#obviously there’s reasons you’d want permanent hair removal and you can do what you want with your body

[dilfcherricola]

I keep getting ads for at home laser hair removal and I can’t help but think like. That one meme from 2014 about sh. Promise you’ll stop for me.

[dancingamongstdust]

Old Habits (Warren Worthington x Reader)

So I was digging around in my old files and I found this from a few years ago. I’m sure I published it somewhere once but I have no idea where. Either way, the writing isn’t too bad so I thought some readers here may enjoy it. 

Before, when you originally met Warren, you had never had an issue with reaching out and grabbing his wings if he tried to march away from you. It had become a habit.

There would be an argument over something inconsequential and both of you would scream and shout like children. Warren would realise that his temper was getting out of control and try to stalk away from the fight before it got out of control. You would snatch a fistful of his feathers or the edge of a wing; anything that was within range was ample gain. It never hurt him but he stopped moving due to the sensation. Then he would turn around and kiss you until your lips were bruised and you couldn’t breathe properly.

This time…

You had been eternally grateful to Charles Xavier for bringing Warren back despite all his previous actions and your heart belonged to whoever had saved his life. When you had seen him walking through that portal, you had sold yourself on the notion that you would never be seeing him again. A bitter reality without the white angel wings that you had spent hours wrapped in.

The fight had been inconsequential really. Something about his sulking and yelling at anybody who tried to get close to him.

But now you withdrew your hand as quickly as you reached out.

Warren still spun around to look, the metal feathers screeching against the walls as he did so. Instead of kissing you, his eyes fell on your bloody hand and he reached for it with tentative hands. “I…” his words died in his throat.

You met his eyes with a clouded expression and sighed. “Sorry,” you said. “I forgot…” Your eyes fell on the huge metal wings and you sighed. “I didn’t think that through. I’m sorry.”

“No,” Warren said. “No, you shouldn’t have had to think about it in first place.” Unlike the feathered version, these wings made a horrendous noise when they bristled and even he winced at the sound. “Just go and get somebody to look at that.” And he stormed back into his temporary room, slamming the door far too loudly behind him.

You sighed, shoulders slumping. Charles had approached you to see if you could possibly fix the situation and maybe convince Warren to relax a little more in the mansion. His end goal obviously being to offer the angelic mutant a permanent place to stay.

Stomach churning, you hurried down the stairs to the nearest mutant that could heal your hand or at least somebody who knew basic medical skills.

Two stitches and a little bit of healing later, you were sitting in your own room and staring down at your bandages. While you had been standing up there, it hadn’t hurt at all but now it was burning like fire. You rubbed it gently and sighed. Warren had always been self-sabotaging. At this point, shutting you out could almost be classified as a hobby of his.

So eventually – at an hour that any reasonable person would be asleep at – you climbed out of bed and marched over to the room to quiet your wailing mind. If you didn’t know Warren’s self-destructive tendencies you would have presumed it was too late.

But you had lived with the man before.

You didn’t bother knocking. You knew that Warren would have pretended he didn’t hear you. So you counted on him forgetting – or purposefully – not locking the door.

“I’m tired of this,” you said when Warren finally noticed you and removed the headphones that were blaring rock music so loudly that you could hear them from across the room. You walked over and sat on an untouched desk, watching the winged mutant carefully. “Every day, you make me sit and watch you turn all that anger and hatred inwardly and I can’t do anything about it. I feel useless when it comes to you. Like there’s nothing I can do to help.”

“Help?” he scoffed. “Help what?”

“You.”

He rolled his eyes and sat up on the bed, those metal feathers screaming a symphony as they were dragged across the wall. “I don’t need your help,” he said. He glanced at your bandaged hand. “Look what happens when you try. I’m fine. They said that my feathered wings will grow back soon and then I’ll be able to get as far away from this fucking place as possible.”

“I want to stay.”

“Then stay.”

You gave a forced laugh. “And here I thought you knew me well enough to know that there isn’t a chance that you would leave without me following.”

Warren crossed his arms and his wings puffed up as he attempted to become more intimidating. It would work on most people. Not you. “Nobody likes codependent twits,” he grumbled. “But then again, it’s not my problem if you want to chase me around the country like some lost poodle. If you get killed, I don’t want anybody blaming it for me.”

“It’s not… alright, no, I’m not rising to that,” you said firmly. “No matter how often you insult me, I’m not going to leave and you know that by now. Warren, won’t you at least consider staying here? There are others who –“

“Joined forces with an ancient evil and attempted to bring about the end of the world because they were offered shiny wings then almost died and had to be saved by their enemy out of pity. Just so many of those assholes running around that I can barely even walk without seeing one.” His hair was falling into his face now but he didn’t seem interested in doing anything about it. “But they don’t count if they switched sides during the actual battle.”

“You were unconscious the majority of the battle.”

“Thank you for reminding me. I wasn’t aware.”

You sighed and reached out to move his hair away from his eyes. It said something that he didn’t move away despite the glare he was sending in your direction. “Wouldn’t you prefer to be able to rest for a little while until you got back onto your feet?” you asked. “I’ve been talking to some of the people here and they’re all friendly if you give them a chance.”

“I don’t see any weapons attached to your back that are constantly hurting people you actually care about,” he noted.

“My hand was my own fault,” you repeated. You stood up and moved closer, reaching the uninjured hand past his head and resting it gently on the metal of his feathers. “See? I’m being careful now and it’s not getting me hurt. If I had taken a few more seconds to think it through, I wouldn’t have grabbed your wing out of habit. But you said they’ll go back to being normal soon.”

“Apparently,” he said. “Some of them have fallen off but they’re meant to do that. What would you do if they stayed metal? You’d have to start finding your own beds instead of curling up next to me constantly. Something tells me you won’t find these wings ‘comforting’.”

A phrase you had always used when speaking about his wings and it hurt to hear him spit it with such bitterness in his tone. It had always been something genuine to you. “They probably won’t keep me as warm as the normal feathers,” you admitted. “But I don’t doubt that I could grow used to them and love them as much as I adored the originals.”

He scoffed. “Always a fucking optimist. Even when I have tattoos that probably will never fade etched into my face.”

“I’m not always an optimist,” you said. “When you disappeared into that cage fighting thing for months without telling me and then came back with your wing fried to a crisp, I was so worried that I thought I would vomit. I lost countless hours due to nightmares about waking up and finding you dead or missing again.”

“And then you did.”

“I was too late,” you said. “No matter what you said, I knew that your wings were making you distressed and I wanted to help but I didn’t know how. If I had figured out how to fix things sooner then there wouldn’t have been a reason for you to go with that asshole.”

Warren just glared at you and then flicked his bedside lamp off and lay down on his side. It used to hurt his wings when he slept like that but you were unsure that the metal felt anything. Either way, you lay your hand on his shoulder temporarily and then took the hint to leave the room. There was nothing else for you to say or do.

Almost a week passed where you only opened the door to throw random food and drink items at Warren where he was pretending to be asleep. Sometimes he would mumble something and other times he would continue to ignore you. You took the bandage off a few days later. It was something Warren undoubtedly noticed but he didn’t say anything until the day you opened the door to find everything strewn across the floor in such a state of disarray that you flinched.

“What’s the problem?” you asked.

Warren glanced at you out of the corner of his eye and muttered something about not having any shirts that weren’t torn to shreds by his new wings. Which later led to you going shopping and returning with a bunch of new shirts with cuts in the back for the new wings. It took you a while and he grumbled under his breath when you dumped them on the floor but you didn’t say anything.

The charade continued day in and day out but you weren’t deterred. You waited patiently for Warren with a well-learned routine. This had happened many times before. A waiting game that you had perfected over many years of worrying about the angelic mutant who held so much of your attention and your heart.

You walked through the door with a milkshake in hand when he was busy plucking the metal feathers off his wings. Silently, you placed it down and settled cross-legged behind him on the bed to help him peel off the shedding metal over the unreachable areas.

It came off easily and you happily spotted some of the soft, white feathers peeking out from beneath the metal. You ran your fingers happily over it and smiled. They would be returning soon.

“You’re going to need to preen these daily while they’re growing out,” you said. You didn’t expect an answer but you said it with the knowledge that you would be the one to do it. “Otherwise they’re going to be crooked and then you won’t be able to fly properly.”

Warren’s feathers fluttered slightly as he turned around to face you. They didn’t sound quite as horrible when they brushed against the wall now and there were fewer grooves than before. Deep scratch marks already tore up the bedframe and one of the bedside lamps had disappeared a week ago. “Just leave.”

“Alright. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Why do you bother?”

Your fingers brushed the doorknob and you shrugged. “It’s just force of habit now.”

[kassandras-one-braincell]

Eivor x Fem!Reader - Ink Me Up

Oh, what to do when the Norwegian woman tattooing your thigh is insanely attractive, clearly gay, with a criminally good bedside manner?

Warning: about tattooing and obviously needles.

Word count: 4363

Can be found on AO3 here.

Heavily inspired by this post here. The tattoo itself is purely self-indulgent. Eivor is stupidly attractive and it's not fair. (Y/N) replacer safe.

After months of saving and deliberation, the time had come. For the longest time you had dreamed of getting something big, bold and beautiful permanently inked into your skin. Something meaningful. And you wanted someone talented to tattoo it.

Thus, you found yourself scouring the web for reputable tattoo shops, hours upon hours poured into searching artists’ portfolios, hoping that someone was skilled enough at black-and-grey realism within a relatively close radius. If you were going to pay a hefty sum for a tattoo, you wanted it to be perfect. Your desktop was flooded with reference images of sword lilies – the subject of your desired ink – and about a dozen different parlours, tabs whittling down one by one during your search.

The final tab was the website for a slightly pricier shop, but one of the artist’s Instagrams utterly captivated you. Their artwork was extraordinary, the details in their pieces stunning and intricate; you decided investing a little extra cash would be worth it. Eivor Varinsdóttir, handle @wolfkissed_ink. Grinning, you emailed the artist, requesting a consultation.

You explained to the artist during that consultation that you wanted a composition of black-and-grey realistic gladioli on your left thigh. Sword lilies represented strength, after all, and you wanted to commemorate overcoming a difficult part of your life with something gorgeous and symbolic. That and, well, flowers were pretty. Within the week they had responded with a sketch that was beyond what you could have possibly thought up yourself: two stunning, bloomed sprigs of the flower with petals floating either side, lifelike as a monochrome photograph. Smiling ear-to-ear, you booked up your first appointment.

Unbridled excitement led to the time before your appointment soaring by, with you opening up the file of the sketch almost every day. Bringing us to the present: you stood anxiously outside the parlour door, 12:50pm, ten minutes before your scheduled appointment. Sucking in a shaky breath, nerves both good and bad, you stepped inside.

The tattoo shop was sleek, modern and decked wall-to-wall with flash sheets, the small designs varying in style, colour and detail. Everything was spotless, as one would expect, with shining awards dotted about. Just seeing the various trophies did well to quell some of your anxieties, knowing you were in good hands, that you’d end up with a lovely piece on your thigh. A stout man covered neck to foot in swirling Japanese designs manned the front desk, smiling warmly at you, obliterating any stigmas you had heard from older relatives about tattoo culture.

Biting your lip, you made your way to the desk, mustering a nervous smile. As thrilled as you were about getting the tattoo, the whole pain aspect was still rather daunting. “Hey, one o’clock appointment for (Y/N) (L/N)?” You fidgeted with the hem of your shorts while the gentleman checked his desktop.

“With Eivor, right?” he verified. You nodded.

“Sorry I’m a little early—”

“No, not at all! Rather you be early than late,” he chuckled, clearly sensing your worries. His eyes flickered across a clipboard. “She’s not with a client at the moment, so I’ll send you through now, if that’s alright.”

“Sounds good, thank you,” you bade, pulse quickening. Come on, you’ve wanted this for so long, you can’t pussy out now.

The guy asked you to wait by the desk as he ventured down a long corridor, the black paint giving off an ominous vibe that did nothing for your nerves. A few seconds later, he returned, cocking his head for you to follow. Your knuckles were white from gripping the strap of your purse so tightly.

He led you to the room at the end of the hall, holding the glossy black door open for you. “Go easy on her, Eivor, it’s clearly her first,” he called out, flashing you a wink, before letting the door close behind you.

Holy shit.

She was hot.

Eivor was nothing short of a modern day viking. Tall, rippling with muscle, late twenties to early thirties, blond hair strewn into an unruly braid with a strip on the right shaved clean to the flesh, revealing a fucking skull tattoo of a bird…a raven? Her face was stupidly handsome, eyes blue and icy but warm with greeting, a long and gnarly scar cutting into the flesh of her left cheek with a smaller nick protruding from her upper lip. Hell, the nape of her neck was marred with an even more vicious looking scar. She wore a tight black t-shirt that strained around her deliciously grizzled arms, which were adorned with Norse-looking runes and text curving into circles, ink that carried on to her hands and neck. The smile she offered you made you weak in the knees.

“(Y/N), right? I’m Eivor, a pleasure to meet you,” she greeted, voice deep and gravelly, decorated with a rasp that to you sounded like butter. Fuck me, she’s a tall, tall glass of water.

You shook her hand when she extended it to you, marvelling at the patterns and blacked-out bands on her long, thick fingers. Her nails were cut extremely short, confirming the strong lesbian vibe she gave off. “Likewise,” you squeaked, cursing yourself for acting like some bloody schoolgirl.

She sauntered over to her setup, weight carried in her shoulders, consolidating her already intimidatingly attractive butch energy, sanitised her hands and pulled on a clean pair of gloves. “Come on over,” she said, grabbing a disposable razor from a box. “I’ll just need to make sure the area is shaven, if that’s alright.”

“Of course,” you replied, joining her by the leather chair, covered by a sheet of cellophane. It was a relief to see all the hygiene precautions taken in the shop. Eivor picked up a disinfectant wipe.

“Left thigh, if I remember correctly?”

“Mhm, yeah.”

She dropped to one knee – wasn’t that a fucking sight – and wiped down the expanse of your thigh before gliding the razor over the flesh.

Hesitantly, you asked her what the general procedure was, desperately trying to divert your thoughts from the sapphic spiral they were travelling down.

“Alright, after I’ve finished here I’ll apply the stencil. You’ll get to check if you like the placement, and if you don’t I’ll keep going until you’re happy with it. It’s a big piece, so we’ll have to split this up into two sessions, as we discussed alongside payment.” She brushed away the loose hairs and peach fuzz. “I’ll do the linework this session, and the shading next time.” With one final pass of the razor she pulled back, tossing it into a bin.

Eivor then picked up a sheet of thin paper with the sketch printed on it. She plucked a purple pen from her table. “Give me a few minutes to trace the stencil, then we’ll apply it and see how you like it.” You nodded, trying to focus on your breathing.

While she traced over each line of the sketch, she kindly attempted to soothe your fears with small talk. “I’ll admit, I’ve never heard of a ‘gladiolus’ before our consultation. Any reason why you chose it?”

You smiled. “They represent strength. I finally got through a rough spell and wanted something to celebrate with,” you explained, heart skipping a beat at the soft expression on the artist’s face.

“All the more reason to get this perfect then,” she said with a grin. The way the scar on her upper lip quirked was positively adorable. A couple minutes passed and she re-capped the pen. “Stand up straight for me, darling.” Oh.

Cheeks burning with bashfulness, you complied. Eivor took a second to angle the stencil before smoothing it over your thigh, leaving a purple outline once she removed the paper. “Just have a look in that mirror over there and tell me if you’re happy, okay?”

You walked over to the mirror and stared at your thigh. The tattoo was large – which you expected, with the amount of detail in it – and perfectly central, the loose petals appearing to float down the length of your thigh. “Perfect,” you breathed out, giving the woman a thumbs-up.

Eivor switched over her gloves and gestured for you to take a seat on the chair. “Get comfy, then. Do you have water?” Nodding, you took out your water bottle from your handbag. “Brilliant. Still want to do this?”

“Hell yeah.” Weirdly, the nerves about the pain (not about the sexy artist) had almost wholly subsided, leaving you brimming with anticipation.

She poured some jet black ink into small caps, no larger than the tip of your thumb. “Remember to breathe through it and hold still, yeah? You picked a smart place for your first tattoo, not too close to the bone.”

“I’ll try.” Eivor opened a sealed packet containing a new, sterilised needle, inserting it into her tattoo machine. She switched it on, the buzz of the machine’s piston filling the room with a gentle hum. Looking up at you, she cocked her brow – if only your gay thoughts could bugger off for two minutes – as if to ask, ready? Affirmatively, you beamed at her.

Dipping the needle into the ink, she pulled the skin of your thigh taut. Immediately, you noted the warmth of her hand on your leg, fighting off a shudder. Then came a mildly painful scratching sensation as she brought the machine to your thigh.

Honestly? It wasn’t bad. Irritating, like an itchy eye, but not drastically unpleasant. You followed Eivor’s advice, keeping your breathing steady, averting your attention to the artwork on the walls, some of which you had seen on her Instagram portfolio. Portraits, flowers, animals, realistic-looking jewellery…the woman had mastered black-and-grey. You knew you picked the right artist. The frown of concentration on her face spoke volumes about her dedication to the art, steeled and intently focused on the lines she was pulling.

When she wiped the area and reached for more ink, she glanced up at your face. “All good?” she asked.

“Yeah, no issues here.”

“Wonderful.” She set back to work, positioning her needle over the flower’s curved stem, dragging it downwards in a slow arc. “Your skin takes ink like butter, by the way.”

“Oh, that’s good,” you breathed out. Her hand suddenly felt a little warmer. Tell me this woman does audiobooks, you thought.

After a few more lines, you tried to pepper in some small talk without breaking her concentration. Fortunately, her bedside manner was immaculate, and she entertained your questions without any grudges.

“Your voice is really soothing. Where abouts are you from?”

“Oh, thank you. I’m from Norway, moved here a few years back.” She grinned at the compliment. “It’s funny, people usually say the opposite about my voice.” You wondered if they were deaf.

“It’s a nice rasp,” you chuckled. Buzzing stopped, more ink.

“I was bitten by a wolf when I was nine,” she explained. Buzzing recommenced, scratching returned. “My larynx never properly healed from it, so I’ve sounded like some chain-smoker since before I hit double-digits, despite never touching a cigarette in my life.”

“You don’t sound like a chain-smoker, though. I mean it.”

Her grin widened. “That actually means a lot.”

An hour passed by, most of it spent in comfortable silence, with Eivor checking in on you occasionally to see how you were coping. Certain patches of nerves stung a little more than others, but none of it was unbearable. That was until her machine passed over a particularly rough area. It fucking killed, the burn of the needle seemingly deeper than anywhere else, the sting infinitely more intense than before. You hissed, gritting your teeth together.

“Ow,” you winced, clutching onto your water bottle in an attempt to relieve the pain, to no avail.

Eivor continued pulling her line, her rasp coming out in a low mantra. “Just breathe through it, nice and slow…” You tried to follow, attempting in vain to relax your shoulders. “Keep holding still for me…” Your breaths came shallow but steadily so, the stinging slowly becoming more endurable. The machine reached the end of the line. “Good girl,” she muttered, blissfully of absent mind.

Good girl.

Oh fuck.

Just when your clearly gay tattoo artist couldn’t get any hotter, she comes out with some hot-girl bullshit like that. And fuck, you didn’t think you had a praise kink before, but now this certainly awakened something. Why, why did it have to sound so good in her husky voice? No, you were absolutely not going to fantasise about your artist, not when her hands were on your skin, on your thigh of all fucking places. God, this stupidly attractive Norwegian butch was making you uncomfortably hot.

When she finally pulled away, sweet bloody reprieve, you took a sip of your water. “That wasn’t fun,” you remarked.

“Took it like a champion, though,” she beamed proudly, clearly unaware of the affect her words had just had on you. “Need a break?”

“Just a minute or two, thank you,” you sighed with relief. Eivor wiped you down and analysed her work.

“We’re just over halfway there,” she commented. Only halfway? Fuck. You allowed your eyes to wander over the black lines, all perfectly smooth from practiced precision. Yeah, this woman was talented.

“I mean, that killed, and that was my thigh…” you trailed off, making her laugh. “What was the most painful tattoo you’ve gotten?”

Eivor answered without hesitation. “My head, without a doubt. Packing solid black into that thing was agony. My fingers killed, too, but all completely worth it.” You couldn’t help but agree with that last part. Her hands looked extremely good, both with and without those gloves.

“I’m guessing places with more nerve endings and by the bone are the worst, then?”

“Definitely. The palm of the hand is the most sensitive, and it’s tough to get right. Ink bleeds, skin bleeds…and if you don’t do it well it’ll just fade. All that pain for nought.”

You gulped down some more water. Ouch. “Duly noted.”

After ninety odd more minutes, Eivor switched off her machine for good, the linework finished and utterly flawless. “All done for this session,” she announced, changing gloves once more to clean and wrap the area. There was minimal irritation around each line, and the wipe felt wonderfully cool against the reddening flesh.

Once she finished placing various equipment in a tub labelled ‘autoclave’, she escorted you to the front desk. You paid half the decided fee of the tattoo and booked your second session for three weeks’ time. Eivor gave you an aftercare kit, explaining in detail how to keep the tattoo clean, how to prevent infection, and to avoid direct exposure to sunlight as much as you could. Eagerly, you listened, trying to drink in as much of her voice as possible before departing.

“I’ll see you in three weeks, then. Take care, (Y/N),” she grinned. From the moment you stepped out of the shop, you knew that grin would be engraved into your mind for the weeks to come.

  The second appointment couldn’t have come quickly enough.

You spent an embarrassing quantity of time thinking about your dreamy tattoo artist, right up until the day you walked back into the shop, this time free of any concerns pertaining to the tattoo. The gentleman from before recognised you and asked how the tattoo was holding up, if you’d had any issues keeping it clean, to which you replied all was good. Only this time, Eivor came to greet you by the front desk.

“How’s it going?” she asked, welcoming as before.

“Really good. I just hope I’ve been doing everything right,” you chuckled, anxiously glancing down at your thigh. The redness had completely disappeared a few days after your first appointment, the black ink proudly meandering over your skin.

Eivor smiled reassuringly. “Trust me, you’d know if you haven’t. From here it looks like you’ve done a fantastic job of keeping it clean, anyway.” You followed her to her studio, mentally noting how she was wearing an even tighter black t-shirt than last time, the fabric clinging to the defined contours of her muscled back, biceps, abs… Needless to say, the gay thoughts had returned at full-force.

As before, she shaved and disinfected your thigh, but instead of a stencil she had the full greyscale reference images for the design printed and taped to a metal beam above her table. She took careful time in diluting various caps of black ink into a plethora of greys, experience shining through as she added precise amounts of diluter to each cap. There was something addictive about watching the woman work, with how methodical she was, how delicately she handled the bottles of ink.

When she unpacked a needle, you noted the shape was different to before. “Now, some parts are gonna be only a little rougher than before. Others will suck, I’ll warn you now,” she mentioned as you positioned yourself on the chair.

“Mama didn’t raise a bitch,” you joked. Eivor laughed.

“You handled it like a trooper before. I have zero doubts you’ll do the same today.”

And so she began, making multiple passes with the machine unlike before, packing in the different shades of grey in front of her, scratching into the already broken skin. It wasn’t massively painful, but Eivor was right – last time was a breeze in comparison. You rested your eyes and bore the pain, focusing on the faint music playing from the shop’s reception.

As previously, she was ever considerate, checking up on you as she worked – albeit not as frequently, now that you were accustomed to the needles – and encouraging you through the nastier patches. You tried your hardest to not look at your thigh, wanting the final result to be a surprise, but over time it grew increasingly difficult not to sneak a glance at her hands. Merely the thought of them flustered you (pathetic, you knew) and nothing would be more embarrassing than drifting off into a less than appropriate fantasy about the woman when she was simply being professional.

Time blurred together amongst your inner dilemma – to look or not to look – until Eivor’s signature rasp caught your attention. “Time for your least favourite part,” she said, giving you a knowing look, positioning her needle in one of the petals over the area that hurt like a bitch previously.

“Oh god, I forgot about that area.”

“Just own the pain and keep still, alright?”

“I’ll try.”

Eivor smirked: a wicked thing that could have killed every sapphic in a mile radius. “Squirm and I’ll pin you down. I’ve had to do it before, and I’ll do it again.”

That, under different circumstances, would be an appealing notion.

Closing your eyes once more, you tried to decipher the song lyrics resonating through the shop’s hall, grimacing when the needle penetrated the skin. Just focus on Rihanna, focus on Rihanna…

“That’s…not so bad, actually,” you mutter, not entirely self-assured of the words leaving your lips, hoping some placebo affect would take place.

Eivor chuckled, dipping into another shade. “You sound convincing,” she drawled.

“I’m – ow – serious… Okay fuck, that’s way worse.”

“Shh, it’ll be over soon. Find something to focus on.”

So you did, on what happened to be the first thing in your immediate line of sight when you re-opened your eyes: Eivor’s bicep. God, her shirt strained around the muscle, black fabric against tanned skin and the deep green runes littering her arm. Perhaps the ink had something to do with her ancestry, given that the woman said she was Norwegian – that or she was just a mythology nerd. Your eyes trailed over the spirals of script, the perfectly concentric circles. Mind wandering, the idea that she may have tattoos on her back and front piqued your interest. Then came the delightful image of Eivor without a shirt. Pinning you down. Fuck.

Before long the pain subsided, leaving a dull ache where the needle had worked at your skin. “All done, darling,” Eivor murmured, wiping the patch. Darling. You knew it was simply her bedside manner, trying to keep you as relaxed as possible, but damn was it having the polar opposite effect. Cheeks feeling impossibly hot, you unscrewed the cap of your bottle and took a sizeable gulp of water. She gave you a moment to breathe, now that the most difficult part was out of the way. Still flustered, you drained half your bottle.

Concern plastered on her face, Eivor leaned closer, inspecting your face intently. “Are you feeling faint?” she asked, evidently worried. “It’s important you tell me if you are—”

“No, no, I’m fine, really.” You were stuttering, annoyed with yourself that you made her worry. “Just being weird. I promise.”

“You do?” Her eyebrows were still upturned, not entirely believing you.

You nodded frantically. “Yeah, really. Please don’t worry.”

Taking a slow breath, she restarted the machine, relief flashing across her features. She gestured for permission to continue tattooing, which you granted, and set back to work.

Cursing internally, you let your eyes flutter shut, thoughts full of nothing but ‘good girls’ and ‘darlings’ in a husky Norwegian accent. Numbing yourself to the needles, you drifted off into slumber.

  “Hey, (Y/N)?”

A gentle pressure squeezed at your hand, slowly stirring you, bringing you back to the world of the living. Yawning, you opened your eyes, gaze brought to a gloved hand atop your own.

“Good evening,” Eivor said, retracting her hand and watching as you gasped and scanned the studio for a clock in a panic. Evening?

“Kidding,” she laughed. “I finished up ten minutes ago.” You shot her a half-hearted glare through sleepy eyelids.

“That was mean,” you pouted. She grinned.

“I do stab people for a living.”

Snorting, you swung your legs over the side of the chair, stretching them to regain a semblance of sensation. Chest pounding with excitement, you looked to the mirror at the side of the room, then at Eivor, silently asking permission to peak at the finished tattoo. She held out her hand in gesticulation.

Giddy with anticipation, you walked over and… Holy shit.

It was beautiful.

Each shade of grey blended into one another in a perfect harmony, so seamlessly that the black outline from before was barely visible. The shadows underneath each leaf, each petal looked real. Every speckle and wrinkle on the petals shone through, love and attention going into every marking. The falling petals were akin to a photograph, with the light grey background wash tying them to the main flowers, each little shadow appearing to give them different depths. It was beyond anything you imagined. All that pain, mental and physical, turned into a lifetime of beauty.

You didn’t realise you were crying until the salt of tears rolled into your awe-parted mouth.

“I’m, well… Wow.” Beaming, you turned to face your artist, who looked at her artwork with pride. “Thank you, Eivor. Thank you so much.”

She shook her head and offered you a box of tissues, from which you took one gladly. “I’m just honoured to have helped you lay that chapter of your life to rest. May the sword-lilies battle any shreds of it that remain.”

Stunned by her poetic inclination, you dried your eyes in silence, lips curved into a joyous smile. Meanwhile, she removed her gloves.

“You have tissues at the ready. I’m guessing people cry a lot here?” you asked, finally prying your eyes away from the masterpiece on your thigh.

“Mostly from the pain,” she remarked.

“You know, you could just lie to me so I don’t feel like such a fucking sap.”

The sound that left Eivor’s mouth in response was nothing if not angelic. She practically howled in hearty laughter, echoing through her studio, her eyes crinkling at the corners. You didn’t think it possible for your grin to widen further still, but her outburst was contagious in the best way.

“I’m glad you’re happy with it. Truly,” she breathed out, chest stilling from her fit.

“It’s beautiful. Happy is an understatement.”

Eivor made her way over to the desk in the corner of the studio, where a graphics tablet lay alongside a stylus. “Now, before I dress it, I’m legally required to ask you if I have permission to photograph the tattoo for advertisement purposes. I appreciate it’s a personal subject matter and completely understand if—”

“Go for it,” you shrugged.

“Are you certain?” You nodded.

“Of course. It’s a work of art.” The smile she gave you was genuine.

“This’ll only take a minute. Thank you, really.”

She knelt down and snapped a picture with the tablet, checking the quality. “All done.” Eivor then proceeded to sanitise her hands and slip on one last pair of gloves, grabbing the wipes and plastic wrap from her station. “The photo will be uploaded to the shop’s website and my professional Instagram, if that’s alright with you. Completely anonymous, of course.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Although, it’ll be weird seeing my leg on my feed.” She chuckled.

“Feel free to email or DM if you have any concerns with the healing.” Patting your leg, she stood up to her full height, placing her gloves in a biohazard ziplock. “Well, I’m honoured to have given you your first tattoo.”

“Honoured to be your…canvas?”

And just like that, your time with the artist was up. You watched wistfully as she put together an aftercare pack at the front desk, your previously overjoyed expression drifting into a sad one. After paying, you thanked her one final time.

“Take care, søta,” she said with a wink.

The very moment you arrived back home, you whipped out a Norwegian-to-English translator and immediately tried to replicate her pronunciation of the word she called you, blushing profusely when discovering it meant ‘cutie’. And upon opening your cleaning pack, you found an addition that wasn’t present in your previous bundle:

A small slip of paper. On one side, a mobile number. On the other, in beautifully neat cursive,

I’d love to take you to dinner. Text me if you’re interested?

Yours, Eivor

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

Of Academic Interest

Fandom: Indiana Jones

Collection/Series: Tribute to/Part of @alloftheimaginesblog ‘s ‘Secret’s Out’ Saga world.

Pairing: Indiana Jones x Plus Size Female History Lecturer Reader (Glasses are mentioned very briefly)

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long

Rating: T 

Warnings: N/A

Summary: You’re one of the newest history lecturers and Indiana turns up to watch your open lecture on the Cult of the Beautiful Dead

Notes: I love Angela’s Secret’s Out Saga, i’m happy that I get to send her requests and see the amazing things she writes for it and lately i’ve been getting the urge to write something for the world/au/series. 

This is a homage, a tribute, to it, obviously none of this is canon unless Angela says so. 

This is set before Indy and the Reader are dating.

All facts come from an essay I did at university on the Cult of the Beautiful Dead, which I also did an hour long presentation on. 

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You were relatively new to the history department at Marshall College and were somewhat of a novelty to students and staff alike having only been there for a few months. Being one of the few female professors and on top of that specialising in some more taboo or ground breaking historical takes on the history of gender and sexuality, you had successfully caused quite the stir. 

The majority of your colleagues were accepting, happy to have you and generally interested by your studies and research. Despite being relatively new to academic teaching they were supportive, although there was a small subsection of the humanities department who, in typical old man fashion, talked down to you, treated you like a coffee girl and disrespected your expertise. You had taken to stealing their students from their modules and attracting them to your modules instead as a passive form of fighting back.

Students were clamouring to be taught by you, to get onto the list for your modules or to get to see your open lectures. You were the only member of the faculty who talked about the more riveting elements of history such as prostitution, sexualisation, and even ghosts. In comparison to the same lectures on Anglo-Saxon England and the Civil War, you were significantly more interesting to the student population. That did not, however, remove sexism within the student population. While female students actively enjoyed your lectures, got involved more so than in other modules, and felt a sense of comfort in a more female friendly space, you found that a small portion of the student male population tried at every turn to either explain your own specialism to you or to discredit you. You had long since taken to finding it rather amusing, especially when most of those individuals were failing your course. 

You had been asked many months ago to prepare an open lecture on the history of surgery and medicine, the faculty head had told you to pick any topic you wished so long as it was well researched and you could put on a good lecture for the student population. For some it might well be their first ever history lecture, for others it was just an addition to their usual workload, nonetheless you’d chosen a topic that was of interest to you and that you felt confident presenting. 

Standing before a podium in a large lecture hall, you push your glass further up the bridge of your nose and flick through the pages of notes in front of you to temporarily distract yourself from the crowds of people that were slowly making their way inside and to seats. It was a large hall, one that could hold upwards of 200 people and despite years of public speaking under your belt there was always an anticipation, a sense of nerves, before you began a lecture or presentation. 

You checked the microphone on the podium, happy to find it in working order and smiled at a few familiar faces in the front row, some of your students who had apparently decided to spend their free period listening to you talk some more. Checking the time you waited a few more minutes before choosing to start, letting the last stragglers find a seat or for those unlucky enough to stand at the back after all seats were filled. It was a large turn out and you could feel those nerves buzzing in the pit of your stomach as you cleared your throat and picked up your notes. 

“Good morning, everyone! Thank you for coming despite your busy schedules to hear me drone on once more about dead people,” Light laughter and small chuckles filled the space as you began, your students looking at each other with a shake of their heads. “Today i’m going to be talking to you about something called the Cult of the Beautiful Dead in Victorian medicine. Specifically surgery.” 

You find yourself drifting from the podium, pacing across the stage even as this requires you to speak louder without the microphone. There is a familiar energy in your body that demands you move as you speak, to expend it in some physical way. “The Cult of the Beautiful Dead pervaded the world of art within the 18th and 19th centuries. It has been defined as ‘a subjective fascination with idealised images of the deceased in such a way that permanently embalmed bodies and stable images displace and replace impermanent reality’, but I would characterise it within medical and surgical art somewhat differently.”

You stop briefly, give yourself time to breathe and them time to process your words, in that brief moment your eyes glance across the crowd and spot a familiar face that makes your cheeks warm and your heart stutter. Professor Henry ‘Indiana’ Jones Junior. 

Professor Jones was known throughout the history and archaeology department for his digs, his finds, and his immense knowledge, that and his good looks and charming persona. He was friendly, enticing, handsome, and treated you as an equal. While you could not consider yourself friends, you did have a healthy respect and rather decent crush on the man. In fact, the only reason you weren’t friends, you suspected, was your inability to talk around the man without stuttering. He had no reason to be at your lecture, but he’d come anyway, in fact it looked as if he were the only member of the archaeology department present. 

You forced yourself to tear your eyes away and continue, “It is the idealised image of the female body on the dissection room table or the surgical bed with her flowing hair, her soft, pale skin, her perfect, unharmed nature and her sexualised passivity which characterises the Cult of the Beautiful Dead within medical art. On your seats you would have found copies of a painting by Henri Gervaux and an illustration by Hasselhorst, I will be talking today about these pieces of art and how they fit in with the realities of the dissection room.” 

You move across the stage again, wait as they find out their papers and find yourself looking over at Dr Jones again. He is intent in his observations of the papers in his hands, interested, actively engaged and that is a bigger compliment than anything you think. It would be heartbreaking, you decide, if he were bored by or disinterested in your lecture. While you don’t need his approval, you are an academic in your own right, you do desire it. 

You continue on when he looks up, shifting your eyes away quickly, “In the 19th century women were less likely to be patients of surgeons than men and even when they were operated on they were by no means symbols of the Cult of the Beautiful dead. See Before the Operation by Henri Gervaux,” You wait for them to find the print of the painting, “It is a portrait of Dr Pean, a French Surgeon, and depicts the moment before an operation on a young woman and fits into the ideal of the Cult even though the woman is anaesthetised and not dead.” 

In this fashion you continue your lecture, moving across the stage discussing the sexualisation of the female body in medical art and the realities of surgery in comparison. You’re highly aware of Dr Jones’ eyes on you as you move across the stage, to the point that you stumble at points in your oration. As time goes on you find yourself relaxing under his gaze, accepting that he is here purely out of interest, not to judge you or pass criticism. His active engagement with your lecture, the notes you can see him scribbling down in a notebook, is rewarding and reassures you that he is enjoying himself even on a topic so far removed from his own studies of ancient civilisations and centuries old artefacts and skeletons. 

You reach the end of your lecture, returning to the podium and straightening your skirt, “Are there any questions?”

Hands pop up across the room, but it is one in particular that you are drawn to. You don’t expect him to ask questions, you don’t expect him to have any, but you are a little scared to hear what he has to say. It shouldn’t scare you, this active academic engagement, the meeting of minds, but you so desperately do not want to make a fool of yourself. 

“Dr Jones?” You gesture for him to go on and ask and he stands in response. Tugging at the tweed waistcoat and adjusting his glasses on his nose.

He smiles at you as he begins, “Dr Y/L/N,” He addresses you by your title, formal and respectful. You are reminded, once more, that he has never failed to treat you as an equal. Unlike some of the other male professors, “I was just wondering what your opinion was on the eroticisation of death in this period?” You let out a little laugh, for no reason other than a little relief at the ease with which you can answer that question. 

“Thank you for your question Dr Jones, well art such as Hasselhorst’s helped to eroticise death in the 18th and 19th centuries, death became equated with beauty, even if the reality of the dissection room failed to live up to the standards of the Cult of the Beautiful Dead. What we see is death portrayed often as a young woman. She is often portrayed as beautiful with long flowing hair, a fair face, a soft pale body, naked, open to the eye and most importantly passive. The dead woman in this period is a passive object, dead, yet sleeping, immortally captured at her most beautiful and unable to object to any sexualisation or objectification. She cannot talk back. Death is an obsession of the Victorians and it’s prevalence in medical art like Hasselhorst’s shows just how deeply connected death, beauty and the erotic became at this time.”

“Do you think we’ve continued that desire for passivity today? The way in which we expect women to act?” 

“What do you think, Dr Jones?” You turn the question back on him, eager to hear his opinion, knowing that your own certainly sees the way 1930s society demands passivity from women even if death is no longer eroticised in the same way. 

“I think we’ve perpetuated that desire for passivity from women within our society, demanded they hold their tongue, keep themselves in check and in place and as objects of desire, but not too much or else they’re no longer respectable. I think we expect women to be passively sexual, unknowingly so, innocently so, yet they must be attractive else their worth is diminished. An outspoken or intelligent woman is demeaned, pushed out from academics or workplaces. Don’t you agree?”

“I do.” You take a moment, give him a smile before answering the next question and the next and the next. You expect him to leave like many of the other members of the audience once his question has been answered, instead he stays, listens to your responses to each question and pays you rapt attention. 

You find yourself even more interested in Dr Jones than you were before. His acknowledgement of the treatment you and other women have faced when attempting to make a name in a career or in academics is refreshing and his engagement with your lecture is enjoyable and endearing. You curse him a little for making your crush, your infatuation deeper simply by coming to your lecture. 

You find yourself packing up your notes at the end, listening to the sound of feet leaving as you grab your notes and stuff them into your leather satchel. A tall shadow falls over you as you heft the bag onto your shoulder and you smile up at Dr Jones as he stands before the podium notebook in hand, he folds the glasses off of his nose and pockets them. 

“How did you enjoy the lecture, Dr Jones?” You run an anxious hand through your hair and twist your wide hips in a nervous movement, always finding yourself a little flustered when one on one with the man. There’s a part of you that worries about coming under scrutiny from him, the part that has so often been judged in life for your gender, your area of study, and your weight. Years of nasty comments, suggested diets and family obsession with the size of your body had created a paranoia almost, a sense of expectation. You were just waiting for the scrutiny to be voiced.

“It was one of the most interesting lectures I've had the pleasure of watching. You should write a book, it might be a worthy next research project and please call me Indiana.” 

“Only if you call me by name. I think we can both drop the doctor? I wasn’t expecting to see you here, I...I didn’t think the Victorians would interest an archaeologist.” In truth the idea of Indiana Jones wanting to learn about people not long dead, a period which rarely requires archaeological excavation and has few true mysteries, had never crossed your mind. 

“In all honesty?” There’s a pause as he looks away from you with a charming smirk before turning back to you, teeth showing through his smile. “You interest me. I’ve read all your books, all your papers, every time you lecture I stop at the door and listen. You’re a compelling orator.”

“You listen to my lectures?” You can feel warmth flooding your cheeks, your neck, your ears at his admission. Feel a familiar sense of butterflies flapping about in your stomach. You look down briefly, smiling at the ground before meeting his blue eyes again.

“When I have time, surprised you haven’t noticed me hovering in the doorway. You really are one of the best academics I've ever met.”

“I...thank you.” You’re a little lost for words, you have barely shared more than a few polite conversations with Indiana, too intimidated to talk in depth with him and yet here he is extolling your values and praising you. 

“Don’t let Dr Carr convince you otherwise.” He taps his fingers in a rhythm on the wood of the podium, looking away from you and towards the door where you can see the much older Dr Carr standing waiting impatiently for you to leave the room for his next lecture. 

“You heard...the other day.” You think back to the argument you’d gotten into with the old professor over his sexist attitude towards you, his constant demeaning comments. You had thought it had been a private argument, but it seems not. You were still rather angry about the whole thing in truth.

“Yeah, look he’s old school. Doesn’t think women should have degrees or PhDs, ignore him. You’re a better academic by far and he’s just angry that he’s been passed over for the chair again. He’s a washed up old academic, he’s only still got a job because the Dean feels bad for him.” He says the last part loudly, on purpose you’re sure, loud enough for Dr Carr to hear and turn a glare on him. You know he won’t say anything to him though, Dr Jones was the university’s prized archaeology professor, he brought in more artefacts than the other’s combined and more students. Dr Carr wouldn’t say a bad word against him. Couldn’t. It was enjoyable to watch the old fuddy professor go red in the face and huff at the doors. 

“I don’t know what to say. I...Thank you. I know we don’t...we don’t really talk, but thank you, I. It’s been hard joining the faculty, it’s a very masculine environment and I...it’s nice to know there’s someone in my corner.” You think to your Grandfather telling you that academics would make you barren, cause you to go insane, think to your mother telling you to find a nice husband and settle down, that you should desire the life of a housewife alone. It has been very difficult simply getting this far and to know you have him in your corner, someone in your corner means a great deal, in a new city, a new job, a new career. 

“Always.” The two of you stand there in silence, just staring at each other, despite the impatient noises being made at the door by Dr Carr. You grip the satchel strap tighter over your shoulder and tuck your hair behind your ear. 

“Would you like to get some coffee?”

“Now?” You don’t have any more lectures for the day, just your office hours later to answer any student questions, but the offer still surprises you. 

“Yeah, I don’t have a lecture until later and...if you’re free I have more questions.” He holds up the notebook, little post notes coming out of the side, it’s thick from writings and usage. It flatters you that he’s so interested in what you have to say, in your mind. You think it might be more of a compliment than anything physical. 

“So it’s entirely professional then, Dr Jones?” You’re not sure where the confidence comes from to cause the words to fall from your lips, to cause a little smirk to lift at them as you look at him over the top of your glasses. Flirtation is one area you are not confident in, despite it all. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say entirely, sweetheart...I’d like to get to know you better.” He’s utterly too charming for his own good you think and too charming for your poor little heart, but despite any concerns you have, any worries about his intentions you still find yourself agreeing. You’ve wanted to get to know him better for so long, too scared to talk to him in more than passing that you can’t let this opportunity pass you by. Refuse to. 

“That sounds...lovely.” 

“Shall we?” He offers his elbow out to you and you take it, wrapping your arm through his and pulling yourself to his side. He is taller, broader, and warmer than you. He smells woodsy and a little like black coffee and everything about this moment has your heart skipping a beat. 

“We shall.”  

You take great pleasure in the dissatisfied sneer on Dr Carr’s face as the two of you walk arm in arm out of the lecture hall. 

                                                            ----

Taglists: 

@charradelange @belfry-bat @gabile18 @beccaboo929  @trasheater

[fific7]

Into the Darkness / Part 3

The Darkling x Reader

A/N: This does not follow canon, it’s literally just lemon zest 🍋 ... I have a vision of Ben Barnes in his black Kefta and riding boots permanently stuck in my brain right now. Attempting to write it right out of there.

Warnings: 18+ please due to NSFW content. Some dom/sub interaction, being restrained, coercion, questionable consent (thankfully it takes place in a fantasy universe), sexual content including oral, rough unprotected* sex. I don’t mention her actual age, but Reader is not underage.

*Irl, please don’t go wild in the country without protection.

[My GIF]

“Moi soverennyi... why have you woken me?”

“Why do you think, little dove?”

You realised that this was to be your life from now on.

His hands pulled you up from your prone position, and you found yourself crushed against his body. You knew this was done on purpose - firstly, so that you knew he was naked and secondly, so that you felt his erection against your thigh as he did so. Which you did. How long had you slept? It was probably longer but you felt as if it was only a few minutes, and yet he already wanted to - what had he called it? - fuck you again? You were still sore from earlier; your throat and between your legs felt rubbed raw.

“Turn around and get on your knees.” His voice sounded harsh for some reason, so you rushed to obey although you wondered at his tone. Maybe he didn’t like appearing needy for you, this would after all be the third time he’d had you in the saints knew how many hours. As you were thinking this, your head was pushed back down into the pillows, meaning you were now balanced on your knees and elbows with your bottom in the air.

A long finger was pushed inside you from behind and you cried out in surprise. Another finger joined it immediately and you yelped again. “Be quiet! You make too much noise, woman.” You felt his thumb moving onto the area he’d concentrated on before, rubbing circles onto it, and once again you felt pleasure rippling through you. His fingers started moving in you; coupled with what his thumb was doing, you couldn’t deny that it was enjoyable. You were breathing very shakily.

Suddenly it all stopped, only to be replaced by his hard length abruptly sliding into you without any warning. You screamed, but he’d anticipated this and had pushed your face right into the pillow, virtually silencing all your cries.

He began thrusting into you, grinding against you without mercy, the fingers of one hand digging into your hips, while the other hand kept your face buried in the pillows. You felt him remove it, “Keep your head down,” he said as he did so. His hand went to your breasts, squeezing, massaging as they hung heavy above the mattress, pulling at your nipples and making you squeal. “Will you be QUIET!” he hissed in your ear.

It felt incessant to you, was he never going to stop? He was loudly grunting this time with the effort of pounding into you. He got to make noise, but you didn’t?

You heard his long-drawn-out groan and felt relief, knowing what it meant. Once again, the warmth spread inside you and he pulled out. You felt his juices running down your legs this time, cooling as they hit the air and your skin. You slowly stretched out your back and leg muscles, and lay down gratefully on the bed. The sheets were sticky, you noticed with distaste. You felt the mattress lift slightly; he’d got up and was heading to the door.

You caught a glimpse of his naked body as he walked across the room - tall and lean but nicely muscled. The door was unlocked and he left the bedroom; you supposed he was going to re-dampen the washcloth. He returned, and sure enough you felt the warm washcloth making its way over you. He’d also brought a second washcloth and was attempting to clean up the sticky areas on the sheets.

Perhaps the action of washing you had sparked something; just as you were relaxing into enjoying it, he put his hands under your knees and pulled them up, opening your legs as he did so. You’d started squirming, feeling very exposed and uncomfortable, when you were dealt a stinging blow onto your right thigh. “Stop moving!” he ordered. Gasping, you looked into his angry face but ended up giving another longer, louder, gasp as he quickly shoved his now-erect-again cock fully into you.

You hadn’t even noticed him getting hard again. How long did it take for this to happen in men, you wondered? There was so much you didn’t know. Then you realised that he’d lifted your legs right up and placed your ankles on his shoulders.

This gave him a whole new angle to thrust into you from; he was making the most of it, his pace so fast and each deep thrust forcing a pained moan from you. You were still very tender, but that didn’t seem to have any impact on Kirigan at all. He was obviously extremely keen to continue his ‘training’ of you to accept him at any time, at any place.

For some reason, this time he didn’t finish inside you, leaning back so that his cock slid out of you, spilling onto his stomach instead. However it soon became clear why, when he told you to clean it all off him. You’d reached for the washcloth but he shook his head at you, so you dropped it back onto the bedside table.

Instead, as he’d intended, you’d used your tongue to lick him clean, meaning that all you could taste was his now-familiar salty/musky tang as you lay under the covers, staring up at the ceiling with him lying beside you.

Listening to his shallow, even breathing, wondering again why you’d ended up in his bed as his only ‘companion’.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

You’d eventually fallen asleep, and when you were shaken awake again some time later, you weren’t surprised this time. You looked at him as he leaned over you, and were surprised when he kissed you, tongue easing into your mouth.

He pulled you onto your side, and you felt his cock between your legs. He thrust into you, one hand going to your breast and the other to your thigh, pulling you against him. He moved his fingers to where he disappeared inside you, finding that spot with his thumb and rubbing it over and over, making you jump. His pace was slightly slower this time, his thrusts less punishing. Once he’d released inside you, he continued rubbing at you, massaging your breasts and kissing you until you climaxed. You remembered to thank him as instructed, and he’d stroked your hair as if you were a pet.

This time, as soon as he slid out of you, he more or less fell asleep immediately. It took you longer, as you now had an extremely painful ache between your legs which was difficult to ignore. In the space of a few hours, you’d gone from untouched virgin to having been fucked five times in a row without respite, and it was taking a terrible toll on your body. Your throat still burned, and your hand went between your legs trying to soothe the heat which burned there, and you finally drifted off to sleep.

When you next opened your eyes, it was brighter in the room. He was still fast asleep, but almost as if he’d sensed you were awake, his eyes flickered open. He gazed at you, reaching over and stroking one of your breasts, before rolling your nipple between his fingers. He propped himself up on one elbow, leaning over and letting his tongue lazily run over the nipple and surrounding area, before starting to bite at it. Then he moved to your other breast, beginning the same ritual.

You jumped again as he bit down. “Would it be correct to say that you like my breasts, moi soverennyi?” you asked, staring back at him. “A lot?”

He laughed. “Yes, it would be.” He sat up properly, placing both hands on them and grasping greedily at them. “In fact, I’d go so far as to say I’m obsessed by them. They’re so... full and soft, and a perfect fit for my hands. They’re partly why you are here.”

You sat up a bit. “I’ve been wondering about that... why I’m here, I mean. I did not know you before I was brought to your quarters.”

He toyed with your nipples as he said, “Ah, but I happened to see you in the Camp about a month ago... coming out of your tent in the early morning. In just your trousers and undershirt. You were not aware I was watching you. And I would be lying if I said I didn’t study your body closely in the dawn light, through your thin shirt. Your breasts - what I could see of them - looked perfect that morning. I couldn’t get that vision of you out of my head. And now I have you, in every way. I can touch you, kiss you, fuck you, whatever I want.”

Grabbing one breast again, he kissed your nipple, lapping at it. He looked up at you, grey eyes looking softer than usual. “I’d say that makes me a very lucky man.”

You were silent, absolutely amazed that you’d caught his eye over all the other Grisha women.

He continued, “I’d sent the Oprichniki to bring you here the morning you deserted. I’d decided by then that I needed to make you my companion, only to find that you’d disappeared. But luckily you were in the first place they looked.” He laughed, “You didn’t make it particularly difficult to find you.”

You’d been turning over all he’d just told you in your mind. “You said ‘partly’ why I was here?” you queried.

He nodded, “Yes. I also checked your medical records. You are young, healthy and fertile.”

Your mouth dropped open at the implication.

He said, quite matter-of-factly, hand sliding from your breast to your stomach, “In addition to fulfilling my needs, you’re going to have my child.”

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

You were in his tent at the Camp, several days after his revelation. Things had progressed pretty much as they’d started. He’d schooled you in various other sexual positions, had eaten you out several times, and shown you various other things he liked you to do while you were sucking him off. He’d praised you as a quick learner, and continued to take you pretty much whenever he pleased.

He’d finally noticed how chafed you were, and had brought you a balm from the medics. It had helped a little, although not with your sore and over-used vagina and throat.

There were no shackles now; he knew you wouldn’t jeopardise your family by trying to escape. You were even allowed to venture outside. While you were in his tent, you wore a linen robe or more likely nothing at all. But you’d been given a black Kefta to wear when you did leave the tent, the Grisha woman who’d brought it to you giving you a strange and - possibly jealous? - look.

The black Kefta had confused you and so you’d questioned him about it, about why it wasn’t blue.

“Because you belong to me,” he’d answered shortly. “This proclaims that you’re off limits to other men.”

Now it made sense. You’d seen the stares and side-long looks as you walked through the Camp, had heard the whispers. One thought came to you, so you voiced it.

��Your little Sun Summoner had the same, I hear.”

He laughed, “Are you jealous?”

You vigorously shook your head, “No!”

“She wore it for the Winter Fete, that’s all,” he shrugs. “You get to wear yours all the time. And it’s different to hers. Much more splendid. Everyone now knows who you are.”

You glared at him, “And who am I exactly?”

“My consort.” He began undoing his fly, “Come here and kneel down.”

You knelt in front of him. It had taken very little time for you to learn that he liked you rather than him to free his cock from his trousers before you sucked him off, which is what you did now. He slid it into your mouth, as usual keeping his hand firmly on the back of your head so he was in control of you.

You’d also quickly learnt to make almost no noise, as you were no longer servicing him in private.

He moved back from you after a few minutes, leaving your mouth unexpectedly empty. However you’d noticed that in the past couple of days, blow jobs now usually ended in sex. He moved to the large chair in the corner of the tent, sat down and beckoned you over to him.

You went to him and he gestured to his lap. You obediently straddled him, taking his cock inside you as you did so. Moving on him, you saw his head going back, his eyes closing, jaw clenching and hands groping your breasts. He came fairly quickly, no doubt due to the partial blow job, and you slid off him, walking to the other side of the tent to pour a basin of warm water from the large metal jug sitting on a low flame, and a washcloth.

You ran the cloth over him, tucking him back into his uniform trousers before seeing to yourself. As you stood to take the basin away, he caught your wrist, looking intensely at you.

“You’ve learnt well, in a very short space of time. You’re being a very good girl.”

“I thought I was a woman?” you snarked, and he laughed, “Fine...woman, then.” He ran his thumb over the skin of your wrist, “You’ve been taking my cock so well, and you like it rough now, don’t you?”

You nodded dutifully, “Yes, moi soverennyi.” In fact, you didn’t particularly, but you had to keep this dangerous man happy.

“When is your monthly cycle due?” he suddenly asked you. Blushing deeply - this was not something you usually discussed with men - you answered, “About 10 days’ time.” “Make sure to keep track,” he instructed you, “it shouldn’t take long for you to get with child.”

You could believe it. Since you’d been brought to him, he’d been on you constantly. You felt as if you were permanently hobbling around; in addition to oral sex, he usually fucked you three or four times a day, which, according to more gossip you’d heard in the past, was not usual except maybe between newlyweds on their honeymoon. Which you & he definitely were not.

But you’d surprised yourself by having some kind of feelings for him. You were in fact jealous of his ‘little Sun Summoner’ as you called her, although he’d confided to you that they’d never had sex. He also told you that while he had felt a connection with her, she’d ruined that when she’d run off and disappeared from his life.

You’d asked him what he’d do if she returned, and he’d shrugged, “Nothing. She is dead to me.” But you wondered if that was true, or if you’d be cast aside for her.

You seemed to have accepted that you’d be with him for a lot longer than you’d initially expected. Especially if you did become pregnant. He had become more tender with you lately, kissing you when you least expected it or running his fingers down your cheek. One morning, you’d awoken to find him gazing at you and stroking some strands of hair off your face.

But he could still be arrogant, harsh and demanding, meaning that you did your best to keep him pleasured. He would still take you without warning; he’d once shoved you up against the wall of an empty corridor in the Little Palace, undoing your trousers, moving your underwear aside and pushing inside you right then and there. He’d been thrusting into you like a madman, and as usual you felt like it went on forever. You were petrified that someone would see or hear the two of you, in fact you still weren’t sure they hadn’t. But you’d acquiesced as always, and let him have his way with you.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

Ten days later, he asked if your period had started. You confirmed that it had, that morning. “Well, we shall have to try even harder, shall we not?” Inwardly, you groaned. You definitely wouldn’t be able to walk if that was the case.

He didn’t leave you alone even for those few days, just carried on fucking you when the notion took him. His stamina was quite impressive. He’d even left a strategy meeting he was attending a mere half hour after he’d had sex with you, spent 10 minutes rutting on you, before fixing his slightly dishevelled uniform and returning to his meeting.

He’d also had you brought over to the large tent where he and his senior men held these meetings. One of his men took you to a side entrance which led to a little area screened off from the main space, containing a plain table and chair.

He’d arrived a few moments later, striding over and bending you over the desk, putting his hand over your mouth and pushing roughly inside you from behind, grunting quietly and thrusting into you for some time. His mouth was next to your ear, and he gave his signature long low moan as he came. Then he was gone without one word spoken, before you could even stand up and turn round.

A few minutes later, the same Oprichnik who’d brought you over to the tent arrived, smirking, to take you back. His eyes had run over your body quite blatantly and when you arrived at your tent, you’d said, “Thank you. I’ll be sure to tell General Kirigan how interested you were in my well-being.” The smirk and roving eyes were instantly replaced with fear, and he hurried away from you.

You couldn’t deny Kirigan made it plain that he found you totally desirable, which understandably did wonders for your self-confidence.

However, this back-fired on you. You were now on nodding terms with Ivan, Kirigan’s second-in-command. He was another dangerous man, who you also wished to stay on the right side of. One evening, you were sipping at a small glass of kvas when Ivan came into the tent. He was looking for his commanding officer, who was in one of his interminable meetings.

You asked if he wished to wait for him, as he shouldn’t be long in returning. He accepted and also took a glass of kvas with you, growing more conversational as the time passed. He regaled you with tales of some of his & Kirigan’s exploits, and you’d been laughing at one he’d just told you when the Darkling came striding into the tent. Ivan leapt to his feet and stood at attention.

As he took in the scene before him, Kirigan scowled ferociously at both of you, barking out, “What’s this! I leave for an hour, and you’re sniffing and drooling round my woman like a dog in heat, Ivan?”

Ivan’s face reddened, and he shuffled his feet guiltily. Like most of the men, he found you very attractive. They all knew that Kirigan was fucking you, and he had in fact been thinking what a lucky bastard he was when the man himself had arrived.

“No, moi soverennyi! I assure you... I was waiting for you and I merely spoke of some of our past campaigns.” Kirigan sneered, “Which caused her to laugh? Is what we did so amusing?”

His glare turned to you, “Is it?!” You shook your head, “No... well, it was just Ivan mentioned that you happened to rip your trousers once when you...” but you stopped talking when you saw the expression on his face.

Ivan hastily took his leave, saying he would update him in the morning instead.

The Darkling looked at you with icy eyes. He took off his Kefta and threw it onto one of the chairs, and began unbuckling his trousers. “Take your clothes off, and get on the bed.”

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

[samwrights]

Two Little Lines

Let’s just keep playing around with the pregnancy/baby theme, shall we? 😂😈 it’s going to be on the fluffier side, however, we are gonna sprinkle in some very mild NSFW. And we got real angsty with Kenma and we’re just gonna make em all real long. Sorry this took me a few days to do!

Kenma;

Let’s be honest, Kenma would be the cautious one that would more so plan for pregnancy.

Life’s going great for Kenma—great job, cushy life, hot wife??? How did he get so lucky?

Cause he’s cute af that’s how

He was finally ready to add another player to the party.

However, life can’t always be perfect and apparently neither can the two of you trying for a baby.

For the last year and a half now, Friday nights were your thing. No streaming, no work, no phone calls. You and Kenma—that’s it. And while he definitely had become very explorative in that time, every negative pregnancy test was wearing his drive down.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone that Kenma isn’t a fan of going to the doctor, even to check on how his little swimmers are doing. “If it’s not meant to be, we’ll find another way.” But you could tell it was breaking his heart a little bit.

Frisky Friday’s became fragile Friday’s, in which the two of you really just cuddled in bed together, fireplace lit, and talked about hopeful dreams of finally having a child together, until one of you hopefully got in the mood.

Shit, this whole ordeal was even making your marriage rough. Kenma had been so hard on himself lately that he could barely look at you, which caused you to start to feel insecure, causing the both of you to fight.

It’s Friday night. No streaming, no work, and no phone calls. That was how it was supposed to be. But instead, Kenma is naked in bed atop the comforter, playing with his switch.

It’s pissing you off.

“I don’t know what you wanna do anymore, Kenma. Do you even want a family? Do you even want to be with me anymore?”

“Why would you even say that?” It’s Friday night. The two of you are supposed to be hanging out in bed, naked and just being together, not picking fights with each other. But since that seems to be the case, you see Kenma flush with anger.

“Maybe because you’re playing Animal Crossing instead of looking at me??” Your husband sighs before putting his switch on the night stand before taking down the loose knot that his hair typically resides in. He’s anxious. “You’re acting like I’m not upset about this too.”

As you’re talking to him, you cautiously clamber over him, your face filled with raw emotion. And, after being married for the better half of a decade, you can see what he’s feeling. Failure, distress, and pain were only the start of it. “Please, Kenma. One more time, and we’ll start looking at other options.”

Apparently one more time was all it took, according to the three pregnancy tests you’d taken a month later. Seeing those two little lines on one of the tests that your husband had bought in bulk sent your heart into palpitations. You were going to be a mom.

Kenma comes home from work that Friday—you decided to surprise him. “What do you want to do tonight Kenma?”

??? “Honey, it’s Friday. Don’t we usually...” he stops. Either you were giving up on trying, which you two would have discussed, or... “wait, you don’t mean...”

Holding up the positive pregnancy test, you begin to cry. Kenma does too.

“Baby Kozume has joined the party.”

Kuroo;

Only the two of you would get pregnant while having an IUD implant. Literally, that was just your luck. But it was still possible.

Which you had yet to tell Kuroo—at the moment you were thankful the two of you weren’t cohabitating yet because you were able to hide your unbearable morning sickness.

You were at least waiting to see your doctor to have your IUD removed before telling him, mostly out of fear but also because, if he did notice your morning sickness, you could pawn it off as symptoms of the removal.

You hoped that this wouldn’t take too long or as be as painful as it was going in, but then again you were going to be pushing a human out in nearly 8 months.

It’s a Wednesday afternoon; Kuroo has already finished classes for the day while you’re still out at your appointment. He did have a key to your appointment, but it was strange that you weren’t home considering you didn’t have classes.

He wasn’t gonna call you out on it though—Kuroo trusted you. Instead, he opted to just rummaging around your apartment, cleaning up dishes that were left standing in the sink and making lunch for the two of you.

The minute you walked through your door, the smell of his cooking wafted through the air and absolutely did not agree with you or the baby’s sense of smell. “Fuck,” you grit out before bolting to the bathroom to hurl.

??? = Kuroo.

“Babe? You okay?” Your response was more vomiting, which was apparent both by sound and by visual—you hadn’t even closed the door to the bathroom and Kuroo got to witness the scene clear as day.

In comfort, Kuroo rubs your lower back in an attempt to coax the remaining bile from your body. Disturbing, was the only way Kuroo could describe it, considering you rarely ever puked. In the last six years of dating, he’s only seen it once while you drunk.

When the nausea finally passed, Kuroo cleaned your face up with a warm rag before sitting you on his knee while he sat at the edge of the tub. “What’s wrong, baby?”

“That, actually.”

“What?” Kuroo’s a smart guy, however it took him a few minutes to decipher your two word puzzle. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah, I was gonna tell you today, actually. I just had to go get my IUD removed.” For a moment he’s stunned—the IUD was supposed to be nearly foolproof. But nearly is the key word.

“Babe, you’re pregnant! Holy shit, I gotta call Kenma and Bo and tell them they’re gonna be uncles!” 💀💀💀

“Sooo, you’re okay with it...?” After all, there was a reason you had chosen to go with an IUD after your guys’ last pregnancy scare two years ago.

After all, being a freshman in college wasn’t necessarily an ideal time to start a family.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He balks.

“Because we’re college students that still have another year to graduate?” You deadpan as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“And? Now we’re gonna be married college graduates with little baby Kuroo.” M a r r i e d?

“I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself, Tetsu.”

“What, you don’t wanna marry me?” For a minute, his face contorts with...confusion? Sadness? Anger? A myriad of all the above? “I’ve wanted to marry you since high school.”

“Is this a proposal?”

“The rings been in my gym bag since senior year.”

Akaashi;

Akaashi Keiji, contrary to popular opinion, was a real romantic.

Even as college students, while your focus should be on your studies, Akaashi never slacked on making you feel special and loved. He knew it, you knew it, and your poor neighbors that shared the wall between your bedrooms knew it.

Kinda made it awkward when the two of you would leave for class and you’d meet your neighbors’ eyes in the apartment hallway. But ya know, it is what it is.

Honestly, it’s too challenging not to go at it every day when your boyfriend is the sweetest, most endearing human to walk the planet.

But enough gushing about Akaashi. Four years into your relationship, you had never felt so off in your life. The last three weeks, all you wanted to do was sleep and eat, you couldn’t focus on anything at all. You couldn’t even have sex with Akaashi.

You know, your wonderful partner that you literally boned everyday? Yeah.

It felt like a permanent, three week PMS for a period that never came. Not that that was entirely abnormal for you—intense amounts of stress can throw off your menstrual cycle and stress was certainly no stranger to you.

But no. You knew your body and you knew it well. Something was wrong.

Just in case things went awry, you scheduled a doctor’s appointment with Keiji’s knowledge. After all, it could very well be nothing and there was no point in causing your man to worry.

“Miss, were you aware that you’re nearly six weeks pregnant?” 💀💀💀 obviously not, doc.

Not entirely convinced, whether because you’re a tad dense or because you really just don’t want to believe the doctor, you swing by a local drug store to grab a test. Just in case, like somehow the doctor would be wrong.

Thankfully, you get home before Akaashi is back from work for the evening, giving you the privacy of seeing your results with your own eyes. Even though you literally could go look at the results and notes from your doctors visit, but ya know.

You don’t even know how long you sat on the floor of your shared bathroom, just staring at the two little lines. You didn’t even realize Akaashi came home.

He calls your name, at first not necessarily concerned that the only light in the apartment was peeking from under the bathroom door. But with no answer, he calls out your name again. No answer. “Honey, is it okay if I come in?”

“Y-yeah?” You aren’t really sure how to answer. How the hell was Akaashi going to react? You guys didn’t have time for a kid?? You’re completely zoned out, staring blankly at the bathtub in front of you. Lowkey, you’re freaking out Akaashi.

Even more so when he sees your hand loosely cradling the pregnancy test—judging by your reaction, he knows what the result is. But he can’t think of anything to say, what is there even to say?

He’s not upset, no. Shocked? Obviously. Mad, not at all considering he’s just as much responsible. The “R” word is what triggers him.

Responsible, in the sense that in less than a year, the two of you were going to be parents. It swelled joy within him. While the two of still had yet to speak, Akaashi comes to your side, sliding down the wall to sit beside you before wrapping his arms around you.

“So, are you hoping for a boy or a girl?”

[keepingupwithpotters]

go ‘head ruin my makeup

Inspired by that photo. Yup, that one.

Thank you @frustratedpoetwrites for turning this chunk of words into a readable mess. Can also be found on ao3.

“— if you would just stop moving around—“

“Oh, this isn’t moving around Evans. This is a basic bloody reflex. Happens when someone pokes your eye repeatedly with a sharp object - can even be called survival instinct, really.”

Jamie can tell her audience is not appreciating these smartarse responses from the way she huffs while passing the eye pencil she holds from one hand to another. She’s even willing to bet that Lily is currently rolling her eyes in exasperation, but she finds it a little hard to care much for her annoyance at the moment. All her thoughts are focused on how nervous she is, how sweaty her palms are, and how much time she has left until her date. She realizes what a bad idea it was to even think about the date as her right leg starts jumping up and down again. Right… Better not open that can of worms and focus on the present then - which honestly starts to seem much worse for her nerves because Lily has decided to stop the shaking leg with a firm press of her hand.

A breath held. For one second, two maybe. Her leg stilling so abruptly... The hand has left her thigh. She really doesn’t know how long she can keep doing this.

“Did you forget the part where you asked for this Potter? I thought you wanted to look Muggle for tonight,” huffs Lily while she turns her back to the sitting witch beside her and rummages through the impromptu makeup counter in front of her, trying to choose her next product.

When she turns back she has an admittedly slightly less dangerous pointy stick in her hand but a much, much more wicked smile. “Well, this is how we do things – á la Muggle.”

Jamie can’t tell if she is terrified of or excited with the promises behind that smile, those two feelings that become so interchangeable whenever she’s around her.

“Okay, I need you to close your eyes,” instructs Lily while leaning into her face slowly, causing Jamie’s mind to short-circuit completely, rendering the dazed witch unable to follow the simple command.

She is still looking a little stunned and not even blinking - which is, you know, the opposite of what she ought to do - when Lily’s face clouds with worry as she feels the need to add, “so I can smudge the pencil? A little hard to do when your eyes are open without you screaming bloody murder about maiming and survival instincts.”

This, Jamie can understand and readily comply with – thinking that maybe not seeing the girl standing oh so close to her can help with some of her worries at the moment. Which are mainly concentrated on not making a fool out of herself, as they always are. She realizes how wrong she was, and what an idiot she had been to even think otherwise when Lily’s hand comes out of nowhere and holds her head in place.

Now, logically Jamie can understand that the said hand did not actually come from nowhere – she just had the misfortune of having her eyes closed and had no time to prepare herself for it. She also understands the necessity of holding her head in one place as she is prone to fidgeting around whenever Lily becomes too close. The problem is however, her warming cheeks, out of rhythm heart, and swooping stomach did not seem to get the same memo as her brain. 

The swooping stomach, she’s used to. It has become an almost permanent feeling whenever she’s around Evans. Considering they are roommates who have the same schedule, it was safe to say that this was a daily occurrence – which you’d think would give her some time to get used to it. But every time Lily laughed, smiled or yelled at her at questionably high volumes, it came back - strong as ever. So Jamie learned to live with her butterflies’ residence in her middle, their daily flutters not resented but expected.

Her heartbeat is a rhythm she is prone to pay attention to for many different reasons. It pounds in her ears under her invisibility cloak, with the adrenaline of almost getting caught after a good prank. It beats out of her chest, just before the starting of a Quidditch match, blocking her ears to the screams coming from the stands. And now it stops and it starts again whenever Lily decides to call her Jamie, whenever she leans in to her while they are sitting like this is just something they normally do.Whenever she recalls something that Jamie mentioned ages ago – never expecting her to pay attention, never expecting her to care. She doesn’t know how many missteps her heart can take, she can take. She supposes it can’t be healthy, to have a heart that loses its rhythm this much around one person, but she never was one to take the doctor’s orders was she?

The quickly rising temperature of her cheeks, she is trying to will into disappearing to no avail. At first she thinks it’s because her eyes are closed - she was just hyper aware of the soft and small hand on her face, barely covering her cheek. As she feels the warmth spreading from her cheeks to her neck as Lily strokes her face slightly –she’s stroking her face!- she realizes that it is actually a blush blossoming on the highs of her cheeks, wherever the pale skinned hand touches.

 Jamie wants to open her eyes desperately, needs to see Lily’s face. She needs to gauge what’s going through her mind because it is impossible to do so with your eyes closed, and she has to tell her that she is not just holding, but actually stroking her face, because Jamie really isn’t sure the redheaded girl realizes what she’s doing or how she is affecting the subject of her gentle touch. She also doesn’t know which option is worse – Lily doing this intentionally, knowing exactly how it makes Jamie dysfunction momentarily, or Lily just casually stroking her face without any thought, dare she even think because she wants to?

 Unfortunately Jamie is not able to solve any of these mysteries because she still can’t open her eyes so she decides to focus on a problem she can solve – her traitorous cheeks.

Blushing always used to be Evans’ thing. Her face waiting for any moment to betray her and display the many emotions she was feeling at that moment for the whole world to see. Jamie adored Lily when she was angry and her face matched the colour of her hair, adored her when she was embarrassed and her cheeks lit aflame with emotion, when one of Jamie’s many suggestive lines left her speechless with the apples of her cheeks burning bright. 

Lately though it has become Jamie who’s rendered speechless, who is staring at Evans’ back, dumbfounded with a blush forming on her cheeks. Jamie who can’t form coherent sentences and stammers over every word, where she used to be able to speak even if the recipient was not always fond of the sentiments. She doesn’t know what to think of this new update, just hopes that Lily is as observant about this as she used to be.

When Lily finally tells her to open her eyes, with one last lingering feather light touch, she is still at square one on her mission to get rid of her red cheeks. At least now she has the opportunity to observe Lily closely, looking for clues in her face about the presence of her ever persisting blush. It’s hard to do so as thoroughly as she desired because Lily removed her glasses at the beginning of this makeover, and she isn’t able to make out much of her facial expressions unless she comes real close to her – not that she is complaining, she thought it was a brilliant idea to help her control herself around the fluttering girl.

Squinting her eyes, she tries to look at Lily as distinctly as possible.She is very sure that Lily is in fact not aware of Jamie’s blush, because there is no bloody way that she would be able to hide the self-satisfied smirk she gets anytime Jamie blunders in front of her. The sort of smile that makes you feel like she is in on a joke that you are not part of, so you better catch up to her. And Jamie is trying so hard - to catch up, to be a part, to not blunder. Just as she relaxes in her chair she sees Lily slyly putting the unused pink blush back in the makeup bag, never to be mentioned again.

And she realizes, once again, that she is an idiot.

Lily decides to talk to her again as she is leaning against the table casually, her whole posture relaxed. “I was thinking something golden obviously, for your eye shadow”

Obviously?

Jamie is sure she is missing something entirely, a glaring fact that is probably right in front of her face. But she had already made a fool out of herself too many times to count, and she is not going to be the butt of the joke this time. And so she repeats back the sentiment confidently, 

“Obviously.”

Her desired duh effect seems not to convey to the other side, as the word out of her mouth sounds like a question more than anything and Lily is raising her eyebrows again.

“Are you fishing for compliments here Potter?”

“Ah, is it because gold complements my tan complexion perfectly?”

“Yes, like a drop of sunshine gliding across your face,” she says with a straight face. She only hesitates for a moment before adding, “To bring out the gold in your eyes.”

“My eyes aren’t golden,” Jamie retorts quickly before she can stop herself.

She is met with another eye roll, “I didn't say they are golden, did I? Just that they’ve gold flecks in ‘em.” She tilts her head to the side as she ponders over something before saying, “They come out when sunlight hits your eyes, or when you—“

This time she does stop herself abruptly, looking like she already said too much before finishing her sentence, “or firelight. Any light really, just stand under a big candle next time you want to impress someone.”

Jamie knows she was not going to end her sentence this way, and she knows Lily is aware of that. But right now she looks so bloody uncomfortable that Jamie can’t find it in herself to push for more answers, not when all she wants to do is make her relax again.

“Well, I am ready Evans. Go ahead, make me a pretty girl.”

This does seem to bring the smile back on her face. “Don’t act like this makeup shindig is not just me indulging myself,” she scoffs,” you’re already drop dead gorgeous.”

While putting on the eye shadow, Lily allows Jamie to keep her eyes open, on the condition that she only looks down.Which means her hands on her lap are the only things in her line of vision. She can see them start fidgeting clear as a day when she feels Lily’s warm breath on her temple.

The standing witch manages to tolerate it for three seconds before snapping. “I swear to Merlin if you don’t stop fumbling your bloody hands around I’ll sit on them, you know I will.”

 Jamie lets herself think about the possibility for one glorious moment before gripping the arms of her chair so hard her knuckles turn white. She can’t see Lily’s face but she can feel the smugness radiating off her. Whatever, she can have this round. She can win any round really, as far as Jamie is concerned.

“Look ahead for me now Potter, I need to see if both sides are equal”

She happily obeys, realizing she can now stare at Lily without getting noticed as she crouches down to her eye level in front of her.

Jamie uses this time wisely, drinking in the sight of her as she concentrates on the task - trying to keep the eye shadow the same level. She seems to find her work satisfactory enough, leaning back slightly to give her a once over.

“Did it work?” Jamie asks with excitement in her voice, finally free from the intoxication of having those green eyes so close to her face.

“Yeah, sure. You are officially a pretty girl.”

“Not that, Evans. And you said I was drop dead gorgeous, no take backs now” she counters quickly. “I meant the gold flecks, did they appear?”

She gets a contemplative look on her face that is disrupted by the warm smile on her lips, eyes lightening up with affection and something else that Jamie can’t place. “Yes, it worked. I am clearly a brilliant makeup artist.”

The smile is still on her face as she gets up from her position on the floor to walk back to where the rest of her makeup products lay. She quirks an eyebrow as she asks, “How do you feel about false eyelashes?”

“Uh, scared? Fear seems to be the general emotion, yeah.”

Lily sighs like it pains her so, “Fine, we’ll stick to mascara like a boring little wuss.”

She doesn’t even have the time to object to that slander before Lily is right back by her side again, asking her to keep her eyes open as she applies the mascara. She needs to slightly bend towards Jamie’s face while she does it, the height difference when one of them sits down makes it impossible not to.

The slight tilt of her posture causes the wide neck of her shirt to dip a little, just enough to give Jamie an eyeful of constellations across her chest – spreading down, down and down. She counts one, two, three freckles starting from her collarbones before she realizes with a start where they are headed, snapping her eyes up immediately as she stops connecting the little dots before her.

While she has the opportunity to see if her ogling was noticed by Lily, she is too embarrassed to do so – choosing to focus on a spot over her shoulder instead. When she gathers the courage to look at her face again, she is already gone from her side – seemingly done with her lashes for now.

But she doesn’t jump on the next product she plans to use immediately like she had been doing until now. She doesn’t even pick up a new brush with clear glee in her face. What she does appear to be doing is staring at Jamie’s face with a thoughtful look on her face, like she is trying to calculate what her next move should be.

Jamie quickly trıes to go through all the steps she knows about makeup in her mind, frantically trying to figure out if this is the end of their little moment. If it is, she knows that means it is time for her date and she also knows she is still not ready to think about that yet.

She tries to cling on to their time desperately, “Well, is that all then?”

“No,” Lily hums, “we still have to put on some lipstick of course.”

Of bloody course, Jamie had never been more relieved to hear those words as she did now.

“Trying to pick a colour for me, Evans? I’ve been told I look absolutely smashing with a pink lip you know?”

Lily lets a small smile interrupt her pensive face for a moment, “I’ve chosen a red lipstick so you can keep representing Gryffindor pride for the rest of the day.”

The unsaid question lies in the air - Jamie doesn’t open her mouth to ask what the hold-up is, but she has a feeling Lily is about to answer it anyway.

“There is just something I want to do before I have to worry about messing up your lipstick.”

And Lily Evans is kissing her… again. Jamie was a fool to think that nothing could top their first kiss she realizes, as she feels Lily’s soft lips on her own, tries to breathe her in, tries not to die. The warm feeling in her belly still has not passed since they went on their first date. Since they walked under the snow until their cheeks turned to poppies, since Lily decided that she actually couldn’t wait for Jamie to make the first move and kissed her. A soppy smile has not been far from her lips ever since that day, widening when she looks at snow, widening even more when she gazes at those green eyes.

When Lily came to her with all the excitement of the world in her face, asking if she could take her to Muggle London for their next date - how was Jamie going to say no, really?  Not when she prattled on giddily about after that how their next date could be in somewhere magical again, talking about taking turns planning dates – like Jamie hadn’t been planning them since 5th year, like it escaped her notice she basically confirmed at least four dates in their future in one breath.

The maddening effect of talking to Evans’ has left her body completely this afternoon, when it finally sunk in that she was going to Muggle London - a place she had never been before. The pressure on her poor nerves only rising when she turned to Sirius for some advice, wear corduroy trousers with no knickers Prongs, that’s what all Muggles in London do I swear.

So that’s how Lily finds her when she walks into their dorm – standing around a big pile of clothes, talking about how it is completely barbaric to not put on knickers.  Thankfully she catches on swiftly that Jamie is seconds away from spiralling into a panic and she comes up with the great idea to help her with her makeup – in the latest Muggle style, no less.

To no one’s surprise, her plan works swimmingly - Jamie, no longer thinking about corduroys or knickers, focused only on Lily as she usually is. And now her whole body relaxes once more, as she is still kissing her with all she’s got. She feels Lily’s hair slipping through her fingers like silk, counting her blessings while getting lost in all the soft sounds she makes.

She is still dizzy from something purely Lily when they stop kissing. They both take a moment to just breathe each other in before Lily steps away from her, a fact she only knows because her warmth is missing. She opens her eyes just in time to see Lily’s bashful but pleased smile – a smile she is getting used to now.

From all those moments her brain was low on oxygen – at least that’s what she wants to believe- the first words to come out of her mouth were, “Does that mean you won’t kiss me after you put my lipstick on?”

“Let me make that decision after I actually put it on, “Lily said while not taking her eyes off her, “We are already late as it is.”

Lipstick proves itself to be the hardest part for Jamie - Lily is both holding her face and leaning in to her, and this time Jamie’s eyes are free to roam her face as she pleases. She has a hard time breathing as she stares at the freckles on her nose, trying not to think about the others she saw not too long ago. Just as she is starting to think she is about to turn into a puddle under the intensity of Lily’s eyes on her lips, it’s over and Jamie can breathe again.

“And one last finishing touch,” Lily breathes as she goes to bring Jamie back her glasses, handing them over as fast as she can.

Jamie takes a moment to drink her in when her vision finally clears up, thinking if it’s possible for her to have gotten more beautiful somehow while she was partially blind. She keeps her eyes on Lily’s face to not miss any emotion this time, “Well Evans, what’s the verdict?”

The same wicked smile spreads through Lily’s lips, “Looks like I’ll be kissing you for a very long time, Potter.”

[writingsofmyimagination]

Instinct |5|

Attack on Titan Fanfic

Levi x Reader 

Summary: An unwelcome(ish) blast from the Captain’s trainee days comes back to the Scouting Regiment and old habits die hard.

Instinct: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 |

Words:2803

Warnings: Swearing (Obvs), Smut - Orgasm denial, knife/cum play (Oh yeah I went there!).......Sub Levi.....Like Oooof!

This took me wayyyyy to long to finish. So i’m sorry! Thank you to everyone who has messaged at one point or another asking if there will be more chapters.

This was going be the last chapter...but I decided that i loved it too much. There will be more but there will just be a time jump to a much more recent arc. So if you wanna be tagged let me know :)

Huge shout out to @submissive-bangtan who not only inspired me to do a Sub as f**k Levi but also helped me out with a few ideas (knives and cleaning of certain fluids :P) when my Smut brain died for a while.... Thank you, you’re amazing and I purple the hell out of you!!!

Permanent tags: @spideyboiiiiiii @pjimochi @nefelimalfoy​  

Sooo enjoy:

“Hhhhhmmmm Cold” Levi hissed as you removed the ice filled packet from his ballooned ankle.

“Obviously”

It was a rare sight seeing Levi actually laying in his bed, you just wished it was under better circumstances. You’d done as much first aid as you could for him, his ankle had been iced and was now elevated comfortably under a few pillows.

The mission had for most purposes failed. Levi’s squad was slaughtered as well as countless others from the unit. The female titan had surprised everyone with a hardening ability everyone had yet to even comprehend; allowing her to escape. The corps nearly lost Eren, it was only thanks to Levi and Mikasa you didn’t. Mikasa disobeyed direct orders resulting in the subsequent injury of Levi. Things were not looking good for humanity. Faith In the corps had gone to lower depths than you’d thought possible; Eren’s custody was to be transferred tomorrow to the Interior police. Erwin had one last final plan; the option of failure for this non-existant.

“Don’t move!” you ordered

“I’ll be back with some tea” Levi responded with nothing but a huff but even Levi dare not move under the gaze you shot him before heading downstairs.

“How’s he doing?” Hanje asked

“As grumpy as you can expect” you responded placing the water jug over the flames. Hanje smiled weakly, even behind the bright glare of her glasses you could see the dim and tired dying out glow.

“I know everything looks bleak but even when we discover the smallest amount of knowledge about the titans it will help” she offered

“I know, just wish the squad would feel your optimism, but this plan has got to work tomorrow otherwise we’re fucked even you can’t deny that surely?”

“I try not to dwell on any other outcome than our victory tomorrow.”

//

“I thought I told you not to move?” Frowning at Levi who’d sat himself up, legs dangling over the bed. As petite as he was the tone on hi body was near ridiculous as was his physical strength. The underwear only teasing his thighs.

“You did, I’ve ignored you. It’s not bad, I heal fast” You placed the tea next to his bed, sighing with a shake of your head.

“This is why I … At least let me strap it first” You grabbed a bandage from the draw and plonked yourself next to him and shoved him on his back and cradled his leg over your thighs and began wrapping.

“I wish you’d just listen to me, just once” you confessed defeated as you got up sliding your shoes off near the door subsequently locking it. He did used to listen but only when he submitted in the bedroom, never in the field.

“I’m going to keep you off your feet for a little longer” You offered with finality to a Levi who already had his legs dangling over the bed ready to get up again. You hindered him from getting up any further pushing him back as he went to stand. He conceded, bratty pout slapped on his lips; he pulled himself up to resting his head against the pillow. Your legs clamped either side of his waist resting on the back of your calves trapping him where he lay. Even injured he was strong enough to put up a fight but he didn’t.

Wise choice! Plan successful!l

“Yeah?” he questioned, his lips curving up at either end wickedly; his hands rested and gripped at your behind. You naturally arched into him.

“Mmmhmm” your hands found solace brushing up his undercut from the side and tangling in his hair.

“I was thinking we could play a game, like we used to or have you forgotten how much you like it when I’m in charge?” you traced a finger from his neck in a delicate soft move to under his chin. He chased your finger meekly into a kiss, soft at first. His grip on your behind grew tighter. His lips rougher, dancing with yours. His eyes flashing back to the echo of training days, two cadets sneaking out to the training posts.

With enough motivation to stay where he lay you slid of the bed and scooped up his harness that was hung pristine and delicate on the back of the door.

“Take everything off and put this on, I’ll be back in a minute” The leather was removed from your hand with instant obedience.

You took ten minutes to return, you only needed three. The other seven were purely for his imagination to stew.

On your arrival back he’d done as you asked.

“Good Boy” His eyes bloomed. Those words. Coming from anyone else would easily have earned a broken jaw, but from you; they riled something at his very core. He would sin to the heavens for you just to hear those words roll off your tongue. The leather, ribboning round his skin. Beautiful as it tried to contain the muscle underneath.

You grabbed the chair, wrist swinging it in front you. Your head nodded to the chair

Sit!

He sat.

“Did you think I’d forget how my Levi likes to be treated?” Your fingers clasping together at the base of his neck, your chest almost to his, your hips angling into his groin; his palms already applying pressure at your hips.

“Did you think I’d forget every last dirty thing I can get you to do to me?” your words slipped into a whisper at his ear as smoothly as your lips enveloped his ear lobe. Adams apple bobbing a deep groan in his throat as your teeth pinched the skin and your hips rolled into him hard.

“You sound so beautiful when you moan for me” praise tickling awakes the triggers at the back of his mind. He was weak for it, but what really drove him when you were in charge was the need to please you; to drag every breath, moan and obscenity from your lips. When you demanded it of course. When he was yours, the ability and familiarity of following orders to a fault remained in tune with his Corps life.

“Wanna play?”

“Yes” You tugged at his hair.

“Yes, M’aa…m” You ground your hips against him again for a final time as he grew hard beneath you.

“I’ve just got to grab something from downstairs”

“Again?” he whined.

//

His hands were locked in yours, pinned above of his head. His wrists looking so pretty with rope weaved around them. He was unable to see the way your mouth had curled into a smile, laced with satisfaction. Thee make shift blindfold seeing to that. He’ll have a reason to smile every time that cravat is round his neck from now on. His eyes had blown out so beautifully when he saw what you’d brought from downstairs. His thighs were tinted red, small red squares. The way he hissed through his teeth as the riding crop struck. Your core hovered, aching for the pressure of his thigh centimetres below.

“If I don’t cum from your words while I’m riding your pretty thighs you’re going to say blind and tied and I’m going to ruin every orgasm that I allow”

“If you do” he countered.

“If I do… you’ll be able to see and touch me and when I’m finished with you I’ll let you make me cum once however YOU want. Does that sound good to you?”

You lowered onto his toned muscle. His agreeance of his reward was tainted by a sigh that melted into your ears like honey when your hips circled; spreading how much he affected you.

“I’ve hardly even started and yet feel how filthy your thigh is already, coated with me”

His body fidgeted; Adams apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. The thought of getting dirty with you was too good. He wanted to feel your cum coat his thighs as you unwound above him and he wanted to SEE it.

“I’m waiting” You prompted. You wanted his words mixing with your hip movements. He’s was never much of a talker, so all them years ago you started doing these ‘games’ to get him to articulate what he enjoyed the most; and he was ridiculously good!

//

“I bet you wish it was my tongue in between your legs instead of my thigh don’t you?” Your fingers curled into his skin just above his chest, pressing more weight through your hands.

“Why don’t you tell me why…I should” you prompted through supressed moans as he tensed his quads beneath you. His hair falling off of his forehead as he rolled his head to the side, veins twitching frustrated in his neck.

“You love when my tongue glides through you, the way my teeth leave pretty little bruises on the inside of your thighs”

“Mmmm” you hummed in bliss rocking your hips.

“The long flicks of my tongue, the way you quiver and your leg tighten around my head”

Your hips circled in long drawn out ones, rushing to that high quicker than you thought you would.

“Your clit in my mouth, the way you arch your back when my fingers disappear into you. I love it when your fingers scratch down my back, marking me whispering how good you take my cock into your ear”

Your hips jolted along his tensed muscle, nails dragging down his chest

“Fuck” you hissed leg muscles dancing, clenching his thigh. A victorious smirk plastered across his face.

“Didn’t take you long were you that desperate?” You gripped his jaw harshly bringing his face to the centre, his lip partially pouting.

“Watch your mouth” you shoved his head to the side. He huffed, the regretful moan that followed when your hands clamped down around his weeping cock.

“You’re now going to suffer a bit longer for that cockiness” Your hands weaved through the harness tugging gently.

“But I’ll do as I said after”

//

“How’s that” you preened talking over the deep groan rolling around his throat as you lowered yourself down on him.

“Mmm tight…soo good” he whined. He had the audacity to roll his hips into you without permission.

“I don’t think so…” you half choked keeping your moan from him.

“You’re NOT going to move and you’re NOT going to cum are you?”

“No ma’am” Muscles twitched in his arm as the frustration was tugged onto the rope cocooning his wrists. You weren’t going to make it easy for him. The rhythms of your hips were something Levi confessed in being weak for; especially when he couldn’t control them. You could never get over how sexy it was when Levi’s bottom lip disappeared under his teeth, groans filtering through.

“…..”

You stifled yourself as you lent backwards grabbing your next play thing. His cock now pressed firm against the velvet patch inside you. Your fingers traced over some light lines on his chest, a subtle hint and memory triggering gesture.

Red trickled over tense pectorals, the stain spreading through the white linen. Hisses passed through pursed lips. Your hips circling torturous and slow clenching around him; his hips jutted up minutely as the glinting silver blade caressed over his skin. His head rolled back into the sheets; drunk on the sensation, goosebumps igniting a pathway where the red trickled down.

“Did you think I’d forget how much you love it when I make you bleed?”

“God I can feel your cock twitching; you love it when I mark you don’t you”

“Mmmhhmmm” he hummed, redirecting every ounce of energy he had to not fuck up into you. His cheeks secured in your hand fast.

“Excuse me?” you cued.

“Yes, fuck!” He whined.

“Does that sound like you want more?” You gave him a moment to retrieve a breath which you only stole clenching around him.

The knife edge balancing elegant over his collarbone. Obedient metallic soldier waiting for its command.

“More” he pleaded.

“Manners” Your hips had stilled waiting for the magic word. You detected slight exasperation amongst the breath of his whine of the sudden stopped motion.

“Please, god please don’t stop moving, you feel so good. Please mark me as yours, please”

“Much better” you praised, your hips resumed their light circles; your breath hitching when he reached the velvet goldmine at the front of you. Eliciting hisses from his lips, clenching and drawing neat lines soon to be littered with little pin pricks of red.

“So pretty” you cooed, hands ghosting down the centre of his chest; his muscles tensing at the contact.

The rope fell away from his skin, pretty rose pink lines now glazed on his wrists. His eyes flitting adjusting to the light finally landing between your thighs and his. Cum and arousal glistening off them. His arms had dropped above him resting on the squishy cotton of the pillow. His pupils fully blown out saturated with desperation.

“Can I move now?”

“Mmm yes, but you still can’t cum until I say” He didn’t need permission twice. He sat up, his freed hand supporting you at your lower back. Your own hands tightening together at the back of his neck; fingers gliding past the soft prickles of his undercut. The moment your back touched the mattress his head dived to the crevice of your neck allowing him to nudge your head to the side. Hot thirsty kisses decorating your neck, kisses becoming heavier across your clavicle. Fading red petals drifting away quickly. The kisses across your scarred side were longer, almost more sincere and compassionate. The warm comfort of oxytocin you brushed away pushing his head further down to where was really aching and pressing on your priority list. Humanities strongest weak for the treasure between your legs offered no resistance.

//

“Fuck…Stop!” you cried yanking his head up from your core, his chin glistening, cheeks tainted light pink from the heat.

“Just fuck me now” you whined. Moist plump lips made their way up your body. Your devilish eyes holding onto his with a vengeance.

Heavy breathed expletives diffused into the air. Levi’s low grunts getting deeper rapidly. His head already buried heating up your neck with nips and bites. Blossoming pink half crescents indenting on his back.

“You feel so fucking good” you managed in unison with the harsh juts of his hips.

“Fuck… I can’t” he struggled.

“After 3 and you can cum, you’ve been such a good boy” you purred. You were trying your hardest to control your muscles, hindering them from releasing the intoxicating waves.

“3”

“2”

“Ugh I can’t” he whined again. The desperation emitting through his struggling pants shoved you straight into a convulsing mess. He broke. Pulling out unable to hold just one more second. Spilling out over your stomach.

“That desperate you couldn’t even hold on one more second; and now you’ve made a mess” you were chasing your breathes, body basking in the aftershocks.

Exhausted pants fanned across your neck, low groans soaked in his throat.

“Mmm, I’m sorry” He whimpered. You dragged him into a suffocating kiss, his knee pressing against your soaked core causing sweet shudders.

“Seeing as you couldn’t control yourself you can clean your mess up” He nodded accepting his task, shifting upwards to leave the bed.

Oh no!

“With your tongue” you added holding his arm.

He made sure to scatter your breasts with wet prolonged kisses. The attention firing through your nerves like a flame spreading through gasoline. He smirked as his lips engrossed around your nipple which was already stood pining attention. His body shuffled down; eyes face to face with his mess. Your eyes never faltered, fixed on the all too intoxicating view of his tongue brushing against your skin, lapping up his own cum. A starving kitten getting all the cream.

“If only everyone else knew just how filthy you really are. The clean freak stops at the bedroom door” you shuffled under his mouth, already feeling that fuzzy feeling in between your legs pooling round your bundle of nerves.

“Nobody would believe you baby” he cooed in response creeping back up to nudge into the crevice of your neck; you could only hum in response.

“Enough now, let me go and get a towel and some water so I can clean you up” you offered glancing at the red smeared over his chest.

“Not yet”

“No?”

“If I know you and you know I do; you watching me clean up my own cum would have easily made you want to fuck again…so… I’d rather do that” Fingertips trickled down your body, dipping between your legs.

“Mmm see…your just as much of a slut as I am. Annnddd you said I could have you once exactly how I wanted”

“Well you know I’m a woman of my word”

[love-and-monsters]

Estran the Demigod

Meet the demigod Estran, servant to the god of death. You and him have a mysterious cure to search out, which will hopefully save the suffering countryside. 

Male Demigod X Gender Neutral Reader, 6043 words.

The Temple of Mortebal was made of heavy, gray stone that lent a permanent chill to the place. Even the warm summer air seemed to drop a few degrees once you entered the sloping entrance.

Only a precious few sections of the temple were aboveground, namely the library and viewing chambers. Between them in the hall stood an enormous stone statue of Mortebal himself.

The god of lost things stood tall and imposing on his pedestal. Twin horns curled back from his temples and a long tail, tipped with a stinger like a scorpion’s, curled around his legs. His legs were digitigrade and so thin they were nearly skeletal. His expression was inscrutable, looking stern, but not angry or unfriendly. You stared up at the statue for a moment before turning to the right and making your way into the library.

If you had been interested in general records, your time would have been better spent at Koranda’s temple, goddess of knowledge. But Mortebal was the god of loss, and that sphere included those lost to death. Which meant that their library contained every obituary and record of death ever written.

Because of that, it wasn’t the typical library with shelves and shelves of books, but walls and walls of drawers. A map was set up toward the front the room, displaying the organizational system of the caverns.

They were organized by date of death, and alphabetically by name under that. Unfortunately, you didn’t know the name of your target, nor anything more specific than the way he died, how old he had been, and the year he had died in.

There had been a plague the year he had died. There were more shelves for the year of 1256 than there were for the next three years combined.

This was going to take a long time.

You started with the first few months, carefully examining each drawer before placing them back. The plague victims made up a vast majority of the deaths. You glanced over their records with a little interest, but after a bit, it all started to sound the same.

The sound of footsteps made you look up. A young man had entered the room, slipping between the shelves with a practiced ease.

You glanced at the copious amounts of papers in front of you, then back up at him. If he worked regularly in the library, he might have more information than you did.

“Excuse me!” you called out to him as he passed by. The high, stone ceiling caught your voice and sent it echoing much louder than you’d intended it to be. You flinched. The man didn’t even pause. He vanished around a corner.

Uh. Weird. Maybe he hadn’t realized you were talking to him? You got up and followed him down the winding rows of shelves until he paused at one and started filing papers away into drawers.

You approached him. “Hello?” He didn’t move. “Hey! What are you-”

You’d gotten close enough to be visible in his peripheral vision, and as soon as you were, he whirled around, eyes wide. He was very obviously a servant of Mortebal- his skin was gray and he had large horns emerging from his temples. A long, stinger-tipped tail twitched and weaved around his legs. His eyes glittered, golden and slit-pupiled. His robes were the standard pale wine color, and his hair was long and loose, dangling in dark curtains around his face.

“My apologies,” he said. His voice had a strange affect. It was flat and the words sounded odd, like he had difficulty making the sounds correctly. “Do you need assistance?”

“I was calling you,” you said. “Didn’t you hear me?”

He gave a rueful smile and shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t hear very well,” he said, gesturing to his pointed ears. “Unless you were to yell into my left ear, I couldn’t understand a word you’re saying. I can read lips, though, so I can still assist you with whatever you need, provided you make sure I’m looking at you first.”

You hesitated, then lifted your hands. “You know the signing language?” you signed.

His eyebrows went up. “You know it?” he signed back. “I’m afraid my signing’s rusty- not many around here know it. But it’s a little easier for me to understand than lips.”

“I’m training to be a doctor. I thought it would be good to know.”

“A doctor?” He looked you over. “But you’re not-”

“Not a servant of Elra, no.” With their multiple arms and faintly glowing skin, servants of Elra were quite distinctive. “I’m more of an independent doctor.”

He nodded. “I see. And what is a doctor doing in the house of Mortebal?”

“It’s not my practice that brings me here. It’s a personal visit.” He tilted his head curiously. “I am looking for information about someone who died in the plague nineteen years ago.”

A tense expression crossed the man’s face, though it was gone in a moment. “We have extensive records from that time. What are you looking for?”

“Someone who died in the time of the plague. Supposedly someone who died from the plague, but I want a second look at their death results.”

“For what reason?”

You hesitated. “The way they died… I believe there might be a reason for it other than the plague.”

“Someone may have killed them?” he questioned. “If he died in the time of the plague, we may not have anything terribly useful. We weren’t exactly doing autopsies back then.”

You sighed. “Still. I’d like to get a look at his records. Maybe I’ll see something that someone else missed. I just need to find him first.”

“I’m afraid that your specifications don’t narrow it down much. A lot of people died that year and most of them did die from the plague.  Do you have anything that might narrow it down more than that?”

“He would have been forty-seven when he died?” you offered. The man smiled.

“That does narrow it down a little bit. Come with me.”

You followed him through the shelves to another row of filing cabinets. He counted a few out, then ducked and pulled the drawer out from one of the bottom shelves.

“Part of the filing system lists how old people were when they died,” he said. “People keep trying to put it back in alphabetical order, but Clairmont keeps insisting it’s useful. I suppose, in this case, it is. Forty-seven, you said?”

You nodded and he shifted through the little cards before removing several and holding them out. “These are the ones that were the correct age at the correct time.”

You looked at each one in turn. Forty of them were women, which took them out of the running immediately. The other forty-one were men and you were able to rule a few out because you had already looked at their files and cleared them. “It’s a start,” you said, then realized you hadn’t been looking at him. “Thank you,” you signed. “This helps.”

“If you’d like, I could stay and help you look,” he offered. “I’ve become quite handy with these files.”

You looked at him hesitantly. “I suppose. Just keep an eye out for someone whose obituary mentions them being a doctor, all right?”

He nodded. You returned to your table and pulled the thirty-seven remaining files off the shelves. Together, you began to sort through the files.

Thirty minutes later, he tapped you on the shoulder. “I found something mentioning a doctor.”

You leaned over and he pushed the file toward you. Your shoulders pressed together as you read it. “I fail to see anything unusual about it,” he said. “I looked it over. He died from the plague. High fever, followed by vomiting and dehydration.”

“There is something unusual about it,” you said. “Look, here. It says in his obituary that he fought the plague for three weeks before he died. Most people barely last a fortnight. Something’s-” You caught sight of his blank expression and realized you’d neither been signing, nor facing him. “Oh, sorry.” You quickly signed out your thoughts. “The plague killed people after two weeks, max. And that was with medical intervention. This says he lived for three weeks after he started showing symptoms.”

“He was a doctor. Couldn’t he have treated himself?”

“Yeah. He did. That’s why he lived for the extra week. But it would have been experimental. And I’m guessing that’s what killed him.”

“Is that important?” he asked. “The plague is gone.”

You hesitated, drawing your fingers along the paper. “The plague isn’t here, but it never really went away. It just faded. Became less common. It’s still out there, in the farmlands. And it’s getting worse.”

There was a distinct scrunching noise. You looked down to see the obituary slowly being crushed under his fist. “It’s back?”

“Like I said, it never really left. It just died down.” You looked at his stricken face. “Are you okay?”

He pushed the paper away and turned toward you fully to sign. “I had the plague when it came the first time. It’s how I lost my hearing- the high fever damaged them.” His hands shook enough that he had to stop signing and continue verbally. “My parents thought it was a sign from Mortebar. They left me here. I don’t know what happened to them after that. Maybe the plague killed them. Maybe they just decided not to come back.”

You weren’t quite sure what to say to that. Emotional situations weren’t your forte. “I’m sorry,” was what you finally decided on. He didn’t respond, and you realized that his eyes were so misty with tears that he couldn’t see your mouth. Tentatively, you reached out and patted his back.

“Sorry,” he signed. He made an attempt to smooth out the paper he’d ruined. “How long?”

“Until the plague returns?” you asked, returning to signing. He wiped his eyes off so he could see. “At its current rate of travel, we have about a month before it makes it here. It’s traveling from the countryside in, but if I were looking to run from it, then I wouldn’t go to the cities. When the plague hits there, it’s going to hit really bad. Your best chance of escaping is going to somewhere secluded, away from other people.”

“But you think there might be a cure?” he continued hurriedly.

“Maybe. An experimental one. Unrefined. The guy here might have had one. I imagine that the dosage was off. It killed off the disease, but damaged him enough that he didn’t live through it. But I figure if I figure out what plant it was and get it to servants of Elra and Koranda, maybe they can refine it enough to get a proper cure.” You frowned at the obituary. “There aren’t any other records of his death? Like what caused it?”

“If it was during the plague and he had the lesions, he would have been counted as a plague victim. No need to look further into it.”

“Damn. That might have given a clue to what he used to cure it.” You stood up. “I have to go to his house.”

“How do you know where he lives?”

“It mentions in the obituary that he lived in the northern branch of the woods, probably because a lot of herbs grow there. It shouldn’t take too long to search it. His place should be pretty undisturbed. No one ever liked those woods and we’re not exactly filled to the brim around here.” You picked up the obituary. “Can I keep this? It’s got some photos I want to reference.”

He nodded, standing. “Could I come with you?”

You paused, looking at him in surprise. “Why do you want to come?”

“I could be useful,” he said. “I have a decent knowledge of herbs with deadly effects, so I might be able to identify some of them. And I know lethal doses. Plus, I can see in the dark.” He hesitated. “And if the plague is coming back, then I don’t want to sit here and do nothing.”

You hesitated. “Your bosses here are going to be okay with you skipping out for a few days?”

“I’m certain that going on a charity mission would be approved,” he said.

“Two heads are better than one,” you mused. “All right. We’ll leave tomorrow. Pack some supplies. We might need to camp. Meet me at the Hevershas temple.”

He grabbed your shoulder as you turned to leave. “Wait,” he signed as you turned back to him. “I don’t know your name.”

“Oh.” You told him your name. “And yours?”

“Estran,” he said.

“Great. I’ll meet you at nine tomorrow morning.” You turned and hurried out of the temple.

The Hevershas temple belonged to the god of travelers and journeys, which meant it wasn’t difficult to collect supplies for the journey ahead. The temple was well-stocked with trail rations and camping supplies. You figured that a bedroll and tent cover would be useful, since you weren’t sure how long you were going to be out there. Hopefully the man’s house wouldn’t be too hard to find, but you couldn’t be sure.

Estran met you outside at exactly nine. You were bent in front of the statue of Hevershas, quietly murmuring the traditional prayer of guidance. Estran was wearing traveling robes in shades of dull brown. His hair was tied up and he was carrying a heavy-looking bag over one shoulder.

He dipped his head respectfully to the statue of Hevershas before turning his attention to you. “Are we leaving now?”

You nodded, clambering to your feet. “Come on. Let’s not waste any time.”

The edge of the forest wasn’t terribly far from the temple. Once you reached the edge, you pulled out the map you’d obtained. “It’s probably further back in the woods. I’m assuming it’s a little ways beyond this creek, so we’ll head back toward it and use it as a marker to track our process.” Estran nodded attentively. “All right. Let’s get going.”

There was no trail in the woods, which meant marching over thick outgrowths of plants. Estran ended up holding onto your shoulder to stay with you as you kicked aside creeping vines and dead branches.

Talking was sort of difficult while you were making your way through the forest. You had to watch where you were going, and considering that Estran needed to look at people to understand them, that made signing hard. But there wasn’t much else that you could do, so eventually, you started asking questions.

“What’s it like, working at the temple?” you asked. You had to be careful to hold your hands out so he could see them, since he was trailing slightly behind you.

“It’s fine, I suppose. I don’t know much different. I can’t remember anything before the temple, to be honest. My job is mostly to organize the obituaries and death records and to help set up funerals. I considered training for the autopsies, but, um…”

“You’re squeamish?” you guessed with a wry grin.

“I suppose you’re not, as a doctor. But…” He paused. “They handed me a liver and I almost threw up.”

You were very glad he couldn’t hear, because it made it more likely he didn’t notice your snorting laughter. “Livers are kind of gross. But other than that, you like being at the temple?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know. I never had much of a choice about it. I was given to the temple as a very young child, raised by the acolytes. It’s been pleasant, but it was never my choice to serve Mortebar.”

“Sorry,” you said, unsure of what else was appropriate to say.

“It’s all right. There’s nothing I can do about it now.” He stretched his gray fingers out in front of him. “I can hardly serve anyone else now.”

“Who do you think you would serve if you had the choice?”

“I don’t know if I’d serve in the temple,” he said. “Maybe I’d favor Elra? I wouldn’t want to serve her, though. I don’t know if I want four arms. The tail was traumatic enough, thank you very much.”

You glanced back at him, focusing on the tail that was swinging in the foliage. “The tail… hurt?”

“Oh yes,” he said, completely matter-of-fact. “It’s growing an entirely new appendage. All that bone and nerves… yes, it hurts. The horns aren’t fun either, but once the tip comes out, it all sort of goes numb. The tail is about five days of just waiting for the pain to stop. And then it’s a lot of learning how to deal with it.” He flexed his tail. “You can tell someone whose just gained their tail because it drags on the ground and they don’t move it much.”

“Hm.” You eyed his tail again, then started forward through the foliage again.

The deeper you got into the woods, the thicker the foliage got. Your tight traveling clothes were fine, but Estran’s long, tailing robe kept getting caught on the thorns and his tail wasn’t faring much better. Every few minutes, he would let out another yelp or stumble awkwardly. “Dear gods,” you mumbled as he got snagged in a thorn bush again. You stopped and marched back over to him, tugging his robe free.

“Why don’t you just take it off?” you asked when you’d managed to free him.

Watching someone with gray skin blush was interesting. He didn’t turn pink, but instead a sort of dusty, desaturated red color. “That’s… we’re not supposed to…” His hands flurried through a series of motions before stilling again. The dusty red was spreading up his ears and down his neck. “It’s considered bad form to remove our robes in front of those who don’t serve Mortebar.”

“Cool. I don’t care and no one else is here. You’re slowing us down with the robe.” The red didn’t seem to be dissipating. “It’s not as if you’re getting nude in front of me. You have your underrobes.”

“All right,” he said. “Fine.” He tugged the robe gently from his shoulders and folded it in his arms. Underneath it, he was wearing a simple shirt and pants. It wasn’t exactly immodest, but he seemed thoroughly unable to look at you. Whatever. If he didn’t want you to look at him, you wouldn’t.

That generally stopped you from talking to each other as you trekked through the woods. Every now and then, he would grab onto the back of your shirt, using you as an anchor so he could keep moving.

You came across the creek and stopped. “Left or right?” you asked Estran.

He peered at the map. “The path to the right is longer. There might be a better chance to find something along it.”

You folded the map and slid it back into your bag. “You don’t need a break?”

He shook his head. “I’ll be all right for a little longer.” He didn’t even seem to be breathing particularly hard, so you started walking again.

Keeping close to the creek made the walking both a little easier and a little more difficult. There was less leaf litter and fewer plants growing along the edge of the creek, but the ground was also mucky and you found yourself struggling to stomp through it.

You stayed along the creek for a while, keeping an eye out for any signs of a house. It was likely close to the creek, since it would have been off the grid and the man would have needed a close-by source of water. But after hours of searching, there was no sign of it.

“I haven’t seen anything,” you said. “You?”

“No.” He sagged back against a tree.

“Well, we’re running out of creek.” The water had slowed to something more like a trickle. “We might want to start heading back the other way.”

Estran let out a sigh. “All right. Just give me a minute.” He bent over, breathing heavily.

You paced around, waiting for him to catch his breath.

There was a heavy crunching, snapping noise, like something large moving through the undergrowth. You froze. “Did you hear that?” you whispered.

There was no response. Fuck, right, he couldn’t hear you or whatever was heading toward you. You scrambled back to Estran, grabbing his arm. He started in surprise. “What is it?”

“We should go,” you signed hurriedly. “Now-”

You’d barely finished signing the word before the thing that was making the noise emerged. An enormous cougar-bear emerged from the bushes.

Ice filled your chest. With enormous teeth, crushing jaws, and huge, curled claws, cougar-bears were dangerous at the best of times. And this one was oddly thin in a way that suggested extreme hunger. They preferred larger herbivores, but a hungry one wouldn’t pass up humans.

You dragged Estran behind you and braced yourself in front of him. The cougar-bear turned its head toward you, golden eyes glittering. Its lips pulled back just enough to show yellowed fangs that were a solid inch and a half long.

Estran clung to your shoulder, ducking like he was trying to fully conceal himself behind you. “What do we do?” he whispered.

He couldn’t read your lips from behind you and you couldn’t sign for him if he couldn’t see your hands. Instead, you shoved your shoulders against him, hoping he would get the hint to run.

He did not. Instead, he clung harder to your shoulder. You steadied yourself. If the thing charged, you’d only have one shot to get him out of the way. Gingerly, you pried his fingers loose. The cougar-bear eyed you warily, but you could see its hunger. It was going to attack. It was just a matter of when.

The cougar-bear made a cautious feinted strike and you took the opportunity to shove Estran bodily away from you. He stumbled back, eyes wide. You took a second to sign, “Run!” at him before turning back to the snarling cougar-bear.

“No!” The cougar-bear lunged, jaws snapping. You braced yourself, though you knew it was useless. It was much heavier than you.

And then Estran dove past you, knocking you awkwardly to one side. He cast out his robe like a matador and managed to catch the cougar-bear’s mouth. With a quick motion of his wrists, he tangled the fabric in the beast’s jaws, forcing its mouth shut. And then, lightning fast, his tail whipped forward and the stinging end pierced the cougar-bear’s shoulder.

Again and again, his tail whipped, stinging again and again. The cougar-bear howled in pain and rage and finally managed to wrench the robe from Estran’s hands. He didn’t hesitate. He seized your shirt, yanked you off the ground and bolted.

It took you a moment to catch up with him, but as soon as you got your legs underneath you, you were running too. In a haze of adrenaline, Estran and you charged through the undergrowth, stumbling over the uneven ground.

As the adrenaline faded, you started flagging. Marathon running had never been your strong suit and there was something wrong with your ankle. You hadn’t noticed it in the excitement, but now stepping on your left foot sent a shock of pain through you.

With a wheeze, you sank to the ground. Estran stopped next to you. “Are you all right?”

“Something wrong with my ankle,” you signed to him. “Think it’s twisted.”

“We should stop,” he said. “Take a rest for a while. It’s already late afternoon.”

He was right, and you had made decent progress. Blind running had taken you nearly back to the place where you’d first encountered the creek. “That thing won’t come after us again?”

“It shouldn’t. I stung it a fair few times.” He smiled weakly. “It shouldn’t have killed it, but my venom will probably paralyze it for a bit.”

“Right.” Servants of Mortebar were venomous. Good to know. “Then we can probably set up camp here for the night.” You heaved yourself to your feet.

Estran looked worried. “Should you be walking around with your leg like that?”

“Do you know how to set up the cover?” you asked. Estran shook his head. “Then I don’t have a choice.”

He winced as you stood up, dragging your ankle awkwardly behind you. It was a struggle to not put weight on it, but every time you forgot, the shooting pain was a good deterrent. Estran helped as best he could, but he was inexperienced and some of his clumsy movements made more work for you.

Eventually, you managed to get the cover set up. You offered some of your trail rations to Estran, who took them gladly. They were designed more for durability and balanced nutrition than any sort of tastiness, but Estran didn’t complain.

You examined your ankle once you finished eating, when the worst of the pain had died away. It throbbed dully. Walking on it had only aggravated the wound. It was a struggle to get your boot off. Your ankle had swollen, pressing against the confines and it almost felt like you were yanking the bone when you managed to tug the leather off. The sock was stretchy and easier to remove. Underneath it, the flesh was purpled with bruises.

Estran approached almost silently, crouching next to you. “That looks bad,” he signed.

“I know,” you returned. “I should probably splint it.”

“Could I help?” Estran asked.

You looked at him cautiously. “You know how to set an ankle?”

“I haven’t done it before, but I know in theory. I assisted with some of the preparations of dead bodies for funerals in the temple. Sometimes we had to reset bones. I’ve studied skeletal structures.”

At the very least, his hands wouldn’t be shaking as much as yours when he set it. You nodded. “Fine. Go get my bag and bring it over here.” He did so. “In the front pocket, there’s a first-aid kit. Take out the bandages.” Estran pulled out the white roll of bandages. “Now you need something to brace it against. Get a sturdy stick or something.”

He glanced at your bag. “From where?”

“Pick it off the ground or something. Just make sure it’s sturdy and don’t go too far away.”

Estran looked around the forest for a few moments before selecting an appropriately-sized stick and returning to you. His fingers were light as they probed your ankle, but it was painful nontheless. “You know how to set it?” you asked.

He nodded, taking his hand away. “I know. It’s going to hurt, though.”

“I’m aware. Just set it.” You leaned back, bracing yourself.

His hands were light, barely brushing your skin as he set everything into place. With all his attention focused on your ankle, it was hard to speak to him. You closed your eyes and braced yourself.

He shifted your ankle into place, lining the bones up. The stick pressed against your skin as he gathered the bandages.

And then he pulled, hard. Your ankle snapped into place with a screaming pain. You didn’t quite scream, but you made a strangled noise in your throat. Estran tightened the bandages and carefully tied them off.

Once he was no longer holding the bandages, the pain eased somewhat, but it was still bad enough to make your eyes water and your head spin. You groaned low in your throat. “Is it all right?” Estran asked.

“Think so,” you said. You moved to your feet. Putting weight on your ankle still hurt, but it wasn’t much worse than the ambient agony. “I think I’m done for today. I’m going to turn in. Might help to get an early start tomorrow anyway.”

You moved to the covered area and pulled your bedroll out. As you started to spread it out, you noticed Estran spreading out a thin blanket for himself.

“You don’t have a bedroll?” you asked.

“Never needed one,” he said. “Servants of Mortebar rarely travel.”

It would probably be cold overnight. You looked down at your own bedroll. It was a little large for you. Certainly, it could fit two people. And that blanket looked thin and uncomfortable.

“Share my bedroll,” you said. “It’ll be more comfortable.”

He blinked, surprise crossing his face. “Are you sure? Your ankle-”

“Is fine. And it’ll be cold tonight and you won’t be in much shape for traveling if you don’t sleep. And you’re our best defense against any animals at this point, so it’s better if you’re well-rested.”

Estran crept over to you. Looking extremely awkward, he slid into the bedroll next to you. He was a little cooler to the touch than you’d realized. Up close, you could see how silky his hair was and how bright and golden his eyes were. His horns were beautiful, smooth and bone-white, with little black markings running along them. The tips of them had little holes, like they’d been pierced.

He settled onto his stomach, which was the only position he could sleep in without his horns getting in the way. “Good night,” he signed, then he rested his hands under his head and closed his eyes.

There were still a few vestiges of sunlight trailing through the trees. His long lashes cast shadows over his face and his cheekbones were emphasized by the low light.

It took you a few minutes to realize that you were staring. Your face warmed and you rolled so you were facing away from him.

You woke several times throughout the night, which wasn’t uncommon when you were sleeping outside. The third time you woke up, you realized that there was someone holding you.

Craning your head, you realized that Estran was clinging to you. He’d snuggled up next to you in his sleep and his face was pressed against your shoulder. You could feel his tail draped loosely over your legs. One of his arms was resting on your side.

This was not going to be mentioned again, you decided. You weren’t going to push him off, because it might wake him up, but you were never going to tell him he did this.

The hand at your waist shifted slightly and he curled closer to you. Your face started to warm again. It was… oddly cute. When was the last time you’d actually had contact with another person just casually? It had been a long time, hadn’t it?

Okay, fine. This was nice. But you weren’t going to get used to it.

You dozed off again and, when you woke up, Estran was no longer hugging you. The sky was beginning to lighten, so you crawled out of the bedroll and made up a small breakfast out of your rations. Estran woke when the smell started drifting across the campsite. He seemed to have no idea that he’d spent most of the night cuddling you.

“Is your ankle feeling better?” he asked.

“Fine,” you signed. “I can walk.”

Breakfast was a quick affair and you took down the cover while Estran was eating. By the time the sun was peeking over the horizon, you were ready to leave camp again.

Your pace was slowed by your ankle, but Estran seemed to have no problem walking next to you. You scanned the forest as you walked, trying to see if there was any sign of a home.

Something caught your ankle and you stumbled. Estran seized your shoulder, holding you up. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” you signed back. “Just got caught in some vines.” You looked down to unwind it, then paused. It was dotted in little white flowers and gave off a stunningly sweet smell. “This is mallow weed,” you signed. “It’s a medical plant, good for fevers.”

“Do you want to collect it?” Estran asked, sounding a little bit confused.

“No. Mallow weed doesn’t grow around here. Or, at least, it shouldn’t. It needs to be transplanted from the wild lands.” You stood up. “Which means…” You followed the trail of plants through the woods until you came across a cabin.

If you hadn’t noticed the mallow weed, you probably wouldn’t have seen the cabin. It had been swallowed by moss and ivy, vanishing into a sea of green. You ran your hands along the wall until you found a door, then you cleared it and pulled it open.

The inside of the cabin was dim and dusty, with books and dried plants scattered everywhere. Estran had a mild coughing fit and stumbled back outside. You stayed in the cabin, rustling through the notes.

There was little in the way of organization. Notes were scattered everywhere, pinned to the walls, and little vials and bits of plant were lying on odd places. In a stroke of good fortune, though, his notes were dated. You rummaged through them, trying to find ones dated around the time he’d died.

Estran returned to the cabin and started sorting through the notes with you. “This one’s dated close to when he died,” he said, passing the notes to you. “About two weeks off?”

You glanced over the notes he’d given you. “He got sick… and he used a combination of warbler weed and ansom to fight it off.” You sorted out a few more pages. “It looks like he managed to cure it, too. He says the fever broke and the markings faded.”

“Then why did he die?” Estran asked.

“It’s the ansom. The roots have a higher concentration of toxins than the leaves. If he boiled the whole plant, it would have damaged his liver and kidneys. His liver must have started failing, but only after he managed to fight off the disease.”

“What good is a cure that kills you anyway?” Estran asked.

“Your liver and kidneys can process small amounts of toxins safely. It’s all about isolating the compounds that kill the disease without harming anyone. And I’m sure the people at Korandra and Elra’s temples will be more than happy to work out the correct dosage.” You stuffed the notes and some samples of ansom and warbler weed into your bag. “Let’s go back.”

You made it back to the town by nightfall. Estran returned to his temple and you were pressed into staying at the healer’s temple so they could heal your ankle.

You hadn’t really been expecting to meet him again, but on the day you were set to leave, he came bursting into your room.

“You’re leaving!” He was wearing traveling robes again and panting slightly from his run.

“How did you hear that?” you asked, sliding the last of your supplies into your bag.

“I came by to see how you were, but they said you were leaving,” he replied, signing frantically. “It’s true?”

“Yeah. They’ve devised a cure, so I’m going to head back out toward the farmland. Give it to the people who are still suffering.”

“Take me with you,” Estran said. You stared at him. “Please?”

“You have your work at the temple. Do you really want to leave that behind?”

“I never chose to be part of the temple. I did it because my parents left me there. And then I didn’t know what else to do. Especially not looking like this.” His tail twitched in explanation. “But I liked traveling with you. I liked having a mission. I enjoyed being able to help people. So, I’d like to come with you, at least for a little while.”

You glanced at him. Your first instinct was to refuse. But traveling with him had been nice. And he had been a good defense against wild animals.

“Fine. You can come.” He pulled you into an enormous hug, then realized what he was doing and released you again.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay,” you signed back. “I don’t mind hugs.” It had been the first one you’d received in a long time and it made your heart dance in your chest. Having him as a traveling companion would definitely be a good thing, you decided.

“Come on.” You slung your bag over your shoulder. “Let’s get going. We have a lot of distance to cover.”

[mst3kproject]

I Was a Teenage Frankenstein

Have I somehow not already reviewed this? Shit, I better get on that.  If the title alone weren’t enough, I Was a Teenage Frankenstein has Gary Conway from The Viking Women and the Sea Serpent, Phyllis Coates from Invasion USA, and sure enough, Whit Bissell from I Was a Teenage Werewolf playing more or less the same mad scientist character. Though sadly, there was no part for Pepe the Latino-Transylvanian janitor.

Professor Frankenstein, yet another modern descendant of the fabled Baron, is looking for medical applications of his ancestor’s work.  He thinks he can bring dead tissue back to life, and allow it to be used in organ transplants.  Naturally Those Fools at the Academy tell him it’s impossible, so he’s determined to Show Them All.  Conveniently, shortly after this declaration a car full of drunk teenagers crashes just outside Frankenstein’s home.  He and his buddy Dr. Carlton sneak off with one of the corpses, and over the next few weeks they assemble bits and pieces into a boy.  Problems arise when Frankenstein, true to form, refuses to acknowledge the humanity of his creation.  The boy wants to see the world outside the lab, the Professor’s fiancée Margaret is getting curious about what goes on down there, and Carlton is having more and more qualms… there are many ways this can end, but none of them are happy.

We’ve got some awesome mad science going on here, with a lab full of blinky light machines and a secret stock-footage alligator pit that, yes, the mad doctor does get chucked into at the end.  Lots of severed body parts are thrown around, all of them enormously fake but pretty gruesome nevertheless.  The horrible, horrible monster mask falls into this same category.  My favourite moment in the film is when Frankenstein takes his creature out to pick out a new face, and comes back with a severed head in a birdcage! My second-favourite is the traumatized witness to the car accident wailing “what a crash!”  I’d be hard-put to choose between the two for a stinger. And at the end, the movie does the same thing as War of the Colossal Beast, suddenly switching from crisp black and white to shitty desaturated colour, and it has the same effect.

But none of that is what the movie is actually about.  If there’s one thing I want to say about this film, it is the truly astonishing fact that I Was a Teenage Frankenstein appears to have been written by somebody who actually read Mary Shelley’s book.  This is not a claim that can be made of many Frankenstein movies, and certainly not of any that previously appeared on this blog.  I’m not sure the writer of Frankenstein Island had even seen any of the movies.  Although I Was a Teenage Frankenstein borrows only the barest of bones from the book’s plot, the emotional center of both is the doctor’s relationship with his creation.

The reason it’s a teenage Frankenstein, by the way, is because the professor believes one of the reasons his ancestor failed at creature-creation is because he used old, worn-out parts.  By choosing bits from young men cut down in their prime, he feels the result will be healthier and more resilient both physically and mentally.  He seems to be right, too.  His creature is not a shuffling abomination, but an intelligent and articulate young man who longs to ‘go out among people’ and is absolutely crushed to find that the ones he meets are terrified of him.

The Professor is proud of the progress he makes in teaching his creation to do things like walk and speak, but he seems entirely uninterested in the boy’s happiness or personality.  When he sees his creature crying, he is pleased that the tear ducts work.  When Margaret expresses fear of the ‘monster’, Professor Frankenstein tells her to think of him as something ‘like a machine’, a creation of science.  Finding he needs to get his creature out of the country in a hurry, he has no qualms about taking the boy apart to ship and reanimate later.  He never even bothers to give his creation a name, addressing him simply as ‘my boy’ – never just ‘boy’, but always ‘my boy’.  The possessive is important here.

Indeed, as his creature gains humanity, Professor Frankenstein seems to lose his.  At the beginning of the movie, the Professor (who never has a first name, either – he is a scientist, not a human being) seems very much in love with Margaret. As events progress, he becomes colder and colder towards her, and eventually manipulates his creation into murdering her.  Shortly thereafter is a tense moment in which we worry that the same thing will happen to Dr. Carlton.

Don’t think Frankenstein started off as a good person, though.  Though he claims to love her, he slaps Margaret when she asks what he’s working on in the basement.  When he first describes the experiment he’s about to perform to Dr. Carlton, he says he’s using the ‘principle of selective breeding’, choosing the best parts to put together into a human body.  This will be a step towards ‘perfection in the human race’. That’s the sort of language that should worry just about anybody, especially when it’s coming from somebody with a German name.  Unfortunately, the movie shies away from actually exploring the issues of eugenics or racial purity that it seems to bring up here.  You can see why they might not want to go into that, but it’s a shame they left it hanging there.

With this for his upbringing, the creature is not a model of morality either.  He eventually escapes from the lab and goes outside to interact with human beings. The first person he sees is a girl sitting and brushing her hair – when she notices him, she screams, and he accidentally kills her as he tries to make her stop.  The incident clearly has a terrible effect on him, but this has far more to do with the way people reacted to his face than with the fate of the dead woman… the creature never seems to feel a moment’s guilt about the latter.  Perhaps this is because of the way Frankenstein raised him, or maybe it’s because, being a reanimated corpse himself, the boy does not think of death as a permanent fate.  Again, the question is not explored.

That’s the main problem with I Was a Teenage Frankenstein – it keeps suggesting things it doesn’t want to follow up on.  This becomes a particular problem at the ending, which is very unsatisfying.  Frankenstein sets about taking his creation apart for transport, the boy objects and kills him, and then commits suicide by electrocuting himself.  Throughout the movie, the only thing the creature has expressed a desire for is to interact with people who aren’t afraid of him.  Having just removed that stupid monster mask had his plastic surgery, he is on the cusp of being able to do so… but he never gets the chance.

Not only is this disappointing in itself, it also leaves another plot point unsettled.  In order to get a normal-looking face, Frankenstein and the creature killed and beheaded a young man named Bob, traumatizing Bob’s girlfriend Arlene in the process.  We see Arlene’s mother describe the incident to police officers, and offer them a photograph of Bob so they can identify him if they find him.  All these characters then simply vanish.  The next scene is Frankenstein telling Carlton that they’re going to take the creature apart for shipping, and then the movie ends.

What I wanted to see at this point was the creature going out and talking to people like he always wanted.  It would seem to be going awkwardly but not bad, but then he would run into Arlene, who identifies him as Bob and tries to spread the word that he’s still alive. This would make the creature feel that he has to kill her to keep her quiet, and ultimately bring the police to Frankenstein’s door.  Instead, the movie goes with an ending that feels like kind of a cop-out, like they ran out of time and just had to finish the story as quickly as possible.  We don’t even get a decent explanation of how he knew the two scientists were going to take him apart.

This is doubly disappointing because they could have had time.  There are early, talky scenes that could have been cut down a little in order to show us things we’d rather have seen.  The movie doesn’t drag much, but there are bits where it lingers on stuff we don’t need to see, like Margaret getting the key to the lab copied, or establishing that Frankenstein knows where the Lover’s Lane is.  Alternatively, since it wasn’t going to make a plot point out of Arlene, they could have cut that scene with her mother talking to the cops entirely… that would have made the ending feel less irrelevant.

In the end, I Was a Teenage Frankenstein reminds me a lot of another favourite bad Frankenstein movie of mine, Lady Frankenstein.  The two films share a lack of ambition.  Both have everything they need to be a much more interesting and thought-provoking take on the original material, but Lady Frankenstein chose to be about Rosalba Neri’s tits and I Was a Teenage Frankenstein tosses ideas around willy-nilly without ever giving any of them a chance to stick.

The weirdest thing about the movie is that it doesn’t even make any effort to appeal to teenagers!  You’d think a movie called I Was a Teenage Frankenstein would feature the title character interacting with teenagers, or trying to do ‘teenager’ things from the 50’s, like go to sock hops or race cars.  But no, besides the creature, all the major characters are adults.  The closest they come is by encouraging teenagers to identify with the boy as he chafes against parental restrictions.  I Was a Teenage Werewolf was about actual teenagers.  Why didn’t this film, obviously a partner to it, do the same?

[og-danny-dorito]

Hancock SFW Headcanons To Satiate My Undying Thirst for This Raisin

this is dedicated to all of my 12 year old monster/humanoid obsessions, and to the ones which may follow such as this mans, John Hancock, the mayor of Goodneighbor. because I'll be damned if I see a ghoul and don't become immediately attracted to them. also these weren't requested, but @thatwolfnamednyla​ seemed interested so i'll tag them (i can remove the tag too if you want me to, just let me know).

<---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------->

S F W :

- ok so, I’m gonna start off with physical headcanons because it’s easier for me to base everything off of that 

- since most of the heights in the game are the same and they don’t really give any actual canon heights for them, I’d say that he’s about 5”5 because I love the imagine of a short man with a knife. like-

- yeah he’s definitely powerful and strong willed and mental the opposite of a short baby man, but like can you just imagine some dude walking up to you and having to look up at you because he’s small? Especially a high af ghoul man small boy? an artistic virtue

- that, and he’s generally the most crackhead out of all the companions 

- like he’s the guy to go to if you’re itching to bust out some chems and go shoot at random shit in the middle of the night cause he’s just that kinda dude 

- he lives for the thrill of things, and so obviously someone equally as crackhead as he is would fit him perfectly, but for the sake of actual relationship building I’d say that he’s better fit with a rational crackhead 

- like yeah, going out and getting yourself fucked up is great, but like not to the point of getting yourself so fucked up beyond repair, yknow? someone who takes a second and a half to think his crazy ass ideas through and THEN do it with him is the best person for the job as his metaphorical babysitter 

- and he really likes to be taken care of because he’s a sucker for that shit. I would say that he has a daddy/mommy kink but like these aren’t nsfw and so I’m not gonna bust out that nasty shit just yet 

- that said, being his partner doesn’t have very specific guidelines. being pansexual AND polyamorous allows him to love freely as he was genetically destined to anyway 

- seriously, he’s attracted to you if you say something nice to him and show a little bit of interest that’s just how it is. he doesnt really think of appearances unless he's only out for dick

- he doesn’t really have a specific type either??? but he finds timid and nervous people so fucking cute. like,,, if you keep apologizing because of small things he’ll ruffle your hair and start calling you ‘kid’ and ‘sweetie’ cause honestly it’s just so sweet to see you get all nervous and shy 

- it literally makes him want to fistfight someone in an abandoned parking lot for you and he can't help his protectionist ways

- like he likes to be taken care of yeah, but he ends up setting y’all in the ‘give some get some’ scenario where it’s more of a partnership 

- jokingly calls you ‘smoothskin’ even if your skin isn’t smooth like you’re scarred or something. it cracks him up because he does it in a smoker voice too but he already sounds like a smoker so he ends up coughing a little bit after in between laughs 

- biggest goofball on the planet 

- will literally play pranks on you because he finds it funny, like using makeshift pre-war whoopee cushion and shit like that. will also 100% love it if you prank him back. he doesn’t take much seriously and so any form of mild joking makes him genuinely happy 

- if you’re inclined to more permanent relationships however, this could become an issue. not the whole whoopee cushion thing the seriousness thing

- just because he does sleep with other people and lowkey tell you all the time about how “That raider was packin, and I don’t mean to be a whore but honestly like if he wanted some he could get some.”, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. it’s just that it’s normal for him to be attracted to other people at the same time. it can be more than one person at once, which can sometimes be a problem if more traditional people not cool with it 

- confronting him about it either to confirm it negatively or positively depends on your preference. he didn’t really think of this as permanent in the first place, more of a friends with benefits situation where you also benefit each other with extreme emotional support, and so you wanting to make it serious will trigger his fear of commitment 

- therefore, if you’re not okay with it he may have a hard time adapting, but if he’s really grown on you then he can try to be better about it. he won’t make the one he loves uncomfortable without their permission, but he’ll try his best to explain it (the best that he can doesn't necessarily that he’ll do it well though) 

- if you’re alright with it then he will most likely bring up the topic of either threesomes/poly-somes and/or adding someone else to your romantic stuff or something like that if either of areyou is interested. communication is key in this sort of thing, and so he’ll almost always go to you before like trying to initiate anything with someone after talking with them and you about the situation 

- oh did I mention fear of commitment? Cause I’m about to get real angsty 

- MAN does he have an issue with it. not only that, but the reason he doesn’t really view this thing as permanent is because he’s fairly certain he’ll outlive you. he's terrified of loosing you one day and then not knowing what the he'll to do with himself for the rest of his life. he’s scared of being tied down it totally goes against his whole thing of freedom, and since he’s already conflicted about anarchy and order he literally avoids thinking about settling down with anyone or anything 

- he’s holding onto a past that brought him joy then, but could ruin him now. and the best way to deal with that is to try to get through it as best as you can and leave the past behind, but he still finds himself reminiscing about things that could’ve happened 

- it keeps him up sometimes, thinking about it. he’ll lay flat on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling for hours at a time just... thinking. and only when he’s lightly pressed about it will he say something, and even then it seems more like he’s struggling to find the words. It’s weird how he can talk to goodneighbor’s citizens like it’s nothing, but talking about himself gets him all choked up 

- he would very much like it if you just like, kissed his face or hold his hand sometimes. to him it speaks more than a thousand words, and if he’s really having a hard time it means everything for you to be there for him 

- that, and with the fact that you’re his best friend means that you’re his ride or die partner in crime 

- just sitting around and doing chems with you and getting all philosophical or doing dumb shit is pretty much all he needs to be satisfied with you, and he really likes hearing you talk about pre-war society 

- whether your views are negative or positive, he likes hearing about the way things used to work. he likes your stories about how you grew up and how you came to be who you are today, and a lot of the time he finds himself asking you about something he doesn’t know because you’re technically the ultimate source of knowledge on that stiff by this point 

- you’d have to assure him that you didn’t know everything and no, you had no idea what year that random object he found was made, but he likes it anyway. you pique his interest, and just sharing a few mindset traits with you makes him feel much more secure and like you’ve got something that matters to the both of you 

- that, and he thinks you’re the coolest motherfucker on the planet 

- he’d probably be more attracted to free spirits, those who hold a strong moral code and defend it like it’s their lifeline. obviously he has a wide range of romantic and causal interest guidelines, but that’s the key point there. Someone who stands for what they believe in and protects those around them 

- and NOW for my favorite part, miscellaneous headcanons ; 

he’s probably the most openly sexual out of all the companions besides Gage, but tbh gage isn't down to walk naked through commonwealth and he is so obviously he’s the most freaky 

he’s more himbo oriented, although with this chart done originally by @cockneydio​

I can tell you that he’s this 👌 close to being a feral himbo and is probably turned on by danger so you can already tell what kinda bitch he is 

he likes to give you his jacket when you’re cold or he just feels like it and it usually smells like cigarettes and gunpowder 

thinks that pastel colors and soft clothes are kind of cute on people for some reason 

is a sucker for pda, might die if you kiss on his neck or tell him he looks nice that day while you’re in public. Also super into just randomly slapping your ass because he finds it hilarious (slapping his ass in turn earns you a flirty comment and a mildly turned on raisin man) 

loves receiving gifts from you and equally as much giving them, which is commonly just cool little things he’s found and thought you would like 

makes cheesy pick up lines all the time and you can’t change my mind 

would die for pet names, given or received. like yes call him “honey” and “sugar” he will MELT he's just a big nerd

he's kinda self conscious about himself around you, but likes phsycial contact too much to deny himself of it so he's literally always attached to you and/or on top of you if he can help it

- hancock isn’t feral, but he sure does act like it sometimes. what he needs is someone who can balance him out and give him the space when he needs it, and who genuinely cares about he people around them regardless of who or what they are. just being there for him on the bad days means the world to him, and he wouldn’t give what y'all have up for all the caps and chems in the world

[pan-xichen]

VLD AU where Shiro didn't die and as a result of that change the outcome is wildly different:

- Basically Shiro was actually teleported somewhere by Black in S2 instead of dying.

- I love Kuron so he's still in this I promise.

- Keith finds the real Shiro in S3.

- Keith also still leaves the team for a while and Shiro is the black paladin again.

- Keith foresees his fight with Shiro in the quantum abyss like in canon except it's the real Shiro this time (this plays off the idea that I think? one of the cast members mentioned? that OG Shiro could've turned on the team as well because he had the arm?)

- Keith and his posse arrive in time to stop Honerva taking control of Shiro.

- As an added bonus, Lotor isn't really killing Alteans for their quintessence because that plot point was STUPID so it's actually Honerva using a clone of Lotor.

- While I love TBP with my whole ass heart and wouldn't change anything that happens in that episode at all, in this AU the team knocks out Shiro before Honerva assumes control and removes the arm, and the fight at the clone facility is Keith and Shiro teaming up against Honerva.

- It's not so much a "fix it" AU because I actually like S7 the way it is as it is an AU where things happen differently because why not.

- So Keith and Shiro fight Honerva and the clone facility is destroyed, the dramatic moment where Keith and Shiro fall to their deaths still happens but the astral plain sequence is different; Shiro and Keith both enter Black's astral plain and Shiro shows Keith how to see with the lion's eyes, their souls merge and their combined power yeets the black lion back to their team in time to help them battle the generals.

- Honerva escapes the fight obviously she has to be the big bad again later.

- Keith and Shiro rescue the one clone that survives the destruction of the facility and that's how Kuron still exists except he calls himself Ryou instead.

- It's mildly weird for everyone at first but Shiro and Ryou are kinda like twins now (also they remove the galra arm from the clone too but give him a different looking one from Shiro's).

- Did I mention Lotor is innocent already because he's innocent in this AU, they find out it was a clone of him all along and the real Lotor would Never kill people for their quintessence (I have a lot of problems with what happened to Lotor I just don't talk about them a lot lmao).

- Keith gets permanent clairvoyance from extended time in the abyss except he can't control it and everything he sees is out of context, yaaaay.

- They still fight in the rift but Lotor and the generals are fighting alongside the paladins and they trap a robeast in there instead so no one dies horrifically, also I miss the robeasts.

- The castle of lions doesn't get destroyed and the robeast was big enough to seal the rift, yaaay.

- You'd think that the soul merging thing would mean that Keith and Shiro are co-pilots but you thought wrong sorry I love Captain Shirogane.

- Except this time Atlas is a single lion that can turn into a smaller mecha and Shiro is the white paladin (I'm thinking his hair turns white still somehow like when he and Keith merge to control the black lion or something).

- Atlas still merges with Voltron so Keith and Shiro aren't co-pilots but they are co-leaders.

- The events on earth happen pretty much the same barring a few differences like Shiro already having a new arm, (that actually has a bicep lmao), Shiro becomes the admiral of the Garrison too because it's what he deserves.

- I didn't watch S8 and never will so I don't know exactly how this change in events would affect that except:

Shiro actually contributes more to the story and doesn't just carry that tiny pistol as a weapon, he has a white bayard.

He actually saves Keith in That Episode.

Keith and Shiro spend some time together and address shit they honestly should have talked about on-screen in the carnival episode.

Allura doesn't die because FUCK that.

Kuron/Ryou is a separate person from Shiro and is still alive.

Keith's quintessence sensitivity is explained at some point because I am not content with the implication that it's just because he's an alien and there isn't a deeper explanation.

Keith isn't a good leader just because he's Galra because that was STUPID and took away his agency and accomplishments.

Honerva gets what she fucking deserved because she did shitty things and hurt a lot of people regardless of her reasons and I hate her (death?? Death.).

Lotor becomes the new emperor of the Galra and with the help of Voltron, the Garrison and the Blade of Marmora the empire becomes a place of peace.

The lions don't just yeet off into the night never to be seen again because the Galra problem might be solved but Voltron was never created exclusively to fight the Galra and the universe definitely still needs them.

Keith spends some time with the Blade of Marmora but isn't away all the time because he still needs to lead Voltron, they still do relief work but also campaign against other evils in the universe as well (and if he can't make it in time for a battle Shiro can always lead the team in his stead because they're co-leaders anyway).

Keith and Shiro don't get married but are in a happy relationship. In their free time they travel around the universe and explore new planets.

Allurance wedding because my heart aches for them. They become the leaders of New Altea together along with Coran.

The team does not go their separate ways so much as they go spend time with their families and do some other stuff in between expeditions with Voltron.

I've seen Zero episodes of S8 aside from gifsets and mentions of it but I think the important negative points have been negated now?

If someone wants to write something for this go ahead please do I would but I don't have the time so here are my notes in case anyone is interested in seeing them. This idea just came to me one day and I had to jot it down lmao.

[toalltheficsivelovedbefore]

Blind Date || johnny

childhood friend!johnny x fem!reader • fluff, tiny angst, friends to strangers to lovers, mention of cheating (not between the characters) • Your best friend sets you up on a blind date, but when the date doesn’t show up, Johnny swoops in to the rescue!

“I already told you no.”

“C’mon, please? It’s just one date!”

“Yeah, you said that last month too. And a couple weeks before that. I’m done meeting strangers.”

Kara, your best friend, pouts, flopping backward onto your bed, so she’s looking straight up at you. Luckily you moved your laptop in time or she would’ve fallen on it.

“Please? I swear this’ll be the last one. Hyuck vouched for him! He’s really nice and super sweet. And he’s not even anyone’s reject as far as I know.”

You quirked an eyebrow up, eyes still focused on the email you’re composing on your screen. “Obviously he is, or he wouldn’t be single. And like I’m gonna trust your boyfriend’s taste in men?”

“Going through a breakup and being rejected on a first date are not the same thing.” She sits up, folding her legs underneath herself so she’s crisscrossed. A hand comes to rest on your knee, finally dragging your eyes away from your work. For the first time, you notice how concerned your best friend looks. Concerned and worried for you, but you honestly don’t know why. “YN, it’s been so long since you broke up with… him. You keep refusing to put yourself out there and let someone love you. And refusing to let yourself fall in love again.” She patted your knee gently before standing from your bed, headed toward the door. “Just one last date, and if it doesn’t work out, I’ll never set you up again.”

————

The date is set for a Saturday, and Kara happily helps you pick out the perfect outfit and decide on makeup. She drops you off at the restaurant and promises to pick you up if you need it. You’d agreed to meet him at the bar, and now you’re wondering why you didn’t push her for more info on the guy. You were going into this practically blind, while he knew your name, face, and occupation. But Kara trusted him, so you just had to trust too.

No one stood out at the bar, no heads wagging around to get a look for any newcomers, so you found two open barstools. Your butt claimed one, and your purse the other.

Ten minutes passed without anyone coming up to you, so you ordered a drink. Maybe the wine would distract you from the fact it looked like you were getting stood up. Or walked out on. That was really the thought weighing on your mind, so of course, you didn’t turn the bartender down when he offered to refill your glass.

“YN?”

Oh, thank god! With a smile plastered to your face, you turned to greet who you assumed could only be your date. But the smile dropped when you saw the tall man occupying space next to you.

He was just as tall as you remembered, maybe taller. And he’d filled out in the shoulders and arms. Even though he wore a dark button-up, you could tell he’d added definition to his upper body over the years. Not that you were checking. And you definitely weren’t totally entranced at the way he had started styling his hair back with gel, a single piece slipped out to rest on his forehead. That one strand of hair calling back memories of being teenagers and carding your hands through his shaggy, overgrown hair while you told him he needed to start using gel to tame it. Oh, and that grin on his face, that caused whisker-like wrinkles that had always made you laugh and poke his cheek.

This could not be happening right now.

“Johnny Suh, I thought you were living in South Korea.”

You didn’t mean for your voice to sound so aggressive, but it did, and that gleam in his eye was disappearing.

“I thought you had moved away too.” He just stood there, looking over you, the grin faded, but still smiling. Always happy. Usually anyway.

“I moved back a few years ago.” Johnny looked at the stool you had your purse on, obviously signaling that he wanted to sit. Your watch told you that you’d been here for 30 minutes and there was no sign of a blind date. So with a sigh, you removed your bag, and let him climb onto it. Or slide onto it rather.

“Were you saving it for someone?” He waved for the bartender, his shirt sleeve slipping down to show he still wore that silver linked bracelet he’d got when you were 15 years old.

“Apparently not.” Your glass was empty again, and you let the bartender fill a third glass while Johnny ordered. “When did you move back here? Or are you just home for a visit?”

A cool, easy smile splashed across his face. “No, I’m here permanently. About a year ago I got offered a job here, so I made the trek home.”

“What kind of job?”

“Photographer for a magazine.”

You nearly spit your wine all over his expensive looking shirt. “P-photography?” He looked over at you confused, handing you a napkin to wipe your chin, a nod in answer. “But you said you were going to school to be a doctor. We argued over that for so long and then you just—” You cut yourself off. No reason to dig back into those old emotions.

He nodded again, understanding perfectly where you’d been going. He’d always been good at that. “No, yeah, I was originally going to school for that. Make the parents proud kind of thing. But once I got there, I realized it didn’t really matter. My parents would be happy as long as I was happy.” You nod. “Yeah, you told me that plenty of times. So I changed to an arts university but stayed in Korea. I liked it there and I’d already started to make friends anyway.”

It’d been too late, but at least he had finally taken your advice.

You looked over at him. He was drinking from his bottle of beer, and for a moment you remembered being 16 and sneaking into your parents’ liquor cabinet to try vodka for the first time. Johnny had nearly thrown up, and you’d told him you loved him for the first time. Your face went red at that memory.

“You should’ve told me. I would’ve been so proud.”

Johnny’s eyes found yours, a sad lift to his lips. “I tried. You blocked me everywhere, remember? Not even your friends would get a message to you from me. I gave up trying after your parents told me you’d left for college.”

You wanted to hang your head in shame. All those years of friendship down the drain because you were too stubborn to unblock him on social media. It occurred to you that he was still blocked, no wonder you hadn’t heard the news he was back.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled. You’d never been very good at admitting when you’re wrong.

But his eyes perked up none the less and a grin found its way back to his mouth. “I’m sorry, what was that? What’d you say?”

You rolled your eyes. But a smile had crossed your face too, so you relented, just this once. “I said I’m sorry. For just ditching you back then. I should’ve been okay with the choices you made, even if they took—” You snapped your mouth closed real fast.

His eyes were nearly twinkling. “You’re not gonna finish that either? Nearly 10 years later and you still can’t admit that you cared for me?”

Brows furrowing, you turned to fully face him, a finger coming up to poke his chest. “I couldn’t admit my feelings? Are you actually being serious right now, John Suh?”

“You wouldn’t even tell me why you were so mad that I was leaving, just that it changed the future. What was I supposed to understand from that?”

“Are you saying that if I had told you I was in love with you, you would’ve stayed and gone to Northwestern with me like we planned?”

His face fell a little.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” You turned back to the bar, glad to have the break so you could take another sip of your wine.

You nearly jumped when Johnny’s hand brushed yours on the bartop.

“No, I wouldn’t have stayed. But we could’ve tried to work things out.”

You sighed.

This is not what you had signed on for. This was supposed to be a night out to meet a stranger and have a drink, not to open up wounds from the past. “Johnny,” you hesitated, took a breath. “I did tell you. I told you a lot that last year.”

His eyes went wide, mouth slightly falling open. “What are you talking about? When?”

A blush covered your cheeks. “Every time we got drunk and you kissed me.”

He looked like his eyes were going to pop out of his head. “What?” He pulled away, trying to think back to being 17 and 18 years old, getting drunk in your basement. Something seemed to click cause his eyes shut and he took a long swig of his beer. “I thought I made that up.” Another drink. “I thought I imagined the kissing and the confessions because I had gotten so drunk.”

You couldn’t help the laugh. With his eyes squeezed so tight, it was like he was trying to prevent them from falling out. “Nope, those were real. I thought you refusing to acknowledge or talk about it meant you didn’t actually feel that way.”

His eyes finally opened and he looked down at you, all soft and open and warm. “That explains why you had as much of a breakdown over it as you did.”

“I did not have a breakdown.” You felt indignant for all of 5 seconds before his eyes were calming you down again. “A tiny one, really. And like you said, totally justified. Mostly.”

He laughed then, and you felt like you could drown in it. You didn’t even know you could miss a sound so much.

Things were smooth from there. Johnny told you all about Korea and school, the friends he’d made, the jobs he’d worked. He told you about his two short, failed relationships, and about how he got the magazine job (“They liked my Instagram more than my portfolio!”). His parents were doing well, nearing retirement, and they were happy he was home (“My mom basically had a party the first night I was back, can you believe that?” Yes, you totally could.).

But then it wound around to you. You talked about school, how you’d decided to try California since you didn’t have a best friend for Northwestern anymore. You shared your horror stories from the part-time jobs you worked, and the excitement when you finally got hired as an intern at a publishing company when you’d moved back home after graduation. You’d worked your way up to assistant editor, and things were looking bright.

And then he asked the question you’d been hoping he wouldn’t know to ask.

“Now, I thought I had heard you were getting married.” You wanted to choke on your water. “But, no ring, you didn’t mention anyone, and you’re sitting at a bar alone on a Saturday night. What gives?”

A big sigh. You hated talking about this. But, maybe it would be nice to get it off your chest to someone who had never even known him and wouldn’t find some way to defend him. You gave Johnny a smile.

“Yes, I was engaged, almost two years ago. Things seemed good.” You shrugged. It wasn’t that you were sad about it, but the sting still felt fresh. “People tell me I worked too much and drove a wedge between us. Some people say they saw it coming a mile away. Which, if someone knows your partner is going to cheat on you, shouldn’t they tell you?” Johnny stiffened at that. You sighed again. “Some combination of us not being right, me working too many hours and not giving him enough attention, and him… not being ready to settle.” You looked over at Johnny, who sported a sweet frown and furrowed brow. “Honestly though, I don’t think we ever really loved each other.”

It felt like a boulder lifted off your shoulders. It was the first time you’d been able to get the words out. And you didn’t worry that Johnny would judge you.

His hand brushed over yours. “Why’d you say yes?”

“Cause I thought I had to. That’s what was expected of me after three years with someone.”

He nodded, but you could tell he didn’t really understand. Not that he needed to.

You let out a big breath and a giggle. The four glasses of wine were maybe starting to hit you now. But not too bad that you would regret your words tomorrow. “I don’t think I’ve loved anyone since you. You were the first boy I ever loved, and I don’t know that I’ll find someone worthy again.”

Johnny bloomed right in front of your eyes. His smile was blinding and his eyes soft, and you just wanted to bask in him for a bit longer.

But the bar was closing, and Johnny was offering you a ride home, and you accepted.

He walked you to your door, exchanged numbers, and promised to message soon so you could maybe have lunch. Before he could leave though, Johnny grabbed your hand.

“You know… I’ve never loved anyone but you either.”

His goodbye was a kiss to your forehead and a shy wave as he headed for the stairs.

————

You hadn’t even unlocked the door yet before Kara was calling. Her voice seemed exceptionally loud after the quiet goodbye from Johnny just a moment before.

“So? How was it? Did you have a good time? He’s cute, right?”

You laughed, sticking your key in your lock, and pushing your door open with your shoulder, just a bit wobbly. “He never showed.”

“What? What are you talking about?” She sounds absolutely scandalized. You’re sorry to ruin your friend’s (and her boyfriend’s) perception of this guy, but you weren’t going to lie to spare her feelings.

“He didn’t show up. I sat at the bar waiting for him until I was joined by an old friend. I kept an eye out, and no one ever came looking for me. Maybe you didn’t show him a good enough picture and he couldn’t recognize me.” You shrug even though she can’t see. Your shoes are kicked off by the door and you reach around to try to wiggle the zipper of your dress down.

“That—that doesn’t make any sense, YN.”

“I’m sorry babe, but that’s the truth.”

“But… YN he just told me he had a really nice time.”

You froze in the middle of your room, dress dropping from your shoulders. “What? But I didn’t talk to anyone else.”

“I swear. He texted me that he’d found you, that you shared drinks, and that you talked for hours.”

The both of you sat in silence for a moment, trying to process exactly what was happening.

“What’s your friend’s name? The guy you set me up with. You never told me his name.”

“His name is Johnny Suh.”

The noise that escaped you was halfway between a laugh and a sob.

“YN? Are you okay?”

“Hah, um…. I don’t know.”

“C’mon, talk to me. What’s going on?”

You ran a hand down your face, feeling hot and cold, and a little bit agitated. It would be just like him to pull something like this. “That’s who I was with. That’s my childhood friend.”

“Really?!” You pulled the phone away at her shrill voice. “Why didn’t he say anything? He recognized you? Why didn’t he say anything to me? I don’t understand...”

You laughed this time, finally moving toward your dresser to pull out pajamas. “Yeah, well that’s John Suh for you. He’s quite the enigma.”

She’s quiet, thinking over something quite hard. “What do you want me to do?”

“What do you mean?” You drop onto your bed, pulling your laptop open to search for his profile on your social media site. You’d got his number tonight, it was probably time to unblock him.

“He messaged me earlier, asking to set the two of you up for another date. What do you want me to do?”

You’d found his account. His profile picture was of him and his mom, and you couldn’t help the little smile that came to your face. After all these years, Johnny had been able to maintain a spot in your heart. Maybe you could give him the second chance you’d both been craving for so many years.

Even though the dork had just promised to set up a date while asking your best friend to do the same thing.

You let yourself smile more widely at the thought. “Yeah,” you said, closing your laptop and shoving it away. “Set us up.”

MASTERLIST

[fuwafuwagem]

Crossfire

Chapters: 4/10 Rating: Explicit (eventually) Relationships: Dabi/OC Additional Tags: Alcohol, Fluff, Angst, Eventual Smut, Friends to Lovers

Read it on Ao3 here  

Chapter Four: The Good Stuff

The deserted playground was as good a place as any for drinking in the fresh night air. Dabi sat on a swing, nursing the whisky bottle as though it were his only child. Hoshiko sat on the swing beside him, her glare penetrating his temple.

“I’m saving you from yourself, y’know,” he growled when her scowl finally became more than he could tolerate. “You clearly can’t handle your liquor.”

“I can handle it,” Hoshiko hissed. “I just can’t keep up with your pace. You drink that stuff like it’s juice!”

Dabi snorted his laughter and took a swig straight from the bottle. “Ooh, it really is the good stuff,” he said with a wide grin. “This would definitely be wasted on you.”

Hoshiko reached out to grab the bottle, but Dabi hopped off the swing and rounded the set so he could stand behind her.

“I’ll push you. If you can manage to not throw up, I’ll share it with you.”

“What the–? I’m the one who’s sharing with you!”

Still, despite her protests, Hoshiko gripped the chains of the swing, full of determination, and Dabi pushed her. She kicked her legs out as she reached the peak, then curled them back as she swung back towards Dabi, and he pushed her again. She swung higher and higher, hooting with childlike joy, while Dabi cheered her on.

“You’re gonna go over the bar if you get any higher!” he yelled, but he continued to push her, smiling widely at her shrieks of excitement.

“Have I won, Dabi?” she squealed. “I think I might have won a taste of the good stuff!”

Dabi laughed as he slowed the swing to a stop. “Yeah,” he whispered into her ear as he caught his breath. “You won, Hoshiko. I really didn’t think you would.”

Hoshiko beamed at him as she grabbed the bottle and took a long gulp. “Damn, that feels warm going down,” she said, then started coughing as the heat filled her chest.

Dabi patted her head and chuckled. “Warm going down? I’ll keep that in mind.”

Hoshiko’s fist balled and she punched him in the arm, but without any real malice. “You’re an ass, Dabi, but that was fun. I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that.”

Dabi smiled. If he were being honest, neither could he. There had been nothing but a burning, roiling, resentment building in him for as long as he could remember. It had only been since he’d started spending more time with Hoshiko that he recalled that he could even feel other emotions. Not that he would tell her any of that. The feelings he was having would remain between him and the good stuff that he snatched back from the only person he considered a friend. He lifted the bottle to his lips, then felt something cold hit his cheek.

“Oh no,” groaned Hoshiko. She grabbed Dabi’s hand as he pulled his hood over his hair, and they sprinted to find shelter as the rain began to pour down from the darkly clouded sky.

He didn’t know where they were going, but Hoshiko dragged him along to an apartment complex and pulled him inside as she fished a jangling set of keys from her pocket.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” she sighed.

Inside wasn’t much to look at, with plain-looking walls and basic furniture. Still, it was dry and warm, and Dabi peeled off his soaking wet jacket as Hoshiko went to grab a pair of towels. They rubbed their hair dry, but Dabi’s clothes were still sopping wet.

“Hmm, I could lend you something to wear until your clothes are dry,” said Hoshiko, “but be warned; it’s not going to fit whatever the hell aesthetic you’ve currently got going on.”

Dabi shrugged.

“Okay, the fire’s on in the living room. Go warm up.”

Dabi obeyed, standing in front of the fireplace. He wanted to sit, but his clothes were still soaked through. He unfastened his belt and kicked off his trousers, before removing his white shirt, that was practically see-through at this point. He shivered and crouched down before the warming orange flames.

“Oh!” Hoshiko gasped as she walked into the room to find Dabi in his underwear.

He smirked. “Well, I figured there was only one reason you’d drag me home with you like this. Figured I’d get things started.”

Hoshiko rolled her eyes and threw some clean clothes at him: a pair of black cotton leggings, and an oversized hoodie with cat paws at the cuffs and ears on the hood.

“Is this … a joke?” Dabi asked, staring at the garments in disbelief.

“It is not,” Hoshiko confirmed. “I did warn you though. I’ll go hang your clothes up so they can dry. Just put them on so you don’t get ill.”

Dabi breathed deeply, swallowed his pride, and squeezed himself into the leggings, then slipped the hoodie on with ease. It was comfy, but still mildly traumatising.

“Cute,” giggled Hoshiko when she returned. She had also changed into a pair of spotted purple pyjamas. “Can I take a picture?”

“No.”

While he sat and fumed, Dabi heard the clink of glasses, and was soon handed a shot of the good stuff. Hoshiko sat beside him, warming her toes in front of the fire while holding her own drink, the half-empty bottle within easy reach.

“I wanted to ask you something,” said Dabi, and reached to pluck the pink strand of hair that Hoshiko always tried so hard to hide. “This streak seems a little out of character. There must be a story behind it.”

Hoshiko released a loud groan. “There is, though not much of one.” She took a sip of whisky. “When I was in school, I was obviously bullied for being the quirkless freak. But there was this one girl, and she never said anything mean to me. Never defended me, either, but she wasn’t actively horrible. She also had this cool quirk. She could permanently change the colour of anything. Last I heard, she’s working for a fashion company. They are really high quality. Bright colours that never run. She’s pretty in demand within the industry. Anyway, back in school, I was going through my dark and moody phase. I wanted to dye my hair black, and I figured I’d ask her if she could do it for me. Then it would stay black forever.”

“Oh, I see where this is going,” Dabi said with a chuckle.

“Yeah, well, the bitch coloured this strand bright pink,” Hoshiko growled, still clearly raw over the whole event. “I can’t dye it. If I cut it, it just grows back pink. It’s permanently pink, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I was so furious that I punched her in the face and got expelled.” Hoshiko shrugged. “It’s all been downhill from there.”

Dabi laughed and knocked back his drink. “That’s too funny. The curse of the pink streak.”

“It is a curse,” whined Hoshiko. “It totally killed my aesthetic. I didn’t leave the house for a month after it happened. I had to change my whole hairstyle just to hide it.”

Dabi tugged at the strand. “Maybe you should embrace the pink.”

“I’ll embrace it when I’m dead,” she hissed. She slapped Dabi’s hand and tucked the rogue strand back into hiding. “For now, it stays buried.”

Dabi shrugged, then stifled a yawn. “The fire’s making me feel drowsy. I’m gonna nod off.”

Hoshiko reached back and pulled a blanket from the sofa they both leaned against. “I don’t mind if you sleep over. Your clothes should be dry by the morning. You can have the sofa. I’m going to head to bed.”

With that, Dabi wrapped the blanket around himself and shuffled onto the sofa.

Hoshiko chuckled as she watched him quickly drift off. He looked like a mildly burnt burrito, but kind of cute. With a soft sigh, she took herself off to bed.

[melynen]

Q’s Christmas Wish - 00Q

((Written for MI6 Cafe’s anon prompt gift exchange, week 3. Probably my favourite prompt to write for.))

Q’s not at all sure why he did it.

It’s not like he believes in these things, nor is he superstitious. Santa Claus has never been real to him, and stars are in no way, shape, or form magical or divine or anthropomorphised in his mind. He’s not even feeling especially desperate or lonely. Not really, in any case. He's a firm believer in everything just happening, without there being a higher force or any particular reason as a deciding factor behind it.

He has been feeling a little gloomy lately, yes, that much is true. But it’s not like his life isn’t full of uncertainties and instability, what with him being the Quartermaster of MI-6 and all. He’s also made his peace with the fact that he’s in love with someone he’d do much better to ignore instead; after all, Bond is a double oh agent and his adventures with the fairer sex are both numerous and well documented throughout Six.

But Q wouldn’t be Q if he wasn’t stubborn, and besides, he doesn’t have time for a relationship anyway, so really, it has all worked out fine for him, has it not? Bond will never ask anything of him that he cannot give (an exploding pen notwithstanding, and even then Q can see himself caving and building the bloody thing for him, eventually) and he’ll never need to struggle to share his time with work, his cats, and a significant other. It’s a win-win situation if he’s ever seen one.

So why, then, did he do it?

Why did he, in a fit of madness or inebriation or recklessness or what have you, look up at the darkening sky of the cold December evening and, upon seeing the very first star of the night, make that simple, stupid, silly little wish of his?

And why did he, upon reaching his flat afterwards and after making his way to the sofa with both cats in tow, take out his personal tablet, do a bit of digging to find the correct email address, and write that short, fanciful, foolish message to someone he doesn’t even believe in?

Dear Santa, he had written, a half-empty glass of wine in one hand and the fingers of the other practically flying over his tablet’s keyboard, setting aside for a moment the fact that I don’t actually believe in you, there is something I would ask of you if given the chance. I know miracles aren’t exactly in your job description, but I’m perhaps in need of one, either way. There’s someone that I’d need returned home, someone dear to me despite every instinct of mine screaming for me to run; but hearts, eh? What can one do but sigh and learn to live with it? But I digress. In any case, this someone has a worrying habit of disappearing when the situation gets tough (or, sometimes, even when it doesn’t), and he’s a valuable asset to the place I work for. So if there’s anything you could do, anything at all, to bring him home, I would be forever in your debt. And I’m rather good with computers, so I wouldn’t be opposed to it at all if, say, you’d need help with surveillance. After all, keeping track of all of those children and finding out who’s been naughty or nice cannot be easy in this day and age. Best regards, Q

Bond is still wherever it is that he’s gone this time after finishing his mission (and he’s ditched his radio while he’s at it, if only so that Q hasn't got a way to keep track of him - because of M’s orders, naturally) when Q checks the agent’s status once he’s finished with the email - for old habits die hard and cats, much like old dogs, are not exactly known for learning new tricks with any particular ease. But Q’s used to it, he really is, so he doesn’t even bother sighing, simply logs off and pushes the tablet away in favour of getting up and going to refill his glass.

He’s not one to overindulge, however, so he sips the golden liquid at a more sedate pace, now. His thoughts still remain with Bond, but when don’t they? He’s learnt to live with that, as well, and has become quite a professional in pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind when his focus is needed elsewhere, so by the time the glass is empty Q is back to the good old strategy of ignorance, avoidance, and detachment that has served him so well for such a long time.

He then goes to the kitchen to fix dinner for both himself and the cats, and afterwards heads to bed for some reading before sleep finally claims him.

*

The next day Q goes back to work, as one does when it’s almost Christmas and one has spent the better part of the week guiding an annoying agent through a mission that has gone pear-shaped more than once, and said agent hasn’t even had the good grace to come back home. Instead, he has done one of his infamous disappearing acts while Q gets to be the one to sort out the mess left behind completely on his own.

Yes, he might be feeling a tad bitter about it, but he’s got every bloody right to. So there.

Q greets his minions and enters his office, his thoughts fully focused on removing his outer layers and getting a mug of tea to start his day the right way, and so he fails to notice that someone has already beaten him to it. He uncurls his scarf from around his neck, takes off his beloved parka, and gets as far as hanging both on the stand next to the filing cabinet before his mind registers the still steaming Scrabble mug situated next to his closed laptop.

”What the…?” is all Q gets out when a shadow moves suddenly at the edge of his vision, and before he quite realises what has happened, his back hits the closed door of his office and he feels rather than sees a firm chest snug against his own, a pair of slightly chapped lips covering his, and an arm wrapping itself around his waist while a gentle palm cradles his head, protecting it from hitting the hard wood of his door.

Q flails for a moment before his other senses catch on, as his eyes had automatically closed upon being attacked. The scent of a familiar cologne filling his nostrils is what finally clues him in on the identity of his would-be assailant, and Q relaxes into the kiss. His hands find their way to Bond’s shoulders, at last, and although his grip is light he is doing his very best to kiss Bond back with just as much enthusiasm.

The fact that this right here is one of his many fantasies concerning this particular double oh agent does certainly not escape Q’s notice. Though to be fair, he never did imagine quite an attack-snog like this - in all honesty, his imagination pales in comparison. Q has yet to decide whether it’s a good or a bad thing.

The kiss goes on long enough that Q almost manages to forget to wonder just what had caused it.

Almost, but not quite, as eventually they both need to accept the fact that from time to time, breathing is highly recommended if one plans to continue living.

Bond is the one to - reluctantly - pull away from the kiss, though he moves his head only enough to be able to rest his cheek against Q’s while they both take in much needed gulps of air.

“Bond…  You’re back,” Q says when he can no longer remain quiet. He feels silly for pointing out the obvious, but the kiss they just shared seems to have robbed him of his higher brain functions. He can only hope that it won’t be permanent.

“Did you miss me?” Bond seems perfectly comfortable remaining exactly where he is, pressed snugly against Q with his arm around his waist. The fingers of the hand cupping Q’s head begin to run through his hair gently, and Q lets out a soft sigh and shivers at the feeling.

“You might have not disappeared the way you did,” Q says instead of replying to that question. It’s not like it wasn’t a rhetorical one, anyway. “And you didn’t have to thrown away your radio, 007. I would have appreciated that.”

“I might have, Quartermaster,” Bond agrees mildly and nuzzles at the side of his neck. “But I had things to take care of.”

“Of course you did,” Q says, trying his best to not appear quite as affected as he is by Bond acting like his more affectionate cat, Orion, with all of her headbutting and licking his face and everything else.

Bond’s next move better not be to lick his face, though. That’s where Q drew the line.

Well, for now, anyway.

While Q has been busy pondering the similarities between Bond and his cats, the man in question has progressed into leaving tiny little bites onto the skin of his neck. Q cannot truthfully say that he minds all that much, but he is aware that he ought to stop Bond nevertheless. For one thing, they’re still at his office, in full view of the security cameras (never mind that Q can easily delete any incriminating footage, it’s the principle of the thing); and for the other, he has absolutely no idea what has brought on this strange - if pleasant - new behaviour of Bond’s.

So Q clears his throat and says, “Bond?”

“Yes, Q?” Bond murmurs against the skin he’d just been biting, causing Q to shiver anew.

“Why, exactly, are you suddenly kissing me?” He pauses to gather his thoughts after yet another teasing bite nips his skin. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it, but I am curious to hear why now of all possible times.”

”Because I’ve been wanting to do it for a long time,” Bond replies, pulling back enough to be able to look him in the eye. “Also…”

“Also?” Q blinks, and Bond gestures upwards.

”Mistletoe.”

Q looks up, and yes, there really appears to be a real, live mistletoe hanging from the ceiling right in front of the door.

“That was not there when I left last night,” he feels compelled to point out.

”You’re not wrong.”

”Then how did it end up there? Or should I be asking, why did it end up there?”

”Well obviously someone put it there.”

”Obviously,” Q echoes and keeps on looking at Bond. ”It was you, wasn't it?” That would explain why none of his minions warned him about it when he came in - or about Bond’s return, for that matter.

”I can neither confirm nor deny such an allegation,” Bond replies. The kiss he plants on the corner of Q’s lips, however, speaks for itself.

”Why?” Q asks, because sometimes short and simple does the trick better than anything else.

“It’s Christmas,” Bond replies. “Seemed only appropriate.”

Q gets the feeling that that’s not quite everything Bond has to say about it, and he wonders if he can get to the bottom of it. But later. “Technically, it’s only the 23rd,” he points out in any case.

“True,” Bond acknowledges, “but I was hoping that you wouldn’t actually be at the office on Christmas Eve.”

“I hadn’t planned on being here tomorrow, no,” Q admits. “Well, unless 004 manages to cock things up again.” Q knows that these things happen, after all, no matter how good the agent in question is; and while 004 is good, he’s certainly no Bond.

Bond chuckles and nuzzles at Q’s cheek with his own stubbly one, and Q shivers. His arms tighten around Bond’s neck, which makes Bond hum appreciatively and turn his head to capture Q’s lips with his again.

This time Q is an equal participant in the kiss from the very first moments, and it’s an even lovelier kiss than the first one. Q keeps his eyes closed and his arms wrapped around Bond’s neck and surrenders to the kiss.

Lack of air is, however, an eventuality, and even the most loveliest of kisses must ultimately end. Q pulls away slowly and obligingly tilts his head for Bond to kiss his way down to his throat.

He’s still wondering what exactly Bond had been up to between the end of the mission and his sudden reappearance. Bond had only said that he’d had things to take care of, and Q’s curious about what they could have been. Well, perhaps one of them had been the acquiring of the mistletoe, which, yes, he can now see Bond not wanting him to find out about too soon. This all wouldn’t have been much of a surprise otherwise.

He’ll ask Bond about it, he decides, but not right now. Now they’re at work and while this has been absolutely lovely, Q is fully aware that they both have things to do that do not include kissing against his office door.

(Though that certainly should be included, in Q’s opinion.)

“Bond?”

“Won’t you call me James?”

“James,” Q amends. It feels strange to call Bond by his first name, but also right. Strangely right, even, Q thinks and smothers a giggle against Bond’s shoulder.

“Yes, love?”

“Um,” Q says and blinks, not having expected to hear that. “You’ve not been to see M yet, am I correct?”

“You are.”

“And am I also correct in assuming that even though you don’t have your radio, you do have the rest of your kit with you? Well, what’s left of it, anyway.”

Bond nods. “I left it at your desk.”

Q turns his head to look at his desk, and indeed, Bond’s kit rests there next to his no longer steaming Scrabble mug. How he missed it before is anyone’s guess, but Q firmly blames Bond and his mouth for distracting him so thoroughly.

“I shall look at it momentarily,” Q tells Bond.

“Is that your way of telling me to leave you alone, Quartermaster?” Bond asks, pretending to sound hurt. Or at least Q hopes he’s just pretending.

“It’s my way of telling you that we both have obligations to take care of, James,” Q replies. “And much as I have enjoyed this, we are at work and in full view of the cameras right now.”

“I am aware of that,” Bond says, sounding smug now. “R will be dealing with the evidence, and I may have requested a copy for myself.”

“Bond!”

Bond just chuckles and kisses Q gently on the lips. “Don’t worry, love, I’m sure she’ll have one made for you too.”

Q groans. “Not what I meant, and you know that!”

Bond just smiles. Q wants to simultaneously push him away and pull him even closer, but in the end he does neither.

“So, can I take you out to lunch today? And dinner, after work?” Bond then asks, now more serious.

Q blinks but nods. “I would like that, yes.”

“Excellent. I’ll be back after noon.” Then, finally, Bond pulls away from Q, who shivers at the feeling of losing his warmth. He has no idea why his office suddenly feels so chilly.

“Are you cold, love?” Bond asks. “I made you tea, I hope it’s still warm,” he adds and glances at Q’s desk with the beginnings of a frown on his forehead. Q immediately wants to reach out and kiss it away.

“Thank you, James,” he says softly and walks to his desk to pick up the mug and take a sip from it. It’s brewed to his exact preference, and whileit’s no longer hot it’s still warm enough to comfortably drink. Bond looks at him and his expression clears when Q takes another bigger sip.

“I shall see you later, then,” Bond says fondly. “Try not to get lost in your work, love, or I may be forced to kidnap you for our lunch date.”

Q snorts. “I’d like to see you try.”

Bond winks at him. “You just might.” Then he finally turns to the door, opens it and steps out into the branch proper, leaving Q to drink his tea and think back over the last fifteen or so minutes.

He’s still not exactly sure what had truly happened, let alone why it had happened, but he’s ready to take it as one of those things that Bond just does.

Because really, it cannot have anything to do with the email he’d sent. Or the star he’d wished upon.

Can it?

[buckyownsmyheart]

Duty [4/12]

CHAPTER 4: Getting Dolled Up

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: another 2.3k (next week is longer, promise!)

Warnings: A mouthy Sam, groping and a smooch or two

Series Summary: Ex-army doctor, and now on-mission-for-the-Avengers doctor, Major (Y/n) (Y/l/n), had prepared herself for anything. That was, of course, until she met a devastatingly charming Sergeant from Brooklyn with a quick wit and a kind smile. I wonder what will happen.

Series Masterlist

Chapter 3

You always liked to think that you were pretty prepared for anything that might be thrown your way, you had, however, not considered James Buchanan Barnes in an all-black velvet suit. Good god that man did things to you.

“Might want to close your mouth there, Doc,” he smirked at you, “You’ll catch flies.”

You shut your mouth quickly and swallowed, ignoring his smug look.

The team had been summoned by the New York mayor to oversee a gala at an art gallery. Intel suggested that there was going to be an art thief operating that evening, trying to steal one of the pieces of artwork, named “The Power of Reciprocity”, in a more concealed room down a corridor outside of the main room, and the thief would be using the gala as a cover to steal a piece. On the floor would be Tony, posing as himself, and then you and Bucky as undercover guests. In a van nearby would be Sam and Nat, as Steve was currently in New Jersey scoping out a newly reformed gang.

This was how you found yourself eating a bowl of Lucky Charms (because these events only ever have canapés, and you’ll be damned if you were going to go hungry), with half of your make-up on, wearing sweats and trying very hard not to obviously drool over Bucky Barnes as he stood there in his full suited glory.

You placed your now empty bowl in the dishwasher and turned back to Bucky, “I’ll admit, you scrub up nicely Barnes.” This was a small understatement, he did a lot more than scrub up nicely, he might actually be perfect, but there was no way he’d hear you say that. You walked up to Bucky, and continued, “Best I go get dressed and show you up before your head gets so big it needs external support.” You patted him on the chest, partly to satisfy the itch your fingers had to run themselves over every part of him, but also for effect as you walked towards your room.

Nat had tasked herself with finding you the perfect outfit, her reasoning being that she knows what can kill a man, both figuratively and literally. Per Nat’s styling advice, your hair was in a delicate up-do with a few strands framing your face, Wanda had done your makeup to bring out your eyes and the dress you pulled from some vastly expensive shop did wonders for your figure. In the end, you had both agreed on a floor length royal blue dress with jewelled detailing around the waist and the neckline. Nat had also supplied you with a knife thigh holster, as a gun would be too obvious in the dress. She had also bequeathed you one of her favourite knives, but not before adding a quick, “If you lose this, I will end you and everything you care about.” You also had on some heels that were a little too high for you, but you were just there to look pretty, so had thought why not?

You knew you looked good from the bolstering that the girls had given you, but that didn’t remove the butterflies that fluttered gently in your stomach. Ignoring them, you walked out into the kitchen, swaying your hips a little more than usual. The click of your shoes caught the attention of the team gathered there, and silence fell immediately.

“You ready boys?” You called out to them winking at Nat, as she chuckled at everyone eyeballing you. Bucky wandered over to you and gave you a not-so-subtle once over, and then a twice over.

He offered his arm, “Shall we?”

“Lead the way, Robocop.”

You took his arm and walked out with what had been becoming a permanent smile across your face.

“Hey lovebirds, give us a smile!” You heard Nat shout,

You and Bucky turned your heads at the same time before the undeniable ‘click’ of a camera. You turned back shaking your head, Bucky laughed gently beside you. You gave them all the bird as you both walked away, and they eventually made a move to follow you.

-

You perched your elbows on one of the high tables skirting the side-lines, waiting for someone to get hurt. What a great job you have. The champagne flute you held managed to stop you wringing your hands nervously.

“Hi, sweetheart,” A louche voice breathed in your ear as a hand moved far lower than you appreciated, following your curves. You were not in the mood to be dealing with this tonight. You grabbed the hand, twisting it and slamming it on the table. You looked up to the man.

“Do that to me again sweetheart,” you mimicked, “and I’m going to shove your balls so far up your ass that they’ll hang either side of your tongue instead.”

You put your glass down and strode away, trying to find Bucky to ease your mind, and hoped that he looked murderous enough that any glare he sent would put anyone who looked at you the wrong way off. Before you could find him, you heard Sam’s voice in your ear.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Nat also spoke up, her silky voice full of barely concealed laughter, “I fully endorse any form of violence you wish to inflict upon that man.”

You chuckled, feeling your anger dissipate, and whispered, “Tash, you’d endorse any form of violence no matter the context,”

There was laughter filling your ear, and a buzzing of agreement. You scanned the room, subconsciously checking if Bucky was still okay when he appeared beside you.

“You okay?” His eyes scanned your face, and you gave a smile, a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding was released.

“Yeah, I’m all good, Buck. I doubt that guy will ever try that again though,” you breathed out, a whisper of a laugh present. A scowl had formed on his face, and you knew he needed a distraction before he got too caught up in planning someone’s murder, “Come on, let’s dance.”

“Dance?” He questioned.

“Yeah, you know, you move your feet in time with music, maybe even smile?”

“A smile? Don’t get ahead of yourself Doc,” Sam’s voice filled your ear once more.

“Butt out, birdbrain,” Bucky growled.

“Come on Sarge, whaddya say? For recon purposes.” You grinned at him,

“For recon purposes? Well, I can’t say no to that.” he offered his hand to you, a bright smile lightened his features before he put his own glass down and pulled you onto the dancefloor. You were focussing intently on not rolling your ankle because your knees had gone a little wobbly at his warm hand and warmer gaze that had fixed intently upon you. What you didn’t know was that it had been on you the whole evening, and he couldn’t quite get himself to stop.

On the dancefloor, you were acutely aware of Bucky’s gloved hand on your waist and his thighs brushing against yours as he expertly led you around, weaving between the other guests. Wow, you needed to get your head out of the gutter. Tony caught your eye whilst he was talking to the mayor and winked. Why did he seem to always know what was going on? Trying to concentrate on what you were actually here for, and not the movement of Bucky’s shoulder under your hand, or the tickle of his breath on your neck.

“Uh, Buck?” He hummed against you, his chest vibrating against yours, “Is it normal for people to stare unblinkingly at us?” He froze, “There’s someone at your 7 o’clock, light blue suit.”

Bucky spun you both around slowly, and spoke quietly, “I think he might have recognised me, Sam, Nat? How should we proceed?”

Your ear filled with static and then Nat’s voice, “I think you know what to do, Barnes, think Cap Pre-Berlin 2014, the mall.”

You pulled back and glanced at Bucky, “What happened in 2014?”

Bucky’s face was completely unreadable, “Sorry about this Major.”

And suddenly his lips were on yours, his right hand had moved from holding yours to on your cheek, whilst his left squeezed your waist. Automatically your left hand moved to the nape of his neck, and your lips moved against his. His unique sandalwood scent, the scent of him, filled your senses and everywhere he touched you felt like it was on fire. Before you had fully processed the kiss, and far too early for your liking, he pulled away. His ears were a bit pink, and he looked at his shoes sheepishly. You opened your mouth to say something, but Sam interrupted.

“Think you put him off alright, put me off my damn soup, jeez! You’re paying for my therapy after that!” He gave a chuckle, “Stark and Barnes, you’re on. He's headed through the door to the painting.”

You looked back up at Bucky, “You got a bit of uh- “, you swiped your thumb over his lip, “Um, lipstick,” you clarified, trying not to stumble fully over your sentence

“Bad guy, Barnes, pick up your chin”

“Thanks, Tony,” grumbled Bucky, but he still didn’t move, his eyes not leaving your face and you could almost see the cogs whirring in his brain.

You whispered to him, pushing lightly on his chest, “Go catch the bad guy, Sarge, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Right, bad guy, yeah,” and he went to the door with purpose, and you had to prevent yourself from saying something else you might regret. You knew there was something between you, there was attraction (you had caught him looking more than once), but you’re scared if you begin to care a whole lot more, that it might break you when he got hurt. Maybe it would change the team dynamic, or you could be used as leverage and a ploy against him. There were many potential downfalls if you admitted your feelings. It also terrified you that someone might be able to see underneath your toughened exterior. He might be attracted to the idea of you, the person on the outside, without knowing what he's getting on the inside.

“Hey Doc,” Nat’s voice cut through your downward spiral, “Think they might need some help down in the side room.”

You walked as quickly as you could without arousing suspicion towards the corridor. As the noise of the main hall died down, the clicks of your heels felt obnoxiously loud, something was off.

“Bucky? Tony?” you called out down the corridor, wondering where they had gone. If only you had looked at the blueprints before, guess that’s karma for not paying attention during the briefing. Tony would have your ass later. A large forearm closed around your neck, crushing your windpipe, and you convulsed, trying to get some air into your lungs.

A deep voice rumbled behind you. "No time for that. " His voice reverberated through your body, making you shudder at its malice. As your vision started to tunnel, Nat’s voice was in your ear, saying something you couldn’t work out. It sounded like you were underwater. Nat. Her knife. You moved your hand to your holster and pulled out the knife, sharply jabbing it into the guys leg, aiming for any artery you could find. He yelled out in pain and dropped you. Falling to your knees you gasped for air, taking long deep breaths and trying to calm yourself. The guy was now lying next to you, twitching. You knew in a couple of minutes he would bleed out and die, but at this point you were too thankful to care. When he finally lay still, you reached over and pulled out the knife, trying not to look at his paled face and shocked eyes. You had never quite got used to taking a life, no matter how necessary, it was never a pleasant ordeal. You were in the business of saving them, felt upside down doing the opposite. As you stood up Bucky hurled around the corner.

“What happened? Are you okay? Who’s this guy? Natasha said you weren’t answering comms and we got scared. I thought something might have happened to you,” he stopped, looked at the bloody knife in your hands and his face moved slowly back to your face, more questioning now, “Where did that come from?”

“A woman never tells,” you winked, hiding your fear behind a façade of calm, and slowly slid the knife back into its place on your thigh. Tony rounded the corner.

“Bad guy won’t be getting away, that’s for sure,” he regarded the body at your feet with a look of surprise and mild amusement, “I’m going to tell Sam he really doesn’t want to mess with you.” He brushed past you and Bucky, before adding finally, “Cops are on their way, I’m going to enjoy the free booze!” And with a wave, he was out of sight.

You wrung your hands and said to Bucky, not quite looking at him, “I’m going to head home, you’re more than welcome to stay here though.”

“Nah, I’ve outdone my social interaction quota for the month, I’ll drive you.”

Once more, you heard Sam pipe up in your ear, “Anyone still bothering you Major? I can come in and kick their ass for you, I’ve been told I’m quite adept at it.”

“Just a one old man, around 6”2? 260lbs? He has a bionic arm, but I reckon I can handle him Wilson, thanks for the offer.”

“Yes ma’am,” came the reply.

Bucky feigned offense before taking your hand, squeezing it twice before wrapping his arm around your shoulder and helping you in the direction of the car. You leaned on his shoulder, thankful for the solidity of it and its ever-present stability for you. As he placed a soft kiss on the crown of your head you decided that your feelings for him were a problem for future you, present you was going to enjoy his company without feeling guilty.

New York Times

Art thief found tied upside down with his own trousers, is now threatening to sue the Avengers and well-known billionaire Tony Stark. More on page 4.

  Chapter 5

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