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phykios · 4 years ago

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Five Times Percy Jackson Cheated At School (And One Time Someone Cheated Him) [read on ao3]

thank you as always to @darkmagyk for inspo and beta-ing 💙💙💙 and thank you to @arosnowflake for the homer idea!

Percy squints at the paper prompt again, tilting his head, as if the new angle will extract some hidden information. It doesn’t change. The font is the special dyslexia-friendly one used by most departments at NRU, so he isn’t misreading it, either.

Your final will be an 8-10pp (TNR, 12pt, double-spaced) research paper expanding on one of the topics discussed in our class so far, or an alternate idea of your choosing, to be submitted in writing by May 7 with footnotes and bibliography. By 10am on the Wednesday before the Thursday class you will submit online a 750-word essay (word count does not include footnotes) on the research thread you have pursued that week (no written assignments due Week 6 or Week 12).

Percy might hate college.

“Your neck bothering you again?” Annabeth asks, coming up behind him, her hands already on his shoulders. She’s sweaty, dressed in workout clothes, having just come back in from a jog.

“My neck is fine,” he says. “Just preemptively freaking out over my Roman history final.”

He tilts his head back over the top of his chair, staring into the upside down, prettily frowning face of his girlfriend, and it does nothing to improve his mood.

“How bad is it?”

“Eight to ten pages,” Percy says, “not including footnotes.”

“Ouch.”

“And,” he grimaces, “it’s a topic of our choosing.”

Her mouth twists in sympathy. “Sucks.”

“Yep.”

“Anything I can do to help?” She squeezes his shoulders lightly, an open invitation.

He shakes his head, stretching his arms back to grab her waist. “Promise not to break up with me when you catch me crying at 4AM over it.”

“Promise.” And she seals it with a kiss, bending down to reach him. “Dad wants to know if you’re free on the 16th.”

“The 16th?” He wracks his brain. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t conflict with sailing, or Greek Club, or the monthly intra-pantheon relations council meeting that Chiron and Clarisse both guilted him into joining. “Pretty sure. Why?”

“Dinner--Charlotte’s out of town that weekend.”

“Sounds good.”

“Great, I’ll let him know. Now,” and she grins, “are you going to stare at that computer all day, or do you want to come and take a shower with me?”

Percy slams the computer shut.

He doesn’t think about his paper topic for a while after that.

***

To his great dismay, Percy gets to her dad’s house first on the 16th. Drama in writing group 🙄 she texts him as he gets to the door, be there asap.

Great. Alone in the house with his girlfriend’s dad. Taking a deep breath, he knocks on the door.

Not a minute later, Dr. Chase opens it. Last time they went to visit, Percy and Annabeth had ended up waiting outside for almost a quarter of an hour. “Oh, Percy,” he says, fumbling his flight helmet off his head. “Goodness, I thought I’d lost track of time again. Come in, come in.”

“Thanks,” Percy says, stepping inside and shedding his jacket. “Annabeth’s running late, but she said she’d be here soon.”

He frowns, looking so much like Annabeth that it throws Percy for several loops. “Well, that’s alright,” he says. “I’m sure we can entertain ourselves well enough until she gets here.”

“Yeah,” Percy chuckles, uneasy.

Several seconds pass.

“Oh!” starts Dr. Chase. “Right, yes. Come in. Would you like something to drink?”

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t get much better.

A few minutes of staggered conversation later, it becomes eminently clear why they need Annabeth between them. It’s not the awkward small talk that doesn’t go anywhere (“How’s school going for you?” “It’s okay.” “Good, that’s good to hear.”) or the fact that Dr. Chase doesn’t really grasp how to relate to younger kids (“Have you heard of this website called ‘Vine’?”), but more that it’s just painfully obvious that the two of them don’t really know where they stand with each other.

Now, he knows that Frederick Chase doesn’t hate him. Objectively, he’s aware of the fact that, if it weren’t for him, Annabeth never would have reconnected with her father in the first place, and he kind of owes him for that. Also, Percy knows that he’s a pretty chill guy--a little scatterbrained, but chill.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to make a good impression, though. Or that Dr. Chase thinks that Percy is smart enough for his daughter. Because, like, Percy isn’t smart enough for Annabeth--that much is obvious. Dr. Chase was courted by Athena. Percy barely made it out of high school calculus.

“Would you…” Dr. Chase hedges, plucking off his glasses and giving them a quick wipe with his shirtsleeve. “Would you like to see some of my current research?”

“Uh… sure. I’d love to.”

At the very least, hopefully Dr. Chase will talk enough for the both of them, eating up time until Annabeth gets here.

A new spring in his step, Dr. Chase leads Percy to his study, where he’s got a setup worthy of Cabin Six: on his desk is a massive map of the Mediterranean, littered with miniatures of tanks, planes, and ships. Ringing the room are wall-hangings, depicting different types of planes, half of their structure in x-rays like people in an anatomy textbook, sandwiching the giant viking sword which hangs directly behind his chair. Every inch of floor space is occupied with a pile of books, some serving as additional desk space for mugs, notepads, spare toy soldiers, and, in one case, what looks like the leftovers of a handful of celestial bronze spearheads, melted down into shiny, useless nuggets.

“You know I primarily study aviation,” Dr. Chase is saying, tidying up as he walks around the room, “but my colleagues and I are collaborating on an interdisciplinary re-evaluation of the entire North African theatre in World War II. It’s fascinating stuff; until very recently, they used to call it the ‘war without hate,’ given the lack of partisan roundups and, ah, ethnic clashes that you see in Europe--absolute garbage, of course. As if there weren’t civilians caught up in the fighting, too!” He chuckles, pleased at his own joke. Percy forces a laugh out of himself. “Anyway, with my prior experience studying the invasion of Sicily, I was brought on to assist in piecing the timeline together, working backwards from 1943.”

“Cool,” says Percy, filling the natural gap of conversation.

“Extremely! Operation Husky was a terrific endeavor of airborne, amphibious, and land-based combat.”

Percy nods. Amphibious? “Uh-huh.”

“Though, I must admit, I am having a little trouble retracing some of the ships.” Peering over his map, he leans down, fiddling with one of the ships. “You see this one here? The Palmer?”

Stepping up to the desk, Percy crouches down so the little toy ship is at eye level.

“Well, based on official records, the Palmer was supposed to have arrived at the rendezvous point at the same time as all the other ships, but ended up delayed by two days, and I can’t… quite…” He moves the ship again, frowning. “Figure out… why…”

“Where were they sailing through?” Percy asks.

Dr. Chase points to the map. “From Alexandria to Malta.”

“They probably just hit a bad couple of currents,” Percy says, standing up.

Tilting his head, Dr. Chase peers at him. “How do you mean?”

“If you’re going through the Cretan Passage, you’re going to hit all kinds of West-East currents which will push you backwards.” Snatching up a pencil from a nearby book stack, Percy lightly sketches on top of the map, tracing along the North African coast. “There are tons of overlapping currents in this area that push boats around in circles, especially around Sicily. That’s one of the reasons why so many historians figure that Homer was referring to the Strait of Messina when Odysseus goes through Scylla and Charybdis, here.” And he circles the strait, with a confident flourish.

When he pulls back, Dr. Chase is staring at him.

Percy blinks. “Um… sorry I drew on your map.”

“You--I have been trying to figure that out for weeks.”

He coughs, shrugging his shoulders. “Sorry.”

But Dr. Chase just laughs. “You can make it up to me by helping me with these next.” Clearing crumbs off of southern France, he bends over, pencil in hand. “So, say you were trying to get from Marseilles to Tunis…”

Forty-five minutes later, still embroiled in battle recreations of the Mediterranean theatre, they don’t hear Annabeth letting herself in with her key, not even registering her presence until Dr. Chase, grasping for a notebook, spots her leaning against the doorway. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“Oh, Annabeth, dear! I’m sorry,” says Dr. Chase, going over to give her a hug. “We didn’t hear you come in.”

“I can see that,” she says. “What are you guys doing?”

“Percy here has been assisting me with naval movements,” he says, proudly.

Lacing her fingers with his, Annabeth steps over to Percy, studying their battle map. “Really?”

“Oh yes, he’s been phenomenally helpful.”

She kisses his cheek, pleased. “Look at you, Mr. ‘Phenomenally Helpful.’”

“It was pretty fun,” he admits, warm all over.

“I’d bet. Although, I guess this means we should probably order in for dinner…?”

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Dr. Chase smiles. “Yes, I suppose we should. Does pizza sound all right to you two?”

“Let me take care of it,” she says, slipping from Percy’s side. “You guys looked like you were in the middle of something. Extra olives, dad?”

“Don’t forget--”

“And anchovies, Percy, I know.” She rolls her eyes, taking out her phone.

Rather than the three of them move into the kitchen, Annabeth ends up bringing the pizza in with her, because of course she has opinions she’d like to share about the Allies’ naval movements.

“You know, Percy,” says Dr. Chase, “I must say, you have a real knack for this kind of thing. Have you thought about what you might major in yet?”

Ah, the million drachmae question. “Not yet,” he says, fiddling with a pencil. “I figured I’d get through my gen eds first and then see which one I hated the least.”

“I think you should consider majoring in history.”

Percy’s head snaps up. “History?”

“Specifically maritime history, I suppose. Your predisposition to sailing and ocean currents would be a huge asset to your research.”

“But--wouldn’t history have, like, a metric ton of required reading? I’m not really sure that’s my area.” He has a daughter with dyslexia and ADHD; surely he’d understand Percy’s hesitation.

But he just shakes his head. “Graduate programs these days are very favorable towards interdisciplinary methodology, I sincerely doubt you’d have to barricade yourself in the library. And recently there’s been a significant push to make the field more accessible to students with disabilities, including things like digitization, screen reading for people with vision impairments, and even restructuring programs all together so that students no longer have to memorize the Encyclopedia Britannica in order to pass their general exams.”

“That’s really nice of you to say, Dr. Chase,” Percy says, “But history class isn’t like talking over naval movements with you.” He thought back to the paper that had lowkey been haunting his dreams. “Like, in my classical history survey, I can’t just… talk about currents and battle plans. I have to come up with a topic on my own, and then write about that.”

“Surely something involving Roman naval movements would be well within your skill set. You have a second sense about these things,” he chuckles, “clearly.”

Percy glances towards Annabeth, hoping she’ll back him up, but she looks thoughtful. Considering. Like she’s actually thinking about her dad’s proposal. “I can’t just choose something in naval history.”

“Why not?”

“Because… it's too easy?”

If it was anything like his afternoon with Dr. Chase, it might even be fun. And school isn’t supposed to be fun.

He repeats that thought to Annabeth as they drive home. “School isn’t supposed to be fun.”

“No,” Annabeth agrees, “but I don’t know… I like my intro art history class way better than anything we ever did in high school because I actually care about it. Maybe if you write about stuff you’re good at, like my dad suggested, you’ll like it more.”

The idea follows him all the way to bed, where he’s still mulling it over at 2 in the morning. Before he can chicken out, he grabs his phone, shooting off a quick email to his professor with his potential paper topic, then rolls over, eventually falling asleep.

By morning, he has a response.

Sounds good! Looking forward to it.

***

With shaking hands, Percy calls his mom. “Yes?”

“Hey mom.”

“Percy?” He hears her perk up, almost visualizing her sitting up in her chair. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

Mom instincts. They can always tell when something is different. His heart throbs in his chest. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says, smiling stretching across his face. “It’s just--I got my paper back.”

Percy had ended up writing his paper about the Roman navy movements in the Battle of the Aegates in 241 BC. It was probably the most fun he’s ever had on a school assignment, or at least the most fun he’d ever had writing a paper.

“And?” She sounds expectant, hopeful. His mom has always had such faith in him, even with thirteen years of schooling to prove her otherwise.

He looks back at his email, just to make sure he’s reading it right. “I got an A.”

She gasps. He can hear the scrape of the chair as she stands up. “Percy, that’s wonderful!”

“Thank you.”

“An A!”

He smiles into his fist, inordinately pleased. “Thank you.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I am so happy for you!”

“Thanks, mom.”

“I’m so proud of you, Percy.” Her voice is soft now, like twilights on the beach with blue marshmallows. “I know how hard you’ve worked for this. You should be very proud, too.”

“I am.” And he is, weirdly enough. “I just can’t believe it.”

“I can.” His mom must be grinning, her eyes sparkling. “I always knew you could do it.”

“Sally?” He hears in the background, muffled. “Is that Percy?”

“Paul, Percy got an A on his Roman history paper!”

A second voice crowds its way in, equally excited. “An A? That’s great, kiddo! Congratulations.”

Why can’t he stop smiling? “Thanks.”

“I bet that feels pretty good, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

“Well, it is very well-deserved,” says Paul. “That was some great work you did. I could tell how passionate you were about your topic just from your first sentence.”

“Thank you.” Maybe he should be worried about all this praise going to his head, but damn, is it nice. “Listen, I have to go get started on dinner, but I just wanted to give you a call.”

“Of course,” says his mom. “I want to hear from you more, okay? Tell me more good news! Like when are you and Annabeth going to--”

“I’m working on it, okay?” says Percy, smiling even more broadly. “I’ll keep you posted, promise.”

She laughs, tinny and happy. “You’d better. Congratulations again, sweetheart.”

“Thanks mom. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

And he hangs up, puts his phone down on the table, tilts his head back, and sighs, full, happy, a release.

Maybe college won’t be so bad after all.

“You don’t have to do this,” Frank says, hushed. “All you have to do is walk away.”

Five Greek Fire bombs, cloudy yellow, are lined up on the table in front of him, neatly laid out in front of five twenties. From the side, Frank stares him down, surrounded by an army of morbidly curious Romans. Someone turned off the music and turned on the lights a while ago, stopping the party in its tracks, every eye on Percy and his opponent. Figures, his first college party all year and he causes a scene.

Percy grips the edge of the table. “He insulted the Mets,” he says for the millionth time. “I can’t let that shit stand.”

Frank sighs. “Annabeth?” he asks, hoping to stop this nonsense.

Turning to his side, Percy sees his girlfriend, two drinks in, her cheeks lightly flushed, but solid as she stands beside him, supporting him. Her eyes are hard, fierce, the warrior gaze of Athena all but leaping out of her. “Do it,” she says.

William, the sour-faced Roman legacy of Juventus, scowls. “A hundred bucks on the table. Sixty seconds. No throwing them back up.”

“Deal.”

“Frank,” Annabeth calls. “Start the clock.”

He sighs. “You guys are idiots.”

“Frank!”

“Okay, okay.” He holds out his phone, thumb primed, hovering over the screen. “On your marks, in three… two… one…”

He hits zero, and Percy grabs a shot glass. Squeezing his eyes shut, he brings it to his lips, and throws it back.

It’s… not what he expected.

The tequila is awful--no getting around that. Even to Percy’s untrained taste buds, having really only ever had some of Gabe’s sour beer (under duress) and some of the Demeter cabin’s strawberry wine (on his eighteenth birthday, a celebration for actually getting to graduate high school), he can tell it’s cheap, rank, unrefined shit, like he’s drinking straight toilet cleaner. But the garum, the weird Roman condiment that the shot is mixed with, the one that Percy had never heard of before, it’s… it almost tastes like the fish sauce that comes with the pork and rice noodles from the Vietnamese place down the corner of his mom’s apartment, only less… fishy? Yeah. Less fishy.

It’s a weird taste. It’s not bad, by any means, it just--straight up, it just tastes like saltwater. Like the sea.

And, well. Percy can handle the sea.

He looks at William, and grins. “You are so fucked.”

The assembled Romans cheer, spectators at a gladiator show, as Percy knocks back the rest of the Greek Fire bombs, one after another, clearing them all in under thirty seconds. Annabeth swipes up the cash, shrieking as she throws her arms around Percy. William wanders off, red-faced and glaring, as whoever turned the music off before flips it back on, the night, and the party, saved.

Silly Percy. He should have known what was coming next.

Thirty minutes later, he is well and truly wasted.

“You’re, like, really pretty,” he shouts at Annabeth over the loud music.

She snorts, grinning at him. “Thanks.”

“Seriously,” he slurs, tipping forward on his feet. “You could be a model.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Remember when we were fourteen,” he yells, bracing himself against the wall, “and you got kidnapped by that monster?” Slightly soberer but still a little flushed, she bites her lip, nodding. “Well, I followed the rescue party--I told you that, that I snuck out of camp to follow the rescue party? Right?”

“You did.”

He takes a sip of water, running his tongue around the inside of his mouth. Feels goofy as fuck. “We got hijacked by Aphrodite halfway through, and when I saw her, I thought--I thought, ‘Holy shit, she looks a little like Annabeth.’”

Her brows shoot up, smile pulling at her lips. “Really?”

He nods. “Totally! But you’re way, way p--”

Still smiling, she silences him with a kiss, the lingering taste of hard cider on her tongue. “I appreciate it,” she murmurs, grinning, “but you probably shouldn’t say that out loud.”

“Gross.”

From out of nowhere, like he always does, the weasley little shit, Nico di Angelo is suddenly in their space, looking surly and emo as ever, red solo cup in his left hand. “Nico!” Percy crows, grabbing for him and missing. “How’s my favorite cousin?!”

Ducking his wildly swinging limbs, Nico grimaces in the way that Percy has to come to recognize as his attempt at a smile. “Better’n you,” he says, a little wobbly. “What’s up with him?” he directs towards Annabeth.

“Greek Fire bombs. Five.”

“You’re a psychopath.”

“What!” Percy pouts. “He insulted the Mets.”

“Aren’t you s’posed to be, like…” Nico snaps his fingers, words momentarily escaping him. “A--representation… person? For the Greeks?”

Percy waves his hand, hitting the wall. “Fuck that. The Greeks can handle themselves. The Mets are sacred!”

“Are you with anyone?” Annabeth asks, momentarily taking up Percy’s usual role of concerned parent friend while he is drunk off his ass. Theoi, he loves this girl so much.

Nico shakes his head. “No, but Will and I are staying with--”

A thought suddenly blooms in Percy’s tequila-soaked brain. “Nico!” He shouts.

“What?” he hisses, glaring.

Percy pushes himself off of the wall, outstretched arms managing to box Nico in, falling on his shoulders and trapping him. He’s still a short, skinny little shit, the fuck, when are his Big Three genes going to kick in? “I need to talk to you about the thing.”

“The what?”

“The thing! The--the,” then he leans in, scream-whispering over the pounding bassline. “The thing.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“You know, it’s…” Percy licks his lips, language escaping him for a hot second. “Round. Metal. Jewelry thing.”

A beat, then Nico’s eyes widen. “Oh, that thing.”

“Yes, that thing!” Pulling back, he pulls Nico towards him, slinging an arm over his shoulders in a half-headlock. Annabeth watches, bemused, lips pursed as she tries not to smile. “I need to borrow Nico for a sec,” he says, words spilling out of him. “Back soon. Later. Soon.”

Her eyes crinkle, grey sparkling. She’s so fucking pretty. “Drink your water.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Then together, like some three-legged beast, the two boys lurch away deeper into the party, Nico leading them towards the kitchen. “Where’re you taking me?” Percy slurs. “‘M I being kidnapped again?”

“If I’m helping you plan out this stupid proposal,” he grumbles, pouring himself more vodka, “then I need to be less sober.”

***

Some mistakes may have been made.

“Where’s Annabeth?” Percy mumbles, looking back towards the house. The party is still raging, someone’s muffled Spotify playlist making a real racket, the greatest hits of ABBA still bouncing around his skull.

“Simp.” Nico, swaying a little, tries to stand up from his kneeling position, only to fall heavily back down on his knees. “She’s right where you left her.”

Discussing Percy's proposal plan had led to more drinking. More drinking had led to the two of them discussing their shared preference for blondes. (“Malcolm is pretty cute,” Nico admitted, flushing, and Percy almost screamed, “Isn’t he?! Sometimes I think about Annabeth with short hair looking like Malcolm and I almost start crying because she’d be so cute!”) Which then led to even more drinking. Which then led to general bitching about their lives, about Percy's hard-ass classics professor Dr. Bauer who he actually really liked but just pushed him so hard and expected so much of him, and Nico's half-brother Zagreus who was causing some family drama by picking fights with Hades all the time and also hooking up with both Thanatos AND the fury Megaera, which, ew, which then led to Percy inhaling his drink, nearly choking to death on unspecified college punch, Nico laughing at him all the while, as he had the most incredible idea.

"Nico!" He shouted, crushing the red solo cup. "Can you resurrect Homer for me?"

Nico gaped, staring. "What."

"Seriously! I need to ask him something for my paper."

"Percy." Nico gazed at him, all the power of the Ghost King boring into his soul, deep and haunting. Percy stifled a burp. "You're a fucking genius."

Which is how they found themselves around a shallow hole they had dug in the backyard, a large bottle of Pepsi originally intended as a mixer pilfered from the kitchen along with two slices of pepperoni pizza dumped on the grass beside them.

"Maybe we shouldn't do this," he says, uneasy even through his drunken haze.

"It was your idea!"

"I don't have good ideas."

“Fuck you, I’m doing it.” With all the force of a tiny, angry kitten, he snatches up the Pepsi bottle, wrestling with the twist cap for a good ten seconds. “I wanna give that bitch a piece of my mind for making me cry in school.”

Percy looks at him sideways. “Hector killing Patroclus got you, too?”

He snorts. “Fuck no. Achilles didn’t pay his dues to the dead.”

“Seriously?”

The cap pops off, and Nico tips the bottle over, dumping flat, lukewarm soda into the shallow hole. “It’s the ultimate dishonor!”

Freak. Percy would die for the kid.

“Let the dead taste again,” Nico mutters. “Let them rise and take this offering. Let them remember.”

“You’re so weird.”

“Says the guy who’s related to both horses and water.”

“I’m not related to water, I just control it.”

The dirt turns black, dead soil mixed with sticky sugar water. Nico drops in the pizza, and begins to chant, that same ancient Greek that Percy heard in a dream once, talking of death and memories and returning from the grave or whatever. It’s still creepy as shit.

Despite the warm California night, the air thickens with chilly fog. Silence, impenetrable, surrounds them, blocking out the noises of the party. From the earth, blueish, vaguely person-shaped figures begin to form, like thunderous clouds before a storm. “Which one is Homer?” he asks, hushed.

“Shh!” Nico hisses.

Like little wells of gravity, the fog begins to coalesce. On one of them, Percy can almost make out, like, fingers. “Um, Mr. Homer? Sir?”

The figure doesn’t say anything. It lowers its mouth, drinking the soda out of the dirt. When it raises its head, Percy can see it more clearly, curly hair and milky white eyes and a straight nose. It--he?--seems a little more solid than your average run-of-the-mill ghost.

Nico frowns, eyes closed, concentrating. “What’s your name?” he mumbles.

That mouth opens, soundlessly, jaw working on nothing.

“Speak.”

It--there’s a sound, like hissing, only it’s not coming from the mouth, Percy thinks. It sounds like it’s coming from the earth. “Nico?” he asks. “You good?”

The ghost opens its mouth again, moaning, raising its hands. Weakly, unsteadily, it stumbles forward on feeble legs, tripping over the shallow hole in the dirt.

“Nico?” he asks again, a little more forcefully. “What’s going on, dude?”

Nico blinks, slowly, mouth hanging open a little. “Uh.”

The… thing… raises itself up on its hands? He guesses, and knees, crawling its way over towards them.

Now, Percy may be drunk off his ass, but he has seen enough movies to know exactly what the fuck is up.

Moving with a speed he didn’t quite think was possible right about now, he grabs Nico’s wrist, and pulls him up, dragging him along as he lurches towards the house. “Percy…” Nico moans, stumbling over a rock. “I think I fucked up.”

“You think?” Percy wrenches the door open, tossing Nico inside, before following in after, throwing himself against the door.

Nico groans, throwing his arms over his face. “Dio santo, my head.”

“Forget your head,” he says, “did we just raise a Homer zombie?!”

Panting, Nico stares up at him, sprawled on the floor of the house. “Oops.”

Percy thunks his head against the door. He does not have nearly enough mental capacity to deal with this right now.

But, he thinks ruefully, at least it’s just one. Even drunk, he’s pretty sure he can handle one zombie.

Nico’s eyes widen.

Percy stares. “What.”

“I didn’t stop the ritual.”

His stomach goes cold.

Turning around slowly, he pulls aside the little curtain on the window. “What?” Nico asks. “What do you see?”

Percy can’t speak, mouth dry.

Slithering up behind, Nico peers over his shoulder. “That’s… not great.”

“Nico,” Percy says, eyeing the horde which slowly shambles closer, half-decayed bodies in togas bumping into each other, almost identical to the drunk college students inside, as the song changes, once again, to ‘Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight).’ “Please go get Frank and Annabeth.”

The following Monday, an announcement is sent out to the entire campus: Per new department guidelines, students may not utilize the ambassador of Pluto to interview the dead for academic purposes.

Percy attempts to flatten his hair. He readjusts his shirt. He almost wipes his sweaty palms on his pants, before he realizes what he’s doing, and clenches them instead, nails digging into his palms. He turns to Annabeth. “Do I look okay?”

“Ooh, ‘Mapping Funerary Monuments in the Periphery of Imperial Rome.’”

“Annabeth.”

She looks up from her brochure. “Relax, seaweed brain, you look fine. You look better than most people here.”

“That’s because I bring down the average age of presenters by about thirty years,” he hisses, eyes darting about at the milling mass of attendees, all packed into the hotel ballroom.

Dr. Bauer had alternately convinced/pressured/guilttripped him into attending this year’s annual conference for the Society of Classical Studies to talk about the research he’d been doing with her. This year, the conference was held in San Francisco, so at the very least Percy didn’t have to spend five hours stressing about his poster presentation while simultaneously up in the air. But now that he’s here, in the ballroom, surrounded by strangers who know way more about this subject than he does, who are actually smart and probably never nearly flunked out of school or got kicked out or--

“Hey.” Annabeth takes his hand. “I know that look. You deserve to be here just as much as any of them.”

“Do I? I feel like any moment someone is going to come over and throw me out for trespassing.” He vaguely recalls something similar happening to him as a kid after he had ducked into the lobby of a semi-nice hotel to dodge what he had thought, at the time, was just a weird stalker, but had later realized had only had one eye. In any case, the hotel security guard had practically picked him up by the scruff of his neck, tossing him back out into the street.

“That’s just your imposter syndrome talking,” she reassures him. “No one is going to throw you out.”

He sure as shit hopes so. It would be a shame to have done all this work for nothing.

Glancing back at his poster, Percy can’t help but feel… good. Accomplished. Proud. About a school assignment, of all things.

His poster traces the development of the prow from the Greek penteconter, to the Roman liburna, and finally to the Byzantine dromon, looking at artistic depictions in history. Percy had picked the topic himself, spending hours in the library reading, writing, and hand-drawing cross-sections of the ships on the poster board when the images he had gotten from the Cambridge University library had been too small. It had been grueling, frustrating work, but fun, too. And not nearly as much reading as he had feared.

Dr. Chase proofread it for him. Dr. Bauer signed off on it. And Annabeth had taken one look at it, smiled, then kissed his cheek.

That was the best compliment he had gotten.

Though now he’s kind of torn between showing it off and hiding it away before one of these attendees figures out that he doesn’t belong.

He rocks back and forth and his feet, pursing his lips, randomly clicking his tongue. Annabeth nudges him. “Your ADHD is showing.”

That’s when, finally, one of the attendees steps up to his poster. He certainly has the look of a professor, in a black cable knit sweater with grey, curly hair and a receding hairline, thin, rimless glasses perched on his nose. He squints at Percy’s poster, rubbing his chin with one hand. “Interesting,” he murmurs, in a thick German accent. “Very interesting. This is yours?”

“Um.” He glances at Annabeth, who is frowning at the brochure, silently sounding out words that she can’t read. “Yep. All mine.”

“Very interesting.” He leans in closer, tilting his head. “So you agree with Pryor and Jeffreys about the skeleton-first construction, then?”

Percy blinks. Pryor and Jeffreys had written The Age of the Dromon, arguing that the ram, which had been a key feature of Roman liburnians, had gone away in ancient ship construction because of developments in how they built the hull. Right. “Yes,” he says. “The skeleton-first construction is a lot stronger than the, um,” shit, what was the name for this, Leo had only told him about a million times--oh! “Mortise-and-tenon!” He nearly shrieks. “The mortise-and-tenon method. It, um, it wears out a lot more quickly than the frame, so… yeah.” He clears his throat.

He nods. “Very interesting.”

Percy stares. Can this guy say anything else?

“This is very well done, young man.”

Oh. “Thank you,” he says.

“Who are you working with?”

“Um, June Bauer?” He winces at the accidental question.

He frowns. “I’m not familiar with her work. Where does she teach?”

What a loaded question. “Uh… New Rome University.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s--she used to teach at Northwestern, if that helps. Um, retired,” Percy says.

The frown stays, but at least he doesn’t ask any more questions. “Hmm. Well, this is excellent research, nonetheless. I look forward to reading your dissertation.” Then, distracted by something else, he wanders off, chin still attached to his hand.

“Who was that?” Annabeth asks.

Percy shrugs. “Beats me. Also, what’s a dissertation?”

“It’s like a senior thesis, but, like, five hundred pages long.”

Five hundred?! “Fuck me.”

“Maybe later,” Annabeth smirks. “It looks like you’ve got company.”

Sure enough, a smallish group of four people are approaching, led by Dr. Chase, making a beeline straight for them. “Here we are,” Dr. Chase says, gesturing. “This is the project I was telling you about. Percy, would you mind going over your poster for us?”

“No problem, Dr. C,” says Percy, smiling his least-grimace-y smile.

As one, the adults all turn to look at him, faces politely blank, expectant.

Percy swallows. “So,” he begins, “um, this research is about the development of ship construction in the Roman empire…”

He trips up on some of the words, and at one point, he sees Dr. Chase squint in the way that usually means that Percy is speaking too fast, but all in all, he doesn’t totally fall flat on his face. His audience looks engaged, nodding along as Percy moves from point to point, and no one accuses him of being a giant fraud, which is pretty nice.

At one point, Percy turns to the poster to indicate a specific point on his ship diagrams. When he turns back, his audience has suddenly multiplied, four people turning into a whole goddamn crowd. Each person gives him their undivided attention almost unblinking.

His mouth goes dry. “Um…”

Dr. Chase, bless him, saves his ass once again. “Would mind starting again from the beginning, Percy?” he asks, a little bemused himself at the amount of people that had suddenly appeared.

Silence stretches on for a moment, the muffled noise of the rest of the conference like a dull roar in his ear.

Annabeth, behind him, coughs.

“S-sure. No problem.”

Swallowing, he closes his eyes, breathing in through his nose. Why, oh why did he let Dr. Bauer talk him into doing this again?

He pictures the tides of Long Island Sound, gentle and rocking, unhurried and unbothered, tries to match his breathing to them. When he opens his eyes, unfortunately, the crowd hasn’t disappeared. Everyone is still staring at him.

But Annabeth stands next to her dad, flashing him a big smile and two huge thumbs up.

Percy relaxes. He’s got this.

“Okay,” he says. “So, about the middle of the first millennium CE, ship construction went through a couple of major developments…”

This time goes much, much more smoothly. He’s not sure what it is--though it’s probably Annabeth, her face fixed in a gentle smile as she watches him speak. Gods, what did he do in a past life to deserve someone as amazing as his girlfriend?

That’s the only reason he can do this. Hell, that’s the only reason he even thought to do this. If he didn’t have Annabeth there, encouraging him, cheering him on, he never would have had the confidence to put himself out there like this. She’s there to pick him up when he doubts himself, there to listen when he can’t explain himself, there to give him feedback when he needs to practice.

She makes him feel so strong. She makes him feel like he can take on the world--or at the very least, that he can impress a handful of academics.

And they certainly seem impressed with his talk so far.

“Excuse me,” says a nasally, pinched looking older British guy, face lined as though he lived his life in a state of perpetual squinting. “I find your conclusions to be suspect--wouldn’t the frame method be more susceptible to breaking than the mortise-and-tenon?”

Well, most of them, anyway.

Percy shakes his head. “You’d think, but no. If you look at the study by Steffy, you’ll see that the three-finned ram from the Athlit wreck was designed specifically to break the mortise-and-tenon hull by causing the planks to flex, so that they’d dislodge the joinerys right next to them. A blow like that can cause the wood to split right down the middle.” A blow like that had sunk Sherman Yang’s ship when they tested it out on the lake at camp last summer, the naiads practically hurling him out of the water so quickly Percy didn’t even have to dive in to save him.

“How were you able to do these strength tests?” asks another listener, an older woman with a thick Hungarian accent.

“Hands-on battle simulations,” Percy replies, easily. “We took our models and tested them in as accurate a simulation as we could make.”

“And how big were these models?”

Percy holds his hands apart, a vague, entirely inaccurate estimate. “About thirty meters, give or take.”

Her eyes widen. “How on earth did you get your hands on such a large ship?”

Percy freezes. “Uh.”

Oh, shit.

He had forgotten--most people didn’t have dads who could summon shipwrecks from the bottom of the sea, dropping them off at Camp Half-Blood with nothing but a sand dollar and one or two exhausted, pissed off hippocampi who had had to drag them all the way there.

“Um,” he stammers, licking his lips, thinking fast--c’mon, Percy, think! “I…” He swallows, panicking. “I… b… built one.”

In the corner of his eye, Annabeth facepalms.

Simultaneously, every mouth in the crowd drops--in shock, outrage, and even excitement. “You built one?!” the woman yelps.

Oops. “I had help,” Percy says, quickly.

Annabeth adds a second hand to her facepalm.

“Where?” The first man asks, his bushy brows flying above the rim of his glasses.

“At my… summer camp…”

Dr. Chase sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I mean,” Percy chuckles, shrugging his shoulders, trying not to sweat too obviously, “it was either that or lanyards, am I right?”

Dr. Chase, thank Athena, raises his hand, ready to step in. “What Percy means to say, I believe,” he says, attempting to draw their attention, “is that--”

“That’s amazing!” says another woman, probably a grad student attendee based on the fact that she’s wearing jeans. “Do you have pictures?”

Oh this is not good. “Um, not--not on me, but--”

“I do.” Annabeth takes out her phone, holding it up to the person next to her.

Percy blinks. “You do?” He doesn’t remember her taking any pictures.

She shoots him a look, two parts exasperated and one part “shut up and let me handle this,” with just a dash of fondness in the mix. Pointedly, she looks at him, eyebrows raised, indicating that he should continue.

Oh. She’s using Mist. And he needs to keep their attention on him so that they buy it. “Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Any more questions?”

His audience placated for now, passing around Annabeth’s phone, he manages to finish up his presentation. After fielding a few more questions, people start to peel off, distracted by other posters and presenters in the ballroom. When everyone has finally wandered away, Dr. Chase comes up and pats Percy’s shoulder awkwardly. “Nice work,” he says, and he seems like he means it. “A little touch-and-go there for a while, hm?”

“A little.”

He chuckles. “Still, you should be proud. I don’t know how many undergraduates would be able to handle that kind of pressure.”

“I mean,” Percy says, shrugging a shoulder, “it’s about on par with leading an army. Maybe a little less.” Honestly, maybe even a little more stressful. If a monster had decided to attack the convention center and interrupt his presentation, he probably would have been relieved.

He’d been worried for a moment that he’d undone all those years of work in making Annabeth’s dad like him. And that he’d be charged with some sort of academic fraud, for the whole “I have a boat” thing without proof. Thank the gods for Annabeth, as always.

She’s looking at him now through narrowed eyes. She at least can’t be surprised--that was far from the dumbest thing she’s ever seen him do. At least his “I spent most of my time at magic greek mythology summer camp” covers are normally better than hers. As someone who spent his formative years in the real world, he’s usually pretty good at keeping the demigod thing under wraps.

“Come on,” she says, grabbing his hand. She pulls him off, through the dispersing crowd, lacing their fingers together, sweet and intimate, out of the hall and then down another one, and through a smaller corridor. Bringing them up to a little door, with a shake of her wrist, she pulls out her Estruscan keyring bracelet. About several of the keys have found themselves used in various misadventures, vanishing once their purpose is fulfilled, but her favorite key is still there. And, just like a clever child of Hermes, it can pick just about any lock.

Inside is just an empty room, a little staging area surrounded by tiered desks going up, no more or less remarkable than any of the other conference rooms they’d visited before.

“What--?” His question is cut off by Annabeth’s mouth on his.

Surprising, but definitely not unwelcome.

It's a while before they separate again. “You’re so good at this,” she tells him, unbuttoning his shirt.

He runs his hands along the lines of her flanks. “I’ve had a lot of practice,” he grins. He’d practice kissing her all day long if he could.

She smiles, shaking her head. “No, not this,” though she does lean in for another kiss, pulling at his lower lip with her teeth. “I know you’re good at this.” They break away, Percy pulling her shirt over her head, Annabeth shucking off his. “But history. Presenting.” She runs a finger over his chest, kissing his cheek, headed towards the sensitive spot on his jaw. “Gods, you’re so smart.”

Something about the praise vibrates through his chest. She doesn’t sound surprised, or anything, just--turned on.

“You had all those crusty academics eating out of your hand. Just, so impressed by you, knowing you know way more than they do about naval history. When you were explaining the--” Her compliment is cut off with a moan, as he leans down and starts sucking on her throat. Her blouse has a high neck, so he feels no guilt for using his teeth.

“Watching you today, gods.” Her breath is labored as his fingers play at the waistline of her skirt. “And then thinking of you defending your dissertation.” He bites at her jugular, and she lets out a long, deep moan.

“I don’t know what that means.” Do academics fight each other? Like, with weapons? He’s pretty sure he can take most of the people he met today.

“It means you get to show off how smart you are,” Annabeth says, grasping his shoulders, pulling him in for another kiss. “I was born the day my dad defended his. Gods, it's going to be amazing to watch you go.” She yanks his belt out of his pants, tossing it to the floor.

They miss the panel on recent translation efforts. But Percy can’t say he minds one bit.

And when Annabeth presents him with a positive pregnancy test two months later, Percy definitely knows he made the right decision.

He almost doesn’t realize he’s having a dream-vision at first.

It has been literal years since he’s had a demigod dream. Hell, it’s been a long while since he’s had a dream, period--being a new dad to a one-and-a-half-year-old saps too much of his energy to even think about dreaming. Once Junie is put to bed, when he’s out, he is fucking out, and he does not have the brainpower to spare to manifest any messed up subconscious fears.

Which is why when he blinks open his eyes, taking in the too-bright colors of the Parthenon and the gleaming shine of the bronze statues which are somehow all looking at him--also, you know, how the Parthenon is complete, standing as it did thousands of years ago, and not crumbled into ruins--he knows, immediately, he is being contacted by a god.

And only one god in particular would bring him to Athens.

Without even checking, he heaves himself up off the ground, folding into a kneel. “My lady Athena,” he says, “can I ask for what quest you’ve brought me here?”

“Impertinent as ever, Percy Jackson,” rumbles the goddess, but Percy doesn’t think he can sense any ill will towards him. He hopes, anyway. “Perhaps I have summoned you here for a social visit.”

“Perhaps,” he says, choosing his next words as carefully as possible. “But I assume you have too much to worry about to randomly check up on your daughter’s boyfriend.”

He lifts his head, catching her expression--stoic as always, but maybe with just the barest hint of a smile. “You assume correctly. You have become, contrary to my initial expectations, very wise in the time that I have known you.”

“Thank you.” He knows better than to do anything but accept the compliment for what it is.

“I have observed your work as a scholar in recent years, and I must say that I am surprised, yet pleased, that you have chosen to pursue such a path. I had not thought you to be suited for a world of old men and dusty papers.”

He grits his teeth. Don’t rise to the bait, don’t rise to the bait, don’t rise to the bait--

“I understand, as well, that though you and my daughter have,” and here her careful composition cracks, just the slightest, the tiny lift of her lips falling, “made a child together.”

Percy swallows. He figured, you know, in the abstract, that Athena would know about Junie, but hearing her say it out loud is… well, he’s just glad that Dr. Chase has always liked him. “Yes, my lady.”

“It is customary in your time to marry prior to childbirth, is it not?”

“It is.” Oh, fuck, is she going to smite him for that? “I--that is to say, we, Annabeth and I, we, um, we definitely want to get married, but, Annabeth kind of…”

He trails off. He can’t tell Athena, goddess of war, that his daughter pissed off the queen of heaven! And if he does, he definitely can’t imply that it was because she was being too stubborn!

“I know well of my daughter’s history with my father’s wife,” Athena says, smoothly. “I come to you now with an offer of peace.”

Percy straightens his back. Peace?

Raising one graceful arm, Athena turns, indicating the structure behind her. “Look upon my temple,” she intones. The white marble shines even more powerfully against the blue and red paint, intricate scenes and figures ringing the top of the columns. “In the time of Pericles, it was built to commemorate the victory of Hellas over the armies of Xerxes the Great. It was to be the shining beacon of our world, a triumph of our power and influence over the race of men.”

The race of men might have had something to say about that, he thinks to himself.

“But it was not to be,” Athena says, mournfully. “As our influence waned, so too did our temple, until its might was all but forgotten.”

Before his eyes, the paint fades away, ceilings and columns collapsing, the destruction of the Parthenon playing out in front of him.

“Some two hundred years ago,” she says, her voice taking on a darker, more dangerous tone, “a grave insult was paid to the ruins of my ancient sanctuary.” Like curtains falling on a stage, darkness swallowed up the structure, swift and impenetrable. “Many treasures were taken from my temple, stolen, by foolish, greedy men, spirited away far to the north, where they have languished in unworthy hands.”

He narrows his eyes. She can’t possibly be talking about--

Athena turns back to him, her eyes blazing, somehow twice as tall. “Retrieve my treasures,” she commands, war personified, “return the prizes of Athens to their rightful place, and I shall give you my support against my father’s wife.”

“You…” Percy leans back on his haunches, staring dumbfounded up at the goddess. “You don’t happen to mean the Parthenon Marbles, do you?”

“Yes.”

“The ones in the British Museum.”

“The same,” she says, imperious as ever.

Fantastic. “Welp,” Percy says, slapping his thighs, scrambling up. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to decline. Nice seeing you, by the way. I’ll tell Annabeth you stopped by.”

Her sharp gazes pierces him, full of fury. “You dare to refuse my support?”

He snorts. “When it means trying to get the UK to give the marbles back, absolutely. Do you know how stubborn they are about this?”

Lightning flashes behind her, nearly blinding him. “You will regret this,” Athena says, dark and foreboding. “You may have your father’s goodwill, but the queen of Olympus is clever and cunning, her displeasure swift and merciless.”

But Percy still shakes his head. “When Annabeth and I get married,” and it’s definitely a ‘when,’ it’s just a matter of when precisely, like after Junie can sleep through the night maybe, “I’d rather take my chances with Hera than try and untangle that particular can of olives.”

A growl, and a snap of her fingers, and Athena disappears.

With a start, Percy wakes up. Junie had gotten her chubby little hands around his nose, and had decided to pull.

“Ow, ow, Junie, hey,” he squawks, attempting to dislodge her grip from his face. “Hey, I’m awake, it’s okay.”

She laughs, illegally adorable, her grey eyes sparkling, squeezing harder.

“Okay, okay,” he laughs along with her. “You got my nose, you win.”

As if she were waiting for him to admit defeat, she lets go, clapping her pudgy toddler hands together.

“That’s right,” he picks her up, raising her above his head. “Barely sixteen months old and you already know how to take me down, don’t you? Just like your mommy.”

She smiles, waving her little fists.

Gods he loves this little monster.

Junie really is the best parts of both of them. She’s got her daddy’s hair but her mommy’s brain, quick and sharp and painfully adorable. She’s already learning to read Greek, Annabeth sitting her in her lap and sounding out vowels together, Annabeth taking her finger and tracing it over the letter shapes. This kid absorbs information like a sponge, which Percy can only assume is the natural conclusion of taking a son of Poseidon and a daughter of Athena and mixing their DNA together.

Thinking about his dream, he frowns. “What do you think, Junie,” he asks his toddler. “Should I take her up on her offer?”

The baby says nothing.

“I mean,” he tilts his head, “Greece has been trying to get the marbles back for two hundred years. UNESCO has top lawyers on this. What does Athena think I can do?”

Junie blinks at him.

“On the other hand, I do really love your mom,” he admits, “and I really want to marry her. You’d like that, right? To have your parents be married?”

There’s no way she can understand what he’s saying, but she moves her head like she’s nodding. Or maybe she does understand. She is Annabeth’s daughter after all.

Percy sighs. Dammit.

Time for a new project, he guesses.

***

Several months, a college graduation, and one relocation to Boston later, Percy growls, hurling his pencil at the wall. Mother fucker. Fuck the British Museum, fuck his tiny laptop screen, and fuck the Italian prick who decided to have the least ADHD-friendly handwriting of all time.

Why the hell is he doing this again? Like, seriously. Why in all of Hades is he, an inexperienced, snot-nosed, first year master’s student deciding to tackle the return of the fucking Parthenon marbles of all things. Like, what is wrong with him?

Roughly scrubbing his fingers through his hair, Percy stands up. He has to go for a walk, clear his head, or he might actually explode.

Then he catches a glimpse of the photo pinned to the fridge.

Percy’s mom had taken it, a candid of Percy and Annabeth and Junie on a sunny day in Central Park. There, in perfect 1080p, Junie is laughing, at what he can’t even remember, her pudgy fists yanking on Percy’s hair, while her mother and the love of his life does nothing to extricate Percy from her grip, her face screwed up so hard she had tears in her eyes.

Percy had talked a lot of shit to the goddess of war’s face, but truth be told… Hera still terrifies him a little. Which, he assumes, was her goal all along, but it would be nice to marry Annabeth without fear of something going terribly wrong--or, gods forbid, something happening to Junie. That simply was not a risk he was willing to take. Percy is content to spend the rest of his days as Annabeth’s life-partner and roommate, if it means that the queen of the heavens won’t have a reason to take out her issues on his children.

Even if the engagement ring in the back of the pantry is gathering dust.

Sunlight, wan but warm, falls in from the window, landing perfectly on his pile of open books. “I know, I know,” he growls, speaking to the air, rubbing his face so it doesn’t get stuck in a permanent glare. “I just--I just need a few minutes, okay? Let me go down the block and get a coffee or something. Two minutes, Lady Athena.”

The light fades. Percy takes that as an acquiescence, angrily scribbling a note. He’s not sure when Annabeth and Junie will be back, but even angry as he is, he doesn’t want to worry them.

Snatching up his jacket, he slams the door shut, stomping out of his apartment building and down the streets of Boston. He must be accidentally doing his wolf stare, because people are practically flinging themselves out of his path as he hurtles down the sidewalk. Literally--some girl is walking her husky, and the poor dog actually whimpers, cowering as Percy rounds the corner.

Coming to a stop, Percy slaps his hands over his face, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath.

He might be in over his head a little.

Sighing, he looks to his right. He’s standing outside of a Starbucks.

Percy doesn’t drink coffee, Annabeth does. And he knows exactly how much of a coffee snob his girlfriend is. Starbucks? Overpriced, overrated, over-sweetened garbage.

He pushes the door open, sliding up to the counter. “I’ll take a… iced mocha, I guess,” he says. “Large.”

“No problem,” chirps the barista. “I’ll have that out for you in a minute.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

One thing Starbucks does have going for it, though, are really good napkins for doodling.

Slumping down in his uncomfortable metal chair, elbows resting on the hard, faux-wood table, Percy takes out his pen, and doodles aimlessly on the brown napkins. No, not that pen. Just because it can write doesn’t mean that Percy wants to risk slicing his face open every time he has a stray idea. Completely out of the blue, Annabeth had gotten him a nice set of pens, and ever since then, Percy always keeps one on him. Now, if he could just remember to use the little notebook she had gotten him, too.

Percy is not an artist by any stretch of the imagination. He doesn’t have an image in mind, just lets his pen move, drawing endless chains of triangles and stars, nebulous shapes which form themselves into Greek letters. After he catches himself writing γλαυκῶπις for the eighth time in a row, he sighs, dropping his pen, and picks up the cup, taking a sip.

Yuck. At least the chocolate outweighs the coffee taste a little.

Gods, and their cups are always, like, drenched from condensation--not that Percy can feel it, but there’s practically a whole other drink on the outside of the plastic, dripping all over Percy’s pile of doodle napkins. That must be why they give out so many.

Grumbling, he mops up the mess, ink smudged into a blue-brown slurry.

He stops.

He squints at one of his doodles.

Not that anyone else could tell, but Percy had apparently been trying to recreate the signature of Ottoman sultan Selim III, the guy who had supposedly authorized the Earl of Elgin to take the Parthenon Marbles. Percy had been staring at copies of his signature all damn day, trying to tell if it had been forged or copied, but classical Arabic was just so far beyond anything he could even begin to wrap his head around. It was gorgeous work, but even looking at it made Percy’s eyes swim.

This particular doodle is not his best attempt. It looks nothing like the signature. It’s smudged, blotchy, but in a way that’s… weirdly familiar.

Snatching the napkin up, Percy bolts from the Starbucks, leaving his mocha behind.

Taking the steps of his apartment building two at a time, he bursts into his kitchen. His set up is exactly how he left it, books spread out all over the table, laptop shut and laid askew, the dry, half-eaten remains of his morning muffin on a plate on top of his encyclopedia of illuminated manuscripts--except for one book, the one on Ottoman history of the nineteenth century. It’s been opened, its pages facing the door, in the exact opposite direction of all the other books.

“Hello?” he calls into the apartment. “Anyone home?”

No response.

Percy approaches the table.

From the pages, Selim III stares at him, his portrait rendered in black and white, sitting just above a figure of his signature, his tughra.

Percy picks up the book, squinting.

The signature is crisp, clean, a work of art all by itself.

He looks at his napkin drawing. Blurry and smudged.

Opening his laptop, he pulls up the scans of the documents in the British museum, zooms in on the letter’s seal.

Blurry and smudged.

Percy stares.

It… can’t be that simple, can it?

In a daze, he fires an email off to his new grad advisor. Hopefully he won’t mind Percy sticking his nose in where he doesn’t belong. Hey Dr. T--was looking at the Parthenon marbles docs in the BM (don’t ask) and I noticed this weird smudge on the tughra. Lazy scribe, maybe?

And he closes his computer.

Later that night, while he puts Junie to bed, he gets a response. not sure. sent it to a colleague for a closer look.

He can’t even be bothered to really think about it though, not with Junie looking up at him with Annabeth’s eyes, and asking for another book. “Alright, kiddo,” he acquiesces, settling in beside her. All her story books are in ancient Greek, and at age two, she’s starting to recognize the letters. “Which one are you thinking?”

“Daw-fins, daddy,” she says, smiling.

“Dolphins, eh? Getting Mr. D on your side early, I see. As smart as mommy.” He leans down and kisses her forehead before he starts to read her the story of the sailors and their sudden dolphin madness.

***

“Huh,” Percy says to himself a few weeks later, as he and Annabeth are chilling on the couch, watching some Netflix.

His advisor has forwarded him an article from the BBC (New evidence suggests Elgin documents to be forgeries) with an accompanying note: Amazing catch!

“What is it?” Annabeth asks, nudging him with her elbow--a feat, since she also has an armful of a squirmy Junie to deal with.

“Update in the Parthenon marbles thing.”

That gets her attention. Anything Parthenon-related does. “Really?”

He shows her his phone.

Her eyes go wide as saucers. “Damn.”

“Yep.” He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he feels his lips pulling at the sides of his mouth.

“My mom is probably your biggest fan right now.”

He starts. “What did you say?”

Turning back to the TV, she still manages to cast him a weird look. “I said, my mom will probably love you for this.”

A beat, then Percy practically somersaults over the couch, darting into the kitchen. Wrenching open the pantry door, he shoves his hand behind their collection of flours, fingers grasping for--

“If you’re looking for any more sacrificial cookies,” Annabeth calls after him, “we burned them all when Junie got a cold.”

“Remind me to make some more,” says Percy, pulling out his prize. It’s a little dusty, streaks of flour clinging to the blue velvet. “I have a feeling we’ll need them.”

“Oh yeah?” She chuckles. “What, did Olympus put in a special order?”

Percy slides back down next to her, ring hidden in his closed fist. “Can I have the baby for a sec?”

Eyes fixed to the screen, Annabeth passes her over. Junie’s hands automatically reach for his nose, ready to grab, but Percy places the ring in her grasp instead, kissing her forehead. “Hey, babe?” he asks Annabeth, handing her back. “I think our daughter has something for you.”

Annabeth takes her without a second glance.

Then she does take a second glance.

Ring closed in her pudgy toddler fist, Junie holds it out to her.

Annabeth gapes.

“So,” Percy says, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, “quick confession: I wasn’t just working on the marbles for fun.”

Annabeth just stares. Junie babbles.

“Your mom told me that if I helped get the marbles back, she’d back us against Hera if we ever got married. So…” He trails off, waiting for her response. As close as he is, he can see the tears start to well up in her eyes--a good sign. “Shall we?” he prompts.

“Oh thank all the gods.” Annabeth is crying, because she's Annabeth. And because she's Annabeth, she also wastes no time in transferring Junie to her other side, and holding out her hand so Percy can slide the ring on her finger. “I was so worried I'd have to have Chase on my Masters’ diploma, too.”

Percy is making sauce when his phone lights up. He hits speaker. “Hey.”

“Hey man,” comes the tinny voice of Magnus. “Sorry I missed your call earlier.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Percy says, “I figured you were dying or something.”

Magnus’ eye roll is almost palpable. “Very funny. What’s up?”

Bringing the spoon to his lips, he blows on it, taking a taste, before reaching for the salt. Needs way more. “Do you happen to have any Varangian guards in Hotel Valhalla?”

“Varangian guards? Uh, maybe. Probably. Why?”

“I’m doing a thing on the attempted reconquest of Sicily,” he says, lowering the heat a little to a simmer, “and I’m having some trouble piecing together the Battle of Montemaggiore. Know anyone who was in it?”

Magnus hums. “I’ll ask around. Anyone in particular you’re looking for?”

Rifling through their little spice cabinet, he makes a mental note to get a new thing of hot sauce, tipping the rest of it into the pot. “If you have anyone who fought under Harald Hardrada, that would be great.”

“Hardrada? I’m pretty sure he lives on the fifth floor.”

Percy nearly drops the bottle. “No shit?”

“Big dude, long mustache, writes poetry?”

“Yes!” He picks up the phone, grinning from ear to ear. “Do you think I could come up and talk to him sometime?”

“Sure, but I thought you were doing something on Homer’s identity?”

He groans. “Backburnered for now until she stops driving me crazy.” No matter how many times Percy tells her, he can’t just drop the “Homer was actually an Egyptian woman” bomb without some serious evidence backing that up. And forgery is not one of his strong suits. Hence the need for a different topic for the time being.

“Has everyone ever told you your life is weird?”

“No, why do you ask?”

His phone suddenly vibrates, shocking him so badly he nearly drops it into the saucepan. Almost home, texts the love of his life, a shot of serotonin directly into his bloodstream. V hungry

“Sorry, Magnus, but I gotta run. Thanks for your help.”

“No problem. Say hi to my cousin for me.”

“Can do.”

“And make sure you pick a date soon! Sam needs to know so she can schedule her flight home.”

“Soon as I can.” You know, when his brain isn’t melting from grading undergrad papers. And making sure Annabeth and Junie are fed. And that Annabeth doesn’t lose herself in graduate school. And finding Junie a new preschool after she destroyed a classroom last month because of a monster. His toddler is a badass. But he’s a little worried she’s gonna follow Mommy and Daddy’s example as far as school goes.

Sometimes, he thinks that their wedding just won’t ever happen. With Athena on board, he figured it would happen sooner or later, but time just… keeps getting away from them. Which isn’t the end of the world. A lifetime at Annabeth’s side is all he really needs, Mrs. Jackson or no. But he’s seen the silver fabric she weaved for her wedding dress. It would be a shame for all that hard work to go to waste.

And, yeah, he wants to see his little Junie dancing down the aisle flinging seaweed before her mother. He wants his mom to cry a little and he wants all his friends to be there to celebrate with them. Is that so much to ask?

Speaking of his two favorite girls--”We’re home!” Annabeth calls from the hallway. “Junie, go say hi to daddy!”

Her bare feet slapping against the floor, his daughter comes toddling in, making a beeline for him. “Hey, kiddo,” Percy says, scooping her up. “How’s my best girl?”

“She’s just fine, thanks,” Annabeth says, setting her work bag down on the table. “Tell me I don’t have to wait for dinner--Margie kept me for the entirety of my lunch break, and I am starving.”

“Just gotta make a salad and we should be good to go.” But he makes no move to finish chopping vegetables, entirely too enraptured with the way Junie smiles when Percy sticks his tongue out at her. “Let me guess,” he says. “Does my best girl want some olives?”

“Peas,” Junie says.

“Oh, you want peas instead?”

She giggles, waving her arms. “Elaia, daddy!”

“Fine,” and he kisses her nose. “Extra olives for you.”

“Chip off the old block,” Annabeth says.

Handing her back to her mother, Percy sighs. “When am I going to get a kid who likes anchovies?”

“I’m doing my best here, okay?”

***

Hardrada is… not what he expected.

“Reputation isn’t that bad.” Hardrada is saying. “The production isn’t what it should be, but lots of her lyrics are still on point.”

“The production ruins it,” Percy insists. “And as a follow up to 1989? It's just bad.”

“And what about Lover?”

“What about Lover?”

“You can’t argue with the genius of that one.”

“It is terribly inconsistent,” Percy shoots back. “Yeah, ‘The Archer’ and ‘Daylight’ and ‘Miss Americana’ are sublime, but ‘ME!’? Come on!”

“Are you one of those people who thinks she peaked at Red?”

“Red is a bop from start to finish,” Percy fires back. “But she definitely peaked at folklore.”

“Thinking she peaked at folklore is just pedestrian when ‘tis the damn season’ exists!” Hardrada yells, drawing his axe, which is then promptly flung over Percy’s head.

As the only mortal in a room full of armed, excitable, undead Taylor Swift stans, Percy beats a hasty exit, Magnus and Jason covering him as he flees, because they’re just so thoughtful like that. Percy’s pretty sure he saw Magnus take an arrow to the knee, going down in a heap, before he shuts the door to the hotel, finding himself in a Forever 21.

Looking over his notes later as he gets back to his apartment in the North End, he frowns. They had spent… approximately twenty minutes talking about Sicily before getting solidly off track. Who knew an eleventh century viking would have such intense feelings about pop music?

And now he’s singing “seven” to himself as he unlocks the apartment door, because it's a good song, and because it made him think of Annabeth. And he always wants to think of Annabeth.

“Hey, babe,” he calls into the apartment, toeing off his shoes. “I’m back!”

He gets no response.

Percy looks up, confused. “Annabeth?”

“In the bathroom,” he hears, faintly.

“Everything okay?”

“Yep! Totally fine!” she says, unconvincingly.

“Alright,” he calls back. “Let me know if you need something.”

Moving Junie’s toys out of the way, he drops down onto the couch, grabbing his laptop. Hopefully he can make some sort of sense of the… notes… that he got from Hardrada. Though he’s probably going to have to trek out to Beacon Hill again, which, while not really out of his way, does mean he has to hike a bit from the Park Street station through the Commons, which makes him super sweaty and out of breath. It’s just embarrassing, walking into a hotel full of the greatest warriors of Valhalla, and Percy can barely handle a hill.

However, he’s not so out of practice that he can’t sense Annabeth coming up behind him. “You good?”

“What do you think about getting married by the end of the month?”

“Sure,” he says, pecking at his computer. Damn autocorrect ruining all the Norse names. He keeps forgetting to download the right language package he needs. “But I thought you wanted to wait until after you turned in your portfolio?”

“Well… I might not be able to fit in my dress if we wait much longer.”

That gets his attention.

Percy turns around, slowly. Annabeth is grinning, holding a thin little piece of plastic with a circle on the end. She wiggles it.

“Is that…?”

“Yep.”

“Oh.”

Her smile falls. “Are you mad?”

“What? No!” Percy slides his computer off his lap, twisting around to face her, up on his knees. “No, no, not at all. I’m not mad.” She slings her arms around his neck, pregnancy test warm against his skin. “I just…”

Eyes warm, she looks into his, unafraid. “What is it?”

“It’s…” It’s silly, is what it is. But this is Annabeth. If he can’t tell her, who can he tell? “I just feel bad that I’ve gotten you pregnant twice before getting married.”

“Well, at least I’m not nineteen this time,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “But maybe we wouldn’t have this problem if you weren’t such a horndog.”

Percy snorts. “Me? What about you, Annabeth ‘3 AM anal before my first lecture’ Chase.”

“Jackson,” she corrects.

“Huh?”

“It’s Annabeth ‘3 AM anal before your first lecture’ Jackson.”

Grinning, he presses his mouth to hers. After all this time, she still smells like lemons, her lips soft and warm. “Not yet it’s not.”

“Then let’s make it happen.”

And, well, Percy can’t think of a better plan.

Jamie hisses. “Fuuuuuck,” she whispers, the sound dropping like a stone in the dead lecture hall. “Goddamn shit fuck ass.”

And the worst part is, she’d actually spent a lot of time preparing for her Latin midterm. She’d made flashcards, she’d drilled noun endings, she’d even slept with the textbook under her pillow for fuck’s sake.

Typical--the moment she sits down to take the test, it all goes out the window.

“Legistne carmen longum de Troiano,” she reads under her breath, as though saying it out loud will unlock some hidden secrets of the cosmos.

Nope. Nothing. The multiple choices remain as inscrutable as ever.

“Psst.”

Jamie looks up.

There’s a four year old staring at her.

“Hi,” Jamie says.

“Hi,” says the four year old. Junie, her name is, she thinks.

Mr. Jackson, Jamie’s Latin TA, will bring his kids to class with him sometimes--his wife works full time, and Jamie guesses that they can’t afford a babysitter. She’s a cute kid, quiet, usually sitting in the corner of the lecture hall, drawing or even knitting, sometimes with her little sister playing with toy ships next to her.

Now, she’s still staring at her. “What’s up?” Jamie asks.

“Bello,” says Junie.

Jamie blinks. “Sorry?”

“Legistne carmen longum de bello Troiano.”

She squints down at her test sheet, attempting to visualize her flash cards. That’s… “Bello” is the right answer.

The fuck? The fucking four year old can speak Latin? “Thanks,” she whispers.

Junie beams at her.

Darting her eyes to the front of the lecture hall, Jamie spies her professor, Buck, completely conked out at his desk, his chest rising and falling with his snores. Percy is nowhere to be seen, his laptop open at his chair. “What’s the next one?” Jamie turns her paper so that Junie can see better.

“Pluto Proserpinam infelicem cepit,” she announces, perfectly accented.

Jamie points to the one after that.

“Rex qui pontem fecit erat Ancus Martius.”

“Awesome.”

The door to the lecture hall opens. Jamie whips around in her seat, startled, and sees her TA, walking down the steps. From the corner of her eye, Junie disappears, booking it to her dad, who scoops her up without missing a beat. “Hey kiddo,” he murmurs, smiling crookedly. “Were you bothering my students?” Then he glances at Jamie. “Sorry about that--hope she wasn’t too annoying.”

But Jamie shakes her head. “It’s fine.” Dammit.

Still smiling, Percy makes his way back down to his seat. Junie grins at her over his shoulder, her arms wrapped tightly around her dad’s neck.

At the beginning of the semester, Professor Buck had droned on and on about Mr. Jackson, about how he was one of the best up-and-coming classics scholars in the world, how he could have had his pick of PhD programs, and how NYU was lucky to have him. He got first pick of assistantships this semester, apparently, but had volunteered to teach Latin 1001, and they should all be grateful, because he had done some beautiful new translation of Virgil for his Master’s thesis, and they were all going to learn a lot from him.

Turning back to her exam, Jamie snorts. Of course a guy like that would have a kid who could speak perfect Latin.

She really should have just stuck with German instead.

#my fic #pjo #percabeth #the rivalry ends here #perseannabeth #darkmagyk #percy should be a classics major and here's why #the percy major for the stem hating author #also i feel like i have to say:#1) classics conferences are not like that #2) if only it were that easy to get the bm to return looted antiquities 🙄#pjo fic #percabeth fic #percy jackson

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tilmarrowdries · 3 years ago

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💋 Good Girl

So okay, listen- This is incredibly self indulgent, and very nasty. Inspired by an ask @disembowel-me got about forcing Lawrence into prostitution. This fic in the aftermath and result of torturing and conditioning Lawrence for nearly 8 months, Being deprived of drugs for a while now, he’s starting to lose his fight.

CW: forced sex work, mentions of torture & scars, drugs, crossdressing, derogatory f slur, homophobia, minor mind break

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“Two hundred fifty bucks, right? This better be good. Mack did say you had the best cross dressers in town.” The client is fidgety and clearly using substances from the twitch in his eye. He hands over the cash though, and the boss smirks.

“Best and most beautiful, you’ll be orgasming before you even slip in,” they laugh, dragging from their cigarette. “No lube needed, it’s prepped and waiting.”

“Good. Take me to her, I’m sick of waiting,” the client huffs out, twitching in the hands, an ache forming in his stomach as his desire to drain his balls increases.

“Right this way, sir.” The boss leads him to a side room. There are many, many rooms. The client swears he hears groans and cries of pain from other rooms. He wants to make whatever bitch he gets scream louder.

They enter a bedroom, looking similar to a motel in setup with only a well-dressed bed, a table, and a few lounging chairs. There’s a television and several DVDs and VHSs full of snuff and porn. Some of the names scribbled on the DVDs make even the client shudder.

“Here’s your new pet. Its name’s Poppy. Boy name’s Lawrence if you’re in to that. Enjoy.” And the boss is gone with a slamming of the door. The client chuffs and gazes to the bed as a figure stands up.

“G-g… good evening, how… how can I p-please you today?” calls a stuttering, quiet voice in the dim light.

Lawrence is caked in makeup, thick baby pink lipstick and soft fading red eyeshadow, his lashes done prettily so they make his blue eyes even more vivid. His hair is done into a high ponytail, bangs long since grown out enough to be tied back with it. His body is hairless, thin, waxed and shiny, covered head to toe in whip scars, cigarette burns, and floral tattoos. Dressed sultrily for the client, just like he likes his girls, Lawrence is wearing a red and black skintight tankini crop top, a miniskirt that shows off his conditioned erection beginning to form, and his pert ass peaking out from the bottom, as well as a lacy, doll-like collar with dainty bows.

“Can’t wait to rip that off you, faggot~” the client titters. Lawrence visibly puffs his chest and blushes bright red.

“Yeah- I mean yes, sir,” he tries to calm the rush of blood. Just take it. Just take it and your boss will give you your hit. It’s been three weeks. Just behave. “S-s-… So, what are you uh… looking for tonight?”

“First off quit the stutter, whore,” the client mutters. “It’s annoying as fuck, jesus what’s wrong with you. I came looking for freaks but not like that.”

“Sorry. Sorry, sir.” Lawrence shuffles his feet, eyes fixated on his painted toenails, embellished with small flower designs.

“Get on the bed.”

Nodding, Lawrence complies.

“Stick that ass in the air for me.”

Shivering, feeling prickling of tears in his eyes, Lawrence complies. He can’t go another day without his drugs, he can’t handle the beatings anymore, being touched and fondled by the boss til he’s cum so many times he doesn’t know who he is. Just be a good girl, he tells himself.

The client grips his ass roughly, squeezing the flesh enough to bruise. Flipping up the skirt, the client laughs loudly at the heart-print bottom of a long, thick, dildo butt plug.

“Got other men’s cum stuffed in there, fag? How many cocks can you take at once, huh? I bet you’ll suck me riiiight up.”

Lawrence hides his face in the pillows, crying silently from the shame of it all, lipstick coated lips trembling. “Y-yes. Yes sir. I’m- I’m a whore. Take me.” It sounds unnatural, forced. Lawrence can only hope the client didn’t notice, if he mentions it to the boss, Lawrence will be whipped again, more long, thick keloids along his back, more screaming and begging for it to stop, promising to be a good girl if only it would stop-

Lawrence’s spiral is cut off as the plug is roughly tugged from his ass. The client is behind him, grinding his hard cock against Lawrence’s hole. He shivers and puts his face in the pillow, pretty red eyeshadow smearing on his face.

Just be a good girl and you’ll get your hit, he tells himself. He sighs. He stops crying. He braces himself.

Lawrence takes it like the whore he’s become.

#my writing #lawrence oleander #boyfriend to death #btd lawrence #btd lawrence oleander #btd fanfic #boyfriend to death fanfic #btd fanfiction #boyfriend to death fanfiction #'sex work'#nsftumblr #'nsft'#'kink'#'crossdressing'#'sissy'

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limitlessgojo · 3 years ago

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Blood Bound: Red Strings of Fate (Ch. 11)

Warnings: Action, Coarse Language, Fighting, Descriptions of Blood

Previous Chapter: Invisible Ties

Next Chapter: Goldenrod

Tags: Soulmates AU, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Fem!Reader

Taglist: @lessie-oxj @rizzo-nero @whoreuc @fkngkumiko @isl3t @gojoussunglasses @onepotatostand-blog @s-t-f-u-b-i-t-c-h @sunaswife

Notes: If you want to be tagged for every update, please mention it in the comments below ty <3

Additional notes: This is so funny but I made a mistake in assuming the previous Goodwill event was held in Tokyo. Rewatched JJK and found out it was in Kyoto so I had to rewrite it XD.

Chapter 11: Kyoto-Tokyo Goodwill Event

Breakfast was a quiet affair. He brought out a short table and you had the meal side by side.

It was grilled salmon and miso soup. You both stole glances at each other when the other wasn't looking.

A domestic life with Noritoshi. Yeah you could get used to this. "Thank you for the meal Noritoshi." You smiled and offered to wash the dishes.

He stood behind you in the small kitchenette as you did, humming softly to yourself. Noritoshi was holding your waist gently and leaning his forehead against your shoulder. Thumbing small circles into the sides of your hips.

You quietly smiled at yourself, not expecting Noritoshi to love physical affection this much. After washing the dishes, you laughed as you placed your ice cold hands on his neck, forcing him to let go of you and flinch back with a frown.

Leaving Noritoshi’s dorm after breakfast had terrible timing apparently. You bumped into Todo senpai on your way out.

“Ah.” You both stared at each other for a bit. Noritoshi was still behind you, the door to his dorm room open. It didn’t help that you had your pillows and blankets in your hands.

And you were still in pajamas.

“So is this like a thing now? Congratulations on getting together.” Todo smiled down at you.

“Ah uhm- we- I- “ You stuttered, but Noritoshi wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you to him.

“Yes we are dating. And what of it?” He stared Todo down. You were flustered but incredibly pleased upon finally hearing a solid label between the two of you.

Todo just grinned. “So you actually have decent taste in women huh Kamo?”

“The best.” He replied dryly. You flushed and whined at Noritoshi, pawing at his robes. He just pulled you closer and hid your face in his chest.

“Didn’t know you had this shy side Tsuchi chan.” Todo was laughing. He bid both of you goodbye, and by the end of the day the entire campus knew both of you were dating.

But of course the both of you didn’t know it yet. “So…. you’re my boyfriend now Toshi?” you reached up to twirl his hair in your fingers as you made your belongings float in midair.

His eyes sparkled at the nickname. He leaned down close to you, “So it seems. Are you unhappy?”

“No. I’m happy.” You leaned up to press your lips against the corner of his.

Noritoshi sent you off, only letting you go after he had gotten a huge hug from you with a deep kiss to the cheek. He realized with a small jolt that he was pretty much touch-starved (no surprises there).

Wishing for more of your hugs and kisses already, and you just left for a few moments. He sighed heavily and shook his head.

Later that day, you bumped into Miwa as you were leaving your dorm. It was the weekend so you all had no classes and missions. She hesitantly called out a “Congratulations. You finally got together with Kamo senpai yeah?”

You looked at her in surprise. “How did you-”

“Todo senpai.”

“That man really doesn’t keep his mouth shut.”

◇◇◇

It was a different experience, having the other students tease the both of you about your new relationship as a real boyfriend and girlfriend. You felt weird by calling him your lover.

"I called it!" Mai proudly smirked down at you. "We all did Mai chan." Momo senpai giggled, bumping her hip with yours as you looked shocked over the bets they placed.

Noritoshi always had a soft smile for you. He recently managed his time better, finishing his studies very early so he could spend more time with you.

Not shy to take your hand whenever you meet in the hallways and drag you for a picnic under the huge Plum Tree or just to hug you quickly before going off to a mission.

You were more open, hopping up to him in the hallways and greeting him cheerfully. ‘It was nice’, you thought to yourself.

Ever the overthinker, you at times think of the secrets he mentioned having. Probably personal matters he wasn’t ready to talk about. That’s fine, you had your own fair share as well. Time will heal and bring whatever it may to the both of you.

◇◇◇

The Kyoto-Tokyo sister school goodwill event was drawing near. You and your fellow first years wished all your participating seniors good luck.

“I heard they also have a Special Grade 1st year student in Tokyo Tech.” You perked up at that, “Is that so?”

“I highly doubt they’d come though. Just like how you aren’t participating, Tsuchi. Usually 2nd and 3rd years are the ones participating. It is going to be held here in Kyoto Tech since we won last year.” Todo grinned.

You wondered about that.

◇◇◇

Just a few days before the goodwill event, Utahime texted you and said Noritoshi was injured from a mission. So of course you flew as fast as you could to his room, where he was being treated.

"Noritoshi!!" You wheezed out, entering his room in a burst of wind. You had come back from a lunch date with an old classmate from elementary.

You hurried over to his bedside and looked him over. He slowly turned to you, eyes widening. He smiled, "An angel is here."

You flushed and laughed out loud, "Noritoshi you've lost it. It's just me. Y/n." You brushed some stray hairs out of his face.

He continued staring at you dreamily, “Angel”. You were all dressed up, face fully made up. Rouge lipstick with a light touch of blush on your cheeks. You had your round shades on, prettily framing your face.

He used a free and uninjured hand to reach and cup your cheek. You leaned into his touch before pushing his arm back down. "You need rest." You said gently.

You placed your hands over his chest and activated your reverse cursed technique. He groaned as he felt his skin stitch back together. "Shhh, it will be fine."

He wasn't that badly injured thank goodness. “Angel, have you seen my y/n? I miss her.” He whined. You patted him on the forehead and shushed him with a quick kiss.

Why was he behaving like this?? You turned to the nurse packing their things from the corner, “I put him on anesthesia. He will be loopy for a bit.”

“Ah.” This might be a little bit fun. “Toshiii~ It’s me y/n how could you not recognize me?” You pouted. Noritoshi pouted and whined in return. The nurse pointedly ignored both of you and quickly left the room.

He stared at you with the biggest eyes he’s ever made, seemingly thinking hard. “Don’t think too hard, you’ll lose brain cells.” you whispered.

“Hold me.” He demanded not unlike a child asking for candy. And so you sat beside him and held onto his hand. You watched as he fell asleep, clinging onto your hand.

This loose-tongued and childish side to Noritoshi was just too adorable.

◇◇◇

Noritoshi stirred awake, seeing you so close to him. You were laying on top of his chest, one hand holding onto his.

He stared at your profile half sprawled over his blanket and reached to put a hand on your back and rubbed it soothingly. Then let his hand rest on the back of your neck while tracing small circles on it with the pad of his thumb.

You were so sweet on him. It was a wonder to Noritoshi, who felt as though he was always lacking in physical affection. To see someone sincerely take care of him without requesting anything in return was refreshing for a change.

He watched as you stirred, then your hand tightened in his and you brought it close to your lips, all while you were still fast asleep. Noritoshi’s eyes twinkled. What were you dreaming about? Was it about him?

He watched as you slowly woke up. “Mmmm Toshiii~” you blearily reached out for him. You were able to wash up and change your clothes while he was asleep.

He pulled you into his bed, making your half sprawl over his lap. “Why didn’t you get in bed with me? Surely your back must hurt? It’s late now, sleep with me.” You looked at the clock and to your surprise it was indeed late. 2am.

“Okayy” you were still whiny, half asleep, and slightly grumpy from waking up. You both settled in the bed and fell asleep holding hands.

◇◇◇

It was finally the day of the Kyoto-Tokyo Goodwill event. You were all out, 1st, 2nd and 3rd years with Utahime sensei and Principal Gakuganji, waiting for the Tokyo group to arrive.

Then you felt this ominous presence from afar. You took a few steps back, cursed energy flaring and winds whipping around you. Everyone looked at you in concern and Noritoshi whispered as he squeezed your hand, "Angel, you okay?"

You still found it funny how he now takes to calling you his angel when it’s just the two of you after you told him about his embarrassing moment when he was loopy on sedatives.

You stared off at a distance. "Everyone... Something… big is coming." You didn't realize that you felt Rika's presence from afar. Everyone tensed and looked in the same direction you were as the Tokyo participants came.

There were some really loud 2nd and 3rd years, but the one that stood out was a rather reserved boy with black hair. He had a Katana bag hooked over one shoulder. And a massive curse looming over him. ‘How is that thing not exorcised yet?!’

"Yooooo Everyone from Kyoto hello!!"

That voice. Your eye twitched. "Nice to meet you all again." Gojo Satoru cheerily yelled. Introductions were exchanged. The group challenge on the first day is Capture the Flag. The details for the individual battles tomorrow are yet to be announced.

Everyone was surprised to hear that the first year, Okkotsu Yuuta, the special grade cursed human, was participating to even out the numbers.

Based on that amount of cursed energy…. Tokyo school might win this year, you thought grimly. 'As long as there are no casualties please.' You prayed to yourself. You wished Noritoshi good luck with a quick hug.

After the participants were dismissed and released to their positions, the Kyoto 1st year's followed the two principals and Utahime sensei.

"Neko-chaaaan! How cruel, you don't wanna greet me?" His damn voice was so fucking loud everyone in the vicinity turned to Satoru.

(His nickname for you was cute but the story wasn't. When you were 4 years old, the Tsuchi family cat always ran away from you. You tried to be more catlike to befriend it, which Satoru found hilarious. Ergo, he started calling you Cat or Neko chan.)

Your eye twitched again as always does with Satoru. "Toru nii, it's been a while." You said, looking at the man leering down at your figure. He pulled you in for a side hug and ruffled your hair. "I missed you loads, it's been a while huh. How's school?"

"Not too bad." You fixed and patted your hair back down, aware of the eyes on you.

"Mmm, I bet." His bright blue [six] eyes could see the red strings linking your pinky to Noritoshi's. "You got a boyfriend by any chance y/n?"

You stopped at that and looked up at him. "Did Hiroki tell you anything?" "Nup" he always pops his P's obnoxiously.

You looked to the side and murmured "I do."

"You have a boyf-ooms" You slapped your hand over his mouth, floating up to his height. You could practically see his blue eyes gleaming behind those white bandages. "Keep your voice down dimwit." You hissed.

He licked your hand. "You're gross as always Toru," you wiped it on his sleeve as you walked on air to match his height.

"You should have told me you got a boyfriend. Anywayss, my students are gonna kick ass. Yuuta is pretty strong and he's the type to go all out you know?" He nudged you.

"Noritoshi and the senpais won't go down without a fight." You said. “Heehhh, is that so?”

You caught up a bit with him, making small talk as you made your way to the viewing rooms.

◇◇◇

Miwa later pulled you aside, "You know Gojo Satoru?! Isn't he, like, super famous?!"

"Uhhh?? He is?? … uhm I don't know. But we are family friends, he's like a brother to me really." You said confusedly. "The Tsuchimikado and Gojo clans always got along. His dad and my dad are friends."

"Ahhh I see." She nodded. She was still unfamiliar with the Great 3 clans and minor clans of Jujutsushi so it was understandable for her to be curious.

The rest of you filed into the room. The teachers allowed all of you to watch on the screens, so that you can get familiar with the goodwill event.

"Psst! Y/n sit beside me." You laughed as Satoru eagerly patted the seat beside him, sounding more like a teenager than a teacher. You scooted over to his side as he brought out snacks, chips, and popcorn. You stared at him. "You think this is a movie?"

"It's free entertainment." He shrugged.

And the event started. You all watched on the screens as both schools fought against curses while defending their home base flag and trying to take down the enemy's flag.

Todo, of course, was on the front lines, recklessly plowing into Tokyo high's home base. Hakari, a 3rd year, was facing him off, somehow holding his ground against him.

Noritoshi was following Momo around, taking down curses and stopping the other team's students from charging in.

But before they knew it, Yuuta was on the other side, flag in his hands. It wasn't a quick match but a rather rough one. At the very least, no one was injured badly.

Your eyes watched Okkotsu’s movements. It was very obvious he was new to fighting, but his brute force of cursed energy played well to his strengths. You were looking forward to tomorrow's matches.

Blood Bound: Table of Contents

#kamo noritoshi x you #jjk kamo #blood bound #red strings of fate #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #kamo noritoshi x reader #noritoshi fluff #gojo satoru #miwa kasumi #todo aoi #jjk x y/n #noritoshi x y/n #noritoshi headcanons

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insufferablelust · 4 years ago

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Naughty list. (ThrilledAu!Mgg x Reader)

Warnings : Slight smut, Spanking, D/s themed ofc, The use of ‘sir’ & ‘daddy’, mention of edging, mention of overstimulation for future reference, sadist!mgg, condescending!dom, Marking, Its.. um Filthy as many of you already know. Please read at your own discretion.

Hello this is the christmas one shot i’ve promised, its 3 am rn and im so sorry i just done finishing this because things had been so chaotic. But i hope y’all enjoy and please wait up patiently for my next fics which will come in the next several days as promised.

PLEASE NOTE : This blurb sets inside my Thrilled Au, after the Bratty Rendezvous chapter which i have yet to upload, though i will upload it very soon. So basically this fic is the filler chapter and a teaser for the two upcoming chapters of thrilled! so i hope that makes sense and i hope y’all enjoy it. Happy holidays and Merry christmas! Take care, x D

MASTERLIST HERE.

He felt her before he even opens his eyes, a small smile threaten to quirk at the side of her lips in response to the feeling of small kisses all along his face down to his neck— the oh so warm familiar kisses by the love of his life.

“Matthew wake up.” Y/N whispered, giggling to herself as she felt him grunt below her at the feeling of her sinful lips nips and bites onto his skin, “It’s christmas morning, come on daddy.” She whispered once more, but this time doing it with grinding down where her bum was sat prettily atop of his crotch, just enough to make him wrap his hand around her neck.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” His grip tighten a bit just then, as her eyes closed and a smile etched beautifully onto her lips. Matthew scoffed at her reaction before sitting up on the bed, bringing her up with him so he could lean against the headboard.

“J-just waking you..” Was all that she could manage, with shallow breaths and innocently batting her lashes up at him. “Oh, princess..” He murmured as he finally took in the sight of her.

She’s perched up beautifully on her lap, with her thigh high christmas themed socks, his sweater and a collar— a special one he had gifted her a few days prior, with the color red and his named engraved on the inside lining where nobody could see but she certainly could feel. On the outside, it might look like a normal choker necklace but they both know very well that that’s not the case. Its a symbol of him, latched onto her every second of the day— its their dynamic, its how they work.

“You look like a dream, little one..” He gasped, as she whines on his lap, a perfect little noise reserved only for him, making his hard on pressed oh so good against her bottom. “Dressed up for y-you!” Y/N exclaimed happily and slightly out of breath by the way Matthew’s grip just tightens and tightens— just like he was trying to squeeze the cuteness out of her.

God, you’re his, and his his his only.

“I know baby, so so pretty for me, being so so good.” He gave her cheek a pretty light slap, just to make her gasp and leave her sweet little mouth open slightly— all messy and beautiful. “Thank you daddy, just for you.” She smiled then, awaiting for his instruction just like how he likes it— or more importantly, just like how she craves it.

Matthew cocks his head to the side a little as he contemplates on what he’s going to do with her, it’s always like this with them— just wanting to do so many things, explore everything, explore each other’s limits, especially hers. Always hers, he thinks, whatever makes her happy.

So with a simple instruction he lessen the grip on her neck before pressing a small kiss on her forehead, “Go to our room now, and be on your position, daddy has to make some calls for our party this evening but you better be on your position by the time i get there or else.” He taps her cheeks twice, eyes pierced onto hers— as she nods a little, “yes daddy.”

“Go on.” She smiled before pressing a gentle peck to his lips, getting up and padded her tiny feet towards the door, “Oh and princess?”

“Yes daddy?”

“anything off but the socks and your collar.”

—

He’s doing this on purpose, your mean mean daddy is doing this on purpose— making you wait on your knees by the bench inside your dungeon, just waiting and waiting until you feel your knees beginning to fall asleep on you. But you tried your best to be presentable, just how daddy likes it.

Your body jumps a little when the sound of his footsteps rang through the room, sound of the door closing has your feet tingling and your cunt wet, oh he could definitely see the glisten gleam from it for sure.

“I thought you’d be well acquainted with my rules by now, pup.” He let out a disapproving sigh, which made your cheeks warmer and you instantly straighten your back, part your thigh a little and gulps— trying to remember what you did wrong this time.

“I—“

“Ah ah, you know better than to speak without my permission in this room do you?” He scoffed, walking around the room just to tantalize you, sending shiver up your spine. “you were good this morning, so good that daddy had half the mind to make you cum but now i’m not so sure.” He adds, which earn a gasp from you, Oh how you wanted to cum, you want to cum so so bad, the last time you did was a week ago when you were still in Paris— but right after your little bratty rendezvous there was no way in hell, he’d let you cum, oh no no, kitten doesn’t deserve to cum until master says so.

You bit your lip in agony, trying to block the tears that were about to slip from your pretty eyes down your heated cheeks, just trying to do anything he asks— anything. You let out a gasp as he tilt your chin up, which he cooed at and sigh softly, whilst his thumb brush side to side on top of your lips.

“Look at your tears, baby. Do you think it’ll work? hm? you think because daddy’s little elf put on a show this morning, that daddy is going to let this slide?” He pouts condescendingly, watching as the tears finally dripped down your cheeks, oh he wanted to photograph this so bad, his little fairy.

“Go on, answer daddy.” He pats your cheek with his thumb as you tried to find the courage to speak, “I-I’m sorry d-daddy.. i.. please..” Matthew sighed softly, seeing the genuine regret behind your eyes has him reprimanding your punishment, daddy was a tamer, but he was and will always be fair— forgetfulness is a human mistake, besides it’s christmas, and he figured he needed to give you something from all the torture you’ve endured since Paris.

“Up, princess. Let daddy braid your hair.” He tugged her collar a little which earned a gasp from her, though it was a combination between the sensation on her neck and realization on what she did wrong, “Daddy i—“

“Shh, up.” He cuts you off before you could mutter an apology, or several apologies. You should’ve known better, if he told you to be on position, what he always meant is for you to be on your knees by the bench, with your hair untied specifically because he likes to braid you before play time, and today you’ve put your hair up, completely forgetting a clear important rule. Matthew helped you get on your shaky feet, as you trembled a little, whispering a small, “thank you daddy.” Before facing the bench, back toward him so he could process on your hair.

“Tell daddy why he’s punishing you tonight.” He hummed behind her, fingers expertly tangle and untangle through her hair, looping each side to the center as he formed a perfect braid from the top of her hair and making his way down. “Because i forgot daddy’s rule.” You muttered shakily, voice laced with regrets at yourself for disappointing daddy.

“Which rule is it, pup?” His voice seemed so close now, she could practically feel his warm breath against her skin that she zoned out for a moment before a tug on her hair brought her back, “I— i didn’t untie my hair, sir.”

“Why is it important?”

“Because daddy needs to braid my hair, and.. and it teaches me to.. remembers daddy’s rules.” You finished with a sigh, before feeling a soft kiss placed on top of your shoulder blades, “10 with my hands. Go and bend over the bench, bunny.”

—

Y/N braced herself as she felt the stinging, heated sensation smacked across her bottom, making her grip tighten onto the railing bench and her body shakes a little. “F-Five, thank y-you daddy.”

“Color?” Matthew pressed his palm against her stinging skin as he try to soothe the aching pain a bit, it’s true that they both love this— loves the thrill, the pain, and the overall pleasure that comes from this. However, Matthew would never enjoy hurting his bunny without any context, or out of proportion, it might look like he has all the control but they both knows well that she has all the control, if she wants to stop, she knows what she needed to say.

“G-Green sir please.” Oh how he loves the way her voice croaked underneath him, the way she arched her back toward him— as if asking for more, ready for more just as she deserve, as she behaved. So he delivered then, 3 slaps in a row as she cries out between each milliseconds, and sobs out the thank you’s and pleas.

“just two more now, y’think you can take it, petal?” Matthews hand crept up to where your collar snuggly wrapped around your neck, thumbing the soft leather as he makes sure you’re still okay which you confirmed by a ‘yes daddy, please continue’

The last two slaps were unexpected, catching her off guard as it landed way way below where her cunt drips dewy sweet honey, and where her by now— swollen little pearl sits, making her jumps and scream out in a blissed pleasure. “Fuck! oh! nine ten! daddy thank you!”

“Shh shh, come here, good girl.” Matthew gently helped her stand before picking her up bridal style and sit down onto the bed which was installed on their room, his lips were pressed tightly onto her forehead as he soothes her aching skin and mumble calming words. “It’s okay, ‘s all over, such a good girl, little one.”

“Daddy...”

“Yes angel?”

“Do i deserve to cum now?”

“Oh petal, you will be begging to stop cumming later, just you wait.”

—

EXCUSE MY GRAMMARS AND TYPOS, my laptop is not accessible right now so i have to use my phone to write and upload so please bear with me. Thank you, i love you and take care.

Don’t forget to support!❤️

Taglist! (reply or message me if you want to be added or removed)

( @slutforthegubes @maybankslut @midnightsubmissives @bxnnywriting @keentreeoperatorcookie @autisticratty @mjwritesfics @getdevils @muffin-cup @tomsmilkytea @sinnersandsugars @edgycowboy666 @mgg-theprettiestboy @addie5264 @hushfakebitches @bucksgoat )

#spencer reid smut #mgg smut #insufferableblurb #dom!mgg #matthew gray gubler smut #thrilled

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retrievablememories · 4 years ago

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show me love | jaehyun

title: show me love pairing: jaehyun x reader genre: fluff request: “I have a fic idea for Valentine's Day 💀 Jaehyun's gf is busy trying to prepare a really sweet bday gift while Jaehyun is busy trying to prepare a really nice Valentine's Day gift for his gf?” word count: 2.2k warnings: alcohol use a/n: writing pure fluff is not as easy as you’d think, but maybe that’s only an issue when you’re emotionally constipated like me...💀 anyway, here’s to the birthday boy. 🌹

You want to be sure Jaehyun’s birthday gift is perfect this year, which is why you spent so much time saving up for it. To you, it often felt a little hard to measure up to all the lavish gifts he gets every year for his birthday from fans, friends, and family members—especially since it’s on Valentine’s Day—but he always claimed that you could get him anything and he’d love it.

You and Jaehyun haven’t met up very frequently this week, partly because you’d both been busy preparing your gifts for each other; you for his birthday, and him for Valentine’s Day. You weren’t too upset about that, though. Being able to see him when the day finally came around would make it even more special after the time spent away from each other.

It’d been a lot harder than you’d anticipated to keep your gift secret, but only because you’re so excited for him to finally know what you’d gotten for him. You’re eager to see his reaction to it and hear what he might say about it. You’re also wondering what he might be planning for you, but you’ve done your very best not to pester him about it too much—even though you really want to.

The day of his birthday, you’re so jittery that you even get up earlier than usual so you can get dressed and make sure your look for the day is perfect. You end up calling Jaehyun while you put your makeup on, not wanting to wait any longer to talk to him. It’s not too early in the day when you call, because you know he won’t like getting up at that hour, but maybe early enough to cause a small complaint.

“Hi Y/N,” he answers after a few seconds, voice a bit deeper than usual—probably because he just got up. You grin at the sound of his voice.

“Good morning! Happy birthday, baby! Did I wake you? I’m sorry, haha.”

“Y/N.” Jaehyun repeats your name and smiles on the other end. You can’t see this, but you can hear his laugh, which is full of happiness at your greeting. “Thank you, sweet girl. It’s fine, I don’t really care, I was gonna get up soon anyway.” You hear the sheets rustling in the background and figure that’s him getting up now. “And of course, Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“The day for lovers, how could I ever forget.” You smirk to yourself, sifting through your makeup bag for a certain highlighter. “By the way, you’re gonna come over today, right? I have something for you,” you tell him in a singsong-y mischievous tone.

“Oh?” Jaehyun perks up at that. “You want me to come over now? Because...I have something for you too, for Valentine’s Day, but it’s here at my place.”

“Ah, really?” You laugh. “Come to my place first, it’s your birthday and you should get your present first.”

“But since it’s my birthday, shouldn’t you come here? Do it for me~”

You almost roll over with laughter. “Aw, Jaehyun! I can’t believe you’re using that cute tone with me, I know you hate aegyo.”

He sighs, and you know he’s probably blushing from embarrassment. “Hmm, okay, okay. Never gonna do that one again. Should we flip a coin on it, then? If I win, you have to come over with whatever your gift is.”

You chuckle. “Flip a coin? You serious?”

“Dead serious. Get on FaceTime.”

“Now?” You snort and look at yourself in the mirror, makeup only half-done.

“You don’t want to? What are you hiding?” Now his voice takes on a sneaky note.

“I’m not hiding anything, but if that’s what you want, then prepare yourself...”

You both hang up and Jaehyun calls you on FaceTime a few seconds later. You smile when you see his face on the other end, still bare from just waking up. One corner of his mouth tugs up in a smirk when he sees you, then he bursts into a full grin, giggling at your half-made-up face.

“Well, that was unexpected.”

“Yes, yes, laugh it up! My own boyfriend clowning me on Valentine’s Day, how sweet of you.” You pout for good measure.

“You laugh at me nearly everyday,” he points out, and you must admit that he’s right. “Anyway, you always look pretty to me.” Then he pulls a hand through his hair in a way that he knows can always make you swoon, and you sigh in defeat.

“...Okay, you’re forgiven.”

You see him rummage around for a moment before the phone straightens again; now he holds a coin between his fingers. “So. What side do you want?”

“I guess heads.”

Jaehyun snickers momentarily before affecting a nonchalant expression again. “Yeah, I’ll take tails then.”

“Stop being dirty-minded,” you complain, rolling your eyes.

“I’m not, Y/N,” he insists, though his tone suggests otherwise. He flips the coin into the air and points the phone camera to where it landed on the ground—heads.

“I won! Now you have to come over,” you cheer.

“Fine, fine.” He shakes his head and laughs. “I’ll be over soon. Wait for me.”

“I wouldn’t go anywhere else, now would I?”

Jaehyun arrives at your place a little while later, and he’s a bit starstruck when you open the door. Now with your makeup finished, you’re wearing a red dress with heels to match and your hair is styled prettily, falling over your shoulders. You smile happily at him, pulling at his shoulders to get him to come inside.

“Hi Jaehyun,” you say, closing the door after him and hugging him. He squeezes you back tightly, leaving a kiss on your bare shoulder and breathing in the scent of your hair.

“Y/N. How do you manage to get prettier everyday?”

“Because you love me so much.” You give him a kiss and tug his hand to guide him into the living room. You lead him to sit down on your couch, though you don’t sit next to him just yet. “Okay, before I give you your gift, you gotta close your eyes first.”

“Close my eyes? What is it?” Jaehyun keeps hold of your hand as he asks this, grinning up at you.

“You won’t know until you do what I say, silly!” He relents, although a bit reluctantly, and lets go of your hand so he can close his eyes. You go to get his gift from your bedroom and come back into the living room with it, holding it out in front of him. “Open your eyes now.”

When he does, he sees you holding a small wrapped box. “Why’d I have to close my eyes? I still can’t tell what it is.” He chuckles as he takes it from you. “The suspense is gonna kill me,” he jokes as he begins unwrapping it.

When Jaehyun finally gets the wrapping off and gets the box open, his face softens as he sees what’s inside and takes it in his hand. You clasp your own hands together, your skin warming at his smile. “It might not be what you’re used to in terms of like, luxury, you know...but it looked nice and I thought it’d look good on you.”

“Y/N…you must’ve spent a lot on this,” Jaehyun murmurs, examining the shiny new face of the watch in his hand. He holds it as if it were a rare jewel, turning it on all its sides to examine it. It’s mostly black leather and silver, but it was still more than usual for your budget, costing you a few hundred dollars.

“I did save up for some months...and still had to use a payment plan for it. Good thing we never broke up in that timespan or I woulda been shit outta luck.” Jaehyun snorts and shakes his head at your statement, knowing you’d say something like that to lighten the mood.

“Thank you baby,” he says, sliding his new watch onto his wrist. “You know this means the world to me.” He goes over to the window to see it better in the natural lighting, holding it up to the light to see it sparkle. You go over to him and peek over his shoulder, grinning softly. “I’ll have to pay you back.” You raise your eyebrows.

“What? It’s your birthday present, why would you—”

“You’ll see later,” he says mysteriously, and you give him a curious look. “Meanwhile, we should go somewhere. The day’s still early, so let’s enjoy it.”

“You’re right,” you say, glancing at the new watch once more and then kissing him on the cheek. “Let’s go, then.”

It’s evening by the time you get back to Jaehyun’s place, having already eaten at an upscale restaurant that he’d reserved. You’d had no idea about it, and you were glad you’d taken the initiative to dress up today. Both of you spent the earlier part of the day going out to brunch and then exploring the city for a few hours, which even included taking one of those romantic boat rides that the nearby lake always offers on Valentine’s Day. You thought it would be kind of cheesy at first, but it turned out way more fun than you could imagine.

When you step inside his place, you’re surprised to see everything is decorated pretty lavishly; the overhead lights are dimmed, leaving a bunch of small tea lights as the main illumination. There are rose petals spread everywhere, too, and the sitting room is set up with pillows and blankets and a nice spread of chocolates and wine on the coffee table.

You gasp, studying the surroundings. “How did you arrange all this? We were together all day.”

“Had some help from the guys; they came while we were gone. Hope they didn’t take anything, though...” Jaehyun shrugs as if this whole setup is no big deal, but his dimples poke out from the gleeful smile on his lips. He picks up an unlit candle from the coffee table, and you notice there are a few more spread around. “Now that we’re here, we can light these. Safety first, you know.”

“Of course,” you snicker, taking your jacket and shoes off so you can sit down on one of the pillows. You take up the bottle of wine and inspect the label while Jaehyun finds a lighter for the candles. “Considering that we already drank at the restaurant...don’t be surprised if I’m off my ass by the end of the night.”

“We don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to,” he suggests, raising one eyebrow.

“Oh no, I want to!” Jaehyun laughs at your enthusiasm as you open the wine and pour a glass for each of you. Once he’s done lighting the candles, he goes into his room. You lean back on the cushion and take your glass in your hand, waiting for him to come back.

Jaehyun returns soon with his blazer discarded and the first few buttons of his shirt undone. “I see you’ve gotten relaxed, too.” You smirk, crossing your legs. “You look so handsome with your new watch. I’m glad I got it for you.”

“Then I think you’ll like this even more.”

“Hmm?” You turn to Jaehyun as he sits on one of the pillows beside you. Your eyes widen when he pulls out a velvet case you didn’t notice before. It’s not a ring case, though, which really would’ve caused you to fall out; it’s the kind you use for bracelets or necklaces. He places it in your hands, and you gingerly take it from him like it might vanish if handled too roughly. “Oh...what is…?”

“You have to open it.” He grins, mimicking your earlier teasing of him with his own gift. You set down your wine glass and open the velvet rectangle to find a delicate necklace lying inside. At the end of it is a small circle with tiny diamonds embedded in it.

“Oh wow...it’s perfect,” you whisper, taking it out of the box and looking it over with enamored eyes. “Is this what you meant by ‘paying me back’? Because, Jesus, this is Cartier. I think you’ve done more than enough.” You smile wistfully and shake your head.

“Let me put it on you,” he says, and you give him the necklace so he can do so. You turn away from him, and you shiver a little at the feeling of his breaths on the back of your neck and his fingertips brushing your skin. You face him again when he’s done fastening it and throw your arms around his neck, hugging him closer to you and smiling against his dimpled cheek.

“I love you, Jaehyun. Thank you so much.”

Jaehyun’s lips curve up at your words, and he tucks his face against you, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your jaw. “I love you, Y/N.”

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rufousnmacska · 4 years ago

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Only You

A manorian arranged marriage fic from an anon request.

Thank you to @itach-i for beta reading and helping plot this out! ❤️

Previously, in Part One

PART TWO

Manon refused to look in the mirror. Giselle, a Blueblood serving as both sentinel and attendant on this trip, adjusted the drape of her dress then inserted more pins into her hair. She had successfully avoided wearing a dress at Aelin’s coronation, as well as her own. But for this event, she’d finally given in to Glennis’s appeals for formality. She told herself it was due to her grandmother’s surprisingly ruthless demands. But if a dagger were held to her throat, she might admit there was a small part of her that wanted to see Dorian’s expression at the sight of her in a dress. So, they’d packed two. While Manon had initially toyed with the idea of wearing all black to Dorian’s wedding, she knew she’d never go through with it. The black dress would be worn at tonight’s royal banquet while the more modest, light gray frock would be worn at the ceremony.

Glennis was supervising and when Giselle stepped back, they both nodded.

Manon turned away from her reflection. “You act as if the world will live or die upon my appearance tonight.”

Through a combination of luck and will, she’d managed to avoid seeing Dorian this morning when they arrived. When she was shown to her rooms, she hadn’t left them, indulging her cowardice just this once. Unfortunately, there was no way she could get out of tonight’s banquet.

“It just might,” Glennis mumbled.

Manon caught her eye and demanded, “What does that mean?” With a nod, she dismissed Giselle.

“I’ve learned Prince Fennick is here.” Glennis made no effort to hide the accusation in her voice.

“I’m surprised he was able to make the trip. I thought the seas were impassable this time of year.”

“I’ve been told he was very motivated.”

“What else have you been told?” she asked, walking around to pick up her traveling clothes that had been thrown about the room. Manon had kept the contents of Fennick’s letter a secret from Glennis, passing it off as an introduction to a possible trade alliance. On top of everything else, she didn’t want to deal with her grandmother’s nosiness. It had been easy to convince herself that he wouldn’t show up. All a mistake, she realized now, as she would have Glennis’s anger to manage along with the questions.

“He cornered Giselle and Lara earlier to ask about your attire for tonight. Among other things.”

Manon scowled in confusion, hiding her irritation that he’d approach her witches like that. “What? Why would he want to know that?”

“Why? So he can, and I am quoting him here, ‘dress accordingly.’”

“And what other things?”

“Lara said he was asking about our capitol. If there had been much rebuilding or if it was new construction. And what sort of trade we exported.”

Manon remembered how he’d framed his interest in terms of a mutually beneficial alliance between her kingdom and Doranelle. Those questions at least made sense to her. “We have nothing to hide,” she said dismissively. “Building a kingdom from ancient ruins, nothing to trade except grains and unrefined ore. I still don’t understand about the dress though,” she confessed.

“He wants to match. Apparently he’s decided to court you at the wedding of the man you love. And, apparently, you’re going to let him!” Glennis growled.

And this was why she’d not shown the letter to Glennis. A sudden rage consumed Manon and she hissed back, “Isn’t this what everyone wants? For me to move on and produce an heir for the Witch Kingdom? Why is it that when I consider doing exactly that, I’m made to feel like some sort of traitor? Dorian has accepted his future, grandmother. Shouldn’t I do the same?”

Glennis had no reply, only an immensely sad expression on her face. While she had never pushed Manon about an heir, almost everyone else on the council had, their efforts doubling upon the news that Dorian’s betrothal had left their queen alone.

Alone. She was well and truly alone now, she realized. Dorian was the only person who had known her Thirteen for their true selves. Petrah and the other witches, even Glennis, really only knew the masks her sisters had worn. Dorian had seen them at their most vulnerable, trained and fought with them, laughed with them. The sudden breaking of that connection left her breathless with pain.

And just like that, Manon’s anger disappeared. She fell into a chair and gazed out the window at the darkening sky. She could see the ocean from here, and she knew that Dorian’s rooms were only a few short flights above hers. So close. “Does anyone else know why he is here?”

“I don’t know,” Glennis said. “I believe he’s kept to his rooms for the most part. If he’s fool enough to speak about it in front of his host, then he deserves whatever happens to him.”

Manon huffed a laugh in agreement.

“I hate that this is happening,” Glennis said, her voice miserable. “I hate it!” Manon looked up to see tears in her grandmother’s eyes. “I’m sorry, dear. It’s not fair of me to add to your torment. I know you blame yourself, but you shouldn’t. His awful lords are to blame. Dorian had no choice.” After a long moment, she added, “If you want to move on with a fae prince, I won’t stop you.”

“Of course I don’t want to,” Manon said, fighting against the tears building in her own eyes. “I want to be with Dorian. I want him and no one else to father my witchling, to rule by my side. But that’s not possible. Not anymore. I waited too long to tell him that. That’s why I blame myself. I thought we’d have time, but I was wrong.” She lost the battle with her tears, letting them run down her cheeks.

Glennis rushed over to hug her, murmuring words of consolation that, while unable to change anything, still helped to soothe her. Eventually, Manon pulled away to clean her face.

For the first time in a long time, since those desperate final days of the war, Glennis looked ancient enough to match her age. It was the tears and sadness and regret. It made Manon wonder why her grandmother never spoke of her own mate. Had he been a love match? Or an arrangement that settled into a simple happiness that allowed them to become mates? If the latter, would that be enough for Manon?

With a courage and strength that she didn’t think she had, Manon stood and grasped Glennis’s hand. “Let’s go down. I want to get this over with as quickly as possible.”

***

Dorian’s nerves grew increasingly worse as more guests made their way through the receiving line. He had yet to see Manon. He hadn’t been surprised that she’d sequestered herself in her rooms all day, but that didn’t stop the disappointment from almost overwhelming him. Only Chaol’s insistence that it might cause a scene had kept him from visiting her. Now, the idea of introducing her to Eveline made him want to throw up. He knew he wasn’t making a very good impression on the guests. Luckily, Eveline was a talented conversationalist, taking some of the attention off his own shoulders.

The next person to approach gave Dorian a shock. A fae male stood before them, tall and silver-haired, handsomely dressed in black and gold. He was the spitting image of Rowan, if Rowan had long hair. At the expression on Dorian’s face, the male broke into a laugh.

“Your Majesty. Lady Frey,” he said, bowing gracefully. “I am Prince Fennick Whitethorn. Queen Sellene of Doranelle regrets not being able to attend, but she sends her dearest wishes for a long and happy union.” He then exchanged brief introductions with Chaol and Yrene, who shared in Dorian’s surprise at the resemblance.

“Thank you, your highness,” Dorian said. “We are close friends with your cousin Rowan. Sadly, he and Aelin were unable to attend.”

“Ah, that is sad. I haven’t seen him in years and had hoped to catch up.”

“How was your voyage here?” Eveline asked. “I'm relieved that you avoided the winter storms.”

“The sea travel was harrowing in spots. But nothing to prevent me from daring the journey.” At Eveline’s quizzical look, he grinned a bit sheepishly. “I grew up listening to my grandmother spin tales of fae meeting their mates at weddings. I’m afraid I’m a romantic at heart and when Sellene asked me to represent Doranelle, I could not pass up the opportunity.”

Eveline laughed. “Well, perhaps you will find them tonight. Though, I don’t think there are any other fae present.”

Not acknowledging the encroachment of a noble couple wishing he would move along, Fennick said, “Lucky for me, Lady, the fae mating bond has been known to happen with humans. I believe your king’s ancestors were such a pair, yes?” Before Dorian could reply, Fennick continued. “It is rare, but it happens. I’ve even heard tell of fae sharing mate bonds with witches.”

Maintaining a pleasant air, she said, “Ah, is that so? I’m afraid I’m rather ignorant on those matters.” With an eye to the rest of the line, she said, “Please enjoy yourself this evening.”

“Thank you,” he said with another quick bow. “I intend to.”

Dorian had stiffened, his fists clenched so tightly his skin was white at the knuckles. He gave the prince a dismissive nod, then watched as he mingled with the crowd that had formed at the entrance to the ballroom. He very clearly overheard Fennick ask someone if the Witch Queen had made her appearance yet. Yrene heard too, and Chaol had to grab her arm to keep her from going after the male.

The next guests passed by in a haze. Dorian smiled prettily and welcomed them. He could think of nothing but the arrogant fae male in search of a mate and was wondering if Fennick had been trying to goad him into some sort of confrontation. When a hand pinched his arm, he looked over to see Chaol, wearing a wild-eyed expression that screamed for him to focus.

He spun back around to find Manon standing before him.

Unable to stop himself, he just stared at her. It had been months since they’d last seen each other, let alone spoken. While Dorian had seen her in flying leathers and other basic clothes, had seen her in every state of undress, he’d never seen her wearing a dress. Until this moment, he’d thought she’d never looked more beautiful than when she’d had on one of his night shirts. How wrong he was.

The black dress hugged her body, flaring out at the hem and pooling on the floor. The low neckline would have been scandalous if not for the jewel-encrusted golden collar that wrapped around her neck and extended out to cap her shoulders. Though she did not have it on tonight, he knew the jewels matched those that blazed in the stars of crown. Her hair was twisted up, held in place by golden pins, a few silken strands hanging down around her face.

As the silence grew, and as others around them watched with eyes greedy for drama, Dorian swallowed, hoping he could remember words, any words, to get him through this moment.

But it was Eveline who spoke first. “Your Majesty, thank you for making the long journey to celebrate with us.” She curtsied to Manon, then smiled in greeting to Glennis and the witches standing behind their queen. “When I was in the stable yard earlier, I checked in on your wyverns to make sure they were comfortable. I confess I’d never seen one so close before. They are truly amazing.”

Manon dipped her head. “It is my great honor, Lady. And yes, our mounts have been well attended. I hope they were on their best behavior.”

“Oh yes,” Eveline said. “The smaller one seemed very gentle. One of the yard hands told me he loves flowers.” She gestured to the large bouquets decorating the hall. “I requested some be sent down to him.”

Almost imperceptibly, Manon’s eyes flared at the mention of Abraxos’s gentleness. As if his approval of Eveline meant something beyond his usual love of a pretty face and kind nature.

Eveline hesitated, looking between Dorian and Manon. “I hope that was acceptable. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

Manon smiled reassuringly and said, “No, you did not, Lady. I appreciate your attentiveness, and I’m sure Abraxos did too.” Turning to fully face Dorian, her eyes glittered in the light of the chandeliers. He searched her face, awestruck as always by her beauty, but now hoping to see some acknowledgment that this was as torturous for her as it was for him. With a steady voice, she said, “Congratulations, Your Majesty.”

I’m princeling to you, he wanted to say. Maybe that would break through the ice-cold mask Manon had donned. But instead, all he could manage was a pathetic, “Thank you.”

Manon waited for a moment, as if he might have more to say. But when nothing came, his mind reeling with everything he couldn’t speak aloud, she made her way towards an anxiously waiting Yrene. The healer ignored protocol and pulled Manon into a hug. Dorian watched them speak quietly together, until a strong hand squeezed his, drawing his attention away. He looked down to see Glennis smiling sadly. She’d become as much a grandmother to him as she was to Manon, and he realized suddenly that she would soon be taken out of his life too.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked. “I don’t …” But he couldn’t finish. And Glennis wouldn’t let him anyway.

She bowed, offering Eveline a kind smile as she said, “My congratulations, Lady.”

Eveline, gracious as ever, dipped her head in return and thanked Glennis for her well wishes.

And just like that, the witches were gone and there was some merchant family standing in front of him. Dorian’s senses were overloaded, and he simply ignored the next influx of guests, selfishly relying on Eveline to chat with them. He should have turned away, should have focused on his duties, but his eyes followed Manon towards the ballroom. Before she could enter, Fennick presented himself to her with another dignified bow, then extended his arm. Dorian couldn’t hear what they said as she accepted and he escorted Manon into the room. In fact, he could hear nothing at all.

Chaol appeared in front of him, mouthing something to Eveline, then pulled Dorian back down a hallway to a deserted storage closet. Dorian’s knees nearly buckled, and he fell against the wall. Covering his mouth and trusting the noise down the hall to drown it out, he let loose the scream he’d been holding in for months. Magic exploded through the room, leaving the walls and floor coated with a thick sheet of ice. The temperature dropped so low that Chaol’s lips and eyelashes frosted over. But his friend said nothing, just let him yell, let his magic overtake them until there was nothing left.

*****

Manon barely registered what was happening as she let the fae prince lead her into the ballroom. She knew he was speaking to her, but she only picked up pieces here and there, relegating the words to nonsense. Numbly, she turned back, searching for Dorian, but he was gone.

Her mind was caught on a moment ago when she’d been standing before him, drowning in the familiarity of his scent, his eyes, all of him. She was used to seeing him in formal clothing, but tonight, Dorian had outdone himself. In Adarlan red and embroidered with shimmering gold and silver wyverns, his jacket fit snugly across his broad shoulders, the back hem extending to his knees. It flattered his figure in such a way that he seemed taller, even more commanding than usual. His ebony hair had grown, curling at his ears and around his crown, a reminder of how long it had been since she’d seen him.

In a sparkling golden gown that complemented her dark hair and eyes, Eveline was lovely. As Manon had expected. What surprised her was the gratitude she felt for Eveline’s quick ability to relieve some of the tension. The truth was, if not for her, Manon and Dorian might still be standing there, entranced and speechless and desperate for each other’s presence.

“Your Majesty?” The fae was holding a chair out for her.

Manon spun around, shocked to find herself on the opposite side of the ballroom. She had no memory of getting here. Adarlan’s nobles and upper class shuffled around them, making a show of looking for their seats. But they were all watching her, some more brazenly than others. She stared back, forcing them to look away or bow their heads. With a tight smile, she thanked Fennick and sat down, her sentinels taking their positions along the wall behind her. He held out a chair for Glennis, who grumbled a thank you, then took the seat on Manon’s other side. Two couples claimed the remaining spots at their table and she could tell by their attire that they were foreign dignitaries. The older of the men introduced himself as the ambassador from Melisande and began speaking to Glennis, who looked both annoyed at the distraction and overjoyed at not having to converse with Fennick.

“I apologize,” Fennick said quietly. “This must be very difficult for you, Your Majesty.”

Manon blinked as she tried to imagine him calling her witchling. Never, came the shouted reply in her head. No one would ever call her that again. Yet another connection to a happier time that had been severed.

“I’ve lived through worse,” she said without thinking. It was true. And yet, also a lie. Losing her coven had been worse. But this was its own special misery. To lose Dorian now, after she’d begun to heal, after she’d chosen to live … this new wound cut long and deep, reopening all the old hurts from which she’d just started to recover.

Fennick was watching her carefully, no doubt unsure of how to respond. But he surprised her by saying, “Yes. They are legends in the fae lands. If not for the bravery of your witches, the world would have been destroyed. Sellene and Endymion speak highly of them. Truly, I am sorry for your loss.”

Manon attempted a smile, hoping that would be the end of it. People often didn’t know what to say when the topic of the Thirteen was broached. That Fennick said anything, let alone kind words, was a comfort. Yet she had no desire to discuss it further and add salt to her wounds.

In a cruel bit of luck, they were distracted by Dorian and Eveline entering the room. They made their way to a dais at the front of the crowd as everyone applauded. Pretending to clap, Manon tried in vain to focus on Chaol and Yrene, who’d already taken their seats at the head table. She felt Dorian’s eyes on her and for a brief instance, their gazes met. His smile was fake, she knew. But the recognition in his stare made her feel seen, known in a way that so few did.

When he saw who was next to her, his look turned almost feral. But then Eveline leaned close to say something to him and he turned away. The smile he gave his future queen appeared more genuine, enough so that its sincerity gave Manon pause. Quickly losing interest in the spectacle, she turned back to Fennick.

“You can’t have come all this way just to meet with me,” she said, holding her wine glass for a server to fill. She almost asked the man to leave the entire decanter at the table. She wasn’t one for drink, but tonight might be a perfect time to start.

“I can assure you, I did.”

“And why is that exactly?”

He laughed and leaned back in his chair. It was only then that she saw he’d actually matched his outfit to hers. She glanced back to Giselle and Lara. The witches had the good sense to look ashamed, but Manon wouldn’t punish them. Instead of anger, she was biting back a laugh. It was a decent attempt, but if Fennick thought she would be impressed by such things, he was an idiot. While she could appreciate the way Dorian dressed, it wasn’t a thing she noticed on anyone else.

“In my letter I mentioned having gone through a similar experience,” he said, gesturing to the dais with his glass before taking a sip. “I once loved a human. But it ended badly.” He didn’t volunteer more information, and though Manon was curious, she didn’t ask for more. “When Sellene got the invitation and seemed shocked by who the king had chosen to wed, I saw a possible kindred spirit in you. The more she told me about you, the more intrigued I became. Though, her description of your beauty was lacking to say the least.” With a flirtatious half smile, he added, “The fae are known for their otherworldly beauty, but I can officially say that witches,” he nodded to her, “have far surpassed my kind.”

Manon had to turn away to hide her laugh. People flirted with her all the time. But after so long with Dorian, she’d grown used to his playfulness and subtlety.

Mistaking it as shyness, Fennick went on. “You don’t believe me? Look around this room. They are here for a king’s wedding, yet all their eyes follow us.”

She considered telling him it had everything to do with the humans’ love of gossip and nothing to do with their looks, but he knew that. This was just a game, one she didn’t feel like playing no matter how entertaining it might be.

The ambassador’s assistant asked Fennick a question, thankfully taking his attention off her. Ignoring the conversation, she gazed up at the dais. Chaol and Yrene were seated to Dorian’s left and a sour looking man had appeared to Eveline’s right. She narrowed her eyes on Lord Frey. The way he held himself, looking down his nose and sneering at the guests, reminded her of the Blackbeak Matron. It made sense. They both possessed a cruel desire for power that left others at risk.

As if a light had been shone on it, she noticed that Eveline kept herself as far from her father as possible. Or was she just trying to get closer to Dorian? Manon didn’t think it was wishful thinking. The girl clearly hated her father, and justifiably so. For the first time, Manon considered that Eveline may not want this union either. She’d never blamed the girl outright, but she’d never spared any sympathy either. But even sympathy couldn’t quell her desire to be in Eveline’s place. Maybe not in front of this crowd. But by Dorian’s side? At this moment, Manon wanted nothing more. As she sank into the feeling, her favorite blue eyes found her.

A charge passed between them and it felt like the entire room had been emptied. A crazy urge almost took her, to get up and take his hand and just walk out. Leave everyone and everything behind. Others could rule their kingdoms. Clean up the mess they’d leave behind. Manon blinked and the noise and people surged back. Dorian was perched on the edge of his chair, as if he’d had the same vision of escape. But with the return to reality, that vision faded into darkness. Where she knew it belonged.

Fennick said something to her and she twisted in her chair. He was speaking animatedly to the ambassador, his assistant, and their wives, trying to pull Manon into the conversation. “We were just talking about wedding gifts. It’s difficult enough trying to get something for people who aren’t royalty. Whatever do you give a king and his queen?” he asked.

Manon held back a flinch at that description of Dorian and Eveline and glanced at the others. The women seemed to be too polite to point out the rudeness of Fennick’s topic.

Glennis wasn’t. “I would think it’s not proper to discuss such things,” she said, earning a nod of agreement from the ambassador’s wife.

Fennick laughed airily, failing to see Glennis’s nasty look. “It’s just in good fun. Doranelle is well known for our gold and metalcraft, so Sellene commissioned a music box that is embossed with the Havilliard crest. She thought it appropriate to send a gift representative of our wealth.” His face reddened, as though his queen’s arrogance was embarrassing.

The ambassador cleared his throat, ignoring his wife’s glare. “Melisande is well known for our textiles, so we gifted them an assortment of our finest silks.” As if wanting to be saved from his wife, he looked to Manon, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

She wasn’t going to reply at first. No amount of pleading from the ambassador could draw her into this. But then, despite the crone’s earlier disapproval, she saw the curiosity on Glennis’s face and found herself saying, “I’ve given them a book.”

With a contemptuous smirk, the assistant piped up and asked, “A book? Does it hold some sort of secret witch knowledge to make it suitable for a king?”

If she wasn’t still reeling from the moment she’d just shared with Dorian, Manon might have told him to go to hell. But this whole night had left her out of sorts. And besides, she would not be the cause of a scene. Glaring at the man, she said, “It’s called a memory book, the pages left blank for commemorating special events. Weddings. Births.” She waved her hand, dismissing the topic as much as the nausea that suddenly struck her.

While the men looked confused, as if an empty book were the worst gift in the world, the women smiled, agreeing it was a lovely idea. She found Fennick looking at her, his head tilted slightly, as if trying to decide between the two possibilities. Finally, he gave her a soft smile and said, “I’d not thought you the romantic type, Your Majesty. That is indeed a beautiful gift.”

Manon thanked him with a nod, sitting quietly as the others continued talking and studiously avoiding Glennis’s eyes on her. She’d had no idea what Manon had brought to give Dorian and Eveline. What would she think if Manon told her she’d left the name plate blank? She had not been able to bring herself to write Eveline’s name next to Dorian’s. A cowardly deed. Just as it had been a cowardly urge earlier to run from this night.

By the time dinner ended and the music was starting, she was silent and numb, burying herself in dark thoughts and wishing she had never come. Glennis had done her part in keeping the conversation at the table going, but once the last course was cleared, she excused herself to go speak to Yrene. When Fennick stood and offered his hand to dance, Manon just stared. He sat again, his smile fading and a concerned look in his eye. He’d tried to improve her mood during dinner but to no avail.

“Go dance, Fennick. I’m fine.”

“You’re the only one I want to dance with, Your Majesty.”

She sighed, but her mouth twitched upwards. “Just call me Manon.” She had no energy for maintaining airs.

As they sat and watched the dance floor fill, he said, “I was ready to give up my immortality for the woman I loved.” Manon turned towards him, her foul mood momentarily replaced by curiosity. “During Maeve’s reign I spent as much time as I could outside of Doranelle. I met her in Wendlyn. She was a seamstress, beautiful and kind.” He glanced at Manon, frowning. “I think I fell in love with her the instant our eyes met. There was this inexplicable connection. Fae can mate with humans, but it’s very rare. I thought that if I waited, the bond would snap into place and she would be my mate.”

Manon turned her attention back to the dancing. She hid her trembling hands under the table, remembering she had once thought the same thing about Dorian. Witches had mates, but not in the fae sense. The connection was not magical, it wasn’t something feral and uncontrollable. A witch chose her mate, their bond forged on love and respect. Nothing more. But, there was something more with Dorian. A tug towards him she’d felt when they’d met, a pull that she could never truly explain. Once, she’d almost asked Glennis if having two witch parents gave her more fae blood than most witches. But she’d talked herself out of it, eased by the thought that she and Dorian had time. And the knowledge that ultimately, it made no difference. She loved him either way.

Fennick laughed, a soft, humorless sound. “You can guess that she was not, in fact, my mate. When I spoke of giving up my immortality to be with her, she tried to talk me out of it.” Another laugh. “That raised my suspicions and I discovered she was in love with another man. A human.”

“You laugh about it,” Manon said. “How long ago was it?”

“Almost two hundred years ago. And yes, I laugh, but the pain of it still surprises me sometimes.”

She could understand that. In comparison, practically no time had passed for her, but she couldn’t imagine a future free of the pain of losing her coven. Despite his arrogance and formality, she could admit they did share some things in common.

They sat in silence again, watching the dancing. Her head was full of voices urging her to accept things, move on. Live. With a glance to the dais, where Dorian was staring at Eveline, Manon said, “I’m not a dancer. But perhaps this evening doesn’t need to have a miserable end.”

Fennick smiled, stood, and offered her his hand again.

She took it, and despite the voices she’d listened to, Manon felt like a traitor as he led her to the dance floor.

***

It had taken longer for Dorian to make himself presentable after his little explosion in the closet than it did to release his rage. Luckily, he had enough magic left to heal the burst blood vessels in his eyes. And warm Chaol, whose fingertips had taken on a purplish sheen from the cold. Neither Eveline nor Yrene said anything when they returned, and by that point, it was time for dinner.

Godsdamn this entire farce, Dorian silently yelled, plastering a grin on his face as they made their way to the dais and took their seats. He tried not to be obvious in his search for Manon, but he knew it was useless. When he saw her, his wild mind quieted, his breathing evened out. She always had that effect on him. Even in the midst of lovemaking, when it made no sense for her to do so, she somehow calmed him.

His eyes caught the site of Fennick sitting beside her and the calmness disappeared in a flash. Of course the bastard was there. Dorian had no right to be angry or jealous. He knew it. But that meant nothing when he saw the fae’s proximity to Manon. What little magic remained in his veins growled and he fought to stifle it.

Eveline leaned towards him then and said, “We could claim he was never invited and have him thrown out.”

As the dream of tossing Fennick on his ass played out in his head, Dorian couldn’t help but smile. “If you have yet to get a wedding gift for me, that would be perfect.”

Laughing, she replied, “Sadly, I already got you a gift. That is, if it arrives on time. But it’s one I think you will actually enjoy more.”

Desperate to keep his mind and eyes off Manon, he said lightly, “More than pummeling Fennick Whitethorn? I can’t imagine what it must be.”

Lord Frey sauntered over and took his seat on Eveline’s other side, effectively killing their conversation. Eveline stiffened, inching closer to Dorian. They both ignored the lord and the slight at taking his seat after the king. Chaol glared at the man and Yrene leaned forward to silently examine Dorian. He winked at her, and though she didn’t believe his playfulness, she was satisfied that he was not hurt by his magical outburst.

Eveline asked her about Josie, who was under the care of Chaol’s mother. As the two women talked, Dorian couldn’t help himself and watched Manon. She sat with her back to him, so he couldn’t see her reactions to Fennick’s ridiculous attempts at flirting. The male looked to be laying it on thick. He hoped that Manon might get offended and slap him. But instead she ducked her head away and smiled. His head told him it was fake, or an attempt to keep from laughing at the male. But his gut churned and soon, the possibility that she was enjoying it overtook any common sense he had left.

Forcing himself to look away, he couldn’t chase the thoughts from his mind. Did this fool actually think Manon could be his mate? And just like that, the notion dug itself into his brain, taking hold and refusing to let go.

“Tell me what you’re thinking right now,” Chaol demanded.

Dorian turned, eyes still narrowed, jaw clenched. He sat his wine glass down before he shattered it.

“Oh, never mind. It’s written all over your face.”

“And if that were someone flirting with Yrene? You’d just pretend it wasn’t happening?”

Chaol sighed. “No. I’d punch him in the face.”

“Thank you!” Dorian said, feeling momentarily victorious.

“Hell, I’d gladly punch Fennick on your behalf. But Manon would be livid if I robbed her of the chance,” Chaol said.

Dorian thought the sight of Manon beating the fae to a pulp was much better than his earlier vision of doing it himself. Unfortunately, his hopes looked to be dashed. “That is not livid,” he said glumly, gesturing to where she sat talking to Fennick. Nodding his thanks to the server who filled his plate, he stared at the food, not bothering to reach for a utensil. His appetite had been absent for weeks and there was no chance it would return tonight.

He looked up to find golden eyes upon him. Dorian stopped breathing, and suddenly time and space felt infinite. Or, was that her eyes? Something flickered between them and he inched forward, as if he might jump up and flee with her. Escape this nonsense and the suffocation of their crowns. As quickly as the moment had taken him, it faded, leaving him about to push himself off his chair, ready to bolt.

Clearing his throat, he settled back into his seat, his gaze back on the food before him.

“If I may, Your Majesty,” Eveline said, dipping her spoon into her stew, “it might help to act as if you’re in a play.”

He gave her an apologetic look for what she had just witnessed. “A play? Is that how you survive court?”

“It is. Sometimes I pretend that I am part of some grand production, acting out a role.” She was smiling as she spoke, but Dorian couldn’t help but feel saddened by her confession. She must have noticed so she said, “It’s quite fun. Especially when I can play into people’s preconceived notions about me. Lady Thorn thinks me an idiot. But when I feign ignorance, she is the one who must always explain her snobbish jokes and insults until they are no longer funny. She is the one left looking a fool.”

Dorian laughed, clinked her glass with his and said, “Well done. I wish I could have witnessed that.”

Eveline eyed him, “That was well done too.”

“I wasn’t acting just now. I would truly love to see Lady Thorn taken down a peg or two. The woman is abominable.”

She laughed and they continued talking, sharing opinions about the worst of the nobility, excluding Lord Frey only because he was within hearing distance. Although Dorian barely ate, the courses passed by quickly. When the quartet that had played during dinner became a larger ensemble and started playing dance music, members of the crowd looked to Dorian and Eveline. But she begged off the attempt to have them open the dance floor, and Dorian waved for the guests to begin without them. He didn’t mind. Manon had never danced before, and he would rather sit out this part of the night too.

Lord Frey, having been ignored the entire night, stood and threw his napkin on the table. Before he made his exit, he bent between his daughter and Dorian and growled, “Do not think I am blind. If you dishonor my daughter any further by staring so lewdly at the witch, I may be inclined to take back my offer of peace.”

Without looking at Lord Frey, and with a surprisingly hostile note to her voice, Eveline said, “If you renege on this agreement, father, you might very well lose the support you barely manage to cling to.”

Dorian looked back and forth between them, annoyed when Lord Frey took his leave before he could put the noble in his place. To Eveline, he asked, “Are there weaknesses in his alliance that I should know about?”

She only smiled, looking blankly out over the ballroom. “I don’t know. I just wanted him to leave.”

He watched her for a moment, unsure what to think. He’d been somewhat charmed by her earlier stories of play acting at the expense of the other members of court. Was she doing that now? Or did her father have that much of an effect on her? He truly didn’t know.

A low, collective gasp drew him from his thoughts, and he looked out over the ballroom.

Once, when he was young, he’d fallen, running up a flight of stairs in the castle. He’d landed hard, striking his chest against the edge of the next step up. The blow left him gasping for air for what felt like hours, the shock and pain of it lingering even after he could breathe again.

That’s what he felt now. But he hadn’t fallen. It was the sight of Manon being led onto the dance floor by Fennick that knocked the breath from his lungs. He searched desperately for Chaol or Yrene, but they had disappeared. Eveline was watching him with concern, murmuring in shock at the sight of her own breath in the air. He was paralyzed, watching this nightmare unfold and unable to stop it. And finally, Chaol was there, blocking his view of the dance floor.

“Do you need to leave?” his friend asked, glancing at Eveline, who seemed to be in favor of the idea.

“No,” Dorian said, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes and try to make sense of what was happening. “No. I will stay.”

After a long moment, Chaol reluctantly walked away, coming around the table to take his seat in case he needed to get Dorian out of there.

But somehow, Dorian remained calm, his face a perfect mask with a winning smile and bright eyes as he and Eveline oversaw the rest of the evening. The only sign of his inner turmoil was the arm rest of his chair, which had been reduced to a pile of splinters on the floor.

He focused on anyone and anything but her, too terrified of what he might see if she came into view. Terrified to see her laughing, learning to dance in another’s arms. But it didn’t really matter. That first sight of her, held close by that smirking son of a bitch as he helped her with the foot movements … it was seared into his brain. When he closed his eyes, it was there, his imagination threatening to go wild.

He felt a light touch on his hand. Eveline said, “She has left. It’s safe now.”

Dorian stared at her, unable to speak, to even say thank you. And she deserved to be thanked for putting up with him this night. Again, he wondered who she really was. Certainly not a fool. But he’d been one to think she was simple and docile. It didn’t make him feel better. Only worse for dragging her into this mess.

“I believe I’ll retire now,” he said flatly.

“Yes, of course,” Eveline said, standing as he pulled her chair out. “It’s been a long evening. And we have a big day tomorrow.” It was spoken with her usual lovely smile, and loud enough for some guests mingling nearby to hear. They bowed to Dorian and Eveline as they stepped off the dais and made their way out of the ballroom.

They walked to her rooms in silence, Dorian remembering all those times he’d asked Manon to dance, and Eveline likely thinking of what was to come the next day. He said goodnight and turned away before she closed her door. As he began the long climb up the stairs of his tower, his feet felt heavy, shackled with regret. When he reached the floor where Manon was staying, he stopped. The guards behind him stepped back, giving him leave to walk down this hallway instead of his own. But her sentinels were nowhere in sight, leaving Dorian to imagine where she might be. With a head full of useless wishing and his chest somehow both empty and aching, he continued to trudge up the steps to his rooms.

*****

With Glennis having already retired to her room next door, Manon bid her sentinels goodnight, leaving them outside in the hall. Fennick had insisted on walking her to her rooms, choosing a circuitous route that ensured they’d have more time together. He’d spoken of everything from stories of his travels to gossip about his extended family. She’d reacted when necessary, secretly reliving the way Dorian had looked when she’d stepped onto the dance floor.

Dorian had asked her to dance with him at the official events she attended in Rifthold. But she’d not had the training he did. And to expose herself like that in front of so many people had been too frightening. After that, Dorian never pushed, and he offered to teach her in private. But the promise of lessons had gone unfulfilled. They always seemed to find other uses for their precious time alone.

She couldn’t explain what happened tonight. Perhaps it was pity for Fennick. Or a desire to stop wallowing in her own. The instant she started walking to the dance floor, before seeing Dorian’s reaction that felt like a punch to her gut, she knew it was a mistake. But it would have drawn more eyes if she’d returned to the table. So instead, she let Fennick take her in his arms and spin her around a bit. He laughed when she stepped on his feet and tried to keep her up there for another round. On the verge of letting her iron teeth snick free, Manon had glared at him until he knew not to press her any further.

And now, after a round-about journey to her rooms, she was finally alone.

She tugged the pins from her hair and tossed them on a table. Unclasping the golden collar of her dress, she shrugged out of it and threw on a long, wool shirt. Despite the roaring fire, the room felt cold. And despite her fatigue, Manon knew she wouldn’t sleep. After staring out the doors to the balcony for a while, she caught the shine of moonlight on dark feathers. It took only a small flick of her hand to unlatch the handle. Before she could reconsider, she walked away, leaving what might happen next to fate.

Minutes later, from the other side of the room, she heard the door softly close. Her heart suddenly racing, she turned to find Dorian. He too had changed out of his formal clothes, and without the jacket, she could see he’d lost weight. They stared, taking all the time to drink each other in that they weren’t granted earlier. For as fast as her heart was beating, she heard his pounding faster. It made her love being a witch, this ability to sense the way his body reacted to her. There was never fear from him, never a look in his eyes that marked her as a monster.

She took a step towards him right as he said, “You danced with him.”

Manon flinched, the last word hitting her like a slap to the face.

Dorian’s face crumpled and he turned away, scrubbing his hands through his hair. “I just …” His voice caught, turning into a rough whisper. “I always thought I’d be the one to teach you how to dance.”

“You don’t get to be upset,” Manon said, trying to swallow her anger.

Spinning around, he yelled, all pretense of calm gone. “I don’t?! I don’t get to be angry that the one thing in my life I freely chose has been taken from me? The one thing I vowed to never do has been forced upon me?”

Manon tensed, expecting her guards to rush in at any moment. When they didn’t come, she realized he’d shielded them with his magic. Free to yell, she did it too. “You chose to take responsibility for your throne. No one forced you to do that. You could have walked away, abdicated and left this country for someone else to rule.” It was utterly ridiculous, and she didn’t mean a word of it, but it let her vent, let her throw something back in his face.

“What happened to ‘you’ve never given up on your people and you won’t now’? Or was that just another excuse to leave? Like my mortality or our kingdoms’ need for heirs? You didn’t even fight for us! You just told me to marry her and left. And now you’re dancing with someone else!”

She snarled, unwilling to hold back. “And you’re marrying someone else! What did you do to stop this? You act as if you exhausted every alternative, but you didn’t. The wedding invitations were practically written up and sent out the day after I left.”

“Because I didn’t want my friends to witness this circus!” He pointed to the cold night outside the doors. “That’s why I rushed it. To have it in winter so no one could come!”

Manon blinked, then covered her face with her hands and started to laugh. And then, Dorian was laughing. The release of screaming at each other felt good. Even if the words held some pieces of truth, they knew each other well enough to know how tiny and insignificant those pieces were. They knew that in this situation, faced with war or an unhappy future apart, there was no choice for either of them. As their laughter died down, they were left standing and staring at each other again.

Dorian took a step towards her, his face open to her as it had never been. “The moment I truly understood what my life would become, that it wouldn’t be my life at all, I was six years old. I didn’t cry or complain. I accepted it. Accepted the tutors and the training and the beatings. When I was fourteen and my mother began parading girls in front of me, persuading me to select one as a wife … I wasn’t strong enough then to stand up to my father, but I could resist her. I made a promise to myself that I would only marry for love. Nothing would keep me from it. Not my mother’s manipulations or my father’s cruelty. Not the weight of my crown. And even when I fell in love, even when my crown and his cruelty took those loves away, I held on to that vow, knowing that whatever else I gave up for Adarlan, I might at least be with someone I loved. A queen who loved me, who would erase every nightmare, help me battle every hardship. A queen who would stand beside me. That queen is you. It’s only ever been you.”

That was where Manon wished to be. Beside him, offering her strength and taking his when she needed it. Trusting him as she’d trusted no other. Saving him and letting him save her. Just as they’d always done. Dorian was everything she wanted and needed in a friend and lover.

“Seeing you with him tonight, I couldn’t stand it. I know I have no right to feel that way. You don’t belong to me. But I belong to you. No matter what happens tomorrow, I am yours, and always will be.”

Manon closed her eyes, not knowing what to say and trying to keep the tears at bay. He was right. About all of it. She’d let herself fall into that same trap these past two years. That instead of being forced to have an heir with some random ally, she might have a choice in the matter. And her choice had already been made. From that moment she’d dragged Asterin along to Rifthold, hellbent on warning his friends that Dorian had not succumbed to the valg within him.

Yes, he was right. But what did it change?

***

“It was hard for me to see you with her,” she said, her eyes boring into him, as if searching for a sign that he wasn’t as miserable as he claimed. “Laughing and talking together.”

When she started to walk away, Dorian reached for her arm, turning her to face him. Instinctively, she pushed back, taking a fistful of his shirt to hold him in place. But he kept walking, slowly forcing her backwards, closing the distance between them until she was stopped by the wall behind her. Dorian boxed her in, his hands flat on the wall, barely an inch from her shoulders, their faces almost as close. He did not touch her, knowing that if he did, all his meager control would be lost, and he’d fall to his knees and beg. Her chest rose and fell with each jagged breath, their eyes locked like magnets.

“I hated the way you looked at her,” Manon rasped. “I hated dancing with him.”

Dorian’s fingers twitched and suddenly, he had a handful of her hair. Manon’s gaze dipped to his lips and with that single look, that soft tug of hair, the wall they’d tried to hold up between them collapsed. Still grasping his shirt, she pulled him to her. When their lips touched, they both sighed, as if arriving home after a long journey.

The kiss was like a fire ignited within them. One of his hands dropped and grabbed her hip, pulling her to him. His other hand shifted and wrapped around her neck, his thumb running along her jaw. Manon groaned and took his bottom lip between her teeth. Hitching a leg up around his hip, she drew him closer. All Dorian’s senses flashed on and the only thing he was aware of was her.

Everything, he had missed everything about her. The way her hair felt like the purest silk, the way her gold eyes darkened with desire, the sounds she made when he took her in his arms. And though he was losing himself in this kiss, he knew that more than any of those things, he’d missed simply being near her, talking to her, confessing his deepest thoughts to her. Manon was the only one he could do those things with.

“I missed you witchling. So much,” he whispered roughly against her mouth. “I love you.”

He felt the ghost of a smile as she said, “I love you too, princeling.”

His whole body shuddered at the sound of that word from her lips. Hearing it, holding her, everything about this moment reinforced that feeling of calm and rightness. Of home.

They’d never said it before, substituting that word with others, or with actions. Manon had changed so much since he’d first met her, learning to open herself to new feelings and experiences without losing any of her hard edges and steel. But he’d always assumed she was afraid to say it, to give all of herself in that way. So he’d been patient, keeping the word bottled up until the right moment. That overdependence on time had kept them from declaring their love for one another. Until now.

A tear had escaped her eye and he brushed it away with his finger. Desperate for more, for all of her, he leaned down to kiss her again, but she covered his mouth with a trembling hand.

“You can’t be here,” Manon said. “I love you but …” She pushed him back this time and walked quickly away. “You are right. And I want nothing more than to be the one to fulfill that vow you once made. But you’ve sworn an oath to your people, and tomorrow, you will uphold it.”

Devastated to have their perfect moment shattered by the harshness of reality, Dorian didn’t follow her. She was only a few feet away and it felt like an ocean, the distance filled with an empty cold that left him numb to the bone.

Tomorrow he would keep his oath to Adarlan, forsaking his vow to himself.

The sight of her in the arms of another had tested him in ways he’d never imagined. What then, if one day she married the fae prince? Had a witchling with him? The thoughts cleaved his heart anew, and again, he was surprised to find anything left to break. This brief reprieve with her had restored it, only for it to fall apart. Dorian wondered when that damaged part of him would finally give way and disappear altogether. What shell would be left in its place? What kind of king would he be without a heart with which to love?

For all the evil he’d committed, even his father had felt love enough to bestow his own name upon his son, to hide Dorian’s magic from Erawan for as long as he could. A familiar doubt crept out of the shadows and into his head, crowing about how much weaker he was than his father. He knew he was acting like a fool, as overly dramatic as any fairy tale he’d grown up reading. But logic held no power against the depthless dark overtaking him.

Manon still had her back to him. Her shaky breaths were barely audible, but he felt her misery as sharply as he felt his own. Fighting every urge to go to her, comfort her, and in turn comfort himself, Dorian walked past her to the balcony door. He paused for one moment, watching her reflection in the glass. But when she didn’t look up, he unlatched the door and walked outside.

A second later, Dorian was a raven, flying into the frigid night. He didn’t go back to his rooms yet, choosing instead to soar higher for a while. The bite of the air at this altitude didn’t penetrate his thick feathers, so he let himself go up and up and up, leaving the world and thoughts of tomorrow behind.

To be continued...

***

Thanks for reading! You can find my writing master list here or on AO3.

It’s been a while since I’ve written and I’m not sure who all is still out there. So if I missed you, or you’d like to be tagged/removed for parts two and three, let me know.

@itach-i @bookishwitchling @manontrashbeak @awesomelena555 @jimetg98 @over300books

#manorian #manon blackbeak #dorian havilliard #throne of glass #yrene westfall #chaol westfall #glennis crochan #manorian fanfic #throne of glass fanfic #my writing #anon ask #only you

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organabanana · 4 years ago

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Up against the (glass) wall || Supercorp

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Supergirl (TV 2015)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: None

Relationships: Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor

Characters: Kara Danvers, Lena Luthor, Alex Danvers

Additional Tags: Lab Sex, absolute nonsense, lena luthor protocol but it's smut, alex would like a very long vacation, Oral Sex. oh rao

Summary: Frustrated by the lab's glass walls and lack of privacy, Lena decides to use her genius intellect to build something that'll allow her and Kara to have some alone time in between missions. Alex really only wanted to put her scientific skills to use in the lab, but she ends up discovering Lena's prototype is not quite as successful as it originally seemed.

Notes: this is the result of a totally serious and normal conversation with @emiltons and I feel like it’s 100% her fault tbh.

[ao3 link]

It starts with Kara arriving at the Tower after a particularly challenging mission. She could’ve flown straight home for a shower and some well-deserved rest, but she knows Lena can’t sleep while Kara is on duty, and she knows exactly what her girlfriend does when she can’t sleep. So Kara walks straight to the lab and smiles at the sight of Lena in her element, inventing what Kara has no doubt will be yet another world-saving gadget for them to use.

For a moment, Kara just watches her, grateful for the glass walls allowing her to see her girlfriend work without having to use her powers at all. There’s something soothing about the way Lena works, slow and methodical and precise even when she’s doing it just to keep her mind from drifting to Kara and the dangers she faces as Supergirl. And really, there’s no reason Lena should worry for a minute longer than strictly necessary, so Kara finally pushes the glass door open and walks into the lab.

“Hey, I’m ba—“ Lena turns around so quickly, wraps her arms around Kara so tightly, that Kara can only let out a quiet chuckle and hold on, enjoying the closeness and the scent of Lena’s hair filling up her lungs as Lena lets the tension of the last fourteen hours dissolve into the hug.

“Hey, baby,” Kara tries again, softer this time, breathed against the skin of Lena’s temple, “are you okay?”

Lena nods, lips pressing against Kara’s neck for a parting kiss before she finally pulls away from Kara’s arms to take a good look at her.

“I am now,” Lena says, eyes narrowing just so as she takes in the rips on Kara’s supersuit. Fingertips touch the torn fabric on Kara’s waist and across her left bicep, the smudges of dirt and pulverized concrete on her neck and cheek. “Are you?”

Kara grins. “Takes a bit more than a collapsing abandoned building to stop your girlfriend.”

And then Kara flexes her biceps, playfully, just because she knows Lena gets a kick out of her playing the confident jock from time to time. She definitely (she swears!) isn’t thinking about her supersuit and the small tear right over her left bicep, and she absolutely isn’t anticipating the way the fabric rips over her flexed muscle.

But.

As innocent as Kara is in all this, and she cannot possibly overstate how innocent she truly is, she’s not complaining at all when Lena tilts her head just so, green eyes fixated on the torn fabric and the bulging muscle underneath as she slowly licks her lips.

“Oh,” Lena says — breathes, really — as she arches one eyebrow, “I see.”

And then she reaches up and traces the ripped fabric once again, fingers pressing just so, like she’s testing just how fitting that Girl of Steel nickname really is.

“Who else is here?” Lena asks, voice low and darkened green eyes fixated on Kara’s, “Are we alone?”

“I, um—“ Kara struggles to make her brain cooperate and process Lena’s words when it feels like every single nerve ending in her body has been rerouted to that exact spot Lena is touching, “I think J’onn… lives here?”

Does M’gann live here also? Kara doesn’t know. Kara doesn’t care. Kara can’t quite breathe right.

“It’s pretty late,” Lena says, and her voice sounds like sun-warmed honey tastes, “I’m sure he’s asleep.”

And Kara swears she tries to think about it. About whether it’s past J’onn’s bedtime, about whether J’onn has a bedtime at all, and about whether martians even sleep in the first place. But suddenly Lena’s free hand is grabbing Kara’s and guiding it down, down, down under her skirt, and Lena’s lips are pressing a warm kiss to Kara’s jaw, and Kara suddenly realizes what’s going on.

“Oh,” she breathes out, blue eyes fluttering closed for a moment before they widen in shock at the realization of what’s going on. “Wh— here!?” Don’t get her wrong, she makes no move to stop the path of Lena’s lips towards her ear or pull her hand away from the warm soft skin of Lena’s inner thigh, but still. You know. “Lena, we can’t—“

“Can’t we?” Kara can feel Lena’s smile against her skin, and the way Lena’s teeth graze her earlobe makes her fingers inch just that little bit higher up Lena’s thigh. “Why not?”

What an excellent question. Kara tilts her head to the side to give Lena’s lips and teeth and tongue free access to her neck as she tries to find the part of her brain that knows why they can’t actually have sex in the lab.

“Because…” Kara sighs happily at a particularly well-placed kiss, “…it’s kinda rude?”

She feels Lena’s chuckle rather than hears it, and it makes a little shiver run down her spine. “It’s rude?” Kara can’t see Lena’s eyebrow, but she’s sure it’s arched so very prettily right now. How unfair. “This is my lab.”

And you know, Lena makes a good point, Kara figures, hand moving further up under Lena’s skirt. This is Lena’s side of the Lab. Her office, sort of unofficially, ever since she became an official member of the team. But still…

“You’re such a goody two shoes,” Lena teases, pressing herself a little closer against Kara.

“I mean, I’m Supergirl. It’s kind of my th— oh —“Lena’s teeth nip at Kara’s neck, completely derailing her thoughts for a moment, “—thing.”

And Kara is almost ready to give in. She’s almost ready to accept that yes, this lab counts as Lena’s home away from home so it’s perfectly fine if they want to get frisky in it. Her hand finishes its trek up Lena’s thigh and finds damp lace waiting for her, and frankly, they’re grown ups. She’s a whole super heroine. If she wants to fu—

“Formic acid!” Brainy’s voice reaches them just a second before he walks into the lab, which is lucky because it gives Kara just enough time to disentangle herself from her girlfriend at the speed of light.

Brainy stares through the glass wall separating the main lab from Lena’s smaller area. His eyes move from Lena to Kara and then back to Lena again, brow furrowed just so as he tries to figure out exactly what’s not right.

“Formic acid?” Lena prompts as she opens the door, voice entirely too level for someone who’s just been nearly caught with her girlfriend’s hand between her legs.

“Ah. Yes.” Brainy nods. “Formic acid. Nia’s neighbor has ants. It gave me an idea for the antidote we were talking about earlier. I think if we just—“

“Tomorrow. Brainy.” Kara interrupts him with a smile, hand wrapping around Lena’s wrist to pull her towards the exit. They have things to do. Private places to be.

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Lena agrees, grabbing her coat on the way out of the lab.

***

It’s been three weeks since the formic acid incident — as Kara lovingly remembers it — when she gets to the Tower after a mission once again to find her girlfriend deep in thought at her desk.

There’s nothing particularly special about it this time. It’s early afternoon, her foes were rowdy but easily manageable, and her supersuit looks impeccable. And yet, when she walks through the glass door, Lena gives her a look.

A Look.

Oh, that look.

Kara knows the look. Knows what it means. And she very nearly offers to just fly them home right away to save themselves the pain of having to stop halfway through to relocate, but you know what? It’s a bit hard to think ahead when Lena Luthor in a deep burgundy dress is walking towards you with that look on her face.

“That was a quick mission,” Lena says, shaking her head just so to make her ponytail swish in a way Kara’s pretty sure should be some kind of illegal, “those bad guys were no match for Supergirl, huh?”

Kara is blushing. She can tell. She knows because she’s having to employ all her kryptonian strength to keep herself from saying golly or aw, gee or a number of other things that would frankly ruin this whole big super heroine fantasy Lena has going on right now. And who is she to ruin her girlfriend’s fun?

“N—no,” Kara manages, voice slightly higher than normal, and she clears her throat before continuing, “I’m super strong.”

Nailed it.

“You sure are,” Lena says with an amused smile, because she’s very sweet and she loves Kara too much to laugh at her, “do you wanna show me how strong you are, Supergirl?”

Kara nods. And then she remembers where they are and shakes her head.

“We should— I can fly us home.”

“But, baby,” Lena takes one slow step right into Kara’s personal space and Kara feels her brain begin to shut down, “I want you right now.”

“It—“ Kara is trying so hard to do the right thing here, she swears, even if her hands are already on Lena’s waist and she’s already pulling Lena close and Lena smells so very good, “but the walls, Lena.”

Kara can tell Lena is trying very hard not to laugh.

“The walls?”

“Yeah,” Kara presses a quick kiss to deep red lips, just because it feels rude not to acknowledge how delicious they look, “I get what you guys were going for with the… futuristic sci-fi interior design, but all this glass is not very private, baby.”

Lena grins. And it’s not just a regular charmed grin. Not the normal one she shows when Kara says something sweet or funny and her heart gets a little fluttery in her chest (Kara’s heard it). No. This is something else. This is the smile Lena wears when they absolutely destroy everyone at game night.

Lena’s won. What exactly she’s won, Kara doesn’t know yet. But oh, Lena has absolutely won… something.

“You know, you’re right. They’re not very private at all. That’s why I made this.”

Lena shows her what looks to Kara like tiny remote and pushes the button.

Lena Luthor protocol engaging.

Kara cocks one eyebrow at Lena, who simply shrugs as a small robot flies from under her desk.

“I named it after the original one. For nostalgia’s sake.”

Kara stares in confusion as the small robot hovers nearby and points what looks like a camera at them. Except it’s not a camera. It’s… some kind of spotlight?

“What’s it doing?” Kara can see the light inside the robot, can see it pointing the ray at them, but she sees no change in the lightning of the lab.

“It’s making us invisible.”

“What? I can see you,” Kara looks down at her hands on Lena’s waist, “I can see me.”

“That’s because you’re not looking through the glass. Look there,” Lena says, pointing at a polished steel surface on the main area of the lab. There should be a reflection there… but there isn’t one.

Kara stares, blue eyes wide and lips parted in surprise. She’s seen plenty of impressive tech since becoming Supergirl — let alone what she grew up with in Krypton — but this is something else.

Of course, the fact that Lena’s body is pressed up against her own, and the fact that she developed a whole new technology just to be able to get frisky in her glass-covered lab may have something to do with it.

“What do you think?” Lena does this thing she does where she sort of arches against Kara’s body in a way that makes Kara’s brain feel like it’s sloshing about in a sea of Lena’s perfume, and then presses her lips against Kara’s jaw, and to be honest Kara isn’t thinking at all right now.

“Wh— what?” One of Kara’s hands slides down from Lena’s waist to the curve of her ass, grabbing a handful of it as Lena’s teeth oh-so-gently nip at Kara’s bottom lip. “Wh—“ Kara tries again, barely above a whisper, but frankly she’s much more interested in kissing Lena like she means it — like she deserves to be kissed — and she completely forgets she’s been asked a question in the first place.

“Kara,” Lena pulls away from the kiss, lipstick a little bit smeared, cheeks a little bit flushed, breathing a little bit stilted, “I asked you a question.”

And you know, Kara is sure that’s true. She’s, like, so sure. But Lena is taking a step back to lean right against that sleek glass wall and pulling Kara along, and Kara’s brain is powerless to process anything beyond the fact that her girlfriend is practically begging her to have her way with her up against that wall.

And that’s… well, that’s something.

“Yeah,” Kara chooses to answer, because frankly she’d say yes to anything Lena asked right now and she’s a bit busy kissing up the path of freckles on Lena’s neck to care about the actual question right now, “yeah, baby, of course.”

Normally, Lena is far from pleased when she detects even a hint of Kara trying to placate her with mindless agreement, but this must be working for her because all Kara feels under her lips is an amused giggle right as Lena’s fingers slide into blond hair.

“What do you think of the new protocol?” Lena’s voice has a touch of teasing weaved into the words, like she knows the question is ultimately irrelevant but she likes watching Kara struggle to form coherent thoughts while horny. And, you know, Kara can respect that.

“It’s so good,” the hand that’s not on Lena’s ass moves up to cover Lena’s right breast, and Kara celebrates her own incredible luck by pressing a kiss to Lena’s lips, “you’re so smart,” another kiss, this time to a smile Lena can’t quite contain, “my genius girlfriend.”

Lena’s blunt fingernails lightly scratch at Kara’s scalp, making her hum happily against Lena’s lips. “You’re just horny,” Lena teases, her tone clearly stating just how happy she is that’s the case.

“And humbled! By your genius intellect.” Kara squeezes Lena’s ass and kisses the tip of Lena’s nose, because she’s cute and Kara knows deep down there’s a little part of Lena that will always need to hear how good she is out loud. “I can do both. I’m Supergirl.”

Lena chuckles, low and soft, and rewards Kara’s thoughtfulness with a kiss. “Well, Supergirl,” she says, shooting her girlfriend a look that hits Kara right between her legs, “if you’re feeling humbled, you may as well show me how much.”

And then. Then, Lena uses her grip on Kara’s hair to gently tug down, just so, just enough to make Kara’s eyes widen with the realization of where Lena wants her. On her knees. At Lena’s feet. And frankly, Kara files this under things they absolutely need to explore further, because she swears she feels her body temperature rise by at least a couple degrees.

But she’s not about to make Lena wait. So Kara slowly sinks down to her knees, blue eyes locked with green just so Lena can see. So Lena can see Supergirl kneeling at her feet.

When her right knee touches the floor, she hears Lena’s breath catch in her throat.

“Go on,” Lena says, upper back leaning against the wall, “show me.”

Kara nods, hands wrapping around lena’s thighs and slowly sliding up, up, up, bringing Lena’s pencil skirt along with them. She can’t resist kissing every inch of soft, warm skin she uncovers, lips trailing a path up one of Lena’s inner thighs and then the other, until all she needs to do is push the bunched up skirt up over her hips and ass to reach the lacy (Kara is willing to bet) fabric of her—

“Oh,” Kara breathes out, staring at the spot where Lena’s panties should be but decidedly aren’t. And Kara, to her credit, manages to look up into green eyes and shoot her girlfriend a teasing smirk along with a fake scandalized look. “Miss Luthor.”

There’s a dusting of pink across the bridge of Lena’s nose that Kara finds frankly unfair given the circumstances. “Well, I knew the prototype would be ready by the time you came back.”

“See? Genius girlfriend,” Kara smiles as she presses a kiss to Lena’s mound, pulling a happy little sigh out of her, “so smart.”

And then Kara stops talking, because she has much more important things to do with her mouth. Things like kissing the slick skin of Lena’s inner thighs, humming in delight at the smell and taste of her girlfriend and the way Lena’s fingers fist in her hair.

Kara takes her time, lips and teeth and tongue exploring every inch of Lena’s cunt but pointedly avoiding her clit, just because she happens to think there’s no sound more beautiful than the way Lena says please.

“You look so good down there,” Lena says, breathy and flushed, “right—“ her breath catches in her throat, and Kara smiles between Lena’s thighs, “—there.”

And this is why Kara will never really mind the way Lena teases her and makes her blush and stumble over her words. Because she knows the tables turn as soon as she’s between Lena’s legs.

“Where, baby?” Kara asks, her face the perfect picture of innocence as she presses a soft kiss just shy of Lena’s clit, “Here?”

Lena’s eyes flutter closed and she leans her head back against the glass wall with a smile. “Kara.”

She’s never Supergirl when they’re like this.

“Here?” Kara’s teeth gently nip at one of Lena’s lips, and then the other, “Or here?”

“Kara, please.”

And there it is. Right there, the most beautiful sound in the world.

So Kara decides to reward Lena by finally flicking her tongue against a stiff clit before wrapping her lips around it, and she doesn’t hold it against Lena when she pulls on Kara’s hair instead of saying thanks.

All slowness and teasing forgotten, Kara puts her lips and teeth and tongue at Lena’s service, letting Lena hook one leg over Kara’s shoulder to give her better access as she uses her hold on Kara’s hair to pull her closer still.

Kara feels like she’s drunk on Lena’s taste and smell and the sound of the moans she’s struggling to stifle. She can taste just how close Lena is, she can feel it in the way her thighs quake and her breathing gets more and more stilted and her hips rock harder and faster against Kara’s tongue.

“God, Kar—“ Kara hears the sound of Lena smacking one hand over her own mouth, keeping herself as close to quiet as possible — Kara is delighted for her own superhearing that allows her to hear it all anyway — as she rides Kara’s mouth.

She’s so close. So close Kara feels the one leg holding Lena up shaking perilously as a quiet moan escapes between Lena’s fingers, and Kara is just in time to prop her up with one hand as Lena finally comes, head tilting back and hitting the glass wall with a soft thud.

And that — exactly that moment — is when Kara freezes at the sound of someone walking towards the lab.

It’s been a while since Alex has been alone in the lab. It’s been a while since she’s been in the lab at all, to be honest. And that doesn’t seem fair, right? She may not be Lena or Brainy, but she’s a scientist! She can do science things. That formic acid conundrum they were talking about the other day?

Alex could have helped.

But do they ever ask Alex for scientific input? No. All Alex is good for is apparently acrobatic crime-fighting and daring make-up choices.

And she’s ready to prove her worth. So after checking that nobody’s already in the lab, Alex walks in and starts looking around. Innocently, of course. She’d never do anything really intrusive like go into Lena’s personal area or mess with Brainy’s future toys. No, no. But she’ll look around. Check out what they’re doing. See if anything looks like it could be solved by an actual medical doctor, thank you very much.

And then — then she hears it. Some kind of… thud?

On the other side of the glass wall, cloaked by Lena’s invisibility robot, Kara braces herself with one hand on the wall as she holds Lena up with the other. And Kara may be Supergirl, but there’s something to be said about trying to be quiet while holding Lena through a frankly earth-shattering — if she may say so herself — orgasm with her face still between Lena’s thighs.

It takes skill.

And Kara is managing just fine, mind you, until Lena twitches in a way Kara wasn’t expecting, and Kara loses her hold on her for just a split second before she presses her up against the wall once again.

Alex narrows her eyes. The thud she could ignore, but she swears there’s the faintest outline of a handprint on the glass. And just when she’s about ready to chalk it all up to sleep deprivation, she hears a… squeak. The unmistakable sound of skin sliding against glass.

And now it’s not just the handprint there. There’s something round next to it. Something like—

Wait.

Is that the outline of an ass?

“Oh my God, Kara!” Alex turns around, voice climbing higher in both pitch and volume as she speaks because she doesn’t know whether she’s just seen the outline of her sister’s butt or her sister’s girlfriend’s butt but either way she’d very much like to have her memory wiped right now. Is J’onn home?

“Not this again!” She continues, somewhere between horrified and desperate. To be fair, she’s never walked into invisible wall sex before, but she has interrupted a frankly worrying amount of heavy make-out sessions for the time Kara and Lena have been together, and she’d really rather not think about what those two would have done had she remained asleep for a few minutes longer the last time she agreed to a movie night.

It’s a pattern of emotionally scarring behavior, is all she’s saying.

“And you know!” Alex turns around, eyes squeezed shut because she does not want to catch even the slightest glimpse of that assprint ever again. “You know,” she bangs on the wall for emphasis, just once, “I’m all for pride, but there is such a fucking thing as a healthy amount of shame!”

Alex stomps out of the lab, and her aggravated footsteps can still be faintly heard in the distance when Lena clears her throat. She’s blushing bright red, but her voice sounds remarkably steady for someone whose left leg is still hooked over her girlfriend’s shoulder.

“Joy,” Lena says, and the sleek virtual personal assistant on her desk whirs to life. “Protocol prototype version 1.0 partially successful,” she dictates, “consider one-way glass going forward.”

“Oh, oh! And Joy?” Kara pipes up from between Lena’s thighs, “Please order Alex a ‘we’re sorry’ pie.”

Lena simply nods. “Make it strawberry this time.”

#supercorp #supercorp fanfiction #fanfiction #supergirl #supercorp fanfic #fic

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shhhlikeme · 4 years ago

Text

“Light Work”

Hawks x Fem!Reader

-> 2.97k words 💘

The Secret’s Out!

Valentine’s Exchange Gift For Nicole💘💘💘 ( @vixenpen ) 💘💘💘 love u!

Exchange Organized by The Lovely @ayocee !!! ❣️

Prompt: Hawks Valentine’s date that ends in smut

Warnings: 18+, sexual content, fluff + smut

A/N: This is my first time writing for BNHA!!! So cool - It was fun, hope it’s sufficient:)

Song: Unthinkable by Alicia Keys

The chilled red wine cooled your warm tongue as you emptied the remains of your glass.

Licking your now red-stained lips, to get rid of the fogginess you blinked at the laptop screen in front of you.

“Baby,” you called as you poured yourself a third glass. “Can you show me the sunset again?”

Displayed on your cute laptop screen is a FaceTime call—one that you certainly could have answered on your iPhone but you needed the visual to be as big as possible tonight.

When your question reached the other side of the call, the screen that once showed you in real-time: the intensity of the Pacific ocean in spring from a birds-eye view, tilted like a rollercoaster. Then, your eyes were met with the awe-inspiring visual that is the Pacific sunset from the point of view in the centre of the ocean. It’s shot from a perfect perspective: a perspective too low for a plane to capture, yet too high for a boat to capture. It is a perspective only attainable by a certain pro hero of yours…

“Wow...” your lips moved autonomously, even before you had time to register the thought— but as are the effects of your favourite bottle of red.

Your eyes bore into the gorgeous planes of the orange and pink horizon. You unknowingly let your cheek rest on your closed fist, soaking in the rarity of this wonder. Admiring it.

“You like it, beautiful?” Called a loving voice, taking you out of your trance for a second.

“Of course.” You answered.

“I—“

“Please. Don’t give me that cheesy ‘it’s not as beautiful as you’ line that’s it’s in every lame movie,”

The soft joyous chuckle of your boyfriend’s laugh reverberated through the speakers, travelling right from his lips to your heart: effectively warming it in its entirety.

“I was actually going to say to say that I wish I could bring your tipsy ass up here.” He chuckled again. “This mission would sure be a lot more fun if your legs were wrapped around me. You know: pretending to drop you so you’d hold on tighter.... your ass in my hands...”

“Hm,” you smirked, glad that your new boyfriend didn’t plan on giving you one of the cheesy lines most guys did. “I agree.”

“Yeah?” Your boyfriend inquired, voice rising with interest. “You really are getting tipsy, aren’t you? Usually you’d kill me for even saying that,”

“Well...Under these circumstances.. maybe I wanna be nice tonight....” you weren’t aware of the sexual innuendo entering your tone when you said that either.

But your boyfriend, however-- picked up on it right away.

He bit his lip bottom. “...how nice?”

“Hmmm… Nice enough to balance out the awfulness that is: my boyfriend having to leave me in the middle of our first Valentine’s Day date?”

Hawks sighed. “Mmmmm I know. I know, baby, and I’m sorry….”

You frowned. “Why are you apologizing? It was incredible while it lasted and we were able to get through most of it without interruption, so I have to be thankful for that knowing your job. Plus, It’s not like it’s your fault—“

“But I’m apologizing anyway. I wanted to finish the date and be there with you... I wanted to see your face when you saw how I decorated my apartment for you,”

Your eyes left the passing sunset so that you could take in the over-the-top but romantic-as-all-hell way in which your man decorated his apartment for you for Valentine’s Day.

From where you laid atop the blankets on his King sized bed, you could see the shiny balloons everywhere; some on the floor moving around because the window is open and the air is blowing them slightly. You could also see the dozens of candle flames fluttering with the wind and making the room smell heavenly--you could also see the real rose petals everywhere, even underneath you on the bed, as well as the silver and red streamers on the ceilings that could not easily be reached by anyone but your Hawks. You smiled to yourself at the thought of your cooler-than-thou boyfriend sprinkling girly rose petals everywhere as your boyfriend continued speaking.

“--It’s annoying because this mission is not even anything big, either. Just scouting for Selkie while his crew is out. It’s shitty new Hero work, to be honest, but the kids are in final exams right now I guess. Either way, I’d much rather be finishing the amazing date I had planned with you. I mean at least I got to take you to that yakiniku spot, but—“

“—That food was amazing, though,”

Keigo returned your interruption—though his voice dropped, speaking slowly. “—Your dress was amazing.” 🤤 he let out a sexily breathy chuckle, not missing a beat.

Clearly, it had been something on his mind judging by how quickly that response came out.

This time, when you heard your boyfriend’s sensually connotation chuckle; warmed more than just your heart.

Acting on impulse, and maybe a little bit on alcohol, too, your hand not holding the wine glass fiddled with the end of the short but very expensive-looking dress you wore. It is a form fitting maxi and, yes, it is red.

You made sure to pick a red that perfectly matched the colour of your Pro hero’s wings. Ironically enough, it matched the colour of the wine you’ve been drinking tonight too.

Needless to say, you ruffled Hawk’s feathers in the best way when he picked you up earlier tonight. He was practically salivating and if he didn’t have reservations you two would have never made it out the house tonight. You made him behave himself until after dinner even though you wanted to pounce on him all the same. The look of your man in a tux, God damn. The wait always made it better, though.

So you two did wait. And that ‘later’ that you two unspokenly promised each other over heated glances at dinner is…. now.

However, this “now” had been tortuously ripped away from you both when your man got a Hero call just as he was simultaneously fumbling with his house keys and undoing his belt. You avoided pouting or crying about his departure by indulging in your favourite wine that your boyfriend had bought, the one chilling near the bed just for you two.

“You liked it?” You asked about your dress, your voice matching the sensual aspect of Tamaki’s.

Your man groaned through the speakers. “Your legs........your ass......” is all he answered before he fantasized over there,

You watched the screen as Hawk’s right-wing that was visible in the FaceTime: straightened. “God, babe...If I wasn’t on this mission...”

“—If you weren’t on this mission, what?” You inquired coyly, unaware of the fact that the hand of yours that was playing with the dress’s hem had now begun brushing your thigh, tingling your skin lightly. The tingling was only intensified by the breezy air that flowed through the opened windows in Hawk’s apartment. It was complemented only by the sound of the breeze that took up the speaker because the #2 hero was calmly soaring through the air.

“If....” Keigo continued, “If I wasn’t on this mission staring at this fucking ocean.... then I’d....”

Your fingers pushed your skirt up—just barely.

“You’d...?”

“I’d be staring at another ocean, one I like much more--tongue-fucking you so deeply you’d be pooling around me, babe. Just the way I like you to.”

Your breath hitched when those travelling fingers on yours pressed against the outside of your g-string: prodding lightly against the fabric that covered the ocean your man was talking about.

Upon hearing your breath hitch, the FaceTime video camera scrambled upward, your gorgeous boyfriend coming into view as he soared through the sky. Behind those transparent yellow goggles, his eyes were wide. Not because he was surprised, oh no, on the contrary: your boyfriend knew just how much you wanted him to make you scream tonight based on the way you looked at him over dinner...that wasn’t it.

His eyes widened more out of jealousy: recognizing the sound of your impending orgasm—even if very far—as accurately as he can recognize danger on a Hero mission. “Aw, you gonna play without me, baby?” He sounded smug, not sad.

“Call it getting a head start...” You answered quickly, knowing that your boyfriend’s mission shouldn’t last longer than a few hours. That just meant you’d be able to take a nap in between that would hopefully give you enough energy to keep up with your insatiable, sex-God of a man when he gets home.

“Okay, beautiful. Then start.” He answered coolly—sexily.

Your entire body responded in the feeling of increased sensitivity, irrevocably turned on by your boyfriend’s demands.

And he knew that.

You stretched so that you could set your wine glass on the bedside table, giving your man a great view of your ass in that red dress.

The same red dress that’s been living in his horny thoughts rent-free for the past two hours.

He groaned. “Do that again and I’m losing my job today,”

You smiled prettily as you returned to the laptop camera, getting comfortable by suckling on your middle & pointer finger gently.

“Shit, Y/N...I love when you’re eager baby,”

You nodded, staring at your boyfriend through the screen as he flew through the sky. You did this as you awaited instruction patiently. As always.

Hawks, who had originally been using his back camera-only in order to avoid getting distracting from enemy-watch, tried to remind himself why he did that as he struggled to keep hold of his phone.

On his end, the sight of you looking so needy and sucking on your own fingers so that they were wet when you plunged them into the heat that—just the thought makes him drool—proved too much for him.

And you haven’t even started yet.

His dick hardened just from looking at you.

“No, Hawks. Can’t.” Hawks mumbled to himself, obviously putting his phone back down and switching the camera so it wasn’t facing him again. You were met with the pretty water once encore, the waves now sparkling due to the warm sunset reflecting off of them.

“I can’t watch, love.” Hawks stated, disappointment evident in his tone. “But don’t stop. Close your eyes and lay on your back.”

Fingers still in your mouth, you listened.

“Spread those legs, baby.”

You listened.

“Hike up that dress but don’t.take.it.off. That job’s for me. You hear me?”

You nodded, even though neither of you could see each other.

Hawks, being the good hero that he is, used all of his mental strength not to peek. He had to complete this mission.

You always listened anyway.

As always.

“Pull down the straps of your dress--just the straps. So that your tits are out. Are you wearing a bra?”

You were going to move your finger to answer before your man did it for you,

“Fuck, no you’re not...” he said in a strained voice. He recalled how your perky nipples pressed against the sinful dress’s red fabric in the car because you were cold. This was before Hawks had given you his jacket that you wore the rest of the night. “God imma lose this job....” Keigo muttered to himself, shaking his head.

“Mm,” you answered around your own fingers.

“Make small circles around inner thighs, baby. Right around the prize. Use the hand that isn’t currently filling-in for my cock.”

You moaned, doing just as he says with the visual of your man’s perfect dick replacing your fingers in your mind right now. You felt your pussy throb.

Hawks inwardly cursed his job when he heard you moan, pleased with himself but subconsciously deliberating just how much shit he’d get in if he left this mission post right now...

After a few minutes, when Hawks heard your breath pick up, triggering him to get harder, he licked his dry lips and said,

“Mm, now move your thong to the side. Slide those fingers up and down your lips baby, the same way I do with my tongue. You know how.”

“Mmff,” you moaned, eyes still closed and still licking around your own fingers. You pretended you were cockwarming the #2 hero’s heavenly length.

“Good, baby. Now switch hands.”

You listened immediately—using the soaked fingers in your mouth to glide up and down your soaking pussy lips. They slid even easier than your other hand did and since—in your head—those fingers were stepping in as your man’s dick, it somehow felt even more pleasurable than your other hand.

You moaned, arching your back slightly. “O-oh,”

Against his better judgement, Keigo was unable to stop himself from looking down at his phone when you moaned like that, immediately dropping the device when the sight of you running your hand between your pussy lips with that sexy dress bunched at the waist came into vision.

“Fuck,” Hawks cursed, flying down quickly to grab his phone just before it hit the water.

He checked to make sure that him dropping it hadn’t disturbed you, and then he let out a sigh of relief when he realized he hadn’t. You were still doing as he said with your eyes closed, and obviously having a good time doing it too.

Unable to fight his desire anymore, Tamaki’s eyes darted around, scanning the horizon and the ocean for anyone within a 100-mile radius.

When he deemed the coast, quite literally—clear—he held his phone with one hand and stuffed his hand inside his pants, grabbing his overexcited dick.

“Insert one finger baby. You pick.” Keigo directed--his own finger encircling the tip of his dick. He resisted a groan that begged to be released.

“Good. Now, insert the other. No, nice and slow baby. Niceeee…. and slow,”

You did--and he copied your movements, a sense of pride washing over him that he had such a beautiful, absolutely stunning lover.

***

You listened to your man for the next ten or so minutes... trying your best to hold off your orgasm as your stomach coiled in the best way. The combination of your fingers; the sound of your man’s deep voice giving demands; the thought of his dick inside you instead; and the way that the wind entering his apartment via the open windows contrasted the heat of your wet vagina; wow…. all of it just felt too incredible.

“I’m close, baby...” you whispered hastily. “Can I touch my—“

Just as you were about to ask if you could pinch your nipples in order to throw yourself over the edge, you were erotically surprised by someone--or should you say someTHING --doing it for you.

Your eyes shot open, and then your back arched, even more, when you realized that the thing that touched you is nothing more than a red feather.

It encircled your nipple pleasurably, another coming from the window and encircled the other nipple.

Your toes curled. The feathers were the same colour as your dress.

“Ahh, Keigo!” You moaned, not even waiting for permission before you sped up the pace of your fingers. Your eyes squeezed shut on their own fruition.

There was a smirk in your boyfriend’s voice. “I assume they’re there, baby?”

“Ngh.....” you sped up the pace even more, your short fingers just barely hitting your g-spot; the g-spot that your man’s dick can always reach. You whimpered.

The feathers around your nipples whirled around your body whimsically, filling in for what your fingers were just short of in other ways:

travelling down the line that centres your breast...

tracing your neckline...

moving down to encircle your ankles...

“Oh my God, H-Hawks, yes-s, ah....!”

The soft-touch of the material’s feathers felt so good. No, they weren’t Hawks’ strong hands, and the two small entities just ghosted over your skin... barely locatable, but it is the fact that they were red and they were your MAN’s —your man who is physically cities away right now—that made this indescribably amazing for you.

He is cities away: yet he is here. This is him.

“Hawks…” you sighed, getting closer and closer,

“Y/N....” Hawks sighed back roughly: deeply.

Not that you could see but his eyes were half-lidded as he watched you get off. Seeing you be assaulted by the feathers he sent drove him absolutely mad. This had to be the sexiest things he’s ever seen from afar.

“I love you, Y/N.” Your man said softly, biting his lip and forgetting his demands because right now he needed to cum. The sight of you like this was too much to bear. Hawk’s picked up the pace of his own hand on his cock.

When the feathers returned to your nipples from your belly button, you let out a wanton scream moan, your white-hot orgasm ripping through your body as violently as the Pacific waves that were crashing underneath your boyfriend right now.

Hawks’ orgasm followed soon after, your name falling from his lips as he just-barely pulled his pants down in time so that he released in the ocean instead of in his suit pants.

You both calmed your breathing as you came back down to earth. The feathers fell next to you as if they were sleeping peacefully.

After a few moments passed and you found the strength to open your eyes, rolling over to look at your Hero. He matched your semi-satiated expression so you could guess that he had found sweet release as well just now.

Keigo knew you well enough to know that you needed a nap at this time, just as you usually did post-orgasm. Therefore, he wasn’t surprised whatsoever when you whispered in parting:

“Happy Valentine’s Day, baby. Be home soon so we can do...this... in person.”

“Of course.” Hawks answered. Then, he couldn’t resist adding a cheeky pun.

🕊

“I’ll fly there if I have to.”

#Valentine’s exchange💝#my hero academia #bnha imagines #hawks x reader #hawks x black!reader #bnha headcanons #keigo tamaki #keigo tamaki x reader #bnha scenarios #mha hawks #mha #mha headcanons

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strawbabysimp · 4 years ago

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The Maid's Dress || Sub!Levi x Reader

Genre: Smut

Categories: Sub!Levi x Fem!Dom!Reader

Warning(s): Anal Fingering, Praise, Mommy Kink, Masturbation, Blow Jobs, Pet Names

A/N: I'm not the best at intros so I had to cut it short but I hope you enjoy what followed💕

You sat down on the chair in Levi's room, playing with the small pens and paper that were found on his desk. Your boyfriend had just finished up training all while you had been waiting for him impatiently, foot tapping down against the cold floor as you read through one of your books. You heard the water fill the tub and a small splash as he submerged himself in the warmth. Now was your chance.

Trying your best not to alert the small captain to your plans you crept quietly to the door, opening it with caution so as to avoid the creaking. Along the way you grabbed the main item needed for your plans, folded nice and tidy. He better compliment you later for your skills.

The door opened cautiously, steam fogged the mirror and you were thankful he had pulled the thin curtain closed around his bathing area. Picking up your boyfriend's previous change of clothes -- a plain t-shirt with boxers -- you swapped it out with the much softer and much more risque option.

Now you wait.

A few minutes passed before you heard heard the tell-tale signs of Levi removing himself from the soapy water. Most likely too busy drying himself off to notice the garments just yet. When he did eventually notice his voice called out questioningly, "Y/N! Did you move my clothes?"

"Hmm... No, those are the right ones. I thought the others looked a bit uncomfortable." You would have laughed if you weren't already anticipating how the clothes would look on on his small frame. Smelling all nice and fresh. Thighs framed beautifully by the black fabric. You couldn't wait to wreck him.

The door made a light squeaking noise as it fell open disrupting your train of thought. "Y/N... what's all this?" The darkness of the bathroom didn't allowing for you to fully take in his appearance but the mere outline left you craving more.

You gestured for him to step forward, which he did hesitantly. It had quickly become clear that this wasn't simply a small prank but rather you planned to do some further activities with him all dolled-up like this. "What's this," he said in a cautious voice, no longer sounding as confident in his actions as before. His tone held a note of shyness that it only got when you two were together.

You allowed your gaze to travel down his body slowly, the newly introduced light adding to the sight tenfold. The way the white trimming spanned out, covering only the very top portion of his muscle-lined thighs, and the way his legs moved against each other had no right to be as erotic as it was. Your mouth watered shamefully, but you had to wait.

It was sleeveless and for that you were grateful. You loved seeing his arms flex and squirm freely while you fucked him. He looked adorable with his collarbones peeking out through the top, the size looking just the smallest bit off in a way that made him look gorgeously lewd before you had even acted on your full intentions.

"Do a little twirl for me Levi." He was taken aback by your words, clearly still trying to process the situation, his head titled cutely in contemplation. Your smile remained sweet and inviting, "I just want to see how pretty you look baby."

He spun around for you as, the hem of the dress spinning softly in the air and his face growing noticeably redder by the time he was done. "You're such a good boy for me Levi," you praised lovingly, "I think you deserve a treat." He stepped closer to you before you raised your hand to stop him, pointing to the table on the other side of the room. "I didn't say I was going to be the one giving it to you, did I?" He shook his head. "Now go bend over."

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

He turned around to look you in the eyes, hoping that the sincerity in his would grant him some sympathy, as he spoke up again. His next words made it clear that he was beginning to fall into that pleasurable headspace of his. "Yes Mommy."

~~~

"Y/N p-please," he begged as his finger continued its slow pace, dragging along his walls, just barely grazing the sweet, sensitive ball of nerves inside himself. "It's not enough!" Despite his cries he never stopped working himself open for you, trying so hard to be a good boy all while moaning shamefully a few feets away from his lover. His other hand struggled to keep the fabric up so you could watch his little display but whenever it fell slightly he made sure to hastily drag it back up over his waist. You could practically feel the burn in your own hand as you stared down at his little fingers trying their hardest to bring the boy to his climax.

"Slower," you instructed. You couldn't let him come so soon, it would ruin all the fun. His gaze met yours over his shoulder as he whined, pushing back on the two fingers slower and more precise. It was obvious how hard he was trying not to slam himself back on the digits and the knowledge of his struggles only brought you more pleasure. His soft whines growing louder and more drawn out the longer he had to maintain the teasing pace combined with the lewd sounds of his ass taking in the digits had you uncrossing and re-crossing your legs to stem off your own arousal. The sight was simply too good to just watch at this point.

You got up from your place on the chair, walking over to stand behind his vulnerable form. He still hadn't realized you were approaching, far too caught up in his own pleasure to hear your footsteps. "Would you like some help with that," you smirked at your boyfriend. He startled slightly, looking up to meet your gaze with his fingers still buried knuckles deep in his hole.

"Y-yes."

"Yes? How impolite Levi." Your voice took on a mock ridiculing tone as you watched his fingers continue to swirl around in search of some much needed release. His voice was small as he whined out, "Y-yes, p-please." You nodded along to his words as you slowly glided your hand up the plump thighs in front of you, his legs perfectly on display as he remained leaning over the table.

"Well I suppose you deserve a nice treat after all I've put you through." Those were the final words you uttered before you shoved two of your fingers in alongside his own, curling over his hand as yours were able to reach deeper into him than he was capable of on his own. He arched into your touch, shoving himself back on them thoughtlessly. Feeling so full with all four of the fingers inside of him, the slight burn only served to add to his arousal.

Levi began to pant feverishly, trying to meet your eyes from the uncomfortable angle as his walls began to tighten, threatening to hold the digits in place and you knew what was about to happen. Without further prodding you quickly pulled the two of yours intertwined fingers out, the lube dripping out obscenely as his body racked in deprived sobs.

You shushed him quietly as you peppered kisses on his lower back, "You can come soon, just turn around for Mommy okay?" His shakey nods paired with the tears running down his cheeks would have made you feel guilty if you didn't already know you both were enjoying the scene. As he shifted around you pat the table lightly signaling for him to sit on it, caging his body in in a confident display of dominance. "Up you go."

Your hands made their way to his hips, knees surrounding the sides of your head as you bent down to mouth at the ridges of muscle found there. Lightly biting and licking the purple bruises you created as your lips travelled further and further up his legs more sweet noises fell from his mouth. In spite of the pleasure he managed to hold himself up with shaky arms, head thrown to the side out of reflex.

You stared down at his arousal, leaking down onto his stomach from how painfully it ached. "Do you want me to touch you, baby?" Your voice was kind and caring, it was so easy to forget all of the cruel denial you had put him through. "Yes. Yes please. It hurts Mommy," Levi begged, lips trembling from trying to keep in his overwhelmed cries. He always fell apart so prettily.

Without further restraint you gave in and began to kiss a line straight to the tip of his cock, letting your breath fan over the collected precum and sensitive nerves found there. Fuck. He was stunning. Fighting with himself to keep his body upright all while staring down at you with such soft and begging eyes, leaving his pleasure graciously in your hands. It was truly a sight to behold.

As your mouth took in his cock head he found his strength momentarily weakening, arms that has once held him up giving out from the sensations that engulfed his tip once you began to swirl your tongue around the sensitive area.

All of this was marvelous, don't get him wrong, but he was still craving something more. The display from earlier had left a feeling of emptiness inside him and he wanted so bad to be stuffed again, his hips shifting on the table, hoping that somehow the dull friction would fire up that part of him once more. You caught on to his gestures with ease, glad that the lube still dripped out of him in a small, barely noticeable dribble. His rim puckered up slightly from all the welcomed abuse.

As you trailed your finger light along the muscle he pushed back against the tip, begging you wordlessly to grant him more of your touch. He breathed out, tension leaving his body as you slowly slid two fingers into him, curving them slightly to hear more of his delectable sounds.

"Oh shit, Y/N, that feels so good." His tears could no longer be held back as his begging began, "Mommy can I come. I've been such a good boy. Please let me come, Mommy."

You detached yourself from his member, still holding the taste of him on your lips as you made your way back up to his mouth. You gave him a quick kiss before agreeing, making sure to leave a travel of his own flavor on his lips. "You can come now baby." He whined out at your words, head falling back as you sped up up your hand movements. Adding another finger to the mess of his insides left him twitching against his own abs and you waited a mere few seconds before his nose scrunched up cutely and be spilled hands-free from your ministrations.

"Oh Levi, now you're all dirty again." Your voice was teasing as you swiped your fingers across his stomach. "Clean yourself up," there was little room for disagreement as you brought the cum-civered digits up to his mouth. Levi only nodded, still trying to recover from his long withheld release you had been kind enough to grant him. He lapped languidly at your palm and outstretched fingers, his tongue dragging it's away across your skin as his breathing began to slow.

"Good boy."

#Smut #Levi #Levi Smut #Levi x Reader #Sub!Levi #Sub Levi #Attack on Titan #AOT #Anime #Levi Ackerman #Sub!Character

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scribbles97 · 3 years ago

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Paris

From @gumnut-logic 's AU Where There Be Dragons

Specifically from THIS FIC exploring Eos' creation

Thank you for letting me play in your universe Nutty.

“Eos has promised to do no more harm. She just needs a chance.” Please, Gordon. A one-sided slow blink as the black spots danced. “I invoke Paris.”

Gordon’s eyes widened. “John, no. No, not for this. Please!”

“Worth it.” And John was falling, hands grabbing at him until he blanked out.

It was Grandma who saved John.

And Gordon who saved Eos.

Because John saved Gordon.

Paris was beautiful at night, there was no denying, John thought as he strolled the banks of the Seine with Penelope on his arm. The city was more to Scott or their father’s taste, all boutique tailors and nice places to lunch. Women that smiled prettily and batted their eyelashes until one paid attention to them.

Alongside him, Penelope was dressed to match the most elegant of ladies in the city. All tight corsets and coats that she complained pinched at her waist, and big skirts that took up more space in the carriage than John needed as a whole.

It was apparently the fashion though, and John had caught more than one so-called gentleman taking a second look at the pale pink dress she had been wearing over dinner. Even covered in her winter cape, thick, dark and heavy to protect from the cold night, he still caught others looking. He didn’t doubt the question in their eyes of what was under such a luxurious coat.

John had no such interest. The oil lamps that lined the streets blocked out the stars, their light drowned out by something artificial.

Penelope has asked for him specifically though, insisting that his brothers stay aboard Thunderbird Five nestled away deep within the English Channel. She had been unwilling to say more until they were well on their way to Paris from Calais. Apparently the other didn’t need to know until more information had been garnered.

With both Gordon still not operating at full steam, and Scott and Virgil insistent on mollycoddling, John hadn’t disagreed.

“What is on your mind?” Penelope murmured, turning slightly to look up to him, “I can hear the cogs turning from here.”

He knew his smile was tight and hardly reassuring to the lady that saw everything. To trick Penelope was fatal, and near impossible for his family. She knew them all too well, had spent enough days watching them all to know their traits and tells.

John wasn’t sure he would ever have reason to lie to her anyway.

“Gordon.” He admitted softly.

Her frown was brief but noticeable as she focussed on the path ahead, twirling her umbrella slightly as her brow dipped.

“I thought your brother was doing well?”

“He is.” John nodded, tugging at his scarf slightly against the frosty night air rolling in off the river, “As you saw, he is walking well now. The function he has regained, even at this point, is remarkable.”

“However?”

“You know my brothers, Penelope,” He smiled with a slight shake of his head, “They are not patient men. Gordon wishes to prove he is fit, that he can and should be allowed to return to duty alongside us.”

“He is not ready.”

“He is not.” John confirmed.

Her hand squeezed his arm tightly in a form of silent reassurance as she nodded ahead, “I believe this is the barge we were looking for.”

John followed her gaze, recognising the figure stood under the next lamp smoking his pipe.

“I would be inclined to agree.”

He took the step across first, holding his hand out for her as she stepped lightly from pavement to the boat. The river was still and quiet around them, much like the rest of the city hiding away from the frost bitten air of winter.

Allowing her to step ahead, he hesitated, eyeing the figure approaching the edge of the dock as he jumped more purposefully on to the coal barge.

“Parker.”

“Master John.”

“Parker.” Penelope turned back, umbrella folded as she smiled to them both, “I trust our hosts are expecting us?”

“That they are M’lady.” The older man tipped his cap to her, “Below deck h’I’m h’afraid.”

John could tell the lady wasn’t best pleased with the news, the light colour of her shoes would no doubt be ruined by the black dust left from the coal. He knew better than to expect it would put her off though. There was a goal in mind for the evening, and he doubted anything would disrupt her from it.

“Well I suppose we shan’t keep them waiting.”

Parker ducked ahead of them both, gesturing towards a hatch, hidden amongst the piles of coal, “This way M’Lady.”

John followed last, having to duck down in the low height of the hold clearly designed for people much shorter than himself.

“Good Evening, Mister Yost.” Penelope was saying, her focus aimed on the sole occupant of the room, a man tied to a chair in the centre of the space.

“Who are you?” He spat back at her, “What are we doing here?”

“I am aware that you have a hand in the designs for the tower that is to begin construction next year, yes?”

John glanced between her and Yost. Penelope knew exactly the man's part in the plans, knew what information she was there to gain.

“If you want ze plans I shall not give them to you.”

“It is not the plans I am in need of, Mister Yost, but I do not believe you are the sole architect as had been planned?”

“It was to be my masterpiece.” He uttered, eyes aflame even in the low light.

“Assist me in my queries and maybe it shall be.” Penelope offered, the young sweetness in her voice like a flame drawing in a moth.

The sneer from his face fell instantly, dropping to a slight glare before landing on something altogether more neutral. John could guess Penelope was using that smile of hers, the one that seemed to manage to get her whatever she so chose.

“What changes did the other architect make?”

He glanced towards John, the man’s eyes hardening again before looking back to Penelope, “To ze designs themselves very little. It was ze alloy zat he changed, a new material, one I had not heard of before.”

“Why?”

John missed the response, something above him scuttering along the tops of the boards. A glance towards Parker told him the older man had heard it too.

Being closer to the hatch, John turned slightly, stepping up onto the first step as he listened again.

The footsteps were meant to be quiet, he could hear how they were slow and cautious in their movement. Against the wooden deck of the barge, sneaking was impossible.

“We have company.” He murmured, glancing back into the hold.

Penelope’s tutt was loud in the small space as she turned to face him, “Might yourself and Parker deal with our visitors, I shall finish off here with Mister Yost.”

“Quite.” John smiled, “Try not to be too long.”

She almost laughed at his request as she turned back to Yost, and John focussed on making it above deck unnoticed.

Movement immediately caught his eye as he rose from the dusty hold, drawing his attention towards the port side.

A flash of blond in the lamp light was enough to have him straightening in fear as a figure in black wrestled with the shorter person. One set of feet against the deck were much heavier than the other, a whir of hydraulics accompanying each movement.

Parker alongside him hesitated, “H’is that…?”

“Gordon.” John confirmed under his breath, “I’ll kill him myself.”

“Not if we do first.”

Both spun at the voice, accent familiar english.

Parker was first to move, taking on the other Brit with a well trained hand. John knew he was more than capable, but the man was older, getting slower as life moved on by his own admission. It wasn’t something a Tracy did, to run in the opposite direction of those that may need help.

A cry of pain from across the boat reminded him that his brother was the one more likely to need such help.

He was off without further thought, not caring for how the coal may muck up the crisp lines of his evening suit. His shoes were slippy against the deck, made for walking along cobbled roads and not climbing across boats mounded high with wares.

Stumbling around the hatch they had emerged from, the glint of metal caught his eye.

“Gun!” He yelled, hoping his brother took heed as he raced for the assailant.

Gordon spun too fast, the hiss of his legs not keeping up, his balance off still as he adapted to the new legs. It may have been months, but learning to walk was a slow process, one the swimmer was yet to remaster.

The line of his fall flashed before John’s eyes as he tracked the squeeze of a finger on the trigger. The timing had to be right, he had to save his brother.

“No!” He screamed at the final possible moment, grabbing for the gun as he slammed into the man. Kicking hard, he buckled before him, giving John the desperate moment he needed to claim the gun.

A single solid thwack to the back of the head was enough to still the man that had been attacking Gordon.

“John!”

He would always react to the call of his name from a brother, though it was rare for such a call to set his heart racing. The fear and desperation so plain and clear.

In the rush he hadn’t heard the splash that he knew must have happened. He hadn’t had time to do anything other than allow it to, even if Gordon had yet to relearn to swim as he once had.

John had only hoped he had the upper body strength to keep himself above the water for long enough.

“Reach Gordon.” He encouraged, throwing himself half over the side, stretching as far as he could. Even from a distance he could feel the icy coolness of the river against his face, his brother would freeze if he didn’t get out in a moment.

“‘Ere!” Parker called, throwing a rope down into the water before John could look around, “Grab on Master Gordon.”

His brother did as the older man bade, grabbing on with hands the shook from equal parts cold and fear. Together, John and Parker heaved, pulling the swimmer from the water and to the damp boards of the barge.

John didn’t dare look, anger burning hot in his chest as he dropped the rope and looked straight to Parker.

“Get a carriage and get him out of here.” He spat, “Penelope and I shall finish here.”

“H’of course, Master John.”

He didn’t look back as he headed for the hold.

***

Penny had been the one to catch the blood staining his hair a darker shade of red. One look at him in the hold and she had been pulling the scarf from his neck to tend to the wound.

“We have what we need.” She had uttered to him, “Where has Parker gotten to?”

“I sent him to the hotel.” John murmured, wary of listening ears as Yost looked between them, “There was a complication.”

“Then we shall follow on.” She nodded matter-of-factly, “Mister Yost is of no more use to us.”

In the moment, John didn’t overly care for what Yost had or hadn’t told her. There were too many other aspects to consider. Scott and Virgil were going to give him so much grief for not only his wound but for Gordon sneaking along.

“You are fortunate,” Penelope whispered once they were in the cab, she hadn’t stopped fussing with his hair since they had set off, “”Tis a minor scrape, less than an inch and it would have been your head.”

He couldn’t help but scoff with a shake of his head, wincing as the world in front of him spun with the movement.

“You can blame Gordon.” He uttered back to her, “Dear brother followed us.”

Her silence had him worried, it wasn’t like Penelope to not have a response quick off of her tongue.

His head was starting to throb though and he really did not have the energy to look to her.

“Scott is going to kill me.”

Her gloved hand was warm over his, “He shan’t. We will deal with this and your brother need never know.”

Opening his eyes just enough to look down to her, John found himself smiling slightly. When it came to the Lady, he knew he had her word.

***

He awoke to the sun shining through the light lace curtains of the windows, it’s low light in the winter sky an indication that he had slept in far later than anticipated. His head still ached as it had the night before, the gash at his scalp pulling as he screwed his eyes shut again.

The bed was warm but the air around him cold. There was another reason for him to hate Paris, for him to dislike anywhere that wasn’t his ship.

The quiet hiss and pop of a fire assured him that the room would heat up soon, even if he wasn’t quite ready to venture from the warmth of the bed.

“Master John,” Parker’s voice was soft despite the harshness of his accent, “H’it is time you were h’awake.”

Sighing he hummed softly in some sort of response. The ride back would be hell if his head continued as it was.

“Her Ladyship has made arrangements for us to remain in the city for another day.” Parked continued, “She thought you might want to recover a little more before making the return journey.”

If he had been so inclined he would have kissed the woman.

“H’excuses ‘ave been sent to your brothers. Her Ladyship shall fill you in over breakfast.”

Shifting, he sat up in the bed, resisting the want to probe around in his hairline to asses the wound on his head.

“Might h’I recommend a wash before you make h’an appearance, Master John?”

Grimacing, he looked to Parker, “That bad?”

The butler tilted his head slightly, a smile hiding somewhere behind his eyes.

“How is Gordon?”

“‘E’s well. Though regretful of your injury.”

John frowned, they hadn’t run into his brother on their return to the hotel the previous night. Parker had done enough to assure John that his brother would at least live for the time being. It had been John’s aching head that had forced him to retire early, despite the conversations he knew he needed to have.

“Master Gordon ‘eard your return with ‘er Ladyship and caught a glimpse of you before you retired.”

That made more sense.

Reaching for his shirt he swung his legs out from the bed, “Send him through please.”

“Of course.” The butler nodded, stepping backwards towards the door, “Though, master John?”

“Yes?”

“H’if I might say, h’I wouldn’ be too harsh on Master Gordon. There was no intention for ‘im to get you hurt. H’and I do believe ‘e was only lookin’ out for ‘er Ladyship.”

As much as John wished to deny it, he knew the older man had a point.

“Tell Penelope we will join her for breakfast in good time.”

“Of course, Master John.”

He dressed quickly, determined to keep out the chill of the room and have himself composed before Gordon turned up.

His family had always said his anger had burned as red and as hot as his hair.

It seemed ironic, he thought to himself as he warmed his hands by the fire, that red hair determined a hot temper when fire so often burned the yellow of Gordon’s hair. Everyone knew his younger brother wore his emotions on his sleeve, that you simply had to look in his eyes to know exactly what his feelings were on any matter.

“You asked for me.”

John looked up from the flames as his brother slipped into the room, layered up in clothes that didn’t quite fit him.

“Are you well?”

He looked okay, though John knew that looks could be deceiving.

“Bruised and sore,” Gordon admitted softly, still hovering by the door, “I spent the night by the fire, Parker ensured I was warmed through. I shan’t catch a chill.”

John nodded to his own fire, “You will do well to stay warm today brother, I do not know what I should tell Scott if you were to catch a chill. Where does he think you are?”

“Thinks I went up the coast to Dunkirk to meet some old Navy friends. I would rather we kept him believing as such.”

The swimmer had the decency to look guilty as he approached, sinking down in the armchair John directed him to.

“Fortunately that is possible as you did not take a bullet last night.” John uttered, voice low and dangerous, “Was there any thought as to the implications of your actions, Gordon? Do you not think we have already lost enough of you without the risk of losing more?”

He stayed quiet, not even fighting back as John knew his brother should have done. His anger was burning hotter than the fire though, heating his gut from the inside out as he glared at his younger brother.

“I am not Virgil, Gordon. I had no way to save you like he did. I do not even know if he could have saved you from that. Having your life saved once does not make you invincible brother, it would do you well to remember that!”

“I did not anticipate the situation.” Gordon uttered, not looking up from where he was wringing his hands together, “I did not expect for someone to attack me, John. I did not--”

He caught himself, looking away as his mouth twisted.

John frowned down at him, ignoring the pain in his head. He knew his brother, knew that it was so very unlike him to leave anything unsaid.

“What?” He prompted.

Gordon looked down as he shook his head, “Tis nothing.”

The voice was too soft and young, so unlike his brother.

“Gordon?” He stepped closer, shifting to crouch, “Brother, something is bothering you and I can see it. I may not be Scott or Virgil, but you know you can still talk to me.”

Amber eyes were wet as they looked to him, the sharp intake of breath a telltale sign that something was most definitely wrong.

“What am I, John?”

There were many questions John had heard in his life, he prided himself on having the answers to all that he could.

Except, he didn’t understand Gordon’s.

And there was no answer for a question he did not understand.

Shaking his head he reached out to the arm of the chair, “I--”

Gordon reached to the leg of his breeches, tugging just enough to pull up the hem and reveal the metal beneath.

“What has Virgil done to me?”

John shook his head, wincing at the pain briefly before refocusing on his brother, “Virgil saved you.”

Desperate hands grasped at John’s, amber eyes pleading as they reflected the firelight.

“Yes, and for that I am forever grateful. Is this not also a curse though? None of you shall ever allow me near a rescue again, I am not capable, last night was simple proof of that. I cannot even swim, something I have spent my whole life doing!”

The energy was all Gordon, burning as hot and as bright as the fire behind John. It burned his heart to hear the words, singed him to even think that his brother had all these feelings.

“I cannot do anything that my life has revolved around and with all that I am a monster. I must hide in the shadows for fear of either ridicule or theft. You and I know this world John, we saw what people will do last night, nobody shall ever know the truth outside of our family and that--”

A fist tightened as he pulled away, jaw clenching tight as he tried to blink away the dampness in his eyes.

“Virgil saved me, but now I do not believe I shall have a life.”

Long, cold fingers grasped at his brothers, pieces of the previous night falling into place all at once.

“Gordon,” He choked, “Tell me you did not ignore me last night. When you were in the river? Tell me you intended on getting out?”

His brother looked to his legs again, “The last days were the first I have seen Penelope since…”

John didn’t need him to gesture to the false legs before he continued.

“And until last night she had barely said more than two words to me.” A tired scoff as he shook his head, “I am well aware of the jokes you all make at my expense, because you all know how I feel for the woman. When she came for you though, whisked you away in her carriage without even a thought of me. What was I left to think, John?”

He could only bow his head in response, the thoughts of his brother irrational but so understandable all at once.

“My dear brother,” He whispered, squeezing the hands in his tightly, “Penelope, she--”

“I know.” It was whispered back as Gordon slouched in the seat, tears fresh on his cheeks as he sunk into the cushions, “Parker set me straight last night. It was about when he threw me the rope that I realised how wrong I was.”

“I love Penelope dearly,” John murmured, “As a friend, Gordon. She does not see you as anything other than the man you always have been. Penelope is a woman so very above material things despite her expensive taste.”

The comment had the desired effect as Gordon laughed, eyes brightening just slightly with the sound.

“And do you really think I would allow her to court me aboard a coal barge?” John continued, allowing his own smile to spread, “Of all the places in Paris?”

Gordon laughed softly again, nodding slightly in admission, “I’ve been out of sorts. I am sorry.”

John sighed, watching him carefully and knowing all too well what it felt like to be so very alone in a room full of people.

“You will save people again my brother, do not doubt that. You are still healing though, your injuries still fresh and raw to us all. We are your brothers and we shall always fear for your safety. There is no denying though that we cannot keep you from that life, and if you have started to believe that we would then I can only apologise.”

The wetness in his brothers eyes was gathering again, brightening the reflection of the fire as he focussed on John.

“Have we not proved so many times,” John continued, “That there is always a way my brother, whatever you need we shall do all in our power to make you well and make you happy. If that means to be on rescues we shall work towards that, or if it means courting Penelope then we will find a way.”

Taking a breath, John thinned his lips, “You are not the only one in our family to believe that you are so very alone. I promise you though Gordon, there is always someone when you need them.”

He didn’t expect the soft snort as a response, “Parker said the same thing.”

“Parker is a wise man.” John smiled softly, “It would do for you to listen to him once in a while.”

Nodding, Gordon sniffed, “I am truly sorry John, I almost got you killed.”

Shifting to stand, John winced, the shift in height exacerbating the ache in his skull.

“Damn,” Gordon cussed softly, “Sit down before you collapse.”

He waved him off, “I am fine, just don’t tell Scott.” Softening he smiled as he rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder, “It is worth it for saving a brother's life.”

“In more ways than one.” Gordon murmured, “I owe you.”

John didn’t disagree as he glanced towards the fire, flames dying down quietly as the wood settled into place.

“Do not forget it, brother.”

#Thunderbirds Are Go #Thunderbirds 2015 #Thunderbirds AU #Steampunk AU #Where There Be Dragons AU #Nutty Writes #Scribbles writes #John Tracy #Lady Penelope #Gordon Tracy #Parker

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jentrevellan · 4 years ago

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I'm so happy to finally share my fic for @dasmutquisition! I had so much fun with this one, it's unreal. I hope you enjoyed @sumiIong

Rating: Explicit

Category: F/M

Fandoms: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins

Relationship: Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age)

Characters: Alistair (Dragon Age), Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Teagan Guerrin

Additional Tags: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Banter, Cuddling & Snuggling, Happy Ending, Making Love, trapped together (sort of), strong woman, anxious Alistair, generic Cousland, King Alistair and Queen Cousland, newlyweds, Morning Sex, D in the V, Porn With Plot, Dorks in Love

Language: English

Collections: Nobody Expects the Dragon Age Smutquisition

Summary: Alistair and the Warden spend the first night not only as husband and wife but as King and Queen.

Notes: Thank you @curiousthimble for being my beta!

Read on Ao3

Doin' the Fondue

The great hall in Denerim Castle was loud and filled to the rafters with people. Nobles, elves, dwarves and peasants alike were squeezed in, all clamouring to see the newly married couple. Up on the dais, overlooking the crowd that was slowly getting rowdier and rowdier with the ale and wine that continued to flow, Alistair - now King Alistair Theirin of Ferelden - slouched in his throne and took a gulp of wine.

He was terrified.

Oh, the ceremony had been a delight, and he had adored proclaiming his love in front of the Maker and the witnesses in the Chantry. But as soon as he had stepped into the hall for their wedding feast, his gut started churning. Because he knew what must come next after the merriment had ended.

He glanced at his wife beside him. His wife! Despite his anxiety, he couldn’t help but grin like a fool at the thought of his Grey Warden companion, Lady Cousland, now being his wife. It didn’t seem wholly real. Indeed, most of his life the past year hadn’t seemed real. So much had changed, and now he was married.

Alistair took another sip of wine from his goblet and his new wife glanced at him, a small frown on her brow. She already knows me so well, he thought. No one else would be able to tell that anything was amiss, but she had always seen straight through him and knew when even the smallest thing was bothering him. One of the many traits he loved about her. Although it did mean that it was impossible to keep any sort of secret from her. Even the good kind of secrets.

As he picked at his food, his new wife and Queen accepted many gracious gifts from guests. All curtsied or bowed and she was most eloquent in her response. Truly, she was more prepared for this life as a monarch than him. Her noble upbringing was a far cry from how he was raised. But wherever his trepidation lay about ruling, he knew that with this woman beside him as his Queen, that he could do anything.

She laughed heartily at a joke Teagan was telling her, and he watched as she wiped away a tear. Alistair glowered at his uncle and reached out for his wife’s hand. She turned to him, a wide smile on her face, her cheeks flushed and her lips rosy from the wine.

“Everything alright?” she asked.

He nodded his head to Teagan. “Just wondering what was so funny…?”

She blushed prettily, and a jealous hand gripped his gut. He would not easily forget his uncle’s flirtations when he had first met them in Redcliffe, and ever since, a fit of strange jealousy and need to claim her as he always came about when he was in the presence of both her and Tegan.

Waving a jewelled hand, she shook her head. “It was nothing. Rather crude, actually, so I told him off for lowering the tone of our conversation at our wedding feast,” she replied, taking a sip of wine. “Now what’s the matter with you?”

“Me?” he repeated. “Nothing. Nothing is the matter with me at all. Absolutely nought.”

“Alistair,” she said seriously, leaning in close. Her tone made him want to listen, but her golden gown with its tight bodice had pressed her breasts pleasantly together and were well within his eye line that he couldn’t help but glance down. A treacherous blaze of desire coursed through him, and with her puckered lips, her brow furrowed in concern, he wanted nothing more than to crush her to him and -

A chill went through him. He wanted her, oh yes, most desperately, but Tegan caught his eye and winked, and a shudder of repulsion went through him as he turned his head to see half of the court watching their interaction. He pulled away from his wife abruptly and reached for his goblet of wine, again and took a huge mouthful.

Ever the gracious lady, his wife smiled faintly and pretended that nothing had happened. But the look she quietly gave him as he peered at her over the rim of his goblet made his gut clench with guilt. There was a flash of hurt in her eyes, and he felt rotten about being the cause.

The dinner continued and as the servants were generous with topping up his wine, Alistair kept emptying his goblet. His wife, on the other hand, declined and stuck to watery lemonade and with dread, he realised that she was not drinking the same as him because it was expected that she needed to stay sober to conceive.

It was like a weight was pressing down on his chest, and he struggled to breathe, and it was getting worse as the evening wore on. Soon he stopped eating and drinking and just watched everybody that approached the dais to offer their congratulations or present gifts to the newlyweds. One item that was given to the new Queen was a selection of herbs which, as the kindly elderly noble had explained “would help the womb quicken”. Alistair had almost retched at her words, and instead began a small coughing fit, which required his wife to smack him firmly on the back a few times harder than she would’ve done normally.

At one point, a small child approached, dressed in a simple cotton tunic, as white as a cloud. Her hair was braided down her back and entwined with flowers. She stood before the queen who rose from her throne and leant over the table to adjust a flower in the girl’s hair. Alistair watched as his wife’s face lit up with warmth as she listened and spoke to the child. He wanted to give that to her. But… but…

“Let us bed them!” Tegan suddenly announced, and there was a scramble as the court got to their feet hurriedly, to be one of the select few to follow them to their chambers. The women reached the queen and she shot Alistair one swift look of alarm before resigning herself to their insistent tugs as they all but pushed her out of the room. Alistair followed with a group of noblemen, including his uncle.

“I bet you’re looking forward to this, m'boy,” Tegan grinned, falling into step beside Alistair, as they made their way through the halls of the castle.

“I don't know what you mean,” he replied flatly, his face feeling warm not just from the wine.

Tegan clapped him on the back. “You are one lucky man, my boy,” he said with a sigh, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ve never seen you so quiet in all the time I’ve known you. Your mind has been elsewhere this evening - and I’m not the only one to notice.”

Dread tugged at him as he climbed the stairs. “Yes, you’re right and I’m sorry, but-”

“Sorry!” Tegan repeated with a snort. “You’ve no need to be sorry. Most men are as quiet as a mouse in anticipation of their wedding night. And one can’t certainly blame you: your wife is simply lovely.”

“Yes, thank you, Tegan,” Alistair ground out, shrugging his shoulder lose of his grip. But rather than be offended, the man laughed and Alistair clenched his fists. Never before had he been so tempted to knock his uncle around the head.

They arrived at his chamber door and inside more nobles awaited eagerly. The king’s bed had been arranged neatly, but there was no expectation for him to sleep there tonight. Instead, he eyed the connecting door where he knew his wife would be waiting for him, surrounded by the noblewomen.

“Are you going to leave?” he asked, looking around the room, but the men just laughed, and chatted, some making obscene gestures. He grimaced, hating the sheer manliness in the room. His manservant came forward to help him undress from his finery and removed his crown. Once he had been disrobed save for his smalls, he threw on his white cotton nightshirt and ran his hands through his hair, wiping the sweat from his brow.

There was a faint knock at the connecting door, and one of the servants hurried forward and exchanged whispers with the servant on the other side. Alistair paced anxiously and took a very keen interest in a loose thread on the sleeve of his shirt. The men around him were talking about absolute filth, and he squeezed his eye tight shut, in the vain hope that his ears would squeeze shut too.

Finally, the connecting door swung open and the servant stood aside. Alistair was rooted to the spot, fear coursing through him. Are these people… going to watch ? He thought with horror.

He was quite content with where he was until Tegan elbowed him in the ribs. “Nervous?” he said with a wink.

“Yes. No! I mean, no !” he said hurriedly, his face burning.

“There’s nothing to be scared about. She’s going to be a wonderful wife to you in so many ways…”

“Shut up,” Alistair groaned, rubbing his hand down his face. Honestly, he was this close to hurling Tegan out the window.

But before he could entertain that thought further, the men in his room were pressing him through the door and - oh Maker no - were also following him. He entered the queen's bed-chamber to find a gaggle of ladies with rosy cheeks flutter their lashes and lick their lips seductively at the men. But Alistair was anything but aroused when he finally turned to the large, four-poster bed, to see his wife and queen.

She was a perfect painting of innocence and virginity in crisp white sheets with a matching white nightdress. Her hair had been unbound and combed neatly and she sat as still as a statue, her back and posture absolutely perfect for a queen. The covers were pulled up to her lap, and her hands rested delicately entwined: her sparkling wedding ring the only jewellery that remained.

He refused to meet her eyes as he slowly walked around to the other side of the bed. He pulled the covers down amidst the chatting of the court and when he finally sat beside her, a good arms-length away from her, the court finally - finally - turned to leave. Several clapped, the women exchanged knowing looks with the queen, who smiled politely in return, and the men, now incredibly drunk, ambled from the room, wishing Alastair luck and reminding him of how lucky he was.

Finally, blessedly, the last person left the room and closed the door with a gentle click .

☆☆☆☆☆

To the new queen’s dismay, the first thing her new husband did as soon as the door had shut, was leap out of the bed as if he had been scalded. She frowned as he strode towards the door, and for an awful moment, she thought he was going to leave. But no: he reached to a small side table and found a key and locked the big oak door to her chambers, followed by locking the conjoining door from the king’s bedroom.

Still not saying anything, Alistar strode around the room, pulling open curtains and wardrobes, trunks and cabinets.

“What in the world are you doing?” she finally asked, her patience running thin. The man had barely spoken to her since their vows in the Chantry in the morning, and now he was examining every nook and cranny of her chambers?

He paused by her bookshelf and flicked her a glance over his shoulder. “Checking,” he replied, before shifting a few books.

“Whatever for?”

He sighed in exasperation. “To make sure that we are alone! Andraste’s arse, I thought they were going to stay at one point and watch to make sure we… we… erm…” he coughed and busied himself by peering under a chaise lounge.

She got out of bed and dropped to her hands and knees and looked under the bed. Thankfully, there was no one there, but she had to admit that the same fear had crossed her mind. Even though she knew that wasn’t the common practice, sometimes nobility did take things a bit too literally…

“We’re safe,” she sighed, placing her hands on her hips.”There’s no spy, no peephole, no nothing but us.”

Alistair finally stopped his fidgeting and turned to her from across the room. For the first time in a long time, they were utterly alone. Normally, they would’ve fallen into each other’s arms by now, but something was stopping her, and she could tell that something was also stopping him. They stood on opposite sides of her room, the bed imposing and glaring at them, whilst the distance between them felt as vast a chasm. And that was something neither of them had experienced before.

“Everything is different now, isn’t it?” she said quietly, looking down at her hands clasped before her.

Alistair also seemed to be studying his fingernails. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

She played with the hem of her pure white night-dress and frowned. Conversation with her now-husband had never been this stilted. So she switched tactic to one he would hopefully relax with: humour.

“You know, for a good ten minutes, I honestly thought they were all going to stay and watch,” she said with a wry smile. She knew they wouldn't - being brought up as a noble lady had earnt her some education in these things - but Alistair needed not to know that. For it worked:

“Maker! You did too?” he exclaimed, letting out a bark of laughter. “I didn’t think they would, but I began to doubt myself.”

She took a step towards him. “Hence your paranoia about spies?”

He nodded. “Yes, hence the… paranoia ,” he rolled his eyes at her choice of words, but there was a smirk on his lips, which made her heart soar.

The man she knew was peeking through, so she took another step closer. “It’s an archaic tradition anyway,” she said. “I know for a fact that they do not practice it in Orlais.”

Alistair snorted. “Perhaps the only redeeming factor of the Orlesians.”

“Hmm, that and the cheese,” she smiled and finally, finally , her new husband met her eyes.

They both burst into laughter and she saw his shoulders sag. She bit her lip and placed a hand on his cheek. “We don’t have to do anything if you don't want to,” she said earnestly.

His face reddened. “But I do! I do want to! With you, that is! I just… it’s just…” he trailed off, squeezing his eyes shut as he sought out the right words.

“The pressure of it all?” she supplied.

“Yes!” he gasped, relieved. “To know that we cannot come together unless it’s for a purpose. That purpose,” he mumbled, pointing to her stomach.

He was going inside himself again, so she took his hands in hers and gave a gentle squeeze. “Think of it this way… it’s for the good of the country that you fuck me senseless any time of day and night.”

Alistair spluttered at her bluntness but she just laughed as she slipped her hands from his and moved past him. There was a small table laden with food - to help keep up their energy for their excursions, no doubt - so she helped herself to a goblet of wine and poured one for her new husband. “You’re probably one of the only men in the world who can use that excuse,” she smiled, popping a grape in her mouth.

“You…” he grinned, walking over and taking the other goblet from her hand. “You are a minx.”

She pretended to be shocked. “You’ve only just realised? And here I thought you only married me because you knew I was.”

He put an arm around her shoulder and pulled him to her, kissing the top of her head. “One of many, many many reasons,” he replied.

They stood content in silence, their thoughts elsewhere when she finally spoke again. “I meant what I said. We don’t have to do anything we’re expected to do tonight.”

He gulped but nodded. “I… I know. And I appreciate that, but please don’t think it’s because I don’t want... need you,” he said quietly, his grip on her tightening.

“It’s not like we’ve not done it before,” she said, taking another sip of wine. “Even if this gown pretends to be evidence to the contrary.”

“Yes, and we have done it, many, many times…”

“And we will many more,” she confirmed, popping another grape in her mouth, the sweetness washing over her tongue. She turned to him: “but not tonight.”

“Thank the Maker I married you,” he murmured, downing the rest of his wine.

“But I do have a wicked idea…”

He glanced at her, eyebrows raised.

“We should take all of this food and eat it… in bed.”

He laughed, so genuine and delightful that her gut warmed pleasantly. Suddenly, in one swift motion, he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, his other hand grabbing the cheese board and marched over to the bed. He threw her down, and she tried to not be too aroused by the action, but her pert nipples through her night-dress gave her away. Determined to make sure Alistair was as happy as could be, she reached forward and pulled him onto the bed and instead of kissing him, grabbed a handful of cheese and squashed it into his mouth.

The King of Ferelden snorted with laughter as he tried to eat the cheese, before doing the same back at his new queen. He pecked her on the nose and rose to collect more food and wine, and soon they were sitting leaning against the headboard, a delectable spread of food between them. And they gorged.

☆☆☆☆☆

The sun peered through the lattice windows of the queen’s chamber. The light was white and bright and brought Alistair blinking out of his deep slumber, momentarily confused at his location. He looked up at the canopy above him and duly noted the olive green drapes of the Queen’s bed. He’d never slept in here and was momentarily disoriented until he remembered the day before.

In his arms, still and sound asleep, was his wife. Her hair was splayed on the pillow and tickled his nose. He couldn’t see her face, but today it felt more real: this woman who had become his friend and companion, lover and hero of Ferelden, was now his wife… his queen . He gently propped himself onto his elbow, so as not to wake her, and gazed down at her face, noting the way the sunlight accentuated her high cheekbones. This wonderful, beautiful and exquisite woman is my wife , he thought with quiet awe. His chest flipped with uncontained joy and gone was the trepidation of the night before.

He studied her face as she slept, her nostrils flaring slightly as she sighed contently in her sleep. He lay back down and pulled her close to him, tightening his grip on her, and burying his face in her neck, inhaling her intoxicatingly sweet scent. The silk nightdress was so smooth and thin, and his hands couldn’t help but wander up and down, his fingers gently brushing the material over her skin, like water. Without realising it, he found himself rutting against her arse, which was tucked up cosily to his groin. He tried to still himself, she's still asleep ! But his wandering hands could not be stopped as one slowly crept up her torso and cupped a breast. The shift was so thin, that he felt her nipple harden with the barest of touches and that’s when he realised that her hips were moving too.

He pushed himself up to an elbow again, and her eyes, dark and hooded with desire stared back at him. Her lips parted with a hitched breath and he flicked her nipple with his thumb. Moving his hand downwards, he swallowed her breathy moan as his fingers teased the hem of her smalls, mouth crashing down on hers in simple, uncontained desire.

They had not so much as kissed since they had said their wedding vows in the Chantry, he realised. And as his tongue licked her upper lip, he swore to himself that he would never leave it so long to kiss her again. Her mouth opened with a sigh and their tongues danced as he continued to rut, and she squirmed against him as his hand finally slipped into her smalls in search of her bud.

He stifled a groan as he found her hand already there, gently touching herself. His fingers joined hers whilst they moved their hips and she guided him with her hand. He slipped a digit inside of her and she gasped, squirming against his erection, straining against his smalls, and he pictured feeling her growing wetness around his cock. With impatience, he slid her nightdress up so she was exposed and he pulled his cock out and rubbed it blissfully between her cheeks. Her soft skin was as smooth as silk as he rocked his hips, gaining pleasant friction with her arse.

“More…” she whispered, as her fingers joined his, pumping inside her. And with his control waning, he obliged eagerly.

Alistair rolled her onto her back and pulled her hands over her head as he pinned her down. Her legs fell open for him, and as much as he wanted - no needed - to be inside her, Alistair knew what his lady wife needed more was to be spoiled. If it were up to him, the king would love to stay buried between his wife’s legs for the rest of his days, as her taste was so sweet. He trailed kisses down her neck, and her hips lifted up to meet his, and his resolve almost broke as her core was teased against his cock. But being a Warden had one excellent perk: incomparable stamina.

He continued down, kissing her heaving breasts as they rose and fell erratically with her breathing. Playing with one in his hand, he took her other nipple in his mouth and sucked lightly, her perfect bud hard and round in his mouth. With his hand, he squeezed her other one tight, and had her gasping: but he was nowhere near done. He let go of her breast in his mouth with a pop and glanced up at her to see her mouth open and delicious, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. He grinned and kissed her stomach, then pulled back and positioned himself on his elbows, taking in the sight of her splayed out on the bed, rosy cheeks and breathy moans all for him. He pressed his lips to her knee, then with each kiss, his stubble tickled the inside of her thigh as he moved up her legs, finally reaching that gloriously warm and wet apex in between that was just begging for him to taste.

Desire surged through him and without wasting any more time, he pulled her legs over his shoulders and licked her dripping wet folds. She cried out in pleasure as he rolled his tongue over her, and her fingers grabbed his head, nails digging into his scalp as he worked his mouth. She tasted as good as she smelt, and her hips rose up to meet his mouth, jittering as she climbed higher to her peak. He wanted to spoil her because she deserved it and more. So he reached up with one hand and squeezed a breast and flicked a nipple again, loving the way her hips bucked in response. Her nails dug deeper into his scalp and raked his chestnut hair as his other hand kneaded her arse, lifting her up so he had the best angle to eat her out.

He teased and tortured her with his mouth, and finally sucked on her clit.

“Ah...ah...Alist-ah!” she cried out, her thighs clamping around his head as she came. He tasted her orgasm on his tongue and without missing a beat, rose and positioned himself at her entrance. Her eyes flicked open to look at him as she felt him move, and a tiny smile pulled at the corner of her exquisite mouth. That was all he needed.

So tormentingly slowly, Alistair finally entered her, the warmth and wetness so indescribably perfect that he couldn’t help but let out a moan. He fit her perfectly and when sheathed completely, he paused and stared into her eyes. Her breathing was still fast from her orgasm and he captured her mouth with his, letting her taste herself. Then he rolled his hips and started to slowly make love to her, not once tearing his gaze from her face. He noticed every single expression that flickered before him as he thrust and teased: a hand on her hip and another once more on her breasts.

She wrapped her legs around him and he plunged unbelievably deeper inside of her, making them gasp and moan in unison as they moved together in a rhythm as old as time. As they moved, the pleasure and pressure mounted, but Alistair had much more control than a boy still wet behind the ears - he wanted to give her so much more before he -

“Ah!” he gasped, as she took him by surprise. She had crossed her ankles behind his back and with her strong legs, twisted so that he was forced to roll and let her sit on top of him. Incredibly, they did not lose touch, and the angle was different but just as pleasurable. She smirked down at him as she pressed her hands to his chest and began to slowly roll her hips, her breasts rising and falling beautifully as she took him. Alistair was entranced as he watched his love move quicker with a growing need and he held her hips tightly to control her pace. But she didn’t need any assistance, as she moved faster and faster, his thrusts coming up to meet hers, flesh slapping flesh. Her moans crescendoed, and the erotic sight before him of his wife move above him with a wonton need to claim her pleasure...well he could feel his control slipping. He wanted to spill himself inside of her, and see his seed drip down her legs…

“Fuck!” she cried, reaching her second orgasm, as Alistair dug his fingers into her thighs to stop himself from joining her peak of pleasure. She fell back and Alistair seized his moment to regain control and topped her again.

Fully sheathed once more, he deliberately moved slowly, as he knew that if he picked up the pace then he wouldn't be able to hold on much longer. But she caught his eye and licked her lips.

“Please, Alistair,” she panted, her hands digging into his hips, urging him to move faster.

“Mmmm?” he replied, biting her earlobe and slipping out of her, making her whimper.

“What do you want?” he teased, stroking himself as she looked up at him with uncloaked desire.

“It’s more than what I want ...it’s what I need ,” she whispered, sitting up to meet her lips with his, her hand trailing down his chest and abdomen, making his muscles tense in anticipation.

They kissed delicately, fervently, noses touching, breath mingling. “And what do you need?”

She pulled away and lay back down on the bed, her legs falling open. She traced one finger down the length of her, and his eyes followed.

“Take me, my king,” she begged, touching herself in front of him.

Almost roughly, because he couldn't bear to not be in her again, he flipped her over, brought her to her knees and lined himself up to her entrance. He kissed her salty back, sleek with sweat and breathed in her ear. “As my queen commands.”

He thrusted inside, and she took all of him. She threw her head back and he grabbed her neck, pulling her up to him for a searing kiss, their tongues dancing as he thrusted fiercely, the globe of her ass bouncing against his abdomen. She moaned in his mouth as she touched herself; legs shaking as he pounded into her over and over; sweat mingling, with moans loud and needy, filling the chamber. He pumped with such animalistic need and she cried in pleasure and she gripped the bedsheets for support as he took her, unrelenting in his passion.

With a shaking arm, he reached around and touched her pearl and she cried out, her orgasm sudden and huge.

“Fill me!” she pleaded as she continued to come.

He snapped and finally, wonderfully, he reached his peak too and exploded inside of her, his vision blurred and black at the edges, as he emptied his seed inside of her - for the first time. And Maker, did it feel incredible to finish like this; in a union of bodies so perfect and natural.

Alistair, as breathless as if he had just swam the length of the Waking Sea, collapsed on top of her, laughing with joy.

“I...I love...you,” he panted, their legs entwined and he wasn't sure where his body ended and hers began.

They stayed like that for some time, and Alistair was tempted to fall asleep just like this, but she wiggled underneath him.

“Mmmm, as much as I love you inside of me,” she murmured;” you are crushing me somewhat.”

He reluctantly slipped out of her, trailing kisses all down her back and arse, making her hairs stand on end and her toes curl. He gathered her into his arms, the sheets around them a total mess, but he was loath to care as she lightly ran her fingers over him. His limbs felt like jelly, all loose and relaxed.

“Hey, Alistair?”

“Hmm?” he replied, barely opening his eyes.

“There’s some cheese leftover from last night.”

He sat up suddenly and looked over to where she pointed.

“Cheese for breakfast?” he asked.

She smiled and nodded. “Cheese for breakfast,” she confirmed.

fin

#dasmutquisition2021 #jen writes #my writing #alistair theirin #queen cousland #alistair x cousland #wedding night #lemon #lemony goodness #shameless smut #smut #dragon age #dragon age origins #da: origins #da fanfic

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bluegarners · 4 years ago

Text

“Dick has an overdose at a gala, hurt/comfort” ~ anon

~oOo~

He forgot to take his meds this morning.

Dick blows out a frustrated breath because that means he’s going to have to rearrange his entire cycle in order to not double dose. He always takes Zoloft in the morning with his breakfast and protein shake, and then the rest of the day goes smoothly and he can go to bed without the lingering worry of whether or not he remembered to do something. It’s an ingrained part of his routine and Dick is kicking himself for having forgotten to do it today.

The little yellow-tinted pill in his hand mocks him of his absent mindedness. The entire day had thrown him off of his usual planning, the not so gentle reminder of tonight’s charity gala for leukemia causing him to flit about in an attempt at getting his very much not used suit dry cleaned for the evening. Alfred would probably feel the need to strangle his first grandchild if Dick showed up with a wrinkled suit smelling of dust and disuse.

That wrench thrown into his day leads him to where he is now, staring down the pill in his hand and holding a glass of water in the other. He could always take his meds tomorrow so his routine wouldn’t be thrown off so drastically, but even the thought of doing so makes his hands feel clammy for skipping an entire day. He promised his psychiatrist he was going to take these things more seriously and he wanted to at least start that off by regularly taking his prescription. It had been working, so far, and Dick really didn’t want to fall into the bad habit of “skip-days”, so with one fluid motion, he was swallowing the pill and gulping down water.

Tonight was going to be fun at least. Even with his flighty day and the hassle it was doing things he should’ve done the previous week, Dick was excited to go to a gala for once. It was one of the rare occasions where Bruce had managed to convince all of his wayward children to go, and it had been far too long since Dick had spent some time with all of his siblings. He saw Damian at least once a week, Tim as well, but Jason had been a struggle to get a hold of and Cass and Duke were always busy with their own responsibilities. Not that Dick wasn’t busy as well, but in his book, there was always time for family.

Dick walks out of the bathroom, feeling slightly more pleased with himself for following through with his promise, and quickly walks to the garage where most of the family had already gathered. Had it not been for the fact that Cass and Duke happened to be staying at the Manor that week, Dick would have driven by himself to the banquet hall, but as it were, he was going to make every effort possible to squeeze in as much time as he could to be with his brothers and sister.

A slight problem arose though, as fitting eight total people into one car, driver included, was a tight fit. However, living with a billionaire had numerous perks, one of which being that they could choose from a variety of overly expensive cars and limousines and tonight, Alfred had chosen a classy black limo with leather seats and a cooler filled with bite-size cucumber sandwiches and bottled waters because, “In all of the many years of hosting galas, the Bestout family has yet to figure out how to properly serve a banquet.”

Slipping into the passenger seats, Dick was slightly giddy at the sight of both Damian and Duke already munching on a few of the snacks Alfred had prepared, Tim typing away on his phone and Cass curiously peering over his shoulder. They all looked dashing in their respective suits, and Dick reached out to lightly pat the head of the youngest, careful as to not disturb the neatly gelled locks of hair.

“Richard,” Damian acknowledges, a stray piece of bread clinging firmly to the side of his mouth. Adorable. “Where is Todd and Father?”

Before Dick has a chance to reply, Bruce and Jason step into the garage, Bruce’s hand latched firmly onto the third oldest’s shoulder. Dick can hardly hide his grin as Jason huffily plops down into the seat next to him, obviously still miffed at being forced to go to the gala. Bruce follows shortly after, taking his place besides Cass and in front of Dick, reaching into the cooler as well to retrieve a sandwich.

“Shall we proceed, sir?” Alfred calls from the front, the small window dividing the driver from the passengers a perfect view of the butler’s unimpressed eyebrows. “Or should we wait until the gala has ended to arrive?”

“Yes please. Sorry, Alfred.”

With that, they roll out of the Wayne Manor grounds and begin the short drive to the Bestout Charity Auction. Dick, personally, had no money to bid with and no intention to do so at all, but Bruce’s pockets went deep and they had already planned on what pieces to bid on and who to out-bid. Tim had made the bet that their “rivals” would attempt to out-bid the Waynes this year, and Tim was nothing but prideful on keeping the Wayne name free of that sort of blasphemy. He had done the math, was probably reviewing it on his phone at the moment, and had estimated that they could easily bid away about seven million dollars on a singular piece tonight if things went according to plan.

Money. Old money at that.

He feels a small tap on his shin then, and looks over to where Cass is gazing at him. She quirks her eyebrow, holding out her right palm and twisting her left middle finger against it. He nods, giving her two thumbs up and saying, “I remembered, don’t worry.”

She smiles, satisfied, before going back over to whatever Tim was doing on his phone. The rest of the ride is mostly silent, Dick basking in the presence of his family, until they finally pull up to the entrance. They are precisely thirty minutes late, fashionably so, and Jason is the first one to exit, followed then by Bruce, Cass, Tim, Duke, Damian, and lastly Dick.

Immediately, they are met with the flashing of numerous cameras, a couple shouting out questions or beckoning them to look their way for a good shot. Bruce indulges in a few of the requests, stopping for a few seconds, before hurrying up the steps, his many children following just as quickly behind. Entering, they are greeted with a high vaulted ceiling with a singular ornate chandelier hanging down as the centerpiece and a few other light fixtures to highlight the entrance.

Despite the initial grandeur, the charity gala is relaxed. Formal casual wear was allowed and encouraged upon, which basically meant one didn’t need to come dressed like they were meeting the Queen of England and could come in simple slacks and dress shirt, and for this reason and this reason alone is how Bruce managed to convince six of his children to attend. No one liked galas. Well, no one except Duke who was highly fascinated with how the rich and prim lived compared to the grittiness of Wayne Manor.

As Alfred had lamented about, the Wayne family was late, perhaps an hour or so from the initial invitation arrival time, and all eyes were on them as they entered the banquet hall. Cocktail hour had just begun, and it was a matter of moments before a chorus of simpering, “Brucie! Over here!” began and Jason and Duke disappeared to look for the bar. Tim meandered off to find a few familiar faces, and Dick, Damian, and Cass were left standing near the entrance.

For a second, Dick regrets his decision not to force himself to eat one of the cucumber sandwiches Alfred had prepared as his stomach rolled around unpleasantly. His medication didn’t require a meal to be eaten with it, but again, he had been thrown off his normal routine and that usually included some food.

He feels a nudge into his side and glances over to where Cass is smirking at him.

“I know, I know,” Dick groans, slumping slightly. “Alfred warned us, but you know I don’t like cucumbers. I’m just- yeah, I’m just going to go find something that doesn’t look like old cheese. Either of you coming with me?”

He extends a hand pleasantly, bowing over and winking at both of his youngest brother and sister.

“Unlike you,” Damian drawls, absently checking his fingernails, “I took sound advice when it was given.” He glances upwards, eyes narrowing as he finds his target. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it would appear that Father is in need of assistance.”

Dick watches the youngest Wayne march astutely towards a struggling Bruce Wayne, broadcasting a small amount of distress as yet another slightly drunk (already?) woman leers at him through false lashes.

“Cass?” Dick asks hopefully, turning back towards her. “My most wonderful and elegant sister, will you come with me?” In truth, Dick was the tiniest bit hesitant to go over to the buffet style table by himself, no doubt going to be swarmed by the Gotham elite youth once he was alone and miserable once he took in the shallow presentation of foods.

But his dear sister is nothing but sweet and ruthless, smiling prettily at him before walking off in the other direction, most likely to find Jason and Duke at the bar. Cass didn’t like alcohol, but she knew how to order a Shirley Temple all the same.

With a sigh, Dick begins the trudge over to the long horderves table, snagging a flute of strong smelling champagne on the way. He didn’t really like champagne truthfully, more of a white wine kind of guy himself, but it gave off the impression that he was relaxed and confident even if he was mentally preparing himself for food disappointment. He’s right, well, Alfred is right, as his gaze travels mournfully over the plain and overly dressed finger foods. Was it really just that impossible to serve a nice plate of cheese and crackers with some fruit? What in the world was foie gras entier anyway?

A hand slides smoothly over his shoulder as Dick contemplates if the horderve is an organ or not, and he steadily turns his head to meet artfully decorated brown eyes.

“Well if it isn’t the elusive Richard Grayson,” the woman says, letting her hand fall from his shoulder to his elbow. “It’s been a while since I saw you at one of these.”

Another hand brushes against his shoulder, and he turns his head the other way to meet the eyes of the exact same woman on his other arm.

“Tristy is right,” the other, same?, woman coos. “It’s been too long, Richard. Tell me, where have you been? You haven’t been avoiding us, right?”

It finally clicks into place as Dick looks back and forth between the identical women. The Thoreau sisters. Identical twins. Heiresses to the Thoreau Parts manufacturing company. Their entire net worth was close to five hundred million and the sisters were notorious, perhaps even more so than “Brucie Wanye”, for bringing home exploits and one night stands.

“Good evening ladies,” Dick says simply, dialing back the charm he usually reserved for the elderly elite of Gotham. “It’s been awhile since I last came to one of these auctions, but tonight is for a good cause. Of course I would come.”

The two sisters titter lightly, hands flying up to cover their arched grins. “Oh yes,” maybe Tristy says. “The auction is surely going to be a smashing success. At least with a man like your father bidding tonight, and that man is nothing but generous.”

The sudden innuendos leave Dick feeling slightly off footed. It truly has been too long since he attended one of these galas, and he’s out of practice at maneuvering around seduction attempts such as these.

“Oh hush,” the other sister snaps, tapping Dick’s bicep twice to get his attention back to her. “Do you plan on bidding at all?” she asks charmingly. “My sister and I have our eyes on a sculpture by Vasconcelos and it would break our hearts if your father also had plans to bid for it.”

Dick shakes his head, bringing his flute of champagne upwards to take a sip. He decides he does not like the taste of carbonation. “No, I can’t say I have plans to bid on any one particular item tonight. However, I can promise you that Bruce has no plans to bid on any sculptures, so you will find no grievances with him I hope.”

“How gracious,” possibly Tristy practically moans, leaning into Dick’s side. “You know,” she whispers, eyes flicking back and forth in mirth, “If you’re not planning on bidding at all, there’s a private study somewhere. Once the bidding begins, we can just,” she leans in closer, practically licking Dick’s ear, “get out of here.”

A cold feeling begins to settle in Dick’s gut, his composure quickly melting away as he struggles to keep on a pleasant smile. Has it always been like this? When was the last time he actually attended a gala? He can’t remember being harassed like this, much less so soon. They just arrived and already someone’s trying to take him to bed. Is that all he looks good for? Why is it so hard to just have a normal conversation? This is supposed to be a family day, and yet here he is, separating himself from them all because he can’t control his cravings and really this harassment should’ve been expected because Gotham didn’t call Richard Grayson Bruce’s imprint because he had to get the “playboy” tendencies from somewhere if not genetics, so really he’s fine and just making a big deal out of nothing.

This was normal. Right.

Lost in his head, Dick realizes too late that it’s been far too long since he’s said something aloud. Tristy, or whoever it is that’s to his right, is frowning at him, a mean looking sneer adorning red lips. The other sister, he just doesn’t know her, is looking at him with something akin to disgust as well though slightly better hidden.

He clears his throat. Clears it again. His throat feels funny. “Look, ladies,” Dick says, “I’m flattered, I really am, but I’m not looking for anything right now. I’m sure you’re both lovely, but I think I’m going to… yeah, I’m just going to go find Bruce. You know how he gets when he’s had more than a couple glasses,” he tries to chuckle, tapering off when neither of the women join in. “Have a good evening.”

Extracting himself from their manicured hands is more difficult than he thought it would be, their insistence at keeping him cornered to the table making him more nervous. The ice in his stomach pinches unpleasantly, and Dick finishes off the champagne to place the little flute on a passing waiter’s stand.

The lingering stench of overpriced perfume has him feeling nauseous, and Dick looks around for one of his family members. He spots Jason and Duke still at the bar, seemingly content at just sipping and observing, and Dick makes the move to walk towards them when the room tilts slightly. He stumbles, hardly even that, and rights himself in less than a second. He looks down, frowning when he sees nothing that might’ve tripped him up.

“Richard,” a voice calls out, and Dick turns to see Damian making his way towards him, Bruce trailing slightly behind.

“Hey, Dami!” Dick gushes, his unease melting away at the familiar faces. “Meet anyone interesting yet?”

The boy huffs, crossing his arms. “If by interesting you mean intelligent, then no. Not a single person here is capable of holding a conversation before spouting some nonsense. It should be considered cruel.”

“I hear you there,” Dick sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. Is it just him, or is the banquet hall extremely bright? The Bestout’s should consider investing less in chandeliers and more in good food. “Did any of the art pieces catch your interest?”

Another huff. “No,” Damian replies. “Modern art holds no value. I find nothing special about three dots in the center of a large canvas. If anything, it is a waste of material.”

“Bruce?” Dick asks. “What about you? I just ran into the Thoreau sisters; they said they were going to bid on that, uh, what was their name again… the Vasconcelos sculpture.”

Bruce grimaces at the company name, looking more closely at Dick. “No, nothing was to my taste. Alfred has asked me to bid on a tea set supposedly owned by Queen Anne. It is… vintage?”

Dick nods, willing himself not to laugh at Bruce’s idea of something vintage. “Nice. I’m sure Alfred will be excited to add it to his collection. Have, uh, any of you guys seen Tim or Cass at all?”

“Cain left,” Damian says simply. “Brown invaded the gala about ten minutes ago and coerced her into ditching. Drake is most likely stuffing himself into a corner.”

“Oh.”

A waiter walks by just then and Dick snags another champagne glass. He takes two sips, feeling some of his anxiety from earlier rise up again. Tonight was supposed to be a family night, or at least one as close to it as it could get, and already Cass had left? He doesn’t blame her for wanting to be with Steph, he remembers how infatuated he was in his first relationship, but he already felt the tell-tale tug in his heart that told him he was lonely.

“I’m going to go find Tim,” he announces, patting the top of Damian’s head and giving a squeeze to Bruce’s left shoulder. “Have fun you two.”

They wave him off with little else, and Dick looks around the hall for the middle child. As his gaze travels from table to table, he can’t help but feel as if all eyes are on him, catching his gaze with each flicker. Taking deep breaths, Dick takes another sip, meandering slowly around the perimeters of the already established social groups. He catches bits and pieces of conversations, most if not all having nothing to do with tonight’s auction, and Dick begins to tap his fingers restlessly against his outer thigh. Why does he feel so anxious?

Someone bumps into him rather rudely, causing Dick to stumble again, but when he turns around to semi-glare, there is no one around him. The lights in the hall are blinding and Dick can feel a headache begin to form at the front of his skull. His breaths are suddenly very loud and Dick becomes all too aware of just how many people there are. At least two hundred and all of them seemed to be staring at Dick.

Someone else brushes up behind him, and Dick quickly turns around to confront them, because come on, that’s not a nice thing to do. There is no one there though. No one was even near enough to touch him and Dick feels sweat begin to trickle down the back of his suit.

What was he doing again? Right, right, searching for Tim. Tim was always calm, he’s sure he’s got to be around here somewhere.

“Richard,” a voice sing-songs to him. “Oh, Kathy, he’s right over here. My, my, thought you could give us the slip, hm?”

His grip on the glass of champagne tightens slightly as one of the Thoreau sisters slithers her way in front of him. He didn’t want to talk to them. He wasn’t feeling well. They didn’t make him feel comfortable and Dick really needed to find Tim.

“You don’t look so good, Richy,” Tristy, Kathy, whoever, whispered. “Are you feeling alright? Had one too many to drink it looks like.”

The other sister laughs. “We only left you for twenty minutes. Missed us that terribly? How sweet.”

One of them grips his bicep again. Turns his chin so he’s facing her head on. The other one falls out of his line of sight. He thinks he’s seeing triple though because the twin in front of him is slowly separating into two, faces flickering back and forth and failing to align with the center.

“Maybe he’s tired,” she says, voice distorted and far away. “Finish that off and we’ll all go find somewhere to lay down, hm? Somewhere… private.”

The flute of alcohol is pressed gently into his lips and Dick automatically begins to drink from it, the liquid sliding down easily. It leaves a sour taste on his tongue, and huh, that’s weird. It didn’t taste like that before. He really does hate the taste of carbonation.

Hands on either side of him push him forward, his feet dragging and shoes all of a sudden much too big for his feet. The glass is taken from his trembling grip, a whisper of “Wouldn’t want you to drop that,” letting his decisions elude him. The smell of sharp chemicals assault his nose and Dick feels his stomach roll. He thinks he might vomit.

Even though he keeps his face to the floor, the bodies beside him guiding the way, Dick can feel the stares, the eyes, that bore into him. The pressure leaves his chest heavy, feeling as though he’s slowly sinking into the red carpet below. The red shifts and melts like wax beneath his polished shoes, pooling and coiling around his shoelaces and reaching towards his ankles.

It smells like blood.

The red turns into a dark gray suddenly, fuzz turning into slick tile and the hands that gripped onto his biceps earlier now trail towards the hemline of his pants. He jerks, neck craning upwards and hands fumbling to push the invasion away. He’s simply shushed though, hands restraining his own and Dick feels like he’s been shot when he realizes he can’t get his legs to move properly.

He’s shoved towards an open door way, tripping and falling over himself as any semblance of coordination leaves him. It’s brighter in this room but everything keeps swirling together. Vertigo slowly weaves its way around his head and soon, there is no difference from up and down, left and right, sister and sister.

Nails dig into the sides of his cheeks in a harsh and fervent grip, and Dick feels like throwing up when he sees nothing but the swirling vortex of a flesh colored void. It spins faster and faster and Dick has to look away, but the sight of himself in a mirror is no better because that has to be him that’s standing there pressed into a stone counter but at the same time it can’t because he left that all behind.

He left Spyral behind. He escaped. He was home. They couldn’t control him anymore and yet- and yet.

Another blank flesh void stares back at his turned head. No visible features to recognize himself by. A smooth canvas that twists and churns and leaves him faceless. He is nothing once more.

Something breaks inside of him and Dick feels a sob erupt from out of his chest. He’s just so confused and scared and lost and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He doesn’t want to be here anymore. He doesn’t want to go back to Spyral. His mission was completed, he had done everything Bruce asked of him and even after enduring throughout all of that, Dick feels that desperate yearning for his father.

He wants Bruce. He’s so scared. His head hurts. He can’t feel his legs anymore. Everything keeps colliding into everything and he can’t even recognize his own cries because even that sounds like it’s a lifetime away, all the way back in Gotham, but instead he’s stuck here and he doesn’t even know where here is anymore because Agent 37 isn’t allowed to ask questions, that’s not his place, that’s not his place, he’s not allowed-

“Wow,” a voice breathes into his ear, “you’re even pretty when you cry.”

And Dick doesn’t really know when it started raining, but his face is wet and the person is right, he is crying and it’s raining so hard and he doesn’t completely understand why or how but he does know he doesn’t like the hands that keep fumbling with his belt. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want her. He should say something. He should say something, but his mouth won’t move and he just lays there and takes it because that’s all he’s good for right? That’s why Barbara didn’t want to see him anymore because he’s just an awful person that just takes it and please, please, please stop.

“Are you afraid of spiders, Richard?”

Of course he’s afraid. He’s terrified. He’s even more afraid of the dark and the dark contains many, many scary things. Things like a calloused hand reaching out to smother him, to choke him, to kill him. Things like a bright red pill shoved into his mouth, things like a bomb attached to his heart, things like the heat of the metal on his back as the chaos consumed him, destined to watch, destined to die, destined to be smothered over and over again. Bright red pill. Rough hands. Bright red lips. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

Dick vomits.

~oOo~

“Mister Wayne?”

Bruce looks up from his phone, a smartly dressed waitress staring at him. “Yes?”

She holds out a folded napkin to him and Bruce takes it from her hesitantly. He stares at it before glancing back up. “I don’t understand.”

The woman gives him a half-hearted shrug. “I was only told to give it to you, sir. I don’t know what it is. Excuse me.”

With that, the waitress turns back around into the throng of people that wave her over for drinks. Bruce looks down at the napkin, putting away his phone quickly as he unfolds it. It’s a note, hastily written in smudged black, similar to a crayon. Perhaps some sort of makeup applicator. Bruce doesn’t give it much thought though as he reads,

Find your son.

And isn’t that a great way to get his heart to stop? His first instinct is to look wildly about and start dashing around in search of his, holy shit, five sons he brought along to the gala. Bruce stops though, forces himself to take three deep breaths and count to five, before calmly beginning to make his way to the entrance of the banquet hall. It was easier to see everyone from that position and it was crowded enough so that he wouldn’t immediately be singled out once again.

As he walks, he stares at the napkin note, trying to decipher who exactly sent it. It was a woman’s hand writing, he’s sure of it, but the intentions behind it could be anything. Ransom? A threat? A simple warning that one of his sons was much too drunk to care about public decency? Either way, being passed an anonymous note wasn’t good and Bruce felt his gut clench in apprehension. He tries to think of everything that’s happened throughout the night so far.

Damian had remained mostly by his side, a good defense to have on hand whenever one of the socialites got a bit too grabby. Jason and Duke had remained a pair by the bar from what he'd heard, challenging other young adults into dart games and shot pyramids. Tim had steadily been making his way through old friends, chatting with a few and periodically texting Bruce to ask what the bidding was at.

(Alfred will be happy to know that he now had one more tea set to add to his collection)

And Dick… well, Bruce honestly hadn’t been keeping secure tabs on him. He’s trying to be a better father to adult Dick Grayson. Privacy and space had been something Dick had last emphasized on, the “mother-henning” as Dick liked to call it, overbearing and un-welcomed. When his eldest had mentioned his run in with the Thoreau sisters, Bruce had been concerned and looked for signs that his son was uncomfortable or something worse. As usual though, Dick had merely grinned and carried on like it was nothing and perhaps that was all it had been at the time but now with this note, this damn napkin note in his hands, Bruce could feel the suspicion slide into him like water.

“Father?”

A hand tugs on his right sleeve and Bruce finds himself sighing in relief as his youngest appears in front of him. Scrutinizing his son, Bruce finds nothing obviously wrong with him, hair still perfectly in place and a permanent frown etched upon his brow. His suit is still stain, spill, and wrinkle free and Bruce clasps a heavy hand onto Damian’s shoulder.

“Are you alright?” he asks, keeping eye contact.

“Of course,” is Damian’s curt reply. “What happened?”

Wordlessly, Bruce hands over the napkin to him, watching as his son’s frown deepens. “I shall gather Todd and Thomas. I will return shortly.”

Damian’s small figure disappears into the crowd easily, leaving Bruce standing by himself at the front of the hall. Pulling out his phone again, he quickly types out, Come to the front of the hall. Urgent, and sends it to Tim. He types out the same message and sends it to Dick as well and contends himself for the wait by tapping his foot against the red carpet.

A minute barely passes before he spots Jason’s broad figure moving through the crowd, and the tension in his gut only increases as he counts the heads moving towards him. One, two, three, four…

“What’s going on?” Duke asks as the four boys gather closely. “Are we, uh, needed?”

Bruce shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so. Damian showed you the note?”

“What note?” Tim demands. “Bruce, what’s going on? Is something- oh,” he trails off, hand coming up to rub at his mouth as he reads the scribbled napkin. Tim turns his gaze to begin counting, and the same realization dawns upon him as he finally looks at Bruce’s grim face. “Where’s Dick?”

“I’ll call him,” Jason is quick to offer, pulling out his cellphone. He dials and holds it to his ear as the rest of the family watches. “Voicemail,” he grimaces, staring down at the device as if it had personally offended him.

“We’ll split up. Jason, you’re with me. Duke, Tim, Damian, you three will go towards the east end, Jason and I will take west. Keep your phones on,” Bruce orders, checking his own ringer as he does so. “Ask around to see if anyone has seen Dick. We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet, so remain cautious. Understood?”

A chorus of “yes” is the motivator for the split and like liquid, they flow back into the crowd seamlessly.

~oOo~

He’s alone.

Or, Dick thinks he is. Well, now that he’s thought about it, Agent 37 is never alone. There’s always someone there, watching him, waiting for him to fail. But Nightwing works alone in Bludhaven. He’s discovered that he doesn’t like team ups much. Partnerships always end in the rain and he doesn’t like the rain. He doesn’t mind it so much when Batman’s cape is shielding his face but the rain is still pelting his cheeks and it smells like acid.

It smells like acid and metal. It sounds like endless whirring too, constant noise when all he wants right now is quiet. He wants to reach out and smother whatever it is that’s making the noise but his limbs are gone, he can’t move, he’s been restrained once again and that damn red pill, or maybe it’s tinted yellow this time, he can’t be sure, there are just so many pills, so many pills, it’s all keeping him down and dead.

He feels his stomach convulsing again and he gags, unsure if anything actually comes out. There’s red on the floor, it always comes back to red, why red, and it gathers around in his vision, slick along the white void below him. A part of Dick is glad he can’t move because he fears that if he were to even breathe, the void below would capture him and turn him white and twist his nothingness into something even less than all of it.

His lungs stutter and his eyes roll back into his head for a moment. For a brief second, he is gone in the bliss of blackness. It’s not for long though because the need to cough erupts out of him and he has to open his eyes and see what plague is clawing its way from his mouth. His jerking disturbs the void and Dick can feel the blood in his veins freeze because he’s not supposed to move. He’s not supposed to make a single sound or else it would get him but he’s just so dumb, he’s just so incompetent, and now the void knows he’s here, now the void is going to get him and he’s so scared.

He blinks four times. He counts in his head. Two, five, one, two. Dick doesn’t think that’s right. He isn’t sure.

The void is angry though. He can tell in the way the ground shakes and the colors scream at him. He wants to move away and cover his ears but his arms don’t exist anymore, how could he forget, how could he forget, and he feels his eyes burning like he’s on fire and his brain is also screaming at him now and there are hands on his shoulders and no, no, stop, please stop, he doesn’t want this, he never wanted any of this. He’s sorry. He’s sorry.

The void grasps him and pulls at him and Dick’s eyes are wide open and he wants to scream at the void’s face because he doesn’t know who they are, he doesn’t know where he is, and there’s no comfort in the cold, there’s no love or warmth in it’s embrace and he’s so tired and his chest hurts and he’s having trouble actually seeing anything now because he’s just scared of the dark and everything is getting quieter and doesn’t anyone have a nightlight he can use so he can fall asleep a little less scared?

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Bruce doesn’t know what exactly he was expecting when that waitress handed him a napkin. He doesn’t really know what he wanted to happen when he asked his children to split up and search for the lost one. Of course, the goal was to find the eldest, find Dick Grayson safe and sound and just doing something silly like back flips off a stairwell so Bruce could come and save him from embarrassing himself further. Okay, yes, Bruce knows exactly what he wanted to happen.

But this wasn’t it.

It wasn’t Mister Dower slyly implying that Bruce’s eldest son was a clone of “Brucie Wayne’s” habits. It wasn’t the news that the Thoreau sisters had left in a hurry. It wasn’t a bellboy directing him to a private room that had been left ajar. And it wasn’t walking into a pitch black study only to hear wet retching and rattling from the adjoining bathroom.

He’s bursting through the door before he’s had the time to process it all and he feels as if all the wind in his lungs have been knocked out because there he is. Here is Dick Grayson, his son, his eldest, convulsing, bleeding, vomiting, shaking, dying, alone.

It’s second nature, done without a thought, and Bruce is kneeling down, stripping himself of his jacket and folding it, taking Dick by the shoulders and turning him on his side and placing the folded jacket beneath his head. Dick’s eyes are rolling, unseeing, and his face twitches and jerks and it’s terrifying, and Bruce looks away to stare at his watch and counts and counts and counts.

It’s scarcely thirty seconds before the jerking stops and Dick goes stiff, like every single muscle in his body is clenched in anticipation.

“Bruce,” Jason begins, and he sounds unsure and out of place and Bruce curses at himself for having momentarily forgotten about him, “Holy shit.”

Bruce says nothing and continues to stare at his watch because he knows the seizure isn’t over, he prays it is but he knows it’s not, and Dick begins to convulse again and Bruce’s heart is beating so fast he isn’t sure if he can feel it anymore.

“The others are on their way,” Jason speaks up again. “I’m calling 911. What should I tell them?”

And usually Bruce is faster than this, better at processing, but it’s all so sudden and this is his son that’s laying in front of him, shaking and heaving in front of him, that it takes him a few seconds to come up with an answer. “Tell them,” he tries, mouth dry and god how much longer is this going to last? “Tell them that we need police and an ambulance for,” Bruce clears his throat; two minutes now, five becomes dangerous, “A possible assault and drug overdose.”

There’s lipstick smeared on Dick’s collar, his tie is undone, his belt buckle unclasped, pink indents on the sides of his jaw, lips tinted blue, and a mess of vomit splattered down his shirt. It smells sour and pungent and it’s the color of old brandy. Blood weeps from Dick’s hairline and Bruce startles himself with the thought that, had it not been for the note, Dick could’ve died and no one would have known.

No one would have known.

Finally the seizure stops and Bruce can feel his fingers trembling as he cradles his son’s head to fully rest against the tile flooring. Three minutes and fifteen seconds. Too close. Too close.

“Move! I demand to see Richard!”

“You can’t, not right now. Bruce is helping him but you have to stay out here.”

“Jason, what the hell happened to Dick?”

“Bruce thinks he got roofied. Whatever was given to him was too much.”

“Did… did anything happen?”

“I don’t know.”

“Todd, I swear to you, if you do not move this instant-”

Bruce can’t focus on their conversation anymore, too entranced by the way his son breathes. They’re short, shallow gasps, like he’s panting through a straw, and Bruce reaches out a hand to rub his eldest’s upper back. He doesn’t move from his position, kneeled firmly as if in prayer, and maybe it is like a prayer because he needs a miracle right now. Bruce needs some guidance, some reassurance, and he hasn’t prayed since his parents died, but a little part of him is sighing and repeating those long forgotten words over and over again.

Abraham, Issac, and Jacob; Sarah, Rebekkah, Leah, and Rachel.

Dick does not stir from where he lays, eyes flickering behind closed lids. Bruce thinks he’s conscious, the flighty rhythm of his heart giving his blankness away, but the stillness in which his son lays allows a vine of terror to eclipse around his heart.

Grant him a r’fu-ah sh’lei-mah, a complete recovery.

His mother used to whisper prayers into his ear when he was younger and sick, fever-ridden constantly and just so tired. She would sit by his bedside, hold his hand, and pray for him in the silence of his room. Bruce was too young to understand what it meant. Too young to really grasp the concept of salvation, of hope found in religion. Now that he’s gone so long without it, Bruce thinks he still doesn’t grasp its weight, but the familiar words roll around in his head and leave the tightness in his chest with company.

But the comfort is like a blanket draped over your head when you were a child, on some level convinced it could protect you from the monsters in your closet and the kidnappers that surely tap on your window. The monsters are real though, the kidnappers are grabbing at your feet, and Bruce can feel his heart pounding away with the realization that he truly could have lost Dick. That Bruce had been in the exact same room, in the same vicinity as his eldest when he was drugged. When he was… assaulted. Possibly. Maybe. Bruce clings to those uncertainties.

And he’s got ideas. Theories. Conclusions. A list of suspects.

With those, Bruce also has punishments in mind. Vengeance. Retribution. But the situation at hand is more pressing than the thoughts that bang against his skull.

Dick’s eyes fly open, a cough that sounds more like a gag jerking his body. His arms stagger against his sides, feet kicking out with the force of his hacking, and Bruce merely lets his hands hover. He wants to touch him, to ground Dick, but the hesitation in his actions leave him barren of any sort of presence. Dick keeps coughing, getting louder and more forceful with each measly breath he manages to suck in, and his lips are beginning to turn blue and his face a bright red and Bruce doesn’t know what to do right now, doesn’t know how to help because he’s so afraid to touch him, to help him, when all he’s done tonight is ignore him and let this whole thing happen because he’s a horrible father-

“Richard, stop it!”

And then Damian is falling to his knees beside Dick’s heaving body, also fumbling for an answer and scared and all the things Bruce feels right now.

“Stop it, Richard! Stop it right now!” Damian demands, but his orders fall on deaf ears because Dick won’t stop coughing and gasping and shaking and he’s not having another seizure but that’s what it looks like and then finally, Bruce reaches out a hand and holds his eldest still, willing for something, anything, to happen to get Dick to stop.

“Son,” he implores, practically begging, “Dick, you need to calm down, okay? I know you’re scared and confused right now, but everything is going to be fine. You’re going to be fine. Take a deep breath, Dick. Breathe.”

Finally, something seems to register for Dick because he’s craning his neck around, eyes wide and searching even as he continues to retch out his lungs. Bright blue eyes, beautiful and robin egg blue, catch Damian’s and Bruce can see recognition light up onto his face. The relief that Bruce had felt blossoming in his chest at the sight is quickly smothered when tears gather in Dick’s eyes, a weak sob wrenching its way in between coughs.

“Sorry, sorry,” Dick moans, delirious and broken. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“Richard, breathe,” is all Damian says, reaching out to grab at one of Dick’s flailing hands. “Please.”

Bruce doesn’t know if Dick actually understood what Damian was saying, or if he even recognized any one of his brothers that stood around him, but one moment, Dick is retching up a lung, and the next, he’s silent and holding his breath. The coughing stops but Dick is going slightly purple in the face and before Bruce, Damian, anyone can do anything to get him to open his mouth again, Dick’s eyes roll up into the back of his head and he drifts.

His head thuds softly onto the white tile just as the paramedics arrive and Bruce thinks he might need an ambulance too with how quickly his heart beats and how hot the blood in his veins feel.

The rest is a blur.

~oOo~

Many things happen in the few hours that follow.

Dick is promptly swept away on a stretcher, paramedics checking pulse count, setting up an IV, and other things that anyone hardly has the mind to pay attention to. By then, the entire banquet knew something was wrong, along with a few reporters that whipped out their cameras and began snapping pictures in earnest.

In a move that is sure to get him on the front pages, Bruce snarls at a few of the reporters, threatening them in mannerisms that suggested he might just break their obnoxious cameras. Jason follows a similar pattern, actually reaching over and knocking away one of the invasive reporters when they got too close to the ambulance, and the youngest is not far off in doing the same before he is ushered away and into a waiting private car that would escort them to the hospital Dick was being taken to.

Only Bruce had been allowed to ride in the ambulance on the way over, and the four brothers had sat in tense silence during the ten minute drive. Tim had been almost absurdly quiet during the entire ordeal, typing away at his phone and absently chewing on one of his fingernails. No one comments on the bad habit, all of them guilty of doing something in a similar fashion, and when they arrive at the entrance, Bruce meets them there where he tells them that, for now, Dick appears to be mostly fine.

His vomit and blood were being tested at the moment for a tox-screening, a toxicologist named Dr.Ruth informing them that Dick wasn’t in life-threatening danger anymore. The “anymore” bit startles them all and it is explained to them that, because Dick appeared to have eaten nothing that night and drank nothing but champagne, there was little else in his system to digest whatever drug was given to him. It all went straight into his nervous system, which is what caused the seizure.

Bruce manages to secure a larger medical room for all five of them to squeeze into and forty minutes later, Dr.Ruth returns with a clipboard in tow. Results are in.

“Mister Wayne,” she begins, making sure to keep an even gaze with the older man, “You said you believed that Richard may have been purposely drugged tonight?”

Bruce nods.

“Is Richard taking any drugs right now? Recreational or otherwise?”

The implication sends a strange stab of anger through Bruce, rising up from his seat to challenge the doctor about her accusations. “Richard has never-”

“Actually,” Tim interrupts, finally speaking, “he does.”

Bruce looks over, shock peppering his face through the way his mouth twitches and his jaw clenches.

Tim rushes to defend himself. “No, wait, what I mean is that Richard takes a prescription. He’s not doing, like, hard crack or something like that.” He holds up his phone as if it contains every single answer to life. “Cass- our sister- told me that Richard didn’t take his anxiety medication this morning. He took it before going to the banquet tonight.”

“Do you know what he was prescribed?” Dr.Ruth asks, scanning through something on one of the papers.

Tim checks his phone again. “Uh, Zoloft. 40 milligrams once a day.”

“Okay,” she hums to herself, satisfied with the answer. “That explains it then.”

She clicks her pen, setting down her clipboard and turning to face all five of them in the room. “Richard’s screening came back just a few minutes ago, but there were a few discrepancies that didn’t match up exactly. From what the labs tested, Richard was given a dosage of about 250 milligrams of ketamine, on which he overdosed, but an additional drug was also found in his blood and from what you said, young man, it would appear to be Zoloft. That medication, in addition to not eating anything and consuming some alcohol, was what caused such a bad reaction.”

She glances behind her again, checking her clipboard. “Now, Mister Wayne,” she addresses Bruce, “In your witness statement, you said that Richard appeared to be having hallucinations?”

“I don’t believe he knew we were there with him.”

Dr.Ruth nods. “Victims of large overdoses on ketamine typically experience hallucinations, similar to a bad LSD trip or otherwise. Sight and sound become warped and the person under the influence often doesn’t understand what’s going on around them.”

“What about,” Duke begins, nervous and quiet, “What about the, um, the other test? Did- Is Dick okay?”

The doctor smiles, happy to give fortunate news. “Yes, the test results came back negative. Other than a few scratch marks on his face which have been cleaned, Richard is fine.”

A collective breath releases over the room. Dick was going to be okay.

“Once the nurses have finished checking your son over, you’re free to take him home,” Dr.Ruth finishes, collecting her things. “Someone will be with you shortly to escort you to him.”

“Wait,” Jason calls out, “That’s it? You’re just going to send him away?”

The doctor looks back at him, sympathy lining her sad smile. “Well, there’s not much else we can do. Keep an eye on him, make sure he drinks plenty of fluids and try to give Richard some dry foods. If anything happens or Richard’s condition worsens at all, please bring him back and we’ll do what we can.”

And with that, Dr.Ruth opens the door and leaves.

~oOo~

The nurses tell them that Dick needs to stay for an additional hour or so, just until he’s coherent enough to answer some well-being questions and to finish the IV bags they’ve given him. All five of them have managed to cram themselves into Dick’s small room, the man in question awake but quiet. He’s coherent enough that he seems to recognize them all individually, and no longer seems to be hallucinating, but he wears a grimace that tells of discomfort. Dick has yet to say anything since waking up.

His eyes are distant, staring listlessly towards the ceiling and trailing from light to light. Bruce is sure the action is somewhat painful, but he doesn’t make a move to distract his son from whatever he’s thinking.

It’s been a long night, for all of them really, but none as long as the night Dick Grayson has had. Bruce is told that Dick spoke in private with one of the nurses and an assisting officer about some of the things that happened during the banquet. Bruce doesn’t pry though. He knows better than to go sticking his nose into something so fresh, something so invasive. He trusts that Dick will speak when he’s ready.

Whenever that is.

There’s a knock at the door before Dr.Ruth walks in again, hands folded neatly in front of her as she enters. There’s no clipboard with her and a lightness in her posture is telling of good news.

“You’re all clear,” she says warmly, stepping up closely to Dick’s cot. “I just need you to sign some release forms and you’ll be on your way. Do you have any questions for me?”

She directs the question towards Dick, whose gaze travels slowly over to the doctor. He licks his lips twice before asking, “What do I need to do after I leave?”

“Hydrate,” she answers, mentally going through a checklist. “Lots of fluids. The charcoal is going to absorb a fair amount of liquid in your system, so keep an eye out for water consumption and bowel movements.”

“What… what about medication?”

She frowns at that, lips pulling down slightly. “Well,” she starts, “I would suggest keeping away from them for the next twenty-four hours. Are you in pain? Do you feel like you need something for it?”

Dick is quick to shake his head. It jostles him and he closes his eyes briefly, be it from pain or disorientation is something indiscernible. “No, no. Not hurt or anything. I take some, uh, prescriptions though. From my psychiatrist. Everyday.”

“I see.” Dr.Ruth is quiet for a moment before, “Try to wait as long as possible. If you absolutely need to, go ahead and take them but be careful. You won’t be in any serious danger but it’s always better to be cautious after an overdose.” She turns to Bruce then. “He’ll need to be somewhat monitored over the next few days. It’s not very common, but symptoms can linger.”

After another pause in which no one speaks up, Dr.Ruth smiles and bows her head slightly. “I’ll have someone bring those papers by soon. Tell one of the nurses if you’re having trouble walking, Richard, and we can get a wheelchair brought to you. Have a good evening, gentlemen.”

No one continues to make a sound as Bruce fills out the paperwork, insisting that a wheelchair be brought when Dick only manages to take a few steps before his legs begin to shake. Dick makes no comment on it, only half-heartedly glaring at Bruce as he sat down heavily into the plastic seat. The walk out of the hospital is quiet too, Duke along the way muttering that he was going back to his cousin’s place for the night. Alfred meets the remaining boys at the front, leaning forwards to bring Dick into a small hug before releasing him and helping Dick get into the car he brought.

When Damian hands Dick a water bottle, Dick accepts it silently, lightly patting his little brother’s hand before taking a singular sip from the bottle. He doesn’t drink from it again.

When they arrive at the Manor, Jason is the first one moving and is quick to pull out the ramp they have for when Barbara visits. Dick is tense as they roll him into the Manor, finally putting his foot down when Bruce suggests that one of them carry him up to his bedroom. It’s a slow process and it twists Bruce’s heart in a way he can’t quite describe as he watches his eldest struggle up the flight of stairs, using both the railing and Damian as meager supports.

Dick pushes open the door to his dark room and makes no comment when everyone follows him in. He all but collapses onto his bed, exhausted. They all just simply breathe for a minute, taking the time to truly process everything that’s happened that night. Somewhere in the Manor, a bell tolls and the electric clock on Dick’s nightstand reads two in the morning. They’re all still in their suits, still in their tight dress shoes, and nothing seems quite real yet. The black out curtains are clasped together tightly, as if their belief in maintaining the illusion and reality of darkness is all that’s keeping the peace.

Damian is the first one to move this time, peeling off his jacket and kicking off his shoes to sit beside Dick’s sprawled form. They don’t exchange words, but Dick shifts and allows Damian to get closer, a hand reaching up to finally destroy the carefully combed locks of hair, stiff with gel and pomade. Dick sighs and this release is what prompts the others to move as well, Jason plopping himself at the foot of the bed to lean against one of the banisters, Tim choosing to sit on the floor and rest his head against the side of the bed frame, and Bruce pulling a chair closer to be within reaching distance of Dick.

It’s quiet, calm, and the proximity is just enough to be reassuring. Comforting in a way that doesn’t demand physical touch but soothing enough to provide warmth. It’s nice.

Dick speaks first. It’s an apology.

“I wanted this to be a family night, you know?” he confesses into the stillness. “I didn’t mean for… any of this to happen.”

“We know, Dick,” Tim says, equally as quiet. “It wasn’t your fault.”

There is no response to that.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jason asks, voice gruff but kind. Gentle in a way that betrays his outward appearance.

“I don’t know,” Dick says. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” is all Jason responds, easy and light. The dark hides many secrets. He will not be the one to unearth them.

It goes back to silence after that and soon enough, Dick’s breaths are even and his eyes are closed. Slowly, the boys disappear one by one back to their rooms, allowing themselves to recover as well from the experience. Damian falls asleep by Dick’s side and Bruce tenderly picks him up, cradling the boy’s head onto his shoulder, and carrying him to his own room.

When Bruce returns, Dick is sitting up and staring at him. He’s nervous. Bruce takes a deep breath in for his own nerves and sits back down into the seat. They stare at each other for a long time, the eye contact neither uncomfortable nor helpful. It’s a waiting game, one that doesn’t need to happen, and Bruce breathes in again.

“How are you, son?” he asks, gaze heavy as he takes in Dick’s haggard appearance. The hospital had given him a scrub shirt to replace the one he had thrown up on and the texture crinkles as Dick shifts in place. His eyes go back to wandering around, drifting from Bruce’s face to the comforter around his legs.

“I’m tired,” Dick whispers, hands flexing and clenching. “And a little freaked out,” he adds, eyes flickering to Bruce’s and then darting away again. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been more careful. I… I messed up.”

Bruce sighs, slowly and deliberately telegraphing his movements as he reaches out to place a hand over Dick’s fidgeting one. Dick is still tense, hand clenching into a fist as Bruce just lets the warmth of his palm linger.

“You did nothing wrong,” Bruce begins. Pauses. Backtracks. “Everything that happened tonight wasn’t your fault. Whoever did this… that’s their fault. That’s their doing. Not yours. Never yours.”

“How did you find me?” Dick asks, deflecting. He’s always been good at that.

“I was given a note.” The napkin had been taken away as evidence earlier. The phantom hot weight of it still burns a hole in Bruce’s coat pocket. “It told me to find you.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.” Pause. “I’m glad they did though. I was… worried. Worried of what had happened to you. Dick, look at me please.”

Instantly, Dick’s eyes snap to his and again, Bruce’s heart twists in a way he can’t describe. Sadness? Resentment? Melancholy? Regret? He doesn’t know.

“I’m sorry I let that happen to you,” he says firmly, reaching out with both hands to grasp at Dick’s. He grips them tightly, holding them together like they’re praying. This is now twice in over a decade. “I am so sorry, Dick. I wasn’t there when you needed me, but I’m trying to be better. I want to be a better father to you, son. You mean more to me than you will ever know and the thought of losing you scares me.”

Dick nods sharply, once, twice, and his face falls into apathy as he processes what Bruce has said. He doesn’t reach out to hold Bruce’s hands as well, but the fact that he hasn’t removed them is enough to reassure Bruce that he’s doing at least one thing right.

“It,” Dick says, voice barely a whisper, “It scares me too. Losing you. Losing anyone. Dying.”

He swallows audibly and sweat trickles down his brow. Bruce wants to insist that Dick go back to sleep or at least drink some more water, but he refrains from doing so, too afraid to remove his hands lest he lose Dick all over again.

“When I was...” Dick trails off, swallowing again. “While I was hallucinating,” he restarts, “I saw, no, uh, I thought I saw a lot of things.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, buddy,” Bruce reminds him, tapping his index across Dick’s knuckles. “It can wait.”

Dick shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. I’m okay.” His voice cracks slightly as he says that. Bruce ignores it and Dick seems grateful.

“I thought I was dying again,” he rushes out, as if to force the words before he can take it back. “All these bad things, things from the past that I didn’t want to remember, were suddenly all happening again and I-I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where I was, what was happening, who I was with half the time, and I couldn’t move, Bruce. I couldn’t move and it all just happened.

They wouldn’t stop touching me and it scared me. I was terrified and then suddenly I was alone and I really thought I had died. I thought that I had died and then Damian was there and-and I thought he had died again and I couldn’t, couldn’t handle that, Bruce.”

“Dick, breathe. Breathe. Damian is safe. You’re safe. Breathe in for me, buddy, that’s it. You’re okay. I promise.”

Dick nods again as if trying to convince himself that he’s safe now. That he’s home and everything is okay and there are no ghostly hands that cover and touch him. He tries, but he’s tired. The fear rests idle and Dick can feel it scratching at his throat. It’s been six hours hours since everything happened. Only six.

“I think the worst part,” Dick admits, strained and hushed, “was that I was alone.”

Bruce squeezes his son’s hands together, the pressure meant to be grounding. “I’m sorry,” he says, meaning it with everything he has.

Dick only shrugs his shoulders, a shuddering breath escaping him. He looks at his father’s hands, the gnarled knuckles and thin white scars that grasp his own destroyed fingers. The contrast of the touch compared to the appearance is comforting in a way that reminds Dick of their early days as Batman and Robin. Before Nightwing. Before Agent 37. Before everything else. It is a testament to their struggles, their crooked fingers and half formed nails from broken bones and relentless pursuit. Their hands hold the weight of a thousand punishments, twice more punches, and countless conflicts and battles.

Their hands are the evidence of their survival though. Their victories against death.

Two thin stitches that hold together the cut just below his hairline are another piece of the evidence. Another testimony to Dick’s endeavor for endurance against the odds. There will be a pink scar to commemorate tonight, and in a year or so, there will be nothing left but a faint white line.

Tomorrow, Dick will wake up, eat breakfast, and carry on about his day. It will be normal because it has to be. There is no other way to move forward, and Dick will swallow his pills with the same grimace and remembrance of hot metal and red lips. Maybe in a week, he’ll tell his therapist about tonight and they’ll suggest another coping strategy that Dick’s already tried but he’ll try again because he has to.

For now though, in the silence of his childhood room, decorated with pictures of the circus and framed photos of his found family, with black out curtains that never move to let the light of day peer through and a noisy vent that sometimes drips from condensation; for now, Dick can indulge in his fears and his worries as Bruce holds his hands.

There will be police reports, prosecutions, scandals, interviews, testimonies, and so much more later. Right now though. Right now, Dick lets himself breathe and accept the fact that things aren’t fine and that he needs help. Dick lets himself squeeze his father’s hands and blink away tears, finding relief in their hold.

He’s not okay, but tomorrow he will be. He has to be.

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