#apparently i refuse to draw the old man fully

[wibblewomble]

River Styx

Ajin Week 2024 Day 7: Anything Goes

[jasontoddiefor]

A gift for @thenegoteator :D

It took a Temple to raise a child, and Mace Windu was very much aware of this. However, it did not explain what Ahsoka Tano was doing at his door in the middle of the night. Ahsoka had deep bags under her eyes, which wasn’t too much of a surprise considering the current living arrangements of her lineage. While little Luke and Leia were relatively well-behaved newborns, they were still only a few weeks old. If their human caretakers didn’t wake up at every single little whimper, then the togruta with the superior hearing certainly would.

“Do you want to come inside?” Mace asked, not letting his confusion show. He was used to people coming to his door at the oddest hours.

“If—if I can?” Ahsoka replied as if only now becoming aware of her actions. In this, she reminded Mace of her Grandmaster and the many nights Mace had found Obi-Wan coming to his doorstep during the first months of Anakin’s stay at the Temple.

“My door is always open, Padawan,” Mace said – and watched her wince.

Ah.

So there was the problem.

“Caleb is currently sleeping in my bed as Depa is away,” Mace explained. “So please keep your voice down. I don’t want to wake him unnecessarily.”

The boy had already had a hellish enough month behind him, he needed all the rest he could get. Even though the war was officially over, enough planets refused to surrender, drawing out the battles until they had nothing but children left to sacrifice. It weighed on Mace’s shoulders, making him wonder whether he wasn’t too old to carry such burdens still.

Ahsoka nodded and followed Mace inside. He couldn’t recall whether Ahsoka had been in his room before, but from the way she eagerly looked around his quarters, taking in the sight of old instruments, books, and holos, he guessed she hadn’t. Well, at one point in their life, every Jedi had set a foot inside Mace’s quarters, so this was bound to happen sooner or later.

“Do you want a cup of tea?”

Ahsoka tore herself away from the sight and looked at him with surprise. “I—yes? That would be nice.”

“Then I will make a cup. Do you have any preferences? I believe I even have Obi-Wan’s favorite blend here.”

Mace had no idea whether he had bought it or if Obi-Wan had just left it here from himself when he came over. Knowing the other man, it was likely that the latter was the case. For a man claiming to be so very polite, Obi-Wan could be a right brat.

Mace’s kitchen was small, with only a few cabinets and one shelf, two cooking tiles, and an oven. He wasn’t much of a cook himself and preferred to eat in the cafeteria with everyone, frequently taste-tasting what the Initiates had prepared. He selected two uneven cups Depa had made for him when she’d been young from the shelf. Why she had decided to pick up pottery of all hobbies was beside him, but he supposed that she found the motion soothing. Devan did enjoy parkouring through the lower levels and Echuu was quite content playing the guitar to calm himself.

Perhaps Mace should focus less on why all three of his Padawans had decided they wouldn’t follow him into theatre so they could continue to make fun of him. Setting the water to boil, Mace searched through his cabinets until he found Obi-Wan’s favorite blend. The fruity tea was far from the blend he preferred, but Mace prided himself on being a good host. While he waited for the tea to finish steeping, Mace enjoyed the quiet of the night. For all that there were few sounds as dear to him as that of people walking, or in the case of some younglings and few selected Knights, running, down their large hallways, Mace could appreciate the quiet when the world came to rest.

With two finished cups in hand, he returned to the living room, where he found Ahsoka curled up on the sofa, no longer studying his quarters for any hidden secrets.

“Thank you,” she said when she accepted the cup from him. She held it in her hands as if to warm them, letting the steam hit her face. She breathed in once, twice, finding her rhythm again. Mace waited until she’d calmed enough to speak up.

“What brings you to my door, Padawan Tano?”

Ahsoka flinched and appeared to make herself even smaller as if attempting to vanish. When it became apparent that it didn’t work, that silence hadn’t been what she had sought him out for, she let out a sigh. “You keep calling that.”

“Calling you what?” Mace asked, his brow raised, playing oblivious.

“… Padawan.”

“Are you not? I was under the impression that you had returned to the Temple.”

“I did, but I still left,” Ahsoka replied. “I left and I was convinced that I had to leave and that it was good that I did. I still think I had to leave the Temple behind.”

“Then why are you torn?”

Ahsoka’s hold on her cup tightened and so, perhaps in wise anticipation, she set it on the table and buried her hands in her robes instead, hiding their twitching from view. Mace could trace all her mannerisms to her teachers and couldn’t imagine what it must be like to purposefully rip all those pieces from yourself when they had become so ingrained in your very being. Even Dooku, who’d fallen so far from their beliefs, had been unable to fully rid himself of Yoda’s lessons. Maybe it was for the best. Hope had become a scarce commodity during the war, yet Mace considered the possibility that in a decade, they wouldn’t be imprisoning a Sith anymore.

“But am I still a Padawan? A member of this Order?” Ahsoka asked. Her voice was barely above a whisper, and she shook like the leaves on the trees in the courtyard.

“Has your Master told you anything different?”

Ahsoka paused. “…. No.”

Seeing that realization was settling within her, Mace nodded. “Then you should not doubt him. You are a Jedi, Ahsoka Tano, and you will remain one as long as you live by our tenets.”

That teased a startled laugh from her. “Compassion for all except people who cheat at push-n-pull?”

As if transported back ten years, hearing Anakin say the same, Mace snorted. “The similarities between you and your Master astonish me every time. Yes, Padawan Tano, compassion for all.”

This seemed to calm the youth as she reached for her cup again and emptied it slowly. “It’s good.”

Mace smiled into his own cup. “I’d be insulted if it wasn’t. Obi-Wan forced me to memorize all the steps for making it.”

The then young Knight had been frazzled, and Mace honestly couldn’t tell what it had been about and had forced Mace to learn how to make this tea until he’d more or less collapsed on Mace’s sofa, completely knocked out until morning when Anakin had picked him up.

“He does do that,” Ahsoka agreed. “I think this is the only thing anyone can make reliably now.”

“Sleep-deprived much?” Mace inquired.

Ahsoka rolled her eyes. “Like you wouldn’t believe. I love Luke and Leia dearly, but they are demanding and need a lot of attention.”

That was honestly kinder than Mace would have described newborns at her age.

“There is a reason why we usually don’t have children this young in the Temple,” Mace said. “They are very handful. Do you get enlisted to help very often?”

Ahsoka shook her head. “No, Obi-Wan, Skyguy, and Padmé got it covered, and I’m mostly just helping out somewhere else.”

She trailed off a little. This, perhaps, was another issue, but one that could be equally easily dealt with.

“Thank you then for going where you are needed,” Mace told her.

Ahsoka blinked. “Huh?”

“You will grow into a specific role someday, Ahsoka, and that needs time. Do not feel as if you need to earn back your place in the Temple. You don’t need to earn yourself a home you have always had. For now, trust me when I say that everyone you’ve helped is glad that you were there. It is an admirable quality to have a sense of where you are needed. Do not see it as being the odd one out.”

This was the hardest lesson to teach and learn, the fact that there was a path out there for you, but that it took time to see where it would lead. Too many of their Padawans now felt utterly lost without the structure the war had provided them with.

“Oh. I guess if you say so.”

“Yes, I do say so,” Mace agreed. Then, eyeing Ahsoka’s empty cup, he added on, “do you want another?”

“No.” Ahsoka yawned. “I think I might best head back.”

“You can also sleep here if you want, and don’t mind Caleb hogging the blanket. I won’t go to bed tonight anyway.”

Ahsoka squinted at him as if attempting to discern whether he was lying. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Really—”

“Ahsoka, go to bed.”

Clearly feeling better already, she saluted and, after Mace showed her his bedroom, made herself comfortable in it. She took off her shoes and tossed her robe over a chair before climbing into the bed. Ahsoka had barely laid down when Caleb already turned around to curl around her, clinging like a little monkey. After a moment’s apprehension, she relaxed and was fast asleep. Stealing one last glance at the two Padawan, Mace returned to his living room, looking through the incoming reports.

Hectic as the aftermath of the war was, as much effort as caring for their children was, Mace wouldn’t trade it for a single thing in the world.

[earthnashes]

I have commissioned several such pieces from you myself, though I was wondering if you had drawn any scenes from sessions you've played or run.

I do actually! :)

THIS big gal is Surya! She was the character I played in one of the first campaigns I've ever played. She was Fighter Class but if I ever play her again, she'll be a Barbarian instead. She wasn't the smartest of the bunch but she was loud and simplistic and happy :) Buuuuut during the first campaign, she got bit by a werewolf. Since it was a mini-campaign, it didn't get to go much farther than the initial stages but man it was so cool.

This drawing here is after she and the squad fled from an entire pack of werewolves overruling the town they were sent to investigate. Surya was exhausted from all that happened and they ran into the Fey Woods, and with nowhere else to run the group decide to chance a long rest. Surya just outright collapsed and went right to sleep where she fell; our Kobold paladin Zeppu had to pick her big ass up and drag her to relative safety xD

And this is what you'd get if Surya actually fully turned (which she was well on her way to). At some point in the campaign, the group was separated in the Fey Woods and fell into one hell of an illusion. Surya managed to break out of hers (after being lured away from the group that is) but she was confronted by a Fey God; if I remember right he was as large as a giant and partly skeletal, his domain was filled with skeletons, and he was missing one eye.

He had offered Surya a deal; serve him for a few years in exchange of either complete control over her werewolf form, the release of the binding band imprinted onto her shoulder, and returning her and her squad home. When Surya hesitated he forcefully changed her into what she'd eventually become: the image you see above. It was only for a split second but it rattled her, but despite that she ultimately refused and he allowed her to return to the group. It was one of the coolest moments I got to experience in a campaign! :)

-------

Switching gears a little:

This boi is Ishmael! Ishmael of the Moon to be precise. He is a Cleric Dragonborn, and the character I'm currently playing in a big campaign. :) I fucking love this dude man; He's goofy and a big bumbling old man but he's apparently the literal dad of the group. And an actual dad! He's in the campaign on a personal quest of looking for his runaway daughter, who ran away years ago for reasons I can't talk about due to SPOILERS.

Basic backstory: he was a soldier, and when he retired he became a mercenary, but after his daughter ran away he turned to the gods and became a Cleric through that. He worships Dragon Goddess Tamara, and he hates alcohol. The plush on his belt is one his daughter gave him when she was just a little thing; he keeps it with him at all times.

And this is how he and one of the squad members, Ura, met! They were at the docks of Balder's Gate and she convinced him to come play a simple game of "guess that cup". Funnily enough Ishmael did actually guess right but Ura is too crafty for him, and she had her little mouse buddy pull a fast one on him. He has no idea she scammed him even to this point and thinks it was just a game he lost fair and square. xD

Shit is really getting serious in the campaign ya'll though I tell ya WHAAAT. Actually, the sessions are all recorded thanks to the PotG Kyrit, so if she and everyone are okay with it I might start sharing those recordings of our adventures O:

[lovelywingsart]

//AU// Armful

-- Karl Heisenberg X OC (AFAB, She/They) --

Next little story for the Survival AU! These next few might be... A bit shorter than usual. I'm alot better at drawing these situations than I am writing them, so please bear with me...! QuQ"

**Remember, check out the Masterlist for more! <3**

-----

Warnings?: A bit of nervousness in the first few days of parenthood, but a whole bunch of fluff!

Summary: A small offer leads to an affectionate metal man- who apparently has never held an infant a day in his life.

Despite the new squealing and occasional short croaky cries, Heisenberg didn't leave the room unless for a short time. He damn near refused to leave them alone, to leave his mind to wander. No, he didn't want his own mind to play around at the moment... He was too focused on his son, now a few days old, and the one who kept him to her chest constantly. She wouldn't put him down. Not even to settle him on the bed next to her, instead keeping him cuddled enough as if he were a living stuffed animal. It was, admittedly, mildly amusing to watch. It didn't surprise him either, though her current happiness was... definitely odd.

It was something he wasn't used to.

It was as if she had... changed, in a way. As if she had relaxed, like this was some sort of normal life... Like they could go outside to show their neighbors the newborn like a proud parent should. To parade him around town and celebrate the birth of what she had somewhat jokingly described as the 'heir' of the factory. That single thought, that none of that was possible now, mildly dampened his own excitement. But her joy since the birth of the infant admittedly pushed him through, and it was something he couldn't bring himself to be away from. Even he knew it was joy that was very much needed in this hellhole of an existence.

He kept his eyes on them, now watching in interest as the infant looked around with curious eyes. He had completely lost his own focus on written plans he was currently revising, simply staring with his head tilted to the side just slightly. Emelia looked up at him for a moment, having felt his stare through her own focus. But she smiled as she caught his eye, glancing back at their son.

"Enjoying yourself?" She played, making him jump. He said nothing in reply, moving his shoulders in a small shrug. He was still out of it, of course, mindlessly twirling his pencil between his fingers. She kept her eye on him before an idea entered her mind. He still kept his distance, so maybe...

"Did you want to hold him?" She asked suddenly, making him fully jerk out of the trance he was in. He blinked as he moved his head fully to look at her, mildly stunned and... confused.

"I-... What??"

Ah. There was the snap.

"I said, did you want to hold him?" She asked again, tilting her head slightly as he stared. He seemed to think for a moment, his gaze moving between her and their son a few times before he swallowed almost nervously.

"... I... I guess?" He replied finally, and she chuckled.

"It's your decision... I just figured since you haven't yet..."

There was yet another moment of silence before he simply nodded, though the movement was small and somewhat jerky. She smiled again.

"Come, then." She spoke softly, patting the bed next to her. "If I could bring him over, I would..."

"It... It's fine." He managed, pushing himself out of the chair and slowly making his way over.

He finally sat down next to her, his movements slow and hesitant as he kept his eyes on their son. A small noise from the child nearly made him jump, but he calmed relatively quickly as Emelia shushed him with clicks of her tongue.

"Arms, please." She said gently. Heisenberg paused, but listened, moving his arms out towards them.

She shifted how she could, moving her own arms and hands to transfer their son to his father. It was a careful process, though not much of an easy one given the man's own nervous tension.

"It's alright... Easy now..." she cooed lightly, shifting his hands for him as she set the infant in his arms. He watched with a fascinated hesitation as he let her shift his arms and hands, forcing his own muscles not to shake as he felt the weight- albeit little to him- settle against him.

"Keep your hand under his head... Shift your arm-" she paused for a moment before leaning on his shoulder slightly both to stay comfortable and to ease the strain on her own back. She finally set her hand on his arm to keep him steady. "Ah- There you go!"

Within moments, a sense of calm appeared once more as silence followed. Heisenberg focused on the tiny being now in his arms, currently staring up at him with bright eyes and a small scrunched nose. Emelia herself smiled, keeping one of her hands on his to help with the head; but he still didn't move. He was afraid to move. Sure he had seen babies before, but absolutely never within a few feet, let alone a few inches from his own face, and he never once thought to actually hold one. It was so... so SMALL compared to his own hands... Even with the chubby rounded cheeks and general size that made him feel horrible for the mother next to him.

And to think they both started out as this small fragile thing... To think he of all people helped MAKE this small fragile thing... He had to admit it freaked him out quite a bit, as well as fascinated him in a strange way with the concept of such embedded in his brain since the boy was born. It wasn't something he would have ever believed had he not been living through it, so to speak...

His attention remained on the child, their eyes locked in a gaze of confusion and wonder from both as he silently debated on if this was even the best idea. A chuckle from Emelia made him jump slightly.

"Why don't you talk to him?" She asked quietly, setting her chin on his shoulder. He glanced at her.

... Talk???

"... How do I..." he started, though trailed off as she nodded at the infant with a calm smile.

"Just... talk. Say 'hello'." She then raised a brow. "You talk to your Soldats all the time, don't you?"

He frowned.

"I... Those aren't-"

"They still count, as wretched as they are... It's alright, I promise he won't talk back just yet. Not entirely." She joked, and he looked back at the infant in his hands. He remained silent for a few moments, watching as the boys fingers moved slightly while staring. He managed to clear his throat slightly.

"Uhm... H-... Hey, kid..." he tried somewhat awkwardly, earning a small nudge from the one next to him. He gave a glance over to her, but quickly returned his attention to the baby in his arms. This was... difficult.

He was silent for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek before giving a sudden huff. His movements were careful and hesitant as he adjusted his son, managing to cradle the baby in one arm before scooting himself back against the wall with the other. She shifted slightly to allow him to move while watching with mild confusion, though was pleasantly surprised as he eased back into the pile of pillows that lined the wall itself.

"Would you like me to take him-"

"I'm fine." He said suddenly, shifting some of the pillows with his free arm before finally settling and going still once more.

He cradled the infant against his chest now, returning his gaze to the bright wide eyes that observed everything they could with the tiniest hums he had ever heard.

"Feels better, huh...?" He mumbled, carefully lifting his hand. He paused as the infants eyes moved to it, a sudden nervousness in his own.

Emelia was quiet, watching them carefully.

"... He's just curious..." she assured quietly, and he looked up at her for a moment before clearing his throat.

His moments were slow as he moved his fingers, now watching his sons eyes follow ever so slightly- but they kept returning to his face. He let out a questioning hum.

"Not too interested in the big things yet, are you kid..." he mumbled, hesitantly lowering his hand onto the infants chest. He nearly jumped as he was met by a quiet noise from the child, ignoring the soft chuckle from beside him in favor of paying attention to the new feeling that suddenly made his breath halt temporarily.

"Not even a week old and you've got a mouth on you..." he said, raising a brow. "Just like your mom already, hm?"

Emelias face fell.

"Hey-" she started, and he snorted.

"It's a bad habit of yours, Doll."

"Like you're any better...!"

"I think I am."

He paused as the infant made more noise, and he couldn't help but chuckle with a quick glance over to her.

"Told you."

He couldn't stop the small lopsided smile he gave, and he looked down at his own hand as her own face changed. He moved his hand down, hesitantly tapping a finger against his sons balled up fist- only to freeze as it was grabbed curiously and slowly. He watched the tiny fingers move and flex, listening to the calm, yet tiny noises before he ever so gently closed his own fingers around his sons hand-

No, nearly his entire arm.

So... so fucking small...

Emelia shifted as she watched them, her gaze fixed on his face. Heisenbergs own gaze softened to an extent she had never seen as their son reached with another tiny hand and gurgle, and the man looked as if he were about to break almost instantly.

"... So this is how it feels..." he nearly whispered. He watched intently as the small, smooth skinned hands grasped at his larger scarred ones that soon began to tremble.

She was silent for a moment before reaching over herself and placing a gentle hand on his arm.

"Karl..." she started, and he looked at her.

She said nothing else as she met his gaze, simply giving a calm smile. His eyes widened before looking down again. Her look was that of reassurance. Of a gentle reminder that he was ok. That this was all ok... One look at his own hand confirmed it for him; That even he could handle something as fragile as an infant without fear of harm.

He of all people was possible of maintaining innocence without corruption, despite the voices in his head and the horrors he had made his lifes work up until this point.

"A-dal-wulf..." he hummed quietly in a small singing tone, his voice sudden enough to make the child's eyes meet his. The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile, and suddenly he was... calm.

The room fell silent once more as he watched and even mildly played with his son, using his hand to move the infants arms slightly in any direction and clicking his tongue gently to keep attention. Emelia simply stayed silent, watching the interaction while leaning on his shoulder.

It was if nothing else had existed in that moment- no machinery, no plans, no parasites, no danger... Only the small ray of hope they had within the infant who currently rested in his fathers arms.

[zhongli-topper]

Hello, that Zhongli fic is *chef kiss* can I request dom reader with xiao, with orgasm denial, overstimulation but also praising him? Can the reader be gn? but fem reader is fine too. I've can't stop thinking about this man please, sadly he didn't come home so I'm here stalking xiao tag 😔

xiao x dom reader - taking care of him (nsfw)

pairing: xiao x gn reader includes: praise, orgasm denial, overstimulation, light dom reader/sub xiao a/n: thank you so much, lovely! 💖 sorry for the delay, i got busy with life. i love xiao, he’s baby and he absolutely deserves to be taken care of~

“Xiao.”

It never fails to astonish him, how just the way you say his name can feel like a caress, and you don’t even need to touch him. Despite his instincts, despite the voices that tell him to take up his burdens in solitude, he finds himself drawn to you like a moth to light.

“Come here?”

Under the lantern-light of your room at the Wangshu Inn, your voice is somehow softer, your gaze darker than the velvety night sky settling over Dihua Marsh.

He approaches you on the bed, stance wary like a cat’s. You know his caution is born of necessity, a natural outcome of his thankless and eternal battle, but right now it mainly makes you want to hold him and comfort him and try to help him untangle that ball of pain, even if just a little. Even as he sits on the bed next to you, his body’s tense, and still fully dressed even though you’re ready to sleep, if you felt like sleeping, which you didn’t.

You turn slightly towards him and place your hand over his, and the warmth of your skin seeps even through his glove, and even to a two-thousand-year-old adeptus, the mystery of human touch is still something unfamiliar to him—though with you, he’s learning to grow accustomed to it.

It had been a relatively slow process, even in mortal, human terms. After Xiao had begun to accept your fleeting, friendly touches during your acquaintance, it had taken a while for him to reciprocate, and even longer for either of you to progress into more physical, intimate forms of affection.

In that time you had learned to read the subtle shifts in Xiao’s moods, the quiet differences of his anger and sadness, and the rare, sun-bright glimpses of his happiness. For him, learning to be vulnerable was—and still is—an uphill battle, but in the time you two had been together, you could sense what he needed, and right now, with his brow drawn and hand clenched beneath yours, you were determined to give it to him.

“Xiao,” you say again, and flip his hand to thread your fingers through his. “You seem tense. Did anything happen today?”

“No,” he answers automatically. Then he frowns. “I’m the same as ever. What makes you say that?”

You’re a little stung at his blunt tone, but you know he means nothing by it. You shrug. “I know you, Xiao. I’d hope you would give me a little more credit after all this time.”

He looks at you fully then, and his frown deepens as though he’s disappointed in something. “I—I know.” He blinks, his lashes fluttering. His gaze grows determined then, and squeezes your hand in return. “I need…”

“Yes?”

“Just…” He shakes his head, a frown etched into his features. “Memories of the war. They’re… being difficult to deal with again.”

He averts his gaze from yours, suddenly shy. “I… thought I would ask if you…” His mouth presses into a thin line as he cuts himself off, seeming to be embarrassed at what he was asking you to do.

“What did you want to ask me?” you encouraged him.

“If you would… help me to forget. To stop thinking about it.” As he said it, a pink tinge bloomed across his cheeks, an endearing sight that clued you in as to what kind of activity he had in mind. You turn your hand over and twine your fingers with his, and you’re happy to see him reciprocate rather than shy away as he had done in the past.

Giving him a small smile, you nod. You pull him closer, slow enough for him to get comfortable, and press your lips to his. “Then, let me take care of you, Xiao.”

~*~

You kiss him, slow and deep, and he melts under your touch, his hands grasping at your shoulders, your arms and chest, anchoring himself to your body. He’s taken off his accessories, leaving him in his sleeveless top and pants. In between kisses, his breaths already have an uneven quality, as he presses himself into the warmth of your body.

You pull back to catch your breath, and see that even with his eyes closed, his brow is still clenched, and you smooth over the crease between his eyebrows with your thumb, following it up with your lips. He shifts on your lap, and you can feel through his pants that he’s already half-hard, and trying not to rut against your thigh.

You smile against his skin. “You’re doing so well, Xiao,” you whisper, kissing close to his ear after you say it. You can feel him shiver, just slightly, at your praise, which you’ve learned is something that really gets him going.

“Do you want me?” you ask, just to make sure.

His fingers clinging onto your shoulders tighten and he nods fervently, refusing to meet your eyes.

“Please.”

You swallow the rest of his panting breaths by sealing your mouth over his, and slowly you push up the fabric of his shirt, his tight shirt that never left much to the imagination. Xiao might have been small, but his body was solid and muscular, and his naked skin under your hands was hot. You could feel the vibrations of his soft moans as your palms dragged up his toned torso, over his abdomen to splay your fingers over his chest and play with his nipples.

“Y/N…” he pants, forehead pressed to yours. “I…”

“Shh,” you say. “I said I’d take care of you, love.” You let your mouth trail over his jawline and down his neck, enjoying the little huffs of breath he lets out. “You deserve to be taken care of.”

You feel him hesitate. It’s always been difficult for him to admit to it, that he is worthy of such gentle, loving attention, but you want to make it known to him that he is.

Your lips descend to his chest, and you swirl your tongue around his erect nipples, drawing small gasps from the adeptus. He soon grows pliant beneath your caresses, and you easily push him down to lie on his back, and place the hem of his shirt in his hands so he can hold it up.

“Keep that there,” you instruct him in between kisses down his abdomen, until you reach his waistband and the tent he’s forming in his pants. His lips are trembling as he looks down at you, already sensitive from your kissing. He attempts to reach down with one hand but you bat it away, prompting him to return to holding his shirt up, and you slowly pull his pants down.

He’s already hard, the tip of his dick starting to leak precum, and you press your palm to its top before sliding it down his shaft and encircling him in a loose fist. You pump him a few times, and lower your head to his hips.

Your eyes flick up towards Xiao’s, and you can see him biting down on his knuckles, unwilling to make noise. You pause in your movements, looking at him meaningfully, and he growls into his skin.

“I want to hear your voice, Xiao,” you tell him, “I want to hear the sounds you make when you’re feeling good.” With your other hand, you let your nails dig into the muscle of his thigh.

He gasps at the sudden pain, releasing his hand from his teeth, then frowns at you, but you’re already smoothing the hurt over with kisses, getting closer to his cock.

“Don’t hold back,” you tell him. “That’s an order.”

He only grunts in response, but you stop moving and give him a pointed look until he says, “…I won’t.”

Pleased, you finally give attention to his cock. You start to leave a line of small, light kisses up the side of his shaft, lips fluttering over his heated skin until he’s gasping and barely stopping himself from bucking his hips in search of more friction.

“Good boy,” you say, “you’re following my instruction.”

He mewls as you give tiny licks to his cockhead, tasting the slightly salty flavor of precum, before swallowing it whole and sealing your lips over his shaft.

“Aa-ah!” He trembles, suddenly engulfed by the wet heat of your mouth. You close your fist around him and pump in tandem with your head, slowly building the intensity until his eyes glaze over and his hands threaten to rip the fabric of his top. All the while, he moans and whimpers, and you can see how his lips tremble in embarrassment before letting the sounds out.

You release him with a pop and his hazy stare goes to you, hips chasing after your face only to be stopped by a hand on his hip. You look down at him, and he’s so cute, panting underneath you, you can’t help but grin.  

“You look so cute like this,” you tell him, “feeling good under me. I like how you’re moaning too~”

His eyes widen and then his brow clenches, blushing hard at your praise. You give him a little kiss on the nose, his lashes fluttering at the contact. He had been getting close, you could tell, but you wanted to tease him some more.

You push his legs up and spread them, using your thumbs to massage around the cleft of his ass.

“Aah!” A high-pitched gasp leaves him, your fingers having taken him by surprise. His golden eyes fly towards you, in between his thighs, spreading his asscheeks to have access to his entrance.

“Nnh… that’s…” He bites his lip and trails off, apparently lost for words. You grope around for the bottle of oil you keep in your nightstand before spreading some over his hole, then continuing to massage around it, loosening up some of the tension in his muscles.

Apparently you’re taking too long, because he growls and says “Stop teasing,” which might have sounded threatening if not for the pleading, high-pitched note in his voice. At his demand, you let your nails dig in to the meat of his thigh—not too hard, but just hard enough to draw a small hiss of pain from your mewling lover.

“I said I’d take care of you, and I will,” you tell him. “Or don’t you trust me, baby?”

He grumbles and has to avert his eyes before saying, “…Yes. I do. Sorry.”

Xiao chews on his lip when you slip one finger inside, then eventually another. His small gasps are coming out in an uneven staccato, his hips writhing slightly as he tries to get your hand to hit that sweet spot inside of him. You settle in between his legs, adding a third finger, and he moans, clenching at the bedsheets.

“Fuck,” he groans, “please, deeper.”

You do as he says and curl your fingers as you drag them against his insides, and he all but howls when you press against his prostate.

“Y-Yes! There—ngh,” he gasps, opening his bleary eyes, looking down at you in a daze. You smile, keeping your fingers buried inside him, and grip the base of his still hard cock tightly. Sweat is sticking his dark fringe to his forehead and beading on his skin.

He presses the back of his hand to his mouth, his hips rutting into your fist, but you’re not moving, holding him too tightly. Rather than giving him pleasure, your hand is keeping him from cumming, even as you continue to pump your fingers inside of his tight hole.

“Please let me cum,” he begs, stilling his hips with effort, his thighs shaking as you keep thrusting at his prostate. He whimpers, clearly at the edge and overwhelmed at the sensation of being so close and denied his release.

“You can hold on for me,” you coo, your voice sweet. “You’re taking my fingers in so easily. You look so hot begging for me, I want to see more of it. Can you spread yourself open, baby boy?”

Panting, he lets out little huffs of breath as he bends his legs up, pressing his thighs against his chest, opening his legs wider. His face is bright red, his voice growing in volume when you resume thrusting your fingers and lower your head to take him in your mouth again.

Xiao sobs, the warm heat of your mouth engulfing his weeping cock, driving him closer to his peak even as you still grip his base.

You drag your tongue along his length in time with your fingers on his sweet spot, and he bites his lip bloody.

He all but screams, his hips and thighs shaking. His eyes are glazed and he seems lost for words, aware of nothing but the sensations your hands and mouth are giving him.

“I need to cum,” he cries, “c-close, please—”

He’s held out for long enough. You drag the hand on his shaft up along with your mouth, sealing your lips around his sensitive head, while aiming for his prostate once again. Like clockwork, his fists clench in the sheets and he cums, spilling down your throat.

You swallow down the salty, bitter taste of his spend, hearing him begin to quiet above you, but you're not done with him yet. You nudge again at his spot and give his cockhead a broad lick before sucking him back in.

He makes a noise of surprise, trying to watch as you don’t stop, but his entire body shivers from the overstimulation, and he's unable to prop himself up, instead shaking and boneless under your hands and mouth on the bed.

You pull your mouth off him for just a brief moment and say, “You said you needed to cum, baby. So be good and cum for me some more, huh?” You lock your eyes with his blurry gaze and keep them there as you begin to suck him off again.

“Ngghh,” he groans, and it doesn’t take too long until he’s shaking and fully hard again, and close to a second orgasm. When you feel him approaching his peak, you release his cock from your mouth, pulling a frustrated groan from Xiao as he cums a second time, a dry one, as his hips bear down on your fingers inside him.

“Good boy, Xiao,” you say when his lashes flutter open, slits of gold peering at you.

His whole body is trembling even after you pull your fingers out of him, and you kiss his sweat-slicked brow before wiping his cum off his stomach. He finally lets go of the sheets and then blinks at the torn fabric that falls from his hands.

“…You ripped the sheets,” you say with a laugh. “Was it that good?”

He grumbles again, turning on his side. “You kept going. I’m blaming you.”

Still smiling, you slide into bed behind him, and lay an arm around his waist. You can feel his soft exhale when you wrap around him, and he subtly nudges himself back, further into your embrace.

“You did well, baby,” you tell him, kissing at the sensitive spot under his ear.

“…Thank you,” he mutters, and you almost don’t hear it. You pull him close, nuzzle your cheek into his dark hair.

“You don’t need to thank me.” Nothing answers you but the sounds of soft breath, and when you check, Xiao’s fallen asleep.

You pull the blanket over the both of you, making a mental note to have them repaired in the morning. “Good night, Xiao.”

[the-hidden-pages]

Let Me Worship You: Part 1 - Zemo x Fem!Reader

The fact that this man is the one who dragged me out of my refusing-to-write-fanfiction grave and let me post old work while working on new stuff is...Impressive. Damn you Daniel Bruhl.

Synopsis: With all the horrible things you had heard of Baron Helmut Zemo, you hadn't anticipated just how badly he wished to win you over. To a further extent, you certainly hadn't anticipated how tempting it would be to give in.

No bad NSFW this chapter - this is the lead up to the main course.

You were not an Avenger.

Unsurprising, really, given what you perceived to be your lack of talent and marketable super-heroine prowess, and so when Bucky called you up asking for a favour, you were pleasantly surprised.

You had only met Bucky on the rare occasion he let you help him, often expressing that he viewed you as a worrywart, a particularly bad day of his leading to him accusing you of trying to be his mother. He later apologized, hearing your explanation that you wanted to help in any way you could, and since you didn't have a superhero serum or fancy suit or arm, you relied on what you could - your mind and your giving nature.

He must have remembered this conversation, because he brought you with him and Sam to what appeared to be an underground parking garage.

"What're you talking about, you wanna break Zemo out of jail? Where the hell are we Buck? Have you lost your mind?!" Sam was raving as you followed behind the two men, silent as you stew over what Bucky had told you.

Babysitting duty.

You were effectively on glorified babysitting duty of an incredibly dangerous criminal.

"James..." you hesitated when he discussed this with you, how could you not? "I don't know how useful I'll be here."

"Very," he countered, his voice dull while his eyes were pleading. "Sam’s an Avenger, I have the serum. But you, you're just a person. Zemo will be less likely to hurt and immediately betray you because of that fact alone."

"He's killed people who've been in his way before. Normal people."

"He won't kill you. I'll make sure of that."

A heavy sigh escapes you as Sam and Bucky continue to bicker about the logistics of breaking Zemo out.

"I don't like how casual you're being about this, it's unnatural - and - where are we man?"

"I wouldn't mind an answer to that too," you supply, but any answer is interrupted by the sound of a door unlocking.

The three of you turn to approaching footsteps, and find no one other than Helmut Zemo striding towards you, dressed in a prison guard's uniform.

Sam responds immediately, arguing to throw him back in jail, while Bucky tries to calm him down. But you can't help but stare at the man before you as he removes the cap on his head, arms raised in an attempt to calm the men down.

"If I may" his voice rasped, but he was stopped short by Sam and Bucky in unison.

"NO!"

Zemo nodded, looking away almost sheepishly. "Apologies," came the quiet response.

If it were any other situation, you would have laughed - those two had the dynamics of a married couple and they couldn't stand each other. And for them to completely shut down the killer in front of them was...incredibly funny.

But you had a job to do.

As the boys continued to bicker, you took slow steps forward towards the man now looking you up and down, trying to place your part in all of this.

"Don't mind them," you spoke quietly, not wanting to distract Sam and Bucky, but still intending to speak with the criminal. "They're having some troubles in paradise. You must be Zemo."

His eyes take you in, a small smirk beginning to form. "So I must. May I have the pleasure of your name, Liebling?"

You offer your name hesitantly, and he repeats it back to you, as though he were sampling what it might taste like.

"Beautiful name, thank you." He turns to face the two men still arguing, not noticing your introductions. "I really think I'm invaluable..."

"Shut up..." Sam warned, before turning back to Bucky, looking between him and you.

You nod reassuringly to him - this is necessary, if the super soldiers are to be dealt with.

A sharp sigh leaves Sam. "Okay. If we do this, you don't make a move without our permission. And she is watching you every step of the way."

Bucky interjects. "And if anything happens to her, you're going to wish we left you in that cell."

Zemo nods, looking to you once again. "Fair."

You tilt your head slightly, unable to read his eyes as they examine you. You brush it off, chalking it up to him appreciating not being thrown back into a cell immediately. "Okay Zemo. Where do we start?"

*************************************

Zemo wasn't sure of what to make of you, he realized as you were on the jet to Riga.

You weren't an Avenger, you weren't a soldier, super or otherwise. You seemed to just be a person, one constantly offering her help where she could, even when it was to her own detriment.

He also took note of how rarely your help was appreciated or reciprocated.

You would offer help any moment you could, carrying supplies, offering to fetch food, simply offering and ear to listen. You were quick to attempt to smooth over Sam and Bucky's disputes, and you would play along with the role Zemo would assign you without much question - anything to help, you would say.

You were kind, he noticed as well. Smart, and shrewd, and clearly with trust issues, but you were kind and polite. You spoke with him as much as you might Sam or Bucky, you offered him your trust under the promise he would aide you find the super soldier serum. With your kindness, he thought it might be easy to manipulate you, to slip away from the group, maybe even to ask you to join him.

But there was an issue with his theory, he quickly noticed - any attempt to woo you, attract you, win you...didn't seem to work.

He hadn't been at the task long, mind you, but he had hoped you would be impressed with the jacket, the Baron title, the jet, the offer of wine. Instead, you simply seemed uncomfortable. Come Madripoor, you were happy to play the part of eye candy to escape much attention, yet when he offered you to keep the stunning dress, shoes, and jewelry ensemble you simply waved it off, claiming that you'd reimburse him if he insisted on you keeping it. You were happy to dance near him, unable to hide your laughter at his moves, yet he offered you a drink and you promptly declined, claiming it unnecessary.

Zemo's brow furrows as he observes you, awake and quietly reading as Sam and Bucky both sleep on the flight.

"What's your motive, Liebling?" he questions, and you glance up from your page.

"Don't tell me the criminal doesn't trust me," you respond wryly, turning your gaze back.

"No, I don't mean like that," he shifts, leaning forward to continue to observe the woman that was his guard. "I wonder what keeps you going. Some are motivated by riches, and dreams. Others from spite and anger. What do you want from life, my dear? What causes you to wake up in the morning?"

You pause, looking up to search his eyes to see where this question was coming from. You weren't sure what game he was playing, and you weren't sure how to answer him either. You eventually look back down to your book, a small smile playing on your lips.

"Nothing wakes me up in the morning, given I rarely get to sleep most nights."

His brows furrowed as she goes back to her pages, eager for the conversation to end. Her difficulty doesn't seem to be that he's a criminal - she's spoken plenty freely to him, she agrees to his plans...

The difficulty, he begins to realize with a smile. Maybe he's beginning to see what the difficulty is after all.

*************************************

You weren't sure what to make of Zemo, you think as you lie awake at night in the Riga safe house.

This criminal coming out of nowhere, apparently being rich as hell, so far doing nothing to cause you to believe he would betray you (yes, Sam and Bucky were shocked by his killing of Nagel, but really? You weren't shocked) ...but what shocked you the most was how badly he seemed to want to win you over.

You could justify it, sure. You're supposed to be his guard, he's likely trying to get you to let your guard down so he can escape. Yet when he's so charismatic, the way he holds himself, that voice...

Your eyes snap open sharply.

You were attracted to Zemo.

The man you're meant to be watching.

No, you told yourself. You're just lonely, and he's the first man offering you attention in a long time. It doesn't matter that his eyes examining you makes you blush, that you want to run your fingers through his hair, that a quiet voice your head wished that he would kiss you when he pulled you aside with one arm, other hand aiming at a pipe in Madripoor to blow up some poor saps...

It's the heat of the situation, you told yourself. Your options are Sam, Bucky, and Zemo...

Trust you to pick the worst option.

But how could you not, your mind whispers. When he danced like a goofball in a club your heart warmed. When he sat, filled with confidence and righteousness in the jet, legs splayed enough that you could perch on your knees in front of him, worship him, pleasure him. When he left the bathroom this morning in that damned robe, the deep V drawing your eyes down his chest before you could help himself.

You groaned. Of all the thoughts to keep you awake, why did it have to be your assignment on your mind?

It was too hot, your mind was swimming, you knew sleep wouldn't come soon.

And so, you stood, wrapping your arms around your book and padding downstairs in a loose t-shirt and shorts. Zemo had said that you were welcome to whatever resided within the safe house, and you were ready to take up his offer and steal a cup of tea.

You weren't expecting to find anyone else still awake. And yet, you weren't fully surprised to find Zemo sitting in the kitchen, bottle of whiskey at his side, a glass in his hand. He looks up at the sound of your footsteps, a soft smile on his face.

"Good evening, Liebling."

"Zemo. Can't sleep?"

"Unfortunately, not." He leans backwards slightly, examining you. "Another sleepless night for you as well."

"So it would seem."

You take a seat across the counter from him, not wanting to sit too closely to the man you were just fantasizing about. You were good at keeping a straight face, but you wondered if you got too close if he'd somehow be able to smell it on you.

He pushed his bottle forward, cocking an eyebrow at you.

"Drink?"

Your finger caresses the binding of your book as you hesitate to find the words.

"Actually, I had come down to make myself a cup of tea, if you don't mind."

Zemo's eyes lit up slightly, and he stood, motioning for you to stay where you were. "Allow me."

"You don't have to-" you begin to protest, but he's quick to cut you off.

"Please, Liebling, let me spoil you."

The heat that washes over you is clearly visible, if his chuckle is any indicator.

Silence falls and you quietly open your book as Zemo busies himself over the tea. In mere minutes a steeping mug is delicately placed in front of you. You smile graciously and nod, though you falter slightly as he doesn't return to the other end of the counter - rather, sitting on a stool right beside you, inquisitive eyes not leaving your face.

"Can I help you with something, Baron?" you question, taking the tea and blowing on it to cool it down somewhat. His eyes follow your movements, before travelling to meet yours again.

You could drown in those eyes -

"Day after day you offer your help, sarcastically or not," he begins, leaning forward slightly as he rests his chin on his hand, examining you. "Who offers help to the helper?"

You take a sip of your tea, tilting you head. "I don't know what you mean."

"Your refusal of my gifts, your reluctance to let me even make you a cup of tea - at first I wondered if it was in distrust of me, Liebling -"

"Well, you have killed people."

He quirks an eyebrow, and you motion for him to finish.

"I realize now it's because you're uncomfortable being cared for. You spend so much time looking after everyone else, you give no one the opportunity to worship you as you deserve."

You choked a bit on your tea at that.

"I don't know that I deserve to be worshiped, I just...exist. And do what I can to help others."

Zemo leaned forward further, slowly, so as to not push you away in result. "We haven't been acquainted for long, my dear, but from all I've seen from you with Sam, with James, and with an undeserving man such as myself...the strength in your soul and the empathy in your heart...It alone rises you so far above the men and women placed on pedestals because of their supernatural abilities."

You lean forward to match, but your eyes have steeled over. "Your sweet words won't make me let you go, Zemo. I won't betray Sam and Bucky."

He didn't miss a beat. "I should be so lucky to be held captive by you for eternity, Liebling. I don't ask you to betray your friends on my behalf."

"Then what do you want from me, exactly?"

You should be very afraid. The man who singlehandedly tore apart the Avengers is staring at you as if you were a last meal, his knees touching yours, his hand finding its way to lightly perch on your arm.

You should be afraid.

Yet despite your better judgement, you aren't.

"I want you to tell me every one of your desires, so I might fulfill them. I want to see you stand tall in the finest clothes money can buy, to whisk you away to Paris, Vienna, Rome, every beautiful local this world has to offer, local that pale in comparison to the beauty in front of me. I want you to let me bring you tea, wine, food, chocolates, and anything else that might please you. I want you to relax against me, to feel the tension you've had all mission to wash away in the most luxurious bath of your life, while I wash your beautiful hair, while I taste every inch of you."

His voice had dropped to nearly a whisper, and you couldn't stop yourself from leaning forward more to hang off his every word. "I'm not a stupid man. I know it's only a matter of time before I'm back in a prison cell of some kind. And even if I weren't, you may not believe the sincerity of my words. But tonight, little bird, I want you to let me worship you."

Your eyes fluttered as his hand reached forward to cup your cheek, thumb caressing over your bottom lip. You had the strength to look him dead in the eye with one final warning.

"If this is a trick of any kind, Zemo, I won't hesitate to let Bucky rip you to shreds."

The laughter that leaves him fans over your face, drawing your eyes to his lips.

"I'd expect nothing less, Liebling."

His eyes still search your face. A gentleman, you realize. He's waiting for permission.

You lean forward to close the gap, slowly letting your mouth brush over his, tasting him for the first time, as your hand raises to card through the locks of hair in his face. Your body thrums with anticipation of what's to come, with the anxiety that this may be a dangerous move, with pure, undiluted arousal from his words.

Yet you break away gently, both hands cupping his face now as he looks at you, curious as to why you stopped, pleased that his initial seduction worked.

Your hands slowly travel down to his own, and you stand, backing towards the way you came when you first gave up on sleep for the night.

"Come on then. You want to show me what being spoiled is like?"

A grin curls its way onto his face as he spins you in his arms, twirling you so that your back is against his front, his arms around you, his breath hot in your ear.

"Little bird, I'll give you everything you crave and more."

[lordabovehelpme]

Big Bear- Clyde Logan x Reader

Request: So we all know how the best nickname for Clyde is Bear. But how about the first time reader called him that? It doesn’t have to be a whole fic, it can totally be a headcanon or just a thought! Love you! - anon

A/n: Ahhh I love this!!! And I love you for sending this in!! I hope you enjoy! 

Summary: Everything he does reminds you of a bear, but you’ve never told him. What happens when the little nickname slips one night? 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As soon as the comparison crosses your mind, it never leaves. It just makes so much sense. The way he get’s all huffy and rumbly in the mornings. Those pillowy lips of his pushed out into a pout and his eyes half closed yet sparkling when they see you. His grumbles will thunder down the halls as he tries to find you. Every morning it makes you think of a bear waking from hibernation a little too early. And every morning you’ll cup his cheek and stand on your tiptoes to press a kiss to that pout. And his pout will slowly turn into a small smile.

It’s the way his giant hand wraps around your own, in fact your whole hand can fit in his palm. When he offers his hand out to you, you have to bite back your giggles at how he seems so similar to a bear offering his paw. And it’s not only his hands, it’s also his feet. Those large feet carrying him all around the world and barely fitting into his shoes. They also remind you of paws.

Then it’s the way he hugs you. Those big arms wrapping around your form and pulling you into a strong chest. If he’s behind you, he will rest his chin on the top of your head. Most often he’ll let an overdue sigh escape and relax around you, content with your touch. And if you could see his face, you would see closed eyes and a lazy smile. But if he’s facing you, then a kiss is pressed to your forehead before you are fully pulled in. Then he’ll tug you impossibly close to him and nearly tuck you away into his embrace. Your arms wrap around his waist and slide under his shirt, your nails lightly scratching at his back. Shivers will run up and down his spine and you’ll be pulled even closer, a purr vibrating from beneath his chest.

It’s also the way he eats. It’s like you never feed the man or like he’s never eaten before. He will shove as much as food as he can into his mouth and eat it so quickly. It’s a miracle he hasn’t choked and died yet. But you don’t mind it as much when he’ll give you a thumbs up, his eyes closed from happiness, and a smile with his cheeks puffed out with your cooking concoctions.

But all that good hearty food leads him to look like a bear. His shoulders are wide and nearly take up an entire doorway, muscle cushioning the bone and making a perfect spot for your head to lean on. His chest is broad and strong, pecs pulled taut and slightly protruding from his favorite (and your favorite) shirts. But when he takes those long deep breaths, he swells with air and grows before your eyes, you can’t deny the heat that rises to your cheeks.

However, your most favorite part (if you can even choose) is his tummy. It’s so soft that you literally cannot wait to run your hands over it every night. He’s fed well and you love that it shows. He used to hate it when you first started dating. You would wake up to find him gone, putting himself through various workouts, trying to burn it off. But over years of you telling him how much you love it and how it’s nothing to be ashamed of, he’s grown to like it. It tells you that he’s healthy and loved. And you both know he can’t refuse your baking, especially when you make those gooey apple pies.

The funniest comparison you’ve found though, is the way he sits. The way his entire body will fill any chair and his shoulders kind of slump. But it’s most apparent when he sits backwards on chairs, large thighs surrounding the back and his arms resting on his knees. One time when the two of you were watching a National Geographic Documentary on bears, they showed a scene of a bear sitting in a field. You happened to have looked over at Clyde during that scene, and had to bite your lips to stop from laughing. He was sitting in the exact same position. Your head went back and forth from the TV screen to your man bear on the couch, giggles hidden behind your hands. You could have put their pictures next to one another and said “Spot the difference.” Although, that wouldn’t have really worked because there was no difference.

But there’s something about how warm and cozy he is that really puts the icing on the cake. Countless nights you have found him on the couch, book in his large paw and cooling mug of tea on the small coffee table. And countless times he’s just lifted his arms as you’ve crawled onto his lap, he’ll set his book down on the armrest and drape a blanket around you, tucking in all the corners. Then, without a word, he’ll go back to his book and his arms will hold you close. Sometimes, if you ask, he’ll read aloud to you, deep voice grumbling out poetry and old english in his little drawl. You can feel it rumbling around in his chest and it draws your eyelids to shut. The scent of woods and faint cigarettes mixed with the warmth of his embrace makes you fall asleep in seconds. You’ll nuzzle further into his hold and his shortened forearm will trail up and down your back, caressing you as you drift off.

In your mind, clyde is a bear and there is no other option.

However, you haven’t told him of this comparison yet. Pet names aren’t uncommon between the two of you, he’s always calling you one, “Sweetpea, suga’ plum, sweet’eart, and his favorite, darlin’.” But something about comparing him to a wild animal is keeping you from telling him. Maybe it's the fear of him not liking it, maybe it’s just embarrassment, whatever it is, you don’t know.

The first time it slipped was a late night at the bar. Clyde made you fancy cocktails that were way too good and he looked even better. Your thoughts started to come out unfiltered and you could tell he was getting a kick out of it.

“Darlin’ I think that’s enough fer ya.” He said with a chuckle making his voice even deeper.

You let your lips push into a pout as you stared up at him with your best version of puppy dog eyes. “But bear, I’m already going home with you, one more won’t hurt.”

He froze, eyes widening but after a second he shook his head and let a small smile take over his face. “No more fer ya darlin’. I’m sorry, but you’ll thank me in the mornin’.”

The two of you never spoke about it.

Well, you didn't speak about it for three days.

He was curled around you that morning, dead to the world as his snores thundered through the house. (Even his snores sound like a bear’s!) You wiggled out of his hold and padded into the kitchen, starting to prepare all the ingredients for omelettes. Mindlessly you hummed a little tune and started to chop some bell peppers.

Suddenly an arm wraps around your waist and pulls you away from the counter, lifting you into the air. You scream and start to kick your legs before loud chuckles come from behind you. Realizing who it is you relax in his hold and frown.

“Clyde, I had a knife.”

“Darlin’ if that's how you fight against a bear, I’ll never be able to take ya campin.”

The amusement is loud and clear in his voice. You know you’ve been caught.

“What do you mean bear? I don’t see any bears.” When worse comes to worst, what do you do?

Play dumb.

It’s also not your fault he sprung this upon you in the early morning. Your brain’s not even awake yet.

He sets you down and you turn around in his hold, eyes wide with faux innocence. His own eyes slightly narrow, but a small smile stays on his lips.

“Hmm.” He stares down at you, silently testing your acting abilities. “Some little birdie told me that ya think I’m a bear.”

“Well obviously the birds around here are terrible at gossip!” You cross your arms and turn back to your peppers.

He lets out a loud hearty laugh. Then he wraps his arms around your waist and sets his chin on top of your head, watching as you try to not fumble and fluster under his gaze.

“I just wanna know why ya said it? And why you’re now denyin’ it.”

You sigh and set the knife down on the counter, looking up and out the small window above the counter. “Promise me you won’t laugh at me?”

“I promise.”

Everything in you screams at you to not tell him. But he said he promised and you know that eventually it would come up again, so why not tell him now?

“Ikindathinkyouactandlooklikeabearsoinmyheadit’sbecomeanicknameforyou.”

He takes a second to think over what you said so quickly. You can practically hear the cogs turning in his head. But with each second that passes, the anxiety bubbles up further in your stomach.

“I like it.”

That is the last thing you expected him to say. “You like it?”

He turns you around so he can look at you. “Yeah, it makes me feel like I can protect ya better. Like a bear.”

Your cheeks hurt from your smile. “Really?”

He swoops down and presses his lips to your own. “Yeah.” His own lips are pulled into a smile. “I’ve got ya darlin’ and now you’ve got yer bear.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and press another kiss to his lips. “My big bear.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So yeah, I totally was swooning the entire time I was writing this! I hope you enjoyed! 

Please consider reblogging or leaving a comment! It means the world to me and I also love hearing what you all have to say! 

Love forever, Lordy :) 

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[saltywatermelonart]

This is literally the final time I'm even talking about this individual, because after a month and a half of harrasement from this individual I'm hinestly getting sick and tired of replieing to this drama.

You might be asking yourself, how did I get wrapped up in all of this, well it all started when I was defending a friend of mine. If you've been following me, you might know that I'm somewhat close to artist @nakamopapina who draws a lot of Pompadour x Cornelius fanart.

Apparently this was "pedophilia" in the eyes of Bricky, who essentially made a post calling the ship "pedophilia."

Let's say the ages she gives are correct (which they're probably not since feminine men usually have high voices no matter their age), the youngest age she gives as to the age of Pompadour that being 28 is far from pedophilia.

As you can clearly see, the definition of pedophilia from a anti-pedophilia campaign in the UK and Ireland states that any attraction to children is pedophilia. And as you can clearly tell, two grown men being shipped together is no where related to any disgusting acts relating to children, since Pompadour is a GROWN MAN.

In the comments of the same post, she also mentioned me as being a supporter of this as you can see here:

This ia ironic since I literally don't even post anything relating to this ship but ok. As anyone would I refused to be labeled as a "supporter of a pedo ship", so I roughly replied with what I have already stated above. This began us arguing over this, with me repeating the same thing over and over again and she being too stubborn to fully grasp what I was saying. One of her points that she repeats over snd over again is the fact that Cornelius has a wavery voice that "PROVES!?!?" that he's far too old which makes the ship pedo-ish...yeah doesn't make sense does it.

What broke the cammels back for me is the fact that this person literally is using this situation on tiktok, falsely accusing me as supporting a pedophile ship which IS NOT FUCKING OK. Especially since I myself am a minor. I basically responded chastising her for her doing that shit and this was her response:

Sidenote, I love the hypocrisy of the fact that your so against a "pedo ship" but kidnapping and murder is a ok for an oc (which really isn't an oc since it's literally just Pompadour but for some reason he has a twin brother that's a cat and is also a murderer and kidnapper lol).

So in conclusion, stop being toxic.

[jessicajonesrp]

She was so beautiful.

 

Jessica’s narrow face, usually set in harsh angles from scowls or tense expressions, was open, soft, almost aglow with pride and affection as she looked across the room at the little girl at her feet. Sometimes, even after so much time, it felt surreal to look at the child and realize all over again that she was hers. Danielle Patricia Cage was her daughter, her very own little girl. She belonged to Jessica in a way that no one else ever had or would.

 

She was a miracle, a blessing that Jessica still didn’t understand how she had come to deserve, or how she had managed not to screw her up somehow so far. But no matter how dark and flawed her mother was, Danielle had managed to take only her strength, intellect, and determination, with none of Jessica’s more grating qualities. She had Luke’s patience, optimism, and certainly favored him in her appearance.

 

And boy, was she a little ham.

 

Grasping a well-worn stuffed elephant in a chubby brown fist, Danielle made a grunting noise in Jessica’s direction, opening and closing her other hand in a gesture that Jessica had come to recognize as her way of asking for something. Jessica raised an eyebrow at her and chuckled, shrugging.

 

“Come on, Dani, use your words. I know you can holler out “no” just fine if you’re mad enough, so why don’t we try some new ones today? What do you want Mama to get you?”

 

Danielle waved her hand again and made another, more insistent noise, stubbornly refusing to respond to her more clearly. Jessica laughed again, then snorted when Danielle tossed her toy elephant down, sticking out her lower lip.

 

“Oh god, I know I’ve seen your dad do that exact same look when he’s hungry. You want something to eat, don’t you, you little mooch?”

 

She felt the presence of Luke coming up behind her, heard his deeper chuckle join her voice, and without looking, leaned back into his broad, solid chest, relaxed and happy against him. Simply being with the man she loved, watching their little girl, was immensely comforting and satisfying, and each small moment of it still felt huge.

 

Jessica snuggled back closer into Luke’s chest, covering his arms with hers, and directed a smile towards Danielle, releasing a contented sigh.

 

“She’s awesome, isn’t she? I can’t get over how I can love a kid this much.”

 

“But of course you do,” a smooth, self-satisfied voice responded. Its pitch was higher than Luke’s, its accent rounded and carrying a British intonation of its words, and so immediately, terribly familiar that Jessica froze, her muscles rigid against the warmth of the body against her back.

 

“Of course you love her,” the voice- Kilgrave’s voice- repeated, and hands tightened on Jessica’s arms, almost pinning them down. “She’s ours. Yours and mine, Jessica. Just like you’re mine. Always.”

 

Jessica’s wide eyes saw then that the hands over her were pale and slim, not Luke’s at all. The body holding her against it was slight, almost bony, its wiry frame humming with excited, frenetic energy instead of radiating out Luke’s steady calm. The arms wrapped around her were no longer an embrace, but an imprisonment.

 

No, she tried to say, no, this is impossible. No, get away from me, let me go. Let me go!

 

But she couldn’t bring the words out of her mind to be spoken aloud. When she opened her mouth, Kilgrave’s cold fingers pressed against her lips, silencing her.

 

“You love me,” he said, slow and distinct. “You love the life we have together. You always have, Jessica, and you always will. You and me…and our daughter.”

 

To her horror, he turned his head to regard the child in front of them, lifting one arm from around Jessica to open it wide in invitation.

 

“Come here, Danielle. Come to your daddy.”

 

Danielle was not yet 11 months old, and she had not yet mastered any further skills past walking while grasping a couch or chair for assistance. But she stood on chubby, unsteady infant legs at Kilgrave’s command, arms wide for balance, and began to toddle towards him, her face alit with her smile.

 

No, Jessica screamed inside herself. No, don’t touch my daughter, no, none of this can be happening! Not again, not this! Not my baby too!

 

But she remained against Kilgrave, her body betraying her with its now loose, relaxed posture against him, as though she were comfortable and secure at his closeness. She remained smiling, remained still, as he lifted her baby into his free arm, drawing her into his embrace with Jessica. She remained silent and unprotesting, even as Kilgrave kissed Danielle’s face.

 

“This is all I’ve ever wanted,” Kilgrave mumurred, his lips touching Jessica’s ear, his voice smug and soft with triumph. “And this is all you’ll ever want now too. Isn’t it so much easier when you just let yourself be mine?”

 

His lips trailed down her ear, over her cheekbone, and then his mouth was sealed over hers, blocking off any possibility of a scream. And Jessica was dying inside, even as her lips betrayed her in eager responsiveness.

 

88

 

Jessica bolted awake with a gasping, shuddering burst of air, her lungs burning as though she had been near drowning. Nearly hyperventilating, she reached both hands up to her face, frantically scrubbing her palms against her lips. She needed to rub away any trace of the lingering memory of Kilgrave’s lips, even before her eyes had adjusted to see in the bedroom’s darkness.

 

Even as she dimly came to understand that she had been dreaming, that nothing she had just felt or experienced had been real, Jessica couldn’t fully take this in yet as true. Shaking, her skin slick with sweat and traces of tears, she covered her face with her hands, trying to still her breaths. Even reciting those damn street names didn’t seem to help when it came to nightmares of that caliber.

 

She could feel Luke’s body close to hers, even as she didn’t dare yet to look over and see him. Part of her still feared it wouldn’t be him there at all, that she would be thrown back into an endless loop of horror becoming reality. But when she let one hand drift down, touching her abdomen, she was reassured to feel the small curve of her stomach, evidence of the child not yet born.

 

Danielle was still safe. Danielle wasn’t even born yet. Kilgrave was at the Raft, more secured away from others  there than apparently even death had been able to keep guarantee.

 

But it was still hard to argue logic against remnants of fear.

 

Slowly swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Jessica stood, going to stand at the balcony doors of her and Luke’s bedroom and staring out at the night sky. Vast, dark, and aglow with stars, it was somehow comforting to her to see. She knew that Luke was awake, could feel his eyes on her, and pressed her lips tightly together before she spoke.

 

“Do you ever get scared, thinking about what we’re bringing this baby into? Is it wrong, throwing a kid into the fucked up mess of our lives and all the people that want to bring us down?”

 

[hopelesshawks]

History of Us Part 3- Introductions

Summary: Once upon a time Todoroki and (y/n) were best friends. Now they haven’t spoken in years. When (y/n) is forced to transfer to UA, will she and Shoto reconnect or will their troubled past keep them apart? A childhood friends to enemies to lovers hybrid fic.

If you don’t want to see History of Us content blacklist #hopelesshou

Masterlist Kofi

You trudge downstairs already dreading meeting new people. Aizawa had assured you your last name would be kept under wraps but it still feels like it’s only a matter of time before everyone figures out who you really are. There’s a reason you dye your hair, your natural coloring is too recognizable and it’s a bitter reminder of a man you actively wish to forget. For years you hated looking in the mirror until you finally convinced your mom to let you dye it. Kirishima had been kind even after finding out but Kirishima is kind to everyone. You seriously doubt everyone is as much of a cinnamon roll as he is, especially if he-who-shall-not-be-named recognizes you and blabs to everyone like the little bitch he is.

As you walk into the lounge area it’s just your luck that you spot him first. It’s like a hit to the chest, physically stopping you in your tracks. Suddenly you’re that sobbing, confused eight year old all over again, just wanting to understand how her best friend in the whole wide world could turn his back on her when she needed him most. Kirishima calling your name snaps you out of it as you roll your eyes and make your way over. If Shoto doesn’t recognize you then fine, you’re not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing it’s upsetting you. You drop onto the couch unceremoniously in the small space between Kirishima and Bakugo, causing the blonde to shoot you a glare and huff as he and Kiri are forced to adjust themselves to make space for you. You give him a satisfied grin once you’re comfortable, which only causes his scowl to deepen more, before suddenly multiple unfamiliar faces are hovering right in your field of vision.

“Have none of you fucking heard of personal space?” you snap instinctively, feeling closed in. They seem unperturbed by your temper, instead a boy with long black hair and a wide toothy grin comments “You really are like Bakugo!” “Don’t compare me to that angry Pomeranian,” you scoff. “Hah!? The fuck you just call me half and half?” Bakugo immediately retorts, crimson eyes glaring you down as his palms spark in warning. “I called you an angry Pomeranian. You deaf or something? That why you fucking yell all the time?” you fire back as black shadows start to curl off your right hand like smoke. “You little-“ Bakugo starts to threaten, looking like he’s seconds away from launching into you and starting a proper fight, but both of you are distracted by the delighted laughter of the others. “I love you already! Name’s Mina Ashido,” the pink girl, Mina apparently, introduces herself. “Glad we’ve finally got someone who can keep Bakugo in check. I’m Kyoka Jiro,” another girl introduces. Your mind whirs as you process more and more new names. Denki Kaminari is the other blonde. The boy with the long black hair is apparently Hanta Sero. All of them introduce themselves with both their first and last names. You will not be following suit. “I’m (y/n),” you reply simply. “No surname?” the eager blonde, Denki you remind yourself, asks with a tilt of his head. The gesture reminds you of an overexcited puppy. “Nope,” is your simple reply. “Why not?” he presses. “Because I said so,” you shoot back, raising one eyebrow. To your surprise he immediately drops the subject and moves on. “So why’d you transfer?” he asks. “Moved too far from my old school,” is your quick reply. “How d’you know Kiri?” “Fatgum’s agency.” “What’s your quirk?” “Jesus Denki it’s not an interrogation. Let the girl breathe,” Sero cuts him off with a laugh, shoving Denki to the side a bit so that Sero becomes front and center in your line of vision. He openly gives you an appraising look from head to toe before saying “Don’t mind him he’s a little nosy. The better question is: are you single?” You can’t help but bark out a startled laugh at the boldness of the question. “Your laugh, while beautiful, is not an answer,” he grins. “God you guys are the worst,” Jiro groans with a roll of her eyes, “you don’t have to answer that.” “Thanks,” you laugh before turning back to Sero to say “but for the record I am single,” with a wink. Your laugh turns into a full on cackle at the way his face goes bright red. “Don’t tell me you can dish it and not take it,” you tease him. “Oh he definitely can’t take it,” Mina giggles before launching into a story to prove her point, much to Sero’s chagrin. A small part of you starts to hope that maybe this year won’t be so bad.

The sound of your laughter draws Shoto’s eyes to you. It’s such a stark contrast between how you’d looked when he last saw you. Guilt crawls up his throat like bile, leaving an acrid taste in his mouth. You’re different from when the two of you were little. Harsher. More acerbic. He’s not entirely surprised but it still saddens him. He wonders if things would’ve been different had he ignored his father’s warnings about you. He wants to ignore his father’s warning now. He wants to march right up to you and apologize for everything, lay himself out bare to prove to you he never wanted to abandon you, but something holds him back. He thinks it might be cowardice. God, how would he even begin to apologize? You were having such a bad time you moved to an entirely different prefecture and he did nothing. Of course you hate him.

Shoto is brought out of his musings by Midoriya nudging him, a questioning look in his green eyes. Midoriya would know how to right the wrongs of the past. Or at the very least would probably be able to give him some ideas. But to fully explain what had happened he’d also have to explain your father and reveal your identity. Judging by the fact your last name wasn’t even given on the list of students Aizawa gave Iida, you must be trying very hard to keep that information confidential. It’s really not his place to share and he’s hurt you quite enough already. Maybe he can talk around it a little bit though. “Midoriya, hypothetically, if you had hurt someone greatly many years ago and now had no idea how to start apologizing. What would you do?” Shoto finally asks after thinking carefully over how to phrase his question. “Hypothetically?” Midoriya asks skeptically. “Yes. Hypothetically,” Todoroki confirms. “Well I guess it depends how bad what I did was,” Midoriya hedges. “It was bad,” Shoto replies immediately, face darkening at the admission. “In this completely hypothetical scenario,” Midoriya replies with a knowing smile. “Yes exactly,” Todoroki says as he clears his throat. “Well I guess I’d start by just doing little things to show I’m sorry until we were both ready to talk and I could apologize properly,” Midoriya offers. Shoto nods thoughtfully as he mulls over Izuku’s words. Small things. He could do small things. “Hey, Todoroki-kun?” Midoriya prompts causing Shoto to return his attention to his friend. “Whatever you did to (y/n), I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you think. She’ll forgive you eventually,” Midoriya assures him.

A loud boom causes both of them to jump in their seats, eyes seeking out the source only to land on you and Bakugo almost literally at each other’s throats as the two of you tumble over each other, the crowd around you still laughing at whatever had incited the tussle in the first place. Both of you look damn near feral, causing Midoriya to gulp. “Probably,” he amends, “she’ll probably forgive you eventually.” Todoroki nods almost solemnly. You may just kill him before he gets a chance to apologize. That doesn’t mean he can’t at least try though.

A/N: Am I back to daily updates on a fic again?? Maybe??? We’ll see lmao. It was fun to write more of the class and their dynamics but omg there’s so goddamn many students in class 1A idk how Horikoshi keeps up with them all 😩 also M*neta got kicked out for sexual harassment in this version of events, I refuse to write that little nightmare lol

Taglist: @sorrythatspussynal @miss-bakugo-writes @pixelwisp @larkspyrr @sokkaandzukosimp @akkaso

[firewins-the-fangxrl]

Building Anew

Now that May The 4th Be With You Excange has revealed I’m crossposting my fic! so here’s some fluffy Grogu and Luke bonding! (also can be kinda dinluke if you want)

(link to the fic on ao3 in the notes cause tumblr sucks and will hide posts with links!)

---

In his efforts to rebuild the Jedi order Luke finds himself learning many new things, some were expected such as old Jedi teachings and methods of finding force sensitives, others things he had not expected, such as the favourite colours of his younger students.

"Wait Master Luke, lightsabers can be purple?" a tiny Twi’lek pipes up.

"Yes there's a multitude of different colours that lightsabers can take depending on the users connec-"

"Can they be rainbow? Rainbow is my favorite colour!" comes another voice.

"My favorite is yellow!" from a Nautolan boy.

The ensuing lesson turned into a session of sharing favourite colours. Which, if Luke is being honest, is surprisingly enjoyable.

Teaching turns out to be one of Luke's favourite parts of resurrecting the order. Each of his students is different and helping them find and control their connection to the force is rewarding. The kids are also interesting to talk to, they're happy to tell him, with the honesty and excitement that comes with childhood, about a variety of things from a cool bug they found to what sensing presences in the force feels like.

Luke learns a lot about each of his students, both mundane and not.

Grogu is probably one of the most interesting to communicate with. Luke learns a number of things about Grogu, firstly that the kid has had a long life.

A really long life.

The first time Luke really gets a sense of Grogu's age is a few weeks after he was first brought to the small temple that acted as the youngling teaching quarters. He and Grogu are meditating together when he's hit with a rush of unfamiliar memories.

Huge sprawling temples filled with the bustle of people going about their day. The sound of children playing and distant lightsaber practice. The sight of adults hurrying past, lightsabers strapped to their hips, some with padawans trailing behind trying to keep up.

It takes him a few seconds to piece together that the memories are of the old Jedi order at its height. He turns to observe the small green child, struck by the fact that the people from that memory are probably all long gone.

"You're a lot older than you look, aren't you?" he murmurs quietly.

The child doesn't move, still deep in meditation, so Luke returns to meditating as well. They settle back into peaceful and companionable silence.

The second thing he learns about Grogu is that he loves his dad. Though Luke only met him briefly he can see that they have a strong bond.

Grogu is also more than willing to share stories of his and his dad's adventures with Luke. Every memory Grogu shares is laden with warmth and adoration.

The adventures are also seemingly extremely dangerous, which is how Luke quickly learns fact number three.

Grogu's father is a stone cold badass. From risky rescues snatching Grogu from the clutch of Imperials to killing a fully grown krayt dragon (something he is honestly in awe of) the man seems to be an unstoppable force powered by protective instincts.

As the stories go on Luke starts to wonder if part of the reason Grogu's father is so unstoppable is because he never stops to think anything through.

Of course Luke isn't exactly one to judge since he's nowhere near the picture of restraint himself.

But still, for force sake the man let himself be swallowed whole by a krayt dragon!

Even Luke isn't quite that dumb… well for the part he's not.

Grogu, it seems, has inherited his father's lack of regard for consequences, as he's quite willing to attempt to eat anything without waiting for Luke to check if it's poisonous or not.

However Grogu's favourite foods by far are frogs and cookies. Luke isn't quite sure what those two things have in common but he does know that cookies must be protected from the green bean (especially if they belong to another student) and that most of the frogs on Draay 2 aren't poisonous.

Except for the tiny yellow ones.

Chasing down Grogu to remove frogs from his mouth to scan for edibility becomes a daily struggle.

This is when Luke first realizes that Grogu is a menace.

The child has more chaotic energy than should feasibly fit into such a small being. Most memorably in the lightsaber incident. The less said about that the better but Luke has certainly learnt his lesson about leaving his lightsaber in a place that small green toddlers can reach.

He's glad to still have his legs.

A fact that he has not been at all prepared to learn came during one of Grogu's father's visits. Which was that Din was apparently a king.

Din lands his ship at the small landing platform adjacent to the temple. Grogu is practically vibrating with excitement by the time the loading door opens and the man walks out, beskar armour glinting in the sunlight.

Unlike his previous visits he is flanked by two other Mandalorians, both wearing blue armour.

Din turns to one of the Mandalorians and says something, too low for Luke to overhear at this distance, and the two Mandalorians turn to go back inside the ship.

As Din walks closer, Grogu wriggles free from Luke's arms and runs to his father. Din drops down and scoops the excited child up into his arms. Luke can hear Grogu making excited squeaks as Din murmurs something to the child.

“Who are your friends?” Luke asks as Din walks closer.

“Royal guard.” is Din’s only response.

“Royal guard?”

“I’m technically the Mand’alor”

“Technically?”

“It’s… complicated. I don’t suppose you’d want a second laser sword?”

“Uh, no thank you” Luke says, noticing one of the blue clad guards glaring at him from the ship. Her helmet is off and he can see short red hair and a slightly terrifying expression that reminds him of Leia when some poor soul angers her.

“Yeah that’s probably for the best,” Din says wryly.

The rest of the visit is fairly normal, except for the bodyguards hovering over Din. Luke gets the distinct impression that the guards are more interested in ensuring that Din doesn’t make a run for it than protecting him from danger.

Something he learns after a while is that Grogu has nightmares.

Grogu is more than happy to share snippets of memories and stories about his life before the fall of the old order. However he avoids the topic of the fall itself. Luke doesn’t push Grogu to share anything he’s not comfortable with.

Luke is pretty sure that's what the nightmares are about since Grogu refuses to tell him anything about them.

He’s okay with that. He doesn’t need to know the specifics to comfort the small scared child that comes to him. Luke just holds Grogu and murmurs reassurances.

Sometimes, if it’s really bad they start a holo call to Din, he always answers no matter the time. They stay up late talking about whatever they can think about until Grogu has fallen asleep, comforted by the presence and voice of his father.  

Once when Din is visiting Grogu, Luke wakes to a knock on his door in the middle of the night. He finds a very tired looking Mandalorian carrying Grogu.

“He had a nightmare?” Luke asks.

Din nods clearly suppressing a yawn.

“Come on in. I’ll make some caf.” Luke says, stepping aside.

They stay up talking long after Grogu has fallen asleep, Din tells Luke about the struggles of being a king and Luke shares some stories he’s collected from being a teacher.

He tells Din about the lightsaber incident. Din finds it funny and Luke would probably be more annoyed if the man’s laugh wasn’t so pleasant.

By the time Din leaves, the sun is just starting to crest over the horizon and Luke realizes that he has to go set up for his morning class.

He decides that there are much worse ways to spend the night than with Din and Grogu.

Grogu apparently agrees with him based on the number of crayon drawings he makes of the three of them after that.

Luke is pretty sure Din gets a few of them framed.

[detectivesebcas]

Nightswimming

I did write a little something just for fun before I started my Promptober prep.  There’s not much to it, but it’s NSFW.  Basically, 30-year-old Sebastian meets a mysterious stranger on the beach.

...

Eight cops in one beach house is a terrible idea.  It was a terrible idea when Connelly suggested it, but for some reason Sebastian went along with it anyway, and there’s not much he can do about it now.  It’s day one, they’ve already been through almost four cases of beer, and while Sebastian enjoys video games and arm-wrestling as much as the next guy, it’s too fucking hot in the house and definitely too fucking loud in the living room.

He slides open the glass door and steps out onto the deck.  The others don’t seem to notice his departure, but it’s not all that surprising.  They haven’t partied this hard since the Academy, so everyone’s observation skills are probably pretty compromised.

The air is warm against his chest and legs, but at least there’s a nice breeze, and once he slides the door closed again, it’s a little quieter.  He takes a deep breath, head spinning a little from the alcohol, and tries to clear his mind.

The gentle lapping of the waves in the distance calls to him, pulls him forward into the darkness.  It’s peppered with the reflected lights of distant ships and buildings, and the wind carries the smell of salt.  Before he can process all of it, he is descending the steps to the beach.

The sand is soft underfoot, still warm from the heat of the day, and he moves across it silently, drawn toward the water’s edge.

He stands there for a few seconds.  The waves are breaking in front of him, but not with the same fury as earlier in the day, when he and his friends were laughing and splashing and drunkenly attempting to body-surf.  Now the beach is serene, dark, and deserted.

He’s not sure what possesses him to slip his shorts down and off so that the breeze tickles him even in those places that are normally covered.  Leaving the shorts behind on the sand, he closes the gap to the water.  It’s almost as warm as the air, and Sebastian wades in up to his waist, then stands, swaying slightly as the waves push him back and forth, staring out to sea.

For just a moment, he feels small, unimportant, as though he has caught a glimpse of something much greater than himself, and he stands in awe of the darkness, but then the clouds shift and the moonlight is shimmering, reflected in the water, and Sebastian turns around to find he is no longer alone.

He knows immediately it’s not one of his friends.  The dark-haired stranger is standing on the beach, gazing evenly back at him.  There’s nothing threatening about him- or maybe Sebastian isn’t in a position to assess threats after how many beers he’s had- but there is a certain mystery about him, a pull Sebastian feels the same way he felt the pull of the sea a moment ago.

Sebastian doesn’t speak, doesn’t want to ruin the peace of this moment.  The other man doesn’t speak either, just casts his gaze down to the sand, and Sebastian feels his own face go hot as he realizes the man must see his shorts there, must know there’s nothing between him and the water.

He almost convinces himself he can see a smirk on the man’s face and maybe in the light of the moon he can, but it disappears almost as quickly as it came, and Sebastian is left wondering if it was ever there at all.

“Mind if I join you?”

The man’s voice reaches him somehow even over the sound of the waves.  Sebastian swallows hard.  He can’t form any words.  His mouth has gone dry, but he shakes his head.  He doesn’t mind at all.

The stranger definitely smirks this time, and then he is hooking his thumbs into his own shorts, and Sebastian looks away, his face burning hotter if that’s even possible.  He manages to keep his eyes averted until the stranger has waded out almost to where he is, and even then, it’s hard to look at the other man with only the water for modesty.

“What’s your name?” the stranger asks.

What is his name?  He has to think about it for a moment, and not just because of the alcohol.  Everything about this is so surreal, so dreamlike that he isn’t even sure he is himself anymore.

“Sebastian,” he manages finally.

The stranger smiles at him, and now that they’re within a few feet of each other, Sebastian can see more of him- dark hair, pale skin, shockingly blue eyes.  He’s almost as tall as Sebastian though considerably more slender.  In fact, he must be quite a bit younger than Sebastian originally guessed.

“Who are you?” Sebastian asks, a little more bluntly than he intended, but apparently he doesn’t offend the other man, who laughs before he answers.

“Stefano.”

“And how old are you, Stefano?” Sebastian asks, because he can’t think of a more tactful way to approach the question.

Stefano does frown a little at that.  “Twenty,” he answers.

Sebastian nods, momentarily at a loss for how to continue the conversation before he asks, “What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”

“Just enjoying the sea and the moonlight,” Stefano replies.  The more he speaks, the more Sebastian can detect a European accent, although Stefano clearly speaks English well.  “And you?”

“The same,” Sebastian says.  “And my housemates were being really loud and obnoxious.”

Stefano laughs at that.

“Are you here with anyone?” Sebastian asks.

“My parents,” Stefano says, a dark look passing over his face.  “They are...irritating as well, but in other ways.”

Sebastian nods again, unsure how to respond.

“It’s a beautiful night,” Stefano muses, taking a step closer to Sebastian.

Sebastian isn’t looking at the night anymore, the water and the sky are becoming blurry, indistinct around him, the crashing waves fading out as he focuses more and more on Stefano’s face, on Stefano’s voice.  It is a beautiful night indeed.

He knows he should be saying something right now, knows it’s his turn to respond to Stefano, but his brain is stalled and his heart is pounding, because Stefano is stepping in closer and closer until his face is inches from Sebastian’s.

“Kiss me,” he murmurs, and Sebastian closes the gap, dipping his head to press his lips to Stefano’s.  His hands are on Stefano’s hips, pulling Stefano against him, his heart leaping into his throat as Stefano’s bare skin slides against his.

Stefano’s arms are around his shoulders, pulling him close as Stefano kisses back hungrily.  It’s a little clumsy at first, though Sebastian isn’t sure if it’s because of Stefano’s inexperience or his own intoxication, and it’s hard not to laugh when their teeth bump against each other, but soon they get the angle right, and Stefano is drawing Sebastian’s tongue into his mouth.

Stefano’s mouth is warm and soft and tastes like coffee and mint.  The kiss is long and slow and deep, and when Sebastian’s hands slip around to grab Stefano’s ass, the little moan Stefano makes goes straight to his cock, drives every rational thought from his head, and all he can do is pull Stefano closer to him, fuck Stefano’s mouth with his tongue, and let the sounds of the ocean soothe his mind.

After a few moments, he pulls back, trying to look Stefano in the face with eyes that refuse to focus.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.  “That was…”

Stefano laughs and leans in for another kiss, which is fine, because Sebastian probably wasn’t going to be able to come up with the words to finish that sentence anyway.  Stefano shifts in his arms, pressing the front of his body fully against Sebastian, and then Sebastian definitely isn’t coming up with any words at all.

It occurs to him vaguely to wonder what on earth Stefano thinks he’s doing approaching a stranger on the beach in the middle of the night and being so forward in his advances, but Sebastian supposes he’s being a little more forward himself than he normally would.  Maybe it’s the buzz of the alcohol or maybe it’s the spell of the night and the sea.  Still, it does seem strange...

Stefano breaks the kiss.

“Is something wrong?”

His confidence falters just for a moment, and Sebastian can see so much written on his face- the hope, the nerves, the fear of rejection.

“No,” he says immediately, gathering Stefano in his arms again and kissing him deeply, savoring the little whine Stefano makes as his tongue thrusts forward.

He can feel Stefano’s cock pressing against his thigh, can feel Stefano’s soft, wet skin against his own cock, and he holds them closer together, lets his tongue stroke Stefano’s the way he wishes he could fuck Stefano, slow and gentle and easy.  But of course he can’t do that here, can’t do that now.  There’s no time and no privacy and no way to make this comfortable under the current circumstances, and he doesn’t even know if that’s what Stefano wants anyway.

Though of course, Stefano has made it clear that he wants something.

One of Sebastian’s hands slides back around to the front of Stefano’s body, slips in between them to palm his cock, and Stefano moans, breaking the kiss again to rest his forehead on Sebastian’s shoulder, breathing hard.

“Is this-?” Sebastian starts to ask.

“Yes,” Stefano hisses.  “Please.”

Sebastian’s hand closes around Stefano’s cock, and Stefano sighs deeply, raising one leg and wrapping it around Sebastian’s waist.  Sebastian strokes up and down a few times as Stefano shivers against him, then traces his thumb across the head, smiling when Stefano tries to thrust his hips forward into Sebastian’s hand.

“It’s alright,” Sebastian murmurs.  “We’ll get there.”

Stefano nods, taking a few deep breaths and steadying himself against Sebastian, who wonders for a moment if this is the first time Stefano has done this with someone else.  It’s not the right time to ask, of course, and whatever the answer is, it’s clear what Stefano wants.

He begins to stroke again, letting his hand glide up and down, making little splashes in the water between them, and when Stefano presses closer and his hand brushes his own cock, sending a little thrill of excitement through him, he has another idea.

“Oh!”  Stefano breathes as Sebastian’s hand encircles both of them.  Sebastian couldn’t agree more, though he is struck speechless by the feeling of Stefano’s cock pressed against his.  He squeezes them together gently, enjoying the feeling of soft, wet skin on soft, wet skin, and then his hand begins the slow slide up and down.

It takes Sebastian a moment to process what he’s feeling, how much better this is than when he pleasures himself alone in his room.  The feeling of friction on his cock is amazing, but even better than that is the feeling of Stefano’s body against his, the sound of Stefano’s little gasps and moans in his ears, the way Stefano clings to him.

Stefano is beautiful.  His pale skin shines in the moonlight, and the way he lets his head rest on Sebastian’s shoulder leaves his neck exposed in such a way that Sebastian just can’t resist.  He presses a kiss behind Stefano’s ear, then kisses his way down, letting his lips and tongue and breath raise goosebumps on Stefano’s skin.  He doesn’t use his teeth; he’s too afraid that will leave marks that will lead to questions Stefano won’t be ready to answer, but Stefano is so responsive to even the gentlest explorations.

As he draws his tongue along Stefano’s collarbone, he can hear the hitch in Stefano’s breathing, can feel the way Stefano is pressing into his hand with more urgency, his thrusts losing their rhythm as he gets closer to completion.  The waves are still lapping at them, and one of Sebastian’s hands holds Stefano steady as the other strokes them both.

He’s pretty close himself, though not as close as he suspects Stefano is.  The other man seems entirely lost in his pleasure, all sense of propriety forgotten as he rocks himself against Sebastian, faster and rougher than the waves now, and Sebastian pulls him close, holds him tightly as his hand squeezes and strokes and tugs at them both.

“Sebastian!”  Stefano’s voice is muffled as he bites down on Sebastian’s shoulder, thrusting forward to press their bodies together as he comes.  He clings to Sebastian tightly for a few seconds before going limp in his arms.

Sebastian releases Stefano’s cock, wrapping both arms around Stefano’s body to support him as the waves push them gently back and forth, the soft roar of the ocean blurring the world around them.  He holds Stefano, kisses his way up and down his neck until he can feel Stefano smile against his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Stefano says, sounding suddenly shy.  “That was...I didn’t…”

“It’s alright,” Sebastian murmurs, giving Stefano a little squeeze before loosening his grip so Stefano can take a step back and they can look at each other again.  “That was really nice.”

He means it.  It’s been a long time since he’s been with someone else, and being with Stefano tonight has made him feel good in more than just the physical sense.

“Can I do something for you?” Stefano asks, gesturing vaguely toward Sebastian’s erection, which is still standing proudly between them.

“Oh,” Sebastian says quickly, because he had honestly almost forgotten about that.  “You don’t have to.  I mean-”

“I want to,” Stefano says.  He’s not quite making eye contact with Sebastian, and there’s a blush spreading across his cheeks, but the small, self-conscious smile on his face tells Sebastian he really does want to participate, even if he’s suddenly become rather shy.

“Then of course you can,” Sebastian says with a smile.

Stefano pauses for a moment, still looking down at the water rather than at Sebastian.  “What do I…?”

“Uh, have you ever…” Sebastian begins, finding himself at a bit of a loss for words as well.

“No,” Stefano replies.  “I mean, not with another…”

“Oh,” Sebastian says, feeling a blush growing on his own face.  “It’s not really that different from doing it by yourself.  Here,” he says, taking one of Stefano’s hands in his and turning around so that his back is to Stefano.  He guides Stefano’s hand down to his belly just above his cock.

Stefano’s other arm wraps around his body, hand splayed on his chest, and Sebastian releases the hand he’s been holding so Stefano can wrap careful fingers around his cock.  He’s not going to last long.  He can tell that the moment Stefano begins to touch him, tentative at first, but gaining confidence with every stroke.  Stefano’s fingers are slender, but his grasp is firm, and he seems to know the perfect rhythm, the perfect way to squeeze and rub that has Sebastian moaning, “Fuck,” and grasping helplessly at the water around him.

He ends up with one hand pressed to his chest on top of Stefano’s and the other arm reaching behind himself to pull Stefano closer to him, and the feeling of Stefano’s body all up and down his back is lovely- safe and exciting and familiar all at once.

It has to be less than two minutes before he comes, but he can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed.  Stefano’s hand on his cock and Stefano’s skin against his back and Stefano’s breath on his neck just feel too good, and before he know it his hips are jerking forward and he’s spilling over Stefano’s hand, which continues to stroke gently, milking the last few drops from him before he sighs deeply and turns around in Stefano’s arms.

Stefano is looking quite pleased with himself, but Sebastian only has a moment to take note of this before he throws his arms around Stefano, embracing him as his heart slows down, as his breathing returns to normal, as he comes back to himself.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, tilting his head to kiss Stefano’s temple, then his cheek, then his lips.

“Thank you,” Stefano says, and they both laugh.

They stand like that for several minutes, arms wrapped around each other, as though neither of them wants to let go, before Stefano says, “I suppose I should be getting back.”

“Yeah, me too,” Sebastian says, reluctantly letting go of Stefano and taking a step away.

The silence as they wade back to the beach is a little awkward, but once they’ve both put their shorts back on, Stefano gives him a smile that is equal parts warmth and mystery.

“I hope to see you again, Sebastian.”

Sebastian smiles back.  “Likewise.”

His head is spinning as he makes his way back up to the house, but this time he knows it’s not the alcohol.

[sealer-of-wenkamui]

Ciaran Character Analysis

I’ve been thinking a lot about Ciaran over the last few months, so I wanted to try and collect my thoughts and do a proper character analysis of sorts. Of course, things are highly open to interpretation in Dark Souls, so this is just how I read her character and the reasons why.

               First of all, I actually don’t think she was together with Artorias for a number of reasons. She almost certainly had feelings for him, but I think she tried to hide them, and perhaps didn’t fully understand them. For one, she simply speaks of him as a “dear friend”, and while this could also be taken as her keeping their relationship secret, there is no description or unused dialogue from Artorias’ side hinting at it either.  I also wonder if her unused dialogue where she calls him a “dear companion” was changed because it sounds too openly affectionate.  In Gough’s unused dialogue he states that she had “strong feelings” for him, which is worded like they were one sided instead of in a relationship. And while he might have realized it, Gough is also the most perceptive of the Knights, even realizing that the fire will one day fade, while Artorias strikes me as being much more oblivious. Finally, her dying words come across like the confession of a dying woman, one who was never able to say her feelings in life, so she at least will say them now that she has nothing to lose. Interestingly enough, they’re also unsubtitled- words meant not for you, but for Artorias and for herself.

               One of the biggest reasons why I think she would hide her feelings is her position. She is one of four Knights of Gwyn, entrusted with a special soul, and despite her appearance, she is considered something more than human, and seems to have disdain for humans (as seen by her dialogue when you attack her, or even just the way she says “human” in her unused dialogue).

I don’t think it’s the case that she’s human while the others are not just because she’s small, since size seems to be easily variable based on the state of the soul, for example Ornstein grows in size upon absorbing the soul of Smough, or Gael, much larger than your average person after consuming the dark souls of the pygmies. Perhaps even Artorias was a normal size to begin with.

Ultimately the gods and these demigod-like existences with their special souls aren’t all that different from humans, but the important thing is that they are considered as such, so she would be too. Humanity is constantly linked with the dark throughout the series.  And even someone as kindhearted as Artorias, who believes in the goodness of humanity, thinks of the dark as something evil, something to be feared (In fact he words it as believing them to be more than just dark in his unused dialogue). One of the four Knights of the man who sacrificed himself to stave off the Age of Dark would want nothing to do with the dark. Yet feelings, and especially feelings of love, are a very human thing (just look at the pursuers/affinity description for example). That alone seems like the strongest reason to hide any feelings she might have for Artorias, to refuse to acknowledge that human side of her, to repress them and pretend they don’t exist.

Even more so than the other knights she comes across as having something to prove, as someone that has worked so hard to reach the distinguished status she has and doesn’t want anything to take that from her. The lightning arrow description mentions that female knights were rare to begin with, and she was able to work her way up to being one of Gwyn’s most trusted. The porcelain mask description mentions how determined she was to earn it as a decoration of honor (I imagine she first became an especially distinguished Lord’s Blade before becoming one of the four), and the English description actually leaves out another interesting fact- that it’s decorated with her own hair. The wording makes it sound like she cut her own hair to decorate that mask. This makes it seem like she wanted to stand out and make a name for herself- giving herself a distinct look that would come to be feared by all enemies of Lord Gwyn.

On the level of character design, her mask is what she’s most known for, the hornet ring description in DS3 even drawing attention to it. This comes across as a very deliberate choice reflecting her character- as she is a woman whose mask is more than just physical, someone who is perpetually hiding her “human” side. Her mask gives her an otherworldly look, like something beyond humans and reflects her “divine” self. Her purpose in life is to strike down any and all enemies of her Lord, and she has worked so hard towards that alone, almost as if she’s trying to become the mask she wears.  Even though I think she might be able to relax a little around the other knights and especially Artorias, she comes across as a very serious woman that doesn’t truly know much about herself outside of her job. Interestingly, her face under the mask is just the default female face in-game, as if she truly isn’t meant to be seen without it!

No matter how much she tries to repress her feelings though, a mask is still just a mask, and they don’t disappear just because she wants them to. She has strong feelings for Artorias, a darkness she desperately wants to hide. Despite being a Knight of Gwyn, I tend to associate her with the darkness as a result, and even her name may be a reflection of that as well. Ciaran is common Irish boy’s name (Ciara is a girl’s name but she specifically has the masculine form of the name, a decision I also think was intentional and may tie into her being the only woman of the four and how rare female knights were) and looking around, she doesn’t seem to be named after any famous Ciaran as far as I know. So, what is the meaning of the name? Little dark one. A name associated with darkness seems especially significant in this series, and her struggle with her own humanity is central to her character, something that even her name itself betrays.

Since female knights are apparently rare, and she has an especially high-ranking position, I think she would also want to hide her feelings out of fear of being seen as just a girl in love. I also think its interesting how the hornet ring description also draws attention to the fact that she’s the only woman of the four, and how her name is almost exclusively used for boys, and I wonder if she went by the title of “sir” as well. At the same time, her appearance is the distinctly feminine look shared by all the Lord’s Blades, even using her own hair as well, so it’s not something she’s hiding either.  

In addition to being the lone woman of the four, I also got the impression that she’s the youngest and last to join the Knights, which may further add to the feeling of needing to prove herself.

The main reason why actually comes from her speech pattern, when you compare it to the rest of the characters seen in that time period, it stands out. While Elizabeth, Dusk, Gough, and even Artorias all speak in an old-fashioned manner, she noticeably does not, except for “May the Lord guide thee” which sounds like a set phrase anyone serving Gwyn might say. If it was tied to status, then she would speak that way as well, she’s hardly trying to hide it (and besides we see other characters opposed to the gods that speak in the same way, like the hollow outside the Ringed City or Yuria). Maybe she did come from a more humble upbringing and that could be why, but with how varied the characters that do speak like that are I don’t think that’s it (and even some clearly noble characters don’t, like Lothric or Oceiros). So I wonder if its simply because she was born later once speech styles had changed.

Her position also makes sense if so as well, she’s an assassin, so even if she wasn’t around until after the Age of Fire had begun and Gwyn had gained status, that’s exactly when you would need a skilled assassin to eliminate your enemies. In other words, she’s not a dragonslayer, so it still makes sense if she is younger.

Going back to her feelings, the way I see it is that Artorias being consumed by the Abyss and killed is what finally forced her to face them- she’s not able to recognize just how strong they are until the man himself is gone. Perhaps she planned to kill him herself as she was in the area, but realized she couldn’t, or rather that she would almost surely hesitate and get herself killed. In a way, its almost a relief the chosen undead came along and killed him instead, she understood it was something that needed to be done, and though she doesn’t seem to like humans very much, she doesn’t hold anything against you.  You find her immediately after killing Artorias, so she almost certainly would have been the one to find his corpse and make that small memorial, as if she wanted to make sure it would be her and no one else to find him. Despite being the kind of person who would always be watching her back, you find her kneeling in prayer, not so much as turning to look at you when you approach, and you can even easily attack her from behind in such a state. As if simply being there in prayer was the most important thing in that moment- and she surely has a lot of thoughts going through her head and a lot of feelings hitting her all at once. At this point, she can’t lie to herself, and even if she couldn’t confess while he was alive, if you take her life, she’ll at least do it before she dies.

When you speak to her, she seems to have no interest in you outside of obtaining Artorias’ soul, with only his will stopping her from taking it from you. She claims she wants to pay proper respect to him with it, but at the moment, his actual grave hasn’t been made yet, so I imagine she might take it into herself for a while until that point.

As to her eventual fate, I do think its likely she’s the corpse found behind his grave that has the hornet ring. At first I wondered why someone of her status wouldn’t have a proper burial, but in time, not many people are going to that grave, and those that do don’t return, so it may simply be she died after it was forgotten, and her corpse was never found.

The fact that she will give you her tracers if you give her his soul implies she gives up being a Knight of Gwyn (they’ve half fallen apart at that point anyway), but she doesn’t strike me as the type to kill herself right then and there, I think it would be a slow wasting away and curling up to die behind the grave of the man she loved. She (nor Gough) drop the special souls that they should have as part of the four… and while it may simply be to not further encourage people to kill them, if that soul is what gives them a long life (Ornstein is somehow still around after all) she may have purposely given it up so that she may eventually die… or maybe its after she receives his soul and she keeps both hers and his at his grave.

Finally, her ring ends up in the untended graves in DS3, and while there are a number of reasons you can come up with for how it ended up there, I feel like the most important part is the symbolic meaning behind it- for it is found by a grave with a Farron greatsword, one of the types modeled after that of Artorias’. It feels as if even in death, her feelings linked the two of them together.

While not nearly as direct, even DS2 has a parallel to Ciaran in the form of Alsanna. Much like Ciaran, you find her kneeling in prayer mourning her lost love, who also happens to be a left-handed swordsman who sacrificed himself and got corrupted and even has (several) animal companions. (DS2 also is where its mentioned that Artorias was left-handed, and its consistently used to mark characters paralleling him, even in Bloodborne with Ludwig.) Her soul even gives you a pair of curved swords. Parallels can also be drawn between the other three knights and people closely associated with the fragments of Manus, but only Ciaran parallels the child of dark herself, further deepening her association with the dark.

More directly, DS3 has the Dancer and Vordt, two knights who seem to honor Ciaran and Artorias’ legacy, and were always seen together- in fact you can see phantoms of what seems to be them before they were transformed into beasts walking the streets of Irithyll together (Vordt too, is left-handed). Despite how she tried to hide her feelings, I think it may have been her ring that betrayed them, so they ended up being remembered together. The Pontiff Knights in general also have a great deal of similarity to the Lord’s Blades, somewhat in armor design but mostly in their job, being described as Sulyvahn’s “punitive blades”. The Dancer herself most notably has two curved blades that look remarkably similar to Ciaran’s tracers in shape, as well as being gold and silver, even wielding the gold one in her left hand like she did.

There are probably more little details I could add, but this is already long, and I’ve covered the major points that I’ve thought a lot about. I tried to explain my reasoning as best as possible too, but there’s plenty of stuff that’s unknown and that’s half the fun. Feel free to comment, I love Ciaran and I love to think about her and discuss her!

[coffeestainsandcashmere]

Let No Man Steal Your Thyme - (older Dramione), Part Four

Well, here’s part four for you! It’s really just part three continued, but since I didn’t want the previous part to be 7k words or so long, I split it up. The total wordcount is 12.4k words now!!

Thank you very much to those of you who’ve commented and sent me lovely owls on here to let me know you’re enjoying it! (this is a sideblog for me, so I don’t respond to comments on posts, but I do answer asks as Cashmere).

I know a lot of folks (me included) don’t like starting to read WIPs that are unfinished, so thanks to those of you who have hopped on now. Consider yourselves honoured beta readers! It’ll go up on AO3 when it’s all posted on here and completed.

No real warnings for this one, just some discussion of their past relationships (for both Hermione and Draco) before the plot thickens and things warm up a bit in part five. Not sure when that’ll go up - it kind of depends on how much feedback I get on this one I guess! Comments and reblogs feed an author’s muse after all.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

___

At her wry smile and tiny shrug, Malfoy laughed, apparently reassured. “A little,” he repeated softly to himself under his breath.  

After a heartbeat she shot him a sidelong look and added, “You’ve changed so much, Draco. I can hardly believe it, but it’s clear as day.”

He did a little double take at the sound of his name on her lips, and then he smiled. It was such a tiny, fragile melting of his expression that she nearly missed it.  

“I mean it,” she said, tightening her fingers on his steel-cable forearm for a fraction of a second. “I don’t know if it was the war or your marriage, or becoming a father, or something else entirely, but… you’re not the same person you were back at Hogwarts. Not at all.”

“Thank fuck for that,” he hissed. “I had a hell of a lot of growing up to do. I think I did ninety percent of it in the space of sixth year. But Astoria helped steady me after… after Hogwarts and all the bollocks and bullshit of the aftermath of… of… you know.”

“‘Bollocks and bullshit’ is a mighty casual way to say ‘a short stay in Azkaban and three years of house arrest’, Malfoy. That’s got to change a person, for sure.”  

He shrugged. “I’m just glad it’s all in the past now. For the most part, anyway.” The silence that followed spoke volumes of the baggage that they were all still hauling around with them, of one kind or another.  

They wound their way across the park’s pathways with no particular direction in mind. As the glittering waters of the Serpentine drew into view in the deepening dusk, she murmured, “I’m glad you came tonight.”

“Me too,” he said, voice little more than a low rumble above the sussurating wind in the trees. “Theo seemed on fine form, and it was nice to see Pans again. It’s been a few months. Longbottom looks good too,” he added as an afterthought. “He grew into himself, didn’t he?”

“Mmm,” she nodded. “Never would have called his and Pansy’s relationship though. I thought she went for the bad boys like you and Blaise…”

Malfoy snorted. “I’m a ‘bad boy’ now, am I? That’s an interesting spin on my past.”

“Maybe not so much ‘bad boy’ now as ‘grumpy reclusive Mr. Rochester’. How about that?”

“He one of your Muggle heroes?” he asked without sting.  

“Yeah. He’s Jane Eyre’s leading male. A bad-tempered rich man who has a big house in the middle of nowhere and a secret deranged wife in the attic.”

“Well, I hit three out of the four criteria…” he said and Hermione’s heart lurched as she remembered he wasn’t a bachelor but a widower.  

“Shit, Draco, I’m sorry,” she said. “That was thoughtless of me.”

He shook his head, the silver hair of his forelock tossing about as he chuckled, an entirely unfamiliar sound which she decided she wanted to hear again almost immediately. “It’s fine, Granger. You haven’t got a malicious bone in your body. Besides, it was a long time ago.”  

They came naturally to a halt in front of the man-made lake and stared out at the lapping water for a time before she uncoupled her grip from his arm and shucked her coat back on.  

That done, she drew in a deep breath and paused, leaning her forearms on the back of a cast-iron bench overlooking a flock of huddled, plastic pedalo boats moored up offshore. Malfoy remained a pace behind her, back straight as an arrow, his hands tucked into his pockets now that she was no longer hanging onto him.  

A fair few Muggles were out and about, some walking lazily as she and Draco had been, others pounding along the pavement on their evening run, and a good number were walking dogs. The sheer mundanity of it all struck her deeply for a moment and her breath caught in her throat.  

“Granger?” he asked in a soft voice.  

She straightened and turned to look back at him over her shoulder. “I was just thinking how close we came to losing all of this… Sometimes it seems like a million years ago, and others…”

“Like yesterday,” he finished a beat later. His eyes glittered in the half-light, pale lashes ghostly and ethereal, and in the dark, his pupils were wide and black and inviting.  

“Let’s keep going, hmm?” she chirped.  

In fact, he walked her all the way back to her rather modest apartment in Muggle London. “You didn’t want to live closer to work at the bookshop?” he asked as she fumbled for her very ordinary, Muggle keys with half-frozen fingers.  

Giving up, she murmured a quick ‘alohomora’ and pressed her hand to the extra ward she had placed on it. “I’ve lived here since I moved out of the house with Ron. Never seen any point in looking for something bigger or whatever. It’s cosy, and it’s just me anyway. You want to come in? I’ll have to tweak the wards if you do.”

“I… I don’t want to be a bother,” he said, his expression pinching.  

“No bother. It’s a three minute job, if that.”  

He looked torn, teetering on the edge of a refusal, but as she swept her curls back out of her face and blinked up at him, he seemed to waver, and finally he nodded. “Alright. Yes please.”

“Stay put. I’ll be right back,” she said, and left the door open so that he wouldn’t feel like a stray dog shut out in the cold.  

After setting her bag and coat down on a sofa in the main living room, she stood and centred herself, reaching for the wards with her magic. They thrummed reassuringly as she wove a slightly different pattern into them, allowing Draco Malfoy to come and go, and then she released the magic once again.  

“Ok!” she called to him and he stepped tentatively inside, shutting the door with a polite click behind him and levering off his fancy dragonhide Oxfords at the doormat.  

There was something so intimately sweet about seeing him pad across the fake-wooden lino of her living room floor in his dark socks that she couldn’t help grinning.  

“Those are some powerful wards you’ve got up,” he commented as he blinked curiously around the room.  

“Hangover from the Ministry days, I suppose. Plus this is technically a Muggle building, so I can’t have anyone noticing anything strange. There’s another witch here, up on the seventh floor, but we don’t see each other often. You want something to drink? I’ve got tea or coffee, and a small selection of wine, though nothing nearly as nice as what Theo has on tap…”

He smiled. “A tea would be lovely.”

She ducked out into the tiny galley kitchen and lost herself in the simple task of filling and boiling the Muggle kettle. She turned to find Malfoy leaning his shoulder against the door frame, hands cupped under opposite elbows, watching her with that owl-like intensity again.  

“Muggle kitchen,” she grinned almost sheepishly. “Magic is great for a lot of things, but some routines just can’t be beaten.” Ron had always hated and mistrusted things like electric kettles and refrigerators, not quite fully understanding the way it grounded her in her Muggle upbringing.  

“I’m not judging you,” he said, voice low and slightly hoarse. “I’m just interested. Do you mind?”

“No,” she said, fishing in the cupboard for her selection of teabags. She held the cardboard box open for him to select one and her eyebrows rose when he chose a delicate mint and chamomile one, but she offered no comment. “I can give you a masterclass in using Muggle kitchens if you like.”

His lips pulled back into a broad, dazzling smile and he laughed. “Go on then.”

“Fridge,” she said, opening it and showing him. “Keeps things cold; powered by electricity. Freezer, keeps things, well, frozen…” She continued her tour while the tea steeped, and by the time she was done, the tea was ready and they made their way back out into the humble living room, with a second-hand sofa and a battered old coffee table with more ringed coffee-stains on than visible surface.  

Her stomach rumbled and he raised an eyebrow at her.  

“I didn’t get a chance to eat anything yet, other than nibbles at Theo’s,” she cringed.

“Don’t let me stop you having something for supper then,” he said.  

“I’m not going to scoff a freezer dinner on my own while you sit there and watch me,” she blurted, laughing. “Unless you want to join me? I’ve got a couple of pizzas in the freezer. Nothing fancy, but they’ll be ready in twenty minutes or so if I put the oven on now.”

Malfoy looked like he’d missed something somewhere but was too embarrassed to ask, so he just said, “Pizza? Sure. The last time I had pizza was when I took Scorpius to Rome.”

“Well,” she said, setting her mug down on the table and heading into the kitchen. Over her shoulder, she called, “I can guaranteed these won’t be nearly as good as those were, but they’re pretty tasty. I think they’re both chicken and pesto - is that alright?”

“Perfectly.”

Oven on, she returned and folded herself into the squashy armchair which sat at right angles to the sofa, tucking one leg up beneath her and drawing the other foot up beside her. Malfoy, of course, sat like he was about to take tea with the Queen, while she felt like a pretzel on a shelf. A comfy pretzel though, she thought as she reached for her mug.  

“I’m glad we walked back,” she said after a moment. “I can’t believe I worked myself up into such a tizzy over Ron like that. It’s so childish…”

Malfoy sipped his tea and then cradled it between his long, pale fingers for a moment. “What happened between you two? I thought you three were —”

“— the ‘Golden Trio’?” she purred, voice laden with sarcasm.  

He made a conciliatory gesture with his head but said nothing more.  

She sighed. “We were. I mean, Harry and I are still super close - I’m James’ godmother after all. Ginny’s the sister I never had, but something went wrong with Ron somewhere along the line.” She knew exactly what the final blow had been, but there had been a myriad other issues on both sides before that. “I think… I think he felt like he never had a real niche, you know? He was always second fiddle to Harry in the heroics and quidditch departments, and, well, everyone knows I was the brains of the trio,” she said self-effacingly. “That’s not to say that he’s stupid — he’s not.”  

Malfoy scoffed at that, and for a moment she saw the petulant, petty little thirteen year old he had once been. A deeply sceptical look filled his eyes, and he looked like he was physically biting his tongue to keep himself from disagreeing with her.  

“No, really,” she scowled. “He just makes stupid, split-second decisions without thinking anything through. I’m not defending what he did or how he behaved at the end of our marriage, but…” she sighed heavily and drank a mouthful of too-hot tea that scalded her throat on its way down. “He’s in a pretty good place now with Lavender. We just… rub each other up the wrong way, even now I think.”

“Theo said he was being an arsehole earlier,” Malfoy pushed.  

She shrugged. “A bit. I think he carries a lot of bitterness towards…” she gestured vaguely in Malfoy’s direction, “… Slytherins? I’m not really sure. Stupid house prejudices that a lot of witches and wizards clearly never get over. As if one moment in our history defines us for the rest of our lives, or as if we’re limited to the characteristics of the house we were sorted into at the age of eleven… It’s just so fucking dumb, Malfoy!”

He laughed softly at that.  

“What? You don’t agree?”

“No, I absolutely agree with you. I was enjoying hearing you swear, that’s all. Forgive me.”

She flushed and looked away, anger leaving her as swiftly as it had come. “Ron has a lot of insecurities, and a few of them centre around me, but… I guess I just wasn’t enough for him in the end.”

“How could you possibly be ‘not enough’ for someone, Granger?” Draco asked in a hoarse whisper. “And you were the bloody Minister for Magic for Merlin’s sake…! What more did he want from his witch? Morgana herself reincarnated?”

She laughed long and loud at that, and Malfoy seemed to relax a little in the wake of his little outburst. “My reign was very short though,” she said as she stood and took the opportunity to put the pizzas in the oven. When she returned, she asked carefully, “What about you and Astoria?”  

“What about us?” he asked, voice even and steady, though his eyes swirled softly like Trelawney’s crystal balls, hiding their secrets behind a shifting sheen of silver.  

“Were you happy?”

Malfoy’s eyes slid away from her to stare unseeing at a point across the room, and he sat back against the sofa cushions, still nursing his cheap, Tesco mug between his hands.

“Yes,” he said eventually. “For the most part we were. It wasn’t… earth-shattering or anything, but it was pretty good, all things considered. It was arranged by our families, you know?”

She nodded.

“I knew Astoria’s older sister, Daphne, far better than I knew her, but Daph promised to an Austrian count already. He’s actually very nice. I’m glad for her.”

“I vaguely remember Daphne from school, but I didn’t have many classes with her as we got older.”

“I’d met Astoria a few times before it was all formally arranged, but even then, we only met a total of perhaps five or six times before the wedding proper. It wasn’t the huge event my mother had always dreamed of throwing for me, but with my father in Azkaban and me under house arrest, the mood wasn’t really there, you know?”  

Hermione did some quick maths and realised he must have been only nineteen or so when he’d been married, and her eyes widened. She’d only been twenty-two when Ron and she had tied the knot, but still, that struck her as very young. Scorpius hadn’t been born straight away though, and there had been vicious gossip about blood-curse-related infertility until the little mandrake had arrived. Hermione been about to make the leap to Minister at the incredibly tender age of twenty five when the attack on the Manor had taken place, and Scorpius had been mere months old at the time.

“Toria and I grew to know each other better,” Draco went on, “And in time, I think we came to love each other, in our own way. She certainly adored Scorpius before the blood curse took her.”

“What was she like?” Hermione asked in a whisper.  

Again, Malfoy sighed and closed his eyes with his head tipped back to rest against the sofa cushions. “Quiet, intelligent, articulate, easy-going most of the time, but when she got passionate about something, she could be pretty stubborn. Scorpius inherited a lot of that from her.”

“He looks like you though,” she said. “I mean… almost exactly like you did at that age. It gave me quite the turn when I saw the two of you on Platform 9 3/4 you know?”

He smirked and cracked an eye open. “Tell me about it,” he said. “Mother is always calling him ‘Draco’ instead of ‘Scorpius’. It drives him nuts.”

They shared a laugh at that. “Your mother lives with you at the Manor then?”

“Yes and no,” he said, shuffling a little and getting comfy again, relaxing his torso more casually against the arm of the sofa at last. “She moved out of the main manor when Toria and I married. Now she lives at what we affectionately call the Dower House. Officially it’s called Nightshade Cottage.”

“Ominous name,” she said and he smiled again.  

“Apt though. There’s a rambling, stone-walled potion-garden round the back of it, full of all sorts of interesting plants, and a stunning rose garden at the front. It’s really beautiful in spring, and rather potent in summer.”

“You make it sound almost welcoming,” she said without thinking and he huffed a dry laugh.  

“Parts of the estate really are lovely, Granger; its sordid past notwithstanding.”

When the beeper went on the timer, Malfoy jumped and looked confused, but she laughed and showed him. She did use her wand to cut up the pizzas though, and by the time they were seated back on the sofas with plates in their lap, they resumed their easy talk as if they’d never been interrupted. Watching Malfoy in his fancy clothes and eating pizza with his hands was almost too much for Hermione to bear, but if she focused on his voice too much instead, she found herself mesmerised on that front too. Who’d have thought that Hermione Granger would have found herself growing more and more attracted to Draco Malfoy all these years later.  

Long after they’d finished eating, they spoke a little more of Scorpius, and how Malfoy guessed he was getting on after his first week at school. “Of course, he hasn’t written to me yet, but I’m hoping he might pen something this weekend…”

“You worry about him, don’t you?”

“Constantly,” he snorted. “One of the burdens of being a father, I suppose.”

“Of being a good one,” she amended, and she didn’t miss the way he swallowed thickly and blinked his glassy eyes rapidly a few times.  

Then he sighed expansively and then levered himself to his feet. “It’s late, Granger, and I should probably be going. I’ve got a meeting to get to early tomorrow morning in Scotland, and I still have a bit of paperwork to do tonight.”

“But it’s the weekend, Malfoy,” she said as she rose too. “You can’t have to work, surely?”

He nodded and shrugged, but made his way to the door and slid his feet back into his shoes without further comment or explanation.  

A little, fluttering, doxy-wing cloud of nerves shimmered to life in her chest as they stood face to face at the door. Malfoy swallowed again and hitched a tiny, lopsided smile. “Thanks for tonight, Granger. And…” he faltered and shook his head. “Yeah,” he said roughly. “Thank you.”

“I feel like I should be thanking you,” she said. “You got me out of my funk and walked me safely home.” She ran her fingers through her mass of curls and didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered to watch the movement before he blinked and turned away to open the door, clearing his throat.  

With his fingers still on the handle, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. “My pleasure, Granger. Sincerely.”

Hermione barely managed to offer him a watery smile before he was striding off down the corridor.  

She lingered in the doorway long after his footsteps had faded down the stairwell — apparently using the Muggle lift alone had proved too daunting for him. After she locked the door and recharged the wards behind her, she picked up his empty plate and mug to put them in the dishwasher.  

As she passed the dresser that had once belonged to her mother, she caught sight of a moving photograph of Crookshanks. The half-kneazel was staring at the flat’s front door with his yellow, lamp-like eyes wide. “What do you think of him now, huh Crooks?” she asked the photo. “Bit different, eh?”

Photo-Crookshanks purred and circled in the bottom corner of the frame a few times, bottle-brush tail twitching, before returning to his fireplace and curling up with a look of contentment on his face. God, she missed that cat.  

“Yeah. I think I like him too, Crooks,” she said. “Merlin help me, but I think I like him too.”

.

Part Five

___

I’ve only written all 12,410 words of this because people told me they liked it, otherwise it’d have stayed on whatever the first chapter was, so if you want more, let me know with a reblog! Feel free to send me an anonymous owl too if you’re more comfortable doing that.

Anyway, take care, and more soon, I hope. I’ve got a fair chunk plotted out, and it should take us up to Christmas in the storyline (it’s September now for them).

writing masterlist | Ao3

[speechlessxx]

Fall For You (Steve Rogers x Reader)

Summary: In which Steve is the emergency contact of his ex-wife.

Warnings: amnesia, mentioned accident, incorrect medical banter, sad Steve, bad writing, angst, language, divorce... for some reason I’m always writing about divorce.

Word Count: 1.9k

Inspired from: Fall For You by Secondhand Serenade

Feedback is appreciated! 

The cabin used to be a home. It was filled with laughter, excited chatter, loving moans. Steve recalled when he carried you bridal-style over the threshold. You were all giggles and he was all smiles. Both of you excited for the next chapter in your lives. What happened? 

Steve questioned that every day as he walked past your favorite wedding photo. It was hung over the fireplace. Albeit, it hung crookedly after you slammed the front door - the same door he carried you through - and never returned. 

As easily as he could’ve straightened out the photo - or even taken it down - he couldn’t find the strength to do so. He found irony in that. He was a super soldier and he couldn’t bring himself to take down a picture frame. 

You and Steve were different in many, many ways. However, you both managed to balance one another out. Where he was strict and followed orders to the tee, you were a go-with-the-flow type of agent, a master of adaptability. Where you always felt like you were floating away into nothingness, he was grounded. He kept you steady while you kept him on his toes.

You were a perfect couple. Were.

 Steve wanted to retire. After saving the universe, defeating Thanos, losing Tony and Nat, he longed for normalcy. He wanted a home, a wife, kids. And for a time, you wanted the same thing.

However, you couldn’t find yourself settling into the life Steve wanted. You were itching for something else -- that excitement that came with missions. And after a year, you realized you didn’t want retirement, at least not yet. You felt as if you could still contribute to the world and felt selfish hiding away in your perfect cabin home.

Steve disagreed. He always disagreed. He told you that you both deserved to settle down. It was okay that you both walked away. It wasn’t selfish. In fact, he called you selfish for wanting your old life back. He tried to convince you for days and you tried to let yourself be convinced. But it just wasn’t enough.

On a stormy night, the once laughter filled home was full of screams. The once perfect couple yelled at one another at the top of their lungs. You had enough. You raced to your shared bedroom, packed a back, and left with the slamming of the door. And he let you go. 

Give her an hour, or two. Steve told himself. But two hours turned into a day. And a day turned into a week. He grew anxious. He prepared to follow you out. He had connections. He knew he could find you. But just as he opened the door, Sam stood there with his head hung low and a somber look on his face. He handed Steve a file and said, “I’m sorry, man.” 

You divorced your husband. 

-=+=-

It’s been over a year. Through Sam and Bucky, Steve kept tabs on you. Eventually, that stopped. They advised Steve to move on which angered him. Had you moved on, too? (The answer was no. You still loved him very much). 

With your absence, Steve preoccupied himself with home renovations. He adopted a dog, a golden retriever whose previous owners named “Captain”. 

As he juggled cutting wood and playing fetch with Captain, his phone rang. It was an unknown number. He frowned as he put the phone to his ear, “hello?”

“Hi, is this Mr. Steven Rogers?” A woman’s voice rang through the phone. 

“This is he. What’s this about?” 

“Hi, Mr. Rogers. I - There’s no easy way for me to say this, but you’re the emergency contact of a Mrs. (Y/N) Rogers.” Color drained from his face. “Well... she’s been involved in an accident.” 

It had been weeks since he received that phone call. He stayed by your bedside with Captain at his feet. Bucky had explained you were following a mafia boss. Apparently, you had followed a lead but the boss knew about you. He had his goons crash into your car as you were driving to the compound. Doctors explained Steve that you had severe trauma to the head. Steve thought the image of your puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks would haunt him for the rest of his life. He was wrong. You were bruised and bandaged, cuts ans scrapes littered all over your body. Your lifeless body hooked up to machines. That would haunt him for the rest of his life.

“Expect the worst,” the doctor advise.

-=+=-

When you awoke, Steve was happy. You, on the other hand, were confused. Who was this blonde man celebrating your eyes opening? His smile quickly faded as he saw your confusion. “Do you know who I am?” he asked you and he prayed for a yes. But you did your best to shake your head. No. You didn’t know this man. 

The doctors explained that you had amnesia. The man at your bedside asked if your memories would be recovered, but the doctor didn’t give a definite answer. 

All you knew about yourself was your name, so you relied on the handsome blonde man to fill in the gaps. You returned to your room at the Avengers Compound a week after waking up. From what you gathered, he had a cabin in the woods, but he refused to go back. He chose to stay by your side. 

Throughout the weeks, he was your sense of comfort. Your sense of familiarity. Although you didn’t recognize him or had any memory of your past with him, something inside you told you to trust him. 

He explained to you what you did as a living -- an Avenger. He explained that you were married to him, he had photographic proof. He explained that you left him to go back to being an Avenger. You chuckled when he finished. “I’m an idiot,” you thought aloud. Why would you leave this man? 

Steve Rogers. 

Throughout your months recuperating, you found yourself falling in love with Steve Rogers. He tended to you and cared for you. Why would you leave such a man? You scolded past self daily for her mistake. 

“You good?” Steve asked as he finished drying your hair. You nodded. “You’re quiet today.”

“Just thinking,” you smiled. He hummed in response. “You don’t need to be my personal slave, Steve... I can dry my own hair.” 

He chuckled but didn’t respond. In truth, many of the small deeds that Steve did for you, you could do on your own. He just used it as an excuse to be around you -- not that you minded. 

He helped you get into your bed, tucking you in. He pressed a kiss to your forehead before turning to leave. You sat up on your bed and grabbed his arm. “Can you... uh... can you stay with me for the night?” 

Steve gave you a warm smile as he nodded. “Scoot over,” he said and you did as told. You turned to your side as he draped his arm over your waist. “This okay?” he asked, not wanting to push you. 

“Yeah.” Steve let out a sigh of relief. He was always careful. He knew with your situation, he shouldn’t expect you to still be in love with him. He fluttered around you like a moth to a light because he was afraid no one else would take care of you considering everyone in the compound was busy. And you were grateful for his company. 

“Stevie?” you asked after a few moments of silence. He hummed. “Do you think tomorrow... you can take me to the cabin?” You turned in the bed to look at him. 

He gave you a smile. “It’ll be my pleasure.” 

-=+=-

The next morning, he drove you up to the cabin. The ride was full of laughs as he played music that he claimed was your favorite. You danced in the passenger seat as he sung. Honestly, you preferred his singing over the music. 

He opened your passenger door and helped you get out the truck. You took in the sight of the cabin as he let Captain out the backseat. It felt familiar. 

Your fingertips grazed the wooden banister of the front porch. You suddenly had a memory of laughing as you sat on the porch, painting it with Steve. 

“Can I do something?” Steve asked, bringing you back to the present. You nodded. You let out a squeal as he suddenly picked you up bridal style.

“Steve!” You laughed as you squirmed in his arms. You wrapped your arms around his neck and held on tightly. “Don’t drop me!” 

He chuckled. “I won’t, I won’t!” 

He pushed the front door open as he maneuvered your bodies into the house. You were both a giggling mess as he finally let you down. He whistled for Captain who ran into the house and nuzzled his face into the back of your knee. You laughed as you bent down to scratch his ear. 

“So this was our home,” Steve said, a sad smile on his face as he closed the door. 

“Whoever decorated it had a great sense of style,” you complimented.

“Yeah, you definitely had a good eye.” Steve nodded.

“Oh c’mon, you helped too, right!” You argued. Steve just shook his head. 

“I mean, I suggested a thing or two,” he shrugged. “Go ‘head. Look around.” 

You smiled at him as you carefully walked around the house. You examined every little scratch in the paint, every trinket on display -- everything. There was a small desk pushed to the side of the living room. Its drawer was ajar. You opened it fully and saw sketches. Pages upon pages of sketches. 

Some were of the New York City skyline. Others were the trees that surrounded your home. There was one of the cabin. But what caught your eye were the drawings of a woman. Some had her posing. Some were candid with her washing the dishes, eating, looking out a window. Every detail was drawn. You smiled. “You’re quite the artist,” you told Steve.

He smirked, “what made you think those were mine?”

“Well, considering I’m not much of an artist,” you laughed. “And I’m not so self-absorbed that I’d draw myself.” He chuckled. “No, you’re really talented.” He muttered a thank you as you put the drawings back, closing the drawer. 

You turned and saw the fireplace. Steve stiffened when he realized what you were staring at -- the crooked picture frame. You frowned slightly as You carefully walked over and reached up to adjust it. 

After straightening it out, you realized what it was. Steve had shown you pictures of your wedding, but you had never seen this one. You were in the same white wedding gown and he his tux. The photo was taken off guard. You were in each other’s arms as you swayed to the music. 

You stared at the photo and it felt like it started moving. You remembered the ceremony. You remembered Steve tearing up as you walked down the aisle. You remembered Bucky and Sam sharing the honor of the best man and their bickering during the speeches. You remembered your speech and Steve’s. You remembered the honeymoon. The blissful getaway. You remembered him carrying you into the cabin. You remembered the fight. You remembered slamming the door shut and not looking back. 

You gasped as you backed away from the photo. Steve rushed to your side, catching you as you stumbled. “You alright?” He asked you. 

You blinked away tears as you nodded. You looked up at him and cupped his face in your hands, pulling him in for a kiss. He was surprised at first, but quickly melted into your touch. Oh, how he missed your touch. 

You pulled away. “I remember...” you smiled, happy tears falling from your eyes. “I remember...” 

[bosspigeon]

38 kiss prompt for juni :) if u want <3

38. relieved kisses

He can't stop staring at his hands, but at the same time, looking at them sort of makes him feel sick.

He's sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, while he waits on the results of whatever tests are being run on him now, but earlier when he went for an anxious pee in the tiny, hyper-sterile hospital bathroom, he almost collapsed laughing against the sink because he couldn't help but mutter "Out, damned spot!" to himself as he washed his hands.

Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him.

It was less funny, after that. Sometimes, Juni really regrets being an English major.

The red hasn't faded. He's pretty sure it's not going to. It's like two big, red port wine stains, from fingertips to forearms. Bloodstains that won't go away. Soaked into his skin, into his veins. He hasn't even begun to figure out how he's going to explain them to people outside the Agency, or hide them.

When a fuss kicks up outside his door, he naturally jolts so badly he slips right off the bed, because suddenly hearing loud, pissed-off swearing after sitting in silence with only his own terrible thoughts for company for what has to have been close to an hour is just a bit startling.

At least it's not hard to figure out just who is causing the fuss, once he climbs back onto the bed and tries to pretend he wasn't just under it once the door bursts open.

Mason's lips are curled fiercely, his hair is a wreck, and he braces both hands on the doorframe as if to block the attending nurse (a man who looks mostly like a very small human, aside from his tufted ears, and his slightly-too-large-to-be-normal orange eyes) from getting inside.

Juni, sitting on the bed kicking his feet nervously and twiddling his fingers, tries for a casual greeting, but all he really manages to squeak out is, "How'd you get past Elidor?"

Mason doesn't answer, but Juni's nurse squawks out a deeply offended, "You can't go in there! We're not finished running his tests!" and then the vampire is pushing him back with one foot, his boot laces dangling as if he'd hauled them on as quickly as possible before booking it here, slips inside the room, and shuts and locks the door behind him. He takes a nearby chair and wedges it under the handle for good measure, before turning his stormy eyes back on the detective while the handle jiggles fruitlessly and the nurse makes noises that sound less and less human the more worked up he gets.

Juni's not sure what to even make of that look.

"Um," Juni offers cleverly as Mason stalks towards him like a wildcat, eyes dark and face clouded, even more unreadable than usual. He looks as if he's drinking him in with his eyes, taking in every inch of him from top to bottom, and Juni really wishes he were wearing something more flattering than a hospital gown and ugly non-slip socks that he's definitely going to steal once they let him change back into his own clothes.

Mason finally stops, a fraction of an inch in front of Juni's knees, and looks down at him like he's...

Like Juni is something. Something important, maybe? Something... something necessary. Like he's coming up for air, like seeing Juni is all he needs to keep breathing.

He feels stupid for even thinking it, stupid and self-absorbed, but he doesn't get much time to start self-flagellating, because Mason is grabbing him by his cheeks and kissing him like he's trying to draw the air right from his lungs, trying to make Juni feel as breathless and unmoored as he is, like he needs to imprint the taste of him on his tongue to assure himself he's still in one piece, that he can still touch him.

Or maybe you're reading too much into things, Juni thinks dazedly, once Mason seems to remember humans do need to breathe. He doesn't let go of Juni's face, though he gentles his touch once he seems to realize how tightly he's holding him.

Juni sucks in a much-needed breath, his lips tingling, the skin around them rubbed raw by Mason's stubble, and he looks up at the vampire wide-eyed and swallows hard. "Your hands are shaking," he murmurs weakly. He sounds far away, even to his own ears.

Mason, again, doesn't answer him, and his grim silence is beginning to ratchet up Juni's already overwrought nerves. Instead, he grabs the detective's hands and yanks them (in perhaps the loosest sense of the word, because there's the urgency, yes, but also a pointed care to his touch) up to look them over. Juni winces and looks away. He wants to pull them back and sit on them, but when he tugs even slightly, Mason looks up sharply, and his eyes look wild.

"This," he growls, jerking his chin down at Juni's red-stained hands, "is enough DMB to down Adam three times over."

Juni swallows hard. He doesn't look down at his hands. "Y... you should be pretty proud of yourself then," he snaps back, but his sharp tone falls flat with how his voice is wobbling. His vision starts to blur a bit, and he blinks furiously in an effort to clear it. Not now. You are not going to start crying now, you useless fucking— "Seeing as it was in you first."

"They wouldn't tell me what happened," Mason says, tossing his hair with a wordless, furious sound. He looks like he wants to rake it out of his face, but he'd have to let go of Juni's hands to do it, and seeing as his fingers are twining between the human's, he doesn't seem likely to do that anytime soon. "Elidor gave me a little, more than he was probably supposed to, but you were— I woke up here. You were gone. The last thing I remember was—" His eyes find Juni's again, and while he still has a look like a caged panther second from throwing itself against the bars, he's beginning to visibly settled. "You were crying."

"I cry all the time," Juni sniffles, smiling weakly. "You know that."

"Tell me what the fuck happened out there," Mason says. Phrased like a command, but it comes out almost pleading. He pulls Juni's head to his chest, like he knows— like he remembers Juni hunched over him and crying, trying to make out the sound of a heartbeat under his owned panicked sobs. He closes his eyes and sinks into it, focuses on the strong, steady rhythm.

Mason stares at him hard, and they've had sex—a fair amount of it, at this point—but Juni's never felt so bare.

And then, like Juni isn't two-hundred-plus pounds of anxiety, Mason lets go of one hand (just one) so he can scoop the detective up and deposit him more fully onto the bed, and crawl on with him, bundling him close. Juni thinks once someone does come that can open the wedged door, they're going to have one hell of a fight on their hands trying to drag Mason off him.

"I don't really know what happened," Juni murmurs into Mason's shirt. He's a little annoyed they let Mason wear his own goddamned clothes, but Juni's got his entire backside hanging out of his hospital gown. As if he can sense the discomfort (which he probably can, perceptive bastard) Mason yanks the thin blanket up to Juni's waist. He mumbles a quiet thanks. "Um... It was just.. We got separated from the rest of the team, and we wound up surrounded. You... You'd already taken a dose. One of them had, like, a dart gun or something, and caught you out when they ambushed us. And then I got damsel'd, as per usual, and when you were distracted, one of them—" Juni chokes. He can't see much, face buried in the vampire's chest, but he can feel the dark shirt growing wet under his cheek. "It was a big fucking knife, Mason. And it was dripping, even before they pulled it out of you." He swallows, and it feels like he's choking down a mouthful of sand. "It's like they were trying to gut you. Like they were trying to make a point." Before he loses it entirely, he says, "I... I don't think they were normal trappers."

"I don't think so either," Mason says, and his voice is so, so soft. It's so good to hear his voice. It takes a minute for Juni to register the hand tangled in his hair, thumb dragging along the line between the shaved part of his undercut and smooth skin, a soothing gesture for both of them, he thinks. "Elidor says you pulled the DMB out of me."

"Before you ask, I have no idea how I did it," he mumbles. It's a good thing Mason's got super-hearing, because Juni's not going to lift his face from the vampire's chest for anything, at this point. Not when he can't bear the thought of being unable to hear his heart for longer than a few seconds at a time. He shifts a little. He's not sure how much he can say about Petrichor, the dying god-thing and its ghostly forest, the deal Juni apparently made to save Mason's life. At least not while they're still in the Agency facility. "It doesn't hurt anymore," he says, to avoid the subject. "It did a lot, at first. I know it's not supposed to hurt humans like it does you lot, but..." He laughs, bitter and just a touch manic. "It fucking hurt, Mason."

Mason makes a noise so soft Juni would almost believe he'd imagined it, if he didn't have his ear pressed right to where it came from. He squeezes Juni's hand, digs his fingers deeper into his hair, and presses his mouth to his forehead and holds it there for a while.

And then they're both out of words, every last one of them completely wrung out. Juni can even be grateful for it, considering Mum's told him he didn't really have a first word, so much as he started talking and just never stopped. (It doesn't sound like something she'd say, more like something she picked up from someone else, and Juni refuses to think about that too hard, especially right now.)

There's a chair under the door handle, and eventually they'll have to move it, and go back out into the world, figure out what the next course of action is. Probably deal with Adam's disapproving glower, Rebecca's pointed stares, Felix's eyebrow waggles, and Nate's overwhelming concern, but, for now, the world is narrowed down to the crowded hospital bed, the two of them tangled together, Juni listening to Mason's heartbeat, and Mason holding him to his chest, as if the proof of one another's continued existence is the only thing that's ever mattered.