#it doesn’t earn me any points or anything but the world truly is tiny

[sordidmusings]

Well Earned Praise - Mihawk x Reader

Art by mugibara

Summary: Mihawk is a man of few words and many gestures. Lucky for him, you understand them all quite well. Lucky for you, he knows when to use those spare few words.

A/N: This is a little celebratory piece for @feral-artistry ! She's made a huge landmark in higher education recently that she's worked her ass off for and deserves all the treats and hype!! I was lucky in getting this one out for it too bless up lol I usually can only get possessed by ideas to flesh them out but being able to get them into actual words in a timely manner??? Near unheard of lol That said, it's only a ficlet but I hope you and anyone reading enjoys!!

It’s heaps of domesticity and Mihawk being what could even be called playful lol there has to be at least a tiny bit of that in there for him to have suffered Shanks for so many years so well 💀 in canon its hidden in stuff like him calling Zoro a rabbit - like you can’t tell me he doesn’t also say that shit to amuse himself on top of belittling opponents

Word Count: ~2.1 k

Warnings: gn!reader, straight up fluff, banter, Mihawk being the Most Obvious in his own way, favoritism, Perona and Zoro are there too, you have a place in all their hearts, found family undertone, family dinner with the edgelords, Mihawk being supportive of your accomplishments in a hopefully in character manner lol

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

“And what has you so happy?” Mihawk drawls. 

You’ve barely set foot in the kitchen by the time the question leaves him. Your bright mood from your recent accomplishment is undoubtedly buzzing from you and likely tripped off his haki. Or at least you’d write it off as that if you hadn’t been speaking about it coming up the past few weeks.

Despite his prodding tone, you know that’s just his normal voice and not his grumpy one from all your time living at Kuraigana. There’s also a lack of the miniscule brow or eye twitch that usually precedes The Grumpy Voice. Instead his face is its usual stony facade, looking much too brooding in contrast to the apron Perona had complained him into. It lacks any of the color or frills she wished, but you are sure with enough prodding she will one day get one or the other on your dour host. The one thing that truly binds you all together at Kuraigana is an innate persistence (easily gaining the name “stubbornness” when not in your favor). It is a formidable weapon you wield both for and against each other. Usually against, but that ratio is growing more favorable by the day. Luckily its bad run is mostly in bickering and banter, not actual harm.

“I know you’re getting old, but I didn’t know your memory was already going,” you goad, walking to join him at the prep table at the far end of the kitchen.

“I don’t make the effort to remember the chirping of birds,” he responds blandly, disproving his statement by alluding to the fact that he listened to your frequent gushing about it to Perona. All the while, he continues chopping vegetables with insane speed and accuracy. It will always amuse you to see the world’s greatest swordsman use those skills to harvest and chop veggies. His choice on which you’re starting to recognize as the mix to make your favorite meal.

“Uhuh,” you reply, obviously incredulous. “I suppose you don’t have much room in that head of yours for anything besides swords play.”

“It’s dangerous to insult the one handling your food you know,” he warns with the barest hint of humor warming his low voice.

“This cook wouldn’t stoop to poisons,” you assure him, “though I will need to watch my back during sparring.”

“If you’ve actually taken to my lessons, you’d know to do that anyway,” Mihawk chastises with narrowed eyes. You chuckle at his predictability - always so prickly if he felt you weren’t taking your crafts seriously.

“We both know I’d be dead if I didn’t,” you point out. The silence, save for the steady thumping of knife on cutting board, is his begrudging agreement. 

That silence quickly turns comfortable, its ease built on a few hundred hours of peaceful companionable silence that you’ve shared. Mostly they were filled with quiet sips of wine, rustling pages, crackling logs, and calm music. Your favorite is when the sweet serenade of the night’s bugs leaks in the cracked windows, heralded by a cool breeze playing with the curtains. A few hundred more hours spent in travel and training built quite the familiarity and warmed your heart from simple attraction to true affection for this untouchable man.

That affection only makes you treasure these moments more. Seeing him in an apron performing a homemaker’s duties isn’t only amusing; there’s a twinge of vulnerability to it. This man, who is an embodiment of death collecting its due for most, is comfortable with you seeing such human pieces of himself. He’s connected with you and your housemates enough to let you each have your mark on him in subtle ways. There is proof enough of it in this kitchen - now always well stocked with sake and sweets, the allowance of a few cutesy mugs ready for use, fresh eggs from the chickens he’d gotten for convenience and definitely not because of your love of animals. (You hadn’t broken him on goats yet but you were far from giving up on that one).

Your thoughts are interrupted by him breaking the hypnotizing motion of his knife to back away from the counter.

“I need to stop in the garden,” Mihawk explains. He casts a pointed gaze at you on his exit. “Don’t go in the fridge.”

The moment he’s taken his exit, you disobey the order. More like a poorly veiled hint. The bright lights of the fridge spotlight quite the treat for you. There’s a menagerie of desserts taking up the top shelf, everything from macaroons to tiramisu to cheesecake to fruit tarts. The colorful display almost kept you from noticing the restock of your drawers of charcuterie below. He really spared no expense; rare cured meats and exotic cheeses were huddled around a large supply of all your favorites, a variety of mustards, jams, and preserves in cute little jars tucked neatly to one side. You can’t help how gooey the gesture makes your heart and how that feeling’s definitely still going to be all over your face when he gets back.

Accepting that fate, you don’t even try to hide it when he comes back through the door with fresh herbs in hand. Mihawk goes through the motions of wiping off his boots and making his way back, all nonchalant confidence, until he looks at you and is struck frozen. He stands and holds your loving gaze for a long stretch of breaths. He’s the first to break your eye contact, looking the closest to unsure that you’ve ever seen him. His face would never tell, but his shoulders curl just a bit up and forward before you see him shove them back into their usual sure posture.

You think he’s going to leave the whole thing unacknowledged, as he’s wont to do with your increasingly common Moments. He shatters that thought when he lays a hand on your arm as he passes, giving it a gentle squeeze. The warmth from his large palm leaves a lasting impression on you. The ravenously yearning part of you - the one you try to keep settled - begins telling you how deliciously warm he must run, how he must be the perfect spot for a nap, how those warm hands would feel easing your muscles, how they would feel-

“Managing to get lost while standing still? Should I worry about that with you too?” Mihawk teases. It’s quite impressive how droll he can be when he lets himself.

“If I say yes, does that mean I’m free of being his human compass?” you joke.

“Only until it’s time to be rid of you both,” he answers easily.

“What?” you ask in mock offense. “No send off party? No tearful goodbyes? And here I thought you were the sentimental type.”

“Obviously,” he agrees, gifting you the first tiny, crooked smile of the night.

Wanting to end on a high note, you let the conversation go and instead focus on trying to find ways to help. It goes poorly. Every task you make for is suddenly already being done by Mihawk, or he’s suddenly blocking you from the means to start. Many an ingredient is intercepted, dish grabbed first, or scraps thrown to trash and compost. The absurd game of keep away it makes is funny to you at first but soon becomes frustrating.

“You’re treating me like an invalid,” you huff.

“I didn’t know you were so fond of labor,” Mihawk drawls. Sly eyes slide your way. “Should I put you back on prepping the new beds?”

“No,” you answer quickly. The new garden spot was chosen for convenient location not ease of creation; the ground was mostly clay and full of rocks with the top carpeted thick with sod and weeds. It would have to be cleared off, rocks dug out, manure and sand and peat moss shoveled in, then all mixed thoroughly to break up the clay. It was grueling work. It was Zoro work.

Mihawk goes back to his cooking with an air of satisfaction. You settle for watching and stealing bites to eat from the food he’s making. He pretends to be annoyed. It lets you both play a new game of keep away where you try to sneak and snatch and he tries to swat you away, usually without even taking his eyes off his task. This continues until the meal is nearly done, when he sends you off to your room to “look proper for a nice meal”. You pretend to be offended but he doesn’t buy it.

You don’t want to spend long getting ready, much more set on spending time with the others, but you also didn’t want to let an excuse to dress up go to waste. By the time you’re headed to the usual dining room, you’re layered in expensive fabric with a fresh face and freshly styled hair.

Mihawk is awaiting you at the grand doors, unfortunately lacking that apron. Instead you get him in a flowing shirt, textured in subtle filigree the same deep red as the whole. It is, of course, open to show off his Kogatana and the sun-kissed skin it rests on. As you get closer, you notice his pants are tailored slacks and his boots have been replaced with dress shoes you wouldn’t have even guessed he owned. Not for a lack of class or style, but for a lack of people and occasions he’d deem worthy of the effort. 

You feel almost silly thinking he’s going through all this effort for you but there’s no other explanation. When you stop next to him, you could swear that even his beard is freshly oiled and combed. You’re too lost in your appraisal of him to notice how his own heated eyes are roving over you. You catch them for a brief moment before they fix to your face. To interrupt the loving taunt about to move your tongue, Mihawk holds the door open for you and gestures you inside.

Zoro and Perona are sat at the table behind pristine place settings. They haven’t even noticed the sound of your entrance over their own bickering. Perona always looks dolled up, but there’s something a little extra in the detail of her makeup and not a single hair on her head is out of place. What’s much more surprising than her is that Zoro looks all cleaned up. He’s still in his usual style but not a speck of dirt is on the clothes and his hair looks slightly damp from a recent shower. It’s hard not to laugh at the idea of Mihawk commanding him to bathe like one would a defiant child and Perona having to throw him in the bath like he’s a hissing cat.

Before you move to join them, Mihawk’s hands catch your shoulders. Their capability for gentleness will always amaze you, and this caress to halt you is no exception. His thumbs swipe across your skin a few times, seeming to relish the motion, before he leans forward. There’s a moment where his cheek brushes the crown of your head before his breath floats over your ear and neck, raising goosebumps over your skin. His lips, surprisingly soft, tickle the tip of your ear as he whispers to you. The words strike you and leave you frozen even as he brushes past you towards the table, leaving the scent of spiced cologne in his wake.

Your housemates finally notice you and both send toothy smiles and celebratory cheers your way. You feel almost bad that you have to shake yourself off to match their energy. Once you get close to the table, Zoro is trying to convince you to share his best sake with him while Perona tells you that’s dumb and you should instead focus on looking through the gifts she’s gotten you. You only laugh as dark fabric and frilly stuffies are shoved your way to intercept the persistent attempts to place an o-choko by your plate. 

Mihawk sighs at the commotion, muttering something about wanting a peaceful dinner for you as he pulls out your chair. His grumbling is undercut by the softness easing the lines from his face. When you meet his eyes as he pushes your chair in, you notice the usually violent amber of them has darkened to flowing honey. His words ring in your head loudly again, causing a loving smile to warm your face. He answers with a brief smile of his own, the smallest curl of his lips and crinkle of his eyes, but it's enough to set your heart racing. It pumps electricity through you, tingling your fingertips and sending his words to spin even faster in your head. Even when your heart calms and is instead made full from loving company, you hold the sound of his voice in your mind.

It’s the first time you’ve heard the words from him, and now that you know their sweetness, you’ll chase that high in all your endeavors.

“I’m proud of you.”

[museumgiftshoperaser]

keep me company

“Hello?” Her voice gets lost in the big empty space. “Anyone still in here?” “Do my eyes deceive me?” Nancy whips her head toward the sound. A familiar drawl and a deep voice. “Or is that miss Nancy Wheeler?” The man approaches from an obscured door in the back of the shop. It’s been years but she can tell it’s him right away. Eddie Munson, in the flesh. It’s the eyes. Warm brown and wider than they should be. It’s gotta be the eyes she recognizes because everything else about him is different. His hair is cut right above his shoulders with most of the layers tied back in a careless bun. No chains, no ripped jeans. Just navy blue coveralls with the company logo zipped all the way up. He’s traded in his white sneakers for steel toed boots and his wild smile for a deep set exhaustion that glistens on his face. He looks older than he should, but then again, so does Nancy. Last she saw him, he was still dealing weed out of his uncle’s trailer with big talk about Indianapolis. Chicago. New York. That was five years ago. “What are you doing here?” she asks.

He grins and grabs a bandanna from his back pocket to wipe the sweat off his forehead. His face is slimmer, the last of his baby cheeks well and truly gone. A small tattoo peaks out over his collar and thick black lines disappear into his his curls. A tiny part of her, the eighteen year old that’s burrowed in the back of her brain, refusing to grow up, wants to close the gap and hug him. Her body remembers Eddie. His comforting grin and the fit under the curve of his shoulder. But the guy in front of her might as well be a stranger. “You know, most people would just say hi.” Nancy rolls her eyes. They should be past small talk, right? Doesn’t a joined trip to hell earn you that comfort? Or does the privilege dwindle with every year away? “Hi, Eddie. How have you been?” She scrunches her nose in a sticky sweet smile. “Lovely weather we’ve been having. You defeat any monsters lately?” Eddie doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t look away either. The tip of his tongue traces the back of his teeth, just shy of amused. “Now what are you doing here?” she repeats. Still. That’s the unspoken part. What are you still doing here?

You were supposed to get out of here. “I could ask you the same thing.” He folds his arms.“We all gave up on you ever coming back, Wheeler.” There’s just the slightest hint of bitterness in his voice. Nancy clutches the strap of her handbag and purses her lips together.

Yeah. So did she. They didn’t exactly leave on good terms, her and Eddie. There’s barely anyone in Hawkins who she didn’t burn her bridges with. Not on purpose, but not not on purpose either. Somewhere after the third missed Christmas, the silence becomes intentional. Every missed phone call adds up on the other end of the line, until the invisible tally reaches a tipping point and people stop reaching out. Or until she changed her phone number. “I work here,” Eddie adds when the silence stretches. He points at the logo on his coveralls. “Past four years.”

That’s a long time. Almost the entire time Nancy was away. It almost certainly means he never got out. “Well my car is broken.” Eddie’s mouth drops slightly before he cackles out a laugh. Loud and booming in the big empty space and theatrical as ever. He makes a show of it, hands on his knees and everything. “Are you… Are you laughing?” “Come on, Wheeler…” He wipes at an imaginary tear in the corner of his eye. “You gotta admit this whole thing is a little funny.” What part? Reuniting with an old friend five years after you barely saved the world together? The awkwardness that buzzes in her bones? “I don’t see the humor in it.”

“Yeah, I figured.” It’s definitely too late for a hug now.

[kelsiersshadow]

fifth level reality avoidance achieved im reading the crooked kingdom

we’re living for golden boys and their identity/sense of belonging crises ONLY (aesthetics may or may not match but in this case they do)

this is more about the first book but babe. sweetheart. darling. listen. “in the bad [dreams] he kissed her” are you liTeRaLLy KIDDING ME

no shut up i’m so so here for his whole world view being uprooted challenged and ultimately rejected and transformed

was i the monster this whole time? arcs babeeeeee

give. inej. character development. outside. of her ties. to kaz. thank u ✌️

really she got one damn moment of self realization i KNOW there’s a long road ahead i GET that she cares for him. where is the agency over her own development tho

the heavy, pervasive spook vibes im getting off jesper are unREAL

the heavy mistborn vibes in general??? it’s like the whole first book stretched out but the characters actually experience Horny

kaz = kel with more money. like...no i’m serious. i was just thinking i wanted to reread mistborn and then this duology was like no you don’t read the fic version

obviously...OBVIOUSLY i am thoroughly enjoying kaz anyone who knows anything could have called this. but im so so nervous she’s going down the route of redemption and HE DOES NOT NEED IT BABE LEAVE HIM WHERE HE IS 💕💕 (term paper to follow on his concept of morality tbh)

pretty bejeweled nina is...actually a nuclear bomb. the AESTHETICS. the PAIN. is she my favorite pov to read? bruh idk but im scared of (and for) her

someone needs to bake wylan a whole cake right the hell now APPRECIATE HIMMMMM

[ellsbclls]

you write hurt/comfort so beautifully, it makes me want to have tom comfort me like that ): do u think you could write something where he's taking care of you after a long day at work?? and if it's a little nsfw i wouldn't mind but u dont have to do anything ur not comfortable with. again L O V E ur work!!

thank you so much 🥺 i guess i just try to portray a type of love i think everyone deserves! but also thank you for giving me this idea because my mind went rampant. i also don’t know why the reader is a musician, but just roll with it i guess idk what happened there??? 

i hope this tickles your fancy! nsfw, so extended warnings will be under the cut! please do not interact if you're a minor!!

extended warnings: cue fingering, and some messy, needy sex in the bathtub 🛁✨

The steam rising from the bathtub makes light work of your weary muscles, menthol vapors kissing up your spine, soothing the knots scattered across the length of your back. You were in dire need of this, after the plight of a day you’d endured. A couple of hours in the studio had quickly spiraled into a six hour-session, with nothing to show for it but a lousy sixteen measures of brass ensembles — and by the good grace of your talent and patience, the artist has requested you drop in for their session again.

The thought makes you want to drown.

Instead, you opt to curl into yourself, softly pressing your cheek into your knee, watching the spindles of warmth waft up from your well earned bubble bath. In retrospect, the weight of your day didn’t fall solely on this new client — if you’re being honest, they actually had a lot of potential. You wouldn’t mind having your name tethered to a couple of their hits — but Tom had just returned home from a three month long shoot, and you’ve only been graced the luxury of his presence for less than 24 hours. Any time that isn’t being spent with him feels blasphemous, but since he has yet to return from his unknown whereabouts, you seized the opportunity to flush out as much irritability as possible before he returned.

You didn’t know just how tired you were until you were woken up.

A half an hour passes before you’re tousled from your dreamless slumber by a docile touch, familiar digits scaling the curve of your spine before they take a detour at the nape of your neck, carefully parting stray strands of hair to either side of your frame.

“Tom?” You hum, dulcet tones wafting through the steam akin to a dream as it ebbs from the rim of your subconscious.

“Yes, darling?” He muses, entranced by the frothy remnants of your bath soak as he dips his fingertips into the water.

“I missed you today.” You melt into his touch, allowing your head to fall to the side and survey his attire. His hair is all tousled, chestnut locks sprouting from the bottom of his backwards strewn baseball cap, and those honey-dipped hues you adore so much are creased with concern. You want nothing more than to soothe them away with the pad of your thumb, and so you indulge yourself, reaching over the edge of the tub as you continue to ramble. “I started the day already praying for it to be over with, and somehow, every single inconvenience fathomable decided to fall onto my lap. I mean — who the fuck needs seven different french horn tracks in an overture? A real band barely needs one.” Tom’s nodding along to your ramblings, but you both know that he doesn’t fully under the lengths of your frustration — just as you’ll never truly understand the inner workings of his own career. “The only thing keeping me together was the thought of coming home to you.”

“I’m so sorry, my love,” He coos, and continues to caress your back, working out all of the knots that the steam couldn’t relieve. “If it’s any consolation, I was only running late because I had to stop and buy some pancetta on the way home.”

“Don’t apologize. I assumed you would be back since all your stuff is still here.” You tease, mirroring his bemused smile, letting his world seep into your slowly booting brain. “Pancetta…” Not many people knew this, not even Tom before his first attempt, but the boy could whip up a mean bowl of pasta. You remember floundering across the bed the night before, identical to a little kid throwing a tantrum, moaning over just how badly you were craving carbonara. Silly of you to think that he’d take your melodramatic request in stride. “Are you-“

His enamored gaze is answer enough, but he pairs it with a chaste kiss to your forehead that has you nuzzling into his touch. “Only the best for my lil’ lady.”

You show a mere fraction of your appreciation with a swift, flurry of kisses over his cheekbones, pulling him closer by the downy bundles of his hoodie. Lovedrunk giggles and contented sighs bounce off the tiles before you’re both submerged in a comfortable silence, one that leaves the both of you free to shamelessly examine the other, one clad in their comfy, weatherworn disguise while the other dawns nothing but an enchanted smile. Even with the disparity between your attire, you both end up with flushed cheeks and dopey grins.

Hours, days, years seem to press on until you break the silence with a silly question, one that you ask in hopes of hearing his gentle, candied voice once more — or even better, his laugh. “What would you do if I was as big as a thumbtack? Would you still love me?” You query, a childlike sense of wonderment tinting your sugar-coated sigh.

He takes a second to ponder your questions, taking it into far more consideration than you had in bringing it to fruition. You can’t stifle the tiny puff of air that leaves your lips, the semblance of a chuckle, and Tom, with his wild brow and theatrical ways, whips his head in your direction, sending you a cautionary glare. “I suppose I would…” He starts, only to tap his finger against his bottom lip, drawing the suspense to its boiling point by the time you shove his forearm. “But then again, it doesn’t matter what size you are, there’s no limit to how much I love you.”

“Hmm,” you manage to vocalize. Your heart is now a star, an incandescent ball of fire caged beneath your ribs, and if he hasn’t gathered it by now, then he can bask in the warmth of your smile and know that for him, for him it is the sun.

You have to admit that you got ahead of yourself. One moment, you were binding your lips in a bruising, indulgent union, urging him to bask in the lovelorn rays of light he summoned, but only managing to pull him into the bathtub, fully clothed and unsuspecting. What was once your lukewarm oasis is suddenly a swirling cauldron of spearmint, teatree, and now unmistakable notes of him, sloshing against the edge of the tub as his frame struggles against the latent tide. There’s bound to be one hell of a mess waiting on the bathroom floor, but now that he’s settled in your grasp, you see no reason to fret just yet.

“Y/N.” His voice is deadpan, which can mean one of two things — he’s either overwhelmed with joy, or exhibiting a great deal of restraint in not drowning you right then and there. You choose to cancel out the latter, and offer the best attempt at innocence your babydoll eyes could muster, peering at him through your lashes with a teeth-rotting gleam.

“What?” You ask simply. His eye starts to twitch, and you only double down on your facade. “I just wanted to be closer to you.” Wading through the newly shallow body of water, half of its contents now dispersed across the tile floor, you make light work of his soggy hoodie, sloughing it over his head as he grumbles beneath it, giggling when it catches against that razor-sharp jawline of his.

“Well, you are very close now.” You notice how his voice drops down an octave, and you’re embarrassed to admit just how quickly the coil in your stomach tightens at the sound of it, how it already aches to be pulled taut. 

Tom seems unsuspecting enough when he captures your lips once again, his brims as delicate as baby’s breath against your own, tentative as they glide in a sultry dance. He doesn’t need to coax a confession out of you, the truth is already there, nestled in your urgent, needy pressure, in the whimpers threatening to spill into his lips. He’ll indulge in this little game for a moment longer — where you pretend that you aren’t desperate for his touch, and he pretends that he isn’t just as desperate to provide it — but once you fumble into his lap, clumsily grasping for more, and more, and even more of him, his resolve begins to crumble.

“I need you.” you whisper into the hollow of his mouth, golden-tongued and virtually earnest, coaxing a trembling sigh from the back of his throat.

He hums back, contented, basking in the intoxicating warmth of your silhouette, tracing the curve of your breasts with his knuckles. “Long day, my love?”

“Mhmm,” You demonstrate your point with a wistful sigh,  enveloping his great hands with your smaller ones, coating them in languid kisses until there was no skin left untouched.

You’re just too fucking cute, he muses. He can never say no to you, not even in jest.

Two of his slender digits roam the valley of your stomach, knuckles ghosting over your navel in their listless descent before they venture between your thighs, surveying just how badly you really need him. He dips his middle finger between your folds, tender and slick with your arousal, and emits a husky groan as he traces a steady line between your entrance and the spot just below your clit, ghosting your little bundle of nerves with each taunting caress. “You’re already soaked, my love. This all for me?” He coos, nudging your jaw with the tip of his nose, pressing a wet, open mouthed kiss against the column of your neck.

“All for you,” You sigh, digging your nails into the broad planes of his shoulder. “Please, Tom, please touch me.”

He finally spares you, thumb sloppily circling your clit as he plunges two digits into your opening, welcoming the lithe intrusion with a warm, velvety embrace. You slump into his embrace, nipples straining hard against the soaked fabric of his t-shirt, and raggedly whimper as he starts to work you open. The reminder of your nude form plastered against his clothes, albeit soaking wet, summons another pool of wetness to your core. You’re flooded with thoughts of delectable anguish — of denim kissing your hips, dragging against your bundle of nerves, as he ravages your bare little cunt, proving that you’re so desperate for his cock that you can barely wait for him to undress.

“Is this all you needed, baby? My fingers? You wanted me to stretch this pretty little cunt out?” He can’t stop the filthy words tumbling from his lips, especially not when your tiny mewls of pleasure are flooding his ears — you’re just so soft and pliant under his touch, so eager to be filled to the brim, it’s intoxicating to know that you’ll take anything he has to offer you. “I’ve got you, baby. I’m gonna give you everything you need. Gonna have you spilling all over my fingers and then — fuck! — then i’m gonna fill you up with my cock. How does that sound?

“Y-yeah,” You’re rutting against his palm at this point, grinding down to meet each thrust, to feel impossibly closer, fuller, ambling toward an orgasm that is already barreling toward you. As he finds a new angle, the pads of his fingers nudge against your g-spot, and the heel of his hand careens over your clit with such a delicious pressure that your thighs begin to quake. “‘M so close.” You whine, prompting him to punctuate each thrust with a curl of his fingers, dragging your orgasm from the pit of your stomach.

“Then let go, baby. Let go for me.” You need no further persuasion, your eyes squeezing shut as you teeter off the edge, with nothing but a raspy, desperate string of obscenities, clawing at the slope of his shoulders, and bathing his hand in sultry waves of nectar as it spills from your weepy little hole. His fingers are trapped between your fluttering walls, working you through your climax with nimble, tentative thrusts, stretching each wave of pleasure out until you’re trembling over little ripples.

“That’s it, that’s my girl.” You feel so small beneath his gaze, teeming with endless pools of adoration, like you’re a freshwater clearing and he’s parched. It nearly distracts you from his fingers as they slip from your opening, but each receding wave of bliss is tethered to him, so you groan at the loss of contact. Your walls flutter hopelessly around nothing, chasing the delicious stretch of his digits in their absence, but you’re instantly qualmed by the sound of his zipper being pulled down, no doubt freeing himself from the waterlogged confines of his jeans.

“Can I?” You sink your hands into what little water still remains in the tub, hooking your fingers through the belt loops of his jeans, but he swats your shaky hands away, adamantly shaking his head as a small frown of confusion forms between your brows. “You don’t wanna take ‘em off?”

“This is about you, my love.” He whispers, his free hand smoothing over the small of your back, stroking the patch of dew-ridden skin with his thumb. “And right now, all I wanna do is keep my promise.”

“You’re so good to me,” You whisper just above his lips, leaning back into his touch, peering between your bodies to survey his ministrations. You’re still a bit dazed from your first, earth-shattering orgasm, but the prospect of another has you buzzing with excitement, and Tom knows that look well enough to speed up his course of action.

Pearly veneers sink into the swell of your bottom lip at the mere sight — his cock is beyond compare. Even as its impatiently pulled through the opening of his jeans, it’s put on a mouth-watering display as he leisurely pumps himself, smearing tiny pearls of precum across his flushed, leaky tip with each upstroke. He’s far too enticing, far too pretty with his rosy cheeked, droopy-eyed charm, to resist, and you’re quick to replace his hand with your own, curling your fingers around the base and mimicking a couple teasing pumps before guiding him to your entrance.

Tom spreads his legs a little wider to accommodate you, the sensation of wet denim rubbing against your thighs, knocking your legs farther apart, causes a soft whimper to fall from your lips. It doesn’t take long for you to align the head of his cock with your entrance, teasing him with a couple of lascivious drags through your folds before you sink onto his length, reigniting the remnants of your last orgasm as inch after delicious inch prods your tender walls apart. By the time he bottoms out, you’re nothing but a trembling pile of limbs, and his lips seek out your own just to muffle your staggered breaths with a burning kiss.

You allow yourself a couple of seconds to adjust — no matter how or which way you take him, he still pushes up every crevice of your insides, demanding every square inch of your velvety heat. A wild flurry of crimson blossoms across the high planes of your cheeks as Tom nuzzles his forehead against your own, brushing his nose against yours, coaxing a melodious string of giggles from your chest while you scrunch up your nose. He presses a chaste kiss to the corner of your lips and smiles against the spot. “You look so pretty like this, my love. With that gorgeous smile of yours, and that pretty little pussy squeezing my cock.” You feel like you’ve got whiplash, trying to come to terms with how obscene he can be under such tender movements. “Just wanna turn you over and bury myself inside. See how tight you feel when you’re folded in half.” His hands reach down to rub gentle, circular motions into the small of your back, and you can’t help but pulse around him at the juxtaposition.

Once the uncomfortable stretch of his girth melts into pleasure, you finally start to work yourself over his length, and you swear you can feel every gorgeous ridge and vein of his cock as you rise up to the tip, only to plunge back down with a impish yelp, setting a clumsy, needy pace that certainly gets the job done. You don’t really find your rhythm until Tom helps you out, sinking his fingers into the supple curve of your ass, orchestrating a hard, punishing pace as he drives up into your sopping cunt, meeting you in the middle with each thrust.

All at once, the bathroom is washed in a crude symphony, the combination of your heavy panting and slapping skin intermingles with the shallow splash of water as it laps against the edge of the tub, punctuating the sinful drag of his length, and how the tip pounds against your furthest wall as you impale yourself onto him. You can feel another orgasm start to build, and since Tom has made it his solemn vow to not only study, but master, every little, scrumptious detail of your body, he senses it as well. 

“You got another one for me?” He asks between labored pants. His own orgasm is starting to peak over the horizon, following in the blazing trail you’ve set, you can tell by the way a thin sheen of sweat starts to build against his hairline, and his brows almost meet in the middle, as if the feeling of your pussy pulsing around his cock is unfathomable. He uses the grip he has on your waist to take control, using one hand to scale up the breadth of your back, and as his palms leave a blistering trail up, up, up your sides, he pulls you flush against his chest, attempting to plant his feet against the floor of the bathtub, 

He needs the leverage to piston his hips up into your own, to pound into your greedy hole at an unyielding pace — to keep his promise — and as you start to feel the tell tale edge of your climax cresting over your weary frame, you spoil his shoulder with sweeping, butterfly kisses and flood his mind with sweet, sweet nothings, luring him to the brink with the same dulcet tones you know drive him wild.

His hips stutter into your own, and before the words can even exit your lips, you’re dragged to the edge of bliss with a couple of rough, uncompromising thrusts that have you wildly spasming around his length. He joins you almost immediately, throbbing against your sensitive walls as he fills you to the brim, driving the mixture of your arousal further into you as he fucks you through your orgasm. 

Once he pulls out, he’s quick to wrap you up in a soothing embrace, planting kisses over every acre of skin he can get his lips on, but you’re too focused on the trail of cum leaking down your thighs to really indulge him, curiosity getting the better of you as you gently weave your arm between your bodies and collect the wetness on your thighs. You swear you can feel the rumble of his chest once you pop your fingers into your mouth, humming around the sodden digits, making a spectacle out of the addicting elixir pooling on your tongue, but his glimmer of reinvigorated stamina is put to rest by the sight of your drowsy, half-lidded stare.

“Why don’t we get you dried off? Then I can start dinner.” He hums against your cheek, punctuating his suggestion with yet another chaste kiss. It’s genuinely like he can’t get enough, and neither can you as you sleepily nod.

“Will you wake me up when it’s ready?” You sigh, teetering on the edge of slumber once more.

“Of course, my love.”

[spacexcowgirl]

All About The Chase - F.W.

Fred Weasley x Reader

Summary: Y/N will do anything for her best friend—and crush—Fred Weasley. Even if that means fake dating him so he can catch the eye of her cousin.

Word Count: 6.5k

Warnings: Light swearing, one allusion to sex (blink and you’ll miss it), brief mention of intoxication (again, blink and you’ll miss it), super mean awful cousin, food, a little angsty with a happy ending, 

A/N: For the anon who asked for Fred fake dating his friend to make her relative jealous! I decided to make her the twins age, and I may have went a little overboard with the cousin rivalry, but oh well. Thank you for feeding into my love of cliches! Also, I played around with using third person rather than second, it just felt right for this one. Pictures are from Pinterest.

message to be added to tags :)

When Y/N was six years old, her parents—well, Santa—got her the most amazing art set. She had always liked to draw, and now she had an array of more colors than she could even really name. When her family was set to head to her Aunt’s house for Christmas dinner, she packed up all of her new markers, a stack of fresh paper, and a few of her drawings she was most proud of to show off.

The night had started wonderfully. She got a few more gifts from her grandparents, a beautiful doll from her aunt and uncle, and enough sweets and candy to last her months. When it was time to finally eat, Y/N left all of her new toys and her cherished art set in her relatives’ living room. Y/N doesn’t remember much about the dinner—why should she? It was a decade prior—but what she does remember vividly is the excitement that bubbled up in her tiny body when her mother suggested she go grab some of her artwork to show off.

Y/N slid out of her chair and raced into the living room. Only when she got there did she find all of her finished art completely destroyed, covered in scribbles from her new markers. Her brows had furrowed and her eyes welled with tears, and that’s when she heard it. The sinister little cackle of her cousin, Annalise. Y/N turned on her heels and saw the girl, uncapped marker in hand, looking at her as if she was the most pitiful thing in the world.

Y/N returned to dinner empty handed, claiming she had forgotten the drawings at home—even though her parents were certain she hadn’t. Annalise returned with an innocent smile and a portrait of their Nan in hand—one Y/N was certain she just made with her markers—and all of the adults cooed and awed at the small girl’s talent.

A few years later, Y/N was set to star in their primary school’s theater production. Looking back, she now recognized that her landing that part had little to do with any real talents she had, and more to do with how adults always seemed to fawn over her. She was always revered as ‘just the cutest little thing!’ Which evidently preceded talent at the ripe age of eight.

Right before she was set to go on stage and deliver her three lines (that’s all a star can really handle so young, right?), she found her angel wings shredded and her halo headband bent in half. The teacher didn’t have any time to fix her costume, so in a fluster she threw out her part all together, and sent Y/N to stand with the rest of the year 3 ensemble. It didn’t take long for Y/N to catch Annalise’s eye amongst the other students, only she was smirking. Y/N had to force her eyes back out onto the crowd and desperately search for her parents to keep herself from bawling on the spot.

As if things couldn’t get any worse between the pair of cousins, when Y/N was ten, her and her parents were astonished to find a letter tucked into their usual mail, accepting her into the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The letter gave an answer to the many strange things Y/N had been able to make happen with her emotions alone, and her chest swelled with pride to learn just how special she truly was. Not to mention, this was finally her opportunity to escape Annalise once and for all.

Until, it wasn’t. Y/N didn’t know that Annalise was a witch as well until the two families spotted each other on the platform, preparing to send both of their daughters off. Neither parents had revealed the truths of their daughters abilities to the other prior, because they knew it must be kept with the upmost secrecy. Y/N’s parents and Annalise’s parents were overjoyed to know their little girls wouldn’t be all alone, and they had someone to share their apprehensions with. Y/N and Annalise were far less enthused by the news.

A little over five years later, Y/N sat in the Gryffindor Common room, rifling through beginning of the year work that had already been assigned. In the half-decade since she’d started at Hogwarts, she had managed to avoid Annalise as best she could. It turned out to be somewhat easy, seeing as they were sorted into different house. Still, whenever Gryffindor and Ravenclaw were forced into classes together, Y/N couldn’t help but feel dread pooling in her stomach. Annalise was always sure to make those classes a living hell for her.

Y/N’s attention was pulled from her work from the sound of a small group of people bounding into the common room. She glanced back over the couch, only to see her best friends—Fred and George—laughing and pushing each other around.

“She totally wants me!” Fred argued, a cocky grin alit on his face.

“Oh, please, she hates your guts, mate.” George teased back.

Fred looked as if he were about to respond, until his eyes met Y/N’s across the room. A more genuine smile found its way onto his face as he tugged his brother towards the couch, then plopped down next to her. George then took a seat in one of the chairs across from them. Y/N neatly gathered her work into a pile, knowing for certain there was no way she would make any progress with them around.

“Y/N, will you please tell my dear brother that your cousin is absolutely mad for me, she just has a different way of showing it?” Fred threw his arm lazily around the back of the couch, right behind her, as he looked at her expectantly.

Y/N couldn’t help the sour mood that the conversation immediately put her in. There was two reasons for this; one, the most obvious, any topic that involved Annalise always brought her down. She couldn’t help it, and she tried not to hate the girl, but everything about her was draining. The second reason was that Y/N was absolutely head over heels for Fred. She had been ever since he pranked Graham Montague for making her cry in third year. The idea of Fred and Annalise together was truly the epitome of her worst nightmare.

“I don’t know, she might really just hate you.” Y/N shrugged, doing her best to keep her voice even and her face straight. Her words caused Fred to scowl and George to erupt into fits of laughter.

“Oh come on, not you too!” Fred whined as he threw his head back. 

“What do you even see in her anyways?” Y/N wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer to the question, but she couldn’t help but ask it. 

“Well, she’s quite fit.” This answer earned a swift slap to the arm from Y/N, which only made Fred snicker. “And!” He continued, persistent to point out that looks weren’t all he cared about. “She’s feisty, and smart. And, she acts completely not interested in me.”

“So that’s why you like her?” Y/N snorted.

“Ah, dearest Y/N, one day you’ll learn that it’s all about the chase.” Fred began to twiddle some of her hair between his fingers.

“There’s plenty of girls who aren’t interested in you! You could ‘chase’ any of them.” Y/N reasoned, batting his hand away.

“You’ve got that right.” George snorted, causing his brother to shoot him a glare.

“Well, even if that were true, I’ve got my sights set on her.” Fred shrugged.

“Well, if you really want Annalise to go out with you, you should just date me.” Y/N teased as she sat forward, beginning to pluck through her papers once again. When no one laughed or responded, she quickly shot her eyes up. “I’m only kidding.”

“No, no that could work.” Fred sat up abruptly and pointed a finger towards her. “Y/N, you’re a genius!”

“I’m really not.” Y/N shook her head quickly. “That might breach the list of dumbest things I’ve ever said.”

“Yeah, right, don’t forget we’ve been around you drunk, Y/L/N. That doesn’t even make the top ten.” George grinned at her, but her nerves kept her from even smiling at his little joke.

Y/N was growing desperate now, because neither of the twins were brushing off her silly joke. Fred was looking at her as if she just handed him the key to solve all of his problems, and George was doing nothing to tame his brother. Y/N glanced expectantly between the two of them as she drew her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Come on, what better way to make her jealous than to see me dating her cousin?”

Y/N had mentioned on occasion the way that Annalise always had to ruin everything for her as a child, but never in full detail. Some part of her knew if she had just been transparent about how truly awful the girl had treated her, Fred would never give Annalise a second glance. But now, he thought they were nothing more than cousins with a small childhood rivalry, and for that he could justify going after her.

“Please, Y/N,” Fred got down on his knees in front of her, dawning his best puppy dog eyes, and put his hands in a pleading gesture. “Be my fake girlfriend for a month—two, tops.”

Y/N chewed harder on her bottom lip as she gazed at him, already feeling her reluctance slipping away. She could never say no to him, especially when he looked so adorable. Y/n breathed out a sigh and dropped her head to look at her folded hands in her lap. All thoughts of self preservation and protecting her heart went out the door; she knew she would say yes to him.

“Fine.” Her voice was quiet, so much so that it took Fred a second to make sure he had heard her properly. 

“Really? Just like that? I was about to start bribing you with sugar quills and a month of Herbology homework—”

“Well, if you’re offering—”

“Nope, too late. You agreed before I had to.” Fred grinned at the girl before swooping in and placing a kiss on her cheek. “Now, let’s set up some ground rules.”

Fred began to drone on about what they would and wouldn’t do. Things like holding hands in the corridors, sitting close at meals, kisses on the cheeks and forehead. Which pet names they would and wouldn’t use. Number one, though, was no kissing on the lips. 

Y/N only listened halfheartedly as Fred rambled on, offering a slight head nod ever now and then to show she was in agreement. As Y/N thought over just what she had gotten herself into, she realized the next few weeks were going to be awful.

-

It didn’t take long for rumors of Fred and Y/N’s budding romance to swirl. She often found herself walking hand in hand with him through the corridors, light whispers trailing behind them. Often times, people she had hardly ever spoken to would come up to her and gush about how they always just knew Fred and her would be perfect together. Y/N would always politely smile, then wonder if they could hear her heartbreaking as loudly as she could.

To make matters worse, Fred was the perfect ‘boyfriend.’ Just as she always assumed he would be. He’d carry her books in one arm, swing their intertwined hands with the other, and walk her to each of her classes. At night, he’d sit with her in the library while she poured over her notes for the day—even though she knew he wanted nothing more than to be out pranking with George and Lee. She adored all of the extra time they were getting to spend together, until she’d remember that it was only temporary, and if he were lucky, he’d be doing all of these things with Annalise in a month.

It wasn’t until about three weeks into their agreement that Annalise approached her. Fred had walked her to potions that day, like he always did. He was making her laugh loudly, not caring at all about the many eyes upon them.

“It’s a wonder your mum didn’t ship you and George off when you were toddlers,” Y/n snorted. “It sounds like you two were menaces.”

“Oh, we were.” Fred nodded, a small grin on his face. “But I reckon we were the cutest babies she had so far, so she kept us around.”

Y/N snorted and rolled her eyes before nudging him lightly with her shoulder. They had finally made it to the potions classroom, so it was time for them to part. Fred handed her back her books and dropped her hand, but didn’t walk away until he had placed a soft kiss to her temple.

“Meet you outside of here after to walk to lunch?” He confirmed, but there was no need. It was the routine they had fallen into.

“Mhm.” Y/N gazed up at him, unable to contain the giddy smile on her lips. With that, he turned and began walking down the hallway, but not before shooting her a wink over his shoulder.

Y/N watched his retreating figure, a lovesick grin plastered to her face. Just when she had pulled herself from her daydreams and was about to enter the classroom, she ran hard into a firmly planted body.

“So, you and Weasley are pretty serious then, huh?” Annalise stood with her hands on her hips, a look that read as both disgust and amusement riddled on her face.

“Yeah, you could say that.” Y/N quickly recovered, hugging her books closer to her chest. This year, she had more classes with Annalise than any year prior, seeing as they both received a significant amount of O.W.L.s.

“Hm.” Annalise’s eyes trailed down the hallway where Fred had once been, before letting them snap back to Y/N. “Don’t know how you managed that.”

Y/N felt her blood run cold, but couldn’t find the energy within her to talk any further. So, she simply brushed past Annalise and into the classroom, ignoring the scoff that left Annalise’s lips when she pushed her out of the way. Y/N found her usual seat in the back and trained her eyes ahead, careful to keep her expression calm. That was, until Annalise slid into the seat next to her.

“What are you doing?” Y/N gaped at her. It wasn’t like they had assigned seats, but Y/N had always sat next to Patricia Stimpson. The girl was constantly fussing and nervous, always afraid to make a wrong move, but she certainly wasn’t the worst person Y/N could be stuck with.

“Asked Stimpson to trade seats.” Annalise shrugged nonchalantly, before a wicked grin grew on her face. “Figured we could get some good, cousin, bonding time.”

Y/N wanted to groan, but then Snape was gliding into the room and silencing everyone. She was certain this would be the longest lecture of her life.

-

When the class ended, Y/N didn’t wait for Fred outside. Instead, she had pushed up from her seat and hurried through the corridors, skipping lunch entirely to go wallow in her dorm room. Annalise had made the lecture a living hell, whether it be from snide comments she’d whisper over or by purposefully ruining their potion, then blaming it on Y/N. Internally, she cursed Fred—although it wasn’t really his fault—for putting her in the position to be in Annalise’s line of fire once again.

Y/N ended up avoiding Fred the rest of the day, scurrying between classes before he could find her. When she was finally done for the day, she wanted nothing more than to hide out in her dorm and cry. That’s exactly what she had started doing, too, before her door creeped open.

Y/N held her breath, assuming it was either Angelina or Alicia coming back before dinner. But, when her mattress dipped slightly from the weight of someone sitting down, she quickly spun around, coming face to face with Fred.

“Darling,” He cooed. It was a nickname he had taken to calling her ever since they started ‘dating,’ although no one was around now, and he was still using it. “What’s wrong? Have you been crying?”

“How’d you get in here?” Y/N croaked, avoiding his question entirely.

“Figured out how to get past the charm ages ago.” Fred rested a gentle hand on her knee. “Then, Ang gave me her key. Said she saw you run up her. So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong? And why’ve you been avoiding me all day?”

At that, Y/N lost it once again. Tears began streaming down her face freely, and she quickly sat up and accepted Fred’s opened arms. He raked his fingers through her messy hair and let her cry on his shoulder, gently soothing her to a place where she’d be able to speak.

“It’s just…” It was on the tip of her tongue. Y/N wanted desperately to tell him the truth about how awful Annalise truly was. But, just like when she was younger and never ratted Annalise out, she just couldn’t now. She didn’t know why it was, but it always felt like if she spoke the words out loud, then Annalise had won. “I’ve just had an awful day.”

“Snape will do that to you.” Fred tutted, clearly assuming her change in behavior post-potions was brought on by the professor. “I’m sorry, love.”

Y/N sniffled a few more times into his shoulder, wishing desperately that he was holding her in a way that wasn’t platonic. She craved nothing more than for him to want her like she’d always wanted him. But that seemed to be just a fantasy. The muggle fairytales she had been told growing up weren’t real, and the wicked witch was winning.

“Why don’t we go for a walk, get some fresh air?” Fred pulled back to look over her face, concern filled in his eyes. 

“But, you’re missing dinner…” 

“Eh, the house elves love me. I’ll just sneak down to the kitchens and grab something later.” Fred shrugged, a small smile now growing on his face. “You and me, we can make a whole night of it. I’ll sneak some snacks up and we can watch one of those old muggle movies you love so much.”

While Y/N was far from being completely okay, the tenderness he was exhibiting towards her made her heart swell. She knew he had plans with George and Lee that night, some big prank on a few Slytherins, but here he was, throwing it all away for her. He gently reached out and cupped her cheek, brushing a few stray tears away with his thumb. Y/N avoided his eyes, afraid that they would communicate all of the non-platonic love she felt for him, then nodded.

“Perfect.” Fred grinned before jumping up and extended his hand out to her. “Well, let’s go.”

Fred guided her the whole way out of the castle, keeping her close as they walked through the grounds. The autumn air was cool, and at the very second that Y/N shivered, Fred was wrapping an arm around her and pulling her into his side. 

They walked around and talked for a little over an hour, giddy smiles on their faces all the while. Fred made her laugh so hard she abandoned all thoughts of Annalise, her mind completely filled with the tall red head beside her. He just had this way about him that could make anything that was possibly wrong seem miniscule. He reminded her of everything good in the world.

Once the sun was fully down and the temperature had dropped significantly, the two could no longer justify being outside in the cold. Fred made a show of wrapping her hands in his own, rubbing them together to bring her some warmth, before guiding her back to the castle.

They parted ways shortly, just so Fred could sneak into the kitchens and Y/N could get the movie set up in the common room. She laid out a few blankets and pillows then pushed the couch back a bit, thankful that it was a Wednesday night and most students seemed to have already gone to bed. When Fred returned, he handed Y/N a plate of food then sat down cross-legged beside her, balancing his own plate in his lap.

Y/N started the movie and dug into her food, giggling lightly at Fred’s ravenous way of eating. He had certainly been hungry earlier, but she needed him, so evidently he pushed his hunger aside. When their plates were finished, they stacked them neatly on the table behind them, before completely turning their attention to the movie.

“Okay, wait, who’s the green girl again?” Fred questioned as he pointed towards the screen, brows furrowed.

“If you would pay attention, you would know.” Y/N giggled. “She’s the Wicked Witch of The West.”

“She’s supposed to be a witch?” Fred crinkled up his nose, confusion clear on his face. “I don’t know any green witches.”

“It’s a muggle movie, Fred.” Y/N lightly rolled her eyes.

“And who’s she?”

“Glinda, the good witch.”

“Okay, I definitely know witches don’t dress like that.” Fred teased, eyeing the woman on the screen’s frilly pink dress

“Maybe I should start.” Y/N giggled, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Think I could pull it off?”

“Darling, you’d look beautiful in anything.” Fred winked at her, causing her face to heat up. Some part of her knew it was nothing more than harmless joking, but she couldn’t help the way he lit something alive within her. 

“Ya think?” Y/N scooted a bit closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder so he couldn’t see her giddy smile.

“I know.” His voice was soft, and the two of them remained quiet for the next few scenes of the movie.

At some point, the two of them had shifted to lay down in order to get more comfortable on the floor. Fred was laying on his back with one hand behind his head, the other resting idly in between them. Y/N was sprawled out on her stomach, her face down by his feet. Every little bit her eyes would light up and she’d glance back to tell him that her favorite part was coming up, only for him to realize that every part seemed to be her favorite part. Still, he never pointed that out, but instead just smiled fondly at her and nodded.

“Ugh.” Y/N grimaced, a slight shiver running down her spine. “Those monkeys always terrified me when I was little.”

“Oh yeah?” Fred sat up now, leaning closer to her. “You scared now?”

“Psh, no.” Y/N rolled her eyes and glanced back over at him, only to find him slowly inching towards her. She pointed a finger out warningly. “Fred, don’t.”

It was no use, Fred’s hands latched themselves to her sides and began tickling her feverishly. Y/N squealed and tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but it was no use. In the process, she had flipped over onto her back and was now kicking her legs out, trying to get him to stop, but that only egged him on further.

“You sure you’re not scared, Y/L/N?” Fred teased. “I could comfort you, if you were.”

“Freddie! Stop!” Y/N breathed out, tears beginning to pool in her eyes from her laughter.

Y/N now had the front of his jumper balled in her fists, trying desperately to get him to stop. After another minute, he did, and her wriggling ceased. Still, he loomed over top of her while she gripped onto his jumper tightly. Both of them were silent as they stared into each other’s eyes, faces only inches apart. For half a second, Y/N swore she saw Fred’s eyes flicker down to her lips, but then she convinced herself she must have dreamed it.

The sounds of the movie seemed to draw them back to the present, and Y/N let go of Fred’s jumper, causing him to sit up. She followed suit, clearing her throat in hopes of easing the tension between them. Fred was never one to let any awkwardness linger, so he nudged her with his elbow before laying back down in the spot he had been before.

“Cuddle up, Y/N. I’ll keep you safe from the big scary winged monkeys.” He winked as he opened his arms for her.

Y/N rolled her eyes lightly, trying desperately to calm the nerves in her stomach, before obliging and cuddling into his side. She let her head rest on his chest, her hand placed just over his heart, as he tightened his arm around her. Y/N found that she couldn’t pay attention to the rest of the movie, what with Fred pulling a blanket up around them and gently stroking her hair. She was lulled to sleep by the action, finding that she wished every night, she could fall asleep in his arms.

The two were startled awake the next morning by a bout of loud laughter. As Y/N quickly sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, she spotted George, fully dressed in his school uniform, gazing down at them with an amused grin. Fred groaned from where he still laid on the floor, pulling a pillow over his face to block out the light.

“And what’s this?” George cocked his head to the side. “You guys are really taking this ‘fake dating’ thing pretty seriously. Honestly, you’ve got me convinced.”

Fred shot up quickly at that, nervously looking around the common room to make sure no one heard. When he realized it was only the three of them, he let out a breath of relief.

“Come off it, will you? We just fell asleep after watching a movie.” Fred shot his brother a glare.

Y/N felt sick at the reminder that everything between them was fake. Every little moment she had foolishly convinced herself could mean something more was nothing but wishful thinking. Drawing in a deep sigh, Y/N forced herself up and gestured for Fred to move with a flick of her wand. Once he obliged, she flicked her wand again and gathered all of the blankets and pillows before pushing the couch back. Without another word, she stalked back up the steps to her dorm, and prepared herself for another long day.

-

When Y/N arrived to the potions classroom, her stomach dropped at the sight of Annalise once again in the seat next to her usual one. She gazed around the room, grumbling slightly when she realized she had no other choice but to sit next to the girl. 

“Wow, you look like hell.” Annalise sneered when she trudged over.

“Probably because I was up all night with Fred.” Y/N shot back, before truly registering her words. “Not… Not like that.”

Annalise snorted at the insinuation and rolled her eyes. It seemed she was about to say something, no doubt some snide comment, but was cut off by Snape walking into the room. Y/N straightened up and began to listen to the professor drone on, her stomach twisting in knots when she realized what that day’s lecture would entail. A cauldron sat at the front of the classroom, an alluring steam rising off of it. Y/N knew, it was Amortentia.

After giving a brief lecture on it, Snape used his wand to lift the cauldron in the air, slowly letting it stop by each desk for the students to gaze at. He appeared completely uninterested by the kids’ excitement from what they smelled. Finally, it arrived at Y/N and Annalise’s table.

Y/N leaned forward and took a breath in, her nose being filled with the scent of fireworks, chocolate, and the shampoo Fred used. She sat back in her seat and crossed her arms, not needing the reminder that she felt so deeply for someone who didn’t return her affections.

Annalise leaned forward and breathed in a deep breath, a dreamy smile gracing her face. Her eyes flickered towards the front of the classroom, finding Snape deep in conversation with another Ravenclaw student. Quickly, she pulled an empty glass bottle from her bag and dipped it into the cauldron, filling it entirely.

“What’re you doing?” Y/N hissed, sitting up abruptly.

“I’m gonna use it as perfume. So everyone smells what they’re attracted to on me, and wants to be around me.” Annalise shrugged, placing a cork on the bottle and sliding it back into her bag. Y/N knew she could get in loads of trouble for carrying such a dangerous and potent potion, yet she didn’t speak up to turn her in. “Professor Snape, we’re all done back here!”

And with that, Snape was whisking the cauldron away and carrying on with his lecture. Y/N watched Annalise out of the corner of her eye, certain she was up to something from the glint in her eye. Still, like always, she stayed silent.

-

A week later, all thoughts of Annalise’s odd behavior had completely left Y/N’s mind. She was so caught up in falling for Fred even more each day, she could hardly focus on anything else. The fact that he hadn’t brought up Annalise once since their movie night didn’t go unnoticed to her, and she found herself chasing the familiar hope that maybe he was starting to fall for her too.

“I’ve gotta catch up with Georgie and Lee—they’re still mad I ditched them last week.” Fred informed her as he finished his dinner. “Catch you later?”

She nodded, a bright smile lighting up her face when he swooped down and kissed her cheek before hurrying off. Y/N was so in a daze that she didn’t even notice someone slide in the seat beside her, occupying the space Fred was once in.

“Ah, so you two are still together, are you?” Annalise spoke up, making her presence known. She wore a devilish grin as she feigned a casual act, picking at her nails.

“Obviously.” Y/N rolled her eyes. 

“What a shame, I just hate to be the one to tell you this.” She sighed.

“Tell me what?” Y/N’s brows furrowed as she turned to look at Annalise full on.

“Well, I’ve been wearing my perfume, you see.” She craned her neck and circled her hand, gesturing for Y/N to lean in and take a whiff. The smell was undeniable, and as much as she hated being in the presence of her cousin, it kept her reeled in. “Smell Freddie, do you?”

“Why do you care?” Y/N gritted her teeth, hating the way his nickname sounded coming from her mouth.

“Because, he doesn’t smell you.” Annalise shrugged. “In fact, what was it he told me he smelled? Right, fresh ink, my peach shampoo, and… Oh, I can’t remember. It was so hard to pay attention while he was snogging me in that broom closet.”

Y/N instantly dropped the utensils in her hand, ignoring the way they clattered to the ground. The sound drew a few eyes towards them, and Annalise simply smirked at her cousin. Y/N could feel tears welling behind her eyes, but she was also angry. At Fred, for not just telling her that he had finally gotten what he wanted. And at Annalise, for always being so dead set on ruining everything for her.

“What did I ever do to you?” Y/N heard her voice crack, and she felt just as pathetic as Annalise wanted her to feel. When she spoke again, her tone increased significantly. “Why must you always ruin everything for me?”

Some part of her knew she shouldn’t be freaking out, because this had always been the plan. She knew Annalise could never let anything be hers, so she should simply take it in stride and move on. But she couldn’t. She had been so sure that Fred and her were starting to build something real, that she’d finally be with the boy she’d crushed on for years, and now all of that hope was shattered.

“I’m just being a good cousin.” Annalise slapped a hand to her chest, feigning some sort of dignity that she certainly didn’t have. “Really, he was bound to cheat on you at some point. I just made it happen sooner rather than later. You should be thanking me.”

Y/N reached for her wand and gripped it tightly in her fist, ready to point it at her and fire off whatever hex came to mind. In an instant, fear was in Annalise’s eyes and she was cowering back. Professor McGonagall was now rushing forward, shouting her surname and ordering her to stop. In response, Y/N lowered her wand and wiped at her eyes, forcing none of her tears to fall.

“You know what, you’re not even worth it.”

And with that, she was marching out of the Great Hall, ignoring any calls of her name.

-

When Y/N made it back to the common room, she found George, Lee, and Fred gathered around a small table in the corner. A few other students were littered throughout the room, as well. Y/N almost just stormed right up to her dorm, intent on never speaking to Fred again, but she was sick of always letting people treat her like rubbish. So, right as she made it to the base of the steps, she turned on her heels and marched to their table, causing all of their eyes to fall on her.

“Hello, love—”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” She shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at Fred. “Godric, I know I agreed to help the two of you get together, but cheating on me? Leaving me embarrassed in front of the whole school? What is wrong with you?”

Lee and George glanced at each other with wide eyes before signally towards their steps and quietly sneaking away. This left Fred in open-mouthed shock, gaping at Y/N in all of her fury.

“I don’t know what—”

“And don’t even tell me how it wasn’t really cheating, because we weren’t really together, I know. But the rest of the school doesn’t know that! Annalise doesn’t know that! And now you’ve fed directly into her only wish of making my life utterly horrible.” Y/N fumed, although her hands were shaking slightly. “So, congrats Fred. You finally got the girl. And Annalise got what she wanted, too. Looks like you two are perfect for each other.”

After saying her piece, she quickly turned around and began making her way back towards her steps. She ignored the many sets of bewildered eyes on her, too angry and hurt to even care. She was only stopped by the feeling of Fred gripping onto her wrist and spinning her back around to face him.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Fred searched her eyes. “I didn’t cheat on you, fake or not.”

“But—” 

“Annalise yanked me into a broom closet earlier, asking me to smell her neck like a bloody lunatic. So, I did, because I’m always enticed by strange offers.” He quipped with a smile, but when Y/N shot him a pointed look, he became serious once again. “Not the time? Right, okay. So, I smelled her, and I asked if she cornered me in there just to tell me she nicked your perfume, and she got all huffy, so I left. I didn’t cheat on you. I didn’t even mention it because it was too weird to explain.”

“You…” The words got caught in Y/N’s throat, all of her anger leaving her body. “You smelled my perfume?”

“Yeah, and faintly my mum’s roast, but I didn’t question it.” Fred shrugged. “Why?”

Y/N slowly raised a hand up to her mouth, gazing between where his hand still held her wrist and his eyes. Fred had never been very good at potions, so she knew just saying Annalise was wearing ‘Amortentia’ would explain very little.

“She was wearing a love potion, Fred.” Y/N spoke up, much quieter than before. “You smell what you’re attracted to in it.”

In an instant, Fred’s face was a bright shade of red and he quickly dropped her wrist. His eyes dipped down as he avoided her gaze, and Y/N realized this was the first time she’d ever seen him nervous.

“I…” Fred struggled to find words. “I don’t—I mean, I do… But I didn’t want you to—”

“Ask me what I smell in mine.” Y/N urged, cutting off his rambling. Fred shot his head back up at that, looking at her quizzically. 

“What do you smell in yours?” There was a hopeful glint behind his eyes, though his words were soft.

“Fireworks, chocolate…” Y/N took a step closer to him. “And your shampoo.”

The second that Fred fully registered what her words meant, he was closing the distance between the two of them. Y/N let out a shocked giggle as he wrapped her up in his arms, pressing his lips fully to hers for the first time. Although she had seen fireworks before, and she had smelled them almost every time Fred and George were around, neither compared to what it was like to feel fireworks. Y/N’s arms wound around his neck as she pulled him closer to her, prepared to live in the moment forever if she could.

When they pulled apart, there was nothing left either of them had to say. Fred could apologize for putting her through hell for the past few weeks, and Y/N could apologize for being so harsh, but that didn’t matter to either of them at the moment. All that mattered, was they both finally realized what had always been right in front of them.

-

Very early on in the start of Y/N and Fred’s real relationship, she finally opened up to him about just how awful Annalise really was. His jaw clenched at everything she told him, and he quickly expressed that he never would’ve wanted to be with her had he known. Y/N assured him she didn’t care, because this time, Annalise truly lost.

Although Y/N had been quick to brush off her feud with her cousin, telling Fred it was best to just leave it alone, she couldn’t say she was surprised when she walked into the Great Hall one morning, finding Annalise cowering at her table with neon green hair. It was the exact shade she had used when they were six to ruin Y/N’s drawing. While Fred and George vehemently denied any involvement in the prank, Y/N simply placed a short kiss to Fred’s lips, and quietly thanked him.

TAGS: @theweasleysredhair @letsgotothehop​ @wand3ringr0s3 @sarcasticallywitty15​

[disgruntledspacedad]

The Rules of Engagement (2/5)

part of the The Better Love Series 

pairing: Javier Peña x fem!reader

summary: (slow-burn, sexual tension, angst, a little bit of h/c in later chapters) He’s a DEA agent. You work for Centra Spike. Peña’s not your boss, exactly, but you’ve been fwb long enough that certain people are starting to think of you as An Item, and that just won’t do.

words: 5.9k

warnings: 18+ for alcohol, language, smut, violence. we are starting to earn that m rating now, folks

a/n: at the end. unbeta’d, as always.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

MASTERLIST

You wake the next morning feeling better than you have any right to feel, given the guaro you’d drank last night. You tiptoe into the living area to check on Javi. He’s slumped over, one arm thrown over his head, the other crushed under the throw pillow, blanket crumpled on the floor below him. He’s snoring softly.

You grimace, just knowing that it’s going to be a rough morning for him.

You start with coffee, naturally. While the water is heating, you rummage through the kitchen, not making any particular effort to be silent - Javi has to wake up eventually - but still trying to keep from banging around too much. 

“Fuck,” you hiss, staring indignantly into the fridge. You’d cooked all the eggs last night, and there’s nothing left for breakfast. 

“Whhhaa?” Javi sits up slowly. All you can see is a dark bird’s nest peeking over the sofa. Given last night’s realization and your fascination with his hair, you decide that’s probably a good thing. 

“No groceries in,” you admit apologetically. He’ll have to make do with coffee. 

“Ugh,” you hear him groan from the living room. He must have slumped forward or something, because you can’t see him anymore. “Ears.” His voice is pathetic. 

You pour the coffee into two mugs, automatically adding creamer to yours, sugar to his. It occurs to you that making Javier Peña’s morning cup of coffee should not come so naturally to you. 

You roll you eyes at the thought. All the more reason for this to stop.

He’s doubled over on his knees, head in hands, fingers carding through his wild hair. You bite your lip. 

He does look pitiful, and admittedly, you are partially to blame. You set his coffee down in front of him, along with a couple of aspirin tablets. “Here,” you do your best to keep your voice soft. “This’ll help a little.”

He glares darkly at you, looking like an indignant little boy, and reaches for the coffee. Gulps. Grimaces as he burns his tongue. Slams the cup down. Sighs. Picks up the pills. Tosses those back, too. Closes his eyes. Falls back onto the sofa as easily as he’s able with his aching head. 

Okay, then. Javier Peña is not a morning person. You’d known that already - it’s endearing, but old news. Javier Peña with a hangover, though, is an absolute drama queen. This, you file away as new information. 

You reach for his coffee cup and refill it. 

He side-eyes you as you approach him with his second mug. “You,” he says accusatorially, pointing a crooked finger in your direction and leering in a way that’s both disturbing and appealing. “You promised me magic eggs.” 

“You’re not wrong,” You tell him, settling down with your own coffee cup. “But I did say to hold off on that last shot, too, didn’t I?”

He growls, eyes world-weary and bloodshot, and reaches for his mug. “Point,” he admits reluctantly. “Ugh.”

“If you’re going to puke, please try to make it to a trashcan first, preferably the one in bathroom,” you tell him as you start rummaging around the cabinets for anything that could be remotely edible. “The tiles there are easier to clean.”

“Christ,” he whines. “I’m not that fucked.” He stands, then wobbles, bracing himself on the back of the sofa and breathing heavily, looking a little green. 

“Right,” you say dryly, turning back to your cabinets. Cereal, but your milk has probably gone off by now. There’s a pack of lentils in the back of pantry that you’d bought god-knows-when, but those take far too long to be cooked for breakfast, and besides, who even likes lentils anyway?

You jump as Javi presses his chest against your back, looking over your shoulder to inspect your depressingly empty cabinets. “Looks like we’re shit out of luck,” he grumbles as you try not to react to the fact that you can feel the rumble of his voice as he speaks. “What kind of woman are you, anyway?” he wonders aloud as he reaches around you to rifle through your disappointing pantry. 

You whirl, jabbing him with an elbow. “The kind who doesn’t cook you breakfast!”

He smirks at you, moving closer, and oh, that caffeine must be working, because he’s grinning now. “Oh really?” he asks, damn near pinning you to the cabinet doors. “Because that’s not what I remember from last night.”

You roll your eyes, side-stepping him before he starts grinding into your hips. You couldn’t avoid reacting to that. 

“What you remember was a rescue mission, Peña, not domestic bliss. If I hadn’t made you those eggs, you wouldn’t be capable of standing here teasing me this morning, and that’s a promise.”

His smirk softens into a genuine smile. “Well then, I owe you one, I guess.” He glances at his watch, then back at you. “Let me take you for breakfast? There’s a little cafe down the street that’s quick and discreet.”

You turn to frown at him, bag of lentils rattling as it drops to the floor. 

He stares right back at you, naked save for his boxers and socks. His hair is a mess, his face a little swollen from last night, eyes just a tiny bit glossy, but his expression is dead serious. He holds a hand out to you, as if he’d like to escort you down the stairs right now. 

You can’t help it. You laugh. 

He rolls his eyes, downing the rest of his coffee in one go and setting the cup on the counter as he approaches you. “Ears,” he says softly, and something in you fucking trembles at that voice, all cracked and hoarse in the early morning. “I owe you breakfast.” He reaches for your hands, gathers them to his chest. “Let me.”

You tilt your face up, as if you expect him to drop a kiss on your forehead, then jump back as if burned. His erection is digging into your thigh, needy and insistent, and it takes everything in your power to step away instead of grinding into him. 

You take a deep, shaking breath, feeling yourself flood with need for him. He’s looking at you, far more observant that he ought to be capable of, as hungover as he is, and it spikes something resentful in you. 

“Yeah?” you say, keeping your voice light and teasing. “You gonna do something about that, first?”

He doesn’t even pretend to be confused, just reaches down to blatantly adjust himself. “If you aren’t, I guess,” he says evenly, one brow cocked in question. 

Goddamn it. 

You lick your lips, an unconscious move that makes his cock twitch. 

You swallow back a smile, suddenly relieved. Even if it doesn’t feel like it, you still have the power here. “Nah,” you grin up at him, teasing, swiping your tongue behind your teeth in a way that you know drives him crazy. “It’s hardly been a week, remember? I’m not that desperate yet.”

His gaze narrows as he sizes you up. A hand deliberately slips beneath the hem of his boxers. “You sure, babe?”

“I’m sure you’re more than capable of handling that,” you tell him sweetly. 

The expression that answers you is predatory. “I’ll just borrow your shower, then.” He winks at you. “Be ready in ten.”

♠

You’re ready in five. 

He takes an absurdly long time. You halfway consider banging on the bathroom door to remind him not to run out your hot water, but decide not to give him the satisfaction. Just as you’re starting to get truly annoyed, the water shuts off. He opens the door moments later, all wet and dripping, towel hanging low over his hips. 

Asshole.

He makes no issue of changing in front of you, but hell, you aren’t going to leave, either - you need access to your own bathroom, for godssake - and you do your best not to look at his glistening skin as he slips into yesterday’s clothes. You tell yourself that it’s no big deal, we all have bodies, and his is nothing you’ve never seen, anyway.

You can’t help but notice, though, when he bends over, fully dressed, and snatches a pair of your panties from the floor. 

You eyeball him from where you’re perched on the counter with your feet in the sink. Javi meets your gaze in the mirror and holds aloft the panties, draping them suggestively over his chest, and then, before you can even scowl at him, he’s winking at you, balling them up and stuffing them into the back pocket of his jeans. 

The fuck??

You decide not to say anything. They’re just cotton undies, some of your favorites, sure, but comfy, not sexy. Complaining will definitely give him points. Instead, you roll your eyes hard enough to dislodge your contacts, forcing yourself to sulk open-mouthed in the mirror as you blink to settle them back into place.

By the time you’ve done that, he’s standing beside you, brushing his teeth as if nothing is amiss. 

You glance down. Even with a second day of wear, those jeans are tight enough that you can clearly see the outline of your panties in his back pocket. 

Motherfucker. 

“Ready, Ears?” he asks as you finish tying back your braid. Cool as fucking anything. You can’t even tell he’s hungover, the absolute cuntstain. 

“Sure.” You hop down from the sink, allowing him to catch you, even though it’s totally unnecessary. For just a second, your body is pressed against his, heat and damp of the shower emanating from his skin, his belt digging into your belly.

He grins down at you, bright-eyed and thoroughly obnoxious, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “So this place has the best waffles…”

♠

You make it to the office just after 0830. Not late enough to truly raise eyebrows, but your face still flames as you slip into your headset. Nobody bats an eye except for Torres, who glances up suspiciously. You shake your head at him, and he ducks back down, attending his station as if he’d never noticed you walk in.

Work keeps you busy. The Search Bloc boys are swarming, prepping this and that for their afternoon excursion to Medellín. Centra Spike is flying two teams over the targeted neighborhood, doing their best to patch in for any last minute intel, and the whole day devolves into chaos.

You’ve forgotten all about Javi until you happen to pass him in the hallway on your lunch break. He’s in full Agent Peña mode, talking to Murphy with his fists on his hips, flaying his leather jacket out behind him like a pair of demon wings. You can’t help but notice the outline of your panties bunched up at the bottom of his left back pocket. 

The contrast of the image, the smooth as silk DEA agent displaying the outline of your fucking underwear on his ass for all to see and wonder about, is enough to set your body on fire.

You make a quick detour to the bathroom, hunching over the sink to look in the mirror. The woman staring back at you has wide eyes and swollen lips. Her cheeks are burning. Her braid is frazzled, and she’s wearing a stunned, dumb expression on her face. 

‘Oh, honey,’ you think condescendingly to your reflection, ‘you have no chill.’

It occurs to you, suddenly, that the women’s bathrooms at the CNP Headquarters are frequently cleaned and rarely used. Mirrors surround you on three walls. Anybody could walk in behind you, lifting your skirt and pushing aside your panties as he thrusts into you, and you could watch it all from your position over the sink.

Shame and desire are literally flooding you. Angrily, you enter the nearest stall, dragging your soaked panties down your legs. You bundle them up and swipe at yourself with them, stuffing in the wastebasket with a growl when you're done. 'That’s two pair of undies that man has lost me,' you think viciously, cursing your body for reacting so strongly. Goddamn Javier Peña for taking your underwear to work with him in the first place, the kinky-ass kleptomaniac bastard. 

There’s too much going on for you to be preoccupied like this right now.

You exit the bathroom when you fucking finally feel clean again, smoothing your skirt over your ass and checking yourself out once again in the mirror. 

This woman still looks a little flushed, but her eyes are glittering now, narrowed in annoyance. You definitely don’t have any panty lines to worry about. You smooth down the flyaways that are attempting to escape your braid and sigh, thinking you can easily pass for just having a busy work day. 

It’ll have to do.

♠

Search Bloc is scheduled to board the chopper at 1400 hours. 

It’s no big deal. You know with all your heart that your intel is good - you’d triple checked it twice before even handing it to Javi - but something about the hustle and bustle at the embassy has you on edge. You make your way to the landing pad, not even trying to justify a reason for being there. 

You just want to see Javi one time before he leaves.

And there he is, standing just afield of the chopper with Murphy and some other member of the Colombian brass whose name you hadn’t bothered to learn. Their heads are pressed together, hair waving in the wind of the chopper blades, shouting, pointing. 

Your heart speeds. Javi’s wearing that fucking bulletproof vest, the green one that hardly covers him in any capacity that actually matters. Dread pools in your belly as you take him in - salmon colored shirt sleeves exposing tanned arms, padded armor that extends over his subclavian artery with less breadth than a teenager could get away with wearing in a typical high school classroom. His heart is covered, thankfully, but his neck is vulnerable, as is most of his shoulder. One of your good friends had been a medic in Desert Storm, and you’ve heard enough of his horror stories to know that a gunshot wound to the clavicular area is nearly always lethal. Never mind one to the neck or head. 

You take a breath, then another. You’ve done your job. You know without a doubt that the conversation you’d listened to, over and over, had verified Verdugo’s presence in Medellín. 

More importantly, you’re confident in Javi’s abilities. He’s sharp, and he’s a survivor. He can protect himself, you’re sure of it. 

As if he’d sensed your thoughts, Javi whirls, looking back at you with his hand raised to block the sun. You meet his gaze, waving subtly in acknowledgement. 

“Be careful,” you mouth, not certain if you’re close enough for him to read you lips. 

Please. 

His only response is a sharp nod. 

♠

It’s barely been a day, and already it’s burning a hole in you, missing him. 

You tell yourself that it could just be libido that’s burning a hole in you, too.

He’s left one of his shirts on your floor, the asshole. It’s the yellow one that reminds you of your neighborhood mailman back home. You pick it up and immediately throw it in the dirty laundry, quick as if it had burned. You don’t want to see him. You don’t want to smell him.

You just want him safe.

You sit on your sofa, staring idly at the lopsided stack of playing cards that he’d left half-shuffled on your coffee table. 

♠

Rumor is at Centra Strike that the Search Bloc team has run into some “legal problems.” The situation is pending intervention by the local authorities. 

“There’s nothing for you to do, Ears. Go home.”

♠

You bump into Ana on your way up the stairs. 

“Hey!” she lights up when she first sees you, but then her face settles into a thoughtful frown. “You look worried.” She moves closer, all gentle concern, resting a hand on your shoulder. Behind her, Emilio is watching, probably picking up on more than he lets on. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you tell her, mustering up a half-hearted smile. “Everything is fine.”

She grimaces like she doesn’t quite believe you, but squeezes your arm and lets you go anyway. “Men are the worst. Come find me, Ears, if you need to talk.” 

You nod, biting your lip. “Thanks.”

♠

You’re just getting ready for bed when the front door creaks open, and Javi slips in. 

Something in your chest leaps to see him, but your grins fades as you glance up from your book. 

Javi looks terrible. His shoulders are slumped, motions jerky and exhausted as he drops wallet, keys, gun, cigarettes, pager, one by one, onto your kitchen counter. 

“Hey,” you say softly, setting the book aside and rising to your feet.

“Hey,” he breathes, more of a huff than a word. He shrugs out of his jacket, skirting around the coffee table to settle heavily on the sofa. He leans forward on his elbows, head bowed, staring absently at the worn carpet.

Jesus. 

Carefully, as if approaching a wild animal, you move in beside him, not quite close enough to brush his shoulder. You take a moment to reign in your palpable relief at seeing him here, alive and unharmed. How you feel is not important right now.

What’s important is Javi, who’s slumped with his hands clasped over his knees. Dejection leaks from him in tangible waves, and you can’t help but move closer, resting your hand on his shoulder in silent comfort. He trembles subtly at your touch, but doesn’t flinch away. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask after a long moment. It’s the only thing you know to offer.

He inhales sharply at your voice, as if he’d forgotten you were there, then heaves another massive sigh, pressing his palms into his eyes and digging his fingers through his hair. 

“There’s a fucking leak in the Medellín force,” he bites out tersely. 

You stiffen as if he’d poured ice water down your back. “Oh god.” All that intel, all those men, delivered directly to Verdugo, to Escobar…

“Yeah,” he growls, muscles of his back tensing. “We walked right into a trap.”

“Fuck,” you breathe, the implications hitting you one by one. You’re struck with the sudden urge to wrap your arms around him and cling for dear life, emotions tangling and snarling in your chest - gratitude, overwhelming relief, concern, curiosity. You manage to hold still, settling for slowly rubbing his shoulder, your fingers carding back and forth against the thin material of his shirt. 

It’s overwhelming and frustrating, your powerlessness in this situation. He’s come straight to you, again, but you aren’t sure what to say, or how you can help. 

“I’m here,” you whisper after a long moment, because it’s true. You are.

He takes a deep breath, then another. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t move, but some of the tension seems to drain from him.

“Somebody had prepared them for our arrival,” he says at last. His voice is stretched thin, eyes glazed as he stares into space, reliving the day. “Once we reached the house, we were surrounded. Had to shoot our way out.”

Oh, Christ. 

“I lost four men.” He drops his head again, covering his face. 

The thought of Javier Peña being ashamed, feeling like he has to hide from you, is so ridiculously unfathomable that you just can’t allow it. You reach for his hand, twining your fingers through his so quickly that you aren’t even aware you’ve made the decision to do so. He glances down at your clasped hands, startled and a little awestruck, and then raises his eyes to meet yours. They’re dark and wet, wide with wonder and a question. 

You squeeze his hand once, tightly. 

He inhales sharply, tipping his head over and back to rest against your chest. The movement surprises you, but it’s not unwelcome, and you shift to accommodate him, arching against the arm of the sofa, wriggling you leg out from beneath you and encircling his shoulder with your free arm.

You sit there in the dark like that for a long moment, just breathing, existing. 

“And that’s not all,” he confesses after a long silence.

Wait, really? You’re not sure if you even answer aloud, you’re so caught up in what he’s saying.

“Afterward, they implied there was a problem with our warrants, that we shouldn’t have had access to that neighborhood to begin with.” Javi huffs. “Trying to get our visas pulled.”

Horror floods you. “But-”

He tilts back to make upside down eye contact with you. Any other time, you’d think he was being cute, but now, it’s nothing but exhausted desperation. “It’s okay,” he reassures you. “It didn’t go through - our paperwork was solid.” He chuckles mirthlessly, shaking his head at the stupidity of the situation. “Good news is, though, we know who the rat is. He won’t be a problem anymore.”

You try not to think too hard about the implications of that.  

“But still,” his expression hardens. “It’s a headache.” 

Understatement. “Yeah,” you agree wholeheartedly. You imagine Javi having to deal with bureaucracy bullshit right after fighting for his life in a shootout. Anger flares in your chest. “I’m sorry.” The words burst out of you, impassioned and thoroughly useless. “They target you in the only way they know how, Peña. It’s because you’re a threat. You’re getting close, or they wouldn’t bother.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, tell that to the Lopez family. His wife is weeks away from delivering their first baby.” He raises the pitch of his voice, expression of mock sympathy twisting his face. “I’m so sorry, señora, but on the bright side, we are getting really close to catching Pablo Escobar.”

His words cut you like broken glass, rending you raw. You’re horrified to feel tears gathering in your eyes. 

You can’t even be angry, though, because he’s right. 

You inhale shakily, and he flops over, burying his face in your clavicle. You don’t even hesitate, just gather him closer, carding your free fingers over his neck and shoulders in earnest now. This is deep shit, goddammit, well beyond your realm of experience. You don’t know how to comfort him, you just know that he needs something, and you’re willing to offer whatever you have to give.

 “I’m sorry,” you repeat, squeezing your still-clasped hands to remind him that you’re here. He squeezes back, exhaling another deep, shuddering breath, and relaxes so far into your touch that his lips are resting in the hollow of your throat. 

It occurs to you, suddenly, that you might be taking advantage of him. He’s here seeking your comfort, and as justified as that is, you’re not sure if it’s entirely fair to him, given how you feel. Not that you’re getting any sort of sexual or emotional gratification from this moment - not by a long shot. Still, though, it reeks of deception somehow. 

Javi cracks an eye open, tilting his face up to question your sudden stillness. 

“Is this okay?” you whisper, meeting his gaze. You’re not sure exactly what you’re asking. You’re feeling vulnerable, all flayed open and too-exposed, like you’re crossing a boundary of some sort. 'Can I touch you like this?' you wonder. 'Is it too intimate? Am I allowed to comfort you, just for comfort’s sake?'

‘Am I breaking the rules?’

He blinks up at you, and despite your best effort at remaining expressionless, those dark eyes pin you with an intensity that makes you swear he’s pulling the thoughts straight from your brain. 

You stifle a gasp, barely managing to hold his gaze without blinking or squirming.

“Yeah,” Javi whispers after a long moment. He allows his eyes to flutter closed, and you breathe a long, slow sigh of relief. “It’s good.”

♠

You blink yourself awake early the next morning, squinting at the pale sunlight that filters through your smudged window.  

You didn’t have the heart to leave Javi last night, and eventually, you’d both fallen into an exhausted sleep, an awkward tangle of limbs on your tiny sofa. He’s sprawled out with his head cocked back, right arm crushing a throw pillow beneath his jaw, one leg extended, the other foot draped over the coffee table. Sometime in the night, you’d nestled into the crook of his neck, unconsciously straddling his thigh, and he’d hooked his free arm around you, snaking a hand beneath your shirt to splay his fingers across the bare skin of your stomach.

You glance up, heart rate speeding double-time as awareness of your situation seeps in. 

It’s not the first time you’ve woken up to Javier Peña. But never like this. Never on the sofa. Never pressed into him, all wrapped up and tangled in one another, warm and soft and sleepy. Never fully clothed, and definitely never after the vulnerability he’d allowed you to glimpse last night.

 A rush of affection and deep, aching need floods your core. Your muscles tense unconsciously as your hips tilt into his leg, desperately seeking friction. 

You stifle a gasp, sucking down the overwhelming urge to kiss him awake, to throw a leg over him properly and grind deliciously against his hips…

You stop, breathing raggedly.

You’ve always had a thing for morning sex. There’s something deliciously intimate about it, all hushed whispers and slow rocking beneath blankets, still clinging to the heat of sleep. It’s gentle and private, a secret without guile, and these new, intense feelings that you’re harboring for Javi have you absolutely leaking and trembling at the mere suggestion of it.

You have to get out of here.

Carefully, moving as slowly as your shaking muscles allow, you duck beneath his arm. He shifts, humming, and you catch your breath, watching carefully as he curls into himself with a soft sigh. 

Goddamn. 

You stand there for a long moment, heart hammering in your chest, confirming that he’s still out. You can’t help but trace his face with your eyes, noting the uneven patches of stubble that have grown in during the past three days, the curl of his dark lashes, the stripe of soft belly that his shirt leaves exposed, his hot, heavy breaths, slow and deep with sleep. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You run the shower hot, not even pretending to stifle your arousal. The thrum of the water is a welcome weight on your shoulders, tickling sensitive skin as it soaks your hair and sluices down your body. You follow its trail with your fingers, slipping them over pebbled nipples, teasing briefly, then dragging down your belly. The sound of the spray grounds you, drowning your moans. You recall the image that you awoke to, the pressure of Javi’s arm curled around you, your hips angled just perfectly over his thigh, the heat and slow, steady throb of life that pulsed from the crook of his neck. 

You tilt your head just slightly, arching into him, peppering his jaw with gentle kisses. His eyes flutter open, and he shifts, opening himself to grant you access. You straddle him properly, sliding up his chest to curl into him, and he smiles lazily. 

“Good morning,” you whisper, capturing him in a slow kiss, sucking gently at his lower lip. 

“Mmm,” he moans incoherently into your mouth, still pliant with sleep. His erection digs into you, and you grind over it, one long, slow roll of your hips. 

He bucks, hitching a sharp breath into your mouth.

“Javi,” You pull hard at your sex, mimicking the pressure of rocking against him, groaning and bucking into your hand. The water continues to beat steadily on your back and shoulders, and you slide to the floor, thumb teasing at your clit, fingers arching to find that perfect spot deep inside you.

You bring your opposite hand up to graze against your face, fingers spayed across your cheek, thumb dragging down your neck.

“Come here,” Javi grins lazily up at you. He cups your jaw in his hand, pulling you so close that your foreheads press together. You rub your cheek against his stubble, nipping gently at his pulse point as you line yourself up. You don’t need any foreplay - you’re already dripping for him. His eyes drift shut and his breath hitches as you slide down onto his cock as slowly as you can manage. You rock back and forth, finding an easy rhythm as you adjust to the pressure of his length inside you, and he bucks to meet you halfway, thrusting faster as you sink deeper. 

“Is this okay?” he whispers up to you with doe eyes. He’s more awake now, but still soft, still gentle. 

“Perfect,” you promise, adjusting your the angle as you bend down to kiss him again. 

With no warning, he swipes his tongue greedily behind your teeth, sucking steadily as he circles your back to dig hard at your ass with those gigantic hands, arching deep into you at the same time. 

You gasp. “Javi!”

The bathroom door slams open with a bang, and you’re jerked back to reality. Javi, real, live, awake Javi, is staring at you in wide-eyed shock. 

You don’t even have time to be embarrassed. 

His face hardens in an instant as he takes you in, eyes narrowing, lips curling into an expression that’s damn near feral. “What the fuck are you doing?” he hisses, spitting the ‘f’ hard. 

“What’s it look like?” you answer breathlessly. You know you look ridiculous, panting on shower floor, knees hiked up with your feet pressed to the glass, fingers still nestled inside you. You are thoroughly exposed to him, and yeah, in the back of your mind, you know that there’s part of you that should be ashamed at being found in this position, but right now, there’s no room in you for any emotion except for anger. 

It burns in you suddenly, white hot indignation. “Goddammit, Javi, what do you want??”

His face is disbelief and thunder, frozen in a snarl that is terrifying in its intensity. His fingers are curled at his sides, muscles braced for a fight. Your heart hammers in your chest. He is every inch the man who guns down killers for a living. “You called my name."

Ah, and there’s the shame. It floods you like water, cool and cloying, and suddenly, you’re desperate for the ground to open up and swallow you whole, shower and all.

“Oh,” you think you might say, or something similarly useless. 

He growls, stalking forward as if he’s about to yank the shower door open, then stops as if jerked. You can only watch, transfixed, as his expression shifts from livid, to devastated, to carefully blank. It’s over in the blink of an eye, so quickly that you question the validity of your own observation, and then, before you can even think, Javi is whirling on his heel, slamming the door behind him with a ferocity that makes the glass walls shudder.

You lie there on the wet tiles, fingers still resting on your sex, reliving the scene over and over until the water runs cold. 

You’d called his name. 

Shouted it, or moaned it, or screamed it, who even knows. The point is, he’d heard you. 

Wincing, you replay your fantasy, or what you can remember of it. 

Well, shit. 

The anger comes roiling back, poisoned with brittle resentment. You stand, shuddering as you slam the tap off. 

That motherfucker. 

He had no right. He’d slept in your house, eaten your food, barged into your bathroom, intruded on your private shower. 

As if he belonged here.

‘But…’ shame whispers hoarsely in your ear, reminding you that you’d wanted him here. You’d welcomed him into your home, given him your goddamned spare key, rubbed his neck, tucked him in.

Fuck, you’d called his name.

With the second recollection comes vague fascination, and maybe curiosity. Javi was so angry. Furious, damned near trembling with it. That aborted little move toward you, as if he’d like to either strangle you or shove his tongue down your throat, you’re not sure which. The careful restraint, the hasty retreat. 

What did it mean?

Arousal flares, but distant, dimmed. You’ll get off on this fantasy one day, you’re absolutely certain, but it will be a long time before the sting of the memory fades. 

Slowly, shakily, you exit the shower, shivering as you reach for your towel. One thing is absolutely certain.

You really don’t want to go to work today.

♠

He doesn’t look at you. 

You don’t look at him. 

Well, then. 

You’re tempted to make a snide crack about fragile masculinity’s fear of female sexuality, but then you remember how fucking observant he is, how attentive, cataloguing your every expression, noting what you liked and what you didn’t, how he’d make a point to watch you as you’d come, like he was savoring the experience every time.

Something shockingly akin to grief swells in your chest. Automatically, you shift to watch him from the corner of your eye. He’s hunched over his typewriter, shoulders slumped and head bowed, long fingers peck-pecking away, brow furrowed in concentration. 

It’s the same little furrow that you recognize from when he’d first studied the card game you’d left on your coffee table. You recognize the shoulder-slump, too, and the stiffness he’s carrying in his body, as if stress is locking all of his muscles painfully in place. He’d been that way last night, too, when he’d first come home.

You inhale sharply. You can’t fucking do this anymore.

You rise suddenly, nearly knocking your chair over with the force of the motion.  You gather your notebook and pens, nodding to Jacoby as you exit the room. 

“I’d like to request a transfer,” you announce as soon as Strechner lets you into his office. 

It’s bold of you. Bill Stechner, CIA station chief in Colombia, is your boss’ boss’ boss. He is undeniably a big fish, important enough that he is rarely available even by appointment, aloof and irreverent and informal by all accounts. You’ve spoken to him only once, for all of thirty seconds. 

“Oh really?” Stechner hardly glances up from the magazine he’s reading. “And why’s that?”

“I’d like to take a more active role in Centra Spike,” you barrel on. “You’ve seen my credentials, sir - fifty-four recon fly-overs in Kuwait, along with advanced training in data analytics and RDF. The training required will be minimal, I’ve proven myself capable here.”

Stechner clicks his tongue, setting the magazine aside. “Have you?” he wonders. “Because I was lead to believe that the Medellín sting that was initiated on your intel was an unprecedented failure.” 

Well goddamn, this was a mistake. Anger and shame flood you, and you can feel the blood draining from your face. Stechner’s thoroughly blasé tone isn’t helping staunch your reaction at all. You draw a deep breath, biting the inside of your cheek hard enough to draw blood.

“I refuse to take responsibility for that, sir -”

He scoffs, waving you off with a lazy hand. “Bill, please. Or Stechner, if you must. We don’t do formalities here.” He tugs at his canvas jacket and lifts a brow in your direction. “You were saying?”

“I was saying, Mister Stechner,” you speak slowly and calmly, as if addressing a small child, “that I cannot take responsibility for the corruption of the Colombian National Police.” You take another deep breath and continue. “The intel that I vetted for Centra Spike was good. We both know it. Those deaths fall on Martinez and the men in Medellín. Not me.”

Stechner watches your for a long minute, head cocked in consideration. 

You force yourself to shut up. Your heart is beating so loud that you’re certain that he can hear it, and you want nothing more than to slam the door shut on your way out of his office and be through with this conversation. 

After an eternity, Stechner hums. His expression doesn’t change, but you get the feeling that you’ve passed some sort of test. 

You hold your breath, waiting. 

You need this.

“How’s your Spanish?” he asks after a long moment.

You don’t even hesitate. “Mejorando, señor.” It’s not quite a lie - you are getting better.

Stechner raises his eyebrows in challenge.

You meet his gaze, expressionless. 

Suddenly, Stechner grins. “I’ll consider it,” he says, rising to his feet.

You return the smile tightly, a wash of relief rushing over you. "Thank you, sir."

♠

Word travels fast at headquarters.

“Heard you applied for a transfer,” Murphy calls as you duck past his little corner of the hallway. “Ballsy of you, confronting Stechner like that.”   

“Applied,” you remind him firmly, doing your best not to react to the way Javi stiffens behind him. “We’ll see what happens.”

Murphy smirks. “Well, I heard you got it.” He clasps your shoulder. “Congrats, Ears. That’s great.”

“Thanks, Murph,” you smile wanly at him. 

Somehow, you don’t feel like celebrating.

♠

author’s notes/confessions:

inspired by a conversation with @tiffdawg​ - she gets all of the credit for this hot mess. Tiff, if you’re sick of tags, just let me know. :)

masturbation scenes are a nightmare of tenses. Again, I welcome comments and gentle criticisms. I am well out of my depth here.

part of the Better Love ‘verse. Check it out on AO3 {here}.

Merry Christmas to those of us who are celebrating today. Love you all! 

[1plus1kiyoomi]

Chapter 10: Wine?

[prev] [next]

[masterlist] [kia’s slambook]

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hey... Wine?” Sakusa awkwardly offers, lifting the bottle of wine in his hand. You nod and he pours a good amount in a glass. “So what did you want to talk about?”

You sit at one of the counter chairs while he stands behind the counter. You take a sip from the glass and give him a serious look.

“What are we?”

He stares at you emotionless. He repeats your question in his mind. He doesn’t know the answer to that, too.

He used to think that being in a relationship is like completing a puzzle board. One piece should fit the other to complete the puzzle. It’s a puzzle board that only needs two pieces. And you two were pieces of a puzzle that fit perfectly with each other.

He believes a relationship only needs two people. It only needed you and him. But there’s a new piece now.

Kia.

Kia is a piece that is meant to be stuck to you. He can’t detach or take her away from you. The board for two is too full. One piece has to leave.

It’s a whole new puzzle now.

Sakusa glances at his phone, taking a look at the picture of Kia that is attached to its back. Seeing Kia’s smile on the photo strikes an answer to your question.

“We’re Kia’s parents.”

His answer surprises you. Kenma and Akaashi had told you about how Sakusa is only trying hard to take care of Kia so he can be on your good side. That’s why no matter how sweet or caring he is to Kia, you can’t seem to accept him back to your life.

You want a father for Kia, not a partner for yourself.

The moment you decided you wanted to keep Kia was the same moment you promised that you’ll put her first before you. The main reason you left Sakusa.

It’s a selfish move. You’re aware. But you’re also aware that Sakusa has never understood the concept of having children.

“Do you think we’ll get married?” You asked him, sitting on the couch while he vacuumed the living room floor of his apartment. The machine was silencing your voice, but Sakusa still heard your question.

“Why do you think I’m dating you?” He answered. His focus was on the dusty floor, not even sparing a glance at you.

“Then, do you want children with me?” You finally asked. His answer would decide what you were gonna do.

A day before you came over to his apartment, you found out you were pregnant. The whole night before that, you thought about what you would do. You were only in your second year of college and didn’t know anything about motherhood. You were afraid.

The only light left you had was Sakusa.

He would stay, right? He said he loves you.

“I don’t even want a child, how much more children?” He stated, turning the vacuum off. “I’ve never really liked them. They’re dirty and annoying. I don’t understand why others procreate them and call them their bundle of joy. They’re more of a bundle of expense and responsibilities.”

“Even with me?” You pushed the question and you see annoyance in his face. He kept quiet and turned the vacuum on again, continuing what he was doing before.

And his silence meant yes.

And that same silence put you in the darkest place you’ve ever been to.

He places his glass down in front you, snapping you out of your flashback. He takes a deep breath in before explaining his answer.

“I know you know what I said to Kozume and Akaashi. And I meant it. I want you back, I really do,” he sounds like he’s pleading. The desperation in his voice is making your heart clench. But you shouldn’t give in so easily.

“It’s easier said than done,” you chuckle, downing the whole glass of wine. You take the bottle and pour some more. Sakusa is silent. He doesn’t know how to explain it further.

‘Kia is not a piece of the puzzle.’

“The only reason I allowed this arrangement to happen was because I want us to be together again. But now, I have the intention of being Kia’s dad.” He stops you from drinking any further, afraid that you’d get drunk. He wants you to hear him while you are sober. He needs you to see his sincerity.

‘We don’t need Kia to be complete.’

He continues to speak, eyes locked on yours. “She’s not only your child or my child. She’s our child.”

‘Kia doesn’t complete us.’

“What are you trying to say?” You tilt your head, your heart beating faster from his words. You aren’t even that intoxicated from the alcohol but you’re getting dizzy. You’re getting intoxicated from his words.

“Let’s continue raising her like this. Together.”

‘Kia can’t be completed without us.’

“Okay...” you agree. He tells you stay at your seat as he goes to his room. The whole time you are alone, your mind is filled with nothing but Sakusa’s words.

‘Give him the chance you never gave,’ a voice in your mind says. You take a deep breath in, blurring the words out of your head.

Sakusa comes back, hiding something behind his back. You squint your eyes at him, not in the mood for surprises. He puts his phone down first, and you see the back of his phone.

You smile. ‘So that’s where it went.’

He puts whatever he was hiding below the counter top, earning an eyebrow raise at you. He inhales heavily before speaking once again.

“Don’t be too surprised, okay?” He tells you, his hand landing on top of yours.

“At this point, nothing surprises me anymore,” you joke. You the glass of wine with your empty hand and drink from it, waiting for whatever surprise Sakusa is going to pull.

In your four years of dating, you can tell that Sakusa sucks in surprises. He’s too honest for them. And you thought it was cute. Anniversary dinner? He’ll tell you a week before. He has a gift for you? You already know what it is. He’s just never one to surprise. So shocking could his surprise be.

He puts his other hand on the counter top, his large hands clutching on whatever he’s hiding. “Try opening it.” You roll your eyes, but do it anyways. You attempt to open his hand with yours, but he’s too strong for you. You use your other hand as well, trying hard to open it.

He finally lets go, his palm open wide. And it’s empty.

“You’re such a jerk...” You pout and he laughs nervously. He takes his other hand out, and there it is.

A ring.

“Are you serious?” You look at him, not able to look at the ring he’s holding. He nods.

“This isn’t a proposal,” he explains nonchalantly, taking your left hand with his empty hand.

“Then what is it supposed to be?!” Your cheeks flush a crimson color, looking at his actions. “Kiyoomi, we’re not even back together. What makes you think I’ll say yes?”

“I told you. This isn’t a proposal,” he clarifies. “It’s a gift.”

“This gift is too expensive and misleading,” you exclaim, letting him slip the ring in your ring finger anyways.

“Well, you did bear my child. You deserve more than this ring.” He places your hand down on the counter top, taking one last glance at your hand before looking at you. “Thank you for keeping Kia.”

His words made tears run down your cheeks without you even knowing. He worriedly goes to your side, afraid he might have said something wrong. You chuckle, “I just can’t believe you’re thanking for bringing Kia into this world. You don’t even like children.”

“You’re right about that, but she isn’t as bad,” he replies, and you hit his arm jokingly.

‘She’s not just a child. She’s our completed puzzle.’

“Thank you,” you say, mustering all your courage. You place a hand on his shoulder, leaning to kiss his cheek but he turns, about to ask you what you are thanking him for.

As a result, your lips land on him as if this is some sort of drama or series. You two are too shocked to even move, hell you can’t even process what’s happening. The wine that is intoxicating your brains isn’t of any help. It’s just making you even dizzier, and needier.

‘Let’s blame it on alcohol.’

You close your eyes, your hand that was on his shoulder now cupping his cheek. You start to move your lips and you feel him do the same thing. His hands find home on your waist, his body moving closer to yours.

“Kyo?” A shaky voice calls out and both of your worlds stop once again. You push Sakusa away from you, praying hoping that the little girl that just called you didn’t see anything. Kia is standing in the hallway, rubbing her sleepy eyes with her small hands.

“Kia, why are you still awake? I thought you were asleep?” You act sternly, eyeing Kiyoomi who is also acting giddy. He’s trying hard not to make eye contact with Kia. She yawns as she drags her tiny feet closer to the two of you.

“Kyo, why are you kissing mama?”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Facts:

Akaashi has once told Kia that she should only kiss someone on the lips if she truly loves them.

Kenma told Kia that if she reaches your age and she kisses a boy, she’ll have a baby.

Kia has concluded something.

[prev] [next]

Taglist:  @elianetsantana aoi-turtle ptv-hades  aquzairus a-applepi  justoneofthefangirls arianna-r13 morenabambinii chaelysian loser-keiji mxngy ne-kuroo n1fangirlsblog d-efend missalicebaskerville marvelousbakugou @agaashesmilktea​ bonkyandloki kimi09  ntimacy @mkazuyuh  ushi-please minty-mangos-world @dearest-kiyoomi

[drowningbydegrees]

This started as a pwp praise kink idea. The praise stayed, but the pwp did not. Perhaps I will give it another go, but in the meantime, have 4,000 words of emotional hurt/comfort instead I guess. 😅

Read on AO3

Geralt is what Jaskier cheerfully describes as "forever years old" when he discovers that okay, maybe he is just the littlest bit affected by… actually he’s not sure what one would call this. He’s not even sure if it’s specifically what was said or just the act of being spoken to like a person in a vulnerable moment. Either way, it’s more than a little unexpected, but that’s not actually the problem. After all, everyone finds themselves unraveled by something a little unorthodox now and again, and in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t really all that weird.

No. The problem is that he learns it at exactly the same time Jaskier does, and it would be embarrassing enough if the bard were just some accidental bystander. But no, Geralt couldn’t get that lucky either. It’s very definitely in response to Jaskier and that is nothing short of mortifying. Whatever longing Geralt might privately harbor, Jaskier has never given any indication that it might be a mutual feeling, and so their companionship is very definitely not Like That.

It's a perfect storm that leads to this discovery.

The contract is a disaster in every sense of the word. Somehow, after all these years, there’s still some tiny part of him that allows for optimism, that remembers a time when he thought he could be a hero. There’s no room to be an idealist in his line of work, but the opportunity was right there. The monster was just an unfortunate curse to break. There were people who might be still alive to save. Stupidly, he let himself believe that this is the kind of contract he always hopes for, where just this once no one has to die.

But of course, that isn’t how it goes. The creature is worse for his meddling, leaving the man underneath tortured by a few seconds of horrified lucidity before the curse consumes him again. The creature dies by Geralt’s sword and as its blood drips from the blade, the witcher takes in his surroundings. It’s dark, but Geralt does not need to see to recognize a graveyard made up of all the people he failed.

Even Jaskier is subdued, largely silent on the walk back to the village. He’d had the good sense to stay out of the cave, or else maybe it was just too dark. Whatever the reason, if Geralt is granted any small mercy in this whole debacle, it’s that Jaskier is not in there among the dead, that he did not become another life the witcher couldn’t preserve.

The villagers are understandably as dismayed as Geralt is, and he makes for an easy target. He tolerates the shouting and cruel accusations. He stays Jaskier’s hand when the bard tries to come to his defense. They’re grieving people, desperate to shed the weight of their loss, and he can bear it.

The innkeeper does not turn him away at least, though Geralt suspects it has something to do with the very pointed look Jaskier is giving the man. It matters little if it means he can bathe in peace and fall into a miserable sleep and just… start over again tomorrow.

Death clings to Geralt like a film he can never quite wash from his skin, but oh how he tries. There’s an echo of blood and ichor that he just can’t shake, and by the time Jaskier comes to bring him clean clothes, he’s rubbed his forearms red.

Whatever scene he’s expecting, whatever reproach he anticipates, it never comes. He’s too strung out to put up much of a fight when Jaskier eases the washrag from his clenched fist. Jaskier gives him an uncomfortable smile that would be hilarious in some other context, waving awkwardly at Geralt’s head. “I’m just going to, ehm, your hair is sort of-”

“Covered in blood. I know,” Geralt fills in the gap in that sentence tersely. It’s not pity, not from Jaskier, but it drifts too close for comfort and the witcher doesn’t know what else to do but lash out. That’s not fair either though, and once Geralt has taken a breath he relents. “Get on with it.”

Jaskier does. Quietly even, which would seem suspicious or worrisome under normal circumstances. Geralt just happens to be too worn down to do anything but count his blessings and appreciate the silence as Jaskier works the tangles (and who knows what else) from his hair. He tries to close his eyes, but every time he does, it plays out behind his eyelids, forcing him to wrench them back open again.

“It’s not your fault. You do know that, right?” Jaskier’s voice is soft, and really, Geralt must look truly miserable for him to forgo their usual playfully scathing banter. “You did everything they asked of you and then some. There was nothing else left.”

Geralt doesn’t reply because what can he say? What could possibly wipe the memory of this colossal failure from his mind? It’s a gift of some sort that Jaskier doesn’t press Geralt to respond. He just hums a quiet tune while he painstakingly washes the mess out of the witcher’s hair.

“It wasn’t enough,” Geralt says very softly when he dredges up the will to speak. Jaskier’s thumbs rub down the nape of his neck, and he bows his head to it in silent surrender. The comfort is unearned, but he’s blank enough to crave it anyway.

“That’s not on you, Geralt. It’s like you genuinely don’t have a clue how... good you are. I mean, you’re a grumpy pain in the ass for sure, but still. You were good to the villagers even if they didn’t do a damned thing to earn it. You’re sweet to children and pets and...to me.” Jaskier suddenly seems very close, so near that when he speaks, his warm breath flits along the shell of Geralt’s ear. “I know I get on your every last nerve, and you haven’t turned me away. You might do it with a lot of scowling and insults, but you… are still very good to me.”

Geralt’s breath catches on what is definitely not a whimper, but what he’d probably classify as one if literally anyone else had made that sound. He’s been brought so low and Jaskier sounds so honest. He could have maybe gotten by without notice, but in the bath with Jaskier's hands in his hair and on his skin, there’s really no passing off the sound he makes as anything other than the desperate, needy thing it is.

“I punched you the first time we met,” Geralt points out, because he’s right on the precipice of something and urgently needs to back away from the edge. He tries glowering at Jaskier over his shoulder, but it turns out to be a grave mistake. Geralt is used to weariness and disappointment in the muted way he feels them. But this is a fragility he doesn’t know how to contend with, the brittle surface cracking when Jaskier gazes back at him like he’s anything other than a monster.

“I… probably had that coming,” Jaskier mumbles. Though Geralt has stopped looking, he can feel the shift in Jaskier’s posture suggesting that he’s sheepishly ducking his head. It’s an out of the ordinary thing, Jaskier owning his foibles, but Geralt doesn’t even get the opportunity to wrap his head around that before the bard swings a hammer at whatever defenses the witcher has left. “You’re good to me when it counts.”

Geralt doesn’t believe a word of it, but here and now he wishes quite desperately that he could. He longs to trust the warmth that slides like honey down his spine and settles at the base of it. He wants so badly to be what Jaskier names him as.

In retrospect, it’d probably be less humiliating if it were a sex thing. Jaskier has a penchant for oversharing and probably wouldn’t bat an eye. But it’s not as straightforward as that, even if the praise Jaskier wraps Geralt up in leaves him wanting. This is more, a bone deep sort of yearning that sits like a brick behind his breastbone, heavy and terribly misplaced.

The notion sneaks in that Jaskier just might see through him. He might recognize that despite the veneer of indifference Geralt puts out into the world, tonight the witcher is one stray thought away from a breakdown. He protects himself the only way he knows how, shrugging out from under where Jaskier’s hands have come to rest on his shoulders. “I don’t need help. Get out.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s brows furrow with concern. Frustratingly, the bard’s hand smooths over Geralt’s hair. Even more frustratingly, it’s a fight not to lean into the touch despite everything.

He snarls because it’s safer than the shaky thing in his chest, the thing that clings to the idea that there’s a version of the world where he is worthwhile. “Get. Out.”

Jaskier holds his hands up in surrender, but he doesn’t even have the decency to look surprised and that’s all the more maddening.

Jaskier gives him space, to bathe in peace and then to irritably crawl into bed. It’s only when Jaskier must think he’s fallen asleep that the bard curls up around his back, nose pressed to the nape of his neck. He hasn’t earned the comfort he’s being offered, but cannot help himself taking it anyway.

They do not speak of that night again.

*****

They do not speak of it, but Jaskier thinks about it an amount that is probably just a bit inappropriate. He recounts the punched out sound Geralt made at something so simple as a little well deserved absolution. He commits the little shudder of Geralt’s shoulders under his hands to memory. But most of all, Jaskier aches at the way Geralt had snarled about it, so convinced of his own unworthiness. This bridge isn’t Jaskier’s to cross though, so he secrets away the desire to do so and satisfies himself with whatever small kindnesses Geralt will tolerate.

But tragedy is rarely a one time occurence, even in an easy life. And Geralt’s life is anything but easy. It’s only a matter of time before everything comes down around his ears again.

It’s not even a hunt this time, not a monster but a mage. It’s just a spell gone wrong, and there was nothing Geralt could’ve done to contain it. They were too close, and Jaskier is pretty sure the only reason he even made it out in one piece was that Geralt shielded him with some sign that protected him from the worst of the blast.

Now, spotting Geralt’s still form among the rubble, it’s clear to Jaskier what his safety cost the witcher. He picks his way across the rubble as quickly as he dares, fighting to keep the fear from his voice. “Geralt?”

“Ngh.” It’s a reply, if not much of one, but it’s only Geralt when blinks blearily at him a couple of times and scowls that the terror Jaskier feels begins to settle.

He doesn’t know what to say. Jaskier is tempted to crack a joke and make light of the situation. It’s how he copes. It’s just that, they weren’t alone in this building, and judging from the quietly defeated look on Geralt’s face, the witcher is already thinking about that.

“Look, I know this isn’t ideal.” Jaskier holds out a hand to Geralt, but he ignores it as he staggers to his feet. “But it’s not all hopeless. Because of you, they can’t ever harm anyone else again.”

“Shut up, Jaskier.” Geralt’s expression shutters, but Jaskier doesn’t need to be able to read the witcher’s emotions to know he’s thinking about all the people that outcome isn’t good enough for. As hyper sensitive as Geralt’s senses are, Jaskier can’t help but suspect that the rocks aren’t enough to hide what’s buried within the ruins, so he tries to steer Geralt back towards their camp. There’s nothing else they can do in this place but mourn.

“Are you okay to walk?” Jaskier doesn’t like the idea of leaving Geralt here to get help, but he also doesn’t want to inadvertently make things worse.

“I’m fine.” Geralt takes a step and then another. They’re wobbly, but he does manage to stay upright.

“You sure? A building exploded with you, you know, in it.” Jaskier is sort of sorry for pressing even before Geralt glowers at him.

“I said I’m fine.” Geralt repeats himself, and there’s no progress to be made pressing any further about it.

Jaskier knows better than to offer his support despite the fact that Geralt is limping at his side. If the witcher is not actively falling over, his attempts to help are likely to be ill received. He tries very hard to ignore it, even if it makes his heart twist up in his chest, but that all flies out the window when they finally come to a stop at camp, where the ground beneath them is dry dirt rather than grass and leaves, and there’s no missing the blood sluggishly pooling at Geralt’s feet.

“Geralt. For the love of- You’re bleeding. Sit down.” Jaskier grouses, more irritated at himself for not noticing than anything else.

To his shock, Geralt sits without complaint, though Jaskier suspects that is more out of exhaustion than any sudden desire to be cooperative. With a pained hiss, Geralt works to rid himself of his armor while Jaskier gathers supplies, so maybe he means to cooperate after all. That’s either very good or very bad.

Very bad, Jaskier decides, grimacing at the deep gash in Geralt’s side beneath where his rib cage ends. It’s not a clean cut the way a claw or a blade might be, probably a product of part of a building dropping on him.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathes out, kneeling to try and staunch the bleeding enough to properly stitch it back up.

“I’m okay Jaskier,” Geralt insists. That he’s gritting his teeth on a low moan when Jaskier presses on his wounded flank is… not really helping his case.

“Great. You can continue to be okay while you sit there and let me stitch this up.” It comes out a little more tartly than Jaskier had meant, but Geralt doesn’t even seem to notice.

He does, however, sit still. That Geralt is quiet while Jaskier threads a needle isn’t out of the ordinary. But Jaskier looks at the witcher’s face and finds a great deal more than weariness there.

Jaskier lets it go at first, the task at hand more pressing. It’s only when he’s on his third stitch and Geralt is still staring miserably out towards the trees that he gently chastises the witcher. The expression isn’t an unfamiliar one, and Jaskier hates it every time. “Stop it.”

Geralt’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t look at Jaskier. “Stop what?”

“Insisting on taking on burdens that aren’t yours to carry.” There’s a needle in one hand and blood on both of them, so the tactile methods he’d usually use to soothe are no good. Jaskier tries words instead, already knowing they’ll be rejected. “It wasn’t your fault. If anything, it was a great deal less awful than it might have been because of you.”

On the bright side, Geralt doesn’t immediately snap at him. It might have something to do with the fact that he’s actively stitching the witcher up. Geralt doesn’t even look at Jaskier, but his expression is stormy and tense. Jaskier bites his tongue for another couple of stitches before he decides this is a sort of misery he can’t leave alone. So, he tries again. “When we first met, you really didn’t like me. And I know you’re making a face. Stop it. Just because I ignored the fact that you found me aggravating doesn’t mean I didn’t recognize it.”

“I’m making a face because you said that all past tense.” There’s a note of what might be humor there, and Jaskier doesn’t even care if the joke is at his expense under the circumstances.

Jaskier huffs out a fondly exasperated breath. “That’s very rude, but I’m going to let it go this time because you’re bleeding all over my hands. My point is that you gave me - someone you actively disliked - coin you didn’t have to spare.”

Geralt is quiet for so long that Jaskier thinks he might actually be listening. He probably is even, but his reply is too close to their usual banter, like he can’t stomach the idea of having a conversation that matters. “With songs like that, it seemed like you could use all the help you could get.”

“Oh, haha. Very funny. I realize it wasn’t my best work.” He’s trying, really, and it’s hard not to deflate in the face of Geralt’s resistance. Jaskier stares down at his current task and that could be the end of it. But the last time they went down this road still haunts him, and Jaskier is determined to try again, hopefully without being run off this time around. “Okay, if you’re going to be like that. In the last village, you let a little girl hire you to check her closet for monsters.”

There’s a clear sense of suspicion in the way Geralt narrows his eyes at Jaskier, but all the witcher says is, “Why would I turn down a paying contract?”

“Geralt.” Despite everything, Jaskier is pretty certain he’s never loved anyone in his life as much as he does Geralt right now. “She paid you in rocks.”

“They had value to her.” It’s endearingly defensive, but Geralt is justifying himself rather than running Jaskier off, so the bard counts it as an improvement.

Regardless, it’s not the message Jaskier is trying to get across. “I know. But you can’t exactly get provisions or a room at an inn with a pocketful of pebbles. And then there was Goose Hollow. You snuck that woman’s payment back into her kitchen.”

The witcher’s nose crinkles in distaste. Jaskier knows why he did it, but Geralt seems to feel the need to remind him anyway. “She’d just lost her husband to that kikimore and she had a baby on the way. I could make do without. Not sure she could’ve.”

“Right. You’re absolutely right, and that’s what I’m getting at,” Jaskier says, giving up on the idea that Geralt might have at least enough sense of self worth to reach this conclusion on his own. That’s clearly not the case, so Jaskier opts to connect the dots. “These are things you acknowledge, things you act on, because you are kind.”

Annnnnnnd there it is, the point at which Geralt can’t pretend he doesn’t understand what Jaskier is trying to communicate. He growls, shifting like he means to get up. “Fuck off.”

Jaskier pinches Geralt’s hip, well below where the bruising from the wound stops. “Do. Not. I have a needle literally stuck through you. You’re a good person whether you acknowledge it or not, so stop being dramatic and trying to flounce off just because someone said something that clashes with your self loathing.”

The scowl doesn’t leave Geralt’s face, but by some miracle, he does settle. “Oh, I’m dramatic?”

Bowing his head to hide a smile, Jaskier goes back to work. He wishes he could stay made for even a moment, but there’s just nothing for it. “What with the growling and glaring and stalking needlessly off into the trees or whatever nonsense you were planning? As someone who is personally very well versed in dramatics, yes.”

There’s no scathing or witty retort so it would be easy to assume Geralt is ignoring him when Jaskier is met with silence, but the bard knows better. It’s subtle things, an evening out of Geralt’s breathing, a shift in his posture, and though the seconds drag out, stretched like taffy, he’s not surprised when the witcher says very softly. “I didn’t know you’d noticed.”

And oh, that hurts. Not for the sake of Jaskier’s own feelings, but for the fact that Geralt could share shitty tavern food and too small inn beds and miles of open road for so long and still not recognize that he matters. “Of course I noticed. I always notice you.”

“I don’t think the rocks are going to make for a very interesting song,” Geralt says, and while his tone is clearly meant to convey sarcasm, his gaze is soft and searching, and oh to hell with it all.

“For fuck’s sake. It’s not for a song. I notice because I love you, you absolute twit.” There’s that strange, wounded sound again. The one that makes Jaskier want to wind his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and draw him close. Last time, that had been the preface to Geralt shutting him out entirely, but it doesn’t happen this time. Geralt hardly seems to notice when Jaskier rises after tying off the thread. His whole body goes stiff when Jaskier succumbs to the urge to embrace him, but somehow this time Geralt doesn’t immediately pull away.

With bated breath, Jaskier waits for the awkward stiffness to become a full blown retreat, because surely Geralt does not want his feelings, but the demand to be let go of never comes. Surrender is a quieter, subtler thing than any resistance Geralt put up. It’s a gradual release of the tension holding him bow string taut in Jaskier’s arms, a furtive embrace as Geralt’s hands find their way to curl loosely in the back of Jaskier’s chemise. With a sigh Geralt’s head drops to rest against Jaskier’s shoulder.

Jaskier is prepared, he thinks, for that to be the end of it. There are no strings attached, no conditions riding the tails of his affection. That Geralt didn’t immediately turn him away, that the witcher relents enough to let Jaskier be a source of comfort is enough. Geralt sags a little bit against him and Jaskier commits the feeling to memory, idly smoothing his hand over Geralt’s hair.

It’s still there when Geralt pulls back to look at him, eyes wide with something Jaskier might describe as wonderment.

“What?” Jaskier doesn’t give himself permission to hope because that’s not what this is about, but his heart takes off anyway, hammering away in his chest.

“You weren’t afraid of me, even though the only point of reference you had was the stories.” There’s a question in the quiet words Geralt speaks. And Jaskier does know what he means. Rumors of the Butcher of Blaviken were far reaching, and Jaskier had no way of knowing the accuracy of them. So why?

“Well, you’re not nearly as scary as you think you are,” Jaskier says lightly, and then, because the question is there, but Geralt looks afraid of the answer, he adds with a sheepish smile. “Also, you were the one person not throwing food at me, so that was a point in your favor automatically.”

Geralt says nothing at first, but his mouth turns unhappily downward. Jaskier expects annoyance or anger, is used to those things, but this is more akin to grief and he doesn’t know what to do with it. In the wake of it, Jaskier is almost relieved when Geralt speaks again.

“You learned how to do this because we travel together.” Geralt gingerly pries one of Jaskier’s hands from his back, laying it delicately over his wounded side, and no. No, that last point was definitely easier to address. They should go back to things he can make jokes about.

“So what?” Jaskier says, though it comes out more like a croak. And his chest might as well be split open on the faint smile that coaxes from Geralt.

Curious. Jaskier can feel Geralt’s thumb sweep back and forth across his chemise, almost like the witcher is nervous. “You hate blood.”

He’s already said the most terrifying part, and he doesn’t know what Geralt thinks, but the witcher hasn’t left. So really, Jaskier wonders, what is there to be frightened of? “It would be very unfortunate for the both of us if something happened to you.”

“That’s not… I don’t think you’re hearing me,” Geralt mutters, mouth slanted off to the side.

It won’t do. Jaskier has no wish to be a source of frustration when he’s trying to be a comfort, so he lets himself smile and brushes Geralt’s cheek with his knuckles. “I’m sorry. Would you tell me again?”

Jaskier barely gets the words out before Geralt’s lips are brushing, feather light, against his. It’s over as abruptly as it started though Geralt lingers with his forehead pressed to Jaskier’s and his hand cradling the bard’s cheek. “I notice you, too.”

He could live in this moment, Jaskier thinks, just sat here knowing he’s not alone in the things he wants. The circle of Geralt’s arms is a lovely place to linger, so Jaskier lets himself have it even as he says, “In case you missed it, I’m done if you’re still feeling the need to go stomping off in the woods to fume.”

Geralt rarely laughs at anything, but the amused snort Jaskier gets for his trouble is close enough. Even better is the kiss that follows, slow and sweet and full of promise. “Well, someone very obnoxious and very... dear told me it was dramatic, so I thought I’d maybe stay here with you instead.”

You can find the rest of my Witcher fanworks here. <3

[sichengtual]

how sweet it is (to be loved by you)

— summary: some loves are meant to run too deep, some loves are meant to stand the test. luckily, for you and cheol, nothing has ever posed a threat.

— pairing: choi seungcheol x reader.

— genre: fluff ; established relationship ; 70's au, part of the tiny dancer universe.

— word count: 2665

— warnings: mentions of smoking.

happy birthday to the love of my life @svtxsoju! i love you so so so much 💞

Seungcheol had never been hard to read.

From the very first moment you’d met, you’d seen he always wore his heart on his sleeve. You liked that about him; the way you could tell how he was feeling by paying attention to the size of his smile and the gleam in his eyes. For a while, you wondered if he was like that when only you were there to see. A sort of prize won after confidence, the kind that came with a great deal of trust. Your heart always leapt at the thought; of Seungcheol trusting you enough to let his walls down, of letting you in with such ease you’d wonder if he just wasn’t afraid of ever getting hurt… not by you, but by the world.

After a while, you finally came to see it wasn’t quite like that. Seungcheol just trusted people. Not only his friends (which you were at the time) or the people closest to him, but the strangers he passed by on the street. The people he ran into at the store. The men he made business with, the bands he came to meet, the fans he saw from afar. It was a beautiful thought, Seungcheol having a heart so big there was no sort of mistrust in it; but it was also a scary one, because you knew the world to be cruel. You knew the world to be undeserving of him.

“He’s gonna fall down on his ass,” Mingyu speaks next to you, a hand in the pocket of his torn up leather jacket and the other holding a cigarette. “Part of me wants you to tell him to come down but the other part wants revenge from him waking me up at 5 today.”

“You guys had a gig,” you laugh, taking a sip from your cup. It’s run cold, but the beverage leaves a sweet aftertaste on the back of your tongue, so you keep drinking. Summer is just around the corner anyways. “Not to defend him, but, you know.”

“Oh no, not you too,” Mingyu whines, throwing his head back as he speaks. He’s always reminded you of Seungcheol, and you wonder if that’s why the two seem to clash together so much. “The gig was at noon, no need to see the rise of dawn and scare my sleep away with Chan’s sleeping mask.”

“Oh, fuck you!” You hear from the back of the yard, Chan’s voice somehow louder than the playing vinyl.

His laughter, followed by Mingyu’s quiet giggle and the careless strum of a guitar, brings a smile on your lips.

Night has barely begun to fall down. The sky is tinged bubblegum pink and the clouds have started to change color, adorning the afternoon sky in an array of orange shades. It’s the moment before it starts turning down, but even when the light threatens to decrease, temperature only but rises. It’s a warm summer afternoon, with friends laughing at the top of their longs and music playing as soft background music, setting the scene even when the melody runs ignored.

It had been a while since you last had spent time with the band. They had just gone on their first big world tour and were just getting welcomed back home, and you can swear there’s something about finally knowing the world that allows their smiles to grow a little bit wider. It’s as if they’ve collected happiness at every spot, experiences turned into emotion as they let themselves completely feel every single moment. It’s as if they let their hearts be free once they’ve known how it is to let their bodies do the same.

“Why did he even get up there, anyways?” You ask, taking a sip from your punch glass. It’s sweet and cool against the growing heat.

“Seungkwan and Hoshi dared him,” Mingyu answers, smiling when Soonyoung tries to excuse his actions, yelling about some book incident involving Cheol and Jun. “Can’t believe he’s about to fall on his face in front of you for a slice of cheese pizza, though.”

“It’s a matter of honor!” Seungcheol exclaims between jolts of laughter, fingers forming a peace sign as Joshua pulls his portable camera out of his bag and points it at him. “Wait, what is this for?”

He tries to pose as he stands over a wobbly table, one of his hands holding a glass of pink colored punch and the other pointing to the camera while he tries to keep still for however long it takes Joshua to focus the lens. The guitarist isn’t the best at photographs, but his enthusiasm makes up for the lack of skill.

“Ivy and Jun are doing some groovy memory thing,” he explains, breaking into a laugh, shrugging in the direction of the couple. “Don’t worry, I’ll document every step of the process.”

Your boyfriend’s mouth opens wide at Joshua’s words, the peace sign in his hand quickly becoming a single pointed finger, eyes blazing as he moves his hand in the air.

“As soon as these fifteen minutes are up I’m getting down from here,” Seungcheol says, each word enunciated in the form of a loud whine, a pout forming on his lips as he berates his friend. “Be sure to document the slice of pizza in my mouth, Bob Dylan!”

“That would be so fucking gross,” Minghao comments from the hammock, a pair of pastel yellow sunglasses resting on the tip of his nose. “Trust me, no one would ever want to see that.”

“And Josh wishes he was Bob Dylan!” Mingyu laughs.

“I bet you wish you got the riff today right, tho,” Chan teases, another fit of laughter ensuing. Mingyu responds, and Minghao giggles.

Seungcheol turns to see his friends from where he’s standing, chest growing tight at the sight. It’s his family, after all, reunited and relaxed after what was, probably, the start to a lifelong adventure. You meet him halfway, smiling as you point the glass of punch in his direction in a silent cheer. It’s your family as much as it’s his, and there’s a sense of pride growing in the center of your stomach as you realize what an honor it is to be a part of it.

He smiles, and it doesn’t really seem like he’s all the way across the yard on top of a table that threatens to break down, because he’s truly never felt closer to you.

…

Hours later, the pizza discussion has quieted and night has finally fallen down.

Seungcheol ended up not falling, breaking literally everyone but Ivy, Jun, and your expectations, but earning Joshua quite a groovy photo (he had almost fallen down, after all). The beginning of the entire thing is still a bit of a mystery to you, but with the information you’ve been given, you’re not completely sure you’d actually want to know. After all, the entire fifteen minutes had given you a good laugh and a lifetime of worries, all at the same time.

“Here,” Seungcheol’s voice breaks you apart from your thoughts. He’s holding a yellow ceramic cup full of steaming tea, arm stretched in your direction. “Can you believe Seungkwan was trying to hide his Earl Gray from me?”

“Actually, yeah, I can,” you answer as you laugh, taking the cup from Seungcheol’s hands while he sits on the grass next to you. “You don’t even drink tea.”

“No, but he knows you do,” he says. He speaks as if he’s telling you a secret, words low, soft against the wind, entering your ears like honey as your lips curl up into a smile.

Seungcheol’s gentleness is present in every thought, in every gesture. It’s in the thinking of you to ensure your comfort, the going out of his way to make you happy, that lets you know he treats your happiness like he’s guarding a flower that’s just about to bloom. He touches it with the tips of his fingers, caring for it and nurturing it, helping your smile grow by the day. A smile directed at him.

“And yet he guards it from the both of us,” you say, raising the cup to your lips and taking a small sip. It’s sweet, a bit too sweet, perhaps, but the saccharine taste feels like velvet against your tongue, so you continue drinking. You’ve always liked sweet things, and Seungcheol has always known. “Are you not gonna have anything?”

“Seungkwan’s coffee brew and my stomach aren’t really the best of friends,” he jokes, eyes fixed on the midnight sky. “Not after last time, at least. The good thing about the tour was that all the coffee we got was made by other people.”

“Hey, he takes a lot of pride in his coffee brew!”

“That doesn’t make it any lighter!”

He doesn’t quite remember just how long it’s been since he’s taken a second to stop and breathe in like he’s doing now, the feeling of laying down without a worry having been completely alienated. It’s like he’s always on track; always moving here or there, physically or in thought, and stopping finally means letting his thoughts lay down too. He lets himself feel every inch of the warm breeze hitting his skin and rustling his hair, enjoying every second of finally watching the stars shine bright above his head.

Seungcheol is always hearing Jun talk about just how much he likes looking at the stars, and now he finally understands.

“Hey, look up there,” Seungcheol whispers, nudging your shoulder with his and pointing to the sky with his finger. You’re not sure he’s drawing your attention to any spot in particular, and, to be honest, neither is he. “It reminds me of you.”

“What exactly are you looking at?” You ask, and it’s somewhere between a laugh and a question, but he doesn’t comment on it. He’s always loved the way you talk, because, even if for a second, he feels like happiness drips from every pore. “You’re pointing at like, at least five different stars right now.”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean. You’re each and every single one of them. You’re there with me, lightning my path with every step I take.”

You’re not sure, but you’d think that’s the moment the world stops spinning, because it’s just the two of you; it’s just you and Seungcheol, and your warm cup of tea, and the crazed laughter of your friends flows through the air like the background scene of a film you’ll watch over, and over, and over again. It’s like the moment and his words become etched so deep inside your heart they become a part of who you are, and of who you will always be, because there’s nothing that encompasses happiness better than the love you and Seungcheol hold for each other.

“Are you coming for Jun’s job now?” You ask, voice breaking as tears begin to prickle your eyes.

“Should we switch places?” Seungcheol follows, letting himself fall completely on his back, feeling the grass grazing against the soft linen of his purple button-up. His tone is light, relaxed. Gentle. “I’m pretty sure Jun could make for a convincing business man.”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure he would. He’s different now, isn’t he? He feels a bit more confident. A bit more secure.”

“Love does that to you, I guess. It makes you believe in yourself, because you know someone else does it too.”

And it’s just so much of a feeling growing inside your chest that you’re sure this is exactly where you’re meant to be, and Seungcheol is exactly who you’re meant to be with. You look at your surroundings, and he’s nestled so deep within your soul it’s almost like he’s everywhere. Every single place, every single sound, every single scent; he's everything.

“Can I have this dance?”

He moves, rustling in place as he extends his hand over to you.

“You can have all of them.”

It’s almost like it’s your thoughts speaking, voices intertwining, souls coming together. He takes your hand in his and you follow his lead as he stands up, pulling you to his chest with such gentleness in his touch it feels like you’re made of glass. He doesn’t move for a few seconds, but you don’t really think he needs to, because as soon as his fingers tangle with yours, it’s almost like you’re flying.

Somewhere in the garden, sitting around a campfire, Joshua and Mingyu’s guitars begin playing a song you both know, and you barely notice the moment your feet start moving. They dance on their own accord, gliding over the grass in a pace that doesn’t quite match the one set by the instruments, but neither of you fight it. He tightens the grip on your fingers and sets them over his chest, moving in closer to your frame.

You can feel him in what’s almost a hug by how close you’re standing, and it’s only when Joshua and Mingyu begin singing that you move your head up to take a look at him. The melody is sweet, raising into the sky over the crackling of a roaring fire. Dark, thick wisps of hair fall against his forehead and over the golden frame of his glasses, completely rustled by the summer breeze. You know it’s only a matter of time before he’ll try to tussle it back against his head, no doubt counterproductive, further messing up his (once) carefully gelled hairstyle.

He looks just the way he did when you last saw him before the tour, and, in a way, he looks a completely different person. There’s a sense of growth, of experience, of adventure nestling in his smile and yet, the look in his eyes expresses just as much love for you as it’s always done.

“I missed you,” he says, words soft against your skin.

He pulls you in even closer, lips coming into contact with your forehead. He presses a kiss; light, soft, gentle. And yet loving, lingering. It’s an expression of a love that doesn’t quite pressure to grow, that doesn’t quite define itself by the closeness in touch or time. It’s born on the surface, but it travels down so deep it lays untouched by whatever might pose a threat. It blooms, so wildly and fierce, and so close to your own souls it’s shaped them into what they are. It’s what you are, and you can feel it dripping down your very self whenever you’re close. It’s where you’ve found a sense of home.

“I missed you too.”

You smile, letting your forehead rest against his lips. He takes in a breath, closing his eyes. The cup of tea sits long forgotten over the grass, but steam still rises from the top. The liquid lays untouched, unmoving; but still warm.

…

The morning rises, and you’re there to see.

Seungcheol is asleep in the guest room of Seungkwan’s field house, resting calmly beneath the thick duvet you had shared the night before. His arm is still splayed over the space you once occupied, and there’s a smile resting on his lips. His hand is balled into a fist, clutching the soft, velvet sheets. Light begins to seep through the window, filtering through the curtains. A soft ray falls over his face.

In the backyard, you look up at the sky. Once dark, it’s now the most beautiful shade of gold you’ve ever seen. Air runs between the trees, and you can feel it move against your skin. The world starts waking up as you smile, and you can feel every second of it. Joshua and Mingyu sleep calmly on the couch, and Minghao brews his coffee in silence. Ivy reads a book while caressing Jun’s hair, his head resting on their lap. Seungkwan, Soonyoung, Chan and Vernon busy themselves with breakfast, the faint scent of burning toast reaching your nose.

Your family is there with you, and you feel love all around.

[buckyskorpion]

Do Something Bad, Too - Part 5

Pairing: Alpha!Bucky x Omega!Reader

Summary: It’s like every single Alpha on the planet won’t rest until they’ve confessed their eternal wish for you to mother their children, and it’s getting old. Luckily, that’s a problem Bucky might be able to fix.

Warnings: language, a/b/o dynamics, mentions of violence

A/N: sooooo..... lets not mention the last time i updated this fic was four years, and get excited that im finally updating!! woo!! i really hope this was worth the wait, im very anxious about letting you guys down. let me know what you honestly think! love u all, thank u for sticking with me

series masterlist | main masterlist | my ko-fi

You stay in Nat’s apartment in the Tower for the rest of your heat, which lasts an entire week. Nat comes and goes throughout that time to make sure you’re drinking enough water, to make you dinner or run you a bath, or sometimes just to keep you company when you’re capable of that. She doesn’t stay long, though, aware her presence just makes the unbearableness of going through heat even worse. She also doesn’t mention Bucky’s clothes or anything about that first day, which you’re immeasurably grateful for. You don’t think you could talk about it without crying.

To say you’re humiliated is an understatement. Mixed with that is all this guilt and shame and self-hatred for inflicting that situation on you and Bucky. Mostly for Bucky. He had made it so very clear he was only comfortable helping you with the scent thing, and even with that there were boundaries. You had blown through them all by showing up to his apartment, triggering both your instincts to do things you couldn’t control, and now he probably resented you enough to never want to see you again.

You don’t blame him. It doesn’t stop it from hurting so much, though.

You’ve well and truly fucked yourself now. Not only is it omega instincts driving you towards Bucky now, but also your own stupid, naive heart. You miss his giant hands and broad shoulders that block out the world for a second, narrowing your scope to just the two of you. You miss the way you can breathe around him, how the world doesn’t feel so scary and foreign to you when he’s by your side. It’s crazy because you weren’t even close, you weren’t even really friends, but now you never will be because you’re so goddamn stupid it’s actually astounding.

Nat’s plan had not worked. And this time, you couldn’t even blame her for this colossal backfire. This is all your handiwork.

You’re back in your office, returning to work once your fever died down and you could stand to be in the vicinity of other alphas without passing out. Maybe you’re tapping rather aggressively on your keyboard, and maybe all the techies on the floor can hear you sigh and groan in frustration every two seconds and are sending you strange looks through the glass. Whatever, you’re their boss, they can’t say anything. Besides, your boss has requested some rather strange security upgrades and you’re not sure if it’s within your job description to email Tony Stark and say what the fuck?

It turns out you don’t have to, because Tony Stark comes to you. It’s not often he takes part in the day to day workings of Stark Industries - that’s your job, after all. But he comes striding into your office eating an apple and wearing sunglasses during the middle of the day, and points a ringed finger at you.

“You’re back,” he says, and you find yourself glancing down at your baby-blue pantsuit just to make sure you are, in fact, back. Stark takes a very pointed breath through his nose and adds, “You smell terrible. This is great!”

“Great?” You can’t help but sound bitter. Your smell is hardly great to you. Even after sweating out your entire body-weight and taking more showers than is considered healthy, you still smell like Bucky. You can’t escape him - not your thoughts, not your heart, and certainly not the way your skin seems to emanate him like he’s crawled underneath and set up shop. It’s embarrassing and humiliating, because it’s not real, and just serves to remind you of the terrible mistake you’ve made. You hope beyond hope Stark doesn’t recognise the other alpha scent clinging to your pores.

“Yes, great. I need your help,” he says, sitting down in a chair opposite your desk. You glance at the specs you have open on your computer, the strange security upgrades he wants you to make to the Tower, and then back to Stark’s million-dollar smile. It’s unsettling. You feel a headache forming before he even opens his mouth.

“If this has anything to do with these emails-“

“Those can wait,” Stark says, waving a dismissive hand at your computer. He lobs his applecore into the bin beside your desk as if to punctuate his point, then says, “This is a request on behalf of the Avengers.”

“Um,” you say, rather eloquently. Avengers? What on earth could they want with you, unless- you groan, rolling your eyes to the ceiling. “Natasha.”

“She highly recommended your expertise,” Stark says, and that headache brewing in your temples blooms into a full-blown migraine. He stands, smooths out his slacks, and says without room for question, “Follow me.”

This is how you end up back in the residential floors of the Tower, much to your chagrin, which Stark seems to pick up on. The closer you get to Bucky’s floor the more fidgety you become, heart racing and skin turning clammy until you watch the numbers fly by and you leave him somewhere in the clouds above Manhattan. The elevator doors ding open to a floor that seems to go on forever, full of gym equipment and fancy simulation tech you figure the Avengers must use to train. You find Natasha’s red head on the sparring mats, tackling someone to the ground with her thighs, and glare daggers as you follow Stark into the room.

“She’s alive!” Natasha calls across the room, ignoring your death glare for a knowing smirk. Her voice echoes through the warehouse-style gym floor, drawing the attention of the others in the room. The Avengers, and all of a sudden you feel like an eighteen year old kid watching aliens attack New York on a grainy satellite TV in the desert again. This is like meeting celebrities on another level. Steve Rogers finishes wrapping his hands as he walks over to you and Stark, Sam Wilson beside him, and Natasha gives Clint Barton a hand to help him up from the mats.

“What have you roped me into now, Nat?” you ask, not bothering to hide your frustration. You’ve just about had it with her meddling, but you should’ve known it was a pipe dream to think she would stop.

“We know you’re very busy, we won’t take up much of your time,” Steve Rogers says, extending a hand and introducing himself like he needs to. Captain America needs no introduction.

“I know who you all are,” you say, giving them a nod. “And you’re right, I am busy. So why am I here?”

“You and Nat must get along like a house on fire,” Clint says, earning him an elbow in the gut from Nat herself. You grin, all sharp in the way Nat tells you looks scary in a hot way, and watch as he subtly shifts behind Nat as if to hide behind her smaller frame. It’s only then that you register the scents mingling between them, and realise that Clint Barton is Nat’s omega. She grins at you, beatific and serene, as if she can read your thoughts and knows exactly what you’ve just figured out.

“Let’s not hold (Y/n) up any longer,” Nat says, grinning in a way that always spells trouble for you. “She’s a woman in high demand.”

Stark leads them to what seems to be a large empty space in the training facility, but it’s soon filled with hologram projections from a tiny Starkpad he pulls from his pocket. You fall into step beside Nat, using your height advantage to glare down at her and convey the level to which you want to strangle her right now. She just loops her arm with yours and kisses you on the cheek, frustrating your attempts at intimidation before you can even begin. Bloody Russian spies, you grumble to yourself as you come a halt in front of the holograms.

You’re looking at building specs, that much is obvious. Why, though, is entirely lost on you. The structure is a tall hexagonal building reminding you of a panopticon, with security floors in the centre and what seem to be prison cells surrounding them. Details jump out from Stark’s hologram - security cameras, miniature guards patrolling the floors, thermally sealed doors and electromagnetic force-fields on the cells. It’s a prison, you surmise, and you’re starting to get a bad feeling as to why you’re here.

You turn to Nat and say, “I’m not going back in the field.”

She pats your arm with only a tiny bit of condescension and says, “I’m not asking you to.”

“You’re my Head of Security,” Stark says, then gestures to the hologram building, “If you can design impenetrable security systems, surely you can undo them.”

“You want me to help you break into this place?” you ask. The team all nod, and you look back at the intimidating, virtual-blue building in front of you. “It’s a fortress.”

“Yeah, they really upped the anti on security since I was in there,” Sam Wilson says, earning him a reproachful look from Steve. It does nothing to soothe the anxiety starting to thread through your chest. Failing the Avengers doesn’t seem like an option, but from where you’re standing, neither is breaking into this facility.

“I’ll need to know what it is first,” you say, “Then I can try and help you. Emphasis on try. I’m not a miracle worker.”

“It’s called the Raft,” Steve says, his face growing stony and set as he talks. “It’s a prison designed for enhanced persons by Secretary Ross. After Germany, I broke Sam, Scott, and Clint out. But Wanda-“

“We need to get her out of there,” Clint says. You pretend not to notice as beside you Nat discreetly takes his hand, rubbing her thumb across his bruised knuckles.

“Leave the search and rescue to us,” Stark says, and you watch him shift uncomfortably under some inscrutable looks Steve and Sam are giving him, “We just need your help on how to get into the joint.”

“Simple,” you breathe, but only Nat laughs. This seems like an impossible task, but from the look of  everyone around you, failure isn’t an option. You’re going to have to make the impossible possible. It’s a good thing you’ve had some experience with that - in the military, trapped into sand-filled corners with no foreseeable way out, it really did seem like you were working miracles to stay alive out there. You swallow past a dry mouth and blink through desert-gunked eyes, say, “I’ll need that Starkpad, and some time.”

“You have forty-eight hours,” Stark says. The hologram disappears in a blink as he throws the Starkpad, no bigger than your palm, which you only just manage to catch. Stark clicks his fingers, as if an idea as just occurred to him, and says, “Oh, I almost forget to tell you! The Raft is underwater. Completely submerged, middle of the ocean, super top-secret. Fun, right?”

Your heart drops to your stomach. Fun is not the word you you would use. Only forty-eight hours to break into the most secure facility in the country, if not the world? This day couldn’t possibly blindside you anymore.

As if the universe is conspiring against you, FRIDAY’s voice chimes in from overhead speakers to say, “Mr Stark, Sergeant Barnes is on his way to the gym floor.”

You feel your whole body lock up, heart seizing in your chest - Bucky? Here? You weren’t prepared to see him yet, or speak to him. What would you say? How could you apologise for one of the worst crimes you may have ever committed, and you’ve killed people? Natasha unloops her arm from yours, tries to soothe you with a hand on your back but it does nothing for the anxiety shooting sparks throughout your blood stream.

“How many times have I got to tell that illiterate Soviet popsicle, he’s not on the fucking team,” Stark grumbles, storming towards the elevators with a scowl. Steve clenches his fists, glaring after Stark but Sam holds him back. He mutters something only Steve can hear which makes him close his eyes and exhale sharp through his nose - frustrated, but calming by the nanosecond.

It’s a shame nobody thought to do the same for you.

“What did you just call him?” you say, ignoring Natasha’s warning murmur of your name as you follow after Stark. Maybe you still have some residually elevated hormones from your heat, or you really are just a lovesick idiot who can’t control her temper, but whatever it is has you absolutely incensed. Stark stops dead, clearly caught off guard by the venom in your voice, and spins on his heel to stare at you incredulously.

“Excuse me?” he says, blinking owlishly at you as you lean up into his space. You’re aware you’re overstepping the boss/employee line, but you can’t help yourself. The rage is brewing, and with each laboured breath Bucky’s scent grows stronger and stronger until it’s all you can smell. It settles over your skin like armour, and the urge to protect that hold on you, to protect him, is beyond your control - it’s primal.

“Don’t talk about him like that, ever,” you snarl, watching with satisfaction as Stark’s eyes turn round and wide.

He glances behind you towards his friends and says, “Are we sure she isn’t an alpha? Sheesh.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns, but it’s too late. You use the palm of your hand to slam into Stark’s solar plexus. You kick out his kneecap and he drops on one knee, wheezing and gasping for air. It all happens so fast you can’t even think about the repercussions of assaulting your boss, let alone what’s driven you to do it in the first place.

“I don’t need to be an alpha to kick your ass,” you hiss, glaring down at Stark who looks up at you like you have, in fact, lost your mind.

At that moment, the elevator dings and reveals Bucky practically seething behind the elevator doors. He storms in, larger than life - in the week or so it’s been since you’ve seen him, you’ve somehow forgotten how physically intimidating he actually is. You immediately step back from Stark’s kneeling figure, feeling the strange need to hide your hands behind your back like a kid caught with the cookie jar. Bucky glances wildly between you, Stark on the ground, and the ring of Avengers in different states of attempting to intervene. He heaves ragged breaths and is emitting a scent that threatens to take you to your knees, too. Authoritative, powerful, protective.

That submissive, animalistic side of you makes you really hate being an omega sometimes.

“Why is she here?” Bucky asks someone behind you, probably Natasha. He swings his, frankly, frightening gaze to Stark and demands with just as much venom as you had, “What did you do to her.”

“Jesus Christ, nothing!” Stark wheezes, clutching at the spot on his chest you’ve definitely bruised. He points an accusing finger at you and cries, “She hit me!”

“I’m so sorry,” you say, feeling your hands start to shake where you clutch them behind your back. You look to Bucky like maybe he can explain, which makes you sick to your stomach because he’s not yours to look towards. Now, more than ever, that is abundantly clear. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I do!” Natasha pipes up behind you, helpful as ever. Bucky glares at her for you this time, releasing you of his burning-hot stare. His gaze has the power to paralyse you, and you need to get away from him, this, all of it - right now. You don’t get a chance to, however, before Natasha once again sticks her foot in it and says, “She was defending your honour, James.”

“Yeah, and I’ve no idea why. One quick google search should tell you he doesn’t need any-“

It takes you a second to realise the snarling, growling sound echoing through the gym is coming from you. Your face burns as you roll your lips together, cutting the sound off completely. For your entire life you’ve been headstrong and confident, but this whole experience with Bucky from the very first day you met him has shaken your entire self-perception. Everything you’ve known has been turned upside down - it was easy when all alphas were assholes, and you were one omega they couldn’t fuck with. Now, you stare down at your shoes and refuse to look in Bucky’s direction because he’s affected you so much you can’t even control yourself anymore. The worst part is that it’s entirely your own doing, because Bucky made it very clear you aren’t the one he wants, so everything you’re doing right now is just incredibly humiliating.

“(Y/n)?” Bucky’s voice makes you shudder. Looking at him would surely make you burst into flames, from embarrassment of the last time you saw him which you can’t even think about, or from the shame of pathetically defending a man who doesn’t want anything to do with you. He doesn’t even want you here, storming up to ask why you’re in his home in the first place.

“I’m gonna go,” you say, giving Bucky a wide berth as you head for the elevators. You can’t get there fast enough, practically sprinting to press the close-door button as fast as you can.

“Wait-“

And then, the absolute worst thing happens. You almost crush the Starkpad still in your hand from clenching your fist so hard - you have to, in order to keep your hands by your sides and not in Bucky’s personal space. Because just as the doors are about to slide closed, he slips in between them and FRIDAY seals you both in. The elevator fills with Bucky Bucky Bucky, just like your heat-addled brain has been chanting at you since you stumbled into his apartment a week ago.

Bucky stares at you wide-eyed, and you stare back just the same. This could possibly be your worst nightmare come to life, especially when the elevator screeches to a halt and FRIDAY’s dulcet tones hammer your fate home.

“I appear to be having some technical difficulties,” FRIDAY says, sounding confused if an AI can sound like anything. “I’m so sorry, I’m trying to fix this. It seems someone is manually overriding my control of the elevator.”

“Nat,” you groan, in unison with Bucky. So that’s it. You’re stuck in an elevator with Bucky and are being forced to face the music, by the powers that be. The powers being Natasha, a no good meddler who is going to be in a world of pain when you get out of here. Alpha be damned.

[echoes-of-the-clockwork]

Book Two: Sapphire (Ignis x Reader) Chapter VII

At the Alstor Coernix Station, (Y/n) was inside the convenience store perusing the many items they had for sale. Ignis has entrusted her with enough gil to buy them some curatives. Their supply was low and needed to be restocked. Glancing out the window of the convenience store, she saw Ignis putting gas in the Regalia while Noctis was chatting on the phone. Prompto and Gladio were eavesdropping on the phone call.

Looking back to the items in stock, she searched the shelves for Ignis' favorite canned coffee-ebony. What caught her attention was a small sign taped to one of the shelves.

*****

Due to road closures, we are SOLD OUT of Ebony Coffee for the foreseeable future.

*****

"Uh-oh..." she mumbled.

"What's "uh-oh"?" Noctis asked as he overheard her when entering the store with Gladio and Prompto in tow. She stepped aside and allowed him to read the sign for himself. His eyes widen and nearly popped out of his head as he read the small piece of paper. "Oh, crap. They're out."

Gladio shook his head in disapproval. "Can't let him see this."

"He'd be crushed." The prince glanced outside to see Ignis finished filling the gas tank and was heading their way. "Shit, he's coming this way."

"What do we do?" Prompto asked panically.

"Nothing," (Y/n) replied. "Iggy will be fine without his ebony for a few days."

"Weren't you the one who said, "uh-oh"?" Noctis asked.

"I was, but it's not the end of the world."

"For you it might not be, but for us..."

"Mama Iggy gets cranky when he hasn't had his ebony," Prompto added. "And he gets really irritated in battle if we don't listen to him."

She crossed her arms. "I'm pretty sure he gets irritated not because of the lack of ebony but the lack of listening you three do in battle."

"Damn, no need to call us out like that," Gladio chuckled.

"Still, Specs isn't gonna like being out of ebony." Noctis looked at the (h/c)-haired girl. "You tell him the bad news, (Y/n). The rest of us will try to get a running start to avoid him. And if you survive, we'll come back for you."

She sighed. "Iggy's not gonna lose his mind and go on a rampage because they're out of ebony! And why do I have to tell him?!"

"He is waaay nicer to you than the rest of us," Prompto responded. "If it comes from you, it'll cushion the blow! You make him...gentle."

"What are you talking about?"

"Listen, Iggy's got a soft spot for ya," Gladio told the petite girl, placing a hand on her shoulder. "We all can see the way he looks at you, but it looks like you're the only one who can't see it. Sorry to say this, but you're a little dense, sweetheart."

(Y/n)'s eyes narrowed in an icy glare. Her jaw tensed as her slitted eyes focused on the shield. She clenched her fists tightly by her side as her gaze bore into his amber eyes. She watched in anger and satisfaction as Gladio released her shoulder and stepped away from her out of fear. He swallowed in fright when feeling a chill creep through his body. He held up his hands in defeat. "Now hold on a sec, (Y/n)..."

Prompto and Noctis rubbed at their exposed arms, fighting off the chill in the air. They stepped away from (Y/n), their teeth chattering slightly. The two best friends exchanged glances before looking back at the angered guardian. They were too frightened to say anything and kept their mouths shut. Without saying a word, she walked out of the convenience store.

Ignis, who had just entered the store, saw her furious expression and looked towards his friends. "It seems one of you has infuriated (Y/n)."

Noctis and Prompto jabbed their fingers in Gladio's direction and said, "He did it," in unison.

"Shit..." The brute mumbled, eyes focused on the girl who was now outside. "Thought she was gonna tear me into tiny pieces."

"Dude, you called her dense. Don't you think it was a little rude and insensitive?" Prompto asked. "I mean, I would be pissed off too."

"What could possibly insinuate her to be "dense," Gladio?" Ignis pried.

"Oh, please," the brute scoffed. "Don't tell me you're unaware of how differently you treat her from the rest of us? Or the way you look at her? That'd make you dense too, Iggy. Probably even more than her. Do you realize how often I've caught you staring at her when she isn't looking in the last two days?"

Ignis didn't know how to respond. He was aware of his own infatuation with (Y/n), but he never realized how often his gaze would drift in her direction. He must've been doing it more than he noticed in the past two days.

"What? You've got nothing to say?" Gladio retorted after seeing Ignis fell silent.

"Is there a response you're wishing to hear?" Ignis replied.

"Just tryna see if our straight-laced tactician really does have a heart and actually can fall for a woman."

The bespectacled man pinched the bridge of his nose. He decided not to entertain Gladio any longer and left the convenience store. Outside, he found (Y/n) near the Crow's Nest, her attention focused on a wanted poster of a behemoth that was causing trouble in the Nebulawood. The reward was large and tempting for any hunter that was eager to test their strength and earn a pretty gil.

Ignis joined her and analyzed the poster. "Tis a feat fit for royalty."

"Aren't you the one who said to keep the trouble to a minimum?" She asked. "I'm pretty sure a behemoth is a large serving of trouble."

"The large sum of gil is not tempting enough?" He asked.

"I'd rather not be skewered by a behemoth even for a large amount of gil."

"A shame, truly."

She snorted with laughter. "Since when are you the reckless one?"

"I am the most cautious of us all," he remarked. "Regardless, we are in dire need of funds and such a tremendous feat would fill our purses."

"You really think the five of us could take down a behemoth?"

"I believe with our combined skills the beast would still be a formidable foe but one we could eliminate."

(Y/n) looked back at the wanted poster. "You certainly have confidence in our skills, Iggy. Maybe too much..."

"Or perhaps you lack the confidence in our combined strength as a group," Ignis stated, peeking at her from his peripheral vision.

She placed a hand over her chest. "Ouch... That one hurt." She then smiled. "I actually believe we could handle anything that comes our way if we stick together, but even a behemoth could cause issues. And it's not like I'm some large, mighty spirit that could match the size of such an immense beast."

""And though she be but little, she is fierce,"" the advisor quoted. "Such a quote describes your spiritual form well."

"Tiny but mighty, huh...?" She looked back at the image of the behemoth. "Still, we might be biting off more than we can chew with such a large target."

"As per words provided by Noct: only one way to find out."

She laughed. "Yes. His carefree nature truly does suit him well. Let's just hope his carelessness doesn't get him or anyone else killed..."

"Which is why we are accompanying him-to prevent such calamity."

Just then, the two heard a familiar 'click'. When they turned around, they saw Prompto with his camera aimed at them. He lowered the device and smiled innocently with slightly red cheeks. "Just takin' some sweet pics. Don't mind me!"

"Are we ready to depart?" Ignis asked.

"Yep! We're going to the chocobo outpost first, right?" He remarked with eyes glistening in excitement.

"It's up to Noct."

"What's at the chocobo outpost for us to do?" (Y/n) wondered.

"Chocobos!" Prompto squealed. "What else?"

"Don't we have royal arms to find?"

"Well, yeah, but this'll be a quick detour! Once we've ridden the chocobos, we can go back to searching for the tombs. And, of course, see Iris in Lestallum."

The girl sighed in relief. "I'm glad to hear she's safe."

"Me too. Guess we forgot to mention the phone call to you." Prompto lowered his camera. "Now then, let's go!"

Ignis and (Y/n) exchanged glances before returning to the Regalia. The three other boys were already in the backseat, waiting for them. The girl climbed into the passenger's seat and peered over middle console at the blonde in the backseat. "Maybe I should sit in the middle seat, Prompto."

"And let you be squished by these two?" He pointed to Gladio and Noctis. "No way!"

The shield wrapped an arm around Prompto's neck and used his other hand to drive his knuckles into the top of the boy's head. "You sure 'bout that, pipsqueak?"

Prompto struggled against the brute. "H-Hey, you're messing up my hair!"

Ignis started the car and pulled out of the Alstor Coernix Station. At Noctis' command, he drove in the opposite direction of Lestallum and headed to Wiz Chocobo Post. Prompto was able to break free from Gladio and giddily bounced up and down in the backseat. His excitement only escalated as the distance between them and the chocobo outpost shrunk.

The moment Ignis pulled the Regalia into Wiz Chocobo Post, Prompto climbed over Noctis. His excitement caused him to move faster, but he tripped on his own feet as he climbed out of the car. He quickly recovered and ran over to the empty pens.

Noctis readjusted his jacket from where he was trampled by Prompto before exiting the vehicle. Gladio closed the door behind him as did Ignis and (Y/n). She leaned against the car and looked around the outpost. "For a place with chocobos, it's eerily quiet."

"Think this side trip was for nothing?" Gladio asked.

"Best we find the owner of the establishment before drawing any conclusions," Ignis said.

(Y/n) wandered around the chocobo outpost while the boys spoke with the owner, Wiz. She browsed through what the store was offering before departing with a smile. She continued walking around until she was stopped by a large chocobo chick. It pecked at the heels of her shoes before rubbing its feathery body against her legs. Her brows furrowed in confusion as to why it was acting somewhat like a cat. Squatting down, she hugged her knees and poked the top of the chick's head. It 'kwehed' in response, fluffing out its feathers.

Smiling, she petted the top of its head. She had only seen pictures of chocobos and was flabbergasted at the size of the chicks. "You are one big chick, but adorable. And your feathers are soft." The chocobo chick bumped its plump body against her legs and caused her to lose her balance. She fell on her hindquarters and blinked in surprise when the chocobo chick hopped onto her lap. It flapped its tiny wings with another 'kweh' before nuzzling its head against her stomach. "Guess I have to add friendly and cuddly to the list."

While petting the chocobo chick that was curled up in her lap, she spotted movement from the corner of her eye. Turning her head, she saw three more chicks heading straight for her. Their chubby bodies bounced as they trotted towards her. Even a few loose feathers were knocked free and sent spiraling in the faint breeze that blew through the outpost.

The three chicks reached (Y/n) and tried to join their sibling. However, there was only enough room for one chocobo in her lap. The other three opted to snuggle their bodies against her sides and back before taking a nap. The girl sighed through her nose when seeing the predicament she was in. "What do I do now...?"

"Oh. Em. Gee!" A voice squealed. The spirit looked up and saw Prompto with his camera aimed at her. Noctis, Gladio, and Ignis were standing behind the blonde as he took pictures of her. "The chocobos love you, (Y/n)!"

"Where did these guys come from?" Noctis asked the spirit.

"They came out of nowhere and ambushed me," she said, continuing to pet the chocobo chick in her lap. "As you can see, I didn't stand a chance."

Not even a minute later, a woman with a yellow apron ran over. "I'm so sorry about this, miss! The babies escaped their pen. I hope they didn't cause you any trouble."

(Y/n) offered the stablehand a kind smile. "They were no trouble. They're quite friendly."

"They really are," she giggled. "This hasn't been the first time they've escaped. I've tried to come up with ways to stop them, but they're amazing escape artists."

The guardian managed to lift the chubby chick out of her lap so she could stand up. The three other chocobos that were snuggled up against her plopped against the ground when she was back on her feet. The stablehand rounded up the four chicks and escorted them back to their pen. (Y/n) brushed the dirt off her dress and tights before asking, "Did you learn why most of the pens are empty?"

Ignis stepped forward. "Remember our early discussion of the behemoth?"

She froze, eyes widening. "Don't tell me...?"

"It's a beast known to the locals as Deadeye. If we desire to use the chocobos, the behemoth must be dealt with."

Her sapphire eyes drifted over to Noctis. "Let me guess, you took the hunt."

"Yeah. Is...that a problem?" The prince questioned.

"Not at all. Just try not to get you or anyone else killed."

Noctis' opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. "Wha-? I..."

"You are audacious in battle, Noct," Ignis stated. "Which, mind you, has resulted in the injury of others."

"I am not that reckless," Noctis tried to defend himself.

"Sorry, buddy, but I've gotta side with Iggy and (Y/n) on this one," Prompto said. "You kinda are reckless in battle."

"So are you, blondie," Gladio remarked. "The only ones here who aren't reckless are myself, Iggy, and (Y/n). You two would be skewered meat if it weren't for the three of us watchin' your backs. Maybe you kids should leave the beast slaying to the grown-ups and stay here to play with the birds."

"We aren't kids!" Prompto screeched.

Noctis nodded. "Yeah!"

"Then prove it," Gladio shoves past the two younger boys. "Let's go take down a behemoth."

Noctis and Prompto dashed off with Gladio following close behind. (Y/n) clasped her hands together in front of her as she watched the three take off. "Gladio sure does love to egg those two on."

"Speaking of eggs, I do believe a scavenge for ingredients is in order once we've dealt with the behemoth," Ignis said.

The girl glanced at him in disbelief before laughing. "You would think about ingredients at a time like this. I'll see what I can do once we get back. We better catch up with the others. They won't be able to take down Deadeye without us."

"Yes, let's. Our assistance is always invaluable."

Ignis and (Y/n) left the chocobo outpost and caught up with Noctis, Prompto, and Gladio. They hadn't made it far down the dirt trail located just on the outskirts of the chocobo ranch when they regrouped with the other boys. They skirted around the Nebulawood in search of the entrance, but froze when the sound of snapping trees came from within the stone walls. The ground shook slightly with each tree that fell. It was like a domino effect where one tree would fall and then it would immediately be followed by another.

(Y/n) was pulling up the rear of the group when she suddenly heard the voice that had been haunting her ever since they left Insomnia. Stopping, she looked up at the sky and listened closely to the disembodied voice.

Vessel... Costlemark...

Her eyes narrowed in bewilderment. "Costlemark...?"

Ancient... Worship...

"I don't understand," she whispered. Her attention was drawn away from the voice when the sound of a threatening growl emitted from the Nebulawood. When it faded, she looked back up at the sky in hopes the voice would speak to her again, but it was silent. She promptly caught up with the boys just as they managed to locate the entrance to the Nebulawood.

Before they took another step forward, (Y/n) questioned the boys. "So this is Deadeye's prowling grounds?"

"That's what Wiz said," Noctis replied. "Why? You worried?"

"Not at all. Just do be careful. We don't need a dead prince on our hands."

"Hey, this'll be a walk in the park for us."

She sighed. "You say that now..."

"Wait 'til we actually face the beast before drawing any conclusions," Gladio finished the girl's thought. "Just try not to be an idiot and get your ass handed to you. We can't always be there to save you from all the trouble you put yourself in."

"Okay, I get it," Noctis groaned. "I'm reckless. Damn, you guys never learn how to drop anything..."

"We're simply here to watch your back, Noct," Ignis stated.

"Not to babysit you," Gladio added.

The prince threw his head back with another dramatic groan. He wanted to drop the subject and did so by ignoring his companions and entering the Nebulawood whether they were with him or not. Once a little ways into the rocky, windy structure of Deadeye's prowling grounds, he slowed his pace as he followed the path forward. They were surrounded by downed trees, possibly the ones they heard snapping earlier. From the damage done to the trees, it appeared something large had struck them down.

(Y/n) approached one of the fallen trees, her nose scrunching up when receiving a whiff of something that smelt awful. Gladio noticed her slightly disgusted expression. "What's up, munchkin?"

Ignoring the nickname, she responded with, "I've never encountered a behemoth before, but beasts and daemons all have distinctive odors. From the scent, I'm going to assume Deadeye caused all this damage."

"Behemoths have been known to stroke their bodies against trees and other structures to mark their territory, leaving their natural musk as a warning to other creatures," Ignis informed the group.

"Oh, nice to know," Prompto mumbled.

"Behemoths are territorial beasts. If we're not careful, none of us are coming out of this unscathed. We need to be extra careful in this area, especially since Deadeye has marked his territory," (Y/n) said.

Noctis rubbed the back of his neck. "Guess this isn't gonna be a walk in the park..."

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter || Masterlist

[iam93percentstardust]

hi! i really like your writing and was wondering if you’d recommend other authors that you enjoy or even specific fanfics you like? i’ve only just started getting into the steve/tony fandom and want to follow more people! thank you!

Hi there and welcome! We’re glad to have you here!! 💙

I’m more of an MCU kind of gal myself but if you’re interested in the comics, I highly recommend checking out the below authors and fics:

Living in the Future by Closer: Eighteen-year-old Tony Stark is the boy genius who woke Captain America, and now he's stuck with him. That's not a bad thing, but between Steve's wide-eyed wonder at the new world and Tony's little fanboy crush, the awkwardness just keeps happening.

@blossomsinthemist: seriously one of the best smut authors I’ve ever read with lots of feelings, trust me, you won’t regret getting into their works

@sineala: been writing Marvel since approximately 2014 (though if you like their works, it’s worth reading their other stuff as well even if you’re not familiar with the fandom, it’s all that good) and has written a lot of the classics including Like a Comet Streaming On and Slipping off the Page into Your Hands

Stars Fading, but I Linger On, Dear by Chibisquirt: A Soulmate AU where people meet their soulmate in their dreams. Of course, not even that solves all the world's problems, especially if one or more of the soulmates has a secret identity...

MCU and Ambiguous Fandom:

@festiveferret: has written so much and I can pretty much guarantee that you’ve stumbled across something that they’ve written at least once, writes both on tumblr and on ao3 but everything they post on tumblr is also cross-posted to ao3 so you don’t have to go digging through their blog to find ficlets

@no-gorms: has literally the most interesting AUs, I always read whatever is new pretty much the moment it comes out, can promise lots of feelings and happy endings

A Series of Learning Experiences by @riotfalling: In which Tony finds out that his tiny artist boyfriend is not a nice boy. In the best possible way. (Riot doesn’t write much Stevetony but what she does write is amazing)

Heart in Hand by janonny: Or the story where Tony, an Omega, holds a much belated Courting Ceremony. Steve joins up and loses his mind a little.

@maguna-stxrk: writes lots of fluff here on tumblr

@omg-just-peachy: widely acknowledged as the inventor of fluff

@itsallavengers: no longer as active but writes the most heartbreaking angst with a happy ending, you will feel so many things, has written classics like Versions of Reality and Nobody Panic, Everything’s Fine

@aurumacadicus: I’ve said before (I think on the stuckony reclist) that her version of Tony is my favorite but I’m going to say it again: seriously, fantastic Tony

Finding Pack by @naferty: In a world where pack means everything from status to fame to survival and to family, newly pack-less Tony Stark is trying to survive after those he once trusted betrayed him, and starting over by searching for a new pack to take him in, but with his age and status weighing heavily on his shoulders finding someone to take a chance on him might be easier said than done.What pack wanted an old infertile omega in their ranks? Certainly not the famous Avengers pack led by the equally famous Captain. (one day this fic will be finished and when that happens, I will scream for three days straight)

@sabrecmc: hmmm yes, especially check out Celestial Navigation and The Prize (also has an incredibly comprehensive rec blog, @sabrecmcstonyficrecs)

Sunrise by NotEvenCloseToStraight: Nomad is a soldier forced to do Hydra's bidding. When his mission takes him to the castle and to the bed chambers of Prince Antony Stark, Nomad is faced with a choice-- to finish his mission and finally earn his freedom or to save the last piece of his scarred soul and let the beautiful Prince live.Antony is trapped in the Palace, his life controlled by his Uncle, the Sovereign Stane. He yearns for a life beyond the palace walls but when the Nomad breaks into his rooms with blade held at the ready, Antony thinks all is lost--and then the assassin hesitates.Steven and Antony are two souls together in the moonlight, two lives on the cusp of ruin and as the sun rises over the palace, perhaps they will be two kindred spirits, finding freedom in each other's arms.

take my heart clean apart by mistymountainking: Tony comes home exhausted after an SI event. Steve acts as welcoming committee. It's an old, careworn routine they've perfected over the years, but tonight ends up going in a very different direction.

Dear Mr. Fantasy by @pineapplebread: Tony writes letters to his past loves to get over them. They’re all but meaningless by this point, but he keeps them hidden anyways, never to be seen or read by anyone else. Until one day they all mysteriously get sent out.His deepest secrets are revealed and he scrambles to do damage control, striking a deal to enter a fake relationship with Steve Rogers who just wants his ex back. Tony conveniently forgets to mention that the only love letter he still means is the one he wrote to his fake boyfriend.

slipping through the years by often_adamanta: The plane crash and subsequent ice might have killed him, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t still around, haunting those he cares about. And since the only person who can see him is Tony Stark, death sure isn’t going to be boring.

Insomnia by Scavenge4Dreams: Its 3am. Do you know where your Genius Billionaire Playboy Philanthropist is?

rough enough for love by silkspectred: The first time they had sex was right after their first kiss. Steve dropped to his knees and then Tony reciprocated after making Steve lie down on the bed. The second time it was Steve that initiated it, slow handjobs under the hot spray of the shower, and Tony looked surprised by it. Like it was weird that Steve wanted it. Wanted him.

I’m a Grown-Ass Man by not_applicable: or, 5 Times Steve Carried Tony and 1 Time Tony Didn't Mind. At all.

Containment by D: After Tony ends up severely injured from a surprise attack, triggering a flashback and putting him in the hospital for emergency surgery, the Avengers come together in worry for their friend and teammate and are disquieted by the intensity of Tony’s reaction. Between the flashback and the sedatives, Tony’s mind revisits key moments in his life while the team bands together in support of each other and their injured friend, letting SHIELD handle Tony’s attacker, they remain where they are needed, even if Tony isn’t awake to truly realize this. And through it all, Steve makes a decision that will change things with Tony.

His Fate Will Be Unlearned by scifigrl47: Tony Stark spent his childhood making weapons, filling the hole his father left in the world when he succumbed to alcohol, grief, and his own demons. At the age of fifteen, he ran away from home, and made it as far as MIT before all of his responsibilities caught up to him. Now seventeen, he just wants to finish his degree and escape from everything connected to the Stark name. Steve Rogers crashed into the icy North Atlantic in the 1940's, sacrificing himself to save the world. He never expected to wake up, and now that he has, he's not sure he's glad. The US Army has other plans for him, but for now, Steve is slowly learning to live life in the 21st century, and taking classes at Boston College. He's beginning to suspect that there is no escape. Boston College is on the T's Green Line. MIT is on the Red. The two lines meet at the Park Street Station, and so will Steve and Tony.

The Twice-Told Tale by arysteia: For someone he'd hero-worshipped for so long, Steve Rogers in the flesh is a pretty big disappointment. For one thing, he keeps looking at Tony as though he reminds him of someone else, and even if he never says anything, Tony's pretty sure it's his father. A lifetime of not measuring up to Howard's expectations is more than enough, thank you very much, and he's certainly not going to make an effort to live up to any of Steve's. Steve's pretty clearly failed to live up to his expectations, in any case, and that's not hypocritical at all.

Like Gene Kelly in the Movies by lyra_wing: Everything Tony Stark does is a dance. And it's super confusing for Steve.

bedrock and brick by lyra_wing: Immediate sequel to the movie, wherein Tony builds Avengers Tower. Or plays interior designer, take your pick.

[jamlavender]

Masriel survives - what next, from Lyra’s perspective?

In order to write Unholy Ghosts (an AU fic in which Marisa and Asriel avoid the abyss and reunite with Lyra), I spent a lot of time thinking about what Lyra’s relationships with each of them would be like post-trilogy. I’m going to ramble about it here! It’s quite long, so it’s under the cut.

Lyra & Mrs Coulter

One of the biggest surprises was realising how little there was to say about Lyra and Mrs Coulter’s potential adult relationship. Given that so much of Mrs Coulter’s journey is about Lyra and motherhood, I expected their interactions to be much juicier. But in reality, there’s no almost nowhere for Lyra and Mrs Coulter’s relationship to go. Mrs Coulter’s big discoveries in TAS (and the trilogy more broadly) are about Lyra, particularly that she loves her with a ferocious intensity, but the rift between them was never, at its core, because Mrs Coulter didn’t love her. It was because she was a malicious, violent woman who delighted in tearing children in two (and causing various amounts of suffering to various other people, including Lyra). Mrs Coulter discovering that she loves her daughter deeply – perhaps even selflessly – does nothing to address Lyra’s real issue with her mother: her murderous cruelty, whether it’s directed at Lyra or not. Furthermore, Mrs Coulter would never show any remorse for the atrocities she committed, not just because it’s not in her nature (again, loving Lyra is completely separate from feeling - or rather, not feeling - guilt for killing so many people) but because Metatron inadvertently justified every awful thing she ever did. At that point in the story, Mrs Coulter’s main goal was to save her daughter’s life, and the only reason she was able to do it is because she’d been so completely, irredeemably terrible that the tiny mustard seed of genuine love in her heart was dwarfed by her brutal nature. If she’d been a better person, Lyra might not have been saved. She’d never regret any of it.

Also, Mrs Coulter and Lyra never had time to develop any kind of positive familial relationship over which Lyra might feel torn (unlike with Asriel, who was her only family growing up and whose love and attention she always craved, even though he was a shitty uncle/father to her too). The short time that Lyra enjoys being with her mother, she’s just this glamorous older woman, and by the time Lyra finds out the truth Mrs Coulter’s real nature has revealed itself and soured their relationship irreparably. This also affects how Mrs Coulter would behave towards Lyra. Mrs Coulter’s eventual acceptance of motherhood (and of her child, specifically) has very little to do with the actual Lyra. She barely knows her! They spend almost no time together, and Lyra is unconscious for most of the little time they do share (and rendered unconscious by Mrs Coulter herself!). She even hits Lyra in the face in the cave. She talks about loving and admiring Lyra a lot, but when Lyra is around, she’s still controlling, manipulative and self-centred. It’s more like possessive obsession (which tracks with her character) and doesn’t suggest that Mrs Coulter would be able to – or actually want to! – be a real, day-to-day, kind, loving mother to her child if the opportunity presented itself. Though, if she had tried (and she did, in my fic), she would have been helped greatly by the fact that Will never told Lyra that her mother was the person who drugged her. That definitely would have earned her some undeserved leniency from Lyra.

I could see them being able to coexist somewhat peacefully for short periods of time, provided Mrs Coulter wasn’t proactively cruel towards Lyra (and poor traumatised Lyra might enjoy being loved, even if it’s ultimately hollow, because she’s so bereft of real care), but I don’t think it would be possible for them to build any kind of real relationship, no matter how earnestly Mrs Coulter might think that’s what she wants. She’s vicious and malicious and entirely remorseless, while Lyra is a deeply compassionate person. Both Marisa and Lyra discovering that Marisa loves her does little to heal the real fractures between them.

Lyra & Lord Asriel

There’s so much more to unpack between Lyra and her father. She’d grown up thinking that he was her only family, and she’d always admired him and craved his love and attention. She was also thrilled to find out that she was his daughter, and genuinely devastated when he rejected her on Svalbard. Those are hard feelings to shake, despite all the pain he caused her. And even though I think his betrayal – killing Roger – cut her more deeply and personally than any of Mrs Coulter’s murders, it’s also true that (don’t come for me) it’s an easier action to defend than her mother’s vast and senseless cruelty. If the price of freedom for all sentient beings across endless worlds was truly the life of one person, even a child, then perhaps, just maybe, there’s an ethical argument to made there (again, don’t come for me). Of course, it’s more complicated than that, particularly because Asriel’s actions don’t seem to free that many people (and in spearheading a war, he was responsible for many, many more deaths than just Roger), but I think it’s more difficult to paint Asriel with the ‘unforgivably-awful-person’ brush than it is Mrs Coulter. If he’d shown even a shred of remorse, let alone genuine love for her, I think Lyra would have been far more open to building a relationship with him.

The core problem, of course, is that Asriel, like Marisa, doesn’t feel bad about the terrible things he did. He’d still defend the worst of his actions, and if he did feel any guilt, my guess is that he would squash it down and never, ever admit it. He’d certainly never apologise to Lyra for hurting her by being a crappy father, even if he thought that was the case. His work was more important, he’d left her protected and (ostensibly, at least) looked after at Jordan, and she was no more special to him than anyone else just by virtue of being his daughter – until it turns out she has an essential role to play in Asriel’s divine war, at which point, her being his child becomes very relevant (as a sidenote, I think Pullman’s characterisation of Asriel’s feelings about Lyra and his relationship to her can be very inconsistent, which complicates matters). Like when she was a child, Lyra would still want him to love her, to regret rejecting her and ignoring her and causing her pain, and he would never give her what she needed. She’d be more open to him, but sadly, I doubt he’d be that much more open to her. Given that I was writing from Lyra’s perspective, it felt right that she’d be more interested in how her father felt about her than her mother, even if she was still left hurt and disappointed by him every time.

One of the schemas that helps me when I’m writing anything about Chaos Family is to think of it as a triangle: Asriel chases Marisa’s love, Marisa chases Lyra’s love, Lyra chases Asriel’s love. Everyone is always left wanting to some extent. That’s what makes it so painful!

[carewyncromwell]

Judging by this picture of what looks like a stained glass slipper, I’d say we’re about to continue the Cinderella AU!

One of the best ways to deal with an anxiety attack is to ground oneself in the present situation. A common technique is the 54321 Method, which Carewyn doesn’t display here, but she does end up (without realizing it) evoking the idea of grounding by accenting her physical presence and encouraging Orion to take deep breaths. 

All of the lines Orion spouts while Carewyn runs away are ones the Prince in Disney’s animated version of Cinderella cries, when his mysterious lady love runs from him. It amuses me to no end how in so many magical Cinderella adaptations, it takes whole minutes for the clock to strike twelve -- in the case of the animated/live action Disney versions, so many that we even get a full chase scene for the pumpkin coach in that time. 😂

Trigger warning for a brief mention of suicidal thoughts. 

Previous part is here -- whole tag is here -- Katriona “KC” Cassiopeia belongs to @kc-needs-coffee -- and I hope you all enjoy!

x~x~x~x

Orion led Carewyn down the hall at a run, unable to break free of the happy adrenaline that pulsed through him. Some people in the hall outside the ballroom eyed the young king and his enchantingly striking partner curiously as they passed, but neither of the two paid them much mind. Orion rounded a corner with Carewyn, passing a large gold-trimmed grandfather clock as it tolled 11. Once they’d gotten around the corner, he opened a wall and pulled her into the secret passage behind it, out of sight from anyone who might pursue them. 

Once through the passage, Orion dashed up a flight of stairs with Carewyn, up, up, up, toward the upper levels. At last, when they reached the top of the stairs, he opened another passage, which opened up onto the landing of the battlements on the top floor of Florence’s castle. 

The cold winter wind gushed around them, tiny traces of snowflakes trailing through the air as Carewyn and Orion stepped out. As soon as they were outside, Carewyn gave a start at the odd smell that touched her nose. Curious, she moved out to the edge of the ramparts -- and she gasped.

The sea. 

The odd smell was the salt of the spray from the Southern Sea, only a few miles from the back of Florence’s palace. It was so dark out that Carewyn could hardly see the lightless buildings between the palace and sea, and yet she could still make out the ethereal white sea foam in its grayish black depths. Its waves rushed at the shore, sounding like some kind of resonating whisper that never needed extra breath to sustain itself, and its growing and shrinking waves sparkled in the moonlight. 

Carewyn exhaled, her lips spread into a wide open smile of awe. Orion came up behind her, watching her. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” 

Carewyn couldn’t take her eyes off of it. “It’s...it’s breathtaking.”

Orion slowly approached her, his eyes trailing along her shoulder and down her back with an oddly unreadable look. Once he’d come up just behind her, he very slowly extended a hand. It lingered uncertainly in mid-air for a moment, before it tentatively made contact with her back, exposed by the cut of her dress.

Carewyn flinched, unable to hold back a gasp of both surprise and pain. Orion pulled his hand away at once.

“Forgive me,” he said. His voice betrayed some anxiety.

Carewyn looked at him. Orion’s unflappable face had lost a lot of its color under his mask and his black eyes flickered the way her white horse’s would when it was nervous. 

“I can't see any injuries,” he explained, “but I can feel them there all the same.”

His eyes narrowed a bit upon her face.

“...Who...who delivered those lashes to your back?”

Carewyn’s blue eyes rippled with sorrow. “Orion -- ”

“Who?” Orion asked again. His voice was tenser than she’d ever heard it. 

Carewyn couldn’t look him in the eye. She tore her gaze away, looking out toward the sea again as she clutched the railing with both hands. 

“...My grandfather,” she said at last, very softly. “I...‘acted inappropriately.’”

Orion did not respond. The silence dragged, to the point that it had become deafening. When Carewyn finally felt brave enough to look back over at Orion, she saw that he’d migrated to the railing himself a short ways away, clasping his hands very tightly together as he looked out at the sea. His head was bowed, his face largely obscured by the darkness, but he was taking very deep, heavy breaths. 

Carewyn’s heart clenched. She moved to him, bringing a hand to rest on his shoulder. 

“Orion, I’m -- ”

“Don’t say you’re all right.”

Orion’s voice was very soft, but harder than Carewyn had ever heard it before. It made her stiffen, her grip on his shoulder faltering -- her partial withdrawal seemed to affect Orion, making him whirl around and seize her hand in both of his, as if desperate to keep her close. 

“A whip is a tool only used to cause pain -- a tool with no other use besides that,” he said. He spoke in a faster, tenser voice than normal: one that, although misty as ever, was turbulent in a way Carewyn had never heard. “Therefore it can never be used to spark any good in this world. It leaves scars that never heal -- that designate you as subhuman and your suffering as insignificant -- that make people cringe at the sight of them, wondering what crime you’ve committed or what lowly status you must be, to have earned them, when truly it says more about the person who inflicted them on you than it ever could you -- ”

“Orion...” Carewyn whispered.

Orion’s eyes were flashing with an odd emotion, one hard and blazing like a flame under a shell of hard black diamond. It took Carewyn a moment to realize it was anger. 

“You’re so strong,” he said, his shaking voice very hushed and rambling even as his breathing grew more irregular. “You’ve always been so resilient, and I don’t want to demean that, but -- but you shouldn’t have to be that strong! You shouldn’t have to downplay the suffering you’ve gone through! You shouldn’t have to stay locked in the dragon’s keep and endure, and I shouldn’t have -- ”

He choked. His black eyes pulsed with emotion as he clutched more desperately at her hand and he gasped for air. 

“ -- I never should’ve left you to him! I should’ve taken you away, far away, regardless of what you told me, regardless of the consequences, regardless of what your family or our countries or anyone else might do or say -- ”

“Orion!”

Carewyn pulled her hand out of his and brought both of her hands up to his face, cradling his cheeks. Orion trembled in her hold, breathing very heavily and his hands clutching at the air in front of him. 

“Orion,” she whispered, “shhh...shh, shh...”

She moved in, placing her forehead against his.

“Breathe,” she said as gently as she could, slowing her breath and speech down to try to  subconsciously encourage him to follow suit. “Breathe...I’m here...I’m here...”

Orion inhaled and exhaled shakily. At first his eyes were locked on hers, flaring with more of that anger, anguish, and anxiety -- then they fluttered shut, and he threw his arms out to wrap both of them around her, cradling her against him with his arms crossed over her back and clutching at her shoulders. He breathed in and out deeply, trying to follow her rhythm as he focused on the softness of her skin and the warmth of her voice. 

Finally, after a few minutes, Orion had finally regained his center of balance, his breathing softening and returning to a normal rate. He exhaled heavily through his nose, opening his eyes again to look at her. 

Carewyn offered him a weak smile, both feeling relieved that he looked better and wanting to comfort him, but Orion’s face -- although once again calm -- still looked very grim as he pulled back only just enough that their foreheads were no longer touching. His gaze trailed over her smile and then around her eyes, dipping into the corners. 

“Can you ever forgive me?” he murmured. 

“Forgive you?” repeated Carewyn, upset. “For what?”

“Everything. For not fighting for you, for not being able to help you fight off your beast, as I promised...for being the son of the man who led the army who killed your brother...”

“Orion,” Carewyn said very firmly, “your father had no hand in Jacob’s death. He died long before he ever saw battle. And I told you to go. It’s a good thing you did. If you hadn’t gone, then you wouldn’t have been able to convince the King and Queen to come here, to consider peace...”

She trailed her thumbs gently along his cheeks. 

“I should be the one apologizing to you. I should’ve told you what I really was a lot sooner.”

“I don’t think you lied anymore than I did, my lady,” Orion said rather coolly. 

“It’s not the same thing,” Carewyn insisted. “Every lie you told you told so that you could pursue diplomacy and peace. Every lie I told...I told out of shame. I’d only pretended to be a lady to help get you out of trouble, at the start, but then afterwards...well...I didn’t want you to look at me differently...even though I knew deep down you would, once you learned the truth.”

Orion reached out his hands and, mirroring Carewyn, took hold of her face tentatively in return. 

“You’re right,” said Orion. “I do see you differently.”

He leaned in, touching her forehead with his again. 

“Before, I merely saw you as a wonderful contradiction -- a lady who was born to a family of wealth and cruelty and yet was kind and selfless almost to a fault. Now...I see you as akin to a diamond: a sparkling, precious gem, fashioned only under the hardest, most unforgiving pressure and more resilient than nearly anything else on Earth.”

Orion moved in even closer, so that their noses touched.

“A gem symbolic of purity and light...of perfection itself,” he murmured.

His gaze flitted from her eyes to her lips and back. Although he’d moved in close enough to kiss her, however, he hesitated. 

Carewyn could sense his intent, and her cheeks darkened with a blush as her gaze fell down to his lips. 

“I hardly think I’m perfect, your Grace.”

Orion sighed, his lips spreading into a slightly tired smile. “Your standards truly are exhausting, my lady. If you cannot meet them, I know that I surely never will...”

He made as if to pull back, but Carewyn held his face in place. Her eyes met his again, rippling with an intensity they didn’t have before. 

“You needn’t worry about meeting my standards, Orion Cosimo Amari,” she said softly. “You clear them...easily.”

And before Orion knew what was happening, she’d leaned in and placed her lips up to his jawline in a tender, lingering kiss.

She pulled back after about five seconds, her eyes shining warmly up at him despite the seriousness of her face. 

“I cannot stay,” she murmured, “but -- ”

Before she could say another word, Orion -- his black eyes shining with a desperate kind of longing -- tilted her head up and swooped down to cover her lips with his own. His breathing through his nose was soft but heated as he cradled her face in both of his hands, cherishing the feeling of her lips on his and being enveloped in her arms. 

He broke the kiss after about thirty seconds, his black eyes half-lidded on her face.

“Carewyn, I...”

Carewyn briefly rested her forehead against his, her own face tinged with a warm flush under her robin mask, before reluctantly pulling back.

“I can’t stay,” she repeated even more gently. “The illusion the Baroness gave me will fade at midnight -- so just...just stay here. Away from the ballroom. At least until after midnight...by then, the spell Rakepick cast on you will have worn off.”

Orion’s eyebrows furrowed. 

“When the lady dressed as a lioness ‘mistook me for someone else,’” he said slowly, “she’d placed a spell circle on my back. Is that so?”

Carewyn nodded. “The spell’s terms were that you’d be targeted by every weapon in the ballroom. So long as you don’t return there until after midnight...you’ll be safe.”

“But I was there with you before, and I was not harmed,” said Orion with a frown.

“The spell can only affect you. Jae guessed that if anyone else would get hurt when the weapons attacked you, then the spell wouldn’t activate...so he and his comrades, and Talbott and Badeea, they served as human shields...”

“...As did you,” Orion whispered, his eyes widening in realization. “When you kept stepping in front of me and staying close to me, while we were dancing...you were protecting me.”

Carewyn offered a rather self-effacing smile. Orion’s hands quickly returned to the sides of her neck, cradling her jawline. 

“Carewyn....” he said, his calm voice touched with both adoration and the slightest edge of anxiety, “you saved my life. All while not knowing for certain that you throwing yourself in front of me wouldn’t result in you being harmed...”

“Well, I certainly hoped I wouldn’t be,” said Carewyn, attempting dry humor. “I couldn’t exactly make sure that Lord Malfoy and my grandfather wouldn’t hurt you if I’d died...”

Seeing the look on Orion’s face, she then became much more serious.

“Orion...after I learned the truth about Jacob...when I was back at the Cromwell estate...I lost myself. I lost my drive, my spirit...my reason for living. Everything I was, and everything I thought I knew, both about myself and about the path I’ve always walked.”

Her eyes fell down to Orion’s shoulder, becoming darker.

“Knowing that Jacob, the only thing in my life that gave me a reason to keep fighting and keep enduring, was dead...I lost all will to live. I didn’t just feel like I deserved to die...I actually wanted to. I deluded myself into thinking that at least then, the pain would stop. At least then...I could be with Jacob and Mum again.”

Her lips then spread into the saddest, softest smile. 

“...But when your note arrived...when I read your words, reminding me of the song you taught me...even after all of the lies, even after I pushed you away, even though you were set to be crowned King and I’d never see you again...it reminded me of how much joy I’ve known, even without Jacob there with me. The memory of you, and my friends, helped pull me out of that despair. And then when I found out what Grandfather wanted to do to you -- found out that he planned to destroy you and everything you’d ever dreamed of, for Florence and Royaume...I couldn’t do nothing, I just couldn’t.”

Her eyes gained a stronger, more passionate glint as she met his again. 

“You saved my life, Orion. You helped me fight my beast, just like you promised. You gave me hope when I was most ready to throw everything away.”

Orion’s black eyes were very wide upon her face. As he stared at her, his eyes softened, melting in a strange blend of sadness, affection, and pride. 

“Carewyn...”

Carewyn leaned in to kiss him chastely on the lips. 

“I know it’d be impossible for us to make a life together,” she said seriously, “but I told you I’d fight for you...and I always will.”

Orion considered her for a long moment. Carewyn found herself straining to hear any sound from below -- any marking of the time -- it had been 11, before they’d headed upstairs --

“I must go,” she said yet again.

But when she made as if to leave, Orion clutched her hands in his.

“Please,” he implored her, “stay.”

“I can’t,” said Carewyn. 

“You will be safe here in Florence. I wouldn’t allow Charles Cromwell to get within ten feet of you again -- ”

“Grandfather can’t know I’ve been here,” Carewyn said very firmly. “The King and Queen of Royaume have treated him as a confidante for years -- he’s invested a lot of money to make sure they rely on him. As long as our family’s money and status are intact -- as long as Grandfather’s place at their side is intact -- he will have their ear, and they will trust his word. And I know Grandfather will use every penny he has to sabotage your efforts for peace, until his dying breath. Imagine how he’d twist you ‘kidnapping’ his precious granddaughter and turning her against her own family. Don’t forget: the last time Florence harbored a fugitive from Royaume, we got a War that’s lasted fifty years.”

Her eyes narrowed. 

“So...I must return to Royaume. I must make sure that the King and Queen have no idea that Bill and the others helped me get here with one of their coaches without their permission. I must make sure that Grandfather has no idea I was ever here.”

Orion’s face was full of pain as he squeezed her hands. “Carewyn, I can’t let you return to him -- ”

“I won’t,” said Carewyn. Her lips spread into a smile. “Don’t you understand? You gave me my life. The Baroness and Talbott broke me out of my tower, and I’m never going back. As far as Grandfather will know...I simply escaped while he and my family were away.”

Orion’s eyes widened. Then they softened visibly. “...Just as KC and Bill Weasley originally planned.”

Carewyn beamed. “And just as my mother did, before me. It might not be easy for me to be on my own, but I know I’ll find a place somewhere, to make my own way. And maybe when you and King Henri are able to make peace...I’ll be able to find my way back to you again.”

Orion’s black eyes melted, gaining a proud warmth. In a spontaneous move, he swept in again and kissed her fully, heatedly. Carewyn brought a hand up to the back of his head, cradling the base of it under his ponytail -- after a wonderful, soft moment, she used the grip to gently break the kiss. 

Orion smiled almost shyly. 

“Forgive me,” he said. “In that moment, you just looked so beautiful.”

Carewyn raised an eyebrow. “I'm under an illusion, Orion.”

Orion shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. However surreal your appearance is, your eyes blazed with such courage...like a wild stallion, fearlessly running through an open field with no fences.”

He kissed her again, more chastely. 

“It was stunning.”

Carewyn smiled through a dark blush, her eyes closing modestly. 

“...How do I look to you, exactly?” she couldn’t help but ask. 

Orion beamed, his black eyes sparkling under his magpie mask. “Like Artemis.”

Carewyn blinked in surprise. 

“Shining white hair, a smile kissed by mischief...paler than the moon, with eyes that shine like stars.” Orion’s grin broadened. “You look how I always imagined the goddess Artemis to look, when I heard the tale of her and the hunter Orion as a boy.”

Carewyn’s lips spread into a broader, emotional smile. Somewhere down below, she just barely caught the sound of a bell, and her smile flickered and died at once. She immediately bolted for the door to the secret passage, but Orion stopped her again.

“11:45, my lady,” he said soothingly. 

“It took us a good ten minutes to get up here,” said Carewyn. “I must go now -- ”

“Then we’ll go back together.”

He took her hand and followed along behind as she ran back down the stairs of the secret passage, back toward the ground floor. Despite herself, Carewyn kept trying to shake him off. 

“Orion, you should stay here -- I can make it back to the ballroom by myself -- ”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“Grandfather and Lord Malfoy will be looking for you -- if you stay here, in this passage, they probably won’t find you -- ”

“Probably.”

Even with his placid agreements, he remained at her side. Once they reached the end of the passage, Carewyn whirled on him, putting her hands up to his chest to stop him. 

“I must go on alone from here,” she said very firmly.

“Must you?” asked Orion. 

“It’s nearly midnight...just wait until the twelfth strike, and you’ll be safe -- ”

“And yet you will not be, if you’re still here,” Orion said very solemnly. “I can’t let Charles Cromwell or Lord Malfoy stop you from leaving -- they’ll know it was you, who kept me from the ballroom...”

“Orion, there’s no time!” said Carewyn anxiously. “The only way I can get back to the coach in time is through the ballroom. I won’t be able to shield you -- if you enter the ballroom before midnight, you’ll die.”

Orion’s eyes had grown very small and dark with thought. Then, little by little, they lit up with an idea. 

“Carewyn,” he said seriously, “run away from me.”

Carewyn’s eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“Run away, when I pursue you. No matter what I say or do, while I chase you...no matter what happens, just keep running for the carriage. Ride back to Royaume, and don’t look back.”

His black eyes were very serious. 

“Promise me.”

Carewyn was stricken. Her face had lost a lot of its color as she clutched the front of his white-feathered doublet. 

“No! No, I can’t -- ”

“It will be all right, Carewyn,” Orion soothed her. 

“It can’t be all right!” she argued. “If you follow me, you’ll die -- !”

“The weapons in the ballroom will target me, yes,” said Orion. “But I’ll have a keen eye open for them, and I shall dodge them...just as you helped me dodge them before.”

“You can’t possibly dodge them all, even if Jae and the others are still in there!” Carewyn was beside herself, her hands clasping desperately at his chest. “Orion, I can’t let you -- ”

“It must be done, Carewyn,” whispered Orion gently. 

“Orion, I can’t lose you!” Carewyn implored him. Her eyes were flooding with tears. “Orion, please -- I can’t -- ”

Orion, mirroring a gesture Carewyn had used before, clutched the back of her head, cradling it gently, and he placed a tender kiss to the crook of her neck. 

“It will be all right, Carewyn,” he murmured against her skin. “Trust me.”

Carewyn felt sick. She knew every second she hesitated was one less than she needed to get back to the coach, where Bill, Charlie, Talbott, and Badeea were no doubt waiting, and yet her fear for Orion’s safety threatened her very stability. She’d done everything she could to try to protect him, the way she couldn’t for Jacob -- if she lost him too, she didn’t know what she’d do...

She looked into his gentle, calm eyes, vainly trying to fight back her tears. Despite the painful lump in her throat and the clenching of her heart, she saw the lack of fear in his features -- the man who, not long ago, had been so anxious he could hardly breathe was absolutely fearless in the face of Death. 

Carewyn Cromwell didn’t trust anyone. She’d never had faith in anyone...not since she’d lost Jacob and been enslaved to Charles Cromwell, a man who trusted and believed in no one but himself...

And yet in this moment -- as impossible as she knew it would be for her to do -- she knew she had to try. 

And so, her eyes streaming with tears, she swept in and kissed Orion fully. She caressed his face, trailing a hand through the bangs under his coronet, as he clutched the back of her head tenderly. 

After a minute, they broke apart, and Carewyn pushed open the door of the secret passage, dashing back out into the hallway, straight for the ballroom. After giving her a minute’s head start, Orion started his pursuit, calling after her. 

“No, wait -- come back!”

Following Orion’s instructions, Carewyn didn’t stop. She ran down the hall, right through a crowd of people and back toward the ballroom, as he chased after her. 

“Please come back!”

Orion’s voice sounded odd in Carewyn’s ears. Such words would normally have sounded tense, breathier, anxious -- but instead, every word rang out very clearly. 

As Carewyn made her first step into the ballroom, she couldn’t stop herself from looking back. Seeing her hesitation, Orion raised his voice.

“I don’t even know your name -- how will I find you?”

The completely out-of-character sentence shocked Carewyn back to her senses. 

This was an act. This was a ploy -- another lie, for them to get them to their goal. He wanted everyone to hear him. He wanted to make it sound like he didn’t know who she was, but that he didn’t want her to leave, like he was trying to stop her from going. Carewyn just wasn’t sure exactly why...

In that moment, however, she knew that didn’t matter. And so she ran, even despite the fear thumping in her chest. She could see Jae pushing through the crowd, trying to reach Orion’s side -- from the other side of the ballroom came Barnaby and Tulip. 

As Orion dashed through the ballroom, Carewyn could see many figures all over the room stiffening abruptly, their eyes glowing red as they faced Orion. Her heart seized up with terror as she ran, looking back constantly despite herself.

Jae, please -- please, reach him -- !

BANG. 

The first gunshot came from the far left side of the ballroom, fired from one of Royaume’s lesser lord’s pistols. Orion was able to dodge it by ducking around a pillar. 

As the ballroom devolved into terrified screams and Jae and the other bandits tried to hold off and overpower as many of the armed Royaumanian lords and ladies as possible, more gunshots rang out from other sides of the room. 

BANG. BANG. BANG. 

Orion dodged both the gunshots and the fleeing masses with artful grace by sliding underneath the refreshment table, his eyes returning to Carewyn.

“Wait! Please, wait!”

Carewyn’s heart clenched at the sight of Orion avoiding the shots. Once again, he proved himself to be so much more than he first appeared --

Still, though, he was catching up -- and, Carewyn realized, the faster she could get across the ballroom, the faster she could get Orion out of harm’s way. 

And so she pushed through the crowd, running as fast as she could. She pushed right past KC and McNully, both of whom gave her confused looks, but nonetheless seemed to have caught on. Thanks to Jae, they were enough in the loop to know Orion was in trouble, and although they didn’t understand Orion’s ploy, they knew better than to prevent Carewyn from leaving. 

BANG. BANG. 

As people ran to try to avoid the gunshots that would never have hit them anyway, Carewyn tried desperately not to look back. She couldn’t afford that hesitation. 

I can’t let him die -- I can’t -- 

“Halt!”

In the midst of all the mayhem, someone seized Carewyn’s arm, yanking her back. Carewyn whirled around, her face losing all of its color at the sight of white-blond-haired, albino-peacock-dressed Lord Malfoy. 

“His Majesty ordered you to stop,” he said in a very dangerous voice, his gray eyes flaring with loathing. 

Carewyn’s heart flared with terror and she wrenched against Lord Malfoy’s grip, desperately trying to get free. 

“Let go! Let me go!”

Orion, seeing Carewyn’s distress, tried to dash over. Unfortunately his distraction had caused him to ignore his surroundings.

“NO!” screamed Andre. 

It was only thanks to the Prince of Royaume that King Henri’s ceremonial blade was not plunged through Orion’s chest. Instead it slashed his side, causing him to hunch in on himself with a sharp hiss of pain.

Orion getting injured, even superficially, made Carewyn’s eyes lose all of their light. 

“NO!” she screamed. “NO!”

And to make matters worse, somewhere underneath the sound of panicked screaming, there was a terrible BONG of a clock tolling the hour.

It was midnight. 

Carewyn lashed out against Lord Malfoy’s grip, but he held fast, his teeth bared. 

“A lady with the ability to enchant a King enough to lead him to his doom,” he hissed, as the clock made its second strike. “Clearly you are behind this conspiracy -- ”

BONG. Carewyn could feel her face tingling, and she fought harder against his grip. As Malfoy glared down at her, his eyes seemed to slowly widen -- the illusion around her face was flickering like a candle, making her real hair and eye color at points easier to see.

“What...?”

BAM. 

Out of nowhere, Bill Weasley -- his face obscured by his antler-decorated stag mask -- had appeared and punched Lord Malfoy right in the face. The strike was so strong that it knocked him completely off his feet and forced him to let go of Carewyn. 

Andre had successfully put the King of Royaume in a headlock to restrain him. Erika, who KC and McNully had both flagged so as to prevent her from being affected too, pulled out her own ceremonial sword to forcibly disarm the King. As King Henri blinked rapidly and shook his head, Erika shouted at Orion over her shoulder as loudly as she could over the fifth stroke of midnight. 

“Get out of here, King Cosimo!” 

Orion, his hand sliding off of his side, turned his focus back to Carewyn and plowed after her just as before. 

“Wait!” he cried again, echoing his earlier sentiment as if nothing had happened. 

Bill grabbed hold of Carewyn. “We can’t wait -- the Cromwells already left, but Malfoy and Rakepick -- ”

“I know!” said Carewyn, her voice fiercer than she meant. “Come on!”

Carewyn broke back out into a run out of the ballroom, Bill at her heels. Bill pushed and shoved their way through the hallway full of people, clearing a path for Carewyn as the clock struck eight. 

Despite the shallow wound to his chest, Orion kept running after them, continuing to play his ruse. Lord Malfoy, having recovered from Bill’s punch at last, likewise tried to pursue, but before long he found himself circumvented by Skye not-so-subtly tackling him to the ground. 

“Don’t want you getting shot, Lord Malfoy,” she said in a voice that clearly communicated that she wouldn’t have minded one bit if he had been. 

Bill and Carewyn finally made it out the front doors to the top of the grand stairs when the clock struck ten. It was also there that they were halted again, this time by Rakepick stepping on the wide skirt of Carewyn’s gown. The movement made Carewyn lose her footing, making one of her stained glass slippers come off as she stumbled down the stairs. Rakepick then took advantage of her disturbed balance to grab her by the wrist and hoist her back up onto her feet. 

“And where do you think you’re going?” said Rakepick, her voice dripping with disdain. 

Carewyn brought a hand up as if to smack her, only for it to be caught too. Bill halted and backtracked back up the stairs, his brown eyes flaring. 

But when Rakepick looked Carewyn in the face, the illusion flickering and dying before her eyes, she stilled, her face losing all of its color.  

“You,” she whispered in an oddly fragile voice. 

BONG. 

At long last, the final stroke of midnight had come. Carewyn was exposed, recognized, by the magician her grandfather had hired, even despite her best efforts. 

But before Carewyn could even think of doing anything, Bill wrenched Rakepick off of his friend with one hand and threw her to the ground. Then he looped an arm around Carewyn’s waist, hoisting her up as if she were his little sister, Ginny, and ferried her right off her feet to the coach. Once he’d handed her off to Talbott and Badeea inside, Bill leapt up onto the boot. 

“Go, now!”

Charlie in the driver’s seat barely needed any encouragement -- he flicked the reins and set the horses off at a run before the coach door was even securely closed. 

Rakepick stared after the coach from her place sprawled out on the stairs, stunned. She didn’t even see Orion watch it go himself from the top of the stairs with a smile. 

Once Carewyn’s coach was out of sight, Orion looked around, and a sparkle of orange diamond and shimmering paint caught his eye. When he looked down, he found Carewyn’s discarded “stained glass” slipper sitting innocently on its side at the top of the stair. He wiped the small amount of blood on his hand off on his black doublet sleeve, before he gingerly bent down and picked up the hand-painted shoe, his smile spreading into a full grin as he headed back indoors. 

His improvised plan had worked all right so far. Maybe...just maybe...the Fates might favor him and Carewyn, after all. 

[drunkserval]

A Fresh Canvas: Incomplete Preview

Quite some time ago I did a silly little thread on Twitter, and I’ve always wanted to take that and actually make something out of it. Well it was a little harder than expected, but it’s coming along!

When I have the entire thing done I will be uploading it to AO3, but for now it seemed seasonally appropriate to at least drop this.

I wanted to have this posted yesterday but festivities kept me busier than expected! Story is below the cut. Keep in mind that this is still technically a rough draft, and will receive its final beta pass before the full story hits AO3.

(Tentative) Title: A Fresh Canvas Fandom: Scum Villain’s Self-Saving System by MXTX Rating: G, No Warnings Apply Summary: Shen Jiu and Shen Yuan are neighbors in the same modern apartment complex who, despite looking similar enough to be mistaken for each other, couldn’t be any more different. Or so they think.

----------------

Shen Jiu and Shen Yuan were neighbors in the same apartment complex. They lived on the same floor, in the same hall, and were often mistaken for one another due to this proximity combined with how similar their appearances were.

But there were key differences, as both would readily point out to their neighbors. Shen Jiu’s hair hung shy of his shoulders while Shen Yuan’s was shorter and lighter in tone. 

And still the mix-ups kept happening, particularly if they were at some distance or facing away. The misunderstanding would very rarely last past the first glance since Shen Jiu would snap and take immediate offense, and Shen Yuan would just sigh and say, "Sorry, wrong one."

Shen Yuan had no idea why Shen Jiu got so offended over it. Surely he didn’t look that bad, come on!

The neighbors eventually started learning to look at the clothes first--or to at least look for Shen Yuan’s thick-rimmed glasses. 

Both men carried and dressed themselves so differently. Shen Yuan dressed in hoodies and jeans--well, if he was planning on going any further than the mailbox, that was. Otherwise why bother changing out of pajamas or sweatpants?

On the other hand, Shen Jiu didn’t touch anything that wasn’t from a known designer. 

Shen Jiu spent proudly--and why shouldn’t he? Because he at least earned his money!

That Shen Yuan kid down the hall? Rumor was that his parents were paying his rent and he'd never had a real job in his life.

But because he never went out, Shen Yuan was one of the only people still hanging around the apartment complex when Shen Jiu went around knocking during a major holiday. 

In Shen Jiu’s arms was a box containing two fluffy black pups.

Shen Yuan’s eyes widened at the sight of them and he completely forgot to greet his neighbor until Shen Jiu cleared his throat. The dogs were like little storm clouds with feet and stubby tails, staring back at him with big black eyes. One started wagging its tail with such vigor that its whole back end wiggled about.

It took Shen Jiu a moment to find his voice as he followed, such was the state that his neighbor had chosen to answer the door in. Hideous cucumber-print pajama pants, a tacky anime shirt covered in snack crumbs, and unkempt hair had greeted him. But the continuous movement of the box in his arms reminded him of his mission. 

“I found... ” Shen Jiu shifted the box in indication as Shen Yuan shut the door behind them, “these, out by the garbage.”

Shen Yuan blinked as the other passed by him, “Have you tried calling any nearby shelters?”

“Of course I have,” Shen Jiu scoffed at the implication that he was so simple. “You try getting a real person on the phone today, though. It’s impossible. I could only leave messages.”

Shen Yuan put a finger to his lips, “Oh, right. Today is…” Glancing at a wall calendar almost as ugly as his shirt he nodded, “Right. Right.”

Did this kid ever so much as leave the building? Shen Jiu was starting to wonder. Shen Yuan dressed like he’d just rolled out of bed in the latter part of the daytime. And he hadn’t realized it was a major holiday. And then there were the countless odorous takeout boxes covering every available surface in his apartment.

Shen Jiu wrinkled his nose but still asked in spite of his rapidly growing doubts, “You don’t know anyone who can take these little mutts in for a day or two, do you?”

Shen Yuan shook his head and heard Shen Jiu sigh. His neighbor set the box down to give his arms a rest… but Shen Yuan couldn’t seem to rip his attention away from one of the pups. It hadn’t stopped staring at him, or shaking its fluffy little behind, for a moment.

“What if we take them in?”

Shen Jiu’s tone was flat, “What.”

Shen Yuan picked up the excited little pup and it immediately started wiggling in his grasp. Not struggling, however--just trying to get closer to his face, paws waving in the air and its little pink tongue darting out to reach for him even though it was still well outside of range. He had to fight back the urge to laugh at the silly little storm cloud. 

“The building allows us to have one animal per unit, right?” Shen Yuan shrugged, “so what if we each took one, even just long enough to find them new homes?”

Shen Jiu frowned. Taking in a dog, or really any animal, had never been on his agenda. He liked his nice clean apartment and intact furniture unlike a certain someone. Plus he was more partial to cats. He moved his gaze from the overexcited animal back to the box. Though the pups looked identical on the surface this one was clearly the calmer one. It looked up at his scowling face but put forth no such ridiculous display… thank goodness.

Who knew? Maybe Shen Yuan’s idea wasn’t so bad. And if it was, it was only a temporary arrangement, in the end. He might be able to get rid of the animal as soon as tomorrow if it was truly intolerable.

Tentatively, Shen Jiu reached out to pick up the dog…

And felt tiny teeth close around his fingers.

Jerking his hand backwards, Shen Jiu sneered down at the animal. “What, you ungrateful little beast!” 

Shen Yuan finally stopped cooing at his own pup to look over and said, “Maybe he doesn’t like your cologne?”

“And what’s wrong with my cologne?” Shen Jiu snapped, voice raising.

Stepping back, “Nothing, nothing!”

“It was a gift, you know!”

Shen Yuan barely avoided tripping over a haphazard stack of game cases as he kept moving away. “P-perhaps it’s just too strong for a dog’s nose, that’s all!”

This time Shen Jiu moved quickly, snatching up the dog by its middle before it could get its ridiculously tiny muzzle around anything, and he stared directly into the animal’s eyes.

“Do that again, and I’ll put you back out in the cold where I found you. Understood?”

The dog stared back at him, placid and indifferent… until its tongue darted out and licked the end of his nose.

“...good enough.”

----------------------

It was a few days before the two of them crossed paths again. 

It’d seem they both had decided to keep their newfound pets and they were both out that day to take the dogs for walks.

The air in the park was warm, so they sat themselves on a bench to enjoy it for a bit longer and soak up some of the sunlight that was so rare that time of year. Shen Jiu’s pup sat like a sentry at his feet while Shen Yuan’s pup curled up on his lap the moment he sat down. 

It was through the ensuing conversation they realized they both gave their dog the same name by sheer coincidence.

One was too lazy and the other was too stubborn, so neither changed it. At least they’d bought different-colored collars. But this brought to light a new revelation, and Shen Yuan just had to ask…

“How did you come up with it?”

“It was just the first thing to come to mind,” Shen Jiu had explained, “from something I’ve been reading, probably.”

"Wait, you read that too!?"

As he suspected! That name was from one of the top-rated web novels that year, from its stallion protagonist: Luo Binghe!

Shen Yuan couldn’t imagine someone as outwardly prim as Shen Jiu reading trashy webnovels, but it turned out to be true. It was just a quick, easy way for him to kill a few minutes of downtime at work, Shen Jiu reasoned in his defense.

Whenever they met up from that point forward, Shen Yuan talked his ear off about his various grievances with Proud Immortal Demon Way.

‘Villains that dig their own graves but don’t bother finishing! Women that lead the protagonist on a three-chapter long subplot just to get to their lewd scenes, only to never see them again! And every single character lost all of their intelligence when the protagonist came around!’ 

And yet he had nothing but praise for said protagonist… almost excessive praise. 

Shen Jiu is annoyed at first but he starts enjoying the company. Which is good because the dog turns out to be a menace.

Well, both dogs could be counted as menaces, just in different ways.

Bing-mei (as they come to call him) would start whining so pitifully when Shen Yuan shut the door between them, thus he often just gave up and took the dog with him whenever it was feasible.

Bing-ge, on the other hand, broke his toys within days, climbed around on furniture he wasn’t allowed on--sometimes when Shen Jiu was looking right at him, too--he barked, he scratched furniture, he tore up pillows.

Despite all the trouble he was causing for his master, Shen Jiu would no longer entertain the idea of giving him up. Not after Bing-ge tore up three separate muggers on three separate occasions and growled at the person who kept taking his parking space until it never happened again.

But the biggest takeaway from their conversations, for Shen Jiu, wasn’t webnovels or dogs. It made him start to realize how lonely he'd been. 

The only other person he really spoke to was halfway around the world for their work and they only spoke a couple of times a month. Now that Shen Yuan was around, Shen Jiu actually started to have things to look forward to besides the monotony of work--knocks on the door, long walks with the dogs, the occasional cup of tea afterward on colder days...

Shen Jiu was never the sort to be up-front with his feelings, so he found a way to show his gratitude by helping Shen Yuan with his confidence issues. He started encouraging him to go out more, and to put a little more effort into his looks when he did. This morphed into helping clean up his squalid apartment since Shen Jiu could barely stand to look at it when he came over. 

Months later, Shen Jiu’s recommendation had helped Shen Yuan to land an entry-level job. That, and a steady habit of going out once a week, gave them something else to do and talk about.

Progress was slow, but visible. Shen Yuan seemed a little less awkward in public with each passing week.

One night they were leaning on Shen Yuan’s balcony. It was a night of celebration, for he’d just earned his very first promotion, and Shen Jiu had brought over wine for the occasion.

He found himself leaning closer to Shen Jiu, telling himself it was just to get a better look at him in the dim light of the city night. His focus wasn’t the best even when he was sober after all. Yet Shen Yuan didn’t stop. And when Shen Jiu turned to look at him in confusion, and their lips met, he didn’t withdraw for several seconds.

Neither did Shen Jiu.

Shen Yuan tried to flee as soon as he realized what he’d done only for Shen Jiu to pull him back saying:

"Don't run, take responsibility. We talked about this."

[battlinghurricanes]

What You Did

Read here or on Ao3!

Summary: Words come easier and kinder in the peace of night, beyond the heat of battle, safe in the heat of a humid summer breeze. Hektor offers some. Paris listens. (for the last time.)

[ The Iliad, Hektor & Paris ]

[ Rated G, 1147 words, Drabble, Missing scene, Mentions of canon character death ]

-

Paris nearly fumbles the wax for his bowstring when he notices Hektor has managed to steal up behind him from out of the dark. He sets the jar aside for the moment, temporarily abandoning the maintenance of his bow when his brother stops beside him with intention.

“Paris,” Hektor begins from under his curious gaze before he can inquire after the reason for his visit. “I heard what you did.”

Paris jolts, then smiles immediately, better to disarm what might come next. He’s done a lot of things. He’s not sure what this one is. Very carefully and deliberately mild, he risks no more than a simple “Oh?” in reply.

“That you shot Diomedes,” Hektor continues. “That you drove him from the battlefield.”

A loud, crass sound escapes Paris’s chest, half aggravated, half relieved. “By the gods-! Hektor!” he wails dramatically, earning a startled recoil and a concerned stare. “You can not start with ‘Paris, I heard what you did’- I was ready to cry! You menace! You ass!”

Corners of his eyes crinkled, Hektor laughs with a roll of his head, hearty and unburdened and infectious and Paris is beaming in return before he even knows it. Paris’s heart flutters right up to weightlessness in the swell of his laughter, such a precious sound he'd been denied so long. Tiny glints of torch light reflect off the edges of Hektor’s teeth; the leftmost incisor is a little crooked. He’d forgotten. It’s been so long that he’d forgotten that.

It fades with a gentle chuckle and Paris’s smile does not wane. "Yeah, I suppose that put you on your toes, didn't it? Sorry. Force of habit?” Hektor offers with a sideways glance and grin, a little sheepishness within the humor there.

Paris opens his mouth, then sets aside an instinctual response that would land heavier than he wants. The night is nice, if balmy. Let it remain such.

“Then cut it out,” Paris retorts blithely instead. “What if next time I have a heart attack?” His brother just blows out a breath in response.

“But truly,” Hektor redirects, seriousness returning to his voice, “A few of the men told me that you shot him through foot. And I heard Diomedes made quite the scene and quite the speech, but then turned around with his tail between his legs the next moment anyways.”

Paris sweeps his tongue over the grin he can’t fully suppress, but when Hektor sees and catches his eye, there’s an indulgent quirk to his own lips. Paris has to look away, hot and flush with unfamiliar pride, drunk on the sudden rush of Hektor’s recognition.

He feels he can allow himself, “Well, no boast in the world can make it any easier to fight with a hole through your foot, though Diomedes seemed convinced he’d find one if he yapped long enough.” Hektor snorts softly.

Shit- that really did happen today, didn’t it? Just this morning. He can scarcely wrap his mind around it; it feels like a lifetime passed between then and now. Gods, Paris hates fighting.

Hektor wears a thoughtful expression when Paris musters the courage to look back at him again. “He’s been a plague on our forces as of late. I was worried. It’s crucial that you were able to drive him back. I hope it lasts a while yet.”

Paris doesn’t know what to say, but Hektor doesn’t seem finished regardless, even though he pauses. He deliberates. Paris tries to squash a rueful flare of feeling at the thought that this will be the proof that he cannot shrink from the fight, that he should be out here every day, doing more, being more.

But when Hektor’s voice rises in the night air again, slow and deliberate, it says, “And I appreciate that you stepped in when he forced me to retreat.” Paris’s heart had stopped when he saw the spear go glancing off Hektor’s gleaming helmet, driving home a fearsome dent. “It’s good to protect your own. I’m grateful.”

Although he knows Hektor is thinking of the soldiers he was forced to abandon, Paris had just been thinking of Hektor, of biting back in his defence. He cares not for the discrepancy. Paris will look after Hektor where Hektor doesn’t.

“See if he takes aim at you again,” is all Paris can think to say, a little breathy, even though he knows the battle hungry Achaean wouldn’t hesitate if given another chance.

“Even it out and shoot the other foot next time,” Hektor quips. Paris huffs a laugh.

Wetting his lips and shifting from foot to foot, he searches for what to say now. Without thought, out spilling from his lips comes, “So, on to burn the Argive ships tomorrow, then?” and an underlying sliver of intensity he can’t place belies his casual words.

Hektor’s brow twitches faintly and he takes in and releases a breath. “Gods allowing,” is all he says.

A shiver of anticipation runs through Paris, awaiting the battles yet to come. He hardly knows what to do with the feeling, unsettling to him given that he never looks forward to fights. But something thrills him now nonetheless. It sits strange in his chest, but maybe it’s because Hektor had a point, they’d gotten closer to driving out the Achaeans today than they ever have...

“Rest, Paris. It won’t be an easy day,” Hektor instructs him. And you earned it,” he adds simply and Paris has to resist a wobbly smile at the notion.

Hektor casts a glance to the distant lights of Troy, his mind seeming elsewhere now, but before departing he steps in suddenly and shoves his broad hand down on the crown of his head and ruins his hair.

Paris yowls like a cat rubbed backwards and tries to dance away, smacking at Hektor’s scarred arm sharply. “Menace! Arhh!” Retreating only once the damage has been done, Hektor grins at him, a rare indulgence of mischief within the curl of his lips.

Paris sticks up his nose with a huff as he quickly rearranges his victimized curls and refuses to let his brother see anything but his offence. He’s not sure it works. He knows he’s pouting.

Hektor’s eyes linger on him a moment longer, made more gentle in the ease of night, then he turns and walks away. Paris turns back to where he set his bow and supplies and tosses a “Goodnight,” back over his shoulder.

He thinks it goes unheard for a moment, until Hektor’s “‘Night,” reaches his ears.

Paris finishes tending to his bow before returning to the comfort of his tent, though it pales in comparison to his lavish room in Troy. Still, it suits for the night and Paris settles on his cot to sleep.

It is the last time he claims more than a fitful doze until Hektor’s body returns to Troy, thirteen days later.