#featuring the barest suggestion of a couch

[drawnbinary]

[n3on-graveston3s-calling]

The Coat

Rating: M

Warnings: Subtle smut, suggestive content, getting caught. MDNI.

Characters: Trafalgar Law, Donquioxte Doflamingo, Akagami no Shanks, Captain Smoker, x GN!Reader

A/N: Consider this a sister to The Hat Rule. Enjoy.

Law

Word Count: 281

The Polar Tang had docked for a supply run, the submersible quiet as the crew had all taken advantage of this rare porting. You’d taken advantage of it as well, settled in the office of your Captain. You’d offered to take log of what supplies were and weren’t needed- and you had, the ledger sitting on the edge of the desk. But what had drawn your attention was the coat that draped over the chair you were sitting in. 

It smelled like Law. 

Your eyes closed as you breathed in the scent; it was undeniably him. An undercurrent of antiseptic that clung to him at all times, but atop that- the body wash that they used ( vanilla musk, bourbon, something woodsy- sandalwood? ) coupled with their natural scent. You felt your heart race in your chest as your mind raced. You couldn’t… But no one was here. No one would find you. 

Your hand made up your mind, slipping under your boiler suit to press against yourself, a stutter of a sigh spilling free at the blessed pressure. Gentle strokes stoked a fire within you, and in a matter of minutes, you were already aching, rutting into your own hand with soft gasps of his name. 

“Did you finish-” Their voice spilled into the room, dragging a startled squeak out of you as you froze- as did he. Eyes widening in surprise, he studied you for a moment: features flushed, chest rising and falling rapidly, suit unzipped clear to your stomach, sitting in his chair, face buried in his coat. “-the logs?”

“I-”

“Don’t stop now.” Law closed the door behind themself, locking it once it latched. “Continue.”

“Captain?”

“Did I stutter?”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Doflamingo

Word Count: 245

Your fingers brushed against the feathered coat of your… Paramour? You weren’t anything exclusive, nothing that you could certainly put a name on. But he kept you close, gave you gifts, caressed you like you were something precious. Paramour, other half, lover. Or, you could be. The option had been given more than once.

( You’re surprised he hadn’t simply ordered you, yet. )

You settled down on the couch, leaning your head into the coat as a makeshift pillow, drawing in the scent that clung to it. Oud wood, bourbon, sandalwood, and spice clung to the fabric, much like the cologne that he preferred to use. The scent made your mind grow nearly foggy, eyes slipping shut.

Your thighs pressed together as heat settled low. You’d be lying if you said you’d never thought about fucking him. He’s so big, and his hands… A soft sigh spilled free as you shifted, your hand smoothing down your front before coming to press between your thighs, giving delicious pressure. You sighed as you rocked into your touch, not noticing the door opening- or closing.

Not until your hand was suddenly pulled away by a taut wire. Eyes flying open, you were greeted with the man himself, crouched in front of you. “What do we have here?”

“Doffy-”

“Oh, please. Don’t stop on my accord,” your hand was freed, though you felt like a deer trapped in the headlights. “Keep going.”

And who were you to disobey an order?

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

ShanksWord count: 239

The coat had been dropped over your shoulders as your lover left to shower. You’d made port for the evening to avoid sailing directly into a storm. Shanks had been raving about the hot springs that fueled the inn you’d decided to stay at, something the entire crew were looking forward to. 

You plopped onto the large bed, wrapped up in his coat. Hands smoothed over the worn material; there were a few runs that you’d need to fix at some point. But something caught your attention- the barest hint of the way Shanks tended to smell. Whiskey, burning wood, and an odd touch of orchid- something you knew came from your own body wash. To know that your scent had mingled with his own enough that it clung to his coat had you flushing with pride. 

He’d be a while… 

You moaned softly as your hand busied itself between your thighs, face buried in the sleeve of the coat, eyes squeezed shut. You were already close, so pent up- 

“If ye wanted me that badly, ye could’ve said something, love.” Shanks’ voice interrupted you. You jerked your hand away, eyes widening.

“I thought you’d be a while still!”

“So ye thought ye could get off while I was away?” He ‘tsk’ed, shaking his head as he walked closer to the bed. “Came to ask if ye wanted to join me- but I think I know the answer, now.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

SmokerWord Count: 262

“I’ll be right back.” Smoker had said before he slipped out, leaving you in his office. You’d met on the sea, your ship and his own; it made for the perfect excuse to get together and talk. It’d been nearly six months since you’d last seen one another, and the time- and distance- had certainly been a pain in the ass.

Not like you two were together or anything. No, you were almost certain the feelings were purely one-sided. 

You settled back in your chair, only to pause; he’d left his jacket behind, draped over the back of the chair you sat in. Curiosity getting the better of you, you leaned over, breathing in deeply. Cigar smoke, pine, vanilla musk, and bourbon greeted your senses. Shit. You shifted in your seat, glancing towards the door to ensure that yes, you were alone. 

Shame colored your cheeks at the way your thighs tensed, at the way you could feel heat growing. Worrying your lip, you pressed your hand between your thighs, hoping to ease a bit of the tension. Your hips rocked on their own accord; a stuttering sigh spilled free as you closed your eyes, imaging that it was his hand instead of your own-

The door opened. You squeaked, jerking your hand up, pulling your face back from the jacket. Smoker paused, taking in your flushed cheeks, the way you’d gone rigid, before a chuckle escaped him. “Doll, if you wanted me,” he murmured, closing the door behind himself, locking it. “All you had to do was ask.”

“Smoker-”

“Come here.”

[sollucets]

ocean eyes, vi

previous parts

it’s been a long time! this is my canon-two-steps-to-the-left slowish burn samdarlinangeldavid fic featuring my ocs, and here is an update

this time: ivy, sam, aster, and david meet up all together, about one month post-inversion

usual caveat for ocean eyes for named & described listener ocs: ivy (darlin, they/them) & aster (angel, she/they/he)

on ao3 or full 4.8kish chapter under the cut

“Are you feeling up to visitors?” asks David through a yawn.

“Are you?” they counter, because frankly that should be the more important consideration. After all, it’s David who’s grieving, traumatized, fully recovered from his injuries only last week and constantly swamped in administrative work for people who need him.

“I asked first,” he mumbles almost petulantly, then sighs, tone going more serious. “I can’t guarantee them good company, or… anything at all, really, but. I’d like to see them. Both of them. I can make time.”

Despite everything, Aster can feel the corner of their mouth curving into a little smile at hearing David just admit that out loud. “Okay then,” they say, beginning the arduous task of composing a text reply with one hand. “The usual time?”

“Aster,” he says, and they stop still. David so rarely uses their actual name that it feels weird to hear him say it. Like he’s upset. Is he upset? “Answer the question.”

“I— oh,” they say, frowning, and take yet another a moment to think it through. Do they want company?

💜

01/24/22

from: ivy 🐺💜

sent at: 18:44

do u mind if i bring sam on wednesday

 Aster’s been staring down at the text for a solid ten minutes when David comes out of his office, crosses the dark living room, and sits next to them on the couch. The only illumination is the too-bright light of their phone screen; Aster’s been sitting in the same spot since long before it got so late.

Because he’s a literal giant, David sitting so close on their squishy couch has the usual secondary effect of tipping their body into his. As always, as is typical for wolves, he’s a solid line of heat against them. They have no idea how he gets away with claiming they’re the fire elemental in this relationship.

With a little patented David Noise, a bare exhale that’s half sigh and half growl, he shifts around on the couch enough that he can drop his head to their shoulder. His hair brushes soft against their skin where their pajama shirt is stretched out.

“Hi, baby,” they say, soft enough not to bother his ears. If he’s been on those video call meetings again, he’ll have a headache already.

“Hey, angel,” he answers, muffled by the way he’s speaking directly into the fabric of their shirt.

He doesn’t seem inclined to immediately say anything else, and they won’t make him. It’s been a long day for them both, they think, with a certain amount of mental irony.

David’s been hidden away in his home office since he got back from his actual office, dealing with budget suggestions and job reassignments and more. It’s January now, and he’s been helping send out the last of the company’s W-2s, because taxes wait for no massive community-wide disaster and the person whose job that would usually be is on trauma leave.

And for their part, Aster’s had a long, productive day off from work spent waking up at 2 p.m. just to sit on the couch and watch something on Netflix. They genuinely don’t even remember what it was anymore. The TV turned off from inactivity at least half an hour ago.

They’re both tired, is what they’re getting at here.

David just breathes against their shoulder. It’s a little hard to see in the darkened room, but he has to be doing some frankly spine-hurting contortion to be in this position. With the hand not holding the phone, they run their fingers softly through his hair until they’re cupping the back of his head, then push him down onto their lap. It’s just the barest amount of force; he goes easily the moment he feels them moving him.

He’s heavy with his full weight over their legs, like he always is, but it helps. Combination weighted blanket and heater; that’s their mate. They leave their hand in his hair and absentmindedly run little patterns through it, occasionally scratching at his scalp in a way he doesn’t like to admit he likes. (It’s a dog stereotype thing, they think.)

“What are you looking at?” he mumbles after a quiet little eternity.

Instead of answering, they shift the phone down to show him. He makes another David Noise at the sudden screen brightness near his face, but reads it and seems to consider for a moment.

This is the first time they’ve heard from Ivy since — the Games, actually. Three Wednesdays passed in total radio silence; they hadn’t come to any of the two Pack meetings this month, either. Aster knows they’re still in Dahlia only because William apparently let David know. And now, just like the fatal text that kept Aster coming to movie nights in the first place, here they are again. Texting first like they never do, using the casual assumption of someone afraid to ask.

“Are you feeling up to visitors?” asks David through a yawn.

“Are you?” they counter, because frankly that should be the more important consideration. After all, it's David who's grieving, traumatized, fully recovered from his injuries only last week and constantly swamped in administrative work for people who need him.

“I asked first,” he mumbles almost petulantly, then sighs, tone going more serious. “I can’t guarantee them good company, or… anything at all, really, but. I’d like to see them. Both of them. I can make time.”

Despite everything, Aster can feel the corner of their mouth curving into a little smile at hearing David just admit that out loud. “Okay then,” they say, beginning the arduous task of composing a text reply with one hand. “The usual time?”

“Aster,” he says, and they stop still. David so rarely uses their actual name that it feels weird to hear him say it. Like he’s upset. Is he upset? “Answer the question.”

“I— oh,” they say, frowning, and take yet another moment to think it through. Do they want company?

Their immediate, base instinct is no. Anything past both their actual job and their job as David’s partner seems — monumental, right now, too much. They’re so tired.

But it’s Ivy. Ivy, who they’d last seen startling awake in their lap in wolf form then charging away into the crowd. Ivy, who they’d held for hours on the worst day of their life, who they’d called baby, who’d disappeared entirely for weeks after that. No matter how many times they’d tried to logic their way out of it with the plenty of other reasons Ivy might do this, a little corner of their heart had feared. And Aster’s missed them, honestly, just the regular way they’d miss someone they — cared about. Ivy, finally reaching out of their own accord.

There’s Sam, too, soft-spoken and awkward and kind Sam with a wicked side they’ve barely gotten to see, who Aster genuinely likes and had meant to get to know better after the Solstice.

So no, the option doesn’t sound good. But Aster has been here before, in this dark clinging tired nothingness. Everything always seems like too much; they should know better than to believe it by now.

“Yeah,” they say, at length. “I’m up for it.”

“Good,” David grumbles. His tone doesn’t get any less characteristically irritated when he adds, “Your feelings matter too. Don’t just ask me.”

“I love you,” they tell him, since it’s true and they can’t kiss him from this angle. They’re rewarded by a soft, pleased little noise in his throat and, eventually, the tell-tale even breathing of him actually taking a break.

*

to: ivy 🐺💜

sent at 19:20

We’d love to have you both.

*

“You sure I’m invited?” asks Sam for the second time that night.

“We’re already here,” Ivy says, glancing at him across the center console as they turn his truck off. “It’s a little late to back out if you didn’t want to come after all.”

Sam makes a face at them, and they soften, as they always do in the face of him. “Why are you so nervous about this? I asked, and they said they’d love to have us both.” They choose strategically not to mention how relieved they’d been to get that response.

Sam is frowning slightly, one hand tapping against the dashboard. “I’m not nervous,” he says, which is a lie, but they’ll let it pass. “Just, Wednesdays were always your thing, darlin’. We do plenty of things together; you don’t gotta bring me everywhere these days just ‘cause I’m—”

“Just ‘cause you’re what?” Ivy asks, sharper than they mean to, and winces. “Look, you wanted to come, right? You get along with Aster good enough, and you and David—” They stop, unsure how to tactfully phrase “recently had a near-death experience together”. “It’s just Wednesdays. We just eat something and watch a movie, it isn’t gonna be high-stress. You don’t even have to talk if you don’t wanna.”

That’s true enough, at least. Ivy has come unwillingly to Wednesdays enough times that they know neither Aster or David will actually make them speak if they’re not in the mood, awkward as that is (or isn’t. It isn’t, really, not just sitting in their living room while Aster and David exchange companionable insults over their head. But it should be, probably.)

Sam is still looking at them with an expression they hate, so they continue, trying for levity. “Besides, you got dinner, so you’re going to be everyone’s favorite anyway.”

“Oh, sure, all that hard work I put in on our takeout order,” Sam says, but his posture shifts enough that he isn’t sitting straight-backed in his seat anymore, like he had been all the way over, and they’ll count that as a win.

Sam grabs the boxes of food out of the back seat and they both head up David and Aster’s front lawn. January is rainy season in California, and everything looks colorful and bright. David really does love his landscaping thing; he talks about it all the time. If it also looks a little overgrown, well. Who's gonna blame him?

Stopping just before the door, they raise a hand to knock (even though it’s unnecessary; Sam’s truck is loud enough that their presence is surely already noted) and then stop. Glancing sidelong at Sam, they murmur, “And all that aside, I want to bring my mate places. Stop assuming it’s not selfish.”

Sam gives them this look, the one that he’s had every single time they say something like that out loud, awe and gratitude and guilty shock, moonsilver eyes all big and round. It’s very cute, but it makes them feel flayed open to their soul, and so they turn away like a coward and knock three times.

“Aster says ‘come in’,” Sam informs them, the edges of his words all curved in so that they know he’s smiling. He loves lording his better hearing over them. They bump their shoulder into his in reproach before opening the door.

Aster comes into the hallway to greet them after a moment, socked feet padding gently against the wooden floor. They look well, bad. Ivy immediately mentally backspaces — it’s in the sense that they look tired and dressed down, not necessarily that Aster looks bad. Ivy’s honestly not sure that Aster’s capable of looking bad.

Their mass of blonde hair is pulled into a loose bun at the nape of their neck, hairs falling out every which way, and they’re completely without makeup, glasses magnifying their green eyes huge and highlighting the little bags underneath them. Even so, though, tired or not, Aster’s just pretty, all the time, all cheekbones and freckles and piano fingers just barely sticking out of the long sleeves of a sweater.

They have the right to look tired, after all. Frankly, Ivy would be a little surprised if they didn’t. They’re sure they don’t look any better, even if they had made something of an effort before coming today. It’s been a long, bad January for everyone.

“Hiya,” Aster says, smiling in the way that sends little lines feathering up towards their temples. “Good to see you, Sam, welcome in. We can set those over on the table.”

“Hey, Aster,” he says, still audibly smiling. “Thanks for having me.”

“Thanks for paying. Come on, Davey’s in the living room being a shitty little work gremlin even though he said he wouldn’t.”

Ivy hears an indistinct noise of annoyance from the living room and finds the corner of their mouth quirking. It has been — they have missed this. Enough to send that text, despite everything (everything here including their general aversion to texting).

On the way over to the kitchen, Aster turns to Ivy and says, very quietly, so unlike usual, "It's a girl day. I know I don't look--"

Ivy resents it violently, for a moment, that sense of something dark so obviously hanging over every interaction that has clouded January. But it isn’t something they can reasonably be mad about; not here, anyway. They’ve told Sam already, and Aster clearly feels bad as is. “Okay,” they say, cutting Aster off to smile at her. She smiles back, like a reflex, and pushes a little hair out of her eyes.

Sam sets the boxes out on the table, and then they all swing into the living room despite the relative ease of just yelling at David to come in. The living room is appointed in the designated ‘movie theater’ way; Aster still hasn’t given up on that dream, evidently. The windows are covered, and blankets drape over most surfaces. One of those surfaces includes David, who’s sitting on the couch with a laptop that he looks up from when Ivy comes in.

David shows the wear much less obviously than Aster does, but it’s there, in the tightness of his jaw and shoulders and the casualness of his clothing. “Ivy,” he says in greeting, raising a hand. “Sam.”

“Good evening,” says Sam. He actively tips his hat next to them, which is ridiculous since it’s just a baseball cap. You can take the cowboy out of the South, they guess, snickering a little.

The laugh dies when they glance down and find one of Sam’s hands idly fiddling with the seam of his jeans pocket. Frowning, they bump into him on purpose as they walk a little further into the room. He’d been nervous at the Solstice, too, sure, but that’d been a lot larger of a gathering. For all their jokes about being selfish, they hope that he isn’t actually uncomfortable to be here.

Over on the couch, David puts a hand on his laptop like he’s about to close it and then clearly gets distracted, and Aster sends a glare that could strip paint. “David Shaw.”

“Yeah, yeah, I— sorry,” he says, obviously chastised, and shuts it with a decisive snap. “It’s not work, it was just Kieran.”

That sends another pulse through that hanging cloud over them all; if Kieran’s messaging David, it’s probably about Milo, who’s had to go back to the healers now that it’s been nearly a month. Aster looks visibly guilty, and David shakes his head at her, expression gone all soft.

Nevertheless, she goes over and stands in front of his place on the couch, taking the sleeve of his t-shirt in her fingers and worrying at it absentmindedly.

“Good to see you," David starts, his face halfway to frowning like it’s a reflex he hasn’t turned off. “I’m sure Aster said something while you were messaging, but we probably aren’t going to be the best hosts today.”

She hadn't, but Ivy shrugs in what they hope is a commiserating fashion, and Sam smiles much the same. “Don’t worry about it none… David.” His obvious trip over using David’s first name is — well, Ivy thought they were past that by now. Maybe it’s the atmosphere.

By the couch, Aster stays quiet, and the cloud over them all deepens a little. Ivy hadn’t realized — well, they had, but never so acutely — just how much Aster carries the socializing at these.

“Should we, then?” Ivy asks, just to break the silence, and when David and Aster both nod they take Sam by the elbow and start back towards the kitchen. In the hall, they make eye contact with their mate; Sam looks a little sheepish. They’d bet ten dollars he’s resisting the urge to apologize. “It’s not your fault,” they tell him, frowning.

He doesn’t have time to respond before they get back into the kitchen. Aster and David come in hand in hand; it is weird to see David dressed like this, honestly. Even on past Wednesdays at home, he still usually wears at least jeans. Sweatpants and a t-shirt feels like Ivy’s seeing something not meant for them.

Sam starts opening the boxes as Aster goes to get plates, and Ivy —

Well, they initiated this, and Aster shouldn’t have to carry everything all the time. They pull out their phone and go to where they know Aster keeps her speaker, putting a playlist on without asking. They keep it quiet enough that it won’t disrupt conversation. It’s a compromise of a choice — Ivy has wildly different music taste from her, although David’s interests trend similar (real guitars or fuck off) and thus a middle ground is acoustic stuff that’s still kind of upbeat. They’ve spent time thinking about this before, though they’ll never admit it.

Nobody talks much as they eat, although David quietly compliments their song choice. Ivy is never going to admit to just how much that little pride curls in their chest; Sam pokes their cheek after, though, so they’d probably been smiling. Bastard.

As she’s clearing the dishes, Aster (and David, after a moment) thanks Sam for his treat, and then it’s cursedly quiet again. Even when Aster’s been in quieter moods before, David usually needles lovingly at her enough to keep things moving entirely without Ivy’s involvement. And it’s okay to be quiet, but this feels so wrong. It isn’t like they want to be quiet, it’s like they’re all just unsure how to talk to people, like everything is so different it’s impossible to be like it was before.

And it is, but—

Ivy sighs, loud and explosive, and Aster turns to look at them with a startled expression from the sink. “Look,” they say, probably again sharper than they should. They have had a lot of practice recently in gentling the edges, in wanting to gentle the edges, but they’re still no good at comfort, at tact. Ivy would never be their own first choice for that. But, well. Someone should say it, right? “We all were in the same boat, you know. Me and Aster, and Sam and David, and all of us together this month. I know it’s a little my fault, the way I texted, but… Pretending we’re all just like normal — it’s not gonna work. We don’t have to talk about it, or we can if you want, but — God, if it’s not normal it’s fine. This isn’t a party, we’re not some people you don’t know, you don’t have to cater to us. It’s fine.”

That just sits there in the air for a long minute. The only sound is the almost perversely cheerful melody from the speaker. Aster’s face, for once, is completely impassive; David just looks mildly surprised. Sam, who’s the easiest for them to read after long study, looks like he expected this. Maybe he should’ve. He’s dealt with a fair amount of their outbursts this month, and that thought leaves a bitter taste in their mouth. Ivy’s pulse picks up, entirely beyond their control, and they swallow loudly.

To their shock, it’s David who cracks first. “Kieran told me they didn’t get any new information from the visit,” he says, voice low. “That it’s just the same as before. They didn’t have a lot of idea what to expect from Milo’s kind of injury in the first place, so it’s not alarming precisely, just frustrating for him.”

“It would be,” Sam responds slowly. “It’s a shit deal from either side of that - to tell someone ‘Sorry, but we don’t know’ and to hear it.”

“Yeah,” says David with a cut-off little exhale. “That’s about the gist of it. He’s doing his best to keep busy. They both are.”

“God, I wish that were me,” Aster says in a half-murmur. She looks a little surprised at herself, and stutters to correct it. “Not, uh, about the healers thing, just — busy. I don’t know. I am, sort of, but no more than usual, but— I’m just— tired.” Wincing, she adds, “Fuck. Sorry.”

Ivy looks at her for a moment, catalogues the apologetic twist of her nose and the worried set of her mouth, and says, “I get that. I wanted to take time off of my stuff to help at the Clan complex while Sam is doing a whole-ass extra job, but if I do it too much he gets all guilty.”

“Ivy,” Sam cuts in, sounding genuinely surprised. “I love having you around.”

“I — know,” they get out, startled halfway through to find it’s true. “You just don’t want me to derail my schedule for you, but you won’t say it, so you just give me these sad eyes.”

There’s another moment of uninterrupted soundtrack in the kitchen, and then Aster laughs a little, an alarmingly choked noise. “Same boat indeed.”

“Well, I meant it,” Ivy says, awkwardly, and sees David smile just a little out of the corner of their eye.

It’s still not fixed, precisely. The air is still heavy, but it’s cleared up a little. When Aster goes back to the dishes and David gets up to help her, Sam hums along to one of Ivy’s songs they’ve played for him before, and the silence isn’t really a silence this time, there’s a difference, and that’s — good, they did that. They’re glad.

They all start to make their way back over to the living room. When Aster and David sit on the couch in their usual Wednesday positions (bracketing Ivy, which they’ve never understood but will never question out of silent fear they’ll stop) and Sam looks like he’s going to take the chair, they tilt their chin a little towards the last open space on David’s left. Sam gives them a slightly betrayed look, but to his credit doesn’t hesitate, and squeezes himself in at the end. They just barely fit, all four of them, but it’s not uncomfortable. Perfect size couch.

Aster puts on something they’ve all seen before at three quarters volume, an inoffensive romcom that actually belongs to David, and silence settles again, but easier this time. David opens his phone in his lap, and Aster glances at him but doesn’t comment; Ivy sees “Kieran” at the top of a text chat and looks away, glancing past David to look at Sam instead.

Ivy doesn’t want to admit it, and won’t comment on it out loud in case it’ll make him never want to come again, but even with all of the heavy awkwardness of this visit, with Sam here it does feel kind of like — well, like a date, really. Ivy’s never been on a double date, but it’s something people do, right? Dinner and a movie and your partner. They don’t think about what that means for David and Aster to have been doing this with just them for months already, because that’s not anything. It’s different, it just is.

After a little while, again to their shock, it’s Sam who breaks the silence. “David,” he says, steadier this time, and the wolf in question glances over. “Vincent told me you’d asked him about his healing coursework.”

Ivy’s eyebrows raise without their prior consent. They had no idea Vincent and David even knew each other, much less well enough to be asking about this kind of thing, but — oh. Right. That whole near-death experience thing.

For his part, David averts his eyes, looking something close to shy. “Yeah, I — I probably shouldn’t have. He’s really busy right now, I should’ve thought of that, and he was good about it but I think I touched a sore spot. It’s not like it was urgent.”

Sam hums consideringly. “It probably is a little tender just now, yeah, but Vincent’s proud of where he got, and he’s right to be. Don’t get too in your head about all that.” He pauses for a second, then just goes right in. “So, did you skip over me on purpose, or…?”

To Ivy’s delight, David’s shoulders hunch up. “No, I just — well. You learned it before you turned, and Marie never went to DAMN.”

“Fair,” Sam acknowledges. Careful, he continues, “Were you askin’ for any particular reason, or…?”

With a shock, Ivy recognizes that tone. He uses it on them all the time, obviously conversationally sidestepping a topic to give them a built-in out if they don’t want to talk about it after all. It shouldn’t be so surprising, it’s just how he talks, but it’s just — funny, they guess, to hear him using it on a different stubborn shifter.

In deference to their conversation, Ivy turns to Aster, meets her eyes in the dim light. She looks back, seems to consider for a moment. Then, in one of the quietest voices they’ve ever heard out of her, she says, “You were gone this month.”

Ivy winces. They’d known after the first week that it wasn’t the sort of thing Aster was used to from them. She’d never had to put up with them being the kind of person who disappeared for far worse than weeks at a time the way David and even to a certain point Sam had, and they’d thought of it that way for a while and felt bad. And then they’d realized that they weren’t really used to being that person anymore, either, and it had all spiraled until they’d given up and sent a text after a reasonable amount of anxious dithering.

“I was,” they answer, hating it. “I’m — sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Aster answers, predictably. “We all had a lot going on.”

“Yeah,” Ivy concedes. That's one way to put it. “Sure. But I could’ve messaged sooner. Or come to meetings. Or… yeah. I’m sorry.”

It doesn’t actually make them feel better, the way Aster tilts her head and looks at them like she’s never seen them before at even a basic courtesy. “I could’ve texted, too,” she says slowly. “Don’t feel bad, Ivy.”

Instead of providing them a useful argument, like how she's always the one texting first, their patently unhelpful brain instead decides to remind them of the last time they’d argued, the last thing she’d called them, the sound of “Ivy, baby” in a tear-thickened voice, and —

No, no, not useful. They were just busy and a shit person who gets like this. It’s not anything.

Ivy swallows, reaches out very carefully, and sets their hand over hers just briefly. Her fingers are cool and much longer than theirs, and she isn’t quite fast enough to return the touch before they pull away. “You can,” they manage, looking at the familiar checkered fabric of the blanket over their lap. “Text me, I mean. I’m much worse at it, you know me, but I could… I can try.”

“You could try it,” says Aster, and they glance up to see her face, alarmed. Is she mad after all, does she —

Oh. She’s smiling, hair all falling into her eyes behind her glasses and top teeth just barely visible. Ivy gets caught, for a second, looking.

Behind them, David laughs, a low rumbling thing, and Ivy feels — good, relieved. Something had been building up in them that they’d both known and not known, and this is what it had needed. Funny how that goes.

With an intake of breath, they look away and back over to Sam, who is paying careful attention to David as he keeps talking about what Milo’s mom Marie had told him, how she’d been self-taught to a certain point then took a community first aid class.

The movie keeps playing behind them all at low-volume, and it’s not normal. They wouldn’t be talking about any of this if it were, and it’s new to have Sam here, but that’s what they’d said. It’s fine like this, familiar but different, because at least they feel — happy.

*

(David doesn’t make it through the movie. Aster had thought that might happen, after his wake-up time this morning, but it’s even cuter than she’d thought it might be to see him end up sleeping almost diagonal, his arm pressed into Ivy’s and his head leaning at a neck-breaking angle onto the back of the couch, mouth a little open. It’s cute to see Ivy obviously frozen in place to avoid waking him, stiff with indecision and cautious joy, cuter still to see Sam take a picture of them with a lopsided smirk on his face and promise to send it to her. It’s dangerous to her heart, but at this point, she can’t bring herself to care. It’s been a long, terrible month, and this is good, and that’s enough.)

[acourtofsnakes]

A Helping Hand - Bucky Barnes x Reader (f)

(Gif: @sebastianruinedme​ )

Summary: After a stressful week, you try to wind down with some personal time but nothing quite hits that spot. And a certain Super Soldier may just be more than willing to help you. 

Warnings: 18+ Smut - Masturbation/toys, Oral (f receiving), fingering, neck play, arm/hand kink, dirty talk, a faint Dom theme if you squint, swearing – honestly, Bucky should just be a kink in himself.

Word count: 5k+ words full of hot playtime. 

A/N: This is just filth, to be honest. I was feeling a certain way after watching episode 3 of TFATWS and seeing that scene with Bucky cleaning his hand and… ideas happened, and this was born. There’s not really a plot… simply enjoy. 

Smut under the cut!!

Permanent Taglist: @greeneyedblondie44 @mamacitapascal​

Part 2

There was something to be said about the advancement of toys in recent years. 

There were hundreds of them. All different types. For all different things. 

Rabbits, waterproof vibrators, pulsating and pounding ones, ones that felt like oral, handsfree vibrators, remote control vibrators – the list went on. 

You had a lot. Tucked in a drawer of your dresser in a pretty box that just made you go all tingly in the knees every time you saw it. 

You were proud of your collection. 

And boy, did you love them. 

They never let you down, ever. 

But unfortunately, tonight was just not one of those nights. 

It has been a tough week. 

Not only had you taken a beating in training yesterday, but you were also late for an appointment across the city, which resulted in being yelled at by Fury. 

You really regretted decided to help him when he needed it. 

There wasn’t a lot going on lately, so you offered to help Fury when he needed it. 

Usually, you were on his food side. 

Yesterday, not so much. 

Everything seemed out to get you, and after the shit show of the week, you just wanted to treat yourself. So, you’d holed yourself up in your room on your floor of the compound, had a long, luxurious soak in the bath, and then decided to work out your anxiety and tension with one of your many, many friends. 

And for the first time in a while, they just weren’t hitting that spot. 

Literally. 

You groaned, throwing the third toy - this one a rabbit that was one of your most trusty companions - on the side of your bed. 

For the last forty minutes, you’d been dancing between three different toys and your fingers. 

You’d tried being on your belly, your side, and your back. You’d even tried a pillow. 

But nothing was the right pressure on your clit, no toy or finger felt deep enough inside, and you couldn’t hit that spot inside without getting a wicked cramp in your wrist that forced you to stop. 

You sat up, every nerve in your body wound to a knife edge, leaving you frustrated and tempted to throttle someone. 

Or get someone to throttle you. 

Preferably whilst pinning you to a wall... or a desk. 

Or anywhere really. 

You just needed something, anything to get out this frustration and give you the release you’d been desperately chasing all night. 

It wasn’t even a case of hovering on the edge - you couldn’t even get there. The fire and heat just stayed a kindling ember in your belly, and never reaching that explosive fire. 

After getting up and downing a measure of whiskey whilst watching the rain, you decided to try a last-ditch attempt with a different toy. 

This one was a curved vibrator, with a thicker rounder head for supposedly perfect pressure on your g-spot. 

Simple, straight forward. 

Surely, if none of the others had done it, this one finally would. 

After settling back on your bed, you took a little more care this time, even going as far to light a few candles to add an ambiance to the room rather than have it pitch black with the sounds of the rain. 

You worked yourself up this time, building it slowly, teasing yourself with brushes of your fingertips over your throat and breasts, setting your skin ablaze. 

You pushed yourself to the edge a little, and then worked over with your vibrator. 

Until ten minutes later, when you literally launched the vibrator across the room and it hit the wall with a resounding thud, that echoed your hiss of frustration.  “Fucking hell.”  

A shit week, a shit day, and you couldn’t even fuck yourself well enough to be able to wind down and get some sleep. 

There was a sudden knock and then Bucky’s voice echoed through your bedroom door. “Darlin’?” There was a slight hint of his Brooklyn accent peeping through at the end, stirring something within you. 

You startled, sitting bolt upright and your head snapped to the door, “Bucky?” You had the good sense to lock the door, but still. He was right there. 

His shadow moved beneath the door, and you realised he was leaning against it, “Is everything alright? I heard banging.” 

Well, no not really. I’ve been trying to get myself off for the last hour and nothing appears to be working and I’m sitting here naked whilst you’re the other side of my door calling me Darling in that ridiculously hot accent that shouldn’t even be that hot. But hey, apart from that, everything’s great. 

You slid off the bed, padding across the room after dropping your toys back in their drawer, glaring at it as you passed. You slipped a robe on before making your way across the fluffy rug to the door, “Yeah, I’m okay...” You unlocked the door, tugging it open. 

Bucky was leaning against the doorframe, all broad shoulders, long lines and soft smile. 

His searing blue eyes were instantly locked onto you, a smirk playing on those gorgeous lips.

He cocked his head, standing there with his arms crossed, and you noticed that for once, he wasn’t wearing any gloves. Just a simple long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans that hung sinfully close to his hips and... no boots. Just socks. 

Like he’d taken his shoes off before waking into your apartment. 

Ever the gentleman. 

His arm was bare, the soft light of the hall bouncing off of the black vibranium and sparking the gold. You’d always loved his arm. The sheer power of it, the way you’d seen it shatter a man’s ribs instantly and tear through a brick wall like it was made of glass. The same hand that tickled behind the ears of a stray kitten in Prospect Park and test the ripeness of plums at the market. 

You wanted that hand around your throat. 

Eyes the colour of the Arctic sea roamed over your body, from your slightly mussed up hair to the flush along your neck that disappeared in the dip of your dressing gown. “Mm... are you sure about that?” He tilted his coyly, a smirk playing on his lips and you had a feeling this expression had been one of the trademarks since the 40’s. 

You narrowed your eyes at him, more than aware that he was seeing far more than you wanted him to, “I’m fine.” You turned from the door, leaving it open for him to come in, “How comes you’re up on my floor, anyway?” You peered over your shoulder at him as you padded across the room to the drinks cart. 

Yes, there was a bar on your floor, but why couldn’t you have a cart in your room? Tony hadn’t even needed to ask when designing it. 

Bucky walked in, his footfalls silent like a cat, that training never quite leaving him, “I couldn’t sleep. No nightmares, just restless.” He added the last part quickly, in response to the concern that tightened your expression. 

It was nothing unusual, Bucky coming up here to your room.  

You often found each other after nightmares or rough days, seeking comfort and distraction from the darkness that lingered. 

Some days and nights, you went out, needing an outside diversion from the thoughts. 

Other times, you stayed in, watching films, talking, training or just... sitting quietly, knowing that the other persons presence was enough protection and reassurance. Words weren’t needed… just company.  

You handed him a drink, plopping down on the end of your bed and you watched him sink into the couch opposite, “Anything you wanna talk about?” 

Since everything with the War, Bucky was working on fitting back into a routine, into ‘normal’ life - or what could be considered normal for people like yourselves. 

He was undergoing his mandatory therapy sessions, and they seemed to be helping him. 

He was back in contact with Sam, and the pair even worked a few jobs together now and then, even if they did bicker like an old married couple - it provided great entertainment when you tagged along. 

He leant back on the couch, settling his left arm across the back. He always looked at home on your floor, relaxed, like his mind could shut off a little. “Nah, I’m okay... Thank you though.” He shot you an easy smile again, one that he probably hadn’t used in.... decades. “What about you? Why are you up so late?”

Mimicking his shrug, you kept your expression neutral, making sure your eyes didn’t drift to that certain drawer, “Rough week. I was reading to try and drift off.” 

“Mmmhm...” Bucky’s hummed response told you instantly that he did not believe you one bit. “What were you reading? Cosmopolitan’s best guide to toys?” That shit eating grin graced his face and he motioned gracefully with his left hand... to the corner of the room. 

The vibrator you’d launched was sitting on the floor, nestled in the rug, the soft mint green silicone practically a beacon. 

Okay. 

Okay…. So. There were two ways you could respond to this. 

Either play it off, deny it and change the subject. 

Or…

Turning back to him, you shrugged again, “Oh, I’ve read that back to front. And made a few additions myself.” You cocked your head, a faint flutter in your belly as you awaited his response. 

The barest flicker of surprise danced across his beautiful, rugged features before dissolving into something confident and smouldering. “Well, it looks to me like their guide isn’t true to review tonight. Something tells me you’re having a little bit of trouble.” His voice had begun to lower into a deeper, the natural roughness of his voice coming out. 

It stoked that fire within you, warming your blood and curling low in your belly. 

“And if I was? What would you suggest to help?” It was almost impossible to remain sitting still as the atmosphere folded and changed. There was one obvious route to your back and forth… and you wanted it. 

Wanted… him.

And if you were honest, you had for a long time now. There was just something about him that you’d always been drawn to, a simmering tension that settled whenever you were together. 

Bucky rose from the sofa in a fluid movement, walking toward you slowly, casually, but with the grace and prowl of a wolf eyeing up its next meal – you. 

And fuck, you wanted him to devour you. 

He slid his hands into his pockets, feet silent on your wooden floor, “Well… I would say that as wonderful as your toys may be… they’re just that. Toys. They can’t… feel what you like.” His eyes burned through you with each of his steps. “They don’t hear the noises you make when they hit the right spot. They don’t get to see the way your body reacts, the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip because it feels overwhelmingly good.” 

He was close enough for you to smell his cologne, and that only added to the growing wetness between your thighs as his filthy, beautiful words. 

Bucky stopped in front of you, removing his left hand and touching his fingers to your chin to tilt it up to face him, “They can’t know the little things… the deeper angle, that extra finger or sweep of the tongue… they can’t make you so wet that it runs down your thighs and they can’t make you arch off the bed as you shatter into starlight…” He sighed softly, shaking his head in mock disappointment, “I’m afraid they just… can’t make you come the way a real person could.” He applied a little pressure to the underside of your chin, and you rose to your – unsteady -  feet instantly, putty in his hands.  

Holy fuck, Bucky Barnes had a mouth on him. 

Your teeth had indeed sunk into your lower lip, and your breathing had grown shallow. It was an effort to keep your thighs firmly locked together… Because you were just as wet as he had said. 

The dark flame in his eyes told you that he knew the reaction you were having to him. He brushed a cool thumb over your lip, then tugged it gently to free it from your teeth and at the same time, he leant his head down to your level, “They can’t make you come like I can, darlin’.” This close, his warm lips brushed the shell of your ear, his voice reduced to a husky rasp that only further drew out that Brooklyn accent. 

The soft moan that left your lips was almost pitiful, but you didn’t care, “Shit.” 

You breathed the word, earning a deep chuckle in your ear before Bucky pulled back, only enough to see your face, “You want me to help you? Give you a helping hand?” His words were low and seductive, but he was looking between your eyes, making no more moves until he knew you wanted this. 

If you changed your mind, he would leave right now, and say no more about it. 

That very thought pained you. 

Something had always hovered between you both… and maybe now was the time to let it out. You shared a few kisses on nights out and he had featured heavily in your fantasies night after night, wishing your fingers were his, the toys were him….

You met his eyes, your own clear and sure and you kept that gaze as you parted your lips. Then swept your tongue along his thumb and tilted your head down just enough to take it between your lips. The vibranium was smooth, cold and it felt oddly delightful on your tongue. “Make me come, Bucky. Prove to me you’re better than the toys.” Your voice was low with need, a soft pleading note for him there as you gazed up through your eyelashes. 

The Arctic blue of his eyes deepened to near midnight, his pupils blowing out as he watched you talk around his thumb, your tongue sweeping over the metal and he almost purred, “Oh, baby, you won’t need toys when I’m done.” And then he was on you. 

He gently pulled his hand from your face, instead placing it lightly around your neck, the heavy metal settling on your collarbones and that alone drenched you. 

He looked between your eyes, checking one final time and then his mouth was lowering onto yours, his lips warm, plush and ever so inviting. Instantly, he licked a teasing line along your lips, which you would have parted for him without the request. 

Bucky’s tongue slipped past your lips, sweeping against yours in hot strokes as he explored every corner of your mouth. 

He tasted divine, and even more so when his thumb lightly tipped your chin back and he traced the tip of his tongue along the roof of your mouth, licking over the ridges and showing you exactly what that tongue could do. 

A groan left your lips, and you slid your hands up his arms to those shoulders, those gorgeous broad shoulders that all you wanted to do was dig your nails into them and use for support as you rode him. 

A deep curl of delight and joy was unfurling within the heat in your belly, because you needed this, needed more of him and his hands and his tongue and his words… and you were finally getting it

Hell, he had only just started kissing you and you already could have fallen apart just from that. 

“Why have we not been doing this all the time?” Was the only thought that your already fuzzy mind could come up with as he pulled away slowly from your lips, only to begin pressing hot, open kisses against your jaw that were all teeth and tongue. He seared a path to your neck, kissing all over until he found that particular spot that made you whimper and arch into his body. 

Bucky laughed low against your neck, the sound vibrating, “Oh, baby, you were struggling, weren’t you? I’ve barely even touched you and you’re already a mess…” He used his hand on your throat to tilt your head to the side, before biting at your skin, sweeping his tongue over the hot and sucking a deep mark there. 

A slight whine rippled in your throat, fingers pulling as his shirt and your chest pushed against his, the firm heat of him making your nipples tighten, especially when he pushed into you. 

Bucky slipped a hand between your bodies, tugging at the cord of your dressing gown and it slipped from your shoulders, leaving you bare and open to him. 

He licked down your neck, his tongue smoothing over the shape of your collarbones and then down your sternum to your breasts. He butterfly kissed the soft flesh, then almost delicately sucked at your rleft nipple, lifting his vibranium hand to squeeze the other, “So beautiful…” He mumbled it half to himself, his dark mussed up curls soft against your skin. 

One of your hands trailed up the back of his neck, slightly tangling in the hair at the base of his head and you pushed your chest further into his mouth, “Tease.” The word was a soft gasp, your eyes closing in pleasure and your lips parting. 

He chuckled, pulling back to blow a cool breath on the wet skin, watching your nipple harden and then he moved to give the other the same treatment, “Oh, I’m a tease, am I? I can stop if you like.” He grinned around the delicate skin, just slightly grazing his teeth as he tugged your nipple and then he continued his trail of kisses down your body, slowly sinking to his knees. “I don’t think you’ll ask me to stop though, darlin’.” His right hand grasped your ankle, and then he ghosted warm fingertips up your leg, past your knee and then pausing at your inner thigh, at what he felt there, “No. No I don’t think you’ll ask me to stop at all.” 

The cocky bastard grinned once more against your stomach, before dipping his tongue inside your belly button.

“Bucky…” You couldn’t hide the whimper in your voice, nor the way your hips rocked forward in a plea. It was almost painful how much you needed him to touch you, needed to feel his lips and his tongue. 

“Shhh, baby, I know.” His hands slipped up your waist, as soothing as his gentle coo against your belly button and then he brushed his lips lower and lower… and then finally, he pressed a soft butterfly kiss to your pubic bone. 

A low groan tore from his throat, his hands digging into the soft flesh of your hips as he saw you, swollen and positively dripping for him, “Oh, darlin’, look at you…” 

The sheer desire and awe in his low voice caused heat to flush along your cheekbones. You weren’t shy by any means, but the almost primal admiration in his voice was something you’d never heard before, the pure want and desire to make you feel good and worship you. 

Bucky admired the sight before him for a single moment, before lifting his eyes to yours and then he dove in, immediately devouring you like he was starving. His deft tongue slipped through your slick folds with ease, and he moaned again at your taste, at your smell, everything. 

He pressed his tongue flat against you before sucking at your clit, with such an intensity that you almost choked. It was a simple movement, but it shot electricity through your body and made every single nerve stand on end. 

He let that coil of energy begin to build, and then he licked back down, his hands sliding down to palm at your ass cheeks before digging his fingers into your skin, pulling you in further so he could bury his nose against your clit and his tongue – fuck, his tongue pushed inside of you, hot and heavy. It just felt so, so good, his nose putting pressure on your bundle of nerves, his tongue pumping inside you. 

Your hands flew down to his hair, winding through it to keep him there, keep him doing that, to keep him fucking you with his tongue, “Buck-”. You weren’t sure what you were begging him for, only that you just needed to say his name, needed to do something. 

Your hips began to rock in time with his thrusts, and you became aware of it only when Bucky’s muffled moan reverberating through you. 

He liked it, no... he loved this, that you were grinding against his face as his tongue worked inside you, tasting parts of you no one else had ever gotten right before. 

“Fuck, Bucky, keep doing that – I’m-” You cut off with a high moan, your head tilting back as you rocked into him faster, chasing down that high that was so tantalisingly close. It hadn’t taken long, you were so worked up from your failed attempts that you were already there. 

Bucky’s began to lick and suck you with new fervour, his head moving in time with the jerks of his hips, feeling the way your walls were tightening around his tongue. His fingers dug harder into your ass, and you felt the silent command almost, Come. 

And you did. 

You cried his name out to the sky, every nerve in your body winding to near painful tautness before you shattered on his face, your first orgasm ripping through you. 

Bucky didn’t stop, working you through it and drawing it out further and further as he lapped up every single drop you gave him, moaning himself like it was the most tantalising thing he had ever tasted. 

He stopped only when your grip released on his hair, the sensitivity of your nerves almost painful, your legs shaking like crazy and he lifted his hand from between your thighs, his lips and chin glistening. He rose from his knees, nudging you back onto the bed and instantly crawling up your body, “You have no idea how good you taste.” 

You whimpered slightly, catching your breath as you watched him crawl up you, eyes burning like sapphire fire, his tongue licking slowly over his lips as he savoured you. Words were beyond you, desire still coursing through your veins and you were a little in awe at how quickly – and hard – he had brought you to your first orgasm. 

Bucky grinned devilishly, “That won’t be your last.” He lowered his mouth back to yours and as you tasted yourself on him, you grew instantly wet for him again. 

His body brushed into yours and you felt how painfully hard he was through his jeans, the sounds and taste of you getting to him of course. 

Your fingers had barely brushed against his restrained length when he shook his head, nipping at your lower lip, “Oh no, baby, this is all about you.” 

You ignored him, palming him through his jeans and he moaned lowly before his eyes flashed, his hand suddenly back on your throat and he moved his hips away so you couldn’t get to him. “I said no.” It was almost a snarl, “This is about you. Not me.” His hand tightened just slightly around your throat, making it that little bit harder to breathe and your eyes rolled back at how delicious it felt. 

It was a huge kink for you, the idea of someone – of Bucky - taking control, being in control of your body even it was just for a little while. You didn’t need to think or do anything. Only feel and be at the mercy of his touch. 

You relented, legs falling open for him and you tilted your head back, searching for his lips. 

Bucky granted you the kiss, a slow, languid kiss at first that was all simmering passion and tangling tongues, the taste on you still lingering on his lips. 

He palmed your breast again, tugging and squeezing the flesh until he scratched his nails lightly down your ribcage and belly. 

Yes, yes-

He wasted no time, no more playing and his fingers slipped lower, circling over your clit with a delicious pressure that had you instantly moaning into his mouth.

He toyed with your clit a little more, before gathering your wetness and then sinking two fingers inside you, pushing all the way into his knuckles, then drawing back out slowly. 

As he withdrew, you moaned long and slow into his mouth and he began a steady rhythm. Pushing and curling his fingers inside you a few steps, then circling and pulling at your clit, ever so subtly switching it up with each pass so you couldn’t predict what he would do.  

It felt amazing, but… there was something still missing. It still wasn’t quite enough to send you over that final edge… it wasn’t what you’d been fantasising about. 

No, it was his left hand. That dark, golden vibranium hand that was currently seated around your throat. 

The knowledge of what it could do, the sheer power in it that could easily crush your windpipe or shatter your jaw with a single flick of his wrist. 

That is what you needed. 

Those cool, powerful fingers inside you, working you over – that was the best toy. 

It was like he could read your mind somehow, or the way your body sung to his tune. He lifted his head, looking down at you with those searing blues and he cocked his head, a slow grin lighting his gorgeous face, “Oh… This-” he scissored his fingers inside you, stretching your walls and ever so slightly brushing up against that spot, “isn’t quite what you want, is it, darlin’?” 

Holy Christ, he was going to destroy you before you even got what you wanted.

You looked up at him, panting, hips rocking to the slower thrust of his fingers and you shook your head.

Bucky swore softly, panting himself and he squeezed your throat once before lifting his fingers, “You want these, don’t you?”

Instead of answering him, you ducked your head, taking his three fingers into your mouth and immediately gliding your tongue around them, up and down in slow, dirty strokes. 

The effect was instantaneous. Bucky’s hips jerked slightly against yours, his mouth parting as he watched you suck his vibranium fingers, hollowing your cheeks, eyes rolling back in your head like… like it was something else entirely. 

He groaned, swore again and then almost ripped his fingers from your mouth and from between your legs at the same time. 

Your entire body mourned the loss, feeling empty, clenching around nothing but mere seconds later, he plunged those three vibranium fingers inside of you, slick with your saliva and how unbelievably wet you were. 

It stung a little, but only added to the feeling as your hips rose off the bed, “Shit, shit-”

They felt… like the best toy you could ever imagine. Smooth, cold, and hard enough that you could feel every faint ridge of the joints as he slid them in and out. You reached out, grabbing his arm with one hand and the bed with the other, needing something to hold onto as instinct took over. Your hips rode upwards, back arching as you rocked his fingers in deeper, feeling them in your spine almost. It was better than you could have imagined. 

Bucky dropped his head to your chest, spreading his mouth over your breast and his other arm slid over your hips, pinning them to the bed so you were forced to take it. “You wanted this, baby… You take it.” He bit down on the soft flesh of your breast before smoothing his tongue over it again, working an alternative rhythm to his fingers and thumb again, so that your brain couldn’t keep up with which one to follow. It knew only the waves of fire singing through your veins.  

Time may have very well dissolved, because you could only feel pleasure, tinged almost with pain. 

The thick, hard stroking of fingers as they stretched and wrecked you. 

The circling, hard-soft-hard pressure of his thumb on your clit. 

The bite of his teeth on your breasts, neck and chest, followed by the wet press of his tongue. 

The way he couldn’t help his hips slightly rocking against your leg. 

This was almost like a fever dream, expect your brain couldn’t have come up with something this mind melting. Not even if you were really, really worked up. 

The noises in the room were absolutely sinful. The unrestrained cries and moans from your lips, Bucky’s groans and his filthy words, the wet pump of his fingers inside you – it was obscene, filthy and completely, painfully mind-blowing. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Bucky, please-” You had no idea what you were begging for, but every single nerve and muscle in your body was coiling tighter and tighter, your hips jerking against his arm as he pinned you down, forcing you to take this, to feel everything he was doing with no relenting. Tears were beginning to blur your eyes and the pleasure he unleashed upon you was almost painful. 

Bucky somehow moved his fingers harder, deeper, the ability of the tech in his arm allowing him to do so, “Let go, baby, come on, let it go for me..” He dropped his head, biting down on your neck and he pressed his fingers against that spot inside you, flicking your clit with his thumb and then it all just snapped. 

Waves and waves of hot fire flooded your body, dragging you up to the stars, further. It ripped the air from your lungs, made you half scream his name in a never-ending prayer. 

It just didn’t stop. 

Bucky kept moving inside you, drawing out every single second of your mind-shattering orgasm, letting go of your hips so you could grind them into his hand. “That’s it, baby… Look at you, so beautiful like that…” His praise spurred you on, making you feel almost like a goddess as you flooded his hand. 

He stopped only when you slumped back onto the bed, sucking in deep breaths as you tried to piece yourself back together. 

Better than toys indeed. 

~~

A little while later, you stirred from a light dose to see Bucky lounging on your couch again, cleaning the grooves and metal of his fingers with a soft cloth. 

The sight of him concentrating, taking such care and detail with the clean-up, the cleanup from the mess you had made, had you instantly wet again. “Bucky.” 

He looked up, hearing the low thrum to your voice and a smirk crossed his lips. 

You had a favour to repay for his helping hand, after all. 

[jamiemackenziefraser]

All That Was Fair 

Chapter 28: The Precipice

Summary: The bliss of blind optimism begins to dissipate

Read on AO3

Read chapter 28 on tumblr below the cut

Previous, master list, next

Jamie awoke the next morning to find Claire curled up against his back, one of her legs thrown over his and her arm draped across his chest. A content smile sleepily formed on his face as he came to the realization that he was the little spoon. As much as he didn’t want to disturb her— and he very much enjoyed this cuddling position and would have to keep it in mind for later— he thought she needed a little extra care this morning. 

Turning over with the utmost delicacy, Jamie tried to keep her limbs in position over him while he shifted to face her. Once he was face to face with his faerie, he could watch her expression as she slept. 

“Mo calman geal,” he breathed in barely a whisper. My white dove. 

She was so beautiful lying beside him, the early morning sunlight illuminating her alabaster skin. Her lashes were dark against her cheeks, and the curls of her hair twined around her face with abandon. He wanted to wake up every morning to the sight of his love like this. 

Leaning forward, he brushed his lips gently in the spot between her brows that was smooth with sleep. Moving along, he hovered his lips over her cheek before pressing the barest hint of a kiss along the cheekbone. 

She awoke slowly as he kissed her other cheek, murmuring something unintelligible and squeezing her eyes shut tighter against wakefulness. 

“Good morning, mo chridhe,” he whispered as he ended his exploration of her face with a quick peck on the lips. 

“Jamie?” she dazedly murmured. 

Her arms came up to wrap around his shoulders as her eyes fluttered open. 

“Hi, a leannan,” he said warmly. 

She pulled him closer and then rolled them slightly so Jamie was lying back and she could rest her head on his shoulder. 

“How are ye feelin’ this mornin’?” he asked. 

“Tired,” she replied, her voice hushed. 

“Tired? Ye’ve only just woken up. Could ye no’ sleep last night?” 

“I did. I’m just… tired,” she responded. The fatigue was apparent. She seemed muted somehow, speaking as though her head was underwater.  

This sent Jamie’s heart beating faster, and he lifted up his head so he could look down at her, studying every inch he could see. But to his knowledge, nothing seemed wrong with her physically, other than the fact that the sweet calm of sleep was dissipating, leaving her with a pallor and listlessness that made Jamie’s stomach knot. 

“And ye dinna ken why? Maybe ye’re sick?” he asked anxiously, “maybe ye’ve caught something?” 

He repositioned them, shifting so that Claire moved back to the pillow and he could brace up on his elbow above her. He placed a hand on her forehead, his thumb brushing over her brow, but found it cool. “Can ye tell?” 

Jamie held his breath, daring to hope that maybe she could simply heal herself as she’d healed him. Could faeries even do that? 

Shaking her head against his head, she seemed sad. “I can’t tell,” she answered softly, but couldn’t provide any more explanation, “I can’t feel anything.” 

“Maybe ye should go back to sleep, a leannan?” Jamie suggested, his anxiety mounting. He brought his hand up to brush his fingers down the side of her face. 

She gave another shake of the head, interrupting his motions. “I don’t want to. Can I just sit with you for a while?” 

His heart broke a little at her tentative question. 

“Of course ye can, my sweet one,” his voice caught a little on the endearment, “but why dinna ye jes’ stay in bed while I feed Adso and myself? I have time, I’ll be back before ye know it.” 

“I want to stay with you,” she insisted, the clinginess obvious in her voice. But instead of its usual feisty quality— the way she adhered to him with passion, as if every touch lit the fire inside of her— she seemed limp. As if the most she could do to keep herself by his side was ask. 

Jamie’s brow furrowed. He was really starting to get concerned about her. Studying her pale face, he traced a fingertip across her cheekbone. 

“We’ll stay then, a leannan,” he opted not to bring up his worries any further. Not when she was like this. 

Despite the words that had just left his lips, there was a lump in his throat and a tugging on his mind that he couldn’t ignore. They could only stay for so long… Jamie was supposed to go into work. To leave Claire by herself. Glancing at the clock, he saw it was only 6 am, and he let out a sigh. There was still plenty of time to take care of her before he had to leave. 

For the umpteenth time, he wished he could simply up and quit his job. Everything in his life paled in comparison to the consumingness of her. But he knew that this trouble would pass soon enough, and it wouldn’t be right to abandon his passion and livelihood simply because he wanted to spend every waking second with his lass. 

Claire was staring at him, her head tilted against the pillow as she watched this struggle play out on his face. There seemed a moment where her features darkened and her eyes fell. 

“I forgot about work,” she murmured, having correctly intuited exactly what was going on in his brain. Disappointment cast a veil over her normally open face. 

“I have time, a leannan. I always have time for you.” 

Jamie started to reach out, meaning to bring her into his arms again, but she shook her head. 

“Go on. You need food, and time to get dressed. Let’s go,” she said. 

Whether she was fighting it or not, Jamie would slow down. He shifted himself closer to her on the bed, cupping her face with one hand and sliding his other over her hip. He caressed up and down in long strokes, intentionally slow. 

“Ye’re the only thing on my mind right now, mo Sorcha. 

The look on her face made his stomach twist. Her eyes were downcast, not meeting his, and there was tension in the muscles of her cheeks, as if she was trying to hold a mask in place. She was quiet, and the only reply to his words was a shaky exhale. 

Jamie drew up so he hovered over her. Tilting her face up, he brought his lips to ghost a kiss over those beautiful pink lips. 

Even that didn’t seem to break the somber mood that trapped his love. Jamie felt excessively guilty as he stayed rooted in that position, staring into her eyes and cradling her face with both hands. He wished he could tell her he would take off again, that they could take a sick day together, and that he could hold her until she felt normal again, but he couldn’t say any of those things. 

“It’s okay, Jamie,” Claire murmured, turning those fatigued eyes on him full force, “let’s go downstairs.” 

*

While Jamie made breakfast, Claire wandered over to the kitchen table. He glanced over every few seconds to check on her, but she was so quiet. His concern amped up several notches when he looked over at one point to find she had laid her head in her arms where they rested on the table. Her eyes were closed and her breathing slow. 

Something was definitely wrong. 

Jamie turned off the stove and abandoned his parritch. He walked over to her and gently ran his hand over the back of her head, trying to shove down the worry that nearly made his hand tremble. 

Her response was to simply turn her head a bit on her arms, indicating she felt him, but she didn’t say a word. 

“Sassenach—” he started to say, but she lifted her head. 

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

“I dinna want to leave ye.” 

She did raise her head then, turning big honey eyes up toward him. Her lips caught the heel of his hand in a kiss before she spoke. 

“You have to go, Jamie. It’ll be good. I’ll go back to sleep, and I’m sure I’ll feel more like myself when you get home.” 

Jamie felt like a toddler about to have a tantrum. He was tired of this conflict every damn day! He hated going into work and leaving her here, but he hated leaving his company when he knew very well they needed him. He felt like he was being torn in different directions and that one day he would simply snap. 

Taking a deep breath, he shoved down that line of thinking. It wouldn’t do Claire any good to have him strung out over work. While she was sick, he would simply have to keep it together and make one decision at a time. And today, whether he liked it or not, the decision was clear. 

“Okay, Sassenach. But that doesna mean that I willna give ye my full attention now while I’m here.” 

She smiled a little at this, lifting her head enough to fix him with that whisky gaze. “Does that mean you’ll have your breakfast on the couch?”

Jamie rolled his eyes but felt his muscles ease at the relief of seeing that glimpse of her usual self. 

Recently, she’d begun to rebel against the kitchen table. The kitchen chairs were no good— she would complain. No good for snuggling, she meant. Even when she scooted hers as close as possible to Jamie’s, that was apparently not close enough for her. She’d begun a campaign against the table then, trying to get him to sit on the couch for meals where she could burrow into his side. Finding her incredibly distracting and a bit disconcerting to have a faerie trying to apparently jump into his skin while he attempted to have a meal, Jamie had stood firm on his policy. Meals were taken at the table. 

Only now, seeing that tiny spark in her eyes at mention of breakfast on the couch, Jamie never stood a chance. 

“You win, a leannan. Jes’ this once, I’ll have my parritch wi’ ye in the living room. Come on, then, lass.” 

And so he found himself on the couch, bowl held out in front of him and Claire glued to his side. It didn’t take long for her head to meet his shoulder and her hands to wrap around his bicep in a sort of half-hug. 

His heart skipped a few beats as she clung to him. 

“Yer hands are cold, a leannan,” he noticed.

She murmured an uncertain hmmm? but didn’t say anything more. Jamie decided to drop it. Clearly she was under the weather, no denying it, but he hoped that an actual day of rest would do her well. He simply swallowed down his parritch and tried not to think too much about what he couldn’t control. Claire was silent nearly the whole time, just breathing deeply against his side.

When it came time for him to run out the door, he was ready to cry and stamp his feet at the unfairness of adult life. He tugged his bag over his shoulder with more force than necessary, and had to resist tearing it off again as he returned to Claire where she lay on the couch. 

“If I have a second free I’ll run back to check on ye, alright, mo ghraidh?” he said after getting her tucked underneath a warmth blanket, an edge of urgency on his voice. The blanket was a poor substitute for his body, but he didn’t want to leave her with nothing. At least he could wrap his tartan around her, imagining his protection enveloped her. 

“Don’t worry, Jamie. I’ll see you when you get home,” Claire said, already settling down on the throw pillow with her eyes falling closed. 

It eased him considerably to see her already burrowing in for a nap, and he muttered a quick prayer over her in Gaelic before giving her one last kiss to the forehead. 

“I love you more than anythin’, mo chridhe. Be well,” he said in farewell. 

“I love you,” she echoed, her voice already laced with the slur of sleep. 

***

Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser was no babysitter. 

Sure, he’d spent nearly all his free time with Ellen’s bairns, but that was different. He was a hard man, used to solitude, and he most certainly did not take care of people. 

Only when Jamie Fraser had called him from work, his voice dripping with anxious concern, pleading with him to go check in on his lass to see if she was alright, Murtagh had somehow lost his mind and relented. Maybe it was something about Jamie’s story— how Claire was feelin’ ill but he’d forgotten to leave a cellphone with her so she could call if she needed something— or maybe it was just the obvious worry in his godson’s voice, but something had made Murtagh give in. He hated letting down the lad more than anything, so he had decided that he could manage a little look-in that was most certainly not anything more than that.

A short time later, he found himself unlocking Jamie’s house with his spare key and yelling a greeting as he stepped inside. 

“Claire? Lass? Jamie asked me tae check in on ye. Are ye alright?” he called. 

But he heard no answer. Figuring she was upstairs in the bedroom having a nap, Murtagh made his way upstairs, only to find all the rooms empty. 

“Lass?” he called again, “are ye here?” 

He worried for a minute that she’d left, made a run for it while Jamie was at work so she could avoid saying goodbye, but then he remembered the way the lass had looked at Jamie, spoke about him, and he knew in his wame that there was no way the lass had up and left. 

He checked the basement before making another round through the house, only to find no trace of the wee lassie. 

There was one last place to look, even though only someone out of their damn mind would go outside on a dreich day such as this one. 

He slid open the back door reluctantly, squinting out into the back garden. His eyes swept lazily across it, not expecting to find anything, but then his gaze landed on the shape of a figure laying on the ground in front of the wee patch of dirt that was a sorry excuse for a garden. 

Adrenaline flooded Murtagh’s veins, and he ran outside, cursing under his breath. 

By the time he got to her, dropping to his knees beside her, she was struggling to sit up, pushing up on her hands and shaking her head, looking disoriented. 

“Have ye lost yer mind, lass?” Murtagh burst out, reaching to help her sit up. 

She didn’t answer, just pressed her dirty hands against her face and swayed slightly. 

Taking in the sight of her, Murtagh realized Jamie had been right to call him. The lass certainly was ill. Her face was pale and drawn, and she looked damn near ready to keel over again. Her hand shook where it was lifted to her face, and she was blinking hard. 

“Come on, now,” Murtagh said, much more gently this time. 

She still didn’t say anything, but she didn’t protest either when he took her arms and laid it across his shoulders so he could lift her to her feet with a quiet “up ye get.”��

Her breath hitched the moment they were upright, and she sagged heavily against him, barely supporting her own weight. Like a sack of grain against him, the puir lass couldn’t even manage to hold on. 

“Ye’re alright,” Murtagh found himself saying to her as she struggled to stay upright, “let’s get ye inside.” 

Slowly, they made their way inside, Murtagh taking the majority of her weight and offering encouragements he didn’t know he had in him. She didn’t say a word, white lips pressed tightly together as her feet dragged. 

Once they had finally made it inside, Murtagh deposited her on the couch before grabbing a blanket and tucking it around her. 

“There ye go, that’ll be more comfortable than the dirt outside, I’d expect,” Murtagh said. 

By this time, he was used to the lass not saying a word. He thought maybe she was one who simply shut down when she wasn’t feeling well. Besides, she seemed like she was barely conscious, let alone coherent enough to have a conversation. So he was surprised when she murmured out a weak, “thank you.” 

“Ye’re welcome, lass,” Murtagh said, trying to sound gruff and uncaring, but the words came out gentle as her tone struck some chord inside him, “get some sleep now. Ye’ll feel better wi’ some rest.” 

He must have been losing his edge if one sick lassie could turn him into a mother hen. 

“Jamie?” she asked, her voice muffled by the blanket which she was pulling up toward her face. 

“He’ll be back when ye wake,” Murtagh promised. 

She closed her eyes then, seeming content with that answer, and Murtagh left her to head into the kitchen where he could call Jamie privately. 

The poor lad was rocked by his report, sounding over the phone like someone had punched him in the stomach, and he’d promised to be home right away. He must have broken every traffic law because it took him only 20 minutes to get home from the city. 

Jamie burst in through the front door, disheveled and wild with worry, and Murtagh found himself rushing over and shushing him so he didn’t wake the lass where she slept on the couch.

His godson had quieted immediately, and before Murtagh could give him the story, Jamie was pushing past him into the living room. 

Murtagh watched as the lad caught sight of Claire, his eyes filling with soft worry. His entire demeanor changed from wired to gentle as Jamie knelt down beside the couch, brushing curls away from the lass’ forehead so he could press a kiss there. 

Her eyes fluttered open at the touch. It seemed to take her a second to orient herself, but the second she realized who was with her, her whole face melted. 

“Jamie,” she breathed out. 

“I’m here now, mo ghraidh, dinna fash,” he said, more gentle than Murtagh had ever seen him, “go back to sleep. I’m here.” 

“Will you stay with me?” she asked. 

Murtagh felt like he was intruding on a private moment, but he couldn't seem to look away as Jamie pressed another kiss to her brow. “In jes’ a minute, lass. Hold on, jes’ a moment.” He kissed her again, as if he couldn’t bear the words coming from his mouth. “I promise I’ll be right back.”

She nodded, barely moving her head, and then closed her eyes again. Looking like the weight of the world was on his back, Jamie stood and turned toward Murtagh, gesturing toward the kitchen with a tilt of his head. 

“So you found her in the garden?” Jamie asked once they were both seated at the table. 

“Aye. She looked like she’d collapsed out there. Something’s wrong wi’ the lass, Jamie.” 

Jamie looked sad, his blue eyes— so like Ellen’s— were unfocused. His mind was clearly in the living room. Shaking his head, he admitted, “I ken. I’m scared for her.” 

“Take her to a doctor, lad,” Murtagh told him, “she needs help.” 

For some reason, this seemed to pain Jamie all the more. He looked down, fiddling with his fingers. Something was going on in that brain of his, but Murtagh had no idea what it was. 

“Dinna fash, I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Murtagh told him, “take some more time off, see her well, and call me if ye need anythin.” 

“Thanks, Murtagh,” Jamie said, nodding as if to convince himself of the validity of Murtagh’s assurances. 

“Dinna think on it,” he dismissed, “Now, go back tae yer lass.”

***

When Jamie closed the door behind Murtagh, he had to take a second to lean his back against it, pushing all the air from his lungs in a long breath. He felt like his head was whirling, his body thrumming as he came down from the adrenaline. The drive home had been a mad dash, and Jamie didn’t even remember half of it. Now, the quiet stillness of the house seemed stifling. 

He wouldn’t think about Claire’s suffering. He wouldn’t think about her laying outside the garden all by herself.. He wouldn’t think about her perfect skin marred by dirt as she tried and failed to push herself up… he wouldn’t—

The punishing flood of mental pictures burned in his brain and twisted his stomach in guilty turmoil. 

He was a fool. He was a damned fool for leaving her. He’d known she wasn’t well this morning, and he’d known she was far too stubborn to take care of herself and simply sleep, but he’d left her anyway. 

As he returned to Claire’s side to find her fast asleep, he was torn between cursing her for her foolishness in going outside and cursing himself for deciding to leave her. 

“I’m here, mo nighean donn,” he whispered to her as he pressed a long kiss to her temple, lips lingering as if his touch could erase the mistakes of the day. 

Part of him wished that she was awake, if only to comfort him that things weren’t as bad as they seemed. But she was finally resting, and if his kiss didn’t wake her, he wouldn’t disrupt her sleep. 

Deciding she would be better off in bed, Jamie slid his hands underneath her and gathered her in. He carried her upstairs, taking careful steps with his most precious cargo before settling her again in bed. She barely stirred— hardly reacted at all to the change in location. Her eyes remained shut and her face still. 

“Rest now, mo ghraidh,” Jamie murmured over her. 

He allowed himself one caress over her brow and one kiss to the top of her curls. And then he left her to her sleep. 

The second he sat down at the desk in his study, he felt himself deflate like a balloon. He buried his face in his hands and swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. 

The only sound filling the room was the clock ticking on the wall.

***

Next

[oftachancer]

Day 10: Surprise Kiss (14 Days of DA Lovers)

(From the as-yet-untitled modern au I’ve been developing with @johaeryslavellan, featuring her OC Inky Tristan and my OC Inky Aran. Surprise!)

[Tristan:]

“Run this by me again?” Tristan said, straightening Aran’s bow tie for the third time, “We just say ‘yes’ to whatever is suggested? By whoever?”

Aran nodded. “Barring the items on this list,” he tapped. “No public sex, no strangers, no drugs.” He lifted his brows, “Anything else you want to add?”

“If something comes up, I can still veto?”

“Tris,” he cupped Tristan’s cheek. “Yes. You can always veto anything, even if we’re not playing a game.” 

Tristan hummed, nodding slowly. “Okay. Then I’m fine.” He ducked his head to hide a smile, “Let's do it.”

“Yes!” Aran hopped up and down, “I have been wanting to do this with you for years!”

“Don’t be indecent,” Tristan kissed him lightly. “Let’s go.”

“You like my games!” Aran cheered, “I hoped you’d like my games.”

“I like some of them,” the taller man rolled his eyes as they headed to the front door.

“Most.”

“Maybe.” 

Sera huffed, “Finally. Maker, how long does it take you two to put clothes on?”

“When we take them off first?” Aran asked, grinning. “A while.”

“Have fun,” Cole waved from the couch, cuddling his bowl of popcorn and settling in to watch his documentary about sea lions. 

“First one of the night is yours, Cole,” Aran winked. “Yes, we will have fun!”

“Yes, we will,” Tristan echoed. 

The night was snow-flocked, the glowing street lights reflecting brightly off the glittering white. Aran tucked his hand into the pocket of Tristan’s coat, twining their fingers together as they strolled down the street. Something about the snow made everything feel quieter, calmer, even though they could hear music and laughter from the others out and about, sharing the evening with them. 

“So we just walk?” Tristan asked, glancing to his side where Aran and Sera walked arm in arm. 

“Yep.”

“And… ‘let the universe guide us’.”

“Yep.”

“And what happens if it doesn’t?”

“Then it guides us to walk for a long time in the snow, together, and that’s great,” Aran smiled up at him. 

Tristan chuckled, kissing him on the forehead. “Okay.”

And they did walk. Straight forward, up the high street, through the park towards campus. 

“Hey! Do you guys like comedy?” 

Aran grinned, nudging Tristan in the side. 

“Yes, we do,” Tristan turned to the student with her stack of fliers.

“Really?” The young woman asked, blinking. “No one ever says yes.”

“We love comedy,” Aran echoed.

“That’s- oh, that’s great! Well, we’ve got two for one drinks at the Seed Club if you pay a cover charge of five royals for the show. Stand up, all night.”

“Right! Give us the flier.” Sera snapped her fingers and accepted the paper from the girl. “Thank you! Good luck!”

“Thank you!”

“See? We made her night,” Aran grinned as they headed in the direction of the Seed Club. 

The Seed Club was a tiny, dark space down a flight of stairs from the street. The trio carried their drinks, double-fisted, to a small table and sat down as the comic was finishing his act. 

“Next up, we have the Wise-cracking Wizard, Willem the Foe!” 

Sera cheered loudly, stomping her feet, as Aran clapped and Tristan toasted the stage with his watered-down gin.

“Thank you! Thank you!” Willem stammered, flushed. “Everyone having a good night?”

“Yes!” they called back, laughing.

“Great! Great! So, I’ve got a few jokes here. Seeing as how… it’s a comedy show. So.” He shuffled some cards in his hands, “Okay. So, yesterday, my best friend auditioned to be the trumpet player in an orchestra. He blew it.” 

Sera snickered. 

“I bet everyone wants to hear a joke about ghosts, right?” Aran cheered, making Willem blush, “That's the spirit!”

“Oh, Maker,” Tristan finished his first glass and eyed the two idiots chortling beside him. Three comics and nine terrible drinks later, he was resting his chin in his hands and wondering if he should have agreed to Truth or Dare at home. Only… the idiots were having so much fun. Maybe he just needed to… embrace his inner idiot. But hadn’t he already done that, just agreeing to this silliness to begin with? The key must be to commit. Just commit whole-heartedly to the game. The game was the thing that was fun, not the terrible comedians. 

“Oh, hey! Do you remember that joke I told you about my spine?”

“Yes!” he called. 

The guy on stage paused, squinting into the audience to stare at him. “Uh…” he cleared his throat, finishing lamely: “It was… it was about a weak back.”

Aran ducked his head, laughing into his hand. 

“You guys fucking with me?”

“Yes!” Sera grinned.

“Seriously. This shit isn’t easy, okay? You think you can do better?”

They looked at each other, then looked at Tristan.

He sighed, “Yes.”

“Fuck you!” 

“Point of order: was that a question?” Sera asked.

“No, knife-ear, that was a fuck you. You wanna fight me, bitch?”

She narrowed her eyes, “I didn’t. But now? Oh, yeah.” She stood up.

Tristan scowled, rising. “Just apologize and we’ll go.”

“Me apologize? Screw you; you fucked up my set.”

“I may have done. But that doesn’t give you the right to speak to my friend that way. So apologize to her. Then I’ll apologize to you. And then we’ll leave.”

“Sure.” He turned to Sera, holding his hands out, “Bite me, you knife-eared whore.”

Tristan growled under his breath and then swore as Aran scrambled over the table and towards the stage. He grabbed hold of Aran, hoisting him back before he could leap onto the guy. “Calm down.”

“He wants to fight, let me fight him,” Aran spat.

Tristan struggled to hold him, gritting his teeth as he watched Sera as if in slow motion approach the stage just as the emcee hurried up to guide the ‘comedian’ off the stage. “Right! Okay! So we’re going to take a little intermission and be back with more laugh attacks in ten minutes.” 

Sera snapped her teeth as the guy was guided forcibly from the stage. “He deserved a good bite.”

“We are… so, so sorry,” the manager hurried over to them. “They’re all first-timers. Not everyone knows how to respond to crowds, but I swear, we don’t allow for any racism here. We absolutely don’t approve of that language.”

“Good.”

“Can we offer you anything? Free drink passes, maybe!”

Sera stared at her, “...yes,” she muttered.

“Great! Thank you so much!” She held out a handful of cards, “We sincerely apologize and promise we will make sure nothing like this happens again.”

“Yes,” Sera pocketed the passes and headed towards the door. “Let’s go, okay?”

“Yes,” Aran agreed, walking with her up to the street.

“Shit,” Tristan sighed as they stepped into the snow. “I’m sorry. I was trying to play along. I didn’t think-“

“That the shit jester would be a racist prick? I think that was a surprise to everyone, right.” Sera rolled her eyes, waving to a couple heading in past them. “Hey, you two want free drinks?” She offered the passes to the grateful pair. “Okay, what next?”

“We go home?” Tristan asked.

“Home?!” Sera exclaimed. “On ‘say yes’ night? Pfffft.” 

“You still want to play? After all that?”

“Of course! I’m not going to let him ruin the game.” She tucked her arm through his, “But let’s not stay here, because they’re probably going to kick the dickhead out and, if he talks to me again, I will bite him.”

Tristan nodded, noting Aran simmering. “Your call, Sera. Right or left.”

“Left,” she decided and started off with him in tow.

“Aran?”

Aran’s scowled, trudging along behind them, casting dark looks back over his shoulder. “They’re going to give him a slap on the wrist and let him go on being an asshole.”

“Yeah, well.”

“It’s fucking irritating.”

“Yep.” Sera wiggled her fingers back at him and scooped him up to her other side. “Now let it go. Ah ah- no-“ she shook his head, “It wasn’t you he called names, right. I get to say how we react; we’re letting it go because tonight is ‘say yes’ night and that means you have to.”

Aran exhaled hard but chucked his chin in the barest approximation of a nod. “Fine.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“Either of you ever licked a lamppost in winter?” she asked cheerily.

“Veto!” Tristan rushed, “I veto that. I don’t want to spend the night in hospital.”

She snickered. “Fine. Clinic? If there are assholes there, Bull can deal with them.”

Tristan glanced at Aran, then nodded. “Agreed. The Clinic.”

[Aran:]

“I’m sorry,” Aran whispered as they followed Sera through the phone booth in the back of the laundromat and down the stairs into the Clinic.

“For what?”

“I was mad at you for not letting me hit that guy.” Aran chewed his lip. “But you were right. That would have been stupid.”

“Not stupid,” Tristan disagreed. “Just more trouble than he was worth. And our job is to support her as much as she wants us to. She could have taken him. He would have deserved it if she had.”

Aran kissed his shoulder. “Thank you for being my voice of reason.”

“Thank you for teaching me to be impulsive.” Tristan tilted his chin up, peering down at him with a long, slow look that hit Aran like a barrel of rich bourbon. 

“Kiss me?” Aran asked quietly.

“Yes,” Tristan breathed with feeling and kissed him until he thought he might float right off the ground. 

“Can’t leave you alone for two minutes,” Sera griped. 

Aran braced himself against Tristan, inhaling and exhaling slowly and carefully. “Dizzy.”

“No shit. Come on; the game’s still on.” She dragged them both bodily after her into the bar. “You get drinks.” She shoved Aran towards the bar. “You change the music,” she shoved Tristan towards the old jukebox. “Have to keep them separated,” she winked at Bull.

“They give you any trouble, Sera, you just let me know.” 

“Yes, I will! Hear that, boys?”

“Bossy,” Aran pouted, heading for the bar. The crowd was thick, but pleasant. He wound his way past familiar faces and hopped up to sit on the end of the bar to wait his turn. 

“Hi, I’m Klewin.”

Aran glanced from the hand up to the smiling face of the redhead. “Hi, Klewin. I’m Aran.”

“Good to meet you, Aran.”

“Same.”

“So… you come here often?” Aran winced internally for the stranger. “I’m just wondering if sitting on the bar is a thing we’re all allowed to do.”

“Ooh,” Aran laughed. “Good save.”

“Thank you; I try. So, is it?”

Aran shrugged. “I think as long as you don’t stand on it, you’re okay. The bartender gets a mite tetchy about scuff marks.”

Klewin climbed up on the bar next to him. “It’s like you can see everything from up here.”

He grinned, “That’s pretty much why I sit here. Otherwise, it’s all chins and bobbing heads.”

“Tops of heads are much better.”

“Yeah,” Aran bit his lip on a laugh. “Sometimes.”

“Hey, you.” Anders brushed his spine, “Inviting other people to your perch?”

“Apparently. Klewin, this is Anders. Anders, Klewin. Klewin was just telling me he likes looking at the tops of peoples’ heads.”

“I’m so sorry, that sounded way more perverted than I meant it to.”

Aran winked. “See? I found you a pervert. Where’s my reward?”

Anders laughed, tugging him down to kiss his cheek. “I thought you were having a night out.”

“I am out; it is night. I have been tasked with procuring the drinks.”

“Okay, what’ll it be?”

“Yes.”

Anders lifted his brows. “It’s ‘yes’ night?”

Aran grinned, “Yes.”

“He’s letting you do ‘yes’ night?” 

Aran wiggled his brows. “Yes.”

“Oh, this is priceless.”

“What’s ‘yes night’?” Klewin asked.

Anders poked Aran in the chest, “You go find a place to sit and I’ll send Lace to you with drinks.” He leaned to Klewin, “You stay right there and try to think of other terrible pick up lines. I’ll be right back.”

“Nice to meet you,” Aran shook Klewin’s hand. “Have fun!”

“What’s ‘yes night’, though?”

[Tristan:]

Tristan frowned at the jukebox, listening as the first notes of the song soaked into the chatter and laughter. 

“Not your usual taste, is it?”

He turned to find Dorian smiling down at him from the row of booths above. “Trying new things tonight. Almost fought a comedian earlier.”

Dorian gazed down at him with mock-horror. “There’s a story. Come up and tell it to me?”

Tristan glanced towards the bar to see Aran laughing with a guy sporting a mop of red hair. Talking. Just talking. No strangers, they’d agreed. He trusted Aran. He’d gotten used to seeing him with Anders more and more, but still… still, it ached to see him free and easy with other other people. That was different. “Yes,” he said softly, crossing around to the stairs and settling in across from Dorian. He cleared his throat, “So, there’s a game.”

“A game about fighting comedians?”

“About saying yes.”

“Ah.” Dorian tapped his ear, “I see.”

“Right.”

“Seems like something that might get one into a host of trouble. Indiscriminately agreeing to things.”

Tristan chuckled wryly, looking down. “I think that might be part of the point.”

Dorian hummed softly. “Not enjoying the game overmuch?”

“It’s easier for them,” Tristan sighed, tracing drink rings on the table. “Sometimes I think everything is.”

“Do you?”

He shrugged. “Free as the wind, damn the consequences…” he shook his head. “I suppose I just don’t like risk as much.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“No. I know.” Tristan smiled weakly. “But there are some benefits to taking risks. I learned that with you, didn’t I?”

Dorian smoothed his fingers over his mustache, concealing the curve of his lips even as his eyes twinkled. “There is that.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Tristan sighed. “It’s just… more difficult. And that makes me feel like a bit of a buzzkill sometimes.” He cleared his throat, “Sorry. A buzzkill and a downer. What, uh, what were you doing here?” 

“You needn’t apologize to me.”

Tristan glanced up, nodding. “Thanks.”

“Here you are!” Aran rounded the corner of the booth with a wide grin. “What’d I miss?”

“I picked a song.”

“Good choice,” Aran dropped to rest his chin on the edge of the table. “Are we sitting here?”

“Yes,” Dorian said before Tristan could speak up. “I hear that’s the name of the game.” He glanced at Tristan with a small nod. “If that’s all right?”

Aran drummed the table, laughing, “Yes! More the merrier!” He stepped up onto the booth and waved towards the bar, pointing down, then hopped off and dropped into the booth beside Dorian, facing Tristan. “Anders said he’d send us drinks when I found a seat. Where’s Sera?”

Tristan shrugged, eyeing Dorian curiously. His heart thundered in his chest. Had he ever seen them side by side like this? His two boyfriends. How had he come to have two boyfriends in a matter of months, after so long on his own? Of course, the answer was obvious, staring at him with a wide, crooked grin. 

Aran. Topsy-turvy, risk-taking, free-wheeling Aran with his strange games and wild impulses and long-winded pontifications on syntax and rhyme when all Tristan saw was the beauty of the poem. Aran, covered in constellations he couldn’t appreciate and scars he wasn’t ashamed of. Aran, who was happily explaining the rules of his game to Dorian, including him, bringing him in, welcoming Tristan’s other heart-holder with open arms, like he did everyone. A living embrace. 

And Dorian… Dorian who was always so careful and clever, joining into risk-taking mischief… for him, he realized. To keep him company. To just be with him. Even though he’d been warned. Dorian, who saw layers to the world beyond what others saw, and who saw layers of Tristan beyond what others saw, too. Dorian, debonair and devious, dark to Aran’s light, both of them so incredibly comfortable in their own skin.

Dorian tapped his fingers against his, smiling with a small comforting nod, and Tristan walked his fingers up to play with the rings on his fingers, watching Aran’s smile deepen. Maker, he really was happy for him. For them both. Of course, he’d said as much, been supportive every step of the way, but it was different to watch him watch. Nothing but pure, clear pleasure in those eyes, softening in appreciation. Months he’d been listening to Aran tell him that he loved him. Days and nights he’d felt the words and meaning shiver through and over him. And again and again, he found he’d underestimated his friend. He kept expecting him to love less than he claimed. There were many little things Aran did that drove him mad and got under his skin, but this… this look, this truth… Truth. Trust. He bit his lip and studied Dorian’s rings as Lace arrived with a tray of drinks. “Chef’s Special,” she announced. 

Aran smiled, a little wistful, and stood up. “Thanks. Seen Sera?”

“Yup,” Lace smiled. “I’m stealing her now; you are my last table of the evening. There’s a late showing of Terra Fauna at the Regency I wanted to see and she said she’d join me. That’s okay, isn’t it? She said something about having to agree to things.”

“Yes, of course!” Aran nodded eagerly. “Craic on! Those are the rules!”

“I’ll have to ask her about them,” she laughed, serving out the glasses and accepting the tip Aran tucked into her apron. “Thanks.”

“Aye.” Aran picked up one of the glasses and toasted them lightly. “And you as well: have fun,” he winked.

“Where are you going?” Tristan asked quietly.

“Oh,” Aran shrugged. “Dunno. Wandering. No worries.”

“Aran.”

“Seriously, mate, it’s totally- it’s great, yeah? I know this isn’t your thing. It’s been a weird one. We can catch up later.” 

“Stay here.”

“Tris,” Aran cleared his throat. “It’s not a big deal.”

He held out a hand, feeling his heart thudding loud in his ears. “Will you stay here?” he asked, lifting his brows.

Aran chewed his lip, glancing between them. “...yes?” he asked quietly.

“Right answer.”

He dropped down into the booth beside Dorian, ears red with awkward pleasure that reminded Tristan of a dozen moments he’d caught his friend off guard before. Happy. He was happy. Happy to leave. Happier to stay. He swiped his fingers across his eyes, busying himself with moving the glasses to their respective spots. “Well. I guess this means you get Sera’s drink,” he told Dorian.

“I guess I do.”

Tristan cleared his throat, flexing his hand silently, the rings of the tree wiggling with the motion. And he watched Aran’s lip tremble as he bit it. Fuck, he thought, that is love. How much is he still holding back? How much has he still not shown me? Aran stretched out his left hand, pressing their matching palms together with a squeeze. 

“So, boys night out,” he joked, not willing to admit he was weepy. He lifted his glass. “Toast?”

Tristan squeezed both their hands, feeling the bass from the jukebox and the thud of his pulse from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. “To what?”

“You?” Aran nudged Dorian’s shoulder. “We should toast to him, right?”

“I have to say ‘yes’, don’t I?” Dorian teased.

“Catches on quick, this one. Might even get a doctorate someday.”

Dorian chuckled, lifting his fresh glass, “To Tristan, then.”

“I don’t have a free hand,” Tristan wrinkled his nose.

“Madman,” Aran laughed. “You can’t toast yourself, mate; you’d be a narcissist.”

“Can’t have that,” Dorian agreed.

“Void and Dark, can you imagine if he admitted how wonderful he is?”

“We’d never hear the end of it.”

“Day in, day out,” Aran grinned. “The endless list.”

“Talented,” Dorian sighed.

“Oh, sure. Talented. Sporting!”

“Right. Clever.”

“Too clever by half!”

“By three quarters!”

They clinked glasses as Tristan felt air rushing through his ears. Through them? Into them? Under them? His chest was vibrating. Was that the music? The bass? 

“We can't even start on the looks, can we?” Aran asked, crossing his eyes.

“Oh, we shouldn’t,” Dorian shook his head. “We’d be here all night.”

“I mean, his hair alone would take a night, aye?”

Dorian nodded sagely. “And then the eyes.”

“Forget it!” Aran squeezed his hand, warm. Watching. Flushed with his ability to make him blush. “And that spot just below the ear,” he whistled under his breath. “It’d take me a solid day to register everything I liked about it.”

“Right or left?”

“Tough call,” Aran hissed. “Left?”

“You take left, I’ll take right. We can save a day of our lives right there;” Dorian’s dark eyes danced with delight.

“Sharing is caring.”

“Oh, if you like each other so much, you should just kiss and get it over with.”

They stared at him and Tristan could not blame them at all. He would have stared at himself if he could. In fact, he had a sudden strangling urge to run for the nearest water closet and stare in the mirror screaming ‘what? What? What was that? Where did that come from?’

Then he watched as Aran, as if in slow-motion, turned to Dorian and tilted his head, “Well. I mean… the game is ‘say yes’. I don’t make the rules.”

And Dorian watched him for a moment longer, curious, and dampened his lower lip. “Get it over with, yes?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Very well.” Dorian coughed into the back of his hand, eyeing Aran. “Right or left?”

Aran shrugged, eyes crossing, “Dunno.” He tilted his head back and forth, and landed to the left, “Here’s good. That work?”

Dorian snorted softly, “It’s a ridiculous game.”

“Yeah, that’s the idea.” 

“Ah well.” Dorian leaned forward and brushed his lips over Aran’s.

And Tristan felt his heart stop.

[Aran:]

Aran blinked, then blinked again, staring at Dorian’s eyelids as lips brushed against his. He could have sworn Tristan was going to say something, call it off, veto. He’d been preparing jokes, teases… he couldn’t remember any of them at the moment, but he was sure there’d been… something… funny. Something funny about this. Something… What must it be like for them to kiss each other? Did rose petals cascade from the ceiling whenever they touched lips? Did Chantry bells chime sweetly on distant hills? How could something this light and lingering be so bloody pleasant? It wasn’t fair at all. Life was unfair and cruel. But at least now he would be able to think about this every time he sent Tristan off for his dates. What nice, fond thoughts those would be. Maker, his brows were sculpted, weren’t they? Not a hair out of place, even this close. How was that possible? And his eyelashes were long. Longer than they seemed. Dark and soft like ravens’ feathers. 

Oh, breathing. 

He needed to breathe. He inhaled quickly, lips parting with the sudden effort and then there was… lips and tongue and tongue, Maker save him, slick and hot and tasting of the gin cocktail Anders had thoughtfully sent over for the one bloke who hadn’t even tasted it. His eyes fluttered closed, weak, and he could feel his knee starting to quake under the table like a dog who’s had his neck scratched just right, and it was just right. 

I did good, he congratulated himself silently as his breath was drawn out of him like smoke from incense. Oh, I did very good. I should set people up professionally. Tristan owes me at least a bottle of whisky for nudging him in the direction of this. This is… brilliant. 

[Dorian:]

Brilliant. Dorian felt Aran’s lips part beneath his, the quick intake of breath, chilling. Brilliant, cold, diaphanous. The chip of ice still melting on the back of the fellow’s tongue. The sweetness of juniper curling around the smoke of whiskey. It shouldn’t have mixed well, but it did, perhaps due to the innate scent of fresh soil and southern evergreens that invaded his senses as he breathed. Breathed and tasted and took. He hadn’t expected the lips to be quite so soft, given the way the man terrorized them with his teeth. Nor had he expected them to give beneath his like snow melting under rain, given the intensity of his energy. But there he was, soft and folding and brilliant. Unexpected. Interesting. He leaned, twining his tongue against Aran’s, investigating, and found him more pliant still. Bending, breathing, a small coil of sound more vibration than noise curling up the length of his tongue to his own, buzzing his lips and humming down his own throat like a game of telephone. A game, he reminded himself, suddenly aware of the rapid pulse beneath his fingertips. Tristan’s pulse. Tristan’s hand still clasped with his as he… as he… He swam upwards out of sensation, breaking free with a gasp, and turned to find Tristan gaping at them open-mouthed. 

To his right, he felt Aran sag, winded, against the back of the booth. “Right,” he breathed, sounding as shaken as Dorian felt. Sounding more willing to shrug and shake it off than Dorian was certain he could manage. “Well. That was a surprise. Good play.” He downed the rest of his glass in a single swig. “I’ll get another round, aye?” 

He moved, then paused, caught. Anchored by Tristan’s unyielding grip on his hand.

Dorian touched his tongue to the back of his teeth, still feeling the cold sear of the kiss. “Tristan,” he murmured, searching the man’s expression. Maker, but he was always difficult to read, but this didn’t seem good. Eyes too wide. Lips still parted. Breath short. Pulse arhythmic beneath his fingers. 

“Tris?” Aran asked softly, sliding back into the booth. “You just… take your time, okay?” 

Dorian glanced at him, surprised by the sudden tenderness. The way he cupped Tristan’s hand between his own like something fragile and priceless. All his seemingly boundless energy suddenly focused and intent, pouring into the hand and the man it belonged to. ‘Sharing is caring’, he’d said. 

“Just… give it a minute,” he said with a small nod. “It’s okay. Tris? Heart of my heart, you’ve got to breathe, mate, aye? Just breathe for me, love. Nice and slow.”

Tristan blinked slowly, swallowed visibly. Inhaled over a count of four and exhaled the same. 

Dorian glanced between them, feeling the pulse continue to rush beneath his fingers. “Tristan…”

“Can you…” Tristan looked down, his gaze flicking between his hands clasping each of theirs. 

“Anything,” Aran breathed, “Anything you need.”

Dorian nodded. “Truly.”

“Can you…” Tristan glanced up at them, cheeks stained red. “Can you do that again?”

[feminarrie]

how about a blurb about niall and that one tweet that’s been going around “has your man ever sat you in his lap, kept eye contact with you and fingered you to tears?”

this is the dream, holy shit. 

warning: smut below the cut and a brief mention of drug use! please read at your own risk (18+)

they’ve spent the majority of the day separate from one another. niall spent time with friends that were visiting from out of town. y/n spent hers catching up on some homework before going out to lunch with some classmates. a few texts had been sent back and forth between the two of them throughout the day, but they were quick little reminders to have fun and be safe. 

it isn’t as if they didn’t miss each other terribly because they did. but, it isn’t very often that niall gets to see his friends from back home and y/n can’t exactly justify falling behind on her homework because of her boyfriend. besides, there was a comfort in knowing niall would be falling asleep next to her tonight. especially when they’d spent the last year of their relationship on the phone instead of in person. so, a few hours or days apart hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things. 

when niall arrives at her place, it is just a quarter til eleven. two hours before she expected him, but a little higher than she thought he’d be. his eyes are half-lidded and he’s a giddy when he lets himself into her apartment. his hair is fluffy and standing up in different directions as if he’s run a hand through it a few too many times. and he’s got a lazy smile on his features when he sees y/n laying across her cream colored sofa. 

“baby,” he says, dragging his feet toward y/n’s position on the couch. 

it’s a pet name so rarely used between the two of them, but it’s one that still gives y/n butterflies when he uses it. a shadow of the earlier days of their relationship when niall was testing out a few pet names for y/n. he gauged each of her reactions to find out which one she liked the most. 

(after a few weeks, petal and love seemed to be the winners during their everyday interactions. her preferred names in the bedroom were just as sweet, at least most of the time). 

“i’m so happy to be home.” niall sighs as he sits down beside y/n. 

he wastes little time in gathering her up in his lap which earns a squawk from y/n. she is all smiles as she shifts herself to sit more comfortably in his lap. her knees sit on either side of niall’s hips, effectively caging him in. it’s not as comfortable as sitting in the nest of niall’s lap, but she’s more preoccupied with seeing his face in full view. perhaps a little more interested in pressing over a dozen kisses to his face, too. 

“m’happy you’re home, too.” she responds, pressing a kiss to his lips and then his nose. “missed you an awful lot today.” 

“I missed you.” he echoes, his nose scrunching up with her kisses. “did you have fun today, though?”

“hm, yeah. we tried that new italian place that opened up a few weeks ago.” she hums her response, finally leaning back to make eye contact with niall. “what about you?”

“lots of fun, yeah. might have smoked a bowl or two with the boys before i left to come here.” he admits. 

she rolls her eyes playfully at him, dropping her hands so her palms are pressed to his chest. 

“really? i couldn’t tell.” her tone is playful and sarcastic which earns her a pinch to her side. “hey! s’not very nice!”

it was niall’s turn to roll his eyes at her, although his hand is soothing over the spot where he had lightly pinched her. it’s just the sliver of skin that peeks out between the bottom her shirt and the top her sweatpants. the touch sends a near imperceptible shiver down her spine. 

“sorry, love.” he says, his other hand coming to rest on her other hip. 

they sit like that for a moment, recounting the better parts of their days. and it’s all very innocent as they do. but, there is a subtle shift in the air when niall’s thumbs rub harsh circles into the skin of her hips. it’s nothing that really suggests that anything more than a few stolen kisses and a cuddle are on the menu. but, the slight change in niall’s handling of her has y/n rocking her hips just a little. 

it’s the most subtle movement, but niall seems to be feeling everything just that little bit more after smoking with his mates. so, it really doesn’t take much for him to begin to harden beneath y/n. who, in turn, feels him slowly plumping against her core. and she’d be lying if she didn’t feel a little turned on by the fact that niall was turned on by something so small. 

so, her movements become more obvious. her hips moving back and forth in a somewhat established pattern. she alternates between that and rotating her hips as she looks at niall. her bottom lip is tucked between her teeth as she does so and her eyes never leave niall’s. 

her breathing is coming out in short pants, a single moan interrupting her shallow breathing when her clit presses against the bulge in niall’s blue skinny jeans. 

“fuck.” niall says from below her, his neck turning a shade of red and his cheeks are splotchy. “would’ve come sooner if i’d known you were this needy, love.” 

“always needy for you, ni.” she says truthfully, breathlessly. 

niall groans, letting his eyes fall shut for just a moment before they flutter open once again. his pupils are blown wide when he looks at her and there’s a delicious sense of danger the swims in his blue irises. what it is, y/n isn’t quite sure. but, if the way niall’s hand is sliding past the waistband of her sweatpants and then her underwear is any indication of what is to come, she doesn’t really care too much. 

“fuck.” niall repeats as his finger traces up her slit and just barely missing her clit. “s’all this for me, pretty girl?” 

y/n moves her hips to get closer to niall’s fingers, desperate to have some sort of friction. niall notices and normally, he’d tease her just a little bit. reprimand her for not answering him, but he’s more focused on just how wet she is. his fingers glide across her folds easily and it has his cock twitching in his pants. 

“please.” y/n whispers so quietly that if niall was any further away, he’s sure he wouldn’t have heard her. “please. please. please.” she chants. 

“oh,” niall coos, tilting his head at her as he presses his middle finger to y/n’s clit. “must be really needy if you’re already begging.”

y/n nods vigorously at him, eyes falling shut when he finally begins to rub small circles at her clit. a sigh follows shortly after and her head falls back. he’s hardly touching her, but she really has been aching for him all day. perhaps she wasn’t even aware of it, but her body was. and it is evident in the way that she’s responding to him. 

“look at me, y/n.” niall orders, reaching up with his other hand to tap at her jaw. 

y/n does as she’s told albeit a little slowly. her eyes flutter open and look into that of her boyfriend’s, who has moved his finger away from her clit just seconds before she was able to cum. so, her lower lip is settled into a pout when she does look at him. her hips move of their own accord in search of some type of relief. 

she doesn’t have to wait long, though. because niall had only wanted her to look at him as he pushed his middle finger into her. his own bottom lip comes to sit between his teeth as her mouth falls open only to close once again when he inserts his ring finger just moments after. 

she lets out a moan of his name, eyes threatening to fall shut as she does so. but, niall taps her jaw once again and she gets the hint. she does all that she can to keep them peeled as niall pumps two fingers in and out of her. the palm of his hand brushing her clit every once in a while. 

and niall knows her body better than she does. curling his fingers until he hits the spongey spot that has her hips jutting forward and a whimper falling from her lips. 

at some point, her forehead comes to rest against niall’s. their eye contact hardly wavering as he brings her closer toward the edge. even when she’s chanting his name between breaths and digging her fingernails into his shoulder blades, they keep looking at one another. 

and it’s all just very overwhelming because there’s a hunger in niall’s eyes that is only strengthened by the love that she sees swirling around alongside it. and it has her tipping over the edge and coming around niall’s fingers, body shaking above him. and he helps her ride through it until her breathing has evened out just a little bit. but, he doesn’t let her completely rest. 

niall’s too far gone after watching y/n unravel on top of him. even though it’s an image that has been seared into his brain the very first time they fucked, there is just something so different about watching her come apart around his fingers. even more so when he can practically see the stars clouding her vision as she cums; the way that they glaze over in complete ecstasy. 

and y/n doesn’t seem to mind it too much when niall begins stroking her clit once again, easing her back into it. she is certainly more sensitive now. the way her body jolts with the barest touch makes it apparent, but she still seems eager to cum again. and fuck, if that doesn’t send niall immediately, her begging as she nears her orgasm once again certainly does. 

it happens much faster this time and y/n’s crying out niall’s name. her body slumping over so that she’s resting almost her full weight against niall. and again, niall only gives her some reprieve before beginning to edge her closer and closer again. 

she cums a third time. and then a fourth. by the fifth, there are tears brimming in her eyes and niall thinks the image is worthy of being hung up in a museum. her eyes now match his in color, red veins twisting this way and that along the whites of her eyes. they’re tired and yet still hold something wild as the tears stream down her face. 

so, he truly allows her to come down after her final orgasm. whispering praises in her ear and kisses at her cheeks. the sweat and tears along her skin are sticky against his lips, but he doesn’t mind. he quiets her when she whines about how he didn’t get off because he really doesn’t care. even though he’d prefer to paint the back of her throat with his cum or fuck up into her right then and there, he thinks that the memory of tonight is enough to get him off in a matter of minutes. 

besides, she looks far too spent to even move a muscle. so, niall has no real problem with tucking her into bed after he’s helped her into a new pair of underwear and pajamas. even promises to make her breakfast in the morning for being such a good girl for him. the comment earns a sleepy smile and blush from y/n, who also makes him promise to let her repay the favor someday soon. 

[hopelessromanticspoonie]

As You Are

Title: Grilled Cheese

Co-authors: hopeless_romantic_spoonie, yespolkadotkitty

Summary: A reader insert series about a spoonie Stark Industries IT tech who finds a kindred spirit in Loki, God of Spoons, because it’s hard being different on the inside.

Rating: General Audiences

Also found on Ao3 here :)

Taglist: @just-the-hiddles, @yespolkadotkitty

“Is it a critical emergency or can it wait until tomorrow morning?” you asked distractedly, holding the phone to your ear with your shoulder while you perched on your stool in front of the stove, watching over your grilled ham and cheese sandwiches sizzling pleasantly.

“How long do you think an issue like this will take to wrap up?” Tony shot back another question, voice distorted slightly by the cell phone speaker wedged into your shoulder.

You flipped over the first sandwich, nodding silently to yourself in approval, and then flipped over the second. Your mouth quirked to the side and you shrugged your shoulders lightly, as if your boss could actually see you. No, the only one who could currently see you was the long and lean Asgardian draped across your couch.

“Hard to say. A few hours, maybe? But it’s…” your eyes drifted to the clock on the stove, “already eight o’clock. I’m not sure if I’d get anything done besides staring at the screen blankly at this point, Boss.”

“Fair enough, Spoons. Take your meds, get some sleep. We’ll touch base tomorrow,” he paused, and his tone shifted from kindness to concern, “Reindeer Games still there?”

“Mhm,” you hummed your assent, not wanting to think about the implications that held.

“He bothering you? Say the word, Dorothy,” he added referring to your home state, “I’ll have his ass out of there.”

“He’s fine.” It was, shockingly, true.

You hung up and slid the phone onto the counter beside the stove, directing your full attention to the sandwiches frying in front of you and maintaining your precarious balance on your cheap stool. It had only been five dollars at a local thrift shop, and with what you paid for rent for your tiny one-bedroom apartment in New York City, you preferred to save any money that you had. Medical bills ate at most of your expenses, and you never knew when a new one would arise.

“Why does that overgrown manchild Stark address you as cutlery?” Loki came up behind you, watching you tend to the sandwiches as he waited for your response.

You carefully leaned forward to turn off the burner to the ancient stove and pulled the pan off of the heat. “Grab a couple plates? They’re in there,” you pointed him in the right direction.

He didn’t object to your request, simply grabbed them for you and deposited them on the counter beside your phone. “I asked you a question, mortal,” he repeated, the barest hint of frustration peeking through his typical bored tones.

You rolled your eyes and slid a sandwich onto a plate, holding it out for him with a small smile. “You did, but I was focusing on not falling on my butt from this rickety stool and burning your precious sandwich. So impatient. Now, do you want your sandwich cut up?”

He looked so offended at the suggestion that it was comical, and your smile grew to crinkle around your eyes and nose. “I can handle Midgardian food perfectly well without your help.”

“Suit yourself. It tastes better cut into triangles. Not rectangles. If you cut it into rectangles then you’re a heathen and cannot be trusted,” you explained with mock seriousness, grabbing a knife from the silverware drawer and cutting your sandwich in half the correct way. You slid off of the stool and took your plate to the coffee table, settling down on top of your duvet nest beside Loki.

He had cut his sandwich the wrong way while you were getting situated, probably from one of his conjured daggers, and a mischievous twinkle glittered in his eyes as he bit into it while maintaining eye contact with you.

You shook your head in over-dramatic disappointment. “See? Heathen.”

Quick as lightning, he snagged the other half of your sandwich off of your plate and took a bite off of one of the corners. He feigned deep thought for a second before putting it back. “It seems your theory is correct.”

A laugh barked out of you, easy and free, and you nudged his arm with your shoulder. You were aiming for his shoulder, but Loki was tall. You decided to finally answer his question after you had eaten a few bites. You shook pills into your hand from your pill container, Sunday PM. “Well, we all know how he loves his nicknames, Rock of Ages, and I’m a spoonie. It’s just one that he’s stuck with more than the others.”

Loki, having eaten his sandwich much quicker than you, leaned back onto your couch, draping an arm behind where you were seated and appearing fully relaxed, excluding the crease of thought between his eyebrows. “What does it mean to be a ‘spoonie’?”

Unable to hold the position any longer, you clutched your plate carefully in one hand and slowly sat back into your pile of duvets and supportive pillows. Loki held his hand out for your plate without comment, and you handed it over so that you could use both hands to get comfortable before retrieving it from him. You were acutely aware of both the small amount of relief the supportive position held and the way his thumb rested against the nape of your neck, brushing your skin just enough to raise goosebumps.

“Well, as you’ve so nicely put it, I’m ‘substandard’. Here on Earth, it’s just called disabled, if they’re going to be nice about it. It’s why I take so many different meds. Anyway, there’s a theory called the ‘Spoon Theory’ that was used to explain how people who identify it have to go about their daily lives.”

You took a beat, gathering your thoughts and taking another bite of your sandwich, watching him as he listened to you. You had his full attention, and it was almost too intense to be the sole focus of his piercing gaze as he waited for you to continue. Clearing your throat, you plowed on, doing your best not to ramble too much, “Everything is harder for me, but you know that. It’s why you brought the books. You figured out that I was going to be exhausted and in more pain from going to that party. The way the spoon theory would phrase that is that I used up spoons from the next day to have more fun that night. It’s easier to explain if I have spoons handy, or something to draw with…”

He huffed in exasperation and held out one elegant hand. Spoons, presumably from your kitchen, flew into his outstretched hand. You only had four, living alone and all, but it would do to prove your point. You took them with a nod of gratitude before pressing on, “So, say I’m having a really terrible pain day and I wake up knowing that I’m not going to have the physical and mental strength to get much done that day. So, I have to decide what is important to ‘spend’ my spoons on and what isn’t.

“Getting out of bed already takes away one spoon.” You place one on his thigh. “Cooking usually is the one thing I can kind of let go, with food delivery and freezer meals, so I can forget that. But then it takes spoons to shower, get ready for the day, change out of my pjs, do any tidying up, etc. If I desperately needed to shower, for instance,” you dropped the rest of your spoons unceremoniously onto the duvet currently cocooning you, “then that’d be all that I really got done for the day. It’s just a way for those not in the disability community to understand how we have to look at life and prioritize what we do each day.”

He was silent for several minutes, frowning in thought.

You left him to it, finishing the rest of your cooling sandwich before leaving the plate in your lap. It wasn’t worth leaning forward and possibly falling on your face just to put it on the ramshackle coffee table.

“What do you do when you cannot finish all of your tasks for the day?” His expression was difficult to read, curiosity and frustration warring on his elegant features.

“Well, I do what I can. And I hope that whatever I can’t get done can either wait until tomorrow or isn’t important.”

He grabbed a book from the impressive stack that he renewed daily on your coffee table, resuming his previous position that anchored his thumb to the nape of your neck. The familiar touch made you shiver, but you couldn’t pinpoint the exact reasons why.

“That will not do. Your fragile mortal body is already delicate enough as it is without you taking proper care of it,” he stated, matter-of-fact, cracking open the book in his deft-fingered hands. “I will be of your assistance when necessary.”

You opened your mouth to say something, then shut it, unable to come up with the words to properly express your confusion at his insistence to help you out. You eventually eeked out: “Why?”

He glanced over as if you were a remedial child in need of education. “Because my time in what Stark generously calls a Tower does not require all my hours.”

God, he was a dick sometimes. “Why me,” you clarified.

A smile touched at his lips. “Because, as I told you at the gala, I know what it is like to appear as everyone on the outside, yet be different on the inside. We are kindred spirits, you and I.”

You snorted. “Sure. We’re practically soulmates. Apart from the whole destroying New York thing,” you deadpanned.

He arched a black-as-sin brow. “As you well know, mortal, I was not myself during that period.”

Your stomach lurched, and guilt ate at you a little, making the sandwich you just finished sit like lead. "I know." Over the last few months, you had learned that while Loki could be an arrogant asshole, a pedant and an egomaniac, he wasn't a destroyer of worlds. "Sorry."

He rolled a shoulder as if this was no big deal. "I have learned a thing or two about perception, Midgardian."

And then he picked up a battered copy of Hamlet and started to read to you as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe your life wasn't perfect. But cocooned in the duvet, your stomach full of grilled cheese, your feet propped on his solid thigh, listening to the cadence of his soothing British drawl, you thought: it's pretty darn close.

[keeroo92]

Just a quick note to say I LOVE YOUR WRITING! Your epicness from A03 brought me to your Tumblr. Thank you for the AMAZING V and Dante porn, I mean, stories you have gifted us ❤❤

Oof, thank you! Writing smut was nerve wracking at first so I’m glad you enjoy it! Just for you, have a scene from ages ago that never fit anywhere featuring inappropriate use of a cane...

____________

You were a moth to V’s flame from the first moment you laid eyes on him. Every aspect of his persona, from the curve of his smirking lips to the way his fingers wrapped around the handle of his cane, made you wonder who he really was. What was his real name? Where did he come from? And how the fuck did his every syllable make you ache with need?

It was obvious he had no idea the effect he was having on you, too. His focus was only ever on the mission, and his lovely eyes slid by you with barely a pause to acknowledge your presence. It drove you nuts, and you weren’t going to just lie back and take it.

You started slow, with an occasional bite of your lip or a sly wink when the others weren’t paying attention. His reaction was so subtle you almost missed it; the barest twitch of his lips and widening of his pupils, a millimeter of change if you were lucky. Not enough, you needed to do something more drastic.

It became a game to you. How every time he left you electrified, you made it a mission to return the favor. A lingering hand on his arm, an extra sway of your hips as you walked by, an exaggerated moan when you stretched your arms… You were shameless, you wanted to see him completely lose his composure and you wouldn’t stop until it happened.

As the days rolled on, his reactions grew more noticeable. It gave you a surge of self-satisfaction the first time you saw his grip on his cane tighten, a pulse of pride when you made him blush. You almost laughed when you heard his breath hitch. Oh, payback was sweet.

Until the day he returned the favor.

Nico and Nero were elsewhere, testing some new idea of hers against a small horde of Empusa. You were alone with the poet for the first time in weeks, and you weren’t pulling any punches. He was reading, as always. Quietly sitting on the couch and minding his own business. Unacceptable.

You went to sit beside him, chewing your lip as you looked through your lashes at the page. He didn’t react, so you rested your head on his shoulder, the ends of your hair tickling his tattooed skin as you hummed. He sighed but still didn’t move.

“Read to me?” you asked.

He stared at you and the moment was too perfect to resist. You licked your lips.

V moved faster than you could think. The book clattered as he dropped it, his shoulder gone from under your cheek. He caught you before you fell, lean arms supporting your weight and gripping you securely.

“This game has gone on far too long,” he rumbled, and then he kissed you.

He was rougher than you would’ve expected, insistent and hungry. It set you on fire and you responded in kind, wrapping your arms around him as your tongue darted forth to meet his. His flavor and scent enveloped you in peppermint and leather as his hands rested on your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles in the tender flesh.

It was too much; you moaned against his mouth, surrendering to his will. His lips twisted into a victorious smirk, but you were too far gone to care. As long as he kept kissing you, kept touching you, you were too happy to admit defeat.

His grip on your hips shifted and you fell back onto the couch with a surprised gasp. V’s eyes gleamed as he picked up his cane and used the curve of the handle to hook onto the belt loop of your jeans, pulling the fabric down bit by bit. You lifted your hips to help and within moments your legs were bare.

“Hmmm… however shall I amuse myself?” he mused, deftly flipping his cane so the handle was in his palm. He traced the blunted tip up your calf, leaving goosebumps behind. He smirked and continued, crossing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh to rest on your mound and pressing down gently.

It felt so good, you were helpless to resist the urge to press against the hard metal with more force, wiggling just enough to get a bit of friction. Your hands flew to the armrest to clench the cushion, using it as an anchor. A wicked idea popped into your mind. You still hadn’t seen him lose composure, not to your satisfaction. Time to play dirty.

“Put it in me,” you moaned, rolling your hips against his cane suggestively.

V’s lips popped open and his brows shot up in surprise and you felt a surge of victory as the metal resting against your core trembled. You watched with glee as his Adam’s apple bobbed and he struggled to mask his reaction. Yet still, you wanted more.

“Please, V… fuck me with your cane,” you begged.

He dropped it.

You smirked as he cleared his throat and reached down to pick up the silver again, his breathing a dead giveaway of his excitement. His every reaction spurred you to push him farther, only adding gasoline to the fire of your desire. It might not be wise, but you didn’t care.

“Please, please, please… fuck me with your cane, then fuck me with your cock.”

He was still for a long beat, processing your new attitude. Slowly, his lips spread into a grin. “At your pleasure.”

The silver tip moved, tracing the fabric of your panties and nudging them aside to find your aching heat. V used only the slightest amount of pressure, allowing the first inch inside your sodden folds. You wanted to scream in frustration; he was torturing you.

“Truly a lovely picture,” the poet crooned, his eyes glued to where your flesh met his tool.

“More, I need more…”

He hummed and pushed another portion of the metal inside to scrape at your walls, biting his lower lip at the vision before him. It was a strange sensation, to have the expanse of metal probing your depths, but the sheer forbiddeness of it was intoxicating.

“Tell me how much you like it,” he purred.

You moaned your enthusiasm and he started thrusting, the metal making an obscene wet sound as it slid through you. The cold length quickly warmed inside your all-encompassing heat. V’s free hand went to his obvious erection, stroking in time with his ministrations. His already heavy breathing deepened until he was outright panting and the knowledge of his enjoyment set you on fire.

You rocked your hips, trying to get the metal to hit you just right. It sank deeper until it could go no further and with every motion of his arm the flames grew hotter.

“I’m so close,” you whined.

He moved his hand from himself to dip under your panties, his thumb finding your swollen bud easily and rubbing circles around it. The combination sent you hurtling over the edge into bliss, every muscle tightening as you cried out your release. Wave after wave of pleasure flooded your nerves, leaving them tingling in its wake as you slowly came back down.

V leaned forward to kiss your hip, carefully withdrawing his cane with a squelch. You could barely breathe as he tossed his cane aside, his hair tickling your thigh as your elbows fell away. His beautiful hands went to work at his pants and within moments the dark fabric lied on the floor.

“Lie on your side,” he commanded you as his cock met open air. It was significantly wider than his cane and your core twinged in excitement at the thought of him stretching you.

With half-lidded eyes, you shifted your weight and bent your legs, leaving room for him to climb onto the couch with you. The tiny piece of furniture barely fit you both, but V managed well enough. He turned your shoulders so your spine was flat and lifted one leg over his shoulder, opening you up for his length. His eyes shone as he rolled his hips forward and slid home with a muttered curse.

“Fuck, you look divine wrapped around me.”

You hummed your pleasure as he pulled back, sending flames racing across your limbs. He braced his weight on one arm, tangling the other in your hair as he established a smooth rhythm that let you feel every inch of him. The slow pace had you mewling, your hands tugging at his hips in a desperate bid for more speed, but he was merciless.

“V, please…”

He tightened his grip on your locks, lightly tugging to the side to expose your neck. Your elevated leg ached as he pressed against it to kiss your throat, his voice a low whisper.

“Please what? I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific.”

He punctuated the last word with a single, violent thrust that would’ve cracked your skull against the armrest if his hand hadn’t cushioned the blow. You panted as shockwaves of euphoria cascaded through every inch of your skin, the small hairs on your forearms standing on end from the delightful impact.

“Please, fuck me!” you gasped out.

V hummed his approval and shifted, resting one foot on the floor as you lifted your hips off the couch to get a better angle.  With his hand still cushioning you, he grunted and threw his head back as he slammed into you, his motions so powerful they sent the van rattling.

“Fuck yes!”

He bottomed out and you gasped, hips trembling as he touched the deepest part of you. You moved his hand to your throat, using your own palm to guard against impacts as his fingers tightened around your neck. With your other hand you feverishly rubbed your clit, and just as your vision started to flicker you exploded.

V’s shuddering groan marked his own peak as you milked him into ecstasy, and he hastily pulled out to spill his hot seed on your stomach. He released your neck to pump himself, shooting long white tendrils across your body as you rose to meet it. Spent, he sat back and pushed his sweaty hair out of his eyes.

After a moment of quiet panting, he started chuckling.

“What’s so funny?” you asked, eyes still closed as you basked in the afterglow.

“I’ll never see my cane the same way, knowing it was once inside you,” he replied.

A wicked grin spread across your lips and you opened one eye to watch his reaction. “Would it help to see it again? Maybe on a regular basis?”

He smirked and trailed a finger down your leg, eyes flashing as he watched his pale hand move across your flesh. “I doubt it, but there’s only one way to know.”

[claraofsorrow]

❝ CLARA & CARREAU

Conversation .01

LOCATION: Clara Palacio’s house

OTHER INFO: n/a

CARREAU:

His demons these days were looking pretty rough around the edges, but not in the good way. In the way that they were not furthering their genetic mission to destroy the earth and engulf the human race in chaos. Honestly, what was all his work for if they simply didn't follow his orders? Clara was the worst offender of this alongside Evie, and while he had given Evie her first warning, Clara was on her tenth. He'd beaten her, isolated her, assaulted her, slowly tortured her, showed her horrible memories, every conceivable type of pain possible to get her to understand and yet, she had withstood. Some were simply lost causes, but, she hadn't gotten away scotch free. However, after the event, Carreau knew she wouldn't be using those Mystery Inc. names for their actual purpose. Breezing into her home by having her door slam open, his wings flapping inside and destroying everything in his path, he finally appeared in front of her. "Clara, we meet again." he let the wings retract, "You know what a godawful piece of shit you are, but we have to talk about that demon meeting."

CLARA:

Clara had been sitting cross legged on her couch, working on some medical paperwork when she heard the door slam open and watched the Prince walk in, destroying her new vase in the meantime and knocking decor off her shelves. She frowned, and narrowed her eyes. “I have a doorbell you know,” she said quietly. Although Clara had learned to harden herself against Carreau , the memory of his tortures still made her skin crawl. But she remained steady and brave as she looked up at him.

CARREAU:

"You know I don't do doorbells, especially for you," Carreau responded back instantly, grabbing a nearby apple out of a basket of fruit on her coffee table and taking a bite. Muching on the apple, he took a stance in front of her in faux thought, as if contemplating what he was going to be doing with her. After a moment of chewing, he finally opened his mouth. "Babe, as much as I enjoyed that presentation and giving those disgusting kid's names away, I have a feeling you're not going to use them like they're suppose to be used. Would I be right on that?" He cocked an eyebrow to her, taking another bite to let her answer

CLARA:

Clara put her papers down on the couch beside her and stood up, brows furrowing and expression growing more and more unwelcoming. “They’re just children, Carreau, they don’t deserve to get hurt just because they were trying to get the message out about people they consider dangerous. They don’t know any better.”

CARREAU:

Carreau rolled his eyes at her response, feeling the fire spark into his hands and burn the apple to ashes, leaving it to fall through his fingers into the floor. "You see, Clara-- that's where you're wrong." he spat at her with a point of his finger, "You fucking saw all the information they had on us. You think if people knew what you really were they'd still let you put your fingers in their pussies or even hold their babies?" Carreau scoffed, pausing for a moment to let her consider it, before adding afterwards, "We are evil incarnate, and that's always what we're going to be until we die. Either you get with the program and start using what I gave you to destroy those brats or we're going to have an issue."

CLARA:

Clara stood up, eyes narrowed. "No," she said firmly, with voice raised barely an octave higher. "You've tried to get me to be like you for years, Carreau, but it's not going to happen. You are not my Prince. Whatever hold you're trying to get, is never going to happen and rest assured I will fight against our evil nature as long as I live."

CARREAU:

Carreau let out a roar of a laugh -- Clara always had a special stubbornness to her. He shook his head, his wrist flicking to throw her against the nearest wall once she was done talking, not caring about the furniture she hit on her way. "Clara, Clara, Clara...what are we going to do with you?" he taunted, as if a father scolding his child. He paid no mind to any pain she was in, just beginning to pace around the space, arms locked behind his back as he thought. "There is no fighting against this, against us. We're demons for a reason, Palacios. It's cause something inside of us was evil enough to overcome our souls, and when you die, you will be nothing but ashes to ashes and dust to dust as it were." he explained, finally stopping in front of her to look down at the demon. "I may not be able to make you torture those kids, but I sure as hell can stop you from helping them."

CLARA:

Clara grunted as she crashed against her bookcase, volumes falling over her as she got her bearings. Carreau paced in front of her and the fallen angel's hands tingled with power. She battled against her impulses, resisting the urge to explode in rage. Despite her best efforts, a nearby vase with flowers and water began to vibrate. "If you want to kill me go ahead," she said gruffly, getting back up. Clara wasn't afraid of death - in fact, she'd wanted to die for centuries now though she was sure the Prince already knew that. "But if you don't, I will do what I have to do. And you won't be able to stop me."

CARREAU:

Carreau noticed the vase, eyes glittering towards it with a devilish grin streaking across his features. "You may still have some fire left in you after all, Clara." he said, admiring her work -- small, yet effective. He chuckled at her suggestion next, his head shaking. "Death would be too good for you, princess." He said, emphasizing the words to go along with his own title, the sickly predatory tone dripping onto her like acid. "No--no, I plan to make sure that you don't get near them instead. I will have every demon watching you. They bow to me, and despite what you think, you do too. That vase is proof enough." Then, instantly, he threw his arm towards it, letting it burn into nothing but ash.

CLARA:

Clara took a step forward. “I will never bow to you,” she said, voice calmer but her eyes were steely and fierce. “I belong to no one, except to my maker Himself. I know I’ve made my mistakes and I’ve betrayed God, but I am still who I was before, and I will do what I believe is right despite everything - to make up for what I became and what I’ve done. This is my purpose, and not even the Prince himself can take that away from me.”

CARREAU:

When she came closer, Carreau simply stopped and watched with his usual smug smirk, listened and nodding his head along with her. "Mm, right." he said, words clearly sarcastic and passive. After a moment, the demon prince stood back, head tilting back in casual confidence. "I can take much more away from you than you think, dear Clara. Don't you ever wonder what happened to those sons of yours? I'd hate to find them before you." he threatened with a deep laugh. He breathed in through his nose, savoring the moment as he began for the door. "I think my work here is done, but-- the work of others to hold you back isn't. It's too bad demons don't have eyes in the back of their heads, or else maybe you'd be able to see them coming."

CLARA:

At the mention of her boys and Carreau’s threat towards them, Clara visibly tensed and practically seethed, only the barest and almost unnoticeable amount of flameless and smokeless heat escaping from her fingertips. She didn’t trust herself to speak, nor did she want to give him the satisfaction of another retort. Clara glared at the Prince as he left, and already began thinking of all the ways she could disobey him.

༻῾ FIN.

[blue-mood-blue]

Anonymous also requested Daydreamer by Young the Giant, so this is that!

Listen, there is so much that could be done with this song. I considered a lot of ideas. But that line “Just tell me you know my face” really stuck with me; I’ve had an idea rattling around in my head for a bit, and this seemed like a good opportunity to explore it. So Anon, I hope you don’t mind if this one’s a bit of an au for the song (sort of an alternate scenario, really). (If you hate it or it’s not what you wanted I promise I’ll write you something else, you have my word.)

Also holy shit this got long I apologize in advance??

~~~

It's so affected, / That color corrected night / But you're falling fast / Through plastic skies / And here you look reflective / So disconnected / It's not real life  / Open your eyes and breathe / Everything's in its right place / But nothing gold can stay / Just tell me you know my face!

Taako has the magical umbrella for about two minutes before Magnus breaks it. 

One minute it’s in Taako’s hands and he’s having some weird, buzzing connection with an inanimate, magical object, and the next Magnus has tripped over some uneven flooring in his eagerness to see, knocked it to the ground, and landed on top of it. There’s a loud crack and some smoke, which has Magnus scrambling away and Taako rolling his eyes because this is why we can’t have nice things, Magnus, and then there’s someone else in the room with them, and she demands attention.

She’s a lich, and she’s smiling, and she’s laughing. There’s nothing threatening in the sound, though her voice does have a strange echo; she sounds genuinely delighted. When he looks at her face the details of her features slip from his mind as soon as he takes them in, but he can tell that she’s smiling. She’s looking right at him.

“You found me. You finally fucking found me! Fuck, Taako, how long has it been? It's been a while, right? I missed you.”

Magnus and Merle turn to look at him as if Taako has any extra insight about what's happening, and he shrugs. People know his name, but no one ever misses him. That would imply a level of personal connection that Taako just doesn't have with anyone.

The lich is waiting for him to say something, expectant. Taako clears his throat. “Well that's… nice. I wish I could return the sentiment but I’m having a hard time placing you, I do a lot of shows you know…”

She seems… unimpressed, and maybe a little hurt. “Okay, I get it, I shouldn't have left like that with only the note. It was a shitty move and I'm sorry. I should've… asked you to come with me or something, let you know what I was doing, anything else besides just disappearing. But fuck, Taako, I didn't mean to - can we do the ‘I'm pissed at you for leaving’ routine later? I've been waiting for you for what feels like years.”

None of it makes sense, and Taako has no idea what to do with it. He'd like to drop the act, but there is no act; there's just him and this stranger and a couple of slightly-less strangers in this cave, and there’s no reason for him to feel like what he's about to say is needlessly cruel. But he does. “Uh, no hard feelings? Don't even worry about it, I've already forgotten the whole thing.” He waved a hand as though waving whatever she was talking about out of the air between them. The lich smiled. “Bit of an awkward question though, could I get your name? Seems that's slipped my mind as well.”

And, well. He couldn't describe the expression on her face after that. This time, it wasn't the fault of her strangely unmemorable features.

~~~

Her name is Lup, and she continues to have unreasonable expectations of Taako.

First, she wants him to get her on the moon base. She’s looking for some people, she says, for some information, and this is the place to look. There’s a holy symbol to deal with, in the Director’s private chamber, and he'd like to actually have the job for a couple of days without being arrested or literally thrown off of the base or some shit.

And he’d like to tell her that, but instead he helps her with her fucking break-in. He doesn't know why he can't say no, but it's probably something to do with the fact that she’s a very powerful lich.

So he breaks in and replaces the symbol with a decoy. The room isn't that impressive once Lup figures out how to get him past the security features; there's just a bed, a metric fuckton of journals, and a wet spot on a table that no one’s bothered to clean up.

As soon as Taako gets back to his room Lup is there waiting, and after that she's almost always there. She seems to assume that she’s welcome around him all the time, and she follows him around. Taako should be annoyed, Taako should complain about his privacy and alone time like he does to Magnus and Merle; he waits for the irritation to bubble up. 

And while he waits, he talks to Lup. Lup has opinions about everything, and she’s hilarious, and they click immediately. Taako finds himself getting used to her presence way too quickly. That’s dangerous, he should know better after Sazed, but for once he doesn’t care.

This is going to hurt later, but he doesn’t fucking care.

~~~

Lup goes with them on every mission, which works out for Taako when he keeps almost dying. She’s not impressed, and she makes sure he knows it.

“Listen,” she says, sitting at the counter while Taako pours himself a celebratory glass of wine. “I’m just saying, there are better spells for not falling to your death. There’s a whole list. You could, you know, maybe learn one or two and save me from a second death by heart attack.”

Taako laughs and takes a swig of wine. Lup glares at him jealously and he sticks out his tongue at her. “Yeah, fantastic, except every single suggestion you’ve had has been above my level. Give me something I can work with and I’ll consider it.”

Lup frowns. “Above your level? What level are you?” She seems unsatisfied with his answer. “That’s it? Fuck, dude, what have you been doing?”

“Uh, saving the world? Believe it or not, I haven’t been studying the arcane arts my entire life. Give me a chance to catch up, we can’t all be powerful beings made of magic.”

She’s still frowning, but she doesn’t bother him as much about his spell choices after that.

~~~

Taako doesn’t sleep well. Magnus and Merle both know about it, because it’s hard not to after sleeping by a campfire together for a few nights, but it’s not something he thinks to mention to Lup. She’s usually gone at night anyway, off to meet someone planetside and exchange information.

When he wakes up one night, his throat is already raw from screaming and there’s a figure in his doorway. There’s a lingering feeling of wrong and alone and something massive and unfathomable pressing down on him, and when the figure steps closer and reaches out he flinches back violently. He should recognize her, he knows that somewhere in the back of his mind, but most of him is still somewhere else.

She stays, but not too close; she sits next to his bed with her back against it while his breathing slows and he becomes more aware of his surroundings.

“Things are going to get better, Taako,” she whispers hours later. Taako is still awake, but he’s not sure if he’s meant to hear this or not. “I swear, things are going to get so much better for you. I am going to figure out what's going on and I’m going to fix it, and you’re going to be okay. We’re all going to be okay.”

He doesn’t know how she can make that promise, but he wants to believe her.

~~~

Lup has questions about everything.

What did he do before he joined up with Magnus and Merle?

He tells her about the show, in the barest way possible. The audiences, the dishes, the success. “I just got tired of doing the same thing all the time,” he says, and he's not sure if she believes him.

Why does he get so twitchy when someone tries to touch him? Magnus looks like he gives great hugs, Taako should get in on that.

Sazed. So much shit circles back to Sazed. He knows Magnus is different, a genuinely good person, but his skin remembers too much touch as a warning sign. He just shrugs.

What was he like growing up? As much of a little shit as he is now?

He laughs at that and tells her yeah, of course. It was just him against the world, he didn't owe anyone anything and wasn't about to act like he did. He misses the moment when her expression crumbles for just an instant.

What was he going to do after this? More adventures?

He doesn't know the answer. Maybe, he says. But I'll probably be alone, he thinks. Good things like this don't stay. Good people - like Lup, like Magnus, like most of the Bureau - don't stick around people like Taako. They never have.

He doesn't feel bad about lying about some of it, because he's pretty sure that she's not being entirely truthful with him, either.

~~~

He asks her if she saw the vision the chalice showed him, and she says no. He doesn't know why, but he's relieved.

(If she doesn’t know, maybe she’ll stay. Maybe, just this once, someone will stay.)

~~~

Lup is waiting for him on the couch after the date, and she starts wiggling her eyebrows at him suggestively as soon as he walks through the door. He laughs and sits down next to her.

“Well?”

Taako is grinning. He can't help it. “He's such a dork. Lup, the Grim Reaper is a nerd.”

“Sounds like that's not a deal breaker though.” She's grinning too.

“He's allowed to be a nerd because he's cute about it. You remember the accent?” It's a genuine question, because he's not sure how much she remembers about Kravitz after having to hide every time he made an appearance.

“How could I not remember the accent?”

Taako leaned closer. “It's fake.”

There's a beat of silence, and then Lup is howling with laughter. Taako joins her, and he feels so comfortably at home that he should be terrified, he should be backing out of the room and making a getaway plan, but he doesn't want to. Them being here, next to each other, feels like a foregone conclusion. Inevitable. There's no need to worry, because this is how it should be.

He's not going to think about what's going to happen when she finds the people and information she's looking for, or they find all of the relics, or whether this good moment can last. For one night, he's going to revel in the feeling of being home and not worry about what comes next.

~~~

It’s a quiet afternoon on the base; Taako is sprawled out on the couch with not much to do, Magnus is off training, and Merle has gone planetside for reasons that he didn’t volunteer and Taako doesn’t care about. He hears the sound of a throat clearing and when he opens his eyes, Lup is standing over him.

“That’s not creepy,” he comments, and Lup grins.

“Do you trust me?” she asks.

“More than I should probably trust any lich.” She’s still smiling, and he smiles too. “What’s going on?”

“I found something I’ve been looking for.” Lup waves him over and he follows, through twisting hallways, a hidden doorway, and down a few sets of stairs to a room that looks like an underground hanger. There’s an enormous ship stored there, but Taako doesn’t have time to think about why it might be there; Lup is already walking up a gangplank and inside.

There’s a room in the ship with a tank, and in the tank is another, smaller, voidfish. It burbles when they walk inside. Lup doesn’t have to tell him what he needs to do.

Taako drinks.

Taako remembers.

Taako turns to his sister - he can see her face clearly, finally - and says “I found you.”

[ckyking]

fire and ashes

alright! nyxnoctweek, here we go! we are starting with some hunter!au~   (please ignore the fact that this is nearly three hours late in my time zone, i’m using the time magic called extra six hours before midnight to my advantage, okay!?)

“Get. it .off.”

Hearing the growled order so close to his ear – and to his vulnerable neck – did nothing to diminish the glow of Noctis’ practiced smile, which was truly only half-feigned. If one looked closely enough, like Nyx did, they would have been able to see the glimmer of genuine laughter in Noctis’ eyes, blue depths distracting unwary observers from his tight grip on his escort’s arm.

A slight uplift of the hunter’s lips answered the shapeshifter, highlighting once again the delicate beauty of his features and oh, how Nyx loathed him in that moment. The defiant boy was in his element here, surrounded by beautiful things, party in full swing around them. How could he not be? After all, as the older being had so pointedly reminded him of the first day they had spent together, the Lucis heir had been groomed to survive his coming of age, and it showed : greetings in various dialects, some nearly lost to time itself, dropped from his lips like precious jewels; the shadow of a smile or a seemingly innocuous twist of his fingers charmed their fellow guests, leaving them to look hungrily after him; and even Nyx himself, not forgettable in the least, turned into an accessory between his talented hands.

It was enough to drive a man crazy.

 The subtle tensing of Noctis’ fingers against his arm stopped him from trying to claw off the other reminder of how out of place he was in such an environment. He was more suited to wilderness; to the wide open plains and the forests of his homeland; to the moon’s gaze on his back; to the taste of exertion, sweet and pure on his tongue. Nothing like the lies and schemes he had so devoutly avoided all these years, preferring to leave the political maneuvering to either Néit or Selena.

Through unknown means, the hunter had learned of this and vetoed any and all of his suggestions concerning their plan of action, leaving Nyx floundering for the first time in decades as Noctis brought to bear contacts no members of the Council had ever suspected him to have. No one dared contradict a member of the Ulric Clan when they came out of their self-imposed isolation, and here was this slip of a boy, not even a tenth of his age, ignoring him and taking his obedience for granted after leaving him bound and helpless for fun – or as payback if he was honest with himself.

In short order, their shared hotel room had been filled with fabrics and jewels, precious metals and leathers, all of them spread out for Noctis to peruse, the hunter occasionally looking up to assess his escort’s stormy demeanour before dismissing some of his options. With flicks of his fingers, the unwanted items disappeared, taken away as mysteriously as they had been delivered and leaving only the sharp smell of a winter’s night behind.

The enigma behind the Lucian’s casual use of such powerful magic was enough to pull the tattooed man out of his “sulk” as Noctis had categorized it later. Leaving his perch on the windowsill, Nyx cautiously walked closer to the seemingly distracted man to get a better idea of the hauntingly familiar scent that floated around him. As he did so, he kept a wary eye on the darkness stretching on the floor and reaching for him, Pryna’s cold hold still heavy on his mind. The raised eyebrow directed his way drove home how ridiculous he must have looked, literally jumping at shadows, but he ignored both Noctis’ judgemental stare and the dull burn of embarrassment crawling up the back of his neck. Briefly baring his teeth in answer and fighting the urge to strangle the brat, he returned to observing their chosen outfits for the night, laid out side by side on one of the couches lining the wall of their suite. He made it a point to keep his side to the hunter and not his back, watching him spin a piece of silver in his hands consideringly, around and around.

The first one was a study in contrast with the main piece cut from royal purple silk edged with black and artfully embroidered with gold in sweeping patterns closely resembling a dragon’s scales. Laid over it and obviously meant to be worn underneath was a tight sleeveless shirt, black to match the silk and offset by the white sash carefully folded on top.

Compared to it, the other outfit appeared simpler; a white short-sleeved tunic open from sternum to neck, material barely kept together by the black cords lacing it up. However, just like the other, the craftsmanship was impeccable, purple thread standing out against its white backdrop and weaving runes of all origins together in a motif that hid them from sight but did not impede their function. One of them caught his eyes, the archaic design bringing to mind his childhood in the wilderness of Galahd for a second before its meaning caught up to him. As if the entire motif was a door and this very rune the key to it, the pattern unravelled before his eyes and revealed what had only been hinted at until then.

“Noctis,” He asked, forgetting his anger for a moment and turning his head toward the other, ”Why the hell is that thing drowning in ownership marks?”

“Why, Sir Ulric, because you belong to me, for tonight at least.”

Those words barely reached his ears before soft lips covered his and a heavy weight was slipped around his neck. A soft click broke the sudden silence like a gunshot, followed by Noctis’ amused hum against his mouth as coldness flooded his limbs before nestling behind the wide silver band seamlessly encircling his throat.

“You fucking— “

Another peck stole the breath – and strength – out of him before the hunter leaned back, tugging the shapeshifter with him with a finger slipped between silver and the hummingbird beat of Nyx’s pulse. Noctis returned his fierce glare with an even wider smile, enjoying the sight of him struggling against the binding inflicted by the collar.

“Now, now, pet, be nice. Many of your misconducts will be glossed over as long as our fellow guests find me worthy of respect, but if you struggle too much, I will have to discipline you to keep it. We wouldn’t want that, would we?” He punctuated each sentence with a tap against Nyx’s collar, overpowering the enchantments pointedly.

“Oh, and you didn’t think to warn me!?”

A considering hum answered him before a simple “no” was thrown back negligently.

“I know you are not comfortable in such battlefields, so I will be taking over. I hope you don’t mind.” Nyx’s suddenly pointed teeth ground together, expressing his anger when the rest of his body could not, “We’re partners after all.”

And now, here they were, mingling as Noctis put it. The urge to snap and show the brat his place beat like a second heart in his chest, but the usual fire animating him was dulled down to embers by the omnipresent darkness weaving itself around him in intangible bonds of silk.

At least, Nyx thought, he had not been left alone even once. Noctis’ bare shoulder rubbing against his arm at each step had been the closest he had had to anchor since their arrival. He refused to admit it out loud, but they did look good together, a thought echoed by many of the beings laughing and drinking around them.

The hunter – not that anyone knew him as such with the geas temporarily strengthened to hide his identity – was grace and loveliness incarnate. No one could stop themselves from looking at the marked skin of Noctis’ upper arms without wanting to replace the hunter’s own protection runes with their own. With the way silk wrapped around his neck, flowed to his side and looped back up to wrap around his forearms where it was secured by heavy gold bangles, it was no easy feat to ignore him.

The shapeshifter, on the other hand, embodied strength and power. The white cotton molded his muscular body perfectly, turning each of his deadly graceful movements into a display of dominance aimed at every other shifter in the same room as him. His intricate tattoos did nothing to detract from this impression, running up and down both arms and winking briefly from between the laces of his tunic, deep black against his tanned skin. Added to this were the laced-up leather pants showcasing everything from the firmness of his calves to the tempting muscles of his thighs in one line of bared flesh going from the top of his knee-high boots to this waist, the only matching piece both him and Noctis shared.

It had made it much easier to pull information from them. Noctis’ deft maneuvering and charm paired with Nyx’s wild allure and easy grin were a devastating combination, which the latter would have enjoyed more if not for the collar . As if sensing the spike of emotion, Noctis altered their course, aiming for one of the many balconies looking over the forest encircling the mansion, leaning his cheek against Nyx’s strong arm all the while in comfort.

“Hey, how are you holding up?” He asked as they reached the railing, the sweet-scented wind sending his robes and sash billowing in Nyx’s direction. The sound of both materials whispering against each other paired with Noctis’ sharp scent of snow and myrrh cut through the overwhelming smell of roses hanging in the air and leached tension from his frame against his will

“So you care now?” The white and black-clad man bit back, though not as sharply as he wanted to.

“I do. We only have each other here, and we can’t afford to let anything separate us.”

There was no hint of teasing as Nyx had expected, only utmost seriousness and the barest spark of apprehension in his blue eyes. When Noctis reached for his neck this time, he did not fight back and let him do so. Lithe fingers pressed against the metal at this throat and reinforced its enchantments, chasing away the fire coursing through his veins. The cold felt so good after all the heat that his eyes started closing off their own accord, until he was nosing sleepily into the crook of his owner’s neck.

“Nyx,” The hunter mouthed softly against his stubbled cheek, “Summer is heavy here, and they like to…play with people, much more so than Winter. As long as you belong to me, they cannot touch you, so please, play along.”

Just as he was about to answer, the bell which they had gotten a glimpse of as they crossed the manor’s grounds echoed, its loud tolls cutting off their conversation and forcing Nyx’s eyes open when his heart seemingly burst aflame.

“Nyx, Nyx!” Noctis whispered urgently, tightening his hold on the shifter and activating the ownership marks woven through his clothing and collar, “You have to strengthen your protections, now. We cannot afford to join their revelry!”

“What…spells..?”

“Are you— Are you serious!? The collar and clothes were insurance, but I thought that your tattoos were permanent spells! They look and feel like it!”

“Not…Summer.”

Clenching his teeth to resist the urge to shake and berate Nyx for his stupidity, he propped the bigger man up with his shoulder and pulled both of them against the flow of party-goers heeding the bell’s call and exiting the manor. Between maintaining the geas, Nyx’s claim and shielding him partially from Summer’s enchantments, his reserves were depleting, and fast. But he couldn’t give up, not now. Nyx was heavy and unresponsive against his slighter frame, eyes hazy and lost in the distance; much better than the alternative in Noctis’ opinion. As the thought crossed his mind, large hands tangled in the material of his sash while the until-then unresponsive man started mouthing at his shoulder and neck, kissing every inch of skin he could reach. Turning his head away from the tantalizing touches, Noctis whispered a single sentence, lost in the earth-shattering noise echoing through the premises. The shadows surrounding them shuddered before the ones the hunter had named and called himself answered him, uncoiling from their resting place behind Nyx’s collar and slid down his body along the lines of his tattoos.

Each consecutive toll struck harder against the hastily erected web of shadows dampening its effects, stoking the heat roaring higher and higher. Even he who was born immune to such powers could feel the strength of it flowing over him like the sea, only to part when its will broke apart against the hundreds of Lucii who had lived and die to continue their line. But Nyx, he could not protect, not without bringing down Summer’s full might on them in their own territory.

“Look at me, Nyx. Don’t think about anything but me.”

The order, sharp and cutting, broke through the haze covering Nyx’s vision, lending strength back to his legs and allowing Noctis to take a break from supporting his weight to better survey where exactly they were heading. The wandering hands stilled around his waist even as the shifter plastered himself against his back, seeking the relief Noctis and his shadows provided him from the terrible heat.

They were lucky that most of the guests came fully expecting to be swept away by the flood of fire and paid no attention to them, willingly and temporarily enthralled as they were.

Closing his eyes to better shut out distractions and his own body’s reactions to Nyx, Noctis dove down into the dark and vibrant place inside of him that Luna had helped build, piece by piece. It was there that his spells were born, there that he was closest to Umbra and Pryna, there that the source of his power sang in ancient tongues and painted him in white and gold. And it was there that Nyx reached out to him, immersing himself in the coldness of his claim to escape the inferno trying to consume him.

It was unconceivable for him – who had felt Summer’s attempted re-claimings of his line most of his life – to not fear its touch, to not use every means at his disposal to keep it at bay. But Nyx— Nyx who was an Ulric, feared and revered; Nyx who prefered the heat of battle to pacts forged in sacrifices; Nyx whom the Fae avoided out of respect for the treaty the first Ulric bled for millennia ago. He had never known this, and in spite of their age difference, Noctis felt a little closer to him; felt and saw flashes of memories running through their fledgling bond, meant to last only for a night.

Luna, Dad, you never warned me about this.

You never told me they could be this genuine. You never told me they could be so human.

I could kill him. I could fuck him. But how am I supposed to do that when he is reaching for me so?

“To protect yourself, you may have to kill your heart” You told me. But I can’t do it. I’ve tried, but it’s hard sometimes.

“I’m going to regret this.” The youngest whispered to himself as he commanded the shadows to bind his partner. Nyx’s whole body tensed in answer, struggling against the now corporeal shadows crawling all over him. With a push, he was sent sprawling down on one of the many cushions decorating the floor, now unused because of the revelry going on outside.

His cut-off whine went straight through the ice Noctis had encased his own heart in – modelled after the Fae and Lunafreya’s own mask – since his father’s disappearance and the beginning of his mission.

Untying his trailing sash with sharp movements, he moved to straddle the taller male’s hips, not leaving himself one second to consider the consequences of his actions. Even now, the enchantment was still not done with its target, and Noctis felt the result of it against his ass, his erection straining against the leather of his pants, the little hitches of his hips even the shadows could not completely stop. The call of revelry was either to be completely embraced or destroyed immediately; fucking until the sun set and Winter’s power took hold was not a thing to do lightly, and he refused to ever go through such a thing, or use anybody in such a way.

Pushing those thoughts out of his mind, he bent down and pressed his forehead to Nyx’s, looked into hazy blue eyes and called light and shadow to his hands.

“For better or for worse, you’ll be mine. I hope we can both live with it.”

Their first kiss tasted of fire and ashes, destruction and renewal.

[daphnegeeksout]

The Silence Between Us (6/7) [Steve x Reader]

Read it on AO3

By: daphnethewriter

Everything would be different if you hadn’t been there. Maybe you would be normal. Instead, you’re dangerous, a threat to be contained. You don’t want to be powerful. You don’t want to be special. You don’t want to be an Avenger. But there’s something about the way Steve looks at you–warm and soft and trusting–that makes you feel like you’re still yourself.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Words: 3,113, Chapter: 6/7, Language: English

You sit in your room, lit by the television in front of you. You've sat here for hours, watching the same news footage repeat itself. There are no developments, nothing to report. The Avengers haven't returned and the news crews are scrambling to find anything about what happened at the gala.

A terrorist attack. A senseless tragedy.

You pull your knees closer to your chest. You showered and changed when you got back to the compound, hoping the familiar motions would calm your mind or that there would be an update on the Avengers when you got out of the bathroom. There hadn't been. So you sit on the couch, your eyes glued to the screen. You don't know how long you can stay this way. It's possible that the Avengers won't be back for weeks. That's happened before.

The door opens with a bang.

"You here?" Steve's voice is laced with panic.

You jump off the couch. His body blocks the light coming through the door, leaving only the massive outline of his form, comforting in how big he is. You rush toward him and he meets you halfway to pull you into his crushing embrace. He squeezes just a little too hard, but he's there and he's whole and if you can't breathe, it's proof that he's fine.

He pushes you back from him, leaning to your level so he can peer into your eyes. “You okay?" His hands roam over you as if he's double-checking for himself. In the half dark of your suite, you can't make out his expression. "What happened?"

You place your hand over his, holding his palm to your cheek, and shake your head. Honestly… you don't know. Everything is a blur of adrenaline. Your flight down the stairs, the tomb of the lobby, the rush of freedom when you blew away the door… the memories have a dreamlike quality to them, as if it wasn't you experiencing them at all.

[you okay?]

"I'm good," he says. "I'm fine now." He pulls you back into his arms and rests his chin on top of your head.

 +++

 Steve insists on showering.

It's as much to clear his mind as to clean the sweat and grime from his body. Someone came after his family—came after you. How could he not have found them? They had been there—right there! They had blown up a building while he was in it and he hadn't been able to track them. He followed a dozen leads only to come away with his hands empty. That left a foul taste in his mouth. Stark is following up. The former S.H.I.E.L.D. agents are using their contacts to find anything they can. They will find something. They have to. For now, there's nothing Steve can do.

So he showers. He takes his time under the icy water because he is wired. You were in danger, but you're safe now. His body has some ideas of its own on how he feels about that. He thought the frozen water would calm him down, but standing in your shower, where everything smells like you, it's too easy for him to imagine.

He's done a lot of that lately. Imagining. The shower features prominently in more than one fantasy. As does the bed. And the coffee table. And a few of the walls. The gym is in there too, but he isn't about to try that outside the privacy of his own mind.

Porn has come a long way from the racy magazines that Bucky used to keep under his mattress in 1942. In some ways, Steve's grateful—if slightly horrified—but, most of the time, he's just intimidated. Women are… uh… not his forte. Before Dr. Erksine, no one would give him the time of day. After the serum, there wasn't much of an opportunity. Things with Peggy were swept up in a blur of missions with no time for anything more than stolen glances. When he woke up from the ice, he was Captain America: National Symbol, nothing else.  

And now he's in your shower and the icy water is not doing anything to convince his body to stand down. Because he keeps picturing you there too—all smiles and wet hair, hands on him because you want to be as close as possible. Your pink loofa is ridiculous, but he wouldn't say no to using it on you. Or he could ditch the loofa, just use his hands…

This is not working.

He turns off the water and steps out. Your dress lies in the corner of the bathroom where he hadn't noticed it before. He spares a moment of silent mourning for the night he'd hoped to have with you. You're safe. That's what counts. Not whether or not he got to slide the skirt off your hips.

You're in the bed when he emerges from the bathroom, curled into a ball under the comforter. The mattress dips under Steve's weight when he sits next to you, pulling you closer to him. You watch him as he strokes your hair back from your face.

Your fingers circle his wrist. It's a feather light touch but he feels the contact down to his toes. You couldn't actually restrain him, but the action has the same effect, as if you'd placed a manacle around his arm. You tug at him, trying to pull him next to you, but he resists.

That would be a bad idea. He'd thought the shower would buy him time to cool off, but it had done the opposite. His sweatpants aren't exactly concealing anything and he doesn't want you to feel like… like he's expecting something. You're special. And you're his. He's not screwing that up.

You sit back on your heels, the blanket falling from your shoulders and—geez—he loves how that looks. [was worried about you] you sign.

"I'm okay." He cups your face in his hand, skimming his thumb over your cheek. "Promise."

[please stay]

Steve swallows, steering his imagination away from all the things he wants that to mean. "If you want."

You crawl into his lap and wrap yourself as closely around him as you can get. He hesitates and then folds his arms around you to pull you even closer. He loves the way you fit against his body, all soft where he's hard. Your arms tighten around his waist and you rub your nose against his chest. Something around Steve's heart melts.

 +++

 So far, everything physical in your relationship with Steve has been hesitant as the two of you have tested the waters, trying to find boundaries. Every step forward has been a tentative back and forth, a gentle inquiry from Steve as he gives you plenty of room to backtrack. He lets you take the lead on everything, from cuddling to kissing to wherever this goes after that. It's like high school: all desperate want and build up and longing. And here he is, being a gentleman while you're trying to seduce him. It would be infuriating if it weren't so damn endearing.

You would love if his hands wandered farther than the safe space around your waist—either direction, you’re really not picky. You’re only wearing a t-shirt, for Christ’s sake, and it’s his shirt. There isn’t an inch of skin that you don’t want him to touch. But Steve is acting like this is some sort of sexual harassment video and your body is marked with "no zones". You're almost offended by how careful he is. If you weren't sitting on his lap, you'd think he wasn't into you. Seriously, how does anyone have this much self-control?

You run your fingers through his hair, grazing your nails against his scalp, and scrape your teeth over his bottom lip. Okay, yeah—his hands pressing your hips harder into him does all kinds of good things for you.

He's trying to be discrete about copying you, but every time you do something to him, a few minutes later he tries it on you. Your lips against his neck, a small nip at his ear, your fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt… So, he's learning. Adorable. But you could use a little initiative from him. Really just more. You swivel your hips against his and his whole body jerks in response. Bingo.

He flips you over on the bed, swinging you onto your back so he's above you. A startled squeak escapes your throat and, for the barest moment, the room shakes. When you look to Steve in alarm, he's smirking at you, like your loss of control is exactly what he wanted, like he's pleased with himself. You make a face at him and the smile turns into a full-blown grin.

He kisses you forever, long, drugging kisses that leave you dizzy and wanting more. Even when he's on top of you, he holds his body off yours. There's something deliberate about the way he touches you, like he planned every exploration. He laces his fingers through yours and it's so achingly sweet. You arch into him, trying to deepen the kiss, anything to get closer, but he won't be rushed. He's just so frustratingly in control.  

You make a mental catalogue of the things he likes—which is just about everything. He likes your hands in his hair, or on his arms, or against his chest—really, anywhere you touch him. He forgets to breathe when you trace your fingers along the line of his hips. A love bite on his neck makes him say something that might be a desperate interpretation of your name.

You slide your thigh between his legs and are rewarded with a breathy moan.

"God," Steve says, his lips against your throat. "What am I gonna do with you?"

Well, if he's looking for suggestions…

<Pardon the interruption.> F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s serene voice sails through the room. Steve freezes. <You are needed for a debriefing in the conference room.>

He heaves a massive sigh, letting his forehead fall to your shoulder. "Kind of busy right now." There's resignation in his voice, as if he knows that the protest is futile.

F.R.I.D.A.Y. chimes in again. <The call is not for you, Captain Rogers.>

 +++

 You are not included in debriefings. Not normally. Your insides twist with the expectation of what is important enough that Stark wants to talk to you. Well, that and fighting the urge to take Steve back to your room and show him exactly where you want him to put his hands. But, F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s  call had seemed more like an order than a request and you don't want Tony Stark personally banging down your door. Steve follows on your heels.

Stark paces the conference room, talking on the phone in a voice that seems beyond control, loud enough to be heard outside the glass walls of the room. "—course we have a handle on the—yes I will be providing more information—right now we have bigger—" His eyes catch on you as you enter. "I'll call you back." He tosses the phone onto the table.

The conference room is chaos. Stark has turned each monitor to a different news station, but they're all running the same footage.

You. Dozens and dozens of pictures of you. Three grainy security video clips: you approaching the blocked wall of the building, the entrance exploding outward, and you helping the other people out over the rubble. The commentary is a din of questions and conjecture. Who are you? What are you capable of? Who do you work for? Your blood runs cold.

"Congratulations," Tony says. "You're famous." He leans against the table. "They're calling you ‘Clamor’. Not the worst superhero name, but the PR people will wish they'd gotten a chance to test it with the focus groups first."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Steve has his Captain America voice in action again.

"Clamor"—he gestures to you—"is the Avenger's newest recruit."

[not Avenger] you protest.

"No shit." Tony stands and walks around the room. "But that's what I've had to tell people all morning. DOD, CIA, FBI, NSA, the White House for Christ's sake. You know what they want to know? Not did we catch the terrorists, not if we have any leads, but who is the woman who can blast through twenty feet of concrete?"

You stick to your guns, refusing to let Tony walk you in a circle. [NOT AVENGER]

"You probably should have thought about that before you blew through half a city block like a stick of dynamite."

[we were trapped]

"Help people all you want. Just don't do it in front of a fucking camera." Tony doesn't lose his cool often, but the fine line between anger and humor has gotten thinner throughout this conversation. "You can't put this cat back in the bag. You're an unknown variable. Either, we claim you as an Avenger or they'll take you into custody."

Steve steps forward, moving his body not so subtly between yours and Tony's. "She's not a threat."

"The whole world just saw her take out a building. The most I can do is convince the military that she didn't cause the first explosion. They want her controlled—as part of the team or in a cell."

"She's been here for months. This doesn't change anything."

"This changes everything. They know about her now." Tony whacks the table and you jump a little. "Why do you think I've been keeping her here? Under wraps?"

Your focus drifts back to the TV as they argue. You hadn't thought about cameras when you'd stepped forward. You hadn't even thought about the other people in the room. You had wanted an exit and you got it. Now you're trapped in a wholly different way.  

"The Secretary of Defense is going to show up tomorrow morning and he's going to want a game plan." Tony turns his attention from Steve to you. "There's no neutral territory here. As long as you have your powers, either you're on the team or you're considered a threat. Unless you wake up tomorrow singing show tunes, those are your choices."

 +++

 You corner Bruce in the med lab. [can you fix me?]

Bruce looks as if you're tearing his soul from his body. "I—look, it's… difficult to say."

[why?]

"I don't—" He backs into a cabinet of medical supplies, startling himself.

[please]

He looks at his shoes, the monitors in the room, anywhere except you. As if you'd flipped some sort of switch, he starts talking, his voice detached and clinical. "The gamma radiation fundamentally altered your gene expression." Your heart stutters. "It's similar to the changes that I've seen in my own results. And… in Steve's."

Bruce's gaze flicks to your face, absorbing your reaction, then away. "I know a lot more about what happened to me than what Erksine developed for the super soldier serum. But I was trying to replicate it. Since the—the symptoms were similar, I thought that the combination of the serum and the radiation was necessary to produce the effects, but studying you… I'm not sure." His head hangs between his shoulders.

"It's possible that the gamma is enough to alter DNA on its own. Maybe the serum just directed it? Without it…"—he gestures to you—"the effects are unpredictable. I'm in the dark. If you asked me to guess… the radiation should have killed you."

You search for an answer, racking years of experience for anything. [medication?]

"I wouldn't even know where to start."

There has to be a way out. If you can't have your old life back, at least you can keep from hurting people. [cut vocal chords?]

"No." Bruce's voice brooks no argument. "I might hurt you or make it worse. And even if I did, there's no guarantee that it would be a permanent solution. The radiation has changed the makeup of your DNA. Your body might heal back exactly the way it is now."

[reverse D-N-A change?]

"I don't know how. I thought if I knew what caused…"

[gene therapy?]

"I thought about that! But every test I've run shows that your DNA reverts back from the changes."

You're having trouble breathing. [you can't fix me?]

"I'm going to keep trying. I promise. But, medical technology isn't there yet. Right now, I don't think there is anything I can do."

Your heart plummets into your shoes.

 +++

 Forson's business card weighs heavy in your hand, as if it's made from stone rather than paper. You feel dirty, going to him after you've worked so closely with the Avengers. Bruce is great and brilliant, but he says he can't help you. And Forson said he can.

Stark wants you to stay in the compound and that is exactly what you should do. But you need to get outside, preferably without alerting the entire security force. That's where Steve comes in.

God help you, you are a piece of shit for doing it, but you asked him to take you to a movie. Well, not so much asked as begged. He's worried about you—seriously worried about you—the kind of worry that makes him watch you out of the corner of his eyes whenever he thinks you aren't paying attention. He wants you to stay in the compound too, so it's not easy to convince him. But with enough [please]'s and hopeful looks, he breaks.

You both wear disguises. Like Tony said, you're famous now, so you're in a ball cap too. Steve keeps you tucked under his arm as you enter the building, blocking your face from cameras with his body. It just makes you feel even worse to see how dedicated he is to protecting you. You slip out of the theater a few minutes before the ads start with an apologetic sign about the bathroom.

You leave your phone behind in the theater with Steve. Can't call an Uber. Can't use your metro card. Stark can track all of those if he wants to. A taxi is your best bet.

You have a few minutes before Steve will wonder what happened to you, then a few minutes more before he gets anxious enough to come looking. You leave the theater and keep walking, crossing streets and turning corners where you can until you find an open cab. You show the driver the address on Forson's business card and settle back.

It's not nearby, but that's probably for the best. When Steve comes looking for you, you don't want to be easy to find.

  Tag List:

@abovethesmokestacks  @winterboobaer @ganesh1234  @netflixa  @ryverpenrad  

As always, if you would like to be added to (or removed from) the tag list, please let me know.