#and stripping it down to the most necessary. Ugh. Hell-

[jacksmusesdrv3]

*checks* ...it’s now just under 8K. I do know that the FakeDeath theory was part of the wrench in me doing this not knowing whether it was even necessary to touch on details or no- even if it’s a thin layer of icing on the cake where it comes to the whole theory, it doesn’t seem right to gloss over it either. But like-

-here’s... the rest of the cake.

See this is why I usually settle for cupcakes

……about that, over half a year later and I’m still on this Anon. Good chance I’m gonna have to link to an external if this keeps up- I suppose I can put a long essay under a cut though it might be a pain to read. I’ve only just now got to a point of gutting one of the sections and reworking it entirely since a list format like I originally had just… wasn’t gonna cut it. Someone’s gonna need a beta

I’ve just had some motivation issue which caused a lot of stalling but needless to say I’m stoked and have every intention to follow through on this :’ D

[unknowconcreteflower-art-blog-me]

Why Husker will be the driving force to save Angel Dust; Instagram deep-dive story! Angelhusk explained.

Okay full disclosure Hazbin Hotel is an adult cartoon has dark touchy subject matter so please tread carefully. This goes into shipper territory and I don’t want to get attack in my inbox about this or attacking each other too much shipping wars plus I’m a multi-shipper... But for the sake of this post it’s going to be all fuel Angelhusk (or Huskerdust), yes okay great thank you. This is a continuation of my previous post which was just a prequel to this one. I ended the post saying Husker will be the one to reach out to Angel and helping him. 

First I’ll be breaking down Husker’s first appearance and how his character is. When Alastor first summons him, he’s very pissed off when he’s pulled from the poker game. And he’s very quick show his anger, without fear despite Alastor being “one of the most powerful demons in Hell”, and does not care. Though this is a very short interaction we know that Husker does not put up with BS, he’s a drinker, and a poker player. How is this important to Angel Dust? Well Angel Dust, often hypes himself up but also tears himself down in the process, emphasizing that during the limo ride after being scolded by Vaggie that “his body is flawless, everybody wants a piece”... and thinks that’s all anybody wants from him. This is Angel’s way of protecting himself; he flirts with them first before they can hurt him, it’s just hidden with his confidence.

In reality he thinks everyone looks down on him, which is why he doesn’t accept help or confine in Charlie (like when he flipped her off )he isn’t taking a pity party. Angel hides his pain with vibrato and at the same time is too prideful to ask for help... he won’t admit when he’s in trouble. I explained this a little more in detail in my previous post why he thinks Charlie and Vaggie look down on him. But with Husker he in the same boat; using his addictions (gambling & drinking) to cope with his problems. Angel will be more incline to gravitate towards Husker and telling him his problems. I say this because it’s the same reason why Angel confines in Cherri, and is close with her. And unlike Charlie who can be naive at time ( don’t get me wrong I still love her), Husker will know when he’s over stepping his boundaries, and when to helping him since he’s going through something similar.

(Charlie wanting to help Angel but doesn’t know how...)

So all of you maybe wondering, how is Husker gonna help Angel dust then if he hides his problems like that. Vivziepop made Husker a poker-player for a reason, he knows how to tell if someone’s bluffing. And it’s already been established that Angel has a terrible poker face... so Angel can’t lie to Husker. This is why he was angry at Angel’s flirting when they first meet because he already sees through his facade, (plus he’s shy about it). He knows that he doesn’t really meant and he’s hiding something. His sense and observation skills are very necessary cause he can spot when Angel’s actually in trouble.

links to official instagrams below to follow the narrative: 

Angel’s instagram/Husker’s instagram/Nifty’s instagram/Sir Pentious’ instagram

This post starts the saga where Angel is waiting to be picked up at the studio. Saying “Waiting at the studio to...Be picked up for some fucking...Food.”, Val is quick comment on this saying “Forgot to pick you,lol.” and takes the chance to make him like an after thought and after Angel asks to be picked up again Val answer back “yeah but we are filming, I already ate.” just to rub it in. But that’s where Huskers intervenes and get Angel something to eat ,  and there’s a key detail here that it’s only Husker that comes to his aid. Now most of the main cast has an Instagram so you’d think they’d help him but they don’t... They all probably think he’s just being cute and sassy totally unaware of the Angel’s situation with Valentino, but we the audience know... (I’ll bring this point back later)

This one post is enough for Husker to be able see that Angel was really in trouble, which is why he goes out of his way to get him something to eat. And I would also like to point out after this post Husker starts following Angel’s instagram liking all his instagram posts. There’s more to this... keep in mind he starts following Angel after his posts about being tired and hungry. He’s not following him just because he has a “little crush” on Angel... he’s doing this because he wants to make sure Angel’s doing okay. He cares about Angel Dust well being and follows him to make sure doesn’t go hungry again. But during this time Angel isn’t aware of this... that Husker doing this out of worrying for Angel. I say this because right after Angel gets Husker tickets to his strip show, as “thank you” for the food. Showing that he trusts Husker but not entirely...

At this point Angel I don’t believe that he sees Husker’s actions as a gustier of genuine kindness towards him. No, he sees Husker as someone who just wants his body and this is just his way of getting towards that goal. Offering his services (or being flirty) is Angel way of not getting attach to someone (like I’ve said before): think of it as “ripping the band-aid quick off before it hurts more...”  it’s so he doesn’t get hurt again like with Valentino. I believe Val also managed manipulated Angel by doing nice things for him at first, like saying nice words or buying him nice gifts as means to just use him for his body (this is a real thing pimps do). And Angel thinks Husk is no different from the other guys who used him, that what everybody wants from him... he might as well give him what he wants. 

Night of the show rolls around and Husker misses it, kitty got too drunk... which we know takes place during the music video of Addict. In which we get another post about backs my statement the cast doesn’t know about Angel’s abuse. Nifty’s posts a pic, of Angel Dust looking sad after his show... saying “Saw Angel earlier, i hope he doesn’t leave the butts there 😅” Nifty wouldn’t have posted this if she knew what was going on. But Husker knows, that Angel’s depressed and feels bad about missing the show commenting “Oh fuck is that what I missed. Aw shit.” Feeling very guilty about missing Angels, usually Husk tends to hide his feelings but in this moment is very honest. Meaning he really did want to go to the show, not only that but realizes that Angel is actually upset. And he didn’t have to post this comment on Angel’s instagram but he had to he wanted to show that he was remorseful for not coming showing he is attracted to Angel Dust. 

This picks up to with a post with Husker saying “Ugh... Since I missed the show, @angie_fluffy_bootz is sayin I owe him one and is making me watch his fuckin pig... I ain’t a fuckin babysitter!” in which babysits Fat Nuggets, which means he went out of his way to say “ what can I do to make it up to you”, and the conversation after it is a major turning point in the relationship for them. In the comment section Husker complains that Fat Nuggets ate all the food at the bar and says he wants to be payed back. Angel’s offer to pay him pay with a “private show”, in the only way thing he thinks Husker wants (I mean that all anybody ever wants from him). He does this with his usually flirty response, but it’s very different (this is a cut version of the convo.):

Angel: “tell ya what I’ll pay ya back with another private show”

Husker: “...I’m not doing that.

Angel: that or nothing babe. I think it’s a good deal.

Husker:“Jesus fucking Christ...” 

Angel: Ugh. Fine I’ll quit it. Only if you join me for shakes.

Husker: Yeah okay I think I can do that. 

This is major turning point in their relationship; this conversation is very important. Like I said before this is just his way of ripping the band-aid but there’s a reason why he’s really pushing it this time. It’s because Angel knows that he’s starting to catching feelings for Husker. And he’s not sure if Husker wants his body or if really means it. And the matter of the situation is Husker’s feeling the same way. When Husker says “Jesus fucking Christ...” it’s his way of saying “For the last time I don’t want your body, I’m not playing this game”... Here’s the thing Husker believes he’s proven enough that he doesn’t see Angel as a sex object, he’s more tried of the facade than he is annoyed. He doesn’t want Angel Dust to be a “fuck buddy” to him...

And this is a major turning point in their relationship, Angel finally understands that Husker just wants to be there for him. This is why he offers to go out with shakes with him, and of course Husker denies it and says “it’s not a date...”, but we know Husker is happy, because he’s willing accept this as being payed back for the food fat nuggets are, to him this was enough. Needless to say to say it was very cute and I loved it. Not only that but Husker becomes more active on Instagram and low-key tries to flirt back to Angel in his own grumpy cat way. 

Try and tell me they aren’t flirting with each other!

A week after their date Angel Dust does a instagram post showing off his new outfit he got and Husker is quick to ask “why so many zippers”, he’s still too nervous to flirt directly Angel Dust responses with “More to pull down, respond...” Huskers clueless and responses with a “eh” still likes it anyway (the feelings are mutual now). And within the same week Husker posts his own selfie“ Wanted to wear a tie for once. 🥃”, posting one because of Angel. And this isn’t for nothing the pics clearly mirror each other (no pun intended). Just-wanted-to-wear-a-tie-for-once-my-foot ..he clearly did this to impress Angel with him asking “If he needs help with that tie...”, with Husker still being oblivious with the sexual reference but kitty’s still trying. 

This to me highlights why Angel is good for Husker (and vice-versa)... During his first appearance he comments “I lost the ability to love years ago...” and drinks down his booze. Which alludes to why he drinks because he feels lonely. Angel makes him active thus eliminating his reason to drink, as we can see through Husk trying things he hasn’t done before like wearing nice clothes. Now he didn’t have to but Husker pushed himself to be better. As for Angel it gives him a genuine romantic relationship that is centered by an emotional connection and not physically. Husker prioritizes Angels feelings and well-being first.

And for those of you that are confused with Huskers grumpy tendencies. In an interview Viviziepop has said about him is that he is a tsundere. Now a tsundere, it is a character the initially appearing as cold and hostile only to hide their true feelings. This is a troupe used  many times in animes (but if you are not familiar with the term or need an example of one Helga from Hey Arnold is a prime example of one).  His actions disregard his attitude towards Angel... Most of his grumpy responses to Angel are to hide his feelings for him and never used to cut down or degrade Angel Dust (like Val does). I will even argue that Husker is the total opposite of Valentino; Val uses flashiness and with sweet words to hide his heinous and vile intentions. While Husker seems hotheaded and temperamental initially his actions show he’s actually a very kind and caring individual and Angel defiantly sees that...

HUSKER MADE THE WALL!

Angel is special to Husker and he feels the same way... Now and is upper there with Fat Nuggets and Cherri Bomb. And of course Husker is embarrassed, realizing his pics there too saying “what the fuck!” but we know he’s happy. At this post we can assume that Husker is just as important to him as Cherri & Fat Nuggets is to him... and vice-versa. Which is why I believe that Husker will be the one Angel reaches out to first for help within the Hazbin Hotel. And I know some of you may not be convinced, that it’s just platonic or think that Husker just sees him as a friend, but as we know Husker is not a man of words... but a man of action! 

There is a key detail in this story that I’ve been keeping under-warps up until now, (and the reason why it took me so long to because once I found it piece of info; I had to change my original plans for this post). 

Remember how I said that the rest of the cast doesn’t know what’s going on with Val... and that Husker’s observation skills were going to be integral in helping save Angel. Well around the same time as the PJ pic... on Sir Pentious’ instagram he posts a pic of himself trying to make his minions look like Valentino and Vox: I wasn’t even trying to find this but low and behold guess who pops up in the comment section...

Now what does this post say to you. (Husker also liked the post too)

Now repeat after me...“You don’t hear shit about people unless you go looking for it.” ... HUSKER KNOWS!  My theory is that he’s been suspecting that there was something up with Val, ever since the pick-up post, so he’s been keep tabs on instagram Angel to make sure he was safe. And as time went on Angel became more precious to him and became more worried about him. And Husker not wanting to overstep his bounds by asking Angel directly, (because it’s none of his business but still super worried) so he goes around digging info on Valentino. SO then he probably knows that he abuses his workers.  

(Or Angel told him whats happening... I’m leaning towards that Husker did his own digging because narratively it would be too soon and we wouldn’t have a story to tell and would have told Charlie and the rest of the crew too already... Either way..)

Val sent him this, scumbag! And it only takes Husker seconds to defend him and makes sure Angel knows he’s not fat. (most recent post)

Husker has knows, he’s actively been looking into Valentino and the shit he’s done, because he wants to protect Angel Dust! And it’s evident now, he has been defending him on Instagram as well, now being in the know, Husker defending his boy! He is not afraid of Valentino and is not putting up with his BS for putting down Angel anymore... our boy Husker is watching you rat-man.

He maybe the only one who knows that Valentino is abusing Angel (or catching on to it). Which will lead Angel coming clean about how Valentino raped him... And at this point Angel trusts Husker so much that he maybe willing to listen to him when he says “Hey you need to tell someone” or “you need help” and Husker already knows Angel well enough to know how to help him without having Angel push him away. 

AND THAT is why I believe he will be the major driving force in saving Angel from the RAT-MAN (Val)... And we know Husker isn’t afraid of overlords; he’s gonna protect his boy. He is proven time and time again that he loves and cares for Angel Dust so much... and oh I’m gushing now.

AND LOOK HOW CUTE THEY ARE! I just want them to be happy, I want the best for our bois!

Thank you and I hope you all enjoyed the post (and please no shipping war in the comment section I don’t condone it whether you support it or not! Not fighting in the fandom)

[bangtanlalaland]

more than enough | knj (m.)

synopsis ⇣ your unfortunate divorce has left you questioning life and your entire existence. that is, until, your counselor demonstrates just how much you’re worth.

— marriage counselor!au

⇢pairing: marriage counselor!kim namjoon x divorcee!female reader

⇢genre: angst, smut, pwp

⇢word count: 5.4k

⇢contents ⨯ warnings: someone plz stop me from writing these porn-filled, no plot having fics, i think i need help, dom joon makes an appearance (who doesn’t love this man? uwu), lots of filthy filthiness, swearing, oral sex (f + m receiving), drunk bathroom oral sex actually (oops), did i mention jungkook makes an appearance? (he’s that blonde babe from the bathroom scene) 😏, masturbation, unprotected sex (always stay safe!), rough sex, breathplay, dumbification, hair-pulling, spanking, slapping, choking, creampie, impreg kink (ugh my fave), over-stimulation, voyeurism (oof), multiple orgasms, name-calling (being called a slut), jungkook’s tongue is magical, namjoon’s dick is huge (don’t @ me), premature ejaculation (oops)

a/n: I’ve had this also in my wips for awhile 💜 including like 10+ wips with joon because he’s my bby & I love him so much ugh!

Your fingertips awkwardly fiddle with themselves, a slight tension in your shoulders that you’re sure is visible. With legs crossed, you take a deep breath and contemplate your next guilty pleasure meal of the day. Everything around you seems black and white; since your divorce, you’d become null and void — not understanding why life itself got you to this point. You’d often question your purpose in life.

Why me? What did I do wrong? Am I not enough?

But here you are, reminiscing when everything seemed smooth, lovely, and peaceful. When things weren’t always about arguing over finances, hectic work schedules, a decrease in the amount of quality time spent together, or most importantly: pleading for just the smallest ounce of attention.

The sudden sound of your counselor’s throat clearing startles you, “Mrs. ____?” His notepad and pen in hand, his eyebrows raising up at you, slightly. Not having realized you’d zoned out, your fingers stop moving on their own accord. Your back straightens up just a tad more.

“Sorry, I-”

He cracks a smile, his hand raising up in reply, “Don’t be. Take your time,” You take a deep breath, and silently woosah yourself. Some part of you is curious as to why people like your counselor work these kinds of jobs. You couldn’t imagine having a career where you’re required to keen in on people’s problems everyday and offer advice, when you have problems of your own and can’t get your shit together.

Ugh, life.

“I’m hanging in there. I guess?” He cocks his head to the side, eyeing your expression.

“Can you tell me one good thing that happened to you this week?” You take a deep breath, followed by a coy smirk.

It had been a long time since you stepped out and especially in risqué attire. Your roudy friend and co-worker, Candice, insisted that you needed to spend the night out to celebrate your now freedom — post divorce. A slight sentiment of anxiety takes a toll on you, that is until she orders you both a couple shots of tequila to rile you up.

“Here’s to being young, wild, and free baby!” She exclaims, clinking her glass against yours. The both of you tilt your heads back, inducing more alcohol — hissing due to the slight burn in the back of your throat. Candice taps your shoulder, and hell were you feeling the aftermath of the liquor. You’re all giggles and feeling loopy.

Next thing you know, you’re locking lips with a cutie in the bathroom. Teeth and tongues clashing against each other, the thrill of getting it on with someone you don’t know was exhilarating — courtesy of the liquor in your system. Your mind hadn’t registered the lingering aroma of his cologne, until he pressed you up against the wall and stooped down on his knees, reaching under your dress to pull your panties to the side. Your lady lips revealed to him, and it’s as if he’s as horny as you are in this moment, if not more. The blonde-haired babe glares up at you with those pouty lips and dives head first. His nose brushes up against your clit as he licks a long strip along your folds, stopping to circling his tongue around the bud. His lips encase around your clit, and his muffled moans vibrate against your core, making you throb relentlessly with much arousal. He lifts your leg up and over his shoulder, while your back rests against the wall — an attempt to keep some leverage while having him in between your legs like this.

“Mmmm,” was all you could hear from him as he licks up and down your pussy lips, coating them with his saliva.

Your mind couldn’t even process the last time you’d been eaten out like this; uncontrollable moans slipping out of you, and it feels oh so damn good. Your hips grind against his tongue, helping to bring on your orgasm at a much quicker pace. His soft fingers grip your thighs to keep you in place. He pulls away with a pop and stares at you with those gorgeous, doe-like eyes. Your chest rises up and down, panting to gain your breath back. His fingers find purchase on your lips, and with a light tap you open up sucking them in your mouth. A low groan slips from him, you bob your head back and forth making sure to coat his digits and suddenly he pulls away. With furrowed brows, you hadn’t even processed that his fingers rammed into your pussy, your walls now warm and wet, inviting them in. Your fingers grasp onto his hair, pulling and tugging once his thumb swipes your clit intently. You’re so close and just need a slight push.

“Damn babe, how can you be this wet?” He giggles in your ear. You can smell whatever it is he doused himself in from the bar. You can’t quite pinpoint what exactly, but it is there.

“Just fuck me already, please” You plead with his fingers still inside you, he rubs your clit just right and repeatedly thrusts his fingers in and out. The obvious squelching sound of your pussy can be heard, and you pray to God nobody else suddenly walks in. You guys did lock the door right?

Shit.

And then he stops, removing his digits from you. You frown instantly.

“Need you in my mouth,” He adds, returning to his previous position from before, His lips wrap around your folds, sucking and tugging them with hunger. Like he’s having the most delicious meal in his last day on Earth. He continues to make obscene sounds with his slurping noises, his fingers press and rub onto your clit in a rapid motion. Your thighs give out, and it’s a clear indication to you that you’re going to cum. Has it really been this long? Have you really forgotten what it’s like to have an orgasm? That feeling deep within where the bottom of your tummy and core meet, feels tight as a knot. He lashes his tongue out to glide along your folds and sticks himself inside of you, tongue fucking you while rubbing your clit.

“I’m going to cum!” You cry with a labored breath. He uses your cry as a sign to lift your leg over his shoulder while he grips your waist, his hands land on your ass — gripping your cheeks firmly. His tongue lands flat to paint his saliva all over your cunt, his hands aid in gliding his tongue up and down your pussy at a rapid pace. He shakes his head back and forth, his tongue brushing across your throbbing, aching clit as a result. He continues at his relentless pace and suddenly that feeling inside snaps.

“Fuck!” Your thighs tremble violently and your core contracts continuously. Your back arches off the wall, but the stranger doesn’t stop his motions, his tongue continues on its own accord, not letting up. You even feel his fingernails digging into your cheeks slightly. Your fingers grasp onto his strands, tugging with an necessary amount of force — mimicking his motions. His low moans suddenly drawing out more than you expected, adding an extra touch to your orgasm, — your clit feeling used having been stimulated for a moment too long. The trembling of your body subsides, your legs attempting to hold on for a little longer as you fight to push him from you.

“O-okay. Okay, that’s- E-enough. Fuck!” To your luck he pulls off with a swipe of his hand across his mouth, panting and out of breath. You assume that’s the only reason he gave up, until you notice he continues to moan, his face contorted into an expression you suppose is from a feeling of ecstasy. And then his gaze drops down to his clothed crotch; his wide eyes roam upwards to your form, with lips parted. Your trembling figure gradually regaining composure.

“Oops,” He slips, letting out a contagious laugh. You follow where his gaze was before and shake your head.

“I-it’s okay, I understand.” His eyes crinkle up in a crescent-moon shape, and you somehow notice the rosy tint of his cheeks, streaming to his ears. Poor thing. He’s probably embarrassed.

Your counselor listens with open ears, taking in everything you’re describing to him, while jotting down what you think are a few notes. But to your unknown avail, he has written:

Client lacks in sex life, due to divorce Stranger gives oral sex; client reaches orgasm

Namjoon clears his throat before proceeding, “And what is it that makes this-” He pauses to gather the correct words, attempting to wash away the imagination of you spreading your legs out, pussy on display, on his leather sofa.

“Experience a good one for you? Is it the thrill from having an orgasm? Maybe the act of having a stranger perform oral sex on you? Or is it because he orgasmed in his pants by performing oral sex on you?”

You contemplate for a moment, thinking deeply about his speculation. You admit it; he’s great at his job. Well, at least better than you would probably be in his line of work. With legs still crossed, you playfully dangle your ankle up and down, your leg now having fallen asleep but you’re somewhat in an awkward state — speaking to a male about your recent sexcapade.

It’s times like these that you wished you were referred a female counselor. And it doesn’t help with how attractive Mr. Kim is, which is definitely a deal breaker for you. You take in his lavender streaks that paint the strands of his hair, paired with highlights of platinum blonde.

Although, you can’t help but ponder what he thinks of all this? Seeing it as you’re a divorced woman, having developed a dry spell, and can’t seem to even orgasm from her previous husband — the person you’d committed your life to, to what you assumed would have been able to please you in the bedroom but unfortunately he failed. It’s embarrassing, to say the least.

Mr. Kim had been there through it all, the good and bad, the ups and downs, twists and turns. It wasn’t that he failed his job, no. He was perfect at it; but, your marriage simply failed. You wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Kim confessed that he knew what the outcome would be, because it was that obvious. But your ex-husband had to hire a professional simply because he was too prideful to admit his wrongdoings and actually “man up” to fix his problems.

Part of you hated that you’d stuck around after the divorce, and you’re surprised Mr. Kim hadn’t suggested you no longer needed of his services. But, you suppose he was just being kind, offering the best of his services — while another part of you assumed he understood that you do need someone to vent to. Being as that, doing so helps to ease the mind. You’re sure he’s aware that everyone needs to talk to someone, even if it’s a stranger.

Except in this case, Mr. Kim isn’t a stranger — quite the opposite actually and some part of you felt vulnerable to him. The fact he knew your story; any personal thing you could think of that’s ever happened to you — you had spilled it all to him. You contemplate: Who does he confide in, despite his career being that he helps those in desperate times of need? Does he ever vent to anyone? And if so, does it help him to stay sane?

You shake your head at the thought of it all, wanting to piece the entire process altogether. You’d almost forgotten he was still here in this very room with you, awaiting a response to slip. And damn, is he patient. You curse yourself for having zoned out that much, and with a clearing of his throat you are gracefully brought back to reality. The atmosphere suddenly parching your form, an odd sensation of heat pooling over you — paired with a sheen of cold sweat approaching.

He stares into your gaze, as if studying you for a moment.

“Mrs. ____?” His eyes still glued onto you, searching for any sign that you will open your mouth for once. But, you can’t seem to say anything else but one word.

“Control.” His eyebrows flick in response and he slowly nods — having scribbled something into his notes:

Control?

“Control?” He questions, giving you the spotlight to elaborate on whatever it is you’re implying. Your foot stops dangling, having now closed both of your legs entirely, squeezing them together. The visual of that stranger’s mouth lapping at your cunt flashes through your mind.

You take a deep breath, “Yes, control.” Namjoon’s eyebrows quirk upward, as if signaling for you to continue already.

“I-I’m sorry, I can’t do this.” You blurt out while grabbing your belongings, in a hurry to leave. Namjoon seethes. He’d endured months, perhaps a year of therapy with you. He refused to let you walk out without being satisfied. And he knows exactly what you need. He had the date written down, when you came to him for one of your sessions and confessed how long it had been since you had sex. It’s a memory he’d never forget, because although he’s a licensed counselor and shouldn’t personally involve himself with his clients — with you it was different. He despised the way your ex-husband treated you. It was wrong, and he couldn’t take the pain of seeing you stressed beyond your limits.

“ ____,” His deep voice now dipped in a stern tone, one you’d never heard before, and he never calls you by your first name. Like ever. With your back turned, you can feel his presence directly behind you. So close, you could practically drown in the warmth radiating from his body. He reaches past you, his fingers finding placement over the lock of the door.

“Sit down,” he commands. You shudder under his rigid voice, finding yourself to obey as he instructs, somewhat afraid of what he’d do if you didn’t comply. His towering figure follows back to his seat prior to your attempt of departing. His legs now spread wide and back slightly slumped in his chair. Your shoulders naturally tense themselves, a result of the heat wave washing over you.

Namjoon glares at you with an unreadable expression, as if he’s peering into your soul, a sudden churn resides in your tummy. You absentmindedly pull your dress down just a tad, the material now clinging to your skin due to the sweat that built up under Namjoon’s gaze.

He strokes his chin, and you thank the Heavens for that sight because it definitely gets you going. His slender fingers grazing amongst his skin, veins popping while doing so. You can only imagine what they would feel like inside your-

“Off the record, I know what you want.” He blurts out, stilling his motions. You question him with a rise of your eyebrows. The coy smirk that appears on his lips has you boiling on the inside, your thighs rubbing together pathetically — to ease the ache within your core. What the hell is this man doing to you?

“Should it be too much for you, the safe word is velvet.”

He removes his glass and places them down on the coffee table separating you both. He proceeds to make his way toward you, eyeing you down as if you’re his prey. He unbuckles his belt and slips, “You’ll do as I say when I say it and not give any back talk. Understand?” Your mouth flies agape at his sudden change in demeanor — only adding fire to the fuel in your heat.

He tilts your chin up with his finger, “Don’t make me ask you twice.”

“Yes- Yes, Namjoon.” He slaps your face, at first in a gentle manner, your kitty throbs in response at the sudden action.

“It’s Sir to you.” You nod in reply, “Yes, S-sir.”

Namjoon sits in his favorite spot, unbuttoning his slacks. His hands snake behind the garment, running along his shaft under his briefs.

“Open your legs and play with yourself,” He demands. Before your brain could process what he requested, your body moved instead. You pry open your legs and Namjoon is instantly met with your aching cunt.

“You little slut,” He mulls with a followed growl, his cock twitching under his grip. “You came all the way here with no fucking panties?”

You nod at his question, bringing your fingers to your wet folds.

“So fucking filthy.” Namjoon pumps himself at the sight of you grazing along your clit. “I should fuck you until you can’t think anymore.”

“Please,” you whine, grinding your hips. You lick the pads of your fingers and rub your clit instinctively, a moan falling from your lips.

“Is that what you want?” He coos, precum seeping from the slit on the head of his cock. “You want me to fuck you silly? Make you cream all over my cock like the good, little bitch you are?”

Wanton moans now become uncontrollable for you, and you lose yourself in Namjoon’s sexy voice laced with lust, “Yes, Sir. P-please, fuck me. I need your cock.”

A low rumble emits from his chest, he runs his fingers through his strands that were glued to his forehead. He pushes his trousers and briefs down to his knees.

“Come here. Now.” He motions with his index finger, and you find yourself at his beck and call. Namjoon slides himself down further in his seat and gestures you over him.

“Sit on my face,” You do exactly as he says and hover over his face. He doesn’t hesitate to grip your hips and lodge his tongue inside of your hot heat. His nose nuzzles your clit in the process, soaking in the fragrance of your womanhood. He graciously fucks your hole with his tongue, then slithers along your inner folds. He sucks and tugs onto them between his plump lips, groaning into your cunt. You naturally grind your hips, following his motions.

“Oh, fuck.” You slip, while grazing your fingers within his strands. Namjoon’s fingers dig deeper onto your hips. He lays his tongue flat down to glide against your clit, your folds having been coated in his saliva. He peers up at you with those wide, sexy eyes, and the sudden shock of his palm smacking your ass jolts you forward — your grip landing on the leather seat. His moans continue to reverberate within your core, emitting a cry of euphoria from you. He wraps his plush lips around your nub and sucks feverishly. His nails graze along the flesh of your ass cheeks and…

Smack.

“Mmmm, Sir!” He shakes his head back and forth, and sucks your clit again — sending you into your second orgasm in the past week. Your thighs tremble and back arches slightly, your nails claw the leather of the seat and your hips grind along his tongue — an attempt to ride out your high. Namjoon lands another harsh smack onto your bottom, and you scream maybe just a little too loud for your liking, yet it’s music to his ears.

But, he doesn’t stop.

He continues his ministrations, and just as you try to break away from his steady pace, he constrains your hips with his large hands, locking you in place. He doesn’t let up on your now sensitive clit, and instead continues to slide his tongue all around and onto your bud. You shake your head in reply, the stimulation being too much but somehow there’s this burning ache that re-approaches, and you know there’s yet another orgasm approaching.

You push his head away, desperately wanting him to get his mouth off your aching pussy.

“P-please, Please.” You plead. But he grips onto you harder and shakes his head in a “no” gesture, his tongue gliding along your clit while doing so. His lips encase around your nub again and eagerly sucks the life out of you. Your legs shiver.

Namjoon mumbles within you, “Cum on my face, again.” His hand slaps your ass cheek again and again, sending you into your second orgasm that seems more powerful than the first. Your entire body convulses, eyes roll back, and you let out a screeching cry. He gently rubs the area he’d smacked before, and peels his mouth from you finally. He slaps your cheek again and demands, “On the couch. Now.”

You’re barely able to recover from your orgasm, and with shaky legs you set on your two feet to make your way over to the leather sofa. Joon follows behind and drops his trousers and briefs down to his ankles, kicking the garments to the side. Your met with the sight of his length, and you audibly gasp. He’s so thick, and your kitty clenches just by looking at him. His dick springs up, and you note the precum now dripping from his slit and down into a thin line.

“Come here,” He says while pushing your head onto his length. He stuffs his cock into your mouth, fucking your throat relentlessly. You grab onto his thick, juicy thighs to keep some leverage. The lewd noises of your throat being fucked can be heard through the office space. Namjoon’s breath hitches at the view of you stuffed with him entirely, his dick literally choking the life out of you. He lets out a grimacing chuckle, “Finally you can keep your mouth shut, huh? Let someone else take control, hm?” He bucks his hips forward, the veins in his arm protruding as his grip on your hair tightens, thrusting himself back and forth into your mouth.

His head falls back in ecstasy. Your nails graze along his bare thighs, begging for a release of air. And you assume that inspires him to torture you even more because before you could process what’s happening. He pinches your nose shut, to keep you from breathing, and holds himself at the back of your throat. You pound his thighs as a result.

“Look at me.” He commands, and with tears streaming down your cheeks, your gaze follows up to his hooded lids as you eagerly pound your fists onto his thighs and scratch the flesh. You’re convinced you are on the verge of passing out until he lets out the sexiest moan you’d ever heard in your life and that’s when his thighs tense up in your touch, his lower abdomen contracts, and bursts of warm cum shoot down your throat. You shut your eyes to focus on not passing out, but somehow with his added jizz, it doesn’t help. You continue to smack his thighs to signal you’re on your way to Heaven if he doesn’t let up. You feel his cock gradually easing out, and then he says…

“Fucking swallow.”

And so you do, managing to swallow every drop of him and finally he releases his throbbing member from your mouth. As soon as you are let free to breathe in some kind of air, you suck in a huge breath — followed by some coughs to gain your breathing back, and then an odd sensation within your head subsides. Once again, you can’t recover. Namjoon pulls you by your hair and shoves you toward the leather sofa.

“Bend down.” And you do exactly as you’re told, obeying him as if you’re a puppy and he’s your owner. Namjoon pumps himself and slaps your ass once you bend completely over, arching your back to push your bottom out more profoundly.

“Such a good slut.” He slaps your ass and you whimper at his harsh demeanor. Somehow you manage to wiggle your goods at him, wanting to know what that monster between his legs feel like, and your craving doesn’t go unnoticed. Namjoon tugs your hair, making you arch your back whilst he forces your entire form against his chest. His stiff length is pressed against your ass, and you find yourself grinding against him for just any type of friction to ease the level of horny that’s overcome your being.

“Look at you all needy for my cock. I don’t think you’re fucking ready for me, hm?” His hold on you grows tighter, and the sharp pain of him pulling your strands, mixed with his cock rutting against your behind, strangely makes your core twitch — a dire need of attention.

“Oh, but Sir! I am ready. Plea-” With that, Namjoon shoves you forward back into doggystyle. And when your back isn’t arched enough to his liking, he takes a big blow to your ass, prompting you to adjust your posture. You’re sure by the end of this so called “session” you’ll slip from his establishment sore and bruised. The tip of his cock nudges at your entrance, he runs himself along your dripping labia, making sure to smother himself in your wet. The rising heat in the pit of your core makes you anxious. You can’t remember the last time it had been when you’d had sex, and you supposed Namjoon knows this. You’re not even sure what all this means. How could you both look at each other the same after this is all done? Will he let you go after this? Maybe refer a different counselor? Or will this continue to be what his “sessions” are about? Or is this just a one time thing, and after today, everything will go back to normal? But how could that be possible?

Your on-going thoughts are put on a hold when a slight stretching-like burn approaches so sudden, and you’re left with a wide-opened mouth. Your nails scrape the material of the couch you have left to hold onto. Namjoon feels like nothing you’d ever felt before. He’s big, you know that. But holy hell does he feel different than he looks; it’s something you can’t explain. With toes curling, you call out his name as if he’s the only person left on the plant. What did you do to deserve this kind of dick? Your walls clamp eagerly around his shaft, sucking him in entirely — like a vacuum.

“Shit! It’s been that long, huh?” He admits, gritting his teeth at the sentiment of how tight you are. “He- Let this go?” He adds, while bottoming out completely. Pulling almost all the way out to slam right back into you — your body jerking forward in the process. “S-so fucking stupid. How- Mmmm.” Namjoon can’t contain himself; he pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts, trying beyond his limits to not blow his load into you so quickly.

“How could he let this go?” He pulls out and slams back into you again, this time with a harsh punch. He reaches for your hair, balling his fist into the strands, because for this time, he can’t just take it easy on you.

“More for me, then.” And that’s when you scream as if you’re being murdered — more like your vagina is. Namjoon begins a brutal pace, ramming into you and having no second thoughts about it.

“Oh! Unfgh, S-sir!” Your eyes shut instantly and face scrunches up in pleasure; you’d honestly never felt so high in your entire life. If you could be fucked like this at least once a week, you’d truly die happy.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been wanting to fuck you dumb?” He shoots with a hint of hostility. “I was relieved-” He punctuates with a harsh thrust, “To find out you both divorced… Wanted to fuck the shit out of you ever since you stepped foot into my office… Told me every fucked up thing he ever did to you.” You’re not even sure why but his confession has you smothering him in your juices. The fact he had a desire for you was hot, and you would be lying if you said you wouldn’t have fucked him the first time you had a session with him — that is, without your now ex-husband. Maybe Namjoon is right, maybe you are a slut. But who cares?

Namjoon releases his pull on your hair and pushes your head forward, you languidly fall onto the cushion and bury your face within it while he continues to bang out places in you that you never knew could be reached — his animalistic mannerisms are beyond your comprehension.

“Oh, yes!” You cry out, your figure shifting upwards from his vigorous pace. You nearly topple over at how hard he’s fucking you, and at this moment, you can’t fully think straight with him fucking you senselessly. The only sound you’re aware of is the slapping of his balls against your ass and his grunting here and there. You mumble a few incoherent words, and then a few slapping sounds follows. Your ass cheeks now burning with a hot passion.

“Look at you-” Namjoon grunts as he stills himself inside of you and twists your body around, leaving you to rest on your side. “Can’t even speak properly with my dick inside of you.”

Slap.

“Should clog this little pussy of yours up with my children.”

“Fucking come here,” He hauls you toward him to bring you closer, his cock sheathing itself fully inside of you. Not able to form proper words, your nails drag across his thigh and you wrap your leg around his waist, the heel of your foot digging into his bottom cheek. And just as you blinked, he wraps his hand around your throat and begins plunging his cock in and out of you repeatedly. You’re so close to cumming again, that you find some strength to ease your way between your legs and mindlessly rub your clit. Namjoon notes your actions and squeezes your throat harder.

“Yes! F-fuck!” You attempt to choke out; then Namjoon rams into that certain spot within you that has you seeing stars, and your orgasm floods your entire self that you’re shaking underneath him.

“Fuck yeah,” He coos while releasing your throat and slapping your face left and right. “He was so stupid, hm?” Your walls contracting around him has his cock twitching in a way that he knows is a warning of his impending orgasm. You clench so tightly around him, almost locking him in place, whilst creaming all over his shaft.

“Say it.” You whimper in reply, and he grips your face in place to keep you from squirming. “I want you to say how stupid your ex-husband was for leaving you. Say it now.” Your body continues to tremble and grow limp, yet you force the words from your mouth that even you surprised your own self.

“M-my ex-husband was stupid for leaving me, ahh!” Namjoon jams into you again, his thrusts now a much sloppier pace while his thumb reaches for your clit again, rubbing relentlessly. You wiggle around to somewhat ease your now sensitive, aching clit. But he doesn’t let you. He slaps your face again and pins your arms above your head, his body landing fully on top of yours. He licks the pads of his fingers to find your clit again, and you don’t think it’s possible to cum for the fourth time today, but you’re convinced Namjoon would prove otherwise.

“I want you to cum on my cock again.” He states, with a much softer tone this time, added with, “And tell me how much you’re worth having.” Another wave washes over you, granting his wish. Your chest heaves up and down in an attempt to fully gain your normal breathing pattern back. Your writhing body sends a shock of pleasure straight to his groin, and the need to cum is slowly advancing.

You cling onto Namjoon, and slip “I- am worth it. I-I’m worth having,” It’s as if your simple doing of following his command pushes him over the edge. But your added comment fuels him on even more.

“Cum inside of me, please. Make me full of your children.” With that, Namjoon shudders above you. His member pulses inside of you, streams of his cum color your insides. His lavender-stained strands glue themselves to his forehead, and it isn’t until now that you realize how wet your skin is, courtesy of the leather material below you.

Within the silence that subsides afterwards, aside from the melody of the both of you panting, Namjoon breaks the ice.

“You’re more than enough.”

[magalidragon]

n°7 - “Is there some space left in that bathtub?”

In the “Heat Wave” universe, pretty please!😊

YES! Love these beans! 🔥🔥🔥 And  because I also got another ask for this same universe, I’ve combined it into one Drabblish-ish (2700 words, not 2500, lol).  And THANK YOU FOR THE MOODBOARD DARLING!  Enjoy!

Smutty One Liner Prompts

7. “Is there some space left in that bathtub?”

10. “Jealousy seems to be a great motivator for you.”

Bliss, that's what this was, Dany thought, her eyes still closed, her breathing even, and her skin tingly and warm.  She sighed, exhaling out any worry she might continue to have—there was no more worry now that she was out of the Hell House and living in Heaven's Hall—her body nestled in a soft, fluffy mattress with thick quilt and soft flannel sheets covering her.  She smiled, serene, and opened her eyes slowly, peering up at a set of red eyes, watching her.  

She smiled wider, quirking an eyebrow up.  "That's really creepy Ghost."

Ghost said nothing, licked his chops, and then her face, and hopped away from his nighttime stalking.  She chuckled, sitting up on her elbows, glancing at three faces underneath one of the throw blankets over the bed, all of her little dragons purring contentedly, no doubt thankful she had relocated them completely.  She wiggled her toes, returning feeling to them, and scanned the room, which was empty.  

The snow had eventually stopped, the wind fading away, and now the sun was out, but to her surprise, she must have slept through most of the day.  Bloody cold, she cursed inwardly, for she never got sick.  She had slept most of the last couple of days, interspersed with coughing fits, cranky moments of letting Jon take her temperature and pour soup and tea down her throat, and the occasional "I am not sick, so you can totally fuck me, I promise I won't pass out" debates.  He had refused, tucking her into the big bed in his room, saying that she was his patient now, and one did not take advantage that way.

"You're too honorable for your own good," she bitched, the last time she'd tried to suggest a little nookie.

"Sue me."

"Hmm, I might."  

He simply kissed her nose, told her she was adorable with her pouting, and she fell asleep before she could reply, cursing her body for succumbing to this strange Southern cold during this strange Southern storm.  

It was almost sundown; the light fading overtop the trees cocooning the house on the mountainside.  She blinked at the reflection of the snowy treetops in the huge windows and felt good.  Good enough to get out of bed, she figured, sliding free of the sheets, the huge Night's Watch hoodie falling over her hips to her knees and sleeves over her fingertips.  She shuffled in her thick wool socks—also stolen from Jon—to the bathroom, flicking on the light and taking stock of her reflection.  

Her nose was chapped from blowing into Kleenex, her eyes slightly blood-shot, and her hair was a nest of epic proportions, she wondered if there was a dragon living in it.  She scrubbed her cheek with her palm, shaking her head, and glanced at Ghost, who looked up at her curiously.  "Do you think I'm sexy Ghost?"  She put on a fake pose, thrusting her hip to the side, pretending to look cute in the oversized sweatshirt and nothing else.  

Ghost did not indicate one way or the other.  He just wandered off towards the sunken tub, hoping into it and then put his paws on the other side, tail wagging and gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows.  She wandered over, sitting on the edge, and followed his gaze, smiling down at Jon, who was moving firewood from the deck into the house.  She scratched Ghost's head.  "Thank you for keeping me company, I'm sure you'd rather be with him."

She ran her fingers as best through her hair as she could, wincing at tangles.  "Ugh."  A shower was necessary.  She shivered; it was still chilly, even with the heat returning, the pipes back to working order.  

Somewhere in the bedroom, her phone dinged.  She left Ghost to his watch, getting off the bathtub edge and went to pick it up from the nightstand, staring at the email notification from Tyrion Lannister.  

Thank you for your message, Lannister Properties is currently closed due to significant weather activity, we will respond in due time. She scoffed, opened up one of the emails that had been sent immediately after and saw that indeed, Tyrion had replied.

Ms. Targaryen, I was sorry to see your negative review of our property.  As you know, significant weather activity is possible, and while we cannot compensate you for any destruction caused by Acts of the Gods, we would like to offer you a 20 percent discount on your next Lannister Property rental.  A Lannister always pays their debts, and we would like to no longer be in debt to you!  Thank you, Tyrion  P.S.  Our insurance investigator will survey the property damage and be in touch regarding your payment options.

Her mouth dropped.  "Fuck you!" she shouted at the email.  She would definitely be handling this stupid little lion herself.  After drafting a very strongly worded email with tons of legal jargon she hoped would have the Lannister quaking in his boots, she dropped her phone, a muscle twitching somewhere in her shoulder.  She rubbed at it, scowling at the dragons, who were watching her from where they now were seated on her pillow.  She shook her head.  "Fucking Lannisters."

At least she had Jon, she figured, and picked up her phone again, sending a quick message to Missandei.  Despite the weather, the plague, and the shitty rental, I'm feeling much better now.

Her phone buzzed almost immediately.  She smirked at her BFF's reply:  Yes, I've heard endless banging can do that to a person.

After saying that she was not endless banging Jon-- they'd had to take a break because of the plague after all-- she put the phone on silent, charged it up, and then padded back into the bathroom, because now she well and truly needed a hot, long, relaxing shower....or...maybe...

Her eyes landed on the tub.  It had been used just to store water those first couple days without power, but a week later....she swished her lips around and decided.  She deserved a soak.  Just like she wanted when she first saw it.  She leaned over and tugged on the taps, letting the hot water pour in, steam instantly rising.  It was rather deep, like a small pond, and she puttered about looking for some candles, finding a few in another bedroom and even some bath salts.  They smelled divine, lavender and eucalyptus, perfect for relaxing and also shaking loose any remaining crap in her nose from the cold.  

She watched the bubbles foam, fluffy and cloudlike, almost resembling the snow that pillowed along the windowsills outside.  The sun had fully disappeared behind the trees, the stars peeking out.  It was rather breathtaking, maybe even something she might have seen if she'd been up at the Wall with Missandei and Grey instead of down in Dorne, when she had planned to just watch sunsets over red sand dunes and mountains.  Go figure, she was getting the North and she didn't even pay for it.

Stripping out of her hoodie and her granny panties— Jon had thankfully not continued to make fun of her for their use while she was sick—she slipped into the tub, hissing at the first touch of the hot water on her skin, and then moaning in delight, her dragonblood positively singing.  Her brothers jokingly referred to her as "the Unburnt" because for whatever reason she did not feel pain with heat.  Barely even flinched when fire flicked her fingertips as she loaded the fireplace with wood, to Jon's shock.  

It was straight out of the Heavens of Valyria, she thought, sinking fully under the foamy bubbles, the lavender soothing her dry skin, the eucalyptus filling her lungs, crisp and healing.  She reached to adjust her knotty hair, piled on her head, and closed her eyes, groaning happily the deeper she sunk into the tub.  The lights off, the candles all around her, it was how she wouldn't mind spending another power outage.

Ghost was not one to leave her out, his head on the edge of the tub, accepting wet scratches now and then on his head.  She chuckled, opening an eye to peer at him.  "If you want in here, you're welcome to it, but I'm not dealing with that wet dog smell later."

He huffed, annoyed.  

The only thing truly missing, she realized, after an undetermined amount of time later, was some music, a glass of wine, and a very attractive, very sexy, very naked Jon Snow.

"Well look at you."

Eyes springing open, she turned her head sideways, spotting Jon leaning against the door frame.  His sweaty curls slicked at his neck and temples, his t-shirt and sweats damp from the snow and exertion of moving all the firewood around.  In his hands, he had a bottle of beer and a glass of wine.  She smirked.  "Which one is for me?"

"Which one do you prefer?"

"Gimme."

He already knew her, handing her the Dornish red, while he sipped at the Northern ale.  He glanced at Ghost, who was scowling up at him.  "What?  I'm not giving you a bath."

"Am I in his tub?"

"Yes, he likes baths."

"Your dog is very weird Jon Snow."

"Don't I know it."  His eyes darkened, the candlelight shooting off the gray irises in sparks, his lip curling over his teeth in a wry smile.  "In fact, I have to say, I'm a little upset with you."

She smirked, flicking some bubbles at him.  "Oh yeah?"

"Aye, you're sharing bathtime with my dog and not me."

Ghost stuck his nose into the bubbles, blowing them up into the air and snatching them with his teeth, until some went up his nose and he sneezed, rubbing his nose into the rug.  She sat up, peering over the edge of the tub, laughing.  "Oh Ghostie!  You alright prumia?"

The Valyrian for 'my heart' had begun slipping easily when it came to the fluffy dog, who whined, rubbed his nose with his paw, and accepted her kisses, even if some of the water dripped from her arms and shoulders when she leaned over to reach him.  She fell back into the tub, once Ghost had finished with her, and wandered off, the door banging shut after him.  She frowned, about to ask, but Jon answered the unspoken question.

"Aye, he closed the door.  He also likes giving people privacy."

As he had kept to himself, hiding off away from them during those couple nights on the floor in front of the fireplace, she had to thank the dog for that.  She smirked up at Jon, who looked a bit annoyed, and was toeing off his socks, the beer now on the edge of the tub.  She sipped he wine, surveying him appreciatively, the black t-shirt falling to the floor.  She purred, recognizing the gleaming lust in his eyes.  "Who knew jealousy was such a powerful motivator for you?"

"Jealous?" he scoffed.  "No way."

"Hmm."  She disagreed.  

“Is there some space left in that bathtub?”  

When she opened her eyes, she found that he was naked, the sweatpants joining the t-shirt and his socks.  She licked her lips, shifting and gestured; there was more than enough room.  She smirked at him, as he stepped in and yelped.  “Careful, it’s hot,” she cooed.  Gathering some bubbles, she piled them in front of her, annoyed that they shielded her favorite part of him from her gaze.  She had an ulterior motive of course, for hiding her body from him, smirking as he scowled back at her, no doubt mad he couldn’t see beyond the lavender scented shield.

He sank back into the tub, his head popping over the side, leaning on the other edge and his feet sliding along her legs, before they stopped on either side of her arse.  She slipped her leg along his, the salts and soaps giving her skin an added slickness.  He narrowed his eyes on hers and she smiled, innocent, as her foot moved over his calf, his thigh, and then pressed between them, her brows arching.  “Hmm,” she murmured.  “Such…hard work out there.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I was alone in bed when I woke up,” she continued.  She sniffed, hoping her voice didn’t have the added thickness to it from her cold.  She was trying to be sexy, scooping up a handful of bubbles and blowing them towards him.  

A little pillow of bubbles landed on his head and he smiled, eyebrow lifting.  “Cute.”

“You do look cute.”  

“I don’t usually like baths.”  He flicked some bubbles away from her chest, scowling again at them.  “They’re blocking the view.”

“Well that’s too bad.”

“It really is.  Makes things…inaccessible too.”

“And what are those?”  Her foot was still sliding along his cock, her toes tickling along the hard, thick length, and suddenly it fell to the side, as he lunged towards her, a wolf with its prey.  Water splashed around them, bubbles everywhere, and before she knew it, his arms were around her thighs, hoisting her up to the edge of the tub, and splaying her legs out.  A wicked grin shot up at her, his sinful lips twisted, and eyes black.  She cried out, before she even knew what was happening, and he tugged her forward, arms wrapped around her legs, which fell over his shoulders, and he dove down.

The first thing she felt was his tongue, spearing straight into her.  “Fuck!” she screamed, clenching around his head and grabbing at his wet curls.  She moaned, long and low, her head falling backwards, smacking against the foggy windowpane.  She kept a hand on his hair and her other fell back as well, grappling for something to hold, and eventually found the edge of the window itself, holding tight to the wooden frame.  

He feasted like a man starved, his tongue slipping in and around her folds, which had already been damp at the sight of him and had grown increasingly slick with her need for him as he teased her and stripped in front of her. She panted, Valyrian babbling with “Jon” and “fuck” and “yes”, everything he did in response to her body’s craving.  His tongue was pure magic, lips suckling here and there, and his hand breaking free of her leg to slip between them, a single thick finger sliding inside, crooking at just the right angle to find the spot inside of her that had her whining, high-pitched, desperate to come.  

Flicking his tongue around her entrance, he gathered up her wetness with it and carried it to her clit, nibbling and sucking the little bud, alternating between giving it the attention she wanted and sliding it back into her, a second finger now joining the first.  He let go of her other thigh, since she was holding herself up and his other hand pressed above her pubic bone, at the exact moment his fingers pressed to that magic spot, the pressure too much for her to bear.  

She was coming, the flame already flickering, and stoked higher and higher.  She gripped his hair so tight; she almost tore it clean from his skull, and when her eyes pried open long enough to meet his, that devious, devilish look that told her he knew exactly what he was doing, she couldn’t take it.  It shattered her, the flame exploding into thousands of tiny ones, engulfing her.  

Hand falling off the window, smearing finger tracks down the condensation, she thrust her hips aimlessly into his mouth, her body clenching, spasming around him.  He carried on, careful of her sensitivity, and kept moving, fingers slipping along, this thumb tapping and circling, and tongue angling through, drinking up her sweetness.  She came again, her body quivering, exhausted.  

It all felt so good, so fuzzy, and she slipped back into the tub, water splashing out over the edges, her head almost falling straight under the top of the still steaming water.  He caught her, turning so she was draped over his chest, the bubbles fading away around them.  His cock was still hard, pressed between his abdomen and hers, and she lifted her hips enough to trap him there, teasing her and him both.  “Soon,” she sighed, eyes closed.  “Give me a minute.”

He brushed his lips over top her hairline, damp now with sweat.  “Feeling better?”

Rising over him as best she could, at the awkward angle, bathwater and bubbles still coating her skin, she reached her hand around his head to pull his mouth to hers, groaning at the taste of herself she still felt on his tongue.  “Oh Jon, you have no idea how good I feel now.”

“Glad to hear it.”  

[madmanipulation]

Consequences

[ I won’t sugarcoat it. This is dark. It explores the most deplorable part of Jamie’s history, his involvement in human trafficking/slave trading and a consequence of it for him as I headcanon.

Warnings: adult themes, human trafficking, slave trading, grape, sexual assault, dubious consent, drug use, mentions of gambling, murder, torture, trauma to children, racist themes ]

The air was dry enough to suck the moisture out of the back of his throat when he exited the Jeep, but Jamie held back a cough, even as thick cigar smoke filled his lungs. It was necessary. The heavy scent of cigar smoke covered up the smells that lingered around small villages. The cattle, the lack of plumbing...“Ugh. Smells like shit,” he groaned. At least the smoke would be more prominent on his suit than the smell of third world poverty.

The sounds of war rang out in the village in the form of screams and gunfire. “No blokes! Market’s slow for them, and we have enough already!” Jamie barked out to his men, a team of South African rebels turned mercenaries for human traffickers with too much money. The more masculine of the screams and pleas were silenced with a rain of bullets. Automatic weapons seemed like overkill, but what did Jamie know? He hadn’t selected their weapons, just funded them. Besides, they worked.

Human trafficking was more lucrative than his more prominent career of racing cars. It allowed Jamie to bet more money on the races, increasing his winnings sometimes tenfold. He was a self-aware financial genius, so the Braddock funds were well-protected from his addiction, especially after the first major loss. That meant he had to keep his illegal gains coming in, though, to fuel his habit. That meant he needed more bodies, and Africa was a prime location to obtain them.

“What do we do with the whites?” the leader of his team, a heavily scarred man with a thick South African accent, asked. Jamie wondered what the Hell he had meant by “watts”, before he saw them. Before him were three men and a woman, all white. Judging by their attire, they were from the US. The wolf graphic t-shirt was a dead giveaway.

It wasn’t unusual to come across missionaries or Red Cross or other aid workers out among the more isolated tribes, but it complicated the whole mission. Jamie was visibly annoyed. At least there was one broad. “You. Yeah, the bird, take off your clothes.” When she looked around in panicked confusion, he snapped, impatient, “Off with the shirt and shorts! Strip!” A nudge on the back of her head with the butt of a rifle snapped her out of her shock and she managed to fumble out of her clothing and down to her underwear by the time Jamie made his way over to her. He stopped her by grabbing her by the jaw, then examined what she had revealed, a full B-cup, nearly a C, and minimal stretch marks, but she was carrying a bit of chub. “A bit homely, but we could work her into the right shape. Line her up,” he ordered.

Curiously, he plucked up her shorts as she was dragged towards a line of other women and searched through her pockets. She hadn’t been carrying much, just a pamphlet for her church and the beginnings of a beaded accessory. It looked like she had been learning the craft of a tribeswoman. Disinterested, he tossed her belongings at one of the men left kneeling.

“Get rid of them.” The woman’s scream at the order barely registered. It certainly didn’t elicit any reaction from Jamie.

He turned away from the three executions to his potential products, frightened girls and women ranging from their mid-teens to late twenties. They screamed and cried at the death surrounding them, begged in their own form of the Ndebele language to be spared, but Jamie didn’t care. He had reduced them to objects in his mind. Never had he thought much of women, so it was easy to detach completely from those he sold. He just paced down the line, tearing open their clothing and crassly assessing their bodies. “Couldn’t even starve this one into shape by the next auction...Nice tits on this one. Load her up...Too young. What did I say? No bloody mites in my stock!...Hah! What, did you have twins? Tragic...Fat one, ain’t she? She’s got that nanny appeal, though. Load her up.” 

On and on, he went, until he came to the last in line, the white woman. In his career, he’d sold only two others. They had both gone through more than one auction to sell because no one wanted to risk buying a white woman. They were more likely to be recognised. Families in the US, Canada, and the UK tended to have their loved ones’ photos posted all over the media while searching for them. The appeal of the tribal African woman was no one would be looking for her. Still, the missionary had an appealing face that Jamie thought he could sell. “Load her up. Don’t let her sit. She’s jiggling like a bloody pudding,” he laughed.

Finally done with his part, he stepped back into the Jeep and waited for the women to be loaded into the largest vehicle in the fleet. The commotion that followed was straight out of a nightmare. When he was done with his selection, the men were free to do with the rest as they pleased, as long as there was no evidence left and no witnesses. 

“There’s too much noise.” Grumbling, Jamie turned on the radio and put it on full volume. 

His driver made no move to save his eardrums, just kept his eyes on the steering wheel, detached. Everyone had their own way of coping with the monstrosities outside.

In the back of the Jeep, a woman squealed, startled awake. “Jamie!”

Jamie was startled himself. “Is that you, Emerald?” the eldest Braddock laughed. He’d forgotten about her completely after she passed out in the backseat on the ride to the village. 

The woman, a shapely brunette with eyes to match her given name, groaned miserably and pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead to relieve some pressure. She was coming off of her last dose of heroin, but Jamie was unsympathetic to her withdrawals. Somehow, she’d managed to sleep through the commotion outside, but the high-pitched squeal of an electric guitar was too much apparently. “Turn that down!” she screeched.

“Oh, fuck off!” Jamie responded with a dismissive wave. She was no fun without drugs in her veins.

“Jamiiieee!” came another whine. When she clearly wasn’t going to get her way, she opted to earn a bit of consideration in the future, climbing into the front seat. 

The driver flinched when she accidentally kneed him in the shoulder, but reacted with practised indifference when she laid her legs across his lap.

Jamie, an easy man when he needed a distraction, was sucked into her affections, leaning into her fingers combing through his hair, her dark green nails gently scraping his scalp. They’d met on a boat tour off the southern tip of the continent, and Jamie had been drawn to her callous comments about local divers and the great whites. She was soulless, and an addict. He could relate. He could also use her for relief when his own blackened heart threatened to find a pulse.

“Jamiiie,” she whined again, but, this time, it was cute with an audible pout. She wanted permission into his trousers, the minx, which he granted with fingers finding their way up her dress.

That was how Jamie ignored the senseless cruelty around him, by getting his dick sucked and fingering a sexy heiress to Thunderstruck while children cried out for their mothers and freshly violated women clutched their husbands’ corpses to their breasts as they waited for mercy in the form of a well-aimed bullet.

___

“Spitting on you?” It wasn’t shocking news at all really. There was always one that spat in the group. Jamie just had a hard time understanding the man half the time. When he received a very heavily accented confirmation, he laughed. “There are blokes who would pay for that, you know.”

Simon, as he preferred to be called, though it was doubtful it was his real name, was not amused. Despite working for Jamie, he showed him about as much respect as he was shown, which wasn’t a lot. “It’s the disrespect,” he told him flatly.

With a roll of his eyes, Jamie pushed past the leader of his makeshift band of cold-blooded killers and walked over to his chattel, which were all huddled together in a corner of the warehouse. “Which one is it?”

“Young one. Got a pretty face.”

Helpful, he thought sarcastically as he looked over his lovely little bunch. Jamie didn’t select ugly women. Eventually, he gave up and just started gesturing to the younger individuals until Simon gave him confirmation. He wasn’t wrong, she was pretty. Her rich dark skin was unblemished and her face was still soft with baby fat. “Have you tried giving her a smack?” he asked as he looked over his shoulder.

Simon’s chapped lips twisted in annoyance. “We know how to do our job.”

While he knew that, the opposite was proving to be true. “Do you? You’re supposed to break them. Broken birds don’t spit.” Reaching out, he grabbed the woman by her upper arm and pulled her away from the others. Her will was strong, but Jamie was stronger. It took some effort and one hard yank, but, eventually, he managed to jerk her out of her smelly little safety pile.

She righted herself after a bit of a stumble, but, once she was steady on her own two feet, she looked Jamie Braddock in the eyes, gathered up what she could from deep in her throat, and spat in his face.

There was an audible gasp from their female audience and at least one snort from the men, cheeky bugger, but Jamie was silent, dangerously so. Calmly, he tugged the handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped away what he could from his cheek. That dirty feeling wasn’t going to go away until he washed his face, though. With a use of force his victims had not witnessed from him before, he threw the offender to the hard concrete floor. Then, he reached into his jacket. 

The woman checked the elbow she had landed on before she looked back to the monster. When she saw what he had retrieved from his jacket, her eyes rounded in horror and she held an arm up to shield herself, but it didn’t stop a bullet from embedding itself in her brain. Screams rang out and echoed on the warehouse walls as she collapsed limply onto the floor. 

Revolver still in hand, Jamie turned to what was left of his goods, which were clinging to each other for protection. “No bloody SPITTING!” he yelled, gesturing at them with the weapon.

Most of them tried to restrain their screams in fear of attracting his attention, but one woman began to wail. “God, save us! Please, God!” It was no surprise to see it was the white woman. Not only was she the only believer of God in the bunch, but she clearly didn’t know how to act in the situation she was in.

Jamie found it hilarious. Cruelly, he laughed at her, cackled at her fear and desperation. “The only god here is Jamie Braddock!”

___

The goods had been spread and checked, divided into ‘virgin’ or ‘used’, and shaped to Jamie’s standards. They were all freshly cleaned and covered in sheer fabrics that left little to the imagination, but that little was enough to entice the bidders.

Jamie was already over a million in profit when the white woman was paraded around the stage. Hesitant bids were thrown out, but nothing to the level of an African woman of the same age. No matter how much he’d had her body tightened or her hair bleached and face painted, she was still a risky investment. 

When the bids slowed dangerously, he walked out on stage, a move that was unheard of at the auctions, to lift the cloth covering her chest teasingly, only enough to expose the slightest of areola. “Would you look at that?” The crowd applauded, their interest growing, and some bidders threw out offers only because they were caught up in the fun. Putting on a bit of a show, Jamie gave the bottom of one breast a few good taps to make it jiggle. “Got a nice bounce to them, don’t they?” Verbal bids were lost in laughter, but their raised signs were noted.

The woman swallowed thickly to restrain her disgust, not audibly, but it did not evade Jamie’s notice. For it, he brushed the fabric all the way up over her breast in one long self-indulgent stroke, putting the breast on full display. With that action, he got an African woman’s worth out of her.

That wasn’t enough for Jamie, though. He reached down and began to slowly pull the cloth tied around her hips up, doing a little dance behind her as he did. As the crowd’s cheers began to build, he ignored a choked sob from his product. She knew better than to embarrass him. He was carrying a revolver and would not hesitate to use it. Then, he exposed her to the crowd of mostly men, the more shameless of which pushed to the front to peek. “Pretty in pink, isn’t she?” he asked the audience. Their praises hid her whimpers beautifully. 

When the bidding ended, he’d pulled in nearly double for the woman, as much as a teenager would have gotten him, and she was sold to a cobalt baron operating two mines in Africa. The baron thanked him personally, but Jamie was already too distracted by one of the female bidders to pay him any mind. He was hopped up on the attention he had gotten on the stage and wanted to ride that high with a jobby or some old-fashioned sex.

___

A year later, the auctions were still as alive as the year before, and Jamie was in the prime of his trade. He’d just sold his own bodies and was enjoying what the auction had to offer, namely the provided drinks, while other traffickers paraded their finds across the stage. The women on the stage didn’t interest him. No unwilling woman did. If he wanted a little fight, he made a consenting partner regret their decision. He didn’t force himself on a bird like a pathetic, desperate little boy.

While he was enjoying an aged bourbon and tolerating the company of an elderly braggart, his table was approached by a portly middle-aged man with a booming voice and his lovely date, a miserable-looking woman with a hollow stare. Not every piece of arm candy was made for their lifestyle he supposed. It could be traumatising for some. “James!”

“Call me Jamie,” he corrected, offering a friendly handshake, which was eagerly accepted. It jostled his arm like an umbrella caught in the wind, but it was a fun experience that made him laugh. With a charming smile, Jamie gestured to the seat beside him. “Join me.” Maybe the boisterous bloke would drown out his previous company’s claims of being "as virile as a pubescent boy”. Disgusting really.

The man settled onto the chair while his date stood at his side with a hand on his shoulder, not at all strange in a community where women were accessories, even the ones that weren’t literally property. “Jamie, good man, I’m glad to see you back this year. You have the best taste, the best of them, ya hear?” the man complimented in an excessively Texan accent, and Jamie preened. No one had better taste in birds than Jamie Braddock, it was true! “I can’t wait to take my new girl home. She’s going to make a fine addition to my collection!”

Jamie took a satisfying gulp from his drink, one that warmed his core and promised a bit of gradual relaxation from the adrenaline high of his success. “A collector, are you? I see you’re a man of fine taste yourself.” He indicated his date with a tilt of his nearly empty glass in her direction. She didn’t react, just stared ahead like a soldier. Odd, but not odd enough to really note. All he was interested in was how her tiny dress was too short to cover the crease in her silk knickers.

“Do you like her? Claire, sweetheart, show him some of that southern hospitality I offer at the manor. Maybe it’ll give him a reason to visit.” A swat on Claire’s bottom sent her over to Jamie. “Something tells me we would get along outside of these auctions here.”

Jamie had expected a little stroke of his cheek, maybe a kiss from the dolled-up companion. What he hadn’t expected was for her to slide into his lap, nor had he expected her hands to stroke over his shoulders and down his chest. As surprised as he was, he didn’t show it, just smiled at the woman he admittedly thought was quite pretty, though she would have been prettier with a smile on her lips. “Well, hello there. Aren’t you an affectionate one?” he chuckled. His arm settled around her waist instinctively, ensuring she wouldn’t experience any nasty spills while in his care. 

“What makes you think that, hm?” he asked the man, politely redirecting his attention where was most respectful. After all, his lap candy was a temporary gift, not his company. Though he wondered what the gift was meant to be when her hands continued to wander and her lips painted his neck a vibrant red with sultry kisses.

A smirk slanted the man’s lips as he watched Claire find the end of Jamie’s shirt to feel up under it. A voyeur, Jamie assumed. Good thing he was an exhibitionist. “I hear we both enjoy women, but prefer the company of men.”

At the time, that sentence could have meant two very different things, but Jamie was not in the mood for corrections. He was far too distracted by the hips rolling enticingly against his own, all too aware of how those silk-covered lips were sliding over the cover of his zipper. Oh, he realised. She meant to fuck him. He forgot to answer the claim for a moment, looking down at the woman’s pushed-up chest. He wondered what she looked like without an underwire and padding. Curious, shameless, and entitled, he couldn’t help but to pull the straps of her dress and bra down her arms to expose her. Lovely, he mused, as he cupped one perky breast and thumbed over her pert nipple. As a breast man, he was sold in that moment. Maybe they weren’t the size he liked, but they were still the shape he favoured.

“Well said,” he replied absentmindedly. All that he received in response was a chuckle and a sigh. It occurred to him that he was probably being set up so the bloke could see his cock, but he didn’t care, not when practised hands were unbuckling his belt and opening his trousers. To save himself the mess that a horny bird could make, he moved things along a bit quicker than normal and lifted his hips to push his pricey trousers down his thighs. Then, he leaned down and indulged, taking a rosy nipple into his mouth, as his hardening length was enveloped by a certain moist heat. 

It didn’t occur to him, not once, that he was fucking a sex slave, a woman he had sold into a waking nightmare that would haunt her for the rest of her life, because dolled-up white women were usually dates at the auctions. He didn’t consider that he was raping a woman who would have been brutally punished, or even killed, had she refused to pleasure him. Had he known, he would have refused her.

___

It was like a scene out of an American sitcom, a perfect little cul-de-sac with cookie cutter houses and perfectly manicured lawns in the middle of Garry Marshall‘s USA. Jamie checked the string that was pulled tight from his core, a manifestation of reality that no one else could see. It definitely led to the home at the very end of the street. 

Over the years, he had pointedly ignored two very prominent strings attached to himself, even though he had known what they were. In various states of sanity, he had dismissed even the tiniest niggling of curiosity about them. Until recently, when a tiny fairy child with pointed elvish ears had asked him a question.

Uncle Jamie, why don’t you have any children?

It took a fight with his nerves, but, eventually, he mustered the courage to leave his car, which he left at the entrance to the cul-de-sac. He had already made a visit to another family, so he thought he knew what to expect.

He had no idea. 

Before he could ring the doorbell, he saw the blinds on the window closest to the front door snap back into place. Had someone been watching him? Then, there was a panicked order. The words were too muffled to make out, but he knew the tone. “Wha--?”

The door swung open violently then, revealing a heavyset woman with a revolver, the same gun he had used in front of the terrified victims of his trafficking. “You won’t take me or my daughter,” she told him, her voice holding conviction, but shaking with a fear Jamie did not understand. 

Taking advantage of her shaking hands, Jamie reached out and simply took the gun in a manoeuvre he had learned from an American soldier turned mercenary, twisting his body out of her aim and into her body at the same time. She stumbled back with the impact, but he caught her by the shirt to keep her upright. He then casually tossed the revolver into the bushes lining her driveway. “I’m not here to take anyone. What the bloody Hell was all that for, you crazy bird?”

“Like you don’t know!” she snapped, shaking bodily since she was no longer armed and at the mercy of Jamie Braddock.

“Are you that bloody pissed that I left you up the duff?" Speaking of which, he looked past her at the empty home. No, not empty. When he unfocused his vision, more like focused it in an unnatural way, he could see the string leading up the stairs.

“Up the--?” she stuttered, perplexed. Jamie made a mental note not to use too much British slang. He would have explained, but she wasn’t done. “You--YOU SOLD ME INTO SEX SLAVERY AND RAPED ME!” Her scream left the monster of her nightmares with a ringing in his ears, either from the volume or the realisation of who he was speaking to and what he had done to her...

But he had never raped anyone. “Do I look like I need to force myself on someone to get off?” he accused, shoving her backwards. She was lying. Had to be.

The woman stumbled, but she caught herself on her banister before she could fall. As she was righting herself, Jamie walked past, jogging up the stairs.

He didn’t see the woman run outside, nor would he have cared. He was on a mission to find where the string led. That was what was important. That was why he was in America. Into a bedroom he crept and up to a closet with its door swung wide open. There, he found nothing out of the ordinary, save for a woman’s shoes scattered outside of it and an invisible bright red string leading into the back of it. 

Curiously, he crouched down and crawled beneath the clothing hanging overhead. Then, he gave the back wall a couple of light taps with a knuckle. Tap tap. “Hello? Can you hear me, little one?” he called out softly.

“Go away!” came a small boy’s voice, followed by another child’s voice that promptly hushed him.

There was more than one behind the door! “It’s alright, little mites. Your mummy had a bit of a fright, but she said you can come out now,” he urged gently. 

It took a moment of hushed debating, but, finally, there was a click, and the door opened in to three young children, two little boys and their older sister. The string ended at the girl, buried so deeply in the tangle of red that was her reality that it could never be pulled. It was integral to her very existence. If Jamie severed it, she would simply disappear, because she could not exist without that link to him. To Jamie. Her father.

There was no question about it really. He didn’t need a string or a blood test to tell him the little girl with the telltale Braddock blue eyes and certain freckles he remembered dotting Betsy’s face as a girl was his daughter. In fact, she looked an awful lot like Betsy, save for her wavy brown hair. It was a bit disorienting.

“You sound funny,” said one of the boys, snapping Jamie out of his awe. Good thing too. His hold on sanity was not its strongest.

Jamie laughed and gave the boy’s cheek a pinch. “Do I?”

His laughter must have been contagious to the little girl, who giggled in response. “You do! You sound like Harry Potter!” she told him.

“Well,” he started as he reached into the little hiding spot and scooped the children into his strong arms, strong enough for three little ones at least, “I am not Harry Potter. My name is Jamie. What are your names?”

“I’m Jack, and that’s Angel.” The smaller boy gripped Jamie’s shoulder and enjoyed the ride up to a man’s height, while his sister sat comfortably on Jamie’s hip, an arm looped around his bicep for security and a hand resting on his chest for comfort.

“Tim.” The eldest of the two boys was less trusting than his chatty siblings, but, eventually, he wrapped his arms around the stranger’s neck to steady himself and seated his bum on Jamie’s forearm.

“Angel, is it? Are you a little angel?” he asked, smiling warmly at the namesake peering up at him.

In that moment, there was a commotion of heavy hurried footsteps, and the woman appeared at the bedroom doorway brandishing the gun she had fished out of the bushes. When she saw her children in Jamie’s arms, though, she quickly hid the weapon behind her back. Poor bird looked like her world was about to be shattered.

“Mommy! Doesn’t Jamie sound like Harry Potter?” asked Angel, unaware of the terror on her mother’s face. Poor thing had probably never seen that look on her before. Hopefully, she hadn’t.

The woman gave Jamie a cautious questioning look for a too-long moment, then tried to fix her expression into something less frightening for the children. “He...sounds British, yes,” she confirmed, though it wasn’t as amusing to her.

Seeing how things were awkward, Jamie set the siblings down on their feet and gave the two taller ones a pat on their backs. “Off to your rooms to play now. I have to talk to mommy. Boring adult topics. Taxes and...politics,” he lied.

Tim huffed out an unenthusiastic, “Ugh, yawn,” and waved his siblings along. “Let’s play robots.”

Angel was clearly not pleased with his suggestion. “But I wanna play Barbies, Tim!”

Jamie waited until they were out of earshot before he addressed their mother. “I think we have a lot to talk about.”

Downstairs in the living area, they sat across from one another. Claire introduced herself none too politely and explained her accusations. She told Jamie about her experiences with the men he had hired.

“After we were brought to the warehouse, we were all...checked. They had us strip, lay on our backs on a dirty tarp on the concrete, and spread our legs for them. They...spread us open with their fingers and looked for unbroken hymens. Despite being a virgin, I was labelled “used”, because I had no hymen, and that meant...they could rape me as much as they wanted while I was there...and they did. Every...day...”

There was nothing Jamie could say to that. He just stared down at his hands folded in his lap. Her torment had been his explicit orders. Not only had the constant sexual abuse served as a means to break their spirits, but part of his payment to the men had been access to the bodies they had helped him kidnap. She had paid those men with her pain.

The strained conversation continued with a question Claire could only find an answer to from Jamie. “Before the auction, we were served a course of pills. What were they?”

Jamie answered with the cold hard truth, though he kept his head down. “PEP for HIV exposure and Mifepristone, to abort any pregnancies that might have occurred.”

“PEP?” Incredulously, she asked again. “PEP?”

A nod was all he offered.

Careful not to alarm her children, she found a balance between quiet and pure rage. “That was almost three weeks after the rapes started! What the fuck was it supposed to do then?”

Again, he stayed quiet, having nothing to offer. He had known about the 72 hour limit, of course, but he hadn’t cared about the effectiveness of the drug regimen, just that he had been able to advertise them as having taken HIV prevention drugs. 

Obviously not satisfied with his silence, Claire threw the revolver at him.

The gun didn’t go off, thankfully, but it was a heavy hunk of metal that collided with the top of his head. Jamie covered the sore spot, then checked his hand for blood. There was a bit, but not enough to worry about. Angry, but feeling as though he had deserved that, all he did was glare at his victim and shove the gun between her couch cushions so she couldn’t use it again.

Claire seemed to wait for his retaliation, but, when none came, she continued with her story, her words bleeding with loathing. “Ironic, isn’t it? You forced an abortion on me, but I had a baby anyway, yours.” After a short stretch of his silence, she clarified. “You sold me to the owner of a few cobalt mines, Daniel Thomas. He was a sick man. Most of the women he bought, he forced to have sex with the men he was interested in so he could watch. One of those men was you, Jamie. One night, at one of those...damn auctions, he told me to show you some “southern hospitality”. Do you remember that? I had no choice. The last woman who refused was killed for embarrassing him in front of one of his crushes. He choked her to death with his belt...She’s probably still buried on the edge of that mine...I didn’t...want to end up like her, so I did what he told me to do.”

His fists clenched to stop his hands from shaking. It was true. He had raped her. The memory was so vivid, and he couldn’t deny how miserable she had looked, how dead inside she had been. She had been a slave, not a date. He should have known, but he hadn’t cared enough to consider it.

“I knew I was pregnant a month or so after. I just knew it. No test. Just intuition. That was what snapped me out of the daze I was in. It all went from a nightmare that didn’t feel real to...reality. I knew I had to escape...to get an abortion. The last thing I wanted was to have your baby.”

Honestly, he would have agreed with that decision. He would have forced it upon her had he known. That was what he had done with every woman who had come to him with a bun in the oven. “Why did you change your mind?”

“I didn’t,” she scoffed. “When I finally escaped, it was too late. I was eight months pregnant." She sniffed back her welling tears, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, and Jamie couldn’t blame her for feeling emotional. “At first, I was going to give her up for adoption...When I saw her, though...I couldn’t let her go. I thought I would hate her. I thought her face would take me back to that day when you took me...but all I saw was my little angel...”

Jamie didn’t know if he believed in God. He had met people as powerful as God, even considered himself among them. He supposed that made his daughter an angel sent by God, a thought he kept to himself. There was a time and place.

The conversation never got any easier. Claire was too traumatised to forgive him, not that he would ever ask for forgiveness, and couldn’t calm down enough to answer his questions without a thick layer of spite. What he managed to gather from her, though, was that she was a good mother, the best a woman in her situation could be. She loved her children and was willing to protect them with her life. He also learned they had a father, the boys’ biological father, who was a good father to all of them. Legally, he was Angel’s father too, and she understood him to be her father. The two parents had divorced a little over a year ago. It had been a smooth separation, though, and he still acted as the children’s father, albeit usually on the weekends. 

Jamie told her about his faults. She seemed annoyed to hear about him at first, before she realised he was telling her pertinent medical information and hereditary issues, like his problem with addiction. That, he watched her soak up like a sponge, storing it away for when her daughter was old enough to experiment with drugs. He put extra emphasis on gambling.

“Now, that would be the thing to end her,” he warned, and Claire’s softened expression told him she understood. She could never expose her daughter to gambling, even in the form of a children’s game.

His list of strengths was less interesting to her, but Jamie thought it necessary to prepare her for a child that could excel beyond expectations. A glare after a mention of his charisma shut him up, though.

After that, they sat in silence, Claire suffering his presence while Jamie waited. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for, he just knew there had to be more to be said. She showed no sign of speaking, though. When it occurred to him that he had done the unthinkable to Claire and was currently sitting beside her gun, he promptly excused himself to allow her a chance to retrieve her weapon, which would give her some comfort, and to retrieve something himself. 

Unfortunately for Claire, he returned minutes later, carrying a folder and a strip of paper he had retrieved from his car. He watched her decide whether or not to shut the door in his face, or maybe even shoot him, before she stepped out of his way. Good choice, he thought. Once inside, he set the folder on the coffee table and explained what was inside.

“I don’t want anything from you!” she screamed, a sound so filled with pain, disgust, and rage that Jamie would never forget it. The giggles of the children playing upstairs silenced for just a moment, but resumed when the screaming seemed to be done. After looking inside of it in disbelief, she tried to throw the folder back into his face, but Jamie just gathered the paperwork back into it and set it back down on her coffee table, assuring her she didn’t have to touch it, but her daughter deserved it.

He had opened six accounts the day before with the help of two trusted lawyers, lawyers who were now trustees for those accounts. One of the lawyers was a bit strict, a prick really, but the other was familiar with the Braddock family’s eldest, as he had served the family for decades, and was instructed to bend and overrule the other when he knew Jamie would insist on approval. Two of the accounts were trusts for the mothers of his children, set aside for them to do with as they wished, as long as there was some benefit for his children. They were permitted large purchases, not just the bare essentials, from a larger home for the child to play in to a wedding to celebrate the formation of a family the child deserved. Two of the accounts were higher education funds only to be used on higher education and everything required by it, not limited to just university. Both held three times the value of what they could ever need from them to factor for inflation, and the rest was theirs when they received a degree or certificate. The last two held an inheritance for when the children fulfilled their higher education requirements. They would never want for anything.

That was all Jamie had to offer his children, the Braddock fortune and what was on the strip of paper, a direct line to the Braddock they deserved, Brian. He made certain to tell Claire that Brian was nothing like him, that he had even left him to die for his crimes. She seemed receptive to the number after that. Understandably.

At the end of the visit, when Jamie finally decided it was time to leave his victim in peace, he sought out his daughter. The string that connected them guided him up to what looked to be her brothers’ room, her mother close behind him, where Angel was pouting as her brother treated her Barbie like the villain in his hero robot story. When they noticed Jamie, they all brightened, not just the little girl who would always feel an inexplicable connection to him.

“Come now, give us a hug,” he told the children, who were blissfully unaware of the monster he was. Since their first meeting had dissipated their fears, they nearly pounced him for the offered hug. He laughed and embraced them all at once, but his left hand rested over his daughter’s back affectionately to feel her warmth, the beat of her heart, and the texture of her hair hanging loosely down her back. He breathed her in, then admired her face for a long moment after they parted, because it was the last time he would ever see her.

As children do, they whined when he bid them farewell, but he told them their mommy was going to get them ice cream. It earned him a glare, but it was less severe than the ones Claire had cut him with earlier.

“Do her a favour, will you? Don’t ever let her find out the truth,” he told Claire as he walked out of her door and out of their lives.

___

Jamie sat six blocks from Claire’s house in his luxury car as he choked back tears, pounding on his steering wheel in place of striking himself in the face or worse. It didn’t help. Nothing would. There was no outlet for what he was feeling.

His daughter was the product of rape and a consequence of his evildoing and hedonism. His daughter. A little girl as a consequence of his abuse of women. Fitting, but terribly unfair for Angel. He felt sick. He felt disgusted with himself.

“FUCK!” he screamed into the vehicle. “FUUUCK!” His cries were like a trapped animal, helpless howls of despair.

What had he done? What had he fucking done!?

With time, his voice grew hoarse and his eyes began to burn, and his cries...

...became hysterical laughter.

[thesearchforbluejello]

Imagine a "Star Trek: Lower Decks" style sitcom in the Stargate universe. Stargate: SG-47... the crew that follows up on all the really boring planets SG-1 goes to once and never again. They always debrief with Walter instead of the General. They annoyed the Nox once and now they show up to pull pranks on SG-47 in revenge. Minor Goa'ulds catch them and are depressed they're not SG-1 or someone more important so they just release them.

My notifications ate this ask; I don't know when it's from, but I'm just seeing it now. Please accept this totally unedited bullshit fic as my apology and thanks for how hard this ask made me laugh. I'm definitely not supposed to be writing a final right now. And I know you said minor Goa'uld but like I couldn't resist this opportunity. Also, me, using a minific to talk about my obsession with what the hieroglyphs in a Goa'uld ship could be? More likely than you think.

​A Soldier, a Linguist, a Botanist, and a Biologist Walk into a Ha'tak

Major Lissa Cannon emerges from the event horizon into the bright, clear sunlight of P4X-737. She takes a deep breath and immediately sneezes. "Great," she says.

Dr. Jess Abubakar passes her on the right, heading down the stone stairs of the gate platform without hesitation. "Better get used to it," he says with a cheerfulness that she doesn't-- and any reasonable person wouldn't-- share.

"Jess, I swear to God," Dr. Beth Rosenberg says as she follows him down the steps.

"You're just salty you have to help us collect samples," Jess counters, more affable than Cannon would have expected anyone to be before she actually started working with him.

Beside her, Dr. Chris Richardson just gives a wry smile before heading down the stairs after their teammates. Cannon sneezes again.

"It's the pollen!" Jess says as she joins the group. "Initial samples brought back by SG-1 indicate that it's at least twice as potent as anything we have on Earth."

"How is that a good thing," Cannon gripes even though she'd sat through the briefing and already listened to Jess and Bill Lee go on about how important it could prove to be.

"I mean, just think of the possibilities!" Jess says, more than happy to repeat himself. "We could synthesize new antihistamines, or even make existing ones more effective. We could develop new crops that are potentially more resistant to blights or unfavorable growing conditions."

"Yay," Beth says, drier than the climate on this planet has likely ever been.

"You're just mad because there are no indigenous people here to talk to," Cannon points out.

"You could talk to the plants," Jess says.

"Studies have proven that talking to plants encourages growth," Chris adds, soft-spoken as always.

"I'm not talking to the plants," Beth says.

"Why not?" Cannon asks. "With this much pollen in the air, after a few hours they might start talking back."

"Oof, like when SG-7 was on P8Q-984," Jess laughs. "That's not an experience I want to have for myself."

"Those were spores, not pollen," Chris corrects amiably as the team starts into the forested area beyond the field in which the gate sits.

"Sentiment's the same," Jess says.

Cannon hears a rustle in the undergrowth and raises her P-90, her team stopping immediately in defensive positions behind her. After a moment of nothing but birdsong and her own breathing, she relaxes. "Must've been an animal," she says.

"SG-1's initial exploration didn't indicate any indigenous animals on the ground," Beth says.

"Well, that's why we get their leftovers, because everything is just 'initial,'" Cannon points out. She takes the lead as they continue between the trees, rifle still ready in her hands just in case.

"Bloodthirsty squirrels is not on my extraterrestrial exploratory bucket list," Jess says.

"Yeah, mine neither," Cannon agrees. She's barely got the sentence out of her mouth when she hits a force field, face-first. "Motherfucker," she tries to say, a natural reaction, but the syllables come out muddled because her face is suddenly very numb. She drops to a knee and raises her rifle, looking for whatever danger has to be in the forest with them. Around her, her team drops the specimen cases they'd been carrying and raise their own weapons. They're not armed for this; SG-1's previous mission and the UAV surveys hadn't revealed anything dangerous enough to warrant coming through armed with anything more than Cannon's P-90, a couple of flash-bangs, and an assortment of 9mils and zats carried by her and her teammates. Except for Cannon, they're scientists, not soldiers.

"Lower your weapons," a voice commands from the trees.

"You lower your force field," Cannon calls back.

"I think not." Around them, Jaffa begin to materialize from the forest.

"Fuck," Cannon says.

*

The Jaffa strip them of their gear, tossing their vests, holsters, and packs in a careless pile on top of the specimen cases they'd dropped when the force field had initially gone up. They're surprisingly respectful about it, which Cannon almost laments because she's pissed off and ready to fight, even if she knows it's a fight she won't win. She watches their gear disappear from view in a flash of light as they're beamed up to a ship she knows must be waiting above.

Gold walls and a polished floor illuminated by dim lights materialize around them. Another group of Jaffa is waiting. One of their captors reports to a man Cannon assumes is his superior. She tries to pick of bits and pieces she recognizes from the language but doesn't get much.

"Wait," Beth says, "can you say that again? That's word isn't in the lexicon we've been developing."

The Jaffa looks at her sidelong in confusion before his superior barks an order.

"This way," he says. The Jaffa behind them push the team roughly forward.

"Yeah, I heard him," Cannon says, her face still numb and her words muddled, "relax."

They spend the next several hours sitting in a cell. Beth whips a notebook out of one of the pockets of her pants and starts making notes on the glyphs in their cell.

"Does that actually say anything?" Jess asks. "I've never been on a Goa'uld ship before."

A chorus of variants on "yeah, me neither" precede Beth's answer.

"It does, actually, though most of it just repeats. A lot of it is just vague, seemingly formulaic stories of someone's victories and conquering and blah blah blah, but the name has been chiseled out," she says, tapping a glyph that's clearly been destroyed deliberately.

Cannon turns her head against the wall from where she's sulking with her arms wrapped loosely around her knees. "Why?"

"My best guess? Whoever owns this ship now stole it from another Goa'uld and had their name erased. Think damnatio memoriae."

"Huh," Jess says, setting his hand of cards down to Chris's obvious annoyance. "But they kept the part about the victories?"

"Why not? Obviously they had someone spend all the time necessary to do this to the whole ship, so keeping the rest saved a hell of a lot of work. Plus, if they bested the guy this ship used to belong to, that's quite a flex." Beth shrugs and goes back to writing in her notebook. Jess picks up his cards again and Cannon can tell by the barest quirk of Chris's lips that they have the winning hand.

"You know what I'm thinking about right now?" Cannon says. "Mashed potatoes."

"Ugh, the mashed potatoes in the mess taste like plastic," Beth says without looking away from the wall.

"I know; once I start eating them, they're so disgusting I just can't stop myself. It's like the flavor gets grosser with every bite."

"They're not bad with the roast beef," Chris says.

"That's because the roast beef is the only palatable thing the mess serves besides jello," Jess points out.

"It was lemon chicken today," Cannon sighs. She rests her head against the wall again. "My vest had all my granola bars. What could these guys possibly want with us," she complains.

"Do you think they've realized that we're only number 47 because they want any potential enemies to think there are more SG teams than there really are?" Jess asks.

"I don't know," Cannon says stiffly, "but say that again a little louder and I'm sure they will."

Jess holds his hands up in placation, tipping his cards towards Cannon. Chris is about to destroy him with that hand.

"Well," Cannon sighs, "the good news is that I can feel my face again."

Heavy footfalls sound in the hallway and Cannon stands, shifting her weight to ease the stiffness in her legs. Beth hurriedly stuffs her notebook back in her pocket and Chris and Jess shove the cards into the pocket of Jess's pants.

"You will come with us," the Jaffa says.

"Sure," Cannon says as she leads her team after him. "I don't suppose you guys have any snacks on board this thing? You've got to eat, right?" He doesn't answer. "Didn't your mom ever teach you to share?"

The Jaffa ignores her and leads them into an open room with a throne at the fall wall. Ba'al surges to his feet as they enter. "Fool," he spits at the Jaffa beside him, who Cannon recognizes as the leader of the group that had captured them. "This isn't SG-1."

"My lord--"

"Who are you?" Ba'al interrupts.

"Major Lissa Cannon, leader of SG-47," she says, raising her chin.

"Forty-seven," Ba'al says in disbelief.

"We're a science team; we were studying the flora of P4X-737 when you so rudely interrupted."

Ba'al just looks at her. "You're scientists."

Jess raises his hand. "Doctor."

"Doctor," Chris agrees.

"Major," Cannon says with a shrug.

"Doctor," Beth says.

"I've seen this episode of M*A*S*H," Chris says.

"I did also once make a baking soda volcano for a sixth-grade science fair," Cannon adds.

Ba'al sits back on his throne, crossing one leg over the other and resting his elbows on the arms, looking the picture of a carefree megalomaniac.

"Bring them back to the surface," he orders the Jaffa with a lazy wave of his hand, without so much as raising his arm from the throne. "Finish studying your plants," Ba'al says, "I have no use for you."

"That's kind of rude," Cannon says.

*

The Jaffa drop them on the planet's surface and beam back up to the ship. Cannon pulls her vest off the pile, slings it over her shoulders, and pulls a granola bar out of the pocket. She rips it open and stuff it into her mouth, chewing as she zips her vest and secures her holsters around her legs.

"That was easier than I expected," Beth admits.

"Sometimes I think the only reason the Goa'uld try to capture SG teams is just because SG-1 pisses them off so much," Jess adds.

Cannon snorts at that. "Let's get our samples and haul it back to the gate before the mess runs out of mashed potatoes."

"You realize that's extremely unlikely, right?" Chris deadpans.

Cannon shrugs and stuffs the wrapper of her granola bar into her pocket. "Even so, let's get a move on."

[killervibe]

Cold Sub Zero Heart Breaker (By Your Own Design)

So, of course, I had this giant big Valentine’s Day fic planned for killervibe that did not go the way I had wanted it to. So here’s my last-minute new fic to fill in for the months of planning I wasted. Oops. 

Killervibe fic for Killervibe Valentine’s 2020! 

I highly recommend listening to Frozen Heart by The Hawk in Paris. The fic title comes from its lyrics! 

Rated: M

Summary: Halfway through his Korean fried chicken, Cisco licked the sauce off his thumb and acknowledged the elephant in the room.

“...Did you get….heartbroken?”

Frost scowled. “No.”

~.~ 

“Hey.” Cisco dropped a bag of food in Frost’s lap. “Got you something.”

She stared down at it, stunned. “I didn’t order anything.”

“I know.” Cisco shrugged, dragging a chair over.

He pulled out the takeout carton from his own bag, and the two ate silently together, their legs propped up on each other’s seat.

Halfway through his Korean fried chicken, Cisco licked the sauce off his thumb and acknowledged the elephant in the room. “...Did you get….heartbroken?”

Frost scowled. “No.”

Cisco blinked, taken aback. “—No?”

It seemed like it. Cisco wasn’t around Central City last Valentine’s Day, but he had heard the story from the rest. Frost was all over the holiday, dressed up in reds and cutting out paper hearts with crazy glue. He rose his eyebrows at Barry when he'd explained it all, not exactly able to say he’d seen that coming.

Today he’d gotten to witness it with his own eyes. Frost had begged Caitlin for the day, wearing red nail polish and handing out snarky valentines to their friends in Star Labs, humming The Beatles.

Or at least, she was.

In a quick turnaround, Frost had lashed out, tearing down the decorations and audibly gagging at Barry and Iris’ lovey-dovey cuteness.

Ralph tried to approach her a little over an hour ago, only to quickly retreat, telling Cisco her mood was beyond sour.

She had mellowed out after their meta fight, seemingly needing to have gotten her hands dirty, but refused to even talk or hear about anything to do with love. Now she was quiet, sitting at Caitlin’s chair in the Cortex. Sad, almost. It was a new look for her. Cisco had thought something must’ve happened.

“...Are you sure?”

Grant it, Cisco wouldn’t have a clue who Frost would be heartbroken over.

She threw her used napkin behind her.

“You missed the trash,” Cisco pointed out.

“So?”

Cisco swallowed. He had to choose his battles.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Fine!” She stood up, already ready to rant. Cisco’s eyes widened, not expecting to be given a front-row seat to a Frost lament. “I’m at Jitters, and they’re doing this 30% strawberry syrup special for all of their drinks. I order the Killer Frost with it—”

“Of course you do.”

“—And as I’m mixing it evenly into the drink, it hits me. It freakin’ hits me!”

Cisco leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. “What does?”

“I have no business participating in this heteronormative commercialized holiday bullshit! Screw February 14th! It’s a sham! Hot garbage!” Her hands misted at her sides. She paced the room. “You know what—Oh my god.” She stopped abruptly, as Cisco tried his best to follow along. “Here I am trying to live a life. Like, I’m fricken’ trying, right? Caity says I’m doing okay but I’d give myself a D on a report card.”

“Oh come on,” Cisco interrupted. “That’s not fair.”

“It is,” she snapped. “Because I realized the most—Ugh, stupid Debbie.”

“Wait.” Cisco frowned. “...Ralph’s mom?”

She nodded, rolling her eyes and threw an ice dagger at the wall. Cisco watched with growing concern, his plastic fork still hanging from his mouth as she closed her eyes and exhaled. She breathed, and the frost receded back into her palms.

“I’m chill,” she said.

“You good?” Cisco squeaked.

“Yeah. I’m good. I’m fine. It’s cool.”

“...Okay.” Cisco smiled at her, a little uncertain. “I’m glad I could help.” He looked down at the rest of his meal and popped the second to the last piece into his mouth. He glanced back at her, noticing the sudden silence on her part, and immediately stopped chewing.

Frost was looking at him. Like, right at him. Intimate eye contact. No break.

Cisco squirmed under her intense scrutiny. “What are you staring at?” There was still chicken in his mouth.

“Let’s have sex.”

Cisco almost choked. He heaved as chicken skin scraped down the wrong tube of his throat, banging his arm against the table as he scrambled for water. “—Why?”

“I want life experiences. Sex is usually an important part of life—”

“—Not for everyone!” he gasped out.

“And I’m trying to have some life experiences and Caity seems to like you so I don’t think she’d be too mad.” She paused, checking him out. “You’re not bad to look at either.”

Cisco has forgotten how to breathe, frozen still like a deer in the headlights.

Frost hesitated for the first time since bringing it up, her confident tone cracking. She wrung her hands, biting her lip. “Also, like. You like me, right? I mean you tolerate me, so.”

“Of course I like you,” he said automatically, a touch incredulous, and it came out softer than the volume in which he was thinking. His brain rebooted. Or maybe his heart. Something integral to his body reacted in defence mode whenever Caitlin had the slightest doubt of his love for her. Frost included. But this was a whole other level, holy frack. Cisco was going to have a heart attack. Like seriously. Those were heart palpitations.

He got up stiffly, excusing himself.

He breached to a quiet beach in Barbados, looked up at the blue sunny sky and screamed. A startled crab scurried away from the sand underneath his running shoes.

Cisco let out a breath, muttering to himself. “Okay. Okay. Okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay.”

He breached back into the hallway, flicking back the hair from his eyes and casually walked back in, only mildly sweaty. He hoped she couldn’t hear his heart thumping away.

“Heeeey,” he gave her a pathetic wave.

“‘Sup.” She quirked an eyebrow at him. “So are we doing this or not?” She finally picked up her litter, stuffing it into her bra. “Look it doesn’t have to be you. I can ask Norvock. He’s my backup plan—“

“—Hell no!”

She seemed taken aback by his vehemence. “What?”

“You’re not allowed to ask anyone else, okay?” Cisco stepped closer.

“I’m not allowed?”

“Not Chester P. Runk. Not Norvock,” he spat out the name, mouth twisting in distaste. “Or that guy at the candy store you like from across the street.”

His fear was gone, the panic was over. Unexpected? Yes. Nerve-wracking? Oh, definitely. But he was so doing this.

Good lord, Cisco could feel the onset of a migraine at the thought of all the things that could go wrong if she said this to anybody else. What was Frost thinking? Snake eye? Ralph vouched for him last time he last appeared, but he remembered the way he leered at Caitlin in that bar. There’s no telling she’d be treated right.

If Frost wanted sex then by god Cisco was going to give her some good sex and she would not be getting it from any other means. Because Frost’s body was Caitlin’s body, and he could only guess Caitlin was taking a very deep nap to not be awake right now and intervene. So yeah. Screw that.

He jammed his finger at her, raising his voice. “If you’re going to be asking anyone for sex around here on Valentine’s Day, no less, it’s going to be me.”

Frost blinked down at his pokey finger for a moment, dumbfounded as Cisco seethed. She met his steely eyes, a pleased smirk pulling up at her lips. She had no idea how she managed to rile him up this way. She knew he was protective over her, but there was that and then there was this. Killer Frost may be a flirt, but she had no real experience with men. Even then, there was no denying this.

This was the exposure of Cisco’s layered jealousy over Caitlin or herself or both—who the fuck cared. It was amusing.

“So that’s a yes.”

“Yes, that’s a yes,” he shot back. He rolled back his shoulders. “I’ll see you at 8.”

Frost licked her lips. Somehow, Cisco was only a breath away. Their eyes had yet to look at anything else than each other. “Make that 9. I watch Wheel of Fortune.”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

  ❄️❤️❄️

 It’s nine on the dot and Cisco had brought a basket of anything and everything romantic he could get his hands on. Roses, candles, chocolates, strawberries, condoms, wine, his Bluetooth speaker, bubbles, lingerie, breath mints, a mini radiator. Everything.

Frost pawned through the basket and took out the bubbles. “Why?”

Cisco yanked them out of her grasp, stuffing it back into the basket. “Forget those.”

She pulled out the thong. “Was this Kamilla’s?”

“No.”

She shrugged and ripped into the heart candy as he struck a match, setting down flickering flames around the room.

She watched as he scattered the roses around Caitlin’s bed. “Is this necessary?”

Cisco blew a strand of hair out of his eyes. “Do you want the Valentine’s Day experience or not?”

Frost didn’t really have a response to that. After a good amount of setting up the scene to look straight out of a Netflix romance, Cisco queued up a playlist and appraised his work.

“Dim the lights,” Frost said. The candles wouldn’t have much effect otherwise. Cisco did, and it became dark but for the glowing candlelight.

Frost removed her sweatshirt over her head and waited expectantly for Cisco to strip.

He took off his shoes and toyed at the button of his cardigan.

Frost climbed over to where he sat gingerly on the bed, unbuttoning the rest of it when his hands failed to continue. She removed the clothing from down his shoulders, and he shivered when her skin moved over his bare arms.

“Are you okay?” she asked him. It was gentler than he was used to hearing her talk. “How are we starting this?”

Cisco gave her a look. “I’m going to kiss you. We’ll start from there.”

Frost laid down, her silver hair flattening against her pillow as she stared up at the ceiling. “Okay.”

Cisco hooked a leg over her, still maintaining a considerable amount of space between them.

He thought it would be best to ease into it. Some touching, first. It was hard to just jump right in. It was weird how receptive Frost was being. Cisco’s mind floated away, thinking back to this afternoon. What did she mean exactly, when she had said he was not bad to look at. Did she like him, this entire time? It was...Weird. To think about. 

Was that what this was? Frost has had her moments. She’s blunt, sarcastic, cold-blooded by nature. But she’s not unfeeling, either. There’s always been something about her motivations that had struck Cisco odd. She thought of things most people didn’t. She followed her gut and didn’t seem too scared to die. Not like the rest of them, at least. But even that was untrue. She was the flightiest of them all, the most explosive and unpredictable. And what was that from, if not from the unrest of her own self? It made Cisco wonder. And what the hell happened with Debbie? Should he even ask?

Frost’s eyes popped open. “If you're just going to hover over me like that can you at least change the playlist?”

Cisco frowned, interrupted from his internal monologue. “Do you not like Michael Bublé?”

She twitched her nose. “Not really.”

He sighed and got up, changing the playlist to an R&B track suggested by Spotify’s romance playlist. “Better?”

“I guess.”

They resumed their positions, Cisco taking the time to drink her in. There were so many ways she resembled Caitlin. Especially with her eyes closed. Caitlin would never wear the bold blue lipstick, but her face was all the same. Kind, soft. Gentle. Beautiful. He thumbed the side of her cheek, lost in reflection, running his finger over her lip. Frost stilled under his touch.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he murmured, leaning in.

He stopped millimetres from her mouth just as memories of Earth 2 suddenly bombarded his brain. He had prepared himself up to this moment the best he could that he’d be sleeping with Frost. But somehow it had slipped his mind that this was the same woman who could kill with a kiss.

“What?” she mumbled at his stalling.

“Frost…”

“What?”

“Have you ever kissed someone before?”

Her silence was concerning.

He pulled back, alarmed.

She sat up. “Once.” She winced. “When I tried to kill Barry. You threw me off of him.”

To quote John Mulaney, now they didn't have time to unpack all that.

“So you’re saying you cannot say with confidence this won’t kill me.”

“I won’t kill you,” she said. But she was lacking the confidence. Frost swore lightly. “This is ridiculous.” She grabbed his arm and pressed his wrist to her lips. Her mouth was cool, wet. But there was no ice in his veins. She raised an eyebrow as if to say see?

Cisco’s next words died on his tongue, eyes wide as she peppered kisses up to the crook of his elbow, almost aggressively.

He pulled his hand away and inspected it. Yeah, it was cold. The sensation tingled. But it wasn’t that bad.

“If it makes you feel better, you can avoid my mouth. We don’t need to kiss to have sex,” she said wryly. “I’m not a virgin.”

Cisco’s right eye twitched. “—Okay.” Compartmentalize. He frowned at himself. “Didn't you just say…?”

“It was never any good,” she muttered defensively. “Never with anyone who ever cared about me.”

Cisco softened, playing with her hair. He worried he was way over his head. “Then don’t you want to be kissed?”

Frost worried her lip, turning away. “I don’t know. Sure.” She tugged at the hem of his t-shirt, trying to undress him. “If you think it’ll be good.”

“Wait,” Cisco said. Something about this was off. Really off.

“What?” she whined.

He studied her. She stared back like it was just another ordinary spat in the Cortex at Star Labs. Cisco sighed, changing his mind. Frost seemed to be wanting to get over the chatting and move onto the next step already.

“Fine, let’s do this,” he said, and unbuckled his belt, helping Frost out of her t-shirt. He offered to help with her jeans but she waved him off, yanking her skinny light wash by the ankles herself until she was only in her underwear. He rolled over, thinking that this might work out better if Frost felt more in control. She straddled his thighs and reached into her bra to remove the used napkin from their lunch.

Cisco made a face. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that.” He was lucky he could even manage the snark. 

It was hard to keep his breathing even. He’d never seen this much of her before, obviously. Her pale skin, her stomach, her creamy thighs. Silvery hair cascading down her back in waves.

She was paler than he’d thought. Her eyes had lost the spooky glow they used to take some years ago, and her voice no longer went two-toned, something Cisco was somewhat thankful for. He couldn’t imagine hearing her words bounce and echo off these walls. It made him uncomfortable, back when Frost first appeared. The overlapping layer, like Caitlin was trapped inside when Frost took over, speaking over her louder, colder, with more command.

Now, Cisco closed his eyes and he heard her voice. She was saying something, but Cisco wasn’t listening, Reevena’s Still Dreaming floating in from his speaker in low pulses. Her hands roamed down his shoulders, and chest as she explored and his goosebumps unsheathed.

He lost himself in the first kiss and grabbed onto her hair. It was kind of better than he’d ever imagined. Caitlin sighed into his mouth, moving closer. Cisco tipped his head back against the backboard, cupping her neck as he drew her to him. Caitlin’s lips and her body and her skin and her perfume tickling his nose. It was better than he’d imagined. It was everything he’d secretly dreamed.

Caitlin.

“UNCLE!” Cisco cried, shimmying out from underneath her. “Oh my god. I’m sorry, but, uncle. Frost. I’m sorry. I can’t.” He reached for his shirt, hastily pulling it back over his head.

Frost ran a hand through her tangled hair. “...Why not?”

She didn’t seem hurt. Confused, maybe.

It was hard for Cisco to explain it because he hadn’t been able to articulate the thought himself properly until only a few seconds ago. But the truth was simple.

He couldn’t do this.

“Look,” Cisco stared at the duvet cover. Ralph Lauren sheets, high thread count. On discount from the last Cyber Monday sale. He knew that because he was beside her when she added it to her cart on the website.

“Dreamy,” he had said with a tease. “You’ll sleep well.” She had laughed at the time. “I think we’re kidding ourselves thinking we’d be getting any actual sleep nowadays.”

This was Caitlin’s bed. Caitlin’s room. Caitlin’s apartment. And he knew Frost was a part of Caitlin. But, when it came to this? It didn’t matter —His heart panged. Frost deserved to be looked at when he said this. “I’ve imagined doing this before. More than once...The rose petals, the music. Valentine’s Day…”

Frost shot out a candle from her fingertips, listening.

“With Caitlin.”

“You do realize we’re basically two sides of the same person.”

“To you, maybe.” Cisco gave her a small, stiff smile. “Except you’re not. Not to me.”

He grabbed her hand. “I love you, Frost. I do. But it’s because I loved her first.” He searched her eyes. “And I have to know. I really need to know.” He bent down and scooped Frost’s red sweater from off the floor, tugging it over her head, mussing her hair. It stuck out all staticy, and Frost glared at his insistence of returning her to a modest state of dress. “Because you seem unsure of this yourself. What do you get out of this? Do you want me? And you never told me for sure, if Caitlin is okay with this. Like really okay with this.”

“She would’ve stopped me by now if she weren’t.”

Cisco tried not to think too hard about that. “And what about you?”

Frost didn’t reply.

“Because I can’t just do this,” he continued. “Have sex with you. If it’s not with her. And I can’t call it making love to you if it’s because you have no better option. This wouldn’t just be some holiday romp for me. And I don’t want you going elsewhere for this. But I think you’ll have to if it’s what you really want.” There was no more saliva in his mouth, but he said his piece.“Just please don’t tell me about it.”

She bunched the covers around her waist, covering her bare legs as she retrieved his basket. She broke into the wine, pouring out a glass silently and handed it to him over the messy sheets. He took the drink silently. Taking a careful sip. It was like she could tell he needed the drink.

“I think you're right,” she confessed after a long time. "It’s not what I really want." 

“Oh?”

“I like the idea of Valentine’s Day.” She heaved a big sigh. “I like the concept of having this one great person, that means the world to you. But I like it for other people. It works for them.” Her shoulders drooped. “And I thought—maybe if I threw myself into it...I’d get it. Barry and Iris, Sue and Ralph. Joe and Cecile. There’s just you. And me….” She tilted her head, considering. “Norvock?”

“Please don’t bring Snake Eye into this bedroom.” It was almost a growl.

Frost snorted at the green in his eyes.

“Stop worrying about him. Really there’s just you. And it’s you because—Because it’s what Caitlin feels. And I can feel Caitlin. So I thought maybe...If I tried it, too…”

“Frost.” Cisco squeezed her hand. “It’s okay to not be interested in sex or romance. It’s okay if that’s just not you.”

She sucked in a breath. “I don’t think it is.”

“That’s okay.”

“Okay.”

"Okay." 

Reevena crooned on. 

Frost began to giggle.

He frowned at her, worried. Insulted? “Um.”

She covered her mouth, turning away to muffle her laughter into the palm of her hand. “I’m sorry,” she managed. “I just— I don’t know what I was thinking. Sex!? Making love!? With you?! Oh my god.” She sobered immediately at the look on his face. “I’m sorry, there’s a reason why I’m laughing. I’m not trying to be mean.”

He smiled at her awkwardly, he wasn’t sure why his heart was breaking. “I promise it’s alright.”

“No, because. I was feeling something. And I was acting on it. But it’s not my attraction.” She met his curious gaze and lowered the wine glass from his lips, putting it on the bedside table so that he’d have her whole attention. “It’s hers.”

Cisco’s mouth parted, but nothing came out. His face felt horrendously warm, and he could tell by Frost’s amusement that he was mad red. “Can I speak to her?”

“Yeah,” she said breezily, pausing for what Cisco could only guess is to talk it over with Caitlin telepathically or however. “I think I’ll be absent for every Valentine’s Day from now on.”

Before he could get another word out, Caitlin was blinking at him. Cisco wanted to very kindly melt into her floorboards. “Uhhhh….Hi.”

She stretched, digging her fingertips into the soft sheets, looking particularly unbothered for finding Cisco cozied up in her bed.

“Hi.” She tucked her brown hair behind her ear, eyeing the rose petals and bubble machine.

He knew it looked bad, but he had to excuse himself before this could continue.

The warm salt air of Barbados greeted him once again. He stood in his haphazardly thrown on cardigan and boxers in front of the stretch of the Caribbean Sea. Cisco assumed the crabs did not take his scream any better than the first time, but it was too dark to tell. The seagulls, however, were displeased, shrieking right back at him.

He breached back into her room, kicking at the overkill rose petals, and shutting down the bubble machine once and for all. “Sorry about that.” His voice was hoarse.

“Wow,” Caitlin said with a growing smile, glossing over his little disappearing act altogether. Maybe she could tell how desperately he needed it. “You did a number in here.”

It took a moment for Cisco to realize. “You were awake this entire time, weren’t you?”

“You’re crazy to think I’d have let this actually happen.”

He climbed back onto the bed, and Caitlin moved to make room. It was already so much better, easier. To be half-dressed and making a fool out of himself. As long as it was with her.

“Why?” He stretched back to lean against the pillows. He was aiming for sexy, but he’d take anything above cute. He winked at her. “Want me for yourself?”

Her eyes raked down his body appreciatively. It was slower, more deliberate than Frost had ever done. “Yes.”

Oh.

“If that’s okay,” she added. A bit shyer.

Cisco couldn’t speak. Except he had to. He had so many questions. And the way she was smiling triumphantly at him should be illegal. She held his face in her hands, smoothing out his gobsmacked expression until he smiled at her, helpless but to melt under her touch. The effect, she had. It was dangerous. So dangerous.

“Why?” he said again, his mouth working in contradiction to his brain, that had all but given up on asking. He turned his cheek into her palm.

Caitlin sighed and let him go. “I couldn’t just tell Frost. I had to let her come to her conclusions. And I trusted you. She trusted you. I wasn’t sure how this was going to go down either.” She blushed for the first time that evening, looking away. “And to stop and explain meant I’d have to tell you why she was so confused.”

She meant that she’d been suppressing her feelings for him so hard it leaked. What a fact. Cisco forced his brain to assemble back enough to think properly, setting that tidbit aside for later. “...Is Frost going to be okay?”

Caitlin nodded. “More than. She’s relieved, I think. And glad she discovered this with you. I’ve always suspected she was asexual. With her impulse control, she would’ve gone after someone by now if it weren’t the case.”

"What would've happened, then?" 

Caitlin was slow in answer. "I guess we would have had to talk about it. I'm not sure." 

“What happened with Debbie?” Cisco couldn't help but ask. 

Caitlin made a clueless face, shrugging her shoulders. “Hey,” she said, tapping at his knee. “We can talk about Frost at some other time. It’s Valentine’s Day.”

The music and wine glasses and candles still scattered around had yet to serve as nothing else but a constant reminder to them. “That it is.” Cisco smiled at her. “I actually got you a card.”

“Forget the card,” Caitlin surprised him.

She scooted forward, dragging him upright to drape her arms around him in a hug. But it was intimate and warm, his heart beating against the thick material of Frost’s sweater. Caitlin tangled her hand into his hair, much like he had done with Frost, raking her fingernails gently along his scalp. He tried his best not to get drunk off it.

“Tell me what you told Frost,” she whispered against his neck.

There was a lot of incriminating stuff he’d said. “You’re going to need to be more specific.”

She snuck her hands underneath his sweater, tugging it back over his head. He was sure by now he looked like a wreck.

“Mhm.” She was busy kissing his collar bone. It seemed they wouldn’t be leaving the bed anytime soon. Cisco was pretty okay with that. “Something about loving someone first.”

He laughed, flushed. “Oh, that.”

"Yes, that." 

“I love you, Caitlin,” Cisco told her.

She stilled in his arms. Cisco drew back so he could see her face. 

“I love you. Caitlin.”

It must’ve been different—Hearing it now compared to when she was under. Because she held her breath, and curled her fingers into his sweater, pressing herself against his chest. He lowered them back down slowly. Caitlin was practically on top of him, soaking him in. The weight was nice. He could get used to this. 

“How opposed would you be to making good use of your little sex kit?”

“It’s not a sex kit!” he blurted out with a gasp, scandalized.

Caitlin laughed. Loud and freely, wonderful. Cisco would make a thousand sex kits just to hear the sound again.

“Not opposed,” he promised and made good on it. “Not opposed at all.”

❄️❤️❄️

“Say it again,” he whispered in the morning.

“I love you.”

It was Caitlin’s voice, and her words and it was her lips he kissed thereafter. It was Caitlin’s breath that stuttered against his mouth and Caitlin’s lace bra that Frost had borrowed that ended up on the floor. It was Caitlin’s eyes, watching him adoringly and it was her smile that lit him up. It was her cheek, with pillow lines and it was her laugh he got out of her time and again.

[m00nslippers]

Everyone Crushing on Jason 2

Today is my birthday, and I’ve got a present for you all! It’s chapter 2 of the ECoJ AU! Later tonight I’m going to post the first on AO3 under the title Jay-Crazy, then a few days later I will add this chapter tow it and then all future chapters will be simulposted. So I hope you all enjoy this slice of complete crack.

If you missed Chapter 1, it’s here.

- - -

“Holy shit, who is that?” Hal demanded of Barry, jabbing his friend with his elbow to get the hero's attention.

They were in the Watchtower Satellite after routing a poorly orchestrated alien invasion attempt. Even compared to the usual morons that thought they could conquer Earth despite it's super-powered protectors, it had been especially inept and the whole endeavor had barely made it to the ground. Martian Manhunter, Cyborg and the Watchtower scanners had detected the alien vessels quickly and, once hostility was ascertained, the satellite and vacuum-hardy heroes like the Kryptonians and Lanterns  lit their asses up. A small force managed to slip by their attacks and make it to the Earth, but according to MM, a hastily dispatched contingent of available JLA members mopped them up easily enough. Hal hadn't heard any of the reports, was actively avoiding them to be honest, but everyone seemed to have come out of the incident alright except the bad guys, so he'd say everyone in participation had earned a beer, especially himself for being a front-line badass. Too bad he was stuck on the Watchtower until the all-clear went through.

He and Barry had just managed to dodge an after-action report with ugh Batman and were loitering in the infirmary—partly because Barry suggested they should be around in case anyone needed more hands with the injured, but mostly because Hal had found out the Bat was allergic to medical care—when Hal's eyes had zoned-in like a laser on the most exquisite pair of tits he'd ever seen on a man.

Jesus that chest was toned! Hal didn't know what kind of exorcize gave a guy pecs developed enough to spill out of your hand, but this guy was doing them and clearly never skipped. Hal was damn near hypnotized as he watched the man strip out of thigh holsters and shrug out of black reinforced-Kevlar body armor that zipped up from the back, revealing a body like a battle axe, hard, cut and stacked, shoulders broad and muscular. The man's legs were insane, his thighs were bigger than Hal's head! He looked like he could dead-lift Hal with one hand and Hal was suddenly wishing the guy would try.

Hal had pretty much been sold before he managed to take in the full package, but lighting on the guy's face Hal realized he was young, in his early to mid twenties, and almost painfully good-looking, even with the domino mask obscuring his eyes. His hair was dark and had a hint of a wave, longer on the top of his head and short at the sides, and at his temple was an interesting streak of white. His face was long and he had a wide, dynamic mouth that was on the verge of a snarl as he argued something with—oh, hey, Nightwing! Damn, he'd been so distracted with the view that he somehow missed that Nightwing, AKA the best ass in the entire vigilante community, was trying to stitch up a nasty three-inch gash in the mystery man's side that should have curbed Hal's arousal but somehow just made him hotter. Yeah, Hal liked the battle-worn and sweaty look all of a sudden.  

Barry squinted where Hal was staring (he assumes, Hal refused to look away from those drool-worthy abs, squeezable pecs and powerful arms and back muscles that had him drooling a puddle on the infirmary floor). Luckily his friend had an answer for him because Hal needed a name to put to that amazing piece of real estate ripe for the tapping that had presented itself before him.

Barry's voice was incredulous as he answered, “That's Red Hood. You know, the guy we all voted into the JLA two nights ago?”

Eh, Hal never paid attention at those things. “Remind me, will you?”

“Gotham Vigilante. Like Nightwing, he used to be Robin. He was a bit of a villain until a few years ago, but he's cleaned up his act and Batman vouched for him—which is all information you should know if you listened at the meetings,” Barry complained. “Don't tell me you voted for someone without knowing anything about them again, Hal...”

Hal tore his gaze away from the smoking hot Red Hood so he could roll his eyes at Barry. “Does it really matter? You listen to the boring stuff and look into all these people and I just vote what you vote.”

Barry sighed, wearily shaking his head. “Hal, that's not--”

Hal raised his fingers to Barry's lips and cut his friend off mid-sentence. “Shh—Daddy's on the prowl,” he whispered and bobbed his eyebrows suggestively.

The speedster's wince was clearly communicated despite his mask as he shoved Hal's hand away from his mouth. “Please don't let me ever hear you refer to yourself as 'Daddy' again, Hal. I'm begging you.”

Hal smirked and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Begging me, huh? Don't let Iris hear about this, she'll be jealous.”

“Why are we friends again? I can't say anything to you,” Barry mused, covering his face in embarrassment, ready to phase through the floor to disappear from the conversation.

“Don't know, but here is where I leave you, pal.” Hal gave a lazy two-fingered salute and grinned. “I've got a pair of pants to get into or die trying—and the pants don't belong to me!”

“I don't even know what to say...” he heard Barry profess as Hal smoothed his hair and strode confidently across the infirmary floor to where his future—Boyfriend? Sex friend? Morning regret? He'd take what he could get, honestly—had an arm resting on Nightwing's back while the other vigilante was underneath it, bent over his side, putting stitches into the long red gash across the man's ribs. And honestly it spoke to the power, or maybe just the novelty, of his new obsession that he wasn't drifting behind Nightwing to get a view of his fantastic booty, but was marching straight up to Red Hood, ignoring Nightwing almost entirely.

But no sooner had he stepped up to the plate then Guy Goddamn Gardner stepped out in front of him with his dumb red hair and his cocksure strut, cutting off his path.

“Hey, is that your jacket, there? Looks nice,” his rival Lantern said, nodding to a brown leather jacket laying on the medical cot next to Red Hood.

Guy's head blocked his view as he raised a brow in disbelief. 'Hey, is that your jacket, there'? 'Looks nice'? What kind of opening line was that? The hell was Guy playing at?

The Red Hood looked up from where he'd been scowling at the floor—damn, his scowl was mean, it was freaking hot—to eye Guy with the confused incredulity such a stupid ice-breaker deserved.

“Uh, thanks?” Hood said, sounding confused as to why anyone was talking to him, which was vaguely adorable to Hal for some reason. “'s kinda breezy, though. Gotta few bullets holes I haven't patched up yet.”

Hal thought he was going to melt into the floor. Shit, even Red Hood's voice was hot. On the deeper end of baritone with a street-sounding drawl Hal had only ever heard in movies because most people didn't actually have accents that strong.

Gotham vigilante, huh? He sure sounded like it. Hal usually had a 'no Bats' policy when it came to pretty much everything in his life he could manage, but this guy seemed different, more chill, more down to Earth than the usual Bat—or maybe Hal was just making excuses to justify sucking face with the guy. Whatever, he wasn't about to question it. The dick wants what the dick wants.

“Yeah, I used to do the whole leather jacket biker-schtick,” Guy said, his usual cockiness leaking into his tone as he flipped up the collar to his vest as if he actually thought he looked cool emulating a 60s greaser. He pointed a thumb at himself with pride as he said, “I incorporated it into my Lantern uniform and everything. It's a one of a kind style in the corps.” Hal could hear the attempt at a smolder in Guy's voice as it dropped half an octave and he praised, “I bet it doesn't look as good on me as it does on you, though.”

Red Hood's expression slanted into bafflement, mind clearly whirring as he processed the words spoken to him, turning them over every which way before hitting on the realization that he'd just been hit on. All at once Red Hood's cheeks blushed pink and he reached a hand up to tug through his hair anxiously, almost as if he wasn't used to people pulling out corny one-liners trying to get his attention and he had no idea what to do about it. It was so damn cute that Hal's brain momentarily ceased to function. Hal was stunned, amazed, incredibly turned on. What the hell, how does someone who looked like they could punch a hole in a car door, no powers necessary, and shoot you without remorse, look that sweet and innocent? It would be wrong if it wasn't so sexy.

Crap, he couldn’t let this go on. Hal had to get in there and break this up or he was going to be shown up by freaking Guy Gardner of all people, and that was something he simply couldn’t allow, especially when someone this good-looking was on the line.

“Okay, move over Horatio, the real Green Lantern has arrived,” Hal said, reaching out to physically maneuvered Guy out of his way before the other Lantern realized what was happening. Taking advantage of the opening, Hal swooped in to his place in front of the delectable Red Hood, whose eyes flicked from Guy to Hal and back quickly, with the almost creepy assessing intelligence that Gotham vigilante's were known for.

Hal offered a hand and his most dazzling smile. “Hi, Red Hood? I'm Hal Jordan, AKA Green Lantern, AKA Earth's first and best Green Lantern, AKA one of the JLA's founding members. I hear you just got accepted into the league, congrats! I bet you'll be a worthy addiction—I mean, addition, around here. Maybe after Wings finishes fixing you up I could show you around? I know all the best spots to avoid Batman.”

The Red Hood didn't take his hand but his mouth stretched into a lop-sided grin, a thing of brightness with a hint of mischief that had Hal going weak in the knees and he didn't know what he said to get said smile but damn was he going to enjoy it. Red Hood snorted in amusement. “'All the best spots to avoid Batman', huh? Maybe I'll take you up on tha—ow!”

Red Hood scowled down at Nightwing who was glaring at the Red Hood's wound as he tied off his stitches. “Oops,” he deadpanned, sliding his disapproving gaze Hal's way. Hal narrowed his eyes back, not sure when the guy had put on that party-pooper bat-look Hal hated, but now he suddenly couldn’t forget the other vigilante had worn the cowl of his greatest rival, world-class busybody Bruce Wayne. He'd always liked Nightwing better in the role of the big bat—he was more laid back, he cracked jokes even if they were mostly stupid puns—but he might have to reassess that opinion. Apparently Nightwing had picked up a thing or two from his mentor. Specifically, how to make Hal feel like scum for breathing.

Hal opened his mouth to ask Nightwing why he was here and what his relationship even was with Red Hood, but before he could confront his potential cockblock, Guy grabbed Hal by the arm and dragged him away to the corner of the room with a mumbled, “Excuse us, guys...” as Hal complained, “Hey, easy on the goods there, Guy!”

As soon as they were out of ear-shot, Guy rounded on Hal with fury in his face. His usually pale complexion was flushed red with anger and embarrassment, twin to his fiery red hair.

Guy shoved Hal hard enough to rock him back on his heels, whisper-shouting, “What the hell, Jordan! Why you gotta butt into my business?”

Hal scoffed. “Your business? No no no, I let you have first crack, but now it's my turn.”

Guy snorted and got in his face, as if he actually thought he could back down the GL Corps original 'man without fear' with his inadequate self. Please, Guy wasn't even close to his level. “You didn't let me do anything, Jordan. I saw him first and you just shoved your way in, like an asshole!”

Hal threw up his hands, unrepentant. “Hey, the man has a right to make his own choices, and clearly the better choice is yours truly. I'm just presenting him the option of my amazing self.”

Guy looked ready to strangle him with his bare hands, which was pretty typical of the man. “Why do you always have to be number one, huh Jordan?” he demanded and an edge of pleading entered his voice that put a momentary damper on Hal's sense of entitlement. “I might have found my soulmate here, why can't you just let me have this?”

Hal frowned, suddenly uncertain. Did Guy know Red Hood previously and have some relationship with him Hal didn't know? Was there some connection between the two that Hal was selfishly getting in the middle of?

“Soulmate?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest and regarding his fellow Lantern with skeptical but open ears. “You think Red Hood is the one, huh? What makes you think that?”

Guy's face turned dreamy-eyed and dopey as he explained, “I saw him right-hook an alien in the jaw, take the goon's own gun and blast his face off in a quarter of a second, then back-flip off a car and detonate an explosion that wiped out a landing craft. I fell in love instantly Hal, this is the real deal, man!”

Oh, so he didn't have a connection, Guy was just being typical Guy.

Hal rolled his eyes, unimpressed. “He's not your soul-mate, you just saw him do something badass and now your smitten!”

“Well you just saw him take off his shirt and now your smitten,” Guy countered with a snarl, “At least my reason isn't superficial!”

Hey, physical attraction was usually the first step to a relationship, or so he'd heard somewhere. It was human nature to see a hot body and go after it. “There's nothing wrong with—”

“Hey!” Hal heard as someone snapped their fingers in front of his nose and he looked over to see another fellow Lantern, Kyle Rayner, gracing both of his predecessors with something like irritated disbelief. “Are you two seriously fighting over Jason Todd of all people?”

“So his name is 'Jason Todd'?” Guy perked up, voice soft, “I love it. It just perfectly captures his, like, his everything, and—”

Hal shook his head. “Words are not your strong suit Guy, just stop.” Please.

Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his Green Lantern's mask, wearing a pained look as he said, “Okay, let's just put on hold the absurdity that is anyone thinking that dickhead Todd is attractive enough to pursue despite his garbage fire of a personality--”

“Woah, that's a bit harsh Rayner,” Hal said with a raised eyebrow, taken aback by the fierceness of Kyle's insult. What the heck? The kid was usually so nice. What did he have against the other man, how did he even know him?

“—aside from all the obvious reasons Todd is a bad idea,” Kyle went on, ignoring him. “If you're really interested, then you guys have way bigger problems than each other.”

Guy crossed his arms and tilted his head in question. “The heck are you talking about?”

Kyle jerked a thumb behind him and Hal looked over his shoulder to find the object of his and Guy's affections, Red Hood, one Jason Todd, was crowded by no less than Supergirl, Superboy, Booster Gold, Arsenal and Starfire, as Nightwing and Orphan hovered nearby like stodgy nannies. Kara had actually latched onto one of Red Hood's arms like a leach and was pressing her breasts against the man's biceps as she covertly ran her eyes all over him, no doubt putting her Kryptonian x-ray vision to good use (so unfair). Superboy—the older one, Kent's kinda-clone, not his kid—was trying to shove Kara out of the way and insert himself into the conversation, but the girl was clinging fast and refused to let go. Booster Gold was yacking and gesticulating, trying to draw attention to himself, but Red Hood seemed to be ignoring him in favor of chatting with Green Arrow's old partner and the Tamaranean princess who were looking way too friendly, with Starfire's hand on his shoulder and Arsenal poking at his ribs, as Red Hood swatted back.

“What the hell is this?” Hal demanded, the unfairness of it all pissing him off. “We were there first, come on!”

“I was there first,” Guy corrected and clicked his tongue angrily. “Man, this is freaking bullshit. This is all your fault, Jordan!”

Hal huffed, indignant. “My fault? You're the one who dragged us away! If you hadn't we—”

“Seriously guys, don't fight over the Red Hood. He's the worst,” Kyle spat with an uncharacteristic vehemence. “He thinks with his gun instead of his head and he's a broody goth-nerd lone-wolf-wannabe who he doesn't know when to quit!”

Guy's face screwed up in confusion. “What's your angle here, Kyle? You're just making him sound hotter.”

Kyle put a hand on Guy's shoulder, inviting him to listen closely as he explained, “Look, he's not hot—I mean, yeah he is, he's like crazy hot—but he's not, trust me.”

Guy looked like his brain was struggling to keep up with Kyle's non-logic. Actually, Hal's was too. “You are making no sense,” Hal informed the kid.

Kyle didn't look especially bothered. “Just don't fight, okay? Seriously, I'll sic John on you.”

Oh, not John Stewart-stick-in-the-mud! He'd shut down their whole operation like the by-the-book buzzkill he was! Damn, when did Rayner get so bitter? The kid was still in his twenties but he was already old and jaded and wise to he and Guy's ways.

“Woah, calm down,” Hal said evenly, as if soothing a potential jumper away from the edge. “We don't need to get John involved. We're cool, right Guy?”

Guy was a bit closer to John than Hal was, so he wasn't sure if the other Lantern would back his play on keeping the third Lantern out of it, but Guy also seemed to realize they needed to think smart here.

“Yeah, we can act civil about this. Probably,” Guy said, fluttering his lashes innocently.

Okay, 'smart' was relative.

Kyle rolled his eyes, not in the least sorry that he was trying to ruin their day with a lecture from John about GL solidarity and keeping your mind out of the gutter, or whatever rules the architect-ex-Marine followed to keep his nose so damn clean.

“Yeah, sure you can,” was Kyle's skeptical retort. The younger man rolled his shoulders wearily and finally seemed to let up on the oppressive tone. “Well, I'm out of here—they sent out the all-clear, no casualties, so I'm flying to my apartment to crash.”

“Okay, goodnight, I guess. Good work out there,” Hal said by way of a goodbye.

The younger Lantern smiled back, suddenly more himself. “Thanks. You guys too.” As he started to walk away Kyle hesitated and stabbed a finger their way, saying, “And if you take my advice you'll stay away from Todd.”

With that, Kyle set off toward the door, only pausing as he walked passed Red Hood and his accumulated admirers to sling a snarky, “Not dead yet, asshole? Shame.”

Jason immediately reacted, throwing up a middle finger as he tossed out a, “Fuck you, Bitch-Lantern,” that sounded almost playful. “I've already come back once, what makes you think I wouldn't rise up from the grave just to kick your ass?”

Kyle was still walking towards the door, yelling back, “I'd like to see you try, Failure-Robin.”

“Suck a dick, Rayner, I could bend you in half,” Jason retorted easily.

“I've got a piece of alien jewelry that says otherwise.”

“I bet your ring runs out of power before I run out of bullets.”

Kyle huffed. “Pff, whatever.” He turned the corner out the door with a much more friendly, “See ya nerd.”

Red Hood rolled his eyes and flapped a dismissive hand at him. “See ya geek.”

Hal stared wide-eyed and dazed in Kyle's wake. The hell was all that? How the heck did Kyle know Red Hood, Jason Todd? And what was with all the belligerent sexual tension? Did he have to worry about Kyle now too? Damn it, this was getting out of hand!

“That kid's a problem,” Hal muttered darkly.

Guy looked like he had somehow fallen even deeper in love after hearing his crush shout at Kyle to suck a dick. “Shit, this is bad,” he said and Hal wasn't entirely sure what Guy meant by it, but he was also certain that the man was correct.

“I hate to say it, but I agree.” Hal chewed his lip, for the first time beginning to think this wouldn't be an open and shut case of show-up-get-laid. He might actually have to work for his prize. It would probably be worth it, though. God, but he could die happy crushed between those beefy thighs.

“Maybe we should...I don't know, join forces or something,” Guy offered.

Hal frowned. “How would that work?”

Guy raised both brows and pointed at himself with a deprecating chuckle. “You're asking me?”

Of course, what was he thinking? “Good point, um...” Hal thought a moment before he said, “How about...we share information and give each other space to work, but everyone else is the enemy. If either of us land him we back off.”

Guy nodded. “I'm game. Truce?”

“Truce,” Hal answered. They sealed their alliance with a fist bump, ring to ring, and both Lantern rings sparked green briefly. Hal and Guy dropped their hands and moved to regard their competition with zealous scrutiny.

“Right,” Hal said after a moment to strategize. “Now let's get in there. You try to push out Booster and the ex-Titans and I'll take the Supers.”

Guy punched a fist into his hand and grinned, ready for a brawl. “Got it.”

[donaldresslerfanfic]

Agent Gale.

Rating: M

Warnings: Strong Language, Sexual Content.

Word Count: 3348

Donald Ressler X OC Maggie Waters.

Chapter: Fifty-Eight

Chapter Index

Story on Wattpad

Ressler.

The days after I first met Julian to work with him, Mags and I had the first ultrasound to meet our baby, when we first found out about her state, she was barely 7 weeks along, and we had to wait the remaining time for the 12th and the ultrasound. I'd noticed Mags had a little bump below her belly button, I was used of her stomach laying straight down all the time, and the smallest change I noticed in a second. She was still blissfully unaware of the shit show that was going to fall upon us.

Julian was an extreme researcher, he really got into the mind of the perpetrator, in this case Reddington. He knew every detail in the reports of the victims, he didn't miss a date, a connection, he reviewed everything a thousand times. Working with him brought me back on some level of attention to detail I'd long lost.

The following days, with Reddington dealing with his own stuff and chasing the cleaner, I got word from a detective in Philly who said he could have a break on my case. I went home to pack a bag and let Mags know I was heading there to talk to her.

That was the single worst decision I'd made. The witness was a set up.

I found myself now in a containment cell back in DC with a terrible headache, a pit in my stomach of thinking what they would do to me, and another even darker pit of knowing that I'd been pumped full of drugs, that's what I was worried about the most. I didn't wanted my past addiction to be a thing again.

I'd been stripped from my badge, taken out of the taskforce, treated like a criminal, I'd been manipulated, used, wronged, and I couldn't reach the only person who would make me feel better.

"You've got five minutes" I heard one of the guards say, I lifted my head up towards the door of the cell with a frown, then watched as Mags figure appeared from the side.

I stood up and walked to her, my arms slipped between the bars to hold her by the waist.

"Maggie, Mags I-"

"Hey hey" she stopped me, placing her hands on my neck and looking into my eyes "Samar told me what happened, alright? I'm just here to see how you're holding up and to tell you that everything is fine"

I shook my head and pressed my forehead to one of the bars.

"This is not fine, none of this is fine"

Mag's hand lifted up to the side of my head.

"That's an awful bruise, what was that?"

"I'm sorry" she moved her hand down on my cheek, stroking it slowly.

"None of this is your fault Don. Out of all the people Kate could've gone after you weren't supposed to be one of them. But they're working on getting you out alright?"

I couldn't look at her, I was so ashamed, ashamed for being manipulated the way I was, for being weak.

"Hey, stop it" she said pulling my head up to look at her again, as if she knew what was going on in my head "none of this is your fault. You'll be cleared tomorrow, and hopefully we can laugh about this whole situation in the future"

When I heard the footsteps walking down the hall again, probably to retrieve Maggie, I held her hands and placed a kiss on her knuckles.

"I'll see you tomorrow, alright?" I nodded, kissing her hand one more time before she was led outside.

I felt terrible with myself, specially after Cooper told me I was under investigation and out of active duty. I was free to work with Julian, but I didn't wanted to have anything to do with anything. The whole situation left me nauseous, I hated everything and everyone. Reddington, Hitchin, Kaplan, Krilov, Gale, everyone. I felt like everyone was out to get us.

The next day, when I was released under investigation, I headed to Mag's work, she had to be at the construction site almost everyday, and I knew that's where I'd find her.

She'd been reached on the radio and made aware of my presence, after a few minutes I exited the car when I saw her make her way to me. I held her tight, feeling her body mold to mine.

"Told you everything was going to be fine" she assured, I sighed and pulled back, holding her by the neck and pulling her for a kiss.

"I'm sorry"

"Stop" she shook her head "stop being sorry, you have nothing to feel sorry for."

"I'm going to find a way to make everything alright"

"I know you will" she leaned in to kiss my lips again, and I moved my hand from her waist to her stomach. I'd never done that, but I'd seen her absentmindedly rub it when she was sitting in the sofa, or on the computer. "We're fine, and I need you to be fine as well. So do what you have to do"

I nodded, kissing her lips again and hugging her tight. I was going to do anything in my power to stop the indictment, Gale, whoever was fighting Reddington, everyone. For Mags, for the three of us.

I resumed my work with Julian, he was always in the morgue, always looking at the bodies, always trying to communicate with them.

I don't know how he'd gotten my address, but he had, and one night he showed up with three boxes of files for us to look up.

I was a little confused when I opened the door and found him standing on the other side, and immediately got worried because Mags was supposed to be back in an hour, and I couldn't afford her saying something she wasn't supposed to.

"Are you gonna stand there all day?" He asked, I opened the door further and grabbed one of the boxes he was holding, releasing some of the weight from him.

"Who gave you my address?" I asked, he walked in and I shut the door with my foot.

"The bureau, why? Are you hiding something?"

I motioned at him to keep walking, then set the boxes on the kitchen table.

"No, but I don't want people to be looking at these" I opened one of them I looked around, most of the files that were here were redacted by me. Most of them were from people we'd tried to get them to give up information about Reddington, we promised protection, and here's where they'd ended up, in a box, a file number, a casualty.

"Wow, wow" I lifted my eyes to Julian, who was holding a framed photo of Mags and I on our wedding "is this the missus?" He shot me a glance.

"Yes, that's her"

"Where did you get her from?" He placed the frame back down in the table and opened another one of the boxes.

"She's from Maryland, she moved here 5 years ago, that's when I met her" I explained a little.

"Does she know what you do?"

"She knows the necessary. And I would prefer it if she didn't came back from work and saw the kitchen table full of bodies"

He just chuckled and got to work. Most of the people in the ice rink I had accounted for, and we were able to set up a timeline. Julian had a few other bodies who were identified but he hadn't been able to get the files, all of them were names on the blacklist, I knew not being able to get the files would spark some suspicion in him.

We'd set up the victims in a timeline, and some of them dated years back, the John Does that he had the bodies but not the files dated from 2013, which is roughly the time when the Reddington taskforce was disband, and a new Reddington taskforce was created.

The front door opened and in came Maggie, phone in hand.

"Can you do me a favor and look up in the file the name of the person in charge of the project?" She left her things on the kitchen island and walked around it towards the fridge, she hadn't noticed us. "Oh my God that's my name! And because it is my name you are going to do exactly as I say, and if I say the walls need to be 5 inches thicker, then you will make them five inches thicker, and I don't care if you have to tear them down and redo them, you wouldn't have to if you'd followed my instructions in the first place."

Boy was she mad. I walked to her, she gave me an annoyed roll of her eyes when she saw me.

"And tell Gabriel this is the last time I'm working with him- no no no" she said quickly "I've had you scheduled for a month in advance, first he fucks up and delays the start, now he fucks up the measurements that I personally reminded him of five times. I'm one mental breakdown away from pulling your people out of the site and hiring someone new."

She handed me her water bottle, which I took and opened, she started angrily at it, then took it whilst listening to the other person talk.

"You're gonna stay after hours to fix up this fuck up, and next time you or Gabriel cross me... You don't want to see me mad" she threatened.

She hung up and gave me a chuckle.

"Was that too much? You think he bought it?" She gave the water a big gulp.

"I bought it" I leaned in to kiss her lips, then motioned at Julian, who had witnessed the whole charade. "Baby, this a friend from work, Julian Gale"

She turned wide eyes to him, placing a hand on her chest.

"Oh my God" she gave me a little look "Donald what the hell, I'm going full mafia on people with the police in the house?" She walked to Julian and extended her hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that" she said with a smile. Julian shook her hand "I'm Maggie"

"It's a pleasure, Donnie here is very hush hush about you, I'm pleasantly surprised"

She chuckled and moved her eyes to the table, quickly turning away.

"On my God baby, is that like, dead people? Ugh" she exaggeratedly shivered. "I'm sorry I'm too queasy, especially now" she moved her hand to touch her stomach.

"Oh, wow, you're multiplying already?"

She gave him a smile and looked at me.

"Yeah, Agent Ressler here can't keep his hands to himself" she kissed me on the cheek and patted my shoulder. "okay, I'm gonna go upstairs to yell at more people who think they know more than I do at my own job, and leave you guys to keep working" she motioned at Julian "it's been a pleasure."

She gave me one last look before taking her things and going upstairs.

We spent another two hours working on the files, but there was not much else we could do besides waiting for the remaining files Gale had requested. Those obviously will never reach him, the classification levels on them were too far from his reach. He politely declined Mag's offer to stay for dinner, and left shortly after that.

She'd moved her laptop back down to the table and was looking into the fridge for something to cook.

"Your acting is very impressive" I said to her, she gave me a little smile and closed the fridge, taking some ground beef with her.

"Do you think he bought the unaware wife role? The last thing we need is for him to know that I used to work for Reddington as well" I agreed.

I stopped to look at her cook, and tried to make a mental check of when was the last time I'd actually stopped to look at my wife.

She'd gotten a haircut, she thought I didn't noticed but I did, it was extremely subtle. She'd also gotten the finger tattoo she told me about ages ago, two little letters were now printed on her skin forever, D.R. She was using her reading glasses more often, since she was constantly on her phone or computer, and when she wasn't she was reading papers, prints. The most notorious change was her stomach, she barely had anything noticable for anyone who didn't spent that much time with her, but I'd grown to know every curve of her body, and the little one forming on her stomach, the one that signaled she was growing someone else inside of her, that was my close second favorite, the first one will always be her smile.

She'd busied herself with dinner, but when she had to stand still next to the stove, I led my hand to her stomach again. She looked down at my hand and then up at me with the biggest of smiles.

"You're showing a bit"

"Yeah?" She asked taking her shirt and pulling up "I don't know, I think it's too early."

"I would know, this wasn't here before" I placed my lips on her shoulder, watching her cook from over her shoulder.

"Your friend sound like trouble" she commented.

Yes, he was trouble. He was even more trouble when he ID'd Tanida. That gave him a direct jab at me, and I had to tell him everything, because in his head I was the only one involved in this Reddington thing, but the truth was that I was dragged into this.

I became a mess of a person when Mags called me that very day in lunch time, to tell me that Julian had intercepted her at lunch.

I'd run a program to encrypt the call, just in case Julian had tapped my line.

"Talk to me" I said as soon as the program finished.

"I'm having lunch at the cafe and he just sat down and began rambling like 'do you know what your husband is up to? He's into some serious shit, he might go to jail. If you tell me everything you know, if you testify I can protect you' bla bla bla."

"And what did you tell him?"

"I told him that I didn't know what you were up to, and if you were in trouble that you knew what you were doing and if you knew the risks, so did I. He also insinuated something about Raymond like he mentioned his name and were like 'do you know this guy' whatever, I told him to leave me alone or I would call the police and he left"

I was in my desk, sitting and listening to her, I gave her a tired sigh and rubbed my eyes.

"Is this happening like right now? The jail thing?"

"Yes, why do you think I'm so disturbed?"

"I thought this could take months, like most trials do" she excused herself. She sighed out loud "I'm like getting lightheaded, I don't need this right now"

"Hey hey hey" I tried to calm her down "take deep breaths okay, we're working on an angle for Reddington to help us with the indictment. Don't worry"

"Okay" she said quietly "when's the trial?"

"Aram was called tomorrow afternoon to testify to a grand jury, he's not going to give us up, I'll fix this"

"Okay" she repeated "I believe you" I sighed again, rubbing my forehead "we need a vacation after this" she said with a little nervous chuckle. I half smiled and nodded my head.

"Yeah, we do. I'll call you later okay?" I said when I saw Liz walk in the office "I love you"

"I love you too" she said, then hung up the call.

"It was Mags" I said throwing the phone on the desk "says Gale is going at her."

"We're on our way to talk to Dixon's brother, hopefully we can work this one out before tomorrow."

Luckily, we did, but I didn't expect it to be at the expenses of Reven Wright's case resolution. Knowing that I'd somehow failed her made me nauseous, Hitchin got to walk free, and so did we. What I had to give up, I gave it up because of Mags, and our family. I couldn't afford her going through me going to jail, and the both of us having to raise a child in those conditions.

Maggie had to delay telling her sister about her pregnancy for almost two weeks after we did the ultrasound. Between all the comings and goings of Red's problems, she'd had to reschedule dinner with her at least three times. When I arrived home after being in the clear from the grand jury, I saw her sister's car parked outside.

I opened the door to see her poke her head from the kitchen, then walked quickly to me.

"What happened?" She asked with a frown.

"We're good" she lifted her eyebrows at me.

"For real?" I hummed affirmatively and held her by the waist, kissing her lips quickly.

"Yeah, Reddington helped. Is your sister here?" I pulled her to the kitchen, walking as we spoke.

"Yeah, she just showed up,she got mad at me for postponing dinner so many times she just dropped on us, we were going to ask for pizza."

"Have you told her?" As soon as I walked to the kitchen, Madison was sitting in the kitchen table and heard me.

"Told her what?" She asked whilst she took a sip of her glass.

"Maggie's pregnant" I said. She instantly choked on her water, making Ethan next to her stiffle a laugh and pat her back.

"I knew that already" he said smugly

"No you didn't" Mags walked to her sister with a kitchen cloth. Madison rose up from her seat to hug her, and I assumed the tears on here eyes weren't just from the water she'd tried to drink.

Madison didn't leave Maggie's side during the dinner, she just looked at her and hugged her and reached out to touch her stomach. I just assumed it was her motherly instinct taking over, Madison had basically been Mag's mom, she's taken care of her, half raised her.

Once the dinner was over, Mags was upstairs undressing and changing into her pajama when I entered.

"So" she said looking at me "what happened? How did you fix it"

I sighed in a little annoyance and sat on the bed, getting changed as well.

"I had to give up Reven Wright."

"Give up who?" She asked.

I laid on the bed and waited for her to turn off the light and make her way to the bed.

"Reven Wright, Hitchin killed her, and I've been going through her reports to see if she'd slipped on something so I could charge her. She hired a fixer who cleaned the traces. He led us to her body, and I had the proof I wanted to charge Hitchin. I had to give it away if we wanted her to squash the grand jury investigation"

"Ow" she lamented, placing her hand on my chest "I'm sorry baby. But Reven knows you know the truth, I bet she's thankful you found her and were able to give her some peace."

She moved closer, my hand landed on the side of her thigh and pulled it over on my stomach, feeling her closer.

"So you're going back to work?"

"Yes, I have to go and retrieve my badge tomorrow. Still, I don't know what's gonna happen, Reddington is broke and powerless. It could take time and I want to do other things"

"What other things?" She inquired.

"Well, house hunting, we need a bigger house."

"We 100% do not need a bigger house"

"Yeah we do, where are you going to put the baby?"

"I'll move my office downstairs and get rid of the guest room"

"No, we're getting a bigger house."

"We're not"

We were.

[therealcalicali]

PROLOGUE: CLOSER TO ME

Synopsis: Upon moving to a new city,  the Reader crosses paths with Ivar, Hvitserk and the rest of the Lothbrok clan. Since her own life is already filled with internal demons from a strict upbringing, their introduction into her life only adds to the drama. As things progress, Reader discovers that there is more to her interactions with Ivar and Hvisterk than meets the eye.

Read Chapter 1 here: CLOSER TO ME: CHAPTER 1

Read Chapter 2 here: CLOSER TO ME: CHAPTER 2

Read Chapter 3 here: CLOSER TO ME: Chapter 3

Read Chapter 4 here: CLOSER TO ME: CHAPTER 4

Read Chapter 4 here: CLOSER TO ME: CHAPTER 5

Read Chapter 6 here: CLOSER TO ME: CHAPTER 6

Read Chapter 7 here: CLOSER TO ME: CHAPTER 7

Read Chapter 8 here: CLOSER TO ME: CHAPTER 8

Read Chapter 9 here: CLOSER TO ME: CHAPTER 9

Read Chapter 10 here: CLOSER TO ME: CHAPTER 10

__________________________________

Prologue Warnings: None     

Word Count: 6500+         

Setting: Modern Vikings

Genre: Romance/Drama                   

Pairing: Ivar x Reader x Hvitserk (Love Triangle)

Tagged: @irishhiggins  @mblaqgi  @i-care-bout-you-boo  @peaches-seed  @sajess98

You suddenly felt very stressed out. Not that it didn't happen to you once in a while but this particular day was different. It was as if the conversation with your mother had taken you back to the awkward childhood and teen years you've tried so hard to escape.

“Come on Y/N. Let’s forget about it for now.” You advised yourself about your mom’s criticism of your personal life.

Despite it being a Friday night, you were scheduled to work so you didn’t have time to mope around. After a quick shower, you hastily dressed and put on your make-up. Since you didn’t have enough time to do any type of hairstyle, you opted for a sleek ponytail. After putting on your earrings, you grabbed your purse before you realized you had misplaced your car keys. For what seemed like forever, you tore up the apartment before you finally found them under the couch.

“How the hell did they wind up down there?” 

By now, your make-up had begun to smudge a bit due to your increased activity. The light layer of sweat was not only on your face but on your body as well. 

Grateful to have located the keys to your 1998 Honda Civic, you dashed to your balcony and opened the sliding glass door. Relaxing yourself, you allowed the cool night air to wash over you. You crisp white blouse and black pencil skirt finally stopped sticking to you as the moisture on your body dried away.

"Ugh! Why can't we ever just have a normal conversation? Just once!!" You pondered with exasperation looking off into the distance.

In silent contemplation, you stared into the beautiful night sky a few minutes before returning indoors to head for work. You had barely finished sliding on your black work pumps when you knocked over the forgotten cup of cold coffee onto the beige carpet.

"For the love of God! Can anything go right today?" You screamed in frustration. Your voice almost echoed in the one bedroom apartment you had resided in for only 4 months.

It was a new place as well as a new city. Just what you needed to get away from your overbearing family and nosey friends. And despite what they all thought, you didn't go running back home in defeat. Truthfully, you had surprised everyone. No one actually thought you could live so far away from home, but so far, so good.

You glanced at you cell phone for the time as you stepped out of your apartment door.

"Crap! 7:45 pm!" You observed with a roll of your eyes.

Your shift was supposed to start at eight but thanks to your mom, you had really lost track of time. Luckily, you lived pretty close to the freeway. Despite running late, with some luck you could probably get there at a decent time. You quickly made your way down the steps of the second floor all the way to the gated parking garage. 

"Hey Y/N! How have you been?" 

The sweet voice belonged to your neighbor and acquaintance Marianna. She was seated her red BMW waiting for the gate to open wide enough for her to leave. Looking at her immaculate makeup and her professionally styled hair, you immediately felt frumpy.

"I'm doing pretty good. Just running late." You replied with wave.

"Oh? So, what's his name?" Marianna gave you a devious grin. 

“Nothing like that. I'm just going to work." You said in a soft tone as you unlocked your car door.

Marianna shook her head with feigned disappointment and pulled her lips into a toddler-like pout. It actually got a genuine giggle out of you. She was quite a raven haired beauty with a very outgoing personality. You could definitely see that she had what most people would refer to as an A-type personality. The funny thing was that despite you being quite the introvert, you admired her jovial, outgoing nature. 

Besides, if it hadn't been for her picking conversations with you by force in the laundry room and apartment gym, you wouldn't know anyone except the people at work.

"Well, I guess I'll see you in three days. I'm working the New York route for extra money. Saving up for VEGAS you know." 

She made sure to emphasize the word Vegas because she had recently made you promise to go. For whatever reason, as busy as Marianna’s social life was, she seemed intent on befriending you. Why, you had no clue. But then again, you thought it would be sort of nice to experience new things with her leading the way.

With the gate finally opened all the way, Marianna threw you a peace sign and drove off.

When you finished buckling in, you tried to start your car. To your horror however, it took three attempts for the ignition to finally kick in. Upon hearing the engine and radio come to life, you heaved a huge sigh of relief. After the day you had so far, the car not starting would have just been the icing on the cake.

"Guess I do have some luck left after all." You though to yourself.

__________________________________

Loud music and boisterous conversations hit you as soon as you walked into "Club 52". The state-of-the-art nightclub was a hot spot almost seven days a week. Obviously, the weekends were jammed packed. From live performances, burlesque shows and much more , it was lit. Needless to say that when it came to atmosphere, your workplace had it all.

"Well, well, well. Glad to see a certain somebody finally decided to join us. Welcome, il mio timido (Italian: my shy one)." Your boss; Frank Pesci's; deep voice boomed as you tried to quickly put on your apron behind the main bar counter.  

He was a dark haired, blue-eyed Sicilian who always wore tailored suits that fit him to perfection. And today was no exception. Even in late fifties, he was quite the head turner. Women of all ages flirted with him on a regular basis but he only had eyes for his wife of 25 years.

You gave your boss a nervous smile and hoped you weren't in any real trouble. Weekend were important in the club scene so you hated that you were almost half an hour late. Frankie; as he liked to be called; was the kindest man you had ever met so he most likely wasn't going to be too harsh. 

As you finished tying your apron, you tried to decide whether or not to lie about why you were late. As if he knew what you were up to, Frankie watched you with an amused expression as you brainstormed. His blue tie made his blue eyes seem even brighter as they gazed into Y/C eyes.

"Oh forget it! I better just stick to the truth." You told yourself finally.

"I'm so sorry. I guess I lost track of time while talking to my mom. It won't happen---."

Frankie lifted one finger up to cut off your apology. The action spoke volumes about what he was going to say. He had hired you after you practically begged for the job despite not having any experience. Being generous, he had taken pity on you after initially trying to dismiss you from the job interview.

You had explained how you were new in town and that he was your last hope before your rent was due. It was safe to say he was touched by your plight because he hired you despite better candidates interviewing that same day. 

Frankie shot you a genuine smile and calmly informed you it was going to be a busy night due to several private parties going on. The biggest private party was in the Blue Room and he wanted you and your coworker Folaki to host the event.

"ME? PRIVATE PARTY HOSTESSING? Nope!" You internally objected.

Just the mere thought of it made you feel queasy. Unfortunately before you could protest the duty, Frankie gave you a sly smile and walked off to talk to patrons. 

"Ugh! He did that on purpose!" You said aloud without realizing just how loud you had really been.

"You need to relax Y/N. It's not as bad as you think it's going to be."

Folaki, with her slight Nigerian accent, playfully bumped your hip with her own. She had worked at Club 52 for over three years and was super popular with the patrons. And much like Marianna, she was extremely sociable. 

Before you could get a word in edgewise, she grabbed you wrist lightly and soon had you struggling to keep up with her pace. As the two of you walked towards the Blue Room, Folaki enthusiastically tried to encourage you.

"Look Y/N, it's about time you worked the private parties. Trust me. They're so much fun. Just chat people up and play games with them. You'll get the biggest tips you’ve ever seen." Folaki said as she turned to you and swayed her hips seductively. "It's the best tips you'll ever get without working at a strip club girl. Trust me." 

You were quite horrified at the thought of chatting up strangers. It was all good and well when you worked the regular floor because you could be reserved and speak when necessary. But with party room guests, they were expecting a superb host/hostess for the money they dished out. 

"Do you think I could just switch out with Jason? I mean, he's done this tons of times. Besides, it will make things go smoother for you if he’s helping instead of me." You said attempting to convince Folaki as you passed by the Red Room. 

The Blue Room was within sight and your heart began beating in your ears so loudly that it drowned out all other sound around you. Folaki glanced at you after checking her makeup in her compact one last time.

"Don't even try it Y/N." She giggled while shaking her head. Seeing how nervous you were, she put her arm around you as you walked side-by-side. "Look, Frankie said he wants you to get out of your comfort zone. He strictly forbid everyone from switching assignments with you.”

Noticing your still apprehensive expression, Folaki gave you a tight squeeze. “Don't worry  so much. We're going to kill it. You and I are going to make a great team."

"Great.” You thought. 

___________________________

The Blue Room was buzzing with activity, music and lots of laughter. Despite being nervous as hell, you noticed that whomever had rented it out, had really good taste. The color scheme was white, black and blue and very upscale in decor. 

Typically the themes chosen by patrons ranged from amusing to gaudy but this was stylish all the way. You were so lost in thought that you almost forgot why you were there in the first place. That was until Folaki yelled your name. 

Looking up, you saw her at what appeared to be the main table beckoning you with her hand. Apprehensively, you began making your way through some attendees. As you neared the table, you nearly froze when everyone seated there turned to look at you. If it had been possible to run away at that very moment without getting fired, you would have.

There were several men and two women staring at you with various facial expressions. One of the women; a blonde; looked you up and down with some disdain before sipping her water. You noted that the men at the table were all very handsome. Not that you got a really good look because you tried to keep your eyes on Folaki. 

"So, as I was saying guys, I'm Folaki and this here is my partner in crime Y/N.”

You gave a polite wave to the group upon hearing your name. As you did so, you noticed that a guy with a somewhat solemn expression was looking at you instead of Folaki. It made you uneasy because you had always hated when people stared at you for too long. It made you self-conscious.

“We'll be your hostesses for tonight so don't be shy if you need anything." Folaki spoke with so much passion that everyone at the table was hanging on her every word. "And for the record, I'm not just talking food and drinks. If you need REAL competition come game time or karaoke, holler at your girl." She added pointing to herself with a haughty shift of her shoulders.

The last bit got a huge amount of laughter from everyone at the table to your surprise. The guys especially seemed entertained by her cocky declaration. One guy promptly slapped a hundred dollar bill onto the table. 

"Alright Folaki. You and me! We'll play Punch-Out when I'm ready!" The dark haired guy said with a distinct accent. His blue eyes danced as he playfully scowled at your coworker thinking she would back down.

"Well, it’s your money. Don't say I didn't warn you." A confident Folaki responded before pulling out the work tablet from her apron.

"Well then, two hundred says Folaki whips your ass Ivar!" Another guy said as he too slammed money down.

This caused ruckus and chatter as the others also placed bets. As this was going on, Folaki leaned down to a muscular blonde guy to get drink instructions. You watched all of it totally unsure of what to do or say next. Boy, were you ever out of your element. While lost in your thoughts; as usual; you felt a tug on your apron.

"What are you daydreaming about?"

You looked down to see the attractive guy that had been staring at you earlier. He still had hold of the hem of you apron despite having gained your attention. Tilting his head slightly, he smirked at your uncomfortable expression.

"I...um, I'm so sorry. Uh, is there anything I can do for you sir?"

He seemed genuinely amused by your nervousness and chuckled a bit. The blonde chick at the table didn't seem as entertained though. You noticed that she had leaned over to whisper something to the brunette. The two women looked at you and inaudibly laughed which caused the back of your neck to get hot. 

You knew very well they were talking about you and it wasn't anything nice, of that you were certain. You composed yourself as best you could and turned your attention to the attractive guy again and waited for his order. As he pondered, you took out your tablet. 

Fiddling with it at least gave you a reason not to look at anyone. Especially the two bitches who kept eyeing you for whatever reason. 

"You don't have to be so formal you know. Take a note from your friend Folaki. We don't bite." The blue eyed guy said with an innocent raise of his eyebrow. 

"That is….unless you want us to. Isn't that right Hvitserk?" A curly haired blonde exclaimed as he put the guy you were speaking with into a playful choke-hold.

"Get off me Sigurd, you jackass! Can’t you see I'm trying to get drinks?" Hvisterk said as he tried to get out of the wrestling hold. 

Finally, when he had set himself free, he elbowed Sigurd and looked at you again. You noted that all of them had heavy accents but couldn't quite place the origin. 

"Can’t you see I'm trying to get drinks?" A voice mimicked Hvitserk. 

You looked to see a handsome man walk up. The blonde man was so striking that you almost lost your train of thought. His expressive eyes danced over you a moment before turning them to Hvisterk.

"Happy Birthday son. So, think you’re man enough to take me down yet?" The man said as he wrapped a strong arm around Hvitserk's neck.

For his part, Hvitserk was stronger than he looked. He managed to escape his father’s sturdy clutch and stood up. The two of them stared each other down for a few moments, sizing each other up. You shifted on your heels nervous about what was going to happen next. To your relief, the father opened his arms and Hvitserk quickly embraced him.

“Thank God.” You thought.The last thing you wanted to do was clean up the aftermath of a fight.

As you observed them all, you noted that these people were quite aggressive. Not only in their actions but manner of speaking as well. You only hoped that the alcohol wouldn’t make them worse before the night was done.

"Ragnar! Well, I guess the Gods do have a sense of humor after all.” A slender and tall woman nonchalantly said arriving at the table. I'm glad to see you could make it. I thought for certain that you weren't coming. I guess your warden let you out for a change."

She placed her hands on Sigurd's shoulders and gave an obviously fake smile to the man. A few of the guys at the table noticeably cringed at her words. You could feel the tension at the table now and wished you could go check on other party guests. However, you decided to stay put. After all, it would have been rude not to wait for Hvitserk’s order. Especially now that you knew he was the guest of honor.

Ragnar scowled at the woman a moment before popping on a great big smile to your amusment.

"I see you're as beautiful and charming as ever Aslaug. You can rest your mind now because as you can see, I am very much present for my son's party." He added a crooked smirk at the end which seemed to irritate the Aslaug.

"Politely bickering as usual, aye?" A tall man happily jeered. 

He patted Ragnar on the shoulder and waved to Aslaug to her obvious annoyance. With a fake smile still plastered on her face, she departed causing almost the entire table to sigh in relief.  

"Was it something I said?" The tall man mischievously asked aloud. 

Ragnar and the others laughed at his remark but one guy in particular remained stone-faced. It was the boisterous one that had bet on the arcade game against Folaki. You knew his name started with an “I” but just couldn't remember what it was.

"Uncle Floki, mother is very sensitive." He gently stated with sincerity. "We shouldn't make light of her concern for us all." He stressed. 

The Floki gentleman laughed harder as did Ragnar. Even the other guys; who were trying not to laugh; couldn't contain their snickers.

"Ivar, please! You mother is the last person anyone would ever describe as sensitive." The muscular blonde guy chimed in as he ate a tortilla chip. 

Everyone burst into laughter again as Ivar glared at all of them with the most intense eyes you had ever seen. He had a storm in them no doubt. There was definitely something uncontrollable and ominous hidden underneath his handsome facade.

"Bjorn, my dear brother, you wound me." Ivar said in an oddly calm tone. "My mother has been through a great deal. Perhaps you could be more, oh, I don't know, understanding? He leaned back into his chair as he continued. “After all, your mother did everything in her power to make sure she won father back. Now mother is all alone. So you see, she has every right to be sensitive." A stern Ivar concluded.

Bjorn rolled his eyes and without a word got up to talk to other people, you assumed. From your peripheral view you saw Folaki finish speaking to a group of people near the door before leaving the Blue Room. Most likely to fill orders. The tension was still quite thick when suddenly Ivar's eyes landed on you.

"Hey you!" He snapped. "Why are you just standing there? Do your damn job and fuck off!"

Boy, did you wish you were dead. Everyone turned their attention to you. The blonde chick seated near Sigurd and Hvitserk covered her mouth as she giggled loudly. The brunette smiled slightly but seemed uncomfortable by what had just occurred. If there was ever a time where you wished the ground could open up and swallow you whole, this was it.

"Ivar! That's uncalled for." Sigurd said in your defense. 

"Shut up Siggy. He turned from Sigurd and looked you square in the face. “She's a worker who's supposed to be fetching food and drink not standing around listening to private conversations." 

Ivar silently taunted you upon noticing that your eyes were welling with tears. You were trying so hard to hold them in but knew that they could begin dropping at any moment. Your hands gripped the tablet so hard you thought for sure you would crack it eventually. Ivar looked quite satisfied with himself for whatever reason and was smiling in victory at you. 

"Um, I...I'll go check on the catering and your other orders. If...uh, you need anything else I'll be back in a few minutes." You quickly said and turned on your heels as quickly as possible. 

You were so eager to leave the scene that you navigated through the packed party effortlessly. As you were leaving, you faintly heard your name being called but chose to ignore it. You had to get away from those people at the head table NOW!

"Air. I gotta have some fresh air!"

_________________________

Somehow you managed to get into the employee break room before the tears finally fell. The bitter saltiness hit your tongue as you wept uncontrollably.

“Why are some people such assholes?” You wondered.

After a few minutes, you managed to pull yourself together. You wiped your face with Kleenex tissues and looked yourself over in a large mirror. Aside from your eyeliner being smudged, you looked alright. However, the slight puffiness of your eyes did giveaway the fact that you had been crying. You powdered your face and reapplied you lipstick before tossing them back into your locker  

“Jerk! I should have cracked this damn tablet over his head." You said aloud as you sat down on the sofa. 

Placing the tablet on your lap, you checked on their order statuses. Despite everything, you didn't want to make trouble for Frankie by not doing your job well. As you were getting ready to go outside for fresh air your cell buzzed. When you looked and realized it was your parent’s number you decided to let it go to voicemail. After all, you had enough bad things occurring at the moment without your mom coming for round two. You went out into the club and past the main floor without stopping to speak to anyone. 

You made your directly towards the exit anticipating fresh air. You finally got it as you stepped out onto the busy sidewalk. The streets were full of pedestrians of all ages out for a good time. Observing them almost made you forget the humiliation you had just endured.

The city was affluent and safe so you were never surprised to see the preteens out and about as well. As a group of them passed by you, one girl handed you a giant pink lollipop. You smiled and thanked them as you leaned against a streetlight. The owner of the flower shop across the street; Ms. Zimmel; noticed you and waved. She was most likely out for her regular smoke break. Unlike most flower shops, she was smart enough to keep her store open late into the night. 

But then again the location was unique. There was always heavy foot traffic so naturally she made a killing much like the other businesses on that strip. As you waved back to Ms. Zimmel, you felt a light tap in your shoulder.

"Excuse me. Y/N, correct?"

You turned around and came face to face with the curly haired blonde who had defended you.

“Yeah, that’s right.”

"I don't mean to bother you but…oh, where are my manners. I'm Sigurd by the way." He said extending his hand.

At first you were apprehensive but he looked at you with kind eyes which made you relent and shake his hand. Pleased by your willingness to listen, he immediately continued speaking.

"My father asked me to come and apologize to you, as did my brother Hvitserk. He's the one we’re throwing the party for." He grinned.

"Thanks Sigurd. Look, don't worry about it. I...I'm a professional and I'm going to finish the event despite what happened." 

You replied looking down at the pavement so he couldn't see that you didn't believe your own words. In actuality, you had no desire to return to the Blue Room but, knew you had to. At least you received an apology despite it not being from creep who insulted you in the first place.

Almost like he read your mind, Sigurd stated that he was sorry that Ivar had not apologized. 

"Don't take it too personally though Y/N. When my brother does stuff like this…he NEVER apologizes.” Sigurd shook his head in a show of exasperation. “It's just unfortunate that you happened to be within his gaze at the wrong time."

His words seemed very genuine so you finally decided to look up at him again. As you did, you took notice of a taller blonde guy with a long ponytail walk up behind Sigurd. 

“What the hell are they? A rock band or something?” You wondered.

"So what devious little things is my little brother convincing you to do? Rob a bank, knock off a few liquor stores?"

The blonde guy roughly tussled Sigurd's hair triggering Sigurd to elbow him hard in response. 

"For your information Ubbe, I was just making sure our hostess was okay."

"Well, are you?" Ubbe asked with a twinkle in his light blue eyes. He looked you up and down in a peculiar manner but you pushed it out if your mind. 

"Yeah. Thanks um..."

“Ubbe.” Ubbe interrupted to provide you his name.

“Thanks Ubbe. I appreciate the concern.” You said with a faint smile.

"We Lothbroks are gentlemen for the most part. You'll see." Ubbe gave you a crooked smile that resembled his father's. "Well, shall we go in and do this party up or what?" He asked you.

You knew it was time to do your job despite your heart not really being in it. Besides Folaki needed you and that outweighed some jerk talking down to you.

"Okay. I'm ready."

 ___________________________

When you entered the Blue Room behind Sigurd and Ubbe, you made a bee-line towards Folaki who had just finished placing a massive tray of tequila shots on the table. In her other hand she balanced an equally large tray of lemons, limes and salt shakers. How she managed to be so skillful and coordinated, you would never know.

When you reached her side, you thought she was going to be angry that you had vanished without telling her where you were going, but she wasn’t.

“Everything okay Y/N?”

“Uh, yeah. I was actually about to ask you the same thing.” You replied a bit surprised at her concern.

She placed the other tray down and whispered that she had heard about your incident from the Hvitserk. He had even asked her to find you and make apologies but she was unable to locate you.

“Oh, that’s because I was outside. Thanks for telling me though.” You said as you tried to stealthily glance at Hvitserk.

He must have been looking at you already because your eyes met as soon as you turned your head. You felt like such a dork as the two of you looked at each other for a moment. After all, you had not intended on getting caught. Without breaking his glance, Hvitserk lifted his tequila shot up as if to toast you. As you watched him as if you were hypnotized, he took the shot and winked flirtatiously. 

The wink made you turn from him immediately. What you didn’t know was that the abrupt manner in which you turned away amused Hvitserk. He leaned over to laugh about it with Ubbe, Sigurd and his Uncle Floki.

“I think our other hostess is one of those shy types. It’s so different than what I’m accustomed to.” Hvitserk chuckled as he grabbed a lemon wedge and another shot of tequila from the tray.

Ubbe looked over at you and back to the guys. 

“Indeed. No one would ever describe our women as shy.” Ubbe said with another glance in your direction.

Sigurd nodded his head in agreement and took a shot. Hvitserk took another shot and stated that he found it fascinating to interact with a woman who wasn’t aggressive. Ivar rolled his eyes at their conversation but said nothing. He was too busy trying to keep the blonde girl; now seated next to him; from giving him a hickey.

“We’re at a party with my family. Control yourself woman!” He commanded as she playfully leaned on him and stroked his cheek.

“But you said you liked it when I’m the initiator. Besides, I’m bored.” She cooed in a phony erotic tone.

The brunette girl swigged down her tequila and bit her lemon wedge. After she threw the peel down, she looked at the blonde.

“What my cousin means to say, Ingrid, is that it’s all good and well when we’re hanging out but not with our parents and extended family around. I mean, it’s kinda gross.” The brunette added with a bit of irritation in her voice.

“Whatever Tonna. Unlike you, I am not afraid of public displays of affection...or what people think about me for that matter.” Ingrid replied with pride.

Tonna, wanted to say something else but decided against it. She instead turned to chat with Ubbe. The fair-haired Ingrid snuggled her head on Ivar’s shoulder who, for whatever reason was scowling at you. 

He watched as you served some attendees and then arrive back at the head table. Folaki had gone to speak with the caterers about the cake so you were on your own.

“Hey everyone.” You said softly. “The food is going to be served soon but I wanted to know-”

“Louder! For the love of Odin, who exactly is supposed to hear anything you’re trying to say?” Ivar bellowed.

Your heart started beating rapidly as you tried to remain calm. You had hoped that the asshole was done harassing you for the night but obviously he wasn’t. A drunk Floki; who was standing behind Ivar; shook his head as he patted the young man’s shoulder. It was his silent way of telling his nephew to take it easy.

“Don’t pay him any mind, my dear. He’s just having a bit of fun with you.” A jovial Floki said.

“Fun? This is the little bastard’s idea of fun?” You thought.

Ivar’s sinister glare didn’t diminish. You could literally feel his intimidating energy all over your body despite avoiding looking in his direction.

“I, I was saying that, if there’s anything you need before I go check on your guests, please-”

“This must be the work of Loki! I mean, this can’t be real. Seriously, were you a death-mute when you were younger Y/N?” Ivar cupped his hand to his ear as if he was struggling to hear you. “Speak up!”

Everyone watched to see what your reaction was going to be. Naturally some were laughing because the liquor had kicked-in with the exception of Sigurd, Hvitserk and Ubbe. Ubbe especially, was over Ivar’s behavior. As he sipped his rum and coke, he glared at his younger brother. Despite giggling a little bit, even their cousin Tonna seemed to feel a bit sorry for you. She hit her cousin’s shoulder and told him to stop.

Remorseless, Ivar shrugged his shoulders and acted stunned that she would defend you.

“What cousin?” He said innocently. “Do you not see that she isn’t made for this? Hun er en skæftig mus! (Danish: She’s a timid mouse!) You can tell she’s never been popular.” He impishly looked at you. ”Isn’t that right mus?”

You felt like someone had exposed you. As if his words had left you naked in front of everyone. You were angry and sad all at the same time. It was a familiar mixture of emotions you hadn’t felt since moving to your apartment. Your mind flashed with images of your youth and college years. It was just a blur of bad memories.

“Look at her. She’s like a deer in headlights.” A pleased Ivar said as he swigged his tequila down.

A dark haired guy placed his hand on your shoulder snapping you out of your daydream.

“Apologies, my dear. I’m afraid he gets quite temperamental when he drinks. To answer your question, we are in need of several pints of beer. Guinness, if you please.”

“Tell her to make some of them extra stout, Alfred.” A drunk Ragnar said as he walked past the two of you.

“Well, I suppose you heard my Godfather’s request.” Alfred laughed. 

You were just about to do as Alfred had asked when Ivar’s voice stopped you in your tracks.

“Hey, Y/N! Not only are you apparently quite incompetent at your job but daft as well. Look, I’ll spell if for you. B E E R! ” He wrinkled his nose at you and furrowed his eyebrows like a mischievous child. “Now.......fetch!”

Ivar continued drinking his beer and chuckling at the same time. His amusement at your expense was bad enough but commanding you as if you were a dog pissed you off. At that moment in time, his smug face and chuckling was all you could see. It simply pushed you over the edge. And that’s when it happened.  

You don’t know why you did it, but you did something you didn’t know you were capable of. After all, you were always nice even in the worst of situations. But not this time. You snatched the commemorative beer horn out of a stunned Alfred’s hand. In a heartbeat, you leaned past a tattoo-faced man and poured all of the horn’s contents on Ivar. 

Ingrid, the blonde chick, must have perceived what you were about to do because she moved quickly enough from Ivar’s shoulder that only a few drops hit her.

Cold, dark beer washed over his head, face and down his upper body before he even realized what was happening. You didn’t stay to see his reaction, or anyone else’s for that matter. Still clutching the beer horn, you rushed towards to exit of the Blue Room as quickly as your pumps would allow. You heard the great ruckus behind you but didn’t turn around. If you weren’t imagining things, you could swear it sounded like applause and laughter.

In the Blue Room, the word of what you did spread like wildfire. The men especially got a huge kick out of your actions. The reason for their admiration of your actions was due to whom Ivar was. Not that the other men in his family weren’t feared but Ivar was another story altogether. Despite being the youngest Lothbrok, he was as savage as he was cunning. And when it came to him dishing out cruelty, let’s just say no one had ever given a dose of his own medicine.

“You deserved it, Ivar.” A tipsy Hvisterk said to his brother who was being dried off by Ingrid. 

The blonde was going on and on about how you would be fired once your boss got word. As she continued to dry him the best she could, Ivar stood motionless with a scowl that could kill. If you had been there, he may have very well done so.

“We should complain to her supervisor as soon as possible.” Ingrid suggested wiping Ivar’s hair with a towel your coworker Folaki had provided. 

Despite knowing what you had done, Folaki was keeping it to herself. She knew you needed time away from everyone so worked the floor herself. Since the food was already being served by catering, she didn’t have to do anything except serve drinks.That was something she could do with her eyes closed so she kept working hoping you were alright.

It didn’t take long for Aslaug, their mother, to rush over to the head table. She looked at her son Ivar with shock. Almost as if she thought the story about a hostess pouring beer on her son had been a lie. Without asking, she snatched the towel from Ingrid’s hand and continued drying Ivar’s hair herself.

Hvitserk wasn’t going to watch his mother dote over Ivar when he was in the wrong. He stood up and in his typical quiet manner, began to walk away. 

“Son, I hope this didn’t ruin your party.” Aslaug said as she finished drying Ivar’s hair.

“Of course not mother. I’m just going to mingle with some of our guests. After all, I can’t sit at the head table all night.” He added glaring at Ivar.

Ivar was unfazed. He wasn’t a stupid man and knew very well what his brother was implying my the look he gave. Despite what Hvitserk or anyone else thought, Ivar simply didn’t see anything wrong with his actions. In his eyes, you were the only one in the wrong and that was then end of it as far as he was concerned. 

Floki; who was seated nearby with his wife Helga; knew you were in trouble. All the enjoyment everyone got out of Ivar’s comeuppance most likely increased his rage towards you. 

“Ivar, let us see if we can do this without making the poor girl lose her job.” Floki leaned and whispered in his nephew’s ear.

But Ivar’s mind was made up. He didn’t process things like most people so you would have to make amends. What that was, even he didn’t know what he wanted from you just yet. But he knew he wanted you to grovel.

“If I am satisfied that she is remorseful Uncle, then fine. But if not, she can live on the streets for all I care.” He looked at Floki with a very sedated expression. “She would learn what happens when you don’t think of the consequences of your actions.

“You’re one to talk.” Bjorn said taking a seat with a massive beer mug in hand.

“No one was speaking to you, brother. I was the one offended and I will deal with it as I see fit!” Ivar replied with flared nostrils.

“Why don’t we all just have some more drinks first.” Harald Finehair suggested as he got Folaki’s attention. He asked her to bring bottles of a strong liquor called Akvavit.  

It was a smart move on Harald’s part. He and his brother Halfdan knew that if they let Ivar keep going on, he would only wind himself up even more. They had seen what he was capable of in his moments of blind rage and didn’t feel like seeing any of it that evening.

____________________________________

In the breakroom, you had been seated on the floor by your locker for what seemed like forever. You were still shocked about everything. If the beer horn hadn’t been laying by your side, you wouldn’t have believed that you had poured beer on a patron.

“That little shit! Now I’m going to lose my job. I should have held it together better.” You vented. “I shouldn’t have let him push my buttons like that.”

You decided not to delay the inevitable. You knew you had to face the music and there was no use in hiding in the breakroom. Because sooner or later, the word was going to spread to Frankie. As you stepped out of the breakroom, you almost crashed into Jason. He was one of the nicest people at your workplace and the two of you hit if off from day one. He was Jewish but he would always  inform everyone that he wasn’t a “practicing Jew”.  Whatever that meant. The two of you were pretty close so naturally he took the opportunity to tease you about working your first private party.

“So, virgin, how’s it going so far? Was it all you thought your first time would be?” He joked.

You hesitated a moment before you ran down the whole story about being harassed all night and what you did prior to hiding in the breakroom.

“Well, personally, it sounds like he deserved that shit. You should have hit him with the beer horn too.”

You burst into laughter at Jason’s response. His funny remark actually made you feel better than you had all night. 

“Look, if they try to get you in trouble with Frankie, I’ll go to bat for you.” Jason said giving you a quick hug. “Now, let me go check on my VIP’s”

With that, the two of you went your separate ways. Since you had made up your mind to tell Frankie everything yourself, you began walking towards the main floor of the club. 

I’ll just tell Frankie everything and hope for the best.” You thought. “One thing’s for sure, I won’t apologize. Jason is totally right. That guy deserved even worse!”

As you turned left into one of the corridors near the private party rooms, you were caught off-guard by a sight that made your heart sink.

You saw the man you were wishing death and all other types of natural disasters upon headed in your direction. You weren’t sure if he had been trying to find your boss or another manager but you suddenly didn’t care. All your anger dissipated as you watched him wince with each step he took. You just felt terrible for what you had done now that you saw his true condition. Having grown up with a cousin who was Autistic, you had a real soft spot for people with disabilities.

Despite the numerous people in the corridor, Ivar’s blue eyes somehow found you. Clearing your throat you approached him quickly so he wouldn’t have to walk any further. As soon as you were in front of him, his eyes darkened and his expression was that of a man who could strike you down on the spot.

“Y/N! You have some nerve! You think you could embarrass me and just walk away? Well, you’re--”

“I’m sorry.”

Ivar’s voice broke as you interrupted him. He looked at you with confusion and anger. Regardless, he was taken aback.

“What I did was beyond unprofessional. It was also very rude to do that to you in front of your family and friends.” You added.

He looked at you for a little while before he finally said that he wanted you to apologize to him in front of everyone at the party. 

“You did it publicly so you can apologize publicly.” He added.

“Okay. It seems like the right thing to do.” You replied.

Ivar scoffed as he began walking towards the Blue Room again. 

“Right thing to do?” He echoed your words. “Are you always so eager to make amends Y/N?” He looked at you as he took his painful steps. “Should I assume you to be a pushover?”

Your actually pondered his question for a moment instead of getting mad. In actuality, your friends back home had always accused you of being a pushover despite them being the one’s who took advantage of you most.

“I’m not a pushover.” You asserted to his amusement. 

“Sure. A smirking Ivar said. “Is that why you apologized without me even speaking to your boss?”

Since he was actually somewhat correct, you said nothing. The rest of the walk to the Blue Room was silent. Ivar didn’t say anything else and you felt that you had pushed your luck with him far enough for one night. 

_________________________________

When you entered the Blue Room, the party was in full swing. People were having too good of a time to pay any attention to the two of you. Everyone except Hvitserk, who swiftly made his way over to see what Ivar was up to.

“What’s going on here?” He looked at you and then to Ivar.

Ivar rolled his eyes without giving response. He instead grabbed a cocktail off the tray a passing Folaki was holding. She locked eyes with you briefly as if to wish you luck before disappearing into the crowd.

“I’m going to give an apology to your guests...and Ivar.” You answered.

“What?” A displeased Hvitserk looked at Ivar. “Why are you making her do this?”

“No. Listen, it was my idea.”It wasn’t your idea of course, but you could tell that the two brothers differed on how you should make amends. “I crossed the line. After all, it’s my duty to remain professional no matter what’s going on.” You assured him.

As you tried to walk past the two brothers to go find a microphone, you felt a strong hand grasp your arm. You turned around to see a smug Ivar leaning on his crutch and holding your arm with his free hand. He then looked at Hvitserk who seemed as confused as you were. With his eyes still on his brother, Ivar spoke to you.

“Y/N, it is okay. Now that I think about it, the apology in the hallway will suffice.” He said letting go of your arm.

You had no clue as to why he had changed his mind but whatever the reason was, you were grateful. 

“Thank you so much...Ivar. And you as well Hvitserk.” You began walking in the direction of Folaki. “If you two are okay for the moment, I’m going to help Folaki. Let me know if you need anything.”

Hvisterk watched you walk away until he could no longer see you which, of course, didn’t go unnoticed by Ivar.

"Enjoying the view brother?”

A blushing Hvitserk shook his head and popped a potato chip in his mouth so he wouldn’t have to give Ivar an answer.

[sian22redux]

Entanglements

by sian22redux

For @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan  ‘s Angsty writing challenge: Star’s Marvel Mayhem

Prompt:  ‘He was acting like our kiss had broken him, and his reaction was breaking me.’

Bucky x reader

Rating: M

Summary:  The fight for love is sometimes harder than the mission.  

How Bucky and Y/N of Private Party came to be together.

Timeline:  After Wakanda of Black Panther end scenes, but assumes IW is over and he’s safe.

Tags:  oral sex-mentioned, het, canon-compliant mayhem, hurt/comfort, angst, angst, angst

Thank you so so much to the heroic @wheelrider for expert beta’ing, even in a fandom that is not hers!!  And to awesome @theycallmebecca for checking it worked!  

—————————————-

The first time it happens, it is just a drunken hookup.

The party at Avengers Tower is star-spangled, loud, and pulsing fun; rare vodka fueled and graced by the hottest DJ in New York.  You’ve left your uniform and new medal of valour in the hospitality suite Miss Potts has thoughtfully laid on.  Donned a slinky black cocktail dress and four-inch heels and walked into the space on Mr Stark’s arm,  blushing at his gushing praise.  

Thank heaven this evening event is more relaxed than the White House’s lavish ballroom. Your knees had knocked so loud you were sure that the President had heard. Visibility is not your thing.  Or speeches.  But your few heartfelt words had tumbled out, applauded by brass and dough-faced senators and Bucky had stood, smiling, looking oh so perfectly edible in a charcoal suit.  He’d winked at you, a shining in his eyes that was almost as bright as in the moment your marksmanship had saved his life.  

 Perhaps you hadn’t imagined his yearning after all.

Tony plies you with whiskey sours, and sometime after the fourth (or fifth?)  Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson coax you out onto the dance floor.  Time for some fun.   Bucky stands and stares and takes it in: Steve’s hilariously sloppy groove, Sam’s easy sway. He’s frowning adorably, critiquing every move until he’s had enough of watching amateurs.  He sets down his beer, absolutely murder struts out onto the dance floor, and with a ‘my turn punk’ rips you from their arms.  The music settles into something smooth and slow (has Steve’s had a hand it that?) but then suddenly Bucky leans in.  Cheek to cheek and hip to hip.  There’s a fire blazing up inside that takes the pair of you by surprise, and when Bucky whispers, voice molasses dark and slow, “Doll, let’s escape,” you go.  

Oh god.  

You wake up so hung over it feels like you need to shave your tongue.  Your dress is nowhere in sight and Bucky is sprawled out on his stomach.  The bedclothes are mostly on the floor, his evening tux makes a trail of black and white against cream carpet and your (only) lacy underthings dangle off the lamp.  

Fuck, what were you thinking?  

Weren’t, obviously.  You’d let the heady abandon of the evening, the crackling electricity between you both mess with your hard-earned self control, but it just can’t be.  This man is your assignment, the one you are set to guard from the tentacles of a wounded, dying global empire that is trying to grab hold.  

Best not to stick around.  You lever upright, stagger to the washroom, run a wet hand through your tangled hair and try not to notice the lurid hickey on your collarbone.  

Your dress is underneath the dresser (?), you slip it on without a sound, but ugh, the shoes are a pain: your feet are swollen from dancing for so long and so you fumble, trying to do up the flimsy straps.  Finally, the prong slots through the tiny hole.  All set.   

Just as you find your purse and reach across the bedside table for your thong, a silver hand shoots out and clasps your wrist.  

Gently.   

But not planning on letting go. 

“Doll, where ya going?”  Bucky cracks one eye open and the corner of his mouth quirks up.  “No one’s on this morning.  Tony promised.”  

“Got a briefing,” you lie, wincing internally, hating yourself for doing it, but this is a one-time thing and you do not plan on speaking of it.   

Again.  

Or ever.  

The disappointment that clouds the lazy sparkle in his eyes is something to avoid.  You hastily turn away, but at the door you pause guiltily for far too long.  At last, you speak to the quiet resignation from the bed.   

“Thank… thank you.”   

Safe. Or almost.  Steve Rogers wakes up early.  He’s showered after an early run, set up in the kitchen; got french toast frying and washed wineglasses in the drain tray.  He’s grinning.  Wide and hopeful just like an excited Labrador.  

“Breakfast will be ready in a jif.”  

You blink in the too=bright space and think, Fuck my life.  

“Captain… uhh.”  

What the ever lovin’ hell should you say??  

Sorry, can’t stay after banging your best friend. Can’t eat cuz I might just puke.  Or better yet…yes I have read DAOD 5019-1 but this does not constitute inappropriate fraternization across the ranks. 

“Not hungry, Corporal?”  Steve shrugs those massive shoulders and flips a tea towel across his arm, peeking at the toast’s browning underside.  “Suit yourself.”   

You do.

But no regrets.  

It had been too wonderful for that.

—————-

The second time it happens, you tell yourself it is just the frantic release of relief.  

It’s been another too-close-for-comfort call.  Six months past cryo in Wakanda and the insanity that was the Infinity War, and you’d think in the aftermath the remnants of Hydra would no longer care.  But they do, and can’t help but see he’s back, and if they can’t control the Asset, they want him gone.  

There is a careful balance between keeping Bucky safely whole and actually giving him a life.

You’re walking up out of the subway into Battery Park’s wintery sun, a hologram cover hiding your M24 because you just can’t saunter past New York’s Sunday shoppers and happy families pushing strollers openly armed to the teeth.  

Bucky’s a block in front, sunglasses on and hood of his dark puffy jacket pulled right up because camouflage is necessary and the stiff southwesterly off the Hudson is cutting through the naked trees.  He’s heading for the SeaGlass carousel where he will stand and smile, hands sunk deep in pockets, remembering the original aquarium he and Steve delighted in another lifetime ago. 

After two months of tracking him on every outing, you know him well. 

James Barnes loves plums and granola bars.  Extra whip at Starbucks and hunting for old comic books.  The Hayden planetarium and giant, hairy, slobbery dogs.  A fresh trim means things are good because Nat can get close to him with shears.  A fringe of days-old stubble means he’s having harder nights.  The triggers are gone, but not the memory of what he’s done.  When he stops, stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk, lips moving and new hand clenched into a fist, you know he’s centering.  Running through a routine in whatever language comes to his head.  

At least he is a better subject than most.  Always watching.  Baseball cap or hood pulled down, changing his route each day, not making it easy on the goons who might dog his steps.   Or you.

It’s part of what makes this detail fun. This day he’s slid into an empty booth at Gigino, near enough the front for light but not so near he hasn’t a good view of the door.  The notebook’s out, bristling with sticky tabs like a multicolour hedgehog.  You are sitting diametrically across, scanning everything around but him, cuz hit men don’t all look like Brock Rumlow after all and folks carrying things in bags make a prickle at your nape.  Your unobstructed view down the gravel walks is good, but somehow, a figure by the Liberty dock sets the hairs rising on your arm.  Hunched. Looking back too often to the restaurant.  Arm akimbo and hiding something.  

You whisper urgently into the comms, hustle out of the doors and fire on the run.  It’s a challenge but not long range, nothing like the shot before, but precision is the thing.   You have no intention of damaging any of the good folk around.  

The subject drops.  Bystanders freak, scattering in all directions, and even as two agents materialize to cluster around Bucky as a precaution, he looks unerringly across at you, recognition and open longing on his face.  

Yeah. Well.  Me too, pal.

You melt away into the shadows, and after the NYPD have it all locked down, you find yourselves thrown together back at the Tower for a hastily convened debrief.

Coulson’s reviewing footage and Fury’s frowning, tapping impatient fingers on the tabletop, talking about the need for better eyes, but you’re having trouble focusing.  

There’s a thirst in Bucky’s eyes that matches the one making your nether regions throb.  God, how good would it be to strip off the Stark body armour underneath his vest.  Press your skin along the length of him and feel every hot, hard inch.  Too good. To be avoided, but beside you the metal hand flexes back and forth.  As if he’s read your mind.

“Soldier?”  Fury’s question drops like a bomb into your awareness.  Neither of you are listening, too aware of each other to focus on mundane things like strategy.    

“Umm, yeah…”  Buck licks his lips and starts again.  “I mean, no, I don’t know any more about that sleeper cell. 

Fury turns to rake you both with his good eye.  After one eternal minute, he shakes his head, looking more bemused than mad.  

“Get outta here.  Both of you.”

You don’t need to be told a second time.  

Buck stalks out into the hall and you follow, thinking how it was too close a call and you are pissed Hydra’s not backing down and goddammit why are the other agents letting these shitballs get so very close and it’s almost like you are vibrating 

Fuck.  Wrong choice of word.  

Your skin is positively alive with how aware of him you are, nerves jangled, sparking white hot arcs of lust, and then he has to make it worse.   He turns and devours you with those ocean eyes as he slams the button for the elevator.

Hard.  

With his prosthetic hand.

The thought of it on you again makes your bones almost liquefy.

“Steve’s off doing PR.”

The few spare words are said with a crooked grin, eyes challenging, and like lightening you are both struck on.  Somehow, your legs are wound about his waist, lips locked, your back up against the cool mirror of the elevator wall, so engrossed you don’t notice when the motion stops.  His metal arm bangs through the apartment and bedroom doors, makes the hinges scream in protest, and then without warning the axis of your world flips over.  You are both horizontal.  On the bed, frantically shedding clothes until his cock sinks into your molten core.  You arch your back with the utter bliss of it, strokes hard and fast and frenzied, rising higher and then, inexplicably, he stills; drags his lips off your nipple to stare intently at your face.  

“Y/N I ain’t gonna last.  I…”  

You open your eyes and catch his gaze.  His eyes are dark and wide and filled with wonder.  As caught off guard as you by the pure fury of the need– but oh you are not going there.  Not thinking about how right this feels, how close and perfectly in tune you are.  Nope. Nuh unh.  This is sex, not making love.  Scratching an itch.  Purely mechanical.    

“Bucky, move!”  

You flip up your hips just so, knowing instinctively what it will do to him, and pull his hip bones closer, tighter, until you’re both grinning and he’s moaning, long and low, shuddering as he spills and you come apart, shining in the afterglow.

This time you deliberately stay the night.  

You curl up into the crook of his flesh arm because you’re weak.  Just can’t pull yourself away.  It’s warm.  And easy. And some part of you wants the peace—for him and you.

When you eventually awaken, stiff and achy, smelling of sweat and musk and the haute perfume of the disguise you never bothered to wash off, the sun hasn’t risen yet. Bucky’s dead to the world, face soft and slack in sleep, so beautiful and vulnerable it almost hurts.

For a moment, breakfasting together flits across your brain, but no.  Way too risky.  Too much like normal couple life.

You slide out from under a heavy bicep and set your feet soundlessly on the chill of the floor, ignoring a lazy snuffle, but, by the time your shrug back on your (ridiculous) Dolce coat, the worry line has settled on his brow again.  

Damn. For a few precious hours, the perennial mark of his mistreatment had erased.  You want to run a finger down it, smooth away the shadowed ridge with a soft caress, but you do not dare.  That is exactly how another bonfire could ignite.

Instead, you gather up your rifle, activate the hologram and tip-toe away.  Like a thief in the night or a spy who’s set a honey trap.  

You text him ‘sweet dreams’ because this is not the bitch you want to be…  

————————-

The third time it happens—well, it’s just pure weakness…

You are, of necessity, an expert at disguise.  Part of a scout-sniper’s training is advanced stalking skills, keeping yourself hidden from a target just five feet away in rough open bush;  you’ve done that and mastered alternate camouflage for  downtown New York.  Four changes of outfit a day if Bucky’s going far.  Rocker grunge in ripped jeans and blue streaked hair.  Finance exec in Burberry trench and heels.  Thank heaven platform sneakers with lace and skirts are a thing; easier to run in those.  

Bucky may not pick you out, doesn’t know exactly where you are, but he knows you’re there.  Today, your hair is brown, next week redhead, after that could be pink: anything but your natural, and naturally noticeable, pale blonde.  It’s like a game—you hiding and him guessing where you might be.  He shows it (and how he’s memorized every conversation that you’ve had) in little actions meant just for you.

One morning, he ‘just happens’ to be forgetful and leaves a cup of mocha/hold-the-whip on the bench where he just sat.  Another scorching afternoon, he buys your favourite Oddfellows miso cherry cup and leaves it safely in the shade of a blue postbox.  Once, he spends two hours stalking every exhibit at the Met’s armory museum because you’d admitted you’ve never been.  (You like old rifles.  What can you say?)  

How can you not fall for this man?  He’s sweet and kind and deadly.  Wants the best thing for everybody if not for himself, and will soon become impossible to resist.  

Scratch that.  Is.  Is impossible to resist.  

Damn his super hearing.  One lunch strolling past Agent Provocateur, he catches your quiet sigh at something flirty but way, waaay out of your snack bracket and, the next thing you know, he’s marching into Victoria’s Secret.  Cruising the racks in exactly your right size.  Leaving the pink bag wedged behind a subway seat.  

Collecting it is just not wasting money, right?  

It goes on like this for weeks, until the day the teasing shit walks into Narcisse, buys chocolate body paint and leads you straight back in the direction of the Tower.

Oh god.  

This necessitates yet another reconnoiter with wardrobe at the safe house.  No one thinks twice about a well-groomed Chanel-suited woman visiting Tony Stark. 

When the morning comes and you crouch, hand poised above the new skimpy scrap of lace, silently agonizing whether to bring or leave, Bucky sits up in bed.  Confused. Dark hair temptingly messy and fingers reaching out.

“Y/N? Where’s the fire.  It’s early yet.”  

Fuck, he makes this so very hard.  Bucky wants something for himself and you want to give it, but this is, if not exactly wrong, so far from right.  

“Ah…” You don’t know what to say.  The sheets are rumpled low about his hips and the comforter sprawls across the floor.  He’d shoved it off.  Kneeling between your legs to plunder you mercilessly with his tongue.

Oh, Christ, Y/N, don’t think of that.

“I want to get in a run.”  The lie comes easily.  You hate running, but he doesn’t know that yet.

“Gonna hafta change those heels,” he chuckles, stretching languidly.  “You’ll need your coffee first.   Steve said he’d put some on first thing.”  

You pretend to relent, smile and plant the softest of kisses on the knotted scars of his shoulder.  

“See you later,” you murmur, intending to go straight on home, but Steve Rogers has other plans.  Ever the gentleman and always up with the birds, he’s made pancakes. And sausage.  And fruit salad with blueberries.

The table is already set for three.

In the awkward silence, he misunderstands why your mouth is open.  

“Syrup or sugar and lemon juice?  Buck’s mom was British.”  

The assumption you don’t understand the condiments is just too much.  Turning him down again would be far too rude.  

You sit, wrinkled disguise and all, and take a bite of bacon, realizing you have slept with the subject eight times over three different nights and you had no clue what his mother’s background was.  

The fact you want to know is somewhat startling.

From down the hall, you hear the whoosh of water beating down and an adorably off-tune whistle.  Your faithless libido says if you’d played your cards just right you’d be in there too. Soaping up his six pack and the dimples in his butt cheeks.  Going yet another round.  

Desperately, you hide your flaming cheeks in a perfectly foamy cappuccino, but Steve isn’t fooled.  

“You know,” he remarks, casually forking up the detritus of an entire fluffy stack.  “Buck never has nightmares when you are here.”

It’s a hard lesson, but one you obviously have to learn.   

Again.  

Never, never underestimate Captain America’s mastery of tactics.  

———————————–

A week, a month, and you fall into a routine. Bucky’s shadow in the day and his teddy bear at night.  A watcher on his six.  Fire when he needs it and softness when he does not. That he’s let down his guard and become intimate with someone shows just how far he’s come. A growing part of you wants to do this, cheer on every little bit of taking back himself; but another part says stop.

You pride yourself on your skill and professional approach.  Dispassionate execution.  It is part of the reason you are so very good.  You do not get distracted.  At all. You’ve got no baggage. No serious exes clutter up your past. You have not spoken to your folks in years (their commune frowns on ‘making war’).

It comes as something of a shock to need your daily dose of Buck.  Sarcastic jokes.  Lips like silk.  Muscles rippling underneath your touch.  

It shouldn’t matter but it does.  The mission is to protect him.  

Even if it means from yourself.  

———————————-

It is the shot, just a few centimeters stray, that settles things in your mind.  

Sure, everyone has rougher days. Aim a little off.  Skin jumpy and so tight it messes with your zen. But not you.  Never you.  Your concentration is absolute.  You just can’t miss and that is exactly why Coulson first brought you in.  Ms. Hill, in charge of Stark’s security, wants the best of the very best and you are it.  

Next to the man you are sworn to protect.

Barton’s grinning and looking at the minor spread on the target sheet, leaning casually on his bow. “What are you thinking of, Y/N?“ he laughs, blue eyes sliding up to your face.  “Sure ain’t your work.”  

Your cheeks flame up.  He doesn’t mean it.  This is Clint never passing up a chance to take the piss but still it gets your brain cells firing.  What were you thinking of?   Slim hips in black tac pants.  A stubbled, chiseled jaw.  Silver fingers cradling the barrel of a gun.

Shit.

Bucky’s standing not ten feet away in the next corral and, fuck, you can’t help yourself.  It’s the first time you’ve seen him all that day and the need flares up; wild and feral and messing with your head.  You want to know how he’s doing.  Ask about his bout with Steve, see if he wants to grab some lunch, make sure he’s eating right because he’s looking a little hollow in the cheeks and…  

Stop.  

You’re shocked and frankly terrified.  Is this love?  Infatuation? A school-girl crush?  Your heart is raw but what is this for him?  A diversion?  Something steady?  You have no idea, you don’t get much time to talk but you know what it shouldn’t be: too serious.  He is still recovering. You’re his rebound and it isn’t healthy.  Buck needs to date casually, get a better sense of himself and Jesus fucking Christ he is your job.

If Coulson or Fury find out, they’re entitled to put you on report.  A black mark on your copybook.   Though that isn’t what’s got you truly rattled.

You have to be a perfect shot.

For him.

His life depends upon it.

When you finally find the courage to rip the bandage off, you learn first hand that bullshit in Russian has an awfully familiar tone.

Bucky’s a solid wall of disagreement, arms crossed over his chest.  “Babe, it doesn’t have to be this way.”

“It does.”  You raise your chin.  “I am here to protect you.  I can’t do that when my focus is…distracted.”  

“It’s not that way for Nat and Clint.”

Really?  You file that new tidbit of gossip away for more analysis, but still have to regretfully shake your head.  “Not the same. They’re a team, trained to work in tandem.  This is different.”

“It’s not.”  

“It is.”

“Not true.”  

His certainty that you’ll relent begins to melt away. “Y/N, don’t do this.  I thought we had something. Were working on it.  Can be something more.”  

“Please.”

He falls silent in the face of your hard bitten stare.  Lost eyes dark and pleading.  More like a kicked puppy than a famous murderbot, but still you hold.    

You can’t.  You wish you could, but no.  

“It has to be this way for me.”  

To blunt the hurt, you stretch up on tip-toe to press a delicate apology to his lips.  

Bucky flinches, acting like your kiss has broken him and his reaction is breaking you.

‘I thought we had something?’

The accusation rings in your ears all the days to come, but even tears don’t put the heart fires out.

——————————-

You do your job.  Break down and reassemble your gun for the soothing repetition.  Keep well away.  Do exactly what you need to do and not one iota more, but watching him all day is torture.  

Both of you are miserable.

You hide it.  Bucky not so much.  His blue eyes lose their spark;  become haggard and bloodshot.  You know you’ve put the dark bags there, but at least they’re there, you tell yourself when another hit gets foiled.

Everybody notices.  On those rare times you have to be in the Tower, Steve remains so professionally polite and clipped it’s just like being shot.  Next to him, no one knows.  You sit, mute and hurting, inconveniently placed beside Pepper and Maria at a SHIELD event, taking in Natasha’s blistering attack on ‘the gold dipped bitch’ who’s hurt her friend.  They know Bucky, too.  How much the silent, morose Soldier is a capitulation; how working through hurt makes it harder for him to keep the last dregs of Hydra programming at bay.  You hate yourself for it. But there really is no other way and now you realize, it’s getting harder.  Your concentration’s worse if anything and it would be kinder to stop torturing you both.    

The sick reality falls like lead into your stomach. 

You can’t be there at all.  

————————-

You never planned to work for SHIELD.  

You’d enlisted at age eighteen because with no formal schooling and no degree, Uncle Sam was the only outfit that would promise you a job. Your long-honed hunting skills were evident in basic; refined in sniper school until you were something of a legend. You’d set your heart on Special Ops, did every extra ribbon and rotation but still were not sent to the front. Women were not then given combat roles. It sucked.  And if your superiors were sympathetic, they still attached you to endless close protection details. Sent you to the AMU competitions.  Ignored your increasingly strident, respectful pleas for reassignment until you’d thrown your resignation papers down and marched straight off the base.

Seemed like just minutes passed before a bland, grey-suited man tapped you on the shoulder.

“Miss Y/N?” said Philip Coulson with a smile. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

Nick Fury is the best boss you’ve never officially had, because sometimes your Army cover is somewhat helpful and Phil swiftly arranged for your resignation papers disappear.  

The rest is history.

——————————

“You want to be reassigned.”

“Yes, Sir.”

You will not squirm, but the Director, away from prying ears in his secure coordination room, is fixing you with his patented thousand-metre stare.  “You really want to go back to Fort Bragg and do paperwork?  Get trotted out when they need an affirmative action photo shoot?”

You groan. Ugh. They will and you know it, but anywhere than SHIELD is the objective.  Better a clean break, you think, but Fury’s not done with you yet.  

“I hear the First Daughter had some death threats.  FBI’s asked us if we can spare a gun. We could reassign you to Sparrow’s detail.”  

Oh fuck no.  The President’s petulant and self-absorbed teenager burns through agents faster than she raids Bloomingdales.  

It takes everything in you to do that nod.

Fury’s one visible eyebrow nearly hits the roof.  “You are serious.”

“Sir. I am.”  You’ve called his bluff.  You stand to attention and wait for it.  The serious suggestion you know is coming.  

“Thing is, Y/N, we were going to recommend you for a new assignment,” Fury paces, hands behind his back and shoulders to the view.  “It involves training.  As hard as anything you’ve done.”

Really?  You’re skeptical. You’ve done the Rangers even if they didn’t let you in the field. Toughed it out with the toughest the Army had.  

What he says next, nearly has your jaw upon the floor.

“We want you permanently cross-posted to the Advanced Threat Containment Unit.  Watch Sergeant Barnes full time.  Close in as he transitions to his next new role.”  

Surprise makes you blurt out the first thing in your head.  “You can’t mean on combat missions?!”

“Mhmm.”  

But that means…  “You’re sending Bucky back into the field!”

“Got a problem with that, Corporal?”  

Your mouth is hanging open.  “But you can’t…”

‘I don’t do that anymore’ rings in your ears.

“You’re going to let him…”

Fury looks, not mad, but entirely amused. “Not do assassinations, no. But let him train and participate.” 

“You can’t,” you stubbornly repeat.  He’s stupidly reckless.  Prone to throwing himself headlong into everything. Not completely healed.  “Not ready,” you finish lamely. 

“You disagree with the psych eval?” 

You shuffle your feet.  This is thin ground. SHIELD does not employ folks with fake degrees.   “No, Sir.” 

The Director smiles, as warmly as you’ll get.  Which is to say, about as a warm as a melting icecube.  “Good. Sergeant Barnes needs someone who has his back and Captain Rogers can’t do that leading from the front.”  

So true.   But also why Bucky shouldn’t be out at all.  “Sir, he forgets…”  To care about himself enough.  

“Precisely why I’ve suggested you be assigned.  You are the best markswoman we have got.  Look, I’m not entirely happy with this either, but he can’t sit and knit forever.  Stark says he’s ready.  The -ologists say he’s ready.  And he’s spending his days moping around the compound too much.”  You wince inside, knowing the cause of that.   “Getting some of his own back might even help.”  

It might.  

And someone will try to take Bucky out again.

And he will be focused on everything but himself.

Shit.  

There is no choice.  

You know you can keep him safe.

Fury, the bastard, just stands and cracks his deaths-head grin.

 ———————————

Training with the Avengers is more brutal than anything you’ve done.

Steve’s in charge, and Nat.  Both merciless.  Both focused on honing you into something more than a gun.  It’s brutal and physical but that isn’t the hardest part.

Bucky is there training, too.  

It feels like being a cat on a hot tin roof.  Circling each other.  Carefully.  Two negative terminals on a magnet—repelling as far away as they can get.  

“Corporal.”

“Sergeant.”  

You’ve said no and Bucky is bending over backwards to be polite and perfectly correct.  No physical contact outside sparring.  No first names unless you can help it.  No interaction at all, outside missions, to be honest.  Tony, oblivious (at least you think he is), organizes movie nights and BBQs that you mostly miss.  You follow Buck’s lead, keep yourself more closed than usual.  Socialize with your old SHIELD squad when you can, haunt your room when there is no time.  

It takes a toll.  

You are not, by nature, a recluse but this is how it has to be. You can’t stand the brief flashes of disappointment in Bucky’s eyes, the wariness with which he interacts.  They cut at your resolve. Shred it, until you’re forced to shut out everything but mission goals. 

They come and go.  Days. Weeks.  The strain coils higher, but you tell yourself you are doing it for him: the man whose eyes haunt your waking moments. You become a shell, sapped of life and desiccated, but each shot is crisp and clean.  This makes it right, but not natural. Eventually, you switch roles like understudies in a play.  He is the pro, silent and efficient as he does his job, while you are the damaged one, snapping at every little thing, recklessly taking risks, heedless of your own safety.  

It all seems worthwhile until the day you walk silently up the empty ramp for the Quinjet and find Steve and Sam huddled by the cockpit.

They don’t hear you slide like a shadow into your berth.

“His nightmares are getting worse.”  

Sam whistles low. “Worse? Man, they were bad before.”

Steve slowly shakes his head. “It’s like Wakanda before he went in cryo.  I honestly don’t know how he is even functioning.”    

“Yeah.  But the shit truth is there nothing you or I can do about it.”  Sam sounds resigned.  “Unless he comes clean on what it is that’s eating at him, and you know he won’t do that easily. Dude’s too stubborn.”

“He’s not the only one.”  

Steve, you realize later, says this for you.  His eyes bore like a laser into your forehead when he comes over to sit down, shrugging his five-point harness on.  

“Corporal.” 

“Captain.”  

“You good?”

“Yes, Sir.”

You fiddle unnecessarily with the heat shield on your stock.  Out of the corner of one eye, you can see him frown, loop his fingers into his belt and sigh, but you know he won’t call you out, won’t give away your private business to anyone.  Still, the optimist in him can’t help but hope.  Steve Rogers is really like a giant collie dog that shepherds a whole flock of misfits—he isn’t happy unless everyone’s set right; and you and Buck are waay out on the fringe.  It feels as if the solid, brooding bulk of his suit is willing you to change your mind. But you are stubborn.

(A trait that you and Bucky share, along with snark and an obsession with perfect lattes.) 

While you wait for everyone to load, you keep your head down and bite your lip, worrying about what you’ve heard.  Fuck, if Buck’s not sleeping that makes both of you, and to do this job you need to be on. You’re good.  You’re fine, you can tolerate a little sleep deprivation, but Bucky—that’s not right. Years of cryo and mind-wipes have messed with the circuitry.  He needs sleep to heal, more than most, and you shake your head, knee vibrating like Clint’s bowstring, dreading but anxiously awaiting for him to load.  

You don’t have long to wait.  Nat and Clint clatter past and take the pilot seats, Tony swans through and starts briefing Steve with last-minute intel and then Bucky’s there. Stowing his gun and hiding behind a fall of dark, lank hair.  You’re shocked.  It’s been a week since you saw him last, in the common room, but oh god he is worse. Clearly.  He barely responds when Clint does a system check. Grunts at Steve’s chirpy welcome. Falls into his seat across from you and that’s when it starts.  The sense of failure.  The hurt that the brutal truth is you are making this all worse; doing exactly what you had wanted to avoid.

Bucky’s not safer with you there.  He’s more in danger and the knowledge of it sucks out all the oxygen.

You spend the three-hour trip and first half hour of the ensuing firefight under water, surfacing for precious gulps of air between the mounting pressure in your chest; like your harness is strapped down way too tight.  

You thought that you’d be helping him, but oh, Y/N, you are really not.  

You need to leave.

Entirely.

Goddamn it hurts, but you have no time.  The heinous bastards who have grabbed a SHIELD tracking station have their dander up, are resisting with all they’ve got and you need to be on your game following as Bucky’s cover.  You leap and sight, neutralize another target still feeling like you can’t get air, watching his lithe form duck and roll, mercilessly slamming a terrorist to the ground.  

His face is all dark angles and unhappy shadows.  Lined and smudged, a ghost of the man who’d smiled, run his fingers through your hair, gently nuzzling at your neck  

“Babe, I could stay this way forever.”

The flash of memory is like a sucker punch to the gut.  

You’ve screwed this whole thing up.  

Can’t do your fucking job cuz you gave in and slept with the man who is your mission and now you’re… what?  

Miserable in his company.  Miserable without.

In love.

Fuck.

This is not how things should be.…  

You’re drowning in the unhappiness, but even with a red haze of doomed understanding filtering across your gaze, you can’t not see it.

The motherfucker three hundred yards away taking aim at Bucky’s head 

You need to pot the asshat now–but your view is obstructed by the base’s cell tower and, so, you leap out, aim and squeeze, heedless of your own back.  The concrete behind the man’s dead eyes neatly disintegrates in a spray of elegant debris and your world dissolves in a rain of stabbing hurt, like a whole river of gravel is fired from the sky.  

You fall.  

There’s a roaring in your ears and the breathlessness is getting worse.  Iron and smoke tinge the soup of dust and rock and gas that your lungs don’t want to breathe. Concussion grenade, must be: and, at first, you struggle, but the twisted beam that roofs your little world won’t even shift.  It’s close, pressing on your chest and you will yourself to fight the panic down.  Don’t disturb it.  Don’t make the situation worse.  You want to laugh at that—fuck no—all you do is make situations worse— but the breath in hurts like full-on hell.  

That has to be good, doesn’t it?  It’s when you don’t feel anything you’re going down…

Ok.. just…lie.  Breathe… take inventory. There’s a trickle of blood running from your hair down through your eyes: you can taste it upon your tongue.  Your left hand stings, but your right is just lying here. Numb. Not moving. Broken probably, but that is the least of your concerns.

The pressure of the beam bears down steadily.

And with it your space to get some air.  

“Y/N!”

From somewhere to your left there comes a voice.  Faint and muffled.  As if someone is shouting way way far away and you realize—this is it.  You are going to die.  No ones gonna arrive in time but weirdly you are ok.  Bucky is allright.  You saw him flip and roll away.  That’s good…that’s everything.  You cough on the settling dust and steel and try to take shallower breaths.  Your heart’s too fast and the air’s too thin and you close your eyes.  Float, indistinct at the edges.  Nothing hurts too much right now.  It’s good. You can close your eyes and drift away.  

“Y/N!”

This time the call is muffled but louder: anguished, as if everything in the world is wrong.

A chunk of steel is wrenched away and for the first time a patch of light shines through the dim.  

“Y/N, are you hurt?!”

You blink through the blood that gums your lashes.  Bucky’s there.  Shoulders wedged into the impossibly tiny space, eyes wide with something you are sure you have never seen.

Fear.

You want to ease his mind, but words are a little hard.  “I’m ok,” comes out more wheeze than whisper.

“Hang on, we’re gonna get you out.”  Bucky barks into the comms for Sam, and help, and oxygen.  He turns and gingerly shoves aside the loose jagged chunks of steel to make a little space.  When there’s a hand’span of pavement clear, he dips down on his left, grimacing and flexing up against the beam.  

There’s a slow metallic groan, an endless pause, but eventually it lifts just barely. 

But sadly not enough.  

The fuzzy world is whiting out, dissolving in a ring of sparks.

“Y/N!”  He frees a hand, shakes you roughly and sends a lance of agony through your chest.  “Stay with me, babe, stay with me.  Cavalry is coming.”  

But we don’t have any horses…  

The wry smile on his face is blurry.  You must have whispered this out loud.  He closes his eyes, resets his metal hand down against the pavement.  Flexes up again.  “Aiighhh!”

The monumental effort gains another precious millimeter and the sparkly whiteness starts to fade to the indigo of his vest.

“What? Can’t you hear the hoofbeats?”  Bucky is shaking, sweat beading on his brow but above there is a whoosh and the carbon ion smell of repulsor jets.

“Got it, Barnes!”

“Took you long enough!”  Bucky sags just slightly, protecting you in case something shifts, but mercifully the metal does not move.  

Sam is crouched behind.  You dimly hear his coolly calm instructions. “Barnes, don’t let her move. Pretty sure those ribs are broken.  Can’t risk a pneumothorax.”  Bucky squeezes out, disappears through the gap but is quickly back again, metal fingers softly pressing a cannula to your nose.  The dizziness fades some more.

“Better?”  His Brooklyn accent aches with hopefulness.  

You nod, warily taking a deeper breath, feeling clean, cool air rush in. Fuck its good but lord it hurts.  At least the world does not swim.  Bucky reaches to brush some damp strands from off your brow and Sam passes a pad into the gap.  You hiss as he presses the treated gauze over the worst of the cut.  “Sorry.  Sorry.”

He glances around the narrow space.  You’re basically in a coffin.  Just wide enough for your hips and long enough for your feet.  When you flex your foot, your toes touch something that feels smooth.  A dish? A beam?  The girders of the tower have toppled like a marionette’s arms and legs when the control strings have been cut.  “Gonna take a bit to cut this mess.  Properly, so it doesn’t shift.”

Bucky’s right, but you’re worrying about the waste of time.  “Is it safe? The cell?”

You mean the rogue Hydra group, the reason why you’re here, because if it’s not, Jesus, you are going to thump him hard.  You’re useless pinned.  But if there’s shooting still going on…

“Relax, babe, we got ‘em.  That grenade was their hail mary pass and it’s failed.  Steve and Clint and Nat are mopping up.”

Thank God.  Some of the tension bleeds away, like steam from a radiator.  You shiver, shock starting to set in, and, tenderly, he drapes you with a silver thermal blanket.  It’s better, but now it’s time to wait.  Bright arcs of light shine through the cracks and you know Tony is working as fast as he can, but still it’s hard.  You’ve been strong forever, but the fear you’ve held a bay is now too much with Bucky near.  

A whimper escapes your lips.

“Shushhh, baby,” he croons, leaning near to cup your cheek with a warm hand. “I’m not going anywhere.   It’s all gonna be ok.”  But it really isn’t.  His other one, metal reflecting Tony’s blazing work, keeps stroking your tangled hair.  This close you can see a forest of tiny scrapes and nicks and cuts upon his dusty skin.

And the ever present smudges of tired grey below his eyes.

“I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”  You’re stammering.  You’ve been selfish, you see that now. Doing what you thought right and best for him. Totally certain you had to be the one to help and all the time the ache of want has never stopped.  

It doesn’t matter.  You need to be strong for him.  Move on and let someone else have the watch.  

“I can’t do this anymore.”    

You’re not sure what you are speaking of: holding yourself together while he kneels and strokes your face, or staying at his side.  Both make sense.  The sounds of working are getting louder.  “Barnes, I’m almost through,” crackles through the link.  

A cool metal finger strokes your brow.  “Hey, not much longer now.”

You turn your head, catch the light in his worried eyes. “No..us, side by side.”  

There, you’ve said it.  SHIELD med will patch you up. Ship you out to base where you can crumble into dust somewhere on your own.

It’s brutal but better than being an irritant.  Scratching endlessly at the scab of him.  

“Goddammit, Y/N. You don’t have to go.”  

His growl is not hurt but sheer frustration.  There’s a storm in his eyes and in the flat set of his frown.  Bucky wriggles a little closer in, cradles you like the most precious thing in all the world.   “Fuck, it takes this battered brain a while, but, babe, you gotta hear me out.  I get it now.  You’re terrified that serving alongside someone who means too much makes you vulnerable.  Messes with your skills–but it doesn’t have to be that way.  There’s a shakedown sure, for a little while, but Clint and Nat–they manage.  Wanda manages with Viz.  Steve works alongside me and we may not be lovers but our bond is just as strong.” His lips pull into the saddest smile. “I fucking need you. You. Y/N. Not the Corporal with the medals.  I need you everywhere.  At night, when the monsters in my head crowd close and, in the day, when I need a snarky smile.  You are best thing I have had in my life and I can’t let that go.”  

Bucky’s face is almost pressed against your cheek.  It’s that smile, soft and warm, and just for you.  

Fire in the night and a watcher on your six.  

“I’ve tried, Doll, I really have, but it just doesn’t work. I need you, complicated as it is. And I won’t let you give up on us. Not without trying, anyway.”  

His whisper is rough with meaning.  He huffs out a little sigh and presses an achingly gentle kiss across your bloodied lips.

This time his kiss breaks you….

——————–

tags:  @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan  @theycallmebecca @mewsiex @emilyevanston @mycapt-ohcapt  @pegasusdragontiger  @winters-beauty

@badassbaker @heather-lynn @saffreelove @loricameback @nomadicpixel @missfirstavenger @prplprincez @marvel-lucy

[hollygopossumlovesj2]

Thermostat War

Inspired by this photo posted by: @justjensenanddean <3

Warning/Rating: PG-13 for cussing and a little violence; comedy, borderline crackish

Word Count: 2,426 (This was supposed to be a drabble. Its now a one shot. hehe)

Summary: Jensen arranges for he, Jared and Misha to share a cabin close to the ‘on location’ shoot. He figured that it would save a drive in the morning and would allow for more sleep. He belatedly realizes his mistake.

Hollygopossum’s Master List

Sharing a cabin close to the next on location filming had been Jensen’s idea. He already dealt with Jared and Misha on a daily basis. How bad could sharing a cabin one night possibly be? He’d take some Benadryl if he had to. Surely they could be adults for just one night?

He was wrong.

To start with, everyone had been tired from a long night of filming the night before. The car ride over to the next location had been blissfully calm. Jared had brooded quietly with his ear buds in and Pearl Jam jacked up so loud that Jensen could actually pick out lyrics.

Misha had contorted himself into what Jensen considered a pretzel in the passenger seat but didn’t put anymore brain power than necessary trying to figure out a better description. Misha spent the entire car ride like this, humming to Jared’s music and reading a book entitled Tantric Orgasms.

Fortunately, Cliff was used to everyone’s habits by now and had learned to tune them out so that he could actually concentrate on the road. Which Jensen felt was a good thing because the longer they were on this road, the curvier it became.

Lastly, Jensen also tried to perfect his talent of tuning everyone out while reading over some emails that contained business information for his new brewery. Once he realized he was reading the same sentence from the same email he had been trying to read for however long, he cleared his phone screen and let his head lull back on the seat.

Once they arrived at the cabin around 2am, their dinner was prepared and waiting for them. Well, Jensen supposed that it was probably more appropriate to call it breakfast, but his tired brain tossed that idea out. He grabbed a few rolls and several pieces of ham and cheese.

To be honest, he didn’t even have the energy to make himself a sandwich. So, while he unpacked his necessities for tonight and the next day of shooting, he ate the individual pieces. He was shoving the last roll in his mouth as he stripped all his clothes off except for his boxers and fell face first into bed. If Jensen was being honest, he wasn’t even sure if he was awake to finish chewing and swallowing his food before he fell headlong into slumber.

It was fair to say that Jensen was a heavy sleeper. He had learned to get sleep when he could. Whether it was a ten-minute break between filming balled up in his chair or on the ten-minute ride home, he’d learned to make the most of his time.

So when he woke up, freezing his ass off, it was fair to say that it was a rather large disparity in temperature since he’d fallen asleep. Which meant that someone had screwed with the thermostat.

Jensen rolled into a sitting position with a groan, his joints popping and cracking as he went. It took him a moment to wake up enough to put one foot in front of the other and find the thermostat.

There was a seriously grumpy twist to his features as he hobbled down the hall way with his socks sliding halfway off of his feet and his hair tufts sticking in all directions. Jensen squinted in the low light, trying to read the setting. “Fucking… Damnit, Jared! Fucking feels like a goddamn ice box in here. 60 degrees. Jesus.” He grumbled in a harsh whisper, quickly moving the temperature up to 75F. That was a reasonable temperature in his mind and he promptly fell back into bed, crawling beneath the covers.

Two hours later…

When Jensen woke up the second time, the red numbers from the clock on his nightstand read 4:32 am. His mind quickly supplied that it was two hours before the time they needed to be up and taking a quick shower. He was actually shivering beneath the heavy quilt that the cabin owners had provided. His teeth were chattering for fucks sake!

Again, he stomped out of the room in grumpy, rumpled and now freezing disarray, and to the thermostat that was now set on 55 degrees. “Mother fucker…” He wasn’t very careful with the thermostat as he turned it up to 80F. “See how Jared likes that.” He grumbled down the hall, headed back to bed. He checked the closet for extra blankets and piled them on the bed. Thinking that when it finally warmed up from fucking 55F, he would shed the blankets off.

An hour and a half later…

The third time he woke up, he could swear he had fucking snot icicles in his nose. He stared down the red numbers that said 6 am in a very ‘displeased with his current situation’ squint. It was 30 minutes until they needed to be awake and getting ready. Jensen was livid. He snatched up his blankets and a pillow, turned the thermostat up to 85F and stretched out on the couch to wait.

15 minutes later, after the cabin had finally begun to warm up and Jensen was starting to dose off, there were heavy footsteps coming down the hall.

Jensen squinted into the dark, biding his time while he silently watched the hulking, lanky culprit starts to adjust the thermostat.

“Fucking Jensen. Jesus, it’s a goddamned sauna in here. My fucking hair is soaked!” Jensen heard Jared muttering harshly, confirming the identity of his enemy. There was no point in going back to sleep now. There were only ten minutes left of quality sleep before he’d have to be in the shower.

A sunrise shoot, they said. It’ll have a great effect, they said. Jensen felt like they could shove their sunrise shoot at the perfect angle up their asses. He didn’t care that they were his bosses. At the moment, he didn’t care that the director felt this shot of the last scene of the last episode of the season would increase the feelings of nostalgia. Screw nostalgia and screw Jared Padalecki.

“You hot natured stubborn son of a bitch!” Jensen yelled out a war cry before tackling Jared to the ground, but he didn’t manage to pin the sweaty man before he rolled. Sweat dripped from Jared’s face onto Jensen’s shirt as they struggled on the ground, bumping into furniture and walls.

Jensen saw a point of weakness in Jared’s wrestling hold and put all of his weight from dislodging it and getting the upper hand. The move, sloppy because neither one of them was completely awake, knocked down a lamp and sent some coasters falling to their doom. In the background of things falling loudly to the mahogany hard wood floors, several grunts of discomfort and frustration could be heard.

It was hard to tell where each of the noises came from as the boys (ehem, grown men, actually) continued to battle senselessly for control of the wrestling match and control of the thermostat. Which, if Jensen or Jared had even stopped to think about it, there was no point in victory that would allow the victor 2 minutes in their desired temperature. They would be getting ready for work soon.

Jared was difficult to hold on to with all the sweat, or at least that’s what Jensen told himself when Jared wiggled out of every hold. “Ugh, you’re gross! What did you do? Slather yourself with self-tanning lotion?” Jensen growled as Jared’s wet hair slapped him in the face. “Fuck!”

“I wouldn’t be gross if you weren’t trying to roast me the fuck out of the house! It would be more comfortable sleeping outside! Fucking 80 degrees, really?!” Jared with his long limbs finally wound around Jensen with a successful hold around his chest and neck. They were almost face to face, Jensen being on head space down, glaring at one another with the deepest amount of disdain possible for a war involving the thermostat.

“Lemme up, damnit!” Jensen growled right before Jared shoved Jensen’s face into his sweaty, stinking arm pit in retaliation. “Oh mrgd! You uckin’ ackash!” Jared smiled vindictively as Jensen continued to yell muffled insults at the top of his lungs as he struggled which only proved to make Jared laugh more. “’othser uckser… ucks!”

“What in the hell?” The light turned on abruptly, making both of the boys squint uncomfortably in the direction of the stairs. Well, Jared assumed Jensen was squinting because his face was still shoved in his arm pit.

Misha was on the bottom step, standing with his hands on his hips and a scowl firmly in place. The expression made Jared think momentarily that Misha’s expression was like Castiel’s when he was informed that he would have to poop when his grace was taken. You know, when he was forced to live like the rest of humanity? “What the fuck is going on?” Misha’s hair was a rat’s nest. His black hair was sticking up in all directions, paired with a look that either Castiel has smelled poop for the first time or some other human, vulnerable activity, made Jared’s chest heave with suppressed laughter.

As he acknowledged that this play was futile, Jensen began elbowing Jared in the gut with all his strength. The hold Jared had him in made it awkward to even be able to land a blow. Plus, by the time Jensen finally landed a jab, Jared was already prepared and tightening his abdominals against the impact. “Fuschin, ssssshow -ff!”

Jared laughed at his friend’s muffled cussing and feeble attempts to break free. “He started it.” He finally answered after he could get the sleepy delirious laughter under control. Childishly, he pointed his finger at Jensen who was now starting to thrash around rather violently, kicking his feet and narrowly missing the coffee table that had managed to stay standing through the entire affair.

Jensen was extremely frustrated because he couldn’t get any traction on the floor due to the socks he was wearing. After he struggled for a little while longer, his brain finally came back on line from being sleep deprived (and now quality oxygen deprived) just in time to play dirty. A pained yelp, followed by several creative curse words could probably be heard all the way into the next fucking city.

Jared immediately let go as Jensen, who had managed to work his hand between them, twisted the fuck out of his nipple. Jensen showed no mercy and it occurred to both of them that this was why the never pitted themselves against each other. It always ended up with someone having a black eye and a bruised as fuck nipple. Jared’s nipples were sensitive, damnit!

“Ha!!” Jensen was exultant while taking big gulping breaths of non-pit stain or onions. “Purple nerple for the win, bitches!” Jared was giving Jensen pouty puppy eyes as he massaged his abused, probably seriously bruised, tender nipple. The fucker was like a starving crab, his pinschers unforgiving to delicate flush.

Jared suddenly thought of a conversation that his Mom had with his sister, Megan, when she was sixteen and just finding out that she couldn’t necessarily tweak people at school like she did with her brothers. My Mom had said, as I had lingered in the doorway looking for black mail material to keep Megan from getting too bratty, “You must treat them like cotton candy. Breast tissue is very sensitive. …You mustn’t let anyone abuse your breasts.”

Megan had replied with a sentence that made my Mom feel like she’d been heard and that Megan understood. I’m pretty sure, Megan the ever naughty little sister, did not restrain herself.

You must treat them like cotton candy…

“You sound like a sixteen-year-old girl, you ass.” Jared grumbled as he came back to the present situation. He found that he’d reflexively used his hands a shield, in case Jensen decided to be handsy again.

He looked ridiculous.

Jensen was now delirious and crowing laughter as tears started to appear at the corner of his eyes. To be honest, if you’d asked him in that moment ‘what are you laughing at?’, Jensen wouldn’t be able to tell you. He’d just seemingly lost his fucking marbles.

“What the fuck?” Misha shook his head, the entire time massaging his temples with his eyes closed as he attempted to wake up enough to deal with this shit. He finally stopped to look at each of his coworkers, the people that he called friends and colleagues. “Idiots.”

Jensen was still laughing and Jared was still pouting five minutes later, the temperature of the house headed towards a Death Valley heat wave. If these morons were going to continue to lose it, he was going to actually do something productive while he tried to remind himself why he still really wanted to play Castiel. He tried to remember why he would subject himself to this kind of crap daily.

He sighed heavily as he turned the thermostat down to 70 degrees. The boys were not paying him any attention as they laughed and squabbled between themselves. Internally, Misha wondered how a 35-year-old and a 40-year-old man could possibly raise children when they were still children themselves.

“What a bunch of fuckwits…” He grumbled affectionately as he then turned towards the direction of the bathroom. He was expecting another childish fight over bathroom time and intended to nip it in the bud. Right before he slammed the door, he yelled, “First shower’s mine, assholes!” He smiled maniacally at the groans of disapproval ground out on the other side of the door. “That’ll teach you. Dicks.”

Needless to say, Jensen and Jared’s day did not start off very well. Nor did it get any better for all three of them. Through the entire day, Jensen and Jared could be seen throwing each other glares promising retribution. While Misha looked on from a safe distance, still baffled as to how these men were actually raising part of the future.

Misha thought that the boys were lucky that they had their looks. Otherwise, they wouldn’t even begin to be able to maintain a job in the real world. As the day dragged on, Misha began to notice that Jared and Jensen were back to spending time together between takes. They even took a late lunch together with the crew, not one wrestling match to be had.

So, when they were finally allowed to go home for the day, all was forgiven until the next time a thermostat war was declared. Then? Misha shuddered to think of it.

Tagging: (Forevers) @perpetualabsurdity, @maileann, @daydreamingintheimpala, @gecko9596, @gemini75eeyore, @jotink78, @dancingalone21, @winchesterprincessbride, @sandlee44, @exploratiionist, @arryn-nyx, @littledarlinhavefaithinme, @tiffanycaruso, @boredoutofmymindstuff, @feelmyroarrrr, @raeganr99, @ruprecht0420, @anokhi07, @letsgetyourdeanon, @sis-tafics, @callmesatansprincess, @atc74, @ryansgirl5509, @notnaturalanahi, @keepcalmandcarryondean, @sea040561, @just-another-busy-fangirl, @uniquewerewolfsuit, @ria132love, @mrswhozeewhatsis, @pretty-fortune, @butiaintgonnaloveem, @justanotherdeangrl, @weasleywinchester, @easelweasel, @akshi8278, @tas898, @mandymoiselle1970, @pansexualmeteorite, @silver9mm

[softboywriting]

Superpower!Shawn // Scrapped Work

A/N: So I liked this idea of Shawn having a power where he can like burst into flame and control it. (Like the chick in Hellboy) but this didn’t come out how I wanted it to. It’s not finished and I’m not gonna finish it. But here’s a concept in 3k words.

A/N 2: In this world there are people who have powers and they’re just like normal people like everyone else.

You look down at your assigned room number and up at the doors lining the hall of the Graceburg dorms. Room 120A. You put your hand on the door knob and turn slowly, nervous to meet your roommate for the year. The room is empty when you step in. There is a backpack laying on one bed and you can only assume your roommate must have left it there.

Dropping your bags and purse on the opposite bed, you decide to go snoop a little to maybe just get a name of your roommate. Graceburg dorms were coed and you were really hoping you would get a female roommate, but this backpack screamed guy. It was old as hell, tattered around the zippers, and it smelled like cologne. You unzip the top and sure enough there is a pair of boxers crammed into the bag. Gross. You hope they’re clean. You turn the backpack over a few times, hoping there would be some sort of name tag or any form of identification. The only thing you can find without digging too far was a keychain with the name Mendes on it.

The door handle to your room door turns and you jump away from the backpack, heat rising on your cheeks as you busy yourself with your own bags. In walks your friend Jane and she immediately knows something is up because you’re just pushing shit around in the tote bag in your hands.

“What did you do?” she asks, coming around to stand with her hands on her hips at the end of your bed.

“I didn’t do anything!” You dump the tote on the bed and start unrolling a bed sheet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jane laughs and you narrow your eyes at her. “You’re the worst liar ever. Did you snoop on your roommate? I assume that is their backpack on the bed over there.”

“Okay fine, I snooped a little. I didn’t get much though.”

“Oh no, you got plenty. Spill the beans.”

You groan and fall face first onto the bed. “It’s a guy. Last name, I’m assuming, is Mendes.”

“Ohh girl you’re so lucky!”

“I’m not lucky! I didn’t want a guy! They’re so messy and gross and just ugh why does Graceburg have to be coed?” you roll over and stare at the ceiling.

Jane sits on the end of the bed and pats your shoulder. “You could always put in a request to move to the Yates dorm?”

“I can’t afford it, it costs more to house over there because it’s private or what the fuck ever. Snotty bitches.”

“True. Well, see how this guy is. Maybe you’ll end up becoming very good friends. You haven’t even met him yet, don’t be so hard on him.”

“You’re right,” you grumble and Jane just laughs.

“I’m hungry. Let’s skip unpacking for now and go see what free food we can scrounge up at the Welcoming Fair.” Jane gets up and pulls your arm. “Let’s goooooo!”

The welcoming fair isn’t as big as last year and you and Jane can’t find any food. That is until she spots a booth that is serving mini sub sandwiches as advertisement for their new shop opening just off campus. The two of you make a bee line, starving and desperate for free munchies. The guy behind the table starts chatting Jane up immediately and you stand there awkwardly nibbling your sandwich. You survey the area, looking for familiar faces or even another food booth when you see him. The guy you spot is tall, has dark messy curly rich brown hair and a black leather jacket. He looks annoyed as hell as he strides toward the booth you’re at.

You turn to get Jane’s attention but it’s too late. Tall boy is already grabbing your shoulder and turning you around. A wave of heat courses through your body and you turn to look at the tall guy. “Hey-” he stops, looking you over and losing his train of thought for a moment. “Would you mind not going through my shit?” he asks and your eyes go wide.

“Um, what?” you ask as you swallow the last bit of your sandwich.

“My backpack? In the dorm room. I know you dug through it.”

So this was Mendes. Wow, well, he was not what you expected. Honestly you hadn’t known what to expect but this man standing in front of you was not even in the realm of possibilities. He was gorgeous, beautiful brownish hazel eyes, soft looking hair, a cute little scar on his cheek. How were you supposed to live for over half a year with him? You’re so caught up in his face that you don’t realize Jane has stopped flirting with the sandwich guy until she pushes Mendes’s shoulder and tells him to back off.

“I didn’t dig through anything,” you lie as you are snapped back to reality. “And how do you know I’m even your roommate?”

Jane crosses her arms and steps in front of you a bit. She had always been your best friend and stood up for you. Her super strength made her an excellent fighter and there had been times when you were thankful for it. She was only just over five feet but she was feisty when provoked and you’d seen her take down men nearly twice her size during the self defense class she taught on sundays. “Yeah, how do you know she’s your roommate and not me?” Jane asks eyeing Mendes up and down.

Mendes balls his fist up and a soft blue flame engulfs his hand. “I looked through-”

“Whoa dude, careful,” Jane says, pointing at his hand and he brings it up and flexes his fingers within the flames. “You’re going to hurt somebody with that!”

People nearby notice the burning blue fire spreading up his arm and they start to move away and chatter nervously. You swallow thickly and watch as he puts it out and shoves his hands in his pockets. He looks around and glares at the people staring at him before he walks away from the two of you.

“Jane, he’s like me,” you whisper softly as the crowds start to reform and go about their business in the courtyard. “Do you think he knows?”

Jane puts her arm around you and walks you back toward your dorm. “I doubt he knows. You’ve kept it hidden so well and you are still on your medicine right? The one that negates your powers?”

You shake your head. “It got too expensive. I took my last dose a few days ago.”

“Okay, well it should still be in your system then. We’ll find a way to get you more. Until then there shouldn’t be a problem if you remain calm and say out of trouble. Have you had any flare up’s since taking the medicine?”

“No, I’ve been fine.” You look down at your hands and curl your fingers up. “What if he finds out and tells people?”

“He won’t find out.” Jane stops walking with you as you enter the main lobby of Graceburg dorms. She grabs your shoulder and you look down. “I know you’re scared of people finding out you’re a fire starter, but it’s fine. No one will know. We will get your medicine.”

“I just don’t want people to treat me like an outcast because they think I’m dangerous. You saw what happened to my brother, how he ended up having to move away just so no one knew who he was after he accidentally set fire to the high school.”

“You’ll be fine. Go on, get unpacked. I have to go finish my unpacking as well. If anything happens, call me and I’ll come over.” Jane pats your shoulder and leaves you to go to your dorm and face Mendes alone.

That first couple days in the dorm is rough. You find out Mendes’s first name is Shawn and after telling you his name he’s quiet the rest of the first day. You both unpack in the most awkward silence ever and you end up curling up in bed on your side without so much as a good night a little after 8pm. The following days were quiet, the two of you only chatting if it was absolutely necessary. You find out from some friends that Shawn was supposedly bad news. He had a reputation of picking fights. A girl you met last year said she went to high school with him and he was just the worst and lashed out all the time on teachers and students alike.

Sometimes you catch Shawn staring at you while you do your homework, sitting on your bed with your laptop on you knees. He doesn’t think you notice but you do. How could you not? His gaze was almost as hot as the fire he held within him. You didn’t mind that he stared, because you stared at him too. He would come back from the showers and you’d watch the way his back flexed as he pulled a shirt on. You would watch as he stripped down to his boxers to get in bed. The guy wasn’t shy, he really didn’t seem to mind you were in the room all the time.

A few weeks in, you notice Shawn had been waking up with a hard on. Now, you know this is normal if health class was to be believed. But the way he got real flushed when he saw you were awake while he was sporting his morning wood made you think maybe he had as much of a thing for you as you did for him. He would always hurry out of the room, or just roll over to face the wall until his problem went away.

Shawn was always sweet with you. Not like, bringing you flowers or something. That would be weird. No, he’s sweet in the way he talks to you. You noticed this one day when you were sitting with a group, including him, in the library after class. Shawn had tagged along because it was a class you shared and he need to do some research for his paper.

“Did you bring him along?” your friend Josh asks and you look down the table to where Shawn is scribbling something down in his notebook.

“Yeah? Why?” you ask curiously, confused as to why Josh cared if Shawn was there.

“Y’know if you don’t like me being here with you, I can move to another fucking table.” Shawn says and looks up from his book with a scowl aimed at Josh. “Am I that distracting?”

Josh swallows hard and picks his books up to go to the other table with a couple of your other friends. Shawn gets up and moves his books down to where Josh was sitting across from you. He gives you an almost shy look as he sits down. “Do you mind if I sit here?” he asks quietly and you shake your head with a little smile. He smiles down at his book and bites his lip as he begins to take notes again.

Days later you stumble upon Shawn and a guy who you think is named Chris. He was in your english lit class. The two of them are squaring up outside Graceburg hall and there is a crowd forming to watch the fight. You know that Chris has super strength and loved to boast about it. Honestly, you’re sure him talking shit is what probably started the fight.

You hurry down the steps and push through the crowd just as Shawn’s hands become engulfed in blue flames. Chris says something you can’t make out over the chatter of the crowd. “Shawn, don’t,” you mutter and grip your books tight to your chest.

“Your book is on fire!” the girl next to you exclaims and you drop the book to the ground.

You step back and stuff your hands into your pockets, hoping the flames would go out. Shawn catches sight of your burning book and you look at him, eyes meeting his as he pushes past Chris. You turn and run into the dorm, your heart racing. Surely people had seen the book ignite in your hands.

You struggle with your key in your door and Shawn comes up behind you, turning you around roughly. You let out a little yelp and he pins you to the door. “What the hell was that about?” he asks, tone dangerous and low.

“W-what?”

“Are you a fire starter?”

Your eyes dart around his face, down his neck, his chest...you couldn’t come up with a lie. Not now. He had seen the book on fire, he knew it was from you. “I-I am.”

Shawn lets out a breathy little half laugh. “Do you know how long I’ve hoped to meet someone else like me?” You shake your head. “And you’re so pretty,” he says softly and you look up at him, a blush on your cheeks.

“What? I’m pretty?”

“You’re so damn pretty and I’ve wanted to make a move on you since we met. I’ve been so scared to because of my powers, I was afraid I’d hurt you.”

You bite your lip. “You want to ask me out?”

“I wanna do more than ask you out. Much more,” he says with a playful smirk.

It’s after midnight when you wake up and find you’re far hotter than you should be. You quickly kick off the blankets and crawl out of bed to stand in the middle of the room. Heat is radiating off your body and you start to shake. Your hands are glowing softly, illuminated in the dark room. Panic sets in and you don’t know what to do, how to stop the way your body is superheating itself, only moments away from bursting into flame.  

“Shawn,” you say softly, voice trembling. He stirs a bit, legs shifting restlessly on the bed the two of you ended up sharing last night. You find your voice, raising it though you’ve started to cry and it’s shakier than ever.  “Shawn! Wake up!”

Shawn sits up in his bed and looks around the dark room. He scrubs a hand over his hair and mumbles a soft ‘what the fuck?’ as he tries to understand what is going on. He feels around on his night stand and flips the light on. He grabs a pair of black framed glasses and puts them on to see you standing there with small white flames dancing across your palms. He registers the fear on your face and climbs out of bed to stand in front of you. “Oh no, you can’t control it can you?”

“No I can’t!” you cry and step back. The floor has light scorch marks where your bare feet once stood. “Help me, please,” you whisper and hold your hands out.

Shawn takes your hands in his and sparks fly, literally, as he ignites your hands with his blue flame. His whole body starts to glow and you can feel his heat as it surrounds you. “Take a deep breath,” he instructs softly and you do as you’re told.

“I’m scared,” you whisper and he just nods.

“Breathe.”

The flames slowly die down and you swallow hard as the burning heat dwindles down to just a comfortable warmth. “I don’t know how to control it. I’ve always had medicine to stop it.”

Shawn threads his fingers with yours. “I can help you.”

“You would do that? Because I can’t afford my medicine anymore and I haven’t had it for weeks now.”

“I don’t want you to take medicine. It fucks with us, with our genetic makeup.” Shawn pulls you toward him and wraps his arms around you. “I was on medicine for a while but it just made me so tired and irritable. I hated it. As soon as I was old enough that my parents couldn’t force me to take it, I was done. I learned how to control the fire on my own and I’ve been okay ever since.”

You wrap your arms around him and lay your head on his chest. “Can we cuddle some more?” you ask softly.

“Anything you want.” Shawn gets on his bed and pat it for you to join him. “Do you like cuddling?” he asks as you slot yourself against him and he puts his arm over you.

“I love it. I’ve never really gotten to cuddle with anyone before. I tried once with my first boyfriend but I ended up getting really hot and I had to pull away before I burst into flames.”

Shawn hums and the sound vibrates through your chest. “I know the feeling,” he says softly and tugs you closer.

[theaterboyinwonderland]

U make me answer 25 q I make u answer 1-50 :^)

Hey! Fuck you you hoe :D Tumblr mobile wouldnt let me.copy paste so i wrote this shit in a google doc admire how.much energy i put into this. You fuck 1) counter couch or top of the dryer? Easy couch its comfy and easy to sit on. Plus diff postions are easier2) Your last sexual encounter? Good or bad and why? Depends,  do u count phone sex? If so ugh…? A week ago? irl probs like...4 or 5 months ago. For real sex like 2 or 3 years. Phone sex was good! My mans hot. Irl dude was also goo! Hes a pretty close friend ive hooked up with b4 and probs will later but eh. And for real sex god he sucked. Last longer bro3)Fictional person you think would be good in bed? Lust from FMA.4)Something that never fails to make you horny?  A guy biting my neck and saying “like that baby/love/ect” my neck is SUPER sensitive and a homie love a good pet name5)Where is one place youd never have sex? A hospice 6)The most awkward moment during a sexual experience was when? I was with the dude from 2 and we were both WASTED. He like wanted me.to blow him so naturally i did but he thrusted into me without telling me. Now heres the thing i got a gag reflex but i can control it kinda well. Drunk me however cant and if a long phallic thing goes down outta nowhere i also cant. Anyway so i puked on him. Needless to say we didnt finish that night. 7) Weirdest thing to ever turn you on? When i was a kid id get horny  hearing the sex sounds from fable. Which after replaying them are SOOO bad8)What is the best way to sexually bind someone?Im a sub bottom dude dont fuvking ask me. Probs get them to love you?9)Fastest way to make you horny? Pin me to a bed force eye contact and then kiss/bite me neck/throat. Dirty talk also helps.10Top or bottom? Bottom 11)We were about to have sex but then…. I probs said im tired 12)Is one orgasm enough ? Are multiple necessary? SEE…depends..i fucking HATE over stim. I legit banned jd from doing it to me. THAT BEING SAID. If irs an ALL NIGHT thing and i only.cum.once (probs at the end edging fuck) im gonna be a mess. 13)Something you've hidden in your room that you dont want anyone to find? The body14)Weirdest  nickname a SO has ever called you? Ugh...idk ive never gotten more than babe till i started dating jd and his are nice like baby/my prince/my everything. I use cringy ones like darling  sweetie honey. Ughh t help one guy see if he liked she/her pronouns i called him princess. He later decided he like he/him so i just called him my prince15)Two things u like about oral? Taste, hearing a guy get more horny and start that low whimper/moan when they're close.16) weirdest sexual act someone has ever preformed  or tried to perform on you? All of my so and shit are basic af. Bondage and a collar are the furthest anyone has asked me. Though  a random asked if i was cool with water sports.17)Have u ever tasted yourself? Ive tasted my cum and it was….okay? Ive never sucked myself a bitcg aint flexable.18)Is it ever okay to not use a condom? Ive…never…..used….one...haha….19)Who was the sexiest teacher u ever had? I never had one but FUCK there one this one just outta college  history teacher (who apt had a big dick) and like DAMN he was fine.20)A food you would like to use during a sexual experience? I dont really wanna do food stuff? Its to messy and like...a waste of food? 21)How big is to big? 10+22)One sexual thing you would never do? IF YOUR FEET EVEN COME CLOSE TO FUCKING TOUCHING ME.23)biggest turn on? Wasn't this a q already? On a guy in gen i love singers. Abs and blonde hair dont hurt. Also being taller than me.24)Three spots that drive u insane? Neck hips collar bone25)Worst possible time to get horny? At work sense i work with old people (hey cas coulda stopped here you furry pope fucker)26)Do u like it when yoursexual partner moans? HELL FUCKING YEAH I DO! Im super audio based and i lovethat. I also have a praise kink so like moans are basically praise27)Worst sexual idea you ever had? What if i was straight?28)How much fapping is to much fapping? Ugh...HMMM...if you do it more than 3 times EVERY day maybe stop 29)Best sexual compliment youve ever had? So at the party me and the friend were at there wa:. Him. My ex. And another fuck buddy of.mine. a q came up about who gives rhe best head and whos the best kisser AND ALL OF THEM SAID ME. I was like “i am a damn good kisser “ and my ex said “fuck ya he is”30)Bald, landing strip, jumanji? Do whatever idc. Hairs hair.31)Is it good sex if you dontnut? No. Im impatient and needy.32) If they *love me* we fucking33)Fav part of your body? My eyes! I think they're nice. Other than that i hate myself lmao34)Fav forplay activities.  Idk never done much. Pinned make out sound like a blast with grinding35)Love or sex? Love. Id rather have someone who really cares about me over a good fuck.36)What do u wear to bed? Underwear.  Im not a pj or commando kinda guy37)First time u masturbated? Ugh….i must been like 11? It was b4 like i ever knew what it was and b4 i could cum. 38)Do u have any nude/masturbating pics/ videos of yourself? My boyfriend lives in another country, what do u think?39)Have you ever/when was the last time u had sex outside. Ive never had SEX but ive blown a couple.dudes in either a park or a park bathroom.  One time.in a casino parking lot40)Have/wouldu have sex in public. See 39? Full blown sex PROBS NAH but bjs probs 41)Have/would u have a 3some?Ive had one! The ex and the fuck buddy while me and the ex were together.  We never fucked but we all blew each other. Slash im down for a polyam resltionship if my partner is so id always be down. Slash slash me and jd are horny as fuck and have talked about having threesomes b4 so ye42)What is 1 random object you've used to masturbate? Ugh…? I humped my bed b4? Idfk?43)Have/would u ever masturbate at work/school. Ive blown several guys at school. So yeah id jo there.  Work ive debated but thats cause SOMEONE os a fucking tease. 44)Have/would u ever have sex on a plane. No45)What is one song youd like.to have sex to? Dead girl walking.46)What is something nonsexual that makes you horny ? Hey fuck u i said this one47)Most attractive celeb? Thomas sanders or tom holland. now THATD be a threesome. Please no one show thomas this.48)Do u watch gay/lesbian poor? Why/why not? HMM I FUCKING WONDER49) If a child was born on the occasion of the last time u had sex, how old would that child be? 2 or 3 years old. God i need to get fucked. Soon50)Has anyone ever posted nude pics of.you online? No and if they do I'll murder the prick.Thanks for the qs cas i stg the next time u post an over 50 ask im.making u do them all :’) love you bb 💛 that was more fun than i thought itd be

[andromeda3116]

so, @thereigning-lorelai requested this, and i didn’t realize until, oh, thirty seconds ago, that i am not the only person who took it and ran with it and tbh, i don’t know if i should apologize? i feel bad, i don’t wanna step on any toes. but um. “jyn is in hardcore denial” is kinda my jam, so i got excited and wrote almost four thousand words about this. 

eta: ao3 link! (now with a poor title because i am poor at titles)

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.

In spite of the knowing looks they got from most of the flagship and at least half of high command, Jyn and Cassian were not involved. They were soldiers, and professionals, and far too focused on missions, and at any rate, were friends, and entirely platonic. Jyn felt about Cassian the same way she felt about Bodhi, or maybe Han (except without the usual desire to smack him upside the head).

Everyone seemed to treat them as a unit, but they were partners. They worked together. Of course they spent a lot of time together, but it wasn’t like they shared a room — although her own roommates, three world-weary women who Jyn had thought were above such nonsense, seemed continually surprised by her presence in her own damn bed, every single night cycle that she was on base.

But it seemed like, with little else for much of the flagship to do at the moment, gossip was everyone’s favorite pastime, and there was only so much to say about Han Solo and the princess before things drifted back around to the “heroes of Rogue One”.

At first, when it had still been amusing, she had conscripted Bodhi into spreading fake rumors about them, but they had both quickly discovered that there was essentially nothing that the stir-crazy base wouldn’t accept about Jyn and Cassian’s relationship, including but not limited to:

They had gotten it on in the shuttle on the way to Scarif

They had gotten it on at Yavin IV before leaving for Scarif

They had gotten it on at Scarif, in the citadel

Jyn was secretly pregnant with his child (she had thought that one would taper off, but it instead morphed into “well, she clearly wasn’t before, but I bet she is now”)

They had shared a bed in the medical frigate after Scarif (okay, that one actually was true, but it had just been because the beds were limited and the nightmares were awful, and nothing had happened but sleep)

They were secretly married

Some of it, she felt, was at least reasonable, but mostly it seemed like the Rebellion had, collectively, decided to live out their favorite holodramas vicariously through Jyn and Cassian. It wouldn’t have been so bad, if it had at least been spread around some — but no, nobody shared the same stories about Han and Leia, or Luke and Leia, or Han and Luke, or Baze and Chirrut —

(Okay, fair enough, Chirrut would gleefully answer yes to literally any question asked about his and Baze’s relationship, up to and including whether or not the two of them had formally adopted Jyn. Baze never, ever either confirmed or denied Chirrut’s answers, which was as good as admitting that he found them amusing.)

Nobody ever just accepted the truth, which was simply that they were partners who had a totally platonic relationship.

Entirely platonic relationship. No feelings of attraction or sexual tension on either side.

Which was good, because their current situation would be embarrassing as hell otherwise.

This stupid little moon didn’t even have a name, but it did have an Imperial presence, which had struck everyone as odd — it was barely more than a stop-off with some refueling stations, the sort of place where people end up when they’re just barely not hitting rock bottom, not a place any sane sentient would bother going to. So why had the Empire built a factory here?

Jyn’s theory, which Cassian had agreed was plausible, was that they’d put a refinery here because nobody ever came here of their own volition, and the only inhabitants were people who had to keep their heads down. Nobody was likely to stumble across it by accident, and there were no rebel or Partisan cells to muck up the works. It had made sense, but it had also meant that whatever they were making or refining here was probably something important that the Alliance needed to know about.

As it happened, in parts of the moon that were entirely uninhabited for reasons that had become very suddenly clear, there was a chemical compound in the dust that could be used as a caustic agent, when collected and purified, and there were any number of reasons that the Empire would want a chemical that would strip hydrogen off of pure water.

The downside to this was that if any of the dust got on any part of a human’s (and, presumably, most other sentients’) exposed skin, it would… be very bad, and very gross. It also tended to eat through clothing, but — in a design choice that now made total sense — not the stone from which all of the structures on the moon had been built.

(It had struck Jyn as odd that, even on a featureless rock orbiting a dull-gray gas giant, there were no windows on anything, and everything was made from the same rust-colored stone, except the durasteel refinery and ships.)

Naturally, they had gotten caught by a dust storm.

Naturally, their outerwear had been contaminated, meaning that their underwear would, very rapidly if left alone, also become contaminated, and Jyn didn’t even want to think about that scenario. They’d been thankfully close to an old refueling station that had been abandoned, and so hadn’t spent very long in the dust, but getting rid of their outermost layers had been immediately necessary.

At first, it hadn’t bothered her — because the both of them had been so focused on get it off get it off get it off that it had not occurred to Jyn, at least, and probably Cassian as well, that they would be stuck in this little stone building until the dust storm passed, with no or very few clothes.

Ultimately, they’d managed to get to safety quickly enough, and get the contaminated clothing off quickly enough, that they were left in underwear and undershirts, very carefully not looking at each other.

At least, she told herself, it wasn’t cold, and they weren’t anything more than sensible friends and partners acting pragmatically in a situation that had taken both of them off-guard.

(He wore boxer-briefs. Jyn had not, as such, needed this information, but now that she had it, it wouldn’t leave her brain. She had also made the mistake of looking at him, and catching a glimpse of… well, nothing, exactly, except a… well, a bulge, and that also would not leave her brain.)

“So, we’re leaving this out of the mission report, right?” she said in a low voice, and he made a noise of agreement. She glanced at him — he was sitting, (bare) elbows on his (bare) knees, with his forehead resting in one hand — and then quickly back away, determinedly ignoring the heat rising up the back of her neck.

In the back of her mind, she considered what would this be like if they had been a little slower, and he’d had to take off his shirt and maybe —

She coughed, and ran a hand over her face.

Even though he probably didn’t know anything more about it than she did, she still asked, “How long do these storms last?” with some desperation, and her voice came out at an embarrassingly-high pitch. She was glad he wasn’t looking at her, and couldn’t see her cringe at herself.

“The storm came on quickly,” he replied, and she told herself that she was imagining the strain in his voice. “The atmosphere is… thick, and cycles rapidly. It shouldn’t last too long.”

That was… a comfort.

(He was wearing an athletic undershirt, not a tee like she’d sort of expected, and so part of his chest was exposed, and —)

She stifled another cough.

“Good,” she choked, and vaguely wished for the ground to swallow her whole.

He probably wasn’t having the same trouble she was. He was more professional than she was, and he’d kept his eyes respectfully down the whole time. He was probably just embarrassed at being caught by the storm in the first place.

Jyn, on the other hand, was struggling.

It didn’t help that there was nothing to do in this Force-forsaken little hut except dwell on the fact that her (totally platonic) partner was half-naked ten feet away from her. She didn’t even have a pack of cards with which to play sab-- solitaire, not sabacc, just… something alone and engrossing that she could look at and occupy her mind with.

(The only thing worse than the awkward silence would have been to be playing a game opposite him and his… well, opposite him.)

She closed her eyes, and tried to summon any of Chirrut’s lessons on meditation. They’d been intended to help her center herself and channel her energy more efficiently (whatever that meant), but her concern right now was dousing the heat that rose in her belly every time her brain offered up that stupid image of his —

(It had just… been a while. That was all this was. Just… plain old sexual frustration, and hey, Cassian was a good-looking guy, there was nothing wrong with finding his half-naked body easy on the eyes. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t.)

There were few things she could think of that would better dampen her stupid imagination than the memory of Chirrut’s guided meditation, but it wasn’t really helping.

Right, okay. 

Time to get drastic.

Jabba the Hutt. Picture the gummy eyes, and the slug-shape, and the tongue, and the rubbery texture of his flesh, and the slime, and the…

It worked, right up until she opened her eyes again and saw that Cassian had been running his hand through his hair, and now it was all mussed and messy like he’d been in bed, and —

Shit.

Dammit.

Okay.

That weird noise Jabba made when he moved, the guttural grunting — ugh, gross, just picture that happening in a bedroom, she wanted to vomit — the unwashed and vaguely-cheesy smell he gave off, that indulgent laugh like the worst slimy uncle imaginable. The casual cruelty, the greed. The way he kept attractive female slaves, forced them to dance for his amusement.

She let out a long, slow breath, and decided not to open her eyes again.

.

(Cassian could not stop seeing her legs. Even with his eyes closed and his head bowed, trying to mentally catalogue every single weapon he’d ever heard of just to spare his dignity, all he could see were long legs and the shape of her body in a skintight undershirt.

He wanted to die.)

.

It took three hours of horrid silence and even more horrid mental images, but finally, the dust storm passed, and shortly after, the locals’ droids — apparently programmed for immediate response in this situation, which made sense in retrospect — had swept the ground clean of the dust, so it was safe to walk outside again, even in sock-feet like Jyn and Cassian were.

Once back on their ship, they were able to put on spare sets of clothing — although at this point, Jyn would have made a toga out of a blanket, anything would do, just to not see this much of him anymore — and, still uncomfortably silent, get out of atmo.

The entire trip back was spent in the same awkward silence, carefully avoiding each other’s eyes and watching hyperspace pass by as though it was deeply fascinating. Luckily, they arrived back on the flagship halfway through the night cycle, and were able to return to their respective rooms without having to be seen, a) wearing different clothes than they’d left in, or b) desperately keeping a ten-foot space between them.

(Also, the showers were empty, which was good for Jyn to, ahem, work some things out.)

Cassian wrote and submitted the report, and Jyn signed off on it — no mention of the agonizing three hours spent in a stone hell-room, thank the Force — and between the report being finished and the, ah, showers, she figured that that was that.

Until the rumor mill started up again.

Someone — she wasn’t sure who, but was, on principle, going to blame Han Solo — had read between the lines of the mission report, and started asking, so, like, did they actually get caught in one of these dust storms? Or else the imagination-zeitgeist of the Rebellion had just decided that it would be great if that was the case.

And Jyn could not quite play it off like she had all the other rumors. Usually, she would roll her eyes and stalk off, but she found herself desperately denying them this time, even as every cell in her brain was screaming shut up shut up shut up!

As such, she had not… exactly… convinced anyone, even herself.

They were friends, good friends, the sort that she’d never really had before, and she wasn’t supposed to be feeling this… attraction to him. Wasn’t supposed to be imagining running her hands through his hair or his hips bucking against hers or waking up cradled in his arms or —

The snickers were almost as bad as the knowing glances, but not half as bad as the clawing discomfort that rose in her every time they were in the same room. She tried to tell herself that it wasn’t obvious to anyone else, that it was just her own heightened awareness, but Chirrut disabused her of that happy notion a few days after they got back:

“If your intention is to convince everyone that you and the Captain are not together,” he said lightly, voice carefully plucked clean of amusement, “you are not succeeding.”

“We aren’t,” she snapped, and his expression didn’t change.

“Of course not,” he replied. She watched him carefully, waiting for the other shoe to drop, which it did only moments later. “Yet.”

“We are friends,” she said through clenched teeth, and he smiled.

“Ah, I recall that tone of voice,” he sighed fondly. “Baze said the same words, in the same tone, many times in our youth.”

She had no adequate response to that, so she’d settled for stalking off, telling herself that she wasn’t skulking away like a dog with its tail between its legs, that she was a dignified adult who was walking away for good reasons, to do a better thing somewhere else.

Still, she could avoid him, more or less — or at least keep to only interacting with him in public — until the next mission they were sent on, which was only a week after returning from the one she was now thinking of as the hell-mission.

And they had not actually spoken to each other since the… situation.

Which, in retrospect, was a huge mistake.

None of it had been dealt with, it had only been given time to fester and linger in (at least) Jyn’s brain, and the more she thought of it — and the more she heard and remembered the rumors — the more tangled up her stomach got at the thought of being alone with him again, even as she really wanted to be alone with him again.

She was a big enough person to admit to herself that she was attracted to him. That was… not strange, even for platonic comrades in a time of war; in fact, she had it on good authority that no less than the princess herself had a crush on him, which she very definitely found amusing and which did not in any way inspire any kind of possessive or jealous feelings in her, because it didn’t.

Jyn had decided that avoidance was the solution, which she was now regretting, but committed to nonetheless. If she just... focused on the mission at hand, got through it, eventually things would just sort of... stop being this way, right? Her general philosophy with interpersonal issues was to ignore them until they went away, and this was no different.

It worked beautifully until they were all alone in hyperspace again and her thoughts… drifted.

He seemed agitated, eyes locked on the controls even though there was nothing new or unexpected there; even when he looked up, he wouldn’t look at her. He also seemed tense, shoulders slightly hunched, jaw clenched. The air between them was thick and heavy like cotton, almost unbreathable, and — Force be with her — they would be in hyperspace for eighteen standard hours.

There was no way they could do this. It had been bad enough when she had other things to do and focus on, but eighteen hours alone in hyperspace like this was going to drive her absolutely insane.

“All right, something has to give,” she snapped finally, and he half-glanced at her, as though afraid to actually look her in the face.

“Oh?” he replied, in a hoarsely-neutral tone, and didn’t elaborate. Of course, the bloody spy wasn’t going to give any ground on this. Half of what he did to get information was let other people fill in the blanks, he never offered up anything unless he had to (or, she recalled, very angry).

“Yeah,” she said, standing up and stalking away from the cockpit, to put some space between them so maybe she could breathe. It didn’t help. His presence still filled the room. “This is all… we’re being stupid, aren’t we?”

By the time she turned back to face him, he was standing, leaning against the armrest of the pilot’s chair, expression neutral. “Define stupid,” he said finally, and she growled in frustration.

“We’re partners,” she snapped. “We have to work together, we can’t be sitting here, all…” no adequate word would come to her, so she finished, a bit lamely, and with a shrug, “stupid. About this.”

Cassian blinked, opened his mouth to says something, then closed it again and ran a hand over his face. “That… did not answer my question,” he said, in a strained voice.

“You know good and damn well what I mean,” she snarled, the tension and rising embarrassment making her angry. He seemed to be biting his tongue, now looking away.

“This is about the last mission,” he said, with no question. “The dust storm.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, the dust storm,” she replied, annoyed. “You know, when we had to get almost naked and sit with each other for hours. And everybody’s talking about it back on the flagship. I bet that’s why Mothma sent us on this mission,” she added, and although she hadn’t thought of it before the words had been coming out of her mouth, they suddenly made a disturbing amount of sense. It didn’t have to be them, and they didn’t have to do it alone. But, oh, for whatever reason, Command thought it was best to send Jyn and Cassian, and only Jyn and Cassian, and (like the eager idiot she was) she had not questioned it.

Finally, there was a crack in his armor — rising color in his face, eyes now directed upward.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he admitted, after a long and uncomfortable moment.

If she was being honest, she wasn’t sure of that, herself. That she wasn’t the only one about to burn up from the inside-out with sexual frustration? That he’d been checking her out the same way she’d been checking him out? That she was being stupid and they were just platonic partners, obviously?

No — if that had been the case, if they were really both just platonic friends, he would have been genuinely confused by this conversation, not hedging his bets and holding back and refusing to show any emotion.

If he hadn’t been at least sort of thinking about it, he would have been a totally different kind of uncomfortable, squirming and trying to escape the situation, embarrassed and uneasy. It wouldn’t be the same kind of tension.

Maybe it was just her whimpering libido that was telling her that, but it made sense.

“I want the truth,” she said slowly, taking a step closer. He didn’t look at her.

“What do you want the truth to be?” he countered, still dangerously neutral, still watching the ceiling like it was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. Of course he still wouldn’t give any information.

Cassian had survived all his years in Intelligence by not giving. Jyn was gonna have to take this jump, and hope that he’d meet her halfway once he saw for sure where she was going.

It took a moment to steel up her resolve, which she spent by walking up to him with every ounce of purpose and anger she could muster. He still wouldn’t look at her, eyes fixed on the ceiling, jaw clenched, whole body vibrating with tension.

She took a deep breath, and the words she had rehearsed — something self-assured, like I want to at least give them something real to gossip about, I want to touch you, I want you to touch me — died on her lips.

Instead, what came out was a slightly-wavering, much-quieter-than-intended, “That you want me.”

Abruptly, his eyes were locked on hers, neutral expression becoming calculating, guarded. Searching for a lie, maybe, or any indication that she was joking.

He didn’t respond, or at least not in the amount of time that she was willing to wait (which was… not much).

Closing her eyes (so she didn’t have to see anything in his face she might not want to), she leaned up and pressed her lips to his.

It was… not exactly the romantic moment she had hoped for. He was still frozen, all that tension stretched thin between them, rigid and unmoving, and -- shit. Shit.

Fuck.

She started to pull back, but then the tension snapped and he responded, moving in, hand catching the back of her neck and pulling her back to him; she was taken a little off-guard, and had to catch herself against his chest, whole body pressed against his as her arms snaked around his neck and his other arm wrapped around her waist.

Cassian stumbled against the pilot’s seat, but didn’t break the kiss until she pushed him down into it and, in the same motion, straddled his hips. He looked… a little dazed, pupils dilated, face flushed. She doubted she looked any better (or, since he actually looked pretty fucking good like this, from this angle, any worse).

“Like I said,” she breathed, with more composure than she felt, “we’re being stupid.”

His lips curved into a smile, and he murmured, “I guess so,” before pulling her back into another searing kiss.

.

.

(coda—

“So,” Han said, drawing out the syllable suggestively, “what I’m hearing is, the trick is to go to an awful moon with murderous dust-storms.”

“I think Leia would just let you die,” Jyn replied blandly, without looking up from the datapad where she was trying to write a coherent report that left out all the details nobody else actually needed to know, and Han appeared to think about it for a moment, then scowled.

“Who said anything about Leia?” he grumbled. “I could’ve been talking about… Amilyn. Or, hell, Luke. Or —”

Jyn sorted and walked away, leaving him still spluttering and coming up with increasingly-ridiculous names.)

[mareebrittenford]

Space Zombies AU Pt 2

I had so much fun writing my characters into an AU, fan fic style, that I think I’m going to continue it, rolling more prompts into it as I go, sort of extended universe style.

So far in the story... (part 1 can be found here ) Lyse, looter and scavenger of abandoned and destroyed space ships found herself on board a ship that had supposedly been overrun by a plague. Except the sick are still walking around and seem to want to eat her.

She managed to escape back to her own ship with the friendly dog she found on board. But that’s just the beginning of her problems...

He’s out. Completely unconscious. The man that was a dog (wolf according to him anyway) a few moments ago looks almost dead. I scramble over to him.

My heart rate had started to return to normal after that frantic sprint. But now it picks up again. I yank off my glove and press my fingers to his neck. I’ve always been bad at this, often not being able to find a pulse on someone who’s awake and looking at me. But on him I find it almost immediately. The gentle beat under my fingertips is faint and probably too slow. But he’s not dead.

I roll him onto his back and start checking him for injuries. His pale skin is absolutely filthy, covered with smears of substances that I’d rather not know the origins of. But his skin is remarkably smooth. No scars or abrasions at all. Not even the kind you pick up in everyday life, let alone what I’d expect from what he’s just been living.

He’s emaciated, his ribs and hipbones are far too visible, but I can see what he could be. Small and lean and agile. Just my type. Instead of what he is now.  Young and fragile.

“Are you seriously ogling an unconscious guy? Ugh.”

I look over at the round window into the main body of the ship. Phil is there watching me.

“I’m checking him for injuries.”

“Yeah sure. Injuries.”

“Have you got the secondary quarantine set up?”

“Yep all ready to go. I’ve fobbed Felipe off, he agreed about the quarantine considering what you saw over there, but I didn’t tell him about your friend. I’d advise you get him hosed down and out of that airlock asap.”

“Right. Okay, go forward, lock the hatch down and let me know when you’re clear.”

I expect him to protest locking his sister out of the forward sections of the ship. But he saw those zombie creatures too.

I grab a hand sprayer off the wall and start showering the man with Sanichem, the nasty green chemical that supposedly will kill off any toxins or viruses. Of course whatever was going on on that ship is brand new, so who knows if it’s gonna work. I’m still minimizing the risk.

He yelps as the cold fluid hits him, leaping into wakefulness with an aggression that betrays a dangerous past.

I dodge back, but he freezes in his attack stance and stares at me. “You’re real?”

I grin. Stupid hormones. “Yeah. I’m real. Hold still. I need to do decon before we go inside.”

He obeys, spreading his arms and legs wide as I circle him, utterly un-selfconscious of his nudity. Living on cramped ships means most people I know are relatively comfortable naked, but this guy takes it to another level. It’s as if he’s forgotten he’s completely bare and vulnerable.

He bends his head so I can scrub the chemical through his greasy tangled hair.  At least it’s fairly short.

He’s starting to shiver more violently, but we can’t skip this.

I hand him the sprayer and turn away to start stripping off my gear. I hesitate, feeling almost dared to be as casually naked as he is. But after a moment I leave on my underclothing. The technical fabric is no barrier to the chemical, and no matter how at ease he is, I’m not comfortable getting naked like this.

I shove all my stuff into the sonic decon crate and switch it on, wishing we could use that for people. Instead I have to endure the Sanichem.

“Spray me down and we can get somewhere warmer,” I tell him.

He’s obviously familiar with this process, because he’s quick and efficient. I still flinch as the chemical hits my skin. It’s cold and while it doesn’t burn me it sure feels like it.

“Are there more people on board?” He asks

“Yeah, my father and brother. But don’t worry. They’ve locked us down for quarantine in the aft section. It’s all set up.”

“That’s fine. But you need to tell them to get the ship out of here, now. You aren’t the first ones to try to scab here, and as far as I can tell they have destroyers out there maintaining the quarantine. If they catch you this close then we’re all in big trouble.”

Wonderful.

“You hear that Phil?” I call out. No doubt he’s eavesdropping. He may have principles about invading other people’s minds, but it doesn’t stop him from being a little sneak in every other way.

“On it,” his disembodied voice says. And with in a few seconds I feel the inertial pull before the dampeners even it out.

“Can you bend down a little?” The guy asks, the mundane request almost amusing after his dramatic pronouncement.

Is it really necessary to spray my hair? It was inside my helmet the entire time. I sigh and crouch, and his fingers gently unwind my braid. The sensation of his fingers in my hair is the same, yet entirely different from Phil’s. Damn. Is this what having a soul mate is? Lust at the simplest of touches?

He doesn’t linger, and within minute he’s tapping me on the shoulder and hanging the sprayer back on it’s hook.

“Phil? You good? I’m ready.”

“Okay.”

The hatch slides open and we step into the more pleasant temperature and humidity controlled environment of the ship.

I let him take the first shower. He stinks, and he’s still shaking from cold. Plus I don’t know how much more of him casually standing around naked I can take. I busy myself laying out a set of my clothes for him and reconstituting him a meal, while the Sanichem dries to an unpleasant crust on my skin and continues to drip from my hair.

He’s only gone a few minutes, and by the time I’ve washed myself he’s dressed and tearing into the food with all the table manners of, well, a wolf. The basic coveralls we all wear are beige and baggy, and hell, I’ve already seen him naked, but there’s something so adorable about him with his now clean hair flopping in his face, and crap I am in so deep and I’ve barely even spoken to the guy. But he’s radiating contentment, and soulmate link means his happiness is my happiness.  

There’s no where to sit besides the floor. The living quarters are in the forward part of the ship. All we’ve got in this rear section is the sanitation rooms and storage. It’s configured with isolated air and water systems, so it can be used for containment, but comfortable it’s not. It’s lucky there’s even a bunk and food reconstituter.

I sit on the floor, leaning my back against the wall. He sits beside me and offers me some food from his tray. Which is incredibly sweet considering that he’s obviously starving and there’s plenty more food packs in the cupboards.

I shake my head. My stomach is still rolling from the horrors on the other ship, so I have no interest in eating anything myself. Instead I watch him. For all he’s cramming food down his throat at high speed he’s amazingly neat. No food is spilled or smeared across his face. He uses his utensils carefully. He doesn’t try to speak with his mouth full.

“So you like roast beef then?”

As if that reconstituted food really counts as beef. Still, he looks up at me and smiles.

“You have beautiful eyes,” I say, and his eyes widen and he turns away quickly. I want to hit myself. What sort of conversational opener is that? He does have amazingly eyes though. They transform his face from average to striking.

His throat works as he swallows quickly. “Sorry,” he mutters.

Sorry? Sorry for what? Calling me across the system to save him? I don’t think he did it on purpose. And so what if he did? I want him here with me. Whoever he is.

“What’s your name?” I ask, and his eyes flit up for a second, before disappearing beneath his lashes again.

“David. David Smith.”

“Old world.”

“Yeah. I was born on earth, believe it or not. What about you?”

He’s finished the food and is setting the tray to the side, so I stick out my hand to shake. “I’m Lyse Aptar-Lucero. Born on Aptar station.” As if that wasn’t obvious by my station designation name.

He takes my hand and he smiles, his eyes meeting mine again for a brief moment. I wonder if it’s an earth culture thing, avoiding direct eye contact, or perhaps he’s autistic. Whatever it is I can feel his discomfort. So I turn and face forward, resisting the desire to watch him.

“Is Phil your father or brother?”

“Brother. Felipe is my father.”

“And they’re okay with you bringing me on-board?”

I shrug. “Phil is. And Felipe is probably going to try to vent you first chance he gets.”

David tenses and I put my hand on his shoulder. “He’ll try. I won’t let him.”

“Why?” he whispers. “Why would you protect me? Why aren’t you afraid of me? You saw what I am. And you saw… what happened back there.”

The sadness and loneliness is such a massive pit, I could fall in and never find my way out.

I elbow him. I know he wasn’t the one who massacred those people, or infected them or whatever happened. I know it.

“We extras have to stick together, right? Just cause you’re a little more extra than most, no reason to be a jerk about it. If you infect me with that zombie thing I’ll be mad though.”

He shakes his head seriously. “No, I’m clean. It’s spread by body fluid as far as I could tell. Blood and saliva. You have to get it in an open wound. And they only went after humans. They weren’t interested in me as a wolf. So I just stayed a wolf as much as I could.”

“How soon will we know if we’re infected?”

“Fast. We’d already be showing symptoms.” he rubs his face. “I watched a few people go through it. It only takes about an hour.”

An hour. That’s horrifying. And this emotional link thing, I think we’re amplifying each other or something, I feel my horror and I think it’s making him upset, which is just freaking me out more. Damn. I need to get some lessons from Phil on creating mental barriers.

I throw my arm around his shoulders, hoping to comfort him a little, to ease that rebounding pain. And amazingly it works. It dampens immediately and he snuggles closer, leaning into me, although theses a new undertone of… something I can’t quite distinguish.

“You still didn’t explain why you’re not scared of me. Everyone else who’s seen what I do...”

I rub his back. I think he’s been alone for a long time. To assume that even his own kind would reject him.

“Because we’re the same stupid. And besides the link…” I’m not sure how to talk about that. Should I ask straight out? ‘Hey do you think we’re soulmates?’ What if I doesn’t think that at all? What if empathic links is one of his abilities? Of course his echoing loneliness suggests otherwise, but still. He could simply not believe in soulmates. My friend Georgia thinks it’s all rubbish.

“You’re a wolf too?” he asks.

“No, no, I’m a chameleon.”

“You can turn into a lizard?”

I snort a little at that. “Of course not. It’s just a title. Oh, I guess for you it’s not. I’ve never met anyone who can actually change form. It’s amazing.”

“Amazing huh? Nobody ever said that before.” He’s sounding drowsy and confused. This is probably the first time he’s relaxed in weeks.

I shove him into the bunk and he’s asleep in seconds.

I consider joining him, I’m bone achingly tired. But I look around at the mess of chemicals spattered on the floor. The airlock is probably worse, although it has a drainage grate. We can’t afford to waste the Sanichem. So I open the hatch to the airlock and use the hand blower to sweep as much as I can into the grate and down the drain for cleaning and reuse. I even wipe everything down with a damp rag, purely because I hate the smell of that stuff.

I’m so ready to climb into the bunk, helplessly anticipating how it will feel to sleep touching him (oh man I have it bad,) when I feel the ominous clunk of a navigation lock.

A larger more powerful ship has send a pulse that’s stalled our engines.

The military has found us.