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perpetuallydaydreaming · 2 years ago

Text

you don’t really like me, you just think you do.

when james’ feelings did a 180, you find it hard to take him seriously.

warnings: no warnings, not proof read (bc lazy)

tags: fluff & angst, 5.9k wc, getting together, jamie being the best suitor, charlie (not weasely) is also here

when people asks you how it changed, you always say it was sudden.

suddenly, james was everywhere you look. suddenly, james was tripping and falling over you. suddenly, james fancied you.

as sudden as it was, it didn’t shock you as one would’ve expected. you always knew him to be as inconsistent in his school work, so you figured he would be inconsistent towards his feelings as well. what shocked you though, was that he liked you of all people.

all interactions with james had strictly consisted of school related-topics. you were in different houses and different social circles. so when he pulls you aside one morning in-between classes. you had expected one of two things; showing him how to do a bandaging charm, again or him asking you for a copy of your essays.

and it was to your absolute horror, that he proved how wrong you are.

“i like you and i hope you like me too.”

when people asks james how it changed, he always says it was gradual.

gradually, you became something he had looked forward seeing every morning. gradually, you had become a pivotal part of his day, every interaction cherished and replayed in his mind late at night. gradually, he had started falling for you.

as gradual as it was, it came as a complete shock for him. he had only viewed you as a friend, and even that was pushing it. you two barely talked to each other and when you did, it was always about school. you two were always paired up for some reason, and in his mind it became akin to fate. you started to occupy the large space that was once occupied by his lilypad and now replaced by you, your soft smile and the contradicting cynic replies.

and with fate working beside him to get you two as close as possible, james thought you figured the same. you were always so patient wth him, always ready to help him out. but your kindness sometimes came with snarky responses that he found oh so charming and witty. so when he excused you to talk, he had expected a successful attempt in snagging a date with you. even going as far as preparing a bouquet for you, he arranged himself.

and it was to his absolute horror, that you proved how wrong he is.

“um, no.”

and so became the norm. james had made it his life’s mission to actively pursue you. you gotta admit though, if he wanted something. he really goes all out.

it started with a daily routine with you every morning. james would wake up early and wait for you by the main floor near the grand staircase. his back against the rough stones, arms and ankles crossed, a boyish smile on his face the moment he would see you. he would beam a smile, cheeks denting, eyes shinning, and walk to you, offering a pleasant greeting of good morning, gorgeous. my, don’t you look ravishing this morning, grabbing your books and tote to carry for you. the first time he attempted this, you fought hard to deny his services. your hands like claws as you hold your things to your person. though he had hardly blinked then, maybe even looked a bit amused, even going as far as looking excited. the weirdo.

but it had been weeks now and frankly, you had grown tired of fighting with him every morning. especially, when he would always win in the end anyway. so now, you just let him do whatever he wanted. not like you have anything to complain about, your bag has always been pretty heavy.

he would flirt with you. constantly. shower you with compliments about things you hardly even think about sometimes. he had sung praises about your eyebrows the other day, and you had no choice but to bluster through it, to mask your flaming cheeks from embarrassment. but he’s not just all talk either, lately he’s worked up the courage to try to hold your hand — or something close to it. he would slowly walk closer to you, his pink lips going on and on asking you and complimenting you, telling jokes, a diversion—you realize. he would blindly extend his fingers, pinkies first, and when you would feel that first touch to your hand, your heart would do an awful jump. your skin would feel a little bit smaller, your brain blaring alarms, his pinky finger touched your hand, repeat it with increasing traitorous glee. this one, you haven’t stopped fighting. as each time you feel his hand touch yours, you would always create some distance between the two of you, no matter how crowded the corridor is, not that it hardly mattered to him, he looked like he’s won something each time he was successful.

today was no different. before the stairwell could even move, you can already see his dark messy hair waiting for you at one of the floors.

“i say, loverboy’s plenty persistent, hm?” charlie hummed, leaning over the railway, his pale eyes clear with amusement.

you scoff, fingers twitchy on the handle as you see him look up and glow into a smile as he locked eyes with you, “like a rash.” tearing your gaze from james potter down below to look ahead, “that would eventually go away.”

he raises an eyebrow at that, lips quirking into a smirk “really now? he’s been waiting for you every morning for the past months, i think this rash is here to stay. ”

you forced a tight lipped smile, “all in due time, i’m sure.”

clenching your hands when the stairs settle in, you walk down, gently meeting his bright honey eyes.

once you were close enough, he grinned, “good morning my sweet,” pushing himself off of the wall he was leaning against. like some infuriating roguish model. you like to think he practices ways on how he would look leaning against the stone wall. something he would drag his friends into helping him decide which one looked best, no doubt. you almost smile at the thought but stopped yourself when he says, “don’t you look as beautiful as ever.” he hummed.

his robes in his hands, his tie crisp and perfect, his white button-up wrinkle-free. his hair looking like something he’d desperately describe as artfully tousled but could only be ever perceived as messy. his cool bravado contrasting his rosy cheeks and ears. your heart doing that awful thing again.

“well, that’s my cue. see you both later.” charlie waved and you looked, giving him a nod goodbye.

you sighed through your nose, “potter.”

“try not to sound too happy now.” he teased. he let out his palms for you to place your tote and books, and like yesterday and the day before, you give it to him without complaint. “thanks,” you muttered, keeping in a snort of laughter as you see him wear your pink floral tote on his shoulders unabashedly.

“so, are you ready for your ancient runes test today?” he asks, once you two started walking to the great hall.

“how did you—?”

he shrugged, tousling his hair and looking down on you with a proud smile. “i know everything about you, darling.” (and that he does. albeit he had to beg and bribe his way for your friends to start sharing basic information about you. what your classes are, favourite colours, what you like, dislike —because merlin forbid you actually share things about yourself. all without you knowing of course. wouldn’t want you to think of him as weird.)

you gave the weirdo a suspicious stare before shaking your head, “i think i’m ready. i mean, i studied everything i could. i revised three books for it and even did flashcards.”

“well i bet my hair, you’re gonna do just great.” he grinned, softly nudging your shoulder. “you always have.”

rolling your eyes, “thank you, although i don’t really need you hair.”

“well, just tell me which limb you want and i’ll give it to you.” spreading his arms apart, your bag sliding on his arms with his movement. grinning wide and wiggling his eyebrows. leaning into your face.

your face screwing up into a grimace, and pushing his face away with your knuckles, “the same goes for any anatomy or anything you offer me, i’m afraid.”

the persistent blighter just grinned, looking all too proud of himself for whatever reason.

you were about to turn towards the library, but he grabbed your arm and clicked his tongue, “eat breakfast first,” his fingers firmly wrapped around your inner elbow, denting the soft skin there.

“i have to study,” you say firmly, hoping your voice won’t crack.

“you studied enough, now let’s go.” a little tug from him and you were compliant. something he had looked pleasantly surprised by, if the denting cheeks were any indication.

once he felt you weren’t fighting him from pulling you to the great hall, he let you go. warm big hands leaving your arms.

he started talking about his plans, letting you know when he’s available and when he’s busy. asking about yours in turn — and like always sharing nothing. not that he’s deterred. it’s near the hall’s entrance when you feel his gaze at the side of your face, “—after practice though, i’m going to be fairly free the rest of the night.” that familiar lilt in his voice.

breathing in deep, knowing what’s coming next. “so i was thinking, that maybe we could meet up near the lake - have an afternoon picnic.” you turn to look at him and see him rub the back of his neck. the action causing his biceps to bulge out, pulling the fabric taut against his skin. a treacherous thought passing in your mind.

breathing in slowly, you close your eyes to refocus on his face. warm hazel eyes pleading, hopeful, still just like that first time.

“no thank you,” entering the hall just as james opens the door for you.

he frowns, no, pouts. “why not?”

“i just don’t want to.” you walked to your usual seat in the ravenclaw table and james following behind you closely.

“i guess, that’s fair.”

james still in his head, muttering about cancelling with the elves, as he went to unconsciously grab your hand to guide you into your seat. you flushed at the new action, but nonetheless take a seat anyway. he slowly let your bag slip away from his shoulders place it neatly to your side.

“i’ll walk you to the library after you eat, so wait for me, okay?” he smiled gently down at you like you haven’t just rejected him. giving your friends a few nods of acknowledgments before sitting with his friends already there waiting for him.

you hear a few teasing oohs from your friends causing you to get out of your stupor and shoot glares at them. “don’t even.”

it was no public secret that james had been determined to ask you out on a date for the past months. and each time he did, his plans only becoming more elaborate than the last.

the first time he had asked, it was in the corridor in-between classes. people scattering to get where they needed to be. you were no different until a large bouquet with large and colourful flowers arranged messily in wrinkly cellophane and tight ribbons. you remembered his face then, noting how red and shy he looked. he had been stammering and restarting his spiel to you. you saw your friend gesturing for you to hurry, but oddly enough. you stayed rooted to the spot, curious for what’s to come.

“i like you and i hope you like me too!” he might as well be screaming, as the people around you two stopped and stared. the hall now deathly silent, awaiting your response. you flushed at the attention, and grabbed james by the elbow. walking swiftly to the more secluded area at the end of the hall.

once you two were alone, you see those hopeful eyes of his and his nervous smile. his face was still laughably red and the flowers still upright, tightly clutched in his hands.

“um no,” standing up straighter, “i don’t know what transpired for you to do this but, no.”

you can practically see him deflate then, the flowers lowering from his chest to his side. “no?”

“no.”

“i thought—“ he gulped, stepping towards you. but you raise a hand stopping him. clearing your throat before uttering,

“potter, what about evans?”

he tilted his head, hair flopping in his eyes, and a frown on his pink lips. “what about her?”

you scoff a humourless laugh, hands wildly waving in front you. your bag slipping but continued to say,

“what about her? potter, you’ve liked her since—well since, forever and now you want me to believe you like me now?”

“yes.” he nodded, eyebrows scrunching now. looking frustrated like it was obvious.

you laugh in disbelief, muttering lowly, “how fickle.”

“fickle?”

you freeze, shamed he heard you. waving your hands nonchalantly, an easy smile on your face, “you know frequently changes, inconsistent.”

“i know what fickle means, i’m not an idiot.”

you sputter a short laugh at his indignant tone, “what? are you mad at me now?”

huffing through his nose and pouting, “i’m not mad at you, i’m mad at the situation—“

“fickle! you just confessed looking all shy and now you’re glaring—“

“i am not glaring.”

“fickle!” you laugh, pointing at his scrunched up face. his face now red for a different reason.

“i’m not!” he groans, “i really like you and i want to date you.”

reaching up to place a hand on his shoulder, ignoring the way he tensed up and gotten even redder, “no, you don’t. these feelings will eventually pass. trust me.”

james hadn’t replied then, and just as you were about to leave, he thrusted the flowers in your face once again.

“no, potter—“

shaking his head, “no, these are for you. regardless of your answer.” showing you a small dimpled smile, compelling you to take them without anymore argument. the cellophane rustling in your hand. the flowers looking like they’ve been randomly arranged, like someone just chose the biggest and eye catching flowers and bundled it together.

you try not to imagine james picking the flowers himself and getting pink ribbons to tie it all together. tongue poking at his cheek in concentration as he struggles to arrange the flowers like the professionals. it wasn’t an image you saw before, but found yourself easily picturing it nonetheless.

“thank you...”

and you thought that was the end of it. he’ll start to ignore you now because you bruised his pride. maybe even go back to talking to lily evans again.

you try not to think of the swirling disappointment in your stomach, nor the twinge of something else mixed in.

but when you got down from the ravenclaw tower, the next day. off to start your day in the library. there he was, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

james potter was waiting for you, a radiant smile etching on his face once he saw you.

since then, you had been subjected to various ways james had planned to asked you out. ranging from spelling out your name with an invite in the sky to literally riding a white horse during class and asking if he could whisk you away. all had been met with either an indifferent stares or a horrified wide-eyed gape. after two weeks of feeling complete dread and embarrassment, to the possibilities james potter has in store for you. he suddenly stopped. retiring fireworks and floating parchment of invitations, to normal folded ones inserted in your books. no longer charming his voice so it could be heard all over school to hear him declare his affections, but instead softly asking you in private instead.

it was obvious you had taken a liking to the quieter, more discreet versions rather than the former.

because the first time he did, james had gathered a lock of your hair between his fingers and tucked them behind your ear, whispered low and slow and so close to your ear, as he uttered:

“go on a date with me,”

you were blushing up a storm, then. face warm to the touch and eyes averting frantically to every corner in the library except his eyes. frustratingly aware of his fingers still touching your ear.

he had looked at you then, shock written all over his face before a shy grin took over his face. rubbing his hand over his mouth and tugging the corner of his mouth to stop himself from grinning at your reaction.

he had also been rejected that time but he decided your reaction was reward enough.

you look at your watch and saw you had around an hour left to read up on your other subjects before your first lesson starts.

taking the last few bites of breakfast before james, who had noticed the time as well, had walked over and was already grabbing the things you pulled out of your tote, placing it neatly inside. plopping to the seat beside you.

“you ready to go, pretty?” he quipped.

quickly nodding as you hastily clean your section of the table and said your goodbyes to your friends. pointedly ignoring the wiggling eyebrows and teasing hoots of pretty.

james had offered a hand to help you stand up but you ignored it and stood on your own.

“did you eat a lot?” leaning to have a good look at your face.

you nodded, “a bit. they had scrambled eggs, so i had a full plate.”

james nodding, a happy smile on his face. “good, good.” turning to look in front of him and opening the heavy doors for you all the while adjusting your tote on his shoulders. “listen, there was a schedule change for pitch practice so i’ll be a bit busy starting tomorrow. i’m sorry, sweets.”

“okay.”

he hummed, thoughtful. “i’ll try to still be around and walk you to your classes in between breaks—we’ll see how that goes. try not to miss me too much, yeah?” a teasing smile on his lips.

you rolled your eyes, oblivious to the days ahead.

“oh,” charlie said, leaning over to the railing.

“what?” following his gaze and looking over to the glaringly, strangely vacant spot. “oh,”

now staring at you with a teasing glint in his eye. “i see mr. loverboy’s not in today.” the smirk on his face making you roll your eyes.

“managed to finally scare him off, did ‘ya?” he supplies.

“if only,” crossing your arms, “he said he’ll be busy with quidditch practice.”

when the stairs settled in, charlie turned to you. “it’s certainly nice to know he has other hobbies other than bothering you.”

“bothering me?” adjusting the strap of your tote on your shoulder.

he quirked an eyebrow, an inquisitive look on his face “he doesn’t bother you anymore?”

“nonsense, you know he does.”

“interesting,”

you look at him with a frown, hating the teasing, the all knowing tone he always uses when you missed something. “what?”

“nothing!” you gave him an exasperated stare and raised your eyebrow, raising his hand in the air and chuckled, “i just noticed you getting a bit soft on ‘im, that’s all.” tapping his chin, “you don’t look that bothered to me, is what i’m saying. and you never say so anymore.”

your face warmed. is that what it looked like to others? is that potter thinks? that you’re going soft on him now? you scoff, tightening your hold on your bag and adjusting the sliding strap. “do i really have to announce it every time i’m pissy with him?”

he’s humming, a certain skip in his step that makes you want to trip him, “no, but i can tell you’re at least tolerating him now. friends, maybe?”

“tolerating does not equate friendship, sorry to say.” you know, it isn’t. being with james doesn’t feel at all like how it is with charlie.

“an assistant then?” mirth clear in his eyes as he said that. charlie the pale mutt having way too much fun with this.

pursing your lips in an annoyed frown, “i’d like to think he doesn’t qualify enough to be my assistant.” adjusting the slipping strap of your bag.

he laughs, grabbing your tote off your shoulder, and sliding it to his. “you’re not even used to holding your bag anymore, since he always carry it for you.”

“so?”

“so,” looking pointedly at you, as he counts on his fingers, “he’s not a friend, he doesn’t qualify to be your assistant… what is he then?”

you blinked, the question wasn’t anything new. if anything it was a question you started hearing quite frequently, after james potter’s many attempts to woo you. the questions before, however, carried a chaffing tone meant to tease or pull a reaction. but now, with charlie peering curiously at you, and the many weeks you’ve talked with james. the question now carry a different tone.

but still you remain nonchalant, regardless of the warming cheeks and ears. you huffed,

“a pet.”

it was on the same day after one of your classes when you saw him waiting for you. he was still wearing his practice kit and gloves. it looked as if he had rushed over here, with his hair windswept all the more messier than usual. his hazel eyes more alert, brighter—something you find always happens after he plays.

he looked up when he saw the swarm of students leaving the room, eyes immediately meeting yours and the familiar smile that goes with it. his cheeks tinted pink, maybe from the cold wind gushing outside or, dare i say it, seeing you. you ignore the spreading warmth in your stomach, your skin shrinking and your judas heart thudding like a fluttering hummingbird.

the smile he shot your way, was a soft little smile. something you learned he did if he was sorry about something.

“hello, sweets.” he said once close enough. he had reached out then, grabbing your things out of your arms and you giving it to him out of habit. “did you have a good morning?”

your voice seemed to be unresponsive as you just nodded. still raking over his face and figure. like it was your first time seeing him, an urge to reach out. as if you didn’t see him yesterday.

“sorry, i wasn’t there to greet you in the morning.” rubbing the back of his neck. “the team wanted an early practice.”

“oh, i barely noticed.” you lied.

a lie he seems to have caught on himself, if the bashful smile on his face is anything to go by. his cheeks with pretty divots— an urge to dig your thumbs in there greater than ever. no, you think. clenching your hands tight to your sides. fucking charlie with his absurd ideas.

when the last student left the hall, the two of you were left in silence. him staring sparkles at you and you desperately avoiding it.

clearing your throat, you started to walk in the direction of your next class.

“anyway it’s fine, you’re captain now. so more responsibilities is inevitable, i say.”

he slipped your bag into his shoulders and started rearranging your books in his arms. “you know i made captain?”

“you told me, didn’t you?” you frown. you could have sworn he did. it was the day he had drawn hearts all over the margin of your notes, writing both yours and his initials in a heart. the sopping sap.

he stood up straighter, eyes widening in wonder. “you remembered,”

“is that so surprising?” clicking your tongue, slightly offended he thinks you would disregard the things he says. you had manners.

he immediately shook his head, a bright smile took over his face that you had no choice but to look away.

“i’m more surprised you actually have the time to even walk me to class.”

he shakes his head, “i’ll always make time for you!” he exclaimed, slightly bumping your shoulder. “did you think i’d let you go on a day without seeing my face at least once?”

“ah yes, because seeing you is such a gift, no?” you said, you’re voice void of emotions. but he continues undeterred.

“and because i’m so generous, i’ll try to meet you like this tomorrow too.” he beamed, puffing his chest.

a clear image enters your brain. you think of james rushing from the practice grounds to the classrooms in the higher floors. imagine him barely having anytime to rest or even drink water if he were to walk you to your classes and go back to the pitch in time. imagine himself slump against the stone wall in front of the door, steadying his breathing so he wouldn’t look tired or worn, putting on his usual, irritably handsome smile. you imagine him having to rush back, making him even more tired than he has to be. imagine him not performing his best.

the image vivid in your head because he would most likely do just that. and that fact didn’t sit well with you for some reason, “what for? won’t that be an inconvenience to you?”

“it’s not an inconvenience.” he says lightly.

“but isn’t the practice field far from here?” you frowned. it was at two flights of stairs, and a long walk to the covered bridge to the school grounds to the quidditch pitch. it had to be at least a 15 minute walk

his smile slowly started to leave his face as if sensing something wrong. “not that far—” turning to look at you.

you raise an eyebrow, as if scolding, “didn’t you rush over here?”

he shook his head, curls strands flopping over his eyes, “only a little bit—“

“potter, you don’t have rush over here for that.”

“but how can i walk you to your next class if i don’t hurry?”

“that’s what i’m saying,” rolling your eyes, “you don’t have to walk me to class, we can just focus on our own thing for a while—“

now a small frown on his face, “but i want to.”

“and i’m telling you, i don’t need you to. you can focus on your training more rather than rush to walk me in-between classes.” waving off as if it was nothing. you didn’t want him giving up precious break time for something menial like walking you to class.

he stops walking, eyes now filled with frustration. you groan inwardly, plenty sure you won’t be able to reach your class in time. “i just want to spend a little bit of time with you, is that so bad?”

you laugh awkwardly, “this is barely spending time with each other. it’s just a walk to class—”

“so what? you’re saying no to walking with me now?”

you groan out a laugh, pushing your hair out of your face. the idea of it creating an unpleasant twist in your stomach. “that’s not what i’m saying,” softly rubbing your temples, already feeling the migraine forming over the escalating topic.

“then what?”

“spending a little time apart is better, i don’t need you doing all of this for me. carrying my stuff and walking me to class, or waiting for me in the morning. i don’t need any of it. so apologizing or trying to make up for it is unnecessary.”

he laughs in disbelief, “unnecessary?” he parrots, “why can’t you just let me do things for you? why do you always have to fight with me about everything?”

“i don’t want you to!” you exclaimed.

he is being difficult. you were just saying this for his sake. he was the one who said he needed to practice more and now that you tell him to focus on that, he goes off on you.

“i know, but i want to do these things for you because i like you! this is what people do when they like somebody, y/n. they do stuff for them without being asked to.”

rolling your eyes, just ready to end the conversation as you spew the things in your brain mindlessly. “oh seven hells! you don’t like me! you just think you do!”

he took a step forward eyes blazing in irritation, “and you just know that for sure, yeah?��

“yes, potter. i know this for sure.”

he scoffs out a disbelieving laugh, “why is it so hard for you to take my feelings seriously?”

you took a step back, not expecting his question. “what?”

“did someone hurt you before?”

“no-“

“lie to you? trick you?”

”no, what—?”

“then i don’t understand,” staring at you, eyebrows scrunched and hazel eyes blazed with sadness. “is there something wrong with me—?”

you were about to reach out to him, apologize. or clarify. or anything just to make him stop looking like that.

“why can’t the person i’m interested in, like me back?”

you stop, an ugly green emotion engulfing your chest. of course, you thought. your next class be damned. as you face contorts into a sneer as you spat out the words,

“so that’s what this is about?” you scoff, “years of rejection from evans, you turn to the easiest target you can get, so you can feel good about yourself?”

anger taking over his face, “what—?”

“just admit it, you’re pursuing me because you’re frustrated she didn’t reciprocate your feelings.”

“—you think i see you as someone easy? you think i would actually do that to you?”

you straightened your posture, “you can’t be mad at me for simply laying down the facts.” completely disregarding the fact you’ve implied you’d be a willing participant to his wooing if he weren’t so fickle.

adjusting the strap of your bag on his shoulder, mumbling, “i can’t believe this.” and now in a louder voice. “and what are your facts, then?”

“you claimed to love evans, fact.” he scoffs, but you continue. “she rejects you, fact. you start to realize there are other girls in our year and then you see little ole me, fact. you start to build unto this idea of starting something with me because for whatever reason your brain seems to think it’s a good idea, fact.”

shaking his head, “even if that were all true, i like you now.”

“and how long until that changes too?” you counter, looking straight at him. angry tears building in your eyes.

“what? it’s not going to change. ” he stepped forward, and you step back.

“you have been nothing in life but be inconsistent.”

his face twists into a frown. “that’s not true,”

“oh really?” you nodded, your voice getting louder in the quiet halls, “you were the best student during our first year but then you stopped trying. you were on your way to becoming a prefect until you decided you didn’t want to anymore. you were going to turn down becoming captain if it weren’t for black threatening to quit unless you accepted. i mean, really james potter,”

a bitter laugh came tumbling out of your mouth, “you’ve been in love with this girl ever since you were eleven, and now you aren’t.” you breathed, “how will i know you won’t stop liking me too?”

looking into his eyes, waiting for an answer that doesn’t come, you grabbed your bag and books from him and walked away.

“that’s what i thought.”

you didn’t see james after that. not in the morning after and not in-between classes. you thought it was because of quidditch practice again. but when the week ended and still no sign of him, you felt something heavy drop in your chest.

you labelled it as guilt (though charlie have insisted it to be something else—something else he refuses to tell).

guilty you raised your voice and basically criticized him for doing something nice for you. started overthinking you might’ve struck a nerve you shouldn’t’ve, considering you weren’t really friends to begin with. charlie did always say you were a bit loose with your choice of your words. you were the type to offend somebody even without meaning to, he says.

now, it has been days since you last spoke to james and things hasn’t felt right since.

your tote bag keeps slipping off of your shoulder. your books seems heavier now and harder to hold. now, the eggs served at breakfast were never scrambled— always a shitty sunny side up. you can’t concentrate in class. you keep looking for a tall head of curly hair, everywhere you go and you keep feeling the inevitable disappointment when it isn’t the person you were looking for.

it was getting harder and harder keeping your usual composed demeanor. and if charlie noticed anything different with you, he didn’t say anything. until now that is,

“okay this whole thing is getting pathetic.” he sighed. plopping down next to you in the ravenclaw common room.

you look at him, frown seemingly placed permanently on your face nowadays. “i’m sorry?”

he nodded, “yeah, you should be sorry. because you let a good bloke like potter go.” you sat up, “and all because of your refusal to accept that he might actually like you.”

you roll your eyes grumbling, “you don’t know anything,”

“i know you like him,” he huffs, “and for some reason you refuse to admit it.”

you took a deep breath, the glare you had on, softening as you look away.

you didn’t bother correcting him because, well, he was right. you had been dancing around your feelings for so long, you were sure the mask of indifference had already slipped off without your knowledge. you slumped, a whispered sigh as you muttered, “why would i even bother? i know he’ll change his mind.”

charlie had looked taken aback, clearly he expected more fight from you. you huff, you weren’t so emotionally inept that you would continue to deny it any longer. considering how long you’ve been denying yourself of the truth. maybe just a smidge of denial still, but seeing how that rather blown up in your face, it was time to face the music.

and after a while he said, “did he tell you that?”

fiddling with your hands, you say scoffing, “did he tell me he’ll eventually leave me? no,”

“are you clairvoyant then?”

you huff a short laugh, “you know, i think that’s rubbish.”

he offered a smile, “then how do you know he’ll change his mind?”

you sigh, shrugging your shoulders, “i don’t know,”

“and you’ll never know unless you get up and tell him you like him.”

“but what if he changes his mind?” looking at your friend properly now, “what if he suddenly decides he doesn’t like me anymore. hell, he probably doesn’t anymore.”

he shook his head, “he hasn’t. he won’t.”

“but what if?” you whine.

rolling his eyes, “on the off chance that he does, then at least you can say you tried. that for a short while you were happy.“ patting your back, “and isn’t that better?”

you scoff, looking away. “no, that’s definitely worse.”

it was a two days after you and charlie had a talk. and it was during these two days that you and your friends discussed ways on how to make up with james.

you’d think a group of ravenclaws could come up with clever ways to solve your problems. but when one of your friends suggested painting a mural for their honour, and another telling you to pretend like you passed out in front of him—made you realize your friends were as hopeless as you are.

but it turns out, you didn’t really have to.

you were on your way to the ravenclaw tower, when it happened.

you saw james walking towards you. strides large and with purpose. you can practically see his eyes blaze with determination.

you were never big on confrontation, especially when you’re the one being confronted. so you did what anyone would have done, turn and speed walk the other way.

you were about to turn the corner of the hall, out of his sight when you hear him call out to you.

“y/n please,”

you stop, the desperation in his voice echoing in the halls. you hear his footsteps behind, speeding its pace. before slowly turning around to face him.

“james i-“

he shook his head, breathless as he says, “you know i’m a bit cross with you.”

you nod, “yes. you should be, i-“

“you didn’t let me respond to you that day.”

“what?”

his lips pursed, “when you asked me, if i’ll stop liking you.”

you shook your head, embarrassed. “no, you don’t have to-“

“i don’t know if i’ll stop. all i know is, i like you y/n. and i’m not going to say it’s always been you because i did like her.” he looked at you, eyes clear and sure as ever,

“i liked her when i didn’t even know what liking someone meant. and when i did, i realized it wasn’t the like i thought i had for her. i admired her, sure, but what i felt for her is not even comparable to what i feel for you now. you make me want to become a better man. you make me want to make something of myself. you keep me grounded but you also make me feel like i could fly. you’re the most amazing person, i know and it’s frustrating to think you don’t see yourself the same way i see you.

“and i know you like me too, you can try and pretend all you want but i can tell. because you always listen to me even when you pretend not to. you always have a small smile on your face whenever i come see you in the morning. and then you act as if you don’t care. you always refuse my gifts at first but i know all the things i’ve given you is still in your room. i know you turned the first bouquet into bookmarks. you like me as much as i like you and i know part of the reason why you won’t acknowledge it is because you’re scared. and i can’t exactly blame you because of that. but i’m willing to prove to you that you have nothing to be afraid of. i’ll study harder in school, i’ll take up more responsibility, i’ll prove to you, i can see things through. if you could just give me a chance because you make me want to try, dammit.”

he took a couple of steps forward until he was right in front of you. reaching for your hand and softly engulfing yours with his. never realizing how big it is compared to yours. when you didn’t pull away, he looked at you in the eyes, adjusting his grip so it was intertwined and softly breathing out the words,

“every time i look at you, i feel like my heart is about to jump out of my damned chest. i like you, y/n. i like so much i already wrote to my parents about you.“

he looked at you so softly then, eyes wide in hope.

what do you say to that? james potter the most charming boy in school, your crush ever since you were a first year, likes you. you bit your lip, fighting the growing smile on your face and failing as you utter back,

“all good things i hope.”

he gives a dimpled grin back, “the best, truthful things.”

you cleared your throat, “well, james potter,” tightening your grip on his hand, your meeting that meeting hazel.

“i like you, and i hope you like me back.” you whisper, ignoring the hummingbird in your chest, the alarms in your heads and the tightening skin.

he bit his lip and pulled you flush against him. arms now wrapped around your waist. “no,” he breathed out a laugh, grabbing your cheek before leaning in and slotting his lips with yours into a giddy kiss.

your thumbs slipping into the pretty divots in his cheeks, as soft and smooth as you’ve always imagined them to be.

#perpetuallydaydreaming #james potter #marauders era #james potter imagine #james potter fluff #james potter x reader #harry potter #harry potter imagine #james potter fanfic #marauders #marauders imagine #marauders fluff #james potter x you #james potter x ravenclaw!reader #ravenclaw!reader #getting together #james potter fanfiction #james potter angst

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tubesock86 · 1 year ago

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steddie fic opinions (bc I feel like yelling into the void)

things I ADORE and think are silly

when they call the kids “ankle-biters” “gremlins” “menaces” and other increasingly insane nickname

virgin Eddie !! (I just think it makes sense!!)

Steve liking Eddie’s flirting but being endlessly confused by it (WAIT YOU WERE ACTUALLY FLIRTING WITH ME?)

Eddie making sure Steve knows that he’s not actually stupid (he’s still a himbo but he’s good at strategy and noticing little details u guys)

both being pathetic loser boys

Mike hating that Eddie is into Steve

Steve teaching Eddie how to kiss

Making REALLY silly jokes and silly noises during sex [honk honk, bazooka noise, using peen as a microphone “is this thing on?”]

things I HATE that make me wanna YELL

when either of them ARE TOO DAMN SMOOTH AND SLICK,, these are two pathetic cringey losers !!! We’ve seen how Steve flirts!! He’s confident BUT he sings little songs and makes jokes and blusters through being embarrassed!! And Eddie is so easily jump-scared and he’s clumsy and does silly voices!! THEYRE NOT COOL!!!!!

when Steve is SO motherly,, like dude has big brother energy,, he cares a lot BUT he’s constantly complaining about getting stuck with the kids and we only see him having heart to hearts with Dustin for the most part

when Robin is too mean to Steve,, they neg on each other for SURE but she doesn’t genuinely insult him

when Robin isn’t in the fic at all!!! booooo wrongggg

when they randomly make Nancy a HUGE bitch just for the sake of jealousy,, like HUH??? she’s not into Steve anymore !!!

when Steve and Eddie are super cuddly sugary sweet coochy coo baby talkers that do insane pda and sit on top of each other in FRONT of the kids,,, like they should be more often shoving laughing and tickling each other INSTEAD OF babying each other and calling each other “pookie bear” and “kitten” and straddling each other during a dnd session JEEZ (I realize some people may be against this one lol) (I just think it’s very ooc!!)

Steve being really really shy and stuttery and insecure,, bro definitely has trauma and issues and I’m on board with the shitty parents parade,, but we’ve never seen Steve act like this!!

anyway,,, feel free to add more fic opinions !!

#please talk to me and validate my opinions!!#steddie #steddie fic #fic opinion #fanfic #rant #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #nancy wheeler

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adnauseum11 · 9 months ago

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Joint Task Force (John Price x Reader)

You're harbouring guilt and John makes you feel better.

It's still Valentine's Day here, and thus it seems like the correct time to post this. It is mostly smut, heavy dose of fluff.

longer than normal 2.3k words

CW: swearing, explicit sex

feedback welcome!

You aren’t proud of it, but John’s illness the other night scared you. You’re not as quick to needle him and more annoyed than usual when your friends have a go at him during Trivia night. John has a thick skin and manages to laugh it off better than you do, but your touchiness doesn’t go unnoticed. You have to work in the morning and John’s promised to drive you if you want to spend the night. You do, but you’re realizing now it was a trap.

“What was going on with you and your girls tonight? They do something to piss you off?” He’s asking you, blocking the only exit from the bathroom as he casually leans against the doorjamb. You turn wide eyes at him, slowing your brushing motions to spit into the sink. John has got you pinned with his deadly blue eyes, watching for clues.

“What do you mean?” You feign cluelessness.

“Love, you can pull that innocent and clueless bit on just about anybody else. What’s really going on? You don’t normally row with those two.”

You drop the act and pout for a moment before rinsing your mouth. When you’re finished you turn to face him, fisting your hands on your hips.

“I just didn’t like the way they were talking to you. You’re not an idiot just because you don’t have a Masters’ degree. They were being catty bitches.” You sniff, trying to be flip about it but anger bleeding into your tone all the same.

“Try again.” John extends an arm, catching your wrist and using it to reel you in to him, using his bigger body to keep you corralled in the bathroom. He’s clearly not buying what you are selling and knows you too well to turn you loose.

“Well, fine, maybe I should be a little nicer to you, too.” You snap and then press your lips together in frustration, knowing you’ve given yourself away and contradicted yourself with your delivery all in the same breath. Brilliant.

“This about the migraine the other night? I told you, I’m alright, love.” John’s soothing, but you’re still guilt wracked. You feel like an idiot, constantly figuring things out too late. The realization he’s been suffering alone was like ice water to your consciousness. Saying that out loud means admitting to being a shit friend, which means John deserves better. You’ve been spiralling internally for days.

John’s massaging up your arm, having worked out the quickest way to defuse you is to override your nervous system. It’s hard to stay anxious when your methodically being turned into jelly. His sharp blue eyes stay on your face though. It’s like he can sense there’s something else circling underneath your bluster and concern. When he gets to your shoulder he steps back, steering you out of the bathroom and over to bed. You let him, his warm, mollifying touch turning your energy from frenetic to something more malleable.

He's got you spread out on your belly on his bed before you can think of a reason to resist him, his big hands smoothing under the tank top you wear to bed, pressing into tight muscles with practised swipes. There’s an epic battle going on between the anxious tension locked into your muscles and John’s determination to figure out what you’re stewing over.

If there’s one thing John knows how to do, it’s extract answers from people that aren’t eager to give them up. He complains gently about your tank top getting in the way, that he could do this better if he could move more freely. You’re just on this side of ‘too relaxed to care’ by now and oblige him, letting him help you remove it over your head. He doubles down, long slow strokes pressing you into the mattress firmly, forcing little groans out of your lungs. You can vaguely hear him hum in satisfaction; your mind completely focused on his hands.

“Why do you think you need to be nicer to me? I think you’re pretty nice as it is darling.” John presses the issue, not stopping in his work, using the heels of his palms over your lower back. You can hear the smile in his voice and know instantly he’s thinking of the times you’ve put your mouth and hands all over him. You wonder if the flush that’s taking over your face and chest extends to your back and if John can see.

“Do you get migraines often?” You ask instead of answering and John is quiet for a moment. Your brain drifts as his hands seek out the knots along your spine.

“My nerves get confused sometimes. Been around a lot of explosions and gunfire, must have rattled something loose. Not usually as bad as it was the other day.” He jokes gently but he’s being truthful, giving you the answer you’re actually looking for.

“I hate that I didn’t... I didn’t even consider that, John.” You admit to the mattress, completely unable to even partially face him while you force the words past your lips. John’s silent but his hands continue to move, sparking hope that maybe he doesn’t agree with your internal assessment that you are, in fact, an awful selfish person.

You don’t even think when he hooks his fingers in the thick elastic of your sleep shorts, lifting your hips for him automatically as he shimmies them down. His strong hands grip your thigh, running his thumbs up the middle of your hamstring. You’re moaning before you can stop yourself, loud in the quiet of the room. The sensation of his thumbs pressing down firmly on the big muscle enough to make you weep.

“Like that, do you?” You can hear the smile in John’s voice again and he repeats the motion to the same effect.

“My god, that should be illegal.” You manage to slur out and John chuckles, switching to your other thigh. He makes his way down to your ankles and then back up before responding to you. He’s got handfuls of your ass before you know what’s happening.

“This should be illegal. I want a medal for managing to hold a conversation with this to contend with.”

You finally laugh, letting him break your sour mood. Your muscles are so relaxed they feel weighted but you feel lighter inside somehow, your affection for the man pinning you to the mattress only ever growing. When he rolls you onto your back, you’re too suffused with relaxed pleasure to feel self-conscious about being naked with the exception of a pair of panties.

You can see the warm smile stretched across John’s face, making his blue eyes twinkle. It’s reassuring, his solid warmth pinning you down. He leans over you, balancing his weight on an elbow by your head, bracketing you under him before he kisses you. The taste of him is familiar to you now, and a thread of desire begins to spool tighter, low in your belly. You suck on his tongue when he swipes it between your lips, garnering a groan from somewhere deep in his chest. His teeth rasp lightly over your bottom lip, making sparks fly at the back of your scalp and behind your eyelids. He breaks the kiss but only to continue to press kisses over your jaw, nuzzling at your sensitive earlobe before sucking on it gently.

John’s lips are hot, anchoring you in place as he explores down the sweep of your neck. His whiskers drag across your delicate skin, sending shivers down your spine and directly to your pussy. It makes all thought impossible, words nearly beyond your reach. Your fingers find his biceps, the hot press of his mouth dizzying.

John misreads your grip on his arms and pauses, looking down at you.

“Want me to stop?”

“What? No, don’t you dare.” Your breathy voice has a pleading quality that galvanises him, teeth rasping over your pulse point before swirling his hot tongue over the same spot. He’s shifting overtop of you, resting more of his weight on you. His hips snug against yours, his erection slotting against you like a hot brand. You’re suddenly desperate for movement, friction, and hook a leg over his hip, arching against his solid body. John won’t be rushed but knows what you want, and rolls his hips against yours in appeasement. The flash of pleasure stutters your mind and you moan, your leg tightening around his hip.

John’s palm settles on your breast, squeezing the soft flesh with tenderness, the hunger on his face at odds with his touch. Your fingers curl into his shirt, tugging it up and he obeys immediately, leaning back to tug it up between his shoulder blades and toss it. His hand resumes its exploration, his thumb circling your nipple as his hips rock, grinding against you. You’re certain he must be able to feel how wet he’s making you, the fabric trapped between your bodies damp beyond measure.

He bends, wrapping his mouth around the tight bud of your nipple, making you arch, desperate to get closer to the pull of his lips. Your fingers find their way to his hair, gripping the short strands as he groans his approval.

John’s hand has slid down your body and is tugging your panties down, leaning back to guide your leg down off his hip while he strips the last stitch of clothing from your body. You have to release him to let him work and you do so with a whimper, dropping your hands down over the hard planes of his body. You can only wonder at what John sees – flushed cheeks and wild hair, legs spread and eyes glassy with desire in the semi-darkness.

“Alright, love?” John asks, leaning over you to plant another searing kiss on your lips, returning to his place between your legs. You can feel him leaning, hear his bedside drawer and realize he’s getting a condom.

“Can I?” You ask breathlessly and if John’s surprised, he hides it well, the expression on his face pure mischievousness.

“Not if you want this to last more than a minute.”

Leave it to John to be sarcastic while he’s hard as a rock, with your legs wrapped around him.

He’s propped himself up on an elbow, the other hand wrapped around the base of his cock to guide himself into your body. The blunt head of his cock sinks in and you can’t help the answering moan that sounds suspiciously like his name. John curses, his hips flexing as he slides home, your head tossing on his pillows.

“Fuck me, you are gorgeous.” John groans, pressing his face into your throat, setting a steady pace with his hips as he moves over top you. Your fingers dig into the back of his shoulders, gripping his big muscles as he strokes into you, again and again. You can feel the coil of tension tightening in your belly, each rocking thrust just grazing your clit.

“John” You gasp, and you want to tell him to move just slightly, want to tell him where you need his touch but when his blue eyes meet yours a wave of emotion closes off your throat, leaving you panting helplessly. He hitches your thigh over his hip, grinding into you, understanding somehow anyways, making you moan wantonly. The sounds of your pleasure only drive him on, the slap of skin a counterpoint. Your hands slip off his shoulders, the heat between you making you both sweaty. Your nails rake down his side, tearing a groan out of his chest.

He shifts again, leaning back to slip his arm under your leg that isn’t hitched over his hip. The back of your knee slides into the crook of his elbow and the change in angle is enough to nudge you to the edge of orgasm. Your eyes go wide as you feel your body respond to John’s thrusts, your inner muscles low in your abdomen fluttering on the precipice. You can’t help but call his name again, needy and high pitched. You slip your hand between your bodies, stroking your clit and drawing John’s gaze. It doesn’t take long for you to fall apart.

He hunches over you, his rhythm breaking as your entire body clenches around him, a wailing cry rattling out of your throat. John’s hips stutter as your body clutches at him, his thrusts turning shallow as his orgasm slams through him.

You spend the next few moments panting, John's forehead resting on your shoulder as he tries to catch his breath.

“Sorry sweetheart –“

His voice is ragged, rumbling against you.

“god John, why are you sorry for making me cum like that?” Your eyes are drifting shut, every muscle in your body feeling like lead after the massage and then orgasm. You are certain your brain is partially liquified.

“mm, was going to make it last longer.” He murmurs into your ear, making your back arch and your nipples tighten all over again. You force your eyes open to look at him and the tenderness on his face makes your throat close again.

You make a small noise and grip at the thick muscles of his shoulders, which he seems to understand and kisses you repeatedly. He pulls out, disposing of the condom and brings you a water on his way back to the bed.

You haven’t found the energy to move an inch so John rolls you onto your side, spooning you tightly. You clutch at the arm he slings around you. Sleep drags you under, still tightly gripping John’s hand.

Taglist:

@deadbranch

Next Chapter

#fanfic #call of duty #captain john price #john price x reader #john price cod #john price x f!reader #john price x female reader #captain price #fluff and smut #this work has smut #guilty conscience #safe sex #sex positive

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mrsbuckybarnes1917 · 11 months ago

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Summary: Thor's magic wreaks havoc on Steve's memory and your relationship!

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Avenger/Powered!reader

Word Count: 2,660

Warnings: mostly fluff, mild angst, memory loss, mistletoe!

A/N: @buckys-wintersoldier thanks for listening to me complain about this all day!

It had been an accident, but you were convinced that the innocent mistake was going to ruin your Christmas, and possibly the rest of your life. Thor had dropped by the compound to flex his muscles and herd some escaped convicts from Agsard who had sought refuge in midgard. Steve, Tony and Bucky had offered to help, letting the rest of the Avengers and you continue to work on your own tasks and pick up the slack. They made it back home without a scratch, but Thor’s exuberance and bluster lead to a small bolt of lightning breaking off from Mjölnir’s strike, hitting Steve unexpectedly in the face. He hadn’t even had time to grab his shield from Bucky’s arm during the commotion.

Steve woke up flat on his back with you, Bucky and Thor leaning over him worriedly. You stroked his face gently as his eyes fluttered open, a wave of relief washing over you. It would definitely take more than a single bolt of lightning to defeat Captain America!

Steve groaned and looked around, his vision adjusting slowly to his surroundings. “What happened?”

He caught sight of Bucky on his left. “Buck?”

“Hey bud, how you feeling?” Bucky asked him gently.

“Like someone punched me in the face.” He scrunched his eyes shut and shook his head from side to side to clear the fog from his brain.

“Steve?” You put a hand on his chest.

Steve sat up, looking at you with intrigue. “Sorry, ma’am. I hope I didn’t startle you.”

“Ma’am?” you asked, surprised by the way he spoke to you.

“Did you call an ambulance, Bucky?” Steve asked.

Bucky frowned at Steve’s reaction. “No, pal. Y/N always like to dress like that!” He smirked at you.

“Do you two know each other?” he asked before looking straight ahead of him and seeing Thor in his full armor. His jaw dropped to the floor unceremoniously. “Bucky, what’s going on? Where are we?”

“Steve, it’s okay, we’re home. We’re just outside the compound.”

“Home?” Steve asked again, looking around and not recognizing his surroundings. He looked around feeling like he was in a foreign land. This confusion was giving way to panic as he laid his eyes on the magnificent, glass-paned, Stark-designed building looming on the horizon. “Who are you people?”

“Steve, it’s me. Y/N.” You took one of his hands gently between both of yours.

It crushed your heart when he pulled it away slowly. “I- I’m sorry. Have we met?”

“You don't know who I am?” you asked with a slight tremble to your lip.

“I'm sorry, ma'am.”

“Steve,” Bucky put his vibranium hand on his best friend's shoulder, making Steve recoil slightly as the hard metal made contact with his shoulder.

You saw the look of hurt that flickered across Bucky's face.

“What is that?” he asked, finally taking in Bucky's appearance, his long hair, bearded face and prosthetic arm. “What happened to you, Buck? And… are you shorter than me?”

Steve looked down at himself, finally understanding that he was the one who was different.

“Steve, what do you think the date is?” Bucky asked and you knew he was thinking the same thing as you.

“August 19th. But I'm guessing it's not because it's snowing out here.”

“And the year?” you whispered, hoping he wouldn't confirm your fears.

“1942.”

There was a collective sigh of disappointment as everyone around you reacted to his words. Steve's memories only extended as far as the war, after Bucky had been drafted but before he had received his orders. His memories of the serum and Captain America had gone, including his memory of you.

“Steve, we should get you back inside. Figure out what's going on with you.”

“I feel fine, thank you.”

“Bud, we should get you to the med bay. You got hit pretty hard and you seem to have forgotten a lot of things,” Bucky intervened, knowing that Steve wouldn't necessarily take advice from a stranger. He put his flesh hand on Steve's shoulder this time and led him away. Steve followed without so much of a backward glance at you.

“Sorry kid, that was rough.” Tony's shoulder rubbed against yours. “Don't worry, I'm sure we'll figure out how to get his memories back. Come on!” He beckoned to you before flying back to the compound with only the lower half of his suit engaged.

Begrudgingly, you forced your feet to follow your friends back inside. You made your way to the infirmary and stood behind a glass screen watching Steve speaking to Bruce, your fingers subconsciously fiddling with a metal band on your left hand. It should be you standing there taking care of the love of your life, tending his needs. But instead you were hiding while all your friends surrounded him in an effort to jog his memory.

Over the next week in the lead up to Christmas, you went about your usual tasks and preparations for the holiday but it just didn't feel the same without Steve by your side. You missed how he would hover over you as you cooked or held your hand as you walked, you missed your morning runs and how he would push you to beat your own times, making you run further, faster and longer than you'd ever done before. He inspired you, he encouraged you, he loved you.

Now you felt lost without him. Despite his physical proximity, you could no longer feel the emotional intimacy you'd built. Every time you saw him, he was accompanied by a member of the team but he mostly sought the company of Bucky, feeling far more comfortable with him than anyone else. Surprisingly they had all respected your request to approach Steve on your own terms. You had explained that it was so that you didn't overwhelm him with information, but in reality you were afraid, terrified in fact that he might reject you.

What you hadn't noticed was how Steve's eyes were constantly on you when you were in a room together. It often made Bucky chuckle and roll his eyes but true to his word, he kept his mouth shut. In fact, Bucky had become a better friend to you in the last week than he ever had been before. He had started running with you in the morning so you wouldn't be out alone. And despite telling him you didn't need a babysitter, he insisted that Steve would never forgive him if anything happened to his best girl. You loved Bucky for his loyalty.

“Don't worry, you'll get him back,” he reassured you with a gentle nudge of his elbow.

“I hope so, Buck, I really do.”

It was Christmas Eve and you were feeling a little overwhelmed by the feelings of loss you'd been pushing away until now. You decided to slip away from the compound to avoid the pitying glances and worried questions from your closest friends. Grabbing your headphones, a waterproof jacket and your running shoes, you escaped to the solitude of the lake within the grounds of the compound.

You used your powers to push yourself, let out your emotions. A disney playlist was pounding against your ears and as you reached the edge of the frozen lake Let it Go started playing. Lost in a world of your own, you started singing along to the music, using your powers to swirl snow around you in an attempt to imitate Elsa’s theatrics from the movie. Unbeknownst to you, you had an audience. Steve and Bucky had also a similar idea of getting in a run and Bucky, who had seen you leave, had steered his friend in your direction.

They watched from a distance as you danced and sang out your emotions. Steve stood enraptured with wonder at your display, his jaw hung loosely until Bucky gently closed it for him.

“Go talk to her,” he smiled knowingly.

“What am I supposed to say, Buck? She already knows me.”

“Trust me, pal, that’s a good thing. Just go and be yourself.” Bucky shoved his best friend in your direction.

The momentum from Bucky’s gentle push got Steve walking over to you, his footsteps crunching in the snow. He was surprised that you didn’t hear his footfalls but the music pounding in your ears had you lost to the world. That was until-

You reacted blindly to the hand on your shoulder, grabbing Steve’s hand and using your powers to flip him over onto his back on the dock.

“Steve!” you shrieked. “Oh my gosh, are you alright?”

Steve chuckled. He was surprised not only by your reaction, but the fact that he wasn’t winded by the force with which you’d slammed him to the ground.

“What have I told you about all the sneaking?�� you pulled him up into a seated position.

“I don't remember,” Steve shrugged, trying to smile innocently as you sat down beside him and hung your feet off the dock.

A sudden laugh burst from your lips and in that moment Steve vowed that he would spend the rest of his life getting you to do it every single day. Unfortunately, your laugh ended with a sigh.

“I didn't mean to startle you,” he apologized.

“It's okay, I'm just worried about your safety!”

“I think I'm safe. My body is different from what I remember.”

“How does it feel?” you asked curiously. You'd asked Steve about his transformation before, but Steve had always brushed it off, that it had been his duty to change. Perhaps now you'd get a more truthful answer.

“Different… liberating.” He smiled at you shyly. “I used to have to worry about the cold weather, I couldn't run without the threat of dying. My reflexes aren't too shabby either.”

“It must be pretty overwhelming, all these changes.” You didn't just mean his physical changes.

“Yeah, it's not been easy,” he shuffled uncomfortably beside you. “Finding out that I did this to myself to fight in the war, that Bucky suffered so much,” Steve sighed, he always blamed himself for Bucky's experiences, that hadn't changed. “And don't get me started on the twenty-first century!”

“That one's a doozy, huh?” You nudged his shoulder with yours.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Always.”

“Why haven't you tried to help me remember my past?”

“I didn't want you to feel pressured to remember. It's been a lot for you.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that. At least Christmas doesn't seem so different. Do you have anyone special to spend it with?” He nodded at the diamond studded ring on your finger.

He had noticed. Naturally he had, your Steve was a very observant man. You wondered if there was a chance of rekindling the romance between you, even if he didn't regain his memories. The thought saddened you. You'd built a strong foundation through your shared memories and experiences, it almost seemed unfair for you to have that advantage. But here he was, the head strong, stubborn and scrappy man you loved. He was no different to the man you'd grown to love even if he didn't know it.

Steve presented himself to the world as Captain America, someone who gave off an air of confidence and calm, but to you, he was Steve Rogers, a scrawny kid from Brooklyn who never backed away from a fight.

“Yeah, I do. I'm hoping he gets back home in time for the holiday.”

Steve sighed. He was surprised that Bucky had encouraged him to pursue a woman who was already taken.

“But I wouldn't mind your company till he comes home.” You batted your eyelids and spoke slightly flirtatiously, wondering if he would notice.

“I know that it's not really my business, but I was wondering if you could tell me about your fiancé.”

Wow, Steve was a bit of a sucker for punishment. Maybe he liked you more than you thought.

“He's kind and smart. He’s brave… strong. But the thing I admire the most about him is how determined he is to do the right thing. He puts everyone before himself, so I consider it my duty to make sure someone’s around to take care of him. Plus he’s incredibly handsome, so that doesn't hurt.”

Steve laughed, mesmerized by you but he could feel a sinking feeling inside him. Of course you wouldn't be interested in him.

“Oh and he has this really cool superhero name. It's Captain America!” You winked at him with a smirk playing on your lips.

“But-”

You watched Steve's face as the penny finally dropped.

“Why didn't you say anything?” he asked.

“I thought it would be a bit too much information. Don't you think?” You paused, before adding. “And to be honest, I was a little scared.”

It took a few moments for you to get the courage to look up into Steve's face, hoping he wasn't completely repulsed by your admission.

“No one else here has mentioned that you… we were engaged.”

“They don't know. We were going to tell them but then this happened and well-” you shrugged. “Plus, you weren't planning to propose until Christmas Day, but someone-” you prodded him in the side. “Someone got a little impatient.”

Steve blushed. “Well how could anyone wait to be married to someone as beautiful as you.”

It was your turn to blush. Which was followed by a shiver, your body trembled a little as a cold wind picked up around you. Chivalrous to a fault, Steve took off his own jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders. “Why don't we go back inside?”

“Yeah,” you puffed out the word along with a small cloud of mist. “It feels like it's going to start snowing again.”

The two of you made your way back to the compound side by side in a comfortable silence. The backs of your hands brushing against each other but neither of you finding it in yourselves to reach out and take hold. Steve opened the door and held it open for you to enter first.

As soon as you both entered the threshold and shut out the cold, you looked up at Steve, smiling at the pink tinge on his cheeks and the sweet smile on his lips. You longed to feel his arms wrapped around you. Just as you were able to tear yourself away, Steve grabbed your wrist.

You turned back to him and noticed that he was pointing up at something. You followed the direction of his finger and a smile broke out on your face. Someone had tied a sprig of mistletoe from the ceiling.

“Is that-?”

“Yeah.” He answered your unasked question.

“I guess that means I owe you a kiss.”

“Far be it from me to break age old traditions. We wouldn't want to risk bad luck, would we?”

You moved back to face Steve, but he seemed to have lost that courage to move further. “I- this isn't something I've done before.”

“That's alright. I think we'll manage just fine.”

A warmth blossomed in Steve’s chest, sparks igniting as you leaned in close, lips brushing together, tentatively, for the first time. The smell of your strawberry scented conditioner made Steve dizzy with anticipation, butterflies dancing in his stomach.

Your warmth consumed him as you leaned up into the kiss, Steve’s lips impossibly soft against your own. The kiss was soft at first, chaste and innocent. His warm lips were soft and parted slightly giving permission for your tongue to enter his mouth. His nose nudged yours gently as you moaned quietly. Oh how you had missed him!

As he opened his eyes, he looked down at you as though he was seeing you for the first time. Every time Steve had imagined magic, this is exactly how he had pictured it. He knew everything about you, how could he have ever forgotten you?

“Y/N,” he said softly. “I made it home for Christmas.”

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x f!reader #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers fan fiction #bucky barnes #tony stark #thor

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wordstome · 11 months ago

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Endless Nights - Price x Reader

I started thinking about Sandman again because of Barry Sloane as Destruction of the Endless and went back to reread everything Destruction is in, including his Endless Nights story. Now I can't stop thinking about Price x archaeologist reader...

1.7k, please forgive any archaeological or military errors I only took like 1 anthropology class two years ago

You've been on all sorts of digs, but this has got to be one of the most chaotic. Your team's been sent to this peninsula to unearth some recently discovered artifacts. They think it's remnants of a little-known indigenous population, and it's your job to dig everything up safely.

Only problem is, there's a military base on top of it.

"Maybe it won't be so bad. Military personnel are good at following orders," your coworker says while you're unpacking your tools.

You snort. "Yeah, but they're equally good at putting holes in things and blowing things up. I don't think they have a lot of respect for fragile ancient artifacts."

"Ouch," your coworker says, wincing and putting a hand to his chest in a mock expression of pain. "No love for our nation's bravest?" You roll your eyes at him.

"It's not like that. I'm just saying we need to be vigilant about keeping them away from work sites. Take no shit, as it were."

"With the military? Good luck, I guess."

It's not that you dislike or even distrust every single person who's ever been in the military, it's just that you don't have much faith in their ability to hold respect for your work. Archaeology is quiet, meticulous work, a far cry from gunfights and kicking doors in. You're going to be here for quite a while, and if you don't establish boundaries right out of the gate, you'll be fighting an uphill battle for the rest of the dig.

That's what you're telling yourself as you sit in a gray, featureless meeting room. You and your supervisor are supposed to be meeting with a John Price, a British SAS captain. Kate Laswell, an American CIA agent, told you he's the proxy you'll be cooperating with during the dig.

You're prepared for all sorts of men to walk through that door: a balding middle-aged man with a power trip, or perhaps some blustering meathead whose voice no longer goes lower than a shout. Instead, the man that walks through the door and shakes your supervisor's hand leaves you staring, just barely keeping it together enough so you're not drooling with your jaw on the floor.

He's hot.

Your head fills with static as he turns to you and hits you with possibly the most endearing smile you've ever seen on a man. It's not just that he's somehow pulling off the beard and mutton chops look, or that his rough British accent is making you feel some type of way down there. It's the way he walks, like it's heavy—

"Pleased to meet you," Price says, shaking your hand. His hand engulfs yours as he gives it a brief squeeze. It takes your every last brain cell to answer with something other than Please tell me you're not wearing a wedding ring because you're actually single.

The meeting consists of him and your supervisor laying ground rules while you nod mutely and try not to audibly moan when Price adjusts himself in his seat, his hips moving in a way that is definitely going to undo you if you think about it too hard.

You walk out of the meeting having barely survived, but confident that the whole ordeal was a one-time thing. He's just who you complain to if one of the soldiers stumbles into a work site and smashes one of the artifacts, after all. You'll never have to see him.

Except you do. Every day, multiple times a day, he's there. He's obviously got his own shit to do of course, but it's like you can't get away from him: walk into a tent, and he's there chatting to one of your coworkers. Eat a meal, and he's there talking to a squad of soldiers and clapping someone on the back with a hearty laugh. Turn a corner, and he's there to full-body slam into you—

"Pardon me, sweetheart. Didn't see ya there." You're ashamed to say you don't do much more than stare at him with what must be the most pathetic petrified doe eyes as he gives you a pat on the shoulder and goes on his merry way. That was like running into a solid brick wall...

It would be fine if it were just you having a silly little unreciprocated crush. You've had those before and survived. But what starts to get to you is the little things: the way his eyes flick to you when you enter his vicinity, accompanied by a nod. The way his eyes linger on you for a moment too long before looking away. The brief touches against your shoulders or hips when he's maneuvering past you in a small space.

Frankly, it's driving you crazy, and it's starting to show.

"If you dust that piece any harder, you're going to damage it," your coworker scolds you. You all but jump backwards from the piece you're working on. You'd been so absorbed in mentally dissecting his body language the last time you were in the same room as him that you'd brushed the piece far beyond the point of being clean.

This won't do. You have to do something about this.

Mercifully, you've been given your own individual room to sleep in, which is quite the luxury after a career full of sleeping in dusty tents or sharing bunks with coworkers. It also gives you enough privacy to...take care of business, as it were.

Obviously, you didn't bring any "tools of the trade" that weren't useful for your work, so it's just you and your hand past 11 pm. You feel beyond perverted, slipping a hand between your thighs as you think of Captain Price.

You can still feel the weight of his hands on your body, brief though they were, and picture what else those touches could be doing. Your own voice slips out in a moan as you imagine his, low and grumbling yet soothing while he pushes you into the sheets, that endearing smile turned devious and devastatingly sexy as he spreads you open for him with those hands of his and collects your wetness on his fingers...

Your heart jumps out of your chest as you hear a knock at the door. You all but fall out of bed, scrambling to pull on enough clothing to be decent. "J-just a minute!" you call, inwardly cursing yourself for how breathless you must sound.

You answer the door, flustered and a mess, to see the subject of all your fantasies staring there. For a split second, you're petrified by the possibility of Price having heard your desperate whines and whimpers and knocking on your door to politely ask you to quit cranking it in his barracks.

"Apologies, sweetheart. Hope I didn't wake you up?" His eyes are so striking, so sincere, that you know he could have woken you up from the best sleep of your life and you'd still be unable to be mad at him.

"No no, I was...no need to worry. What can I do for you?" you say, relief flooding through you. Of course he didn't hear you. He's not a total pervert like you.

"Well love, I...it's probably best if you come take a look for yourself," Price says, looking almost sheepish. Your heart sinks a little—this cannot be good.

He leads you out of the barracks towards one of the job sites, directing you towards a table with several excavated artifacts laid out. "One of my men thought it'd be wise to steal his mate's torch, had him stumbling around in the dark out here. He says he bumped one of these tables and heard something fall on the ground, and I figured you should know right away instead of waiting 'til the morning and having all sorts of people tramping through here."

You give him a brief grateful look before crouching down with a flashlight. After a bit of looking, you find the missing object: a thick shard of pottery, lying forlornly on its side by a table leg.

You reach forward to pick it up, but the captain has spotted it as well, resulting in his hand landing on top of yours over the pottery. For a brief, dizzying second, his hand lays heavy and warm over yours, and you could have sworn that his fingers had shifted as if to take your hand in his.

In a blink, the moment's over, and the captain's hand shoots back to his side. Trying not to make an utter fool of yourself, you push yourself back up to a standing position, examining the pottery shard with a discerning eye.

"Looks like no harm was done," you say to him with a smile. "Mayday averted."

"Good to hear. I'll make sure the knuckleheads who did this receive a thorough dressin' down for this incident." You're grateful that the warmth rushing to your face at his stern tone can't be seen in the dark as you carefully set the pottery back in its place on the table.

"I'll walk you back to the barracks. Can't have my favorite archaeologist stumblin' their way around themselves, now can I?" You nod mutely, unable to look at him for much longer than a few stolen glances.

The two of you are quiet all the way back to your door, where you stand in the hallway, fidgeting with your hands and feeling the urge to say something, anything. "Thank you," you blurt out. "For not waiting until tomorrow morning. There's no telling what foot traffic would have done before we noticed the missing piece."

"Your work's important, love. And while you're here, you're our guests. It'd be rude to not be taking care of your work, wouldn't it?" You nod shyly, basking in the warmth of his attention.

You're frozen to the spot as he leans in to whisper directly in your ear, his lips brushing against it. "Next time you're relievin' a bit of tension, feel free to stop by my quarters, yeah? I think you'll find there's a lot more I can take care of than just your work."

Your eyes go as wide as saucers as he winks at you. Before you can even process what just happened, he's already walking away from you down the hall.

Feeling like you've just been handed some delicious and forbidden secret, you whirl around to shut yourself into your room, sliding down with your back against the door to sit on the floor. Did that truly just happen? Are you hallucinating? Or had you fallen asleep by accident and you're really just having some beautiful, delusional dream?

It doesn't feel like a dream when you realize you're soaking wet.

God, I cannot wait until Barry Sloane's Destruction promo images drop. For reference, these are the posters we got for season 1:

To be very honest, I wrote this like a possessed woman in the span of like an hour. I don't think there's going to be a part 2 unless you guys really get me going with some new ideas 😅

Also, I don't have a tag list (because I write almost exclusively for one particular Austrian), but I will tag my beloved @danibee33, and @ceilidho, as thanks for giving me Barry Sloane brainworms.

#price x reader #captain price x reader #price x you #captain price x you #john price x reader #john price x you #john price #captain john price #captain price #cod #call of duty #cod mw2 #call of duty mw2 #mw2 #Barry sloane

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leiawritesstories · 6 days ago

Text

babe, it's cold out there

written for @throneofglassmicrofics November prompts "bluster" & "chill" (and probably a few others lmao)

some cute fluff to take my mind off election day yippee!!

word count: 851

warnings: none!

enjoy!!

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

Aelin tugged the front door shut with a shiver, and it closed behind her with a thump that immediately raised a rapid patter of little footsteps from upstairs. Within two minutes, the kids had ambushed her, flinging their little arms around her legs and waist and clamoring over each other to tell Mama about their day.

"Your nose is pink, Mama!" Charlotte announced, pressing her finger to the tip of Aelin's nose as she snuggled into her mother's arms.

"It's awfully windy outside, honey," Aelin chuckled, kissing her six-year-old daughter's head.

Charlotte nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! Daddy had to rake the leaves out of the driveway before you got home!"

"We jumped in the piles!" Bran added, beaming. He was seven, and anything that allowed him to make a mess all over the yard was his favorite activity. "I jumped soooo much!"

"I bet you did, B." Aelin hugged her older son, who wrinkled his nose and squirmed away before she could plop a kiss on his head too.

Lana, the oldest at nine and a half, scoffed under her breath as Aelin let Charlotte down. "And you got leaves in your underwear too."

"Did not!" Bran shrieked, indignant.

"Did too!" Lana stuck her tongue out at him. "Dad said it looked like you peed your pants."

"Shut up, La-La!" Outraged, Bran lunged at his big sister, who dodged and hid behind her mother.

Aelin caught him before he could start throwing fists. "Bran, buddy, you know that's not gonna get you anywhere, and you probably don't want Lana to hit you back."

"She's being mean, Mama," he complained, folding his arms across his chest, turquoise eyes narrowed in indignation.

"Did you have fun jumping in the leaves?"

"Yeah."

"Then don't let what Lana says bother you, okay?"

He huffed a childish sigh, the anger seeping from his small body. "Okay." His eyes brightened. "I got Declan to jump with me!"

"Did you, now?" Laughter sparkled in Aelin's eyes.

Lana snickered. "Dec wanted to do a belly flop, and we watched him to make sure he didn't get hurt."

"Gave me a damn heart attack." Rowan's voice interrupted Aelin's moment with her kids, and she turned to find her husband leaning against the entryway wall with a twin on each hip and a half smirk on his face.

"Don't be dramatic, Dad," Lana sighed, so much like her mother that it made Aelin laugh. "We're very responsible."

"That's my girl." Aelin wrapped her oldest in a hug, affectionately ruffling her blonde curls.

Lana peered at Aelin's face. "Lottie is right, Mom. Your nose is pink."

Aelin unwound the scarf that was looped around her neck. "Well, I had to be outside, and like you all know, it's pretty windy." She knelt down and opened her arms, and both of the twins came sprinting over, burying her in a bundle of three-year-old limbs and excitement. "Hi, little loves. What did you do at preschool today?"

"I make painting, Mama!" Rielle squealed right into Aelin's ear.

Aelin blinked, hiding her wince, and guided her youngest back a step. "I'm sure it's beautiful, sweetheart, but do you remember how we don't yell in people's ears?"

Rielle nodded. "I get my picture!" She ran out into the kitchen, and Aelin shook her head with a laugh as she turned to Declan, the older of the twins by eight whole minutes. "I heard you and Bran jumped in a big leaf pile."

His little face lit up. "I jump in leaves, Mama!" He spread his arms wide and flopped into her lap. "See?"

"Did you have fun?"

"Yeah!" He beamed up at her before running back over to Rowan and demanding for Dada to pick him up.

Rowan chuckled and hoisted the little boy up into his arms. "How about we give Mama a little break, hmm? I'm sure she wants to warm her chilly self up." He shot her a wink.

She shrugged out of her jacket and flicked her scarf at him. "Babe, it's cold out there. It's perfect time for..." She paused, flashing her husband a smirk. "Hot cocoa."

"Yay!" all of the kids yelped, immediately bursting into pleas for the colored marshmallows and bickering over who got to have the Uncle Dorian mug. Dorian had prank-gifted Aelin and Rowan a mug that was 3-D printed in a cartoonish shape of his face, and for some inexplicable reason, her kids were obsessed with it.

"I'm beginning to feel outnumbered," Rowan said under his breath as he set Declan down and went over to Aelin, slipping his arms around her waist. "Who's going to tell the hooligans that they still have to eat all of their dinner even though they get hot cocoa before dinnertime?"

"Oh, I'm sure you can still put on your Stern Daddy face if you have to." She winked wickedly at him, muffling her giggle as his face went scarlet.

"You're a naughty, naughty woman," he mumbled, hiding his blush in her hair.

She just grinned and rose onto her tiptoes to kiss him. "You love it."

"Damn right, I do."

~~~

TAGS:

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@mariaofdoranelle

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

@renxzs

@anarchii

@fauna-flora11

@cynthiesjmxazrielslover

@mysterylilycheeta

#my writing #throne of glass #throneofglassmicrofics #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowan x aelin #rowaelin #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin au #throne of glass fanfic #throne of glass au #rowaelin and kiddos #rowaelin family fic #shameless fluff

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oliversrarebooks · 11 months ago

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The Rare Bookseller Part 34: Fitz's Curtain Call

Previous Masterlist Next

June 1905

TW: mind control, captivity

"So here's how I see it, sir," said Fitz, walking down the hallway of the auction house alongside Miss Lily. "You want money, a motivation I'm well equipped to understand. I want an easy life with a rich, soft-hearted vampire. Putting aside the part where you kidnapped and brainwashed me, our interests align."

"They do indeed," said Miss Lily with a wicked grin. "I'm so glad you turned out to be so very reasonable."

Fitz, of course, was trying to cover up his terror with bluster, a technique he had honed very well over years of confidence schemes. He could feel the tug of the vampire thrall, feel it dampening his urges to escape or resist, feel it lulling his mind into submission. And it felt good, that was the worst part about it -- so easy to let his mind drift away from him, to dream about his newfound desire for fangs to sink deep in his neck. That particular fantasy was hard to deny, something akin to hunger or lust, filling his all too eager thoughts with the image of offering himself, and --

Shit. He had to stay focused. God damn these annoying, powerful, sexy, desirable vampires.

The enthrallment he'd been placed under hadn't done enough for his nerves. He still felt like he did the night before a big opening. Normally, the danger of an audience not liking him was that he'd be going hungry. Now, the danger was much, much more acute.

"Penny for your thoughts?" said Miss Lily, ruffling his hair. "You think too much for a thrall."

"Yes, the blessing and the curse you've afforded me," he said. "...Not that I'm complaining about the spell I'm under. Sir." He was fairly certain he still had something like wit to his name, and didn't want to encourage Miss Lily to change her mind on that point.

"So then, what are you thinking about?"

"The preparations for your little vampire soiree, sir," he said. "I was hoping I'd get a chance to take a shower and comb my hair. After all, it might be my final curtain call."

"So dramatic." Miss Lily laughed. Well, easy for her to do when she wasn't the one being sold. "Don't worry, you have an appointment with our chief stylist."

Fitz's eyes narrowed. He watched as a vampire led a group of empty-eyed thralls down the hall, all of them dressed in simple linens and looking like they hadn't been washed in days. "Are you serious about having a chief stylist, or are you pulling my leg, sir?"

"Oh, I'm very serious. I told you several times that you're prize merchandise."

"Lovely. So how does one style prize merchandise for vampires, sir? Am I going to be trussed up and placed on a silver platter, with an apple in my mouth for garnish?"

"No."

"Of course not, the platter wouldn't be silver. Gold, then, sir."

"It's actually traditional for high quality thralls to be put in fancy ball dress to be sold off."

"Well, you're in great luck, sir. Despite my intimidating masculinity, I actually pull off a dress very well." He was speaking from experience on this, as he'd had to wear all sorts of women's costumes for various theatrical and hiding-from-cops reasons. "They're all very low cut, I assume, to better show off the neck?"

"Oh, you do catch on quickly."

Miss Lily showed him in to a large, sumptuous dressing room, the kind that would be the envy of any of the small-time theaters he'd performed in. There was an impressively formidable vanity covered in all sorts of makeup, some of it very expensive-looking, but what really caught Fitz's eye were the racks of elaborate ball gowns. Miss Lily certainly wasn't pulling his leg about that particular detail.

"Hello, Florence!" said Miss Lily with the cheer of a woman who was about to have a very lucrative evening. "I've brought my special project for you!"

"Special project indeed," said the older woman, scrutinizing Fitz with a practiced eye like a jeweler appraising a stone. "Well, he's handsome, at least."

"Oh, you've got a good eye," said Fitz with a grin. "It's vitally important that I'm dressed to impress, sir, and I want to accentuate my finer points, of which I have many. Whatever will make me irresistible to Miss Lily's friend with the deep pockets."

Miss Florence's eyebrow lifted. "This is the thrall you're preparing for Alexander?"

"Alexander keeps telling me he wants a companion thrall, one who reads and plays instruments. He hates the recent trend of meek and muted thralls," said Lily. "Fitz here is very much the opposite."

"Exactly, sir," said Fitz, strangely eager to please these vampires, launching into his little spiel. "I can read, I can play guitar, I can do magic tricks, I can do real magic if you give me enough preparation time, I can tell your future, I can juggle oranges, I can wash windows, bake bread, mend fences, sew, and I play a mean game of poker. Plus, the handsome face, of course."

"Oh, my dear sweet devil. Be quiet, young man," said Miss Florence, placing her hand on his head, and suddenly he felt a deep compulsion to follow her command and stay perfectly still. She was looking him over more closely now. "He's far more charming when he shuts his mouth."

"They say that about me, too," said Miss Lily. "Perhaps that's why we get on so well."

Fitz couldn't help the small laugh that escaped him. He did respect Miss Lily, in a way, apart from the thrall that was placed on him. She played a good con game, and judging by the sheer expense of the outfit she had on tonight, she was raking in the cold, hard cash. Selling people for money was several bridges too far for him, but in another life where she weren't a vampire and had at least a faint impression of a moral compass, they could've gotten along.

"Anyway, I'll leave him in your capable hands," said Miss Lily. "Despite his talkative streak, you have absolutely nothing to fear from him in terms of obedience. He's a pushover to any kind of thrall, or even simply praise and flattery."

And any good thoughts about Miss Lily evaporated, as Fitz scowled at being described as an easy mark. It was far more true than he'd like it to be.

"Is that so?" said Miss Florence, petting his hair. "Can you be docile and still for me, child?"

"Yes, sir," he heard his voice say, meek and mild. He already hated Miss Florence's powers, his words catching in his throat and his muscles disinclined to obey his commands. The forced meekness and artificial calm made him feel so vulnerable. But he had no choice but to allow himself to be led to the dresses. Miss Florence was rummaging about, pulling this and that dress and putting them together on a rack.

"Here, I've put out appropriate dresses that could potentially fit and which might appeal to Miss Lily's friend with the deep pockets, as you so crassly put it," she said. "Go ahead and pick which one appeals to you."

Several days of thrall and prison related brain fog had made Fitz's decision-making skills -- dubious at the best of times -- particularly rusty. He didn't really know anything about his prospective buyers. He didn't really know anything about vampires and what would appeal to or discourage them, apart from necks pumping with blood. He could choose based on his complexion and hair, but --

"Focus, child. What calls to you?"

Fitz could feel Miss Florence's power over him lifting a bit. "I need to know what is most likely to appeal to the best target buyers, sir," he said. "For example, if older vampires are more well-mannered, I might go with older styles, but if --"

"You should choose what you want to wear. It's the only choice I allow thralls to make in this room," she said, her irritation apparent.

"Sir, what I want to wear is whatever will help me avoid being chained in a dank basement by a sadist, or a surgical removal of my personality, or -- " Fitz felt the spell being cast on him again, stopping his voice.

"I'll allow you to try this one more time. You are to choose what you want. Not what you think an unknown patron would want, or what Miss Lily thinks you need to wear. What you want."

What he wanted? Fitz could start with freedom, even a few more days of it. That night of the magic show could easily be his last night as anything resembling a free man, and for all he knew, tonight was the last night he'd get to laugh and joke and pretend as though everything was fine.

When it came to what he wanted, a fancy ball dress didn't rate very high on his list of priorities.

Pointing this out would simply get him another swift dose of thrall dampening his voice, so instead he did what she wanted and perused the rack for something that might look flattering on him. If this was truly going to be his last night as anything resembling Phantom Fitz, he might as well go for the flashiest dress available.

Or perhaps he'd be purchased by a vampire who would appreciate his dramatic flair and show him mercy.

Perhaps he'd be purchased by a vampire who would appreciate breaking a confident human.

Regardless of the risk, he pulled out a very low cut dress made of crushed velvet in a deep red shade, the color of fresh blood, with golden trim. It was a stunning gown, exactly the sort of thing he might find alluring if he were a bloodsucking fiend. It was also suitably dramatic for a night that felt like both a beginning and an ending.

He checked the bust area as he looked it over, wondering how much padding he might need to wear with it, if it would accommodate him at all -- and he realized that it actually seemed cut for a man's figure. It did make sense that they stocked gowns cut this way, if they expected all of the fancy grade-A thralls to wear them.

"There you go," said Miss Florence, laying her hands on his shoulders, the hypnotic silence settling over his mind once more. "Now drop, and be calm and utterly still for me."

It was like cotton fluff filling his mind, dampening his thoughts. He could feel himself straining against it, so anxious from not being able to process and plot and scheme, but with no way of expressing that. He expected the peaceful nature of Miss Florence's power might be nice if he actually relaxed, but he had no intention of doing so. Not here. Not when so much was at stake.

He was pulled along into a bathroom, where he was unceremoniously stripped and dunked in a bathtub, scrubbed thoroughly with a thick pink bar of floral-scented soap. It felt nice to be washed, and he felt himself zoning out despite his resolve, mind wandering to the dreams Miss Lily had filled his head with. Dreams of the life he could live with a handsome and permissive vampire, of nights in an elegant mansion with a mysterious, dark master. The best case scenario.

Miss Florence sitting him down in front of a mirror and producing a pair of long scissors was what snapped him out of it. His golden hair, the feature he was so vain about -- and she was going to -- He heard himself involuntarily make a sound of distress, mind clawing against the vampire's spell.

"Oh, hush now, child," she said, as if she were talking to a fussy little boy getting his first haircut. "I have more experience cutting hair than any human barber."

While that was likely true, that didn't stop Fitz's chest from tightening as she chopped his hair far shorter than he liked to keep it. Vampires didn't want to have to deal with hair maintenance, he supposed, another unwelcome reminder of how little freedom he would have.

It was only hair. There were more important things to be concerned about. But his heart ached.

After rubbing his skin with sweet-smelling lotions, she brought him back into the main room and took out a small measuring tape. She began obsessively measuring every possible part of his body, from around his head to the size of his feet, in a way that seemed almost more like a ritual than an efficient way to measure him for a dress. Every time she brushed him, he felt the cottony prison for his mind growing thicker and more inescapable.

He was at least lucid enough to remember how to put on the undergarments required to wear fancy women's dress, with some assists from Miss Florence, particularly where it concerned the corset. Soon, the gown was being slipped over his head, and he found himself staring into his reflection in a large floor mirror as Miss Florence made adjustments to the dress here and there.

He looked stunning. And not just in the way he tried to convince himself every morning in the mirror, papering over his many flaws with cheap vanity. No, he actually looked fantastic in the deep red gown.

He only wished it were for a show and not for being sold to vampires.

And then the tailoring was done and he was whisked off to the vanity, Miss Florence applying makeup with a practiced hand. She was doing a much lighter look than the stage makeup he often applied himself, just enough to accentuate his skin.

"Now then, child, focus on me," said Miss Florence, dangling a ruby pendant in front of his face. It reminded him of the fatal pendant Miss Lily had used on him in his ill-fated five dollar bet. "You will remain calm during the auction."

Fitz felt something in him tug hard against that idea. How could he possibly remain calm when...

Miss Florence put a firm hand on top of his head, slowly swinging the pendant in front of his eyes. "You will remain calm during the auction. Repeat."

"I will remain calm during the auction, sir," his own voice droned.

"You exist to be a vampire's thrall. Repeat."

No, no, he was so much more than... "I exist to be a vampire's thrall, sir."

"You will know true obedience."

"I will know true obedience, sir." He could practically hear the echo of Miss Lily's voice convincing him how rewarding and pleasurable obedience would be. It had never been his strong suit. But the trance locking his mind said otherwise.

"Now, here is your final gift," said Miss Florence, taking his wrists with gentle hands, and snapping golden handcuffs around them. "You'll feel so much better once you've been sold off to a proper master, child. I can tell."

The amount of mesmeric power he was under made his twinge of despair seem distant, a storm cloud far away on the horizon. "Yes, sir."

Previous Masterlist Next

Next week is Christmas, so I plan to post a few Christmas specials (including at least one for Rare Bookseller) instead of a new part of the main story! The main story will resume in the new year, but until then, I have various AUs, asks, and a brand new series I hope to post.

Thanks for all your support for this silly little vampire story! I'm truly grateful for the reception I've had.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin @whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist @xx-adam-xx @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini @whumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @shinyotachi @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining-blog @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada @typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia @a-formless-entity @gobbo-king

#whump #vampire #mind control #whump writing #whumpee #rare bookseller #vampire whumper #crossdressing #fitz #lily

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goddessofroyalty · 30 days ago

Text

Keep Coming Back To You

Fandom: Marvel (Xmen)

Pairing: Magneto/Professor X

Tags: omegaverse, mating bites/bonds, sexually explicient content

Summary:

Despite spending most of their time on opposing sides everyone knows Magneto and Professor X still somehow maintain their mate-bond.

This is how.

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59648722https://archiveofourown.org/works/59648722

Authors Notes:

I had this idea that I shared on my tumblr about how Charles and Magneto spend most of their lives mated to each other despite mate-bonds fading if not maintained because every time they team up together no matter how short they rekindle their bond.

This idea should be done as a like 5 times fic from the POV of Xmen/Brotherhood. I however do not know enough about the Xmen characters to write that fic seeing I only watched the movies. If someone does know more about it and would like to write that fic you have my full support.

Instead I wrote two of the moments they rebounded from their POVs to show how it tends to go down.

Again my characterization is based on the movies. Because that’s the Xmen content I’ve consumed.

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

Magneto may only be intending to stay there until the attention on him dies down, but he still finds himself falling into his old habits while staying at the Xavier mansion.

Each morning he finds himself taking a run along the perimeter of the grounds, looking for any gaps or weakness in the defense as much as he is maintaining his fitness. He could try and tell himself he is cataloguing them for his own future uses but he’s already done what was needed to close the two of them he could and would accidently leave the notes he has made on the others behind when he leaves. If he truly needs access to the school and Charles not naively willing to just give it there are more direct routes he would take.

The days themselves are spent watching the various trainings and lessons that make up the curriculum of the school the place has become. He does abide by his agreement with Charles not to try and instruct any of the students or corrupt them to his cause. But the odd comment or suggestion said in passing could hardly be classed as instruction. And Charles has yet to claim he has overstepped any line.

At night, after dinner is had and the children retired to their rooms to sleep or study or play, he sits across from Charles in the study, chessboard between them.

There’s a part of him that doesn’t understand how Charles can live like this. Pretending that the facade of safety and normality the school represents is the whole reality of the situation. That it isn’t just a matter of time before the anger and violence that exists outside its walls finds its way in and that all their time hiding has just given their enemies time to better ready their arsenals.

There’s a part of him that understands it entirely. That cannot deny the reassuring reliability of the schedule built around safety. The prideful satisfaction of watching young mutants grow every day feeling supported and safe.

He knows how easily it could be snatched away. Will be snatched away one day if they do not go on the attack first. But the soft smile Charles gives him from across the chessboard makes him all the more determined to protect the refuge the omega carved out for their kind in the cruel world they live in.

“I was wondering,” Charles says as they finish up their game for the night, their glasses of scotch now nothing more than melted ice, “must you return to the guest room tonight?”

“I didn’t realize I had done anything to warrant me having to sleep in the barn,” Magneto says, because he knows it will make Charles blush and bite his lip.

When they were younger and less sure of themselves Charles would often bluster at any perceived refusals to his poorly-hidden advances, while now he only gains a soft flush to his cheeks. Not that Magneto is complaining that much – it is still an appealing look on the omega he had once had the privilege to truly call his.

“No, I would never do that to you,” Charles says as if it is not his favorite threat when the wounds between them are too fresh and the sanctuary given because of Charles’ personal creed and not any fondness for the alpha that had once been his closest ally with whom he had almost built a life with.

Charles laughs awkwardly as Magneto waits for him to find the words of the question they both knew was coming with Magneto staying under this roof. In doing so he bares his neck, revealing his scent gland and the pale scares of all the bites they had shared over the years already. Charles may not smell mated currently but surely those would be enough to deter any alpha from trying their luck.

“I was more thinking that, well, we are hardly strangers to each other and my bed is rather large,” Charles says as if his request is merely about the practicalities of it and not the inevitabilities between them. “Save the cleaners some work and all.”

“They would already have to clean the sheets seeing as I already slept on them.”

“Ah, quite right.” Charles doesn’t look the slightest bit ashamed about his ruse being seen through because really it is tokenistic at this point. “Still though.”

He lets the words hang and the silence surround them. Sitting there content to wait for an answer.

“I suppose it would be the most strategically sound place should anyone try and attack in the night,” Magneto says more to get a rise out of Charles than being serious. He isn’t entirely lying though – he will sleep better knowing that should any humans try and attack he will be there to protect what is most important to him.

The fact Charles doesn’t rise to the bait despite the twitch of his lips that tells Magneto he has something he wants to say to it betrays how badly he wants the night to end in the way he has planned.

Magneto would be lying if he said he didn’t want it as well now that the offer and possibility are on the table.

“Shall we retire for the night then?” Charles says. His smile the one he gets after he’s placed a suggesting into someone’s mind – proud and satisfied with the cheeky edge of having done something he feels he shouldn’t.

There’s no telepathy involved here. And the suggestion not something Magneto would not otherwise want to do. They may not agree on the best way to ensure the safety of their people but the affection once shared between them a flame that has yet to fully extinguish no matter how far they find themselves from each other.

“If you are ready to.”

Magneto let’s Charles lead the way despite it hardly being an unfamiliar route to him.

Charles starts his usual routine when they get there. Not even asking for help getting into bed as he sometimes does as an excuse for Magneto to hold and carry him.

Magneto follows the cue and ready’s himself for bed as well. Sliding under the covers on the opposite side to where Charles settles in for the night. Perhaps this is all the omega wants – company in the huge bed in his ivory tower.

“I know I said my bed was large but I did not mean for you to put all of its space between us.”

Or perhaps it is something more that Charles wants this night.

Magneto slides across the bed and Charles settles against him. The all-too familiar weight pressed against Magneto’s chest and all-too familiar scent filling his nose.

It’s a nice scent. Charles always believed himself bland for an omega but it’s one of the nicest Magneto has found in his life. One that reminded him of simpler times and makes him wish theirs was a world where settling down was an option he could take without condemning them all to the human’s want to exterminate them.

Charles shuffles to press them closer again. A move that might be able to be passed off as innocent if the scent of satisfaction wasn’t right beneath Magneto’s nose.

Magneto responds with an action that may be a nuzzle against Charles’ neck or may just be him settling in for the night.

Charles lets out a breath that might be a huff of annoyance or just him relaxing for the night.

He stills when Magneto lets out a soft growl. But it isn’t fear that shoots through his scent.

“Oh Charles, have you spent so much of your time manipulating others to your will you have forgotten to be direct even in matters like this?” Magneto wraps an arm around Charles’ hips and waist so his hand can rest against the soft skin of the omega’s belly.

“Only you would think my behavior thus far has been anything but direct,” Charles says with a laugh, shifting his head around to look Magneto directly in the eyes. A playful mirth in them that is rare to find these days now he seems to live and breathe his role as the stalwart professor of all those within his walls.

“That is another matter I believe we must agree to disagree on,” Magneto says as he leans in to capture Charles’ lips. On this one matter he may admit that secretly he agrees with what Charles has said.

“I suppose it is,” Charles says accepting the kiss easily.

It is, as far as kisses go, a rather lazy one. There is no need to rush in this moment – the night is still young and there is nothing in the morning past a return to the routine that has temporarily become their lives.

“I hope that is not all that is in store this evening,” Charles says when they break apart.

“What more would you have?” It is perhaps a dangerous question when he knows what Charles wants of him extends far past bedroom activities.

“All that you are willing to give.”

In a way those words are a mercy. There is so much Magneto is not willing to give despite his softness for the omega pressed against him. And while he knows Charles would be ecstatic if he was to relent on his position about how they should best respond to the threats against their people, the other has long accepted that it will never happen.

But right now he can give Charles this. Can recapture his lips in a more dominating kiss and run his hands over the well-learned parts of Charles body that makes the omega shudder and moan. Can kiss and kiss and kiss until Charles calls him a bloody tease and then sink his teeth into the familiar neck adding another future-scar to the collection so that even when they part again people will still know Charles’ is his and he is Charles’.

Right now they can lie there in the afterglow together. Charles’ scent sweet and satisfied and sex-heavy as he takes lungfuls of Magneto’s own. Both pretending for the moment that this could be their forever.

“Top marks as always,” Charles says once he’s come down from the high of orgasm and bond. Patting against Magneto’s chest the way one does a car they are particularly proud of.

“Did you just grade me at sex?” Magneto doesn’t know how, despite all the youthful playfulness and recklessness faded with age and wards, Charles’ horrid sense of humor managed to survive.

“Perhaps I did, what are you going to do about- Hey! Don’t you go anywhere! Not after what we’ve just done.” Charles grip on Magneto tightens when the other moves with a threat to get up.

“I didn’t do anything you didn’t ask for,” Magneto reminds as he settles back into the bed he never truly intended to leave. Not with how rarely he gets nights like this – the threats of the world momentarily forgotten about in favor of enjoying the company of an omega as exceptional as Charles’ is.

“And I stopped asking for my bed-partner to be gone by the morning when I was in colleague,” Charles says. A tactic of his to get under Magneto’s skin, that somehow is still as effective as it was when he first discovered it.

“I suppose I can stay until then,” Magneto says, with another lazy kiss between them.

He will have to leave eventually. He cannot protect Charles and all he has built by staying in the peaceful illusion of the school. He must return to his cause to ensure the safety of all of their kind from those who wish to see them destroyed.

For now though he can cuddle with his omega in the warm bed at the heart of their community.

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

Charles hates when it comes to this. When the humans decide to rain hellfire down on them, bringing his school and their home once more to borderline rubble while they huddle in the basement licking their wounds and planning how to rebuild. Planning how to retaliate.

He hates how he can read some of his students wonder if maybe Magneto is right. Especially with how this time Magneto had come to warn them. Come to save them.

Hates the part of himself that wants to let the man he still thinks of as his alpha crush the threat to them under the weight of his powers. That stupid biological hindbrain that just knows how fantastic Magneto is at protecting their den and pups.

They are meant to be the next stage of evolution from humanity. And yet they still are cursed with instincts best suited from when they were cavemen.

“Fuck- Charles.” Magneto’s already bruising grip tightens on him. Crowds in closer in the tiny private room that on the blueprints is labeled an office, designed for where private discussions and planning can take place in the event they need to bunker in the basement. But they all damn well know its real purpose is to be a den and a nest when things go to shit like this. Somewhere that can be used for privacy for those of them who need to touch and feel their beloved in a way not suitable for the children to see in order to reassure themselves that in that moment they are both alive.

He knows of at least five students who mentally call it the fuck room, and can’t even bring himself to chastise them because it wouldn’t be an entirely incorrect description.

“Charles please,” Magneto says, his tone getting heavy with need and desperation. His hands moving from Charles’ arms to his legs and Charles’ doesn’t need feeling in them to know the grip is just as tight.

Charles sometimes wonders what their enemies would think if they saw them in these moments. The terrifying mutant terrorist Magneto kneeling before his omega and nuzzling against his chest in a desperate need to remind himself that the one he loves is okay. And he is truly desperate, it coming off him in waves that Charles does not need to read his mind to feel it as well.

Would that be enough to make them realize that really they are not all that different from one another?

“Charles I need-“ Magneto says, his fingertips grazing against Charles’ stomach as he tugs the shirt up just enough to find the gap between fabric where he can touch Charles’ skin. “Whatever happens next I need you to be mine again.”

Charles knows what happens next. They both do. It has happened so many times now it feels more like Déjà vu then reality – they will make it through, together, rebuild what has been lost and then when things are looking perfect Magneto will leave to return to his bloody crusade leaving their bond, both biological and emotional, to fade once more. And Charles, like a scorned housewife, left holding the children.

It is foolish to give in to their biology and instincts right now just because the threat feels so heavy bearing down on them. It is foolish when Charles knows Magneto will not stay this time just as he hasn’t any other. The momentary rush of confort and relief not worth the inevitable betray.

“Magneto-“ Charles fully intends to tell him no. To push him away and return back to what they had claimed to be the reason of going into the room together in the first place – plan how best to pool their resources and tactics to get them all out of it alive and in one piece.

Magneto looks up at him with a heavy needing gaze and the refusal dies on Charles’ tongue.

He knows how it will end. Knows it all too well. But he survived all those times and he cannot deny the part of him that needs this now as well. That primitive instinctual part that wants to reward the alpha for coming to protect them and try with the only thing he has to offer to keep him with them for when the threat returns.

Charles’ reaches out to touch Magneto’s cheek. The alpha following as he draws it back like it is attached with cement. One of Magneto’s knees coming to rest on Charles’ lap, hands holding on Charles’ waist as if to steady himself, as his head follows where it is led to the crook of Charles’ neck. A shiver going through Charles’ spine as breathe tickles against the gland there.

“Charles?” Magnet asks as if this isn’t exactly what he’s been begging for.

“Now is not the time for second guessing,” Charles tells him and the hands on his waist tighten.

“Of course,” Magneto says and Charles can’t help but wonder what atrocity he has also given permission for when they do leave the room to face the reality of the situation.

That is a problem for later. Right now his alpha is kissing along his neck and jaw. Purposely avoiding the gland Charles had given access and permission to as he had so many times before. Drawing it out because Magneto also knows that once his moment is over the clock will start to tick for them to return to being on opposite sides.

“Stunning,” Magneto calls him when his clever hands find the spots on Charles’ skin that makes him gasp and shudder. A deep rumble echoing through the small room as he nuzzles against the delicate, sensitive skin on Charles’ neck. “Always so magnificent.”

It’s silly how so few words can send a wash of pride through Charles’ body. Can strip away the years of exhaustion and wear and leave him feeling like when he was young and so terribly, dangerously, in love.

“Please.” It is Charles who is begging now. Desperate for the feeling of love and safety that only Magneto could give him. Not needing to be the one in control, the one who has his shit together, even if only for this stolen moment.

Magneto grants him the mercy of silencing him with a kiss.

The desperation in it has Charles wrapping his arms around Magneto. Whatever happens next is not for them to think about. Nor are the burdens they carry. For now they are both alive and with each other. Right now they are simply alpha and omega.

It is only after they break apart and Magneto returns his mouth’s attention to Charles’ neck does he feel comfortable loosening his grip. A hand slipping into Magneto’s pants. First for a cheeky grope at the frankly unfairly still well-toned arse before taking hold of a well-familiar cock.

The sound he’s rewarded with is deep and primal and nostalgic. Taking Charles back to a time before all the betrayals and hurts when it was the two of them working together to better the lives of all mutants.

For the moment he gives himself into it. Revels in how his alpha ruts up against him as his mouth makes its way over all the exposed flesh of Charles’ neck and jaw until finally, finally, he returns to where Charles had initially directed him. The initial pain of the bite gives way almost instantly to the pleasurable satisfaction of the claim.

Clarity comes while they are still panting.

They will need to change before they leave the room. While it will no doubt be obvious to all who have matured noses what has transpired they do not need to see the evidence of it on their clothes. The wipes on the desk should be sufficient to get the sticky spit from Charles’ skin until the threat hanging over them is gone and he can afford to take a shower.

He meets Magneto’s gaze where the other is staring at him not finding any of the now familiar distain or disappointment in them. Only possessive pride.

“I will never regret this,” Magnet tells him after they share one, final kiss. The alpha’s voice rough and heavy.

“Neither will I,” Charles says. But it will never change what they have become and the decisions they will always make.

Magneto rests his weight against Charles for another moment before drawing back and cleaning himself. Charles watching as the man gives way to the persona.

He can hardly judge seeing how he is doing the same thing.

They have borrowed as much time as they could to drop their persona and allow their instincts and needs rule them. Now they must be who the others need – the leaders and pillars of their community who are turned to for safety and guidance.

Charles wonders how long the truce will last this time.

#cherik #charles xavier #charles x erik #magneto #erik lensherr x charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #Omegaverse #omegaverse au #omega verse #alpha beta omega #Xmen #X-men #Xmen omegaverse #Marvel Omegaverse #I accidently a ficlet

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 10 months ago

Text

Dirty Work 15

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: I need this week to end.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The rest of your personal day is spent in the confines of your room. You hear your father below in a tantrum, working himself up as he blusters and stomps. Soon, the smell of cigarette smoke pervades the house. He's found his fix somehow.

You don't dare emerge. You hide behind a book you can't focus on as your eyes stray to the phone, over and over. You keep it off as you fear another miscue. You can already imagine Mr. Laufeyson isn't impressed by the disturbance.

Your sleep comes in shallow morsels. You awake to each creak and crack of the old house, the neighbours arguing through the wall, and the rustling of leaves outside the window. You surrender to your consciousness just as the sun comes up. You'll need to see what damage has been done before Leslie arrives.

The puzzle is overturned on the floor, the coffee table on its side. The wooden chair reserved for the nurse has a leg broken and the TV beams its blue screen around the room. You tidy up as best you can, putting the chair by the back door until you can figure out how to fix it.

The kitchen is more of a mess, cupboards open and a few dishes shattered across the tile. A jar of jam is smeared over the laminate counter top along with what you had left of the peanut butter reserved for your lunch. You sigh and toss the empty jars, wiping up the puddles of wasted food.

You brew a tea and sit on the front porch, paranoid that your father might rouse and come to taunt you some more. He's done it before, as if to spite your efforts. He trashes the place only to accuse you of being negligent. What did you ever do to make him hate you? Why does it seem like everyone you meet feels the same?

You finish the black breakfast blend and wash the cup. You creep upstairs to get dressed and wait on your bed until your bus is due. You flee with your work bag and a deep yawn you can't repress.

The commute is your rare chance at peace. You don't have to think as you look out the window and watch the amber headlights pass and the storefronts slowly flicker to life. The nicer houses rise as the streets turn suburban and fervent long swells in your chest. Why couldn't you live like this?

Why couldn't you be like those children running to get in the van with their schoolbags bouncing, their parents laughing at their excitement, or like the mother with her carriage, enjoying a lazy walk as the neighbourhood awakens?

Those things aren't for you. You shouldn't complain, someone always has it worse. You shouldn't pity yourself. Your mother died well before she was ever your age and your father is sick. You are healthy and you have a job. That's something, better than nothing.

You break the threshold of the Laufeyson estate, the gate whining and clanging shut. You hunch down and wind along the path, looking ahead of your feet and no further. You rub your eyes as you come to the back door and check the time. A bit ahead of schedule but he can hardly be unhappy about that.

You are careful in the low din of the house. It's deathly quiet as you leave your shoes on the mat and surpass the closet. As you near the kitchen, you hear a clink from within. You slow, padding quietly in an effort not to betray your presence. You keep against the wall as you resist the urge to peek inside.

"You like tea, no?" The voice wafts through, rippling through the still silence.

You cringe and clutch the straps of your bag. You lower your head and wet your lips. You inch towards the archway.

"Mr. Laufeyson, I don't mind tea," you answer.

"Very well," he takes down a second cup as the kettle boils softly.

"I've already had mine, but thank you, Mr. Laufeyson. I should get to work, the carpenter will be in today."

"You're welcome," he replies as he plucks out tea bags from a hexagonal tin and drops one in each mug. "You can stomach a second. I bought this tea in Tokyo a while back. I need to finish it before it goes stale."

You linger in the door. Is this some trick? Maybe it's pity? Had he really heard that pocket call? You hoped maybe he hadn't been able to hear past the fabric. You watch him as he puts the lid back on the tin. As usual, you can't read him.

What would he even think if he did hear? That you're even more pathetic than he believed?

"Come," he puts his hands on the counter with the undeniable demand.

You obey and cross to the other side of the counter. You teeter and look around awkwardly, not certain what to say or do. He drags his fingertips over the granite and leans weight onto them.

"Thank you for the t--"

"How was your day off--"

You both speak at the same time. You snap your mouth shut and give an apologetic flutter of your fingers. He seals his lips and hesitates, clearing his throat.

"You said the carpenter is due," he redirects, "no doubt you'll have a busy day. Tomorrow, I want you to clear the schedule."

"Tomorrow? Yes, Mr. Laufeyson."

"Don't ask me why, you will know in due time."

"Understood," you take out the phone and make a note, your should hanging heavy on your elbow.

He waits. You don't say a word. The kettle pops and he turns to take it and pours the tea. He sets it back on the base and slides a mug closer.

"You're not curious?" He wonders.

"Like you said, I'll find out," you say, "thank you again."

"Five minutes for a good steep," he girds, "you will want the flavour to set."

"Yes, Mr. Laufeyson," you step closer as you pinch the handle and draw the cup closer.

"Mmm," he hums, rolling his shoulders back. "I had a question for you then." You look up and wait patiently, your eyelashes clinging with your fatigue, "was there some emergency yesterday?"

"Pardon?" You gulp.

"I saw that you called but couldn't make anything out," his cheek twitches, "but I wasn't sure if it was some mistake--"

"It was. Sorry--" you cover your mouth at your own abruptness, "it was an accident. I'm sorry."

"Ah," he nods as he considers you. Can he see through the lie? Does he even care?

"It won't happen again. I'm sorry to have bothered."

"Not bothered," he assures and takes the string of the tea bag, bobbing it up and down in the water, "I have other things to be bothered with, that's certain."

You cross your arms and sway, turning this way and that as you peer around. He didn't hear but you're still uneasy. He startles you as he moves smoothly around the counter. He approaches you and reaches to grasp the strap of your bag.

“Stay a while,” he insists as he tugs and you unfold your arms.

As he slides the strap down your arm, his other hand gently brushes your sleeve, just where the bruise smarts. The tender spot thrums and you wince, letting out a hiss. He hestitates as he places your bag on the counter.

His mouth opens and closes as if he can't think of what to say. You put your hand over the bruise and grimace.

“Did I–”

“No,” you interject, “ Thanks, that was heavy.”

“Ah, yes, well… it will take some time for the tea to cool.”

You shift, just a few inches away to face the counter again. He must be lying. He had to have heard everything yesterday, it's the only way to explain his behaviour. Somehow, you've managed to sink even lower, he must feel on top of the world.

🧹

Ronan arrives just after nine. You rush out to meet him, your tea only half-finished. As he shows you his plans for the repair, you do your best to answer his questions, telling him that some details will need to be approved by Mr. Laufeyson.

You turn towards the house and see the curtain in one of the front windows ripple. You offer to show the carpenter to the gazebo but he insists he can find his own way. Before he can, the front door swings inward and Laufeyson emerges.

“Ah, you must be the builder,” he struts down the steps, “welcome.”

You're taken aback by Laufeyson’s demeanour. For his own family, he was never more than perturbed, but here he is, playing it up. You know for sure that he is, he's never sounded so… nice.

“Hi,” Ronan faces him, his bag in one hand as his other goes to his hip. He stands nonplussed as the host nears.

“Loki,” Laufeyson introduces himself as he offers his hand.

“Ronan,” the other man eyes his fingers before he accepts the gesture. There's tension in his tendons as he squeezes and shakes. “Fine house, you got.”

“A bit big for just me,” Laufeyson sighs as he's released and waves his hand at the facade behind him, “but I won't complain for it.”

“And you've got a wonderful house manager to deal with it all,” Ronan muses.

“Yes, I suppose,” he shrugs, “did you need a tour–”

“Got it,” Ronan interrupts, “I should start. Got a lot to do.”

“Of course, of course,” Laufeyson steps out of his way, “oh but there is this,’ he reaches into his jacket pocket, “the deposit.”

Ronan nods and takes the check with a swipe, “thanks.”

“I always pay for fine work,” Laufeyson intones with a certain lilt. You sense heat roiling between them but why, you can't guess.

“And I never deliver less,” Ronan folds the check with one hand and shoves it in a denim pocket, “I'll try not to make too much of a ruckus.”

They stare at each other as if in a wordless conversation. As the carpenter slowly steps past the resident, you find your voice.

“Thank you, Ronan,” you squeak after the man and he dips his hand, waving over his shoulder as he disappears down the path.

“Where did you find that man?” Laufeyson asks.

“Online? He had good reviews.”

“Mmm, you should've searched out a proper company, not some independent contractor.’

“Oh?” You frown.

“It's only… I've heard stories of swindlers,” he crosses his arms as he faces you completely.

“Sorry, I…”

“It is what it is. We shall see,” he dismisses your apology.

“Right, uh, I'll just… get back to work,” you turn towards the same path and Laufeyson's step echoes yours as he follows you swiftly.

“What are you doing? Where are you going?”

“Inside,” you utter dumbly.

“The door is that way,” he argues.

“Well, uh…” you stop and pivot around as he stumbles to a halt, “sure, I guess… it's a habit.”

“You may go through the front, you do much more than clean now, don't you, maid?”

You're not sure how to take the epithet. Is he reminding you of what you were or telling you what you'll always be? You don't reply. You'll just sound stupid. Your father taught you sometimes it's better to just bite your tongue.

You redirect to the front door as he stays on your tail. His shadow makes you want to shrink down to nothing as he looms close. You enter and he nearly collides with you as you remove your shoes.

You press on to the kitchen as he follows. As he resumes his place before his tea cup you go to the cupboard and search out the pitcher you saw the other day and a tall glass. While you fill the jug, he clucks.

“What are you doing?”

“I'll put some water on the patio in case he gets thirsty,” you pull away from the lever, “sorry, I… should've asked. I was just thinking–”

“No, no, you're right. We should be hospitable,”

You nod and push against the lever so the water pours out of the nozzle. When it's full, you find a tray and set it beside the single glass and add ice. Laufeyson taps his porcelain cup.

“Aren't you going to finish your tea?” He asks.

“Um,” you blink and peek back at the mug as you lift the tray, “sure, when I come back.”

You turn to leave, trying not to falter as his gaze tugs at you. You go to the patio door and stop balancing the tray against the side table. Before you can even try the door, Laufeyson sidles past to slide it back himself.

“There, wouldn't want a spill.”

“Er, thanks,” you don't look at him as you pass. He's being helpful. Too helpful.

You place the tray on the glass table and go back inside. You sweep through to the entryway and grab your shoes. Laufeyson once more tails you.

“Your tea,” he reminds you.

“I know, I'm just going to let Ronan know about the water…” you murmur.

You go outside before he can catch up. You descend the front stairs and follow the curve towards the rear path. Mr. Laufeyson’s silhouette disappears behind the hedges as you round the corner of the house and head down towards the gazebo.

Ronan is at the top of the stairs, he paces around, eyeing the railings and testing the stability of the columns with a firm grip. He tilts his head as you approach unnoticed. You stand just on the bottom step sheepishly.

“Um, excuse me, sir,” you pipe up.

“Yes,” he spins to face you, “miss, what can I do for you?”

“Oh, nothing, I just… I left some water on the patio,” you point over towards the house, “if you follow the path around, the stairs are just by the rose bushes.”

“Thanks,” he says, “that's very… sweet of you.”

“Uh, well, it's pretty hot out.”

“Used to it,” he says as he grabs a thick metal clipboard and scribbles with short pencil, “but it's appreciated. Always nice to work with someone competent.”

“I…” your cheeks ache to smile, you think it's a compliment, “thank you.”

“I'd hate to keep you,” he says as he sets the clipboard back on his bag, “your boss seems to be very… straight laced. I wouldn't want to tangle him up.”

“It's… um, yeah, if you need anything, I'll be around,” you offer, bobbing on your heels, “I'll have my phone, you could message me or ring the bell.”

“I think I'll be okay,” he chuckles, not mockingly but kindly, “go on, you're right, it's too hot to be out here in polyester.”

You look down at yourself, sweat beading along your hairline as if to confirm his warning, “yeah… erm, okay. Thanks.”

You shuffle off the step, balling your fists as you walk away with straight arms, fighting not to look back. That was awkward and strange. You can only think he'll be laughing again, this time at your expense.

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #dirty work #au #maid au #marvel #mcu #avengers #thor

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theladyragnell · 3 months ago

Note

Nervous embarrassment around them for Eponine and Cosette?

Éponine doesn’t rest any part of her identity on being cool. She takes a little pride, maybe, in the way Gavroche still seems to think she is even at the age when his guardian absolutely should not be cool, or in the way Marius calls her a badass and actually seems to mean it, but it doesn’t really matter because it’s not really true, or something she does on purpose. It’s all just bluster, she’s always known that, all her raised eyebrows and pointed silences, but people read it like she’s unbothered and too cool to acknowledge all the shit she has to deal with.

It’s still disconcerting, though, the way it all goes away the second she’s around Cosette.

Cosette, who looks like she should be a fucking TikTok influencer, too pretty to be real, but who’s too genuine to ever pull that off. Who volunteers, who bakes cookies and shares them around like she’s anxious to please her new friends, who ducks out of evening gatherings to call her father and wish him goodnight like it’s something she wants to do and not a weird obligation. Anything Éponine is, she’s pretty much the opposite, and with the history between them, she shouldn’t give Éponine the time of day, but she still does. One week of awkwardness when Marius introduced them and then she was fine, sought Éponine out to clear the air, and now Éponine gets cookies and offers to babysit and Cosette sitting next to her on the rare occasion she makes a meeting or a party.

And Éponine is completely unable to deal with any of it. Maybe it’s the guilt, from being the favored child when Cosette wasn’t. Maybe it’s that Cosette won’t let her apologize without getting this look on her face like she wants to say sorry too. Whatever it is, it glues Éponine’s tongue to the roof of her mouth whenever she tries talking to her.

“She is gorgeous,” says Marius when she complains, with the easy unself-consciousness of a man who pined over Cosette for a solid three months before Cosette apologetically told him she’s gay, another thing Éponine tries not to think about too closely. “So maybe that’s why you have trouble talking to her?”

“I don’t get like that with people I like,” says Éponine, to a guy who never once noticed how much she wanted him until her and Grantaire’s sadsack crush support group got her over him and got Grantaire to get off his ass and make a move.

“Yes, but it’s Cosette. She’s not like anybody else.”

She isn’t, and Éponine doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t know what Cosette wants her to do with that, when she sits down next to Éponine whenever there’s a free chair at her side and doesn’t mind when every word Éponine says is choked off and she fumbles her drinks and almost falls over when she makes the mistake of tipping her chair back.

Mentioning it to Marius is probably a mistake, because after that, he is way more inclined to call Cosette over and give his chair up to her, so Éponine is suddenly spending twice as much time with her, and the exposure therapy isn’t helping. Her only comfort is that her freezing up is way easier to deal with than if she shared Grantaire’s tendency for word vomit.

Cosette notices. Of course she does. She sees the way Éponine is with everyone else and the way Éponine is with her, and she gets this pinched little line between her brows like she’s getting all the wrong conclusions, but she still keeps seeking Éponine out, so maybe they aren’t all wrong. Or maybe she’s like Marius, going for exposure therapy, though Éponine still wonders why.

And she keeps choking and blushing and looking away, can’t help it, can’t keep her cool.

Cosette walks her home after a meeting, like that’s who Éponine is, like she lives down the street from the fifties sockhop, like Cosette’s not the one deserving of that kind of care, but she insists, and Éponine is tongue-tied, so Éponine doesn’t find a way to say no. And they walk, and Éponine feels stupidly like Cosette is carrying her nonexistent books, but Cosette is walking with her arms swinging easily, and Éponine has hers stuffed in her pockets, because Cosette is walking just close enough that their hands would brush if Éponine let hers swing too.

“It’s just me,” says Cosette at Éponine’s door, all earnest and sweet and ducking her head until Éponine is meeting her eyes squarely. “It’s just me, and I don’t want to scare you.”

Éponine has seen so much shit, and the idea of Cosette and her doe eyes scaring her should be laughable. But maybe, at the heart of it, that’s what this is. Cosette matters too much, deserves too much, for Éponine to feel okay fucking this up. “You’re not ‘just’ anything,” she says, and it comes out whispery and weak, but at least it comes out. “And that’s what’s scary.”

“Well,” Cosette smiles, and now she’s blushing a little, just faintly pink where the streetlights hit her, so at least Éponine isn’t alone in it. “Maybe we just … do this. Go slow. And it will get a little less scary for both of us. But there’s no rush, okay?”

Éponine manages to take her hand out of her pocket and put it on Cosette’s arms for a few seconds until she starts feeling stupid not being able to move in any closer and lets go. “Okay,” she says, and smiles stupidly in response to Cosette’s smile before she walks away and goes inside and feels just a little bit lighter.

In the end, maybe that’s better than being cool.

#wordmage girl #answered asks #sometimes i write stories #truly friends i am SO sorry this round of ficlets is going so slowly

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rollerska8er · 3 months ago

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On Transphobia as Cultural Imperialism

On 1 August 2024, Imane Khelif, an Algerian, and Angela Carini, an Italian, two Olympic women's boxers, fought a second-round boxing match. 46 seconds into the match, after two powerful blows from Khelif, the Italian withdrew from the match, reportedly exclaiming "It's not fair!" and complaining that she had never been hit so hard in her life.

Khelif is a cisgender woman with a build that reads, to many, as masculine. The international governing body for boxing, a corrupt organisation run by a Putin-backed wannabe Russian oligarch, had previously banned Khelif from participating in matches on the basis that genetic testing found that Khelif had XY chromosomes, indicating a possible intersex condition. To be intersex is a distinct thing from being transgender, but most people don't know or don't care to learn the difference.

What this precipitated has been well-documented. British right-wing television channel TalkTV called the fight "Domestic violence turning into spectator sport", while disgraced YouTuber Logan Paul called it "the purest form of evil". J. K. Rowling, posting a picture of Khelif placing a hand on Carini's shoulder in a show of good sportsmanship, accused Khelif of smirking and misgendered her as "a male who knows he's protected by a misogynist sporting establishment".

Khelif's father stated "My child is a girl. She was raised as a girl. She's a strong girl. I raised her to be hard-working and brave. She has a strong will to work and to train." After the end of the Olympic Games, Khelif immediately launched legal action against her critics.

Imane Khelif comes from Algeria, a former French colonial possession. It is pointed that she managed to win a gold medal in the heart of France.

Algeria is one of 63 countries around the world in which homosexuality is illegal, punishable by imprisonment and fines. Algerian law does not recognise the possibility of changing one's gender.

The accusations levelled against her by predominantly white Western commentators who hail from Britain and the United States, therefore, have a certain colonial edge to them. This is not to suggest that Algerian legal attitudes to homosexuality and transsexuality are morally defensible, far from it. But this debacle constitutes the projection of a specifically Western hatred - that is, transphobia in the guise of feminism and protecting lesbians - on to a person from a country that criminalises homosexuality and does not recognise transsexuality.

Transphobia of this kind is becoming a kind of colonial cudgel. The idea of men "dressing up as women" to overtake "real" women is a specifically Western concern, a reaction to increased visibility and accommodation for transgender and non-binary people. This anxiety operates within a specific cultural and political context, and one that is by no means global.

While it may apply in Italy, where homosexuality and transsexuality are recognised, It does not apply at all in Algeria, for example.

Rowling, Paul, and various other blustering commentators saw a woman with a masculine build fight another woman, and concluded that this woman was a male infiltrator who had somehow made it to the Olympics.

This is not to say that the treatment of Khelif would have been acceptable if she had been transgender. Far from it. But this mass-libelling was both transmisogynist and colonialist: transmisogynist because it relied on hateful tropes about trans women, and colonialist because it removed Khelif from her ethnocultural context and placed her in a Western context that did not and could not apply to her. She was expected to fit the norms of Western society, and she was publically harangued for it.

This has happened before, of course. Caster Semenya, a South African middle-distance runner found to have the intersex condition 5α-Reductase 2 deficiency, was banned from many athletics events due to the "unfair advantage" conferred upon her by her naturally higher testosterone levels, and continues to fight court battles to let her run.

(The argument has become cliché at this point, but Michael Phelps, a man with various bodily mutations which happen to make him an exceptionally good swimmer, has never been asked to return even one of his twenty-eight Olympic medals.)

Transphobia of the kind that is now popular across the political spectrum in the Western world has become a tool for a pernicious kind of cultural imperialism that is, quite simply, fascist. It stems from a colonial, white supremacist, hegemonic mindset, which insists that the Western world has the purest ethics, and everyone in the world must be held to such standards.

I am not a moral relativist. I do not believe that queer, trans and intersex liberation only works for some cultures. I believe in and support queer, trans and intersex liberation worldwide.

But by the same token, I do not believe that Americans and Britons should be allowed to demand that everyone in the world is an American or a Briton, to be treated like an American or a Briton. I do not believe that the collective white saviour complex of Western liberal democracy and capitalism will liberate queers, trans and intersex people.

And I certainly believe that the mass-crybullying of athletes who happen to excel at what they do on the basis of pseudo-feminist white woman pearlclutching can and should be called out for what it is: cultural imperialism.

It is the white Western world demanding that the entire world be brought to heel.

We must reject this, and we must not fool ourselves into believing this is mere idiocy. Mere idiocy is one thing. Trying to ruin a person's life because you assume every muscular, square-jawed woman is a secret man in disguise, because you're Oh So Fucking Feminist And Just Trying To Protect Women And Girls From Disgusting Violent Men is, quite simply, fascist crybullying.

Accept no excuses or apologies from these wheedling maggots. They want everyone who is not like them dead.

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natsuki208 · 2 months ago

Text

Seeking Warmth ❤️‍🔥

After a long night of snow training, Marco gets very cold and needs to warm up. Jean sneaks him out to the main room and builds a fireplace for both of them to keep warm.

———

“Brrr, it’s freezing out here.”

The young freckled boy struggling to carry his supplies on his back thinks aloud to himself. This has to be the coldest day of the 104th snow training yet.

But he isn’t the only one who’s having a hard time coping with the cold, everyone else in front and behind too. In fact, some have to be dragged along in the snow by rope after falling unconscious, which will make the journey back to camp go a bit longer. The young teens are very tired, and very hungry, especially the ponytail girl with her stomach growling like a beast.

Fortunately, they all managed to return to their cabins much sooner than they figured. The instructors informed them all the have a well-deserved rest while they unlock the cabin doors. Seven of the exhausted teens huddle together for desperate warmth, and to think back on their trip.

The icy winds howls louder over their conversations, while snowflakes flurry from the sky and onto their already cold cheeks. It’s certainly not a pleasant experience for young teens such as them to trample through, but for upcoming material for soldiers, they have little no choice - for what they’re training for will be undoubtedly worse.

“About time, I can barely feel my legs.” The light brown-haired Jean complains on the snowy ground.

“None of us can, dude.” The bald kid Connie quips back at him. “Well, maybe Mikasa is still feeling like herself.”

Glancing over at the concerned Mikasa checking on both Eren and Armin’s health, even if Eren tells her not to, is the clearest sign. Yup, aside from her, these guys and girls are not themselves tonight. All they want is a good meal and to warm up.

“I just want something to eeeaat.” Sasha whines as her stomach growls even louder.

“Just hang in there, Sasha…. it will only be another minute.”

Jean looks up after hearing that weird pause from Marco. The boy’s been breathing into his gloves, rubbing them together to attempt to keep his face warm. Now this wouldn’t be bad or unusual since a lot of them are currently doing this, but what is putting Jean off is the ashamed look in his eyes and frown. Sure it’s hard to feel anything positive while freezing but it still doesn’t feel like Marco at all to him.

Not until Jean begins to stand up, quite shakily, is when the bell rings for the chilly cadets to come inside the cabins for the night. Everyone sighs in relief and head on in, in groups or one by one, which Marco does so Jean doesn’t get his chance to question his friend straight away.

The last meals of the day were served, the bell rang once again to acknowledge bedtime for all cadets, and so they all obeyed nicely and checked out for the night. Boys and girls sleep in separate rooms from each other but not enough for them all to sleep separately - this of course leads to having roommates like back in the main training grounds.

All should be sleeping soundly, however, this year’s winter is undoubtedly the harshest one on record. For the past few days, heavy snow and wind have been blustering non-stop, with howls like a wolf pack, and the strength of titans trying to bury them in the snowstorm. The wood the cabins are made of may be strong enough to stay on, ground but not enough to keep the bitter cold out.

Poor, tired teens are left to shiver under mid-thin sheets every night. It got so bad that the instructors had to travel back down mountain for extra warmth like firewood and blankets, which is very helpful but also very limited. Many of the cadets had to take turns using both and sadly, led to the instructors having to take control of choosing after endless arguing.

This night, no where near as calm as previous nights, had to be the final straw for the restless Jean Kirstein.

Just barely audible under the gusting wind, are the sounds of chattering and whimpering on the bed next to him. Jean tosses over to his side to hear them closer, and to see how badly his roomie is taking it - which is very badly.

He’s never seen Marco in this state before; from the redness on his nose and cheeks, to the saddening frown shaking away. His whole body is shaking under the sheets too, and it really puts a sour taste in Jean’s stomach more so than the cheap supper he had. But just when Jean can even think about daring whoever has the thicker blankets tonight and take ‘em back here, he thought of an even better plan.

Slowly creeping out of bed, he tip-toes along the creaky floor as to not disturb Marco any further. The cold air surrounding him is no different from how it felt under his sheets, but it doesn’t stop his arms from shivering. One shivering arm reaches for Marco’s shoulder and as he gently places his hand, could lightly shake it but the freckled boy already senses Jean’s presence.

“Jean…” He whispers.

The boy jumps in slight surprise. “M-Marco… are you awake?”

Marco nods while opening those tired brown eyes of his, he roughly looks like he’s about to cry. “Can’t sleep.”

This is definitely more serious than Jean thought, or he likes to take it that way, to make his planned actions more justifiable. He reaches down a hand for Marco to hold and the boy accepts immediately. It feels closer to an icicle which upsets Jean more. Before Marco can say anything, Jean practically and slowly pulls Marco up from the mattress until he’s sitting up.

“Come on.” Jean informs quietly. “I have an idea.”

“W-What? Jean, we’re not suppose to go out of our rooms this late-”

“Look. Do you want to freeze to death or not?”

A pause occurs, Marco looks sad again, and Jean feels inner regret for that small burst out. It doesn’t take long fortunately for Marco to visually respond with standing up and keeping his grip on his friend’s hand. Jean understands this gesture so the two now quietly step across the wooden floors, Marco staying close as possible, and soon they are outside in the eerie hallway - nothing but the wind howling outside.

Everyone in the cabin, including the instructors themselves, have all hit the hay for the night, but Jean and his freckled companion are still hesitant to enter the main room at first. The former takes the lead with reaching for the handle to open the door, slowly creaking it open, only to see nothing but empty furniture inside. With permission, Marco walks slowly to sit down on the floor while Jean searches for the firewood.

“I found some over here.” He says, picking up about four or five logs and throws them in the fireplace (quietly of course).

“I’ll lend you a hand.” Marco replies.

It’s a good thing these were taught a lot about building a fire from their hiking training in the forest; after rubbing some sticks together they manage somehow to start up the fire. It begins small, but it feels much nicer than the plain cold room they’re stuck in. A few more minutes pass and the fire gets bigger and brighter enough to fit the fireplace. It glows of orange, shines with brightness and of course, spreads the warmth throughout the room.

Marco feels almost better already, so does Jean, as they shift to get a little closer. They rub their hands together and sigh in relief, it feels like forever since they experience proper heating like this. The smile on Marco’s face catches Jean’s eye, forming a small yet comforting smile of his own.

“Ain’t this much better, huh?” He states while the smile forms into a smirk.

Marco only nods. The smirk on his friend fades away.

“You know…” Jean cannot take holding back the beans any longer. “I couldn’t stand seeing you freezing like that, it’s news to me to see how vulnerable you can be. So I had to do this.”

“I… wouldn’t say I’m vulnerable.” The freckled boy returns with his piece. “I’m just not use to the cold such as this.”

“But you’re from Jinae, I heard that it gets very cold with it being like a small farmland of sorts - at least that’s what I heard.”

“Y-Yeah. But usually in the winter, my little sister and I would huddle by a fire like this with my mother’s quilt. Sometimes we’d stay there the whole night.”

The happy chuckles from reminiscing along with the fire’s glow shining on his freckled cheeks is a sight to behold - it makes Jean blush a little.

“My mother is really good at sewing. She eventually made quilts for both of us for the winter.”

That surely brings flashbacks to Jean too. The light brown-haired boy glances back at the fire and remembers various winters with a similar scenario with his parents, all pleasant and inviting. Jean mutters with a smile.

“My mom is like that too…”

“Hmm? You said something?”

Jean snaps back and looks away. “Nothing!”

Quiet is shared between the boys now, a flustered Jean won’t turn back to face his friend, just leaving Marco to find comfort with the fireplace. Although it’s nice, there’s something pinning in his chest. A little birdie is telling him to not leave things as they are, after all, Jean did this for him so he should give back in return.

He gulps a little as his hand shifts towards Jean’s. “Hey, uh… Jean?”

Jean doesn’t verbally respond but slowly looks back.

“Would you mind if you sit a little closer?” The blush can’t be notice as it blends in with the glow of the fire.

Jean thinks for a split second, yet he does so anyway. “Sure.”

The two of them are just close enough for their shoulders to touch, and Jean unintentionally puts his hand on top of Marco’s. Even though he quickly notices, he can’t find himself to pull it away, only to stare down in embarrassment. He worries for what Marco will think but quicker than a snowflake in the storm, the freckled boy rests his head on Jean’s shoulder. This catches him off guard and his eyes widen with surprise. Next thing he knows is the Marco closes his eyes peacefully too.

“Hey, wh-what-” hesitant to say something that can come out rude, he zips his mouth for a bit to think first.

The more he stares at Marco, the more relax he feels. To have his close friend like this, even more physically closer, and to feel his warmed-up hand intertwined their fingers together gently is all that he needs to tell him to not move. Jean begins to lean his head down too, on top of Marco’s head, his eyes slowly droop while still on Marco’s smile. Before he can drift away, he mentions some things:

“What will the others say?”

“Mmm… it’ll be alright, Jean. They’ll understand.”

“Can we at least… get the blanket?”

“No thanks… this is enough.”

No more words are shared, just the soft sounds of breathing. Not even the gusts of the heavy snow outside was enough to keep them from snoozing. There they stayed, throughout the rest of the frosty night, cuddled and embraced into each other’s warmth.

They feel at home.

——————————————————————————

Thank you to @lying-on-floors for inspiring me to write JM again. ^^

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #aot #snk #jeanmarco #jean kirstein #marco bodt #canonverse #one shot #my fanfiction #fluff

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 12 days ago

Text

The Worst Part | The Best Thing

Hihi!!!! I just started watching Merlin and was reminded of your merlin/SaSi crossover fic with Virgil and Janus? (which I do not remember the name of but enjoyed a lot even without context haha) I was wondering if you'd ever consider writing more of/a sequel to that fic? If you want to of course. - Ro

Read on Ao3 Part 1

Warnings: panic attack

Pairings: anxceit

Word Count: 2508

Janus knows Virgil has magic. He just needs to figure out what to do now.

Janus sighs, glancing up over the edge of the sheaf of paper propped in front of him to see Virgil puttering around with the last of his armor, ostensibly making sure his servant is putting things back where they're supposed to go. Really, if he stares at this speech one more time, he might go insane, and then Virgil would be the one to deal with whatever consequences that action would incur so really, he's just saving him more work in the long run. How generous of him.

Virgil. Virgil, Virgil, Virgil.

When his father forced him to pick a manservant and he avoided it for as long as he could, he had a fleeting thought that perhaps he'd be allowed to just skate by without picking one. But no, instead he'd had a truly entertaining—in hindsight, and he would only admit so in his head—fight with a peasant boy in the middle of the market one morning and then the absolute fool had managed to save his life the very next day and the King decided that, well, the universe must have spoken. Neither of them had been content at the arrangement at first, but now, well…

They've gotten used to it, let's say.

Virgil is not a typical servant. He shows almost no regard for any sort of formality or propriety—unless he's doing it on purpose to make a point, in which case he's pointing out how much disdain he really has for it—he knows almost nothing about Camelot's traditions or anything to do with how the manservant to a royal should be behaving, and he acts as though everything he's doing is only because he wants to be doing it, not because he has to do it.

Virgil is also, without a doubt, the most loyal and stupidly self-sacrificing person Janus has ever met. He throws himself in front of swords like he's wearing the most indestructible armor. He shoves himself between anyone he perceives as helpless—or in need of help—and danger at the slightest notice. He talks back to everyone, even the King when he thinks it's warranted, standing up for everyone from the lowest servants to Janus himself. For all his bluster about being upset about being stuck with Janus for the rest of this life and possibly the next, he never truly complains about what he does to actually care for him.

Janus…doesn't know what to do with that.

Had this been before the days of waking up to things thrown at him and snarky remarks tossed back and forth, he might have laughed and said that was a servant's duty. But he's known Virgil now, for years, and it's more than that. Fine, perhaps some of his points—or lectures, as they inevitably turn out to be—about servants being people to have eventually rubbed off on him, but even so, Virgil goes so far beyond what could possibly be conceived of as regular duty that it's nearly astonishing. He's never had someone care about him like this before. Not his father, who only sees him as the heir to the throne, not the other knights, who saw him as a friend—maybe, however fleeting that might have been—and then as their commander, not even the other nobles, who hold him at arm's length. No, Virgil had decided somehow that he was going to be Janus's friend, and he hasn't wavered on that decision. Not in all the time Janus has known him.

Not even with the fact that he's a sorcerer.

Yes, Janus knows. He's not blind nor stupid. He knows that branches don't just decide to swing for no reason, he knows swords don't pick themselves up and impale the nearest bandit when his back is turned, he knows dust storms don't whip up out of nowhere to distract a crowd of people just because the wind has decided to be convenient. And he's not deaf either—he can hear those mumbled things Virgil says right before his eyes flash gold—if it wasn't far more dangerous for Janus to admit he knows, he would be scolding him left and right for being so stupidly obvious about it.

But he knows why Virgil hasn't told him.

He's not that cruel or unaware to realize the difference between them is far more than just class and station. He's protected in so many ways that Virgil could never hope to be—at least not right now. Poor Virgil is terribly alone here, not just because his family is a kingdom away, but because there…isn't really anyone who can help him. Not the physician, not any of his friends, not even Janus, as much as he pains to admit it. Magic is illegal in Camelot. The punishment for sorcery is death. Janus could no sooner sentence Virgil to death than throw himself on the pyre.

Virgil might be careless with his own life, but Janus absolutely will not be.

Which is why he's watching him right now, just to make sure the fool doesn't try to do something like use magic to cheat at his chores right in front of Janus while he thinks he isn't paying attention. He's gotten a little bit smarter about it—just a little, this is still Virgil he's talking about—but still, he doesn't put it past his idiot to do something stupid the minute he lets his guard down.

That's another interesting development that he hasn't thought too much about. Since when has he started thinking of Virgil as his idiot?

Sure, technically the whole manservant thing makes Virgil his in all but blood, but that's not the same thing. Virgil has this very annoying independent streak, almost like a cat, and if he didn't want to be tamed at all, well, he wouldn't let himself be. But in the same way that Janus has found himself growing softer, more forgiving, more human since Virgil, Virgil's been letting Janus actually see him more. Sure, the idiot's still an idiot who sometimes spouts the most unique pearl of wisdom he's ever heard, but he's growing more and more into his idiot and the slope is getting more and more slippery by the day.

"You've been quiet for too long, what's wrong?"

Janus gives himself a shake. Virgil's staring at him from the other side of the bed now. "What?"

"You've been staring at me without saying anything."

"I'm not staring at you, I'm staring into space."

"Oh, well, then why are you staring into space?"

"I'm thinking."

"You know how bad that is for you."

Janus balls up a sheet of paper and throws it at him. Virgil dodges it effortlessly and looks down with disdain.

"Now you're giving me more work!"

"It's a single piece of paper, are you truly so lazy that picking up a singular piece of paper is an insurmountable workload?"

"I'll show you insurmountable workload," Virgil mutters under his breath as he stoops to pick up the paper. Conveniently, he moves out of the way of the mirror, which enables Janus to see the stupid, fond smile on his face and he quickly schools his expression into one of annoyance. "How's the speech coming?"

"Why, eager to read it for me?"

"Eager to see if the steward's been having any luck getting you to actually make a point instead of blustering on for two rolls of parchment."

"I'll have you know I've been a bench marker for eloquence for years."

"Yeah, I forgot that they need to make measurements for the low end too."

"Oh, like you'd be able to do better? You roll your eyes at every bard that comes into the great hall to perform."

"Yeah, 'cause they're all suck-ups who glorify things that don't need to be glorified or money-grubbers that try to turn a profit off of the human art of storytelling. I don't scoff at real bards who actually know what they're doing."

Janus blinks. "We've had every single famous bard this side of—"

"You know they're the ones who decide who's famous enough to be a royal bard, don't you? You and all the other royals, who end up picking the bards that are the nicest to them and not the ones that actually have any sort of reliable talent."

Silently, Janus might concede that point. Half of the bards they've had recently are shoddy musicians at best. Out loud, however, he says, "you can just admit you've never had a penchant for music."

"I like music!"

"You like bawdy tavern songs that you can sing while drunk, that's not the same as liking music."

Virgil's ears turn red and he disappears into a flood of furious muttering as he busies himself with another chore. Ah, yes, the tavern. The greatest lie the two of them tell regularly and the one that Janus is going to poke at until Virgil admits he doesn't so much as know where the tavern is. He's not sure why the physician is truly so abysmal at lying—well, yes, he does—but he does know that Virgil is a lot of things, but a drunkard isn't one of them.

Still, perhaps it affords Virgil some cover. If the rest of court believes his manservant to be a drunken fool, then Virgil can get away with mouthing off and talking back the amount he does for it'll be dismissed as the ramblings of a sloshed idiot. And for that, well, Janus is happy to play along.

"Seriously, is everything alright?" He blinks to see Virgil's staring at him again, concern naked on his face. "You've not been—you're—what's wrong?"

"How eloquent of you."

"Janus."

What he should say is something like I'm allowed to think in the privacy of my own chambers. Or it's adorable that you care so much about me. Or don't you have chores to do?

What he absolutely, positively should not say is: "I know you have magic."

But that's what comes out of his mouth, and he watches Virgil turn white so quickly it's like he's turning into a ghost right in front of him. He stands quickly, worried Virgil's about to faint, only to cry out when Virgil drops the basket and bolts.

"Virgil!"

He manages to catch him just before he makes it to the door, arms wrapped around his torso, but Virgil flails and thrashes like a gasping fish and Janus grunts when fists manage to hit his ribs. Virgil not trying to hurt him, he realizes with no small amount of relief, he's just trying to get away, but Janus can't let him. Not until he fixes this. He ends up wrestling him down—which is much harder than he'd anticipated—and all but pinning him to the floor.

"Virgil! Virgil," he calls, trying frantically to get Virgil to just look at him, "Virgil, calm down, it's okay, it's alright, I'm not angry."

Virgil's eyes are so wide he's worried they'll fall right out of his head. His breath is coming in short, sharp pants. He's nearly frothing at the mouth.

"Sweetie," Janus murmurs, "sweetie, it's okay. It's okay, I promise. Shh, shh, you need to breathe, sweetie, shh…"

"J—Janus—Janus—I—I—"

"Hush, sweetie, shh, it's okay—I'm sorry, I shouldn't have sprung it on you like that, shh, don't fight me, don't fight me, you're going to hurt yourself." He squeezes Virgil's wrists, leans down to press their foreheads together. "I'm sorry, don't be so afraid, please, just—just calm down."

Virgil is not calming down. He's crying now, which is worse, so much worse, and Janus can't help but wrap him up in his arms and pull him close, head sobbing into the crook of his neck and his whole body shaking. Gods, Virgil's shaking, he must be so afraid…

No wonder. He's just had a secret that could get him killed revealed by one of the people responsible for upholding the laws that say so. He closes his eyes and tucks Virgil into the lea of him.

"Don't fret," he whispers, "don't fret, I'm not going to turn you in, I'm not going to arrest you, I'm not going to execute you. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, sweetie, I didn't mean to frighten you. You're right, you're always right when it comes to be not thinking before I do things. I'm sorry."

"No fire," Virgil pleads, "no fire, you can—you can do it any other way, just please—"

"I'm not going to have you killed, you fool," he says in a rush, his own chest twisting at the mere thought of it, "you're not going anywhere. I forbid it."

That, more than anything, seems to cut through the worst of Virgil's panic. He pulls back just enough to let Virgil look at him, see that he's telling the truth, before his eyes well up with a different sort of tears and he's letting out a comforting noise before he realizes it.

"Oh, you poor thing," he whispers, pulling him back in for a proper cuddle, "don't worry, I'm not about to let you get hurt. It's alright."

"It's—it's for you," comes the hoarse response, "my magic, it's only—it's only for you."

"You fool," he murmurs, affection lacing every word, "what about you?"

"You—you're always saying I should trust—should trust you to take care of me—"

Janus squeezes him tighter. "Of course I'll take care of you, you stupid idiot. That's my job. Oh, Virgil, I'm so sorry…we'll repeal the ban on magic, I swear it."

Now Virgil well and truly sobs, this time out of relief, and Janus can't help the smile spreading across his face as Virgil goes limp in his arms. He closes his eyes and soaks in the relief of it himself, of having Virgil heavy and secure in his arms, of having him trust him enough to hold him like this, his idiot sorcerer of a manservant who somehow tricked his way into becoming the most important person in Janus's life.

At some point, they'll get up off the floor, Virgil will go to bring them dinner—because he's going to make Virgil eat, that fool doesn't eat nearly enough as he should if Janus can feel his ribs right now—and Janus is going to start drafting repeals on magic bans. They're going to tease each other, make fun of each other, and piss off his father so much he might rise from the dead about it. And then, when Virgil is safe, they're going to have a long conversation about other things too.

For now, Janus is going to sit here and hold his idiot while he cries and make sure that he never doubts how much Janus will do to take care of him. Can't have himself one-upped by an idiot, can he?

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