#music never came to me. I can’t hear the tone of my own voice most of the time. I DID study music and take mystic classes as a teen | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yacinthemorning · 10 months ago

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Birdsongs

Chapter 4

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Summary: The Life Pilgrimage is the biggest music festival of the century, set to take place all across the continent. Small-time rock band, GIST, and the up-and-coming alternative band, Empire, are both lucky to be among the hundreds set to make appearances, but there's just one problem. Neither can afford the travel expenses on their own. For better or worse, they're stuck with each other for the next five weeks as they try to make their dreams come true.

And, perhaps, among the chaos and music, two unsuspecting souls find one another...

Ships: Jimmy/Tango (slow burn romantic), Joel/Lizzie (romantic), Jimmy & Scott (platonic)

Warnings: Alcohol, drugs, anxiety attack, public performance, singing

As it turned out, Jimmy and Tango were, in fact, especially bad at putting up a tent.

“Have you never set one up?” Tango asked in a huff while his companion detangled him from the collapsed structure.

Jimmy managed to finally yank it over his head, coming face to face with Tango as he shook his head. “No, the two times I ever went camping Scott set it up for me. Have you never…?”

“I’mma be honest with you, Jimbo.” He was interrupted by a grunt as he pushed himself up onto his feet. “The closest to camping I’ve ever done is when I lived outa my car for two weeks in college, and a couple tailgate parties.”

“You were homeless?” Jimmy seemed genuinely distressed, as if it weren’t over a decade ago.

To that, though, Tango had to cringe as the memory came back to him. He wavered his hand. “Well, kinda? Me and our old bandmate sorta got kicked out of the dorms until they could fix the damage we caused. Honestly, kinda amazed they let us back in.”

“What? What did you do?”

“I’ll spare you the details and leave it at the fact that homemade rocket fuel is illegal for a reason.”

Jimmy choked, then sputtered. “What!” It wasn’t the first time Tango got that specific face from that story, and was the main reason he avoided recounting it. A face usually followed by- “I thought you were going to say you punched the drywall or something!” Yep. Right as expected.

“Yeah, well, that would be a normal and boring reason to get kicked out. And me and Zed? Couldn’t let that happen. That’s college for ya.”

“I can’t say that was my college experience…”

“That’s probably because you didn’t know enough engineering majors!” Tango swung his arm out with one of the poles, “I knew a group o’ guys whose final project was smithing a historically accurate bronze age sword from scratch. Most of the project was spent tryna spell manganese for their paper, sword was the easy part.”

There was a pause where Jimmy seemed to consider the statement before he sighed in amusement and laid out the tent. “C’mon, Rocketman, Sixth time’s the charm.”

The two absentmindedly worked, mostly just trying to find which end went where. It figures Skizz would pack some old military surplus tent from the Napoleonic Wars he found in the back of his attic instead of just buying a nice easy setup tent from Big Box or something. Tango held the tarp steady while Jimmy triple checked the poles were slotted in place, backing away like it was a wild animal. At this rate, with how much attitude it was giving them, it might as well be.

“So, you went to college?” Tango asked as he tied the tarp down to a joint.

Jimmy ducked past him to pick up another pole. “Is that surprising?” His tone turned defensive, and Tango could imagine his hackles rising.

“No! No… Well, kinda?” He quickly yanked the tarp back just as Jimmy set the pole into the ground. “With the band stuff.”

“Gosh, imagine making a living wage off being in a band!”

“Fair, fair.” Tango conceded, “So what was it for?”

“Well…” Jimmy’s voice wavered, mulling over something. “I was hoping to be a teacher, but it didn’t really pan out. Probably for the best, I hear the pay isn’t very good.”

Tango listened as he gathered his thoughts, batting around the last pole in the general direction of the rambling man. It tapped the back of his hand and instantly was gripped tight enough to yank out of Tango’s hand while Jimmy continued, absently waving it. “It really sucked, actually. The classes were super difficult, I had to retake them a bunch. And that was if I got the class, which I didn’t several times. Scott and Lizzie wanted to go full-time when we were putting our first real album together and I got outa there pretty quick.”

“At least you got the experience?” Was the only lame sentiment that came to Tango.

Jimmy shrugged, unbothered and with a bit of a smile on his face. “Just wasn’t meant to be, but it was a nice experience. I just hop around now, and Lizzie barely asks for rent so I don’t need much.” He dismissed, spoken like a true upper-middle class kid. All Tango could think was how much money it must have been repeating classes.

“I mean that’s probably for the best.” He said instead. “Pretty sure Impy and Skizz are dipping into their sick days for this trip.”

“Oh, goodness me.”

Something about the way Jimmy said those words made Tango bowl over laughing. Despite being younger than Tango, he sounded like an elderly man who just heard something scandalous over the phone. Was it the accent? It probably was. Jimmy shuffled a bit, seemingly unsure if he should laugh along or be offended. He instead focused on the tent, driving the last pole through the loop and into the ground. Both men backed up cautiously, watching and waiting for the tent to suddenly collapse in on itself or maybe spontaneously combust.

It did neither. Though it scooched about in the breeze a bit from not being spiked down, it was built about as proper as could be told. They looked at each other with pure relief which melted into excitement. “I’ll get the mattress!” Tango sprinted off, catching Jimmy picking up his guitar and crawling inside. It suddenly hit him, how cozy it was going to be with the three of them in there. Oh well, at least he got his cuddle buddy. More important than that, getting to sleep outside instead of on that awful table.

It wasn’t until several hours later, after dinner had long since served, with the air already smoky with whatever Skizz and Fwhip were smoking around back, and the two laid staring at the roof of the tent shoulder to shoulder, that they spoke again. Tango honestly thought Jimmy had already fallen asleep. Then he shifted, shoulder rolling into Tango’s to catch his attention.

“Once we’re done tomorrow, can I come watch you guys?”

Tango blinked, “You can watch whatever shows you want.”

“R-right.” Jimmy shifted away.

God, he knew exactly what to say, didn’t he? Tango stuttered for a moment. “I wanna watch you guys too, then.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Too late. I’m gonna.”

Jimmy laughed, then winced as his knee banged into his guitar case. He was a long fellow, unable to sleep in the tent without either bending or sticking his feet out the front. Despite that he took up such a small space, even with his guitar. It wouldn’t do, Tango decided. He shuffled over until there was enough of a gap between them to catch Jimmy’s attention, and patted the space. “C’mon, don’t be a stranger.”

“Oh, it’s fine-”

“Nope, get over here.”

“I have plenty of room!”

“You look like a sardine. C’mon, I’m not a big guy, you take the space.”

Jimmy’s eyes darted from him to the gap between them. With the space now open, however, cold air flooded from outside, sending a shiver through both. It quickly became reoccupied by the guitarist. A bit too quickly, as he overshot the gap and pressed himself right up against Tango. How accidental it was seemed up in the air, but either way he made no move to… well, move. “I can’t wait to get to somewhere warmer.” He muttered, pulling his sleeping bag up to his chin.

“I’m afraid it’s probably not gonna be much warmer at night anywhere.” Tango laughed. He settled into the new warmth, still too awake. Why didn’t he try fixing his sleep schedule before they left?

Jimmy was quiet for another moment, then whispered. “If I get tangled in the cords trying to do some stupid dance move I wasn’t supposed to and fall off the stage, you can’t laugh at me, okay?”

Tango snorted in an attempt not to laugh too loud, sending a gust across Jimmy’s bangs. “That’s specific. I’ll be in the front row, so if you go down so’m’I.”

“Nooo…” Jimmy groaned.

“Don’t worry, I’ll try catching you. I think you’d crush me before I do, though.”

“We aren’t a mosh pit type of band, Tango, you shouldn’t be getting crushed.”

“Well you can return the favour at our show, ‘cause I will stage dive and I will aim for you.”

“I change my mind.”

This time Tango couldn’t stop the laugh, which Jimmy joined in on. “Get some sleep, partner, we got songs to mess up and stages to fall off.”

“Jimmy move back, you’re too close to the edge of the stage.”

The cords at their feet were a pit of vipers snapping at his ankles as he tried to move back as his sister asked. His guitar weighed thrice as much that day, threatening to tear his shoulder out of its socket in its ongoing mission to shatter at his feet. The notes of their first song had danced right out of his mind, then the page Scott shoved in front of him. They floated above him, indecipherable from the shadows of the rafters. Joel tried to console him, but it amounted to claiming ignorance to his failure that was not nearly as comforting at Joel seemed to believe.

Everyone scurried around him while he tried his best to keep out of their way. His finger tapped anxiously against the remnant scraps of the poppy sticker, situated at the topmost corner where his hand naturally rested. A panic button. Jimmy wasn’t sure if it made a particular sound or if the tapping itself was so obvious. Either way, like clockwork ten seconds into the action, there was a hand on his shoulder. Scott’s bow dug into his neck as he rubbed comforting circles. They were just as much for Jimmy as they were for Scott, even if he would never show it. It all felt a little too anxious to call a good luck routine, but a routine it was, all the same.

“This is crowd’s small compared to what we’ll be seeing at other venues.” Scott rambled, making Jimmy all too aware there was no curtain to hide behind on the open-air stage. “Think of it as a warm up, a taste of what to expect for the rest of the pilgrimage.”

“Yeah.” He said, curt.

“We’re starting with pescatarian. The easiest guitar, ‘kay?”

If Jimmy weren’t terrified out of his mind he’d roll his eyes at Scott’s use of the song title from their disc jacket, rather than the one they’d all used long before Jimmy officially joined them. “’Kay.”

“Just follow my lead and we’ll be fine.” Scott tried to assure. It was, if only slightly.

Their conversation was interrupted by the crack of fireworks and whirl of blades. Everyone looked up into the sky, right to where a neon pink helicopter hovered. Jimmy could pinpoint from where in the crowds the uproar rippled out from. The few large projectors dotted beside each stage zoomed in. Out stepped Arianna Griande, her feathered coat going wild from the winds around it. Just behind her was her two favourite backup dancers. She waved to the crowd, and then she jumped.

There was a chorus of gasps and screams. Jimmy felt his own heart jump into his throat, despite knowing what was most certain to follow. As she plunged towards the ground the wings on her back burst open, becoming a parachute just as glitter canons went off below her. The crowd cheered louder than ever as her feet hit the main stage, the camera not bothering to follow her back up dancers as they, too, leapt after her.

She bowed, then threw her hands up, “Welcome, Pilgrims, to the first stage of our lives!”

Jimmy thought his eardrums might burst from the crowds cheers alone. Griande’s grin was impossibly wide, dancing across the stage as if touching the ground was passé. “And what a stage it is, is it not? Open, borderless, the sky’s the limit. Everyone take your first breath into this world!”

Despite the cheesiness, Jimmy found himself taking a deep breath along with several in the crowd.

She, too, took a breath, hand over her chest. “This was where I saw my first concert, the place where I was reborn into who I am today. I’m sure every one of us has that place. Can you see it in your mind? Let us take your spirit there as you let in the very first notes of our pilgrimage this weekend. Today, right now, every one of us is reborn!” Her hands went up, unable to contain her own excitement, and the crowds fed from her. No music had begun to play and they were already jumping about like popcorn.

The distant vibrations of the main stage thrummed through their blood. “It’s almost our time.” Joel announced from his seat. Scott released Jimmy’s shoulder to get in position. Their crowd was beginning to get riled up, hundreds of eyes watching them expectantly and cheering as Lizzie stepped forward to introduce them. Jimmy thought he might throw up.

A small commotion was happening in the horde just left of Jimmy. Fiery blond hair pushed past two folks, slamming into the railing just in front of the stage hard enough to nearly knock his red tinted glasses straight off. Tango struggled to recover, grimacing as he righted himself. His eyes met Jimmy’s and it turned into a beaming grin, hands outstretched in a catching motion. His fingers curled in. once, twice, thrice. Amusement bubbled up in Jimmy’s throat.

Behind him, Joel was snickering. Lizzie’s hands dropped to her keyboard and Scott had placed his fiddle to his shoulder. It was time to play. Tango settled down against the railing, cool as a cucumber as he tapped along to Joel setting the pace.

In all their years of playing, the first note had never come so easy Jimmy. He thinks it might not have even been the right one, with the side eye Scott sent him, but if it wasn’t it left his mind by the second note.

Lizzie and Scott were always in their own distant world when playing, and maybe for the first time Jimmy was there also. Every time he felt himself become too aware once more, felt the vipers tense against his sneakers, he glanced back over to Tango. The way his nail tapped against the metal rail, how his eyes never met Jimmy’s but seemed laser focused on his guitar, mouthing notes a quarter second after they played. If Jimmy tripped and fell he wasn’t sure Tango wouldn’t also collapse to the ground, despite his claims to catch Jimmy the night before.

The song slowed to its conclusion, the crowd already cheering and Jimmy already wondering how he could thank Tango for something that was all in Jimmy’s head. Scott seemed pleased, taking the mic from Lizzie to speak to the crowds and introduce their next song.

They slipped into some sort of groove, Jimmy nearly forgetting Tango was there as he watched his bandmates carefully. Scott led them again, then Lizzie in the third. It was a song she’d written a few years ago. To an onlooker maybe it sounded deep, profound even, about an endless, unreachable longing. Only her bandmates had to hold back their laughter, knowing full well it was about her breaking her VHS of The Little Mermaid.

It was the charm of her poetry, though. Jimmy wished he could see the world as overwhelmingly vibrant as her. He almost could, when he played her songs. Lights seemed brighter, grass greener, feedback from the speakers too loud, every note reverberating through his bones. At the same time, it was hard to remember where he even stood or where the sounds came from. How could he separate the faces in the crowd in front of him when he could feel every microscopic fault along his guitar strings? It was the sort of combination of hyper awareness and total obliviousness Lizzie always existed in. It decided what notes she chose and how she played them.

It was about something silly and replaceable, as had been done the day after she shared the song with them. But why shouldn’t she have been so distraught that she wrote an entire song before she remembered she could get a new copy? It broke because it was the thousandth time she’d shoved it a little too hard into the player after a terrible day.

It was the same as when they were teenagers, the first time he played something they’d created instead of out of a book. He’d never felt he understood his sister as well as he did then, while playing a song she wrote. Scott may have been the reason he started playing, but Lizzie had been what kept him playing back then, if only to play her songs.

If only in hopes it wouldn’t be such a one-way street someday.

I’ve gone and upset myself again. He huffed while Lizzie faded out the song. Escaping from Lizzie’s trance, his eyes settled back into the crowd. Whatever internal collapse just happened had thankfully not shown, as they went wild. No one cheered quite as loud as Tango, though it may just be due to familiarity that his voice stood out. Jimmy chest puffed up with pride. Why was he psyching himself out even when things were going well? He could worry about existential things in the privacy of the tent. Jimmy took a deep breath and waited eagerly for the next song to begin.

The last two went by in a blur. He knows Lizzie and Scott finished off with their duet, a showtune with no show, overly flashy and fun. It stuck out like a sore thumb, but that was the point according to them. Some visions Jimmy would simply never get, but it was always a fun last song to play.

“Thank you so much, everyone! We’ll see you again in the valley!” Lizzie announced as the rest of them shuffled off the stage as swiftly as possible.

Fwhip was waiting for them, barely containing his excitement with thinnest veneer of professionalism. As soon as Jimmy was in range it shattered, and Jimmy was dragged through into a hug. “You guys did amazing!” He squealed.

“Of course we did!” Lizzie said, attempting casualness. It did little to cover up her smile and the shine in her eyes. Her makeup had begun to bleed under the hot lights of the stage, rubbing off on her towel. “Goodness, though, I need a nice bath, I was sweating buckets before we even started.”

“You can go take a shower first, we’ll take care of everything.” Scott promised, wiping away his own running makeup. Jimmy was glad he’d only let them smear a bit of glitter across his cheeks. It would have been in a puddle on the stage before their first song.

Lizzie threw her case over her shoulder, gave her husband a kiss and the other two hugs. Jimmy shuffled his guitar around to give her room but she pulled him down into a bear grip that knocked it right back off his shoulder. “You did great today, Jimmy.” She whispered. Then she was off. “Don’t go to the food trucks without me!”

On her way out she paused, speaking into the crowd before continuing. It was Tango, now joined by Gem and Pearl, waiting for them all to finish packing up. “Great show, guys!” Gem beamed. The two bands had seen little of each other once they began to get ready, Empire going first for their earlier show. Now, an hour out from GIST’s performance, Gem dressed much more in line with Tango and Skizz’s punkish appearance. Though her accents were still bright, they were much harsher, and she’d undone her pigtails. Her makeup and jewellery still needed to be put on, but even without them she’d completely transformed.

“Were you here?” Jimmy asked, then clammed up as he realized how it sounded. Gem didn’t seem to notice, however.

“Yeah, though Tango ran off without us!” She teased, punching the man in the shoulder. He yelped, then shrugged. “There were so many tall people, Pearl had to pick me up at one point.”

The group chattered all the way back to the trailer, where Skizz awaited with an open bag of kettle corn. The next hour was peaceful. The two bands switched back and forth between GIST putting on their costumes and Empire removing them. Scott packed it all away, only having one show scheduled for the venue. They were free for the rest of the weekend from the mortification of performing, and Jimmy couldn’t be happier.

Impulse popped out of the trailer last, somehow still rocking the ‘dad at a barbeque’ look despite the makeup and piercings and leather. He was the last puzzle piece, and as soon as Gem got her pictures, they were off for final setup.

“They’re quite energetic for their age.” Scott commented.

Pearl shrugged. “They aren’t that old... And I’m pretty sure skizz took something while Impulse was in the bathroom.”

“Gods, speaking of, I think I’m about ready to die from stress.” Scott slid onto his feet only to lean against the trailer and put a dramatic hand to his forehead.

After a good chuckle Pearl also stood, pointing past the trailer. “There’s a band called HHH next door. I know the drummer. They always got good stuff.”

“Great, let’s go.”

They walked off with barely a wave to Jimmy, arm in arm. He raised an eyebrow that would never be seen, then shook his head. If they were going to ditch him for some weed he wasn’t going to wait around. He slung his guitar over his shoulder and went on a slow exploration for GIST’s stage.

The number of bands was nearly overwhelming. A psychedelic band that left Jimmy feeling like a boat in a storm was followed by a single guy with a metal mask shredding solo on the fanciest guitar Jimmy had ever seen. It wasn’t clear if he was playing an actual song or just showing off.

The first act he actually recognized was In the Littlewood, a ska punk band whose tape had wound up in Empire’s collection with a box of others bought for five bucks from a friend of a friend. It saw much more play than the rest in no small part thanks to the strange, complicated cords the lead guitarist pulled off. Or rather, usually pulled off and happily fumbled his way through the rest of the time. The same song he’d heard hundreds of times before was nearly unrecognizable at parts for how the band rebuilt the tune on the fly. It was a blasé attitude Jimmy had neither the skill nor the confidence to pull off.

Some noise-heavy act was just wrapping up as Jimmy found the stage GIST was to play on next. They’d gathered near the edge, half-listening to the previous band and half-prepared to set up the second they stepped off stage.

Tango waved him over. “We saved you a spot.” He explained as he oriented the taller right at the front. “Gotta be able to find you easy when I stage dive.”

“Wait, you aren’t actually going to jump, are you?” Jimmy warbled, eyes wide.

“Guess you’ll have to find out!”

This was going to end poorly.

Soon they were up on stage. Even before their set had started they roused a friendly atmosphere with casual conversation, contrasting greatly their appearance. Tango’s hair had been properly gelled and temporarily dyed to be much more vibrant like flames. He’d switched to a tank top under his vest that properly showed off the half-sleeve tattoo of... Well, Jimmy wasn’t actually quite sure what it was. It almost look like a maze, leading up to an icy castle. The other arm sported a much simpler tattoo that simply said ‘ZITS’. Impulse and Skizz sported matching ones in the same place. Below it was a GIST tattoo, smaller and bit more creatively scrawled, for which Gem also sported. Considering how much of a baby she could be, it was a surprise she agreed to get it.

Or maybe it wasn’t so surprising. The redhead had always been bubbly and outgoing, but Jimmy had never seen her quite as giddy as she was now, wavering between nerves and excitement. She bounced between her bandmates, checking one last time that they were all ready, before she snatched up the mic.

“Hey! How’s it going everyone!” Gem screamed loud enough the mic seemed redundant. The crowd burst with excitement, Jimmy nearly getting pushed over the railing by their zeal. Gem was giggling with absolute glee, bouncing on her heels from the reception. It was a motion Jimmy couldn’t help mirror. “Oh my god I can’t believe we’re actually here! How is everyone feeling? Are we ready for the biggest trip of our lives!?”

Jimmy cupped his mouth and shouted, joining in the collective approval. They were whispers next to Skizz’s battle cry. “Okay, okay! So-” Gem cut herself off with a squeal, red faced and shaking her free hand of the excess energy keeping her on her toes. “Sorry, Oh my god. Ah! I’m Gem, and these geezers-”

“Hey!” Tango shouted.

“Sorry, these big babies are Impulse, Skizz, and Tango, and together we’re the GIST and we’re here to rock your socks off!”

“Well, what if I’m not wearing socks, huh, Gemstone?” Skizz asked, which she responded to by blowing a raspberry. Jimmy laughed along with the crowd while Gem tried to keep them on track. Her face was already flushed by the time she announced their first song, the name of which Jimmy never caught through the uproar around him.

Tango was the one to lead, swiping the first note before Gem had stopped talking. It was a long beginning of instrumentals, one Jimmy suspected wasn’t originally so long. Gem, however, had her eyes trained on her guitar, still reeling from the excitement. Once the poor girl could breathe she stepped forward and the rest of the band immediately switched gears so naturally Jimmy felt himself physically swept up alongside them, his feet stumbling.

It’d been a long time since he’d witnessed such energy in a live performance. Nothing complicated, nothing ground-breaking, except when the wild assault of colour felt like it really was breaking the ground beneath his feet. GIST were truly purely hard rock, unencumbered by propriety. The actual lyrics completely slipped in one ear and out the other until the chorus burst forth and Gem was singing too loudly, “... And if you come to your senses, I’ve got a rocket ready to take us back to space!”

The music dropped, Impulse taking up the mic under a muffled hand while Tango and Gem combined the sound. A count down, Jimmy realized. It was ridiculous how closely it came to sounding like the real thing. When Skizz joined in to create a noise not like but similarly overwhelming to a rocket launching it sunk in that he never was supposed to hear the lyrics. Tango looked positively giddy at whatever strange orchestral storytelling they smashed together with their otherwise basic spread of instruments. No one of their parts was impressive on its own, but they blended into a singular mass Jimmy found difficult to pinpoint the individual parts within, even while watching strings being plucked. By the time the song lulled to its end Jimmy’s own heart had joined the cacophony.

A few people in the crowd could sing along to their lyrics. Jimmy joined them in the chorus, tripping up when Gem switched up one of the lines and giggling his way through the rest when Tango noticed and turned his nose up in mock smugness. He’d have to ask Pearl to borrow one of their discs so he could learn the lyrics for next time.

The rest of the songs felt like walking through a kaleidoscope. Nothing Jimmy hadn’t heard before, one was even a cover of a country song he’d heard Impulse playing in the van. Their lyrics were nothing to write home about, downright corny at points. They didn’t need to be, not with grins as wide as theirs. It was overwhelming.

Gem nearly jumped off the stage as the last song came to a close, her wildly styled hair flying all over. Tango’s hair, too, had started to lose its structure but he looked like he’d only just warmed up. It bled into the crowd cheering them on, which bled back into GIST. If there weren’t already another band waiting Jimmy had no doubt they would have been happy to play every song they’ve ever written until they collapsed from exhaustion. Alas, someone off stage sent a signal to them, and Gem was forced to wrap it up. Jimmy was surprised to find he was just as disappointed as GIST it had come to an end.

“That was amazing!” Jimmy said, intercepting the band as they escaped.

Pearl pushed past him to replace each of their water bottles for refilled ones. Tango snatched his up and immediately pressed it against Jimmy’s face, laughing as he jumped away. “You’re nearly as red as we are.”

“Well, it was a good show!” He pouted, then swiftly put behind him. “Are you playing again this weekend?”

Impulse replied, “Nah, I don’t think so. I think only main stage bands get to play multiple times most places.”

“Which means we’re gonna probably head out early so we can get an extra day to make it to the next destination.” Pearl declared.

“Whu- but Horsehead Farms doesn’t play until Sunday night!” Tango whined.

“You’ll be able to catch them at the other venues. Besides, Gem needs to rest.”

Jimmy blinked at the singer, who looked sheepish while Impulse rubbed her back. “I’m totally fine.” Her voice cracked painfully leading to a coughing fit. A roll of halls appeared in front of her, waved until she begrudgingly snatched them up.

“Glitter Girl has a bad habit of going all out, start to finish.” Tango explained, which got him a silly face from his bandmate.

“Like you’re any better.”

“My instrument ain’t my amazing voice!”

“Either way, we can’t have your voice shot if we gotta play again in a few days.” Pearl ended the argument, pushing between the two to take Gem away with Impulse. “I’ll go make some lemon tea. You guys should go have fun before we start packing up in the morning.”

Jimmy nodded and turned to Tango, hoping to ask the man to join him. He never got a chance. Tango hopped the railing and wrapped an arm around Jimmy’s neck, dragging him off without request.

They waded into the muddy crowds, Tango’s heavy boots splashing through the muck. The air was thick with the most pungent mixture of smokes and Jimmy was sure they were starting to get to him. At the intersection of stages they could all faintly rang over the crowds cheers. “Got anyone you wanna check out, partner?” Shouted Tango, barely audible despite no particular noise in the vicinity.

“I don’t even know who’s playing.” Jimmy admitted.

“Then I guess we follow the sound we like best.”

So that was what they did. A tune caught one of their ears. Jimmy wasn’t even sure which, only that they had stumbled off towards the open stage with more excitement than what they found warranted. It was probably a sign when a can tossed haphazardly over someone’s shoulder bounced off Tango’s head and smacked Jimmy in the face. Slipping in the mud onto their butts when a wave swept through the crowd was most certainly one. The singer was off key from nerves. Jimmy’s eyes stung from the dust and smoke. Halfway through the next mediocre song they realized the can had cut his nose. There was a ringing in his ears from standing too close to the speaker. He had to cover them when everyone started screaming at the start of a done-to-death cover. At one point Jimmy felt himself go red from second hand embarrassment when the singer tried to get the crowd to sing along to a song nobody knew.

It was the most fun he’d had in years.

The lounges and bars they’d near-exclusively spent the last five years in were a distant nightmare. When was the last time they went to a big concert instead of just catching the act after them?

They didn’t even wait for the goodbyes to end before they moved on to another stage. The main stage, it seemed. Griande was still going, dancing her heart out. Lizzie adored her glitter, but even she’d balk at Griande now. She was on to one of her pop-ier songs, a silly love song, but Griande could make anything sound like the most romantic lyrics you’d ever heard.

While singing along with the rest of the crowd he caught sight of Tango from the corner of his vision. It wasn’t his jam, Jimmy could have guessed that the moment he met the guy, but he was still swaying, a big grin on him. Jimmy bounced on his heels, singing along with renewed vigour.

“You’re gonna shoot your voice, there, partner.” Tango joked as the next song began.

Jimmy could hardly stop to reply, “It’s not like I need it, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“I dunno, you start sounding like me?”

“Stop it, no I won’t! You take that back!”

“Ouch.” But there was no real hurt in Tango’s voice. He slung an arm around Jimmy’s shoulder, tearing his gaze away from the stage and onto a water bottle Tango offered up. “At least oil the pipes.”

The water bottle was snatched up, even as Jimmy gave him a raised eyebrow. “I feel like there were better ways you could have put that.”

“Reasons I write lyrics as often as I sing ‘em.” He shrugged. “We can’t all be pretty little canaries like you.”

Jimmy choked mid gulp, laughter turning to pained coughs as water came back up his nose. Tango made the most ridiculously inhuman noise as he jumped back, not helping Jimmy at all in remembering how to breathe.

“Not those pipes!” Tango chastised, though he’d begun to laugh as well while he helped Jimmy wipe his face off.

“That was one of the lamest thing I’ve ever heard.” Jimmy gasped. His face had gone red for too many reasons to count.

They wandered towards the back of the crowd until they found a spot to sit in the grass. “But not the lamest? I guess I gotta try harder next time.”

That’s what he cared about? Jimmy covered his eyes and tried not to start laugh again. His throat and nose stung but he croaked out, “Where to next?”

#tangotek #jimmy solidarity #solidaritek #team rancher #rancher duo #trafficshipping #traffic series #hermitpires #fanfiction #fanfic #mcyt #modern au #alternate universe #hurt/comfort #'fluff #sharing a slice of cake

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jdgo51 · 9 months ago

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He Speaks Our Language

Today's inspiration comes from:

Mostly What God Does

by Savannah Guthrie

"The gatekeeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep listen to his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes on ahead of them, and his sheep follow him because they know his voice. But they will never follow a stranger; in fact, they will run away from him because they do not recognize a stranger’s voice." — John 10:3-5

"How do we hear and recognize God’s voice?

It’s one of the most important and challenging aspects of faith. Here, the Bible returns to one of its favorite metaphors.

God is the Shepherd; we are His sheep.

Tangent alert: Have you ever wondered why humans couldn’t have been a more impressive animal in these allegories? Perhaps a magnificent bird? Or how about a cheetah? Sheep aren’t exactly majestic. And they have a terrible reputation. For being dumb. Or blind. Or always getting lost. Or frightened by just about everything.

On the other hand, in this passage, the sheep are having a moment. They’re discerning — they know their caretaker’s voice and follow him. And they’re shrewd — they’re not fooled by an impostor.

They spot the counterfeit a mile away and wisely skedaddle.

Sheep — they’re just like us?

Maybe on our good days. It is incredibly hard to hear God’s voice in our whirring, mile-a-minute culture of commotion. The internet is loud. The news is loud. Our music is loud. Our kids are loud. Our problems are loud. Our distractions are loud.

And God is described as having “a still small voice” (1 Kings 19:12 NKJV). No wonder we miss so much.

When I had my first baby, I was amazed at something. Well, a lot of things: her little squeaks, her sweet sighs, her pretty rosebud lips. The astonishing, adult truck driver volume of her burps. But back to the subject. Somehow, even though she was only days old, she seemed to recognize my voice.

Newborns are fascinating, but let’s face it, they don’t do much. Some say the first month of life is really the tenth month of gestation; infants aren’t ready for the world but are just too darn big for the womb. (When I was pregnant with Charley — who came into the world early at nearly ten pounds — I was so enormous that my work colleagues said my belly entered the room thirty seconds before I did.)

God is the Shepherd; we are His sheep.

In those first weeks, newborns mostly sleep and cry and barely open their eyes. And even when they do, they can’t see much. But babies can hear — and much more than just the indistinct clang and clamor of the world. By the time they are born, many newborns know and recognize the sound of their parents’ voices. In Vale’s first few weeks, sometimes I swear I could see it happen: this tiny lump of flesh, barely days old, eyelids shut tight, reacting — stirring, shifting, eyes flickering — when my familiar voice entered the room.

Let’s underline the point. How could my little newborn seem to recognize her mother’s voice from the moment she entered the world? Because we had spent a lot of time together. We had been intimately connected. Inseparable — literally. She would know my voice anywhere.

And so it is with our relationship with God.

If we want to recognize God’s voice, an intimate connection is vital. Moments spent together, just logging time. We must do life with Him, like a baby does with Mom.

We can extend the metaphor even more (yay, let’s!). Think about someone you really know. Your spouse, your sibling, your parent. Not only do you recognize their voice but you also know their tone. You know their inflections. You know what they’re saying — even if they don’t come right out and say it. For example, when I ask my husband, “Would you want to put the kids down tonight?” I am really saying, “You should put the kids down tonight.” I am not really asking. He knows me so well that he knows what I mean.

(Luckily, God is not passive-aggressive.)

To be quiet enough to hear God’s voice, we need more than a quiet place; we need quiet in our spirits and our souls. We need to make space for Him, just being present to Him — hearts open, ears peeled.

And by the way, quietness is hard. Stillness is hard. This is not a prerequisite, yet another impossible threshold we have to cross before God will speak. But it sure makes it easier to hear Him when He does.

Excerpted with permission from Mostly What God Does by Savannah Guthrie, copyright Savannah Guthrie.

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astudyincontrasts · 2 years ago

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Partition

Silco x Fem!Assassin Reader NSFW

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @six-feet-sleep !!

Six asked for a birthday gift that was basically you wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid featuring Silco and a very brassy assassin in his employment. In a car. Two tops trying to top each other. (And yes, one of them does say the quiet part out loud lmao.)

No Y/N reader, dirty talk, angry sex, car sex, two tops trying to top each other, lots of sass, should be s/d but its d/d lmao, public-ish sex I suppose, bit of a power imbalance but don’t tell them that, some parts could be construed as dub con but trust me they are both into it.

“You had one job.”

“And you of all people ought to realize there’s a lot of moving parts to one job.” You shot back, rolling eyes at your own transparent reflection in the glass of the window, the undercity passing by outside the motorcar. “And if you don’t stop grousing and let me do my work I’ll accept one more job.”

A snap of your head over one shoulder brought his cold mismatched glare into focus and you bared teeth at him in a feral approximation of a smile. How many men liked to tell you to smile for them? Like they didn’t understand what it meant when a predator showed its teeth. At least Silco had never done that. Yet.

“You think you don’t have a lovely price on your head, oh newly minted Eye of Zaun?” You scoffed, flicked gazed up and down in him in a way that couldn’t fail to be translated as appraising and turned back to the window. He didn’t need to know this was your very first ride in a motorcar and you would rather be entranced with the feeling of motion not under your control, watch the world go by faster than you could run. “You’ve got a few people want you gone.”

There was a moment of tense silence in which you could hear the leather of the gloves he wore straining over his knuckles as his fist tightened.

“And I hope you know I would pay handsomely for their names. More handsomely to return the favor of their request.” The sound of his voice when he spoke through gritted teeth was music to your ears. Sure it was a perverse delight, pushing his buttons, but a girl had to get her jollies where she could.

He just sounded so... good, when frustrated. A timbre to his anger that was delicious in a way you didn’t care to interrogate too deeply. Just accepted it and then tried every which way to provoke it while still keeping your neck firmly attached to your shoulders.

“Mmn. We both know you can’t afford it.” Leaving your fascination with the window you turned in the seat beside him to offer him the full weight of your attention since he so obviously craved it. “Yet.”

Oh yes he smiled thinly, tightly, at that, teal eye narrowing as that horrorshow red just bore into you motionless.

“Let me do my one job and maybe you will, soon enough.”

He sat back at that, stared up at the ceiling (or was it roof?) of the motorcar in longsuffering impatience.

“Oh indeed? And do tell; when is soon enough? A year from now? Two?”

He rounded back on you, all that heat he kept balled up inside leaking at the seems, fire licking at the grates of the searing hot furnace. Suddenly too hot, he yanked those gloves off one finger at a time.

“You were employed because I had assurances you were the best. I’m starting to think your reputation came highly inflated. Not the least because you are without a doubt the most insufferable employee I’ve ever had the dubious joy of working with.”

“Oh but it is a joy, isn’t it?” You shot back, all sugar coated venom and a sharp grin to match. “I am the best and you know it. It’s hardly my fault you need to micromanage every tiny detail. You are the one impeding my work, not me.”

“Oh? I forgot its foolish to want things done on time.”

Teeth grit so hard you swore molars would crack as you leaned forward, grip of hands tightening on the plush velveteen edge of the bench seat of the motorcar.

“Oh?” You mimicked his dripping-with-derision tone and inflection. Perfect mynah bird and knew how to use it to best effect. Watched with pleasure as it drew him back slightly to practically hear his own voice out of your mouth, “I forgot its foolish to want things done right instead of rushed.”

He didn’t sputter at your flawless imitation, but it wasn’t too far off. Perhaps blustered was a better word, but then again he didn’t debase himself that far. Still, it gave you no end of delight to watch him gall.

“I..!”

“Uh, uh, uh...I...” You mocked him openly, and peeled one hand from its grip of the seat to push a finger into the oversized lapel of his ridiculous coat. Watched the rage absolutely come to a head. Any second now steam would start whistling out of those adorably large ears. “You want a heavily protected entire syndicate family dead and none of it traced to you. You think I can just, what? Drop from the ceiling and garrote them one by one in one night and that looks like natural causes or unfortunate accidents?”

One gloved hand came up, quick as a snake, you had to give him that, and simultaneously slapped the point of your finger away and grabbed your wrist. Fingers tightened until you could feel your bones grind together and in spite of yourself it made your mouth purse and had you hunching forward a bit against the delicious little spike of pain shooting up your arm.

“Treat me like an idiot one more time...”

“I’m the one being treated like an idiot here! You paid for my skills, bloody trust them already. Unless you’d rather reneg? You know the policy. No security deposit back. And then no other cleaner in this city will trust you to accept a contract. You’ll be stuck with your big knucklehead muscle and good luck doing things...how did you put it? Surreptitiously then.”

Chipped teeth bared and you knew you had him dead to rights, knew he knew it too. The agonizing tightness of his grip eased, slightly, but he still kept hold and jerked you forward right into his personal space. Of course he smelled like the citrus of lime cream slicking back that dark hair, expensive cologne with a base of cedarwood and layered over it all the spice of cigar like a stocked humidor. The rich ones always smelled so good, always had a fresh shower and the latest scents. At least his was subtle, not nostril searing or ostentatious.

“I swear to Zaun, if you do not stop insulting me I will-“

He cast about for consequences to assign to your actions and you smiled, though the curve of it faltered when you were struck with the sudden realization that he was not glaring into your eyes or even at your face in general. No, he was gazing quite steadfastly at your mouth. At how your tongue had darted out to wet your lip in anticipation of sassing him once more. The pupils of both the monstrous eye and the pretty colored teal one blown ever so slightly.

Oh that was interesting.

“Or you’ll what?” You taunted dryly, tone a bit less shrill and pitched lower than your previous haranguing. “Kiss me?”

Thin lips peeled back further from ruined teeth as he gave the wrist he held a little jerk.

“I was thinking more along the lines of throw you out of this vehicle at maximum speed and find someone who could finish the job.” He returned in a low growl.

“Really?” You reached forward with the hand he held by the wrist, grazed fingertips down his throat and watched with elated satisfaction as both those pupils dilated all the wider while he struggled to try to tear attention off the shape of your mouth and back to your eyes, failing each time after a few seconds. Down you stroked and caught hold of his silk tie, gave it a little tug of your own.

“You could, I suppose. But no one else you get will give you the same satisfaction as I can.” This was getting more and more fun. You’d thought bratting and irritating him to no end was the height of pleasure. Upstart gutter rat trencher just like yourself all high and mighty and too full of big words for his own good. No, this was even better. Now there were stakes.

“I’ve had more satisfaction from a five dollar blow than I’ve yet to get from your so-called professional work.” He spat back. Still had that grip on your arm though, still suffering your toying grip on his tie.

“Ohoho! I knew it! I knew you patronized the cheap sex houses. You’ll want to watch that in future, those are favorite hunting grounds for people like me. So easy to get your mark when both his guard and his pants are down.”

All the blood drained from his face at once and for a moment as he reached for the door you were certain you’d finally crossed that invisible line you’d been toying with. He was most assuredly reaching for the door handle and going to pitch you out onto the cobblestones.

Instead he hit a button hidden under the armrest ledge of the door and a metallic brass partition slid upwards between the spacious back seat and the cramped driver’s quarters up front, gears grinding until it locked in place, and blocked sight and probably most sound from one of those massive, muscled goons driving the car and the other crammed into the passenger seat beside him.

“I have never!” Ok now he was almost sputtering, drawing his face back to look affronted you’d even suggest he might darken the doorstep of a house of ill repute, let alone one of the cheap ones where you were as likely to be paying for the pleasure of catching the clap as you were for any kind of sexual gratification from the poor creatures that worked there.

“No? Then I suppose its not the memory of what a good time you had with Toothless Tilda the Wet Whistler that’s got you so excited.” Your gaze dropped to the indolent spread of his lean thighs and the obvious start of an erection straining against the placard of his pants. “So then... that must be for me, hm?”

Silco steadfastly ignored the strain in his pants that was currently the focal point of your delighted stare, chin lifting haughtily and good eye narrowing.

“I’d rather stick myself in a sausage grinder.” Still through his teeth, regardless of his attempt at a cool and collected affect. And the fact he just seemed to be completely incapable of letting go of his grip on you. Fully unconscious of how the blade of his thumb had stroked absently over the pulse point just above the thick black leather cuff bracelet you wore.

Your grin doubled in size as eyes flicked up from your admiration of his uncomfortable pants situation and you pulled on that tie you held, bringing him nose to impossibly sharp nose with you.

“You want to fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.” Free hand snaked forward and you curled fingers to drag the tease of short nails over the obvious line of his hard cock, both of you listening in the pin-drop silence that followed your insult to the light susurrus of the sound they made against fabric.

It was a moment of perfect stillness.

A scant second before the shit hit the fan.

Then you were both a whirl of furious motion, a perfectly evenly matched fight of strike and deflection, grab and shove, at each other’s throats like street mongrels; snarling and laughter and grunt and groan. A mad pull at each other and clothes. You feinted a lean in for a kiss and he snapped at your face like a shark before he dove for his own attempt and you jerked face aside, leaving him to land on your throat. He mauled it and you grabbed for his crotch again, hard palming squeeze that had him gasping half pain, half want.

The motorcar rocked with the effort of the tussle between you both and eventually he caught you, got both wrists in his hands and you on your knees between his thighs, glaring happy hatred up at him like a mad thing as he held your hands slightly aloft.

“Insolent, insufferable, aggravating little -”

“How badly did the person who bought you that thesaurus regret giving it to you?” You interrupted, thrilled to watch his face flood with heat as you cut him off yet again, “And was it immediate, or did you make them wait a day to wish for death instead of having to listen to you?”

Silco snarled and you made to jerk away whilst his anger distracted him, only to have him yank you back, twisting you in his grip so that you landed in his splayed lap, facing outward, arms crossed over yourself, pinned. Nothing for it but to writhe and listen to breath leave him as your bottom ground against his constrained cock.

His face shoved into your throat again, sharp blade of that nose a hard nudge behind one ear, at the hook of your jaw, his mouth a hot press, hard suckle and teeth digging into delicate flesh anytime you had the temerity to make a soft little grunt of pleasure when he hit a good spot or sucked just right over pulse point. Tongue rolled wet over the indents he left behind and you were wriggling.

Quick as you please his legs came together under you and then spread again, having hooked your knees up under his, spreading you over his splay of a lap. One hand released a wrist, content to keep using your arm he had crossed over your other to keep both pinned tight.

His free hand came sliding forward, slipped under the short hem of your dark skirt and caught a mercilessly tight grip of your inner thigh that had you squeak in spite of yourself. He kneaded at the tender flesh in his grip before letting that hand slide out down the length of your thigh toward your knee, startlingly slow caress you had to stop yourself from purring at.

“Filthy fuck. I knew it. What is it? You like being talked down to? Just wanna be a little man after all, huh?” Getting harder to keep up that domineering bratting at the warmth of those long fingers and how their touch tickled deliciously at the inside of your leg.

“If you don’t shut up I will find some permanent and unpleasant remedy for that smart tongue of yours.” He rasped against the nape of your neck, front of teeth pressed to delicate skin. “Think you’re so clever, don’t you?”

His hand came snapping back up your leg and buried itself under your skirt as his grip caught the shape of your cunt. And hard as your legs tried to reflexively close, his own kept them spread as his fingers cupped, slid against what you both now knew was sodden fabric, and it was your turn to have heat flood your face as he chuckled softly behind you, stroking the damp fabric into primed folds to ruin it further.

“Wanted so badly to act like this is one sided, didn’t you? That greedy cunt of yours is calling you a liar.” Elegant long fingers curled on the gusset of panties and in one swift jerk he’d torn them open, left them hanging off one thigh and fully destroyed.

You were a liar if you wanted to say the thrill of that roughness didn’t send you spinning, have heart hammering joy fit to break your ribcage. He flipped the front of your skirt up to bare your spread embarrassingly and fingers found you again, delved into silk slick glistening folds in a caress that was far gentler than it could have been, toying with your clit in little brushes and brief circles that had you arching back against him, head draped back over his shoulder as he released his grip on your other wrist and used the opportunity of your unwinding arms to slide his now free hand up under shirt, hand splayed over the soft outward arch of your stomach that the curve of your spine made, and fuck, you knew he could feel the soft, fluttered convulsion of muscle within that each toying pass of your clit earned. The sweet electric thrill of skin on vulnerable skin trailing lines of lovely fire across your abdomen.

“You want to keep lying, little pest?” Mouth found your ear, bit ticklish along it before his head dipped and he caught a hard, deep bite of the muscle that rose between shoulder and neck as his finger zeroed in on your clit and set your hips rolling as you whined. He released the bite just long enough to speak again. “Dripping cunt as if this is what I’m paying you for instead, and you want to tell me I look stupid?”

Mouth worked but words wouldn’t. He was so fucking good. None of the fumbling, messy, sticky gross pawing you’d suffered with boys in your youth or drunk bar conquests when you got desperate enough to want a quick roll. Your head lolled on his shoulder but that bite wouldn’t let you get far. Did let you turn head to nuzzle into that short-shorn hair over his ear, lick at the shell of his earlobe, hand opposite coming up to take a grip of the longer strands slicked back atop his head and scrape nails at the nape of his neck.

Felt the grumble in his chest reverberate against your back.

You almost whined when he left off the quick, precise, exquisite little circles of your clit and slid his fingers lower, vee’d them out to spread your folds and the hungry gape of your entrance between fore and ring finger. Middle digit dipping across, gathering the juicy wet you were practically drooling in tormenting passes as the open press of his other palm stroked slow upwards from navel to the curve of breasts.

The grip of his teeth released as he raised his hand and slid the sticky slick wet of his middle finger into his mouth to suck it clean with a soft hum of approval that had you sucking on your own lower lip as you watched him in profile.

“So much sweeter than all your bitterness would have someone believe.” That red eye rolled, fixed you out of its corner as he smiled cruelly. “Probably the only sweet thing about you, I’ll wager.”

Fucking bastard. You shoved off your lolling arch and lurched forward, determined to turn this situation to your favor, grab the upper hand and make him bow to you instead. He caught you too quickly, grabbed wrists once more and pinned them neatly behind your back as you struggled in a half crouch under the low roof of the motorcar, not enough space in front of you with nose nearly pressed to the elegantly bas relief etched brass partition to get free.

There was the pop of buttons and he hauled you backward again. Straight onto his cock.

Air caught a choking gasp in your throat as the hot stretch of him spread you unceremoniously and it was only how messily wet you were that allowed for the give that slid you down him and buried him to his hilt in the eager grasp of your cunt. And you sat there, mouth agape, eyes wide, looking fuck-dumb before anything had ever even begun. Sweet Janna, he was huge.

The bulge you’d ran fingers over and ground against had felt substantial but... you hadn’t fully realized. Just the stretch of him was enough to keep solar plexus in a taut clench that prevented breath from restarting, and when you felt the length of him twitch inside of you there was no helping how you rocked forward slightly, curled comma as a long, low moan finally escaped.

And he laughed behind you, the bastard. Tightened his grip on the wrists pinned at the small of your back and let you just sit there on his cock.

“Go on, pest. Fuck yourself. That seems to be what you’re good at with how you run that pretty mouth. Or maybe it’s fucking me? Sure seems that way with how you’re dragging your feet on your work.”

It had you grit teeth and glare coldly dead ahead. And not move an inch.

“Yeah, you like it that way don’t you? Me working my ass off while you just sit there being snide and bossy.” You spat back at him, refusing to rise to the rather delicious bait. Instead you straightened and clenched. That had him suck a breath and broke a dangerous, deadly grin across your face once more. And so you sat there, feeling yourself dripping down onto his balls as you squeezed and squeezed in slow waves that had him crushing your wrists in a desperate grasp as he stifled some absolutely wonderful noises behind you.

And then the motorcar hit a pothole or some kind of obstruction in the road and bounced you both.

The gasp that escaped each of you was simultaneous and the way you kicked the back of the driver’s seat under the partition was pure reflex, and hard.

“Boss?” The deep rumble of a voice from the front seat was exceedingly muffled in spite of how loud it must have been on the outside, “Everything ok?”

“YES!” A tandem shout from you both stopped any further queries before Silco raised his voice, nearly deafening your right ear.

“Lock! Take a right on Old Levy Road and stay on it!”

His grip on you flexed finger by finger and you felt a cold little sweat prickle on the nape of your neck and small of your back. Old Levy was one of the most ancient roads in the undercity, still covered in messy cobblestones that could turn a careless walker’s ankle. The car lurched right in a hard turn and you were done for.

Bouncing didn’t begin to describe the way the motorcar rattled along, jolting the pair of you in an erratic up and down that had you practically keening as you bobbled on his cock, impaled again and again and again in a motion you could not control or predict, driving him up into your belly hard. And sweet Janna, it felt divine. His grip relaxed, shifted to one hand to hold both wrists as he caught a grasp of one bouncing breast and thumbed over nipple until you were rocking antithesis to the jerking ride.

“There we are pest. Stop being so contrary.” He sucked a breath at one significant bounce. “Hnnm... aren’t you tight? If we didn’t have to answer for your delay I’d have the car just drive up and down this road all evening until I was sure you were used up and that tight little cunt was nothing but a sloppy mess. I think I’d love hearing you beg instead of mouth off for once.”

Silco’s hand fell to span your stomach once more pressing like he might feel himself from the outside buried and impaling within you with each new cobblestone. And then down again to find your clit. Didn’t have to do much, just hold in the right spot and you rubbed against fingers with each inevitable motion.

“You...you’d be the one begging before I would.” You shot back as teeth rattled and a stammer helped keep too much of moan from your voice. “I’d squeeze the cock right off you...”

Big words as you shimmed and jolted and bounced on him, not every motion the fault of cobblestones as you tried for length and depth, riding him hatefully hard, coming down crushingly and hoping he could feel it like a kick in the belly each time.

“Hateful little pest.” He groaned against your shoulder blade and made it sound like praise. All the fine buttons and clasps and ornaments of his ridiculous coat and that intricate waistcoat digging into your back and arms. His grasp was failing however, and you could practically feel the tension stringing through the tops of lean thighs you sat upon mirroring the wonderful taut clench building in the pit of your stomach. You pulled wrists free and braced hands on his knees to bounce hard, harder. Fuck, so good...lifting nearly off him each time only to come back down hard. Faster, more, his hands a grip on your hips until you landed hard on him and came undone, curling forward as every muscle convulsed a chorus of ecstatic release, leaving you clenching the girth of him in fitful hard flutters as he pulsed and growled out a breathless groan behind you. Glorious constellation brilliant and blinding spangled across the backs of your fluttering closed eyelids.

Hot flood in the pit of your belly that had you rock back against him bonelessly and thank god that damned old road came to an end on a far smoother surface.

He had arms wrapped around you and face buried in your neck as he twitched out the last of his orgasm within you. Keeping you close as hands smoothed up to cup the underside of breasts, down to slip along the insides of still quivering thighs. His mouth warm on your jaw, nudge of his nose against the hollow of your cheek and breath a fan over sweat-beaded skin.

“Don’t move, pest. Don’t move.” His voice gone ragged and panting in a way you hated to admit you liked almost as much as the way it sounded when you got him mad.

You did move, however, just to turn your head and were rewarded with him catching your mouth, cruelty he wanted to pour into the kiss softened with his own delicious release. Still, it was ravenous, nipping, tongue a roll and press against your own eager one.

He broke it to draw breath and again came that echo of his soft, mirthless laughter. Like he was so proud of himself.

Well, if he was smart he wouldn’t give you a next time to get the upper hand. Something told you he wasn’t going to be that clever. Something in the way he drug fingertips slowly across the line of your jaw, in the way he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and laid you spread back on the seat to clean you up before he did himself, yet left enough of a mess that you’d be sure to feel it dribbling down one thigh as you stood at the meeting later when you both finally arrived. In the way he pressed his mouth to the inside of your knee, terribly trusting that you wouldn’t take the ripe opportunity to further crack a few more of his teeth, and in how his thin smile quirked at its edges to watch you fight the stiffness in your gait later.

No, he was a prideful, hateful, hungry bastard and you’d get your chance soon enough, you knew it, to show him who was boss.

#happy birthday six!#Alexa play Beyoncé's Partition #silco #silco x reader #silco arcane x reader #arcane silco x reader #silco fic #arcane fic #silco drabble #mdni

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apocalypticgargoyle · 4 years ago

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𝙎𝙐𝘾𝙆 & 𝘽𝙇𝙊𝙒 ☆ 𝙨𝙖𝙥𝙣𝙖𝙥 𝙨𝙢𝙪𝙩

∘ request:

goddamn your writing is so good 🥵 any chance you’d be able to write something with sapnap where you’re both at a party and know each other through friends but not well and you’re both a bit tipsy and he just can’t control himself and drags you into a bathroom? kinda fluffy where there’s lots of kissing but also desperate and accidentally rough (because the idea of someone wanting me so much that they lose control is a major thing of mine)

∘ pairing: sapnap x fm!reader

∘ warnings: nsfw (18+), party scene, drinking, crude language

∘ links: ao3

∘ word count: ~2000

a/n: Thank you so much for the request! I literally have the exact same thing so i think we’re soulmates or something. I hope you enjoy!

For the duration of the day, you’d been waiting for this moment. Your hair tangling amongst itself as you danced to the music with a group of your friends was almost a baptism for you. No longer were you restricted into your business casual attire and socially acceptable behavior. Now you were free to forget your name and responsibilities as mashups of different genres of heavily bass boosted music pulsed in your ears.

The large house was swelling with people, melding together as if their lives depended on the superficial human connection the beat could bring them. Many of them you recognized from some of your lectures; it had been a day where your classmates had planned a party for someone’s birthday. You hated to admit it, but you didn’t know or care whose party it was, you were just happy to have an excuse not to study.

You’d already lost one of your rings and your clothes were sticking to your body from the layer of sweat glistening against your skin, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything. As cliché as it sounded, going to random college parties had equated to your own kind of religion. These senseless addresses were homes to a different kind of worship, but one you had quickly become devoted to. The smell of another girl’s perfume rubbing off on you and the nameless identity of the boy that offered you hard liquor were your new sacraments.

As the song died out, beginning a new string of beats to thunder around the room, you found yourself out of breath. You gestured to your friends that you were refilling your drink, but really you were in search of air that was a bit fresher. You wove through the heavy crowd, ending up in the kitchen and beelining for the fridge. There was a small group of boys standing around the keg, one of them filling his cup as they discussed something a few of them were getting heated about.

You tucked a cold water bottle against your side and grabbed a clean solo cup. As you got closer, you would hear what they were talking about. “I don’t know how you don’t remember that. It was like a big thing a few years ago?” One of them grumbled as his eyes narrowed at the liquid streaming into his cup.

“Sorry, Nick. I forgot they were selling kids on eBay. I honestly don’t see-” They continued on into overlapping ramblings that you couldn’t help but laugh at. One of them, that had been referred to as Nick, looked almost too familiar to you. Yet as you stood there, you couldn’t remember even if your life depended on it.

Nick’s eyes drifted to you as if just realizing you were standing there. “Sorry, do you refill?” He asked, mustering a somewhat shy smile. You snapped out of your train of thought, handing your cup to him.

“I didn’t mean to seem like a creepy, sorry,” you stated, sending him an awkward laugh. His lips parted in a smile. His dark hair was slightly ruffled, probably just from the weather earlier in the day. You weren’t sure if it was your slight buzz or the close proximity, but God, he looked good to you.

“No, I was hogging. It was my bad,” he answered. You brushed your hair off of your warm forehead and he looked up at you from what he was doing, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. “I think I know you from somewhere,” he mumbled before something clicked behind his eyes as he handed you your cup back. “Oh, you’re Clay’s friend, right? I’m his roommate, Nick.” At his words, your brain clouded with embarrassment as memories of him finally fled your brain.

You smirked slightly. “Oh! Yeah, sorry I didn’t recognize you. You look…” You paused for a second. Where were you going with this statement? Hotter? “Grown-up,” you wheezed, making him chuckle again. “- I mean, since freshman year English, I guess.”

He chewed the inside of his cheek, attempting not to grin wider. “Yeah, you look… grown-up too,” he offered, sending you a slight smirk. “It’s weird how close you and Dream are and I never see you around anymore,” he continued.

You chuckled a bit, wetting your lips. “Yeah, I told Clay I had a crush on you and he kicked me out,” you joshed, making him laugh. For as quiet as you remembered him being, you were shocked he was engaging with you in the way he was. Maybe it was just the atmosphere and the alcohol that had him loosened up. Whatever it was, you found yourself partnering with him in beer pong and spending most of the night at each other's side.

You sat closely to him on a couch in one of the several living rooms, your heads set close together as you listened to what he was saying over the music. “Hey, you too found each other,” a deep voice bounded, making you jump slightly, almost spilling your drink on Nick. Clay plopped down on the other side of you, wrapping his arm around the back of your section of couch to tug on Nick’s ear.

“Why didn’t you tell me Nick was a stud now?” you joked, slightly cringing about how bold you sounded. Nick chuckled at your words, swatting Clay’s hand away from him and taking another sip from his cup.

Clay setted further into the spot beside you. “You guys wanna play ‘suck and blow’?” He stated, more to the group of people around you guys. You furrowed your brows at him, almost wanting to roll your eyes at Clay’s blatant mission to set you and Nick up together. But who were you to avoid his attempts.

The card was passed successfully around the group, until it got to Clay, whose breath you could practically feel on the other side of the thick paper. You turned to give it to Nick but dropped it at the last second, making his lips press against yours. It was almost like he was expecting it because he was utterly calm at your action, nearing leaning in on his own accord. There were cat-calling noises made from the group as the kiss ended briefly. “Ope, looks like you guys are gonna have to leave the circle,” Clay stated with an almost sing-song tone in his voice. You were thankful that you had turned towards Clay enough that Nick couldn’t see your jokingly scornful look.

“Well, that’s just too bad. We were so good at this,” Nick chided as the two of you stood to leave. You ruffled Clay’s hair as the two of you left, following Nick into another room. “Would you want to… go somewhere quiet?” Nick asked, his eyes flashing to yours. Your eyebrow perked in his direction before you wordlessly slipped your hand into his.

You found yourself in the bathroom, Nick's hands settling on your hips as he pressed his lips against yours. You let out a sharp moan as he ground his hips against yours, yearning for more friction. Your fingers dug into his hair as his tongue slipped into your mouth, hungry for your taste. His breath was like a drug for you as he groaned into your mouth, moving against you.

His lips left your mouth but only to caress your jaw before settling against your neck, sucking on the skin with a slight sting. You tilted your head back, giving him more access to you before wrapping a leg around him, begging him to go further with you. He chuckled at your neediness, his warm breath fanning over your neck. He tugged the strap of your dress down your arm, pressing his lips against the newly exposed skin, grinding against you. The taste of cheap beer passed between the two of you.

One of his hands slipped beneath your dress to squeeze your ass, pulling you tighter against his jeans, encouraging you to ride his thigh. "I want you," he moaned unevenly in your ear, sending heat straight to your core. You wanted him to completely ruin you, to show you what was hiding beneath the surface of his reserved nice guy barrier.

You answered his words by attending to his zipper, slipping your hands into his jeans and stroking him against his boxers. A moan broke through his teeth, his lips crashing against yours as you egged him on. His erection grew stronger with each of your movements. You could tell he was becoming desperate to ravage you with each of his restrained breaths.

Your teeth dug into his bottom lip, your fingers pushing his pants to the ground as he pressed himself against you. He pushed your underwear aside, answering your silent pleas. Pressing his lips against your neck again, he drove himself into you, earning a blissed out moan from you. A breath of pleasure and relief escaped his chest at the feeling of you instantly tightening around him.

He thrusted into you, as if testing the waters as you moaned his name against his skin. One of your arms tightened around his shoulder as he held you in place, setting his pace. The mix of alcohol and pleasure you were feeling with each snap of his hips was sending your head reeling. He pushed his tongue into your mouth, fingers digging into your skin. You moaned against his lips, sending him to speed up his movements. A sense of roughness came out in him as he pounded into you harder, and you were eating it up. You fingers dug into his hair, pulling tightly to earn a groan from him.

Your hands slipped beneath his shirt, raking against his back, urging him to use you like a flashlight. "Fuck, you feel so good," he groaned, voice husky with some type of forced restraint as if he wouldn't let it come out evenly. You tightened around him, moving in what little space he'd given you to grind against him.

With that, he began to thrust into you harder, as if he was finally giving into whatever he was attempting to hold back. His teeth dug into your shoulder with each pulsing movement, driving himself deeper into you. Ungodly moans left your lips, only confirming his actions as he hungrily chased his high, dragging you with him.

His paces became less rhythmic and more sloppy as he gripped onto you, your fingers digging into his skin as you felt your orgasm was just within reach. You tightened your leg around him, your head swimming as he began to hit your sweet spot repeatedly. With a nearly choked out moan of his name, your body flushed with relief, your climax ripping through you. Nick succumbed to his own as if he'd been waiting for you, the two of you leaning against each other for support as you rode out your highs.

After you caught your breath, you reapplied a layer of lipstick, eyeing Nick through the reflection of the mirror as he stood behind you, straightened his clothes. "Let's not tell Clay about this, purely because he'll make it weird," you stated, turning and evening out his hoodie strings.

He chuckled slightly. "Oh, I agree completely. Don't tell Clay." His sly smirk nearly drew you in as you pressed your lips against his again, a promise that you'd definitely be seeing each other again.

#sapnap x reader #sapnap imagine #sapnap x y/n #sapnap smut #sapnap fanfic #mcyt imagine #mcyt fanfiction #mcyt x reader #mcyt smut

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writtenbyjenn · 3 years ago

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I Win (Miraak x Mage!Dragonborn!Reader)

Warnings: N/A Word Count: 1344

“We don’t have to do this. We don’t have to fight!” Miraak and Y/N circled one another at the apex of Apocrypha.

“Herma-Mora is tricking you! Haven’t you heard the whispers of the seekers? The flutters in the pages?”

He fell silent for a moment. Then shook his head, as to him, it didn’t matter anyways. “There is no escape; I will take your soul and make one myself!”

“Listen,” Y/N pleaded.

“If you keep up this blasphemous talk, Hermaeus Mora will kill you himself,” Miraak said.

“His plan is to kill you. You have caused him too much trouble, Miraak. You know this.”

The pair continued circling one another, each deftly doging each other’s shouts and blows.

“How do you know about his plan? How do you even have a plan for escape?” No one in Apocrypha could know more than him. He had been there for so long.

“You see, but you refuse to listen! The walls speak, the seekers whisper… You wish to defy Herma-Mora? Escape without either of our lives being lost,” Y/N said, narrowly dodging a bout of flame.

“Impossible. Hermaeus Mora won’t allow it,”

“He can’t harm us here,” Y/N stood still and looked upwards. Miraak’s eyes followed. The sky had become dark… No, rather, Hermaeus Mora lay just beyond the arena. He couldn’t enter. There was… a barrier?

“He sees I intend to stop you, but not in the way he imagined,” Y/N’s weapon was at their side. It would be impossibly easy to strike now and end them, but Miraak was intrigued.

“You’re a mage? What spell can hold back a daedric prince as powerful as him?” Miraak looked curiously over at the dragonborn sitting in front of him.

“Your time here has made you arrogant… There is always more to learn. And Apocrypha is the holder of all knowledge. I simply asked, and the walls opened for me, leading me to the spell I needed.”

“Now, we can make a plan,” the dragonborn sat down on the floor, the sky growing ever darker as Hermaeus Mora spread himself to almost completely cover the dome shaped barrier.

“No,” Miraak said involuntarily. He didn’t like this dragonborn. He didn’t like being outdone. “What happens when I am released? I will still take over Solstheim.”

“Then I will fight you. I will not hold back. I will destroy you,” Somehow, Miraak knew their words to be true. “But you deserve a chance. The right to be free. The right to choose your path.”

It was a simple plan, really, even though it would take much effort. The barrier would stay intact, and a simple illusion spell, to make it look as though they were still fighting. They would have some time before Hermaeus Mora realized the trick. After that, a much more complicated and tiring teleportation spell to get them far enough away to complete their escape.

Y/N nearly collapsed after teleporting them to a far flung corner of Apocrypha. Miraak didn’t hesitate to help them; his escape was much more important than his pride. Stumbling forward, the pair found what they were looking for- a black book. One that had been tampered with.

Miraak flung it open and felt a strange pull as he was taken back to the physical world.

The first thing he saw was blue. The sky. He hadn’t seen it in so long…

He was laying flat on his back, the ash of Solstheim cradling him. He took it all in; the smell of the wind, the ash in the air, the clouds lazily floating across the sky.

Beside him, Y/N stirred. He hadn’t even noticed them, let alone their exhaustion from the escape. They sat up, looking over at him, waiting for him to speak.

“Why did you save me? I can do anything now. I could turn on you in an instant...” He was free now. He had the choice. He no longer had to rely on the help of some silly little dragonborn who thought they could do anything.

“No one deserves that kind of punishment, to be trapped somewhere against their own will. I made it my duty to save everyone I could, so when I heard about you, I felt compelled to help.” Y/N stated flatly.

Miraak didn’t understand, but didn’t feel as though it was his place to question them. Why save everyone? Why waste effort on strangers and civilians. It confused him. He pushed it to the back of his mind as he stood up.

“What will you do now?” Y/N asked, standing beside him.

“I will follow you. I leave no debt unpaid, and assisting in my escape was no paltry matter,” Miraak stated. It was clear from his voice that he did not like this arrangement, but it was the only thing that Miraak could think of. The world had changed very drastically from when he last saw it; there was no way he could conquer it with his lack of information.

“Then how about we make a deal…” Y/N started, “I will share my knowledge with you, and in return you share yours with me. I know everything about today’s world, and you have information I find most interesting…”

“Oh? And what information is that?” Miraak asked.

“I am very interested in hearing about your magical techniques, and how they differ from today’s… Oh! I know the perfect place we can go. Somewhere we can talk freely with another dov…” Y/N began walking, Miraak trailing behind.

The entire journey from Solstheim to Skyrim and their long trek to the Throat of the World, Y/N recounted many things to Miraak. From the history he had missed, the magic they had learned and pioneered, and their journey as a dragonborn.

Miraak was content to listen. He took this time to take it all in, to learn and to contemplate. What would his life be now? Who was he, if not a man who conquered? Was following this dragonborn the correct course of action?

As time passed, he knew the answer. Ever since he was child, he was always looked at as though he was inhuman. But even though he hid behind his mask, Y/N always treated him as a person. Even after all he had done. He had never felt so… human.

At the same time, the dragon blood that ran through the pair was not forgotten as they trained together most evenings, sharpening their voices and improving their skills.

One such training session began, and this time the focus was hand to hand combat. Weapons strewn aside in the grass, the two grappled.

Being in a forest had its advantages and disadvantages, one of such came to light. A butterfly floated down between the pair, and landed itself on Miraak’s mask, right between his eyes. Y/N laughed, a musical tone Miraak rarely heard.

Miraak felt his chest jump. Quickly pushing this feeling aside, he launched forward, “Stop laughing!”

Y/N was taken down, hands pinned beside their head, but they didn’t seem to mind as they continued their laughing fit. Miraak felt his face flush. He was equally embarrassed and enamored by their laugh. He knew he had to shut them up, and his brain, rife with the feelings he had been stowing for months, sprung into action.

Quickly flicking his mask aside, Miraak pressed his lips to theirs. Y/N’s laughter was interrupted by a sound of surprise. Leaning in and pressing their face to his, Y/N relished the feel of his lips against their own.

“Hah! The first dragonborn wins again. You shouldn’t let your guard down like that,” Miraak knew he won the brawl, thanks to his bold move.

“Oh, shut up,” Y/N retorted, arms wrapping around his neck and pulling him closer for a sweet kiss.

The next thing he knew, Miraak was flat on his back.

“And actually, I win,” Y/N smiled sweetly and laughed again. Miraak lunged towards them once again.

(If you liked it please send me requests!!!)

#skyrim x reader #miraak x reader #skyrim #miraak

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drewexe · 3 years ago

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this is literally but a short blurb based on a random rather… interesting visual that i had with chan in my head a few nights back; read at your own risk, i’m not even sure how to describe this thing properly, it might not even make sense kinda (but yea, smut under the cut). oh and also no, i will not elaborate, thank you <3

You had not expected this when you walked into the studio today. In all honesty, an outcome like this was the last thing that you could have expected.

It was a pretty obvious fact that your boyfriend Chan, was one of the sweetest and most loving people out there. He always took care of you and never failed to make you feel more loved and appreciated than you would have ever imagined.

And sure, yes, you two had your moments when… well, you expressed your love in not so innocent ways… alright, yeah, you and Chan had slept together before. But even so… you had not expected this.

“What’s wrong, baby girl?” his voice rang next to your year, a teasing note in it. “You’re squirming quite a lot.”

It could have sounded cute. If you weren’t currently seated in his lap, your back pressed against his chest, legs spread apart and his fingers pressed down against quite a sensitive part of your body.

“You know, when I brought you lunch today,” you mumbled, a short gasp escaping you as his fingers rubbed over your clit, “this is not what I envisioned.”

“But this is more fun than lunch,” he pointed out. “Don’t you agree?”

You didn’t. At least not as his fingers teased along your folds, slowly making you more frustrated with every second. You fought back against bucking your hips into his touch, reluctant to let him know how much this was affecting you already.

“Come on, are you not gonna answer me?” Chan hummed, gently pushing just the tip of his finger in your hole. He pulled it out right as a quiet whimper escaped you. “I’d really like to hear you, okay?”

The question sounded rhetoric enough that you didn’t answer at first, instead just whimpering again. Apparently, that was a wrong assumption on your side as a disappointed tsk came from behind your back.

“You’re not very talkative today, are you? Do you not wanna talk to me?”

“No, I-” you spoke up, unsure what you were supposed to say. The chance was taken from you either way.

“That’s fine,” Chan hummed. “I’ll just get back to work. And you better keep quiet and not disturb me.”

“But-” you tried to argue, yet he shushed you quickly, rubbing your clit gently again.

“I said quiet. I know you can be a good girl for me.”

You bit your lips and nodded. You weren’t sure what would happen if you disobeyed. You chose not to, for now at least. That seemed to be good enough for him as he hummed in approval and reached over with his free hand for the mouse.

Soon enough, you could hear faint music from the headphones hanging around his neck. If you were not preoccupied with something else, you would have taken the moment to appreciate the fact that you could witness your boyfriend’s creative process. Unfortunately, his fingers had not forgotten their slow and teasing ministrations over your core, so obviously, you were a little bit distracted. And even more unfortunately, what he was doing was nowhere near enough for you.

“Channie-” you started out quietly and suddenly you felt a harsh pinch on your clit.

“Didn’t I say quiet?” he tsked in disappointment and you whimpered. “What is it?”

“I need more, Channie-” you said quickly, unsure how long did you have a pass to speak for.

“More, huh? A needy little thing, aren’t you?” he chuckled as the tip of one of his fingers brushed past your entrance gently. You nodded quickly, biting your lips to hold back from making a sound. “Look at you, I am barely touching you and you already can’t keep quiet. And you dare ask for more, hm?”

“Chan, please,” you gasped out.

“Fine then,” you felt his smirk in the tone of his voice, right before you felt one of his fingers push inside you. You couldn’t help but moan out loud and you felt him chuckling against your back. “When I asked you something, you were quiet, when I told you to be quiet, you can’t even think of holding your moans… Do you like being a brat?”

“I’m not trying to be a brat,” you mumbled, it wasn’t your fault that he seemed to be so moody today.

“You don’t?” he hummed, moving his finger slowly in and out of you. You whimpered and squirmed in his lap. “But you seem to like whimpering and moaning. And you do sound lovely doing it.”

You weren’t sure where he was going with that, your mind more focused on the second finger entering you now. Chan slowly picked up his speed, keeping quiet for a while as he seemed to go back to work. That, however, was short-lived as you let out another not-so-quiet moan.

“Such lovely sounds,” he hummed, rubbing your clit with his thumb as if to make you repeat it. Which you did. “Imagine if I were to record you. All those cute little whimpers, the pretty moans.”

“Please don’t do that,” you gasped out quickly and he chuckled softly, his fingers picking up their speed even more.

“Why not? I could use them to make a song just for you. Well, and me, of course.”

You felt a shiver run down your spine at the thought. Apparently, he noticed too as he chuckled quietly.

“You say no, but you seem quite excited,” he noted and you lowered your head a bit in embarrassment. “What if I started recording now? All those little moans you keep making, the whines and whimpers… then I’ll write the song, we’ll listen to it together so you can hear how beautiful you sound. Then I could include it in our next album. No one would know it’s you, just the two of us. But everyone would hear how good you sound when I make you feel good. And they will wonder who you are, but you’re only mine to know about.”

The more he spoke, the faster his fingers were moving. You weren’t even sure what he was talking about at this point, or where he was going with it. But the picture that he was drawing was somehow getting to you, making tension build up inside your body more and more.

A flick of his thumb against your clit had you moaning out loudly as you reached your high, your body shivering slightly from the intensity of your orgasm. It took you a while to get back to your senses and you were still gasping for breath when you turned to look at him.

“What the hell was that about?” you asked, a small smile curving your lips despite yourself.

“That, my love,” he grinned, “was just the beginning. Now it’s your job to return the favor.”

#stray kids imagines #stray kids smut #skz imagines #skz smut #bang chan imagines #bang chan smut #bangchan smut #stray kids hard hours #stray kids hard thoughts

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years ago

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Laisse tomber les filles 3

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape; size kink; age gap; manipulation; tags to be added as story progresses

This is a dark!fic and Lee Bodecker x (short) reader and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: You find yourself ostracized on campus by your shyness, but your reticence won’t deter an unwanted suitor.

Note: Lee’s slowly creepin’ and I hope you’re ready for it.

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

You slurped the last of your shake through the straw, the paper cup damp in your cold hands as the heater blew out hot air. The foamy dregs of the drink were overly sweet and made your cheeks twinge. Lee popped the lid off his cup and offered it and you slipped yours inside. He pulled the straw out and stacked the lids, squeezing both straws through and setting it on the seat beside him.

He stretched his arm over the leather, his hand just behind your head and you listened to the deep voice of the narrator recount the eerie words of HP Lovecraft. You fidgeted and looked at your watch. The sky was dark and the stars twinkled down ominously.

“Um,” you uttered, “I think... uh…”

He looked at you and his hand hovered close to your shoulder, “what is it, honey?”

“I think I should get home,” you finished.

“Oh, why’s that? You don’t got class tomorrow, do ya?”

“I don’t but… well, I’m tired,” you rubbed your neck and sat up so he couldn’t touch you, “I had an early morning.”

“Well, of course,” he retracted his arm and straightened up, he pulled the car into gear and slowly pressed down on the gas, “you should get to bed, little girl.”

You scowled at the venom in his last two words. He’d been nice but he had no right to patronize you. You hated that most. People thought because you were quiet they could just treat you like you were dull.

“I’m not… not a little girl,” you eked out.

“Ah, I didn’t mean nothing by it,” he said as he pulled out of the lot, “you are little though, ain’t ya?”

You felt a peculiar heat creep up your neck and cheeks. You were short but you’d met a few people smaller than you. People came in all shapes and sizes. You didn’t comment on his stomach or the wrinkles around his eyes. Yet, the humour in his voice kept you from rebuke.

“I guess, I…”

‘I don’t mean it as an insult, you see?” he chuckled, “kinda cute you can’t reach the floor.”

“Mmm,” you inhaled and pursed your lips. You pulled the collar of your pea coat closed and wiggled your foot nervously.

“I see,” he said, “you got your friends waitin’ on ya, huh? Yeah, young girl like you don’t wanna be hanging around an old man all night.”

“I didn’t say that,” you said.

“Hey, I’m not stupid, I was only bein’ nice,” he interrupted, “you looked lonely and I… I got carried away.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t…” you scrambled as he passed by the college entrance, “I was… I don’t know.”

“Well, you’re in such a hurry, honey, you can’t wait to be away from me,” he ranted, “actin’ all sweet and shy but you just like the rest of them.”

“What?” you grimaced and watched the buildings pass by, “no, I’m not. I…” you felt guilty as if you’d done something wrong. All you wanted was to go home and lay down, but it felt like a personal affront. “I… lied.”

“What?” he asked as your voice fizzled.

“I lied, sir,” you confessed, “I don’t have any friends. Not really, just… classmates.”

“Nah, that can’t be true,” he scoffed, “who wouldn’t wanna be friends with a pretty girl like you?”

“No, no, please, I… I’m sorry, I just want to go home, okay? I’m tired,” you cupped your cheek and slumped in defeat.

He was quiet for a moment as he drove along. He turned along the line of residences and streetlights flashed over his profile as he stared at the road. He flipped into park as he stopped in front of your building and nodded.

“Alright, I believe you,” he said at last, “I don’t wanna keep you up and I didn’t mean to get so upset. It's just, well, I like being with you.”

“It’s fine, thank you… for everything. The milkshake was good.”

“No, I mean it, it’s a pity no one else can see it,” he went on, “you’re real smart and nice. You got a pretty smile too when you show it, too.”

“Thank you,” you said quietly as you gripped the door handle, “that’s very kind. I should go--”

“Wait, wait,” he caught your arm, not tightly, but kept you from getting out as the door opened an inch, “can I come back? Next week, we’ll have another shake and listen to the show. I’m really curious what happens.”

“I don’t know, I… I have lots of work to do,” you looked at his large hand on your arm. He dropped it and wiped his palm on his brown pants.

“You bring your homework, honey, you can study and listen, I don’t mind,” he offered, “if you don’t want a shake, we can get some burgers and fries. Have a nice dinner?”

You smushed your lips together and thought. He hadn’t done anything bad enough to warrant that feeling in your gut. You were overthinking things just like you always did. Besides, he had to be almost fifty, he was just being friendly, he said it himself.

And what else did you have to do? You didn’t have any friends and it was too late to start making them.

“I… okay,” you said softly, “my book club ends at seven. It’s over at Clover Hall.”

“I’ll find you there then,” he smiled, “now go on, before I keep you out any later.”

You got out and scooped out your bag with you. You closed the door and headed up the path without looking back. You got to the door and focused on unlocking it. Your hands were shaking and your mind was reeling. You always lamented being little more than a fly on the wall but it was completely overwhelming to be noticed.

📚

You clacked away on the keys of your typewriter. Your dorm room was small and stuffy as dry heat rose from the dingy old radiator. You could hear your roommates in the kitchen as they gabbed and laughed loudly. You were jealous yet too intimidated to try and ingratiate yourself. You always just ended up in the corner as everyone else had fun.

Your assignment was to write a review of a primary resource borrowed from your visit to the archive. You carefully looked over the laminated manuscript between sentences. Your small radio played in the background and you couldn’t help but nod to the full tones of the jazzy music.

You were drawn from your entranced study by a knock at your door. It was unusual to be disturbed unless there were chores to dole out. You didn’t have time to wipe up their messes again. You got up and went to the door and opened it an inch.

“Hi,” you said meekly as Gina stood with a box in her hands.

“This is for you,” she held out the package, “it was down at the residence office.”

“Me?” you let the door fall open and took the box, “I don’t…” You looked it over but there was no address, only your name, “thank you.”

She left without another word and you nudged the door shut with your elbow as you turned. Your parents only sent you letters, they didn’t like to pay the pricy postage for a whole package. You put the box down on your single bed and peeled back the brown tape. The flaps came open and you peeked inside curiously.

You took out the skirt, a yellow plaid piece shorter than anything you’d ever owned. It was the new style found on the cover of Vogue. You put it aside and reach for the blouse, a pure white thing with bell sleeves. Lastly, a pair of knee high heels to top off the mod look.

There was an envelope amid it all, the note inside short and scribbled.

‘Saw this and thought of you, honey.’

You stared at the paper and folded it back up. It was a nice gesture but you couldn’t wear that. You couldn’t accept the gift either, it was too much. Every garment you owned was second-hand and you’d seen the prices of these clothes in the magazines.

And, you wondered as you packed the box and shoved it against the wall, why would the sheriff buy you all that? His friendliness made you uneasy. It was suffocating and yet, you could find no fault in someone being too generous.

You realised too, how little you knew about him. What if he had wife or even a family? What if he didn’t? What if he was only doing it to fill in some gap in his life? Maybe he was playing out some father-daughter relationship he never had.

Well, you could ask him next time you saw him. Or try to.

#lee bodecker #dark lee bodecker #dark!lee bodecker #lee bodecker x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #the devil all the time #laisse tomber les filles

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wkemeup · 4 years ago

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Eclipse

summary: When a mission leaves you empty and broken, Bucky is determined to heal the wounds that linger deeper than the cuts on the surface. pairing: bucky x reader word count: 8.4k warnings: canon level violence, hurt!reader, PTSD, dissociative episode, nightmares, a rapid switch from sweet/fluffy to pain, angst with a happy ending

An eclipse finds its home in the darkness Thriving as it suffocates the sun and shadows her light In its passage she lays in wait Waiting— for the moon to give way and grant her morning

Bucky thinks he’s found heaven when he lays with you under the cover of thin, linen sheets; the soft, white of the fabric touching over curves and edges of exposed bodies, peaks and dips, like snowcaps nestled upon the crest of mountaintops. Lying flushed with heat, hearts beating a little faster, breaths a little labored, Bucky reaches out and traces the lines of your face.

The tip of his finger brushes over your nose, slips down along your jaw, touches the sun kissed stream of light against your cheek as it seeps in through the sheet thrown over your heads. You giggle as he pulls you in for a kiss, chaste and sweet, his hand curling into the hairs at the nape of your neck and he tugs you closer. It’s the most beautiful sound in the world, the way you laugh to his lips, muffled in his kiss but still uncontained.

Hidden under sheets, shared breaths between you in your own little world, Bucky decides he will be content if he stays here forever.

“I won’t be gone long, you know,” you tell him as you press lightly on his chest, just enough to get draw his attention away from the trail of kisses along your cheekbone and down your jawline. He pouts playfully at you, but you soothe your hand along his shoulder, recognizing the shift in energy as his eyes flicker a shade of hesitancy. “I’ll can handle myself.”

“It’s not that,” he replies quietly, voice soft, barely a whisper, as his smile begins to fall. It’s subtle, but you notice.

“Then what?”

Bucky shrugs, swallowing back the anxiety that begins to pool deep into his stomach every time you leave on assignment. But he pushes out a smile, one you do not question, and he leans in to kiss the button of your nose.

“I’ll just miss you, is all.”

You grin and it lights up wide across your face. The cast of sunshine behind you as it filters in through the sheets tossed over your body drapes down like a halo, an illumination of an angel, and Bucky commits the image to memory. Stored to a safe place in the back of his mind for the dark nights alone in this room. He’ll find you those moments, even when you’re miles away.

“You’re a sap, Bucky Barnes,” you laugh, ruffling his hair as you toss the sheet up from over your faces and take in a deep breath of fresh air. It’s brighter in the room than you realized and you squint your eyes, tucking your face to the crook of Bucky’s neck to shield yourself from the sun.

“Only for you, sweetheart.” He tries to ignore the bright red flicker of the clock beside you as he crawls out from under the safety of the bedsheets, the fantasy fractured by the reminder of your impending assignment; four weeks in a classified location, entirely on your own.

A smile presses tight to his lips as you steal a glance back at him full of bright eyes and sunshine.

He does his best to swallow the anxiety though it churns like blades through his stomach.

***

Bucky paces back and forth in his room, stealing looks at his phone as it sits face up on the bedside table. He taps the screen every few seconds, as soon as it dares to fade to black, so he can see your face again; the picture of you laughing behind an ice cream bar melting down your hand. A shimmering red bow and mouse ears on the top of your head from your trip to Disney last spring. He can still smell the melted vanilla and hardened chocolate when he looks at it and he tries hard to focus on the memory, but he knows it’s an excuse to make sure he doesn’t miss your call.

Tap.

Still nothing.

You’ve been gone over a week now and though he does his best to busy himself with time spent sparring with Sam in the gym, running out along the lake behind the compound, cleaning the kitchen until the stench of bleach burns up to the floor above him, you’re still at the forefront of his mind.

He knows you’re safe. He knows that you can protect yourself and that you were capable of solo missions long before Bucky came crash-landing into your life, but it doesn’t stop him from worrying. It doesn’t stop the incessant twitching in his hands as he curls them to fists, doesn’t stop the frantic pacing and the wear he drives into the carpet, doesn’t stop the panic that skips the beat of his heart when it’s two minutes past check-in and you haven’t called.

“Stop it,” he grumbles to himself, “she’s fine. Stop worrying. She’s fine.”

Another glance back at the phone. Tap-tap on the screen until it lights up with your smile. Nothing.

Three minutes past check-in.

He has half a mind to track down Fury himself when suddenly, the phone rings.

A ringtone you’d changed early in your relationship - a synthetic, almost electric, instrumental of Can’t Take My Eyes Off You right when the music starts to pick up and the trumpets are blaring and it throws him straight into overdrive.

Bucky lunges it at, hands fumbling for the phone but it falls to the floor in his hurry. He hits his shoulder against the edge of the nightstand with a loud thump and collapses down to the carpet as the phone bounces down under the bed.

“God-fuckin’-- ugh!”

He grips tight to the phone by the chime of ‘I love you, baby!’ and quickly brings it to his ear. He’s out of breath but he stills himself, takes a moment before he says anything and he hopes his voice is calmer than the rush in his chest.

“Hi.”

You snicker on the other end of the line and he knows in an instant he’s been busted. “Thought I told you not to wait by the phone, Buck.”

“I wasn’t.” A full faced lie. He grimaces as it comes out.

“Sure, you weren’t,” you drawl, a laugh tucked sweetly into the hum of your voice.

Bucky can hear floorboards squeaking faintly through the speaker between your breaths. Old wood, the whistle of the wind in the distance; a motel built in the early sixties with poor insulation and cracking foundations. He wonders where you are or if the image of you pacing amongst faded shades of burnt orange and green curtains, of once brightly colored comforters and pealing wallpaper only exists in his imagination.

“You okay?” he asks first because he needs the confirmation. Despite hearing the even tones in your breath, the sweet laughter in your voice, he needs to hear you say it.

“Always am, honey,” you respond lightly and Bucky lets himself take in a deep breath before you add, “I miss you though. It’s awfully cold here and I could really use a super soldier to keep me warm.”

It makes him smile; the first one that pushes up into his cheeks without force since you left. God, he misses you.

“Don’t go calling Steve now, okay?” he teases, the anxiety draining from his body in gentle waves, cast out by the flow of ocean water through his bloodstream in the sound of your voice and the image of your smile as you tug your lower lip between your teeth.

“Never. I prefer my men one-armed and dangerous.”

Bucky laughs as he sinks down further onto the floor, the carpet rubbing against his tailbone though he doesn’t mind. He’s grinning, listening to the sound of your voice as you tell him about how much you’re craving popcorn and chocolate chip movie nights and he feels like you’re sitting right next to him. He can see the creases in your smile, the lines by your eyes, the faint markings of old scars on your skin. He hears your voice and it reminds him of home.

“It’s beautiful here, Buck,” you sigh and he wonders if you’re staring out a window to mountains or ocean or tundra. “I wish you could see it.”

“Where is ‘here’ again?”

You giggle and—God—it's the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard, even crackled and broken through the speakers of an old satellite phone miles away. “Nice try, baby.”

The timer on his watch starts to ding and his heart clenches.

“Time’s up, huh?” you whine playfully, but he can hear the disappointment in your voice. It’s never long enough, these three minutes that Steve allows for you, but he’ll take seconds if he can get them. Just long enough to calm his nerves, to give you the motivation to keep going on your own, without the possibility of the call being traced.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs, clenching at his hand. He brushes closed knuckles against his forehead, presses deep into his temples because he can already feel the pit in his stomach forming again. “Stay safe, alright? Come home to me.”

He pictures your smile, the soft edges and the curve of your lips.

“Always do, don’t I?”

You do. He knows this.

But his mind is cruel and it wonders when the day will come when you won’t.

***

“I’ll raise a Kit-Kat,” Bucky concedes nearly two weeks later with a tired huff, tossing a chocolate bar to the center of the table to accompany a handful of M&M’s and mini-Twix. It knocks over Natasha’s carefully constructed tower of Milkyways and she shoots him a warning glare.

To his right, Sam snickers under his breath, a laugh too confident for a man with a dwindling stash of chocolate in front of him to the mountain sitting beside Natasha. He hides his face behind the fan of cards, but Bucky can still see the crease in his brow, the pinch of lines together at the center that tell him Sam is bluffing. Natasha is as stone cold as he would expect and he has no interest in challenging her resolve, so he decides to weed out Wilson first.

“When’s your girl getting back, Barnes? Think you might need her around to console you after I obliterate your snack drawer,” Sam taunts, changing the subject abruptly. Another tell of his.

“End of the week, I think,” Bucky replies with a shrug, playing it off casually because he knows Sam is trying to throw him off his game.

“As if you aren't counting down the seconds.” Natasha scoffs, a smirk pushing at pursed lips.

“You're an absolute goner for her, you know that don’t you?” Sam says as he pushes a few more M&M’s to the center. Brightly colored pile at the center and he plops one from his own stash into his mouth.

Bucky, meanwhile, chews on the inside of his cheek, avoiding Sam’s wandering eyes because he knows it’s true. You’ve only been together a little under a year, but he’s spent twice that loving you from a careful distance, just out of fingertip’s reach until he’d come back from a mission with one too many bullet wounds in his body and he couldn’t take the tension between you anymore.

He could still picture the smile on your face as he told you, the way your eyes lit up and you jumped into his arms; IV drips and wires to machines and all. The press of warm lips to his cheek, his temples, his nose, his mouth. Sun streaming in through the window and casting a halo behind your hair.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Atta boy.” Sam nudges Bucky’s arm, grinning wildly.

They turn to Natasha as she nods in approval before setting her cards down on the table with the kind of look in her eyes that tells Bucky the game was over before it even began. Royal Flush.

“Not again!” Sam whines, slumping down into his chair.

“It’s starting to feel cruel playing with the two of you.” Natasha reaches into the center and gathers the mountain of chocolate to drag it towards her towering pile. She starts to unravel a mini-Twix, keeping a taunting eye on Sam as he glares back at her. The chocolate passes behind parted lips and she bites down with a contented hum.

Sam rolls his eyes. “You owe us drinks, ma’am.” He gestures to his empty glass.

Natasha smirks, conceding easily as she stands to grab their glasses. She turns to Bucky. “You want a refill, Barnes?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, sure.”

As Natasha makes her way back to the kitchen, Sam sneaks a few M&M’s from her pile and quickly plops them into his mouth with a cautious glance over his shoulder. Bucky begins to shuffle the cards and he can feel the burn of Sam’s stare even before he opens his mouth.

“What do you want, Wilson?”

“When’s Y/n coming back? For real.”

Bucky glances up. Sam’s arms are stretched out along the backs of the empty chairs beside him. He’s relaxed into his position, chewing on the stolen chocolates as he raises an eyebrow.

“End of the week... like I said.”

Sam leans in closer. “That a question?”

“No,” Bucky retorts shortly, though Sam clearly isn’t buying it. He exhales a tense breath as he bridges the deck. “She’s supposed to call tonight. Longest stretch without a checkpoint since she left.”

Sam nods. “What about the three minute calls?”

“Last one was four days ago. Same day she checked in with Fury.”

“You worried?”

Bucky slices the deck. Shuffles it for the fifth time. Bridge. Repeat. “Course not. I’m sure she’s fine. I’m not worried at all.”

“You sure?” Sam chuckles, leaning back into his chair with another quick grab of a few stray green M&M’s.

“Fuck off, Wilson.”

That gets Sam laughing. He reaches across the table and snatches the cards out of Bucky’s hands before he can shuffle for a seventh time. He flashes Bucky a smile, dimples into his cheeks and all.

“I’m dealing this round.”

Bucky nods, letting the tension slip easily from his muscles. He pushes out a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

But then, a glass shatters behind him and Bucky jolts up to his feet.

“Nat? Are you--”

He freezes in an instant, tension burning through him like marble; the full force of a train straight to his chest and knocking the wind from his body, fracturing the stone to pieces around him.

Natasha stands just a few paces ahead of him, her hands clasped at her mouth in an array of shock and horror, glass shattered at her feet. Ice along wooden floors and the smell of vodka burning into the air.

Bucky almost doesn’t recognize you. There’s a slump in your shoulders, a far off look in your eye like you can’t quite focus on what’s in front of you, and a knife in your hand that won’t stop shaking.

But that’s not the worst of it.

You’re covered in blood. Deep red seeping into your hair, sticking thick and wet to your face and down your neck; trails of it along your cheeks like raindrops against a windowpane. It soaks into what remains of your suit, ripped and torn, exposed skin stained with grim and dirt. You look like something out of a horror movie.

“Oh God,” Sam mutters out, pulling Bucky from his trance.

He wants to sprint, wants to scream for help and sound every alarm he can find, but instead, Bucky only manages broken exhale as he slowly walks towards you. He moves with cautious steps, a hand out towards you defensively, like he’s approaching a frightened animal. It’s what you used to do when the line between him and the Soldier blurred, how you’d seek him out amongst the trauma and distortion and bring him back home.

“Y/n?” he calls gently and finds his voice rough in his throat.

You don’t respond, don’t even look at him as he stands within a foot of your reach. Nat and Sam are close behind, but they hold their distance.

“Sweetheart, what happened?” Bucky asks as evenly as he can manage, eyes glancing down over your body in search of injuries. There’s too much blood and he doesn’t know how much of it is your own. He wants to tug you into his arms, tell you that he’s got you, that you’re safe now, but for the first time since Shuri removed the triggers from his head, he’s afraid to touch you.

Your lips part, a few short blinks of your lashes, and you mumble out, “I came to find you.”

Your voice doesn’t sound like your own. It’s too flat, too void of emotion, and it rips Bucky right to his core. It’s a defense mechanism, he knows that. You’re still in there somewhere, he just needs to get you through this first.

“That’s good, sweetheart,” he tells you, trying his luck as he sets a hand on your back. You don’t flinch, but you don’t lean into him either. He shares a worried glance with Sam and Natasha before he turns back to you, pushing out a smile. “You did good.”

“How did she get all the way here from the Hanger without anyone stopping her?” Sam questions, eyes trailing over the mess of blood in your wake, footprints following you from the staircase by the elevator.

“She’s covered in blood and God knows what else,” Natasha whispers back. “They were probably afraid of what might happen if they did.”

Bucky can’t tear his eyes away from you, vision tunneling on the mess of blood rooted in your hair and the stains of red on your face, your chest, your hands. Natasha and Sam’s voices become muffled beside him as he slides his hand down your back and gently lays it over your grip, still shaking as you hold onto the heel of the knife as if your fist had molded to stone around it. The tremors stop as he holds your hand.

“It’s okay, honey,” he whispers, impossibly soft that not even Nat or Sam hear him, “I need you to give me the knife, alright? You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

It takes a moment, but your grip on the knife slacks. It falls to Bucky’s palm and he gently guides it out of your reach and hands it over to Natasha. He doesn’t know what happened, but he knows what you’ve done for him when the Soldier has taken over his mind, when he didn’t feel like himself and needed reminded who he was, where the ground was solid under his feet.

He knows what he needs to do.

“Nat,” he starts, but she’s already a step ahead of him.

“I’ll go find Steve,” she says, like she can read his mind. “I’ll tell him what happened, see what he knows about her assignment that would have led to this.”

Bucky swallows back the bile in his throat and he nods. “Sam--”

“I’ll sweep the jet, see what I can find,” Sam replies quickly. He sets a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, gives it a slight squeeze, and pushed out a tight-lipped smile. He was your friend long before he was Bucky's. The determination reads in his eyes.

"Thank you,” Bucky whispers.

Sam and Natasha disappear down the hallway and then, Bucky is left alone with you. He’s suddenly made aware of how harsh your breathing sounds, like you’re gasping in air through a straw. You stare beyond his shoulders, though he can tell you’re not looking at anything at all. You’re existing. It’s all your mind can cope with.

“Love?” Bucky calls, willing his voice stronger than it is. “Can you come with me?”

You don’t respond. Bucky clenches his jaw and tries again.

“I’m going to take you to our room, alright?”

He thinks it’s better not to present you with choices. It never worked well with him when he got this like; too much stimulation. He knows you’ll resist him if you need to. He slips his hand along your back to guide you towards the bedroom and you take a step as he does.

You’re limping, he notices, as you cross the threshold into the bedroom. He tries to push his mind away from what caused such an injury, what could have possibly happened to result in the amount of blood drenched over you.

That’s Sam and Natasha’s job. Bucky’s only concern is you right now, in this moment, bringing you home, making you feel safe. He guides you to the bathroom.

“I’m going to start the water, okay?” Bucky tells you. You used to do the same for him, telling him what you were doing step by step in an effort to orient him. It grounded him back to his reality, brought him down from the plane of existence above his own head.

The room starts to fill with steam, enough to fog the mirrors, and Bucky tugs his shirt over his head. He removes his sweatpants, but he resolves to leave his boxers on.

“Sweetheart?”

You look in his direction and Bucky can’t help the wash of relief as it floods through him. You don’t smile and it’s almost as if you’re looking straight through him, but it’s something. Progress.

He extends a hand to you, waiting patiently. Though you do not take it, you step a take closer to him, then past him as you walk into the shower fully clothed in your tattered suit. Bucky steps in behind and closes the glass door.

There’s enough room inside that he can stand comfortably behind you as you approach the stream of water. You stare at it for a moment before you reach out and let the water fall over your hand. You watch as the water around the drain begins to turn a dark red.

“I’m going to wash this off. Is that okay, honey?” Bucky reaches steadily for the loofa behind you, though he pauses as he feels the texture of the sponge: exfoliating mesh. It’ll be too much for you in this state. He resolves for the body wash squeezed into his empty palm.

“You let me know if you need a break.”

Still, there’s no response.

Bucky pushes back the burning lump in his throat and gingerly reaches towards you. He places a soap lathered palm against your shoulder and finds your muscles so tense they could have been made of steel or the vibranium seared into his own arm. You stare at his chest as if you could see through to his heart, maybe beyond that to the shower wall behind him, as he begins to peel the dried blood and grim from your skin.

The water at his feet becomes muddied and red, the water slipping down your legs tainted by the aftermath of violence laid upon your body. He’s careful to only use his flesh hand as he washes you, something softer and kinder than the harsh touch of metal.

You start to relax the more he works, your rigid stance easing as the blood cleans from your body. Your suit is still plastered to your skin, ripped and torn and cut open, and Bucky knows he needs to get this off of you. There’s blood behind the fabric, seeped behind the open slashes.

He thinks of the softest clothes he has to dress you in when you’re clean and dry, something too big for your frame that smelled of fresh laundry or maybe the sweatshirt draped over the chair – the one you liked to wear when he was out on missions because it smelled like him. He just wants you to feel safe, to feel warm and protected.

But he needs to get you out of this suit first.

He reaches for the zipper at your chest and the next thing he knows, he’s pressed up against the shower wall, his head pulsing at the impact as you grip tight to his wrist. You’re panting, eyes unfocused at the center of his chest.

He lets you hold him there. He doesn’t try to resist though he knows with his strength he could easily overpower you.

“Sweetheart, it’s me. It’s Bucky,” he tries, his voice soft against the fall of water behind you. “I’m not going to hurt you, love.”

You don’t move, but your breaths start to come in a little more even. Your grip falters on his wrist though you don’t let go. His heart feels like it’s shattering inside his chest, stray shards embedding themselves into his stomach, his ribs, his lungs.

“Honey, look at me,” he pleads. “You’re safe now. You’re home. Let me take care of you.”

It takes a moment, but your eyes begin to trail up his collarbone, hesitant sweeps along his neck, his jaw, and then – his eyes. The hard resolve upon your features begins to crumble. Your lip quivers, your hand gripped tight around his wrist slacking in the tremors, tears burn into your eyes and Bucky doesn’t waste a moment before he gathers you into his arms, presses you tight to his chest and encases you against him.

It's like something finally clicks, a floodgate burst open, because you’re clutching onto him like a lifeline. He can feel the sob as it travels up your spine and shakes your body as you cry. He’s grateful for the mist of the shower that hide his own tears as he rubs gentle circles along your back, easing you the best he can. It’s torture seeing you like this and feeling so powerless to help.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there with you, but eventually, you stop crying. The exhaustion begins to take hold and your legs begin to shake under you, too weak to hold yourself up.

“I’m going to take your suit off, okay? You’ll be more comfortable without it,” Bucky says, gesturing to the zipper. You follow his gaze in understanding and then, you nod.

The suit already clings tight to your skin without the added pressure of the sticky residue of blood drenched into the fabric and the soak of water from the shower. He slides the zipper down to your navel and slowly peels what's left of the sleeves off your shoulders.

There’s cuts and slashes underneath, wounds where blades had cut through your suit and nicked your skin. They’re superficial, better than they could have been if not for the suit taking the brunt of the attack, but they’re still painful to look at.

Bucky helps you step out of the suit and he leaves it in the corner of the shower. He glances at your underwear and you slide it down your hips without question.

“Can I wash your hair, honey? Please?”

You nod and Bucky works quickly. You’re starting to shiver as the water loses its heat, so you stand a little closer to him, seeking out his warmth. It removes just an ounce of the boulder sitting upon his chest.

When he’s finished, the water at the drain is clear again. The fresh scars upon your body and the distant look in your eye the only evidence remaining of what happened.

Bucky reaches around you to turn off the water. He pulls a towel from the rack and begins to gently pat it over your skin until you’re dry. Then, he scrunches out as much of the water as he can from your hair, before he leaves the towel resting on your shoulders to soak up the rest.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells you as he finished drying himself off. “I’m going to go grab some clothes for you.”

He doesn’t even make it a step out of the bathroom before your hand is on his wrist again. He stills, looking back at you. Your eyes fall to the floor.

Bucky swallows back the burn in his throat as he nods. “Okay. Okay, honey. Can you come with me?”

You nod.

By the time you’re dressed in a fresh pair of his boxers and the t-shirt he slept in the previous night, you can hardly keep your eyes open. He wonders how long it’s been since you slept, if maybe it was since the evening he spoke to you four days prior. You sway on your feet as Bucky guides you to the bed.

He lays you down, pulls the covers up to your chest and quickly rushes around to the other side of the bed to crawl in beside you. You come into his arms, curling up against his chest, and Bucky tries to pretend for a moment that this is just another night, that you just returned from a successful mission and there’s a relief in holding you again.

But he can’t shake the crippling dread as it burns into his skin. Even as your breaths fall even and you slack into his arms, Bucky stares up at the ceiling, eyes brimming with tears. He doesn’t sleep at all.

***

A few hours later, the soft tap of a knock draws Bucky from his trance. He blinks a few times, realizing how long he’d been staring up at the ceiling before he lifts his head and finds Steve peering in through the doorway. There’s a solemn look on his face as his eyes flicker towards you.

Bucky gently slides out from under you, careful to place a pillow under your arm where you’d been laying upon his chest as not to wake you. The bed rises a little as he stands and he takes a moment to brush the hair from your eyes before he makes his way to the door. When he meets Steve in the hallway, he’s careful to leave the door to the bedroom open a crack, just in case.

“What did you find?” Bucky asks.

Steve sinks down onto the couch. A hand brushes over his face.

“That bad?” Bucky can already feel the nausea beginning to take hold.

“We recovered footage from her last know whereabouts – the safe house in Juno,” Steve says. He leans forward to rest his elbows upon his thighs, staring out into the empty space of the kitchen. He sighs. “She was ambushed, Buck. The feed cut out a few minutes into the fight.”

“Who were they?” Bucky chokes out. His throat is made of sandpaper.

“We don’t know,” Steve admits, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Mercenaries, probably. Could have been hired in retaliation against SHEILD. Her mission was to identify the point of contact for an illegal arms distributor that was shipping assault rifles into Canada and carrying them over the border. She wasn’t supposed to see any action, Bucky. It was a surveillance op.”

Bucky doesn’t realize how tight his hands are clenched until he looks down to find puncture marks in the palm of his right hand from where his nails buried into his skin. He thinks of the woman who left him behind that morning, with sun kissed skin and a smile so sweet it made his heart melt, who has barely spoken in the hours since returning home, who’s bright eyes have dimmed into something empty and lost.

He’s missing something, he’s sure of it. Maybe if he could just see the footage for himself, identify the bad guys, track them down... maybe he’ll be able to fix this. He could bring you back, make you smile again. Killing those men who hurt you will be a small consolation prize for his efforts.

Bucky is determined as he stands. “I want to see it.”

“Absolutely not,” Steve shoots back. Bucky doesn’t even need to clarify before Steve puts an end to it. “What purpose will that serve, Buck? You don’t need to see the tape, okay? Just trust me on this. I’ve got everyone we have analyzing that video frame by frame. If there’s anything on it to lead us to those assholes, we’ll find it.”

“I have to do something, Steve. I can’t just sit here. Not with her like that...” Bucky glances back at the door to the bedroom. He can’t muster the energy to conjure the image of you standing before him drenched in blood that was not your own, a vacant look in your eyes as if you could see straight through him.

“She needs you here,” Steve argues, rising to his feet. “What do you think will happen when she wakes up and I’ve gotta tell her you’ve run off on some vengeance mission? That you’ve left her alone to face this by herself?”

“That’s not what I’m doing—”

“Yes, it is!” Steve clenches his jaw as his voice echoes into the hall. It’s quiet for a moment and they listen for the bed to squeak, for any sign that you’re awake, but they’re only met with silence, Steve relaxes again. He takes a step forward and places his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. It startles him for a moment, but he can feel the tension as it melts in his muscles. “Just be here for her, man. When there’s something to know, I’ll tell you.”

Bucky keeps his stare on the thin crack in the door, the moonlight peering in from the window and seeping out into the hallway. He listens for the even breaths as you sleep soundly for the first time in days and he knows Steve is right. He doesn’t know if he could leave you like this even if Steve handed him the direct files of every man who laid a hand on you.

“I should get back to her,” Bucky resolves, offering Steve as much of a grateful smile as he can manage. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but Steve understands.

***

It takes days before Bucky can get you to leave the bedroom. He’s only been able to get a few words out of you here and there, short answers to direct questions, and you can’t hold his eye for very long, but he takes it as improvement.

It’s the small steps.

He remembers you saying that when he was at his worst, when he could barely get himself out of bed, when he could hardly touch you without fear of breaking you in half, when the guilt tore and ate through him unchallenged.

So, every time you lift you head when he speaks, when you glance in his direction, when you nod in answer of a question, when you curl against his side and seek out his warmth – it matters. It’s more than what you were able to do the day before and that has meaning.

When you finally do venture out into the living room, Bucky is sure to keep a hand on you at all times. Whether it’s wrapped up tightly in your own, pressed gently to the small of your back, resting against your thigh, over your shoulders – it helps to ground you, remind you that he’s there. You start to drift off into yourself otherwise.

Meanwhile, everyone else is walking on eggshells around you.

Tony turns out of the room before he can even step foot into the kitchen when he sees the back of your head over the couch. Peter is constantly shoveling food into his mouth to keep from his usual rambling one-sided conversations. Steve is deceptively quiet, constantly glancing in your direction as if he’s just waiting for something to set you off. Even Natasha keeps her distance, which surprises him. She stays in the room but she keeps to the corners, observing, like Steve.

Sam, on the other hand, was never one for subtleties.

“Hey kiddo!” Sam throws himself onto the couch beside you, bowl of popcorn in his hand as it jumps up into the air before landing back safely in the bowl.

You flinch at the sudden intrusion next you and Bucky all but stares daggers into Sam for startling you. Bucky was trying to keep your environment as calm as possible as not to set you off into one of those dissociative states again. It could take hours just to get you to acknowledge his voice after that and Bucky can only take that so many times before he’ll simply crumble.

“You know what I’ve been dying to watch?” Sam says aloud, as if someone is listening to him. He shovels a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Raiders of the Lost Ark.”

“Sam, no.” Bucky warns as he pulls you closer to his side. That movie has far too much violence, even for an eighties film. He doesn’t know how you’ll react to it.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Sam shoots back. He settles into the couch beside you, grinning as he turns in your direction. “Come on, Y/n. It’s been ages since we’ve watched Indie. I know the first is your favorite anyway.”

Bucky is all but ready to clock Sam ten ways to Sunday when you mutter out a quiet, “okay” and Bucky stills completely. It's the first time you’ve even acknowledged anyone besides Bucky since you came home. He stares at Sam with wide eyes, but Sam doesn’t seem to be surprised at all.

Instead, Sam simply sinks into the cushions, turns on the movie he must have already lined up in the queue, and leans the bowl of popcorn in your direction.

Indiana Jones starts his first trek into the cave in search of the Golden Idol and you reach your hand into the bowl. A few bites of popcorn within the first minutes of the movie and it’s more than Bucky has been able to get you to eat without coercion in days. A whisper of a smile crosses your face as Sam almost chokes on the handful he shoved into his mouth.

Sam Wilson might be a massive pain in Bucky’s ass, but he’s a damn good friend. He’s the only one who hasn’t treated you like you’ve lost your mind. He gives you a sense of normalcy when the floor has been pulled out from under you.

For that, Bucky owes him everything.

***

Bucky finds out a week later that there are no bad guys to track down, no one to enact vengeance on for the trauma they’d put you through. There is a reason you came home covered in blood and grime with barely more than a few superficial scratches on your body.

You’d killed them all.

“Are you sure?” Bucky asks Steve, hands planted firmly on the conference table. The night sky is littered in cloud covered stars beyond the windows, crickets chirping in the distance. Bucky stares down at the mug shots of a dozen men now presumed dead.

“We’re sure.” Steve slowly reaches out to gather the images, sliding them back into the file and out of sight. “We’re still working on who sent them but it was probably the arms dealer she was sent to identify. Fury’s sending out a team in the morning to bring him in.”

“That’s... that’s good.” Bucky doesn’t have the strength for revenge anymore. He’s grown tired of carrying it in his chest, on his shoulders, weighing him down as if sinking him to the trenches of an ocean.

“How’s she doing?” Steve asks, gesturing towards the doorway as they begin to walk back to the elevator.

“Better,” Bucky replies honestly.

He’s even seen you crack a smile a few times watching movies with Sam in the living room, maybe even heard a breath of laughter when Sam dropped an entire bowl of popcorn and threw a fit about it.

You’re talking to Bucky more, asking questions, starting brief conversations outside of the necessary ‘yes’ and ‘no’s, humming to yourself as you shower with Bucky standing just a few feet away. It’s something. Small steps.

“She’s strong, Buck. She’ll get through this.”

Bucky takes a deep breath as the elevator doors chime open. He presses the button for his floor. “I know. I just hate seeing her like this in the meantime.” The elevator reaches his floor and he waits as the doors begin to part. “Thanks, Steve. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Steve nods. “You got it, brother.”

Bucky makes his way down the hall from where he’d left you just a few hours earlier. You’d insisted that you’d be alright on your own while he met with Steve. Sam is still sitting on the couch watching Netflix just a few feet outside the bedroom, leaving a blanket of security in Bucky’s absence. He can hear Sam singing along to the theme song as he passes by.

There’s a ghost of a smile on his face as he approaches the living room, but a sudden, gut wrenching scream stills him in his tracks.

Sam jumps up from the couch, popcorn spilling to the carpet and Bucky stares back at the cracked door to the bedroom with wide eyes. He exchanges a glance with Sam and as another scream echoes out into the hall in a broken cry, the two of them rush into the room.

Bucky shoulders his way through the door, breaking the hinges on the top of the frame as he stumbles his way inside. You’re lying on your stomach, arms clutched under the pillow, sweat dampened sheets kicked off down by your feet. You’re whimpering, tear tracks into the pillowcase and your whole body is trembling.

“Y/n?” Bucky calls as gently as he can, his voice breaking in the effort. He moves closer to the bed, his hand hovering over your shoulder, almost afraid to touch you. “Sweetheart, wake up.”

You cry out again, face contorting in pain as you press your face into the pillow.

“I should get Cho,” Sam says behind him, starting to inch towards the door, but Bucky barely hears him as he runs into the hallway.

“Come on, honey,” Bucky tries again. He sinks down to his knees beside the bed. His heart is stammering in his chest. It’s pounding so loudly he’s sure the whole compound can hear it. He feels the tears burn in his eyes as you start to sob. “You’re safe. You’re alright, love. I’m here with you. I’m here, baby.”

Bucky lets his hand ghost over your shoulder and he barely has a chance to react before you jolt upright and there’s a sudden, stinging sensation across his chest. Your eyes are wide, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. It takes a minute before Bucky sees the hilt of the knife gripped tight in your fist.

“Bucky?” you gasp. “What are you—Oh my God...”

The knife drops from your hold as your hands clasp against your mouth. It falls at Bucky’s knees. You’re trying to stifle a sob as it threatens to consume you whole and Bucky tries to reach out for you, but you scramble away from him, fearful eyes staring below his collarbone.

Slowly, Bucky follows your gaze to his chest. There he finds that his shirt is torn in a long, pristine cut. Blood begins to soak into the light grey of the fabric from the open wound underneath. The knife you’d held in your hand bares his blood upon the blade.

“What have I done?!” you cry, shaking your head as you scurry off of the bed and into the corner of the room. You sink to the floor and Bucky shakes himself of his stupor to rush towards you.

“I’m alright,” he tries to reassure you, though he knows it’s no use. “Baby, I’m fine. It’s nothing. It’ll heal in a few hours. I’m okay.”

“Oh God, Oh God! No... I didn’t-- I didn’t mean to--” Your words are barely distinguishable, slurring together in your slobs, and you can barely catch your breath. You shake your head, fresh tears streaming on your cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m-- I’m so s-sorry. I didn’t-- I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Bucky coos. He can feel the itch of a tear as it passes his jawline. “Honey, I need you to breathe for me. Please, let me hold you. I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me.”

But your eyes are glued to the open sliver of his t-shirt, the blood as it soaks into the cotton, and the slash underneath. It only makes you cry more. Its uncontrollable, like you might pass out if you can’t allow yourself to take in enough air, and Bucky feels like he’s reaching out into a fucking void because there’s nothing he can do for you.

“Sergeant Barnes,” a stern voice calls suddenly from behind him. Helen Cho stands in the doorway with Sam just beyond her shoulder. She steps into the room, uncapping a syringe. “Hold her down.”

You’re in hysterics as Bucky pulls you into his arms. You don’t resist as you fall against his chest, but he can feel the unease with which you sit in your own body, like your skin is crawling and you’re caged inside of yourself. He knows the feeling well.

You barely notice as the needle punctures your neck, heavy head falling to rest against Bucky’s shoulder. He eases his left hand down your spine, hoping the chill of the metal will help soothe you as your breaths become more even and the sobs fall weak and far between.

“I’ve got you, honey,” he whispers. You start to close your eyes, giving into the sedative. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Just rest, love. I’ve got you.”

No one relaxes until it’s clear you’re out cold. Sam lets out a heavy sigh from the doorway, slumping into the arch. Helen sinks onto the floor beside Bucky, tossing the syringe into the disposal bag before she rubs a tired hand over her face.

Bucky feels like he can hardly breathe. He waits until Helen and Sam retire to their own rooms before he allows the lump in his throat to consume him whole, before the tears on his face mirror the watermarked stains on his shirt. He doesn’t move from the floor until sunrise, unwilling to disturb your sleep.

***

“I don’t know why you haven’t left me yet.”

The words pass your lips and they puncture straight through Bucky’s chest - like a knife embedded through his skin, nicking over bone and tearing through flesh. He feels sick, a wave of nausea crashing through him as he turns to look at you.

Your eyes are swollen red, lips chewed raw. It only takes a flicker of your gaze to the long faded pink scar across his chest to know what’s on your mind.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky says firmly.

You shake your head, unconvinced. “I could have killed you.”

“Don’t you go underestimating me, now,” Bucky teases, lighting his voice despite the burning ache he feels in his chest. He smiles at you but you can hardly meet his eye.

Your legs are swung over the bedside, hands wringing in your lap, reddening the skin. Your breaths are shaken, lower lip trembling, and he knows you’re trying to hold back tears. He can practically feel the lump building in your throat, suffocating you.

He sighs, sinking down to his knees in front of you. His hands reach out for your own and you flinch at his touch. It takes a moment before you can remind yourself who’s hands are holding you, who’s love you’re surrounded in, and you relax.

He thinks of the woman who taught him how to love again, who woke him from a decades long nightmare with the sweet touch of her hand and the adoration in her smile. He conjures the image of you he preserved before you left on your last mission, with sun kissed skin and laughter in your chest, as he stares up at the dark circles under your eyes, the frown upon your lips, the aching claws of shame draining you of the light you possessed.

“Sweetheart, look at me.” He tips a finger under your chin and guides you to meet his eye. He smiles, softening under your gaze.

“You hold so much space in your heart for compassion and forgiveness,” Bucky eased, stroking his thumbs gently along the backs of your hands. “You never hesitated once to absolve me of my sins as the Winter Soldier. It didn’t matter how may nights I woke up empty, not knowing where or who I was. It didn’t matter how much I thought I was a burden to you and the team, or whether I deemed myself worthy enough to be loved by you. You were patient with me, kind beyond what I ever believed I could deserve. Can you not reserve some of that for yourself, too?”

He watches the sob creep up your spine before it breaks. There’s little more either of you can say and he resides to holding you in his arms, caged protectively against his chest where not even the demons lurking in the back of your mind can find you.

He knows, eventually, you’ll be okay. You taught him that. Even when the tunnel was its darkest, when he could barely see beyond the tips of his fingers, and the sun was cast over in shadows -- you showed him that as long as he kept walking, he’d find the light again.

***

“Come on, Y/n, what is the matter with you?”

Bucky hears you grumbling to yourself in the kitchen. He wipes the trail of sweat off his face from his morning run as he approaches the island covered in stray dollops of pancake batter, bottles of maple syrup, and mixing bowls. He smiles as he leans against the counter, waiting for you to notice him.

“You weren’t supposed to be home yet,” you groan, catching Bucky out of the corner of your eye as you dump a plate full of burnt pancakes into the sink. Your hair a little out of sorts, a bead of sweat dripping down your temple. It’s almost endearing if it wasn’t for how fast your heart was beating. Bucky could hear it down the hall.

“Missed you.” He shrugs casually, testing a smirk and you started to smile in return; all shy and sweet and full of the woman he adores. He glances to the mess in the kitchen and the smoke piling on the ceiling. “What happened here?”

“Pancakes aren’t my strongest suit.”

Bucky laughs at that. “I can see that.”

You sigh, scratching at the back of your neck. “I just wanted to do something nice for you, Bucky.”

Bucky can feel his heart sinking but he holds the smile to his face. “You do a thousand nice things for me all the time. Just being here is enough for me, sweetheart.”

“You know what I mean,” you say under your breath, eyes falling to the floor by his feet. “After everything I put you through since that awful mission-”

“Hey, hey -- Don’t do that.” Bucky crosses the kitchen and places his hands gingerly on your cheeks, guiding your eyes back to his. “You didn’t do anything wrong; you hear me? You survived. You’re still surviving and I’m just... I’m so proud of you, Y/n.”

You part your lips to say more, to argue against him, but it dies on your tongue as Bucky smiles at you as if you hung the moon and the stars and every damn

“You don’t need to bring me coffee in the morning,” Bucky says before he presses a kiss to your forehead, “or bribe Stark into making new tech for my arm,” then a kiss to your nose, “or make me burnt pancakes to thank me for loving you through this.”

He pauses as he pulls back. You’re watching him with an expression somewhere between awe and relief, but it’s the warmth of your smile that does him in completely.

“We take care of each other, okay? That’s what we do,” Bucky says, leaning in to kiss your lips sweetly until he can feel the smile grow against his mouth. He pulls back, chuckling a bit under his breath. “Besides, I’m the last person who is going to be scared away by trauma.”

You laugh as you wrap your arms around his waist, pulling yourself closer to his chest. Engulfed in the sweet smell of maple and butter and batter, Bucky feels a wash of calm for the first time since you left on that mission.

He thinks you may have finally found your way home.

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n

3K notes · View notes

lucytara · 4 years ago

Note

Yeah I get wanting some variation in your writing and whatnot. Hmm.

Gold. "I defy you. I defy your god. The laws of the universe said my love was gone from me. I said watch me save her." Bumbleby.

Have fun!

it’s possible. that i went. a little overboard with this prompt.

"I defy you. I defy your god. The laws of the universe said my love was gone from me. I said watch me save her."

All four candles are lit in the corners of the small room, wicks burning purple and melting black wax. Her offering sits in a dish at the feet of the small statue - an old, worn piece of paper, bent and torn around its edges - and she herself kneels in the center of the floor, her hands clasped.

“I’ve never done this,” she begins, “but my name is Yang Xiao Long, and I humbly request an audience.”

Nothing happens, though she isn’t sure what she would’ve expected even if it had; the flames flicker with her unsteady heartbeat, the blood in her ears crashing as if waves in a storm. For some reason it’s embarrassing, calling on a higher entity who decides to put you through to voicemail.

She tries again, and aims for theatrical exaggeration; maybe the gods like a bit of a show. If she’s making a fool of herself, she might as well do it brilliantly. “O, Great Goddess! I call upon thee - All-Knowing Ruler of the Dead, Empress of the Night, Most Holy Lady of Darkness, Reigning Queen of Entropy--”

“I think that’s probably enough,” a voice comes from in front of her, amusement evident beneath its tone. “What was that one in the middle? ‘Empress of the Night’? I might keep that.”

Her head whips up towards the sound, and a woman in a deep purple cloak is leaning against her own statue, arms crossed and watching her performance with a look that can only be described as shameless delight. Gorgeous black hair framing golden eyes, like the sky wrapping itself around stars; the statue doesn’t do her justice.

“Oh my God,” Yang says, sitting back on her heels. All the preparation and rehearsing she’d done isn’t enough to conquer the shock of a beautiful, unearthly woman appearing in front of her and--

“Yes, I get that a lot.”

--mercilessly mocking her.

“Well, Yang Xiao Long?” the woman continues. “Why have you called upon me?”

“How do you know my name?” Yang says stupidly.

“I’m a god,” the goddess replies, a smile pulling at a corner of her mouth. “I’m the all-knowing ruler of the dead or whatever. Also, you said your name when you summoned me.”

“Fuck,” Yang says, struggling to regain her composure and failing spectacularly. “I - yeah. Right. Okay. Is it rude to swear in front of gods? And what do I call you?”

“I’ll allow it,” the woman says. “And you can call me Blake.”

“Blake,” Yang repeats; her hands open and close like a nervous tick. The name is a heavy weight in her mouth, settling her into steadiness. “I’ve come to request guidance.”

“Guidance?” Blake repeats, and gently lifts the note from the offering dish, turning it carefully around her hands without opening it to read it - she doesn’t need to. Yang registers faint surprise in her expression; yes, she’d assumed the sentimentality would fetch a rather large price. “This is quite the payment.”

“It’s the last note I have from someone who loved me,” Yang says. “I figured it would be sufficient.”

Those bright, inquisitive eyes glance over to her, and now the playing field has been reversed: intrigue and curiosity outweigh Yang’s atrocious initial delivery.

“Stand, please,” Blake commands softly. “I want to get a good look at you.”

Obediently, Yang rises to her feet, and with an odd jolt realizes she’s a few inches taller than the goddess. It’s unexpected, and it seems to unnerve Blake for a moment, too. Or maybe that’s the candlelight, throwing shapes and colors, turning the room cavernous. Maybe Blake is shrinking and she’s growing. Maybe once she was so tall the entire world trembled beneath her feet.

“You already have power,” Blake says, circling her curiously, and now she’s seeing what isn’t visible, looking for handprints on her soul. “You have been claimed. Whom do you answer to?”

“I didn’t receive this power from a god,” Yang says quietly. “I’ve had it as long as I can remember.”

“That’s impossible,” Blake says, and her gaze is piercing into Yang’s heart; she sees its strength, but she sees its scars, too. And its emptiness. There is plenty of that.

“Touch me,” Yang says. “You’ll find no prior claim.”

“I don’t need to.” Blake takes another step closer to her, the way you’d inspect a painting in a museum. Hands at her sides, cautious of glass and rope. “I can see your aura. But it’s impossible.”

“I’m looking for something,” Yang says, and Blake glances up, briefly meeting her eyes. “I don’t know what it is. But I’ve been looking for something for what feels like my entire life.”

Quizzical, now. One by one the candles are burning down. The room is collapsing in on them, or perhaps that’s simply the god in front of her, looking like she’d dive into Yang’s veins and unravel her if it were permitted.

“Why me?” Blake asks finally. “You know what I’m the goddess of, don’t you?”

“You guard death,” Yang says, her voice impossibly gentle; dusk flows river-like from her mouth. There is a world Blake can almost see. “But you can’t guard death without also guarding life, right? I don’t know what I’m looking for, but whatever it is, I imagine you encompass it.”

“Poetic,” Blake responds, and waits further. “I would like the truth, please. Our time is running short.”

There’s no point in playing games with gods. “The truth is stupid,” Yang says bluntly, and the corner of Blake’s mouth tilts again.

“Try me.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Yang says, and Blake’s eyebrows raise in amusement. Bold, reckless, and absolutely pushing her luck to the furthest corners it can inhabit. “Accept me as yours, and when the time is right, I will tell you the truth.”

“Is the truth that powerful?” Blake says, curious despite herself.

The last candle flutters, throwing shadows from Yang’s eyelashes to her cheek. “I think it is.”

“Welcome back, Empress of the Night,” Ruby says upon her return to the Kingdom, giving her an exaggerated bow. “I hope you enjoyed your summon, My Lady of Perpetual Darkness.”

“What the hell was that about?” Weiss asks. “I haven’t even heard you crack a joke for, like, a millennia, and suddenly you’re the court jester?”

“She was amusing,” Blake says, shrugging. “Usually people are so timid and terrified. I felt like having some fun.”

“You?” Weiss says dubiously.

“Shut up, Weiss,” Ruby says. “You mustn’t speak that way to Our Patron Saint, Duchess of Death.”

“Now you’re not even trying.”

“Don’t you both have work to do?” Blake says, ending the interrogation before it can really begin. She’s not sure she’d have the answers for them, anyway.

Yang journeys east.

Find me again, Blake had said. The closer you get to my temple, the more I can see of you. She’d brushed aside Yang’s bangs, touched a single finger to her forehead. It felt like a teardrop, or a meteor shower. It felt like digging up a grave, or chiseling into stone. It felt like the last explosion. It felt like the first breath.

You are mine, Blake had said, and something about it had felt far too right.

She crosses from Sanus to Anima, spends days traversing forests and mountains, fending off bandits and monsters. Eyes flashing red and fire licking up her skin. Aura glowing golden before breaking. There is something wrong with the trees, she thinks; there is something wrong with the sky. Like I’m looking at them from the wrong side.

Nobody is there to answer her, and not for the first time, she wonders how she came to be so alone.

Blake watches Yang’s power unveil itself from above. Yang is hers, now, and though she can’t make house calls to the world below without a summon, she at least has instant access to her claims. There aren’t many of them, and Yang is different.

It reminds her of the God of Vengeance, almost - how he absorbs power before returning it, strike by vicious strike - but Yang’s is personal, sacrificial. She feels the pain before she can utilize it, and her anger is never cruel, her actions never misplaced. And she doesn’t complain.

Sometimes, Blake wishes she would: she can hear when she’s being talked to, even if she can’t respond. Every prayer, every curse, every devastation, every hope.

She waits for the sound of Yang’s voice, but it never comes.

There’s a small shrine in a village called Shion, which is still weeks out from the docks where she can potentially get a ferry to Menagerie, but the locals are kind, and honor her far too greatly for being touched by their ruling god. They direct her to their place of worship deep in the woods, and leave her without looking back. It’s a sacred thing, a bond between a god and their chosen, and law forbids them from watching her ceremony.

Yang pulls the candle from her pouch, lighting it at the foot of the shrine. She kneels down on the stone, worn with the imprints of a thousand prayers, and says, “Blake.”

“I was wondering when I’d hear from you again.” The voice comes almost immediately, as if its owner had been waiting to be beckoned.

It’s still a bit of a shock, though she’s much better prepared for it this time. “Hi,” Yang says, and stops there before she can fuck it up.

“Hi,” Blake says, and seems to be amused against her will. More guarded, less open. Yang can read the warning signs, but she’ll cut them off at the source.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she means it, getting to her feet. “If I waited too long to contact you, I mean. I’m...not familiar with this area.”

“Don’t worry,” Blake says, lowering her arms. “It’s only been a few weeks. I won’t smite you until at least a month.”

Yang laughs, and unexpectedly to the both of them, Blake goes deadly still. Her body language says Yang’s done something wrong, but her expression says she’s hearing music.

The candle is burning. The moment can turn itself over gently, if Yang knows how to guide it. She keeps her smile on, but makes it quiet. “You know, I didn’t expect the Goddess of Death to have a sense of humor.”

It seems to work. “I like to surprise people,” Blake says, and moves closer. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“You never talk to me,” she says, pretending to be in control of something she clearly isn’t. “Why not?”

Only the forest speaks for a moment, branches creaking, leaves rustling. And then: “Do you want me to?” Yang asks.

“It’s...something people tend to do,” Blake says slowly. “But not you.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Yang says.

“It’s not a bother.” The words come out too quickly, tone too reassuring. Blake’s own want is what laces the conversation, rather than Yang’s uncertainty. That’s a new, dangerous line.

Yang takes a careful step forward, her eyes lowered to the ground as if in apology; they raise slowly, trailing over Blake’s form until meeting her gaze. Looking for lines she’s crossed, and should step back over; searching for lights that say go. Instead, she only finds an intense, hungry confusion - I want it without understanding what it is.

“You know,” she murmurs, “these statues - they never do you justice.”

And she lifts a hand to Blake’s cheek, hesitating over her skin - is that Blake’s catch of breath, or is it the wind? - before gently cupping it in her palm. She could lose an arm for this; touching a god without being explicitly asked is the greatest sin a mortal can commit, but Blake only stands there, unmoving, eyes wide and lips parted, the moon sitting in the hollow of her throat.

“Blake,” she whispers, and it can only be a god’s strength keeping her voice steady, “I’m never not thinking of you.”

The candle goes out.

Nobody is waiting for her when she returns. This is how gods give each other gifts - by saying, no, I see everything but I didn’t see you.

Yang starts talking to her, and changes her routes so that rather than taking the most direct path to Menagerie, she’s able to stop at some of the smaller shrines on the way. There are only two more, and she hasn’t called Blake since Shion. Yang hopes she’ll still come.

“Isn’t it strange,” Yang says, “how much easier it is to think about someone than to talk about them? I think about you differently than I can talk about you. I don’t even know if that makes sense.”

No response; not that she expects one. At this point, she assumes Blake’ll just kill her if she gets too annoying. Maybe a tree will fall on her, or she’ll do something embarrassing like trip over a rock and break her neck. “I can’t remember much about my life. I know there were people I loved, but I can’t see their faces. I must’ve traveled a lot; I don’t like sitting still. I don’t know how old I am, or even when my birthday is.” She’s never admitted this before; never admitted she came to lying on the ground, with only her name left ringing in her skull and a note in her pocket.

“I think you’re beautiful,” she tells the warm night air. “That’s what I was trying to say. Before. Blake, I think you’re beautiful.”

A star shoots across the sky, light trails leaving imprints against the swirling blue-purple-black of the galaxy, but it must be a coincidence.

Another shrine, another candle. This one burrowed into the side of a mountain, a dome of a room with a hand-woven rug for kneeling, several long benches behind. The statue sits against the far wall, centered.

“They’re getting better,” Yang says, getting to her feet. “This one, at least, gets your eyes right.”

“Hm,” Blake says, pressing her lips together. She moves to stand next to Yang rather than in front of her, and they both examine the statue together. “I suppose you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

“Were the compliments too much?” Yang asks, impressed with how light her voice sounds. She nudges Blake’s elbow with her own. Oh, she’ll see how much distance she can cross. She’s already walked miles - she’ll swim oceans, too. “You said you wanted me to talk to you.”

“I didn’t say that,” Blake denies unconvincingly, and then pauses. “And in regards to your first question - I didn’t say that, either.”

Yang could tease her - so even gods like being called pretty, huh - or she could be brave, turn to Blake, take her face in both of her hands and lean in--

“Yang,” Blake says, and does step one of that plan by turning to her. “What do you want from me?”

Maybe the idea’s overwhelmed her to the degree that she can no longer see its risks - its potentially horrible, literally life-ending consequences - and that's what drives her to do it. Maybe it’s that Blake is looking at her like a poem; something beautiful, not to be understood by anyone but the artist who made her.

“What would you do if I kissed you?” Yang says, as if it were merely an interesting, hypothetical concept to explore and not the end of the world. “Is that possible, even if you wanted me to?”

This room is warm and close and silent. The clay is cracking where the floor meets the walls. A tunneled-through skylight is the only thing that keeps Blake from swallowing the place in shadows, instead coating them in an amber, dream-like glow. Like if you mixed the two of them together, you’d still be left with light.

“I think,” Blake murmurs, “we’re both going to have to find that out.”

Step two of her plan. Both of her hands cupping Blake’s cheeks. She’s strangely aware of her lifelines - do they mean anything to you, she wants to ask, does my life mean anything to you now and if it doesn’t, will my death - she leans in, their noses brushing, Blake’s breathing as if she needs to, Yang isn’t and she does; teach me about magic, teach me about memory, tell me how I knew you before I knew myself--

Blake kisses her, tired of her caution and hesitancy, lips parting and fists knotting around the fabric of her shirt. Yang expects them to crash together, like comets. She expects them to crumble and collapse under the impact, buried in the ruins of each other and suffocating. She expects them to decay there, reveling in their own destruction.

What she doesn’t expect is sunlight.

Her skin set aflame, Blake’s tongue in her mouth, hands traveling from her face to her lower back and pressing close - somewhere a rule is being written about the gods and desperation - Blake pulls away, gasps, her fingers begging for Yang’s heart.

“This power,” she says, mesmerized, staring at things only she can see, golden gossamer roots running up Yang’s veins. “Where did you get it?”

“I don’t know,” Yang breathes out, and kisses her one last time before the candle burns out. “But I swear I’ve never felt closer to finding out.”

Nobody attempts to stop her from barging through God’s door. Weiss and Ruby, Sun and Neptune; they all avert their eyes. I see everything, but I do not see you.

“What is she?” Blake asks, standing before them with her head bowed. “Please, God. I need to know.”

“If you weren’t already sure,” God says, “you wouldn’t be here.”

She hates it when they’re right.

Yang hits the docks; situated on the outskirts of a fishing village called Ito, and with constant transport to Menagerie, their shrine to Blake is the largest one yet.

“And this one?” Blake asks, before Yang has even begun to pray.

“How did you do that?” Yang says, staring up at her, startled. “Are we, like, super close now?”

“Shut up,” Blake says, but she’s smiling. She extends a hand, helping Yang to her feet. “Your soul calls me. You barely even have to light the candle, anymore.”

The sound of the ocean knocks on the door; the smell tackles the windows. Above, the seagulls are crying out, angry at all the fish they can’t have. Yang says, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Blake says, and kisses her. Soft and chaste. Something so human and so immortal. “I missed you.”

“I’m your favorite, aren’t I?” Yang teases, her fingers catching Blake’s chin in her hands.

“No,” Blake says, and for the first time, smiles with her teeth. Oh, this is happiness. “I do this with everyone who requests my presence. I’m very popular.”

“I can imagine,” Yang says, brushing a thumb across her bottom lip. “So what else are you the god of?”

“You had a few of them right,” Blake says nonchalantly, settling against Yang’s body. She could be taller, if she wanted to be, but there’s so much beauty to see when looking up. “Night, and all things within it. Darkness, shadows. Death.”

“What else?” Yang says, watching her mouth shape every letter.

“Forgiveness, and justice,” Blake murmurs. Oh, there’s a fine print for this, and she’s violating every word. “Promises,” she continues. “Seduction.”

Hook, line - a heavy wave rattles the walls; oh, the sea, the sea! - Yang shudders against her mouth, salt sinking into her blood. Leaves her bouyant and floating, the earth bubbling up beneath her. Rising and rising and rising.

“Shockingly,” Yang says, letting Blake press kisses into the crook of her neck, “I don’t find that hard to believe.”

“God,” Blake finds herself standing before them once again, hands clasped and head bowed. She speaks formally in the presence of God, as is customary of respect. “Please, God. I am supposed to be guiding her, but I fear all I’ve done is lead her astray. I need to know where she came from, and where she is going.”

“Blake,” God says, and touches the top of her head with their hand, “she is close to your temple. Look at her, and tell me what you see.”

Menagerie is a busy, populated island, and Blake’s temple is the primary reason for that. Pilgrimages are made from around the world to pray at her shrine and leave offerings at her feet. Protect me from loss, help me navigate my grief, let me fulfill my promise.

Yang is none of those things. And when the keepers of the temple ask the reason for her journey, she says, “I am in love with her.”

“You have been touched,” one says, and bows to her upon entry. “You have as long as the goddess is willing to give you.”

The heavy doors close, but the room shimmers, firelight glittering over golden-accented walls. A large moon is carved into the marble floor, crossing over a sun. Before her is the largest, most intricately carved statue of Blake she’s ever seen, and it looks exactly like her.

Yang kneels.

“You know,” Blake says from behind her, “you don’t have to do that anymore.”

“No,” Yang says. “But it - it’s been a long journey. And I’m only here because of you.”

Blake’s footsteps echo, her boots stopping at the north point of the sun. “How do you feel?”

It’s enough to make Yang smile. “I know you heard me,” she says pointedly, but her amusement is apparent. “You hear everything I say.”

“I thought I’d give you the chance to tell me yourself.”

For the last time, Yang rises to her feet. Blake’s eyes glitter, mischievous and playful. She looks as she always has, but clearer, somehow; defined and resolute. She carries the truth in the way she extends a hand, in the way she searches for Yang’s mouth. When they kiss, Yang swears she can see another world.

“I’ll tell you something better,” Yang says. “The truth.”

She leans down, bumps their foreheads together. Blake’s arms loop around her neck automatically. Oh, Yang thinks, if I were the god of anything, I’d want it to be habits.

“So what’s the truth?” Blake asks.

“The truth,” Yang says unshakably, “is that it was you. I woke up with no memory and a note, and somehow, I knew I had to find you. The only thing I’ve been searching for is you.”

It’s you, she says. It’s you. You. You.

“God,” Blake says, and this time God is ready for her.

“Blake Belladonna,” God says, and inclines their head. “Come. Show me what you have.”

In her hands is a small slip of paper, worn and ripped around the edges. “It is a note,” she says, and unfolds it gingerly. “It is a note, God, in my handwriting.”

“And what does it say?” they ask.

“Find me,” Blake recites, “and I promise I’ll bring you home.”

“Well,” God says whimsically, “you are the Goddess of Promises.”

Tears build in the corners of her eyes, shipwrecks gaining water. “Yang,” Blake whispers, and now that she is close, she can see everything. Meteors falling from their showers; the day the sun went out. “Yang. I’m sorry. I’m so, so--”

“Shh,” Yang murmurs, pressing her lips into Blake’s hair. “What are you apologizing for? I found you, and you brought me home.”

“Oh, this is exciting,” God says. “I so rarely get to come to Remnant on business.”

“God,” Yang says, and bows her head. The temple doors remain locked; Blake’s hand is clutched tightly in her own. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you, Yang Xiao Long,” says God. “You fell in the last war, over five-hundred years ago. Do you remember this?”

“Yes,” she says. “I was trying to protect my sister.”

“And what happens when a god falls?”

“We forget them,” Blake says. “Their power is forfeit; they are erased from our memories, and our world.”

“It is not a law of justice, but a law of reality,” God says. “Or it was, previously. Only you did not forget immediately, Blake Belladonna. I did not know it was possible for two souls to be so intrinsically bound that they leave traces in the other, but you did not forget, just long enough to leave her a message. It took five hundred years for Yang to fall to earth, and when she awoke, she did not forget, either.

“Gods are made, and this means that what we are gods of can change,” they continue. “Blake, you were not previously the Goddess of Death. You became it because you believed that Yang had died, and no god had as strong a connection to loss as you. Your power became a beacon, just as it now will be a beacon for Remembrance.

“And you, Yang Xiao Long,” God says. “Goddess of the Sun, of Loyalty, of Sacrifice. You were many things. And now you are the Goddess of Rebirth.”

#Anonymous #bumbleby #rwby fic prompts #rwby fic

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majestyeverlasting · 3 years ago

Note

Hi! Congrats on your one month tumblr anniversary!! Could you please do prompts 30 and 49 with tfatws!bucky x reader? Thank you!

♡ Hi! Thank you so much!! I've been taking my time with these requests in hopes of making each of them special, so I appreciate your patience. In this one, Bucky and the reader travel down to Delacroix, Louisiana to meet up with Sam, Sarah, and the boys at a nice vacation rental on the lake. There's road trip vibes and reunion vibes with cute moments sprinkled in throughout. I hope you enjoy!

♡ Prompt 30: "How many of my hoodies have you snatched up at this point, hmm?"

♡ Prompt 49: "I've never noticed these freckles on your back."

♡ To make a request for my One Month Tumblr-versary, check out my Fluffy Prompt List :)

I Can Feel It Too

Moment after moment, the world outside passed by in a colorful blur; everything from cityscapes, to green pastures, to the low, rolling mountains of the Appalachian. Evening had fallen, and the two of you were approximately two hours away from Delacroix. As you gazed out the passenger window, the clouds above appeared to be rosy as the sun crept further towards the horizon. Bucky’s hand rested on your thigh as he drove, a pair of sunglasses perched on his head. You guys had been taking turns driving the entire way.

Upon reaching the halfway point the previous night, the two of you had booked a hotel room to rejuvenate before setting back out for second day of traveling. Despite how endless the journey had grown to seem, nothing beat being on the road with Bucky. Perhaps, it would’ve been easier to hop on a plane, but there was an undeniable intimacy to only having the road and each other for miles on end.

A few weeks prior, Sam had told him that he was going to Louisiana come the end of the month. That’s what sparked the idea of meeting him there. It had been a while since the two men had seen each other, and even longer since Bucky had been around the community he carried so much gratitude for. The people of Delacroix had lifted his spirits and made him feel at home when he needed it the most. So after you and Bucky confirmed that you’d be driving down as well, Sam booked a vacation rental to accommodate everyone.

Looking away from the pink clouds, you began to play with Bucky’s fingers. There were a couple of rings adorning them—rings you had gotten him. You twisted them idly. For the longest time, the only “jewelry” he wore were his dog tags. You insisted that he started wearing other small pieces, so he wore the rings to appease you. They looked good on him. Enough so that he grew to like them himself after a while.

You brought his hand to your lips and kissed over his knuckles. “Love you,” you spoke into his skin.

He briefly looked over at you. “Love you too, doll.”

The sound of the tires spinning against the asphalt eventually lulled you into a dreamless sleep. Bucky no longer had anyone to talk or point things out to, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind. Especially if it meant that you’d be getting some extra rest. He simply listened to the soft music playing from the stereo and watched the scenery continue to shift. Later, when more marshy bodies of water began to appear alongside the road, it was evident that you two had made it into Delacroix.

When your eyes fluttered open, it was darker than before. The headlights were illuminating a dirt driveway that winded towards a colonial-style home. A few of the curtained windows glowed with warm light coming from the inside. There were also a couple of lights on the porch to prevent the property from looking too dim.

Upon getting closer, Bucky slowed the vehicle to a stop, and cut the engine with a sigh. Then, he looked over at you with a small smile. “We made it,” he said softly.

You returned his smile. “We made it.”

The front door of the house opened when the two of you got out of the car and began stretching. A familiar face appeared, and his voice pierced the symphony of chirping bugs. “Aye! The Brooklyn crew’s here!”

“What’s up, man?” Bucky called back. You gave a happy wave.

Sam jogged over and pulled Bucky into a hug, patting him on the back. Then he wrapped you in a more gentle embrace, giving you a squeeze. He was warm and smelled earthy. The night air was crisp and there was a pleasant stillness to being out in the woods.

Sam shook his head as he looked over the two of you. “It’s been too long.”

“Tell me about it.” Bucky ran a hand through his hair. Then his gaze turned curious, more genuine. “How’ve you been?”

“Good, man. You know I can’t complain,” he said, nodding along with his words. “How ‘bout you two?”

Bucky pulled you closer to his side. “Never better, thanks to this one.”

“Ditto,” you said. That earned a laugh from them.

“But, for real though,” Bucky continued. “I don’t think I’ve ever been better.” You gave a hum of agreement.

“I’m really glad to hear that,” Sam said. A couple seconds passed before he clapped his hands together. “Well, let me go ahead and help y’all bring your stuff inside. You guys probably wanna turn in early tonight.” He looked between you and Bucky with a smile. “I know that drive from New York was no joke.”

“It definitely felt like forever,” you agreed, laughing. “But it feels so good to finally be here.”

Sam sighed. “Well, hey. We appreciate you guys for making the trip. It’s gonna be a chill two weeks,” he promised. “Sarah’s making breakfast in the morning and we’re gonna eat out back on the lake. It’s gonna be great.”

Upon entering the house with your bags and suitcases, you and Bucky were greeted by Sarah, AJ, and Cass, who had been awaiting you in the living room. They’d already changed into their pajamas. A loving round of hello’s and hugs were exchanged. In the background, a cartoon show that the boys had been watching ran quietly. The interior of the house was furnished beautifully with neutral tones and pops of bolder colors.

“I’m so glad you two made it in alright,” Sarah said afterwards. “I’ll go ahead and show you which room is yours.”

The bedroom was at the back of the house with a view of the lake. The pale moonlight reflected in the water with a sparkle. Later, after everyone had retreated to their own rooms for the night, and you and Bucky were alone, you gazed out at it. He came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist.

“Isn’t it pretty?” You asked.

“Mhm.” He pressed a kiss to the shell of your ear. “Wait a minute…”

“What?” You turned around to face him. His eyes looked over you.

“Is this mine?” He gently pulled the drawstrings of the dark gray hoodie you were wearing. You had dug it out of your suitcase to ride out the slight chill passing through the house. Someone had set the AC a notch too low.

Bucky didn’t seem to mind the temperature, however. He had yet to pair a shirt with his black basketball shorts.

“It’s yours,” you admitted, giving him a playful bat of your eyelashes.

He cupped your chin with his real hand. “How many of my hoodies have you snatched up at this point, hmm?” You couldn’t help a little laugh. And you were humming a second later when he leaned in to kiss you.

“I don’t know,” you said after he pulled away. “I had to pack at least one of them. They’re cozy and they smell like you.”

“And I bet it’s never gonna find its way back onto my side of the closet.” He tapped your nose.

You grabbed his hand and kissed his finger. “It might.”

“We’ll see about that, pretty girl.” You watched as he went to start pulling back the covers on the bed in preparation for you two going sleep. The comforter was a deep olive that matched the color of the abstract leaf painting that hung over the wooden headboard.

When he finished, he laid horizontally across the bed, letting his head fall lax. “Mmm. It's as comfy as it looks,” he murmured. “M’gonna sleep so good tonight.”

You crawled onto the bed to lay beside him. It was extremely comfortable. When he gave you a tired smile, you propped yourself up and began tracing sweeping lines along his broad back. His muscles relaxed even more beneath your touch. You smiled when your fingers came to a particular place near the bottom of his spine.

“Aww,” you cooed. Bucky lifted his brows. “I’ve never noticed these freckles on your back before.” You brushed your fingertips over the tiny brown spots.

“Surprise,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes, but smiled wider. “You’re annoying,” you quipped lightheartedly. A comfortable silence settled between the two of you for a few moments. The sound of the bugs chirping outside was faint but audible. Finally, you said, “Being here is gonna be so much fun. I can already feel it.”

“I can feel it too.”

#bucky barnes #bucky x female reader #bucky fluff #bucky x reader #bucky barnes imagine #sebastian stan #winter soldier #tfaws bucky #fatws bucky #marvel #marvel fic #tfaws fic

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titan-fodder · 4 years ago

Text

Prima Vista Part I

Rating: E (explicit; mdni) Pairing: Mike Zacharias x fem!reader wc: ~ 9.7k Warnings: dubious consent (because of alcohol), just copious amounts of sex, oral, squirting, 69ing, college shenanigans, obnoxious frat boys, terrible fashion choices A/N: At long last, here we have the beginning. Massive thanks to @pleasantanathema and @whats-her-quirk who have been cheering for me since I told them I wanted to right a “little college AU” for a “little collab” June and I have been planning for a while. Also, I don’t know where I’d be without Lauren’s fraternity knowledge, so extra thanks for that, babe. I hope everyone has as much fun with this fic as I did.

God, you hate frat boys.

Their sense of entitlement, all their fucking house pride. Brother this, brother that. It's annoying. Add in the factors of being an athlete on top of it, and they're downright insufferable.

So it makes absolutely no sense that you're at a fucking Pi Kappa Alpha party.

Your friend, Hitch, dragged you here (naturally), and it wasn't like you could really object considering she's the only real friend you have on campus. You study together and switch off between dorms to watch movies and bitch about classes. She's the complete opposite of you in many different ways, but you soul-bonded over biology and that was that.

Unfortunately, Hitch decided she would leave you to your own devices almost immediately, opting to skip over to a game of beer pong and flirt with a boy in her statistics class. You have no idea why considering he has a fucking bowl cut, but she's been talking about him for weeks now.

The party is filled with loud music and too many people with red solo cups. There's no way they're all of age, so you're already paranoid that the cops are gonna raid the place, but there's nothing you can do besides leave. It's a tempting thought.

Before you can, though, there's an uproar in the kitchen, and curiosity gets the best of you. Moving from your place against the wall, you make your way over to peek in and see what's going on. A large group of frat boys, what you think are sorority girls, and whoever else wants to join are raising their cups to cheer. An especially loud voice rings out above the rest, "One win down, eleven more to go!"

Claps and supportive shouts are nearly deafening.

"I think we can do it! Do you think we can do it?"

More cheers, more hollers.

"Let's hear it for UC lacrosse!"

You have to cover your ears this time. Should have known this party was to celebrate the win earlier that day.

When the crowd parts, you see the ringleader, Erwin Smith who is very well-known on campus for three reasons: he will talk your ear off about history if given the chance, he's irritatingly gorgeous, and he will fuck any pretty girl with a pulse.

Again—you fucking hate frat boys.

To ease your bad mood and possibly encourage you to have some semblance of a good time, you shuffle further into the kitchen to grab a drink. You feel a little exposed, not dressed like many of the other girls who are either in rompers or the classic sorority chick outfit (giant college shirts that cover their shorts). You are in a crop top, torn shorts, and a floral cardigan. Not your best outfit, not your worst.

There's no way you're touching any of the pre-poured cups or the jungle juice, opting for an unopened can of mediocre beer.

You feel someone approach you from behind, glance over your shoulder to see nothing but a broad chest covered by a fucking hawaiian shirt.

Craning your neck, you're met with another familiar face, one Mike Zacharias known as 1) Erwin's best friend, 2) one of the tallest guys on campus, and 3) the best lacrosse player on the team.

You haven't spoken a single word to him but that doesn't stop him from grinning at you, flipping shaggy hair from his face, and chanting a low, "Shotgun, shotgun, shotgun!"

"Are you god damn joking me?" You ask with a raised eyebrow.

"Hell no!"

"I have shotgunned a beer literally once in my life, and at least half of it ended up on my shirt."

"That's alright," Mike's smile shrinks to a smirk. "We're all about getting chicks wet in Pike."

Face falling, you scoff, "Yeah, okay, I'm leaving."

You sidestep him, cracking open the beer, but he follows close behind you. It makes a little bit of fear spike in your gut—everyone knows the horror stories that accompany many fraternities—but you're mostly just annoyed.

"Hey, what's your name again?"

Again. As if you've actually formally met before.

"Why do you care?"

Mike does not hesitate when he answers, "'Cause you look like you're having a shit time here, and I'd like to change that."

You roll your eyes, let your head loll over your shoulder to look at him again. If you're being honest with yourself, he's kind of extremely hot with his undercut and flippy hair, not to mention the stubble that's grown out just enough to make you think thoughts for a split second.

"A noble cause," you quip. "Truly."

He chuckles, watching too closely as you take a sip of your beer.

"So? Name?"

After too big of a swallow, you answer him, and light green eyes brighten a little.

"Oh, you're Hitch's friend, right?"

Of course that would be your only identifier on campus. Hitch is insanely pretty and very outgoing. It makes sense that people just know you as her tag-along.

It doesn't stop you from feeling slightly offended, though.

"Yeah, and you're Erwin's friend, right?"

"Among other things," he snorts. "Mike Zacharias." He holds out a massive hand that you eye before taking, figure you shouldn't be too much of a bitch and make a bad impression on the most highly regarded frat at the college.

"I know who you are, dude. Not many people don't."

"Aw, flatterer."

That grin is back on his face, lopsided and far too charming, and you definitely need to get away from him before you down a couple more beers.

"Freshman?" He pries, and somehow you wind up at the staircase, leaning against the wall and praying he'll just stand beside you instead of caging you in.

He does, and you let out a breath of relief.

"Sophomore."

His eyebrows shoot up for a second. "Fuck, you've made it through a whole year flying under my radar?"

You give him a wholly unimpressed look. "Wow, you really know what to say to a girl, don't you?"

"That came off as shitty, sorry. I just mean, like, you're super cute. Feel like I would have committed you to memory if I'd seen you."

Your face heats up probably more than it ever has in your life, but you still snap, "We haven't had a single class together, I never go to your games, and this is the first Pike party I've been to."

Mike nods. "Ah, that explains it. Just haven't given anyone a chance to notice you."

"Sure, let's go with that."

Another several sips. You hiss at the taste, and Mike laughs.

"Can't handle beer?"

"Can't handle shitty beer."

"Ouch. Want me to grab you something else?"

He really doesn't seem to understand the warnings all girls have heard over the years. That, or he just doesn't care. You don't know him well enough to pass that kind of judgement.

"Uh, no. I always make my own drinks at parties."

"That's understandable." Except it isn't. He doesn't have a clue.

"Well, you can go grab one, and I'll just finish this one for you. Don't want it to go to waste."

It's your turn to smirk now. "That desperate to swap spit, Zacharias?"

"Like this?" He laughs through his nose. "Nah. But I can think of other ways."

"We've been talking for literally two minutes."

"I'm perfectly capable of making decisions in two minutes."

"Not any good ones obviously."

Tilting his head, Mike thinks out loud, "Can't tell if that's an insult aimed at me or yourself."

"Take it however you want. I don't really care."

His eyes glint with amusement. There's no way you're escaping this any time soon.

Long, thick fingers close around the top of your can, and he gently tugs it out of your hand then keeps those eyes locked with yours as he takes a sip.

"Gross." You try to keep the teasing tone from your voice.

"Just go get another drink."

You actually listen, mostly to get away from him but also because you could go for something easier to stomach.

A game of King's Cup is going on in the kitchen, a five obviously being drawn because everyone suddenly pantomimes holding a steering wheel. It's surprisingly fun to watch, so you post up next to the counter after mixing orange and pineapple juice with rum.

"Four's whores!"

"Categories! Different beers!"

"Seven heaven!"

"Ayyy, waterfall!"

You shake your head as everyone drinks for way too long. Some people are already swaying in circles where they're sitting. Others are simply red-faced.

"Wanna play?"

"Jesus! You came outta nowhere."

Mike looks too smug for your liking, but doesn't say anything, just crushes the empty can in his hand and throws it into the trashcan next to the back door, all gooseneck and perfect arch.

"Let me guess—you're reigning champ at beer pong."

"Nah," he waves you off. "That's Erwin and Nile. King's Cup however…"

"King's Cup isn't even a competition. It's just flipping cards and getting fucked up."

"Well, yeah, but it's still fun."

You let out a heavy sigh, eyes still trained on the game going on, then concede, "Once this one is over, I'll play. Just to get you off my back." And because he won't have the chance to talk to you for the duration of the game.

"Excellent."

You manage to finish your drink by the time the round ends, have to rush to make another as Mike strides over to the table and steals the two seats that have been vacated. They're right across from each other. You don't know if you'd prefer that or just sitting next to him so he can't stare at you.

Sauntering over, you plop down and place your drink in front of you. The guy to your right is quick to introduce himself with hooded eyes and a self-assured smile. You give him basically the same treatment that you've been giving Mike, making him pout and turn away as a freckled girl deals out the cards.

It's fast paced, and you find yourself drinking more than you'd planned. Mike picks you as his buddy (of course), and the guy next to you makes everyone drink for nearly thirty seconds straight when he pulls an ace.

Still, you find yourself laughing as people scream and curse. You catch eyes with Mike often, and as you finish your second drink, he begins looking very attractive. More attractive than before. So attractive that you allow him to pour your third cup.

"If you roofied this, I'm gonna be real upset with you," you tell him just before taking a sip. He added more rum than you did, but that doesn't surprise you.

"Hey, one of Pike's virtues is being a gentleman."

As soon as he says it, about seven people around the table shout, "Pi Kappa Alpha!" like some kind of sports team, and you roll your eyes so hard it hurts.

You're drunk after this game. And, then you make another drink and get plastered. Meandering around the rest of the party, bodies begin to blur together, the music fades in and out, and you barely know what you're saying to Mike anymore as he follows you close behind in the same state. For every drink you've had, he's had two, and now he's walking around with a cup full of jungle juice nodding at his brothers, smiling at all the girls who look at him.

His room is downstairs unlike most of the others, right at the end of the hallway. It makes it far too easy to end up inside, but as soon as the door closes and his huge hands find your hips, your world disappears entirely.

The first thing you feel when you wake up is a nauseating pounding in your head. The second is a very large body behind you.

God dammit, you think, trying to recall the events of the night before.

Pi Kappa Alpha. Hitch left you, so you hung out with… Mike Zacharias? From the lacrosse team?

Frowning, you try to look over your shoulder, but all you can really see is a head of hair. However, you can feel the coarseness of his beard against your bare shoulder, and that's enough to solidify that it is indeed Mike behind you.

Shifting some brings more of your physical state to your attention—your naked chest under the blanket, the way your legs are pressed together, your pussy between your thighs… swollen? Jesus, what did he do to you last night? You can also feel something dry and crusty on your stomach which is both disgusting and relieving. At least he had enough sense to pull out.

Luckily, his arm isn't wrapped around you which makes it much easier to sit up on your elbow. It takes you a while to locate your clothes around the room from where you are, and even then, all you can find are your shorts, shoes, and bra. You peer around, trying not to groan at the headache threatening to make you black the fuck out all over again, but that pounding as well as the nauseating churning of your stomach is making it difficult.

You slide out of the bed, basically crawling to the little pile of discarded clothes. As you fumble with fastening your bra, you glance around one more time in search of your shirt and cardigan, but it’s no use. What you do see, however, is the obnoxious Hawaiian shirt Mike had been wearing the night before, and well… You’d rather not leave the Pike house topless, so…

Snatching it off the floor, you slip your arms through the giant sleeves and somehow manage to button up about half of it. Then, you’re flying out the door, desperate to be in your own dorm, curled over your own toilet, in your own clothes.

Oh, thank god his room wasn’t upstairs, you praise, trying to remember the way to the front door. There are numerous bodies and tipped over cups to navigate through, and you cringe at the various odors that assault your senses.

You see the door from across the room, so close and getting closer as you try not to trip over anything, but as you pass the kitchen, you hear a smooth, familiar voice greet, “Good morning,” in a smug way.

Erwin is leaning against a counter, smirking over a steaming cup of coffee. He’s wearing only sweatpants, his hair is a little mussed, and for a split second, you understand why he pulls so many girls.

Still, you roll your eyes and continue moving—a classic DNE situation, but the frat boy doesn’t seem to get the message, instead calling out, “Nice shirt!”

“Fuck off, Smith,” is the only thing you utter before leaving, slamming the door behind you.

Mike easily catches the frisbee that spins directly at his face then quickly throws it back to try and catch Nile off guard. It works, and the brunet curses and has to go running after the flying disc.

A few girls watching from the nearby fountain clap and yell his name, wriggling fingers in a wave as if he can actually see that far away. Mike gives one wave of his own hand then turns back to the grass where Nile is jogging back to his place.

“You did that on purpose, you asshole!” He spits.

Mike shrugs his shoulders, yells back, “Get better at frisbee, and you won’t have this problem!”

Nile throws the plastic so hard that it flies off toward the fountain, making all those girls scream and dive for cover.

“Yeah, I’m not getting that,” Mike shakes his head. Nile drags his fingers down his angular face before setting off on yet another trek, apologizing profusely then standing around to flirt like usual.

Blowing hair out of his face, Mike considers joining his brother, but before he can, he sees a familiar figure turning on the sidewalk, about to pass the fountain and head toward Hartley Hall.

His feet are moving before he really registers it, glad his long legs can carry him quickly even at a walk. Mike calls out when he’s a couple yards away, and you turn to him, eyes growing wide before you start to move faster.

He can just barely make out the words, “Nope. Not doing this,” and chuckles, catching up the rest of the way.

“Hey, chill, I just wanna talk.”

You turn to look at him, head tilted up, squinting against the sun, and Mike has never been more thankful for his height because you look so god damn cute all small and irritated with him.

“What is there to talk about? I don’t even remember anything.”

“Yeah, neither do I,” he says, lacing fingers together behind his head. “Shame.”

“Whatever.”

Mike tries and fails to hide a snort, nods at Nile as you both pass him and the gaggle of girls surrounding him. Mike has no doubt his friend will get at least one phone number out of it, if not all of them.

“Did you at least have a good time before you blacked out?” He ventures.

You shrug your shoulders, hitch your backpack up a little higher. “Maybe. But, if I was just around you the whole time, probably not.”

“Aw, come on! What did I ever do to you?”

“You need a list?”

Mike nods. “Would probably help.”

“For brevity's sake, I’ll just say that you started the night trying to get a literal stranger to shotgun a beer and ended the night fucking said stranger and… Not holding back, apparently.” Mike frowns, about to ask what you mean by that, but you elaborate before he can. Voice dropping, you question, “Do you have any idea how fucking sore I’ve been for the last few days? What the fuck do you even have hidden in those stupid shorts?”

“I’d be happy to show you again.” He grins sideways, and when you shoot him a venomous look, he figures it’s time to change the subject. “Anyway, I may have done that and more, but you’re the thief.”

“Excuse me?”

Mike tries to sound nonchalant as he accuses, “Stole my shirt and everything." Honestly, he's a little upset that he didn’t actually get to see you wearing it.

“I—”

“That’s my favorite shirt, you know?”

You laugh. Finally. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“That shirt is fucking heinous, okay? You’re lucky I didn’t burn it.”

“Does that mean I can have it back?”

You make a little noise in your throat, something between a grumble and a growl, but you check your phone and tell him, “Fine. My next class isn’t for another couple of hours, so just…Follow me.”

It takes immense effort to not skip to your dorm like a little kid, but Mike is excited. He’s not gonna try anything weird, but just seeing your space? He’ll be able to get a better feel for you. So far, all he knows is that you live and breathe sarcasm and can’t handle your liquor well. It’s enough to get him a little more than interested, but it’s not enough to go off of.

The two of you gain a few looks as you make your way through the shared study space of the dormitory, heads turning, eyebrows raising in recognition. No one should be all that surprised; it’s not like Mike and Erwin haven’t frequented a lot of these rooms.

You lead him down a hallway, and Mike looks at all the little dry-erase intro boards hanging outside of every door. He’s a little surprised to see that the one by yours isn’t blank. Your name is written in bubble letters, surrounded by little hearts, and when you catch him looking at it, you’re quick to tell him, “Hitch.”

“Ah. Of course.”

He follows you inside, staying by the door to not invade too much of your space, but he doesn’t even try to be subtle as he looks around the small room. Pennant for the college hung up over a cork bulletin board that’s a mess of photos and sticky notes. Cluttered desk with just enough of it cleared to fit a laptop. Tiny succulents on the window sill. Double bed covered in a quilt. And there, in the open closet, Mike catches sight of his shirt—pastel pink and littered with palm trees.

After dropping your backpack on your bed, you step over to the hanging clothes and grab it, muttering, “Ridiculous,” as you hand it over.

Mike laughs as he slings it over his shoulder. “You know what’ll make you hate it even more?” You quirk an eyebrow, probably doubting that anything could, but your entire face falls when he informs you, “I have matching shorts to go with it.”

“No you do not.”

“Definitely do.”

“That should be a crime. You should be arrested.”

He chuckles, has a retort on the tip of his tongue, but something catches his eye—a bookshelf tucked away in the corner by your bed overflowing with novels and knick-knacks. Mike sees a particularly thick paperback, recognizing the black background and small desert picture on the spine.

“Bro!” He walks over, plants a hand in the middle of your mattress, and reaches for it. “Is this fucking Dune?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“This is, like, my favorite book, dude.”

“Seriously?” You sound just as disbelieving as you do disinterested.

Mike begins flipping through it, scanning over highlighted passages as he nods. “I have the whole series back home, but I only brought this one and Messiah with me to college.”

He straightens up but keeps a knee on the edge of the bed, and you plop down to sit on it, watching him closely as he continues to look over the notes scribbled in the margins.

“I had to read it in high school," you tell him. "Then my cousin gave me a lot of the books after I talked with him about it one time. I haven’t gotten around to reading them, though.”

“You really should,” Mike urges. “I mean, I know you probably have a shit ton of reading for classes, but if you ever get the chance, you should at least read the next two.”

“You some kind of closet nerd, Zacharias?”

“Kinda,” he admits, putting the book back on the shelf only to grab a worn copy of Fellowship of the Ring. “I mean, Erwin and a few others are well aware, but I don’t really broadcast it.”

“Not good for the cool guy image?”

“Nah, people are just more interested in other things,” he mumbles, eyes fixed on the tiny print.

“Mike Zacharias,” his gaze flicks to you as you laugh quietly. “Lacrosse god and big fucking geek.”

He closes the book and uses it to lightly hit you on the top of the head with it. You half-heartedly smack him right in his abs only to push against the muscle harder and ask, “Jesus Christ, what do you have under there?”

“You know, that’s the second time you’ve asked what I have under my clothes,” he points out, a little too satisfied. “Better watch out, or I’m gonna start getting ideas.”

You huff, but your hand is definitely still on his stomach, unmoving but warm through his shirt. Mike told himself he wouldn’t do anything weird once he got here, but you’re already on the bed and touching him, and he’d kind of really like to have this particular experience while sober, so he very slowly takes your wrist and moves it away.

It makes you look up at him, a question dancing in your eyes as your lips part. Mike makes sure his own stare conveys everything he’s thinking, wishes he could just transplant his thoughts into your brain so that he can put you a little more at ease around him.

You’re onto him, though, tugging your hand from his grip and blinking a few times. He figures you’re about to point to the door and tell him to take his fucking Hawaiian shirt and leave.

Instead, you pull on the fabric covering his ribs so that he loses his balance and has to catch himself before crashing into you. It puts his face level with yours, and you take the opportunity to kiss him—hard, desperate, and a little confused judging by the way you’re frowning.

Mike grunts, holding himself up with the arm on the side of your hips then uses the other to slide under the thigh closest to him and pull you further onto the bed. He’s straddling you in no time, up on his knees so that he doesn’t crush you.

Hearing the sound of shoes hitting the ground, he tugs his shirt off over his head, and then he’s curling over you again. Your mouths grow slick with spit. He slides his tongue past your lips, and you arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair. Mike pushes you back down so that he can strip you down to your bra and panties then takes the time to rid himself of his shoes and shorts.

“Oh, fuck,” he hears you breathe, and when he glances up at you, he finds you staring at what he knows is an intimidatingly large bulge under his boxer briefs. “It makes sense now—the soreness.”

Mike chuckles, slots his forearms on either side of your head and mutters, “Yeah, sorry about that.”

You lick his lips and he bites yours, bodies clashing together as he grinds himself against your covered pussy. Eventually Mike is able to snake a hand down your body, making sure to brush over your ribs so that you squirm beneath him. Fuck, he already loves the way you squirm. And, when he moves your panties to the side and teases your little hole, already wet just from making out, Mike discovers that he loves the way you moan too.

He’s slow as he pushes a finger in, groaning when you clench around it. Pumping it in and out, he gently works you open and wonders if he was courteous enough to do this the other night. He hopes he was.

You spread your legs for him, start bucking into his hand, especially when he hits that special spot inside you.

“Fuck, fuck, fu—” You grab his face, bringing it close to yours again so that you can muffle curses against his lips.

When Mike adds a second finger, your jaw drops, and you start to tremble.

“Too much?” He asks.

You shake your head, stutter a breathy, “N-no. Just—ah—slow. Go slow.”

He moves to suck on your neck, promising, “I will.”

Mike waits until you’re dripping into his palm and spread about as widely as you can be underneath him. Then, and only then does he shimmy out of his underwear and question, “Condom?”

“Bookshelf,” you huff. “In the jewelry box.”

When he opens it, a little ballerina spins, and Mike has to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. “That’s twisted.”

“Shut up.”

He grabs one of the gold packages and tears it open, then rolls the latex over his cock and discards the wrapper somewhere.

Mike only gives you his tip first, sits right inside your entrance so that you can squeeze him and get used to the feeling before he pushes in any more. You barely shift your hips back and forth, like an experiment. It’s just enough for Mike to see slick coating the end of the condom, and he nearly starts drooling.

He presses in a little more, appreciates the way your eyes roll into the back of your head, then adds one more inch.

“Jesus Christ.” Your breaths are coming in short gasps, words slurring together. He’s not even halfway in, and you’re already fucked out.

Your cunt is spasming around him, and Mike tries to get you to relax more by lightly rubbing your clit with the pad of his thumb.

You leak around him, pussy slowly but surely opening up a little more so that he can slide in further. He gives a few shallow thrusts that make you whine, then reaches up to grab one of your pillows which only sends him deeper.

“God dam—”

Mike lifts you and shoves the pillow under your hips, smiles in a way he’s pretty sure you hate, then jokes, “Better to fuck you with, my dear.”

“In...sufferable…” The annoyed tone is lost when you cry out. Mike buries himself as far as he can without hurting you. He isn’t quite balls deep, but you feel so fucking good that he doesn’t even mind.

Starting a steady rhythm that has every upthrust dragging over your g-spot, Mike watches through foggy eyes as your mouth opens and closes, chest rising with stuttering breaths before you exhale and moan. He dips his thumb between your folds to gather a little bit of slick and return it to your clit. The circular motion makes you arch again, and Mike abandons the little bud for just a moment so that he can unclasp your bra and pull it off. The sight of your tits bouncing in time with his thrusts almost does him in, but he holds back, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to gather himself.

You’re just clamping around him so perfectly, pussy drooling and creaming on his cock, and Mike is not a quickshot, but for you—

He pulls out all at once, flips you so that you’re on hands and knees, then spreads you open to lick into you from behind.

“Holy—”

Mike’s cock is throbbing where it bobs against his stomach, but he can ignore it for the most part, focused on eating you out, sucking at your messy lips then dragging the flat of his tongue over your hole. He moves his face back and forth, wants to leave his mark on you in the form of stubble burn between your legs.

“Mike, Mike, fuck, please.”

He’s positive you can’t actually hear him when he teases, “Please what?” right into the crevice of your ass.

You growl, push against him, and swallow enough pride to beg, “Please fuck me.”

Biting his lip, Mike straightens up enough to watch his fingers disappear into your pussy. One, two, then a third that makes your messy entrance stretch for him. He lowers his face again, feather light licks around your sensitive hole, and when he twists his wrist so that he can tap on your spot, you come immediately.

A mixture of slick and squirt drips from your cunt and soaks into your quilt. Mike pushes more out as he continues to finger fuck you, humming at the way your arms give out and you fall against the mattress.

This is the perfect position for him. He replaces his wet fingers with his cock and ruts into you quickly, chasing after his own impending orgasm. Pretty little whimpers fall from your lips, fuck drunk as you babble, “Oh, god, Mike, Mike, fuck…”

He’s gripping your hips too tightly, pulling you back against him, shoving his cock deeper and deeper until he finally comes with a shudder and a low groan.

Mike pants for a few seconds, then leans down to press a few kisses to your spine, but instead of the usual happy sighs he gets from most girls, you just roll your shoulders and mutter, “Stop that.”

He does, then pulls out, takes a second to stare at your pussy—worked open from his size and still dripping. It would make a very pretty picture, but Mike wouldn’t dare try that with you.

You roll onto your back, a huff of air leaving your lungs as you scrub a hand over your face then tilt your head to him. It looks like you have something to say, but you just chew on your bottom lip, eyes moving from Mike to the door.

And, he can take a hint. You don’t have to say it.

With a self-deprecating snort, he pulls the condom off, tying it then tossing it into the trashcan by your bed.

“Yeah, okay,” he nods. “Let me just…” Mike tugs his clothes back on, kindly tosses you your top so that you can cover yourself like you obviously want to.

He makes sure to grab the Hawaiian shirt that brought him here in the first place, tossing it over his shoulder then striding to the door.

Chancing one more glance at you, you force a smile and try to pad his bruised ego. “Don’t worry, it was good. You were good. It’s just not gonna happen again.”

Mike fights a smirk, raises a hand in a wave, then steps out.

Not gonna happen again, he chuckles to himself. Yeah, right.

You don't understand how this keeps happening, how you keep ending up in bed with Mike fucking Zacharias.

This time you had gone to the disgusting bar right off campus, got one whole drink in your system before the familiar trio walked in. They were all in khakis and pastels—Erwin in blue, Nile in yellow, Mike in pink. Again.

You actually slammed your head down on the bartop because despite how basic he looked in his light polo, Mike was still hot.

Is still hot.

Back at the Pi Kappa Alpha house, you're a mess of limbs on his bed. You take immense pleasure in tugging his shirt off, and once his arms are free again, he's lifting the hem of your little skirt and mouthing over your thong.

You're more than tipsy after a couple more drinks but nowhere near as drunk as you were the first night. It hadn't taken much convincing from Erwin for you and Hitch to play pool with them, and when Mike had come up behind you to help you line up your shot, you knew you were a goner.

While he's busy between your legs, you take off your shirt and bra. Green eyes flick up as soon as you toss both articles on to the floor, and without any hesitation, Mike reaches up to grope your tits.

He's clumsy and distracted as he tongues over the warmth pooling in your underwear, squeezing plump flesh and pinching your nipple so that you whine and push your hips further into his face.

Mike groans, just as drunk if not more so. He's messy as he kisses your thighs, nearly rips your thong when he pulls it off of you.

His tongue feels good, too fucking good as he laves over your entrance, soothing an ache that isn't quite there anymore but definitely was a few days ago.

"Taste so fucking good," he grumbles, slurping and sucking and making you squeeze your thighs around his head.

"Okay," you pant. "Okay, okay." You grab him by the hair and lift his head from you, stomach flipping at the sight of the bottom half of his face absolutely covered in slick.

God dammit, why is he so sexy?

Your mouth waters, and the thought of possibly giving him head this time crosses your mind. You're just inebriated enough to stay relaxed, didn't drink to the point of throwing up, and he has gone down on you the last two times so...

Lizard brain taking over, you sit up, tell him to flip over, then start making your way down his body.

Mike grabs you before you can turn to face him, fingers digging into your thighs and pulling you down to sit on his face.

"Fucking—I'm trying to blow you, for Christ's sake."

He moves his head just enough to tell you, "So? You can do that while I do this."

And, he's not wrong. It just means that you're gonna get distracted.

For a while, all you can really do is control your breathing and undulate on top of him, but eventually you fall to your elbows and lick up his shaft from base to tip.

Mike really does have a nice cock—a beautiful cock—bigger than you've ever taken in terms of both length and girth, and veiny in the perfect way. Even his balls make your pussy throb, large and round, the right just slightly bigger than the left and now dripping with saliva as you lower your mouth further and further onto his cock.

The feeling of his tongue buried in your cunt is making you delirious, eyes rolling, muscles going slack as you gurgle around the tip hitting the back of your throat.

Mike groans into you, his legs starting to shake, and you assume in your half aware state that he's trying to not just skull fuck you into oblivion.

You know you're making a mess, both on his face and on his cock. The fingertips that have been holding you open shift, one of them slipping into your clenching hole, and your hips begin to move on their own volition, riding what he'll give you while moving your tongue back and forth.

You've only taken about half of him, doubt you can take any more. He's hot and heavy in your mouth, and when you pull off to breathe, you can taste pre cum on the back of your tongue.

It triggers something in you, makes you raise up and clumsily turn around so that you can work him inside of you.

Mike groans a long, "Fuuuck," and immediately starts thrusting upward.

You're lucky you're as wet as you are, but the burn that comes with getting so stretched out still makes you hiss. You brace yourself on his broad chest, feeling the dampness of sweat forming a sheen on him, and your own body starts to feel too hot.

You had wanted to ride him to feel in control of the situation for once, but you quickly realize it's not gonna happen, Mike gripping your hips and moving you how he sees fit.

He's raw this time, a thought that should scare you, but he feels so good even through the discomfort. Every vein and ridge hits all the sweet spots inside of you, the flared head of his cock smooth as it presses just where you need it to.

You're squirting again—he just seems to be able to fuck it out of you. It's not the high you're looking for, but the release in pressure still feels divine.

Mike seems to enjoy it too because he looks down at where you're connected, swears at the way you gush on his cock, then starts swiping fingers over your clit so quickly it almost hurts.

More fluid leaks from you, and Mike breathes a low, "Come on, baby, come on, 'm gonna fuck you dry tonight."

Hearing him talk like that—his hand rubbing over your overstimulated clit, his thick cock threatening to split you in two—causes heat to travel up your legs and down your arms until it settles in your stomach and floods you.

You cry out, stars and tears behind your eyes as Mike keeps going, taking everything he can from you until he's laying in a huge wet spot in his bed.

He lifts you just in time to shoot cum upward on your chest, white splattering then dripping down in strands to pool on his stomach.

You stare down at him, mouth hanging open and find him looking up at you with the same expression.

It's hands down the best sex you've ever had, but you're not about to tell him that. Instead, you dismount him like the fucking horse he is and stand on weak legs, actually have to lean on the bed for support.

"Just stay the night." His voice is deep and full of gravel. It's entirely too hot.

"Absolutely not." You shake your head, grab your shirt and his boxers then ask, "Where's the nearest bathroom?"

"Down the hall on the right, but you don't have to sneak out the window or anything. Just use the front door if you're tryin’ to run away."

You can't help but snort. Stupid. "I'm not trying to escape, dummy. I just need to pee."

"Oh. Right."

You slip out of the room, hoping it's late enough for everyone to be asleep, but you have no such luck as the door to the bathroom opens and fucking Erwin steps out.

He hums, looking you over for a moment as his lips lift on one side.

"Don't say anything," you grit through your teeth.

He holds his hands up in surrender, chuckles, acting all innocent. "Wasn't going to."

You squint, not believing him for a second, then move around him to get to the bathroom. Before you can shut the door, you hear him mutter, "Another one bites the dust," and consider running out and strangling him.

"Please please please come with me to this game," Hitch begs, her hands clasped together, imploring eyes wide and doe-like.

"No. You have plenty of other friends to go with. You don't need me there."

"But, I want you to be there. It's gonna be such a good match. Rival schools and all that."

You roll your eyes. "Hitch, in all the time you've known me, have you ever seen me give a single fuck about sports?"

"No, but you'll finally get to see Mike and Erwin and Nile play."

"All the more reason not to go."

"Do you not like them or something? Why wouldn't you like them? Everybody likes them!"

She doesn't know, and you don't want her to. She had been too caught up with that Marlowe kid at the party, then was kept busy playing pool with Nile to see you and Mike slip out of the bar together.

It's the only secret you've ever wanted to keep from her. You will take it to the grave.

"I just… I just don't, okay? I get a… Sleazy vibe from all of them."

You really don't. Not exactly. You're not a big fan of the 'fuck-every-chick-on-capus' mentality, but most college boys think like that. Only difference is these three can actually achieve it.

Hitch crosses her arms over her chest and gives you a look you've seen on your mother's face many times, usually when she has a point to prove.

"You know I'm just gonna keep bothering you until you come to one, so why not just get it outta the way?"

And, there's that point.

"Ugh." You know she's right, and you really can't put up with this all semester. "Fine, but I'm gonna bitch the entire time."

Hitch squeals and claps, bouncing where she stands. "Yes! Wouldn't have it any other way."

You dress in school colors, put your hair up so that it won't be on your neck as the sun beats down, then take Hitch's little hatchback to the field. You try to talk her into sitting toward the back of the crowd that's gathered on the bleachers, but she just pulls you to the front without acknowledging your request.

Even with the helmets, you can easily make out who's who, mostly because of their size. Mike and Erwin are doing some kind of pregame ritual where they hit their sticks together, shout something, and chest bump. It's the most alpha thing you've ever fucking seen and makes you question why you ever thought screwing one of them was a good idea.

To be fair, you never really did think it was a good idea. It just kind of happened. Three times.

But, it needs to stop.

You repeat that thought to yourself as you watch Mike sprint across the field and launch the ball into the goal several times. You repeat it as he dances around his opponents with ease, quick footwork until he can throw them off. You repeat it as he stands on the sidelines and takes his helmet off to shake out sweaty hair and squirt water into his mouth.

And, none of it really helps. Mike is pretty incredible on the field, especially with Erwin and Nile backing him up. Everyone in the stands is screaming, yelling their names and chanting. It's a little contagious, you have to admit. You get as far as clapping but refuse to actually cheer.

At some point, Erwin jogs over to the bleachers and waves his arms for everyone to get louder, and they sure do. Even through his helmet, you can see his sparkling white smile, and your own lips curl up as you shake your head at him. Unbelievable. He has all these people at his beck and call.

Erwin has to get back on the field, though, fueled by the crowd like the other nine players. They end up pulling ahead of the other team and finishing the game eleven to seven.

Naturally, Erwin announces a party at the Pike house, and naturally, Hitch drags you to it.

This one is even bigger than the last. It offends every one of your senses—too loud, alcohol permeating the air, bad drinks, worse dancing, and strangers rubbing against you as you pass them.

You give up on your beer before you’re even halfway through with it, just set the can on one of the counters and start milling around. You’d rather be anywhere else but here. Your head hurts from the game earlier, baking in the sun and not drinking enough water. Should’ve taken an Advil… And some Benadryl. Hitch wouldn’t have been able to bring you here if you’d been unconscious.

All of the lacrosse team is there, flanked with guys who won’t stop slapping them on their backs and girls who won’t stop batting their eyes and squeezing their biceps. It’s comical, really, the fairweather trend. There’s no way this would be happening if they’d lost their last three games. Instead, the team would be getting harassed and pestered, not so subtle comments about practicing more and replacing members. You’ve seen it all before.

Leaning against a wall, you watch it all unfold. It’s probably the most entertaining thing at the party other than the group of sorority girls dancing on a table. Things are getting out of hand already, and you would prefer not be here for the aftermath, but just as you're about to leave, Mike breaks away from the group and strides over to you.

“Hey, didn’t expect to see you.” He takes a sip from his cup, smiling around the rim.

You use your usual excuse: “Hitch,” and he nods.

“Right. Did you watch the game today?”

Crossing your arms, you mumble a, “Yes,” that Mike can’t hear but can definitely see.

He beams then asks, “You gonna tell me I played well? ‘Cause I did.” He’s all cocksure and giddy, and it makes your body run hot in a few different ways.

“I don’t think you need anyone else fawning over you,” you say with a condescending laugh.

“You mean you don’t want me to flex for you?”

“I’m leaving. Right now." When you push past him a little too roughly, it causes him to drop his cup, and your shirt is suddenly plastered to your chest and stomach. The white isn’t discolored, which leads you to believe, “Fuck, is this just straight vodka?”

“No, Christ,” he cringes at your wet state, looking genuinely apologetic. “It’s just water. Sorry.”

You scrunch your top up to wring it out, wondering what he’s doing drinking water instead of liquor, but you’re not about to pick on him for staying hydrated.

“It’s fine. I was about to leave anyway.”

He’s quick to stop you with a, “No, don’t. Just… change into one of my shirts or something."

Narrowing your eyes, you contemplate how many ways this can go wrong, how much you should not allow this, and even go as far as accusing, "You're just trying to get me in your room again."

"You wanna stay in a wet shirt?" Not really. "Come on."

He jerks his head toward the hallway, and you end up following him, grumbling the whole time because you swear to God if you end up on your back for him again, you're going to be very upset with yourself.

Mike beelines it for his dresser as soon as you're in the room, much quieter than the rager outside. He digs around in it, flipping all the way to the bottom then pulls out a heather gray tee.

"It'll probably still be a little big, but it's from high school, so you shouldn't drown in it."

He tosses it to you then, to your surprise, turns back to the wall to give you the privacy to change. You eye him the whole time, peeling off your top as well as your bra since it soaked through. His shirt still covers your little shorts, and you assume you look a lot like one of those sorority girls, but it's good enough, has that super soft feeling from being worn too much.

"Thanks. You can, uh… You can turn around now."

Mike looks over his shoulder, like he's making sure you're decent, then turns around fully.

"I was trying to get outta there anyway. Spilling a drink on you was a good excuse."

You open your mouth, choking on a scoff, then ask, "Did you do that on purpose?"

"No! It really was an accident. I'm glad it was just water, but I still feel bad."

You're squinting at him, but now you're curious about something else.

"Why'd you wanna get away from the party?"

Sighing, Mike shows a tired smile. "Honestly, I'm still worn out from the game. I'm already sore and covered in these god damn bruises. I just wanna relax."

"If you're covered in bruises, I can't imagine how the other team feels. You smacked the shit outta some of 'em."

"So, you were watching."

"I may have glanced up once or twice," you lie. "Anyway, why don't you just hide out in here?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "Erwin insisted I show my face, and I didn't want him to give me shit about being a recluse."

You can relate. It's why Hitch drags you everywhere. You wouldn't even leave your dorm for classes if you didn't have to.

Still. "Dude. You're definitely not a recluse. You're fucking everywhere. All the time."

"So? I can get tired too."

He's got a point.

"Can we just chill in here for a while?" He asks you.

"Why do you need me to chill? You basically just said you needed a break from social interaction."

"Yeah, but not all social interaction," he corrects with a small grin. "Please? I've got movies and video games, Zelda and shit."

Again, the contemplation kicks in, all the pros and cons. You know very well what this can (will) lead to, but you also want to escape the party. And, if Hitch whines about you leaving, you can tell her you were there the whole time. Not like it's a lie.

"Fine, but I have some stipulations."

"Oh, do you?"

"I do."

Mike waves a hand for you to go on. "Let's hear 'em then."

Holding up one finger, you tell him, "You have to let me snoop around your room—" he laughs. You lift another finger, "—and we are not, under any circumstances, having sex."

"Deal."

You tilt your head, taken aback at how quick he is to agree. "Wait, seriously?"

"Seriously. Go ahead. I'll pull up Hulu."

You hum, still suspicious, but start making your rounds, taking in photos from what you assume to be the high school soccer team he played on, then a fishing trip with Erwin, a middle-aged couple with a dog, and some pinned up tickets to sporting events he's attended.

He has a bookshelf against a wall, textbooks at eye level, but the top and bottom shelves are filled with sci-fi and fantasy novels that make you smile. His TV is fairly large, big enough to see the picture from his bed which is also sizable and draped with a plush comforter. The last thing that catches your eye is his closet, halfway open and full of jerseys and Polos. A few different pairs of shoes sit at the bottom, but pushed all the way in the corner are a few boxes of fucking Magic the Gathering cards.

"Oh, man. You really are a closet nerd. Like, literally."

"Huh?" Mike looks over at where you're kneeling, realizes what you're looking at and actually sounds self-conscious when he admits, "Yeah, uh, I wasn't joking the other day."

"I've never played—too technical for me—but my friends in high school did."

"There are baseball cards back there too if that makes me any cooler."

"It doesn't," you say bluntly before straightening up and reaching to shut the door to his room. Plopping down on the floor next to him (where he was smart enough to sit), you add, "But even I can admit it's kind of endearing."

"Oh yeah?" He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, that stupid lopsided grin on his too-handsome face.

"Don't get cocky, Zacharias."

"You wouldn't let me if I wanted to."

Both of you agree to a Batman movie, and you make yourself comfortable, kicking your sandals off and leaning against the bed behind you. You're a little too aware of Mike's body beside yours, but you're able to ignore it for the most part, keeping a few inches between your arms and legs. Of course, he still brushes against you when the movie ends and he takes the time to stretch. His shoulders roll, making his shirt strain over his back, and when he holds his arms out, linked at his fingers, you can't help but take a quick look at his bulging biceps.

"Fuck, I'm gonna feel like garbage tomorrow," he complains. You can see the bruises littering his arms, some of them thick lines while others are almost perfectly circular from where he was hit with the end of a lacrosse stick.

"You have any classes?" You ask.

"Just my ten o'clock and three o'clock."

You make a noise of acknowledgement then fall silent. You're not sure how to hold a conversation with him that isn't sarcastic or snippy since you haven't actually done a lot of talking in the first place.

"Sucks," is all you can come up with.

"It's alright. I've probably dealt with worse."

"Probably?"

"Well, nothing really comes to mind, but I'm sure I have."

You should get going. It's late, and you have a nine AM tomorrow. Plus, the longer you sit next to Mike, the more ideas pop up in your head. Dirty ideas. Ideas that will leave you disappointed in yourself.

"Well, I'm gonna head back. This has been…" You're unsure of what word to use, don't want to get his hopes up by saying 'fun'.

Mike figures you out and offers, "Tolerable?"

"Yeah, we can go with that. I'll get your shirt back to you sometime soon."

Mike chuckles and gets to his feet. "Just whenever you can." He grabs your wet top from the ground and holds it out to you, then reaches for the door as you slip on your sandals.

You feel him close behind you, close enough for his chest to push against your back when you straighten up. His arm is pressing into your side, hand curled around the knob and twisting it, but he's unable to open the door as you let your head fall against it.

"God dammit."

"Hm?" You can tell he's leaning down because his breath falls just over your ear.

"I said we weren't—"

He cuts you off, "But, you want to."

He's too hot and too smooth, and you can’t stop yourself from turning around and breathing, "Yeah, I want to."

It's different tonight. Mike takes his time undressing you, kissing and sucking your neck, your collarbone, your nipples that pebble against his tongue. It's unnerving even as you squirm and moan.

He eats you out lazily, flattening his tongue against your folds then dipping into your slit so that he can slip into your twitching hole.

When he adds a finger, you immediately grind down on it, silently begging him to work you open enough to take his cock, but he doesn't move any faster, apparently content to just drive you insane.

You're nearly begging by the time he turns you on your side and moves to lay behind you, hiking your leg up and pushing most of his length inside of you in one faultless motion that makes you choke and sob his name.

That stretch is back, delicious as it is painful as he splits you open. His thrusts are the same slow pace, cock dragging against gummy walls as he drapes an arm over you to toy with your swollen clit.

It takes you both longer than usual to come, but when you do, your whole body trembles against him, and you have to suck in several deep breaths until you feel like your lungs start actually filling with air.

Mike paints your back with warm cum, groaning right in your ear as he rubs against you, his cock sliding easily up and down your skin and making more of a mess.

That unnerving feeling blooms in your chest again, crawls up into your throat.

Tonight had been too casual, too natural. The way you hung out and watched a movie was already a little strange. Him fucking you from behind, holding you tight against his body, was too tender. And, now, after he leaves to grab a wet towel and uses it to clean your back, you find yourself searching for words again only to come up with passionate—intimate.

And, words like that scare you.

[ n e x t ]

#miche zacharias x reader #mike zacharias x reader #aot x reader #snk x reader #aot fanfiction #attack on titan fanfiction #mels prima vista #mels frat house

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startanewdream · 3 years ago

Note

I just wanted to say that I love all youe stories about jily being alive and harry being a teenager! The talk is one of muy favourites, I'd love to read more of jily learning to deal with Harry and ginny

Hi! I'm so glad you enjoy those stories! ❤

I wrote a moment of one of the milestones for Harry and Ginny, as innocent as Lily will swear it was. Hope you enjoy it :)

_____________

James is rubbing his eyes lazily, not yet quite awakened when he drops himself in the chair in the kitchen.

‘Morning,’ he says tiredly, looking down at the table; then he blinks and looks again. There are four places set at the table.

‘Morning,’ Lily says distractedly, kissing the top of his head before sitting down next to him, her eyes on the Daily Prophet.

‘Sirius is here today?’ he asks, surprised.

‘Hm, no. He said he was going to be in Ireland all week, remember?’

‘Yeah, but then… why four sets?’

Lily presses her lips for a second, glancing in his direction briefly before turning back to the Prophet, turning a page idly.

‘Ginny spent the night here.’

It shouldn’t be something new. Harry’s friends have slept there before; they have plenty of guest rooms for situations like that. But the way Lily says it leaves no room for what she’s suggesting and through the myriad of feelings going through James’ mind at the moment, he settles for a summarized ‘Oh.’

‘It’s no big deal,’ Lily tells him, and her voice tells him adamantly how she is going to handle this new situation. ‘They went out last night, you know.’

‘That date that wasn’t a date,’ James confirms, feeling more awake now.

His son’s love life is always a topic that he’ll gladly discuss, as sluggish as it is at the moment, with Harry and Ginny telling everyone they are taking things slow this second time.

‘Yeah, and Harry mentioned that they might crash here afterwards, because as you always say—’

‘Don’t drink and apparate, yeah.’ He frowns. ‘Why didn’t he tell me anything?’

She looks at him over the paper and James has a sudden vision of Professor McGonagall doing the same over her glasses, watching him with something that borders on disbelief.

‘What would you have done if Harry told you his not-a-date would come home with him?’

‘The conga, probably’, he admits. ‘I can’t help if I cheer for them!’

‘You would make a fuss, and we are not making a fuss about it. It’s just a normal Sunday.’

‘It’s Thursday.’

‘Oh, you know what I meant,’ she replies, though she is smiling now. ‘They need time, they are still working things out.’

‘They’ve seemed to have worked a lot of things if they are sleeping together.’

‘Sleeping—what? No, I set the guest room for her.’

James can’t help his smirk now.

‘Same as my parents set you the guest room the first time you came to visit me?’

Lily shakes her head, crossed, though James won’t be fooled: her cheeks are red, and he knows exactly what memories she is recording right now.

‘They aren’t even together—oh, stop it. You know your son, too noble to do anything improper, unlike his father.’

‘Really? We are playing the innocent card now? It took two to do what we—’

‘Hey!’ Lily cries suddenly, rising to her feet and beaming at Harry and Ginny, who are just now entering the kitchen. ‘Good morning!’

‘Morning, Mum, no need to scream,’ Harry complains, and James won’t be fooled by his son’s apparent nonchalant expression either. His neck is red.

Ginny takes a look at him, then at Lily, and she fights back a laugh. ‘Morning, Mr. and Mrs. Potter,’ she says, taking a seat next to Lily.

Harry looks at the place next to Ginny, where there is nothing set, and after a moment’s hesitation, he sits next to his father.

‘So how was last night?’ Lily asks brightly. ‘You kids had fun?’

‘Kids?’ Harry replies, lifting his eyebrows. ‘You sound as if we are seven.’

‘Well, I’m underage still,’ Ginny remembers, winking at Harry, and something on her face makes him visibly relax, sitting more at ease in the chair. ‘We had a great time, Mrs. Potter.’

‘It’s Lily, dear. So the concert was good?’

‘Yeah, I can’t believe Harry had never seen The Weird Sisters.’

‘I used to have a good musical taste before you,’ he replies, smirking. Ginny rolls her eyes, grinning as much as him.

‘You mean you heard anything Sirius hears. Maybe it’s time to develop your own tastes, Harry.’

‘Oh, I have,’ he answers immediately, and then they’re looking at each other and something is definitely going on between them, something that as much happy James is for them, he doesn’t want to see.

‘Hem, hem,’ he coughs loudly, pretending to choke with his tea, but he doubts anyone was fooled. In any case, it’s enough to break that eye… kissing. ‘You came back late,’ he says, then he winces. It sounds accusing, very fatherly.

‘We lost a little track of time,’ Ginny admits, unconcerned. ‘The show lasted longer than we thought, they kept coming back for another song—’

‘And I said I didn’t know when I was going to be back,’ Harry stresses, frowning. ‘So I can’t be late.’

‘I just meant the hour. I was up all night finishing an article, that’s why I know.’

‘We tried not to make any sound, to not disturb you,’ Ginny says. ‘We thought you would be sleeping.’

‘We came home. Went to bed. The usual,’ Harry says, and very much like Lily, James knows that’s the tone he is hoping to settle for the conversation.

James bits back his comment about going to bed.

Instead, he keeps silent, finishing his breakfast and watching the glances that Harry and Ginny exchange when they don’t think anyone is looking. Whatever they say, they were on a date last night, most definitely, and things were good.

Ginny thanks them for the breakfast after a few minutes and she rises, telling them she needs to go home now. Harry makes a scene of offering to walk with her to the fireplace—James bits the inside of his cheek very hard to not chuckle at this—and when they are gone, Lily turns to him with a smile.

‘Very good. Not a single double-meaning comment about them.’

‘I can behave. When I want.’

‘And I’m proud of you.’ Lily winks at him. ‘If you must know, they did sleep in separate rooms. I heard them coming home last night.’

‘Snooping around, Lily?’

‘Well, I was curious. I may not be as loud as you, but I do support them, you know.’

James laughs. ‘Fair enough. And here I was thinking you had cast Chastity Spells around the house.’

‘Chastity Spells? Is that real?’

‘My mother assured me so, but if they exist, then they are not very effective.’

‘How do you—oh.’ The fire is back at her cheeks, a colour that James enjoys very much. ‘I can’t believe they thought we would need one!’

‘Well, they weren’t wrong,’ he says, smirking, placing his hand over the top of hers and caressing it lightly. ‘Anyway, if they didn’t want me visiting you in the middle of the night, they shouldn’t have made a rule out of it, should they? I was a rule-breaker.’

#Jily Lives AU #Jily supporting Hinny lives rent-free in my heart #jily fanfiction #Hinny fanfiction

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raineydays411 · 4 years ago

Text

The adventure continues

Bruce Banner x daughter! reader

Summary: It’s been about two weeks since you’ve been on Sakaar. You and Loki have been kissing the Grandmasters ass in order to stay in his favor. That’s when you see a familiar face.

A/n: Hello! So I finally found the energy to write this chapter lol sorry it took so long. Also, I’m not too sure how to spell Sakaar, soo if there are different spellings please ignore that

You sigh as you sit next to Loki. It’s been about two weeks since you came to this planet. You haven’t even begun looking for your father. No, instead you and Loki have been running around kissing the Grandmasters ass.

You found the man amusing, his chaotic energy was entertaining to say the least. But he had an air of danger to him. You tried to make sure to stay on his good side. Loki seemed to have the same idea as well.

You and Loki have become significantly closer during your stay here. You never thought that you’d be so close to the God that tried to take over your planet, but here you were. Since your talk in the tailor's room, Loki has become increasingly overprotective over you. He was constantly by your side, glaring at anyone who dared to come up to you. Now as annoying as that sounds, he has gotten you out of some sticky situations.

For example, there was this one time this alien tried to kidnap you, claiming that as a terran, you’d make him rich. Well before he was able to step even a foot away, Loki was there and almost ripped his arm off. The only thing that stopped him was the Grandmaster. He assured you and Loki that the kidnapper would be taken care of by his “Champion”. Whatever that meant.

That was another thing you tried to avoid on this planet. The Grandmaster’s fights. Something about the idea of sometimes innocent beings being forced to fight for others entertainment was wrong to you. And while to the rest of the population it was the norm, you just couldn’t stand the thought of watching these people slaughter each other.

Other than these few incidents, you and Loki have fit in pretty nicely. Loki was at ease with this crowd, charmingly talking to them and winning them over with his silver tongue. And you have made a name for yourself as well. You were known as one of the best storytellers in Sakaar. Of course, you usually told plots of the movies, plays, and books you memorized from Earth. But what they didn’t know won’t hurt them. But unlike Loki, you were getting restless. You wanted to find your father and go home. You miss Tony and Pepper, the way they were so sweet to each other, and the way Steve would ruffle your hair in the kitchen after his work outs. You wondered of they were worried about you as you have been missing for two weeks now.

Lost in thought, you didn’t notice a familiar face who was strapped down in a chair. However, you did notice when Loki went tense next to you. Looking up at him you raised an eyebrow, silently asking if he was okay.

“I’m fine”, he said quickly, “Darling, it seems as if the Grandmaster will be inviting us to watch the newest competition, perhaps you’d want to make yourself scarce before he comes.”

You smile, appreciating the warning and stood up excusing yourself. You thought you heard someone call for Loki, but brushed it off as he was very popular among this crowd. You made your way to your room, desperate for some peace and quiet.

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

Loki lets out a relieved sigh, knowing that if you saw Thor in that chair, you would have made a rash decision and ruin all the plans you both had made.

He stands up, excusing himself from the small group that formed around him. He rushes to Thor, shushing him.

“What?!” ,Thor asks confused on why Loki was shushing him.

“You’re alive?”, Loki says, in a hushed tone. Thor looks up at him as much as he could, the chair restricting his movements.

“Of course I’m alive!”, He shouts quietly

“What are you doing here?”

“What to you mean what am I doing here?!” ,Thor says exasperatedly, “ I’m stuck in this stupid chair! Where’s your chair?”

“I didn’t get a chair”

“Then get me out of this one!”

“I can’t”

The two brothers were so caught up in their silent bickering, they didn’t notice the Grandmaster appear right next to them.

“What are you whispering about?”

The two jumped apart.

“Time works differently around these parts.”, He says, “Anywhere else I would be like millions of years old but here in Sakaar I’m like...”

He trails off, leaving an awkward silence. He smiles and glances at Loki as if he was waiting for him to say something. Loki laughs nervously, looking from Thor to the Grandmaster. Thor looked in between the two totally confused on what was happening.

Seeing he wasn’t going to get an answer, the Grandmaster continued,

“ In any case, you know this uh, um”, he turns to Thor, “ You call yourself the ‘Lord of Thunder?”

“God of Thunder” ,Thor corrects, he gestures at Loki, “Tell him”

“I have never seen this man in my life.”

“He’s my brother!” ,Thor shouts getting frustrated.

“Adopted.”

The Grandmaster looks at Loki, “ Is he any kind of fighter?”

“You take this thing out of my neck and you’ll find out.”

The Grandmaster laughs in amusement, as if Thor told him a joke instead of threating him.

“Hey Sparkles, here’s the deal, anyone who defeats my champion shall win their freedom.”

As the Grandmaster and Thor had their conversation, Loki’s mind was racing. He had a plan. A plan to overthrow the Grandmaster and (reluctantly) help you find your father, even though he doesn’t know who your father is. He already adjusted the plan when you arrived, and now Thor. He has to keep both you and him in the Grandmasters favor.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts when he hears Thor call his name once more. He turns to see him being carted away on the chair he was bound to. He smiles at the Grandmaster and excuses himself, forcing himself to mingle once more and not rush off to find you. After a while, he manages to sneak away from the crowds and go back to his room. He finds the room where all the gladiators are being held and makes a clone, stepping into the prison. He sees Thor, saying a prayer for Odin as they were not able to give him a proper burial. He joins in, seeing Thor tense up at his voice.

“It hurts doesn’t it...being told you are one thing only to find out that it was a lie.”

Then Thor turned and sat indignantly, refusing to acknowledge Loki.

“I couldn’t jeopardize our position with the Grandmaster. It took time for us to win his trust. He’s a lunatic, but he can be amenable.”

ping. Thor throws another pebble at Loki. Loki sighs, knowing that it was going to be useless talking to him at the moment.

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

You sat in your room, listening to music on your phone. You may not have any cell service, but surprisingly, this planet has great Wi-Fi.

You’re writing in a journal you found in the bag Strange gave you. Ever since that first day you arrived at Sakaar, you have been journaling your experiences, thoughts, and feelings in this journal. You also have been writing down methods you could use to find your dad.

You were so lost in the music and your writings that you didn’t notice Loki walk into your room. He saw that you weren’t paying attention and decided to scare you.

He crept quietly, making sure to make no sudden movements that would catch your eye. But before he could actually scare you, you spoke up.

“Don’t even think about it Loki.”

“How did you know it was me?” ,He asked, surprised at your reflexes.

“I can smell your hair gel from outside the door.” You say, rolling over to look at him and removing your earbuds. You laugh at the offended look on his face.

You both chuckle and then Loki’s face turns serious.

“Y/n, we have a problem.”

At those words, your heart begins to race. You worry that the Grandmaster has lost trust in the both of you, or he has become suspicious of you both.

“What’s wrong?”, You ask, chewing on your lip in anxiety.

“It seems that Thor has found his way on Sakaar.”

You breath a sigh if relief, “ Oh, is that it? That’s fine, we can just get him on board and adjust out plan--”

“No, we can’t.”, Loki interrupts.

You squint in confusion, “Why not?”

“It seems that the oaf has gotten himself captured and forced into the gladiator fights.”

You gasp and quickly stand up, “We have to help him! He could be killed!”

“Calm down”, Loki says, resting his hands on your shoulders, “ Thor is far stronger than you believe. He will be able to handle himself. What we need to do for now is to keep our heads, and stick to the plan.”

“Stick to the plan?! Loki, we can’t just leave Thor on his own!”

Loki sighs, “ It’ll be better in the long run. If the Grandmaster suspects mutiny, we can both be killed or forced to fight as well.”

You stay silent, taking in the words that Loki is telling you.

“Alright.” ,You agree, disappointed you couldn’t do anything to help Thor.

“That’s a good girl.” Loki says, patting your head. He turns to walk out of the room, “ Come along, we mustn’t give the Grandmaster any suspicions.”

You roll your eyes, hiding your phone and journal in your bag. Following Loki down the hallways, you sigh. You miss home. You miss your dad, And you feel completely useless.

“Darling”, Loki whispers, “Now, I know you don’t like the idea...but perhaps you should make an appearance at the fights”

Your eyes widen at the suggestion, but before you speak Loki continues.

“ I won’t force you, but just know that the Grandmaster is incredibly proud of his champion, and you seeing it would be more points toward you.”

You nod. You’d have to go eventually. Might as well get it over with.

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

You and Loki arrive to the arena late. You didn’t miss much except for the opening act. You hear the roaring of the large crowd, thirsty for blood and carnage. It churns your stomach.

Then the Grandmaster appears in hologram. You don’t really pay attention, you just force yourself to relax. You know that if Thor is fighting then he’ll be okay. But the thought of watching a friend murder another living being that is most likely innocent makes bile rise in your throat.

You’ve never been a person who likes violence. Violence meant that you and your dad had to move again, violence meant that you would be left alone.

Despite this, Tony made sure that you knew how to defend yourself if you had to. You trained with Natasha at first but...it didn’t go so well. So you started training with Steve and Bucky. You learned quickly but hardly ever used your training. Mainly for stress relief or a good work out.

But here on Sakaar, you had to be on guard all the time. It was exhausting. You couldn’t imagine what it would be like if Loki wasn’t here. Surely without him you would be dead.

You zone back in, hearing the Grandmaster introduce the first contender.

“Ladies and gentlemen...I give you...Lord of Thunder. Watch out for his fingers, they sparkle.”

To your surprise, Thor walks out from his waiting area, the crowd booing as he enters. He was wearing different armor and most noticeably, his hair was cut. He had red markings going down the side of his face.

“Jeez, now I remember why I had a small crush on him back in the day” you mutter to yourself. Loki looks at you in disgust and disappointment. You avoid his gaze, looking intensely at the arena.

“Okay! Lets get ready to welcome this guy”

The crowd cheers, getting excited for the next contender. The grandmaster rubs his hands together.

“Here he comes”

a boom goes off and green smoke fills the air. The crowd applauds and cheers as they burst.

“He is a creature. What can we say about him",

Rumbling shakes the ground as the arena is lifted. Your chest fills with anxiety, this champion must be big if they have to lift the arena. You turn to Loki, seeing his face light up with a mix of emotions.

“Well hes unique. There’s none like him”

The rumbling continues as the area is still being lifted.

“I feel a very special connection to him.”

You see Thor prepare to fight, putting on a helmet. Concern fills your heart and the audiences cheers fill your ears.

“Hes undefeated.”

Loki’s words fill your head. Reminding you that Thor is a god. He’ll be okay.

“He’s reigning”

You settle down, trying to reign in your anxiety.

“He’s the defending.”

Loki looks at you and smiles, brushing a curl out of your face and patting your cheek. You instantly feel better, knowing that someone is there for you.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you”

“This guy really knows how to build suspense.” You whisper to Loki, who snorts into the drink he has. You both quiet down as the champions doors finally start to open.

“Your Incredible...”

A roar fills the arena. A roar that makes your blood grow cold and your breath stop.

“HULK”

And there, bursting out of his holding area, was the Hulk. Dressed in gladiator armor, holding an axe and club in both hands. The crowd goes wild, cheering loudly at the sight of their champion.

Your father, who has been missing for four years, was the Grandmasters champion.

“I have to get off this planet.” Loki says, pale at the memory of what the Hulk is capable of. He pulls you up from the couch, you lax with the shock, an rushes to leave.

“Hey, hey, hey where are you two going.” The Grandmaster intercepts the two of you guiding you both back to the seats.

“Is she okay? She looks like she’s about to be sick” The grandmaster says, scooting away from you like you were contagious. Loki looks at you in concern and asks if you are okay.

But you could barely hear him. You didn’t hear anything. You were just focused on the arena. Finally seeing the man who you were looking for.

#bruce banner x reader #bruce banner x daughter!reader #bruce banner imagine #loki x reader #loki x teen!reader #loki imagine #poc reader #PoC representation #avengers x reader #avengers x teen!reader #Avengers #thor ragnarok #thor odison x reader #black!reader #marvel x reader #marvel #reader insert

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