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sassy-ahsoka-tano · 2 years ago

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DADDY ISSUES - Part Seven: Friends

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Prompt: Now that you're all moved in and set up, what do you have to look forward to in your relationship as Elvis Presley's sugar baby? [ Fem!Reader ]

TW: sad reader, angst, guilt/shame as a result of sexual activity, elvis being a bit of a fucktard ngl

Rating: M || Word Count: 3985

A/N: i hope y'all are enjoying still!! i can't tell you how many ideas spurred while writing these chapters. i literally had a web of ideas that i somehow managed to weave all into this little fic lol

Song Rec: friends - anne marie and marshmello

This is Part 7 of Daddy Issues. Find the rest of the series here!

[ masterlist | taglist ]

🦋 mila

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“Am I allowed to date or see other people or is this an exclusive thing?”

Elvis’ eyebrows shoot up when you ask the question and you can tell that he wasn’t expecting it. His eyes drop to the floor and eyebrows furrow as he considers what you’ve asked. After a few moments of tense silence, he clears his throat and glances back up at you with a tight smile.

“Course you can see other people. We ain’t an item or nothin. It’s just a convenient relationship for both of us. Doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, but doesn’t mean we gotta be lovers neither.”

You nod, offering a small smile. His eyes fall to your finger and he smirks.

“That’s a good girl. Lemme see,” he says, scooting forward and holding out his palm.

You drop your hand into his and he gently runs his fingers over it with the hint of a smile on his face. His calloused fingertips ghost over your knuckle and then onto the ring resting snugly on your finger. You take a deep breath, the feeling of your touch on his palm making you giddy and excited.

“See you doin so good already followin my rules. This ring’ll tell everybody important that you’re with me. Looks good on ya, princess,” he says with a nod. “You like it?”

“Oh absolutely, Mr. Presley,” you say, automatically defaulting to his proper name. You feel like you should treat him respectfully, or maybe you’re addressing him as your boss? You aren’t sure but the urge to be formal is suddenly extremely present in the room. “It’s the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen and definitely not something that I could ever afford on my own. Thank you so much for gifting it to me.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, waving dismissively. “It’s payment for our first appointment. This was the arrangement we agreed to and I stick to my promises. There’s more to come, I’m sure.”

Your lips part as you watch his gaze fade from sunny blue eyes to a dark, serious expression. He emphasizes the word come, pausing after he speaks the word. He draws it out, licking his tongue over his lips before finishing the sentence. You desperately hope you’re not reading too much into it, because you do desperately want him to be talking about you.

Everything in your body wants him to touch you and make you feel things you’ve never experienced in your life. The first time you saw him in 1956, you wanted him. Other girls may also want him, but not like you. They don’t want him like you do. The lust he planted then has done nothing but grow since that day. For god’s sake, it possessed you, the most unlikely person in the world, to slide out of your panties and offer them up to a complete stranger who you’d probably never see again. Elvis’ voice jerks you out of your awe.

“Which reminds me, what sorta payments do you want? I don’t wanna get you nothin you dont like.”

“Oh, uh, I guess I’ve never really thought about it. Well, I like necklaces and rings. Um, I’m more of a pants girl than dresses but I still like nice dresses and things. Um…”

“Noted,” he replies.

Silence settles as his eyes trace over your figure. You’re becoming more comfortable with him doing that, since he does it pretty constantly. The little problem of your debts and bills rises to the forefront of your mind and you consider adding to the list since that’s what you really need to be paid off, but before you can say anything else, he curls his finger and motions for you to come over to him.

Your core starts to swell with excitement and you actively fight the smile that wants to cross your face. You take a few steps closer to him and sit down on his lap, just as you had the other day. You already feel a bit more comfortable this time as you rest your hands on his chest and his hands gently cup your thighs. You stay still, waiting for instructions which he promptly provides.

“Tilt your head up for me,” he says and you gulp before obeying, lengthening your chin out so that he can see your neck better.

His fingers gently rise up toward your skin, ghosting across your throat and the sensitive skin underneath your jawline. Your eyes flutter and threaten to close but you force them to remain open. He just gently closes his fingers around your throat, not all the way but enough that your breath audibly shudders. You gulp your nerves down as your pussy begins to throb with desire for him. Just as you’ve resolved to lean down and kiss him, he pulls his fingers away.

“You got a pretty neck, princess. Perfect for my hand. I think a necklace would work nicely for you.”

You hover in the space between you, resisting the strongest urge to smash your lips against his. Your entire body is slowly aching for him, but is it okay for you to make a move? Despite his loveliness in answering your questions, you’re still confused as to how all of this works. Plus, now that you’re relying totally and completely on Elvis to sustain you financially, you’re terrified of making a mistake that’s unfixable. Just as your head begins to bob forward with a burst of confidence, your nerves get the better of you and you just hover anxiously. You clear your throat and Elvis continues the conversation.

“Is jewelry what you like best? Or dresses or what?”

“Um, I guess I’ve never really thought about it, honestly. I…don’t have much of a preference,” you reply with a lackluster shrug. “I could use some new clothes. But, of course the jewelry is also very nice. Um…sorry, I just feel very awkward saying these things.”

You laugh nervously but he shakes his head.

“Why’s that?”

“Well,” you suddenly laugh as you realize what it feels like and that image begins to surface in your mind, “honestly, it feels a bit like sitting on Santa’s lap and telling him what I want for Christmas. I’m just not very used to asking for things, like material things.”

“But that’s how you get what you want. Y'ask for it.”

“I guess so, yeah. But that’s usually not how it works for normal people, and it’s certainly never worked out that way for me. I hardly ever get what I ask or pray for. God has favorites and I really don’t think I’m one of them,” you reply with a weak chuckle. “Besides, I’m just not the kind of person who places a lot of value on material objects or gifts or anything. I don’t need all that many things, to be honest. Just the basics, although these are very tempting and it feels good to own them. They’re not really necessary in the grand scheme of things, you know what I mean?”

“But that’s what I’m here for. I ain’t got no issue giving you whatever you want. All you gotta do is ask, princess, and it’s yours.”

“I’m not used to that. People like me don’t just get the things we ask for. We have to work for them.”

“Not anymore, doll,” he smiles, leaning forward to whisper against your cheek. “Ask and it’s yours.”

You smile in awe as Elvis pulls back.

“Stand up, over there,” he gestures toward the middle of the room. You nod and carefully remove yourself from his lap to stand on the mark he’s given you. Once there, you await his directions. “Take the dress off. Just the top. I wanna see you better.”

You nod and turn away from him to spice things up. You shakily lift the strap of your dress up and off of your shoulder, glancing over your skin at Elvis who watches you hungrily. You let the strap fall, exposing the skin of your shoulder to him. The slow speed with which you’re stripping is putting both you and him through an uncomfortable tenseness that only grows when you drop the other strap down. The dress, being held up mostly by the straps, elegantly falls off your chest and pools around your waist where it’s cinched in a little tighter. You reach up for the strap to your bra, but Elvis stops you.

“No. There’s good enough,” he says. “Turn around.”

You obey him, spinning around so he can get a good look at your entire body. He rubs his slender fingers over his lips, tugging them out lazily. You stand still like a statue before him until he gestures for you to come closer.

“Come here. Right here. All the way this time.”

He points to the space between his legs, a spot that has become rather familiar to you already. You can’t help the smile that spreads onto your cheeks as you step toward him.

He leans forward, his fingers taking hold of your waist. They gingerly trail up the bare skin of your waist, so lightly that you feel goosebumps spreading across your skin. He traces his fingers around to your front, ghosting over your breasts underneath the bra. He curls his fingers around your chest and squeezes firmly. You release a contented breath and close your eyes at the sensation, what little of it there even is. It’s more than you’ve gotten from him so far. He squeezes a few more times, saying nothing, before he releases your breasts.

You instinctively follow his grasp as it retreats. Your eyes fly open in disappointment and he slides further down into the red velvet chair. He tugs gently on the zipper to his jumpsuit while staring intensely into your eyes.

“You know what to do, darlin."

Unfortunately, you do know what to do, although you’d love to do something else right now. It might only be the second time you’ve sucked him off, you hope this time will be different. You hope this time you’ll get to share in the receiving end. Glancing up into his bright blue eyes, you have an idea. You lean over him, trying to push your breasts near his face in the hopes that you’ll tempt him enough to put some effort into pleasing you. You pause for a few seconds, waiting for him to grasp your chest.

When he doesn't respond, you reach down to grasp the zipper. His hand snakes onto yours, gripping your fingers away from his suit. You glance up at him in confusion

"I liked what you did the other night with your teeth," he says, his eyes falling down to your lips. "Do it like that again."

You gently maneuver yourself onto the floor on your knees and catch the zipper between your teeth. This time, you unzip the jumpsuit slowly, maintaining eye contact with Elvis all the way down. You spread the leather of his jumpsuit aside so you can access him. His white boxer briefs are familiar to you now. You glance sneakily up at the clock in the corner of the room to see that you only have about five minutes until show time.

As much as you appreciate his trying to get to know you better, you’re desperate for some physical attention. You’ve been responsible for taking care of yourself for the last five years or so and, quite frankly, you’re just tired of it. Having a man touch you for once is a need that’s rekindled every time he dares to touch you.

But with only five minutes left, you waste no time, yanking his underwear off and wrapping your fingers around his length. You immediately start to pump him, licking the tip of his dick with your tongue. He releases a satisfied sigh and leans back into the chair. You glance up to see his head tilted toward the ceiling with his eyes completely closed. You feel pleased with yourself but frustrated at his passivity. You yank him into your mouth and harshly bob your head up and down on top of him.

He groans and moans in approval. Your eyes flash wide when his hand sneaks down your chest to massage your breasts through your bra. You hum against his length as he pinches your nipple between his fingers. You shift closer to him, hoping he'll touch you harder. While the sensation is very welcome, you need so much more.

As your head bobs up, your eyes flick up toward him again to see that he hasn’t moved, other than his hips which are beginning to buck up into your mouth as he matches your pace. You squeeze your eyes shut, suddenly feeling the urge to cry. You continue to bob up and down on his dick as you fight back the emotion that’s flooding into your chest painfully.

You feel him start to twitch in your mouth and pump your hand harder on his length. A few seconds later, his hips are bucking into your lips and his hot cum is slipping down your throat. You gulp it down begrudgingly, the taste almost sour on your tongue. Your body shudders with the displeasure of the action and the taste but mostly with how it made you feel at the moment.

You drop your head immediately, focusing on the floor below you as Elvis reassembles himself to go back out for the show which starts in just a few minutes. You squeeze your eyes shut tightly, wanting to transport yourself completely from this situation into a different time and place, somewhere you’re safe and alone. On his way out, Elvis places his hand on your head and gives your hair a little muss. His fingers slip down to your chin, lifting your gaze to his. You reluctantly open your eyes and he smirks down at you slightly.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs before making his way toward the door.

You keep yourself upright until you hear the door shut behind him. As soon as the lock clicks, you feel your face screwing up. You keel over onto your hands and knees, your arms shaking with the emotion that is coursing through your body. You curl onto your knees and sit back on them, resting your forehead on the scratchy carpet below you. Tears start to pool by your eyes and you don’t stop them as the warm liquid falls from your eyes to stain the carpet below you. You curl your arms around your shoulders as your body shakes and you cry.

He had his chance to pleasure you and he didn’t take the hints, which you thought were very obviously being given to him. Now, it’s too late. You feel worthless, disgusting, dirty. You understand that you wholeheartedly gave yourself up to Elvis when you agreed to become his sugar baby but you assumed the arrangement would be mutual.

You should be stronger than this; this shouldn’t bother you so much. You are the one who agreed to this, who decided to accept the proposal. You’re just reaping the consequences of your actions, the ones Steve warned you about. But for some unplaceable reason, it hurts. A lot.

On the other hand, while you realize how silly and dramatic it is to be upset when you’ve just begun, the emotions that are running through your veins are so strong. And considering that you’ve relocated your entire life over the last week, it’s probably understandable that you’re feeling so overwhelmed.

After a few more tears sneak out, you sniffle and wipe your runny nose on your arm, not caring about the stickiness spreading onto your skin. You don’t have anyone to look pretty for anymore. And the one person you did choose to look nice for doesn’t seem to have any interest in you other than using you as a personal fleshlight. As moments of anger and embarrassment pulse through your veins, you pull yourself together with a few deep breaths.

You weren’t really in the mood for giving him a blowjob even when you got dressed to come downstairs tonight. But he asks and you provide. As he said earlier, ‘all you gotta do is ask and it’s yours’. As you dry your tears, that phrase starts to circle in your brain. Ask and it’s yours… If that’s what he wants. That’s what he’ll get. Why can’t you take the reins a little? You’re half of the deal, after all.

You stand, fix your hair and your dress, wipe off your tears and snot and grab your purse. You exit the dressing room with the confidence of someone who simply doesn’t have the will to care anymore.

As you trudge out of the dressing room, not bothering to pause before the door to listen for anyone passing, you keep your eyes glued to the floor beneath you. You shrug your bag over your shoulder and pull the bottom of your dress down harshly, trying to get the stubborn fabric to stay put. When your body slams into another, you momentarily lose your footing and feel yourself careening toward the floor. Luckily, whoever you bumped into manages to catch you at the last moment. With a panting breath, you glance up to see one of the most handsome men you’ve ever seen in your life. He helps you to your feet as you feel heat creeping into your face.

“Uh…thanks,” you say nervously. “I’m so sorry about that.”

He chuckles, leaning down to pick up your purse, which you hadn’t even realized you’d dropped during the collision. Your eyes widen as you notice the black lingerie poking out from inside the bag. You wonder if he notices, although he doesn’t mention or allude to it at all when he carefully hands the bag back to you. You snatch it quickly from his hands, sneakily reaching your hand in to push the lingerie back into its hidden place.

“It’s no big deal. It’s my fault for being so clumsy,” he says, flashing a crooked smile at you.

As his straight white teeth sparkle in the light of the hallway, you can’t help but grin back at him. A few moments of silence pass before one of you gets the courage to say something else.

“So…do you work here?” he asks, gesturing to your outfit.

“Oh, uh, sorta. I’m part of Mr. Presley’s…” your eyes wander quickly around your environment, desperately searching for an excuse that doesn’t involve your chest and face being covered in Elvis' cum. You suddenly see someone pass carrying a case of makeup and your face brightens. “...makeup crew. I’m one of his makeup consultants.”

“You do his makeup?”

“Well, I just sort of check it to make sure it’s up to standard, you know. The eyeliner and such,” you pull out as much knowledge of makeup as you can possibly access in your brain as your heart beats rapidly in your chest.

You know you shouldn’t be embarrassed to admit what you really do here, but you still feel too ashamed to fess up to it. You know there’s no way that this stranger is actually buying the idea that you’re a makeup artist for Elvis, considering what you’re wearing and the fact that your own makeup is probably smudged hideously from the crying and snotting all over.

“Cool. I’m one of the stagehands, so I carry some of the props onstage and help with the curtains and all that.”

“Oh, that’s super cool!” you say, folding your arms over your chest. “How did you get into that?”

“My mom was a singer back in the day, so I’ve always been around sets. How did you get into…what you do?”

“Oh, it’s just a job for money. There’s nothing that special about it, honestly.”

“Working that closely to Elvis Presley isn’t special?”

“He’s not as amazing as you’d think, actually,” you reply with a curt smile as you reflect on all the disappointments you’ve already experienced since becoming his sugar baby. “But it pays the bills.”

“I can understand that,” he says, staring down into your eyes.

You’ve been truthful with him, besides admitting what you do. Although you can’t explain why, you want this man to think highly of you. Elvis did say that you could date other people, so why shouldn’t you take a stab at this one. He’s handsome with curly brown locks, deep brown doe eyes, and a nicely shaped face. He’s very tall and decently built; you guess he has to be pretty strong to be able to toss set pieces around.

You abruptly stick your hand out for him to shake. His eyebrows raise but he takes your hand in his, giving it two solid pumps. You wiggle your fingers, assuming he’s going to release your hand but he holds onto it for a few seconds longer than you’re expecting. You smile sweetly as he releases your fingers slowly. You drag them across his palm and resist the urge to shudder with excitement.

It’s been upwards of five years since you last had a serious boyfriend, so the thought of maybe finding someone after all this time is extremely appealing. Not to mention that you’re desperate for some physical pleasure. With all of this teasing and leading-up to nothing, you’re starting to get fed up and very tired of the constant lack of tension relief.

“I’m Y/N,” you say.

“I’m-”

“Max!” someone shouts from a different spot in the backstage area. “Stop flirting and get your ass over here to help with the curtains!”

Your eyes shift toward a man yelling orders who you assume is in charge of the stagehands and the backstage activities. Max glances back at you with a shrug.

“Duty calls. Will I…see you here tomorrow?”

“Uh…no, probably not. I don’t think I work tomorrow and I have another job that I have to take care of on the side,” you lie, not too excited about the idea of coming down here more than necessary.

“Oh, damn. Well, what days do you work?”

“It’s sort of unpredictable, to be honest,” you can feel your palms growing sweaty with his constant questioning.

“Alright. Cryptic but alright,” he laughs, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. You bite your lip as you watch his biceps flex. If you were wondering, your question has now been answered. He’s strong strong. “Guess I’ll just have to hang out around here every day until I see you again.”

“Oh…” you drop your gaze, embarrassed and flattered by his charming flirting. “Well in that case, maybe I can make an exception for you. Here.”

You snatch a pen from the table next to you and scribble the number to your hotel room on his palm.

“You can reach me here. If you ever want to hang out or need help or, well, whatever,” you offer.

“And what if I need something tonight? I can call you then?”

You chuckle and bite your lip at his goofy smile.

“You can call whenever. And I’ll decide if I want to pick up or not.”

“Max Carver!” the stage manager shouts and Max jumps.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Max. I’ll hope to see you again some time.”

“If I have anything to say about it, you will," he replies with a wink and a handsome grin.

You turn and start on your way out of the backstage area as you hear the stage manager shouting instructions to Max. You smile to yourself, just a little bit smitten with him.

As you pass the trash can on the way out, you click open your purse and pull the black lingerie out. You drop it into the can and get on your way back upstairs without giving the piece of clothing a second thought.

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whirlybirbs · 4 years ago

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( another gif by @unearthlydust from this beautiful set ! )

✪ — VACANT MIRRORS ; B.B. | 3/?

summary: you find out about bucky’s past, he finds out about yours.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn

word count: 6.4k, va va voom

a/n: oh look out here comes the plot, charactization, and growth between to pals who are maybe starting to feel a little something begin to take shape. but ignore that, there’s danger afoot. no spoilers for tfatws here!

( PREVIOUS | AO3 | MASTERLIST | NEXT )

“You know I have to ask these questions. It’s part of the check-in.”

“Yeah,” you fire back, flat enough to warrant Dr. Hart’s scowl to grow. You can’t see it over the phone, but you know the way her words whip around you means she’s upset, “I know.”

“If you’re not following the action plan set out by the judge,” she begins, leaning forward as her tone drops into a scalding hot sort of seriousness on the other end, “You will go to prison. You know this. So, do you want to spend ten years of your life behind bars? Are you trying to get yourself locked up? Come on.”

You can’t look up from your computer’s screen. Or maybe you can, but right now, there’s a dangerous mixture of anger and guilt and frustration boiling under your skin.

“I’m trying.”

“Trying isn’t good enough for the GRC,” Dr. Hart snaps, “You know this. They’re giving you a chance — they know you’re talented. You have the ability here to go straight, to earn a living, to finally make up for those years of blackhat work.”

“Everything I did,” you fire back, ripping your eyes up to meet Dr. Hart’s, “Was for others. I didn’t get a fucking penny.”

“You’re not Robin Hood,” she shakes her head as her tone softens, “We all make mistakes. But, everything has a consequence. You know this. And this conversation isn’t even considering the other charges.”

“You know the extortion case would never hold up in court.”

Dr. Hart sighs raggedly. “And I don’t intend on ever seeing it play out in court, because you’re going to follow the conditions of your pardon.”

“The GRC is a bunch of fascists—”

“Enough,” she snaps, “If you want to go and appeal your case with the judge, be my guest, but I can almost guarantee you’ll be perp-walked out of that Federal courtroom in cuffs.”

She’s right.

Dr. Hart is right.

Your knee is bouncing, up and down and up and down. You’re wound up around yourself, arms crossed tight, brows knotted. With a shaky exhale, you just nod. You breathe, and you remind yourself that she’s right. She’s right, she’s right, she’s right. It’s not worth it. Dipping yourself back into that world, the layer of the web beneath the surface, isn’t worth it.

The GRC is your way out.

Just be a good little girl and do as you're told.

“So, I’m going to ask you again,” Dr. Hart begins, pen clicking alive on the other end of the phone call, “...Have you engaged in any illegal activities online in the last seven days?”

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

Inessa Sidrova’s photo stares up at him from its place on the speckled marble counter, stacked neatly next to his notebook where her name is scrawled in chicken scratch — between two other names: Zemo and Henrikson.

His laptop, technically on loan from the FBI, sits beside both.

(When Barnes had agreed in that closed doors meeting to the conditions of his pardon, a certain FBI agent by the name of Jimmy Woo had been rather insistent that Barnes needed a personal computer in order to carry out his portion of the conditions insofar as tracking down the remaining HYDRA pawns in the States. Woo had also insisted, to the agreement of Dr. Raynor, that a personal computer would help better acclimate Barnes to the new world he’d been dropped into.

Woo was even nice enough to take an hour of his own time to show Bucky enough to get started — but was whisked away for some investigation out in New Jersey.)

Bucky rubs the cold vibranium of his left palm into his eye, then exhales long and slow.

He’s done all he can. And still, no leads on the woman.

Rounding the kitchen island, he digs his cell from his pocket. He goes back to staring at that text — the one he’d laughed out loud at the moment it lit up his phone — and he can feel that ol’ bite of anxiousness creep into his arms. His fingertips tingle.

On the television, a laugh track plays over a clip of The Three Stooges. Blue eyes flick upward, and he partially wishes a ladder would put him out of his own self-induced misery.

Outside, the antics of a Saturday night in Brooklyn roll on.

In the last few days he’s parsed through his thoughts enough to realize it’s not telling you that scares him — no, it’s telling you the truth. The whole truth. All of it. After all, the good comes with a lot of bad; the sort of bad you chain in a chest and sink in the ocean. And Bucky finds that, even still, the good is questionable at best. The good is… small. Microscopic. Completely and totally tainted by the fuckin’ decades of brainwashed, war dog bullshit.

He groans and drops his head back against the wall.

He tries, for the next twenty minutes, to formulate some sort of reply to your text message. But, half the battle is figuring out what to say, and the other half is actually typing it out. This whole flip phone purchase was really starting to sting like regret — and as much as Bucky loved technology back before the war, and all the magical possibilities it held, he can’t help but feel like an ornery old man now.

It’s the change. Steve was right. Too much change.

He can’t find the space button and he can’t figure out how to delete the random 3 he’d accidentally punched in — so, with a grumpy huff of disapproval, Bucky simply dials your number.

You pick up on the third ring.

“Don’t you know it’s Saturday?” your voice is a welcomed sound, “The History Channel is running a bunch of old war documentaries you might enjoy, grandpa.”

Bucky snorts, fiddling with the hem of his hoodie. “What makes you think I’d wanna watch that shit?”

“Everyone knows that old men like two things,” your voice is light, half-distracted from the sounds of it, “World War Two, or grilling. And honestly, you don’t strike me as the grilling type.”

“I like a good burger.”

“Yeah?” you snort, and Bucky can hear you shift your phone from one ear to the other, “Is that why you called? To hint at being hungry?”

“No,” he exhales, looking out the window, “No, I was trying to reply to your text but I can’t find the fuckin’ space button. Calling is easier.”

“Oh my god—”

“Shut up,” he barks with a laugh, sitting up, “Don’t even start — are you hungry?”

“Almost always, why?”

“Got any plans tonight?”

“... You do know who you’re asking, right?”

Bucky grins, a little boyish and a little tired. “Good point. Loser.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re the one calling me to hangout,” you snort, leaning to prop your feet up on your desk and lean back. Your chair wheels backwards, far enough for you to get a good look down the street. It’s a nice night, cool enough, and it seems like the whole borough is awake, “But, I’m only hanging out if you tell me what the fuck is up with court mandated therapy. I can’t wait another three days.”

Your anxiety has been pricked the last few days over it.

“... Do I get to pick the place?”

You roll your eyes. “Fine.”

“Great,” he exhales tightly, “I hope you’re in the mood for sushi.”

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

Izzy’s is busy, but there’s privacy in the bustle.

Bucky had buzzed your apartment’s ringer and you’d flown down the stairs, looking… alive. The sort of alive that was new — like a fresh bud beginning to bloom in spring. It had made him grin, and he’d watched you push a tress of hair behind your ear as you decided it was warm enough for no jacket tonight. The light of the crosswalk sign lit you up like a star.

He was sweating.

Dr. Raynor was right — that was it, of course it was — that it was getting too warm for his usual outfit. So, he’d settled on the next best thing: a sweatshirt that was big enough and black enough that he could bury himself in it. His hands are tucked neatly into the pockets.

No gloves tonight.

He feels naked.

He shoulders the door and holds it open with the toe of his boot as you duck towards the back of the restaurant. There’s a booth in the back by a large bamboo plant — you weave through the place with a new found confidence. There’s anxiousness in your shoulders but it melts when you look back at Bucky. Like a watchful guard dog, he nods.

You settle into the booth, toss your jacket in the corner, and smirk.

“I get out sometimes,” Bucky remarks before you can even say anything. He shifts in the booth and reaches up to scratch his cheek with his right hand, “Not often, but I do.”

“I didn’t say anything...”

“You were going to,” he nearly smirks back, his brows raised as he adjusts the chopsticks on the table, “I know that look.”

You snort, nudging his boot under the table. That works a huffed little laugh out the man across from you. Almost immediately you can sense anxiousness rolling off him — it’s the tightness in his mouth that gives him away, the way he’s fussing with the soy sauce dish and trying to get it to line up perfectly with the marbling on the table. Worry flashes in your eyes.

“Bucky.”

He raises his head.

“You alright?” you ask quietly.

“You have to promise not to flip out.”

Your brows knot tightly — but before you can even question what the fuck he means, he’s casually dropping his other hand onto the table.

And you almost don’t notice at first. Your brain fills the gaps in, figuring it’s his glove. But, then you blink and his hand catches the light and you realize it’s not leather. It’s glittering obsidian, garnished with gold, and it’s moving. Flexing. Seams bending and warping and there’s a gentle hum coming from the appendages and you squint because he’s tapping his fingers on the table and there’s a metallic tik-tik-tik that meets your ears.

Then, your eyes jump to his face.

He looks pained.

You’re confused.

And then you’re not.

“You’re —”

You slap a hand over your own mouth. You have to promise not to flip out. Your eyes are eighty miles wide and your jaw is falling open and you’re leaning forward, whispering in a rushed tone because what the fuck.

“You’re that Bucky?!”

Oh, you feel stupid.

The hostess appears, suddenly. You snap backwards in the booth, Bucky tucks his hand away, and you both muster forced smiles to the waitress. She’s young. Pretty. Her name-tag says Sarah.

She asks about drinks.

Bucky gets a beer.

Slowly, you knock your knuckles against the table and drop your head into your hand. The look on your face is exhausted. “Do you guys have Mai Tais?”

The answer is yes. And you’re glad. Because you’re going to fucking need it.

The two of you are quiet until the drinks come — avoiding one anothers gazes for completely different reasons. Bucky is sheepish, a bit mortified, like he always is when people recognize him. It’s why he shaved his fuckin’ head. It worked well enough but… the arm was usually a dead giveaway.

Meanwhile, you’re wondering if you could shave your own head and disappear. Because there’s no easy way to explain the weird elation swirling in your chest right now.

Bucky’s first to speak. His beer is in his good hand. He inhales quickly, eyes darting to you as he leans forward and whispers incredulously. He speaks quickly and his words are pointed with an edge of curiosity.

“...What do you mean ‘that Bucky’?”

“Y’know, I knew there was a reason you acted like you needed a senior citizen discount. And you know exactly what I mean,” you rush out all while waving your Mai Tai and jabbing the side with the umbrella towards him, “Listen, this is a lot to take in, Mr. Avenger.”

“I am not an Avenger—”

“You helped reverse the Snap. You’re the Winter Soldier. That makes you an Avenger—”

Bucky’s shaking his head, eye screwed shut tightly because the sudden equation to his past self being considered a hero is like being socked in the mouth. He stutters over his words and shakes his head more vigorously, like he’s trying not to hear what you’re saying.

“I am not the Winter Soldier. Not anymore. And it’s not like I’m not on the fuckin’ roster, doll—”

You hold a finger up, stopping him there, and take a long sip of your sunset colored drink. You swallow. You exhale. Bucky swigs his beer.

“One, don’t call me doll,” you say curtly, then raise a second finger. You lean in and squint, “Two… Christ, the haircut really makes a big difference, doesn’t it?”

“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” he sighs raggedly, dismissing your scrutiny.

You puff your cheeks out and exhale. Leaning back in the booth, you try not to feel so fucking insane.

“...I can never have you over now.”

Bucky’s brows narrow quickly and his eyes snap to yours. “What?”

“I can’t have you over,” you explain slower with your eyes rooted to the soy sauce in the corner, “Because I don’t think I could ever handle you seeing my signed and framed Captain America poster from his USO tour in 1943.”

Bucky’s face is deadpan. “You’re kidding.”

“I really wish I was,” you gripe, “It’s an original.”

“...You’re a Cap girl,” he says suddenly, leaning back with this look in his eye. It’s less of a question. You can’t pin it down. It looks like he's damn near traumatized.

Bucky thinks — honestly — that this is the cherry on top. Every girl back then was a Cap girl, too. It figures, now, in this new century where he’s making new friends that… as per usual, Steve gets the cake. That fuckin’ pint sized bastard.

He’ll have to tell him about this.

You yank your eyes up to Bucky’s face. His mortification is shifting to surprise to amusement. You’re fast to sit up, mouth opening to fire a retort — but Bucky’s suddenly really enjoying the look of pure horror on your face at the insinuation. He’s smirking. Plain as day. He swigs his beer.

“No, no—” you raise a finger, “No, stop it. Don’t make it fuckin’ weird, Bucky, it’s not like I have his name tattoo’d on my ass. And I knew a girl in college who did.”

His brows rise sharply and you’re finding you’re regretting everything that’s coming out of your mouth.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you guffaw, gesturing for him to show you his hand again, “I wanna see.”

Bucky sighs and plucks his hand from his hoodie pocket.

With a sort of tenderness Bucky wasn’t prepared to handle, you take his metallic hand into your own. There’s an immediate twinge — one that’s procured by flashes of violence from years of being a walking weapon. He breathes, and he reminds himself that this arm is not the same that tethered him to HYDRA all those years ago.

This arm is his, it is not him.

The sensation is different. He isn’t used to anyone touching him like this; he’s used to the feeling of flesh on the other end of a punch, or a throat caught in his palm. Not the gentle pass of your fingers, delicate and purposeful, over his knuckles.

You turn over his hand, eyes alight with curiosity — and Bucky, desperate to stamp out the hotness growing in his gut, moves quickly to flick your nose.

“Ow—”

“Don’t stare,” he says coyly, “It’s rude.”

The waitress is back. His hand is tucked away, and you wrestle the stupid expression off your face long enough to order a plate of assorted maki rolls and some fried tofu. Bucky orders what seems like his usual — shrimp tempura and spicy tuna rolls.

The waitress, Sarah, disappears with a smile.

You’re grinning.

“So… Does this make me the sidekick?” you whisper playfully.

“Shut up,” Bucky laughs, his lips almost darting into a smile.

You cock your head, pushing your chopsticks across the table with a horribly coy look on your face. It’s comical. “...I think this makes me the sidekick.”

“It — stop it — it does not make you the sidekick,” Bucky says slowly as he sips his beer and pins you in the booth across from him, “I’m not a hero. You’d have better luck asking Cap on that one.”

You grow silent. There’s a question hanging on your tongue. You’re wrestling with yourself — Bucky can see that much. He frowns.

“Spit it out, Goose.”

You blink. “Was that a Top Gun reference?”

“You wanted to be the sidekick.”

You wave it off, blinking into your Mai Tai. Your voice is quiet. Even as you speak, there’s a hesitancy akin to walking on eggshells. “What happened to Cap? Is he… alive? He’s gone off the grid. It’s, like, this massive conspiracy theory online.”

“He’s upstate.”

You blink.

“That’s ominous.”

Bucky shrugs. “Someday I’ll take you. It’s… nice.”

You go quiet. You freeze, drink halfway to your mouth. Bucky can’t help but smirk at that. His laugh is more of a scoff than anything.

“Relax, Miss America.”

“Shut up — do you mean that?”

“What, that I think you’re in love with Captain America?”

“No, you bastard, that you’ll take me. To meet him.”

Bucky’s words are easy. They roll off his tongue without a second thought. He feels… okay. Like this part is okay. Not as bad as he thought it could be. His anxiousness isn’t as heavy now. He feels like he isn’t losing you. But then again, he hasn’t gotten to the bad part yet.

“He’s my best friend,” Bucky explains plainly, “And so are you.”

The admission is warm. As easy as breathing. Two months in the making.

“Your only friend,” you say quietly, offering the joke as a cover for the softening tone that dances over your words. It’s affection, you realize, as you mimic his shrug, “But, go on.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Bucky chirps, “But, yea, I mean it. He’d like you.”

You raise your chin, wiggling a bit in the booth. It’s pride — and as much as Bucky likes the look of it, he can’t handle the ridiculousness that comes along with it. But, it’s sort of comforting. He knows this playfulness, this easiness, it’s all because he’s him. You trust him. In.a way, it strikes Bucky with guilt. There are wall of his still built up high. Maybe they’re slowly coming down, but… he’s like a stray dog, slow to trust.

“Safe to say,” you breathe, “I have a few questions.”

“I figured as much.”

You sip your drink and swallow. You raise a hand. “But — I wanna know the boundaries. I don’t want to… I don’t want to pry about shit I have no business knowing, alright? It’s your life and even if we are friends, I don’t need to know everything.”

The relief is almost immediate. He thumbs the label of his beer.

“Ask anything. But I can’t promise I’ll be able to give you the answers.”

“And I’ll leave it at that,” you say sternly, propping your elbow up on the table and offering your pinky finger, “Until you want to talk about it. Promise.”

He crooks his pinky in yours, squeezing gently. You smile.

Sarah comes back with the food, and then Bucky offers his usual half-exhausted, half-amused smirk.

“You get three questions now. Then, we shut up and eat.”

You fold your hands neatly over themselves, eyeing your food as you try your best to sort out what questions come up with the most urgency. There’s… a lot. I mean, everyone knew about the Avengers — and everyone had their opinions. The Sokovia Accords, Lagos, the Blip… and SHIELD. Years of bullshit culminating around those who were considered the heroes. The kickback usually ended up on everyday citizens like you. After the initial amazement, the reality of it all set in.

But, to Bucky’s point, he wasn’t really an Avenger.

Nowadays, there really wasn’t a team at all. No up-state compound, no leader, no Stark and no Rogers.

You’re sure the GRC will try — that the military will try. Morale and hope and blah, blah, blah.

You narrow your eyes. “How old are you?”

It’s quick. “One hundred and six.”

“How’d they keep you alive that long?”

There’s a wince that flashes across his face like he’s been stabbed with a white hot poker in the ribs. You see a twitch of irritation bubble across his lips. Not with you. No, it’s that this question is still hard for him to answer. Bucky exhales sharply.

“Next question.”

You feel a pang of guilt flare in your chest. You move along.

“Who kept you alive that long?”

“The Russians. HYDRA, if you wanna get specific.”

You exhale and settle on the fact you now have more questions than answers. But, you nod and snatch up your chopsticks. Enough of the twenty questions game.

In all honesty, it’s not like Bucky’s existence was common knowledge. The Winter Soldier was known mostly, sure, to those who had floated in the same circles as him when he was nothing but a rabid cur on a choke chain. He can’t help but be a bit thankful for the minor erasure of his new self — sure, in the eyes of the U.S. government he was a high-level threat to be reintegrated as soon as possible and surveyed at all times. But, to the average New Yorker, he was just another person. Everyone was so used to seeing the heroes in their costumes with their bigger than life personas and…

Bucky was just Bucky.

Even he didn’t really know who that was. He was starting to.

His pardon had come with some flak from some of the more political news outlets but… somehow, the details of the Winter Soldier’s exact crimes were being kept silent. Probably to avoid panic. And, even then, the connection between the newly alive James Buchanan Barnes and The Winter Soldier hadn’t been made yet in the public eye. He was glad.

The haircut definitely helped.

It’s like he was a walking classified redaction.

Bucky has a sushi roll in his mouth when he finally speaks. “For such a Captain American fan, I’m surprised you didn’t recognize me.”

“Oh, you’re really not gonna let that go, huh?” you say as you chew, covering your mouth. You swallow and waggle your chopsticks at him, “Listen, it’s been a while since I’ve… y’know, had my Avengers phase. That was years ago. It was at its peak when I worked for SHIELD. And besides, you’re kinda new to the whole superhero scene.”

Bucky frowns. “You worked for SHIELD...?”

“For a year,” you say tightly, “Back before the collapse.”

“Only a year?”

“It was for my graduate program,” you wave it off, “I won out on the most competitive internship NYU had to offer. I was working within their cybersecurity division. I will say I spent more time trying to sort of email phishing scams than anything else, though. I’m sure they saw my record and wanted to keep me away from the juicy stuff.”

Bucky squints.

You offer a sheepish shrug.

“I got into trouble when I was younger,” you sip your drink and sigh, “I always liked computers. I used to spend all my time on forum sites just… reading and talking to people and figuring out how these sites actually worked, so learning how to write my own code was just the next step. When I was fifteen, I learned how to tap phones. At sixteen, I was hijacking my neighbor’s internet conenctions and remotely controlling his laptop.”

“Sounds like a good time.”

“Yea, well, he was a sitting Senator who was having an affair with the nanny,” you mutter, “And I was stupid enough to try and blackmail him for cash. I wish I could say I learned my lesson.”

Bucky exhales long and hard at that, like he knows where that snap of misguided judgement goes. It’s not like he’s passing judgement onto you, but… like he knows the feeling. And you manage to not feel so small, then — telling him this is easy. It’s not your favorite part of your life by any means, but Bucky is listening. Really listening.

He fiddles with the paper wrapper of the chopsticks.

“So, less a Goose and more a Kevin Poulsen type, huh?”

You snort. “For an old man, I’m surprised you know who that is. But, I wasn’t hacking into the Pentagon at seventeen. I was too busy doing community service.”

“HYDRA had their eyes on him in the 90s,” Bucky mumbles through a bite of spicy tuna, the memory popping into his mind and flying out before he can stop it, “I remember… I thought his username was stupid.”

“Oh, you didn’t like Dark Dante?”

“Like I said,” Bucky chortles, “Stupid.”

“You wouldn’t have liked mine, then,” you smirk lightly, “It’s worse.”

Bucky raises his brows, somehow doubting that entirely. “Really?”

“...I was hackrabb1t for a long time. Y’know, with a ‘one’ for the ‘i’,” you cringe, “People kept thinking I was a furry.”

There’s a pause. Bucky’s face is set in an unreadable emotion. It’s confusion mixed with amusement mixed with… something else. When he speaks, he clears his throat and tilts his head.

“It’s clever. But,” a pause, “What is a furry? I’ve been seeing that word all over PlentyOfFish.”

Your jaw flies open. You raise your hands as your head reels around. Bucky has a look on his face like he knows, he knows he shouldn’t have asked and he definitely shouldn’t have given you enough context to know where he’s seen that phrase before, because now you’re looking at him like he has seventeen heads and they’re all on fire.

“Y’know what, nevermind—”

“—Oh, no, no, there’s way too much to unpack here,” you lean forward, “You’re on PlentyOfFish?”

“ChristianMingle wasn’t really my speed — stop laughing.”

“Shut up — stop it, stop — this is too much,” you say with a high voice, “If you get catfished, I’m not helping you track the person down…”

“—What the hell is a catfish?” he nearly cries, raising both hands in a desperate shrug, “I don’t even know what any of these words mean.”

“Oh, you sweet, naive, innocent, man—”

“No, no, no, no,” he chirps, raising a finger with a deadly look of seriousness on his face, “No, I am not naive or sweet or any of the above. I’ll take ‘cute’, sure, but none a’ those.”

“Is that what the furries call you on PlentyOfFish? Cute?”

He drops his head back against the booth and stares at the ceiling.

“Our friendship was a mistake, rabbit.”

You choke out a laugh. “Shut up, you walking claw machine.”

You’re both laughing now — quieter but sustained and everytime you think you’ve calmed down enough to sip your Mai Tai, you just have to look at the distraught, scruffy man across from you to break into another fit of muffled laughter. Finally, after what feels like forever, you both manage to calm down enough to finish the plates in front of you.

There’s a warmth that’s settled in Bucky’s chest — it’s eaten away at the usual jitter in his legs, the anxious twitch of his fingers. It’s a different emotion. Acceptance, maybe. Comfort. Affection.

Then, while you’re piling the last bit of sushi rice into your mouth when your phone, set on the side of the table, begins to go off. It hums erratically, dancing in a circle, and all you do is stare at the name flashing across the screen. You’re smiling, hugging her. It’s from Jaimie’s wedding — out in some big, wide open orchard with the sun setting behind you. The picture there is old; you were both different people then.

Before… everything.

MOM Morristown, NJ

You scowl and stare.

Bucky blinks.

“You gonna get that?”

Quickly, you snap out of it. You reach and silence the buzzing with two quick taps. Quietly, you offer up a somber sigh.

“I never do.”

Bucky frowns again, this time with a worried look that digs deep into his eyebrows. You ignore it on purpose, pushing your plate away and leaning back in the booth. He knows what you’re doing — you’re avoiding his gaze, and therefore his own questions.

“Rabbit.”

“Oh, is that my new nickname, then?”

“It fits,” he chirps before crossing his arms, strategically hiding his metallic hand, “What’s up?”

You grow quiet — then it spills out.

“I can’t talk to her.”

“Why?”

You chew your lip. You bite your tongue and you hold back on the finer points of your anger — ones dredged up by the still present sting of your check-in with Dr. Hart this afternoon.

Here it comes.

“As a part of my pardon, I was ordered no-contact with my family,” you exhale, controlling the level of your voice, reciting the court papers you’d read over and over and over, “It was deemed that further contact would impact my progress towards reformed behavior and judgment.”

Bucky’s eyes are wide. His jaw is tight.

“What the fuck do you mean ‘pardon’?”

It’s your turn to cross your arms now, to ignore the sting of his look. It’s the kind that screams disappointment more than anything. You hate that you’re getting it from Bucky of all people.

“Like I said, I didn’t learn my lesson when I was a kid,” you shirk, “Last year I was arrested on a number of counts — I’d been evading the FBI, CIA, all of them, for years. I was doing it all for people like me. The ones who got left behind.”

Bucky’s tone is flat. It’s serious. His next sentence is less of a question, more of an order. The cadence is rhythmic and it reminds you of your brother the night he found out about the first time you’d been arrested; you decide, then, that Jaimie and Bucky would have gotten along.

“What did you do?”

“Whatever I could,” you wave your hands, “Identity theft, falsified documents, insurance fraud. Anything. There were people, like me, that in a blink, lost everything. Accidents, deaths, evictions and no one did anything for us. The insurance agencies wouldn’t cover damages related to The Snap. Life insurance policies, social security… It all got snatched up by people at the top while the system collapsed around us. I had to pay for my brother’s funeral out of pocket. And there were hundreds of thousands of people just like me, just trying to get by. And everything failed us.”

Bucky is stuck in silence. It’s like mud, dragging him to the bottom of a pond — the sort that’s dredged with misery. In an instant, his veins are on fire with an anger he hadn’t felt in a while. It manifests itself in the tightening of his jaw. He rubs his face and props his elbows up on the table.

“Why won’t they let you see your family?”

You fiddle with your napkin.

“My brother… His wife was on maternity leave when she disappeared in the Blip,” you mutter, “She came back to no job, a dead husband, and no home. Their apartment complex had been abandoned. She’s trying her best to make ends meet. She lives with my Mom in our old home. Neither of them can find work. They… The court thought that I’d be influenced to do something if I was around them.”

“What, like help?”

“They see me as a criminal,” you manage, “But I’m useful, so they’re keeping me around.”

Silence falls between the two of you once more — and the sad look on your face makes Bucky’s chest tight. He can see anxiety beginning to spill over; you’re wringing the napkin, fiddling with the edges. Suddenly, Bucky realizes you’re feeling exactly how he was an hour or so ago.

Your voice is soft. “I’m sorry. I was going to tell you.”

“Looks like we’re two birds of a feather,” he says, knocking the toe of your sneaker with his boot, “Listen, we all do stupid shit. I’ve got a lot worse weighing me down. I get it.”

You look up, sadness glistening in your expression like sun off a lake. It’s harsh. He wants to look away.

He doesn’t.

“... So, that means you’re good with computers?”

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

That’s how you find yourself in Bucky’s Brooklyn apartment at almost midnight, wandering behind him in the long halls and watching curiously as he digs his key from his pocket and shoulders the door open.

It’s a small apartment. One bed, one bath, a kitchenette and that’s really it.

For its size, it’s hardly lived in.

You suppose it makes sense — Bucky didn’t have a lot of personal belongings, and with the hints he’d dropped about his life before The Blip, you were beginning to understand that he may have never really had that much to begin with.

There’s a blanket on the floor by the television and a single couch pillow. It’s tucked in the corner, behind a small sofa. There’s a chair in the living room, one from an old dining set. At the kitchen counter, there’s a stack of papers and a single laptop. Even though all the kitchen’s wares are older models, the bones of the apartment are good. Bare, but good.

You stop in the doorway to the bedroom and stare at the untouched bed. The sheets are tucked tightly in the corners — there’s something militaristic about it. Across the hall is the bathroom. It’s small. You can see a few amenities scattered across the sink’s top.

Being in here feels something like an open wound.

It was lonely. Quiet. Cold.

“We need to make a trip to HomeGoods,” you mumble as Bucky flicks on the lights, “I get the whole minimalist thing, but sheesh.”

“I don’t have a lot,” he says, kicking off his boots by the door and shrugging off his jacket, “And I don’t need a lot either.”

You watch as his shoulders sag a bit, like he can finally let down his guard just a little in his own space. It’s endearing. You perch yourself up on the kitchen counter as your eyes follow him; he moves to fling open a cabinet and grabs a mug. Then, he hesitates.

“You want tea?” he asks over his shoulder.

“Tea?”

“Dr. Raynor said,” Bucky reaches for a container of tea bags from the top shelf. His henley lifts enough to flash a bit of skin along his lower back and you swear you see a scar, “It would help with my anxiety.”

You swing your legs a little. “Then sure.”

“You can use my Captain America mug,” he chirps, laughing a little to himself, “Seeing as you’re such a big fan…”

“God, I regret even saying anything to you,” you spit as you hop down and lean around him to get a look at the mug, “Did you seriously buy that?”

“It was a gift.”

“Bullshit.”

Bucky snorts as you shake your head and wander backwards, eyeing the rest of his apartment with a bit of astonishment. It’s really nothing impressive — but, you suppose it makes sense. Whatever meager disbursement that the government was willing to give Bucky for his efforts in fixing the Snap was better than nothing.

Your gaze hangs on the blanket in the corner.

He watches you; and he notes the sore sadness that dissolves your posture at the sight of the nest in the corner. A bit of shame colors his cheeks as he heats up the water. When Bucky speaks, it’s slow.

“The bed was too soft. I couldn’t sleep on it,” he shifts from foot to foot and focuses on taking the tea bags out and methodically wrapping the strings around the handles, “Dr. Raynor said that’s a typical thing for soldiers to experience when they come home from war.”

You’re quiet for a while after that, only speaking when he rounds the counter with your tea. He offers it up with a tilt of the head.

“You never got to come home, though, right?”

“No,” comes the short reply as you both watch the lights outside the window, “No, I didn’t. Not until now.”

You nudge his arm with yours. You lean a bit. Bucky leans back.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he manages after a sigh and sip of the tea, “I can’t just feel sorry for myself anymore. I’m trying to fix the wrongs I did — and that’s why I need your help.”

You quirk a brow. He reaches around you and grabs the stack of papers on the counter. With a steady grip, Bucky presents the photo of a woman who looks strikingly familiar. You can’t place her face, but there’s something about her that feels like a slap across the cheek. She’s young here, in a faded photo with tattered edges. Beside her is a man who is laughing. The photo is candid, and they’re both beautiful. They’re both wearing a uniform — but you can’t place the era or location.

You turn to Bucky for answers.

“Back in the 70s, at the height of the Cold War, HYDRA was working in tandem with the Russians to spy on American forces,” he offers easily, staring out the window, “The American HYDRA cell hadn’t yet been planted. This man, Andrei Kuznetzov, was a spy. He was feeding the Americans information on the Russian nuclear program. His wife, the one in the photo, was ordered to kill him. She refused.”

Bucky’s fingers twitch.

His words are soaked through with pain.

“I,” he continues, “killed him.”

You hold your breath. Then you spare him a mournful look.

“Inessa Sidrova went on to help form the same HYDRA cell that ended up taking over SHIELD here in America,” Bucky mumbles, “She’s dangerous. There’s others like her, ones who I helped create, all over the world. But, she’s my top priority. I just haven’t had much luck tracking her down.”

“That’s why you need my help.”

“I’m 106 years old,” Bucky deadpans, “The microfiches at the library were getting a little tedious.”

“But,” you chirp with a sly smirk, “You figured out how to set up a PlentyOfFish account?”

He shoulders you again as you sip your tea and laugh.

“Shoulda never said anything,” Bucky grumbles, “Dr. Raynor thought it was a good idea. Y’know, to get back out in the world.”

“I can promise you,” you say with a stern shake of the head, “The metal arm will get you plenty of chicks and dudes in due time.”

“Good to know,” Bucky replies as his words lilt with a playful sort of questioning that you purposefully ignore. You’re not feeding his ego today. Maybe tomorrow, after you take a crack at figuring out where this woman is.

It’s going to be a long night.

#vacant mirrors #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you #winter soldier imagine #tfatws imagine #bucky barnes #marvel imagine #bucky x reader

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kopikokun · 4 years ago

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(Don't) Tell Me More༄ m.taeil

↳ Taeil's loaded, and that's a severe understatement. So, what on earth is this rich kid doing cleaning pools every Sunday? Looking for love, of course, and a little help with rubbing sunscreen on his back. Ultraviolet protection's a must; it's getting real hot in here.

pairing: (secret rich kid) pool boy!taeil x gn rich kid!reader

genre: fluff, suggestive

warning(s): the suggestive bit is the unaddressed tension, and the one joke about bad porn taeil makes. overall, just the ~vibes~ haha

word count: 2153 words

author's note: i got... carried away. no worries, the starved taeil fans deserve a meal. idk how many years it'll take for the next one. also, please notify me if i accidentally used any gendered language. i’ve checked multiple times, but i’m human, and would sincerely appreciate if you pointed out any of my mistakes or even offered feedback ♡

☆༓･*˚⁺‧͙ 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁: do i wanna know (arctic monkeys) ✧ head over heels (loveleo) ✧ honey (moxie) ✧ dance with me (sir, please) ✧ doubt (hippo campus) ✧ heat waves (glass animals)

← BACK TO NAVI.

Labour isn’t Taeil’s forte. Born with a gold spoon between his lips, and six digits in his bank account at five, he’s lived a life beyond lavish.

Fridays are reserved for piano lessons and tennis, Saturdays for buttering up his father’s potential clients in country clubs, and Sundays for swimming in the five meter deep pool in his backyard. Well, at least, Sundays used to be.

Taeil’s plenty passionate about swimming–freestyle, backstroke, butterfly–but about cleaning swimming pools? Not so much.

So, why is he spending every Sunday afternoon sweaty, swathed in sunscreen, and despairing over chemical imbalances? The answer is simple, and lazing on a deck chair at this very moment: you.

You’re new–courtesy of the raise in your father’s already outrageous salary–and when Taeil first lay his eyes upon you at the park, he was enamoured. He’d actually tripped on a root in his trance, and you’d crouched beside him to ask whether he was alright. Humiliated, he’d silently hobbled after as you lead him to a bench. You’d nursed the wound he hadn’t realised he’d sustained as best you could: rinsing and dabbing it dry.

“I’ll walk you home,” he’d said. “A token of appreciation, if you will.”

You’d accepted his token. The walk wasn’t far, but it was likely because you made for such good company. Taeil would be engrossed even if you droned on about cheese for an hour, which coincidentally, is exactly what Mr. Liu’s monologue had entailed the month before. That conversation had bored him half to death however.

It felt too quick; your estate was already looming over him, auguring the end of your encounter when he’d finally recovered from his ignominy. Desperate for more, Taeil had blurted out the first thing in sight: your pool. That’s why you’d mentioned your dad needing a pool cleaner every weekend, and how, despite being clueless in the department, Taeil had wholeheartedly offered himself. You’d been elated, beaming, over the moon. How could he say no?

It had seemed appealing in the moment, but his train of thought had been superficial. Turns out, those mass-produced specially-targeted summer chick-flicks were lying! Who would’ve guessed? Pool boying was not just flaunting your washboard abs and bulging biceps as you netted a few leaves. Oh no. The first few test cleans Taeil had done with his pool… well, it became off limits for a week. And an actual expert had to be hired. Those gritty aspects aren’t the most marketable, or inherently sexy, so Taeil supposes the chick-flick deceits are partially excused.

But back to what matters: you. Your–how should he put it?–spunk, hadn’t been anticipated. Not an ounce of that pretentious reticence the local wealthy feel entitled to prevails in you. It’s refreshing. You’re adrenaline personified. Just your presence has Taeil’s heart palpitating. Since he’d been hired, every week has been more fleeting glances, yearning touches, puckish banter. And last week… well, there’s no time for that, because now you’re beckoning him over, your hand wrapped around a tube of sunscreen. Taeil prances to you, complaisant.

“Sit,” you urge, dragging a wicker stool in front of you. “You’re done for today, right?”

“Yeah, water didn’t need treatment this week. Just skimmed the surface for debris.” Taeil hesitates. He feels awkward after last week, when he’d kissed you. Yes, kissed you. You haven’t said a word about it since, and there’s no way in hell he’s doing it first. “But, it’s okay. I’m gonna go soon.”

“Aww, please, Taeil? Sit?” You pat the chair and smile, eyelashes glinting in the sun. That’s all it takes for Taeil to succumb, the rattan crackling beneath his weight. Your fingers graze his arm. “It’s a hot day, huh? A swim would be nice.”

His eyebrows crease. "Sorry, were you waiting?"

“No, no, it’s fine.” You tilt your head. “But…”

“What?”

“Do you want to go swimming with me?”

Taeil fists the material of his swim shorts, spine erect. The fabric crinkles. Whether he wants to what? “Oh, uh, well, I don’t wanna intrude. I’m sure your parents wouldn’t be happy about me swimming in their pool.”

The heat of your body seeps into his skin as your arms coil around his. “They don’t mind, and if they did, they’re not home to say so.”

This feels like the start of a trashy porn. Taeil flushes. “Oh.”

“So? What do you say?”

His adam’s apple buoys. “Sure. Wouldn’t hurt, right?”

“Exactly.” The sunscreen’s cap clacks open. “Here, you gotta reapply more.” Taeil extends his palm, and you squeeze some into it.

He deliberates his next move. It’s difficult to think when you’re gazing at him like that, lashes batting and lips curled into a demure smile. “You don’t mind if I”–he rubs his nape with a free hand–“uh, take off my shirt, right? I don’t wanna dirty your pool.”

“Sure! I definitely wouldn’t mind, so long as you’re okay with it.” You tuck your knees to your chest. “Why? Do you want me to look away?”

“No, I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t making you uncomfortable.” Taeil’s going to pass out, he’s betting money on it.

He doesn’t, but he does glow incandescent when he strips himself of his clammy shirt. The humid air only exacerbates his feverish blush.

Growing up, Taeil’s parents always emphasised presentability, and he’s nothing if not presentable. He’s proud of his physique, diligently maintaining it with rigorous exercise, and sure, he’s had a few self-conscious blips, but they’re transient. Taeil knows he’s attractive, yet under your keen eye, he rubs sunscreen��on his neck, chest, and abdomen–hunched forward.

“Do you need help?” You peer over his shoulder, wagging the aquamarine bottle like bait. “With your back. You know, for the spots you can’t reach?”

You’ll be the death of him. You’re going to kill him, but he honestly wouldn’t mind that. Taeil’s never had any ‘spots he can’t reach’, but, “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

Your fingers are ridiculously delicate, like you’re weaving gossamer across his back–sunscreen webs, if that’s a thing. Taeil’s sure someone would pay grotesquely for that. Mr. Liu would.

Neither of you speak, only the sound of skin against skin drifting alongside the scent of coconut oil and cocoa butter. At one point, your nails unintentionally trail his back, and Taeil shivers.

His body tingles with the vestige of your touch, and when he assumes you’re done, you stun him with a good, hard, satisfying squeeze to his shoulders; the ones twined rigid from graft. Taeil actually groans in relief, which had probably stunned you. Or maybe that’s what you were hoping for.

Internally, he’s broiling in mortification, but externally, his shoulders slacken, his head hangs forward, and his exhales are long and grateful. It’s embarrassing. For crying out loud, he has his own professional masseuse, yet when it’s you doing it–yeah, he needn’t elaborate further. He’s gushed about you enough.

“Feels nice, right?”

“God, yeah, it feels”–a particularly forceful squeeze elicits another groan from him–“good. Do you have any experience? You’re amazing at this.”

“Just my dad. When I was younger he used to pay me to massage his shoulders after work,” you say, fingers miraculously knowing exactly which muscle to knead at what intensity. Is this what heaven feels like? “Well, there was also the massage course I signed up for a few years ago.”

“Well”–another sigh–“it definitely paid off.”

“It better have, given how pricey it was.” Your lilt is roguish, and it sounds like you’re enjoying this as much as Taeil is.

He wants to die like this, but you’re already standing, and stretching your arms overhead before he can really soak the sensation in.

“Let’s go for that swim, huh?”

“Uh,” Taeil blinks, dazed, “yeah.”

He trails after you, facing away when you lower yourself into the water without qualms. Duh, it’s your pool. Why would you have scruples about swimming in your pool? Taeil, on the other hand, dithers, because it’s not his pool, and he can’t help but fret that your parents could walk in on you swimming with the pool boy.

“Hurry up! A little water’s not gonna hurt you.”

“I’m not scared of the water,” he says, staring pointedly at you. He’s never felt so vehemently for someone before, and you’re so… unpredictable. It’s invigorating. It’s terrifying. Do you like him, or are you just bored?

He ventures as far as sitting on the edge of the pool’s deck, where water kisses concrete. His legs dangle, acclimating to both the temperature, and the reality that he really is about to jump into his employer’s pool. The water is cold, caressing his leg as you wade closer to stand between his knees. Your eyes sweep over him. Taeil’s stomach coils. He hopes you like what you see.

“You okay?” you ask, hand over his right knee. It’s freezing. “You look a little flushed.”

Your hand crawls further up his leg. “Yeah,” he scoffs, “I wonder why.”

“Aw, don’t be shy,” you grin, upturning your palms and offering them to him. “Come on.”

Taeil should’ve thought your motives through, but how could he have denied your invitation? He’s still a guy, and well, it’s you. Regardless, he should’ve scrounged up some semblance of prudence because it was blatant what you’d needed his hands for. To pull him under. Literally.

The tug is harsh and efficient, jolting him forward into the polar depths before he can object. Taeil’s not thinking straight–the stark contrast in temperatures pummel his rationality–so he grabs the closest thing he can: you. It’s reckless of him, given the two of you are in the deep end and he could drown you. But risks evade his psyche as he loops his arms around your waist, your body pressing into his. Fortunately, he won’t be facing charges anytime soon because you do resurface, still in his arms, and strangely, you’re not pissed, you’re laughing. Laughing so hard your head’s thrown back, and your body trembles. It’s not funny–you could’ve died for God’s sake–but Taeil feels a rumble course through him; a chuckle, a giggle, a laugh. Now, he’s laughing too, though there’s nothing funny about this. He’s laughing because you’re laughing, and that’s enough of a reason for him.

“Are you okay?” you finally say, titters dissolving into a faint smile. “That was mean of me, sorry.”

Your face is inches from his, so Taeil’s voice shrinks. “No, it’s fine. I’m sorry I grabbed onto you though. And, oh, uh”–he starts loosening his grip of you–“sorry I–”

"No, wait.” This time, it’s your arms curling around him. “It’s fine. I don’t mind this. It feels… nice.”

“Yeah… it - it does.”

The water laps at his sternum, and Taeil takes his chances by nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck. You let him, though neither of you know each other enough for this kind of intimacy. Maybe that’s why he’s so enthralled by you. Hell, you don’t even know he’s the son of some rich socialite. To you, he’s just the pool boy. Maybe that’s why you’re playing along with him. Because there’s something exhilarating about chasing something you shouldn’t when you’ve never had to run before. Because there’s a thrill in pain when you’re unscathed. Because when you’re someone like you and Taeil, mistakes can be afforded. Anyway, what does Taeil know of pain? In fact, what does he know of you to think this? It isn’t like he knows what your intentions are with him. You’re unpredictable. That’s your whole schtick. It’s funny, because Taeil knows your pool’s pH levels better than you.

Your fingers scrape into his sopping hair.

Or maybe he likes you for you. Maybe he likes what little of you he does know. So, does he want to know more?

“What do you think of me?” he murmurs against your skin.

“You’re fun.”

“Is that all?”

“Well, then, what do you think of me?”

Taeil lifts his head from your shoulder, the strength of his embrace withering. “Honestly, I don’t really know.”

You grin. “See? It’s hard to put into words, right?”

“I guess,” he smiles. You make it sound nice that you don’t know him. You make it sound like there’s just too much that you can’t express it. Maybe that’s what’s happening right now. Maybe there’s just too much Taeil likes about you to comprehend, so he thinks there’s nothing he really likes about you at all.

“You’re funny, Taeil.”

He isn’t. “Thanks.”

Taeil’s unsure how much time passes; long enough that the water’s gone tepid at least.

“Do you… like me?” he asks. Maybe if he hears you say yes, he’ll know what all the things he adores about you are.

There’s a pause.

“You’re fun, right?” you ask, thumbing a rivulet from his cheek.

“Yeah, I’ve been told I am.”

“Then, yes.” Your lips brush his. “I like you, Taeil.”

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dirtyrick · 3 years ago

Text

The Scientist

Wow. It's been almost 5 years since I last wrote fanfiction on here. With the new fantastic season 5 out, I decided it was time I made a comeback. This is an idea I've had since 2016, but I truthfully couldn't figure out how to weave this web. Now, I think I do. Please enjoy, this really is my baby.

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

Beth woke me up in my workroom at around 6am, just a little bit before heading off to school. She usually did this, as she had more motivation to cook us breakfast than I did. I was surprised to see a stack of pancakes sitting on the table when I came downstairs. She had set the table so perfectly, it never failed to make me smile. I rubbed my eyes and sat down, ready to dig in when she came back into the dining area from her room. She handed me some papers with a gleeful smile on her face.

“Dad, could you please sign these papers?” she asked me.

I raised an eyebrow as I looked at them, “volunteer work?”

She nodded, “yes, usually it’s a graduation requirement, but since I'm only a sophomore I need a parent’s permission to get it done early.”

Pulling a pen out of my pocket, I sighed, “Don’t you already have enough extracurriculars? Don’t spread yourself so thin, you’re only 14.”

She sat down on the chair across from me with a very stubborn look on her face. She wanted to be a surgeon so badly she was willing to waste so much of her youth on things that would look good on college applications.

“Dad, I'm about to be 15. I want to help people. Plus, if I volunteer for the hospital, they’ll know my face by the time I start medical school!” she seemed so excited for this opportunity. I put the pen to paper and signed. “just make sure your home enough to spend time with your old man.” I told her as I handed her the papers. She smiled at me, with a squeal of excitement escaping her lips. “thank you, dad!” she got up and hugged me.

I’d do anything to make my baby girl happy, even if it means I will see her just a little less.

Beth seemed to enjoy her time volunteering, coming home with a big smile every evening. She would tell me what she did in the day with a joyous look in her wide eyes. But as the weeks went by, those smiles turned to furrowed brows and worry in her eyes. She stopped telling me about her days. She would often shield me from her emotions, but I’ve never seen her this worked up about something.

“Beth, please. I-I know something is wrong.” I pleaded. We were seated at the kitchen table, after having a wordless dinner.

“Nothing is wrong, dad. I have a lot of homework,” she said, avoiding my gaze and my question. She began to gather the medical books she had placed on the table. I still pushed for an answer.

“Are you getting bullied? Are you concerned about your grades? Do you have too much on your plate?” I asked. My intention was to bombard her with questions to overwhelm her, to get her to spill. “is it a boy? It’s a boy, isn’t it? I could take care of him if you need me--”

“It’s not any of those,” Beth stated, her voice full of sorrow. She turned slowly and began heading up to her room.

I was at a loss for words. You could almost see how broken she was. It made me a bit insecure that she felt like she couldn’t talk to me about this issue that was clearly weighing heavy on her mind. Granted, since Diane passed away, I had thrown myself into my work, but I always thought I made enough time for Beth. Maybe not.

The next day I reached out to her teachers, and they shared the same concerns.

“Beth is an extremely good student. however, I have seen her slipping recently. I’m glad to see you’re reaching out, usually, I have to do all that.” her English teacher told me, then proceeded to complain about everything under the sun.

“She has seemed very depressed as of late. She’s been asking about sheet music for The Cure.” her band teacher informed me.

“She constantly carries a book about rare diseases and reads it during my lectures. We haven’t even reached that chapter yet!” her health teacher told me.

That last teacher made me raise an eyebrow. Rare diseases? Why would Beth need to know about rare diseases? I had a feeling and not a very good one.

The next day I took Beth to her volunteer hours, as she was about to get out of the car, I told her “I want to see what they got in store for you today. Mind if I tag along?”

She looked concerned, “I’m not sure if they’d let you…”

“I promise I won’t cause any suspicions," I said as I got out of the car, grunting a little. These bones sure aren’t what they used to be. As I followed her into the large beige building, the stale hospital smell hit my nostrils like a truck, as did the memories. This is the hospital Diane took her final breaths in. Beth may be too young to remember, but I sure as hell do. Some of the orderlies even look familiar, as they glance at us with what seem to be knowing eyes. They look at Beth’s dismal eyes, then look at mine—they just know something happened that shook our family.

We turned a maze of several corners which lead to a large orange elevator with the words ‘elevate your health!’ printed in big white letters. I rolled my eyes. Hospitals aren’t really places for much healing when it’s really needed. When we got in the spacious elevator, I got my first good look at Beth since we got out of the car. Worry as written all over her, she was desperately avoiding my gaze. Her small fingers twisting themselves in knots as she fidgeted. It was something here, it became blatantly clear. Her worry was contagious, as I suddenly felt a sharp stab of thoughts hit me.

The elevator dinged, I followed Beth toward a nurse’s station. The woman behind there smiled at us as we approached. Her red curls bounced as she got up from her rolling chair. Beth mustered a brave face, “Hello Nurse Bernice, this is my father, he wanted to see what I do here.”

The nurse looked at me, her deep amber eyes complimented her dark complexation, her smile lines very pronounced. She was probably late 30s, early 40s at the most. I almost forgot to introduce myself, “I’m Rick Sanchez. I just wanted to see what itinerary you have laid out for my daughter. She’s been coming home stressed recently.”

“Well, Mr. Sanchez, I don’t think we have too much on her sweet little shoulders,” she said as she grabbed a clipboard and handed it to Beth, who was smiling sheepishly. “Now Beth, you’re going to be checking in on your regulars this afternoon. Mr. Opiman got discharged this morning, so it’ll only be Mr. Marion and Ms. Doe.” Beth’s smile slowly faded, she nodded as she put on her badge. She looked up at me and motioned for me to follow her.

Her first ‘patient’, Mr. Marion, was fast asleep. “His chart mentions they upped his dosage of morphine as his surgical site had to be reopened today,” she said in a quiet voice, as not to wake him. She checked his vitals on the monitor next to his bed, and it suddenly became clear to me that she knew exactly what she was doing. She knew what all these terms and numbers meant. I stood there almost slack-jawed because I never realized how much of a genius my daughter was. I also realized Mr. Marion was probably not what has gotten her so worked up. She made notes on her clipboard and even gently checked on his surgery site, which was on his right foot. The blood had appeared to seep through his bandages earlier, leaving a stain on his sheets. The bandage on his foot was now clean. We left the room without waking her patient up.

We headed to the next patient room, and I could see that Beth was walking much slower. She opened the door, and the sunlight hit our faces hard. The woman was sitting up on the edge of her bed, staring out the window at the bright orange and purple sunset. Upon hearing us enter, she peered over her shoulder. Once she saw Beth, she turned toward us and beamed a big smile.

“Oh Beth, I’m so happy to see you!” Ms. Doe said cheerfully. Her voice was slightly deep and seemed very strained as though she had been screaming for hours. She had bruises all over her, including a black eye and what looked like handprints on her neck. She looked up at me and her mouth closed but kept a smile. Upon looking over at Beth, I was surprised. All those worries melted away, she seemed remarkably happy. “You must be Beth’s father. I’m Jane Doe, or at least that’s what they call me around here.”

I stood there entirely confused about what was going on.

#rick and morty #rick and morty fanfiction #rick sanchez fanfic #young rick sanchez #rick sanchez #dirtyrick #rick sanchez fanfiction #fanfic #rickfic #beth smith

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witcherslittledove · 3 years ago

Text

Home is Where the Heart Is

A Joey/Henry lockdown fic - AO3

Rated: T

Words: 7k ish

CW: RPF, covid, far too much pining?

_______

“I’m sorry, Joey,” Madeleine sighed again, pressing her head into the crook of Joey’s neck, her hair tickling his cheek.

It was pulled back into a messy bun, flyaway strands surrounding her face in a halo, and as the sun shone from behind her, she looked like some kind of angel. Joey wondered, not for the first time, how he’d even been so lucky to have Madeleine as a friend. She truly was a wonder, his favourite person and light of his life. Everyone should have a friend like Madeleine Hyland.

He laughed and pressed a kiss to her temple as he pulled back from her embrace. “Nah, it’s alright, Madeleine. Your parents need you, much more important than little old me.”

“Oh fuck that, you bastard, stop fishing for compliments,” she laughed, swatting him on the arm.

“Aww,” he pouted, “Oi!”

She’d hit his arm again, barely a tap but he pretended it hurt, rubbing his arm and pouting even harder at his friend.

“Come off it, Joey. You’re staying with Henry for the rest of lockdown, that’s hardly a trial,” she teased, poking him in the chest.

Ah yes.

Henry.

The bane of Joey’s existence, mostly because of the fucking ginormous crush he had on his co-star. He hadn’t known Henry had been signed on for Geralt until his audition, really he hadn’t known much at all, just that he’d be auditioning for a bard and that he should probably take his lute to the audition. A spur of the moment decision that had turned his life upside down. He’d gone from a nobody to... well, not exactly famous but people had started to recognise him, much to his despair.

And then there was Henry.

He’d been admiring Henry from a distance for a few years now, watching him in the Tudors had sort of been Joey’s bisexual awakening, and then he’d suddenly been thrust into the most bizarre experience of having to work fairly closely with the man.

Joey would never forget the feeling of Henry throwing him over his shoulder as if he wasn’t almost the same size as Henry.

Fuck, that had been hot.

And now, Joey had to cohabit with said crush for an indeterminate amount of time, preferably without making a fool of himself.

He was doomed.

Of course, he could have said no when Henry had offered his place when Joey was grumbling about being alone during lockdown after Madeleine's parents got sick, but no… Henry had stared at him with such shining hope in his eyes that Joey never stood a chance.

Joey just needed to keep reminding himself that Henry was straight. He was practically the poster boy for heteronormative; classically gorgeous, action star, gymrat, lover of sports and building fucking computers.

Okay, maybe Joey was generalising a tad, but it was a form of self-defence.

Christ, the mere thought that Henry could be interested in men… interested in him.

It was too much.

So here he was, saying goodbye to his best friend whilst waiting for his biggest crush to pick him up. Madeleine bundled into her car with the last of her bags, and Joey was left waiting on the pavement. In all honesty, he would have preferred to drive to Henry’s place himself or at least get the tube, something where he felt like he was actively doing something. The waiting was killing him, making his thoughts run out of control. Maybe he shouldn’t have packed his guitar. He could have at least been tuning it, or plucking out some meaningless melody, anything to keep his hands busy and his mind distracted.

When the black car pulled up, Joey let out a sigh of relief before realising that it was very much frying pan, fire. Luckily, before he could really start to panic, the back door opened and Joey was almost bowled off his feet by a large bundle of fur that Henry claimed was a dog and not, in fact, a bear.

“Kal!” Joey greeted warmly, burying his fingers into Kal’s neverending fur, and letting the dog lick all over his face.

“He’s missed you,” Henry called in lieu of a greeting.

He was wearing a grey henley that looked like it was two sizes too small and his dark blue jeans seemed to strain against his quads. Henry’s arms were crossed in front of his chest and he looked down at Joey with a blinding Hollywood smile that made Joey’s heart flutter. Dark curls seemed to have finally recovered from the weeks stuck under Geralt’s wig and they fell in front of his so very blue eyes.

He was bloody gorgeous, and it wasn’t fucking fair.

So Joey did the only logical thing, and started to coo at Kal instead. “I’ve missed him too,” he trilled happily into the dog’s fur, scratching Kal behind his ears. “Such a good boy! The bestest, cutest doggo.”

“He’s not the only one who’s missed you, you know,” Henry groused, although when Joey looked up, he was still smiling so Joey didn’t feel too bad for paying far more attention to Kal than the gorgeous specimen of a man that is Henry Cavill.

“Aww, you sap,” he chuckled. “Well, I still haven’t forgiven you for those cruel and terrible words you cursed me with the last time we met.”

It wasn’t the last time they’d met. They’d had a few scenes after the argument in episode six. Scheduling had meant that it wasn’t filmed entirely in order, and then there had been reshoots and post-production parties, premieres and the table reads for season two, but it was a sort of in-joke. Joey liked to tease Henry about the argument, they’d both lurked enough online to know that ‘the mountain’ was a big fucking deal to the fans of their characters.

Henry rolled his eyes and opened his arms out for a hug which Joey eagerly returned, inhaling the soft musky cologne that Henry wore and enjoying the strongs arms that wrapped around him. He loved hugs, but most of Joey’s male friends would do that god awful hug and pat thing, then pull away too soon. Henry had never been like that and it was delightful, even if it really didn’t help the not so little crush that Joey had on the man.

It was cliche but it really did feel like coming home.

Fuck.

He was utterly screwed… and not even in the fun way.

The drive to Henry’s place was quiet, Joey spent most of the time watching the streets of London roll past as they weaved through bendy roads that webbed across the city. The traffic was weirdly non-existent, a side effect of a global pandemic, and he couldn’t help but be reminded of the ghost towns from films and books.

It was truly haunting, spooky in just the right way. Horror and the Wild had very much had woodland magic vibes, but driving through the dead streets of London, Joey wondered what happened to the fae when a city sprung up near their home. Did they adapt like the wildlife did? Urban spirits that lurked in the shadows, in the alleys, behind the bins and cobbled streets at the back of theatres.

Most theatres were supposed to be haunted, Joey had always wondered just who the spirits were that glided through the aisles when the shows went dark.

Henry didn’t feel the need to fill the silence which Joey was grateful for. On set, with Jaskier on his fingertips, Joey was happy to joke about and laugh and banter, but he was nervous about the move to Henry’s and the silence gave him time to get lost in his own imagination, a reality that wasn’t quite the one they knew.

He was almost disappointed when the car pulled to a stop in front of a rather grand house. It was part of a terrace but that was unsurprising, most places in London were, but it was much nicer than the shitty little flat that Joey shared with Madeleine.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

They were poles apart. Even being friends was unrealistic. How the hell was Joey supposed to even pretend they were in the same league? It was fine. Everything was going to be fine. Joey just had to be a perfect house guest, no clumsy mistakes, no setting fire to any ovens, and no slipping in the shower and messing up his ankle.

He’d just have to spend all his time with Kal lest Henry find out just how much of a walking disaster he could be.

Henry had only offered because he was a caregiver, selfless and kind in everything he did. He would have done the same to anyone else if they’d mentioned spending lockdown alone. Joey was just the lucky one.

Or unlucky.

He hadn’t quite decided yet.

Yes, he would just have to spend his days with Kal and his guitar, stay out of Henry’s way and then everything would be fine.

Right?

___

Joey’s plan went according to plan for almost an entire week. He mostly kept to his room and occasionally the living room. Henry wanted to show Joey some films he liked and it would have been rude to say no, so Joey curled up with Kal on the floor to keep some space between them. That way he wouldn’t be tempted to snuggle up against Henry’s chest the same way he did with Madeleine, only it wouldn’t be the same because Madeleine was his best friend and Henry was… well… Henry.

It was such a mess.

And he was probably being an arse.

They’d gotten along so well on set in between takes, but now, without Jaskier there as a crutch, Joey’s anxiety was getting the better of him, and all because of a stupid crush. This would all be a lot easier if Joey were straight; no awkward crushes, no pining for a man he couldn’t have, no… whatever this was?

He could flirt and tease and banter just like he would with any of his friends because it was harmless.

If only.

No.

He had to do better. The reason Henry had invited him to stay was so neither of them would be alone, and despite all his cuddles with Kal, Joey was really starting to feel touch starved. He’d never gone so long without human touch.

The problem was that Henry was just so fucking sweet. He was so bloody understanding that it made Joey just yearn even harder. There was never any pressure to hang out, just gentle suggestions, and the most amazing home-cooked meals that Henry said could be heated up another time if Joey wasn’t hungry. The wine Henry picked out to go with the meal was heavenly, and fuck, the man could cook.

He felt like he was being seduced; wooed with the most gorgeous culinary delights that were truly to die for.

What was a poor bisexual to do?

So every evening Joey would sit across from Henry at the table, trying to joke and laugh just as they had before, but even to his own ears it felt flat. Madeleine’s voice in his head reminded him that that was probably his anxiety speaking but, of course, he ignored it. They ate their food and then Joey would either retreat to his room with his beloved guitar or Henry would suggest a film.

Until Henry decided enough was enough.

Joey was lured from his room with the sweet delicious smell of pizza, and when he came down the stairs he found Henry already on the couch, two boxes of pizza and a couple of beers already opened and ready to go.

There was no sitting on the floor, not with pizza and a Kal. Joey wouldn’t get to taste the greasy wonders of his takeaway if he sat on the floor, and the pizza box was already being guarded by Henry on the couch.

He had to break his rule.

Fuck.

“Kitchen table not good enough?” he teased with a quirk of his lips.

Henry scoffed. “Who eats pizza at the table?”

It was a fair point and sighed, resigning himself to an evening pressed up against his friend when his cuddle instincts got too much. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing, maybe it would help get him out of his head and into the moment… maybe he should just let Jaskier out of the box and pretend that all was fine?

No.

He could do this. Just… be himself?

“Before I open this box, there is one very important question I have to ask,” he said far too seriously, barely able to hide a smile as he scooped the pizza box into his lap and sat down next to Henry, keeping a safe distance between them.

“There’s no pineapple.”

“Oh thank fuck for that,” Joey laughed and opened the box. It was a standard pepperoni pizza, not his go to, but it was a safe option and one that was always yummy regardless of the restaurant. “Garlic dip?” he asked with a cock of his head.

“Damn, I hoped you wouldn’t like it,” Henry grumbled and pulled a small green topped tub from inside his own box.

“You!” Joey said in mock outrage, “keeping the beloved dip from me. It’s like the mountain all over again.”

“It’s not like the mountain,” Henry grumbled. “I didn’t make the script, you can’t keep blaming me for that.”

Joey’s heart sank as he wondered if he’d taken the joke too far, but when he met Henry’s gaze he saw the man was smiling despite his grousing. “I can,” he insisted.

“Hmm,” Henry replied in his most Geralt-y voice.

And with an internal sigh of relief, everything seemed to be okay. Yes, Joey was pulling some of his energy from his beloved character, but so was Henry, and it seemed to smooth out the edges of his anxiety. The beer helped and everything seemed a lot more relaxed with the takeaway pizza and the film already starting to play on the TV.

“I’m sorry,” Henry whispered after the pizza was finished and the credits had started to roll.

Joey’s head was resting on his friend’s shoulder but he’d managed to keep himself from koala hugging… so far. The vulnerability caught his attention though, and he sat up wearily to peer at Henry.

“For what?”

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable by inviting you here.”

Joey wanted to swear, to stomp around the room and tear the place upside down. He’d fucked up. He knew he’d fucked up, his damn anxiety keeping him from being the person he wanted to be, the person he knew he could be if his head just shut up! He didn’t do any of that though. Instead, he slumped back down to lean against Henry and took a deep breath.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable.”

“I didn’t?”

“No. I’m just- it’s hard for me, being somewhere new,” not a lie, not entirely the truth, “and I didn’t want to encroach on your space. This is your home, and I- umm- I didn’t want to get in the way.”

Henry laughed, running a hand through his hair, pushing the curls back off his face, and Joey was entranced for a moment, wanting to reach out and feel the soft hair between his fingers for himself. It was a miracle that he managed to keep his hands in his own lap.

“Joey, this is our home, for now at least,” Henry said with such conviction and warmth that Joey made a sort of strangled noise in the back of his throat.

“Our home?”

“We have no idea how long this nightmare is going to last. It could be months, Joey. I want you to feel like you can relax here,” Henry insisted, wrapping his arm around Joey’s shoulder and pulling him into a sideways hug.

“Right- yeah, no, I know,” Joey mumbled, trying and failing not to blush.

Now that Henry wasn’t really having to watch what he ate and stay dehydrated for dear old Geralt, he was big.

And Joey was weak.

It was like all his wet dreams were becoming a reality, one by one.

He was just monkey-braining over the fact that Henry was one big, large, strong man that wanted to take care of him. It was pathetic. Joey wasn’t exactly small himself, and he could, should the role require it, hold up pretty well in a sword fight with Henry and not look entirely ridiculous.

“And I know Kal is very cute,” Henry teased, nodding to the dog who was sprawled on the carpet in front of them, “but if you ever need a hug, he’s not your only option.”

Joey definitely didn’t squeak this time. Instead, he finally let himself snuggle up to Henry the way he’d been wanting to all evening, every evening since he’d arrived. “Like this?” he teased.

Henry chuckled, and just squeezed his arms tighter around Joey, “Exactly.”

“I’m sorry,” Joey mumbled. “I was being an arse.”

“No, it’s not your fault.”

Joey scoffed.

“I should have been clearer on day one,” Henry sighed, “although seeing as you live here now, maybe you should cook?”

Joey laughed nervously, burying his face into Henry’s jumper. “Neither of us want that,” he muttered. “Trust me.”

“I’ll help?” Henry suggested, which of course brought forth a dozen images of cooking together, dancing in the kitchen to whatever songs fell past Joey’s lips, lazy early morning kisses as they waited for the coffee.

He swallowed, blinking away the fantasies. “How about you cook, and I’ll help?”

“Lazy,” Henry said with a chuckle but just pulled Joey closer.

“Only trying to keep you safe, darling.”

Darling.

Fuck.

“I mean, Henry, sorry, slip of the tongue. I mean- fuck. I call Madeleine darling all the time?”

“Joey, it's okay,” Henry reassured him.

“Okay.”

With a sigh, Joey untangled himself from Henry’s arms and gathered up the pizza boxes and empty beer cans. Booping Kal on the nose as he went past, he busied himself with clearing up. It wasn’t much and didn’t take long, so sooner than he would have liked he poked his head back around the door.

Henry was sitting on the floor, rough-housing Kal, chuckling as the dog kept licking at his face. The sight made Joey smile softly, and he almost didn’t want to leave, but he was getting tired and he really didn’t want to slip up again. He couldn’t blame every mistake on Madeleine. It wouldn’t be fair to her.

“I’m going to bed,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his hair. “See you tomorrow, Henry.”

_______

After that, things started to get easier. Joey would flop down onto the sofa next to Henry in the evenings regardless of what they were doing. Sometimes he’d lie with his head in Henry’s lap whilst they both read a book, other times he’d pluck at his guitar and laugh over stupid limericks that he could make up about his co-star. True to his word, Henry made Joey start helping with mealtimes, although he soon regretted that decision but refused to back down. The food still tasted good but the presentation was lacking. They spent an afternoon trying to bake bread together… Joey’s did not turn out so well and Henry’s attempt was thankfully less than perfect but still edible. The little flaws made Joey feel a little less inferior, and made Henry seem all the more human.

Kal still got a lot of Joey’s attention. How could he not? He was just so fluffy and adorable, plus Joey loved the little pout that Henry did whenever Kal got more hugs than he did. Joey could pretend that his friend was jealous, and that just helped him sleep a little easier at night.

Cuddling on the couch had become their usual routine, and it settled something deep inside of Joey that had been becoming restless. Mornings were spent watching Henry workout. Joey joined in occasionally but usually he would just cheer Henry on from the sidelines sipping his cup of tea. It was a sight to behold, and Joey thanked the lord that the gyms were currently closed otherwise he would never have been allowed to enjoy the view.

Henry’s arse was truly spectacular.

Despite his morning workouts, Henry had definitely gained a rather lovely layer of fat over his previously tightly toned muscles. He looked stronger. He looked cuddlier. Joey’s crush was only getting worse by the day, wanting to run his hands over the broad muscles of Henry’s back, thighs, arms… wherever he was allowed, but he just settled for the cuddling each day.

Joey tried not to think about the fat building over his own stomach and filling out his cheeks, barely noticeable unless you’d had a lifetime of his mother breathing down his neck about his weight. He was cuddlier too, that’s what he told himself whenever the familiar buzz of anxiety started to build up.

And anyway, Henry didn’t seem to mind.

Kal certainly didn’t. The beast of a dog had started to share the sofa with them in the evenings, squishing between them for maximum cuddle potential until eventually he got bored and retreated back to the floor.

It was really starting to feel like home. There were signs of Joey around the house, sheet music left on the TV cabinet, a set of spare lute strings in the kitchen, the bastard instrument tucked away in the corner of the living room until Joey could bring himself to pick it up. Two sets of keys now hung up by the front door so they could both take turns walking Kal without having to worry about getting locked out if the other was busy. A fluffy worn blanket was now strewn over the big armchair where Joey liked to sit during the day. Even the fridge now stocked Joey’s favourite rosé wine.

All in all, Joey wasn’t hating lockdown. It was frustrating but he enjoyed being inside anyway, and well, the company was pretty great.

The two of them were curled up on the sofa watching the Great British Bake Off on netflix, gin and tonics flowing a little too freely, and Joey felt like he was on top of the world. He had the best cuddler in all of England, nay, the world, a big fluffy puppy to boot and some bloody brilliant booze in hand.

The best thing was that Henry’s hoody had shifted up at some point during the evening, and Joey couldn’t take his eyes off the soft but defined muscles that were often hidden under Henry’s clothes. The dark hair that dipped beneath the exposed band of Henry’s boxers was tantalizing, and Joey longed to reach out and touch…

Only he was drunk enough that his inside thoughts had his hand moving before he could realise, landing on Henry’s stomach.

He froze and stared up at his friend with wide eyes.

“Oops,” he slurred.

“That’s my stomach,” Henry pointed out.

And still Joey didn’t remove his hand, relishing the bare skin beneath his fingertips, but he knew he needed an excuse, so he did the only logical thing and launched his attack. Henry was stronger than him, but Joey had the element of surprise as he tickled his friend, fingers dancing across the exposed skin as Henry desperately tried to shove Joey away. They were both laughing, too busy pushing and pulling at each other, that neither of them quite registered that at some point in the tussle, Joey had straddled Henry’s waist in an attempt to keep him pinned down.

Until suddenly their lips were barely a breath apart.

Oh.

“Hi,” Joey mumbled, smiling coyly down at Henry, the longer strands of his fringe falling into his eyes.

“Hi.”

It wouldn’t take much to lean down and kiss him, maybe Henry would even reach up first. There was no denying the sudden pull between them, and god, Joey wanted it. He’d wanted it for so long now.

So close.

The warmth of Henry’s breath brushing against his lips.

Eyes closed.

Hearts racing.

A soft whisper of a moan.

And then a bark rang out in the room, startling Joey and shattering the moment. He cursed as he fell to the floor, the world spinning from the gin and giddy burst of adrenaline. Kal jumped up into Henry’s lap, barking and whining excitedly at his owner, checking that he was okay following Joey’s tyrannical tickle attack.

Joey felt like an ice bucket had been dumped over his head, feeling far too sober, far too fast.

He’d almost kissed Henry.

Fuck!

“Right,” he slurred as he pushed his hands back through his hair- too long, needed a haircut. “Bedtime, sleep. Yup.”

“Joey?”

“See you in the morning?” he mumbled, although glancing at the clock, he wondered if that was a little optimistic. “Tomorrow,” he amended.

“Tomorrow,” Henry agreed, looking a little disappointed.

Joey refused to think about it. He wouldn’t start to hope. It would hurt too much if this all went wrong.

______

They didn’t talk about it.

Or rather, Joey, didn’t talk about it.

Henry tried to bring it up the next morning but Joey just laughed it off before his heart could get torn to pieces. He didn’t need confirmation that his crush was a no go. He already knew, but he really didn’t need to hear the words. Not to mention his hangover was an utter bitch and all he wanted to do was crawl back into bed and feel sorry for himself, which is exactly what he did.

After a few days, or was it weeks, months, years? Time seemed to stop existing, all Joey knew was his clothes seemed to be tighter than before and he was in desperate need of a haircut, but after a lockdown-eque period of time, all was forgotten. They fell back into their usual routine, and Joey’s crush continued to simmer just below the surface, unnoticed by Henry.

He’d started to facetime Madeleine most evenings just before bed now that the novelty of living with a bloody filmstar had worn off. He missed her terribly and she seemed to be going crazy at her parent’s house. There was a twinge of guilt stabbing in his chest when he realised he’d all but forgotten about her the first few weeks of lockdown, but it was nice to catch up with her again.

Henry was brilliant, but he was no Madeleine Hyland. He wasn’t Joey’s best friend.

And sometimes Joey just needed to vent about Henry’s stranger habits. Like seriously, why wass there that weird sponsored water just stationed around the house? And what was with the weirdly staged selfies on instagram. It made Joey feel a whole lot better about his own lack of media presence. He’d rather be a mystery online than this boomer energy than Henry had going on.

Venting to Madeleine helped too, he got less frustrated about the shit hole that was life during a pandemic. A little less angry, a little less depressed, and a little less pathetic with his pining over Henry, although Madeleine would probably disagree.

She was probably right.

The sudden cold turn in the weather hadn’t helped. It wasn’t too bad but Joey had mostly brought summer clothes with him because he honestly hadn’t thought he’d be staying more than a couple of weeks. Thankfully he’d thrown in a couple of onesies for comfort reasons so he spent most his days dressed like a tiger and hoping that Henry would find it endearing. The best part was his onesies were a bit looser and fit him more comfortably than his normal clothes. A lockdown diet was brilliant, but not exactly what he’d had in mind when he’d gone shopping all those years ago.

What he hadn’t expected, was for Henry to rock up to dinner wearing the stupid bunny onesie that Joey had left in his room.

“There,” Henry greeted him with a broad smile, “Now we match.”

It wasn’t fair. Joey wanted to kiss him so badly. The white onesie was a little short on Henry, pulling up just above his ankles, and it still managed to stretch at his shoulders, but it was so fucking adorable and Joey could pin point the exact moment his crush tumbled over the edge into love.

It was the crinkles at the corner of Henry’s eyes as he smiled, the slight tilt of his head, the sparkle in his ocean blue eyes.

Except they weren’t just blue. No, there were specks of golden brown in one eye, that were just captivating. Joey felt like he could so easily get lost in Henry. Every time he looked at the man he found something new and exciting.

“Darling, you look adorable!” he cooed, before he could get too distracted by the fluttering of his own heart. “Very cuddly.”

Henry chuckled and opened his arms wide, allowing Joey to barrel into them. “That was the idea.”

“So, what’s for dinner?” he asked, hoping that Henry would have forgotten that-

“It’s your turn to cook.”

“Bugger,” Joey whined. “Cheesy pasta?”

“You made that last time,” Henry teased.

“I’m very good at carbonara!” Joey countered.

“Melted cheese on pasta isn’t carbonara.”

Joey scoffed. “Eh, close enough.”

“Fine, make your cheesy pasta.”

“Carbonara,” Joey said with a wink. “I’ll add bacon this time.”

The pasta was overcooked and the bacon was a little chewy, but it was dinner, and afterwards Henry made them both extravagant hot chocolates made from actual chocolate rather than powder shit that Joey used. It was covered in whipped cream and marshmallows and had a healthy amount of Baileys to top it off. They curled up on their usual spot on the sofa, buried under blankets and held the warm mugs close to their chests.

If it had been snowing, then Joey would have thought he’d walked into a Christmas film, all it needed was a fireplace and some fairy lights. It was cosy and warm, and a little bit romantic, or it would be if Henry was interested in men and Joey was his type.

No, he couldn’t think like that.

They were friends, good friends, good friends that liked to cuddle and almost kiss if the dog hadn’t interrupted.

It was fine.

Everything was fine.

He took a long gulp of his hot chocolate to stave off his anxiety, not noticing when his nose dived straight into the whipped cream until he looked up to find Henry staring at him with a fond expression. Warmth flooded through Joey’s chest as he returned the smile, feeling high on love and sugar.

“Hi,” he breathed, sounding as love sick as he felt.

Henry’s smile brightened, filling the whole room with light and Joey could have sworn he could hear the swell of violins in the soundtrack of his life.

“Hi,” Henry replied easily as if he hadn’t stolen Joey’s breath, heart and soul. “You- umm, cream, here!”

Henry tapped his own nose.

“Oh cock!” Joey hurried to wipe his nose, almost spilling his hot chocolate in the process, “Fuck! Bugger, shit balls!”

Henry, the bastard, just laughed, his arms reaching out to steady the mug and stop Joey from falling to the ground. “I think you made it worse.”

Joey snorted “I got that, yup, thanks.”

This time he could feel the sticky sweet cream clinging to his cheek, the subtle taste of vanilla on his lips. He pouted up at Henry, gazing through his eyelashes in a way that he hoped could be played off as friendly, but also maybe a little bit seductive. His tongue flicked out to lick his lips and he barely resisted the urge to wink.

Maybe there had been more Bailey’s in his drink than he realised.

Instead, he just wiped his face and snuggled back up to Henry, pulling the blanket up to his chin. They settled on watching Always Sunny, so Joey didn’t really have to concentrate. He let the tension drain from his body as he listened to the familiar TV show and then closed his eyes. Warm, happy and wrapped up in the arms of the man he loved-

Joey fell asleep.

He didn’t notice the way Henry was staring down at him as if he hung the fucking moon and stars, or the inner turmoil his friend was plague with as Henry resisted leaning down to kiss Joey in his sleep.

No, Joey was blissfully ignorant, sleeping better than he had in weeks.

________

The rest of lockdown went by in a blur. Their routine started to seem normal and any doubts Joey had about spending so much time with Henry faded away. They bantered easily like they had on set, laughing and giggling over whatever stupid thing one of them had said. Henry would spend hours playing his video games whilst Joey zoomed Madeleine to work on their new album together. When the regulations relaxed they started to walk Kal together, enjoying the quiet summer days and fresh air. The cuddling never really stopped, and some mornings Joey would wake up still curled up against Henry’s chest, their limbs tangled from the night before.

Those were Joey’s favourite mornings. He’d be stiff all day from sleeping on the couch but he could pretend, for just a few moments, that things were more than they were.

The pining never went away but it was truly the sweetest torture that he’d ever had to endure. The domestic bliss being barely a step away from everything he craved.

And when the time came for Joey to return to his flat with Madeleine, he felt like shit. He didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay in the strange fantasy world he had with Henry, eating too much food and drinking too much wine, cuddling and watching crappy Netflix shows.

Which was why he was sat, staring at a messy pile of clothes on his bed, clothes he’d not worn in weeks. Over the chair were his onesies and a collection of jumpers and hoodies that he’d stolen from Henry over the last few months and weeks. Kal stared up at him from the floor, tail thumping against the carpet.

Joey sighed and ran his hand through his hair, trying desperately to ignore the ache in his chest that was growing more painful with everything second that passed. “I don’t know, Kal. I should be happy about going home.”

Kal didn’t respond, his tail still wagging away just like it always did whenever Joey paid attention to him.

“I miss Madeleine, of course I do, but living with Henry has been great. And you, I love you, big fluffy puppy!” He cooed with a big smile as Kal barked happily and jumped up onto the bed. Joey laughed as he tried to keep his face away from the attack, wrapping his arms around Kal’s neck and pressing his nose into the fur.

“If I tell him how I feel that’s just going to make season two really really awkward, but I just feel like I’m missing a chance, you know?”

If Kal knew, he either didn’t care or just enjoyed watching Joey suffer. There was no reply and Kal just rested his head in Joey’s lap.

“Yeah, right,” he muttered, still running his fingers through Kal’s fur. “You’re no use.”

Kal snorted at that and Joey rolled his eyes.

“But I love you anyway, yes I do!”

“Ready to go?” Henry asked from the door.

“Shit!” Joey yelped. “How long have you been standing there?!”

Henry chuckled, striding into the room and perching on the bed opposite Joey. He reached out to scratch Kal on the head with a dazzling smile. Joey felt his cheeks warm up and he buried his face in Kal’s fur to hide the blush. So many months and he still couldn’t stop his heart from racing whenever Henry smiled. He was pathetic.

And he was running out of time.

He knew it was a bad idea, even entertaining the thought of dating a co-star, but he’d regret it if he didn’t give it a shot. I mean he could always blame the mixed signals if it went wrong. They’d nearly kissed twice and Joey didn’t even cuddle Madeleine as much as he’d cuddled Henry. They were probably the only people that were less touch-starved during the lockdown than before.

So Joey was going to tell him.

Just three words.

He could do that.

Fuck!

He couldn’t do that.

“Joey?” Henry said, reaching out to squeeze Joey’s shoulder.

Joey blinked. Had Henry been talking to him? He’d asked a question so that would make sense. God, his anxiety had gone through the roof, it was like that first day all over again.

“Need to pack,” he mumbled, gesturing at his clothes.

Henry let out a long and heavy sigh, sounding just as thrilled about the idea as Joey did. “I suppose you do, yeah. When is Madeleine due over?”

Joey hummed, glancing at his watch. “Ten minutes ago. Lockdown traffic must be a thing of the past.”

“Pity.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Henry sighed.

Neither of them moved, both staring glumly at Kal who was happily nestled between them. It was strange but Joey had almost begun to think of Kal as his, theirs. Their home, their life, their dog. He would miss Kal very much.

He would miss Henry even more.

“Do you have a start date yet?” Joey asked, the restrictions were lifting and there were talks about getting back to work again, but it was all up in the air.

Henry shook his head. “Should be getting a call from my agent some time this week. I need to make sure my other projects can work around the schedule.”

Joey smirked, “Or my dear witcher will have a new face next time we meet,” he teased.

Henry scoffed. “Not a chance, you’re stuck with me, bard.”

“You still owe me an apology,” Joey shot back, not quite realising how close they’d gotten during their mock argument.

He swallowed and licked his lips, one hand reaching up to scratch the stubble on his cheek. His face was burning right up to the tips of his ears, his heart thumping in his chest. There was a spark of electricity crackling between them, the scent of coffee lingering on Henry’s breath.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Henry promised, voice hoarse and low, making heat spread through Joey’s body and the world around them seemed to disappear.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Henry breathed, the words shaky.

Joey longed to reach out and brush his fingertips along the strong line of Henry’s jaw, to feel the scratch of stubble beneath his skin. He longed to tangle his hands in the dark mess of curls, to see if they were really as soft as they looked. It felt as if there was a magnetic force pulling them closer, a string tying their souls together, binding them as one. Joey couldn’t ignore even if he wanted to, and he was over that. He couldn’t live inside his head any longer, not when there was a chance.

Hope.

Deadly, poisoning his very soul, until he could think of nothing except Henry’s lips on his, hands roaming bodies, pulling at hair, unable to resist the promised pleasures of sin. Tongues tangling. Hearts singing. One breath shared between two. Heat. Lust. Love.

Just Henry.

His love.

Joey closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Henry’s, their lips barely ghosting over each other, you really couldn’t call it a kiss; not yet. One more breath, a millimetre to close the gap.

A horn honked from outside and they pulled apart before they could cross the bridge, past the point of no return.

Joey let out a slightly manic laugh and ran his hands through his hair, whilst Henry went back to stroking Kal as he cleared his throat.

“Bollocks, I still haven’t packed.”

“I’ll invite Madeleine in for some tea,” Henry chuckled, stretching as he stood up.

Kal barked happily and jumped down, wagging his tail as he sniffed at Henry’s socks.

And Joey was left alone once more.

“Fuck!” he groaned, covering his face as he flopped back onto his pillows.

By the time he finished packing, Madeleine and Henry were laughing away in the kitchen like old friends.

Like Joey and Henry had so many times.

He wasn’t special. Henry was just that guy.

Hope.

Dangerous and lethal, stabbing into the heart and tearing the soul apart.

“Ready,” Joey mumbled, holding up his suitcase and guitar. “Might take a couple of trips, I have another bag upstairs and the damn lute.”

“Not sure I ever heard you play the lute?” Henry teased.

“Yeah well,” Joey grumbled and turned away from the kitchen before he could start crying.

He really really didn’t want to cry in front of Henry. What was a little heartbreak between friends? At least he could channel that into Jaskier whenever they finally got back onto set. God, he was a fucking mess.

“I’ll help you,” Henry volunteered because of course he would. He probably just wanted Joey gone sooner.

The poor bloke probably couldn’t wait to have his own space back without Joey’s inedible attempts at cooking, non-stop music and chatter, lazy slobbish evenings in front of the TV.

He wasn’t going to cry.

He wasn’t.

Fuck!

Joey sniffed and stumbled out the door, his hands gripping his suitcase so tight he thought he might break the handle. Back home with Madeleine, to his life, and his bed, and nights spent drinking too much wine and lurking on social media.

He’d just about managed to throw his suitcase into the boot when he heard a loud bark behind him, followed by Henry grunting. Joey was almost knocked off his feet as Kal bundled into him, circling around as he jumped up, winding the lead around Joey’s body and pulling a poor Henry with him.

Not that Joey was particularly complaining about having Henry pressed up against him, but did it have to be when he was crying?

Henry cursed, struggling to keep hold of the lead. Their faces were close and they had to wrap their arms around each other to keep steady. Joey laughed through his tears, reminded of a similar moment from one of his favourite Disney films.

Only Kal was a lot bigger than a Dalmatian.

“I don’t think he wants you to leave?” Henry said, smiling sheepishly.

Joey smiled back despite his broken heart. “Doesn’t look like it.”

“I- I don’t want you to leave either,” Henry whispered so quietly that Joey wasn’t sure whether he’d heard it at all. “I- umm, I like having you here… with me.”

“Oh,” Joey replied stupidly.

“Fuck, I- Joey… Can- can I kiss you?”

The world turned upside down. Joey's heart stopped and everything started to spin. He tried to process the words but nothing seemed to make sense. There was no fucking way that Henry had said that, that he wanted to- wanted to…

Fuck!

“Oh,” he repeated, blinking at Henry as he licked his lips. “I mean. Fuck. No, I mean… Christ. Yes. Please. Yes.”

Henry chuckled and cupped his cheek, pressing their lips together in the most tender of kisses, taking Joey’s breath away right there on the pavement. Joey just giggled when they parted and then swooped back in for another kiss, and another-

And he never wanted to stop.

He didn’t need to breathe, he just needed this; Henry’s lips on his.

Henry had other ideas though, pulling away with a blinding smile.

“Stay with me?”

Joey nodded and threw his arms around Henry’s neck. “God, yes.”

And then they kissed some more. They had months of lockdown to catch up on, after all.

#the witcher rpf #henry cavill rpf #Joey batey rpf #Joey batey/henry cavill #Joey/henry

17 notes · View notes

chrysalispen · 3 years ago

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pursuit/predation (zenoswol)

This was a lot of fun LMAO I hope you all enjoy reading as much as i did writing it! Commission for @noxi-lumi featuring their WoL, Raziela Undeni <3

NSFW under cut. CW for mildly violent imagery (it is Zenos, after all).

======

Two and a half fulms below the angled opening of his makeshift bolthole, Zenos yae Galvus peered up at the sky with a borrowed face to watch the storm that had raged for two days. The levin-aspected aether in the northern hinterlands of Gyr Abania often lent itself to violent thunderstorms, with static bursts that rendered the escarpment too hazardous to cross. There were waypoints in the mountains to seek shelter from the weather but he had eschewed them, thinking that the fewer encounters to detain (and bore) him, the better.

He had ever chafed at forced inactivity, but all in all, Zenos reasoned, this was but a temporary setback. Man was a beast bred for hunting, a pursuit predator, and he was nothing if not the pinnacle of that ideal. He would do as his ancient ancestors had done: bide his time and await his next opportunity. Once the storm had spent itself, he could go.

He whistled the opening bars of a parade ground march under his breath - a low and toneless sound like loch winds moaning around the corners of sandstone - and let his eyes fall shut.

Seconds and minutes passed as an age. Bereft of aught else to entertain him, his thoughts turned to his memories of the Eorzeans’ champion: that wild creature of sword and spell. Eikon-slayer. Saviour of the savages, so-called. Epithets overheard from idle barracks' chatter, although Zenos set little stock in the distinction between his own kind and the rest of the world as others did. Garleans bled the same, quailed in fear the same, and died screaming the same as any savage, and she had long since proven her mettle to his satisfaction. She strode the world as he did, towering above her fellows, a beast without peer.

He still recalled with crystal clarity the day they had met. Then he had barely paid mind to her paltry attempts to halt his advance; countless enemies had attacked him out of fear or desperation to stave off the inevitable, after all. Even so, he had seen neither of those things in their hero's magenta eyes. A grim sort of determination, to be sure; the steely resolve he would expect of one well-versed in the path he walked himself- but no fear.

There had been another emotion which he still couldn’t quite define, the faintest flicker of something. Curiosity, mayhap. His own exultation in the heat of the fight, mirrored in her mien. A reflection of himself, some alternate path he had never chanced to walk.

Whatever it was he had seen that day, it had moved him to spare her life.

And how right he had been to do it. She was worth a score of tribunes on her own-- fivescore, if the truth be told. Had she agreed to his proposal, or had he kept his word rather than indulge his lust for violence in that precise moment…

How very different things might have been.

Well, perhaps, he amended. They each had their parts to play. But upon the stage of his imaginings, anything was possible. There he could entertain to his heart’s content his fantasies of his friend returned to him, stronger still for her own tribulations.

He meant to duel her again and had no doubt she would oblige him. The prospect of it did not deter him; no, he yearned for the excitement of it. The surge of heat through the veins with each perfectly executed step, air burning the throat and whistling in the lungs, the ever-present specter of death looming over one’s shoulder-- what was violence, in truth, but a dance? Were not those dances with the most precarious, most intricate of steps best enjoyed with a partner of comparable skill?

In the end that was what he had seen in her: a worthy partner, at long last. Whether to stand at his side or to test her blade against his, he would accept both, but to fight his most precious friend once more, to recapture that kindled flame-- that would be a fine thing.

Oh yes, that would be quite fine indeed.

Remembered delight shuddered its way across the surface of his skin, a delicious and almost delicate frisson that bored its way down his spine to curl and tighten in the pit of his belly. Zenos was no stranger to lust; since his majority plenty of his lessers had used their bodies to curry his favor for some petty reason or other, with naught in their hearts save ambition and fear. Carnal knowledge was both prosaic and vulgar, rutting the sole province of mindless beasts, and it had not taken him long to decide that such matters held little of interest or value to him.

But this sweet and languorous warmth, like honey in a well-steeped tea-- he realized that he did not mind it so very much. It reminded him of the menagerie, and his last sight of her before he had opened his own throat and bled out into the flowers. Joy, pure and transcendent.

Yes, he decided; this pleased him.

With a soft grunt Zenos shifted his hips. The motion left him keenly aware of the physical evidence of his arousal against the mild rise below his navel, where it strained against twin cages of cloth and leather for freedom. That spreading ache was not a sensation entirely alien to him, but it did strike him strange how very aware it made him of this borrowed body on such a base level. Heat and hyperawareness punctured the fine invisible layers of his detachment with the pinpoint precision of a sewing needle through linen.

His eyes fell shut once more in a series of slow and lazy blinks: a contented feline drowsing atop a fresh kill.

He settled one hand over the seam of his breeches where the fabric was pulling taut and palmed himself, running his fingers lazily along the firm ridge his cock had formed beneath the thick weave. If he paid heed only to those slow and teasing strokes, he could convince himself that it was her, touching him so intimately---her hand dragging those sharp and immaculate nails he had glimpsed up and down his length. Scratching their points with calculated ease along the underside of his shaft, applying just enough pressure through the fabric to leave tiny trails of fire in their wake.

A soft groan rumbled deep in his chest, and Zenos tilted his chin back so as to rest his head against the rock, thighs spreading to accommodate his girth. What would she do, he mused, should she chance to see him caught in the web of his own desire? Driven to distraction by the mere thought of her, the very picture of the animal in full rut which he had so scorned?

The irony of it would amuse her, he had no doubt about that. Perhaps she might grin at the spectacle.

Perhaps she would even laugh. He presumed to imagine it, a sight and sound he had yet to experience. A wicked, throaty peal of mirth. The toss of short sable locks, the tilt and swivel of long tufted ears, the stretch of her long and graceful neck as she tossed her chin. Grinned at him, feral and dark, that smile he so loved to see before her inevitable riposte.

Savagery to rival his own, swathed in leather and crimson.

So thinking, Zenos’ fingers drifted upward of their own accord, straying from the insistent need betwixt his opened thighs to work at the waistband of his breeches instead.

Lashes fluttered like a courtesan’s fan at the edges of angular cheekbones, suffused with color and dewy with a light band of sweat despite the chill within his shelter. In his mind’s eye, she straddled him as her clever fingers worked the buttons and laces that bound him fast, impatient to pluck her prize from its confines. He fancied he could feel the contained heat of her core against his leg even through the barrier of her smalls, burning as though the sun itself had branded him.

When he raised himself to pull the offending fabric to his knees, it was she who closed her hand about his cock, grasping him just a touch too snugly. Her thumb stroked tiny circles over the foreskin as the shaft lunged eagerly within the cage of her palm; he could almost hear a hum of low-pitched approval. Each stroke she made eased the smooth, hot skin to retract and expose his crown: deeply flushed, its tip already glistening with precum. Zenos sighed, his borrowed body rocking upward to thrust into her hand, seeking friction to accompany that narrow squeeze. Anything would do, really. Except he needed--

Shallow breaths rasped unsteadily in the close space as he slicked his palm with his own saliva, grimaced, then took himself in hand once more.

Wet heat and resistance alone nearly undid him. His startled inhalation made a sharp and rasping echo that he barely heard, lost as he was in his fantasy. She had shed her duelist’s garb, laid herself bare to embrace him with long and powerful thighs, like velvet-wrapped steel. He shuddered at the effort it took to control himself, to let gravity carry her down to sheathe him in her depths, to let her move atop him to counter his thrusts with her own: a beautiful beast with lips for kissing and teeth for tearing. She laid both to work upon his throat and his shoulders with each upward snap of his hips-- drank deep of him, and he of her, until his stomach ached from ribcage to groin with unrelieved tension.

Violence in its own sense, he thought. A dance most intimate, and as real and as pure as the day they had parted.

“Yes, my beast,” he hissed aloud. The sibilant sound of his pleasure rose and reverberated around him, a chorus of empty whispers. “Just so.” His free hand fisted in a handful of loose gravel and his mouth fell slack and the spare limbs and lean angles of this unfamiliar vessel, all wrong, not his, arched like a bowstring. His heels dug into unyielding rock rather than bedsheets for purchase. Her fingers entwined with his, sharp nails grazing his knuckles, tiny cuts to blend with the myriad small scars left by

(hunting. a pale silver-white web of scar tissue in the center of his left palm - his true vessel's left palm - where his fourteen-year-old self pierced it with a crystal. a parting gift to the first man he ever killed. its tendrils radiate outward between each of his fingers like the cracks made in a pane of shattered glass)

arrows and fletching. She was close; he fancied he could hear the labored rattle of her breathing with each small moan she made. Bracing her weight against his torso and balancing upon his thighs to bounce, sounds only he could hear tumbling from imaginary lips parted and glistening, her cunt flexing about him like a silken vise as she approached the edge of release and swept him along like an incoming tide--

--and the pressure in his groin dropped, at last, and when he spilled, his seed splashing over his frantically moving fist and locked fingers and onto the muscled slope of his exposed belly, it was her name which fell from his lips, not hero or beast but Raziela, Raziela.

Long moments passed before he opened his eyes, chest heaving and fingers numb and loosely wrapped about his spent cock, still pulsing beneath his touch. The syllables of her name seemed to echo in his ears, a mantra to recite to himself until he had locked it into his memory to recall at a whim.

He waited in patient silence, willing his pulse to slow and his lungs to expand in an unhurried rise and fall. There was a low rumble from the opening of his shelter and after long moments, a flicker of lightning. The storm was passing and with it the levinstrikes. He would be able to move soon.

With movements as slow and languid as a sleepwalker’s, Zenos reached for the belt he had removed upon entering the cave and dug through its pockets until he found something that would serve as a washcloth. His gaze, as he wiped himself down and rearranged drab layers of linen and oilcloth into some semblance of order, was very far away, fixed upon the thinning clouds and the wheel of stars beyond. The moon hung low in the sky, bloated and orange.

I wonder where you are, my friend, he thought. If you have given thought to our meeting at all.

“Raziela,” he whispered once more, as if testing the sensation of her name on his tongue. In the darkness of the cavern, his eyes glittered like a hungry cat’s.

It was only a matter of time before they were reunited; he would make certain of it. Once he had regained his true form, they would have their dance. A grand reunion upon a great stage, two stars to burn bright, and oh, there would be such a burning. To capture this bliss and relive it with her-- he would give anything in his power, and the very star itself would tremble at their union.

When he emerged from the cavern at last to clear skies and a still night, the moon hid its face behind a passing cloudbank like prey that had caught his scent. And within the bounds of his stolen vessel, Zenos yae Galvus smiled to see it.

#zenos yae galvus #zenos/wol #spicy character studies

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cherrycocaineee · 4 years ago

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4. Park Jimin - Cafe Date

Sandalwood and bonfire candles burned throughout the house drifted through the open door blanketing my nose while I was hanging up some fake spider webs. Marshall was carrying the bundle of webs in his arms while I weaved them in the corners. Mom came out with a tray with two glasses filled with eggnog; a large smile appeared on her face when she saw how much we’ve done in a short period of time.

“This is beautiful. You kids did such a great job!” She praised.

“Mom,” Marshall said, “we aren’t kids. I’m literally twenty-two, and Brielle is nineteen.”

“You’ll always be kids to me.”

Marshall and I put the decorations down to enjoy the nice, sweet, holiday drink that our mom had brought out to us. While I took small sips, Marshall gulped it down in a single swift motion.

A black Porsche pulled into our driveway, coming to a complete stop inches from our garage door. The windows were tinted, so none of us could see whoever was inside the vehicle, until the door opened and climbed out of they’re seat.

Jimin’s blonde hair and black roots appeared as he lifted himself out of his car, a happy smile on his handsome face.

“안녕 자기!” (Hi, sweetheart!)

Excitement ran through my body as I saw and heard my boyfriend, and nearly lunged myself off the porch while running into his open arms. Jimin and I began dating when I was eighteen years old, and it was great but difficult since he was constantly touring and because he lived in South Korea.

The two of us hugged each other tightly.

“지민, 한 달 더 있을 줄 몰랐어.” (Jimin, I wasn’t expecting you for a month.)

Neither one of us was great at speaking the opposite language that the other spoke but we still tried. If that didn’t show we loved each other, then I didn’t know what did.

We pulled away from each other and he pressed a gentle kiss against my temple. Marshall and my mom came off the porch and greeted Jimin. My family enjoyed having my boyfriend around and they treated him like family because of that. From where we stood, I could still smell the candles burning in the house, surprisingly.

“Jimin, would you like to come in for some eggnog?” Mom asked, her voice sweet and angelic.

A look of confusion swept against his face before he understood completely what my mom was asking him.

“Ah ~ no, thank you. I wanted to take Brie out for some, uh,” he made a drinking motion with his hand, “some coffee.”

Of course I was going, but I had to finish putting up the Halloween decorations for my mom. Jimin even offered to help. So for the next forty-five minutes, Jimin and I put the rest of the cobwebs up and even added some yard decorations including skeletons, tombstones, a scary pumpkin, and more webs in the trees along with fake, realistic bats and spiders.

Taking a step back to view our work, Jimin and I smiled in accomplishment. He turned to me and grabbed my small hand. I tightened my grip. After mom admired our work, Jimin led me to his car, opened the passenger's side, and held my hand as I stepped inside the vehicle. Once he was in the car, he started the ignition, and pulled out of the driveway heading towards a coffee shop a block from my mom’s home.

As Jimin was driving, I looked out the window watching the shopkeepers putting up their simple decorations like jelly stickers and hanging ghosts. Jimin parked the car next to the coffee shop and we scooted out. On the two large windows, there were assortments of those jelly stickers that everyone else had in town. Some were pumpkins, ghosts, bats, black cats, spiders, and more spooky, Halloween characters. Jimin opened the door, the small ring of the bell echoing off the shop’s walls, and gestured me inside.

Pumpkin spice and freshly grounded coffee pierced our noses as we entered and I inhaled deeply. I loved coffee, I loved the smell of coffee, and I especially loved the aroma during the fall. During this cool season, the smell was more intense and the warmth of it was like a blanket for my nose only. The taste was just as euphoric.

Both of us walked up to the counter, listening to the sound of talkative customers sitting at tables, and looked at the menu. I didn’t really need to look, I always got the same thing every time I came here but Jimin did. I helped him with some of the words he didn’t understand and in the end, we ordered. Jimin got an iced caramel macchiato with extra caramel syrup, and I got a pumpkin spice latte. After the barista handed our drinks, we swiped a booth near the window so there was a nice view of the multicolored leaves falling to the concrete as the wind shook them off their branches.

I sat across from Jimin, against the window. Jimin smiled at me.

“How have you been?” He asked, his English better than when we first met, he’d definitely been practicing.

“I’ve been good,” I said, taking a small sip of my pumpkin coffee, “really good actually. How have you been?”

“Really tired, but good. I have been practicing my English more since we have been coming to America more often.”

“I can tell, you’re getting much better.”

Jimin and I took a drink of our beverages before resuming conversation.

“How are you doing with learning Korean?” He questioned, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed the cool liquid.

I frowned and sighed, “it’s much harder than it looks, if I’m being honest.”

I reached into my bag, which I had grabbed as we were leaving my mom’s, and pulled out a notebook that I took everywhere with me. Inside the Five Star spiral notebook were all of my Korean lessons. I opened the notebook and laid it out in front of us. Jimin leaned forward.

“I get really confused on how to pronounce each character,” I muttered.

“It is okay,” Jimin chirped, “I will help you since I am here.”

We spent some time on the lesson and Jimin taught me how to pronounce a lot in a twenty-five minute time span, but now the two of us were distracted by laughing at stupid things because I had mispronounced one of the characters.

My laughter died down as my phone buzzed. Jimin leaned back and rested his arm over the back of the seat while sipping on his coffee. I picked my phone up and glanced at it. The name of my group chat popped up on the front screen and I saw that one of my friends was asking about the assignment due for Mr. Michael’s class. I chose not to answer it right now.

“Important?” Jimin questioned.

“Just a group chat for school,” I informed, “jealous?”

He laughed out and it was the most captivating noise I’ve ever heard. Jimin shook his head.

“Absolutely not,” he giggled some more, “I love and trust you.”

I covered my mouth as a small laugh escaped my own mouth.

“How is school?” He asked.

“It’s going great,” I said, “straight A’s. How’s touring?”

“Oh it is amazing. I love being able to meet Army and be on several talk shows with funny people.”

I smiled wide, “who’s your favorite talk show host?”

“Jimmy Fallon and James Cordon. They are my favorite.”

I loved watching the interviews with Jimin and his group members, they always seemed to have so much fun with it. The idea of him traveling all through America and other countries meeting new people and performing new songs for their fans. I loved traveling, so I hoped some day that I would get to travel too, either with Jimin or alone.

Jimin leaned forward again.

“I was thinking maybe you can come visit South Korea on your vacation,” he said, “I will pay for the ticket.”

My brown orbs widened at his words. I was shocked by his invitation because I never thought he would ask me to come visit him in Korea. But what shocked me the most was what he said next.

“I want you to meet my mom and dad. I already told them about you, they are wanting to meet you too.”

“Oh Jimin,” I whispered, a few tears escaping my eyes and sliding down my cheek, thanking myself for not wearing any makeup today.

He grabbed my hand, “사랑해, 브리.” (I love you, Brie.)

“사랑해요, 지민.” (I love you, Jimin.)

After we finished drinking our coffee, I ordered another to go and we left. Jimin didn’t have to worry about fans seeing him here because the town was so small, so Jimin wrapped his arm around my shoulder as we walked to the car. It was a subtle romantic gesture, and I loved it.

Jimin, once again, opened the passenger’s side and helped me in. I thanked him and he leaned down, kissing me on the forehead. On the drive home, Jimin rested his hand on my thigh and we jammed out to crappy music playing on the radio at that time.

Marshall was sitting outside with his friend, Jackson, when Jimin pulled into the driveway. I looked over at Jimin.

“Do you have somewhere to be, or do you want to come in and watch a movie?”

He took a quick glance at his phone before answering, “I have time. Come on, we can watch a romantic movie.”

Jimin was always a big flirt, even when I first met him. It was one of the qualities that I loved the most about him. The two of us kissed. His hand touched the side face with his large hand, deepening the kiss and making my heart flutter. When he pulled away, I bit my bottom lip.

“Come on,” he said, his voice was husky from the kiss, “let’s go inside.”

Nodding, I followed my boyfriend inside the house. My brother and his friend waved at us as we passed. However, we didn’t stop for long to chat, I knew Jimin would be leaving soon and I knew I would be able to see him for months, so I wanted to spend as much time with him alone.

We decided on an action movie, and cuddled into my bed, entangled into each other’s arms. I looked up at Jimin and felt love and admiration for this man. He was honestly the most amazing man I ever knew. He looked down at me, pressed a single peck on my forehead, and nuzzled closer to me. The sound of his heartbeat thumping against his chest mixed with the sound of the movie playing. I felt at ease and relaxed against him. Everything was perfect.

#bts #bts fanfction #bts scenarios #park jimin #fluff #kpop fluff #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios #bangtan #jimin fluff #jimin imagine #army #bts army #fanfic #imagine

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fereldenturnip · 4 years ago

Text

But Don’t You Ever Let Me Go (2)

Primo Nizzuto/Majid Zamari Sugar Daddy Fic

Part 2/ ?

(Part 1)

[nsfw towards the end]

Majid spends most of his days trying his hand at an honorable job. 'Try' being the operative word. He's never had the head for dull drudge work, giving up his warehouse position in Utrecht before he ever got started. It's boring. Routine is shit-boring. He’s already burnt out on three separate jobs so far.

Currently, he’s an auto-repair mechanic trawling through motor oil and brake fluid. It’s exhausting and frustrating, sweating through his overalls and busting his fingers. He absolutely hates it when some rich-prick comes swaggering in, throwing the keys of some hot rod in his face like he’s a robot and not a person. Swallowing the all-consuming rage gets harder with each asshole.

These trust-fund babies always want the same thing, “Fix it by noon!” with not even thirty minutes to spare assessing what component they broke to make it sound like shit. Majid always manages to get the cars purring again, and he’s half-tempted to just steal one and ride off into the sunset like he used to. The dumb-struck look on Pastel Polo Shirt Paolo’s face when he returns to an empty shop is one of Majid’s fondest daydreams.

No. Instead he fixes the damn car, hands over the keys, and lets jock twits rev dust in his face.

To make matters worse, he goes home to a dank and miserable, overpriced flat above a busy deli. Unwinding is next to impossible when your floors reek of salami. At night, Majid listens to his neighbors pound away at each other. The luck of others only underscores his own nonexistent sex life. It’s been almost a year and he hasn’t gotten laid since his trysts with Tessa. Lying on his bed that doubles as a couch, Majid glares at the ceiling when the telltale thumping begins. There isn’t even a television to block out the noise or silence his depressing memories. Majid suffers the entire night, sometimes with half a stiffy that no amount of palming will relieve.

Just when Majid’s day (his week, his month, his life) spirals out of control and he wants nothing more than to throw himself into the Tiber, Primo returns to whisk him away. Cheerful and unrepentantly persistent as expected.

It's as if the older man is psychic--either that or he actually does have informants all over the city. He rolls up in a sleek Mercedes, his driver popping out to open the door obediently. From the dark interior Primo’s elegant hand uncurls, beckoning him forth. Into the lion’s den.

And every time, Majid lets himself be coddled into the back seat. If this is a dance then he’s clearly not the lead. Does he mind? Glancing back at the auto shop, he’s hard-pressed finding a reason to say no.

Majid sinks into the warm leather seats and only mildly feels self-conscious as he clashes with his luxurious surroundings. Primo never disparages his workman’s clothes or the grease in his cuticles. He passes Majid an ice-cold water from the built-in fridge, unperturbed by the possibility of soiling his fine outfit. It’s just the opposite--Primo is ecstatic to be in Majid’s company again and again.

They’re chauffeured around, chatting and laughing amiably (and wow, Majid never believed he’d laugh again, not after what he’s been through), searching for a meal befitting the hour. Fancy, decadent, expensive. Breakfast, brunch, lunch, and dinner. Sometimes a combination of several depending on Primo’s schedule. And that’s a loose term.

Of course, there are events and fundraisers, meetings and phone calls Primo must attend to. Primo also owns half of Italy. The rules he operates by are malleable to suit his whimsy and if he wants to play hookie with Majid, there’s no one around to tell him no.

No one can stop Primo, not even the devil himself. It’s unwise, every time Majid hops in Primo’s car and feels his stomach automatically growl rather than churn. Who is Majid, a deadbeat thief with anger issues, to the Don of Calabria? One wrong move, one dumb mistake, and Primo can have him sleeping in the Tiber with whomever else is lying there too.

++++

“Ach,” Primo grimaces, “The Netherlands? I could never go there. It’s too cold!” He laughs though, warm and toothy, pouring more sparkling water into their glasses. The Mercedes makes another loop around the Colosseum, the tinted windows colouring the ancient stone in shades of blue and grey. The driver is a consummate professional, the ride is smooth and untroubled. Nevertheless, Primo curls in towards Majid to keep the drinks from spilling.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Majid smiles and clinks the crystal together. “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t born there.”

Primo makes a noise of interest and gestures for him to continue. It would be so easy to forget who this man really is. Primo slouches comfortably in Majid’s presence, his blazer and tie removed, collar unbuttoned to reveal skin. He’s human underneath. It relaxes Majid enough to spill details of his childhood spent in the Moroccan sun. To his credit, Primo listens attentively, chin in hand as he rests on the centre console.

Unsurprisingly, Majid’s nostalgic and full of homesickness by the time he finishes detailing his family’s migration.

“Thank you for telling me,” Primo nods his head seriously, as if Majid’s words are an important gift worth all the gravitas in the world. Stunned, Majid actually believes he’ll cherish them.

“What about you?” Quid pro quo, right? Intimacy for intimacy.

Primo tilts his head and peers coyly at him through his eyelashes, “What about me?”

Majid is curious. Living in Rome is like living in a soap opera; Majid has heard a wide gamut of rumors, from the comedic to the tragic.

Some say Primo assassinated his uncle to do it, hid in the trunk of a car under the cloak of darkness and blew the old man’s brains out. Others scoff, they’re quick to point out how his uncle was nothing more than a destitute goat farmer and what could killing him possibly achieve? No, clearly Primo kidnapped some millionaire’s kid, burnt him alive on the beach and ran away with the ransom money.

When Majid asks, which is it? Primo smiles and weaves a story about a young man whose ideas were just too big for his small town to contain. How he longed for more until finally the Italian government benevolently loaned the young entrepreneur enough money to build his empire from the ground up. It sounds realistic. It’s also just another story and Majid is no where closer to the truth than he was before.

He huffs, unsatisfied.

Sitting on Primo’s left, Majid is close enough to feel the heat rolling off him and smell his musky cologne. Primo turns suddenly and that’s when Majid realises he’s drifted too close into the other man’s orbit. He can spot gold flecks in Primo’s irises, faint laugh lines on his cheeks, and sun-induced freckles over his nose.

Majid freezes like a deer caught in a rifle’s scope. A finger grazes his knuckles and he shivers from the soft touch. Primo’s desire is spelled out loud and clear, yet he makes no move to act on his impulses.

The car rolls up to the curb outside his flat. The parking brake shifts and whatever’s going on in this moment between them dissipates. Majid darts away, totally missing the narrowed eyes and minute smirk.

Primo, courteous as usual, professes, “I enjoyed spending my afternoon with you, Majid.”

Majid’s hand clasps the door handle--passerbys must think it strange seeing such an elegant car in this seedy neighborhood. Already halfway outside, Majid isn’t thinking clearly when he replies, “Me too.” Immediately, Primo preens. He could shudder from the liquid warmth swimming in Primo’s alluring gaze.

“Just tell me one thing,” Majid says, plucking the courage to stay a minute longer. “What’s the truth?” For a moment he thinks he’s confused the older man, either that or inserted his foot into his mouth.

But Primo’s mind is sharp, always several moves ahead. He knows exactly what Majid means.

“It was all that and more.”

That’s…not an answer. It’s grandiose and enigmatic (vague and frustrating) and perfectly sums Primo up. The bastard knows this and has the audacity to grin while he shooing Majid out.

“Until next time,” Primo asserts, stroking his greying goatee. He finishes with a soft declaration, “my boy.”

++++

The long-anticipated ‘other shoe’ drops while Majid is standing alone in his barren kitchenette and wistfully wishing he’d accepted Primo’s invitation to dinner. It’s a devastating epiphany, a slip-up he catches way too late. He finally sees the intricate spider’s web the Don has woven, and Majid went and entangled himself in lines, enticed with food and stories. Primo has done a good job sinking his claws into Majid without him even questioning it.

Midnight arrives. Rest doesn’t.

Majid rolls around in his bedsheets, unable to catch a break from the set of green eyes plaguing his erratic thoughts. Sleep is just right around the corner waving at him, Majid can almost taste it. His eyelids droop and that’s exactly when the horny couple’s headboard begins it’s nightly clacking ritual. Majid screams his anguish into his pillow. Of course! He’s fate’s favourite punching bag!

As usual, his cock weakly hardens--Pavlov to the rutting behind thin walls. Pathetically, he rubs his face and sniffs. Then sniffs again, deeper this time.

Somehow, spending hours with the Don has Primo’s aromatic cologne--notes of amber, tobacco, and rum--clinging to his skin and clothes. Majid considers showering himself clean. It would be the responsible thing to do, right? His cock twitches.

Wrong.

Majid wants to be irresponsible, rash, foolhardy. Recklessness conjures up a low-lit room filled with cigar smoke. Impulsiveness takes shape in the form of Primo Nizzuto stalking him from across the room, eyes steel-grey as he looms and strokes up Majid’s arm.

“My boy,” Primo growls in a low octave that sparks a flame in Majid’s guts. Heat pools in his hips and straight away he’s tugging his aching erection out of his briefs. His white cotton t-shirt gets rucked up and over his nose so Majid can inhale lungfuls of that intoxicating scent. The neighbors’ mediocre fucking gives way to Primo rasping in his ear--my boy, my boy--sultry as smoke curling around his head. Majid moans, touching himself with both hands, one twisting his throbbing wet head and the other cupping his balls. He frantically strips his length, feet planted wide and flat so he can hump into his fists. My boy...

When he comes, Majid nearly chokes on the shirt wadded in his mouth. His orgasm rips through him like a runaway train flying off the tracks. Globs of sticky come coat his hands, his abs, his shaking thighs. Everything’s a soaking mess. Shirt digging into his armpits and underwear around his ankles, Majid really ought to clean up. Unfortunately, his exhausted, empty body is too busy floating high from the rush of endorphins.

It’s so damn easy to slip into sleep after that.

#my fic #trust fx #wolf 2013 #Trust the Wolf #primo x majid #primo nizzuto #majid zamari #But don't you ever let me go

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cali-holland · 4 years ago

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Golden Bullets, Ch 2: License to Kill

Harrison Osterfield X Reader, James Bond!AU

Harrison Osterfield, Agent 007, was once the best MI6 agent around with the astounding reputation as a womanizer. Between illegal gold smuggling and black market trading of weapons, he finds himself deeper in his latest mission than intended, weaving himself into a web of the criminal organization, S.P.E.C.T.R.E.. At the center of it all is the one woman who’s never fallen for his charms- you, Agent 006, the best MI6 agent, the new assistant director of the program, and his new partner.

Word Count: 3300

Gif is not mine

Golden Bullets Masterlist

Masterlist Harrison Osterfield Masterlist

Let me know if you want to be added to the series tag list

Warnings: sexual themes (literally a woman named Pussy), violence, death

Featured Song: Licence to Kill by Gladys Knight from Licence to Kill (1989)

~ “Got a licence to kill and you know I’m going straight for your heart”

~~~

“Touch the stereo one more time and I’ll shoot you in the dick.”

Your grumbling threat seemed to resonate with Harrison as he dropped his hand from reaching to change your music again. He let out a long sigh; this drive from the Monaco airport to the hotel felt like such a long one. He hated old music, and yet all you seemed to want to listen to in the car was Nancy Sinatra- it’s like you only knew songs from the 1960’s. If it wasn’t for the urgency of this mission and the fact that he was in such an incredible car, he probably would have jumped out by now.

“You are awfully fascinated with my dick.” Harrison stated, a small smirk playing on his lips. You adjusted your white retro sunglasses on your face, shaking your head at him.

“Hardly.” You scoffed, “It’s your biggest weakness, so it’s quite easy to threaten, especially when shooting your dick off means I can hurt that delicate ego of yours.”

“Ouch, darling, you might actually hurt me there.” He feigned offense at your words. “If my biggest weakness is my dick, then what’s yours, sweetheart?”

“How many times must I tell you not to call me darling or sweetheart or angel or doll or any other pet name that rolls off your tongue?” You replied, ignoring his question completely.

“Not enough, angel. It’s so easy to get you bothered by a simple pet name.”

“I’m an agent. I’m not your pet.”

“Ah, but according to the hotel room, you’re my wife, Y/N.” Harrison teased. He watched as your jaw clenched, hearing your real name fall from his mouth for the first time. “Did you think I wouldn’t know your real name? Don’t act like you didn’t do any digging on me.”

“I didn’t need to. All of MI6 knows how much of an arrogant ass you are.” You stated, pulling the car into the hotel’s parking lot. “Your list of women extends much farther than your list of kills.”

“I bet you’d love to be added to the first list.” He smirked, placing a hand on your knee. You glared at him as you removed his hand.

“In your dreams, Osterfield.” You said lowly before getting out of the car, smiling at the valet. Harrison exited the DB10 after you, straightening out his suit as he did so.

“Let me get the bags, love.” Harrison told you, opening the trunk of the car to get out all of the luggage, which most of it consisted of weapons and money from MI6. As the two of you stood in the lobby, waiting to check in to the new room, you cuddled into Harrison’s figure, wrapping a hand around his neck as you spoke quietly in his ear.

“You’ll be added to my list, too if you’re not more careful with that tongue.” You threatened, voice just above a whisper. Your perfectly manicured fingers traced over the breast pocket on his suit, and you felt his heart race under you. Your threat was a very real one, but Harrison couldn’t help the shiver that made its way down his spine at the sultriness of your voice.

Still, he put on his charm as he looked at you in his arms. Just as smoothly as you had spoken, he answered, “I hope that’s your first list, Y/N.”

~~~

“Martini. Shaken, not stirred.” Harrison told the bartender at the Monte Carlo casino that night. He adjusted his suit jacket as he leaned against the bar, waiting on his drink.

Ever since you two arrived at the hotel, you managed to ignore his presence completely. The hotel room had two queen size beds, extravagantly decorated and fit for two of Britain’s best agents. You were an incredibly curious case to him, you were an enigma. Something about you made him want to know everything about you. He found your resistance to his flirtatious advances especially alluring. He was starting to understand how you were an infamous seductress- you put the womanizer himself to shame.

“If you’re going to drink while working, you might as well go for something better than a martini.” You stated, your voice echoing in the comms piece in his ear. Harrison smirked to himself a little.

“Finally joining the party, princess?” He joked as his drink arrived. Since your task tonight was to flirt your way into Sciarra’s world, you had decided it’d be best for you and Harrison to arrive alone, which meant he had to have a chauffeur in a BMW while you drove the Aston Martin.

“Why, yes, I am.” You replied. Harrison lifted his martini glass to his lips and he casually looked around the busy casino. His eyes instantly caught on your figure as you wore a floor-length silk dress. The red material clung to you in all the right places with a slit that ran up to your upper thigh; your cleavage on view just enough to keep him wondering where you hid your weapons. He already knew your sleek black stilettos were made of steel and, most likely, had knife compartments- one of Q’s specialities for non-technology based weapons. You smirked, seeing Harrison’s blue eyes scanning over your dress, and you turned to place a gamble on a game, giving him the optimal view of the backless feature of the dress, the cut out dipping dangerously low.

“I don’t think that dress is inconspicuous enough.” He said after a moment. He slowly sipped on his martini, his throat feeling dry as his eyes couldn’t leave your figure.

“As if I care about what you think of my dress.” You answered, “Besides, the plan is to get Sciarra alone. Just watch my back, and stay focused.”

“Trust me, with you looking like that, beautiful, I’ll have no problem watching your back.” It was his turn to smirk, as you gave him the side-eye across the casino.

“Keep it in your pants, Osterfield.”

Spotting Sciarra at a craps table, you casually made your way over. You stood opposite of him, peering at the table below you. You gently leaned against it, allowing for your dress to shift slightly- and just like that, Sciarra made his way over to you. M was right- he was nothing short of a sleazy adulterer.

“Give me a blow?” He asked, holding up the die to you. You smiled, blowing on them for good luck. His eyes stayed on you as he rolled the die, far more invested in you now than his gambling. “Do you play?”

“No, but I enjoy-” You paused, your eyes trailing him up and down, “the views much more than the game itself.”

Across the casino, Harrison got himself a second martini and stood from his seat. He made his way over to the craps table to watch the game in progress while still keeping an eye on you as you flirted with Sciarra. His fingers trailed along the glass, looking around the table. Almost every single man had eyes on you, but your eyes stayed firmly on Sciarra, giving him your undivided attention. Something twisted in Harrison as he watched Sciarra run a hand down your bare arm before resting the hand on your bare back and, by the looks of it, his hand was far too low for Harrison’s liking. And not only did he have to watch that, but also heard each word passed between you and Sciarra through the mic.

“Casinos really bring out the sleaziness of some men.” Harrison heard a velvety voice speak teasingly from behind him. His blue eyes left your figure, and he looked at the woman now standing beside him. You were definitely the most attractive woman here, but this woman was a close second in an incredibly fitting gold dress. Her blond hair framed her face perfectly and, with the casino lights in the room, it almost looked golden.

“Hope I’m not included in that.” He chuckled, watching as her eyes flickered between each of the men around the table before landing on him.

“I said some.” The woman said with a soft laugh, showing off her pearly white teeth. “I noticed you when you walked in. You came alone, and with no wedding ring print on your finger- you must be a good one.”

“You’re observant, miss-?” Harrison trailed off, waiting for her to introduce herself.

“My name is Pussy Galore.” She replied, and Harrison could’ve sworn he saw you hold back a snicker across the table.

“I must be dreaming.” He smirked.

“And you, handsome?” She asked, a hand trailing along the buttons of his white shirt. His eyes flickered over to you, seeing you and Sciarra move to a reserved table for drinks; you were close to getting him alone, and that meant you’d need Harrison’s help soon. You discreetly removed the mic from your ear, not wanting to hear Harrison talk to the other woman any longer.

“The name’s Osterfield. Harrison Osterfield.”

He continued to flirt with the gorgeous woman as the casino bustled on around them. Miss Galore, as he respectfully mentally referred to her, spoke up after a few minutes, “Excuse me while I go freshen up.”

Before he could say anything else to her, she left. His eyes wandered back over to you and he noticed how close Sciarra was to your side as the dealer talked to his henchman across the table, but you weren’t flirting; no, Harrison could see the familiar fear in your eyes, the fear of a gun being held against your skin.

Out of instinct, he reached for his gun in his suit jacket. His fingers came in contact with the cool metal, and he watched as you quickly slammed your heel into Sciarra’s foot, just as you had done to Harrison in the parking lot, and kicked up the table, smacking his henchman in the face with the hardwood. Harrison drew his gun as you snatched Sciarra’s. The two of you ducked for cover behind a couple of turned tables from his henchmen’s bullets. The crowd at the casino screamed, everyone running in their expensive suits and designer dresses out of the casino.

“We can’t let Sciarra get away.” You told Harrison.

“Yeah, working on it.” He replied, getting up from his spot to fight one of the other men since he was now out of bullets. But the other man was ridiculously built, definitely used for the muscle, and he easily flipped Harrison onto a table, shattering the wood as he groaned. Picking up a couple large pieces of wood, he did his best to fight the bigger man, even stabbing him the leg to gain a little leverage.

Meanwhile, you ripped off your shoes, activating the knife part of the stiletto. Expertly, you threw one at Sciarra as he tried to escape, pinning his arm to the wall with the knife caught on his suit sleeve. You threw your other stiletto at the bigger man fighting Harrison, the knife landing mere inches from your partner’s face and in the opponent’s heart.

“Thanks for the head’s up.” Harrison stated in disbelief that you had gotten that close to hitting him with a knife.

“I just saved you from ruining another table. Are you happy?” You questioned, shooting another guard down with the golden gun you stole from Sciarra.

Harrison dove into fighting with another henchman, and you watched as a couple of men led Sciarra from the scene. Before you could step out from behind your table, someone came up behind you, grabbing your hands in his, effectively making you drop your gun. You cursed your barefootedness, unable to get a good grip to fight the taller man. As you attempted to kick his legs, he swiftly grabbed your throat, and a bullet went whizzing by your head, hitting him dead in the eye. You looked over at Harrison while he went running for the casino door.

“You can give me shit for almost shooting you later. He’s getting away.” Harrison urged you. You abandoned your gun and chased after him, just mere steps behind him.

“No, no-“ You started to shout as Harrison jumped into the driver’s seat of the Aston Martin.

“C’mon, love, no time to argue.” He said, but he was grinning like a little kid. You groaned in frustration, getting into the passenger’s seat and the car took off, speeding after Sciarra’s car. Harrison kept his eyes trained on the black Jaguar while you dug through the glove compartment. You smiled, finding an extra mag in there.

“How are you going to shoot bullets without a gun? And why is that mag so small?” Harrison asked. You laughed, slipping a hand under the slit in your dress to your inner thigh and pulling out a small gun from your hidden thigh holster that fit the mag perfectly. It wasn’t the ideal place for you to hide it, but the dress was so revealing, you really had no other choice. His eyes went wide, and the car swerved a bit.

“What? Did you think I didn’t have a gun on me?” You quirked an eyebrow at him, loading the gun and cocking it proudly. You didn’t want to hide your gun there, but seeing Harrison momentarily flustered by it was definitely a plus.

“Have I ever told you I’ll do anything for a girl in a gun?” He smirked, recovering smoothly, and you rolled your eyes at him.

“Well you’re pretty awful at following my orders, so I don’t believe you.” You replied, rolling down the window, “Keep her steady.”

“That’s the plan.” Harrison replied, keeping his focus on the car as you shot at Sciarra’s Jaguar. You would’ve hit the tire, but Harrison swerved the car and Sciarra’s men started to fire back at you two.

Cursing, you sat back in the car, rolling up the bulletproof window. You pressed a couple buttons on the center console, accessing the DB10’s machine gun controls. As Harrison attempted to dodge the oncoming cars and maneuver a way closer to the Jaguar, you aimed for the tires.

“You’re an awful driver.” You stated, missing a couple shots from Harrison’s unsteady.

“I’d like to see you do better.” He chuckled, taking a sharp turn to follow the black car ahead. Finally on a straight, you took the shot, clipping the Jaguar’s tire and sending the car flipping. Harrison haphazardly pulled the DB10 to a stop beside the wrecked car. You kept your gun at the ready as he went to drag Sciarra out of the wreck. One of the surviving henchmen shot at you and, instinctively, you fired back while Harrison tugged the weak Sciarra from the car.

“Where’s Goldfinger?” Harrison questioned, holding up the dealer by his blood-spattered collar. You took the opportunity to look in the car quickly. Spotting a gold flash drive on the floor, you snatched it up and returned to your partner’s side.

“I don’t know!” Sciarra shouted, seething in anger.

“Osterfield, not here.” You said. He looked at you, his blue eyes instantly catching your warning look. The sirens in the distance told you cops were approaching and having Sciarra so vulnerable and out in the open like this would definitely entice the sniper, whoever she was.

“How do we get to Goldfinger? This?” Harrison lifted up Sciarra’s hand to draw attention to the flashy silver ring on his finger. You held your gun steady as your partner walked, more so dragged, Sciarra back to your car.

“I don’t know him. He just pays me in bullions whenever I ship him weapons. I’ve never met the guy!” Sciarra attempted to defend himself as you opened the car door. “He’s only trying to kill me because-“

A loud gunshot went off and Sciarra fell limp in Harrison’s hand, blood spattering as the sniper shot him in the head. You and Harrison quickly moved to get in the car.

“Fucking snipers.” Harrison grumbled, throwing open the driver door and hopping inside. You were just a moment too slow, the sniper clipping your left arm as you got into the car. You applied pressure to your arm, trying to remain calm until you got back to the hotel room, where you knew you had the supplies to dig out the bullet. It wasn’t the first time you’d been shot before, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less.

“Did you get shot?” Harrison almost sounded worried as he raced the DB10 down the street, trying to create an untraceable path back to the hotel.

“No, my left arm is just cold.” You sarcastically said. “Yes, I got shot.”

“You can’t walk through a hotel with a bullet hole.”

“I know, genius.” You rolled your eyes, and he pulled up to the hotel. It was nice that Q had made the car bulletproof or else there would be plenty of evidence of the car chase you both were just a part of. Before the valet could come out to retrieve the car, Harrison shook off his suit jacket and draped it around your shoulders.

“Thank you.” You said quietly, and the two of you got out of the car. You kept your hand underneath the jacket and over your wound, and Harrison wrapped an arm around your shoulder, acting like he was just being a good guy helping out the cold girl.

Silently, you two made your way to the elevator, taking it up to your floor. Harrison held the hotel room door open for you, and you immediately went to the medical bag, fumbling through it to find the right supplies.

“Let me help.” He said, stepping beside you and helping you get out what Q so kindly named “the bullet hole kit” complete with the proper supplies for disinfecting and stitching. You sat on the bathroom counter as Harrison quietly worked on your arm.

“Ow!” You shouted, tensing while he tried to get the bullet out. “That hurts!”

“Stop moving, and it’ll hurt less.” He replied as if it was obvious. “Have you never been shot before?”

“Once. In the hip, but it was four years ago.” The room fell quiet as you waited for him to respond.

“I’ve never.” Harrison’s voice was just barely above a whisper. You inhaled a sharp breath as he finally removed the bullet. “What happened with yours?”

“I missed a

shot.” You said, and Harrison stepped back to look at you fully. His eyes filled with an unreadable emotion for you, perhaps pity that the best agent had missed.

“Well, did you shoot the bastard back?” He asked, bringing out the wipes to clean the bullet-free wound.

“Yeah.” And there was the silence again. You knew he wanted to ask what happened, why you had missed the shot, but the question never came.

That comfortable silence, save for a few grunts of pain on your part, lasted until after Harrison had stitched up your arm. His fingers gently traced over the pained area, “There.”

It wasn’t until he raised his head, his eyes reaching yours, that you realized just how intimately close you two were. Your lips parted as you tried to steady your breathing, feeling his hand fall to yours. His fingers lightly tapping against your own. You cleared your throat, leaning back away from him, “I should get some rest.”

“Right.” Harrison stepped back away from you and turned to clean up the rest of the medical supplies. You got off the counter and left to grab a change of clothes from your suitcase.

“Bathroom’s free.” He announced, exiting the en suite bathroom with the medical bag. You quietly excused yourself to go get changed out of your fashionable red dress.

As you looked at your arm in the mirror, you let out a small sigh. That was definitely going to scar, but maybe it’d add to the seductress mystery.

~~~

General Tag List: @viagracex @theamazingtomholland @Hellomoveonby @heyitsshrez @harrisonosterfieldhazmyheart @joyleenl @t-o-m-holland @lonikje @sleepybesson @sunkisseddreamer

Harrison Tag List: @Calhtlland @tomkindholland @where-art-thau-romeo

Series Tag List: @quinjetboi @baby-haz @kickingn-ames @rougese7en @hollandsosterfield @nj01 @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes

#harrison osterfield #harrison osterfield imagine #harrison osterfield x reader #harrison osterfield x you #harrison osterfield series #harrison osterfield x y/n

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jbbarnesnnoble · 4 years ago

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Weaving Webs

Summary: October 1st means it’s time to break out the decorations and get in the Halloween spirit.

Features: Fluff, and a lot of it; Avengers living on the compound, but in their own spaces and it’s adorable; Background Wanda Maximoff/Steve Rogers; Background Clint Barton/Laura Barton/Natasha Romanoff

Prompt:Decorate

Pairing: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes/Reader

Notes: For @thefanficfaerie‘s OTP challenge. I was originally going to go Bucky/Reader but couldn’t resist turning this into Sam/Bucky/Reader. My goal is to follow this trio all the way through December.

Word Count: 1353

You grinned as you loaded the last of the bins onto the cart you got at Costco ages ago for when you needed to move a lot of things...which with the way you went all out at times at the grocery store was often enough that it had been more than worth it. Sam and Bucky wouldn’t know what hit them. You loved the holidays, more than anyone you knew. There was something magical about the decorations and the atmosphere that the last three months of the year brought.

The three of you shared a house on the grounds of the Avengers compound. When the team started settling down and more agents with families started being brought on, it made sense to create a place for them where their families would be protected. In a sense, a new town had sprung up, with the Avengers having their own neighborhood. You had enough room to have spacious yards and soon enough, trick or treaters would be knocking on your door, the children of agents who were excited to show off their costumes.

Bucky and Sam had both been away on a mission. You were still out with an injury. It was October 1st and no one could tell you no, you cannot put the Halloween decorations up yet. You had started putting out small, autumn themed decorations as soon as the seasons changed. Sam and Bucky had barely noticed the appearance of pumpkin spice, apple, and cinnamon scented candles that replaced your more summer scented ones. Nor did they seem to notice the sudden appearance of garland made of faux autumn leaves that now adorned the railing of the balcony, white fairy lights strewn throughout.

You set about unpacking the boxes and organizing the decorations more than they already were. The witch with the cauldron that said a rhyme about the brew she was making was set to the side for the scene you’d create by the rarely used fireplace, a throwback to your childhood. You were so lost in what you were doing, you never heard the front door open or the two of them walk in.

“Why does it look like Halloween came to town and trashed our place?” Sam asked. You jumped, almost dropping the ceramic ghost you were holding.

“You scared me,” you said before continuing, “I’m starting to decorate for Halloween.”

“Doll, Halloween isn’t until the 31st. Do we really need to decorate now?” Bucky asked. You glared at him.

“Yes. The holiday season has officially started. Since you two are home…,” you said trailing off.

“You want us to help, don’t you?” Sam asked.

“Please? I have so much I want to do and so little time. Besides, Wanda and Steve have started decorating their house. I saw Steve cleaning the gutters out this morning to hang up those purple and orange lights they bought last year,” you said. There was something refreshing about having a slice of normalcy in the midst of a life that was far from normal. The three of you were still relatively new to the dating thing, having opted to live together as friends for so long before one day, the feelings came out.

Steve had settled in with Wanda, something that had surprised you at first. With the security provided by living on the compound, Clint had brought Laura and their kids out. If Natasha lived with them, well, no one was batting an eye at that. Thor had a house in the neighborhood, one he shared with Bruce. Tony and Pepper maintained one too, even if Tony was more hands off from the team these days. The Avengers were still a family.

“What do you need us to do, doll?” Bucky asked. You smiled, and saw the look Sam gave Bucky.

“We’re going to regret this, aren’t we?” Sam asked.

“You can start by grabbing the batteries I bought off the kitchen counter, please. Bucky you can start testing the lights for the bushes,” you said. Both men shared a look before going to do as you asked. Bucky set about continuing to untangle the lights for you, while Sam handed you the batteries.

The witch was the first thing you wanted to power up. Your mother had sent it to you a few weeks prior at your request. As soon as the batteries were in, you pressed the button, bringing her to life.

“Happy Halloween. Let’s see, there’s eye of newt, liver of muskrat, venom of snake, garlic powder, delicious yes, it’s my very own chowder. Happy Halloween,” the decoration said, complete with a witch’s cackle. You laughed at the look on Sam and Bucky’s faces.

“That’s creepy,” Bucky said.

“That’s vintage. 1995. Been in the family almost as long as I have,” you said with a smile.

“Where are we putting it?” Sam asked.

“By the fireplace. I have a whole scene to set up there,” you explained. The three of you set about setting up the decorations. This year, you had gone out and purchased wood to make your headstones. The foam ones didn’t hold up well. When your boys saw what you had stashed in the garage, they shared a look. You had drawn out where the cuts needed to go, but hadn’t touched the wood.

“Doll, you weren’t planning on cutting that yourself were you?” Bucky asked. You shook your head. There were very few things you agreed to being off limits. Using any kind of saw was one of them after the first and last time they had you handle cutting something. You may have been on it on the field, but when it came to the day to day, there were some things it was safer not to let you do.

“Of course not. If one of you could? I have the designs sketched out too on the paper I taped up. Just call me out when it’s done so I can start painting,” you said.

You headed back in the house, putting the window decals up before Sam came in and helped you bring the lights outside. You could hear Bucky at work on the saw as you and Sam pulled the lights over the bushes and placed ‘cobwebs’ over it. Sam grabbed the ladder to put the lights up on the front of the house, along with your ghostly decorations that hung down.

You almost forgot that Bucky was tasked with cutting the headstones until you realized it was far too quiet. You walked toward the garage to see him hard at work painting. He had already done the work of putting the poles into the decorations.

“You like it?” he asked you as he heard you approach.

“It’s perfect,” you said, wrapping your arms around him from behind and letting your head rest against his shoulder. You jumped slightly when Sam joined in, the three of you content to enjoy the moment.

“I was thinking we could have a skeleton hand reaching up from one of them,” Bucky said.

“Yeah? What other ideas do you have?” you asked him. He explained his plan, before setting to work with Sam. You took the opportunity to head back inside and continue your indoor decorating. There were plenty of things that still had to be done.

The sun had set before the three of you retired for the evening, opting to order out instead of cook. One of Tony’s Iron Legion would pick up the food, something the locals outside the compound had long since grown used to. The lawn now had a dozen headstones, complete with scenes of skeleton’s attempting to escape and a scarecrow caretaker that Sam made.

“Well?” you asked as your boys looked around the house. You were practically bouncing on your feet, wanting to know what they thought.

“It’s perfect, doll,” Bucky said, placing a kiss on your forehead. Sam nodded in agreement.

“It really is,” Sam said. The three of you settled in for dinner with the arrival of your food a short time later. You couldn’t wait for what the rest of the month would bring.

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kieraswriting · 4 years ago

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Searching for Home Chapter Ten

Masterpost

Dee didn’t know what to make of Virgil. He was reasonably certain that most humans weren’t as skittish as he was. And there was still the question of why. Why was he out in the forest in the middle of the night? Why would he willingly give Dee his name? Why hadn’t Dee seen anyone looking for him?

He was showing Virgil how to rub the oil along the strand of webbing to make sure it wasn’t sticky anymore, and the two of them then fell into a silence, each working on quite a long string.

Dee wasn’t sure if the silence was a comfortable one. He wasn’t really accustomed to being around people anymore, certainly not humans. He could be courtly around Roman, and he was very happy to live his own life mostly silently, but this was a new situation, and he needed to figure out what was expected, what was hoped for.

Virgil looked up at him, holding up the end of his string. “I finished.”

Dee smiled, picking up the string and rubbing his hand along it. “Well done. It’s good.”

Virgil blinked up at him as if he’d said something strange. “It’s really good?”

“Of course. You did a good job.”

Virgil blinked again.

Maybe he was missing something. Oh, of course, Virgil would probably want some sort of payment or reward. He’d not only gotten more webbing, but also helped to prepare it for weaving. The question now was what the reward ought to be.

“You can go play with the spider if you want,” Dee offered, hoping it would suffice for a first time.

Virgil just blinked at him in confusion, standing slowly and leaving. Once he was outside Dee could hear him talking excitedly, so he must be enjoying himself, but Dee still could not understand his reaction.

Dee gathered up the webbing, and took it out to the shed with the loom. Well, that wasn’t quite right, as the loom very nearly was the shed. A loom with a roof and walls.

Virgil was silent for a long while. Dee sat down and started threading the loom. His back was to Virgil, and he couldn’t see him, but his attention was firmly fixed on him. After a few minutes, Virgil resumed playing with the spider, who he was calling Annabelle. It wasn’t a bad name. Though, Dee guessed that she would become much more of a pet now.

Dee let his hands complete the familiar motions while his mind thought. Perhaps, next time he went into a town to sell the scales, he’d bring Virgil with him, and let him pick something to buy out of the money, since he’d be helping earn it.

He turned around to ask Virgil, only to be met with an empty yard. Dee looked around, his attention finally caught by a giggle. He looked up.

Virgil was hanging from the lowest branch of the tree, giggling at him. The only thing holding him up was a single strand of webbing. Dee knew well how strong the webbing was, but it still struck him as extremely unsafe. All plans were scrapped. He was getting Virgil wings first.

••^*^••

Virgil was slightly confused by the way Dee was acting, but he was very happy to be left alone to play with Annabelle, so he didn’t say anything when Dee was weaving silently, and only giggled when Dee couldn’t find him, confident that he couldn’t be reached.

He paled slightly when Dee grew wings, realizing that he actually could be reached, but Dee didn’t come near him, flying away out of the circle instead. Virgil shrugged, and nearly fell, only barely caught by Annabelle. She hissed at him, and started wrapping him up to the branch.

Virgil burst into giddy giggles. He’d never felt this free before. “I’m fine, Annabelle! You don’t have to tie me up!”

Annabelle hissed, and Virgil hissed right back. He squirmed out of the webs and held onto them, swinging and hanging down again.

Annabelle hissed, going to the bottom of the tree and starting to make a new web beneath him.

“I’ll be fine,” Virgil protested. “You can save your webs.”

Annabelle hissed indignantly, and Virgil hissed back.

He played on the branch for quite a while, and eventually Annabelle came back up and played with him. It was loads of fun! Especially when he tied some of the webs and made himself a swing.

Until he slipped.

A short scream, and then he was caught by Annabelle’s web. She scrambled down, skittering over his body as if she was checking for injuries.

Virgil couldn’t speak for a minute, his heart caught in his throat. “I’m… I’m fine…” he said breathlessly. He tried to sit up, but he was stuck to the web. “Help me up?”

Annabelle hissed angrily, and started wrapping him up more.

“Noooo….. I’m fine! I won’t go climbing anymore! I’ll be careful!”

Annabelle trilled, butting against his chest, but just kept wrapping him up.

Virgil laughed. “I don’t need a time out, Annabelle!”

Annabelle decided he was wrapped up enough, or maybe ran out of webbing, because she came and sat on his chest and trilled at him.

Virgil sighed. “Fine. I’m sorry for scaring you. But I’m not going to think about anything I’ve done, I’m going to take a nap.”

Annabelle trilled softly, and closed her eyes.

••^*^••

“What on earth have you gotten into?” Dee asked, startling Virgil awake.

Despite his mild and amused tone, Virgil’s heart was threatening to beat out of his chest. He was frozen, and clammed up.

“Would you like help to get down?” Dee asked, not seeming at all annoyed by Virgil’s silence.

If he was offering help, and still didn’t seem mad, maybe he actually wasn’t?

“Yes.”

Virgil still stiffened up as Dee’s hands got close. He didn’t know exactly what he was expecting, just that it wouldn’t be good. But Dee just unwound the webs, shooing Annabelle away. He even left the web alone, just unwinding enough for Virgil to get down.

“There. I’ll make dinner and afterward we can talk.”

Talk?

Virgil’s blood ran cold.

All throughout the preparation of dinner he wound up tighter and tighter, getting more and more nervous. He could barely eat. Dee definitely noticed, but didn’t say anything.

“Are you alright? Perhaps we should save this for another time?”

“No!” Virgil bit his lip, he hadn’t intended for that to come out so loud. “I’m sorry. I can-- I’m fine.”

Dee nodded, more hesitant than anything else. “Alright. I’ve gathered everything I’d need, but before I started doing anything I’d like to ask you what you think.”

“A-about what?”

“I saw you climbing earlier,” Dee said.

Virgil’s chest suddenly hurt very intensely. He had made him mad. He’d been mad this whole time and it’d been waiting, and it was going to be so much worse now. Tears rose up in his eyes, despite his trying to blink them away.

Dee frowned. “Virgil, are you alright?”

Virgil felt the compulsion to answer blow past his defenses and he burst into tears. “No!”

Dee looked very concerned. “What’s the matter? Did you get hurt?”

Virgil shook his head, trying to scrub the tears away.

“What happened?”

“Well-- cause-- y-you’re mad at me!” Virgil was quickly breaking down, curling in on himself.

Hands touched his shoulders, and he flinched back with a cry, but Dee picked him up and held him close in a hug.

“I’m not mad, I promise.”

Virgil just sobbed, going limp. There was no way it could be true, much as he wanted to believe it. And then it started spilling out of his mouth, half words and choked sobs. About how he was supposed to be a big boy, and that meant that he had to work and he couldn’t cry, and he hadn’t hardly worked, he'd been playing, and he was crying and he just couldn’t stop, and he didn’t know what other work to do, and Dee had to be mad, because he wasn’t any good and he couldn’t follow the rules, and--

“Shhh, I’m not mad. You’re alright. There’s no way I would hurt you. You’ve done exactly what I’ve asked of you.”

Dee held him closer in a hug, rubbing his hand over his back. If he wasn’t already so upset Virgil would’ve melted into the kind touch, but he could still barely believe he wasn’t about to be punished. His words faded out, leaving only hitching breaths and quiet sobs, and Dee still held him close, not letting go, and only making slow, soothing movements.

“I-I’m so-rry,” Virgil said.

“There’s no need to be sorry. You’re my human, and I have different rules for my humans. You haven't broken any of my rules, and I’m very pleased with you.”

Virgil gripped Dee back, hiding his face in his chest. A long time later, he fell asleep, and the two hadn’t moved one bit, aside from Dee’s hand rubbing his back.

#sanders sides #virgil sanders #janus sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #remy sleep #emile picani #roman sanders #remus sanders #fantasy au #platonic anxceit #platonic logicality #platonic remile #selkie patton #my own work #searching for home

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cutie1365 · 5 years ago

Text

A Kid from Queens Part 17

Pairing: Peter Parker x Stark!Reader

Info: CA: Civil War Era. Tony Stark enlists his daughter to find the web slinging spider in Queens.

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: Language

A/N: Please let me know what you think! Enjoy!

Masterlist linked in my bio. Taglist in the reblog.

- - - - - 🕷 - - - - -

Another restless night of tossing a turning, not knowing if you really slept or if time has passed, you found yourself reaching for your phone on the nightstand. Your eyes flitted to the time- 3:50 AM. You were about to groan and plop back onto the bed when your eyes journey down to another notification from an hour ago.

“Override 17A” it read, and right below it another one.

“Training Wheels Protocol Disabled”

“What the fuck?” You muttered out loud. 17A was Peter’s suit. Certainly your father wouldn’t have done this, which only left one explanation.

“He didn’t-” You stopped, almost in disbelief. Did he just hack your suit?

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. where the hell is he?” you asked angrily, sitting up in bed.

“It appears the tracker has been removed from the suit, boss.” The AI informed you.

You threw the covers off of yourself and jumped out of bed.

“He better be dead, because if not I’m gonna kill him.” You huffed, moving to your desk and pulling open your laptop.

“Can you get me the last location he pinged?” You began pulling up the reports you had on his suit, to see if you could get any more information on what he’d been doing. It showed you a map of him bouncing around Queens and occasionally into the city. There was one last dot 200 miles away.

“A hotel in D.C.” F.R.I. said.

“Why wasn’t I informed the suit left the city?” You asked.

“Mr. Hogan was informed.” She said.

“When?” You shut the computer, turning back towards the middle of the room waiting for an answer.

“4:00 PM yesterday.” She informed you.

“What the hell is he doing in D.C.?” You asked yourself, “Get me Happy on the line.”

You had a bad feeling about this, did Peter disable the tracker himself? If he did, it meant he was going to do something he didn’t want any of you knowing about, likely meaning it’s dangerous.

“Are you sure? It is four in the morning.” She asked for confirmation.

“Call him.” You instructed, standing to pace the room.

“Y/N, what’s going on?” Happy answered, his voice frantic. He knew you’d never call this early unless it was important.

“Where’s Peter?” You asked, the anger evident in your voice.

“The kid? He’s got a school trip in D.C? Why?” Happy asked, curiously.

“The suit’s tracker was disabled an hour ago, and some systems were changed without my authorization.” You tried to explain calmly.

“That’s not good.” Happy said, and you could almost feel his stress levels spike through the phone.

“Has he been giving you reports? Anything that could clue us into what he’s doing?” You asked, still pacing the room.

“He’s just been doing what he always does, helping old ladies, and bike thefts and muggings.” Happy shrugged.

“Shit. Ok, I’ll take care of it Hap.” You said, not wanting to stress Happy out even more.

You would have dug more to see if he knew anything, but in your pacings you figured a way into Peter’s suit. He may have disabled the tracker, but if the Training Wheels Protocols was deactivated that would mean his AI was now online. You should be able to enter through a backdoor in her system remotely.

After about half an hour you were able to get in, and although you wouldn’t be able to transmit anything you would be able to overhear any conversation between Peter and the AI. Hopefully that would tip you off to their location or what he’s planning.

“What is this place? Suit lady, where am I?” You heard Peter speaking, his voice transmitting through your computer.

“You’re in the most secure facility on the Eastern Seaboard. The Damage Control Deep Storage Vault.” His AI answered, casually.

“Son of a bitch.” You shook your head, jumping up and slamming your computer shut once more. Anger wasn’t the right word to describe what you’re feeling right now. Peter was meddling in something larger than himself, and he likely didn’t even know it. You didn’t want him to get killed.

Your dress pants were strewn over a chair in your room, they were closest so you grabbed them and a sweater and began to search for your keys. You knew the drive would take about 4 hours, it may be morning by then and you may miss him, but it was a chance you were willing to take. You couldn’t take the jet since it was upstate and you couldn’t get a pilot at this hour, with the Accords everyone was under such scrutiny that they couldn’t take you. If this had been years ago Steve or Clint would have gladly piloted last minute.

You did have one more option, but it was too risky. You hadn’t tested it enough, and certainly not for long distance flight stabilization. Plus your father would kill you if he found out you had made a suit prototype for yourself.

Once in the garage, you looked at the motorcycle next to your car. That could work... maybe shave an hour or two off of your trip by weaving in between cars and traffic. Though you’d almost certainly get pulled over and be slowed down even longer.

“Next time.” You glanced at the bike once more, as you climbed into the car and revved it up, praying you’d get there in time.

Once you were on the highway you put the car into autopilot, using your phone to connect to your remote desktop and back into his AI, to see if you could get any more clues as to what he was doing.

“Hey it’s like the glowy thing.” Peter spoke, excitement in his voice.

“That glowy thing is an explosive Chitauri energy core.” His AI, who you learned he named Karen, spoke very matter of factly.

“What!” You said out loud. “Peter Parker you’re so dead.” You groaned, flipping autopilot off, throwing your phone onto the seat next to you, and flooring it down the empty highway.

You were able to make the trip in three and a half hours, but you were too late. Peter was no longer at the facility. You had a worker let you into the deep storage vault, your name was practically on the door so authorization wasn’t an issue. You were thankful for grabbing nicer clothing though. You planned on looking for clues to where Peter ran off to, but you were distracted by a shipping container that had clearly been tampered with. This was something Peter couldn’t have done, nearly half of the items were missing. This had to have been the weapons dealings with the major.

You called in your FBI contacts to come investigate, and you were momentarily distracted and forgot about Peter, the whole reason you came here. You showed the agents the containers and the items missing, they must have been using the parts to make and sell weapons. They asked you questions about the protocols of this facility and shipments. When the venture between Stark Industries and the government was struck for this department, you’d read all the documents word for word, as your father was too bored to. Wasn’t really his area, paperwork. You answered their questions and discussed possible entries. A complete catalog of the other containers would have to be done and compared to the original records to see how much had been stolen, security would also have to be increased.

“Hang on.” Another agent to your right took a phone call that seemed important, “Where?” He said, concern evident in his voice. This caused everyone to look in his direction.

“Sir, we have an incident at the Washington Monument.” He turned to his boss saying.

“What kind of incident?” He asked, hands on his hips.

“Someone’s climbing it.” He said, in disbelief, the room went silent.

“Shit.” You muttered under your breath. That had to be Peter.

“Are we good here?” You turned to the agent who was your main contact and asked.

“Yeah, we’ll finish up here, see if we can get any prints.” He nodded, placing his hands on his hips as well, turning away from the rest of the group and dropping his voice slightly before continuing, “We’re getting intel on a possible rendezvous for a sale, we’ve got a guy posing as a buyer. We’ll let you know, we might need to use you as a distraction, but you’re free to go.”

You nodded, and tried to not look suspicious as you slowly rushed off to your car.

You drove as fast as you could, weaving in and out of traffic. As you got closer to the monument you saw D.C. Metro police helicopters circling. You hit the breaks as you saw fire trucks and ambulances surrounding the entrance. You put the car in park and stepped out, attempting to get a better view.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. what happened here?” You asked nervously.

“I’m sensing radiation from a Chitauri energy core detonation.” She spoke plainly.

“What? How the hell?” You walked closer to the scene, they were beginning to put up police tape.

“It appeared to be from inside the elevator.” She said.

“Is everyone ok?” You asked slowly.

“No casualties reported. Students inside the elevator were saved before it collapsed.” You now stood at the police tape, with a full view of the monument.

“Peter saved them?” You asked quietly, you could see the broken window at the very top, that must have been how he got in. He saved his friends, you really couldn’t be mad at him for that.

“Where are they now?” You slipped the sunglasses from the top of your head over your eyes, getting a view inside the monument at the crumbling elevator that would have meant certain death for all occupants if it weren’t for Peter.

“Their bus has departed and is heading back to Midtown, parents have been informed and sent to meet them.” The AI informed you.

“Is Peter on the bus?” You asked, worried.

“Traffic cameras confirm Peter Parker is on board.” She confirmed, and you hung your head in relief. You took one more look around the scene through your tech glasses as two firefighters moved to stand next to you.

“Shit’s crazy, five more seconds and those kids wouldn’t have made it.” They spoke to each other, and you quickly turned and rushed back to your car to make the trip back upstate. You knew what you had to do.

- - - - - 🕷 - - - - -

It was dark when you finally arrived. You saw the bus with kids greeting their parents. They were milling about as a teacher was unloading luggage from the bus. You saw Peter leaning against the brick of the school building as May talked to other parents. Coming from around the corner behind him, you grabbed onto his arm and pulled him backwards, immediately wrapping your arms around him and pulling him into a hug.

He remained frozen for a second, before recognizing your signature scent and hugging you back. You pulled away quickly, keeping your hands on the side of his arms as you scolded him.

“What the hell were you thinking?” You scolded.

“I-” He tried.

“You hacked my suit! You turned off the tracker.” You seethed.

“I-”

“I don’t know how you got into Damage Control, you tampered with federal property and a federal investigation.” You waved your hand in anger.

“I-” he tried once more.

“God Peter, I was so scared,” You hugged him again, “Don’t do that to me again.”

“I’m sorry.” He finally said, as you pulled away and he could see the tears beginning to form in your eyes.

“I can’t do this.” you admitted.

“Do what?” Peter asked, furrowing his brow.

“It’s been killing me, trying to stay away from you. I just- I want to be with you, I don’t care what happens.” You shook your head, letting a stray tear fall down your cheek.

“What about your father?” He asked, as his thumb gently came up to wipe the tear away.

“He’ll understand. The plan worked, we just have to be more careful.” You grabbed his hand to reassure him.

“You just can’t be seen with Spider-Man.” He nodded.

“But I can be seen with Peter Parker.” You smiled.

“What about Harley?” He asked, causing you to let go of his hand in surprise of the question.

“Harley? What about him?” You asked, confused.

“I thought you two were-” Peter began.

“Oh no, no. He’s a friend. He knows dad, it’s a long story. We’re hiring him.” You chuckled slightly.

“Oh.” Peter nodded, feeling dumb for assuming.

“Jealousy isn't a good look on you.” You teased.

“I just.” He shrugged, smiling and giving up. He laughed at his own assumption.

“Happy Birthday by the way, I’m sorry I missed it.” You said, it had killed you not being able to send him a message on the day almost two weeks ago now.

“That’s ok.” He smiled, taking your hand once more.

“I may know how I can make it up to you.” You smirked.

“How’s that?” He asked, knowing what it might be. You leaned in to kiss him, as you felt him smile into the kiss. You’d both missed this. Something just felt right whenever you were together.

You smiled as you pulled away to look at him in the moonlight, you stared into his eyes like it was the first time.

“I have a gala next week, come with me?” You asked, with a hopeful smile.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Peter raised a brow with the tilt of his head.

“Lucky for you, it has a masquerade theme.” You smiled.

“Lucky me.” He smirked, moving his fingers through your hair to the back of your head to pull you into a kiss once more. The both of you were so lost in the moment that you didn’t see someone coming around the corner.

“Peter? Oh-” Aunt May stopped as her eyes landed on the two of you. You quickly pulled apart, you could feel your cheeks begin to blush in embarrassment.

“Oh- uh, hi Ms. Parker.” You stuttered, your finger brushing your lip slightly before holding your hands behind your back.

“Hi Y/N.” She smirked, looking to Peter. She had known that he liked you, but she never expected to find the two of you like this.

“I should- probably- uh.” You pointed towards your car, looking back between Peter and May, nodding and taking a step towards the car.

“Y/N.” May called.

“Yes.” You turned back around with a smile.

“Would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow?” She asked with a smile.

“Tomorrow?” You glanced at Peter, who’s eyes went wide in embarrassment, you smiled, “I’ll be there.” you nodded, you did owe him a raincheck.

As you turned and walked back towards the car you heard them whispering to each other, causing you to smile.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” May giggled to Peter.

“Shh... May.” Peter whined, causing her to giggle once more.

- - - - - 🕷 - - - - -

Taglist in the reblog, link in my masterlist in my bio to join it

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enby-hawke · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter 3- For I Have Sinned

Chapter Title: Leandra, Scion of the Amells

Chapter Summary: Malcolm has been trying his best to find the terror demon. His teacher has other plans.

TW: templar abuse,

Words: 5113

Read from the beginning

-----

The hunt for the demon had not gone as planned. For such a powerful essence, it left very little trail of where it had disappeared to, but that didn’t mean anything in the Fade. Malcolm had run into quite a few terror demons in his time, but the variety he was used to was much smaller, parasites, more than anything else, that attached to a dreamer’s fears and inflated them until they became debilitating. They were cowards for one. They preferred weak prey that they could immobilize and from what Malcolm could tell, everyone saw something different. They were able to weave their webs on even the most cautious victims, able to blend in to their surroundings when they wanted to, and apparently, to Malcolm’s growing frustration, mask their essence trail. He knew that there were some friendly spirits around that could be safe enough to ask, if he could trust what they said.

Still he had not exactly spent the last few years having tea parties with spirits. In fact, wisps had gotten to a point where they fled from his sight. He realized with bitterness that he would need to change that and had spent the last 3 days trying to get close enough to one without spooking it, but it was terribly difficult when your moniker was literally Spirit Slayer.

There was a particularly brave one that was always hovering from the distance and he had spent all night and the better part of the morning snoozing through all his classes in order to coax it closer, though it was frustrating when his teachers kept waking him up. He tried to fake sick but he was examined by a healer to verify, since he used that excuse so often. He was in his Advanced Placement Spellcasting class, which was the period before lunch where he could have a whole hour of peace after a quick snack and finally, finally he was making some headway.

“Trick?” the wisp asked again in it’s usual simple sentences. It’s shining ball of light glowed red, flashing in a sheen of green sky. He had followed up into the stratosphere where the wisp had hoped to lose him.

“No trick. I won’t hurt you,” Malcolm said for what he felt like the thousandth time, but still this was the longest he’d gotten the creature to stay still. “I just want to find a big, big terror demon. Have you seen-”

At the mention of the terror demon, the wisp blinked away with a gasp.

“Wait, come back,” Malcolm flew forward, calling out to the creature.

He reached out and plucked the Fade thread of where it was trying to follow the essence trail, but it had teleported to another dimension altogether. He kept plucking the string, wading through the cacophony of spirit’s hushed whispers, trying to either recognize it’s voice or it’s scent or anything really. This was a terribly slow process at times that required lots of concentration. Wisps were especially difficult since their voices could easily be lost among water, enjoying it’s tumble through a river, or a tree drinking up the sunshine or a rock really enjoying its solid form. Everything in the Fade talked so that it was a constant hum of whispers.

Summoning the image of his bedroom door, he grabbed parts of the Fade with his hand and reshaped them like clay, building it piece by piece. When he was done, he pried open the steel bars, still creaking like he remembered. Suddenly he saw a garden where the mushrooms were as big as sacoyas and strange tiger striped purple grass twisted into each other like they were hugging. The various colored and shaped mushrooms swayed like they were dancing in a breeze that wasn’t blowing. In the middle of the field was the red glowing wisp slowly floating in a circle and humming, “Shiny.”

“Shiny,” the grass sang back. Then the mushrooms sang that back, and then the sky echoed back, until it came back to the wisp who repeated the cycle.

That stopped as soon as Malcolm stepped through the portal of his door.

The Fade held its breath, the whispers dying down to listen as Malcolm held up his hands in peace.

“No follow,” the wisp shouted, blinking and quivering in fright.

“Yes follow,” Malcolm stepped forward. The grass curled away from him, the blades tightening.

The wisp darted away a few feet and hid behind a mushroom that puffed up. “Why follow?”

“Because I need to-” Malcolm paused, about to say ‘kill’, but thought better of it and said, “get rid of it.” He wasn’t sure if he should specify who it was, but he didn’t want to go chasing it down again.

The wisp paused in consideration, and peeked around the brown spotted mushroom. “Can’t…tell.”

It seemed the terror demon didn’t just scare mortals. So Malcolm tried a different tactic. “What about you take me to someone that can tell me.”

It blinked away, and for a moment Malcolm thought that would be the end. Malcolm walked up to where the wisp was and plucked the Fade string to see if it had just gone behind another mushroom, but it had teleported far away again. He was ready to give up and try another wisp when it blinked back with a friend, a familiar not-face eating what looked like a mostly empty bucket of deep-fried nug legs covered in red sauce.

“Oh, hello, again,” Scholar said with a full mouth. “This wisp tells me you survived Zelophehad somehow.” The spirit swallowed the bone and then picked up another greasy nug thigh. “Well, congrats on that,” the spirit bit into the leg and chewed loudly. “So did you call to tell me what taste is? You didn’t have to send a wisp to do it. You could have called me.”

Malcolm wasn’t sure if he should be grateful or annoyed to see Scholar, but at least this demon wasn’t aggressive…yet. He knew that could change in an instant and it mostly relied on his ability to control his temper. “No,” Malcolm took in a calming, steadying breath as he readied his nerves. He had never tried actually talking to a demon before and he was edgy, just waiting for them to ask for a deal. “I came to ask about Zelvilod or whatever.”

“Zelophehad,” Scholar corrected.

“Gesundheit.”

“That wasn’t even close,” the creature smacked it’s strange not-mouth loudly.

“Does it really matter? It’s a demon that needs to die yesterday. I don’t need to know how to pronounce it’s name,” Malcolm snapped.

The wisp gasped and disappeared and Scholar’s face twisted into a snarl, that suddenly turned into a burp. “Will you stop with that emotion? You’re going to twist me and you’re ruining the flavor.”

Malcolm wanted so badly to snap again, to tell him that lives were on the line and that he didn’t have time to watch him eat, but Malcolm bit his tongue, literally, and capped his anger, though he felt like a shook soda. “Where can I find it?” he said as calmly as he could manage.

“Find it?” the creature cocked it’s head. “He’s right behind you.” He pointed with his half-eaten drumstick and Malcolm jumped to find a goat eye the size of baseball floating just behind his head. It blinked and disappeared from sight but Malcolm felt all the hair stand on his neck. He jumped around casting a life detecting spell but all that shimmered back were wisps and the usual denizens of the Fade.

Malcolm turned back around, his heart in his throat. “Where is it now?”

“Don’t feed it!” the spirit waved it’s hand frantically, splattering sauce.

Malcolm took a second to stop tensing, his eyes still darting around for more signs of eyes among the forest of mushrooms, but the grove stayed eerily silent. Malcolm kept clenching and unclenching his fists unsure if it was right behind him again, but a tiny voice inside him told him not to look. He ignored it, flinching as he craned his head and saw nothing, and yet it felt like something was staring, waiting. Biding its time. “That’s it,” Malcolm muttered as a chill crawled up his neck. “The next time I see that demon I’m poking out every one of it’s eyeballs.”

“Does the fact that you can’t even sense it not tell you that you’re too young? Shiny told me they had to lead you out of several traps already.”

“Shiny?”

Scholar looked exasperated, as if it was so obvious. “The wisp you sent. Though their name is Rocky now.”

Malcolm scrunched up his face. “What? Why?”

Scholar stuck his hand in his bucket to find it empty and sighed. “Because they’re wisps, of course. They’re still deciding who they are. They have to try each name before they find the one that feels just right.”

“How do you keep track?” Malcolm found himself asking, but then he shook his head realizing he was getting off track and said, “Never mind, just…how do I kill it?”

“You don’t,” Scholar answered, the bucket de-materialized and a plate of chocolate cake came next. The spirit grabbed a handful and before shoving it in his mouth said, “so, what is taste?”

Malcolm felt like he had just gone around in a big winding circle and he was absolutely winded. And then Malcolm said what he thought he would never say to a demon. “How about we make a deal?”

The spirit jumped back and gasped, “No!,” which surprised Malcolm. “I’m no demon, and I won’t throw myself against one, especially not Zelophehad.”

He was expecting to have to clarify, but blood magic was never an option. He had seen too many good mages go down that path and meet their end, not to mention he was not looking for more reasons to be hunted by the Chantry, but as far as he knew, every demon wanted a deal.

“Actually I’m not offering my soul, more my expertise,” Malcolm said, finding his shoulders relaxing. “Do you want to know what taste is?”

That’s when he felt a smack to his face.

Malcolm jerked awake, groggy with drool dribbling down his mouth and pooling on his desk. It was still dark and he realized his teacher had dropped his test packet on him and he pulled it off, fluorescent lights spotting his vision.

A dark elf with his hair in a dreadlocked ponytail and a shadow of stubble across his jaw glared at Malcolm through his spectacles. “Class is almost over and this is blank, Messere Hawke.”

He felt an annoyed buzzing in his skull as Scholar started pressing through the slip of the thin Veil. He tried to shoo it away but it was steadily getting louder. He also had the attention of his whole class’ eyes on him including Taylor, a somewhat friend, somewhat annoyance, who was shaking her head so much disappointment the top of her cloudy hair were almost bouncing against her pointy burnt sienna ears.

“My bad,�� Malcolm shrugged. Some of his classmates snickered in their sleeves while others rolled their eyes in annoyance. He leaned on his desk, his chin propped on his hand.

The teacher snatched up the test. “Be aware, young man, you will finish this quarter final if I have to staple a pencil to your hand and make you write the words myself.”

Malcolm’s eyes glazed over as he tuned out the impending lecture that was no doubt coming. It was something about telling him how he was wasting his potential and that he would regret this later in life, the usual spiel. He winced as a familiar buzz came back into his mind. He began to see the impression of the spirit behind Enchanter Jakoby, pressing through the veil to speak with him.

“You say something about a taste deal and then just disappear. That’s terribly frustrating.”

“Not now,” Malcolm responded in his head. He struggled to keep his face under control, the pressing presence on his mind unwelcome and uncomfortable.

“Then when?”

“I’ll call you. Now scat before I get in trouble,” and he made an audible grunt of frustration.

“What was that?” Enchanter Jakoby snapped, thinking it was Malcolm’s usual disrespect.

The spirit blinked out of sight and Malcolm shook his head out of a daze. “I mean, uh, yeah, you’re completely right.”

The elf’s full lips pulled back into a stunning bright smile. “Excellent. I’ll see you tonight, then.”

Malcolm blinked a few times in confusion. “What?”

The class broke up in laughter, and the Enchanter quickly snapped, “back to your tests!” Then he took off his glasses and massaged his temples. “Were you even listening?”

“Sure,” Malcolm scratched his pointed ear sheepishly, “but just in case I wasn’t, where am I going?”

Enchanter Jakoby looked up and sighed. “To the ball,” he pointed to names on the board where one was crossed out that wasn’t before. “Kenny tells me he’s feeling stage fright and you just volunteered to perform in his place.”

“No, I didn’t,” Malcolm snorted scooting back in his chair.

“Yes you did,” Enchanter Jakoby nodded, encroaching onto Malcolm’s desk so they could meet each other’s eyes.

“Well tell Kenny to suck it up cause I’m busy tonight,” Malcolm unwrinkled his test and finally wrote his name on the paper, avoiding the pile of drool.

“He’s throwing up in the healing quarters.”

Good old Kenny.

Malcolm ran a frustrated hand through his curls as he snapped back a growl. “C’mon you don’t want me there. I’m sure someone else wants to be a Chantry monkey.”

“For once, I agree,” a handsome nobleman with a straight nose and shapely lips glared at Malcolm. “Not about the Chantry monkey, just about him being there.” He stood up like he was the ambassador to the class and put his hand over his heart, his wavy blond shoulder length hair waving in his green eyes as pleaded with the Enchanter. “Hawke hasn’t turned in a single thing since the beginning of class and there are many others much more deserving the honor.”

Malcolm snorted. “Sure. Make sure to pack bananas.”

Arth’s eyes flashed in anger and he took a step forward with his mouth open in retort, but the Enchanter raised his hand to silence the impending argument that was bound to explode between the two men.

Arth Elliot was the Circles darling and had seen Malcolm as a rival since he first arrived and lit a flame while the Enchanter was still instructing the class on how to visualize it. Malcolm was practically juggling the flame as his other classmates quickly tried to do the same but the most any could do was a spark. Arth, who was always proud of being top of the class, could not even manage a puff of smoke. When he asked Malcolm how he did that, he said, “I just did,” and that was all it took for him to become obsessed.

Malcolm realized he was years ahead of his classmates, and eventually started hiding the full extent of his powers, but his teachers still noticed. He was always snoozing through class so there was no way he had paid attention to the lessons, and yet when his teachers would test his aptitude for magic, he never showed difficulty with any spell of any school, which baffled everyone. His teachers knew Malcolm was bored, jaded, and they couldn’t challenge him. Most of his teachers couldn’t stand him, either making sure he was unwelcome in class and while most had given up on Malcolm, spending time on more willing students, Enchanter Jakoby was persistent.

“Sit down, Messere Elliot, and wait quietly for class to finish,” the teacher said as if he was speaking to a child, and like a child, Arth jutted out his pink bottom lip in a pout and slunk back down into his seat like a whipped puppy. Enchanter Jakoby winced, holding his forehead for a second crinkling with stress wrinkles.

“Malcolm, I know you’ve been put into an unfair position. We all have, but you have to realize that you can either work with the system or the system works you. You can take this for the opportunity that it is, or squander it, like every chance you’ve ever been given and fall into further disciplinary action. It’s up to you.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes, his dark curls brushing over his forehead. “Oh, no,” Malcolm drawled sarcastically. “However will I survive being under lock and key?”

The thinning of the other elf’s full lips told Malcolm that he was successfully getting under his skin, but he softened them into a smile and said, “Don’t worry. I’m sure Ser Carver would agree to watch your manners tonight.”

At the mention of his friend, Malcolm huffed collapsing back in his chair so forcefully it gave a screeching scoot. “Playing dirty I see.”

“I’ve been at this a lot longer than you, Junior Enchanter,” the elf’s coconut brown eyes gleamed as he triumphantly smirked.

The shrill bell rang and through the speakers and everyone scrambled to take off towards the Enchanter’s desk to drop off their tests. Malcolm grabbed his unopened backpack and was about to leave when the Enchanter grabbed him by the shoulder and sat him back down. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Malcolm shot an annoyed glare up at him. “Uuuuh, to lunch?”

“You will spend your lunch here with me where you will finish your quarter final.”

“Aw, c’mon teach, I’m starving,” Malcolm whined.

“You should have thought about that before you used today’s class as a nap session,” the teacher nodded resolutely and marched back to his desk to start correcting papers.

Taylor frowned sympathetically. “Malcolm, do you want me to pick up your lunch?”

“Sure, Mom,” Malcolm snarked, his hands flying across the questions with renewed determination.

Taylor rolled her eyes and slung her book bag over her shoulder, Arth hovering behind her with a rather annoyed look on his face. “If you’re going to be a dick, you can get it yourself.”

“Let’s go, Taylor,” Arth offered his arm in a gesture. “You don’t need to associate with filth.”

Taylor looked at the arm and decided to move on ahead without taking it, not even bothering to address him. He flashed an icy green glare when Malcolm snorted. Then he stuck his chin in the air and squared his shoulders, marching out of the room as if nothing happened.

Malcolm finished the test in record time. The grin on Enchanter’s Jakoby’s face at Malcolm’s short but correct answers was awfully irritating, but Malcolm hid his smirk until his back was turned, knowing that he was in for another lecture when the Enchanter would inevitably get to the last question that was answered, “Templars suck Chantry dick.”

Malcolm wandered through the quarters of the Circle hall winding down the stairs to the cafeteria passing mages, who would avoid him like he was diseased, and templars, who watched his every movement like he was ready to attack. Malcolm had only assaulted a templar once and he quickly learned that this was suicide. They had too many tools, too much training, and a whole team to rely on while Malcolm only had himself. No, the only way to survive in the Circle was to find some way to make peace with it, and the only thought that gave Malcolm peace is that one day he would escape for good.

He cut the line to the front of the cafeteria, but other than getting a few nasty glares, no one made any comment, at least in his direction. Dragging his tray across the table he picked up a wilted salad for good energy, the same stale piece of bread he had every day, and what he hoped was a mix of meat and mashed potatoes but it could be another experiment of the chef. For desert, to his surprise, were some rather nice strawberries. He hadn’t thought about the kiss all day, though it did intrude his mind like an annoying gnat buzzing in his ear. That kiss was just fantasy. Chances are the mysterious Leandra had already forgotten him in the dream fog and moved on with her perfect life while he was stuck like a scratched record skipping on the same beat. He found himself resisting the urge to touch his lips again, to close his eyes and just imagine that perfect moment but he was very aware he was in public. So instead he piled a bunch of strawberries on his plate, much more than was considered polite and eyed his best friend Charlie waving at him from the corner table with Taylor, who was eating a small salad and doing homework she was assigned in for another class.

Charlie was probably best described as a brother and not because he looked like a human version of Malcolm, except with wavy hair, slightly lighter skin, and no freckles. Charlie was two years older, but still hadn’t passed his Harrowing and, unlike Malcolm, was just about everyone’s best friend. He hadn’t a lick of talent when it came to spellcasting. He could barely light a candle, but he did have a mind for small tricks, mostly well-timed fart pranks and Malcolm constantly helped him brainstorm new ideas to help him exercise his magic.

He was just about to reach the table when a gauntleted hand squeezed his shoulder.“Let’s talk,” a gravelly voice growled in his ear, the foul breath making his hair stand and with disciplined strength the templar walked Malcolm to a barred window overlooking the ocean, scattering the mages that were gathered around it. The templar kept hold, squeezing enough to bruise, and his cruel blood-shot grey eyes were as sharp as the stubble of his shaved head. “Where’s my order? It’s been days,” the templar whispered viciously, everyone else quickly looked away and minded their own business to avoid catching the ire.

Malcolm kept his voice just as low, lazily gazing up at the steel-clad man. “I’ve been busy.”

The man squeezed harder and Malcolm coached his face to not show any pain. “I need it, today.”

“Maybe,” Malcolm placed his hand on the man’s and with the little help of an aura, pried off the steel-clad fingers with surprising strength and shoved his hand back at the man. “I have a window tonight, but you better be sure no one comes looking.”

The man looked angry, his face reddening like it always did when his intimidation tactics didn’t work. “As long as I get what I paid for.” The man stalked away, his heavy armor thudding against the stone. The mages all kept their eyes low to not catch his gaze. With a roll of Malcolm’s shoulders he stalked back to the corner table, where both Charlie and Taylor were standing, waiting for him.

“Are you alright?” Taylor said in her usually motherly voice.

“Yes, Mom,” Malcolm rolled his eyes and collapsed in his seat spilling some food onto his tray.

Taylor mirrored the movement with her eyes, sitting down and returning her gaze back to her homework with a shake of her head.

Charlie looked cautiously at Malcolm. “You know you really should tell Carver about Matthew.”

“I don’t need Carver fighting my battles for me,” Malcolm snorted as he bit into a strawberry. It was blissfully sweet, delicious, he held it on his tongue to savor the flavor as he closed his eyes. He found himself summoning the image of Leandra’s perfect face, that gleam in her eye as she gazed up at him through her dark lashes and flashed the top of her perky peach nipples.

Suddenly a voice that was not his murmured in his head, “Delicious.”

Malcolm’s face burned as he felt his mind plundered, Scholar prying into the memory and snacking up the berry with a smack. “Oooh, can you taste another?” Scholar asked, and Malcolm found himself banging his forehead with his fist as he tried to drive out the voice.

“I swear,” Taylor peered up from her homework with a look of mild concern. “Sometimes you go on the strangest face journeys by yourself.”

Malcolm just rolled his eyes, letting the comment slide, as he dug into his salad, letting Charlie sneak some strawberries.

“So I can’t help you practice tonight,” Malcolm looked over at Charlie. “Enchanter Jackass is stuffing me in a suit and making me do parlor tricks for some rich snobs.”

Taylor’s violet eyes snapped up, flashing in annoyance. “Enchanter Jakoby is giving you a chance to demonstrate your abilities. I’m actually really excited about the ball. I worked really hard to earn the top spot and a lot of other people wanted to go. Do you have to be such an arrogant dick?”

Malcolm flashed a leafy smirk. “It’s my best quality.”

“Debatable,” Taylor shot back in her usual sharp manner.

Charlie leaned in between the elves, always the mediator. “Ladies, ladies,” he waved his hands in a calming motion. “Must we fight and not appreciate a good day? I mean the food is fresh-ish,” he picked up a glob of soup that defied leaving the spoon with a unappetizing dripping gloop, “we’re among friends, mostly,” Charlie gestured away at the templars on guard like they were part of the scenery, “and even if you have to go to a party together without me and you two somehow don’t kill each other, the least you can do is enjoy it on my behalf and give me a fun story when you get back. Please,” he added with an exhausted heaving sigh. “I’m tired of hearing about the Murphy and Mandy’s on and off again relationship.” He then stabbed his spoon in his soup which resisted somehow.

Taylor’s eyebrows knitted together as Malcolm slunk down into the table, feeling more of an ass than usual.

“I’ll sneak you back some food,” Taylor smiled, reaching out to lightly touch his arm.

Charlie practically bounced. “Ooh, one of those frilly cakes. The more icing the better.”

“And I’ll make sure to prank some nobles,” Malcolm added with a smirk which did brighten his friend’s expression. Charlie had a way of making everyone get along by outlining everything in silver and he always thought the best way to solve his problems was to laugh at them and suddenly Malcolm’s wheels were turning. “Could use your help thinking of the worst magic show ever.”

Charlie’s brown eyes gleamed with mischief. “Endless fart stream? That’ll get them talking,” Charlie offered with a childish grin. Taylor wrinkled her flat nose in a bite.

“Nah, worse,” Malcolm scratched his chin, discarding one idea after another.

“You could do one of Darcy’s dance routines.”

Malcolm laughed at the idea. “Getting warmer, but worse.”

Taylor sighed heavily. “Can’t you just do something normal like juggle a ball of flame or make some fireworks.”

“But that’s boring,” Charlie and Malcolm said in unison and then broke down in a conspiratorial laugh.

Malcolm chewed on his flavorless salad as he thought, Charlie chatting on until the annoying buzz came back in his mind. “This food tastes sad…and also bad. Can you eat something else?”

“If you keep poking around my head,” Malcolm thought at the spirit with a clenched fist over his fork, “I’m going to reach back through the Fade and kick your ass. Understood?”

“How would you kick it? I don’t have an ass,” the spirit retorted.

“Believe me, I’d find it,” Malcolm snapped. “Now go back to where you belong before you get us both in trouble.”

Taylor snapped her fingers in his face and suddenly Malcolm was aware that both Charlie and she were waiting on a question, but he had no idea what was asked.

“Uuuuh, I spaced out,” Malcolm said like he usually did.

“Maker, can you pay attention for one second?” Taylor rolled her eyes so hard they looked like they’d fall out of her head. “I said, are you going to dance or you going to sulk in canapes all night?”

Malcolm's face twisted as if he was smelling something foul. “The point being?”

Charlie grinned at Malcolm with a teasing smirk. “That’s why you’re still a virgin, dude.”

“I have more important things to do,” Malcolm deflected as they both broke down in laughter. He then crossed his arms, scooting back in his chair with a pout.

“I wish I could go,” Charlie mentioned glumly. “If it was me, no one could stop me from finding a pretty girl and dancing all night.” Charlie looked at Taylor wistfully and then lowered his gaze before Taylor could catch him. Taylor chewed on her bottom lip at the comment, a flash of what almost looked like jealousy before she returned her attention to her homework. Then her violet eyes bugged out of their sockets as Charlie pointed between the two elves with his spoon. “You two could always dance.”

Malcolm barked out a surprised laugh. “Nice try, dude, but I think I’ll sleep through the whole thing.” He did have a demon to catch.

As Charlie’s best friend, he saw it as his duty to get Malcolm dating, or at least fucking, but Malcolm’s reputation and stubbornness made it difficult and Taylor was the only woman who would tolerate his presence. It didn’t help that they were both elves, so somehow that meant they were supposed to be together, but their relationship was nothing like that. They were friendly-ish, but their personalities clashed way too much for attraction to even be on the table. Still, that didn’t help Charlie’s fixation on the idea.

“I think I’ll be busy stuffing myself silly with shrimp puffs. I plan to save room for two tray fulls,” Taylor pointed to her own small salad that was already finished and set aside.

“Shrimp puffs?” Malcolm could feel his mouth water with the spirit’s impending presence. “What are those? Her memories smell divine.”

“Get out of my friend’s head,” Malcolm warned with a tapping finger. He could see the impression of it hovering near her pointed ear. “You’ll have plenty of samples to try at that stupid party tonight.”

“Is that when you’ll tell me what taste is?” the spirit asked impatiently, snapping back his hand like it was slapped.

“Sure. Whatever.” This time he felt the presence fade back into the Veil, the pressure from the Fade lessening.

Taylor and Charlie stared at Malcolm’s scowling face softening as he blinked back into attention.

Taylor shook her head again, her hair puff bobbing. “Again. Weirdest face journeys.”

#malcolm x leandra #hawke #dragon age #dragon age fic #da fic #for I have sinned #my art #I decided to do little headshots of some of my OCs that appear in this chapter #It was a lot of fun and I might just keep doing these XDD

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c-is-for-circinate · 5 years ago

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Who wants a little Cinderbrush AU on this quarantine evening?

A while ago, @brightandshinynewstories and I were chatting about what would happen if the Cinderbrush four lived in Exandria (and also relatedly, if the M9 were Monsterhearts characters, but that is a digression y’all should take up with her). We figured it would start, at least, a little like this:

There’s a phrase Sasha's history tutor used once, when she was thirteen or fourteen and didn’t have a way to stop her parents hiring all her tutors and arranging her schedule for her. Her history tutor was a stuttery little halfling man fresh out of Vasselheim, and half of what he said was deadly boring, but he was less brutally awful than her etiquette and protocol tutor, which was probably why he got fired before she turned fifteen. That one conversation, though, has stuck with her for all these years.

“Everyone thinks they live at the end of history,” he’d said. They’d been talking about the end of the reign of Uriel Tal’dorei at the time, how his decision to abdicate five minutes before he unexpectedly died in a massive dragon attack hadn’t accomplished much of anything except for making life massively difficult for his son fifteen years later. “This is it, the final form of the world. All the aeons of existence have led up to this moment right now, and finally we’re living in the future.”

“Isn’t everybody always living at the end of history, then?” Sasha had asked. “If you look at it that way?”

“Not...not quite,” Kempler had stammered, a little off-balance the way he always was when she asked questions she actually wanted to know the answers to. “Usually it means more like..the idea that everything, societal structures, social mores, everything has fallen into place in such a way that it doesn’t need to change any more. Does that make sense?”

“Of course,” Sasha had said, and let him go on talking about dragons and heroes and the politics of non-existent emperors and kings. She’d thought about it all afternoon.

This isn’t quite the end of history, Sasha figures now, half a dozen years later. If it were, there’d be a better way to work her way up in the government of Emon besides playing personal aide to Arbiter Ethna for the next ten years in hopes of getting appointed to a magistrate’s position someday. Some kind of school for barristers and politicians, at least, instead of everything coming down to her parents’ names and polite tolerance for her existence. Her advancement wouldn’t depend so much on this awkward noble apprenticeship system where she’s more tied to Ethna’s reputation than her own skills.

It’s got to be getting pretty close, though. It’s 853 PD. Emon’s a miracle of government and engineering. Uriel Tal’dorei’s been dead for forty years, there haven’t been dragons around to ravage anything since Sasha’s parents were children, and every day law, order, and the modern age prove a little more how they triumph over chaos.

It’s good to live at this end of history, Sasha tends to think. There’s just enough still to do in the world to give her a chance to do something really special about it. Just enough wiggle room left to let her...bend the rules. Just a little.

Nobody says arbiters and politicians can’t have a little magic on their side to...smooth things along, just a little. Nobody says aides like Sasha can’t spend their free time however they like. Nobody tells Sir Murasaki’s daughter she can’t go where she wants, besides Sir Murasaki himself. If she likes to sit auditing classes in the back of the room at the Alabaster Lyceum--if she happens to enjoy practicing classical violin or running vocal exercises in her tiny little office behind Arbiter Ethna’s courtroom--well. The bardic arts might be a relic of the past, when people had to go out slaying monsters and dealing with dragons every other day, but history hasn’t quite left them useless yet. Anything can be a tool if you’re clever and charming enough to use it right.

Living at very-nearly-the-end of history might be the best tool there is. The best thing about it, Sasha thinks, is the chance to make sure she’s the one who decides how it ends.

Sasha told Cam about her end-of-history theory once, some starlit evening on the rooftop balcony of his parents’ townhouse, looking out over the sparkling lights of the Cloudtop District and enjoying the quiet. He’s not sure he’s smart enough to really understand it, but that’s Sasha for you. There’s a reason she’s going to be on the Tal’Dorei Council someday, while Cam’s going to be...whatever Cam’s going to be, by then.

Probably running the family business, one way or another, if his dad hasn’t actually killed him instead of letting him inherit. It’s basically fine, as life plans go. Parts of it don’t suck. That’s something.

It’s why everyone was so in favor of him courting around with Sasha in the first place, anyway. The Murasakis are nobility and all, but they’re from some island in the middle of the Lucidian Ocean on the other side of Exandria. The Solomons were nobodies, until they just happened to own the only still-operating stone quarry in a hundred miles in the wake of the destruction of Emon forty years ago. Sasha’s parents have influence, Cam’s have money. Even Cam knows putting that combination together is a recipe for power.

Real power, probably, not the magic kind. Fewer rules. Fewer restrictions. Fewer demons, whispering in the back of your ear when you’re trying to sleep.

If this is really the perfect future that everything’s always been trying to lead to, then shouldn’t they have wizard magic or some shit that would just get the stone out of the ground without needing miners and overseers and crap like that? And then, like, nobody would send some stupid human kid with no darkvision into the back end of the quarry just because he’s the boss’s son and some fucker thinks he needs to be hazed for “company morale” or whatever. Just for example.

So maybe the world’s not getting better, it’s just that the bullshit that piles up a little deeper every year has just about reached a critical maximum. That’s fine. No wonder Sasha’s looking forward to the future so much, gets along with the world so well. He used to watch her weave her own web of total crap every time she worked a room, catching eyes and shaking hands and making everybody fall in love with her as soon as they met. It’s kind of the most impressive thing Cam’s ever seen. He kind of hates her for it, right at this moment.

Cam’s just not built for that much shit. He's charming, sure, people trust him, people like him, but he can’t talk his way out of any- and everything like Sasha can. Probably that’s a nobility thing. The Solomons aren’t nobility, everybody knows that, especially Cam’s dad, and he’s never let Cam forget it for two seconds in a row his whole life, so right, no wonder Cam’s useless in Sasha’s kind of world. No wonder he lets himself get into such shitty situations sometimes. No wonder he can’t get Anukirai to leave him--to leave Sasha--alone.

If that’s what he wants. Which--it is, of course, it should be, it has to be, it’s just. Hard, sometimes, when Cam’s father decides if he can’t be the normal born kind of nobility, he’d better just prove he’s the High Lord of All Assholes. When Cam’s trying not to be the kind of guy who just up and punches his problems in the face. When Anukirai starts making promises, and Cam--when Cam can feel the power behind them, the weight of thousands of years of lurking underground, lying in wait, full of so much more patience than Cam’s ever had himself.

He’s pretty sure he could Command his dad to do just about anything, once. Just once. So far he hasn’t tried.

The worst thing about living this close to the end of history, Cam knows for damn sure, is feeling the weight of all of it crushing down on top of you all the time.

Jamie’s heard about it, too, somewhere along the way. Lunch with Sasha at the Lyceum is always interesting, one way or another.

It’s bullshit, of course, but it’s the sort of bullshit that always appeals to people like Sasha. As though there are other people in the world like Sasha Murasaki. Things don’t end, they just die occasionally, and leave stinking corpses of whatever they used to be there to entertain passers-by. Witness the inside of poor Cameron Solomon’s head these days after that particular breakup, case in point.

But of course it’s enticing to picture the world as just half a step short of perfection, all the for pretty, perfect people who think they might just be that last piece of perfection Exandria’s waiting for. That, at least, isn’t exactly an uncommon attitude around the Alabaster Lyceum. Everybody thinks they’re going to be the next Allura Vysoren, or whoever it is they’re all idolizing these days. Everybody thinks they need just that little bit of extra edge to get there.

Jamie’s done with that particular race, which doesn’t mean they can’t enjoy spectating it. There’s a lot of benefits that come from staying enrolled as a student of the arcane arts at the Alabaster Lyceum of Emon. Greg Wrenly keeps paying tuition, room, and board, for one. There’s a handful of cantrips and a couple of halfway decent wizard spells in Jamie’s back pocket now, too, which is never a bad thing. It’s always good to have options.

For instance: now the desperate, overachieving would-be wizards of the Lyceum don’t have to fight their way through years of arduous study and spend enormous reserves of magical energy to cast True Seeing. A little bit of druidcraft, a couple of exactly the right mushrooms, and for a handful of gold coins Jamie can provide a direct line of sight to the Ethereal Plane with negligible side effects to follow. Options. They’re practically a public service.

Jamie prefers to keep as many options open as possible; gods know nobody in this fucking city seem to realize they have any. That’s what needing to be the best will do to you. If a quarter of their classmates realized how much power the average archdruid has at their command, there’d be a mass exodus of ex-arcanists desperate to be the next fucking Voice of the Tempest, every one of them desperate to live up to thousands of years of legends and heroes and complete fairytales. Every single one of them would miss the entire point.

Jamie doesn’t need to be the best. They just need to maintain their own, extremely specific skill set, market it in the right way to the right people, and not get caught up in everyone else’s everything. Stay a minimum safe distance away from Sasha. Enjoy Cam’s company without getting too invested in the pretty and the trauma. Enough wizardry to mess with peoples’ heads and not be too bound to the whims of nature, enough druidry to keep in good supply and not be too bound to some fucking hand-scribed spellbook. Enough alchemy to keep in business. Enough business to make sure they don’t completely lose touch with reality, the way so many mages tend to do.

Of course it’s not exactly traditional, or historical, or Respectful of the Great Arts, or whatever the fucking line is. What the hell would be the point of that?

The best thing about living on this end of history, whatever the fuck that means to anyone, is getting to pick and choose exactly which parts of it you want to keep.

Aff gets the whole history thing in pieces, in passing at first, but it makes more sense the more they think about it. You can learn a lot slinging pints of ale in your dad’s tavern on a regular old Grissen weeknight.

It’s not like they’re friends with Sasha Murasaki of all people. Aff hadn’t even known who she was until Amanda from the livery stable down the street explained it, and apparently there’s an actual member of a titled noble family on her way up the ranks in the Watchful Hall who comes out to Aff’s dad’s tavern, like, a lot, which is just crazy. It’s just that sometimes when Sasha’s waiting for somebody, or she and her trio of Emon’s Who’s Who are bored or whatever, they invite Aff to sit down and talk for a while. Cameron Solomon’s... whatever, he’s cool, Aff’s mom doesn’t live too far from his dad’s mine these days, so maybe they’d helped him out while he was puking in an alleyway once or twice before even moving to Emon, out in the countryside where being a super-rich merchant prince didn’t matter that much. And Jamie...Aff doesn’t really get Jamie, but they’re in here a lot, alone at a table where a whole rotation of people sit down to join them and then leave ten minutes later. You learn a lot about someone when they drink by themselves while they’re doing some kind of weird shady business in your bar at least once a week. That’s all.

Aff doesn’t even really think any of them are friends with each other, either, anyway. Sasha and Cameron used to come in on dates, a couple of kids from the Cloudtop slumming it in Diamond Liquor out in the Central District, but they don’t really do that any more. The one time Sasha showed up when Cam was already here, he got up and left. Sometimes Sasha goes and sits at Jamie’s table in the corner, and she’s usually there for a lot longer than ten minutes when she does, but she still always goes back to the rest of her crew and Jamie goes back to drinking alone. Jamie and Cam have come in together a couple of times, and it seems like Jamie doesn’t even do business on those nights, but like, who even knows what’s up with that, right?

Not that Aff’s being creepy or anything. They’re the bar...not-maid. Bartender? No, that’s their dad, ruling over the land of kegs behind the actual physical bar. Bar...server? Is that a thing? Whatever, it is now. Aff’s the bar-server, they hear things. They notice things. That’s all.

Like Sasha talking about the end of history, which, it took Aff a couple of different conversations to realize she didn’t mean the end of the world, which is probably good. Aff’s pretty sure she means the fact that they live now, in modern times, which don’t really have dragon attacks or cool heroes or crazy adventures any more, because all the cool heroes already went on all the crazy adventures and killed the dragons so that modern times could happen in the first place. Which is great! Right, that’s totally for the best, dragons are definitely bad news. Aff’s seen a couple of places where Emon got rebuilt forty or fifty years ago after half the city...melted, they guess? So like, it’s good that that’s not happening nowadays. That’s a good thing.

It’s just...

Look, Aff’s a good bar-server, or whatever you want to call it, and they like living here with their dad, and Emon’s not a bad place to be, it’s just. Hard, sometimes. It’s hard, when they get so angry they just want to hit something, again. Like, a lot. Again.

If there were still adventurers and dragons and shit, then maybe Aff would have a use for all that pent-up aggression or whatever. Maybe they could, y’know, kill monsters or whatever, and it would make them a hero instead of a fuckup. If it were still the old days like that, maybe Aff would be good for something.

If this really is the end of history or whatever, Aff thinks that maybe the hardest part is feeling like they got smacked down in the wrong part of it.

The trouble, of course, is that history is nowhere near through with them. Or with its own twists and turns, which is how history tends to work, really, even when you think it’s all just about settled down.

The third week of Fessuran is...confusing, more than anything. Everything happens so fucking fast, in a blur of blood and fear and sleep-deprivation, washed over with a little extra haze from Jamie’s very good berries, and a couple of days go by in either about two hours or two weeks, and this is never going to make a good story to tell any kids they ever have, if they ever survive long enough to have kids.

Half a dozen people are very dead, that’s very clear, well beyond the help of any cleric or reasonably-ethical necromancer. Amanda from the livery stable down the street from Diamond Liquor was pale and streaked in blood, breathing shallowly and barely alive, last time they saw her. That might be worth something, if they could figure out or agree on what.

The four of them are not dead. They are not under arrest. They’re not in Emon any more, either, but since staying away might be the only chance they have to keep being not-dead and not-arrested, that’s probably a win, too.

They look at each other, hollow-eyed and dazed, across the table at the only inn in the tiny nowhere town of Cinder Hills, where they didn’t dare sleep last night and had better leave the minute they finish breakfast and also decide what the hell comes next.

“What,” Cam says, speaking for them all, “the fuck?”

“Look,” Sasha says. “It’s fine. We just…go to another city, and wait for things to die down. Come back when it’s all over and pretend none of it ever happened. Nothing to do with us at all.”

It’s fine. It has to be fine, because if it’s not then Sasha’s lost everything. Jail isn’t the only way to be trapped. Freedom costs so much.

“You cannot possibly think that’s going to work,” Jamie says scathingly. “You think there’s anybody in Emon who doesn’t know who the great Sasha Murasaki is? We run, and we do not come back.”

Fuck Jamie, fuck them, just…fuck.

She’s spent years building herself a future in Emon. Years, fighting to make herself a place in history. Scrounging for every fucking scrap her parents would let her have, every fraction of respect or freedom that couldn’t just be taken away on a whim because she didn’t lower her eyes enough on any random night. And now she’s going to lose it to this?

“Um,” Aff says. “I have family in Emon? I’m not just going to disappear on my dad. And like, what about Cam’s dad, or Sasha’s family, or–”

“I can’t see my dad right now,” Cam interrupts quickly. “Leaving actually maybe sounds good.”

“Oh, and leaving where, Jamie?” Sasha demands, because she’s ignoring Cameron right now until she can handle looking at him. “Are we all going to stay with your little forest friends? Sleep on leaf mattresses and learn to be druids, then?”

Jamie snorts. “I’m not taking any of you within ten fucking miles of any druid circle I’ve ever met. You, they’d eat alive,” and he gestures dismissively at Aff, “and you, they’d never forgive me for. Luckily the world’s pretty fucking big.”

“So, what, you just want to–what, get on a ship and go to Wildemount?” Cam asks, interrupting Sasha again before she can get started on what even she knows is going to come out sharp and bitter and useless. “Never come home?”

“You can do whatever the fuck you want. I’m going to Kymal as soon as I can get on the fucking road, to see if I can rebuild even a third of what I just left behind.” Jamie says, like it’s just…that easy. “Maybe Westruun, eventually, depending on how that goes.”

Sasha cannot start over in fucking Kymal. She can’t. She’s going home. She’ll get this straightened out.

Everybody knows who her parents are. They could smooth the whole thing over, probably, if she went down on her knees and begged hard enough. If she agreed to let them ship her off to whatever cloister or rich husband they chose, and lost everything to spending the rest of her life under her mother’s thumb and her father’s commands anyway.

Fuck. Fuck. It feels like the walls of this tiny shitty tavern room are closing in on her already. Sasha is so fucked.

It was supposed to be perfect. She was almost done. She was on her way. It was going to be perfect.

“We should probably stay together,” Cameron says worriedly, looking between Sasha and his precious Aff and Jamie fucking Wrenly.

“Westruun,” Sasha says. It’s too small to build anything worth having and it’s too far away from everything she’s ever built so far and it’s too big for her to matter at all and it’s too close for her to really be safe. Westruun’s nothing. But at least it’s better than fucking Kymal. “We can go to Westruun.”

Or Vasselheim. Or Rexxentrum. Or Ank’harel. Or Port Damali. Sasha’s a little afraid to start running. She’s a little afraid that once she gets going, she won’t be able to stop.

Notes on Level 2:

Sasha, human bard 2 Cantrips: Message, Prestidigitation L1 spells (3/day): Charm Person, Sense Emotions, Disguise Self, Comprehend Languages, Detect Magic

Cameron, human warlock 2 Patron: Fiend Cantrips: Mage Hand, Friends L1 spells (2/day): Command, Charm Person, Hex Invocations: Beguiling Influence, Devil’s Sight

Jamie, human wizard 1 druid 1 Cantrips: Friends, Mind Sliver, Minor Illusion, Druidcraft, Infestation L1 spells (3/day) : Cause Fear, Color Spray, Silent Image, Charm Person, Sleep, Identify, plus any druid spells prepared that day

Aff, human barbarian 2 Rage (2/day): +2 damage

#C writes stuff #cinderbrush #critical role #yes I know what happens next #look y'all #I ALWAYS know what happens next #but this is as much as I had written and good #and I wanted to share something today

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