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august-unhinged · 4 years ago

Text

Routine

Setting: modern day, unspecified Alpine university town Genre & tone: some kind of evil unhealthy romance-porn. Tone is light with dark undertones, and ditches the light halfway in. Themes: desperate approval-seeking, power imbalance, student/professor, established relationship Content: transmasc main character, m/m Kinks: servitude, rope bondage, forced orgasms, noncon, forced anal sex, praise and degradation, sadism/emotional sadism, masochism/emotional masochism, forced cheating Content warnings: Noncon. Painful sex. Unsafe kink practices. Power imbalance. Manipulative/abusive relationship. Trans person as the victim, cis men as the enactors of violence.

Word count is ~10k, there’s 3k words of setup. If you want to skip straight to the porn, scroll until you see the paragraph starting in bold.

Killian’s alarm rings every morning at seven. It rings, and he hates it with every fibre of his being for a moment before he comes to and realises where he is. It really is a blessing, he reminds himself every morning. Killian wakes up on a cramped campbed that ruins his posture, simultaneously cold and sweaty on the mornings when the mountain chill threatens at the window panes, and feels nothing but gratitude for his surroundings. The pale beauty of the alpine city sprawling below them is breathtaking, but it’s the house he’s in that really gives him pause. Because he wakes in Felix’s office. On a roll-out mattress behind the Professor’s desk. At the feet of his master, even unconscious.

He has this thought process in the time it takes for him to reach over and turn off his alarm. It used to take him ten minutes to snap out of the daze - but he quickly learned that Felix doesn’t tolerate daydreaming. Killian mutters the Lord’s Prayer as he pulls on his slippers; he’s grateful for rising another morning and for where he’s risen. He pads softly into the kitchen, floorboards becoming tile under his feet as he steps into the day’s routine.

Today is slightly different, though. Killian’s heart’s trilling in his chest, resistant to his efforts to not get his hopes up again. The past couple of months had been a litany of scattered anniversaries. There was the first time Killian had been to one of Felix’s parties, the first time Felix had read one of Killian’s papers (and said it was ‘fine’!), the first time they sat and smoked and got unreasonably high until dawn broke the clouds while Killian listened adoringly to Felix’s every word. None of these were tangible, though - hardly an accepted marker of the progression of a relationship, either. But a year ago today was when Felix casually handed Killian a key to his apartment alongside a vague explanation that it would just be easier for Killian to be able to come and go as he pleased, rather than having to interrupt Felix’s day whenever he needed something. It was an offhanded exchange that still made Killian’s heart flutter for weeks after. He is hyper-aware of the gift in his possession at all times. No matter where he keeps the key it seems to burn through layers of fabric, the cool metal branding his skin in a hopeless reminder that Killian belongs.

He sets the water to boil and sits at the counter to go through Felix’s diary. Chapter review at 11 - a pushback of a pushback, but Killian is still bracing himself for an early morning announcement that Felix has something far more important to do. Donors’ lunch at 1pm, where Killian will be ever-presently taking notes. And lectures in the afternoon. Killian always memorises Felix’s diary a week in advance but looking at it with the kettle quietly rumbling in the background always frames his day with a sense of purpose. He pencils in some notes under the donor’s lunch - names and how to remember them, jokes not to make so they’ll still give us lots of money - Felix can’t possibly be expected to remember it all. Killian puts the diary on the left of the breakfast tray so Felix can read it while he eats, fills a glass with orange juice so it won’t be too cold to drink by the time he brings it through. The kettle’s finished boiling and he fills the cafetière - a spoonful and a half of the good stuff, which sits on the shelf in front of Killian’s instant. He drops two slices of granary in the toaster and hunts for a knife.

Routine.

He thrives on it.

That being said, he’s changing it up a little today - as the coffee steeps, he steams the milk in an attempt to recreate something he saw in one of the local coffee shops Felix hates but Killian secretly enjoys. He’s in his own head, dancing to an imperceptible tune, trying to figure out how to pour it right to get the shape on top of the coffee-

And the toast pops up. Killian jumps, spilling the milk on the counter, the floor, and himself. ‘Fuck.’ The cup now contains nondescript beige liquid and a smattering of foam - it’s hopeless to begin to contemplate starting another, because Killian always times breakfast perfectly to-

Felix’s alarm starts ringing insistently, and with a heavy sigh Killian marmalades the toast, piles everything onto the tray slightly more haphazardly than usual, and brings it to Felix.

Killian misses when he could watch Felix at peace. By the time Felix is awake and Killian comes to greet him, the Professor’s face has already settled into the practiced disdain that morning brings him. ‘Morning,’ Killian calls as he opens the door with his elbow, doing his quick inhale-and-hold-it in case there’s a pretty twink in Felix’s bed.

There’s not. And breathe.

Killian sets the tray down on the bedside table and stays silent, waiting. Felix appraises the tray with a cool gaze.

‘Killian,’ he says, with enough leeway in his tone for Killian’s heart to begin pounding. ‘You know I take my first coffee of the morning black.’ He’s reproachful, less sympathetic and more pitying.

‘Quite right, Professor,’ come the automatic words as Killian picks up the cup and returns to the kitchen to start the whole tedious process again. Even tediousness has a special significance here, though. Everything Killian does, he does it for Felix.

Killian has felt even more in a daze than usual today. By the time he gets back to Felix’s place, he’s frustrated with himself. He made a fool out of himself in the chapter review, nodding along but not really listening, which became apparent after one particularly unforgiving stretch of silence where Killian was supposed to be talking. ‘We may as well leave it there, then,’ Felix had said, his tone final. They broke half an hour early.

Killian doesn’t want to go home. The simplicity of the phrase is enough to make him stop in his tracks halfway up the cobbled hill to the apartment. When did it become ‘home’? It technically isn’t - Killian still pays rent to a student-sized cardboard box twenty minutes from campus, where he returns in shifts to wash his clothes and pick up mail. But he hasn’t spent a night there since Felix gave him the key a year ago. It feels alien to sleep alone in his flat, surrounded neither by the familiar leather-and-papers scent of Felix’s office, nor the comforting knowledge that Professor is breathing quietly in the next room. The idea that he’s still sleeping in the old flat and that this was all a terrible fever dream wakes Killian up at least once a week. Killian shakes his head fiercely, as though to shake all unwanted thoughts out of his brain. He’s being ungrateful. If he’s reluctant to go to Felix’s because he’s made a tit of himself, well… he shouldn’t have made a tit of himself. He shrugs. Simple enough. Killian continues up the hill and ignores the part inside him that implores him to turn away.

It’s dark by the time Killian unlocks the door - on his walk there the streetlamps were just beginning to flicker on, breaking the dusky early-evening monotone. To his surprise, when he gets there, lights are on in the apartment. He had been expecting to be alone this evening. It’s useless to try and quash the hope that Felix has remembered, that he’s planned something, so Killian reluctantly allows himself to foster the damaging expectation that Felix would ever consider the relationship worth commemorating.

‘Hello?’ Killian calls towards the bedroom light, uncertain. The door opens and Felix steps out. He’s still in the suit he’d been wearing at work but his hair, usually tightly pushed back, is now falling in front of his face and his glasses are tucked into his jacket pocket. With the warm glow of the soft bedroom lighting behind him, filtering through the salt-and-pepper strands around his head and bringing out the warm hazel in his eyes, he looks divinely formed.

‘You’re back earlier than anticipated,’ Felix replies disapprovingly.

‘I could say the same about you,’ Killian says, attempting to be jovial. He drops his satchel by the door and bends to untie his laces.

‘I was hoping you’d spend the evening going over what we discussed earlier today.’ Killian worries at his lip.

‘I did this afternoon, Felix. It just took less time than I expected.’

‘Ah. Possibly because you spent our meeting daydreaming?’

Killian might be a silly romantic, but it gives him butterflies when Felix uses the first person plural when it’s just them in the room. It makes Killian feel like he’s a part of something worthwhile. Something bigger. ‘You’re doing it again.’

‘I’m sorry, Felix,’ Killian sighs. ‘I’m having an off day.’

‘Well, you won’t be able to afford that luxury in the future, Killian. So I suppose it’s best you have your “off days” now.’

This is Felix telling Killian he’s forgiven. He’s crossing to the kitchen now, busying himself with something Killian can’t figure out. There are cupboards that are functionally Killian’s to use, and Felix is inexplicably looking in them. ‘There’s marking on the desk, by the way. I need it before noon tomorrow.’ Killian grimaces internally.

‘Right - do you mind if I start later? I need to eat. Sorry.’ In the bustle of the donor’s lunch and the ever-present need for notetaking, he’d completely forgotten to eat and was now uncomfortably ravenous.

Felix tuts impatiently, as though at a slow child. ‘I’m cooking tonight, Killian. You have thirty-three papers to mark. Off you go.’

‘Oh. Right, okay. Yeah, I’ll just go and… do that.’ Killian hides the surprise in his voice as he answers but allows the confusion to stay on his face. It’s not that Felix can’t cook, it’s just that he has at least two meals out a week anyway, and it’s easier to delegate now Killian lives with him. Killian’s heart is fluttering again. He leaves the office door open a crack and crosses to the record player in the corner before he starts working on the papers. Well-practiced, he squats in front of the vinyl cabinet below the record player and slides out the fifth from the left - a jazz recording, one of Felix’s favourites. Reverently, he lifts the lid on the record player and sets the album A-side up, gently placing the needle onto the record’s outermost rim. The volume is already at the perfect setting for Felix to have it as background music, and Killian holds his breath.

No complaints from the kitchen.

For the first time that day, he allows himself to smile.

Dinner is gnocchi, brown butter, and sage. Killian scarfs it down, utterly and blissfully unaware of himself until the moment he drops his fork onto the plate and Felix clears his throat. For reference, Felix is less than a third of the way through his plate by this point. ‘Keeping your head firmly in the clouds is hungry work, I see,’ Felix gently mocks, and Killian laughs - breathy and embarrassing.

‘Hah, yeah, funny how that is, isn’t it,’ are all the words that tumble from his mouth before he reminds himself how to keep it shut. ‘How was your day?’

‘The lunch was frightfully tedious - it’s a constant source of horror to me that I must attend lunch after lunch to explain why the arts are worth funding ad nauseam. They’re trying to frame knowledge as a business, Killian, through the structures of client and customer and value for money - it’s reprehensible. To be frank, anyone who requires an explanation as to why the pursuit of knowledge is man’s only truly selfless act is not someone with whom I would engage anywhere other than a business lunch. Hopefully they won’t bother us for at least another year.’

Killian has been nodding furiously along the entire time - there’s just something about hearing Felix talk, in memorising every modulation in pitch and tone, that’s more relaxing to Killian than almost anything else in the world. ‘Write that down, by the way.’

‘About the pursuit of knowledge?’

‘That’s the one. Good boy.’ Felix always says these things so casually, like he doesn’t know what it does to Killian - namely, his mouth gets dry, his heart starts pounding, and a powerful ripple of heat shocks through his body. Felix is carrying on like he doesn’t know or care, though. He’s looking across at Killian’s notebook - full to bursting with Felix’s wit and opinions. ‘I am rather astute, aren’t I,’ Felix muses aloud - more to himself than Killian, really.

‘You really are, Professor,’ Killian murmurs, awestruck. He’s noting down what Felix has said in a half-daze.

‘Is that blue ink, Killian?’ Felix asks sharply, and Killian’s face contorts very briefly into a frown.

‘It is. I’m sorry, I can’t find my black pen for the life of me.’

‘Blue ink is for degenerates,’ Felix sighs, fixing Killian with a particularly withering look. But we are degenerates. Killian bites back the reply, hoping Felix can’t make out the defiance in his eyes. ‘You’d best carry on with your marking,’ Felix says pointedly, and Killian understands. He’s been dismissed.

By the time Killian emerges from the office it’s gone ten and his brain is exhausted. He’s done just under half the essays - more thoroughly than he needed to, probably - only relenting when his eyes started losing focus. Killian knows he’s tired when it takes him five minutes to piece together one sentence from the sea of quoted Greek and tiny little numbers, and is grateful that he’s forced himself to stop. As he stands to head through to the kitchen, he’s faintly aware of his head spinning, of every bone in his body grumbling. But beneath that, there’s an uncomfortable tension - a pulling together of muscles, a rush of connection at each synapse. His mind might be tired, but his body is very much awake.

He lets his breath out in an angry little huff and decides to have a bath, hoping to soak out of his skin any intention of not falling straight to sleep. The coldness of the kitchen tile radiates through his socks, grounding him to the present despite the discomfort as he gets ready to soak. Pre-bath rituals complete with some green tea now steeping in his favourite mug, he heads to the bathroom. There’s a window by the bath that overlooks the capital, high up enough that Killian can bathe without accidentally causing indecent exposure. He loves looking down at the city while wrapped in silky bathwater, dreaming about the thousands of lives bustling in the streets below.

Killian’s so wrapped up in himself, taking his time getting the water temperature right before putting the plug in, finding his favourite lavender bubble bath, that he doesn’t notice Felix’s presence until the Professor knocks on the bathroom door. Killian nearly jumps out of his skin, dropping the lavender bottle in the bath in the process. ‘Oh, shit.’ He laments.

‘...Are you quite alright in there?’

‘Yeah,’ Killian responds as he hurries to unlock the door, wiping wet hands on his shirt. He turns away from Felix once the Professor’s been let in, immediately dropping to the floor to mop up the splashed water with the bath mat.‘Yeah, I was just gonna grab a bath, then I dropped the bottle in and the lid’s still on but the water went everywhere, so right now I just need to-‘

‘You’ve been very clumsy today, haven’t you, Killian?’ Felix interrupts. It’s not really a question. Killian’s frantic movements slow, stutter, then halt entirely. He knows the tone and he nods, still kneeling, eyes on the slowly filling bath. ‘First the coffee, now this.’ Killian holds his breath as Felix sits on the edge of the bath and - after a moment that feels eternal - tangles his hand in Killian’s hair. Felix’s hand settles there, fingers pressing comfortingly against Killian’s scalp, and he can’t help but whine and lean into the touch. ‘What are we going to do with you?’ Felix murmurs. Again, not really a question. Felix already knows exactly what he’s going to do. He just knows how to tease Killian, press his buttons, work him up with anticipation. ‘Shower, and then join me in bed.’ Felix decides. Killian can’t help but find the affectionate tone under the imperative (or at least, he believes it’s there, and that makes it true enough for him). ‘I have a surprise for you. Tonight is a special occasion, after all.’ Felix gives Killian’s hair a short, sharp tug - a nonverbal reminder to hurry up - and leaves.

Killian whines helplessly again, all thumbs as he reaches into the bath to drain the water, heart thudding exponentially faster while he contemplates what Felix could possibly have for him. He can’t help but ponder the implication - that Felix has remembered, that he wants to show Killian he cares. His knees weaken under him. Absolutely pathetic, he chastises himself. For the next ten minutes, he concentrates on meticulously cleaning himself. He wants to make himself as perfect as possible, a blank canvas for Felix to ruin as he pleases. An involuntary shiver ripples through his body. He loves knowing that Felix has been planning something. That he’s been sitting contemplating new ways to get inside Killian’s mind, under his skin, and touch the raw nerves that he finds there until Killian is almost driven mad with it. The fact that Killian is important enough for Felix to even spend time considering this… surprise, whatever it is, is perhaps the greatest gift of all.

Killian shuts the water off. The sudden silence makes him hyper-aware of his short, trembling breaths. He reaches towards the bathroom cabinet where he had carefully laid his cross after taking it off, but his hand falters. He’s aware of how ridiculous this sounds - how ridiculous Felix would find it - but he wants whatever’s going to happen to be between Felix and himself only. There’s some things that he’s allowed to keep secret, he thinks.

Wrapping himself in a fluffy towel, Killian steals softly across the kitchen floor to Felix’s bedroom. Light spills under the door, which is open ajar - but Killian still feels the need to knock. The space he and Felix share may well be as much his as Felix’s, but the Professor’s bedroom still feels strangely off-limits. Killian doesn’t go in alone. And even when Felix is in there, permission is required to enter.

‘Come in and close the door behind you,’ Killian hears from beyond the door, and follows suit immediately. It’s only once he’s heard the click of the door closing and they’re fully alone together that he looks over at the bed. Felix sits on top of the covers, reading. He puts the book down, takes his glasses off, and appraises Killian slowly. There are two items to his right; a familiar length of black rope, and an unfamiliar box - also black, understated and nondescript. Killian waits for Felix’s permission to sit, which is granted by a wave of the hand. He sits on the opposite corner of the bed to Felix, legs tucked under himself, determined not to wither under Felix’s gaze. ‘Well?’ Felix prompts. Killian is tongue-tied, and can only look helplessly at his Professor as his face reddens - embarrassed at not figuring out what Felix wanted quickly enough. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Felix asks softly, and the tension in Killian’s chest dissipates into something manageable.

‘Y-yes, of course. Sorry,’ he mumbles, inching closer to what he can now be sure is the surprise. He’s slightly taken aback by the weight of the box as he picks it up, and his breath catches in his throat as he lifts the lid to reveal its cargo.

It’s a wand. The head is soft black silicone, perfectly smooth and about the size of Killian’s fist - the body tapers down into a dial and cordless end. The light below the dial is green; it’s fully charged. Killian tries to swallow but his mouth is suddenly dry. He settles instead for an audibly shaky intake of breath before he looks up at Felix.

The smirk on Felix’s face is maddeningly attractive, the upturn of his lip a promise that he knows exactly what to do with Killian’s new toy. ‘Thank you,’ Killian breathes.

‘You haven’t even begun to thank me,’ Felix responds, quick as ever - Killian wishes he had his notebook, because that one was good. He feels heat melting in his abdomen, a dangerous current pulling down at the simultaneous promise-threat. ‘Tell me, have you ever used one of these before?’ Killian shakes his head silently, still in awe. It’s true that he’s never even touched a wand before, but Killian had seen one used on someone else - the unforgiving hardness pressed against writhing and desperate flesh. A flush delicately creeps his way up his neck and across the tips of his ears. ‘It seems as though you know what to expect, though,’ Felix continues, tone low and dangerous. ‘I was going to allow you to feel it on your hand first, but now I see no reason to delay ourselves any further.’

‘I-I think that’s wise, Professor,’ Killian stammers, so desperate to ingratiate himself to the man who now holds the instrument of Killian’s pleasure-torture.

‘Oh, you think it’s wise, do you?’ There it is - the low growl, almost imperceptible, giving away Felix’s quiet affront. ‘Come here, boy.’

Killian crawls across the bed and, when he’s close enough, resists the urge to fall to his knees at Felix’s feet in supplication. It’s wise to start begging for mercy now, while he still has most of his faculties. Felix cuts his train of thought short as he twists his hand into Killian’s hair, tugging sharply to lift Killian’s head. ‘I don’t need to know what you think, Killian. That’s not what I have you here for.’ The slap round the face Killian gets for his actions is almost gentle - there’s a stolen moment of a caress that Felix gives Killian’s cheek after his hand has made contact with it.

‘Yes, Professor.’ Felix pushes him away and instead reaches for the rope. There’s a moment of untethered panic Killian feels in his chest at the loss of contact which takes most of his energy to quell.

‘Take that towel off,’ Felix orders offhandedly. On shaky legs, Killian stands, and lets the towel fall on the carpet below. Out of the corner of his eye, Felix watches. The soft curve of Killian’s thighs is only magnified by the gentle dusting of hair along the contours of his body. There’s some that gathers on his chest, an expanse of pale skin disrupted by two pink scars. The surrounding skin there is so sensitive - Felix can drive Killian mad by just tracing his fingers up and down the incisions. Felix looks away as Killian moves to get back on the bed. ‘Don’t leave it on the floor,’ he says in a practiced exasperated tone. Killian bends to pick it up and Felix allows himself a rare smile of appreciation. The boy’s skin is still slightly damp from the shower - the way the light catches the beads of water is rather appealing. Felix has finished unraveling the rope by now. Killian sits cross-legged on the bed, awaiting direction. ‘Come here,’ Felix says softly, and Killian crawls towards him, presenting his wrists to be tied. He knows the score and order of things by now; Felix is nothing if not methodical.

But tonight, as Killian should have guessed, is different. Felix frowns. ‘No, turn around. Hands behind your back.’ Killian does so, and feels Felix tug at his hands, pulling his arms into an uncomfortable shape for a moment. He winces just as Felix lets go, and the relief from the discomfort makes the throbbing he feels between his legs whenever Felix touches him all the sweeter. ‘Put them together.’

‘What?’

‘Palms together. Like you’re praying.’

Killian struggles for a moment - Felix’s hands are gripped just above each of his elbows, holding his upper arms firmly in place as the young man flounders in his grip. He can sense the Professor becoming more impatient with each passing second he fails to do what is asked of him, and just as he hears the click of Felix’s tongue preparing to tut, his fingertips press together in a prayer-like pose. His little fingers jut uncomfortably between the base of his shoulder blades, and he gasps out when Felix removes his hands from his upper arms and forces his palms together.

‘There. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?’

Killian is trying to summon the will to say that it was, actually, and if this is meant to be fun he has several complaints, when he feels the rope around his wrists. Ah, shit. He tries to see the bright side; at least he can relax his muscles a little when Felix is done. Felix is tying him meticulously, spending much longer than usual, and Killian bites his lip whenever he feels the rope tug tightly against his skin. Felix announces that he has finished the tie by pushing Killian face-down onto the bed. It takes Killian aback somewhat, and he is about to move reflexively when he feels Felix’s hand on the small of his back. The discomfort from the rope is still there, but the longer he lies there with his arms aching, the more the pain is accompanied by another sensation under his skin. Deeper, in his belly and between his legs, and warmer, the heat in him building steadily. Felix gives Killian’s arm a tug, and the rope bites deliciously when he does. Killian cries out softly.

‘Oh, bless.’

Felix’s voice is dripping with condescension. Two of his fingers trace up Killian’s thigh and begin to rub his t-dick lazily. Killian whines, pushing his hips back against Felix’s fingers. He can feel himself throbbing and hard under Felix’s touch already. When they’re out together, Felix need only brush his hand against the small of Killian’s back a handful of times before he’s desperate for him; Killian has felt this need since Felix told him to come to bed. He’s just been waiting for Felix’s sign that he ought to express it. So conditioned, like a good pet ought to be. Felix hums in approval when he sees the wetness dripping down towards Killian’s cock, where the Professor’s fingers still circle tightly.

‘This is why I can never get rid of you, darling boy. It would simply be too much effort to train someone else as thoroughly as I’ve trained you.’ Killian moans at that; a deep sound barely muffled by the pillow, and he feels another gush of wetness between his legs as his pussy flutters and tightens. ‘Oh dear. I do underestimate the effect that statements like that have on you, don’t I, dearest?’

Killian writhes, incoherent mumbles dropping from his mouth at the terms of endearment Felix is lavishing on him. The writhing sends pain shooting from his arms, still tightly bound behind him, but Killian relaxes into the discomfort. ‘I think you’re ready now,’ Felix murmurs, and Killian feels something pressing against his dick, soft but unyielding, curved, and his brain is still processing this new information when Felix turns it on.

The wand is soft at first, but the vibrations go deep, shaking Killian’s core as he eagerly pushes back against the instrument, grinding his pussy happily against the wand’s head. He feels the hand Felix had been touching him with on the back of his thigh, wiping it clean before settling it on the small of his back again.

‘Good boy,’ Felix mutters, and Killian tries to turn to look at him but finds the weight of his own shoulder keeping his face in the pillows. He has a sense of something - Felix’s voice, just for a moment, has dropped from the cadence and tone he uses to praise and into something else, something more calculating. But just as Killian begins to consider this train of thought, there is a click - and then two - as Felix turns the wand up and up again, and Killian bites down against the pillow as moans shudder through his body. The best way he can describe the wand’s sensation is insistent - it ripples through him continuously, and though Felix is shifting it around every so often there is not one moment where the feeling is dampened, not one second of respite from the feedback loop being created between Killian’s legs. Killian has stopped grinding against it because he doesn’t need to, but his hips have started stuttering of their own accord, jumping every so often and snapping back down against the toy.

He is dripping, the wetness collecting in a small pool between his knees on the duvet and serving to make the wand glide against him more easily. Felix has stopped moving it and is just holding it there, right underneath the head of his dick, so that with every involuntary movement of Killian’s body he is pressing the most sensitive part of himself against it. This causes him to flinch, which causes his arms to pull away from one another, which causes the ropes to dig harder into his skin, which causes Killian to whimper and his dick to throb, which means for a moment the wand is that much stronger against him.

‘You’re in quite the predicament, aren’t you. I’m amazed you haven’t come yet, dear.’

Twisting his head as far as he can, Killian grits out: ‘you haven’t - given me permission - Professor.’ The thought hasn’t even crossed his mind. He has learned control of his body, an extension of Felix’s command over him, and it comes so naturally to him now it is difficult to even consider breaking out of it.

‘Oh, of course. Such a good little thing, aren’t you? Go on, why don’t you come for me.’ Felix says it so offhandedly as he turns the toy’s intensity up once more, and Killian keens loudly. Just the act of receiving permission changes so much in an instant; he had been fighting, and now he relaxes into the way the vibrations rumble through him. Felix wants this, he thinks to himself. Felix wants me to make a mess of myself like the stupid little toy I am. He moans loudly, and Felix’s hand lifts from Killian’s back and twists into his hair. ‘I’m thinking of doing this to you more often, you know,’ the Professor mutters, and the feeling of his soft breath against Killian’s ear has his hips desperately grinding down against the toy again. ‘You’re so needy, it’d be far easier for me to force an orgasm out of you every so often to keep you at bay. So you can focus on your true purpose.’

Killian feels tears of gratitude gather at the corners of his eyes. The sensation is building in him now - he can feel it deep inside him, the desperate contracting of his pussy as more of his slick floods out of it, the sliding and shifting of his cock against the strong vibrations of the machine pressed unyielding against him. ‘That’s right,’ Felix coos, petting the back of Killian’s hair. ‘Really savour this one, darling. I understand the more of them I force you to have, the more unpleasant it is for you.’

With a surprised, choked gasp, Killian comes, his legs closing around the toy and frantically pushing it up against himself as his dick throbs and pulses. His pussy tightens, desperate for something to fill it as the orgasm rips through him. He is moaning into the pillow, thrusting down until his cock becomes too sensitive to bear it, at which point there is a groan followed by a long silence, and then higher, whimpering cries until Felix shuts the toy off.

He leaves it where it is pressed against Killian’s cock, though. As he slowly returns to Earth, Killian notes the burn in his shoulder muscles, waiting to feel Felix’s cool hands on the knots, to slowly untie him. But in his post-orgasmic state, Killian is completely pliant and does not struggle, let alone immediately process it, when Felix starts to wrap rope around his ankles. After several seconds utterly silent, Killian twists his head and asks, ‘what you doin’?’

Felix slaps the top of his thigh enough to sting. ‘What are you doing, Professor.’

‘S-sorry, Professor… what are you doing, Professor? What’d you mean about, uh… about forcing me to have… to have more…’

‘Well, it is a special occasion.’ Killian’s heart blooms in his chest. ‘I wanted you to have something to occupy you while I’m gone.’

The tie between Killian’s ankles is finished with a sharp tug, and the Professor moves onto something on his thighs. But Killian’s mind is singularly focused now, his heart floundering against his ribs, his face creased in a deep frown as he tries to figure out what the Professor could mean.

‘While… you’re gone, Professor?’

‘It’s my daughter’s birthday.’ Felix replies simply, before gripping Killian’s shoulder to turn him over, one hand holding the unfinished tie in place as he does so. Killian’s eyes blearily focus on Felix, whose attention is solely on the rope. Killian shakes his head.

‘N-no, it would’ve been in your diary… I would’ve seen…’

The Professor looks up at him at that.

‘That diary is for my work engagements, and personal engagements that happen to overlap with my academic ones. I only tell you what I need you to know, Killian, and I’m sure you’ll understand that I don’t need the assistance of a postgraduate barely out of his Master’s to remember my child’s birthday.’ Felix’s gaze is cool as he looks at Killian. Calm. He’s just stating facts, Killian reassures himself. This is what he’s like. Tears, again, at his eyes, but hotter this time. He can feel his face burning. Felix looks back down.

‘Her mother took her to dinner this year, but Yvette’s invited me to join her and her husband for drinks, hence the late hour. I’ve got no morning tutorials tomorrow; I doubt there would be any harm done.’ Killian nods. Felix didn’t have to volunteer that information, and it would have been no right of Killian’s to ask, but he wanted Killian to know. Felix is so thoughtful, even at times like this. But still…

‘Perhaps I could- you might need- in case you say anything noteworthy-’

Felix chuckles to himself. Killian hates when he does that. Like he’s too stupid to even be in on the joke. But there’s a reason, he reminds himself, always a reason.

‘You think my daughter would appreciate my turning up to her birthday celebrations with my pet whore?’

Killian lets out one shameful sob as his hips jump under Felix’s hands. Felix tuts. ‘Be still, boy. You’re meant to enjoy this.’

Killian cranes his neck up to see what Felix is actually doing. The tie is nearly finished; the toy is now held firmly against Killian’s cock by his own legs, pulled up to sit flush against him by ties that sit above his hips. He is trapped. ‘Felix, what-’

‘I had a look at those papers you marked before I came in to see you. The last handful are sloppy, Killian, and I couldn’t have you trying to mark any more when you’re clearly exhausted and in need of… something.’ Felix’s gaze drops pointedly to the wet spot on the duvet. ‘This will keep you busy, stop you from moping while I’m out and, most importantly, keep you from attempting to finish off the rest of those papers even more pitifully than before. Also,’ and it is at this point that Felix leans over him, and Killian can see how hard he is, his cock straining against his suit trousers, ‘I rather like the idea of you tied up like this, waiting for me to come home.’ He flicks the toy on again, and Killian whimpers.

‘But Felix-’ the older man gives him a sharp look, and Killian corrects himself, ‘Professor, won’t I be… what if it’s too much?’

‘It will run out of battery,’ the Professor responds airily, ‘eventually.’ He pulls at Killian’s shoulder again until the boy is laid on his side, and turns the toy up higher until Killian is gasping for breath, his sensitive cock pulsing already with the onslaught of sensation. Killian feels his muscles throb again as the Professor releases his grip on Killian’s shoulder. ‘Remember to keep wiggling your fingers, dear. I did make that quite tight.’

Killian opens his mouth to thank the Professor for his advice, thank him for going out of his way to do all this to save Killian from himself, to tell him to enjoy his night, but is cut off by the sound of a ringing phone from Felix’s jacket. Felix waves an impatient hand at Killian, having sensed he was going to speak, and picks it up.

‘Hello? Yes, darling, I’m almost there… traffic’s bloody awful, I’m afraid. Taxi driver’s absolutely not helping. He’s not getting a tip.’ He shares a laugh, Killian presumes, with his daughter, and he’d be pleased to see him so happy if it weren’t for the insistent buzzing between his legs, the pressure building before Felix has even left. Felix hangs up. ‘What was it you were going to say?’ Killian swallows.

‘How old is she?’

‘Yvette? She’s twenty-seven today, not that it’s any of your business.’

‘Of course, Professor. I’m sorry.’

Felix sighs.

‘You are pitiful, Killian.’ He turns the wand up one last time and goes to leave. ‘Have fun.’

Killian drops his head to the bed and starts to moan and shudder, relaxing once again into the sensation, trying to ignore the weight in his chest and the anxiety clawing at his stomach and the restless ache in his bound arms. Stopping in the door, Felix takes one look back at him, pale skin turned red and purple between the black ropes, body shifting and rippling under the onslaught, sighs, and turns off the light.

The bedroom door clicks shut, then the front door, the locks fall into place, and Killian is left alone with only the weak light of the toy between his legs to illuminate him.

He sobs his way through his next orgasm, which turns to screams as the toy doesn’t stop, the intensity felt so much more keenly in his tragic and post-orgasmic state. The boy has the decency to bite the pillow under his head as the toy rips them out of him, again and again, and all he can think of is Felix, and what the lesson here may be, and the fact that he’s four years younger than his daughter, that Felix is easily old enough to be his father, but that Felix has never remembered his birthday. When he thinks of this he comes hard and angry, tearing at the pillow with his teeth, and growling and sobbing until - mercifully - the fucking thing dies.

Killian cannot count the orgasms forced from him, but he can feel the number in his pelvic muscles, aching from the shuddering desperate motions he’d been making for hours. His arms and shoulders burn but he has run out of tears, so he sobs dry and resigned into the pillow until he falls into some kind of sleep.

The sleep is not restful; Killian only gets a few minutes at a time, sometimes half an hour, before he shifts unconsciously and sends a pain searing down his spine or his arms. Whenever he wakes, he tries to remember to wiggle his fingers. They’re tingly. He has just dropped off again when he’s woken by keys jingling, and his eyes light up. Felix is home. He hears footsteps crossing the threshold, but they’re heavy, heavier than Felix’s. Christ, he thinks, Felix has brought some musclebound twunk home. Killian lets out a sigh, waiting for the telltale click of Felix’s footsteps. The light clicks on, the front door closes. Still only one set of footsteps in the house, and if he strains his neck, Killian can make out a shadow under the door. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he turns to bite the pillow again to stay as silent as possible. Whimpers of fear are already rising in him, his sleep-deprived mind dragging forward nightmare scenarios to play with the panic.

The footsteps are getting closer. He screws his eyes shut. Tries to will himself out of existence. The door handle turns, and the door swings open. Orange bursts in front of his eyelids as the light switch clicks on, and Killian hears a sharp inhale and a long exhale. Hyperventilating, he scrambles to look; at some point in the night he fell forwards, and he struggles around on the bed to flip over and see this intruder. His thrashing around is useless, and soon he feels broad, warm hands lifting him onto his back. Killian squints up against the bright light, and is shocked to see that he… recognises this man. The man is physically imposing, tall and wide, with the weathered-muscle shoulders of someone past their physical prime but so set in himself that the structures of strength remain, stubborn against the greying stubble on the man’s jaw and the soft curve of his belly. His eyes are dark and glint down at Killian with menace, with glee.

It takes him a second to place, but no, this is-

‘Josef…’ Killian says. The bouncer at the fancy bar downtown where Felix tends to host his… parties. He turns a blind eye to a lot, provided Felix tips him generously at the end of each semester. ‘What are you doing in m- in Felix’s house? Why do you have the keys?’ His mind already begins to run through the infinite horrible possibilities - that the security guard, tired of his job, maybe, had snapped, assaulted Felix and had come here to find what valuables he could before fleeing the country. Maybe he was here to kidnap Killian. Maybe-

‘Felix sends his apologies,’ the man laughs, grinning down at Killian’s bound and aching body. ‘He was just about to head back to you when this kid walked in - exactly his type. Like you, y’know, but… kinda skinnier.’ He tilts his head. ‘Less tired-looking. Had to ID him and all. Anyway, the prof was fretting about you being here, all…’ he gestures to Killian’s predicament. ‘So I told him I’d come back here and take care of you. As a favour. He was very grateful.’ He smiles. Killian feels sick, and tries to concentrate on what Josef said - that Felix was worried about him. It warms his heart a little. But Josef still hasn’t taken his hands off him.

‘I refuse to believe he allowed this,’ Killian stammers, trying indignantly to struggle out of Josef’s grip. ‘He told me he’d be back. He told me he was coming home.’

‘Well, he told me to take his keys and get you out of this. Just in time, too. You’re looking pretty rough back there.’ Now that he mentions it, Killian has to admit that his arms are fucking killing him. Josef reaches into a drawer in the side table, and Killian thinks of protesting before he sees a familiar flash of silver. ‘Right where he said they’d be,’ he says to Killian, holding the safety scissors aloft. ‘Now do you believe me?’ Killian wavers still. ‘Look, you can say no if you want, but Felix looked pretty determined to fuck that guy.’

Killian imagines what this boy looks like. If he knows Felix, Killian doubts he’s over twenty. Probably exactly like him, a fresher wandering about and exploring, waiting for someone to take pity. His lip curls into a small sneer. Not exactly like him, though. Because Felix had said he was indispensable. That he could never get rid of him. He turns to Josef.

‘Then cut me free, please.’

Josef obliges, flipping Killian back over and making short work of the intricate ties binding Killian’s arms together. He hisses in pain as the movement and feeling return to his forearms, his wrists, his fingers, and he allows them to fall uselessly to his sides. Josef then turns his attention to the rope around Killian’s hips and between his legs, and pulls the toy out from between Killian’s thighs. Killian winces when he pulls it away, the head of his cock still so sensitive, the wand making a soft sound as it is pulled from the wetness between Killian’s legs. Last to go are the ties on his ankles. Killian shifts, intending to move, before noticing that Josef is still straddling him at the knees. The man’s body weight shifts up until he is astride Killian’s ass. Had he missed some rope? Killian flexes his arms; no, nothing still wrapped around him, no reason for him to…

He feels a rough hand caress his back. ‘It’s so close to the end of the semester, right… Felix said he thought I should take my own bonus tonight.’ Killian’s blood runs cold.

‘H…’ the sound dies on his tongue, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘He wouldn’t.’

‘But he did, darlin’.’ Killian feels something pressing against the crack of his ass, clad in jeans, rough against his soft skin. ‘Now, listen, I’ve helped you out here. Think I deserve a little something in return.’

Christ, Killian thinks, and his mind jumps to his cross - still where he left it on the bathroom shelf. He is alone in this place. And so he tries, really tries, to fight. But he’s so tired. He’s had less than an hour of sleep, his arms are useless, all pins and needles when he tries to force them to move, and he aches between his legs. He tries to kick Josef, bringing his heels up to catch the man in the back, but the bouncer catches his foot easily and twists it as Killian yelps.

‘Yeah, I thought so… see, I was thinkin’ about not lettin’ you out first first, then I took one look at you and knew, even untied, you’d be too weak to stop it from happening.’

Killian hears the sick metallic crunch of a zipper. Josef moves back between his legs, one strong hand on each of Killian’s thighs. And Killian feels himself leaning into the touch. Felix so rarely touches him like this. His hands always feel so dispassionate, but Josef’s…

No. No, this is wrong; Felix can’t have meant for Josef to do this. They’ve never talked about it. Killian shakes his head. ‘Stop.’ He mumbles.

Josef pushes his legs apart. Killian tenses in fear at the sensation of the fat head of Josef’s cock rubbing against his hole. ‘What’s that?’

‘Stop it.’

‘Ah, you’re all wet still… gotta thank Felix for gettin’ you ready like that. I can just slide right in.’

He does, and Killian lets out a choked cry. ‘Stop it,’ he tries to insist, wriggling pitifully, but the movement just makes Josef groan as he fills Killian’s pussy with his thick cock, forcing the boy’s legs apart farther to gaze down at the way the boy’s hole is swallowing him.

‘You know, fr’a boy who’s tryna tell me you don’t want it, you’re taking my cock awful well,’ he sneers, and Killian winces as the zipper brushes his cock with every thrust the man makes inside of him, but he doesn’t reply.

‘Aw, silent treatment, is it? Tha’s alright. Don’t need you to talk. Just need you to keep your legs open.’ His thrusts are rough and hard, and Killian’s body shifts and rocks with every movement. Killian’s head is turned to one side. He imagines it’s Felix fucking him like this. But Felix’s touches are so different; his hands are cool, smaller than Josef’s, and he rarely holds Killian down like Josef is. He’s usually pinching, scratching, slapping, pulling Killian’s hair; a constant onslaught of attack, physical and often verbal, always designed to make Killian arch his back in a more pleasing way, or take him deeper, or moan differently.

‘Felix…’ Killian whispers, eyes closed, pretending.

‘No,’ says Josef as he rolls his hips hard against the boy beneath him. ‘Don’t do that,’ he says between breaths. ‘Impolite.’ One of his hands moves from its place on Killian’s thigh, round to his front, groping and feeling for his dick. Killian tries to remain impassive, but can’t hide the way he jumps, gripping Josef’s cock tighter as his thumb presses down against the sensitive flesh. ‘You’re here.’ Josef mutters. He starts rubbing Killian’s cock in time with his thrusts. ‘Right here. With me.’ The man’s insistent toying with his cock combined with the rough thrusts into him begins to drag small moans and whimpers out of Killian. He whines helplessly every time Josef bottoms out inside him, a pathetic little mewl that he hates to admit sounds, ever so slightly, like he is enjoying this.

‘Yeah, fuck,’ Josef murmurs, and Killian thinks he’s talking to himself at first. ‘Said you’d be like this. Said it wouldn’t take you- long- to warm up to me.’

‘No he didn’t,’ Killian insists desperately, but Josef’s cock fills him so deeply for a moment that his last word is drawn into a whine. Josef laughs again. His laugh is crackly, a smoker’s chuckle, a laugh that Killian had come to appreciate over time. Not now, though. Not any more.

‘Yeah, he did. Talks to me ‘bout you. Tells me you’re a whore.’ Killian feels Josef’s elbow at the top of his spine as the man puts more of his weight onto him, leaving himself freer to thrust up harder into him. Every inch of the man’s dick ebbs and fuels the ache in Killian’s pussy at once, and his eyes squeeze shut as the man’s nicotine-laced breath tickles his earlobe. ‘Said he’s been thinkin’- ‘bout doing this - fr’a while. Whorin’ you out. Teachin’ you your place.’

Killian’s pussy spasms around Josef’s cock.

‘Like fucking clockwork.’

That’s what makes Killian lose it. How dare he? How dare he have the audacity to say these things, to assume he knows Killian, knows him like Felix does? He twists and wriggles, and the burst of adrenaline combined with the surprise of it allows him to struggle off Josef’s cock and up the bed slightly. There is a silence from behind him, before Josef grabs his hair and pulls his head upwards. Killian yelps in fear. Jesus, did he really think this would be enough?

‘Oh, you stupid bitch.’ Josef throws him back down on the bed, hard enough to make the frame shudder. Breathing heavily, he pushes Killian’s legs further apart.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ Killian stammers.

‘Shut it. Need an incentive to keep still? I’ll give you a fucking incentive.’ Josef positions his cock, still dripping with Killian’s wetness, at Killian’s asshole. ‘Whore. Felix said you didn’t have it in you to fight. That you’d agree to it soon as I told you he allowed it. Didn’t say anything about having to teach you a fucking lesson.’

Killian begins to shake his head frantically. It’s rare that Felix fucks his ass, and Killian secretly relishes it because it’s one of the only times Felix really is careful with him. ‘Please don’t. It won’t go in. It won’t, I’m not ready, I don’t know where the lube is.’

‘Keep your fucking mouth shut, boy,’ Josef says, twisting his hand in Killian’s hair tighter as he grunts and pushes the slick head of his cock against Killian’s ass again. He’s pushing and pushing, and Killian is still, breathing fast like a frightened animal. Josef has his elbow screwed against Killian’s spine. There is no escaping it. He just has to wait until Josef realises he can’t fuck him like this. But Josef is still pushing, holding his cock with his free hand, forcing and forcing against the first tight ring of muscle until-

Killian howls in pain. He feels something give, and Josef’s cock, thick enough to have made his pussy feel stretched, sore, bruised, slides into his ass. Josef shoves Killian’s face down into the pillow, forearm on the back of his neck as Killian screams and sobs at the feeling, so alien, tearing through him. His arms are still weak but they are flailing in an attempt to grip onto anything as some kind of tether. He finds the bedpost and grips for dear life. Josef settles himself inside Killian and just as the pain starts to ebb away, Josef begins to move.

It does not feel like Killian remembered it. Josef is so big, and the slow burn of the stretch and endorphins from the pain are morphing into some kind of pleasurable haze, with the punctuation of a loud, low groan from the man on top of him. Josef lets himself fall onto Killian, keeping him still through the weight of muscle and flesh alone, as his cock pumps in and out of him. His stubble scratches Killian’s back. Killian is somewhat aware that he is still crying.

‘Shh, don’t cry,’ Josef mutters, and Killian lets out a moan-whimper at the sensation of Josef’s cock filling and stretching him completely once again. ‘Fuck, so tight. So good. See, you are good, aren’t you. You know how to be good.’

‘Mm-hmm,’ Killian whines.

‘Felix knows what’s best for you, see,’ Josef mutters, and Killian can smell the whiskey on his breath now he’s so close. ‘Wouldn’t’ve sent me here if he din’t know there was somethin’ I could give you.’

His hand slides beneath Killian’s body again, and Killian allows it.

‘Yeah, tha’s it. G’na make you come, baby boy,’ and Killian cringes at the pet name even as his cock twitches under Josef’s fingers. ‘G’na make you come before I fill you up.’

Panic sets in again.

‘Please don’t come in me,’ Killian whispers, ‘please, Felix will be angry.’

‘Shh, shh,’ Josef mutters. He is moving slower than when he was fucking Killian’s pussy, but there’s more weight behind his thrusts, and Killian feels each one ripple through him. There is some deep satisfaction in the way Josef’s cock stretches him open. Killian thinks about how he will look in the morning, hole puffy and abused, dripping with another man’s cum. He hates the sick thrill it gives him to know that Felix will see that. It runs down the back of his neck like a hot knife, and he doesn’t know if the sensation is driven by arousal or fear.

‘I’m gonna come in you, pretty boy.’ His rough fingers rub side-to-side over Killian’s throbbing cock. ‘Gonna fill you up like a whore. Felix must’ve known I’d do that to you. And he knows what you need, don’t he?’

Killian nods. He can’t not.

‘You just lie there n’take it, pretty whore. Take it for Felix.’

Killian allows himself, for a moment, to really think about Felix’s responsibility in all this. He thinks about how, yes, Felix has known Josef for a very long time and, yes, is probably able to make some fairly astute guesses as to what Josef might do to whatever poor thing he was burying himself in. And Felix has decided he needs this.

‘I need this,’ Killian murmurs to himself as Josef thrusts into him. ‘I need this.’ It becomes louder, and Josef nods.

‘Tha’s it. Good boy,’ he mutters approvingly, still stroking Killian’s cock.

‘Need to be good for him,’ says Killian, pressing his hips down into Josef’s hand. The feeling of Josef stretching and fucking his ass open is mixing with the sparks of pleasure Killian feels when Josef’s fingers brush his cock. Mouth open, Killian is panting, arching his back to meet Josef’s thrusts, letting the man rub his cock until he is moaning underneath him.

‘Faster,’ Killian pleads. ‘Harder.’ He’s not even sure what he’s asking for but Josef picks the pace of his thrusts up. Their skin slaps together as Josef grunts in exertion, burying himself in Killian’s ass over and over, forcing the boy’s tight hole open around him. Josef shifts his hand, sliding his fingers into Killian’s wet pussy and pressing the base of his callused palm against Killian’s cock. His movements are imprecise but consistent, his rough hand dragging over Killian’s dick as his thick fingers rub insistently at Killian’s g-spot. Killian can feel himself trapped, Josef’s fingers crowding into his pussy, Josef’s cock pounding into his hole, and all that weight pressed down to force Killian to grind his desperate cock against Josef’s open hand. Killian feels his muscles starting to tense erratically. His pussy clenches around Josef’s fingers.

He needs this.

‘I need you to come in me,’ Killian whimpers.

‘Not till you do first, baby boy.’

Killian thinks of how proud Felix will be of him when he finds out how well he took Josef’s cock, and comes all over Josef’s hand with a shuddering cry. His cock spasms and pulses, he feels his pussy and ass tighten desperately and spasmodically, and he hears Josef groan behind him as that - apparently - is what has pushed him over the edge. Killian feels his ass fill with cum, warm and thick, deep inside him.

Killian muses that he and Felix have never come at the same time as Josef collapses onto him.

He is dimly aware, some time later, of the man pulling out and getting off him, walking away and running the shower in the bathroom. His eyelids are heavy, and he knows sleep is about to take him. Killian smiles softly, thinking about Felix coming home the next morning. Maybe he’ll bring breakfast from the pastry shop they stop at sometimes. He’ll forgive Killian, he’s sure.

‘One minute,’ Felix says to the impressionable young gentleman with whom he’s spent the night and sunrise. ‘I just have to take care of something in the apartment.’ Leaving the boy in the hall, he steps into his home. It reeks of sex. The bedroom door is open, as are some of the kitchen cupboards. Josef had made his way here, he notes with a smile. Peering around the bedroom door, he sees Killian fast asleep, naked, ass in the air, cum dripping down his leg. He frowns. He didn’t recall giving Josef permission to do that. Well, Killian should have known better than to just allow him. They’ll be having words later, Felix imagines. He tears a sheet of notepaper out of one of Killian’s books - there are a few lines of uninspiring poetry tarnishing the page, so he draws a line through them and writes a note below. The black biro block capitals read: ‘Out for breakfast. Lunch seminar as per usual. Do try to turn up somewhat presentably. Professor.’

Replacing the pen in his blazer pocket, Felix grabs his umbrella from the coat rack - the weather is pitiful today - and slips back out of the front door to his young friend. ‘Thank you for waiting, dear boy,’ he murmurs. The boy grins at him. His teeth are crooked. Felix internally sighs.

Killian’s alarm rings at seven. It takes him longer to wake up, as it’s slightly muted through the bedroom wall. But when he does, he wakes aching and alone, eyes blurred and burning with sleep, and cold, so cold, from the mountain air.

#my work #10k #felix and killian

15 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 years ago

Text

kiss me in the d-a-r-k .epilogue iv.

monday night

masterlist

Warnings: dub con sex (oral, intercourse)

This is dark!(dad)Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: The reader has a late night.

Note: #ficdaddy #afterworkwriting #naughtythoughts #whatamidoing? Okay, so here’s more but might be a little break til the next because I’m exhausted and I’m thirsty but ya girl is also a disaster. Thanks everyone for your support and indulgence in my #pornfic lol🔥🔥🔥 I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply!

...

By the time you got off the subway, your fatigue had washed away your shock. The whole ride home, you felt him. Felt the afterglow slake away and the ghost of his touch. You swore it was a dream. A very vivid fantasy but you just wouldn't wake up.

You walked the block from the stop to your building with your hands tucked deep in your pockets. The city was overdue for snow. You shivered as your boots scuffed the pavement and you stopped dead just in front of the steps. There was a familiar car across the street. A rover, to be exact.

The horn tooted as your eye narrowed on the tinted window and the door opened. Steve stepped out and waved as he looked both ways down the street. You winced and tried to hide your anxiety. You were a terrible liar, worse with him. He saw through you like a window.

What was even doing here? You’d told him you were busy. How long had he been waiting? You sighed and dropped your shoulders.

“Hey,” You greeted him stiffly. “What are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t help myself,” He reached out with a gloved hand and rubbed your arm. The gesture reminded you of Bucky. You gulped. “Tell me you’re not planning on turning in already?”

“I was planning on cramming for my exam,” You countered. “Not much sleep to be had these days.”

“I can help,” He smirked, “Keep you on task.”

“Really?” You challenged with a scoff. “I think I’m better off alone.”

“I swear,” His breath clouded in the frigid evening. “Come on, you can’t leave me out in the cold.”

“You really wanna hang around and watch me study?” You asked.

“Help,” He corrected you. “Come on, years of helping with homework has prepped me for this very night.”

“Alright, if only to get out of the cold.” You relented and dug for your keys. “I hope you don’t mind clutter. My apartment is...small.”

You led him to the front door. He was close enough that his warmth radiated over you. He climbed the stairs after you and you were out of breath by the time you got to your floor. He wasn’t. How pathetic you were. After a struggle with the janky lock, your door jolted inward and you welcomed him into your college nest.

“I know you don’t like coffee, but I can make you a tea?” You set down your bag as he closed your door. “I, uh, just toss my coat on that chair.” You laughed at yourself as you unbuttoned your jacket.

“You know what, I could use a coffee,” He removed his coat and folded it over the patched armchair.

You placed your jacket on his and pulled your boots off. “I was just gonna have some leftover pizza. Want a slice?”

“As gracious a host as you are a guest,” He looked around the small space. “Make your coffee. Get your books out. Tell me what you want. I’ll order in.”

“You really don’t have--”

“Ah,” He raised a hand as he pulled out his phone. “You have studying to do. Let me worry about dinner.”

You agreed with a nod and went about setting up the coffee to brew and dumped your text and notebook on the bed. Steve went through the options and you settled on Chinese as you poured milk into your mug and set it on the table beside your bed. You sat at the top of the mattress and opened your textbook.

He ordered and sat across from you. He pulled your notebook over and flipped it open. “What course is this?”

“Public discourse and Social Trends. Third tab.” You instructed and squinted at him. “What are you doing?”

“Helping,” He folded the notebook back and his eyes glossed across your writing. “Put that down. Quick review. Then you’ll know what you need to work on.”

You tilted your head and pursed your lips at him. “You should be in your hotel, enjoying the view, or the pay-per-views, or the minibar. You shouldn’t be in this hole helping me revise all this...garbage.”

“I am right where I want to be, sweetie,” He intoned. “Now stop stalling.”

It was just past midnight. You’d gone through all your notes and the cartons of fried noodles and sweet and sour chicken. Two cups of coffee as well. You sat with legs crossed as Steve reclined across the bed and closed your notebook. He yawned and tossed it atop your textbook. You leaned back on your pillows, his yawn was contagious.

“Alright, you’re free.” You said. “I feel...better.”

“Better? You got this.” He replied.

“I hope.” You muttered.

“Ugh, haven’t had a night like this since...since me and Bucky were in college.” He grinned. “Did you know we went to the same uni? I was in business, he was in Lit. That was his first degree, my last. He always was a do-gooder.”

You nodded. You picked at the corner of your textbook and kept your eyes to the bedspread. You could feel him staring at you. Shyly, you glanced up as the heat grew unbearable. “What?”

“I meant what I said...about Bucky.” He lifted a brow. “Would do him well to loosen up. You too.”

You swallowed and clenched your jaw. You chewed your lip, unsure how to divert the conversation. “I don’t…”

“Wait,” He sat up and the mattress shook beneath him. “You...already did it?” You looked at him, “That was your appointment?”

“Steve, I--”

“Oh, sweetie, that’s...wow. You see, you should enjoy yourself.” He reached over and squeezed your knee. His hand lingered. “Explore.”

“I wasn’t thinking. It happened so fast. I-I-I…” You huffed and hung your head. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t do that.” His hand crawled up your thigh as he moved closer. He pushed your books aside and sat next to you. “I’m proud, sweetie.”

“Proud?” You said confused. “For fucking my professor.”

“For being you.” He leaned in. “Tell me,” He kissed you and wrapped his arm around you as he pulled you close. “How did you do it? Were you on top? Was he?”

“Steve,” You warned and tried to wriggle away. “Really.”

“I wanna hear,” He purred. “Come on, tell me.”

You licked your lips and thought. You shook your head at your helplessness. You knew he wouldn’t let up.

“We were in his office,” You started quietly. “I...kissed him.” You cringed as you recounted the scene. “I shouldn’t have but...uh, he kissed me back...Steve, I can’t…”

“Go on. You’re doing fine,” He urged as his fingers traced the line of your vee.

“I was on the desk first and he...used his fingers.”

“Did you cum?” He rubbed just along the top of your thigh.

“Yes,” Your voice was raspy as your lip trembled. “Then he turned me around and--” Your lips moved but no words would come.

“He fucked you against his desk? Oh, Professor Barnes,” He mused as he picked your fly open. “How unprofessional.”

“I…”

“Did you cum again? While he was in you?” He asked. You nodded as he slipped his fingers beneath your jeans. “No panties?”

You closed your eyes as his fingers hovered just above your clit. “He came in them. I had too take them off.”

“Fuck,” He breathed. “That’s fucking hot.”

“It’s...I could lose my scholarship...he could lose his job.” You gasped as he flicked his fingertip over your bud.

“He has tenure and who’s gonna know? I’m not telling anyone,” He pressed his lips to your cheeks and rubbed you with his finger. Slow, tantalizing; enough that your thighs began to tingle. “It was nice, wasn’t it? The rush? Up in his office like that?”

“Y-y-yes.” You confessed.

“Like the summer? Kylie just down the hall...asleep. We could’ve been caught so easily,” The glimmer of guilt at the reminder was muted by the lurid thrill. “Oh, sweetie, you’re so wet already. Is it for me or him?”

You bit your lip and breathed through your nose. You shook your head. He stopped and you looked to him sharply.

“Tell me.” He demanded.

“Y-y-you…” You blurted out. “...and him.”

“Tell me what else you want him to do? How do you want him to fuck you?” He tickled your cheek with his nose as he inhaled your scent.

His finger began to moved again and your eyes threatened to roll back. Your thoughts blurred together and the last of your willpower drifted away. Your lip quivered and your voice rose in gasps.

“I want his mouth on me. To feel his beard against my thighs.” You grabbed his wrist as the sparks flew and bounced around your core. “To drink me up until I cum.” Your voice thinned. “I want him to push my legs up and fuck me until I scream. I want him to be rough with me. To not stop even when I beg--” Your breath caught as the coil wound tight. “--when I beg him to--STOP!”

You slipped from his embrace and pushed yourself back against the pillows. Your thighs squeezed his hand and as you lifted your pelvis and came loudly. You shook as you dove over the edge and plummeted to the depths with a shout. Your hand rested on his as he stilled his fingers.

“Can I fuck you, sweetie? Like that?” He slowly pulled his hand from your jeans.

You nodded frantically and caught his hand. “Please,” You panted. “I want you. Not him. I want you right now, Steve.”

He smirked and bent over you to kiss you. He drew his hand away from yours and as he sat back he ran his fingers along your lips. You opened them and he shoved them inside. You tasted yourself on him and sucked on them with a hum. His eyes darkened at your reaction.

“Anything you want, sweetie.”

He pulled his fingers away and climbed off the bed. His pants were tented with his arousal. You shoved your jeans down your legs and your socks caught in the bottom as you tore them off. You took your sweater off next and unhooked your ratty bra. You really needed a new one. You looked over as he rolled his briefs down his thighs. You liked to think none of the guys your age looked as good.

“Lay down,” He pointed to the pillow. “And don’t you move.” You laid back and he got back on the bed. “Bend your legs. Yeah, like that, now, apart. Very good.” He knelt between them and his eyes shone down at your pussy. “God, you look just as good as you taste, sweetie.

He bent and he slowly ran his tongue over your clit and along your folds. You gasped and reached down to touch his greying locks. He shoved your hand away and growled. You kept your hands on your chest, cupped your tits as you watched the top of his head, His tongue flitted up and down, each time faster, and he swirled around your bud so that your hips bucked.

You began to mewl. You sounded animalistic. Your legs closed around his head and his hands spread across the back of your thighs. He pushed your legs up until your knees were almost to your chest. He kneaded the flesh and purred as he lapped you up. You arched your back as he plucked at your deepest strings.

“S-Steveee.” You came with a drawn out moan. His name floated above you and he tended to you until you were breathless.

Slowly he lifted his head. You looked down at him as he deliberately licked his lips. He kept hold of your thighs as he got to his knees and positioned himself against you. His cock slid between your folds and along your clit. You shivered and reached out to him.

“Ah, keep those hands to yourself, sweetie,” He tilted his hips back until his cock poked at your entrance.

His eyes fell between your legs and he watched as he impaled you an inch at a time. He pushed his shoulders back and sighed as he reached his limit. Your walls clung to him; longed for him. He pushed your legs until your knees were against your chest entirely. He rocked into you once and you squealed.

He did it again. A similar reaction. He thrust, each time waiting for your response. You got louder and louder as he sped up. Delving deeper and harder. His flesh clapped against yours between your cries and a bang came at the wall, warning you to quiet. But you couldn’t.

You stretched your arms out and grasped at the blanket. He snarled as he pounded into you. He had never been like this. Always decisive, but never rough. Never this carnal. This incensed. You bunched the bedspread in your fingers and keened as another orgasm tore through you.

You quaked as he didn’t waver. He had you pinned to the mattress, helpless. Not that you could’ve have pushed him away if you wanted to. His thick muscles bulged beneath his skin as he thrust into you. He didn’t fuck like an old man. At least, you assumed most men his age weren’t so ferocious.

It wasn’t long before you came again. The banging on the wall stopped. They’d given up. He had your ass off the bed, your back curled as he pounded into you. He found your clit and teased you as he drew forth yet another orgasm. You were dazed.

“Steve...Steve...please, no more, I c-can’t.” He slammed into you and chuckled.

Your words turned to murmurs. Pure gibberish as he ignored you and carried on. He grunted and his motioned stuttered. He bared his teeth and growled as he pulled out. He kept hold of one leg as he stroked himself with the other. He came all over you, the warmth seeped between your folds and along your ass.

Slowly he sat back and let your legs splay around him. You were both out of breath. You felt around blindly, felt his cum all over you as you spread it around.

He climbed over your leg and fell down beside you, out of breath. He smiled and closed his eyes as he caught his breath. You rubbed your forehead as your wits reassembled. What a long day. Both of them in less than. How had you gotten tied up in all this?

“Steve,” You ventured and he opened his eyes.

“Yes, sweetie,” He turned his head to look at you.

“Why are we doing this?” You asked weakly.

“I…” He clamped his lips shut and thought. “Well, I’ve done the right thing; got married, had a family, white picket fence. It’s boring. Fake. I don’t want fake. You get to my age and you realize there really isn’t any harm in doing what you want instead of what others expect of you.”

“Oh,” You considered his words carefully. “Have you done this before?”

“What do you mean? Have I fucked any of Kylie’s other friends? Of course not. Never even fucked anyone more than a couple years younger than me. Didn’t have the time, or the energy.”

You nodded and stared at the ceiling. Afraid to ask your next question. “Why me?”

“I...At first, I just thought you were cute. I don’t know what made me kiss you in that hot tub, or why I even invited you, but I knew that night, I needed you.” He traced circles along your stomach. “And you needed me. To show you before it’s too late that it’s okay to be more than cookie cutter.”

His words reeled in your head. You were surprised; that you asked; even more that he answered. And he sounded honest. And if he wasn’t being earnest, you’d learn another lesson from all this.

All you could do was enjoy it while it lasted.

#dad!steve rogers x reader #professor!bucky barnes #dad!steve rogers #stever rogers #Bucky Barnes #fic #Steve Rogers #i don't really know how dark this is anymore lol #dark!steve rogers #dark!bucky barnes #dark steve rogers #dark bucky barnes #dark!steve rogers x reader #dark!bucky barnes x reader #au #marvel #series #kiss me in the d-a-r-k #captain america

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real-jaune-isms · 4 years ago

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RWBY Volume 8 Chapter 6 Review/Remix

The day finally came, and for some it was far far too late coming. Personally, I think this was a damn good time to get the story we got, but to each their own. It’s time to weave a wicked fairy tale, a twisted Cinderella Story without a happily ever after. Join me, won’t you?~

We open on a sight not terribly unfamiliar this Volume, young Cinder washing and scrubbing a wooden floor in raggedy clothing. A single tear seems to fall among the water, but she continues on. For a split second, we see a woman’s lower half as she walks through this barn setting before getting an exterior shot that yes this is a barn on what looks to be a very sparse farm. We get several quick cuts like this, and from what we see in them it becomes quite clear what sort of life Cinder is living. An orphan ostracized and bullied by other kids, already with a violent streak as she’s shown tackling one of her aggressors rather than passively taking the pain. She’s still fairly weak and starved compared to the others, since she gets pulled off her victim and tossed aside easily, and a closeup of her face shows some gaunt features. All that misery seems like it might turn around when the mystery woman we saw briefly decides she’ll take Cinder. Next thing she or the audience know, Cinder is in Atlas, standing outside a big fancy hotel and staring at the opulence with no small amount of wonder. Immediately, my thoughts shift from Cinderella to little orphan Annie and I gain some small measure of hope. But it cannot last, and the Madame (as she is solely credited despite clearly being our Lady Tremaine in this story) sternly ushers her inside the Glass Unicorn (I’d like to thank the person who helped me read that cursive golden light lettering). Once inside, Cinder is rather awestruck at the lavish lobby and all the happy people she sees within. (Meanwhile I took notice of the sign on the front desk openly declaring that they do not serve Faunus. Hooray for blatant systemic racism...) But she doesn’t have much time to look around, because she’s again brought deeper inside to the kitchen where we meet her new stepsisters. And what a pair, green eyes and light brown hair just like their mother, with devilish smirks of condescension. All Cinder can think about as she’s given her list of grueling chores is the platter of bread and cheese behind the twin devils. Priorities in a palace of plenty like this. You might think to yourself, well now that’s a little harsh for a couple of girls we’re literally just meeting. But don’t worry, they immediately prove how spiteful and cruel they are by laughing at Cinder for asking for food, and laughing even harder when the Madame throws a bread roll for her on the floor she just said was filthy. Great first impressions indeed, and I don’t think there’ll be a direct to DVD sequel to redeem either of them through time travel shenanigans... god I’m old.

We get a montage of Cinder in her new working uniform doing various jobs around the hotel for very little reward or praise. The guests don’t care, her stepsibs give her a slap on the wrist for trying to snack on one of the strawberries she was decorating a cake with... only to turn around and have one of them eat that same strawberry herself right in front of her, and any painful accidents she suffers in the line of duty are met with only disapproval and mocking laughter. She eats guests leftovers, and it seems like she’s the only employee here besides her new family, not that they’re doing much of the work. What really ties this sad montage together is an as of yet unnamed song to that has been serving as Cinder’s leitmotif for years but now has lyrics. Those lyrics, as poor luck would have it, are insults and orders that Cinder must have heard everyday in this life of slavery and misery. “Do your chores, rub my feet, no one said that you could think, no one’s ever loved you, etc.” There’s obviously more of an order and rhyme to them, but I wanted to lay out some of the harshest kickers. We see a particular instance of suffering where she’s cleaning the carpets on the second floor and her sisters start stomping mud right in front of her just to mock her with “You missed a spot~” and give her more work to do. Cinder has taken just about enough now, and her Semblance kicks in for what might be the first time as she starts heating up the wet brush in her hand. She throws it at them in anger and it creates a cloud of steam and possibly smoke depending on how much of that wooden brush she burned. This gets the attention of her stepmother of course, but also that of a mysterious huntsman who had been showing off a new sword in the lobby much to Cinder’s earlier distant amazement. The Madame is none too happy with the scene Cinder has just caused or the fact that she lashed out against her actual daughters. So she gives the poor girl a necklace... with a stone of electric Dust in it. It’s a shock collar, and every time Cinder acts out from this point on, or just doesn’t do well enough for her stepmother’s standards, she will be painfully shocked and forced to apologize with a mantra we’re now all too familiar with. “Without you, I am nothing...”

Next thing we see, Cinder is crawling through a vent into a secret room in the back of the hotel. Based on the tons of furniture covered in sheets back here and the mattress with a couple pillows, I’d say this is what passes as her bedroom with how little fucks her adopted family gives. The Huntsman from earlier is heard being rather pissed that one of his swords is missing, and I get a small amount of sick satisfaction hearing one of the stepsisters panic in the face of his complaints and deliver a trademarked customer service line, “I apologize for the inconvenience”. I hear that every damn day in my day job, and I know how it feels to be where she is. After tormenting Cinder, they deserve to squirm. Naturally, Cinder was the one who took it, but is caught admiring it in her little hideaway by the Huntsman it belongs to himself. In the credits and subtitles his name is revealed to be Rhodes, and the public opinion on him becomes... mixed at best as time goes by. At the very least, here he confronts her without fighting her and disarms her with reassuring words. He knows she’s getting an awful deal here, but hurting these people and running away will solve nothing. She’ll be running for the rest of her life if she did that, never having a place to safely call home. He offers her an alternative, one she seems to pick up on quickly. Becoming a Huntress and gaining her freedom through that official title. But here we get a real sudden kick in the teeth. At this point, Cinder is only 10 years old. No 10 year old should be suffering the way she is, and if I were Rhodes I would try and have the Madame exposed and arrested for her abusive crimes. But we unfortunately don’t know if any child protective services exist that he could go to about this problem, and instead he tries a different approach. He’s not going to be staying here forever, but he’ll be back and forth over the next 7 years, and during that time he’ll train her to be ready for the Huntsman exams. This sounds like a good plan on paper, but then you realize what it means for her. Enduring 7 years of this abuse and pain, on the dangling carrot promise that she can leave one day and finally have some chance at decency. It’s the bare minimum effort on his part, and it makes him feel like a hero without having to actually inconvenience himself and fight for her freedom. She deserves better, but she’s sadly not getting it. Still, she does get training.

We see time pass, he comes and goes, she keeps getting shocked and her resentment keeps growing. She gets older, her uneven pigtails become a short ponytail, and one day he gifts her the sword she had once stolen. She’s earned it, and in a couple more years she’ll be free to use it for her dream job. Too bad this was entirely the wrong move on his part. Cinder has something nice, and the stepsisters won’t stand for that, especially since it’s a dangerous weapon. They tattle to the Madame, and Cinder’s punishment is soon to come worse than ever before. Or so they would like to think. They go into the back to confront her at 11:40, and Rhodes walks in the front door at 11:56. There’s no one to greet him, not a sound to be heard until he gets to the front desk and picks up a distant crash. He gets to Cinder’s room, all too late. The stepsisters lie dead on the floor while Cinder is choking her stepmother to death with her bare hand. She tries in vain to subdue her with the remote for her shock collar, but the pain is just a stinging motivator she’s grown to tolerate. She may have been made to feel like she is nothing without the opportunities given to her by this woman, but now she is EVERYTHING because of what hell she has been through. Cinder snaps her neck and tosses her aside to be faced with her mortified mentor. The clock is striking midnight, and Cinderella did not use her gifts wisely at the ball. But it’s okay, right? Now her tormentors are gone and she won’t have to run anymore, right? Right, Rhodes??? No. Now he’s decided she’s too far gone and he has to fight her, to arrest her for the triple homicide that was most assuredly a mixture of self defense and cathartic revenge. Cinder realizes that even this man she trusted is her enemy, and with the last chime of the clock the spell of her temporary happiness is broken. The two fight, and seem evenly matched for a time, Cinder countering his Semblance of turning his skin to metal by using her own to heat the metal and still hurt him. I should like to point out that this power of his makes for a great layered pun, as it is similar to the mutant power of the X-Men character Colossus, and there is a famous Greek statue of the sun god Helios known as the Colossus of Rhodes. Back to the fight, Cinder temporarily blinds him by throwing a sandbag that he slices into, and in that confusion swipes his second sword so they can both dual wield since he primarily uses a set of maces. She gets a few clean slices in and takes out his Aura, but he bashes her away to hit a chest and there goes her Aura in return. He assumes the fight is over and goes to collect her unconscious body, but she was playing possum and stabs him in the gut with both swords. In his final moments, he lays a hand on her head as if saying he’s proud of her for growing so much. You may have had good intentions, Rhodes, but you were not a very good person and didn’t do enough to call yourself a Huntsman. I can’t imagine what kind of hell a Chaotic Good huntsman like Qrow would have done if he had been the one to find Cinder, but it probably would have been better than the surface level hero work this guy did. As things stand, we know Cinder is heading down the bad path and takes one last sad moment to finally tear her necklace off and cry a single tear up at the moon.

We cut back to present as she wakes up in what I assume is her room aboard Monstra. Emerald is happy to see her awake, but Cinder chastises her for bringing them back to Salem emptyhanded. Em tries to assert that she put her concern for her mentor above the mission and its the sole reason they’re free and alive at all, but Mercury comes in to remind her that a repeat failure like Cinder doesn’t deserve that help. Em tries to stand up for her boss, to say that she was right to go attack Amity because the goodie goodies were up to something and they did a lot to stop it, but Mercury lays the heavy truth bomb on her again. Don’t defend Cinder, you’re not gonna win her love and support because she doesn’t give a shit about you. Cinder shuts them both up and dismisses them until she has need of them, much like the dismissive way Salem treated her a few episodes back. But Mercury got promoted, Cinder’s not his supervisor anymore and he doesn’t have to listen to her. Hearing that takes some wind out of Cinder’s sails, and she’s left alone to stew about this turn of events as Merc tells her everyone is needed on the bridge cuz something big is gonna happen.

Shifting to another room, Oscar is lying on the floor with a black eye and some blood on his lip, and probably a bunch of broken bones and internal bleeding. This poor poor kid... He and Oz are having a discussion about who should be the one in the driver’s seat for these beatings. Oscar sure as hell doesn’t deserve it, but since he’s not the one Hazel is mad at he’s not getting roughed up quite as much as if Oz was present. Oz wants to take over, to try and get them a way out of here, but Oscar thinks they have a golden opportunity if they stay. Oz is initially unsure what that means, but Oscar has some solid reasoning. Salem doesn’t do the fighting herself, she turns people to her side and has them fight her battles. Her spies sow seeds of chaos and discourse among her enemies, and now Oscar can do the same. They can try and talk some sense into Hazel or the kids and turn them against Salem. She won’t be beaten, surely, but she’ll be crippled without her eyes ears and devious hands. No time like the present, as Hazel comes back in for round... idk, maybe 10? Oscar gives Oz control again and Hazel is immediately pissed to recognize that tone of voice again. He assumes Oz had been hiding inside Oscar and forcing the kid to endure the pain instead of him, not realizing it was the reverse and Oscar was being selfless. But rather than argue that, Ozcar tries to get Hazel to see the cruel reality of it all. He won’t deny he has done wrong by this man, but how is Salem somehow the better choice? He should be fighting to stop her and her evils. Hazel stops for a moment, reveals his feelings on the matter. She can’t be stopped, he’s seen that himself. She’s an unstoppable force, and Oz is the worse of the two for knowing this and still sending people to try and stop her. Oz argues that someone has to at least try, that yes she actually can be fought and slowed and steered astray. But if she gets what she wants and gathers the relics... well, he doesn’t get a chance to reveal that much because Salem herself enters the room and welcomes her old love back to the grace of her company. It’s time to bring him to his front row seat for the impending show.

It begins with a show of force and loyalty, all her underlings bowing before her on her throne. Em and Neo are off to the side and Hazel is forcing Oscar to bow too, but Mercury Cinder and Tyrian have all taken a knee right in front of their queen. Good news everyone, Watts presumably got Ironwood’s Scroll working and reported his successful takeover of Penny back to Tyrian and thus to Salem. Both men have proven their value, while Cinder’s rogue stunt has put her worth to the cause in serious question. Just like so many years ago, Cinder starts writhing in agonizing pain, this time inflicted by her own Grimm arm. Good to know Salem’s gift of a new limb was also a way to enforce punishment... But unlike the Madame, Salem claims to blame herself for Cinder’s disobedience. She’s been stifling Cinder’s drive for power and freedom, it’s no wonder she did what she did. She should be giving her chances to grow and rise, and so now she is. Cinder’s new mission is to go free Watts from jail and with his help murder Penny for the Winter Maiden powers. But it will be a challenge to prove herself, because Salem is also sending the Hound for the very same job. Both outcomes will result in Cinder getting the powers and Salem getting the Staff from the Vault, but only one will truly be an earned victory for Cinder and she damn well knows it. Ozcar tries to object, to say getting the Relics will doom them all, but hush now little fool~ You’re too late.

Cutting immediately away from that frightening situation, we get Winter and the Ace Ops flying out over the tundra in search of Penny. Elm is complaining about having to retrieve “broken junk” and how they shouldn’t trust Watts or his technology. Good point about trusting Watts, but we’re well past that problem now. Winter barks at Elm to stop whining and act professional. They pick up a comm signal, and it turns out to be from Jaune warning anyone who can hear it about the Grimm river. They head for the source of the signal, and the two groups cross paths under the most tense of tenses. Jaune gets to business and tries to get these professional huntsmen, public servants of their kingdom, to come deal with this unprecedented threat. But Harriet just wants to know where Penny is and refuses to acknowledge any problem except the one she was sent to deal with, so she blames these three kids who haven’t seen Penny in like 12 hours for whatever danger there is. Thankfully, she shuts up when a tremor rocks all of Mantle. The tremors keep building, even the Grimm take some amount of notice. Then it stops again. Then the biggest one yet hits, and suddenly the riverbed is empty. A geyser of primal Grimm goo blasts up into the side of Atlas, and it’s persistent enough that a big splash of it gets through the Hard Light shields. Out of the goo comes a swarm of centinels, who crawl up to the towers projecting the shield over the Kingdom itself and burrow into the ground around one of these towers. An airship blasts a laser down, but it can only get one target at a time and the rest burrow in. Down plummets one tower, and with it goes the entire shield. It’s like a string of Christmas lights with a single bad bulb, and that’s not a design flaw you want in the first line of defense around a major metropolitan area. As people across the Kingdom, including the team hiding out in Schnee Manor and a for once knocked off kilter General Ironwood, watch on in horror, Salem makes her move. Monstra swoops in and crests beautifully over the edge of Atlas, and then comes crashing down in the midst of the farmlands on the edge of the city with a bellyflop. The colossal aquatic mammal of the air opens its dark maw, and out floods a wave of more grimm sludge. From that primordial ooze arises just about every variety of Grimm we have ever seen with the exception of Kevin, Jim&Randall, Levi, and the Hound. The battle for Atlas has begun, and there are a wardrobe’s worth of white Atlesian military pants to be darkened. And this isn’t even the mid-season finale! So there’s even worse things sure to come! Can’t wait~

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bestmattressbedonline · 11 months ago

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spacegaywritings · 5 years ago

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Drunk Kitchen - Chapter 2 “More than Words” (final)

Summary: Emile gets up and takes care of his beloved partners. Remy is hungover and Virgil just loves to snuggle them all. Aka onesie fluff.

Tags: mentions of medication, being hungover, bad mornings, ow ow bodies, nonsexual nudity, being bad at identifying feelings, tears, smol angst for maximum comfort, hurt/comfort, goth remy, pastel Virgil, muscular Emile, migraines, LOTS OF CUDDLES, super much lovs!! happy OT3

The morning eventually rolled around, slowly and surely moving like an overfed house pet. The air was cool yet beautiful with colours and life. The spirit of the weekend was there and the slow-paced wind was in perfect sync with the gradual start into the day. People were done with the week and ready to take things painfully slow and just... relax a bit, live a little and recover from stress and pressure.

Emile was no exception.

He slept in, laying in their bed for much longer than usual and just treating himself to reading a bit. Something in his mind wondered whether he should make up his beloved chaos men but he decided against it in favour of relishing in more silence and granting them a bit more time to recover and consume the sweet relief of sleep.

He eventually got up, his body swinging happily with him as he sung the opening songs of his favourite cartoons shows. His latest favourite of all the literature he possessed inspired him to rewatch Avatar the last airbender again. Maybe he would do that later but first he would order some food and take a looong and nice shower.

After all, the kitchen was unable to provide any place for him to make some pancakes, even if he wanted to. He was honestly horrified at the thought of getting back into that slaughterhouse of dreams and former order. Well, his lovely cryptids deserved some extra sleep so he certainly deserved some take-out food.

The man ordered some breakfast and got into the shower just to get out and dress up in a comfortable onesie for the occasion of a lazy weekend of nothing but self-indulgent care and love for himself and possibly his datemates.

...He would see about that last one.

When Emile poked his head into the living-room, he was just in time for Remy stirring awake, silently and carefully breaking away from their beloved tall bundle of pastel Virgil. The soft giant was sound asleep, chest rising and lowering ever so slowly and gradually while the goth climbed climbed over him, every muscle in his system screaming in pain as he dared to shake his existence to persistently. The movements were so intense and strikingly pain-inducing that he could not help but radiate a great morning energy from anything but a morning person.

The whole room seemed to screech in discomfort as he slid his sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose. Emile greeted him with a little smile as he took the cat tail of his Katra onesie.

“Good Meowning to you!”

The sunshine of Emile welcomed Remy into the world and the small man groaned.

“Ugh.. Oh.. oh holy fuc...”, he mumbled before simply collapsing into his arms.

Emile chuckled, his arms immediately clasping shut around the other.

“Aw, missed me?”, he cooed softly, his head moving to plant a few soothing kisses all over the pained muscles in Remy’s hurting face. Everything was a pain, every little thing was damned in agony for him and it was uncomfortable... a bit like a punishment for anything he did or might do in the future. The slightly taller man gently placed a few open-mouthed smooches onto Remy’s slightly sweaty hair.

“Are you in pain, Ri?”

A groan escaped the other. In the background, the bundle of pastel softness came to life.

Em patted his love.

“Go, get a shower. I will get your pills and something to kill your hangover with”, he promised soft before turning so Virgil could hear him too. “Food is ordered and on the way.”

That got Virgil to react. The tall twig catapulted himself out of the couch, blanket still completing the look of a lost princess disoriented in the middle of a strange world.

“mhw..”

He rubbed his eyes, yawning into his patched-up jacket when the realisation of a new day finally dawned on his internal clock.

Emile giggled, his voice radiating the energy Remy was lacking in his daily pain. He skipped out of the commotion and escaped into the bathroom as suggested. Virgil received the loving morning greeting of the other coming over to peck his sleepy forehead.

“Hello there my little love, did you have fun?”

The tall man pushed himself closer, his body residing in Emile’s patient lap as he pushed his face into his stomach.

“mw”, he argued stubbornly, “missed you..”

Emile pulled him closer, his arms locking around him. It fit like a key into its lock and they neatly got together. He nudged his datemate lovingly, carefully encouraging him to shift and show his face a bit more. The tall man curled in on himself and hugged his love closer and just melt in his lap, letting the heat seep into his pores. The warmth eased him into a small puddle of affection and adoration. His heart was beating in blood and love for Emile and Remy and he carefully wiggled closer in his little blanket burrito and mess of his overly big jacket.

“Awww”, the smaller man cooed soothingly as he brushed through his hair.

“I ordered food for all of us” Emile gently patted his love’s face with tender patience. “Do you want to get ready together with me?”

Virgil nodded into Emile’s lean stomach and hugged him closer, nearly tipping him over and making him collapse over the laying form. Emile swayed a bit, his body staggering from side to side just enough for him to somewhat regain his balance. His hands quickly caught himself on his knees and he leaned further over Virgil, his back arching.

The smaller man giggled. It sounded like ringing bells and jingling joy. Virgil could not help but smile at this. His arms wrung around Emile and gently tugged him down, just a bit, just .. just enough to signify his intention.

He wanted his Emile.. He wanted the man to carry him and just cuddle close to him so he could be in his sleepy haze for a little longer, just for a bit more. The wakeful one nodded sagely, a knowing smile on his genuine lips. His lips were curved into the usual expression of eternal love and unconditional admiration for him.

A nod and another shift and Virgil was moved into his toned arms. The blanket burrito of roses and pastels wiggled and snuggled closer to his love and only allowed himself to rest his case when he was smugly pressed against his love, fitting into his arms as if they were figures made for it, made to be together. The only one missing was Remy, this time.

“Perfect”, Virgil reviewed with a soft little smile on his face. He looked like a smug, tiny bird with all the happiness and little corns in his life. “Great arms, good grip. 12/10, would recommend.”

Emile shook his head.

“Don’t you mean purrfect~”, he started with a sly smile and Virgil was already rolling his eyes with the half-annoyed and half-amused grin plastering all over his features. Emile placed Virgil on their bed and took his cat tail, carefully pointing it at Virgil and retreating it when he showcased the feline trait of his costume.

It aligned with his horrible joke, especially when he actually let out a “meow” at the hungover datemate of his.

“You’ve got to be kidding me-”

Emile threw a bundle of fluff at Virgil, effectively emphasising his response when he spoke up against Virgil, his glasses doing the anime blink thing when he took the golden opportunity that had come to him.

“Do you mean kitten~”

He had the chance, he had the words AND HE TOOK IT! Emile Picani made another pun, made a combo and absolutely destroyed his talking partner from the drunk party. The man got it all, he made a double pun - in close succession! He rocked the field of communication and took the lead in all the puns!

“Are you guys really doing this right now?”

Remy leaned against the door frame, coolly glancing over his two datemates. Finally they were together in one room. As always, their “fourth” partner was with them: Remy’s loyal and faithful shades. The sunglasses rested on his face, covering the most useless part of his bare appearance.

It was such a him thing to just show up without anything but it was also a foolishness on Emile’s part to forget about clothes. Remy would never think that far in the morning. Especially not after a day like yesterday.

Virgil did not seem to mind too much, despite the bright blush adorning his features. He poorly attempted at hiding his face in the piece of clothing Emile just threw him but there was only so much looking he could do without revealing his face to a certain extend. When his fingers brushed against the fabric, his attention was shifted to this sensation rather than staring into their datemate and his.. his whole precious self.

He swallowed.

“Ri, look at you! The shower really did a number on you! You look stunning~”

Emile swayed his hips from side to side, hums accompanying his movements as he worked into the closet further, his hands fishing for something in particular. They had a strive in purpose, they had a mission. Remy scoffed but moved into the room, simply letting his body fall into the softness of their big fat bed. The mattress was the softness of a cloud when kids would imagine touching it and it gently hugged him with welcoming warmth as soon as his body connected to the velvet covers.

He fell with a soft thud, the mattress absorbing the impact of his fall as much as the sounds emitted on any other surface he could have possibly crashed his body into. It was Remy, a tired, decaffeinated Remy at that. Honestly, they were all sort of glad the man was walking and alive instead of just vegetating through life, cuddled up on a couch and pretending to care about the effort people put into this strangely popular activity of “not-dying”.

Virgil immediately took the chance to move his legs over him as he dramatically let himself sink into the mattress with his back. Shifting from side to the back of his body was a true chore, given he only did it to gift Ri with the comfort of his twig-like legs on him.

The man beneath him groaned in response but never even lifted as much as a finger to really put a stop to the whole affair. Other than this, he was contently dozing in his truly vegetative state.

The man was just vibin’.

Not for too long, though, as Emile determined. The last of the trio climbed onto the bed with them and quickly cuddled up next to Virgil, stealing just enough of his partially abandoned blanket to cover himself a bit. A bit of rose was now resting on the back of Remy’s head who simply breathed it off.

He, truly and honestly, had no more fucks to give. Well, other than reaching for his lovely datemates and actually pulling his glorious ass back into the game with his wonderful biceps flexing so deliciously for the two cuddly beans to watch. Virgil dove back under the covers only for Remy to slide underneath them as well and join his partners by pressing his precious chonky self right between the two.

There wqas not space. There was nothing but love and onesies in the bed as the Emile smacked a bit of fabric from his hand into Remy’s lap.

Virgil was still quietly struggling to unwrap the one he had been given before. Considering all the distractions he had to put up with, he was to be excused - by all means. His gay heart and dummy soft baby mind was just too easily molten away and the tender heat coming from his too attractively forbidden and kindly loving datemates had his last braincells yield to the desperate queer screeches of the rainbow cotton mass that filled out the inside of his skull.

There was no brain, only gay. No logic, only gay fucking panic in this house.

Virgil stabbed his fingers into the colourful fabric in his hands. This was a mess of dark colours and abandoned Christmas celebrations. Emile literally gave him a Jack Skellington onesie.

While he was busy blowing raspberries on his tongue to spite Em, he climbed into the oddness of this soft, fluffy mess.He would not complain about this.. it was warm and if anyone every needed to bribe Virgil, heat was about the thing to use in order to tempt him into doing something for them in return. Remy was clever to get him into cuddles before asking him to do chores or get him things.

Aforementioned hungover man accepted his fate and crawled into the pinkass bitch fucking unicorn onesie sitting on his lap.

“Fuck, Em, are you serious”, Remy groaned.

He threw his head back, effectively resting the back of it against the shoulders of his beloved beans. They were both an embarrassing amount taller than his own dummy thicc ass. He was stuck between those lively, bright personalities. What a chore. There was a pink unicorn onesie in his lap.. it was just being there, being pink, doing its thing and just vibin while he closed his eyes and wished for them to somewhat be joking about it. He could not deal with so much positivity and softness in the morning.

It was way too much nice feelings and pink and so much .. ugh. Not to be a bitch to Virgil.

He scoffed again, his sounds trying to communicate his feelings and make the point his mind was too tired and pained to string together using words.

“Come on, Ri, join us~”

Virgil chuckled, his shoulder moving to nudge their datemate ever so softly.

“Imma just pretend to peer pressure you along with Em”

He was finally fully dressed in his own share of soft onesie, though he was nothing compared to a pink fluffy unicorn.

Remy’s eyes fluttered open, his lips rolling together as he pressed them together. They split just for a bit, only enough to allow a few silent grumbles to leave his mouth.

“Will you leave me alone if I get into it?”

Silence.

Emile blinked, puppy dog eyes strong behind his huge glasses. Similarly, the tallest of the throuple poked his fingers into Remy’s sides and snickered just a slightest bit.

Apparently, it was only enough to make the smallest of them sigh dramatically, loudly and tragically. He forcefully sunk his own body deeper into the mattress as if to actively try and disappear into it. After remaining in this position for a while longer, two pairs of eyes softly glancing at him as if to coax him out of his hiding spot, he actually moved his arms to pull the the fabric over his legs and up to his body.

A few moments later, he straightened himself underneath the furry coat and snuggled into the little coffin of soft and velvety feelings.

He sighed.

This was much better than originally anticipated.

He kept laying there, just laid there doing nothing and soaking in the surprising heat that came with wearing this weirdly synthetic fabric around him. His whole body was wrapped up in some kind of plastic polyester tube of pure and utter heat. It felt like hell but in the most comfortable and cozy manner he had every experienced.

Remy cuddled up to his love, a gruff sound rumbling from his throat as he snuggled closer to his loves. His body slowly turned so he could spoon their lovely Emile, simply embracing him. The latter did not mind and gently wrapped his arms and legs around Remy in a similar fashion as Virgil snuggled up to Remy’s side and buried his curiously pink hair in the comforting intimacy of Remy’s neck.

The closeness resulting from this position increased the warmth. Everyone was cozied up in the heat of their own intensely isolated bodies due to the persistently caring onesies.

And Remy was such a pretty unicorn.

“I hate it”, he commented sourly.

Emile pressed a little kiss to his throbbing temples.

“You do nooooot, though”, he corrected him patiently, his voice dipping into the soft sound he usually used whenever he got extremely affectionate with his partners.

They collectively decided to close their eyes. For now, it was time to just be, to just .. exist together and soak up the presence of the others around him.

“You guys are ridiculous”, Virgil butted in with his accurate and absolutely helpful comments.

Remy grunted mutely.

“Vi, Vi, Viiii”, Em exclaimed in sudden excitement. The sudden upsurge of emotions swinging his feelings upwards and skyrocketing him up into the sky. “Virgil, look.”

He inhaled intensely, his lungs sucking up the oxygen around him wetly. Emile placed another soft kiss onto his forehead before whispering to his Virgil, neck craned just enough to very much talk over Remy. Quite literally even so.

“Virgil, he loves us so much, he got all red and adorable!!!”

Virgil giggled.

The words their partner spoke were so excited and stressed, they all could hear the exclamation marks and the emotional extra enforcement of words.

Remy shook his head, stubbornly. His body sank deeper into the mattress as he simultaneously yet uselessly so tried backing up only to dive his back deeper into Virgil’s warm and immensely soft arms. Being sandwiched between the pastel giant and a whole arm of muscular Emile, Remy found himself to be in a spot that could only be described as pure heaven. He was right between one cloud of silky warmth and one equally as velvety blanket-like one.

The tiny chonk of a hurting bitch was relaxing on cloud nine, trapped in the lovely affection that made his stoned heart melt and cave with every word they spoke, if they even spoke. Hell, even simple sounds or looks could send him into a session of gay sighs and intensely queer feelings. His pinkycorn hoe-self snuggled back up between them, finally succumbing to just how much he enjoyed the contact, being flanked by the two equally disastrous tall queers. It was a whole festival of rainbow-colours and intensely soft feelings.

They remained in position for the time being. Everyone relished in the affection they received and gave to each other. This was heaven, this was paradise.

Eternal happiness should be nothing more but hungover cuddles together with the dearest people you had in life.

Despite being a grumpy shit, Remy felt his migraines fade to a somewhat manageable level. Sickness was less of an issue by now and he was dozing off again due to the sheer comfort that led him to believe pain was an illusion. He was floating in the bubble of isolating himself from the outside world. He was up above the troubles of earthly life, of any connections to the physical realm.

Remy was lighter than a feather. He was flying, flying. Up above, sinking slowly, dipping down and landing blindly yet carefully.

When the wings of sleep graced his head and caressed his cheek, he was ready to take a little nap, he braced himself for the comfort and healing effects of a good old powernap in the middle of the day because life sucks and migraines suck even harder but painfully so.

Instead, the fucking doorbell STARTED GOING OFF-

A sudden ring shook them out of their sleepy trance. Virgil flinched into his defensive stance, pulling Remy close to his chest - hell, he would put him into his ribcage if he could. Emile basically vibrated for a moment before also cuddling closer to Remy. Essentially, everyone grabbed a bit of soft unicorn and made sure to protect the endangered species that was a grumpy Remycorn.

Emile was the first to snap out of it, his love for his precious partners quickly melting his frozen state. Within a few minutes, he got onto his feet and quickly made his way across the room, announcing “Food!!!” in a somewhat loud-ish yet rather moderate volume. All things considered, Remy was probably still suffering from a migraine and Emile did not want to make it worse.

Virgil made sure to curl around their smallest datemate while Emile took the social high road and actually interacted with the nice person who delivered food on the weekend. It was noon but they still delivered food!

He was soon back with two whole bags of food. Virgil was not sure but it looked as if they were softly steaming just a slightest bit. Remy certainly could not tell from the point of view of a man who saw the world through the tinted glasses of his protective shades. But when Emile passed by with the food, he did not stop to return to the bedroom, he moved on. He continued walking instead of bringing the food over.

Remy sent Virgil a quizzical look akin to a glare more than anything. A hungover dude just wanted some fucking food and it smelled like a lethal level of spices for his upset stomach and bitchy body. It was absolutely perfect! But now, for some reason, Emile was taking the idea of sustenance away from him and Remy would not tolerate it, so he committed himself to mentally - yes, telepathically, if you want to be brave - converse with Virgil.

Somehow, he needed to convey just how upset he was. One of his datemates was to do his what he was unable to do, physically.

“Virgil, Virgil”, his mind alerted the taller one, “Emile got the food, he took the food and ran off!”

Remy was clearly pouting at this point. The combination of his chronic pain and the aftermath of drinking left him in an emotionally special state, not to speak about his physical vulnerability. Even the smallest amounts of movements could be torture to him, depending on how intense his episodes of migraines were.

Virgil knew. He was patient and considerate as always and nodded, snuggling their datemate close and mumbling silent yet actual words in response.

“ ‘s okay. ‘M can go ‘n get ‘t”, he suggested softly, his voice so soft it could barely be heard. It might have been just above a whisper but considering he was so close to Remy, his back and the tall man’s chest pressed together, it was as if he was speaking for him, into him only.

The smaller man hugged himself when the other started moving away. A great source of heat removed itself from him and it got cold within his body but also outside of it fast. A soft whine escaped his mouth.

... No, that did n o t happen.

“Shut up, Virgil”, he thought at the other who compliantly gave him a kiss to his temples before getting off the bed.

It happened so fast, maybe nothing but a few seconds passed. The world was still spinning for Remy. He never wanted to get up again. At least for the time being, at least for today. His whole world was moving at an incredible speed and it did not stop and everything was so much. Now even his datemates left and there was no food to absorb the absurd amounts of alcohol he had ingested the day before like the dummy thicc thirsty bitch he was.

He felt awful. The world was heavy and sensing it was hurtful and so much of a chore to him, it felt unnaturally exhaustive. Now he was upset. The feeling of somewhat being abandoned struck him, slowly creeping into his skull. He was the small pupper left outside the store for a quick stop but then never to be picked up by their original owners.

Maybe it was just stupid hormones, but he hugged the blanket close to him. It was his little saving grace, his comfort. It did not leave him. It could not even go as far as to think about it because it was a stupid piece of fabric without conscious. He buried his face in the softness, waiting for the comfort of its feeling on his skin to hit him and slay the bad feelings within him.

Remy felt the surge of negativity take over, the devastation within him fizzy like hot chilli burning him from within and hurting him endlessly. It bubbled up, came so close to his heart while he clung to the fabric, his little lifeline of stability. It was all ready to collapse like an old abandoned building, like him.

“Ri?”, a voice asked, soft like an angel.

A hand carefully placed itself right next to him yet did not dare to directly touch him as if he was about to collapse, as if he was so fragile, this little bit of touch would simply destroy him completely.

“Riri, we are back with plates~”

Another voice, more gruff but just as dampened to a comfortable volume. The voices wrapped around his mind and coaxed him into disconnecting his own, damp face from the furry soft blanket.

“Oh, love, does it hurt that much?”

Remy blinked slowly, the sunglasses carefully slipping down his nose from the wetness his tears had caused. Small little droplets of salty rivers drew despair over his features and left sad, lifeless imprints on his face. The shades were trusty and loyal as always, trying to hide the extreme reaction from the others.

His head slowly moved to shake itself in order to indicate disapprovement. Just a moment before he started the movement, he stopped and sat up. Virgil and Remy put the food and others onto the nearby shelf - instead of clothing, it would now hold some meals as well. The two synchronically climbed back into the bed and slid into place by Remy’s sides, Virgil back on his right while Emile joined him from his left side, arms opened.

“ ‘t’s m’kay”, Virgil softly assured, One of his hands brushed through Remy’s hair, barely as much as touching more than the tips of his strands only. The dark bundle was a messy piece of chaos, still a bit damp yet soft and light to the touch.

Emile let his hand add up, his fingers right next to Remy’s face.

“You don’t have to say it. We can be there for you, still. We always will be here if you want to let us in - if you can, love.”

His words softly pressed into his heart. The paws of his intonations gently caressed his chest, massaging into it and easing the tension within him. It was like receiving love from a cat.

Remy shrugged, his nose drawing in a sharp breath.

“F-feelings”, he sniffled.

He took another shaky breath, this time breathing through his mouth to make sure he actually got something other than some half-sniffling attempts at breathing in a miserable amount of oxygen.

Virgil scoffed.

“ Fuck ‘em”, he advised as his hand carefully sunk just a tad deeper into his hair. Rhythmically stroking through the little mess, he patiently hummed, his eyes softly taking in his hidden face.

Emile clicked his tongue. They all knew he did not exactly agree but he sensed the mood enough to not start a lecture at the moment, especially knowing their datemate and his issues well enough.

“What do you want right now? If you know what it is, would you perhaps share it with us, so we can help you?”

The question settled in his face, pulling at his features and straining him further. It pulled the sadness away and his focus back on the issue Emile has brought up. Well, what did he want?

The smaller man inhaled deeply, his eyes closing automatically as he focused. His hands blindly got up, making Virgil retreat his hand out of respect. Remy simply lifted his shades to rub the wetness and salt away from his hot and swollen orbs. They were probably all red like strawberries and puffed up like popped corn.

“Ca-”, he started, his voice leaving him.

He cleared his throat and tried it once more.

“Can we hug..?”

The words were rough like sandpaper and listening sort of hurt in his datemates’ ears and hearts. It was the sort of tickling that got too much, too violent and uncomfortable to the point it sort of hurt because the touch receptors were overloaded and would react in irritation. All in all, he was so quiet, Virgil barely heard him and he was leaned in close enough to smell the scented shampoo used on his hair. It reminded him of energy drinks, ginger and cedar - one of these “manly” scents of hygiene articles.

Nevertheless, his point came across. Whether it was him pushing his shades away to reveal his tortured and upset eyes or his words, maybe even the fact he opened his arms so clearly, he definitely invited the two to snuggled up to him or even tower over him and sandwich him as before. The two took the hint and his datemates were quick to follow suit and fit right by his broad shoulders.

“Dunno, Ri, ya think we can?”, Virgil softly teased. His mumbles flooded his hair roots as he nudged the tip of his nose against his head’s side. These actions reminded him of a cat bonking their had together with the one of the person they wanted to express affection for. It magically brought a little twitch of a smile to his face after all.

Maybe it worked.

He nodded and turned his face to press a little peck to Virgil’s prominent cheekbones.

Emile carefully tugged them back down and tickled his skin with butterfly kisses around his exposed collar bone.

“We will always be here for you”, he repeated ever so gently, “if you just let us know, we will always try and make sure to help you and be here for anything you need.”

A little shake rocked Remy’s body. He willingly sunk down with them and pulled his arms around them to pull his two loves to his chest.

“It hurts sometimes”, he explained, “but it never ceases to beat for you”

Virgil giggled against the beating cavity.

“Sap, you”, another round of chuckles interrupted his silent words, “ya soft, soft sap.”

Emile snuggled closer to him, one of his hands resting on Remy’s stomach while the other one hugged him.

Surprisingly enough, Remy’s body decided to speak for them all. His tummy grumbled subtly. Faint in sound and strong in movement, the datemates felt the sudden surge of vibrations, causing Emile to giggle this time.

“Would you bear with me getting our food from here?”

Remy’s arms loosened their grip on the two. Emile slipped away once more and Virgil pushed a pillow into the smaller individual’s direction to help him get his head up.

“Bitch beast ‘s gon’a be fed”

His statement painted another breeze of amusement over Remy’s face. This time a more persistent smile rested on his features. He took another breath, a free and freer one.

“Vi, this is not how nicknames work, I believe”

He handed him a bowl and cutlery before setting down a bit on the little man in the middle.

“That okay”, he asked carefully, his voice edging on tapping around in the dark. Every step was measured and doubted or calculated at the very least.

Remy nodded and patted his side.

“Come back, you silly bitch”

The inviting smile got Emile to sit down with them once more despite the offensive-sounding words. An approving sound came off him and he awarded his love with a kiss to his nose.

“You two are great. You are just amazing. Em, V, I love you.”

The latter snorted, a part of him looking indignant.

“Ya fuck’n better!”

Remy joined with another giggle, Emile got the heart to do the same.

“I love you too, darling”

The smaller one rolled his eyes before closing them again. He had to pay a price for straining his eyes that much.

Virgil sighed dramatically as he crashed back down into the mattress.

“ ‘kay, fuck. ‘M lovya guys too.”

They cuddled, up, starting to share some food and feeding one another harmonically. Virgil and Remy warmed up to the day and shared stories of their previous adventures along with the food. There was an honourable mention about the Legendary Oil Fight which Emile accepted with many nods and stimming hands. He himself revealed some more information about his experience of the previous night and the three partners enjoyed the contrast between their deeds and feelings which happened at the same time yet were so starkly in differences.

After they had eaten, they snuggled more and soon reverted to a calm state of dozing more than being awake.

“Hey”, Emile verbally nudged them into a more wakeful state. “You know you two will clean the kitchen after you feel better.”

“Ugh, Eeeeem”, Virgil groaned. Remy snickered wildly. “He is such a bad bitch.”

“Listen, you two, next time we go and fight the oil monster together and then we will all clean up the battlefield afterwards.”

Virgil and Remy exchanged a look.

...

“Deal.”

Emile smiled, warmth consuming his heart and he adjusted the blanket and allowed himself to press more against Virgil who was next to him after they had switched places a bit.

“Alright, you wild ones. Deal.” He giggled. “I will drink you under the table and right into the gutter, you weaklings~”

They all giggled, the sounds mingling and intertwining like their cuddly limbs and sensitive hearts. Soon enough, the three were asleep again, only having each other in their minds and on their tongues.

Together, they were just so much ....

Better.

♥

23 notes · View notes

flutteringphalanges · 5 years ago

Photo

A Sun In The Night Sky

Summary: A collection of one-shots based off of my story, Mirabile Visu, in which Agatha and Dracula face the challenges and glory of becoming parents. You don’t need to have read the story to understand. To simply put it, this collection of works explores Agatha’s pregnancy, her blooming romance with Dracula, and raising their child.

Pairing: Dracula/Agatha

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N: Thank you to all who left comments/reviews and kudos for this story (or collection of one shots that is)! I am so honored to have readers like you! Also much gratitude to the outpours of prompts coming in! I have a growing list! Keep ‘em coming! I’m also working on the next chapter of Mirabile Visu, so keep your eyes peeled for that! Artwork done, of course, by the fantastic mitsukatsu on Tumblr! -Jen

Nightmares

Thinking back to it now, perhaps she should’ve realized it was a dream. The warmth of the air, cool breeze blowing against her skin. She could smell the flowers, tulips that had just blossomed. Home. Holland. As she gazed forward, barefooted in the lush grass, she could just make out a small figure dancing among a swarm of butterflies. The toddler’s dark curls bounced as she reached outwards with tiny arms towards the bugs, her laugh infectious. Sorina.

Agatha smiled as the little girl’s attention turned to her mother. She giggled, gesturing towards the fluttering creatures. The former nun laughed with her, transfixed by the beauty that was her daughter. The happiness that enveloped them both. Such was short lived when the warmth of the sky began to grow hotter. For the first time, the former nun looked up, realizing to her horror that through the clouds, the unforgiving rays of the sun began to stream through.

“Sorina!” She cried out, the call falling on deaf ears. “Sorina!”

The little girl didn’t seem to notice, her small dress twirling around as she continued to play with the butterflies. The clouds grew sparse, the sun growing brighter as Agatha watched in terror as Sorina finally turned to face her. She smiled brightly, cocking her head to one side.

“Mama?”

Sorina held her arms out towards Agatha, taking one final breath before bursting into a pillar of flames.

“Agatha!”

She shot up abruptly, her breathing erratic as her eyes darted quickly around the room. It didn’t even register at first that Dracula was hovering over her, his brow knit with concern as his cool hands cupped her face. Agatha pulled away, nearly tripping over her blanket as she stumbled out of bed and bounded for the door.

“Agatha, wait! Stop!”

But she had already exited her room and turned the corner in the direction of Sorina’s nursery. She could hear the vampire behind her as she flung the door open, what little light from the hallway spilling into the room. Without thinking, she raced to the crib, fingers gripping the wooden frame as she peered down at the sleeping child. The toddler’s chest rose and fell rhymically with each breath, tiny lips pursed as her eyelashes brushed against her cheeks.

“Agatha…”

The former nun scooped her daughter up, careful not to wake her as she held her close. She buried her face into her hair, taking in her scent. Dracula rested a hand on his wife’s shoulder, observing as she tried to stifle back a sob. It was so unusual, so rare to catch Agatha in a moment of weakness. The woman was strong, resilient, had been since that fateful day they met at St. Mary’s Convent in Budapest. It almost frightened him.

“It was just a dream,” he soothed. “A nightmare.”

She shook her head and swallowed. “I watched her burn,” Agatha whispered hoarsely. “She was fine and the next…”

Sorina began to stir against her mother, but remained asleep. The vampire momentarily paused before gently wrapping his arms around Agatha. She didn’t shy away, instead leaning into his embrace. He could hear her heart racing, differing from the slow, steady pace of their daughter’s. A few strands of hair stuck to her temples from where she had been sweating. Whatever she had dreamed, had witnessed, must’ve truly been terrifying.

“Come,” he softly urged. “Let’s go lie down.”

“I don’t think I’m in the right state to leave her,” she replied, swallowing hard. “I don’t think I can…”

“Then bring her with us,” the count replied quietly. “Staying awake to watch her isn’t going to do you any good.”

Agatha exhaled and, with her arms wound around her daughter, followed Dracula back to her quarters. Mindful of her sleeping child, she eased back onto the mattress and under her sheets. Much to her surprise, the vampire did the same. He watched as Agatha gently maneuvered Sorina so she rested between her two parents. Despite her mother’s panic, the child had remained asleep, much to both their reliefs.

“I would never let anything happen to either of you,” he murmured.

“Most dreams and nightmares are far from realistic,” Agatha replied. “But that still doesn’t make them any less traumatic.” Her gaze flickered to their daughter. “If something were to happen to her, I would never forgive myself. For the life of me, I still have yet to comprehend how one could love another so dearly. I was a nun, that was supposed to be my devotion, to love all.” She let out a quiet chuckle. “But none of that compares to how I feel about her. I would do anything for her. Kill, die, travel to the ends of the Earth. How is it possible, these feelings?”

“I cannot say I have an answer,” Dracula admitted. “But I share the same when it comes to both of you.” He smiled, reaching over to interlock his fingers with her. “In my many centuries of existing, it was you who I chose to last. How odd of a thought is that?” His thumb ran gently across the scar on her palm from where she cut herself to shed blood in defiance. “You amaze me, Agatha Van Helsing. And bestowed me with such a gift that trumps any worldly knowledge I could ever receive.” The vampire smiled warmly at Sorina. “I would do anything for you two, even if it meant meeting the sun.”

“A bold statement,” Agatha replied, a small smile crossing her otherwise tired features. “Who knew you to be such a romantic without means of manipulation.” She fell silent for a moment, doing her best to stifle a yawn. “Thank you,” she mumbled. “For being there for me.”

“Always,” he responded, leaning in close to rest his forehead against hers. “Now sleep, I’ll stay by your side. No dreams shall haunt you now. Rest, my love.”

Agatha mumbled something unintelligible as her eyelids grew heavy. She listened to the soft sounds of the toddler breathing, felt the cool touch of her partner. Slowly she slipped away into the empty black of the unknown. Finally free of the darkness of her thoughts. Love certainly was such a strange and marvelous thing.

#Dracula #Dracula 2020 #Agatha Van Helsing #Dracula on Netflix #Dracula x Agatha #A Sun In The Night Sky

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spookyblackwidow · 5 years ago

Note

Fanfic request: Natasha's having nightmares and is getting super sleep deprived and it's kind of making her sick, and Clint notices and confronts her about it?

Author’s note: Nightmares are literally one of my favorite things to write about?? BLESS YOU. This is way longer than anticipated, but I hope you enjoy!

Weakness

2552 words

Natasha jolted awake, sweat beading on her forehead, a gun clutched in her hand, trained on an imaginary threat. The fear faded, slowly, as she became aware of her familiar surroundings, the antique furniture of the bedroom in her primary safe house just outside New York City. She shook off the dream and forced her ragged breathing to slow, an attempt to counteract her racing heart. It was just past 2 a.m., and, although she hadn’t been asleep long, she had enough experience to know she’d be awake for quite a while.

The glow of streetlights seeped through the blinds, softly illuminating strips of laminate beneath her feet. She made her way to the kitchen, resisting the innate urge to flip on lights and ensure her safety, certain enough of her movements and the reality that the danger she’d just emerged from would remain firmly in her mind, unable to creep out into existence. Realism and denial were programmed into her, a staunch refusal to take things at face value ingrained over years of reprogramming, the aliases and brainwashing that never seemed to end, no light at the end of a labyrinth. Tunnels were too linear, too neat, too easy to navigate. Her life had been a messy nightmare she couldn’t quite shake, no matter how much time had passed since she’d defected, since she’d last been unmade.

The kettle whistled, an agonizingly sharp whine burrowing its way into her exhausted brain. She swore under her breath and turned off the burner, annoyed she’d gotten so wrapped up inside her thoughts she’d lost awareness of her surroundings. Something wound through her legs, further startling her, the black shadow begging for attention, acknowledgement, anything.

“Fucking hell, Liho,” Natasha grumbled into her steaming mug of tea, her perpetually icy fingers clutching the ceramic, greedily absorbing its warmth. Carefully stepping around the way-too-fucking-alert cat, she settled into an oversized chair and clicked on a lamp, the pale light fighting against the encroaching darkness an all too familiar sight.

She picked up a book, its spine cracked, the edges worn and faded, a relic from a previous life, from back when she could dissociate enough to get lost in a story. It was one of the few things she’d carried with her into the Red Room, always safely stashed away under a mattress, stuffed in a threadbare pillowcase, buried within a carefully carved hole in the wall. She wasn’t quite sure how she’d managed to hold onto it through all the identities she’d been given, and whatever original meaning it had held was gone, but she liked the idea of having a tangible reminder of the innocent girl she’d once been. She’d tried night after night for years, but she couldn’t bring herself to read it, opting instead to study the dog-eared corners, the inked drawings scattered throughout, mostly doodles scribbled by unknown hands, each an everlasting mark of the book’s history.

Natasha paged through it, seeing but not comprehending the Cyrillic characters of her native tongue. This had become her nightly ritual, a way to detach from whatever horrible vision had awoken her, actions that would hopefully calm her enough to be able to sleep again, although it was never for long. How many years had she been sleeping so fitfully? Her whole life? Or maybe just the last several identities? She’d lost too much time, too much trust in reality to ever be sure. She closed her eyes, but she knew there’d be no more rest before sunrise.

Morning crept in, sunlight inching its way in through the windows, a warm hue that she might’ve derived pleasure from if this hadn’t been the eighteenth morning in a row she’d sat in the same chair, agonizingly awake, witnessing the same dreadful reminder that she’d soon be expected to do things. As it was nearing six, she figured she had just enough time to shower, get dressed, and wash her mug before the first message from Nick would arrive; after so many years working together, he was aware that she was typically an early riser, a fact he took full advantage of. Sure enough, she was placing the mug back in the cupboard when she got the call to come in.

She considered making breakfast, but her stomach turned, the mere idea of eating seemed revolting. The dull ache behind her eyes reminded her that skipping another meal was definitely not what she should be doing, but the food aversion won out, a side effect she’d mentally catalogued and shoved aside long ago.

Her debriefing was short—a routine tracking job, a potential hit, more busy work than anything. Nick handed her a new identity to become familiar with in the event she was cornered, along with one for Clint; it was officially a Strike Team: Delta mission, not that she needed the help, although she would be grateful for the company. As always, they’d improvise, no overly complex maneuvers, no extraction plan. All she needed now was her dumbass best friend to show up on time.

Nick left her to wait in his office, which, under normal circumstances wouldn’t bother her, but the leather chair and wide windows felt too much like home in the most literal sense, and she was getting restless. She stood—too quickly, she soon realized—and paced, her empty stomach complaining, small bursts of light dancing in her peripherals. She blinked away the spots, certain they’d been gold, although they’d simply been white earlier, as they should be. No, they shouldn’t be there at all.

Clint entered as she returned to her seat, physically drained, her head fuzzy and aching. His smile was exuberant, but his eyes flickered with concern, a quick once-over confirming that something was very much not okay with Nat. He shot her a knowing look before pasting the smile back on for Nick’s benefit; Clint acted like an idiot most of the time, but he knew better than to let anyone else worry about his best friend.

Natasha let her eyes track the birds flitting past the windows, slightly iridescent rock pigeons swooping about, bouncing across various ledges and sills, their feathers ruffling in the breeze. She was only faintly aware of Nick droning on in the background, her mind miles away, drifting somewhere among the birds. Clouds of smoke billowed up outside, the thick grey choking out parts of the city, flooding her vision until she could see nothing else. Her muscles tensed, heart rate steadily increasing, the flood of cortisol effectively convincing her this was how it all ended. She closed her eyes, anticipating a flash of heat, pain, and then nothing.

“Nat?” Clint placed a hand on hers, the rough pad of his thumb gently rubbing circles across her white knuckles, a familiar and instinctive action they rarely let others witness. She could hear the strain in his voice, thinly disguised as annoyance, nearly every part of their lives some sort of act, a far cry from who they were together, who they wanted to be. Having felt no other change, her body still intact, she slowly opened her eyes, blinking away the previous fogginess, restoring her sight to normal.

“Sorry, I got a little lost in thought there.” She smiled weakly, just enough to shake off concern, but not too much to raise suspicion. “Where were we?”

“Reviewing your identities. I shouldn’t have to remind you that being well-versed in your backstory could make the difference between life and death,” Nick said.

She struggled to focus through the rest of the meeting, her mind straying to the horrors that had been keeping her up at night, the visions that she knew would never truly leave her, rather mutating into increasingly unsettling versions of themselves, morphing with other memories and fears. The red in her ledge had merged with her vivid imagination, creating monstrosities she didn’t care to reveal to anyone, as letting them out of her mind, giving voice to the atrocities, would only spread the nightmare, infecting her most trusted friends with the concepts, irreparably contaminating their thoughts and dreams. She knew he would ask, as he always had in times like these, but she wouldn’t share, couldn’t willingly harm him. The secrecy would hurt him enough, he didn’t need to allow her worst fears to become his own.

He waited for the elevator doors to close before confronting her, one hand wrapped firmly around her bicep, the other pivoting her shoulder so she’d face him. Normally she’d fight back, at the very least pry his fingers off her arm, but fighting this seemed pointless. Instead, she fought the resurfacing image from the night before, the pain of Clint following through on Loki’s promise. They stood in silence a few moments as he studied her.

“You’re not sleeping, are you.” It was not a question but a final conclusion, spot-on, as always.

“Not for lack of trying.” She shrugged as much as she was able to in his grasp, which had let up only slightly.

“Nightmares again?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really. My bad dreams aren’t really your concern.”

“Of course they are! Do you think I like seeing you like this? My best friend, sick, practically a zombie!” He finally released her arm to run his fingers through his hair in exasperation.

“For fuck’s sake, I’m not a zombie, I’m just tired,” she scowled.

“Jesus Christ, Nat.” He watched her thin fingers tap restlessly against her thigh, a telling tic she was too weak to suppress. “Have you even eaten today?”

“Not hungry.”

“Bullshit. We’re getting food in you.” Clint pushed the button for the main floor, and they descended in tense silence. She closed her eyes again, ignoring the spots in her vision, focusing solely on keeping her breathing steady as another nightmare returned to rear its head. Memories of who she used to be, the torment she suffered at the hands of her superiors, the unspeakable crimes she’d committed. Mangled screams, her hands red and bloodied, endless lists of her victims, the names half-remembered at best.

He shoved her through the lobby, down the street, and in the closest door advertising food. It was a cheap pizza joint, one he frequented after missions, usually while intoxicated, but it was the quickest option at the moment. She opened her mouth to protest, to argue that her standard of living was above eating at dollar by-the-slice pizza places that were a far cry from anything resembling a restaurant, but was immediately met with a stern glare.

“Eat.” Clint shoved a paper plate into her hands, a greasy slice of pizza covering most of it. She grimaced and took a small bite, fully aware he wouldn’t let her leave until he’d decided she’d eaten enough. It had been a few months since they’d last gone through this routine, but his food choices had not improved.

“You couldn’t have taken me some place a little nicer? I though you knew how to show a girl a good time.”

“I’ll buy you a proper meal when you learn how to feed yourself. You know, most people gorge on junk food when they’re sleep deprived.”

“I’m much more familiar with fasting.” She set her crust down on the plate, unable to force herself to finish it. “Besides, caffeine is a wonderful appetite suppressant.”

“It’s also a stimulant that can prevent you from sleeping.”

“That’s not about the caffeine, and you know it,” she snapped.

“Then tell me about it! And don’t give me some bullshit about protecting me, I’m not falling for it. You need to work through what’s keeping you awake before it kills you.”

“What part of my hellish life isn’t coming back to haunt me?” she scoffed. “My past, present, potential future. It’s all fucked, Clint, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“You wanna bet?” He smiled, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Clinton Francis Barton, what the hell are you planning now?”

…

Later that night, Natasha sat staring at her book, gently stroking a very happy Liho who was curled up in her lap, anxiously waiting for Clint to arrive. He’d refused to tell her anything—claimed it was better if she didn’t know—and now he was late, despite the fact that he had set the time. The clock in her kitchen seemed louder than usual, the incessant ticking of the second hand stabbing at her aching head. She was moments away from breaking it when the doorbell rang. Clint was smiling, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

“What’s in the bag?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Clint.”

“My stuff. I’m spending the night.”

“Like hell you are!” She started to close the door, but he braced himself against the doorframe and caught the edge.

“Hear me out, Nat. Please. You owe it to yourself to try.”

“Why on earth would you think this is a good idea?” Natasha crossed her arms, but she stepped back, allowing him into her safe house.

“You trust me—don’t even try to argue with me on that. Your unconscious mind is playing off your deepest fears, and you have no method of self-assurance that you’re not who you used to be. But if we trust each other enough to be openly vulnerable, how could you still be that girl? There’s also the added bonus of having an actual Avenger to protect you.”

“I hate you,” she laughed softly and smacked his arm, “but you have a point. One night, that’s it. And you’re sleeping on the floor.”

…

“Nat, please, I know you’re in there somewhere.” Clint was lying at her feet, bloodied, bruised, a blade pressed to the soft flesh beneath his jaw, the knife clutched in her hand. She scanned the room, taking in the lifeless forms of Steve, Sam, Nick. This was her body, but it was full of someone else’s idea of who she should be, the brainwashed identity pulled from the depths of her mind.

“Fallaces sunt rerum species,” she hissed. With an expert flick of her wrist, she severed his jugular and watched him bleed out.

“Nat? Nat!”

She woke in a cold sweat to find Clint, alive and well, shaking her shoulders. It was dark, but the panic was clear in the shadowed lines of his face, and, after a moment, she realized she’d been crying.

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s over.” He laid down next to her and gently wiped her tears, his voice low and soothing.

“I—I killed you,” she whispered.

“Then I guess I’m the zombie now.” He grinned and instinctively flinched, expecting her to hit him.

“You’re an idiot.” Despite her best efforts, she smiled back and hoped he wouldn’t see. She cared far too much for this particular idiot, but letting that show was dangerous, a weakness she’d been trained not to let slip. But moments like these, when they were alone, allowed to be themselves, were treasured memories, the things she longed to dream about instead.

Natasha would never admit it, but Clint’s presence was comforting, so she let him stay in her bed. Curled up in his arms, her head resting on his chest, she let the steady rhythm of his heart lull her into the best sleep she’d had in weeks.

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unchartedterritoria · 5 years ago

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Dangerous (Sam Drake x OC) - Chapter 29

*NEW CHAPTER*

Previous Chapters: Chapter 1 * Chapter 2 * Chapter 3 * Chapter 4 * Chapter 5* Chapter 6 * Chapter 7 * Chapter 8 * Chapter 9 * Chapter 10 * Chapter 11 * Chapter 12 * Chapter 13 * Chapter 14 * Chapter 15 * Chapter 16 * Chapter 17 * Chapter 18 * Chapter 19 * Chapter 20 * Chapter 21 * Chapter 22 * Chapter 23* Chapter 24 * Chapter 25 * Chapter 26 * Chapter 27 * Chapter 28

As always, you can read the story thus far on A03 HERE

Tags: @jodiereedus22, @shambhalala, @missdictatorme

Reviews and comments are always appreciated!

A hard knock on the door of the motel room announced Sully's arrival. Still cautious, Sam hastily threw the garish, flowery comforter over the assortment of weapons he had gotten from the Ricker brothers just an hour earlier. He gave a quick glance through the crack between the heavy drawn drapes, enough to see the casual short-sleeved style button-down that Sully always preferred.

"It's me, open the door," Sully's gruff voice came from behind the door as he noticed the slight rustle of the window coverings.

Sam closed his eyes and sighed, running a hand through his hair, feeling the dark cloud of inevitable guilt-laden ass-chewing that lay behind the door in the form of Victor Sullivan.

Sam undid the flimsy chain lock and deadbolt, opening the door. Before he could begin to argue and explain his actions in vain, pain ricocheted through his head, the unexpected punch to the nose, making him stumble backward. Tripping awkwardly over his own feet, he landed square on his ass next to the bed.

Sully strode through the doorway, looking the rather imposing figure despite the cane in his right hand, which he used to slam the door closed behind him.

A few drops of blood caught on Sam's upper lip. He wiped it away gingerly with the back of his hand, careful not to touch his nose.

"I deserve that," He said, getting to his feet after a moment, sure that the bleeding had stopped and that his nose wasn't broken.

“You deserve a lot more than that,” Sully threatened.

“I know I do.”

“What kind of shitstorm have you gotten her into?”

Oh good, getting right into things.

"Something a lot bigger than I thought it was," Sam sighed sourly, leaning back against the door. His hand reached up occasionally to touch his nose while Sully paced elliptical patterns through the tiny motel room Sam and Faith shared. "Sit down before you fall down old man, you're looking a little pekid," He told Sully. Taking his own advice, he pulled out a chair and sat down at the small table.

"Don't tell me to sit down! I'm just fine," He said defiantly. Sully took a few more obstinant strides around the room. A layer of perspiration shone on his pale face before finally, he resigned himself to the chair across from Sam, muffling a gruff groan as he sat.

“How's the leg doing?” Sam asked.

“We'll talk about me later,” Victor answered quickly, shutting down Sam's meager attempt at small talk, “Now tell me what's going on.”

Sam took a readying breath. “How much did you find out from Nathan?”

“The high points. Lincoln's treasure. Springfield. Something about a goddamn barrel here in the Keys... Remy St. James,” He added the name of their fallen friend last. A stoic sadness in his dull green eyes, it was the hardened gaze of a man experienced with death and loss. “Damn shame. He was a good kid.” Sully reflected.

"That he was," Sam said, his face guilty and ashen as he shook a cigarette out of the pack next to the half-full ashtray on the table.

"Well, if that was the highlights, they don't tell me squat. Give me the play by play," Sully asked, adjusting his injured leg under the table.

Sam spent the next half hour chain-smoking and retelling the events of the last 67 days. The activities and finds in Springfield, the horrible and harrowing situation that had unfolded in the basement of the abandoned Edwards house, the previous three weeks of searching for any clues and finally finding a lead at the Martello Museum. Sam made the decision to keep what brought them to the museum, treasure hunter pillow talk that morning after Mother's Day, to himself.

“And that's when he grabbed her?” Sully asked.

“Yeah.”

“And you are absolutely sure it was Jasper?”

“Oh, I know it was him. Son of a bitch even left me a goddamn note,” Sam said bitterly, stubbing out the butt of his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. Anxious, he pushed himself away from the table and strode around the space.

“A note?”

"Oh yeah, 'I've taken your queen, your move,'" He mocked in a thick Georgia accent. Sully frowned.

“Your queen?”

"Yeah, like it's a fuckin' chess match. You wanna see my move, Jasper? You wanna see my move?" Sam ranted to the warm air, giving the bed a kick with his boot, it made the weapons of his makeshift armory clack together. "Yeah, I'm gonna take these guns, shove them up your ass and leave a giant fuckin' divot where you stand. How's that for a fucking move?" Sam snatched the comforter from the bed, leaving it in a crumpled heap as he started to stuff the weapons in black duffel bags.

Your queen. Sully turned the line over in his brain. He scanned the room, his greying eyebrows furrowed.

With Sam having stowed his small arsenal away, Sully could see the large, singular dip in the middle of the mattress. The dip one could always find in the beds of an old married couple.

Samuel, please tell me you didn't, he thought, looking around the room again for another sign. The small pile of clothes that looked haphazardly thrown to the ground included Sam's t-shirt with a shiny aqua bra strap poking out from beneath it. That was all he needed to see.

“Samuel, I asked you two things, keep her safe and keep your hands to yourself.”

“Huh?” Sam poked his head up.

"I told you, I warned you, and you still couldn't do either!

"Alright, you know what, Victor?" Sam huffed, hastily zipping closed the last bag, and throwing it next to the door. "You got to ask your questions, now you're gonna answer mine. Who is Faith, and why is she so goddamn important to you?"

“Sam-” Sully said quietly, staring blankly at the table.

“No,” Sam interrupted. “No, this who time all I've gotten out of you is keep her safe and keep her out of my bed. I wanna know why.”

Victor silently drummed his fingers on the worn Formica. "You don't know," He said softly, the hint of sympathy in his voice made Sam cross his arms in confusion.

“Should I?”

"Where do you keep your whiskey?"

Sam went to the single cupboard above their sink/stove/fridge combination and drew out a bottle of Jameson and a glass. He put them both in front of Sully and sat back down in his chair. Sully grabbed the bottle and poured a third of a glass of amber liquid. He slid it in front of Sam.

“You're gonna want this boyo.”

Sam eyed the old man guardedly. “Is she your kid, Victor?” He asked, finally getting out the question that had been floating in his head for weeks.

“What?”

"You've never given two shits about who I fool around with, and now suddenly, you're acting like you're gonna chop my balls off if I touch here. Something like that, it's a dad thing to do; So I gotta ask, is Faith, your daughter?" Sam challenged.

“No, she is not my daughter,” Sully said with a mirthless chuckle.

“Is she your granddaughter?”

"No, now be quiet for a minute, and I'll tell you," Sully huffed with some annoyance before he continued. "Faith's grandfather was a fellow squid. We served together in the war. During one tour, our ship took two torpedoes in the side. I got knocked around pretty good, and Hank, that's Faith's grandpa, made sure I got my bruised, broken, and bleeding ass off that rig. Fella saved my life."

Sam leaned back in his chair, his head cocked to the side in interest. Victor Sullivan rarely spoke about his time in the Navy and his time during the war specifically.

"Hank was a hell of a guy. After we got out of the service, we'd get together a couple times a year and knock back a few. Talk about the old days, catch up. On one of these visits, he asks me for a favor. His daughter and her husband were looking to go on vacation. Somewhere that wasn't too touristy, but that was still a nice place to visit. He knew that I traveled a lot for my work and asked if I could hook him up with something nice for Sussi and her husband. Hank had never asked me for more than a quarter in almost 40 years, not to mention I owed him my goddamn life. So I took care of it for him."

Sully stopped for a moment. He rubbed his mustache and let out a deep sigh. Sam began to wonder with some annoyance where this story was going and when Victor would get to some concrete answers.

“I took care of all of it for him. I even had a place in mind when he'd asked. I'd just been down there, doing a little recon for you, Nate...and Rafe Adler.”

Sam's chest tightened at the mention of Rafe's name.

“Two full weeks in a king suite. Beachfront. In Panama. 18 years ago.”

Sam gripped the glass in front of him with both hands to steady the tremors that rolled through his body.

"You ever really get a good look at Faith's eyes? I swear they're the exact same as her mothers," Sully added after a moment, not sure if he should continue ripping the scab off the double decades' old wound that still oozed and throbbed for Sam in the night.

Sam could picture Faith's face perfectly. Her high, full cheeks. The small upturned nose that she called her ski jump. And her warm brown eyes that had stared right through him just that morning as they lay naked together quietly. Her eyes always seemed familiar to him, as if he had seen her his whole life somewhere.

Disbelief and denial crashed over him as he, at last, realized where he'd seen them. In his dreams. In his nightmares.

“You can really see it when she's angry,” Sully added quietly. The last nail hammering the truth home. The loud bang of the spike bringing on the memory of the night Sam had met Faith Spencer 68 days ago. When she had gotten in his face about family, her eyes ablaze with anger.

The same eyes of the woman that had called him a fucking animal those 18 years ago.

Sully smoothed the tops of his tan slacks with his sweat heavy palms. “I didn't have a clue until I dropped in on Hank two months later and found Sussi sitting at his kitchen table feeding Faith's father his dinner through a straw.”

Saliva flooded Sam's mouth as the bile rose in the back of his throat. He swallowed it back hard.

"I asked if they'd caught the guy," Sully continued. "When she told me he'd died in an escape attempt with two other men, I put two and two together." He sat back in his chair, his hands folded across the slightly bulging belly that had come with his old age. "I'd created this perfect clusterfuck of a storm, and of course, I blamed myself. Hank and Sussi, even Everett forgave me. Never blamed me in the first place cause that's the kind of people they were. Good people. Still didn't stop the guilt, it turned my visits from every couple of months to every couple of years."

Sully sighed, his lips tight together, but the heaviness that was in his eyes was gone, the burden of keeping this information to himself lifted.

"And this wasn't just about keeping Faith from finding out; it was about keeping it from you too."

Sam's jaw clenched, his head lowering in anger. None of it gone unnoticed.

"Before you go flying off the handle, let me finish. There was no sense dredging up the past and its accompanying bullshit. Not for you. I know you still have nightmares, Samuel. I've heard you wake up yelling in the middle of the night enough times to know that."

Sam dropped his head, unable to hold Sully's gaze as a rush of unnecessary shame shaded his neck red. Unaware of what he did in his sleep, he had always tried to keep his nightmares private. He figured, no info, no questions; No autopsy, no foul.

"I thought that if I could just keep a distance between the two of you, I could keep the past in the past." Sully leaned forward and grabbed the untouched glass from in front of Sam. "Guess we both failed pretty spectacularly, eh?" He muttered sarcastically before taking a swallow.

The seconds past. Sam still sat motionless, staring blankly at a random fixed point on the chipped table. The silence eventually proved too heavy for Sully to take.

“Christ, will you say something?”

"I'm leaving at 6AM. Be ready by then," Sam uttered in an emotionless monotone as he stood and strode out the door, closing it behind him quietly, leaving Sully and his cigarettes sitting at the table.

#sam drake fanfiction #sam drake x oc #samuel drake x oc #OC X Sam Drake #uncharted fanfiction #dangerous #My writing

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ikementally-deficient · 5 years ago

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Advanced Entomology - Chapter 4: Aposematism and Mullerian Mimicry

Fandom: Mr. Love: Queen’s Choice/Love and Producer

Rating: Carolina Reaper (See Masterlist for rating descriptions)

Warnings: dubious/uninformed consent, see masterpost A/N

Due to the nature of the questionable consent in this fic, if you enjoy this story enough to reblog it, please reblog the masterpost rather than individual chapters.

Author’s Note: There is no sex in this chapter. It's weird, I know, but Lucien had other ideas. I promise the next two are extra smutty.

This is where we get really spoilery, specifically for chapter 14 of the game. The italicized text of MC's dream that begins the chapter is taken verbatim from her premonitory dream of that chapter, and more of it gets described. This is also the point at which we begin to depart from canon.

‘Endogenous morphine’ is more colloquially known as ‘endorphins’, but Lucien loves his five dollar words.

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

I stand in an open field.

The sky is low. No wind. no clouds.

Someone’s calling my name.

I look around and see a hazy figure in the distance.

I chase after the figure, but it only gets farther away.

Its colour gets lighter, as if haloed with water, starting to disappear around the edges.

Suddenly a great fog swallows everything.

All I see now is an icy grey.

She’s shivering.

The sound of chattering teeth is what breaks Lucien’s concentration. He puts the document down on his desk and crosses to the open bedroom door. It’s quite temperate in the apartment; there’s no reason for her to be cold.

She is huddled in the middle of the bed, face twisted with fear and something else he can’t identify. The bedclothes have been kicked to the footboard, and her hands and feet twitch.

Ah, a dream. Lucien has touched her dreams before; mostly they’re unremarkable, incoherent fragments of the day jumbled with the kind of free association the subconscious excels at. This looks different. After watching her in his bed for so many nights, he knows she isn’t prone to nightmares in the normal course of things. He can feel his evol responding to her proximity. He’s never had the opportunity to watch hers in action, and the temptation to observe and gather data is too strong to ignore. He kneels by the bed and curls his hand into hers --

The hallway of the Loveland TV Tower.

The black rose, arrogance and leather and danger.

Shattering glass.

Billowing smoke.

She’s running down a hallway filled with mist.

A flash of blonde hair and a hand leading her up endless rounds of stairs that crumble and fall even as her feet leave them.

Golden eyes that take her will away.

The red switch.

The fall.

Lucien frees himself from her dream with a snap, his heart hammering in his chest. He recognises the players in the vision. Artemis. Helios . His hands crush divots into the edge of the mattress and his jaw clenches. What’s happening? Why can’t he breathe?

It takes a minute for Lucien to identify the emotion rising within him. To identify that it is an emotion, not some physiological response to the Queen’s evol. Slowly, carefully, he takes one shuddering breath, and then another, steadying himself, listening to his heartbeat return to normal, waiting for his pulse to stop thumping in his temples. Gradually, the rage ebbs, until he’s once again able to think clearly. He tugs the blankets back over her and leaves the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

He returns to his desk. Dispassionately, he reviews the vision.

How she knows Helios, he doesn’t know, and tables the question to address at another time. Her presence at the TV Tower and her encounter with Artemis indicate that she’s discovered the electromagnetic broadcasts he’s so painstakingly initiated. The fact that she’s with Helios and not Lucien -- something happens between them.

Lucien knows that as long as the Queen trusts him, he’ll be by her side until she awakens fully. If he’s not there, either he’s dead or exposed as Ares. He props his elbows on the desk and rubs his temples, logically arriving at the conclusion that his intuition leapt to while he knelt at her side.

Black Swan is going to get impatient. Zeus is going to interfere. Months of planning, of strategy, of excruciatingly careful manipulation will be wasted in an instant and instead she’ll plunge headlong into danger, without her full powers, without his protection, without any idea what she’s getting into.

Like she always does.

Lucien leans back, steepling his fingers before him. Zeus has never understood the need for the exactitude Ares insists on, or why the strategy has taken so long to implement. The man is incapable of the proper perspective, and if allowed to, he will ruin everything. If allowed to, he will steal her from Lucien, and destroy any chance of seeing the Queen spread her wings.

He cannot lose her.

The rage rises again, red and hot, but this time Lucien is prepared, ready to harness it. He stands, casting one glance at the bedroom door before taking a step that begins in his apartment, and ends in a spacious hall shrouded in a gloomy, deathly-still darkness.

The masked man seated therein showed no surprise at Lucien’s sudden appearance.

“Ares. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Lucien chooses to skip the pleasantries. “Zeus, call off your dogs.”

The mask shows nothing, but Zeus’ head tilts slightly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“The game has hardly begun, and you’re already getting too impatient.” Lucien strides towards him. “Don’t interfere. This is a delicate process --”

“Black Swan does not have time to sit around while you enjoy the Queen’s favours, Ares.” Zeus cuts him off. “I suspect the process would be far less delicate if you were enjoying it less.”

In the blink of an eye, Lucien sorts through impulses and options. Kill Zeus. Lunge at him. Throttle him. Roar in possessive fury. Hiss at him, seething poisonous words. Put him to sleep. Fill his mind with terrors. Drag him through folded space to the ends of the earth. Leave him in the middle of the ocean.

Lucien does none of these things. His face stays smooth, nearly as expressionless as Zeus’ mask. When at last he speaks, it’s in a calm, almost amused tone.

“Zeus. I see the problem here. You’re not a scientist. I realise now that I failed to truly explain to the rest of the Olympians how awakening must be achieved.” He crosses his arms in his favourite ‘harmless professor’ pose and taps one finger on his chin. “Or perhaps I failed to properly impress upon you all the magnitude of the Queen’s fully awakened power.”

The mask shows nothing, but Zeus dips his chin slightly. “Elaborate.”

“You see, Zeus, the Queen is the only one who can traverse the Black Cabin freely. She is the only one who can truly use the Panopticon.”

“Yes, we know that.” Zeus’ voice was gruff. “That’s the whole point of this exercise.”

Lucien raises his eyebrows, radiating innocent surprise. “Did it never occur to you to wonder about the wisdom of handing that power to someone who isn’t fully committed to us?”

Zeus waits silently.

“If the Queen has any reason -- any reason at all -- to mistrust us, fear us, or otherwise work against our goals, awakening her is suicide.” He paces past Zeus, staring out the huge windows to the vast city below. “I call the process delicate because it is. Conditioning someone to trust, implicitly and unquestioningly, is time-consuming.” He glances over his shoulder. “Particularly when, as you know, we’re not actually trustworthy.”

Zeus makes a non-committal sound.

Lucien returns his attention to the cityscape. “By ‘enjoying the Queen’s favours’, as you so euphemistically phrase it, I am speeding up the process, not delaying it. Sexual gratification, in addition to the expected intensification of the emotional bond, assists the conditioning process by the release of oxytocin, prolactin, and endogenous morphine. Every encounter she has with me chemically reinforces that bond. Every encounter trains her to obey me, to surrender to my wishes instead of her own.” Eyes hooded, Lucien places one hand against the window, letting the sensation of cool glass ground him. “Besides, if you wish to be precise --”

“Which you always do,” mutters his audience.

“-- then although she is enjoying my favours, I have not yet enjoyed hers, nor do I plan to any time soon.” Lucien turns back to face Zeus, his smile a cold slash in his pale face. “I am a scientist, Zeus, overseeing a project with a defined goal, not a hormonal teenager lost in the pleasures of the flesh.”

Zeus drums his fingers on the arm of his chair in contemplation. Lucien waits, summoning all his patience.

“How long?”

Lucien folds his hands behind his back in satisfaction. “Not long now. We are very close.”

“How close?” Zeus is insistent. If Lucien were a less controlled man, he would sigh. As it stands, his hands tighten on each other before he answers.

“A few more months, perhaps. This type of indoctrination is not an exact science.” His mouth twists in distaste at admitting to this, but it is a fact.

“Very well.” Zeus may be overbearing and impatient, but he isn’t stupid. “But keep us informed, Ares. You’re in charge of this project, but your reluctance to provide status updates gains you no support with the rest of the Olympians.”

Bureaucrat, Lucien thinks venomously. “Of course,” He answers, before taking the step that finishes back in his apartment.

He stands in the middle of the living room, listening. The bedroom door is still closed. Good. She’s still asleep. She doesn’t know that he’s been and gone.

Now that the immediate crisis is past, Lucien has time to reflect. His jaw is still tense with anger. He heads to the kitchen, thinking to make himself some tea. The ritual of selecting the blend, filling the infuser, and setting the kettle to the correct temperature for the delicate leaves brings him some calm. It’s been many years since he’s felt anything this strongly, this hotly. He isn’t sure what’s prompted it.

As the kettle heats, he examines his unfamiliar emotions. Lucien prides himself on logic and pragmatism. Physically, he knows he’s unimposing, but Ares is the god of war, not combat. He is skilled in strategy and tactics. He plays the long game, dealing with setbacks and taking advantage of opportunities as they arise. He realises, in retrospect, just how close he was to losing control in Zeus’ office. He had been ready to attack the man with his bare hands.

Why?

Zeus has always been shortsighted, and Ares has always found him irritating, but until now it’s been in a remote, cold way, easily dismissed like the buzzing of an insect on the other side of a screen. Today is different; today the rationality of Ares had deserted him, replaced by an impulsive rage against -- What? Lucien can not find a logical cause for the bloodthirsty wrath that had consumed him. Even now, he can feel the banked coals of his anger heating his mind, evaporating any sense of prudence.

Is it Zeus’ insinuations about his loyalty? Is it the man’s belief that someone else might do the job better or faster? His breath comes faster as the kettle steams. Is it the thought of someone else standing by her side when she comes into her own?

The beep of the kettle coming to temperature startles him, and he very nearly flings the appliance across the small kitchen before coming back to reality. Gathering his wits, he slowly fills the china teapot and shuts his eyes against the sweet scent of the tea. He loads the pot and two cups onto a tray and carries it to the bedroom, flicking off lights as he goes. His night vision is exceedingly clear, and he doesn’t want to startle her awake.

He hears her breathing change as he sets the tray down on the nightstand. By the time her eyes open, two full cups of tea are waiting.

“Lucien?” Her voice is raspy with sleep. She reaches out blindly from her huddle, and he catches her hand and brings it to his lips.

“I’m here,” he murmurs to her fingertips. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She traces his mouth lightly before retrieving her hand to rub at her eyes. “I had another one of those dreams. The premonitions.” Her own mouth is drawn and tense.

It takes every ounce of control he has not to blurt out ‘I know’. Instead he nudges her further into the bed and climbs in beside her. “Do you want to tell me about it?” He puts his arm around her shoulders and cuddles her close, letting her legs swing across his lap and her forehead rest in the crook of his neck. She stays there quietly for a minute before speaking, and when she does her voice betrays her in a dry croak. Lucien chuckles and hands her one of the tea cups.

“Drink this first. It’ll help wake up your voice.”

He knows that in keeping with his plan, now would be another opportunity to seduce her; he should be soothing away her tension and fear with his hands and tongue and the accessories stored carefully in the wooden case under the bed. She’s vulnerable and upset and it provides yet another crack in her armour for him to force open.

She sips her tea and fidgets against him as she swallows. All thoughts of his plan evaporate in her warm breath against his chest when she sighs before speaking.

Haltingly, she describes the dream, matching the details he saw in her sleep. She does provide one piece of information he was missing: Kiro. Helios is Kiro Chow. Tears of stress and fatigue roll down her face as she speaks. She doesn’t seem to be aware of them, and Lucien doesn’t comment or wipe them away. He does pull the comforter over them both, and take the tea cup from her hands when her voice starts to go fuzzy and lethargic. He ignores the urge to put her to sleep with his power, instead simply holding her close and warm against him.

He’s still sitting there when the sun peeks in through the blinds, his own tea undrunk and long since cold. She slumbers on, one hand caught in his shirt, long even breaths ruffling the ends of her hair. Lucien has, in the hours since she fell asleep, realised two things.

One: Zeus was right. Not in the details, maybe, but certainly in implication.

Two: It doesn’t matter.

#mr love queen's choice #mlqc #mlqc spoilers #mlqc fanfic #mlqc lucien #writing #advanced entomology #rating: carolina reaper

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