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hansolmates · 5 years ago

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jjk; angel’s trumpet [02]

summary; one second, your life is flashing before your eyes and the next, you’re transported into a world exactly like your own. but the jungkook you meet in this world isn’t a renowned singer or your former almost-lover, in fact he has no clue who you are and why you know him so well. as you work to find your way home lost and confused, you conclude that you’re either dead or in the middle of the most wicked drug trip of your life. pairing; idol!jk x reader (f), alternatively film producer!jk x reader genre/warnings; fluff, angst, supernatural, idol!au, non-idol!au, alternate universes, themes of fate, language, alcohol consumption, mentions of smut in future chapters w.c; 3.5k a/n; i know it feels like a lot of bg and internal conflict but y/n!! our girl is struggling! she’s processing and is going through some times BUT things will spice up soon so thank you for all the love +notes, see you again thursday!

[01] [02] [03]-> masterpost

The two most frequent contacts in your phone (you hope it’s your phone? It’s the same edition and everything) are Jimin and Taehyung.

Jungkook (or not-Jungkook) high-tailed it out of there as soon as he deemed your reactions unfit for basic human society. He muttered that you were crazy and probably under something, and sped off in his motorcycle just like that. Like you were a stranger.

It's not easy to ignore the aftermath of your heart after taking yet another rejection, but you're independent and you must stride forward in this strange situation. Taking a cautionary look around the area, you clutch your phone like a lifeline, tethering you together in this unfamiliar place. There's not many people around, but you spot a large library and a playground. Professionals are mulling from building to building, zombies in wrinkled suits and dripping iced coffees. Your phone displays an innocent 7:51, revealing how early it is. Toggling between the two friends in your contacts you take your chances and start with Jimin. The phone rings once, twice, before his dulcet voice chimes in your ear.

“Babe?” he croons, and your heart drops at the sickly warm tone, “you can’t get enough of me after what we did last night?”

You’re going to throw up. Scratch that, acid is already bubbling through your throat and you force yourself to tamp it down. There is no, no way in hell could you have hooked up with Park Jimin in your lifetime.

Unless this is hell.

“Jimin,” you steel your voice, hoping he can’t hear how absolutely mortified you are. You can picture this version of Park Jimin now, laying around in bed with crossed legs and casually enjoying how much you’re squirming on the other line, “I just need you to tell me where I live so we can move on with our lives.”

He laughs, giggles bubbling like soft pink champagne. “Wow, I really must’ve fucked your brains out if you can’t even remember where you live.” God, in what life would Park Jimin be “fucking your brains out”? Maybe you should find a trashcan just in case you do puke on the sidewalk. “Y’know, you signed your lease with Taehyung a month ago? You just moved in last week?”

“T-Taehyung?” you stutter, trying to imagine the notion, “I live with Taehyung?”

A beat passes, and you realize that just like you scared not-Jungkook away, you could be doing the same to Jimin.

He says your name softly, gone the cocky tone you were initially bombarded with. “Are you okay? You could’ve waited for me to wake up, y’know. We had a lot to drink last night.” he mumbles, almost cutely if it weren’t for the fact the he was insinuating sex two seconds ago, “Did you eat?”

“‘M fine,” you mumble, trying to chalk up your previous question with inhiberation. “Just loopy, I guess. I almost got hit by a motorbike, so my brain is probably just catching up.”

“You got hit? Did you call a hospital?” great, now Jimin’s panicked. “Where are you? I’m gonna go get you. Drop your location, I’m leaving now!”

“I’m fine!” you snip, and you feel bad for nearly screaming on the line. “I’m almost home, I’m just gonna lay in bed and sleep it off. I’ll call you later, okay?”

You don’t bother hearing his response, and you hang up. You then start to furiously scroll Taehyung’s chat wall, noting that he’s on an academic trip with his students until next week and you have the apartment to yourself. After a good ten minutes of scrolling and reading conversations that you can’t recollect you finally catch the address to your shared apartment.

The city is the same, fortunately. So are the bus stops, and you’re thankful that your bus pass has some fare money. Turns out you’re starting your journey at the University of Seoul. The bus routes are the same as well, and you manage to take a tour of your side of the city, noting the tiny differences in the town.

For example, there’s no BigHit Entertainment in its usual spot. Instead it’s an additional practice space for Cube Entertainment.

There’s no fanfare to your city tour, and it almost feels like you’re just a normal woman taking a ride home. There’s still the same trees and squirrels, familiar odeng stands and ice cream shops. It feels like you’ve been cut and pasted into this world with no rhyme or reason, a fever dream.

The bus circles around the usual route once more until you’re in front of your supposed home, only a twenty minute bus ride from where Jungkook almost ran you over.

It’s a lot, and you realize on the drive over that you’re probably in deeper shit than you could ever imagine. You pull out your keys, and instead of seeing the ramen keychain Jungkook got you when he went to Tokyo Disney, instead it’s replaced by a university ID labeled Assistant Professor under your full name.

You pin that new fact for later and focus on getting inside.

Your apartment is nice, you muse. Simple black and white furniture, but there’s a definitive home-ness to it. There’s a moss green afghan folded up on the couch, presumably made by the artist himself. You’re glad Taehyung’s appeal for the arts hasn’t been lost, as revealed by the frames on the walls detailing pictures of you and Taehyung’s families, and some of Jimin and Taehyung.

Deeper into the apartment you find your room. You choke back a sob at the familiar bedsheets your parents bought you at Target, and you even notice some familiar clothing pieces folded haphazardly in the corner. Instead of your bed being filled with shameless BT21 PR however, your RJ and Mang are replaced with simple panda and cat plushies.

Finally letting your tears fall, you sob loudly into your pillows, hugging and grappling at anything to comfort you. You feel achy and tired, as if your heart has fallen out of your body and nothing can fill the void. As much as your bed sheets feel the same, as genuine as those pictures are in your shared living room, this isn’t your home.

•━━━━━━»••»💮💮💮«••«━━•

Between your bouts of crying and forcing yourself to stomach cheap ramen, you find out a couple of things.

You’re an assistant professor at Seoul University. At least this version of you is. A little part of you is pleased by this, you have always wanted to teach at the university level before settling with BigHit. To your chagrin however, you’re not a language professor.

To your horror, you’re a pre-medical student teaching two “History of Neuroscience” classes. It’s only two classes because according to your Google calendar, you’re also balancing the completion of your final thesis on muscular dystropathy among low-income neighborhoods.

Dear god, if your parents ever found out you could’ve been a doctor in another life, they’d be surely choking on their own spit. In this world, you probably weren’t lazy and wholly capable of achieving the impossible.

You don’t know why you spend the next two hours sending emails to your students about cancelling the next week of classes. Fortunately all your lessons are neatly packaged in your drive, and you send out an email with said lessons citing your mental health and how you’ll resume direct instruction the following week.

From time to time, your eyes can’t help but travel to the frames and polaroids that decorate your walls. Some of the memories are vaguely similar, a house in the suburbs, an annoying cousin who can’t stop and won’t stop pulling at your pigtails, a movie night with unlimited pizza and breadsticks.

Some of them are far and beyond your state of recognition. Jimin and you playing hopscotch by the river, Taehyung stuffing his face with fried potato skins in a cheap hole-in-the-wall, you winning the blue ribbon at your high school’s science fair.

You could very well walk out of this life and just focus on going back home, but something tells you that you need to continue on with this life, at least for now.

It feels too real to be a dream. When you tug at your hair tie, it’s painful when it snaps across your wrist. Your skin blooms with color upon impact. Could you die in this world? If Jungkook had not skidded in time, would you have survived a motorcycle accident?

Three days pass like that. You’re contemplating, absorbing information. In-between pints of ice cream and crying your ducts out, you’re drawing conclusions. Could you be in a coma? A very realistic, painful coma? But Jimin and Taehyung are still sending you texts and the day turns to night as painfully slow as it always has. A coma can’t fake a forty person class, all of them vying for your attention through various emails and Zoom calls. It can’t be it.

And as you rummage through your drawers, check every bit of social media and even your yearbook photos, you also confirm that Jeon Jungkook has no place in this version of your life. It saddens you greatly, and reminds you eerily about the heated conversation you had before all of this. The Jungkook from days ago, the one who looked terrified when you tried to touch him, only met you through happenstance.

By day four, you get a phone call. There’s no picture next to the contact, only named Biggie Mentor. After a few rings, you finally get the courage to answer the call.

A deep timbre seeps its way through the line, and you almost whine at how much you missed him. “y/n,” Namjoon says, but he doesn’t sound happy, “tell me why our students said you cancelled all of your classes this week due to mental health?”

If Namjoon’s your mentor, that means you’re probably in deep shit for cancelling all your classes without his consent.

“Uh, exactly that,” you say, and it hurts how much you have to strain your voice, trying not to pour any type of affection into this version of Namjoon. You’ve always had a soft spot for his gummy smile. “I’m sorry for not telling you beforehand. Something really traumatic just happened and,” you choke back a sob, trying to cover the microphone, “and I really needed some space.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” his voice is like melted honey, and you close your eyes and picture yourself back at BigHit, Namjoon’s happy smile whenever he tries to cheer you up. It only makes you even more upset, and your mind is all shadowed and filled with fuzzies as you attempt to picture Namjoon as your boss, “I was just shocked, that’s all. Is everything alright?”

“No,” you reply truthfully, “and I don’t know if it will be.”

There’s a terse silence, both your breaths hanging on the line with no move to continue the conversation. If your personality here is similar to your true world, you would understand why Namjoon would have a hard time formulating a reply. You don’t even know how close you are with him here. What remains is that you’re the type to keep your secrets to yourself, and if they truly felt hindering, you’d tell somebody. Not to say you’re the suffer in silence type of person, but you weren’t one to immediately dump your feelings on someone.

Finally, Namjoon musters a reply, “I have a break at two. Why don’t you swing by our usual lunch spot and we can talk? Their sandwiches always cheer you up. ”

“Joonie,” your voice cracks, and you shake your head despite the fact that he can’t see you. A slip of the nickname comes out before you can help it, and you hope this Namjoon is fond of the manner. “I don’t know where that is. Or what our ‘usual’ spot is. I don’t know what sandwiches you’re talking about either.”

“Okay,” and you relax at the calmness in his tone, “I’ll swing by after my 5PM then. Set the table for us, yeah?”

•━━━━━━»•»💮💮💮«•«━━•••

Namjoon smells of dry-erase marker and antiseptic.

He’s bounding into your apartment like it’s his own home, carrying two paper bags and a stack of leather bound books. The items fly across your coffee table, and you two work together to organize both your dinner and the books. Namjoon looks like a textbook nerd, wearing shades of burgundy and burnt orange as he breaks into your front door. Gone are the boots and sleek outfits that trim his figure, and you can’t help but go a little anti-starstruck at how normal this moment is.

But what remains is the bumbly stance as he makes his way through your tiny space, long limbs and all flailing to help you place his work in a safe space. The curve of his nose and dimples so deep you could fill a lake in them, you can’t help but muster a shy smile as he takes notice that you’re staring at him a little too much for comfort.

The two of you eat in relative silence, and you gratefully accept the bag he pushes in your direction. To your surprise the sandwich inside is a favorite combination of yours, and you wonder if this restaurant exists in your world.

Your world.

“Namjoon,” you place your sandwich down, despite the fact that your stomach is protesting for you to finish the first real meal you’ve had in days, “you know that movie, Avengers?”

Namjoon’s face is puffed with bread, and you hand him a water bottle to chug it down. “Dunno,” he shrugs, “Marvel isn’t a popular franchise, so even if I had I wouldn’t remember.”

“Marvel isn’t popular—” what kind of fucked up world is this? Your Jungkook would have a field day if he was in your shoes. “Anyway. There’s a concept from Marvel that there’s multiple Earths. Like you can create a rip in space and land yourself in another dimension if you’re not too careful. Do you think it’s possible?”

Your tall mentor pushes his charcoal hair back, exasperated. “Is this why you’re taking off? Because you believe in some silly comic book series?”

You feel your heart cracking, desperately trying to keep itself together. In your haste you grip Namjoon’s arm, desperate. “Please, just hear me out.” you warble, “a few days ago I was out drinking with a friend. Next thing I know, I’m in another world where I run into a boy. That boy is my friend, but he says he doesn’t recognize me! But I don’t recognize this life. Namjoon I can’t even imagine you wanting to be a doctor!”

Namjoon is looking at you funny, and you know he’s really trying to believe you. Instead of the reassuring words you hope for, he instead says, “this isn’t even pseudoscience, y/n. This is supernatural! How could you possibly think you’re from another dimension? I just saw you last week and everything was fine!”

“I saw you last week too!” you exclaim, clutching your chest, “and you cried again for the umpteenth time because you lost another pair of custom Airpods.”

A pause. “That does sound like me.”

Hope blooms in your stomach. “Doesn’t it?”

“Well, in this supposed other life. What is my profession?”

Your face falls. “Uh, you’re in a worldwide K-pop band. You’re making millions and producing beautiful music.”

That sounded way better in your head. Out loud it sounded absolutely bonkers. You don’t even blame Namjoon when he bursts out laughing, wiping tears from his eyes. You let him, sinking further into your seat and hugging your knees. You really hoped Namjoon would’ve come through for you.

However you’re not laughing along with him, and he immediately stops at your teary expression. He pushes himself over to you with his long legs, quickly moving to prevent yourself from tucking into your shell. He sees how small your form becomes and he reaches over to place a hand over your hair. “You’re really upset over this, aren’t you?” he questions aloud, and he can’t piece it together, “did you hit your head or something?”

Defeated, you explain, “I may have gotten hit by a motorcycle the other day.”

“What?” he squeezes your shoulder, “well, that explains a lot! What if you’re hallucinating? What if you have a concussion? You could be suffering from short-term memory loss!”

You’re sure it’s none of those things, but you let him ramble. The explanation is clear-cut and so painfully normal that it’s the only conclusion that Namjoon will cling to. Your mentor insists you take a medical leave, and says he’ll take over your classes in the meantime. He gives you a number to call, explains there one of the best doctors for trauma and motor incidents. You don’t say anything to that, but you accept the number and lie when you say you’ll call them in the morning. Namjoon still treats you like a friend however, despite your fruitless confession, and you concede that his comfort is more than enough after such a rough week.

•━━━━━━»••»💮💮💮«••«━━••

It’s been nearly two weeks since you’ve contacted Jimin.

Sure, Jimin’s contacted you. A couple flirty texts here, some low-key sexy selfies there. Usually, you’d eat that up like honey and butter. Now, there’s only one-word replies and half-hearted attempts at continuing a conversation. He loosens his tie, thankful he’s working out of the office today. He can look at his phone all he wants, and no one will judge him.

Jimin finally looks up at the photographer his marketing company contracted, who’s still mulling over the contract. “We’re not trying to jip you, promise.” Jimin assures, and he almost laughs at the comical way the young man’s large eyes catch his concern. “You’ll get all that money, and then some if you need to work overtime. It’s a sweet gig.”

“Yeah,” the young man nods, and grabs the pen to sign at the bottom. “Looking forward to working with you.”

“Same to you, Mr. Jeon,” Jimin grins, meeting him halfway across the table, “I’ve seen your work, I’m sure the commercial will be beautiful.”

“You can call me Jungkook,” the new employee flashes him a quick grin, taking his palm in his. Jimin tries not to twitch at this cute kid, who is both devastatingly handsome and cute at the same time. He’s a little jealous, a little attracted.

“Great, because Mr. Park is my dad. Jimin’s fine.”

It’s then that Jimin’s phone lights up, both pairs of eyes darting to the picture of you decorating the wallpaper.

While it’s not a completely flattering picture (you’re asleep with your wire-rimmed glasses half-off and there’s drool dribbling down your chin.) However it’s definitely you, the person Jungkook nearly killed a couple days ago.

Jungkook’s mouth goes dry, and he lets go of Jimin’s hand like it’s fire. Jimin hardly notices, grabbing his phone in hope that you replied to his text. To his despair, it’s just Taehyung. He ruffles his hair in frustration, letting the slick ebony strands fall out of his hairstyle.

“Fuck,” Jimin curses, shoving his phone in his blazer.

“Everything alright?” Jungkook asks, trying to be polite. On the other hand, he’s rather curious about the girl from weeks ago, who still hasn’t left his mind.

In the heat of the moment, Jungkook left the scene with you blubbering on the road. How wide your eyes were with recognition, and almost mother-like as you coddled him like someone to protect. He’s felt bad about it since, but he had an interview with Jimin’s boss and he couldn’t blow a job opportunity. It couldn’t be helped that your sad expression has been his midnight fixation when he can’t sleep or has a creative block. He should’ve at least called a cab to take you to the hospital or something, you were clearly not in the right mind.

“Yeah, it’s just a friend.” Jimin forces a smile, not wanting to dump his baggage on the new employee. “She almost got hit by a motorcycle the other day,” Jungkook masks a wince, remembering the horror he felt when he saw you, just lying there across the street. “Ever since then, she just hasn’t been herself. I’m just worried. It’s like she’s seen a ghost or something.”

“Oh,” Jungkook steals a glance at Jimin’s phone again, hoping to see your picture light up again. He does feel a little guilty pushing you off him and running away, but then again it was you that started being weird.

How did you know him, and why were you so concerned for his well-being? Would he get fired if he asked Jimin about you? That would be the quickest job he ever got contracted for. Instead, Jungkook forces a smile and offers a neutral, “Well, I’m sure things will work out.”

“Thanks, I hope so too.”

Jungkook’s palms are sweaty, as if it’s a dark premonition that something will happen. With Jimin around supervising him, he has a feeling that if things don’t work out, things will happen regardless.

Maybe he’ll understand why you were so concerned for a stranger’s well-being, and why you looked at him like that.

Like someone in love.

#jungkook fic #bts fic #jungkook fluff #goldenclosetnet #thekpopnetwork #jungkook x reader #jungkook imagines #bts fluff #jungkook scenarios

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wefoundloveunderthelight · 4 years ago

Photo

Wonderland by GleefullyCaptainSwan

Read on AO3: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

Or on FF

Tagging: @kmomof4 @lfh1226-linda @teamhook

Note: This could have a trigger affect regarding suicide. If you or anyone you know needs help, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline1-800-273-TALK (8255) or text TALK to 741741 for 24/7, anonymous, free counseling.

Note: This chapter was inspired by the song Understanding in a Car Crash by Thursday

Chapter 5: Understanding in a Car Crash

It’s not that Killian was not looking forward to his therapy session, in fact, that would be an understatement, but he had woken up in such a foul mood that he didn’t even want to leave his room.

“You know it’s just like detox. You’re on day 5. Reality is setting in.”

He looked over at August staring at him. “I already have a therapy session with Hopper today; I don’t need you psychoanalyzing me as well.

“Sorry, just offering some reassurance.” The man threw his hands in the air in surrender and Killian decided it would be just as bad to stay here as it would be to face Dr. Hopper’s questions.

Stepping into the courtyard he watched as Ruby left Hopper’s office. He strolled toward the tall brunette, grinning when he noticed her immediate recognition of him. She smiled and strutted in his direction.

“Hey there handsome.” She flirted.

“How was your session?”

She pursed her lips and shrugged. “Eh, I talk more than I should, so I think he’s happy when I leave.”

Killian chuckled. “Got any tips for me?”

“If you want him to change the subject, talk about sex.” She giggled and ran her hand along the buttons of his jacket, fondling them with her long fingers.

“Not sure that tactic would work for me.”

“Well, if you ever need help working on that tactic, you could always practice on me.” She pressed her hand into his jacket against his chest. “Maybe after dinner tonight?”

“Tonight huh? Let me see how this session goes, I’ll think about it.”

“Ok don’t think about it too long, I happen to know that they close off the back side of the island after 5pm so, if you’re interested in exploring…” Her hands roamed toward the waist band of his jeans. “Just let me know.”

“Will do, lass.”

“Good luck.” She purred, swinging her hips as she walked away.

He pushed open the door to Hopper’s office and stepped inside. “Afternoon Killian.”

“Same day, Same Island.” He joked and settled into the couch.

“Today I want to talk more about Milah.”

“Wow right for the balls.” He grumbled.

“Why would you think that? I’m interested in what your relationship was like with your fiancé Milah. Where did you two meet?”

“Hi, I’m Milah, I’m pretty sure I’m your biggest fan.”

“Hi Milah, I’m Killian. Thanks for coming to the show tonight.”

“We uh, we met at one of my shows. She was a fan of the band.”

“When did it move from fan to dating?”

“It was pretty quick. We went out that night, it was a whirlwind courting. At least that’s what Robin says about it.”

“Did Robin like Milah?”

He laughed. “Hell no. Robin called her a gold digger.”

“Did that cause an issue with the band?”

“Rob’s a good guy. He didn’t like her but he’s my mate, so he didn’t push things, no one else would dare bring it up.”

“When did you get engaged?

“About 8 months after we started dating. I had just started filming the sequel for Neverland.”

“When was the wedding taking place.”

Killian tensed. “Um, it was going to be right after the sequel came out, but we uh, we postponed it.”

“Oh, and why was that?”

“There was a lot going on. I uh.” He stared out the window. “Milah and I were fighting a lot during filming.”

“Was Milah accepting of your lifestyle? The drugs?”

“Um yeah, she didn’t have any issues with it.”

“Did she participate?”

“You mean did I do drugs with my fiancé?”

“If that’s how you want me to ask it, yes.”

“Yes, Rob was against the drugs, its part of the reason he disliked Milah so much.”

“Was she high the night of the accident?”

Killian rubbed his palms on his jeans. “No, she wasn’t doing drugs because of the baby.”

“How far along was she?”

“Six months. Doctor said the baby was the size of a mango, so I had just started calling her mango, you know at nights. I always thought it was funny they compared a babe to fruit.”

“But you were still using, while she was pregnant?”

He stared out the window. “Uh yeah. Like I said, there was a lot going on with the baby, I was away a lot because of filming, and when she was with me on set, I felt like she wasn’t really there for me.”

“Were you using the night of the accident?”

“I wasn’t high. I’d had a few drinks, that’s all.”

“Can you remember how many?”

“No, like I said, it was a few.”

“The accident report doesn’t mention driving under the influence, just that rain was a factor.”

“I was bleeding out when they got there, they rushed me into surgery, guess I got lucky I was in shock, so they didn’t think to test.”

“Do you remember the accident?”

Killian glanced at the ceiling. “I uh, not really.”

“Let me the hell out of this car.”

“So, you can run back to him?”

“I want out.”

“Don’t you fucking open that door.”

“Killian, look out.”

“What do you remember?”

“Um, it was raining. I guess I hit a truck. Totaled my car. I remember the ambulance coming.” His voice trailed off, his squeezed his eyes shut.

“The report said that Milah died on contact. Did you know before you went to the hospital?”

He felt a stray tear roll down his cheek. “I…I don’t know. I um, I guess I was in shock. They made me let go of her.”

“Were you aware of your own injury?”

“No.”

“How does it make you feel, knowing what happened that night?”

“How the fuck do you think it makes me feel? Why would you even ask that? It felt like shit! Is that what you want to hear? It was the worst day of my damned life and no matter what I do, no matter how long I spend on this island, none of that is going to make it right. Nothing can fix the fact that I killed her. I killed them both.”

He buried his face in his palm, sobbing.

“Killian, I think it’s important to note that even though nothing you do will ever bring back Milah or the baby, it is important to remember that you didn’t die that night with them. You are still here. Only you can decide how to move forward.”

“And if I don’t want to move forward? Then what Doc? Because I’m good where I am.”

“You’re not really trying to tell me that you’re happy like this?”

“Happy? I don’t bloody deserve happy.”

“Killian, giving in to one’s dark side never accomplishes anything.”

“It’s the only part of me that I have left. “

“If you can't let go of the past... it's doomed to haunt you.”

Killian glared at the man, wiping at the tears in his eyes. He knew he was right, but he also knew he deserved to be haunted for what he did. He was lucky he didn’t get put away for the rest of his life. One simple error of not testing his blood alcohol before surgery and he escaped punishment from the law.

But you never really escape reality.

“How can I help you? Do you want to tell me your name?”

“I dunno, maybe I shouldn’t have called.”

“I’m here to listen, if you just want to talk.”

“…It should have been me.”

“What should have been you?”

“I should have died, not her.”

“Do you have a family member you can talk to?”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone. I just want the pain to end.”

“Have you thought about hurting yourself?”

“I…uh…yes. I have a gun.”

“Can we stop for today?” Killian pleaded with the man.

“Absolutely. You did good today.”

Killian smiled softly before leaving him and headed back toward his room. He had not expected to go into such detail in therapy. He was both pleasantly surprised and mildly annoyed that the therapist was so good at digging information from people who didn’t want to share any.

He lazily wondered if the blonde lass had lifted any of her burden with the man and then immediately chided himself for giving a damn about a woman who clearly wanted nothing to do with him, regardless of what the kiss under the pier meant.

He stumbled into the dining hall, his roommate waving him toward a table.

“You eat yet?”

“No, just left Hopper’s.”

“Awesome, we just sat down, grab some food.”

He turned toward the dining line when Will yelled to him. “Don’t eat whatever it is she’s calling the daily special.” He turned away from him and then yelled again. “And don’t get #4 either.”

“Aye, no daily Special, avoid #4.” He continued to mutter the words over and over to himself as he approached the crazy red haired fitness instructor.

“Well, hello there Killian, can I suggest the daily special?”

“Well, lass, that depends on what makes it special?” He joked.

“Quinoa.” She beamed.

“Keen what?”

“It’s a grain that’s very high in fiber, protein, and gluten free.”

“I’ll stick to the things I know. #5 please.”

“Oh, fine but come back when you decide to stop listening to your friends and want to try something healthier.” She turned to her left. “What can I get you Emma?”

He froze before peering to his left at the girl standing beside him, the one who was currently avoiding his gaze.

“Might I suggest the Quinoa?” He offered with a wink toward Zelena.

Her eyes narrowed but she did not look at him. “I’ll have the Grilled cheese please. With onion rings.”

“None of that is healthy. I hope you know that. You’ll need to do an extra spin class this week just to work that off.”

The girl shrugged. “Worth it.”

When Zelena left to get their food, he turned to face Emma. “Swan, are you avoiding me?”

“I’m not avoiding you.” She continued to stare straight ahead.

He leaned forward and then stepped in front of her, forcing her to look at him. “Don’t tell me you’re not avoiding me, because I’m actually quite perceptive.” He pointed his finger at her and then back at himself. “And this…this is avoiding me.”

She rolled her eyes and stepped around him, grabbing her food. “I don’t even know you well enough to be avoiding you.”

He leaned in closer to her face, “We could change that.” He breathed against her ear. “Care for another distraction?”

“Give me one good reason not to punch you in the face.”

“And ruin this devilishly handsome face, admit it, you want all of this.”

“If you were the last man on this island, I would still say no.” She growled and he was immediately irritated with his own disappointment.

“If the lady insists.” He grabbed his tray and stepped beside her, walking back to his table, joining Will and August.

“You keep messing with that one and you’re gonna get bit.” August gestured toward Emma.

“Her bark is worse than her bite, gents.” He mused, peering over August’s shoulder to observe the girl. She was currently laughing with Ruby, her head tilted back before he heard a distinct snort.

“I know someone else who seems interested in her bite.” Will pointed his fork in the direction of the door. Killian turned his head to see Jefferson walk into the cafeteria and beeline directly for Emma’s table. He felt his jaw tense as the man sat down next to Emma and nudged her with his shoulder. Emma gave him a bright smile and he groaned and shoved another bite of food into his mouth.

He heard another shrill laugh from the other side of the room, and he grumbled.

“Don’t think that lass has laughed so much since she got here. Gotta give it to the bloke for being able to do that.” Will nodded.

Killian slammed his fork down onto the table and stood from his seat, striding immediately to their table. Emma glanced up as she saw him approaching and he broke eye contact, sitting down next to Ruby.

“Killian.” The dark-haired lass perked up when he reached out and touched her knee. He leaned closer to her, staring into her dark eyes.

“I’m in, love. Meet you at 7?” Her eyes widened and her fingernails traveled from his knee upwards on his thigh under the table. He winked at her and then stood from the table, avoiding the dumbfounded look from Emma, before he turned and walked away, a smirk growing on his face.

He took the long way around the island on his way back to his room, taking in the view on the beach and trying to clear his mind from all the activities of the day. The session with Archie had affected him more than he was willing to admit. He had not spoken of the accident to anyone prior to today.

So much had been written about him in the press after Milah had died. Rumors had swirled about Milah and his co-star being in a torrid affair, though no one was able to confirm any truth to it. Killian had always denied the allegations, thankfully his bastard of a co-star refused to comment.

Killian had known that Milah had an affair with the man, he remembered the day he came home early to the sounds of passion in his bedroom. It had broken his heart, but nothing had prepared him when he found the wallet on the floor and identified the other party that was currently bringing out the moans of passion from his fiancé.

Everyone on set knew the truth, especially after a heated confrontation during a scene where Killian had tossed the asshole overboard. He tried to claim he was simply improvising, but the tension remained with everyone on the crew anytime they had a scene together.

Killian had confronted Milah days later only to have her deny that any such deceit had happened. He punched a hole through their bedroom wall that night. Milah cowering in the bathroom and swearing she had always been faithful to him.

His drinking increased from casual to nightly after the incident. Milah’s pregnancy announcement only causing him to spiral further into his use of drugs as a coping mechanism. She continued to swear there was no one else but him but he knew the timing of her pregnancy meant that it was possible the child was not his.

The papers wrote glowing articles about a man at the top of his celebrity prime who lost his fiancé and his hand in a terrible accident on a dark and rainy road. Fans sent him cards and set up memorials in front of their home. It became too much to bear knowing the truth of that night. Killian couldn’t stand to even look at his own face in the mirror.

“Hey, you wanna head to the gym?” Killian peered up to see his roommate poke his head into the doorway. “Will and I are gonna work out for a bit.”

He looked at his watch and realized if he wanted to get to the other side of the island by 7pm he would need to leave now. “Nah, I’ve got plans.”

His eyebrow lifted. “Plans? Care to share?”

“Nope.”

“Stay out of trouble man, you’ve almost made it a week.”

“Sure thing pop.” He joked and pushed past him.

“It’s your funeral.” He heard the man yell as he left, heading toward the beach. As he crossed through the courtyard his eye was drawn to the couple sitting on the grass under one of the palm trees. Blonde hair blowing in the breeze. He slowed his steps, observing as she sat next to Jefferson, her head dropping back a few times to laugh at something he said. He felt an irrational anger when his hand brushed against her hand, he wore a simple smile but one that clearly showed an affection for the girl.

He turned toward them suddenly, clearly his feet had stopped consulting his brain. He crossed in front of the couple, purposely tripping over Jefferson’s shoes.

“Sorry bout that.” He said dryly. “Didn’t see you there, Mate.”

Two pairs of eyes stared at him. “You expect me to believe that you couldn’t see two people sitting in the middle of the grass?” She quipped.

“Contrary to what you may assume, I’m not always paying attention to your every location, love.”

Her mouth dropped. “I wasn’t, I never, I…”

His eyebrow raised as he waited for her to pull together her thoughts, the smirk growing across his lips. When she stopped puckering like a fish, he interrupted. “Lass, I haven’t the time, if you’ll excuse me, I have places to be.” He winked and then his feet carried him away from the fuming blonde.

His feet hit sand and he made his way quickly to the back of the island, trying to remove the image of Emma with Jefferson. He was infuriated at how light and unencumbered Emma seemed with the man. Someone who he thought was literally quite mad. Why was she able to relax and enjoy Jefferson’s company while being completely hostile towards him?

“You made it.” A voice whispered and then he felt fingers grasp him by the shirt. “I wasn’t sure if you would come.”

“Of course, lass, I said I would, and I’m nothing if not a man of my word.”

She pressed up against him, her lips connecting with his neck. “Enough words.” She whispered, hot against his ear.

“Impatient, are we?” He laughed nervously, closing his eyes, and connecting his lips to hers. He slid across her mouth like silk, their tongues clashing together. He backed her up against the building they were hiding behind and she groaned at the aggressive contact. Her hands traveled down his chest and her felt her fingers tugging at the button of his jeans. Pulling back, he smirked. “Now lass, let’s not rush things.”

Her lips pouted. “Hard to get. I can work with that.”

He grabbed her hand in his and pulled it back to his shoulder, returning his lips to hers. She grinded her hips into him and he groaned into her mouth. He ran his hand down her back, resting along the supple curve of her ass.

She ran a hand over his jeans, his cock reacting to the attention. He cursed his active mind that was currently in direct competition with his body.

“Killian, I love you.”

“Milah, baby.”

He moaned, trying to clear the movie playing in his thoughts. Milah laid out underneath of him, her breasts highlighted by the moonlight in their bedroom, looking up at her from his place between her legs.

He grabbed Ruby around the waist and drug her with him to the sandy floor beneath them, running his fingers beneath her shirt and exploring the crevice under her breast.

He pinched her nipple and she cried out in delight. He pressed his mouth to her stomach, enjoying the pleasurable sounds she was making when the picture changed back to his room again.

“Killian, please touch me.”

His gaze drifted up and he was met with hooded green eyes that were praising his attention. His eyes blew open. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts.

“What’s wrong?” Ruby’s head lifted from the ground, peering in the dark in search for his eyes.

He returned his lips to her stomach when his thoughts were invaded by blonde hair, head tilted back, mouth open in a breathy moan. “Fuck.” He sat up quickly. Confused and angered by this new turn of events. His thoughts had always drifted to Milah during sexual encounters, he had become used to it, almost welcomed it at times. Ever since the accident, he had been unable to come to completion in any sexual situation without falling apart to the memory of Milah’s face. How could this woman steal away the last thing he had of his Milah?

“You ok?”

“Of course, dear. I just, it’s been a while.” He shrugged. “I supposed I’m a bit rusty.”

“Oh. I’m…”

“It’s not you, love. You are absolutely gorgeous and amazing. I just, perhaps I’m not as ready as my body is willing. This week has been a bit of a challenge.”

She frowned but her expression remained soft and understanding. “It’s ok. No rush, right?”

“Thank you. If you don’t mind keeping this between us, I would greatly appreciate it. Would hate for my reputation to be sullied.” He winked.

“Just promise me that if anything changes, you’ll come find me.”

He smiled and stood, dragging her up with him. “Allow me to escort you home.” He held out his elbow and she wrapped her arm in his. He was thankful she did not engage him in conversation the rest of the way, he was unsure if he would be able to mask the discomfort or confusion that was at war in his mind.

#wonderland #wonderland fic #stacy's fics #My fics #emma x killian #killian jones #emma x hook #emma swan #captainswan #captain swan #captain swan au #captain swan fics #captain swan modern au

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suntrastar · 5 years ago

Text

abstract: chapter 3

chapter 2!! you can also read it on ao3 :)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

Summary: Wait- Bucky Barnes attends your art class? And you didn’t even recognize him?

Word Count: 9520. i am deranged. someone euthanize me i beg you.

Author’s note: jesus fucking christ. this is so long for no reason. probably kind of poorly written. that is okay though. i really really appreciate the support you guys have given me for the last 2 chapters!! i was a bit iffy about joining tumblr but i’m glad to be here now :) please comment and reblog!! i appreciate it so much!!! ily all ok now enjoy this mess!!!

“You want to paint me?”

Rina looks at you, shocked, mouth agape, lone cherry tomato speared on her fork.

“Yeah,” you say, and smile with your straw still in between your teeth. “You in a field of flowers.”

“You want to paint me in a field of flowers?”

“Yes- that’s literally what I just said.”

The bustle of the restaurant is loud enough to drown out the rising volume of her voice. Thankfully. She’s being excessive, again- as if this is the first time she’s ever been the center of attention- but you’re fine with it today. You almost like it.

Today, her enthusiasm is almost contagious.

“I know,” Rina says “Duh. But, like, it’s just so crazy to me that you want to put me in your second solo show ever- I mean, why me?”

“Because,” you say, and almost leave it at that, just to mess with her. “Because you’re my best friend, and the whole thing is focused on people I know. And your hair would look so good with poppies, and-”

“I’m your best friend?”

“Obviously,” you say, even though to her, it might not be that obvious. “Who else?”

“That is so sweet,” she says, and leans back in her seat, dramatically clutching her hands over her heart. Rings sit on each of her fingers, gold and heavy stone. “You are too nice to me.”

She’s really milking it. But you’ll let it slide.

Rina gives you a self-satisfied smile, which you return without too much trouble. She’s so overwrought and showy with how she sits, limbs sprawled all over, like they’ve been blown into disarray by the wind. Her hair, still glossy red, is parted down the middle and made up in two French braids, tips just barely brushing her shoulders. The hair ties don’t match.

She has no best friend. She probably has, like, five other people just like you, who she calls on when she feels like it, whenever she wants company, when she feels like humoring someone. Or when she wants someone to listen to her talk.

It comes as part of the lifestyle- can you really blame her?

“I know,” you say, veering back on topic. “Bucky gave me the idea.”

You do it on purpose.

Her eyes go wide.

“Bucky?” She says, incredulously. Like she doesn’t believe you.

The feeling of being incompetent comes quick in a flash, and it takes too much to put it away.

You’re not incompetent- his number is in your phone, after all, isn’t it?

“The Winter Soldier, I mean,” you say, and the words feel all wrong in your mouth.

“No . Shut up. You are not on first-name basis with the fucking Winter Soldier.”

“Oops,” you say.

Her jaw drops.

You’re grinning too hard. She didn’t expect this from you- you didn’t expect this from you! You take a bite of your food, some garlicky chicken thing you can’t pronounce the name of, to delay your response. It gives you time to think of what to say next.

Rina waits, stunned into silence.

“We’re… talking, I think,” you say. “I asked him for his number.”

“And he gave it to you?”

“Yep.”

There’s a story there, that you won’t tell her.

You texted him a day after class, on Tuesday. Was that too soon? You didn’t care, your mind was too muddled with so many other things- icy blue eyes and different techniques for drawing wrinkles and this week’s shopping list and the best color that went with orange-red, and the laundry that you still hadn’t done.

You were too giddy to get smart with it- all you sent was a simple Hey.

All he sent back was a simple Hi.

Then, once you had read over his message too many times, you turned your phone off and pretended it never happened.

It’s too nerve-wracking. And pointless. You’re going to see him on Monday again, anyway! There’s plenty of time to text him- everything doesn’t have to be so immediate- you’ll get around to it before then, for sure.

You just have to stop thinking so much.

“I cannot believe you,” Rina gushes, and from her expression, you believe her. “You’re all grown up! I am so proud of you. That man is delicious, I cannot-”

“Do not describe him as delicious, oh my god.”

You burst out laughing as Rina raises one eyebrow, filled in dark. Her eye makeup always kills. “Am I wrong?”

“Well… no, but…”

***

Steve leaves, but Bucky stays back at the end of class to help you clean up. Acrylics again, and it’s the second-to-last class, so you had finally brought out the canvas.

Canvas means more fun, but more mess. More paint splatters on the tables, more brushes with clogged-up bristles.

Bucky doesn’t smile as he says bye to Steve, and it makes you feel a certain type of way , but you stick to business. Cleaning supplies are pulled out, paper towels are ripped from the dispenser. Bucky starts on the tables while you roll up your sleeves and start the sink, preparing to start on the brushes.

God- these brushes.

If these brushes were washed incorrectly, you would cry. They’re new, and high-quality, and the bristles are still soft and not yet frayed or discolored, and the handles are made of thick, clear plastic, and they come in different sizes and styles, and you can barely believe it, but they all even have rubber grips.

They’re really nice brushes.

“You didn’t text me back,” Bucky says.

You wish the sink was loud enough to swallow all sound, swallow you up within it.

Still, you look over your shoulder, giving him a pained smile while he scrubs at a spot of dried paint. He looks back at you, but you can’t tell what he’s thinking.

Of course you didn’t text back- thinking less is way harder than it seems.

“I wanted to,” you say, “but I got nervous. Sorry.”

You turn back to the sink. It’s a little easier to breathe without having to look at him.

“You got nervous,” he repeats, voice still so unreadable.

Is he mad? He always looks mad, always sounds mad- you can’t ever tell if there’s anything behind it.

“Yeah,” you say, and shrug, like it’s no big deal at all, like you chicken out of things all the time, like texting is always such a cause for concern. “I didn’t know what to say. What was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know.”

Ugh.

The sink water slowly circles the drain. You don’t look past it, only keeping your eyes on the sink and the remaining brushes- it helps calm your heart, a little. Bucky is probably on the last few tables. All of the paintings have been neatly propped up on the drying racks.

Bucky painted his entire canvas yellow.

You are so dumb.

“Um, okay” you say, shutting off the sink. The really nice brushes are all neatly piled up on the counter on top of a folded paper towel, washed and drying. “What if I was like, ‘hey, Bucky, after this class ends and I’m not your art instructor anymore, would you want to meet up sometime?’”

You turn back around and lean against the sink. It’s an effort that deserves applause- you look so collected, while your heart is beating way too fast, and Bucky, its forever opposite, just stands behind a table, spray bottle in hand.

Your hands are sweaty.

He nods slowly, and it’s a victory in and of itself- the action nearly has you weak at the knees.

“Meet up,” he repeats, voice low, like a halfhearted growl. Disdainful, kind of. “Like a date.”

You wipe your hands on your apron. It’s a totally normal, totally relaxed movement. But then you’re wishing that you wore something cuter- was this sweatshirt really the only thing you had? Do you not own, like, a blouse, or something? Didn’t you just do your laundry?

Fuck, you’re being annoying.

“We don’t have to call it that,” you say. “We can just… hang out. Eat something. Go on a walk.”

You say it casually, but honestly, you like nice dates. Dates at art museums, dates at fusion restaurants, dates at movie theaters showing indie films in foreign languages. Anything eccentric, haphazard. Spontaneous.

But you also like seeing him smile, and you like to talk, and you like to be listened to- and he is giving you that.

This is a different type of everything. It’s all upside down, inside out, twisted over in itself. You have to approach it all differently, maybe it’s because he’s too quiet or too famous or too dangerous or whatever the hell, but none of it matters.

What matters is that you want it.

You’ll realign your compass.

“Okay,” he says. “I like walks.”

“Great,” you say, and go on without hesitating, because long nights have you tired and hesitation is for the weak, “I like you.”

Bucky Barnes, real, unfitting name James, clutching dirty paper towels and a spray bottle, smiles at you.

It’s wrong, but you could just bite him.

A sudden, unprompted thought hurls through your mind- you want to paint him.

***

The last art class.

It was once long-awaited, but now, you’re actually sad to see everyone go.

You buy a tray of cookies. It’s the least you can do- everyone has been so nice to you, so respectful and cooperative. Everyone has made things fun. You don’t know if you were doing anything right, but it sure as hell has been enjoyable.

Crumbs might get in the paint, but’s a small price to pay.

“Knock yourself out,” you announce.

The tray is set out on the middle table. You forgot the package of napkins back at your studio, so you gesture to the paper towel dispenser.

Then you long for the kids in your Wednesday and Thursday classes, because unlike these people, they wouldn’t be looking so dead at the prospect of free cookies.

You shake your head and return to your perch, tucking your feet behind the legs of the stool.

Eventually the conversations trickle out, slowly turning the room warm and lovely and bright. You listen in, a little, savor it, and hop back up. There’s nothing to do- might as well make some idle chitchat, one last time.

Shonna uses a small brush to add purple highlights to the feathers of a pigeon. It’s gorgeous- and you don’t even like pigeons- but you like her painting style and the jewel tones she’s adding amidst the grey, and the orange beak, and the washed-out yellow background she’s painting over.

“Wow,” you say, and she adds another purple highlight with a flick of her hand. “I cannot stop looking at this pigeon.”

“Thank you, honey,” she says, without looking up.

She’s too focused for you to stay for too long- you have to leave the pigeon for others. Marcie waves you down and gives you the latest update about her son, abandoning her half-painted rose while she launches into a bit of a tirade- her son wants to pierce his nose, isn’t that ridiculous?

“Hey, I wanted to pierce my nose when I was his age, too,” you say, and spout something about self-expression that makes her frown.

Ahmed chimes in. You have no idea what the blob he’s painting is supposed to be, but you like it. “I’ve been trying to tell her the same thing! These kids are modern now- these are just the things they do!”

“These are just the things we do,” you echo.

Marcie heaves a heavy sigh.

***

You head over to a few more tables, and it goes by too fast and too slow, but then you’re suddenly there in the back, with your star student, and your…

With Bucky.

“I really like how this is turning out,” Steve says proudly, as you approach them.

Then, he adds, almost childishly, “Don’t look until I’m done.”

He has a half-eaten sugar cookie sitting by his paint water.

“I won’t look” you promise, and all at once, you’re almost emotional- he is such a nice guy. He’s like the human embodiment of a golden retriever. “Don’t worry.”

Steve nods, pleased and nervous at the same time. You pointedly look away from the painting as you slide into a seat, across from Bucky and his yellow canvas.

Yellow and black canvas. He’s hunched over with a fat-bristled paintbrush in hand, adding black stripes, blobby and unevenly spaced, but still unbelievably straight.

It is all so cute.

“Very bumblebee-esque,” you say, and his forehead creases. “I like it.”

Steve smiles.

Bucky adds another line. He didn’t take a cookie. He should’ve- the chocolate-chip is so good.

“Thanks,” he says.

And Steve just smiles wider, and you almost kick him under the table, and Bucky gives you an unsmiling look that turns you to jelly.

Hat aside, he is looking exceptionally pretty today. All hair and eyes and bone structure- it makes you want to do something, like reaching out and grabbing him by the collar of his jacket. Like running a hand over his jaw. Catching his stubble under your fingertips.

Parting his hair down the middle and French braiding it.

Taking a picture- it'll last longer.

“I'm going to miss seeing you guys around.”

Steve gives you a surprised look and shakes his head. He has one arm protectively curled around his canvas, even though you’re still not looking.

“Oh, I’m sure one of us will be seeing you around,” he says, and grins.

You glare at him.

Bucky laughs.

***

The goodbyes aren’t as bad as you thought they would be.

People leave with a simple goodbye and a brief thank you, shrugging on their coats and gingerly clinging to their still-damp artwork. Marcie makes you promise her that you won’t pierce your nose. One woman who would always come to the class with a huge coffee cup sets her painting aside to sweep you into a hug.

It’s very gratifying.

Steve and Bucky linger.

Shonna does, too, but for a completely different reason.

You want to give her Rina’s contact. She probably has some painting class available, if Shonna’s interested in that sort of thing, if she’s okay with being around so much personality.

And you also want to give her your contact- so she can keep on sending you pictures of those birds.

“One sec,” you tell her, and reach for your purse, sitting on the counter.

Bucky is standing closeby, remarkably closeby, and you accidentally brush against him.

He goes rigid.

But you’re busy pulling out a pen and a scrap piece of paper, and then you’re using the counter as a hard surface to write against, shoulders angled away from him, and you’re talking all the while- you don’t have the spare second to be concerned.

“This is my email,” you say, adding a smiley face after the address. “Send me your art. And, like, talk to me. Send me your grocery lists, if you want- I don’t care. Here.”

Shonna takes it and gives you a smile. There’s a glimmer of something in it, a knowing.

“Thank you,” she says, and laughs a little, and you suddenly fiercely miss your mother. “I’ll keep the last bit in mind.”

She looks past you. Steve, standing a few feet away, holding the canvas he still hasn’t shown you, nods respectfully. And Bucky, standing near the counter, still near you, even though he’s looking at you like you’ve scalded him.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says.

You almost ask, “to what?” But she’s already left- Shonna and her pigeons are gone.

Steve steps up fast to take her place.

You still have no time to think.

“So, this is the finished product,” Steve says with no preamble, and with a great flourish that makes you laugh in delight, he turns the canvas around.

Oh.

Wow.

You’re not dizzy.

But you will be, if you keep on looking at this- a tangle of vines on a wall, with blooming flowers in what should be the wrong colors, dappled in light from a window you can’t see, drawn from a strange perspective. The leaves are really big and the vines are really small, and then it’s flip-flopped, and he has a hot-pink underpainting that he didn’t fully cover, so there’s pink in the leaves, pink on the wall. Pink in the un-pink flowers.

“Fuck,” you say, and then go quiet.

Steve tenses.

Now you have two very strong men looking at you weird.

You should probably fix that.

“I don’t- I don’t know what to say,” you say, stumbling over your words, feeling cotton-mouthed. “There are no coherent thoughts going on in my head right now. I’m just- where did this even- how did you even come up with this?”

“I tried to do that thing you said,” Steve says, sounding uncertain. He shifts and the painting moves with him, sending pink flickering over your eyesight. “No empty space. Because it’s boring.”

What is this called, again? Artists supporting artists?

“It is boring,” you say in agreement, and your voice comes back to you, all at once. “And holy shit, you pulled it off so well. I’m obsessed with the pink underpainting- it’s everything. You literally invented pink. And can we talk about these vines? How long did it take you to draw them all tangled up like that? And the flowers- you even gave them little stems, ugh. And all the colors! And this lighting- I’m sorry, I have too much to say.”

Like watching a flower bloom, Steve unfurls at your praise, blush deepening with each compliment. It’s so wonderfully endearing, and internally, you sigh in relief.

“Thank you,” he says, and bursts into the brightest smile you’ve ever seen. “Also, we have one more question.”

“We?” You ask, and Bucky clears his throat.

You turn to him.

Already, you have a whole slew of problems- you have to sketch out an emerging idea and place an order for new brushes, ones with rubber grips, and you have to cook dinner when you get home because lately you’ve been ordering too much takeout, and you have to organize your closet, and you have to give an adequate and peppy response to whatever Steve is about to say-

You’re bursting at the seams.

There isn’t much room for anything else. Any concern.

“You have something to say, Bucky?” You ask, and waggle your eyebrows.

He doesn’t crack a smile- just how you like it.

“I do,” he says, smugly, and then says your name in a way that ties your stomach up in knots, that has you thinking of flowers and chiffon.

“We were wondering if you’re free tomorrow,” Steve says, and then invites you out for drinks, for tomorrow evening.

So you’ve passed the initial threshold of friendship, and now you’re onto group drinking! That’s exciting- and you’ll get to see Bucky, and you’ll get to postpone that tedious process of planning out a date- a hang-out, and you’ll have an opportunity to show up in something besides jeans and sad sweatshirts.

There hasn’t been a chance to show it off to him, yet, but you can dress.

Steve mentions another friend named Sam, who might join, too, if that’s okay with you.

“I’m cool with it,” you say. “The more the merrier, right?”

He has to be a decent guy, if Steve associates with him, and you like new people.

But doesn’t Steve also associate with, like, Tony Stark?

That man is oh-so problematic. He rolls out with a new scandal every month. He’s had enough scandals that he could release a line of red-and-gold-themed calendars- with the dates of each scandal marked in. Each month could have its own photo, too, coinciding with the dates.

Tony Stark, making peace signs at a court hearing. Tony Stark, wasted on a yacht. Tony Stark, in the middle of an interview where he bashes people who have absolutely nothing to do with him.

“That sounds like fun,” you say, and Steve lets out a breath of relief, “but I have to ask, about Sam? Is he, like, a…”

An Avenger? A genetically-altered individual? A prominent public figure with a stupid amount of money?

“He’s a really nice guy,” Steve quickly says.

“He’s a pain in the ass,” Bucky says, immediately after him.

***

As it turns out, Sam Wilson is not a pain in the ass.

He is really nice, but more importantly, he is funny.

Bucky texted you the address a few hours ago. You walk into the bar and at once, you’re assaulted by an excess of dark- dark floors, dark lighting, dark accents on the decor. None of it is dingy, just low-lit. It’s a nice place.

It might be a little too nice- nothing like the sticky-floored, rowdy sports-themed bars you usually hit when you’re in the mood to get hammered.

You catch the back of a head, wavy brown hair and thick shoulders, in a booth tucked into the corner. Steve, sitting opposite him, against the wall, catches your eye and waves you over.

Next to Bucky is a guy you’ve never seen before, Sam. Black skin, close-cropped hair, looking over his shoulder to flash a grin at you. Even in a simple shirt, you can tell that he is built.

He’s an Avenger, then. Maybe.

You’ve just barely slid in beside Steve, and you’re grinning and making some dumb comment about the disaster that is the New York subway system, when Sam fixes you with a gleeful look and leans forward.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” he says, casting a side-eye at Bucky. “I’m not joking when I say this- I was starting to think that Barnes made you up. He’s always doing crazy shit like that. Anyways, you will not believe why I’m actually here.”

You humor him, because why the hell not? “Why are you actually here?”

Already, you can tell that he has that vaguely-ironic, purposely-stupid sense of humor, which you always find absolutely hilarious. And you want to know what he means by crazy shit.

Bucky looks up at you for a few charged seconds, telling you something you can’t decipher, and then ducks his hand back down to stare intensely at his drink. Something amber, with ice cubes.

“I’m here to make sure that you don’t feel bad. Because these two fossils,” Sam says, and Steve winces, “can’t get drunk. But I can! So if you wanna get trashed, I’m game.”

Under the dimmed lights, Sam’s teeth shine perfectly white. All of Steve’s friends seem to have perfectly white teeth.

“It’s because of the serum,” Steve says, and you just gawk.

They both can’t get drunk?

Because of their fucking superhero vaccine?

“What the hell,” you say, and rest your elbows on the tabletop. Bucky’s gaze follows your arms, starting at the hems of the sleeves, trailing up to your shoulders. “That’s so… Steve, if you can’t get drunk, then why are you torturing yourself with that beer?”

“It’s for the feeling,” Steve says quietly, blushing pink, and Bucky is still quiet, and you have a feeling that this has something to do with nostalgia, or World War II, or something. The good old days.

Sam catches it too, so he buts in, quickly bringing the conversation back to something less layered, less wired.

He’s a man with nothing to hide. He tells you who he is with no hesitation, without trying to skip over or disguise anything- he’s open. He’s a war vet, too, and now an Avenger- he’s the Falcon. He has, he says, a pair of fancy-ass wings. And the coolest outfit.

“Wait,” you say, and you’re suddenly dying to know, “what does it feel like to fly?”

His eyes light up.

“You know when you’re trying to sleep, and then you randomly get that feeling that you’re falling, and your stomach does that thing?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s like that, but you can control it. It’s fucking amazing.”

He launches into a whole spiel, talking your ear off about the feeling of high-altitude wind on his skin and aerodynamics and some science-y things you don’t understand, and you get your own beer and enjoy the sweet feeling of getting buzzed on a weeknight, and as the edge you constantly have on yourself shifts, the seats shift, too.

You don’t know how, but you end up next to Bucky, in between him and the wall. Not touching, but close. Sam is across from you and Steve is next to him, and all of a sudden they’re talking about Chex Mix.

“If the Avengers were Chex Mix pieces,” Sam says, throwing the word Avenger around casually enough to make Steve’s hesitations seem horrendously uptight, “I would be the garlic chip. The best part of the whole damn bag. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Yeah, those chips are definitely the best part,” you say, adopting a mock-seriousness. “And Tony Stark would be one of those knobby-ass, crunchy little mini breadsticks.”

Sam mirrors your expression, nodding gravely, like what you’re both evaluating is a highly intellectual subject. “I completely agree. And for Rogers- man, you’re a pretzel.”

You narrow your eyes. “Square or circle?”

“Uh,” Sam says, turning to survey poor, unprepared Steve, looking equal parts bewildered and embarrassed. “Square.”

“Great choice. And Bucky?”

“Bucky…” Sam hesitates, and the briefest smile flashes over his face before he schools his expression back into objectivity, “Bucky is one of those original Chex squares. Sorry.”

“That’s cold,” you say, and Sam smiles again, and leans all the way back in his seat, bringing his hands behind his head.

“He’s not one of the yellow squares, though- those are actually good,” Sam starts, grin growing wider by the second, and you can’t tell if it would be rude to laugh. “He’s not one of those squares with extra seasoning, either. Bucky is just one of the plain brown squares. The wheat squares, or whatever the hell. Have you ever, like- have you ever wondered what the sole of a shoe tastes like? Or the eraser on top of a pencil? That’s what those taste like- that’s what he is. Just one of the plain Chex squares.”

Your jaw drops.

A roast like that from a halfway drunk man is absolutely scathing.

Bucky just levels a glare.

He’s used to this, you think. Is that his crazy shit? That he never reacts to anything?

You’re definitely a little tipsy- this is obviously no time to get wasted, but the edge has certainly been taken off, the corners of your world having gone hazy. In a lull, you watch a well-dressed man standing by the vestibule doors lean past your field of vision and receive what you think is a kiss on the cheek.

Without thinking, you lean close to Bucky and cup a hand over his ear.

Maybe he won’t react, maybe he will, but you’re not going to give him the time for either.

“I think that you’re the garlic chip,” you whisper loudly, and you’ll probably cringe yourself into oblivion over it when you're sober, but you think he shivers- and then he snorts.

“Thank you,” he says, and Sam putters out, giving you an amazed look.

***

“Heyyy,” you say later, turning to Bucky, when time has passed and you’re no longer on the subject of Chex Mix and he’s still a little too quiet. “What’s up?”

He’s quiet and troubled, drinking what might be whiskey like it’s water. Is it whiskey? You didn’t think that people actually drank whiskey- just kept it around in crystal decanters and silver flasks to look cool, like they’re main characters in a movie.

“The sky,” he says dryly, like you didn’t say that same exact shit when you were in middle school, hopelessly thinking that it was the slickest comeback.

“Very funny, James,” you say, and he huffs, and you feel a brief flash of panic, and then you’re almost apologizing, when he grins.

You know maybe three whole things about him, but you’ll press yourself up against him right here and now, under the low light of a fancy bar, with rain sliding down outside the window panes, with his friends right across the table. You don’t care.

His friends can tell.

“We’ll be right back,” Steve says suddenly, making a very showy display of getting up with Sam. Both of them send you obnoxious grins and suggestively raised eyebrows.

Bucky glares. You can’t stop smiling.

“You kids have fun,” Sam calls, and you laugh.

Just you and him, then. The mood shifts fast, turning from one thing to… another. Bucky’s eyes reflect the window outside, falling dark and darker, and you’re slipping, too.

“You look really nice,” Bucky says, and his eyes dip down in the slyest fucking move- you’re almost proud of him for it, for having such game.

A spark of heat flashes through you, as he takes you in slowly, like he’s trying to savor it.

You opted for a slightly tighter shirt, and a pair of jeans, but they’re your nice jeans. The ones without any weird streaks of paint on the thighs. And you wear a beaded necklace, and in your ears, a pair of fun, delicate hoop earrings, dangling with charms in the shape of crescent moons.

“Thanks,” you lean back, into the wall, letting your voice drop to match the tone of his. “You do, too.”

He just stares at you, unamused. Still dark, and dangerous.

Purple chiffon, you think, and marigolds. The flower was meant for another friend, but she’ll have to manage, because now, you can only see Bucky with marigolds, with no room for anyone else.

“So,” you say, before the silence carries on and makes you do something stupid, “Done anything fun lately?”

He tenses. Again.

There’s all these things that you know you can’t ask him, things about his job and his hobbies and his metal fucking arm, which you still haven’t seen- which you’re fine with, but, like. It’s the fact that he has a metal arm in the first place- he is so detached from everything you know, and you aren’t sure if you know how to navigate it all. You don’t think he knows how to navigate it, either.

He’s hesitant, you think. But not unwilling.

You’re just going to roll with it.

”I watched a movie today,” he says, sounding so smooth that your clutch on your drink wavers. His eyes are raking you over, cold.

Red marigolds. Not the orange ones. Red marigolds with the little golden borders on the edges of each petal.

“Which movie?”

He shakes his head. “I forgot the name”

“Okay, well, what was it about?”

“Talking dogs.”

You laugh and he smiles, and then you feel light enough to float. “Talking dogs?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and he takes a sip. His mouth is very pink. Layers, you think, layers and overlapping, to make the fabric look hazy. Washed-out. “They talk when their owners aren’t home.”

“That sounds right up your alley,” you say, and you’re giggly and he’s all smiley and maybe you’re being embarrassing, but whatever, because he’s looking at you like he’s never been smiley with anyone else before, and you really, really want to lean in.

You’ll wait.

***

Sam comes back with Steve a little bit later, but it isn't until you’re getting ready to leave when he brings it up.

“You’re good for him,” Sam says, while Bucky and Steve have gone to pay. Your drinks are on him- how chivalrous. “Honestly, you’re probably too good for him.”

You laugh as you shrug on your jacket. “Doubt it.”

“No, I’m serious,” he says, voice dropping to an urgent whisper. You realize at once that he’s about to say something heavy, something concerning. “He has been through some fucked-up shit. It’s not his fault, obviously, but it’s always there. He’s never going to get over it. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep. He just stays awake, for like, three whole days at a time. Sometimes he just disappears. He never tells anyone where he goes. Sometimes he does this thing where he-”

“I get it,” you say quickly, and he must be able to see your sudden dread, because his face softens.

“I’m not trying to scare you. I just want you to know- that that’s what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Thanks,” you say, and zip up your coat, and then pat your pockets even though you know you have everything, just so you have an excuse to not say anything. Sam gives you a long look, before sighing and pulling out his phone.

Obviously, Sam is trying to tell you that Bucky is damaged.

You’re not in the business of fixing things, but you’ll take him as he is anyway, because...

“Sam?” you say, and he looks up from his phone.

“Sometimes,” you start, and swallow down whatever anxiety is starting to surface, “Sometimes he’s being all quiet and moody and angsty and whatever, I get that same feeling that you’re telling me. But then, like, he just does something. Like, he’ll make a joke, or say something, and then it’s like-”

You struggle with your words- it’s like everything you want to say is there, but you can’t reach it. Sam slides his phone into his pocket, and Bucky is coming back, with Steve in tow, moon and sun, peas in a pod. You wonder if Sam makes their duo a trio, if he’s the third invitee to their slumber party, or if he’s just on the fringes.

“It’s like- It’s like, okay. Like, I know who he is and it’s all okay.”

He nods, and smiles at you, and you sincerely hope that he isn’t just on the fringes.

***

The paintings of your parents are finished- and they are good. So good. Every detail is there, every color. Every line. The wrinkles and the flowers and the lace neckline of your mother’s dress. Looking at them makes you feel so proud- it’s been forever since you were able to properly convey your thoughts onto canvas.

They’re big, too. Larger than life. You’ll have to rent one of those orange U-Haul trailers to transport them.

On a new canvas is Rina, only halfway painted. She looks good too, even though right now she’s just a head and a torso and two floating feet, because getting the colors on her legs right is harder than you thought. It’s tricky to paint the shadows and contours without her legs just looking bruised- there’s so many flower stems overlapping with the skin, so you don’t have a lot of room to work with.

You’ll figure it out.

You might be a little in over your head, actually. Confident- a little too confident. You don’t even have this painting done, and you’re itching to start on another. A possible recipe for disaster, but every time you have a spare second, in the shower or on the subway or when you’re trying to fall asleep, you find yourself thinking about it.

Not in bits and pieces the way most of your thoughts are, but a fully formed concept; a real, true image brimming with fullness, already starting to spill over into everything you do.

You have it all figured out. You know what techniques you’ll use. What composition, what colors.

You text Bucky.

Nothing crazy. You know you could scare him off, or maybe not, not anymore- by the end of the night at the bar last week, you sat next to him and bumped up against him and whispered in his ear, and right before you left he flicked the charm on your earring, watched it sway, and then he smirked- and you almost died.

You text him Hey, and then set your phone on the farthest surface you can find, pointedly avoiding it. Rina’s calves need attention- you have paint to mix.

Ten minutes later, your phone rings.

You can’t help it, you’re weak-hearted- you drop everything and dash to your phone, dodging your carts of supplies and hopping over a stack of toppled canvases that you never bothered to pick up, and pick up on the third ring.

“Hi,” you say into the receiver, slightly out of breath.

“Hi,” he says, and he sounds slightly out of breath, too.

“Um,” you say, and laugh a little, with the heady rush of nerves flooding in, “I wasn’t expecting you to call.”

“I called because I’m a slow texter,” Bucky says.

You feel so fluttery. When was the last time you felt this fluttery?

“Oh. That’s okay. I was just wondering if you... wanted to meet up sometime soon? Tomorrow, maybe?”

Tomorrow is Saturday, a day off. For you, at least- do Avengers get days off?

“Okay,” he says, and you swear he sounds pleased. You want to cut straight to something else. Skip, jump, leap over all of these steps, so you can get to what you really want to tell him. “I think I can do that. Where are we meeting?”

“There’s this little cafe we can… we can head there first, I’ll text you the address, but I have this idea,” you say, and wait for his invitation to continue, with your heart beating dangerously fast, thrumming like it might just burst through your ribs.

“What’s your idea?”

Thank you, you almost say, but don’t.

The steps are skipped, formalities disregarded- you just tell him.

It’s the perfect time- there’s that currently rare, pretty daylight that grows with each passing day streaming in through your windows unfiltered, blocked by no blinds or curtains. You pace a little, at first, right in the sun, and then sit down on a stool, toeing the smooth wood floors beneath, cradling the phone.

You start it off simple, with the marigolds.

Red marigolds, you specify, because you feel like you have to. Then you delve deeper, into chiffon and lighting and this thing you want to try out with layering, where two elements that overlap go by a completely different color scheme. Like, you say, like the flowers are red and the clothes are black, but the places where they meet are electric pink or orange or blue or something else unusual and distracting.

Save for the sound of his breathing, Bucky is quiet. You can tell that he’s really listening, probably sitting down somewhere and focusing on you, not doing some other task with your voice as background noise. He doesn’t interrupt when you go off on a tangent about the importance of natural lighting or contradict yourself with opposing statements on color choice, or when your words start to deteriorate, when they start pouring out so fast that they slur together and become less than coherent.

Your mind is going even faster- you can see the image even when you blink.

Something at the back of your thoughts tells you to stop, to slow down. You need to chill out.

But the idea is so vivid, so you can’t- you don’t, not until the idea is totally exhausted and you give a final sigh and go quiet, not until after giving what could count as an entire fucking speech.

When Bucky speaks again, he sounds tentative.

“I… like it,” he says, and maybe he’s holding his phone at a bad angle, because his voice is quiet.

“You do?” You say, instead of asking something else, with a sudden bad feeling in your gut.

“Yeah. But…”

You know what he says without him having to say it.

It feels like you’ve been punched.

The picture behind your eyelids burns brighter.

“That’s okay,” you say in response to his unsaid words, speaking too late, so that it's obvious that it’s not okay.

Your heart is sinking, as if it has any right to, as if he’s in the wrong. How did you go from high to low so fast?

You scared him. You put too much pressure on him too fast- it’s exactly what Sam said, that he’s all levels of wary and weird, and little things can set him off, because of everything that he’s been through-

Even if he was someone else, though, even if he was normal, he would still say no- anyone would say no to being given such a request out of nowhere.

Well, Rina didn’t, but she doesn’t count in this situation, does she?

“Sorry,” he says.

That hurts worse.

“Don’t apologize,” you say quickly. “It’s not like it’s not going to work now- I mean, it’ll be fine. Are you still down to meet, though?”

“Sure,” he says, too late.

***

Bucky Barnes does not like anything in his coffee.

He takes it black, black like his clothes, black like his soul, black like whatever other emo shit you can come up with.

It’s not that funny anymore.

Still, you keep up with it- you’re funny and talkative and charming and everything else, because you don’t know what else to do. The subject will be broached, it’s inevitable- you’ll broach it, even, but you still have to figure out how.

He’s subdued. And wearing his stupid hat, again, and you would give anything to knock it off so you could really see him, and he’s cautiously cradling his mug in a way that makes you ache everywhere.

The cafe is busy and decorated with a specific aesthetic, one that you would call manufactured bohemian. Potted plants and quirky photographs and drinks that all have fancy and ridiculous names. The baristas wear yellow aprons, and if you have a membership card, every tenth purchase gets you a free sugar cookie iced with a smiling sun.

Your cappuccino foam is dissolving. Sometimes, even though it’s mostly tasteless, you swipe it up and eat it with a spoon. Today, it seems like a bad idea- frivolous in the face of his silence and your unmotivated charisma and this stupid idea lingering between you two, like a friend that’s overstayed their welcome.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, and wonder why you feel so jumpy for saying it. “For bringing that thing up yesterday.”

To your own credit, you still sound confident.

He looks at you so darkly that you wonder if you should be afraid. Have there ever been others in your seat, afraid?

You’re not afraid.

“It’s fine,” he says, and continues staring at you like it’s not fine.

“I’m just- I was just thinking out loud,” you say. You feel like you have to explain yourself, prove something to him, so that you won’t wilt. “It was just an idea that I thought could be cool. I told you because, no , wait. I mean, I know that I- fuck. I’m sorry that it made you uncomfortable. That was really dumb of me.”

He tilts his head, eyes sliding over, and you shiver.

He looks bored.

Which is unnerving and terrifying as hell, because you have this carefully hand-crafted, precisely-cut image of who you are supposed to be, and it is not meant to be boring in the slightest, but he's bored, and you’re going to lose it.

“I said it’s fine,” he says, monotonously, giving the sudden impression that he’s about to leave. But he’s just sitting in his seat, unwrapping his hands from his mug and setting them on the table, while your hands are on the verge of shaking. “It didn't make me uncomfortable.”

If that was true, then you wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place. You wouldn’t be stumbling over yourself to say something so simple.

It takes considerable effort to keep your gaze steady. “Okay. But I still- I just want to say a thing really quick.”

“Say it.”

He’s being mean.

But this thing has been eating at you for a while now, so you don’t care.

“Um, so, we’re really different people,” you start, and before you second-guess it, you adopt your speaker voice, the teaching voice, the smart one. He has to know this about you- you’re smart. “And you obviously have all of your own things going on in your life that I can’t even imagine, and if you ever want to, like, talk about it, I’m here, but I also don’t care.”

He raises an eyebrow.

You push on.

“Like, it’s not important to me. If you want it to be, then it’ll be, but if not, then it’s whatever. I'm not- when I see you, I just see you. Does that make sense? Like, I don’t really think of any of that other stuff? If I’m supposed to, though, I’m sorry. I… I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

You don’t get nervous often, but you let out a small, nervous laugh.

It’s like your heart and head and lungs are suspended, frozen in ice while he takes your words in. The door to the cafe chimes and a large group of people step in. Middle aged women, all wearing athletic clothes. Devil’s ivy grows on the wall farthest from you- how chic- with vines snaking forward in your direction, reaching for you in green and streaky white.

He smiles.

All you see is teeth and creased eyes and a low, uncreased brow- you want to kiss him.

“Tell me the idea again,” he says, and leans back in his seat. He crosses his arms, and you watch his forearms shift and strain against his shirt, and then you clear your throat and look away and try to focus.

You inhale and gather everything, hoping that this time, you’ll be able to make it make sense.

***

One thing spirals into another. Your words were building and building, rising like a crescendo, overwhelming you to the point where you just said it outright, and-

He’s now in your apartment.

He is literally in your apartment.

You watch him survey the area- the clutter, the mismatched furniture, the crooked posters and photos and artwork hung up on the walls. The subpar paint on the walls that you didn’t choose, the cabinets made of old wood with newly replaced handles.

The entire place is creaking, becoming worse for the wear with each passing day. You could probably afford nicer, but it doesn’t matter, because you love it here- you’ve formed an emotional attachment that goes beyond sad paint and constant repairs. Your home is cozy.

But right now, with Bucky in here, it’s suddenly cramped.

“I want you to sit over here,” you say, and facing a great window, rounded on top with those gorgeous little decorative swirls, which is your favorite part of the whole place, is an armchair. It’s a steal you found at an antique store, with little tassels lining the back of the seat, upholstered with the tackiest floral print you’ve ever seen, but it’s perfect for what you’re trying to do.

The sun is shining strong and unfiltered- he’ll be lit up.

Bucky sits. He looks on edge, and beautiful.

You want to make this easy for him. But you might be too swept away in him to make any efforts- you’re still in shock that he agreed to this in the first place, so disoriented with him being here, in your place, that your trains of thought keep on derailing.

You’re closer than you wish you were, closer to losing it.

“Perfect. Give me one second.”

You go to your room, which isn’t really a room but a sectioned-off alcove with a bit of wall blocking it from view, no door- weird architecture, but whatever, to retrieve your supplies. Tape and the neatly folded swatches of fabric and your camera.

Photography isn’t your thing, but you need reference material.

When you return, he’s looking pensive, and dazzling. His arms fall tensely on the sides of the chair, but his hands dangle so gracefully, and the light catches his face and colors it golden- you are going to lose it when it comes to painting his eyes. They’re blue, but you see them as suns.

“You look great,” you say, and he blushes. You’re ready to pounce, right now.

The fabric is a little bit awkward. It has to be draped upon him- Bucky bristles at your actions in a way that tells you he’s never done anything even remotely like this before, but you persist, and he lets you.

“Get out of the chair really quick.”

“Okay.”

Bucky gets out of the chair. You hop up on it, to tape the corners of the fabric to the ceiling. It’s a flimsy attempt, but they hold and flutter just fine.

He takes you by the hand to bring you back down.

“Careful,” he says, as you make the daunting two-and-a-half-foot descent, and he squeezes your hand in his gloved one before you make him sit down again.

You are buzzing with electricity. Another point to him- that was smooth.

The loose ends of the fabric are tricky, You try at first to tape them to the back of the chair, moving back behind him to reach. Bucky’s head stays perfectly still, and the chiffon looks wrong. It looks weirdly stiff.

So you drape one on him like planned, sort of dripping down his shoulder in a bunched-up purple river, and let the other hang freely, swaying a little from the fragility of the tape.

You move back around to face him.

“This is perfect,” you say, and grin, because this is finally happening. “You look perfect.”

He’s staring all intensely again. You want to come close to him, tell him how lovely he looks, straight out of a dream. You’re so pretty, you almost say, but you have some semblance of rational thought left in you- and so you stay quiet.

The camera dangles from its strap around your neck. You take it in your hands and power it on. The settings are adjusted, and you fiddle with the shutter speed and focus and everything else before bringing it close to your eye, expecting this dream-

He’s all tense, again.

It’s the lens, you immediately think, even though that doesn’t really make sense. You look like- you look like him when he does his things. Lenses and targets and crosshairs. How is this thought so immediate?

You’re just trying to take a picture.

“Relax,” you say, and it does absolutely nothing.

“I am relaxed,” he bites out.

He’s really not. There’s something shifting in his face, something discontented, a brewing storm. His hands are starting to harshly curl into the armrests, digging at the upholstery, distorting the flowers.

The chiffon looms.

“Fix your hands. Like, move them- no, turn them back,”

You’re stooping over to fully capture him, almost ready to take a knee.

His hands flex and stay as they are, stressed and taut and not right, and the rest of him is still so-

You bring the camera down.

***

He’s in this ugly chair, surrounded by fabric, and you’re pretty and wearing a pale pink sweater, and you’re aiming a camera at him, for a picture, but he feels like a target.

White-hot adrenaline and cold and dark dread pull at both sides of him. He feels like a total mess.

Is this they all felt- how they all feel, when he is aiming at them? He tries to do things differently, now, but the tragedy still takes place, the trigger is still fired- the deed is still done. Karma, he thinks, retracing its path, coming back to bite him through you.

You’re frowning. He wants to apologize.

You take the camera down and let it dangle from the strap at your neck. He just had your hands in his- he wants them back and wants to get as far away from you as possible.

“This isn’t working,” you say, and straighten back up, placing your hands on your hips. You look powerful, and he might be trembling from clenching his jaw so hard. “You are not relaxed.”

“I’m not,” he agrees, and you sigh and fix him with a look that isn’t pity- he’d bolt if it were pity, but steely resolve.

You take the camera off your neck, and gently bend over to set it on the floor. Then you sit down beside it, wincing as your knee makes a noise, and giving him a bemused little smile that he wants to just-

Your head level with his knees as you sit, cross-legged. Hands splayed over your lower thighs, careless and carefree. Your posture slouches a bit, relaxing the way he is not, and it's relieving.

His hands grip the chair like a lifeline.

“Why isn’t this working?” You ask, more yourself than him. “You were so- nevermind. Or, Let’s… um, wait. Maybe- Can I?”

He’s always thought of you as so put-together, a born speaker, but now you’ve been stammering and stuttering all over his heart, and he doesn’t know what to do.

You reach out with your hand, hesitantly, wavering. The scar smiles pink.

He nods- his head nods, his body is moving outside of itself, and he feels sheltered and exposed, nearly covered in purple fabric and vulnerable and sitting above you, all of him bared for you to see. Hot and cold.

Your hand goes on his knee.

He’s so alarmed that he almost lashes out- he wants to think, but you’re giving him no time to-

Your other hand is reaching out, tugging at his own, and you bring yourself up to your knees and lean back on the balls of your feet, balancing. Your head is still below his chest and tilted so he can’t see your eyes, and you’re holding his hand like it’ll break.

There’s a dry-erase board fastened on the opposite wall, next to all of the other eclectic clutter. It’s filled in with a to-do list- the words COOK SOMETHING are scrawled at the top in angry red marker. He focuses on the words as you play with his fingers.

You gently trace a thumb over the ridges of his knuckles; he’s suddenly so ticklish that he flinches and chokes on a word that he doesn’t know how to say.

You nudge his hand over to the side, drape the fingers down, and your other hand is still burning his knee, setting him alight-

You’re molding him. Setting him to look how you want, manhandling him in the softest way possible. Should this feel violating? Rude? It feels good- purposeful. He’s letting you do this, and his heart is beating hard, but he can still hear your breathing and his breathing and the white noise of the traffic on the street below, stories away.

You take your hand off his knee, and nudge at his left hand, and he thinks now, how fucking stupid this is- if it’s his fucking hand, why does he wear this stupid fucking glove?

He goes to work it off and you understand, and if he wasn’t wanting so badly to be still for you, stay here as you take your picture, he would grab you by the necklace you’re wearing and drag you closer.

The glove is pulled off and dropped to the floor and the silver of his hand winks in the sunlight.

“Oh,” you say softly, and there’s a crack in your voice, and his voice would crack too, if you asked him to speak.

There’s this look on your face. He doesn’t know if you want to hold his hand or kiss it or put his fingers in your mouth, it looks like all three and he is all unfurled, too, because he is sitting back in this ugly armchair and you’re holding his hands again, and you’re backlit by the sun- like a vision sent straight from the sky.

You fix his hands.

This feels intimate- more intimate than kissing, or anything else. This feels like skipping steps.

After a moment, you pry your hands off of his, and lean back.

Wordlessly, you take the camera and stand up, and you fiddle it and back up, back to where you were at first, far away. Then you’re bringing it close to your eye, looking at him through a lens, and the shutter clicks once, twice.

You bring it back down.

“You got it?” He says, and his voice sounds rough- he sounds parched.

You look at its little screen and bite your lip. “Yeah.”

“Can you come here for a second?”

You look up at him and he’s glad that he couldn’t see your eyes before- they’re dark. “Yeah.”

The camera is tossed to the side, again, and you walk like you’re floating. The steps have been skipped, but Bucky will have to go back to them anyway- he doesn’t like to leave any stones unturned-

And so he waits until you’re close enough, and then tugs you down by your sweater- he doesn’t want to hurt you, and he’s reaching and reaching-

You laugh or smile or do something else sweet, but he’s too caught up to tell. He pulls you down to him, and surrounded by you and sunlight and fluttering purple chiffon, he kisses you.

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the-magic-lava-lamp · 4 years ago

Text

Caught Up In You

Chapter 3 - A Very Loki Chapter

Summary: A story revolving around a group of teenage friends, their mishaps, their relationships and their coming of age.

Watch as they navigate through the highs & lows of high school relationships and learn to grow up as most of them are approaching the end of their Senior year.

Ships: SamBucky, ThorBruce, Stony, ValJane…(More ships & characters to come)

Word Count: 6,497

{Wednesday Night}

The thick rim of sweat which wrapped around Loki’s ankle was finally given fresh air as he kicked off one of his old sneakers.

The night was over; Thor had gone to his room with a joyful grin and ice-cream dotting the corner of his mouth and Wanda had been dropped off at home. Which was an event all on it’s own. While waiting in line at the happy little Frosty’s store-front, Wanda’s Mother called and asked her home to see her Grandparents who’d dropped by as a surprise.

Loki was irritated with the abrupt change of plans and Wanda��s angst about it only fueled him on. But Thor managed to make the little time they had left kinda fun. Paying for their treats and scrolling through the multiple snapchats he had of Loki doing weird shit to compete with Wanda’s captured moments.

And Loki was never one to shy away from being the center of attention, so he was absolutely delighted.

But now, his face was overcast with that tiny sheen of moisture which made his makeup heavy. Really hammering it in that he’d gone out & done all he could for the day with nothing left but to do but try and sleep.

He swiped remover down his face with a cotton pad and revealed in the euphoric sense of relief instead of focusing on the slight disappointment which always came.

Half his face was clean, one shiny green eye gone while the other still glittered under the flickering bathroom light, when Odin knocked on the bathroom door in his special way. One thump.

“In here.” He called out, filled with a little teenage venom.

Odin huffed a bit before speaking. “Can I just pee really quick?”

Loki turned to scrunch his face at the wooden door, where an eight year old Thor had once proclaimed he saw an image of a turtle between the lines. He rolled his lips together and popped out his leg before reaching out and unlocking the door. “Fine.”

He’d try to avoid the bickering match by giving him what he wanted & tried to speed past his father before he got a good look at him. But Odin managed a quick peek. “Interesting.” He hummed in that condescending tone that he always argued was just his regular voice.

Loki frowned and remembering that if he quipped back, fighting would escalate and Odin would just say shit he didn’t understand was offensive.

But the flickering light and sense of suburban ‘comfort’ was driving him insane all of the sudden. He blinked and spun to grab the door with his special grace. “You like it, father?” He smirked in a way that he’d once seen one Tony Stark do to his father in the school parking lot last year. It’d been an expression which stuck with him. The perfect mixture of innocent and bitchy. That had really bubbled Loki’s old crush on the arrogant guy.

Odin shifted, either from the fact that he hadn’t pissed yet or the nerves he always got when talking to his younger son. They both pretended that didn’t exist for a few years now.

“Lovely.” He tried to mutter out without sounding annoyed but he really wasn’t good at that. “Did you go out like..that?”

Loki smirked slightly, as if that didn’t bother him, and tore his gaze to the stupid framed painting of a bathtub which hung on the wall. “I’m sorry to have embarrassed you.”

“Don’t be snotty with me, Loki. I didn’t mean it like that and you should know that.” Odin shook his head which only served to truly piss his son off further.

“Oh of course, you’ve been rather happy with my behavior lately. Just admit that you can’t accept it-”

“Well, I’m not exactly ecstatic, son. I never have understood you." Odin burst, for the first time voicing some kind of confession to the feelings Loki basically already knew of...But it still hurt him. Loki stepped back a little, losing some of his confidence.

Odin frowned but took the opportunity to shut the bathroom door to escape.

Loki stared at the door, a little winded and suddenly overwhelmed with bitterness.

There was a full length mirror in his bedroom which Loki used to remove the rest of his makeup. It worked out very poorly considering all he had to clean it off with was a dish towel and some water he poured into Thor’s lame childhood baseball team trophy. He’d stolen it a few weeks ago from his older brother's room and he’d yet to notice it’s disappearance, sadly.

There was a tiny knock on his door which couldn't possibly be Odin, so Loki gave them permission to enter as he scrubbed his left eye. He’d sort of expected his Mother but was greeted with the gentle looking giant called Thor. Of course.

Loki turned his chin to look at him over his shoulder. “These kinds of moments are a little too ‘sitcom trying to tackle serious subjects’ for me, Thor. So, I’d rather not have a heart-to-heart, ok?” He smirked and turned back to the mirror, watching his brother’s reflection as he sat on his bed.

Thor rolled his eyes but looked somewhat amused. “I think we’re quite better at the ‘heart-to-heart’s than those dumb shows.” He glanced down at Loki’s reflection and smirked right back.

“I don’t know about better. But, we are far more entertaining.” Loki chuckled, remembering a few times where their nice talks ended with fun playful punching. “This is between father and I, Thor. You couldn’t possibly get it.” He frowned and finally turned his whole body. “The man thinks the world of you.”

Thor stiffened slightly.

“Anyone can see you're his favorite.” Loki shook his head with sudden anger. “Hela moved as far as she did because of him. And he can barely stand to look at me. I can see it in the way he looks at me. Complete and utter...embarrassment.”

“Father has a complicated way of showing his love-”

Loki felt his chest burn with the sudden urge to argue until he couldn’t breathe. “Not with you. Never with you.” He spat and threw his crappy towel onto the carpet. “He has some kind of personal issue against me, brother. Don’t act like it’s not there cause that just...drives me crazy.” His voice grew more tiresome than he would’ve liked and he deflated a bit.

“He likes to pretend Wanda’s my little girlfriend because he doesn’t like the fact that I’m so obviously attracted to men too! And it’s not even because he’s against the idea of having a queer son-” Loki stumbled on his words because he was barely sure how he identified, himself. “If you were to bring home Banner, he’d be waving the flag! I’d bet my life on it.”

He stood and started pacing his floor while Thor watched him go.

“But because I didn’t turn out to be someone who could pass as a straight, manly jock to family and friends, he despises me.” Loki looked up to the ceiling in frustration.

Thor was stunned to silence, not used to seeing his brother so distraught. Green glitter was still smudged and wet over Loki’s eye and he was doing his best to never make eye contact. “I know it’ll probably frustrate you and mother but...” Loki paused and rolled his lips together “I’m not going to fight for a relationship with him if he won’t even meet me halfway.”

“Brother...” Thor stood from the bed and took the way Loki moved back with embarrassment to notice. “I am always going to be in your corner, you know that right?” He asked.

Loki looked as if he didn’t know how to respond which absolutely crushed his older brother. “I haven’t always made it easy for you so...why should I think that?” He shrugged.

Thor swallowed, feeling as if he’d just gulped burning tea. “I think the world of you, Loki.” He shrugged because that answer was just so simple. No matter how many times they fought, Thor loved his brother.

Loki looked down at the carpet before letting out a long sigh. “Ok. I’m uncomfortable and would like to get the rest of this shit off my face and maybe watch a film.” He rubbed hard into his left eye and glanced at Thor. “You can watch too but you have to stop talking.”

Thor smiled and did a mock salute.

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

{Thursday Morning}

Loki rested his head on Wanda’s shoulder; her chin resting on the tufts of his hair. Her glance was desperately pointed downwards, eyes strained as she still couldn’t help but try and look at her friend as he spoke. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” She frowned and Loki softly smiled. “If it helps, my Grandma spent the whole evening asking me about boys and trying to give me tips on how to ‘Snag the best kind of fellow’.”

Loki rolled his eyes. “I doubt she was that...nineteen-fifties about it, Wanda.” He pursed his lips, taking in her most subdued outfit of the week. He’d been pretending not to notice her ‘subtle’ evolution from complete ‘middle school witch’ to a ‘maybe hippie girl’?

Wanda hummed. “I don’t like her, Loki.” She shook her head a little (best as she could). “All she does is talk about Neil Sedaka and say offensive things that we’re just supposed to ignore.”

Loki giggled in a way that not most people could get him to.

She chuckled into his hair. “She did ask about you though. My little friend from school, very condescending about it by the way.” Wanda momentarily raised her head and twisted down to look at him. “I told her you died but I kept a vial of your blood on a necklace.” Her voice seamlessly fell into a casual tone.

Loki hummed in a sinister little chuckle. “You’re such a freak.”

Wanda pinched him.

“So...” Loki got up from the bench. “How do you snag the fellow?” He teased.

Wanda popped up after him and started to reluctantly follow his motions to get to class. “Just the usual steps. Y’know pass him by in the hallway, let him carry your books...” She delicately tapped each of her fingers as she walked.

“Stand in the corner of the room & cry so he asks what’s wrong, sit on a park bench & feed pigeons, take a piece of his hair to put in a traditional love-bringing fire-”

Loki pushed her arm and laughed when she stumbled.

“Don’t knock it till you try it.” She bumped him back and hugged her books to her chest. “Why do you think I’m constantly pushing away attention?” She sarcastically put her hand to her chest and smirked.

“They make me nervous.” Wanda complained as she took the familiar steps up to the Odinson’s door. Loki rolled his eyes and dug around for his key.

Thor was inviting his old buddies over for a little after-school hang-out which Loki was 100% sure was just an attempt for Thor to distract himself from agonizing over Bruce. Loki’s brother was not subtle about hiding his feelings, even if he thought so. “They’re idiots, Wanda. Nothing to stress over. All you have to do is walk past them and go to the kitchen. They won’t bother you.”

Wanda crossed her arms and took off for the other room as soon as the door opened, neglecting to greet Thor or his friends in the living room. Though Loki moved a bit more slowly as he shut the entry & observed the group of jocks. He saved his most annoyed look for Sif, who’d always seemed annoyed with him.

Even with the strange time without seeing that company in their home, Loki was a master at ignoring them.

“Loki! Look who’s here!” Thor was quite joyous with the mini reunion But. Loki just rolled his eyes and went for the kitchen where Wanda was setting up their books to study. Hogun, Volstagg, Fandral and Sif gave the little brother tiny nods before he’d managed to escape but weren’t given a response.

Sif pursed her lips. “He hasn’t changed much.” She scooted closer to the table from her seat on the carpet. They surrounded the furniture like a group of poker players, bits of schoolwork littered it and circled the fake-fruit bowl. “Nor his little friend.” She smiled softly.

“I suppose the ice is part of his charm though.” Fandral added, throwing a plastic apple up-and-down with his trademark smirk. “Wouldn’t very well be Loki without it, Don’t you think?”

Thor observed his old friend's conversation with warm nostalgia in his chest. While it was endearing to see them all laughing & talking in his living room like they’d used to, Thor’s mind still drifted nervously to his plans with Bruce the next day.

While Thor was overthinking and the others chatted, Sif managed to get up and slip into the kitchen without much notice. Fandral’s apple now hanging loosely in her grip while she walked to the fridge.

Loki didn’t so much as look up at the presence he knew was there but that little friend of his did. Her expression was hard to read.

In her head, Wanda was agonizing over the idea of whether she was supposed to say ‘hi’ or not. Sure, she knew of Sif but she didn’t really know her. They’d just cross paths sometimes in the Odinson household when they were younger. But she was standing in the kitchen now-...though Loki wasn’t even moving and surely if she should greet the girl then so would she.

“I have to go to the bathroom.” She absolutely despised that she announced that to the room but at least she could then leave. Which she did.

Wanda darted off which finally pulled Loki’s attention from his books with a twitch of his brow.

“Guess I made her nervous, huh?” Sif’s charmed voice came from behind Loki. She moved around the table to stand awkwardly in front of him, hands oddly resting on her hips. There was an intense feeling of effort in the interaction which made Loki even more annoyed. Sif was a freaking jock. She’d been one all her life and the only reason she felt the need to be nice to him was because of Thor’s begging.

“She’s not attracted to you, bonehead. Your presence just gave her such social anxiety that she then had to use the bathroom as an excuse to leave. She’ll be hiding there until you’re gone.” The dark haired man spoke smoothly as he flipped through pages.

“Which-” He finally glanced up at Sif and made a show of folding his hands together “I hope it will be soon. Now that you’ve gotten the...coffee creamer you needed so badly?” His thin brow jumped up.

Sif really hadn’t been paying attention to what she was grabbing. She simply missed the days of annoying Thor’s little brother by mere existence plus hell if Wanda wasn’t adorable. She smirked and tossed the creamer from palm to palm while obnoxiously observing Loki’s work. She came closer and rested against the counter. “Still as kind as ever, Loki.”

The younger boy looked up and met his eye in an oddly amused way. “Still as back-handed as ever, Sif.” He scrunched up his nose and shut the Chemistry book he’d been pretending to read.

The girl just grinned as she straightened his back, finding the bite to be sentimental. All the times she’d teased the quiet boy whenever she passed Loki in her best friend's home, sitting on the ottoman by himself, to get Kool-Aid (or whatever the hell they were drinking in middle-school) popped back into her mind. “You do possess the ability to be nice, y’know that?”

Loki hummed, flipping his pen around in his hand. Those fingers moving quickly yet gracefully was somehow mesmerizing. “Yeah but you’re not worth the effort.” He flicked his tongue and went back to writing.

Sif nodded, as if the reaction was expected and went back to her friends because maybe Loki wasn’t worth her effort.

Once she was gone, Loki shoved himself out of the chair and trudged over to the bathroom door with a bit of an amused smile. His knuckles burned slightly as he tapped insistently against the white wood currently keeping him from his absurd friend. “Wanda, dear? You’re free to come out.” He hummed happily.

There was a quiet thrush of water from the sink and some shuffling but the door remained closed for another minute or two. It gave Loki the time to pause...and maybe think about the other night. He’d come to expect that disgusting attitude from Odin but that didn’t take away the sharp pain it put in his chest everytime he put another back-handed comment on the table. Damn if Loki didn’t keep a tiny bit of hope for change. “Did you decide to take a nap on the linoleum, Wanda?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly it.” She finally answered, voice thick and unamused.

So much so that Loki whistled, putting his hands up in a mock surrender as he backed away from the door. Just in time for his friend to pop out with that smug little nose-scrunch smile of hers. However Loki didn’t miss the slick way she shoved her phone into her back-pocket. He cocked an eyebrow, arms crossing elegantly over his chest. “Who were you talking to?”

“Nobody. I was peeing and hiding from Thor’s friends.”

“Then let me see your call history.”

Wanda scowled. “No, Loki.” She shook her head and stomped past him, beginning a dance of irritation. She’d lead into a step only to have Loki block and counter it, pretending to be doing something of importance that just so happened to be in her way. It only lasted so long.

When Loki reached over her body to get the cookie jar, that conniving little smile on his face, Wanda couldn’t help it. She pushed his arm back with a bit more force than intended and watched him stumble with heat in her stomach. “Are you so arrogant that you can't understand you’re annoying me so much right now?” Venom in her tone for sure but Wanda was a master remaining unsettlingly pleasant even when angry.

“Oh please, spare the dramatics.” Loki rolled his eyes. “It did seem like you were growing tired of me.” He spat a little too bitterly. Wanda turned, leaning back on the counter. Her outfit annoyingly consisted of flare jeans which dragged against the floor.

“Loki.” She frowned, moving towards the table. “We’re soul-siblings-” She gently poked his shoulder with one finger. “Just because I’m dressing a little differently doesn’t mean I’m becoming someone else.”

Exceedingly embarrassed, Loki looked off to the side. “So tell me who you were talking to.” It was pitifully childish but something about his best friend, who often openly gushed and giggled over boys, being so suddenly secretive about a phone-call was bothering him. It had to be someone she liked. He knew her tell-tale signs...that and he swore he’d heard a muffled giggle from behind the damn bathroom door.

“Fine.” Wanda shook her head once more and handed over the phone.

#i found this in my drafts lol!#so i finished it!#:)#loki odinson #loki and wanda #wanda maximoff #caught up in you #marvel #MCU #my fanfiction #Loki Laufeyson #Scarlet Witch #The Avengers #Marvel Comics

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killherfreakout · 5 years ago

Text

new school, new job, same boyfriend.

or: my take on the instagram post / 1k words / read on ao3

The store is still and quiet, save for the slight buzz of the fluorescent lights and the soft sound of the score of Star Wars playing through the speakers.

“JM Video, this is Eliott,” he answers the phone after it rings twice, a little out of breath because he was carrying a box of shipment out to the floor.

“Salut, Eliott, I was wondering if you could help me with something,” says the voice on the other line - a voice he recognizes instantly even though it is being altered to disguise their identity.

Normally Eliott would be annoyed at a customer calling so late before the store closes, but the thought of Lucas calling him at work is making his cheeks turn pink.

“And how can I be of assistance?” Eliott plays along, hopping up to sit on the counter and absent-mindedly wrapping the telephone cord around his finger a few times.

His manager has just left for the night, giving Eliott a chance to learn the closing procedures on his own. He started working at the video store a month and a half ago, looking for a way to explore his hobby of film and earn some money once his classes were more manageable and he had more free time. It helped ease his mind, doing basic tasks like inventory and stocking the shelves while getting to browse and check out titles that may be of interest to him. He would also study or draw when the traffic was slow. Since the semester ended and there were fewer days until Christmas, Eliott made a habit of cutting paper snowflakes out of scrap paper from receipts and old sale posters and hanging them on the bulletin board behind the register.

The white noise of the moving train is cut out by the faux professional voice of the boy on the other line.

“Well, I was hoping that you might have some film recommendations for someone who is spending a few days away from his boyfriend and misses him already.”

Eliott’s heart blooms at the image of Lucas leaning against the foggy train window, phone pressed between his rosy cheek and the fabric of one of Eliott’s hoodies he gave him for his trip to visit his mother for the holidays.

“Ah, I see. Lucky for you I am in the same situation, and happen to have a list that could possibly help you in that department.”

He slides off of the counter and makes his way to the narrow Romance aisle as the cord stretches behind him.

“For starters, I would say a classic like Romeo and Juliet or Titanic,” Eliott lists as he drags a finger across the spines of the plastic covers of the DVDs on the shelf.

“Okay, but Eliott, they all die at the end of those! I don’t think I’m in the mood for a tragic love story. What else you got?” Lucas replies in his regular voice, earning a giddy grin out of his boyfriend in Paris.

“But—alright, fine.” He raises a hand in acquiescence. Eliott ponders for a moment, music flooding his ears from the speaker above.

“Can’t go wrong with Star Wars, right?” He can’t help but think of that night he thought he could impress Lucas with his rendition of the movie’s theme on the piano. Little did he know...

He’s facing the ceiling now, as if he will find the answer there.

“And if you’re looking for something festive, there’s always Love Actually. Or Love the Coopers - with a young Timothée Chalamet, and Olivia Wilde,” he suggests, as if the good-looking young actor would convince him.

“And of course, Rise of the Guardians, but don’t watch that one without me.”

“Okay, all good options. And of course, I wouldn’t dare; that one will have to wait until Thursday, then,” says Lucas through the dinosaur of the store telephone. It will be a long few days until then.

“Are you closing yet?”

Eliott makes his way back to the counter to check the time. “Uh, yeah, right now actually. Are you almost to the station?”

“We should be in about 30 minutes.” Lucas clears his throat through the receiver, putting on his pretend customer voice again: “Um, thank you for your help, Eliott. I knew I could count on you.”

Eliott can imagine the other boy smirking and switches the phone to rest against his other ear, coughing to get his customer service voice back too. “Of course, glad I could help.”

“Goodnight, Eliott.”

“Goodnight.”

Before he hangs up, Eliott thinks he can hear the sound of a kiss through the phone and he swears his heart could burst.

He unhooks the carabiner holding his keys off of the belt loop of his jeans and unlocks the register to count the tills. Once the trash is taken out and the music and lights are turned off - but the neon sign and spotlights in the window still on - Eliott switches the sign reading open over to read closed. The door clicks, turning the key to lock it, and he steps back.

It is a windy December night in Paris. Eliott pulls up his hood and gets his phone from his pocket when it vibrates with a notification.

Message from Lucas ❣️:

At my moms

Je t’aime

Eliott immediately types out je t’aime, and it’s still as intoxicating as the first time they have said the words. Even through text message, even when half-asleep, even when they are laughing their asses off. Every I love you is the same and anew.

It hits him right then: it will soon be a year since he first laid eyes on Lucas; the first day of the rest of his life. Lucas, someone he would seek to find out more and inevitably fall in love with, and in some twist of fate, the stars would align and give him all the love he back to him in the form of this boy.

This year had been a tough one for Eliott, but luckily he had Lucas by his side and can’t wait to do it all again next year - all 525,600 minutes of it.

Before walking back to his apartment, he snaps a photo of the storefront and posts it to instagram. His instagram has always been a place he can express how he’s feeling, a collection of moments from this year that he can look back on. And a way to show Lucas just how much he loves him. It’s been a few months since he posted anyway.

The photo is posted with the caption: new school, new job, same boyfriend.

When he reaches the threshold of his flat, he sees a like and comment from the only person he has notifications on for.

lucallemant liked your photo.

lucallemant commented on your photo: and soon new apartment 🖇

Eliott toes his shoes off and changes into sweatpants then falls onto the bed with a sigh. He’ll fall asleep to the sound of Lucas’ voice and his deep breathing, and dream about having him there with him every night.

#elu fic #skam france #skamfr #elu #lucas lallemant #eliott demaury #lucas x eliott #skamfr fic #skamfr fanfic #skam france fic #my writing #fic #my fic #skamfr ff #behind the instagram posts #skam fr #mywriting #*mine

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youwerenevermeanttofeelalone · 5 years ago

Photo

Somebody Sweet to Talk To ❁︎ 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

Pairing: Harry Osborn x Plus Size Reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Gif credit: @lovingpostit

Summary & Warnings || Series Masterlist

A/N: shortest chapter yet and also the shortest in the whole series!

𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞

𝐈 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞

❁︎ ・・・・・❁︎ ・・・・・ ❁︎ ・・・・・❁︎

Tuesday and Wednesday weren’t too different from Monday. You arrived at school with Peter, parted ways with him by the spot he always waited for Gwen, entered the classes you had that day, took lunch with a couple of classmates you considered almost friends, did homework in the library, were joined by Harry two hours before the time to go home, got home with the three, accompanied them to do homework, spent time alone with Harry while teaching him how to play chess and getting to know him, and then hung out with the three until Harry and Gwen had to go, attended family dinner, went to sleep.

Thursday brought slight changes, Gwen didn’t leave school with you because of a family member’s visit. As you entered the compound, a pair of strong arms engulfed you in a hug, startling you.

The metal against your back should have been a sign but now that Tony had a metal arm too, what let you know it was Bucky was his scent so you relaxed and hugged back. “Hi, Buckaroo.”

He laughed in that gruff way he always did, parting from you to gaze down at you. “How did you know it was me?”

“I happen to know your scent very well.” You made a face. “That sounds creepy, what I truly meant was—“

“We get it,” the Sargent laughed again and stretched his arm to close the door. “How was school?” at that he looked at Harry and Peter too.

“Great!” Peter exclaimed, telling Bucky all about his school day.

Harry just hummed, extending a hand in your direction. You frowned down at it, your palm inching closer before you remembered you were carrying his cellphone and slid your hand into your pocket to retrieve it.

“You gave me yours,” he snorted, looking at the (Favorite Artist)’s photo you had as locked screen.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, repeating the motion of withdrawing the cellphone but now from your left pocket. You exchanged devices under Peter’s and Bucky’s eyes.

James started speaking, but Tony interrupted. “Can any of you help me? Bruce says aspirin hurts the stomach but I don’t believe him because it stops my stomachache.”

“Don’t all NSAIDs hurt the stomach?” Harry asked, not in general but to you, his body even rotating to face you properly.

You nodded, “but acetylsalicylic acid is one of the worst— stomachaches are treated in different ways than other pains because of that.”

“As mere symptoms?”

“Yep, or not as the main focus of the treatment because they’re usually caused by something else.”

Tony pouted childishly, probably because he loved being right, and grumbled something about having to throw up the pill.

“Don’t!” You yelled, walking after him to put a hand on his shoulder. Your mentor turned around, watching you. He looked so tired and sick that you frowned. “Go try to get some sleep, Tony,” you said softly, moving your hand to his forehead to check for a fever. “Once you get up I’ll give you a check-up, okay?”

Tony hummed, “Pep said it’s the flu, though.”

“Stomach flu, probably.”

Humming again, he announced he’d be in bed and asked you all to keep an eye on Morgan. Bucky sighed, watching his now close friend disappear through the hallway before sprinting toward the stairs to go get Morgan.

You sighed too, Tony was whiny when sick and you could only imagine how much Bruce had been struggling with him.

Peter plopped down on the couch, tiredly opening his backpack to do homework. Harry sat in front of him, watching him. The shorter man looked annoyed by something and a lot of things could be the cause but he had a theory. Testing said theory could be dangerous at that moment, but he was too curious not to try.

His eyes found yours. Making a gesture for you to sit down with him, he turned his attention back to Peter. Your best friend watched your movements, even following them. You sat close to Harry, turning to look at him as if to say something.

Harry threw his arm around your neck. “Can you go out tomorrow even if Tony’s sick?”

“It wouldn’t be appropriate,” Peter chimed in.

You lifted an eyebrow at your crush. Tony had a case of the stomach flu, it was painfully obvious and normal by how careless he was sometimes while eating street food. “I can, don’t worry,” you smiled at Harry without showing your teeth, “there’s always someone around here to check on him, and the flu is viral so there isn’t much to do other than keeping him hydrated and rested.” He hummed, relaxing his body so you two would appear to be physically closer.

Bucky offered to help the two young men with their homework and you placed Morgan on your lap, humming when the little girl asked if you would braid her hair. Tony’s daughter ran toward the stairs like Bucky had done earlier to retrieve some hairbands and a brush.

Moving a little farther from Harry, just enough to be comfortable while moving your hands, you started slowly brushing Morgan’s hair with care. The girl asked for as many braids you could do which was a slight pain in the ass but you complied without a negative word, separating the strands meticulously.

Harry’s attention would shift from his homework to the movement of your hands, a few times catching how relaxed the little girl looked on your lap. When Bucky coughed, he went back to paying attention to the Sargent.

You were done rather quickly, now used to braid hair frequently due to how much Morgan asked for the hairdo. Pepper paid a lot of attention to her daughter, but she couldn’t do it all even if she tried so you helped her like you wished someone would have helped your mother.

That early night, after Harry left and before he would go out to do his friendly neighboring thing, Peter told you he needed to talk to you about something important. You hadn’t thought he would tell you something so soon, but he still made himself clear by saying he didn’t think it was a good idea for you to date Harry.

“We’ll see, Pete. It’s too soon to know.” That was your only comment on the topic before leaving the living room in direction to the stairs.

Pepper stayed home to keep an eye on Tony, knowing her husband wouldn’t take care of himself if he didn’t even do it while healthy. Bucky liked spending time with Morgan so he was elated by the fact, and planned an afternoon full of fun activities.

But the Sargent didn’t do any of it without pulling you to the side before you could leave with Harry. You knew what was coming, and you weren’t up for it but sucked it up.

“I just want to make sure you’re comfortable with him, sweetheart.”

You nodded. It wouldn’t be a lie to say you were comfortable, and it wouldn’t be a lie to say Harry treated you just fine, but it definitely wouldn’t count as the truth either. Middle grounds didn’t exist in that situation, and you didn’t want them to. What you truly wanted at that moment was for Bucky to stop looking at you like you’d break at any second, you wouldn’t do it— you couldn’t do it because it would mean showing what happened with Quentin left a mark deeper than anyone knew, it would mean showing a weakness no one around you had ever shown.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yeah,” you nodded again. If the Sargent didn’t believe you, he didn’t show it. He kissed your forehead and wished you good luck like Tony did almost a week ago.

With the weight of having somewhat lied to James, you left Tony’s home-office and strut toward the door. Gwen squealed a ”good luck” too, Peter didn’t even take a glance at you. That weight was on you too, how displeased your best friend and crush was.

❁︎ ・・・・・❁︎ ・・・・・ ❁︎ ・・・・・❁︎

Harry observed you were more silent than usual, and it unnerved him a little bit. You had made progress regarding conversation, on Wednesday you even talked naturally without having to ask questions about the other. It worried him that you had gone back to avoid his eyes and stay quiet when you wouldn’t have time to redo it all.

Walking up to the movie theater’s door, he opened it for you to walk in as you gratefully bowed your head. The movie had been chosen the day before, an independent film you heard was interesting enough to leave The Compound. Harry was fine with it upon hearing the synopsis and the hardest thing to do was finding a place screening it.

The long drive was worth it. He couldn’t remember a time where he felt so comfortable at the movies, or with someone— you weren’t a loud eater and kept your comments to yourself for when the movie had finished. It wasn’t common for you to see that type of movie with someone, your... friends... weren’t into that kind of entertainment and with the lives they had you couldn’t particularly blame them; still, it was nice to have an acquaintance who wasn’t against watching a movie only fifteen minutes longer than the drive to the cinema complex.

A few tears were shed on your behalf at the end of the film. You heard Harry sniff beside her too and he thrust a couple of napkins in your hand. The last time you had gone to the movies with someone, Peter had found a little funny you cried with Bumblebee so Harry’s reaction was shocking to say the least— from what you knew, Harry wasn’t very emotional and that had made you think he didn’t like people who showed to be.

“Do you watch movies like those often?” his question was uttered as you walked back to his car.

“Yeah, usually online because I don’t drive and no one else has the time nor likes them.”

He hummed, pulling on the passenger’s door handle for you to get in. He saw you enter the vehicle from his peripheral view as he crossed the hood, there was a change in your facial expression that made him think you had finally relaxed a little bit.

“I watch any kind of movie as long as it sounds appealing,” you added once he was in the car. “I only avoid the horror genre because I get anxious easily, but if a film is worth the pain I do watch it.”

“Everyone at school thinks you’re stuck up, but you’re the most open and knowledgeable person I’ve met.”

You weren’t sure if it was a compliment or an observation, but you took it as both. “Judgmental biases are more common than we like to admit.”

“Yeah,” he turned the engine on with a sigh. “I used to be like that, to be honest.”

“What changed?”

“It was emotionally damaging.” He didn’t explain anything further on, at least not for a few minutes.

Pulling back to the main avenue that would take you back, he wondered if speaking more openly was a good idea. Harry liked the way his walls were still up, that was one of his reasons to not get too close to people— he would be lying if he said he didn’t want to have someone to talk to freely; Peter couldn’t be that person as much as he loved him, and Harry truly did.

“I was angry all the time,” he continued the explanation. “Because I assumed the worst of people.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you learned from your mistakes. It takes courage to do it.”

“Experience?”

“Plenty,” you lamented with the right side of your head resting on the window as you looked at him drive. He cast you a sideways glance. Getting the hint, you explained yourself too. “My family isn’t averagely normal, and I went through things as a child that turned me into a very cold person. It’s been hard to break out of it, I cave into it from time to time; it’s too damn comfortable not to.”

“Only child, right?”

You hummed, “did the bitter tone give it away?”

“Painfully so.”

Easing the break at a stoplight, he took his cellphone out to make sure his father hadn’t called. The only notification appearing on the locked screen was a text from Gwen, asking if you two were close to getting back. A quick reply of ‘in thirty minutes or so’ was what he typed before dropping the device into the cup holder at his right.

“How are we going to function next week?”

You hummed in thought. You had no clue, the options were limited in every aspect. “We’ll have to improvise.”

The rest of the drive was spent talking about the movie you saw. His phone had dinged in the middle of it but he ignored it, knowing it was either Gwen or Peter because his father didn’t like texting.

Both of you saw two silhouettes near the entrance of The Compound as the car crossed the gates. An idea came to his mind, but he wasn’t sure you’d be up for it. He wasn’t even sure if he himself was, but he leaned more toward the positive answer than he thought you would.

Turning the car off, he immediately gripped your hand so you wouldn’t leave the vehicle. You turned to look at him, a question building up in your throat as you unbuckled your seatbelt. “Kiss me,” he ordered gently.

“W-What?”

He sighed, undoing his seatbelt to lean closer to you. “They’re watching, we both know.”

Pushing yourself slightly upward, you let out a shaky breath before closing the gap between you both, eyes fluttering shut as contact was made. His lips moved softly on top of yours, the taste of the popcorn mixed with chocolate he ate earlier distracted you for a moment as his hand moved up to your cheek. You grasped the front of his shirt, tilting your head a few millimeters to meet his lips fully. Harry’s thumb dug into your neck while he deepened the kiss just enough for it to look realistic.

Kissing Harry Osborn as the light from the gigantic A in front of the compound illuminated the moment wasn’t how you imagined your Friday night would go. You didn’t imagine a knock on the passenger window would interrupt the kiss either.

You pulled back, him unlocking the car so both could leave it and see what was that Peter wanted. Your best friend didn’t look happy, and the fact that Gwen whistled teasingly made him frown.

“Gwen needs a ride to her grandma’s house. Can you take her, Harry?”

“Sure.” Harry craned his neck to his side, where you were standing. “I’ll text you later, okay?”

You nodded, looking up at him. “Drive safe.” He hummed, leaving a light kiss on the side of your head before turning on his heel.

Gwen followed him, waving at you and Peter. Harry didn’t open the door for her, nor waited for her to put the seatbelt on. Harry was actually in a hurry to get out of there, face slightly flushed in front of the lights from the dashboard.

The teasing was coming, he knew the blonde wouldn’t be able to keep it inside for long. He also knew he needed to sound convincing because she would tell Peter everything. But what terrified him to know was that he had enjoyed kissing Peter’s sister figure— he would have continued it even. Maybe Peter knew that too, maybe that was why he interrupted, and maybe by the end of the month, he would be all by himself most of the time again.

“Are things going well between you and (Y/N)?” He hummed as an answer to his best friend’s question, eyes on the road. Gwen watched him. “Pete’s worried.”

“He told me in the morning.”

“I’m worried too,” she mumbled. “You haven’t dated in a while and she’s Peter’s best friend. Also...”

“Also what?” He caught a shrug with his peripheral vision. “Tell me.”

“I’m happy for you two, Harry. And I’m sorry for having a but— but she isn’t right for you and you’re not right for her.”

“Because she’s smarter than me?” he couldn’t keep himself from sounding hurt. Everyone always treated him as if he was less, his dad had done it since he was a kid, Gwen since she met Peter, Peter since he found out his coping mechanisms.

“I don’t know if she is smarter than you,” the blonde quickly said, too quickly to be telling the truth. “But she has deep issues from what everyone’s told me. You’re not the type of person that can deal with that.”

“What can I deal with, then?”

“Someone more open, that’s all.” Gwen felt bad by telling him that, she was aware of how hard it was for Harry to get close to people, and of for how long Peter had told him not to pursue you. Her boyfriend was right by being worried when none of you were ready for a relationship and your pasts showed it.

He didn’t say anything through the rest of the drive. Harry dropped Gwen off and didn’t even wish her a good night. Had his friends been talking about him behind his back? What was Peter telling you about him at that moment?

Swerving into the first parking spot he saw, he took his cellphone out. His fingers hovered over the send button for a few seconds before he decided to simply send it and hope for the best.

Has Peter told you something about me? Like ever.

When your cellphone buzzed in your jean pocket at dinner you withdrew it and carefully looked down at it to not alert anyone. Harry’s question took you aback, and the answer even more.

Nothing other than the usual: you’re his best friend and son of Norman Osborn.

Nothing else? Maybe something in nonchalance like how fucking annoying I am?

You’re not annoying, and no.

Okay.

Gnawing on the inside of his bottom lip, he stared down at the screen. He tested his luck then.

I’ve been thinking about telling my dad I’m dating you, probably tomorrow at breakfast. Can I?

Is that what I should say? What does “dating” even mean? Now that I think about it, it sounds like people are going on dates and seeing what’s up— but from what I know there isn’t a difference...

Colloquially, dating is being in a relationship as partners. But I get what you mean.

So you would tell your father I’m your girlfriend?

Basically.

That was... too much. But you would look like a coward by suddenly taking it all back, you had kissed him earlier for crying out loud!

It’s fine. Thanks for asking beforehand, though.

No problem. I’ll text you tomorrow, have a good night.

Good night.

Locking the device, you went back to your meal. As you lifted your head, you saw Bucky staring at you and quickly took a mouthful of food to distract yourself. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes didn’t move from you until you left the table at the end of the meal.

#ssttt #harry osborn x reader #harry osborn x plus size reader #plus size reader #plus size fanfiction #plus size series #harry osborn series #fake dating au #harry osborn #marvel x reader #marvel x plus size reader #marvel series

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mr-chrisevans · 5 years ago

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Meet Cute - pt. 9

Word Count: 1,561

First Chapter | Last Chapter | Next Chapter

"There she is!" I was greeted by the glowing faces of Casey, Jules, and Estelle as I got back from work. "Hurry up and change so we can start drinking now." Casey told me as I shut the door behind me.

"I didn't realize we were having a little shindig this evening." I said as I walked back to my room and stripped out of my work clothes and changed into something more comfortable. As I changed I heard Estelle working the blender, clearly preparing margaritas for us all. "I hope you are actually doing an acceptable ratio of tequila to mix this time." I said as I sat down at the kitchen counter next to Jules. "Last time we were basically drinking an entire glass of tequila."

"Not to mention it was the worst tequila I've ever tasted in my life." Jules added with a shudder.

"Hey, give me a break. Last time I had spent most of my pay check covering part of that ones rent." She raised her eyebrow at me and returned to the margaritas.

"And I have never been late on rent since then." I responded.

Estelle started pouring her concoction into our glasses when Casey exclaimed from the couch. "Oh my God. Laurel, come here." I tried to protest, but she kept insisting.

"What are you even watching?" I asked as she rewinded the tv.

"Just shut up and look." She finally pressed play and I realized why she was so insistent.

"In recent news, Chris Evans is back in LA after finishing up filming on The Avengers. And it seems like he's back with Mystery Woman from earlier this year." The disembodied narrator spoke as a picture of Chris and I at dinner when we saw each other again was plastered on the tv. As much as I hated it, it was a great picture. The two of us were mid-laugh, but he was looking right at me and the look on his face... I don't even know how to describe it.

I could feel all my friends eyes on me as I sat there looking at the tv, trying to figure out what I was thinking. I turned to Casey. "It's okay, really. I honestly can't be surprised about it anymore so it is what it is. Now let's completely ignore this and get back to getting drunk."

And drunk we got. Jules and Casey passed out in the living room and Estelle and I covered them with blankets and brought out a wastebasket just in case. After I said goodnight to Estelle and went into my room, I saw that I had two unread texts, one from Adam and one from Chris.

Adam

I should be back from my conference on Thursday, wanna get together next weekend?

I closed out of that conversation without answering and opened Chris' message.

Chris

Are you free tomorrow night?

Laurel

Depends on what the activity is.

Chris

How good are you at planning parties? I've been roped in to hosting a Halloween party this year and I think I'm in way over my head.

Laurel

I guess I'm coming to your rescue.

*****

So we were friends.

And it was fine. We were making it work.

It wasn't like we were spending all our time together either. We would see each other a couple times a month, and everything was normal. Well, I wanted to seem like everything was normal. I had told myself that I didn't have feelings for Chris anymore as an excuse to get to see him and not feel guilty about it. That didn't work so well for me.

I rang Chris' doorbell and was greeted by his bulldog running up to the door and barking at full force. I saw Chris sprint after him and scoop him up before opening the door. "Someone is very excited to see you." He laughed.

"I'm so happy to see you too, East." I loved on East for a little before I turned to Chris. "Not terrible to see you either." I joked and gave him a hug after he set East back down.

"I guess it's good to know where I stand in this house."

"It's always a good idea to have your priorities straight." We made our way into his living room where he had beers set out for the both of us. "Looks like you do have your priorities all set." I laughed as we sat down on the couch.

"Hey, if I'm gonna be forced to plan this party I might as well find some way to enjoy myself." He grabbed his beer, leaned back into the couch and propped his feet up on the coffee table.

I crossed my arms and stared at him. "I'm glad you're enjoying being able to lounge, but I will not let you invite me here just to plan this whole thing by myself."

He sat up straight and looked me directly in the eye. "You are absolutely correct. No more lazing around it's all work from here on out." I could tell he was purposefully being annoying, but I just rolled my eyes. He relaxed and spoke again. "Okay, where do we start?"

"Well, you should probably make a list so you know what you need to buy. Have you thought about anything that you want so far?" He shook his head. "You are woefully unprepared." I said under my breath. "Let's start with alcohol because that is definitely the most important part of this holiday."

"I could not agree more." He said and leaned forward as I typed out a list on my phone. "Jungle Juice?" He questioned as he inspected my list.

"Look, I know we're not 19 and in college but there's really no better way to get plastered and have fun doing it." I responded.

"Well, I never went to college but maybe this will finally give me that experience I've been yearning for."

The next couple of hours were a mix of us actually planning the party and continuing to catch up from our time apart. Being with him was so easy. It didn't feel like I had to force anything he was genuinely interested in what I had to say. Time had gotten away from us, and before I knew it I got an annoyed text from Estelle saying if I didn't get home in the next 30 minutes she was ordering Chinese without me. "Estelle is threatening to leave me without food tonight, so I should probably get going." I told him as I stood up and grabbed my now long empty beer bottle.

"Shit, when did it get so late?" He got up too and cleared his stuff from the table. "Thanks for helping me out with this." He said as we walked into the kitchen. "I would not have been able to get my shit together enough to actually plan this as well as you did."

"I'm always available to come to the rescue. This better mean I'm on the invite list though."

"No, I was really just using you for your planning skills. I didn't actually want to see you there." He joked and I playfully slapped his arm. "Of course not." He said through laughs. "If anyone deserves the credit for planning what will definitely be the best party I've ever thrown it will have to be you."

"You're lucky I'm not asking to be paid for my services." I poked his chest, trying to come of as intimidating but it clearly didn't work.

"I'm extremely lucky." He said and held onto my arm. We locked eyes with each other and both fell quiet, unconsciously drifting closer together until we could feel each other's breath. He leaned down and lingered just before my face. Those few seconds felt like hours until I finally closed the distance between us and our lips crashed together. His arms wrapped around my waist and pulled me closer in to him. I ran my fingers through his hair and pulled him deeper into the kiss. I had tried to forget how amazing kissing him felt, but I knew now that I never would. Everything about it was perfect. Every part of me felt alive and ready for whatever might happen. No one else could make me feel like that.

We pulled apart and I tried to catch my breath. It took me a few seconds to really realize what had happened. "Oh fuck." I muttered and stepped away from him, his arms falling away from me and back to his sides.

"Shit. Laurel, I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."

I didn't even know how to respond so I stood in the kitchen across from him, silent for what felt like years. "I should go." I said suddenly and walked back into the living room to grab my things.

He stopped me at the door before I could leave. "Please don't be mad. I'm so sorry."

"I'm not mad. I just-" I took a deep breath. "I just need to think about something. But I'll see you at the party." I smiled at him and walked out to my car.

I needed to figure out what the fuck I was feeling and fast otherwise I'd be caught in a mess that I did not want to deal with.

#chris evans #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans fanfic #chris evans fic #meet cute #mc ch 9

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liebgirl · 2 years ago

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have a new project to film and we wanted to do it tomorrow and didn't do anything on it for the past week because we just planned to and thought we would do it tomorrow. and now that plan is falling apart. lol.

#like. it's FINE if we have to film on thursday night. it's just annoying because our class on thursday is a work day we wanted to #use for editing. and then i would have to wait for my partner's classes to be over. and i'd be doing nothing #which will be SO ANNOYING. but like i'd survive #if i knew more people this wouldn't be so hard. the only thing we're missing rn is one more person to be in it #maybe we'll figure it out and it'll still happen tomorrow. hopefully.#beth.txt

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caffeinatedtimdrake · 6 years ago

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Hey There, Hot Tea

A/N: 3k of Dick Grayson/Nightwing fluff in which Nightwing doesn’t spill any tea but Dick Grayson doesn’t know how to keep secrets.

When I awoke on that fateful Thursday night to the sound of incessant scratching against my bedroom door, my first thought consisted of several profane words. My second thought wondered what ungodly hour the clock read (barely past three, witching hour). My third thought manifested in an agitated grumble of my cat’s name. Rolling out of bed, I cursed at the sudden loss of my warm cocoon. “This is why you can’t sleep in here, Chip. Because you’re annoying.” I told him, opening my door so he could scamper out into the living room. “You play with my heart and make me think you want to cuddle, but no! You wake me up at three a.m. because you want to sleep in your own bed.” I continued to gripe ineffectively through my mouth guard, squinting through the dim lamp lighting at Chip’s canine sister, Dale, snoring blissfully on the couch. “Why can’t you be like your sister, huh?” “Meow.” I chugged half a glass of water and turned to hightail back into my bedroom and snuggly cocoon, only to be interrupted by more scratching. This time, Chip clawed at the front door to the apartment. A flash of panic ripped through me and my thoughts flew to the baseball bat beneath the couch and the butcher knife in wooden block on the kitchen counter. Dale raised her head, ears barely perking up as she glanced towards Chip disinterestedly. When Chip’s ceaseless pawing was met with neither intimidating banging nor a mafia member from the Bronx ordering me to open up, I crept cautiously towards the door. “Dale, if this is how I die, because Chip wants me to let a murderer inside, please tell my mom I love her.” I squinted through the peephole for several moments before concluding that I was blind without my glasses and that there was possibly a man unconscious in the hallway. Though countless horrific news stories of young women being murdered in their homes played through my head, it was absolutely impossible for me to disregard someone in need. You might call it my kryptonite. Perhaps that was why I chose nursing as a profession, not neglecting the fact that I get to wear absurdly patterned scrubs. I ditched my mouth guard for proper vision and fuzzy slippers, pulling my hair back into a ponytail. Once again, I glanced through the peephole to confirm my suspicions. Indeed, there was a man slumped on the floor of the hallway just outside my room. As a matter of principle, I yanked the baseball bat out from underneath the couch and placed it against the wall near the door. Just in case. With a shameful, sheepish smile, I realized that this presented an opportunity to knock on the door of my devastatingly handsome neighbor, Mr. Richard Grayson, for help. The prospect of spotting him in his pajamas – no matter that my own consisted of panda flannel pants and a worn tee that told the world I survived my first trip to Central City – made my stomach lurch. It seemed that in the past few months, I’d developed a mild crush on my neighbor, something that caused me equal parts anguish, fear, and excitement. I scolded myself for it often, but no matter how intently I tried, I couldn’t quite shake the warm affection I felt when he flashed me that sweet smile or told me good morning in his sleepy urban drawl. Our periodic interactions were barely substantial enough to constitute a friendship, but I took what I could get. We often bumped into each other in the mornings, sharing the elevator, equipped with steaming mugs of coffee and friendly smiles. Though I wasn’t much of a morning person, his gregarious energy and charming mannerisms quickly changed my opinion of seven-thirty a.m. for the better. Once, we even got stuck in the elevator together. We were both half an hour late to work, but I embraced that mishap because it allowed me to learn that he worked as a detective downtown, enjoyed old horror films, and substituted copious amounts of breakfast cereals for proper meals occasionally. He was chivalrous and pleasantly flirtatious and very easily filled the spot in my heart reserved for feeling weak around handsome and polite young men. Plus, Chip seemed to adore Dick. This was impressive because most humans offered him minimal intrigue and Chip would sooner bite your ankle than purr and rub his head against your legs. (Dale believed that no human harbored ill-will, but that’s why she wasn’t a guard dog.) I shoved my cellphone in my pocket, should the seemingly unconscious man warrant a 9-1-1 call and took a deep breath, switching on the lights. I cracked the door open slowly, peeking through the opening not unlike a groundhog. The man, lanky yet well-built, was sprawled out against the opposite wall. He was clad in inky black and…leather? His face was angled towards the wall, dark hair tousled. I broke the eerie silence of the hallway. “Uh...hello?” My greeting received no reply, unless you count his heavy breathing. Gingerly, I inched closer and nudged him with my foot. “Jesus Christ,” I whispered. “He’s like a rock.” His frame was so toned – or maybe it was this suspiciously leathery suit – that the pressure of my fuzzy slipper against his side barely made him budge. Though he could certainly be a serial killer praying on young, independent women, he seemed groggy enough that if need be, I could dive back into the safety of my apartment and call the police. I kneeled down, arm’s length away, and tapped his shoulder, which was also brick-like. And very, very warm. Something about that shaggy mop of hair and sturdy frame was awfully familiar, nagging at the pit of my stomach, but I was still too tired to register the gut instinct – or, maybe, I felt silly for admitting that the unconscious man before me reminded me a bit of Richard Grayson. Inhaling deeply, I leaned over and tugged his opposite shoulder to flip him onto his back. When he groaned, I gasped and stumbled backwards, banging my head against the wall. “Holy shit.” The man in front of me was, in fact, not my hot neighbor. The blue silhouette of a bird nearly glowed against his broad chest. “Well, Nightwing, I guess I’m glad we’re meeting here, while you’re passed out in front of my door. Not because I’m being mugged in a dark alleyway.” I laughed nervously to myself. He groaned again and I jumped again, but his eyes were still shut tightly. His mask didn’t give much away, save for that sharp jawline and slightly parted lips. Hesitantly, I patted his face. “Um. Mr. Nightwing?” Nothing. Forcefully, I shook his shoulder. “Maybe you should get out of the hallway?” I received a pained sigh in response. “Should I, like, call an ambulance? Do superheroes like their well-being treated institutionally? Do you even have health insurance?” I continued babbling, further perplexed about how to proceed. Inhaling deeply, I did the only thing I could do. I pinched the underside of his arm. A startled yelp left my mouth, but not before a strong hand encircled my wrist and I ended up flat on my back in the middle of the hallway, the breath knocked out of my lungs with a sharp wheeze. “No, no, and...yes.” His voice was a low rasp, one that left me reeling, no matter that my head had recently collided with a wall and the ground in the recent past. I blinked up at the ceiling, paralyzed by both fear and embarrassment. “Okay.” I croaked. He appeared above me, hovering. His gaze was warm and sky blue. When he smiled, it lit up his whole face, even beneath the mask. “Sorry.” He apologized sheepishly, helping me sit up. There was that nagging feeling again in my stomach and I shook my head, more for my sake than his. “Oh. It’s fine. Getting flipped over by a superhero? I can check that off my bucket list.” He helped me to my feet, hand lingering for maybe a moment too long against the small of my back, still smiling bashfully, looking much more like a flustered teenage boy than the savior of this city. “Are you okay?” I couldn’t help but snort. “Are you okay? You’re the one who was just passed out on the ground!” I clapped a hand over my mouth. “Wait! I’m sorry. That sounded rude. I don’t want to seem mean. Thank you, Mr. Nightwing, for protecting our city.” He chuckled lowly. “It’s no problem at all, sunshine.” Sunshine? I squinted at him. The only other person who calls me sunshine and laughs quietly like that is Richard Grayson each time I end up with him in the elevator. “Am I allowed to ask how you ended up…here?” I quirked an eyebrow, smiling at him shyly. He deadpanned, but his mouth twitched playfully. “If I can get a cup of tea, you might just find out.” I pursed my lips. “Deal. But if you, noble Nightwing, try any funny business, my dog will end you.” His laugher filled the hallway with light. “I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

“Hey there, hot tea?” He read off the mug. In spite of myself, I blushed. “It was a gift. Would you prefer the cat one?” “No, thanks. This one is flattering.” I didn’t expect to spend the early hours of Friday in my kitchen conversing with a superhero, but my mom and Disney always taught me to expect the unexpected. The sleepiness had faded, but I still felt a little delirious. Chip was perched happily on his lap, purring like Nightwing had all the tuna world. However, I easily learned that Nightwing smelled more like earth and the stars and gracefully worn-out nylon, not like canned fish, as he leaned across the island just barely dancing on the fringes of my space. “I am not in your building because of villainous activity, if that’s any consolation.” He told me. “Right. Because that explains why you were knocked out in front of my door.” He smirked, glancing down at the mug dwarfed between his palms. “I was just…checking in. But I guess I’ve had a rough night. Little aster, lots of disaster.” His eyes flickered up to meet mine, silvery and dancing. “It’s definitely gotten better though.” Is a superhero flirting with me? I cleared my throat, heat rising in my cheeks once again. I turned to put my own mug in the sink and shrugged. “Glad to be of assistance.” “Want to be a nurse off the clock?” “Of course.” And then I froze, gazing at him with wide eyes. “How do you know I’m a nurse?” He wrinkled his nose slightly, before he beamed and placed his forearm on the table, dark gash caked with dried blood. “I’m just in the loop, you know?” I frowned but grabbed the first aid kit from my cabinet. “Superhero connections and all that jazz.” The memory of Richard explaining his vast knowledge of the best coffee shops in the city and their owners played across my mind. “Nothing can top my five-year-old coffee pot and store-bought cream.” He smiled at me warmly. “You gotta try Duke’s. Or Cool Beans.” “Am I supposed to trust your word?” “Yes. I’ve learned all the best coffee spots. Detective connections and all that jazz.” I felt uneasy, but not necessarily uncomfortable. He rolled up the sleeve of his suit easily, wincing. I dampened a cotton swab with rubbing alcohol. “This is gonna sting.” “I’m sure I’ve felt worse than – OUCH! That burns!” I blew against the wound to dry it faster. “I’m sorry! I did warn you!” He huffed unhappily. This fine specimen, radiating heat and masculinity, morphed into someone boyish when he jutted out his bottom lip and, of all things, pouted. I wrapped his forearm tightly in gauze. “It’s not too deep, but it is long, so try to take it easy, okay?” Nightwing placed his opposite hand over my own as I taped the gauze. His skin was warm, fingers calloused, and I couldn’t help the little shiver that ran down my spine. “Thank you.” His Atlantic eyes bore into my own. A few moments of silence followed, but his eyes spoke so many words, deep and dark. Looking at him was like looking at a word search. I knew if I looked close enough at the letters, I might be able to decipher what he wanted me to know. I swallowed hard. “You’re welcome, Nightwing.” He smiled, but this one was sad. “I should get going.” I nodded slowly. “Right. You should. With a city to save and all,” He opened his mouth to speak before shutting it again when I walk him to the door. “You sure you don’t want to launch yourself through my window? Wait, actually, don’t. That wouldn’t help your arm.” “Yes, ma’am.” He saluted, winking. There was a pause, and my heart jumped into my throat. “Take care of yourself.” He brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “You too, sunshine.” He disappeared down the hallway in the blink of an eye and I drifted to sleep to the sound of his laughter ringing in my ears.

The next time I woke up, it was to the sound of my alarm blaring beside my head. Barely raising my head, I fumbled around before I managed to slam my hand down on the OFF button. I debated skipping out on my morning jog, but Dale woofed encouragingly, and I didn’t want to break the two-week streak I had going. I must have pleased the powers that be, because I had the day off from work. I washed up and almost convinced myself that last night was a weird dream until I walked into the kitchen and the flirty mug was in the sink and my first aid kit remained on the counter. There was a little frost on the window, but once I was outside and running, I found that the cold air was refreshing. I welcomed each deep exhale, crisp air creating a slight burn in my lungs. I allowed the run to sort through my jumbled thoughts, plagued with charming smiles and sparkling eyes. By the time I dragged Dale and myself up to the eighth floor, we were thoroughly winded. “Good work, Dale.” I congratulated her, the memory of the unconscious superhero barely bothering me as I lugged myself down the hallway. Until the door across the hall swung open to reveal a humming Richard Grayson, carrying a basket of laundry and, maybe, the key to my heart. The humming ceased and he looked almost startled to see me. I wondered if it’s because he was hoping to break into song and I disrupted that, or if it’s because I look like a hot mess after several miles of jogging. Self-conscious, I ran a hand over my hair, hoping to quell the disobedient flyaway curls. “Hi, Dick.” I couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across my face. The leash fell from my grip and Dale bounded over to him, tail wagging furiously. He set the basket down and leaned over to rub her ears and coo her name. I approached them slowly, praying that I put on enough deodorant. He glanced up at me through warm honey eyes and I froze. “Hi, Y/N. And hello to you too, Dale.” I nodded at his pile of clothes, trying to disregard the plaid boxer briefs at the top. “Long day of laundry ahead of you?” He smiled affectionately and my stomach churned. “Three more loads after this. I’m lucky I’ve got the day off.” “Good. You’re such a workaholic, you deserve the break.” “Says the nurse who works the late shift. What are your plans for the day?” “Nonexistent. I think I wanna crawl back into bed after a hot shower and some oatmeal.” He smirked. “Good. You’re such a workaholic, you deserve the break.” Dick mimicked me and I could only blush in response. I clicked my tongue at Dale. “Dale, let’s leave our nice neighbor to do his laundry.” “Dale, you can keep me company anytime. And your sweet mom, too.” My face burned, and I ducked my head. “Well, maybe, if you’re not busy tonight and you want some company and like Chinese, there’s this – ” I started asking if he wanted to grab dinner, but then I saw the gauze wrapped around his forearm. My mouth ran dry and I could not stop from staring, though I knew I really needed to. He followed my line of vision and cleared his throat. “Chinese is good. You have good taste. I trust your opinion.” I snapped out of it and blinked at him. “I, uh, yeah. Chinese. For dinner maybe?” I sounded breathier than I would have liked, but last night’s events were playing over again in my head rapidly. He smiled, but it was tense. “I’ll let you know.” Disappointment flooded my chest. “O-okay.” We were silent for a few moments. He stared at me, calm and level, but I practically gaped at him. The hallway was empty, and I couldn’t help but wonder. My voice was shaky, but I still asked. “Dick, how’d you hurt yourself?” His gaze remained measured, but his eyes flashed intensely. My insides twisted. “I had a rough night last night.” All I managed was, “Oh.” He straightened his posture, glanced right, glanced left, and promptly yanked me inside his apartment. I yelped, stumbling forward into his chest. Dale sniffed curiously around the kitchen while I stared at my neighbor, paralleling her curiosity – but I was tainted with rising panic. I breathed deeply, all earth and stars and cinnamon. Richard Grayson might be Nightwing. So what? I scolded myself, talking down the instinct to panic. Dick ran a hand through his thick dark hair, stepping back from me only a little. His bangs flopped onto his forehead, cheeks flushed. “When I told my dad that I wanted to get to know the cute nurse across the hall better, this isn’t exactly what I meant. This is a disaster, emphasis on dis.” He told me bashfully. I continued to look at him, perplexed, but then his words registered. “Wait, what?!” He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing nervously. “Got any more of that hot tea, hottie?” “If I can get an actual explanation, you might just find out.”

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theyellowcurtains · 5 years ago

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Ooh what’s the story with you and your boy? (If you feel like telling us, please don’t feel pressured)!

Phew okay okay It’s a little strange and confusing and maybe a little bit ahem nsfw in some places, there’s also some drama in it which is so annoying because there’s this one girl that hhh she’s being awful, so I’m gonna put a cut so that if no one cares or doesn’t wanna know they can easily get past it but okay okay

Basically I’ve had a thing for him for a few months but even before that we were best friends, started a band together, made some films for school together and wrote some songs together. It’s definitely been a ride with him. And it was all chill, he liked one of the only girls we’re friends with and it was fine and shit especially because I’ve known this girl forever and that’s always what happens we’re the pair and she’s the only people like probably because I’m not cis and also very loud.

But then at new years he kinda started making jokes and I wasn’t really sure what it meant because I didn’t really want him to know I was into him. But he did and it was kinda odd to think about. But then I kinda kissed him that night. I was a little drunk and so was he but idk it happened and we didn’t talk about it after, but then we had a mates 18th last Saturday and it happened again except neither of us were drunk and it just kinda kept going and it was really really nice. He might’ve gone home with a shitton of hickey’s and then gotten bullied by his sister about it but that’s fine.

We kinda didn’t talk until Monday then, but then when we did talk he was like “Well it’s fine and I wouldn’t be mad if we kept kissing.” so we have. And then I might’ve uuuh gone to his that night kinda late and ahem slept with him. Lemme just say wow okay it was nice nice nice and I’m glad it’s still happening aklsdjna. Stayed over and then his fucking aunt and uncle came over that morning at fucking 9 in the morning after we’d gone to sleep at 5ish, that was a nightmare. Especially because I came out to talk to his brother in his shirt and they all saw me. Gael loves me though so I win :)

But after that there was a whole lot of drama because one of our mates had told the girl he used to like about us kissing and shit and she actually lost her mind at both of us, getting really mad and saying we were fucking ourselves over and shit. That’s all annoying and shit but like eh whatever, he’s over her and she can’t handle that.

Anyways now we got a good thing going, our friends are taking the piss out of us but neither of us care. It’s not a relationship but it also doesn’t feel like it’s just fucking either you know? Ugh but I did learn that I was both his first kiss and first time which is a lot to have on my shoulders I guess but also eh whatever.

Another story I guess, last night I couldn’t sleep so he called me and played guitar for me until we both got sick of it and watched hannibal online together alksdjn. I am stupid soft for him but I’m also waiting for him to think about things and figure things out for something. It’s been a couple weeks of this whole thing and idk I’m happy and so is he so it’s all good. This also maybe isn’t as exciting as it could be but lord it’s a lot and he’s also gone away until Thursday which SUCKS but I also can eat as many peanut butter sandwiches as I want while he’s gone which will be nice alskdajnlkn

#lmao this story is so annoying #and that thing with the girl she's still being really rude about it #and idk if she's jealous or just really doens't approve #they never dated so it's not like he cheated or betrayed her or whatever #it's just hhh weird and annoying #anyways he calls me beautiul and we meme over things together and it's acutally so okay #it just feels nice #Anonymous

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lockdownuk · 5 years ago

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Lockdown Diary Part 1

A personal account during the lockdown in the UK due to the Covid-19 outbreak.

23/03/2020 8:30pm Boris Johnson, UK Prime Minister, gives a live address to the nation to, effectively, put the country on lockdown to stem the spread of the deadly coronavirus strain, Covid-19.

Many of us have been self-isolating for days but this latest development within the UK in reaction to the pandemic feels very serious and very scary. I decided to keep a simple diary and where better but online.

Day 1: Last night Boris called it, today we’re doing it. I had started working from home (wfh) yesterday as had most people at my work (RCI)..last week I had been preparing laptops as fast as poss for everyone. Even just today, the idea of going into work seems alien and dangerous. Now lockdown (ld) means that it would soon be illegal to do so unless utterly necessary.

Online, FaceBook (fb) especially, is awash with reaction…a lot of calling out people who are out and about in greater numbers than 2, which is against ld rules.

Day 2: Just trying to let work occupy my thoughts and time which is easy enough ‘cos everyone I support (IT engineer) is new to wfh and is having teething problems with all the new laptops. Meanwhile, I keep abreast of comings and goings online…actually socially interacting more than I might otherwise, weirdly

Day 3: Highlight of the day is an online quiz organised by a chap called Jay Flynn on fb…a bunch of us took it as individuals while chatting on Messenger while Jay streamed quiz over fb live and YouTube. It was a good crack and I had two cans of Coors Light which got me pissed!

Day 4: Work is still mad - so many people with IT issues wfh…it’s challenging trying resolve all these probelms remotely but I am rising to it. I actually enjoy it. It satisfies my want for problem-solving.

The ld is in full swing but it’s very early days. The news is dominated, obviously, by Covid-19 and the ever changing stats of infections and deaths. Today, for example, the USA took over, from China, as the country with the most infections. I know there will be an end to all this and I am determined to be there, going out, getting pissed down the pub, gigging, shaking hands with my mates, hugging anyone and everyone who’ll let me - it’ll be a proper party. But I am filled with a dread that it’s going to be a fucking long time coming.

This evening was spent virtually with Foggy, Ham and Andy P…doing a quiz - a rehearsal for Foggy in the hope of doing one to a wider audience next week. It was good fun and great to have a few beers chatting with everyone, Later I video called Fog and we drank ‘til gone midnight, putting the world to rights. I was well pissed.

Day 5: First non-work day of the ld. Housework, daily walk, out for supplies (drop a script order off…queuing outside boots for 15 minues!, bread, baccy and booze). This evening, I’m listening to the next album in NME list of 1985 albums I’m working through - Grace Jones Slave to the Rhythm…fucking pain in the arse ‘cos it’s not on Spotify so I am searching for each song, in order, on YouTube. Plus eating and drinking, of course. Quick video chat with karen and Grace, Dan in the background. I wanted a tin of kidney beans for chilli but Karen hasn’t got one ffs. Burger it is. They are all playing scrabble - I’d love to join in…

Day 6: A quiet day…housework, cooking, daily walk. Highlight was a half hour chinwag with dad who, as I would expect, despite his 84 years, is coping and doing just fine. Most other people with a dad that age would have, on top of their own concerns, something more to worry about during this crisis….for me, it feels like I’ve got someone to turn to, should I need to.

Day 7: Work is starting to feel more routine but it’s a long way off being in the office, which is never routine anyway. That may seem surprising since I do IT support but it’s a varied role, especially at the modern dinosaur of an organisation that is RCI. I try to be as disciplined as possible but I miss not dressing for work, not driving to work, not needing to actually prepare lunch (until lunchtime). I don’t actually need to shower every morning. I don’t think I have to ordinarily but do because I’m mixing with others in the office. I certainly don;t need to now. I only mix with me, so showering becomes a chore but I’m doing it every other morning in the name of the aforementioned discipline. I am worried how long RCI can keep going before laying staff off. I dread being out of work full stop, let alone during this ld, or even thereafter. I think the economies of the world will need time to recover so finding work will be tough à la 2008. I think, if lay-offs were to occur, I’d be in real danger. Last in first out and all that. But, I’ll cross that bridge if and when I come to it.

Day 8: At work there was a large online meeting whereby the MD told us that RCI are going to furlough some staff. The UK, and Ireland staff will be consulted this coming Thursday and Friday (it’s Tuesday today). I shall be reading up on what the furlough arrangements are in the UK due to Covid-19. I know the government have set aside some money, I need to know what I might get paid and how to claim it. In the past, when I’ve been out of work, I’ve been entitled to jack shit other than JSA, This time around, should I be laid off as I expect, I might not have to eat into my savings, fingers crossed. Meanwhile, I have decided to knock up another blog with a photo of myself each day of the ld (from now on) - it’s a sister to this diary.

Day 9: Actually typing this on day 10. Yesterday was a strange day as I contemplate being furloughed (hope for the best, expect the worst)…I’d be paid 80% of my wage according to what the government have said to assist in the Covid-19 crisis…so, were that to be true, I’d be OK money-wise, although still earning way less than I want to prepared for retirement (I am currently still waiting for feedback on a pay increase request I put in at work last year!) I’m more worried about how I would fill my day if I wasn’t working. So, that being said, I flopped and moped about all yesterday evening after my daily walk and, without achieving much at all, didn’t find time to write this entry on the right day…so maybe I can fill my days without much effort!

Day 10: I was furloughed today, starting 5pm tomorrow (Friday 3rd April) and it’s fucked me off. I know it’s not personal but, actually, do I? They’re cutting back the Kettering Desktop team by one, redacted It seems obvious to do this by the ‘last in, first out’ maxim but what about money? others are on more than me (redacted). What about offering it voluntarily - others might go for 80% pay for fuck all - others have family at home to occupy the day (redacted) . A little bit of me thinks it might be preferable furlough me (redacted) …others seems to be a favourite and that annoys me. It annoys me because I think I shoot myself in the foot too often. I’m too vocal about some of the (redacted) decisions and practices at work, plus other reasons that I know but can’t be bothered to type. But, my point, is I don’t play the politically correct, corporate game and therefore forget to look out for my own best interests. FUCK.

So, as of tomorrrow evening, I’ve no work to do. The challenge will be to find a way to occupy my day. I’ve already registered to volunteer for the NHS during the ld…let’s see what becomes of that. And I’ve signed up for web development course. I’m going to get fucking pissed this w/e, starting early tomorrow evening.

Day 11: It’s day 12 as I am writing this entry…that might tell any reader, and remind me, that I did as I promised and got pretty drunk. I spent the day geting my work affairs in order i.e. clearing down support tickets assigned to me. I did a good job, nothing left to handover to the remaining team (Jim, Cristina and Mark) and onky one ticket put into the assigned pool. Some nice converstaions were had with associates, many of whom are, too, being furloughed. Nice words were said and Jim and Mark both were supportive in conversations and messages - they both know I don’t wnat this and, I think, they are both relieved it’s not happening to them. 5 pm arrives and I shutdown my work laptop for the last time for at least 12 weeks. After my daily walk, I video chat with Karen, crack open a beer, make Chinese chicken curry (fucking loads, fucking tasty), finish watching The National Theatre stream of One Man, Two Guvnors (really good, see twoinchreview) and the caught up with, and talked bollocks with Andy, Marc and Ham - we tried getting Rog in on it, no dice. I then watched The Heat (I fucking love that film), ate some more, smoked several single-skinners, drank, in total, three cans, seven bottles. I went to bed shortly after 4am. I felt resigned to my furlough and pleasantly wasted.

Day 12: A subdued day…didn’t wake until gone 1:30pm. Jaded but not really suffering. Mooched about, social media, listening to music, watching telly, farting about on the iPad. My daily walk, over the last fews days, has taken a twist…I am trying to run parts of it. Mainly short distances, 80-100m (I estimate) three, maybe four times. It’s fucking knackering me out. I used to run everywhere when I was a teen. Attempting to run now just makes me feel fucking old. Well, I am, so that’s about right.

Day 13: Another day like yesterday except I got up at 10:30 and didn’t feel jaded. The subdued feeling comes from the realsiation that the ld isn’t being treated as seriously as it should be across the board. The news and even posts by locals on FB (Oundle chatter group) suggest groups still meeting up. The weather this w/e has been a factor - 17°c today. I think a total ld will be enforced soon and that would fuck me off. My daily walk is pretty essential for me nowadays not least for the ‘good for your soul’ benefits that dad has always mentioned. Even today’s walk saw a car parked at the gates to the field on the way to Ashton and people on a blanket soaking up the sun, dogs off their leads and people (looked like a family) playing footy on South Road field. Individually they are not presenting any danger, what with the fact they are either living together or far away from others. But they are flaunting the rules and the more that happens the less likely they’ll carry on getting away with it, which will mean total ld for all! I finished the 50 1985 albums today. It mostly confirms to me that I only listened to two albums released that year (Kate Bush, The Waterboys) any other vinyl I spun would have already been in my collection pre-85.

The sausage casserole I made for tea was fucking lush - 4 birdeye chillies. I saw and spoke with Dan and Grace this morning, they were just coming back from a walk. I am pleased to fuck they are together and sorted out the issues they had earlier this year.

Day 14: My first day proper of furlough. Finished my two inch review of the NME 50 albums. Long chat with Rita, quick one with dad. Messaged Sam about Romiley’s present - she’s 10 on the 9th April (Thursday) - ordered some Lego thing from Amazon. Turned the car engine over (reminded myself the driver-side wing mirror is fucked) and moved it to another spot in the Co-op car park - bumped into Matt T. He’s struggling - no work coming in and he can’t claim any of the money on offer ‘cos he’s not being totally honest about his circumstances - made me realise I’m not that bad off…..but I feel depressed about it all, especially with the news that Boris has gone into intensive care.

Day 15: I began a diploma (?) course on web design with Shaw Academy (it was free). They have actual classes (which are recorded) which you schedule yourself. The first one was, I have to say, really interesting - I look forward to continuing. On my walk today, I saw a car parked at the gate to the field at the bottom of Riverside Close; it was branded with Cunninghams Estate Agent with a 01536 number. I am pretty sure I saw the driver walking her dog (unleashed) on the field. I took a photo and rang the number. Yes, I ratted the culprit out…fucking annoys me that I had to. Better than reporting to the police, all round. Hopefully her work will put a stop to her doing it and, the more people that adhere to the rules without the police getting wind of infractions, the more likely we’ll be able to continue to exercise away from home.

Day16: More online learning including checking out other sites (pluralsight) for more learning opportunities. Coded my first web page, basic but mine, in HTML and CSS. A few beers & smokes and watching White Boy Rick in the evening, interspersed with the usual social media / messaging shit, incuding this entry, of course!

Day 17: Typing this on Day 18. After a few beers last night while chatting with Fog (twice - the first chat ended with him ‘having’ to go to bed. Later, I noticed he was commenting on FB, so I video called him…round two of chatting!). I got quite fucking pissed. Bed around 4am.

Day18: Up at 1pm. Long walk today, 7 km. Anything over 40 minutes, I’ve realised, results in a hypo.

Day19: Well, having gone to bed at gone 5am I got up at nearly 1pm feeling far better than I should have. Breakfast followed by a walk, spoke with Karen (mowing her front lawn) and Dan. He and Grace have split up which is sad news but he seems OK. Went shopping (milk and sweets) and ended up with a shit load of booze, the post of which on FB was quite amusing. Homemade burgers for tea (they’re in the fridge as I type) - gonna try and make Five Guys…

Day20: The Five Guys burger attempt didn’t go as well as I wanted. I think less than 5% fat mince just doesn’t bind that well. However, I managed to get something resembling a burger into the bun and, with cheese, hot sauce and jalapeños, it was tasty enough. More of the same when I finish typing this entry. Strange Easter Day today, as I knew it would be. The best thing I saw today was a video Tom posted on FB of him and Molly doing a mashup of Starsailor and George Michael - Tom on guitar singing the former, Molly singing the latter. It was fucking fantatstic.

Day 21: Easter Monday. Surreal…it’s feeling very surreal now, this lockdown.

Two things that bother me right now:

i) The political point scoring on FB. I get it, I really do…people like to bring up ‘obvious’ failings in the party’s mistakes. For example, Marc posting comparisons between UK and Germany’s figures of cases and deaths due to Covid-19. I doesn’t make impressive reading for the government and it should be held accountable. But not fucking now!

ii) Will they introduce rotational furloughing at RCI? It’s only been a week, 11 to go. And, it bothers me that I was furloughed rather than Mark. Pathetic of me, I know! But, should it last the 12 week stretch, I want to go back to work and let someone else have the chance to have fuck all to do all day! That being said, I’m still learning web design through Shaw Academy. Even today, bank holiday, I revised Lesson 2.

Day22: Nice catchup with Dad today - he and Rita seem to be more than OK with lockdown. I actually cannot wait until we can meet up at The Farmers again!

Day 23: While I had a Corvee engineer come to the house today to do a gas safety check (I waited upstairs while he was here, self-isolation and all that), and had the fourth online web design lesson, had a trip to Boots to pick up insulin, got milk from Tesco’s, saw American Rachel and had a chat (while we both queued to get into Tesco’s) and had a very nice walk along a different route from the norm, in the pleasant sunshine and watched Contagion on Netflix - all today - I AM STILL BORED AS FUCK!

Day 24: I had plans for today - revise the last two lessons of Shaw Academy’s web design course, investigate a ethical hacking course, do some washing, clean upstairs (or at least the bathroom) plus all the usual stuff. Then, as a reward, have some beers. Well, guess what. I am not having beers this evening. I managed the laundry. Plus I manged to subtitle my YouTube perfect snabby video (something I have been meaning to do for a while, but, come on!) It took me fucking ages. But it is funny! So, a fucking far from fruitful day. Plus the government announced at least 3 more weeks of lockdown. There’ll be loads more, I reckon. Tomorrow…I promise I’ll be better tomorrow…

Day 25: I did do better! Firstly the Corveee man fucked the boiler which I only noticed late yesterday but still managed to get sorted today. I did some excellent revision and learning of HTML (tags) and CSS. I cleaned the bathroom and hall. And I discovered TikTok (fucking excellent dancing and funny vids) plus discovered a new FaceBook word game (Sam sent me an invite) called WordBlitz and I am pretty good. Having beers now (nearly 11pm).

Day 26: Today I found myself calling 111. I had a pain in my side last night, I thought it might be constipation! That not being the case (!), today I went to 111.nhs.uk and, following their questions, it recommended I seek out a GP straightaway. Once I let the website know that is not possible, it directed me to visit walk in centres. I spoke with Karen thereafter - for advice about whether it’s a good idea to enter such an establishment - I really don’t want to increase me chances of catching the Covid-19 virus. Karen recommended ringing 111 since the website does not take into account my diabetes (so bloody sensible a suggestion!)

After ringing and answering many questions, the lady said she’d get an OOHS GP to call. The doctor called soon after and it seems most likely I have a grumbling appendix (chronic appendicitis) and to ring again (well, 999) if the pain becomes unbearable.

I now have a bag at the ready for hospital which I really hope I don’t have to use. Today, I have, therefore, done fuck all - not even a walk - but I am having a beer now (midnight) and shall attempt to sleep as well as possible and hope this pain subsides naturally…

It occurs to me that I turn to Karen when things become flumoxing - my excuse, this time, is she works at the surgery but that was mere convenience.

Day 27: My ‘appendicitis pain was the same when I woke up (10:20) but no worse. I managed to change bed clothes and clean my bedroom but didn’t risk a walk (in case something drastic happens when I’m in a fucking field).

People’s responses and questions online have been heartening (Rachel Harris, Susie Grange, Bethan, Jo, Tracey Weber, Debbie De Prisco and, not least Dan). As the day progresses, I feel better but not right. I spoke with Dad about it and, as I told him, I shall ring Oundle GP tomorrow. Meanwhile, I did Sam Clew’s FB Live quiz, which was good, and am now having a beer or two.

Day 28: The pain in my side has definitley diminished. I called the Oundle surgery today to talk about what treatment I should have for ‘grumbling appendicitis’. The reseptionist organised a call back from a GP - Dr. Cash. Basically, he said he didn’t believe the condition existed, that acute appendicitis doesn’t happen after the age of 35, and ‘his gut felling’ is it will all just clear up.

I shall seek a more sensible diagnosis after lockdown and hope it doesn’t flare up again before then.

Day 29: I sent an email to the team at work today (Jim, Mark, Cristina and Sueanne). I hadn’t heard from them and I wanted to check in and, also, make a point that I will be posing the ‘rotational furlough’ question to HR at some point. It was as I wrote the email that I realised it’s only been two weeks and two days of furlough, and that includes Easter! Seems so much fucking longer. Anyway, everyone replied and it was good to hear from them….Mark came off his bike and broke ribs and collarbone! Lesson 5 of the Web Design course with Shaw Academy. It’s becoming apparent that, if you don’t pay for the course ‘toolkit’ it’s all rather patchy! The instructor dives into lines of code (HTML, CSS and Java) with no explanation….I feel like I did on the ifrst lesson of further maths ate Stamford School! I shall soldier on and beef up the missing parts with W3Schools (a great website and learning aid for coding). Two quick points. I am no longer running any part of my daily walk; hurts too much. I am addicted to Wordblitz and TikTok. Day30: I am writing this on day 31, I just forgot yesterday! It was a non eventful day. I did watch Midnight Run (again!) and had a couple of midweek beers though.

#diary #tumblr diary #lockdown #covid19 #lockdownuk

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liveattherainbow-blog1 · 6 years ago

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devour my waking hours // a brian may oneshot

pairing: brian may/fem reader

word count: 3682

warning: this is basically literally just smut, 18+ only please, proceed with caution, oral (m receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, don’t try this at home be safe and all that

author’s note: i’m just going to keep writing fic into the void bc i can’t stop myself kljasdf anyways you guys know that picture of brian at the harp? there’s a fic for that now!! there may already be fic for that but now there is more! good news for me it’s technically thirsty thursday this is dirty as hell i can’t believe i’m posting this oh god i also probably have not spell checked enough

You weren’t really expecting the call. You knew Brian and the boys were all up at Rockfield Farm, working on the album, and you practically had instructions not to interrupt them. Still, one day you were lying around your apartment, listening to your Zeppelin records and reading, when your phone rang. You answered, and found Freddie on the other side of the phone.

“Oh thank fucking Christ, darling, you’ve got to help us.”

You snorted a laugh into the phone and wrapped the cord around your fingers. “Help you with what? You’re nearly an hour’s drive away on a farm. If Roger’s set something on fire again, you can put it out before I get there.”

“It’s Brian. He’s being unbearable.”

You’d heard from Brian that he and Freddie tended to fight over their songs, but you’d still never been called to break them up. “Unbearable how?”

“He’s such a fucking perfectionist! Well, when it’s his guitar or his songs it’s his business, but we had this idea to use a harp on the song that I’ve written, only now he thinks he can’t get it right and he refuses to move on. He’s been in that room tuning it and fucking about with it all damn day, and any time we try to get him to take a break he snaps at us.”

You heard someone in the background, and you vaguely realized it was Roger. “What did Rog say?”

“I said he’s about as intimidating as a shaggy golden retriever, but it’s still fucking annoying.”

You scoffed, but looked over at the clock. If you left now, you’d still get to the farm before dark, and it did sound like Brian could use a distraction. “If I come up there and get him away from the harp, what do I get out of it?”

“Our undying gratitude?” Roger replied.

"Well, and you can spend a couple of nights up here, obviously, we don't expect you to turn right around and drive home, we'll find a place for you."

There was a moment you thought about asking for something else, but you knew the boys were all still broke and that you cared enough about all of them and Brian especially that you practically already had a foot out the door. “Alright, fine, but you owe me something. Or somebody does. And when I get there, you two and Deaky should probably go and have some drinks or something so you won't all be snapping at each other once I get Brian out of the room and away from the... harp." You realized what you were saying was ridiculous, but this was all just a part of your life now, apparently.

Freddie and Roger thanked you and hung up, and you grabbed a bag with some clothes, your toothbrush, and a jacket, and you were off.

The drive was nice enough - it was mostly fields and trees, and only a couple of sparse motorway services. The farm itself was a little off the beaten path, but fortunately you'd gone with the boys when they'd found it in the first place. As you pulled up, you saw that it seemed Freddie, Deaky, and Roger had already left, since Roger's car was nowhere to be seen and the entire farm seemed eerily quiet.

You poked your head into a few of the buildings until you heard distant, halting music. By the time you drew closer, the music stopped and you heard Brian's quiet, "Fuck!"

A smile crept onto your face, but then you turned a corner and actually caught sight of Brian.

His hair was a frizzy mess, and he had one hand in it, pulling at it in frustration as you watched. There was stubble on his face, meaning he hadn't shaved in a couple of days, and he had bags under his eyes. He looked tired, but he also just sort of looked ridiculously hot, and your breath got stuck in your chest for a moment before you managed to inhale, almost sharply.

"I thought I told all of you to fuck off," Brian said, his eyes still on the harp. He'd heard you come in, but apparently he hadn't looked over. You resisted the urge to cross your legs, just from hearing him curse while he looked like that.

"Well. I don't think you told me that."

He looked up, his brow furrowed, and he looked torn when he saw you. "If you're here for a surprise visit, now really isn't a good time."

"Actually I'm here because Fred called me. Why are you playing a harp?"

"It's for Fred's fucking song! Ask him! If it weren't for that stupid scene in the Marx Brothers film he wouldn't have had the idea."

You didn't really know what Brian meant, but you took a cautious step in his direction. "So why are you still trying it when Freddie and the others have gone out for drinks?"

"Because I'm not going to let a fucking harp beat me, it can't be that hard."

You laughed a little, just a snicker, and you tried to cover it with your hand, but Brian caught you at it, and he glared immediately.

"Fine, if you want to be smart, you come over here and try it."

This time, you really did laugh. "Oh for God's sake, I don't know to play the harp."

"And neither do I apparently! So why don't you come over here and give it a shot."

He stood up, and gestured at his seat, and you sighed and went over to sit down. At least at this point he was out of the chair, and if you proved yourself to be awful maybe you could make him laugh. You looked at the harp, and after sizing it up, you reached your arms around and started to pluck at it with your individual fingers, making a sad sort of plinking sound.

Instead of laughing, Brian just huffed out an exasperated sigh. It was almost a growl, and you pressed your legs together even as you kept trying and failing to get a laugh out of him.

"You're doing it all wrong," he told you.

"Well, obviously, I told you I don't know how."

"Oh for-" He cut himself off, and then suddenly he was nudging you forward and sitting down behind you, with you in between his legs, your back against his chest. You froze, staring straight ahead, your arms still poised by the harp.

It was pretty undeniable that you and Brian had been flirting for a while. You'd even shared a couple of drunken kisses, but you'd always pulled back. Your friendship with him and with all of the boys was important to you, and you'd heard stories of the sort of things they'd all done on tour - a relationship seemed like a risk. Now, though, you couldn't deny the spark you were deeling. Maybe it was Brian's obvious anger that was causing it, but something about this felt different. Still, you couldn't stop yourself from letting your back relax just slightly, leaning a little of your weight on Brian.

He hooked his chin over your shoulder to get a better look at the harp, and his stubble briefly brushed against your cheek and neck, making you shiver. Either he didn't notice or he decided to ignore it.

"You have to actually play chords," Brian said insistently, and you watched him proceed to bend his fingers and pluck at the harp - but the notes buzzed slightly, and this time he really did growl in frustration.

You closed your eyes, feeling him tense against your back, his arms around your shoulders, his hair tickling your collarbone, his hips pressed against you.

"It sounds like you're strumming too hard. It's not a guitar," you muttered, trying not to sound as breathless as you felt.

"I know it's not a fucking guitar."

"So don't play it like one."

"What does that even mean?"

You opened your eyes and gently reached for his hands. They were obviously stiff from playing, and you sighed and took one of his hands in both of yours to rub at it gently. "You need to relax a little. Sort of - carress the strings. Don't pluck them so hard."

It sounded like a euphemism. Maybe it was. How was he still so focused on the harp? Could he not feel the tension that you were practically choking on?

You reached out and brushed your fingers over the harp strings, demonstrating what you meant, and he slowly placed his hands over yours to play with you, both of you finally managing at least one note that sounded more like a harp.

"Like that?" he asked, his voice hoarse - probably from all his cursing and shouting.

You nodded, and turned your head to look at him.

He wasn't looking at the harp anymore. His eyes were on you. You blinked at him a few times, and you were almost certain you felt his cock twitch against your ass. Your lips parted as you let out a shuddering breath, and then he was kissing you.

In that moment, you felt like the room could have caught fire, all three of the other boys could have walked in, and none of it would have made you pull away from Brian. Fortunately, you also knew that no one would be back for a while, and the only thing catching on fire was you.

Brian's stubble was rough against your face, his teeth sharp against your lower lip, his tongue insistent against your own, and his hand was resting against your neck, his thumb pressed just slightly against the hollow of your throat.

You made a quiet, desperate sort of sound against his lips and he pulled back, his hand moving to your jaw to hold you in place.

"Fred called you up here to get me to stop snapping at everyone?"

You nodded, your eyes fluttering open. Seeing him this close only made you want to get closer - his parted lips, his dilated pupils. You wanted to turn around and straddle him, grind your hips against his, but his legs were still around you, keeping you precisely where you were.

"I'd say he probably didn't have this in mind, but I think that's a pretty big assumption to make. You wanna get out of the studio? Come up to my room?"

You nodded again, and as soon as Brian let you stand up, you turned to face him. Before you could reach out, he wrapped one hand around your wrists to pull you along.

"Not yet. Wait your turn."

Brian had always been so quiet and gentle with you. Seeing him suddenly take on this dominant role was making you desperate and utterly incapable of hiding it. You tried to press your thighs together for even a little bit of relief, but he kept urging you towards his room and you had to keep walking. You were so sensitive and so wanting already that even the fabric of your flares shifting against your skin as you walked was making it worse.

Finally, the two of you arrived at a bedroom and he sat you down. From your position on the bed, he towered over you, and you looked up at him with your lips parted and your thighs pressed together. Your hips rocked against the bed just slightly, almost involuntarily, and Brian slid a hand into your hair and tugged enough to make you look at his face.

"Look at me. What do you want?"

You exhaled, and shivered. "You. Whatever you want. I just need you, please."

"Whatever I want? You sure about that?"

"Anything, I don't care."

Your desperation aside, you trusted Brian. You knew he wouldn't really hurt you - you knew he'd probably also keep checking that you were alright. As long as you got off at some point, though, you could still sense his frustration, and you wanted to help. You wanted this to be about him.

He watched you for a long moment, and then his hand shifted, his thumb brushing over your lips. You flicked your tongue out, tasting the salt of his skin, and you watched his gaze darken. He moved again and pressed two of his fingers into your mouth, and you took them gratefully. Your eyes slid closed as you pressed your tongue against the callouses on his fingers, then sucked, hollowing your cheeks and humming quietly.

"Jesus Christ, look at you. You are fucking desperate, aren't you?"

You looked up at him through your lashes, hoping it would force him to make a move, and had the exact effect you'd hoped for. He stepped back and quickly unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, pushing them down with his briefs just enough to free his cock.

He took himself in hand and your mouth watered at the sight. His long fingers wrapped around his length and he gave himself a few quick strokes, just enough that you could see a bit of precum starting to appear, which he wiped at with his thumb. He moaned, softly, and you looked up to watch his face. His eyes were closed, lashes fluttering against his cheeks, his face flushed with arousal, and you couldn't take it anymore.

You leaned forward and licked over his fingers and his cock, and he groaned out loud.

His hand stopped moving and he pushed it back into your hair instead, guiding you as you wrapped your lips around the tip of his cock. You hummed as you licked at him and his head fell back.

"Fuck, darling, so good, so gorgeous with your mouth on me."

He continued to murmur all kinds of filth, half under his breath and half moaned, as you took more of him into your mouth and slowly bobbed your head. His hand tensed and fisted in your hair as you really started to move, and even as he kept his hips mostly still, he helped to guide your pace by pulling you up and down by your hair.

As you moaned at the sensation, his hips did finally stutter, just enough to nudge at the back of your throat, and he quickly pulled back and out of your mouth.

"That's enough. I don't want to come until I've fucked you properly."

Too overwhelmed to speak, you nodded, and he pushed you back on the bed. You helped him get your trousers off, and after you'd shimmied out of them, he was on top of you, giving you another biting kiss. His teeth pressed into your bottom lip, and as you gasped, he pressed his tongue into your mouth, tasting you, trying to get as close as possible.

He shifted, pressing lingering, open-mouthed kisses to your jaw and then to your neck. Some of them were rough enough that you knew they would leave bruises, and already the gentle ache you could feel was only turning you on even more. His stubble was scratching at your skin, too, probably leaving even more marks and red, raw skin that you'd see tomorrow. You could feel now that you were wet enough you were probably leaving a damp spot on the bed, and he had barely even touched you.

Just as you had the thought, his hand found your hip and then moved inwards, his fingers rubbing over you before pressing inside - just two of them at first.

You gasped, arching upwards and into his mouth at the hollow of your throat and his fingers inside of you, and he hummed.

"Well clearly I can play you fairly well, even if I can't play any fucking instruments."

Something about the idea of him playing you made you clench around his fingers, and he chuckled a little as he felt your response to his words. He started to move his fingers, pressing them deeper and making sure you were wet and open before he fucked you. You were already so desperate, though, that it obviously wasn't a problem.

Still, he curled his fingers inside you just enough to find your sweet spot, and you arched up again, your back off the bed. This time you stayed there, as his fingers coaxed you closer and closer to orgasm and he used his free hand to push your shirt up and start to press bites and kisses all across your chest.

You clenched around his fingers again, and this time he slowly pulled them out, and you whined at the empty feeling they left behind.

"Don't worry, you'll get more than that soon enough."

He grazed his teeth against your nipple, and you whined in response. He went to pull away, then stopped to rub his chin against your chest before he pulled away completely. He paused to admire your reddened skin, brushing a hand over it. Obviously that was as much of a thing for him as it was for you.

Finally, he finished pushing off his own trousers and got settled in above you. Then he seemed to change his mind.

"Roll over."

You did as he asked, rolling onto your hands and knees, although your arms were barely strong enough to hold you up in your current state.

He wasn't in any mood for teasing - both of you were still half-dressed, for God's sake, so he lined up and immediately began to press forward. He entered you slowly, and carefully, but he only waited a moment and for your slight nod before he started to move, thrusting into you.

As he picked up a rhythm and adjusted his angle, he brushed against your sweet spot, and your arms trembled and gave out. You turned your head to the side and moaned, loving the feeling of him fucking you, both hands on your hips while you couldn't even hold yourself up.

Your face was still half against the mattress, and he had total control of your body and the pace. He was fucking into you desperately, harder and faster, and your body shook and clenched with every thrust. You felt completely owned, completely overpowered and all his, completely at the whim of his pleasure as he used you to get off.

That very thought brought you close to the edge, and you whimpered as you grabbed at the sheets, clenching your hands so hard that you thought the fabric might rip.

One of his hands moved, sliding up your back and into your hair, tugging at little before he moved to the back of your neck.

"Look at you, taking my cock, taking whatever I give you, fucking gorgeous."

You moaned again, and pressed your face harder against the mattress, your toes curling as you grew closer and closer to the edge.

"That's it, come on, I know you're close. Come for me. Show me your face."

You turned your head again, practically writhing with pleasure, and he kept fucking you, pressing you into the bed with his hand on your neck. Then, suddenly, his other hand was reaching around so his fingers could brush over your clit, and he'd only given you a few firm rubs before you were coming, nearly screaming into the mattress and clenching around him as your vision went white.

You lost track of his pace and of everything as he rubbed you through your orgasm, and you laid there rubbing your face against the sheets as he continued to thrust into you, and even still as he pulled out and you felt his cum hit your lower back.

You arched a little, to stretch and to show off for him, and he groaned.

"God, you'll be the death of me."

You heard him moving around, and then you felt something wiping gently across your skin before he gently wrapped his hands around your shoulders and turned you over, letting you finally relax against the bed.

"You alright?"

Opening your eyes, you looked up at him and mustered all the energy you had to shoot him a skeptical expression. "I'm fairly sure I just found out why the French call the orgasm the little death, and you want to ask me if I'm alright? You were here, weren't you? You heard me? Did I sound alright?"

Brian broke finally, grinning and laughing as he fell back onto the bed beside you. "Well. Okay. Yeah, alright, I suppose you did sound... good. I'm glad it was good."

"Good. Yeah, sure." You rolled onto your side and then, still feeling sensitive, finally pulled your shirt off. "It was obviously better than good. I didn't even know you could - I mean. Well. I've heard your stories from the road, but I still didn't-"

"No. No, it's never, I mean I never... I think you can probably blame the harp."

"The harp?" You raised your eyebrows at him, and he laughed again and started to blush.

"God I know it sounds ridiculous but I was so fucking frustrated."

"Well we clearly found the cure for that. And also probably everything else, I think." You scooted closer to him, and he wrapped his arms around you to pull you against his chest. You sighed and then leaned up to kiss him gently. "I think if anything I owe that harp a lovely dinner. Or maybe a fruit basket."

He kissed you again just to bite at your lower lip in retaliation and then ruffled a hand through your hair. "Alright, enough of that, thank you. Although I do, uh... I think you should probably stick around, just. In case anything else happens with the harp."

"Mm. Well. Or you could argue with Freddie, or you could break a guitar string, all sorts of things could happen."

You finally closed your eyes with your head against his chest, but you could feel him nod. "Right, yeah, definitely. I think we should just... plan on this as a solution."

"Probably so," you mumbled into his shirt, and you felt his lips against your forehead before you drifted off there in his arms.

#Brian May #brian may x reader #brian may imagine

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hitchell-mope · 6 years ago

Text

(Third film. After “who we are”. Part two)

(Jay’s about to leave with Matty but Carlos pulls him aside)

Carlos: good morning

Jay (smirking): good morning

(They almost kiss but Matty distracts them)

Matty (disgusted): BLEAURGH

Ben (sensing trouble): do we have a problem here?

Matty: they’re both so old

Carlos (offended): I’m only eight years older then you, you little twerp

Matty: Still

Mal: you know what! Doug. Doug can take you to your room. Could you please take him to his room Doug ol buddy ol pal of mine. Please?

Doug (thoroughly enjoying the verbal sparring match): sure. I have experience dealing with monetarily obsessed children. C’mon kid

(They leave. Ben turns to Mal)

Ben: that. was

Mal: exhausting

Ben: but worth it

Mal: ahem if you say so.

Ben: hey bud. The elderly need to have a talk. Do you mind taking an early lunch?

Carlos (knowing full well what Ben is planning on doing): So jay, is the brunch table still open

Jay: why yes. Yes it is

(The disappear in a puff of gold smoke)

Ben (offering Mal his hand): c’mon. I wanna show you something

Mal (taking his hand, intrigued): oh really

(Elsewhere)

Celia: So this is gonna be our room?

Dizzy: for tonight. Tomorrow we’ll be at mom and dads starter castle.

Celia: for how long?

Evie: the entire summer. But, but, if you prefer. Tiana and Naveen or mama Odie have rooms ready at their homes.

Celia: hmmmmm. How long is this summer?

Evie: ...twelve weeks. Three months

Celia: you’ll do. For now

(She smiles mischievously. Dizzy crows with delight and immediately starts showing her the amenities Auradon has to offer)

Celia: Dizz, Dizzy, Dizzy. It’s ok. I think I’m gonna like it here.

(This is when “I think I’m gonna like it here” happens. At the end of which Celia bumps into a pink clad figure)

Celia: hey watch it

Audrey: I am so sorry I heard you guys

Evie: eavesdropping? I thought you’d learned your lesson by now

Audrey (face set in a kind smile but scared stiff): the halls are echoey

Evie: sure(.) Celia, this is the kings ex girlfriend

Celia: you’re that bitch that insulted Evie when she first came here

Audrey (looking terrified): mhmm

Celia: So what do you do now you’re not gonna be queen anymore

Audrey: I am in summer school because I took an impromptu spa vacation last semester during term time

Celia: why?

Dizzy: Maleficent tried to kill her at the coronation

Celia: oh yeah. I watched that. So sad you lived

(Audrey looks at Evie silently asking for a defence. Evie smiles evily)

Evie: it was oh so very sad.

Audrey: m-moving ahem on. I am princess Audrey of Auroria. And I will be your dorm advisor next school year.

Celia: is that supposed to mean anything to me

Evie: basically she’s just your glorified unpaid babysitter. Who can’t control anything you do. But you are at liberty to annoy her. There’s nothing to petty to go to her with

Audrey: well I need to sleep but

Evie: Abigail Sweet never slept when we needed her for something

(Audrey looks like she’s trying to swallow a brick)

Celia: puce is a good colour on you

Audrey (running her fingers through her hair): it’s a really dark magenta actually

Celia: wavy talking about the hair

(In the distance two voices shriek then laugh)

Evie: So the twins have seen the statue then

Audrey: here is the menu for today’s dinner

Celia: ah man. No rabbit pie.

Evie: the bolognese is just tonight’s recommendation. There’s a full buffet. And if you can’t find what you want. You can always use magic to create it.

Celia: I really like it here

(At the brunch table)

Carlos: morning gran

Jay: you have two more grandsons

Belle: hello dears. And yes Gil told me about the twins. Where are they?

Jaylos: fencing arena

Belle: aw that’s nice. Gil and Lonnie spend so much time there. It’s good to keep healthy. Unlike me.

Carlos: uh gran? It’s 11 o’clock in the morning. And you don’t smoke

Belle: I am, how do say it? Oh yes. Psyching myself up.

Jay: it’s finally happening then?

Belle: yes

Carlos: bout time if you ask me.

Belle: where is Ben. I’d like to say goodbye before I leave

Carlos: where they first met

Belle (smiling knowingly): do please tell him where I’ve gone.

Jay: of course. Want me to teleport you to the court house?

Belle: no thank you dear. I’m taking a car. Gives me time to think.

Jay: I can drive.

Belle: thank you for offering. But they’ll want to see you after if it works.

Carlos: and if it doesn’t work. She might not be ready remember

Belle: then they’ll both need you.

Elsa: queen mother. The cars here.

Belle: thank you Elsa. Are you?

Elsa: no. My daughter is expecting me

Belle: word of advice. Never marry a man who lies about resurrecting a man who attacked the both of you back from the dead.

Elsa: wasn’t planning to.

(Belle leaves)

Elsa: now boys. I see chocolate croissants and salmon bagels that are yet to be eaten. I declare a competition. Who ever finishes this food first will get the royal Arendelle chocolate fountain for the summer. I’ll referee. Sound good?

Jay: Hell yeah.

(Back in the courtyard. Ben’s used his magic to create a eatery area with a full buffet table. And a projector and film reel)

Ben: So this is a

Mal: butter bar

Ben: a butter bar? Um

Mal: context?

Ben: yes please

Mal: I was bored. And hungry. You were in a budget meeting. And Evie was annoying me. So I got a stick of butter, dipped it in cinnamon, dipped it in chocolate, deep fried in churro batter, and put peanut sprinkles on top. Magic keeps everything from melting.

Ben: that sounds absolutely disgusting. And I must try it

Mal: go ahead

Ben: I might be a decent cook, but you’re a confectionery genius

Mal: why thank you. How did our niece get on with her first transfer session?

Ben: she was great. Everyone was so great. Except

Mal: yeah?

Ben: Celia asked why you weren’t there.

Mal: ah. What did you guys say?

Ben: Carlos took care of it.

Mal: he didn’t mention my therapy did he?

Ben: no. No he didn’t

Mal: oh thank goodness. Don’t worry. I’m not, ashamed, of getting help. But it’s just that

Ben: when people you’ve not seen for a while are prone to judgement it can be a little difficult to admit your foibles

Mal: yeah. So anyway all this is very very nice. But why. Oh boy. It’s not your birthday is it?

Ben: that was two months ago. You took me to dinner at Tony’s?

Mal: right. A Thursday. It’s not my birthday is it?

Ben: you’re a month older then me

Mal: I might need to change Friday night drinks from beer to orange juice

Ben: ahhh you’re fine.

Mal: well I am half human. Not exactly pure

Ben: neither of us are.

Mal: yeah. Yeah we aren’t. So anyway. What is all this for. You can’t have missed me that much. You were only gone for twelve hours

Ben: I always miss you. But no. This is the exact same spot where we first met. A year and a half ago today.

Mal: this isn’t an anniversary. Is it?

Ben: no

Mal: oh thank god for that. I’m so sorry. That sounded cruel

Ben: that’s ok. I kinda like it when you’re a little cruel.

Mal (cackling): yeah I know. So what is that for

(She points to the film projector)

Ben: ah yes! I learned a new spell

Mal: oh yeah?

Ben: memory and dream extraction.

Mal (intrigued): continue

Ben: my dreams. And memories. About us

Mal: is that why..? The whole eatery enclosure thing

Ben: mostly because I needed food. But yeah. The occasion provides privacy. Shall I press play.

Mal: go for it. Jesus. Is that what my hair looks like from the back? And who’s speaking?

Ben: you’re hair always looks nice. And that’s me. My inner monologue

Mal: ah. And do you still have that suit?

Ben: not anymore no. I don’t think it would fit.

Mal (chuckling fondly): do you ever miss your old hair?

Ben: I’ve got purple roots because of my magic. It makes me closer to you. Why would I miss my old hair.

Mal: you’re sweet. Ah fuck.

Ben: yeah my technique is rather crude. But we got together in the end

Mal: yes. Yes we did. I tried to avoid you for so long. Because I believed you deserved better then a villain

Ben: well I’ve always been somewhat attracted to the darkness and badassery

Mal: oh the badassery is all jay. The darkness is all me. But I’m working on it. Still remember our little conversations back then

Ben: of course

(He uses magic to activate a nearby stereo. Mal shrieks in delight. This is when “as lovers go” starts. After the song)

Mal: oh my god. Omigod omigod omigod

Ben: I love you. Would you like to be my queen

(Mal tackles him in a bear, or dragon, hug)

Mal: yes. Yes yes yes. To be honest I kinda knew you had this planned

Ben: oh really?

Mal: yeah. Evie’s not been able to look at me for a month without crying. Speaking of

(She gets off of and dissolves the faux eatery revealing their friends who’ve been waiting)

Mal: C. You’ve got an official father

Carlos: YEEEEEEEEES

(He bounds up and hugs them both)

Jay (jokingly): you know if you do anything to hurt

Ben: I’m sure my magic will get to me first Jay.

Doug (more warningly but still with a smile): same goes for you Mal

Mal: Roger

(She disentangles herself from the boys)

Mal: hey. Are we filming?

Evie: I think the approved press are still here. Or at least their cameras are.

Mal: Doug buddy. Could you start rolling

Doug: sure

Mal (turning to the camera, takes a deep breath): IM ENGAGED!!!! HAHAHAHA

Evie (aside to Doug): I dunno why but I kinda thought that’d be more regal

Jay and Lonnie: it’s Mal. What did you expect

(Once Doug shuts the camera off)

Audrey: ooh ooh ooh. You can borrow my shoes.

Mal: I have bigger feet then you pal. But thank you for offering.

Chad (running up and pushing between the two friends): NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! Don’t touch her! You’re not the queen. You’re a fugly hag of a witch. Audrey’s the rightful queen. Soon everyone will see and

(Mal gives Audrey a look, Audrey nods her head, Mal wafts chad away mid sentence in a puff of smoke)

Mal: drunk, stoned or just plain tired?

Audrey: probably all three

(Elsewhere)

Gil: where mama? She should be here

Squeaky: uncle Florrie does this make Mal our auntie now?

Ben: sure does buddy. Moms at the courthouse. It’s the first of June. Dad finally stopped dragging his feet

Gil: ohhh

(End of part two)

#disney descendants #zendaya!mal

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cheekytorah · 6 years ago

Text

Muggle AU | Drabble

But is anything I write truly a drabble? I can never just stop at 200 words. So here's to a long(ish) drabble(ish) muggle au wolfstar! Cheers!

The pleasant laughter that filled the modest country home, in the small town they lived in, always put a smile on Remus Lupins face. His son was already 11 years old, but still found the most pleasure in little things like playing with their Huskey and watching ants carry crumbs ten times their size. Teddy Lupin was a wonderful child: smart, honest, kind. All the things Remus had raised him to be. He gave his boy everything he could. Teddy wanted for nothing. Except for his father to find love again. Of course, Remus knew this and always told him that he was very happy with his life as it was.

Dora Lupin had passed away when Teddy was but one year old. She had been in an unfortunate place at an unfortunate time and was caught in the middle of a thief and his escape route. It had been devastating losing her, and he had from then on dedicated his life to making a great life for Teddy, making sure he felt as loved as possible despite the loss of his mother. And loved he was. Teddy was surrounded by family; a cousin who doted on him, a grandmother who adored him, Remus’ closest friends who were family in every way that mattered, and a godfather who was at times the best help Remus could have asked for.

It was Friday, the regular night that Harry Potter arrived to care for Teddy while Remus went out with Peter and Marlene.

“Teddy! Your godfather is here! Come say hello!” Remus called up the stairs. It was seconds later the young boy was charging down the stairs screaming hello and throwing himself at Harry.

Harry’s mother Lily had been one of Remus’ closest friends growing up, his father James was another close friend. Time and life had taken its toll on the group. Though they were all still friends and considered one another family, it hadn’t been the same between James and Remus after highschool. He made other friends and Remus just didn’t fit in with them. Lily on the other hand, had coffee with Remus every Saturday afternoon when she came to pick up Harry.

“Hey there, pup! Missed you!” Harry said fondly and squished the boy in his arms. “What do you want to do tonight?”

“Dad said I can finally dye my hair blue! can we can we can we?” Teddy begged, his eyes light brightly with excitement.

Harry gave Remus an amused look, because yes Teddy has finally worn him down. Remus nodded sheepishly and grabbed his coat.

“There had better be no mess when I get home, if I find any blue anywhere young man, I’ll dye your hair back to brown myself.”

Teddy nodded frantically and pulled Harry towards the bathroom that he had set up perfectly for an evening of bleaching and dyeing his brown locks. Remus shook his head and smirked before heading out the door to meet his childhood friends.

~*~

“We are too old for this!” Peter complained as he usually did when Marlene ordered a third round of whiskey shots for the table.

It was the same every weekend. Marlene would have them drink too much, they’d all stumble back to Remus’ where the couple would crash into a guest room and in the morning they’d all have bacon sandwiches while watch morning cartoons with the minor. They may be too old for it, but Remus lived for Friday nights, adult conversation and letting loose a little after a week of suits, ties and keeping his kid alive.

“40 is not old, Peter. I resent the accusation that it is. You’ll pay for that tonight,” Marlene glared at her husband as she shot another drink down her throat.

“Yes, dear,” he smirked over his own drink before he too downed the amber liquid.

“No one is paying for anything in my guest bedroom,” Remus groaned.

“Prude,” Marlene coughed.

Remus glared at her but smiled happily anyways. He was happy. It had taken a long time, but here he was enjoying time with people he loved. Happy.

Loud, barking laughter broke the silence at their table and the three turned their heads towards the sound. Remus prickled in annoyance, eyes narrowing at the figure laughing happily in a group. Sirius Black, a coworker at his office, and a complete jerk. It probably didn’t help that the man was James best friend, and the reason he and James hadn’t spoken properly in 8 years.

He was also a slag. It was well known at the office that he had worked his way through the beds of half the female employees and he was constantly pulling idiotic pranks on some of the employees on the floor down from them. He was worse than Remus’ 12 year old child. He had the maturity level of a 6 year old and the attention span of a 3 year old.

“What a prat,” Remus muttered.

“You don’t even know him, anymore,” Peter said pointedly.

“Oh come on, that guy is a menace!” Remus insisted.

“Is that why you stare at his arse when he walks past your cubicle?” Marlene says in a (not so innocent) innocent manner.

“I’ll give you that he’s fit, but he’s still a prat!” Remus sighed and trailed his finger around the rim of his glass.

Marlene hummed quietly looking intently at Remus’ expression before turning and-

“Oi! Black! Did you know you got a fine arse but your annoying as all hell?” Marlene yelled across the room.

Remus froze and all the colour drained from his face. The liveliest group in the pub fell silent, Sirius turned with a bright smile lighting up his face and winked at her.

“Of course, McKinnon! Second finest ass in the company,” his brows waggled suggestively at her.

“That’s my wife, Black.” Peter called in a half hearted frustration but mostly amusement.

“Not who I was talking about,” Sirius yelled back with a suddenly soft smile and then turned back to his friends to continue his animated storytelling.

“Hmmm. I wonder who he could possibly have meant, love,” Marlene said to her husband but looking right at Remus.

“Yes. A complete mystery,” Peter grinned.

“I think it was Janice this week, or was it Linda? I can’t keep track.” Remus muttered under his breath. But not quietly enough it seemed.

“Oh but it seems you are,” Marlene smirked. “I want poutine! You boys done nursing your drinks, or can we get out of here?”

Remus nodded and downed the last of his whiskey and followed his friends out of the pub and into the night.

~*~

Remus was exhausted, the week had dragged and by Friday he wasn’t even sure he had the energy to go to the pub. He had worked on a merger for the first half of the week, pulling over time nightly. Thursday and Friday was full of lawyers meetings with clients and a whole lot of back and forth that made remus’ head spin.

When he finally got home on Friday afternoon, he had managed to settle the case and make his superiors happy, but he was just ready to curl up with Teddy and Harry to watch a film. Of course Marlene and Peter wouldn’t hear it, and soon his phone was ringing constantly till Remus had no choice but to meet with them.

“Go on, you deserve it! Have a nice night, I’ll see you later,” Harry smiled.

Remus nodded with an apologetic smile on his face as he left the house and made for the pub a few blocks away.

The room was oddly quiet when he arrived, and he quickly found Marlene and Peter sitting at their usual table. The usually rowdy group wasn’t in their regular booth it seemed and it dramatically changed the atmosphere.

“I say we have a couple drinks and head over the matinee in the park down the road! I even brought something along,” Marlene grinned cheekily and pointed to the two large thermos’ in her purse.

“The fresh air could do you good Remus, you look wiped,” Peter said after searching Remus’ face.

“The merger is over, that’s all that matters. I’ll catch up on sleep this weekend.” Remus sighed running his hand over the back of his neck.

They chatted about work a little more and then, their drinks finished, they headed towards the movie that was playing against a large building in the park. It wasn’t overly crowded with people, just a few sparse individuals and a couple large groups chatting with eachother while an image of David Bowie clad in tights and 80’s metal hair paced around a room filled with little goblins played on the wall.

“Damn you, Padfoot! My shirt is soaked now!” A familiar voice yelled to their right.

Marlene passed the thermos and they watched as Sirius fell over laughing and James Potter was covered in some kind of purple liquid and gel. Remus smirked, forgetting his annoyance with Sirius Black, and appreciated the amusing scene in front of him.

He found himself watching Sirius again. As if he could ever really get the infuriating man out of his head to begin with. This week alone Sirius had walked by his cublicle 8 times a day, that’s 40 times in a week. Way too many times for Remus’ sanity. Sure the work week had been hectic but forcing himself into a state of indifference and calm after each time Sirius walked by was what really exhausted him.

The long black hair that fell to just above his shoulders in a sexy shaggy way, the piercing grey eyes and the sultry smirks that were always decorating his aristocratic features. Remus was done for, and he knew it too. Of course, he’d never admit that to anyone. Least of all his so called best friends.

He chugged back the sweet drink, and turned back to the movie. Soon he’d be at home in his soft bed, no longer thinking about a certain man. No. Because he never thought about Sirius Black at home, alone. In his bed.

Fuck

~*~

TBC

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katie-dub · 7 years ago

Text

The Princess of White Chapel (9/12)

Dr Killian Jones is having a terrible day. He’s got a mission, he’s got a time machine, he’s got … drunk. What could possibly go wrong?

AO3 | Tumblr

Rated M for alcohol use, violence, minor character death, frank discussions of depression and grief.

The delightful @distant-rose and @ultraluckycatnd beta’d this fic and @princesse-swan made my gorgeous art. Thanks go to all of them, the organisers of @captainswanbigbang and everyone who’s reading this!

Killian returned to work the very next day, not thinking to grumble about sacrificing his Sunday when he knew how much was at stake.

The heat and humidity that had mercifully vanished yesterday were back with a vengeance. Even the short walk to his lab left him feeling sticky and glistening with sweat. His top buttons might never know how it felt to be fastened again, judging by the endless heatwave that rendered them useless, his thick chest hair providing more than enough protection from the elements. (In fact, in his more desperate moments he found himself musing on the benefits of shaving it off, willing to sacrifice his body hair to stave off heat stroke. Give him another few days of overheating and he just might crack and do it.)

It was actually something of a relief to spend the day in the air conditioned lab, even if he found himself struggling to unlock the mystery of how he had made such a mess of his machine.

He had to work hard not to fixate on how Emma might be spending her day; on whether she was safe. He knew she could handle herself, he just wished that she didn’t have to. But, this was the best way for him to help. He had to focus on finding a solution, on sending everyone back to their realm, on sending her home.

It became routine.

Wake up, go their separate ways, save the world, home to talk and laugh. Sometimes take a walk by the river, sometimes go to the grassy spot by the Thames for more people watching, sometimes show her films so she’d understand the comments she’d hear about herself from strangers - Harry Potter, Star Wars, Wonder Woman.

He would share stories of his day to make her laugh and she did the same.

“A mermaid showed up in the Thames today.”

“A mermaid? Bloody hell.”

“Yeah - not even a nice one like Queen Ariel - one of the real nasty sorts that tries to lure sailors to their death and all that.” She rolled her eyes. “I sent her packing - mermaids don’t need portals to cross realms, she just heard about the carnage and wanted to join in.”

“They don’t tell you that side of the story in the Disney film.”

“Huh?”

“Nevermind.”

With every day that passed, he found himself drawn closer to her. He would sit a little closer to her on the sofa as they chatted. He hugged her just a little tighter and a little longer as they said goodnight. He fought that little bit harder not to give into the urge to kiss her as they said goodbye in the morning.

He was falling for this enchantress, and he was hopeless to fight it.

It was Thursday before there was any change to their routine. He stepped through the door and was immediately accosted by Emma.

“Hey. So, I hope you don’t mind, but I -”

“Hi there!” Killian’s eyes bugged out of his head as a red dragon about half his height jumped into his line of sight, cutting Emma off.

“George, we talked about this,” Emma admonished the dragon. “You were meant to let me speak to Killian first.”

Killian looked up at Emma, completely stunned. What was happening? Where had he come from? More importantly, why was he once again giving shelter to a dragon?

“His name is George? That is the worst name for a dragon.” He was going mad, but that was all his mind could conjure up to say at this utterly bizarre sequence of events. He shook his head and walked into the living room, hoping that if he ignored it, it might go away.

“It’s the name my mother gave me!” retorted George, faint wisps of smoke spewing from his nostrils as he stormed after Killian. “And I know you aren’t talking shit about my mother.”

"I just…” Killian ran his hand through his hair in distress as he turned and glared at Emma who had trailed in after the pair of them, looking sheepish. He took a deep breath to try to calm himself and said in as steady a voice as he could manage, “Emma, why have you brought another bloody dragon into my home? Lily was bad enough."

"Don't think you can talk shit about my cousin either,” George sassed him.

"Of course, I should have known you were related," he said, giving George a fake smile. “You’re both annoying as fuck.”

There was a flash of red as the dragon leapt for him… But then Killian found himself pushed back against the wall as though by invisible hands and blinded by light. Emma stood between them with her hands held up, creating a shield of pure white light that was separating him from the feisty dragon.

“If I let you two down, promise you won’t attack each other,” Emma said in a stern voice.

“Yes, mom,” George replied even as Killian said, “I won’t make the first move.” Killian’s reply earned him a glare from Emma, but she released her magic all the same and he could move freely once more.

“Are you going to explain what’s going on here?” Killian pleaded with Emma, ignoring the way George was sticking his tongue out at him.

“So, you know those dragon statues around town?” Emma began tentatively.

Killian clenched his jaw and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes in exasperation. “Yes.”

“They seem to have come to life.”

“Of course they have.”

“This one’s called George.”

“I gathered.”

“He was scared and all alone and well, he is Lily’s family so -”

“So now we have a pet dragon?”

“Surprise?” Emma said weakly, as George mumbled ‘who you calling a pet?’ under his breath.

He stared at her for a moment before letting out a deep sigh. “I should have seen this coming really. You’re a princess. Of course you need a talking animal sidekick to complete the whole Disney aesthetic.”

He was aiming for gentle teasing, but she went tense, just as she always did whenever her royal lineage came up. He should know better than to poke at that obvious sore spot just because he was annoyed with her - even if George was a fire hazard, and was currently watching the unfolding conversion with undisguised glee. So dragons enjoy metaphorical fires just as much as real ones. Good to know, he thought. He might as well have fucking popcorn.

Emma narrowed her eyes. “I don't know what that means,” she said coldly, “but I know when I'm being insulted and -”

“Not an insult just a fairytale -” he caught himself before he said cliché, having enough self preservation to avoid making this even harder. “Just an observation. Disney was a, a er-” Killian paused, realising that animator, film maker, or any other usual descriptors would be meaningless to her. “He was a storyteller. His princesses always had talking animal friends and sang a lot -”

“I don't sing,” Emma interrupted.

“I beg to differ. You sing in the shower -”

“You been watching her shower?” George asked, horrified. “Oh honey, you have to find yourself a better prince.”

Killian's eyes widened in alarm at George's assumption. Looking at Emma's cold fury, she obviously thought that too.

“I didn't - I haven't - you sing loud ok?” Emma gritted her teeth. “It's fine, wonderful, actually. Your voice is enchanting, but I can hear it from outside the bathroom. Or, I don't know, maybe the acoustics in the bathroom are weird? I haven't really had many.. It doesn't matter, I'm sorry. Keep your little pet -” George scoffed indignantly “- I'll just -” He walked into the bathroom himself, closing the door behind him for an escape. Not before he heard George say ruefully, “he's no Prince Charming.”

Despite himself, this jibe stung. He knew he was no knight in shining armour, and he hardly thought himself worthy of a princess, but much as he knew that, he still had this irrational hope in his heart that she might feel different, and it hurt for someone else to point out how vain that hope was.

This is a good thing, Killian tried to tell himself, things were getting a little too cosy between you and Emma. No use settling into a domestic life with someone that you spend every working hour trying to permanently separate yourself from. Not to mention George will be able to help her, should she need it. Assuming he’s a little more reliable than his cousin, of course, he thought bitterly.

They hadn’t seen or heard from Lily once since she’d left his flat and that was a full two weeks ago now. Emma had looked simultaneously sad, annoyed and resigned to this treatment when he’d happened to ask after her one time.

“Oh, this is typical Lily, talks about how close we are, all these things she wants my help with, adventures she wants to go on, then poof! she’s gone and I’m lucky if I see her again any time in the next three years.”

He was right that George’s presence created something of a wedge between him and Emma. The dragon just annoyed him - no way around it - and while it could sometimes be fun to trade barbs with him, he found himself wishing for a bigger flat.

“Jealous, mate?” George had taunted, imitating Killian’s accent, on that first night he spent in their home as he had waited at the door to the bedroom.

“Of the princess’ new pet? Hardly,” Killian scoffed, although he found he did have to remind himself that George would be curled up at the foot of the bed like a dog.

“You should try telling your face that.”

Killian was about to answer back when Emma had opened the door to let George in. “Everything OK out here?”

“Fine” they both answered instantaneously.

She eyed them both suspiciously. “Right, well, goodnight Killian,” she said and turned and headed back into room.

“Night sweetie pie!” George called gleefully, then dropped his voice and hissed, “your eyes are greener than hers,” before following her and slamming the door with his tail.

Killian had glared at the closed door and found himself resisting the urge to poke his tongue out at it.

It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. In fact, it was probably a good thing really. He didn’t need to get even closer to an unattainable woman. But he couldn’t deny that he was delighted when Regina had messaged him inviting them to dinner at her place on Saturday.

They were lounging on the sofa munching on toast when he got the message. He was scrolling through Twitter mindlessly on his phone. Emma, having apparently finished Neverwhere, was now reading The Golden Compass. George was stretched out on the floor in a patch of sunlight that streamed in through the large windows, soaking up the heat that was already blazing despite it only being 8am.

“We’ve had a summons from Regina. Her Majesty requests our presence at her house tonight. Sorry, George, the Mills-Locksley Residence has a strict no pets policy,” he said with a smirk at the disgruntled dragon.

“And what exactly am I meant to do while you’re off having fun?” George huffed, hands on hips and wisps of smoke escaping from his nostrils.

Killian tried to look sympathetic, but he knew it came out as undeniably smug. “Alas, you’ll just have to annoy yourself tonight.”

George stomped off to the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

“Seriously?” Emma said with a disapproving glare. Killian merely shrugged. He was unable to find it in himself to care when he felt like he was melting, the heat short circuiting his ability to think logically.

This lack of perspective turned him into a simmering ball of frustration as he got ready and left for work. He nearly wrenched the tap off when the water took too long to cool down. He barked out swear words at a cyclist who made the mistake of veering into his path to avoid the fairy that had suddenly appeared in their way. He swatted at another fairy who had the misfortune to materialise before him, sending the poor creature flying into a wall. Dr Smee had wisely only nodded at him as he stalked into the lab, sensing at once that he did not wish to be disturbed.

It wasn’t until he had spent a solid hour cooling off in his lab that he began to calm down. And of course, regret followed.

He wasn’t good in the heat, Britain wasn’t built for it, and Killian himself even less so. His mother affectionately called him a “little hot bod” as he stubbornly refused to wear a coat as a child on all but the coldest of days and was quick to temper in the summer when the sun caused his blood to boil. Others were less kind, calling him hot-headed and fiery. He often thought that it was the others who had it right. This heat wave was fogging his brain and he despaired of ever finding a solution while the temperatures blazed.

And sorting out this mess was becoming increasingly urgent. At first only London had seemed affected by the oddities causing the ripples in reality and random realm crossing, but now they were spreading throughout Britain.

A famous statue of Merlin outside the Burger King in Carmarthen, Wales had caused widespread consternation when it magically transformed into the wizard himself.

(Although whether people were more shocked at the magical mishap or that Merlin proved not to be a wizened old man with a long twisting beard, but was in fact a handsome black man was debatable. In fact, if it weren’t for the stunned customers of the Burger King, who’d been distracted from their burgers for long enough to film the spectacle, Merlin might have been dealing with accusations of actually stealing the treasured Merlin’s Oak. As it was there was a decidedly nasty, racist edge to some of the comments made about the bemused wizard, who only wanted a way to get home.)

The Isle of Man had apparently vanished in a cloud of mist. Residents of the island were still contactable, although irritated at being blighted by poor visibility in the midst of what should have been one of the sunniest summers of their lives. Meteorologists were stumped by the strange occurrence, but one of the island’s leading mythologians insisted that they had actually been shrouded by Mannanan’s cloak. Reports in Ireland of someone claiming to be a sea deity with an invisibility cloak, while mostly dismissed as the ravings of someone who’d enjoyed a little too much Guinness, did seem to corroborate this theory.

Killian had to admit that this meant very little to him - he always got the place confused with the Isle of Wight and he’d never been to the tiny island in the Irish Sea. He only remembered the name at all because he quite liked the Tour de France and Manx Missile, Mark “Cav” Cavendish, the cyclist came from there. But still, an entire bloody country disappearing from view, even a tiny one that residents apparently called “the rock”, was deeply concerning.

And bizarrely enough what appeared to be genuine photographs from reputable sources were now emerging of the Loch Ness Monster, delighting fans all over the world who were now flocking in ever larger numbers to the Scottish lake.

The rebuild of his machine was almost complete, he only had to figure out how to reverse the changes that his machine had wrought upon the laws of physics that had somehow resulted in elements of an alternate universe forcing their way into the real world. No big deal.

Perhaps Emma was right - maybe this was all just magic. Perhaps where they were going wrong was to assume that they were in the Land Without Magic, and sorcery was the missing link in his calculations.

Or perhaps he needed London to cool the fuck down so he could sleep at night and stop theorising like a madman.

It was probably that.

As he toiled the day away, the sky gradually darkened. The storm clouds gathered, hanging over the London skyline with menace.

Killian sighed as he glanced out the windows just before he left for the day. He knew they needed this storm to break the intense heat, but he didn’t much relish the prospect of living through whatever damnation Thor had sent their way.

Bloody hell, Thor himself better not show up.

The thought was only halfway to joking - he'd seen way too much by this point to dismiss it as absolute nonsense.

As he stepped out of the glass doors the first drops of rain started. He lingered in the shelter gazing at the spiked archway before him - it looked even more threatening in the gloom of the storm clouds. Should he bother with an uber? It’s just a little rain, he decided, might even be refreshing, and strode forwards with purpose.

He quickly came to regret this choice. He’d never known anything like it; British rain just didn’t come in this flavour. They were used to it raining off and on, when the weather could never quite decide what it wanted to do and would send a sudden shower to soak you when you’d been tricked by the sun into stashing your umbrella or removing your raincoat. They were used to it chucking it down at the perfect angle to render your umbrella entirely pointless. They were used to fine, misty rain, the kind that makes you feel idiotic if you carry an umbrella, but really gets you wet - even if you brought the brolly. (Really it was a wonder that anyone in Britain bothered with the bloody things, considering the lengths the rain went to to sneak past this meagre defence.)

But this rain? It was warm. The storm was meant to break the heat, not somehow, inexplicably add fuel to the fire. The hot, fat drops of rain left him feeling stickier than before, his shirt clinging to him as rain mixed with sweat, rendering the white fabric transparent and making a mockery of his refusal to bare his chest like the tomato-skinned residents of the city.

As the rain got heavier he started to run, briefly cursing his lack of umbrella, however pointless they may be.

He was soaked by the time he reached the flat. He resisted the urge to shake the rain off like a dog, and squelched into the living room. Emma was lying on the sofa, reading, George was curled up on her feet, reminding Killian of a sleepy dog, although he snapped to attention the second he entered.

Emma raised her eyebrows at him over the top of her book, but refrained from commenting on his appearance. George, still tetchy after the news that he would be spending the evening alone was far less kind. “Oh look what the cat dragged in, Your Highness, it’s a drowned rat!”

“Ha, bloody, ha,” Killian replied dryly. There was some kind of joke there, about how his voice was the driest part of him, but it didn’t quite come to him. “We have to leave soon, Swan, I’m gonna shower and change, you ready?”

“Yeah,” she said then frowned down at herself. She sat up and held the book down at her side to allow Killian to get a better look at her outfit, a simple slouchy top and denim skirt. “Unless… is this ok? Regina’s kind of fancy.” She chewed on her lip.

Killian moved as if to go hug her, instinctively wanting to comfort her, but a deliberate cough from George accompanied by a pointed look at the slightly puddle that was forming at his feet stopped him. “It’s fine. Regina isn’t as scary as she seems - and besides, it’s too hot for fancy clothes.” he said with a smile.

George winced and shook his head, then reached out and patted Emma’s hand. “You look smoking hot, just like always,” he reassured her. She shook her head instantly, although a corner of her mouth twitched up at his declaration.

Killian didn’t hang around to see George’s smug, triumphant smirk.

He was ready in fifteen minutes flat, eager to escape for the night.

He got the uber alert that Leroy was nearly there just as he strolled back into the living room. “Time to go.”

George pouted. He wouldn’t have thought that it was possible for a dragon to pout, but there really was no other way to describe the look on his face. He opened his mouth - and the thunder started, rumbling across the sky like the sound of drums. George’s eyes flew wide open and he slithered behind Emma’s legs, trembling. Killian cocked his head, shocked by the thought that this overconfident sass monster might actually be scared of the storm. A flash of lightning sparked across the sky, filling the room with light and George disappeared into the bedroom.

Killian’s jaw dropped. Emma met his stunned gaze. Her brow had crumpled with concern and she chewed on her lip.

“Do you think we should stay here for him?” she asked, eyes darting to the wide open bedroom door and back to Killian. “I’ve never seen him this scared.”

“I’m not scared!” George’s voice called out from the bedroom, “just remembered that there’s something in here that I need.”

Killian smirked and Emma rolled her eyes, they both headed to the door. There was a trembling lump underneath the blankets. “Something that’s in the bed?” Killian asked, leaning against the door frame.

“I need a nap,” George replied.

“You just remembered that you need a nap?” The derision was hard to keep out of his voice and he earned himself a smack on the arm from Emma accompanied by a look that plainly warned him to “cut it out”. He playfully pretended that it had hurt a lot more than it had, delighting in the way Emma tried to restrain her laugh as she shook her head at his antics.

George poked his face out from under the blankets. “Yeah, I just remembered that I’m tired of watching your embarrassing attempts to flirt with Emma. I’m glad that I have the night off to recover. Talk about out of your league - Emma’s so far out of your league, she literally belongs in a whole other realm.”

“George!” Emma admonished, blushing, as Killian gaped at him.

Of course, what he said was true, but it hurt to hear - especially from the dragon who was squatting in his home.

Before he could recover enough to reply, Emma grabbed him by the arm “Anyway!” she said brightly, steering him towards the door and calling behind her, “enjoy your nap, George!”

On the drive Emma looked agitated, nervously tapping her foot and shifting restlessly. Killian watched concerned as she squirmed from slouching in her seat to attempting to cross her legs to turning her back towards him and leaning against the seat belt and back to slouching again. Finally, she awkwardly settled with her chin in her hand, staring out at the rain. For a minute at least, because then she cracked her head against the window as Leroy took a corner way too fast - barking out insults at pedestrians as he went.

Killian was fairly certain that the storm wasn’t bothering her, but perhaps she was worried for George. He hadn’t known her long, and already he could see how quickly she took on other people’s worries and how much she delighted in helping them. She was clearly agitated about something - perhaps it had been unfair to expect her to leave her friend at home in distress.

She was the one who all but pushed us out the door, he reminded himself.

It seemed unlikely that the dragon was the cause of her anxiety, but whatever it was, he hoped he could help to calm her. Carefully he reached out and placed his hand over hers. She jumped at the contact and her head snapped around to look at him.

He held up his hands in surrender. “Easy there,” he chuckled, “just checking everything’s ok?” It suddenly occurred to him - she’d been a little unsure about her outfit earlier, perhaps she was just feeling insecure about the night. “You’re not still worried about Regina are you? Honestly, I know that she’s a little - well, a lot - intimidating, but she’s a teddy bear deep down. Don’t tell her I said that. And she absolutely loved you. Anyone who puts me in my place deserves a medal as far as she’s concerned. You should have seen the way she smiled in approval at some of those witty insults you sent my way when we went out. I thought she might actually handover Robin’s gold medal with ‘Best Insult Ever’ scratched onto it, and that’s his prized possession.”

“Oh it’s not that,” Emma said then looked down and began picking at invisible lint on her skirt, “not exactly. I … Well, Regina looks like someone from my realm. And that person, she, she fucking terrifies me.” Her statement was punctuated by a flash of lightning with a rumble of thunder hot on its heels. She jumped at the sound, looking embarrassed by her reaction at once.

“Fucking weather,” grumbled Leroy, not actually under his voice, as he swerved around a corner.

Killian reached out for her again and this time, Emma let him take her hand. He stroked it gently, and she stared intently at the way his thumb moved.

“I’m sorry to hear that, love. It must be hard to spend time with someone who has the same face as anyone who you don’t feel safe around, however much you know they’re a different person.” He grinned. “For what it’s worth though, Regina often scares me, she can be downright terrifying when you get on her bad side.”

She looked up at him, eyebrows raised, and he winked for good measure. “Well. Yeah. Regina seemed - well, nice isn’t the right word, but I liked her - so I feel horrible but she looks so much like the Evil Queen that it’s -”

Killian stopped stroking at the name “Evil Queen”, slightly stunned by this revelation. “Sorry, did you just say Evil Queen? Like once upon a time she forced Snow White to eat a poisoned apple and all that?”

“Exactly. Snow White’s my mother.”

Killian could feel his jaw drop at this revelation, Emma was literally straight out of a fairytale. Perhaps he should consider seeking out therapy - just in case he was really just going crazy in the back of an uber with an overly grumpy driver.

“But really the apple thing was the least of what she did - I’m more bothered by all the massacres.”

Just when Killian thought this couldn’t get any weirder. “Massacres?” he asked weakly.

“She slaughtered entire villages hunting for my mother when she realised that her curse hadn’t done the job. We don’t call people evil just over a cursed apple.”

“Well, what’s a little cursed apple between friends?” He hoped he didn’t sound as hysterical as he felt.

Emma frowned at him and shook her head, but chose to reply to the rhetorical question. “So… yeah. It’s hard not to feel a little bit strange about being around her, which hardly seems fair.”

“Would it make you feel better to know that apples are banned from her house?”

She laughed and it was good to see some of that tension fade away. “Really?”

“Her step son Roland’s allergic.”

She nodded to herself. “Why do you call her your Majesty?”

“Bad joke. Her family has money - her parents are important, her dad had some kind of peerage or title, probably both, before he passed away, and her mum's the Chief Commissioner of the Met.”

“The what?”

“The police in London.” He held back a laugh at Emma's look of confusion. “The good guys, heroes, whatever you want to call them. Regina and Robin live in Knightsbridge - the rich part of town - well, one of them. It's about as close to a castle as you can get in the middle of London. Unless of course you live in Buckingham Palace, but Regina's not actually the Queen.” He cringed internally at his thoughtless comment, closing his eyes to avoid seeing her reaction. “I’ll cut that out, so thoughtless, I -”

The car screeched to a halt outside a row of beautiful terraced houses, all with white columns framing the porches leading up to their front doors. Railings to the side of the doors hid the discreet stairs that once upon a time led down to where the help resided, but now was just another indicator that the people who lived here absolutely had more floor space than you. Old fashioned street lamps of the style most commonly found in Narnia these days lined the picturesque street and were glowing softly through the downpour. The road remained free of the garish supercars that blighted other areas of Knightsbridge in the summer months, instead showing far more tasteful displays of the privilege of the residents - Bentley, Mercedes and Rolls Royce badges adorning the cars in shades of black and grey. The houses faced the private garden only accessible to those who lived on the street, hoarding the precious green space in the centre of London and keeping it for themselves like the miserly dragons they were.

Killian would hate Regina and Robin for it if only they weren’t the best people he knew. It was hard to begrudge them the best of anything.

“We’re here,” growled Leroy, a man who clearly didn’t care for driver ratings, and was fast cementing himself in Killian’s mind as simply “Grumpy”.

Killian said, “cheers,” as he put up his umbrella and climbed out of the car. He was immediately grateful that he’d remembered to grab it at the last minute. They were but two yards from the door, but would surely be drenched regardless. He hurried around to open Emma’s door and shielded her from the rain as she struggled to climb from the car. “As graceful as your namesake, Swan,” he said, taking pity on her and helping her out.

They rushed to the porch, folded the umbrella up as quickly as possible and up the steps to the door. “Some might consider it treason to mock a princess,” she said as he rang the bell, “and you know what the penalty for that is.”

He grinned, glad to see that her anxiety had lessened. “Lucky for me that you’re a forgiving and benevolent royal, then eh?”

If she said anything further on the matter, it was lost as the door flung open and a small blur flew into his arms.

“Killian!” He felt as much as heard the muffled squeal of his godson who had buried his face into his stomach.

He shoved the umbrella into Emma's hands then lifted Roland up into his arms with an exaggerated groan. “Have you been eating rocks again, Roland? You know that’s not good for you.”

“No, Killian, I just really, really big now,” Roland answered seriously.

“Roland, what have I told you about ope - oh hi Killian, lovely to see you again, Emma.” Regina’s scolding of her stepson melted into a smile on seeing him wrapped up in Killian’s arms.

It was moments like this that always made it hard for Killian to take Regina’s icy demeanour too seriously. He looked to Emma to mutter something to that effect, but was surprised to see she was looking at him with a similar soft expression, albeit one tinged with sadness. The softness evaporated into awkwardness on seeing that she had his attention.

Robin came up behind them and smiled at everyone. “Come in, before the rain gets in.” He said, stepping back to let them past. Emma stepped inside and Killian followed, moving as if every step was taking all of his energy, grunting as he did so, delighting in Roland’s appreciative giggles. “We were just waiting on you to get here so this little monster -” Robin nodded to Roland, who snarled on cue “- could say goodnight.”

Roland put his hands on Killian’s shoulders and pushed back in his arms to look him in the eye. “I a big, scary monster Killian! Raaaaahhhh!”

Killian always forgot how cute Roland was until he was around him. He had to fight back the urge to smile indulgently and instead played along, pretending to drop him with shock, but catching him immediately. The boy shrieked and giggled. “Againagainagain!”

“Big, scary monster, I think your daddy just said it’s time for you to go to bed.”

“I get to say goodnight first!” Roland whined.

“Oh alright then, goodnight Roland,” Killian said and pulled him in for a tight hug.

“Goodnight!” With that Roland wriggled his way out of Killian’s arms and ran to Regina grabbing her hand and dragging her to the stairs. “I go bed now.”

“Make yourself at home while we get him off,” Robin said then rushed after the pair. The sound of roaring, giggling and thumping gradually faded as the trio went upstairs.

“So, that was Roland,” he said with a laugh, turning to Emma.

She appeared to be trying to vanish into the wall. He chuckled. “Everything alright, love?” he said. At times Emma reminded him so much of the little mermaid, only just discovering how to walk on land, a ball of awkwardness and charm.

“I'm getting the nice floor all wet,” she mumbled apologetically, “with the rain shield thing.” She held up the umbrella, which dripped pathetically around her feet.

Smiling, he took it from her and placed it in the umbrella stand by the door. “Unfortunate side effect of the Great British Summer. Even the best I've ever known comes with a large side order of rain. Admittedly it's usually less.. apocalyptic, but honestly, no harm done.” As he talked, he kicked off his shoes and placed them neatly by the door. Once she had followed suit, he guided her up the stairs to their grand living room.

“It's very… pale,” she said, scrutinising the white walls, beige rug on the wooden floor and delicate green sofas with an anxious edge to her voice. Everything was tasteful, clearly expensive and while the cosy throws on the sofas and Roland’s framed family portrait on the wall, marked this as a family room, it was impossibly spotless. In short, it looked like a recipe for disaster for someone who at times seemed incapable of controlling her limbs.

“Don't worry, they only serve clear beverages in this room, can't have red wine sullying the overpriced carpet,” he said with a wink. “Places around here come in a variety of shades of beige as standard. I believe it creates the illusion of space so that the wealthy can tell themselves they really do live in the palaces their obscene money should have been able to buy. At least this place looks like real people actually live here and not like Louis XVI’s interior decorator attempts minimalism, which I believe is the style du jour.”

“I'm sure you meant that as an insult to the rich, but it comes off kind of bitter. Not jealous are you?”

“Of the rich as a species? Nah. Of Robin and Regina? Absolutely, but then I don't deserve all that they have.” He tried to downplay it, but his self loathing seeped out in his words and he studied the carpet to avoid seeing Emma's reaction.

“You don't really believe that do you? You deserve a family.” His eyes leapt to hers in surprise, anyone else would've thought he meant the house, or the money, but Emma? She really understood him, and she knew what he meant at once. “Thing is, I'm pretty sure you've got one. There's a little boy upstairs who clearly adores you.”

He scratched at his ear awkwardly. “Aye, Roland's something special,” he said and would've added a self deprecating comment, but that look was back on Emma's face, the one that suggested the way he talked about Roland made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

“Have you known them long?”

“I met Robin at uni, we were in halls together -” he caught Emma's look of confusion “- we lived together in university accommodation - he was the first person I met, actually - so I've known him for, bloody hell, just over half my life now. We were always close, but when he lost his first wife, Marian, Roland's mother, it brought us closer together. He met Regina at a support group for people who have lost their partners and it wasn't long before they were married.”

“They both lost loved ones?”

“And found each other. Meanwhile I lost Milah and my hand and am in the process of destroying the world.” He could feel the bitterness in his words and didn't want to examine that further. Or think about how he found Emma, not when he didn't get to keep her, so he barreled on. “I didn't meet Regina until she was dating Robin, but as I understand it, she fell in love with a man who worked for her family and her mother had disapproved, which I think was equal parts snobbery and genuine concern that she was being taken advantage of by an older man. She had distanced herself from her family and her wealthy friends who didn't understand that Daniel was genuinely in love with her, so when he died of a sudden heart she was left alone. Meeting Robin has also helped her to reconcile with her mother. He’s from a far more respectable family, and Marian was a Lady, so he's got the appropriate connections.”

“Sounds a little cynical.”

He shrugged. “Cora may mean well, but she also cares a lot for appearances. She wants Regina to be happy - as long as it's with a suitable match.”

“You're on first name terms with Regina's mother?”

He flushed a little, really not wanting to explain that while he'd known Regina for just three years, his association with her mother went back much further, to when his bitter and angry younger self thought nothing of consequences in his quest to bring Gold to justice. If he had to seduce a high ranking police officer to get it, he would. (And if said police officer was a gorgeous woman, all the better for him.) Emma’s eyes narrowed at him and she cocked her head thoughtfully, seeming to read what he wasn’t telling her in his eyes.

“Hey, Regina says we can go down for food now, if you’re ready.” Robin leaned into the room to deliver his message, and Killian sent up a silent prayer of thanks.

“Sure, let’s go, Swan,” he said turning to his old friend and ushering Emma out of the living room and away from the difficult conversation.

***

The meal was a great one - Killian always loved Regina’s cooking, and today was no exception. She’d cooked her speciality, lasagne, with a side salad. They’d long since finished her homemade summer fruit pavlova ice cream, which she’d brushed off as “something I just threw together”, although her delighted grin made it clear that she appreciated the recognition of her culinary skills. Now they were sipping glasses of rum and talking about everything and nothing.

The dining room was lit by candlelight, both on the table and in the unused fireplace, the soft light of the lamps on the mantelpiece and the glow of the street lights shining through the window. Killian and Emma sat at one side of the dinner table, Regina and Robin in the other. Killian had pushed his chair back and was lounging in it, one foot rested up on the opposite knee. He was quiet, smiling at Emma as she threw her head back and laughed at Robin’s recounting of a story from their unidays. She seemed relaxed, content and what is more, he felt the same. It was getting harder and harder to remind himself that he had to let her go. The target Gold had placed on her back seemed somehow unreal compared to this happiness.

A loud crash of thunder rang out. There was a pause as they all looked at each other, startled by the noise. They were on the verge of collapsing into giggles at the sudden tension broke when there was a flash of lightning and Regina vanished.

In her place sat the Evil Queen.

Killian had never met the woman, but that much was clear. She had Regina’s face, but that’s where the similarity ended.

Her hair was piled on top of her head in a sweeping updo, except for a few artfully placed strands that draped along her forehead to frame her face. She wore a reptilian leather jacket, with large puffy shoulders and an oversized collar that was turned up. It was fastened just below her breasts, creating a plunging neckline that accented her cleavage and highlighted that she only wore a lacy push up bra underneath. The look was completed with an ostentatious pendant necklace with a large black diamond at the centre and multiple strands of black crystal beads lying along her collarbone and dripping below the pendant to point down to her considerable assets.

Regina wouldn’t be seen dead in something this over the top.

Killian’s eyes darted unthinkingly towards Emma, who had momentarily frozen in fear. Gone was the wide easy smile that overtook her whole face, and instead she radiated pure dread.

Regina’s lip curled. “You!” she growled at Emma. She twisted her right hand and produced a fireball.

The reaction was instantaneous - all three friends leapt to their feet, but Killian and Robin could only watch, powerless to help. Emma, however, immediately raised her hands before her and magic flowed from them. One hand created a shield around the men, the other pointed to the queen. It extinguished the fireball, but stoked Regina’s ire. She growled and raised her own hands. Emma had anticipated her. She used her brilliant white magic like a rope, twisting it around the hissing witch.

The Evil Queen twitched and twisted. She spat and snarled. But nothing could free her.

Killian was overcome with admiration for Emma. She looked so bold and powerful, easily restraining the villain. He looked back to the Evil Queen, and she was Regina once more.

Emma startled and her magical restraints and shield evaporated at once.

Regina looked around, pale and shaking. “What happened? I was in -” she swallowed hard - “I was in a dungeon.” She broke off into sobs and Robin wrapped his arms around his wife, who curled into his chest at once.

Killian stared before him, his eyes unseeing, thoughts racing. What if Regina had been stuck in that awful place? What if they had been stuck with the Evil Queen forever? What if it happened again, when Emma wasn’t around to help and Robin and Roland were -?

Bile rose in his throat at the thought of anything bad happening to the boy. He had never hated himself more. He knew that terrible things were happening, but so long as they happened to nameless, faceless strangers he could forget about it and carry on in a fantasy where Emma belonged with him. What was the world’s suffering compared to his own happiness? And now, he had to face the truth: his selfishness was causing innocent people pain and suffering, and he had to do all that he could to make it stop.

“Who are you and what did you do to my wife?” Robin’s words snapped him out of his self-flagellation. Regina still had her face buried into Robin’s chest and he had his arms wrapped around her protectively. He was glaring at Emma, his face cold and hard. “I invited you into my home and you -”

“I didn’t! I swear, I didn’t! It wasn’t me!” Emma cried helplessly, tears running down her face. Killian pulled her into his side with his prosthetic.

“This isn’t Emma’s fault,” he said evenly. “It’s mine.”

His friends both looked around to him, alarmed. Emma continued to mutter “I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t…” to herself. His jaw ticked and his eyes watered as he realised that it was time for him to come clean about everything that had he had done.

“I think we should sit down. I’m sorry, I’ve let everyone down.”

***

When everyone was settled, Emma much calmer at last, but still curled in on herself, her head buried in her hands. Regina and Robin were looking at him expectantly, their hands on the table in front of them grasped together so tightly that their knuckles were white.

“You know what losing Milah did to me - and who caused her death - I let you all think that I stopped pursuing Gold, but the truth is that I just switched tactics.” He stared at his hands, the real and the prosthetic, knowing that if he met his friends’ eyes he wouldn’t be able to continue. “My studies led me to believe that time travel might be a possibility -” Regina gasped - “so I have been working on a time machine with the intention of going back to save Milah and murder Gold.”

“Fuck,” Robin breathed.

Still Killian didn’t look at him. He needed to let them know everything. He wet his lips, and felt himself trembling all over.

“Gold has long loved messing with me. His latest play was to get the uni to withdraw my funding at the end of the academic year.”

“He can’t do that!” Robin yelled indignantly.

Were he in his right mind, Killian would’ve appreciated the show of support even in the midst of his terrible confession, but he was stuck on auto pilot, unburdening his soul, and he couldn’t be stopped.

“I knew that my time machine was unstable, but I was desperate.” He felt goosebumps spread across his skin, his body tingling and the trembling increased. He tried to shut down the pain and talk. “So I tried to use it and it - well, the simplest way that I can put it is that it’s caused a kind of parallel universe to interact with ours. Emma here is Princess Emma from another realm, my machine brought her here. I brought the dragon here. All the people disappearing, all the statues coming to life, all the monsters that we’re seeing. They’re all here because I couldn’t let go of Milah. Because I didn’t want her to be dead. I’ve ruined so many lives and I haven’t - I couldn’t - I -” a lump swelled in his throat, his anger rising - “I failed her. I failed you all.”

He stopped speaking, giving into the overwhelming need to cry. He heard the scraping of a chair and a minute later, he was pulled roughly into Robin’s arms. “I’m so sorry, Killian.”

He gulped in a breath and pushed back from him, staring at him through eyes blurred with tears. “What? I - what?!”

“I wish that I had been more supportive when you lost Milah. You had so much to cope with, losing her and adjusting to life with a disability all at once. I worry that we rushed you into feeling better, because we just wanted you to be ok. It’s only when I lost Marian that I worried that we pushed you too hard. I can see now that we did.” Killian gaped at his friend who shook his head sadly. “I never should’ve expected you to be happy so soon when you had gone through so much. I’m sorry.”

Killian felt numb with shock, tingling with surprise. How could Robin be so good as to blame himself for Killian’s mess?

“I’m a grown man. I should have known better.”

“Yes you should,” cut in Regina. “You’re both idiots but you are both responsible for your own dumb mistakes. I love you both but if you’re quite finished with all the manly bonding, we need to figure out how to deal with what’s happening now.”

Killian laughed, stunned by Regina’s matter of fact attitude to everything.

“Now, Emma -” Regina turned to her - “I mean, Your Highness.”

“Oh you don’t have to -” Emma demurred.

“Nonsense, you’re a princess, I’ll address you properly, my mother would be horrified if I did any less. This person from your realm who took my place?”

“The Evil Queen.”

“Yes, her. Is my family safe if she returns?”

Emma drew her breath in sharply, and looked at Regina thoughtfully, before shaking her head. “No.”

“Killian -” Regina turned to him - “can you guarantee that I won’t swap places with my evil counterpart again?”

Killian wished he could give her hope, but he knew Regina well enough to tell it to her straight. “We’re close to a solution, but, no, I can’t.”

She nodded sadly and took a deep breath. “In that case, I must leave, immediately.”

“Regina, at least stay to say goodbye to Roland!” Robin pleaded, rushing to her side and taking her hands in his.

“It’s because of Roland that I can’t. I can’t put him in danger, I love him - and you - too much for that.” Her eyes shone with tears and Robin nodded sadly. “I’ll be at the Ritz, I’ll send for some things tomorrow.” She looked to Killian. “Fix this so that I can come home.” She gave Robin a tender kiss and left the room, pulling her phone from her pocket and calling for a car.

Killian stood in shock, he had torn apart the lives of some of his dearest friends and they treated him with nothing but compassion. Compassion that he was sure he did not deserve.

“Do you want us to stay?” he asked Robin tentatively, scrutinising the man who stood staring at the door after his wife looking crestfallen.

“Huh?” Robin whirled around to look at him. “Oh, no. No. Go home and get some rest. Then wake up tomorrow and work your ass off to bring her back to me, you got that?”

“Aye aye, captain,” Killian said, saluting his friend. He quickly ordered an uber, then tugged Emma towards the door. “Come on, Emma, let’s get out of here.”

Before he could leave the room, Robin seized him and pulled him into another hug. As they parted, Robin pressed a business card into his hand. “When this is all over, you call him,” he said, nodding to the card. “We’ll pay. Don’t argue with me, you’re not ok, and we’re going to help you get better. And I have a feeling that you’re going to have to face more loss before all this is over.” Robin’s eyes flicked to Emma, before looking back at him with a sad smile. “He helped me to come to terms with losing Marian. We’ll talk soon, OK?”

Killian stared down at the card in his hands: Archibald Hopper, Psychotherapist. Specialist Bereavement Counselling. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve such good friends in his life, but if they could forgive him, it didn’t matter whether he could forgive himself. Right now, he had to fix reality and save their world.

I hope you all like George - he’s my favourite :D

#csbb #cs ff #captain swan #ouat ff #cs fic #katie dub writes #tpowc

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