#but beyond that i just.. don’t know. i’m going to go with bland trousers and black long sleeved t-shirt i think | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

eeveedel · 4 years

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Before I go to bed -- a GOD TIER drabble @nevergoingbacknowshine sent me today inspired by the chubby actor au 🥰🥰

Surprise :) for Del & the chubby friday fans :)

—-

Indulging in the Actor Louis AU - PT. 1

—-

Louis had a few fun things lined up for the next two days whilst Harry attended meetings with the rest of his fashion team in LA, it was rare he ever got to spend time alone unless it was being on set and away from home. Harry and Louis were always harryandlouis, and the entire world knew that.

What they didn’t know, was everything Louis did to rile Harry up whilst he was home alone. Or, just what the pair did in general.

“Hollywood’s fittest couple” hung in the balance as Louis had to lose weight for another role that required him to be slim and fit and run miles on end without breaking a sweat, and it was tiring Louis out. Granted, he decided he would never again reach his old physique of pure muscle, even for a role, because it didn’t make him happy anymore. The morning workouts, the constant bland food, tracking every calorie and macro was boring Louis to death - especially after having to gain 30 pounds for the previous role he just played.

So here he was, a weekend away from set, laying on the couch and stuffing his face with whatever he damn well pleased. In 20 minutes he decided he would get in the bath and indulge in some champagne with the silence of the house as his company before him and Harry had their facetime call later that night. Harry knew Louis was off this weekend and was sad he couldn’t reschedule his meetings to spend time with him, but they never missed a single day without wishing each other a good night over video call, no matter what time zone they happened to be in.

Louis had ordered just about everything his heart had been craving over the last two weeks he’d spent on set, hopelessly eating kale salads, green smoothies (that Harry would probably enjoy), and no meat in sight besides plain grilled chicken.

On the table in front of him now sat three large fries and a twenty piece chicken nugget from mcdonalds, two burgers from five guys, and a milkshake from shake shack - all of which arrived only about 5 minutes ago to the door of their California home, and Louis would be damned if he didn’t take this opportunity to make Harry wish he could teleport to their front door too.

Snapping a photograph of the impressive spread, Louis sent it away to the iphone of his husband all the way in some stuffy LA meeting space, while he began enjoying his meal like it was the last good one he would have for a while.

Not 10 minutes later when Louis was putting a burger wrapper and the first empty french fry container in the bag to be tossed when he was finished, his phone started buzzing like mad on the table before him.

H: “Are you kidding me Louis, I don’t even get to be there :(“

H: “The ONE WEEKEND I don’t get to spend with you and I can’t be there encouraging you?”

H: “Take it easy though, you have to be back on set in a few days, wouldn’t want you to get in trouble with the director for having a puffy face from the salt”

H: “this is an important meeting and here you are, ruining my thought process.”

H: “i’m kidding, i love you”

H: “but still.”

Louis couldn’t help but chuckle, he was going to leave Harry on read until he finished all of this food, just because he knows Harry will be losing his mind knowing that Louis was too preoccupied to answer right away.

And, when the phone started vibrating again, Louis knew he was right.

H: “too busy stuffing your face to answer me I see :(“

H: “you know, it’s not very nice of you to torture me when I’m 4 hours away.”

H: “loooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuubear”

Instead of answering, Louis sent him a picture of the now two empty french fry containers and both burger wrappers in the trash bag, hoping Harry would catch the hint.

H: “god damn it Louis William Tomlinson.”

With that, Louis kept eating, until everything was finished and he was struggling to suck down the rest of his vanilla milkshake.

When it was finished Louis’ belly ached from the amount of food it wasn’t as accustomed to anymore, and as he sat practically sedated on the couch, he got an idea.

He gave himself a few more minutes before picking up his feet and walking to the master bedroom, hand on his belly the entire way there, where he decided to take out one of his lace bodysuits.

Stripping out of his boxers and t-shirt, he slipped the soft lace on gently trying not to jostle his belly in the process, loving the way the lace scraped at his stretch marked skin while he pulled it on.

He glanced in the mirror and he lifted his arms to tie the top around his neck, noticing how his stomach was round and bloated from all the food packed into it.

Carefully, Louis laid on the bed after propping his phone up at the right angle, setting the timer, and beginning to pose for each shutter of the camera. This was going to drive Harry absolutely mad.

5 minutes later, after choosing and sending an appropriate photo captioned “babe my belly hurts :(“, Louis’ phone was again buzzing wildly.

H: “LOUIS I SWEAR TO GOD.”

H: “I’M IN A MEETING.”

H: “you know what”

H: “I hope it does, you did this to yourself whilst I wasn’t able to be there.”

Louis didn’t like the tone of that last text, so he sent another picture of just his hand resting on his belly for good measure, giggling like a madman after this time captioning it “do you think this body suit looks a little loose?”

H: “I think when I get home that body suit is going to be ruined.” Was the only reply Louis got before Harry put his phone on silent and buried it in his bag, hoping to feign innocence when he could feel his half hard on pressing against the zipper of his trousers.

Louis was a giggling mess as he rolled onto his back, continuing to rub his poor belly.

—-

It wasn’t an hour later when Louis was peacefully laying in the bathtub, still petting at his rounded tummy and sipping on some red wine that the doorbell rang a few times.

After about the fifth ring, Louis pulled himself out of the bath mumbling about who the hell could be visiting them today of all days, tying his bathrobe around his dripping body as he made his way down the staircase to the front door.

When he opened the door, he knew exactly who was to blame.

“Door dash, order for Louis Tomlinson.” The teenager looked less than enthused as he handed a large pizza and a small box of cupcakes over to Louis.

“Um…thank you” Louis said, taking the boxes before the teenager turned around to get back into his car.

L: “I can’t believe you”

L: “if you think I won’t finish all of this…”

Louis began walking back up to their master bath, setting the food down on the bed.

H: “facetime call in 30 minutes when I get to my hotel room.”

——

By the time 15 minutes flew past, Louis had already decided not to wait for Harry.

He knew what Harry would be expecting him to eat, so….he just decided to have something different so Harry wouldn’t know he had eaten more before their call.

Logic, right?

Wrong. Because after Louis had finished his fifth king size chocolate bar in the bath tub, his belly was not too happy with him and his choices.

He lifted himself out of the tub gently, his belly making angry noises at the movements. Louis stifled a burp into his palm begging for room to be made inside his tummy or Harry would know something was up.

No such luck when only a small air bubble was shifted, making him feel even more uncomfortable.

He was going to have to play pretend.

Trudging to the bed to lay down for a few minutes, Louis hoped the food would shift around even a little bit to make room for what he was sure Harry would expect him to eat on the call. He reached his hand down to grip the swell of his bloated belly, angry with his decision to play this game.

When his Skype began ringing a few minutes later he had picked out a soft set of lace to lay down in front of the camera for his husband. He laid on his side, his head propped up on one hand that was propped by his elbow on the soft comforter, and pressed the answer button.

“Hey sweetie, I missed you so-“ Harry stopped when he realized what he was looking at and Louis smirked in pleasure as he ran his hand over his belly.

“You…I haven’t been gone more than 24 and you look like you’ve put on weight Louis.” Harry blurted out not thinking.

“Well, they do say the camera adds 10 pounds so…” Louis said, picking up a cupcake to lick the icing off from the meal Harry had ordered for him. His belly gurgled softly in protest, knowing it would soon be packed beyond repair.

“I…I….Mhm.” Harry stuttered out as he watched Louis lick the white frosting off the cupcake, acting like he’d never experienced something like this before.

“Stunned to silence huh? Over a little lace? Surely you’re not a virgin we know this.” Louis laughed gently, his belly pushing forward a little more as he took a deep breath in preparation.

“Sorry sorry sorry, just…fuck I wish I was with you Lou you look…really fucking good. So fucking fit.” Harry blushed a deeper shade of red as he went to rest his head in his hands to watch.

“Fit? Hmmm….yeah if you say so. Wouldn’t use that term but..” Louis slapped his belly, helping to move the air enough for him to finally burp effectively, he was gonna need more room for this food if he was going to trick Harry - and he wanted nothing more than to see Harry’s face when he finished this.

“Not like I’ll be running a few miles anytime soon yeah?” Louis said with a smirk as he took a bite out of the frosting-Less cupcake.

“We may live in America currently but you know what I mean when I say fit Louis” Harry deadpanned at his husband’s joke, even if the joke did make his dick twitch in interest. He wasn’t going to make Louis run or anything, maybe…maybe he’d have him top, just to tease him. Louis loved a good teasing.

“Yeah yeah, I know, tell me about your day sweetheart while I finish this for you.” Louis smiled as he picked up another cupcake, Harry detailing his slew of fashion meetings for the upcoming spring season - all the types of fabrics and colors that were projected to be on trend that Harry wanted to be ahead of.

“And of course they chose this shade of violet that was just…ridiculous Louis you should’ve seen it I -“ Harry stopped off as Louis interrupted him stifling another burp into his palm.

“You’re really struggling through this one babe?” Harry asked with interest laced in his tone. Louis had only had the two cupcakes and three slices of pizza, he wasn’t anywhere near finished and usually he would be plowing through a meal this simple.

He so wished he could be there to force the food into a tied up Louis’ mouth.

“Mmmm I, yeah, I guess I am.” Louis set the cupcake he was working on down and rolled onto his back, rubbing his distended belly that was on full display for Harry and the camera, groaning as the food shifted around in his tummy.

“Harrrrryyyyyy, my belly hurts” Louis whined as his right hand joined his left on top of his belly, slowly moving lower to knead the pudge below his belly button.

“Louis…god, what did….what did you even eat today? Did you eat again before this call?” Harry’s interest was peaking, his dick hard as he questioned why Louis’ stomach was so round and firm, the pressure of all the food packed so tightly in his belly making the older boy groan.

“N-no I wouldn’t, you wanted me to wait for you.” Louis cheeks were giving his lies away as they became a cute shade of pink.

“Louis, tell me the truth. There is no way you’re this full from this meal - I’ve seen you eat far more in less time with an embarrassing amount of ease.” Harry huffed, Louis had to be lying.

“Embarrassing? I take pride in that, you know. I worked hard to be able to eat so much in such a little time.” Louis glared at the computer screen as his left house pinched at his lower belly for emphasis.

“I take pride in it too, after all, you are bursting with my love. Now be honest and tell me what you ate.” Harry said, voice firm. He was not playing games if he couldn’t be there to absolutely wreck his boy.

“Mmmmm, Harry” Louis frowned as his belly made a very loud unhappy noise, moving his hand to pat his upper belly as if apologizing to it.

Harry stayed silent as he waited for his answer.

“Fine, yes, I ate candy. A lot of candy.” Louis huffed as he rolled back onto his side gently, cradling his belly as a pregnant woman would.

“Hmm, why did you lie?” Harry mused, entertained by Louis having to eat before their Skype call.

“Because I wanted to be able to do this, eat all this food, and then tell you I got hungry before hand and ate even more.” Louis poutted, looking directly into the camera.

“Well, looks like this is going to be a very long Skype call. Because you’re going to eat, all of this.” Harry’s tone was not to be played with.

“Can I…can I wait for just a few more minutes? My belly is so tight Harry, please.” Louis stifled yet another burp into his palm, finally the food beginning to digest.

“A few minutes honey, then you’re going to finish the pizza. The cupcakes can wait.” Harry took pity on his husband, knowing Louis was much better as finishing stuffings when he was physically there to help.

“Okay okay, yeah, a couple minutes.” Louis rolled back onto his back, patting his tummy. “Maybe….maybe it’s not the camera that adds 10 pounds” Louis chuckled at his previous joke.

“I knew you looked bigger than you did, you bastard. Your belly does look really tight baby boy, wish I could be there to help” Harry frowned. He missed Louis’ soft skin, running his fingers up and down his curves, patting his belly from behind. Even if it had only been a day since he had left.

“Yeah, don’t know what I weigh right now” Louis jiggled his belly, what he could with it being so full. “That’s your job” He looked into the camera at Harry with a smile.

“What I do know is that I haven’t stopped eating since you left, genuinely. We’re definitely going to have to go shopping when you come home, I might clean the house out.” Louis giggled a little bit at that.

“Hmmmm, my baby boy has been hungry lately hasn’t he? We can certainly buy whatever you’d like when I come back.” Harry smiled brightly, always happy for Louis’ appetite to be growing with him.

#chubby 1d #chubby actor #submission #I'm hoarding her og submission in my inbox #so I can read it easily rip #I'm obsessed

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lu-undy · 4 years

Note

I got a request, maybe sniper and spy decide to go on a double date with heavy and medic?

Here we go! It starts as a double date but turns into just Sniper and Spy (sorry I can’t write other ships, it just feels weird to me! ^^). But, to compensate, I tried to have a bit of an emotional one here so I hope you’ll get the “feels” as the cool kids say!

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in."

"Are you ready - ah, yes, you are." Heavy entered Spy's suite. He found him putting on his coat.

"So are you, I see."

They both eyed each other and noticed how different they looked from when they wore their Mann Co. uniforms. Spy had put on a dark red suit with an assorted bowtie and white varnished shoes. He looked like a fish in a pond next to Heavy who had put on a tuxedo for the occasion but was visibly not as comfortable as his colleague.

"Do I have my car keys…? Oui, right, let us go." And they exited the flat to soon find themselves in Spy's bright red Italian car.

Of course, the Frenchman was driving. He put the key in and made the engine roar a sound that was only produced on dream cars, a rumbling worth more money than Heavy had ever spent.

"C'mon doc', we'll be late!"

"Ja, just a minute!"

And Medic proved to hold his word as a minute later, he emerged from his quarters, wearing a suit with a bowtie too. However, Sniper had just changed for non-Mann Co. clothing.

"Bugger… Do I need to put on a suit for that?" He asked.

"As you wish, although I'm sure Spy will show up with one." Medic answered.

"Right…" Sniper winced. "Come to my van. You climb at the front, I'll get a change at the back…"

They did as Sniper said and when the Aussie re-appeared behind the steering wheel, Medic didn't manage to hold a gasp.

"What?" He shot an almost aggressive glance at the doctor. Sniper was clearly embarrassed.

"Y-you look… Uh…"

"Eyes on the map, in the glovebox, and tell me where that place is."

Medic understood the message clearly enough and didn't discuss anything further.

The trip took the mercenaries about an hour, a bit less and they arrived in town.

Spy looked quickly at his colleague. How he managed to fit in his car was beyond him.

"I wish you good luck, Heavy."

"Thank you. I wish the same to you, Spy, though I know you won't need it."

Spy raised an eyebrow and Heavy went on.

"Sniper looks at you like the best thing that ever happened in his life. His eyes shine in a special way. Even Medic noticed it."

"I like to believe that Sniper is very obvious when it comes to his feelings."

"Da, but you are too, in your own way."

"I am not." Spy coldly answered.

"Hm." Heavy did not insist to avoid embarrassing his friend. They were tense enough as it was.

Meanwhile, in Sniper's van, the atmosphere was different.

"So, uh…" Sniper scratched his cheek. "Ever been on a… a…"

"A date?" Medic asked. "I was once married, so yes, I've had lots of them by the past."

"Ah, yeah."

"Haven't you?" Medic asked back.

"Not in a long time."

The German doctor noticed that Sniper's fingers were drumming on the steering wheel nervously. He put a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't be too nervous. I am sure it will go well."

"I don't know, mate. Spy's a difficult bloke. I never know what he thinks or what he wants and he's got experience in those things, so much experience… It's like I'm a little boy next to him."

"Look at the good side of things."

"Which is?" Sniper asked.

"He was either the one to suggest this date, or the one to accept it."

Sniper looked at Medic. He was surprised to see that the crazy scientist could sometimes speak sense.

"Bien." Spy stopped the car in front of the restaurant. "Here we are."

[Well.]

Both him and Heavy exited the car and waited in front of the restaurant as they didn't see Sniper's iconic van.

"They will arrive soon I hope." Heavy said.

"No doubt." Spy was more confident in his ability to attract Sniper than Heavy was with Medic. "You will do just fine, Heavy. The only moments I have seen Medic behave almost like a human being are when he is in your company."

Heavy looked down at his colleague who lit up a cigarette and puffed on it. Soon, the campervan arrived and parked a few metres away. The sun had set a long while ago so the only lights were shed by the lamp posts. Two silhouettes got out of the van, one taller than the other and with a hat.

Heavy wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers while Spy crushed his cigarette and adjusted his tie. With a last look and a nod, they parted ways and Spy reconvened with Sniper.

"I see you have found the place." He said.

"Y-yeah, Medic helped. He uh, he had the map, I just had to follow the instructions."

Spy smiled at how nervous Sniper seemed even though he couldn't see him clearly in the dimness of the night.

"Shall we?" Spy offered his arm.

"Uh…" Sniper's head shook left and right. He wasn't sure if he should take Spy's arm, publicly, like that. It was all a bit too much, or too fast. Spy understood and just extended his hand in the direction of the restaurant's entrance instead.

"After you, Sniper."

"Right…" Sniper looked but couldn't see Medic and Heavy anymore, thus concluding they were already inside.

As soon as he entered, Sniper gasped silently as his jaw dropped and his lips parted visibly. He hadn't set foot in any similar place in his life so far. The restaurant had a very high ceiling, the floor was tiled and the chandeliers' shy yellow lights reflected on the floor. As Sniper looked down, he realised he could always see himself perfectly, despite the tiles being dark blue. The walls had magnificent paintings that were framed with gold painted wood and the walls themselves were Burgundy red with golden motifs.

"Gosh…"

Spy said something to a waiter and next thing he knew, Sniper was sitting in front of him, on a table lit by a single candle, sitting at the center of the small round table. Before he did sit down, Sniper removed his coat and hat and it was Spy's turn to drop his jaw.

"Mon Dieu…"

[My God…]

Hearing Spy's voice made Sniper zone back to reality brutally and face his gaze. He saw the very light blue eyes open wide and the pupils retracted to a dot. But it only flashed for a fleeting moment because Spy didn't let the surprise invade him.

They sat down and were handed the menu. The light in the room was quite low, which was quite pleasant for the eyes. It helped them focus on what was important. Sniper hid behind the leather-bound menu and sometimes took a peek above it. Spy looked absolutely magnificent. His dark red jacket had a slight sheen to it which recalled the sparks that Sniper saw in his eyes, each time their gazes would cross.

"So, have you made your choice?"

"Uh, yeah, I think I did." Sniper answered, still shielding himself behind the menu.

"You can put the menu down then."

"I-I could, yeah…"

But somehow, Sniper didn't want to and he clung to the thing like a young boy would to his mum's skirt.

"Sniper?"

"Yeah?"

"You may put the menu down." Spy repeated and this time, Sniper yielded.

"Oh, Gosh…" Sniper's eyes opened as wide as planets and his pupils shrank. Between his last glance at Spy and now, the Frenchman had freed his face and hair from the last layer of cloth that covered them, taking Sniper utterly by surprise.

"We are now even." Spy said.

"Y-I-uh… I-I guess… Now I can see you and uh, you can see me."

They took a moment to observe each other. One was confident in his looks and knew he could make any heart fall with just a flash of his pearly white teeth, while the other was red beyond his ears, awkward and uncomfortable as if he was naked.

"That was not what I meant." Spy said while Sniper was still devouring him with his eyes. The Frenchman's eyes were bewitching, that, Sniper knew, but his hair was absolute poetry! It was elegantly combed back with a cinder lock at the front and grey temples. He also had a rebel front tuft that refused to follow the rest of his hair to fall between his eyes. Spy took great care of his hair, it shone beautifully under the chandeliers and candle light.

"W-what?" Sniper snapped back to reality. "Sorry, what d'you mean?"

"I did not mean that we're even because I removed my balaclava."

"Why then?"

"Look at you." Spy started. "You made the effort to wear a suit, although you clearly aren't used to it. It's a shame you don't wear one to work, they make you more handsome."

Sniper felt the wave of heat change into sweat on his entire body, but Spy continued.

"You also combed your hair back, added a bit of product to make it stay in place, you shaved and I can smell your perfume from here, a bit too strong for my liking, but that's only because you are nervous. Non Sniper, I meant that we are even because you made all these efforts for me while I made some for you too, although they do not appear as blatantly."

Their meals appeared on the table and they started digging in. Sniper didn't know what to answer so he just fell silent. That's when he realised that there was some music in the background. He raised his head and saw far from them, at the side of the dining area, a group of musicians. Hell that place was fancy…

"You are remarkably handsome tonight is what I meant and I thank you for your efforts. They mean the world to me."

Sniper tried to at least smile and nod but his shyness paralysed him and he just managed to pull his lips and lower his head. He was extremely tense and of course Spy noticed it.

"Is it too much?" He asked.

"What?"

"What I said, did I go too far? Was it things that you don't want to hear?"

"N-no."

Spy lowered his head with a sigh. He hadn't touched his meal and Sniper was pushing the food left and right, but couldn't eat either.

"I had doubts this would be a bad idea. Now, I am sure." He concluded and simply left the table, leaving Sniper alone.

The poor Aussie was not only confused but ashamed. It was because of him, again, that he lost a date. He lowered his head to the food in his plate. It didn't make sense, it was grey and bland. Sniper left the table too. He went to pay what he owed but was told Spy had already done so, and so he left the restaurant.

He dragged his feet to his van, in the silence of the night, before unlocking it and climbing on the driver's seat. Sniper sighed. He was used to screwing up dates, forgetting them, being stood up, or making them go awfully bad. But this particular instance was hurting in a bitter way. He put his hands on the steering wheel and started the van.

"You are leaving?"

A voice said from next to him that made him jump on his seat and put a hand on his chest. In the darkness of the night, he didn't see that Spy was sitting where Medic had been half an hour before.

"I… I thought you left." Sniper answered.

"Non." Spy said as he retrieved a cigarette and lit it.

[No.]

"So uh… What do we do?"

"Go ahead and continue what you were doing. Pretend I am not here." Spy said and turned to look through the window.

Sniper felt the pain inside. He had screwed it up so much. There wasn't much left but to drive back to the base and sleep through the next day. So he exited the parking lot in front of the restaurant and drove away.

The ride was dead silent and only the gentle rumble of the van's engine was audible, although it had melted in the background.

"Stop the van." Spy said.

"What?" Sniper's head turned to him in a flash.

"Stop the van." He repeated.

"Here? In the middle of the desert?" Sniper asked but Spy's eyes riveted on his were more than clear and Sniper obeyed, parking the car on the dusty ground of the desert, a few meters away from the asphalt.

As the van's noise stopped, the tension grew louder. Spy opened the door and slipped out. Sniper thought that he had needed a quick "pit stop" as they called them for formula 1 cars, but soon, he heard some noise coming from above his head.

Utter confusion. What the hell was Spy doing on his van's rooftop? Why would he go there? Nah, it surely was nothing. Sniper shook his head and waited for Spy to come back. But after ten minutes, he still hadn't. Sniper sighed and decided to investigate. He got out of the van and looked around. Spy was nowhere to be found.

"Up here, if you are looking for me."

Sniper looked up and indeed Spy was sitting cross-legged on the van's rooftop. Sniper went to the ladder at the back and climbed up.

"What are you doing here? I thought you asked me to stop to take a p-"

"To fill one of your filthy jars?" Spy cut him. "Non. I needed guidance."

[No.]

Sniper sat down next to him.

"You prayin'?" He asked, seeing how Spy's eyes were riveted on the sky.

"Almost." He answered. "I am asking for help, but not from God. If he did exist, why did I live such a miserable life? How was that part of the plan? To give me a lady that would be my wife and a son, only to take them away from me. But still, to keep him so close to me that it hurts every day of this life, having to see him and remember better, sweeter times. Having to see him and knowing that things could have been much different, things could have gone splendidly better. But non, apparently the plan wasn't that, non, the plan was to make me suffer every day I cross his gaze because I see her and I see the life I could have led."

Sniper's jaw dropped.

"And then they did something."

"Who?" Sniper asked.

"Them." Spy pointed up. "They broke the curse, they took me out of that infernal spiral and saved me. But they didn't do that in a snap of their fingers. Non. They sent someone. A wingless angel. Someone whose sight takes off all the burdens I've ever carried on my shoulders. His mere presence brings peace to my tormented soul. He graces me with the gift of joy, and brings back feelings that had died in me. The flutters of the heart, the blush on my cheeks, even though hidden behind my mask. He is a godsent to me, only I know it wasn't God who sent it to me, it can't be. Why would he make me suffer so hard to then just simply flip it all over with the presence of that man, hm?"

"Maybe God just wants you to think less harshly about yourself."

Spy turned his eyes to Sniper.

"I mean, it's like you had a curse or something, but you seem to say that it's going better, right?"

"Oui. That tall, handsome man has lifted the curse. Each time he gathers the courage to look into my eyes, I can feel all sorts of things in my chest that no other feeling but love can produce. I breathe more heavily, my heart beats faster but my eyes blink slower, because I want time to stretch, I want this to last. It is selfish, but I want his attention on me for as long as possible. Not only do I like the way he looks at me, as if I could bring him any fragment of happiness, but he blesses me with the peace I have yearned for without even knowing it. And he's the only one able to calm the waves of my torment here, inside." Spy tapped his chest. "Thank you, Sniper."

Sniper choked on his own saliva and cleared his throat. He froze when Spy took his arm between his and leaned on his shoulder.

"Y-you think all that… about me?" He asked.

"Oui." Spy closed his eyes as the proximity with the body he had dreamt of was overwhelming. "But please." He parted from Sniper and looked up at him. "Please tell me that you feel the same. Please tell me that your shyness only tries to hide how you too feel this way for me, and not how repulsive you find me. Please tell me that… That I am not putting all my hopes for peace somewhere where they would be wasted and thrown away. At my age, I don't think I will ever find someone with whom I could share my days and my worries."

Spy pleaded with his eyes, implored with his voice but nothing came out of Sniper's lips. And the silence spoke louder than anything else around them in the darkness of the night.

"I… I realise how pathetic I sound, how both desperate and done I am with life. I do apologise if I wasted your time, if I forced you to do anything you didn't want to. Forgive me. It was only an old, tired man thinking he had found a bit of solace. I shall not bother you more."

Spy looked up at the stars and addressed them.

"Thank you and damn you. Thank you for making me feel those tremors everywhere, that magic spell inside that makes one forget his worries ever existed. And damn you. To hell with you and the false hopes you gave me. I hope you are laughing at the miseries you put me through and how badly they break me. You would be the only ones laughing, I don't have the strength for self pity or laughing at myself anymore."

Spy stood up and turned to get down off the van's rooftop. Sniper stood up in a flash and held him back from his sleeve, awkwardly.

"W-wait."

"What? You too want to laugh? Be quick about it. I would like to get back home with a bit of dignity left in me."

"Shut up." Sniper pulled him more strongly than Spy had anticipated he could and the Frenchman crashed against Sniper's chest, his arms wrapping him tight and close. "You talk too much."

Tears went to Spy's eyes as his body was against the one man he had wanted for weeks now. His solace, his ray of light through his dark life. Sniper's hand went behind Spy's head, through the silk of his hair and his other one on his lower back, clinging to him, almost clawing.

Spy buried his head on Sniper's chest and let the tears do what they wanted. If they wanted to roll down and cover him in disgrace, so be it. He closed his eyes.

"You talk too much and I can't talk as much. It's… I'm… I'm sorry I can't. I'm sorry I'm bad with words. But no, of course I won't laugh at you, you idiot." Sniper's hand clenched harder on Spy's hair. "I won't laugh at you. I… Bugger! I can't speak."

Spy's hands laced around Sniper's sides and clawed on his back.

"I love you, Sniper."

Sniper looked down between his arms and Spy was looking up at him, his eyes more than glistening.

"I love you like the desperate man I am."

"Don't say that. You're not desperate okay? Oh, Gosh…" And Sniper tightened the hug again because it was what both of them needed. Spy's tears finally won over as Sniper rested his cheek on top of Spy's head. "You're not desperate. I'm… I'm here, ok? I'm here now. I'm… I love you too, bloody hell."

Spy's breath broke out of sync as he started sobbing against Sniper's shirt. Sniper stayed there, immobile, for long minutes, absorbing all the waters of his lover's liberation. Spy needed to cry. He needed to mark the end of the curse, he needed to celebrate it and rather than jumping out of joy, his body had chosen to wash the bitterness away in tears. So be it. Sniper massaged Spy's scalp. The Frenchman was mumbling through his sobs and the Aussie didn't know if it was French, English or complete gibberish. He just took it all away from Spy. And when the Frenchman had drenched Sniper's shirt to the point where he could feel the cold wetness on his very skin, Spy raised his head.

"Je t'aime, I love you. I love you so much, I am so sorry."

[I love you.]

And Sniper understood that for the past minutes, Spy had been just repeating those words on loop, like a broken disc. He looked down straight in his eyes and gathered enough courage to face the man who was literally breaking down because he loved him that much. Sniper answered.

"I love you too, I love you too, don't be sorry, I love you."

Spy's lips pursed in a smile. He was crying what were maybe the happiest tears of his life.

#tf2 sniper #tf2 spy #sniperspy

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mithranqueersmusings · 3 years

Text

The Night Before XV

Chapter: 15/15

Rating: U

Summary: Ringo hangs around after the club closes and meets a stranger.

Tags: Smut, Slow Burn

Pairing: George Harrison/Ringo Starr (Background McLennon)

AO3 link here / Fic masterlist here

Ringo was quickly getting accustomed to the routine of waking up beside George, it was definitely a pleasant sight to open his eyes to first thing in the morning. Although it was rather strange being in someone else's bed, he couldn't deny that George's flat had a real warmth and cosiness to it. He thought back on the previous night fondly, scolding himself for ever being so concerned that it would've been anything less than perfect. Unfortunately it wasn't long before George was waking up too, meaning it was only a matter of time before they would have to break out of this peaceful serenity, the thought of returning to his flat alone again was already upsetting Ringo.

"Morning." George grumbled, evidently feeling very groggy.

"Morning." Ringo repeated, an instinctive smile forming on his lips.

George let out a groan as he stretched his body out, it didn't take Ringo long to learn that every morning was a struggle for George to get out of bed at a decent time. As George twisted and turned, Ringo noticed the marks on his wrists that had been left from the restraints, without much thought he caught one of George's arms and rubbed his thumb against the aggravated skin.

"It doesn't hurt does it?" Ringo asked, concerned.

George didn't realise what he was referencing at first, once he caught on he let out a casual laugh "Not at all. Even if it did, it'd be worth it."

Ringo held onto George for longer than necessary, eventually giving into his instincts completely and pulling him closer for a gentle kiss. The longer Ringo could drag out their time in bed together, the better. George was more than happy to oblige, lifting his leg to overlap with Ringo's hip so that they were pressed together even closer. Ringo slipped his hand under George's shirt, just to feel the warmth of his skin against his fingertips. George pulled away first, though didn't move too far as their noses were almost touching.

"I didn't take it too far did I? I was worried I'd be kinda throwing you in at the deep end." George rested his hand against his face.

"Not at all." Ringo chuckled softly "Don't get me wrong, I wasn't expecting it at all, so I was definitely shocked. But I was surprised how into the whole thing I was."

George hummed satisfied "You surprised me too. At least I know I can maybe turn it up a notch or two next time."

"There's more?" Ringo scoffed "Jesus, George... I'm really starting to think someone's paying you to torture me."

George paused, a knowing look on his face "I'm not gonna make the obvious joke here, as much as I want to."

"You don't have any plans today, do you?" Ringo asked cautiously, unable to look George in the eye so instead focused on his collarbones, trailing his finger along them.

"None at all, why?" George responded in kind.

"Well, not to run the risk of overstaying my welcome, it'd be nice to just chill together." Ringo spoke quietly "If you want to, of course."

"Of course I want to." George smiled, washing away any fear Ringo had "No sex, though... I need at least a day to recover from all that."

"You and me both." Ringo chuckled.

George reluctantly rolled out of bed, making his way over to the wardrobe to find something decent to wear. Ringo enjoyed the view, George peeling off his shirt so that he was stood there only in his boxers. Colours and patterns popped out from inside the wardrobe, Ringo couldn't help feeling rather bland in comparison as he watched George pull out a variety of options, each item of clothing more impressive than the last. Looking around George's room, it was clear that his unique perspective extended far beyond merely what he wore: the furniture was covered in imagery, whether it was from a multitude of stickers, crude drawings or more artful painting. Everything just screamed George, no corner of the room seemed to have been neglected. Ringo supposed he could get used to being in an environment like this.

"Planning on getting out of bed today?" George asked with an eyebrow raised, having thrown on some patterned trousers.

"If you give me a reason to, sure." Ringo responded playfully.

"Well I'm not about to serve you breakfast in bed, I'm not your maid." George took a few steps closer to the bed, hands on his slim hips.

"Shame, you'd make such a pretty one." Ringo pouted.

Despite his jokes, Ringo did manage to pull himself out of the comfort and warmth. He fished for his clothes in the living room, finding them dotted around the floor, before returning to dress himself. George already looked ready for the day, his hair brushed out and a black crop top thrown on to cover his chest but leave his stomach exposed.

"Have you always dressed like that?" Ringo asked, slipping back into his trousers.

"Like what?" George knitted his eyebrows together quizzically, clearly wanting to hear Ringo's description of his dress sense.

"Just very- Expressive." Ringo treaded carefully, George laughed at his caution.

"Not always." George finally answered "I just think fashion should be fun, you know? Everyone's so serious about everything..."

"Couldn't agree more." Ringo smiled.

George led the way into the kitchen, which was filled with even more houseplants than the living room. There were a few music posters taped to the wall: Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, Roy Orbison to name a few, it reminded Ringo of his teenage bedroom.

"Your place is incredible." Ringo said, a little taken aback, as he slid to sit at the small table.

"Thanks." George replied with his head in the fridge "I want to move soon, though."

"Really? I can't image why." Ringo continued noticing small details in the room: the novelty salt and pepper shakers, the aged recipe books piled on the counter.

George began starting work on breakfast "Well, I do love it here but I really want a place with a garden. I'm starting to run out of space for these guys." He gestured broadly to the plants.

"Yeah... I've never met anyone with so many before." Ringo chuckled.

"Safe to say I'm a little obsessed." George focused on the food, but the warmth never left his voice "I work at the garden centre, actually. If you were curious."

"Oh, that must be nice." Ringo admired George from where he was sat "I don't think I've ever been, actually."

"What?" George almost shouted "We have to go!"

Ringo laughed, a little caught off guard "Is it really that good? I thought it was just a bunch of old people."

"Well, that's not untrue." George began cracking eggs into a pan "It's not really that special, I just like it there. I get a discount too so if you wanna get any plants, which you should want to, I can sort it for you."

"Why do I feel like you're threatening me?" Ringo chuckled.

"Maybe I am, just a little." George snickered.

They continued talking and joking over their breakfast, luckily for Ringo no under-the-table action occurred this time. Not soon after they were relaxing on the sofa, flicking through the variety of terrible daytime television on offer. They settled on a show about home renovation, always commenting on whether the end result was even an improvement at all, as though they were both experts in the field.

After George got up to put the kettle on, he decided to invade Ringo's space on the sofa by cuddling up into his front. Ringo couldn't deny that there wasn't really enough space for this kind of intimacy, but he allowed it all the same, running his hand over to George's stomach to keep him in place.

The hours soon passed by, neither of them wanting to acknowledge how late it was becoming. Ringo wished he could've stayed here forever, but he knew that was taking things a little too far. As the daylight began to fade, he had to face the fact that he had work in the morning and couldn't really afford to spend another night with George. He decided he should at least have a shower, just to prolong the amount of time he could spend here. When he re-emerged, George was spread out on the bed with a book in his hand.

"So... I should probably get going." Ringo announced, drying off his hair roughly with a towel.

George set his book down and frowned "Suppose you can't stay here forever."

"No, unfortunately not." Ringo sighed, both of them looking at one another but saying nothing further.

The moment dragged on for a little while longer, neither saying anything but it was fairly clear what they were both thinking.

"Before I go, though, I wanted to ask you..." Ringo began, doubting the words as soon as they left his mouth.

"What?" George asked expectantly, sitting upright on the bed.

"I don't want to rush into anything, but- I just wondered what you thought about maybe, only if you want to, maybe making things a little more... exclusive?" Ringo cursed his ineloquence.

George laughed and for a second Ringo worried he'd misread everything entirely, until George spoke "Ringo, if you're gonna ask me out you're gonna have to do it properly."

Ringo paused then tried once more "George, do you wanna be my-"

"Yes." George cut him off with a grin.

"Great." Ringo exhaled with a nervous laugh.

George slid off the bed, approaching Ringo with a familiar look in his eyes "You're not about to leave your boyfriend without a kiss goodbye, are you?"

"Of course not." Ringo whispered as George moved in closer, locking their lips together.

Ringo had to use every ounce of restraint in his body to pull away from George, or else they'd no doubt be repeating the scenes of last night before long. It nearly broke his heart to leave George like this, knowing that both of them would do just about anything to spend more time together, but he could leave satisfied with the knowledge that this was only the beginning of what was hopefully a long relationship.

Things had already been fairly eventful, and it hadn't even been a month that the two of them had known each other. Whatever else was in store, Ringo unabashedly looked forward to it, for the knowledge that George was now his own, made him feel like everything was going to be perfect from here on out.

#the beatles #Beatles #beatles fanfiction #beatles fanfic #George Harrison/Ringo Starr #george harrisonxringo starr #george harrisonxreader #ringo starr/george harrison #starrison

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rvmmm21 · 4 years

Note

Omegaverse hcs 👀👀👀 which tank do you think each rv member fits

the fact i did more research for this than for my exam. thank you reaadvelvet.

sfw stuff, although it’s definitely implied.

this is my first a/b/o so i might’ve missed a few marks. don’t exactly know.

. joohyun .

joohyun’s an alpha (like 99.9% of the time).

dominant, protective and that inescapable jealousy makes her a straight up alpha.

scents; she’s scent-driven. anything that appeals to her incredibly sensitive sense of smell has her foot on the gas. and if she’s driving you’re in for one hell of a ride. it is of utmost importance that her omega smells their best at all times. it’s only fair, after all. she prides herself on her grooming.

her ability to keep her jealousy in check varies. no one but her omega is aware of her hand surreptitiously resting on their upper thigh while they’re at the dinner table, but it’s a whole different ball game when they’re out in public.

joohyun’s possessive nature flares in the presence of any other living, breathing creature. even from a distance, joohyun makes sure she has one ear open at all times. if someone so much as looks at her omega in a way she thinks they shouldn’t, expect her to be storming over in an instant, pheromones ablaze, ‘politely’ cutting the conversation short and escorting them away.

punishments are rare, but not above joohyun, if she deems it necessary. and she views them as firm reminders more than punishments.

joohyun knows how to work a silence damn well. cross her and she’ll have you suffocating on nothing but her endearing little death glare.

behind closed doors, another aspect of joohyun’s personality comes to play, however.

a far softer, gentler and (dare i say it) playful joohyun surfaces when it’s just her and her omega. as gentle as her favourite bottle of freshly-scented fabric conditioner.

this is what i mean by the 99.9%.

she does tire, so sometimes joohyun allows herself a little leeway to lean back. plus, it’s just the two of them, so her mind isn’t clogged with apprehension. (quick tip: a big-softie joohyun is a joohyun worth exploiting).

still though, exploit within your means. don’t push your luck. tease her about it just that bit too much and you’ll find yourself flat on your back, pinned under a growly baby beast, more than just her scent overpowering you.

joohyun is protective, motherly; she doesn’t shy away from tasks that may be slightly too intimidating for the average person to handle. a lovely homemade meal, fending off the threat of other foul alphas ogling what’s hers, or asking the waiter for another dollop of ketchup for her embarrassed omega. that’s joohyun wrapped in a pretty bow.

. seulgi .

seulgi’s a beta.

bubbly, charming with the friendliest of scents. soft lavender, if i were to pick.

she’d really excel at being a professional cuddler (yes, they’re a real thing), because there’s nothing more soothing than being engulfed in a heap of seulgi as she whispers in your ear, fizzling those senseless worries away with the tone of her voice.

there is no sexual intent, simply a friend to lift your spirits or to lend an ear. or a snuggle.

seulgi thanks her predictable gland secretion, granting her more control over her pheromones. which is what everyone else is presented with: a neutral, approachable personality.

her easygoing nature has and can draw anyone in. and i do mean anyone; she has an ever-expanding list of four-legged/winged/slithery friends to prove it.

terribly innocent and trusting; sometimes dangerously so. seulgi will offer to do someone a favour or work on something for them when she finds yerim or sooyoung stepping in before she can make that commitment with a firm ‘i’m afraid that’s not happening’. she’s confused, but allows herself to be ushered away, glancing back over her shoulder in a quick ‘sorry’.

she’s clumsy, ask any of her members, but she works it in well with her charm. popped balloons, tripping on air and the inability to discern a ‘push’ from a ‘pull’ door makes seulgi jump as high as whoever is around to witness them.

mating or catching doesn’t cross seulgi’s mind much, not for now, anyway. she’s far more content in the company of her members and the friends she makes along the way.

. seungwan .

seungwan the omega (this was actually so hard to decide).

demure, caring and domestic beyond belief.

kind to a fault; like seulgi, her other (more assertive) members will oftentimes step in and answer for her, if she’s in a potentially iffy situation where she could be taken advantage of. seungwan, a little hurt, will ask them about it later on, and they’ll sit her down and explain. slowly, she begins to understand why they did what they did and eventually thanks them.

baking, baking, baking; the house constantly smells like aunty anne and the pillsbury doughboy are going at it in a bed of flour with a rolling pin, goddamn.

seungwan’s a treat, but so are all the things crafted from her little bake station in the kitchen. the other girls sometimes can’t imagine how such delicious things can come from such bland looking ingredients. i mean flour? get real... oh, hand them another brownie, though. yep, thank you seungwan unnie!

don’t get it twisted, hey. what seungwan lacks in brawn, she more than makes up for in brains and good old-fashioned academia. sure, she may not be the one handing seulgi the broom to hold against the bottom of the glass on the ceiling, but who had reminded yerim to pull all the chairs away beforehand? the brains behind the operation indeed.

seungwan is crafty as her mind is intricate.

she knows how to get what she wants; every power-bottom move there is to know. she may be an omega, seemingly unassertive by nature, but her personality when she wants something is anything but.

she’ll pout and tease till she has her alpha weak and tending to her every whim, her complacency masked under prettily batted eyelashes and the longest, most gratuitous ‘thank youuuu’.

blessed is anyone who gets the chance to make seungwan scream their name. (let’s pretend for a minute that we don’t already know who that is). she knows how to lay back and take it alright, gracing them with a perfect demonstration of her powerhouse lungs in action. front row seats, might i add.

so powerful, that sometimes, she needs to be ‘reminded’ that she isn’t the only one on earth, and that other people need to be left to live, too. omega seungwan prefers those reminders to push her deep into the mattress, pin her there by her shoulders, ribs, throat. any and every part of her is willing to be quieted down and shown who really calls the shots between the two of them.

what? she can at least show her appreciation. after all, it’s the way the hierarchy works, and seungwan isn’t one to question nature.

. sooyoung .

alpha sooyoung through and through.

can’t imagine her being anything but, if i’m honest.

and yes, the height helps strides, but there’s more to sooyoung than lank alone.

her sense of duty is like no other, and if she has to put others in uncomfortable positions to preserve it, then its a sacrifice well made. just ask yerim, who now feels obliged to apologise for her presence at the cafe every time she goes to get a latte because of that one time sooyoung had thought the barista was flirting with her when he asked her for her ‘digits’ before handing her her drink, not realising that that was how the store operated.

the poor omega barista very nearly filled his trousers and dropped to his knees at the sheer sight of sooyoung’s lips curled up in a possessive growl and alpha waves emitting like she’d had her mind set on murdering him.

“what? he could’ve just used your initials or your order like a normal person!” . “unnie, he doesn’t make enough to go against an entire establishment. and besides, there’s nothing wrong with that. you’re just mad because you thought he was asking for my phone number when my ‘digits’ were actually ‘#026′, idiot.” . “... okay fine. but did he really have to say ‘digits’ like that? seriously, curb your flirt... fucking nerd.”

yerim; the only one allowed to call sooyoung names and not find her own esophagus handed to her with a lovely thank you note attached.

if sooyoung can make alphas of much higher ranks make it a point to acknowledge her presence in a room, then anyone who finds themselves at the wrong end of her stick can kiss their hopes of a steady blood-pressure bye bye.

sooyoung knows her way around a good jest, as hard to believe as that may be. ask joohyun, where it has become almost knee-jerk reaction to tell sooyoung she ‘doesn’t have a daughter like her’ whenever the latter calls her ‘mother’.

a mistress in the streets, a bloody mistress in the sheets as well. and don’t you forget it.

. yerim .

yerim the omega (the term fits her rather loosely).

and golden maknae, with a slightly satanic aftertaste, of course.

she may be tiny, as fellow omega seungwan absolutely adores reminding her (catch the hypocrisy, gift wrap it and send it back where it came from), but she can be a real hard-arse when needs be. real crass and rarely thinks twice before giving you what for.

it usually doesn’t get her in trouble, except for when it does. snarky and playful by nature, yerim sometimes forgets her place and ends up challenging other, random alphas. her unnies are quick to react, having to pull her away and diffuse the situation before someone ends up with an ear chewed off. she gets a good telling off on the way back and for hours later.

her unnies are far more tolerant when it comes to her bratty behaviour. sooyoung’s soft spot for the girl plays a huge role in that, of course, but even alpha joohyun has learnt to take it all in stride. they all know yerim doesn’t mean to come off the way she does most of the time, so they let it slide. they’re much less possessive when it comes to her too, always allowing her the last tteokbokki on the plate or the first sip of juice.

bratty omega alert: yerim is calm and quiet most of the time, but if she wants something, it’d better be delivered. be that food, attention, or a good *cough* seeing to *cough*, give her what she wants and you have yourself a pacified, passive little girl.

don’t doubt yourself when you’re around yerim. she’ll hype you up the best way she knows: violently. as seungwan will concur, when she got an earful of ‘don’t live like a coward!’ over a game of musical chairs.

and she wont stop until she’s hammered self-love into you.

it is lovely, though, when yerim’s basking in that after-glow, all raspy and looking like something of an angel. her aura has a deep pulling force, and you’d be a fool to resist. not that anyone could resist a sleepy, satisfied yerim.

#red velvet #red velvet headcanons #red velvet omegaverse #omegaverse #i have an exam tomorrow #kpop scenarios #girl group scenarios

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thetorturerwrites · 4 years

Text

Puer Deus: Reputation

This amazing artwork was gifted to me by @faestae-writes. Please do not re-use or re-post it without permission from them and/or myself. Don’t be a dickbag.

***

Captured / Hurricane / Sustenance / Liar / Scars / Proof / Strings

Summary: All manner of trouble

A/N: 18+ only. Physical violence; sadism; references to abuse; smut

Word Count: 4.5k

Day Eight

You were back in Ren’s room for all of five minutes when the cycle shifted from day to night. You’d lost an entire day to his diabolical plans, and you were exhausted to the bone. Hux had chided you about your nearly-crawling pace, and you’d contemplated stabbing him right there in the hall; but finally, you slumped across the threshold into what your heart kicked up as “home.”

Tension and disgust kept you from crawling into the bed. You knew your brain would loop this day, searing the way he’d looked at you into the gray matter until you wore a constant mask of mottled need. You sunk down in the very center of the room, huddled in on yourself, and stared at the imbrued floor. You were beyond pain and tears, mired in this quagmire of hate and hunger.

He had humiliated you, wholly stripped you of all humanity and personhood. And you had all but begged him for more.

Under his sheer dehumanization, your body had been charged, technicolor and dynamic. Ren had systematically consumed every part of you, continuously conjuring up new ways to crucify you to feed his black need. And at every turn, you had given him the anguish he craved; you had yet to deny him exactly what he wanted.

Would you ever be able to deny him?

Pressing the heels of your hands into weary eye sockets, you leaned forward over crossed legs, bent in half from the burden of your inner war. You weren’t sure you could live with the creature he was unearthing, but you weren’t sure you could live without the feelings he evoked, without him.

Moments later, Ren stepped through the door, flushed red and heaving. His eyes were furious and frantic, and you scrambled away, putting distance between you and the raving lunatic he looked to be.

“Supreme Leader,” Hux’s voice crackled through the commlink. “The rebels have launched an attack, Sir. The Supremacy has been compromised. We have lost the starboard side entirely.”

Ren’s gaze settled upon you and darkened immeasurably. Teeth gnashing and erupting with a snarl, he crossed the room in three strides and hauled you into his arms. The warmth that had been building in your heart evaporated, escaping through your lungs on stuttered breath.

You cried out and turned your gaze to the floor, the heat of his breath scorching your red cheek. You knew there was no placating him like this. This was the Kylo Ren who would beat you for insolence, batter your body for daring to patronize him with any hint of gentle persuasion.

“Get command to the Steadfast,” he replied through his commlink. “I will be at the Night Buzzard and will rendez-vous with you there.”

Angry digits dug into your upper arms so fiercely you could feel your pulse hammering in your fingertips. He had you lifted so high your toes barely scraped the dirty floor, and you clung to his shoulders, trying not to hang like a limp doll.

You could feel it, the accusation rolling off of him like steam, causing the very air around you to fluctuate and waver. When had you come to know the different shades of his rage? You shook your head wildly because whatever he was about to say, you certainly hadn’t been able to do it.

“Yes, you fucking did.”

He was nose-to-nose, and his absolute disdain for you was crushing. After everything you’d suffered at his hands, everything you’d endured for him, he still hated you, still regarded you as an object to be used and crushed, and it sucked the light from your soul.

“I don’t have time for your nonsense.”

He passed his quaking hand over your face, stretched his great power into your cerebellum, and forced you into the inky void.

You dreamed of vast, blue skies and the sunlight on your face. It was bright and crisp and vibrant. You turned into the wind and inhaled the deep, clean, briskness of it, feeling the wispy tendrils curl around your neck and shoulders. You stretched up into the warmth, feeling the ache in your bones and joints ease, the tightness in your neck and back loosen, and the constriction of your ribs and lungs lessen under the blissful perfection of nature.

You lifted your face into a smattering of afternoon clouds, feeling free and weightless. No more walls. No more silent vacuum of space. No more blinding, false light. This was life without Santcha, without your Master, without Ren. It was open and lustrous and beautiful.

And it wasn’t real.

As your senses came back into alignment, you smelled rust-tinged air mixing with the heavy remnants of oil and grease. Instead of balmy sunlight, you felt only cold, recycled, stagnant output regulating the temperature. Curling fingers into the rough sheets where you’d dreamed freedom had been, you buried your face into the pillow and wept.

You weren’t free. The universe had simply wrenched you from one sphere of suffering and delivered you to another. The only difference was that Ren made you respond in ways you never thought possible. He was unique in his ability to make you want to suffer. But you were still his captive, his property, and he would never let you go.

“Quiet now,” the dulcet tone of his voice drew you further awake. “Sit up.”

You didn’t want to open your eyes upon this palpable, metal hell, but you complied, shifting so that you were facing him as he crouched at the foot of the dismal bed. You recognized the pattern playing out and didn’t object when he pushed a warm cup into your hands.

He’d brutalized you yesterday; today, he would put you back together, mend the madness he'd rained upon you.

“Your weapon,” he urged, turning his palm up to your lips.

Silent, you reached down to your thigh and the last swatch of surgical tape on your body. Peeling the corner away, you uncovered the little scalpel blade hidden snug against the puckered skin. You weren’t stupid enough to sleep with it in your mouth, but you hadn’t had any time to actually sleep before he burst in.

Ren huffed on an entertained smirk and tossed the blade away, reaching down to peel off that last strip of tape. Over the last 2 days, you’d been discarding remnants as they frayed, but he’d been too busy dismantling you to notice.

Your mostly-healed scars still looked fresh and bright, and he slid his fingers over the largest tracks, eyes lingering on the raised edges.

Ignoring the way he studied you and the gooseflesh his grazes produced, you sniffed the warm liquid questioningly. You knew better than to object and swallowed down the soup, your upper lip curling at the stale, bland taste. When you finished one, he pushed a second into your hands, followed by a large cup of water. You hadn’t had solid food in two days, and he seemed to recall the doctor’s order that you not have it for at least 24 hours.

He didn’t speak, and the distorted closeness felt awkward, wrong. He was doting on you like a partner, but you recalled the utter hatred he leveled at you earlier and the deep well of longing in your heart for the sunlight in your dreams. Brow furrowed, you pushed his hands away and leaned out of his reach, preferring to brood alone.

Having never cared for what you wanted, Ren ignored the pained look on your face, discarded his light trousers, and sunk into the small mattress. You were immediately crowded by his commanding frame and, unnerved, moved to escape his purview.

Too near his imposing incandescence, you would certainly burst aflame and beg for his touch.

You weren’t quick enough, however; and he slid a rigid arm around your middle, tugged you up into his lap, and mouthed at your jaw. Fortified and fed, you tensed and worked to twist out of his control.

If he wanted to hate you, you wouldn’t argue, but you wouldn’t pretend to be his docile, doting slave.

“Time to be useful, puppet.”

His hold tightened at your curse and subsequent squirming, and you scratched at his arm, trying to contort your body into some strange shape that would jar his grip loose so you could crawl away. You’d never felt so worthless in his captivity as being reduced to “useful.”

Ren pulled you back into the hard pillar of his chest, biting into your shoulder until you yelped and stopped fighting. He was solid and strong, uncompromising and exacting, and you wondered when his unhinged demands started to feel safe. He brushed his nose into your hair, lips right at the shell of your ear, and he melted your resolve with that sensual inflection.

“You can sit; or, you can swallow, but I’m going to be inside you.”

His vulgar words set your core to clenching, and the idea of him burying himself into your body again socked you in the gut. You yearned for that version of him, vibrant with the pleasure he found in you, and the satisfaction you’d seen in his features for just a moment. You ached for that feeling when you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began, when pain and pleasure bled together.

You told yourself that you didn’t want to be that person, that whore, for him. You wanted your autonomy, to make your own decisions and to live a free life away from ruthless men.

He held you, stroking your stomach and dipping his finger into your belly button, while he waited, listening as your struggle unfolded.

You sagged against him, eyes closing in resignation. Your body and your brain wanted very different things.

Forcing your jaw to relax, you shifted onto your knees and turned to face the demanding deity who now invaded your every waking moment. You let your eyes roam his perfect arms, abs, hips, thighs, cock, trying to decide which part of yourself to sacrifice.

If you gave him your face, maybe he’d blow out the bastard vocoder, and you’d drift back into blessed silence. But if you gave him your pussy, he would definitely demolish any resistance lingering in your brain.

He reached for you, intent upon ending the debate, but you brushed his hand away and moved to kneel between his legs. You forced yourself to meet his dark, eager eyes, blatantly ignoring his standing, straining, far-too-pretty cock.

Raising an eyebrow, you nudged his knees apart wider by spreading your own and relished the quick intake of his breath. You told yourself it was because you needed the balance, he needed to know how it fucking felt, and you needed him to not kick you or asphyxiate you with his thighs.

A satisfied rumble descended from on high as you bent forward, pressing your nose and lips into his bruised thigh, and you knew that the curve of your ass was the highest point of your body in this position.

You inhaled the musky aroma of his skin and hummed against the fuzzy patch of hair. Your eyes danced behind closed lids as you remembered the soft, colored flesh in your mouth and the way he’d looked down at you, ravenous himself and pleased with your hunger. Your hips loosened and your pussy warmed, readying to accept him.

Something started to tingle inside your belly, and you angrily shook it away. This wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go.

You were waiting for him to thread demanding fingers into your hair, to lift your face and force you down onto his weeping dick, to take away your complicity in this act. If he took it from you, as he had been doing for days, you could pretend that you didn’t want this.

But none of those things happened. He was silent and still, and you glanced up at him, irritated and troubled and uncertain.

“You’ve caused all manner of trouble, puppet."

His voice was smooth, and he tapped your lower lip on every single word.

“Show me you’re sorry.”

You snorted, anger suffusing your nose, ears, cheeks. Shot up onto your knees, you completely abandoned what he’d instructed you to do because you had done no such fucking thing. You’d spent mere moments in his room on the Supremacy; and, then, you’d been in this hole, right here, unconscious for what was likely hours.

“When, exactly, did I have time to cause trouble?”

You practically shouted it, and the smug grin that played at the corners of his mouth only enraged you further. He didn’t move to quash your tirade, though, and you jabbed a finger at him, losing your composure entirely at his amusement.

You knew his condescension stemmed from the sound of your voice, modulated, just the right pitch, and fully on display.

“I’ve been here, blacked out by your own fucking hand. Before that, I was pinned down to a surgical table while you had your blasted doctor force things into my body.”

You jumped off the bed entirely, standing alongside his crooked, relaxed knee and positively fuming at the calm, arrogant look on his beautiful, infuriating face.

“And before that, I was unconscious because you slit me open from chin to toes. So, Commander,” you spit the word out as though it was poison, “when have I made all of this trouble? Or would you like me to go back farther than the last three fucking days?”

Ren sat up slowly, and the absolute animosity in his eyes pushed you a step back, your ire faltering. He slid from the bed, unfurling like a great, storied behemoth, and stalked forward at you. You held out a hand, but you didn’t know if it was to stop him or to touch him.

Unclothed, he looked even more deadly as there was no fabric, no weapon to draw away your stare, and every rippling, taut muscle was an exhibit in transcendence.

He was what men aspired to be, godlike and mesmerizing.

If he killed you now, it would be the pinnacle of intimacy with nothing between his raw aggression and your abject fear. He would press his naked form against you and surely end your life by sucking the very marrow from your bones.

He was every inch the infernal predator, and you were the prey that just pissed him off.

“Yesterday,” he sneered, “You threatened to murder Supreme Leader Snoke.”

Your mouth dried out completely, snapping shut with a clatter because you couldn’t argue. In your rage and fright, you had absolutely threatened to murder Snoke and everyone on board the ship, and it was clear from Ren’s response that Snoke had heard you.

Terror flooded your veins, pushed out all the blood that was supposed to be there and replaced it with adrenaline. Your mind screamed at you to run, now, get away, but your body could only slink further back into the room, sweating and twitching.

“Before that,” he reached out, wrapped his giant hand around your throat, and drew you in close, tightening his ritual noose until you gulped and wheezed, “You wounded me in battle.”

You could feel the delicate bones bowing to his snapping grip, and you clawed at his arm. Surely, Ren’s patience had run out. You had done all of those things and more.

Just today, you had denied him the feel of your mouth, your body, and you shouted at him, challenged him, in front of the Knights of Ren, his troupe. Animosity had so clouded your judgment that you’d shucked off every bit of common sense and self-preservation.

You could not possibly be more stupid.

“Shall I go back farther than the last three fucking days, puppet?”

You paled, remembering that he’d caught you trying to escape the day before that, and shook your head in defeat. His fingernails cut into the tender flesh of your neck, and you whimpered, standing onto your toes in a vain attempt to lessen his grip. Your lips drew into a tight line, and you closed your eyes, surrendering to whatever punishment he would inflict.

Maybe you did deserve it.

Ren shoved you away, and you collapsed into a pitiable heap on the dirty floor. Tears sprang to your eyes because the internal conflict was never going to end. You were flooded with shame that he was disappointed in you and fuming that you fucking cared to begin with. This contention inside your own body was becoming unbearable, and you were so incredibly tired.

It was all too much.

Snoke surely wanted your head, and Ren would have no choice but to deliver you to the slaughter. Just days ago, you had been ready to die, but that had been for Ren, not Snoke. Your lips would hardly work, the emotion bubbling over and shunting your idiotic bravery.

Kylo, I can’t do this anymore….

He looked down at you, eyes dark and haunted; and even though you knew he was incapable of feeling or compassion, you lifted pleading eyes to his. There truly was no going back, and the way forward had just been shut to you. Snoke would hunt you. He would send the Knights of Ren, and their Master, to hunt you.

You only needed a day's headstart. Just long enough to find a tall cliff or a blaster.

Could you convince him?

“Please, Kylo,” your voice quaked, “Please, let me go. Or make all of this go away.”

But what you were begging for was for him to make you go away. To end this seemingly ceaseless back-and-forth between acceptance and survival. Your torso punched low to the ground, and you erupted into broken, wretched sobs.

“I just can’t.” You whispered as he crouched down silently and lifted your face. You shook your head from his touch.

“This isn’t me,” you rallied and shouted, “You’ve taken everything! There isn’t anything else. Just let me go. Let me go or kill me.”

There was something else, another possibility dancing just beyond your trepidation. You knew that he saw it, but you still weren’t ready to take that leap, to let the beast out of the mirror and allow her to consume you, to burn away the parts of you that weren’t his.

Ren’s strong arms gathered you up, caging your shuddering sorrow and caressing your neck while you cried. He smoothed down your hair and rubbed the length of your back, murmuring into your pulse that you needed to take a breath and then another and then one more.

His very demeanor was disarming, and you felt the fight ebbing out of every single pore. Resenting the ease with which he placated you, you clenched your fists again and batted at his chest, shifting and pulling away. Lifting puffy, red eyes, you glared at him, willing there to be more malice in your gaze than there was in your heart.

“No,” your voice was all harsh edges and angst. “You don’t get to be nice now.”

You twisted in his arms, kicking at his shins, but he only held you tighter, his arms a vice around your middle. You sniffled and sobbed and tried to not let your anger die away. You needed it now more than you needed to breathe. It was the only thing that was yours, the only thing you had left.

“You’re not capable of being nice. You’re a monster.”

Ren dipped his face to yours and traced the curve of your chin with his lips. When you abandoned your bitter tirade, he slid long fingers up the column of your throat and squeezed, the way you’d asked him to yesterday. He turned your face so you had to look up at him with your shining, crestfallen eyes.

“Dammit, Kylo,” your lips trembled, the false voice he'd given you cracking with feeling, “I need you to be a monster.”

“Stop,” Ren shushed you, lifting his hand to your mouth and sliding his thumb in to hook at your teeth.

The gesture, unique to you and he in all the Galaxy, silenced you, and he held tight to your throat as though to punctuate the notion that, in this moment, there was only you and him.

You sniffled and pushed against his broad shoulders, but he didn’t chastise you further. He tugged you in by the jaw and nudged his nose through your tears.

“The Supreme Leader isn’t coming for you,” he crooned against your temple, "I killed him for daring to take what is mine."

Your whole body went rigid at his admission, and you blinked, too shocked to speak. He stroked your hip soothingly, but you felt strung too tight. This knowledge should have eased you, but something was settling in your mind that you hadn’t considered before.

Kylo Ren would never let you go.

Because he couldn’t.

“I will not make this go away,” he cupped your cheek and dipped his face down to press a kiss to the thumping heartbeat under his thumb. “You were made to suffer for me."

You sucked in a pained breath, caught between a gasp and a sob. The kernel of realization was spreading, growing by the second, and you were drowning, keening, lost to the implications of it. It raised your panic and your longing at the same time and shot through your body like lightning.

"You want me to break you, puppet."

He clutched at your back, obscuring all the world around him and folding you into his darkness.

"Almost as much as I want to break you."

There it was.

Ren came alive when he was hurting you. He spread out into the universe like it was meant for him, just waiting for him to conquer the very stars. But only when you were bleeding and crying at his feet.

This was not the same man you first met a week ago. Gone was the unconquerable rage and tantrum, the explosion of too much turmoil. Gone, too, was the leash that held Ren's potential in check.

The man before you was calculatingly cruel with clear intent. His viciousness was purposeful, and he existed without boundaries, without limitations. He had entirely cast off all inhibition and conscience.

Kylo Ren was now the most skilled, destructive, horrible weapon in the Galaxy.

And you were his whetstone.

“The next time I hurt you,” he licked at your earlobe and whispered, “It will be because you begged me for it."

The gavel crashed down, and all you could hear was the rushing of your blood. He’d cemented it, practically carved it into your skin.

He would chase you into oblivion because you were the only thing that made him feel alive. This whirlwind of terror and feeling you existed in together was the only thing that ignited fire in him.

And you would let him.

You would worship your Child God in any and every bloody way he wanted because he was the only thing that made you feel alive.

It was only a matter of time.

You dissolved into tears all over again, collapsing against all of his unyielding and letting him wrap you up into that otherworldly embrace. He tucked you against his heart, rocking you from side to side and soothing you with his steady pulse. He pressed his lips into your temple and murmured there that you were so pretty when you cried.

You couldn’t stop the sobbing now for anything, so complete was your heartbreak.

You mourned blue and purple skies, pink-tinted sunrises, and twinkling sunsets; rushing, clean water and a rainbow of flowers; the frenetic disarray of the workshop and the tools you had been collecting for years that you would never see again. You lamented that you would likely never again be able to set yourself to a task, to fixing a broken thing, and see it finished and made whole.

You would only ever be the broken thing.

Most of all, you grieved for yourself. Because you knew that you would relent. You would give him what he wanted because the part of you straining to belong to him was expanding by the hour. Soon, she would be strong enough, and your freedom would be gone. You would let him defile you day after day.

“You will ask me,” he instructed, tipping your face up to taste your tears on a kiss, “and I will drown you in the clearest water I can find.”

You whimpered against his mouth and curled fingers into his dark tresses. He chased the sound away with a nip to your lower lip, licking at the quiver. He purred at you like a lover, and you wondered if this was pillowtalk for a man whose base language was violence.

“I will make you bleed on forest floors, and I will listen to your screams echo off of mountains.”

His warm breath mingled with yours, lips barely touching, as he coaxed the tip of your tongue up to touch his before canting your head to one side and kissing you so deep you forgot to breathe. He licked at your teeth and sucked on your tongue.

“And I will fuck you so hard the only name you remember is mine,” his voice was lower, all gravel and demand and lust.

“You just have to ask me, puppet.”

Teeming with uneasy arousal, your body flushed in response to his words, to the conviction with which he said them. You lifted onto your toes to better receive his kisses, and he hummed in satisfaction against your mouth.

It was as though he had promised you moonlight, paradise, babies, and your heart responded to each threat as though they were professions of love. He knew your fears and was trying to assuage them, to paint you a pretty picture so you would give in to him.

You knew this wasn’t love. Neither of you were capable of such a fanciful notion. This was obsession, and it would likely be just as fleeting. But it would be absolute.

“Stop crying,” he said into your neck, molding the length of your body to his.

Ren slid your limbs around his body in that familiar way, and you squeezed at his sides when he lifted you. You buried your face into his neck, shaking silently and trying to obey, to get yourself collected.

The war inside of you wasn’t over, and you hadn’t gained any ground today. But you understood the battlefield better than you ever had before.

Crawling into the little bed with you, he shifted you so that you were lying beside him, your tight, anxious back pressed into his calm, steady torso. He slid an arm around your rib cage, tucked his hot hand in at your breast, and snuggled his erection between your buttocks.

You clutched at his arm, sniffling and fighting adrenaline tremors.

Ren nuzzled the back of your neck, and you marveled at how today was so much different than yesterday. You’d just begged this man, this monster, to end your life, to rise up to his reputation. Instead, he had weaponized kindness and thrown you entirely off kilter, to the point where you were entertaining his offers to persecute you throughout the Galaxy.

“Sleep,” he commanded, his voice almost gentle. “We’ll be there by morning.”

#kylo ren #kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #puer deus

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weltonreject · 5 years

Text

Selling a Fake

| Theo didn’t fly home right away; he stayed in Antwerp and together, he and Boris flew back to New York. They start over, two troubled teenagers all over again. They’ve replaced scorching Vegas summers with chilling New York winters. It was never about the place anyway. They’re together-- they’re something-- but Theo still struggles to be open to strangers passing by. | [9.3k] [ao3]

Holding hands with Boris in public was still uncomfortable; still felt like an unnecessary announcement to the world about things that were grotesque and hidden for a reason. Theo used to think it was because time spent with Boris was time spent completely obliterated and sloppy. Admitting to strangers his associations with Boris felt like openly lifting a bump to his nose in public. Well, that’s what Theo thought it felt like, until he realized that maybe being with Boris openly was the only thing that felt so criminal in the first place.

That, of course, was what Thursday afternoon brunches were for: trying to make spending time together less criminal and more commonplace, as two lovers should feel.

“It is your pick today, Potter. You have chosen, yes?” Boris asked, walking beside Theo. They were still in Theo’s neighborhood. Barely able to acknowledge the other existed just yet.

“I was thinking that place we had three weeks ago. I really just want an omelette I think.” Theo shrugged, stepping around the block.

Boris laughed and nudged his side, arm going around his shoulders before dropping to his waist. “So easy to please, Potter. Pick somewhere exciting! These Thursdays, they are fun, no? Meant to be extravagant! Daring!”

“I think I’ve had enough of all of that for a while.” Theo said, turning to look at Boris just barely over the top of his glasses. “They’re just supposed to be nice Thursday mornings. You know how being normal works, right, Boris?”

He scoffed. “Normal? When have we subscribe to normal?”

It was true; between the two of them, they’d done enough in their lives to be unable to step back into normal lives. At least, beyond normal on the surface. They could pretend for anyone who passed, but the truth between them was still that their childhoods had passed in a spotted haze and that their early twenties were nearly lost to a poor art deal. But they’d recovered. The painting, their lives, their money, their sanity.

Everyone was fine. Everything was back where it should have been.

“It’s a figure of speech.” Theo said, still letting himself be led by Boris down the sidewalk. “Normal.”

“I think we are normal.” Boris said nodding firmly. “Yes. We are. Two men, on four legs, healthy-- making money fist over fist!”

“It’s hand over fist.”

“Don’t care! Fist, hand, leg, foot! We’re making it and we’re happy, yes! And now we’re on the way to eat. What could be better?”

“A mimosa, probably.” Theo muttered, casting a glance to the storefronts as they passed.

Shop owners with hoses, cleaning the sidewalk; mothers with their babies trying to get rays of morning sun; children on their way to school; all impossibly bland and predictable strangers that made Theo step farther away from Boris. His arm dropped with a slap against his leg. It fell as if Theo had snapped it, cutting off all feeling from his shoulder down.

“How about coffee instead?” Boris pointed with his other hand over to a coffee cart just across the street. He reached for his wallet just as Theo reached for his arm; the guilt had gotten him before the shame had. “What? No coffee?”

“Well, no. I’ll just get some there.” Theo said quietly. “But also, I mean--” He lifted Boris’s arm as it hung lifelessly in his grasp, trying to motion it back to where it had been. “Sorry.”

“What are you doing?” Boris still hadn’t given life back to his arm. He seemed to enjoy Theo’s wordless proposal of public affection, the bastard. “Do you need itch?”

“What? No! I--I’m trying to say you can-- you know what? Forget it.” Theo sighed, lowering Boris’s arm. He rolled his eyes and let himself smile as Boris burst out in a honking laugh. He grabbed Theo again, his time his hand sitting loosely on his hip. Comfortable and nonchalant.

“So serious, Potter.” He furrowed his eyebrows and mocked Theo’s usual look of concern and anxiety. “It is too early for people to care-- too early to drink too, so twice amount not caring. Not even looking at us, Potter. Don’t be so paranoid.”

Theo couldn’t help it. Sure, the sidewalk was sparsely populated and the noise level was at a low, easy minimum, but there was still something ringing inside Theo. An alarm bell he couldn’t find or still, the metal reverberating and shaking his bones.

“I’m serious, Potter. No one around.” He leaned forward, like he was going to kiss him.

“And I’m serious, Boris.” He didn’t push Boris away, but spoke firmly, hushing his voice. “These people live near me. I see them all the time. They used to know my parents… They know clients.”

Boris nodded and leaned back, his hand still resting on Theo’s hip. His thumb moved over the roughness of his wool coat. “Okay. Okay.”

There was a moment, once the initial panic faded, that Theo wasn’t so afraid of his old and new neighbors seeing him with Boris. There was a level of sophistication to them: two grown and healthy (healthier, let’s say. Cutting down on the oceans of alcohol they’d been drinking had helped their complexions and overall youthfulness) men walking in stride together; one poised and creased to a perfect angle, polished glasses, and a new haircut; the other refusing a trim but still sleek in his all black look, trouser to sweater, even his trench coat a fierce coal black, only the buttons glinting in the morning winter sun. They were two attractive young men that looked attractive together. They looked well put together and somewhat dignified.

So what, Theo wanted to posture. So what if I’m with him? Theo felt a sort of authority in suddenly demanding the old image of him be changed; from poor helpless orphan to a grown, fruitful entrepreneur. He wanted them to notice that something new in his step: certainty.

Yeah. So fucking what.

ii.

The restaurant-- a little corner place mostly of windows with dusted periwinkle walls-- wasn’t crowded when they walked inside. A small bell on the door announced their entrance and all the waitstaff turned to acknowledge them.

“Pick your seat, we’ll be right with you, hun.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Theo started unbuttoning his coat as Boris walked ahead to pick the table.

He picked one in the center, the surrounding tables empty. “Two coffees. Please.” He held up two fingers, anticipating the waitress’s question as he shimmied his coat off. “I don’t think they have mimosa here, Potter.”

“Hm. Shame.” He placed his coat and scarf carefully over the back of the chair. “Maybe coffee is better than champagne at eleven in the morning, huh?”

“Both do the trick, we both know this.”

“What trick is that?”

“Getting us out the door for the day. Just different moods.” Boris winked, folding his hands in front of him. “One cup of coffee, we were functional, maybe a smile if we were lucky. Champagne? Hangover gone and those boring teachers, a bit funner! All the shitheads in class easier to listen to. Like changing dials on radio-- music!”

“Walden is so much better drunk.” Theo hummed, rubbing his one eye under his glasses. “Oh man, you remember Leaves of Grass?”

Boris snorted a laugh. “No!”

“Barely!” Theo agreed, shaking his head.

Laughing at pain was easier when it was closed over and finished; the desert had given them such an excuse to seek out destruction. Nothing around them could grow, so why should they? There was no need to. As hard as leaving Vegas was back then, Theo could at least acknowledge that leaving kick-started his ability to change-- at first for the worst, and then somewhat back toward the baseline for normalcy.

“Here’s two black coffees-- and some creamers.” A new woman came up swiftly, nearly singing the order, and placed the mugs down steadily in front of them. Not a drop spilled before placing a handful of creamers between them. “Alright, gentleman. What can I get for you?”

“He orders for me.” Boris volunteered, placing his menu down.

“Oh, that’s sweet.” The waitress had an unplaceable twang to her voice. It made her endearment sound only slightly pitiful, like she didn’t know what to do with herself. “I wish my husband knew me well enough to do that.”

“Husband?” Theo choked on his sip of coffee he had yet to take.

“Friends for many years, him and I. Boyhood-- idiots, mostly. Mistakes made together are twice learned, you know.” Boris steam-rolled Theo’s panic, grinning brightly as he lifted his own coffee up. He gulped it quickly, giving Theo a chance to sputter out a response.

“He’s not my husband.” Theo said sharply. No, no way. Did people like Boris get married? Well, Theo supposed, people like him would marry people like Theo-- for example. Or, more shortly, people like them married those like themselves; Theo to Boris was not much of a stretch.

“Oh.” Her name was Daisy, according to her name tag. But it could’ve been anyone’s, taken out of a bin at the start of her shift.

Introducing himself was not part of the interaction at a restaurant, but Theo knew his credit cards had his name on it-- did he have enough cash to slip away unknown?

Boris spoke loudly as he swallowed, as if talking over Theo’s thoughts. “Cannot! Need to find a uh, kościół, uh,” He waved out to Theo, knowing the word was translatable, if not only because of their long talks from years before.

“Church.” Theo relayed, blinking up at Daisy. He smiled, suddenly familiar with the art of lying, of selling a fake. “He’s very particular about what church we go to. Catholics, ya know?”

This made Daisy laugh, openly and with her hand on her stomach. The guest check and pen pressed against the waistband of her apron-- Theo only noticed then she was pregnant. A mother, warming up to strangers in the middle of her long morning shift. His smile turned genuine and he reached across the table, about to take Boris’s hand but failing half way and awkwardly taking his coffee mug again.

“So what can I get you two? Besides a good priest?”

“Ha ha.” Theo’s laugh came out calculated accidentally. He cleared his throat before he spoke again. “Uh, we’ll both have omelettes, yeah?” He looked at Boris who shrugged as if he had no say in the matter. “He’ll have… everything in it-- except mushrooms and tomatoes. And uh, I’ll just take a western. Thanks.”

“I’ll get that started for you right away.” She touched Theo’s shoulder as she passed. She scribbled hurriedly before disappearing into the kitchen. Her steps were loud and flat-footed. Theo wondered how badly her swelling feet hurt.

When Theo refocused, Boris was laughing into his coffee and finishing the cup in two strong gulps.

“What?”

“Why did you lie to her? She is no one.”

“You started!”

“Because you were about to act like we are business partners-- nothing to nobody! She would have felt embarrassed all day. She is nice lady-- beautiful and going to feed us. Why lie to her? Who is she?” Boris had far too much reason. It was kind of irritating, kind of what Theo loved about Boris. Not that he’d ever said that aloud. Still.

And with that, he changed the subject. “What else did you want to do today?”

“Today is your plan.” Boris said. He flagged down a passing waitress for more coffee.

It was well known that Boris was a fast and gluttonous eater; childhood of food insecurity led to the appearance of adult greed. Theo understood, but that day in particular, there was something unsettling in Boris already sipping his second cup of coffee. Meals weren’t set to timers, but they did have a certain flow to them. One cup per half of a meal, on a regular pace. There were social cues assigned to the timing of a meal: when to get refills, when to ask for more of something, when to decide if you wanted dessert, when to ask for the check, when to open the check. Boris gulping down his second cup put Theo behind time, stationary but rushing to catch up. There was a warning he was missing-- why was Boris going so fast? What was he ignoring--

“Potter?” Boris placed his cup down across from Theo’s hand. His finger reached across the divide to poke him gently. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You are staring at me. And not in way I like.”

“Nothing. I’m fine.” Theo shook his head and exhaled slowly. He wanted to cry, right there in the restaurant, like some kind of startled infant. Everything was shaking, but only on the inside; Theo didn’t dare make a move.

“You’re lying again.”

“I’m not!”

“Theodore.” Boris snapped, chopping off Theo’s rebuttal. It was a sign he wanted to know and wasn’t going to dance around it. He wasn’t mad, but could very well be if they wanted to play that game. Theo did not.

“Could you…” he groaned at his own request. “Could you eat a little slower? Please.”

“Why does that bother you? Another thing I do that--”

“No. It makes me feel rushed… Like I’m missing something. I-- I want to feel like I have all afternoon with you. We’re not running anywhere.” Theo sighed, meeting Boris’s gaze and watching his eyes fizzle out with a blink.

“Rushed? No, no. Did not mean-- Yes. Can eat slower. Ridiculous request, but yes. Absolutely.”

“I-I’m sorry. Just for today, I guess. I mean, I don’t want to-- I’m just feeling really--”

“Potter, relax! I said yes, right? I will try.”

A part of relationships was asking things from one another, the other part was willingness to do them. As their plates were placed in front of them minutes later, Theo sat wondering what he’d agreed them to.

Leaving Boris was never an option as it was, even back in Vegas, it had just been the desperate choice made, as he felt, for Theo. He would’ve never left if he thought there was another way, he would’ve waited, he would’ve kissed back. Being reunited with Boris-- somehow safer and more sound than in the Netherlands-- was the only path Theo would consider for the future. He never truly gave much thought for The Future as it hurtled toward him, but he knew that it had to have Boris in it for it to have any clarity whatsoever.

With that said, was that the basis of a relationship? Codependency? Maybe that was just loyalty to them by that point. They’d traded enough secrets and drugs to know the other beyond the bounds of friendship-- and definitely beyond the comforts of using the word brotherhood.

What was the word, then? Dating? No. It wasn’t a trial period. Married? Even without the legal fanfare, it didn’t seem right. Theo had dodged one engagement, and watched enough marriages topple after being built on faulty foundations, to begin questioning its integrity. What was Theo talking himself into suddenly? What union was he suggesting they’d become?

And worse, what was Boris agreeing to, picking up his fork like it was an instrument, careful but steady as he got ready to eat. He waited for Theo.

“Sto lat.” Theo muttered, lifting a piece of toast to Boris.

“To us.” He reached over and took the corner piece off of Theo’s toast. He popped it in his mouth with a wink.

iii.

They ate quietly, starting conversations before bites and letting them die while they chewed. It was incoherent at best, but the listening was innate. Theo nodded and hummed in acknowledgement as Boris tried speaking around his food-- still horrible with table manners but at least eating at the pace of a regular human being. He folded to Theo’s request, little argument and no bite. It was kind, but Theo couldn’t help itching to know what Boris would want from him.

“I’ll take the check, please.” Theo said to Daisy quietly, touching her elbow as she walked past. “When you get a second.”

“Of course! Did he like what you ordered?” She grinned, tearing a check out of her book.

“I heard no complaints.” There would never be a complaint over food. It was their common point; if either of them offered food as a meeting place, they’d gobble it up passing bread and wine and laughter.

“Delicious, very much so.” Boris chimed in, placing his napkin down. Wait, napkin. Theo eyed it curiously as the check was slipped into his hand. Boris really was putting the husband act on thick; it didn’t appear too artificial.

“Thank you for humoring me; our meal was an hour and a half.” Theo noted, checking his watch as he opened his wallet. He hovered over his cards before grabbing cash. Anonymity in at least name only. He gave her twice the gratuity tip, tucking all the bills around the check before pushing his chair back.

“Humor? Yes. I did have fun.” Boris pushed himself back and whipped on his coat in one swift motion. His coattails swung out and grazed over the chairs behind him. His front pocket hung heavy, Theo not knowing what was resting inside until they got outside.

On their way out, Theo thanked Daisy quickly and sincerely. He patted her arm and congratulated her-- softly, of course, in case it wasn’t public news. She grinned and waved them both out. She told Theo where he could find accepting clergy in town.

Theo let the door sink closed behind him, the muffled bell ringing inside. Boris produced a cigarette from his front pocket and started down the sidewalk. He held it unlit between his lips as he clicked his lighter unsuccessfully. Theo never carried one, not in his good coat at least. Imagine the look: an antiquesman with a BIC lighter? More like: unemployed.

“Where to now?”

“Uh, I don’t know.” Theo confessed, looking up and down the street. He was trying to guess where the city could house them. At least for the afternoon. On Thursdays, everything felt too committal, too ingrained in their routine to risk being seen. Theo couldn’t cut his usual business spots out if they disapproved of his company. “Oh, how about a movie?” They were safe. Darkness usually was.

“What is playing?”

“I think some slasher, a romcom or something, and that eighties re-release.” Theo recalled, having somehow remembered from the paper that morning.

“How about: re-release and I get pop-corn.” Boris finally caught a light, taking in a long inhale. Since coming back to the states, Boris changed his usual brand. They were stronger smelling, and lasted longer. The stale and thick smell hanging around Boris’s mouth longer, clinging to his hair for just a fraction more than it took to put the end out.

“I’m not really hungry after that.” Theo said, placing a hand on his chest.

“Not say it was for you.” Boris tisked, holding the cigarette out for Theo to take. “So greedy.”

“Is that what you ask of me?” Theo asked, still calculating. “Not to take your food?”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. Just talking shit.” Theo said, hissing the smoke out in a sidestream, away from Boris. The taste was near tangible, his tongue going over his top teeth as he passed the cigarette back. He didn’t look at Boris, knowing he’d give something away. Something else away.

A cab would have been easier, but Boris insisted on walking. Can’t smoke in a cab, he’d correctly insisted. Going through three cigarettes between the two of them proved Boris’s insistence to be reasonable. Theo puffed them down the quickest, taking long, deep breaths every time. Boris seemed surprised each time the filter would be passed back to him.

Walking wasn't the problem. It was watching the flags in the windows change from countries and sports teams to ones of rainbow variety. The Quad was in the Village, the two of them stepping right into the quiet corner of the city Theo always felt off visiting. He wanted to stare, as if to say, hey, me too. But always stared at his shoes instead, accidentally saying, i don’t want to see you or be seen by you. It was a difficult line to cross-- one of solidarity to bigotry-- but Theo knew it well. The two sides were miles apart but each step wobbled between the other.

Theo wasn’t sure what he thought of rainbow flags. If he should want one or even feel some kind of kinship with it.

Boris must’ve caught him staring.

“You want one?” He pointed openly to the large flag hanging outside of an apartment complex; safe-space housing for all couples and families.

“No.”

“Why not? You keep staring! On way home, we stop. Get you one. Hang it over your desk-- with all your boring fucking papers-- will look nice! Come on, Potter. I’ll get it for you-- or just take it from the building myself.” Boris nudged Theo’s side, his hand grabbing Theo’s forearm briefly; his hands were stuffed in his pockets.

“No! I don’t want one.” Theo hissed. “What about you? Why don’t you get one?”

“Am not gay, is why.” Boris said without surprise or elaboration. It was the first they’d ever truly discussed the topic. It was obvious where their sexualities overlapped, but it was clear to Theo that Boris, while his only at the moment, wouldn’t have been his only male partner.

“Consider me lost.” Theo said. This was definitely it, what Boris was going to ask for: for Theo to not let his inability to love anyone else overshadow the fact that Theo was Boris’s lucky strike, his one in a million, the only man he’d sleep with because he was in between girlfriends.

Theo held his breath and tried to act casual. He reached out of his pocket and into Boris’s for another cigarette. It forced him to breathe.

“Am beyond-- word is so small. Limiting to whole picture. God, or whatever have out there. Am not one word. If I do everything with love, why pick one kind of person. Love is for all, no?”

“I guess.”

Oh god, Theo huffed and tried to pretend the smoke was burning his eyes. Was he limiting to Boris? Was he putting too much weight in what was just finding happiness? Wasn’t it supposed to be ephemeral. Wasn’t that what made happiness so grand in the first place; it could come and go as it pleased. It had no master and no control, opposing the moon and the tides.

It was fine if Boris didn’t think of himself as gay, that wasn’t any of Theo’s business, but it mattered if Boris thought of their… whatever it was as casually as he thought of passing kindness and love onto strangers. Boris was a very open person generally-- but loving? No. That was supposed to be for Theo, or at least he so selfishly thought.

iv.

In the dark of the movie, some synth tune playing from the speakers and laughter bubbling up from the seats, Boris grabbed Theo’s hand. The tips of his fingers were greasy and pricked with granules of salt. It was almost as if he’d gotten the impulse to grab him, unable to wipe his hands and waste another second. It wasn’t the truth, but the thought moved Theo near tears. A burden couldn’t do that, could he?

“Hey.” Theo whispered.

“Yeah?” Boris moved his hair away from his ear, leaning closer.

It was dark. No one would see them. The seats were tall and the rows were short. They were in the Village for fuck’s sake.

“Nevermind. I’ll tell you later.” Theo muttered, squeezing Boris’s hand. “Not important.”

“I think I should head back home.” Theo said, turning is collar up against the sudden dusk wind.

They’d found a strip of stores they’d never seen before after the movie, winding in and out of aisles, pretending they’d never touched the other before. Theo was startled every time Boris’s hand found its way onto his back. It was closing in on dinnertime and Theo was getting hungry. There was something leftover in Hobbie’s fridge, there always was.

“Come back with me-- I’m closer!” Boris pointed in the zigzagging directions they’d need to walk to reach his apartment. “I even get you cab if your feet are tired. Here, let me--”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll just go home, Boris. Really.” Theo had convinced himself that Boris was just being polite in his invitation. “I’ll see you later.”

“Theo, stay.” Boris swept forward and grabbed Theo’s hand, keeping him from stepping onto the crosswalk. A stream of people pushed past them, shouldering Theo’s stationary figure. “Let me order food on walk there. Pick it up before we go up-- fastest restaurant on the block. Trust me. Really really good-- authentic too. Chinese guys, family recipes. To die for. Here, look, I call right now.”

Before Theo could twist his hand out of Boris’s grasp, the phone was lifted to his ear. He ordered quickly, barely in English, before tapping off the call and slipping his phone in with his lighter and near-empty box of cigarettes.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Is already done. Let’s go. Do you want car or to walk? I think car, you’ve been walking all day. God, wish I still had my driver. We’d already be on the couch by now. No, we find taxi. Get you off your feet. Long day of critiquing, Potter.” Boris said with a laugh, walking up to the edge of the curb-- nearly off of it-- as he summoned a passing cab to him. He hadn’t let go of Theo’s hand.

“That flea market was reselling stuff from Pottery Barn.” Theo said in defense.

“‘Is not worn correctly! Too even, too fine!’ hilarious how much there is to know! And yet, Potter, you know all of it.” Boris opened the door for him. He lifted their hands, like Theo was a woman in tall heels in danger of falling as he sat down in the back.

“It’s my job to know.”

“This is true. It is. To know very much about so little.” Boris climbed in beside him, slamming the door.

The driver was looking at them through the rear view mirror. His eyes hovered downward before going back to Theo’s, eyebrows lifted.

“Uh, not me.” Theo sputtered, pointing at Boris. The address, the physical name and number of it, slipped his mind. It was just muscle memory; a North Star if Theo ever believe in it.

“Is my place.” Boris said, remembering his end of the transaction. He recounted his address, patting the back of the driver’s seat goodnaturedly before doing the same to the top of Theo’s hand. He still hadn’t let go.

“Isn’t it a bit early to be turning in, fellas?” The driver had a deep voice, but spoke kindly-- and drove like a bit of a maniac.

“Been out all day! Breakfast, movie, shopping-- god! Walking, walking, walking.”

Theo hated that he didn’t name their activity as just walking. No, it had to be shopping. Shopping sounded so feminine and suburban. They were grown men with multiple commas to their savings accounts. They didn’t shop. They went and they bought, otherwise they were just perusing. He twisted his hand in Boris’s, a small warning he was growing uncomfortable. Claustrophobic in his own skin; so little places to go.

“I don’t see any bags. Nothing to your liking?” The driver asked. Theo didn’t like the tone. They didn’t have ridiculous taste just because they were two men. No, their high taste was because of how sticky their fingers got around fine art and antiques, but that wasn’t always a welcome rebuttal.

“No. Friend here knows too much to be swindled by Potpourri Barn!”

“Pottery Barn, Boris.” Theo corrected softly. God, he sounded like a nagging wife.

“Yes! The Barn! All not old-- but they say it was! Lying to our faces! HA, if they only knew.”

“That’s New York for you.” The driver laughed. “How long you two in town? Week-long getaway? Honeymoon?”

“We both live here.” Theo cut in. “We’re from… Well, I’m from here.” After opening his mouth, there was no way to convince anyone that Boris was from Manhattan. “We’re not on vacation.”

“Oh, sorry. Nothing against you, just seems like a lot for locals.”

“We had a day. Two of us.”

“Boris, shut up.” Theo hissed, yanking his hand like rope to a curtain. Cut the show, he’d seen enough.

“What? We can small talk, can we not? There will be traffic-- can not spend it in silence.”

Boris really did everything with love, in some weird way, didn’t he? Sure, etiquette wasn’t the first thing on his mind, but he was a people person; making even the most benign interactions for a New Yorker enjoyable. He wasn’t going to make their driver sit in awkward silence while they did the same in the back.

“Am I stealing his attention away?” The driver was teasing Theo now, casting a glance up at him despite swerving the car into another lane. “I can let you two talk."

“No, I didn’t mean it like that.” Now Theo just looked rude.

“It’s okay! I get like that with my boyfriend all the time. I understand.”

“Boyfriend! You have one. Tell me. Better than sun on Earth?” Boris cheered, resting their laced fingers in his lap.

“Of course.”

“Ah, so there is two.” Boris added with a chuckle, stealing a look at Theo.

The sweet sentence soured within Theo. The alarm was going off, but there was nowhere for the sound to go. The walls were close together-- skin tight-- and the echo began throbbing in Theo’s ears. Who was this man? How did they know he was okay to trust? Who else did he know that he’d start blabbing too-- Oh I had these gay guys in my cab last week. One looked like a sheep dog and the other, man, like a male Velma Dinkley or something. Wait? Yeah! Do you know ‘em? No shit! I had no idea. Well, let me tell you--

“--Potter, he is talking to you.”

“Huh? What?” Theo gasped, sitting up again. He still hadn’t let go of Boris’s hand. “Sorry.”

“I just asked what you have against Pottery Barn. Your husband says you were reaming them out while you guys were shopping. What gives?”

“Uh,” Theo wasn’t going to correct someone for the second time that day. “It’s given forced character. It doesn’t have any life to it. You can’t fake that on furniture; it makes the room feel stiff rather than inviting.”

“Oh, wow.” The driver mulled the sentence over. “Into interior design?”

Theo clenched his teeth, trying not to be offended or feel cornered. It was a fair question. He had opinions about room character. He sounded like a gay interior designer. No big deal.

“I deal antiques.” Theo said, voice tight. That wasn’t any better.

“Oh! Well, that makes a lot more sense. Bet you two’s house looks great.” He made his last turn, Boris’s place just straight ahead after a bit.

“Oh no.” Boris said, his hand tightening on Theo’s. He was trying to hold the alarm still. “We do not live together.”

“Oh no?” The driver acted as if he had a say in this matter.

“No.” Boris answered. “Do not.”

Theo’s narrow focus missed all disappointment in Boris’s voice and went instead for the firmness in it. It sounded like a rule: no, we don’t live together. That’s not allowed, not necessary.

It made sense to Theo, if he put his mind (falsely) to it, what good was sharing yourself if you had to share your space too? What was your own after a while?

And here, Theo was hoping he’d have nothing left that wasn’t Boris’s.

vi.

Straight out of the cab, Boris dropped Theo’s hand if only to have both free to carry their food. It was only a block down and around, stories of the taste and delicious flavorful smells-- the smells, Potter, the smell sneaks up at you at night. Can smell it rooms away. So tempting all hours-- spilling out of Boris’s lips. It was easy to stay silent and try to process their cab ride.

For about forty minutes, Theo had been out. Completely and casually. Fully and stupidly. Blindly and happily. Boris didn’t seem to mind the momentous change, chattering relentlessly until Theo was all but pushing him out of the backseat. It hadn’t harmed Theo at all, but he still felt unsettled. It left him wanting to be close with Boris again-- why did he have to drop my hand-- but extra aware of how easy it was to spot them. Two men, easily mislabeled as husbands.

Theo left a considerable distance between them as he followed Boris up the stairs to his apartment. To anyone they passed, he tried to look like an unwilling participant in their conversation. By the time Theo finally got inside, Boris was already setting out their cartons and pulling out a chair for Theo. He took the other rickety metal chair across the table. It was stolen from an old diner or something, Theo was sure. The vinyl had been sun-beaten into a rosey salmon from its original cherry red.

“Come on, take a seat. Take off your coat-- shoes too, what are you thinking of taking off running? Sit with me, Potter. You’ve got to be starving. I’m beat. So hungry. Ready to eat everything in sight. You’ve got to be hungry.” He pointed his chopsticks at the empty seat.

“I still have to go home, remember?” Theo said, keeping his shoes on. “I can’t sleep over again.”

“And why not?” Boris seemed to argue more strongly when he was chewing.

“I never stay two nights.” Theo wasn’t sure if Boris had noticed their strangely unspoken rule, but it was true. They always either alternated or went their separate ways.

“Bullshit! Stay again! My place was closer so we came back here-- stay! Come on, sit down and eat with me. It’s food. No complaints.”

“No, really, I should get back.” Theo rubbed a hand over his face- the one that had been holding Boris’s hand not five minutes before. He could still smell the nicotine and popcorn butter. “I’m sorry to make you get all this food.”

“Theo! Wait!” Boris was scrambling out of his chair. “Not before I speak.” Theo had barely even turned away. Someone new was on the defensive. His eyes were wide as if he was moments from hitting a high, but his eyebrows were furrowed with fear.

Theo had already asked something of Boris that day, but he wished he had saved it to simply be: just fucking say it. End it already.

“I have to get home, Boris.”

“This. This is your home. Can be!” He said, slipping his hands under the shoulders of Theo’s coat. In Theo’s disarmament, he pushed the lapel back and down his arms. “If not, make it so. Put your things next to mine, move the bed, buy paint-- whatever you need. Stay here, with me. Sleepovers are not for grown men, Theo. They are not for us. Men own homes. Two men, yes, two men can own one home. Well, apartment, better word. But own, we can! Together, like old times, practically splitting imaginary rent in father’s house!”

This, and only this, was what Boris was asking of Theo: to live with him. And Theo had all the willingness to do so.

“Are you asking me to move in with you?” The idea seemed preposterous.

“I am. Other key is being made as we speak and-- and I want you to stay. I don’t like the look you get on your face when you talk about taking the ride back to yours. Face gets so long, Potter, I hate it. Makes me want to ride with you, only to make you drive all the way back with me-- we’d live together in the cars between doorsteps! Unable to say goodbye.” Just like old times. “But now we don’t have to! I come home-- ah-ha! You’re here! You come home, hooray, so am I!”

“Boris, this is crazy.”

“Look back at our lives and say that? How can you?” He laughed heartily, still undressing Theo of his outerwear. “We’ve shared the bed in your dad’s house more than we have here. What’s the no for?”

“Are you sure? You want me to live here?”

“I asked, didn’t I?” Boris exclaimed, waving his hands out. The space was his-- theirs. “Live with me, Theo. Stay here. Share with me-- the house, the bed, the food--”

“The rent.” Theo added.

“Hush hush. Missing the point, as always.” Boris cupped his face, as if forcing him to nod. “Do it, yes?”

“Y-Yeah. Okay.” Theo held his wrists, thumbs resting against the back of Boris’s hands. “Okay! Yes, I’ll stay.”

“Perfect! He says yes! He agrees with me!” Boris cried, bringing Theo forward quickly. They kissed and Theo’s glasses are only a little dislodged. “We must celebrate! I think I have some wine-- something in the cupboard! Saved for this very moment!”

“No, no, Boris that’s alright.” Theo would have loved a glass-- or maybe five-- of whatever year Boris somehow always had on tap, but it felt like a recreation. They were sharing the same space again and suddenly slipping down the slope into getting blacked out? No. Maybe not the best idea. “The food is enough. Let me share this with you-- We won’t even use plates. We’ll pass the cartons back and forth on the couch, like we used to when we were in my dad’s house.”

Boris looked touched. He kissed Theo again, softly and with the intent of getting Theo’s rigid posture to melt. It worked.

vii.

On the couch, shoes off and coat still on the ground, Theo rested his head on Boris’s lap. His body stretched out over the other half of the couch, feet over the armrest, while his head was turned to the side, watching the quiet TV program that was on. Theo wasn’t paying attention and he also wasn’t sure if it was in English. He’d finished eating then, but before had a pillow propping his neck up so he didn’t choke in his horizontal dining position. Boris though, was still picking at their carton of lo mein, intermittently resting it on Theo’s chest as he stopped to change the channel or mindlessly move Theo’s glasses up and down on his face, smudging them horrifically. Theo threatened hollowly that if he got any food on him, he’d strangle Boris himself. Boris laughed and poked Theo’s glasses with a greasy finger.

“Asshole.” He mumbled, scrunching his nose to look under the lenses at Boris.

Theo was so full and had such aching bones, as Boris finally replaced the carton with his hand resting on Theo’s chest, he couldn’t help but start to nod off. His breathing became slow and dreamy, his blinking languid and promising.

“Tired, Potter?”

“Not that much. I’m just listening to the TV.” It definitely wasn’t in English.

“Want me to turn it off?” Boris offered. “Or how about change? This making you sleepy?”

“No. No, it’s not.” Theo was half lying. He wasn’t sure how effective it would have been if it was in a language he understood.

“Here, I put on-- Uh, here! Jeopardy! The ‘what is’ show!” Boris pronounced it Jep-ar-dy, clicking the remote quickly. “Here, answer with me. I bet you all-- double, truly!”

“You can’t bet if you don’t get any of the questions right.” Theo said, blinking himself back to consciousness. Alex Trebek’s voice struck him back awake and to where he was. It rattled him, and his alarm.

He remembered watching the show with his mother, even having it on in the background of days in his father’s house. It was a grounding host of sounds-- the timer, the buzzer, the Daily Double chime. It was a show that could be found in every household, every normal family, and here it was entertaining two grown men that were all but-- dare he say it-- married?

That child that used to watch Jeopardy, shouting all the answers and tallying his humble imaginary winnings, was still lying on their couch. His head was resting in Boris’s lap, letting a hand rest on his forehead and ground him in comfort. For a moment, that child was disgusted. His curdling instinct to run struck up inside of Theo and he lurched upright. Boris’s arms lifted in alarm, trying not to accidentally strike him.

That child wasn’t sure when he’d gotten so comfortable being something no one knew about. The apartment was their secret, and so were the memories they were making around the common game show. Theo was a liar in the dark: even when no one was looking. There were people in his life, alive and dead, that would never know this part of him, and he wasn’t sure if that meant it was okay to submit to.

“Potter, what’s wrong?” Boris squinted and reached for Theo’s glasses. He polished them as Theo suffocated the words a younger him would’ve said: god, what are we doing? being fuckin’ girls, staying in and watching TV? god, lets see what Xandra’s hiding and--

“I think I’m going to get ready for bed.” Theo stood, wobbling without his depth perception. Boris held the glasses out as he turned the TV off. “You don’t have to get up. I think I’m just-- I think you’re right. I’m tired.”

“Be in anyway. Five minutes! Can’t play Jeopardy myself-- that’s pointless gambling. Money and bragging rights, that’s always a plus. Can’t brag if you’re the house too!” Boris clapped his hands against his legs before he stood. “Want a smoke?”

Yes yes yes. Yes. “No.”

Theo turned away from Boris’s tisk, going down the thin hallway to the back bedroom. It was poorly lit and even more sorely decorated: dark plum wallpaper, peeling at the seams by the windows, where sticky city summers had taken it victim; a dark oak bed frame bought at a hefty discount because the posts were built too short to look correct when wrapped in canopy, which Boris’s never was; and scratchy blankets that sat on top of simple cotton sheets. There was one dresser, five drawers tall, that had a wood grain that didn’t match the bed or any of the other furniture, and held all of Boris’s belongings-- and still had empty space. Theo wouldn’t have to ask Boris to make any room. He already fit in.

Through the bedroom was the ensuite bathroom, complete with all leaky fixtures and a semi-moldy shower curtain. Theo started the sink, its faucet spitting up thick droplets of water onto his cuffs before starting a slow stream down the side and into the basin. He splashed cold water against his face, nearly forgetting to take his glasses off. His mind began racing, trying to find a way to cover up what he’d done-- but first, he couldn’t seem to place what wrong he’d committed.

He’d felt the same crumpling fear years before, lying flat on his back in Vegas with Boris over him. His hands pressed into the bed on either side of his shoulders, hair framing his face like a waterfall. Boris’s lips were parted and sending his heavy breathing out in rounded gusts; Theo could feel it against his cheeks.

“Are you scared?” Boris asked. He had hope in his voice for a certain answer.

“Yes.” Theo didn’t know what it’d mean, once they’d done It. He was already calculating ways to erase actions he had yet to do. It was like an accidental spill he’d have to pull rugs and tear carpet to cover up in a heated panic-- but he was standing there, waiting to tip the cup. “Yes.”

“Don’t be. Is just me. You know me.”

Sputtering against the cold, Theo knew Boris had been right then and still was. Their shared memories had practically formed a shared consciousness, the two of them taking the same steps, mistakes or not, together; walking in and out of trouble like a waltz. Two people peeled apart at the seam-- at the soul-- and placed on two sides of the country with a timer ticking. Just like a bomb-- the bomb-- maybe.

The towels were like wool as Theo wiped his face, still exhaling strongly. He tossed the towel back on the edge of the sink and began unbuttoning his shirt. He hadn’t grabbed any of his other clothes and had to sleep in just his underwear. He could have borrowed some of Boris’s clothes, but that wasn’t the right cover-up for the situation; that was like pouring red wine to extinguish a fire burning on white carpet.

Not a minute after Theo relaxed into the mattress, his lower back cracking and neck aching at the stretch, the bedroom door opened and Boris came in-- loudly and without much apologies. He knew Theo would still be awake, truthfully.

Boris didn't even reach the dresser; he undressed quickly, dropping his clothes where he stood before sliding under the covers. Theo seized up, if only for a moment at the new warmth beside him. It was practically white hot, rough but like velvet at the same time.

It had been a long day, tugging and pulling away but never knowing what was the better choice. Theo ached all over, but maybe it was for something. For someone. A chance to stop, to settle.

Are you scared?

No.

“Hey.” Theo started carefully, turning over in bed and moving his glasses back on the bridge of his nose.

“Hello.” Boris said with a stupidly happy grin. He spoke formally, if only because Theo always had the habit of doing so when they were that close together. When things had the possibility of getting more intimate.

“Thanks for letting me stay over.”

“I told you. It’s your house now too.” Boris said, holding his arms up to the room. “A man doesn’t have to thank anyone in his own house.”

Theo reached up and grabbed one of Boris’s hands, pulling it down and resting it on his face, careful and calculated. “Borya.” He said. “Thank you.”

“Borya?” Boris repeated, making sure he’d heard Theo correctly. The name was rare and saved for special moments between them; when Theo was haunted by his own buried hatred and repressed desires, and unable to say what he wanted to say, or even initiate what he loved doing with Boris. It was the one-word go ahead for Boris to remind him he had nothing to be ashamed of. “Yes?”

“Yeah.” It was an exhale, forcing himself to go limp and ignore his own panic.

In all honesty, kissing was still very strange to Theo. He could never get out of his head long enough to enjoy it fully. There was too much movement to consider-- while also not a whole lot either. It was like moving cups for a magic trick; there were only so many things he could do without just going completely off-script, and simply being a very bad magician and kisser. Which he constantly thought he was, only to be assured later he wasn’t. Which could be one of the many lies Boris had gotten very good at telling in his growing wisdom and honest swindling.

“You’re stiff, Theo. Is okay.” Boris muttered, hand still cupping his cheek. Theo envied Boris’s ability to cut off any cautious, self-conscious thoughts to his brain. In a matter of moments after Theo’s blushing admittance of wanting to be close with him, Boris was rolling over to brace his weight just over Theo’s chest, slowly pushing him back onto the pillows. “If you want no more just tell me.”

“I’m okay.” Theo hated how unsure he acted despite knowing he wanted to be kissing Boris, holding and touching him, just being with him. No matter how much he knew he’d want to-- in the private freedom of his own thoughts-- when it came to admitting it aloud, to being heard by another person to be wanting those things, even possibly embarrassing himself by saying the wrong things, it was too much. Theo would cower away and be thought to be uninterested. Borya was his way of inching closer while having Boris do most of the moving.

“You look so handsome.” Boris said, smoothing back Theo’s hair. He was really big with compliments. Not only was Boris big with talking in general, he also really liked to believe it helped get Theo talking too. It was yet to do that, but it was still nice that Boris kept it up. “Can I take your specs? I put them aside. Usual place.”

“Y-Yeah. Here.” Theo held his glasses up and squinted into the dark shadows of the room as Boris’s shape moved toward his night stand. It was dark and his vision wasn’t entirely necessary, but it was a comfort, to know exactly where and what he was doing. Not that it mattered-- he was always clueless somehow.

The first time they had sex as sober consenting adults, it was an embarrassing sideshow event. Boris was kind and told Theo how great it was-- so much better than being stupid kids fooling around in their grimy parents’ bathrooms-- but Theo knew it was a disappointing attempt. He’d been silent the entire time, rigid as a board, and kept his arms frozen by his sides. He’d been too horrified by his own delight to speak any man’s name. It was in the last shaky moments of consciousness that Theo began shaking his head. It was intended to stop his own wave of guilt from drowning him, but it ended up startling Boris and getting him to come to a sudden and untimely halt right as Theo was one last deep breath from tumbling over the edge.

He was so embarrassed, he never again brought the idea up, no matter how much he’d wanted to try it once more.

It had been at least six months since then, and Theo was still trying to get better at acknowledging his own comfort, but it was still a daily frustration. There was no one else around, but somehow, Theo couldn’t stop thinking of how he sounded to everyone else. Despite it only being Boris, his Boris, the boy who knew every secret and kept it close and personal. He could trust Boris to die for him-- nearly did-- and still, somehow, his opinion of him scared Theo to no end.

Theo remained silent, much to his own dismay. He was able to bubble up a few sounds-- a hum of agreement, short and staccato; a short hiss that definitely could have been a ‘yes’ if misheard correctly; and a moan that finally broke his mold and had his hands grabbing for Boris’s shoulders as Boris’s one arm tightened around his hips and lower back, and pulled him closer. Boris laughed, not at him, but as his only way to smile wider than he already was. His kisses were lop-sided and off-center from his giggling, slowly infectious and comforting.

By the time Boris was back to full sentences-- at the same time Theo was not-- neither could stop themselves from laughing. They were sitting up, legs overlapping hips and facing opposite directions, Boris’s hands bracing Theo’s back for touch and to keep him from toppling over. Theo was a mess-- hiccuping and giggling and sobbing and snorting. Boris was no better, trying to speak in smooth suave sentences while his crooked smile bared his new, perfect teeth and silenced his coherence.

There was only one exchange, gasped between fits of laughter:

Boris--

Yes? Yes, what? I’m here.

God-- Boris--

Yes. Yes. I know.

Fuck… Boris, Fuck.

Shhh, Theo. You’re okay.

Boris never asked questions-- never tried to instigate Theo or get him to answer during a time he was seconds from collapsing and crumpling-- but instead just listened to Theo, agreeing with his fragmented expletives and constant reminders that he was with the only person he trusted. Hearing that same, slanted voice from beyond Theo’s star-spotted vision after grappling for it in the fog of his fears was a secret rush, a safety Theo couldn’t get enough of.

In the hanging silence afterward, Theo always felt the most self-conscious. He hated how he began to re-feel every part of his body. How now it only felt attached to him and no one else. It was easy to feel ugly that way, to feel embarrassed about letting himself get thrown apart so so easily.

Boris didn’t speak a word. His hands eased Theo back down, letting him lay down before he readjusted and moved to find comfort beside him. Theo listened to their heavy breathing and began to feel like there was panic in Boris’s cadence. It was fast, like he’d been running-- and trying to run faster. The alarm began ringing again, Theo’s bones still fragile and the ringing sending shock waves up to his chest. He gasped, already feeling like his chest was filled with air.

Theo still couldn’t see with full clarity, his hands having to reach out to find Boris’s chest in the dim shadows.

“Why are you breathing like that? Are you mad or something?”

“What? No! No, Theo, I must catch breath.” He laughed again, his chest caving harshly almost in a cough. Oh.

“Y-You’re still catching your-- laughing. That’s it.” Theo exhaled and thought all his bones would turn to liquid as he blinked.

“Yes! Yes! I find you happy-- not funny, nothing to laugh at, no no. But something so happy, it comes from me. Deep in my stomach; just want to laugh when I see you sometimes. Idiots! The both of us! But, still, somehow here together! A plan set by something greater, I know this.”

“Sure.” Theo reached for his glasses with his other hand. He took another deep breath, strictly because he could now.

“You are okay?” Boris placed his hand over Theo’s on his chest.

“Of course I am.” Theo tried to sound flirtatious, like what they had just done wasn’t already trying to be forced down down down and away from his mind-- God, what would everyone think if they knew that-- he was unsuccessful and sounded only half convinced. Boris curled his fingers around Theo’s hand, a panic of his own. “No, really. Yeah. I, uh… I loved it. I--” Theo huffed. “I love you.”

Boris clicked his tongue and rolled onto his side, facing Theo. “Is that what you were trying to say the whole time? The theatrics! ‘Boris! Boris! Oh Boris!’ was that it?”

“Fuck off.” Theo pushed Boris lightly on the shoulder. He was waiting, the time scraping by. Each second seemed to be trying to build to some greater rejection.

But, of course, Boris would never: “Love you too, Potter. ‘Course I do. Would not go through hell for anyone else. My little ptaszyna.”

Theo could feel his entire body again, his legs still slightly quivering and back arching as he shifted. He still felt unsettled and like he’d done something unforgivable, but he kept breathing and listening to Boris breathe. In a small, guiltful reminder, no one knew but them. Theo had disappeared from all but four people’s lives to make sure he could more securely establish himself where he wanted to be. Although, that had very little to do with getting a new address and all to do with the man laying beside him, whispering an old evening comfort: is just me, Potter. Is just me.

#theo and boris #boreo #theo decker #boris pavlikovsky #the goldfinch fic #the goldfinch

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mermaid-of-the-valley · 4 years

Text

Canopic Soul Jar

If you don’t mind spoilers as to where I’m going with this first bit. Click Here. I have officially lost patience with concepting so I guess we die like authors. So, without any further ado and the force of social distancing behind me, let’s begin this tragedy the way all the best tragedies start…

Once Upon A Time

In a glimmering kingdom called Mekone, the crown prince found True Love.

Not an uncommon occurrence really, for this land, like all others, was subject to the magic of soulmates. At the age of 21 everyone received a mark on their forearm that would encapsulate their future partner’s nature. For good or ill, their traits were reflected for all the world to see, and this mark glows with warmth when the soulmates meet.

Yes, citizens of every class are subject to the magic of the soulmates mark, even the royal family. Though their love never appeared beyond the edges of nobility, divinely seeking out only the best for the rulers and heirs of the kingdom.

On his twenty first birthday, Roman the Fifth, Crown Prince of Mekone, long may he thrive, quite literally leapt from his bed to inspect every inch of his arms. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten that he wasn’t born until much later in the day and as such would be ‘cursed to languish’ a few more hours.

The sound he made upon this realization could be generously described as a whine. It carried well into the hall and so his dear friend and servant Patton was not the slightest bit surprised to find him planked across his rug. “Good morning, your Highness!” Another bout of groaning answered him. “Yes, I know.”

Roman pried his head up. “No, you don’t!” Back down.

Patton, unbothered, stepped over the prince to get to the wardrobe. “You’re going to mess up your hair laying like that.”

At that, Roman was at least motivated to sit up and take in his friend as he sorted through Roman’s daily wear. If anyone in his inner circle could be considered a ‘fashion icon’, it was Patton, dressed as he was in his pastel blue vest, white shirt and delightfully puffy, tan trousers. It was one of many reasons Roman used to convince his mother to add Patton to the palace staff.

“M’kay, kiddo. Got a special day, so you need a special outfit! You want the reds or the blues?” He asked, revealing his options with a flourish.

Roman rolled his eyes. “Reds of course!”

“Well, hue never know until you ask!” And that was one of the other reasons he’d asked for Patton as his dresser, more of a personal one though. The man was a like a living ray of sunshine and several years back Roman was convinced that they were made for each other.

His parents were certain that wasn’t the case. And as much as it hurt, they were right. When Patton’s soul mark appeared, it couldn’t be more different from the royal crest, void of any form that could connect to Roman. But that morning, when Roman was late to rise, Patton sat next to him and let him mourn what couldn’t be.

He was snapped out of his reverie when Patton pushed him behind his dressing screen. “I’ll hand you your things as you go and be quick or you’ll be late for breakfast!”

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

The prince was beaming as he strode down the hall. Dressed in his hunting greys and a red sash, he waved at passing servants and the paintings of his predecessors alike.

At the end of the passageway he paused, staring up at a piece of discolored wall, but the guards clamored loudly and the grand doors swung open, giving him no time to linger. The dining hall was wide and elegant as always. His parents stationed at the table’s head, like the united front they were. Their majesties King Roman the Fourth of Mekone and Queen Llorna of Lystair smiled at him as he entered.

“My word, I had been wondering if you were even in the palace at all.” His mother said with a wry tone, folding her hands with the king’s.

His father echoed her teasing. “What held you up, son? Fierce battles or perhaps a damsel in distress?”

Roman dropped into his seat and replied without a beat. “No such luck I’m afraid. Appears my best boots went missing and Patton took exception to that.” Specifically, he’d taken is-shoe, but he rather doubted his parents would catch the pun.

“Well, I’m glad that someone is focused on the right things.” Llorna joked. “It is important to maintain an appearance of strength at all times. It gives our subjects comfort.”

“Yes, mother.” Roman huffed, used to this sort of talk by now. He tucks in to his breakfast quickly when the kitchen staff lay it out. He had plans anyway. Speaking of which…

“It’s today.” The king says between sips of tea, a solemn expression on his face.

“Mm.” The queen hums in agreement, “I suppose we’ll have to call for partners soon. Perhaps a ball?” Her tone musing.

Roman swallowed hard around his oatmeal. He’d never doubted that whoever his parents picked would somehow be his soulmate, but now that the prospect was so close? “Uhm, I was hoping to spend the day hunting! If that pleases your majesties?” He asked with exaggerated sweetness.

His parents paused, derailed for the moment. “That depends.” The king starts.

“Where would you be?” The queen finishes.

“I was going to try the mountain basin today. Been reports of a pronghorn herd moving through there.”

Another pause, this time with a shared look. “Perhaps, if you make an effort to be back before evening.” Llorna consented. “But only if you bring a contingent of guards.”

“What?! Mother, please! I’d never catch anything with a mass of armor clanging behind me, to say nothing of the smell!”

The queen met him evenly. “It would be dangerous for you to go alone, who knows what ruffians are in those woods?”

Roman sighed deeply. “Mother, really?”

His father sought to intervene, one hand up to halt conversation the other loosely cupping the queen’s. “Roman has a point,” The prince lit up visibly. “However, you should at least bring the captain.”

Oh, Gods No…

His mother did seem satisfied though, her smile and his fathers returned. That was probably the best he was going to get, so Roman resigned himself to his fate. Even if it meant traipsing around the countryside with that infuriating, stuffy, overbearing-

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

“Logan!” He cheered, walking up to the captain with wide arms and a grin that looked more like a grimace if he was being honest.

Guard Captain Logan was a stern man that never seemed content with anything. His hair was always swept back and even his daily wear was immaculate to a ‘T’. His posture, his expression, his manner of speech, all of it was militant, even now as he stood in the stables with his and Roman’s horses. If pressed to describe Logan in one word it would almost certainly be: Stiff.

Roman wasn’t very fond of him, nor his henpecking behavior every time Logan was assigned as his solo guard. The captain bowed at the waist. “Your highness.” He gestured to a cream-colored mare that had been bathed and harnessed for their hunt.

And Roman immediately beamed at her, striding over and carefully hugging her long face. She chewed at his shoulder fabric contently. Froufrou was a beautiful horse, not very fast, but careful and soft in her gait, perfect for their trek through the mountain brush. He hopped up onto her back and pat her neck fondly.

Logan walked out, gently tugging the reins of his speckled-grey stallion, Archimedes. His own horse was unsaddled, an attempt to make it look like an average farm steed. The sleeve on his right arm slipped back and a bit of curling, light blue pattern peeked out. Logan was quick to re-cover it for many reasons.

And wasn’t that the crux of their issues with each other? Logan was not one to believe in fate. He scraped and fought and studied for his position, but even so his soul mark was extensively scrutinized before he could enter the palace staff. It was something he often hid beneath his uniform since as it screamed what he was quick to deny and Patton was thrilled to discover.

Logan questioned everything, and he was a bearer of many theories that soul marks were relics of the old times and should not be given as much weight as they were. When the tailor and the captain were formally introduced, Logan was indifferent to the buzzing warmth on his arm. He apologized to Patton in private later, informing him that romantic attraction was simply not something he could or was inclined to feel.

Even so Patton never stopped bouncing after the man, accepting their relationship for what it was. Roman, for his part, was jealous and confused by their every interaction. He was raised to look forward to this moment in his life, when at long last proof of everlasting love would stamp his skin and he could be certain that someone special was waiting out there just for him.

Two sharp snaps startled Roman from his stupor. Logan levelling him with a bland stare from Archimedes’ back. The prince turned red, reminded that the guard had essentially been forced to spend his day off keeping Roman from injuring himself.

Seriously, you run into a tree one time and suddenly everyone fears for the future of the kingdom.

It wasn’t his fault that crow stole his hairpins!

Logan sighed, nudging Archimedes into motion and trusting Roman to follow. “We’ll need to exit from the Eastern Gate, it will be the least congested at this time of day. Please try to mitigate your interactions with the public.” Just like the man to stifle Roman’s radiance. “Stay back a few feet, but keep me in sight.”

And they were off, trotting into the roadways of the city, the quieter ones of course. Froufrou was a bit conspicuous, but aside from a brief spook from a hooded man in The Corridor, they slipped through the streets unnoticed.

The moment they saw the gates Logan shocked him by flicking his reins and sending Archimedes racing across the threshold with barely a moment’s shift in stride. Logan tucked himself low, reducing drag and leaning into the horse’s gait. The stallion was loving it! His head raising back in a triumphant scream then following Logan’s lead in leaning forward.

Roman had to push Froufrou just to keep up, the mare almost as shocked as her rider and equally incensed once she was made to sprint after their companions. “What was that?!” The prince bellowed. “You were ordered to stay close, not bolt off into the ether!”

The captain didn’t slow for nearly half their journey and was far too smug when he finally did. “I said keep me in sight. Archimedes so rarely gets to run without practicing drills, would you really deny him?” The horse whickered in agreement. Froufrou nipped at him, scolding.

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

Roman released a deep breath into the air around him. The basin was barely a stone’s throw from where they’d settled in the brush. The sun dappling through the trees and the wind in their faces. Roman could probably write a sonnet befitting the place if he’d only remembered a quill and paper.

But alas, today his pursuits were more sporting in nature. Froufrou stood behind him, still as a statue, just as she was trained to do. Logan had gone ahead, again, to “keep tabs on the herd” he’d said. They’d seen scattered groups bouncing along the rocky hills and Roman had a sneaking suspicion the captain was making himself just enough of a visible threat to scare them in his direction.

Which was stupid. He was fine by himself.

“Obviously.” He chided himself quietly. A snap of twigs made him start and he had to tense hard to avoid falling from his half crouch. His quarry appeared at a slow canter, shortly followed by another two. These he let pass without incident. As he expected, a tall, male pronghorn trailed after the does with a sound not unlike a short, chirping cough.

Roman held his bow steady, pulled back on the string…

It spooked. Just as Roman realized and tried to correct, it burst off into the woods away from him. The arrow scraped the beast’s flank and imbed in the soil instead of making a clean kill. Roman cursed, jumping from his shelter and giving chase.

The beast’s calls tapered off and the trail became spotty as he stumbled through the flora. A rookie mistake, Roman noted with frustration, he should have just let it slip away and waited for a surer target. It wasn’t like stomping around like a drunken elephant would get it to come back anytime soon. He kicked the dirt. It didn’t make him feel any batter.

Where was he?

“Shit.” The prince spun around, trying to make heads or tails of his position. He whistled sharply. No sign of his horse, Froufrou was too far away. Roman rubbed his hands hard down his face with a groan. “Fiery fits of Fortuna, today is cursed!”

“Hey!”

That wasn’t Logan’s voice. Thoughts of his mother’s frequent worries flying into his head, Roman shot up, scanning the area.

“Up here, Robin Hood!”

His eyes trailed up a white barked tree with narrow branches. Upon one of which sat a barefoot, willowy young man with a canvas bag slung across his shoulders and hair that flopped in front of an exhausted expression. He suddenly seemed unsure what to say now that Roman stared at him. “Um, Are you… good?”

Now the royal was taken aback, for several reasons, not least of which was how he could have so completely missed a stranger in a tea tree. “I-, Yes?”

Once upon a time, in a forest separate from his realm, the crown prince found True Love. Not that he realized it at the time.

#Canopic Soul Jar #CSJ #Thomas Sanders Sides #TSS #Roman Sanders #Patton Sanders #Logan Sanders #Virgil Sanders #Future Prinxiety #Soulmate AU

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arthuronfleck · 5 years

Text

Will the Real Joker Please Stand Up? Part II: Imitation Game

((followup to this.))

warning(s): this chapter contains violence, so please don’t read if you’re sensitive to that!

“Arthur,” The man’s voice held no room for pleasantries. “What kind of person were you before the world taught you it was worth fearing?”

A walking thesis; that’s what he became since stepping foot into Arkham. Arthur had long lost any desire to remember the names of the white coats that came through one after the other, asking the same questions with the same incomprehensible words. Almost as if they’d forgotten how to speak to a person; or maybe it was Arthur who’d fallen out of personhood. All of them felt the same. Not this one.

The lanky man was so bold as to not fashion a coat. His black jumper was nothing to excite Arthur’s memory, and his dark hair, dark eyed appearance paired with bland features in just such a way that the only thing that stood out were weaknesses. Had it been only a few months prior, the man’s nose would’ve already been broken and Arthur would’ve been lunging for the nearest window if he hadn’t decided on an unguarded door. These sessions never ended well, but running made them worse. Arthur’s fingers dug into his white trousers while the other held tightly onto the only reason he hadn’t been dragged into this, bashing his head on any surface he could: nicotine. This one let him puff like a chimney.

Arthur’s lips curved into a sweet smile as he studied the metal table. He brought the cigarette to his lips once more, taking a lengthy drag before exhaling a smooth breath of smoke. His expression flickered to disappointment when he flicked the ashes to reveal the cigarette neared its butt, and he had no more left.

“Fear.” Arthur let out a deflated laugh once more releasing himself from his predicament. It felt like dreaming. He couldn’t conjure anything fantastical, and nothing pretty ever made it past the cinderblock, but he could find a crevice in his mind to hide from the noise.

“You disagree with my conclusion, Arthur?”

“What do you fear, doc?” Arthur snapped back, rising from his self-imposed cage so quickly it seemed voluntary. He tossed the cigarette butt onto the dirtied tile. “I know. You’re thinking,” He let out a small, stifled laugh. “I’m going to get up and you’ll learn why none of you want to be anywhere near me.”

“I didn’t take you for a tough guy.” The doctor retorted, unflinching.

“I’m not,” Green eyes met the dark pair looking back, defeat swelling in his tone. “I just have nothing to lose.”

“Everyone fears something, Arthur, regardless of their predicament. It can begin small. Anxieties, really. Things like sex, swimming, flying- everyone encounters these things and statistically they’re bound to fear at least one.”

“Can’t fear what I never tried.”

“That’s the crux of fear, isn’t it? The unknown?”

Arthur stomped on the fallen cigarette, smearing ash across the tile. He didn’t answer, nor did he move to assault the man- the most magnanimous course of action he was capable of.

“However, I don’t believe your case is as simple as not knowing. Your fear metastasized beyond mundane anxiety, or even a complex phobia. It transcended any physical process- I’ve always believed the power of the mind is far greater than that of the body.” The doctor pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, taking a collective breath. “Whether it was because of what happened in your childhood, or something rooted in your day-to-day living, your mind couldn’t reconcile that fear. It splintered you into two separate entities. The Arthur Fleck I see now,” He cast a shamelessly judgement glare. “Is one-half. The half that learned to be afraid. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, any confrontation in your life set off a fear response.”

Arthur cocked a brow.

“You felt powerless in your own life. To some extent, you were no different than any other loser struggling to make something of himself with no prospects to build from. There was no fight in you. Your flight had failed and every day you were in freefall; however, you did something miraculous. You fought midair. Halfway down it seemed that your body’s fight-or-flight response switched course. To some extent the death of your mother might’ve hastened your downfall-”

“Downfall.” Arthur repeated with a half-laugh.

“-you’re here, Arthur. That you’ve fallen isn’t up for debate. What’s remarkable is how many you managed to pull down with you, all because your mind couldn’t cope with its own fear. How many Arthur Flecks are there in the world? How many others are consumed by fear exactly the way you were?”

“That brings me back to my original question,” The doctor began to flip through a stained manila folder. “What kind of person were you before the world taught you it was worth fearing?”

Arthur shrugged. “Nobody.”

***

“-as one of Gotham’s most violent years comes to a close, citizens are embracing slow news days this holiday season. But officials are saying to stay frosty as the anniversary-”

The radio cut off abruptly as the van came to a screeching halt. Arthur had gotten into the habit of not knowing where he was and not asking questions, if only because the answer never made any sense. This new world was simultaneously dreary and overwhelming. He closed his eyes and saw white cinderblock, as if his mind scrambled in vain to retreat itself. Despite it all, he couldn’t tell if this would be a dream or a nightmare. He moved himself with moderate freedom, and before departing what appeared to be a condemned warehouse, his captors freed him from the white jumpsuit; he now fashioned a less menacing albeit less clean navy colored hoodie beneath a beige coat, paired with worn trousers and dress shoes a few walks away from developing holes. When he took a hesitant move to wipe them, something dusty rubbed off on his finger to reveal faded leather beneath.

Arthur’s attention turned to the figure sat directly adjacent to him. Undoubtedly they dressed better, in a well-tailored suit that clashed with the cartoonish colors of the clown mask concealing their features. Arthur didn’t care for it; its mouth contorted into a toothy grimace while the eyes comprised of two large burgundy rectangles. Two puffs of stupid looking blue hair protruded from both sides directly above the ear, setting something off inside of Arthur. Something about it seemed like nails on a chalkboard to his eyes. It took itself too seriously, in a way that inspired nervous laughter. The figure noticed his stare, tilting their head as if to draw attention to the gun placed across their lap.

He looked away.

The figures to either side were no comfort, one a burly beast of a clown while the other was smaller than Arthur that more than made up for their lack of height with one of the biggest guns Arthur encountered yet, and something shiny resting in a holster by their side. His hands were freed from cuffs, and though the raw imprints served as a reminder, the clowns packing heat seemed like a better incentive to behave than anything.

Arthur’s attention shifted to the front of the van where he could see two silhouettes. One was more recognizable than anything since Arkham, with his hunched posture and grotesque features. His eyes traveled from the smooth purple velvet of the so-called Joker’s suit to the figure sitting beside him, another masked figure Arthur assumed to be a clown as only the red tip of the nose was clearly visible. A loud knock against the partition marked the end of Arthur’s exploration, as the figure adjacent to him sprung up and swung the van doors open.

When the hulking clown to the right of Arthur nudged him with the business end of his gun, he stood and stumbled into a covered garage. The area seemed dimly lit- like the rest of the city to this point- however he could see countless clusters of light in the distance. Part of him wanted to run, to throw himself over the concrete wall where he could see the lively lights up close. He knew he wouldn’t make it far enough, but he didn’t mind that either.

“You ready to go shopping, Arthur?” The largest goon laughed as the smaller one shoved him in the back with the barrel of his gun.

“Can’t believe he clipped a guy on TV,” The smaller one spat, his voice somewhat muffled by the mask. “He’s such a pussy.”

Arthur’s breath first gathered in something like fear, until it turned bitter. Something stirred inside him; he felt sick, but kept it to himself. Their references were lost on him, and whatever he could recognize felt more like a dream than a memory. It was just far enough so that he knew that it happened, but not how it felt or how it looked. Even his memories lost color. His brows furrowed as his feet stayed planted on the ground until he was shoved once more.

He turned his head to watch the driver’s side as they passed, seeing the Joker stick something into the inner pocket of his coat. Before he could look away the two shared a glance, and the toothy smile that came Arthur’s way did less to put him at ease than the ugliest look ever could. The passenger seat door closed on the other side, but Arthur’s gaze couldn’t be averted.

The Joker approached him in what seemed to be his usual grotesquely confident stance, and despite the very public arena he seemed to have no problem standing around with a host of weapons on full display. Arthur did the worrying for him, until a cold glove collided with his cheek.

“Your first night out of the cuckoo’s nest, old boy. It’s time to celebrate! I picked the best spot in Gotham.” The Joker’s laugh sounded more like a snarl, something that would’ve been an unthinkably kind gesture turned sinister with only a smile. They shared a stare until the Joker yanked his hand away, looking at one of the goons behind Arthur. “Which one are you?”

“I’m Cooper.” The small one’s tone softened when he spoke to his employer.

“Right. Escort our friend Arthur here and make sure he finds exactly what we’re looking for. Make sure it’s,” He inhaled sharply. “Red.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

“And you, Rocky-”

“It’s Rocco.” The large one interjected.

“Rocky.” The Joker corrected venomously. “Go help, ah,” He gestured at the large glass doors, glistening yellow from its contents. “Secure capital.”

As the Joker moved to make his way the direction opposite the store, he stopped and turned on his heels. “One more thing. If our boy tries to run, break his legs. If he tries to fight, shoot him. Oh, but if you do kill him,” The Joker gave a reassuring smile. “Then I kill you.”

“Yessir.” Cooper tried to stifle a laugh before he shoved Arthur once more. “Alright, let’s go shopping.”

***

Arthur walked into stillness. He digested the scene as long as he could, feeling like he’d stepped into a television rather than another segment of his unending nightmare. It was a splendor unlike anything Arthur had ever known, evident despite the haze of his memories. He looked up to the huge chandelier, watching every tear-shaped piece of glass catch the light. When he inhaled, he could smell cinnamon and pine. Everything was made of marble, from the garland-wrapped pillars that seemed as tall as Arkham itself to the seemingly unending staircase, to the counter top that held countless trinkets and jewelry in glass casing beneath. The glistening finery caught his eye at first, if only because he’d just never seen anything like it. He nearly gravitated towards it, until another step forward revealed a slowly swelling pool of crimson and a dark figure crouched over it, eagerly removing heaps of jewelry from the display.

Then he noticed the eyes. Countless pairs staring at him from makeshift hiding places, shooting looks worse than disgust. His chest tightened as he began to look more carefully and the horrific reality of the stillness took hold. Above all else, anger rose to the surface as their wordless stares evoked something he couldn’t recall. He felt it countless times, but he strained himself to remember when. With the cold barrell pressed against his back, he didn’t have much time to think about anything. They walked to total silence, with ambient music playing in the distance. As they neared the men’s section, Arthur saw a middle aged man duck behind a clothing rack while an older woman crawled behind a register.

“What’s your name?” Cooper shouted at woman, gun still pointed to Arthur’s back.

Silence answered him.

“I said,” Moving the gun towards the woman as she froze on all fours, Cooper tilted his head. “What the fuck is your name?”

“Mary. My name is Mary!” She cried, unable to raise her head.

“Okay, Mary. My friend here needs to get cleaned up. He needs a nice suit, red, in a size- ah, tall. Our budget- well,” He shook his gun at her. “Won’t be an issue.”

“I-I don’t know if we have any-”

“No fuckin’ red suits? It’s almost Christmas.” He gestured the gun towards a white door by the corner. “Check in there. There’s gotta be-”

Arthur flinched at the loud bang, the silence that followed, and the sensation of something wet splattering against his face. He froze, as if all at once confronted with something heavier than the world. It thrust him back into a colored crevice of his mind, albeit one that didn’t feel like his own.

”I’ll tell you what you get,” A painted man screamed, his voice trembling with resentment and despair.

Arthur blinked and found himself back in reality. He couldn’t escape into his imagination, or memory- whatever that was. A silent tear trickled down his cheek and collided with the blood spattered below his eye. His hand went to his ear as a terrible ringing took over until he finally had the sense to fall back. He fell beside a cluster of racks, his gaze not falling far to meet with- Cooper, was it? With a gaping bloody hole where the mask didn’t cover. The sight of it all would’ve turned Arthur’s stomach if the fear that took hold wasn’t so quick.

He couldn’t see the shooter beyond a navy blue pair of pants, but he could hear their voice. They sounded afraid too.

“Fuck!” The security guard trembled, clutching to his handgun as his huge eyes surveyed the space. “All of you stay down! If any of you thugs try anything I’ll shoot you, I swear. I fucking swear!” His voice broke as he turned in every which direction. “Stay right the fuck where you are and find out why Gotham isn’t afraid of you shitbags anymore. Don’t-”

Before the guard could struggle to keep himself together for another agonizing moment, the glass doors gave way. Thousands of shards flew every which way, sending another ringing through Arthur’s ears that kept him from seeing the large plumes of smoke crawling towards the ceiling. Alarms sounded to no response beyond more noise by way of screaming. Arthur didn’t scream. Slowly, he extended one arm past the curtain of clothes, then another. It felt like forever until he found his way above the lifeless body, yanking the gun with all the clumsiness of a child shoplifting from a candy store. He looked up to see the woman’s eyes frozen on his face, and without saying another word he fell back and listened.

The Joker strolled in, unburdened as his means of entry was handheld. Effective, too; the place looked as if it’d been showered by glass with the beginnings of an inferno at the base of the Christmas tree. Pristine shoes trampled over shards coating the marble floor, drawing a chorus of hushed gasps as he made his way further inside. A bullet whizzed past his shoulder and he contorted himself instinctively. Reaching into his coat, he fired a shot back. His landed into a security guard’s shoulder, the portly man falling back on himself as he clutched his shoulder. His gun skidded away, however he made no attempt to grab it as one hand went to the wound in his chest. Blood smeared against the pristine ground as he let out a string of hushed curses.

Before the Joker made another move towards him, he looked to the side. The dipshit Cooper got a hole in his head, from a mall cop no less- he got what he paid for, he supposed. A cowering woman hid feet away from Cooper’s body, but nothing else. He turned his attention back to his assailant. The would-be hero of the evening. Cocking his head, he merely watched as he stood with one leg on either side of the guard. The man let out strained gasps as he found his strength.

Faced with the gun in his attacker’s hand as the clown hunched over him, the security guard only glared as a forceful cough brought forth blood.

“Act tough all you want,” The guard coughed. “All of you are the same. You all think you control the world because you know how to scare people-” Another cough, the spasm it induced bringing tears to the man’s eyes. What looked back at him couldn’t be entirely considered a man, but a fascinated listener nonetheless. “-but you don’t. Not anymore. We have a hero now, one who isn’t afraid of nobodies like you.”

The Joker stood silently, black eyes peeking through black warpaint. He slid the revolver back into the pocket of his coat. His expression remained frozen in neutrality.

Arthur’s free hand went to his mouth when he heard an agonized scream, fearing it was his own. The broken glass that dug into his knees didn’t help. He crawled towards the gaping hole in the building’s entrance, trying to think beyond incomprehensible sounds of panic inside of his head and out. When another shot rang out, Arthur and anyone else with a semblance of a similar plan to his own dove into hiding. His spot of choice happened to be a kiosk by the jewelry counter, one that peddled the same product with a bullet hole between the eyes of its advertisement. It wasn’t until he neared its corner that he realized he wasn’t alone. Keeping balance on heels, a dark figure crouched as they sifted through what seemed to be a wallet with a handgun on the floor beside a sack. Arthur could make out a mask from behind, at once realizing it to be the unaccounted for passenger. He hoisted the gun nervously as if it was a long stick, slowly pushing it forward until the barrel met a mess of tied blonde curls.

“Put your hands up.” Arthur whispered, expecting to instantly learn why it was a terrible idea to do anything but run. He wanted that to be the case.

Instead, painted fingers slowly raised until both hands were in the air, still not a word passing between them.

Until they turned their head.

As they peered over their shoulder, Arthur could make out the details of their mask. Red at the nose and overdrawn smile and blue at the eyes, it sent a tightness through Arthur’s chest. Why exactly he couldn’t tell, but he reacted to it like a child retrieving their blanket.

“Take off the mask, now.”

Their hands went carefully to the bottom of the mask, palms open all the while. Arthur looked around as he waited, seeing no sign of the Joker or anyone who seemed remotely interested in holding him back. When the mask was gone, extended casually towards Arthur, initially it was all he could pay any mind to. He almost wanted to smile, and he would’ve had he been alone. Looking up, he saw a goon of a different stock than Cooper. Her skin was pale, although quite clearly untouched by the trendy white paint, while her face was round with an upturned nose and thin albeit shapely lips. He looked into her blue eyes and the arched brows that framed them, feeling something stir inside of him. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the time.

“Give it to me-”

Whatever he wanted to say was cut off by the abrupt distant appearance of lights shifting rapidly from red to blue. Arthur recognized those more than easily enough, preparing to risk everything and run towards the way he came. Then the ground shook, and however close the cars might’ve been, any moves towards the store would’ve happened in pieces. Another was quick to collide with the wreckage, only adding to the fiery display. Arthur’s eyes grew huge as any plan he might’ve had went up in flames alongside the cars blocking the garage. There would be easier ways of seeking death than running through fire, if he craved it so badly.

He cradled the mask in one hand but made no moves to put it on.

With the explosion came another round of panicked screaming, admittedly only agitating Arthur instead of making him fear for them- or himself.

“So,” A voice rose above the pandemonium, shaken only by the tremors of laughter. “Let’s raise the stakes. For every minute the Batman doesn’t show, I kill one of you. If he’s not here in ten minutes, I kill all of you.”

Arthur’s face contorted. He couldn’t follow what he meant, but who was to say the Joker meant anything at all? The more Arthur thought, the angrier he became. The more his expression sank, the less he cowered. He wouldn’t play hero for this asshole’s amusement. Holding the mask, seeing the blank expression so ready to reflect his own, he felt different. He felt enough to know any move he made in this place would be in vain. He remembered enough to know-

Another deafening crack sent a hale of glass shards flying from the wall. The flurry outside wasted no time spilling in, although that seemed to be the least of anyone’s worries. Nobody screamed this time. Whatever broke the window, Arthur only noticed in his peripheral.

“Oh fuck.” Seemingly without regard to the gun aimed in her direction or really any of the pandemonium going on around her, the woman scanned the room in a moment of clarity Arthur had yet to reach. Her eyes settled on a white door across the way, the same one his former captor discovered shortly before having his brains blown out. Before Arthur could raise his concerns, she sprinted through the scene and disappeared past the door nearly as quickly as he’d found her.

“You might want to be more careful,” A shaky voice spoke to no one in particular. “One wrong step and I send this entire place sky high.”

When he heard a loud crash from the wall far opposite of the wall, he decided that would be his chance. Looking where the woman once joined him, he noticed the bag was gone but the gun remained. He looked at his own, bulky and heavy, and decided to switch. This one made his hand tremble, but he held onto his wrist until he could get another look at the door,

Seemingly clear as it ever would be, Arthur weaved awkwardly between rows of clothing racks all the while grimacing at the pain in his knees and cradling the mask to his side. Rather than slam the door in the midst of a sprint, Arthur paid no mind to closing it. After a short run through a darkened room, the sharp, frozen air of night greeted him. He coughed.

He looked around, and as much as he knew he shouldn’t, he looked around for her.

But there was nobody else.

Looking both ways once more, Arthur tried to get himself together. He stumbled, paying no mind to his hands until he heard the unmistakable pop aimed towards the pavement. He jumped. This was Gotham, he’d heard it countless times; yet nothing was familiar. He had enough sense to get as far away as he could, but how far could he run? Fatigue already wore heavily on him, and despite the chill that immediately greeted him, beads of sweat stuck dark strands to his forehead right to the brow. He felt more exhausted with every breath, and it was only then that he remembered the blood still on his face.

Only one place came somewhat close enough to a home for Arthur, and he remembered it now in cripplingly perfect clarity. As bitter tears found their way down his cheeks, he picked the emptiest route and kept walking. And walking. The ground shook and he kept walking.

None of it made sense.

***

((a bit more arthur-centric this chapter, but if you stan the joker i think you’ll really enjoy the next one ;) anything y’all wanna see in the future?))

#joker x joker #dark knight joker #the dark knight #ledger!joker #phoenix!joker #jokerverse #fanfic #arthur fleck #joker 2019 #joker 2019 spoilers

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namjoonchronicles · 5 years

Text

all the pretty boys likes pretty girls | nj

- 1.8k

-writing exercise

Oh what it's like to be admired. To be adorn and to be loved in such delicate way that one felt suffice just from watching from afar.

You decided long before time that you were content with loving and never having. You decided that his words are forever carved within the walls in your veins and there are stars in your eyes where you see him walk through the hallways. The weather is cloudy, and the haze has gotten so much worse than when you came, the books that you carry felt like baggage and despite the setbacks, you hustle through the foggy weather to do what you came here to do.

Reading his new entry on the Student Representative Board; excited to know what he will talk about this week.

His topic had always been intriguing and thought-provoking that makes you think your thoughts are on the same wavelengths. You feel like you could tell him everything and not be ridiculed like you always have been. Those who couldn't see the weight of the topic always have the same face; uninterested and bland, judging and mocking. Not he. He understands. Or so you hoped.

Because no matter how long you know a person, you'll never see every part of them. And there's something about that that makes you feel like its not worth knowing anyone.

A familiar, hearty laughter, charismatic in its deliverance--your first response was to hide behind one of the many pillar your foyer had. It was he, Namjoon, walking with his friends, and a bright smile on his lips, heads hanging slightly to accommodate the friend who did not share the same height privilege as he does. Though you frequently found him wearing this expression, you never could be bored of it. He wears nothing extravagant; white dress shirt with light brown trousers, hair slick back, blazers folded in one hand, some notes in another.

Then, the inevitable.

"Namjoon," the handsome young men swung his head around at the call of his name. The chirpy, cheerful voice sped up when she saw that she was heard. "I was wondering if you could attend a singing contest this Friday? We are in-need of one more judge," she hurried to grab her flyers that probably contained the details of the contest and duck it out at Namjoon. Namjoon took them immediately.

"This Friday?" he re-confirms, looking at her in the eye, "I'll let you know if I could come. Though I'm not really great at singing..." Namjoon ends the statement with a chortle. She looks beyond delighted and she said her words of appreciations but you were too let down to hear the rest. You dug your hand into your jeans pocket and and took out a folded letter. It was intended to reply to Namjoon's last week entry post. But it didn't mean anything now. He is appreciated so well by others, why would he need another one. You lazily slipped it on top of the propelling dust bin and left the scene.

"What did I even think of doing that... we already know we didn't have a chance," you mumbled to yourself and pushed through the lecture hall door.

The thought of him reading your letter and the things you wanted to say to him; all your thanks and sincere words would have made him smile somehow--the joy he would have had, is lingering in your thoughts as the lecture progresses to the middle. Why would a girl like you get an attention from a guy like Namjoon. He's he, and you're you. That should be enough to end the relationship before it even began.

It started rather slowly. He helps oscillate your registration, he just did what he had to do. You didn't even plan to catch feelings. It's not what you're here for.

"Have you eaten?" the first thing he says when he saw you in the morning. Just before the long Orientation week began. "Yes, I did. The food is really good!" You chirped and went off right away. You're not the kind to have long small talks and hates doing it before you have coffee. He didn't protest. It would have been rude--you just got accustomed to each other's face. It was appropriate length of conversation at the time.

During the orientation, you were not very enthusiastic during ice-breaking activities. Orientation week, ever since college had always been draining for an introvert like yourself. Everything is fast-paced, and so many people are talking, wanting to know about each other. There comes one session where the University's Welcoming Crew spread around the hall, and have the new students like you, answer some questions.

"I want you to draw, what you were in the past, in the present and in the future," Namjoon was on the microphone at the front of the stage. You knew straight away what the goal was. It was to make sure that the new students understand what they're doing when they get here. Thing was, you aren't really sure. For a full five minutes, the canvas was empty. You pushed yourself to draw, but nothing comes out.

What is significant about me? Who was I? Who am I? What will I be?

Namjoon starts to walk around the massive hall, looking at drawings by other students. With his hands in his back, simply looking. His expressions were difficult to read. He doesn't smile, doesn't tilt, doesn't frown. Then your pen begins to move. Your eyes becomes glassy and your heart tugged in a way that it was painful to describe, but still, no tears fell. Your group mates who are in the same 'psychological torture' drew beautiful things like, big houses, big cars, themselves holding a degree. And you drew...

A sunken ship. Past. A small ship that floats. Present. A bigger ship and a bigger sail. Future.

Namjoon stops behind you. You closed your book immediately., Your canvas folded. He didn't say a word. You couldn't look at his face. Maybe you did, but you passed him a smile so brief, no one could have caught it.

Next, was a talk from the Dean.

You must have fell asleep midway because you didn't remember what he said. Your roommate who is sitting next to you offered a candy that you gladly took. You sincerely hoped no one caught you sleeping--it would have been embarrassing. This is what happens when you spent all night thinking if what you did--enrolling into university at this age was the right thing to do. But it's done.

It was then you found his board, where he wrote his thoughts about various things in life. You've never seen such elaborated piece of careful thinking, delivered in a way that evokes your inner thoughts. So eloquent and detailed, yet, poetic in its execution. It stood out like a poetry instead of a critic it was supposed to be. You've never heard someone worded it in that way before.

"What the eyes doesn't see, the mind doesn't know."

That phrase alone made you ponder behind the meaning for hours, for relevance, for explanation. Looking within yourself what made it so incredibly profound. You understood it so much, but also didn't. It made you wonder what has he gone through, to say words like that?

Surely, he was a professional writer in disguise of a student. The next morning's encounter was in the elevator. Like always he would smile first.

"You're up early," you broke the ice. "Yeah," he gushes, crinkles around his eyes, "There's an issue with the food for the event today, so I'm up to sort it out... How about you? Did you find the food okay?" "Yeah, I have no complains..." you blinked rapidly, feeling the atmosphere change because there's concerns in his voice, that he don't really attempt to hide in the way he leans tiredly on the elevator walls. "The food went bad...some students got sticky rice," he confessed.

He must have felt really bad. It wasn't even his fault.

"But I feel okay, Namjoon," you shrugged. "You're absolutely sure?" he inquired.

You nodded aggressively. He twitched a smile as he looks away.

"It's my job to make sure food is okay, and it isn't," he clicks his tongue, chin tilted up, and the elevator dings to arrival, "If you feel any discomforts, let me know. I'll get you some medications, alright?" He walks out first, with a thumbs up and sprinted off.

"Good luck today!" You managed to say. "Will do!" He shouts and disappears into the hall.

He was just friendly. He has incredibly writing skills that would shun the most celebrated writer in the world. But that's probably your own biased views. He is still Kim Namjoon and you're just you.

-----

Namjoon picks up a letter from the floor where you just left, as he saw you plunge into the lecture hall barely having seen your face. When orientation week end, it's like you returned to being strangers. He almost couldn't believe that he told you what he worried about so effortlessly, that one time in the elevator, and how relieved you made him feel. He couldn't forget that. The 'Good Luck' was what he needed the most. He is about to be expelled because he got into trouble with failing academics and being in Orientation Crew was the last thing that could make him stay in the dorms, and not get kicked out.

He wanted to try making writing his full time job, but his parents forced him to be here. Writing on the board makes him feel like himself. That's where his thoughts and views are on display. It didn't have to matter if someone reads it, but it would be nice if someone did. And he saw you one time, endorsed in it. And he felt so seen. It was strange. Like, you've seen his bare soul while being fully dressed.

He writes longer and longer and talk about many more things of various disciplines. The face you had on while you're reading it, and after you've done reading it, gives him so much satisfaction.

When he saw you drew a sinking ship, he felt like you had a story to tell. And he felt envious to those that you did tell those stories to. You're always so enveloped in your thoughts, he just wanted to know what you're thinking of. Does it cross the lines? Is it going too fast?

You look so sleepy. Namjoon did tell everyone not to doze off during the talk. Seems like you couldn't help it. When he walks over to your row, your friend next to you tried to wake you and he stopped her and shook his head.

"Let her sleep, it's okay..."

And these are the things you don't know. And never will, perhaps.

#knj #namjoon #namjoon fanfic #namjoon fic #fluff

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mollymauk-teafleak · 6 years

Note

“I don’t care if they’re watching. I’m not done with you yet.” is giving me some serious Courtesan AU vibes

@soft-bram requested this too, so a fic for two lovely people

I call this fic, Caleb Realises He Has An Exhibitionist Kink

***

The inside of Marion’s brothel was a whole other world.

It was as if the whole place were made of light alone, barely tangible, always shifting and changing and dancing teasingly before Caleb’s eyes, crooking it’s finger to beckon him forward. He knew it was because Marion kept a flotilla of hanging glass lamps suspended at different lengths from the rafters. In fact, he’d sourced the resin glass for her in every colour he could produce in his lab and calculated the exact lengths at which to hang them to get the best effect. But even knowing this, the otherworldly beauty of it still stunned him, made him feel half cut before even a sip of the thick, molasses coloured ale he liked so much here had passed his lips. It made him forget everything beyond the heavy oak doors that muffled the sounds of song and laughter and love so well, bland and plain on the side that faced the street but carved into a vast scene of many lovers entwined around each other on the other face.

It made him feel like he could do something truly insane. Something wild and crazy and beautiful as falling in love for an hour.

Frumpkin had followed him in tonight. He did that sometimes, disappearing and reappearing as he willed, sometimes over in Jester’s lap, sometimes sat atop the bar, glaring at Marion’s cat Sune, sometimes with Marion herself, lying at her elbow as she scratched his ears, sometimes wherever he went in the fae realm when Caleb didn’t need him close by.

But now he was around Caleb’s shoulders, tail swaying lazily back and forth and paws drooping sleepily. Caleb petted his flank idly as he sipped from his tankard and turned the pages of his book.

His appointment with Mollymauk didn’t start for a while yet but he liked to sit in the brothel beforehand, enjoy the drinks and the atmosphere, so he always came early. It was probably good for him to spend some time around people, he reasoned, rather than staying sequestered in his lab with nothing but conical flasks of sulphurous powers and flickering flames for company. He’d gotten some odd glances at first, treating a brothel like a library, sat there with his drink and a different book every night, like he was some deranged lunatic who’d wandered in off the street and mistaken this pleasure house for a lovely, homely tea shop.

But now, of course, they were used to him and he got smiles and hellos and winks as the workers walked past. None attempted to proposition him, they all knew who he was here to see. Just the usual good-natured flirting; it was always a good idea to stay on the good side of an archmage. Even one as unconventional as Caleb.

He came upon him as he always did, almost like it was accidental. Like there was no rhyme or reason why someone as bright and bold and alive as Mollymauk Tealeaf could possibly have stumbled into Caleb’s grey little life. And yet here he was, in defiance of the way things should be. As if daring everything that held Caleb down to try and kick him out, flitting in and out too fast for it to right itself. One moment absent, the next suddenly appearing in the booth next to Caleb, his smile as bright as the sun.

“My little stray cat comes wandering back once again,” Molly hummed, practically whispering in his ear. That was how he always teased Caleb, comparing him to a ragged ginger tabby, always returning hopefully at the same time each evening, begging with wide, wheedling blue eyes for some milk.

Caleb grinned, blushing a little as he always seemed to do in Molly’s presence, setting his book down on the table. He kissed his companion’s cheek in greeting, noting how it was always soft and perfect without the need for any kind of make-up, “Good evening, Mr Tealeaf.”

The tiefling wrinkled his nose at the formality, “I’ve told you, sweetling, just let me know when you get here and I’ll come fetch you, you don’t have to wait around.”

“But I like it here,” Caleb reassured him, taking his hand, “And I don’t want to make you work when you don’t have to.”

His expression softened, less playful, “It doesn’t feel like work when I’m with you.”

It never failed to strike him, how easy it was being around Mollymauk. Everything that was always tight and tense everywhere else relaxed in an instant, he no longer scrutinised every single word before it left his mouth. Everything else was so exhausting, being with Mollymauk was freedom.

He looked nothing short of stunning tonight. The tiefling moved between dresses and trousers as if it was the most natural thing in the world, expectations and established roles less than a vague amusement to him, always managing to look gorgeous in whatever he chose. Tonight it was tight, clinging leggings made of a dark, silk like material that looked like it would be so nice to touch, a dark diamond pattern on one half and pinstripes on the other. His shirt was billowy and white with a black leather waistcoat over the top, high boots of the same material all the way up to his thighs, the whole outfit making Caleb think of a roguish pirate with a dangerous grin, come to claim him as treasure and steal him away. And, as always, he was wearing enough jewellery and precious metal to make a dragon envious.

“You look wonderful,” Caleb murmured, his words feeling muddy and clumsy as he tried to fit them together in such a way that they’d even come close to describing something as otherworldly as Mollymauk.

“You’re always so sweet, darling,” Molly smiled, resting a hand on the side of Caleb’s face, as generous with touch as he was with everything else, “You do know how to make a boy feel wanted…” His eyes, wide and red and demonic looking to people who didn’t know him, studied his companion’s face, an adorable little crease forming between his eyes, “Long day?”

Caleb bit his lip, there was no hiding anything from Mollymauk. He read faces, open or closed, as easily as he himself read books.

To call it a long day would be putting it mildly. He had come into the lab that morning to find a letter- not even a face to face conversation, a bloody letter pinned to the door- informing him that funding for his work was to be reduced yet again and all of his requests for new equipment from the last month had been denied. Bitterly, he knew it was retribution for the way he’d spoken out at the last meeting of the council. He always tried to keep his head down and say as little as possible, knowing anything he did say would be ignored or ridiculed, but when the Grand Mage had proposed his new cripplingly high tax on all non-human beings wanting to enter the city to live and work and escape the fighting in the empire, Caleb’s fury had overtaken his good sense. And of course, it had been for naught. The tax would be implemented anyway, the poor would continue to suffer, and now he was to be punished as well.

But he didn’t want to bore Molly with all of his woes, so he just sighed and nodded, “Yeah. A long day.”

The tielfing stroked his thumb across Caleb’s cheekbone, tilting his head as if to admire the view better, like Caleb was actually something worth looking at, “Well…you’re here with me now, sweetling. Nothing’s going to hurt or upset you here, not if I have anything to say about it.”

He had to swallow hard to clear the tightness in his throat. To most the words would sound foolish, the kind of thing you said to soothe a child who’d had a nightmare, not a grown man who’d paid for your time. But somehow Molly knew that it was exactly what Caleb needed to hear. And he said it without hesitation, with no judgement, making it clear that Caleb was allowed to want to hear it.

“Now…” Molly’s attitude shifted, lightened, turned back to his usual boyish, playful brevity, “It’s been far too long since I had you to myself.”

“It’s only been two nights,” Caleb chuckled, feeling better already.

“As I said, far too long. Practically criminal.”

He moved over, settling on his knees so he could seat himself comfortably in Caleb’s lap. Now he was so wonderfully close, his breath warm against his skin, smelling of coffee and sugar, his hands now both on his face, stroking back into his hair. His lips ghosted across his jaw, every so lightly, deliberately to make Caleb moan and want more which, of course, he did. Molly sniggered, delighted with himself, continuing to brush his fingers through his lover’s coppery hair and give him the most delicate, teasing kisses along his neck.

Messing around in the bar was far from uncommon, it was where the workers interacted with clients who hadn’t made appointments with a specific individual, so there would nearly always be at least one pair, or more than a pair, getting things started in one of the booths with gossamer curtains, or hell, even on one of the tables or up against the bar. At this point, the poor bartender just worked around them.

But Caleb had always been swept safely up to Molly’s suite, all the times he’d visited before. All the many times, at this point. The more Molly toyed with him, delicately, giving him just enough to wake up all those places inside him, those deep wells of want, but not enough for him to get anything but hot and bothered, Caleb began to notice. There were eyes watching them, mouths curving up into appreciative little smiles, eyebrows rising in interest.

And he liked it.

By now his blush had become a full-blown conflagration, probably looking ridiculous against his hair. Molly’s deft fingers had found the leather band that kept it tied away from his face when he was working, undoing it within a second so his hair fell loose like a curtain of wild, tangled fire. Caleb had realised very quickly why he’d been warned against ever playing cards with Mollymauk. His hands could be everywhere at once, fingers moving like they had minds of their own.

Caleb’s cock was like an iron bar, straining against the lacing of his trousers, well aware of the closeness between it and the heat rolling off the sweet valley between Molly’s thighs. It was just how he liked it, somewhere between pleasure and pain, the desire so strong it was too bright to look at, too burning hot to touch, like a scream bit between teeth.

“Molly…” he began, his voice strained and shivery. The request for them to move upstairs hovered at the back of his throat. Molly would do it within an instant if he asked, he knew that for a certainty, but…

“Hmm?” Molly tilted his head. Again, he’d read the thoughts behind Caleb’s eyes, pulling them free without any struggle. He saw the desire there, the way those eyes were making him feel, only increasing the fire in his chest. But also, the uncertainness, “My love?”

The offer was there, the willingness to let him choose.

Caleb swallowed hard, “Nothing…it’s just…people are watching.”

Mollymauk saw the decision made and grinned, his eyes sparking like two fires, devilish but still Caleb felt the sudden urge to put his hand in it.

“I don’t care if they’re watching,” he purred, voice low and carrying, no doubt audible to some of their closer audience, “You’re mine, Caleb Widogast. And I’m not done with you yet.”

Caleb could have melted then and there.

Molly’s hips began to roll, a long, slow movement like he was dancing, though to something certainly more risqué than the enchanted piano that played sprightly bar tunes of its own accord. The friction built slowly but surely, an agonising climb that had Caleb squirming and panting within seconds.

“They’re looking at you, y’know,” Molly whispered in his ear in a voice like thick red wine, “Seeing how glassy your eyes are getting…seeing the moans you’re trying to hold back…seeing how your fingers are digging into my shoulders…they all know.

“Oh gods…” the sound was strangled and fractured as it burst from Caleb’s chest. He could feel the slow, regular throbbing in his trousers, his own pulsing heartbeat.

“They’re only jealous,” the tiefling continued, not even breathless as he rutted against Caleb, all while keeping him pinned, “And who could blame them, sweetling? You’re nothing short of delicious but you’re mine, aren’t you? No one else’s. I can keep you dangling like this all night long if I choose.”

Caleb gave a loud keening noise, one that echoed a little further than he’d intended. The embarrassment wasn’t its own entity, it was one with the intense pleasure, the smoky edge of the heady cloud in his mind, inseparable, inextricable.

“I won’t, sweetling, I won’t,” Molly soothed, grinding down hard to make Caleb give a muffled shriek then pulling back, “I want to see your face when you finish. I want to see you make a mess of your nice palace clothes.”

“Trying…” Caleb groaned through gritted teeth, “Can’t…can’t get there…oh fuck, Molly…”

He wanted it so badly but it was just out of reach, it was maddening.

Molly bent closer, nipping his earlobe tightly, “Yes you can, sweetling. You can do it for me, I know it.”

And suddenly, just because Mollymauk said, it was so. Caleb pressed his face to the front of his shirt, toes and fingers and teeth clenching as he trembled his way through a sharp, hard won orgasm, just about managing not to scream.

There was a ringing in his ears as he came back down, a dizziness behind his eyes. But Molly was beaming at him, holding his face again with his thumbs stroking his cheekbones in that lovely way, and that was all that mattered.

Vaguely, Caleb reflected that he probably wouldn’t be able to sit here and read his book on evenings any more.

“Look at you,” Mollymauk simpered, grinning in sheer delight, “Naughty little thing, couldn’t even wait until we got upstairs. Come on, we’re going to have to get you out of those clothes and you’re going to have to make this up to me somehow…” He winked.

Caleb had never shot up the stairs faster in all his life.

#courtesan au #lemon #im still taking these prompts #widomauk #caleb widogast #mollymauk tealeaf #critical role #cr: caleb #cr: mollymauk

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davidpowellpoet-blog · 5 years

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Gentrified

The Patels have moved on...so has Jamaican John. And those smells that quelled my hungry tum as they hung in the air are gone.

Pimento, nutmeg, chillies, roasting meat on fire drums. Jerk chicken cooked a thousand ways amazed when we were young.

Each Saturday at Imran’s house the cardamon, cumin, ginger, coriander, chives and his mum’s supplies of spice would linger.

A rainbow scent on airstreams on the streets we knew and loved, took all of us to other worlds these smells from heaven above.

And fascinating locals from far lands we couldn’t spell, would doff their trim fedoras revealing skin of caramel.

Our ears would ring as maracas clacked, flamenco players strummed and clapped, next door in Reggie’s music shack, the bass of dub boomed out of stacks.

People from a world we never thought we’d ever know, bought culture love and colour to our dark and dingy homes.

And as I wander down memory lane to Reggie’s music shack, that way back in the 90′s got turned into trendy flats, instead of cumin, cardamon and ginger with bay leaves, all I smell and breath for miles are fresh roasted coffee beans.

The characters are bland at best trendy students badly dressed, no fedoras or stay pressed slacks no dub beats played on giant stacks.

Instead a sea of hipsters wearing clothes that don’t quite fit, men’s torsos bulging out tight tops like bras that can’t hold tits.

Odd socks, trousers short, it’s like their seamstress got excited, ankles having parties but their trousers aren’t invited.

And where I once got a tea and bun and chat for 90p, a fiver gets a latte, croissant and attitude for free.

Jamaican John’s house sold for thirty times beyond its means, he went back home to Kingston with his wife to live their dreams.

I bet he misses the bustle of the streets where we grew up, the hustling, playing dominoes and black jack in the pub.

Imran didn’t go so far his dad’s house sold too soon, before Waitrose and M&S made housing prices boom.

He’s happy though in Dagenham cos agents say it’s next, a coffee shop just opened up they’ve even got a Next!

But I’m still here with brexiteers and white liberal minded folk, breweries and trendy shops whose prices are a joke.

The streets are grey and every day we lose a bit more colour, families once here for years are forced out of the borough, popping back just now and then to check on their grandmothers, the days of missing cultural ways has definitely suffered.

As I sit back and reminisce about how life used to be, when curry powder and Dragon Stout were as exotic as Omar Sharif, I pinch myself and think of John and Imran and the street, the sound of ska at Perry’s bar that made our earholes bleed, and how the right to live a life where neighbours of all shades, pulled together side by side at the Jubilee parades.

Now social cleansing’s taken hold I’m stuck with this rich lot who seem to own my old friends’ homes and every bleedin’ shop. I guess mine’s next but while I’ve still got breath inside of me, I won’t stop banging on about how good life used to be.

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heartslogos · 5 years

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newfragile yellows [532]

“Ah, Dorian’s in town,” Evelyn says, and Bull follows her gaze towards one of the balconies to see Lady Ellana Lavellan leaning into a mustached man in a sharp suit. He bites his tongue and forces himself to look forward instead. “I knew he was coming, but I didn’t realize he was already here. Cullen, did he send you a message?”

“No,” Cullen replies, “Perhaps he caught an earlier ship than he originally anticipated. We shall have to see if we can catch him during the intermission and see where he’s staying. Perhaps we could go out for a nightcap after the show.”

“Dorian?” Bull asks.

“Lord Dorian Pavus, an altus of Tevinter,” Cullen elaborates.

“Tevinter?”

“Don’t,” Evely warns him, pinching Bull’s arm. Bull gives her a bland look. “I may not know you very well, the Iron Bull, but everyone knows about the bad blood between the Qun and Tevinter. I’m warning you now, you do not want to attempt to further that relation with Dorian Pavus. He and Ellana get along thick as thieves, you know. She wouldn’t like it one bit.”

Bull hums noncommittally and resists the urge to take another glance back up. They do certainly have the look of two who get along. There’s a spark of hot envy in the back of his throat chased by a bitter touch of something he doesn’t quite want to place. It doesn’t surprise him that Ellana Lavellan has caught the eye of a man — and he wouldn’t begrudge her that either. He’s known her for less than a month and has no claim to any of her affections or attentions.

After all, Bull, himself, is not one to talk of dalliances and affairs. It would be hypocritical to a degree beyond anyone’s reasonable measure and the Iron Bull strives to be reasonable as often as possible.

But when he thinks on Ellana Lavellan and their few, but memorable, exchanges he feels that bitterness rise up to the forefront, past even the little ember of envy caught in his teeth.

It’s disappointment. Again, another thing he doesn’t have any reason or basis to have.

But he is disappointed. It had felt as though. Well. It felt as though there was something a little more profound developing between them. And then she had given that wager. Now he wonders if she meant any of it in sincerity or if she was just playing with him as a cat does with a mouse or goldfish. Again, Bull has no leg to stand on in regard to flirtation and the like. But he wasn’t flirting. Not for shallow amusement.

He did earnestly want to know Ellana better and, perhaps, find himself in her favor.

The possibility that Ellana did not mean it when she invited him to try, and that she had extended that possibility to him all the while content in warmth of another, stings.

It’s vexing, even.

It’s all fine to play and tease, as long as both parties know it. And the Iron Bull is certain that he was clear that he was not at play.

Again, he has no reason to feel this way. What does he know of Ellana Lavellan, after all? A woman he met at a garden party a fortnight and change ago? A woman he’s only spoken to a handful of times in total?

He ought not to be making assumptions about such a woman’s intentions and character, nor should he feel hurt or spurned when she shows behavior contrary to what he had assumed.

Bull glances back, but the pair have retreated deeper into the private box and are no longer visible from this angle.

The altus had been quite handsome, at least. So the two are well matched in terms of looks. He supposes that should take the sting out of it, although it’s quite a shallow reason. He turns forward again, watching as the orchestra begins to warm up. It shall have to suffice.

“Well, don’t you look utterly devastating,” Vivienne says, reaching out and curling some of the wig’s strands around her finger. “You are the only one I know who can powder their hair and make it look quite lovely and not at all dreary and…dull. It is a look that no one has dared to attempt in at least two decades. You wear it better than most of its most ardent fans.”

“Thank you,” Ellana says, smiling as she adjusts her domino, “Now. Before everyone else gets here, you must give me a preview at that guest list of yours.”

“I must, must I?” Vivienne raises an eyebrow. “Well. Perhaps we shall have to do an exchange, hm? If you’ve powdered your hair and are dressed in that spectacular cut of jacket and trousers — and I do seem to recall those ornaments about you from a few years ago — then you’ve come masquerading as your brother when he was playing at a woodland prince of faerie. Which means your brother is going to be in attendance as you. And the last time such a thing happened it was because your brother wanted to flirt and drive a certain lord quite mad and he succeeded quite well at it. So either your brother is off at his games again, or you’re up to something. Considering that you’ve recently made some subtle steps and nuanced invitations towards attending singles mixers, I do believe it is the latter. Tell me everything.”

“Everything, so soon? And spoil the game for you? Perish the thought,” Ellana replies. “All you need to know is that at some point tonight I might be borrowing your hedge maze.”

“It’s yours,” Vivienne replies instantly. “For the low, measly price of a name. Who is it?”

“Do you expect me to patronize you as though you don’t know?”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“The Iron Bull, who apparently, you are already in close acquaintance with. Are you going to warn me off him?”

“Not at all, I might have to warn him off of you, however,” Vivienne says. “Come along, I’ll give you three minutes with my guest list and not a second longer.”

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

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solign0501 · 6 years

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You Were Maid For This

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Pairing:AU Bucky (Royal) x Reader (Peasant)

Summary: Prince Bucky has everything life could offer at his command, except somebody to share it with. The Reader’s mother works in the castle and manages to get you a job there, working for the spoilt prince. What happens when he discovers the only thing he ever really wanted is so close, but so out of reach?

A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting this but I was unwell - I hope this starts to make up for it?!

Bucky woke with a start the next morning, a thin sheen of sweat covering his skin, his mind still racing at the thought of that pretty face and those arresting eyes. Seriously, how had he never noticed you before? You were his servant, surely he can’t be that blind... can he?

A knock at the door startled him and he sat up suddenly in bed, a little ashamed of some of the thoughts he had been entertaining. He relaxed, however, as the familiar face of Fitz poked round the door.

“Ah, you’re awake sire,” he said with a smile before bustling in. “I thought I’d heard you moving.”

“Let me guess,” Bucky said with a sigh as Fitz opened the curtains, letting the intrusive daylight in. “We’ve got a busy day today?”

“As always, sire,” Fitz said with a smile. He looked at the Prince and took in his slightly dishevelled features. “Would you like me to draw you a bath first?”

“Yes,” Bucky said, standing up and stretching. The cool air from the corridor outside chilled the skin on his bare chest as he rotated his metal arm. He had lost it in the rebellion and originally a rudimental one had been attached, meant solely as a weapon by the Baron, like he was. Since peacetime, however, a much more robust and comfortable one had been made especially for him by Princess Shuri from the neighbouring kingdom of Wakanda to the south, allies of theirs and firm friends. Bucky cherished the cool feeling of the metal against his skin as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“How is the new maid settling in?” he asked, aiming for nonchalance. Fitz, a little surprised that the Prince had even noticed her, beamed widely.

“Oh very well, sire. She’s picking things up very quickly and she gets on great with the other servants and guards here. I think Daisy and Mack up in on the North wall are particularly fond of her.”

“That’s... good to hear,” Bucky said, nodding as he let Fitz put his bath robe over his shoulders. “And, where is she this morning?” he asked, feigning casual indifference.

“Just getting your breakfast, sire,” Fitz said truthfully. “It should be ready for you when you finish your bath.”

You waited patiently by the side table in the kitchen as your mother filled the tray in your arms with breakfast delicacies for the Prince.

“That should keep him going,” your mother said with a smile, placing a small plate of oat cakes on the only remaining bit of space.

“For at least two hours,” you remarked, earning a smile from her.

“Will you manage all that?” she asked, holding the heavy wooden door to the kitchen open for you to walk through.

“Yes mother,” you said, leaning up and giving her a quick peck on the cheek.

“Well, be careful,” she called after you. “And watch out on those stairs!”

“Yes, mother!” you called back. You picked your way slowly up the stairs, grateful to see that Fitz had left the door unlocked for you. With a slight push, it opened and you made your way over to the table, depositing the tray. You heard movement and a slight sloshing sound from upstairs and correctly deduced that the Prince was in the bath. You breathed a momentary sigh of relief for the peace as you busied yourself with your first few chores.

You made up the bed, picking up the discarded trousers and laying them folded atop the pillow for that evening. The bottom of the bedding was tousled and you recalled Fitz telling you that the Prince was prone to nightmares because of his experiences in the war. You allowed yourself a brief moment of sympathy for the man as you straightened the bedding and made sure it was pristine, before starting up the fire in the grate.

Once that was done, you set about laying out the breakfast on the table. You were so busy with your work that you didn’t hear the movement above you, or hear the soft padding of feet on the stairs. The first you realised you were not alone was when a low voice sounded off to your left, making you jump.

“Fitz, where is robe?” You looked up, startled, straight at the wet, naked form of the Prince, his modesty only saved by a conveniently placed chair at the end of the table. His eyes met yours and widened in panic as you frantically looked away, crimson to the tips of your ears.

Bucky let out a long stream of curse words and dove for the stairs, legging it back up to the bathing area, where he spotted the robe draped over the back of a small wooden chair.

Part of you wanted to laugh, the other to faint. True, you hadn’t seen everything, but you’d seen enough. He was beautiful. The flickering light from the fire had danced on his smooth skin and the hazy mid-morning sun that shone through the windows had brought his musculature into sharp, powerful relief. Even his metal arm held a strange beauty in the half-light. You had only looked for a split second, but the image was burned onto your eyelids and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake it from your mind.

Something stirred in the pit of your stomach, or possibly lower and you shuddered. He’s the Prince, you thought sternly to yourself, you need to stop this now.

Bucky, now modestly clothed and thoroughly embarrassed, came back down the stairs.

“I’m...” he began, not quite sure how to start. “I didn’t mean... I thought you were Fitz.”

“No, Your Highness,” you said demurely, not meeting his eyes or even daring to look in his direction for fear that he would see you blush again. “But I can fetch him if Your Highness needs him?”

“No, thank you,” Bucky said, rubbing the back of his neck again. This day was off to a great start. “I’m sure he’ll be back in a moment.” Bravery suddenly overtook him and he looked up at you. You stood stock-still by the fireside, looking resolutely at the ground and he used the moment to study you.

You were pretty, he had remembered that right, and fairly tall for a woman. Your servant’s clothes, though bland and poor, certainly did you a few favours. He wondered what your slender neck and graceful arms would look like in a more courtly gown.

Graceful arms? What the hell was he thinking? He sounded like a bloody minstrel! Disgusted, he pushed the thought out of his mind and focused instead on the food that you had laid out for him.

“Your mother works in the kitchen, is that right?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” you said, still not meeting his gaze. See, servant girl from servant girl stock - why he even entertained the thought of you in court clothes was beyond him. He must be over-tired.

“On second thoughts, find Fitz. I need to get dressed.” His tone was dismissive and you curtsied, turning to leave. “Oh and girl,” he said as you stopped dead, still staring a hole through the flooring. “I want you to bring me a book up from library, something boring. It might help me sleep tonight.”

“Does Your Highness have any preference?” you asked, daring a look back at him. He had his back to you as he stood over the table, the muscles of his broad shoulders visible under the robe. You felt yourself swallow hard as you remembered the colour of the skin beneath.

“I don’t know, just pick something.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” You gave one last quick bob as you raced out of the door. Bucky listened to your retreating footsteps heading for the stairs before collapsing into his chair. He’d spoken to you, that was a start. Your voice was soft, just like he’d dreamt. He wondered if your hair was that soft, or your eyes, or your skin... or your lips.

“Nope, no absolutely not,” he said aloud, the sound of his own voice startling himself in the silence. He pushed the thought frantically from his mind before yelling for Fitz.

You made your way, with a little help from some of the other servants along the way, to the East Wing of the palace which held the library. Jemma was walking down the corridor as you approached and she gave you a warm smile, faltering slightly as she saw the look in your eyes.

“Y/N, are you alright?” You smiled up at her, realising you must still look a little flustered. Glancing around first to see if there was anybody nearby, you opened up to Jemma about what had just happened.

“I just didn’t know where to look!” you almost cried, the red tinge returning again to your skin. You were worried it might become a permanent fixture after today.

“Oh I would know exactly where to look,” Jemma said with a smile.

“Not helpful...” you said through gritted teeth, which only made Gemma laugh.

“I know, I’m sorry. But you do have to see the funny side.” She was right, you conceded as you smiled. “So what are you doing down here then?”

“He sent me to the library, to pick him up something to read in bed tonight to help him sleep.” Jemma raised an eyebrow.

“He’s not normally the reading type, his insomnia must be quite bad.” You shrugged.

“Any suggestions on what he might enjoy?” you asked. Jemma shook her head.

“Personally I would just get him something you like to read, that way you can have a treat when you have a minute to yourself, that’s what I do.”

“You’re assuming I can read...” you joked, raising your eyebrows pointedly at Jemma, who had the sense to flush a little. “Don’t forget, I’m a peasant at heart.”

“By birth, maybe,” she said, smiling kindly. “But at heart you’re like the rest of us.”

“Underpaid and underappreciated?” you asked and you both burst out laughing.

“You’re really quite remarkable, Y/N Y/L/N,” Jemma said after a moment.

“Father always wanted my brother and I to do better than he did,” you explained. “So he would save up each year and buy us a book each on our birthdays. They were the best escape we had during the winter months and we would all read to each other or make up stories until it got too dark. I’ve always loved them.”

“Then you are in for a treat.” Jemma took your arm and steered you to a nearby door. “The King encourages us servants to use the library whenever we can, he believes in education for all. So, happy birthday Y/N.” She opened the wooden door and you gasped, your eyes filling instantly with tears of joy.

@soonlazymoon @fangirllover2000 @snuggleducky @sadanddeadsoul @vivianbabz @sawdustandsugar @wolfgamzee @marvel-fanfiction

#royal au #marvel #prince bucky #bucky x reader #leo fitz #jemma simmons #winter soldier #royal au marvel #bucky x you

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