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softsan · 5 years ago

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NCT MAFIA AU (Johnny) [M]

🖇Heavy hearts wasted on worthless words (pt.3)

MASTERLIST

PARTS: | 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 |

MAFIA PROFILES | Y/N’S NAMES

GENRE: Mafia AU, College AU, Smut, Jealousy

QUOTE: “Johnny's perception, warped. His inside's darkening. It was something he wasn't used to. Such bitter jealously. The boy laughed at what you said to him. His proximity to you. The air you shared. Johnny's closed his fist.”

WARNINGS: Graphic scenes of violence, Sexual themes, Possessive themes, Sexual teasing (receiving),

The city had been struck with a heatwave for the last two weeks.

You fanned youself. Sweat dripped, rolling down the spine of your back. It felt like a million degrees. You slumped back onto the arid grass, parched from the intense rays of the blinding sun.

The air remained bone-dry, there was no relief indoors or out. Coincidentally, the campus cooling system in the dorms had overheated too, leaving several students to wallow about, seeking any sort of shade available.

A hand stretched above you are offering a bottle of water. You squinted your eyes noticing Caleb smiling down at you. Caleb was in your renaissance history class. Once you had the good intention of setting him up with your best friend Dae.

"Hot?"

"Dying." You responded dramatically, reaching for the water bottle. You twisted the cap, spilling the water down your chin.

He chuckled, crouching down closer.

"How's your art project going?"

You groaned, your thoughts grimly returning to Johnny. After the 'incident' in the art room, he had been avoiding you. Three booked sessions and he had canceled on every one of them. You had given up on texting him too. He didn't have the heart to answer you back anyway.

You could swallow down your feelings for Johnny, you weren't the needlessly clingy type, but you did need to finish your art project or else you risked failing.

"Not good?" Caleb queried.

"I think my model bailed on me again."

Caleb's face lit up, "You mean it?"

You narrowed your eyes. "Why do you look so happy? I'm screwed here."

Caleb shrugged, resting his palms down on the ground. "Maybe you're not."

You shot him a look.

"I wrapped up one of my assignments early, so I have some free time."

"You?" You replied incredulously.

"Don't say it like that. I'm not that bad looking." He joked.

Your eyes roamed down at his physique. You hadn't given Caleb much of a thought, but he was fair on the eyes.

Why not? You needed to finish your art project with or without Johnny.

"Thanks," You nudged him lightly with your elbow. "I owe you one."

"You do and I'll come to collect." He winked before rolling onto his feet.

Collect? You shook your head, he probably wanted you to cover him in class again or something just as lame.

───

Johnny huffed, stripping off his shirt and wiped away the perspiration on his forehead. The heat was ridiculous. He threw his clothing on his bed, sidestepping to the vanity.

It wasn't just the heat that bothered him. It was you. To be more accurate the lack of you. His fingers gingerly brushed the paper napkin of your cartoon drawing pinned to the mirror.

He had been sent out of town on a mission. Something barbarous and twisted. He stared at his own reflection. The crimson blood no longer smeared across his cheeks. He never questioned what he did, he was cold-blooded, a savage.

His mind drifted to you, your sinless smile.

What would you think of me if you knew all I had done?

The thought brought him dread.

But he was selfish for your touch, your laugh. You had given him a taste and every fiber of his being wailed for more.

───

You sat in the library, using a book to fan yourself. You removed your caramel beret and unbuttoned a quarter of your cardigan, leaving your shoulders exposed.

"How can you wear that?" You nodded towards Caleb's sweatshirt.

"I'm used to this kind of weather." He replied casually. He picked up your beret, feigning interest in it "I thought you were painting today?"

"I am, I've booked the art room for 3pm." You reached for Caleb's wrist, tilting his watch in your direction. "It looks like we still have twenty minutes."

He fidgeted under your grasp. You let him go, he had been acting oddly.

"What's up with you lately?" You said straight out.

Caleb looked taken back, carefully placing your beret on the table.

"What do you mean?" He said unconvincingly.

You frowned.

He scratched the back of his head awkwardly before spluttering, "There is a girl I wanna ask out from my renaissance class."

You let go of the book, your finger raised to your head trying to think.

Dae? It made sense. When the semester had first started you had strategically planned on ways they could sit together. Dae was a darling, who deserved to be loved. You had been pushing her to date since the two of your moved into a dorm together.

You smacked yourself. Dae had Ten now. Well, kind of. The two of them had some love, hate affair going on. Caleb looked so hopeful too.

"Dae is kind of seeing someone at the moment." You cleared, feeling slightly guilty.

"Dae?" His brows furrowed with confusion.

"Yeah, the girl you want to ask."

"I don't like-" He paused. "Neverminded." He got out of his seat abruptly, shaking the table.

You grabbed onto it to stop it from tumbling. The librarian glared at the both of you. You waved an apology.

"Caleb!" You called after him quietly. He stopped as if he was considering something.

He turned back.

"Where are you goin-.”

He cut you off with his mouth. You blinked stunned. His lips moved to try and encourage yours. However, you stayed frozen.

He finally peeled himself away, a proud grin on his face.

Caleb is a nice guy. Your mind tried to resonate. You felt naught, his kiss listless and short of passion. But he's not Johnny.

───

Johnny leaned against a building, overseeing the college courtyard. His arms crossed over his chest, his eyes scanning. He ignored the curious eyes that glanced his way.

You liked to book the art room for Fridays. You had once told him, it was because it was the day you had the least classes.

"Are you new here?" A voice cooed.

Johnny spared a glance towards the girl a few feet away. She flipped her hair behind her shoulders, parading her skin-tight romper. A huddle of her friends gossiped behind her.

"No." He answered curtly.

"I can take you for a tour? She remained unswayed.

Johnny saw your outline, you push back a door stepping out of the building.

You were glad to be out of the stuffy library. Caleb was hot on your heels, babbling beside you.

Johnny set off in a light jog, his face breaking into a smile. It had been too long since he'd seen you...

His smile disappeared.

You were with a boy dressed in a sweatshirt and sneakers that would have cost him a few thousand. The boy draped his arm over your shoulders.

You politely, unraveled Caleb's hold, changing the subject into something you were more equipped with handling. "You can't distract me while I'm painting. I need the utmost concentration."

Johnny's perception, warped. His inside's darkening. It was something he wasn't used to. Such bitter jealously. The boy laughed at what you said to him. His proximity to you. The air you shared. Johnny's closed his fist.

You felt something rip you backward. You yelped, your sights falling on a handsome man. You battered your eyes, a frenzy sizzling from his hand that enveloped yours.

Johnny.

"Hey!" Caleb, puffed. "Who do you think you are?"

"Who do you think you are?" Johnny's voice was low as he took a threatening step forward.

You placed your palm against Johnny's chest to stop him advancing.

After weeks of radio silence, why had he come back?

"Um... Caleb, this is my model."

Caleb studied Johnny up and down. He didn't look pleased.

"Who is he?" Johnny demanded.

"I'm her model now."

Johnny's grip got tighter.

"Ah," You flashed between the two parties. "Caleb, I'll call you later. I need to talk to Johnny for a bit."

Caleb heaved, replacing his leer with a look of contest. He approached you, he had been still holding your caramel beret. He gently placed it back on your head, smoothing your ponytail to the side.

Johnny's jaw clenched. Fighting the urge to break the man's kneecaps.

───

"Johnny." You bit your bottom lip.

Your fringe stuck to your skin, beads of sweat balled on your forehead.

Did it get hotter all of a sudden?

Johnny roamed around the art room. His eyes were ablaze.

"You replaced me."

"Well, you bailed on our last few sessions."

"I was working." His response was tart.

"You never texted me back either."

He had no answer for that. He hadn't.

Did he feel conflicted? Yes. Did he hate the thought of you finding out about his world? Yes. The danger, the violence. Yet, despite everything, did he still want you?

Yes.

Johnny leaned closer. You stepped back, resting against the chalkboard.

"Is he your boyfriend?"

You shook your head immediately.

"Have the two of you ever?" Johnny's eyes flickered down to your lips.

You hesitated, and he noticed. You heard a growl escape his chest.

Your legs felt like jelly. Your heartbeat pattering against your ribcage.

"He kissed me." You quickly explained.

I don't have to explain it to him. I don't owe Johnny anything. But by the way, his chest expanded and his nostrils flared. You felt otherwise.

He pinned your wrists above your head, you squirmed under Johnny's heated gaze.

Your mouth dropped in surprise, his knee hoisted you higher. Your legs desperately curling around Johnny's hips to keep yourself from falling.

He seemed to be pleased by his position a praising rumble leaving his throat. His free hand caressed down the curve of your side. Your skin burned under his touch. His hand lowering down to your thigh.

He noticed the hitch in your breath as he edged closer. Your flimsy skirt allowed for such sweet access.

"Johnny." Your voice, airy.

His lips leaned closer, brushing tenderly across yours. You felt the gentle, drag of his fingers across your lacy underwear. He devoured your moan, slipping his tongue mid your parted lips. The tease of his tongue had your insides scorching. He rubbed harder. The wetness between your legs stroked his ego. Such a pretty, reaction from just his fingers.

His mouth traveled down your jaw, you mewled as he ripped the cruel material that stopped him from his quest. He traced your opening, painful slow.

"Y/N".

Your eyes fluttered, his stare was bold. He kept his eyes on you, as he inserted his fingers.

You groaned, weak from the controlled thrusts. He built you up gradually. Your back arching. Johnny nipped your cardigan's buttons free with his teeth. It fell down your shoulders, his speed increasing inside you.

Your bra bounced with your chest, the cups struggling to support the curvature of your breasts. He wasted no time toying with the nipple that peeked behind the lace material.

You were close when his merciless hand stopped.

Johnny's phone rang.

You let out a depraved cry. He let go of your wrists, to dig out his phone.

It was Taeyong. He growled, at the terrible timing.

Johnny answered, placing the phone against his ear. "Johnny."

He was barely listening. Th glazed expression on your angelic features.

He began to pump again, you clasped one hand over your mouth to muffle your moans. Johnny remained on the phone, pleasuring the honey before him. You did your best to hold back your flustered whines. Your nails digging into Johnny's bicep. You buckled, your hips as he sped up, your core tightening.

A wicked grin splayed across Johnny's face. Such a good girl. You were trying so hard to hush yourself whilst he was speaking to Taeyong.

"I need you to come back right now."

That was the last thing Johnny wanted to hear from his boss.

"I'll be there." He hung up, flinging his phone to the side.

Johnny's mouth crashed back to yours, lulling out your moans.

No one would satisfy you like him. He would ensure you never forget that.

"Johnny!" Your legs shook, your body shaking. Heat coursing through your veins.

"Let go, baby."

You did. Your cry music to his ears.

You stayed wrapped together for a couple of minutes. You were panting, exhaustingly resting your head on his shoulder as he kissed your ear.

"I need to go," He told you regrettably.

"Are you sure?" You felt his hardness against you.

"Trust me I don't want to." He slowly rested your feet back on the ground. Johnny smoothed down your skirt, his last kiss was wistful.

You lean against the chalkboard again watching him leave the art room.

MONI’S NOTE: Mafia Johnny’s third installment. I hope you all enjoy it. If you do, please consider reading the other member's parts. They are all a part of the same universe, and you may even notice some cross-over between them.

TAGLIST: If you’d like to be tagged in this fic please send me a message.

#nct #nct johnny #Johnny seo #nct 127 #nct mafia au #nct scenarios #nct reactions #nct smut #nct fanfiction #nct fanfic #nct au #kpop fanfiction #kpop fanfic #kpop reactions #kpop scenarios #Kpop imagines #nct imagines #mine

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ikeromantic · 4 years ago

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Horns

Day 24 of Ikemektober!

I chose Shakespeare - I’ve no idea what happens in his route. This is entirely my brain (caffeinated), the prompt, and deciding The Bard had to get his own story. It’s spicy fluff. Approx 1800 words.

Will picked up the costumes for his next production - a new play, inspired by his patron. They were fanciful pieces, with bat wings and goat horns and hooves. There was even a serpent-skin coat in the lot. Perfect for the story of a devilish king and his court of impish jesters.

The play was equal parts suffering and passion. He hoped Comte would come to see it, or that rumors of it would reach his ears at least. Taunting the old vampire was a dangerous sport, but for William, that only made it a more alluring pursuit.

If he had eternity, or close to it, to make his plays, there was no subject that was taboo. He would push his art to its limit - and his life with it, as his plays were so enmeshed with experience that sometimes he had trouble separating one from the other.

“Will? Will, is that you?” The voice caught him mid-thought. His arms were so full of costumerie that he couldn’t see who was speaking, but he knew anyhow.

“What fair maid calls mine name so sweetly? Could it be my newest friend?”

She laughed in reply, a bright sound. Unburdened. “I don’t know why you always speak in poetry, Will.”

He felt her hand touch his arm, the lightest brush of her fingertips like a touch of fire. “Do you need help carrying those in?”

“Fear not, I’ve strength enough to finish - but if you could - the door?” Shakespeare heard her open the door to his home. He walked in and set the costumes on the nearest table.

The girl followed him in, her eyes darting about in curious fashion - as if she wanted to see everything before he stopped her looking.

Will smiled. It was strange to see her here, alone. He wondered if the Comte’s imps knew she’d come. He somehow doubted it. “To what do I owe this unforeseen pleasure? I hope tis nothing untoward.”

“Oh, no. I was just going to market to pick up a few things and I saw you getting out of the carriage.” She shrugged, the gesture gentle and indefinable feminine. “I thought maybe you’d like to have a coffee with me - or a tea. We didn’t get to talk much last time I saw you.”

“No, indeed we did not. You are always most welcome here, whither you’ve only passed by or come to visit with intent.” He motioned to his parlor. “Please, go in and sit down. I’ll put on some tea.”

Her bright smile returned. “Good! I was hoping you weren’t busy right now, but when I saw you with all those - clothes?” She glanced at the pile with wide eyes, “I thought maybe you were in the middle of something.”

“I am never to busy to see you, fair one.” He found his own mouth curling upward with genteel pleasure. The sensation made him vaguely uneasy, as if this was dangerous ground he tread. She always did this - setting him on edge with her cheery disposition. He wondered if something dark lay beneath it, something that, with prying, he could uncover. If so, it lay deep.

Will left to put on a pot of tea. When he came back, she was still in the entry hall, picking at the pile of costumes.

“What are you doing?”

She jumped back, dropping her hands to her sides. “I - sorry! They just looked so interesting. I wanted to see if I could figure out the play from the clothing.” Her hands grasped her skirt, a nervous gesture.

Shakespeare closed the distance between them in a few quick steps. He knew how unnerving his heterochromatic gaze was, especially on silly little girls. “And? Did you find me out?”

“M-midsummer Night’s Dream?” She guessed, voice full of hope.

“No.” Will leaned down until his nose almost touched hers. “I am afraid you’ve now been rude on two accounts. Searching through what belongs to another, and assuming a dramatist is bound by their older work.” The irritation he felt around her lent heat to his words, a sharpness despite his soft voice.

She looked down. “I’m so sorry, Will. I didn’t mean to be rude.” She sounded almost at the edge of tears, far more upset at his reprimand than he expected.

Will drew a line with his finger at the edge of her jaw and tipped her face up to his. “I shall forgive you this once, if you consent to a single favor. What say you, fair maid?”

“A favor?” She was trembling, her pulse racing. Excitement or fear? Will wasn’t certain.

“Indeed. I’ve need to check each costume you’ve handily sorted through in that pile. I can try on the gents’ clothing but the ladies’ outfits I must use a mannequin for. Today, you will be my mannequin.”

Her face brightened, though he could still feel her galloping heartbeat. “I could - could do that. It sounds exciting!” She bit her bottom lip, suddenly thoughtful. “Would you tell me what the play is about?”

“Perchance, if I am pleased.” Shakespeare stepped away from her, relieved and disappointed by the distance between them.

She immediately headed back to the pile of costumes, picking at them until she’d found a woman’s costume. “What is this one supposed to be?” She held up the oddly cut dress. It was all long, straight lines and harsh edges. Dark colors.

“It is clothing from the future.” He couldn’t help the wicked smile that lit up his thin face.

“Oh! Neat!” Her innocent enthusiasm missed the point entirely. She took a step toward the parlor, uncertain where she should go to change.

“Yes, you may undress in safety there. I shall refrain from opening the door.”

The tea kettle summoned him with its high pitched whistle. He went to pour the tea, and brought back a tray to set out for them both once the costume-modeling was done.

For himself, he chose the horned outfit. It was Faustian, at a glance. The jacket was black-furred, and the boot cover was made of hoof. The horns themselves were from a goat, but polished to obsidian black. The knobby twists seemed to capture the afternoon sun, reflecting nothing back.

Shakespeare stepped into this study to change. It felt odd to slide on the heavy jacket. The pants were a little big on him, but solidly made and adjustable with the addition of a belt or suspenders. He slid the headpiece on last, savoring the weight of the horns.

The mirror showed him what a monster he’d become with just the change in wardrobe. He looked wild now, like a faun or a devil, out to hunt virgins in sacred groves. Will shook his hair loose to further the effect. In this, he was the divine hunter. The gentleman demon. It was funny how a costume could often bring out secrets closely held.

He stepped back into the entry hall. The girl was still shuffling around in the parlor. He could hear her.

“Are you in need of assistance, fair one?”

“I- uh - the buttons are, they’re kind of hard to reach.”

“Then rescue you, I shall. For what troubles lie under the sun that cannot be bested by two hearts in concert?” He pushed open the door.

Sunlight came through the curtains, painting the room in sunset hue. The girl was standing straight, trying in vain to hold the gown up with one hand, the other reaching for buttons ill-placed. Her cheeks were stained pink, eyes wide.

“Tis no matter, fair maid. I’ve seen many a pretty half in, and half-out of costume. You’ve no need to fear my eye, nor my helping hands.” Will tried to reassure her, though he found her discomfort amusing. He had, in fact, seen many beautiful actresses in all stages of undress, but none quite like her.

Her face didn’t have the diamond hardness of the determined beauty. She lacked the edge of feminine weaponry, as if ignorant of her body’s charms. It only made him more away of her bare shoulders, the curve of her breast at the side. The naked line of her back as she turned to present him with the impossible buttons.

“You look amazing,” she babbled. “Like a faun! It’s called a faun, right? But . . . more cultured?” She inhaled sharply as Will brushed a finger down her spine.

“More of a devil, I’m afraid.” Her shiver provoked in him a need to touch her. He resisted it. He was the writer of passions - a witness. Not a participant. The director did not star in his dramas. He buttoned the dress and stepped away from her.

The girl turned to face him, brushing a hand down the front of the dress to smooth it. The dark blue was perfect for her. And the way it clung to her curves - indecent. Will did not think he’d see a clearer map of her body even if she stood nude before him. Best was the slit up the side of the skirt, as if made for a dancer. Her skin tantalized in glimpses, drawing the eye.

“You’re staring. Is it - is it bad?”

“No.” Shakespeare shook himself. “It is a perfect costume for the victim of a demon.” He gave a wicked sharp smile. “Do you feel like a victim, fair one?”

She started to laugh, but stopped at his forbidding expression. “You kind of scare me sometimes, Will.”

“And fear me you should. For I am a wicked creature.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her against his chest. She smelled sweet, like perfume.

“Will,” she gasped, trying to pull away.

“It is too late for you, fair maid. To my lair you came, and now you shall never leave.” He lowered his head to her neck, letting her feel the slightest prick of his fangs.

“Th-this isn’t funny. Let me go,” she whimpered.

Shakespeare realized his own heart was beating as wildly as hers, his breath as ragged. He pushed her away. “I am - am only acting my part. The horned devil.”

“Then you’re a pretty good actor.” She stared at him, wary. “I think I should probably go.”

Will reached up, touching the cold, sharp tip of one of the horns. “Yes, perhaps you should. Send the dress - no, better, keep the dress. It fits not the character of my new script, but I think it sits perfectly upon you.”

She blushed. “Ah, alright. If you’re sure.” Though she took a few steps toward the exit, it seemed she would hesitate, now uncertain if he posed a danger to her.

Shakespeare stepped closer to her, widening his thin, sharp smile. “Unless, fair maid, you’d like to stay and allow me to remove the garment from your skin . . . with my teeth.”

“Nope! No thank you!” She practically ran away, comical in her haste.

Will stood there in the sun-drenched parlor, still smelling her light perfume. It felt so much emptier with her gone. And though he’d hoped for peace in her absence, he felt only turmoil.

“Perhaps I truly am bedeviled,” he mused. The blackened horns atop his head bobbed in silent agreement.

#ikemektober #ikemen vampire #ikevamp shakespeare #ikevamp william #ikemen shakespeare #ikemen william #otome #otome guys #fanfiction #fanfic #fluff

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scapegrace74-blog · 5 years ago

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Saorsa, Chapter 27

A/N Here is the next installment of Saorsa. Jamie finally acknowledges what we knew all along, and Claire takes a bath.

Rather than link to all previously posted chapters, I’ll just direct those of you wanting to catch up on your Saorsa-reading to my AO3 page, where the fic is posted in its entirety.

Thank you to each of you liking and reblogging! It does my little fanfic writer’s heart good.

Shearing sheep hadn’t changed much in two hundred years, Jamie thought as he hefted another startled ewe from the shearing pen and pinned her to the ground with a well-placed knee. Murtagh mentioned that some of the larger farms used a mechanical trimmer, but they both preferred the time-honoured method of metal shears, sharp as daggers. Today was their third day. Jamie’s shoulders and arms were throbbing from the constant effort, but they were almost done.

“Tis good fortune we’re having a bonnie spring,” Murtagh commented as they broke for a drink of fresh water from the well.

“Aye. I need tae be on the road wi’in the week, if I’m tae be back a’fore the bairn arrives.”

“I’m surprised the mistress is allowin’ ye tae go at all, wi’ the way she fusses o’er ye like a wee whelp.”

Jamie’s mouth opened and closed, trying to find words to defend his masculine honour against the truth in the old man’s claim. He caught the twitch of Murtagh’s lips through his heavy beard. He cuffed him on the shoulder, laughing at himself.

“She’s lining ‘er nest, ye ken. I reckon she needs me tae practice upon, a’fore the we’un gets here,” he quipped.

“Oh, aye. I’m sure tha’s it.” Murtagh’s sarcasm was so thick, you could serve it on toast.

Jamie groaned as he lowered himself into the armchair in their bedchamber, trying to reach down to untie his laces and failing miserably.

“Here, let me,” Claire offered, before realizing she couldn’t bend over the growing bulk of her belly.

“We’re a fine pair. I’m too lame and ye’re too big a’bout the middle.”

“Speak for yourself,” his wife retorted as she carefully lowered herself to the floor. She gently eased off each boot, then proceeded to unbutton and draw his trews down as well. He sighed and cupped her jaw as she began to gently knead the bunched muscles of his thighs.

“Careful, Sassenach. Ye wouldna want tae start somethin’ ne’er of us is in fit condition tae finish,” he warned, feeling himself stir despite his bone-deep exhaustion.

“Wouldn’t I?” Warm eyes gleamed up at him. And then, more gently, “Lean back.”

Unsure what was being asked of him, he complied by letting his back fall against the cushions, his long legs stretched on either side of where Claire knelt on the floor. Having never accustomed himself to the modern notion of underclothing, he was naked from the waist down and hardening quickly below the flimsy hem of his linen top.

Leaning forward so that her moist breath seeped between the buttons of his shirt and over the fine hairs of his belly, Claire began to run her hands languorously up and down his legs, reaching higher with each pass.

“Sassenach,” he warned, and then more urgently, “Claire.”

“Shhhh,” she whispered, before her fingertips brushed against his baws.

“Christ!”

“I’ve never done this before,” she murmured, as though speaking to herself. “Tell me if… well… if it doesn’t feel good.”

And before he could wonder what she meant, she was lifting his shirt, exposing his very emphatic endorsement of whatever she was planning. A tentative moist swipe against the head, where it lay aching against his quivering belly, and then a sensation unlike anything he’d ever experienced. It was the humid welcome of her sex combined with the nimble manipulation of her fine-boned hand, and yet so much more than the sum of those parts. A lightning bolt of sensation shot up his spine, lighting the back of his eyeballs with colourful explosions. A senseless groan burst from his lungs.

Between the exertions of shearing and the elaborate logistics of making love to a woman almost eight months with child, it had been nearly a week since he’d last lain with his wife. A lifetime, in the bountiful feast that marked their newborn marriage. He wasn’t certain it would have made much difference, though. Anything that felt this absurdly good was certain to be over soon, lest it kill him with pleasure.

As it was, it was mere minutes after first feeling her mouth around him before he knew the end was nigh.

“A dhia. Sassenach. Mo nighean donn. Christ, please, ye must…”

Whatever pleas he was trying to utter were lost to the onrush of his release, racing from his body with the force of a gale, whipping around to slam his head backwards as he groaned in blissful agony.

When he was next able to focus, Claire was carefully unbuttoning his shirt. She extended her hands so that he could help her to her feet. He rose as well, naked and blushing to the tips of his ears. Whatever had just happened, he felt compelled to apologize, if only he could do so without alluding to the actual event.

“Sassenach…” he began.

“Let’s get you washed up, shall we? It’s been a long day.”

He was still new to the art of reading his wife’s unspoken wishes, but this one was plain enough. She did not want to discuss or debate the propriety of what they’d just done, probably a bit shy herself. They would leave it here in the murky shadows of their bedchamber, where it could visit with the other nameless wonders they’d released inside its walls. He followed her docilely from the room.

One modern amenity Jamie had absolutely no qualms about embracing was indoor plumbing, and the associated boon of having a bath whenever a bath was needed or desired. Claire lit thick-trunked tapers in the washroom, formerly a servant’s room adjacent to the laird’s quarters. Bent over the billows of steam that rose from the gushing copper pipes, she reminded him of a painting of a water nymph he’d seen as a boy, all translucent skin and bonnie curls.

He gingerly lifted his legs over the high-backed tub and grimaced as the water seared his skin.

“Too hot?”

“Nah. Jus’ right.” He extended his hand gallantly, as though assisting a lady from her carriage. “Join me?” he offered, before adding, “If ye dinna think it immoral.”

Something about the scene struck them both as a trifle ridiculous, and they snickered.

Claire slipped her nightgown over her shoulders, letting it puddle around her feet, before carefully stepping into the water, holding onto Jamie for balance.

“Now what?” she challenged, eyebrow raised.

“Now I hold onto ye. Ye and the little one.” They sunk together into the steaming water.

She found a resting spot between his legs, forehead tucked under his jaw. Jamie amused himself by scoping up palmfuls of water and letting them loose to roam across the hills and valleys of her torso. Time slowed, as did the vigilant beating of his heart. The water cooled and one by one the tapers guttered, and still they did not move. It was in those peaceful moments, with nothing but the silky stroke of water, the honey whiff of candle wax and the quiet stirrings of a new life beneath the taut skin of her belly, that he realized he loved her. Not in the demure, fitting way that a man was meant to love his wife. But in a pivotal, essential way that was as integral to him as breathing and as endless as the tides.

“Ye’ll watch o’er her? Make certain she is no’ rebuildin’ the castle nor tilling the fields by hand, or whate’er stubborn notion settles in her hard heid?”

Murtagh had heard this request, or others very similar, every day for the past fortnight. It spoke to his forbearance that he produced his standard response without a flicker of exasperation.

“Aye, lad. I canna promise ye she willna be stubborn, but I’ll see her safe.”

It was the best he could hope for, and the primary reason Murtagh was staying behind at Lallybroch rather than accompanying Jamie on his journey to Galashiels, much to Claire’s vocal displeasure. She only acquiesced when it was agreed that Rupert would join him as far as Edinburgh, ostensibly to visit relatives. Jamie had an opinion on the true reason for Rupert’s sudden interest in leaving the Highlands for the first time, but he wouldn’t be sharing it with Murtagh.

Fourteen bales of wool were loaded carefully into the estate’s hay wagon. Weighing over a tonne, it would take both Clydesdale plow horses to drag the load over two hundred miles to Galashiels, near the border with England. Rupert would drive the wagon while Jamie rode his favourite horse, Donas.

The smoothest, most direct route southward was available to them only after nightfall, when motorized traffic was forbidden on the roadways on account of the blackout. That meant they’d do most of their travelling by night, which posed its own challenges. In addition to a small bag of provisions and spare clothing, Jamie was also armed with a dirk and a pistol, though he longed for the familiar heft of his broad sword.

The whole trip should take two fortnights, a little less than a month. The plan was to leave immediately after Easter, so he could be home by late April with time to spare before the Duke of Sandringham’s visit and Claire’s confinement.

In the early morning hours the day before his departure, Jamie crept out of the castle while everyone was still abed and walked up the hill to his parents’ graves. He was pleased to note that the exertion no longer winded him; that he had regained his previous strength. He owed that to Claire; that and so much more. She had given him back his freedom when he thought he was trapped in amber. Offered him a place to stand when every other foothold was lost. She was his redemption. Saorsa.

He knelt beside the graves, now cleaned of moss with bluebells sprouting between the stones. Resting his forehead against the cool stone, he began to pray. That Claire might be safe. That the bairn be healthy. That his voyage be swift and without peril. And selfishly, that he be the kind of man his parents would be proud of in this strange new world.

#my writing #outlander

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too-old-for-fangirling-but-idc · 5 years ago

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My little Squeaky Toy Pt.4 (Tom Hiddleston x Reader)

Summary: Tom and you continue to text each other. And after a few weeks Tom comes up with a surprise and the dinner you still owe him.

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Warnings: fluff, a tiny little bit of romance, mild swearing (not actually, there is like one swearword in the story), blushing, clumsiness, shy reader, slight angst, Tom Hiddleston is a ridiculous gentleman and sweetheart, sassy!Tom

Notes: (Y/C) = Your city (Y/F) = your friend’s name It took me longer than expected to edit it, I’m sorry for that. I just hope you’ll enjoy it anyways.

Word Count: 2361

Requested by: @eye106

Previous Parts: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

A few weeks had passed since the meeting in the art gallery, and you had managed to write almost every day. You were surprised about how much the two of you talked when he found the time to call you. He used to ask you a lot of questions and you wondered if it wasn’t getting boring for him to hear your normal life stories. But he showed genuine interest and listened to your stuttering or the difficulties you had with your job. It was as if he wanted to know as much as possible about you and that somehow made you feel special in a way you had never felt before. The simplicity that lay between you and Tom when you talked or messaged each other managed to calm you down, even if it was just a little bit. It was astonishing, what Tom had already done to you.

After a good amount of phone calls, which had lasted at least three hours each, you had started to draw at the same time, because you somehow needed to keep your hands busy and some inspiration had struck you.

You were in the middle of painting again – your fingers full of black and grey colour – when your phone rang once again. It was placed right in front of you on the table of your living room, so you would never miss one of his messages or calls.

On the other hand, he seemed to arrange his phone calls always at times at which you were definitely at home and available. Could be coincidence, but you didn’t think so. He had been too obviously asking about your time schedule, your spare time and your weekends. Consequently, he knew exactly when you had time to talk and when not. That man was a miracle. He seemed to remember nearly everything that you had already told him. Sometimes catching you completely off guard with questions about topics you didn’t even recall talking about.

“Hello?” Trying to not sound too excited about his call didn’t quite work, but it had been worth a try.

“Did I interrupt something?” Came his answer almost instantly. His smooth, deep voice sounded a bit worried. “I would be terribly sorry if I did.”

Bastard, you thought, always with his friendliness and good manners, worrying and caring about everyone but himself.

“No. I’ve been painting until now, and needed to clean my hands, that’s why it took me a moment to answer.” Unable to suppress the smile that formed on your lips, you brushed a few strands of hair out of your face. Of course, you hadn’t actually cleaned your hands, but he didn’t have to know that you had nearly spent two minutes thinking about him before picking up the phone.

“Sorry. Shall I call again later?”

“NO!” Realizing that you had just screamed at him, you were quick to correct yourself. “I mean no, it’s fine. You couldn’t have known what I’m doing right now. Thank you for calling.” You rambled a bit but didn’t care about it. Tom had already witnessed so much since you two had met. Your blushing, the squeaky toy, cursing and following squeaking, your endless stuttering. He was a very patient and kind man. Everyone you had met before had – at one point – turned their back on you. Besides your friends, obviously. But you preferred to keep your circle of friends relatively small.

You heard him chuckle and immediately longed to see his face.

“It’s good to hear that I’m not the only one enjoying our little phone sessions.”

You felt yourself blush. Tom hadn’t said something like that before, you had simply assumed that he had to like it because he had been the one to always call you.

“How has your day been so far, darling?”

Darling, you knew he called literally everyone darling, but somehow you liked the way he pronounced it when he was talking to you.

“Good, thank you. Work was a bit stressful as always, but everything has been just fine until you called.”

“How am I supposed to understand this?” He mocked gently, obviously not in the intent to annoy or embarrass you. Just childish, but sort of adorable, joking around.

“That depends on your interpretation of it.” You teased, but seconds later you were already worrying about what you had just said.

“Huh, cheeky today.” You didn’t miss the amused tone in his voice. So he wasn’t angry or upset, good to know.

“No, that’s not-! I just….!” You felt your face flushing and internally thanked god that you were just talking and not seeing each other. The sweet and deep chuckle on the other side of the line startled you out of your slight daze.

“Don’t worry, calm down, darling.” The low tone sent a shiver down your spine. “It’s adorable.”

“Yeah, sure it is.” That you sounded that devastated hadn’t been the plan, but well, now you would have to go with it.

“No need to be so self-contemptuous.” It sounded as if he wanted to say something else but he kept quiet, giving you the chance to speak again.

“So how has your day been? We have just talked about my day so far.” Somehow that sentence just made you feel even more selfish than before.

“Well, you didn’t tell me anything specific, to be honest. So, I wouldn’t count that as <just talked about you>.”

You would have punched him if there hadn’t been a distance of more than just a few miles between you and if he hadn’t sounded that cute while talking.

“I told you that I’m painting.” You bit your lip, not wanting to tell him what exactly you had talked about with (Y/F) during your lunch break. There was absolutely no need to talk with him about something so embarrassing. And wouldn’t he feel awkward, too?

“Tell me about your day, please?” It was not meant to be a distraction, you were truly interested in his days. Perhaps one of the reasons was that in his life just basically happened more than in your plain and boring one. And of course, you cared. The first time you had talked on the phone, you had forgotten to ask him how he was and had felt tremendously guilty afterwards. And worried, too.

“Luke and I started planning the coming weeks, I read through a few scripts. Nothing astonishingly new.” You could swear you heard him sigh in…exhaustion? You had never heard such a strained exhale coming from him.

“What’s wrong? You seem a bit off?”

“Nothing is wrong. Thank you, darling, for worrying.” He was smiling, you could hear that. It eased a bit of the sudden concern that you had been overcome with.

“Uhm… but if you really want to know…” He laughed his sweet and unique laugh with a slight hint of bashfulness in his tone. “There is something I want to ask you.”

Something he wanted to ask you, your brain repeated. That could be basically everything. Something bad as well as something good. Perhaps he had rethought his decision to have given you his number. Or worse, he didn’t want to talk to you anymore.

“I’m around (Y/C) at the moment and thought we could catch up on our dinner. That is, only if you want to, of course.”

You nearly messed up your painting, completely shocked and startled, not even able to answer him.

“Darling? Are you okay?” Did he really ask you that? After he had just told you that he was probably in your city, as if it was nothing?

“Why didn’t you tell me that you’re already here?” The sound of your voice was close to that of your squeaky toy and instantly you felt yourself flush all over.

“I’m…” He seemed to be speechless for a brief instant. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. It was supposed to be a surprise. I should have told you. I’m so sorry.”

The moment he said that, you felt a pang of guilt in your chest. “No I didn’t mean to – I was just surprised to hear that you’re here.” You hurried to say , the painting in front of you forgotten for a moment. Before you picked up your phone to press it against your ear, you wiped the paint off, using your pants for that. Maybe that hadn’t been a wise choice, but there hadn’t been anything else in reach at that moment. Now there were black and purple stripes all over your thighs.

“It’s been quite spontaneous. I didn’t want to get you involved if they hadn’t wanted to shoot the scenes here.”

How sweet of him, you thought abashed.

“What are you shooting for?”

There was a short, but amused, laugh on the other side of the line. “I can’t possibly tell you that.”

As you sighed disappointed, Tom chuckled softly.

“What about our dinner now, darling? You didn’t answer my question. We could finally see each other again, plus I could make up for having kept you waiting for so long.”

For the umpteenth time that evening, you could feel the heat rush into your cheeks and spread all the way to your ears.

“So, what do you say?” His tender voice startled you out of the sort of trance you had been in for a few seconds.

“We could go out tomorrow. Of course, that’s really at short notice, I know. It’s completely okay, therefore, when you don’t want to see me tomorrow.” He rambled a bit, but that couldn’t possibly annoy you when he was just being adorable. He could ramble on for hours and you would still hang on his lips, hungry for every word that left them. Everything on and about that man was so breathtakingly beautiful.

“I’m terribly sorry. Did I upset you?”

“No, you didn’t. You just… caught me off guard.” Being honest about your feelings seemed so much easier when you were talking to Tom. “And yes, of course. I’d love…” You had to pause to gather yourself. “I’d love to go out with you tomorrow.”

“You’re lovely. Thank you.”

The following short moment of silence, you used to put the phone down and recollect yourself enough to start painting again.

“I saw an Italian restaurant yesterday. What do you think?”

“Oh my god I love pasta!” Your joyous cheer was rewarded with his typical and oh so sweet laughter.

“I guess that was a yes then?”

“Yes, it is! When are you done shooting tomorrow?”

“At five. I would suggest you give me your address and I pick you up at seven?” There was definitely a hint of mischief in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

“Yes, that’s a good time.” You gave him your address, waited patiently for him to scribble it down and told him to use google maps or another navigation system, because there was literally no reasonable street system in (Y/C). Tom and you talked for the rest of the evening, covering a lot of serious and a lot of absolutely silly topics, but you laughed a lot, enjoying the deep rumble of his voice when he joined in.

The next day went by too quickly. You had had barely time to think about the coming evening until you stood in front of your apartment, unlocking the door and dropping your bag and jacket to the floor to rush straight into the bathroom. The shower came first, then the make-up – you went for eyeliner and mascara, that should be enough – and after you had finished all of that plus your hair, you stood in front of your closet and were faced with the next problem. What should you wear? What were you supposed to wear on your first date? You rummaged through your wardrobe, pulled out three dresses and tried them on. Of course, you could easily go with trousers and a nice blouse, but you felt more drawn to wearing a dress.

In the end, you chose the dark blue one with long sleeves and a wide skirt that just reached your knees. It didn’t look fancy, but it wasn’t boring at all. In fact, It was quite elegant and playful at once. That was, why you liked it that much.

You quickly dressed up and hurried into your living room. Half an hour and Tom would arrive to pick you up. Only 30 minutes until you would finally see him again.

The painting you had finished the previous day, during Tom’s and your nearly four hours long telephone call, lay on the table where you had left it. You knew exactly what you were going to do with it. Especially, after you had realized that the human face, that you had wanted to draw, had turned out to be that of Tom. A face painted with rough strokes, your fingers and only three colours: black, grey and purple. You had varied the shades of each colour, but all in all it was pretty colourless.

Carefully, you placed the painting in an envelope, so it couldn’t (hopefully) be damaged, and put it into your small handbag, not wanting to give it to Tom immediately. After all, you had worked for a few weeks on that.

You sat down and thumbed through a magazine, while you were still waiting. Too nervous to focus on anything, let alone read an article or do something effectively.

When the doorbell rang, you took a deep breath, flattened the skirt of your dress and stood up. But before you went to open the door, you hastily stuffed your little squeaky toy into your handbag. Now you were ready.

Perhaps you opened way too fast, or maybe you were just clumsy, but you found yourself in Tom’s arms, after you had stumbled and tripped over your own feet. His warm, strong arms were tightly wrapped around you, holding you close to his chest.

God, he smelled so good.

“Actually, I wanted to compliment you because you’re looking absolutely ravishing, but that’s okay too.”

You blushed and hid your face on his chest.

Oh no. What had you just done?

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#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston x you #tom hiddleston x reader #Tom Hiddleston is a gentleman #tom hiddleston fic #SASSY!TOM #fanfic request #fanfic #original female character #tom hiddleston fluff #fluff #swearing #i wrote this instead of sleeping #my little squeaky toy #telephone call #flirting #romance

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star-trekkin-across-theuniverse · 7 years ago

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Resource Management, pt16

Word Count: 2774 Tags: @supermoonpanda @rayleyanns @sistasarah-sallysaidso @feelmyroarrrr @anyakinamidala @dirajunara @anotherotter @little-study-bug @rampant-salamander @goodnightwife @samaxraph99 @anotherotter @outside-the-government @kingarthurscat @coyote-in-space @originalpottervengerlock @dolamrothianlady @curiositywillbethedeathofme @superheroesofbothuniverses @mtriestowrite @wanderingkat77

Barton glared at me from his seat at the kitchen table. I leaned against the counter, as far from him as I could get. His speed had taken me completely unaware, which was something I was going to mention to Natasha the next time we met. That meeting was going to need to include Phil now that Barton knew. I could feel the weight of the world on my shoulders. It was making me nauseated. As there was no strategic reason to keep Phil’s survival a secret, I was feeling resentful that this had fallen apart with me at the centre of it. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and sent a quick text to Director Fury to fill him in. I also mentioned I was going to be out of the office. And then I turned my phone off completely. I didn’t want to hear from anyone for the rest of the day.

Phil was mostly dressed when he reemerged from the bathroom. He was buttoning up his shirt as he stepped into the kitchen. I handed him a cup of coffee and excused myself.

“Would you rather stay here and answer Agent Barton’s questions? I can find my own way to Philly.” I offered. Phil shook his head.

“No, you two still need to get to the range. Clint has questions, but catching up can wait,” he decided.

“Okay, I’ll be in the bedroom,” I excused myself and padded down the hallway. I prepared my things for going to the range, packed a small overnight bag in case the trip to Philadelphia took longer than anticipated, and checked out an online map to figure out where exactly we were headed. I made a few notes in my phone and then picked up a book and stretched out on the bed.

“I owe you an apology.” Clint’s voice brought me off the bed with a start. I dropped my book and clutched my chest.

“I’m sorry?” I wasn’t completely sure what he’d said.

“No, I am sorry. I am sure my reaction was terrifying. I haven’t been really,” he trailed off, “my head’s been kind of –“ he stopped speaking again, looking for the right words.

“It’s okay,” I shook my head.

“It’s not okay. You were trying to protect Phil. And protect me. And do your job. I haven’t really been – I’ve been having a hard time trusting myself since New York. And subsequently, anyone else,” he fumbled with the words.

“It’s okay, Agent Barton,” I reassured him. I wasn’t sure what had happened in New York, but whatever it was had obviously messed him up.

“Yeah, I guess you’ve seen my file.”

“I don’t actually make a habit of rooting around in personnel files unless it is absolutely necessary. I don’t know what happened. I don’t need to know. It’s okay. I accept your apology,” I clarified. He looked surprised.

“But you’re the director of HR,” he protested.

“And until there’s a Stark filed against you, I don’t bother reading files. It’s not my business to know,” I shrugged. “Anyhow. I need to get to Philly today. Are we going to the range?”

“Yeah, Phil’s going to join us. You can leave from there,” he nodded.

To my delight, the work we’d done on Saturday had stuck. I was improving steadily. I was never going to be a marksman, not by any standard, but I was becoming more accurate. And more importantly, I was becoming more comfortable holding the weapon. It didn’t feel as foreign in my hands, and I didn’t feel as nervous handling it. While Barton worked with me, Phil stood in the furthest stall from us, practicing on his own. I may have been improving my own comfort level with the sidearm, but it became very clear that I was still wildly uncomfortable with the thought of other people using them. I flinched every time I heard Phil’s weapon discharge. Barton would have been a crap instructor if he hadn’t noticed. He beckoned Phil back toward us and asked him to set up in the stall beside us. And then he made me shoot while Phil was shooting. And wouldn’t hear my complaints.

“Honestly, Ellis, do you think everyone is going to stop shooting so you can concentrate during a firefight? Focus on your shit,” he snapped. He went as far as to taking my hearing protection away so I could hear how loud the guns really were. I glared and snatched at the muffs. He gave me this look that was part contempt and part amusement. I rolled my eyes and turned back to the target. I could focus. I knew all the different ways to achieve focus. I had learned to block the sound of a tournament from my mind when I was 13 years old. Essentially, I told myself, this was the same thing.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath in. I held it for just a moment and slowly let it back out, centering myself. I felt each foot connect with the ground, through my shoes, and I lengthened my spine, straightening my posture. Rolling my shoulders back and relaxing, I opened my eyes, and raised my weapon at the target, hearing nothing around me. I sighted, and shot. Sighted and shot. Sighted and shot until my clip was empty. After placing the gun on the counter in front of me, I hit the button to reel the target toward me. It was unbelievable. Barton yanked down the target before I could get a good look at it, but I knew it was the best I had ever shot.

“How did you do that?” He demanded. I held out my hand for the target and he handed it to me. Every single shot had gone through the ring at the heart.

“You said I needed to be able to focus. I focused.” I didn’t know how else to respond. Phil peered around the corner and raised an eyebrow at my target.

“It’s probably the martial arts training, Clint,” he offered.

“Do it again.” Barton hung another target. “Aim for the head this time.”

I stretched my back a little and put a fresh clip in my sidearm, and then went through the steps to gain my focus again. I aimed at the head and emptied my clip. Again, it was an incredible improvement.

“So you’ve got this part down. Now you need to figure out how to do that without needing two minutes of breathing exercises to block everything around you. You won’t ever have two minutes. You might not even have two seconds,” Barton mixed his praise into a heaping pile of criticism. He was a realist. I could respect that. Even if I did want one shining moment of brilliance, unmarred by the critique of my weaknesses.

“Thanks, Agent Barton,” I smiled despite myself.

“You know, you could probably call me Clint,” he allowed. I smiled all the way to the car.

I’d only ever driven through Philadelphia, and I was kind of disappointed that we wouldn’t be sticking around, but sightseeing was not on the agenda. We drove through an older residential neighbourhood and pulled up in front of a small red brick house. The paint around the windows was peeling, but the windows were spotless, the early afternoon sun reflecting off them and preventing us from seeing the house number from the blinding brightness. The blinds were drawn against the sun, in the futile hope of preventing the front room from turning into an oven in the late afternoon. The garden was overgrown, but it looked deliberate, like someone had thrown down wildflower mix so as to not worry. The flowers were a riot of colour, garish against the dignified brickwork. There was a gabled window poking out of the roof of the house, and a large fan was secured in the window, a poor man’s air conditioning. I checked the address against my notes before grabbing my purse and stepping out of the car. Phil followed, a discrete single step behind me.

I reached up to knock on the door, but it swung open against my hand. I was just about to peer inside when Phil grabbed me and pulled me back, without a word. He pointed at the door jam. It was splintered around the latch, like it had been forced. He stepped in front of me, sidearm drawn.

“Are you comfortable enough to draw your weapon? And use it if needed?” His voice was a soft murmur. I swallowed thickly and nodded, reaching into my jacket to unholster my gun. We stepped in, almost back to back. It felt like a cheesy buddy-cop crime show. I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing, other than from what I may or may not have learned from watching police dramas, so I followed Phil’s lead, and kept my eyes open. He checked each room off the main living room and nodded to me. We stepped further into the house, entering the kitchen. I could see the edge of an old, wrinkled hand behind the bathroom door. I darted forward, unthinking. Phil grabbed me and pulled me back, stepping in front of me to check the bathroom. He nudged the door enough to see inside, and then slipped in. I followed.

It was Cecelia Banks. And she was lying on the floor in a pool of her own blood. Her breathing was shallow and she was grey. Not typical old-people grey, but loss-of-blood grey. I slipped my fingers across her neck to try to find her pulse. Phil was already on the phone calling an ambulance. Her pulse was weak, barely there.

“Mrs. Banks, it’s Anna Ellis. We spoke yesterday on the phone. My partner has called an ambulance. You’re going to be just fine,” I spoke clearly, near her ear, slipping my fingers into her hand. She squeezed weakly.

“I’m not, dearheart, but I appreciate the lie,” she replied weakly. “I shot one of the bastards before they ran off.”

With considerable effort, she slid her arm out from under her, revealing an old Colt. Phil picked it up and slid it into his jacket.

“We don’t want the cops grabbing that.” He explained when I looked at him. “Did you see which direction they went?”

“No. But he bled,” she coughed. I checked her for gunshot wounds, or stab wounds. She was bleeding from her side. I pulled a towel off the rack and pressed it against the wound, applying pressure.

“Is there anything else you can remember about them, Mrs. Banks?” I asked. Her eyelids were drooping, and I was scared she was going to die in my arms. I rubbed her arms to keep her warm.

“Just the bug bomb, dearheart. Remember, you need to destroy the entire nest.” Her words were a whisper. Her eyes fluttered shut, and I thought she was gone. But her breathing stayed even, despite how shallow it was.

“There’s more to that analogy than she’s letting on. We’ll search the house when the ambulance has taken her to hospital.” Phil looked troubled. Mrs. Banks coughed again, and her breathing slowed. While I knew it had only been minutes, it felt like hours had passed since Phil had called the ambulance. I could hear the sirens as it approached. Phil stepped out of the bathroom to the kitchen entryway so he could direct the paramedics back to us, and then cleared away as they came charging through. I was glad he had been able to come. He gave a quick report to the paramedics, and flashed his badge to clear the cops away when they arrived, neither of which I would have been capable of doing. I was just barely holding together as it was. The paramedics applied a proper pressure bandage, and started and IV before gently lifting Mrs. Banks onto the gurney and wheeling her away. When the house emptied, I looked up at Phil and sighed, blinking back tears. He offered a hand and pulled me to my feet, and into his arms.

“Nothing quite like baptism by fire,” he commented.

“We need to search this house.” I couldn’t think of what else to say. He just nodded, and headed back into the kitchen. Near the backdoor, he found a few drops of blood, and a hole in the wall where the bullet had passed through Mrs. Banks’ attacker. He pulled on a pair of dish gloves and used a steak knife to pry the bullet out of the wall, dropping it in a plastic sandwich bag before slipping it into his pocket. I looked around the bathroom. Aside from the aftermath of the attack on Mrs. Banks, nothing was disturbed.

“Do you suppose she was trying to get in here to hide?” I asked.

“Maybe. The back door was closer to her than the bathroom though. There’s a warm teacup on the kitchen table.” Phil answered, feeling the cup in question. I flipped open the medicine cabinet, but there was nothing to see. I got the feeling that Cecelia Banks had come to the bathroom for a reason though. I checked the cupboard under the sink. Again, nothing. Then I saw it. In the bathtub, there was a step stool. A lot of old people needed a special chair in the bath, but not a step stool. I pulled back the shower curtain and looked into the tub. Just above the tiles, there was a drawer. It would have been hard to see from anywhere in the bathroom other than the tub, just because of the angle of it. Not really secret, but secure enough. I kicked my heels off and stepped into the bathtub, stepping up onto the stool. I reached for the drawer, but couldn’t quite feel the inside of it. I jiggled the sides of the drawer until they wiggled free of the track, and pulled the drawer down carefully. I brought it out to the kitchen and placed it on the table. The first thing, on top of everything, was Mrs. Banks’ SHIELD badge, the eagle just a touch different than the one on my badge. Her was issued in the 1950s though, so there was bound to be some difference. There was a notebook and a small bug bomb can. When I picked it up, it was light, and rattled. I gave Phil a puzzled look, and put the can down on the table. He picked it up and fiddled with it for a moment, but couldn’t figure how to open it.

“Let’s take all this with us, and get out of here before whoever did this comes back to finish their search.” Phil put the can back into the drawer. He dug around under the kitchen sink and came up with a white garbage bag. We emptied the drawer into it, and I went and put the drawer back as I’d found it, removing the step stool from the tub and putting it under the kitchen table.

We gave the rest of the house a quick search, but nothing else was obvious. We stepped out into the late afternoon sun and stopped to talk to the police officers waiting in the yard. Phil turned the investigation back over to them while I put the items we’d found in the trunk of the car. I waited to get in until he approached the car.

“Are you alright?” He asked.

“I’m sweaty and overheated, but the car has a/c so I’ll survive,” I shrugged.

“I meant about finding Cecelia Banks,” he clarified. I looked him in the eyes and took a deep breath.

“No.”

“Let’s go get you cleaned up and get something to eat, and then we’ll decide whether we’re driving back tonight.” He drew me into his arms, not caring if the cops saw. I buried my face in the crook of his neck and breathed in the tang of his scent, musky and masculine with a hint of fabric softener. The man never bothered with cologne. He squeezed me close before releasing me, and opening the door of the vehicle. We’d taken a SHIELD SUV. I climbed in and buckled the seatbelt. I looked down on my lap and saw blood on my knees, soaked into the hem of my skirt and took a deep breath, fighting the wave of panic that was trying to wash over me. We were on the cusp of something huge and horrible, and nothing was ever going to be the same again.

#avengers fanfic #avengers fanfic with OFC #Phil Coulson x OFC

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too-old-for-fangirling-but-idc · 6 years ago

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My little Squeaky Toy Pt.4 (Tom Hiddleston x Reader)

Title: My little Squeaky Toy Pt.4 (Tom Hiddleston x reader)

Summary: Tom and you continue to text each other. And after a few weeks Tom comes up with a surprise and the dinner you still owe him.

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Notes: (Y/C) = Your city (Y/F) = your friend’s name (repost from my old blog)