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12tardis · 4 years

Text

Feel The Pull Of You (Newt Scamander x Reader)

Warnings: none (cabbage if you’re James Acaster)

Requested: Yes @imapartofwaytoomanyfandoms24 asked for ‘a soulmates AU where the reader loves magical creatures and they can only see colour when they touch their soulmate and she runs into him looking for her demiguise. She’s in shock and so is Newt and then she sees her demiguise runs up to it and grabs it and walks back to him and they both stare at each other’ - thank you honey! I hope you like it- I’ve had a couple soulmate ideas kicking around my head for a bit but I hadn’t considered the colour one so thank you!

Summary: You’ve seen in only shades of grey your entire life knowing that meant you had a soulmate out there somewhere. Your demiguise has been acting up lately and leads you on a wild goose chase through the streets of London where you literally fall into the arms of a handsome stranger.

A/N: I had to stop here or else I was just gonna keep writing for lord knows how long because IMAGINE what a trip it would be to see all the creatures with your whole new colour palette.

Words: 1,925

Title song: The Pull Of You- The National - just rewatched the IAETF film last night and balled my eyes out. What was it you always said? We’re connected by a thread. If we’re ever far apart I’ll still feel the pull of you.

Taglist: @moonkissk7 @just-an-outstanding-auror

It had been exactly 3 months since Newt had finally released his book ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them’ and exactly 3 weeks since he’d received the most unexpected letter in the mail from a complete stranger.

There had been plenty of children and a few keen creature lovers that had approached him at his book signings. They were always eager to hear more about his adventures and his case and he’d received a few fan-mail letters, again mostly from children drawing their favourite creatures. He loved those ones especially because he hoped it meant he might have inspired another generation of children to follow in his footsteps.

But there was one letter Newt hadn’t put down since he’d received it 3 weeks ago. He kept it in his pocket and often found himself re-reading it over and over again. There was just something about the elegant scrawl that had completely captivated him from the moment he opened it.

And here he was again, standing beside a cafe in the middle of a bustling street in London, pulling the well worn letter from his pocket and tracing his fingertips along the lettering. He had had every intention of writing back to the stranger but a mishap involving a hungry Graphorn had meant he’d lost the envelope with the sender return address much to his dismay.

‘Dear Mr. Scamander,

I am writing to thank you for your incredible book and the remarkable work you have done in magical creature preservation. I must admit I found myself quite moved by your passion. I am an aspiring Magizoologist myself and I can assure you there is still an entire world of magnificent creatures out there to discover!

I wonder if perhaps you were looking for an assistant to help you with your creatures? I’m sure, a capable set of hands could be of great service to you with your ever expanding case and I am confident I could be of help.

Perhaps we could meet for tea some time and I can show you some of my dearest creatures?

I eagerly await your response.

Yours respectfully, Y/N L/N ‘

As he stood on the street corner reading the letter for what must have been the hundredth time he truly mourned the fact that he had no way to contact the sender because there was just something about it that pulled at his heart strings like he’d never felt before. It almost felt like a puzzle. One that he desperately needed to solve.

The letter had kept him up most nights, wondering about things that would never usually cross his mind. He wondered what the sender looked like? And more peculiarly he wondered what the colour of her eyes were. Or perhaps the colour of her hair?

To most people these questions would be normal to ponder and that was because most people had some idea or reference for colour. But not Newt. For Newt, these questions were completely nonsensical because he only saw in shades of grey.

His colour blindness had never bothered him before because he knew it meant he was one of the lucky ones that had a soulmate. A twin flame that he was destined to be with. He was generally content, and patient biding the time because he knew one day he would meet his other half. But ever since he’d received that letter he had found himself feeling restless and frustrated, walking the length of the city and mourning the entire spectrum of colour he was missing out on.

It bothered him now to realise that he had no idea what colour the letter even was. What colour was the ink you’d used? Logically he knew it was black ink on a presumably neutral toned paper but what did that even look like?

He was so preoccupied in his musings that he barely registered the sensation of his case rattling in his hold as one of his creatures was unsettled because he was suddenly stood face to face with a Demiguise. A Demiguise that certainly wasn’t his Dougal.

“Bunsen! BUNSEN! Oh my stars Bunsen I swear if you don’t get back here right now you’ll be eating cabbage for the rest of the week. CABBAGE!”

You were madly dashing through the London crowds in pursuit of your rogue Demiguise, completely uncaring of the bewildered looks you were receiving from the other locals.

Bunsen had been acting out of sorts for several weeks now, pacing back and forth and frequently leading you on wild chases much like the one you were on now. This time though he really wasn’t relenting and you were just thankful no one else noticed the creature hurtling past them.

Your stomach dropped however when you saw him stop and stand on his hind legs to face a man in a long coat. The man had his back to you but you were certain from his body language that he was very much aware of the rare creature that was now stood in front of him with glowing eyes.

“MERLIN NO!”, you panicked dashing towards the man.

“Sir, please don’t panic! He’s harmless I promise! He can’t hurt you, just stay calm!” you shouted at him as you approached, lunging for the Demiguise that dodged you, of course, sending you careening forward into the very arms of the man you were shouting at.

You gasped, blinking furiously when your vision transformed instantly while your heart seemed to swell to double its size in your chest. You stared down at the ground in wonder, taking in the way the shades of grey slowly bled into all these colours and shades you’d never seen before.

Newt grasped you in his arms with a loud ringing in his ears as he tightened his hold on you instinctively. He gaped back at you, so completely enraptured with the sight of you that he barely noticed the new spectrum of colour he could now see.

That was until you were suddenly moving out of his hold and rushing away from him. His knees nearly buckled as he watched your retreating figure, his brain now vaguely taking in the colours around him. He was still standing frozen to the sidewalk as he slowly came to digest what had just happened.

He had literally just run into his soulmate. Who was chasing a Demiguise. You tripped and he caught you and then you ran away from him just as quickly, and his heart was surely about to shatter beyond repair but then oh-

You were walking back towards him, with the Demiguise perched on your hip and he felt his heart in his throat as he took you in.

You had nearly fallen again when Bunsen had suddenly stopped in his tracks, seemingly content with being in your arms again as you scooped him up. You noticed the way his eyes flashed and he was looking over your shoulder and you remembered that yes, you had just cannon balled into your soulmate.

The person you’d been dreaming of your entire life. “Why you clever little…”, you breathed out, petting Bunsen shakily while your heart slammed in your chest. You closed your eyes and sucked in a deep breath before you turned back around to face the man..

You two stood in front of one another for what felt like an hour, just staring at each other in complete awe. You took in the colour of his hair, fighting back the unexpected impulse you felt to comb your fingers through it and then you looked back into his eyes. And you knew then what your favourite colour in the world was.

Newt was entirely unprepared for the sudden urge he had to just touch. He’d never really understood the need for affection, instead shying away from it but as he gazed back at you his hands seemed to burn at his sides. He longed to run his thumb along your bottom lip or graze his hand down the curve of your shoulder to your waist.

Bunsen had apparently had enough of the silent staring competition going on between you two though because he let out a huff followed by low grumble.

This startled Newt from his stupor and he quickly held his hand out to you “I do apologise for my rudeness, I’m-“

“Newt Scamander”, you breathed out quickly, your eyes bright and a small smile playing on your lips. Newt’s eyebrows flew up in response.

“You know my n-name?”, he stuttered, stunned that a beauty such as yourself would know who he was. And when you took his hand in your own he felt the most overwhelming sense of peace rush over him.

You squeezed his hand in your own, nodding slowly as you smiled wider at him “yes, I wrote to you. A few weeks ago. My name is-“

“Y/N L/N!”, he cut you off this time, his eyes wide as he set his case down beside him carefully, still gripping your hand in his own as he used the other to rummage through his coat pocket. “You wrote this!” he exclaimed, holding the obviously worn letter up for you to inspect.

It was your turn to look at him in astonishment as you nodded again, furrowing your eyebrows.

“I...something about this letter just felt...like home,” Newt explained, shyly threading his fingers with yours as he pocketed the letter once again.

When you stared back at him silently, glancing down at your joined hands he continued.

“I apologise, I really wanted to write you back but one of the Graphorn’s ate the envelope”, he turned to look at Bunsen then, nodding at him.

“I bet you two would get along”, he murmured and Bunsen made a noise of interest, reaching an arm out towards Newt signalling that he wanted to be held.

You looked down at Bunsen in surprise because he had never allowed another person to touch him before but your surprise quickly washed away as you watched Newt take him into his arms, greeting him with the kindest smile you’d ever seen that you couldn’t help but swoon. Of course he would like Newt. He had, after all, been trying to make this meeting happen for weeks now.

“Oh!”, you were broken out of your ogling when a passerby just barely missed knocking Newt’s case over that was still set on the ground beside him. You didn’t hesitate to pluck the case up, holding it securely against your chest and the very sight alone had Newt feeling dizzy with adoration. Not only were you breathtaking but you cared for creatures too.

“So um…” he cleared his throat nervously, looking back at you with hopeful eyes “I know I’m a bit late, but I wonder if you are still interested in that cup of tea?”

You smiled back at him widely, stepping close to him until you were nearly chest to chest and he sucked in a breath of surprise when you lay your hand over his where it was resting on Bunsen “yes, but only if you promise to show me around your case afterwards.”

Newt laughed softly, nodding as he shifted Bunsen to be perched on his hip with one arm so he could thread his fingers with yours again “well I suppose it would help if my assistant knew her way around the enclosures”, he murmured, looking over at you as you fell into step beside him, following him through the bustling streets hand in hand. -MORE WRITINGS HERE-

#newt scamander x reader #newt scamander #newton artemis fido scamander #newt scamander x y/n #newt scamander x you #newt x reader #soulmate au #fantastic beasts and where to find them

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mochiiwrites · 4 years

Text

Ace Trapolla wandered through the halls, intending to loiter or bother the prefect.

“Ahh, I’m so glad the day’s finally over. I get to procras-”

“OI!” A shout thrust Ace out of his thoughts. The voice belonged to Deuce Spade. Ace let out a started yelp.

“Agh! You dumbass! Why’re you shoutin like that out of nowhere!”

“You almost stepped on something, you imbecile!”

“Eh? What do you-”

Ace looked to where Deuce was pointing. Something small was left on the floor. It turned, revealing a beak. It chirped.

“AAAAA-!” The first-years screamed at the sudden sound until Deuce clamped his hands over his and Ace’s mouths.

“Eww, what are you doing sticking your fingers in my mouth like that?” Ace complained as soon as Deuce released his grip.

“We should be quiet, we wouldn’t want to startle it...or get in trouble for causing a ruckus...again.”

“What kinda bird is it?”

“I…I’m not sure.” Deuce cautiously scooped up the bird. Deuce moved his hands to show Ace… a chick.

“It’s a chick.”

“I know that, idiot.”

“So...what do we do with it?”

“Don’t ask me. Lets ask…the prefect, or something.”

——♠️🐣❤️——

The brain cell duo made their way to Ramshackle Dorm. Ace didn’t bother knocking, he just barged in.

“Hey Prefect!” No response.

“Yuuuuuuu?”He called but, no one responded, except for the chick’s chirping.

“...Weird.” He muttered to no one in particular.

Deuce suggested, “Maybe they had to help with something?”

“You have any idea how little that narrows it down? They’re always helping with something.”

“Well, at least you’re smart enough to know that they’re helpful.”

“What do you-”

A different voice broke them out of their bickering. “What are you two doing here? Have you come to see the Great Grim himself?”

“Ah, no. We came to see the Prefect. Do you know where they are, Grim?”

“Fgna! You mean, you don’t know? It's not my business, ya know?”

“What the- Yes it is?? You LIVE in the SAME BUILDING YOU-” Ace was going to get a headache.

“Shut up! You’re too loud!” Deuce suddenly interjected.

“So are you, you dunce!” Ace shot back.

Grim finally answered Ace’s question, “Well, I dunno where they are, so let's just go find ‘em! I could smell ‘em from a mile away! I am pretty great after all!”

The chick chirped at the implication of how the Prefect smelled, weird...

The trio, or quartet if you include the chick, started their search! They travelled far and wide…to the Heartslabyul lounge.

——😼♠️🐣♦️❤️——

“Ah! Adeuce combi! And Gri-chan! Back at it again! Whatcha doing? And where’s the Prefect?”

Deuce perked his head up at the sound of the third year’s voice.

“Ah, Cater-senpai. We were actually thinking of where we could find them. Do you have any ideas?”

“Eh...I think they were helping Epel with cleaning the entire ballroom. Sounds like it sucks, especially since he was supposed to do it by himself, originally.”

“Oh, well, thank you Cater-senpai. We appreciate the help.” Deuce got up and bowed respectfully, then got really confused when Cater took a picture.

“O-M-G! #Cute! Where’d you find your friend? #Chickadeuce_Combi!” Cater eagerly posted something to MagiCam.

“What…?” ‘Friend? What could Cater-senpai be…’ Deuce had a revelation. “Oh! The chick was just in the hallway, we were looking for the Prefect to see if they knew what to do with it.”

“Why not just babysit it? I’d love to see more of the #Chickadeuce_Combi! Ah, bet then again, Riddle probably wouldn’t be very happy… Well, good luck! I’ve gotta head to the Light Music Club!” Cater sent himself off with a wave and a final picture of the ‘Chickadeuce Combi’.

“Wait, where are we going?” Ace asked, seeming to have woken from a nap.

“When did you fall asleep?”

Ace made a shrugging noise and an ‘eugh?’ noise.

“Whatever, we’re heading to Pomefiore, Cater said the Prefect was there.”

“Oka-AAGH!” Ace was promptly stepped on by Grim, and pulled out of his chair by Deuce.

——😼♠️🐣🍎❤️——

Once the quartet made it to Pomefiore’s ballroom, they heard a soft voice...muttering complaints and curses. Along with quiet complaints and cursing, they heard a lot of splashing.

“Ugh, my wrists are going to fall off… Where’d the Prefect go… I need some fu-”

“Epel?” At the mention of his name, the Pomefiore first-year cut himself off and dropped his sponge.

Epel scrambled to pick up the sponge and find a good word that started with ‘Fu’ “Fu-fu...F-Fun! A fun break! Just a small one! I wasn’t going to…” Epel looked up to see some of his fellow first years… and a chick...on Deuce’s head. Epel thought to himself, ‘Well, at least it’s not Vil-sama.’

“Whatchu lot doin’- ah, I mean...What are you guys doing here?”

Ace explained their situation, “Looking for the Prefect, Cater told us they’d be here. So…where are they?”

“I… I don’t know...”

“Ah, well, thank you for your time, Epel! Good luck with your cleaning!” Deuce bowed again, and the chick almost fell off his head.

“Ah, Deuce be careful! Your friend could get hurt.”

Deuce immediately fixed his posture and lightly checked his hair for the chick. “Y-you’re right, Epel! How irresponsible of me…”

“Don’t mention it! Actually, don’t mention anything...I’m not really supposed to be talking to anyone ‘til I’m done with all this.” Epel stretched his arms and gestured to the entire room.

Ace pinched the bridge of his nose, “Great Seven, what did you even do? This has gotta be punishment for something, right?”

Epel cautiously looked around and lowered his voice, clearly watching for Vil, Rook or just anyone who had the ability to tell him off.

Gathering his confidence he admitted his crime.

“I… I said that Rook was an asshat.”

Deuce looked like he was going through a crisis and he covered the chick’s nonexistent ears. Ace haphazardly fought back a chuckle, Grim grinned and laughed,

“Nyahaha! That's great!”

“No, it’s not, Grim. Why don’t you help Epel with cleaning?” Deuce scolded Grim with a “bonk” to the head.

“Wha- No! The Great Grim can’t-”

But the Heartslabyul first years already left.

——♠️🐣🍎——

Another day, but still no Prefect. But on the other hand, the Heartslabyul Dorm gained another (temporary) resident. The problem is Riddle didn’t like them that much. So Deuce and Ace would have to take care of it in secret. Ace also wasn’t really willing to take care of the “stupid bird”, So it was only Deuce trying to care for it in secret. Currently, Ace had basketball and Deuce had been left alone. The first year set the chick down on a table, and was staring intently at it, wondering what to do. He stayed like that for who-knows-how-long until…

“Deuce?”

“Ah! Come in, the door should be open!”

Epel appeared in the doorway when Deuce turned his head.

“Did you manage to find the Prefect?”

“Actually...no. We still don’t know where they are.”

“That’s strange… Well, how’s the chick?”

“They’re good...I hope. I was thinking of giving it a name.”

“Really?” Epel asked, with an amused huff.

“Well, calling it ‘the chick’ seems...rude? The horses in the horseback riding club are named, so why not the chick?”

“Ehh, the chick is…” Epel trailed off, afraid to hurt the chick’s feelings, for some strange reason. “Nevermind, did you have a name in mind?”

“I was thinking...Enka?”

“Enka?” Epel echoed the Heartslabyul student, seeing if the name suited the chick. “That sounds nice.”

Deuce sprouted an idea, “Epel, you’re a farmer, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Do you have any experience with chickens?”

“Wha-no! I’m an apple farmer. Sure, my family has horses, but definitely not chickens.”

“Agh, I’m so sorry for assuming! Please forgive me!” Deuce bowed at inhuman speed, which may or may not be impressive.

Epel tried to hold in his laughter, but failed. “Snrk-Ehehe~! You’re fine, you’re fine. But I guess, I could help you take care of Enka.”

“Really?! Thank you, that would be wonderful!”

“It’s the least I can do, you did have Grim help me clean the ballroom, afterall.”

“Okay so...how do we take care of Enka?”

——😿♠️🐣🍎❤️——

Ace barged in the dorm with a depressed and tired Grim cradled in his arms. He was greeted by Deuce reading a book with the chick. A bowl of apples cut into small pieces in front of them.

“What the hell are you doing, dumbass?”

Deuce quickly dropped the book and maneuvered to cover the chick’s ‘ears’. “Language! I was trying to talk to Enka.”

“Who’s Enka?”

“The chick, Deuce thought it would be nice if we gave them a name.” Epel walked into view, with a list of places at Night Raven College.

“Hah, of course he would. Enka’s an alright name, I guess.” Ace snatched the paper out of the lavender haired boy’s hands. “What’s this for?”

“It’s for when we search for the Prefect, so we can cross off places we’ve already searched.”

“We gonna start searching now? Or what?”

“That works for me.”

“Nya-wah-haahhhh...I miss Yuu…” Grim sobbed, but no one knew if it was genuine tears.

Enka chirped sympathetically.

——😼♠️🐣🍎❤️🐩——

The now-quintet only got one step into NRC’s halls before they were stopped by faculty.

“My my, what are the puppies doing out of their litter?” Divus Crewel said, with a dissatisfied face.

“Ah, Crewel-sensei. We were going to look for Yuu.” Epel calmly responded, in contrast to Deuce’s panicked bowing. (Enka was safe, instead of being on Deuce’s head, they sat in Deuce’s cupped hands.)

“Ah, the Prefect puppy would be right...there.” Crewel pointed towards the small chick cradled in Deuce’s hands.

“EHHHHH?!?!”

“QUIET! DOWN BOYS, DOWN!” Crewel cracked his whip and cleared his throat, “Ahem, yes. Surprisingly, that birdie is the Prefect, at least, it should be. A student was staying after school to understand this transformation potion better. They accidentally spilled some and Yuu happened to be in the splash zone, and then they were nowhere to be found.”

“So… that would mean that Enka is Yuu.”

Enka chirped in approval, and in a tone that sounded like “Yes! Finally!”.

“Ya kiddin’ me?” Ace threw his hands up, very pissed, “So we had ‘em the whole time!”

“Nyagh...This is confusing…”

“If you puppies would stop yapping, I could transform them back.”

“Right! Of course, yes sir!” Deuce quickly gave his teacher Enka.

Crewel sent the group back while he got started on transforming Yuu. Grim, Epel and Deuce waited patiently in Ramshackle Dorm, Ace had detention for something he had done earlier in the day.

——😼♠️✨🍎——

Yuu looked down at their hands, thankful that they were no longer wings. They took their human hands and opened the door.

“I’m bACK-” They didn’t finish their sentence due to Grim tackling them.

“Yuu! You’re back! You can’t leave the Great Grim alone by himself!”

“Ahaha, I won’t, I won’t.”

“Glad you’re okay, Prefect!” Epel warmly smiled at them.

“Must’ve been interesting being a chick for a while, huh?” Deuce rested his hand on his chin, as if he were contemplating what the experience would’ve been like.

“Yeah, but at least you got to take care of me! I wouldn’t mind if you did it again!”

The Prefect’s statement caused Epel to hide his face and Deuce was left a stuttering mess.

#mochiifics!#twisted wonderland #twst mc #twst yuu #twst fic #twisted wonderland fic #twst deuce #twst ace #twst epel #twst grim #twst crewel #twst cater

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fablesrose · 5 years

Text

Of Kings and Shadows VIII

Chapter VIII

Description: Y/n, a girl who seems to have found her calling. Being a SHIELD agent is like a dream come true. With a friendship starting to form with the Avengers, she’s the Queen of the world! What could go wrong?

Pairings: Avengers x reader, Loki x reader (eventually)

Notes: On Wattpad --> Here

Masterlist

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

youtube

Today. Today was going to be a good day. Music lured me to wake, the bass guitar thrumming through my bones. I arched my back stretching, a satisfied groan escaping my lips. Very rarely did I feel well-rested when I awoke, my job not helping that much, but this morning was not normal. While I didn't like being side-lined on the field, it did give me some extra time to get rested. I rolled my head side to side, glad my neck wasn't sore anymore. It was strange to be able to swallow without wincing uncomfortably.

I got dressed, ate breakfast, and got packed up to be ready for work. I had to make multiple trips around my apartment, which wasn't much trouble with how small it was. With my type of job, I had to either have a roommate that also works for Shield or live on my own. With how fast the arrangements were sorted out I didn't have time to search for an appropriate roomie, and the more I stayed in my apartment, the more I got accustomed to living alone. I eventually got comfortable enough to call it home.

I had to do a double-take when my eyes scanned over my athletic clothing when I was reviewing if I had everything. I nearly forgot that yesterday they had cleared me to start training again. I smiled, remembering that I was one step closer to getting back in the game. My superiors told me to focus on getting back up to speed in my performance, so I didn't have to learn how to do Ike's job. I returned his manual withing five minutes, ready to get back to the job I loved.

I had cleaned out my locker when I was on leave, the perfect opportunity to wash clothes. I hadn't replaced them since I wasn't going to be using them any time soon. I quickly grabbed an outfit to wear while training and headed out the door.

I stuck all my bags in the corner of my office space. I had a couple of assignments I had to finish up before I could go to the training room. I wrapped them up quickly, ready to work out.

Entering the training room was almost nostalgic. Even though it wasn't that long since I've been there, it felt like it had been forever. I adjusted my t-shirt collar, pulling it away from my neck a hair. I tucked my shirt into my running shorts and started some simple stretches, making sure my shirt didn't ride up while I was doing them. There weren't very many people there at the moment, and I wasn't sure if I liked it or not.

I decided to play it safe today and not work my self too hard. I approached the punching bag wrapping my hands. I focused on my hands hitting the bag. I got into a rhythm, the rest of the world zoning out of focus. I occasionally felt the twinge of eyes flowing over me, but I was in a safe place, so I just kept going. I only used my arms, for now, deciding to work up to using the rest of my body.

Sooner than I would have liked, sweat started to drip off of my forehead and my arms started to protest the repetition. I quickly shook out my limbs and reached for my bottle of water. I started to take two or three large swallows.

"I heard you were cleared to start training."

The unexpected comment startled me to cut off my water break and shove me into a coughing fit.

"Na-- I mean Agent Romanoff!" I fit in a few more wheezes, "I didn't see you there."

Natasha patted my back to help stop the coughing.

"I could tell, and I've told you not to call me that y/n"

"Sorry Natasha" I cleared my throat one more time and took a swig of water to wash everything down.

She smiled slightly, how she wasn't named Miss Universe every year even without entering was beyond me. I looked up to her and she seemed to represent what I wanted to become, but standing next to her... It seemed impossible. She was skilled in combat, infiltration, manipulation, she was beautiful, intelligent, and she runs with the 'big boys.' Instead of asking what she is, the shorter list is what Natasha isn't. One thing on that list is she isn't super, she doesn't have powers. And that is not encouraging.

"So, how are you holding up?"

I wiped the sweat from my forehead, "not as well as I had hoped." I laughed weakly, "I'm not gonna lie, this sucks."

She gave a quiet huff of laughter.

I tilted my head back and shouted exasperatedly, "why did I have to be stupid and get out of shape!?"

"Hey, it wasn't your fault, Loki was stupid and put you out of commission," she paused, "we could have used you on a couple of missions these past few weeks."

I side-eyed her, "it could be argued that I was a dumb there as well," I heaved a deep sigh, "but I appreciate that. Thank you, Natasha."

"No problem, but don't expect me to do that every day."

"Not planning on it."

"Go shower, get cleaned up. You have to work yourself back into it. It looks like you worked yourself well." She placed a hand on my shoulder, "if you're free you should stop by the compound every once in a while."

I smiled, "I'll see what I can do."

After a long stretch session and an even longer shower, I returned to my desk. I kept typing away and working on paperwork. My finger occasionally twirled my little fly-aways that delicately curled around my face after my shower. They were my favorite part about taking a shower, my hair just wet enough to curl naturally. It was the same effect that happened when I am out in the rain.

I zoned out working on my computer, occasionally rolling my shoulders to loosen them up from my work out. Slowly the minutes passed, only noticeable by the silent turning of the numbers on my monitor clock. I missed the excitement of my day, the suspense of the job, the people I talked to.

A knock on my closed door dragged me from my train of thought, I turned in my chair to see who was about to walk in.

It was Agent Fletcher, file in hand, and with the look on his face, it was safe to assume he got back from a mission not too long ago. "Agent L/n," he respectfully waited for me to nod my head before stepping onto my office. "I have a file here with some information that needs to get to the Avengers, Dr. Banner and Mr. Stark in particular."

I reached my arms above my head to stretch before standing and taking the file, "Yes sir. I'll head over to the compound now."

"Be careful, I would like you back in the field as soon as possible."

"Thank you, sir, I will."

The commute to the compound was relatively short, my thoughts occupying me the whole way. I approached the front desk with security handing them my Shield ID for them to scan. They quickly sent me through not saying a word. I walked down the main hallway, not quite sure where the team was.

"Hey, Jarvis?"

"Yes, miss?"

I couldn't help looking up at the ceiling to where the voice was coming from, "Do you mind telling me where the team is?"

"Most are currently in the living area at the moment."

I swallowed, "Most?"

"Tony, Dr. Banner, Natasha, Steve, and Loki are there right now. Thor is in the kitchen, a room over, and Clint is making his way to the living area as we speak."

I let out a breath, "Thank you, Jarvis, do you mind telling me the easiest way to get there?"

"Not at all miss, take the elevator to your right to the third floor and then take another right. This will take you directly to the living area"

"Much appreciated"

I followed the directions the AI told me. Of course, I had been there before, but every time I came it was from a different direction or I was high on anesthetic drugs. I walked down the hallway approaching what I recognized as the living room; when I got there the whole team was there sitting on various surfaces. Tony was standing upfront in the which it seemed he had just made an announcement. I knocked on the doorframe, causing Tony to turn around to face me.

"Hey! Y/n gets to go first!"

I raised an eyebrow in question before scanning my eyes over the facial expressions of the team. They all looked a combination of concerned, confused, amused, and on a select few dread. That wasn't the most encouraging, so I decided to shut it down quickly.

"I don't know what you are talking about, but it's going to be a no. I just came to give you and Dr. Banner this file." I handed the file to Tony and made eye contact with Bruce to make sure he knew it was for him as well.

"Y/n, call me Bruce. It sounds distant coming from you"

I smiled and gave a nod, "Okay Bruce." I gave a silent wave to everyone and turned to escape from whatever I was voluntold to do, but Tony grabbed my arm.

"Nuh-uh uh, Y/n, you can't leave until you sing one song."

My eyes went wide staring at him.

"It's karaoke!"

I sighed, "really? Can't leave?"

"Yup, Jarvis? Lockdown this floor."

The hallway closed off at the end blocking any escape.

Tony let go of my arm, "pick a song, any song. There's a prop box you can pick from too in the room to the right." He walked back to the couch and sat down. Everybody looked at me expectedly.

"Okay, okay, um... I'll be back." I walked into the room where he said the prop box was. Why they had a prop box, I had no idea, but I figured I'd give them a show if I couldn't leave.

I closed the door behind me to tell Jarvis discreetly what song I wanted. I quickly dug through the box and found the perfect costume. I took a deep breath to prep myself, "Jarvis, are they ready?"

"Yes miss"

"M'kay, don't let me down"

"Wouldn't dream of it, ma'am"

I took that as my cue and burst through the door. There was one beat of stunned silence before the music started and I lifted a fake microphone to my lips.

I'm through with standin' in lines to clubs I'll never get in It's like the bottom of the ninth and I'm never gonna win This life hasn't turned out Quite the way I want it to be

I walked to the front of the room as I sang. There were a few snickers I could hear which made it hard to hold a straight face. I left the asides of the song to the track Jarvis was playing but still held out my microphone to Bruce like he was singing it.

(Tell me what you want)

I want a brand new house on an episode of Cribs And a bathroom I can play baseball in And a king-size tub Big enough for ten plus me

I mimed swinging a baseball bat with the microphone in hand, continuing to sing the song. This time when I put the mic to Tony's face he sang along with a little smirk on his face.

(Yeah, so what you need?)

I need a credit card that's got no limit And a big black jet with a bedroom in it Gonna join the mile high club At thirty-seven thousand feet

It was Clint's turn and he rocked the line.

(Been there, done that)

I want a new tour bus full of old guitars My own star on Hollywood Boulevard Somewhere between Cher And James Dean is fine for me

For the last aside I raised the mic for them all to sing along, well everyone who knew the song.

(So how you gonna do it?)

I held the microphone to my chest and sung quietly, almost sweetly.

I'm gonna trade this life For fortune and fame I'd even cut my hair And change my name

There was a slight pause, and then I pulled down cheap purple star-shaped sunglasses and wrapped a fluffy boa around my neck.

'Cause we all just wanna be big rockstars And live in hilltop houses, drivin' fifteen cars

I swung my hair around to the beat of the line, quickly rocking out to the song.

The girls come easy and the drugs come cheap We'll all stay skinny 'cause we just won't eat

And we'll hang out in the coolest bars In the VIP with the movie stars

I pointed at the group in front of me with a wink and proceeded to prance around the couch.

Every good gold digger's gonna wind up there Every Playboy bunny with her bleach blond hair

I placed my hands on Thor's head and placed my chin over top, tilting my head innocently, but with a wicked smirk that said otherwise.

And well, hey, hey, I wanna be a rockstar Hey, hey, I wanna be a rockstar

I wanna be great like Elvis without the tassels

I swung my boa around, taking a risk and flipping it in Loki's face causing everyone else to laugh and Loki to sneeze feathers.

Hire eight bodyguards that love to beat up assholes Sign a couple autographs So I can eat my meals for free

I mimed the words and chose Steve to be the deep voice, but he only stretched his mouth and shook his head.

(I'll have the quesadilla, ha, ha)

I'm gonna dress my ass with the latest fashion Get a front door key to the Playboy mansion Gonna date a centerfold that loves To blow my money for me

I shook my hips and offered the microphone to the whole group to ask the question.

(So how you gonna do it?)

I'm gonna trade this life For fortune and fame I'd even cut my hair And change my name

'Cause we all just wanna be big rockstars And live in hilltop houses, drivin' fifteen cars The girls come easy and the drugs come cheap We'll all stay skinny 'cause we just won't eat

And we'll hang out in the coolest bars In the VIP with the movie stars Every good gold digger's gonna wind up there Every Playboy bunny with her bleach blond hair

And we'll hide out in the private rooms With the latest dictionary of today's who's who They'll get you anything with that evil smile Everybody's got a drug dealer on speed dial

With each phrase, I pointed at someone who personified it best, Tony, Steve, and Loki, respectively.

Well, hey, hey, I wanna be a rockstar

I'm gonna sing those songs that offend the censors Gonna pop my pills from a Pez dispenser Get washed-up singers writin' all my songs Lipsync 'em every night so I don't get 'em wrong

Through it all, I was jamming out, jumping, making up random dance moves, acting out the words of the song. As the final chorus came up, I tried to sing it sincerely, standing still at the front of the room, making eye contact with everyone in the room.

Well, we all just wanna be big rockstars And live in hilltop houses, drivin' fifteen cars The girls come easy and the drugs come cheap We'll all stay skinny 'cause we just won't eat

After I sang the last line of the stanza I jumped up and landed feet spread apart, pointing at the group. I reached out for Natasha to join me, but she shook her head no. I playfully glared at her as I finished the song getting hyped up for the last couple of stanzas.

And we'll hang out in the coolest bars In the VIP with the movie stars Every good gold digger's gonna wind up there Every Playboy bunny with her bleach blond hair

And we'll hide out in the private rooms With the latest dictionary of today's who's who They'll get you anything with that evil smile Everybody's got a drug dealer on speed dial

I slowly took the sunglasses off of my nose and unwrapped the boa from my neck as I sang the last two lines.

Well, hey, hey, I wanna be a rockstar Hey, hey, I wanna be a rockstar

There was a moment of silence before everyone started to clap for me. I took what I tried to make a regal bow and was smiling like an idiot probably, but it was a lot of fun.

After the applause died down Tony spoke, "wow, I was not expecting that."

Laughing ensued as I took another bow.

"I guess I'm just full of surprises"

I looked around to see most of the team nodding in agreeance and a few were smiling with what could be described as fondness. I thought I saw Loki with a similar expression, but it was kind of hard to tell.

"Well, you got your file and you got your song, so," I looked at the time quickly, "it looks like it's time for me to clock out and go home." I turned towards the now open hallway before sticking my head back into the room. "Have fun with your karaoke, and make sure to tell me if someone shows me up." I tossed the props to Tony who was sitting on the couch and walked out without another word.

Tags: @nightrose64

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thepartyresponsible · 6 years

Text

my adventures in fluff continue. i think i’m getting better.

for the anon who asked for winterhawk, here’s bucky and clint, expertly dealing with the morning after.

fair warning: there’s a bit of the fake dating trope involved. no one asked for that. i threw it in as a bonus, because i have no self-control.

Clint squirms awake at some ungodly hour of the morning and damn near elbows Bucky right in the liver as he burrows out from underneath his arm. “Coffee,” he mutters, shoving aside sheets, kneeing Bucky in the thigh, headbutting him in the chin. “Coffee, coffee, coffee.”

Bucky grumbles under his breath and hip checks Clint out of the bed. “Jesus,” he says, rolling into the warm spot Clint so foolishly vacated. “Go get your fucking coffee.”

Clint fumbles around a bit, walks into at least two separate pieces of furniture, and finally finds his way to the door. Bucky closes his eyes, breathes in the smell of Clint’s stupid shampoo, and nearly flinches out of his skin when Clint comes barreling back into the bedroom at high speed.

“Shit,” Clint says, sounding high-pitched and desperate. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Bucky rolls over and catches sight of what might actually be panic on Clint’s face. Which is strange, because he’s seen Clint looking bored out of his damn mind while hurling himself off the top of burning buildings.

“The hell happened to you?” Bucky asks, incredulous.

“The jig is up, Barnes,” Clint tells him, frantic, and then dives back under the covers, shouldering his way into the middle of the bed and, somewhat worryingly, putting Bucky between him and the door.

Bucky blinks. “I’m not getting your coffee. That was a one time thing. And we’re not engaged anymore.”

They were never engaged. It was a cover story that spiraled completely out of control, primarily because Bucky wanted to see if he could make Steve laugh on the comms and Clint, the absolute lunatic, has never met a bad idea he didn’t “yes, and” all the way into oblivion.

“Don’t be like that, babe,” Clint says, voice muffled by the blankets he’s hiding under. “It’s not like he’s going to kill you.”

Bucky opens his mouth to object to the petname, since the mission ended fourteen hours ago, but then he catches the rest of that. “Who’s gonna kill you?”

It comes out a bit closer to a growl than he thinks is entirely warranted. Whatever. He hasn’t shaken completely free from the cover story yet. It happens. Last night, it happened so much and so thoroughly that, after a couple post-mission drinks, it had seemed completely natural to fall into bed together. But Bucky’s not analyzing that, not right now. Not until the sun’s up.

He’s not doing a damn thing but lying here in bed. He’s not getting coffee. Not even if Clint gives him that wide-eyed look of despair that had levered him out of their shared hotel bed three days ago. He’s not getting coffee, and he’s not getting dressed, and he’s not going running with Steve, and--- shit.

Steve.

“Oh, shit,” Bucky says, shoving the covers back. “Oh shit.”

“Shush,” Clint whisper-yells, “shut up, God, he’s gonna hear you.”

“Oh, he’s gonna hear me?” Bucky hisses back, throwing one arm over the side of the bed and scrambling blind for his pants. His boxers. His socks. Anything. “He’s gonna hear me in my own Goddamn bedroom? You shut up, asshole. You’re gonna blow your own fucking cover. Just let me get---”

“Buck?” Steve calls from Bucky’s living room. He sounds vaguely disappointed, the way he always sounds when he has to come up here and drag Bucky downstairs for their morning run. The note of confusion’s new, though. “Did you just scream and slam the door in my face?”

“Didn’t scream,” Clint mutters, sounding mutinous, blonde hair just barely poking up from under the covers.

“Sure,” Bucky calls back, fingers finally, mercifully closing around fabric. “Sure did, Stevie. Be right out.”

Steve’s footsteps start thudding ominously over. “Hey, did Clint come back to the Tower after you guys got dinner? No one’s made coffee yet.”

“Uh,” Bucky says, still juggling whatever the hell it was he found on the floor, hoping for a hem or an arm hole or something.

Steve makes a soft, annoyed noise. “Will you come out here? I know you’re up. C’mon, what’s---”

“Steve, wait,” Bucky says, but it’s too late. Steve Rogers is shoving the door open and walking right into Bucky’s bedroom, and Bucky’s just standing there, one arm outstretched toward the door while the other holds Clint’s stupid purple hoodie over his dick.

“Oh God.” Steve slaps his hands over his eyes, like he hasn’t, through the decades of their friendship, seen pretty much every part of Bucky there is.

“Rogers,” Bucky snarls back, because you have to go on the offensive with Steve or he’ll draw the starting line right in front of the goal. “This is a private space, you Goddamn creep. You want to see skin, you gotta buy me dinner. Now get--”

“What the hell are you doing in here, Buck?” Steve says, dropping his hands away from his face so he can set them prissily on his hips. “You were supposed to be downstairs thirty minutes ago. You don’t even sleep naked. Why the hell are you—oh.”

Steve looks toward the bed just long enough to goggle at the lumpy shape under the covers and then slams his eyes shut all over again.

“Ma’am,” he says, respectfully, and then grimaces. “Sir?” he tries, and then wavers again, and Bucky can see the desperate scramble in Steve’s head as he tries to come up with a polite gender-neutral way to greet someone in Bucky’s bed. He settles, mystifyingly, on: “Citizen.”

“Citizen,” Clint repeats, an incredulous snort breaking into a full-on laugh that cuts off sharply about two seconds too late to do them any good.

Bucky could pick Clint’s stupid, delighted cackle out of a room full of giggling morons, and he’s maybe a bit more attuned to Clint than Steve is, but Steve is also, unfortunately, not a damn idiot.

“Barton?” Steve barks, goes right into his mission yell in a way that has Clint visibly tensing under the blankets. “Barton, what the hell are you---”

“We’re engaged, Steve,” Bucky says. He has no idea where his boxers ended up, but he finally found the jeans he wore last night. They’ll fit easier without the boxers anyway. He let Natasha take him shopping, and the pants she bullied him into buying are so tight he can use whatever spare centimeters of clearance he can get.

He’s been pissed about the pants, but Barton damn near swallowed his tongue when Bucky wore them last night, so. They have their redemptive qualities.

Across the room, Steve sucks in an appalled breath. “Oh, bullshit, Bucky. That was a cover story. For a mission that didn’t even need a cover story. You are not engaged. You are not—Barton, I know you’re in there.”

Bucky shimmies his way into his jeans and then pulls Clint’s hoodie on over his head. “Leave him alone. You’re horrible to look at in the morning. God, Stevie. Where’d you even find shorts that short? The little girl’s section?”

Steve cocks a dangerous eyebrow. “You really wanna talk about clothes right now, Buck? Sorry, were you putting on pants or having a seizure? I didn’t know humans could move that way.”

“Move what way?” Clint says, suddenly deciding he wants to be a part of this. He pops up out from under the covers like an interested meerkat. The sheets pool by his waist and then slip lower as he kicks his way free. “Shit, did I miss that thing he does with his hips?”

“Clint,” Bucky says.

“Barton,” Steve agrees.

“Aw,” Clint says, blinking at Bucky, looking rumpled and sinful and hopelessly charmed. “You’re wearing my sweater.”

“You’re wearing my boxers,” Bucky says, because it’s true. Because he’s just now realizing that that’s where they ended up, slung low across Clint’s hips.

“I am going,” Steve says, earnest and intent, flushing to his ears, “on a run.”

“Kinda looks like you’re going on a stand, Cap,” Clint says, innocuously.

“We’re talking about this later,” Steve says, making meaningful eye-contact with Bucky.

“Great,” Bucky says. He’s not scared of Steve. Hydra used to strap him in a chair and blend his brain like a morning smoothie. What’s Steve going to do? Be disappointed in him?

Shit, he’s been letting Steve down since he fell off a train back in the ‘40s.

“And Barton,” Steve says, swiveling, barking out in his Mission Voice. “You--”

“Nope,” Bucky says, planting a hand in Steve’s chest. Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Clint shifting lower, posture going defensive, the way he always does when he thinks he’s fucking something up. “Out, Steve. This isn’t a mission. Go away.”

He shoves Steve, walking him backwards through the doorway, and it’s hard to say, really, who’d win if they set their strength against each other, but Steve lets himself be pushed off balance, takes a few slow steps just to prove he’s leaving because he wants to, and then he’s gone, in a flash of worried eyes and borderline inappropriate athletic shorts.

“Oh my God,” Clint says, rubbing at his face. “We’re so fucked.”

“Well,” Bucky says, a little hesitant, awake enough to be unsure, “we were.”

Clint’s still for a second and then he smirks, breaks into a low, wry bite of laughter. When he stretches his arms over his head, Bucky’s eyes catch on the line of marks he left down Clint’s chest. “I need coffee,” he says, almost a whine, and it’s embarrassing, really, how quickly Bucky starts strategizing a way to make that happen.

“Put some pants on,” he says. “We’re going out for breakfast.”

He lets Barton pick the place, which is how they end up at some disreputable diner where the waitress takes their order like she’s doing them a favor and nobody looks up long enough to realize there are two Avengers eating their body weight in breakfast food at 7:00am on a Sunday morning.

Now that the adrenaline rush from getting caught by Steve has worn off, Clint’s lazy and disheveled, looks entirely too smug in Bucky’s sweatpants and t-shirt. His hair is sticking up in six different directions, and there’s a red mark right below his jaw that makes Bucky feel particularly accomplished. He looks like he rolled right out of bed to get here, and it’s some kind of distracting, the way Bucky can see himself – his shirt, his sweats, his bite marks – all over Clint.

“So,” Clint says, licking syrup off his fingers, “we’re great at this undercover thing. We should do it more often.”

“Undercover or under covers?” Bucky asks, musingly, and Clint looks up just long enough to wink, outrageously.

“I mean it,” he continues, boppy with caffeine and anxious energy, kicking his foot out to nudge Bucky’s ankle and then just leaving it there, resting against Bucky’s leg. “Everyone at that conference thought we were fucking. Pretty sure Bruce thought so, by the end.”

And Bucky can forgive Banner for that, because, honestly, they almost were. Four days sharing a hotel bed and meals and almost every single moment with Clint Barton, and what had happened last night seemed fated, inevitable, promised.

There’s a charm to Barton that’s easy to miss. A kind of brightness that’s so distracting it’s obnoxious until it wins you over. Bucky knew he was doomed the morning he woke up to Clint crooning love songs to the coffeemaker and was hit with a black surge of jealousy so intense that he almost stole the coffee pot and threw the damn thing off the hotel balcony.

“How many times,” Bucky says, “do you think there’s gonna be some need to go undercover as a couple?”

Clint hesitates and narrows his eyes, and Bucky’s charmed and exasperated by the way he counts it out on his fingers, gaze shifting up and to the side as he thinks his way through it. “Well,” Clint says, finally, “listen. Maybe numbers aren’t the point. Maybe it’s like Cap says.”

And Bucky’s got no idea what the hell Steve’s been saying to Clint, except Barton, no joking on the comms and No, Barton, we don’t have time for a coffee break right now.

The thing about Steve is that he’s a walking, talking national icon, which makes people inclined to listen to him, and that, in Bucky’s opinion, is exactly how so many things go so very, very wrong.

Bucky’s always going to be ready to follow Steve straight to hell, but he probably wouldn’t have to make the trip so many times if people didn’t keep listening when Steve acted like he knew what he was doing.

“What’s Steve say?” Bucky asks, bracing for something grim and dutiful.

Clint leans forward, narrowly avoiding putting his elbow right in the middle of what remains of his pancakes. There’s syrup on his chin, and his eyes are happy and laughing and interested.

“Steve says we should always be prepared. Right?” Clint grins, and it makes the corner of his eyes crinkle up. Bucky thinks, a little desperately, that, from this distance, you wouldn’t even know how dangerous Clint is. From this distance, all you can see is the blue of his eyes and the glow of his smile and the tousled mess of his hair.

“Sure,” Bucky says, because it seems like a safe bet.

“So,” Clint continues, “we should probably head back to the Tower. Go back to bed. Get all the details right for our cover story.”

And it’s stupid and playful, and Bucky can’t even complain about how shitty the line is, because it damn sure worked wonders on him last night.

But.

“Clint,” he says, pushing his plate to the edge of the table, clearing the space in front of him. “I’m not doing this for the authenticity of the cover story.”

Clint blinks. He looks surprised for a second, and then he just looks happy, warm and sunny and uncomplicated, the same way he’d felt this morning, when Bucky woke up to find Clint nuzzled up against him, nose buried in Bucky’s throat, fingers curled around Bucky’s hip.

Comfortable, Bucky thinks. In a way that things haven’t been since the war, since he left Brooklyn. Warm, like he hasn’t been since back before he even knew what cryo was.

“Oh good,” Clint says. “I wasn’t either.”

And then Clint leans over, gets a hand in the hoodie Bucky’s wearing, the one he left on Bucky’s floor last night, and hauls him up so they can kiss right there, in the middle of the diner. For nothing and no one except themselves.

Bucky hears the thump and rattle and splash of Clint’s coffee toppling over, and his heart soars, beating double-time in his chest, when Clint just keeps kissing him, doesn’t pay any attention at all as the coffee drains out across the table.

#writing #fic #fill #winterhawk

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fenrys-moonbae · 5 years

Text

A Bright Star in Centuries of Darkness--Chapter 3

If there was one thing Eleanor abhorred more than playing royal escort it was rising before the sun, forcing her body into wakefulness when all she wanted to do was remain clasped in the blissful hold of dreams.

And this was the third day of rising at such an unholy hour.

She’d thrown a shoe at Evalin that morning when she’d come into her room, throwing the curtains wide and telling her to rise before she was late for her appointment. It hadn’t helped that her dear cousin had brought a chilled bucket of icy water up with her after Eleanor had refused to budge the second and third time.

A bucket she’d promptly dumped over her and her bedding, sending her into a screeching fury as she’d flown from the bed, furious.

At least you’re up, Evalin had tutted victoriously before pointing toward the wardrobe, her riding clothes having already been laid out for her.

She was going to put mouse droppings in her slippers.

Shivering against the chill morning air, she pulled her shearling-lined cloak closer about her, attempting to stave off some of the cold. Why Glaston had felt it essential that she show their visitor the grounds before the rise of the sun was beyond her.

She steered her pale mount over one of the rolling green hills following an eddying brook deep into the king’s territory, Gavriel keeping pace with her but at a healthy distance as he’d done the days before, his silence nearly suffocating.

She’d been pointing out various landmarks and their history as they’d strolled, feeling more like a tour guide than coveted company as each day passed.

Here was where my great-grandfather relieved himself and sipped from a flask when his duchess wife became overbearing, she thought sarcastically, looking over the field, and here is where I bury the bodies of those who threaten my family. No, not there, a little to the right. She’d half hoped she could lead him off a cliff and claim it an accident, though she highly doubted the male would fall for such a ploy.

Not with the way he moved, the way he took in his every surrounding, constantly evaluating and cataloging. Was it wise to show him their lands? Any defensive tactics they might have against Her Great Unholiness?

Not that it would matter much if all of Dornanelle’s warriors were built like that.

Their soldiers were toothpicks in comparisons, bones for them to snack on.

Something inside Eleanor knew that wasn’t his purpose here though, even if her logic screamed against it. After days of watching him she’d gotten the impression he wasn’t here for a military advantage but for something else.

She’d been sour with him when he’d offered a hand to her as she mounted her horse, Lady Cecilia as she affectionately called the golden mare, earlier, ever the gentleman . . . male? She’d almost slapped it away before clambering into the saddle on her own instead. She might be a princess but she was no invalid.

He’d bowed his head respectfully before swinging flawlessly into his own saddle, the muscles beneath his tunic rippling as he’d adjusted himself. Muscles that Eleanor’s gaze kept snagging on as they rode into the wood, shifting as he guided his horse.

She couldn’t help but note them more and more as they spent time together.

What did Maeve feed them?

Perhaps she’d find out and start slipping it into the food of the guards and perhaps some of the skin-and-bone nobles that had been pestering her about her future ‘endeavors’—also known as her bidding and the coveted offspring she was expected to bear. If she was going to have to tolerate one of them, he might at least be nice to look at and touch.

And as long as it wasn’t Lord Dennor clamoring for her . . .

The thought of flitting away to Terrasen clanged through her mind. Rumor was the Terrasen men were just as lovely, their fae heritage still thick in their blood, and if one had caught Evalin’s attention . . . she could surely find herself a nice warrior to keep her bed warmed at night.

One that would make Glaston’s hair stand on end.

She almost chuckled at the thought. She sent another sidelong glance at Gavriel, appreciating the tawny eyes and golden skin. Perhaps she could find one with such fine coloring. “Is there something you’d like to ask?” the warriors deep voice inquired, the accent rolling and rich as he caught her stare. A blush raced up her cheeks. She directed her attention elsewhere, ignoring the hammering of her heart in her chest.

“Just wondering how you eat without puncturing your own lip with those fangs,” a nod towards the canines that flashed when he spoke, “I imagine it makes for a difficult time, Sir Gavriel.”

A soft smile.

“You get used to them, especially when you’ve never known anything else, Milady.”

Did you get used to serving a bitch Queen as well, when you’d never known anything else? she mused internally but settled for replying with a small “Ah.” The male grew quiet again, contemplative as he watched the scenery pass by. “Your Kingdom is lovely.” “I’m sure it pales in comparison to Doranelle.” “Different,” he brushed a hand along the base of a pale aspen, his fingers gliding over the bark, “but just as beautiful.” Insufferably polite. She almost wondered if she could get a rise out of a that composed manner of his, make him show a little bit of the predator that was no doubt lurking beneath his skin.

Only one way to find out.

“And our Court? Does it hold any light when compared to the splendor of Dornanelle?”

“The same, different but just as splendid.”

Horse shit.

He was deflecting.

“Even with the array of conniving nobles vying for power and the throne?” Wendlyn had certainly seen its fair share of assassinations and coups. Not that anyone would dare try to usurp dear Maeve from her dark throne.

He quirked an elegant brow at her.

“Political intrigue is the same in all walks of life, and I have little taste for it. But . . . yes, there are similarities, though perhaps less frequent.”

Because you’re conniving old bastards that never die?

“I see.” She clicked her tongue, squinting at the sun as it slowly rose towards its apex in the sky. “And what of other things?” A nod to his clothes, a simple grey tunic that Eleanor was disappointed wasn’t stained green. “Your fashion, perhaps?”

“Also different. Less . . .” she could see he was searching for a word that she wouldn’t deem offensive, “cumbersome.” “Why, Sir Gavriel,” she mocked offense as she fanned herself with her hand, her lips tugging at the concern, “are you implying our human clothes with all our frills and laces aren’t practical?” She thought back on the spring fashion that had been presented to the royal family that winter, the petticoats and bodices made of taffeta and satin that took up an entire room.

She’d nearly passed out when they’d laced her in one of the gowns, almost tearing the damned thing when she tried to bend over to adjust her shoes. Evalin had made quiet quacking noises at her as she’d waddled about.

“I am a soldier and am not accustomed to such finery.” Eleanor ground her teeth as he continued in his pleasant tone, easily gaining his grip back on the conversation “Forgive me if I have given offense.”

“Oh, I’ve taken great offense,” she couldn’t keep the laughter from her voice as she thought on the gaudy clothes they’d tried to stuff her in, “such offense I might not recover.”

He sent her a questioning look, as though he wasn’t entirely certain if she were serious or not. She deadpanned at him.

“I only jest.” Some tension fled from his shoulders as he flashed her a small, wry smile, one that seemed less formal than the others he’d offered her that morning.

“I do see you have a preference for the color grey,” a nod to his tunic, “is there a reason you’ve chosen that particular color?” Other than to symbolize you’re a mindless, heartless soldier.

“It is the color of my cadre, we all wear it as a unit,” a small quirk of his full lips, “though I do find removing stains from it tends to be quite cumbersome.” He had not forgotten about her little incident then, choosing to address it with her without watching eyes. Eleanor retained her smile. If he wanted to play a game she was more than happy to partake.

“Any what of your décor? Do you keep up with the newest styles and furniture?”

“It is refined but traditional. We live with one foot in the wilderness,” a nod to the environment around him, “a taste for things a little less constrained and tame. Many of our decorations are valued items of history.” She gave him a once over, noting his dark blond locks as a question formed in her mind. “And your carpets? Do they match the drapes?” Gavriel wheeled on her, his eyes wide as he took her in, disbelief playing over his features. So, he was a traditionalist, not keen on the less savory aspects of humor. She filed the information away.

Sucking on a tooth she calmly added, “Forgive me, I mean your tapestries and rugs, are they matched in color or do you decorate based on the value of the item?” She tried not to look too triumphant as the male cast his glance away from her, as she swore a faint tinge of pink bloomed on those too-perfect cheekbones of his, as he curtly replied, “There is no specific means of decorating, it is as we see fit.”

She’d made him uncomfortable. How unfortunate. “Sir Gavriel, did you think I had inquired after something else? I am only interested in understanding your culture and ways, as I know far less than my dear Evalin.” She batted her eyelashes at him, willing innocence to her features.

A poised, calm Princess.

“Forgive me, Princess,” he replied, seeming to shake the shock from his features as they melded back into a neutral expression, his horse having drifted a distance from hers, “it seems my comrades and their . . . banter have put my mind in a less than ideal place.” Eleanor wondered which of his ‘comrades’ had a dirty mind and if they’d had a more elaborate sense of humor than the stoic male before her. Perhaps they were more attractive, though that would be difficult to achieve.

She’d opened her mouth to begin another tirade of inappropriate remarks when she heard distant shouting and a high, echoing scream that tore through the underbrush.

“What is that?” she inquired, swiveling her attention towards the commotion.

Before she knew what had happened, she felt her horse skitter beneath her, banking toward the tree in front of her as a large, feral boar tore free from the undergrowth, its tusks slashing as it bolted straight for her, blood gushing from its side.

Game that hunters had failed to fell. A poorly placed, shallow wound, just enough to enrage to beast.

She didn’t remember the moment Cecilia spooked or when she was bucked from the saddle, but she recalled tumbling to the soft grass, pain splintering through her shoulder and collarbone as the horse stomped down on her and she rolled, finding herself face to face with the charging creature.

Fear pierced her as she stared death rushing at her, unable to move as it rampaged towards her.

She braced for the impact, squeezing her eyes tightly and holding her breath, praying it would be swift.

The impact never came as a crack resounded throughout the space, the sound of a body collapsing and slumping harmlessly into the grass. The hot reek of blood assaulted Eleanor’s senses as she peeled an eye open, the open maw of the beast just before her, its eyes gazing unseeingly.

How? She sucked in a shuddering breath, shock racing through her. How?

Someone had a hand on her, was speaking her name, trying to get her attention—

“Your Highness! Are you alright?” It was Gavriel, kneeling close to her as he placed a hand on her uninjured shoulder, his tawny eyes assessing, scanning for injuries. “Where?” Reality reeled in as Eleanor looked between him and the beast.

He’d killed it instantly, snapped its neck with a golden shield he’d erected before her, its remnants still shimmering. The creature’s momentum had killed it instantly.

Something molten appeared in his eyes as he looked off towards the bushes, toward the sound of approaching horses and men.

She nodded numbly, trying to right herself.

Pain lanced through her shoulder and she couldn’t help the cry that escaped her as she felt bones shift. Hissing, she slumped back down, Gavriel’s hands still keeping her upright. She must have broken something, snapped it when the horse’s hoof had come down on her.

“Princess Eleanor!” It was a young tracker who came stumbling through the bushes, his grey eyes wide in fright as he took her in. “You’re injured—” true panic there, she tried to keep her annoyance to a minimum, “My Lord, the Princess!”

It would be the talk of the evening. Lovely Eleanor bucked from her loyal mount and nearly skewered by a boar all while in the company of one of Maeve’s soldiers. Wonderful.

Others materialized behind him, men dressed in Lord Dennor’s colors of rusty red and gold, their eyes growing wide as they took her in, laying there in the grass, the fae warrior kneeling over her. Of course it had to be him.

Where was Evalin when she needed her to be a voice of reason to these fools?

Panic wasn’t going to help anyone, especially not her.

And with the scene they’d stumbled upon, a felled boar and her collapsed like some tragic, helpless damsel in the warrior’s arms.

Oh yes, it was going to be the talk of the castle.

More pain sliced through her shoulder, causing her to cry out as she panted, trying to immobilize the joint. If these men were to carry her back, the jostling—

She’d rather remaining laying in the grass.

Gavriel had not moved, however, his pupils dilated as he watched Dennor fly into view, his mustache twitching as his mount pawed from its sudden stop. “My lady,” Dennor immediately slid from his horse, his gullet nearly catching on the side of his saddle as he made for her, his eyes wide in fright as he approached her. “The damned beast! We must get you to a healer immediately!” He made as though he would reach for her before Gavriel’s voice cut him off.

“Do not move her.” That was the voice of a soldier and of a commander, and the tone surprised Eleanor. She watched as he looked up at Dennor, something like reproach flickering in his gaze as he glanced toward the boar. “It will need to be patched here to prevent further injury.” “And I suppose you will be the one to do that?” Dennor sneered, making Eleanor want to reach up and strangle the man, even if the pain of moving would send her into unconsciousness. It might be worth it.

Black spots were beginning to bloom in her vision anyway, as the adrenaline wore off and the pain began to cascade in. She couldn’t the little yelp as she tried to take a deep breath and was met with a slashing pain.

Dennor shot his attention to her.

“You’re injuring the lady! Put her down this instant.”

“No.”

Oh wonderful, an argument, very productive to getting her patched up. Her vision was growing wavery as Dennor continued on, Gavriel’s hold on her tight as he watched the man spew, his face growing redder by the second. She hadn’t noticed quite how broad the warrior’s chest was until she was pressed against it, the coiled muscle somehow comforting.

How much had the adrenaline altered her brain?

Something giddy in Eleanor emerged as the thought of what Dennor must’ve seen when he’d ridden into that field, his lovely princess in the arms of a fae warrior. How his manhood must have shriveled.

She would have laughed had it not hurt so rutting much.

Her vision had nearly depleted when a sudden warmth, bright and luxurious, flooded her arm, before she slipped into unconsciousness, grateful that the pain was gone.

When Eleanor came to, confusion filled her as she found herself lying in her bed, mysteriously changed into a dressing gown, with the comforter tucked under her chin and the fading evening rays beginning to peak through her curtains.

How had she gotten here? Last she recalled she’d been heckling Gavriel, inquiring about his nether regions when—the boar.

The memories flooded her as movement flickered to the right of her bed.

“You’re awake,” Evalin’s relieved voice sounded as her soft, warm hands took her own, squeezing them tightly. “Are you all right? You scared the wits from all of us.” “Blame the horse,” Eleanor grumbled groggily, gently squeezing her cousin’s hand back reassuringly, “and the boar.” Evalin sighed as she sunk down into the chair she’d pulled beside the bed, the book she’d been reading hastily discarded.

“Is Cecillia all right?”

Evalin huffed a laugh.

“Yes, your precious mount was returned to the stables and thoroughly coddled after her daring rescue of you.”

“A boar was charging her, I really don’t blame her for fleeing. I would have too if I’d been able to get up.” She paused, thinking on Gavriel and Dennor, and their little argument. “What of Dennor? Please tell me Glaston reprimanded him—” Evalin’s face went taut. “The young tracker was punished, Dennor claimed it was his recklessness that caused it.” “Rutting bastard,” Eleanor groused, thinking on the poor boy who’d likely just lost his job because of the lord’s arrogance. She suddenly felt rather peaky. “I don’t know what Glaston sees in him.”

“Neither do I.”

“And Gavriel?”

“Well . . .” Eleanor narrowed her eyes, had Glaston sent Maeve’s flunky away as well? Blamed him for something that was clearly not his fault? He had been the one to save her after all. “He healed your shoulder, quite spectacularly I must say, better than our healers could.” Surprise filled her as she thought of the warmth that had encased her shoulder before she’d lost consciousness. Evalin fiddled with the corner of her book. “He checked you over to make certain you were all right.”

Heat blazed in Eleanor’s cheeks. Checked her over?

Evalin grew quiet, her eyes flickering to her book.

“Eva . . .”

“It was quite the sight, you know.” Evalin toyed with the sleeve of her gown, her voice growing almost . . tender, “Your tiny frame in his arms as he carried you back, looking rather dour as Dennor howled at him the entire way . . .” “No.” Eleanor gasped, heat flushing her cheeks as horror filled her. “Please tell me you’re kidding. Evalin!”

“Glaston was most impressed with his prompt attention, although not as much as the serving girls were, they were nearly swooning,” Evalin swiped a gold curl out of her face as Eleanor felt her stomach squeeze in embarrassment, “He’s being hailed as somewhat of a hero, if only for his ability to deal with Dennor alone.” Eleanor wanted to smoother herself, to crush the life out of her own chest so that she didn’t have to face the rumor mill that was clearly overflowing.

“He’s dropped by periodically to check on you.”

“I hope you told him I died!”

“Eleanor, he was only trying to help . . .”

“Oh, may the gods smite me,” Eleanor rubbed at her eyes, considering never leaving her room, hoping she’d at least never see the male again. The gods had something else in mind, however, as a knock sounded at the door and Eleanor shook her head violently at Evalin, willing her to lock it.

Evalin sent a look as though to ask her if she was truly going to be that callous.

She was indeed going to be.

Too late, the door swung open to reveal Gavriel, who bowed his head respectfully.

Eleanor wished the floor would swallow her whole.

@seekingformangoes (I wasn’t sure if you still want to be tagged so I did, please let me know if you’d like me to untag you)

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evilgrrl · 6 years

Text

The Way Out: A Kylo Ren Fan Fiction by evilgrrl (non-consensual version)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14733605/chapters/34058348

“What am I going to do with you?” he asked, sounding bemused. His natural voice wasn't as deep as the mechanical voice, but it was warmer, richer.

Sara saw his face for the first time, and surprise and a little relief washed over her. He was not the old, disfigured creature she had imagined. He was, in fact, a well built, handsome young man with slightly uneven features and dark, enigmatic eyes. She read some kind of interest in her there.

“I'm Kylo Ren. Of the Knights of Ren,” he began, in a parody of good manners: the words polite, but the tone almost sarcastic. “And you are?”

Sara swallowed. Her throat hurt from screaming earlier. “Sara Calla. Sir.” Should she look at him, or tilt her head down respectfully?

The man approached her, and lifted her chin so she was looking up at him. Eye contact, then. He towered over her imperiously.

“What are you doing on my ship, Sara Calla?” he asked. He sounded less caustic than before, but surely it was a rhetorical question. How would she know what she was doing there when he had brought her aboard? It had to be some kind of game.

“I don't know, sir,” she mumbled, looking back down. Again the black gloved hand took hold of her chin and positioned her face where he wanted it. “Look at me when I talk to you, girl.”

He was so tall he had to bend forward and lower his head to be nearer her face. “You and I have something in common, Sara. I could . . . help you. Keep you alive perhaps.”

She heard a shushing noise as he removed his gloves, and his bare hand returned to her cheek, fingers caressing. It was as if he couldn't help himself, and that felt better than it should have. “We are the same in some ways” he said, his voice softer. “You and I both . . .” he trailed off.

Abruptly the hand retreated and he stepped back. His voice and his demeanor changed. He became impersonal, commanding.

“You said you'd do anything. Take off your clothes,” he said impatiently. The sudden turn in the conversation baffled her, and she stared at him without comprehension.

He spoke more slowly for her. “Take off your clothes. Now. Before I rip them off.”

Her abdomen clenched with anxiety. Clumsily she pulled off her shoes and leggings, followed by her tunic and undershirt. He was leaning back against the counter, observing her. His eyes went to her crotch. “All of it.”

Feeling embarrassed, she slipped off her small clothes. They joined the rest in a pile on the floor.

The man seemed somewhat satisfied, and his face relaxed a fraction. Why was Sara surprised? She had said she would do anything.

“Down on all fours.” His voice was husky, quieter. His eyes looked larger than before, predatory.

Sara felt her stomach contract again, then she complied.

Kylo Ren had moved away from the counter. He retreated slowly until the backs of his legs hit a cushioned surface, and he lowered himself to sit on the padded bench, still watching her.

“Crawl.” It was a politely phrased order.

Sara tossed her head to remove the hair from her eyes, and began to crawl. The floor was cool, but textured, and it hurt her knees a little. When she reached his feet, he leaned forward to look into her eyes.

“Kneel up.”

Sara pulled herself upright.

“Closer,” he murmured. When she shuffled forward between his legs, he leaned back into the couch.

“Undo me.”

Recognition began to form in her mind. She knew now what he wanted and that she could probably manage to give it to him. And yet . . . her hands were trembling. No one had given her orders like that before. She'd never slept with someone she feared the way she feared this man.

She stretched her hand toward the waistband of his pants, then glanced up to his eyes for confirmation. They urged her on soundlessly.

She clicked the button at the top of his pants, and the magnetic fly came apart. Almost without thinking, Sara leaned toward his body, then slipped her fingers into his small clothes. He was already hard.

“Take it out,” he told her, becoming almost eager.

She pulled the small clothes down until he was fully exposed. Then she wrapped her fingers around it, and the skin was soft, almost velvety. It slid on the shaft at her lightest touch. She heard him sigh.

“Take it in your mouth,” he said, but the words sounded less like a command, and more like an appeal.

She lowered herself to the head of his cock, noticing a little liquid seeping from the slit. She licked it up slowly and delicately, then slid her mouth around the head. Some small part of her filed away the taste of him, sweet and salty, sweeter than she had tasted before.

“Suck it.” His whisper was almost a plea. He was simultaneously ordering and begging her.

She took more of him into her mouth, then sucked him softly. He groaned and it sounded like relief. She made her lips glide smoothly, opening her jaw wide, swallowing as she went, her tongue cradling his shaft. She moved her fist around him as an extension of her lips.

A big hand came to rest gently on the back of her head. He stroked her hair a moment before his hand tightened a little, holding her head more securely. As she lowered her mouth on him further and further, she began to be aware of his smell, slightly sweaty, but clean. A little musky. His pubic hair was as black as the hair on his head, but short. He kept it trimmed, apparently.

“Harder,” he whispered.

Sara began to move up and down on his cock, her lips sealed firmly to his skin, increasing the pressure. She lowered her hands to his balls, which were beginning to firm up with his arousal. She stroked them and heard him gasp. The hand on her head implored her without force, but his desire was clear. This she could do. If her survival depended upon his sexual gratification, she could see to it. She had done worse things. With men who were not as gentle.

“Make me come,” he murmured.

Sara increased her speed, and sucked on the smooth skin a little harder. Gradually she took more and more of him into her mouth until her lips had almost reached his flat belly. His cock tasted of that sweet pre-come again. The tip of it kissed the back of her throat, no more, and she swallowed to avoid gagging.

The fingers on her head began to weave themselves through her hair as Kylo Ren went deeper under her spell. She repeated the movement that let the cock head touch the inside of her throat, and his hips jerked slightly. She heard him whisper, “Oh, god,” and felt his fingers tighten. He was trying not to thrust himself into her mouth, to just enjoy what she was doing, but it was too much for him. One, two, three times he pushed as far as he could, then went still. Sara felt him come, and kept swallowing.

The man groaned again and relaxed. Sara slipped up off of his cock, pausing at the tip to lap up the remaining semen, at which point he twitched again and seemed to experience an echo of his orgasm. Sara was gratified that she had been able to take him to that point, been able to exert some form of control over him. It would likely be all she had.

The fingers in her hair eased, and the pressure of his hand lessened. He stroked her head almost affectionately, sprawled against the back of the seat.

“Good girl.” His voice was breathy, soft and satisfied.

She felt words rising to her lips that she had never said to a man before and spoke them without thinking, “Yes, Daddy.”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14733605/chapters/34058348

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren fan fiction #fan fiction #smut #fan fic

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starfaring-princelotor · 6 years

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Sweet Tooth

Summary: A simple bite wound changes Prince Lotor and his strange urges pull out a rather...interesting side of him.

Pairings: Lotor x Reader

★ Disclaimer: I do not ship Lotura and I respectfully ask that this story to not be tagged as Lotura. This is a Lotor x Reader/Self-Insert OC story which is in no way related to Allura at all. Please be respectful of my chosen pairing. ★

Part One___Part Two___Part Three

Prince Lotor was a man of many things. He was intelligent, cunning, cautious; all traits well-suited for an heir to the Galra throne. Being raised under Zarkon and his iron rule on the empire taught the young prince several skills that shaped him into the commander he was today. Lotor was ruthless where it counts, he knew how to play his cards, and had no qualms with taking a life in a battle. He had class, he could control himself as well as his generals, though right now? Right now, maybe there was an...urge.

On his throne, his leg was shaking up and down in slight impatience. All his generals took notice of his odd composure, but it was Acxa who decided to approach him. “With caution,” she reminded herself. If anything, perhaps the adrenaline was still coursing through his veins from their last mission? Or the pressure of Voltron encroaching onto Galra territory was beginning to weigh in on him? It could be a number of things she had no insight about, though that didn’t stop her from continuing her job as being HIS general.

Once she was a few feet away, her sharp eyes noted how his damaged armor was missing here and there. She also noticed...a sizable bite mark on the inside of his arm. It looked infected, though Acxa couldn’t remember seeing any animal attack him on their recent mission. Yes, there were swords clashing and guns a blazing, but not a beast in sight. She cleared her throat, pulling Prince Lotor out of his thoughts as his piercing eyes honed in on her slender face.

“Sir,” she began with the utmost respect laced in her voice, “All prisoners have been boarded and we are ready for take off. We had few casualties in the battle and they are being treated in the medbay.”

Maybe her voice emphasized “medbay” a little more sternly to try and pressure him to get his arm looked at.

“Thank you, Acxa. Chart a course to Diad’ix galaxy. We will be visiting a little planet called Cyleus,” he ordered with a slightly strained tone due to his teeth grinding together, “That will be all.”

In all honesty, he needed rest. This new...disease coursing through him was troublesome and he would not risk his health when his plans were JUST starting to fall into place. There was a doctor there, a good doctor he knew very well, who could help him with his predicament. What problem was it? He certainly couldn’t outright tell his generals when this was clearly something he could handle on his own. Simply put, he had a craving. An urge for his next fix. An addiction.

A...lusting for something sweet. For candy, for milkshakes, for sugar, for something to satisfy his sweet tooth.

The man was actually sweating in restraint! He pushed his hair behind his ears, trying to recall where this strange sickness came from. The mission started out well enough. His plan was to rescue you and your crew, one of the unlucky coalition soldiers who got captured by his ruthless Galra commanders. Mind you, got captured by one of his Galra commanders who did not see Lotor as a prince nor heir to the Emperor Zarkon. Due to this and his status, Prince Lotor had to stage the rescue as if he was part of this father’s enemy attempting to free captured war refugees.

It worked, but there was a problem. To you, all you knew was that another Galra was going to take you captive. Sell you on the black market? Enslave you until death? Eat you? You didn’t know, so of course, you fought. You fought tooth and nail, not once believing that your savior had pure intentions with you and the other captives. In the midst of it all, between fighting you and the sentries trying to foil Lotor’s plans, he had managed to grab you in a strong chokehold.

“Stop, I am not your enemy!” he remembers yelling, trying to reason with a stubborn person like yourself, “Cease your struggling lest I-”

And then you bit him. Bit him like an enraged animal ready to tear through life and death just to survive. You didn’t relent when he let out a pained grunt, nor when he started yanking your hair to pry your teeth off of him. From an outside point of view, perhaps this would’ve been comical to see. The great Prince Lotor struggling to subdue a defenseless prisoner in his convoluted rescue mission. The pain was intense and he knew you could taste his blood flooding your mouth by now. It seemed as though you were ready to chew through his entire arm!

Prince Lotor couldn’t have that. So, in a reckless decision, he brought the hilt of his sword down harshly on the back of your head and successfully knocked you out. He would salute you on your resilient hold and how you had actually managed to WOUND him. Barbaric, true, but it worked. His generals and crew gathered all the prisoners they could and brought them upon his ship. Lotor personally dragged, er, carried your unconscious body into your own metal cell. He half debated about ordering one of his generals to put a damn muzzle on you like the dog you were.

Lotor’s eyes snapped open after his thoughts ended. Did you perhaps have venom or was your saliva deadly to his kind? That could explain everything. It wasn’t like he didn’t get his current vaccinations up to date...but there was no vaccine that could make him immune to everything. Fuck, he wanted honey. He wanted to gorge himself on the syrupy concoction, dunk his entire face in a pot of the gooey gold. The thought alone had his mouth salivating and he had to cover his lips so no one saw him drool. Prince Lotor suddenly stood up from his seat when his unruly mind began breaking his inner will.

With hastened footsteps, Lotor reached the doors to your cell and commanded the guards to let him through. He folded his hands behind himself, both to show his authority and to hide his still tenderly, wounded arm. Lotor couldn’t show you how much your bite afflicted him. As he stepped through with his head held high and menacing boots announcing his arrival, the first thing he heard was...munching. So, you were awake. Good. Now he could finally interrogate you and demand to know what venom you injected-

Oh...his nose twitched. He could smell it from here. It was sugar. Very potent sugar. His keen sense of sweet smelling delicacies was heightened and he couldn’t help but lick his lips in want. Control was waning and he must! Resist! Temptation!

You stopped eating your last meal and stared up at the mighty Prince Lotor. Stiff, stock still, but eyes quite focused on your huddled form. No, not you entirely...he was eyeing the chocolate smudged all over your mouth. It was right there, on the corner of your mouth, and he could just-he wanted to just lick it off you, maybe even nibble your lower lip to imitate the texture of a firm chocolate bar. Lotor swallowed thickly and he suddenly realized it was slowly getting harder to control his breathing. With every breath, he could taste the sweetness in the air coat his tongue, tease him, beckon him to give in, to satisfy his crazed hunger.

And you, you weren’t moving. You were prey, just waiting there, oblivious to whether or not you knew of the little problem you oh-so-generously bestowed upon him. You warily watched him kneel before you, the sudden action making you jolt back a bit in fear. He was unpredictable, it showed in his dangerous eyes. Lotor leaned closer to you, just shy a few inches from your lips, and you feared making any noise in front of him. Was he testing you? Scrutinizing your every miniscule expression? Is this an interrogation trick?

“What have you done to me…” his voice was thick, heavy with unbridled hunger as if he was dying of thirst.

Something changed then. Prince Lotor sounded...weak. Strained. He was holding back and part of you worried he was going to snap any second now. A plan formulated in your head. Now was the time to escape! He was injured and if you were quick enough, you could hit him across his temple and make a rush for the exit. You could take out the guards quick enough if they were distracted and...and what was that sliding down your arm?

“W-what are you…?” your question trailed off when Lotor pinned you with a heated stare.

The Prince trailed his hand down to your wrist, gripping it firmly with his fingers, then brought it up between the both of you. Halfway unwrapped in crinkled foil and paper was the delectable bane of his existence: chocolate. He didn’t know Hershey’s, but the smell...it made him shudder in want. He couldn’t hold back any second longer and, in the privacy of the cell, he finally indulged his hidden, shameful desire. Lotor began gorging himself out of the palm of your hand, panting heavily and with no coordination of his princely title whatsoever.

All you could do was stare in shock at the wild look behind his eyes. The way he scarfed down the delicacy as if he had found the forbidden fruit of the Gods was both arousing and frightening. Frightening because THIS was the Galra heir to the throne, the same throne that subjugated their prisoners to the worst possible torture imaginable. He was eating so fast and you did see those threatening fangs of his bite a little too close to your thumb. Half of you worried he would eat your hand while he was at it.

And yet, the way he was licking your fingers made you flustered. His warm, slick tongue wrapping eagerly around your index finger and those wet, sucking noise were absolutely filthy in the silence of the cell. Was he aware of how erotic his raw hunger looked right now? Did he know that the more he lapped messily at the melted goo between the crevices of your fingers only made you shiver in odd delight?

“Oh…” he moaned lowly, almost growling, before finally breaking away after indulging himself for a few seconds longer than what was considered proper, “That was...divine…”

Was his urge sated? Absolutely not, if his half-lidded, smoldering gaze was anything to go by. Prince Lotor was still lost in his desire for the sweet, foreign taste of chocolate and his next fix was currently on your lips. Without sparing a second thought, he cupped your face with his hands and kissed you in feverish need. He still had that accursed craving coursing through his veins and his mind was clouded to the brim with this delicious kiss. Lotor paid no attention to his overheating body at all, nor did he reign in control over how improper it was to, ah, indulge his prisoners.

You had no time to even process how a prince from your enemy was currently giving you the best kiss of your life. The heart in your chest was beating so fast, you wouldn’t be surprised if he heard it with those elegant ears of his. The way he moved his lips sensually over yours had your mind in a tizzy. Was this how he broke his prisoners? With the art of seduction? It was...definitely a possibility now that you got to experience it first hand. Lotor’s body was so firm against yours and his palms felt like a warm, toasty fire in the chill of deep space. It was difficult to pull away, even as his tongue lapped lazily at the corner of your lips.

“Give me more…” Prince Lotor tugged at your lip with his fangs, drinking in the pleasurable groan that escaped your throat, “I demand it…ah...”

He was panting like a dog now, pressing his towering form more insistently against you in hopes that somehow, you could grant him his desperate demands. Before you could answer, his mouth was upon yours once again, those dark eyes of his clenched close in strain while his tongue slipped through your lips. Lotor could taste it, taste the lingering sugar coating your wet muscle, and he found it absolutely intoxicating. He felt drunk off of you.

Prince Lotor wanted, needed more, but it was too late before he realized his body could not handle it. The addicting sugar, the fever that came with this foreign infection, it weakened him to the point where he had to break the kiss. You were finally able to catch your breath in the haze of lust, yet Lotor seemed exhausted. Sickly, even. Now, his skin was clammy and before you could get a questioning word out, the mighty Prince Lotor let out a pained grunt, swayed slightly...and suddenly passed out.

“L-Lotor?!” you were crushed under him, trapped under his body that felt like was exerting more heat than usual, “Prince Lotor?!”

Did you...just kill the coalition’s enemy with a sugar rush?

#lotor #lotor x reader #blood #spacestories

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caffeine4myseoul · 7 years

Text

[fanfic] Life of You - Super Junior - TeukChul

Jungsu is here for Heechul.

Gray. Colorless.

Cold, lifeless, dull, dusk draws a veil across the world, sucking all warmth and color from its being. It stills everything, the world takes a deep breath in foreshadow of yet another day, just another turning point in the endless circle of time that holds the world in its grip. Slow, dull, a veil of smoke frees itself from the glowing stick lingering between slender fingers, taking off to the skies in a graceful, asymmetric dance, yet never letting go of the cherry red-hot glow that feeds its life; free, yet ultimately bound.

Kim Heechul coughs, his chest convulsing in aggressive tremors. Coming up for air as the cramps release his body and let him breathe through, a series of knocks resonate from the office behind him. He recomposes himself, takes a last pull from the cigarette before flicking it over the edge of the balcony. He turns around to face Hangeng, who is in his office, and not waiting on the other side of the door, which he swears was closed not two minutes ago.

“Some might say smoking isn’t exactly beneficial to the improvement of a cough,” the Chinese comments calmly.

“Some might say when knocking on a closed door, one should wait on the other side of said door instead of walking straight into someone else’s personal space.”

“Had you wanted personal space, perhaps you should have gone to your home, not spent another night in the office of a building with a very large number of employees. Also, talking about what you perhaps should do, counselling for medical attention for that cough might not be half a bad idea.”

Heechul lets himself down in the chair by his desk. “I don’t recall hiring you to be my nurse.”

Hangeng looks - disappointingly much - remarkably unaffected by the aggressive sneer of his boss. “Me neither,” he says leisurely.

“However, I do recall hiring you to provide me with essential things to lead this hellhouse of a company - such as caffeine,” Heechul adds, watching his lanky first assistant make himself comfortable in the chair across him, entirely without any invitation to do so.

“No, you didn’t,” Hangeng replies, wistfully. “That’s Donghae’s job.”

A frown grows on Heechul’s brow. “And where is he, might I ask?”

The man across him takes a long, measuring look at his wristwatch. “I’d say he’s with much probability acquiring your coffee right now.”

Heechul lets out a deep sigh and tugs at his tie.

“So, onward to business,” Hangeng bursts out with too much enthusiastic energy to make Heechul feel anything but in despair.

“No,” he snaps before the Chinese man can throw himself into whatever financial or strategic lecture he has prepared. “No business before shower and coffee. Do be quiet, for the love of god. Or go away. Yes, go away, I’m gonna have a shower.”

He can just about physically feel his employee impatiently crossing his arms across his chest as he walks towards the large bathroom attached to his spacey office, paying as little attention to him as possible - he might or might not have muttered something about blasphemy and atheism.

“See to it that there’s a fresh suit hanging on this door within the next thirty minutes,” he throws over his shoulder.

“A shower of thirty minutes isn’t much beneficial to company growth, you know that?” Hangeng comments loudly. “This entire fricking company would shrink to nothing within days if you didn’t have me.”

“And that is why I hired you,” Heechul flings at him before shutting the door.

“I know that,” Hangeng says in heartily agreement to no one but himself. He sighs a little, stretches in his seat and reaches over the table to grab his boss’s packet of cigarettes and fish out one of the whitish sticks before raising his phone.

“Donghae, we need a fresh suit, tie and shirt. And underwear. Boxer briefs, and nothing but that,” he adds, well aware of the fact that he just used the same tone when stressing timely punctuality to one of his employees.

A sobbing, inarticulate noise of panic-laced despair reaches him through the speaker. "The coffee shop mid-town is closed, god knows why, I have to go across town and traffic is in a complete state of war and I-”

“Nevermind, Donghae, I’ll put Ryeowook on it,” Hangeng interrupts the hectic second assistant in mild concern of the latter’s mental well-being. “Just get the coffee, and cigarettes.”

Lee Donghae sobs a relieved thanks and he hangs up, reaching across the table to press the intercom. “Ryeowook, we need a new set of clothes.”

“On it,” a soft voice calls calmly over the speaker. A series of wet, violent coughs sound from the bathroom and Hangeng’s forehead forms worrisome wrinkles. He could probably manage to lure his boss into a doctor’s appointment, would he be under the delusional impression Kim Heechul would take willing part in any sort of treatment course - or even stay in the room for more than three seconds. And Hangeng isn’t of the delusional kind.

Worried frown still in place, Hangeng shoves away the mental list of whatever more or less severe medical issues could cause such a cough. Shaking his head mildly, he heads for his desk to busy himself for the coming half hour with sorting paperwork for today’s meeting and see to it that Ryeowook gets those clothes in time.

Heechul steps out of his pants, shrugs off his shirt and walks into the fuming warmth of the shower, letting the streaks of hot water hammer down on his skin. He lets his head fall back as the warmth seeps in through his skin, into his flesh. He is just about always cold these days. And tired. At twenty-seven years old he feels tired, a constant, deeply reaching, consuming tired. He feels worn out, as if he’s used up all the energy he has been given this life time. He closes his eyes, feeling the warmth spread through his body.

A series of sharp knocks on the bathroom door snaps him back into reality.

“Sir, not to disturb you but you’ve been in there for forty-five minutes.”

Heechul sends the glossy, black tiles of the roof a long, threatening glance through the damp fog.

“I did not hire you to be my human watch,” he barks in the general direction of the door. “No, you did not,” comes the calmly casual answer through the door. “You hired me to keep this company from falling to crumbs.”

“Exactly.”

“Which is why I’m telling you to get your ass out of that shower, because you have a board meeting in fifteen minutes. Respectfully, so.”

Clenching teeth, Heechul growls at the ceiling.

“Fourteen minutes and a half,” Hangeng leisurely presses.

“Coming,” he growls under his breath, turning off the faucet with just a wee bit of violence.

“Fourteen,” Hangeng urges as Heechul grabs one of the large, soft towels off the rack.

“Coming,” the dripping brunette snaps again, louder. Burying his face in the airy fluff of the towel for half a heartbeat, he briefly calls down a very long, detailed curse upon his Chinese assistant, his secondary assistants and pretty much every person employed by or affiliated with his company, all the way down to the cleaners and whatever individuals are in charge of restocking office supplies.

“Thirteen and a half,” Hangeng comments on the other side of the door, his voice a shade more urgent.

Heechul swears. “I am coming,” he snaps, flinging up the door, only vaguely hoping it will blow up in his assistant’s face. It clearly does not, as Hangeng’s gangly statue meets him, a rack of clothes in his hand and eyebrows raised meaningly.

“Thirteen” he says, dryly.

“Give me my damn clothes,” his boss all but growls, tiny pearls of water dripping from his soaked strands and clinging to the milkily pale skin of his shoulders and chest, towel hugging his slim waist.

“Why, yes, sir,” comes the barely smug reply.

“Shut up, Hangeng,” Heechul all but hisses, grabbing for the pair of black briefs his assistant holds out to him.

“What is this meeting about?” he mutters, threading his long legs through the briefs while the Chinese with less vague smugness directs his gaze towards the ceiling.

“I do believe it is budgetary.”

Heechul stops his ministrations of rubbing his hair dry. “Budgetary? Why the hell am I doing a budgetary meeting? I have associates for that. And you.”

“Budgetary briefing on our expansion to Hong Kong.”

Heechul emits a noise halfway between a mutter and a hiss. “Socks.”

“Here. Also, the new model is being introduced.”

“Pants.”

“And the factory in Busan is opening a new department -”

“Shirt.”

“- which needs to be structured, staffed and approved.”

“Jacket.”

“And after the board meeting the development department wants to present new software,” Hangeng wraps up, holding up the jacket for his boss to reach into. “Tie,” he holds out the little roll of silky fabric.

“And coffee,” he continues as a ruffled-looking Lee Donghae bursts through the door looking like he was just chased across town by a gone-rogue hippopotamus; out of breath, hair standing in every given direction, shirt escaping the hold of his pants and his tie over his shoulder.

“Coffee, sir,” he brings out between ragged breaths, putting the paper mug down on the desk, the two other men observing him with raised eyebrows.

“Is he okay?” Heechul asks his first assistant, pushing the knot of his tie up in position, regarding Donghae with sceptical concern as the younger brunette takes a supporting hold onto the desk while all but bent over trying to regain control over his therrasic system.

Hangeng tilts his head slightly, eyebrows still raised.

“No - I’m - I’m fine, sir,” Donghae pants, “it’s just - traffic, sir.”

Hangeng gives a nod and a dismissive gesture. “See. Traffic. He is perfectly fine,” he states. “Drink your coffee. And follow me to the conference room, me and Ryeowook will brief you on the meeting on the way there.”

Heechul mumbles a grunt and follows Hangeng out of his office, where Kim Ryeowook rushes to his side, his slender arms full of folders and reports and what not and dives right into a quick-paced account of the budgetary stand on their soon to be opened branch in Hong Kong.

“… so basically -”

“We need to financially restructure three departments, otherwise we’re good to go, I get it,” Heechul breaks him off and takes a large chug of coffee, the bitter warmth burning his tongue and throat as he steps into the large glass-walled room full of suit-clad men and women.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he starts as Ryeowook hurries around the languid table handing out folders. His gaze sweeps over the room. And catches one face. Slows to stop and linger. For no good reason.

Eyes that seem to shine and glisten with lingering mirth under golden bangs, a smile that forms deep dimples, the features somehow soft. A lean body clad in a plain dark suit over a gray shirt, no tie and the top button undone to reveal a hint of silky skin, arms crossed over chest, leaning against the wall in a far corner.

No tie in a board meeting. Something seems to be bothering the back of his consciousness, but he cannot grasp it, like a shadow at the corner of his eye that disappears as he turns to look at it. He is not even sure whether he’s about to mention the tie-lacking inappropriateness - him calling employees out publicly during constellations as this for some behavioral or visual fault is granted not something that he often finds himself in the need of doing, however, it has occurred, and he does find it a most efficient way to deal with the issues - but before he can figure it out, his chest rawly convulses in a harsh cough.

Straightening up again, he sees the people in front of him through a blurry sheen of involuntary tears. Frowns lining foreheads, raised eyebrows. Ryeowook is back at his side, procuring a water-bottle from out of thin air to hand it to him.

He takes a sip of water to soothe his throat, pulling his lips into a smile to excuse himself, and he draws a shallow breath before taking to explain to his employees the status of their Hong Kong expansion. His gaze follows a confident pattern, well-practiced and routinal, from one face to the next as he walks his listeners through the presentation on the screen behind him. Between financial balances and department structures, the glistening eyes. Again, he lingers for just a moment. And again, something in the back of his head is bothering him, but he can not quite put his finger on the identity of what.

He finishes his talk to approving nods and a rustle of claps and he moves to sit back in the chair Ryeowook is gesturing him towards, to listen to whoever is in charge of bringing the new department in Busan to life. Glistening dark orbs fluttering at the edge of his vision, smooth skin folded into the thinnest lines of laughter that’s just about to break the surface. Something bothering at the back of his head. He keeps his gaze focused on the gentleman talking about Busan, nodding and frowning at appropriate places before giving a short and concise judgment at the end of the man’s talk.

The two fellas from the department of development scramble to the front of the room. Of course they had the mind to stand in the farthest back, and a struggle follows of people getting up and making way, a folder or two falling to the floor.

Heechul doesn’t bother to hide his itching irritation as he openly taps a finger against the ebony surface of the table. A glint, all but sparkling; the laughter closer to the surface. He doesn’t meet the dark eyes, does not engage. Sharp jaw-line, smooth skin.

No tie in a board meeting.

The two from development finish arranging themselves and their folders and queuing their presentation and cough to mark the start of their talk. Heechul resumes his tapping, slower now, after five minutes. He asks himself how come the people from development at all time lack all ability not to simultaneously bore him senseless and irritate the sanity out of him. They finish their unorderly speech with a halfhearted conclusion and fearfully hopeful glances towards their boss.

Heechul only near swallows a snort. “Not good enough,” he informs them dryly. “And I shall remind you all that my employees will all be properly dressed and properly prepared. At all times. Meeting dismissed.” He rises from his chair and flaunts out of the room, seeing in the corner of his eyes how a nervous wave of fabric-straightening-pats and adjustments of ties and collars goes through the gathering. Kim Heechul is not a man known for either his mild temper or long patience.

A glint of dimples. Of glistening dark, luring oceans and the flash of a snow white smile. He curses under his breath without certainly knowing why. He needs a cigarette, he does know, and preferably more coffee, which he growls out loud to whomever it may concern.

It does not concern Hangeng, but that is who happens to offer him a reply, regrettably, as he hurries after his boss. “I do believe you should have some breakfast first, sir,” he says in a tone that might just convince an orca to attempt to fly. It does however not convince his boss of anything at all.

“Make sure development get their thumbs out of their lazy asses and come up with something I can put on the market without wanting to crawl under a carpet in shame,” Heechul replies, wholeheartedly ignoring his assistant’s comment.

“Will do, sir,” Hangeng says brightly. “What would you like to eat, then?”

“And see to it Ryeowook cancels my afternoon meeting with the Busan manager. The man is a moron and I can not bear his presence today, I’ve had enough idiocy for one day. Or tell him to send the secondary instead.”

“Very well, sir, then I’d say we should invite young mr. Byun to dinner while he’s here. Ryeowook?” He adds as the smaller man catches up to them. “4 o’clock is cancelled unless it is Byun Baekhyun who will be there. And book a table at the Jungsik Dang, 5 o’clock.”

“Whatever. And find out if Jaejoong has returned to Tokyo yet, if not, schedule a meeting with him.”

“Yes, sir. Topic of the meeting?”

“I intend to give him officially longer reigns in Japan, he does not need to run everything by me, it’s time consuming and he is sane enough to run the branch by himself. But there’s no reason he needs to know that in beforehand.”

“Sounds good,” Hangeng beams and turns to Ryeowook who’s at his heel, busily tapping away at an iPad. “Find out if the secondary of Tokyo is still in town, if so, book a 2 o’clock.”

“I don’t give a damn how it sounds.” They turn the corner and Heechul stops in the door of his office and turns to his two assistants.

“Pancakes or toast for breakfast, then?” Hangeng replies.

“Coffee. Now. And is it not concerning coffee or a financial collapse of the Eastern hemisphere, stay the fuck out off my sight,” he says, not even near as unkindly as he could have. He simply lacks the ambition at this moment. And with that, he pushes the blackly ebony doors close, hiding both his assistants and the entire goddamned department from his vision. There’s a dull headache throbbing at the base of his skull as he frees a cigarette from the packet and heads with it towards the balcony.

He leans against the glass railing, supporting himself on his lower arms, hands and the cigarette hanging over the far nothingness as he gazes out over Seocho’s planes of glass reflecting rays of dim autumn sun, an enormous forest of metal and brick and glass, a glimpse of the Han River between two buildings. Rising from it all, a constant stream, slowly winding, a low rumble of engines and honking horns, voices, shouts, crashes and thunders, rising with the thin veil of grey floating from his hand, lazily winding in the air.

“It is quite a view.”

Heechul is this close to jumping out of his own skin and falling over the railing. The cigarette tumbles from his hand as he scrambles around to face the source of the voice.

A brightly white smile, glinting eyes. Dimples like sharp cuts. A lead grey shirt with the top button undone. The man stands lounging against the frame of the door leading out to the balcony, hands buried in the pockets of his dark suit pants, head tilted slightly to the side as he looks straight at Heechul.

Heechul scrambles, at a loss of words, something that simply does not happen. Ever.

“You,” he manages to splutter after regaining control of his ability of speech and recollecting his lower jaw from where it’s ended up around his knees.

The man just blinks, slowly, tilted rays of sun playing with gold in his chestnut brown hair, an amused smile still playing along soft lips.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Heechul demands, regaining more of his composure. “Who the hell are you?”

The smile widens. “Jungsu, my name is Park Jungsu.”

Heechul manages a snort. “Oh yeah. Good for you. And what the hell are you doing in my office? I am not taking any meetings today. And even if I were, I don’t recall having a meeting scheduled with whatever-the-hell-your-name-was-again.”

The glint of amusement sparks brighter, a shining star on a night sky. “Jungsu. Park Jungsu.”

“Fine,” is all that Heechul can come up with.

“I’m not here for business.”

Heechul snorts and makes an urgent mental note to install security directly outside his office doors. Whom he’d be sure to tell not to let Hangeng in, either. On second thought, especially not Hangeng. “Well, then you most definitely should get the fuck out of my office.”

The smile of the man softens in a way that makes Heechul falter. “I’m here for you, Heechul,” he says, his voice as soft as warm honey.

Heechul has to keep himself from swallowing. The words of the man, the unquestionable sincerity of them, sends a shiver down his spine.

The man smiles. There’s something final about it, something decided. Then he turns and the ebony doors fall shut behind him within a few seconds, leaving Heechul standing in a silence feeling like heavy, thick fog.

He imagines he would feel a lot similar if someone had just walked up to him in the middle of the street and punched him in the face. Yet he is not entirely sure why.

He stands very still for a long while, then his numb fingers start fumbling at his pack of cigarettes to light another. He feels odd, numb and somewhat violated. Though the man, whatever his name might have been, merely said something that he cannot decipher as anything else but utter nonsense, there is something about the words that seems to have hooked onto the inside of his chest, barbs sinking deep into flesh and sticking, going deeper with every move, every breath he takes. “I’m here for you, Heechul.” The words, the voice as smooth and soft as honey and silk echo in his mind, washing away the sound of the busy city beneath, branding themselves onto the very inside of his skull. Though they make no logical sense to him - and he might just deem the randomly appearing man gravely insane and a general public health hazard should he ever glance upon the image of him again - there is something about the unyielding sincerity of them that is haunting, clinging onto Heechul like a firm grasp at the base of his skull.

He pulls at the cigarette, hard, staring at the city without actually seeing it and a good while slips by him.

A loud knock behind him and the doors to the office opening makes him jump regrettably high a second time. The cherry red glow of the cigarette has long reached the filter and burned out and he does honestly not know if he actually smoked it or just held it. Grumbling inwardly, he turns to glare at Lee Donghae, hair still ruffled and a uniquely sheepish smile in place as he balances a huge cup of coffee and a plate with a sandwich. If Heechul didn’t know any better he might believe Hangeng isn’t trying to make up for the verbally explicitly unwanted sandwich with the largest cup of coffee he could possibly accumulate. Alas, Heechul does know better, and his glowering gaze follows Donghae intently as he with visible discontent sets his delivery down on the desk, and whether his inaudible mumbles are meant as an apology is unclear to his boss.

Heechul waits until his second assistant has skedaddled his way back outside of the closed doors before he makes his way towards the desk. He slides down into the generously sized turning chair, embracing the mug brimming full of hot coffee with his slim hands, feeling the warmth against the skin of his palms. Muttering about spectacle-clad Chinese mommy-birds that do not know their own business from their asses, he pokes at the sandwich with a long finger. He is well aware it is his favourite, from the undisputedly best place in all of Seoul, yet he only manages a few bites before the substance seemingly starts to grow in his mouth. He makes short process of it all by sending it squarely into his paper bin and blames unprepared employees with horrifying speech-skills and randomly appearing men with dimples but no ties, as he turns his chair towards the still open balcony and lights a cigarette.

Jungsu. Park Jungsu. He is all but irritated that he actually remembers the name.

I’m here for you, Heechul.

Heechul lets out a snort, loud enough to make himself startled. Now that he thinks about the words, they start to sound something like an offer of comfort, of affectionate support. None of which he is in the need of at all, thank you very much. Especially not from randomly appearing, nonsense-spitting, tie-lacking strangers. He is just fine.

With a further muffled huff, he turns back to the desk and the pile of paperwork that’s waiting for him. He buries himself in work, diving into it and letting it soak through his mind until all that exists is numbers, statistics and diagrams, strategics and model upgrades.

He has all but forgotten about the rest of the world as the familiar initial bleep from the intercom speaker right next to him makes him jump in his seat.

“Sir, Kim Jaejoong is here to see you,” Hangeng’s all too familiar voice announces, all too cheerfully.

Heechul mutters and sighs, and his breath turns into a cough that has him bent over beneath the desk as it releases his trembling body from it’s rattling grip.

“Sir,” Hangeng repeats urgingly.

Heechul blinks away the tears in his eyes, forcing down a shaking, deep breath as he straightens himself up, reaching out a slightly trembling hand to press at the intercom. “Send him in, Hangeng,” he says, willing his voice not to sound too coarse.

Still. “Are you okay, sir?” Hangeng sounds suspicious.

“Now, Hangeng.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Heechul clears his throat, rubbing at his eyes and running a hand through his hair before he pushes the papers and folders spread across his working space aside and into some order. He is just done and chugs down the last swallow of gone cold coffee as the ebony doors open to let a slim dark chocolate brunette step into the office. He is a bit shorter than Heechul himself, with broad shoulders, large dark eyes and features so fair they are known to make most women wee jealous - or greatly interested, mostly both in equal shares.

He smiles in greeting. “Hyung-nim.”

“Jaejoong, good to see you,” Heechul nods to him to take the opposing seat. “How are you doing?” Jaejoong had entered the company just a year after Heechul himself, and over the years they’d grown quite closely acquainted and fond of each other; one might just say he was one of Kim Heechul’s very few favourite employees and next in command. He’s a quietly charismatic fellow, easy and comforting to talk to during long nights over soju and reliable at his post.

“Me? I’m good. How are you? You look terrible, hyung,” he cocks his head to the side, looking at the other man with concern.

Heechul just shrugs. “I’m fine.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m busy and I have a cold, that’s all,” he waves off the others inquiry and reaches for another cigarette, offering one to Jaejoong, who accepts it with a grin.

“So.” Jaejoong blows out smoke to the corner of his mouth. “What can I do for you, hyung-nim?”

Jaejoong accepts the offered request of a promotion just as Heechul would have liked him to. His smile widens as a show of his approval but he doesn’t make a fuss as he shakes his hand firmly and suggest they go out for late lunch to celebrate. Heechul thinks of pork sizzling on a grill, and nausea rises in his throat like water filling an empty hose. He suggests coffee or drinks and a possible snack, all while quietly cursing the living daylights out of Hangeng and his entire existence for setting him up for dinner with Byun Baekhyun later in the day.

Jaejoong, unsurprising opts for the latter and they make their way towards a bar they both find agreeable. They settle down with a bottle of soju and some snacks at a table in a corner of the establishment’s terrace and Heechul finds it under circumstances quite enjoyable to spend about an hour mostly listening to the other chatting away. Eventually though, Jaejoong has to depart to catch his plane and Heechul lingers at the table, gazing unseeingly at the near-empty bottle of soju, pulling at a cigarette and barely noticing the taste or the smoke running down his throat.

A flicker at the edge of his vision and suddenly a body fills up his sight. He stares for a moment, his mind empty.

“You. Again?”

A crooked smile forms sharp dimples. “Me again,” he says calmly, a spark in the dark eyes.

Jungsu. Park Jungsu. It echoes through his mind like the whisper of a wind in a deserted cave.

Heechul gives out a snort that sounds much like a cry of despair.

“What do you want?” he growls.

“I’m here for you,” comes the steady reply. Which seems to make less sense every time he hears it. Not that it made any sense the first time, either.

“You’ve said that,” Heechul bursts out. “So what do you want?

“Nothing.”

Heechul is ready to grab the soju bottle in front of him and throw it into the other’s face. Yet all he does is stare. The man must be insane, violently deranged. Heechul is sure of it. And he would be horrified - should be - but there’s something in his face that seems to latch onto Heechul’s inner and pull him towards thinking otherwise. It’s not quite pity, it’s not patronising enough. It’s compassion, true and intense, seeping like a stain of red wine on a white sheet.

“Then why are you here?” he can hear his own exasperation breaking through.

“I am here for you.”

Heechul can feel his words catching in his throat, though what words they would have been, he doesn’t even know. Again he’s left staring at the other’s face in the slowly tilting rays of afternoon sun, which is as kind as it is open, clueless and frustrated. He tries one more time to get out a comprehensible series of words, fails, and decides to give up and flee the scene.

He has scrambled to his feet, cramming together his phone, wallet and pack of cigarettes and is grabbing his jacket as the other speaks again. Again, the voice is like warm honey running over silk, as soft as a summer’s breeze and yet it somehow pierces through his entire being like a red hot branding iron.

“Heechul.”

“What?” he isn’t even sure the choked word is uttered out loud as he turns back to stare.

“I am sorry.”

Now he doesn’t feel like throwing things. He feels nothing, like the words just sucked him empty from within, leaving nothing but a sharp-feeling vacuum behind. He stands frozen for a moment. There are thin lines drawn between Park Jungsu’s brows, his open face seeming vulnerable, the compassion that isn’t quite pity coloring his every feature.

Heechul turns then, and walks away, as little aware of his own actions as the world around him. The slowly tilting sunrays turn golden as he walks through the city, cruising unbeknownst through the sea of people rushing throughout their days, always in a hurry to get to the next place.

There something growing in the back of his mind, unidentifiable like a tease of light that vanishes everytime he tries to turn to look at it; cowering at the darkest corner of his mind, slowly growing and nibbling at the edges of his consciousness just enough to bother him. It’s like a shadow on a sunny day, dark and cold and it feels sore, like a lump in his throat, the iciness of nameless worry in the pit of his stomach and yet he does not know what it is.

Somehow, he ends up outside the familiar doors of Jungsik Dang, just before 4 and a whole packet of cigarettes later. He informs the fellow at the reception desk of his reservation and then heads for the men’s room. He stares at himself in the reflection of the large mirror in the softly lit bathroom. Jaejoong’s words of “hyung, you look terrible” echo in his mind and he can’t do much but agree.

The face that stares back at him looks oddly hollowed out; his eyes large with deep, dark patches beneath them, his cheeks like shadows against his so pale it’s closing on a greyish tone and his hair is a lanky mess of fraying stripes. He looks like a ghost, he thinks grimly.

Knowing it won’t help much of anything, he splashes cold water on his face, feeling it icily against his hot skin. As he straightens up, his world turns dark for a moment and he grasps at the marble edge of the sink, steadying himself. He blinks, pats his face dry and takes a few deep breaths, adjusting his collar, tie and jacket more habitually than anything else.

Byun Baekhyun has arrived while he was in the bathroom and greets him with a smile that just about reaches from ear to ear. Baekhyun is an admittedly active talker and fairly comparative to a puppy in more ways than one but he’s all in all a sane young man and an hour and a half in his company is mostly bearable, and would have been perfectly pleasant had Heechul been in a better condition. As he eventually bids his farewell, Heechul again lingers at the table.

The nagging, horrible cold in the back of his mind, just out of reach, is growing, accumulating like a storm at the horizon, imminent and threatening. And Heechul isn’t a man who easily feels threatened; at age of 28 he is leading a financial empire and people and obstacles alike tend to sway for him. But now there is something within, taunting his mind like a near-forgotten knowledge, like something beneath the surface of the Han-river, just almost visible. As if he just looks hard and long enough, he’ll be able to see it clearly.

“Sir. Excuse me, sir.” Heechul starts and looks up in wonder. A young waitress is looking carefully at him with wide eyes. “Sir, we’re closing. You need to leave. I’m sorry, sir.” He simply stares at her for a moment until he gets to look around. The establishment is entirely cleared of customers and waiters in their white shirts are drifting about and cleaning tables.

A cool rain is slowly filling the chilly air as he steps out in the night. People are pulling their coats tighter around them, hurrying in under shelter and deploying umbrellas like giant flowers blooming in fast-forward in the streets. A numbness that has little to do with rain or cold is slowly creeping through his body and he barely feels the reaching on icy drops.

He is barely surprised that his feet carry him to the office-building, looming in illuminated planes against the night-sky, rather than to his apartment. He can not quite remember the last time he set his foot in his actual home - just as little as he can really remember the time when it was a home. He is just as barely surprised to find the lean figure of Park Jungsu on the pavement steps just outside the entrance, rain flowing down his temples and shoulders in rivulets, elbows braced on jeans-clad knees.

“You should go home, Heechul,” he says as Heechul passes him, his tone as soft as it is intense.

Heechul doesn’t find he has an urge to answer. He leaves patches of wet on the marvel floor of the lobby and little pools at his feet as he stands in the elevator, staring emptily at nothing until the patches of mirror and gold float together to a soft golden world of clouds.

He stands in the shower until the skin of his hands wrinkles with moistness, still the warmth doesn’t quite reach under his skin. He lays on his wide couch, smokes and stares unseeingly at the patch of Seoul’s reaching peaks visible past his balcony, and he isn’t quite sure if he’s even slept as Hangeng knocks on his door the next morning. He chooses not to see his assistant’s darkly concerned gaze. He’s seen it being sown in nothing, growing stronger with every passing day, every night spent in the office, every cough, every skipped meal. It isn’t helping and he does not want to see it any more. So he isn’t quite sure why he makes the effort to wash down a few morsels of kimbap with significant amounts of coffee.

As night has settled its velvet embrace over the city like heavenly soft feathered wings, Heechul leans against the railing of his balcony, dangling a cigarette and a bottle of red wine over the multi-color-lit abysses. He almost feels it.

He turns around. Park Jungsu is leaning against the frame of his door, watching him, head cocked to the side, ghost of a smile playing on his lips; a look like warm gold in his deep brown eyes.

Heechul swallows and a chill runs down his spine like an electrified drop of ice. “Are you gonna hurt me?” He barely gets the words out and he can hear the rasping fear in them, like rust against shining metal.

Jungsu shakes his head, slowly. “No, Heechul. I’m here for you.”

Heechul isn’t entirely aware he repeats the last four words to himself under a rough breath as he turns back to the kaleidoscopic image of the city. “How did you get in here?”

“I did,” comes the reply like down feathers drifting in the darkness. It’s not a response in any way whatsoever but Heechul is lacking the ability to care. He takes a last pull of the cigarette and drops it, watching the needle-prick fall out of sight.

“You should take better care of yourself.” He isn’t even sure he actually heard that, it might have just been a whisper of wind. “You lost someone.” He sees the bottle shake in his pale hand. Distantly he feels his own breath hitch, just slightly. At least he doesn’t cough.

It’s very quiet for a long while and at some point Heechul walks past Jungsu on his way to the bathroom, not entirely loathing the shared quietude.

He emerges from the bathroom to a dark and empty office and almost admits to himself that he wishes it hadn’t been. The light from the city is sharp and cold and he stares emptily at a patch of silky night sky, the nagging, threatening darkness nagging at the base of his spine.

It lingers there, as if solidified to the bone; bothering at the very edge of his mind and tugging at the bottom of his heart, never growing enough for him to see clearly, never really fading. Park Jungsu lingers, too. Never enough to be a real botherance, never entirely gone. Heechul eventually forgets how to care. He settles with seeing a glimpse of him sometimes as he walks the hallways of the office, finding him lounging at the door to his balcony or on the edge of his desk or against one of the great marvel pillars in the lobby that have no actual practical functionality in carrying the next floor. There is nothing threatening about his presence and as long as it doesn’t bother anyone else, Heechul finds he does not have it in him to accumulate the energy to care, and there is no point in arguing or asking; he knows now what the answer will be.

Rain pours from the sky in streams rather than drops, as icy as the chill to the air. Heechul can feel the freezing dampness to his skin, but it seems, he can not care.

“You should take better care of yourself.” Jungsu’s soft voice is a familiar whisper in the stream of city-noise. You should take better care of yourself. I am here for you. Frequency is slowly making those two sentences as familiar as the burn-mark on his desk. Heechul finds in this moment there’s almost a comfort to the repeatedness.

“What use is there.” The coarse mutter comes on its own accord.

“It’s cold tonight.” Like often, Jungsu’s reply is loftily unrelated to Heechul’s snide remark, as if he simply chooses to ignore out of sheer gentleness. Heechul does not quite understand why it isn’t annoying the living hell out of him.

Distantly, he hears slow steps nearing, just a couple of paces. The warmth of another body softly against his backside runs like a static shock through him and for a moment it’s as if he waits for an explosion, for the world to end. Nothing happens, and so he stands there for some time, just almost leaning back against the warm body behind him. Jungsu has his hands in his pockets: he does not speak or move, like an immobile wall to steady him for just a while.

Heechul knows deep in his rational, calculating core, that he might in fact be in danger. He knows nothing about the man, not even how he can enter and leave his office as he pleases; he’s never seen him wearing a badge. He could be a stalker, and that possibility might still be favorable in comparison. Most possibly is he aiming for whatever fortune and privileges come along with Kim Heechul’s standing. And yet, there is something so unexplainable, irrationally, primarily comforting and familiar about his presence. So Heechul ignores all reason and loses himself until all but the steady warmth against his backside disperses into vague shadows at the edge of his vision,

“And you need to sign these about-”

“Enough, Hangeng,” Heechul bursts out. “Put everything on my desk and be done with it.”

Heechul ignores the Chinese’s disapproving argument and ducks into his bathroom, fingers fumbling for his tie desperately, numbly; the silken strip suddenly hugging his throat way too tight, the very walls of the bathroom shifting, crawling nearer and tilting swindlingly. He can’t breathe; blood rushes deafeningly in his ears, his heart hammering against the bare walls of his ribcage, the insides of his veins are on fire and there’s no air.

As the world slowly fades back into focus, appearing like a landscape from a slowly subsiding fog, Heechul stares up at the black marvel roof of his bathroom. He is drenched in icy sweat, his shirt clinging to his skin and the tile against his damp back throbbingly cold. His throat and chest feel like something clawed and punched its way out of there, metallic taste thick in his mouth. He takes a slow breath that feels like inhaling rusty gravel, and raises his head carefully. Pain throbs through his skull with every movement as he struggles himself up to sit against the door for a few moment before he can raise to stand. There’s red spray on the white of his shirt-front, his wrists and hands.

He gives himself a moment to close his eyes, leaning back heavily against the door.

Jungsu is sitting on the corner of his solid ebony desk as he emerges after a shower, and were there any emotions available in him right now, he might just have been almost happy to see him. He says his name and it’s as soft and emotional as it is full of regret. Somehow it makes his knees buckle beneath him and he’s just barely able to deliver himself onto the couch. His hands feel weak and strangely disconnected as he fumbles at a pack of cigarettes, his vision is swimmy, as if there’s fog in his office. He doubts it.

Hands steady his and Jungsu sits down fluently on the arm-rest right next to him, the warmth of his body tactile through the fabric of clothes. And Heechul relaxes into the warmth, feeling his own strength flow out of him like a spring creak as he gives himself away to it; gentle warmth, soft voice like a whisper in the night, tender touches. And he can sense it, staring unseeingly at the landscape of shadows drawn in the roof of the office, the threatening, crawling feeling, so close he can nearly feel it now, feel it like the whispering butterfly touches on his skin.

He’s floating in shadows and moonlight, Jungsu’s steady touches and smooth skin and breath on his own cold skin weaving a torrent around him, electrifying him from within and carrying him away until the world ignites around him in a firework like warm summerwinds.

He gets a few moments in warm arms, then his chest cramps spasmodically and for a while the world falls away to a painlaced blur as he fights with all his might to get oxygen down into his lungs. His vision is layered with a sheen of tears. From somewhere far away he can sense Jungsu rubbing his back, whispering wordlessly into the night.

It’s like drawing aside a curtain, suddenly it’s simply there, as natural as the existence of Seoul city’s presence all around them. He doesn’t start, doesn’t feel like the bottom suddenly falls out of him and he’s plunged into dark nothingness. For a long time he simply breathes, staring into the unmoving sheet of light from the city in the night draping the office, while Jungsu draws little patternless circles on his skin.

“You’re here for me,” his voice is a hoarse breath in the silence.

Jungsu moves behind him, raising himself on one elbow over Heechul. Golden brown strands of silk fall into gentle bottomless eyes. “Yes, Heechul.”

“You’re not here for me. You’re here for me.”

“Yes.” It’s final sorrow and sympathetic pity that draws sparks in his eyes now and suddenly it makes perfect sense. Heechul isn’t afraid, he realizes with a sort of detached observance, maybe because it makes sense, because it’s logical, like reading a financial rapport, there’s clarity.

“I’m sorry,” says Jungsu, his voice like warm honey and the scent of vanilla.

“Don’t be.” Heechul isn’t. He imagines he maybe should be, but he isn’t. He settles into the others steady embrace, staring emptily into the night. “Now?” he asks after a while.

“Not now,” comes the ever gently stable reply, stroking his shoulder like a butterfly wing. He twists slightly in the soft warm cage, watching the others face drawn on planes of light and shadows. “Not tonight.”

Heechul nods, slowly, thoughtfully rather than anything else.

“What do I do?” It’s late noon and Donghae has just fled the space of Kim Heechul’s office, beyond unsettled by his employer’s unreadable and unusual gaze on him. Jungsu enters the office from the balcony, flicking a cigarette over his shoulder, lining his slender figure against the frame of the door.

“Finish.”

Heechul turns his over-sized chair towards him. “Finish? I can’t just finish this -” he gestures vaguely around the office.

“You don’t have a choice,” comes the still reply.

Heechul allows himself the joy of glaring at the other.

“Prepare.” It’s so much more gentle and comforting than a warning.

A short, abrupt series of knocks and half a heartbeat later Hangeng strides into the room, seating himself unasked in the chair opposite Heechul’s before he dives cheerfully into a briefing, fluently handing his boss papers in between words.

As he exits, Heechul spends some time frowning at the door, pulling at a cigarette and sipping cold coffee. He coughs, digs out a sheet of paper and begins to write, ignoring the wet sounds his every few breaths make.

He lies in his own apartment, watching panes of yellow-tinted city-lights and shadows, the stable warmth of Jungsu’s slender shape behind him, nearly enough to chase away the bone-deep chill in him, steadying him, holding him.

“Go to sleep, Heechul,” the whisper is a stroke of silky feathers.

Donghae is still sobbing, loudly and uncontrollably. Hangeng doesn’t have the heart to tell him to shut up. Ryeowook is both wet- and red-eyed but his usual quiet and gathered self. Hangeng finds he’s quite grateful for that. Lee Hyukjae from the design department has appeared at some point and is patting at Donghae’s back, looking an equal measure of confused and lost and awkward. Byun Baekhyun and Kim Jaejoong are there, looking stricken.

“What’s that?” brings Donghae out between chest-heaving sobs.

Hangeng shakes his head quietly at the paper in his hands. He hasn’t cried yet, and he wonders if he will. He can’t say he wasn’t prepared. He has seen his boss’s deteriorating health for weeks; from the weightloss and the cough to the nights on the couch and the increasingly distanced state of mind. Maybe he’d let his guard down, though, for the past days, as he’d noticed the office empty during nights. Perhaps there was a reason for that, he thinks now. He’d known as soon as he saw the police men approaching his desk that morning, the spacey office behind his desk yet empty. He’d been told housekeeping had called it in.

“It’s his will,” he answers Donghae’s question absently. “He’s named me to take his place.” And Donghae hiccups softly.

#fanfic #heechul #leeteuk #jungsu #park jungsu #kim heechul #super junior #superjunior #suju #baekhyun #jaejoong #donghae #hangeng #kpop #life of you #fic:super junior #fic:life of you #heechul/leeteuk

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screamingwithlife · 8 years

Text

Marcelo’s Journal

(This is extremely NSFW. D/s porn ahoy.)

What I’ll need:

- Collar - Lead - Two clothes pegs - Clock - Water - Paddle - Lubrication

The Room of Requirement gets knocks on its door so often that even though we can’t see the other people in, we know they’re there. And Eph is going to be loud. They’ll hear him.

The same applies for the Astronomy Tower. Plus, we can’t be there nearly as long as I’d like. It’s good for a quick fuck, rough and dirty, which is brilliant and everything but not what this is. This needs to be long, slow, drawn out – and we can’t risk being seen for any of it.

Therein lies the problem: far too many students wander about the castle during the weekend, and Filch would catch us in the corridors at night. I’ve decided then that the best course of action is to take him out before lights off and come back in the morning.

It’s a long time. I can fill it.

We won’t be going too close to the forest. Right at the edge, there’s a little clearing covered from view by hills, trees and boulders. It’s very sheltered, with very little risk of being seen, and far away from the castle enough that I highly doubt much of anyone will be able to spot us in the dark. Getting there will be the problem, so I’ll have to practice on my own during the evenings. I’ll have to time out exactly when to duck into the Forest to get out of eyeshot from the windows, but that’s entirely doable.

I’ve charmed a simple dog’s collar I bought in Hogsmeade last weekend so it’s got Ravenclaw markings on. I bet I shrank it down right to his size, too – it’ll be slim and elegant, and fit his throat well. I’ll get it on him after supper; he’ll wear it hidden under his tie until an hour before lights out, before Filch and his bloody cat start roaming about in full force, and I’ll take him out a side door towards our little clearing where no one will see.

The lead took an easy bit of transfiguration, but I won’t miss that belt any. It’ll be put to much better use taking him through the Forest and making him kneel on his own robes when we arrive.

Everything will be so, so slow.

It’ll likely be a little cold at night, so I’ll leave him in his white top and trousers, but no sweater. Those shirt buttons will get opened, though, and that tie will come off. I’ll tie my own over his eyes as a blindfold for him, but set his aside - I’ll need it later. With his shirt open, I’ll use those clothes pegs I got from the laundry on his nipples, just for the fun. Perhaps I’ll flick them gently to watch him flinch. He’ll look lovely like that.

I’ll tell him that for the night, he belongs to me, and only to me. He will say “yes Sir”, and I will tug on his lead (kept short and rolled in my fist) and tell him to repeat the sentence. “I belong to you, and only to you, Sir,” he’ll say.

We won’t even have begun.

At first I will just lean down for a chaste kiss, but then I’ll flick the pegs on his chest roughly and watch him twitch. I’ll kiss him harder then, biting his lip like I could just devour him. I probably could. I can imagine him arching upwards prettily to meet my lips while he fights not to get up from his kneel, because I will not have told him he could. I’ll let him go roughly, in the middle of his fight; if he stumbles, I can slap him for breaking form.

It’ll take a while. I want to drive him mad.

When I’m finally done, I’ll stand up straight and grab him by the hair, bringing his swollen mouth to my crotch over my trousers. I’ll have to be careful to keep his blindfold on squarely; the poor eager boy loves sucking my cock so much he’ll probably try to reach for it through the fabric, and it might muss up the tie.

“Do you want that?” I’ll ask him quietly, and when he whimpers and says yes, Sir, I’ll make him beg for it. Left hand hand still in his hair, the right one shortening his lead even further, he’ll have to show me how much he wants it, pinned right there in front of me. At least the boy will have his hands free – he won’t have that luxury later in the night.

I’ll leave him pining for it for a while, licking and pawing as much as he can for it through the fabric. We’ll have all the time in the world.

Eventually I’ll let go of his hair so I can get my cock free. I’ll tell him to stick his tongue out, and he will, and I’ll smack that tongue a few times with the cock head. If he tries to close his lips around it, I will slap him again – he’s not allowed to be greedy.

I’ll let him whimper for it until it finally suits me to allow him to begin. “Show me how much you love it,” I’ll tell him. “With your tongue and your hands.” And I’ll get to watch him as he blindly, eagerly sucks my cock, hands cupping my balls, still begging—

I’ll pull sharply at the lead to keep him slow if I need to. I’m going to drag it out, long past the time his jaw aches. I’ll keep an eye on a clock I’ll have set up on one of the boulders, if I have to, to keep us both calm.

A little bit later, I’ll echo the first time we were ever really together, and I’ll just hold him there by the hair and the lead so he can’t move at all, and all at once I’ll just bury my cock in his throat, balls deep. I may just stay there for a while, listening to him try to breathe around it. Listening to him choke. Listening to him splutter.

It’s so brilliant when he does that. Maybe I’ll give him a break every once in a while by pulling back just far enough to allow him a full breath before I thrust back in again.

Maybe his eyes will water from the pressure in his throat. Maybe the pressure will make him cry.

I’ll encourage him if he needs it.

Then, whenever I finally feel like it, I will fuck his throat. It’ll be rough and hard and fast, and he will take it like a good boy, even though his jaw will likely be screaming at him for being held open that long. It will be so, so good. He will be so good. When I come, I will come so deep inside his mouth he won’t even need to swallow.

I’ll clean off his lips and tell him he’s a good boy once I pull out from his mouth and put myself away. He’ll look so beautiful, lips bruised and open.

Slowly, I’ll kneel behind him, my chest pressed to his back, his blindfold still perfectly in place, so all he’ll need to do is feel me. With one hand and some of the lubrication Madam Pomfrey discreetly provides for those who want it, I’ll start to jerk him off, my chin by his shoulder so my other hand can play with the clothes pegs, perhaps, or choke him just enough to hear him wheeze. Perhaps I’ll mark him, and make him mine.

He’ll fall apart under my hands, and gasping, ask respectfully if he can come, and I’ll wait just long enough for him to start to shake before I allow it. Just in time to avoid punishment.

He’ll slump over a little and wonder if it’s over. It won’t be.

I won’t come around to face him, which I might do if the scene were over. I’ll just remove the blindfold from his eyes and set it down while still behind him, then release the clothes pegs, too. His nipples will flush a little, and I intend to notice.

I’ll murmur in his ear asking if he needs water before we can continue. If he does, I’ll gladly bring the glass to his lips myself. I’ll banish the mess he will have made on the robes. I’ll slowly, carefully remove and set aside his shirt, and help him get his shoes, trousers and pants off him, too, until he’s completely naked save for his socks and my collar around his neck. I’ll check in and make sure he’s perfectly all right to go on. And when all that’s done, I will stand again and tell him to bring his arms behind his back.

The rope-summoning charm is much easier than I had anticipated – it’s the knotting that was so complicated to figure out. I have the hang of it now. The ropes will appear and tie his wrists firmly and immovably behind his back, secured all the way up to mid-forearm. With his arms making that solid of an X, I’ll be able to hold on very firmly while I’m fucking him.

I’ll take both of our ties and stand in front of him so he can watch as I make his gag out of them. The Slytherin tie will be the one that gets rolled tightly into the gag itself, then folded over once to ensure it remains hard to spit out. I won’t say anything as I stuff it into his mouth, or bind it there tightly with the Ravenclaw tie. It should be nearly impossible to move, even were he to try to push it out with his tongue.

Maybe when I’m done, I’ll kiss his forehead and remind him of what a good boy he is before I stand and surveil my handiwork.

He will be bound, gagged, and naked, kneeling at my feet and at my utter mercy. I may just have to run my fingers over his skin for a while, circling him. He is a vision like that, I just know it.

I’ll take the end of the lead and jerk him downwards, so he has to press his cheek into the robes spread out over the ground, leaving his perfect arse pointing up towards the sky. There’s a little sapling right there I intend to be able to tie the lead to.

I’ll make him repeat his safe hand signal for me in this position. Just in case.

Then I will take out the paddle. I’ve reshaped it with a little clever spellwork from something the kitchens won’t miss – it used to be a light wooden cutting board with a handle, but now it’s thinner, leaner, and the perfect weight for turning his arse pink.

“You haven’t been bad, boy,” I’ll tell him, running the paddle over his pale skin. “This is just for fun. Enjoy it.” And then I will start to spank him. I’ll begin slowly and fairly lightly, letting him relax into it, but soon the blows will come harder and faster, enough to make him shake. I want him to try to scream into that gag – we’ll be sheltered by enough sound-muffling trees and foliage that his cries shouldn’t go far. I’ll watch his skin begin to glow, and I won’t let up until I am done. I just want his arse to turn red before I fuck it.

When I’m ready, I’ll set the paddle down and kneel behind him. With the lube to help, I’ll start by pressing one finger inside, crooked immediately to find that one spot which will make him cry out.

“Do you want me inside you, boy?” I will whisper to him, and he will fight to get “Yes, Sir” past the gag. As I press a second finger in, spreading them to help him relax, I’ll ask, “what do you want?” again, just to hear him moan and shiver and try to say “I want you inside me, Sir, I want your cock inside me”. And I’ll pretend I couldn’t hear him as I fuck him firmly with my fingers, and he’ll find it so hard to keep together as he practically yells into the gag, “I want you inside me, Sir, please!” and—

Well. I love begging. But I will rush nothing.

He’ll tremble and cry out again as I press in the third finger, relaxing him and opening him up for me. He will want it, and want it so badly, I can only imagine.

In time he will be able to sigh enough, relax enough that he’ll be ready for me. I’ll free my cock again, and maybe stroke it a few times just looking at him there, offered up to me.

Then I will lube up and align myself behind him, spreading his knees roughly with mine, and put a hand on his hip, head of my cock to his hole.

One more time, I think, I’ll make him beg for it. And In the middle of his pleas for my cock, I will press into him, so his muffled words turn completely senseless as I slide inside. I’ll watch his face as I move, and freeze if ever he winces, but however long it takes, I will be buried in him to the hilt.

I can only imagine what that will be like. I’ve imagined it already, countless times. It can’t be too different from girls, can it?

But he is. He is different. I think it must be so tight and so warm and so sweet that I won’t even really be able to adequately describe it once I’ve been there.

I cannot wait to be inside him.

With one hand digging into his hip and the other wrapping around his bound wrists as though I could steer him, I will start to move in and out, listening to his moans. The lube should make it easy. I’ll go slowly at first, so I can get used to it as much as he, if I’m honest. Then my thrusts will get longer, then deeper, and I will start to fuck him in earnest.

I hope he moans. I hope he screams. I hope the gag muffles cries I will never understand through the material, cries I won’t be focused on when all my attention is on how good he feels. I hope I hit his prostate right away, so I can watch him shiver and love it, and so I can hit it over and over, and he unravels underneath me.

I hope I hear him say “thank you, Sir” as I fuck him.

Eventually, to slow things down and stretch the time until dawn, I will pull out and switch positions so he is on top of me, and he has to impale himself on my cock from above. I will guide him. I want to see his expression as he works hard for my enjoyment.

Eventually I will grab his arse on either side and slam my hips up into him hard enough to make him buck and cry out. Once I set a rhythm, my right hand will start to stroke his cock in time. I will watch him as he starts to get more and more breathless and closer and closer to his edge.

I want him to come like that, split open by my cock and with my hands all over him when he begs through the cloth to be allowed to orgasm for the second time. And I’ll let him right away, because it will be out first time together and I will be generous. I’ll get to watch his face as he comes with me deep inside him.

He’s such a good boy.

I’ll have to banish his mess again as I pull him off me and roll him over one last time, onto his back (and his wrists) so his chest has to arch prettily to accommodate the bonds. I want him badly.

I will spread his legs high and wide in the air and slide in all at once, holding him behind the knees so I can fuck him hard into the ground. The robes we’ll be on will bunch around us with the intensity of it. I will watch him under me, flushed in the cheeks as his whole body bucks with my thrusts.

The way he looks in my mind as I fuck him like that is indescribable. In my mind’s eye he is completely open to me, spread to allow me in. He gives everything to me. With each thrust he’s screaming pleasure into the gag, and with each thrust I claim him as mine, and he is so lovely that I finish inside of him with a cry of my own.

When I finally pull out, we will be within a few hours from dawn. I’ll banish his bonds, but they will leave taught marks around his wrists I will feel the need to caress. I’ll undo the gag and set both Ravenclaw and Slytherin ties aside, and then spread my own robes over our bodies to cover us against the cool night air.

“Scene’s over, baby,” I will whisper, and bring him close to me. I’ll stroke his hair, and warm him up, and offer him water again, and ask him how he feels. I will wait there, wrapped around him, until dawn starts to crack over the horizon.

He’ll be lying limp against me, I imagine. Without disturbing him too much, I will unwrap the lead from the sapling, detach it from the collar, and quietly unlock the collar itself to pack it all away.

We’ll need to keep close until he can begin to come back to me, of course. That may take a while. When his eyes begin to focus again, I’ll still have to help him dress, because even then he won’t really be present. We’ll just kiss softly, and my hands will spend a lot of time in his hair in between putting on his clothes. He likes that.

I believe it may take quite a long time to get him cleaned up and decent, actually. It may be the hardest part, if I’m honest; both of us will want nothing more than just to fall asleep together by then, I suspect, but we will have to clean up and get back into the castle first. It’s a remarkably big task.

I’ll have to maintain contact with him as much as possible while I pack everything back into my rucksack so I can sling it over my shoulder. Once his robes are on over his clothing, I’ll throw mine over his shoulders as well to keep him warm. If he needs me to, I will pick him up gingerly and carry him back up to the castle myself.

It’ll take a while to get there, but by the time we arrive at the Entrance Hall, it will be the shadow of morning. While almost no one will be awake, the ban on students roaming the corridors will be lifted, and we will be able to go together up the stairs to the Ravenclaw Common Room.

He will not sleep in a cold dungeon that day. He will sleep with me, little spoon to my bigger one, in my airy dorm room, behind the curtains of my bed. We will rest as long as we need.

When we finally wake, I’ll take him to the Prefect’s Bath again and help him wash. Maybe then, when I’m washing his hair, he’ll finally come out of it. His eyes will finally really see me again, and he’ll smile.

It’s the perfect plan.

#verse; contentum #char; marcelo araya #char; ephram fawley #pairing; marceph #!nsfw #!writing #!mine

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