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satendou · 3 years

Text

⟼ makes the heart grow fonder

⍣ 365 days of sun series | previous | 2/2

・‥…━━━━━━━☆☆━━━━━━━…‥・

⇢ pairing: iwaizumi hajime/reader/oikawa tooru

⇢ au: 365!au, poly!au, college!au, pro!oikawa

⇢ summary: prequel to 365 days; everyone always calls paris the city of love, but love can come anywhere, especially the unlikeliest of places

⇥ masterlist

⇢ warnings: pre-relationship, polyamory, fluff, kinda angsty, alcohol use

⇢ word count: 11375 (oops)

Oikawa was nothing if not a creature of habit. He woke up, texted the two of you, showered, ate, went to classes and left for practice, which had been nonstop since he arrived in San Juan. When he got home, he would text you and Iwaizumi-- if he remembered between eating and crashing-- letting you know how practice had gone.

Sometimes he would get home to find some endearing, supportive message from you, letting him know you were going to sleep but that he needed to eat or pay his phone bill. You knew him too well, even from across the globe, and it made him smile, the stinging pain of something missing never stronger than in those moments. It was something he could ignore most days, exchange it for the radiating heat of a ball meeting his palm and forget for a while, but when he was slapped in the face with reminders of what he’d left behind, they were almost impossible to deal with.

He didn’t get to talk with the two of you half as much as he wanted, the 12 hour time difference making it nearly impossible to sync your schedules up, but on the rare nights where everyone was still awake and not quite tired enough to fall asleep yet, he lit up in ways he’d never experienced when he lived with you.

It made him wonder how much he’d taken for granted.

He couldn’t deny that a part of him was jealous that the two of you got to stay together. That same selfish part of him had come close to picking up the phone and saying he was coming home multiple times after he arrived in Argentina, the feeling was so strong. But the other half, the part that was equally selfish in a different way, couldn’t give up his dreams, not when he’d worked so fucking hard to get there.

On those days, you seemed to know what he was thinking and either you or Iwaizumi, with near psychic accuracy, would call him on his bullshit and things would be okay for a while. Those days had slowly grown less frequent the longer he stayed away, but the jealousy had simply been replaced with longing.

So when you had mentioned a break from school that just happened to coincide with his very first game, he couldn’t resist. Besides, he wanted some familiar faces in the crowd, and who better than you and Iwaizumi? Or his family, but they hadn’t been able to swing it for a myriad of reasons.

Then you had said yes, which was why Oikawa was standing up on his tiptoes at the luggage carousel, trying to see over the people for a glimpse of familiar faces. If he wasn’t looking at the crowd, he was staring at his watch.

Your plane had landed nearly twenty minutes ago, so you should have already disembarked. So why weren’t the two of you there in his arms yet?

“Oi, Brattykawa, you’re looking the wrong way,” a familiar voice sniped from behind him, and he whirled around, nearly losing his balance in his excitement.

“_____! Iwa-chan!” he yelled, throwing his arms around your necks and sending you faltering backwards.

Only Iwaizumi’s strength kept the three of you up, his arm wrapped around your waist and legs braced under Oikawa’s weight.

“You damn idiot, quit making a scene,” he snapped, but only pushed his friend back far enough to rebalance before squeezing him tight, his fingers curled in the back of the thin t-shirt Oikawa wore.

Your free arm came up around him as well, not nearly as strong but just as familiar and welcome and even though you all secretly swore you wouldn’t cry, tears still spilled over. The feeling of relief, of being whole again was overwhelming, and you linked your fingers with theirs as you moved through the crowd. Oikawa carried one travel case, Iwaizumi the other, and you lugged the shared carry-on bag you had brought.

Coming out of the airport after a twenty hour flight was a bit jarring and, though the two of you had prepared for a few days in advance and even slept on the plane, you could still feel jet lag kicking in. San Juan time was directly opposite Japanese time, so though you had gotten on your plane in Tokyo in the pitch black, Oikawa had carefully planned the flights and layovers so that you had arrived early in the morning.

The sun beat down from a cloudless sky, and you started sweating almost immediately.

“I can’t wait to show you guys around. But first, you’re probably hungry, right? There’s this cafe right around the corner from our apartment that has the most amazing churros I want you to try,” he rambled as the driver loaded your luggage in the trunk. Iwaizumi slid into the backseat beside you with Oikawa on your other side, all your fingers still linked together. “Oh but I guess we could go after you unpack. Don’t want you to have to drag your luggage everywhere.”

“Thank you for realizing, Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi griped, and Oikawa laughed.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m just so excited for you guys to be here! It’s only been a few months but it feels like a part of me has been missing,” he said, and his fingers squeezed around yours tighter. It was exactly how you had been feeling since he left, like things were off kilter.

The conversation after that was mostly questions about the flights and the layovers, and how the jet lag was. The longer Oikawa watched and listened, the more he thought something was wrong.

It wasn’t...wrong wrong, it just seemed like there was something new and different to your interactions with Iwaizumi and vice versa. He would just have to keep an eye out for it, to see if he could discern what it was.

The apartment was the one Iwaizumi had picked out for him months ago, not that anyone was surprised. Usually when he suggested something, Oikawa took it without question.

As soon as the door was open, you were slammed with the familiar smell that you associated with Oikawa. That light and airy cologne permeated everything, like he had spritzed it everywhere, mixed with the detergent you used at home, or as close as he could get, you would guess. It was a double whammy-- you realized what you had been missing as soon as you got it again, and realized that when you left you would lose it.

It made you wonder what walking into your own apartment would be like.

Before you could get too lost down that train of thought, Oikawa put his hand to your back, leading you further in. Almost absently, Iwaizumi took your hand, letting Oikawa lead both of you to one of the large windows.

Light flooded the large combined kitchen/living room area. He had put curtains up, but they were currently tied back, leaving the windows exposed. The view was breathtaking, just high enough that it rose above most of the other buildings and gave you a long view of the city, marred by other highrises here and there.

He pointed out a large, strange dome shape in the distance, light reflecting off the top back into the city.

“That’s our stadium. I’ll show you around it later today, if we have time.” he said with a lopsided grin. “Anyway, your rooms are this way! You can pick which ones you want.”

His fingers linked with yours-- it seemed as if he couldn’t get enough of feeling your hand in his-- as he led you down the hall opening first one door and then the other. Both rooms filtered plenty of light, curtains tied up and exposing the decent sized rooms. A bed and dresser decorated each, but that was it. A simple beige color coated the walls and a ceiling fan spun slowly while the air conditioner kicked on. You set your bag down beside the bed and turned to face them again.

“I didn’t expect them to be this big,” you said, looking around. It was across from Oikawa’s, versus Iwaizumi’s, which was right across from the bathroom and closest to the kitchen.

“Sorry they’re so sparse. I figured I’d let you decorate them how you saw fit,” he said, leaning against the frame of the door. “The master is even bigger, but I said the same when I saw them the first time.”

Iwaizumi stood behind him, peering over his shoulder as you surveyed the room, close enough that Oikawa could feel his chest brush against his back. “Are you sure you should be giving these rooms away to just us? You’ll have other guests, won’t you?”

As nonchalant and almost coldly, he shrugged. “They can sleep in here when you aren’t, and there are hotels around the corner. But these rooms were never meant for anyone but you.”

With that, he steered Iwaizumi back down the hall to his room with you hot on his heels. Rifling through his closet, he threw two sets of light aqua sheets at you and Iwaizumi.

You stared at them for a moment, and then Iwaizumi coughed. “Did you pick these colors for a reason?”

Oikawa, busy restacking the things in his closet, stopped and gave him a quizzical look. “Uh, not really. Why?”

The two of you snickered behind your hands, sharing a knowing look before you held the package up higher. “Doesn’t this remind you of anything. A certain uniform, perhaps?”

The color faded from Oikawa’s face just before it all returned in force, a pretty shade of red covering his cheeks. His hand met his face with a loud smack, and he groaned. “I cannot believe I did that. I really did though, didn’t I?”

More snickering met his ears and his lips turned down in a pout. Before he could start to really get into it, you looked up at him and said, “It’s fine, Tooru. They’re very pretty anyway. I like them.”

Beside you, Iwaizumi sighed, his lips quirking up just the slightest bit. “They’ll do. You probably just closed your eyes and picked though, huh?”

Stomping his foot, Oikawa stuck his tongue out, pulling one eyelid down in a very familiar move. “Did not, Iwa-chan! Don’t be mean or I’ll kick you out!”

But Iwaizumi had already turned and headed back across the hall, missing Oikawa’s childish display, while you tried to breathe through your giggles. “Sure you will. You can try, Brattykawa.”

“Poor ______, how have you put up with him without me all this time,” Oikawa asked loudly as he followed you back down the hall, his fingers gripping the back of your shirt. There was this an urge to constantly be near you or touching you in some way ever since he’d first seen the two of you at the airport. It was like there was a magnet, drawing his hand to your back or your hand, a small zing of anxiety and a desire to make sure you were really here. It even extended to Iwaizumi, which he found unusual. Separation really was playing havoc with him.

As the day progressed, Oikawa slowly began to realize that your interactions with Iwa weren’t just different, they had changed. The way the two of you revolved around each other was new and a part of him felt shut out as he watched you go about your day. The conversations you had, the stories you told, he didn’t understand any of it and it left an empty feeling in his chest as he realized that in the few months the three of you had been separated you and Iwaizumi had started living a whole new life.

“Oikawa,” you said for the third time, and watched him blink as he refocused on you. You frowned, putting your hand on your hip as you stared up at him. He had been showing you around some of his favorite spots in the city with little enthusiasm and it was starting to worry you. “What’s going on with you? You’ve been out of it for hours now.”

The sun was relentless, so you had stopped at a street vendor for some shaved ice and moved to the shade of a large oak tree. Most of his had melted as he stared off into space, making the paper cone soggy and you watched it drip to the grass. Iwaizumi had thrown away your own garbage and was now staring at Oikawa, waiting for his answer.

But he hesitated, trying to figure out how to explain the foreboding feeling clutching at his heart. It had never occurred to him just how much things would change when he left Tokyo, too focused on himself to consider anything else.

His mouth opened and closed several times, his chocolate brown eyes wide and swimming with an emotion you could only describe as sadness and your stomach clenched. When you reached out to him, he drew you into his arms, burying his face in your hair in a familiar gesture, but even your shampoo had changed.

“Tooru, what’s going on?” you asked, feeling another hand land on your back, overlapping Oikawa’s. You turned your head to look up at Iwa, your heart pounding in your chest. Oikawa’s fingers were twisted in your shirt, and you could feel his heart racing under your hand until you wound your arms around his neck.

Iwa looked down into your face, taking in your wide, nervous eyes asking him to help, but he shook his head and shrugged. He had no more idea of what was going on than you did, but knew that Oikawa would explain when he was able. Whatever had gotten into him was clearly big, and he just needed time to figure himself out.

It was a few minutes before Oikawa moved, and you were sweating in his hold. There were other people walking by, whispering and pointing, but they quickly scurried off when Iwaizumi turned his ferocious scowl on them. When he did finally shift, it was only to stand up a little straighter and set his chin on the top of your head, locking eyes with Iwaizumi.

“It feels like so much has changed since I left. Like there’s some space between us now that wasn’t there before, and you two are standing on one side and I’m standing on the other,” he said at last, and he sounded as empty as his eyes looked.

Iwaizumi knew that look, it was the “I’m about to shut down and refuse to acknowledge that I’m an idiot and overthinking things” look. If it wasn’t stopped in its tracks right now, the rest of the day was going to be miserable.

Before Iwaizumi could smack him upside the head though, you piped up, voice small and fragile as you clung tighter to Oikawa. All the pent up worries and emotions you had hidden from Iwa flooded out, and he was a little aggravated that the two of you had decided to do this right now in the middle of ninety degree weather.

“I know how you feel. I’ve felt the same for the last few weeks, wondering what it was going to be like seeing you again knowing that you have a whole new life here. I was afraid that-- that you would have changed so much that-- I don’t know,” you tapered off, and then whispered, “I thought you wouldn’t want us anymore.”

He laughed at that, a tight, high noise that carried no humor, but the cold feeling in his chest abated and he relaxed, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your head and suddenly he was comforting you. “Never ever in a million years, _____. You’re too precious to me. Even Iwa-chan, who’s done nothing but bully me all day. I’d never try to replace you. I’d never let anyone replace you.”

And it was so easy to believe he meant it when he held you like that. Rubbing your face against his chest, you smiled. “You’re still such a sap. I should’ve known you hadn’t changed.”

He whined and pinched your side. “Don’t you be mean to me too, _____. I couldn’t take it.”

Squealing, you pushed him away, but he didn’t let you get far. It was hot and your palms were sweaty and it was uncomfortable, but when he laced his fingers with yours, you didn’t complain.

Iwa did though.

“Are you two done? It’s like, 100 degrees and I am melting. You two are such idiots,” he said, scowling at the two of you. His face was red and shiny with perspiration, and he looked seriously annoyed but he was also watching you with a fondness you’d only recently begun to notice. Since that night a few weeks ago, he had been far more affectionate and open, which was saying something because you were already so casually affectionate to begin with.

Poking his tongue out at him, Oikawa tugged you along down the sidewalk with renewed vigor. Iwaizumi grumbled behind but allowed himself to be led by the hand as Oikawa told you about the next place he was going to bring you and about the game in a few days.

“Unfortunately, I have to go to practice tomorrow, but feel free to wander the city, of course. Just please don’t get lost,” Oikawa prattled on, turning a corner onto a street lined with shops.

The rest of the day was spent investigating every one of them, Oikawa insisting that you get whatever you wanted to decorate your rooms and you obliged only to appease him. It was a little uncomfortable having him pay for everything, but you were weighted down with bags by the time you left the last store. It was mostly clothes, so that you wouldn’t have to pack so much when you visited again and some other small knick knacks that he bought even though you argued against it.

Iwaizumi was carrying far less bags-- at least until he took yours-- mostly because he refused to give into Oikawa’s puppy dog eyes and threatened to maim him if he continued to nag. But Oikawa couldn’t be stopped completely and picked up the things Iwa expressed interest in anyway. Iwaizumi wasn’t happy about it but the look of happiness on Oikawa’s face as he chatted with you, the bags swinging lazily from his arm, made up for it, and he found himself smiling.

The walk back to the apartment was considerably more pleasant without the heat of the sun cooking you alive, and the way first Oikawa then Iwaizumi laced their fingers with yours only made it that much better. There was an indescribable pressure in your chest as you took in the city lights and chatter of people around you. The sounds of sizzling food and smells wafting from street vendors made your mouth water, and Oikawa stopped to purchase a plate of kebabs from one as you passed by.

“You really don’t have to do all this, Tooru. We aren’t poor, you know,” you commented as he passed one to you and then Iwa. Grease dripped down your fingers, and the first bite you took was an explosion of different flavors over your tongue, making you groan. “Shit, this is so good.”

Oikawa watched you with a soft grin, holding his own kebab in his hand but not eating it just yet as he said, “Well there’s not much I’d rather spend it on than you, my little _____.”

The wonder in your eyes as they reflected the lights crisscrossing the street was doing strange things to his stomach, and when those eyes landed on them and the wonder deepened to something more intense, it exploded into butterflies. Something in his head clicked as it changed and he realized you were absolutely beautiful right then and there.

“Shit,” he muttered, and your brows furrowed in confusion as he shook his head. What a weird thought to have, and an even weirder reaction overall. Of course you were beautiful, he had always known that, so why had it hit him so powerfully all of a sudden?

“You alright?” you asked, wiping your mouth with a napkin. Setting your empty stick back on the plate in his hands, you picked up your second one. “You look like you’re in pain.”

He blinked and took a moment to answer, locking eyes with Iwaizumi, who was watching him with curious amusement. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just tired, I guess. It’s been a while since I’ve run all over town like this. The heat must’ve gotten to me.

The heat, huh? Iwaizumi smirked, watching Oikawa watch you with a newfound fascination. He wondered if he even realized he was doing it and how long it would take him to recognize it for what it was.

“Oh, well,” you said, your cheeks heating up for reasons you couldn’t identify. The look in his eyes had changed, emotions you couldn't identify swirling around in his soft brown irises, but it caused your heart to stutter. “Maybe we should go home then. You have practice tomorrow and I’d hate for you to get sick or something. And just before your game too.”

You began to walk as you polished off the last of the food, still struck with wonder at the liveliness of the city. It was different than Tokyo, if no less crowded. Your city was quiet in a lot of ways, tame, whereas this one was wild and loud and raucous. It was enough to make your head spin, and you wondered if you were experiencing culture shock. Only the pressure of Iwaizumi’s and Oikawa’s slightly greasy fingers kept you from wandering off into the crowds, absorbed as you were with the lights and music.

Oikawa understood all too well, having experienced the same thing when he first arrived as well. He had been grateful for his guide, who had kept him from getting lost and probably mugged or worse in his first few weeks there. Now he knew the layout of the places he most frequented, at least, and he mainly stuck to those.

The street his apartment was on was quiet, the streetlamps casting soft light on the dark buildings with the sun just barely visible on the horizon. You could still hear the faint sounds from the main street, but it was muffled and filtered and you were surprised to find it was almost comforting. It was only nine o’clock, and he wasn’t quite ready to go to sleep yet, even though he knew he really should. He would be up early tomorrow morning and busy all day and probably into the night getting ready for his big game.

There was a sudden rush of nervous energy, one he was used to just before a game, and it never failed that it would keep him up for a while longer.

“Wanna watch a movie?” he asked, gesturing to the TV. He had a wicked setup, high definition, ultra-surround sound, the works, along with a collection of DVDs and probably every streaming service imaginable to boot.

But he looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes that you had failed to notice before, and you kicked yourself for not realizing sooner. Stupid, stupid, Oikawa!

“I-- maybe we should head to bed, instead,” you suggested, giving Iwaizumi a pointed look.

He was quick to catch on and gave Oikawa a once over as the three of you stood in the kitchen The man looked ready to collapse, his hands trembling ever so slightly, but there was some manic glint in his eyes that he recognized as pre-game jitters, and he groaned internally. Oikawa was going to work himself to death, same as usual, only here there was no one to tell him when to quit because it was his job.

“Goddammit,” he muttered, glaring at him. Dealing with Oikawa really was a full time job, even from halfway around the world. Louder, and to your annoyance, he said, “Actually a movie sounds good. I’m not tired quite yet.”

Oikawa perked up from the slump he had gone into and nodded, scurrying across the room to the TV, and you used the opportunity to turn on Iwaizumi.

“Hajime, he looks like he’s going to drop dead. He needs to sleep,” you whispered, eyeing Oikawa. But he was so absorbed in setting up the sound system that he didn’t even realize you were still in the kitchen. “I-- I’m worried.”

Iwaizumi sighed, cupping your cheek. His other hand squeezed your shoulder, and you realized he was no less worried than you. “I know, but what can we do? He’s an adult and not our responsibility anymore.”

Both of you had been with him through his overzealous competition with Kageyama, one or both of you having to literally pick him up from the floor when his knees wouldn’t hold his weight more than once. There had been too many fights and sleepless nights with him about overworking himself and his obsessive need to defeat both Kageyama and Ushijima that you didn’t want to think about what he was doing to himself without someone to yell at him now.

And the way Iwaizumi talked hurt because it was true. He wasn’t, and hadn’t been for months. You hadn’t even really stopped to consider what he might be doing to himself without you and Iwaizumi to knock some sense into him, but it was plain as day that he was working himself to the bone when you stopped to really look at him.

“I know that,” you muttered, but you didn’t really believe it. It was second nature to take care of each other, and that didn’t change just because of a few months apart. Years of friendship trumped that by miles and you weren’t sure that would ever change. “Still…”

“Look,” Iwaizumi said, glancing at Oikawa again. He was still messing with something and in a rush Iwa continued. “He’s too worked up about the game, so he won’t sleep anyway. Let’s just stay up and maybe we can help him relax--”

Oikawa’s voice cut him off, playful but a little suspicious, making the two of you jumped. “What are you two whispering about?”

Feeling guilty at the betrayed expression on his wan face, you opened your lips but no sound came out. There were words stuck in your throat-- worried reprimands and demands-- but you knew they would do no good. Not with his very first game on the international circuit looming in just two days time. Nothing you said would make a difference, and to stress him out with a fight before that wouldn’t be fair, or at least no more fair than he was being to himself anyway.

Picking a fight right now would only ruin your vacation and make everyone miserable, so instead you closed your mouth and reached out to take Iwa’s hand, which squeezed yours so tight you could feel your bones grinding. “Sorry, Tooru, just chatting about tomorrow. Didn’t realize we were whispering.”

Your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes, though, and Oikawa’s narrowed, his lips turning down. Everything had been fine until you had gotten back to the apartment, but now you and Iwa both looked withdrawn and distant, unable to look at him for more than a moment before finding each other. “Are you...sure?”

The air filled with a tense silence, and once again you felt like a chasm was between you, with you and Iwaizumi on one side and Oikawa on the other, and you wondered if it would ever truly close up again. He looked so alone on the other side, drawn into himself and insecure, that you had to clos the distance to him and took his hand. It created a chain between the three of you until Iwa reached out for Oikawa, and you breathed a little easier for it.

“Everything is fine, Tooru, if you are,” you said, and he heard the pointed question in your tone.

Iwaizumi groaned internally. He should’ve known you wouldn’t just leave it alone.

For Oikawa’s part, he should’ve known you would notice, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. But he didn’t feel like getting into it with you on your first night in-- if at all-- but he knew he would have to let you fawn over and get onto him following the game. He just hoped you would drop it until then.

“I’m tired, _____, but I’m okay. Things will slow down once the game is over, I promise,” he said, and you picked up on the thin warning in his voice.

Another tense silence followed as they waited for you to make your decision, and you ultimately sighed, dropping his hand. You understood his sentiment all too well, and knew that Iwaizumi was right when he said it would be better to wait, but that didn’t mean you were happy with what Oikawa was doing to himself.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he gestured to the collection of DVDs lining the shelves. Ultimately, it was left up to you and you picked out something you knew everyone would enjoy: The X-Files. The way Oikawa’s tired face lit up was a testament to that, even if Iwaizumi huffed in exasperation. At least you hadn’t pushed the issue with Oikawa, letting it devolve into a fight. He really didn’t feel like having to mediate between the two of you tonight.

Three episodes in and Oikawa was drooping onto your shoulder, eyes fluttering with the effort to remain open. The hand he had been using to hold yours was slack, fingers loosely intertwined, and he whined when you pulled away, reaching out for it again. But you were pushing at his shoulder, guiding him down to lay in your lap, and he hummed in contentment. A blanket landed on him, the one from the back of the couch, then your fingers were brushing through his hair, nails scraping his scalp and he was drifting, images of the day flickering through his mind’s eye. They mixed with some weirder things, like a giant cat and running through Tokyo away from an alien, and he stopped fighting to bring the other images back.

His breathing evened out, his full weight coming to rest on your legs, and your fingers stilled. Eyes locked on the screen, you said, “Sorry, Iwa, for earlier. I know you’re right, but I can’t help but worry.”

Iwaizumi already had the remote in hand, fiddling with the buttons until he could figure out how to switch the screen over to Netflix, and he sighed as he flipped through the shows. “I know how you are, ______, but you know how Oikawa is. He’s always been that way.” He wasn’t patronizing as he said it, just pointed, making you flinch.

“I know that, but is anyone down here going to keep him from killing himself? You know he doesn’t know his limits,” you said, watching as he clicked into the info screen for Mad Max. The opening title played and you relaxed into the back of the couch, propping your legs up on the coffee table.

He sighed, eyes fixated on Charlize Theron coming down on her platform. He loved that movie, watching it almost as often as Godzilla. “Yeah, I do know. But there’s nothing we can do, is there? He’s halfway around the world from us and texting him about it will only get ignored.” His arm came down around your shoulders, squeezing you to his side, and you let your head fall to his shoulder. “He’ll be alright, _____. Once this game is over, he should settle down. He’s probably just desperate to make a good impression.”

You chuckled at that as you watched the movie, Iwa’s warmth surrounding you and the steady rise of fall of Oikawa’s shoulders lulling you into a stupor. You knew he was right because Oikawa had always been like that-- desperate, for some reason, to make sure everyone knew he was worthy of the praise he received. As if you didn’t already think he was.

You didn’t even realize you had fallen asleep until Iwaizumi was nudging your shoulder. The weight on your legs was gone and you jerked awake to find Oikawa sitting up, rubbing his eyes and glaring at Iwaizumi.

“I was comfortable,” he whined, draping himself over you dramatically. You giggled, your eyes stinging with sleep, but pushed him off you gently. “Not you too, _____.”

“We should go to sleep,” you reprimanded, letting Iwa help you up off the couch. Holding your hand out to Oikawa, you were almost pulled back down by his strong grip, and heard him snicker. “Don’t be a brat, Tooru,” you said, pinching his side and listening to him whine.

You parted ways in the hall, the resonating click of three doors closing before silence reigned, and you changed quickly. Collapsing onto the bed with a sigh, you breathed in the fresh smell of laundry detergent and smiled as you realized that, somehow, Oikawa’s damn cologne had stuck to the sheets too.

The next day, you and Iwaizumi wandered around the city again, following Oikawa’s suggestions of sites to check out. The city center was beautiful but packed, the fountain gurgling away happily, and that’s where the two of you had lunch. Following that, you went around to a museum, taking a tour where the guide explained the founding of the city and other interesting facts. Iwa accidentally ripped the pamphlet, causing you to laugh at the confusion on his face as he tried to figure out how it happened.

The last place you visited was an absolutely beautiful park. There were people everywhere there as well, sitting in the grass and on the benches littered around the lake. Iwa casually reached out, taking your hand as you walked down the riverwalk, gazing at the serene blue waters, and your heart skipped a beat.

When you returned to the apartment, greeting the doorman on your way by, it was still dark, and you set the ingredients you had purchased down on the counter. On the way back, you had mentioned how Oikawa had probably not had any homemade food since he moved there, so Iwaizumi had suggested making onigiri for him.

The two of you worked in quiet tandem, putting the rice on before turning to help Iwa make the fillings. You had opted for a few different ones, and you were overflowing with rice balls by the time you were done. To an outsider, it would look like too much, but you knew your boys all too well-- they would eat every single one of them before the night was through.

As you worked, you asked, “How long do you think he’ll be?”

He shrugged in response, molding rice around a tuna filling. His muscles flexed with the effort, veins popping naturally all along his forearm, and you found yourself lost in watching him work. It was something you were always prone too, but lately thoughts of a different nature were popping into your head, thoughts you really, really didn’t want to be thinking.

It took him a moment to realize you hadn’t said anything more, and he looked up to find you staring at him intensely. “See something you like?” he joked and watched you jump, your face flushing as you turned back to your own work. His eyes narrowed at your unusual reaction-- normally you would come back with a defensive “No,” or some quip about how there was nothing to see at all.

“Anyway, I can’t wait to see the game tomorrow,” you said, and he could hear the strain in your voice. You were packing the rice balls with more tenacity than normal, obviously determined not to look at him again, and something about it soothed the low burn in his chest that had been there for some time, diligently ignored.

He nodded, even though you weren’t looking, and picked up the next onigiri. “Oikawa is gonna be amazing out there, like always. I’m glad we get to be here for him.”

“Me too,” you said, and then laughed. “Imagine if we hadn’t come. He would be blowing us up right now, whining about how nervous he is and how we don’t love him anymore.”

He laughed with you, imagining Oikawa stomping his foot as he complained about being abandoned. “Thank god we came then. We would never survive his wrath.”

When the onigiri was done, you plopped down on the couch, putting on Family Guy on Hulu for background noise while the two of you played on your phones. Your feet were in Iwa’s lap as you tapped away at a game on your screen, the sound drowned out by Peter’s loud laughter, and that was how Oikawa found the two of you an hour later.

The sound of his entry was covered by the TV, and something heavy settled in his stomach when he opened the door and called, “I’m home.”

He snickered when you both jumped, twisting around to look at him. A smile lit your face while Iwa just looked unimpressed.

“Welcome home!” you said, throwing your arms up with dramatic enthusiasm, and Oikawa snickered.

“Awe, you even cooked. My little housewives,” he cooed, picking up a rice ball from the plate on the counter. He took a bite, nostalgia and longing filling his heart at the familiar flavors. It reminded him of home-- not Japan, not Tokyo, not Miyagi, but you and Iwa.

“Watch it, Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi growled, scowling up at his friend, and was stopped short by the expression on his face. It was so tender it was almost painful as he stared down at the rice ball in his hands, and then he turned it full force on the two of you.

“I really missed you guys,” he said, and then laughed. “And onigiri, and takoyaki, and Japan.”

He brought two more over and squeezed between you, practically sitting on top of you, slinging his arm over Iwa’s shoulders. You exchanged a glance with Iwaizumi, who just shrugged in amusement.

“What’re you doing home so early anyway?” you asked, returning to your game. You were only 500 points away from beating your highscore, and you tapped away to get there. Oikawa watched over your shoulder, his warm breath tickling your ear, and a shiver ran down your spine.

He was unusually quiet and focused as your character moved across the screen, avoiding obstacles and slashing at small blob monsters in your path. “Uh, they wanted us to rest for the big game. Speaking of which, I have your passes in my bag, so don’t let me forget to give them to you otherwise they won’t let you in.”

You hummed, avoiding a blob only to get killed by an arrow on your last life. “Goddammit.”

Exiting out of the app purely out of spite, you locked your phone and looked up at Oikawa. His face was closer than you had realized and your face heated up when your nose bumped his. He seemed as startled as you and jerked back, his cheeks turning a pretty red underneath his tan. His brown eyes were wide with surprise, lips parting slightly, and his arm slid off Iwa’s shoulders.

Iwaizumi watched the whole thing with something that could have been amusement, but he couldn’t quite tell. There was a flareup of something in his chest, and he might have named it longing if he hadn’t been trying to ignore those feelings. Clearing his throat, he continued to scroll through his phone and watched the two of you shift, trying to ignore the tension in the air.

“Anyway,” you said, picking at the hem of your shorts. You picked your phone back up and unlocked it, clicking into Twitter. “Do you know where our seats are?”

Back in familiar territory, Oikawa perked back up. “Well...I got you front row seats! And you’ll meet me in back after the game is over to go to the afterparty.”

“Oh, we get to party with the great Oikawa still?” Iwa asked, snickering at the way Oikawa huffed.

“Not with that attitude, Iwa-chan. Maybe I’ll just take _____ and leave you at the stadium,” he said, wrapping his arm around you possessively. It seemed whatever strangeness had occurred earlier was wiped from his mind as he pulled you into his chest.

You laughed into his shirt, fingers wiggling against his stomach until he squirmed and let you go. “You can’t be that mean, Tooru,” you chided, curling your legs up underneath yourself. Liking one of Bokuto’s tweets, you continued, “What would we do without Iwa there to keep us from getting too drunk?”

“And going home with the wrong people again?” he piped up, and Oikawa flushed bright red again.

“It was one time, Hajime. Stop bringing it up!” he whined, hiding his face in his hands. “_____, help me!”

Instead, you snickered and said, “That was the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. You should have seen how confused they were when you stumbled up to them screaming Iwa-chan, _____ I’ve been looking all over for you!”

Iwa burst into laughter while Oikawa groaned.

“I hate it here,” he said, muffled by his hands. “Why does everyone hate me?”

Patting his back, you choked out, “It’s because you’re pretty.”

“Ugh.”

The game that day was absolutely fantastic. Oikawa was flawless, encouraging his teammates and commanding everyone’s attention-- then again maybe that was just you projecting, but if anyone asked you would say it was true-- and it seemed they won the game without effort.

They all clapped him on the back in the middle of the court, laughing and cheering and, when they turned to acknowledge the crowd, Oikawa’s smile was all for you.

A security guard approached your seats a few moments later, gesturing you towards the set of doors the team was heading towards, and Oikawa fell into step beside you, slinging a sweaty arm over each of your shoulders.

“God, Oikawa, you’re disgusting. Get off us,” Iwa snapped, shoving at his arm, but Oikawa was undeterred.

Still regaining his breath, he asked, “How was I out there? Amazing, right?”

“If you already know,” Iwaizumi said, giving up the fight with his arm, “why are you asking?”

“Because I want to hear you say it, of course,” he answered, guiding you towards the locker rooms. There was a series of benches lining the hall and he stopped in front of them, grinning. “Wait here. We’re gonna have to do a few more interviews and then we’ll go to the venue,” he said, turning towards the locker room.

It was almost thirty minutes before the team finally trudged back out, still in high spirits, and another thirty to deal with the throngs of reporters and news crews who wanted interviews. Finally, you loaded up onto the bus, stuck between Oikawa and Iwaizumi. The whole ride was loud and you laughed at the antics of the team. Iwaizumi was right at home amongst them, as if he were right back in highschool, riding the high of a win.

The party was being held on the rooftop of a nearby hotel, complete with an open bar, DJ, and more athletes, friends and family of said athletes, and reporters than you could count. You were introduced to the team and their spouses before being dragged off by a few of them to dance. Iwaizumi found you a little while later, three drinks in and giggling maniacally with the libero’s wife, Trish. She was telling you about when she first met her husband at a party just like this one and how she threw up on his girlfriend at the time’s shoes. He had laughed so hard she broke up with him right then, and you couldn’t help but laugh even though it was kind of sad.

“Hey, princess,” Iwa said, and you shouted his name happily at the sight of him. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes slightly unfocused, and when you took a sip from his cup you were overcome with the taste of vodka. “Oikawa was looking for us.”

“Oh,” Trish teased, pushing you a little harder than intended in her drunk state. You fell into Iwaizumi, who only caught you out of habit. “Are you dating our little all star?”

“W-What?” you shrieked over the loud music, shaking your head wildly. Your hair fell into your face and the sky spun, then you started giggling again. “No, no, it’s-- nothing like that?”

“Are you asking or telling, _____?” she asked, but Iwa was pulling you away, pushing through the pulsating crowd towards the bar.

Oikawa was standing there, eyes bright with drunkenness as he chatted with someone you didn’t recognize, and he waved as you stumbled up. Pulling you from Iwa, he said, “_____, this is Andre. He’s from the Swedish team. This is my best friend from Japan.”

You straightened up, the haze of alcohol clearing as you focused on the tall man in front of you. He was smiling kindly at you, a cup in his hand like everyone else, and nodded at you. He spoke with a Spanish accent as he said, “It’s nice to meet you, _____. You’re very beautiful.”

Eyes widening, you stuttered as you said, “T-Thank you.”

His grin grew bigger, and you missed the way both Iwa and Oikawa tensed to either side of you. If he saw it, he ignored it, asking if you wanted to dance.

Your friends let you go with reluctance, a pained expression on Oikawa’s face as he looked to Iwaizumi. Neither knew what to say-- they knew it would happen eventually, you couldn’t remain unnoticed forever.

“She’ll be okay,” Iwa said, pouring himself another drink. It was his fourth so far, and he was careless as he poured his alcohol. “We’ll keep an eye on her.”

Oikawa didn’t like the calmness in his voice when something ugly was raging in his chest, something he had been ignoring all this time whenever you talked about other people you expressed an interest in. But alcohol made him loose and the jealousy reared up sharper than ever as he caught glimpses of you twirling and swaying with the beat of the music. Andre’s hands were on your hips and you were laughing at something he was whispering-- at least as far as Oikawa could tell-- into your ear.

His hands were tight around his cup, squeezing and crinkling the cheap plastic, then it was being tugged from his fingers and another was replacing it.

“Drink,” Iwa said, sipping from his own cup. “Jealousy looks ugly on you.”

“Iwa,” he snapped, watching your arms loop around Andre’s neck, “how can you be happy about this?”

Iwa tensed beside him and pinned him with a glare that would have cowed him if he was less drunk or less irate. “What makes you think I am, Oikawa? But she isn’t-- she’s not ours.”

Ours echoed in his head, and for the first time he really looked at Iwaizumi. He realized that the jealousy never flared when he was around, and watching the two of you curled up together on his couch never elicited the emotion either. It felt like home watching the two of you, and yesterday was the first day he had actually looked forward to coming home. Seeing Iwaizumi’s spiky black hair over the back of the couch and your smiling face as you welcomed him home had made all the difference to him, and he took a large swig from his cup, the rum burning on the way down before he spoke again.

“She could be.”

It was said so quietly that if Iwa hadn’t been standing shoulder to shoulder with him he wouldn’t have heard him. His head whipped around, swimming a little with the alcohol, and narrowed his eyes.

Oikawa could feel his eyes on him, meeting his gaze head on. He wasn’t joking, the mix of jealousy and alcohol wouldn’t let him. Iwaizumi’s face was blank, but he could see the gears turning as he processed his words as best he could with his level of intoxication.

At last, he seemed to reach a decision, the blankness morphing into a calculating look and he said, “What about her? Does she want that? And us? Oikawa, we can’t hold her back because we don’t want to let her go.”

Oikawa looked back to you and sighed. You were now dancing with Andre and one of the other wives whose name he’d already forgotten, laughing without care. “If she doesn’t want us, then we’ll let her go. But I can’t-- Iwa, you feel the same, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he said, admitting to it at last. It felt like the weight of finally confessing was lifted only to be replaced with the weight of acknowledgement, and he wasn’t sure he liked it any better. “For both of you, but it doesn’t mean anything if she doesn’t want it. What will you do if she rejects you?”

“Then I’ll beg her not to cut me out of her life, of course. And she’ll forgive us because even if she doesn’t love us, she loves us,” he answered, and said it with such certainty that even Iwaizumi believed him. He sighed, clapping Oikawa on the shoulder and, as if the gods were listening, you disentangled yourself from Andre and approached them.

Even in the dim light they could see how happy you were, skin flushed with a light sheen of sweat. A few strands of hair were sticking to your forehead, and you pushed them back as you greeted them. “Hey, guys, what’re you just standing here for? This is a party for you, Oikawa!” You were shouting over the music and reached out, taking Iwa’s cup from his hand. Taking a swig, you grimaced. “How are you still standing, Haji?”

Iwa chuckled while Oikawa took a long swallow from his cup.

“You’re right, princess. Let’s go dance!” he said, and took your hand. You grabbed Iwa’s at the last minute and pulled him after the two of you, his drink sloshing as he stumbled to keep up.

You found yourself pinned between the two of them, the heat radiating off of them and everyone around you making your brain fuzzy. Your arms looped around his neck when you handed Oikawa’s cup back after stealing a sip, body swaying to the beat of the music thudding from the speakers. Andre was all but pushed from your mind as his hand settled on your waist, Iwa’s landing on your other. His back was pressed flush to your back, your chest touching Oikawa’s, and suddenly nothing else existed.

The smell of his cologne filled your nose, mixed with the heady scent of alcohol and sweat. Your head spun when Iwa pressed his nose into your hair, pulling it to the side to expose the back of your neck, and you breathed a sigh of relief.

The song changed, more intense, and you lost yourself in the feel of their bodies against yours, tall and protective. Spinning around, you wrapped your fingers around Iwa’s neck now and his fingers tangled in your hair.

“Having fun, princess?” Oikawa whispered, a breath of air ghosting over your ear making you shivered. His hand was low on your hip, squeezing as he pulled you back into him, and you nodded. “I could use another drink. Keep her warm for me, Hajime.”

His warmth disappeared and you instantly missed it and the feeling of security. Nuzzling closer to Iwa, the beat shifted again, slowing down and going darker, and you shivered as the bass thrummed through you. His hand drifted lower, settling just below your hip, and you looked up at him. Both their drinks were a lot stronger this time around, and you could feel the effects on you in the way everything swam. You couldn’t focus on anything but Iwaizumi and the way he was staring at you with dark, hooded eyes. You were sure he was as drunk as you, but you didn’t even realize you were leaning up until he stopped you, giving you a soft smile.

“Not here, princess, not while you’re drunk,” he said into your ear, and you flushed under the spinning strobe lights. You were too important to him to do this when you weren’t sober, and he wanted to talk before you made any decisions.

His words held a promise you didn’t expect, and you swallowed thickly around the cloying taste of vodka.

“But when I’m sober?” you whispered, and it was only because you were still right by his ear that he heard you.

He chuckled, nodding as he rested his sweaty forehead against yours. “If you remember, princess. Yeah.”

“What have we here? I thought you had more chivalry than that,” Oikawa said from beside you. He slid back into his place behind you, resting his cheek on your shoulder, lips a hair away from touching Iwa’s forehead. “By the way, Andre is not happy. Isn’t it great?”

Iwa snickered, kissing the tip of your nose before he took in Oikawa’s shit eating grin. Leaning in close, his nose brushed Oikawa’s. “You take way too much pride in that, Shittykawa.”

“Don’t you? Our _____ is a desired woman, after all,” he said, eyes narrowing as they dipped down to look at Iwa’s lips. The temptation was strong enough that it caused him to lick his own before meeting Iwa’s again, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. He was following the beat of the music, swaying side to side with you. It had shifted once again but remained low and resonating, the others around you pushing and pulling you with the flow. Your head tipped back to rest on his shoulder, eyes half-lidded and amused.

“What do you mean our?” you asked, teasing. You snatched the cup from his hand and took a drink, playing keep away from Oikawa when he reached for it. You weren’t expecting for Iwaizumi to take it from your hands and drink from it, both of you laughing when Oikawa whined.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you to him while Iwa held onto the cup, laughing brashly. Maybe it was the alcohol, but he was feeling lighter than air, and he looked at you and Oikawa, draped around you like a blanket. Love flooded his system, mixing with the drink and his head spun at the intensity. He wondered if he would feel that way tomorrow, but decided that was a problem for another Iwaizumi. He came back to you, arm slipping around you both as far as the could to curl in Oikawa’s shirt.

The party was still raging, and he was going to enjoy it with the two of you.

You didn’t stumble into the apartment until the early hours of the morning, when the earliest risers were getting ready for work, and half-assed the removal of your makeup. Hands had grabbed you the minute you exited the bathroom and dragged you back to the living room, where you collapsed in a pile on the couch. You passed out until mid afternoon and woke up tangled in long and muscular limbs, remaining makeup caked and the lingering taste of alcohol in your mouth. How you had managed not to throw up was a miracle, and the men only groaned when you untangled yourself from them.

Stumbling into the bathroom, you cleaned the rest of the makeup off your face and snagged some of Oikawa’s facial cleanser before hopping into the shower. Flashes of last night came back to you. Dancing with Andre, listening to him whisper into your ear and laughing at things that weren’t that funny now, then finding Oikawa and Iwa and being dragged back into the crowd. That caused your heart to race, remembering the way they had pinned you between them, hands groping at your hips and moving against you. Oikawa had disappeared and it was just you and Iwa, the intense look in his eyes as he stared down at you, leaning up and--

God, you had almost kissed him. And he had-- he had said if you remembered when you were sober. Your heart was thumping so hard that your hungover brain was spinning. The question was, did he remember?

Feeling marginally less dead but more nervous than ever before, you dressed and headed back into the living room to find Iwaizumi and Oikawa both sitting up with their heads in their hands.

“I haven’t gotten that drunk since my last party in Japan,” Oikawa groaned, massaging his temples. He remembered a surprising amount about last night, but most clearly was the conversation with Iwaizumi, and he knew without asking that he remembered it too. Neither of them were drunk enough to forget, but after that was a different story. All he remembered was dancing with you for the rest of the night, your hands in his hair and on his chest, body moving against his, and his heart throbbed in his throat.

Iwa chuckled at that and then winced when the action made his head throb. “Weak. But same.” His schedule was always too packed to get that blitzed, so he stuck to two drinks and then went home.

The door to the bathroom opened and you came out into the living room wearing one of their shirts-- they didn’t even know whose at that point-- and sat down between them on the couch.

“You look like trash,” you said, snickering when they grumbled.

“I’m gonna go shower now,” Iwa said, standing up from beside you. He gave the lightest touch on your cheek before disappearing down the hall. The sound of water running met your ears, and you fidgeted with your hands.

Oikawa groaned and flopped sideways down on the couch. “I ordered takeout already. It should be here soon. I need something greasy, so I hope you don’t mind burgers.”

Your stomach grumbled at the mention of food, reminding you that the only thing you had eaten were some hors d’oeuvres at the party. “That sounds absolutely amazing.”

You put on Netflix while Oikawa replaced Iwa in the shower, the air tense between you two. The words from last night replayed and you were working up the courage to see if he remembered as well when he turned to you.

“Hey, uh, _____, do you-- I mean, what do you--?” he said, and the doorbell rang, indicating the food was there. “Well, nevermind.” He stood up and answered, the smell of greasy food hitting you after a moment.

“Gimme gimme,” you said, taking the box he handed to you.

The shower cut off and a few minutes later Oikawa joined you, groaning as he took a bite of his burger. “Nothing has ever tasted so good.”

You continued to eat in silence, a tense weight hanging over the three of you and the longer it went unacknowledged the more nervous you got. The scene kept playing over in your head, exhausting you more than the hangover, your stomach rolling with anxiety. At last, you couldn’t take it and pushed your burger away.

“Listen, guys, um, I have something to say and I really hope that you don’t freak out but I--”

“Do you remember last night?” Iwaizumi asked, cutting you off. You flinched beside him, eyes wide as you nodded, and he reached out, taking your hands. “Was that real? Is it something you want?”

Your mouth went dry as he moved closer, leaning in like you had last night, and your lips parted, but no words came out. Oikawa shifted behind you, unaware of what you were talking about, but Iwa’s eyes locked with his over your head and he understood that whatever it was, it was promising.

Heart in your throat, you nodded, and that was all Iwa needed.

Your first kiss with him was soft and sweet, his hands coming up to cup your face, and he tilted his head to the side to deepen it. Oikawa groaned, fingers digging into your sides and letting his head drop to your shoulder. Somehow, what he had talked about last night was actually happening, and he fought the urge to pinch himself to make sure it was real, just in case he was in the midst of an alcohol induced dream.

When Iwa pulled back, his eyes were hazy as they stared into yours, hands rough and warm against your cheeks. He dipped in again, stealing one more before letting go, and Oikawa wrapped your hair around his fingers, guiding your face around so he could get his.

That kiss was heavy with unspoken emotion, needy and hot and you reached up behind you to tangle your fingers in his hair, pushing back into him to get closer. His arm wrapped around your stomach, hauling you into his lap and when he pulled away, he was panting. It didn’t stop him from diving in several more times, moaning at the taste until he rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed and lips swollen.

“I love you, princess. And not just as one of my best friends,” he whispered, his thumb rubbing your stomach through your shirt. You gasped at that, eyes misting over as you stared up at him.

“I-- really?” you whispered, and he chuckled at the disbelieving tone of your voice.

He nodded, and Iwa distracted you by taking your hand and lifting it to his lips, kissing each knuckle in turn and then pressing your palm to his cheek. “I love you too, _____, if that’s okay.”

“W-Wait, I don’t-- I don’t want to choose between you,” you breathed, and they snickered at the panic in your voice. Dumbfounded, you fell silent, looking between them and waiting for an explanation.

Pulling your hand down, Iwa set it in his lap, stroking the back of it with callused fingertips. “You don’t have to choose between us, if you want both of us. We’ve already talked about it.”

“When?” you asked, overwhelmed by the information. Your two best friends, both of whom you’d managed to fall in love with over the course of the last few months, were confessing they both loved you and both wanted to be with you. It was almost too much.

Iwa colored red while Oikawa snickered again, turning your face to him again. “Last night, actually. Speaking of which, what were you talking about that happened last night?”

It was your turn to be embarrassed, and you hid your face in his neck, mumbling it to him.

“You tried to kiss him?” Oikawa laughed, rubbing your back. “Oh, _____, you little minx.”

“Shut up,” you whined, smacking him in the arm.

He continued to laugh at you, locking eyes with Iwa again. He looked amused, his cheeks still faintly pink but the smile he was wearing was so beautifully genuine that it almost hurt to look at, and Iwa’s words from last night flashed back to him.

Of course I do. For both of you.

His eyes dipped down to Iwa’s lips and, when he looked back up, he was wearing a knowing smirk. He shifted you slightly to the side, keeping you steady with an arm around your waist, while Iwa scooted forward. His knee pressed between yours as he leaned forward, cupping Oikawa’s cheek before his fingers slid up into his hair.

Your mouth fell open as he pulled his head down, slotting his lips against Oikawa’s. It was tentative at first, testing the waters, but then Oikawa’s fingers curled into his shirt and tugged him closer, groaning into the kiss.

Their pupils were blown wide with wonder when they pulled apart and, when they looked back to you, they found you wearing the widest grin imaginable. There was a pause where no one said anything and then Oikawa pushed you into Iwaizumi and threw himself on top of you. Iwaizumi grunted at the impact as his back hit the couch while you laughed loudly.

“You fucking brat,” Iwaizumi snapped without malice, while you wiggled around trying to get Oikawa off of you. He fell to the side between you and the couch, and Iwa held you to his chest, hand rubbing your back.

Oikawa braced himself up on his elbow, gazing down at the two of you with a bright smile, radiating happiness. He finally understood the ache that had sat in his chest since he announced he was leaving for Argentina, the fierce longing to see you and touch you ever since you had arrived explained by the fact that he was unconditionally in love with you. He wondered how he had only realized it after he left, when the signs had been there for a lot longer than that. Maybe he had simply taken what he had already for granted, or maybe he had just been blind to it.

Knowing him, it was probably both.

Your eyes had closed, listening to the steady beat of Iwa’s heart in your ear, but you suddenly jerked up, looking excited.

“Does that mean I can call you my boyfriends? Everyone is gonna freak,” you said, and Oikawa snorted and burst into laughter. Under you, Iwa groaned, clapping his hand to his forehead.

“You are unbelievable, _____,” he huffed, but he was smiling again, and you could see he was trying not to laugh. “But yeah, I guess you can. I will revoke the right if you abuse it, though. Both of you.”

Oikawa’s eyes lit up at that, and a mischievous smirk lit up his face. “Wonder what we’d have to do to make that happen.”

“Oh, no. I am not gonna risk that,” you said, pushing his face away as he leaned forward. “I just got the right, I’m not gonna lose it already.”

“You’re no fun, _____,” he pouted, grabbing your hand. He kissed your palm, listening to you giggle at something Iwa whispered into your ear. “Already keeping secrets from me, hm? I’m not sure you--”

“I love you, Tooru,” you said, and he sputtered and turned bright red, dropping your hand in favor of covering his face with his, whining in the back of his throat. You burst into laughter while Iwaizumi snickered, high fiving you.

“Why are you two so mean to me?” Oikawa asked through his fingers, though he was grinning hard enough to hurt. His heart thumped in his chest at what was probably an unhealthy rate for an athlete of his caliber, but if he died of a heart attack right then, he’d be alright with it.

It was Iwaizumi who answered, pulling his face down into his neck. Oikawa went willingly, listening to the deep timber of his voice as he said, “You didn’t really think anything would change did you, Brattykawa?”

“Well I had hoped, since you love me and all,” Oikawa admitted. He was starting to feel tired again, his eyes heavy as he soaked in the warmth of your hands on his back and Iwa in general.

“Nope,” you said, popping your lips on the ‘p’. You settled yourself on Iwa’s chest again, pushing your fingers through Oikawa’s hair. He seemed to purr at that, murmuring as he snuggled closer into Iwa’s side. “I could go for a nap.”

“Same,” Iwa said, proving his point with a yawn. Tucking his arm beneath his head, he let his eyes close with a sigh.

Oikawa was already asleep, his breathing deep and even and warm against Iwa’s neck, and he thought you were too until you murmured a sleepy, “I love you too, Haji.”

His lips ticked up, his heart skipping a beat at the quiet confession. They were words he had been longing to hear for a longer time than he cared to admit, and he sighed again.

“Love you too, princess. Now shut up so we can sleep.”

⇥ masterlist

⍣ 365 days of sun series | previous

#iwaizumi x reader #oikawa x reader #iwaizumi hajime x reader #hajime iwaizumi x reader #oikawa tooru x reader #tooru oikawa x reader #iwaizumi x reader x oikawa #.365days #.lmhisj

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morgana-ren · 3 years

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45 and 60 for the shiggy ask list?

Nice. Fuckin' nice. Warnings for, of course: Masturbation, spanking, noncon, dubcon, implied nastiness, him being a fuckin’ degenerate, slut-shaming, and general incel-ish behavior.

Wet dreams are an obnoxious, awkward sort of burden to carry no matter how many hands you have.

He’s perfectly content with a dreamless sleep, and he’s since long come to terms with the nightmares that plague his subconscious on the off nights. Shiftless, empty voids mired by shrill screams from a voice he can’t recognize; Visceral, grainy-red misery he can’t wade through, slogging endlessly onward toward nothing. Eternal, burdensome fog that sits thick in the air of his unconscious until he wakes. It was bothersome as a child, but it brings a strange comfort now. Like a heavy, weighted blanket that keeps him anchored to his goal.

Wet dreams on the other hand? Those bring nothing but problems.

It sits awkwardly on his mind as his eyes flicker open, greeted with a dark ceiling and an even darker room, only the light of his monitor casting shadows around the walls. There’s a cramped pain in his crotch that shakes his mind back into consciousness, head of his cock pressing painfully against the jagged teeth of his zipper. A quick, half-awake glance at the clock reads the early morning hours- Too early. He’d retired prematurely the night before, thanks to unforeseen circumstances.

Whatever it was he was dreaming about, it slips quickly through his fingers as his brain ignites once more, but he has an inkling as to the culprit.

Most times, he’d welcome an unsuspecting girl leaning so far over the tap that he gets a nice, long, free peek at the goods, but not when it’s you. He works with you, and that’s a line he’s not eager to cross. That complicates things, and as he counts it, life is complicated enough as it stands. Start lusting after your underlings and you’re inviting a litany of problems, and he doesn’t need any more of those.

But he’s a man; A man with neglected needs, and you’re foolish enough rest your chest against the counter of his bar with your elbows pushing your tits together into nice, thick, creamy globes- right in front of him, no less- only inches from his nose and it takes every ounce of discipline in his degenerate mind to keep him from burying his face right between them.

It was easy to ignore for one, two, maybe three minutes, but that’s when things got a little rough.

After that point, he wasn’t responsible for where his mind went, and that’s the precise moment when he realized he might’ve had a little too much to drink to be in this position.

He’d kicked off the stool and stalked off without another word to anyone, resolving to confine himself to the murky solitude of his room until his mind opted to behave. Punishing himself like a naughty dog caught drooling over someone else’s fat, juicy steak. By the time he’d shut his door, his erection was already painful, throbbing and straining against his thigh, but he refused to reward this kind of behavior from his brain.

‘She’s a teammate, dammit. Knock it off.’

As if scolding his libido has ever worked.

He goes to bed without satisfying himself, but can’t help humping into his mattress as his drifting mind wanders further and further from control and further still from alert consciousness. Without his iron will there to curb his impulses, he was lulled into his lustful dreamsphere, mind swimming with visions of you; Less dressed, infinitely more slutty versions of you with knees rubbed raw, kiss-swollen lips and wrists shackled to his bed- not that there’s anywhere you’d rather be, that sly little voice tells him. He doesn’t recall the specifics, but apparently his cock does. Skin pulled taught over his aching prick, tip flushed a furious shade of red, leaking viscous, pearlescent fluid that wets through the fibers of his jeans. It thrums, pulsing with each beat of his heart behind his ribs, demanding his attention.

“Fuck- quickly then.” He seethes, more annoyed than aroused, loathing the thought of being jerked around by his own body. Yet he knows himself well enough to understand that if he doesn’t quell the urge, it will linger on in his mind until he deals with it, so it’s better to bite the bullet and swallow his pride lest it gluttonously feed into itself like a lustful ouroboros and become a problem.

Fingers shove beneath the waistband of his jeans, the others hastily unbuttoning the silver teardrop link just beneath his navel. Fishing his cock out is the easy part; it’s everything that comes afterward that’s troublesome.

He thinks of his basics. Of lewd hentai and girlish squeals, of wide, plush thighs and coy smiles. Sensual fingers beckoning him, throaty voices begging him to do as he will with their pliant bodies. Open mouths and pretty, ivory teeth, tremoring bodies and sweat and- He fucks them. He fucks them- no, he fucks his fist. He fucks his fist and fucks their gooey insides, fucks his fist and- it’s just not enough. He imagines their drooling mouths taking his cock, cooing praises- The climax builds, tension building to a terrible, tensing peak and then falling back down again into frustration. Teeth gritting in anger, muscles prickling and tightening in his forearm.

It’s not doing it. He can’t cum. He gets close and it peters out back down into nothing but a slight twitch and low drawls of pleasure. No matter how he strokes, how tightly his fingers grip his shaft, he can’t make himself cum.

Fingers furled around his cock, he tries for longer than he really cares to admit. Hips stuttering up to meet his hand, broken gasps rapidly twisting into drawn out grunts of irritation. Boredom rapidly replacing any sense of incentive to continue touching himself. Offhanded strokes and daydreaming lead him no where.

He can’t cum.

Until he thinks of your tits bulging through your shirt against his counter, your pretty smile as you flaunt it all in front of him. What you might look like pushing your slutty little body against him, mewling and begging for him to touch you because only his fat cock can satisfy you and you’ll do anything to have it.

A throb against his palm. Pleasure veining through his body as he rolls his hips against his moist grip. Enough to draw a groan.

She’s a teammate. Control yourself...

After this.

He thinks of your bouncing tits, bare and glistening, puckering underneath his touch as he rolls and twists a nipple between his fingers. Wide, bleary eyes and deceptive little kitten licks on the tip of his cock until he shoves you down and your silken throat strangles him to completion- his copious cum splashing across your open mouth, your fluttering eyelashes, marking you with his seed across your eager face. Nails digging into your waist, maneuvering you over the counter and kicking your legs apart, burying himself in your clenched cunt as you drool like a fucked out whore, begging your boss to stretch you wide. Wiggling your bare ass against him, teeth and bruises imbedding into your skin, crying for him to fuck you open as his cum still tacks across your cheeks like the nasty little slut you are-

He’s so close, close enough he can feel the heat in the crevasses of his fingers, but the knock on his door jars him, sending him careening back into reality even as his dick pulses in his hand. Muscles tense, frozen like a deer in headlights. His mind still drowned in desire, the end so close he can taste it.

No response. Another knock. This one harder.

The bar wasn’t built for privacy in mind, and his room is held together with plywood and ill-fitting hinges. Most people are smart enough to leave him alone and not touch his door in general, but not you, huh? Your second hollow knock budges the latch and the door creaks open in one fatal moment.

He’s met with your shocked face and widened eyes, both glowing eerily pallid in the light of his computer monitor. Your attention focuses, first on his face, shifting to his swollen cock clutched between his slender fingers, and after another moment, back to his face.

“Shigaraki-” is all you can manage, weak and pathetic, hands raising in defense to shield your vision and hide the painful embarrassment written plainly across your face. “-Sorry- Sorry- Fuck, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean-” Red handed is one word for it, but so is opportunistic.

“Get in here and shut the door.”

You don’t think twice about your boss’s command, following his orders without question out of impulse despite the awkwardness. Word vomit spills from your lips, trying to justify and separate yourself from the situation in the same breath.

“I’m sorry- sorry! You seemed mad when you left and I didn’t want to leave it- I thought you were mad at me- I didn’t want-” “To disappoint me?”

“Y-yeah- I thought-” Your eyes drift toward the ceiling, trying to keep away from the proverbial elephant in the room- the pale cock cradled in his hand. “I’m sorry! I just thought-”

“What did you think?”

“I thought I said something that made you mad or something! You kept looking at me like-” Your voice cracks, perhaps in recognition, but you ignore that too. “Like you were disgusted-”

His control shatters with the vulnerability on your face, lust tidalwaves over reason, burying any semblance of order he had beneath a landfill of repression. All he wants now is to see you the way he does in his head: Begging and crying and screaming his name.

This will have consequences, but he doesn’t really fucking care right now.

He lurches forward, four fingers swirling in the fabric of your shirt as he jerks you forward. “I was disgusted.” You fall across him with a startled shriek, awkwardly splayed across his legs and the upper portion of his bed. He’s quick to readjust you, dragging you back into his lap with his naked, palpitating cock pressed flush against your chest separated only by a thin layer of fabric. One hand threads through your hair, stroking your scalp with his nails before clutching down. “Flashing your slutty tits in my face all night.” Trying to scrounge away from him is fruitless, clawing at his bare mattress with your nails and trying to kick your way out of his grip, but he puts a quick stop to it. A few harsh tugs on your hair and you settle down like a good girl, whimpering and shaking in a way arouses him more than he thought possible at the moment. “I didn’t- I didn’t mean to-” “I didn’t mean to-” He mocks, raising his voice in a cruel mimicry of yours. “Shut the hell up. You know exactly what you’re doing. You’re writing checks you can’t cash, and someone needs to teach you a lesson.” His hand catches on the back of your thigh, slowly snaking upward until- to your utter mortification- he pushes the hem of your skirt up to your waist, jiggling at the fat of your ass with his palm. Your miserable bleating does little to deter him from fingering at the strap of your thong, admiring the lace before pulling the band back with the crook of his finger and letting the elastic snap against your skin.

“Tomura!-” “Be quiet. You can speak when I tell you that you can speak. In fact-” He pulls your underwear down to your taut thighs with a harsh yank. “-you’re going to count it out for me, and when I’m done, you’re going to thank me, aren’t you?”

The little fire of defiance dies in your belly is swiftly snuffed out when, through the corner of your eye, you catch him leering at your exposed ass, face dusted a ruddy pink and pupils dilated in a way that leaves him looking more monster than man.

“You’re going to count it for me, yeah? Understand?” “Count out what?”

You stammer and trip over your words, wide eyes bleary, and God he loves it when you play dumb. You’re sharp as a tack and swift as a whip, and there’s not a doubt in his mind that you know exactly where this is going, but you’ll play the bimbo because you’re holding out hope that taking advantage of you is too far, that even villains have a sense of comradery and he’s your boss and has a sense of shame. All incorrect assumptions.

He brings his hand up, only to immediately plumb it back down again on the curve of your ass with the resounding smack of flesh on flesh. The skin ripples as he makes contact, and you yowl something fierce as the pain blooms through your bottom- half startled, half humiliated. “One-” The fingers looped through your hair clench and remind you of what exactly that he expects, words hanging thick as he expects acquiescence and your full participation. He’s not known for his patience. “O-one.”

“Good girl.”

His hand raises again and your eyes clench shut in anticipation of the blow. It doesn’t help. “Two.”

“Two-!“

Three- four- five- His hand lands firmly on your backside, each one forcing you to lurch forward. It’s degrading and sick, stomach twisting against his thighs as you desperately try to keep your breathing even despite your constricted belly. You don’t dare to attack him back- you’ve seen what he does to people who piss him off. You didn’t think he was capable of this kind of treatment- not to his friends and allies- but apparently he’s full of malevolent surprises and you’re learning that the hard way.

Six- Seven- Eight- Eyes begin tearing up around the seventh smack, trying to worm away from him only to be firmly held in place. It only stung at first, but repeated abuse to the same area has left it sore and tender because his spanks are far too rough to be playful. Strangled croaks of the numbers he expects from you turn into urgent cries, sobbing openly into his lap as he occasionally rolls his erection against your knee-squished tits.

“Nine.”

“N-n-nine-” You are sniveling like a baby by this point. It hurts, it hurts, and you want- no- need him to stop. You’re not sure if it’s the utter humiliation or the localized and repeated pain, but nausea is curling something fierce in your gut, tickling at your esophagus with every thwack of his palm against you.

“Ten.”

There’s no sweet little precursor this time. His hand comes down with unprecedented force- too much- hitting the exact same spot for the tenth time but with enough cruelty behind it to break what little dignity you’d had left. You wail openly at the pain, blubbering and pleading for him to stop, please, you can’t take it anymore, you can’t-

He shushes you, deceptively tender as he rubs his fingers across the marred skin, early onset bruises blooming in the abstract shape of his hand. It pleases him to see it, knows it’ll please him even more every time he watches you struggle to sit because you’ve got your leader’s handprint practically engraved on the fat of your ass for the foreseeable future.

“You did well.” Untangling his fingers from your matted hair, he pats at your head in a condescending matter, soothing you in a way that isn’t entirely genuine. That becomes painfully obvious when he grabs your tear-soaked chin and arches your face to meet his in an unnatural angle, displeasure evident across his face.

“Except you forgot ten.”

You expect him to hit you again, but he doesn’t. The hand patting at your marred skin slinks down between your thighs, teasing between your folds and circling your entrance. The hiccups and bubbling sobs cease long enough for you to squeak at his invasive probing, wiggling your hips as he slips a finger inside your damp heat. He oscillates it, first to the knuckle, but then down as far as he can, pumping in and out of you a few times before adding a second finger to the mix.

This shouldn’t feel good. The searing tingle and clenching between your thighs is entirely unwelcome as his wandering fingers curl upward towards you bellybutton and pad at the spongy, raised flesh nestled deep in your cunt. The juxtaposition of the hideous ache from where he’d spanked you ruthlessly and the pleasure that crests as he finger-fucks you is almost too much, bordering on maddening stimulation as he adds this thumb to the mix, drawing teasing circles around the little bud.

“A-ahha-Tom-Tomura!”

“What is it, slut? Use your words-” He drums his fingers into you harder, pressing the tip of his thumb down harder on your clit as he swirls it counter-clockwise. “Are you getting wet for me? Starting to enjoy this now that your punishment is over?”

After a few more moments, he drawls out his fingers, putting emphasis on the obscene squelching. He withdraws his hand eventually, inspecting the gossamer slick that webs his fingers, scissoring it back and forth before dropping them in front of your face.

“That’s all you, you needy little whore. All your whinging and crying but your sloppy cunt is aching for me, isn’t it?”

Wiping your wetness on the purpling bruises, he promptly pushes you off of his lap and lets your body roll onto the floor, standing to loom above you with his cock bobbing just above the waist of his bunched jeans. In one swift movement, he’s got you by the hair again, pulling you up onto your knees just in front of him.

Your whimpering garners no sympathy from him, thighs worming and quim still clenching even as you fear for what’s about to happen. He’s already pushed past the limit- what’s done is done. You were a good ally, but you’re a better whore. Who’s to say you can’t be both?

He’s allowed to have his cake and feast on it too.

“I’ll give you what you want, but you’re going to earn it first.” Jerking your head back by your sore, throbbing scalp, he taps his leaking erection on the swell of your lower lip, smearing his pre-cum across your mouth. “After you’ve earned it, that is. Now show me that you’re thankful.”

#nsft #I love my tacky banners #I have fun #anyway sorry this took so long #I hope it's alright #i warned yall i make everything disgusting #I got shitty dyscalculia so *hopefully* I got the right ones??#and answered it on the right one now that I think about it

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kunstellation-one · 4 years

Note

I want Mark to push me down on the bed and fuck me to be honest. Can you write one where y/n purposely gets him all riled up (could be in front of the members or out in public) and then when they get home, he gets all rough and dom? 😂

• i have tried to write this like 8x and every time have accidentally closed the tab;;; 😭😭😭

• see this ask for a similar but more cliffhanger-y ending!~

• thank you for waiting this long! i recently went to the SuperM concert myself so my inspiration was definitely rekindled for this 🤭

[8:21am]

When you call your boyfriend the day before he returns from tour, you tell him, Baby, I have a gift for you.

Oh! Mark dithers. Y-you didn’t need to get me anything, babe. Coming back home to you is more than enough.

In the background you hear the rest of the SuperM members tease him relentlessly about how whipped he is for you, and you chuckle as you select a couple of choice photos from your camera roll and send them to him. Don’t look at these in front of the boys, okay?

Huh? What do you mean? He pulls the phone away from his ear, and you hum in satisfaction when you hear him gasp. Oh my g–… There’s a brief moment of hurried footsteps as he finds somewhere more private to really voice his thoughts. Breathlessly, he says in a low voice, You look really good in silk. I– wow. Jeez. You look really good.

That’s just a sneak peek. You keep your tone casual, like you’re discussing dinner plans instead of a night of debauchery, fingering the hem of the little slip of laced material falling loosely on your hips. The material feels like cold water on your skin, and you wonder how it’ll feel with Mark’s body pressed to yours. It’s been months since the last time you’d been with him; the mere thought makes you squirm in your spot on the bed. When will you be back?

Ah– I think, tomorrow night? But they want to go out to dinner as a group, so… are you going to come?

Hmm. Sure. But I can’t promise I’ll behave.

He groans. Since when do you ever?

Even after a year of dating, Mark still acts like a jumpy high school boy whenever you touch him. When you sit down to a nice private dinner at the SM building with the rest of the SuperM members, his cheeks light on fire when you reach down between bites to squeeze his knee, or trace little hearts in the palm of his hand. It’s always been endearing, and it makes it so fun to tease him.

“Were you bored without us, y/n?” Ten asks, picking a stray grape from his plate and furtively placing it on your plate. You roll your eyes, but eat the fruit anyway. “Yongie’s girlfriend was out of town, too.”

(Said girlfriend is currently sitting in Taeyong’s lap, whispering something into his ear. You’re sure most of it is NSFW content, and you have to hold back a cackle when she notices you staring and gives you a toothy grin. She enjoys messing with her man as much as you do, and you note the red tint of Taeyong’s cheeks when she sits back, looking quite satisfied with her work.)

“I was a little bored. See anything interesting while you were traveling the globe?” You reach down and tap Mark’s hand, looking for affection. He pats your hand reassuringly as he continues to chow down on a good mouthful of food, but keeps his hands civil. You, on the other hand, can barely restrain yourself from touching him.

“I bought you those tourist magnets you asked me for,” Taemin says, smiling. “They really do have a lot of them in America.”

“Oh, thank you.” Your hand strays to Mark’s knee and rests there. He stares at you, eyes wide, but you ignore it, addressing the older idol with a relaxed smile. “Yeah, there are shops dedicated solely to those sort of things. I think, Taeyong, you went to one in San Francisco, at Fisherman’s wharf?”

“What?” Taeyong looks a little dazed, eyes out of focus as his girlfriend feeds him another mouthful of soup. “Oh, yeah. It was great.”

Your hand slips higher up Mark’s leg, and he lets out a soft squawk of surprise. It almost makes you laugh, but you just rub your thumb along his thigh, taking a sip of water from your cup with your free hand.

Ten and Lucas giggle. Only Kai and Baekhyun remain unfazed, working steadily through their plates in relative silence.

You signal for Mark to give you his ear so you can tell him something, and he leans down to listen. “Baby, I want to play.”

“A game?” he mouth blankly, looking confused.

“No.” You tug him closer to you so no one else can hear, though you don’t really care. “I want to play with you.”

“Oh. Oh.” He flushes scarlet, and looks around nervously, like someone might overhear what kind of conversation the two of you are having. Meanwhile, Taeyong and his girlfriend are getting up from the table, the latter looking very pleased with herself, and the former looking just as red, if not redder, than your boyfriend beside you.

“We’re going to turn in early,” Taeyong explains, looking a little guilty for the white lie. And as she passes you on their way out, his girlfriend shoots you a conspiratory wink.

“See you later, Yongie,” Ten calls out, and next to him Lucas is overcome with the giggles.

“Stay safe,” Baekhyun says pointedly, mouth full of rice. “Don’t go out there unprotected.”

Mark nearly chokes on his food. Not just because of Baekhyun’s comment, but because you’ve taken his left hand and slipped it under your skirt, to feel the silken ribbons of the cute lingerie set you’ve put on just for him. He looks at you, eyes blazing, and mouths, Stop.

You let go of him immediately, because you’ve never seen him so serious about you teasing him. Fuck, that’s hot, you think, rubbing your thighs together and feeling the fray of lace against your skin.

“You okay, Mark?” one of the managers says worriedly from the other end of the table.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he says, and there’s a bite of steel in his voice that startles you. He wipes his mouth with a napkin, then stands. “I think I’m going to head back to the dorms too. I’m tired.”

He grabs your hand, and on your way out, Ten shoots you a sly grin and two thumbs up.

When you get back to the dorm, Mark shuts the door of his room behind you and rests his forehead against the wood with a deep sigh.

“What’s wrong, baby?” you ask, like you haven’t spent the whole night trying to get a rise out of him. “Tired?”

He turns to face you, jaw taut and fists clenched, eyes bright with anger. And you think, for one chilling moment that maybe you’ve gone too far teasing him in front of his members like you had.

And then he’s kissing you so fiercely it’s like he wants to consume you. Startled, it takes you a moment to react– and then you respond in kind, lacing your tongue with the taste of him, fire flooding your body at finally being able to feel his body solid against yours. It’s been so long that it feels like you’re relearning the feel of his fingers on your skin as he draws you tight into his embrace, every little brush and every little moment of contact a pinpoint of white hot heat.

But it’s over before you’re sure it’s real, and he’s pulling back, chest heaving. You’re breathless, too, and you stare up at him, stunned. He’s never been so forward, always asked you if he was doing it right, if you liked it, always asked before he started anything. This side of him is different and absolutely delicious.

You lick your lips, wanting more.

Mark sees the look in your eyes and shakes his head. “You’re insatiable,” he rasps, moving towards you. You take a step back, and then another, and then one more, until the back of your knees hit the bed. He studies your expression, eyes narrowed. “You missed me that much, huh? Couldn’t keep your hands to yourself for one second.”You feel like a child caught with your hand in the cookie jar. “I wanted to play when you got back,” you pout, staring up at him defiantly. “It’s been months, Mark. Touching myself isn’t nearly as good as having you here, too.”

He raises a brow. You try to kiss him, but he doesn’t let you, wraps both of his arms around you to hold you still. “You didn’t need to tease me in front of all the guys, babe. You could have just asked.”

“I’m asking now,” you whine, trying to wiggle out of his hold. God, you want to touch him so bad, feel his racing heartbeat beneath your fingertips and know that it’s all for you.

“Stop,” he tells you, eyes flashing.

You stop.

“That’s a good girl,” he exhales. “Behave, or you won’t have the fun you want tonight.”

“O– okay.”

Satisfied, he loosens his hold on you. And then his hands go lower, to the skirt riding up your thighs and the thigh-high stockings beneath them, laced neatly just like the silken panties you’d bought just for this night. He runs his hands over your body, like he’s also relearning every bit of you, brushing his fingers over the curve of your breasts, down the line of your spine and low between your hips, until you’re whimpering for him to really touch you, the aching heat between your legs pulsing with need.

“Use your words. What do you want?”

“Please fuck me,” you whisper. (“I’m on birth control,” you add, remembering Baekhyun’s earlier comment.)

“I’m the one calling the shots, babygirl.” He chuckles darkly, and you shiver in delight as he tugs your sweater over your head, leaving you standing in front of him in just your lingerie. He squeezes your ass, and groans appreciatively. “This is my gift, isn’t it? And I’m allowed to do whatever I want with it.”

You gulp. “Yes, please.”

Without another word he pushes you down onto the bed, slipping his hand beneath the waistband of your panties and pushing them aside so he can shove two fingers into your heat. When he finds your core sticky and dripping, he sighs in approval as he curls those fingers inside you, beckoning you to arch your body into his with a cry of surprise. His other hand slips into your bra to feel up your breasts, rolling his thumb over the sensitive nub as he seals his mouth to yours, swallowing up the moans of rapture escaping you.

Mark pulls away when you’re gasping for air, and murmurs, “As much as I like to hear these beautiful sounds from your lips, baby, there are other people here. Stay quiet, okay?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, pulling his hard length out of his pants. Looking over your shoulder, the sight makes you salivate, and you start to reach for him, but he pushes your hands away, flipping you over onto your stomach.“You can use that mouth of yours on me later. Right now, I’m going to fuck you.”

He hooks his fingers into the lace ribbons and rips the lingerie from your body, then pushes the head of his cock against your entrance. You groan, pushing your ass back against him; you’ve wanted– needed– this for so long that waiting any longer feels like agony. And then he bottoms out inside of you, filling you utterly and completely, and the world goes white for a moment.

“Fuck,” he grunts, hands settling on your waist. He draws back, almost pulling out entirely, and then slams his hips back into you. You grab at the pillows, muffling your noises of pleasure into its softness. Mark drives into you again, and again, and again, and a tense heat builds within your abdomen, suffusing your entire body with a tingling ecstasy. Every thrust pushes you deeper into the bed, which creaks so loudly it masks the tiny gasps you let out as he fucks you.

“When you sent me those photos, I was hard for hours,” he growls, and one of his hand goes between your bodies to rub at your clit, sending more waves of pleasure to bounce through your body. Sweat beats on your forehead and at the joining of your bodies. “Thinking about your body. About this. About you.”

“God, I fucking missed you,” you mewl, leaning your head back as he kisses along your neck. “You fuck me so good, baby, ah–”

“You can’t leave me alone when we’re out in public… do I have to put you in your place? You’re such a filthy little girl–” Mark punctuates each of those last three words with a slap on your ass, not hard enough to really sting, but hard enough to leave a mark, and you cry his name out, like a prayer, like a chant. He’s never been anywhere close to rough with you, though you’ve expressly stated that you have a preference for it, and this, this moment of heat and passion and more-than-ever-before, feels like heaven on earth.

“If you’re good more often, then I’ll reward you,” he breathes. “Just like this. Fucking your pretty little pussy raw–”

“I’ll be good, I’ll be better,” you wail.

His fingers continue to work on your clit, rubbing the pinpoint of pleasure until you’re writhing beneath him, alight with bliss.

“I’m– ah! Baby– I’m going to cum–”

One last swipe across your clit sends you over the edge. You don’t even bother muffling yourself in the pillow anymore, ride out the radiating euphoria, clenching tight around his cock until you’ve drawn out his climax, too, and his hips push flush against yours, and with a heavy groan, he fills you with his cum, hot, thick liquid sticky and creamy as it drips down the inside of your thighs.

The two of you lay there, spent, until the moment sinks in, and Mark pulls out. When you look back at him, he looks almost– embarrassed.

“What’s wrong, baby?” you coo, reaching out to pull him into your arms.

“Well, I– that was new,” he says, looking sheepish. “I just… It kind of just… came out of me. I was just so… mad that you kept teasing me. I wanted to be in control.”

You giggle, pressing a kiss to his sweaty forehead, pushing the hair back from his face. “Well, I enjoyed it. We should do that more often.”

He nods, then looks guiltily at the ripped panties on the floor. “But…”

“Buy me new ones, and we’re even.”

“Okay, I can do that. I’ll buy you a dozen more.”

“That’s… too many.”

“But I like them on you.”

“…fine.”

i… it’s been so long since i’ve written smut that i honestly don’t know whether or not i’m good at it or if i was ever good at it dfghjkl

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goldenkookietae · 4 years

Text

The Book Fortress Tumbles

BTS One shot

Pairing: Boyfriend!Taehyung x reader

Word count: 3,643 words

Warnings: Smut, strong language, sir!kink, dom!tae, teeny tiny bit of angst

Summary: Your exams are starting soon and you’re beyond stressed. You’re trying not to let that show but it all comes bursting out when your boyfriend Taehyung tries to get you to relax. When you realise your mistake, the only thing you can do, is apologise to him. Just not with words.

A/N: My college just announced that our exams will be held starting from 18th September. That’s too less time to mug up the entirety of the semester syllabus. Sigh. This one shot is reflecting my current situation (minus a Taehyung and dedication towards exams). I accidentally posted this when it was half finished lol, I panicked all the time I was taking it down xD.

Disclaimer: This story is an AU fanfiction that I have created using the names of the members of BTS. I do not claim any ownership over the members of BTS. The plot and the personalities of the characters are entirely my own.

Do not plagiarize my work and do not repost.

Moodboard

*I do not claim ownership over any of the pictures. They are credited to their original owners.

“Y/N~” Taehyung sang, skipping up to the study table, a pile of books hiding the person behind from view.

A faint “yes” was whispered softly from behind the walls of what seemed like a book fortress. Taehyung knew that the queen in this fort had probably not even looked up from her current preoccupation.

But somehow, as the “boyfriend”, he had a few special privileges. Somehow he could pull her to cuddle with him when she had an exam the day next, somehow he could wake her up in the middle of the night and still get her to cook for him, somehow he could steal her ice cream after having his and get her to find him rather cute.

Okay, maybe the last two aren’t true. Those are the things I’d do for her. He thought. Either way, whatever the consequences might be, he felt deprived, almost jealous of bound pages and thick covers.

She had told him a month before, on a day that Taehyung now marked as a blue day in his life, that her exams were coming up and that she’d have to focus on her studies. That she’d have to give her attention to her text books instead of her handsome boyfriend. And the second her exams would be done, they could do whatever he pleased.

Oh, the many many things Taehyung had in mind for everything that pleased him. On top of the list was her name in bold, underlined, Y/N. Y/N had been scanning her books so intently throughout this whole month, it seemed as though she was studying the instructions to defuse a bomb that was seconds from exploding. He hardly saw her around the house, only between the times she came outside to refill her snack jar or water bottle or for her meals. It got to the point where she hadn’t even realised that Taehyung had shifted to her apartment and had been staying with her throughout.

It was funny because they’d share the same bed and wake up inside a warm blanket burrito. Even if she had realised, she hadn’t said a word and Taehyung was more than happy with that. Staying back at his place while she was like this was close to being on an entirely different planet with no forms of communication.

He had picked up a lot of hobbies to distract himself, he played more video games, ate a lot of food, tried cooking (which surprisingly went okay), cleaned her house to make sure she was always comfortable and sometimes worked overtime because everything else was simply boring. But at times when she hadn’t noticed he’d pursue another wonderful hobby. Since Y/N wasn’t really bothered about what Taehyung was up to, he unashamedly spent his time staring at her. She wasn’t even dressed to impress these days, putting on the first thing she reached in her cupboard before sitting down to study.

But she loved being comfortable. And Taehyung noticed how she’d always pick the shortest shorts she had, ones that barely covered the globe of her ass. He would’ve loved those clothes on her every damn day, only if he wasn’t restricted to staying a mile away so she could ‘focus’ and almost suffering from blue balls.

“Y/N~” he whined yet again, choosing to cross over to other side of the fort and poking the bookworm. His plan for the night was to at least get some attention. He had been deprived of it for more than a month, it had reached the point where he would be in an existential crisis from lack of affection.

He would respect all her restrictions, he was being so good at keeping his carnal desires at bay (even if his hand was no match), he hadn’t complained when she finished her food early and left him alone to eat his portion, and definitely didn’t bother her for falling asleep on top of her books. He somehow felt proud of being that boyfriend, the one who’d bring her meals and would carry her back to bed when she’d fallen asleep.

But he just hoped that this, whatever it was, probably a test from the gods, would soon come to an end. And that Y/N would then jump onto his lap and kiss the living daylights out of him to tell him that he passed with flying colours.

All he wanted was a little bit of cuddling that night. The exams were still a week away and she could spare that much for him, couldn’t she?

He poked her again. One last time. And when that earned him nothing more but hummed ‘yes’, he knew it had come down to war. He extended his hands to her waist, caressing the soft flesh before taking on a different turn.

“Taehyungie! Stop!” Y/N hollered, jerking so suddenly that the central defense of her fort broke and tumbled to the ground in all the glory of crumpled and dog eared pages.

All that didn’t bother Taehyung as he tickled her sides, not caring about the curses leaving her mouth at that instant. If he paid any attention, then it would definitely turn him hard.

He picked her up effortlessly, carrying her over to the bed and placing her down. He climbed on top of her slowly, licking his lips as his face leveled with hers.

“Let’s just cuddle for tonight Y/N. You’ve been overworking yourself and it’s okay to take some time off to relieve stress. Relax for today, okay?” Taehyung muttered soothingly, rubbing her arms to warm her skin.

“Or maybe we can do something else to relieve your stress?” He chuckled trying to lighten the passive expression on Y/N’s face but it only made it more poignant. Before he could say anything else, the anxiety all came onto Y/N at once, making her snap.

“Taehyung stop! This is not a joke. My entire career depends on these exams and you’re treating it like a joke! Stop it!” Y/N exclaimed and Taehyung went still.

He knew she didn’t mean that and she knew that her career was as important to Taehyung as it was to her. He was looking out for her simply. She knew this too.

Sighing, Taehyung slid off her and stood next to the bed.

“Your career is important Y/N, I know that. It is to me too. But you’re taking too much pressure. You need a stress buster once in a while. Maybe this was not the best way and I’m sorry about that but maybe we can watch a movie tonight or-” Taehyung kept thinking of more things but Y/N cut him off.

“No. I am not under pressure. I do not need a stress buster. All I need to do is study and revise like I was already doing.” Y/N said as she looked at Taehyung pointedly, before sliding off the bed and sitting down at her desk.

“Alright. Let me know if you need anything.” Taehyung gulped. When she didn’t respond, he sighed and left the room as quietly as he could.

Y/N felt bad. When Taehyung had jumped onto her, all her focus flew out of her mind and she finally realised why she had been fidgety all week. Even when Taehyung had offered it to her on a silver platter, she’d refused like a total idiot and was now facing the consequences. From the corner of her eyes, she watched Taehyung through the slightly open door of her room. She could see him laying on the couch, his long legs spread out before him invitingly, his tongue sticking out and jaw flexing as he concentrated on playing the game.

As her eyes slid down, she focused on his hands, his long fingers working the joystick easily, the veins on his arms straining against his skin. Oh, she knew very well what all she wanted him to work with those fingers. The thought made her close her eyes and bite her lip, and she mindlessly clenched her thighs together.

She considered walking up to him right then, but the thought of coming back to him after she’d sent him away so strongly seemed too embarrassing. If that were to happen, Taehyung would never let go of the incident and would tease her about it forever.

In a desperate attempt to calm herself, she turned back to her books, revising topics again and again but still feeling as though she was reading them for the first time ever. Her eyes slid over to her water bottle as she recited the words she’d just read to herself again.

Tae’s thicker than that. She thought looking over the bottle and imagining a different view in front of her.

“What are you doing, you idiot?” she whispered, realising that her hands were now around the bottle, and she was fisting it with a well known need. Sighing she stood up, knowing she had no choice.

She slipped out of her room, trying not to close the door too hard. Walking straight to her boyfriend, she stood in front of the TV, blocking his view while facing him.

Taehyung looked up at her in confusion, and frowned when the sound of his avatar dying echoed behind her. But as soon as Y/N slid to her knees before him, his lips twisted into a smirk. In a second he threw the joystick in his hand to the side and leaned back into the couch making himself comfortable and pushing his legs closer towards her.

When Y/N bit her lip and stared at him hungrily, he raised an eyebrow.

You just gonna sit there or do something? I’m waiting.

It was so easy to understand everything about him after they’d been together for so long and she didn’t want to disappoint him now. Quickly, her hands unbuttoned his skin tight jeans and unzipped them, while Taehyung simply snuggled deeper into the couch as though waiting for a show about to go down.

Well, something was going down alright. That thing being Y/N.

She struggled to pull off the jeans, huffing every time her strength wasn’t enough, and Taehyung made no effort to help her out. Normally, Taehyung would be praising her throughout, but at the moment her only reward was the delicious view of his thick thighs.

Without wasting a second, Y/N pulled his boxer briefs down to his knees, then to his ankles and her face narrowly missed getting hit by his cock. After more than a month of sexual frustration, her mouth drooled as she laid eyes on his thick, huge cock, veins straining against the length as it stood hard and proud. She was a fool, comparing a stupid water bottle to the masterpiece in front of her.

He was already hard, and Y/N thought he must have been for quite some time through the evening. She’d done that. And she must be the one to fix it.

“Go on darling, suck me off.” Taehyung murmured bringing his fingers to her chin for a moment, tilting her face up and then letting go.

“Yes, sir.” Y/N whispered before taking him into her mouth fully, too hasty and needy to tease him at that point. She flattened her tongue against the smooth skin of his cock, lathering it with her saliva and tasting the salty tang of his precum. As her mouth grew full, she took him as far as she could go, stopping before her gag reflex could hit her and then looking up at Taehyung.

“Fuck. You’re going to kill me with those eyes.” Taehyung grunted, biting his lip harshly and never taking his eyes off Y/N. The sight of her kneeling before him, her mouth full of his cock and her pretty eyes looking at him so innocently - it was too much. His hand raised above his head, gripping the top edge of the couch for support as his jaw slacked and eyes closed.

As he prepared to relax, his eyes snapped open when Y/N picked up speed suddenly and sucked him faster, bobbing her head up and down his length, using her hands to jerk him where she couldn’t take him into her mouth. His eyes threatened to close as hot pleasure shot through him, but he managed to keep them open and fixed them onto Y/N’s eyes. While she sucked him off, he could see the way her hands slid down her body, no doubt seeking for her own pleasure.

But Taehyung was having none of that.

“The only place your hands are allowed to be are on my cock. Understood babygirl?” He glared, and he was surprised that he managed to keep the tremble out of his voice.

Y/N let out something between a whine and a hum, making Taehyung’s eyes roll back into his head. Nevertheless, he felt her figure move and he knew she’d obeyed him.

Straining his eyes to open, he saw her holding her hands behind her back and sucking his cock like her life depended on it. He shifted his hand from his side to her hair, gripping the roots above her neck and momentarily pulling her off of his throbbing member.

“Use your words girl.” He growled, clutching onto her hair tighter and bringing her closer so the head of his cock touched her lips. Y/N let out a soft sigh at the pain, enjoying it more than she should.

“Yes, sir.” she gulped, and immediately Taehyung pushed her back onto him, using the grip on her hair to guide her downward till her nose brushed his skin. Y/N gagged and swallowed, and the sensation made Taehyung’s thighs clench in pleasure.

Y/N didn’t miss that, she kept swallowing and moaning, the soft vibrations of her mouth against his cock, making him climb higher and higher to the edge of his release. And when Taehyung felt her soft hands shift from behind her to massage his balls, his hips jerked and he knew he was close. With three long thrusts into her pretty mouth, Taehyung came with a loud grunt, shooting strings of white hot cum into Y/N’s mouth which she swallowed hungrily.

Taehyung laid there for a few minutes, taking deep breaths to normalise his thundering heart. He peeked open an eye to look at Y/N and groaned when he saw her sitting on her knees with her hands on her lap. So obedient.

He leaned forward and held her chin with his hands, tilting up her face and bringing it close to his. His cum glistened on her lips and the thin layer of sweat on her forehead made it look like her skin was glowing.

“That was a very nice apology, babygirl.” He cooed, pecking Y/N’s lips softly. With his thumb, he scooped up a drop of his cum that had dripped onto her chin and pushed it into her mouth, immediately feeling her tongue swirl around his finger.

“And that is forgiveness.” He muttered, cupping her neck and pressing his lips to hers, swiping his tongue against the soft flesh and tasting himself. For Taehyung, it had all been a plan to get attention, and he got more than he had asked for, but if Y/N couldn’t get her release then there was no point.

Y/N felt Taehyung’s hands slowly slide down her skin, coming to rest at her hips where he held her tight. As she deepened the kiss and pushed her tongue into his mouth, he pulled her up and placed her onto his thighs, his cock slipping against the thin material of her shorts.

Her mouth tipped open against his, and she pressed herself onto him, grinding up and down while Taehyung nipped at her skin. When Taehyung cupped her between her thighs she let out a strangled gasp. The sound had woken something primal in Taehyung and he growled against her skin, biting down on the skin above her breast.

It had been so long since they’d done anything together, so long since Y/N had touched herself, that she knew she wouldn’t be able to last long. Taehyung would get his hands on her clit and she’d fall apart and that’s exactly what she needed. More than she had imagined.

Stripping off their clothes was a hasty blur, their mouths never leaving each other’s skin, kissing, nipping, biting, licking and sucking. Taehyung’s hands slid down to Y/N’s now bare heat, groaning at how slick and wet Y/N was.

“You didn’t want to say no to me, did you babygirl? Look at how wet you are.” He murmured, pressing and circling his thumb on her clit making her whimper. She whimpered helplessly when he pushed one long finger into her making her cling to him for support. When his finger curled inside her, she felt a familiar knot of pleasure and she blushed, embarrassed that she was going to come as fast as the time she’d lost her virginity. Too damn fast. She hid her face in the crook of Taehyung’s shoulder, biting down on the tanned skin as his fingers pushed her towards the edge relentlessly.

As Taehyung continued finger fucking her, his mouth was occupied with her breasts, sucking them and littering the skin with deep purple marks.

“Cum for me, Y/N. Cum on my fingers. Fuck.” He rasped, his teeth pulling at her pebbled nipple and Y/N came all over his fingers, letting out a loud cry and clutching tighter onto his shoulders.

Y/N relaxed against Taehyung’s shoulders, sucking deep breaths to compensate for all the breath Taehyung had knocked out of her with his talented fingers. Taehyung kept his eyes on her heat, pulling his fingers out of her and dragging his tongue over them with a loud a moan.

“So sweet. I missed this.” Taehyung said softly, his eyes closing to savour her taste on his tongue, licking his fingers in a manner to leave no drop untasted.

Just when Y/N had opened her mouth to speak, she jolted in surprise when Taehyung’s cock slid into her, stretching her walls as he reached all the way till he bottomed out. His eyes slowly turned to her, hooded with lust and a glint in his eye that she knew all too well.

This is payback for surprising me earlier.

“Fuck, you’re so tight. You’re squeezing me.” Taehyung groaned, and Y/N’s eyes fluttered shut. She couldn’t comprehend words at that moment, her tongue tied with being sensitive and the way Taehyung was rocking his hips into hers.

“You’re still on birth control right?” Taheyung asked through gritted teeth, struggling to pause his movements before his mind spiraled out of control.

“Yes, just please, Tae-” Y/N whined, unable to finish her sentence as Taehyung pulled out and thrust into her. Sitting flush on his lap, Y/N could feel the length of his cock reach into her deeper than ever. With the little energy she had, she raised her hips and pushed herself back onto him at the exact moment that Taehyung thrust upwards.

“Tae!” she moaned, biting her lip so hard she drew blood, a hand coming up to squeeze her breast as the other clutched onto Taehyung’s thigh to make sure she wouldn’t fall off. Taehyung didn’t give her a second to breathe, setting a rhythm, driving deeper and harder into her each time. She knew it was all the built up tension over a month of inactivity and she wasn’t complaining even when her body shook with over stimulation.

Y/N eventually leaned into him, letting him guide her the way he wanted and she loved it. Gripping the soft flesh of her ass he made her ride him, driving her up and down on his cock and getting high on the sounds of their skins slapping together and the way Y/N’s tits bounced right in front of his face.

Despite her usual vocal self, Y/N felt her voice disappear, every word she tried to form dispersing into mewls and whimpers.

Touch me there. She tried to tell him, a moan and a curse leaving her mouth instead, making her frustrated with the building tension. She moved her hand in search of Taehyung’s, sighing almost immediately when his fingers were on her on her clit, rubbing and pinching the bundle of nerves.

Y/N’s orgasm crashed through her with high pitched moan, shattering any coherent sense left in her and numbing her senses where the only thing she felt was the hot seed that Taehyung had shot inside her, his groans muffled by the heavy daze of her mind. It was too much to handle.

“We’re out of practise.” She managed to whisper finally, her voice hoarse and tired. Taehyung chuckled at that, watching Y/N’s chest heave with every breath and syncing it to his own breathing. His thumb rubbed soothing circles onto her skin and he pressed a chaste kiss on her bare shoulder.

“Let’s get you cleaned up baby.” Taehyung murmured, softly carding his hands through Y/N’s hair. All the exhaustion she had been feeling caught up to her, what with the tension of qualifying her exams, of meeting everyone’s expectations and the intense overwhelming pleasure she had just experienced.

Her lids dropped slowly, the only thing keeping her awake being the soft brush of cloth against her skin which she assumed was Taehyung cleaning her up. When her back hit the soft mattress and Taehyung’s warmth pressed against her skin, she could barely keep herself from crashing into sleep.

“Sleep Y/N.” Taehyung whispered against her hair, kissing her temple softly and pulling her to him. “Stop making me worry all the time. And don’t you worry either. You’ll do great. And you’ll make us all proud.” He finished, pressing more kisses against her hair and pulling her closer into his chest.

“I love you.”

With those words of reassurance, Y/N smiled just before she drifted off to sleep.

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merigreenleaf · 4 years

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Unexpected Inspiration Series: Concordia’s Art Magic

Blythe could only assume that if Adair was holding a paintbrush, the jar in his other hand must contain paint or ink. Then again, it was Adair. It could just as likely be grape jam. And to think, she'd finally got herself unsticky from Sol's glue fiasco this morning. With some trepidation, she held out her hand. Adair dipped the tip of his brush into the jar, then drew a quick blue swirl on her palm. At least that solved the mystery. It was, in fact, paint. "I wouldn't call a paint smudge much of a glow." "Give me a minute." This time Adair didn't return the brush to the jar and instead held the tip of the bristles just far enough away that they tickled Blythe's skin. She fought back the reflex to close her hand so she wouldn't disturb whatever it was he was trying. When nothing happened for a long while besides Adair gazing intently at her hand, Blythe mouthed to Etri, "What's he doing?" Etri tapped his finger against her wrist, calling her attention back down. She had expected nothing to change and hissed a sharp intake of breath when it had. The swirl was still there, but now there was an aura of purple about an inch away from her skin. When she moved her hand, the strange glow stayed with it. Etri leaned closer for a better look. She pried her eyes away in time to catch Adair looking pleased with himself in an embarrassed sort of way. "So all Weavers' hands look like this?" "Yeah, but not just our hands. Picture that covering your entire body and you get a better idea of how we glow." Blythe made a face and wiped her hand clean on the paint-stained cloth he handed her. "Blech. I'll pass." -Excerpt from an early draft of Colorweaver (Book 1)

Concordia as a whole is filled with artists, craftspeople, inventors, and creative hobbyists. The culture has art at its center and almost everyone joins in, even if it's just a way to pass the time rather than as a vocation. It's a drive passed down from generation to generation and the reason for this is that art magic runs deep in the blood of Concordians. History and myth have blended together into stories telling of how the first Concordians-- several struggling, displaced groups of people who joined together to survive-- asked for help in driving away a threat and to help keep their small population safe. Legends say that the constellations came down from the sky to teach magic to the people. Centuries later, these magics have become the nine types of art magic in Concordia.

(Info about the art magic below!)

Here are the types of magic. These are represented in the moodboard from left to right, top to bottom.

Wordweaving (Glow color: red) These Weavers work their magic into words, both spoken and written. These are the poets, the storytellers, the actors, the writers. They're the ones who can affect emotion or, in the case of my morally ambiguous main character, influence someone's thoughts for a short time. This is probably the most dangerous or easily corrupted of magics, but considering the tests that go into becoming a master artist and the checks in place after someone does, this hasn't been a huge problem. (Dray has just made it a problem by avoiding any real training, which is also not a usual thing-- nothing Dray has done with their magic is correct, if you get down to it, and it means that they are going to have Consequences sooner than later. But I digress.) Another example of how this magic can be used is in the scrolling marquee in front of the theater the characters visit in book 1.

Colorweaving (Color: purple) These are the artists whose tools are ink, paint, pencil, charcoal, etc. They're essentially illusionists with the ability to make what they draw/paint move around on whatever they're using as a canvas. Adair has this magic and while he'll sometimes use this to make animated paintings, his career as a cartographer has him creating interactive maps. As the series progresses, he figures out that if he paints on himself or someone else, he can change their appearance. He may even work out something that Colorweavers have forgotten they once knew how to do: by drawing on the air, it's possible to create a believable 3D illusion.

Timberweaving (Color: dark green) Woodworkers and carpenters, obviously, but their magic does more than just allow them to make sturdy creations from wood. Not that this is anything to scoff at-- this is why the oldest Artisans' houses haven't fallen over despite being built on stilts and almost every generation adding a new room or even a new floor. This magic can also make wood as buoyant on air as it would be on water and is a frequent way transportation is built. Not all vehicles hover a few inches off the ground, but this does include the "float-wagons" my main characters call home. Those are something of a cross between a motorhome and a house and can be driven (albeit slowly) around.

Terraweaving (Color: orange) These are the Weavers who work with stone and clay, sculpture and pottery. Way back in Concordia's history there was a Terraweaver who used to sculpt trainable dog-sized animals to give companionship and help to those who needed it. Not just by way of a service dog-- one of the things she made for a gardener friend was a pet that doubled as a planter. The more traditional ways of working this magic are the ability to work stone as though it were soft clay and putting their magic into buildings to make them more steady and solid, much like the Timberweavers, or to make them resist fires.

Oreweaving (Color: red-violet) These Weavers frequently have chemical or heat magic and often use this to etch, shape, and manipulate metals. They're the jewelers, the smiths, and are probably the most "inventor" group of the bunch. Sol tends to use his light/heat magic in a similar way to how the arcane metalworkers would (softening and shaping metal in his hands), so there's some overlap here in terms of heat with the glassworkers. The reason for this is Oreweaving was originally a kind of lightning magic. You'll still find it used as a kind of "battery" when an Oreweaver works with a different type of Weaver on a project. This could be to extend the life of the magic in something else, because eventually all magic inside a creation will run out and need to be recharged, or it'll be a backup battery. Concordia relies on wind, water, and solar power, so magic is only ever a backup or a way to store power they already have.

Savorweaving (Color: pale green) The Weavers who work with food and drink. What they cook doesn't burn, produce stays fresh longer, herbs don't lose potency or flavor after they're dried, food keeps longer or can be made to be more filling. They're the reason Concordia has the equivalent of refrigerators. These artists can also influence the taste and strength of flavor, and I bet they can look at a person and guess what their favorite foods might be.

Glassweaving (Color: gold) This magic involves heat and/or light. These artists are the reason why Silveridge has so much stained glass! As well as using this to make super-strong glass, some Glassweavers use this magic directly by putting it inside glass globes to be used as lamps. Portable heating, like something to keep in your pockets to keep your hands warm? Probably also had a Glassweaver involved. Concordia's mail system is via pneumatic tubes that run about twelve feet off the ground, and while a few different kinds of art go into creating these, the tubes themselves are made of magically-influenced glass.

Songweaving (Color: blue) This magic involves sound and voice, although in terms of pitch and changing how you sound, not the verbal influence of the Wordweavers. I have a character in later books with this magic who can make her voice sound like anything, as well as throwing it so that the sound appears to be coming from somewhere else. This is also the reason that Concordians are able to record sound and music, as well as amplify it or play it at another location simultaneously.

Threadweaving (Color: blue-green) These are the fiber artists, the spinners, weavers (small "w"), knitters, tailors, etc. They can put their magic into clothing and fabric to make it warmer or cooler than it would otherwise be. (This suits Concordians well because current fashion calls for lots of layers of embroidered fabrics and they live in a warm climate.) This can also make clothing protective, usually against things like weather, but it is also how the Protectorates are able to stay safe without needing to wear something heavy that would look like protective gear. Remember the floating homes I mentioned earlier? Some of these are propelled via large fans, sort of like a hovercraft, but some are made with sails on the roofs. Whether it's land or sea, these sails can propel the vehicle forward even if there isn't much wind and can quite likely store some of the wind for later, should it be a still day.

Not everyone in Concordia has magic particularly strongly: some are only good at never burning what they cook, some have simply a pleasant singing voice, some are above average at writing poetry. Sometimes these people will make this part of their careers, sometimes it'll only remain a hobby they enjoy. If the magic is particularly strong, though, it requires additional training and those people are considered Artisans. There isn't a lot of difference between an Artisan and a craftsperson when it comes down to what they create; the only real difference is that an Artisan has magic as an extra tool, so their end results are different. Considering no two artists ever create exactly the same thing anyway, this means that there has never been more importance placed on the Artisans versus craftspeople. Each person will only ever have one type of art magic; even if they carry several types in their bloodline, one will be dominant and only this one will be usable. Each of the nine types of art magic has its own color that glows in both the artist and the creations they make. Only those with decently strong magic can see this, but it does mean that a lot of people, clothing, objects, and locations in Concordia have almost a stained glass look to them if it's something you can see. Part of the reason buildings in Silveridge are made with white stone is because of these glows. Silveridge is where a large percentage of the Artisans live, so it became a tradition to build and paint in white, then add colorful embellishments. Otherwise think about how badly paint colors might clash with the glows used to create the things in the city! Even if most people aren't really aware of how magic glows, they've embraced this aesthetic. Concordia, and Silveridge in particular, is all about aesthetics.

These are just some examples of what each kind of magic can do. Concordians are always coming up with new ideas-- sometimes those ideas work great, sometimes they fail spectacularly. Either way, the artists and craftspeople are constantly creating. Their art magic allows for greater technology than their world might have had without it. Concordia freely trades their creations, so most of their world has access, as well. At some point I'll talk more about Galanvoth, the country that considers itself Concordia's competition.

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This moodboard is for @homesteadchronicles theme of “craftsmanship” because how could I not talk about Concordia and their art magic when most of my series involves this. :D In the future, I'd love to talk more about the Artisans, the history of Concordia’s magic, and just more world building stuff in general.

Tagging my series list! Let me know if you want on or off the list, it’s all good. And as always, please add me to any writing tag lists you have, whether you’re on my list or not. I love reading about writeblr projects. :)

@homesteadchronicles @ageekyreader @lynnafred @the-gay-hufflepuff @oceanwriter @desperatlytryingtowriteabook @muffindragon227 @theguildedtypewriter @toboldlywrite @wchwriter @dreameronthewind @shadow-maker @pen-for-sword @loopyhoopywrites @emptymanuscript @madmoonink @perringwrites @megan-cutler @elliot-orion @thatwriternamedvolk @indecentpause @writer-on-time @ravenpuffwriter @siarven @musicismymoirail @lady-redshield-writes @bluemartlet @reeseweston @worldbuildingwren @hiddswritingrefs @cay--scribbles @focusdumbass @enasroterfaden @missrobinswritings @joshuaorrizonte @zofiehelen @kainablue @kalis-scribbles @inspirited-goddess

#writing #writeblr #moodboard monday #moodboard #world building #about my world #fantasy series #art aesthetic #worldbuilding #magic #unexpected inspiration series #unexpected inspiration aesthetic

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jeranasblog · 4 years

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Trying out something new

Summary: Tony and Peter try out something new.

Rating: E

Notes: This story is my 12th @starkercestevent contribution and it might be better to read the other parts first. Kink for the 12th story: Ring Gag (and spanking). Click here for the Bingo Masterlist.

Warnings: Adoptive Father/Adoptive Son, don’t like it, don’t read it

Read on Ao3

After the reminder of Pierce’s threat on a piece of paper, Peter and his Daddy stayed home a lot. They spend their time watching TV, having sex, planning their next trip once Tony had dealt with the Senator, and having sex again. For a week, it was everything Peter could have ever dreamed of, having his Daddy completely to himself except for the few hours a day the Alpha had to catch up with work. But after some time passed, he got bored.

He was sick of watching TV and their next trip to Europe was already completely planned, so the only activity left was sex. Peter loved their sex-life, loved the way his Daddy took control, but since they didn’t have much to do anyway, Peter fell down the rabbit hole called the Internet in search of something new to try.

Entering ‘How to please my Alpha’ in the search bar had probably been a mistake. The first forum Peter clicked on recommended to surprise the Alpha with a homecooked meal and suggested riding him during dinner. He dismissed the idea immediately because neither Tony nor he would be able to stop when Peter was sitting on his Daddy’s cock and he didn’t want any bodily fluids in their food, thank you very much. The ideas of the second and third forum were even worse because they encouraged Omegas to invite their Alpha’s friends and please them all day long, sexually and not. Have they never heard about the natural possessive nature of Alphas? Tony would rather sell his company than share Peter with anyone.

When Peter still hadn’t found anything adequate after half an hour had passed, he decided to implement plan b. Calling Bucky. As expected, the other Omega had a million ideas and Peter had locked himself inside his room during the call to keep the surprise hidden from his Daddy. Tony was suspicious but didn’t say anything when Peter disappeared for three whole hours and later, they were watching TV as if nothing had happened.

Peter was thrumming with excitement. He had ordered something per express and it would arrive the same day, so he counted down the hours until the doorbell finally rang. Originally, he had wanted to jump up and run to the door before his Daddy would find his purchase, but Bucky had convinced him to change his plan. There was still the slight chance of Pierce coming to get him, so Peter had ordered the package in his Daddy’s name, excited when the Alpha would open it.

Tony was careful. He let his AI scan the package and confirm him that the content wasn’t dangerous, but even then, he eyed it as if Pierce had sent it to him personally. Peter was already buzzing with eagerness and each second the Alpha took to investigate the packaging, his impatience grew. When Tony finally opened it, Peter held his breath.

“What’s that?” Tony asked, his voice neutral, although he probably already knew what it was.

Peter tried his best to appear innocent. “A ring gag?”

Tony’s face was still blank, but Peter could see how his eyes sparkled. “And why do I get a ring gag per mail?”

Peter shrugged, fighting a smile that was spreading on his face. “Perhaps because I have ordered it?”

Peter swallowed, the threat sounded promising, but he still wanted to explain it to his Daddy. “I-I called Bucky.” He could hear Tony sighed when he mentioned the other Omega. Steve had already told him what a brat Bucky could be. “And I a-asked him for ideas we could try out. You know, something new?” A quick gaze at his Daddy’s face confirmed that he was still up for the idea so far. “I t-told him, I love to p-please you and serve you and that I-I love it when you just take.”

Tony growled, his impassive expression turned hungry. He was still holding the gag in his hands while he watched Peter out of the corner of his eyes. “Baby, I want you to tell me exactly what this is supposed to mean, or I’m gonna take you right here, right now, until you won’t be able to move for days.”

A blush was creeping across his face and Peter had to pause for a second to regain his confidence. His next words were hushed and so fast that the Alpha almost didn’t understand him. “I want you to use me and fuck me and force yourself on me. I wanna be yours, Daddy. Completely.”

The Alpha groaned; a mixture of arousal and anticipating. He took out the gag Peter had ordered and inspected it closer, turning it to get a better look. “You picked out a nice one, baby. Good quality. Not as exceptionally as you deserve, but until I’ll buy you a better one, we can work with this.”

Peter shivered in anticipation when he heard his Daddy’s words. “So, we’re going to try it out?” He gave the Alpha a pleading look.

Tony smiled and pressed a short but hungry kiss on his lips. “Yes, baby. I want to use you right now. You won’t be able to speak with it, I just want to hear you make noises. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, Daddy.” Peter had never heard him so firm, so dominating before and he could already feel himself getting wet, although they haven’t even started yet.

Tony was opening the gag while he gave Peter further introductions. “I want you to tap me twice when you want to safe word, so I won’t restrict your movements today, but I won’t stop, no matter how pitiful you’re whining.” Peter already made a pathetic sound from the words alone. “Now strip before I gag you and use you how I want.”

Peter couldn’t remember ever taking off his clothes faster. He did his best to somewhat fold them and although they still look like a mess, his Daddy didn’t comment. When he was finally naked, Peter opened his mouth immediately.

“Look at you,” Tony purred, his gaze dark and predatory. “Already opening your mouth like an eager little slut. Do you need it that bad?” Peter could only whine when his Daddy traced his lips with two fingers, teasing him until the Alpha pressed his fingers in for the first time.

Peter’ body was slicking up while he took the digits with a moan, closing his lips around his Daddy’s knuckles and sucking on them as if he got fed his Daddy’s cock. His tongue was swirling around them, nudging them and playing with them until his Daddy pulled out again, leaving his jar achingly empty.

“Don’t worry, little slut,” Tony said in response to his whine. “Open up now. Daddy will give you what you need.”

Without hesitation, Peter opened his mouth again and he could feel the cold metal the Alpha pressed between his lips. His jaw was forced wide open, a slight burn that went immediately to his cock. Fuck, this felt good, opening up for his Daddy like a whore with no other purpose. The Alpha hadn’t even fastened the clasp on the back of his head when Peter was already drooling, saliva dripping down his chin and inviting the Alpha to enter his mouth.

“God baby,” Tony groaned while he was adjusting his already hard cock in his pants. “Come on now baby, follow me. On your knees.”

Peter dropped on the floor, less gracefully than he had intended, but he didn’t really care anymore. His Daddy went ahead and constantly turned around, watching Peter drool on the floor. They walked through the hallway back into the living room, and the Alpha stayed close the entire time, giving Peter the possibility to tab out with his safe word.

When they’ve reached the couch, Tony sat down again and spread his legs, giving Peter room to settle on the carpet in front of him. The Alpha turned the TV on and leaned back, caressing Peter’s head while he relaxed into the couch. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Didn’t his Daddy promise to play with him? Didn’t his Daddy want to use him? Choke him on his knot? Peter couldn’t stop the whine that slipped past his lips.

Tony looked at him firmly. “What is this, baby? You told me to use you as I please, didn’t you?” Peter nodded, eager to get his Daddy’s cock into his mouth. His jaw was straining, and he drooled, excited to be used. “Then sit still. Daddy wants to watch TV. I’m not here to entertain you.”

Peter managed not to move for only five minutes. Every drop of salvia that ran down his chin made him squirm and simultaneously, his slick ruined the carpet. He fought against the urge to move, fought the urge to gag on his Daddy’s cock, and when he moved his hips to get friction against his empty hole, the Alpha’s patience snapped.

“Enough of that.” The disappointment in his Daddy’s voice made him whimper. “Over my lap, you little slut. It’s time I show you how to behave properly.”

Yes, YES. Peter knew what this meant, knew his Daddy was going to bend him over his lap. He had wanted it for weeks, no, months, and he hurried to position himself how his Daddy wanted. He was lying naked over his Daddy’s thighs, his ass raised in the air and he could feel the fabric on his Daddy’s pants rubbing against his leaking cock. The anticipation was killing him, and he couldn’t hold still, squirming on his Daddy’s lap like a slut.

“God, look at you,” Tony cooed while his hands caressed the milky white globes, dipping between and spreading his slick everywhere. “The thought of being used by Daddy, of being spanked by Daddy gets you going, doesn’t it, boy? What do you think about ten?”

Peter could only whimper, his sounds muffled by the gag. He wanted it, wanted his Daddy to spank him, to show him his place, but Tony dragged it out, told him how sweet he looked, how needy and willing. He was teasing Peter for such a long time that the Omega hadn’t expected it when the first slap hit. Peter wailed in pleasure, twisting on the Alpha’s lap while pain spread in his cheeks. It burned, it buzzed, it hurt, but it was amazing, a pain that was fueling the fire inside of him.

Suddenly, Peter couldn’t wait for the next slap. He arched his back, presented his ass enchantingly, just to get it back, get back the sharp pain which turned into a pleasant warmth. Why hadn’t they tried this sooner?

“Look at you, baby,” Tony cooed while his hand hit the other side of Peter’s ass and made the Omega whimper in arousal. “This is what you have needed all along. A firm hand to show you who’s in charge. I’ve never known that my good boy is a little pain slut as well.”

Peter mumbled something close to ‘yes, Daddy’, but he was still gagged, unable to form words. His cock was straining by now, each slap made him squirm on his Alpha’s lap, increasing the friction against his cock.

The third and the fourth hit were aimed at his thighs. His ass was tingling and burning, his thighs shaking in pleasure. Peter was sobbing, embracing the delicious pain while his tears were falling onto the carpet. His Daddy pressed his fingers between his lips which were still forced open by the gag and the heavy weight in his mouth was grounding him.

“You’re wet everywhere, sweetheart.” His Daddy thrusted his fingers in and out of Peter’s throat while the other hand was wandering between his cheeks. Peter felt debauched, obscenely open for his Daddy and slowly, his mind started to shut down, getting quieter and quieter every second.

When the fifth slap hit the middle of his cheeks again, Peter couldn’t even sob anymore. The different sensations were too much, too good, and he couldn’t do anything besides sucking on his Daddy’s fingers. The next slaps blurred together, a mixture of pain and pleasure until every cell of his body was burning. His mind drifted away, not completely gone but on the verge of it, and when the hands of his Daddy forced him to rub against the Alpha’s thighs, Peter was limp like a rag doll.

Tony touched his globes, kneading the flesh and fueling the pain with his grip. Peter’s hole leaked slick over his thighs, ruining his Daddy’s pants which were already strained by his precome. He could feel the thick bulge pressed against his stomach and every time he squirmed, every time he rubbed his erection against his Daddy, the thick cock was twitching in Tony’s pants.

“Baby, are you still with me?” Tony asked and dug his fingernails in Peter’s ass. The Omega whimpered and tried to nod, using the last energy left to show his Daddy he was fine. He felt himself getting closer, closer to the edge and to the sweet space in the back of his mind. His Daddy hadn’t even touched his hole, hadn’t even given him a single finger where he needed it the most, but he could still feel the first signs of his orgasm.

With a lewd sound, Tony pulled his fingers out of Peter’s mouth and the Omega whined when his jaw was empty again. The gag still forced him open, made him drool all over the floor, but without his Daddy, it showed him even more how empty he was.

“I want you to listen to me very closely, now,” Tony explained after he had given him a second to pull himself together. “I want you to open for me baby, show me your greedy hole. Show me where you want the last slap.”

Oh god. Peter knew his Daddy was giving him a choice. It was up to him if he could handle it, he could decide if he wanted to stop. But the thought of his Daddy hitting him there, the thought of being vulnerable and at his Daddy’s mercy, was enough for Peter to let his hands wander behind his back. He grabbed his cheeks with his hands, pulling them apart although he hissed in pain, although the slight burn was turning into delicious pleasure.

“I treasure your trust, baby,” Tony said seriously, his fingers wandering between his cheeks and toying with the rim of his hole. Peter was so sensitive there, squirming on his Daddy’s lap and wanting nothing more than his Daddy filling him up. His cock was leaking, his ass burned, and Peter whimpered, desperate for another touch.

Just like his Daddy had promised, he raised his hand and let it dart down between Peter’s spread cheeks. The first thing the Omega noticed was the obscene smacking noise when the hand hit his slick hole. He was so wet, so eager for his Daddy’s touch that he was dripping everywhere. The second thing he noticed, a moment later, was the pain. It was bright-hot, nothing like the little burn he had felt before. It consumed him, took him under, and made him cry out. The line between pain and pleasure was thin and he was balancing at the edge, sensations crashing over him in waves.

Peter didn’t hear anymore that he was whimpering around the gag, didn’t hear the soothing noises of his Daddy and the comforting touches against his itching hole. The slick made the burn so much worse, so much better, and when the Alpha accidentally shifted his thighs and brushed against Peter’s leaking cock, it was over.

He was coming, nearly untouched, and bend over his Daddy’s lap. It was different than usual, less grounding, and more like floating. His body was completely limp, not moving an inch except his cock that was weakly twitching against his Daddy’s thigh, but his mind explored in sensations. Pleasure and pain, buzzing and burning, heat and wetness, everything was blurring together, exploding and pushing him over the cliff. He was flying for minutes, riding the high of the endorphins until he was falling again, caught by his Daddy and the sweet space in his head.

Everything was quiet, everything was right, and Peter drifted. It felt like he was lying on clouds, warm and fuzzy, and he was smiling brightly, content just to be. Nothing mattered anymore, nothing but the presence of his Daddy and his empty thoughts. He knew Tony was saying something, but the words didn’t make sense, just a lull of the deep smooth voice that was washing over him.

Some time had passed, a time he was just floating around, flying so high and far as he had never flown in his entire life. Peter had been in the sweet place before, had felt fuzzy and out of his body, but it had never been this long, this intense. He only noticed in the back of his mind that he was being moved. Tony manhandled him until he was kneeling on the carpet again, his face in front of his Daddy’s bulge.

The noises of a zipper being opened got through the fog in his mind, and he felt something pressed against his spread lips. A heady scent was tingling his nose, arousal mixed the pure smell of his Daddy. He heard a groan, felt that something was entering his mouth, but everything else, the pain in his ass and his arching jaw, was still numb, overpowered by the fuzzy and blissed-out feeling.

Peter didn’t come back all of a sudden, it was a slow process that started with a slight burn on his cheeks. He could feel the fuzzy carpet caressing his sore ass first, the sensation light as a feather, but burning on his abused flesh. The second feeling he noticed was the slick mixed with his come that was spread everywhere, on his thighs, his stomach, even his back.

The last realization, that came back at the same time with the arch in his jaw, was Tony’s cock that filled his mouth, every vein and every bump that was pressed against the back of his throat. Peter had no chance to control it, his mouth still forced open with drool slipping past the gag and running down his chin. He shuddered, helplessly exposed for his Daddy to take. Tony didn’t care about Peter, the Omega had come anyway, instead, he was chasing his own pleasure, taking Peter’s mouth how he wanted. The feeling was everything for Peter, owned, claimed and used, perfect for his Alpha and at his mercy.

His body was still pliant, and Tony could thrust deeper than usual. Peter didn’t make any attempts to stop him, gagging only slightly while he basked in the attention, basked in the pleasure of his Daddy. His own cock was spent, his own pleasure nothing more than a distant buzz, but his Daddy’s cock was everything that mattered.

He could hear when the Alpha was getting close, could feel that his Daddy’s length hardened even further. His knot wouldn’t fit through the gag and as little attention as Tony was paying, he was still careful not to knot Peter’s mouth. The Omega had been wearing the ring gag long enough, his jaw had been forced open for almost an hour, and he couldn’t take the stretch for another thirty minutes.

As much as Peter would have liked to trigger the knot of his Daddy in his mouth, he wanted his come even more, wanted the evidence of his Daddy’s pleasure on his tongue. When the Alpha’s hips speed up for the last time, when his rhythm became erratic, Peter could taste the first hint of semen on his tongue. Swallowing with a gag was a struggle, but he fought, didn’t want to waste even a drop of his Daddy’s pleasure.

“God, baby,” Tony growled while he was coming, a deep noise that ended in a content rumble. He was so much more composed when he came, not such a needy and begging mess like Peter, although he was hungry for it as well. The Omega loved it, loved the composed nature of his Daddy, and loved to make him come.

A surge of bitter cum flooded his mouth, so filthy, so perfect that Peter fought to swallow as much as possible. He couldn’t catch everything; a few drops were running down his chin and he almost sobbed with the thought of wasting it. The Alpha knotted outside of his mouth, one hand wrapped around the bump at the base of his cock while he was riding out his orgasm. Peter was glad he was back from the sweet space in his mind, glad to have the taste of his Daddy on his tongue.

“You were amazing, baby,” Tony cooed when he came back down and he reached out, pulling Peter back onto his lap. The Omega hissed when his sore ass made contact with his Daddy’s thighs, but after he had shifted a little, the pain was bearable again. He felt amazing, pliant and relaxed, content to stay close to his Daddy.

The Alpha caressed his back with one hand and opened the gag with the other one. Careful not to hurt him, Tony took out the gag and massaged his jaw until Peter could close his mouth again without pain. He was sore everywhere, but it felt so good to be used, so good to be owned and claimed. After Tony had ensured that Peter’s jaw was fine, he lifted him from his lap and laid him on the couch, burying the Omega under the softest blanket he could find. A few minutes later, Tony came back with a bottle of water and healing cream.

“I love you, baby,” The Alpha whispered into Peter’s ear and the Omega purred with happiness. Nothing felt better than his Daddy taking care of him. He drank a few gulps of water and enjoyed the hands of his Daddy rubbing the cream into his sore bottom.

“Mhm, Daddy?” Peter slurred and turned his head to look Tony in the eyes. “’s was amazin’.” He grinned dopily and snuggled his face into the couch pillow again.

“It was,” Tony agreed, affection filling his voice. “You were amazing, baby. Such a good Omega, such a good boy for me.”

“Yours, Daddy.” Although Peter’s head was buried in a pillow, he still knew the Alpha was smiling.

“Alright, baby. You can nap a few minutes, and after that, I’m going to make dinner.”

“Dinner?” Food sounded amazing; he was quite hungry after the amazing sex.

“I ordered a plate of finger food. I can feed you while you’re lounging on the couch.” Peter smiled in the pillow and closed his eyes. His Daddy was the best Alpha in the whole wide world.

#starker #starkercestbingo2020

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salamanderskin · 4 years

Text

And one time he did

The final part of Five times Caleb didn’t let the Mighty Nein take care of him when he was sick… (part 5) This got away with me somewhat, so here’s 10k of feverish Caleb and concerned Caduceus.

Whole thing is posted here for easier navigation if you like.

Of all the times to get sick, for once his timing is not too bad. The Mighty Nein are between jobs and have a few days to spend in the Xorhaus. Caleb Widogast had been planning to spend them in the library catching up on his studies.

It seems that the moment he opens the book and summons Frumpkin onto his lap as a reading companion, the scraping soreness that has been in the back of his throat for days becomes a lancing pain every time he swallows, forcing him to cough and clear it nearly constantly. His nose is quickly too stuffed for him to breathe through. He swears to himself then feels a rush of gratitude that this did not happen while they were on the road. He isn’t sure he could accurately throw a fireball in this state, let alone anything more complex.

Despite the fire he can’t seem to get warm. A blanket over his lap helps a little and his cat helps a lot but shivers still trickle down his limbs with increasing frequency. He is going to have to get a hot drink or something for his throat, or he’ll never be able to concentrate on this transcription.

He intends it to be a very short interruption, to get back to his reading chair and the warmth of the fire as soon as possible. Upon standing, he realises he is dizzier than he had thought. Descending the stairs to the kitchen requires keeping his hand firmly on the wooden banister.

The kitchen is mercifully quiet and empty apart from a familiar tall figure with a shock of bright pink hair, occupied with peeling and coring apples. The room is as still as a painting. Low light from the enchanted baubles overhead blesses the fruit with a sheen like precious stones.

Caleb feels a swell of emotion at the scene. It’s the little things; Beau and Fjord’s boots kicked off by the door, a novel open face-down on the table, a half finished glass of tea. The house is warm and lived-in and safe. It is home. He’d never thought he’d live somewhere like this again. Some feeling rises in his throat and he swallows against it.

That slight sound is enough to prompt Caduceus to turn. The same light illuminates him from behind, an improbable furry angel.

“Mr Caleb?”

It seems Caduceus doesn’t need to touch Caleb to gauge the man’s fever. The moment he walks into the kitchen, the firbolg looks up and eyes him with considerable concern.

“Oh my, that’s not good at all.” He says, by way of greeting.

“Hm?” Caleb manages. “Oh, I just came to get a glass of water.” As if on cue, he starts coughing again. Even to him it sounds harsh and unpleasant.

“No, no, come here.” Caduceus approaches and leans down to look Caleb over carefully.

“You’re really very warm. I think you have a temperature.” He says gently. “You should be resting.”

“Perhaps a little, but I have a lot to do today, I am perfectly ok to keep working on my spells.”

That is all very well but he finds the world swimming at the edges; the firbolg blurs to a rose-edged smudge until Caleb can scrub a hand over his eyes. He manages to find the edge of the table with an outstretched hand and lever himself onto a chair. It feels good to sit down. The short walk downstairs has made his legs and back ache. He looks up guiltily to see Caduceus standing over him, eyebrows raised.

“Caleb,” those pink sapphire eyes are turned on him with their full force of kind persuasion. “I know what’s normal for humans and I know you can’t be comfortable with your temperature so high. Let me give you a spell and I’ll make you some tea.”

Actually that does sound like a good idea. He nods in surrender. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Thank you.”

Caduceus rests one of his hands on Caleb’s shoulder and casts healing word. Caleb knows that spell doesn’t require contact, but finds himself grateful for it nonetheless.

“Spells are not actually too good for common illnesses.” The firbolg says apologetically. Caleb knows that too. “Give it a second to kick in.”

So he sits and waits while his friend boils the kettle and selects pinches of ingredients from the wall of dark jars. He endeavours to wait without making a fuss, but the spell seems to have made the congestion in his nose shift in a way that sets him sneezing. With his handkerchief firmly over his nose and mouth he manages to smother the sound to a strangled “–ngkt!” The price of the quiet is a bolt of pain through his throat.

“Ah –ngkt!” And again.

“Bless you.” Not too quiet to escape Caduceus’ notice, then.

He nods his thanks and doubles immediately with another sneeze.

“CHssh-ue!” Neither quiet nor polite, but it doesn’t hurt quite as much.

“Bless you!” Caduceus calls over his shoulder. “So, some upper respiratory symptoms with the fever, yes? Let me see what I can find.” He adds a sliver of gnarly-looking root to the teapot and swirls it thoughtfully.

“Now, will you come and drink it with me? I could use some company.”

Caleb swallows. He should be reading, he should be working on that new spell, he shouldn’t be wasting everyone’s time, he should- Who is he kidding? His vision is too blurry to read and he is shivering harder now.

“Ja. Yes. That would be nice.”

He allows himself to be led to Caduceus’ rooftop dwelling.

It is warmer here, magically heated in the same way as his native Cemetery. The air has a pleasant, earthy smell and the captured sunlight from emanating from enchanted globes is easier on his eyes than the bright lamps in his library.Caduceus’ huge oak tree stands proud, it’s roots curving into the base of the tower like possessive fingers, creating inviting nooks and crannies perfect for resting. The firbolg leads him to one where there are cushions and a low table to place the tea set. The angle of the trunk invites him to slump against it.

He sneezes again, finishes with a groan. “Ghh. When is this going to stop?”

“When you’ve had enough rest to let your body heal.” Caduceus says sagely.

It isn’t what Caleb wants to hear. The wizard realises he is still hoping his companion might have some magic up his sleeve to just get this over with, so he can get back to his usual routine. For him to just take all the pain away. It’s a childish urge, but a powerful one.

He settles for sipping the tea. It’s good; spicy and hot enough that he can feel it going down and radiating warmth into his tight chest. A hint of honey coats his throat, taking the tickle away for now, and he thinks he might be able to breathe through his nose again soon.

Caduceus is smiling at him, head tilted in interest as he holds his own cup.

“S’good.” Caleb tells him, slurry with tiredness.

“I’m glad.” Caduceus says. ”Are you still feeling chilly?”

“Ja.” Caleb murmurs. “Can’t seem to get warm.”

“That I can do something about.” Caduceus smiles. He disappears for a moment into his shack, and returns with an armful of thick blankets. He settles them over Caleb’s lap, where they provide a comforting weight. “Is that better, darling?”

Caleb nods.

“Now, just sit quietly there and drink that. I’m going to do some work around the garden, but you call if you need me, okay?”

Caleb nods. He manages to sit long enough to finish the tea, then lets himself slump until he is laying on the cushions and looking up at the shifting patterns of light through the canopy.

He must have dozed off, because he wakes feeling truly horrible. He hears a familiar, deep voice asking him a question. He cracks his eyes open and the light seems to sear through his skull.

He goes to answer, sneezes thickly against the blankets.

“Wildmother bless you, Caleb.” Caduceus murmurs fondly and reaches to rub the man’s back. His fingers pause and then migrate up to the back of his Caleb’s neck and a frown deepens on his face. “Whoah, hey, your fever’s way up. I think you need to be in bed, hmm?”

“Far.” Caleb despises the whine in his own voice, but his limbs feel like lead and the stairs back to his room are steep.

“My room is right here.”

Caleb’s pupils go big when he realises what his friend is implying.

“I couldn’t possibly-” he tries to say, but his fever-addled tongue can only manage a mush of Zemnian and common that doesn’t make any sense at all.

The Firbolg nods sagely, as though he has made an excellent point, and adds “Yes, I think I’d better pick you up. Just for a moment.”

“Wait- please- oop-”

Caleb’s limbs are bundled from under him. Caduceus cradles him close to his chest with one arm under his knees and the other to keep his head from lolling too painfully. Caleb’s vision lurches at the sudden movement and so does his stomach, and he wonders if he might throw up, or pass out, or both. Maybe Caduceus hears the dragging gasp that provokes, because he stands still and holds him tighter, presses his head into his chest and strokes through his hair for comfort.

“There, easy now. I’ve got you. I think…” he pauses to open the door to his little hut with one hip, “that if you’re feeling badly enough to let yourself be carried, doesn’t that mean you deserve to be carried? Just a little?”

Caleb doesn’t reply, just tries to concentrate on the flood of sensation that is being lifted, being held. He is freezing, he is shivering so hard in Caduceus’ arms that he can hear his own teeth chatter. In response the firbolg holds him a little tighter.

A gentle impact as Caduceus sits down on the bed, and Caleb is shifted from his friend’s grasp onto a firm, low mattress. Compared to the bodyheat of a moment ago, the sheets are cold and unwelcoming, sparking soreness on his over-sensitive skin. He grits his teeth so as not to seem ungrateful but a convulsive chill chases along his limbs all the same.

“Oh, you’re really shivering.” He hears Caduceus say. “Come here, sweetheart.”

He is gathered up again and the blessed warmth is back. He curls into it like Frumpkin finding a spot of sunlight in winter. Caduceus manages to settle himself to sitting, with his human friend curled against his chest and supported with one long arm around his back.

Caleb wants to rest there in Caduceus’ arms, he doesn’t want to move ever again, but his stuffy nose is still so ticklish and the change in position has only made it worse. He needs to turn his head away, needs to do something before he sneezes all over his friend. He squirms weakly, trying to find a handkerchief from his pocket, and whines under his breath when his fingers react with fumbling slowness.

“What is it?” Caduceus’ voice is soft and concerned.

“Wait, I have to-” He gestures helplessly to his running nose then bucks into a sneeze against Caduceus’ chest. It’s wet and painful and deeply embarrassing. He feels blood race up his neck in a chaotic blush and he keeps his eyes closed as if they can pretend that didn’t just happen.

“Oh! Bless you!”

“Sorry- excuse me- CHssh-ue! CHssh-ue! ...m’sorry,” he manages. He doesn’t know if it’s for the mess or for falling ill in the first place.

“Trust me,” Caduceus actually laughs, “I’ve seen worse than a few sneezes. Bless you-” he adds preemptively as Caleb winds up for another. “There, are you done?”

Caleb sniffles and shrugs. “Ja. Gott. I’m so sorry.”

“Hey. It’s okay. It happens. I’d rather have that than blood. Come on, let’s get you into bed.”

“S’cold…” Caleb actually pouts a little.

“It won’t be, look-”

Caleb feels a whisper of magic, recognises distantly that Caduceus has used some spell to warm the bedsheets for him. He could have done that himself, should have thought to try it, if he had any spells left in him. So stupid…

It’s much better. This time he allows himself to be bundled over, lets Caduceus pull the blankets up over his shoulders and tuck them in around him. When was the last time someone tucked him in…? It doesn’t bear thinking about, so he doesn’t. He is so, so ready to sleep but Caduceus is nudging him, trying to push something into his hand.

“Hmmf?”

“One more minute, then you can sleep. Blow your nose first, sweetheart, or you’ll regret it later.”

“Nein.” That would involve raising his head and some modicum of effort. Ugh.

“Trust me.” And he does trust Caduceus, so he does so. Then he falls into thick sleep as though a rug has been pulled out from underneath him.

…………………………………………..

Caleb doesn’t sleep for long -One hour thirteen minutes says the part of his brain that never stops counting- and it feels like forever or no time at all. The dreams that came were hot and black and chaotic. He is glad to wake and be out of them.

“Hmmm, let’s have a look at you,” a rumbling murmur from a familiar bass voice. He feels the weight of Caduceus settling next to him on the bed. The Firbolg presses the back of his hand to Caleb’s forehead and nods, his expression sympathetic but not worried. There is a little tickle of magic, possibly some sort of diagnostic spell that Caleb never bothered to learn, and his friend nods.

“Yeah, you’re gonna be fine. Looks like you just have a bad cold.” He sighs fondly and amends this to, “a really bad cold, poor thing. Can you sit up and drink some tea for me?”

Caleb obeys passively, though levering himself up to sitting is an effort that tires him out. It’s hard to drink hot tea when he feels so hot himself. He does so partially because he’s seen the healing powers of Caduceus’ tea first hand and partially because his friend would be incredibly hurt if he turned it down. So he sips, coughs a little, snuffles helplessly through a blocked nose.

He has to put the mug down in a hurry to sneeze hard into the crook of his elbow.

“Bless you, Caleb. Hmm, you managed to get yourself really sick sweetheart. You need to eat more, and sleep more, too.” Caduceus says, reaching to rub his shoulders afterward. “How are you feeling now? Anything I can do?”

“I’m okay.” Caleb manages shakily. “Just hot. And achy.”

“Yeah. I know you’re really warm but I’m not going to cool you too much, you need the fever to burn the virus off, okay? It’ll break soon and you’ll feel so much better.”

Ja. Caleb knows this intellectually, but hearing ir in that deep, soft voice is very reassuring when he feels like his skin is on fire. With a little prompting, he finishes the tea and lies down again.

“That’s it. Try to get back to sleep. That’s what you need right now.” Caduceus encourages.

This time it takes a while. He hears Caduceus leave the shack and can track the little sounds of his working in the garden outside. Caleb feels very close to sleep but instead he lies and lies there with his eyes closed, his thoughts racing unpleasantly. He summons Frumpkin and the cat tries to take his customary position on Caleb’s chest but the weight makes his clogged lungs work too hard. Frumpkin on his lap or his legs is too heavy and hot. Frumpkin not touching him is unbearably lonely. Frumpkin’s purring makes his head ache but the silence is no better. Caleb tosses and turns miserably, bleeding heat into the atmosphere for an hour and a half before sleep finally claims him.

……..

It is hard to judge the time without a sunset, but when Caduceus’ body feels like he has been working for a few hours and his chores are done, he makes his way to the shack to check up on his guest. The fever heat and stuffy air of sickness are tangible as soon as he opens the door. The wizard is sprawled in sleep on the low mattress with his limbs splayed and the blankets kicked off. His cat is as near as he can be without touching. Evidently the chills have passed and his temperature is rising again. It should be due to break soon, if Caduceus is any judge.

The human man is flushed under his freckles. One arm is pillowed under his head and the hand is turned upward but clenched and tense even in sleep. His wrists look impossibly delicate, the tendons in his arms standing out like cords, while the multitude of scars stand out in vivid white. Caduceus is bony himself but he has a layer of fur and lean rangy muscle with it. Caleb just looks like he could use a good meal.

He says, “Hey there Mister Caleb,” to judge how deeply the man is asleep. No answer. Must be pretty deep. That’s good. Still, he mustn't get too cold, no matter how he feels, or his body will just crank his temperature higher, so Caduceus finds the thinnest sheet he has and drapes it over the man.

Caleb does stir at this, trying weakly to push it off.

“Okay, okay, but it’s there if you need it, alright?” He murmurs.

Caleb maybe nods, maybe it’s a twitch as he falls back into whatever dream has his eyes flickering behind their lids.

He’s not in any danger and he is as comfortable as Caduceus can make him, so that will have to do for now.

He leaves the sleeping wizard and pads softly down to the shared space to greet the rest of the Nein.

They are gathered in the kitchen, some eating and others just keeping company. It is so, so nice to come down to them, it’s like having a family.

Jester raises her head and gives him a great big smile. “Caduceuuuuus! Where have you been all day? I found the soup you left though, it was really good!”

“I’m glad.” He tells her, then explains, “Caleb’s not feeling too well, so I’ve been looking after him a little.”

“Oh.” Jester’s eyes go big with worry. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah, what’s going on?” Fjord echoes. The others turn their heads. Nott tenses like she’s ready to spring up the stairs to her boy’s side.

“Oh, he’ll be fine.” Caduceus reassures them. “Just a nasty cold, but he has a fever with it that’s making him pretty uncomfortable. He’s in my bed sleeping it off.”

That news causes an amused clamour when Beau blurts, “and he told you?” at the same time as Jester’s- “he let you-?” and Nott’s outraged, “he didn’t tell me?!”

“Seriously Caduceus,” Jester adds “did you, like, drug him or something? I really need to go see if he’s okay right now.”

“No, no.” It is very unusual for Caduceus to be firm but he is now. He actually raises his voice just a touch and holds up a hand to stop the enthusiastic teifling in her tracks. “What he needs is rest and for you lot not to bother him. If he gets too much attention he’s just gonna feel guilty and try to get up.”

“That’s true, actually.” She sits down in defeat.

Even Nott shrugs in agreement. “If you’re sure it’s just a cold? And you’ll let us know if he needs anything from us?”

Caduceus puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Hey. You know I will.”

So that’s that.

Caduceus takes the time to eat some of the soup he made earlier and also heats a bowlful to bring up for his patient. He also brings some more tea and a glass of the fruit juice he knows Caleb is fond of. He has to set down the tray to quietly open the door. Even then it rattles loudly, but that doesn’t matter because the wizard is already awake.

……………………………..

His dreams are always awful, but these are worse. He knows he’s dreaming, because nothing makes any sense, but the usual combination of smoke and flames and guilt is heightened by the physical feeling of burning up. He wakes enough to make out the walls of the room wavering as though in a heat haze and falls straight back into a dream where the space gets smaller and smaller. Something is wrapped around him, binding him tight, holding his arms still so that Ikathon can cut them open-

Caleb wakes from falling, gasps as though smacked into the mattress from a great height.

He sits instinctively to make it easier to breathe as he coughs and coughs and coughs. His chest hurts ferociously and he is absolutely soaking in sweat.

As his vision clears, he realises the blankets had wrapped around one of his arms and his struggling had pulled it taught. He unwinds it and feels where the cloth has pressed ridges into his flesh. Every inch of his skin feels itchy and dirty and wrong.

The door clicks open quietly but he still jumps like he’s been slapped.

“Oh, hey sweetheart, you’re awake.” Caduceus' voice is steady and gentle.

Caleb swallows guiltily as he remembers where he is. He has made such a mess of Caduceus’ bed, he is disgusting and he’s surely overstayed his welcome. The Firbolg must have come to ask him to leave-

“Hey, hey, leave that alone, hmm? There’s no need for that.” Caduceus says suddenly.

For what?

Caleb follows his friend’s gaze and realises his wrists are crossed so that he can scratch compulsively at both forearms at once. He must have been doing it for a while; he can feel the soreness now and see his scars standing out like spilled candle wax against reddened skin. He lowers his hands.

“That’s it.” Caduceus encourages with a smile.

“...dreaming.” He manages. His voice is a wreck.

Caduceus nods. “Just a dream though, you’re right here in the Xorhaus with me now.”

Caleb doesn’t need telling that. He is quite capable of orienting himself after a nightmare. He has been doing it nearly every night for years, in fact. But it’s nice to hear someone else say it. It’s nice, too, when the firbolg comes to sit beside him on the bed and takes his chin in one hand, tilting his head slightly to look him over. Caduceus leans his cheek onto Caleb’s forehead to compare and nods, satisfied.

“Looks like your fever broke. That’s good. How are you feeling?”

Caleb shrugs. It’s true, he doesn’t feel hot any more, he just feels wrung out. He feels like he has been run over by a cart and left in the rain.

“Pretty rough, I bet.” Caduceus answers for him. “Poor thing, you look exhausted still.” His big hands smooth over Caleb’s back, lift his hair from his neck and begin to rub the ache from his muscles. “Is that okay?

Caleb nods. It’s more than okay. He sniffles thickly and tries to sit still but he really needs to blow his nose. Caduceus notices at once, passes him a handkerchief and moves away to collect the things he’d brought up with him. Blowing makes Caleb need to sneeze and he doesn’t want to because he knows it’ll scrape his throat raw. He sniffles again instead and scrubs underneath his nose with the heel of his hand. He feels beyond pathetic.

Caduceus returns with a glass of juice and offers it. “It would be good if you could drink something.” He prompts, “You’ve lost a lot of fluid in a short time.”

“Feel like I am a fluid.” Caleb manages a weak smile. “Sorry about your bed.”

“Never mind that. Sheets can be washed.” Caduceus says easily. “But what about you? You could go down to the spa and have a bath? I could help you, if you’re not up to walking just yet.”

Caleb considers this as he drains the glass. It would be good to be clean but there is a distinct swim at the edges of his vision when he turns his head too fast. His legs feel far too heavy for walking anywhere just now.

“Maybe later...” He says.

“That’s fine, sweetheart. Don’t worry about that right now.”

So he doesn’t. That's about all the conversation Caleb has in him, so he lies back down again. He feels Caduceus take the pillow from him briefly and manhandle him to one side to replace the sheet underneath him with a dry one. He accepts a clean shirt too and manages to wrangle it over his own head. The effort has him ready to fall asleep again and he doesn’t want to, isn’t ready for the dreams to start all over again. Frumpkin senses this. The cat paces up and down at the foot of the bed, giving voice to a low, miserable mew.

Caduceus reaches to pet Frumpkin and then looks up at Caleb, questioning. Caleb was okay until then, honestly. He was just fine. But something about his friend’s honest, compassionate gaze, an expression of care and concern that is for him, whether he deserves it or not…. A lump forms in his throat and he feels tears rise like a tide. He swallows, shakes his head, presses his eyes firmly closed so they don’t spill out. Ridiculous.

“Do you want me to come sit with you for a bit?” Caduceus says softly.

Caleb nods. He doesn’t open his eyes again but he feels the weight of a lanky firbolg settle beside him, then he feels a warm, steady hand smoothing his hair from his brow and cool, dry lips pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.

Caduceus lies down next to him, a little way away at first. Caleb isn’t feeling good with words right now, but he rolls over and sort of snuggles backwards into Caduceus’ orbit until his friend takes the hint and closes the gap. One arm drapes over him and comes to rest lightly on his arm.

“Is that okay? Not too much?” A bass whisper behind his ear.

“It’s okay. Thank you.” Caleb affirms. “Good. That’s nice. I’d like to try another spell, then do you think you could go back to sleep for a little?”

Caleb nods assent and feels the cool whisper of Caduceus' magic course through him. It doesn’t do much for his stuffy head but it takes the edge of the aches and relaxes his nerves somewhat. Perhaps that’s the placebo effect of knowing someone is making an effort on his behalf. Whichever it is, Frumpkin seems to approve. The cat settles in littlest-spoon position in front of him, purring like an engine. That is all Celeb needs to send him back to sleep.

……….

Caleb wakes groggily. His impeccable sense of time tells him that it is morning; he has slept the whole night in Caduceus’ bed. He does feel better for it; his sinuses are hot and achy, his throat is raw and his lungs tight, but he no longer feels feverish. He sits up on one elbow and rubs tentatively under his nose, trying to dull the ticklish feeling. It doesn’t work and he smothers his face against his forearm to sneeze once, twice, three times in miserable succession.

“Bless you.” A familiar voice from the other side of the room, scratchy and worried. Not Caduceus- just Nott. The goblin woman is sitting criss-cross applesauce at the end of the mattress, apparently waiting for him to wake. At the sudden motion she looks up, big yellow eyes meeting his for a second before he sneezes again.

“Thadk you,” Caleb says thickly. “Hallo Nott.”

While he recovers, she crawls up to his side of the bed and inspects him closely. “‘Deucey said you were better, but you look like shit.” She says mournfully. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” He says honestly. It has only been 24 hours but he is still not entirely used to her leaving his side. The fact she let him out of her sight and into Caduceus’ care says a great deal about how safe they both feel in this group. He adds, “trust me, I am feeling a lot better than yesterday. Caduceus gave me some tea and a spell for the fever. Now I just feel like I have a cold.”

“Okay then. Caduceus had to go out, but he says you should have some more tea when you wake up. I could bring it for you...?” It’s a question. She is half expecting him to refuse or at least make it himself.

To her surprise, Caleb nods gratefully. “Yes please, that would be nice. Thank you, Nott. Do you think you could bring my book as well? Then we could sit together.”

Of course she can.

By the time Caleb actually makes it down from the tower it is midday. Caduceus returns and checks him over before allowing him out of bed, which Caleb tolerates with as much grace as he can. His head feels like it’s plugged with cotton and the cough has gotten more persistent, but he feels better in himself. With a few spare handkerchiefs tucked into his pocket and Frumpkin as a warm weight around his shoulders, he feels ready to return to his usual routine.

He runs into the Jester in the dining room. Her exotic sapphire skin looks out of place among the homely pots and pans. She wears an apron and an expression of contentment as checks on something sweet-smelling in the oven. She straightens as he walks in.

“Hey, Cay-leb!” Her accent gives his name that sing-song quality that means he can never be sure if she’s teasing him. She dusts her hands on her apron and crosses to him.

“Should you even be up? Caduceus said you had a pretty high fever and you shouldn’t get a fever with a cold, you know, unless you’re really run down. Let me feel-” She reaches out her hands for him.

“Jester-” he holds up a hand in warning and manages to turn his head and smother three sneezes into the crook of his arm. It makes his head spin and when his vision clears Jester is laughing at him, but fondly.

“Bless you, Cayleb!”

He laughs too, and doesn’t duck this time when she catches his face in both hands and frowns at him. He feels a blush race up his neck when she smoothes a thumb over his cheekbone.

“Well, I don’t think you have a fever now. Honestly it’s kind of hard to tell because I run hot, but you look okay. For you.”

“Danke, Jester.”

“You should probably have a bath, though. You’re pretty stinky right now.”

Okay, he is fairly sure she is teasing him. A bath sounds really good though. His back aches from laying for so long and the steam might loosen the congestion that makes him sound like he’s speaking through concrete.

“Hey, you go put your things down and I’ll run it for you. Go on.”

“I can- he begins but Jester gives him a stern look and he shrugs, relenting, “Ja. Okay. Thank you. That would be nice.”

The bath is indeed excellent. Something in the bubbles Jester has put in it makes him sneeze ticklishly, startling Frumpkin every time, but then he would probably be sneezing anyay. He soaks for nearly an hour, feeling the warmth seep into his bones.

As he towelling his hair dry afterwards there is a knock on the door.

It’s Beauregard. “You naked?”

“Nein, I am dressed now.” He affirms. “Come in.”

She slouches against the doorframe, eyeing him through the steam.

“Hey, so I, uh, heard you weren’t feeling well. You look okay now though, so that’s good I guess.” She spreads her hands, awkward as ever, but Caleb can see past her gruffness to genuine good-will. “But, uh, just kind of wanted to say if you ever need anything from me, all you gotta to do is ask, you know?”

Even yesterday he might have brushed her off. Today her voice is still a little loud and makes his head hurt, but it also touches him.

“What Beau said.” That’s Fjord’s voice. He comes to stand behind her and nods at Caleb. “Even when we’re not fighting anything, you still gotta keep yourself healed up, alright.”

“Ja. Okay. Point taken. Thank you.”

They hover for a moment until Fjord suggests, “Why don’t you come upstairs. I don’t know what Caduceus cooked but it smells real good.”

The dining room is bright with magical lamps. Caduceus is setting out bowls for everyone, Nott and Yeza are already seated and chatting fondly. Yasha is stoking the fire. He knows it’s not for her benefit, with her barbarian blood, but for his, and feels the chill at his limbs lift as soon as he reaches the threshold. Fjord, Jester and Beau take their places at the table at once with a bustle of cutlery and chinking of glasses that makes his sensitive head swim.

It’s very loud in there, very busy, and he is not ready for the weight of all their eyes on him. He honestly doesn’t feel hungry. Whatever good smells Fjord was enjoying, Caleb can’t detect them through his stuffy nose and he knows every swallow will hurt his throat.

He feels sniffly and gross and vulnerable and unfit for company. His instinct is to apologise and retreat to his room to suffer alone. It would be so easy.They would all understand if he said he felt too sick to sit with them.

He is about to make his apologies when Caduceus approaches and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. The firbolg gives him a sympathetic look that makes his lovely, almond shaped eyes turn up at the corners. His hair is bound up out the way of the food, showing the fine rose-coloured down on the shaved part of his skull. He looks soft and welcoming.

“Hey, it’s good to see you up. Do you think you can come and sit with us? I made stew for everyone, but mostly for you. Nice and easy to swallow.”

“Sure.” Caleb finds himself saying. “I’ll give it a go.”

“That’s nice,” Caduceus says happily and turns to fetch Caleb a bowl.

It is nice, actually. Caleb manages to eat a little, mostly to make Nott and Jester stop giving him looks, but there is no pressure when he pushes the bowl away. The hot meal makes his nose run and sets him coughing enough to interrupt the conversation, but Beauregard just leans over to thump him on the back and keeps right on talking. Caduceus passes him a clean handkerchief under the table without drawing attention and noone complains when he turns away to use it.

After the meal he is persuaded to drink a glass of wine and join the rest of the Mighty Nein in the shared space Jester has coined the ‘happy room’. He feels a little weak and shivery, and is about to cross the room to grab a blanket when Yasha tosses one over to him.

“Here, you should have this one,” she says, indicating the delicate embroidered wildflowers over thick wool. “It’s my favourite.”

“It’s beautiful.” He agrees.

The wine has gone straight to his head. He can feel the relaxation seeping through him.

Soon he is yawning and leaning back against Caduceus on the sofa, staring into fire as the chatter of his friends flickers out of focus.

His nose is still bothering him. He sniffles softly, trying not to draw attention, then gasps when the itchy feeling flares suddenly and throws him forward in a sneeze.

““Ah-Tsssh! Ah-tssh-ue! ...ugh. I’m sorry.”

“Wildmother bless you, sweetheart,” Caduceus says fondly.

It happens again, loud enough to make everyone’s heads turn toward him, which sends a blush creeping up his neck. But there are no disgusted glances, just a few raised eyebrows and absent-minded blessings as they return to what they were saying.

As if they don’t mind. As if he has every right to be here, whatever state he’s in. As if they want him around, whether he is contributing right now or not.

He does feel better for the soup and the spell and the company. More than that, he thinks he can feel something within himself start to heal, too.

It’s taking a long time, but with these people it might just be possible.

END.

#sick caleb widogast #sickfic #fever #sneezefic

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atinytokki · 4 years

Text

𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐀𝐥𝐥

Chapter 11: Crossroads Pt. 2

(Warnings: Violence and blood)

As Seonghwa leapt out the window and started running, he was surprised to hear footfalls following behind him.

He thought he had would have left his brother in the dust, but it seemed the prince was keeping up as the two of them sprinted down the hill and back through the town, guided by the flashes of light and jarring sound of bullets ringing out.

Seonghwa didn’t even dare hope, but the logical side of him clawed at anything he could think of. The shots are still going, his mind whispered. They’re fighting back, they haven’t been killed in their sleep.

How he could have been so stupid to leave them like that, when enemies lurked around every corner?

Junhee called his name but Seonghwa ignored it, hurtling around the corner and slowing to a stop. He and Junhee came face to face with a small group of uniformed men. Royal Navy.

“What’s going on?” Junhee finally burst, leaning over to catch his breath. “Why would you run towards gunfire?”

The eyes of the officers before them widened and they immediately prostrated themselves, not expecting to be in the Crown Prince’s presence at such an hour.

Seonghwa went from gasping at the decimated state of the upstairs window to watching in horror as one by one his friends were led out of the inn. Wooyoung, Yeosang, and Hongjoong— all restrained and disarmed.

From behind them, a familiar figure strutted out with pride. It was Admiral Kim, and half the commanding officers of the ATEEZ, scourge of the Royal Navy, were in his custody.

Actually... only three.

San wasn’t with them, hopefully he had escaped, and as for Seonghwa...

Seonghwa choked on a breath as he realised that somehow, in a stroke of fate, he stood with the favour of the crown prince, and no evidence to connect him to the pirates who were all being forced onto their knees now and displayed for the royalty to see.

“What is the meaning of this?” Junhee asked tiredly, expression nonplussed even as Kim went on to explain.

“Pirates hiding amongst us, skulking about in our towns, probably meaning to kill you, Your Highness.”

Hongjoong was staring at Seonghwa with a face that clearly warned him to bide his time. Speak up for their innocence now, and he could easily be thrown in with them. Wait until he had Junhee’s ear to himself, and perhaps they would be set free.

Seonghwa didn’t like it but he swallowed his doubts and hung behind his brother as the Admiral went on.

“Not just any pirates, either. This is Kim Hongjoong—”

Roughly, he grabbed Hongjoong’s strawberry hair and tugged his face up into the lantern light for all to see.

“—Captain of the pirate band ATEEZ, a frequent thorn in our sides. We’ve run into each other before, haven’t we?”

His cheshire grin spread from cheek to cheek and the pure malice he emanated made Seonghwa’s stomach boil.

They were in serious trouble.

“These are surely fellow pirates of status for him to have been travelling with them,” the Admiral remarked with a gesture towards Wooyoung and Yeosang, who knelt still as statues and ignored the sneers and saliva spray from the officers around them. The Admiral squinted at Yeosang for a moment before adding, “I recognise this one too, but I can’t place where from.”

“Can you prove it?” Seonghwa called when he couldn’t keep it in anymore. These soldiers didn’t look above killing the three of them on the spot.

A cloud passed over the Admiral’s face. “Pardon me, but who is this?”

Finally, Junhee’s tongue came unstuck from the roof of his mouth and he pulled Seonghwa forward. “This is my younger brother, Seonghwa. He’s been missing for some time but I’ve been blessed to be reunited with him tonight. Treat him as you would me.”

That last addendum was air in Seonghwa’s lungs. His voice was being given authority.

“Can you prove that they’re pirates?” He repeated, more confidently this time before gesturing to the houses and shops around them. “Because if not, you’ve just interrupted the sleep of half the island and accused innocent men of... what exactly? Plots to assassinate my brother, the Crown Prince? Seems like quite a leap to conclusions.”

“This one I can prove,” Admiral Kim growled, dragging Hongjoong up and in one precise movement, ripping at the neckline of his shirt and pulling it past his shoulder. Burned into his skin was a pirate brand, a couple years old, situated next to the newer scar from Seunghyun’s bullet months ago. The Admiral gazed at it with satisfaction. “A souvenir from the last time we met.”

A letter seared into a pirate screamed guilt, and could never be removed. There was no way Seonghwa could argue him out of this.

But he did get some gratification out of watching the Admiral’s face fall at the unmarked skin of Wooyoung and Yeosang.

“A lucky coincidence for them,” he mumbled. “That they evaded naval encounters thus far.” With that, he shoved their heads back down and didn’t blink when the momentum pushed Yeosang onto his stomach.

“Wh-Which makes them innocent until proven guilty,” Seonghwa stuttered, cringing at Yeosang’s attempts to sit up, struggling against the officers who pushed him back down.

“Piracy isn’t some quaint, mischievous fringe lifestyle,” the Admiral spat, words laced with poison. “We can’t pardon them just like that when they’ve already been arrested for rooming with a known pirate. They must be investigated, that is the law.”

“Admiral,” Junhee snapped, surprising Seonghwa almost into flinching. “Do not speak down to Prince Seonghwa. He may not be learned in all our laws and their applications, but he is still royalty by blood. And he has a point.”

Admiral Kim bowed his head respectfully but practically hissed back at Seonghwa, more wraith than man, “We’ll keep them in custody here on suspicion of criminal activity by association with Hongjoong.”

Here he turned back to the Captain in question and eagerly clapped him in irons.

“Kim Hongjoong, I charge you with all of your crimes against the Crown and Empire, namely piracy, for which the penalty is death.”

The protesting ruckus of Wooyoung and Yeosang was ceased by a single look from the Admiral. “Don’t worry your colourful little heads. He won’t die until he watches both of you be killed first. Even if I have to drag the evidence up from fishermen and brigands.”

After a brief moment of hesitation, Junhee nodded and Seonghwa stood there and watched his friends be dragged away.

“Your chariot awaits you, pirate kings,” the officers jeered, none too careful with their handling as Yeosang and Wooyoung each received a pair of handcuffs.

“We’ve invented an entirely new class of tortures,” the Admiral crooned into Hongjoong’s ear as he packed him into the carriage waiting to drive the three to the jailhouse. “Just for you and your crew.”

Patience, Seonghwa screamed at himself internally, glued to the spot against his will.

This was Admiral Kim, before whom men trembled in abject fear. He was clever and committed and the moment Seonghwa was out of the man’s sight, he was on the clock.

Kim bowed low before the princes, climbed in with the prisoners, and shut the carriage door tightly.

The hourglass had tipped and sand was sinking quickly.

...

Mingi heard the dawn before he saw it. The mystic’s ménagerie of birds chorused outside his window and heralded in a sunrise that dipped treetops in golden light.

A lazy morning melted into a lazy afternoon and Mingi found that his ever-present itch for action had died. It was like the sweet breeze that tickled the wind chimes was a perfume that relaxed him almost to the point of lethargy.

He sat contentedly on the balcony with Yunho, sipping from a honeyed beverage of some kind that he didn’t care to put a name to, while Jongho kept Eden company inside.

The older pirate still wasn’t on his feet yet, and the pocket watch Mingi pulled out every once in awhile warned him that they’d have to make a decision about what to do soon.

Just as he went to open his mouth and make a suggestion, a particularly strong gust of wind sent autumn leaves wafting past them and up to the twin doors of the mystic’s watchtower.

Mingi watched with fascination as she emerged from behind the shades and caught a leaf as it drifted towards her. Her expression darkened as she gazed at it like it was some kind of messenger.

Suddenly her attention turned to the two of them. “Join me,” she called before turning back inside, silk robes fluttering behind her. There was no need to discuss it, so Yunho and Mingi simultaneously rose from their seats and climbed up to the watchtower, beckoning Jongho along with them.

“I received a prophecy,” the mystic informed them, not even turning from where she stared into her crystal ball.

“Concerning...us?” Mingi was hesitant in making assumptions, but she had called them up there after all.

“In a way, yes,” the woman answered, stepping back so they could see. The inside of the globe looked like a mess, flame and crushed plants mingling, a dark substance that looked like water, and a hazy fog swirling around. It was not a clear depiction of the future, but whatever it was, Mingi could tell it was bad.

“Enemies are plotting to strike,” she said gravely, and from the way Jongho fidgeted, Mingi could tell he wasn’t satisfied.

“Which enemies?” The youngest asked. “And plotting to strike when? How?” There was a tinge of jealousy to his voice. Foretelling hidden dangers was once his job.

“That much is clouded still,” the woman sighed, covering the ball with its velvet cloak and settling into a chair. “But this is not like the mischief of demons or the ambition of the Navy. There is unrest in the very fabric of reality. It feels almost like...”

She rubbed her temples until the sensation came back to her and she could put a name to it. “Almost like preparation for war.”

War with the universe.

That notion was like a fuse that flickered on in front of Mingi’s face and tensed his muscles in anticipation of an explosion. His drive had returned to him.

They’d waited around on their backsides long enough. This was as clear a signal as any that their stay in this small paradise was up.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Mingi commanded the room with a quiet cough. “We have some things to discuss.”

...

The cobblestone streets were home to San, and he could navigate them blind. So he ran to the eastern marina in the dark, thinking on his toes.

The Crown Prince’s escort fleet and all the Navy ships were at the western docks, but still San stuck to the shadows and scanned the boats for one special ship.

The ATEEZ was gone.

San triple checked and then clamped his hands to stop himself from tearing his hair out.

Where could they possibly have gone? And why would they leave?

The crew of the ATEEZ had been loyal through every tribulation thusly so why now did they choose to betray their officers, at the worst possible moment?

“Pirates!” He hissed in frustration, sitting himself down on the edge of the dock. “Backstabbing, good for nothing, traitorous pirates.”

And now he had to steal a boat.

“But first...” he mumbled, pulling the pages out of his pocket again and staring at the sad, wrinkled parchment.

Had Hongjoong not been resolute in his order to call for help, San wouldn’t have spared the spellbook pages another glance. They’d destroyed his life already, he found it hard to believe they could do any good.

But there, scrawled in a corner on the fourth page, was a spell for silent communication. So he took a deep breath and read it before selecting the person he would call.

He thought back to the voice that had spoken to him in his fight with the demon. Part of him recalled who she was, but all he needed was to remember her voice and try to speak back to it.

“Please help us,” he whispered, reaching out with his mind. “We’re in trouble, the Navy’s come to capture us. Send help.”

He whispered incantations until he felt a jolt of energy and a ringing in his ears.

His voice had been heard.

...

The more Seonghwa looked, the more he came to believe that San had escaped the battle unharmed.

As soon as the Navy officers had left, he assured Junhee that he would join him in his royal residence soon and entered the inn to comb through the crime scene.

The cowering innkeeper and his family were of no help, so he hurried upstairs to their decimated room and picked through broken glass and curtain for anything incriminating.

It created a pool of regret in him to be rifling through their bags while all of them were probably being beaten senseless elsewhere, but if he was careless, they would experience much worse. The Admiral would probably return soon on a hunt of his own.

Seonghwa sighed in relief at the fact that Yeosang had left Eden’s compass on the ship and the treasure was safe there as well.

He had to leave some of their belongings or it would be obvious he had come to cover their tracks, but he collected his own bag and all of San’s things. Now it was like the two of them were never there.

As long as the Admiral didn’t know about San, the surgeon had a chance to get off the island and get help.

Seonghwa returned his room key at the front desk before leaving the inn behind. All the keys were accounted for now. One less shred of evidence for the Admiral to uncover on his return.

Seonghwa headed to San’s old house, and thankfully the woman who lived there now was awake and compliant when he asked her not to tell any soldiers of their visit there earlier and paid her in advance for her cooperation.

By the time he returned to the temporary palace, the sky was grey and promised morning soon.

“You know them, don’t you?” Junhee asked the moment Seonghwa collapsed in the bed his brother had ordered prepared for him.

His mind took a minute to catch up, but Seonghwa hummed quietly when he realised he couldn’t very well deny the statement.

“You know, the merchant told me you were captured by pirates,” Junhee whispered, settling into his own bed once the lights had been extinguished. “It shocks me that you’d defend one of their kind after all they must have done to you.”

There was a moment of silence in which Seonghwa felt he could say nothing other than the truth. When the soldiers questioned them, it would be as if they never knew each other, but to Seonghwa there was no way to minimise what they had done for him.

“They saved me,” he finally croaked out. “These pirates saved me. I’m just returning the favour.”

“You were travelling with them, then?” Junhee pressed, and he sounded more intrigued than anything as he turned on his side to face Seonghwa.

“We didn’t come to kill anyone or steal anything,” Seonghwa said softly, emotions he had bottled up in front of the Admiral slowly working themselves out and down his cheeks as he spoke. “I don’t know if it’s within your power but, please, hyung. Please pardon them.”

Junhee stared at him for some time and Seonghwa waited for him to laugh and call him ridiculous. Maybe even turn him over to the Admiral and have him hung with the others.

“Everyone makes mistakes. I’ll speak for the unbranded ones,” Junhee finally said. “But if they are proven guilty...”

He flopped onto his back and broke eye contact, and Seonghwa knew he had made up his mind. “They’ll have to pay for their crimes.”

Seonghwa wanted to fight back, he wanted to explain that none of them deserved death after all the good they had done, but he swallowed his arguments and thanked Junhee humbly.

It was something. More than he could have asked for without his new status, and more than Junhee owed him.

Their quiet mid-morning breakfast was intruded upon by a visit from the Admiral.

Junhee let him in but scowled at the interruption of his explanation of royal eating customs to Seonghwa.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” Admiral Kim apologised with a low bow. “I just wanted to ensure Prince Seonghwa was settling in well.”

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t here to gloat, which meant Yeosang and Wooyoung weren’t talking for him. As expected, they wouldn’t condemn themselves.

Seonghwa forced a smile and assured the man that he was doing fine, to which the Admiral hardly reacted. What was he here for?

“Is there an end in sight to the investigations?” Junhee asked conversationally. “I’d like to get home to begin wedding preparations soon.”

“Well,” Kim flashed a charming smile. “I may have a lead to follow up. The pirates’ ship is absent from the harbour.”

“So, perhaps they aren’t pirates after all then?” Seonghwa was quick to ask, trying not to sound too triumphant already.

“What do insects do when it rains?”

Seonghwa was completely blindsided. “Pardon?”

“Critters— insects, spiders and the like. They could be killed by a single drop of rain if it falls on them, so how do they survive?”

Seonghwa froze. The Admiral knew something. He answered his own question and Seonghwa’s thoughts flew to San.

“They scatter.”

...

San watched flames consume the wrinkled parchment, his soul finally at peace as the fire licked away at what remained of the spellbook.

He let the charred scraps fall to the bottom of the harbour and told himself it was the right thing to do. He had used the spells just as he was told and all that remained in that book was death and dark memory.

With the destruction of the spellbook pages, the demon’s plans were officially ended.

Now, San had to run for his life.

The town was on high alert and he would be caught most certainly if he attempted to return to it.

The only option was to leave the island entirely and wait for help to break him back in.

A small sailboat was anchored just a few spots down from where the ATEEZ had been, and after purloining some food and supplies from the guardhouse kitchen, San snuck aboard to commandeer her.

The wind was insistently pulling him out to sea, so he obeyed it, working tirelessly to man the thing himself and slip out of the marina unnoticed by soldiers.

From what he could make of the stars, he was headed south. He sent up a prayer, out of spontaneity and not magic, and drifted with the sea.

Mostly he just hoped his supplies would last, and that the others would get here before he had to worry about them.

Time was slipping away as the sun peeked over the horizon and San felt like he was slipping with it.

...

“Why were you with a known pirate?”

Wooyoung shook his head at the officer yelling at him (a Lieutenant Byun if he had heard correctly) and tried not to tremble where he sat, restrained, in this dungeon they called an interrogation room.

There was no time to collaborate on a story or make a plan of escape. It was just him, this lieutenant, and the bucket of water he kept dunking his head into until this torture ended.

“Answer me, why?”

The world was plunged into freezing watery depths again and Wooyoung fought until his lungs burned like they were about to explode and suddenly he was up again, coughing and making a mess of himself.

He didn’t think he could do this much longer.

The lieutenant grabbed him by the neck to dunk him again and he broke.

“He captured me,” Wooyoung wheezed. And he wasn’t even lying. “It’s the truth. I was working for Bang Si-Hyuk, privateer, and he-he attacked our ship and kidnapped me. That’s how I ended up with him.”

It was a lead that would hopefully send the Admiral after Si-Hyuk for confirmation, buying time if nothing else.

“You expect us to believe you?” The lieutenant laughed.

“Ask Bang himself if you don’t,” Wooyoung’s voice shook but he didn’t care anymore. He just wanted to get out of this room and away from that water bucket. “I don’t have any more information.”

Byun stared at him for a moment before signalling the guards to unbind him and take him back to his cell.

“Well done,” he goaded Wooyoung on the way out. “You’ve just volunteered your brown-haired friend for the next round of questioning.”

Yeosang.

Wooyoung’s eyes fell shut with disappointment in himself and he almost begged them to leave Yeosang alone but he was already being returned to his cell.

Yeosang’s was next to his, and he only had enough time to reach a hand through the bars that separated them apologetically before the guards took him away.

Wooyoung sunk to the floor and tried to collect himself. It was like a metal weight sat on his heart and he could barely move.

Hongjoong’s cell, the one across from him, was empty. Wooyoung didn’t know where they’d taken him and he didn’t want to think about it.

The sooner they got out, the better. He just had to keep believing Seonghwa would help them. If not for him, their entire company would already be dead.

Wooyoung focused on his breathing and memories of the rest of the crew while he tried to recover. He missed them more than he could say.

They had been successful in exorcising San, and San had been successful in escaping, so all things considered, the odds were still favourable.

Wooyoung just had to keep that in the forefront of his mind and the beatings would be manageable.

After some time of being alone with his thoughts, Yeosang was dragged back into his cell.

Lieutenant Byun brought him back personally with cruel eyes and it was clear that he hadn’t cooperated.

“If he doesn’t want to speak, then he won’t be eating either,” the officer said, sliding food under the bars of Wooyoung’s cell and pointedly avoiding Yeosang’s. “Try to share with him and your fingers will be broken.”

Wooyoung waited until the footsteps retreated to scoot over to the bars that separated the two cells and slip his hand through.

His fingers found Yeosang’s shoulder and after a moment, the other melted under his touch. He turned him around to face him and regretted that they couldn’t embrace through the bars but was glad to be able to see his face.

It was badly bruised and blood was drying where it flowed from his head, but it was the way Yeosang’s eyes struggled to focus that worried him.

“I tried fighting back,” he admitted quietly, eyes lingering on Wooyoung’s untouched meal. “They didn’t take kindly to that.”

Wooyoung rested his forehead against the bars and Yeosang mirrored him. “We just have to hang on and we’ll be out soon,” he finally said, not nearly as confidently as he’d hoped it would come out. “They can’t find anything on us.”

A growl from Yeosang’s stomach reminded Wooyoung of the food waiting for him. After a quick glance around the area, he smuggled a chunk of bread through the bars and immediately paid for it.

A guard shot out of the shadows and entered his cell, yanking the rest of the food away from him and grabbing one of his fingers to deal punishment.

“No, no, please—“

Wooyoung barely had time to muffle his own scream with a fist in his mouth as the finger was snapped, a fracture cracking the bone and a sharp pain shooting from it.

The guard said no more and left the cell.

Wooyoung didn’t respond to Yeosang’s concerned cries and curled into a ball while the other sighed and petted his hair until the pain and tears had subsided.

Eventually they sat back to back, singing softly to busy their minds. Hongjoong had still not returned, but Wooyoung waited instead for sleep to find them.

In sleep there was at least some respite.

...

Jongho watched the diamond spray of the waterfall cast a rainbow over the valley and listened to Yunho and Mingi argue about what to do.

Mingi was in favour of setting out immediately and asking Eden to pull his weight, and Yunho insisted that the older pirate heal and be able to walk first.

Jongho didn’t know why they hadn’t considered the most obvious option.

“Let’s just leave him here,” he broke in, sighing when they stared at him in surprise.

“He would never allow that!” Mingi scoffed.

“We could always just ask him!” Jongho argued back. “Ever think of that?”

“How do you think we’ll even get off this island without his help?” Yunho pointed out, and Jongho was about to make a suggestion when another voice cut him off.

“Just ask me,” the mystic smiled, reaching into her sleeves to hand them something while they scratched their heads wondering where she had come from.

“This, I believe, is yours.”

In her palm lay a knife. The one Hongjoong had given to Mingi, that the beast had run away with stabbed into its skin.

“How did you get it back?” Mingi breathed, taking the knife reverently and turning it over.

“I have my ways,” the woman waved off the question before sobering. “I agree with the youngest, it would be wise to set sail now, without Eden to slow you down. I have just received a message, word from San. He flees from Namhae alone and calls for aid. They’re all in grave danger.”

“Is this connected to the war you mentioned?” Mingi asked nervously, sheathing the knife as they made their way inside. It sounded like he’d be needing it.

“Only time will tell,” the mystic said simply, stopping them outside the door to their room. “He’s awake, but I’ll give you some privacy.”

Eden certainly was awake and reading at that, Jongho noticed as they settled into plush cushions and danced around the point of the conversation.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Eden said coolly, shutting the book gently and laying it on the arm of his sofa. “Your crewmates are in trouble and you need to go to them, I understand.”

Mingi frowned at Yunho’s poke in the ribs but opened his mouth to reassure Eden they would only leave if he was in agreement. “It’s just that you still need time to heal, and we can’t wait any longer.”

The sail to Namhae was relatively short but every day they spent was costing their friends.

“I’m in good hands here,” Eden agreed. “Hongjoong will understand when you reunite with him.”

There was a pause where his eyebrows drew together and eventually he sighed.

“Tell him I was wrong. About you, about him... about everything.” The words came out all jumbled together, but he spoke from the bottom of his heart. He believed in them now.

“You children have been nothing short of miraculous.”

Course decided, the three got to packing and said their goodbyes. Jongho knew the first place he was coming back to when he had the chance, and it was this island. It was a wonderful and awe-inspiring place, and he had a friend to return to now as well.

Eden called his name as he was about to cross the threshold, so he turned back to hear his parting words.

“If we ever meet again, I hope it is under much better circumstances.”

...

In the dim hole that was their prison, it was impossible to tell how much time had passed.

Meals came infrequently, and Wooyoung was much more careful about being caught sharing after his earlier stunt.

To ease the guards’ suspicions, it took a few days of eating his meals himself before he could slip something to Yeosang through their clasped hands, sitting back to back against the bars like they had done before.

Hongjoong came and went, always with very little sleep, and Yeosang couldn’t help but notice how the guards stopped marching him out for “questioning” and started dragging him.

If he put up a fight, it wasn’t in front of them. He never had much to say when he was around, either, apart from asking if they had eaten and begging them to trust him.

He said he knew what he was doing. He said he had a secret plan. He said he needed them to be patient. So they were.

Conversation was strictly discouraged by the guards, but they got by with being able to look at each other, and in Yeosang and Wooyoung’s case, cling to each other through the bars.

It seemed the Admiral had forgotten about them, or was no longer interested.

No one interrogated them for days, and it seemed they couldn’t lawfully be beaten outside of interrogation tactics as suspects and not proven pirates.

They waited endlessly in the damp mustiness of the prison, a stone floor for their beds and stale food for their bellies.

Morale had sunk low enough that they didn’t bother to whisper about escape anymore, but the stray thought about Seonghwa was an ever-present hope. He was working on getting them out. They were sure of it.

Until one morning when both were escorted to the interrogation room together and Yeosang was sat down for the Admiral himself to question.

“I found something peculiar when looking through the evidence,” Admiral Kim told them theatrically, waving a couple of scrolls in the air before unrolling one and showing it to Yeosang.

“A map,” Yeosang deadpanned. He had resisted all of Byun’s interrogation techniques, and he wasn’t about to cave in front of the Admiral.

Wooyoung watched anxiously from the side.

“Not just any map,” the Admiral lilted, tapping the right corner. “This one has portions of the East charted on it. Places no one outside of my fleet has ever been.”

“What are you insinuating?” Yeosang gritted out. “I’m tired of playing games.”

The Admiral’s smile wilted and he tossed the maps to the ground. He was angry now.

Yeosang flinched as the Admiral reared his hand back for a slap, but suddenly the man froze and everything went quiet for a moment.

Kim’s hand came up alongside Yeosang’s face, and he rubbed some of the blood off his eyelid. He was gentle, tender even, and as much as it sickened Yeosang, it allowed him to breathe for a minute.

“I thought I recognised you,” the Admiral said quietly, thumb lingering on the birthmark next to Yeosang’s eye. “Now I know where from.”

Yeosang didn’t move a muscle, willing the man to stop putting the pieces together, but it didn’t work.

“Kang Yeosang.”

Byun and the other guards gasped at this revelation. They had the son of their own Head Navigator imprisoned and tortured.

“Let them free,” the Admiral sighed, finally stepping back and crossing his arms. He ignored the look Lieutenant Byun gave him and opened the door to let the two shocked prisoners walk free.

“Unfortunately, I made a promise to your father once, that I would make sure no harm ever came to you,” he said by way of explanation, walking behind the pair as they helped each other towards the exit. “He wouldn’t be very happy with me if I had you executed.”

And as for Wooyoung, it seemed he was imprisoned by association and pardoned by association as well. It was the first thing Yeosang insisted upon and surprisingly, the Admiral allowed it.

“I’m after another member of Hongjoong’s company now,” he informed them vaguely, a knowing smile teasing his lips. “One who seems to have escaped me. But I won’t presume to glean information from you— off you go!”

The door was open. They could leave.

Wooyoung turned back as they limped towards the light, just in time to see the Admiral enter Hongjoong’s cell.

“There’s going to be an execution next week in the square,” the man snarled. “Yours.”

Yeosang and Wooyoung shared a knowing look. They were on the other side of the bars, which meant they were responsible for springing their Captain out next.

Knuckles white around the bars of his cell, Hongjoong’s hoarse voice rang out and followed the Admiral as he left.

“I may have to go down. But I’m taking you with me.”

...

Taglist: @nightynightnyx @atzjjongbby @celestial-yunho

A/N: ONE CHAPTER TO GO!! And then I start the next book in the series ;) Things are getting really intense, what do you think will happen? Comment or send an ask <3

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dragon-kazansky · 4 years

Text

Going North - Chapter four

Summery: You’ve made it to the North! Things are about to change big time.

Chapter 4 - In the North

The North.

Cold, cruel and full of secrets, and Lyra had made it.

You were standing at the very front of the boat, looking out at the cold sea below. There was excitement in the air, which you were certain was Lyra's doing. Despite the circumstances, she had made it the place she wanted to be. It was sad that Roger was not here to experience this with her, but he would be by her side soon enough, you were sure of it.

Lyra came running up the deck of the ship, a huge smile on her face as she came to your side. You laughed as she came to a stop, looking up at you with so much glee. You wrapped an arm around her pointed out ahead, taking in the sight of Trollesund. Her smile only grew at the sight.

Neither one of you noticed the hot air balloon that was flying way up high above the ship, or the man flying it, who was looking down below.

Ahead was a tall snow covered mountain, and below it the small village of Trollesund. Never had you been so excited, yet so scared to be somewhere. You didn't know what would happen from here on out. You just wanted those children to come home safe.

Lyra looked up at you with another smile as the ship reached the port. She was off quicker than a flash to find the others and get on land. You looked out at the town once more before following her steps, though not quite as quickly. You did hurry up to catch up with her when she called your name, looking at something further down the docks. You chuckled at her excitement.

It was nice to see her smile.

"The spy-fly will have reached Mrs. Coulter by now." Farder Coram said to Lord Faa. "Our business here must be in haste."

"I don't like it here either."

The two of them were strolling down the docks, talking without Lyra around. Luckily she was preoccupied with you.

"Go see the witches' consul, get whatever help you can, and we leave here as fast as possible." Lord Faa spoke quickly, his urgency to move on was clear.

"It's been 40 years since I saw Serafina last. She might not like what she sees." Farder Coram said, looking to the other.

"I remember you as a younger man, Coram. You weren't much to look at even then." John teased. They both chuckled.

Lyra and yourself were walking by, right in their view. You were both too busy caught up in your own conversation to notice them talking. Both gentleman noticed you however. They were looking at Lyra.

"You're sure you should take the girl?" Faa asked, turning back to his companion.

"Something tells me I'll need her." Coram replied.

You both took notice of both men as they began to walk away. No one smiled or waved at the other, you just watched them walk away as you kept pace with Lyra. Pan was trotting along side her as an arctic fox.

"Quite something, all this." He said, looking up at Lyra.

"My whole life I've wanted to be here, and now that I'm here, I'm not so sure I want to be." Lyra said, looking around.

"Oh Lyra, I have no idea what will happen past this point, but make the most of this trip, for good or for bad. Who knows when you'll get to see all this again." You sighed. "I wish we were here under different circumstances though." You looked around. "I can't quite bring myself to enjoy being here right now."

"Yeah, me too." She sighed. You looked at each other and smiled.

"Lyra."

You both turned around to see Farder Coram coming over. You both came to a stop, daemons at your sides, and let him approach, curious as to what he was going to say. Surely, he and Faa had come up with a plan.

"A word, please."

He didn't say anything as you trailed behind them, not wanting to leave Lyra's side just yet. Neither one of you knew anyone from this town, and thought you trusted Coram, you just wanted to be careful.... and not be by yourself for the time being.

"I need to know if I can trust in your readings of the alethiometer. How do you decipher it?"

That questions peeked your interest.

"I kind of feel them or see them." Lyra said. "It's like... like going down a ladder at night. You put your foot down, and there's another rung Well, I put my mind down, and there's another meaning. I sort of... sense what they mean. It's got a trick in it." She explained. "Sort of like focusing your eyes."

"Interesting." You said, louder than you thought. Lyra turned around and smiled at you. you smiled back.

"So say you wanted to ask the alethiometer what your parents are doing now?" Coram asked.

"Well, the Madonna is Mrs Coulter."

"Ah. The Madonna, is it?" Coram chuckled softly.

"And for Asriel, it would be the globe." Lyra opened up her pocket where she was keeping the alethiometer. "So I think of my parents when I put my hand there." She opened it up and showed Coram. "And... then I got for the ant because that means busy."

"But how do you know what these meanings are?" He asked her.

You tried not too stare to long, but you could see people looking over curiously. Of course they would, they didn't know who any of you were. A couple of voices caught Coram's attention, however, and he looked up to see some members from the Magisterium.

"The Magisterium. Put it away, Lyra."

Lyra put it back in her pocket quickly. Coram and yourself made it look like you were talking to one another, with Lyra between you, trying to look less suspicious. They passed by.

Coram led you both away.

"You understand, the man we're going to see is important."

"Yes."

"The Witch Consul is a link, between the human world and the witches. He will decide whether to pass our message on." Coram explained.

"And we need the witches."

"Yes, but he'll want to know everything. The Consul is the only way to contact the witches, and he must trust us first, but if he does, a witch called Serafina Pekkala will surely come to our aid. With her help, we will find the children." The three of you climbed up several sets of wooden stairs to reach a house.

"You mean she'll lead us to Roger?" Lyra asked.

"Yes. Just follow my lead." He replied. "Keep that thing hidden, OK?"

Coram knocked on the door.

The door opened revealing a bald man who was slightly shorter than Coram. Dr Lanselius was his name. He was wearing a grey suit. He let you all in when he realised who was at his door. Lyra came to stand beside you once you were all inside.

"How can I help you, Farder Coram?"

"I met a witch some years ago in the Fen country of Eastern Anglia. Her name was Serafina Pekkala. I wish to get a message to her." Coram explained.

"I'm aware of your relationship with Serafina Pekkala, Farder Coram."

"I represent a number of Gyptian families who have lost children. We believe there is an organisation that is capturing these children, ours and others, and taking them north. We need her help to get them free."

You followed Dr Lanselius into the next room as he carried a tea tray into there. He set the tray down on a small coffee table and poured the drinks. The three of you sat down in the vacant seats, Lyra once again staying close to you.

"Well... you realise that relations between the witches and the authorities are... perfectly cordial." He passed the drinks out one by one. "It is my job to keep them that way."

"You refer... to the Magisterium."

"This fight is not ours." His daemon, in the form of a small green snake, came slithering over his shoulder.

"They are stealing children." Coram argued. "This is war for all of us. And I know Serafina will want to be part of it."

"The children to not remain here for long." Dr Lanselius said, sitting up a little. "They are taken some distance inland."

"Do you know what happens to them there?" Lyra asked.

"I've heard variously of the Maystadt process, or an... intercision. The process is shrouded in secrecy, but the rumours are disturbing. There's a reason why you don't see a child on the streets of Trollesund. We, too, have felt the effects of missing children."

An unsettling feeling came over you.

"Then I will leave you to let Serafina know what we ask of her. Come." Coram looked at you and Lyra. You placed your mug down and stood up, offering a small smile to your host. Lyra and Coram did the same.

"I understand you are in possession of an alethiometer." Dr Lanselius stood up and looked at Lyra.

How did he know?

"I have eyes everywhere in Trollesund." He said.

You shared a nervous glance with Coram.

"Yes." Lyra confirmed.

"May I look at it?" He asked.

Lyra opened her pocket and took it out, stepping closer to him and showing him the alethiometer. He took it from her delicately, looking down at the compass within.

"It's exquisite." He looked up at her slowly. "Do you possess the books of readings?" He asked.

Suddenly your grew nervous again.

"Actually... I can read it." She told him, giving an aura of confidence.

"You are very wise to say so." He side eyed Coram. "How?" He asked firmly, looking back at Lyra.

"I just can." She said, smiling at the alethiometer in his hands.

"Well... I wonder if I might ask to see you do so." He walked over to a door in the corner, opening it. "Down here, there are many sprigs of cloud-pine. Which one belongs to Serafina Pekkala?" He asked her.

You looked at Coram, still feeling a little nervous about this man. He just didn't sit right with you, perhaps that was just because you didn't know him. You followed them all down into the small basement room. There were many shelves and jars in there.

"I can summon the witches through cloud-pine." Dr Lanselius said. "Each spray of cloud-pine is specific to a witch."

Lyra, with the alethiometer in hand, began to do her thing.

"Show us which one is Serafina Pekkala's."

The two gentlemen and yourself remained by the stairs as you watch Lyra move around the room slowly. The alethiometer in her hands was doing it's thing. You had faith in her skills and knew that she could use that special device. She came to a stop on the left side of the room and reached out, carefully picking up the jar she came to.

"This one's hers." She said, walking over to him and holding it up.

He stepped off the stairs and went over to her, taking the jar in his hand and looking at it.

You smiled at Lyra as you came over to them, she smiled back. You knew she could it. The doctor looked impressed. He knew she had chosen correctly.

In the middle of the room was a table with a single book. He walked around the other side of it and gestured you all to come closer.

"I'd like to give you something to take away with you." He took a small bit of sprig from the jar and put it into a small vial, sealing it inside and handing it over. "Carry this spray with you, and if you ever truly need her... she will come."

Lyra took the vial from him.

"Dr Lanselius, may I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"What question should we be asking you that we are not?" Lyra asked, narrowing her gaze on him. He looked amused by her question.

"You're weak." He said. "You may have heart, but the Magisterium have muscle. I would ask where I could obtain the services of an armoured bear."

"I understand the armoured bears answered to nobody." You said, finally bringing thought to word.

"There is at least one who does. An exile." Dr Lanselius told you. "He shamed his people, but be warned- his skill with metal makes him useful to the town. They don't like strangers knowing about him or interfering in his affairs. You'll find him beside Einarsson's Bar. But to get him away will take some doing. His name... is Iorek Byrnison."

With all said and done, Dr Lanselius showed you all out.

Lyra looked up at you.

"Are really going to see an armoured bear?" She asked excitedly.

"Seems like it, but this could prove to be difficult. If what Dr Lanselius said is true, then we are really going to have to convince this Iorek Byrnison." You smiled at her. "Pretty cool though, right? Knowing there's an armoured bear here."

"Yeah. I've heard so much about them."

"Let's go then." Coram said, smiling at you both. Lyra took the lead as you walked away from the house and back into town, finding the bar Dr Lanselius had mentioned before.

There was a small alley, mucky and cold. To the left, a blacksmiths, to the right, the bar. It wasn't the most welcoming of places, and if Iorek really was here, then you felt sorry for him. This was no place for someone as grand as an armoured bear... even exiled ones, in your opinion. You all walked cautiously down the alley.

"Iorek Byrnoison!" Coram called out.

There was loud deep growl from further in.

You all moved into the alley some more, cautious of your surroundings. Just ahead was dark area. You were sure the growling was coming from within there. You all came to a stop when the growling got particularly loud. Lyra looked up at you, slightly nervous. She was well aware of what an armoured bear was. He clearly didn't sound too happy to be disturbed.

"Iorek Byrnison, can we talk with you?" Coram asked. "We wish to offer you employment."

"I am employed." A deep voice replied.

"We need fighters, or... in all probability, we will. We're going north will we fine the place where children are being kept captive. When we find them, there will surely be a battle."

Iroek growled again.

"What do you do in the metalworks?" You asked, trying to help Coran coax the bear out.

"I mend the broken machinery." Iorek replied. His snout became visible from shadows, poking out from the barrels ahead of you. This was progress. "I lift heavy objects."

"And what kind of work is that for a panserbjorn?" Lyra asked.

Iorek roared.

"If you'll excuse me saying, Iorek Byrnison... you could be living free and proud on the ice, hunting seal and walrus, or going to war, winning great prizes." You told him.

He growled again.

"I know the people you are seeking." Iorek stepped out of his hiding spot. He was grand in every sense of the word. You felt honoured to be witnessing him in all his glory. "The child cutters."

Child cutters?

"People of this town, they pretend not to see, but I see." Iorek kept on coming closer. You could see the scars on his nose, going up to his right eye.

"And are you a coward like they are?" Lyra asked him, not looking him in the eye. Coram looked at Lyra, concerned.

"A coward?" He roared. He kept on coming, stepping out into the light, drawing closer to you all. He came close to Lyra, leaving only inches between them. She remained in place, standing still. Iorek gave a growl and jerked forwards slightly, attempting to frighten her. She jumped a little, but did not back down.

"We need you." She told him.

"I am not for sale." Iorek turned around and went back into the shadows, done with this conversation.

You placed a hand on Lyra's shoulder.

"Don't despair. We can try again later." You looked at Coram, but he didn't say anything. You all turned around and went back the way you came. You all returned to the boats. Lyra went in search for a warmer coat, Coram and yourself following behind her.

"Lyra the way you spoke to that bear, he could have torn your throat out." Coram said, watching her go through her choices. What she was a very brave thing, and she was able to walk away and talk about it.

"And you could've imprisoned me and sold me back to Mrs. Coulter." She replied, looking at a coat she picked out. She put it back. "I know who to trust, Farder Coram."

"But if you're wrong, you could do yourself damage." He told her.

"Oh come on." You uttered. "Trust Lyra some more. She has a keen eye. Iorek Byrnison brought her no harm, she walked away. I'm impressed." You smiled at her, winking in her direction.

Lyra chuckled.

"I'd do myself.... more damage not trusting anyone." She said, trying on a coat. "What happened between you and Serafina?" She asked, deciding this was the coat she wanted. You turned to Coram curiously, wanting to know too.

"We loved each other." Coram said softly.

"You loved a witch?"

He nodded. "We had a child. A son. There was an epidemic. There was nothing we could do. He died. And she wanted to rip the world apart... fly to Yambe-Akka, fight her... if that's what it took to get him back. I wanted to mourn in peace. Haven't seen her since... after we buried my boy." He voice began to break. You moved to him and placed an arm around him, your heart breaking for him.

You had no idea. He had never told you any of this before.

"I'm so sorry, Farder Coram." Lyra whispered, reaching out and placing her hand on his.

"It was a long time ago." He said, smiling at Lyra solemnly. He reached out an caressed her cheek, silently thanking her for her comfort. He gave you a smile and grabbed your hand, squeezing it gently.

He was grateful to have you both there with him.

Tags:

@awyr @fandombeehive @charmed-asylum @sigynbandraoi-blog @procrastinatingmurder @beebofrank13 @gemellath @eagleandthebutterfly @kpopgirlbtssvt @raeofstarshine @melancholicsthings @ettorah @iaintnofurry @thatkindofgurl @curse-brekker

#going north #lee scoresby x reader #lee scoresby #His Dark Materials #lin manuel miranda

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dickwheelie · 5 years

Text

@ciguierre suggested on the Discord server that I write a ficlet about Aziraphale trying coffee, which turned into a discussion about the boys going to Starbucks, which turned into this. Thank you for the inspo Cig!

Disclaimer: I love Starbucks, and I went there basically every day while I was in college, but because of that I also know that Starbucks absolutely belongs to Hell.

____________

Contrary to popular belief, Starbucks was not a human invention. (Nor were any two-tailed mermaids involved.) While the original locally-run coffee shop founded in the charming and often damp American city of Seattle, Washington in the early seventies was a quite human family business, the Starbucks Company that grew from such humble (read: marketable) beginnings was a result of the demonic forces of Down Below, as one would say in polite company.

Specifically, it was a result of the demonic forces of Crowley.

Crowley had always liked coffee, ever since the strange effects of the coffee bean had first been discovered by a young Ethiopian woman during a primitive version of a game of truth or dare. While he wasn’t necessarily after the effects of the drink, he did enjoy the taste, and although he preferred tea he wouldn’t say no to a nice, hot, strong brew of black coffee.

Crowley hadn’t turned Starbucks into an international brand because he liked coffee, however. He’d done it because he’d envisioned, prophetically, as it turned out: the long lines, impatient customers, frazzled employees, too-expensive drinks, confusing cup sizes, terrible brewing methods, tasteless pastries, and above all, below-average coffee that would soon cloud the early-morning skies with evil all over the globe. Crowley had only ever had one drink at a Starbucks in his lifetime, to test the results of his meddling in action. He’d ordered an Americano with almond milk and a shot of espresso, and it had been as horrible as he’d hoped it would be.

(The Frappuccinos were not one of his. Only humans could come up with something so ridiculous and yet so popular.)

Despite all of this, Crowley was currently standing in a Starbucks. He was very upset to discover this, because even though he’d deliberately made the trip there, parked the Bentley out front, walked into the store, and had been standing in line for about five minutes now, he still couldn’t quite believe he had been talked into this.

He shot a glare at Aziraphale, who was staring up at the corporate-mandated seasonal fall menu in blissful ignorance. Aziraphale, out of all the beings in the Universe, was probably the only one who could have talked Crowley into this, and even then he had only just barely managed it. He’d promised to pick one (1) item, place his order quickly, and get them out of that place as soon as possible.

Aziraphale was not sticking to that promise.

“I’ll have the Pumpkin Spice Latte,” he was saying to the barista, who looked as though he would have rather been feeding his own limbs to an alligator than taking orders at a Starbucks. “No--no, wait, the White Chocolate Mocha Frappuccino. Or, no, the Dragonfruit Refresher. What is a Refresher? Is it like lemonade?”

“Angel . . .” Crowley muttered into his ear.

“Right, right, sorry.” Aziraphale smiled his most angelic smile at the barista, who, despite the fact that Aziraphale was objectively the worst customer to have in line on a busy day, actually managed to smile back. (He didn’t understand why, of course, but since it was the first time he’d had a reason to smile since his shift had started at 8 AM, he wasn’t going to question it.) “I will have the Pumpkin Spice Latte.”

Wonderful, Crowley thought. Something simple, quick to make, and then they could flee.

“. . . And the Dragonfruit lemonade. And the White Chocolate thingy I said earlier, that sounded delightful.”

Crowley massaged his temples. He loved Aziraphale with all of his heart, but sweet Someone, that angel was going to kill him one of these days.

“Oh, and one of those delicious-looking almond scones as well, there’s a dear.”

Crowley was going to drive home without him. He was. His feet weren’t moving, but he was absolutely going to do it, just you wait.

“What sizes would you like for your drinks, sir?” said the barista. Crowley fought the urge to curse him right then and there; it wasn’t his fault the sizes were confusing. In fact, it occurred to him, it was technically Crowley’s fault, but he quickly shoved the thought aside.

“Ah, medium, I think,” said Aziraphale. “All things in moderation, yes?” This was a phrase Crowley had never heard Aziraphale use or implement in his everyday life, and he suspected he was quoting something Gabriel had said at a meeting once.

The barista pointed up at the menu board. “We have tall, grande, venti, and trenta.”

“Ah. I . . . see,” said Aziraphale, visibly confused. “Which one is medium, then?”

“I guess grande would be medium, sir.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows knitted together. “But grande means large in Italian, yes? And venti is twenty. Twenty what?”

Crowley had mostly tuned out of the conversation, but something had caught his attention, and his mind was slowly catching back up. “Wait. Trenta? What on Earth is trenta?”

The barista looked at him in surprise; he hadn’t said a word since he’d come grumpily slinking into the store behind Aziraphale. “It’s our largest size, sir. Thirty-one ounces.”

Crowley had never wanted so badly to take Christ’s name in vain before. He felt certain he hadn’t come up with that one. Once again, the humans had one-upped him in terms of acts of pure evil.

“I’ll just take them in grande,” Aziraphale said hastily, sensing that Crowley’s patience was wearing thinner by the second.

“Name?”

“Aziraphale.”

The barista Looked at him. It was the kind of Look that really earned the capital L. He scribbled something on each of the cups. Aziraphale paid without another word.

As they waited at a too-small and slightly dirty table for Aziraphale’s order to be called, Crowley asked, “Why’d you want to come here, anyway?”

“Newt told me about it,” said Aziraphale excitedly. “I was telling him about how I so enjoyed the coffee you made for me, and he said I should come here. He goes all the time, apparently, although Anathema won’t set foot in the place.”

“Smart woman.”

“He recommended the pumpkin spice thing to me, and told me with my sweet tooth, I’d be sure to love anything on the menu.”

“Huh.” That was probably true, at any rate. “You do realize this is one of mine, right?”

Aziraphale looked up at him, eyes wide with alarm. “Is it?”

Behind his sunglasses, Crowley’s own eyes widened. “Angel, I thought you knew. I mean, it should be alright now, Heaven isn’t exactly breathing down your neck anymore, and--”

Aziraphale was giggling. Crowley’s mouth snapped shut.

“You’re having me on.”

“Oh, my dear. I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d be so upset. Of course I knew, it’s my job to keep track of your wily schemes, so I can thwart them.”

“You’re doing an excellent job of thwarting them now,” Crowley deadpanned. “You only bought twenty pounds’ worth of merchandise.”

“Well, it’s like you said,” Aziraphale said wryly, in that slightly devilish way that Crowley adored, “Heaven isn’t exactly breathing down my neck anymore.”

They were interrupted by a shout from the counter. “A falafel?” a second barista called out confusedly.

Aziraphale sighed and rose from the table. “I suppose that must be me.” He returned a moment later with a tray of three drinks and the bagged scone.

One by one, Aziraphale tried each item, and to Crowley’s disappointment (but not necessarily his surprise), he seemed to love every single one.

“The scone isn’t terribly good,” said Aziraphale through a mouthful of scone, which he was almost finished with, “but the rest of it is just delightful. I don’t think I’ve ever had lemonade with dragonfruit in it, but it’s a lovely combination.”

“Isn’t lemonade,” said Crowley, “but I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.” He meant it; if his angel was happy, he was happy. He just hoped that, if this was going to become a thing, Aziraphale would be willing to get Starbucks to go from now on. Or just miracle up a passable imitation at home.

They sat there for an hour while Aziraphale worked through his three drinks. Now that they weren’t waiting in line or dealing with confusing menu items, Crowley had to admit it wasn’t so bad to just sit in a Starbucks and chat with one’s companion. (Granted, that companion was Aziraphale, whom he’d be happy to sit and chat with inside of an active volcano, but the sentiment still applied.)

Aziraphale, for his part, was practically glowing with joy, and every frustrated writer and college student in that building felt a bit of weight lift off their shoulders.

Despite Crowley’s protests (“This is a Starbucks, Angel, not the Ritz,”), Aziraphale insisted on going back up to the counter when he was done and thanking each barista individually, by name, even if they’d forgotten their nametags. Though he’d tipped generously when he’d paid, Aziraphale dropped another twenty-pound note into the tip jar before he left. By the time Crowley managed to pull him away, the baristas were all smiling at him and waving goodbye. “Come again soon!” said the barista at the register, and found with surprise that he actually meant it.

“Leave it to you,” said Crowley as they climbed into the Bentley, “to leave a place of demonic influence looking like that.”

“Just doing my job,” Aziraphale said with a pleased little smile that made him look like an absolute bastard.

“Thwarting all my wiles.”

“Left and right, my dear.”

“. . . Aziraphale.”

“Yes?”

“What are you eating.”

“I . . . hadn’t quite finished the scone, darling.”

“ . . . Just . . . please don’t get any crumbs in the Bentley.”

“I won’t, dear.”

Crowley sighed, and floored it.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #ciguierre #listen I don't know anything about coffee but starbucks isn't coffee so it's ok #gwyneth writes

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drlauralwalsh · 4 years

Text

The Lusty World of Lesbian Widows

I’m really frustrated that COVID has gotten in the way of my grief achievements. I figured 3 months in, I’d be doing the television talk show circuit, sold my book, and set up a non-profit foundation. If only this pandemic hadn’t gotten in my way.

In my life before, if I spent too much time alone (like, over 4 hours), I’d start texting my sister-in-law that I was unsupervised and feral. Uh oh. I’d start going down rabbit holes and come up with weird stuff like how buff male kangaroos get. Or questioning if my parents were really married since I couldn’t find a record of their union in the limited online databases. I could have paid for real records but I’m cheap. I know, sounds crazy.

But now, I’m alone for long stretches of time. I’ve managed to channel some of this agitated energy into writing essays that speak to weirdos like me (shout out to my fellow weirdos!). I spend hours researching (me-searching as we said in grad school) and discovering overachieving methods to dam the waters of my new spouse-less life.

I’m not just your average widow. Oh no no no. Of course, I have to be special so allow me to tack on some extra layers - lesbian, stepmom, and young (-ish, right?). At 45, I have finally found a way to inch back towards the youth and relevance lost as you enter the fourth decade of life. Today, I’d like to let you into the wonders of lesbianism.

I’m going to assume you’re not submerged in this subculture so I’ll tell you some secrets. People are fascinated by lesbians. To be fair, we live pretty mysterious lives. We leave you hanging on profound questions like who takes out the trash and how do they have sex without a woody woodpecker? Sometimes, other communities get lumped in with us but they are actually quite different. Of these witches, spinsters, and women who wear comfortable shoes, I only belong to only one of those so far. I’m working on my stovetop skills and hope to someday conjure a penis. Not a real one; that would be weird.

Amazon’s book market best represents the variable interests of our fan club members. Right after my wife died, I launched a search for books on “lesbian widows.” You’d think the algorithms would have pegged me by now (ha ha). I was dismayed yet amused by the grand interpretation of what Amazon thought I meant. The following is an unedited list of the top books recommended for me to purchase under these auspicious terms:

Lesbian Widows: Invisible Grief

by Victoria Whipple (Kindle $25.98, Paperback $46.95, Hardcover $907.71)

I’m impressed that the first one actually included my search terms but dang, it’s expensive to be a lesbian widow. To be fair, you can rent it for $9.21 a month. It’s also terribly niche within an already small niche - invisible lesbian widows? Published in 2014, you’d think it would be a little more hip. Maybe it’s because I live in Chicago but even as an introvert, I’m decently visible. Still, glad it exists and appeals to all eight people who each gave it a 5-star rating.

The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows: Feminine Pursuits

by Olivia Waite (Kindle $3.99, Paperback $6.99)

I must quote the basic plot description for you to get the full impact of this novel: “The last thing the widow wants is to be the victim of a thousand bees. But when a beautiful beekeeper arrives to take care of the pests, Agatha may be in danger of being stung by something far more dangerous…” The cover depicts said wapish widow sit/leaning against her handsome, pants suit-clad beekeeper. At the much less expensive price for kindle and paperback, I’m only slightly put off by labeling bees as pests.

Odd women?: Spinsters, lesbians and widows in British women's fiction, 1850s–1930s

by Emma Liggins (Kindle $73.24, Hardcover $95.00)

The period is a little off but at least it includes diverse, international women. I was looking for a self help book but this seems slightly more academic. Not sure why there’s a question mark in the title as there’s no question about our oddity. The description reads, “Women outside heterosexual marriage in this period were seen as abnormal, superfluous, incomplete and threatening, yet were also hailed as ‘women of the future’.” Aw shucks, I *am* ahead of my time. Dang that price tag! No renting option for this one.

The Grass Widow

by Nanci Little (Kindle $0.00, Paperback $14.95)

It’s unclear where we’ll find the lesbian widow in this 2010 novel but the description yields some mild foreshadowing: “As a familiar civilization fades into the distance, she is nineteen, unmarried and pregnant, and has no reason to think that the year 1876 won't be her last...Joss, in her brother's clothes and severely lacking in social graces, has no time to mollycoddle a pampered, pregnant New England lady. It's work or starve, literally. There are no servants, no laborers - just a failing farm, impending winter and the two of them to face it together.” It sounds like the shameless Joss needs her own dose of mollycoddling (wink, wink) to get through the chilly nights.

Her Widow

by Joan Alden (Paperback $18.00)

More popular with 10 people giving it an almost stellar rating, this tomb’s immodest summary insists it belongs on every bookshelf. YOU WILL PAY ATTENTION TO US! That’s how I read it. Seriously, of all the books this one comes the closest to what I actually wanted. Waiting for the kindle unlimited edition….(having no man money makes us frugal).

Made For You 3

by K. Shantel (Kindle $4.99)

Apparently, Made For You 1 and 2 were not as popular. Despite the fair price, this tale omits widows opting for the groundbreaking combination of lesbian romance and football. While tragedy surely threads through this plot, it falls short of crossing the threshold from football to death (it probably does). Shocker, I defy the sporty lesbian trope and instead prefer to spend time among my vast, treasured collection of power tools. Just to be clear, I mean the ones for home repair (get your mind out of the gutter!) If the lady protagonists of this book had been thrown together building a Habitat for Humanity house with their 10 dogs using only their Subaru to transport lumber, I might be more captivated.

The Lady's Guide to Celestial Mechanics, Book 1 of 1: Feminine Pursuits Series

by Olivia Waite (Kindle $3.99, Paperback $6.99)

I’ll give the author the benefit of believing there are more to come in the series. The title of this one intrigues me (I may steal it later) but sadly, it also defaults to worn stereotypes. This collection of lesbian tropes finds my kin scoring yet another toaster for the conversion of a hapless straight lady. Lesbians for the win! Lady Reads-A-Lot gave it 5 stars and commented, “This was poetic and lovely, full of beautiful descriptions that knew exactly how to leave you breathless and then stop just before tipping into tedious.” I’m guessing she means the sex scenes? If you’ve ever watched any real lesbian porn, you know that it’s far better for the participants than the viewers.

Erotica: The Forbidden Adventures Of A Grieving Widow (Seduction, Lust, Lesbian Sex, Interracial Sex, Bondage and More)

by Amy King (Kindle $0.00)

This one is hands down, my favorite title and you can’t beat the price. The author keeps the marketing short to sell you her novel: “All Ava wanted was to erase the memory of her recently departed husband. Little did she know that in trying to do so, she would experience mind-blowing adventures and lust across the globe. Ava would never be the same again as she ravenously eats up whatever adventure blows her way.” Even though it’s another toaster novel, as a grieving widow ‘ravenously eats up’ does resonate. I don’t think she means jars of cookie butter.

Of the eight masterpieces on the list, five are romance novels, one is academic, and two are in the ballpark (excuse the sports metaphor). Scrolling further only yields more erotica including another novel titled, “Football Widows (lesbian)” by Amanda Mann and Deadlier Than the Male Publications. Now I get it that we make up a small percentage of the population but this is some seriously messed up shit.

Removing the lesbian and searching only for ‘widow’ yields twenty pages of books. I know what you’re thinking - “C’mon Laura, what’s the big deal? Just get the standard widow book.” And believe me, I’ve amassed quite the collection and am waiting for just the right intersection of not too devastated but ready to sob. Bear with me for a sec - think about how we just want to be seen when we’re at our lowest. When I first typed those words into the search bar, I just wanted something that used wife instead of husband.

Every grief has specific salient elements and it’s too super niche to touch on all at the same time. It would be weird and/or maybe nice to find another lesbian widow stepmom psychologist who lost her cop wife of almost 5 years to a PTSD-induced psychotic break and suicide. That’s a Subaru full of identities. If this person did exist, I’d be suspicious we’re the target on Incel trolls, longing to read the words of more seductive, witchy lesbians. Instead, I plan on taking the high road. I’ll get my knowledge and support from those who accept me by the category. Obviously, one out of one lezzies agree there’s a market for lesbian widow self help guides - at the right price. I may still write that book but if I want to get rich, I’ll definitely have to add more sex scenes.

#lesbian #widow #amazon #books #humor

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garbagequeer · 5 years

Note

hey hello im writing a piece for laptop ensemble that involves sampling and i need the most repressed/tender/yearning quotes you got. just as gay and heart wrenching as you can. but also no pressure I know youre a stranger on the web I just feel like you post that kind of stuff a lot thank you bye

hope this isnt like too late school keeps me busy :( (also can you put a read more on asks? guess i’ll find out). i ended up choosing many quotes from the same texts cause im indecisive as shit but i’ll bold my favorites from those in case that makes it easier for you!

anyways first of all you can never go wrong w richard siken as obvious as that is. these are both from you are jeff

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you don’t even have a name for.

Let’s say you’ve swallowed a bad thing and now it’s got its hands inside you. This is the essence of love and failure. You see what I mean but you’re happy anyway, and that’s okay, it’s a love story

this one’s from planet of love (the format got fucked bc tumblr is not actually a finctional website but :/ )

I have a megaphone and you play along, because you want to die for love, you always have. Imagine this:You’re pulling the car over. Somebody’s waiting. You’re going to die in your best friend’s arms. And you play along because it’s funny, because it’s written down,you’ve memorized it,

from litany in which certain things are crossed out

I make you pancakes, I take you hunting, I talk to you as if you’re really there.Are you there, sweetheart? Do you know me? Is this microphone live? Let me do it right for once,

sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud. Especially that, but I should have known.You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I sayor love me back.

We were inside the train car when I started to cry. You were crying too, smiling and crying in a way that made meeven more hysterical. You said I could have anything I wanted, but I just couldn’t say it out loud.Actually, you said Love, for you, is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion. It’s terrifying. No one will ever want to sleep with you.

from snow and dirty rain

I had a dream about you. We were in the gold roomwhere everyone finally gets what they want.

that scene from when harry met sally where sally says:

One day I was taking Alice’s little girl fro the afternoon. I’d promised to take her to the circus, and we were in a cab playing “I spy” - you know, “I spy a lamppost”, “I spy a mailbox” - and she looked out the window and there was this man and this woman with two little kids, and the man had one of the kids on his shoulders, and Alice’s little girl said “I spy a family”, and I satrted crying, you know? I just started crying, and I went home

(like anyone else sometimes cries when u see a family doing something nice? is it because i want to participate in a sense of family of my own but have been excluded as a gay person from it’s portrayals and it makes me go :^( cause i dont feel there’s room for me there but i want there to be and i just have to long for this nuclear family heteronormative way of life that i’ve been made to believe is idylic? is it because my parents got divorced and my dad’s an ass and my mom is just a very angry lady and i want to re-do my own childhood? who knows. should we ban movies? yes we should!)

from maurice (ultimate source of tender)

“There was something better in life than this rubbish, if only he could get to it, love, nobility, big spaces where passion clasped peace, spaces no science could reach, but they existed for ever, full of woods some of them, and arched with majestic sky and a friend”

‘Did you ever dream you had a friend, Alec? Nothing else but just “my friend”, he trying to help you and you him. A friend’ he repeated, sentimental suddenly. ‘Someone to last your whole life and you his. I suppose such a thing can’t really happen outside sleep’

we are all so lucky i don’t actually own maurice in english this would just turn into me quoting the whole book

ee cummings voices to voices, lip to lip

the thing perhaps isto eat flowers and not to be afraid.

from virgina woolf’s letters to vita

7 september 1925

january 21 1926 vita writes

I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia. I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way. You, with all your un-dumb letters, would never write so elementary phrase as that; perhaps you wouldn’t even feel it. And yet I believe you’ll be sensible of a little gap. But you’d clothe it in so exquisite a phrase that it would lose a little of its reality. Whereas with me it is quite stark: I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal. So this letter is just really a squeal of pain. It is incredible how essential to me you have become. I suppose you are accustomed to people saying these things. Damn you, spoilt creature; I shan’t make you love me any the more by giving myself away like this—But oh my dear, I can’t be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that. Too truly. You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don’t love. I have brought it to a fine art. But you have broken down my defences. And I don’t really resent it …

and on january 26 virginia writes back

Your letter from Trieste came this morning—But why do you think I don’t feel, or that I make phrases? ‘Lovely phrases’ you say which rob things of reality. Just the opposite. Always, always, always I try to say what I feel. Will you then believe that after you went last Tuesday—exactly a week ago—out I went into the slums of Bloomsbury, to find a barrel organ. But it did not make me cheerful … And ever since, nothing important has happened—Somehow its dull and damp. I have been dull; I have missed you. I do miss you. I shall miss you. And if you don’t believe it, you’re a longeared owl and ass. Lovely phrases? …

from virginia’s diary, about vita on december 21 1925

I like her and being with her and the splendour–she shines in the grocer’s shop in Sevenoaks with a candle lit radiance, stalking on legs like beech trees, pink glowing, grape clustered, pearl hung.

from virginia woolf’s to the light house

What device for becoming, like waters poured into one jar, inextricably the same, one with the object one adored? Could the body achieve, or the mind, subtly mingling in the intricate passages of the brain? or the heart? Could loving, as people called it, make her and Mrs Ramsay one? for it was not knowledge but unity that she desired, not inscriptions on tablets, nothing that could be written in any language known to men, but intimacy itself, which is knowledge, she had thought, leaning her head on Mrs Ramsay’s knee. Nothing happened. Nothing! Nothing! as she leant her head against Mrs Ramsay’s knee. And yet, she knew knowledge and wisdom were stored up in Mrs Ramsay’s heart.

Love had a thousand shapes. There might be lovers whose gift it was to choose out the elements of things and place them together and so, giving them a wholeness not theirs in life, make of some scene, or meeting of people (all now gone and separate), one of those globed compacted things over which thought lingers, and love plays.

there forced themselves upon her other things, her own inadequacy, her insignificance, keeping house for her father off the Brompton Road, and had much ado to control her impulse to fling herself (thank Heaven she had always resisted so far) at Mrs Ramsay’s knee and say to her—but what could one say to her? “I’m in love with you?” No, that was not true. “I’m in love with this all,” waving her hand at the hedge, at the house, at the children. It was absurd, it was impossible

(fun fact: the spanish translation adds something that i’d translate as “one could not say what one meant / what one wanted to say”, which i really like and i was disapointed to find out isnt on the english edition)

It was love, she thought, pretending to move her canvas, distilled and filtered; love that never attempted to clutch its object; but, like the love which mathematicians bear their symbols, or poets their phrases, was meant to be spread over the world and become part of the human gain. So it was indeed. The world by all means should have shared it

from the great gatsby

I didn’t want to go to the city. I wasn’t worth a decent stroke of work but it was more than that—I didn’t want to leave Gatsby. I missed that train, and then another, before I could get myself away (…) Just before I reached the hedge I remembered something and turned around. ‘They’re a rotten crowd,’ I shouted across the lawn. ‘You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.’ I’ve always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever gave him

from kafka’s diaries

may 27 1911: Today is your birthday, but I am not even sending you the usual book, for it would be only pretence; at bottom I am after all not in position to give you a book. I am writing only because it is so necessary for me today to be near you for a moment

parts from a from a letter he wrote to oskar pollak on february 4 1902

When we talk together the words are hard; we tread over them as if they were rough pavement. The most delicate things acquire awkward feet and we can’t help it. We’re almost in each other’s way; I bump into you and you - I don’t dare and you. When we come to things that are not exactly cobblestones or the Kunstwart, we suddenly see that we are in masquerade, acting with angular faces (especially me, I admit), and then we become sad and bored. Does anyone make you as bored as I do?

then I fall silent and you fall silent and you become bored, and I become bored and it’s all like a stupid hangover and there’s no use lifting a hand. But neither wants to say this to the other, out of shame or fear or - You see, we are afraid of each other, or I am.

Of course I understand it. It’s boring to stand for years in front of an ugly wall and it just won’t crumble away. Of course, but the wall is afraid for itself, fro the garden (if there is one), and you get out of sorts, yawn, have headaches, don’t know where to turn

You often talk with her, not only for the sake of talking. You walk around with her somewhere here or there, or in Roztok, and i sit at my desk at home. You talk with her, and in the middle of a sentence somebody jumps up and makes a bow. That is me with my untrimmed words and angular faces. That lasts only a moment, and then you go on talking. I sit at my desk at home and yawn. I’ve been trhough it already. Wouldn’t that separate us? Is that so strange? Are we enemies? I am very fond of you

from his leters to milena

Last night I dreamed about you. What happened in detail I can hardly remember, all I know is that we kept merging into one another. I was you, you were me. Finally you somehow caught fire.

jane wong. from clearing

We want to believe everything has meaning.Plums blossom over a power grid

and I am in love again. The shame of it.

from leslie harrison’s [sirens]

I’m not Penelope married to faith married to waitingbound in fine soft strands of silk dyed and stretchedin my world longing has teeth and fins has a tastefor blood longing is a room built entirely of knives

Lorde’s melodrama tour interlude

Don’t you wish you could go inside a heart, see the strings and atrium’s, everything beating and bleeding. It’s kind of funny, I spend almost every minute thinking about love. Being guided, and divided by love. But I’ve never seen it. It’s just a rumour, a comedown, an afterglow. I wanna see it, in colour. In the summer, I can almost picture it

from Andrea Long Chu’s on liking women

One day, you tell yourself, it will give you what you want. Then, one day, it doesn’t. Now it dawns on you that your object will probably never give you what you want. But this is not what’s disappointing, not really. What’s disappointing is what happens next: nothing. You keep your object. You continue to follow it around, stash it in a drawer, water it, tweet at it. It still doesn’t give you what you want—but you knew that. You have had another realization: not getting what you want has very little to do with wanting it. Knowing better usually doesn’t make it better. You don’t want something because wanting it will lead to getting it. You want it because you want it

ada limón, In a Mexican Restaurant I Recall How Much You Upset Me

But love is impossible and it goes ondespite the impossible. You’re the muscleI cut from the bone and still the boneremembers, still it wants (so much, it wants)the flesh back, the real thing,if only to rail against it, if onlyto argue and fight, if only to missa solve-able absence.

i dont think i need to get into mitski songs because you probably already know but basically pink in the night/come into the water/once more to see you/in happy when she says if you’re going take the train so i can hear it rumble one last rumble/in i want you from the first verse to the first time she goes “i just need a quiet place where i can scream how i love you” (YES the card thing is very important)/the first verse of i will (w emphasis on everything you feel is good i f you wold only let you)/abbey/strawberry blond

sufjan steven’s futile devices obviously predatory wasp of the palisades you know the drill

was going to find some twin fantasy lyrics but i started thinking about famous prophets (minds) and like. emotionally left my body so. i wont be thinking about it or any other songs anymore it makes me too crazy

from frances ha

It’s that thing when you’re with someone and you love them and they know it and they love you and you know it but it’s a party and you’re both talking to other people and you’re laughing and shining and you look across the room and catch each other’s eyes. But not because you’re possessive, or it’s precisely sexual, but because that is your person in this life and it’s funny and sad but only because this life will end and it’s this secret world that exists right there. In public. Unnoticed. That no one else knows about. It’s sort of like how they say that other dimensions exist all around us but we don’t have the ability to perceive them. That’s what I want out of a relationship. Or just life, I guess.

from ellen lee’s notes on twin fantasy that i revisit constantly

there’s no going back to deliver these words to the ones they were really meant for. That’s how heartbreak feels, I guess. It feels like your heart in between the teeth of someone who’s looking away. When you’ve lost your loved object, what happens to all the things you have to say to them? When they’re turned away, what happens to all the things that you couldn’t, but desperately need(ed) to, say to their face? He dissociates himself from his own romance until it becomes a fantasy. You have your bleeding heart, you have a finite set of memories — when nothing new enters and you’re unwilling to let go, then you have a fantasy. The loved object enters into you and transforms.

the journey home by dermot bolger(havent read this at all dont really plan to/dont know a thing about it either i just came across this shit like 2 years ago and i still think about it)

I wanted to hurt him; I wanted just to touch him. What I wanted I’m not really sure. If he had stopped and opened his arms I would have walked towards him; I would have sat on the kerb all night with him

adam b, sweet i have a (really gay) heart

i feel like my body is the extension of a lake. i feel really badabout not telling you the truth, sometimes. i feelreally small next to you. tall boys remind me of bean stalks.i wish i had your legs. i wish i could know your handsbefore i even touch them

aaaand i think that’s all i could think of and track down, hope this is actually helpful and not too long (i am indecisive no kidding). also ksjdfg it’s nice that you thought to ask me this and i did have fun going over all these quotes so thank you 💖💖💖

#answered #i hope this fits what you were looking for!!#and i hope read mores are working on mobile djfgk #c #thing #Anonymous

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lailannajacobs · 5 years

Text

Just Dumb Luck: Epilogue

Pairing: Loki X Reader

Warnings: Simply fluff!

Word Count: 1.7k

Summary: A little extra reader and Loki!

A/N: Thanks again for all the feedback everyone! I still can’t believe anyone wanted to read this but I am so thankful you have! Although this story is complete, I’m always welcome to feedback and requests! <3

Complete Master List

“I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, “You’ve never done this before?”

Loki shakes his head. “No.”

“How have you managed to live for this long?”

“By getting other people to do it for me.”

You laugh and place Loki’s hands on the shopping cart. “You can start by pushing, Mr. Fancy Pants.”

Loki had startled you by appearing out of nowhere while you were in the veggies section of the grocery store. He had only been gone about a week but you couldn’t believe how giddy it made you to see him. Judging by the flamboyant, albeit slightly dramatic, entrance of his, the feeling was mutual.

You walk down the aisles in easy silence, Loki stopping every once in a while to look at something particularly perplexing. You don’t think you’ve ever spent so long trying to justify cheese strings to someone.

“How often do you have to do this mundane activity?” He asks, putting a can of soup you had pointed at into the basket.

“I don’t know,” you examine the jars of tomato sauce across the aisle, “once every two weeks maybe? Some times more often?”

He looks around deploringly.

Before he has the chance to complain, a cart rams into his side, driven by a blonde, curly haired boy, barely tall enough to see over the handle. Loki peers down at him, unamused and slightly bored. You’re trying your hardest to stifle a laugh and judging by the look he slides your way, not doing a very good job at it. Just thinking about who he really is only makes everything ten times harder not to make a sound.

“Well, aren’t you going to apologize?” he demands.

The boy mimics a look that rivals Loki’s.

“I’m sorry that you’re in the way mister. Watch out next time.” he says before promptly pushing the cart around a very stunned Loki.

When the boy turns the corner you can’t help but burst out laughing.

“Enjoying this, aren’t you?”

You shake your head, squeezing your lips together in a poor attempt to keep a straight face.

“Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

You stop your giggling long enough to answer, “oh come on. It’s funny. You should have seen your face.”

He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly, “What am I going to do with you?”

“I should be asking myself the same thing,” you counter, teasing. “I have so many things to teach you about our mortal ways.”

“I’m hoping there are other, more interesting, non grocery related mortal things you can teach me.”

His eyes have that familiar mischievous glint in them that sends shivers down your spine. To anyone else, he appears casual - his hands stuffed in his pockets, head tilted slightly. But you know better. You know the tilt in his head is a silent dare, wondering if you’ll take the bait, here, in a grocery store.

But you don’t. Because that would mean admitting defeat.

You have’t pressed your lips to his since he got here but it’s all part of the game: to see who can hold out the longest. You finally managed to tie him on the last round, and you intend to pull ahead. Yet you know that as soon as you make it back to the elevator of your apartment building, you’d take the loss just to get close to him.

He sends you a look that seems to say Why don’t we just cut to the chase love, so you wink at him and push the cart along.

The next time you stop and pick up a frozen pizza, he comes behind you, peering over your shoulder so that your bodies are so close, you can feel his breath tickling your ear.

“Are you doing it on purpose to take your time?”

You turn your head so that your lips are almost touching his, “my, my. So impatient.”

He brushes your hair away from your neck as if to kiss it and you tilt your head unwittingly to give him better access but he moves away, “I believe you were just talking about yourself (y/n)?”

“Sure.” you chuckle.

You’ve finished paying and are walking out the door, grocery bags in each of your hands, when you hear a high pitched shriek. Your head whips to the sound. It’s the little boy who bumped into Loki and his grocery bag is on the floor, its contents spilled everywhere.

The mother is shaking her head, bent over picking up the cans and you can barely make out the words he’s saying, so you’re not sure you’re actually hearing them right, “but mom I swear! I saw a snake, I’m not kidding!”

Other people have stopped to help so you keep walking but you look up at Loki to find a faint, wolfish smirk on his face.

“Did you have anything to do with that?” You demand, stopping him with a hand on your hip.

It doesn’t look as intimidating as you would have hoped, with the grocery bags hanging off your hip as well.

“It was just a little fun.” He shrugs, unable to look ashamed.

You smack him on the arm, “he’s a kid!”

“Everything is fine.” he chuckles, “And I have done much worse to my brother and he is in perfect health.”

You shake your head but you’re unable to completely hide your amusement. “I don’t even want to know what you did to him.”

His lips peel into a wider grin, “I don’t see why not. They were actually quite clever.”

You’re about half way to your apartment when you see her, breaking off your conversation with Loki about another baseball game you’re hoping to go see.

“Amelie?”

She turns around at the sound of her name, blowing lose strands of hair out of her eyes. There’s a large cardboard box in her hands labeled ‘kitchen’ in cute swirly writing, and her eyes light up in recognition.

“(YN)! Loki! How are you guys?”

You glance up at Loki, a faint grin on his lips, and you feel a sense of calm wash over you. It’s a feeling that never seems to go away and you definitely don’t want it to. “Good. We’re good.”

“And what about yourself?” Loki tears his gaze away from you to actually look at the person he asked the question to.

“Oh, you know.” She shrugs, readjusting her grip on the box. “I’ve realized some things and I’m ready for a change.”

Looking down at the box again, you can’t believe it’s taken you this long to piece together what she’s doing. “You’re moving?”

She nods, a grim smile on her face, a poor attempt at her usual perkiness. “I figured I needed a fresh start.”

“Where to?”

“Boston. I got a new job.”

You rack your brain, trying to figure out what it is that she does. She must have told you at some point but nothing is coming to mind. It’s not hard to figure out why though. You’d been so absorbed with your whole scheme you forgot to take a second to actually listen to her. Regardless, it’s no excuse. Amelie had been nothing but kind to the both of you so you don’t have the heart to ask her what it is she does.

“Where?” You ask hoping it sounds like just another question.

“The Boston Globe.” She replies, perking up a bit.

You find yourself smiling brighter just to cheer her up, “That’s huge! Congratulations!”

“Congratulations.” Loki parrots, shooting her one of his more genuine smirks.

“Thanks, it’s a little terrifying moving to a new city but I’m actually starting to get pretty excited!”

“I’ve found the things that are terrifying are usually very rewarding.” This time Loki doesn’t speak the words Amelie but keeps that intense gaze on you.

You shiver.

“I’ve found so too.” You murmur, only having eyes for him.

Amelie chuckles, “I’m so glad you two have sorted things out, you’re adorable.”

On anyone else there would have been spite laced through her words but you know hers are genuine. You hear no malice behind them.

“Do you need any help,” Loki gestures to the box she’s adjusted her grip on for probably the tenth time since you’ve started the conversation, “With those I mean.”

“No, no, I’ve got it. But thanks anyways! Not to be rude or anything, but I’ve really got to get going, if I want to get to my new place before dark.”

“No worries.” You shift your bags to one hand and place a hand on her shoulder, “It was really nice running into you again Amelie. Good luck with everything.”

“It really was! Don’t be a stranger (y/n), you have my number!”

With her true smile returned, you turn and head toward your apartment.

“Did you have any idea that she was a journalist?” You ask once she’s out of earshot.

“I actually listened to her when she was talking.” Loki sasses.

You shove him playfully with your shoulder. “My mind was preoccupied.”

He raises a brow.

“No need to be full of yourself, they weren’t all thoughts of you.” You laugh, “But I just can’t picture her as a serious journalist. She’s so…cheery?”

He gets a little closer, “I think there’s more to her than she lets on.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“It happens more often than you would think.”

You roll your eyes, “sure.”

“It has everything to do with the fact that I never lose.”

“Except when we play pool.” You correct.

You stop at a light and he looks down at you, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I’m willing to bet that I’ll win the next game.”

“I’ll take that bet if you promise not to use any of your,” you wiggle your fingers in the air, “magical voodoo.”

He shoots you a deadpan look that never fails to make you laugh. You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to the amount of sass he can put into one look.

“Come on Loki, no bet until you promise.”

“I promise.” He dips his head slightly, conceding.

You jut up your chin, “what do I get when I win?”

He shoots you a wolfish grin that makes your toes curl, “You’ll have to see when we get home.”

Tag List:

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#Loki Laufeyson #loki #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #loki x reader #MCU fic #MCU fanfiction #fan fiction #marvel fanfiction #fanfic

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tarithenurse · 5 years

Text

On my mind, in my soul

Prompt: Got three things to go by on this from @maladaptive-ninja-returns : A tiger’s eye pendant, a library (which I decided could be private), and the song Floating by Alina Baraz (passages shown as blockquotes). Pairing: Loki x Burglar!reader. Content: Crime, restraint, drinking, pining, teasing, deceit, lemons and lemonjuice. A/N: It’s the Loki we know, but he’s made himself a home on Earth, curating an impressive collection of valuables from across the universe – all for himself and the fame he finds despite the New York incident.

It’s in moments like these that you feel alive. Heartbeat’s slowed to a steady thump that counts each second, dictates the timing of your movements to reach a level of perfection otherwise impossible to achieve. The shadows belong to you, guarding the path you pick through the quiet mansion.

The place’s almost familiar after the many times you’ve tagged along with groups, visited under pretence of being a tourist, a student, another collector with a rare pass to the prestigious private collection of Loki Odinson. Or is Laufeyson maybe more fitting? you wonder as you pass by a glass-encased exhibit of Jotun spears – the cold from the container soothing the skin even at a distance. Still you continue, quiet footstep never once causing the floor to creak. Tugging yourself into the shadows, you count for the guard to exit the room ahead, knowing which way his predetermined route will take him and how much time you have to finally reach your objective.

The EMP is small, only knocking out the security of that one cabinet. With a flourish, you pull out the meter and attach it to the base of lacquered wood, smiling as the reading comes back as a series of zeros. The tiniest of tinkling can be heard from the tools that work through the hinges rather than the (probably) boobytrapped lock, and as you place the small doors on the floor (dart-contraption and all), you can’t help but smile.

And then, finally, you cradle the one thing you’re after in your hand. For a moment, you allow the rush of the accomplishment to surge through your body. Tiny flecks of light dance across the surroundings even in the dimly illuminated room which makes the colours all the more prominent. Fiery agates come alive, bleeding into the black sapphires, and peridots, stopped only by a pale, white of the rarer kind of topaz. And then it’s gone. Tugged into a tiny velvet pouch which in turn disappears into your bra. A bit of assembly is needed before you can leave – you’re not the kind of burglar that leaves a mess behind. 30 seconds. You have to hurry now or the guard will see you.

Pausing by the last door, you can see the window on the other side of the library. The problem is that the curtains aren’t quite closed anymore, something you had been careful to do because you didn’t want to lock the window behind you. Stealing a glance, there’s no one in sight. Maybe you’d been unfortunate and a guard or maid had found the irregularity? It’s a possibility, but the doubt pulls your further into the darkness until you feel a cool body press against your back.

“I admire your skill, little thief.” The whispered words fan the tiny hairs on your neck. “It was certainly delightful to watch your work, but I’m afraid I can’t let you leave with what’s mine.”

You hold still as a cool hand reaches up and unzips your tight jacket. Maybe a slight shiver betrays you when his fingers brush against your breast. Maybe it’s something else. Either way, you can feel the chuckle in his chest.

“My my…” His lips graze the shell of your ear, his voice a soft purr. “Perhaps we can come to an understanding that won’t involve your Midgardian police.”

Turning carefully in his grasp, you finally lay eyes on the owner of the estate and the jewellery you’d attempted to steal. Dark, green eyes sparkle in the shadows further above you than you’d expected, his face pale and hard as if made of the finest marble. A smile that matches his grows on your lips, crooked and tempting, fitting the way you bat your eyelashes coyly.

“Mister Loki,” you purr, making sure to maintain the contact of your bodies even now, “what an honour to meet you in person.”

You know what I need. It's in the way that you're holding me, bringing me close.

“An honour?” Teeth glint dangerously as his smile broadens. “And here I thought honour wasn’t involved considering you’re stealing from me.”

A cool hand finds a resting place on the small of your back, making your arch into him. With a tiny giggle, you grab the opportunity to press you chest up, revealing the cleavage through the zipper he hasn’t closed. Shifting the weight allows a knee and inner thigh to travel towards his hip. Was that a sigh?

“Can’t blame a girl for doing anything to get your attention, can you?”

Nothing stops you from tangling fingers in his raven hair. No one objects as your palm smooths the fabric of the silken shirt that enhances his eyes oh so perfectly. A heat’s building inside you from the tension while you search for the line that shouldn’t be crossed, exploring the surprisingly muscular expanses of his chest and shoulders. For a moment there’s no world beyond this little shadowy corner. No before or after as you stretch to plant a soft kiss on his jaw. Then his cheek. It’s with delight that you sense Loki turn his head in search for your mouth, and you reward him. Lips mold perfectly although battling for control, an urge that can be felt as hands roam.

It’s as your tongue slips past his teeth that your hands recover the small pouch, but you still indulge him a bit longer. Or maybe it’s for your own sake? The moan that escapes you wasn’t planned, at least. And then you pull the zip tie with an effortless grace that allows you to slip away, skip across the private library while green eyes struggle to focus on your lithe form. Cool night air brushes your hair into the face for a second as [Y/E/C] locks with green, then you’re gone in the night.

Every time you move. You’re looking like you’re dancing.

…

A part of you had insisted that it would be the most foolish thing you could do.

Still…here you are dressed as though you belonged with the rich people shuffling through the manor…and with jewellery that should be more than familiar to the host. Originally, you’d intended to sell the Tiger’s Eye Pendant, and it had bothered you when you couldn’t get yourself to part with it. Now it graced your chest, adding the only colour to an outfit you had “borrowed” in a similar (though less exiting) way.

Why’ve I come? Weaving through the crowd, your hands are itching to relieve more than one daft, old granny of the decoration that clearly is too heavy for the frail person. Instead, you grab a crystal glass from a tray before heading down a corridor without a proper aim in your steps.

The noise of the party is muffled in this part of the house. Coming to a halt, it takes a moment before you recognize the shadowy corner, making your heart beat faster than it should and a heat build deep within you. There’s no one in the corner, however, spurring you on to towards the door left ajar to the private library.

Slipping inside, it’s nearly comforting to see the curtains slightly withdrawn to reveal the window you’d used for a hasty exit on your last visit. This time, there’s no hurrying needed, and you admire the view of wall-to-wall books on three sides, only broken by the door and a few paintings. Soft chairs and couches litter the room at random together with low tables of glass or metal. An old globe is split, standing in the corner with each half containing bottles and carafes.

“Miss. You’re not allowed in here.” The voice from the door is jarring, brusque.

Turning around, you flash a bright smile at the neatly dressed guard. “My bad, got lost trying to find the ladies’ room.”

Reunited with the other guests, you suppose it’s lucky he didn’t think more of your little detour. Slipping a passerby’s bracelet into your purse, there’s little else to entertain you than the well-equipped bar at the other side of the dancefloor and you’re in the middle of the swaying couples when cool fingers slip around your wrist.

“How kind of you to come,” Loki purrs softly, “especially as you weren’t invited.” Circling each other, his grasp changes to that of a dancer’s, and you find yourself following his graceful steps without meaning to. “Or have you come to return what belongs to me?”

“And here I thought you’d be happy simply to see me.”

The steps you take to get away from him are transformed into a flourishing spin before landing you back in his arms, flush against his chest. Green eyes sparkle like ice. Even the air around him is cool, making you gasp as though you’ve jumped into the chilled water of a forest lake, and the sway of his hips does absolutely nothing to keep the little mental bath a solitary experience. Unbidden by you but spurred on by Loki’s hands shimming over your body, images invade your mind. A dreamy scenario of his naked body against yours in the green waters. Crystalline waves lapping against your breasts with each movement.

“One does not rule out the other.”

You have to blink to refocus on the man smirking at you. I’m in too deep. Still, there are no protests as he leads you away from the crowd, retracing the steps that lead down a darkened corridor.

I'm swimming in everything you said. I'm thinking 'bout jumping in instead. I've got you skinny dipping deep inside my head.

You’re vaguely aware of the click of the lock, sealing the two of you in the library, but by this point Loki’s mouth has found you and is exploring anything within reach, causing a delightful shiver to spread whenever his lips make contact with your skin. Soft kisses grow greedy, turn to teasing bites and suckling along the collarbones, below the ear, while his hands deftly strips your clothes away leaving nothing but the pendant.

Moaning into his mouth, your own hands have busied themselves too and soon there are no barriers between warm hands and cool body. Each muscle bunches and rolls like ropes as Loki lifts you against the door, cool hands holding you effortlessly by your ass and thighs to bring your chest within reach of his mouth. The pleasurable sting causes a new wave of excitement to pool between your legs and you wriggle to gain friction, finding it as the shockingly cold cockhead nudges slick folds. Again, and again. Using your legs for leverage and allowing your nails to dig into the ivory skin of his shoulders, you roll your hips until each inch of his considerable length is coated. Every fiber of your being is charged with the energy dancing between the two bodies, a latent power waiting to be released in an explosion. There. Loki’s cock’s aligned perfectly with the shivering core, and the world stops long enough for sharp inhalations to be drawn out and for gazes to lock before you pull yourself onto the hard member until he’s fully sheathed in the silky heat.

It could’ve been your mind playing tricks on you when the room seems to spin and tilt, but the velvet fabric of the chaise longue against your sweaty back proves otherwise. Not once has he left you completely empty until now. Trapped beneath his form, you whimper at the loss – a whimper that turns into a drawn-out moan as Loki re-enters slowly, careful to watch every little reaction dancing across your face. And you let him. You allow yourself to give yourself over.

Slow thrusts turn faster. Harder. Fabric burns your shoulder blades as he partially lifts partially shoves you onto the sole armrest until you are arching enough to watch the bookcases dance upside-down with each rutting roll of his hips. Teeth grasp already sensitive nipples while strong hands hold you in place. Strong hand. Just one because the other skims past the hipbone before coming to rest, pushing against the pounding of his cock and the thumb works slow, insistent circles on your clit.

“Let go, kitten,” Loki whispers hoarsely, “let me hear you roar.”

And you do. Black and white dances before your eyes as the pent-up energy is released. Flaring through you as if to consume all that you are, it grabs your body and shakes it, tosses it over the precipice you’ve been balancing on. As if from far away, you hear his name shouted with your own voice until both body and sound fails you with one last spasm, eliciting a cold surge starting at the very core then spreading through you entirely.

Heavy breath fans your neck and collarbone as proof that Loki must have dragged you back onto the chaise longue proper. It takes a moment longer before he pulls away, leaving you empty and weak. A soft glitter embraces you, dancing across skin and between legs as you watch through your lashes. The same’s happening to Loki, and when the magic retreats it leaves you refreshed and dressed…save for the Tiger’s Eye Pendant which now hangs from the owner’s fingers.

“Take time to recover.” He’s almost closed the door behind him when he pauses to look back. “Don’t fool yourself thinking I’ll be this gentle another time.”

Some part of you wants to complain about losing the jewellery, but mostly your body’s sated, and really…what had you expected?

2am, and I'm still breathing. Staring at my thoughts floating up to the ceiling.

Getting to your feet’s a wobbly affair, a tendency that passes but leaves a sweet soreness behind that still has hold of you by the time you make it home and collapse onto your cold bed. Emptying the purse out, you stack bracelets, rings, and necklaces separately until…peridots and fiery agates shimmer in the light from the naked lightbulb. Tentatively, you reach for the familiar pendant half expecting the fingers to pass straight through only to find that it’s very much there. Cool and hard in your palm. Turning it over, you find thin letters etched into the smooth golden back – letters you know are for you only.

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