#been HOOKED again since the book of bill came out | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

telltaletypist · 2 years ago

Text

In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to call to mind, there lived not long since one of those gentlemen that keep a lance in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean hack, and a greyhound for coursing. An olla of rather more beef than mutton, a salad on most nights, scraps on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, and a pigeon or so extra on Sundays, made away with three-quarters of his income. The rest of it went in a doublet of fine cloth and velvet breeches and shoes to match for holidays, while on week-days he made a brave figure in his best homespun. He had in his house a housekeeper past forty, a niece under twenty, and a lad for the field and market-place, who used to saddle the hack as well as handle the bill-hook. The age of this gentleman of ours was bordering on fifty; he was of a hardy habit, spare, gaunt-featured, a very early riser and a great sportsman. They will have it his surname was Quixada or Quesada (for here there is some difference of opinion among the authors who write on the subject), although from reasonable conjectures it seems plain that he was called Quexana. This, however, is of but little importance to our tale; it will be enough not to stray a hair’s breadth from the truth in the telling of it.

You must know, then, that the above-named gentleman whenever he was at leisure (which was mostly all the year round) gave himself up to reading books of chivalry with such ardour and avidity that he almost entirely neglected the pursuit of his field-sports, and even the management of his property; and to such a pitch did his eagerness and infatuation go that he sold many an acre of tillageland to buy books of chivalry to read, and brought home as many of them as he could get. But of all there were none he liked so well as those of the famous Feliciano de Silva’s composition, for their lucidity of style and complicated conceits were as pearls in his sight, particularly when in his reading he came upon courtships and cartels, where he often found passages like “the reason of the unreason with which my reason is afflicted so weakens my reason that with reason I murmur at your beauty;” or again, “the high heavens, that of your divinity divinely fortify you with the stars, render you deserving of the desert your greatness deserves.” Over conceits of this sort the poor gentleman lost his wits, and used to lie awake striving to understand them and worm the meaning out of them; what Aristotle himself could not have made out or extracted had he come to life again for that special purpose. He was not at all easy about the wounds which Don Belianis gave and took, because it seemed to him that, great as were the surgeons who had cured him, he must have had his face and body covered all over with seams and scars. He commended, however, the author’s way of ending his book with the promise of that interminable adventure, and many a time was he tempted to take up his pen and finish it properly as is there proposed, which no doubt he would have done, and made a successful piece of work of it too, had not greater and more absorbing thoughts prevented him.

Many an argument did he have with the curate of his village (a learned man, and a graduate of Siguenza) as to which had been the better knight, Palmerin of England or Amadis of Gaul. Master Nicholas, the village barber, however, used to say that neither of them came up to the Knight of Phœbus, and that if there was any that could compare with him it was Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis of Gaul, because he had a spirit that was equal to every occasion, and was no finikin knight, nor lachrymose like his brother, while in the matter of valour he was not a whit behind him. In short, he became so absorbed in his books that he spent his nights from sunset to sunrise, and his days from dawn to dark, poring over them; and what with little sleep and much reading his brains got so dry that he lost his wits. His fancy grew full of what he used to read about in his books, enchantments, quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, wooings, loves, agonies, and all sorts of impossible nonsense; and it so possessed his mind that the whole fabric of invention and fancy he read of was true, that to him no history in the world had more reality in it. He used to say the Cid Ruy Diaz was a very good knight, but that he was not to be compared with the Knight of the Burning Sword who with one back-stroke cut in half two fierce and monstrous giants. He thought more of Bernardo del Carpio because at Roncesvalles he slew Roland in spite of enchantments, availing himself of the artifice of Hercules when he strangled Antæus the son of Terra in his arms. He approved highly of the giant Morgante, because, although of the giant breed which is always arrogant and ill-conditioned, he alone was affable and well-bred. But above all he admired Reinaldos of Montalban, especially when he saw him sallying forth from his castle and robbing everyone he met, and when beyond the seas he stole that image of Mahomet which, as his history says, was entirely of gold. To have a bout of kicking at that traitor of a Ganelon he would have given his housekeeper, and his niece into the bargain.

In short, his wits being quite gone, he hit upon the strangest notion that ever madman in this world hit upon, and that was that he fancied it was right and requisite, as well for the support of his own honour as for the service of his country, that he should make a knight-errant of himself, roaming the world over in full armour and on horseback in quest of adventures, and putting in practice himself all that he had read of as being the usual practices of knights-errant; righting every kind of wrong, and exposing himself to peril and danger from which, in the issue, he was to reap eternal renown and fame. Already the poor man saw himself crowned by the might of his arm Emperor of Trebizond at least; and so, led away by the intense enjoyment he found in these pleasant fancies, he set himself forthwith to put his scheme into execution.

The first thing he did was to clean up some armour that had belonged to his great-grandfather, and had been for ages lying forgotten in a corner eaten with rust and covered with mildew. He scoured and polished it as best he could, but he perceived one great defect in it, that it had no closed helmet, nothing but a simple morion. This deficiency, however, his ingenuity supplied, for he contrived a kind of half-helmet of pasteboard which, fitted on to the morion, looked like a whole one. It is true that, in order to see if it was strong and fit to stand a cut, he drew his sword and gave it a couple of slashes, the first of which undid in an instant what had taken him a week to do. The ease with which he had knocked it to pieces disconcerted him somewhat, and to guard against that danger he set to work again, fixing bars of iron on the inside until he was satisfied with its strength; and then, not caring to try any more experiments with it, he passed it and adopted it as a helmet of the most perfect construction.

He next proceeded to inspect his hack, which, with more quartos than a real and more blemishes than the steed of Gonela, that “tantum pellis et ossa fuit,” surpassed in his eyes the Bucephalus of Alexander or the Babieca of the Cid. Four days were spent in thinking what name to give him, because (as he said to himself) it was not right that a horse belonging to a knight so famous, and one with such merits of his own, should be without some distinctive name, and he strove to adapt it so as to indicate what he had been before belonging to a knight-errant, and what he then was; for it was only reasonable that, his master taking a new character, he should take a new name, and that it should be a distinguished and full-sounding one, befitting the new order and calling he was about to follow. And so, after having composed, struck out, rejected, added to, unmade, and remade a multitude of names out of his memory and fancy, he decided upon calling him Rocinante, a name, to his thinking, lofty, sonorous, and significant of his condition as a hack before he became what he now was, the first and foremost of all the hacks in the world.

Having got a name for his horse so much to his taste, he was anxious to get one for himself, and he was eight days more pondering over this point, till at last he made up his mind to call himself “Don Quixote,” whence, as has been already said, the authors of this veracious history have inferred that his name must have been beyond a doubt Quixada, and not Quesada as others would have it. Recollecting, however, that the valiant Amadis was not content to call himself curtly Amadis and nothing more, but added the name of his kingdom and country to make it famous, and called himself Amadis of Gaul, he, like a good knight, resolved to add on the name of his, and to style himself Don Quixote of La Mancha, whereby, he considered, he described accurately his origin and country, and did honour to it in taking his surname from it.

So then, his armour being furbished, his morion turned into a helmet, his hack christened, and he himself confirmed, he came to the conclusion that nothing more was needed now but to look out for a lady to be in love with; for a knight-errant without love was like a tree without leaves or fruit, or a body without a soul. As he said to himself, “If, for my sins, or by my good fortune, I come across some giant hereabouts, a common occurrence with knights-errant, and overthrow him in one onslaught, or cleave him asunder to the waist, or, in short, vanquish and subdue him, will it not be well to have someone I may send him to as a present, that he may come in and fall on his knees before my sweet lady, and in a humble, submissive voice say, ‘I am the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island of Malindrania, vanquished in single combat by the never sufficiently extolled knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, who has commanded me to present myself before your Grace, that your Highness dispose of me at your pleasure’?” Oh, how our good gentleman enjoyed the delivery of this speech, especially when he had thought of someone to call his Lady! There was, so the story goes, in a village near his own a very good-looking farm-girl with whom he had been at one time in love, though, so far as is known, she never knew it nor gave a thought to the matter. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and upon her he thought fit to confer the title of Lady of his Thoughts; and after some search for a name which should not be out of harmony with her own, and should suggest and indicate that of a princess and great lady, he decided upon calling her Dulcinea del Toboso—she being of El Toboso—a name, to his mind, musical, uncommon, and significant, like all those he had already bestowed upon himself and the things belonging to him.

CHAPTER II. WHICH TREATS OF THE FIRST SALLY THE INGENIOUS DON QUIXOTE MADE FROM HOME

These preliminaries settled, he did not care to put off any longer the execution of his design, urged on to it by the thought of all the world was losing by his delay, seeing what wrongs he intended to right, grievances to redress, injustices to repair, abuses to remove, and duties to discharge. So, without giving notice of his intention to anyone, and without anybody seeing him, one morning before the dawning of the day (which was one of the hottest of the month of July) he donned his suit of armour, mounted Rocinante with his patched-up helmet on, braced his buckler, took his lance, and by the back door of the yard sallied forth upon the plain in the highest contentment and satisfaction at seeing with what ease he had made a beginning with his grand purpose. But scarcely did he find himself upon the open plain, when a terrible thought struck him, one all but enough to make him abandon the enterprise at the very outset. It occurred to him that he had not been dubbed a knight, and that according to the law of chivalry he neither could nor ought to bear arms against any knight; and that even if he had been, still he ought, as a novice knight, to wear white armour, without a device upon the shield until by his prowess he had earned one. These reflections made him waver in his purpose, but his craze being stronger than any reasoning, he made up his mind to have himself dubbed a knight by the first one he came across, following the example of others in the same case, as he had read in the books that brought him to this pass. As for white armour, he resolved, on the first opportunity, to scour his until it was whiter than an ermine; and so comforting himself he pursued his way, taking that which his horse chose, for in this he believed lay the essence of adventures.

Thus setting out, our new-fledged adventurer paced along, talking to himself and saying, “Who knows but that in time to come, when the veracious history of my famous deeds is made known, the sage who writes it, when he has to set forth my first sally in the early morning, will do it after this fashion? ‘Scarce had the rubicund Apollo spread o’er the face of the broad spacious earth the golden threads of his bright hair, scarce had the little birds of painted plumage attuned their notes to hail with dulcet and mellifluous harmony the coming of the rosy Dawn, that, deserting the soft couch of her jealous spouse, was appearing to mortals at the gates and balconies of the Manchegan horizon, when the renowned knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, quitting the lazy down, mounted his celebrated steed Rocinante and began to traverse the ancient and famous Campo de Montiel;’” which in fact he was actually traversing. “Happy the age, happy the time,” he continued, “in which shall be made known my deeds of fame, worthy to be moulded in brass, carved in marble, limned in pictures, for a memorial for ever. And thou, O sage magician, whoever thou art, to whom it shall fall to be the chronicler of this wondrous history, forget not, I entreat thee, my good Rocinante, the constant companion of my ways and wanderings.” Presently he broke out again, as if he were love-stricken in earnest, “O Princess Dulcinea, lady of this captive heart, a grievous wrong hast thou done me to drive me forth with scorn, and with inexorable obduracy banish me from the presence of thy beauty. O lady, deign to hold in remembrance this heart, thy vassal, that thus in anguish pines for love of thee.”

So he went on stringing together these and other absurdities, all in the style of those his books had taught him, imitating their language as well as he could; and all the while he rode so slowly and the sun mounted so rapidly and with such fervour that it was enough to melt his brains if he had any. Nearly all day he travelled without anything remarkable happening to him, at which he was in despair, for he was anxious to encounter someone at once upon whom to try the might of his strong arm.

Writers there are who say the first adventure he met with was that of Puerto Lapice; others say it was that of the windmills; but what I have ascertained on this point, and what I have found written in the annals of La Mancha, is that he was on the road all day, and towards nightfall his hack and he found themselves dead tired and hungry, when, looking all around to see if he could discover any castle or shepherd’s shanty where he might refresh himself and relieve his sore wants, he perceived not far out of his road an inn, which was as welcome as a star guiding him to the portals, if not the palaces, of his redemption; and quickening his pace he reached it just as night was setting in. At the door were standing two young women, girls of the district as they call them, on their way to Seville with some carriers who had chanced to halt that night at the inn; and as, happen what might to our adventurer, everything he saw or imagined seemed to him to be and to happen after the fashion of what he read of, the moment he saw the inn he pictured it to himself as a castle with its four turrets and pinnacles of shining silver, not forgetting the drawbridge and moat and all the belongings usually ascribed to castles of the sort. To this inn, which to him seemed a castle, he advanced, and at a short distance from it he checked Rocinante, hoping that some dwarf would show himself upon the battlements, and by sound of trumpet give notice that a knight was approaching the castle. But seeing that they were slow about it, and that Rocinante was in a hurry to reach the stable, he made for the inn door, and perceived the two gay damsels who were standing there, and who seemed to him to be two fair maidens or lovely ladies taking their ease at the castle gate.

At this moment it so happened that a swineherd who was going through the stubbles collecting a drove of pigs (for, without any apology, that is what they are called) gave a blast of his horn to bring them together, and forthwith it seemed to Don Quixote to be what he was expecting, the signal of some dwarf announcing his arrival; and so with prodigious satisfaction he rode up to the inn and to the ladies, who, seeing a man of this sort approaching in full armour and with lance and buckler, were turning in dismay into the inn, when Don Quixote, guessing their fear by their flight, raising his pasteboard visor, disclosed his dry dusty visage, and with courteous bearing and gentle voice addressed them, “Your ladyships need not fly or fear any rudeness, for that it belongs not to the order of knighthood which I profess to offer to anyone, much less to highborn maidens as your appearance proclaims you to be.” The girls were looking at him and straining their eyes to make out the features which the clumsy visor obscured, but when they heard themselves called maidens, a thing so much out of their line, they could not restrain their laughter, which made Don Quixote wax indignant, and say, “Modesty becomes the fair, and moreover laughter that has little cause is great silliness; this, however, I say not to pain or anger you, for my desire is none other than to serve you.”

The incomprehensible language and the unpromising looks of our cavalier only increased the ladies’ laughter, and that increased his irritation, and matters might have gone farther if at that moment the landlord had not come out, who, being a very fat man, was a very peaceful one. He, seeing this grotesque figure clad in armour that did not match any more than his saddle, bridle, lance, buckler, or corselet, was not at all indisposed to join the damsels in their manifestations of amusement; but, in truth, standing in awe of such a complicated armament, he thought it best to speak him fairly, so he said, “Señor Caballero, if your worship wants lodging, bating the bed (for there is not one in the inn) there is plenty of everything else here.” Don Quixote, observing the respectful bearing of the Alcaide of the fortress (for so innkeeper and inn seemed in his eyes), made answer, “Sir Castellan, for me anything will suffice, for

‘My armour is my only wear, My only rest the fray.’”

The host fancied he called him Castellan because he took him for a “worthy of Castile,” though he was in fact an Andalusian, and one from the strand of San Lucar, as crafty a thief as Cacus and as full of tricks as a student or a page. “In that case,” said he,

“‘Your bed is on the flinty rock, Your sleep to watch alway;’

and if so, you may dismount and safely reckon upon any quantity of sleeplessness under this roof for a twelvemonth, not to say for a single night.” So saying, he advanced to hold the stirrup for Don Quixote, who got down with great difficulty and exertion (for he had not broken his fast all day), and then charged the host to take great care of his horse, as he was the best bit of flesh that ever ate bread in this world. The landlord eyed him over but did not find him as good as Don Quixote said, nor even half as good; and putting him up in the stable, he returned to see what might be wanted by his guest, whom the damsels, who had by this time made their peace with him, were now relieving of his armour. They had taken off his breastplate and backpiece, but they neither knew nor saw how to open his gorget or remove his make-shift helmet, for he had fastened it with green ribbons, which, as there was no untying the knots, required to be cut. This, however, he would not by any means consent to, so he remained all the evening with his helmet on, the drollest and oddest figure that can be imagined; and while they were removing his armour, taking the baggages who were about it for ladies of high degree belonging to the castle, he said to them with great sprightliness:

“Oh, never, surely, was there knight So served by hand of dame, As served was he, Don Quixote hight, When from his town he came; With maidens waiting on himself, Princesses on his hack—

—or Rocinante, for that, ladies mine, is my horse’s name, and Don Quixote of La Mancha is my own; for though I had no intention of declaring myself until my achievements in your service and honour had made me known, the necessity of adapting that old ballad of Lancelot to the present occasion has given you the knowledge of my name altogether prematurely. A time, however, will come for your ladyships to command and me to obey, and then the might of my arm will show my desire to serve you.”

The girls, who were not used to hearing rhetoric of this sort, had nothing to say in reply; they only asked him if he wanted anything to eat. “I would gladly eat a bit of something,” said Don Quixote, “for I feel it would come very seasonably.” The day happened to be a Friday, and in the whole inn there was nothing but some pieces of the fish they call in Castile “abadejo,” in Andalusia “bacallao,” and in some places “curadillo,” and in others “troutlet;” so they asked him if he thought he could eat troutlet, for there was no other fish to give him. “If there be troutlets enough,” said Don Quixote, “they will be the same thing as a trout; for it is all one to me whether I am given eight reals in small change or a piece of eight; moreover, it may be that these troutlets are like veal, which is better than beef, or kid, which is better than goat. But whatever it be let it come quickly, for the burden and pressure of arms cannot be borne without support to the inside.” They laid a table for him at the door of the inn for the sake of the air, and the host brought him a portion of ill-soaked and worse cooked stockfish, and a piece of bread as black and mouldy as his own armour; but a laughable sight it was to see him eating, for having his helmet on and the beaver up, he could not with his own hands put anything into his mouth unless someone else placed it there, and this service one of the ladies rendered him. But to give him anything to drink was impossible, or would have been so had not the landlord bored a reed, and putting one end in his mouth poured the wine into him through the other; all which he bore with patience rather than sever the ribbons of his helmet.

While this was going on there came up to the inn a sowgelder, who, as he approached, sounded his reed pipe four or five times, and thereby completely convinced Don Quixote that he was in some famous castle, and that they were regaling him with music, and that the stockfish was trout, the bread the whitest, the wenches ladies, and the landlord the castellan of the castle; and consequently he held that his enterprise and sally had been to some purpose. But still it distressed him to think he had not been dubbed a knight, for it was plain to him he could not lawfully engage in any adventure without receiving the order of knighthood.

CHAPTER III. WHEREIN IS RELATED THE DROLL WAY IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE HAD HIMSELF DUBBED A KNIGHT

Harassed by this reflection, he made haste with his scanty pothouse supper, and having finished it called the landlord, and shutting himself into the stable with him, fell on his knees before him, saying, “From this spot I rise not, valiant knight, until your courtesy grants me the boon I seek, one that will redound to your praise and the benefit of the human race.” The landlord, seeing his guest at his feet and hearing a speech of this kind, stood staring at him in bewilderment, not knowing what to do or say, and entreating him to rise, but all to no purpose until he had agreed to grant the boon demanded of him. “I looked for no less, my lord, from your High Magnificence,” replied Don Quixote, “and I have to tell you that the boon I have asked and your liberality has granted is that you shall dub me knight to-morrow morning, and that to-night I shall watch my arms in the chapel of this your castle; thus to-morrow, as I have said, will be accomplished what I so much desire, enabling me lawfully to roam through all the four quarters of the world seeking adventures on behalf of those in distress, as is the duty of chivalry and of knights-errant like myself, whose ambition is directed to such deeds.”

The landlord, who, as has been mentioned, was something of a wag, and had already some suspicion of his guest’s want of wits, was quite convinced of it on hearing talk of this kind from him, and to make sport for the night he determined to fall in with his humour. So he told him he was quite right in pursuing the object he had in view, and that such a motive was natural and becoming in cavaliers as distinguished as he seemed and his gallant bearing showed him to be; and that he himself in his younger days had followed the same honourable calling, roaming in quest of adventures in various parts of the world, among others the Curing-grounds of Malaga, the Isles of Riaran, the Precinct of Seville, the Little Market of Segovia, the Olivera of Valencia, the Rondilla of Granada, the Strand of San Lucar, the Colt of Cordova, the Taverns of Toledo, and divers other quarters, where he had proved the nimbleness of his feet and the lightness of his fingers, doing many wrongs, cheating many widows, ruining maids and swindling minors, and, in short, bringing himself under the notice of almost every tribunal and court of justice in Spain; until at last he had retired to this castle of his, where he was living upon his property and upon that of others; and where he received all knights-errant of whatever rank or condition they might be, all for the great love he bore them and that they might share their substance with him in return for his benevolence. He told him, moreover, that in this castle of his there was no chapel in which he could watch his armour, as it had been pulled down in order to be rebuilt, but that in a case of necessity it might, he knew, be watched anywhere, and he might watch it that night in a courtyard of the castle, and in the morning, God willing, the requisite ceremonies might be performed so as to have him dubbed a knight, and so thoroughly dubbed that nobody could be more so. He asked if he had any money with him, to which Don Quixote replied that he had not a farthing, as in the histories of knights-errant he had never read of any of them carrying any. On this point the landlord told him he was mistaken; for, though not recorded in the histories, because in the author’s opinion there was no need to mention anything so obvious and necessary as money and clean shirts, it was not to be supposed therefore that they did not carry them, and he might regard it as certain and established that all knights-errant (about whom there were so many full and unimpeachable books) carried well-furnished purses in case of emergency, and likewise carried shirts and a little box of ointment to cure the wounds they received. For in those plains and deserts where they engaged in combat and came out wounded, it was not always that there was someone to cure them, unless indeed they had for a friend some sage magician to succour them at once by fetching through the air upon a cloud some damsel or dwarf with a vial of water of such virtue that by tasting one drop of it they were cured of their hurts and wounds in an instant and left as sound as if they had not received any damage whatever. But in case this should not occur, the knights of old took care to see that their squires were provided with money and other requisites, such as lint and ointments for healing purposes; and when it happened that knights had no squires (which was rarely and seldom the case) they themselves carried everything in cunning saddle-bags that were hardly seen on the horse’s croup, as if it were something else of more importance, because, unless for some such reason, carrying saddle-bags was not very favourably regarded among knights-errant. He therefore advised him (and, as his godson so soon to be, he might even command him) never from that time forth to travel without money and the usual requirements, and he would find the advantage of them when he least expected it.

Don Quixote promised to follow his advice scrupulously, and it was arranged forthwith that he should watch his armour in a large yard at one side of the inn; so, collecting it all together, Don Quixote placed it on a trough that stood by the side of a well, and bracing his buckler on his arm he grasped his lance and began with a stately air to march up and down in front of the trough, and as he began his march night began to fall.

The landlord told all the people who were in the inn about the craze of his guest, the watching of the armour, and the dubbing ceremony he contemplated. Full of wonder at so strange a form of madness, they flocked to see it from a distance, and observed with what composure he sometimes paced up and down, or sometimes, leaning on his lance, gazed on his armour without taking his eyes off it for ever so long; and as the night closed in with a light from the moon so brilliant that it might vie with his that lent it, everything the novice knight did was plainly seen by all.

Meanwhile one of the carriers who were in the inn thought fit to water his team, and it was necessary to remove Don Quixote’s armour as it lay on the trough; but he seeing the other approach hailed him in a loud voice, “O thou, whoever thou art, rash knight that comest to lay hands on the armour of the most valorous errant that ever girt on sword, have a care what thou dost; touch it not unless thou wouldst lay down thy life as the penalty of thy rashness.” The carrier gave no heed to these words (and he would have done better to heed them if he had been heedful of his health), but seizing it by the straps flung the armour some distance from him. Seeing this, Don Quixote raised his eyes to heaven, and fixing his thoughts, apparently, upon his lady Dulcinea, exclaimed, “Aid me, lady mine, in this the first encounter that presents itself to this breast which thou holdest in subjection; let not thy favour and protection fail me in this first jeopardy;” and, with these words and others to the same purpose, dropping his buckler he lifted his lance with both hands and with it smote such a blow on the carrier’s head that he stretched him on the ground, so stunned that had he followed it up with a second there would have been no need of a surgeon to cure him. This done, he picked up his armour and returned to his beat with the same serenity as before.

Shortly after this, another, not knowing what had happened (for the carrier still lay senseless), came with the same object of giving water to his mules, and was proceeding to remove the armour in order to clear the trough, when Don Quixote, without uttering a word or imploring aid from anyone, once more dropped his buckler and once more lifted his lance, and without actually breaking the second carrier’s head into pieces, made more than three of it, for he laid it open in four. At the noise all the people of the inn ran to the spot, and among them the landlord. Seeing this, Don Quixote braced his buckler on his arm, and with his hand on his sword exclaimed, “O Lady of Beauty, strength and support of my faint heart, it is time for thee to turn the eyes of thy greatness on this thy captive knight on the brink of so mighty an adventure.” By this he felt himself so inspired that he would not have flinched if all the carriers in the world had assailed him. The comrades of the wounded perceiving the plight they were in began from a distance to shower stones on Don Quixote, who screened himself as best he could with his buckler, not daring to quit the trough and leave his armour unprotected. The landlord shouted to them to leave him alone, for he had already told them that he was mad, and as a madman he would not be accountable even if he killed them all. Still louder shouted Don Quixote, calling them knaves and traitors, and the lord of the castle, who allowed knights-errant to be treated in this fashion, a villain and a low-born knight whom, had he received the order of knighthood, he would call to account for his treachery. “But of you,” he cried, “base and vile rabble, I make no account; fling, strike, come on, do all ye can against me, ye shall see what the reward of your folly and insolence will be.” This he uttered with so much spirit and boldness that he filled his assailants with a terrible fear, and as much for this reason as at the persuasion of the landlord they left off stoning him, and he allowed them to carry off the wounded, and with the same calmness and composure as before resumed the watch over his armour.

But these freaks of his guest were not much to the liking of the landlord, so he determined to cut matters short and confer upon him at once the unlucky order of knighthood before any further misadventure could occur; so, going up to him, he apologised for the rudeness which, without his knowledge, had been offered to him by these low people, who, however, had been well punished for their audacity. As he had already told him, he said, there was no chapel in the castle, nor was it needed for what remained to be done, for, as he understood the ceremonial of the order, the whole point of being dubbed a knight lay in the accolade and in the slap on the shoulder, and that could be administered in the middle of a field; and that he had now done all that was needful as to watching the armour, for all requirements were satisfied by a watch of two hours only, while he had been more than four about it. Don Quixote believed it all, and told him he stood there ready to obey him, and to make an end of it with as much despatch as possible; for, if he were again attacked, and felt himself to be dubbed knight, he would not, he thought, leave a soul alive in the castle, except such as out of respect he might spare at his bidding.

Thus warned and menaced, the castellan forthwith brought out a book in which he used to enter the straw and barley he served out to the carriers, and, with a lad carrying a candle-end, and the two damsels already mentioned, he returned to where Don Quixote stood, and bade him kneel down. Then, reading from his account-book as if he were repeating some devout prayer, in the middle of his delivery he raised his hand and gave him a sturdy blow on the neck, and then, with his own sword, a smart slap on the shoulder, all the while muttering between his teeth as if he was saying his prayers. Having done this, he directed one of the ladies to gird on his sword, which she did with great self-possession and gravity, and not a little was required to prevent a burst of laughter at each stage of the ceremony; but what they had already seen of the novice knight’s prowess kept their laughter within bounds. On girding him with the sword the worthy lady said to him, “May God make your worship a very fortunate knight, and grant you success in battle.” Don Quixote asked her name in order that he might from that time forward know to whom he was beholden for the favour he had received, as he meant to confer upon her some portion of the honour he acquired by the might of his arm. She answered with great humility that she was called La Tolosa, and that she was the daughter of a cobbler of Toledo who lived in the stalls of Sanchobienaya, and that wherever she might be she would serve and esteem him as her lord. Don Quixote said in reply that she would do him a favour if thenceforward she assumed the “Don” and called herself Doña Tolosa. She promised she would, and then the other buckled on his spur, and with her followed almost the same conversation as with the lady of the sword. He asked her name, and she said it was La Molinera, and that she was the daughter of a respectable miller of Antequera; and of her likewise Don Quixote requested that she would adopt the “Don” and call herself Doña Molinera, making offers to her further services and favours.

Having thus, with hot haste and speed, brought to a conclusion these never-till-now-seen ceremonies, Don Quixote was on thorns until he saw himself on horseback sallying forth in quest of adventures; and saddling Rocinante at once he mounted, and embracing his host, as he returned thanks for his kindness in knighting him, he addressed him in language so extraordinary that it is impossible to convey an idea of it or report it. The landlord, to get him out of the inn, replied with no less rhetoric though with shorter words, and without calling upon him to pay the reckoning let him go with a Godspeed.

CHAPTER IV. OF WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR KNIGHT WHEN HE LEFT THE INN

Day was dawning when Don Quixote quitted the inn, so happy, so gay, so exhilarated at finding himself now dubbed a knight, that his joy was like to burst his horse-girths. However, recalling the advice of his host as to the requisites he ought to carry with him, especially that referring to money and shirts, he determined to go home and provide himself with all, and also with a squire, for he reckoned upon securing a farm-labourer, a neighbour of his, a poor man with a family, but very well qualified for the office of squire to a knight. With this object he turned his horse’s head towards his village, and Rocinante, thus reminded of his old quarters, stepped out so briskly that he hardly seemed to tread the earth.

He had not gone far, when out of a thicket on his right there seemed to come feeble cries as of someone in distress, and the instant he heard them he exclaimed, “Thanks be to heaven for the favour it accords me, that it so soon offers me an opportunity of fulfilling the obligation I have undertaken, and gathering the fruit of my ambition. These cries, no doubt, come from some man or woman in want of help, and needing my aid and protection;” and wheeling, he turned Rocinante in the direction whence the cries seemed to proceed. He had gone but a few paces into the wood, when he saw a mare tied to an oak, and tied to another, and stripped from the waist upwards, a youth of about fifteen years of age, from whom the cries came. Nor were they without cause, for a lusty farmer was flogging him with a belt and following up every blow with scoldings and commands, repeating, “Your mouth shut and your eyes open!” while the youth made answer, “I won’t do it again, master mine; by God’s passion I won’t do it again, and I’ll take more care of the flock another time.”

Seeing what was going on, Don Quixote said in an angry voice, “Discourteous knight, it ill becomes you to assail one who cannot defend himself; mount your steed and take your lance” (for there was a lance leaning against the oak to which the mare was tied), “and I will make you know that you are behaving as a coward.” The farmer, seeing before him this figure in full armour brandishing a lance over his head, gave himself up for dead, and made answer meekly, “Sir Knight, this youth that I am chastising is my servant, employed by me to watch a flock of sheep that I have hard by, and he is so careless that I lose one every day, and when I punish him for his carelessness and knavery he says I do it out of niggardliness, to escape paying him the wages I owe him, and before God, and on my soul, he lies.”

“Lies before me, base clown!” said Don Quixote. “By the sun that shines on us I have a mind to run you through with this lance. Pay him at once without another word; if not, by the God that rules us I will make an end of you, and annihilate you on the spot; release him instantly.”

The farmer hung his head, and without a word untied his servant, of whom Don Quixote asked how much his master owed him.

He replied, nine months at seven reals a month. Don Quixote added it up, found that it came to sixty-three reals, and told the farmer to pay it down immediately, if he did not want to die for it.

The trembling clown replied that as he lived and by the oath he had sworn (though he had not sworn any) it was not so much; for there were to be taken into account and deducted three pairs of shoes he had given him, and a real for two blood-lettings when he was sick.

“All that is very well,” said Don Quixote; “but let the shoes and the blood-lettings stand as a setoff against the blows you have given him without any cause; for if he spoiled the leather of the shoes you paid for, you have damaged that of his body, and if the barber took blood from him when he was sick, you have drawn it when he was sound; so on that score he owes you nothing.”

“The difficulty is, Sir Knight, that I have no money here; let Andres come home with me, and I will pay him all, real by real.”

“I go with him!” said the youth. “Nay, God forbid! No, señor, not for the world; for once alone with me, he would ray me like a Saint Bartholomew.”

“He will do nothing of the kind,” said Don Quixote; “I have only to command, and he will obey me; and as he has sworn to me by the order of knighthood which he has received, I leave him free, and I guarantee the payment.”

“Consider what you are saying, señor,” said the youth; “this master of mine is not a knight, nor has he received any order of knighthood; for he is Juan Haldudo the Rich, of Quintanar.”

“That matters little,” replied Don Quixote; “there may be Haldudos knights; moreover, everyone is the son of his works.”

“That is true,” said Andres; “but this master of mine—of what works is he the son, when he refuses me the wages of my sweat and labour?”

“I do not refuse, brother Andres,” said the farmer, “be good enough to come along with me, and I swear by all the orders of knighthood there are in the world to pay you as I have agreed, real by real, and perfumed.”

“For the perfumery I excuse you,” said Don Quixote; “give it to him in reals, and I shall be satisfied; and see that you do as you have sworn; if not, by the same oath I swear to come back and hunt you out and punish you; and I shall find you though you should lie closer than a lizard. And if you desire to know who it is lays this command upon you, that you be more firmly bound to obey it, know that I am the valorous Don Quixote of La Mancha, the undoer of wrongs and injustices; and so, God be with you, and keep in mind what you have promised and sworn under those penalties that have been already declared to you.”

So saying, he gave Rocinante the spur and was soon out of reach. The farmer followed him with his eyes, and when he saw that he had cleared the wood and was no longer in sight, he turned to his boy Andres, and said, “Come here, my son, I want to pay you what I owe you, as that undoer of wrongs has commanded me.”

“My oath on it,” said Andres, “your worship will be well advised to obey the command of that good knight—may he live a thousand years—for, as he is a valiant and just judge, by Roque, if you do not pay me, he will come back and do as he said.”

“My oath on it, too,” said the farmer; “but as I have a strong affection for you, I want to add to the debt in order to add to the payment;” and seizing him by the arm, he tied him up again, and gave him such a flogging that he left him for dead.

“Now, Master Andres,” said the farmer, “call on the undoer of wrongs; you will find he won’t undo that, though I am not sure that I have quite done with you, for I have a good mind to flay you alive.” But at last he untied him, and gave him leave to go look for his judge in order to put the sentence pronounced into execution.

Andres went off rather down in the mouth, swearing he would go to look for the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha and tell him exactly what had happened, and that all would have to be repaid him sevenfold; but for all that, he went off weeping, while his master stood laughing.

Thus did the valiant Don Quixote right that wrong, and, thoroughly satisfied with what had taken place, as he considered he had made a very happy and noble beginning with his knighthood, he took the road towards his village in perfect self-content, saying in a low voice, “Well mayest thou this day call thyself fortunate above all on earth, O Dulcinea del Toboso, fairest of the fair! since it has fallen to thy lot to hold subject and submissive to thy full will and pleasure a knight so renowned as is and will be Don Quixote of La Mancha, who, as all the world knows, yesterday received the order of knighthood, and hath to-day righted the greatest wrong and grievance that ever injustice conceived and cruelty perpetrated: who hath to-day plucked the rod from the hand of yonder ruthless oppressor so wantonly lashing that tender child.”

He now came to a road branching in four directions, and immediately he was reminded of those cross-roads where knights-errant used to stop to consider which road they should take. In imitation of them he halted for a while, and after having deeply considered it, he gave Rocinante his head, submitting his own will to that of his hack, who followed out his first intention, which was to make straight for his own stable. After he had gone about two miles Don Quixote perceived a large party of people, who, as afterwards appeared, were some Toledo traders, on their way to buy silk at Murcia. There were six of them coming along under their sunshades, with four servants mounted, and three muleteers on foot. Scarcely had Don Quixote descried them when the fancy possessed him that this must be some new adventure; and to help him to imitate as far as he could those passages he had read of in his books, here seemed to come one made on purpose, which he resolved to attempt. So with a lofty bearing and determination he fixed himself firmly in his stirrups, got his lance ready, brought his buckler before his breast, and planting himself in the middle of the road, stood waiting the approach of these knights-errant, for such he now considered and held them to be; and when they had come near enough to see and hear, he exclaimed with a haughty gesture, “All the world stand, unless all the world confess that in all the world there is no maiden fairer than the Empress of La Mancha, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso.”

The traders halted at the sound of this language and the sight of the strange figure that uttered it, and from both figure and language at once guessed the craze of their owner; they wished, however, to learn quietly what was the object of this confession that was demanded of them, and one of them, who was rather fond of a joke and was very sharp-witted, said to him, “Sir Knight, we do not know who this good lady is that you speak of; show her to us, for, if she be of such beauty as you suggest, with all our hearts and without any pressure we will confess the truth that is on your part required of us.”

“If I were to show her to you,” replied Don Quixote, “what merit would you have in confessing a truth so manifest? The essential point is that without seeing her you must believe, confess, affirm, swear, and defend it; else ye have to do with me in battle, ill-conditioned, arrogant rabble that ye are; and come ye on, one by one as the order of knighthood requires, or all together as is the custom and vile usage of your breed, here do I bide and await you relying on the justice of the cause I maintain.”

“Sir Knight,” replied the trader, “I entreat your worship in the name of this present company of princes, that, to save us from charging our consciences with the confession of a thing we have never seen or heard of, and one moreover so much to the prejudice of the Empresses and Queens of the Alcarria and Estremadura, your worship will be pleased to show us some portrait of this lady, though it be no bigger than a grain of wheat; for by the thread one gets at the ball, and in this way we shall be satisfied and easy, and you will be content and pleased; nay, I believe we are already so far agreed with you that even though her portrait should show her blind of one eye, and distilling vermilion and sulphur from the other, we would nevertheless, to gratify your worship, say all in her favour that you desire.”

“She distils nothing of the kind, vile rabble,” said Don Quixote, burning with rage, “nothing of the kind, I say, only ambergris and civet in cotton; nor is she one-eyed or humpbacked, but straighter than a Guadarrama spindle: but ye must pay for the blasphemy ye have uttered against beauty like that of my lady.”

And so saying, he charged with levelled lance against the one who had spoken, with such fury and fierceness that, if luck had not contrived that Rocinante should stumble midway and come down, it would have gone hard with the rash trader. Down went Rocinante, and over went his master, rolling along the ground for some distance; and when he tried to rise he was unable, so encumbered was he with lance, buckler, spurs, helmet, and the weight of his old armour; and all the while he was struggling to get up he kept saying, “Fly not, cowards and caitiffs! stay, for not by my fault, but my horse’s, am I stretched here.”

One of the muleteers in attendance, who could not have had much good nature in him, hearing the poor prostrate man blustering in this style, was unable to refrain from giving him an answer on his ribs; and coming up to him he seized his lance, and having broken it in pieces, with one of them he began so to belabour our Don Quixote that, notwithstanding and in spite of his armour, he milled him like a measure of wheat. His masters called out not to lay on so hard and to leave him alone, but the muleteer’s blood was up, and he did not care to drop the game until he had vented the rest of his wrath, and gathering up the remaining fragments of the lance he finished with a discharge upon the unhappy victim, who all through the storm of sticks that rained on him never ceased threatening heaven, and earth, and the brigands, for such they seemed to him. At last the muleteer was tired, and the traders continued their journey, taking with them matter for talk about the poor fellow who had been cudgelled. He when he found himself alone made another effort to rise; but if he was unable when whole and sound, how was he to rise after having been thrashed and well-nigh knocked to pieces? And yet he esteemed himself fortunate, as it seemed to him that this was a regular knight-errant’s mishap, and entirely, he considered, the fault of his horse. However, battered in body as he was, to rise was beyond his power.

CHAPTER V. IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE OF OUR KNIGHT’S MISHAP IS CONTINUED

Finding, then, that, in fact he could not move, he thought himself of having recourse to his usual remedy, which was to think of some passage in his books, and his craze brought to his mind that about Baldwin and the Marquis of Mantua, when Carloto left him wounded on the mountainside, a story known by heart by the children, not forgotten by the young men, and lauded and even believed by the old folk; and for all that not a whit truer than the miracles of Mahomet. This seemed to him to fit exactly the case in which he found himself, so, making a show of severe suffering, he began to roll on the ground and with feeble breath repeat the very words which the wounded knight of the wood is said to have uttered:

Where art thou, lady mine, that thou My sorrow dost not rue? Thou canst not know it, lady mine, Or else thou art untrue.

And so he went on with the ballad as far as the lines:

O noble Marquis of Mantua, My Uncle and liege lord!

As chance would have it, when he had got to this line there happened to come by a peasant from his own village, a neighbour of his, who had been with a load of wheat to the mill, and he, seeing the man stretched there, came up to him and asked him who he was and what was the matter with him that he complained so dolefully.

Don Quixote was firmly persuaded that this was the Marquis of Mantua, his uncle, so the only answer he made was to go on with his ballad, in which he told the tale of his misfortune, and of the loves of the Emperor’s son and his wife all exactly as the ballad sings it.

The peasant stood amazed at hearing such nonsense, and relieving him of the visor, already battered to pieces by blows, he wiped his face, which was covered with dust, and as soon as he had done so he recognised him and said, “Señor Quixada” (for so he appears to have been called when he was in his senses and had not yet changed from a quiet country gentleman into a knight-errant), “who has brought your worship to this pass?” But to all questions the other only went on with his ballad.

Seeing this, the good man removed as well as he could his breastplate and backpiece to see if he had any wound, but he could perceive no blood nor any mark whatever. He then contrived to raise him from the ground, and with no little difficulty hoisted him upon his ass, which seemed to him to be the easiest mount for him; and collecting the arms, even to the splinters of the lance, he tied them on Rocinante, and leading him by the bridle and the ass by the halter he took the road for the village, very sad to hear what absurd stuff Don Quixote was talking.

Nor was Don Quixote less so, for what with blows and bruises he could not sit upright on the ass, and from time to time he sent up sighs to heaven, so that once more he drove the peasant to ask what ailed him. And it could have been only the devil himself that put into his head tales to match his own adventures, for now, forgetting Baldwin, he bethought himself of the Moor Abindarraez, when the Alcaide of Antequera, Rodrigo de Narvaez, took him prisoner and carried him away to his castle; so that when the peasant again asked him how he was and what ailed him, he gave him for reply the same words and phrases that the captive Abindarraez gave to Rodrigo de Narvaez, just as he had read the story in the “Diana” of Jorge de Montemayor where it is written, applying it to his own case so aptly that the peasant went along cursing his fate that he had to listen to such a lot of nonsense; from which, however, he came to the conclusion that his neighbour was mad, and so made all haste to reach the village to escape the wearisomeness of this harangue of Don Quixote’s; who, at the end of it, said, “Señor Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, your worship must know that this fair Xarifa I have mentioned is now the lovely Dulcinea del Toboso, for whom I have done, am doing, and will do the most famous deeds of chivalry that in this world have been seen, are to be seen, or ever shall be seen.”

To this the peasant answered, “Señor—sinner that I am!—cannot your worship see that I am not Don Rodrigo de Narvaez nor the Marquis of Mantua, but Pedro Alonso your neighbour, and that your worship is neither Baldwin nor Abindarraez, but the worthy gentleman Señor Quixada?”

“I know who I am,” replied Don Quixote, “and I know that I may be not only those I have named, but all the Twelve Peers of France and even all the Nine Worthies, since my achievements surpass all that they have done all together and each of them on his own account.”

With this talk and more of the same kind they reached the village just as night was beginning to fall, but the peasant waited until it was a little later that the belaboured gentleman might not be seen riding in such a miserable trim. When it was what seemed to him the proper time he entered the village and went to Don Quixote’s house, which he found all in confusion, and there were the curate and the village barber, who were great friends of Don Quixote, and his housekeeper was saying to them in a loud voice, “What does your worship think can have befallen my master, Señor Licentiate Pero Perez?” for so the curate was called; “it is three days now since anything has been seen of him, or the hack, or the buckler, lance, or armour. Miserable me! I am certain of it, and it is as true as that I was born to die, that these accursed books of chivalry he has, and has got into the way of reading so constantly, have upset his reason; for now I remember having often heard him saying to himself that he would turn knight-errant and go all over the world in quest of adventures. To the devil and Barabbas with such books, that have brought to ruin in this way the finest understanding there was in all La Mancha!”

The niece said the same, and, more: “You must know, Master Nicholas”—for that was the name of the barber—“it was often my uncle’s way to stay two days and nights together poring over these unholy books of misventures, after which he would fling the book away and snatch up his sword and fall to slashing the walls; and when he was tired out he would say he had killed four giants like four towers; and the sweat that flowed from him when he was weary he said was the blood of the wounds he had received in battle; and then he would drink a great jug of cold water and become calm and quiet, saying that this water was a most precious potion which the sage Esquife, a great magician and friend of his, had brought him. But I take all the blame upon myself for never having told your worships of my uncle’s vagaries, that you might put a stop to them before things had come to this pass, and burn all these accursed books—for he has a great number—that richly deserve to be burned like heretics.”

“So say I too,” said the curate, “and by my faith to-morrow shall not pass without public judgment upon them, and may they be condemned to the flames lest they lead those that read to behave as my good friend seems to have behaved.”

All this the peasant heard, and from it he understood at last what was the matter with his neighbour, so he began calling aloud, “Open, your worships, to Señor Baldwin and to Señor the Marquis of Mantua, who comes badly wounded, and to Señor Abindarraez, the Moor, whom the valiant Rodrigo de Narvaez, the Alcaide of Antequera, brings captive.”

At these words they all hurried out, and when they recognised their friend, master, and uncle, who had not yet dismounted from the ass because he could not, they ran to embrace him.

“Hold!” said he, “for I am badly wounded through my horse’s fault; carry me to bed, and if possible send for the wise Urganda to cure and see to my wounds.”

“See there! plague on it!” cried the housekeeper at this: “did not my heart tell the truth as to which foot my master went lame of? To bed with your worship at once, and we will contrive to cure you here without fetching that Hurgada. A curse I say once more, and a hundred times more, on those books of chivalry that have brought your worship to such a pass.”

They carried him to bed at once, and after searching for his wounds could find none, but he said they were all bruises from having had a severe fall with his horse Rocinante when in combat with ten giants, the biggest and the boldest to be found on earth.

“So, so!” said the curate, “are there giants in the dance? By the sign of the Cross I will burn them to-morrow before the day is over.”

They put a host of questions to Don Quixote, but his only answer to all was—give him something to eat, and leave him to sleep, for that was what he needed most. They did so, and the curate questioned the peasant at great length as to how he had found Don Quixote. He told him, and the nonsense he had talked when found and on the way home, all which made the licentiate the more eager to do what he did the next day, which was to summon his friend the barber, Master Nicholas, and go with him to Don Quixote’s house.

love the people apologizing for tagging their art Don Quixote when they make limbus fanart of her. as if there are people who are gonna lose their minds abt Their Beloved 400 Year Old Book’s tags being flooded with this little goofy fucker

1K notes · View notes

messers-moony · 3 years ago

Text

So Perfect | J.P

Paring: Young!James Potter X Fem!Lupin!Reader

Summary: James falls in love with a bookstore called, Lupin’s Library, and can’t believe what they’re going through.

The bookstore was quiet most days. It was a tiny little two-story shop in London. The idea was it had a book for everyone. On the second story was a living quarter for the two siblings that worked at the shop. It was a small two-bedroom apartment, but it did what it was needed to do.

Remus and Y/n Lupin were the owners of the shop. It was their eighteenth birthday gift from their parents. Growing up, their parents didn’t have much, so for them, it means a lot. The name of the shop was something simple - Lupin’s Library - but inside held memories that they would cherish forever.

When they started the business, it was slow. Most days, no one would enter, and Y/n worked a separate job to help Remus pay the bills. But after a year it seemed that people preferred the shop over any other place in London. They enjoy the warmness of Remus’ smile and the radiant happiness from Y/n.

Remus worked behind the counter at the register, and when there wasn’t a customer, he was reading on the stool he sat on. Y/n did inventory and stocked books. She didn’t like to sit still, preferring to be on her feet moving around. Sometimes early in the morning, she’d grab donuts to leave on the front counter for early customers.

There was nothing like Lupin’s Library, and that’s why people loved it.

The bell-ringing announced a new customer into the shop. It was a tiny ding, nothing majorly loud. Y/n was stocking books while Remus was sleeping upstairs in his room. Over the past winter, he had caught a nasty cold leaving Y/n to take over the bookstore until he got better while also trying to take care of him.

“One moment, and I’ll be with you!” Y/n called as she slipped the last book into place.

She skipped to make it behind the counter where she met a man about her age - twenty-five. He was taller than her, maybe just around six feet. His hair was messy and curled slightly at the ends. His eyes were a beautiful hazel, and he radiated a certain playfulness Y/n could get used to.

“Mornin’ sir!” James was taken away by her light and fluffy accent, “What can I do for you today?”

He smiled, “Looking for something to read for my son.”

“How old is he?”

“He’s about to turn five.” James smiled proudly.

“That’s adorable!” Y/n gushed, “Any way we have magic treehouse books, maybe he’d like those?”

“Maybe, he’s been begging for new books.” James ran a hand through his hair, “It’s the only way I can get him to calm down.”

Y/n smiled, “You know, on Saturdays, I read to kids. If you want him to join us, he’s more than welcome. Saturdays, I read to kids five to nine. Sundays, I read to kids from ten to fifteen.”

“Wow,” James replied, “I’d love to take him in if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all!” She smiled, “Everyone’s welcome.”

James gave a grin in response as he searched the Library for these Magic Treehouse books. It took him five minutes before even finding the kids section, but when he did, James grabbed the set of them. He placed each book on top of another and brought them to the counter of the pretty girl.

He watched at how gently and smoothly she moved the books to scan them. James was so focused he didn’t even notice her handing him the books and the receipt, “But I didn’t-“

“It’s on the house.” Y/n replied, “I’ll see you Saturday.”

James’ face flushed; he hadn’t felt this way since Lily, “I’ll- um- see you Saturday….”

He walked out of the shop with a happy smile placed on his face. James hadn’t felt flustered and nervous around a girl since Lily in seventh grade. He had been head over heels for her since then. They began dating in sophomore year and had Harry right out of high school. It was poor planning on their part, but Harry was everything James had dreamed of. It wasn’t until Harry’s second birthday when Lily said she couldn’t take it anymore.

Not only had it broken James’ heart, but it broke Harry’s too. Harry had no idea where his momma had gone. What broke James’ heart the most was Lily saying she wanted absolutely nothing to do with either of them. Lily had placed the engagement ring on the wooden table, collected her things, and left, just like that.

Then it was just them against the world. James and his little mini-me, as Sirius would say. Sirius was the one who recommended the bookshop. He wouldn’t shut up about how cute the boy behind the register was (“Oh James, his hair looks so fluffy!”). It was like hearing a broken record. James didn’t see the boy with fluffy hair, but he did see the girl with the radiant smile.

That night James sat beside Harry in his twin bed. Harry was thrilled to see the new books on his shelf, and as James began reading, Harry became more hooked with each page. When James shut the book, Harry was devastated. He wanted to know more and finish the book! Alas, he had to go to sleep, and if he did, James promised him that they’d finish the book tomorrow.

When James brought up going to Lupin’s Library on Saturdays, Harry was ecstatic! He couldn’t wait to meet the new kids and begin a new book. By the time Saturday rolled around, they had finished two of the Magic Treehouse books. James entered the shop with Harry in front of him, hands on the little boy's shoulders. Now at the counter, he saw the boy with fluffy hair.

“Good afternoon, sir.” He greeted in the same soft accent, “Here for the kids reading circle?”

Harry nodded, and the boy chuckled, “Great. It’s just in that back corner.”

James thanked him before bringing Harry to the back corner, where kids were already sat on a rug. Blankets were spread among some of them, and the girl was sitting on a chair in the corner while the kids made a semi-circle around her. James beckoned Harry to sit, and James smiled at the girl in the chair.

As the reading began, James decided to venture through the bookstore. The bookshelves were surprisingly clean and rid of any dust. The books were taken care of, not a crease or bent page unless he went into the used section. Some people preferred new books; some preferred used. There truly was a book for everyone in here.

He made his way back to the front desk with some books he had gained from the shelves. A multitude of paperbacks and gently placed them on the counter. Remus put a bookmark in his book and began to scan each book just as smoothly as the girl. His hands didn’t seem as soft. They looked calloused and scarred. Sirius’ type, all the way.

“You wouldn’t happen to see a boy with straight black hair in here sometimes?” Remus quirked an eyebrow, “Wears ripped jeans and a leather jacket?”

Remus smiled, “Yes, we get him in here quite frequently.”

“Do you mind if I got your number for him?” James questioned, “He’s talked the world of you and your bookstore.”

“It’s not just my bookstore.” Remus correctly playfully, “My sister works it with me, who I see you’ve been well acquainted with.”

James’ face flushed pink, “I didn’t- I don’t-“

“It’s fine.” Remus replied, handing him the books and the receipt, “She’s a big girl. I trust her to make her own decisions.”

“I didn’t pay for these.”

“You can thank my sister.” Remus winked as he sat on the stool and began reading.

James grunted at not paying again. He rummaged through his wallet and placed forty pounds in the tip jar. Remus chuckled and shook his head at the gesture, appreciative nonetheless of the man's kindness. Another thirty minutes went by, and Harry was running back into his dad's arms.

“That was awesome!” Harry exclaimed softly, “She was so nice! She gave us lollipops!”

“Did she?” James asked, and Harry nodded.

Y/n smiled softly as she joined Remus behind the counter, grabbing some books to stamp while all the kids filed out to find their parents, “Looks like we’ll be back next Saturday.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Y/n replied, “I’ll look forward to it.”

Harry smiled, “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

James and Harry walked out of Lupin’s Library together with smiles on their faces. Harry wouldn’t stop jumping with joy the entire day. He couldn’t get over how lovely the lady was and how she gave him a lollipop. Truthfully, it was the little things when it came to kids. Remus chuckled as they left the library together.

“He quite likes you, I’d say.”

“Little kids like anyone who give them candy.”

“I don’t mean the boy.” Remus replied, “I mean the adult who seems quite fond of you.”

Y/n hmphed, “And what about the man who wears the leather jacket and the straight black hair?”

Remus blushed, “‘Oh, Y/n, he’s so perfect.’” Y/n mocked.

“You’re annoying.” Remus nudged her with his elbow.

“Love you too.”

It wasn’t until Wednesday when he came back in again. Y/n had been absent from the shop due to having to help her friend bartend. Despite working at the bookshop full time, she still had a part-time job bartending. If she spent the whole day at the bar, then she spent the entire night at the bookstore. Working two jobs was no easy feat, but she did it.

James walked in and wandered aimlessly after not seeing or hearing her. Remus smiled amusedly as he walked in and continued to read his book. James felt the spines of the books but never plucked one from the shelf. Remus got tired of his lost puppy look and finally called to him.

“She’s not here, you know.”

“Oh,” James muttered, “Where- Where is she?”

Remus placed his book down after bending the corner of the page, “Helping a friend.”

“I’m sorry for wasting your time,” James replied nervously as he went to walk out the door.

“Wait!” Remus called, and James turned, “I can- um- I can give you her schedule if you want.”

“Schedule?” James questioned, “She doesn’t work here full time?”

Remus shook his head, “No, she works part-time at a bar around the block. It helps-“ He scratched the back of his neck, “It helps pay the bills.”

“You guys don’t make enough to stay in business?”

“No, we don’t.” Remus murmured, “I can't really do much else other than work here, so Y/n took up another job. Which she hates, and it drains her.”

James was appalled. These people were so nice and kind. How weren’t they making enough to stay in business? Remus looked utterly embarrassed by the whole thing, confessing to a customer that they were struggling. James, himself, was a Nephrologists at a hospital not too far away. His family was small, and he made a lot of money.

Without another word, James left the shop leaving Remus in a confused state. He walked to an ATM that was only a couple of blocks away before pulling out a decent amount of cash. James walked back into the bookstore and placed an envelope on the counter. Remus stared at it confused as he got on his own two feet to open it. As he peeled back the seal, he saw what was inside.

“I’m sorry, I can’t-“

“Please.” James begged, “Harry would be devastated if his favorite place went out of business.”

Remus had tears in his eyes as he placed the money beneath the counter, “Thank you. You have no idea what this means. Our parents bought this shop with almost nothing, and we’ve been trying, but it’s so hard.”

“Well,” James began, “I don’t know if I could live with myself if this place was gone, especially after knowing you’re guys’ kindness.”

Remus smiled and grabbed a piece of paper with a calendar on it. At the bottom, he wrote his and Y/n’s names along with their phone numbers. His handwriting was tidy and curvy. Remus handed the piece of paper to him, and James took it gratefully.

“It’s Y/n’s schedule along with her part-time bartending job. Our numbers are at the bottom.” Remus motioned to the calendar and at the numbers on the bottom.

“Thank you, Remus.” James smiled as he pulled out a business card from his wallet, “Obviously, you don’t need me to be your doctor, but my number is on the card if either of you needs anything.”

Remus took the two cards gently, “Thank you, James. We really won’t forget this.”

“I’m glad.” James smiled, “Because I won’t forget you two.”

He left the bookstore with a skip in his step. It felt good to do that. James hadn’t felt this happy since Harry was born, but now he felt like himself again. He felt like that energized boy from middle school who was always destined to be great.

James didn’t know what it was like to be poor. He grew up with his parents being doctors. They made decent money, and James always got what he wanted. They lived with the higher class. It made his heart ache that Remus and Y/n, who were so sweet we’re struggling. He couldn’t take it. He had to do something. It felt good to do that something.

Around the block was a bar called Whiskey Woes. It was old and rugged-looking. The black stone bricks seemed to be cracking in every spot. It made James grimace. Walking inside was even worse. The pungent smell of older men with no taste for cologne made him scrunch his nose. But behind the counter, he saw an exhausted girl who was giving it her all to get tips.

James made his way to sit on a barstool, and sluggishly Y/n made her way to him, “Good afternoon, sir! What can I getcha today?”

“A glass of water?” James replied, lifting his head, and Y/n let out a visible sigh of relief, “‘Course.”

A minute of running around the bar later, a glass of water was placed in front of him, “How’s work, Y/n?”

“How’d you find out my name?”

“Well, your name tag says it.” James pointed, “And I went by the bookstore today.”

Y/n hummed, “Remus tell you where I work, huh?”

“Yeah.” James replied, stirring his water with his straw, “And I want you to quit.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want you to quit working at this shithole.” James repeated, “And take this.”

Another envelope was passed to her across the bar. Y/n eyed him as she broke the glued seal on the white paper. Inside she saw cash, and it didn’t look like just a tiny amount either. Y/n’s face showed visible shock, and James smiled sheepishly.

“Consider it a tip.”

“This is more than a tip.” Y/n chuckled, “This is like three of my yearly salaries.”

James’ smile faltered just a tiny bit, “You don’t belong here. You belong at the bookstore with Remus. You don’t seem happy here, and Remus sees it too. Says you come home exhausted and drained.”

“Is there anything I can do to repay you?”

“Maybe go on a date with me?”

Y/n blushed, “A date?”

“Yeah, a date.” James muttered.

“I think you deserve a lot more than a date.” Y/n replied, and James smirked, “Only if you’ll let me.”

She laughed, and it made his stomach flutter. It was a sound he wanted to hear forever. It made his heart flip and the corners of his lips quirk. The way she tilted her head back and how her hair flowed as she did so—the crinkle of her nose and the creases of her eyes as she shut them tightly.

She was so perfect.

599 notes · View notes

writingsbychlo · 4 years ago

Text

mistletoe magic | stiles stilinski

word count; 10,490

summary; stiles learns that his cute neighbour might be a witch after accidentally getting her spellbooks delivered to him instead.

notes; I know a witch!au isn’t a huge au for stiles, because he’s had evident races of magic throughout the series anyway, but just enjoy it!

warnings; smut, unprotected sex, use of magic

It had been a pretty regular Monday morning for Stiles.

At six sharp, he’d been up and awake, barely functional but stumbling through his apartment and clicking on the coffee machine, before hopping into the shower for a quick wash. When he’d emerged, the machine had just finished grinding, as always, his routine functioning like a well-oiled machine now, and he’d moved it all across into a to-go cup and left it on the counter before going to get dressed.

He’d stumbled around to find his school books and shove them into a bag, eaten two cinnamon pop tarts that had burned the tips of his fingers when he’d grabbed them straight from the toaster, and had still been chewing as he shoved his keys in his pocket and sipped at his coffee, straight into the elevator at twenty to seven.

It was a fifteen-minute walk across campus to his early morning lecture on a Monday, leaving him with a few minutes to spare, in case he saw the sweet older lady from two floors down and wanted to say ‘hi’, or the cute neighbour who lived across the hall that always made him fall over his own feet, or maybe even the kid who delivers newspapers and is always falling off of his bike. He made it on time, took some great notes, and was feeling a little more alive and welcome into his day.

At exactly ten past one, he’d been home, having gone to the library to get some study in and find his new books, and get lunch at the diner he always ate at after classes, a cheeseburger and curly fries, and grabbed his letters and a parcel from the mail slot with his housing number printed on, tucking the package under his arm and heading upstairs and back to his flat, ready to flick through his bills.

All according to plan. One year and four months away at university and he knew every day like he’d been doing it for a decade, so he was only half-way to the kitchen when he remembered the package he was clutching under his arm, coming to a complete halt, throwing the usual assortment of envelopes away to the counter, and producing the neatly wrapped bundle.

He didn’t question it, not even bothering to look at the front, figuring it was just an early delivery on the textbooks that he wasn’t expecting to get here for another three weeks, finger slipping under the folds of the brown paper and tearing it away, fingers dancing over the covers of the books, before his brows were furrowing once again.

These were definitely not his ‘intro to psychological profiling’ textbooks.

Beautiful swirls in gold, carved into dark leather across the front, Latin words he didn’t understand before he was opening the cover, brushing off a layer of dust and letting one brow arch up. The text inside was English - though, no modern - and paper that he was cautious to take care of, simply from what appeared to be the age of it, stained and worn, finger marks clear on the corner from being passed down through generations. It was handwritten, drawings in old ink that had leaked onto the paper a little, rough and coarse, and labelled doodles with names he had never heard of before.

At a glance, he would assume it to be some kind of witchcraft.

He felt on edge, suddenly. He’d left Beacon Hills to come to somewhere that no supernatural would follow, where things like werewolves were still a myth, something to be laughed at, and he swallowed thickly, looking around his apartment as though someone was going to jump out. He loved his friends, he really did, and he didn’t so much mind the supernatural when he was with them all because they protected him, but alone out here, he and his bat didn’t stand a chance.

Now, it was Christmas, he knew this from the poor excuse of a tree up in his living room, and the snow outside, and the fact that for the last six weeks, his usual mochas had been a gingerbread-spiced mocha, on the insistence of the barista who served him whenever he ventured into the little coffee shop joint, and he was growing find of it. So, he tried to be optimistic, in the spirit of festivities and all that, and texted the group chat, waiting to see if any of them had sent him the books as a present, maybe even his father or Melissa. He even texted Parrish.

Except, they all said no, and now, he was stumped. Then, as he was being extra nosey and flicking through the book, he came across a page marked with a small slip of card, the item falling out, and he cursed, having no idea which page it came from, but as he picked up the piece of paper, one of the questions in his puzzle finally gained another piece towards the jigsaw.

‘(Y/N), the spell you’re looking for is here, but be careful, it’s a strong one.’

So, the books are for his hot neighbour, the next number up from his, and it now made sense as to why he had these books - they were a mistake. It opened a new question, however, as to why you would be getting them.

He had absolutely no patience, barley remembering to flick the catch on his door so that he’d be able to get back inside, before he was striding across the hall in one, two steps, and knocking on the wood. He could hear you shuffling around inside, the soft and muffled notes of the classic rock music you’d been listening to getting turned right down to low. It only took you a further few seconds until you were opening the door, but it felt like years to him with his impatience, fingers tapping against the books agitatedly, biting the nail of the other thumb, and his foot was tapping against the floor.

When you opened the door, though, he felt like it was too soon, like he wasn’t prepared for what to say, his breath hitching in his throat as his heart leapt in his chest, eyes sweeping down along your body and widening at your bare legs, only a t-shirt hanging on your frame, rising up to reveal the edge of a pair of white lace panties as you opened the door, and he forced his eyes back up to yours, wincing as he bit down a little too harshly on his nail, and pulled it from his mouth, shaking it as his dropped to his side.

“Hey, neighbour.”

“H-Hi. Hello. Yes, hi.” He already wanted to die a little bit, he hadn't stuttered this much in front of a pretty girl since junior year in high school, even Lydia had lost this effect on him, and college really had been a growing experience for him. He’d had a fair few hook-ups, and experimented, and he wasn’t shy about flirting when he wanted to, but you always through hi right back through loops, like he was still that kid with a buzzcut.

“What can I do for you, four-A?”

“Stiles. My name is Stiles.” He waited for the usual reaction, the cringe, the eyebrows shooting up, the scowl, something to indicate that you had actually heard the pronunciation, but you only smiled a little wider.

“I know. After I introduced myself and you fell over and didn’t give me your name, I checked the mail in your post-slot. I was curious. There was a lot addressed to Mieczysłav, but then one with a handwritten address to Stiles.” You shrugged, leaning against the doorframe, and crossing your arms, and while you might seem casual, at least his degree was coming in useful for something, as your body language read an entirely different reaction, insecurity and worry rolling off of you in invisible waves of tells.

He rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand, laughing slightly. “That sounds like something I would do.”

Silence fell between you both for a second, and he couldn't help but stare, taking in every detail of your face, the way your lower lip was a little reddened, and he figured you must have been nibbling on it while working, and your hair was messy, an attempt to pin it back that seemed to have come loose and entirely ineffective, presumably from dancing, because you looked a little flushed. When you raised your brows at him a little, he realised you were waiting for him to explain himself, why he was on your doorstep, and he flushed with embarrassment shaking his head clear.

“I got your spellbooks by mistake.” He held them out, eyes widening even more, before his jaw was dropping open. “Book. Regular books. Not spell books, because that would imply magic, right? And, that’s dumb. Just regular books. I didn’t look at them, at all, not even a little bit, I promise.”

“You don’t believe in magic, then?” You took them from him, a coy smile on your lips, and you placed them down on the counter beside the door, pushing a bowl of potpourri getting pushed aside, along with your car keys and what looked like an incense burner.

“Do you?”

He was testing the water, seeing where your mind was at, and as a whistling came from your kitchen, you glanced back over to the kettle on the hob, and he thought this conversation might be about to come to an end. “Well, I think there’s always a little magic in life, even if people don’t notice it. You have to believe in magic to be able to see it. It’s like the supernatural that way.”

“And, you believe in the supernatural, huh?” He felt bad for the way he said it, because it was mocking, but he had to be sure that you weren’t messing with him, or spying on him, he had to try and find out who you were, but you only looked away as the whistling got louder, opening the door a little more and waving him inside as you walked away, and he stumbled after you and closed the door before his mind had even caught up with the movement of his feet.

Your apartment was littered with plants. The windowsills were lined with them, all brought green and blooming, even though he was sure it wasn’t the right season, and there was even a set of cactuses along a shelf near the corridor. There was a homey feel to your place, almost earthy, neutral tones and soft accents, a smell that was so calming he felt his own muscles begin to relax, and the music had changed from classic rock to some country song he was sure he’d heard in a movie somewhere but couldn't quite place it, and he followed you to the kitchen.

Rows of cookbooks and recipe folders stacked up on top of a lower cupboard, and he swallowed thickly, averting his gaze from the way your lace panties hugged your ass deliciously as you reached up for a mug, bringing back two, and pouring them both full of the herbal concoction you’d been making. On a mismatching saucer, you offered it to him, and he sniffed it carefully, but remembered his manners, mumbling a ‘thank you’, because his mother raised his right, even if he was a little suspicious of you.

“Relax, Stiles, if I was going to poison you, I wouldn’t be giving you tea made of Valerian and Lemon Balm. Do you want any honey, honey?” You grinned a little at your joke, but he shook his head, watching as you stirred a spoonful of the sticky sweetener into your own, and taking a tentative sip after blowing on the surface. It wasn’t all that bad, he had to admit, and he found his tensions slipping away a little. “It’s for relaxing, and helping with sleep.”

“It’s good.” You smiled, blowing lightly on your own, and he decided that he could busy himself by checking out your posters. An interesting arrangement, one was a band poster, the other was a chart with the phases of the moon, a third with diagrams of plants and little facts underneath, and the fourth, with symbols and drawing he didn’t quite understand. “So, you’re really embracing that whole witch thing, then?”

“Well, seeing as I am a witch, I would think it’s only appropriate.” He tried to hide his grin behind his mug, shaking his head a little, not believing that they really existed, and you didn’t miss the glint in his eyes, clearly, because there was a playful kind of offence flashing across your face. “You can’t tell me you think I’m insane, not when there’s so much of the supernatural all over you, Stiles.”

“The supernatural? Really?”

“So, you’re not the emissary to a pack of werewolves?” You challenged, his jaw dropping at the accuracy of it, and it was your turn to laugh at him. “It’s literally stitched into your aura, I sensed another supernatural the second you walked into the building.”

“I just associate with a lot of ‘em, but I’m not supernatural myself.”

“You sure about that?” He stilled, memories flashing behind his eyes of a time when he once was, and you seemed to pick up on the slightly sour mood he’d taken on, then again, he wasn’t really sure where your abilities lay, being that Scott or Derek would have simply sniffed it out on him. Your hand on his arm snapped him back to the moment, fingers squeezing lightly at his bicep. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“There was a possibility, once, but it’s gone. There’s a dark chapter in my past, and the spark I was told I once had disappeared when I got through it.”

It went quiet again after that, your fingers slipping down from his arm to take his, and you placed your cup down, the steaming brew barely touched, but he followed suit, letting himself be pulled along as you directed him back to the living room. You were distracting him, it was an obvious ploy, but he was excited to learn, and he let the sadness of remembering his possession fade away as the thrill of new knowledge took over. “I can tell you have a lot of questions, so, what do you want to know first?”

He rubbed at his chin, settling down onto the couch at the edge of the room, finding it surprisingly comfortable, and you were busying yourself around him, a little water jug in your hand as you nurtured the abundance of houseplants you owned. “How did you know about my pack? And how much do you know about them?”

“It’s in your aura, I suppose. I can just pick up hints of different things when you’re around. The wolves are obvious, I’ve been around a lot of wolves. I also get death, and I've never met a banshee, but I assume that’s what it is. I knew you were the emissary because you’re the only magic in there, I would sense other traces on you, and there’s something else I can’t quite place.” Your face screwed up a little bit as you thought about it, nose wrinkling adorably before shrugging. “Like a werewolf, but not quite. I can’t get it.”

“She’s a werecoyote.”

You paused your pouring, turning to look at him, eyes flicking lightly around his being, before smiling slightly to yourself, and going back to your task. “Huh. Interesting.”

“Have you been a witch your whole life?”

“Since the day I was born, but I didn’t know or start practising until I was older. It just kinda’ happens, comes out of nowhere at a certain age, you start to realise you have abilities.” You had moved onto using a dropper to give little drips of water to cacti and succulents, standing on a small step stool as you did.

“Do you have to go to a school, like Harry Potter? Do you have a wand?”

You laughed at that, a genuine and hearty laugh, and you finished up your tasks, legs folding underneath yourself and you smirked a little at him as you sat down and got comfortable. “You wish, Stilinski. It’s not like that, it's more of an earthly connection than magic. It’s why my plants are so healthy. I can brew stuff, make little potions-” You motioned a hand over the jars lining the shelves on the walls, his eyes scanning over each one, picking out the neatly written titles across the fronts. “-I can cast very light spells, but it’s not the sort of thing where you can curse people, or teleport.”

“So, you can’t curse people to turn into frogs?”

“No, unfortunately not.” He was sure your giggle was the sweetest he’d ever heard, and he dared to twist himself around a little more, inching slightly closer to you across the couch. “I can do some stuff, like make your skin break out or give you a rash that won’t go away until I let it, and I can even give you headaches and such, but I don’t like to dabble in that sort of stuff. I much prefer protection charms.”

“Protection charms?” His heart skipped a little beat at the way your face lit up as you nodded, and he was intrigued, interest piqued. “I could use one of those, y’know, I’m incredibly clumsy and often get into supernatural trouble when I’m home. Hasn’t been so bad since I got here. Will you make me one?”

Your eyes left him, bottom lip nibbled between your teeth, and for a second he had worried he’d messed up, unsure on how witch spellcasting etiquette worked, but then you were moving across the room, opening up the cabinet on the other side of the room, and inside the doors and wooden frame hung what must be close to a thirty different decorative charms. Some were dreamcatchers or garlands hanging on the inside of the door, others were handcrafted little ornaments sitting on the shelves and filling them up, and your fingers were flittering over them all.

When you found what you were looking for, you lifted it out, a dream catcher that was bright and colourful and a little odd-looking, before bringing it back over to him, and presenting him with it cautiously. “You already made me one?”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t let the cute guy from across the hall get any more injuries. I watched you fall over five times in your first week living here. You’re really clumsy.”

He felt heat rush to his cheeks, and yet he couldn't help the goofy grin that travelled across his features, not mentioning the fact that he noticed you sitting considerably closer to home when you took your seat once again. He was embarrassed for two reasons, the first being that you had noticed his innate penchant for ridiculous injuries, but more overwhelmingly, the second being that you still thought he was cute. College might have helped him bloom a little, but when he had a crush, he was still a bumbling mess, and he didn’t know quite how to respond.

He busied himself with taking in the details of the dreamcatcher. Somehow, despite this being the first real conversation that the two of you had ever had, passing and fleeting chats in the halls and elevator not counting, you had managed to capture his entire essence, he could already tell. The strings were made of wool, chunky and all different colours, a mix of yellows and blues, woven in together and tangled in strange patterns, but beautiful nonetheless, and the little accents were what made it complete.

A button that had fallen off of one of his flannels, he recognised the distinctive wooden piece, and it was woven into the design, along with a blue ribbon in the same colour of the jeep that was tied in a bow, and a wooden twig tangled in it. Dangling on more pieces of wool from the bottom was a keyring he was sure he’d lost after leaving it downstairs overnight, the Yoda on it looking cleaner than he remembered, and you must've cleaned it. There was also a black feather, and a sprig of some kind of dried herb that he didn't recognise, but enjoyed the smell anyway.

It was intricate and personal, and he felt chuffed just to know that you’d made one for him, a little security and peace washing over him to know that someone was out here looking after him, completely unmaliciously, simply because you wanted to.

“This is incredible.” You let out a breath of relief, he recognised it in the way your body slumped a little, and he placed it down carefully on the coffee table beside you both, reaching out to take your hand in his, and daring to lace your fingers together and squeeze in gratitude, and you held onto him yourself, gaze dropping down to your connected hands. In a bold move of your own, you lifted your other hand, holding onto his with both of yours, and his thumb lifted out to brush lightly over your skin. “You’re the reason I don’t get papercuts and splinters anymore.”

“And you are very welcome for that.” You teased him back, and an easy kind of harmony fell between you both, your presence being more comfortable simply having only just really begun to meet you than he ever had been with someone new. It was strange, to feel so relaxed and at home with you, the way you put his fears at ease and soothed every worry without even trying, making him feel welcome and accepted, like he’d known you for years, not just shy of an hour. “Will you tell me about your pack?”

“You really want to know?” He couldn’t mask his surprise, and you nodded, excitement gleaming in your eyes, and he felt a surge of pride swell up in his system at the idea of getting to boast about his friends completely honestly for the first time in his life. There was no threat, he wasn’t showing off their skills as a way to try and ward off a threat or intimidate someone, but he simply wanted everyone else to be as awed by them as he was, and he didn’t have to hide any supernatural secrets from you. “Shall I start at the beginning?”

“Is it a long story?”

“Very long.” He confirmed, a shy laugh leaving you, before you were shifting again.

“How about I go and make us some fresh tea, then?” You were on your feet, wandering away to the kitchen as soon as he’d offered his affirmations of the idea, and he decided to follow after you, already beginning to blather about Peter Hale.

Hours seemed to pass by, as he spoke to you, two more pots of tea being made, and you’d broken out your snack-store for him, before the two of you had ordered pizza. He’d made himself at home, too, keys and phone sitting abandoned on the table, shoes kicked off on the floor, and feet stretched out along the couch. You were sitting at the opposite end, your legs stretched out in his direction, and one of his hands was sitting on your ankle, fingers drawing patterns on the soft skin there absentmindedly as his other hand was used to gesture wildly around himself.

He told you it all, confessing right from the beginning as he encountered Derek Hale, who liked to lurk in the woods, which had made you crack up as he told you about how the man was basically now the alpha, even if Scott was officially the alpha, and he’d told you about Jackson’s kanima phase, which had made you crack up even more as you claimed he deserved it.

You’d been shocked by his homicidal English teacher, and comforted him when he spilled his heart to you over the nogitsune incident he hated to think about, accepting your hush happily, and revelling in the smell of your hair when you’d pressed in close to him, before retreating to your seat.

He told you all about the benefactor and the dread doctors, and about Allison’s death, which he still blamed himself for when he was on a low day, and you’d used your thumb to clear away the tear that had fallen from his cheek, leaving him blushing and breathless for a second when you’d pressed a light kiss to his cheekbone just after.

You had scooted closer to him and stayed there near the end of his tales, tucked under his arm, playing with his fingers over your shoulders as he rambled about how alone he’d felt while taken by the Wild Hunt, thoughts that he’d always kept locked up in his own mind, never having shared with another person before.

“You really got the short end of the ‘supernatural encounters’ stick then, huh?”

“Oh, sweetheart, that is the understatement of the century.” You lifted your head from his shoulder, your feet nudging together on the coffee table, the reindeer themed fluffy socks on your feet playing with the patchy and worn door knitted socks he’d had for years, worn to keep warm during the winter, even though your apartment was nice and toasty, the heaters running and the radiators on, and it was much cosier than his place had ever been.

The Christmas lights on a timer had come on, flickering around the place once the light had started fading, hours flashing by in the blink of an eye, a hazy glow cast over the apartment and creating a whole new range of shadows. “Do you want me to make charms for your friends?”

He watched you for a moment longer, trying to discern whether you were serious, and when he caught no gesture of ill-will, or hesitation, or hidden-motives, he smiled. “You’d do that?”

“Seems like you all need it.”

He shrugged a little, smiling when you rested your forehead against his, fingers playing together still, but feet stilling in their game of footsie. “I can’t believe I waited this long to get to know you. You’re, like, the coolest chick I’ve ever met.”

His eyes fluttered closed, he couldn't’ help it, noses bumping together as you both simply drowned in the moment, in what the moment was leading up to, where you both knew this was going but were revelling in the simple but exhilarating tension that was crackling with electricity in the millimetres of space between your lips and his. You were so close to him that he could feel it more than hear it when you whispered some words he didn’t quite understand, your breath fanning over his face in a dreamy sigh, and it took his hazed brain a second to catch up, before he was pulling back just enough to catch your eyes, one hand coming up to rest over your cheek as he turned to face you fully.

“Oh, my God. Did you just cast a spell?”

“Look up.” He was hesitant to pull back much further, but did so anyway, and he chuckled slightly as he spotted the little green plant beginning to sprout from the ceiling. Vines were still strengthening along the beam, and the leaves were beginning to form right before his eyes, white berries hanging between the green stems, and Stiles shook his head, in complete awe as he looked at it.

You were staring up to, eyes focused on the plant as it bloomed and he assumed you were concentrating on its development, but he couldn't hold back anymore, two hands on your cheeks, pulling your face back to his, and your lips barely parted to speak before his mouth was colliding with your own. A squeak left you, and he wanted to grin at being able illicit such a sound from you, but the temptation to kiss was just enough for him to contain himself. When your mind finally caught up, you were kissing him back just as eagerly, a soft sigh leaving you. “You are fucking adorable.”

The words were whispered into your mouth, he felt you shake with a soft laugh under his hold, before you were holding onto him just as tightly in return. One of your hands wrapped around his wrists, the other sliding over his bicep to his shoulder, before slipping down underneath, and smoothing over the front of his chest. He puffed out a little under your touch, pulling away for a quick breath, groaning slightly at the way your nails dug into his skin as he did, and then, he was diving right back into you.

Your hand slipped down to rest over his heart, the organ thudding under your hand, and he felt like it was going to burst right out of his chest, but as he pressed a little further into you, a shock like an electrocution was racing right through his body, a kind of jolt that was thoroughly exhilarating, and he pulled away, eyes wide as he stared at you.

You looked just as shocked as he expected he did too, his hands dropped down as he watched sparks and electricity crackle between your fingers and his, your brows raising at him. “Thought you said you had no magic left after.. y’know..”

He couldn’t drag his eyes away from it, your fingers weaving with his, a loud snapping sounding as a particularly bright flare went off, and he flinched a little, jaw dropping and a whine slipping from him as you contained it all the sight disappeared before his eyes. “So, there really are sparks flying between us, huh?”

He regretted the words the moment he’d said them, expecting to see on your face the same kind he’d always gotten from Malia or Lydia when he made those kinds of cheesy puns that only he enjoyed, even Scott daring to fix him with a bored or blank look, and Derek would simply glare, but much to his surprise, you laughed. It was fond, with a roll of your eyes and a huff to preempt it, but you laughed nonetheless, and he felt himself somehow manage to brighten even further. “That was cheesy.”

“I know.” He beamed, shifting a little, hands sinking down to your hips to pull you closer to himself as he settled back into the couch, and your hand pressed to the cushions beside his head, the other one coming up to weave into his hair lightly.

“I loved it. I am quite a fan of puns.”

“That’s good, because I usually have a lot of them.” He leaned up, daring himself to be bold enough to close that gap once again, and he could feel your lashes tickling his cheeks as you nuzzled into him a little more. “If I kiss you again, will those sparks happen this time, too?”

“If I stop controlling it, they will.”

“Stop controlling it, sweetheart.” He felt you move to nod your affirmations, but dipped his head in time, proud of his own reflexes as he caught your lips, feeling the hand in his hair tighten, and he was so glad he’d decided to grow it out all those years ago, because right now, he was losing all sense of himself in the way your nails would scratch across his scalp, or the delicious burning that flared over his skin for a split second when you pulled on his hair, before you were rubbing it softly, fingers working in tandem timing with your lips, teasing over his own.

That same feeling took up, a sparking that felt like fireworks, like energy surging through him, escaping at his fingertips in every place that he touched you, one palm smoothing along your back to somewhere that was definitely too lose to be respectable, as the other held onto your cheek still. You were taking control, your tongue darting out to trace over his lower lip, bribing him to part them but he needed no convincing, letting your tongue meet his own only a second after you’d made the request, equally breathy and needy noises escaping you both at the slow and wet drag of the muscles over one another.

His lungs were burning, lips beginning to sting as his assault on your mouth continued, his neck straining to hold this angle, and yet the more you kissed him, the more that the hazy feeling of getting to be with you like this raced through his body was the more he became addicted to needing more, chasing a high that he didn’t even know he wanted until now, like an addict finding his next hit.

You seemed to pick up on it all, as though you’d read all of his thoughts, because the second he’d had the lingering thoughts, you were settling yourself across his lap, a leg on either side of his own as you seated yourself down, and he couldn't help the way his hips bucked up a little to meet you, or the way his hand slid down fully to rest on your ass.

After all, as much as he’d gone through the make him grow up emotionally, physically he was still a horny-teen college boy, and you were one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, sitting half-naked in his lap and sucking on his lower lap while doing something with your tongue that was making him feel like he couldn't even breathe properly for how aroused he was.

Maybe you could feel the growing erection underneath of you, maybe you couldn't, but he’d stopped caring about being embarrassed around you about three hours ago when he’d had to tell you all about the time he’d once dropped a condom in Coach’s class in front of the entire classroom, and you’d laughed so much your face had gone red and you’d hidden it form him by pressing into his shoulder.

You were something he felt like he was dreaming up, like any moment now he’d wake up in a small puddle of his own drool with his face pressed into the desk of his lecture hall, the lights turned out and another note left by his kind professor to get more sleep at home, and to lock up when he left, before you were giggling a little at him, pulling away and stealing a few more pecks as you did, and he wondered if you really could read his mind, heat flushing his cheeks.

“Are you reading my mind or something?”

He felt stupid even as he mumbled te words, especially when it only seemed to heighten your entertainment, but you shook your head. “I can’t read your mind, I can just kinda’ sense your mood, I guess. It’s the connection, you were clearly thinking something funny, and I don’t know what it was, but I got a sudden rush of amusement.”

“That’s pretty fucking incredible.” He whispered, letting you peck his mouth a few more times, simply sitting there with puckered lips as he tried not to smile too much, before he was tucking hair away behind your ears and finally you were opening your eyes, and at this point, he really should learn to stop being surprised by new developments with you. “Holy shit, your eyes are glowing!”

“So are yours.” You winked, the bright purple being a shade that was so captivating and beautiful on you that he couldn’t look away, even when you leaned away from him to grab his phone, raising it up to snap a picture for him, and forcing his gaze down to it. Much like you’d said, his eyes were beginning to hint in with a faint purple, the neon shading beginning to drip into his irises and take over from the usual golden-brown that resided there. “You never made out with another witch before?”

He pinched at your ass for your cheeky comment, taking his phone and throwing it away to the side, grinning when you yelped at his painless attack. “I didn’t even know witches really existed before today. Besides, what makes you think I'm one? I had a spark once, but as I said, that died out. Nothing truly magical.”

“I don’t know, you’re having a pretty strong connection with me right now, aren’t you?” Your arms looped around his neck, snuggling in a little closer to him, and he bit back a groan as you shuffled in his lap. “I think you’re underestimating yourself, you just don’t know how to tap into your magic, you have to believe in it to see it.”

“You really think so?”

He was vulnerable and he knew it showed, he’d gone his entire life being unsure as to where all his energy and twitching came from, as to why he’d always felt a draw to the earth; the preserve and the woods, and justice and balance, and why he’d somehow fit into a supernatural world with far more elegance and ease than he ever had the normal one, and maybe this was the explanation. “I really do, Stiles.”

“Will you teach me?”

“I would love to.” He pressed a kiss to your jaw, and then to the spot below your ear, before flicking his tongue out a little to drag over the sensitive patch that lay there, before moving down your neck. He didn’t want to mark you without your consent, he wasn’t sure what was going to come of all of this and where it would go, but he was more than happy to lick and bite lightly at your skin, finding the sweet spot that made your hips roll down into his own and a sound of need and desperation to leave you that was like music to his ears, before his hips were bucking up to meet you once again.

“Y’know when you said that you could feel what I was feeling?”

“Uh-huh?” You were distracted, your reply seeming somewhat faded and distant, and he chuckled lightly, before making his way back up to your mouth now that you’d both had a chance to catch your breaths once again.

“Does that mean everything?”

“Are you asking if I know just how much you want to fuck me right now? Because yes, I do know.” He choked a little on his breath, your hand in his hair pulling his head back so that you could meet his gaze, your lower lip held between you teeth, flesh going a darker pink, and he longed to be the one biting that lip for you. “Trust me, the sentiment is returned.”

“It is?”

“Oh, yeah.” He wasn’t used to women being so confident with wanting him, being so unashamed of it, or of even wanting him at all. Most of his hook-ups had been slightly drunk make-outs and sloppy grinding, or booty calls and meetings in closets at parties. He got more action than he ever did in high school, he’d finally grown into his limbs and his looks, but that didn’t take away the surprise that still happened every time someone as pretty as you even offered him the time of day.

“Like, right here? Right now?”

“Been thinking about how much I want to ride you on my couch for like an hour and a half, now.” Stiles couldn’t stop the moan that bubbled up in his throat, lips parting as you ran a finger over his swollen lips, a cheeky glint flashing over purple eyes as you looked at him.

“You might just be perfect for me.”

“I like the sound of that.”

A toothy smile was offered to you, before he was pulling you back in towards him, hands slipping down to lay resting on your thighs as soon as your lips had found his once again. The heat seemed to have passed, and while the kiss was still completely intoxicating, there was something a little more tender about it, too. It wasn’t nearly as rushed and frantic, the sloppy kisses you’d shared as you learned one another’s ticks had passed, and as your lips worked slowly with his own, Stiles found that he much preferred this kind of kiss.

This was the kind of kiss that he could picture himself sharing with you in many settings. A sleepy, early morning kiss, when you were still between the land of consciousness and the realm of unconsciousness. Or, late nights, when he’d fall asleep while studying, and he would let you drag him to his feet and to bed. Or, simply when he would finish a lecture, or get you coffee, or meet you for dinner. The point was, Stiles already knew he wanted to kiss you at all times of the day, and to hold onto you, and to watch you brew little spells at the stove while holding onto you from behind.

Your lips were wet when you pulled away, eyes sparkling as you looked at him, a bright shade of royal purple, like silk and rich violet on flower petals, and you looked utterly ethereal. “Do you have any idea just how beautiful you are?”

“You’re sweet-talking me.” You teased, bumping the tip of your nose against his, and he shook his head.

“No, I’m not, I’m just being honest with you. I’ve been into you for a long time, even if I didn’t quite have my mind in the right place to actually say it.” You huffed out a little laugh, your eyes averting from his own so that you could try and hide your bashful little expression, but he didn’t miss it.

“Well, I’ve been admiring you a little, too. I should’ve had my deliveries sent to you sooner, if I knew it was going to end like this.” As if to punctuate your words, you rolled your hips down into his, reminding him of the solid erection pressing into his jeans, his fingers digging a little firmer into your skin, and he pushed your shirt up higher, the soft cotton of your panties revealed to him.

“These are just fucking sinful. Do you normally wander around your house in underwear and band-tees?” He tugged at it a little, before daring to tuck his hand underneath the fabric, trailing up, and a poorly-concealed groan left him as he found no further obstructions, fingers closing over one of your breasts, squeezing lightly as he palmed at your chest. “Well, clearly not all of your underwear.”

“I tend to, I keep it warm in here, for all the plants.” Your back arched up into his hand, one of your own closing over his outside of your shirt, as your other held onto his shoulder, fingers leaving crescent-moon shaped marks he was sure, and the rocking of your hips into his own only seemed to increase.

“I’d love to see you in one of my flannels sometime, just like this.”

“Give me your shirt and you’ll see it sooner than you think.” You teased, his brows raising, before he was pulling his hands back just long enough to lean into you, stripping the garment off as best as he could, leaving him in a thin black t-shirt as you took the item from him. He wanted to whine out as you stood up, choosing instead to replace the pressure of your core over his with his hand instead, palming at his cock through the thick denim, and you grinned as you watched him, yet he didn’t feel the slightest bit embarrassed.

You stood before him, draping his shirt across his spread knees as he slumped further into the cushions, getting himself comfortable and popping the button on his jeans, swollen lower lip being nibbled as you played with the hem of your shirt. Your hips were swinging to the beat of the song, and then, you raised the garment up and over your head, letting it drop away to the carpet, his jaw dropping as he looked at you.

You picked up his flannel, pulling it up your arms, and leaving it open at the front, just barely covering your tits. You were an angel and also the devil, tempting him to do so many wrong things. Stretching his hands out toward you, he beckoned you back into his lap, an act you were more than happy to take as you bounded over to him, a pep on your few short steps, before you were settling back into his lap.

“Perfect.”

He let his hands find the flaps of the flannel, pulling it open wide enough to be able to admire your tits fully, letting you push your hair back away from your shoulders for his unobstructed view. Sealing one hand around your waist, he dragged you up closer, until you were almost pressed to him fully, before dipping his head down. His tongue dragged over a hardened nipple, taking the taut peak into his mouth and sucking harshly, as your hand wound into his hair. You tugged, roughly, a groan that vibrated along your entire body leaving him and making you shiver, and you made the prettiest little noises above him.

He switches sides, making sure to give the other half of your chest that same kind of attention, leaving wet marks and stinging watches along your skin that would become bright purple marks in the morning to match the colour of your eyes, and he just hoped you kept him around long enough to see them when they did become beautiful and prominent. He wanted to see his good work, he wanted to see the way he got to mark you up and leave his touch all over your body.

“Stiles..”

“I do love how you sound moaning my name, princess, but I’m not sure how much longer I can last when you're making noises like that and grinding yourself all over my cock like this.” You grinned, letting him kiss his way back up your chest and throat until he was taking your lips with his own. Your hands were moving down, tugging at his zipper as far as it would go, hid hips bucking up into his hand as he felt you drag a nail along his covered erection, breathy sounds between you both when you pulled away.

He only had to lift himself up for a moment, before you were tugging at his jeans, helping him to get them just far enough down his thighs for his boxers to be able to follow. His cock was throbbing, painfully hard and desperate for you, leaking precum along his skin, and he gave himself some form of relief. You were watching him, eyes wide as he pumped his length in one hand, the other dipping under your skirt rubbing over your core, and you bundled up your shirt for him.

“Y’know, all those times I thought about us, a quick fuck on your couch wasn’t how I had wanted our first time to be, but then again, I didn’t expect the cute chick across the hall to be a witch, wither, so..”

He used his thumb to drag your panties to the side, your sodden folds revealed to him, and he slipped two fingers into your dripping core with ease. “I’ll let you take it slow next time, I swear, but right now, I’d really like it if you’d fuck me.”

He could only nod, heart skipping a beat at the promise of another time. Your legs shifted, muscles clenching as he forced himself to take his touch away from your core and bringing his fingers up to his mouth, sucking your sweet essence from the thin digits. As you leaned over him, he was sure to line himself up, and then, you were sinking down onto him, your forehead flailing to his as your mouth fell open, his eyes rolling back in his head.

“You’re so fucking big.”

“You’re so fucking tight.” He whispered the words, a little breathless and hanging on the edge of his orgasm already, and you seemed just as close, because as you finally sank all the way down and settled into his lap again, he could feel every pulse within your walls as you hugged around him.

It took him a moment, staving off his climax so that he didn’t come just from getting to feel you like this, and you looped your arms around his neck gently to find your purchase. Your nails were scratching lightly at the hairs at the base of his neck, his flannel once again flapping around you, panties pushed to the side to let him have access to your centre, and it was deliciously filthy.

Once you were settled, you circled your hips, a test movement, pleasure spiking in both of your systems and it felt like the temperature in the room was shooting upwards. Stiles could already feel sweat beginning to bead along his skin in a thin layer, and you pressed yourself in closer to him. Each time you shifted your hips you were moving a little more, every rock of your body into his, you were pulling yourself up just a little higher to be able to drop yourself back down onto his cock, stretching and squeezing around him.

You felt like velvet, slick and warm as you sheathed around him. You were precise and deliberate, and he couldn't help the wonton sounds that were leaving you with every drop down onto his cock, before you were taking him up to see stars every time, leaving the both of you resting in the clouds. Panted breaths, a scream in the back of your throat that tried to break out each time as you gave him broken moans of his name, picking up your pace further and further each time.

Once you were stable above him, you were moving with purpose, fast and quick as you rode him, gaining more confidence each time, and he was gripping you so tightly that there would be fingerprints all over your hips in the morning. He helped you go, lifting you up each time, only to pull you back down into his lap, thrusting up with a weak effort to meet you, but feeling you go wild each time. That same energy was back, crackling with more force, surging through him like nothing he had ever felt.

Stiles was in college, he was away from home and the weight of being the Sheriff’s kid for the first time, and he had experimented. He’d gotten drunk, and high, and hungover, but this was a whole new kind of thrill; it was like lighting up with fireworks and adrenaline all at once, like creating a bond with another person, and a tingling spread throughout his entire body as your magic bonded with his own. He hadn't felt this kind of singing in his blood since the day he’d managed to finish the circle with the mountain ash back when he was only sixteen, or breaking through the wild hunt barrier at almost eighteen.

These kind of thrills were rare for him, but they’d never been this strong, and as the two of you moved as one in the most intimate way that two people could, your mouth coming up to claim his as you silenced yourself and him, growing louder and more desperate as you went, he felt that final high beginning to build.

“‘M so close, honey.” His voice had taken on that same kind of scratchy rasp that he had in the mornings before he even broke into his day, “Oh, God, keep goin’.”

He knew his words were beginning to grow slurred, and he could barely buck his hips up into you. As everything within his body began to light up, he felt like all of his muscles were going lifeless, his body going boneless, because the heat was consuming him. He couldn't hold it back, he’d been waiting for so long to feel you this way, and his lips could barely even move back against your own as he went slack-jawed, exploding within your tight heat.

The send that he was shooting over the edge, you were following right after him, crying out his name into his mouth as you kept going against him, until you couldn't clumping down into his body as you trembled, and Stiles felt as though you’d milked absolutely everything from him that he had to offer. There was a crackling along his skin from everywhere that your fingertips smoothed over, sliding down from his shoulders so that you could press your cheek to the spot instead, fanning breaths rushing over his neck as you tried to catch your breath, racing heart just like his was.

You didn’t even bother to move from him, letting him throb within your walls with each flutter you made and each shift, and if you kept it up, he was sure he’d be ready for a second round, but he wasn’t entirely sure that he had that in him. Resting his head back against the edge of the couch, he let you lift yourself up and off of him finally, your legs shaking as you stood, offering him a weak smile as he took in your through fucked out state, before taking wobbly steps away from him, and disappearing down the hall.

He heard a door close, assuming you’d gone to the bathroom, and he leaned over to the coffee table to snatch up a few tissues, to clean himself up with, before sorting himself out too. He did the bare minimum, not even bothering to do up his jeans once he had them pulled back up, but he stretched out along the length of the couch to lay down, an arm popped under his head, and a little laugh on his lips as he did.

He took a moment to glance around, not missing the way that the plants all seemed to be blooming particularly beautifully, seeming more alive than ever. As he lifted up a hand before his face, rubbing his forefinger and thumb together, a spark travelled between the tips, and he felt a little in awe just at the sight of it.

“It's pretty incredible, right?”

He startled, jumping a little, before turning to look at you and propping himself up on his elbows as you lingered in the doorway. You had changed, your hair pulled back and out of your face, missing a few odd strands and you’d buttoned up his flannel along your body, mismatched and hanging unevenly, but still adorable. You took slower steps over to him, waiting for a second as you stood beside him, before he was lifting his arms and making it clear to you that you could lay with him, a smile gracing both of your faces as you flattened yourself along him, cheek pressed over his chest as his arms wrapped around your waist.

“You like feeling your magic, then?”

He lifted his palm, holding it to yours and admiring the final dying flares he saw, as the energy began to dissipate and absorb into his body and yours fully. “I’m not used to feeling special myself. I’ve always been a behind the scenes, research, kinda’ guy. I’m not used to being one of the main players.”

“Oh, hush. You told me your story, you were most definitely a key player, Stiles.” He shrugged under you, letting you cross your arms over his chest and prop your chin on them.

“Yeah, but I never really felt that way, and now I feel like I have something to offer.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips over his jaw with a sweet kiss, and he felt like he could most definitely get used to this feeling. Can I meet them?”

“My pack?”

You nodded, seeming a little shy now, and joy raced through him at the fact that you saw enough of a future with him to want to meet his friends an get to know them, and to once again be able to be completely open and honest with everyone, never having to hide anything from anyone, and being able to let you fully and wholly into his life. It was a surprise, because the more he’d thought about his future late at night when lying alone in his bed, he was so sure he’d never be able to really settle down, because he could never let someone in on his life in every single way, but with you, that wasn’t a problem.

“I would absolutely love that.”

“Really?” You were studying him carefully, trying to ensure that he was telling the truth, and he gave you the most honey look that he possibly could, before lifting his head to meet your lips as he leaned in.

Soft and delicate, like a kiss that was shared between deep romance and longtime lovers, and he rested a hand on your cheek, holding you to him, and rolling you to the side, to sandwich you between the couch and his body Your thigh came up to rest over his legs, his palm slipping from your face to rest on your leg, drawing patterns on the skin until you pulled away to breathe, lips detaching from his as you whined a little. You stayed close, though, a soft look etched onto your features;

“I just want to meet a few more supernatural people, and get to know others who I don’t have to hide from.”

“Well, you definitely don’t have to hide from them, and you’ll love them, just as much as they’ll love you. We’re a pretty odd group, you’ll fit right in.”

“You’re right about that ‘odd bunch’ thing. I’ve never met a banshee, or a - what did you call it? - werecoyote.” That was an undeniable truth, your head coming back down to rest on his chest as he shrugged, unable to deny that you were right. “Your wolves sound nice, too. All the other wolves I’ve met have been overly territorial and closed off.”

“Well, Derek used to be like that, but we’ve pulled him around a little. He is still broody, though.” You laughed at his joke, a sound that made his heart burst open slightly and bleed with affection, all for you, as you continued to take more and more pieces of his heart with every act, and he was falling in love with you faster than he’d ever known was possible. “Don’t take notice of any of his lurking, by the way, it’s his twisted way of showing concern and care.”

“I’ll remember that, and if I ever catch him hiding behind a tree, I’ll know that it’s real friendship.”

“He does that, I’m serious, don’t underestimate him. I think my dad arrested him for stalking, once.”

“I think your dad would be who I am most scared to meet.” A fond tone in your voice, before he was pressing a kiss to your forehead, humming under his breath.

“He’ll love you the most, don’t worry.”

Silence fell between you both then, and he busied himself with tracing illegible drawings into your skin, simply enjoying feeling so close to you. It was irrationally domestic, and you were the final piece in his college life and college experience that was missing. Despite not being a wolf, he was unequivocally part of a wolf pack, and being surrounded so closely by such a tight-knit group of friends for those years had made him dependent on company and reliability, and he had been feeling so alone since leaving for college.

Scott had Malia, Lydia had rekindled things with Jordan, and even Derek had been (begrudgingly, to begin) hooked up with a deputy by his father, and they’d been on a few dates.

The last time he’d been home, he’d felt like a fifth, seventh, or was it ninth wheel, when Liam and Hayden were taken into account? He had been feeling awfully lonely lately, and he was glad to finally find someone that fit him perfectly, matching him like a glove.

“When I do introduce you to my friends, my pack, y’know, and my dad..”

You lifted your head, a little crease across your cheek from the fold in his shirt, and he rubbed the spot with his thumb gently, an attempt to remove the mark. “Yeah?”

“What should I introduce you as?”

“A witch.” You deadpanned, and he knew immediately that you’d clearly know exactly what he meant, but were playing with him, and he pouted, fixing you with a mock glare, before you were laughing to yourself over your joke, something so undeniably cute that he couldn't even pretend to be mad about it. “What do you want to introduce me as?”

Nudging your jaw a little with his, he puckered his lips, tempting you down to kiss him, and you were more than happy to press a series of sweet and short kisses to his lips. “I’d really like to formally claim you to be my girlfriend?”

He mumbled the words into your mouth, feeling your lips flick up at the edges in a smile as you gave him a kiss that was a little more firm, a little more loving and powerful, before whispering your reply; “Then we’re on the same page, because I’d like to introduce you to my coven back home as my boyfriend.”

“You have a coven?” He pulled back, a gasp of shock, and you giggled at him.

“That I do. Maybe I should tell you about them?”

“You absolutely should.” He insisted, his craving for knowledge taking over, and he couldn't have been more glad to whatever deity was watching over benevolently that he’d taken the choice to stay the first time knowledge had been offered, because it had led him to where he was now.

“It might take all night, maybe you should go and get a change of clothes. Get comfortable.”

“Is that an invitation to stay the night?” You only nodded, letting him roll you back over onto your back as he kissed at your neck. “I’ll buy you take out if you cuddle me later?”

“Cuddling and dinner? Glad I get to call you my boyfriend, now.”

“Not nearly as glad as I am to call you my girlfriend. My little witch.” His lips sealed over yours, silencing your laughs against his mouth as you teased him for the nickname, and he pinched a little at your sides. The mistletoe overhead grew a little more, a few of the berries dropping away and bouncing off of his back as the plant became bolder, just like the rest, that energy beginning to grow once again, as you got lost in each other’s touch.

#stiles stilinski #stiles stilinksi imagine #stiles stilinksi x reader #stiles stilinski x reader #stiles stilinski x reader smut #stiles stilinski/reader #stiles stilinski/reader smut #stiles stilinski teen wolf #dylan obrien x reader #dylan obrien/reader #dylan obrien x reader smut #dylan obrien/reader smut #dylan obrien teen wolf #dylan obrien stiles stilinski #dylan o'brien #dylan obrien

2K notes · View notes

athanasius-symposium-of-writings · 2 years ago

Text

Running Up That Hill (A Deal With God)

Chapter Sixteen

Warnings: reader is a Spider-Man fan have fun with that

Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Seventeen

The first week of 'training' involved a hockey mask and a hockey stick, you wore a sweatshirt, and cargo pants; things to keep you looking not really descriptive. It did a terrible job of handling the fights you will be dealing with, and worse. The mask and stick at least knew some of the bad guys (sounds cool to say) off but they recover the second you charge at them.

Honestly, Bastet's protection is greatly appreciated and needed because damn these guys are packing so much fire power! Like military highly fucking illegal grade weapons!

The third week, costume. Unsuccessful and you had to break into a thrift store to get some clothes just to cover up what your costume failed to do after you were blown up! You left an I.O.U note (much to Anubis' annoyance) with the written prices of what you bought. Just because you are doing hero-stuff doesn't mean you take advantage, you will die by that.

"With great power, comes great responsibility." Quoting from a Spider-Man comic the first issue!

Fifth week (how many weeks are in a month again?) you figured out your fighting style and learned stealth can also apply to real life! Using the similar tactics as Bats does by using fear and a bit of theatrics, wearing black is key!

Until Anubis had you posing as Moon Knight.

Which is cool and all but: Being a hero is expensive! The amount of costumes, the designs, the materials; it's hard to keep up even with the help of Bastet who's avatar has been funneling money to you.

You do not have any clear pictures of Moon Knight (the forum you follow also complains about that too), add on white totally takes away from your stealth tactics.

But Anubis needs Set's (Seth? You don't know!) attention away from him for the time being until he gathered what is necessary to seal him away. Moon Knight, an avatar of Khonshu (bless knowing Steven who has tons of books on the Ancient Egyptian Gods).

Guess there goes more costume bills along with other adulting problems.

Oh, Steven has been a Godsend since this new life started. Checking up on you (he one time saw you on the roof and assumed the worst when he saw you jumping off, poor man), hanging around the flat when the silence was too much. Marc helps out too. Steven has you covered on the emotional support part, Marc provided the emotional stability. He understood the pain of losing a family member; though he wasn't close to the one he lost, he told you what methods a therapist told him to use. Jake, he gave you a way to let out the sadness turned into anger. Talking you to some gym straight out of a Rocky movie.

Jab, straights, hooks, blocks; focus and though he thinks he is helping burn out the rage; he is tempering it.

Anubis gave you a mission, a goal, and a origin story (cannot believe you are like Spider-Man now).

With a few months under your belt, the cold winds of winter settling in, the new year is going to start with a…

BAM, POW, SMASH!

A week before Christmas, you had to cut your Christmas shopping short because Anubis called.

Luckily you wore your new costume on this chilly day.

Tonight you bought a Black Widow costume, altered it, bought some seemingly sturdy boots and felt like you can kick ass!

Then…

Your costume is trashed. Again! Seriously, how do heroes keep up with the same outfit!? Let alone the time to do repairs and find the right fabric. You wacked a person in the head with the broken heel that came off your shoe, it wasn't even that much heel! You growl as you rip the other one off and go back climbing up the staircase full of bad people. You have no idea why Anubis has you in Liverpool in some random apartment complex. He kinda just poofed you here and said find a map.

Find the target.

"Oh come on!" At the last flight of stairs you duck as someone with a very illegal firearm attempts to unload a full clip into! Sure, it won't kill you when you gone (sparkles) divine protection (sparkles) but it fucking hurts! "Seriously guys, where do you even buy this stuff? Evil 'r' us?!" The best thing about Spider-Man: is banter. There are so many videos where he is fighting bad guys and all of his quips are hilarious. You wonder if he does it because he is nervous… You totally are talking because you are nervous.

"Oops, guess you fucked up." The gun jammed when threw a sticky bomb at the two-handed gun. Totally copying the best hero of New York (DareDevil is cool too) by creating somewhat webbing like sticky pelts to throw at people.

No one likes a copycat, the saying goes. You felt differently. If a person copies a cat, copy the right cat.

Especially when it is Spider-Man or, in looks wise, Moon Knight.

"I thought Moon Knight was a guy?"

"Justice and ass kicking as no gender!" Swing into the room via the top of the door frame and sending another person out the window.

Everyday you are grateful this crime BS is done in the winter. You do not have to worry about a summer costume, oof, running around in this is torture!

Back to the task.

Why are abandoned business buildings, those fancy ones, used to house secret stuff? Like one would think the police would make sure no one is using these to do illegal shit like these guys.

Corruption.

Anubis voiced out of nowhere.

"Or they are having a John Wick phase." You shrug as you use a key card (beaten off someone). The door opens widen revealing a group of people in various outfits going through… Getting rid of evidence.

"So like any of you got a flash drive or magical scroll with information 'coz not feeling like breaking bones today."

They all pull out guns almost comically.

"Wow…" Your eyes catches someone dashing out through the back way out of the room. "Wait, wait, don't do… Come on!" You sigh then run after one guy carrying a laptop and other guys shooting at you. Guess the top floor is opposite of the cliché hidden basement full of computers? Seriously, the design choices suck in this place.

"Excuse me, coming through— HEY, I'm sending you my tailoring bill!" You got a hole now on your chest because they shot you. "Jerk."

You are grateful to the younger you who took up parkouring to give dad a taste of his own medicine when it came to you worrying about him. Skillfully running across rooftops chasing down… You might throw up after seeing the guy transform into a weird dog thing, ew.

"Here doggy, doggy," This is the last roof before the fall to street level. "I just need that little laptop." Whistling for it to get its attention.

Then it eats the laptop.

"Anubis…"

Disgusting. Kill it, we need that laptop.

"If there's one left."

You are already off the rooftop falling with the jackal down to street level.

CRASH! WAHOOO!

Might as well have fun with this.

29 notes · View notes

i-am-still-bb · 2 years ago

Text

Hurtless: a Britchell fic in three parts

“The stones are from Asgard,” Olaf said, gesturing to the engraved stones in a circle on the ground with the sword.

“Where ‘gard?” Axl asked.

“Norse god home.”

Axl took a deep breath that sounded like he was trying to prevent himself from rolling his eyes and started to step into the ring.

“Oh, take off your clothes,” Anders interrupted.

“What?” Axl asked, incredulous with a disbelieving laugh.

“Look, you don’t have to,” Olaf said assuringingly to Axl who was now backing away from the circle.

Anders repeated himself, “Trust me, take off your clothes.”

“Gayest god ever,” Ty quipped.

“I loved that jacket, it was totally ruined,” Anders replied bitterly.

Meeting

“Hey, Andy!” Mat chirped as Anders pushed open the employee’s entrance of Bean of the Gods.

“It’s Anders.” Anders had little hope that Mat would listen. It had been 6 days a week for 3 weeks. Anders corrected him each time. And each time it made no difference.

He hung his denim jacket on a hook. He looked at the patches sewn onto the fabric and a faint smile. He checked the stitching on the most recent one, a blue and white CTA (Chicago Transit Authority) circle patch. He’d only had red thread and it stood out against the solid white border on the patch. But it was secure.

“It’s nearly 7.”

“I know, I know,” Anders grumbled and reached for the golden apron hanging in his locket. At least his name tag had the right name.

“Why doesn’t anyone just get a black coffee with sugar or cream? Or a tea?” Anders was wiping down the counter after the pre-work rush of men and women in suits with thin ties and shoes that pinched.

“Would you pay $3 for a black coffee when you could just make it at home?”

“I do!” Anders gestured toward his cardboard cup of coffee by the register.

“And on our wages at that…”

Anders shrugged and took a sip of his quickly cooling coffee.

With everything clean and put away and the mid-morning pick-me-up rush still a little over 30 minutes away Anders pulled a book from his locket and leaned over the counter reading the yellowed pages of Herman Hesse’s Siddartha.

“I forgot this.”

“Your balls?” Anders asked without looking up.

“Rude,” Mat said. “This.” He dropped an envelope next to Anders’ elbow. “Someone bought one of those,” he gestured to the poems and scattered drawings that were clipped to a length of clothesline running along the wall.

“Really?” The book flopped shut. Anders opened the envelope to find a crisp $50 bill, far more than the hopefully optimistic $10 price tag he had put on it. “Who? When?”

Mat shrugged. “Some dude. Before you came in this morning. It was still dark.”

Anders stuffed the envelope into the pocket of his jeans. He looked at the line of papers—some his own, but others belonging to other employees or to regular patrons, often art students from UChicago—and tried to pick out what the man had bought.

“Was he a regular?”

Mat shrugged again. “Why? Looking for a sugar daddy?” he teased. “I think you’d be out of luck with that one. I nearly just told him to leave because he looked homeless. Who wears combat boots with tracksuit bottoms?”

The L was pretty empty this early in the morning.

He was normally still burrowed deep in his blanket in the “room” that he rented in a house far from the city center. He still was not convinced that it hadn’t been a coat closet that someone had punched a hole into to add a window—a legal requirement for something to be a bedroom. It was barely large enough for the twin sized mattress on the floor and an upturned milk crate for a table and several in another that held his clothes and the odds and ends that he had acquired since landing at O’Hare a month ago.

But he was curious about the person that had bought his sketch. It had to be the one of the eyes looking out of the darkness with an almost-Haiku scratched into the dark charcoal with an eraser.

He had to see who had bought it. Even if just for a moment.

“You’re early,” Mat accused.

Anders shrugged and moved to make himself a pour over.

“Money then coffee,” Mat held out his hand.

Anders fished two crumbled dollar bills and some coins from his pocket.

“I’ll get that.”

Anders and Mat both looked up sharply. They had not heard the bell over the door ring when the man entered. Anders would later swear that it had not.

“And I’ll get a caramel macchiato with extra whipped cream.”

Mat moved quickly after ringing the order up.

“Thanks.” Anders dropped his money back into his pocket.

“Would you be the “A. Johnson” that draw some of those pictures?”

Anders nearly inhaled some of his coffee. “Yeah. That’d be me. But I think you misread the price,” he fumbles with one hand for the envelope still in his back pocket, “it was only supposed to be $10.”

“I know.”

“Oh.”

They looked at each other in silence. There was the hum of machinery as Mat made the man’s drink. Anders boldly took in the man’s appearance, the boots and tracksuit bottoms, the bomber jacket over a very worn graphic t-shirt, the long hair, pale skin, and the red lips. Anders felt uncomfortably warm, but he did not stop staring. There was a small smirk on the man’s face, like he knew that he was being ogled and he didn’t mind at all.

“Ireland?” Anders asked to break the silence.

A nod. “New Zealand?”

“Yeah.”

“Mitchell,” the man offered his hand.

Anders’ automatically took it, his other hand burning the the heat of his coffee through the cardboard. “Anders.”

Mat put the drink down on the counter and looked at them both.

Mitchell released Anders’ hand and took the drink with its obscene mound of whipped cream.

“Wait!” Anders said, rounding the counter, nearly spilling his drink with his quick movements. “When will you be back?”

The man turned, an amused expression on his face. “Maybe tonight, maybe this same time tomorrow, maybe never.” He reached out and fixed the collar of Anders’ denim jacket. “Nice jacket, Anders.”

This time it was Anders’ turn to be consumed by someone’s eyes. He flushed, but he boldly stared back.

Mitchell’s smirk was back.

And then he was gone.

#britchell #mitchers #anders/mitchell #britchellcontributionfest2022 #bb writes #part 1 of 3 #hurtless

22 notes · View notes

wienerbarnes · 3 years ago

Text

A Certain Romance (6/6)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 1,609

Warnings: happy ending😁

A/N: another series in the books... hope yall enjoyed it as much as i did<3 thank u to everyone who liked/reblogged/left comments/read in general!

MAIN MASTERLIST | A CERTAIN ROMANCE MASTERLIST

Seven months go by before he sees you again.

A month after that double date, Sam asked about you, about what the two of you have been up to. He realized then that you hadn’t told Sam anything about the fight. You hadn’t said anything. You hadn’t said you’d “broken up” or even just came clean and explained the whole thing. You went on pretending the two of you were dating; did you do it to keep Sam off your back? Did you do it because you thought that’s what he would’ve wanted? He didn’t care about any of that, all he cared about was you.

He told Sam himself about a month after that. He told Sam everything, about making the deal with you, how you were both feeling about the dating situation. He told Sam about the nights at your apartment, the meals shared, the stories told. He explained the fight that happened the night of the double date and how he’s still trying to get over his feelings.

Sam hasn’t set him up on another blind date, and he assumes he hasn’t set you up on one, either.

Five months after that conversation, he thinks he’s getting better. He thinks about you everyday; how you’re doing, what you’re doing, if you think of him. The only difference between now and seven months ago is that he doesn’t feel the same pain in his chest when he thinks about you.

For a long while it made him so sad, the thought of not being able to talk to you, not being able to see you, not being able to drop by your apartment and share dinner with you. But as much as it pained him, it was what you wanted. You wanted time and you wanted space, so that’s what he gave you.

He misses you, though.

He finds himself in your neighborhood as he approaches the coffee shop he’s been frequenting since he met you. You had gotten him coffee from there once and had him hooked. Perhaps he goes there because the coffee really is that good or because it was you that had showed him the place in the first place. He doesn't think about it.

He walks in and stands in the small line at the counter, not quite taking the time to observe the place and see every single person there as he normally would.

After ordering his regular coffee and placing the change from the ten dollar bill he gave the barista into the tip jar, he stands off to the side to wait for his name and order to be called.

And all it takes is a look to his left to see you sitting there, already staring at him with a surprised expression, for all his progress to disappear.

You look so beautiful.

He stares at you for a second, mouth slightly open before his tongue pokes out to lick at his now dry lips. He clears his throat and stands up a bit straighter to compose himself, or at least make it seem like he’s done so.

“Hi.” He says, a tad awkwardly, but in his defense, he wasn’t expecting seeing you here. He’s come to this same coffee shop in your neighborhood at least once a week for months now, and has never run into you here, even when you were on speaking terms. Of course he’d see you today; he should’ve worn a different shirt.

Your mouth opens to respond with a greeting when Iced black coffee for Bucky interrupts you. His head snaps towards the counter to retrieve the drink before walking slowly back over to where you sit at the counter against the wall.

“Hi.” He repeats again, the only word he seems to be able to say right now.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” You ask him, voice gentle and light, just as he remembers it always used to be. He’s glad that you’re not upset at the scenario of running into him, instead welcoming the interaction; a much better play of this happening than what he was thinking in his head.

He wasn’t sure how the first interaction after not seeing each other would be like, or if there’d be one at all; if he’d ever even see you again.

He was hoping for the movie reunion, spotting each other from a long distance and running into each other’s arms in slow motion, an 80′s love song playing in the background. He feared it’d take an opposite direction, you spot him from afar and walk up to him only to slap him across the face and spit on his shoes. He’d have nightmares about that last scenario.

Neither of you say anything for the first couple of minutes of your walk.

“I’m sorry for how I treated you that night.” You finally speak.

“You have nothing to apologize for -”

“No, Bucky, I do. I should’ve spoken to you about everything, even if we got angry, even if we yelled, but instead I ran away, and I’m sorry.” You tell him.

A moment to take in your words, “Well, apology accepted.” He forgives.

Another minute of silence. He’s not sure how to proceed. While an apology was given, nothing’s actually been resolved. There’s still tension, still wondering of what you’ve been up to all this time, still his own feelings for you that he realizes now after seeing you again for the first time in seven months have not dissipated at all and are very much real in his heart.

He sees in his periphery that you’ve stopped walking on the nearly empty sidewalk and he stops, too, turning around to look at you, a worried expression on your face.

“The truth is I was scared.” You say.

“Of me?”

“Of my feelings.” You clarify.

You inch a bit closer to him, “I was growing feelings for you, and that scared me.”

All he can do is stare as you open your mouth to continue.

“I told myself that I wouldn’t put myself in a position to be too vulnerable. I wouldn’t open myself up as much to people, I wouldn’t get into any more relationships, I wouldn’t do any of that because the last time I did, it fucked me up. And I know you’re nothing like him, but it still scares me shitless. It scares me that you waltzed into my life and made me feel this way in such a short amount of time. It scares me that you made me want to forget all those promises I made to myself. It scares me that you made me want all of that; that you made me want you.” You explain.

He takes a step closer to you so that you’re face to face and you can smell his cologne.

“I want you, too.” He whispers, unable to find the words to say anything else.

You look up at him, “It’s going to take a lot of time, and - and a lot of patience -”

“I’ll do it, I’ll do it all for you,” He promises, the hand that’s not holding his coffee reaching up to cup your face, your free hand laying on top.

He slowly leans in, wanting to kiss you; he’s been wanting to kiss you for seven months. He feels your breath on his lips as you speak again, “Please take care of me.” You tell him. It’s not a question, but a plea.

“I promise.” He whispers back, finally touching his lips to yours, and putting every emotion in it.

A single press of your lips to express how much he missed you, how much he’s thought about you, how much you’ve thought about him. How many times each of you came close to calling the other, unaware of the hope waiting for them to reach out. How many times he dreamed about you, dreamed about taking you out, about kissing you and touching you, about talking to you and wanting you to talk back, if only to listen to the vibrations of your voice in his ears.

Oh, how he missed you.

An afternoon he was planning to spend filling up his time with pointless tasks as a distraction is instead spent holding you in the bed in the back room of his apartment. The soft sheets and plush mattress not all that bad when he has you in his arms to share it with. Embarrassing confessions of how much he’s thought about you, including his breakdown of smashing your plant, which he can now laugh about. Tears shed as more apologies are shared among both parties, love sprouting in the place of fear of a new relationship.

How lovely it is to have you. To have a person he can be authentic with, tears and anger and happiness and laughs included. To have a person who he can take away their troubles and insecurities knowing they will do the same. A feeling he never thought he’d feel; a feeling he always assumed was reserved for the version of James Barnes that never got drafted into the army, the version of James Barnes that survived the fall and went home, or the James Barnes that never fell at all. He never thought he’d find the puzzle piece for his heart, but here you are.

It was a certain romance for two people who never thought they were deserving of love, who thought it just wasn’t in their cards. Maybe in a past life, or a future one, but not this one, not in the lifetime they just happen to be present in at the exact same time.

Perhaps it was a certain romance, or perhaps it was fate, acting through Sam Wilson on that night in that pretentious restaurant.

Which reminds Bucky, he should call his friend and thank him.

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes series #bucky barnes au #marvel #so cute #sad its over

159 notes · View notes

bamfdaddio · 2 years ago

Text

Uncanny X-Men Abridged: 1985

The X-Men, those disjointed mutants that have sworn to protect a world that hates and fears them, are a cultural juggernaut with a long, tangled history. Want to unravel this tapestry? Then read the Abridged X-Men!

(X-Men 189 - 199) - by Chris Claremont and John Romita Jr., Dan Green, Barry Windsor Smith

Good old Nimrod has such a weird-ass design. He’s gotta be some sort of litmus test for aspiring X-artists, right? If you are able to make this pink-n-white triangle menacing, then you’re in! (Uncanny X-Men 194)

Trigger warnings: discussion of the n-word; violence that’s a lot more real than the usual superhero battles

What’s the Buzz?

Xavier? Is alive, can walk.

Magneto? Technically an antagonist; hasn’t opposed the X-Men in ages; was an uneasy ally during the Secret Wars

Jean? Still dead.

This is the first year since Giant-Size X-Men where I hadn’t previously read any issue of Uncanny X-Men before embarking on this fool’s errand. All of this was unknown to me! In hindsight, perhaps that was for the best? There’s a few good issues to be found here, but overall, this year is kind of disjointed and suffers from forced tie-ins and narrative lulls. Claremont has always been a master at long-running plots, dropping plot-hook seeds and calling back to earlier events, but this year -- dare I say it? -- might have a little too much groundwork and not enough pay-off.

This is, of course, advantageous to you, because I can freely skip non-consequential things, like an ill-advised crossover with the Power Pack. (Ick.)

Let’s check in with our cast, shall we?

Storm: weather witch, always deserving of top billing. Currently stripped of her powers, which must suck for the rest of the X-Men. (Like when your most competent colleague is sick and everyone else has to scramble to pick up the slack.)

Wolverine: What happens when you put a tall man in a tiny man’s body and give him claws and a healing factor? Rage.

Shadowcat: Kitty Pryde, recently got a new code name and a new groove. Too clever by half, phasing powers.

Nightcrawler: Fuzzy elf with smelly teleportation powers. Currently buttonholed as the team leader because of Storm’s mishap. Fully aware that it’s by default only.

Colossus: Soft boy in a hard shell. Currently not involved in much plot other than that he recently broke up with Kitty and is very upset over it. Am not that endeared by him at the mo.

Rogue: Ex-villain. Can absorb memories and powers of anyone with a touch, can’t control that. Flirty, fun and damaged. Still finding her place among the team.

Rachel Summers: Time-displaced daughter of Cyclops and Jean Grey from a future that never came to pass. (Yes, that is absolutely a sentence that epitomizes comic bullshittery.) Used to be a Hound, a mutant trained to detain (and kill?) other mutants. I always figured Rachel was more of a satellite character in this era (like Moira, or even Carol Danvers during the Brood saga), but the book definitely treats her as an X-Man. Guessing she’s here to stay!

Professor X: Founder and father figure to the team. Telepath who has terrible boundary issues, embodies everything good and bad about the patriarchy. After being kind of ancillary the past few years, this year he’s pushed to the forefront again.

The New Mutants: Junior branch of the X-Men. Nominally not an adventuring fighting team, but they just can’t help themselves. Cast rotates in and out of this book.

***

While Ororo announces her leave of absence from the X-Men, the Hellfire Club welcomes a new addition into the fold! Selene (whose credentials include being a dark priestess in a hidden Roman village in the Amazonian jungle) applies for the position of Black Queen by delivering a mind-whammied Rachel Summers and Magma onto Sebastian Shaw’s doorstep. (If only you could make up for lack of experience by taking hostages. “I’ve only done customer support for three weeks, but I did sneak up on Tony, your receptionist, and tied him up in the broom closet.”) Even though Sebastian can’t deny that telepathically enslaving X-Men is a vital skill for a potential Inner Circle member to have, he still releases Rachel and Amara without a fight when the rest of the X-Men come knocking. (These lunatics defeated the Phoenix, Shaw knows full well he doesn’t need that kind of energy in his life. Not without a plan.)

Before Ororo can actually leave on a ship to Cairo, someone accidentally unleashes Kulan Gath on Manhattan. This immensely powerful wizard turns New York into some RenFaire fantasy where he is the feudal dictator who sacrifices babies and children for power. Everyone else is also all Dark Agey and mostly under his thrall, except a lucky few freed by the equally sorcerous Selene, like Callisto, Storm and Spider-Man. It’s like a boring, more inconsequential version of the Age of Apocalypse, alright? The only interesting thing about this medieval caper is the fact that Kulan Gath is so evil that he makes Selene turn to the good side, albeit briefly.

Anyway, with the spell threatening to take over the entire world, the heroes call in a ringer: Dr. Strange. He can stop the spell by turning back time (he’s Cher, bitch) and preventing Kulan Gath from ever being freed. He warns however, that messing with time can have unforeseen consequences! Everyone shouts at him to do it anyway and so, it happens. Esto presto, whole storyline swept under the rug.

Ugh. SO RANDOM

To balance the temporal scales or whatever, Dr. Strange’s spell has the strange side effect of transporting Nimrod, a mutant hunting robot from Rachel’s aborted timeline, into the story? Apparently, Nimrod is the only one who can prevent Kulan Gath being freed by killing the man who does so. Is that random? Yes. Does it make any kind of sense, logically, narratively or otherwise? Barely. Claremont wanted a medieval-fantasy-plot and he wanted a Nimrod and he inexpertly welded those two things together.

Well, at least we got a Nimrod out of it. Anyway, back to better fare! Storm leaves for Africa for realzies this time and then we get: TICKLE THERAPY

Nightcrawler = Gambit-avant-la-lettre? (Uncanny X-Men 192)

While the rest of the X-Men are picking up Kitty and Wolverine from their trip to Japan, an explosion ruins Rogue, Colossus and Nightcrawler’s downtime. It’s Magus, Warlock’s dad from space! (Warlock is a recent addition to the New Mutants. They're techno-organic alien where sons usurp dads by killing them, unless the dad kills them first. How a race like that survives is beyond me. Why would you ever procreate?) Warlock’s a pacifist, his dad… er, “relishes the hunt”. Whatever, alien dad.

While ‘Nighty’ preaches caution, Rogue displays the spunkiness we’ve come to know and love about her. She fights Magus to a standstill and he flees, issuing an ultimatum. (Deliver Warlock to me, or else!) The ‘or else’ apparently means ‘disappear from the narrative for a good long while’, because we don’t see Magus for the rest of the year.

At the airport, Xavier notices that the air is saturated with anti-mutant thoughts. He feels that hatred is really on the rise. He thinks the trigger might be the controversy surrounding the Dazzler-movie (Dazzler was famous enough to star in her own movie and then she got outed as a mutant), but for Xavier, thus far, that hatred is mostly an academic point. (He's white, privileged, rich and passing.) It’ll get real pretty fast for him, though.

See, Xavier has returned to his roots: he’s teaching class at Columbia University. And then, one evening, as he walks out, he walks straight into a scene that hits close to home: you turn the wrong corner and run into the wrong group of people and they decide that you existing is a problem.

Too real. Wayyy to real. (Uncanny X-Men 192)

Same as with every movement, anti-mutant sentiment waxes and wanes. Like the whole current abortion-mess in the USA, or, more appropriately for this particular era, when the burgeoning gay rights movement got blindsided by the AIDS-epidemic. The X-Men don’t always hit the nail on the head when it comes to the mutants-as-minorities metaphor, but Claremont usually does. And when he’s on it, he’s really on it.

1985 was when the AIDS-pandemic really began to spread in the USA, casualties climbing to the thousands. Homophobia rose with it. While I do think any reader of the X-Men tends to project the minority group they belong to onto them - in fact, that is one of the strengths of the metaphor - I also think that I’m not entirely being blinded by my own identity when I say that during the late eighties, the mutant metaphor was being pivoted to align more with people who fall under the rainbow umbrella. It’s not a coincidence that this scene, with its whole “how dare you pretend to be one of our kind”-undercurrent, happened at this time.

Xavier, after being beaten within an inch of his life, wakes up somewhere else:

Healer: “We should get one of Annelee’s dresses, make him more comfortable.” Callisto: “No no no, I’ve got a better idea for our patient’s outfit.” (Uncanny X-Men 193)

Callisto dragged Xavier into the sewers and brought him to Healer, their Morlock who, uh, heals people. He brought Xavier back from the brink, but also reminds the professor to take it easy. (He very nearly died!) Xavier sort of compliments Callisto’s skills at interior decorating (heh), because this is the first fucking time he is down here. (Jesus fucking Christ, X-Men, do better with the Morlocks.) And then, after warning Xavier a race war is looming, Callisto lets him go topside.

Did you notice? This is issue 193, which means we’re one hundred issues into the All-New, All-Different X-Men! Even though it’s a little indulgent to celebrate this (considering issue 200 is coming up) and even though it might make more sense to pay tribute to the landmark issue of Giant-Size X-Men, Claremont instead pays homage to the first storyline he wrote himself, the one where the X-Men sneak into NORAD (the North American Aerospace Defense Command) and Thunderbird is killed. He does so by seemingly bringing back a familiar face:

Happy character: *exists* Claremont: “And I took that personally.” (Uncanny X-Men 193)

The Thunderbird suckerpunching Banshee is not the John Proudstar we briefly knew and never got enough time to love, because we’re not yet in the confusing era where Marvel brought back anyone and their mother. (I wonder where that starts. Nineties?) Anyway, this Thunderbird is John’s brother Jimmy, whom we previously met as a part of the Hellions. Jimmy kidnaps Banshee and brings him to NORAD, aka the government-army-mountain where John died. He is accompanied by Empath and Roulette, the two most morally compromised Hellions, and Firestar, a newcomer! (She’s actually a canon immigrant.) We don’t get much time with Angelica, but it’s very obvious that Empath is influencing her to go along with their plan and also to be in love with him. (Ick ick ick.)

What is their plan? Well, Jimmy wants to kill Xavier because Xavier is allegedly the reason John is dead. Manuel told him to lure the X-Men to NORAD, because he thinks he can spin those events to torpedo the X-Men’s reputation. The X-Men realize this is obviously a trap, but they still go. (For Sean! *fistpumps*)

It goes as planned: Manuel uses his empathy powers to rile up NORAD into an anti-mutant frenzy and he alerts them to the mutants running amok, while Jimmy prowls around and takes out X-Men one by one. He can’t bring himself to actually kill them, however, and he even says Kitty and Wolverine from the poison gas the military uses to flush them out. Mixed messages, Jimmy!

Because Xavier is still recovering and therefore does not have access to his full powers, and because Rachel gets overwhelmed with keeping track of everyone, Jimmy gets the drop on the professor, intending to kill him. Xavier explains what actually happened to his brother, how John selflessly but stupidly sacrificed himself, and Jimmy, knowing his brother, realizes the professor might be less culpable than previously thought. The X-Men gather the other Hellions and flee, but the damage has been done: the news is being spun that NORAD was attacked by the X-Men.

Despite Manuel being a scumbag, Jimmy and Angelica still return to Massachusetts instead of joining the New Mutants. (I too would follow Emma over Charles, because of inherent style issues.)

What’s next? Well, let’s move on to the X-Men’s morning routine and see which one resembles mine, shall we? (Spoiler alert: it’s Kurt’s, though I’m not nearly as hot shirtless and blue.)

What’s my favorite part here? Rogue singing in the shower? Kitty going through three alarm clocks per week, at least? The fact that more than half of them are absolutely not in the mood to deal with the Juggernaut? … No, it’s still shirtless Kurt. (Uncanny X-Men 194)

When the X-Men arrive, they’re relieved because Cain Marko merely wants to open a bank account. (Heh.) Nimrod, however, also heard about Juggernaut on the radio and as he is programmed to SQUASH CRIME, he means business. The racist pink murder robot unites the X-Men and Juggernaut against him, but he also wipes the floor with them. It’s only when Rogue absorbs Nightcrawler, Shadowcat and Colossus (for the first time combining three power sets simultaneously) and rips a limb off of him that the robot considers regrouping. Nimrod regenerates, but he also teleports away from this threat. (Apparently, this is the year that villains just… go away when they’re thwarted a little?)

Also, we get a flash of the KGB wondering why the FBI is branding the X-Men as terrorists, when they have always aided the world in the past. (The answer is: racism! Oh yeah, and their ill-advised stint at NORAD.)

And then, ugh, the Beyonder again? Another Secret Wars? The Beyonder fucks around with the X-Men some more, but during their jaunts, he also reunites Xavier with Magneto and they become the best of buds again. While Magneto has not been an enemy for a while and he’s been gradually softened by Claremont, his and Xavier’s reunion does not happen in the comic proper, so it feels like we skipped a page. Stupid crossover.

And in the tail end of the second Secret Wars, the same guys who nailed Xavier earlier get the jump on Kitty. And, in a very infamous moment, when a black man asks whether Kitty is a mutie, she defiantly asks him if he’s the n-word.

This was a controversial moment back then and maybe even more controversial now. While I understand what Claremont is going for here -- emphasizing intersectionality, this serves as a stark reminder that minorities can (and will) ostracize one another too – I also see how it’s problematic to invoke a real life slur in order to legitimize a fictional one. Had Claremont used a gay man and the word ‘faggot’ in this scene, I could probably have drawn some sort of conclusion on how much Claremont overstepped here, but as it is, I will defer to the opinion of Nerds of Color.

Anyway, Kitty is not able to defuse the situation and she’s being choked out by the bigots. Rachel, nearby, senses this and flips out. She intervenes and almost kills the assailants, but it’s Magneto who talks her of her murderous ledge, pulling the “if you kill them, you’ll be just as bad as them”-card. (Where was this attitude when you were sinking Russian subs, Mags?) With Kitty saved and Magneto’s humanity suitably demonstrated, this storyline draws to a close.

What follow are a few one-offs, the first of which deals with Kitty and Peter. Sure, it’s outwardly about Arcade being back to his bullshit and kidnapping these two X-Men again, but it’s really about getting Peter and Kitty to talk to one another. And getting Peter’s outfit good and damaged.

Peter is somehow always both shredded and bulky, which all kinds of Instagram fitness models tell me is the best balance to achieve. (Uncanny X-Men 197)

Peter is wallowing in self pity, blaming himself for Kitty’s distress, the death of his ex-girlfriend and the transformation of Illyana to Magik. (Fine, he can have some of my pity. Poor kiddo.) During the battle, he pours his heart out to Kitty, who’s at least pleased to find out how much he still cares. They beat Arcade’s game and agree to remain friends. No reader is convinced by this.

A recuperating Nimrod, meanwhile, wants to try on humanity for size and has befriended a human foreman, lugging around crates at his workplace and helping his son with his homework. It’s all very domestic and weird, but Nimrod also ruthlessly kills two thugs when they happen to try and rob the diner he’s in. FOR SURE THIS WILL END WELL

You know who’s also not doing well? Storm. She went on a vision quest through the continent of Africa and got shot by the Strucker twins in Kenya. (More on them later.) They shot her because she put them in their place and because they’re racist nazi bastards. (Again. More on them later.) She ends up concussed, bleeding and dehydrated in the desert. She also has visions of her powers, the X-Men and Forge and yeah, she’s basically a raving lunatic. (Poor Ororo. She really should’ve gone to Burning Man if she wanted visions and dehydration.)

Anyway, Storm survives her wounds, a sand storm, a cheeky little pit viper and an odd parable about a village where resources are so scarce that for every baby born, the eldest of the village goes off to the savannah, which is the subSaharan equivalent of drifting off on an ice floe. Before he croaks, the old man whispers to Ororo that bridges are needed between the old and the new. The new should be taught not to be careless and arrogant, while the old need not be blinded by tradition.

Unlike me, Ororo is inspired rather than confused by this aesop and decides to be a bridge of her own! (Thank God the artwork in this issue is so goddamn lush.)

Shoddy plotting aside, Storm will always and forever be a queen. (Uncanny X-Men 198)

Epiphanies are, apparently, contagious, because there’s another one due back in Westchester! The lucky recipient is Rachel Summers, who is taking a page out of Charles Xavier’s book and telepathically eavesdropping on conversations everywhere.

See, Xavier summoned Cyclops back to the mansion. (One preggo Maddie is not pleased about this, especially because Scott “I don’t have daddy issues” Summers dropped everything immediately and ran.) At the mansion, Moira reveals that Charles is dying. Remember that Callisto told him to take it easy after his brutal attack? He did not do that. (It doesn’t get spelled out, but we can infer that this physical deterioration is why Charles brought in Magneto as well.) Scott wonders how long Charles has left. Moira whispers that hopefully he has… until Cyclops’ child is born.

Rachel overhears this and is shocked. She’s supposed to be the child of Jean and Scott, not Madelyne and Scott! She flees the mansion and sneaks into her grandparents’ home for a trip down memory lane. There, she is plagued by memories of her mother, some that actually happened to our Jean, some that only happened to the Jean in Rachel’s timeline. She decides to honour both of those Jeans by claiming… THE PHOENIX.

One of the lesser known secondary effects of the Phoenix is the instantaneous transformation into a drama queen. The only reason Magneto was never possessed is because the universe could not cope with a Ham That Large. (Uncanny X-Men 199)

So, I was under the impression that the Phoenix was a cosmic entity that picked you, not something you could just claim? Er. Let's hope this is explained later.

Rachel vows to be her mother’s redemption, a model for all her good intentions, and she will be a replacement for Xavier. (To be fair, what Rachel might lack in raw power she might make up for in moral fiber. Though the whole listening in on everyone telepathically does not give me much hope.)

Also? The cover of the issue? A picture of Rachel, all Phoenixified, with the word ‘Reborn’? This has got to be the third time they tease the return of (Dark) Phoenix without actually pulling the trigger. (One time it was Kitty with a holographic imager, one time it was Madelyne used as a vehicle for revenge by Mastermind.) I wonder if it’s just Chris who likes revisiting his most famous story, or whether editorial is pushing for a return of the Phoenix. (There’s tons of letters clamouring for that too. Why else would she be named the Phoenix?)

I don’t think Chris actually wants Jean to return – her death makes her sacrifice all the more meaningful, her story all the more tragic – and having Rachel ascend is a way of continuing the storyline of the Phoenix without bringing Jean back. (Too bad not everybody agrees with that, but we’ll save that rant for whenever X-Factor starts.)

In Washington. Mystique, in all her blue-faced glory, comes to Valerie Cooper with a proposal. She (and the rest of the Brotherhood) will work for Val, in exchange for a pardon from the government. Val, someone who’s been looking for a way to utilize mutant citizens for a while now, accepts this offer for her own ‘Freedom Force’ -- if Mystique and her cronies can find and capture Magneto.

Coincidentally, Magneto can be found at the National Holocaust Memorial, together with Lee Forrester and Kitty. Lee Forrester is a sea captain who tends to get wrapped up in the adventures of the X-Men: she used to have a fling with Cyclops and she’s currently involved with Magneto (as detailed in the pages of the New Mutants). That’s why she’s there. Kitty is, like Eric, Jewish.

The way Mystique mentions decent, law-abiding citizens without any sense of irony means… actually, that means she’d be perfect at working for the government. (Uncanny X-Men 199)

So much to unpack here!

The Freedom Force is pretty much the Brotherhood: Mystique, Pyro (Fire Pokémon, idiot), Avalanche (Earth Pokémon, idiot), Destiny (Psychic Pokémon, beloved), Blob and… Spiral‽‽‽

While I understand Mystique attacking Magneto while he was away from the X-Men, how would she even know he was here? When did she grab the real Lee Forrester? Also, attacking a Holocaust survivor at a Holocaust Memorial? Mystique, don’t you care about the optics? …Wait, yeah, again, perfectly suitable at working for the government.

Wait the fuck up, this is how they introduce Spiral?

I always love how adaptations make Mystique one of Magneto’s cronies, because Mystique loves being top dog way too much and this is the first time he and Mystique meet. Their interests don't really align.

I know Spiral as one of Mojo’s most capable henchwomen, I just find it bonkers that she simply turned in an application at the US government and got hired by Mystique. Being a part of Freedom Force is apparently her cover to try and find some dude named Longshot, an upcoming X-heartthrob who will be brought in soon. I’m assuming all of this will be picked up in 1986.

Magneto, understandably, is riled about being attacked at this place, specifically. Though the X-Men come to his aid and fight Freedom Force in his name, he puts a stop to that. He saw how his friends here responded to him when he used his powers; he’s been having doubts about his actions for a long time. Has he become the very thing he hated? With that in mind, he willingly agrees to be detained by Mystique.

This is, I think, the best, most interesting version of Magneto. The one who is willing to fight for mutantkind, but is unsure where the line between freedom fighter and terrorist exactly is. (How far is too far?) Radicalized, but human.

We leave things here, at issue 200, which we’ll be looking at in depth! Why? Because it’s the best issue of the year. Coming up soon: the Trial of Magneto!

Ugliest Costume: No one stands out, though Rachel’s mullet is really growing out of control. Best new character: Legion! More on him later. What to read: 194, 199 & 200. For Whom the Death Tolls: Sam and Rahne are killed in the alternative Kulan Gath-timeline, but immediately restored. In fact, all of the New Mutants are briefly killed by the Beyonder in Secret Wars, simply so he can make a point about how strong he is. (Fortunately, they all get better.)

11 notes · View notes

chaoscometh · 2 years ago

Text

⌠ dylan mcnamara . 25, homosexual , cis man, he/him. ⌡ wait a minute, is apollo beaumont still in town? i thought i saw a flash of (tarnished silver jewelry, unexplained bruises, and the smell of old books)! last i heard they were working as a(n) librarian nearby. when it’s the (aries)’s birthday on 04/02 i forget that they’re chaotic and celebrate that they’re passionate. i hear mamas gun by glass animals every time i think of them.

BASIC INFORMATION

NAME: apollo beaumont

NICKNAMES: beau

BIRTHDAY: 2 april

AGE: 25

BIRTHPLACE: centralia, pa

MARTIAL STATUS: single

ORIENTATION: homosexual

FAMILY: artemis & athena (sisters), stephanie and luce beaumont

OCCUPATION: librarian

PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS

HEIGHT: 6″2

EYES: grey

HAIR: brunette

DISTINGUISHING MARKS: knuckles scarred like broken glass, a scar under his right eye, several back tattoos in a language no one reads & the silver spoon ring he wears on his right thumb that never seems to come off

STYLE: here, here & here

BACKGROUND & HC’s

tw: alcoholism, mental illness

apollo’s mother was once a trophy wife with visions of grandeur, visions that pushed her to name each of her children after the gods she eventually believed they would become, if only she could find the right way

while his sisters thrived under her delusions, extending a little folie a deux, he always said that he would earn his own greatness, if that was what was in store for him, and so he instantly became public enemy number one - the one that sought logic instead of rituals stephanie knew nothing about.

after a particularly ugly disagreement, apollo left home as soon as he could, and returned back only on the few times his sisters requested it of him. he thought his ‘out’ came with college, but instead, he landed right back here after he finished his degree program.

there is and has always been this sort of feeling that he cant go yet, because someone, or something, needs him and he might be leaving behind whatever that is

the spoon ring he always wears was made from his grandmothers wedding silver, and gifted especially to him when she passed. naturally, everyone lost their shit when he made it into a ring, but thats neither here nor there

with little oversight at the library, he spends a lot of time with the older, first editions, often restoring the books on his own dime, and caring for them like they were living and breathing, which is convenient, books didn’t abandon you, and they sure as hell don’t talk shit, either

the majority of his money does not come from his public job, but instead from a fighting ring he often participates in, mostly for the rush, and because it pays the bills a hell of a lot better than public service does

he plays with the thumb ring, and any other jewelry he might wear when he is bored, or out of nervous habit

since he has to travel anyway, he often brings back shit from the “outside world” like a little goblin, but will also do it for gifts, or for a price, depending on who you are

killer singing voice, my guy missed his calling and every now and again he’ll get drunk enough to make a breathtaking appearance at whatever bar is doing karaoke

he has three rescue dogs, noodle, cygnus & ganymedes

POSSIBLE CONNECTIONS

he left for college, so the angst of someone who thought he left them, or continues to try to leave them, and whatever happens with that

sisters friends, people who were always at the house when he was there growing up, etc

someone who finds out about the fighting thing

the library connects - anyone who needs research help, random book assistance, or possibly someone who interns and wants to learn more about the library (bonus points for someone who restores the books with him, whew intimacy)

the random hook ups, for funsies

witchy folks who believe in the things he has steered away from, someone who could or does try to change his mind about this

people who want him to pick them up something when he goes back into the city, send his ass on a scavenger hunt, idk, whatever works with that

#apollo: about.#liminal:intro

8 notes · View notes

samuel-de-champagne-problems · 4 years ago

Text

It's Delicate: PART I

CHAPTER MASTERLIST

Summary: Spencer Reid finds himself at a gas station at 2:00 am, thinking he’s only leaving with a cup of crappy coffee. But something taped to the door catches his eye. Spencer leaves the gas station with more than he intended: the chance at a friend, and maybe something more along the way.

Word Count: 2.8 K

Content Warnings: Mention of NA meeting, some case talk, mild language

Author's Note: This is my first chapter fic! I've only written one shots before, so bear with me. I truly do appreciate all reblogs, likes, and comments. Thank you!!

It's Delicate

Spencer doesn’t really care for gas station coffee, but at 2:00 am it’s the only thing that’s open. He pulls into the parking spot and turns off his Volvo. The check engine light is on, he needs to get into a mechanic, but between his NA meetings and work, it’s difficult to even catch his breath.

So that’s what Spencer does. In the middle of the gas station parking lot at 2:00 am, Spencer sits in his blue Volvo and breathes. He takes deep breaths, the ones that he uses when he has to calm down victims when they’re rescued. It’s grounding, breathing like this he thinks. It’s the kind of breath that Spencer takes when his head is fuzzy from sleeplessness and the only thing that can keep his eyes from drooping is a steady stream of coffee.

He unbuckles his seat belt and gets out of his car. Shutting the door, Spencer surveys the rest of the parking lot. He sees a couple other cars in the lot, he supposes it’s the gas station attendants, but he feels his shoulders tense at the thought of trouble. The bell attached to the door rings as Spencer opens the door. It's a small convenience store, one that Spencer has been frequently at odd hours after the BAU’s jet lands. He’s grown to know the owner, Jeff, who for the past 4 years hasn’t been around all too often.

“I’ll take a regular coffee,” Spencer asks the young man behind the counter. He doesn’t say anything in return, but nods his head in understanding as Spencer hands him a $5 bill and tells him to keep the change.

“Night,” Spencer tells the man, who he’s never seen before, when he hands him his coffee. Again, the young man doesn’t answer. Spencer tries to salvage the awkward encounter by chalking up the man’s coldness by it being so late.

As Spencer pushes against the door with the sleeve covered part of his arm, a poster that’s eye level catches his eye. It’s one of those posters where you can rip off the phone number and contact the person. But instead of a 20-something looking for a roommate, it’s a book club advertisement.

Spencer, quickly for a normal person, but slowly for himself, reads over the sign. The book club is hosted at the local bookstore, Hooked on Books, that Spencer has always meant to check out. From what he can gather, the list of numbers are from people looking for what the poster refers to as “book buddies”. Spencer’s eyes scan the list. There aren't any names attached to the numbers, Spencer supposes that the idea behind that is so bias won’t come into play.

It almost seems like the perfect trap: rip off one of these little pieces of paper with a phone number and call that person with the intention of being their book buddy. It’s something that Spencer knows deep in his bones he’s meant to avoid. But it’s like there’s an invisible string pulling at him to rip the third piece of paper from the group and stuff it carefully into the safety of his wallet.

It’s been five days since Spencer visited the cold man at the gas station and took the number from the poster. In those five days, Spencer slept for two and was back on plane to the middle of Montana for the next three.

After a long day in the sun, Spencer relishes in the cold water from the hotel shower. Even though he had to crouch slightly, Spencer still appreciated the way the chilly water seems to wash him anew. He never sleeps well when the team is on a case, it’s like his mind can’t rest. Well, his mind can never really rest, since it’s technically always growing and changing, especially during sleep.

Spencer’s thoughts travel from his messed up circadian rhythm to the piece of paper that burns a hole in his wallet. He steps out of the shower and dresses in his pajamas. It’s cold in the hotel run, as JJ likes to sleep in the coldest temperature humanly possible. Spencer knows that she finds the weight of blankets comforting. He makes a mental note to put some of his pillows on JJ’s bed, so she can pretend it’s her boys and Will in the bed with her. Spencer can’t help but wonder what’s like to have a child or a partner that misses you. It must be so bittersweet: the promise of coming home, but the threat of having to leave them all behind at moments notice.

Letting his hair air dry, Spencer unlocks the door and enters his and JJ’s hotel room. Out of the whole team, Spencer likes sharing with JJ the best. She’s the most organized and usually, they’ll spend the night on FaceTime with the boys and Will watching a movie, depending on the time.

“You’re all good, JJ. Thanks for letting me get in first,” Spencer says, flopping down on his bed. He shuts off his light, essentially telling JJ that he doesn’t want to talk about the case, or Henry, or anything really.

“Good night, Spence,” JJ says, before shutting off the rest of the lights and heading into the bathroom.

For a couple of minutes, Spencer lays in the all consuming dark. He tries the breathing exercise that’s scientifically proven to make you fall asleep. He counts, one, two, three, four breaths in and holds for one, two, three, four, five, six, seven and let's go for one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

He tries it for a couple of rounds, but suspects thinking about numbers makes him think about the phone number. Spencer can’t exactly pinpoint why he’s nervous to reach out to the number. Maybe it’s his constant fear of judgement or fear of not being enough, he can’t tell.

Knowing that sleep is probably not coming anytime soon, Spencer rolls on his side so he faces the window overlooking the hotel parking lot. He can’t stop thinking about the case. The way the victim’s mother and father walk around the precinct with a lifeless look in their eyes, staying villgiant no matter how many times JJ tells them to go home and rest.

Spencer doesn’t want to think about the case, so his mind flits to another subject: Hooked on Books Book Buddies. He can’t really pinpoint why he didn’t reach out to his book buddy. But laying there in the bed, Spencer feels strongly compelled to do anything to get his mind off the case, so he climbs out of bed to reach for his phone.

It’s tucked away neatly in his go bag, unlike JJ, Spencer doesn’t have anyone that’s waiting for him at home. Sure he has his mother, but if she needed him, the home would wait until 8 am to call Spencer. He unlocks it and the blue light illuminates the room. Somehow, Garcia had convinced him to get an updated phone. Spencer hardly uses it, but does appreciate being able to get pictures of JJ’s boys and his mother.

He memorized the number in the ten seconds or so it took him to rip the little slip of paper from the poster and put it away in his wallet. Spencer punches the numbers into a new contact, but hesitates when he’s prompted to give a name. He doesn’t know the first thing about this person. Seriously, this is like FBI 101 on the do not listen, he thinks.

Spencer pushes the thoughts of serial killers, for what feels like the first time in ten years, from his mind when he hits the button to message his mysterious book buddy. He types out a message a couple of times, but ends up deleting them because he sounds so incredibly stupid.

Spencer: Hello. I do apologize for my late message. I work odd hours, but I came across your number at the gas station on the corner of Richmond Street and Connor Avenue in Woodbridge. If you are interested, perhaps we can have a conversation about Hooked on Books’ Book Club?

Spencer, realizing that the message he wrote is going to be as good as it gets, hits the little arrow for “send”. He watches as his message turns blue and the little gray delivered pops up. He doesn’t expect the person to send a message back yet. He’s all the way in Montana and they’re in Woodbridge, Virginia, presumably. If it’s 2:30 am in Montana, it’s 4:30 back at home. That’s a little too late for someone with a normal 9 to 5 to be up for work and a little too late for a person that’s joining a book club to haven’t gone to sleep yet.

Don’t profile them, Spencer.

“What’s got you glued to the phone, Reid?” JJ says, with a smirk as she walks out from the bathroom and climbs into her bed. She came in so quietly, or rather, Spencer was staring so intensely at his phone that he didn’t realize.

“Something with my mother, JJ,” he lies, and he doesn’t even know what he can’t tell her the truth.

“Okay, Spence. I just want to make sure you’re all good,” JJ says quietly, her back must be facing Spencer because her voice is muffled a little bit.

“Thanks, JJ, uh good night, now,” Spencer says, effectively ending the conversation.

JJ doesn’t say anything after that, perhaps she just understands that Spencer doesn’t want to talk. Spencer rests flat on his back and tries a couple more rounds of the breathing exercise, but nothing seems to make his brain shut off. Despite the way his eyelids droop and the way it’s almost painful to continue to think, Spencer can’t seem to fall asleep.

He thinks about his Book Buddy, whoever they might be. Spencer hopes that they are around his age. He can’t remember a time that he had a friend his age that wasn’t through work. He has people. JJ is the closest thing to a sister that he’ll ever get and he knows that Derek loves him like a brother, despite his teasing. Emily and Penelope are Spencer’s rock. And then there’s Tara, Matt, and Luke, though Spencer has really gotten a chance to know them all too well, he knows that they’re a team.

But Spencer has always dreamt of having a friend. As a little kid, he used to make up imaginary friends that would listen to his science facts and perform chemistry experiments from him. When he got to high school, his dreams were occupied by someone who’d reach for his hand after he’d been beaten down or strung to a football post. Sure he had Ethan, but that was something charged and electric that left Spencer longing for someone again.

Spencer hadn’t had dreams about a friend in a long time, but tonight he dreamt of coffee and books in a small café and a faceless stranger that would listen to him and laugh with him.

Even though he fell asleep relatively shortly after thinking about his Book Buddy, Spencer did not feel well rested. He turns around in his bed and notices that JJ’s bed is already neatly made. The bathroom is empty, so Spencer reckons that JJ and Emily must already be at the police station.

He wants to savor the last couple of minutes in bed, maybe chase a dream or two of strangers swapping books and making memories over expensive coffee and scones. But reality calls him back home. Spencer checks his phones for work updates (and maybe a message or two from his Book Buddy), but the only notifications on his phone is a Forbes article and a couple emails from Georgetown.

Spencer, heading to the bathroom, gets interrupted by a loud and persistent knock on his hotel room door. He opens the door, revealing an equally tired looking Luke. He waves Spencer good morning before slumping down in the desk chair in the corner of the hotel room.

“I’ve been sent by JJ to get you, she thinks you’re acting weird,” Luke says, expecting Spencer to explain himself.

Awkwardly, Spencer makes something in between a grimace and a frown. He rolls his eyes, but plays along with what he thinks Luke’s little game.

“Well I’m always weird, it would be weird if I wasn’t being weird,” Spencer says, heading into the bathroom with a pile of work clothes. He shuts the door, both literally on Luke and metaphorically on their conversation.

In the bathroom, Spencer dresses out of his pajamas and into a pair of well worn pants and a light purple button up. He forgot his contacts at his apartment, but luckily had a back up pair of glasses in his go bag. Spencer, looking in the mirror, never particularly carried for the reflection that looks back at him. It always seems like his hair is too messy, or his collar is all twisted, or his eyebags are too prominent.

At least the glasses can kind of cover up his eye bags, Spencer thinks as he shuts off the light and closes the bathroom door behind him. Luke, who still is slouched in the chair, looks at his phone.

“Waiting for Penelope to send you a picture of Sergio or something?” Spencer asks, the snark in his voice isn’t missed by Luke.

“You’re one to talk, JJ was telling me how you’re being kind of secretive for the last couple of weeks,” Luke counters.

“Yeah, that’s my work mandated therapist, Luke. You know from the time I was in jail,” Spencer shoots back a little harder than he intended. The look that Luke gives him is something akin to a hurt puppy and Spencer can’t help but feel a little bad for snapping at Luke’s teasing.

“Sorry, man,” Luke says, putting a hand on Spencer’s shoulder, “I get it, and you know I’m here for you, Reid. We might not be as close as you and Penny or you and JJ, but I’m here to listen to you,” Luke says, his hand on Spencer, who’s usually so hesitant to touch, is something Spencer never thought he would find comforting.

“Thank you,” is all Spencer can manage and somehow, Luke just gets it. They walk quietly to the parking lot where the SUVs are. The silence continues as they drive to the police station.

It’s still early, only 7:13 am. Spencer can only hope that they catch the unsub in the next couple of hours, so they can file the paperwork and be on their way to Quantico by 8:00 pm. Luke’s steady driving threatens to lull Spencer to sleep. His quiet presence, however, is interrupted with a buzz. Luke’s eyes dart to his phone that navigates them to the police station. He refuses to take direction from Spencer, who has a habit of being a terrible co-pilot.

“Check that for me,” Luke says, “it’s probably Penelope,”

Spencer raises his eyebrows and attempts to suppress a smirk at Luke’s blatant transparency.

“You know with updates about the case and whatnot,” Luke says, brushing Spencer’s teasing off and putting his attention back to the road.

“It’s not Garcia and for what it’s worth, Luke, I don’t see how she’d say no,” Spencer offers, genuinely wanting to see his two friends, who are so perfect for each other it’s almost ridiculous, get together.

Luke shuffles in his seat uncomfortably and pulls into the station. He shoots Spencer a lot, as if to say drop it. The last thing Luke wants is Tara and Matt to get wind of his excitement at Penelope texting him.

Spencer, who’s phone lights up alerting him that he has an unread message, feels a sudden surge in his heart. He’s so used to only getting messages from JJ about the cases or pictures of her boys, that a text not related to his work or his family leaves a smile to his face.

Spencer tries to not profile the message, but to just read it like a normal friend would.

Book Buddy (Y/N): Hey there😊! I can’t believe someone actually grabbed my number...I’m glad you’re interested in this. I’m Y/N and I don’t think you mentioned your name, I don’t make it a habit to meet up with strangers before not knowing their name.

Reading the message twice to make sure he can recite without any hesitation, Spencer’s face falls as he realizes that he forgot to tell them his own name. How could you be so clueless, Spencer, he thinks.

Quickly, because he knows that the rest of the team is waiting inside the police station, that is like a portal to the past, Spencer types out another message.

Spencer: My name is Spencer.

Spencer: I tend to be away for work quite often, so I do apologize for the late message. And for hiding my identity-- not that that was on purpose. Is it okay if we plan something when I get back to Virginia?

Spencer doesn’t expect a message right away, but he can tell that there’s going to be something Pavlovian about the way that little swoosh sound makes his fingers reach for his phone.

Thank You!! I love and appreciate all and every comments, likes, and reblogs. I love knowing what you think!!

--Taglist--

@shemarmooresfedora

@april-14-blog

@willowrose99

@calm-and-doctor

@spideygenius

@nomajdetective

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x reader fluff #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x you #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds reader #spencer reid x yn

168 notes · View notes

august-anon · 3 years ago

Text

Are You Still?

I got hyperfixated on It a couple months ago and now here we are lol, this has been in my fic backlog for a while now. Hope you enjoy this one!

-------

Fandom: It (movies)

Ship(s): Reddie

Characters (lee/ler): Switch!Richie/Switch!Eddie

Word Count: 3879 words

Summary: Richie finds himself in a position that brings up some of the few fond memories he has from Derry. He decides to relive some of them.

[ao3 link]

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

Richie yelped as his legs and feet were suddenly shoved roughly off the couch, startling him out of his doze. He glared up at the offender and saw Eddie, already glaring back at him as he took a seat on the other end of Bill’s couch.

“What the fuck, man?” Richie asked, bringing one of his legs back up to shove at Eddie’s shoulder with his foot.

“If you’re gonna sleep, go do it in a bed,” Eddie snapped back, crossing his arms. “Don’t take up the whole fucking couch with your freakishly long sasquatch legs. This isn’t even your couch anyway, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Richie rolled his eyes. “The others aren’t getting here for another two hours, I think I’m allowed a fucking nap.”

“If you went to sleep at a normal fucking time,” Eddie said, slicing his hand through the air, “you wouldn’t need to take so many naps. What the fuck do you even do all night? I get texts from you at like, three in the morning!”

Richie leaned forward with a grin. “Well, if you really want to know--”

“If this is a joke about my mom you better shut the fuck up right now.”

Richie tossed his head back with a laugh. “Alright, alright.”

Richie had enough self control to give the scene about two minutes to settle. Then, he swung his legs back onto the couch and draped them over Eddie’s lap.

“Hey!” Eddie said, trying to push his legs off. “Get off me, asshole! Stop taking up the whole couch!”

Richie tilted his head back and let out an obnoxious snoring sound. Eddie huffed out a frustrated breath and it took all of Richie’s stage skills to not start laughing at him.

Then, unexpectedly, Eddie swung his own legs up on the couch along with Richie’s. Richie startled, jerking his head up to give Eddie an odd look, but yelped when Eddie started kicking and shoving at Richie with his feet.

“What the hell, man?!”

Eddie didn’t reply. There was a grin growing on his face as he slid down the couch, trying to reach further with his feet. Richie found it entirely too adorable, which unfortunately distracted him from Eddie sending a foot flying toward his face. Richie yelped and barely dodged out of the way in time to save his glasses from Eddie’s wrath. The scene unlocked a memory in his mind, long buried despite regaining his memories from Derry.

At this point, Richie only hogged the hammock as an excuse to get close to Eddie. It was honestly pretty uncomfortable, the hammock wasn’t meant for two people, even as `small as Eddie was, and it was a hassle to get them both to fit most of the time.

Which, surprisingly, was only partially where the kicking came in. The rest was because Eddie and Richie were just like that.

They were arguing loudly over the hammock again, which happened pretty much every time they were in the clubhouse together. Richie barely managed to dodge a foot, clearly aiming to hook around his glasses and throw them off his face. It was one of Eddie’s favorite moves, because it left Richie blind and annoyed, and it wasn’t exactly easy to annoy someone as annoying as Richie.

Before Eddie could go for his frames again, Richie grabbed his ankle, fighting for control of the limb. Eddie tried to tug his leg back, shouting a number of obscenities at Richie, but Richie just grinned a memory sparking in his mind.

“Hey Eds--”

“Don’t call me Eds, fucknut!”

“Are you still ticklish as fuck?”

Eddie’s eyes went wide and he started yelling even louder. Out of the corner of his eye, Richie caught Bev laughing at them while Stan rolled his eyes. They could shut the fuck up, in Richie’s humble opinion, this meant absolutely nothing at all, and Richie’s heart was totally not beating wildly out of his chest.

Richie started scratching his nails against the arch of Eddie’s socked foot, and Eddie’s obscenities quickly became interspersed with laughter. Richie couldn’t help but laugh along with him, wiggling his fingers along with his scratching to try and get an even better reaction.

“Fuck -- Richie, please!”

Richie smirked at him. “Begging already, Eddie Spaghetti? I know you can last longer than that.”

“Rich!!”

Foolishly, Eddie kicked at Richie with his other foot, trying to knock Richie’s hands off him. Instead, Richie let out his best evil laugh (it fell a little flat, Richie definitely needed to workshop it, but even still, a blush rose to Eddie’s adorable little ears) and grabbed Eddie’s other foot. Eddie shrieked and tried to escape, but Richie quickly pressed Eddie’s legs together before wrapping his own legs around Eddie’s knees to keep them there.

“Richie, don’t you fucking dare!”

“Oh, I dare, Eds.”

Richie immediately went back to scratching at Eddie’s arches, grinning when he burst back into loud laughter. He scrunched his soles and tried to shake Richie’s hands off, twisting and turning and kicking what little he could, but unable to get free from Richie’s hold. He couldn’t even flip the hammock over to knock them to the floor, though it was clear he was trying.

“What’s wrong, Eds, can’t get away?”

Even through his laughter, Eddie still managed to cry out, “Don’t you fucking call me that!”

As usual, Richie ignored him, moving down to tickle at his heels. Eddie tumbled into childish, high-pitched giggles that were so adorable that even Richie’s ears went pink. It was nothing compared to the flush suddenly filling Eddie’s face, though, all too aware of how he sounded.

“Cute cute cute!” Richie called out to him.

Eddie didn’t reply, he simply covered his giggling face.

“Aw, come on Eddie, don’t hide!”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Richie decided to be nice and stop embarrassing Eddie, moving his fingers up to tickle just under Eddie’s socked toes. Eddie’s hands dropped from his face as his eyes bulged out of his skull, shrieking and trying desperately to kick his legs out of Richie’s grasp. He tried to sit up to reach Richie’s hands, but Richie used one foot to push back against his chest while still pinning Eddie’s knees as best as he could.

“Richie!!”

Richie grinned. “Yes, Eddie my love?”

“Please!”

Richie chuckled under his breath and cocked his head to the side. “You know, you haven’t actually asked me to stop.”

Richie lightened his touch so Eddie was only giggling, and Eddie’s eyes widened in surprise. He stammered for a few seconds, even as he was giggling and panting, before he found his words.

“Yes-- Yes I have!”

“N-n-no you h-haven’t!” Bill helpfully called across the clubhouse.

Eddie went so red that Richie was almost worried he would burst a blood vessel in his face. He couldn’t help the stupid grin that spread across his face as Eddie glared at him.

“Well-- fucking stop, then!”

Richie stopped immediately, freeing Eddie’s legs. And he may have been an asshole, but he was at least nice enough to not mention the disappointment that crossed Eddie’s face when Richie finally freed him.

“Hey Eds--”

Eddie’s scowled deepened, even as he kept his feet flying toward Richie’s glasses, trying to knock them off. “Don’t call me Eds, fucknut!”

Richie grinned brightly, trapping Eddie’s feet and legs in that same hold from so long ago. “Are you still ticklish as fuck?”

Eddie’s eyes went wide. He started kicking even harder, trying to free his legs before Richie could attack. Richie wiggled his fingers threateningly above Eddie’s socked feet.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Eddie shouted. “I will fucking kill you, don’t you fucking dare!”

Richie laughed. The whole situation was starting to give him a bit of deja vu, the only thing missing was the near-sickening swing of a shitty old hammock from all of Eddie’s squirming.

“Oh, I dare, Eds.”

Richie started scratching at Eddie’s arches with both hands, showing no mercy. Eddie burst into laughter immediately, trying and failing to tug his legs back. Just like when they were kids, Richie couldn’t help but laugh with him.

“Richie, come on!”

“Yes, Eddie?”

Eddie squealed at a particularly vicious wiggle of Richie’s nails against his skin, arching his back and scrunching his feet up. His feet wiggled and twisted in Richie’s grasp, and Richie play-growled as he tried to keep them still and tickle them at the same time.

“Hold still!” Richie said. “Or’ll I’ll go for your toes!”

Eddie gasped through his laughter, thrashing even harder. Richie laughed as he tightened his legs around Eddie’s own.

“Please!” Eddie yelled.

An evil grin spread across Richie’s face. “Please tickle your toes?”

Eddie yelled wordlessly.

“I think I will, since you asked so nicely.”

Richie dug his fingers into the fabric beneath Eddie’s toes, trying his best to tickle despite how scrunched up his feet were. He was really more tickling the balls of his feet at this point. Eddie howled and tossed his head back, more pleas and curses falling from his lips.

“Alright, that’s it,” Richie said. “If that’s how you’re gonna be--”

Richie started pulling Eddie’s socks off. Eddie desperately gripped them in his toes, squirming and kicking to dislodge Richie, but there was a smile on his face all the while even though Richie wasn’t actively tickling him. His dimples were bright and deep, even with the scar that cut through the one on his left cheek, and his ears were a bright pink. Richie’s heart stuttered in his chest.

Damn his stupid fucking childhood crush, coming back to bite him in the ass over 20 years later. How could he still be in love with Eddie Kaspbrack, even after all these years?

At least Richie was good at burying his feelings, especially before people could see them on his face. And Eddie, arguably the best at reading him (aside from Stan, at least, but Stan could read everyone like a book with no effort at all), was thankfully a little too distracted to notice Richie’s own pink cheeks and ears.

Richie finally managed to tug his socks off, throwing them somewhere else in the room. They could find them later. He made sure his grip wrapped around Eddie’s legs was properly tight before gathering up Eddie’s big toes in one hand. The other started spidering gently over Eddie’s heels, making him tumble into giggles just like when they were kids.

“You know, Eds, you haven’t changed one bit.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Eddie yelled through his giggles, the pink spreading down his ears and into his cheeks at the sound of himself.

His giggles weren’t as sweet and childish as they once were. They were deeper now, and less bright, but they were bubbly as ever and no less beautiful. Richie felt his own blush spread down his neck and he hoped Eddie didn’t notice that, either. Well, embarrassing Eddie had always been a great way of distracting him, before.

“You’re as adorable as ever, Spaghetti!” Richie said, wiggling his fingers just a tad higher so they just barely reached the bottom of his arches. “Ticklish as ever, too.”

Eddie shrieked and tried to scrunch his feet as Richie moved higher, but Richie kept his grip tight enough that he had no success. Slowly, he started inching his fingers even higher, moving towards Eddie’s toes. If he remembered correctly, this spot would get Eddie to scream.

“You know, Eddie,” Richie said conversationally, raising his voice to talk over Eddie’s laughter, “If you told me to stop, I would.”

“I did!” Eddie said.

“No you haven’t,” Richie replied at the exact same time as Bill, who Richie hadn’t even heard come back in the room.

Richie jumped, his tickling faltered for a moment, shooting a glare over at Bill.

“Fuck off,” he and Eddie said in unision.

Bill raised his hands in surrender and left the room, muttering something about “weird flirting rituals.”

Well, fuck you, Billiam, because Richie was sure as hell not flirting, no sir.

He was just… tickling the shit out of the guy he’d been hopelessly in love with since he was eleven. It was no big deal. Just two bros being dudes.

Richie turned his evil grin back on Eddie once Bill had gone. “Last chance to stop this,” he said.

“Fuck you,” Eddie snapped, his blush going from pink to red.

Richie’s smile widened. It wasn’t anywhere near a “stop.”

He immediately started scratching his nails beneath Eddie’s toes, keeping his touch soft and gentle to start. It still had Eddie screaming in seconds, struggling desperately to pull his feet from Richie’s grasp.

“Asshole!” Eddie gasped through his laughter.

“That’s still not telling me to stop,” Richie said in a sing-song voice.

“Please! Rich!”

“That is also not telling me to stop. Are you sure you hate this as much as you pretend to?”

“Fuck!”

Richie cackled as Eddie thrashed around on the couch. He wiggled his fingers at the skin under his toes, twisted his fingers between them, and even scratched at the stems. The whole time, Eddie was going ballistic, tears of laughter building up in his eyes. Even through all this, he still hadn’t told Richie to stop. Richie was starting to wonder if he was going too far.

Then, Eddie started sitting up. Richie tried the same trick from when they were kids, using one of his feet to push at Eddie’s chest so he couldn’t reach Richie’s hands. The only issue was, Eddie was a lot stronger than when they were kids. He wasn’t that tiny little boy anymore, riddled with false illnesses, afraid he was as breakable as glass. He was still tiny, sure, but he was strong. Eddie worked out now (which Richie definitely appreciated, not that he would ever admit it).

Even weakened with his howling cackles, Eddie still managed to push his way up. His eyes were glowing with mirth, his face was bright and open with his unrepentant smile, and his cheeks were rosy and healthy. Richie couldn’t help the way his fingers faltered at the sight.

It was all the opening Eddie needed. His grin went from bubbly to feral in milliseconds and he tugged his feet out from Richie’s grip without any effort at all. Richie quickly realized that those were runner’s legs, because Eddie worked out, and that Eddie had been holding back that whole fucking time.

Richie had two epiphanies at once. One, Eddie had been letting Richie tickle him, he wanted it, and that set off all sorts of butterflies in his chest and stomach. Two, Richie was absolutely and totally fucked, which set off a whole different brand of butterflies.

“Eds-- Eddie, let’s talk about this--”

Eddie’s grin widened. “Don’t call me Eds.”

Then, Eddie lunged. Richie made a very embarrassing sounding yelp, that he very much hoped Eddie would keep to himself, and tried to scramble back over the arm of the couch. He failed, obviously, seeing as the only working out he’d ever done in his life was running from the clown and Bowers, and Eddie could probably run a marathon and not break a sweat.

Richie quickly found himself pinned underneath Eddie, Eddie’s weight straddling his thighs. Richie’s hands were still free, but he’d never been especially coordinated, and it only got worse with even the threat of being tickled.

Probably because of some subconscious desire of his to have wiggling fingers dig into every sensitive spot he has. Not that he’d ever admit any sort of desire out loud.

“Since you so mercilessly went for such a bad spot--”

“You were kicking me--!”

“-- I think I’ll return the favor.”

“Wait,” Richie cried, but it was pretty unconvincing given the giddy smile on his face. “Eddie, wait, no!”

Eddie took on a patronizing voice. “All you have to say is ‘stop.’”

That was totally unfair. Richie said “stop” when being tickled about as much as Eddie did, which was almost never.

Richie wasn’t given much time to think about that, however, because Eddie wasted no more time in digging into his hips. Which, even more unfair in Richie’s opinion, going for a death spot so soon, when Richie worked his way up to Eddie’s toes.

He jumped and bucked as Eddie squeezed at his hips, which quickly turned to squealing and attempting to curl up when Eddie started scratching at the bones. Eddie’s nails, unsurprisingly, were a lot better manicured than Richie’s own, which meant they tickled like fuck. Richie felt like he was going to crawl out of his skin in the best of ways, and he chose to cover his flushing face with his hands instead of trying to shove Eddie off.

“Eds, please!”

Eddie hummed. “Mm, no. Tell me to stop, Rich.”

Richie wailed in ticklish embarrassment, now blushing for a completely different reason than Eddie being the cutest man on the planet. Now, he was fucking hot, all in control and making Richie lose his mind and shit, and he couldn’t even enjoy it because, as he said, he was losing his mind.

Well, he was blushing from that and the exertion of his laughter. Hopefully one could disguise the other.

“Cute cute cute,” Eddie said in a nasally, high-pitched voice, probably meant to mimic child-Richie.

Richie had a lot of things he wanted to say to that, not the least of which was a heartfelt love confession thanks to the object of his affections calling him fucking cute, but he went with a safer option instead.

“You’re shit at that!” He cried through his laughter.

Eddie’s tickling paused and Richie sucked in a few deep breaths, eyeing him warily. Eddie raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t think you’re in a position to fucking insult me right now.”

Oh shit.

Eddie shoved Richie’s shirt up and shimmied his jeans a little lower on his hips, sending all sorts of weird, conflicting messages through Richie’s brain. Then, while Richie was still trying to process that shit, Eddie ducked his head down and Richie lost all the breath he had regained.

He was shocked out of his stupor by the most torturous raspberry ever given in the history of mankind being blown against the dip of his hip. Richie was certain it was the loudest he had ever yelled, which was saying something because Richie was loud. He couldn’t gain enough control over his arms to do much more than grip Eddie’s hair. He didn’t bother trying to pull or push him away, he just held on for dear life as Eddie systematically destroyed him.

Richie howled and cackled and screamed, and Richie was glad that Bill was the only other one in the house because he really did not need every single Loser hearing him make these noises. Sure, they heard it echo in the clubhouse when they were kids, but Richie was an adult now and had to maintain some semblance of control and maturity.

Then again, Bill would probably spread this around like wildfire.

Just when Richie thought he’d reached peak ticklishness, Eddie somehow led him to an all new peak. Richie’s screams went silent as Eddie gently dragged his teeth against one of his hipbones. Ticklish sparks shot straight up Richie’s spine, too ticklishly keyed up to realize how fucking hot that was, and he bucked up with a strength he didn’t know he possessed. The two of them landed in a heap on the floor.

Richie landed on top of Eddie, whose legs wound up wrapped around his waist. Richie held himself up on his forearms, resting on the rug on either side of Eddie’s head. Richie was still panting for breath, the wide, tickle-induced smile still stretched across his face and a blush still travelling from his ears to his neck. Eddie was grinning up at him, the pink flush spreading through his cheeks once more.

Richie wasn’t sure who moved first. All he knew was that suddenly, they were kissing. They were both smiling too wide for it to be a particularly effective kiss, but it still sent magical sparks zinging through Richie’s chest. If this was how all of their tickle fights were going to end from now on, Richie was going to have to start them more often.

“Fuck,” Richie whispered when they pulled back.

Eddie pressed their foreheads together with a chuckle. “I guess that’s one way to do it.”

“You know,” Richie said, still whispering. “I only tickled you so much when we were kids because you were fucking adorable when I did, and I was practically in love with you.”

Eddie locked eyes with him.

“I don’t think you hated it as much as you pretended to, though,” Richie finished with a grin.

“Fuck you,” Eddie snapped, but there was no heat to it. “And now?”

“Now?”

“Why start a tickle fight now?”

Richie grinned. “Well, Eds--”

“Fuck you!”

“-- I gotta say, the years didn’t make you any less adorable.”

“Yeah?” Eddie whispered, and Richie felt Eddie’s legs tighten around his waist.

“Yeah.” And then, because Richie couldn’t be serious for more than two minutes at a time, he said, “Still not as cute as your mom, though.”

Eddie groaned, slapping his shoulder. “Beep beep, you fucking asshole. I thought we were having a moment.”

Richie raised his eyebrows. “We could have another, if you want.”

One of Eddie’s hands came up to thread through the hair at the nape of Richie’s neck. Just as he started to tug Richie down, just as their lips started to brush, there was a snort from the doorway that had them jumping apart. Richie barely avoided clunking his head against the end table as he sprang away from Eddie.

“Finally,” Bill said. “B-B-Bev owes me fifty d-dollars.”

“Fuck off!” He and Eddie shouted in unison.

Bill laughed and raised his hands in surrender, leaving the room again. “D-don’t christen your n-n-new relationship on my rug.”

Richie scowled at Bill’s back until he was out of sight. Then, he turned his gaze back towards Eddie, who was already crawling towards him again.

“Wanna make out until the rest of the group gets here?” Eddie said with a grin.

Richie grinned back. “Only if I get to tickle you and you laugh into my mouth.”

Eddie laughed, already pulling Richie closer. “You’re so fucking weird.”

“You love it.”

Eddie sighed. “Unfortunately, I love you. Obnoxious as you are.”

Richie could barely stop smiling for long enough to press his lips to Eddie’s. Eddie shoved him back onto the floor, landing on top himself this time. Richie did end up skittering his fingers up and down Eddie’s sides and ribs, tasting the giggles that Eddie let out into his mouth. Eddie wasted no time in returning the favor, either, dragging his blunt nails across Richie’s skin to get him giggling against Eddie’s lips.

It was by far the best make-out session Richie had ever had. Partially from the tickling, Richie would never complain about that, but mostly because it was Eddie. Whenever the rest of the Loser’s arrived, they would be pretty hard-pressed to get Richie to stop kissing Eddie for even a moment. They had a lot of lost time to make up for.

#tickle fic #My writing #it tickling #lee!eddie #ler!richie #ticklish!eddie #lee!richie #ler!eddie #ticklish!richie #it movies #eddie kaspbrack #richie tozier #reddie

90 notes · View notes

queenoftheworldisdead · 4 years ago

Text

Partner in Crime

Note: Inspired by this ask by @sapphirescrolls

Summary: Outlaws takeover ranch

Warning: anal, bondage, non consent, double penetration Dark Bucky x Reader; Dark Steve X Reader Weatern AU

—

The day was long and hot. Without your husband helping tend to the farm anymore you found it difficult to get through the rounds of daily chores before lunch time no matter how early you started your day.

It was well past noon when you headed to the main house to get started on some lunch. Slicing up some bread and boiling a pot of well water, you prepared your meager lunch. When you heard the distant sounds of mares approaching from the dirt road.

Your farm was a bit far out from town so it was a bit odd to have a visitor. Looking out the window you saw the two horsed men ride down your dirt path and head towards the back of your house. Turning off your stove you hurried outback to investigate.

When you saw them steer their horses into your barn you were furious. “Hey! Hey! Get out of my barn!”

In your many years on the farm no one had ever been so forward as to intrude. Lifting the hem of your skirt you ran sore feet and all to the barn, hollering and cursing up a storm.

Standing now in the middle of the archway of the barn you were greeted by the sight of two men. Bandanas covering their faces with large satchels on each steed. Each bag with various bills poking through what seemed to be bullet holes.

“Well hello Ma'am” The blonde bandit uncovered his face while the hammer of the pistol in his silent partner’s hand clicked as you stood frozen in place. “We are mighty parched. Might you spare us a cup of water?”

—-

While inside you poured them both glasses of water. The meager lunch you made for yourself now devoured by the men.

“I’m Steve and this here is my best friend Bucky.” Both men tipped their hats to you.

“I-it’s a bit rude to wear hats in the house. Your mamma’s aint teach you no manners?” You stuttered.

Both men looked at each other and gave a slight nod. “Pardon our rudeness Ma'am.” They took their hats off and placed them on the table.

“I’ll just go hang these on the hook by the door.” When you grabbed for the them they didn’t protest and that is when you saw your chance. Walking toward the door with hats in hand you began to hang them as soon as you neared. Looking over to the table you saw them talking and that’s when you did it. Opening the front door you dashed out. Booking it to the dirt road as fast as you could.

—-

The lasso cinched around your waist as you tried to run away. You felt a great pull and then you found yourself on your ass. Bucky pulled you in by the rope, your dress sullied by the dirt path as you cried out into the vast country air.

Once you were close enough he hauled you over his shoulder and walked with you back inside.

“Now now Ma'am that is no way to treat guest… Bucky if you don’t mind”

Bucky took the rope and tied your hands behind your back. When Bucky finished tying your hands you felt his own roam your backside. Through your dress you felt his hand travel down your seams, lifting your dress and petty coat as you begin to beg. “Sir please, please wait I have some jewelry in a chest please” you sniff and sob, but he didn’t relent.

“We have been on the trail a long time. Mostly deal with whores, but a widower…now that’s a rare find.” Steve neared you, but you couldn’t straighten yourself to face him. “How long has your old man been dead?”

“Please don’t do this” you blubbered as you felt Bucky’s fingers on your bare flesh.

“I think we have a virgin ass Punk.” Bucky chuckled darkly as his digit pressed hard onto your whole.

Grabbing you by the neck Steve forced you to stand straight. “How long has it been since a man has touched you?” Steve demanded an answer. Lowering your head you told him how long your husband had been dead. The pain of thinking about him reopening wounds.

“Bucky you hear that. I think she needs some taking care of. Living in this place all alone… What a shame.”

Taking you by the back of the neck Steve lead you around the house as you cried and pleaded for them to have mercy. Once he found your bedroom he began to strip. Bucky pushing you onto the bed fully clothed. Steve captured your face tenderly before kissing your lips gently, softly roaming your body with his hands.

When he pulled back you were gasping for air. Squeezing and groping you while he stared at you wantonly. The sheer strength of Steve was surprising with one hard yank he split the front of your dress open. Exposing your breast to him as you yelp with shock and surprise.

Taking your breast into his mouth you panted and moaned. Your husband had never been that tender and the sensations were all new to you. With your tit in his mouth his hands moved your body to straddle his. Moving your fabric so that your bare mound felt the cool air of the room.

“That’s it good girl” Steve’s words knocked you out of your lustful days. When you felt his cock line up with your cunt you tried to dash away, but his hands held you in place.

“Punk are you ready to break her in.” Turning to look behind you, you found Bucky naked as well. He climbed into the bed and when you saw him near you tried harder to get away.

“Sh, sh, sh, calm down girl” Steve talked to you like you were a wild horse that needed to be reigned in. You were frantic and with the added hands of Bucky you felt doomed.

Bucky spread your cheeks, whistling at the sight of your tight hole. When he spit on your entrance you felt disgust as you continued to sob uncomfortable. "Easy girl" Bucky said a he rubbed in the spit with his tip.

Both men stilled your bucking body, lining themselves up to your holes, pressing threateningly at each entrance. “Please no please” you begged again, but it was too late. Both pushed in hard, stretching you as you screamed out.

“Good girl that’s it. Take us in” Steve grunted as he pushed you down. Bucky’s weight and girth overwhelmed you while Steve was welcomed by a pussy that was eager to adjust to his size.

Both men fought to find their own rhythm with your body. Bucky grabbed your bond hands, pulling them until your back arched. With your breast in the air, Steve took a hand off your hip, pinching and playing with your exposed breast, reaching his head up to take one in his mouth again.

“That’s our girl” Bucky praised as he assaulted your ass.

“We are going to fill you so good” Steve declared when he pulled away from your nipple. His hands slapped the side of your thighs. The sting adding to your pain. Steve dragged his nails across your skin leave welted strips on your flesh.

Through all the pain you could feel yourself becoming aroused. You felt dirty and used, but the feel of them both inside of you, driving you mad with desire. “Shit” you exclaimed as they both hit a spot inside you that you never knew you had.

“That’s it baby come for us” Bucky said as he pounded into you hard, forcing you to fall forward on top of Steve. “I’m not gonna last too much longer in her Buck. She is too tight.”

“Mm-mm shit!” You moaned while both men continued to pump into you.

You felt your pussy gripping his cock before you felt your holes filled with warm juices. Both men came inside you, filling your holes as you came all over Steve’s cocked.

“Well Buck what do you say we make this place home for a while?”

Pushing you off to the side leaving you a crumbled mess, both men looked at you and smiled.

“That’s alright by me.”

#dark!bucky x reader #dark bucky x reader #dark!steve x reader #dark steve x reader #black writer #smut #quick writing #drunk writing #western AU #dark stucky x read #dark stucky #dark!stucky x reader #didn't tag because I wrote this while super drunk

400 notes · View notes

prurientpuddlejumper · 3 years ago

Text

Cozy Sweaters

Jackson Neill x Reader

Sequel to Cold Hands, requested by @detectivebarba & written for @storiesofsvu’s Fall Bingo!

Warnings: Angst. Angst. Angst. Fluff?

Summary: Oh my god they were roommates.

3,350 words

September 8th

The living room of your apartment—what used to be your apartment—was abuzz with heated voices.

“We’re sorry, but you said you were moving out!”

“So you just gave away my room?! I’m allowed to change my mind!”

Your roommates glanced between each other, awkwardness thick in the air.

“Ed is moving here all the way from England on the promise that he would have a room. He already bought his plane ticket. We’d really be screwing him over.”

“But… where am I supposed to go?”

Jenny sighed and shook her head. “Listen, if this wasn’t so last-minute, I’d understand, but you were supposed to move in with your boyfriend next week. We already made plans to fill your spot…” She really was sorry, in other words, but you were stuck.

“Can’t you still move in with him?” Todd added, and Jenny shot daggers from her eyes.

“He cheated on me!”

“Yeah, but you said he didn’t want to break up, right? Just work things out.”

“I am not,” you hissed through gritted teeth, “ever taking him back after what he did.”

September 13th

Every one-bedroom apartment listing in the greater NYC area was out of your price range. You tapped your friend group, colleagues, and acquaintances for roommates and came back empty. You went on Craig’s List and met with a few strangers seeking roommates. The ones who weren’t terrifying never called you back.

Meanwhile, Jackson Neill had been blowing up your phone.

Well, not blowing up—the first night he got drunk and filled your inbox begging you to come back, sobbing and slurring into your voicemail, spamming indecipherable text messages. The next morning, a single text read: “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate, and it won’t happen again.”

And it didn’t.

But he sent another message a few days later telling you he’d found some more of your stuff, if you’d like it back. That you were always welcome to talk if you wanted to. He wanted to be there for you. You didn’t message him back.

September 14th

It was a cold, rainy day on campus, so you risked taking a shortcut to the dining hall. You turned the corner of an old brick building, and there he was, walking out of the Department of Religious Studies, jacket collar pulled up over his neck because the forgetful fool could never remember his umbrella.

He froze at the same time you did.

All you could hear was your pulse drumming inside your skull like rain. You knew you’d run into him eventually, but you hadn’t decided how to react, and your body wasn’t offering any suggestions.

He gave you a pitiful smile and lifted his hand. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

One leaden foot shuffled in front of the other, and you kept walking. He nodded with a wan smile and sad eyes and didn’t chase you.

The outdoor seating was closed because of the weather, so the dining hall was crowded and buzzing. You snatched a small two-seat table just as another student left, brushing a stale French fry off it onto the floor. Sinking down to enjoy your cheap sandwich, you glanced around the crowd.

A middle-aged man with a soggy jacket and salt-and-pepper hair, who had no right to be so breathtakingly handsome, was searching desperately for a seat while precariously balancing a tray of soup and coffee.

He felt your gaze on him, and you were fixed with a beam of frozen green eyes.

You waved him over.

“I wasn’t following you, I swear.”

“I don’t know, eating lunch? At lunchtime? That can’t be a coincidence.”

The corner of his lip wanted to smile, but he didn’t seem entirely sure you were joking.

“Just sit down and eat,” you sighed. “There’s nowhere else.”

He sat.

Silence crackled between you like the sky before a thunderstorm as you ate your lunches.

“So,” Jackson started cautiously, “how have you been?”

You gave a dry snort. “Oh, just fucking peachy. I’m going to be homeless in two days, thanks to you.”

“What?!”

Jackson listened with a deepening frown as you told him about your roommate plight. Then he offered you a room at his house.

“Go to hell. I’m not going to move in with you like nothing ever happened!”

“No, it wouldn’t be like that. I have a spare bedroom. It’s a big house, and I could use help with the bills. Please—it’s the least I can do. Just until you get back on your feet.”

September 17th

It wasn’t like you had much choice.

You moved into Jackson’s house as originally planned, albeit under different circumstances. Instead of sharing his bed, he cleared out the spare room he’d been using, in theory, as a “gym,” and in practice as a storage closet. There was plenty of space, and with how late he always worked at the university, you’d barely see him anyway.

This might just work out.

September 20th

This was never going to work.

Your heart broke all over again every morning you walked downstairs and saw Jackson in the kitchen making pancakes, because every time, you had to fight the urge to come up behind him and wrap your arms around his waist like you used to do.

God, you wanted him back. If only you could erase the image of him with her from your mind.

October 7th

Jackson begged you to take him back.

One thing after another had gone wrong after he publicly confronted the Meyerist Movement. The cult pressured the publisher to pull his book. The university put him on leave while they investigated his alleged relationship with a student. You wandered into the living room that night and found him curled up on the couch, and his resolve broke.

There were tears in his eyes as he tried to pull you into a hug, and when you jerked away, they cascaded down his cheeks. He kept saying he was sorry over and over.

“Please. I need you. Everything is falling apart—if I could at least have you to hold onto… just one thing that wasn’t broken. Please, just tell me how to make it up to you. Haven’t I done enough? If I could take it all back, I would. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me? Please let me hold you?”

This was hard for you, too. Part of you wanted to give in, tell him it was all OK, let him kiss you, and see him smile. The worst part of all of this was that you still loved him, but you could never trust him again. He put on such a sweet, innocent act—he was a wonderful boyfriend—but now you knew he was a manipulative liar.

You should never have moved in.

“There’s no undoing the past. We both need to move forward, not back. I’m going to start looking for other places to live.”

October 8th

Morning brought a more sober Jackson knocking at your door. Dark circles hung under his eyes, but he hadn’t been crying recently.

“Please don’t feel like you have to leave. I can get my shit together. I’m calling a therapist today.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Yeah.” He stared at his feet, shifting on the hardwood floor.

“Jackson… I’ll only hurt you if I stay. This is too hard on you.” For us. “Besides, I can’t freeload here forever.”

“You do pay rent, you know.”

“I know, but—”

“I only have the kids every other weekend, and it’s a big house. It gets lonely. You’re doing me a favor being here.”

November 10th

In the last month, Jackson convinced you there was no hurry to move out.

He was a great roommate. He cooked, cleaned, respected your boundaries. He was a truly decent man, if an unfaithful lover, but since you were just friends now, it didn’t matter who he fucked. The biggest concern was that he wanted you back, and living together was a constant source of emotional pain. But on that front, he finally seemed to be moving on.

Whenever the topic came up, he assured you that you were welcome to stay as long as you wanted.

“It’s just so hard to find a decent place in my price range.”

“I mean it,” Jackson reiterated, adding emphasis. “If you want to stay, I enjoy having a roommate.”

You searched for hidden motives in his voice, his expression. Was this part of a long game to get you back? But his tone was friendly and open. Knowing how quickly he jumped from his ex-wife to you to Sarah, there was no way he didn’t already have his eye on someone new. At this point, you were just roommates.

“You mean permanently? Isn’t living with an ex a recipe for disaster?”

He chuckled. “The last few years with my wife were much worse than this, trust me. We were trying to stay together until the kids went to college, but emotionally, we were already divorced. It was awful… sharing a room. Constant fighting.” His eyes took a dull, faraway look as he remembered.

Worry lines creased your brow. “Are you sure you want to put yourself through that again?”

He grinned, snapping out of it, and patted you on the head like you were one of his kids. “You are nothing like her. We’re friends.”

You liked the sound of that. Friends.

November 14th

The sound of screams greeted you as you opened the front door and hung your keys on their hook next to your jacket. Jackson was watching a scary movie marathon in the living room, apropos of the foggy autumn weather.

“Candyman. Care to join?” He patted the cushion beside him.

You stayed up past midnight in your pajamas, sharing popcorn, laughing, and hiding your eyes from the gory parts. Jackson remained on the opposite side of the couch, careful not to touch you.

November 19th

You caught Jackson having lunch with an attractive student. It made your blood freeze, then boil when he walked with her back to his office.

Alone.

Fists clenched, you pressed your ear to the closed door, and heard… an essay on the role of religion in perpetuating homophobia. He was helping her edit a paper. Like professors do.

You followed them all the way from the dining hall just for talking.

When did you become a crazy ex? Why would you care if he was schtupping a hot student? You wanted him to move on—you were glad he didn’t tear up every time you walked into the kitchen anymore. But you knew then that you weren’t over him yet.

If you saw him out with someone new, it would sting like he was betraying you all over again. So you tried hard to be the one to move on first.

November 30th

A car honked outside.

“Oh, that’s my date,” you apologized to Jackson. “Gotta go.”

You got a little rush of schadenfreude from the kicked-puppy look that flashed across his face as you left him mid-conversation, sitting at the kitchen table across from your abandoned teacup. It felt like a big fuck-you, letting him know you’d be fucking someone else. A dare: let’s see if you really meant it when you said we could be friends.

But the look had barely contorted his features when he swallowed it down and smiled, “Be safe.”

He was probably going on plenty of dates himself and just didn’t tell you out of consideration for your feelings. He didn’t want you to feel used, betrayed, and immediately replaced. You were both moving on.

After a string of Tinder hookups, you felt like Jackson was out of your system, romantically speaking.

December 17th

A light dusting of snow floated down through the pale morning air. Jackson woke up on the left side of the bed, as he did every morning, and as he did every morning, turned to his right hoping to find you there. The blankets were cold.

He shivered.

You had a date last night and didn’t come home. He waited up, but never heard your car in the driveway, your keys in the door. Since you weren’t there to see his red eyes, he allowed himself to cry.

February 14th

A dull, rhythmic thumping carried through the walls. The creaking of a mattress. You cried out a name, voice cracking as you came for the second time.

It was the same guy again.

Casual hookups he could handle, but it had been the same guy for weeks now. Jackson told himself he deserved this. This was what he did to you, only while you were together. When you trusted him not to. He deserved to hear the one he loved being taken by another man.

As much as he wanted you to be his, you weren’t. He had no right to feel burning bile rising in his stomach at each of your moans and gasps. You were doing nothing wrong.

“You live here. Of course you can have dates over. No, it’s not awkward. We’re friends.”

A hot tear slid from his eye as he buried his head in a pillow.

This guy better take care of you.

May 1st

He didn’t have a roommate anymore. Not really. You spent all your time at Rodney’s apartment.

Soon you would move out, and he’ll have lost you forever.

He wanted to warn you not to move so fast, but what right did he have to judge? He let you move at the same pace with him. Let you trust him, fall in love with him, have a spare toothbrush on his sink within a few months. All the while, he figured a little action on the side wouldn’t hurt. Did he think he could chase two of you at once and get to keep the winner?

Idiot.

Sinner. That’s what his mami would say.

The few times you were home, he didn’t express his concerns about your boyfriend. He would only sound jealous, and it would push you away. If he wanted to be someone you would still answer the phone for when you moved out, he had to be a good friend, not a jealous ex.

Fuck. He hoped it worked out between you and Rodney. He really did. He hoped you were happy.

October 2nd

You came home for the first time in weeks crying. Heavy tears rolled down your face, legs shaking as you crawled up the stairs to your bedroom. Jackson was off the couch in an instant, spring up to follow you.

“Hey… Hey, what’s wrong?” He gingerly touched your shoulder, palm spreading out to make comforting circles when you didn’t shake him off. “Did something happen? Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head, sniffing as you slumped down onto your bed. Jackson sat beside you, worry etched into his features. He was so cute. After all this time, he still cared about you. You thought about all the times he’d begged for you back, in the beginning, desperate to hold you again. Fuck, you just wanted to feel that wanted again.

“Rodney and I broke up,” you mumbled.

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear th—”

You gripped the hair at the back of his head and tugged him roughly into a kiss. Every muscle in his neck and shoulders tensed. A surprised noise was muted between your crushing lips. You could have sworn, for a moment, he started kissing you back, but then his big hands clamped like two vices on your shoulders, and he pushed you away.

“What are you doing?” His eyes were wide.

“What does it look like?” you purred, fingers clawing at the buttons of his cardigan. “I want you to take me, Jackson.”

His hands stopped you from leaning close again. “No. Stop it.”

“Come on, this is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“We can’t… I won’t take advantage of you like that. You’re just upset, and—”

“Fuck you! So you’ll fuck anyone and not give a shit—you’ll fuck around on me and break my heart, but you won’t fuck me when I’m asking you to?! The one time I just need you to be there, and now you’re on your high fucking horse, pretending to be a good guy?! I bet you’d screw Sarah! Fuck you. Fuck you!”

Your shoulders shook as your tirade broke down more and more into sobs. Deep down, you knew he was right. You’d regret it in the morning. But you couldn’t he just… want you?

“Why? Why not? Am I that… am I that unlovable?”

“Because you crying.” Tears were shimmering in his eyes as he said it, softly wiping a tear from your cheek. “You’re crying.”

With a gasp, you threw yourself down on the bed and buried your face in a pillow. You screamed into it, your own breath hot and wet against your face. Jackson’s weight shifted the mattress beside you, and your hand shot out in panic, blindly groping toward the movement. You felt pathetic. Needy. But you didn’t want to be alone.

“Don’t go.”

The mattress sank back down under him. “I’m not going anywhere. I won’t take advantage of you, but if you want me to stay, I’ll stay. As long as you want.”

That was all you wanted to hear in that moment, to know someone wouldn’t abandon you. His warm hand rubbed your back in slow circles as you wept, patiently listening as you told him everything in disjointed, broken pieces. How you were just being paranoid—invading Rodney’s privacy when he left his phone unlocked. You were paranoid because your last boyfriend cheated. Then you found the lewd messages, and it didn’t seem real. Plans to meet at a bar downtown. You didn’t believe it until he was toweling off, telling you something came up with his mom, and he’d be out for a while. And you followed him down to the bar and saw them together.

“He was an asshole,” Jackson said.

“Am I doomed? Cursed? Why does everyone cheat on me? Is it my fault?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Shut up! You did it, too,” you snapped. “I’m just not special enough to hold anyone’s attention. I’ll never be enough.”

“No,” he growled with a ferocity that startled you, “You’re wonderful, and anyone would be lucky to have you. That guy was an asshole, and so was I for taking you for granted. You did nothing to deserve this. One day you’ll find someone who appreciates you… who learns to treat you the way you deserve to be treated before they lose the best thing to ever happen to them.”

You shifted to press yourself closer to him. The tears didn’t stop, but a warmth spread through your chest. Jackson felt like a cozy sweater—warm and familiar. Easy to cry into. His arms were surprisingly solid and thick, but gentle when they closed around you.

He was a comfortable old sweater you could slip back on after leaving it in the closet for a year.

***

Hours passed by, and you had no more tears left. No energy left to move. Jackson was still beside you, keeping watch, as promised. You were curled up with your head in his lap, his fingers in your hair.

When he was sure you were asleep, he carefully extracted himself from under you, gradually shifting your head onto the pillow so you wouldn’t wake up. He breathed, heart aching as he looked down at your sleeping form. You deserved better than tear-stained cheeks. He knew he had no right to be so angry, but he couldn’t stand seeing you hurt again.

You wouldn’t have been if he had just…

He let his tears fall silently. This was about you, and he didn’t want to make you console him, but you were asleep now. He could let go.

He ran his fingers through your hair one last time. Then, with a furtive glance, he bent and pressed a tender kiss to your forehead.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I never stopped.”

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

Tags: @beccabarba / @itsjustmyfantasyroom / @thatesqcrush / @dianilaws / @permanentlydizzy / @mrsrafaelbarba / @madamsnape921 / @astrangegirlsmind / @neely1177 / @onerestein / @dreamlover31 / @isvvc-pvscvl / @shroomiehomie / @storiesofsvu / @welcometothemxdhouse / @feedthemadness-sweetie / @law-nerd105 / @amelia-song-pond / @michael-rooker / @xecq / @madpanda75 / @alwaysachorusgirl / @bananas-pajamas / @leanor-min / @mad-girl-without-a-box / @katierpblogg / @worldofvixen / @sassyada / @detectivebarba

#Jackson Neill #jackson neill x reader #my writing

48 notes · View notes