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meat--grindr · 4 years ago

Note

NFSW with Yandere Harry Warden.

Finally, after like, ten thousand years, it’s here! I’m so sorry this took so long. Both the Christmas break and the 46-page essay I wrote just before really swallowed my routine and motivation whole. But! I think I’ve found my words again, which means it’s back to the grind, baby!

Just some notes before we get going: as with the previous Yandere ask featuring best-boy Brahms, I feel I should give out a little warning. In general, I am not really a fan of the whole yandere thing, and I have some real issues with it when it comes to NSFW scenarios. I’m not judging if that’s your thing, I’m just saying it isn’t mine. That being said, I find the more possessive/protective aspect of the yandere troupe fits really well with slashers (possibly because I find it attractive on the lowest of keys asdkaskah). As was the case with that previous ask, I have taken some liberties that tend more toward ‘possessive’ than properly ‘yandere.’ As always, if this isn’t at all what you were hoping for, my DMs are open. Perhaps we could figure something else out together!

Under the cut you will find two different scenarios which follow a similar premise—you were flirting with someone else at a bar to make Harry jealous. When you get home, he takes matters into his own hands. Honestly, this is just borne out of my deeply held belief that our Valentines’ Slasher is a switch ;)

Jealousy: A Double Feature (Yandere [?]) Harry Warden (Gender Neutral Reader) – NSFW

The Set-Up:

· Harry had been with you all night, that much you knew, though you had only caught sight of him once. He was tucked away in a dark corner of the bar, the brim of his hat pulled down low over his eyes. You spotted him over the shoulder of the friend of a friend—a stranger really, though that hadn’t stopped the pair of you from orbiting one another all night. You knew he was the perfect choice from the moment you set eyes on him. He was tall, broad shouldered, cut rough around the edges, but he had a sweet smile and an open face. It was one that said there would be no hard feelings at the end of the night if he didn’t end up going home with you. It almost made you feel bad, leading him on as you were. Almost.

· The way you smiled and laughed at his (admittedly quite funny) jokes, the proximity of your hand to his on the table, the way you pressed your cheek to his, feeling the scrape of stubble along his jaw—none of it meant anything. You knew it and you were pretty sure Bradley (Braden?) knew it too. Harry Warden definitely knew it, but as you peaked over a flannel clad shoulder, you could see, even from a distance, the tight set of his jaw, and the tension in his shoulders. You smirked at him and leaned in to whisper into the stranger’s ear.

· It was something utterly trivial—a compliment about his jacket, or a comment on how badly you needed another drink if your friend was going to play that song on the jukebox—nothing of substance, but you knew it would make Harry’s blood boil all the same.

· When Happy calls last orders, you stand, exchanging lengthy Maritime goodbyes with close friends and friendly-for-the-night-strangers alike. Casting a glance around, you can’t find Harry. He must have slipped out already, not wishing to be spotted as the crowd thins. Coming out at all had been quite the risk for him and had taken more than a little convincing on your part.

· You expect to meet him in the lot, but his face was not among those still milling about their cars, stuffing drunken friends into backseats or beginning tottering journeys down the street.

· You count the alleys on Atlantic Street as you pass them, sure you’ll catch him in your peripherals, but you find each unoccupied, save for one. A pair of rats fight over a scrap of bread, their beady little eyes and slimy coats catching the dim light of the streetlamps in a greasy fashion that makes you almost ache for a shower.

· Your eyes scan the streets as you walk, senses on high-alert for any sign of his presence—the puffed clouds of his breath in the cold or a late-night smoke curling up toward the streetlamps in the distance, a kicked pebble scraping across the pavement, anything. You find yourself jumping the gun and mistaking familiar landmarks for a more welcome shape in the darkness—the saplings you’d helped Mr. Hastings plant in his front yard in the summer, the devotional cross behind the hedges at St. Andrews Presbyterian, the statue of the town’s founder in the square. Even with each disappointment, your mind jumps to the next place he could be waiting for you: the grocer’s lot, the schoolyard, the ballfield—all empty.

· It isn’t until you turn into your driveway that he materializes, as if from the darkness itself. His face is bathed in shadow, his shoulders hunched against the cool breeze. He follows you up the drive, hands dug deep in his pockets. He’s utterly silent, but you’re relieved to see him anyway. He slouches up the steps, bracing a shoulder against the weather-worn siding. It creaks beneath the pressure.

· “Well, you sure got here quick. I didn’t see you leave.”

· He makes no attempt to respond, merely waiting for you to produce your keys and let him inside. While his silence is not wholly unusual, this one feels…pointed. Perhaps you had upset him more than you had intended.

· You chew your lower lip as you contemplate this, fishing your keys from your pocket and turning them in the lock. The grating screech of rusty door hinges proclaims your late-night return into the silence. You cringe as the sound carries, echoing around the enclosed back porch. You hope your neighbours are heavy sleepers, as if not there would surely be some comment made in the morning. The folks around here are nice enough that you doubt there would be any legitimate animosity in it, but sometimes their friendly commentary comes off more passive-aggressive than not, and their interest in your life more condescending than genuine. You know they mean no harm, but that doesn’t stop them from getting on your nerves now and again.

· Fixing the hinges would have been a quick and easy thing, sure—a drop or two of WD-40 and a filthy rag were enough to work a quick miracle around these parts, but you knew they would only rust again when the heavy snow came in a few months time. And despite the optimistic predictions of a mild winter folks were spouting around town, come you knew they would.

· The snow would drift in, creeping up the porch as it always did. First just a dusting, thin and powdery as icing sugar, easier to remove with a broom than a shovel. Then, almost overnight, the heavy snow would come, whipped by the wind as it howls across the harbour into great peaked dunes, waist-deep and packed tight against your door. On more than one occasion, you had found yourself climbing out through a first-floor window to dig a tunnel just to get the damn thing open.

· No, it would be far less of a hassle to simply leave the hinges as they were—at least until the spring. By that time, there would hardly be a scrap of metal in the whole damn town that wasn’t oxidized nearly past the point of usefulness. Let the neighbours complain then, as if their hinges wouldn’t be squeaking just as badly.

· Pushing through the second screen door, you stumble into the kitchen, already in the process of kicking off your boots. Your companion slips in behind you, allowing the screen to bang against the doorframe as it closed. The noise echoes around the tiled kitchen, battering your ears. You wince, but at least it wasn’t quite as piercing as the protesting hinges.

Part One—Domination or Mine, Mine, Mine:

· The metallic music of jangling coat-hangers greets you as you throw open the closet and hang your jacket. Your fingers smooth over the wrinkled denim in a vain attempt to make it look even a smidge more presentable for the next time it’s worn. Deep down you know what it really needs is a good pressing. But you hated pressing clothes and would probably put it off until it couldn’t wait a moment longer.

· Behind you, you hear the screen door woosh open again—probably Harry going out for a smoke, you think. Then the scream of the hinges pierces the night, and the resounding SLAM of the outer door shakes the house. You hear the lock click into place, a quieter sound, though it’s no less forceful. You whirl around, equal parts frightened by the noise and irritated by the man who had caused it.

· “For Chrissake, Harry! It’s late, would it kill you to be more qu—!” You don’t get the chance to finish your reprimand before Harry’s strong hands catch you around the waist. He swings you about, storming forward to slam you against the door. The wood shudders with the impact, the flexible mesh of the screen warping around you; a thin net between the rough wood and your shoulder blades. Your head cracks against the door, white light bursting across your vision, blotting out the dark kitchen and the even darker shadow of the man who stood before you.

· Even as the blinding brightness behind your eyes dissipates, you struggle to make out his features in the darkness despite your proximity. Then, his lips press against yours and the breath stills in your chest, unable, or simply unwilling to rise beyond the catch in your throat. They are warm and wet, tasting of bitter liquor and a recent cigarette—du MAURIER’s, you thought. You’d never seen more than the very tip of a pack peaking from a denim pocket or the rolled cuff of a shirtsleeve, but the red box was distinctive. He must have smoked it on the way home. The thought comes to you sluggishly, stuttering through the few sparking neural pathways that hadn’t shut down entirely when he’d first grabbed you. Dimly, you are aware that it’s an utterly absurd thought to have in this moment. How can you think of anything at all when Harry’s got you pinned against a door and he’s kissing you like a man starved? Maybe you’d knocked your head harder than you’d thought.

· You try to clear your mind, directing your focus away from cigarettes and packaging and back to the matter at hand—Harry Warden.

· You can almost feel the anger rolling off of him. It’s in the tightness of his jaw, the rough press of his hands against your hipbones, and the strength with which he keeps you pinned against the door. It thrums through his lips where they press against you and jolts through you when his teeth clash against yours, or his fingernails dig into the sensitive flesh just above the waistband of your jeans.

· You reach for him with trembling hands to cup his jaw and kiss him harder, to wrap around his neck and pull him even closer, to feel in your hands somehow, anyhow, solid, and warm. But he catches your hands, pinning them roughly against the door, his grip so tight it’s nearly painful.

· A keen, stinging pain blossoms on your lower lip as his teeth sink into your flesh, hard and sharp. Then he’s gone, melting into the shadows of the dark kitchen. You’re left there, back braced against the door, breathing coming in short, ragged gasps. Quite suddenly, you realize you’ve gone hot all over, as though a fever had dug its claws deep into you in a manner of seconds. Your brain struggles to restart its thinking processes through a fog of unsavoury thoughts and debauched imagery. So, this was to be the consequence of your actions. I can live with that.

· With a shaking hand, you feel your way up the wall to your left, groping along in the darkness, until you find the light switch. With a muted click the kitchen is bathed in a soft glow. After so much time spent in the darkness, the light, low as it is, is dazzling where it bounces off the white tile floor. You raise a hand to shield your eyes but catch a quick glimpse of Harry. He’s standing over by the table, a hand on the arched back of a white-washed chair. His head snaps to the side, dark eyes fixing upon you, unwavering.

· His voice is low, a gravely growl that rumbles from deep within his chest, “Turn it off.”

· You blink at him, stupidly, one hand still hovering over the switch. He wrenches the chair from its place at the table, swinging it around and slamming it down before him with a BANG. He takes a menacing step toward you, never once taking his eyes from yours. “Turn. It. Off.”

· You jump, rushing to do as you were told, flicking the switch again. As the darkness settles over the room like a blanket, your eyes, now more accustomed to the light, struggle to pick out his shape in the gloom. A small patch of sodium-orange light streams through the window above the sink, staining a patch of floor before the chair. Beyond that pool of light, you can see nothing.

· Your ears, however, do not fail you as your eyes have. You can hear him rifling through a drawer. From the rattling, you assume it’s the junk drawer—a messy collection of odds and ends that seemed to have no other place in the house. You were always saying you’d get around to cleaning it out one of these days, but it only ever seems to accumulate more junk.

· You peer into the darkness and find, if you squint, you can just make out what you think is Harry’s form. He’s hunched over the drawer, picking through the bits and bobs, looking for…something. Maybe if you had cleaned the drawer out, he’d have an easier time of it. Alas.

· Then, he stills, the drawer slams shut, and the room goes silent. The hazy smudge retreats further into the gloom, and you lose him again.

· For a long moment, the silence fills the room, pressing against you, an almost tangible force. Then, with a single word, it is shattered, “Strip.”

· Despite the bright bolt of heat that single syllable sends thrumming through your gut, you almost laugh aloud. “I-In the kitchen?” Your incredulous tone does little to mitigate the warmth rising to your cheeks, nor the desire that flutters to life within your chest.

· Harry does not respond. You can feel the command hanging in the air, and with it, the weight of what he has asked of you—a display of willing vulnerability. Your gaze is once again drawn over to the kitchen window. Set above the sink it faces out onto the street. The blinds are raised, as you had left them after dinner, and the lacey white curtains do very little to obscure the view in either direction. Usually, you see this as a blessing, watching the comings and goings of the world as you eat breakfast or dry the dishes, but now it makes you squirm in discomfort, “I don’t know, baby…the window’s open. Someone could see us…”

· You peer into the darkness again, craning your neck, hoping to catch another glimpse of him, but everything beyond that smudgy patch of orange light remains lost to your eyes.

· Harry’s voice rings out from the opposite side of the kitchen, much closer than you had realized. You hadn’t even heard him move. He was so quiet you’re sure the neighbourhood cats would swat at his boots in a jealous rage as he passed…if they could hear him coming that was.

· “You didn’t seem to care who saw you with that fuck in the bar.” His tone is even, but there is a tightness about it that betrays him. “You know this town. You know how people talk. It’ll be all over by tomorrow. ‘That lonely soul from 214 out on the town. With a man no less. Could be the start of something.’ They’ll ask all about it, I’m sure. And you’ll just brush it off like you always do, but they’ll speculate all the same. Little do they know; I’ve already got my stamp all over you.” There’s a short pause, “Now, strip. I won’t ask you a third time.”

· You turn your head to face him, but are met with nothing but the seemingly endless, empty void. Usually, you wouldn’t have any qualms about pushing back against his commands. You both got off on it in fact—you know just how much he likes putting you back in your place, though sometimes he lets you get away with misbehaving. But you could usually see his face. You knew by the set of his jaw, or the narrowing of his eyes, just how much harder you could push him. Now, however, you could hardly place him in the room, let alone determine how much pushing he was willing to tolerate. If the sharp, impatience of his commands was anything to go by, you could tell the answer this time around was little. Very little.

· You eye the window again, weighing the risk. Sure, someone could pass by and see you, but it was late—so late it was almost early. Plus, it was dark enough inside someone would have to press their nose up against the glass to get much of a look, and if that was the case, you likely had a much bigger problem on your hands. And you cannot deny the thrill that shudders through you at the thought of stripping down for Harry when he gets like this: all demands and possessiveness. Then there are the thoughts of what he might do to you once you have. Those come quick and easy: his lips on your throat as he hoists you up onto the counter, strong hands on your thighs as he sets to work on your most intimate spots with his tongue, his cock stretching you open as he takes you in that chair, bent over the table, spread out on the floor. You feel a damp patch beginning to form in your underwear, a heat spreading between your legs that wants and wants and wants.

· Fuck the risk.

· You fumble with the button of your jeans, fingers trembling with a jangly mixture of excitement and trepidation. You peel them down your thighs, the thick denim seams scraping against your skin. You kick them off and into the darkness, not caring where they land. Your shirt quickly joins the pile, a rumpled ball of coloured cotton. It’s only as your fingers dip below the waistband of your underwear that you meet resistance from Harry.

· “No.” The command echoes, again, from a new spot—this time somewhere behind the chair. “Leave them on.” You frown a little, but obey, leaving the cotton garment alone…for now. “Sit.”

· You edge forward, socked feet sliding against the tile. Your legs are trembling, something you hadn’t noticed with the door against your back, assisting in keeping you upright. You knew it had nothing to do with the night’s boozy beginnings. When you’d left the bar, you could feel the pleasant hum of alcohol buzzing at the base of your skull, but now, in all honesty ever since that kiss, you would swear you were stone cold sober. No, this shaking has nothing to do with the drink, and everything to do with the man who waited for you in the darkness, and the promise of what he was going to do to you.

· Not wanting to push your luck, you slip around the patch of light on the floor. If you caught so much as a glimpse of someone through that window before you had even started, you knew you would lose your nerve and that would be that.

· When at last you plant yourself firmly in the chair, you jolt, squawking in surprise, knees reflexively shooting up to your chest. “It’s freezing!” You curl in on yourself, wanting as a little of your bare flesh touching the chair as physically possible. You hear him chuckle, a dark, rich sound that makes you shiver almost as much as the sudden chill. “Poor baby.”

· You wrinkle your nose at him, huffing in indignation. You were no baby. It was just cold. Still, you take a grounding breath or two before you can find the courage to press your temperature-sensitive flesh back against the cool surface of the chair. You know the wood will warm beneath your skin in no time, but your muscles jump and twitch regardless, making their opposition known. It’s not an unbearable chill, despite the wave of goosebumps slowly spreading across your exposed skin; perhaps a touch uncomfortable, but it will pass.

· Your ears prick up as you hear Harry approaching from behind. “Hands behind your back.” He says, his breath stirring the little hairs at the nape of your neck as he bends over you.

· When you comply, he grasps your wrists roughly, winding something coarse around them—it feels like a length of cord, old and fraying at the edges. You squirm in your seat, rolling your shoulders and wriggling your hips, not quite fighting against Harry, but not making it easy for him either. Still, he manages to wrangle the rope around you and pull the final knot tight. He pushes two fingers beneath the cord, exploring the space between it and your skin. Clearly satisfied with his handiwork, he withdraws, sweeping around the chair to face you.

· Dropping to one knee, he forces your legs together and binds them at the ankles in a similar fashion. You notice, however, that he does not tie your ankles to the chair itself, merely to one another. With a little squirming and tugging, you discover the same to be true of your wrists. Again, he ties the final knot, and eases a finger between your skin and the cord. He looks up at you, his handsome face only semi-visible in the gloom. You realize, after a long moment, that he’s waiting on your approval. You give the ropes a little pull each, and nod.

· Harry is on his feet in an instant, looming above you. “‘magine my surprise,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “When I see my baby making eyes at some other cocksucker in a bar.”

· You supress a smirk. You’ll play along with his game, sure, but that doesn’t mean you won’t have your own fun along the way, “Some other cocksucker? You really are a man of many talents, huh?”

· His hand is around your throat in seconds, pressing you back against the chair, but not squeezing enough to cut off your airflow, “Keep mouthing off, see where that gets you.”

· You roll your eyes, though you’re not sure he can see it in the dark, “C’mon, Harry. You know it didn’t mean anything. We were just talking.”

· His hand snaps upward, abandoning your throat in favour of your jaw, blunt fingernails digging into the soft flesh beneath. His face comes into focus, mere inches from your own. You can see him clearly for the first time: the sneer on his lips, his eyes alight with jealousy. “Yeah, you’re real good at that ain’tcha? Had him hanging off your every word.”

· You swallow hard. The waver in your voice is only half-forced, as most of your bravado evaporates in the face of Harry’s dominating presence. He’s a small fellow—short and slender—but somehow, he’s able to fill out the meager space his physical body takes up as though he’s twice his size. It’s in the way he holds himself, coiled like a snake about to strike, like he’s used to throwing and dodging punches alike. He’s rough around the edges, scrappy, and though you knew he’d never lay a hand on you that you don’t want, it doesn’t make him any less intimidating when he looms like this. “Doesn’t mean I was interested, Harry, you know I’m yours and—"

· Your words are squeezed into a premature silence as Harry squishes your cheeks together, pushing your lips into a pronounced pout. His thumb sweeps soothingly across your cheek. “I know that,” His grip tightens as he leans in closer, his lips a hair’s breadth from your own, “I think you might need a little reminder of jus’ who ya’ belong to.” His eyes flicker down to your lips, and for a moment, you’re sure he’s going to kiss you. But he simply releases your jaw and melts back into the shadows.

· From further back in the kitchen, you hear him say, “Can you be good for me and let me remind you?”

· You swallow thickly, feeling the heat pooling in your gut with every word he speaks. God you want nothing more than to be good for him. You nod emphatically, then with a jolt, you realize that if you can’t see him, he likely can’t see you either. You croak out a wavering, “Yes,” through a throat that’s suddenly far too dry.

· “Yes, what?” You can hear him rummaging around again, though by the sounds, you’d wager he’s searching the countertops this time. For what you couldn’t say, but that pronounced clink was certainly something bumping up against your sugar jar.

· “Yes, Sir.” What could possibly be on that counter that was more important than you, bound and promising him your good behaviour? Nothing obvious springs to mind, and yet he keeps searching all the same.

· “Good.” A shudder passes through you, and you know you’d do almost anything to hear him say that again. At this point, the impact that word had on you was damn near Pavlovian, especially when he said it like that, with a smirk on his lips and a rumble in his chest.

· The room falls silent again as Harry puts hands on whatever it is he’s looking for. In the quiet, you get the distinct impression that he’s looking at you, even if he is unable to make out your form in the dark. Maybe he can see you, maybe he can’t. Either way you know he can hear you just fine. Why not give him a little show?

· You whine, long and low into the darkness, struggling against the bonds and rubbing your thighs together, seeking any sort of stimulation that might abet the growing heat between your legs. As expected, you’re sorely disappointed with the results. Huffing your displeasure in what you hope is Harry’s general direction, you hurl a desperate plea out into the kitchen, “It’s so cold, Sir. Please come touch me. Please.”

· You hear him let out a shaky breath. You know how much he likes to hear you beg and frequently use it to your advantage. Harry wasn’t one for poetry—the point of pretty words was mostly lost on him—but a blunt statement of exactly what you wanted from him—how deep, how fast, how hard—tinged with the desperation of needing him and needing him now? Well. That was a different story altogether. Begging was usually an easy way to get exactly what you wanted out of Harry Warden. This time however, much to your personal frustration, he manages to collect himself in record time.

· He tuts softly as he strides past you, visible for only the briefest of moments as he passes through the patch of light. “What have you done to deserve my touch?” He stops behind you, “An’ no, flirtin’ all night wit’ a stranger don’t count.”

· You throw your head back to look up at him, a pout on your lips, “Wasn’t flirting.”

· “G’way witcha. You were so.” His hand whips out and grasps your chin. “I can’t have that. See, you’re mine.” He’s wearing his gloves, though not the soft leather pair you’d bought him for Christmas last year. Those, in all likelihood were stuffed into his coat pocket. No, these were his old work gloves. The tough leather was cracked and torn in places, exposing the cotton padding. They smelled heavy—like dust, like the depths of the mines. You didn’t even know he still had these.

· “You know what I think?” He leans forward, scraping his teeth against the sensitive skin just below your ear, relishing in the shiver it elicits, “I think you was doin’ it on purpose.” He trails a line of searing, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, murmuring against your skin, “Trying to make me jealous. Well, guess what?” He sinks his teeth deep into the meat between your neck and shoulder, “It fucking worked.”

· You cry out, the mix of pleasure and pain stirring up the heat that had been steadily blooming inside of you. Sharp and bright, it spreads up through your gut, filling your chest and seeping out into your limbs. You can’t help but smirk up at him, “Good.”

· He presses his lips into a thin line to keep from smiling too, “Uh-uh. That’s bad. You’ve been real bad, haven’tcha?”

· You chew your lower lip, pretending to mull it over, “Maybe…”

· “I think you have.” He trails a gloved hand down and over your shoulder, pressing into the bitemark he’d made. The shredded fingertips of the glove burrow into the indentations left in the wake of his incisors. A dull ache pulses to life beneath the skin, forcing a pained hiss of air between teeth clenched tightly together.

· “Aww, does it hurt, baby?” Condescension drips sweet and thick from his words as he digs his fingers in harder, you nod frantically, face scrunched up in discomfort, a gasp tearing from your lips as you attempt to flinch away from his touch. “Poor little thing.” A second, gloved hand joins the first, trailing down the other side of your neck. The texture of the old leather ignites a new wave of goosebumps, spreading with the shivers that race across your skin. His fingers trace the tendons in your neck, lingering over your pulse points, scraping gently against the sensitive spots he knows so well just to watch you squirm, “Mine.”

· The chair creaks as Harry leans over your shoulder, reaching further down your body. He lavishes your collarbone with gentle touches, exploring the dips and hollows he finds there with a rare patience—one you see in him only when he is well and truly set on teasing you. He drags his fingers down, ghosting across your chest, circling your nipples, and tracing your ribs. You shudder beneath the cool leather. It isn’t right. Harry’s hands should be warm and calloused, two points of bright heat against your chilled flesh. That’s what you really crave: the felling of his skin, bare and burning against yours. You open your mouth to ask him, beg him to take the gloves off and touch you properly, but your mind goes fuzzy and blank as his lips find their way to your neck, leaving soft kisses and pressing the points of his teeth into the skin above your pulse.

· His narrow chest presses hard against your shoulder as his hands roam even further down, trailing across your stomach. You can feel his heartbeat. A little thrill jitters through your chest when you realize that despite his calm outwards demeanor, all steady hands and cocky words, his heart is racing—jackhammering against his ribs so hard it must be painful. A giddy wave washes over you then, knowing he wants you with the same mad desperation. Of course, you had known that from the start, from before that even, still it made your heart shake and your lips twist into a dopey grin.

· Deft fingers press against your sides, teasing the ticklish spots that make you squeak, and wriggle beneath his hands. A soft chuckle rumbles through his chest, though he decides to take mercy on you, sliding his hands down to caress your hips and the tops of your thighs. “All mine.”

· One hand drifts, pressing against the seam where thigh and hip join. The pressure feels strange, the muscle jittering beneath his touch, though it doesn’t hurt. His fingers follow the natural curve of your body, pressing into the space between your thighs. You try to part your legs for him, but the cord binding your ankles only lets you go so far. Still, it’s enough for Harry to slot his slender hand into place, fingers pressed tight against the wet spot that’s been steadily spreading across the cotton fabric of your underwear.

· His tongue flickers over your neck, a snicker bubbling up in his throat, “Well, well, well. Aren’t you just a little fucking slut for me tonight?”

· You whimper, the sound sitting high in the back of your throat, “Take the gloves off and touch me.” What was meant to be a command comes more as a cracked plea, half-whisper, half-sob.

· The bark of his laughter is muffled against your skin. His fingers remain pressed against you, but they stay frustratingly still. The pressure is delicious, sparking your touch-desperate nerves, but not providing the stimulation you so desperately crave—you need him to move. “Who said I was gonna keep touchin’ ya’ ‘t’all?”

· “Please!”

· Deaf to your pleading, he remains utterly motionless, and you feel something inside of you shatter. Perhaps it was your patience, perhaps it was the last of your inhibitions. Whatever the case, Harry had chipped away at it, cracking it piece by piece with his teasing. Now it lays in shards within you, and you know the only way to get what you want is to take matters into your own hands.

· You buck against his fingers and for a moment, the pleasure swallows you whole. Your head falls back against the hard wooden back of the chair, a moan tearing itself free from your throat unbidden. Your toes curl as you begin to move your hips, grinding against his fingers, glassy eyes rolling toward the ceiling.

· Behind you, Harry growls. Dimly, through the fog of pleasure clouding your mind you realize you may have made a mistake. A split second later, his fingers disappear. Your hips jerk forward, desperately trying to follow. You thrash in the seat, a sob wracking your chest, as the pleasure deflates into a dull throbbing. “No!”

· You feel the smile slide onto Harry’s face, more teeth than lip, “Oh no, no, no, Sweetheart. You’ve gotta earn that.”

· The simpering edge to his voice has you bucking into the empty air again, “Then let me.” Your struggle to catch your breath, craning your head to look at him. “Let me earn it.” The silence stretches on in the darkness. Was he considering it? Would he refuse? Not if you could help it, “Please, Harry. Please.”

· A soft sound leaves him then—when you say his name like that, a prayer—a sound like he’s been punched, a rush of air accompanied by a soft groan. Though he’d never admit it, your voice had such an impact on him. Especially when you sound like this, husky and wrecked. Desperate. It takes him nearly a minute to find his voice again, and when he does, it’s rough, a rocky rasp caught low in his throat, “Maybe I will.”

· He slides back up your body, his weight lifting from your shoulder. You give the joint a quick roll, working out the stiffness you’d failed to notice growing beneath the pleasant weight and warmth of his body. Quick as a flash and silent as a shadow, he sweeps around the chair, appearing before you.

· With strong, sure hands, he seizes you by the arms, dragging you to your feet. He kicks the chair back, sending it sliding across the floor with the screech of wood against tile. In the darkness you hear the snick of a switchblade. You still, a prick of fear piercing your chest despite yourself. Harry drops to the floor. In a matter of moments, your ankles are freed from their restraints. Though you expect him to do the same for your wrists, he flicks the knife closed, leaving you partially bound. You hear something land nearby on the floor, though for all your squinting, you cannot make it out.

· He reaches for you then; with a gentleness usually reserved for after your more…strenuous encounters. He strokes the back of his hand down your cheek, and you jolt against his touch, realizing it’s the touch of bare skin. You attempt to lean into it, but he’s already pulling away. His other hand snakes up, fisting roughly into the hair at the nape of your neck. Instinctively, you arch your back, craning your head and bowing against him to lessen the sting.

· He presses down, forcing you to bend toward the ground until you lose your balance and collapse, bare knees colliding with the cold tile. Your arms jerk against the cord, as you attempt to catch yourself, but the knots hold firm. You wobble, momentarily thrown off balance by the sudden change in position but manage to remain at least partially upright.

· Even before you hear the jangle of his belt buckle hitting the floor you know just what he wants from you. You readjust yourself, sitting higher on your haunches. The rustle of his jeans hitting the floor makes your heart flutter with excitement.

· Harry looms before you, a great dark shape. Though he isn’t overly tall or broad, he towers over you when you’re on your knees for him. The pad of his thumb traces your lower lip, the rough skin dragging against your flesh. Your tongue flickers out to meet it and he stills. He hooks the digit into the corner of your mouth, pressing it into the soft meat of your cheek. You press your tongue against it, sucking gently and he groans. “I think my baby can handle somethin’ bigger, yeah? You want something bigger?”

· You whimper your affirmation, letting him slip his thumb from your mouth, waiting patiently as he pulls his cock from his underwear. He presses the tip against your lips, hissing as your tongue slides wet and warm against it.

· “That’s a good pet. Open up.” You open your mouth, pushing your lips down over your teeth as he presses into you. “That’s it, baby. Take it all. Show me how good ya’ can be for me.”

· Breathing deeply through your nose, you try to remain as still as possible as his cock slides into you inch by inch. Your jaw is already beginning to ache from the stretch, but a sore jaw will certainly be worth the reward if you can be good for Harry now.

· The tip bumps against the back of your throat and you have to fight not to gag. “Fuuuck.” He presses in further, hips canting forward as you choke around him. The tip slips down into your throat, and you panic. The sensation is entirely new, never having taken him so deep before. You jerk back, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the head of his cock. You gag, doubling over in a fit of coughing that wracks your body. Harry’s hand is in your hair again, tugging gently. You look up, vision blurry, and the tugging becomes a gentle petting, his fingers carding through your hair soothingly, “Are you okay?”

· You take a shuddering breath, but nod. Your voice comes out in a shredded whisper, “Just s-scared myself is all.” You draw yourself back up onto your knees and take his cock into your hands.

· “Take your time, pet.” He groans as you begin pumping his length slowly, but you can hear the grin in his voice, like he knows he’ll get what he wants from you sooner or later. “I’m in no rush.” Cocky bastard.

· You trace the vein on the underside with a finger and he pulses in your hand, a bead of precum dripping down his length and onto the floor. You dip your head to kiss along the shaft, following the thin wet trail as you work up the courage to take him into your mouth again.

· You take a deep breath and sink down onto him, relishing in the growl that rips through the air above you, “Mmm! Mind the fuckin’ teeth, Sweetheart!”

· Your legs begin to cramp beneath you, but you press forward, swallowing around the length in your mouth. He bucks into you, the tight heat drawing him deeper in, the tip once again bumping against the back of your throat. This time, however, you’re ready and manage to keep control over your gag reflex. You swallow around him again, and the hand in your hair tightens, dragging your head back. His cock almost begins to slip from your lips, before he pushes his hips forward again. “Let me fuck your mouth, yeah?” You moan around him, letting the slackness of your jaw speak your permission for you.

· Curses tumble from his mouth as he rolls his hips into your waiting mouth again and again—a litany of ‘fucks,’ and ‘Christs’ and disjointed praise mixed with a constant stream of ‘Mine, mine, mine.’ The sound of his voice and the drag of his cock over your tongue is nearly hypnotizing. You flatten it against him, hollowing your cheeks as you do, and his hips stutter, your name suddenly the only thing on his lips. It makes you throb. You just need a little friction to take the edge off, to ease the dull ache between your thighs. You squirm, twisting your wrists against the bonds. Harry makes a sound above you, and for a moment, you freeze. Had you been caught? You glance up at him, but you find his head tilted back in pleasure, eyes cast to the ceiling.

· Feeling a little braver, you begin to bob your head along with his thrusts. His grip on your hair tightens in response, and he moans long and low in the back of his throat. He seems far too occupied with your mouth to take any notice of your hands.

· You twist your wrists again, feeling the knot beginning to loosen. So, you keep at it, working the cord further and further up your hand until it pops free. Your body jerks with the momentum, momentarily thrown off balance, but you recover quickly, forcing yourself to choke, as though Harry had pushed too far into your throat again.

· The ruse appears to work, as Harry’s hips buck forward and still, lost in the tight squeeze of your throat. You ease your thighs apart and slip your fingers between them. The cotton of your underwear is soaked, likely to the point of transparency. You can’t help but moan long and low around Harry’s cock as you brush your fingers against the drenched fabric. The wave of pleasure that rolls through you is heady and electrifying. You want more. Right now. Your fingers press harder and your hips jerk up against your hand.

· Even in his pleasure, this gets Harry’s attention. Looking down at you, he almost laughs, the sound caught somewhere between a snicker and a moan. You feel your cheeks heat with the shame of being caught, though by this point you’re so tightly wound you can barely find the brain space to care. You can practically hear the cocksure grin on his face, “You greedy little whore.”

· You try to pull your hand away, but Harry’s boot comes down over top of it. He doesn’t press down hard, but you can feel the thick treads grinding against your flesh, indenting the pattern into it. Your fingers are trapped right where you wanted them: pressed against the damp fabric of your underwear and the sensitive nerves beneath. They spark and throb against your fingers, begging for more stimulation and you can do nothing.

· You sob around Harry’s cock as he begins to thrust into your mouth again. “You wanna touch it so bad, baby, I know,” He presses down harder with his boot, and you whine around him, “But’cha can’t.” He’s pushing deeper into your throat now with every thrust, “You can’t touch what doesn’t belong to you.” His hips begin to stutter now, losing their rhythm as he picks up the pace chasing his release. His voice has gone taught, shaking with both the pleasure and the exertion, “You’re all mine, Sweetheart. All mine.”

· His cock throbs against your tongue. He pushes to the back of your throat one final time, and he’s cumming, letting it fill your mouth and leak down your throat. You sputter, swallowing around him in a desperate bid not to choke. His thrusts have gone shallow and lazy, but he doesn’t stop. Groaning, he grips your jaw, “All fuckin’ mine.”

· You swallow a final time, and he pulls out. You cough, gasping for breath. Dimly, you’re aware of the rustle of denim and the metallic chirp of a zipper being done up. Regaining control of your breathing, turn, cleaning your drool covered chin on your shoulder. You inspect the wrist of your free hand. The skin feels tight and raw but doesn’t appear to be broken. You assume the same is true of the other, where it remains trapped under Harry’s boot. “Fuck, baby. You take it so well for me.”

· You tilt your face up toward Harry, chest tightening with the praise. “Harry,” Your voice is raw, your throat aching from the fucking it had just endured, but you beg him anyway, “Please, I was good. Touch me…or let me do it myself. I-I’ll put on a good show for you!” You buck up against his boot, throwing your head back and whimpering.

· He grinds his boot down against your hand, and your vision fills with white spots. You jerk against him, unable to still your hips. His voice floats down to you through the fog of pleasure, as though from far away, “I’m not so sure you’ve learned your lesson.”

· You sob, bucking against both boot and hand alike, until he presses down harder, and the blinding pleasure becomes a crushing pain that sucks the breath from your lungs, “Harry! Harry, you promised! Fuuck, please! Please! Ow! You said If I was good—"

· The pressure lessens, “Now, now, baby. Don’t get so worked up. I said I might let you cum. Never said when.” He laughs at your devastated expression. “We’re just getting started.”

Part Two��Submission or Yours, Yours, Yours:

· The metal hangers burst into a jangling song as you fling the coat-closet open to hang your jacket. The padded denim will probably see you through another month if you layer properly beneath it. Too much longer than that and you’ll be pushing your luck. Perhaps tomorrow you would go through the ‘winter clothes bin’ and bust out the ole’ windbreaker. Of course, to do that you’d have to spend an hour sifting through the assorted piles of junk in your basement to actually find the ‘winter clothes bin.’ Now that you think of it, despite the numerous trips you’d taken down into the dark and dingy space, you haven’t actually laid eyes on the bin since you had put it into storage last spring. Ugh.

· Though, maybe Harry had seen it. Three days ago, you’d woken up and stumbled to the bathroom to find a steady stream of water pouring from the cabinet space below the sink. It must have been leaking for a good long while before you found it, because the floor was soaked—the bathmat was so saturated with water it had actually squelched underfoot.

· Luckily, it had only taken Harry around five minutes to fix the problem—a loose ring nut of all things—but he’d spent a good deal longer than that tearing the basement apart in his mad hunt for the toolbox. After a great deal of shuffling, banging about, and swearing, he’d found it wedged between the wall and a cardboard box of assorted holiday decorations. He’d rushed up the stairs, breathless and wild-eyed, “Christ, but it’s a mess down there. This?” He’d said, brandishing the toolbox in his left hand, “stays in the porch from now on.” He’d swept passed you then, leaving no room for argument as he marched off to save your bathroom from any further water damage.

· Point is, Harry’s ‘leave no stone unturned’ approach to impromptu basement reorganization may just free up your afternoon and save you a headache—he’d probably seen the bin and with any luck would remember where he’d moved it. If not, finding the damn thing would be tomorrow’s problem. Still, it couldn’t hurt to ask while you were thinking of it.

· “Hey, Harry? When you were down in the basement the other day, did you see the—” Turning to face him, you’re shocked to find that he isn’t standing behind you anymore. You could have sworn you’d felt him there with you right up until you’d turned around. You call his name out into the darkness but receive no response. You roll your eyes, sometimes he got like this when he was in a mood—preferring silence to a solution.

· Your left hand finds the wall, feeling your way along the cool plaster until your fingers find the switch. Light floods the kitchen momentarily flaring too bright against your retinas, and you realize he’s not even in the room anymore. You hadn’t heard him leave, but he’s certainly not still here, unless he’s somehow managed to master the art of invisibility without telling you. He’s a remarkable man, you’ll give him that, but you highly doubt he’s that remarkable. In all likelihood, he’d just popped out for a smoke. Though you’d love to know how he managed to sweettalk the squealing hinges into silence.

· Crossing the room, you pull the screen door open, bracing it against your hip to keep it from banging closed on you. You crack the main door open just enough to poke your head out. You go slowly, easing it open bit by bit—the hinges whine high and thin into the night, but it’s nothing compared to the fuss they’d made when you first came in. peering out into the darkness, you don’t see Harry in his usual late-night smoking spot—leaning out over the porch railing, one hand curled around a cigarette, the other cradling his chin as he stares out into the relative seclusion of your back garden.

· Around this time of year, it wasn’t much to look at—the leaves mostly gone from the trees, the shrivelled corpses of your flowers littering the rapidly browning grass—but in the spring, it was a sight, bursting with blossoms and buzzing insects alike.

· You suppose it doesn’t matter though, Harry never gets to see the butterflies and bees anyway. Not when he only comes out to smoke at night. On the bad days when he’s stressed, or tired and really croaking for a smoke before the sun dips down into the harbour, he usually retreats to the basement, cracking one of the tiny windows that looks out onto the street. But otherwise, he’s an exclusively nocturnal smoker.

· One night in the summer, when it had been far too muggy to do anything but lay in bed and sweat, you’d given up on sleep to sit out with him. Outside, the air was no less close, but even the pitiful, sporadic gasps the breeze offered had felt so good against your feverish skin you couldn’t bring yourself to complain. He’d stood there, leaned out over the railing, the cherry of his cigarette flaring red-hot in the darkness. You had hopped up onto the railing beside him, dangling your legs out over a bed of wilting marigolds—even they were flagging in this heat, not that you could blame them.

· For a long while, neither of you spoke, content to simply inhabit the same space at the same time. It wasn’t long before you were lost in thought; staring up at the stars and marvelling at how the scent of your little lavender bushes almost covered the stink of the harbour. Almost. Then, Harry blew a cloud of smoke out into the darkness, which drifted sluggishly across your vision, bringing you back to the present moment. To this day, you don’t quite know why you’d asked the question, nor where it had come from, “So…you only smoke at night, huh?”

· He’d frowned a little, his eyebrows pulling together as though he was only realizing this for the first time. He’d maneuvered the dart into the corner of his mouth so he could speak around it, “I s’pose so…”

· “What’s up with that?”

· He chewed on the end of the cigarette, jaw working as he thought, “Probably got somethin’ t’do with spendin’ so much time in…” He raked a suddenly shaky hand through his hair, “…the pit.”

· “You were a miner?” You had known so little about him in those days.

· Again, he ran a trembling hand through his hair, the silence stretching long into the humid night. “It…uh…fucks your sense of time real good. Y’get used to it bein’ dark all the time.” He takes a deep drag, letting the smoke curl about in his lungs for a good long while before letting it go with a heavy, rushing sigh. “‘N ya’ get to like it better that way.” With a practiced flick of the wrist, he taps the ash from the end of his cigarette, scattering in on the wooden deck-boards beneath his boots. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

· And so, you’d let it go. But the pieces had begun to fall into place: Why he never went out with you, why he was so hesitant to talk about where he’d come from or what he’d been running from the night you found him shivering and soaked to the skin at the end of your street, why he’d asked you to keep quiet about him, why he hadn’t told you his last name—a name everyone in town both knew and feared.

· He’d told you half the truth then you suppose. After all, he is a night-owl, and that probably did have something to do with his previous profession. However, you think his late-night smoking habit likely also has something to do with risk. You know now who he is and what he did. If anyone knew he was back in town, there would be trouble no doubt. Of course, the rumours that would start flying about if a strange man were spotted hanging around your place would also be trouble, just the type you were more accustomed to handling. There had been jaw about you in town before and there would likely be again. You could deal with a few stray comments from old folks with nothing better to do than gossip and young folks who did but wasted their time on it anyway. You knew for certain that you could not handle the sight of Harry beaten and dragged off to God-knows-where by a mob of angry townsfolk or worse, the police. No, if it came down to it, you’d take the rumours.

· Shuddering, you close the door, locking the knob and sliding the deadbolt home. You lock the screen door as well, something Harry always teased you about. You could picture him now, leaning against the counter, hands in his pockets. An easy grin slides across his face as he watches you, ‘Now what’cha lockin’ that for? S’not gonna stop nobody from comin’ in if they really wanna.’ But you always locked it anyway—it made you feel safer. Sometimes you’d tell him so, but that smile would only grow as he pushes off from the counter and scoops you up into his arms. He is really quite strong despite his small stature. ‘Don’t need locks for that no more, Sweetheart. You got me.’

· But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know you’d never locked your doors before he came along. Not once. There was never any need to. The community was small and tightly knit. With only one notable exception—the cause of which now shared your bed on the regular—the crime rate was so low hardly anyone locked their doors at all. But since Harry, you had felt compelled to do so. Not out of obligation to the town, rather an obligation to Harry. They didn’t need to be kept safe from him—they had already paid for their mistakes. If they were smart, they’d never give him reason to shed blood again—no you locked the doors to keep Harry safe from them.

· Though there was a memorial plaque dedicated to the lives lost in the mining accident right there in the middle of town, it was something the residents rarely spoke about. Most were content to forget it—and the grisly murders that followed—entirely. But when February rolled around again, an oppressive tension swept through the streets. Even as people pretended to carry on with their lives like nothing was wrong, their hushed whispers and conspiratorial glances spoke the truth plainly—they hadn’t forgotten at all. They couldn’t forget. Harry Warden had stained their community, perhaps forever, and they hated him for it. Many would rather see him dead than locked up and you could think of one or two who might actually try if given the chance.

· Maybe there was a time when you would have let them, out of fear or some misguided sense of morality. But now that you knew him, everything was different. That night, when he’d finally told you the truth about who he was, what he’d done, the place he’d escaped from, he had seemed so small—trembling on the floor of your living room, fingers digging hard into his arms, unable to look at you for fear of your reaction—and you’d decided then and there you would stand between him and that hatred. You would keep him safe. Locking that door was just one of the thousands of small ways you had found to do so. Maybe a part of him knew that. Maybe not. Still, that door stayed locked at night.

· Now, if he wasn’t outside and he wasn’t in the kitchen, where else could he be? You pad quickly through the kitchen, your thin socks only able to protect you so much from the chilly tiles. On your way by, you pop your head into the den, wondering if he’d decided to curl up on the sofa in front of the TV—a favoured spot for a deep sulk. If his attitude in the driveway told you anything, this had been be a pretty good guess, but the room is as dark and empty as the kitchen. Strange.

· Rounding the corner at the end of the hall, four doors stand before you: the bathroom, the office, the guestroom and your bedroom. The bathroom door is closed, and through the crack beneath, you can see the light is turned off. The same can be said for the office, and upon closer inspection, the guestroom as well. You suppose he could be in any of the three rooms, but if that’s the case, it’s safe to assume he really wants to be left alone.

· Perhaps you really had hurt him in your silly attempt to make him jealous. You both knew it was dangerous for him to go out, but you’d pushed him anyway, and he’d said ‘yes,’ because he trusts you and he loves you. And what had you done? You cuddled up to a stranger all night and let him watch. When you think about it like that, a hot wave of shame rolls through your gut. You feel nauseous.

· You stand there in the hall, chewing your cheek and wondering what you should do. You could knock, calling his name softly and apologize. Maybe he’d open the door and come to bed with you, maybe he’d choose to sleep on the sofa and send you to bed alone. Either way he’d know you were sorry. But trying to force a conversation Harry wasn’t ready to have was often like talking to a brick wall—a brick wall which could get up and leave the room. Perhaps it would be better to let him come to you when he was ready. But if you leave him alone, he might think you don’t care. But if you push him, he might not take you seriously. As you weigh your options, a flicker of movement from further down the hall catches your attention.

· Your bedroom door is open just a crack, and through it a quavering light pools on the carpet. At once confused and curious, you creep down the hallway. Pressing your ear to the door, you don’t hear anything out of the ordinary. In fact, it doesn’t sound like anyone is in there at all, and yet the light from within flickers as though something is moving in front of it. Curiosity burning in the pit of your stomach, you press your palm against the faded wooden door and give it a push.

· Candlelight spills out into the hallway, its warm glow washing gently over you. There must be a hundred candles in the room, as every available surface from the dresser to the desk is covered with votives and pillars, tapers and tealights. Were these all yours? You can’t recall ever buying so many, yet here they are. The air is filled with their mingling scents: apples, beeswax, and fresh linen, but beneath that the smell of smoke and the sulfurous scent of the matches he’d used to light them all linger in the air. It can’t have been long since he’s finished lighting them.

· Harry himself kneels on the floor at the foot of your bed, thighs spread wide. Though he’s facing the door, he hadn’t looked up when the it opened. His eyes remain trained on the carpet before him. His hands though firmly clasped behind his back can’t have been there for long—both the button and zipper of his jeans are fully undone, the fabric stretched wide and slung low across his hips. Beneath the jeans, his boxers have been pulled low, exposing his cock, already hard and drooling precum onto the carpet beneath him.

· Stunned by the unexpected sight before you, you can do little more than stand there in the doorway, gaping. Harry had certainly never done this before—he’d knelt for you on occasion, sure, but never without being asked first. A tight heat begins to stir within you as the blood rushes from your head to much more…important areas. Feeling a little lightheaded, you find yourself leaning against the doorjamb for support. Though your legs feel as though they’ve turned to jelly, you find your words again with your shoulder braced firmly against a solid surface, “What’s all this then, baby?”

· He makes no attempt to look at you as he answers, his eyes glued to the floor in a clear sign of submission, though his tone is anything but. There’s bite in his voice, an anger that thrums through his every word, and vibrates through you even from your spot in the doorway, “Jus’ wanna show ya’ I’m good.” He clenches his jaw, eyes burning holes into the carpet, “Make you forget all about him.” He spits out the word like a mouthful of rotten fruit.

· You grinned. So, he is just jealous after all. Good.

· “Look at me, Harry.” His eyes flash in the low light, still blazing with anger even as they find yours. His while body is tense with that rage, every muscle coiled and ready to strike, through he remains still, head bowed, arms folded behind his back. His voice is tight, enunciating very clearly, his usual industrial drawl combed into something smoother, “I want to show you I can be just as good for you. Better even.”

· You smirk down at him, “Oh really?”

· “I can—” He begins to shift, the movement dragging his shaft against the rough denim of his jeans. He shudders, the words momentarily dying on his tongue. His fingers sink into the carpet at his sides, knuckles going white as he struggles not to roll his hips, bucking into that coarse pleasure. His cock pulses and another bead of precum oozes from the tip. “Fuck,” He takes a shuddering breath, his eyes squeezing closed for a brief moment, “I…I can prove it.” There is a pause, his jaw working as he struggles to force the next word out, “Please.”

· Oh, he really is wound up. Begging doesn’t come easily for Harry Warden, but that just makes it all the sweeter to hear when he does.

· “Please, let me prove it to you.”

· You can’t help the grin that slides across your face. “And just how do you intend to do that, baby?”

· He goes still for a moment, eyes narrowing, still angry but acknowledging the challenge. His gaze slides down your body, dark eyes drinking in your form, coming to rest on the carpet at your feet. “I’ll do anything.”

· Your grin widens, “Anything?”

· He swallows thickly, nodding.

· “Anything?” You’re just teasing him now.

· “Yes.” His voice is tight and there’s tension building in his shoulders, but you think you can push him a little further.

· “Anyyyything?”

· His head snaps up, eyes boring into yours, ablaze with frustration, “Yes for Chrissake! Anything. Just,” He sighs through his nose, bowing his head again, “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

· You push off from the doorjamb, managing to wobble only a little, as you saunter into the room to stand before him, “Shirt off.”

· It takes him less than a second to respond, pealing the white cotton shirt over his head, exposing the hard planes of his chest and stomach. “Mm, good boy.” You flop down on the bed, tucking your legs up beneath yourself. “Now, touch yourself.” He reaches for his cock, “Ah, ah, ah. I didn’t say ‘touch your cock,’ Harry. I said, ‘touch yourself.’”

· Harry makes a noise caught halfway between a sigh and a whine but does as he’s told. He sits up straighter, his neglected cock bobbing against his stomach. His hands trail up his sides, pressing against toned muscle and bone alike. He shivers as his fingers brush against the scars that litter his chest, remnants of the accident that nearly took his life. “Feel good, baby?”

· He wrinkles his nose a little, “Not…really? They’re numb kinda…”

· “Keep going then, you can’t stop until it starts to feel good.” He swallows and brushes his fingers across his nipples. His jaw goes tight, fingers stilling for a moment. You know he doesn’t get much out of touching himself like this, much preferring to fist his cock fast and hard until he finds his release. This is mostly for you—he cuts a lovely figure half-undressed, hands roaming across his body—but if it’s the only stimulation he’s allowed, you figure he’ll find some enjoyment in it. And this hypothesis seems to be correct thus far, as he continues to play far more attention to his chest than he usually would, the fingers of one hand digging into the flesh of his pectoral as his thumb rubs a slow circle around his nipple. His other hand is trailing up his neck, pressing against the sensitive spots just beneath his jaw.

· His breath is coming harder now, and he’s making lovely little sounds at the back of his throat. His hips press forward, seeking stimulation. “A little lower now, baby.”

· As commanded, his hands slip down across his ribs, over his stomach. His hands hover about his hips, hesitating, waiting for your instructions. “Oooh, there’s a good boy. Let’s test your self control, shall we? How close can you get to it before you can’t keep still anymore?”

· He heaves a shaky breath. His fingers dip below the waist of his jeans, tracing the bones of his hips and the tops of his thighs.

· “You can do better than that. Closer.”

· You can see his thighs beginning to shake as his fingers slip ever closer to his cock, teasing the inner most spots on his thighs and the seams of his hips, spots you know he loves and hates to find your mouth in equal measure.

· It isn't until his fingers brush against the sensitive flesh just above his cock that his hips stutter forward and a soft cry tears free from his lips.

· You slip from the bed to kneel before him, pressing your face close to his, crooning praises into his ear. “Is it too much for my good boy? That’s okay, you follow orders so well.” You can feel his cheeks heating us as he flushes a deep red in the low light.

· Cupping his face, you tilt his chin up, forcing him to look up at you. “Good boys deserve rewards, don’t you think.” Despite the deepening blush, his haughty expression tells you he’ll get you back for this someday. Every word of simpering praise, every degrading kindness will be repaid in full. You can hardly wait. You tilt his head up and down in answer to your own question, “Yes they do. So, let’s give that cock some attention, hmm?”

· In that moment, Harry forgets himself. His hands shoot out, reaching down to wrap around his length. “Stop!” You bark the order, and he freezes, fingers curling against the air, rather than his throbbing length as he so desperately wants. “Not with your hands.”

· A long breath hisses out through his teeth. His tone is petulant, “Then how am I supposed to—”

· “Is that backtalk I’m hearing? Because if it is—”

· “No!” And just like that the attitude is gone, replacing with a stumbling apology, “I-I’m sorry, I’ll do what you asked. I was just…just clarifyin’. How do you want me to…get off?”

· “No one said anything about getting off.” You press a finger against his chest, slowly dragging it down over his pecks, his sternum, his stomach, until you find his cock. Your touch merely ghosts over his sensitive flesh, but he trembles beneath it, moaning low in the back of his throat.

· Your finger finds the tip of his cock, and slips to the underside, stroking roughly against his frenulum—the most sensitive spot on his body. In an instant he’s bucking against you, your name tumbling from his lips along with a litany of trembling pleas for more. While it’s tempting to indulge him, you don’t want this to be over quite so quickly. With a lopsided grin, you withdraw your hand. Harry whines in frustration at the loss, his hips stuttering against the air.

· His cock drags against the rough denim of his jeans, and he sucks in a sharp breath. He hesitates for only a moment as he looks at you for permission. You nod and his shoulders slump forward, his hands shooting forward to catch himself. His fingers sink into the carpet before his knees, and his thighs slide further apart to accommodate this change is posture.

· The drag of coarse denim against the over-sensitive flesh of his cock can’t have been the most comfortable sensation in the world, but one wouldn’t get that impression from watching Harry’s expression. Though his head is tipped forward, you can see still his eyes, screwed shut in pleasure. His teeth catch his lower lip tightly. It’s really such a pity, because you know he’d make such lovely noises if he would just open his mouth. You suppose you could just order him to let you hear him, but it was always so much more satisfying to pull the sounds from him yourself.

· Dipping your head, you press your lips into the column of Harry’s exposed throat. For a moment he goes utterly still, shuddering beneath your mouth. In between peppering every available inch with little kisses, you murmur, “Keep going baby,” against his skin. It takes him a moment to process your command. His lust-fogged mind is able to focus on only a few things at a time, and your lips are taking precedence over everything else. But when it finally clicks, his hips jerk back into motion

· You graze your teeth along his jaw, catching the spots his fingers had toyed with earlier. Like a latch clicking open, his teeth release his lip, and he moans—a soft sound, almost a sigh. Beautiful. You fall into that spot, nipping and sucking at it until the sounds—moans, whimpers, and curses alike—are tumbling from Harry’s lips one after another.

· You dig your teeth in hard, and his hips slam forward, a gasp on his lips. The force of his movement pushes his cock further through the opening of his jeans, and the teeth of the zipper drag across his flesh. He hisses, sharp and sibilant, as the sting overtakes the pleasure. God you wish you could see his face—the pleasure swiftly transforming into agony then back again. Though you’re sure your imagination pales in comparison to the real thing, the pictures your mind conjures are enough to send a throbbing wave of want through you. The tortured mix of pleasure and agony on his face is a sight, second only to the beauty of Harry’s expression when he cums for you.

· As though he could read your thoughts, Harry’s hips jerk down, rutting against the fabric from a different angle. His pace becomes quicker, more frantic as his orgasm looms large on the horizon. You grin against his throat. “Are you close baby?”

· Harry doesn’t speak, but you can feel him nodding, his bony jaw bumping against the top of your head. “That didn’t take very long. Were you playing without me earlier?”

· Of course, you know the answer is ‘yes.’ He’d likely been kneeling right there, bucking into his fist while you were locking still the doors. But you wanted to hear him admit it. “Answer me, Harry.”

· His voice is trembling when he replies, speech lust-slurred and sluggish “Yesss, Ssweetheart”

· Tsk, tsk. Maybe I shouldn’t let you cum after all.” You place a hand on his hip, stalling his movement. He’s strong enough he could just shake you off, keep going until he finds his release, but he doesn’t. That’s not the game you play. Instead, he shudders under you hand, trembling as his release slips away from him, the pleasure fading to a dull throb between his legs.

· “No!” His cock pulses, the precum shiny and wet against the tip. “Please, I-I’m sorry. I jus’ wanted to be ready for ya’, I didn’t mean to break the rules.”

· “I know.” You pat his cheek affectionately. “I understand. It’s hard to be a good boy when it’s in your nature to be a filthy little whore.”

· Harry’s chest heaves as he comes back down from the edge. His ego chafes under your degradation, but his body shudders with the thrill of it. He rolls his head back, shooting you a sideways glance, “You’re so mean, you know that?” Though his words are anything but, both his expression and his tone are utterly adoring.

· You peck his cheek, “You love it.”

· “I do.”

· You stroke his cheek gently with the back of your hand “Can you start again?”

· Harry rolls his hips forward, experimentally. His teeth fix into his lower lip almost instantly, but he nods. You can tell the break wasn’t quite long enough, but that’s okay. You’ll just need to keep a closer eye on him to make sure he doesn’t slip over the edge before you’re ready to let him.

· Your hand finds his hip again, slowing him to a stop. “I think we’ll play a different game this time. Wouldn’t want you getting bored.” You glance down at the rough denim, “Or chaffed up.”

· Your hand slips into his jeans and grips his cock firmly around the base. He cants up into your hand almost reflexively, heating flesh sliding against your palm. You smile, “Oh no. None of that. You’ve gotta stay still this time, baby. In fact,” You give his cock a gentle pump, causing him to buck into your hand despite your instructions. You pull you hand away. “If you move, I’ll stop. Understand?”

· Harry’s knuckles go white in the carpet as he struggles to keep himself under control, but he nods. “Good. Now,” You wrap your hand around him once again. “I won’t make this easy on you.”

· He grins, “Wouldn’t be any fun if ya’ did.”

· You can’t help but grin back, an expression of your adoration for the man before you as you begin to move your hand. As promised, you set a brutal pace, your grip tight around his feverish flesh.

· His head falls back, eyes going wide, “Ohh, fuuck!” His hands are shaking where they’re dug into the carpet and his thighs tremble with the tremendous effort of keeping still. And though he takes a near herculean stab at following your instructions, when your thumb swipes gently over the tip of his cock at the end of a stroke, he falls apart. His hips jerking forward into you hand

· “Ah, ah,” You say, pulling your hand away despite the high whine at the back of Harry’s throat. “I said don’t move.”

· His breath is coming in ragged gasps, “Let…Let me try again. I’ll be good!”

· You purse your lips, as though to say, ‘I’m not sure you will be.” But he leans in, nuzzling into the crook of your neck and whimpering, “Please,’ against your skin, and you’re almost convinced.

· Your pulse jumps as his lips press against your skin. The need to put hands on him again bubbles up within your chest until you cannot fight it a second longer. You hand finds his cock again, sliding against his skin which is now positively radiating heat and slick with precum. He’s really enjoying this. You squeeze your fingers around him a little tighter as he twitches in your hand, “Look at you! Taking it so well for me.” He whimpers in repose, the sound vibrating against your throat as his mouth works against your skin.

· Swiping your thumb over the head of his cock again, his voice breaks, climbing higher into the back of his throat. Yet his hips remain still. So, you do it again, thumb spreading the slick precum gathering at the tip of his cock across the head. He shudders against you, sinking his teeth deep into your neck. He’s putting up a good fight, but you can tell he isn’t far from breaking. You begin to move you hand more quickly, squeezing your fist tightly around his shaft.

· “You’re doing so well, baby. But I wonder…” Your other hand hovers just above the tip of his cock. “What would happen if I…” You touch his tip gently, ghosting your fingers over. The combined sensation of the rough pace of your hand and the gentle touch of your fingers makes his thighs tremble. He’s cursing now, a steady stream of ‘fucks’ and half-coherent pleas tumble forth into the hollow spaces between your collarbones.

· You press a little harder, rubbing a gentle circle around the head of his cock, and he bucks into your hand, pressing the tip hard against your fingers, desperate for more. Through clenched teeth you can hear him chanting, “No, no, no” over and over, clearly frustrated by the betrayal of his own body.

· You smirk down at him, “Looks like you’re really sensitive here huh, baby?”

· Harry doesn’t respond, merely shuddering against you, his head still buried in the crook of your neck. “It’s not your fault though.” You release his cock, stroking you hands soothingly against his trembling thighs. “You know, I think it’s partially my own fault for not touching you enough. But I can fix that.” You can feel the confused frown pulling against his handsome features, one that begins to melt into a look of shocked horror as he realizes what you’re about to do.

· He pulls away from your neck just a moment before you set upon the tip of his cock. Your fingers making a tight little ring, you squeeze around him. His head jerks back, eyes rolling toward the ceiling. You stroke your thumb against the tip, rubbing tight quick circles against his weeping slit. He finds his voice, broken and wavering and cries out your name, begging you for more and to stop in the same breath.

· His hips buck into your hand wildly, but this time you don’t stop, squeezing tighter, as your fingers slip beneath the head, rubbing relentless circles against his frenulum. His body seizes up, his voice momentarily dying in this throat. When it returns, he’s babbling, nearly sobbing with the pleasure, “Need t’stop…” He whines, “Neet’sssstop or I’ll cum,” His speech is slurred, punctuated with sharp moans and deep gasps for breath.

· “But I thought you wanted to cum, Harry.”

· His chest is heaving now, sweat slicking his sandy hair to his temples, “I do, fuuuck, IdoIdoIdo, pleassse, but…” He swallows hard, struggling to grind out the words around the white-hot pressure building in his stomach, “Wanna...wanna be good for ya’, don’t wanna…c-c-cum until you let me.” Despite his words, he grinds down against your fingers, unable to stop himself. “Please lemme be good, FUCK! Please, babyssstop! I’m gonna cum,”

· For just a moment, you consider letting him. But the beseeching look in his eyes tells you even if you did, though the release would be satisfying, it wouldn’t be good enough. Harry wanted, no, needed to be good for you. Taking pity on him now wouldn’t help.

· You pull your hands back, and despite himself, Harry sobs, a fat droplet of precum spilling down his pulsing length. Harry shudders as it rolls down his flesh, over-sensitive as though he’d just cum. You realize then, just how close he’d actually been.

· You take him into your arms, pulling him close and petting his hair gently as he struggles to get his breathing under control. He jitters against you, a low whimper in his throat as your repositioning causes his cock to rub against you.

· “Christ, I’m sorry,” He says, voice a cracked whisper, “It’s been so long since we’ve…”

· You shush him, “I know baby, take your time.” His head falls against your shoulder, the weight of his shuddering body a welcome pleasure. He presses soft kisses into your neck, trailing up to your jaw, your cheek, your lips.

· He kisses you softly, his lips sluggish against your own, but still no less adoring. He pulls back enough to whisper, “I’m yours.” And you smile.

· “I know.” You run your fingers down his back, ghosting over exposed skin and he shudders.

· “No one else will ever belong to you like I do.” Despite Harry’s fragile state, it isn’t a question, rather a statement that isn’t to be questioned.

· “No one else.”

· He melts against you, “Then touch me. I can take it.”

· You push him back, searching his dark eyes. What you find there is the same lust that’s driven you since the beginning of the night. You tug him to his feet, gripping his arms tightly as he wobbles on stiff and tired legs.

· “Get yourself out of those jeans, and get on the bed. We aren’t finished.”

#harry warden x reader #harry warden imagines #slasher x reader #my bloody valentine #OKAY SO #this wasnt supposed to be 13719 words but here we are #also i really fudged the map at the start but who cares about geographical consistancies in slasher smut #i mean me but whatever #the bar they filmed in really was on atlantic street though #ripper fics

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yehet-about-it · 4 years ago

Photo

Chase Me | Part 17 - Lock The Door Next Time

⇐ || ☆ Masterlist ☆ || ⇒

🎮👾 ~ The Boyz Social Media AU ~ 👾🎮

"Twitching" is a British term used to mean "the pursuit of a previously located rare bird." In North America it is more often called chasing...

Pairings: Changmin x Reader, Sunwoo x Reader

Warnings: 17+, language, some smut in later chapters, fuckboy!sunwoo 😉

Updates Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday & Sunday @ 9pm GMT/1pm PST

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Word Count: 3.1k (I am SO sorry... although I'm kind of not bc I lowkey love this chapter) Warnings: Mature content, may involve maStUrBaTioN, a whole lot of embarrassment and Chanhee having the time of his goddamn life bc its not him in the awkward situation for once 🙃

You sighed, dropping your unreasonably heavy camera bag on the table as you walked into the living room, Chanhee in close pursuit looking equally as tired. You’d spent several long hours at a shoot for a new project you’d been hired to do and had come back to the boys’ apartment to do some editing before you called it quits for the day.

“Should we order food now?” You called out as Chanhee went to his room to unload his gear and fetch his macbook for editing. You knew you needed to work but you hadn’t eaten since the morning and you couldn’t stop the thoughts of takeout food swirling around in your head. “Mm, the Chinese?” Chanhee replied sitting down across the table. “Can you go and ask Changmin if he wants anything while I set this up? He’s probably in his room.”

You nodded happily, perking up at the prospect of food and left Chanhee to upload the photos from the day whilst you went off in search of Changmin. He wasn’t in their gaming room as you walked by so you continued down the corridor towards his room. As you neared his door you could hear a murmur, and coming to a stop outside the room you recognised your name being called by Changmin, only it was ever so quiet, barely audible through the wood of the door, so you figured maybe it was just him registering your presence. Assuming he’d realised you were there, you swung the door open not quite expecting the scene that was presented before you. Changmin was sat on his bed, propped up against the pillows with his lips parted, hair hanging low in front of his eyes, and scanning further down you saw that his sweatpants were bunched low on his hips as his hand gripped what appeared to be a very hard erection. You let out a shriek as you realised what you had stumbled upon, immediately slamming the door back shut and racing down the corridor before Changmin even had chance to react.

“Oh my god, oh my god.” You repeated it like a mantra, your heart pounding from the shock as you slid back into the living room and into your chair opposite New. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Chanhee asked in bewilderment looking at you as though you’d just committed the 7 deadly sins. “I should have knocked!” you squeaked burying your face in your palms in total, unfathomed embarrassment. You took a deep breath trying to calm yourself, but the image of Changmin’s hand wrapped snugly around his length, pleasuring himself as he uttered your name was well and truly burned into your brain.

“What? Why?” Chanhee asked, a puzzled expression forming from his features. “He- oh my word- he was- touchi- Ugh I can’t say it!” you whined. “He wasn’t…? Oh my god...” Eventually realising what had happened, a hysterical fit of laughter erupted from your best friends throat as you hid behind your hands, your cheeks most definitely flushed with the brightest pink. “Oh my god that idiot” Chanhee cackled, tears starting to form in the corners of his eyes from the sheer force of his laughter. You sank down in your chair a pained smile on your face as you couldn’t help but be affected by Chanhee’s reaction. “Chanhee what am I gonna do? I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again!” You wailed, the howling starting to dye down as Chanhee regained his composure. “Not my problem” Chanhee teased. “I’ll make it your problem” you replied stroppily, whacking him lightly on the arm in annoyance. “Ow!” Chanhee clutched his arm in feigned pain before proceeding to laugh at you once again. “It’s not funny Chanhee! This is so awkward!”

You had by now gotten over the initial shock of seeing one of your longest friends exposed like that, and now you were wondering how the hell you were gonna get over the awkwardness of the situation. But most of all, you were wondering why the hell he’d been moaning your name of all names and what that meant. Not that you were going to mention that to New. That would open a whole new can of worms and lead this conversation down a whole new road that you didn’t particularly want to explore, as well as give Chanhee even more ammunition for further teasing.

“That’s exactly why it IS funny.” Chanhee chided, whipping his phone out, presumably either to tease Changmin or get the Chinese menu up, or both. “Guess he won’t be joining us for the Chinese then?” You rolled your eyes at Chanhee’s teasing (though also legitimate) question. “Well it’s not like I stuck around to ask.” You crossed your arms as you gave Chanhee a warning glare. “Fine, I’ll ask him then.” He said, and your phone lit up on the table a moment later – of course he’d mentioned it in your group chat.

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Changmin had heard Chanhee’s cackling from his room at the other end of the apartment and had been mentally cursing for the duration, his face perhaps an even brighter shade of scarlet than yours. Of all of the awkward things to happen, the girl he liked and one of his best friends walking in while he was halfway to climax thinking about her had to be the most unfortunate. Firstly there was the problem of how he’d ever look you in the eye again, but secondly was the problem that remained below his waistline. You walking in hadn’t helped that of course. If it had been Chanhee or Kevin walking in, his stiffness would have gone in a split second, but despite the embarrassment of what had just happened, his length remained taut against his boxers which he’d quickly pulled back up in shock after your momentary appearance. He was no longer in the mood to continue, too worried about what you might be thinking, so he decided his only option was to go for a cold shower in the hope that that might fix it.

Before he had the chance to hop in however, his phone buzzed, showing a text from New. He groaned as he read the older boys words, knowing that he’d never live this down whining again when he realised the texts were sent not just to him but to your group chat. Thankfully Changmin had already eaten, although he wouldn’t mind a bit of Chinese, but given the current awkwardness he decided to pass up on the offer for food. He would probably be able to face you later but if he ordered food he’d have to sit with you to eat it, and the embarrassment was stilll far too fresh for that to be a comfortable affair, so he quickly typed out his reply and hopped in the shower to deal with the problem beneath his pants.

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An hour or so later you and Chanhee had just about finished your editing for the day and were tucking into your food, but you still hadn’t heard a peep out of Changmin. You sighed, finishing your bowl of jajangmyeon, feeling a little guilty that Changmin wasn’t sharing in the joys of your takeout food, all because you’d been dumb enough not to knock. “Hm maybe I should take him something” you sighed looking across all the cartons of food you’d ordered. Maybe he had actually eaten already, but there was so much, and you were sure he’d like some. “You’re not going to eat all that are you?” You asked Chanhee, nodding to the half full box of kkanpunggi in the middle. Chanhee just shrugged. “You sure you want to go back in there?” He sniggered as he asked the question, deliberately trying to provoke you. “No I am not, but I’m not going to avoid him forever just because I’ve seen his dick” you declared defiantly, making Chanhee almost spit out his boba as he doubled over in laughter. However awkward you were feeling, you’d have to face each other eventually. Normally you wouldn’t be so thrown off by something like this, for instance, you’d once accidentally walked in on Kevin going at it with someone one time when you’d stayed over at Sunwoo’s, but you’d just greeted it with an ew and laughed about it later. The only thing that had you feeling so utterly flustered was the sound of him uttering your name whilst he was clearly having some ‘time to himself’, but since you figured he wouldn’t necessarily be aware you’d heard that, you decided you’d be able to brush it off for now and pretend like everything was just peachy.

“Well just remember to knock this time” Chanhee quipped as you stood up, taking the box of spicy garlic fried chicken with you, picking up some of the spare chopsticks the restaurant had sent too. You grinned sarcastically at Chanhee, your eyes silently telling him he was an asshole, before disappearing off down the hall to Changmin’s room, praying that he’d be fully tucked into his pants this time. “Changmin? Can I come in?” you called as you knocked tentatively on his door. You heard some shuffling and low muttering before he answered with an uncertain “sure”.

Swinging the door open for the second time this evening you were relieved to see Changmin perched on his bed, fully clothed with an xbox controller in his lap and his headset to the side of him. You saw the overwatch character select screen flickering brightly on his tv screen too so you could only assume he was playing online with someone. “Oh you’re playing? Who’s on?” you asked quietly as you walked a couple of steps into the room, the carton of kkanpunggi still in hand. “Uh, just Eric.” Changmin replied, his eyes darting around the room as he struggled to make eye contact with you, for understandable reasons. “Hi Eric!” You sang loudly so he could hear you through the microphone. Though it was quiet, only coming from Changmin’s headset you heard a faint chuckle and Eric’s voice returning the greeting. “I brought you some kkanpunggi, I thought you might like some, it’s really good” you said, turning your attention back to the boy actually in the room.

Changmin’s expression softened watching as you stood there, proudly holding up the box of chicken and chopsticks. Even after what happened you were still thoughtful enough to bring him nice food so he wouldn’t miss out. What he wouldn’t give to be able to just pull you onto his lap and feed one other the delicious food, cleaning up any stray sauce with kisses. In his dreams he thought.

“Awh how come he gets chicken?” Eric whined through the headphones pulling Changmin out of his daydream. “KEVIN-HYUNG CAN WE GET CHICKEN?!” The sudden loudness of the younger boy through the headphones made you giggle, and you shared an amused look with Changmin. As bizarre as it was though, you were rather grateful for Eric’s random inputs which actually seemed to have the effect of relieving some of the tension in the room.

“Yah be quiet! I’m not even wearing my headphones and that hurt my ears!” Changmin called towards his headset shutting the younger boy up with an insincere sorry. “Oh it smells good, thank you y/n!” Changmin smiled sweetly at you as you placed the box down on the side table next to his bed. “That’s okay!” You replied, moving a few steps away again before looking nervously towards Changmin’s headset. You wanted to apologise for your earlier intrusion to get it out of the way, but you definitely didn’t want Eric to be witness to that, so you lowered your voice to a whisper. “Oh um, so I’ll be leaving in a bit, I just wanted to say sorry for earlier, I um- I should probably have knocked before I came in.”

Changmin could feel the heat rising in his cheeks being reminded of the earlier incident and although his hair mostly covered it, the tips of his ears were now definitely a blazing pink. “Oh-“ He was frankly a little stuck for words. He’d been sat in his room for the better part of an hour rehearsing what he might say to you in his head, but now you’d come in here to apologise, with chicken no less, he didn’t really have an answer for you. “Uh- it’s okay,” he mumbled. “Sorry you had to see that.”

Before it could get too awkward however, you snickered as you heard Eric and Kevin clearly having an argument about chicken faintly through the headphones still laying next to Changmin and you thanked your lucky stars that they evidently weren’t listening to you and Changmin’s awkward exchange. “Well I promise I’ll knock next time.” Changmin chuckled, running a hand sheepishly through his hair as you moved back toward the door. “I’ll let you get back to the game if those two ever stop arguing, I’ll see you later yeah?”

Changmin nodded and said goodbye as you slipped out to return to the dining table where New sat, a mischievous glint in his eye as he grinned at you. “On a scale of 1 to Eric talking to girls, just how awkward was he?” He asked, clearly trying to stifle his laughter. “Shut up New” you scoffed as you began picking up the empty food cartons to throw in the trash. This little shit was gonna milk this out for as long as possible and you weren’t here for it. “Well at least you didn’t scream and run out this time” he bantered, only to be met with a look of pure contempt from you as he passed you one of the empty food containers. “I am this close to pouring this black bean sauce all over that new balenciaga t-shirt Chanhee” you threatened holding out a carton that had the remains of some sauce wobbling about in the bottom. Chanhee jumped back covering his shirt with his hands, knowing that it wasn’t an empty threat from another time he’d pissed you off and you threw half a cup of peach tea all over him. It was a waste of the tea, but he’d had it coming. “That’s what I thought.” You proclaimed before disappearing into the kitchen to dispose of the containers.

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On your way home your head was filled with all kinds of thoughts about what you’d unintentionally just witnessed. All you really wanted to do was relax after a long day of work and carrying heavy equipment around, but all you could think about was your name on Changmin’s lips and what the hell it meant. Was it just an accident? Or if it wasn’t, did that confirm everything that Kevin had been telling you? Did Changmin really like you? There had been an undeniable vibe between you for the past few weeks, what with the increasing amount of time you spent together and the intimate moment on the roof last night, but until this weekend, you hadn’t thought about it much, your mind largely preoccuppied with your anger towards Sunwoo.

Your mind flipped through your memories with Changmin as you sat on the tube, trying to make sense of everything, and as you did so, it dawned on you. Kevin was right. Changmin liked you. Perhaps that was even what he had tried to tell you the previous night before Jeju had abruptly cut him off. You recalled all the times Changmin had sat with you and listened to you rant about Sunwoo, the way he’d been so angry the day after that one fateful party, and how he’d always been there waiting for you with a hug when you were down. It was a wonder you’d never realised it before. Perhaps Changmin’s warm presence in your life had just become so natural you never thought anything of it, but it was becoming increasingly clear that this wasn’t just two friends looking out for eachother. No, it was more than that.

You felt a heat in your chest as you processed this revelation, trying to make sense of your own feelings. You adored Changmin, but then who didn’t? The way his dimples made him look like the sweetest angel whenever he smiled, the way his eyes lit up whenever he discovered something really interesting, the way he couldn’t stop himself from giggling even at the most inappropriate moments. It was impossible not to like him. But then not everybody knew him like you. They didn’t have your relationship. Changmin had always been there for you, even though it was Chanhee you called your best friend and Sunwoo he called his. He always seemed to know exactly what you needed – when to give you space, when to give you hugs or when to make you laugh so hard you cried. Upon reflection, there was no one who came close to making you feel as happy and comfortable as Changmin did. You couldn’t think of a single occasion he hadn’t made you smile and you slowly began to realise… Was it possible… that you liked him too?

Then the thoughts of Sunwoo swarmed your mind. Did he know Changmin was into you? No of course not. They weren’t on the best of terms right now but you imagined it would be a hell of a lot worse if he did know his best friend was infatuated with his ex-girlfriend. If anything were to happen between you and Changmin, Sunwoo would be outraged for certain. But maybe that was what he deserved. He’d lost the right to an opinion on your life when he tried to get back with you by sleeping with you when you were drunk. Although perhaps falling for his best friend was a little far…

You leaned your head back against the glass of the subway train, sighing as your mind replayed the memory of Changmin’s breathless expression as his hand gripped his manhood. You kind of wished it would stop, not wanting the embarrassment of getting so worked up in public, but you just couldn’t tear your thoughts away from it. After your newfound revelation, you were getting dangerously close to imagining what had been happening before you walked in, and what sort of things he might have been thinking of doing – you nearly missed your stop in your dazed state but thankfully the announcement pulled you out of your thoughts and you rushed to the doors just in time to hop off before they closed and the train sped off into the distance, away from you and your insurmountable dilemma.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*･ﾟ✧･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*･ﾟ✧･ﾟ

Taglist: @lovelymultiwrites @shiberrysan @m4rshm4llow @softforqiankun @sktbzc0re @staysstrays @softyfor-sweaterpaws @glxwingstar @chiefturtlebonkghost @faiirybread @lolibaaae @younggwingss @sunqnew @winterbeartaehyungbestboy @mx23 @bbangsoonie @seokgyuu @ateez-babygirl

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salemorbit · 4 years ago

Text

In The Beginning...

[Link x genderneutral!Reader]

warnings: none! maybe fear of heights

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

In the beginning, there was a voice.

Link's eyes fluttered open as the sound echoed in his head. He wiggled his fingers as the voice got louder.

"....Link....Link...."

Slowly, he sat up. Warm water dripped away from his body as several joints cracked with the movement. He inhaled deeply, looking around the room.

The voice in his head seemed to be just that: in his head. Like his conscience, but...different. It instructed that he get up, look at the tablet on the far left of the room, pick it up, start his journey.

As Link went through the motions, he eventually made it out of the cavern that he had been in and into the sunlight. He squinted his eyes in the sun, letting them adjust slowly as he took in the land before him.

Not much was certain in this moment. Link had just woken up from a century-long nap, and now he was tasked with venturing into a world unbeknownst to his malleable brain. His memories were wiped. Was this a dream?

Link made his way down the slope, talked to the old man, learned of what he should do next. His new destination was a strange structure buried in some rock. See what happens when it interacts with his slate. Easy enough.

He had to take down some Bokoblins on the way, masterfully slicing them down with an old double axe. After the fight, Link shifted the axe in his fingers, studying the weight. Uneven. Too heavy at the head. Double the strength needed to deal effective damage. Not comfortable.

As he slid the axe onto his back, Link climbed up a small hill to continue his quest. Upon reaching the top he halted. Eyes narrowing due to distance, Link peered across the clearing to make sure he was seeing things right.

Someone was crouching around the tilted rocks, hand brushing through pebbles. The old man hadn't mentioned anyone else besides him on the Plateau.

An enemy? Link sized them up.

No, he thought, too inattentive. If they were, anyway, Link could take them. He wasn't sure where this innate confidence came from, but he seemed certain he could take them.

Gingerly stepping forward, Link approached the mysterious person. He was soon within hearing distance of their incessant muttering:

"...ground is settled too evenly for this to be a recent obstruction," you grumbled, kneeling in front of an opening to the structure. "Was it purposefully built under these rocks? How does the pedestal work? I wonder if-"

Link cleared his throat, causing you to spin around and fall onto your butt in surprise. You scrambled back quickly, shielding yourself underneath the strange structure.

"I don't have any rupees on me!" You cried. "I'm not armed! I swear!"

Link just gazed at you, eyes slightly widening. You seemed afraid. Link didn't think he was that frightening. Maybe a little bedhead from the 100-year sleep?

Link consciously smoothed the crease he formed between his eyebrows. Giving himself what he could best figure was a neutral look, Link knelt down in front of you, holding his hands up softly to show he wasn't going to draw his axe on you. You shifted after a second of silence, peering between your raised arms to see Link urging allyship.

"You're not a thief?" You gulped. Link shook his head. "How'd you get up here?"

That wasn't a question he thought you'd ask him. Not even the old man seemed to wonder that. Link looked away for a second, legitimately thinking. How did he get up here?

"Can you talk? Are you deaf?" You asked, then quickly knocked on your head softly. "No, idiot, of course he's not deaf. He answered a question."

Link smiled softly, standing up and offering you a hand. You took it hesitantly, letting him strangely easily hoist you up. As you dusted yourself off, you looked him up and down cautiously. He sure didn't look the muscly type. This guy was just as tall as you, if not a little shorter. How could he handle such a big axe with such a lean frame? Dozens of questions dotted your mind, but he didn't seem like the talking type. Instead, he lifted something from his hip and gestured toward the structure behind you.

Your mouth dropped in a quiet gasp, gawking at the tablet he held in his hands. You knew those markings. You'd seen that before in the old books...

"How'd you get a Sheikah Slate?" You asked, ungraciously tearing it from his hands. You flipped it all around in your palms, furrowing your eyebrows as you ran your fingers over the carvings and tapped the sides harshly. Link just blinked at you, still registering the snatch, when you looked back up at him. Immediately you realized your rudeness, apologizing profusely and shoving the slate back into his hands.

"Excuse that, I've been traveling alone for some time," you said sheepishly, folding your hands behind your back upon returning the slate. "I guess I forgot my manners. The question still stands, though."

Link glanced up at you then raised his finger to point up toward the mountain you wanted to check out later. You tilted your head slightly. Did he live up there?

"The cave," he said, bringing his hand back down to his side. The first two words he spoke to you brought a smile to your face. His voice was a bit crackly, probably from not talking to many people himself, but serene.

"The cave. I was going to check up there later, maybe you could show me around?"

Link gestured again toward the structure behind you, ignoring the question. You nodded, eagerly stepping aside so he could move toward the pedestal. You followed slightly behind, wondering what he could possibly do to the structure that you hadn't tried for the last week you'd been on the Great Plateau.

Link took a few looks between the slate and the top of the pedestal before slowly setting the slate flat on the top of the pedestal. An orange glow flashed from the pedestal, making you gasp again and rush over to see the situation closer.

"....Watch out for falling rocks," you read slowly. You and Link shared a look before the platform you were standing on shook like an earthquake was splitting the Plateau. You stumbled and grabbed on to the pedestal, Link widening his stance so as not to topple over himself.

The entire structure ascended where you stood, carrying you and Link skyward. The top of the structure broke through the rocks it had previously been buried under, not stopping its pierce into the sky until you were well above the ground. At some point you had shut your eyes out of fear; heights were never your thing.

When the shaking finally stopped, Link tapped on your shoulder gently. You cracked open one eyelid, still gripping onto the pedestal with white knuckles. You gulped thickly, looking up at Link with your legs shaking.

"Is it done? Did we die?"

Link shook his head, pointing out toward the edge. You really didn't want to let go of the pedestal, but your curiosity got the better of you. With knobbly knees, you slowly walked near the edge of the platform that had risen from the ground.

The entirety of Hyrule Kingdom was laid out before you, almost making you forget how goddamn high up you were. The view was breathtaking, even higher than the edge of the Great Plateau, but the wind howled in your ears and reminded you where you were.

"Goddess above, I hate heights!" You yelped, falling to your knees in an attempt to be closer to the ground. How the platform rose, you didn't know. How you were going to get down, you painstakingly also didn't know.

You were stuck.

"It's a tower," came Link's voice, strong over the wind. "What goes up must come down."

His words did little to reassure you as you nervously nodded. Noticing your intense distress, Link knelt down next to you and lifted one of your arms.

"I don't know who you think you are, mystery man," you warned, though it came out weakly due to your fear, "but I will not let you take me to any secondary location."

Link chuckled softly, shaking his head. "I can help you down."

"Goddess, no."

"I can-"

"I've decided to live the rest of my life up here, thank you very much. There will be no helping down of any kind. I either die up here or die getting down, and I've had enough dreams of falling to know that's not the way I want to go out."

A few more moments of coaxing later, and somehow you had agreed to place your life in the hands of a spindly stranger on top of the highest thing you had ever let yourself be on top of. Screwing your eyes shut, you clung onto Link as he guided you down the sides of the tower, trying so desperately not to let the whistling wind psych you out.

Soon enough, you felt the ground at your feet. Collapsing almost immediately, you melodramatically lay your face on the ground and muttered thankful prayers to the Goddess. Link watched, an amused look on his face, as you finally stood up and turned to thank him.

"I owe you one," you said stiffly, avoiding his laughing gaze. "How about you stick around and I cook you some dinner? I know a pretty good steamed meat recipe."

At the mention of food, Link's stomach grumbled loudly. This eased the tensions a tad, you smiling gladly at his turn to be embarrassed. A red tint appeared on his ears as he placed a hand on his stomach.

"I'll take that as a yes."

~~~~~~~~~

wooooooohoooooo first fic comin at you full force!! nothing too intense or fluffy or anything. just trying to get a read for how it feels to write in this format.

requests are welcome! :))

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blazestarninja13 · 3 years ago

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Peggy & Teenager f!reader assassin mentorship HCs

A/N: This was a request for bells313131

I had so much fun with this one so sorry it’s so long 😅

Reader is 15-18 years old

After trying to take on Peggy and The Howling Commandos in Russia and getting caught, you are knocked out and taken back to the SSR.

When in the interrogation room, you are scared and confused as Thompson keeps on harshly asking questions that you don’t know the answers to. Peggy tells him to calm down and she tries to talk to you.

Peggy introduces herself to you and calmly asks you the questions whilst understanding that you legitimately did not know the answers to most of them since you were just a simple teen assassin who had been trained and tortured her whole life. Despite the fact that you were pretty sure Peggy was the one who took you down, you felt safe in her presence.

After speaking to you, she stepped out of the room and discussed with Dooley and Thompson what they were gonna do with you since they wanted to keep you for further questioning. The only two choices were to keep you in a cell at the SSR overnight or for Peggy to take you back to The Griffith with her. She was reluctant with both choices but in the end decided to take you with her because she knew that you deserved better than to be put back in a cold cell.

As Peggy and you walk back towards The Griffith, you ask her why she was doing this. “Sometimes, we just need a second chance in life and you deserve to have one”. You were still confused as to why she was being so nice to you, you were a deadly and highly trained assassin who had a decent body count.

On the way, she asks if you’re hungry and you keep saying no despite the fact that you are actually starving since you haven’t anything in the past 48 hours. She tells you that you need to work on your lying.

She takes you into the Automat where you meet Angie for the first time and gets you something to eat.

Once back at The Griffith, she tells Ms Fry that you’re her cousin so she allows you to stay with her.

That night when you go to sleep in the makeshift bed that Peggy made-up for you, you realise that this is the first time you’ve truly felt cared about in your whole life. You decided that it’s time to leave the assassin life behind.

During the next few days, you go back to the SSR to do questioning and you end up telling them that you are willing to cooperate with them. After discussing, Dooley comes into the room and welcomes you to the SSR. You are confused at why they trust you after such a short time but are glad to be accepted anyway.

You are told that you will be trained by Peggy. You accept and your training begins.

Your training with Peggy starts off a bit rusty but still fun as the two of you further bond during sparring sessions where the minds of both of you engage in a battle of wits.

After a month of training, you start to think about how this is the first time you’ve ever had someone to look up to, a parental figure in a sense. You ask Peggy why she trusted you in the first place and why she even cares about you.

“Y/N, darling. I knew that even though you’ve been raised up to do many bad things, that maybe you still had the heart and soul to change. So I believed in my instincts and you’ve achieved something that many can’t do and that is breaking out of a nasty old habit that’s being at you for your whole life. I believe in you Y/N and I believe that you’ll make a brilliant agent.”

Out of nowhere, you hug her and she hugs you back.

When you guys aren’t training or at the SSR, you like having tea together, as she tells you her stories of how she fought alongside Captain America as well as listening to the radio and either listening to music or making snarky comments about what’s said in the news.

You also become good friends with Angie who you find makes the world’s greatest hot chocolate and is a great actor. You and Peggy enjoy watching her act for you guys.

You are ultimately thankful for Peggy’s instincts and having faith in you being the reason why your life has gone from being a murder, to a somewhat normal teenager that just happens to be a secret agent.

#thank you for your request!#I really enjoyed this #peggy carter #agent carter #marvel #headcanons #angie martinelli

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boxoftheskyking · 4 years ago

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Something Good, Part Fourteen

This chapter was so hard, you guys. I hope it kind of works. If it doesn’t, feel free to write your own version. That’s what fanfic’s for, after all.

In which Wei Wuxian experiences A Reckoning

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen

Wei Wuxian sits in the dark, under a tree, and tries to meditate. Inhale (he knows, he knows, he knows). Exhale (a low buzzing, a rushing like wind through the Burial Mounds).

There must be order. He cannot shake apart, he can’t be driven mad, he’s not that wounded, starving boy anymore. He will approach it like a complicated talisman he wants to recreate. Break things down.

Lan Wangji knows. It stands to reason that the rest of Gusu Lan knows—or at least the Sect Leader and Grandmaster. And they agreed to his punishment, bore him as a shame to the sect. Made him a commoner.

You made yourself a commoner. A cultivator without a core is no cultivator, therefore not nobility, therefore common. That’s the mathematics of it. Who took your core away? You did.

So what’s the problem, really? The Lan Sect has broken nothing, betrayed nothing. They have treated Wei Wuxian as a villain, deemed him a villain based on all the information possible.

The Lan clan are learned, virtuous, just. Lan Wangji is learned, virtuous, just. And if Lan Wangji sees him as a villain, then…

Then he’s a villain. Fine. He doesn’t mind being the villain. It doesn’t mean he’s evil, it means—

It means you were wrong.

A night bird screams somewhere behind him, and he flinches.

There it is. There’s the nerve.

Under everything, every laugh, every tease, every clever sidestep, the root of it all is this unshakeable belief that he is right. He can play anyone because he knows something they don’t—that Wei Wuxian is always right. Even after everything he’s been through, he hasn’t had any regrets, because what he did was right. He saved his brother, he defended himself. That was right.

And raising an army of corpses, and cultivating as far down the dark path as you could before they caught you, all of that was right?

He never needed to be a hero, a genius, a beauty. Anytime someone flattered and admired him when he was younger, it never felt right, felt like an itchy shirt in the wrong size. It wasn’t flattery you wanted. You never needed anything from outside. You’ve just always needed to be right.

And be honest—the voice inside him spits it at him like venom—the whole time you’ve worked here, lived as a servant, it’s not the dishonor or the work that hurts you. They want you shamed, but you aren’t, not really. It’s that it wasn’t your idea. If you’d just decided to walk away, gone to live as a farmer somewhere, wouldn’t you have been proud of yourself? Wei Wuxian, who fooled them all. Wei Wuxian who walked away.

His hackles raise, his mind springing so typically to its own defense. (What else was I to do? What would they do, if they were in my place?) But the root of that defense, the “what else could I do”—it still comes back to his fucking pride.

He doesn’t like to look at that inner spine of pride. Never has. (I never needed anything from anyone.) The defensive voice is small, but stronger, finding its feet. (How can I be proud if I never needed anything from anyone?)

That makes it worse, the venom leaks from between his teeth, over his lip, staining his skin with invisible truth. So proud that you never valued anything outside your own mind. The only standards that matter are your own.

(It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t have a choice. Things just happened to me.)

It takes pride to be a martyr too, Wei Ying.

He’s been telling himself that all the ugliness inside him came from the Burial Mounds, came as the result of his sacrifice, but what if he’s been wrong? It was there earlier, the whole time. That horrible, vicious pride. The pride that made him take an extra beating, even though he knew it hurt Yanli and Uncle Jiang to watch. The pride that never let Jiang Cheng win, even when he saw how much he needed it. The pride that only ever let him tease Lan Wangji during that perfect summer, made him push and push and push beyond what any reasonable person could take, but never ask for what he wanted, never offer anything true. The pride that drove him to the edge of his abilities, raising corpses without provocation, testing the boundaries of what he’s capable of, just because he can. Just to see what’s possible. It’s a blade without a handle, this pride; it cuts him too.

(Attempt the impossible.) The defending voice is a child, learning the motto for the first time. (I didn’t have a choice, it’s how they raised me.)

Poor Wei Ying. Nothing is his fault. Nothing is ever, ever his fault.

The whirlpool opens up inside him, an Abyss leading him down, down, howling in his ears. Creatures move around him in the dark woods, snapping branches, breathing in the dark. The venom voice grows like a dog inside his mind, and the child shrinks back, desperate for something to hide behind. He can’t breathe; his lungs are stone, his bones are iron, he’s going to sink into the earth and leave no trace behind, and no one will miss him.

Get up.

It’s not the defender, and it’s not the accuser. It’s familiar. It’s—

Get up, Wei Ying.

It’s Madam Xiao.

Get up, Wei Ying. There’s work to be done.

No, it’s Madam Yu.

Get up, Wei Ying. You’re no good to anyone crying in the dark.

It’s Cangse Sanren.

Get up, Wei Ying. You’re still alive, aren’t you? You survived the ghost mountain, you climbed your way with bleeding feet to the top of a pile of corpses and conquered them all. And this is where you give up? What, will you be chewed to death by rabbits? Get up, you silly boy.

Wei Wuxian gets up.

---

He is rolling up his one spare shirt and pair of trousers when Lin Biming finds him. If he’s surprised to see the bag on the bed in front of him, he doesn’t show it.

“Where will you go?” he asks, and in the half-light of the empty sleeping quarters he looks old, sad.

“Wherever you like. Send me anywhere, sell me off, trade me for someone competent. Someone who doesn’t scorch the laundry, eh, Master Lin?”

Lin Biming doesn’t smile back.

“Surely another sect would take me. It’s not fair that Gusu bears this shame alone. The Grandmaster was right about that.”

Lin Biming goes to a chest in the corner and pulls out an extra blanket. He rolls it neatly and holds it out. Wei Wuxian takes it and turns to pack it away, blinking hard against the sweetness of it.

“I—” he starts, but he’s cut off.

“I’ll need to speak to the Sect Leader. If I just let you go, that’s a diplomatic issue.”

“Of course.” There’s so much more to say, to apologize for. The man deserves an explanation, but Wei Wuxian can’t think of where to begin.

“Get yourself some leftover dinner from the kitchen. I’m not sure how long your trip will be.”

Wei Wuxian slings the bag over his shoulder and follows him out the door. He tries not to think about the weight of little Lan Sizhui on his back as he ducks away towards the kitchen. Before he can enter, a hand grabs his elbow.

“Wei-qianbei?”

“Wen Ning? What are you doing here?”

“The little ones can’t sleep, so I wanted to find you. Why do you have a bag?”

Wei Wuxian looks around, but can’t find a way to stall. Take the pain, you’ve earned it.

“I have to leave.”

Wen Ning’s eyes go wide and round, his dear little mouth falling open. “Why? Did we— What did we do wrong?”

Wei Wuxian throws his arms around him. “Nothing, nothing at all. Never, ever, ever. It’s all big world things, nothing to do with you.”

“But we need you.” Wen Ning’s hands grasp the back of his shirt. “Please, you can’t leave.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s like being cut open again, things removed from inside his chest. “Wen Ning, I—”

“You have to say goodbye to them.” Wen Ning lets him go and steps back, jaw set.

“I can’t.”

“You have to. None of the others ever said goodbye. But you’re different, right? You have to be different. For the little ones, at least. They won’t understand.”

“They’ll forget soon enough. And you have your jiejie. Isn’t that better? She’ll take care of you, and you’ll forget all about this one servant. It’ll be better with her. Aren’t you glad she’s here now?”

I’m right, I’m right, agree with me.

“I am, but . . .” Wen Ning’s brow is furrowed, his shoulders slumping. “I didn’t think, when she got here, I didn’t think I’d have to choose.”

Wei Wuxian opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Wen Ning nods once, growing a year in that one gesture, and leaves. Wei Wuxian is numb, no feeling in his fingers, no heartbeat.

He stumbles away from the kitchen (away, away, away echoing in his mind), heading for the main path down the mountain. Lin Biming can find him here, or they can send guards to capture him, he just needs to keep walking. His skin is nailed to the wall of the kitchen, and every step pulls another inch of it away.

He’s just stepped out under the trees when he hears “WEI WUXIAN” shouted with a full burst of spiritual energy, echoing and reverberating off the stone beneath him. Sparks fly past his ears and he freezes, shocked out of his despair.

He turns around gingerly to find Wen Qing staring him down, her hair loose and one red robe hurriedly thrown over her sleeping clothes. A few white clad figures are hurrying down the path behind her, but Wei Wuxian can’t look away from the fury on her face.

“Wen Qing?”

“You’re leaving?”

“I have to. After what you said. They know, and I can’t stay here if they know and it makes no difference.”

“What difference is it supposed to make? What does it matter?” He’s never heard her so angry, and the part of him that isn’t legitimately frightened is downright proud.

He can see the figures behind her now, Lin Biming, Lan Xichen, and Lan Wangji.

“Just let me go, Wen Qing. It’s fine. I was only ever going to get in the way—”

“You made my little brother cry!” she bellows, and a hot wind blows his hair back from his face.

Lan Xichen reaches out to touch her arm gently.

“Lady Wen, if I may?” He turns to Wei Wuxian, looking tired but patient. “Wei Wuxian, I understand that today was difficult. Wen Chao’s reaction was . . . regrettable. And if you cannot stay in Cloud Recesses, we respect your wishes. You have more than earned that.”

Wei Wuxian stares at him, confused. “It’s not about today.”

“It’s not?”

“All this time, I—” Wei Wuxian looks around at all of them, at a loss for words. “All this time I thought you didn’t know the truth. About my golden core. I thought if you did, then you might— but I was wrong. And I don’t know what that mean; I don’t know what I am anymore; I don’t know what I’m good for, and I can’t figure that out here.”

“Why not?” It’s Lan Wangji. Wei Wuxian covers his face and groans into his hands. Because of you, and the way you’re looking at me right now, because your hands are so big and warm and your eyes are so soft, and none of it means anything, and I can’t handle it.

“We all know you lost your golden core,” Lan Xichen says gently.

“You can’t tell Jiang Cheng.” He’s a moment away from falling to his knees. “Please, you owe me nothing, but please. It will destroy him.”

“I don’t understand,” Lan Xichen sounds like he is really, truly trying. “What does Jiang Wanyin have to do with—”

“Because he’s the one who has it!”

“Wei Ying,” Wen Qing says, grabbing his hands. “I’ve told no one. I swore to you I wouldn’t.”

“But you said—”

“I swore to you.”

“You said he knows. You told me that Lan Zhan knows.” His hands are the only real part of him, tethered by hers. The rest of him is smoke, looking for a shape, a container, floating around as nothing. His vision is blurry, like the moment before fainting.

“Wei Ying.” She grabs his face and shakes him a little. “I meant that he knows how you feel about him. I thought that’s what you were saying. Everyone knows. You’d have to be a blind fool not to.”

The complete reversal of Wei Wuxian’s entire life is interrupted by a quiet gasp to his right.

“How Wei Ying feels . . . about me?” Lan Wangji is staring at him, eyebrows furrowed.

Wen Qing sighs. “And clearly I was wrong anyway.”

“And clearly,” Lan Xichen says, “there is information we are lacking.”

Wen Qing looks over at him for a long moment, then nods. “Wei Ying, it’s time to tell them.”

“Can I sit down?” He doesn’t wait for a response before he drops down into the dirt, legs kicked out like a half-crushed spider. Lan Wangji rushes over to kneel beside him, one hand hovering an inch away from his forehead.

“Are you all right?”

“You’re not the doctor,” Wei Wuxian says faintly. “She is.”

“Is he sick?” Lan Wangji asks the others.

Wen Qing smacks Wei Wuxian’s face gently. “He’ll be fine. Wei Ying, I’m going to talk to Lan Xichen. You talk to Wangji.”

“I don’t know how.”

“You invented a new type of cultivation while living off corpse potatoes and carrion. You’ll figure it out.”

Without another word, she turns to Lan Xichen and nods, gesturing him back up the path. Lin Biming, looking as stressed as ever, grabs Wei Wuxian’s bag and hurries after them.

“I guess I’m staying,” Wei Wuxian says, and somehow that sets him off laughing. “I think I’m going mad.”

“What did you mean. Wei Ying. When you said ‘he has it.’ What did you mean?”

Finally, Wei Wuxian’s eyes focus, and he can’t stop a smile at Lan Wangji’s worried face. How strange that he used to think he had no expression.

“I don’t think I can stand up right now, Lan Zhan. Will you sit by me?”

Lan Wangji doesn’t hesitate, he sits down in the dirt, white robes and all. They must make an absurd picture, white and grey sprawled out on the path like cast off clothing.

“Lan Zhan, I’m going to tell you a story. But you have to promise—”

“I promise.”

“Ah, Lan Zhan! You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“It doesn’t matter. I promise.”

The promise is a building. A house for him to live in. He stops drifting and feels the ground underneath him, and then he begins.

Part Fifteen

#something good #assorted writings #the untamed #cql #mo dao zu shi #ughhh this plot stuff is too much for me #climb every freakin mountain indeed

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welllpthisishappening · 4 years ago

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On This Night and in This Light (3/3)

Emma Swan knows she’s pretty good at what she does.

Helping the magically afflicted and affected find jobs in this realm isn’t the most glamorous thing in the world, and, sure, there’s a lot of paperwork, but she figures she’s helping people and that’s the important thing. It’s structured. Calm, even.

Until. It’s always until.

Killian Jones shows up with his stupid smirk and his tendency to lean against the door frame in Emma’s office and his distinct lack of magic. Or knowledge of what they’re really doing at Mills Personnel. Everything kind of goes off the rails after that.

—-

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 6.5K of magic and eventual happily ever after

AN: There’s some magic here. Some kissing. Some curses. And happily ever after, of course. Thanks for reading along with this little distraction from the legitimate stress of the real world. You guys are all an absolute delight.

Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll || Or start from the top

—-

“Are you good?” Tilting her head up to meet Killian’s vaguely crinkled forehead and passably confused expression, Emma almost regrets the question she didn’t plan on asking. That’s the problem with him. And them, at least in the abstract sense.

Words tumble out of her without much thought to their meaning or collective, if not slightly metaphorical, weight. Defenses she’s spent a lifetime cultivating feel as if they’ve crumbled at her feet, which is impressive since she’s laying down, but the metaphor still checks out and Emma keeps asking questions.

Without being wholly afraid of the answers she’ll get.

“Be more specific,” Killian murmurs, and her heart does something stupid. Skips a beat. Sparks her magic. Threatens to leave her glowing in the tangle of sheets she’s absolutely stolen in the middle of the night.

“Just—I mean with everything.” Nosing at her cheek, Emma can practically hear Killian’s smile. “‘Fraid that’s not any more specific, my love. But if we’re going to speak in the abstract before coffee—” “—Oh, we should make coffee.” He kisses her cheek, that time. “Then I am exceptionally good.” “Pretty vast adverb.”

“Well, you asked a very broad question. But I stand by my answer, particularly when you’re not wearing any clothing. Why, am I giving off not-good vibes?” “Maybe lame ones if you keep using the word vibe in actual conversation. I just—I don’t know, wanted to make sure, I guess. Working for Mills isn’t exactly the height of luxury and it can be a weird place, and I...we never really looked at apartments for you, because we can do that if you want to, but—” Stumbling over the words, Emma wishes her hands were free. She’d like to wave them around. Use them as a distraction to whatever has settled on her face and in the pit of her stomach, and this wasn’t really the plan. Granted, the plan occurred while she was overly exhausted and reeling a bit from rather large emotional realizations, but telling him the truth about absolutely everything is suddenly a bit more daunting in the light of day.

And they haven’t even had coffee yet.

Killian’s hand moves. Faster than Emma’s entirely ready for, his fingers brush a strand of wayward hair away from her eyes and then he’s kissing the bridge of her nose and pulling her against his chest and—

“This was not my plan. In some great expectation for my life, I’m not sure I could have ever imagined this is what it’d be like. But,” Killian adds, as soon as Emma’s magic shifts into something far closer to dread, “if all of this ended with your freakishly cold feet waking me up every morning, then I can’t be very upset about it.”

Swooning pre-coffee can’t be advisable. Emma’s heart doesn’t care. It flips and flops and does that possible explosion thing again, and she’s a little concerned the force of her smile will have adverse effects on the paint in her bedroom.

“You don’t think Mills is weird?” “Do you?” Emma shakes her head. “Nah, no questions for questions. This is—” “—An inquiry?” Her shoulders slump. Under the blankets, and she’s really got a shit ton of blankets. “I don’t know, Swan. Mills is...a place, a job. One where you work, and that’s mostly why I’m interested in continuing to work there. Should I not be thinking that?” The last few words come with a bit of understandable concern and maybe a hint of frustration, and she should have said something earlier.

It’s very frustrating to realize how much smarter the part-time cricket is than Emma.

She hopes he’s enjoying his job, too.

“My feet aren’t really that cold.”

Killian scoffs. “I promise, they are like little ice cubes attached to your legs.” “Lucky you’re here to provide external heat, then.”

Burrowing her face closer to the crook of his neck, Emma gives herself a moment to relish in that warmth, like he’s some sort of personal sun or a battery or another bit of science she doesn’t understand and David always likes to say that science is just explained magic. Emma wonders if it works the other way, too.

Magic is something that simply hasn’t been explained yet. No rational reasoning, or anything except the kind of gut feeling that can change everything.

“I am,” Killian says, and it probably isn’t meant to sound like a promise. “Are you good?” Dots of light appear behind Emma’s eyelids every time she blinks, trying to come up with an answer that won’t send him running and she doesn’t know what she’ll do if he runs. Energy prickles at the tips of her fingers, curling around either one of her wrists and lingering in the slight bend of her left elbow because at some point her left palm has flattened itself against Killian’s stomach. “Mills can be kind of weird,” Emma mutters, trying to pick her words more carefully now. “And that’s...there’s a reason for that, and a reason I started working there and—” A phone starts vibrating.

Loudly enough that it also immediately falls from the nightstand it was charging on, and keeps buzzing around on the floor. Killian sighs.

“Hold that thought.”

Emma wishes she could. But her hands are already back underneath the blankets, and she’s all too aware of how bright they’ve gone in the last few seconds and the state of Killian’s shoulders make it obvious he’s not all that pleased with whatever he’s being told. “Yeah, yeah, I can—I mean, it’s like twenty blocks the wrong way, but—God, yes, Scarlet. I can come back for a few minutes.”

He doesn’t bother to plug the phone back in, and for like a solid half second Emma gets distracted by the lack of clothes before her eyes fly up and Killian’s sighing again and the weight in the pit of her stomach grows.

“Coffee later?” Emma blinks. “Sure. Is everything ok?” “No idea, just that Scarlet said he had to talk to me and it couldn’t wait and—” Killian shrugs, fingers finding the back of his neck. “I probably won’t be that late, but if Regina asks—” “—I’ll tell her.” Something tugs at the back of her mind, a warning Emma can’t place, but she can sense a lie with almost startling accuracy and she knows Killian isn’t lying to her. She just can’t figure out why Will would lie to him.

Halloween’s not her favorite day.

People assume all magical and mythical creatures thrive on this one day of the year, but more often than not Emma finds that it’s just another busy day when those same magical and mythical creatures come out of the metaphorical woodwork in droves to get jobs. And sure, some of the rumors are true. There are certain times when the fabric between realms can be a bit more flimsy than usual. Both midnights, for example. Eleven-eleven’s another big one. So, teenage girls had that one right, at least.

And yeah, ok, Halloween also means Regina bakes half a dozen apple pies for the whole office, but when the whole office is already overrun by inquiring applicants, Emma can’t find it in herself to be very excited for a dessert she only kind of likes.

She’d never admit that to Regina.

Self-preservation instincts, and all that.

Plus, days like this are always cold. Fraught with that certain nip in the air, and leaves that crunch under Emma’s boots. Only to also get stuck to the bottom of Emma’s boots, and she has to twist her wrist to get rid of her leaf-based trail on her way to her paperwork-covered desk.

The same one David’s leaning against.

“You tell him yet?”

She missed one leaf. Figures. Emma never even went trick-or-treating as a kid. Halloween’s a sham. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.” “Sure you don’t. It’s dumb that you haven’t yet.” “Voice your opinion a little louder, please.” “Nothing is going to happen,” David says, but Emma barely hears over the sound of sudden and complete disagreement that scratches its way from the depths of her soul. Maybe Halloween makes her a little maudlin, actually. She can’t believe she didn’t get to tell him. “It hasn’t yet.” “Why are you jinxing things like that?” “There is no such thing as jinx, and c’mon, if you guys can get through today with a hundred magically unemployed people, then sky’s the limit.” “Not even clever.” David shakes his head. “You’re impressed and swayed, I know it. Plus it’s not like you’re a bad witch or anything.” “I’m sorry, a bad witch?” “Yeah, you know. None of your intentions, even when lying to the guy you’re stupid into—” “—Opinions keep coming fast and furious, don’t they?” “Because he’s right,” Ruby calls, twisting around desks to involve herself in a conversation Emma doesn’t want to participate in anymore. “You really didn’t tell him yet? That’s nuts. And you’re a good person, Em. With a very good looking face. Who wouldn’t want to make out with that? Ad nauseum.” “I’m going to be honest, using a word that sounds like nauseous isn’t helping your case much,” Emma says. “And I’m going to tell him. I am, just—things got crazy this morning.” Ruby howls. With laughter. Drawing more than a few curious stares, and rather pointed glare from Regina’s direction. David pales noticeably. “Did they?” Ruby presses. “How crazy are we talking and was it also vaguely acrobatic, because I feel like Jones could move if he had to, but that’s strictly theorizing on my part, so—” Sentences without end are quickly becoming Emma’s least favorite thing. Only slightly edging out ringing phones. The one on her desk lights up, which doesn’t happen very often, but she can’t imagine the light is supposed to be green.

David’s talking. She’s dimly aware of it — the soft hum that sounds more like Charlie Brown’s teacher than any of the human characteristics Emma is certain they both have, and that’s another quasi-Halloween reference. Rocks appear to have landed rather forcefully in her stomach, and that’s what she gets for optimism.

“Swan,” Killian breathes, as soon as she pulls the phone to her ear. “Swan, Emma listen to me, you can’t—” Seriously, the lack of sentence structure is becoming intolerable. Killian grunts, the sound turning into a gasp almost immediately and a few shouted no, no, no leave them alone and Emma doesn’t remember standing.

Only that she’s knocked her chair over in the process.

“Is this Ms. Swan?” a new voice Emma almost recognizes asks. “Because it seems I’ve got something of yours, while you have something I’m particularly interested in. Let’s make a little exchange, shall we?”

It’s disappointing that her mouth goes dry. Emma assumes that’s because she’s all but panting, bent awkwardly over her desk while her eyes scan the room for something or someone and—it clicks. The voice.

“Zelena. This is Zelena, isn't it?” Both David and Ruby make matching noises of disbelief, but the buzzing is back and Regina is moving and the line’s gone dead anyway. “She’s not supposed to be here,” Regina says with enough calm that it grates on every single one of Emma’s already-fraying nerves, “magical control sent her back to Oz.” Emma can’t cope with this. Any of it. All she wanted was to drink coffee with her decidedly human and very normal, if not ridiculously attractive boyfriend and they’ve never actually used relationship qualifiers.

That’s disappointing.

“Right, right, yeah, ok, of course” Emma mumbles, and she doesn’t bother to fix her chair. “Happy fucking Halloween, I guess.”

It takes her all of five minutes and one person dressed in costume to realize that running is absolutely and completely pointless.

Emma’s a goddamn witch.

And it’s raining.

Drops slide down her temples, drip down the back of her neck and work under her jacket because she never even got the chance to take her jacket off. Which is something of an exceptionally small miracle now, but she’s already cold and she’s always so fucking cold and—

He called her Emma.

He called her—

“My love,” she whispers, entirely to herself and that part isn’t really true. Shadows hover just outside the edge of her vision, what Emma knows are her friends waiting for instructions or a plan, and she’s got to come up with a plan and she doesn’t know where Belle and Will live.

She doesn’t have to.

Reaching her hand back, Emma’s fingers lace through Regina’s, and her soft instruction of “all instinctual,” doesn’t get lost in the hum of the city or the bustle of a holiday that requires masks and chocolate-based gluttony. It takes root. In Emma’s mind, and those same pieces of her soul, finds the tiny bits of space between her stomach rocks and spreads out from there.

Warming her from the inside out.

She closes her eyes.

“What the fucking fuck?” Will shouts, Emma’s feet slamming into hardwood floor that was probably highlighted in this apartment listing. Eyes bugging, he’s plastered to the wall opposite her, and Emma’s pleasantly surprised to find he’s not gagged, but she also kind of figures it’s because Belle is and there’s something inherently villainous about allowing the love interest to make noise while their partner is being tortured.

By a woman wearing a pointed witch’s hat. “Kind of cliché, isn’t it?” Ruby muses, and Emma’s not surprised they’ve started their rescue mission with sarcasm. She also can’t respond. Her eyes are too busy trying to take in the scene.

Stacks of books litter the floor, half the living room furniture on its side as if it’s been knocked over in a fit of inevitably-magical rage, and Belle doesn’t look as scared as annoyed that she’s been bound in one of the few upright chairs. Emma’s heart stutters. Catching her breath is impossible, head on a swivel as she tries to find—

“Killian,” she exhales, and he’s not gagged either. No visible restraints keep him a few feet away from Will, but Emma can feel the magic rippling off him and it smells strongly of bitter lemons. Or expired key lime pie.

Neither of those things are inherently Halloween, or all that magical. But then Zelena’s turning slowly and the green splotches on her face ensure any attempts at passably funny metaphors or desperate attempts to maintain her sense of reality disappear.

“Huh,” David says, “that’s new, actually. We ever see anyone change color before?”

Regina clicks her tongue. “She’s not changing color. She’s giving in.” “To what, exactly?” “Jealousy. Isn’t that right, Zelena? Been the crux of the problem forever, hasn’t it?”

Emma’s head is spinning. She’s not moving. “Wait, wait, what the fuck is going on?” One side of Killian’s mouth tugs up, amusement in his gaze and that can’t possibly be right. “You are stuck to the wall, idiot!’ “Oh, Swan, you do know how to flatter a man.” “What is happening?” He can’t shrug, but Emma knows he tries and that should not be as charming as it is. Mary Margaret squeezes her hand. The one that’s almost neon. “Turns out Scarlet didn’t actually want to talk to me this morning. We definitely could have had coffee.” “Is that a euphemism for—” Ruby starts, only to snap her jaw closed when Regina gapes at her. Emma’s starting to lose feeling in her fingers.

And she sees the exact moment any sense of teasing and entirely false bravado leaves Killian. Lips going thin, his shoulders still don’t move, but Emma swears his fear reverberates through her and that’s not the emotion she was interested in sharing that morning. “You’ve got to get out of here, love. Now, it’s—” Zelena’s hand moves so quickly, it’s not much more than a passably-green blur. Nothing else comes out of Killian’s mouth. His jaw moves, working against a shield none of them can see, and Emma’s stomach is somewhere in the vicinity of her throat.

Even with all those rocks.

“How did you get back here?” Regina asks, stepping towards the front of their ragtag group. Fire bursts from her hands, flames that flicker up her forearms and draw another grunt out of Will. Whether it’s surprise or just the generic sound of being impressed, Emma’s not sure.

Bits of green cling to the end of Zelena’s mouth when she smiles. “Shall I start at the beginning, then?” “God yes, please,” Emma sighs.

Zelena doesn’t take her hat off. Really, she’s almost making it work for her. As far as costumes go, this one’s kind of basic, but there’s no cape or a broomstick and Emma’s never met a witch who was interested in flying a broom anywhere.

“Wanted to stay conspicuous, you understand,” Zelena says, “Draw too much attention to myself and—ah, well, that’s not what’s important now.” “What?” “Why you, Emma Swan. Obviously.” “This isn’t the beginning,” David mumbles, and both Emma and Regina shift before Zelena can so much as lift her chin. One of the windows on a different wall flies open, half a dozen pigeons descending on the living room and nipping at the ends of Zelena’s hair. They pull on the sides of her dress and peck at the green spots that are growing on her cheeks.

Whistling, Mary Margaret jerks her head and the pigeons fly away, looking a little like an avian synchronized swimming team. “Leave him alone.”

“Shit,” Ruby says, “that was impressive and aggressive. Ignore the rhyme.”

Emma tilts her head. “Slant rhyme, right? Can’t rhyme matching sounds.” Someone makes a noise — it comes from the general direction of Killian and Will, but it can’t be Killian and Emma wants it to be him anyway. Zelena doesn’t look very impressed with any of them. That’s fair, it’s probably frustrating to have your monologue interrupted so often.

“If you don’t mind,” she sneers, Emma waving her free hand like she’s capable of giving the bad guy permission to keep talking. “It had been quite some time since I’d been in this realm, and plenty of things had changed. More magic, a certain kind of power that hung in the air. Energy that could change the course of everything, strong enough that it could probably rewrite time itself if it wanted to. And I want it to.” “To what?” “Were you not listening? Rewrite time.”

Breathing out of her mouth is not attractive. It’s loud and makes Emma’s tongue feel larger than it actually is, especially when she has to keep using it to lick her lips. “That’s—that’s insane. You’re insane. You didn’t just want to get a normal job? I mean...you were at Mills. I saw you.” “Power of the Universe at my fingertips and you think I’d be satisfied with a normal job? No wonder you have no idea what you are. Which,” Zelena glances meaningfully at Killian, “means you, Emma Swan, are the reason I’m here.” “Speak English!” Zelena huffs. “I am. What I felt when I returned to this realm? It was you, my dear. Your power, your magic, your ability. And, yes, I could have given into the hum-drum existence of this place and the structure of Mills Personnel, but where exactly is the fun in that?”

Emma hopes she’s not expected to answer. She doesn’t have one. It’s entirely possible she’s going to snap several of Mary Margaret’s fingers in half.

“Anyway,” Zelena continues, “locating that power wasn’t easy, but Regina Mills’ ability to make things happen is legendary. Finding a person’s niche, that’s her greatest talent. And so I did come to Mills, looking for a position that would help me get the rest of the requirements.”

Ruby keeps shaking her head. Emma can’t seem to move. Or breathe. Her eyes keep darting back towards Killian, trying to make sure he’s breathing or reacting in a way that doesn’t threaten to make her cry. Nothing.

He’s plastered to a wall with magic, of course not.

“You see, a time spell is one of the more complex out there. Need all sorts of things in addition to the kind of magic that can fuel it. Which is what I wanted when I got to Mills. Hoped I could get placed in a hospital or something of the sort.”

On the increasingly small scale of things that surprise Emma, that somehow makes the cut. “You need, like, an IV drip or something?” “A baby,” Zelena replies easily, and Belle whimpers against the gag. “Pure of spirit, you understand. Other things too. Courage, wisdom, maybe a heart if I could get lucky—” “—An actual heart?” Will balks. “Spend a lot of time in Wonderland, did ya?” “I mean, she could probably get the heart in the hospital too if she wasn’t picky about her choices,” Ruby reasons, and this whole thing is absurd. Maybe that’s the theme for Halloween as a whole, though.

More of Zelena’s face is green.

“I had hoped I’d get someone competent who could help me. Or even the source of the power. Naturally,” she jerks her head in Killian’s direction, “I ended up with this sot. Who suggested working at a clinic or agreeing to something called an orderly position. Well, I knew he wouldn’t help me, but I did get something out of it. I knew you were there, Emma. And—” Zelena’s eyes rove towards Belle, and the hands collapsed over the front of her stomach. Realization crashes over Emma in waves, the rocks disappearing only to be replaced with a bone-deep chill that douses any bit of light in her. “So I do have a few options for you all now.” “What are you trying to fix?” “Hmm?” “Fix,” Emma repeats, “or change, I guess. I mean—that’s not how life works.” Zelena hums in what can only be passing interest and something almost like an agreement. “Seems unnecessary to tell you my whole plan, but when it works it won’t make much of a difference. I want to get rid of the girl. That nasty little thing that fell in Oz and ruined everything. Robbed me of my chance to prove myself, claimed there had to be good witches and bad witches and you’re absolutely right, Ms. Swan. That’s not how life works. Nothing is quite so cut and dry as all that.”

Words hang off the tip of her disgustingly dry tongue. Want to be said and proclaimed, and for all the mistakes Emma has made — good and bad, right and wrong, trusting and the opposite, she’s happy to find she’s not particularly interested in changing them.

Not if she ends up here.

Well, maybe not here—with her boyfriend, they’ll get to that eventually, magically silenced and Belle doing her best to glare daggers at the half-green witch who commandeered her living room, and Ruby’s teeth are definitely getting longer. But maybe here-adjacent. With people who care about her, who followed her without question or thought and the guy who is still somehow staring at Emma like he’s got every intention of keeping her feet warm.

Ad nauseum.

“I’m not really interested in anything you need.”

Disappointment flashes across Zelena’s face, only to immediately morph into something much closer to fury. “Hero types, always so sanctimonious. That’s why I said several options. It’s one now, but—” Flicking her wrist, Killian slides down the wall in what Emma knows isn’t actually slow motion. Still, the amount of time it takes for his knees to crash to the ground seems to last forever and Zelena doesn’t try to stop Emma from rushing forward.

Eventually, she’ll realize why.

“Regina discovered what I was trying to do,” Zelena explains, “my fault. Kept coming back to Mills, demanding better placement and as much as it pains me to admit she’s smart...well, she sent me back to Oz.” “So how are you here?” Mary Margaret demands.

Emma doesn’t need that answer, either. Halloween is a bullshit, overrated holiday. Pulling Killian close to her, he’s far too limp and impossibly silent, and Emma barely spends a moment thinking about either of those things before she’s kissing anywhere she can reach, mumbling apologies and half-explanations into his skin and—

“Ah, I’d be careful if I were you,” Zelena says, a soft lilt to her voice that rattles down Emma’s spine. “See, your option is to give me your magic, Ms. Swan. If you won’t do it willingly, I’ll take it by force.” “I don’t—”

Movement catches Emma’s attention, the soft flutter of fingers across her back and she has absolutely no idea what he’s doing. At first. All it takes is a few seconds, and that’s probably another sign. She hopes so. Tracing letters on her jacket, Killian’s eyes flutter shut like he’s exhausted and determined not to sleep and— “No,” Emma exhales, but Zelena’s smile looks victorious. It’s too late. They’re too late. And there’s nothing they can do to change that.

Slumping against her, Killian’s eyes don’t open again. His breathing evens out, and Emma supposes that’s something of a very twisted victory because he isn’t dead, but he’s even more obviously sleeping and sleeping curses are notoriously hard to break.

“Especially when they so often require a kiss,” Zelena grins. “True Love, and all that. So let me ask, Ms. Swan. Do you think what you and the plebe have is True Love and, more importantly, will you be willing to sacrifice your magic for it? Because the only way he’s waking up is with a kiss and the next time you kiss him, you’ll lose your magic.”

To suggest that it kind of all goes to shit after that is something of an understatement.

Light pours out of Emma, unsteady legs under her even as she juts her chin out. To her credit Zelena doesn’t back down. She stands there and she turns a bit more green, and magic is so goddamn weird. Emma’s also never been in a magic fight before.

Spending so long hiding that part of her — certain it was going to be the reason everyone left, the opportunity never really presented itself. Fighting for the sanctity of time itself and Killian’s consciousness seems as good a reason as any to flip the script, so to speak.

Heat races through Emma, wind swirling at her ankles as frames clatter to the ground. Shards of glass fly on the manufactured breeze, Mary Margaret darting towards Belle and David sprinting towards Will, and it’s something of a confidence boost when they’re both able to pull them away from the battle.

Although Emma can’t really believe she thought the word battle, even in her head.

“Not exactly the magical dominance you were bragging about, huh?” Emma quips, twirling a finger in the air. Bands of light circle Zelena’s calves, twist up her legs and turn her answering laugh into a gasp that also does dangerous things to Emma’s ego.

“I never—” Zelena grunts, twisting against bonds that don’t even flicker. “—You were the powerful one, I thought I made that blatantly obvious.” “I mean,” David shrugs.

Ruby nods. “She did kind of, Em. That’s true.” “Whose side are you on?” Emma snaps, but the retreat back to absurd is almost comforting in a familiar, banter-filled sort of way.

“Please,” Regina sighs. Her hands are on fire. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said, and I know you claimed you didn’t have to tell Killian the truth before.” “Yeah, well, cat’s pretty much out of the bag on that front, don’t you think?” “Flew out on pigeon’s wings, I think.”

Laughter has no place in a moment when Zelena’s entire face has turned green, and her own fireballs are threatening at her palms, but Emma can’t help herself and maybe the dumbest thing she’s ever done was suggest Killian shouldn’t have worked at Mills. Or that she couldn’t be head over heels in love with him.

That helps, honestly.

“You’re not getting my magic,” Emma announces, all too sure she sounds as ridiculous as she feels. Heroic soliloquies are also overrated, it seems. “And you’re not getting Killian or—God, were we actually talking about Dorothy that whole time?” Zelena snarls. That must be the response.

“Well, you’re not getting her either. Sneaking back here on Halloween was dumb. Trying any of this was ridiculous and threatening Killian was the worst of all your ideas. Because—” Emma takes a step forward. Nothing shakes. If anything her knees almost lock out, the hair falling over her shoulders noticeably brighter than usual and Zelena recoils. Seriously, her confidence is through the roof. “Magical job placement might be boring, and it might have a shit ton of paperwork, but it’s also a chance to help people and that’s...that’s the point, isn’t it? Finding that sense of belonging? Giving a person a chance. Being able to—” “—Fall in love,” Mary Margaret cries, scrunching her nose when Regina and Ruby shush her. “I mean…that’s what it is, isn’t it? Love’s not a weapon. It makes Emma glow.” And that makes Emma curse. “Maybe we phrase it differently?”

“Maybe we worry about language once we actually defeat the witch, huh?” Regina challenges, and that seems like a legitimate plan.

Balls of fire fly through the air. Ricochet off Emma’s lights, and every window flies open as Mary Margaret calls upon not only pigeons but what look like several sparrows and a few nightingales if the sounds they’re making is any indication. Leaves swirl around the room, partially from the actual wind and also from whatever Emma is apparently capable of.

A lot more than she thought, honestly.

Warmth rises in her spine, sets her shoulders in a straight and determined line and she gives Will an appreciative smile when he pulls Killian out of the fray. Only to immediately jump back in, ducking and twisting and there’s a lot more cardio involved than she thought, but then a flash of magic nearly singes her ear and Emma’s thankful for her own agility.

She moves. Refuses to back down, ignoring the growing ache in her muscles and the weird popping thing her hip is doing. And Zelena starts to cower. In an especially villain-type of way.

Backing into the nearest wall, she stumbles over her feet as light tightens around her. It pins her arms to her side, curls around her ankles and guarantees she can’t run away when Emma stalks forward.

With a smile on her face.

Oz authorities appear at eleven-eleven, which seems to suggest it is somehow still morning and Emma cannot rationalize that at all.

They thank Emma for containing the fugitive, nod towards Regina and well—that’s that. Leaving the rest of them in a slightly singed apartment with pillows that somehow haven’t burst, and what feels like a distinct lack of oxygen.

“So,” Will drawls, “what do we do now?” He doesn’t have to look at Killian. The still-sleeping form is the far-more-attractive-than-an-elephant elephant in the room, draped across a couch that David had to lift on his own. One of his feet is hanging over the side. “True Love’s Kiss isn’t a real thing,” Emma whispers, but the words taste like ash on her tongue and Regina makes a very obnoxious noise.

“Dumb, dumb, dumb.” “Do you think I’ll lose my magic?” “Do you actually care?” Shaking her head, Emma doesn’t bother saying the words. Not when she knows they’re so obviously painted on her face and sudden realization is almost as annoying as not ending sentences. She knows what he was tracing on her back.

Maybe she is the idiot, actually.

And for a moment, Emma’s mind falters. Remembers that other moment, standing frozen as a different set of lights threatened to blind her and metal snapped around her wrists and she’d been so certain then. Never again. Nothing else would get through the defenses. No one else would know. No more mistakes.

This isn’t a mistake.

Careful to avoid the glass on the floor, Emma tiptoes forward and crouches next to Killian. She brushes her fingers over that scar on his cheek, the ends of lips that are somehow still tilted up into half a smirk and—

“God, just do it already,” Belle shouts.

That’s that, again.

Kissing at this angle isn’t particularly easy, and Emma’s knees aren’t particularly pleased with the amount of pressure she’s putting on them, but it does allow her to basically drape herself across Killian and that also makes it easier to get her hand under the hem of his shirt. And nothing else really happens.

No sharp inhale. No tilt of his head. Absolutely no sign of his tongue, which Emma has come to find herself almost obsessed with in the last few months. She doesn’t care. Doesn’t allow herself to stop, not when there’s a flicker of hope and all that want simmering between her ribs, mixing with her magic and how ridiculously in love she is and it’s annoying that she’s the one who gasps.

As soon as arms circle her waist.

Emma can’t really tumble when she’s above him, but the edge of the couch digs into her thighs and Killian’s doing an admirable job of trying to get her parallel to the rest of his body. Her fingers find his hair when he arches up, his own hand roving the expanse of her back before his arm curls tightly around her like he’s trying to make sure she’s still there. Leaning into her palm against his chin, Killian’s lips drag across the back of Emma’s wrist, sparking another round of magic and even more glowing. “Oh shit,” Emma mumbles, not able to pull herself away from Killian. Because of his arm. And...other reasons.

“Was that a response to me, or—” “—No, no, I just—well, there’s still magic. I’ve still got magic. And, uh, I’m a witch.” He laughs. Throws his head back and lets his body shake under her, which really isn’t helping Emma’s state of mind at all, but she’s admittedly preoccupied with the overall volume of the laugh and how wide his smile is. “Swan, Emma love, did you honestly think I didn’t know?”

She—

Has absolutely no idea what to do with that.

Ruby might fall over. Regina’s eyes bug, Mary Margaret using David to stay upright, Belle covers her mouth with her hand, Will cackling loud enough for the both of them.

“Did you,” Emma starts, but Belle and Will shake their heads and Killian’s tongue click is awfully put-upon for a guy who was just cursed.

He taps on her jaw until she’s able to look at him. And his stupid blue eyes. “I could feel it, love. Also you have a tendency to...glow. Which I'm assuming is a compliment, for me. Or us. There's an us, right?" She nods. Can't do much else. "And you’re not very subtle. Extra cinnamon in the cabinets, moving the remote so I don’t have to look for it. Working at a job placement agency that helps the magically afflicted. Plus there was paperwork. Was Freddie really a gold statue at one point?” “Yeah, but they un-statue’ed him with water from Lake Nostos. Not True Love’s Kiss.” “So we won, then?” “Competitive weirdo.” “Absolutely,” Killian nods. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I figured you’d get around to it at some point and then you were talking today and—” “—We’re not such shitty friends that we’d demand Killian show up back here before nine,” Will reasons. “Plus, it’s been kind of nice to have a free couch.”

Killian gags. “Did I say congratulations yet?” “We were busy.” “Wait, wait,” Emma sputters, and she’s going to go into cardiac arrest. Or magic overload. “So this whole time. You knew.” “Well, not the whole time,” Killian objects. “Most of it though, yeah.” “But you’re still here.” “Where else did you expect me to go? Aside from your apartment now that we’ve defeated the wicked witch? I’m assuming we defeated the wicked witch.” Emma nods. “Well, then I’ll apologize for drawing you into that, too. She was half the reason I started to suspect anything, honestly. Told Regina about her and the last thing I expected when I got here was to see her, or to have her demand I get you here. I tried to avoid that.” More nodding. More aching muscles and poorly performing hearts, and Emma wouldn’t mind if Killian traced several other sentiments into a variety of different areas, but they’ve got an audience and a pregnant lady and they never did get coffee. So, it makes sense to ignore that for a second. Or several.

“I love you,” she says instead. Shouts, really. “More than I realized I could and I—” Any other words get lost in the feel of Killian’s mouth on hers and the ability of his tongue to incite butterflies in her stomach, and she hardly hears him say I love you back. It doesn’t matter. She hears it on loop for the rest of the day, once they’re ushered unceremoniously out of Belle and Will’s apartment. Neither of them think much about getting coffee.

And she’s just on the cusp of sleep, eyelashes fluttering and blankets halfway to stolen when Emma hears something else. Pressed into that one spot below her ear.

“I’ve got no intention of leaving,” Killian whispers, “not because of the magic or the power that comes with it, only because I love you. A ridiculous amount, honestly.”

Sleep seems kind of pointless after that.

He decides to leave Mills, eventually.

“I don’t have magic,” Killian rationalizes, and Emma supposes that makes sense. “But I will need some help finding a job.”

Sliding a file with his name written in swirling script across her desk, he’s got the gall to smirk at her and Emma resists the urge to magic him into her chair. “Luckily I do have other skills, including a job offer—” “—If you’ve got a job offer, you don’t really need my help.” “Yeah, but you’re very pretty and I hear you’re real good at what you do.” “Which is?” “Moving in with me,” Killian says, which isn’t the last thing she expects but it still manages to catch her off guard. Lights erupt at the end of several strands of hair. “The reaction I was going for, absolutely.” “No, no, that’s—that’s dumb.” “Is it?” “I was going to ask you to move in with me. First.” “Competitive weirdo.” “I have an apartment,” Emma argues. “With laundry on site.” “Ah, yeah, that is a marker in the pro column. Plus, you’ll be there right?” “In my apartment? Yeah, probably,”

Pushing back on the chair he’d never really been sitting in, Killian leans across Emma’s desk. To kiss her. Hard. Magic flares in the air around them, causing bulbs to flicker and more than a few cries of get a room . “What I’m trying to do,” Killian mumbles. “If you’re asking me to move in, Swan, I’m going to accept.” “Make it sound less like a warning next time.”

He chuckles against her mouth, either ignoring the desk that must be pressing into his stomach or not bothered by it at all, and Emma tries not to throw herself at him too quickly when he brings a whole box of recently-bought blankets with him.

“So you don’t get cold, love.”

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #on this night and in this light #MAGIC BATTLES #MORE KISSING #MAGIC BATTLES WHILE FLIRTING

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stereksecretsanta · 4 years ago

Text

Merry Christmas, kevaaronday!

For @kevaaronday. I tried to use all the tropes you liked, though I played a bit with the coffee shop!AU request. It ended up being pretty long, but I hope it pleases. Enjoy and Merry Christmas!

Read On AO3

*****

Food, Drinks, and Pings

Stiles just wanted to clear things up—he did not work for Hale Corp, and he certainly did not work for said company’s inhouse café, The Family Bean. He was a writer, who just so happened to have been roped into the gig because he was best friends with the soulmate-fiancée of the best friend of one of the sons of the company’s owners.

See, one of Stiles’ best friends from high school was Erica Reyes, blonde, vivacious, and both crazy and powerful enough to castrate someone with her fingernails. She might look like she just stepped off the catwalk, with her hourglass figure, fluffy hair, and red lips, but she had a knack for business that led to a scholarship at a reputable business school. Stiles, on the other hand, took to writing like a duck to water, thanks to his overactive imagination and ability to turn a phrase. He could write anything and so he did—news pieces, articles, blogs, reviews, as well as a modestly famous soulmate series published under a pseudonym.

Erica’s soon-to-be husband and soulmate was Vernon Boyd III, a tall, dark, and delicious drink of chocolate, who was so fit he could bench press a baby elephant without breaking a sweat. He was the perfect picture of seriousness and silence, that Stiles used to wonder how he functioned as Hale Corp’s Director of Operations. After getting to know him better, he realized just how smart and charismatic Boyd really was.

Boyd’s best friend from childhood was Derek Hale, one of the sons from the famous and powerful Hale Family, owners and leaders of the mass media company, Hale Corp.

Stiles knew of the Hale Family, and who didn’t? You’d be hard-pressed to find someone who didn’t know the famous family of business tycoons and titans, a family so rich they could buy a person’s soul even. Nor would someone fail to hear about one of the most powerful love stories that rocked the world.

Talia Hale was the eldest child of the main branch of the Hale family and was poised to take over the world. Desmond Fitzgerald, in contrast, was the only child of elderly parents, and they lived at a shabby, squat house with no electricity, scraping by each and every day.

Talia’s father, the late and great Everett Hale, had visited the local community college as part of their charity program. Talia had tagged along, nineteen and already learning the ropes, and had tripped over the custodian who had been on his hands and knees straightening the welcome carpet.

Take a guess who the janitor was.

An accidental brush of skin, the burning of a Mark, and that was it.

Talia and Desmond turned out to be soulmates, and their Marks, her howling wolf and his crescent moon, had become one of the most romantic symbols of their time.

Now, where did Stiles and The Family Bean came in, you ask?

Aside from writing, Stiles knew his way around a kitchen. His mother had passed away when he was seven, and he had grown up with a Sheriff father who only knew the basics. Stiles had to learn how to cook a meal or risk them subsisting on fried everything and endless takeout orders.

So yes, Stiles knew how a kitchen worked. The thing was, Erica didn’t, and had spent high school eating Stiles’ meals and hanging around his kitchen. Nothing soothed her viciousness and temper like one of his desserts.

So whenever Erica was close to breaking someone’s jaw and risking a lawsuit, she’d invite Stiles over and he would come and work his magic at The Family Bean. It wasn’t like it was such a hardship. The place had a gorgeous kitchen, a full pantry, and a really comfy setup with cozy booths and colorful tables and chairs.

It wasn’t only Erica who benefited. Stiles often found inspiration at the tail end of a whisk or in between beating a dough into submission while listening to Erica’s gossip. He had come to depend on her brand of sass whenever he was suffering from writer’s block, or dealing with annoying clients, or avoiding his editor, Danny Mahealani.

It got to the point that Erica had HR make him a permanent guest entry pass—written down for Stiles S, Food Guy—and everyone knew him by name, the security, the delivery boys, the café’s actual employees, and some of Hale Corp’s employees.

That was what he meant by his original statement: He did not work for Hale Corp or The Family Bean. He was just Erica’s food guy and personal chef. Just another title to add to personal punching bag, platonic soulmate, best friend, and partner-in-crime, among others.

Boyd was surprisingly calm about the guy constantly hanging around his soulmate. Then again, no one would choose Stiles’ skinny ass for Boyd’s lusciousness, so Stiles could understand that he wasn’t much of a threat. Erica said that Boyd knew they were a package deal, and it helped that Boyd had been won over by Stiles’ banana bread. Either way, Boyd was cool and didn’t punch Stiles in the face for his and Erica’s weird platonic love affair.

So, in the end, that was Stiles’ life—work, his Dad, Erica, and his other friends.

Then the Hales happened.

It all started on a fine Monday morning with Kira Yukimura. She was pretty and petite, and the goddess who was actually the one in charge of The Family Bean’s kitchen. She wore floral dresses with studded combat boots, and held katana wielding lessons on Saturdays and a kids’ kitchen workshop on Sundays. Stiles adored her.

So when he walked in that day—after spending the entirety of the weekend not writing, because his protagonists, Peter and Wade, were being idiots—only to hear Kira’s cries for help, he was more than happy to tag in.

“I’m not crying.” She glared at him from where she was assembling sandwich orders, her gaze as sharp as her swords.

“But you still need help,” Stiles said. He put his laptop bag in one of the employee lockers, rolled up the sleeves of his red sweater, and put on an apron. “Erica wants to do lunch, but I decided to come in early.”

Kira nodded towards the window. “All right, because I got a purple ticket for you.”

Stiles jumped up. “Ooh, cool! I’ve never handled a purple ticket before!”

Kira gave him a relieved smile. “Well, today’s your lucky day. One of my employees called in sick, another is late, and I’ve got five packed tickets from different departments, three of them being rush orders, not to mention today’s purple ticket is a little too vague. I’m both swamped and stumped.”

“I’ve got your back, K.” Stiles gave her a salute and bounced over to the ticket tacked up on the holder.

Purple tickets were orders sent straight from the Wolf’s Den. It was the codename for the top floors occupied by the Hale Family and their closest associates. Boyd and Erica’s office were there, too. Stiles had only ever seen it through photos. There was a lot of security posted there, as if guarding the gates of heaven.

Anyway, purple tickets meant VVVVIP orders, note the number of ‘very’s. Kira usually handled those, but she obviously needed help now.

“Now, what do the Lords and Ladies want?” Stiles murmured to himself.

The Family Bean:

MH: hot chocolate

CC: pancakes

SHB: waffles

VHB: dirty chai

LH: anything

“You know who’s who?” Kira called out.

“Yep, I got it,” Stiles replied. He learned about this from Erica.

MH was Matthew Hale, the firstborn son and heir to the kingdom. CC was his seven-year-old daughter, who everyone called by her nickname. SHB was five-year-old Spencer, and VHB was his mother Valerie Hale-Barone, the firstborn daughter, second eldest, and the lawyer of the family. LH was Laura Hale, the third eldest and the maverick of the family. She was the only one not directly working for Hale Corp, and was more involved their side projects.

“Purple tickets are usually like that,” Kira said, looking at him with amusement. Stiles realized he had been frowning in confusion. “Despite being insanely rich people, they’re surprisingly not very picky about what they eat. Laura, in particular, will eat anything. It’s just difficult to give them variety or find a balance between upscale and too simple.”

“And now you want me to take a crack at it?” Stiles asked.

“Sure. It’ll be in my name anyway, and I don’t mind if you go wild,” Kira said encouragingly. It made Stiles grin. Most would be horrified at handing over their precious menu to someone who wasn’t a baker, much less someone who wasn’t a legitimate employee. But Kira had always been a rebel.

Under Kira’s guidance, Stiles filled up a purple delivery bag for the Hales. The dirty chai latte was pretty straightforward, though he didn’t know how Kira usually made it, so he went with his own style. He also made a raspberry hot chocolate, strawberry cheesecake pancakes, mixed berry waffles, and, for the anything portion of the ticket, a berry breakfast parfait made of yoghurt and fruits and graham crackers.

“Tastes awesome and looks pretty as a picture too,” Kira said, nibbling on her own waffle as she sat atop the counter, swinging her legs to and fro. Stiles could see a hint of her soulmate Mark under her dress just on the outside of her thigh. “I still believe you should have been a baker rather than a writer.”

Stiles grinned as he hung up his apron. “I’m both, but one pays the bills and the other’s a hobby. It’s surprising how most people would think one’s the other.”

“Kira?” a voice called out.

Kira perked up and immediately slid off the counter. She straightened her skirt and stepped out the door of the kitchen.

“Good morning, Derek,” she greeted.

Stiles peeked out unashamedly through the service window.

Tall, dark, and incredibly handsome, DH or Derek Hale was the middle child of the family. He was the Chief Financial Officer, and was said to be shyer and quieter compared to his more unruly and flashy siblings. It made sense why he was childhood friends with Boyd. The two seemed to share a calm, quiet demeanor.

Stiles had always thought that Derek was quite handsome in an already attractive family, and every once in a while, he would get front row seats—or the view through the service window—to the man in the three-piece suit with the godly shoulder to waist to ass ratio. It was quite inspiring.

“I heard Val and the others had a purple ticket sent down,” Derek was saying to Kira. “I’m on my way up and I thought I’d bring it along and save you a trip.”

“Oh, thanks, Derek. I’ll get it from the back,” Kira replied. “How about you? Do you want anything?”

Derek thought about it. “Just a drink. Anything you want to make me.”

“So long as it’s sweet?” Kira teased, which made the man chuckle.

It was like a bulb lit up in Stiles’ head.

He met Kira at the door when she walked back in, and it said so much about how awesome she was because she immediately said, “Yes, Stiles, you can make whatever you want. I mean, you’ve already tried your hard at the purple ticket. Might as well go all the way.”

“Thanks, K. You’re a goddess.” Stiles bounced off to the machines. He had always liked a challenge.

In the end, Stiles added his specially made ‘very merry berry frappe’ into the bag. He made sure to put it in a cup cozy to hide the purple color. He wasn’t sure if Derek would mind, but it just wouldn’t do for one of the bosses to be seen with a colorful drink. He let Kira whisk the bag away and they watched Derek exit The Family Bean.

“I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave,” Stiles murmured, eyeing the man’s backside.

“I’ll drink to that.” Kira giggled, clinking her extra glass of frappe against his. “And you’re teaching me the recipe by the way.”

“Not on your life.”

It took eight days before Stiles could once again visit The Family Bean. He had had a burst of inspiration following his last visit and had locked himself up in his apartment. His Dad John and his editor Danny were used to these binges, so they had taken turns visiting him to make sure he was alive and eating actual food rather than inhaling takeout, junk food, and soda.

He had sent off the first few chapters to Danny yesterday and had then slept for about eighteen hours, before Erica had barged in to make sure he hadn’t died. She had been pissed at him last week, annoyed that she hadn’t sampled Stiles’ berry-filled menu, but she’d gotten over it and had even brought groceries before dragging Stiles to The Family Bean for some fresh air and free lunch.

And if that wasn’t enough to perk Stiles up, she and Kira proceeded to tell him how well-received his menu was.

“The kids absolutely loved it, and Laura practically licked her parfait cup clean,” Kira said as they sat around the table for lunch. She had prepared honey sesame chicken, egg rolls, and sweet potato salad. She definitely had Stiles beat when it came to savory meals.

“Valerie was surprised that her dirty chai tasted great. She wasn’t biting people’s heads off more than usual,” Erica shared. She was running her fingers idly over her soulmate Mark, the three claw marks that spanned across her forearm.

Stiles felt pleased at the compliment, but he couldn’t help sending Kira an apologetic look. He didn’t want to usurp her clients and her kitchen.

Kira just laughed. “It’s fine. I know it’s due to your magic fingers and secret recipes. Just teach me how you do Valerie’s dirty chai and we’re good.”

“Sure thing, but it’s nothing special” Stiles said. “I did bring dessert, as thanks for letting me play around last time.”

Kira bounced on her seat. “Tomato pie?”

“With extra bacon and jalapeños, just how you like it.” Stiles grinned and showed her the pie, making Kira squeal.

“You gals eat up. I’ll mix us up some lattes, if you want anything,” he offered.

Stiles went to the kitchen to fix up Erica’s usual iced cinnamon honey latte and Kira’s vanilla almond. He was in the middle of finishing them up when he heard voices out at the main area. He recognized Boyd’s low voice and decided to make him a cup of blond roast with soy milk. He paused when he heard unfamiliar voices and took a peek out the service window. He instantly recognized the small group that had joined Kira and Erica.

There was Boyd, who immediately sat down beside Erica and kissed her cheek. His soulmate Mark was obvious, a rose on the back of his left hand. Stiles liked their marks, very beauty and the beast.

Having come in with Boyd was Derek, who looked just as handsome as he always did in a fetching dark blue suit. With him were his younger siblings, twins Cora and Cameron Hale, the artists of the family, who made music and art, played a bevy of instruments, and also drew and painted. Stiles was only two years older than the twins, but they had more talent in their pinkies than Stiles had in his whole body.

The twins’ Marks were one of the most popular, not just because the two were celebrities, but also because they were incredibly visible. Even from a distance, Stiles could see the compass between Cora’s collarbones and the lighthouse that popped up over Cameron’s collar at the left side of his neck.

Suddenly feeling shy, Stiles stayed in the kitchen and watched and listened.

“Nice spread, Kira. Is that for us?” Cameron asked.

“No, you Hales have your own food upstairs,” Kira said. “I heard Wild Flour Italian sent lunch over.”

Cora rolled her eyes. “Jennifer Blake owns that joint. She’s been trying to get us to come over. No doubt she’ll just use it as some sort of advertisement. I’d rather take a bite of this.” She pointed at their table.

“That pie looks good,” Cameron said. “Can I have a bite?”

Stiles saw the gleam in Erica’s eye.

“Go on,” she said. “They’re good.”

Stiles watched as Erica and Kira offered the Hales a slice each. For some reason, he felt anxious to hear about how his food will be received. It had been nice to hear the rave reviews from Kira and Erica, but it was different seeing their reactions in person.

Cora let out yum-yum noises, which buoyed Stiles’ spirit.

“Okay, that’s pretty tasty. I love the caramelized bacon.”

“Wait, is this tomato in pie? Like a tomato pie?” Cameron asked, inspecting his plate. He took a large bite.

Kira bounced on her seat in excitement. “Yes, isn’t it good?”

“Who made this?” Derek asked. He didn’t look displeased, but he didn’t look happy either. He had a really good poker face. It might be good for business, but it was hard for Stiles to interpret. Stiles noted that he kept on eating the pie though.

“My Food Guy,” Erica said with a smug grin.

“Her Food Guy’s the one who made the berry-eautiful purple ticket that received quite the sensational reviews,” Kira added. She glanced at the service window and Stiles knew she saw him hiding there.

“The one who made my drink, too?” Derek asked.

Kira nodded. “The same one.”

“Spence went gaga for those waffles,” Cameron said. “And Mattie couldn’t believe someone got CC to eat fruit.”

A loud ring cut through their conversation and everyone started pulling out phones to check. It was Derek’s.

“Mom’s calling. Time to go,” he said, standing up.

In reply, Cameron started shoving the rest of the pie in his mouth and also popped in a couple of egg rolls.

“Where’s the Food Guy, though?” Cora asked, head turning to the kitchen. Stiles ducked down behind the counter. “If he makes stuff like this, I wanna meet him.”

“You can order a purple ticket if you want, but he’s not here all the time,” Erica said, and Stiles glared at her in his mind.

“He works part-time?” Derek asked.

“Not quite,” Kira said. “He’s—”

They were interrupted once more by a ringing phone, and this time Boyd spoke.

“Talia wants you all upstairs. Now.”

Stiles peeked out again. Cameron attempted to bring the entire pie tin, but settled for polishing his slice off. He then joined Cora in writing up a purple ticket order. After a moment, Derek put an order in too. The Hales left in a hurry and Stiles leaned right out of the service window just as Kira came bouncing towards it.

“There’s the man of the hour,” Boyd said, with a smirk.

Kira giggled. “Order up, Food Guy. You got a purple ticket.”

“I’m so proud.” Erica mockingly wiped a tear away. “Stiles, my Food Guy, charming the Hales off through the power of food.”

“Oh, fuck you all.” Stiles glared, ducking back into the kitchen.

At the last minute, he reached out and grabbed the purple ticket from Kira, ignoring the others’ laughter.

Over the next three weeks, Stiles prepared four more purple tickets. According to Kira, his drinks and desserts had become quite attractive to the Hales, both because of the taste and the mystery.

“At this point, they don’t even want me handling the tickets. They always ask if The Food Guy is around before they send their orders down,” Kira said. This time, she was the one helping Stiles prepare and pack.

The Wolf’s Den was going to be holding meetings nonstop, so Stiles had to prepare a variety of drinks and snacks. It would have been easy if they had simple requests, but the Hales were a mix of eclectic and frustrating.

“I’m glad you’re cool about this, but the Hales are bound to find out that the one making all their desserts isn’t even an employee,” Stiles said, as he added an extra shot of syrup in Laura’s honey and milk iced coffee. Just like her usual orders, she had asked for ‘any drink that’s sweet’ which was such a large ballpark that Stiles wanted to clock someone over the head, maybe her.

“I’m more surprised that you keep making these for free,” Kira said.

Stiles shrugged. “It’s a challenge, and I like challenges.”

“Really, just for the challenge?” Kira asked. “Stiles, Valerie fell in love with your version of her dirty chai. I did it the exact same way you did, but she insists that it tastes different. Same with Cameron’s favorite spiced coconut coffee. Same with all the desserts you made for the kids…”

Her face turned serious. “Don’t you think there’s more to this? Don’t you think it’s a ping—”

“It’s just for fun, Kira. It’s nothing,” Stiles said, heart rabbiting in his chest. He pushed it down firmly. “Plus, it’s surprisingly inspiring for my stories. Right now, I’m writing a new story for my spy series and I’m trying to solve this thing going on between James and Quentin.”

Kira’s face fell but she smiled, if a bit awkwardly. “Ah, well. Whatever you say, Food Guy. I’m just happy I get free labor out of it.”

“So you’re the Food Guy?”

The two of them jumped up in surprise and they turned around to see that someone had come in through the kitchen doors.

“Nathan, hello!” Kira greeted. “We didn’t hear you come in.”

Nathaniel Hale was the youngest of the brood at nineteen, and with his dark hair and piercing blue eyes, he was quite the heartthrob in an already beautiful family. If that wasn’t enough, he was an athlete and a rising star in soccer.

Stiles didn’t really care at the moment, too busy wondering if the kid had heard what Kira had been saying.

Nathan leaned against the counter. “Everyone was arguing over who was going to pick up the ticket this time. I walked out while Laura was arm wrestling with Cam.”

Kira laughed while Stiles looked away, suddenly awkward.

“Uh, that’s cool and all, but I’m not remotely interesting enough to warrant an arm wrestle.”

Nathan shrugged. “Your stuff tastes amazing.” He smiled at Kira. “No offense, Kira. You’re still queen. But you… you’re interesting.” He gave Stiles a look. “You know, I’ve been ordering the same caramel vanilla iced coffee from The Family Bean for years now. You made it once and now everything else tastes different.”

Stiles couldn’t help flinching. Oh yeah. Nathan had definitely heard Kira.

But Nathan turned to Kira, breaking the stare. “Anyway, is the ticket ready? Can I take it up?”

Kira smiled and handed over the bag. “You just want to lord your victory over the others.”

“Of course. That’s what having siblings is all about.” Nathan scoffed, but grinned. “Anyway, thanks.”

Kira smiled. “Enjoy your meal.”

Stiles watched Nathan leave and rubbed his left shoulder. He had a weird feeling about all this.

A single touch was all it took to find someone’s soulmate. However, people couldn’t just go around touching one another. Some did, but there were laws against touching people without their consent. So Nature, in all its wisdom, gave people the capability to locate their soulmates by following a trail.

The best trail was through family members. Take for example one other famous Hale love story, that of Valerie. Her husband, the Italian magnate Piero Barone, was from a family of vintners. During Talia and Desmond’s trip to Italy, they met Piero at a wine tasting event and immediately felt what Mark experts called a ‘ping,’ a connection between them that hinted at the identity of Piero’s soulmate. Piero followed the Hales to America, met the family—all of which gave off similar pings—was finally allowed a Touch Test with Valerie, and the rest was history.

There were other kinds of trails, like what happened between Boyd and Erica. They both attended the same university, though Boyd had graduated several years earlier. However, even without knowing Boyd, Erica inadvertently joined the same groups and organizations that he had, and even lived at the same apartment that he had rented when he had been a student. Then after Erica graduated, she decided to take a year off to travel. Months later, when Boyd went on sabbatical, he ended up following almost the exact same itinerary. They finally met by chance during an alumni event and got to talking, which revealed all of the things they had in common. Before the event was even halfway through, they had done a Touch Test and found their match.

Stiles’ favorite trail story was of his parents’. John and Claudia met when they were children. Having no siblings, they didn’t have the benefit of a family trail, and being young meant there weren’t a lot of experiences that could link them. However, they had always known there was something special about one another. They grew up together, grew apart, and met later on in life. They still didn’t have the same life experiences—she was a librarian, he was a deputy—but the moment they saw one another again, they just knew.

Sometimes people just knew.

“Well, well, well. I didn’t know we were serving twink in the menu.”

Ordinarily, that comment would have had Stiles lashing out with his sharp tongue, but upon looking up, he hesitated. First of all, the other person was clearly drunk and it was only, Stiles checked his watch, three-forty-seven in the afternoon. Second, the other person was none other than the infamous Peter Hale, Talia’s younger brother.

The eternal bachelor, he was called, well known for his many dalliances and relationships. He was also the Hale with the most well-known Mark, not because it was at a visible spot, but mostly because he tended to flaunt the large image of a bird in flight that was across his chest via his tendency of wearing unbuttoned shirts.

In Stiles’ opinion, Peter reminded him of one of his book characters—the rich and powerful Anthony, who, underneath all the bravado, was desperately looking for his soulmate, only to find it in the fair-haired, gentle-hearted Steven, who wouldn’t take his crap. He wondered who Peter’s soulmate was.

“Oh, for god’s sake. Uncle, come back here!”

Stiles looked up to see Derek jogging over to them, looking both pissed and worried at the man leaning against The Family Bean’s pristine counter.

Peter ignored him. “Oh, lay off, Derek. I want a drink, and this twink is going to make me one.”

Derek turned to Stiles. “Peter, do not call—” He paused, dark eyes widening.

Stiles felt his heart jerk in his chest and his left shoulder burn. He felt like he had been hit in the head, so did Derek going by his gaping.

Peter suddenly tilted sideways, interrupting their stare down. Neither Stiles nor Derek were able to catch the man before he ended up sprawled across the counter. The sight of him had Stiles dredging up some semblance of control. He sighed.

“You are very rude, and also very drunk, but because I feel sorry for you, Mr. Hale, I’ll make you a free drink.”

Derek let out a gurgle and then a cough, obviously holding back laughter. Peter propped himself up on wobbly elbows.

“You feel sorry for me? Don’t you know who I am, kid?”

Stiles was both annoyed by Peter and buoyed by Derek’s reaction. It was probably what sharpened his tongue.

“You’re Talia Hale’s younger brother, but between the supposed—ahh, what was it—Big Bad Wolf of Media and this so-called twink, I’m not the one nursing a hangover at this time of the afternoon.”

Stiles shook his head and walked off, ignoring Peter’s angry, garbled words and the sudden chuckle from Derek. The latter made Stiles’ shoulder ache.

Stiles ignored that and prepared a quick takeout bag. He could hear Peter and Derek arguing out on the main area. It was the work of minutes to prepare a quick smoothie and throw in some crackers and fruits. He walked back out and handed the bag to Derek, but then quickly tucked his hands to himself. The other man’s piercing stare was making him sweat.

Peter grabbed his drink and took a gulp of the smoothie, before asking, “What’s your name, kid?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. Not even a thank you. How rude.

“Not a kid, and there’s no need to know my name since you’re just going to forget it.”

Peter smirked lasciviously. “Oh, that mouth on you.”

“I’m also not into geriatrics,” Stiles was quick to bite back.

Peter’s jaw dropped. “Geria—”

Derek suddenly burst into laughter and the sound of it seemed to fill Stiles’ heart and mind, making his face flush and his body warm. Derek smiled at him and Stiles felt warmth bloom in his chest.

Stiles cleared his throat, trying to will the blush away. He rubbed his shoulder. “Well, anyway, I’m happy to help. I’ll tell Kira you guys dropped by. See you around.” He glanced at Peter. “Not you. Drop dead.” He stepped back.

“Wait!” Derek lurched forward, startling Stiles and also Peter, who, true to Stiles’ words, slid off the counter to the floor. They ignored him.

Derek leaned forward over the counter. “I’m sorry if I’m forward, but are you—”

Stiles shook his head vigorously. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

He ducked back into the kitchen, ignoring Derek’s calls and Peter’s drunken warbling. He leaned against the door and slid down until he could curl up into a ball. He placed a hand over his burning shoulder.

Sometimes people just knew.

Stiles was tempted to stay away from The Family Bean after that. He really wanted to. But it was hard to stay away.

Even harder to stay away from a ping.

Stiles wasn’t stupid enough to let that slip away.

Still, it was hard to face up to it and admit that he had a soulmate.

So for the next two weeks, Stiles stayed away from the front of house, always hiding in the safety of the kitchen. He kept on making purple tickets whenever they came, but he avoided coming out for any reason, especially after Derek started coming by nearly every day. Sometimes he even brought his work over just so that he could stay as long as possible.

It confused Kira and Erica, but they assumed Derek just liked the food. The other Hales also started coming by and many times, Stiles could hear them asking Derek why he was hanging around The Family Bean instead of working in his office. Always, Derek kept mum.

Because as it turned out, Derek hadn’t told anyone about the ping.

In fact, Stiles had a feeling that the only person in the Hale family who knew was Nathan. Maybe because he had already been suspicious of it. Out of all the Hales, he was the only one who didn’t ask Derek about why he kept hanging around the café.

The other one who knew was Boyd.

Derek had been called to a meeting one day, so Stiles had felt it safe to come out and work at one of the booths. He had already fallen so far behind on his writing commitments. After a few minutes, Boyd had dropped by and had joined him. Stiles knew he was typing gibberish on his laptop, but he kept on as an excuse not to look at Boyd, who was looking at him intently.

Finally, he spoke, “Looking back, I guess it wasn’t just your banana bread that won me over.”

Stiles jerked, sending a series of characters across the screen.

Boyd kept on. “I always had a good feeling about you from Erica’s stories, but when we met, that was definitely a ping.”

Stiles bit his lip. “Does Erica know?”

Boyd shook his head. “I love her, but Erica would have thrown a party if she knew.”

Stiles sighed, both in relief and in trepidation for the moment Erica find out.

Boyd studied him. “Derek’s a good guy, you know.”

“I know I got that impression from all the stories you and Erica had of him,” Stiles said. “I always thought it was surprising considering he could afford not to be a nice guy.”

Boyd studied him, making Stiles shift in his seat. “Is that the reason you won’t meet with him? Or do a Touch Test? Because he’s a Hale?”

Stiles almost protested, but he deflated. “…I don’t know.”

Boyd hummed under his breath. “Well, you’ve always played your cards close to the chest when it comes to soulmates, but I know you’ll figure it out.” He stood up. “But you better make it soon. Erica and the rest of the Hales are bound to figure it out.”

Stiles groaned and sank down on his seat.

“Noted.”

The day after that, a still-conflicted Stiles was once again at The Family Bean. Kira had gone up to the Wolf’s Den to deliver the latest purple ticket, so he had to stay and man the counter.

The door let out a little tinkle, and Stiles froze the moment he saw the woman entering the café.

He’d know Talia Hale anywhere.

Stiles almost panicked, but then he remembered that she didn’t know who he was. He took a deep breath.

“Um, good afternoon, Mrs. Hale. What can I get you?”

The woman smiled, quite warm and friendly despite her fierce reputation. “Just some tea, please. And are there any new desserts?”

It had been a moment of weakness, but Stiles had actually brought over some peanut butter stuffed cookies and added it to the purple ticket in the hopes that a certain Hale would like them. He still had a few cookies left, but he wasn’t sure if he should offer them to her.

“I smell cookies,” Talia said pointedly. “I’ll have some of those.”

Stiles gulped. “Ah, we have some peanut butter stuffed cookies. Let me get those for you.”

He swallowed his nerves and served the woman, who took a sip of tea and a bite of the cookie right there on the counter.

She smiled, studying the cookies. “Very tasty.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Stiles smiled politely. He turned away to leave and maybe gather his strength in the privacy of the kitchen.

“When we started hearing about The Food Guy, I admit I was quite intrigued. It’s very rare for someone to grab the attention of my entire family.”

Stiles paused and turned to her.

He should have known.

Stiles nodded stiffly. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

Talia smiled, sharp and knowing. “And you, Food Guy.”

“Any reason for the visit?” Stiles asked, shifting on his feet.

“I wanted to meet you,” Talia said, taking another bite of her cookie.

Stiles frowned. “That’s all?”

“Were you expecting anything else?”

“Uh, well, I…”

Talia shrugged and sipped his tea. “I don’t blame you for any misgivings you might have should you prove to be soulmates with my son. I’m well aware of the reputation of my family. My late father, Everett, embodied the might of the Hale name better than anyone. You should have seen him back in the days.”

Stiles held up his hands. He couldn’t help the feeling that he had to explain.

“It’s not that there’s a problem with Derek or your family. Being a Hale isn’t the problem… not entirely…” he hesitated, but then plunged on, urged by the ping he could feel inside him and the desire to make someone understand. “My mom passed away when I was seven. She was soulmates with my father. He was—I was—we were never the same after.”

A heavy silence fell, and Stiles was both nervous and intrigued. Talia’s face changed. Something in her eyes darkened and she pursed her lips.

“Forgive my sudden melancholy, but I was just reminded of something.” She sipped her tea. “I was reminded of my youth. My father, Peter, and I had never been the same after mother walked away.”

“Walked away?” Stiles was taken aback. It was rare to hear any mention of Talia’s mother, but everyone had chalked it up to grief at her passing. “But you all said she died—”

Talia interrupted him delicately. “People think of Marks as the be all and end all where the only answer is yes. But even soulmates are a choice…”

“Desmond grew up without a penny to his name, so he rejected me as he could only see himself as an embarrassment to the Hale family. My opinionated father had, unfortunately, been a contributing factor to that line of thinking. I grew up with a rather jaded view of Marks and pings, and I had seen his rejection as a challenge and not a privilege. Desmond and I, our story had been tempestuous, quite unlike the romanticizing people had done.”

She finished the last of her tea. “If I may be allowed to request one thing, all I ask is that you make a choice so that Derek can do the same. No one in this family will certainly blame you for it.”

Talia pushed her empty cup and plate towards Stiles, and smiled. “Have a good day, Food Guy.”

Stiles watched Talia walk away.

He had some thinking to do.

Stiles took a deep breath and tried not to crush the boxes in his hands. He was nervous and his left shoulder was throbbing.

“Ready?” Kira asked him. She was carrying the other delivery boxes.

“As I’ll ever be,” Stiles replied.

Kira smiled, both encouraging and proud, and nodded to the guard on duty. The man held open the double doors for them, and Stiles was instantly met with a wall of sound.

“Purple ticket delivery,” Kira called out, leading Stiles inside.

The office was spacious, as it should be if it was going to accommodate all of the Hales, and all of them were there. There was a long table at one end where Talia, Matthew, and Boyd were talking and laughing. Desmond was on one couch, talking to Piero and Erica. Laura and Cora were seated on armchairs and were arguing loudly about something. Peter was egging them on. CC and Spencer, were seated in front of a television at a kids’ play area set up in the corner. Cameron was with them, all of them singing along to whatever cartoon was playing. Derek, Valerie, and Nathan were huddled around a table, looking at blueprints.

“Oh, yes! The food’s here!” Cameron cheered, which sent the children shouting as well.

Kira navigated the area like a champ, while Stiles slowly shuffled after. “You guys ordered a lot. I had to ask for help. This is Stiles.”

Stiles didn’t miss the way Derek’s head suddenly jolted in his direction, nor Talia’s proud smile, nor Erica’s sudden screech of “Stiles!” which had everyone else turning their way. Stiles winced. He was going to get his ass kicked later for not telling Erica about this.

“Well, well…” Peter grinned. “Hello there, twink.”

Stiles shuddered. “Still not into creepy old geezers.”

“Oh, wait, wait! Is he the guy who called you a geriatric?” Laura asked, before shrieking in laughter.

“And the one who said Peter should drop dead,” Cora added, cackling.

Laughter rang around over Peter’s protests, and it made Stiles’ heart stutter. He felt warm all over, like the pings going off in his head were doubly delighted at the Hales. He glanced at Derek, who was smiling warmly.

Stiles winced when he caught Erica’s gaze though. She looked between him and Derek and her eyes widened. But Boyd was suddenly there, hand over her mouth and whispering to her.

Stiles helped Kira take out all of the food and the ravenous Hales were quickly upon them.

“Food Guy’s stuff tastes awesome,” Nathan said, licking his cupcake’s icing. He waggled knowing eyebrows at Stiles, who bit back a grin. Cheeky kid.

“Please pass our compliments to the chef, Kira,” Desmond said, reaching for his drink.

Kira giggled. “You can thank him yourself.” She waved at Stiles with a flourish.

Stiles felt a little like a deer in headlights when all their gazes alighted on him.

“You’re Food Guy?” and other iterations of the exclamation rang around the room.

Stiles flushed. “I’m glad to hear you all like what I’ve been making.”

“Oh, wow! How wonderful!” Piero piped up. “I haven’t felt a ping in such a long time. How nostalgic, don’t you think, dear?” He turned to Valerie.

“That’s a ping?” Matthew asked, confused, before his face cleared and he rubbed his chest. “Oh, hell, this is a ping.”

“Is that the tingly feeling here, Uncle Mattie?” Spencer asked, pointing at his tummy.

Erica finally managed to get out from under Boyd. “Stiles, did you ping with Derek? Is that why you’ve both been hanging around The Family Bean? You’ve both been pining over each other!”

Stiles groaned, while gasps and shouts suddenly rang around the room.

Kira sighed. “Way to ruin it, Erica.”

“You mean I was pinged through a tomato pie?” Cameron was asking, wide-eyed.

Cora started laughing. “Oh my god! Uncle Peter flirted with Derek’s soulmate!”

“That’s Uncle Derek’s soulmate?” CC asked.

“Yes, he is.” Nathan looked like he was immensely enjoying all this, and Stiles was starting to realize that he was a little shit.

Derek stepped towards Stiles. His face was a little red, but he was smiling and Stiles thought he was the handsomest man he had ever seen.

“My family’s a mess. Please ignore them,” Derek said, ignoring the protests from his siblings.

Stiles chuckled. “At least they keep things interesting. It’s just me, my Dad, and her.” He jerked a thumb at Erica.

“Oh, fu—dge you!” Erica said, glancing at the kids. She turned to Boyd. “And I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

Boyd rolled his eyes. “I was giving him space to process things.”

Stiles ignored them and turned to Derek. He only had one chance to do this.

“Ah, sorry, it took a while. I was figuring stuff out, but I thought we should get to know one another first.”

“Of course,” Derek said immediately. He reached out a hand. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you, Stiles.”

Stiles glanced at Talia, who was whispering to her husband. She winked at Stiles.

“Soulmates are a choice.”

Stiles smiled at Derek. He could feel his Mark tingling in anticipation.

“Me too, Derek.”

He reached out and took his hand.

#kevaaronday #stereksanta20 #*fic20 #*gifts20

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