in if you mentioned it.

Next time, you hike by yourself, and find that he’s lurking in the shadows. How he got there before you is beyond you, but he’s there. Mission passed?

(Secretly enjoyed the outdoors, just doesn’t want to do what you tell him)

Brahms Heelshire

Props on you for getting him out of his mansion. You’re most likely walking around the estate’s vast property, the most you could convince him to go.

He is whining, tugging on your sleeve, begging to go back inside.

He is not tired, or sore, or uncomfortable. Going out was never part of the rules. There was no need to do so.

Brahms grows more and more irritated as you continue, and you realize why you never saw parents with small children on the trails.

Snap at him and he’ll snap right back, picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder. He takes you, screaming and kicking, back inside. You yell at him for a good long while, and by the time child-Brahms is back and begging for your forgiveness, you’ve lost the mood to hike. With a sigh, you leave him in the kitchen, and turn to lock yourself away in your room. He isn’t far, however..

Assuming you bit your tongue and stayed silent (as you did with many of his strange mannerisms), he just might shut up long enough for you to begin to enjoy the thick British forest. Mossy stones and vine covered trees, all much older than you could begin to imagine.

You might have a better chance at hiking in peace if you tie it into the schedule, opting to tell a fantasy story about goblins or fairies as you both walk through the very land the story could just take place in. Distracted, he’ll become enthralled in your story, and throwing you over his shoulder, taking you where he wants to be, will slowly slip out of his mind. You aren’t safe, though.

The sun dips below the trees, and you realized just how long you’ve been wandering around. There was still no sight of the fences that close the land off.

At the suggestion (or command, really. You are the one in charge. Maybe.) Brahms stands very still. The porcelain mask tilts upwards, to the multicolored sky, and he asks to sleep under the stars. The novel the two of you read back in the mansion had just been through a chapter where the characters slept outside, and it was only natural he wanted to experience it too.

You sigh. There aren’t any proper materials to really camp, but you didn’t want to let him down. So, you compromise. You’d start a small fire, and you’d both sit around it until it grew too cold and the flames weren’t enough. There was no sleeping on the ground, but it would be a curious idea to do in the summer.

Brahms lost interest in the fire faster than you thought. He stared at it for a good ten minutes, then began to pester you. He realized it was nothing special, it was just like the ones inside. Plus, he’s spent far too much time outside and a chill was beginning to crawl down his spine, shown to you when he’d swirl his head around to stare at the pitch black forest.

Whispering, as if to not wake the world around you, you urge him to sit still and enjoy. He doesn’t. It’s too cold. When he sits closer to the fire, it’s too hot. You throw another stick of wood into the orange flames and tell him to go inside. That won’t work either, because he wants you to go in with him.

Without a word, you place your face sharply into your palms. Your hot exhales warmed your hands, and accurately expressed the sparking embers of frustration inside your stomach. Brahms shuffles nervously, not wanting you to act out of normal, but also not wanting to do anything about it. He’s real complex, isn’t he?

Eventually, you agree to go inside. You always have to do what he wants in the end. You’re too tired to shout at him when he sheepishly asks you to sleep with him. You kiss the porcelain begrudgingly, and shuffle off to your room.

He watches you a little longer, from the walls. Just to make sure you’ve got no plans to leave.

Then maybe sneaks into your bed. What? Why are you upset? You looked cold. He’s doing you a favor. Thank him. No he won’t leave, you’ll freeze to death.

Billy Lenz

Actually having a good time.

He’s nervous, as always, but he was far too distracted by the sudden change in surroundings to care.

Of course he’d been outside before, gone to parks in his childhood just as everyone had, but they weren’t trips he could enjoy.

Here, it’s just you, him, and the great outdoors.

Things start off well, with him stopping occasionally to touch a weird plant, or to point out a bug that scuttled behind a tree.

He walked oddly, hands in his back pockets and he was rather hunched over his own figure. He seemed rather awkward, and when you’d remind him he was fine, he’d stand up straighter and give you an unsure smile. Most annoyingly, he’d swing his elbows with each step. They often smacked into yours, and you never earned an apology.

You told him he’d get tired like that, and all he did was shout “Hogwash!” at you in an accent you couldn’t quite put your finger on, and continue. He swung harder just because he could, nearly twisting himself around with intensity, and you earned a bruise or two when he’d lean closer to you.

Predictably, he grew tired, and complained.

Congrats, you’re walking with a human radio that never turns off.

Offers to take your water bottle, and drinks it all while you’re distracted by the scenery.

Speaking of scenery, he doesn’t care. Billy might point out how a mountain off in the distance looks like a certain shot in a movie he watched years ago, or suddenly begin rambling about a plot of another film whose setting reminded himself of where he walked now. It’s interesting to listen to, sure, but he goes on for hours. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to care if you don’t pay attention.

He will hiss and snarl at anyone you may encounter on the trail, either mocking them if they greet him (or you), or mock your response (or theirs). Please hope you don’t run into anyone with an accent, because he’ll speak in a poor reenactment of it for the rest of the trip.

Is incredibly hypocritical and will become upset if you cross paths with a group of loud hikers. Will scream how it’s rude to ruin the peace. Once the group silences, he will unconsciously begin to mumble or talk to you. Prepare for nasty stares.

Will stop to pee at least three times, both going and coming back. How many times he actually needed to was beyond you, but he did take an awful long time each stop. You do know for certain he flat out spat on the ground one time, then stood still for four minutes.

Secretly wants to go into the lake, but doesn’t say anything about it. You eventually pick up on the look in his wild eyes, and when you gesture to the deep blue water, he wastes no time jumping in. Will slip on a rock, misjudging just how slippery the lake bottom becomes, and is now completely drenched from head to toe. Billy refuses to get undressed, and becomes very uncomfortable if you do when/if you join him. That basically ends that if you are female, he’ll frown and carry a snarl in his words, mumbling something about appeal and trickery. He doesn’t discriminate either, the reaction is similar if you are male, although he doesn’t become nearly as upset. If you don’t go in (the best choice, really), sitting on the sandy shore and keeping your feet into the cool lake, he’ll throw water on you anyway. Rest in peace, your dry clothes. Refusing to surrender to your local attic rat, a playful fight ensues, and for that moment, you almost forget what a monster he is. Maybe it’s best you keep that locked away.

You win, and he bites your shoulder in bitter defeat. It’s not even in a sexy way or anything. He just fucking bites you. You’re lucky it doesn’t bleed much, the wound rather shallow, but it still hurt.

>:(

In his mind, he won, and that’s final. Will brag about his victory the entire ride home.

(shitpost: you cry about your wound, and get him to gingerly reach an arm out to touch it. You take this distraction to bite his wrist. Billy screams so loud all the windows in every car shatters instantly. He pulls away from you, clutching his injured wrist, and shouts every profanity he could think of. You both are not so kindly asked to never return to the park ever again.)

Jason Voorhees

Walking through Crystal Lake? No. You can’t do that. No, y/n, that’s his cursed campground. Go find your own.

You are, however, allowed to walk around the lake. Outside the parameters of the camp, he’s still a little on edge that you’re alive, but he’ll let you. Don’t say he never did anything for you.

He doesn’t make a single sound as he follows you from a slight distance, through bushes and low hanging branches, he’s silent. You turn around and see him standing there, machete in hand, watching.

A chill is constantly going down your spine, and no matter how much you trust him, your brain absolutely does not agree. About fifteen minutes into your hike, you swore you could hear a faint “ch ch ah ah” whispered through the trees.

If you call him out on it, he’ll simply shrug his broad shoulders, then turn his mask slowly to look ahead. He urges you to continue, so he can return to patrolling his beloved camp and slaughtering everything that breaths.

He isn’t being malicious, he cares about you, in some odd fashion. It is only natural for humans to long for companionship, and he is desperate for anything that returns him to a time when he was afraid of a hunter’s gun. You however, in all your beauty, are simply not enough to tear him away from his supernatural duty. Nothing is.

Returning home from the awkward hike, you invite him inside your house, a small two story cabin nestled just outside the camp grounds.

He agrees, shuffles into your living room, and stands there.

Jason parks himself just next to the small television, a spot he’d been to so often there was an outline of eternal mud and grime in the shape of perfect (and large) boots.

He stares at you as you go through your daily routine, as you cook dinner and eat it. As you watch some television, or read a book, or catch up on your favorite hobby. Jason is aware he’s free to leave whenever he wants, do whatever he pleases, but he doesn’t want to. He’s perfectly content with just standing there, far too nervous to actually interact with you.

The sky gets darker, and the crickets begin to chirp loudly. You tell him goodnight, get no response, and head upstairs. He waits a few moments, turns off your living room lights, and vanishes back into the thick, New Jersey woods. Duty calls.

#slasher #slashers #jason voorhees #michael myers #billy lenz #brahms heelshire #slasher community #slasher x reader #michael myers x reader #jason voorhees x reader #billy lenz x reader #brahms heelshire x reader

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votederpycausemufins · 3 years ago

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more content for the SF series! (since the first one was Summoning Family and now it's Surprisingly Familiar). i can't believe it's chapter 5. and i'm not sure if i mean can't believe it's only ch. 5, or already ch. 5. you know, both is good!

Edit: iforgottotagpeople iforgottotagpeople iforgottotagpeople!!! @petrichormeraki and @helleborusangel forgive meeeee

“Let me take care of one thing before we explore the rest of the server.” Sense spoke up, Grian only half paying attention. “You can explore as you see fit, but I wouldn’t wander too far.”

As the redstoner walked away, Grian went the other direction for a few steps before stopping. “Are you going to keep following me around or what?” There was no immediate answer, but then someone appeared near Grian.

“Well, you look different than before.” Came an echoey voice from the figure who was greyed out and transparent. “What happened?”

“I’m from the past, but not the past here, so I’m not going to be able to fix whatever is wrong with you.” Grian replied, crossing his arms. It had already been explained that Grifter went looking for a new dimension to find alternate versions of his family since apparently the real versions weren’t the best. Grian didn’t fully believe it at this point, but Sense said Grifter would bring back some proof, which was a little worrying.

“There’s nothing you need to fix for me.” The ghost, because that’s all it could be, responded. “There is no business I have unfinished that you could finish for me. And that’s fine with me. It means I can help and explore with little worry, though I do like this castle.”

“Right.” Grian responded, unsure how to feel about the ghost. He already dealt with a few at school, some better than others, so he wasn’t exactly sure how this one would act. “Well, I would like if you stopped following me around.”

“Alright Grifter.” The ghost replied, and then left, going down a hallway before disappearing. Even with them gone, Grian still felt on edge, so he didn’t go far, just going back to where he had been left. When Sense did finally come back, Grifter was with him again, which finally helped Grian feel a bit safer again.

“Alright, so, I’ve talked with a few people to make sure they don’t cause problems as well as pick up some papers with information you might want to know. And you don’t need to worry about it getting damaged because it’s magically protected.”

“Your magic, or other Listeners?” Grian asked, which surprised Grifter. He looked over to Sense who didn’t look as concerned and quickly explained.

“I gave Grian a quick tour of the castle and explained some things along the way. About the magic from being a Listener. How Grian may still have magic but is also still considered in-training so his magic is much weaker. How you came here trying to dimension hop for Taurtis again and how that went. Things like that.”

Grifter smiled and gave Sense a kiss, which he used to quietly whisper a message to him. He then pulled back and made sure Grian definitely heard him the second time he spoke to keep up appearances. “Thank you. And he took it well? I mean… I- he does look a little…”

Grian crossed his arms. “I’m fine. I’ve got the basics which is already pretty helpful. If I can learn how to use magic, I might be able to use that when I go back and save Taurtis since obviously new dimensions are off the table again.”

Grifter raised an eyebrow and Sense elaborated. “So far he’s only hopped once and got rid of their second universe versions.”

“It would be complicated if there were two of us. I mean, it’s already complicated enough with you and me and we look pretty different, what with you being older and all.”

“Yeah, same sentiment when I got here.” Grifter agreed. “Essentially this place is all flipped around. I mean, dad here is Death instead of mom, the Sam here was good, The me- you- us here was like some sort of god and got imprisoned. Stuff like that. People see me and think I’m the one that got imprisoned, so they used his name for me, and I mean, it’s pretty close to Grian.”

“You really don’t mind?” Grian asked, making Grifter shrug.

“Well, either way the nickname is Gri, so I don’t mind too terribly much. And it’s better than… you know.”

Grian shuddered a little before Grifter started leading them all away, putting the small stack of papers he had into a bag and giving the bag to Grian. The teen took the bag and opened it up to look inside, finding the newly added papers as well as a bunch of pink things. Pulling one out, Grian was surprised to find it was a sword, and another a shovel. He put those back in and then pulled out some yellow carrots, which seemed to glitter as he held them in the light. “What is all of this?”

Grifter turned around to face Grian, walking backwards a few steps to see what was being talked about. “Oh, that’s a bunch of starter gear. I mean, normally it would be iron, but I doubt you wanted that, and I’m sort of in charge around here - long story - so I upgraded you to aetherite which is as good as you can get here. You’ve got a sword, pick, axe, shovel, and a full set of armor. I’ve also given you golden carrots and plenty of steak so you won’t be hurting for food. Also there’s a crossbow and plenty of stuff to load it with, like arrows, darts and fireworks.”

Grian nodded slowly, looking through the bag again. “Okay, can I like… get trained how to use these? I mean I sort of know how to use this stuff from, you know. But I mean, can I get a gun or something?”

“Oh of course!” Sense was the one to reply, putting down a shulker box. “What type are you after? Standard or more upgraded?”

“Handgun with plenty of ammo before reloading sounds best.” Grian said, looking into the box. Sense helped him find one that fit what he liked as well as ammo that matched, and then it went in the bag.

“I still think you should train with the other weapons to be safe, but gun still is better than umbrella.” Grifter commented, getting a look from Grian before he confirmed that, yes, someone’s main weapon of choice around there was an umbrella.

“Alright, now that you’re geared up, let’s get on with a proper tour!”

A good sized team entered into Helscraft, consisting of Mumbo, Grum (Jrum wanted to stay behind and watch Kokatori, but Mumbo thought it might also be some fear of getting stranded again), Doc, Tommy, Phil, Xisuma, and Paul. Wilbur and Techno also tagged along when they heard the news, refusing to let their brother disappear again. More of the hermits wanted to go, but with the two triplets refusing to take no for an answer and Xisuma not wanting to take too many people to hels at once, they didn’t really have room.

Xisuma attempted to get all of them to the main spawn island for the world, but that didn’t quite work out with everyone except him arriving there. That was soon followed by Grum taking charge and leading them through the world and to the foot of a black and yellow building, which he knocked on the door of.

A few minutes later, the doors finally opened to someone in dark red armor and a helmet with a much more standard design. “What do you want? I’m in the middle of something.” The person said, looking just at Grum at first. “Oh, it’s you. If NPG isn’t at home, he’s probably-”

“No. We need Xisuma back.” Grum spoke up, and this time the person looked up at the rest of the group and sighed.

“Honestly, I finally got him back here again and you’ve got to take him away immediately? Here I thought it was finally something to improve this… horrid week. What do you need him for anyway? Isn’t he just a chauffeur or whatever?”

Tommy was the first to respond, pushing to the front of the group. “Look bitch, we don’t want to deal with any more shit right now. Just hand over him and Grian so we can leave.”

Though the red tinted visor, Tommy could just barely see the hels admin raise an eyebrow. “Grian? My brother is the only one here from wels not in your group.”

“Wrong answer fucker! We know that Gr-” Tommy was cut off as something lowered from the ceiling. Everyone stared as a pink worm on a string descended from somewhere inside the door. It had yellow paper cutouts of a mask, cape and M decorating it, and it kept getting lower until it was eye level with Evil Xisuma, then lightly bonked against his helmet a few times.

The way the hels admin slumped slightly and his eyes stared back just showing how done he was with everything. “Would you excuse me for just one second?” He said, and then the worm started to go back up before EX grabbed it, trapping it in a fist, then yanking down, someone falling from the ceiling a moment later. “Get out of my house Phedaz.”

The helsmit with dark blue hair, matching pale blue skin that faded to black on his arms and pitch black eyes picked up the discarded worm on a string before scuttling off through the door on all fours, racing past the team after Grian. “What the fuck was that?!”

“Phedaz.” EX said in a bored and defeated tone. “He’s been doing that all week. I just wanted to torture my brother a little to blow off some steam, is that too much to ask?”

“When we’re looking for Grian, it really is.” Mumbo spoke up, making the Helsmit sigh.

“Well, Grian’s not here, only NPG. Not even Grifter is here, and he hasn’t been here for a day or two now. That being said, Sense did leave a few hours ago, likely to meet up with that bastard.”

“Okay, so where are they?” Paul spoke up, getting EX’s attention.

The hels admin stared at Paul before pulling out a potion of some sorts and chugging it. “I’m not sane enough for this right now. Go talk with Theseus will you? Come back here when you need to leave or whatever and I’ll let you have him.”

“Alright! And that’s about it for the tour!” Grifter said cheerily as he, Grian, Sense, and now the two hels bots arrived at the castle again. “Now as a reminder, you should do your best to stay away from any areas we did not tour just to be on the safe side. The one exception would be where Euro and Krys are staying, but it’s far enough away I wouldn’t bother, plus Silski always likes to visit and staying away from him in general is a good idea.”

Grifter was going to say more, but then Sense stopped walking. “Oh for fucks sake, he’s back.”

Grian looked over to where Sense was looking and saw someone vaguely familiar leaning against the castle wall. They wore a trench coat and a beanie that struggled to hold down their very puffy brown and grey hair and they also held a guitar, quietly strumming a few cords. “Hey, you’re back. Missed you at the show.”

Before Grian could ask any questions, Grifter stomped over to the person, followed by Sense who was getting out a weapon. “Off the property Wile.”

“Pay me.”

“I’m not paying you. Leave.”

The person, Wile, stared Grifter down for a few seconds before shrugging. “Nah, gotta pay me first. Anyway, here’s Wonderwall.” And he started to play the first few notes of a song. He didn’t get far though, because Sense walked up to him. He didn’t even use his weapon to attack, simply yanking the guitar from his hands and smashing it against the castle wall in one fluid motion.

Wile looked down at the broken pieces of his instrument for a moment before pulling out a second guitar and continuing the song. Sense yelled in frustration while Grifter pulled a few feathers out of his wings. Grian reacted more than his copy, wincing at what was likely painful, but the hels didn’t mind. He instead used the pulled feathers as knives, stabbing them into Wile until he dropped to the ground, dead.

“Oh my god! Is he dead?!” Grian yelled after the person didn’t move for a while.

“Yes and no.” Grifter replied, kicking the body to the side. “He respawns, it’s just his corpse stays with his shit in it. Seesee, would you be a dear?” Sense didn’t get a chance to react as Sefter walked up first and heaved the body over his head, then chucked it as far as he could away from the castle. “Hmm, well that works too I guess.”

Grian stared in the direction of Wile’s corpse before turning back to Grifter. “Who… Who was that?”

“Wile.” Grifter replied. “Essentially the Wilbur here. The only plus to him over Wil is that he mostly just sticks to L’Manberg.”

“Oh? Where’s that?” Grian asked. It wasn’t a place they really covered in the tour, but a few other countries had been mentioned.”

“Yeah, no. I don’t want you heading over there.” Grifter replied. “Sense, back me up here.”

Grian was a little surprised by Grifter calling the redstone by his name and not a nickname. “I know you said you’re… well you’re most likely over eighteen.”

“I am, but what does that have to do with it?” Grian asked, rolling his eyes slightly.

“L’Manberg’s a stripclub.”

That left Grian silent for a few seconds before he simply said, “Oh.”

“Well, now that things are awkward, I suppose you could meet some of the better parts of the family. They weren’t around for so long, they won’t be able to tell that past me isn’t past Grifter.”

“Who exactly is everyone here?” Grian asked, following Grifter as he started to walk off away from the castle again, Sense and the bots heading inside.

“Alright, I already covered Dad being Death.” Grifter started to explain. “Technically there’s another death which is his brother, but we don’t really cover him. Mom is named Krystina, or just Krys.” Grifter then gestured to where Wile’s body was thrown. “We already covered Wilbur and Wile. Instead of Techno, we have Euro, who mostly lives with Krys. Theseus is Tommy, and he’s moved elsewhere.”

“Why do I feel like there’s more?” Grian asked with slight hesitance.

Grifter shrugged. “Because there is. That’s just the bit you’re familiar with. Even though Wile’s a stripper, he is married to Sadie. Sadie has a kid named Fleur who’s a little older than you are right now. Krys also half adopted Silski, so technically that’s another sibling but I won’t count them. If you do want to, then they’re married and have a kid, but that’s not really important.”

“So… Sadie, Fleur, Silski, and two other people?” Grian asked, making sure he was following along. “Can I know their names just to be safe?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. Silski’s married to this guy named Toob and they adopted a kid named Jane. Well, technically it’s ꄘ꒓ꂑꋫꁍꀭꆂ꒒ꁕ, but pronouncing that is a mess so they named her Jane instead.”

“Right… Do you have anywhere I can write this down?”

After what happened with Tommy before, the entire group was ready to attack if need be. Paul was the one to knock on the throne room door, willing to be the first line of defense. There was no answer at first, but footsteps from behind the door had everyone put their guard up. They all waited with bated breath before finally the large doors opened, and then Grian poked his head out.

Mumbo, Tommy and Grum all quickly recognized that it wasn’t actually the missing hermit, but the others were too worried that they reacted too fast. “Oi Grian, what the fuck was all that mate?”

After a moment, NPG pulled themself out of the hug Phil had trapped them in. “I am sorry for the confusion. I am NPG, not Grian. You came here not too long ago.” The robot then looked over to Wilbur, Doc and Paul. “Though you did not visit and I have not met you in person before.”

Tommy quickly spoke up and introduced people. “That’s Wil, Doc, and this guy’s named Paul. Grian kinda got kidnapped, so we’re back here looking for him instead.”

“Oh no! Did you check your old server again just to be safe?”

“Grifter’s the bitch that kidnapped him.” Tommy said, crossing his arms. “If he’s there, I’ll eat my compass.”

NPG nodded, then went back into the throne room and the group could hear him talking to someone that had Tommy’s voice. They stood there listening until NPG finally shouted approval for the group to enter.

“Well this is a surprise. I didn’t expect to see any of you again that soon.” Theseus spoke from his throne. He still was wearing his mask that looked like Dream’s, which made Tommy shudder a little as well as had Grum hiding behind Mumbo. “So, you’re after my brother. Hah, good luck with that.”

“You better fucking tell us something bitch!”

Theseus didn’t immediately reply to Tommy’s shout, instead handing off a paper to NPG, who happily took it and ran off. “Look, I haven’t seen him since he dragged me back to Dad. Technically he’s been here, but just stayed away. He’s admin of my old world now, so he’s probably stuck there. Sense also left recently, so I would guess he’s there too.”

“So, You’re saying we need to go through another version of the smp to find Grian?” Techno was the one to ask. “Ours was already pretty rough, how bad is this one?”

“Your creeper friend there is supposed to be Prof, right?” Theseus asked, his visible eyebrow raising in question.

“Yeah… he is.” Grum answered, peeking out from behind Mumbo for a moment. “Why?”

“Has he ever built a prison?”

“Well, he built Area 77 if that counts.” Mumbo answered, but Theseus just rolled his eyes. “I’m guessing that doesn’t count.”

“Oh definitely not. If what NPG says is right, it let people waltz right in.”

“Those were guided tours, man.” Doc replied. “And that’s just recent. I’ve done plenty of defenses back when we had the mycelium war.”

“Ooh, ah, defenses.” Theseus deadpanned. “Get real. Those aren’t what I’m asking about.”

“He’s asking about The Perd.” Paul spoke up. “Which yeah, he mostly built that himself.”

Theseus smiled and nodded, while everyone else looked confused, except for Doc himself and also Phil, who just looked stunned. “Wait, he’s the guy who made The Perdit-”

“Hey man, you can’t just go throwing that name around.” Doc spoke up, cutting Phil off. “The less people know, the better.”

Phil gestured to Paul. “And so he knows about it, why?”

“I was one of the testers.” Paul responded. “Really think I can’t get out of that vault of yours now?”

“We’re getting off topic.” Wilbur was the one to speak up. “Since this creeper guy has made that prison thing, is that good or not?”

“Very good.” Theseus replied. “Prof had to trap Grifter when he wasn’t an admin, so imagine what he’s doing as admin. Having your version of Dad is going to be good, but one of him is also better. And I guess also this guy here is good to have too.” Theseus added, glancing at Paul.

“What can you tell us about your old world.” Mumbo asked. “I’m sure even those from our version will be a bit lost since I can hardly wrap my head around this one.”

“Oh I could tell you plenty. I could say every little detail I went through in my years there. I’m sure plenty of it would be repetitive though, and I don’t really know what’s the same and what’s different.” Theseus explained. “But I can tell you what I do know.”

“And what’s that?” Phil asked, hoping that looking like the Phil here would help things.

“Well, when I was in that other place, your respawns were a fucking mess. Technically three respawns but it always depended on some shitty admin’s code.” Theseus stood up to make a point. “Instead You always respawn as long as you’ve got a place to respawn to. But if someone finds your anchor and breaks it, well, I wouldn’t die if I were you. Technically, there was more to it so Nightmare could try to get around his own rules, but it obviously didn’t work.”

“Is that it?” Tommy asked. “Lives are just done differently?”

Theseus rolled his eyes before sharply turning his head towards Tommy. “Well excuse me. If you haven’t noticed, I’m not the fucking admin over there anymore, bitch. Neither is Nightmare. I only knew about you having fucked up lives because of that thing there!” And he gestured towards Grum. “I don’t know your lives. I don’t know your world. So I don’t know what to fucking tell you that’s going to fucking help. At this point, you’re likely to know more than me!”

Everything was silent other than Theseus’ heavy breathing from yelling until there was a creak from the door as NPG came back in. “Is everyone okay? Thee? Do you want me to get Rusty?”

Theseus was still quiet, though he straightened his posture and his mask, then spoke. “No. I think I’ll be fine. Can you take these guys to Xannes? I’m done dealing with them.”

“Okay! I can do that!” NPG replied, and then he was leading the group out, being helped by threats Theseus was giving the group under the robot’s nose.”

When they returned to the admin’s base, he was disappointed to see them back so soon, but did allow Xisuma out of his ‘torture chamber’ - if it could really be called that - and let him take the team of people to the NSMP.

Xisuma took them into the other world and was suddenly glad his helmet was a filter. Tommy pulled his bandanna over his nose after gagging at the smell of the place while everyone but two of them reacted similarly. Since they had been there before, Phil and Mumbo knew what to expect. Techno also knew, but his sense of smell was enhanced from being a hybrid, so it didn’t help. And then while Tommy had been in the group before, at that point he had been replaced by Theseus and never actually went into the NSMP.

Not wanting to stick around in one place, the group started travelling, hoping for some sort of landmark that was more than just rubble and possibly someone nice enough to help them out.

But back on Helscraft, Xannes was upset the moment the group was gone, and a moment after that, he sent himself to the palace to meet with Theseus. Lightning crackled around him in his rage, pushing aside anyone who even stepped in his line of sight.

“Theseus!” He shouted as the doors to the throne room were broken. “What the fuck did I just send them into?!”

Theseus looked up at the admin. “The NSMP. Why? Did you somehow not?”

“Something intercepted them. I mean, I tried hacking them through the whitelist, so it should have-”

“That place doesn’t have a white list last I checked.” Theseus said. “Nightmare never gave it one. He made access public. There was just a little… test of sorts to get through first.”

Xannes didn’t like the sound of that. “What kind of test?”

“One that I’m sure they’ll get through. The question is how long it will take them. If they’re lucky? Hmm, maybe a few days.”

Xannes didn’t bother listening to more as he followed along the group he just sent ahead of him. He ended up in the same place the group did, in the spawn of the DSMP. And if it weren’t for the fact that Xannes could feel his hacking powers get limited, he would have thought it was the regular world. “Fine. I guess we’re doing this all the hard way.”

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coffeestainsandcashmere · 4 years ago

Text

Let No Man Steal Your Thyme - (older Dramione) Chapter Six

Thank you for your patience with this one, folks. Here it is. All 7k words of it... Thank you too for the beautiful anonymous (and otherwise) owls you’ve sent me! I can’t tell you how lovely that’s been!

If this were on AO3 (which it will be when it’s complete), the rating would have gone up to “E - Explicit”, so please make sure you’re the appropriate age to consume it (18+).

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five

___

Hermione apparated into an unassuming and rather ugly back street in Whitechapel and took a moment to straighten herself out afterwards. A fine, sheeting mizzle had begun sometime around midday, shrouding the whole of London in a choking, miserable haze, and it hadn’t let up since. It was nothing a subtle impervius charm couldn’t ward off, of course, though it sent Muggles scuttling for shelter or huddling beneath umbrellas in a way that never failed to make her heart twinge just a little for a life that was long behind her.

Miraculously, her hair behaved itself despite the humidity, and had complied with both will and wand so that it now fell in loose ringlets around her shoulders. It was all held in place with more charm-work than she’d done on herself in a very long time, but even she had to admit that she’d done a pretty decent job of it. Pansy would be proud. She just hoped the dress would do its job too and flatter her in the way Theo and Pansy had both promised it would when she’d bought it.

As her heels clicked along on the uneven pavement, she wished there was a charm to ward of self-consciousness. After years of scruffy jeans and soft, woollen jumpers, the dress seemed rather snug around the areas she’d grown a little shy about, but she drew on the well of experience from her Ministry days, squared her shoulders, and set off towards the address Draco had sent her by owl.

Rounding the corner, she nearly stumbled in her heels as she drew up suddenly short. Standing with arms folded, shoulder blades pressed heedlessly against the masonry of the building behind him and his whole body tense as a piano string, stood Draco Malfoy, scowling. Whereas she had forgone a bulky cloak in favour of a warming charm, he cut quite the figure in the heavy, black garment, fastened at the throat with a silver clasp that seemed to match his hair.

As her heels announced her approach, he looked up, looked away, did a double take, and then levered himself off the wall with a slightly slack-jawed expression.

Theo was right, she smiled to herself. I probably owe him a drink now or something.

When she came to a halt in front of Malfoy, she couldn't help the way her lips twitched. He looked a little like he’d been slapped. “Evening,” she chirped, and watched his throat work as he swallowed thickly, pupils blown wide in the dark.

“Granger,” he said. “You… You look…” He floundered, and then to her immense surprise and absolute delight, his cheeks flushed a deep, vivid pink and he looked away.

“Likewise,” she laughed, ostentatiously eyeing him up and down, though the cloak revealed little. “Though that was pretty much a given.”

“I didn’t mean —” he began, snapping his gaze back to her face with his grey eyes wide. “You just…” Then he laughed and forcibly relaxed his shoulders, exhaling through his nose. “I should have known you’d leave me a babbling idiot again,” he muttered, subtly offering her the crook of his elbow. “It’s like third year all over again.”

“Third year?” she said as she accepted and slid her fingers under his arm. “I punched you in the face in third year.”

“Mmm,” he said. “And I don’t think I ever truly got over it.”

She laughed and he relaxed a little more beneath her touch. “So I’ve never actually heard of this place, but Theo said you have to know the owner just to get a table…?”

“Yes,” Draco said. “I hope you don’t think it’s too much, but after everyone was staring at us in the Leaky, I thought it might be nice to go somewhere where people have a bit more… discretion… My mother’s side of the family has been friends with the owner’s for generations.”

“I’m sure it’ll be perfect,” she said as he steered her towards a blind arcade of sandy-coloured bricks that flanked a large stretch of the street.

“It’s concealed with an enchantment like the one at Kings Cross,” he said as they approached the third one in the row. Glancing up and down the street, he stepped halfway into the wall and held his hand out for her to take, as if she were a lady about to alight into a carriage. He clearly saw her burning with interest about the spellwork and added, “Some scholars believe it was the first instance of the charm’s use in London.”

She beamed at him, took his hand, and allowed him to steer her through the wall.

When they emerged on the other side of the illusion, she found herself in a cosy, dark-tiled entrance hall, illuminated with tiny lumos charms. A waiter in smart, black and white livery appeared almost immediately from the main restaurant beyond, and bowed politely. “Lord Black,” he said and then turned to her and offered a seemingly genuine smile. “Ms. Granger. If you’d like to follow me please. My lord, may I take your cloak?”

Malfoy unclasped it and handed it to the man, but Hermione wasn’t watching that. She was too busy staring at the way he looked in his suit beneath.

Draco Malfoy had always been a creature of harsh lines and a cool palette, but this time the sight of him actually robbed her of breath. Though his outfit was understatedly simple, the slate-blue suit, with a crisp white shirt and a silvery tie had clearly been made bespoke for him, and it fitted him to perfection, emphasising slim hips, long, lean legs, and a breadth to his shoulders that spoke of strength without raw bulk. The only hint of colour to him lay in the residual flush from the cold in his pale cheeks, but his eyes sparkled warmly enough.

“Shall we?” he murmured, a hint of shy embarrassment to the corners of his mouth that she’d rarely seen in his youth, and she nodded, still mute. She wasn’t sure if he was shy about the waiter’s ‘my lord’ or the way she was gawking at him like a teenage fan at a Weird Sisters concert.

He ushered her in front of him, and she followed the waiter through the restaurant.

All the while they walked, she was intensely aware of Draco behind her.

Naturally, once she’d got past all the initial ‘oh my god is my skirt tucked up into my knickers’ panic, she tried a little experiment and began to sway her hips a little more than usual. Pansy had once told her she had the walk of a ‘dowdy headmistress charging down a corridor towards the sound of troublemakers’. Even if she’d said it in jest, it hadn’t exactly inspired confidence in her ability to sashay sexily through the tables in front of someone she was hoping to impress, but by the time they were settling into her seats, she noted a very slight rise in the colour in Draco’s cheeks again, and chalked it up as a victory regardless.

“Can I get you some drinks while you wait? I’m sure you’re both aware that the restaurant is chef’s choice though.” He did not offer any kind of drinks menu, however, and Hermione’s already fragile courage sputtered.

Draco nodded curtly at the waiter, and then looked expectantly at Hermione, who cleared her throat and said, “Look, Draco, I’m already a tad out of my depth here. I think I’ll leave the decision-making to you tonight and save us both the embarrassment…”

His lips parted slightly, as if he were going to speak, but a soft look crossed his face before he inclined his head. “Wine alright?” he asked and she nodded.

He ordered two glasses of a white he’d never heard of.

Before the waiter left, he enquired about any allergies, and when both replied that they were fortunate enough not to have any, he retreated, and Hermione blew out a soft breath.

“It’s not too much, is it?” Draco asked, shoulders high and tense again. All the recent colour had drained from him, and he looked faintly nauseous.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, gazing around at the vaulted room. “And this is a real treat, Draco. I’m really glad you asked me, though I promised your owl I’d have words with you about her manners. Damn near lost a finger to that beak of hers.”

“Apologies,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “She was a gift from my mother after my own owl was lost after the Battle of Hogwarts. She’s been a menace to me and my unfortunate correspondents ever since.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. The bird was much older than she’d expected, but then again she shouldn’t have been that surprised; the Weasley’s had had Errol seemingly for generations after all before he’d finally snuffed it.

She hadn’t really taken note of the other patrons of the restaurant on their short journey through the tables to the secluded alcove, but now she glanced around again and saw that the place was full, though there couldn’t have been more than fifteen covers. The other diners were not witches or wizards she recognised, and no one seemed to be paying anyone else the slightest bit of attention, to her relief.

Relaxing a little, she looked back at Draco who sat with his hands folded neatly atop the dark wood of the table, his silver signet ring glinting softly in the light of the little candle between them. His gaze was intense, and his expression a little awkward. He was as nervous as she was, she realised. Maybe more.

He pursed his lips briefly and then said, “It’s quite different from a lot of the restaurants in Diagon Alley, largely because of the building’s history, I think.” He stopped, as if worried he was about to bore her and instead blurted quietly, “I’m glad you like it.”

The place had clearly once been an enormous foundry building, but since being repurposed, it had been divided up from one open casting hall into cosy little niches and alcoves of sandstone brick, with large, industrial panes of glass filling the spaces between the dividing arches. It felt private without being claustrophobic; atmospheric but not dingy or oppressive.

Taking another breath, Hermione smiled at him and admitted, “It’s been so long since I’ve been out for dinner with anyone, Draco. It’s almost embarrassing really. And Theo doesn’t count in this context,” she added with a flash of her eyes.

“Likewise,” he muttered, carefully pouring her a glass of water from the carafe between them before filling his own.

Again, she noted his hands. Somehow they were simultaneously the elegant hands of a nobleman and the rough, scarred hands of a man who used them for a living — spotted and flecked with innumerable small scars — and she found herself instantly fascinated by the story they held. The last person she could recall with hands in that condition was Professor Snape.

She nearly said that Draco at least had good reason for not going on dates with every witch in Britain, being a widower, but she bit it back and said, “Well, that should make things easier for both of us. Tell me though, I’m dying to know why you had to go to France at such short notice. Your letter was too cryptic.”

Draco’s face softened and he sipped his water. “We have estates there still,” he said, not meeting her gaze. “One of the wards was triggered, so I arranged a portkey to check up on it, but it was nothing in the end.”

“Nothing? Come on; it usually takes magic to trip a ward, Malfoy. There has to be some story there…?”

His eyelashes looked like strands of silk in the candlelight, pale and silvery as they framed his grey eyes, and she almost forgot to listen to his story as he flicked his gaze back up to meet hers again.

“It really isn’t very interesting. One of our tenants has an elderly mother and she is unfortunately not as… compos mentis as she once was. She used to work as a maid for my maternal great-grandmother. It turned out that she had wandered up to the main house in the middle of the night, spoken some long-forgotten spell to gain admission, and had tried to prepare breakfast. Of course, there was nothing in the larder, so she became distressed. Her daughter collected her and sealed the house up again, but the owl didn’t reach me before I left England.”

“I see,” she said. “Another case where modern Muggle communication methods might have come in handy,” she chirped under her breath, and he hummed softly in agreement, though he didn’t seem to understand fully. And then because she was a nose bugger who couldn’t help herself, she asked, “Do you have a lot of properties then? Other than the house in Wiltshire?”

She caught the smile in his eyes and he nodded. “One or two,” he said with bashful modesty. “A number of my father’s holdings and inheritances were confiscated by the Ministry in reparation for war crimes, but my mother was allowed to keep much of what was hers and, by extension, mine.”

“And those are in France?”

He shook his head, and with regret she watched him becoming increasingly uncomfortable. “There’s a place in Scotland - not far from Hogwarts, actually - and one in the arse-end of nowhere in rural Romania. It’s the Malfoy side that has the connections to France, though that one I just mentioned is the only one left to us now.”

“I see. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to pry. I was genuinely curious, that’s all.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “You can ask me whatever you like.”

She smiled and said, “I didn’t even get to inherit my parents’ little house in Surrey because of a complication with the will, so it’s all a world away from what I know… Has Scorpius been to these other places?”

“Not really,” he said, “Though mother and I took him to the vineyard in France last summer before school started.”

Hermione tipped her head back, exposing her neck a little, and smiled. “My parents used to take me to France during the summer holidays,” she said dreamily. “Little stone cottages that smelled of lavender, with long, dusty driveways and rooms that stayed chilly no matter temperature outside. Sometimes when it got really hot, those adorable little lizards used to come out and bask in the sun on the wall. My parents were dentists, so we weren’t exactly all that short of money growing up —” nothing like you though, she wanted to add but didn’t “— and they always tried to choose a place with a swimming pool. I used to love to swim.”

Draco’s expression was unreadable, but there was a light in his silver eyes that shone like a full moon. He swallowed thickly and had been on the point of speaking when the waiter returned with their wine and a small amuse-bouche for them.

He set the tiny plates down and stepped back. “Blini with trout roe caviar and crème fraiche.”

“Thank you,” Draco and she said as one, and the waiter nodded and left them to it.

Draco raised his glass and Hermione tried not to stare at his long fingers or the way he held it so gracefully by the stem as he lifted it. She felt like she might fumble and drop hers if she tried to emulate that, but she did her best. After all, she’d endured a fair few dinners and functions at the Ministry, so she was hardly about to embarrass herself now, however hard Draco seemed to make it.

“Thank you for…” Draco began, trailing off into uncertainty. His eyes turned glassy and he blinked rapidly a couple of times. “Well, thank you for giving me a shot, Granger. I know I have a lot to make up for still, but thank you for joining me tonight.”

She smiled and playfully chinked her glass against his. As the soft chime of glass on glass dissipated, she said, “Like I told Theo after his little chat, to which I understand you were also subjected —” he nodded wryly but let her continue uninterrupted “— I wouldn’t be here if I believed you were still the same person you were at Hogwarts. There was so much going on back then, and we were all pawns in a larger game to one extent or another. By this point, I’m honestly happy to let the past lie and look forward.”

He exhaled expansively. “I’ll drink to that,” he muttered.

Their food when it arrived was incredible; never too much (or too little, she was pleased to note), or too fancy so as to be basically inedible. They talked lightly while they ate, mostly of the goings on of people they had in common: Theo and Dan, Pansy, and Blaise.

By the time they were halfway through dessert, Draco said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” she smiled. “Why should you be open to any and all questions, but not me?”

“Just because I said that about me, doesn’t mean you have to take the same stance, Granger.”

“True, but this is a date, right?”

He swallowed. “If you’d like it to be.”

“All on me?” she chuckled. “I’ll admit I was rather hoping it was.”

“Then it’s a date,” he said quietly.

“Well, shouldn’t dates be about getting to know the person better? Ask away, Malfoy. Whatever you’ve got, I can take it.” Within reason, she added privately.

His answering smile was dazzling, and it brought little dimples to his cheeks that she’d not noticed before. It made her heart beat oddly in her chest, and a new heat pulsed between her legs.

“Good lord, Malfoy,” she hissed, “You’re handsome when you smile like that.”

He pursed his lips and flushed a dark pink right up to his ears.

“Sorry,” she said, still laughing a little. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. But I’d be happy to encourage more smiles like that in the future. What was your question?”

He opened his mouth, cheeks still pink, but his eyes turned serious. “Why did you really quit your job as Minister? You were so young…”

“I peaked too soon,” she shrugged easily enough, though she felt the playful mirth settling down again in a way that had nothing to do with the chocolate dessert lying heavy in her stomach.

She sat back in her seat and picked up the remnants of her wine, swirling it thoughtfully for a moment.

“I felt like…” she stopped and changed tack. “At school I felt like all I amounted to was how smart I could be, you know?”

His brows flickered into a frown, but he didn’t interrupt her.

“I didn’t have the looks of someone like Fleur or Cho, or… Lavender,” she said, raising her eyebrows inadvertently. “All I really had to validate myself was my latest test score, or how useful I was to Harry, or how much research I could condense into one last-minute panic whenever the latest life-threatening event popped up…” She sighed. “I think that set me up for failure when I left school and discovered it wasn’t all about grades and how many facts you could regurgitate.” After a slight pause, she cocked her head and said, “Nobody likes a smart-arse after all.”

The brief colour in Malfoy’s face had drained to parchment white again as he listened, and he sat perfectly straight in his seat, tense and serious once more.

Nervously, she began to babble a little. “So… I obviously cottoned on to that after I started at the Ministry, and I adapted, and I did pretty well at the DMLE. They kept asking me to be an Auror because of my spellwork, but I freeze up completely under pressure, and I’m a terrible dualist, so that was out of the question. I do much better behind the scenes - always have. But…” she sighed and drank a little more wine as her monologue threatened to run away with her. “To answer your original question, I lost sight of where the line was,” she said.

“What line?”

She shook her head, loose ringlets shivering with the motion. “The line between work and family, I suppose. I took on more and more work to try and prove my value, and stayed later and later every night at the Ministry. I didn’t even realise I was losing our marriage until it was far, far too late. Ron and I argued an awful lot towards the end, but somehow it was still a shock to me when he asked for a divorce.”

She tucked a stray ringlet behind her ear, revealing a simple silver earring.

“It was like I was so wrapped up in all this work — which I could have delegated, but I was still it doing anyway because…” she puffed her cheeks out and shrugged, “…because that’s just what the Minister for Magic does, right?” With a final sigh she finished her wine and said, “So a week after the divorce went through, I was sitting in my office, and I looked at all the memos still zipping around in front of me, and I just thought… ‘this is my life. This is all I am’, and I quit that afternoon.”

“Brave of you,” he murmured.

“I didn’t feel like it at the time,” she said, grateful beyond words at his reaction. No one, bar perhaps Harry, had reacted that way back then. They’d all thought she was nuts. “I spent a month in a Muggle cottage in the middle of nowhere in Pembrokeshire, and then another five months back here in London doing almost nothing. I was a complete mess. It was around then that Ginny got pregnant with Lily, so I was there for her quite a bit, looking after Albus and James and teaching them. That was fun. I really enjoyed that. I think… I think brought me back down after the chaos of quitting my job like that, you know?”

“Children can do that,” he commented wryly. “You and Weasley never had any though.”

She’d seen the blow coming — set herself up perfectly for it — but it still caught her full in the chest. She swallowed and shook her head, unable to look him in the eye for reasons she hoped to keep secret from him. “We tried, but…” she shrugged. “It wasn’t to be. Not long after that though, I saw the advert for the bookshop, and I’ve never looked back.”

Draco frowned. “I’m sorry.”

“It was probably for the best anyway. I don’t think I’d have made a good mother back then. I barely made time for myself, let alone for a family.” She cleared her throat and then asked, “Speaking of sprogs, did you find out why Scorpius is in detention?”

He barked a laugh at that and she found herself relaxing again as he let her artlessly change subjects.

“My dear little mandrake somehow brewed a stink bomb in his dormitory and set it off in the library near some Gryffindors. They’d apparently been mocking Albus for being a Potter in Slytherin. Did the job so well that the Gryffindors smelled of rotten eggs for a week, no matter what they tried to get rid of it.” He seemed quietly proud of Scorpius for that, and she couldn’t really blame him, knowing what a talent Draco himself had had for potions back then.

Her face did darken at the news of Albus being bullied though, and she made a note to check in on Harry. Then she reeled back through his last sentence, to the part where he’d called Scorpius his ‘dear little mandrake’, and chuckled. “You still call him that then?”

“What, ‘mandrake’?” Malfoy seemed surprised by her question.

“Mm.”

“If the shoe fits, Granger. I’ve never heard of a child that could scream like Scorpius, so when you dubbed him that, it kind of stuck.”

A huge smile dawned on her face and her stomach swooped somehow.

“What?” he asked.

“Draco Malfoy is a huge sap,” she said. “Who’d have thought it?”

He rolled his grey eyes but couldn’t keep the answering smile off his face. “Don’t broadcast it, Granger.”

“It’ll be our secret, I promise,” she said.

Draco’s gaze slid over her shoulder a little while later and he signalled the waiter with a subtle raising of his pale eyebrows.

When the man appeared, it was not to take payment in coins the way every other wizarding establishment did, but it was with a parchment and quill for him to sign. It struck her as oddly modern for the magical world, akin to a cheque or even a credit card. Transaction complete, the waiter departed, leaving behind a small tray of delicate petit fours.

“Draco, I don’t think I can eat another thing,” she said, looking wistfully at them.

“I can ask them to box them up for us if you'd prefer?” he said.

With that done, they rose and headed out. Draco collected his cloak and swirled it around his shoulders, and they stepped through the illusory wall and back into a damp, Muggle London.

“Draco,” she whispered, standing on the pavement beside him and becoming very aware of just how tall he was now, even with her heels to help.

His eyes were dark, pupils wide once more, as he regarded her. “Mmm?”

“I don’t want tonight to end,” she whispered. “Isn’t that silly?” She almost sobbed as she thought about going back to her sorry little empty apartment after spending all evening either smiling or laughing or really just… talking.

“No,” he replied. After a beat of silence, he hissed, “Granger, may I kiss you?”

“Yes,” she breathed, and parted her lips as he brought his warm, slightly rough hands to her jawline and held her delicately. He moved as if he were convinced he still wasn’t allowed to touch her at all, but when she smiled up at him, he exhaled roughly and returned it faintly.

Then he leaned down, angling his head slightly to the left, and brushed his lips against hers so lightly she almost missed it. He still tasted of chocolate and wine, but she chased the retreating gesture hungrily, pressing her lips against his, placing her hands on his hips and drawing their bodies together. She could feel how sharp his hipbones were through the fabric of his trousers and it made her ache inside and out to map his body.

Draco moaned and his eyes fluttered closed as he kissed her; gently at first, and then, as a fire kindled in him, he became more demanding. His teeth nipped at her lower lip followed by the tantalising brush of his tongue that left her tingling all over. Unquestioningly, she let him deepen their kiss until they were both breathless, and she could feel his growing arousal where she pressed her body against his.

Panting, Draco finally drew back, still without taking his hands from her face. He stood stooped, his eyes closed, his teeth sunk into his lip. “Granger,” he breathed at last.

“Are you going back to the Manor?” she asked, feeling slightly giddy.

“No, I have a flat in London. If you… If you wanted to come back with me, you’d… you'd be most welcome.”

“Is it far?”

“We’re probably best apparating from here,” he said, finally lowering his hands, though he didn't step back.

She could have counted every one of his silver lashes if she’d had the concentration for it. As it was, her core burned, and she was suddenly wetter and more turned on than she could ever remember being.

“You could side-along if you’d like?” he rasped.

She frowned, the fog in her mind starting to clear just a fraction. “You don’t have wards up?” When he pursed his lips, the knut dropped and she laughed. “You already adjusted them? That confident were we, Malfoy? I don't know whether to be impressed or insulted…”

His cheeks darkened and he chuckled. “More like… I was being hopelessly optimistic. But I don’t want you to feel pressured, Granger. We can call it a night here if you’d prefer.”

“Thank you for that,” she said quickly, but she took hold of his fingers where they rested by his side, and squeezed his hand. “But we’re not in our twenties, and we don’t have to pretend to wait for the third date or whatever to know what we want. Besides,” she added with a glint in her eyes, “If I have to go any longer than another few seconds without your mouth on me again, I may just explode.”

Pleasantly stunned by her affirmation, Malfoy recovered quickly, and kissed her again. It was not chaste or fleeting this time. “Ready?” he asked when he eventually straightened.

She nodded, and clung to him as the unpleasant, hook-like apparition spell took hold of both of them and yanked them across London to the centre of Malfoy’s living room.

He let her catch her breath before robbing her of it once again with kiss after kiss, over and over. Then he moved his attention down her neck until she was gasping, chest heaving, and hot all over. Her small clutch hit the floorboards as her fingers went limp, and he shrugged off his cloak and jacket, dumping the clothes on the nearby white sofa before returning to her.

She had barely had time to take in the sleek, austere, and rather soulless furnishings of the apartment before he was sucking a bruise at her collarbone and she flung her head back with a broken cry of pleasure.

“Gods, Granger,” he said between kisses. “I’ve wanted to do that to you all evening.”

“You have?” she laughed as his hands skimmed down her sides to her hips and gripped her tightly.

He growled something inarticulate and then moved his touch to the zip at the back of her dress. “May I?”

“I’ve thought about you doing that all evening,” she said playfully, eliciting another growl from him before he had turned her and drawn the zip all the way down to the small of her back.

“Oh Merlin and Morgana,” he purred appreciatively under his breath as he began kissing her where she stood, working his way over her shoulder blade and down to her bra clasp. He raked his teeth over the slightly freckled skin of her back and then delicately drew the shoulders of her dress down so that the fabric pooled around her waist, leaving her upper body exposed in only her bra.

He moved her to face him again and continued to undress her, staring wide eyed and hungrily at her in a way that made her squirm, heat and wetness pooling between her legs. When he got to her matching underwear, he knelt before her on the floorboards and kissed her lower stomach and hips before sliding his fingertips under the dark lace and caressing the impossibly sensitive skin where her groin met her thigh.

“Granger, sit back for me?” he asked and she sank, shaky-kneed, onto the sofa behind her. Self-consciousness crashed through her as he continued to stare openly at her and she swallowed.

Clearly sensing something was wrong, he looked up and frowned. “Is… Is this alright?” he asked, hands faltering where his fingertips rested on the inside of her thighs.

“Yeah,” she said truthfully. “Just… Well…” she inhaled and then let it go with a nervous laugh. “It’s been a while since anyone’s seen me without my clothes on, Malfoy. And even with yours still on, it’s hard not to feel a bit… you know…”

Malfoy snarled, lip curling. “You’re exquisite, Granger,” he growled. “I’ve been half-hard all fucking evening. Let me show you how bloody gorgeous you are?” he asked, and with that, he spread her legs a little more and drew her underwear to one side.

He skimmed the pad of his thumb slowly, reverently over her clit and she bucked, abandoning much of her embarrassment as a jolt of pleasure seared through her. “Oh God, Malfoy…” she grunted as he kissed up the insides of her thighs, occasionally closing his teeth over her skin.

“Can I taste you?” he asked from his vigil on the floor between her knees.

“Yes… God, yes…”

And with that, he drew her underwear down while she hitched her hips up to help, and his mouth closed over her sex. The sudden, pressing heat of it made her head loll back and her spine arch, but then he brought his tongue to her and laved a long stripe up over her folds and circled her clit and she shuddered.

“You’re so wet,” he breathed, sounding astonished.

“Mmm,” she said. “Not the only one who’s been thinking about this all night,” she laughed.

“Fuck…” he hissed to himself as he returned his mouth to her.

The steady motion of his tongue dipping occasionally inside her before returning to suckle and lick at her clit had her shaking and clutching the sofa in minutes. Nothing that anyone had ever done to her had ever felt this good. Heat built inside her like a stoked furnace and she arched again while Draco held her with both his arms beneath her thighs, drawing himself into her. He was going to bring her to her peak with nothing but his mouth.

“Draco I’m going to come,” she gasped. “Draco… Oh fuck… Draco!” and with that, she shattered. A convulsing wave of heat and blinding white light ripped through her and she cried out, head thrown back, mouth open, eyes screwed shut as Draco kept his tongue pressed to her pulsing clit and eased her through it.

When he sat back on his heels, his lips were puffy and shone from her arousal, and he gazed up at her as if she were some kind of goddess. His eyes were blown dark, wide with a kind of reverent lust that she’d never imagined him capable of.

He looked her up and down and smiled.

“I didn’t even take my shoes off,” she laughed a moment later as the realisation dawned.

“I know,” he smiled. “That was partly what made me lose it so quickly. You clearly have no idea how fucking incredible you look, Granger.”

She had to smile at that. How could she not smile when he was still kneeling between her legs and the evidence of his own arousal was plain to see.

“Would you like me to help you out of them?” he asked.

“Please,” she said.

His hands held her ankle so delicately that she bucked again, though the movement was muted. He caressed the bones of her ankle and after he had slipped her feet from the shoes, he set them to one side and rose gracefully to his feet. He held out his hand and asked, “Bedroom?”

“Unless you want me to ride you here on your living room couch,” she said and his jaw slackened slightly. “Then yes.”

He led her, naked save for her bra, to a room just off from the sitting room, and while he still had his back to her to focus on casting a soft lumos spell, she unclasped her bra and let it fall to the floor. Drawn by the sound of it hitting the carpet, he turned. In two steps, he had crossed back to her and in his right hand he took a handful of her hair and tipped her head back, while in his left he cupped the weight of her right breast and moaned against her mouth.

“Are you trying to get me to spill in my trousers like a teenager, Granger?” he hissed.

She laughed. “Let’s get you caught up then,” she said, and began to undo the button and zip at his waistband. He stepped out of his trousers and left them crumpled on the floor, and she whispered, “You have the most incredible legs, Draco. I’ve always thought so.”

“You have?” he asked, hands going to begin on his tie and shirt buttons while she ran her fingers around his lower stomach beneath the waistband of his black boxer-briefs.

“Mmm. I know I didn’t like you as a person back then, but even I have to admit you looked incredible out there in your quidditch kit.”

He smirked, clearly pleased, and fumbled a button.

“Let me?”

His cock twitched noticeably, and he raised his chin a little, hands falling limply at his sides. Before she’d managed even a single button, his fingers had found her hips again and he began tracing idle circles with his thumb over her skin.

Hermione took her time undressing him, and when she finally peeled back the front of his shirt, she bit her lip at the sight of his torso. Without removing his shirt completely, she brought her fingertips to his pecs and trailed them down, circling one nipple without quite touching the dusky pink bud, and then moved down over the clear ridges of his abs. He was in incredible shape, seemingly without an ounce of fat on him anywhere. She swallowed, throat dry.

“How are you even real?” she found herself whispering. “Draco, you’re beautiful…”

He flushed from his collarbones, up his neck, all the way to his ears, but didn’t move. His eyes fluttered closed, and as she drew back the fabric of his shirt a little further, she noticed a long, silver scar slashing across his chest like the after-image of a lightning strike. It stretched from his left shoulder, across his chest, down to below his right ribs and, she realised as she followed the line of it with her fingers, he had a second right above the waistband of his boxer-briefs. A third, smaller scar curled around his left hip.

“Is that where…?”

“Potter,” he hissed through closed teeth. His smile was sad, like he’d long ago forgiven the boy for lashing out with a spell he’d never even heard of.

It was only as she pulled his shirt slowly off his perfect, marble shoulders, that she remembered his Dark Mark. Instantly her eyes went to his left arm, where all of Voldemort’s followers had borne his brand, and there in fading, dark, smudged ink, sat the leering skull with its coiling snake.

“Don’t,” he snarled softly, drawing his arm back away from her. “Don’t look at it.”

“Alright,” she said.

His eyebrows rose, as if he’d expected her to argue and lecture him somehow, but instead, she hooked her finger beneath the waistband of his one remaining piece of clothing, and pulled his underwear carefully down, freeing his cock.

Pre-come beaded instantly at the flushed head, and he inhaled softly as she smiled and pressed her palm into his hip, steering him back towards the bed.

In a daze, he let her move him, and he laid his head back on the pillows, hair as white as the cotton beneath, and stared up at her with his eyes dark and lidded. “Granger,” he whispered, and she straddled him slowly. His hands found her hips as she sank down and rocked her wet folds up the length of his hard cock. At the contact, he gasped and jerked his sharp chin up towards the ceiling, heels digging into the mattress behind her. “Oh fuck, Granger…” he said.

“Mmm?”

“Oh gods. Oh Merlin… fuck…”

“I’ve reduced him to a babbling idiot again,” she giggled, and he laughed too. The sound was open and free and truly delighted, and she leaned down and took his nipples between finger and thumb and tweaked them slowly.

A deep, guttural groan left his throat and the tendons jutted out in sharp relief against his neck as his whole body went taut. He tried to buck beneath her, but she held him firmly between her thighs and he dug his fingers into the muscle of her legs hard enough that she thought she might bear the marks of it afterwards.

Draco began to pant as she rolled herself repeatedly along his cock, luxuriating in the gliding contact.

Then she heard him hiss a contraceptive spell, and she almost laughed. Clearly it was little more than a reflex for him, and she didn’t interrupt him for it, but the surprise of it nearly brought her out of the moment altogether. Next he had brought his hand to his cock and was guiding the head to enter her. She was slick and sensitive from having come already, and he eased into her without resistance.

She was, however, as he declared in a broken moan, “…so fucking tight…”

Hermione began to rock again once he was seated inside her to the hilt, but he grabbed her hips and curled his torso in on itself, panting. “Don’t move, Granger. Fuck. Don’t fucking move.”

She smirked. “You’re that close already?”

“Shut up,” he snapped without sting, and then let his shoulders drop back down to the mattress behind him again. “Fuck…” he laughed, almost shyly.

Then he surprised her again by reaching his hands up to her shoulders and suddenly the world tilted, and she found herself beneath him and lying on her back on the mattress. She parted her legs a little further, allowing him deeper, and he growled again. He looked ethereal as he loomed over her, all pale skin and silver hair, and her core tightened.

“You’re going to make me come again, Draco,” she whispered as it built inside her anew. This time it was less raw and needful, but no less intense.

And with that, he began to move. At first, he withdrew until he was almost all the way out, leaving only the tip of his cock inside her, but soon enough he sank back down to the hilt with another glorious groan. Picking up a rhythm that soon had him heaving for breath, he raised one of her legs and hooked her knee over his shoulder, her thigh to his chest. With that new angle, he hit her so deep with every stroke that she saw stars.

“You’re going to come for me, aren’t you Granger?” he rasped. “Gods, I can feel it. I can feel you… you’re so tight. You’re perfect, you’re… Granger…” he grunted and then he was coming. His torso clenched and his head bowed low, and the rush of his release inside her and the way he clung to her shoulders tipped her over the edge and she followed him.

Malfoy raised himself on shaking arms a long moment later, one hand braced on either side of her head, and looked down at her. His white hair was dishevelled and a sheen of sweat stippled across his forehead, but it was his eyes that held her. Dark and glassy, he stared in open wonder at her, and then he smiled.

“Granger…” he whispered, and she laughed with elation as she kissed him.

___

Chapter Seven

Let me know what you think, and help a newbie (at least to contributing anyway) to the fandom out by reblogging!

writing masterlist | Ao3

#dramione #dramione fic #older dramione #draco malfoy x hermione granger #hermione granger x draco malfoy #draco x hermione #hermione x draco #let no man steal your thyme

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queen--kenobi · 4 years ago

Note

19. “She’s hiding behind the sofa.”

Any of the Sinclair boys really.

I know you just did Bo so maybe Vincent?

That Bo fic by the way was *chefs kiss* 💋

The only sound is the sound of your pencil against paper. Occasionally, you can hear a page begin flipped as Lester thumbs through an old magazine left on the coffee table. Your brow is pinched as you concentrate. Thank God Lester had shown up instead of Bo; the youngest Sinclair seemed to understand what you were doing as soon as you explained it. You frown. You tilt your sketchbook to make sure that it’s not just you, that the angle of the line looked weird. You huff and begin erasing furiously. As soon as the line is gone, you angle the paper again. Maybe it’s just the way you’re holding it.

“She’s hiding behind the sofa.” Lester’s voice nearly makes you jump out of your skin. You can’t help but notice how much more redneck and twangy his voice is compared to Bo’s. You hadn’t heard footsteps, so it wasn’t Bo who just came in. You pop up from behind the couch. Sure enough, Vincent is standing in the doorway to the kitchen. His head is tilted to his left. Even behind his mask, you can tell he’s surveying the room with curiosity.

“Traitor.” You hiss at Lester.

“I never said I wasn’t gonna tell him.” Lester defends himself. He sounds far too pleased with himself. “All I said was I understood why you’re back there.”

Vincent begins crossing the room. You scramble to close your sketchbook and gather your pencils. You’re not ready for him to see it, not yet. It’s nowhere near ready for anyone to see it, especially not Vincent. You open your mouth to defend yourself, scooping the sketchbook up and holding it close to your chest.

The sound of the doorway being ripped open makes all of you pause. The three of you listen with baited breath to the sound of Bo’s footsteps. They’re heavy, but he’s not stomping. You lift your head up to see better. Bo makes his way into the living room. He takes off his cap and throws it to the side before looking at the three of you. His eyes narrow.

“Shown Vincent your art project yet?” Bo’s tone is derisive. He doesn’t wait for an answer before heading towards the kitchen. He stops right beside Lester. “Get the fuck out of my chair.” Your mouth hangs open for a second before you think better of it. You shut your mouth, your jaw setting. Lester looks at you, then at Vincent, then at Bo’s retreating form.

“You know, I think I might have seen some roadkill on my way in.” Your eyes narrow. The old easy chair creaks as he scrambles out of it. “I better go get that before one of my bosses sees.”

“You’re a bitch, Lester.” You accuse him as he practically runs out the door. Bo lets out a laugh from somewhere in the kitchen.

“Yeah he is.” Bo makes mocking chicken noises. Not that Lester could hear him. The faucet turns on, and you’re grateful for it. Vincent looks at you, and you swear if you could see his face, he’d be frowning.

“He is! Bo even agreed!” You defend yourself as you finish scooping up your pencils and sketchbook. Vincent crosses his arms slightly. The movement pulls his sweater tighter against his chest. You sigh and hang your head as an act of contrition. Vincent shifts. His arms drop slightly but stay crossed. It’s better than it was earlier. “I’ll tell him I’m sorry.” You mumble.

Vincent’s stance softens even more but not enough. Something else is clearly upsetting him. You look at him. Your eyes search his and then his posture. You can hear Bo rattle around in the kitchen. This feels like a conversation you don’t want to have near him.

“Do you want to go downstairs?” You ask softly. Vincent doesn’t respond. He turns around and begins heading that way without you. You blink. You’ve never seen him this upset with you. You scuttle after him, a frown making its way onto your face. He couldn’t be that upset with you over not showing him your work, could he? You’re silent until the two of you make it down to Vincent’s work area.

“Vincent.” He doesn’t turn to look at you, just starts pulling out pots of wax. “Vincent. I’m not showing you it to be mean or exclude you.” That makes him pause. “It’s not ready yet! It doesn’t look right, and I don’t want you to see it until it’s perfect.”

Vincent sets the pots down on his work table. They don’t clank, so you know his movements are less forceful. You can tell he’s waiting for you to explain something else. You have to scan your memory.

“I didn’t show Bo, if that’s what’s got you worried!” Your eyes light up. Vincent turns to look at you. His head is tilted once more. “Swear I didn’t. I was hiding out in the gun store because I know you don’t come back that way, and I wanted to work on this where you couldn’t see me. Because it was supposed to be a surprise for you. But that was the day of the thunderstorm, and Bo had to come back that way to fix something in there. And I moved to get out of his way, but I had left my sketchbook, and he saw. So I didn’t show it to him.” As you speak, you words come out faster and faster.

Vincent’s shoulders drop all the way. He takes several steps towards you. You smile. You place your things on the table and take several steps towards him, opening your arms. He hesitates for a second before wrapping his arms around you. Vincent didn’t flinch, just hesitated. That knowledge makes your heart glow. God. To think that a month ago he still would flinch ever-so-slightly when you would go to touch him. It’s unbelievable progress.

“I wanted it to be a surprise. I know that because Bo doesn’t like to celebrate you guys birthday, that you don’t. But. I thought since I can’t give you a birthday present, I can give you a commemoration present.” You murmur into his shoulder. “So I was going to make you something to commemorate when you started doing this.”

You’re not sure what you’re expecting, but him pulling you closer isn’t it. Vincent pulls you tightly to him. For a second, you think you can hear a hitch in his breathing. You rub a small circle on his back.

“You still can’t see it. Not until it’s done.” He nods several times in understanding.

“If y’all lovebirds are done, it’s dinner time! So get your fucking asses up here.” Bo’s voice echoes down the stairs. The derision hasn’t left it. “I’m starving, and I’m not about to wait for you two.”

#Vincent Sinclair x reader #Ask prompts #dkstdajd thank you anon!!!!#The family dynamic is basically that you and Vincent are the first married couple and Bo is the jealous brother-in-law #And everyone would assume that he'd get married first and he's forever bitter about it #I almost went with reader being a victim tbh???

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buriednurbckyrd · 4 years ago

Text

The Breakup Box (1)

She pulled into the parking spot and turned off the car. She sat for a few moments with the keys in her hand, staring off into space. Three days ago she had left the compound excited and happy, and now she was back and it was all she could do not to cry. She rested her forehead against the steering wheel and took several deep breaths. All she wanted was her bed. She wished she had the power to teleport herself there instantly, skip the walk where she could run into any number of people. She clenched her hand around the keys, the sharp metal biting into her skin. Part of her wanted to find them, her two favorite people, and let them wrap her up in their arms. Cry out the rest of her tears and spill the whole humiliating tale. The other part was praying that they were still in Wakanda. They had been when she left. Even though they had been expected back during the weekend she still hoped that they had decided to extend their visit.

“Get up, you coward,” she muttered to herself. “You can't sit here forever.” She got out of the car and slung her weekend bag over her shoulder before hefting the box that had ridden beside her in the passenger seat. Pushing the door closed with her hip she made her way inside the building. The hallways were blessedly empty and she began to wonder if some luck was finally on her side. But the closer she got to the residential areas she realized there would be no reprieve for her. Back from Wakanda then, she thought. Steve and Bucky were clearly home, laughing and joking with Sam. All three of them were directly in her way, there was no chance of sneaking to her room without being seen. Steeling herself, she walked into the open living space.

“Y/N!” The super soldiers cried in unison with brilliant smiles.

“Hey guys.” She replied, trying to keep her voice even and calm. “Have a good trip?” Bucky frowned at her greeting. Y/N shifted uncomfortably, avoiding his eyes. “Hi Sam.”

“Is everything okay, Y/N?” Steve came around the couch. “Can I help you with your box?”

“Uh, Steve...” Sam looked at the box in her hands and her expression, things adding up for him. “Maybe we should just let Y/N go on to her room. She's probably tired from her trip.” She felt almost faint from relief.

“Yeah, I'm um. Pretty beat. Just gonna...” She nodded her head in the vague direction of her room. And then scuttled out of the room as quickly as she could manage. Steve watched her leave in puzzlement.

“What was that?” He glanced over at Sam. “She didn't even look at me.”

“Don't take it personal, man. She had the break up box. Obviously her weekend getaway with Mister Boring didn't go well.”

“Break up box?” Bucky looked confused. Sam sighed.

“You know, after a couple breaks up and you have to pack up the things you've left at your significant others place? The break up box.” He explained. Steve and Bucky shared a look.

“I thought everything was good between them.” Steve said. Sam didn't respond for a few moments, but Bucky noticed the subtle eye roll directed at Steve.

“I'm sure that's what she wanted to think, and everyone else too. It was only a matter of time if you ask me. That guy was a bowl of plain oatmeal.” He glanced over in the direction she had gone. “I'm only surprised that she didn't dump his ass.”

“Wait a minute, how do you know she didn't?” Bucky asked.

“Dude, weren't you like the most dangerous assassin in the world for seventy years? And some legendary lady's man before that? Not to mention the fact that the two of you stick to her like white on rice, following her around like lost little puppies.”

“What's that got to do with anything?”

“A lot, actually. I know Shuri's fixed that stabby part of your stellar personality and the Casanova shtick is a thing of the past since I'm pretty sure the only bed you're heating up these days is Steve's.”

“Jesus, Sam.” Steve flushed tomato red.

“Fuck off.” Bucky growled.

“She's also like your best friend, right? Don't you know her at all?”

“All right, that's enough,” Steve stepped in before the two men could continue their bickering. “There's no reason to argue, we're all concerned.

“Just saying, it's not that difficult to figure out what happened if you follow the signs. Especially if you know how to read people,” he shot Bucky a frustrated look. “She was clearly uncomfortable and embarrassed.”

“And she's definitely been crying.” Steve said softly.

“Put that together with the fact that she was all jazzed about going to see that guy when she left. She expected some romance. And now she's back, upset, and carrying a sad little box of trinkets.”

“I still don't know how I'm supposed to figure all that out in a span of five minutes.” Bucky huffed.

“You're not,” Steve said before Sam could say something snide. “And you might be good at reading people, but that doesn't mean you're right. Any number of things could have happened.” He shot back up to his feet. “Anything could have happened. Something to her family. We should go check on her.” Sam picked up the remote and turned on the TV.

“I'm telling you, it's a break up. And if she wanted to talk about it she wouldn't have run off to her room.”

…

Y/N shut the box in her closet. She didn't have the emotional energy to even look at it, let alone go through it. She stood in front of her bed, tempted to just strip down, crawl under the blankets, and slip into the oblivion of sleep.

“No. Go wash your face and brush your damn teeth,” she scolded herself. “I refuse to be a tragic cliche.” She forced herself to take her time, focusing all her thoughts on the tasks at hand. It worked for a little while, until she was in her most comfortable pajamas laying in her bed. Then the thoughts came rushing back. All those bitter words. The accusations. She rolled over and buried her face in a pillow and groaned.

It had all been a disaster from the beginning. She tried to plan something fun and special and it had blown up in her face spectacularly. Worse, she should have seen it coming. Well, you know what they say about hindsight. A timid knock at her door interrupted her self pity.

“Y/N?” She sat up quickly when Steve called out. Her door cracked open. “Y/N we just wanted to check on you.” She looked over and saw both his and Bucky's worried faces.

“I'm fine.” She said tightly. “Was there anything else?” She felt terrible when they seemed to flinch at her cool tone.

“It's just…” Bucky bit his lip before pushing his way into her room. “Sam thinks you were dumped.” He cringed. “I mean...that came out wrong. We just want to make sure you're really okay.” Her eyes blazed with anger.

“I said I'm fine,” she snapped. “And no offense, but I don't really want to be around a happy, functional couple right now.” She turned away and stared at the wall.

“Y/N, sweetheart...” Steve took a few steps towards her bed.

“Seriously, I just want to be alone!” She yelled, and cursed herself when her voice cracked. “Leave me alone.” She whispered, choking back tears. There were a few moments of silence and then she heard the men retreat and shut her door with a quiet click.

The tears streamed down her cheeks now, she couldn't hold them back anymore. And even though she had ordered Bucky and Steve to leave her room, when she wrapped her arms around herself she couldn't help wishing they hadn't listened.

And that, she finally admitted to herself, was the root of most, if not all, of her current troubles.

***I’ve been wanting to write a poly relationship fic since I dabbled with Steve/Reader/Bucky in a previous work. I’d love and appreciate any comments/feedback as I work on this.

#Steve x Bucky #Steve x Reader x Bucky #Stucky x Reader #Reader insert #plus sized reader

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aenwoedbeannaa · 5 years ago

Text

Forest Fires || Geralt x Reader

Requested By: salmonbutter

Word Count: 2,080

Warnings: Mild Violence, Gore, there will eventually be smut let’s be real.

Summary: A master huntress living deep in the woods, you rarely find yourself in human company. On a cool late autumn evening, the forest goes quiet. Not one to sit and wait for trouble to find you, you grab your bow and head out to look. A gravely injured Witcher with silver hair is the last thing you expected to find.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Note: This is only Part I of what will probably be a pretty long story. The rest will be linked when they are posted. Make sure you follow to stay up-to-date!

Part I: A Stranger in the Woods

The forest is eerily quiet. Yes, your home is far from civilization——by choice—but still, the usual sounds of evening were notably absent. Adrenaline courses through your veins, your body telling you that something was off. If the animals were silent, there was something quieting them.

You remembered a time when the adrenaline coursing through your veins would have filled you with panic. That was a long time ago, before you’d set off to live on your own. Now, the adrenaline only brought the world into hyper-focus. Every leaf, every twig, every silent creature scuttling past were noted.

Your bow is in your hand, one arrow drawn, though it is unnecessary. You can pull an arrow from your back, string it, and shoot before most people have time to blink twice. Your steps are quiet thanks to the leather boots you’d fashioned and years of practice. Your cousin used to joke that you should have been a Witcher. You always laughed it off, but if you were completely honest, you did not disagree.

You slip between the trees, keeping in the shadows and ensuring that your back was protected. The trees of the forest were excellent for that, and you knew the general area nearly as well as you knew your bow.

A twig snaps somewhere off to your left, and you draw in a silent breath. Its at least twenty feet away, but you need to be careful. It is unlikely that whatever snapped that twig is just an animal scrambling for hiding. The animals of this wood, just like you, are silent as death.

You slip between the trees, moving in the general direction of the sound. You’d rather catch whatever it is off-guard than wait for it to find you, which you are almost certain it would. You do not doubt your skills—you are an efficient killer, but you learned long ago that it was far better to be a predator than prey.

You keep your breathing even. If you don’t, your heartbeat will speed up, and trying to hear over the roar of blood in your ears is nearly impossible. You’ve covered at least half the distance between the tree you’d been using as protection when you heard the twig and the approximate location whoever or whatever it was that snapped that twig when you hear the sharp whistle of steel in the air and a sickening crack.

You are not the only hunter in the wood.

The swing of steel tells you that there is at least one human or elf involved. This is quite surprising, considering you’d heard only the snap of a single twig. Humans are never so silent. Even elves don’t move that quietly.

A moment later, you hear a sharp groan. It sounds like a man.

Growing curious, you speed up your movements slightly, still careful not to make a sound. Whatever is going on, the parties are moving quickly. It seems like you cannot catch up unless you are constantly moving.

The next sound you hear is the sound of something——claws? The sound of tearing flesh. Then there is another groan. The man is hurt, and badly from what she can gather. But there is one more powerful slash, steel cutting through air, flesh, and then bone.

You shudder. There is a reason you prefer your bow. Well-aimed arrows kill your prey instantly, and from a distance. Swords may be efficient, but they are messy.

You cautiously move forward, in case there was more than one creature. The chance of that being the case is quite unlikely, however. The air is already filling with the usual sounds of the wood once more. Birds tweeting, the scraping of tiny claws against wood as squirrels dash climb the rough tree trunks, jumping from branch to branch with ease.

You reach a small clearing——oddly perfect for battle. Your eyes land first on some grotesque creature that you are quite positive that you’ve never seen before. These woods are generally untouched by beasts. A chill runs up your spine as you stare at the creature. Its dark, patchy fur is coated with blood. Its hideous head has been hacked clean from its body.

Once you tear your head away from the supernatural-looking beast, they fix on a man. You see the sword that must have done the hacking lying on the ground next to him. You notice immediately by its shine that it is silver, not steel. So, a Witcher. That explains why he he hadn’t made a sound.

He is lying in a pool of his own blood. Four claw marks seem to have cut clean through his armor. As you approach, he groans once more. If he hadn’t, you would have thought he was dead, as wounded as he was. It was said that Witchers were able to withstand much more than the average human, thanks to their mutations. Still, Witcher or no, if he stays there much longer, he will die. He’s losing too much blood.

You sling your bow back over your shoulder, confident that there was only one of those things, and this Witcher killed it. You are already digging in your satchel as you lurch toward the Witcher. You’re going to have to staunch the bleeding and keep the deep wounds from getting infected.

Ever prepared for a hunt gone sour, you’ve got a small jar of healing salve and a roll of cotton bandages. Judging by the look of the Witcher’s injuries, you are going to need the entire jar. You momentarily hesitate, because that one jar had taken you at least a month to prepare, and the herbs it contained were either difficult to find or incredibly expensive. Still, your conscience would never let you leave someone bleeding out on the forest floor——especially when that someone killed a beast that could very well have done the same thing to you had it been left to freely wander the woods.

You go to work immediately, pulling your hunting knife out of the strap that held it to your leg. It takes some effort, but you are able to cut away most of his leather armor and underclothes to reveal four deep gashes across his torso a and up to his shoulder. Thankfully, you were used to things like this. Well, not exactly like this, but similar enough.

A deer and a human aren’t so different, you had to tell yourself. You didn’t complete the thought, which was that, when you saw a deer in this situation, you were usually in the process of gutting it for a winter’s worth of food and new clothes.

Stifling the urge to vomit, you scooped out a good deal of the oily mixture and began slathering it on the open wounds. The moment it touched his skin, you heard a harsh intake of breath. You glanced up at the Witcher’s face to see his eyes had opened wide in what you could only read as fear and pain. They were amber, with pupils like a cat’s. His jaw was clamped tightly shut, teeth barred.

“It stings, I know,” you tell him in as soothing a tone as you can muster thanks to your own fear. “It will numb after a few minutes,” you add.

The silver-haired Witcher just grunts and nods his head, screwing his eyes shut, and you go back to work slathering the ointment over each gash, ignoring the blood now coating your hands.

You unroll the cotton bandages, thankful that you have an exorbitant amount with you. You begin wrapping it tightly around his shoulder, the easiest place to begin. By now, though, the Witcher’s eyes are open and his breathing has steadied somewhat. The numbing agents in your salve must be working. And thank heavens for that, because there is no way that you’d be able to wrap the rest of his wounds without him sitting up.

“Can you sit up?” Your tone is gentle but firm. Hopefully, he can. Otherwise, you’re going to have to figure out how to bind his wounds some other way.

Thankfully, he answers, it’s more of a grunt than the word “yes,” but he nods his head. You support him as best you can with one hand on his back, helping him into a sitting position. Once he is sitting, you position yourself behind him so that he has something to support him.

His hair is softer than you thought it would be——though you were surprised to even think about that at the present moment. It is difficult not to, though, when you’re nose is nearly buried in it as you look over his shoulder to make sure that you’re covering his wounds.

It takes a few minutes, but finally the Witcher is tightly bandaged up. You can see blood seeping through the bandages, but thankfully, they are not soaked through. It is, you assumed, a combination of your homemade healing salve and the mutation that you’ve read about—Witchers heal much more quickly than humans do.

Now that he’s bandaged up and the salve has numbed the worst of the pain, he looks far better than he did even ten minutes ago. You pull your water skin off of your pack and offer it to him.

“You should drink,” you tell him. You are on auto-pilot. The auto-pilot that has, so far, saved your own skin a number of times.

“Thank you.” His voice catches you somewhat off-guard as he takes the water skin from your hand. His voice is deep and soothing, somehow. But you shouldn’t be thinking about that right now, either.

You are already digging in your pack, looking for something for him to eat. With so much blood loss, he might topple over. You manage to scrounge up a handful of dried berries, seeds, and nuts.

“No need for thanks,” you tell him, meaning every word. You may be a bit of a recluse, but you do not have contempt for others. You just prefer to be alone. “Eat this,” you add quickly, practically shoving the handful of gathered food at him.

There is no need, however. He takes it and tentatively takes a few bites before eventually wolfing down the entire thing.

“That’s all I’ve got with me,” you frown. “But there’s plenty more back at my cottage, and I can make you some real food.” It’s more of a command than an offer. He is no longer toeing the line between life and death, but he is still not well. It will take an excellent healer to ensure that things go smoothly.

Thankfully, you are an excellent healer.

You look over at the Witcher, relieved to see that there was slight color in his cheeks now. Despite the slightly bloody bandages, he no longer looked like he was on the brink of death. You know already that there is no way you will be able to carry him all the way back to the cottage. You are strong, but the Witcher is huge, and clearly made all of muscle.

“Do you think you can walk?” you ask, chewing on your bottom lip. If he cannot, you already have a few ideas in your head. It wouldn’t be ideal, but you could probably run back to the cottage for some of the freshly tanned deer hide and fashion a bed of sorts. Dragging him back through the trees would be difficult, but not impossible.

Thankfully, however, he nods.

“Okay,” you say nodding. “Good…” You seem to have run out of words. Mostly because you were already running through a list of what you’d do once you got this stranger back to your home. You’d have to address his wounds more carefully, give him something to eat and drink. You have poppy milk, so he will be able to sleep without pain.

He pulls you from your thoughts when he finally speaks.

“My name is Geralt,” he says. “Can I ask yours, Huntress?”

You smile, despite the fact that you know he is gleaning information from you. You don’t blame him. It is difficult to trust anybody these days. You respond with your name, and he smiles back.

“Well, Y/N,” he says as you position yourself to help him up, one of his arms wrapped around your shoulder so he can lean on you for support. “I suppose I ought to thank you for saving my life.”

To be continued.

#the witcher #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x reader #the witcher fanfiction #geralt fanfiction #writing #fanfiction #story: forest fires

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sidespromptblog · 5 years ago

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Difficult to Love

Summary: Everything was running smoothly.

There was no stalling in Thomas’ own creative thoughts, no hesitations when it came to the knowledge that he needed to absorb for his newer video that he was working on, his anxiety was at a manageable level, and… he for all intents and purposes… he seemed happy.

Considering all of that, nothing seemed to be wrong. Everything was running smoothly, and there was no reason whatsoever to panic or kick up a fuss about anything.

And yet...

Word Count: 3700

AO3 LINK

The mindspace was oddly quiet as Remus made his way through the lighter spaces, it was warmer that was for sure but there was a silence that clung to the place like a funeral shroud to a freshly dead body ready to be burned. He wished that he could say that it was a surprise to see it that way, to not hear the chattering downstairs as the other light sides talk amongst themselves and the breakfast that they’ve made. Breakfast that he and Deceit were never once privy to, not that he could blame them, what with Deceit’s eating habits and his own attitude towards the most important meal of the day. Nevertheless, it didn’t change the fact that everything was completely and utterly silent.

And yet…

Everything was running smoothly.

Considering all of that, nothing seemed to be wrong. Everything was running smoothly, and there was no reason whatsoever to panic or kick up a fuss about anything.

And ordinarily, Remus would have cared less about any of that. Content to sow endless chaos wherever he could until either Deceit or his brother told him to knock it off, at least until he went at them with one of his beloved creations. So… he shouldn’t have cared, he shouldn’t be worried, and he shouldn’t even be here in the light space that both he and Deceit had been banned from for years. Yet here he was, his boots trekking thick globs of mud up the stairs leaving a visible trail for just about anyone to find. Not that it bothered him any, right now… nobody would stop him, not today.

Because…

Because they all knew that he had heard, just as well as Deceit had yeard.

He had heard the yelling of their argument that rang all throughout the mindspace, infiltrating even the darkest reaches of Thomas’ mind so that every side known and unknown could hear it. He had heard the shouting until the other side’s voice had gone hoarse and cracked, it had rattled Remus’ bones for the first time in… well, a very very long time. And finally… he had heard the door slam as the argument had eventually ended, shaking the picture frames on the walls and even rocking the very walls themselves.

He had heard it all, and he had heard the door remain shut still not opening weeks later.

At first, he had been fine with the silence, but now...

“So,” Remus cheerily flopped onto the floor next to the door, eagerly leaning his entire body weight back against the door as he crossed his mud-caked feet. “You’ve been in there for a while,” He began as he rattled his knuckles against the painted door, “Which I entirely get! No judgment coming from me, here! Talking to the others is more boring than vanilla sex, I’d rather pluck my eyeballs out and use them as nunchucks.” The creative side hastily amended, holding his hands up in the universal sign of peace… not that the other side would even see it though. “But…”

Here a moment of silence stretched between him and the side hidden behind the door, who still hadn’t said a single word to interrupt him from his inane ramblings.

He wasn’t worried though, not a single bit.

“Feel free to pipe up any time though, I might talk so much that I accidentally bite through my tongue and bleed out!” He giggled, waiting for something… anything really from the other side of the door.

Some shuffling, a snore, even the sound of the other snacking… anything would have been preferable rather than just having to hear his own voice like nails on a chalkboard over and over again. But there was nothing, a void where noise should have been, a void that ate everything up and spit out only the grey bones of what once was and what should have been. Not only was it boring but… it was unnerving even for Remus to have to sift through. It only served to make him that much more aware of the shrieking and repetitive thoughts inside his own head, there should be noise… there should be lots of rambling noise coming from behind the door… coming from downstairs in the kitchen where he and Deceit had never been.

But there wasn’t.

Remus’ foot bounced against the carpet, spreading even more of the dried up mud all over the place the longer that he sat there. Even with that same repetitive task, it felt like he had sat there in silence for what must have been hours, even if it was only for at most just a minute or two.

“Do you wanna play a game?” He suddenly asked, desperate for anything to break the silence at this point. “It’s a real easy one I promise. I’m not too good at those smarty pants games like chess, but this one…” Within seconds a roll of parchment had appeared in Remus’ hands along with a pen small enough and thin enough to slip under the doorway. “The theme is a feeling, hard I know. But I know you can get it.”

Drawing a messy sketch of the gallows, Remus rolled onto his stomach pressing his cheek flat against the now filthy carpet before carelessly shoving the parchment and pen under the gap in the door. Had he been a dog, particularly, a pit bull his entire body would have been wagging eagerly waiting for some kind of response from the person on the other side of the door.

This must’ve been what having a pen pal must’ve felt like, as he waited his stormy eyes still peering under the doorway eager to catch a glimpse of some kind of movement that would tell him he wasn’t just wasting his breath talking to nobody.

And for a moment.. for a split second, there was a blur in the darkness, a movement.

And Remus’ heartfelt as if it would explode right out of his chest, until-

The scroll of paper shot back out from under the door, smacking the creative side rather harshly, right on the nose.

“Hey!” Remus yelped, scuttling back as he clasped a hand over his nose. It didn’t do anything more than sting for just a second, but even so, it was the action that spoke more than anything. “That wasn’t nice you know!” He scolded, feeling heat tickling the tops of his ears as a blush easily swept over his features coloring his face in a deep red hue that Remus would have killed someone over for inflicting onto him. Or would have, had it not been this kind of situation. “I was just trying to-”

Remus stopped dead, or as dead as a living creative side could get in this case.

This beating lump of flesh shuddered in his chest, and the warmth that had descended over his face that had previously been unwanted felt like a warm summer morning as he stared down at the parchment that now had a single letter scribbled onto the corner. He was absolutely certain that in his entirety of an existence, that nothing… nothing had ever allowed him to feel like this before. It was like his entire body was a well full of adrenaline, that instead of making him simply feel buzzed and energized… made him feel dizzy and breathless.

He didn’t know if there was a word for something like this, but even if there was...

He didn’t care.

Remus shimmied closer to the door, so that his back was practically flush against the wood. “Oooh,” He eagerly crooned as he scribbled a plain circle onto the gallows, excitement squirming inside of him like worms coming up after a heavy rainfall to breathe. This.. this felt like the first time he had truly breathed in such a long time. “Close, but now you’ve got head!”

And so their game continued, their stacks of paper growing with each game until hours had passed.

With each day that passed, Remus could honestly say that their games… it was the thing that he looked forward to most with the rise of each morning. It certainly wasn’t what ordinary people would call fun, given that he just chattered to a door without having a single word to answer him back, but he knew that the other side was there, he knew that he was at least listening and paying attention to the things that he wrote on their game papers. He knew based on the doodles that he’d find messily scribbled next to his own gorey ones, he knew based on the little gradings that he’d find that would never be too harsh, and he knew because… he just did.

“I hope you’re eating.” He said one morning as the smell of waffles wafted up from the kitchen downstairs, he had felt no need to join the others even after coming to the light space every day for a week now. He knew that he wouldn’t be welcome there anyway, “I know we technically don’t need to eat, I mean look at me, I eat deodorant to piss the others off. But… you’re important you know.. You need to eat and keep your strength up.” Again silence, although it wasn’t like he was expecting anything else. “I’d care if you keeled over and died from starvation.”

Talking to someone who would never answer back wasn’t exactly the way that he thought he’d spend hours of his days, but… oddly enough he wasn’t complaining.

“Everything is so boring,” He complained one evening.

The amber glow of the fake setting sun in the window cast a warm glow down the hallway, the exact shade of fallen leaves and nostalgic times for Remus. The glow of that golden crested glow that made Remus’ scrunched up body form a long ominous shadow down what remained of the hallway.

“Ever since you ducked out… there’s no spice. You get what I’m saying?” He rambled, thunking his head back against the door as if to reaffirm that someone was still listening. “Like… I’m not into humiliation, it’s nowhere on my kink list but… the others just ignore me without you. You.. you at least knew how to take me on, and take me down a peg or two. You…” Remus’ lips tugged downward in an almost sad smile that filled him with an almost suffocating sense of melancholy that even his fake and authentic cheer couldn’t chase away this time. “You make me feel like I’m really here…”

There wasn’t an answer.

But then again Remus didn’t really expect one.

So with a heavy sigh, he picked himself back up, cracking his sore stiff bones from the position he had been sitting in for hours.

He didn’t want to leave, and yet…

“Goodnight,” He gently murmured to the door, his forehead softly bumping against the wood, letting the other side know exactly what he was doing. “You’ll have sweet dreams tonight… I promise.”

And just like that he left, his boots thunking heavily down the steps as the papers of their previous game remained clutched tightly in his hands.

He didn’t hear it… but the moment Remus was out of earshot, the harsh muffled sound of tears echoed solemnly behind the door.

But even so, their daily games continued.

They both seemingly looked forward to the hours in which Remus would eagerly climb the stairs, stomping up and soiling Patton’s carpet with whatever fluids he happened to be trekking in that day. Sometimes it was mud, sometimes red, sometimes yellow, and sometimes it was green. But no matter the color, it all stained the carpet the very same way that it always did, and with it came Patton’s annoying lecture about taking his boots off. A lecture that was always answered with Remus’ shit-eating grin, and the shifting of floorboards on the other side of that door telling the creative side that his playmate was ready.

“Okay!” He excitedly wiggled setting down a heavy book and a stack of papers, “I know I said that I wasn’t all that good at all these smarter games, but I DO know for a fact that you like chess. And there’s only so many times we can play hangman and connect the dots before it gets suuuper boring. So I found this book, yeah? It says that its chess for dummies, and I figured that it’s perfect for me.” Remus eagerly chattered, “We’ll use a pencil today instead of a pen so we can erase and move the pieces around without having an actual chess board or pieces! Cool right?”

Having gotten used to not receiving an answer, Remus scribbled his name where the black pieces would be before sliding the paper under the door. And... for the first time in the weeks since they had started their games, the paper didn’t move. Remus could see the cover of the page still sticking out, not moving from where he had initially slid it to the other side for his turn to begin.

There was nothing.

Until…

“Thank you.”

The two words were no more than a whisper to Remus, the first words that the creative side had heard from him in the months since he had ducked out and refused to come out of his room. How long had he been there? Waiting for the other light sides to finish with their guilty pleading so that he could play his games never expecting to hear a peep from the other side of the door? How long had he given up hearing anything, content to just have fun and never press matters beyond that one day?

He honestly didn’t know.

“You’re welcome,” Remus whispered back just as softly, as if raising his voice above a mere whisper would shatter reality before his eyes. “It honestly wasn’t that hard at all, I just had to find the book.. reading was a bit more difficult, but… but it was worth it. I know that you enjoy this kind of thing, so.. so it was well worth whatever effort it took to get me here. I…” Remus swallowed leaning gingerly close to the door, as if the other side was just a hair’s breadth away from him. “I promise.”

Another sound.. another noise crept past the wood of the door.

This time though it took Remus a little bit longer to actually realize just what it was, and when he did… something in his chest split open and shattered all at once. He had never actually heard it before, at least coming from this side. Deceit had done it plenty of times, when it was just the two of them and nobody else. But for him…

To cry?

Panic almost immediately seized ahold of Remus’ throat in a vice-like grip refusing to let him breathe through its suffocating grasp, “I’m sorry!” He quickly blurted out, his palms spreading against the door as he pressed himself as close as he possibly could against the door, like a pathetic dog trying so very hard to get to its wounded master. He wanted to headbutt the door, to rip and tear it down, to scratch at it with his fingernails until he could see the other side. But.. but he couldn’t, even he knew that. “I.. I truly honestly didn’t mean to! I.. I-”

A muffled sob, like the sound of someone pressing their palm against their mouth, echoed from the other side.

The sound tore at Remus’ heart and lungs, practically liquefying them in the process.

It hurt, god did it hurt to hear such a sound coming from the side that had somehow wormed their way into his brain, that had slithered past all of his gorey defenses, and had still even without saying a word rendered him completely helpless right here and now. Why on earth did it have to hurt so much? Roman was the one that always said that things like love always felt so nice, that it was always worth singing about.

Did this mean that this feeling wasn’t love? If it wasn’t love then what was it? Did that mean he could carve it out of his chest so that he wouldn’t even feel this pain again? Was that even possible?

“No.. no!” The sniffling from the other side dragged Remus right on back to what was happening. “I just…” There was a shuffling sound, like the person on the other side was just as close to the door as Remus was. “They.. I was told that my interests… my ideas are too difficult. I… was used to it.. to that. I’m… a difficult person, even you must know that.”

The other’s voice sounded even closer than ever before, and it broke with every syllable.

Remus listened like a dying man in a desert who had finally found water.

“You… Your presence here… has been greatly appreciated, but you don’t have to do this. It’s better if I stay here… not talking. Not being… difficult for those around me. It’s… the least I can do.”

Something inside of Remus snapped, like a violin string that had been tightened and tightened to the point where the stress of the whole thing had been way too much.

“You…” Remus softly began trying not to sound as angry as he felt, this time with a lot more care than he was ever used to actually giving to another being that was still alive before his words abruptly failed him.

He was used to saying a lot of things in various different ways and styles, but nothing this soft and nothing ever this heartfelt for another person.

He swallowed thickly, “Are a gentle, loving person.” He quickly carried on before the other side could stop him. “Who has been told by too many people that you, that you are too difficult to love… and that..” A snarl tinged Remus’ words as his nails dug into the painted wood of the other’s door, “That is a fucking lie, Logan. You aren’t difficult to love, loving you..it takes effort. But so does loving anything in this hellscape of our life, you’re an effort that’s well worth it. That’s it.” Irritation ate at Remus’ insides, like a blazing wildfire that consumed everything in its path. “You’re worth knowing,” He snarled again like a furious hound tugging on the end of its collar, bumping his head even harder against the door, “And you’re worth loving. And nobody… none of them know that better than me!”

It took Remus a full few seconds to realize just what he had said, and in turn just what he had admitted to the logical side on the other side of the door. But even so, there was no taking it back now, Logan knew and just about everyone that there was to hear his angry rant knew it now too as well.

All that was left now was the rejection.

“I…” Logan paused for a long moment, that felt as if it stretched from the dawn of today to the very end of time as the logical side swallowed thickly. “I…”

Remus’ head thumped lifelessly against the door, as he prepared to get off of his aching knees and leave with his tail tucked between his legs. To never ever bother Logan again, and to leave him to his self imposed isolation. To perhaps go into his own isolation, and never ever leave for fear of continuing to bother the logical side even more of where he did not belong.

“I have a chessboard in my room,” Came the uncertain whisper from inside, “If you’d like to bring your book… we can play a game. If you’d really like to.”

And just like that, the icy numbness of terror thawed, replaced by hope as the gentle sounds of the lock clicking open finally registered to Remus’ ears. As quickly as he could, he stumbled back up to his feet as he seized the book that had been laying on the floor. In an instant, relief swept through the creative side’s body like a torrent of wind, rain, and hail as the door slowly swung open allowing him to see the other side’s face for the first time in months.

He saw it all.

The exhausted lines on the other’s face from the near-constant work he was having to do in order to keep Thomas going. The dark circles that spoke of many sleepless nights. The fresh tear tracks that were entirely Remus’ doing, although not from any amount of cruelty… but instead pure kindness and worry. And his tussled hair that rose and fell in chaotic messy waves due to the lack of gell keeping them back in place.

Remus wanted to kiss him, he wanted to kiss every single freckle that stood out on Logan’s pale face.

Instead, the book slid from his hands as he lunged forward. Seizing Logan in a bone-crushing hug as he held the other close to his chest, gingerly rocking him back and forth. He buried his face into the other’s neck, breathing heavily as his own set of tears spilled down his cheeks.

“I was so worried!” He openly gushed, uncaring about the tears that ruined his makeup. “I was so worried about you,” Remus repeated, stroking Logan’s back until he felt the other sinking back into the hug the logical side’s body shaking with his own tears. “I was so scared.”

A watery chuckle fell from Logan’s lips, “Are you sure that I’m worth it then?”

“Always,” There wasn’t a hint of doubt to Remus’ words. “You’re always worth the effort. I promise.”

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dirt-cup-draco · 4 years ago

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Ron x Reader- For Her

Hi! Could you please do a Ron Weasley × reader where the reader is with them on the horcrux journey because the reader was always part of the golden trio. So insted of like, Ron and Mione flirting/liking each other/ kissing at the battle its the reader and Ron? Thank you!

a/n: sorta focusing on one part of the horcrux journey and tweaking it to fit!

“Harry!” You hissed after the boy who had gotten out of bed after seeing something peeking out of your tent. You knew he was easily distracted but this was maddening. How were you supposed to keep him safe, keep all of you safe, if he ran off?

You could feel the damp ground against your socks as you trailed after him and you shivered, the foreboding air in the forest overwhelming. “Come back!” You tried again. “I can’t leave Hermione here,”

“Then stay with her,” Harry tossed over his shoulder, never pausing as he followed the doe that had enraptured him. You could admit that it was odd, and more than likely a sign. Yet, you were more afraid that it was a trap.

“Harry!” You shouted after him once more but he wasn’t looking back.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, looking around wildly at the dark forest as Harry took confident steps forward, chasing the doe through the Forest of Dean. You supposed that this would be a lovely place to come camping if you weren’t living in fear.

You shuffled back into the tent, the glow of the lantern casting a warmth throughout the space that you didn’t feel. You shed your damp and muddy socks, replacing them with a thicker pair from your hastily packed back. Hermione was curled up beneath her blanket, the worry lines gone from her face.

It had been some time since you had seen your friends without responsibility and fear marring their young features and you were absolutely certain the same was true for you. Suddenly, Hermione jerked in her sleep. Muttering something intelligible she rolled over in her dreaming state, settling back down as you remained silent.

You know you should wake her. She’d be furious in the morning once she found out Harry had left in the middle of the night and she hadn’t been alerted. Yet, there were three of you and only two wands. Harry had taken her’s on his way out and now you were the only one of two with protection. The tent was the best place for you two to be.

You paced around the small enclosure, chewing on your lip in worry. It seemed like the right thing to do, to follow Harry, yet you had already made up your mind. You needed to stay and protect wherever was safe and pray that Harry didn’t get himself into more trouble than he could manage.

Needless to say, your expectations were at an all time low.

“What are you doing here? Why did you come back?”

The words stung more than the bitter cold water Ron had just pulled a drowning Harry from. Ron gripped the sword tighter in his hand as Harry tugged his jeans on, still shaking from the ordeal. Even in the dark Ron could see the bruises already forming on his friend’s hands and feet from pounding at the ice that had nearly become his coffin.

“You know why,” He bit out, his heart aching. Ron had too many questions to ask and now was not the time as Harry laid Salazar’s locket carefully down on a fallen tree. His palms were sweating and he had a difficult time looking Harry in the eye. He had left his best friends and the girl he loved to fend and fight for themselves when he could have, should have, been fighting alongside with them. It had been eating at him more than he’d care to admit.

Yet, when Harry looked at Ron, he felt like his friend knew his inner turmoil. “When it opens-” Harry began, choosing not to draw this out any further, “-you can not hesitate.”

Ron gulped but nodded instead. He knew what he had to do and he wasn’t afraid. It would just be one more horcrux down and he could sleep that much better at night. Ron Weasley had the tool, and the power, to destroy a sliver of Voldemort. It might have seemed inconsequential to many, but for him it was just what he needed.

“I’m ready,”

The parseltongue slipped from Harry’s mouth with ease and Ron steeled himself against whatever was to come next. Shoulders squared, knees locked and eyes trained on the locket, he was more ready than he’d ever be. So when the clasp came undone, with an unassuming pop, Ron stalled. It was only a second but that second had given the soul within time to design a strategy.

“I have seen your dreams Ronald Weasley” The thin voice whispered to him as inky black clouds swirled through air. The atmosphere was weighed down and Ron found it hard to take a deep breath as he stumbled backwards, the cloud stretching and shifting as it advanced towards him and then dipped away before climbing and hiding his view of Harry.

“Smash it!” Harry hollered but Ron could hardly hear it as spiders appeared, peaking out from the trees and scuttling up from under the leaves. All advanced towards him and he took two steps back on shaking legs, falling on his behind as he tripped over himself.

He couldn’t tear his eyes as the voice continued, taunting him by picking at his deepest insecurities. You seemed to materialize from nowhere, rising out of the onyx smoke like a heavenly spectre. “In what world could I ever love you?” Came your voice, a shrill laugh breaking free from your lips.

“Ron! It isn’t her!” Harry tried to stand but a large gust from the impending shadow blew towards him and he fell back against the tree he had taken shelter against. “She would never hurt you, especially not like this!” He argued, hoping his friend saw sense.

Ron was enraptured by your beauty even as you mocked him. From a distance he heard Harry speaking to him but it passed through his ears like a breeze and he was unbothered. Even in your cruelty your eyes were the prettiest he’d ever seen, your voice what kept him sane, your smile- however twisted and sinister at the moment- gave him his strength. You were Ron’s reason, always had been.

So when Harry’s form shifted into the darkness, standing beside you as you linked your arms with his, Ron’s heart sank lower than it ever had before. “Why would I ever pick you over him? Harry’s family left him money, left him a legacy. But you? You’re nothing,” It was a nice to his heart and Ron couldn’t help but whimper, pleading for this nightmare to end.

The pitch-black soul that had ruptured from the locket was pushing Ron as far as he could, but it was becoming drunk off of the way you could see Ron’s heart breaking so clearly. In all of it’s glorious emotional torture, the piece of Voldemort that had rotted long before being put in the locket seemed to have forgotten something vital. You never push a Gryffindor too far. They may hold restraint, but their bite is much worse than their bark, and now Ron was ready to bite back.

He blinked back the tears that begun to well up at the sight of you and Harry, lips locked together and bodies intertwined. The sight of you both was too smooth, too perfect, too wrong. The smoke couldn’t create your imperfections, or possibly chose not to. Your eyes were glazed over, skin airbrushed and lips pale. Your cheeks were without freckles brought out by the sun, your chin absent of the small scar you’d obtained after Malfoy had tripped you and you’d fallen onto the floor of the Potions room first year. Your hair was neat and smooth all the way across your shoulders, when typically it stuck up everywhere.

This wasn’t you. Ron knew that now. You weren’t perfect, and that was why he loved you. Your imperfections, your sunspots, your scars, they were a part of you and he loved them. With a mighty roar fitting of a Gryffindor, Ron raised Godric’s sword above his head and in three long strides he burst through the smoke, lungs constricting. With one powerful swing downwards, Ron felt the sword make contact with the horcrux and he relished in the breath of fresh air he was able to take as the smoke fizzled out, nothing to hold onto anymore.

Harry gaped at him, standing with a shove off from the tree before wiping his muddied hands on his trousers. He shuddered even as the sun began to rise, his clothes still soaked through. “I’m glad you came back when you did, Y/N will be pleased to see you,” He admitted to the Weasley that was not five feet away but felt impossibly far from him.

Ron hesitated, but seeing Harry shake from cold reminded him of the eleven year old boy he’d met; thin and unused to kindness, shaking in his dorm room on the first night because he hadn’t thought himself allowed to search or ask for a second blanket. “I’m glad I came too...and it wasn’t all for her. I wanted to see you and ‘Mione too, you’re my best friends,”

Harry cracked a smile, righting the glasses on his nose that had become crooked from the ordeal. “We ought to get back to camp then before they think I’m dead,”

“Lead the way, Chosen One,”

Hermione was the first to wake, the low sound of voices buzzing through the air and altering the white noise she had become accustomed to. Blinking away sleep, she let her eyes adjust to the shift from dusk to dawn. Tossing her blanket off of her, she made sure you were still asleep, before making her way out of the tent.

Harry was on the hill above the tent, shuffling around on stiff limbs, lips...blue? The landscape had been painted in a milky blue light but that wasn’t right for the chill that seemed to have taken over Harry. “Everything alright?”

“Better than,” Harry commented, arm sweeping forward to reveal Ron who had lingered a few steps back. The redhead looked sheepish, his bag supported on his shoulder while he supported the sword with his other hand.

“Hey,” Was all Ron was able to think of. Hermione only scowled.

“Hey!?” She asked, taking a step forward as her voice pitched towards the end of her sentence. “You’ve been gone for weeks Ronald, and all you have to say is ‘Hey’?”

The commotion broke through the thin veil of sleep that you had managed to slip beneath not even two hours ago. Exhaustion pulled heavy on your eyelids but Hermione’s shrill voice was filled with anger and Harry’s nervous was shaking on ever note as he denied knowing where her wand was.

Why would they need a wand? You wondered, smacking your lips at the sour taste that sleep had brought along. Wand. Safety. They need a wand. Not safe. They’re not safe, they need a wand.

The thoughts jostled you from your sleep and you were tearing your blankets from you, struggling to stand as your feet got caught in your blankets. Grabbing your wand, you wasted no time in putting on your slippers before you were stumbling through the tent. “Harry, Hermione, are you alright?” You gasped as you tried to fix your watery vision on the pair.

“I think they are,” Ron commented as the pair stopped in their tracks, Hermione pausing her threats to Harry as she eyed you, Harry forgetting to retreat from the Granger Danger in front of him.

The reassurance should have comforted you, but the voice giving you that comfort was impossible. You fixed your gaze on the worse for wear Weasley a few yards away and your heart leapt into your throat, causing you to clear your throat in an effort to speak. One foot moved forward. You opened your mouth to speak. Once, closed. Twice, closed. Three times and you were lost for words. What do I say?! You wanted to ask your friends as they stood frozen in time, waiting for you to make your first move.

Ron was biding his time as well, waiting for you to ask what he was doing here, like Harry, or threaten him (with good intentions) like Hermione. Instead, you chose an approach that was so completely you that it made Ron quake in his spot.

A grin broke out onto your features and one step suddenly wasn’t enough as your legs propelled your forward with a new speed, desperation and hope licking at your heels as you collided with Ron. Your arms were quick to encircle his neck and his own found their way around your waist, securing you to him as you pressed your cheek against his.

Struggling to keep his hold on you as you hung from him. Ron hoisted you up and you found your support as he changed his position- gripping the backs of your thighs before wrapping them around his own waist.Once you were steady, his arms snaked back around your midsection. His scruffy cheek was rough against your own but you reveled in the reminder that he was real, he was there, he was safe.

“I’ve missed you so much,” You sighed, a weight lifted from you as the man you adored squeezed you tighter.

“Merlin, I’ve missed you too,” He choked out, burying his face in your neck and breathing you in. “It’s good you’ve been here to take care of those two,”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, Hermione elbowed him. Hard.

You laughed for the first time in weeks but it was watery, tears having welled up. “Maybe so, but who is going to take care of you? I’ve never met a bigger fool in my life,”

Ron seemed to loosen up too, laughing along with you as you took comfort in each other’s presence. However, he caught his two best friends staring at him from behind your back and embarrassment was quick to creep up on him. Begrudgingly, he loosened his grip and you settled to the floor, the damp leaves beneath you making no noise. When he looked back over your shoulder, the pair had disappeared back into the tent. Thank god he had you alone, he wasn’t sure he could cry in front of Harry or Hermione.

You weren’t ready to part yet, keeping your hand against his jaw, thumb stroking along his cheekbone. “I feared every night that you were gone, that something- anything- happened, and none of us were there. I was so frightened I’d never see you again,” The admission seemed to be the straw that broke the camels back and you dissolved into tears, chest rising and falling erratically with the force of your sobs.

“I’m here now,” Ron promised, voice cracking. Resting his hand atop yours, he stopped you as you moved to pull away. “I am here, and I am never leaving again,”

You sniffled but the fears were all rising up and shoving down any semblance of calm you might hold onto. Everything you had been worried about was rising to the surface as the man you trusted most, the man you trusted to support you, arrived. You didn’t have to be strong anymore, he was here to hold you.

“Never again, Ron, swear it,” You finally managed to get out between heaving breaths, tear stained cheeks on fully display as you brushed your nose against Ron’s, leaving him breathless.

Nuzzling his nose back against yours, his lips felt the ghost of yours as he spoke. “I swear,”

The faint feel of his lips nearing yours, the overwhelming relief and the crippling fear, the enormous amount of love you felt for him- it was boiling over as you breathed each other in and when Ron tried to steady himself and pull away, you were following after him.

“I need more than words,” You hinted as his hands flexed on your hips.

“What do you need?” He managed but he was practically becoming nonverbal at your proximity, his only thought being you.

“You, only- and always- you,” You promised before skimming your lips over his, experimenting.

It was all Ron needed for his restrain to break and he was smiling, angling your head up to him so that he could slide his lips against yours with more confidence. You whined when his tongue prodded against your lips asking, begging for more. It was soft, subtle noise that Ron wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t taking in your every breath and sound. Your hands were tangled in his hair, breathing him in to replace any other thought and sensation.

You felt as if you were on fire, your skin hot wherever Ron touched you. Your desperation was clear as you sighed into his mouth, a plea for him to never let you go again. Yet, Ron was burning up and he didn’t want to fizzle out. He would be damned if he didn’t have more time with you.

“We have to go,” Came the startling interruption from a panicked Hermione.

You whipped around to face her, realizing only now that she and Harry had taken the tent down, all of your belongings packed. “W-why?” You asked, Ron’s hand squeezing your hip comfortingly when he sensed your spike in panic. He was forced to swallow down his own.

“Harry was checking the area, making sure it was safe but it isn’t, he said he spotted six snatchers and Greyback. We have to go before they catch up, we aren’t.... ready to face them yet,” She explained in a hurry, grabbing Ron’s bag from where she had thrown it at him earlier. It was true, you were all too exhausted to put up much of a fight, and you were clearly outnumbered.

“Let’s get out of here then,” You croaked, stepping out of Ron’s safe embrace as Harry and Hermione trekked ahead.

Ron fumbled for a moment, grabbing Godric’s sword before chasing after you. Slipping his hand into yours, he smiled down at you and you couldn’t fight the smile you gave back.

“Remember, I’m here,” He whispered in your ear, squeezing your hand.

“Good, because you’re stuck with me now,” You tried to tease even if the worry was clear on your face as you raced through the forest.

“And you’re stuck with me,” He promised.

Despite the unknowing, Ron felt his chest swell with hope. Today wasn’t the end of what you two had started and he would be damned if he ever let anything happen that meant otherwise. Ron would make sure you all made it out of this.

After all, he’d come back for you and he wasn’t planning on losing sight of you ever again.

Tag List: @angelinathebook @thehumanistsdiary

#Ron Weasley #ron x reader #ron weasley x reader #fluff #request #ask #anon ask #my details always fuzzy when it comes to movie/book scenes #especially when i make shit up #plz forgive me

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snackhobi · 4 years ago

Text

pairing: namjoon x reader / word count: 9.3k / genre: pwp/smut

summary: You’ve been letting your laundry pile up for a little too long. Fortunately, your neighbour Namjoon is there to lend you a hand.

warnings: sexually explicit content, masturbation, edging (kinda), unintentional voyeurism (briefly), oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms (f receiving), bigdick!joon, dirty talk, unprotected sex, rough sex, creampie, overstimulation (reader gets fucked dumb), praise, aftercare (please heed the warnings, and let me know if I need to clarify/add any!)

For most people, Sunday is a day of rest. But not for you.

Sunday means chores. Sunday means tidying up, dusting, vacuuming. Sunday means finally doing all the Adult Things you’ve been too busy/lazy to do for the rest of the week (or even longer than that, as evidenced by your overflowing laundry basket). Sunday means work.

You slap at your vibrating phone, fingers sliding uselessly across the screen as you fumble to cut off the chirping alarm, and then you groan. “Ugh." You bury your head into your crumpled pillow. And then, once more, with feeling: “Uggggggh.”

You roll around in your bed, thrashing a little like a child having a tantrum, before you flop on your back and stare at your ceiling with your limbs akimbo, a starfish.

“Why?” You whine out to no one in particular. “Why me?”

Fortunately you live alone, so there’s no one to witness your sulky behaviour. You would put off getting all your errands done, but you’ve already been doing this for so long that you’re practically out of clean clothes to wear. That’s one part about living alone that’s a double-edged sword- you have your own space where you can act however you please, which is Great, but also you’re the only one responsible for keeping on top of things, which is Less Great. You can’t rely on other people to get things done for you.

You’ve never been a morning person, and the fact it’s so nice outside already does nothing to brighten your mood; it’s the perfect kind of day, the chilled bite to the air mellowed by the sun in the cloudless, pale sky, and you’re going to have to spend it indoors. Ugh. You eventually grit your teeth and pull yourself out of bed, waking yourself up with a cold shower. Once you force a cup of overly sweet coffee into your system and the caffeine hits you so that you’re fully awake and ready to go, the world suddenly feels a lot more bearable. So you’re unperturbed when your underwear drawer comes up practically empty.

“Oops,” you say. “Oh well.”

It’s practically empty, but not entirely; there, at the back, there’s that pretty lingerie set you’d bought on a whim in a sale and then promptly never worn. Honestly you’d be happy to go without, seeing as no one else is here and you have no one to look pretty for, but you find that you never get anything done if you’re not in a bra. It’s like a Pavlovian response that you've ingrained into yourself: when you get home, your bra comes straight off, no ifs, buts, or maybes. Bra off means it’s Relaxation Time. Bra on? That means it's time to get things done.

But, yeah, if you’re going to wear the bra, you may as well wear the matching thong, right? It came as a set so you’d basically be committing a crime if you didn’t wear them together. You take one moment to admire yourself in the mirror, turning this way and that to appreciate how it makes you look, before promptly ruining the illusion of sexiness by covering it up with a pair of old sweatpants and a too-large tank top. They're the only bits of clothing not in your laundry basket that you don't mind getting dirty while you clean, so, you have to make do.

The worst part about doing chores is getting the whole process started, but you’ve been doing this long enough that you have a routine. Bra on, hair up, mental checklist ready. You toddle through to the kitchen with your laundry basket, picking through for the colours and whites, feeling entirely too accomplished once you get the first load sorted. This kickstarts the whole chore procedure and once you get stuck in, you actually start to have fun; you’ve got your noise cancelling headphones on and your cleaning playlist is full of songs that get you pumped up, and you sing along to the music as you get started on your next job.

You wiggle your butt to the rhythm of the beat while you hoover, pushing your vacuum into the corners of your flat and ruthlessly sucking up the dust bunnies that have gathered there. You're in the middle of belting out one particularly long note when a spider scuttles out from under your sofa and the note rises into a little scream; you act on pure instinct and suck the spider up into the hoover, watching as all the long hairy legs fold together and get schlorped into the vacuum’s nozzle before disappearing forever. You feel immediately relieved but also immensely guilty when this happens- spiders are awful and you hate them but usually you’d try your best to catch them under a cup before flinging it outside, so the fact you’ve maybe just killed it? You really are just awful. (But thank God it’s gone.)

Maybe that's enough hoovering for now.

You empty the dust bag into the bin, mindful of the fact that the spider might still be alive and come crawling out onto your hands. Thankfully it doesn’t, but you’re not going to take any chances; you draw the bin liner shut and tie it tight, before deciding that the best course of action is to put it into your outside bin, in case the spider decides to come back with a vengeance.

You hoist the bag up and pause for a second to glance down at how the straps of your too-loose top have slipped down your shoulders to reveal the top of bra, the intricate lace trim of the cups and extra straps that criss cross your chest- definitely an, uh, interesting outfit choice for a quick trip out of your flat. You make the executive decision to shrug on a hoodie and zip it all the way to your neck to preserve your modesty and save you from the chill outside. Once that’s done it takes two seconds to slip your feet into your (fake) Converse shoes, another few seconds to fiddle with the lock on your door, struggling with the latch- it’s been a bit janky for a while and you keep forgetting to sort it out- before you hop your way downstairs and to the outside shed where everyone's bins are stored.

Ewch. It doesn’t smell that great in here. You make quick work of dumping your rubbish and escaping from the hut, shutting the door firmly behind you to try and keep the stench locked inside, before almost falling over when you feel the telltale sensation of a cat curling around your ankles. He’s meowing up at you but your headphones have been drowning him out, so you slide them off your ears and hook them around your neck so you can actually hear him.

"Oh, hi, baby!" The ginger stray likes to hang nearby the building, always friendly and happy to see you, even if he seems to like sneaking up when you least expect it. He meows at you again as you squat down to stroke him, butting his head into your palm as his tail curls in delight. "Aren't you just the most gorgeous boy? Yes, you are, aren't you?"

The cat ends up putting his paws onto your knee to butt his face against yours, and the next thing you know, you have an armful of cat. You laugh and continue to pet him, cooing at how cute he is as he purrs back. "Awh, baby, you're so sweet," you say. "I wish I could take you home, but my meanie landlord says we can't have pets."

“I was thinking of starting a petition, actually, so the landlord gets rid of the No Pets clause in the tenancy agreement. You’re welcome to sign it if you like.”

You glance up from where you’ve been allowing the cat to shove his nose against your chin, standing up straight to address the man who’s talking to you, cat still clutched in your arms. “Oh! Hi, Namjoon-ssi. That’s such a good idea, I love that. Stick it to the man. I’d definitely sign it. How are you today?”

Kim Namjoon, aka your neighbour from across the hall, is smiling at the cat in your arms. Namjoon’s the perfect neighbour and ideal tenant- quiet, tidy, considerate, although he does have a tendency to lose his keys and gets locked out of his flat on a pretty regular basis.

It’s actually how you’d started to talk in the first place. When you first moved in you’d given him a small box of chocolates to endear yourself to your same-floor-friend, only exchanging small nods and pleasant greetings for a while after that, but after you’d found Namjoon waiting sheepishly on his own doorstep- “My friend has a key but it’s going to take him a little while to get here,” he’d explained- you’d invited him into your own flat to wait, rather than just in the hall.

Since then you’ve started to have chats whenever you see each other, and occasionally knock on each other’s doors whenever you ask to borrow things like sugar or a screwdriver or whatever, and you always invite Namjoon in for a cup of tea when he’s waiting for one of his friends to rescue him from his own forgetful nature. You’re still toeing the line between Friendly Neighbours and Kind Of Friends, but one thing you already know and admire about Namjoon is his ability to actually be a mature and put together adult. Sure, you drink a decent amount of water, you have a skincare routine with multiple steps, and you usually manage to eat your 5-a-day, but a lot of that feels like you do it because you’re expected to, sort of like a child playing make-believe.

Namjoon, meanwhile, manages to just ooze the sort of gravitas that comes with being a fully realised human being, someone who actively participates in the world around them because they’re entirely engaged with things and basically just Super Mature Adult (even if he apparently loses/breaks things on a fairly regular basis). Hence why you’re not at all surprised at the petition thing, or when Namjoon proceeds to tell you that he’s going to spend the afternoon at his friend’s uncle’s strawberry farm, picking fruit, because of course Namjoon is the kind of guy who supports local, organic, free range produce. (Wait. Can strawberries be free range? Or is that just eggs?)

“Ahh, I love strawberries! That’s so cool,” you say. “It must be fun.”

“You’re welcome to come, if you like,” Namjoon says. He’s always gracious so you know he’s just saying this to be polite, but you can’t help but think it would probably be really nice to spend time picking fruit and talking with him.

“Ah, I’d love to, but unfortunately I have prior commitments. I’m catching up on chores,” you admit ruefully. You’re still absently scritching the ginger cat’s chin as you speak, the animal purring up a storm in your arms and shedding all over your clothes, although you don’t notice or care. Namjoon is incredibly endeared- not that you notice that, either. “Hence the runway-ready outfit.”

Your hair is so messy it looks like some sort of wild possum has been nesting in it, your hoodie sleeves are so long they threaten to swallow your hands, and you’re not even wearing your cheap knock-off shoes properly- you’re stepping on the back collar of them in your bare feet so they’re basically glorified flip-flops at this point. Total fashionista. (Not.)

Namjoon, however, seems surprised at your dismissive tone. “You look cute and cozy,” he says.

You snort in an unladylike way, lifting the cat in your arms a little- you can’t gesture properly with an armful of fur, especially when the stray takes this as an invitation to crane upwards and shove his little face into the crook of your neck, knocking against your headphones. “Cute baby,” you coo at the cat, before turning your attention back to Namjoon. “You look cute and cozy,” you echo. It’s a little chilly today and Namjoon’s wrapped up, long scarf curled around his neck, beanie on his head, hem of his coat fluttering around his thighs. Super cozy, and again, a well-put-together adult.

You muffle a sigh. He’s a well-put-together and hot adult, tall and built, so handsome in his casual outfit, effortlessly masculine. You’ve been lowkey crushing on Namjoon for a while now, as futile as that effort is- you haven’t seen any evidence of a special someone in Namjoon’s life, but there’s no way that man is single. Even if he somehow is, he’s like, a bajillion light years out of your league, hyper intelligent and kind and gorgeous, in comparison to your… um… your… well. Yeah. In comparison to that.

He’s nice to you and he smiles whenever he sees you, though, and your weak little heart can’t help but flip flop in your chest whenever you see that dimpled little smile, even if you know you don’t have a chance in hell that he really thinks that you’re cute. He’s just being polite.

The cat in your arms gives a little wriggle, apparently sated for the day, and you carefully squat down to deposit him onto the ground. He gives you both one last little mewl before scampering off and you fondly watch him go. “Let me know when you have that petition written up,” you say, brushing the cat hairs off your sleeves. “I better get back to my flat, I need to finish the rest of my laundry so I can continue the facade of being a functional adult. Have a great day, Namjoon-ssi, and I hope you enjoy the strawberries! You’ll have to tell me how they are.”

“I will,” he says, eyes warm as he smiles, those little dimples appearing in his cheeks. Ugh, you want to touch them so much. “Good luck with your laundry.”

Namjoon’s beautiful smile fuels you for the rest of the day, buoying you up as you scrub the walls of your shower and bleach your toilet, bright yellow gloves a size too large for your hands as you spritz your bathroom counter. You might not be a legitimate adult in the same way that your neighbour is but you can give it a damn good go; even if the rest of your life is maybe a bit more chaotic than you’d like, you can at least get your surroundings in order.

And you do. By the time you’re finished with hoovering and mopping your floors and reorganising your clutter, your flat feels brand-spanking new again, fresh and clean and airy. You’d even lit a few scented candles earlier and you give yourself a pat on the back for your forward thinking as you snuff them out, the delicate smell of vanilla lightly filling the apartment. All that’s left is to go to the kitchen and put the final load of laundry in the tumble dryer and once that’s been emptied and sorted, you’re all finished. Mission accomplished. Chores done.

Once the tumble dryer has started its cycle you reward yourself with a cup of tea, a blackcurrant and blueberry fruit infusion that you’d gotten as a Secret Santa gift at work and hadn’t used yet, saving it for a special occasion. You hum to yourself and continue to wiggle your hips to the music trickling out of your headphones as the kettle boils, watching the purple that bleeds from the tea bag once the hot water cascades over it. It looks rich and vibrant and it smells so good- but then you make a little face when you take a sip. Fruit teas never taste as good as they smell. It’s not bad but it’s a little disappointing, really, a subpar reward after a hard day of work.

You stand in the middle of your kitchen with your mug still in your hand, eyes unfocused as you stare into space, trying to think of things in your flat that you could use to reward yourself. You’ve already used up those fancy gel eye masks that Jimin had given you for your birthday, and you’d let Jungkook have your sheet masks when he’d said his favourite brand was out of stock; Taehyung had pilfered all of your bath bombs as part of an experiment (the experiment being that he wanted to know what colour his bath water would turn if he used all your different bath bombs in it- the answer was ‘an incredibly underwhelming, if glittery, sludge brown’), and he still hasn’t gotten around to replacing them.

Pay day isn’t until next week and you’re tight enough on money at the moment that you don’t want to order out for dinner- living alone means you have to pay more rent so you have to be more careful with money- so you’re out of ideas.

That is until motion out of the corner of your eye catches your attention. You glance over at it, pulled out of your reverie; the old tumble dryer has been in this flat longer than you and it’s showing signs of wear and tear, base warped a little from age, noisy and wobbly as your clothes are being spun inside. You pause, mug dropping a little in your hand as the thought briefly flickers through your mind, before you bite your lip and throw caution to the wind. Fuck it. You live alone and you’ve had a long day and you deserve some kind of reward.

You abandon your unfinished mug of tea in the sink before eyeing the shaking tumble dryer. You hoist yourself up, straddling the corner of the machine, a little shiver running through you when you feel the vibrations through your legs and thighs as you settle into place; it takes time to situate yourself, thighs spreading as you tilt your hips forward and press your heat against the rumbling dryer. You shift on your hands, palms braced against the top of the machine as you wriggle into the best position- the second you get just the right angle you let out a little gasp, eyes squeezing shut when you feel how the shaking machine is sending vibrations throughout your entire body.

You keep your eyes shut as you continue to find the right rhythm. You rock your hips forward each time the machine rocks back, rolling the weight of your body down towards your clenching cunt; the vibrations are so strong that you can feel them through your sweatpants, lace of your thong rubbing against your clit in a deliciously rough way, sending little shockwaves of pleasure through you.

As you continue to work yourself up, your skin starts to feel overheated under your clothes, even with the chill spring air seeping into the flat- you fumble with the zip of hoodie, letting the material sag open before you brace yourself with your palms again. You feel how the hoodie slips down your arms, baring your shoulders, and you tilt your head back, revealing the line of your neck as you arch your spine. Each rumble of the machine rolls through you, wetness starting to slicken your folds as you grind down a little harder. It’s a steady, slow climb towards your peak- you shut your eyes to focus fully on the pleasure building between your legs, the way your clit feels swollen and almost over-sensitive from the strong vibrations from the dryer, the way your pussy clenches whenever you get the angle just right.

You start to gasp, biting back moans when you feel how your orgasm is getting closer. You lift one hand from the top of the dryer to run your hands over your skin- your neck, your throat, tracing over the straps of the bra that are digging into the swell of your breasts. It’s good, really good, but it’s not enough; every time you feel like the peak of your orgasm is about to crest, it ebbs away again, and you let out a little whine from the back of your throat.

With your eyes still shut, you try to conjure up images that’ll arouse you and send you tumbling over the edge. Hands on your body, lips against your skin, your mouth. Normally when you masturbate you try to keep away from thinking about anyone in particular, because you feel like if you see that person in the future they’ll just telepathically know about it and you end up feeling awkward and guilty (even if you know it's illogical)- but today you can’t help it. Your mind slips to the thought of Namjoon this morning and the way he’d smiled at you, and once you start thinking about Namjoon, you can’t stop.

Namjoon’s smile. His mouth. His tongue. His hands, his fingers. His tall, beautiful body, pressing you down against a mattress, trapping you against him. You take the hand that’s been trailing over your collarbones and lift it to your mouth and press two fingers past your lips, trying to imagine that it’s Namjoon. Imagine that it’s the weight of his cock on your tongue, hard and heavy. You bet it’s as gorgeous as the rest of him. You bet he tastes so good, hot and salt and maybe a little bitter, heady and masculine; you let out a low moan around your lips as you run the pads of your fingertips over your tongue, saliva pooling in your mouth.

All the while, your music has been playing on, heavy beat thrumming through you as you forget the outside world and focus on the reality you’re conjuring in your mind. Namjoon’s cock in your mouth. Namjoon’s mouth on your cunt. Namjoon’s skin against yours. Namjoon fucking into you, hard and deep. Your blood rises in your veins, toes curling as you can feel how your orgasm is getting ever closer now that you’re this turned on, your cunt leaking with arousal; the thought of Namjoon wanting you as much as you want him is dizzying, as unlikely as it is. The Namjoon in your mind fucks into you with a particularly rough thrust and in the real world you respond with a moan, garbled around the fingers between your lips. Fuck, you’re so close.

Just as you're nearly there, your playlist ends and everything lapses into silence, your reverie shattered. The moment is gone. Your orgasm slips away from you again and you whimper, unintentionally edging yourself yet again.

Your eyes flutter open briefly when your haze is broken, although you squeeze them back shut so that you can get back to picturing Namjoon and finally bring yourself to completion- but then your eyes fly open again, fingers stuttering in your mouth and hips going still as your entire body stiffens, blood turning to ice in your veins.

The very real Kim Namjoon is standing in the doorway of your kitchen. There’s a look of utter shock on his face, his lips parted, eyes so wide it looks like his eyeballs are going to pop out of his skull, frozen in place. You don’t know how long he’s been there. You don’t know if he’s just walked in on you. Really, though, it doesn’t matter if he’s been there for five seconds or five hours- he’s seen everything, the way there’s saliva dripping from your mouth around your fingers, tank top barely hiding your lingerie, the way you’ve been bucking your hips against the dryer. Utterly desperate and debauched and depraved.

There’s a small, white plastic bag in Namjoon’s hands with a pretty strawberry logo on it, drooping further and further towards the floor as his arms go slack. You don’t notice it until it’s slipping loose from his fingers and landing on the floor.

Berries go rolling out of the sagged plastic and across the tiles but Namjoon doesn’t seem to notice. That single point of motion in the room seems to kickstart your brain into gear, your flight or fight response screaming flight, and you practically throw yourself off the tumble dryer. Your brain is entirely empty of logical thought right now and the only thing you can think of is that you need to get away and hide forever.

You rush past a still frozen Namjoon, stumbling down your hallway towards your open front door- you notice that the latch is stuck, not clicking into place when you’d come back inside earlier and leaving the door unlocked, you idiot. Namjoon always knocks and it must have swung open as soon as he rapped his knuckles against it, and you wouldn’t have heard it over your goddamn music. You absolute, utter idiot.

You’re not thinking about how illogical it is to flee from your own home to get away from someone. You’re just thinking about your escape. Taehyung’s flat is the nearest and it won’t take long to run there and you can survive without shoes; you’re still barefoot but you don’t have time to grab anything. You have to run.

You’re just stretching out for the door when you feel large hands grab you from behind. You flail, door swinging shut as your fingers brush against it before you’re being pulled backwards by the arms that have slid around your waist. You start to struggle, squirming in the hold, pushing at the hands trapping you as you instinctively still try to get away from the shame and embarrassment; Namjoon’s body is warm and solid against your back, his muscles effectively trapping you in place, and you can feel how his voice rumbles through him as he speaks, audible through the silence of your headphones.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

You’ve never heard Kim Namjoon sound like this. His voice is authoritative, commanding. The part of your brain that acts on pure instinct- the part that just told you to go hurtling out onto the street without shoes- responds instantly, and you immediately go lax in his hold even though you’re still internally panicking.

“I was planning on going to the moon,” you say, unable to cover up how your voice is shaking, even if you’re trying to hide behind sarcasm. It’s your only defence right now. Your skin prickles with embarrassment. “Where else do you think?”

Namjoon lets out a chuckle, and your toes curl at how deep the sound is. “The mouth on you.” He sounds amused. You can’t look him in the eye. “Were you trying to get away from me?”

“‘Trying’ is the operative word.” You’re still staring resolutely at the door- it’s swung shut and the latch has actually clicked upwards this time. Traitor. “As you can tell, I’m not doing a very good job. The sooner I go, the sooner I get the paperwork started for my move to Fiji.”

“I thought you were planning on going to the moon.” Namjoon’s hold on you is still firm. You’re utterly helpless. “Changed your mind?”

“Going to open a diner in Fiji to raise funds for my moon mission. It’s a long plan.” The spike of adrenaline that had burst through you is already dissolving in your system, leaving you feeling limp and strung out. You can’t see Namjoon’s face with how your back is crushed against his chest; when you glance down all you can see is how big his hands are against your stomach. Despite yourself, you shiver. As panicked and embarrassed as you are, arousal is still trickling through you, and you hate yourself for the effect that Namjoon is having on you right now. You try to sound calm and unaffected as you continue to speak, but you feel breathless from the lingering pleasure tingling between your legs. “Can you let me go now, please?”

“Is that really what you want?” You’ve had your hands on his wrists from how you’d been trying to push them away, so you feel how one of Namjoon’s hands starts to slide downwards, slow as treacle, and your breath hitches as his fingers slide under the waistband of your sweatpants. They don’t go any further than that, palm splayed over your hipbone, but you feel your pussy clench at the warmth of his hands on your skin and a whimper slips out of you. “Or do you actually want something else?”

Your fingers dig into his wrists. When you open your mouth to reply, your words fail you and instead you just let out a little breath. You’re in utter disbelief at what’s happening right now, unsure of what’s going on- you’re not an idiot but there is no way that Namjoon is implying what you think he’s implying. Absolutely no way. Not a chance in hell. What?

As you continue to stay silent, brain trying to catch up with the situation, Namjoon doesn’t move.

“Use your words, baby,” he murmurs. “I need to know that you want this.”

Oh, fuck. When Namjoon calls you baby it feels like a switch has been flipped inside you; like he’s slipped a missing fuse into place and your entire body has lit up, full of energy and electricity from his touch. It’s overwhelming. “Of course I want this,” you confirm, trembling, and then: “I want you.”

Namjoon responds by finally moving his hand downwards. You watch as it goes, how he pauses when he makes contact with the fabric of your underwear, the unmistakable texture of embroidered lace under his touch. He drags his fingertips across the straps that cross over themselves, an arrow guiding him to his mark; your entire body goes tense when his fingers glance over your swollen folds, slick through the fabric.

You gasp. You’re still trapped against him by the strong arm curled around you, but your hands are free- you pull your headphones off and let them fall to the floor, twisting your head around so you can finally look at Namjoon’s face. His eyes are hooded and dark. He looks nothing like the cute and clumsy man who waves you good morning every day; he looks like some hungry animal, a predator who’s been waiting for the right time to swallow his prey whole.

“Namjoon,” you breathe. He gives you a small smile that’s more of a smirk, utterly at odds to his usual dimpled beams.

“You don’t have to settle for an old tumble dryer, gorgeous.” He kisses the bare skin of your shoulder, right next to where your bra strap is resting, eyes locked on yours. His lips are so soft and you shiver. “Let me help you.”

“I’ll have you know that tumble dryer was very close to getting me off, actually.” You’re so turned on right now but you can’t help the words slipping out; a lifetime of snark doesn’t leave you the second you start feeling horny. “So it’s less you helping me, and more you giving me something you owe me, seeing as you took it away in the first place.”

Namjoon’s silent for a second, and you wonder if you’ve gone too far- if you’ve run your mouth too much- when he hums. “Ah,” he says. “That’s true. You’re right.”

“Huh?” You say eloquently, surprised, but then he takes the hand out of your sweatpants and you whine. “Hey, put that back, you’re not done yet.”

Namjoon lets out a little chuckle. “No, I’m not,” he agrees. “But I want to see this pretty lingerie properly. You’re all covered up and that just won’t do.”

He punctuates this statement by taking both of his hands to your hoodie, where it’s been caught at your elbows, and sliding it off you. He drags his large palms down your arms as he does this, cool against your overheated skin; goosebumps appear in the wake of his touch and you shiver again. You have no idea what's going on right now. Everything feels like some sort of fever dream but you're not about to start complaining.

“If you’re about to see me in my unmentionables I’d least like a kiss first,” you say, pout audible in your voice. The truth is you’ve thought about Namjoon’s plush lips more often than you’d like to admit, how beautiful his mouth is, and it’s got to be illegal for Namjoon to have been touching you for as long as he has without letting you have at least one taste of his kisses. “Please?”

“Turn around, baby.” You instantly comply, all but throwing your arms around his neck as you look at him with an innocent, bambi gaze; he still has that half-lidded set to his eyes but you can see how that ravenous hunger is softened by his smile. “God, you’re gorgeous.”

“Shut up and kiss me,” you say. You might sound like the protagonist to some cheesy romance film right now but the truth is that you’re still aware of the heat between your legs, the ebbed arousal that’s still coiling low in your stomach, and as much as you want to kiss Namjoon, you want to cum, too. “Kiss me, kiss me, kiss m-”

Namjoon kisses you. He cuts you off mid sentence by slotting his mouth against yours, open around the word he swallows, and he immediately presses his tongue past your lips; you yield to him, letting him press his lips to your cupid’s bow as you lick his lower lip, soft and full. Just as good as you thought. No- better. His hands stay steady around your waist, but yours keep moving as you keep kissing- his shoulders, his nape, his hair, his jaw. Every part of him is so warm and solid against you and you just can’t get enough.

You slant your head to get deeper, tongues slipping into each other’s mouths in a way that borders on lewd, rubbing against each other as you trade saliva, your mouth full of the taste of Namjoon. You swear there’s a lingering taste of strawberries. You feel better, a little more in control now that you know Namjoon will indulge you even if you’re being a brat, and you can finally chase the thing that got this whole sequence of events started.

“I wanna cum, Namjoon,” you murmur against his lips once you finally part, breathless from his kisses. “Will you help me cum? Please? Pretty please?”

Namjoon’s lip curls back from his teeth in a silent growl, and a shudder runs through you at the sight; seeing your usually composed neighbour act like this because of you is a heady sensation. “You won’t be able to walk when I’m done with you,” he says, and your pussy throbs with need at his words.

“Jesus Christ, Namjoon.” Your eyes are wild. “I want you to fucking wreck me.”

You get no warning before Namjoon is literally sweeping you off your feet and you squeal in surprise when you feel them leave the ground, but Namjoon’s grip on you is steady as he lifts you in a bridal hold. You feel breathless at this physical representation of his strength- you’ve only seen his bare arms once (that had been a nice morning) before but you definitely hadn’t forgotten about how thick they are, as evidenced by the way he’s carrying you.

Normally you’d probably be chewing him out for lifting you without warning, but right now there’s a very base, animalistic part of you that goes belly up at the very obvious reminder of Namjoon’s superior power. The instinctual part of you that had initially told you to run away from him now seems entirely content with the fact you’ve been caught, and so you stay quiet in his arms. You cling tight to him as he walks to your bedroom without the need for directions, your flat the mirrored twin to his; you keep kissing his neck as he nudges the door open with his foot, running a hand down his chest, feeling the flex of his muscles through the fabric of his shirt.

He’s so fucking hot, what the fuck.

He’s hot, and strong, but gentle, too. When Namjoon sets you down he’s so careful even though he could easily manhandle you in any way he wanted, and you give him a kiss as a thank you. It’s a brief moment of quiet, that little kiss, but then Namjoon is pulling you back towards him and his hands are all over as he helps you strip; Namjoon’s eyes are heavy on your body as he drinks you in, finally wearing nothing but the lingerie he’s been so desperate to look at.

He sees the way the interweaving straps rest against your skin with the perfect amount of pressure, little swells letting him know that he’ll be able to trace the touch of lace on your body even after he’s ripped it off you. The lace cups of your bra do nothing to hide how your nipples are standing to attention, begging to be touched. But the most eye-catching thing, the thing that Namjoon can’t stop looking at, is how sodden the lace between your legs is; your inner thighs are slick with your arousal, shining, and you haven’t even cum yet.

“Look at you. So gorgeous,” Namjoon says. “Gonna make you cum over and over, baby.”

His hands feel so good against your skin as he skims his fingers over your panties, but he doesn’t take them off, and you let out a needy little noise. “Please,” you whine. “I need to cum, Joonie, been waiting so long.”

Namjoon watches as you reach to fumble with the clasp of your bra and reaches for your hands, stopping your motions. You blink up at him, confused, but then he’s turning you towards the bed and bending you over it, motions firm and undeniable; not that you would try to defy him, anyway. You brace your palms against the mattress and instantly arch your spine so that your ass is pushed out, enticing as possible.

You’re wondering if you’re going to have to beg for Namjoon to touch you but it seems what little patience he had has run out; his warm palms are immediately against your ass, touch reverent as he slides his hands over your skin, and you press back into that touch, wanting more of it. His hands skim up your sides and his fingers dance along the edge of your bra before reaching for the hooks, unfastening it so that it slips down your arms and onto the bed before you shove it aside.

He bends over you, chest broad and warm against your naked shoulderblades, arms coming around your body so that he can cup your breasts in his large hands; his palms cover so much of your skin, your sensitive nipples, and you gasp at the shock of sensation that shoots through you as he drags his hands over them before using his fingers to pinch the hardened nubs. You twist your head and make a little noise, and Namjoon obliges you with a kiss, grinning against your mouth with each desperate sound he muffles with his plush lips.

Eventually, though, he pulls away from you. You glance over your shoulder to see that he’s gotten to his knees, still staring at your soaking core, before he hooks one of his thumbs into the fabric covering your aching pussy and pulls it aside before pressing his mouth against you.

“Oh, fuck!” Your body goes weak and you slump forwards onto your elbows and shove your face into the bed, and Namjoon follows when this moves you away from him, tongue buried in your cunt as he eats you out with no mercy. He’s utterly shameless, noises slick and lewd as he drags his wet tongue over your entrance and clit, swallowing down all the arousal that’s leaking out of you, ravenous. You reach behind you with one of your hands to grip his hair, and when you grind back against his face he lets out a satisfied hum; you gasp at the vibrations against your lower lips, oversensitive from all your edging.

“Gonna cum,” you say, twisting your head so that your cheek is pressed to your rumpled blanket. “I’m so close, oh, God, Namjoon-”

He’s been rubbing his tongue up and down your clit in a particularly sinful way, and after one more particularly hard stroke, you finally, finally reach that precipice you’ve been reaching for all day. You shove your face back into the blanket as you cum, all your gasps and moans coming together in one long cry as your toes curl and you tighten your fingers so hard into your sheets you almost pull them off the mattress. Your entire body trembles as your cunt pulsates with pleasure, each ripple of your pussy feeling like it’s passing through your whole body, and Namjoon doesn’t let up for a second, lapping down each wave of cum that flushes out of you. You feel utterly weak as you flop forwards against the mattress, boneless and shaky, but Namjoon’s mouth is still on you and you let out a whimper, oversensitive.

“It’s too much,” you gasp. “Namjoon-”

He takes his mouth off you immediately. “Sorry, baby,” he apologises, pressing a kiss against the swell of your ass. You want to sag your lower body against the bed but his hands are keeping you up, fingers digging into the soft skin of your ass and hips. “You just taste so good. Can you lie down for me?”

“Yes,” you say into the blanket, your voice a muffled slur. You’re so eager to please him even though you feel so weak from your post orgasm haze, and your muscles feel like jelly as you try to lift yourself onto the bed. Namjoon obviously notices how fucked out you are because he helps flip you over so that you’re on your back, staring up at him.

You continue to stare at him as he sheds his clothes. You let your gaze shamelessly rove over his body as it’s revealed- the honeyed tone of his skin, the muscles that shift underneath it, his shoulders, his arms, his chest, the long legs, the thick thighs, the trail of hair that dips down to his-

“Holy fuck.” Your voice is reedy with desperation, and Namjoon laughs.

His cock has to be the biggest you’ve seen in real life, long and thick, fully erect even though you haven’t touched it yet- the fact that you’re apparently arousing enough to bring him to full hardness is flattering, honestly. Even as you stare at it, it twitches, a dribble of precum oozing from the flushed head, almost an angry red from neglect. You watch, enraptured, as he circles his fingers around it; it doesn’t look any smaller in his large hands. He pulls on his cock, long and slow, before he spits onto it and fucks into his fist as you watch him, spreading the wetness over himself.

“Gonna fill that hungry little pussy with this cock,” he says. “Gonna give you a reward for being such a good girl. Is that what you want?” Namjoon watches you as he thumbs at his slit, precum weeping from his tip. “Does my good girl want this cock?”

“I want it,” you beg. You do, you want it so bad. His mouth and lips and tongue felt so good but it must be nothing in comparison to how good it’ll feel to be filled up by Namjoon’s heavy, long cock. “Fuck, Namjoon, please, I want it.”

You lift your hips so that Namjoon can slide your panties off you. He stares at the strings of wetness that cling to them as he peels them away from your core, finally bare to the cool air of the room, and you suck in a breath. He wastes no time, climbing onto the bed and settling above you, cock swaying between his legs before he grasps it and tilts it towards your entrance.

You lift your hips again, tilting them towards him for an easier angle- and immediately cry out when he broaches you, head pressing past your entrance. You’re so turned on and flushed wet that the initial slide in is easy, but as he gets deeper and deeper you can feel the stretch, your pussy forced open for him, feeling like you’re being split open with how big he is- you’ll feel the burn tomorrow, but right now your body is ripe and ready for him to take you, cunt clenching as he bottoms out in you. You experimentally tense your muscles and the two of you gasp in a breath, shocked pleasure at the sensation.

“Fuck, baby,” Namjoon groans. “You feel so good.”

He holds still for a moment to let you adjust, leaning down to kiss you. It’s deep and slow, tongue swiping into your mouth as you part your lips for him and let him take what he wants. When he leans back, all that softness is gone- your legs fall apart as he starts to fuck you, hips snapping forward as he ruthlessly presses his cock into you. He’s so big and he’s striking so deep it feels like you can feel him in your stomach, and you arch your back into him and cry out each time he strikes home.

The pace he sets is rough and aggressive, the slap of skin against skin and wet noises from his cock driving into your pussy filling the silence of the room, every part of you hypersensitive to every sensation- Namjoon’s weight pressing you into the mattress, the shaking bed, the rising smell of sweat and sex, the firmness of his hands on you. He leans back and you catch a glimpse of his hungry eyes before he puts his hands under your knees and hitches your legs up so that you’re practically bent in half when he fucks into you again- you cry out at the change of angle, how this lets him splay his large hand over the line of your hipbone as he starts to rub his thumb across your clit, continuing to fuck into the whole time.

“Gonna c-cum again,” you hiccup between thrusts, the air punched out of you each time that hot cock spears into you. “Joonie, gonna- gonna cum aga- oh!”

Your spine arches as your orgasm rips through you, coil of pleasure exploding like a firework as you cum for the second time that day, walls tensing around Namjoon’s cock; he continues to thrust into you, even when your cunt clenches so tight it feels like there’s no space inside you for his length. He keeps forcing your body open for him even as you keep falling apart around him, and you keep taking it, loving it. The only thing you can register is the delirious, mind-numbing satisfaction, sobbing out as Namjoon’s cock continues to fill you- you feel like he’s fucked you dumb, like your body was only made to be fucked by him, sloppy and open and wet. Each time he fills you up again it forces a noise from your throat, sounds of almost animalistic pleasure spilling from your lips, all semblance of coherent words gone.

When Namjoon pulls out of you, even though your body feels weak and limp and entirely fucked out, you whine at the loss. The next second, though, he flips you over, nudging your ankles apart before sliding back into you. The change of angle has him dragging against your sweet spot, balls slapping against your clit, overwhelming off the heels of just cumming, but you just take it, drooling into the pillow as your brain gives over to the all-consuming pleasure.

“So pretty when you cum around my cock.” Namjoon’s bent over you, murmuring praises that you barely register as he litters kisses over your shoulders and the side of your throat. “Greedy little pussy takes my cock so well. Such a good girl for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Wanna be a good girl for you.” Your words are a slur, your brain foggy but eager to please, answering the question. “Joonie.”

“Gonna fill you up so good,” he says, lips pressed against your ear as he whispers filth to you, still mercilessly fucking into you. “Gonna fill this pretty little pussy with my cum. Do you want my cum, baby?”

“Wan’ it,” you moan. There’s heat curling in your abdomen again, pussy tightening as another orgasm creeps up on you, the promise of Namjoon’s hot cum filling you pulling you closer to the edge. “Want your cum, Joonie.”

His fingers tighten around your waist as he starts to jackhammer into you. His cock feels like it’s splitting you open even as his rhythm starts to falter, and after one particularly hard thrust your eyes roll back in your head as you tumble over the edge again, cumming so hard it’s a wonder you don’t pass out. You let out a strangled moan and Namjoon curses as you tighten around him, your entire body trembling under his hands as you give yourself over to the waves of pleasure crashing through you.

His rhythm falters before he lets out a shout and his cock jerks inside you as your tightening cunt pulls him into climax. Hot cum fills your pussy as he empties himself inside you, aftershocks of your orgasm drawing his seed deeper, painting your insides. You lie there and take it, face turned into the pillow as you focus on the sensation of his twitching cock, the way your body is milking him even in your exhaustion, like it’s desperate to satisfy him even when you can barely speak.

You shiver when you feel him slowly pull out. He’s stroking his hands over your skin, kissing your shoulder blades and nape as he turns you over, gentle as he touches you. “You did so well,” Namjoon praises, smiling at you. “So good for me.”

You still feel fuzzy but you latch onto Namjoon’s words as he kisses you on your forehead, your cheeks, your nose. Words seem so hard to string together right now but you try your best, voice small and weak. “Did good?”

“Absolutely perfect, baby,” Namjoon says, and you let out a happy sigh. You stay quiet while Namjoon slips out of your bed before returning with a damp cloth. You let your muscles go entirely lax as Namjoon rolls you onto your back and gently spreads your legs; he watches as his own cum drips out of you before he gently swipes the mix of cum that’s smeared across your pussy, mindful of your sensitive clit. You bask in his touch, feeling like a cat bathing in sunlight as he cleans you up, stroking his hands across your skin.

He gathers you in his arms and continues to murmur praises between kisses and touches. You slowly come back to yourself as he keeps lavishing attention on you, skin warm against his, turning into his touch as your brain starts to flicker back on.

Namjoon brushes his lips against your forehead as your higher thought processes continue to fall back into place, although you’re still a little hazy. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“Yeah.” You feel thoroughly fucked out after three back-to-back orgasms and your pussy feels raw and you’re not sure when you’ll next be able to walk in a straight line, but none of those things detract from how fabulous you feel right now. “More than okay. Wow. When I said I wanted you to wreck me, I didn’t realise you’d do such a good job.”

Namjoon smiles at you, and you finally get to indulge yourself, lifting a hand to stroke a finger across his dimples that deepen as you touch them. “I’m always happy to oblige,” he says, and you grin as you brush your nose across his neck, nuzzling into him.

“You really are the best neighbour,” you say. “Did you seriously come over to give me a bunch of hand picked strawberries? That’s what that bag was, right?”

“Of course.” Namjoon’s fingers continue to rub circles into your shoulder. “I thought you deserved a nice treat after a day of chores.”

“Oh, I feel very thoroughly rewarded,” you giggle, before pulling your head back to look Namjoon in the eye. “God. I was so mortified at the beginning, though. I seriously thought I was going to have to pack my bags and move away.”

“The strawberries wouldn’t be enough to persuade you to stay?” Namjoon strokes his knuckles down your cheek before resting his thumb under the swell of your bottom lip, pushing up a little so it looks like you’re pouting at him. “After I spent all afternoon picking them and thinking about you, and how lovely you’d look while you ate them with this pretty little mouth of yours?”

You relax into his touch, letting him rub the pad of his thumb over your lip, all but kissing his finger each time your mouth shapes itself around another word. “You think about me?”

“I thought it was obvious,” Namjoon says, stroking over your lip one last time before cupping your chin in his palm. “I don’t genuinely lose my keys as often as you think I do. Though I do still lose them a lot,” he adds, a little sheepish, and you laugh.

“So you’re saying that if I give you a spare key to my flat, I should have back-ups on hand just in case?” You tease, leaning into the hand that’s cradling your chin. “Good to know.”

“A spare key?” Namjoon looks a little taken aback, and you blink at him.

“Yeah,” you say, like it’s obvious. “Y’know, unless you want me to go back to using the tumble dryer.”

The hand that’s been on your shoulder tightens a little as Namjoon digs his fingers into your skin, possessive. That part of you that’s gone belly up for him preens at the attention, still eager to please him and make him happy, loving the sensation of being so desired by someone who you thought was out of your reach. “No.” Namjoon’s voice is a rumble in his chest. “I’ll make you cum whenever you want, sweetheart.”

“Mm.” You hum quietly before kissing his cheek, and then Namjoon uses the hand under your chin to turn you towards him and presses his mouth softly to yours. “You might regret saying that. I’m very demanding. Starting with this- do you want to go get those strawberries so I can have a taste?” You flutter your lashes at him, and Namjoon chuckles as he indulges you.

You watch the flex of muscles in his thighs and ass as he walks from the room, still in a bit of disbelief that you’ve touched him and kissed him and been so thoroughly fucked by him. Kim Namjoon is a ten course meal (not including drinks or dessert) but here he is, naked on your bed as he feeds you the sweet, ripe strawberries that he picked with his own hands, kissing the taste off your lips between each bite.

You feel utterly pampered and taken care of, reclining against the pillows as Namjoon feeds you another strawberry. You reach out for the largest you can see and return the favour, letting him lick the sweetness off your stained fingers and giggling at the sensation.

“The dryer’s finished its cycle, by the way,” Namjoon says after he’s finished kissing your fingertips.

“That’s nice,” you say as you carefully pick out another strawberry and rest it against the dark red flush of Namjoon’s lips. “But I’m busy feeding the world’s most beautiful man right now, so it can wait.”

Namjoon smiles at you, eyes lovely and warm as he parts his lips to accept the fruit, before leaning down to press his berry stained mouth against your own.

#namjoon smut #namjoon x reader #namjoon x you #bts smut #bts fanfic #bts oneshot #namjoon oneshot #bts x reader #namjoon #kim namjoon #joy.masterlist

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fortheloveoffanfic · 4 years ago

Text

Put Me In a Movie

Keanu Reeves x reader (A/n- And we’ve reached the end of this fic that apparently took on a mind of its on.)

Summary Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

Warnings- Angst, kind of

Chapter 17- Movie Endings

Two dresses were laid out on the bed, both gorgeous, and just her style. One was simple and black, with a clean cut "v" neck with a fitted skirt, the hem falling above her knees and a bow adding detail to the low back. All in all, it was nice; a style anyone might be comfortable in, It was elegant and clearly the safe choice. But the other, that one was a bit racy, the kind that Grace, her stylist, had been nudging her towards. The champagne colored fabric sported an angled hem, and her legs would definitely be on generous display. The neckline was dangerously low and the whipsy fringe adoring the lower half of the garment was either going to be a hit or a miss with the fashion gurus. It wasn't exactly the safest option, both mechanically or when considering her new found reputation in the fashion world, but it was stunning.

Grace had left the final decision up to Y/n, and the team had prepared shoes and accessories for both. So, there she stood, in the bedroom of the hotel suite in London, just a handful of hours away from the world premiere of the movie that would be her introduction to silver screen. And Y/n didn't even want to go.

She should have been excited, part of her wanted to be, but it was proving to be a trying task because as hard as she tried not too, all Y/n could think of was how hard it would be to face Keanu again. She couldn't avoid him that time, pretend she didn't see him or cling to someone else and act like she was okay. That night, they'd have to walk the carpet together, take pictures with broad smiles and pretend they were on good terms. But they weren't, and it was eating her up on the inside.

With a heavy sigh, Y/n plopped into an accent chair near the window, unable to help it when her thoughts inevitably strayed to worrisome ones of Keanu. Was he okay with seeing her? Would he ignore like he had at the restaurant? Or would he try to save face and act as if they were friends. Thankfully, Jackson had dropped the whole, selling them as a couple tactic after her publicist had worked in over time to get him to change his mind, eventually convincing him that it would be all too cliche for the stars to get together.

Part of Y/n was grateful that she wouldn't have to suck up her feelings and ignore the obvious. But some of her was disappointed too, because, even though they'd split, and she'd kicked Keanu out of her apartment after he tried to apologize, Y/n still missed him. She still loved him. Above anyone else, all she wanted was him. Maybe if they'd gone along with Jackson's plan, she could have been forced to put aside her pride and let him back in.

But alas, nothing of the such happened and Y/n wouldn't begin to know how to patch things up if she ever went back to Keanu. Hell, she didn't even know if patching was possible; they made a mess, left each other with ruins of what could have been a great romance. He'd broken her down to someone who was scared, now more than ever, to love again, while Y/n had pushed Keanu into uncharted territory which he wasn't ready for.

And still, she loved him.

She would always love him. Even with the bitterness that lingered in her throat when she thought of everything they'd been through. Even when she reminisced on all the terrible things he'd done. Even when all she could think of was how much she wanted to hate him, all Y/n could do was love Keanu. Love him till it hurt, love him till her heart became caught in a cycle of shattering and repairing itself, love him until that was all that made sense about what they used to be.

Maybe she'd always loved him, for the very beginning, before it all started with one kiss in her hotel room in Chicago. Maybe that was why she'd fought so hard.

Tears pricked at her eyes, and while Y/n knew that she'd have to go out into the main room in a bit, to let the team help her get ready, she let herself sink into emotion for a while. The tears falling freely, though silently, and her chest tight, with a burning ache in the center.

A knock on the bedroom door had Y/n jumping up from the comfort of her seat, grabbing a tissue on her way to the door. "Yeah?" It was her assistant, a red haired girl who was just about her age.

"Um," she shuffled her feet, avoiding Y/n's gaze, "Walter," her manager, "Needs to see you. He's waiting, out on the balcony, down the end of the hall." And just like that, without even waiting for Y/n to respond, she was scuttling away nervously, not even sparing a backwards glance. It was certainly suspicious behavior for her too, usually her assistant was one of those energetic spirits, employing the kind of optimism that Y/n wish she still had. That evening though, she seemed nervous, like something was wrong.

As the troubled feeling settled in the pit of her stomach, Y/n tightened the knot on her black, floral dressing robe, shoved her feet into the nearest pair of fluffy flip flops, she marched out of the room with purpose, not caring if she was sparsely dressed beneath the silk cocoon. Grabbing nothing more than her phone, she slipped out of the suite, evading questions of Grace and the rest of her team, all more than ready to finish prepping her for the premiere.

As she hurried down the hall, headed towards the open veranda doors, nearly stumbling on a kink in the carpet on her way. "Walter-" Gasping, Y/n cut herself off when she saw who was turning to face her, the only thing missing from his outfit being his suit coat, his shirt well fitted and tight around his biceps. "You," she stuttered accusingly, clumsily staggering backwards, “You’re the one that wanted to meet here, aren’t you?”

“I didn’t want to ask you assistant to lie,” Keanu released his grasp on the cool metal railing, fully tuning to face Y/n, though not yet making any move to approach her, “But I knew you wouldn’t come if I’d asked,” he moistened his lips, “And honestly? I don’t blame you.”

Taking a minute to absorb his presence, Y/n breathed slowly, letting her eyes settle on him. He looked so different, and just the same, all at once. He’d trimmed his beard and hair since the last time she’d spotted him at the restaurant, and Y/n suspected that his impeccable grooming had more to do with the red carpet they were set to walk than his own volition and he looked just as dashing as he usually did, though, there was a sadness in his expression and a slight hollowness around his eyes, as if he hadn’t been sleeping well. “What do you want?” It took a couple minutes to rediscover her courage, but from the minute she did, Y/n had decided that unlike the last time, she’d listen to what he had to say. She was just so tired of fighting.

Keanu’s eyes followed Y/n as she finally passed through the threshold, leaving some space between them, leaning her hip against the guard rail and folding her arms. “I want…….” to fix this, make you love me again, erase every terrible thing I’ve ever done to you. Words were hard to come by, and nervously, Keanu managed, “You, Y/n. I want you.”

Tears pricked at her eyes, and Y/n sniffled quietly, her throat burning as she spoke, “Keanu…..I,” scoffing, she tucked some hair behind her ear, swallowing thickly, “I’m not going back to living like that with you, and-”

“No,” he cut her off, not for a second wanting her to think that he wasn’t putting his all into shaping up for her, “I’m not asking you to. I want to be the man you deserve, and you deserve someone who’s brave and can tell you exactly how he feels. And I know right now that man seems like Luke, and I hate that I’m here asking you to leave the man that makes you happy for one that broke your heart way too many times,” reaching out, Keanu took one of her hands in both of his, his breath hitching hopefully when she didn’t pull away, “But I am, because I want to change, for you.”

“I don’t want you to change,” Y/n’s broke pitifully, and a lone tear trickled down her cheek, “I never wanted you to change, I just wanted you to let me in, so I could love you for who you already are, so we could love each other,” placing her hand on top of his, Y/n sobbed quietly, “Keanu I’m so tired of trying to be mad at you. Its so hard.” Her shoulders slumped and her hung her head, and not long after, she felt the top of Keanu’s head pressing against hers, their hands jumbled between them.

“I’m tired of living without you,” he sighed, as they both sunk into the familiarity of being close, “I’m so sorry that I hurt you.”

“I’m sorry that I pushed you,” she sniffed, breathing his scent; musky cologne, cigarettes and leather. Y/n didn’t think she’d ever missed a smell that much. “I should have waited till you were ready, not forced your hand.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Keanu stepped closer and Y/n did too, “You gave me so many chances, I never deserved them, or you, not when I was acting like that.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Y/n weaned her hands from Keanu’s cupping his face, letting her thumb graze the apple of his cheek, catching his tear before it fell, standing on her tiptoes, “You deserve every good thing that’s come to you, you’re a good man Keanu. Behind every wall you put up, beneath every nasty thing you’ve said, I know that you’re good in here,” Y/n placed her hand over his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat against her palm.

It barely took a minute of her touch for him to remember what it was liked to be loved by her, how whole he felt, like if all else faded away, what they had would be all that mattered. Why hadn’t he let himself feel it sooner? Resting his hand over hers on his chest, Keanu bent his head so his lips would graze Y/n’s. “Do you still love me?” Their noses were touching and he ended his inquisition with another brief kiss, using all his restraint to not crash his lips to hers. To say he missed her would be an understatement. He craved Y/n, every part of her; the parts that were so undeniably perfect and the parts that she hid deep within, her touch, her taste, her smell, her voice. Her everything.

“I will always love you,” she whispered, the palm on his face sliding to the back of his head, tangling in Keanu’s neat hair, neither of them caring if she messed it up, “I never stopped. But I told you, I’m not going back to the way things were before.”

“And I told you, I’m not asking you to,” he kissed her, deeper that time, arms winding around her waist, holding her flush against his chest, “I want it all with you. If you’ll have me,” he swallowed nervously, rearing back a bit to search her eyes.

Caressing the back of his neck, Y/n knew she couldn’t deny him, it was inevitable. Everything that had happened form the moment they’d met had led up to them, standing on the balcony as London’s late afternoon turned to dusk; the sun setting, the sky darkening and their affections reigniting, “I wouldn’t rather have anyone else,” lost in his trance, Y/n knew that every word said between them that day was nothing less than the truth. Everything felt different; renewed and realer, he was hers and she was his, truly and completely and for as long as they’d make it last. And they had every intention of making it last for the rest of their forever.

“What about Luke?” Just remembering that Y/n had gotten back with him, Keanu didn’t want to cause any more destruction than he already had.

“We broke up, for good this time,” Y/n shrugged, “I couldn’t do it anymore, force myself to feel something for him when all I wanted was to be with you,” she clung to Keanu, their embrace consuming and healing at the same time, “Tell me this is gonna last.”

“It’s gonna last,” he confirmed, “For as long as I’m alive, it’s gonna last. And even after that, it’ll last, I promise. In fact,” he paused, nervous as hell for some reason, wondering if he was expecting too much too soon after their reconciliation, “I was thinking, if you want, we could walk together tonight. As a couple.”

“Are you sure?” Y/n knitted her brows, knowing that going public was a big step for Keanu. It meant that they were solid, exclusive, committed. A couple with a future, who wanted the world to know that they were only for each other. “I don’t want you to feel pressured just because you want us to work out. We can take it slow.”

Shaking his head, Keanu rubbed her back affectionately, and Y/n burrowed against his chest, “I’m not doing it because of pressure, I’m doing it because I want to, for us. I want the world to know that its sweetest, most beautiful woman chose me. So, what do you say, be my exclusive girlfriend Y/n?”

Beaming, Y/n tilted her head to look up at Keanu, his smile hopeful, “I’d love to Keanu. I love you.”

“I love you too,” he smiled wistfully and and when he leaned down to kiss her, one last time, just before he’d walk her back to her room to finish getting ready, Keanu reminisced on Ester’s advice back at the hotel, maybe it wasn’t a movie, but they could still have their happy ending.

******

Tagging- @harrisongslimited @paanchu786 @thesadvampire @fanficsrusz @fickensteinn @ladyreapermc @babygirltaina @septimaseverina @snatchedbylele @omg-imagine @21stcenturyyfoxx @magnificentclodpiebanana @allie1804-fan @keandrews @greenmanalishi @rdjloverxxx @danceoftwowolves

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jessiebanethedragon · 4 years ago

Text

Scuttle (4/?)

Big thanks to all those reading this!!!! hope you enjoy part four ❤️

also warning of talk about Hutt reproduction for comedic purposes (sorry...)

You wake to the sound of a very angry sniper. And even though his default setting is angry, he seems more perturbed than usual. Muffled voices can be heard from outside the small bunk area that you’ve already made your personal space. Wet, destroyed clothes sit on the floor in the corner and you’re wrapped only in Crosshairs blanket, save for your undergarments. You swing your legs over and plant them on the cold metal floor. As you reach the door, the voices become clearer.

“Absolutely not.” - That's Crosshair for sure, only he would be so blunt.

“I wasn't asking for your permission Crosshair, only your opinion.” The other voice is more of a long sigh at this point. The exhaustion and caring sound to it tells you it’s Hunter. For clones they are all remarkably different, you think to yourself.

“Yeah and my opinion is ‘no’.” Crosshair snaps.

“The seppies will come after her whether you like it or not.” He counters.

“Which is why we can’t take her into bounty hunter territory!” You freeze as you realize they mean you. Panic settles in when you come to terms with the idea of being ditched on some degenerate planet with non resources whatsoever. You retreat back into the bunk, pulling the blanket closer to your frame.

“Just get her up.” Hunter finishes and you hear him walk back down the halfway of the ship. Crosshair grumbles something about not being in charge of you before the door slides open. He’s shocked to see you sitting up and awake, and his eyes rest on the pile of clothes on the floor before meeting yours. His blanket looks far better on you than it has in all his years of owning it.

“Food’s up.” He says before turning to leave. Less time spent interacting with you the better. Means less time for him to stare at the one exposed shoulder that the blanket has fallen off of and less time to wonder if you’d ever spare someone like him a second glance.

“Where are you dumping me?” He hears a small voice ask. And all the warmth leaves his body.

“We aren't…” He starts, not turning around. Because if he doesn’t turn around he can claim ignorance if you're crying or not.

“I heard you and Hunter and i’m not stupid.” You interrupt him, voice void of any emotion.

“Then you'd know i'm not going to let him do that.” He snaps, almost angry at you for thinking he’d leave you on your own.

“I’m deadweight, aren't I?” It's a question you know the answer to but have to ask anyways. You want to scream at the republic, for using your intel and then throwing you away. Taking advantage of your selflessness and empathy, just like they take advantage of the clones caring and giving nature at every opportunity.

“You’re not deadweight.” Crosshair states, leaving no room for argument, “You just need to be somewhere off the grid for a while.” He hears you stand, and slowly he turns his head, his blanket bunched awkwardly around your frame. His jaw clenches as his heart pulls at strings he swore weren't there.

“Crosshair…” You start, but don’t continue, words escape you, the right ones don’t exist in that moment. Or at least you can't bring yourself to use the ones you want to. So instead, you opt to blankly stare at the metal floor. He will leave eventually, turn and head out the door. You’re not his problem, your brain explains this as the floor becomes more and more interesting. Except he doesn't go. And the very tips of his fingers meet your chin, gently pulling your head to meet his glance.

God his eyes are stunning, you think, before cursing your brain for being in the totally wrong place at the wrong time. But his eyes might be the prettiest you’ve ever seen. Light brown with hints of ashy tones.

“I won't leave you on your own.” He tells you, but what you want to hear is that he will stay with you. You're already inexplicably attached to the sniper, it's unbearable.

“Thank you.” You whisper to him breathless just from being this close to him.

“Now come on, or Wrecker will have eaten everything before you even get out there.” Crosshair cocks his head towards the door, pulling away from you.

The members of the hold greet you excitedly, Wrecker seems to have really taken to calling you little bird as well as patting your head affectionately. And you find yourself sat wedge in between him and Tech while they both talk your ear off. Hunter is smiling and eating in contentment of his little family and Crosshair is starring, you fit so nicely in this scene. Wrecker piling more and more food on your plate while you laugh at Techs retelling of one of their ridiculous missions.

“Tell er’ about Nal Hutta!” Wrecker says with an evil smile.

“Don’t you dare.” Crosshair snaps at his vod, who's already laughing his blacks off.

“It wasn't that bad Cross.” Hunter admits grabbing some empty dishes and patting his shoulder as he walks by.

“Yes it was!” Wrecker says between wheezes. And you notice the faint flush in his cheeks.

“Okay one of you needs to spill the details.” You demand looking from Tech to Wrecker.

“Well, as you probably know Nal Hutta is run by the infamous Hut cartel…” Tech launches off, waving his hands about as he talks. (you've picked this up as one of his biggest habits.)

“Tech…” Crosshair groans with his face in one of his hands before giving in and leaning back. Preparing for the worst.

“I can't tell you all the details, classified and all, but the important part is that Cross was working recon and cover, like usual. So he's up this step mountain that's basically all dirt and sand. Looking for this Hut fellow right, and before we can warn him Wrecker throws this thermal detonator and the whole side of the mountain collapses.” Tech tells you excitedly. And your worried eyes look across the table. Crosshair had moved so he could lean back with his arms behind his head looking just a tad embarrassed.

“He would've been fine, if he hadn't gone rolling right through the window of the house he was collecting intel on.” Wrecker was killing himself laughing by this point.

“And then the… the” He tried to get out between gasps of air before waving it off and letting Tech continue.

“And well, sorry Cross, there's no easy way to say this.” Tech laughed a little himself. “He rolled right in on a Hutt reproducing session.” Your eyes went as wide as they could, and a hand covered your gaping and giggling mouth.

“Wait, so Crosshair burst in on two Hutts doing it?” You gasped, trying to stifle your growing laughter.

“Gets worse.” The man in question grit out, looking at the mess of comrades before him.

“How does that get worse?” You exclaimed, leaning into Wrecker with his contagious laughter. Tech turned to you, smiling wider than ever.

“Hutts reproduce asexually.” He stated, “scientists don't know too much about it but from the condition we found this one in.” he pointed to a grumpy Crosshair. “It gets real messy.” You closed your mouth into a thin line, blinking as you tried not to laugh.

“Oh…” Giggle “no, Crosshair…” More giggles. “That must’ve been awful.” You tried to emphasize you really did, but the look on the snipers face had you laughing all over again.

“He was covered head to toe in green Hutt goo!” Wrecker boomed.

“Well it’s nice to know yet another finds my torment hilarious.” Crosshair grumbled as he stood up to escape the laughing hyenas before him.

“No!” you objected, “I promise I am not finding this the least bit funny.” You told him, trying to keep a straight face. Receiving a sarcastic ‘um hum’ reply.

“I mean it, you could have been seriously injured.” You countered, thinking you had successfully hidden your smile beneath your hand.

“I can see you smiling.” He said, raising an eyebrow at you.

“You could've drowned in Hutt goo…” You quietly said with another round of giggles.

“Ahhh yes CT-7733 of Clone Force 99 killed in action on Nal hutta, death caused by drowning in Hutt goo.” Tech snickered from beside you.

“He will be dearly missed, and as an apology the Hutt has named the child in his honour.” You added taking note of Crosshairs millionth eye roll of that morning alone.

“Okay that's enough of that now.” He said. “Wren, you want clothes or are you spending the rest of your life in my blanket?” He teases, watching you blush a tad.

“I don't take life advice from a man covered in goo.” You shoot back with the biggest smirk on your face.

“No clothes for you then.” he smiled as your protests began.

“Okay, okay, calm down, don’t get your goo in a tuffle.” You say maneuvering yourself from with the blanket and over Wrecker who's still chuckling to himself.

Down back in your makeshift room, Crosshair shows you where the extra clothes are kept, which means you’ll be swimming in extra sets of blacks all meant for clones that are bigger than yourself. But you think your pants may survive given a good enough wash, so for now you roll the waistband and the legs until you look somewhat presentable. Greeting Crosshair on the other side of the door.

“See,” He says, “told ya’ it would fit.” Before he turns from you and starts to walk back down the hall.

“Wait Crosshair!” You call jogging over to him, a look of fau-concentration on your face as you reach up to where his short hair meets his right ear. Carefully running your fingers through it. He knows his heart has either stopped beating or hammering so fast he can’t feel it.

“There, all good now.” you declare patting his cheek a few times. Hoping he inquires as to why you just had your hand in his hair. He opens and closes his mouth a few times before deciding on:

“What was that for?” and if there was an inter-galactic clone flirting competition, Crosshair just lost. You grin up at him, pure evil in your eyes.

“Oh no reason,”You say walking past. “Just a little leftover Hutt goo.”

tags: @mangoberry43 @imalovernotahater @professionaltrashcompactor @vesperstalksclones @haloangel391

and: Thinking the next chapter might be longer but be out of order in relevance to these chapters... thoughts? questions? comments? etc???

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cynicalclassicist · 3 years ago

Text

TURN BACK

Written by Chris Newton

This isn’t mine but was done by another of the Lockdown writers who very kindly sent it to me.

There it was again: that fluttering, rattling, scuttling noise. It sounded like grasping pincers, snapping mandibles and probing antennae. It felt like something was on her back. For some reason, it was an oddly familiar sensation.

Donna Temple-Noble knew that things had not been right for a while.

Things were fine in her life. After a decade of marriage, both she and Shaun were still very happy and very much in love. They had been determined that their big lottery win wouldn’t change them and, for the most part, it hadn’t. They lived in a ten bedroom mansion Highgate with two acres of land, owned a holiday villa in Spain, and had been able to afford to send Joshua and Ella to an incredibly expensive private school – but otherwise, they still went to watch West Ham every Saturday (albeit in their own executive box), still kept in touch with all their old friends (even Nerys), and eschewed fancy restaurants and glitzy parties in favour of Friday nights in on the sofa watching Love Island and eating Pringles.

But something was wrong with the world. Her high school boyfriend, Mathew Richards, had always been going on about global warming back in the 90s, but as far as Donna had been concerned somebody was always banging on about the end of the world, whether it was the Millennium Bug, or Mayan calendars or Hadron Colliders… But what did that have to do with her life? She could hardly see which type of milk she put in her tea affected the wider world.

But things began to get so bad that even Donna noticed. On her eighty-inch TV, she saw bush fires in Australia, David Attenborough showing the ice caps melting and an ocean filled with plastic. And then the Sontaran virus came – the lockdowns, the curfews, and the restrictions. But not even a global pandemic could prevent the USA from imploding in a civil war. The Zygon president had attempted to form a dictatorship when he lost the election and all hell had broken loose.

Donna knew they were lucky, they were far away from the fighting and they could afford regular deliveries of fresh food, and had a huge garden with their own private swimming pool to occupy them in quarantine. The first lockdown had almost been like a holiday for the Temple-Nobles; the kids cannon balling into the water, Donna and Shaun sunning themselves on loungers, barbeques, cocktails. Their autumn lockdown consisted of bonfires and marshmallows, thick jumpers and flasks of hot chocolate as they told ghost stories on Halloween and twirled sparklers on Bonfire Night. It was almost perfect.

Almost… But not. Because for all the comfort their money could buy them, there was one problem wealth could not solve.

Donna’s Grandfather, Wilf, was now ninety-one. A few years ago, after a fall, had moved into a care home. Donna made sure he received the best care possible, and paid for him to go to a lovely facility just near Hampstead Heath, that way they were practically neighbours. Before the virus, she had visited him every day without fail. His memory had been growing steadily worse; sometimes he called her Sylvia, and occasionally Louise, for some reason, but he never forgot that she was his granddaughter, and more than not greeted her by saying ‘Wahey, here she is! The Little General!’ which had been his nickname for her when she was little.

But since lockdown, she had been unable to visit him. She knew it was for the best, for the safety of her grandfather and for the other residents in the home, but it didn’t change the fact that it felt as though a huge part of her had been ripped away. His dementia had worsened, the staff had told her over the phone, and he had been repeatedly talking about a spaceman in a flying blue box.

She had managed to arrange a videocall with her grandfather, a favour from one of the nurses at the home. She sat waiting for him to answer, full of fear and trepidation. Always wondering which visit would be the one where he failed to recognise her entirely.

“Wahey, here she is! The Little General!” Wilf’s face filled the screen of her phone.

“Hiya Gramps!” Donna’s eyes welled with tears of joy at the sight of her grandfather.

“Blimey, how’d you get inside this little tablet thingy?” he chuckled. “Must be bigger on the inside,” he muttered with a strange, faraway look in his rheumy eyes, as though he were trying to remember something.

“You don’t half come out with some rubbish!” she laughed. “We had a bonfire in the garden on the 5th. You know, jacket potatoes in tin foil, passing round a thermos of tea. Reminded me of the old days, up the hill at your allotment, remember?”

“Mmmm,” he smiled distantly, before his face crumpled in confusion. “’Ere, where’s the Doctor?”

“You’ve already seen the doctor, Gramps. Remember? He put you on those new pills.”

“No, not him. The skinny one. Isn’t he with you? He usually is.”

“Why would he be with me you daft old thing? I’m fit and healthy, thank you very much. Touch wood,” she tapped her head. “Don’t need a doctor.”

“I think you do,” Wilf mumbled. “I think we all do. He’d sort out this bleedin’ virus.”

“They’ll have a vaccine before you know it, Gramps. You’ll be round ours for Christmas dinner, just you wait and see.”

“That’ll be nice,” he grinned. “How’s Lance, then? He alright?”

“Shaun, granddad, I’m married to Shaun. Lance… had to go away.”

“Oh. Well, it’s probably for the best. I never did like him much.”

Donna couldn’t help but chuckle.

“The kids want these flippin’ animatronic Baby Yoda dolls for Christmas,” she changed the subject. “Honestly, it’s Star Wars this, Star Trek that… and that other one. You know, the time travel one? No idea where they get it from, I was never into any of that sci-fi rubbish.”

“Donna…” Wilf cried, a sudden urgency in his voice.

“Yes, Gramps?” she swallowed nervously, it had been a long time since he had called her by her name. “What is it?”

“There’s something on your back.”

The words chilled her, although she had no idea what they meant. She felt her right hand darting involuntarily over her shoulder expecting to feel… what, exactly? Something creeping, crawling, insectoid… she shivered.

“There’s nothing there. Honestly, what are you on about?”

“He was only trying to help, but it’s gone wrong again. It wasn’t a fixed point, you see? It was one of those… Temporal wotsits.”

Donna took a deep breath.

“I think you’re getting mixed up again, Gramps.”

“Hmm?” he looked at her, his eyes full of warmth, kindness and confusion. “So how’s Lance, then? He alright?”

“Yes, Gramps. Lance is fine.”

“Oh, that’s good. I always liked him. Oh, I’ve got to go. The nurse wants her tablet back. When are you coming to see me?”

“As soon as I can, Gramps. I promise. As soon as I can.”

“Well, I’ll look forward to it. Ta-da sweetheart.”

“Bye,” she stifled a tear as the screen became blurry, before Wilf’s face was replaced by a blonde-haired woman.

“Donna Noble!” the stranger grinned irrepressibly

“Oh, hi,” Donna swiftly composed herself. “Are you the nurse? Thanks so much for letting me speak to him…”

“Yeah. Well, I’m a Doctor, actually. Although a lot of people assume I’m a nurse these days. Bit annoying, really. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a nurse, mind! If it’s good enough for Rory Pond, it’s good enough for me.”

The blonde woman was still grinning.

“Oh my god,” Donna’s mouth fell open. “I know you!”

“No! No – that’s not possible!” The Doctor’s face paled.

“I knew I recognised you.”

“Listen to me – you cannot know who I am…”

“You’re Leanne Battersby. From Corrie!”

“What?”

“Ha! Just wait ’til I tell Nerys, she’ll be well jealous.” Donna snorted.

The Doctor harrumphed.

“Leane Batt… Actually, you know what? If it stops your neural receptors from combusting then fine. Fine! Yeah. Leanne Battersby at your service. If you think I’m just an actress from Coronation Street then it’s safe for us to talk. Well, I say safe… safe-ish. By which I mean not very dangerous. Okay, maybe it’s a little bit dangerous. Put it this way: your mind won’t burn, but you might end up forgetting your old mate Susie Mair.”

“Susie Who?”

“Exactly. Anyway, we don’t have long… I need to get back in Wilf’s wardrobe before the Sontarans triangulate my signal. I’m telling you, this has been a long eight months. But your grandfather’s right: there is something on your back. Again. Or maybe for the first time – it all gets a bit wibbley with alternate dimensions. But there’s something on your back, and I’m really sorry, but it hitched a ride on a lottery ticket.”

“What on Earth are you on about?”

“Not on Earth, actually, Shan Shen,” the Doctor said, and then winced. “Oops! Shouldn’t have said that. Might have deleted another scene. Remember that time you were one the phone to Veena in the kitchen and you heard that strange wheezing, groaning sound coming from outside?”

“No?”

“Probably for the best.”

“What’s going on? And why are you in my Granddad’s wardrobe? Do I need to call social services, ’cause don’t think I won’t, blondie!”

“I need you to trust me. What was the name of that TV show where the kid in the blindfold had to be guided through the dungeon by their mates?”

“Knightmare?”

“Yes! That’s the one. I need you to be my Dungoneer. I don’t have a Helmet of Justice so you’ll just have to close your eyes.”

“Close my eyes??”

“I know I’m asking a lot, Donna, but Wilf trusts me, and that’s all I can tell you. But be honest – you know something’s wrong, don’t you? You can feel something digging into your shoulders, can’t you?”

Donna nodded. There was no denying it, and for some inexplicable reason, she felt she could trust this woman, even though the reason seemed distant and out of reach. Donna closed her eyes.

The strange woman on the phone guided her out of the house, past a row of trees and to the telephone box at the end of the road. Funny, Donna thought, she didn’t remember there being a telephone box there. She hadn’t seen a proper one for years.

Following the Doctor’s instructions, Donna pulled the handle and the door creaked open as she stepped inside. Instinctively, she reached out for the mounted payphone, but her fingers met only empty air. Perhaps it wasn’t an operating phone box anymore? It probably housed a defibrillator instead. She was tempted to have a peek and find out.

“Don’t even think about opening your eyes,” the Doctor snapped, somehow reading her thoughts, “if you open your eyes, your brain will hyperpodulate.”

“Hyer-what-you-what? I want you to know I’m taking a lot on faith here, Battersby! And if this is a wind-up, then so help me god...”

Donna’s threat was drowned out the VROOP-VROOPING of ancient engines that at once sounded utterly alien and distantly familiar to her, like hearing a half-remembered nursery rhyme from childhood.

She heard the telephone box door creak open again, and a rush of cold air from outside. Strange, it didn’t feel like the smoky air of the November street she had come from. It felt crisper, fresher. She could hear the merry peal of church bells. There isn’t a church that close to my house, she thought, puzzled.

“You can come out now. Walk forwards but keep your eyes closed for a moment.”

Donna did as she was told. She felt grass beneath her feet as the VROOP-VROOPING resumed and then faded, drowned out by the sound of the bells.

“You can open you eyes now,” the woman on the phone was now stood in front of her, but that was the least surprising thing to Donna.

“But, how…” Donna looked down at herself. “I’m in my wedding dress. I don’t understand?” The two of them were stood by an old lychgate. Donna looked ahead – there was the church where she had married Shaun. Discarded confetti swirled about her ankles. There were guests milling about ahead – there was her grandfather’s friend Minnie Hooper. Minnie the Menace he used to call her! Although Donna was sure she’d heard that Minnie had died recently. Nevertheless, there she was, full of joy and life. And there was Nerys in her hideous peach dress!

“What year is this?” asked Donna.

“2010,” said the Doctor.

“This is my wedding day. How is this even possible?”

“The time differential’s trying to reconcile there being two of you here at the same time. Hence the dress. It’s tricky with parallel universes. Anyway, ‘how’ isn’t important right now. What’s important is that somebody just gave you a lottery ticket as a wedding present.”

“I know, cheapskate.”

“You’re about to win a triple rollover.”

“Yeah, well…”

“The thing is, Donna – the man gave you that ticket – he meant well, but he was meddling with things that shouldn’t have been meddled with. He was young – still in his Time Lord Victorious phase.”

“I don’t understand a single word you’re saying.”

“You know that theory that a butterfly fluttering its wings can cause a hurricane on the other side of the world? Well, time’s like that. Small, trivial things can cause ripples which alter the course of history. The truth is: you didn’t win that money. At least, not originally. You took one look at that ticket and ripped it up. Remember? The first dance at your wedding reception was Can’t Buy Me Love.”

“No… that’s not right,” said Donna. It couldn’t be. She knew that hadn’t happened. Their first dance had been 2 Become 1 by Spice Girls. So why could she remember dancing to The Beatles with Shaun?

“Nobody won the lottery that week – and the next week it was a quadruple rollover! A boy called Michael Finch won it. He was only sixteen. Imagine that! First time he’d ever played. Great kid. A friend of mine met his dad once. Long story. Anyway, I’m sorry Donna, but Michael didn’t spend it on cars and holiday homes and private pools. He invested in the future: green initiatives, healthcare, education… When the Sontarans released their virus, Earth was ready for it. Plus, the United States didn’t have a Zygon for a president. Well, they did actually, but she’s one of the nice ones. But shh, don’t tell anyone.”

“You know what,” said Donna. “I don’t think you really are Leanne Battersby, are you?”

“No.”

“But I do know you, don’t I?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s… bad? My head hurts…” Donna cupped her forehead in her palm.

“Yes. It’s very bad,” said the Doctor. “But it’s okay. Because if you tear up that lottery ticket and let Michael Finch win it instead, then you’ll change the future and we’ll never have met. Well, not like this anyway.”

“This is crazy. How is any of this possible?”

“My fault, I’m afraid. A long time ago, you had an encounter with a Time Beetle – and this is the gross part, sorry – Time Beetles can lay eggs beneath the hosts’ skin. They lie dormant, sometimes indefinitely, until the host encounters a significant temporal junction – in your case a lottery win that could change the course of human history. You were never supposed to have this life, Donna. You were supposed to tear up the ticket.”

More non-memories were flooding Donna’s mind – the years of living on the breadline in Chiswick, living with the regret of their lost fortune. A bank holiday weekend in Blackpool with the kids, having her fortune told by the strange little woman in the kiosk on the pier… Voicing her regret aloud and wishing she could go back to the day of her wedding and keep that winning ticket.

That couldn’t be right… They never took the kids to Blackpool. Their holidays had been in Cyprus and Malaga, they’d splashed out on luxury round-the-world cruises. But she remembered it so vividly: the rattle of the trams, the glare of the illuminations, the taste of the chips, the seagulls crying overhead.

“But we’ll have nothing. I can’t go back to the way we used to live: hand to mouth, never knowing where next month’s rent is coming from. What about Ella and Josh? They’ll be born with nothing.”

“Donna Temple-Noble, listen to me,” the Doctor gazed at her sternly. “You’ll have everything. You’ll have each other.”

Donna looked back over to the church – there was Wilf! – still spry at eighty and fighting off Minnie’s advances as ever. And there was Shaun – so handsome in his wedding suit! She couldn’t believe how young he looked.

The Doctor was right. Donna thought of how happy they had been during lockdown, not because they were comfortable, but because they had each other. The tweet-a-longs, the virtual gigs, the walks in the woods, the disastrous attempts at baking, standing on their doorstep and clapping for U.N.I.T…. She hadn’t put two and two together until she’d been speaking to her grandfather: but it had been the first time in her married life – the first time as a mother – that she had somehow recaptured that magic of sitting in her grandfather’s allotment with a flask of tea and gazing at the stars.

At the time Donna had felt as though she were longing for adventure, as though the stars held some inexplicable magic, but now she knew that the magic had been right there in the allotment all along. She no longer yearned for adventure, but longed instead to return to those simple days. She never could, of course. Wilf’s star was fading, but her own was rising. She thought back to the old world of financial hardship: rented flats, being plunged into darkness when the electricity meter ran out, payday loans and minimum wage temp jobs. There would be struggles but there would also be magic. There would be stories by candlelight, cartoons and warm milk before bed in the precious few years before Joshua and Ella became moody teenagers. There would be games in the park. There would be home cooked meals, and there would be telly and Pringles on the sofa on Friday nights.

There would be family.

Donna turned to speak to the blonde woman, but the stranger was gone, so she hitched up her wedding dress and hurried over to her husband.

“Who were you talking to?” he asked.

“A friend,” Donna smiled.

“What’s her name?”

“I can’t remember,” she said. It was strange, the name was on the tip of her tongue, but it had gone. She decided it didn’t matter.

“Give us that lottery ticket, will you?” Donna asked. (She had entrusted it into Shaun’s safe keeping. There were still no pockets in wedding dresses.)

“Why, you got a good feeling about it?” he asked, taking it from his pocket and handing it to his bride.

“Yeah. As a matter of fact, I have,” said Donna Temple-Noble as she tore up the ticket, and a great weight lifted from her shoulders.

#doctor who lockdown #doctor who #fanfic

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