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spencersawkward · 4 years ago

Text

*house call // wes (Dollface)*

ssummary: when her pet cat gives her a scare, Reader decides to call the vet to make sure everything is going to be okay.

pairing: Fem!Reader x Wes

word count: 5.4k

content warnings: discussion of cannabis/cannabis consumption, unprotected penetrative sex, use of nicknames (baby, sweetheart), SoftDom!Wes, breeding kink, creampie.

request: can you do a wes smutty one shot if you’re down?!

A/N: to be fair, i haven’t watched Dollface in a minute, but i’m obsessed with the domestic vibes that Matthew gives off when he plays Wes and i just thought it would be super cute. anyway, this was super fun also i wanna fuck Wes. ok enjoy!

masterlist

the absolute best part of your day is when the package arrives at your doorstep. you impulse-purchased it about two weeks ago while you were hanging out with one of your close friends, and you've been looking forward to trying it every day since.

or, really, for your cat to try it.

you've read reviews and been extremely diligent to make sure the stuff is completely safe, and everything you've seen or read was singing the praises of this cat weed (which isn't actually cannabis at all, but catnip made to look like it).

as you take the cardboard box to the kitchen table and pry open the top with the help of a Swiss army knife, you're grinning. Klimt comes scampering into the room to see what all the fuss is about, sitting at your feet with his tail curled around his legs.

"no peeking." you scold him gently. your kitten, the friendliest little rescue tabby around, simply stares blankly back. when you remove the wrapping from the glass jar and stare at it up close, you're impressed by how realistic it looks. the label shows cat-friendly ingredients only, but you unscrew the top and get a whiff of catnip.

Klimt begins to weave in between your legs, nudging them affectionately and beginning to purr. you giggle and bend down to give him a few pets. his nose twitches; he tries to sniff at the foreign object, but you put it back on the table.

"don't be greedy, babe." you scratch between his pointed ears and he lets out a whiny meow.

it's about his dinner time, and you were hoping to give him his treat tonight after he finishes his dry food. so you make yourself something simple with the leftovers in your fridge and do some more work on your laptop while you two eat together.

you've had Klimt for a while, now. you call him a kitten even though he's a full-grown cat-- he's just as playful and enthusiastic as any newborn. his eyes are the color of meadow grass, and his nose is scattered with tiny freckles. it makes him look like he's just come from digging around the backyard, but it really just adds to his charm.

not to mention his ceaselessly social tendencies: Klimt is always around when your friends come over, worming his way in between you or sitting on one of the free chair cushions to listen. you wonder if he knows what you're saying sometimes, because when you talk about the embarrassing things you've done that day or the failed interactions you've had, he always lifts his head to give you something of a judgmental stare.

once you've settled down for the evening and turned on the TV, you decide that now is the time. Klimt is aimlessly poking at a few of his toys. he bats at a fake mouse between his paws.

"kitten," you click your tongue and get up to grab the jar. "are you ready to try this stuff?"

as if he's going to answer. he hears your footsteps coming back his way and watches patiently. it's only when you pour out a little bit in front of him that he gets curious about the stuff. you admire his movements as he bends down and examines.

although you keep an eye on him while watching your show, you don't notice much of a change in him. he starts to roll about on the floor, which is to be expected, but it's only when he starts to chase around his fake mouse that things get interesting.

you laugh as Klimt goes nuts, jumping back and attacking the thing like he's ready to come in for the kill. it's really funny, but you're interrupted by your phone buzzing. you told your friend that you were doing this tonight.

"hi!" you answer the FaceTime call right away.

"how is he?" you can hear the smile in Andi's voice as you turn the camera.

"he's loving it."

"oh my god," she laughs. Klimt arches his back, leaping so highly in the air, you raise your eyebrows. "I wonder how long it'll last." she muses.

"I'm guessing we'll get about an hour more of this before he passes out for the next two days." you joke. he gets strong bursts of energy usually, but they only last so long until he's curled up on the window sill or in your bed.

Andi and you talk for a while as Klimt tires himself out and plays with all of his favorite toys. you dangle a string in front of him for a decent amount of time, too, just to make him get up on his hindquarters. he's a natural entertainer, a lithe little thing who lets out a few irritated meows to demonstrate his impertinence.

after about forty-five minutes, however, you notice your cat's behavior change. he keeps raising his hackles and rolling about, and something about it makes you nervous. he doesn't usually act like this, not even when he plays with the other catnip toys he's accumulated.

"what's wrong?" Andi notes your furrowed brow as you look past the camera of your phone and at your pet.

"he's just acting really weird," you pat the couch cushion to call him over, but he doesn't even glance up. "I don't know why."

"maybe it's the cat weed." she suggests. you purse your lips and try to think.

"yeah, but nobody in the reviews ever mentioned anything like this."

"I'm sure he's fine, Y/N."

"yeah, I know..." but you're worried. Klimt is your pal, your cuddle buddy. as he rubs his cheek against the wooden floor, you feel guilt pool in your stomach. if he's hurt because of some dumb online purchase, you're never going to forgive yourself. "I'm gonna call the vet just to be sure."

"oh, okay," she sounds surprised, but doesn't try to stop you. "let me know what they say."

"I will." you hang up the phone and stare at your companion for a few seconds. he leaps into the air and does a somersault before letting out some deeply disturbing whine that reminds you to call the vet. better safe than sorry.

...

when the doorbell rings, you're practically twiddling your thumbs anxiously. Klimt hasn't settled at all, and you haven't even bothered to change out of your lounging ensemble. you're pretty sure you look a mess, but hopefully the person won't care too much.

you don't know who to expect-- your usual vet is an older woman who is friends with your mom, but her receptionist said she was out tonight and would send over another vet to check it out.

when you swing open the door, you immediately regret the decision to stay in sweatpants.

"hi, I'm Wes." the guy gives you a friendly smile and holds up his bag. it's almost comically old-fashioned, something out of an old movie, and you half-expect him to be wearing a stethoscope around his neck.

he's gorgeous, though. definitely a good amount older than you, tall with brown curls and stubble. his features stand out to you even under the porch light, and your mouth guppies idiotically.

"hi," you manage. his eyes flicker to your hand, which is seemingly blocking him from coming inside the house, and you jolt back a little to let him in. you clear your throat. "sorry."

as he steps inside and you close the door behind him, getting one tiny moment to yourself, your eyes widen. way to make yourself look like a bumbling fool.

"I heard that there's a tabby who got into some catnip?" you catch him looking around the front of your house, eyes catching on the framed photos before finding yours again. you can feel the heat creeping up your cheeks, but nod confidently.

"yeah, Klimt. he should still be in the living room."

"Klimt? like the artist?" he chuckles and follows you into the rest of the home. his voice has a nice timbre to it, something low and gentle that fits well with his occupation.

"yeah, exactly." you turn to smile at him.

you hear the cat before you see him. he's climbed to the top of his cat tree and leaps down onto the ground, paws hitting the surface in a way that can't have been comfortable. he chirps and looks up at Wes, whose lips are turned up with amusement.

"are you the man of the hour?" he asks, approaching the cat. Klimt's pupils get enormous and he prepares to pounce on the newcomer.

"careful--" you start to warn him, but the cat launches himself right into Wes' arms. the vet turns to you, holding him to his chest, and grins. warmth spreads over your skin with embarrassment. "sorry."

"no need to apologize," he starts to pet Klimt, who is only slightly struggling to escape. he wants to go wild again, but Wes isn't going to let go. "they call me the Cat Wrangler at the office."

"really?" you snort. he brings your pet over to the couch and sets him on the cushions, careful to keep him in place.

"no way." he shoots you a dazzling smile. the joke makes you giggle, and you feel yourself become even more self-conscious about the outfit you're wearing. this is just your luck, having hot guys come over when you distinctly look your worst.

Wes scratches between Klimt's ears and glances up at you again. "is there any reason in particular you're worried about the catnip?"

"yeah, actually," you nod, brought back to reality. "I know it's supposed to make them more playful, but he's just been acting weird and I got worried that there was something in it that messed with his head."

"can I see the container for it?" he asks. you go to grab the jar, only to remember that it proudly announces itself as cannabis for cats. profound embarrassment causes you to hesitate with the stuff in your hands.

it's not like he's here for you to flirt with, but you're still thinking about how stupid and young you're going to look with this stuff in front of him, a hot older guy who seems to have his life under control. you peek at him once more from the kitchen, at the way he smiles and starts to talk softly to Klimt as if he were a peer.

he's kinda crazy, and it makes you smile.

"it's cat weed." you hand him the glass container, and Wes breaks into a grin as he looks at the front.

"oh my gosh, I've heard about this!" his eyes move quickly over the label. you're in shock.

"really?"

"yeah, it's hilarious. here, can you make sure our friend here doesn't move while I read the ingredients?" he gestures. the knot of anxiety within you loosens a bit. you nod obediently, going to scoop up your pet and sit him on your lap. he's still squirmy, but he doesn't look ready to attack either of you, thankfully.

"hey, you." you greet your pal affectionately. his tail is wagging impatiently while Wes kneels on the ground beside the couch. there's a silver ring on his finger, but you notice with relief that it's not on his fourth one.

when he sets the jar down on the coffee table with the kind of smile that hints at some secret amusement, you frown. "what?"

"nothing," he shakes his head. "Klimt is gonna be totally fine."

"are you sure?" you pet the feline's smooth coat.

"definitely. you know how drugs affect people differently?" he asks. you want to say no, you don't know that because why would you, but then you remember that there is quite literally a glass-blown bowl sitting on your kitchen table.

"sure." you reply honestly.

"it's the same with cats: some just feel the effects a little more." he shrugs. you think this over for a second.

"that makes sense."

"yeah, I'd estimate about an hour more of this wildcat behavior before he takes a ten-hour nap." he cracks another joke and you find yourself totally charmed by him. something about the way he talks just makes your heart beat like crazy.

"that's a relief."

he chuckles and stands up, grabbing the bag (which he never even had to use) and starting to walk out of the living room. you can smell his delicious cologne as he moves past you.

"sorry for making you come out here so late." you apologize from the couch. Wes turns to look at you with an easygoing expression. his free hand is tucked into his pocket.

"no worries. you have a lovely home." he gestures to the kitchen, and then at the bowl sitting there in the open. you have to fight the smile on your face.

"thanks." you're smirking. right before he's about to head back out, you ask a question that's been wriggling around in your mind since he arrived. "why no title?"

"you mean, like, Doctor or something?" he stops in the threshold. one hand leans against it while he answers your question. you still can't get over how tall he is.

"sure. I mean, you are a doctor, right?" it comes out more dubious than you intended, but he doesn't get offended, only smiles.

"yes, I'm a doctor. I went to Davis." he points like the school is right outside your door. you nod.

"cool."

there's a silence where you just look at each other, and you forget that you look like you just rolled out of bed. he clears his throat.

"to answer your question, I just go by Wes because you're not my patient-- Klimt is." he points to the kitten, who is now chasing his own tail like a dog. you snort at the sight.

"how humble of you."

"I know, right?" he's joking. you find yourself not wanting him to leave, even though you've really just met. he's so sweet and funny and handsome... your stomach is flipping over and over like a schoolgirl.

and it's stupid that you can't think of one plausible reason for him to stay, but every step he takes shortens your time to think. so you just blurt, instead.

"would you want a beer?"

Wes pauses and looks at you, an unreadable expression on his face. "a beer?"

"yeah, I mean... you came all the way out here and I just feel bad for causing a fuss over nothing." you scramble slightly to justify your words. you don't ever drink beer-- do you even have any? god, this is embarrassing.

the vet checks the watch on his wrist, then smiles at you with a halting kind of enjoyment, before nodding. "sure."

"okay, great." you turn on your heel to hide the grin on your face. he follows you again to the kitchen area and leans against the counter while you open the fridge. the best form of flirting you can manage right now is bending over shamelessly and taking your time to poke around.

thankfully, there are three cold bottles left towards the back. you take out two and use the tool in one of your drawers to pop the tops off. he watches patiently, takes a sip when you hand the drink to him. your eyes meet.

"so, what prompted the cat weed purchase?" he starts the conversation effortlessly, and you try to keep your eyes from wandering over the shape of him. now that he's just standing in front of you, you're noticing the way his sweater sits against his frame, his long legs and the way his head rests on an elegantly-proportioned neck.

"I just saw it and thought it would be fun." you shrug honestly. he smiles.

"do you think you're gonna let him try it again another time?"

"I don't know," you cross your arms over your chest. "I'm a little nervous, but he also was having a lot of fun until I made him sit still."

"fair enough." you both turn your gazes to the cat. he's nudging a little toy ball with his nose and watching it roll across the floor. there are tiny bells inside that jingle. Wes turns back to you. "what do you do?"

"graphic designer."

"an artist." he raises his brows, impressed.

"not exactly saving animal lives, but I get by." you take another sip of your drink.

"it's not like that, mostly." he rolls his eyes playfully.

"then what's it like?"

"I just see and talk to people's pets all day. it's a pretty great job, even when it's not. you know?" he's optimistic about it. you're drawn to his positive energy, to the way he smiles when he speaks like he's preparing to deliver a witty joke.

you're hopelessly attracted to him, and the space between you is becoming unbearable. even though he's a guy you just met, you can feel in your gut that something about this is just right. you want his body against yours.

"you okay?" he breaks what you only now realize is a silence, and you blink to clear the dirty images from your mind.

"yeah." only thinking about you fucking me against a countertop. it must be the fact that you haven't gotten laid in a while or something, because you usually aren't this attracted to people within the first hour. it takes longer for you to even want to kiss them.

"what kind of stuff do you design?" he seems genuinely interested as he shifts and continues to nurse his drink.

"I work for a tech startup downtown, so it's a lot of website work to make sure it's navigable and pretty." you try to sum up your duties, but it's hard when his hazel eyes are so intent. he listens to every word.

"do you do personal work, too? like, just for you?"

"actually, yeah!" this sparks your excitement.

"can I see?" his smile widens. "only if you're comfortable, of course."

"sure." you're beaming.

he stays put as you start to go out of the kitchen, but then you smile. "you can come with."

"oh." he sets his beer down on the counter and follows you, slightly surprised. but you don't care; you were nervous before, but he's stayed for this long. maybe he wants you, too.

once you get to your bedroom, you're grateful that it's been freshly cleaned. there's even a bouquet from the flower's market sitting on your dresser, and you head over to the desk to sift through the drawers for what you want.

"cool room." he compliments from the threshold. he's careful not to make you uncomfortable, but also can't resist the curiosity that draws his gaze from wall to wall. you find the stack of papers and smile.

"thanks," you place the folder in his hands. "these are some printed versions of stuff I did last year."

Wes immediately begins to flip through the art. him seeing your stuff makes you nervous, so you pretend to focus on straightening up the few items that sit on your desk. you wipe your fingertip over a nonexistent film of dust.

"these are amazing," he says, holding a card stock copy in between his index and middle fingers. "holy shit."

"thank you." you're trying to keep from smiling too hard. you can tell that he's being genuine with his compliments, and it makes your heart swell.

"definitely. are you showing anywhere?"

"at an exhibit downtown a couple months back, but I've been so busy with work that personal stuff hasn't really been on the table, you know?"

he nods in understanding and continues to go through until the end. when he's finished, he looks up and sees you, his eyes concentrated. he doesn't speak at first, and an undercurrent ripples across the room. there are about three feet between you, and you have no excuse to lessen it.

he licks his lips slowly. you purse yours, unsure of what to say.

"I'm glad you called tonight." his voice is lower, slightly uncertain, like he's testing the boundaries. except you don't want boundaries right now. you want to go wild on him.

"me, too." you reply. it's in your eyes, that begging for him to do what you're scared to initiate.

your tongue is pressed to the back of your teeth in anticipation. and when he sets the art back on your desk and comes closer, you feel yourself give in. bubbles of excitement travel up your body as he grabs your face and bends down to kiss you.

it's full, passionate, not the kind of kiss you give someone you've just met. laced with desire and longing, you respond immediately. hands immediately run to his forearms, over his shoulders as he imposes beautifully on your form. it's so hard, you lean back slightly. your torso presses against his until he pushes you against the wall.

the slight gasp that escapes your lips causes him to smile, followed by your moan and clutching fingers. the material of his sweater, the taste of him mingled with that sophisticated, gentle smell of cologne that you want printed all over your skin.

"come here." he murmurs against your mouth and reaches down to the back of your thigh so you can hook your leg around his waist. you whine at the easy access he has to grind against your core, both of you desperate.

"Wes." you pant into his open mouth. he sucks on your bottom lip before finding your cheek and jaw. his fingertips tighten around your flesh.

"this feel good, sweetheart?" he checks in. coincidentally, his jeans grind against your panties at exactly the right spot and your hips jump. you release a pleasured yelp.

"mhmm."

"sounds like it." he latches onto your throat with a possessive excitement. you can feel him sucking and biting at the skin until you're positive there'll be marks tomorrow. you hope there are; purpled evidence of his touch. he digs his nails into your thighs. "you like it when older men touch you, baby?"

he blows over your tender throat before attacking it again. you sigh contentedly at the way he mingles sensations for your pleasure. "yes."

he grunts and nips at your collarbone, sliding the strap of your top down your shoulder so that he can effortlessly flutter his lips over the skin. you grip at him and toss your head back against the wall. his weight on yours is divine. it makes you weak, but that doesn't matter. he's practically holding you up at this point.

when his hand pushes under the hem of your shirt and dances over your stomach, you arch your back for more. he's gentle yet firm, pulling you close like he wants to breathe your oxygen. he's tracing over your ribcage, all the way up to the valley of your breasts, before cupping one and moaning into your shoulder.

he kisses you again with an aching hunger that can't be satiated. your tongues meet and Wes finds your hardened nipples beneath the thin fabric of your bralette. you sigh while he starts to circle one with his thumb.

"you're perfect." he breathes.

you want to bask in this moment, to enjoy the shock across your skin when he reaches his hand back down between your bodies to dip below the waistband of your sweatpants, but you're just so greedy. he could make you cum over and over and it would never be enough.

"what do you want me to do to you?" Wes is hovering over your lower stomach, dangerously close to where you need him most. he's teasing. the warmth of his skin drives you mad. his breath brushes over the shell of your ear.

"fuck me." it's the only response you can fathom. every other instinct in your body flies out the window and is replaced by a craving to sink your proverbial (and literal) teeth into him.

but he loves it, apparently, because he pushes you back against the wall with a nearly bruising force. "I can do that."

with those words, he quickly grabs your other leg and lifts you into his arms, bringing you to the bed and laying you delicately on the mattress while you giggle. you stare up at him with an almost daydreamy lust. his cheeks are flushed.

you only get a second of that heavenly sight, though, before he dips down and pushes your shirt up to see your tits and kiss up the chasm between your ribs. his stubble tickles your skin, which causes you to smile.

by the time he's pulled your sweatpants off and tossed them to the side, you're whining for him to strip down as well.

"what is it, pretty girl?" he murmurs against your tummy. when you try to squeeze your thighs, he pushes them apart.

"I wanna see you." your fingertips touch at his sweater. he chuckles and pulls the garment over his head. it messes up his perfect hair even more and you love it, tangling your fingers in it. he bites his lip.

"do you want me to taste you first?" he keeps stroking the inside of your thighs and staring down at the skimpy lace that you're positive that you've already soaked. you're making him crazy with the way you roll your hips against air, against nothing, seeking any kind of stimulation.

"I can't wait." you shake your head. as nice as it would be, you're going to implode if he doesn't fill you up soon. he drags his fingers down your clothed slit and groans when he feels just how ready you are for him.

"let's take these off then, okay, sweetheart?" he hooks his fingers in the panties and waits for you to nod before tugging them down your legs. you whimper at the cool air that hits your core, soaked and needy. Wes stares at your body on display for him.

as he gets back up from the floor to kiss you again, you both work to remove the rest of his clothes. his skin is perfect under your hands. his chest is warm, solid, and when he climbs on top of you, his arms rest on either side of your head.

one hand comes down to grab his own cock and stroke it a few times before lowering himself to rub it against your throbbing clit. you whimper at the pressure; he's mindless when he feels how easily you cover him in your essence.

"so fucking wet..." he groans while rutting against you.

"Wes, please--" your breath hitches. "put it in."

"begging?" he teases your entrance with the head and smirks. "good girl."

"mhmm." you're smiling, but your mouth drops open when he pushes himself inside.

it's a heavy feeling, him filling you up. he's thick and the stretching of your walls makes him groan and rest his head on your shoulder. he kisses the skin there while diving deeper into your body.

you're shaking slightly from the mixture of pain and pleasure, his size forcing your body to work quickly to accommodate. your eyes are squeezed shut, but you run your hands over his back and shoulders to stay grounded. it feels like a dream.

he starts to pull out, coated in your wetness while you whimper below him, and he grabs your face with one hand in a dominant, soft gesture. "okay?"

"yeah."

he pushes back in. the air in your lungs is practically gone at this point, he's so deep inside. your eyes roll back and push your hips up to take him at a new angle. Wes finds his pace easily, rocking into your body at a manageable pace to let you get used to the sensation.

every time his hips roll down and he buries himself in you, he presses on your clit and sends a new shock through your body. he leans on his elbows to get closer and feel every undulation of your body. you love how his thrusts force your legs apart, how he moans your name and causes the headboard to repeatedly hit the wall while maintaining eye contact. hazel irises that rake over your features with lust.

"you feel so good." he speeds up a little when he hits a certain spot. you can feel him deep and hard, causing a small bump to rise in your stomach with each stroke. his voice is husky and dark. like a man starved.

"fuck..." you drag your nails down his back. he groans at the red marks that you will no doubt leave for him.

"clingy thing, huh?" he sucks at your throat affectionately. "I come over for one thing and you can't help yourself."

hearing Wes speak through his own panting is like listening to a secret, and you never want it to stop. he's reveling in the sordid crush of his own wants, and the way he shoves into you shows you that he has no intention of slowing down for a while.

"I'm impatient." you smirk. he pulls away to admire your expression.

"so am I." he kisses your lips and starts to pound into you. the juxtaposition of his tenderness and the sharp snap of his hips to yours fills you with butterflies. you love how much he wants to ruin you.

"Wes-- oh my god!" you whimper. he grabs your hips and yanks them closer to him so he can go as deep as possible, so he can hit your cervix.

"that's right, sweetheart," he pants. you can tell that he's starting to lose control. "say my name. I want everyone to know what a good little slut you are for me."

the commanding tone makes your body shake. "I- I'm cumming, Wes, please--"

"please what, baby?" he taunts. his index finger is tracing over your jaw.

you don't know what it is that you're wanting, except more. as your form shudders and tightens, walls fluttering around his cock, you lose the capacity to speak. you grind your hips against him and cry out pathetically while he pushes you back down and slams ruthlessly into your pussy.

"cum inside-- please, I need it--" you writhe. he groans at the request.

"fuck, yes..." he sheathes himself. "take it."

you gasp as he repeatedly hits your weakest point and spills hot ropes of his cum inside you, still thrusting in and out and whimpering into your shoulder at the clenching sensation you give his cock. it's warm, strangely delightful, nearly sending you into another orgasm sheerly from the sight.

he mutters unintelligibly as he empties himself in your pussy, but you catch a growled "so needy," between deep moans. you're clinging to him like you'll never have it again. you might not.

he slows down, giving shallower thrusts while riding out his high and shoving his cum deeper inside. it turns lazy and messy, both of you panting, before he finally pulls out and rolls over next to you.

you press the back of your hand to your forehead. it's sweaty from all the work he just put you through, but you feel amazing at the same time. your eyes keep flickering from the ceiling above to his rising and falling chest beside you. his nose twitches; he turns his head to look at your face.

although you expect him to say something, he doesn't. instead, you just stare at each other. the air conditioner rattles gently in the background. you're not sure how long this lasts, this soaking in, but he's the first to break it.

"hey."

you find the corners of your lips turning up. "hi."

"do you mind if I go get something to clean you up?" he asks softly, his fingertips finding your forearm with ease and drifting over it.

"sure. bathroom is the first door on the left."

he gets up and you watch him gather his clothes, eyes glued to his perfect form. you can't believe you just had sex with your veterinarian. you don't regret it at all.

he wanders out of the room and your eyes follow, only to see Klimt sitting patiently by the door.

"what are you doing, perv?" you tease as he comes over and leaps up onto the bed. his kitten paws pad over the blankets and settle into the crook of your arm. you smile to yourself, recalling how sweet the vet was with him. "hey, Wes?" you call out.

"yeah?" he comes back into the room with a warm washcloth and a small smile on his face.

"would you wanna get coffee or something sometime?" you bite your lip. maybe he doesn't want to go on a date, but it's worth a shot.

"sure." he breaks into a grin that makes you giddy. thank god, because you really were hoping to see him again.

you can't wait.

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#matthew gray gubler #mgg #mgg x reader #wes x reader #wes dollface #mgg smut #mgg fluff #mgg character smut #mgg characters #dollface

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c-e-d-dreamer · 3 years ago

Text

Fire and Ice Day for @nessianweek Yes, I just wanted an excuse to write more hockey player Cassian. No, I will not be taking criticisms at this time. Follow up to this drabble. Hope you enjoy! :)

Nesta steps out of the English building, taking in a deep breath of the crisp, winter air. The lecture hall had been stifling, and the way Professor Matthews had droned on and on about Chekhov had her desperate for the class to end. She cuts across the Commons, heading toward the library, when she hears heavy footsteps fall in beside her. She doesn't need to look to know who they belong to.

"So about that dinner," Cassian starts.

"I don't actually recall agreeing to it."

"Well, how else am I supposed to thank you for being there in my time of concussion need?"

"You don't need to thank me. Maybe I was just hoping to see if a good thwack to your head would finally fix it. Clearly, it didn't."

"Sadly, all it did was make my two working brain cells become just one," Cassian says, putting on his best solemn tone.

The comment pulls a surprised laugh out of Nesta, and when she turns her head to look at Cassian, his smile is wide and his eyes are bright. She swears she can almost see pride swimming in those flecks of gold that make up his hazel eyes.

"So what time should I pick you up?"

Nesta doesn't respond. She merely rolls her eyes with a scoff and continues toward the library. That is until Cassian uses his long strides to step in front of her, effectively cutting her path off.

"What do you have to lose?"

"My sanity?"

"So 6:00 then?"

Nesta takes a moment to take Cassian in. He still has that cocky grin that never seems to leave splashed across his face. But she doesn't miss the way he fidgets, running a hand through his tangle of dark curls, nor does she miss the nervous pinch around his eyes. She supposes she could go for a good meal, and while Cassian most definitely gets under her skin, he's not the worst company.

"I have to meet with my group for our psychology project. 7:00?"

"Deal."

The smile on Cassian's face pulls even wider, and Nesta's pretty sure the only thing keeping him from actually cheering is the way he clenches his fists at his side. It's endearing, and Nesta bites the inside of her cheek to keep her own smile tampered down.

"Well, see you then," Nesta says, starting back toward her original destination of the library.

"Wear something nice, yeah?" Cassian calls after her.

Nesta flips him off over her shoulder at the comment, and Cassian's booming laughter follows her all the way across the Commons.

Luckily, meeting with the students in her group project isn't too migraine inducing. They divvy up the work and all agree on who will take which slides. When she makes it back to her dorm, she pulls a black dress out and gets started on her makeup.

At 7:00 on the dot, there's a knock at her door. She quickly slips on her heels before pulling it open, Cassian waiting on the other side. The way that Cassian's mouth drops open and the awed way he whispers, "holy shit," has a blush creeping in and settling on Nesta's cheeks.

"You clean up nice," she notes.

And he does. Cassian has on a button down, the sleeves rolled up slightly, the tanned skin of his forearms and the ink that swirls against it on full display. Both the shirt and the black slacks he's wearing are form fitting, showing off the athletic cut to his body, years of skating having done wonders for honing the muscles. And while Cassian's dark curls are loose against his shoulders, Nesta can tell he's put product in it.

Nesta waits for Cassian to make some sort of quip back after her comment, maybe for him to even comment on her, but he just continues to stare like he can't believe she's actually real. She tries not to focus on the fact that look has her heart beating double time in her chest, or the fact that warmth settles through her whole body. Instead, Nesta just rolls her eyes and steps fully into the hall, closing her door behind her. The sound seems to jolt Cassian back to reality, who blinks hard before his eyes focus properly on Nesta's own.

"Wait," he says. "Bring your skates."

"My skates?" Nesta asks confusedly. "I thought we were going to dinner?"

"We are, but bring them."

"Why?"

"Just bring them."

Nesta sighs, clearly not getting a straight answer out of him. But she heads back inside, stuffing a heavy pair of socks into her skates. She steps into the hall, skates in hand, and raises a pointed eyebrow as if to ask, 'happy?' Cassian's just answers with a wide grin.

Cassian leads Nesta down to his truck, and she's surprised when he drives them to one of the higher end chophouses downtown. Dinner is good and the conversation flows easily between them. Cassian even asks Nesta about her current book and actually looks genuinely interested as she explains it. Although, his smirk is infuriating as she tries to subtly skip over the more… scandalous parts.

After dinner, they clamber back into Cassian's truck, and Nesta's brow pinches in confusion as they pull into the rink parking lot. This explains the skate request. When Nesta looks over at Cassian, his eyes are already on her. Under the yellow glow of the parking lot lights, his eyes look extra golden, but Nesta doesn't miss the mischievous glint swimming in them.

"I'm not exactly dressed for skating," Nesta points out, glancing down at her dress as if to prove her point.

"Says who?"

"I'm serious."

Rather than respond, Cassian just reaches back into the backseat of his truck, producing one of the hockey team sweatshirts, which he holds out toward Nesta. Nesta hesitates for only a moment before she's pulling it on over her dress. It's clearly too big on her, but the fabric is soft and the scent of fabric softener and Cassian fills her senses.

When they get inside, the Friday night public skate is still in full swing, families and awkward high school dates milling about on the ice and in the lobby. In their attire, Nesta is sure that she and Cassian must stick out like sore thumbs. They walk up to the reception desk, and Nesta expects Cassian to ask for two passes for the public skate, but instead he and the rink staffer share a pointed look and then a key is being slid inconspicuously into Cassian's hand. Before Nesta can even start to ask what that means, Cassian is grabbing her hand, pulling her down the hall, past the locker rooms and snack bar. His eyes quickly dart around before he slides the key into the right side of the double doors, tugging Nesta inside and flipping on the lights.

"The tiny-ass practice rink?" Nesta asks, looking around.

"Bal owes me a favor," Cassian explains, pocketing the key.

Cassian grabs Nesta's hand again and leads her around to the benches. They each take their time trading their shoes for skates before stepping out onto the ice.

There's something about the way ice feels under her feet that calms Nesta in a way nothing else can. The cutting sound of her skates against it is like music to her ears. She glides easily to center ice, taking a deep breath and letting the cold welcome her into its embrace. She feels Cassian's presence behind her, warm hands settling on her hips.

"You know you look better in this sweatshirt than I ever did," he says, voice pitched low.

"Sounds like a personal problem," Nesta counters, turning around to face Cassian. "It's not my fault even hockey things look better on figure skaters."

"Big words coming from someone who needs a toe pick to stop."

"That's not what a toe pick is for."

"How about a race then? To settle things."

"Fine."

They both skate over to the goal line, getting into their starting positions. Cassian counts them in with a ‘ready, set, go,’ and then they’re off, sprinting down the ice. Nesta’s hair whips past her face, the cool rink air rushing along her cheeks, as she pushes her legs to go faster and faster still. Cassian crosses the other goal line first, an icy spray flying up as he stops hard before the boards. Nesta stops beside him, crossing her arms as she takes in his wide smirk.

"You totally cheated."

"What? I did not."

"You have longer legs. It's an unfair advantage."

"Sounds like excuses to me. Just admit it. Hockey players are better."

"Are they? Could a hockey player do this?"

Nesta pushes off the boards and settles easily into her stride. A swing of her leg and a push of her foot and she's up in the air, pulling her arms in tight as she twists and twists around. Her feet land back on the ice and she glides out of the move gracefully. When her eyes land back on Cassian, his own are wide and awed as he watches her. But then his eyes narrow, arms crossing over his chest.

“Who’s cheating now?”

“Fine. Something simple then.”

Nesta jumps and does a single twist, holding her arms out when she lands and raising an eyebrow toward Cassian in challenge. His eyes stay narrowed on her, but he pushes off the boards, settling into a stride toward center ice.

“How hard can it be,” Cassian mutters.

Cassian skates a few circles, clearly trying to walk himself through the move, trying to hype himself up. Nesta has to bite the inside of her cheek while she waits. After a few moments, he throws himself into the air, spinning around once. His skates land back on the ice, and for a moment, Nesta is about to be impressed, but then his left foot is slipping out from under him. He falls ass-first onto the ice with a loud ‘oof.’

Nesta can’t help the loud laugh that tears its way out of her chest. She tries to press a hand to her mouth to stifle it, but her whole body shakes with it. When she finally calms down and finds Cassian's stare again, his face is marred with an unimpressed frown.

“I’m so glad my pain brings you joy,” Cassian says sarcastically before holding his arms up toward her. “Aren’t you going to help me up?”

“No.”

Nesta realizes she’s made a mistake. A slow smirk slides across Cassian’s face and even from across the rink, there’s no missing the mischievous glint in his eyes. Before Nesta can even blink, Cassian is on his feet and charging toward her across the ice. The rink is small with nowhere to go, so soon Nesta finds herself cornered back against the boards, Cassian’s arms bracketing her in on either side.

Cassian opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but it gets lost along the way, and instead he just stares. This close up, Nesta can see the greens hidden in his hazel eyes, the way they flicker under the rink lights. Cassian’s eyes drop down to her lips before settling back on her eyes, and Nesta’s heart does a little flip in her chest.

"Can I kiss you?"

"What if I say no?"

Cassian leans in closer, and Nesta can feel his warm breath ghosting over her lips, is sure that he can feel the way the breath hitches in her throat.

"Say no, then," Cassian whispers.

The silence hangs between them for only a second before Cassian closes the distance, pressing his lips to Nesta’s. Nesta practically melts into it, pressing closer as their lips slot and slide against one another. One of Cassian’s hands comes up to bracket her jaw, his other arm wrapping securely around her waist. She can feel the way he sighs against her lips, the deep groan in his chest as the kiss deepens.

"Hey, why are the lights on back here?"

They break apart at the sudden voice, Cassian taking Nesta’s hand and tugging her down so they’re hidden behind the boards and out of sight. They can hear the footsteps of the rink staffer walking around, and Nesta turns to glare at Cassian.

"I swear, if we end up arrested because of you…"

"Don't worry. I'd never let that happen. We're both too pretty for jail."

#my fic #acotar #nessianweek2021 #nessian #nesta x cassian #nesta archeron #cassian

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years ago

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I really wanna know what happened during the painful bath that Nanda promised Jameson a while back. Baths in whump have the potential to be so soothing and excruciating at the same time, which kinda fits Jameson’s whole character don’t you think?

CW: Pet whump, dehumanizing language, intimate whumper, dubcon touch NSFW (not explicit), implied dubcon (fade to black), referenced blood and whipping, sadistic whumper, creepy whumper, creepy comfort, drowning, talk of sui (to escape torture), implied death by drowning (unnamed oc)

r/LetsTalkTrueCrime

NEW VIDEOS of the Box Boy Killer! Never Before Seen!

•Posted by u/oshaycanyousee 14h ago

So I got a really good response to my short series on the mysterious Box Boy Serial Killer (you can find my previous write-ups here, here, and here).

Well, recently I discovered something entirely new that I think you'd enjoy getting a look at! Found among personal items belonging to Nathaniel "Nanda" Matthew Benson: a medium-sized external hard drive containing nearly 750GB of photo and video content.

The hard drive was labeled 'Personal'. Police stated there was a second hard drive labeled 'Professional', but what content was on there, if anything, has never been released.

Technically, neither has this. Someone from within the police department leaked a bunch of videos and photos at some point, and I was able to get ahold of them thanks to a friend of a friend (who shall go unnamed, don't want to tip off whatever FBI agent is watching his internet activity, haha... or is it her or their internet activity... FBI Agent will never know.)

In my writeup on Nanda Benson's life with his Boxie, I didn't have a ton of details on how they interacted with each other. Finding this trove of info definitely changed a few things on how I view their relationship.

Take a look and let me know if it makes you maybe reconsider a few details, too. FYI: This does have nudity and some spicy times! Nothing worse than you've seen on HBO or whatever, but like, fair warning.

[Embedded Video Player With Title: Bathtime With Boxie: NSFW and Yet Somehow Still Oddly Wholesome Kind Of]

The video begins with the tub already filled with water, hot enough to gently steam. It's a gigantic soaker tub, large enough for four people to easily sit without crowding, nestled alongside a window in a truly enormous, incredibly well-lit bathroom. Everything is in shades of white, which makes the person in the frame even more immediately the enter of attention.

A young man with short, shaggy brown hair and dark eyes sits in the tub. He looks up, wrinkling his nose and glancing away. Only then does a bright red mark, darkening already to a bruise become obvious on one side of his neck.

"Don't fucking tape this," He says. His voice is slightly rough-edged, as if he's been screaming, and he sounds exhausted. "That's weird. Not taping the fucking but taping the after bit."

Red welts are visible above the line of water, marking his shoulders and arms. The welts are a deep red that is nearly purple - they are surrounded by bright red irritated flesh.

"Oh, but I like you like this." The voice holding the camera is deep and amused. The camera wobbles slightly and then settles, and soon enough a second man enters the screen. It's clearly Nanda Benson himself, stark naked.

Where the Boxie is heavily bruised and beaten, Nanda himself would be spotless if he weren’t flecked with drying red spots that are clearly the pet's blood.

"Yeah, well." The pet shifts to the side as Nanda steps in, hissing softly in contentment at the sudden burst of heat when he enters the water. He settles down against a bench set in to the side of the tub, and opens his arms.

The pet moves immediately into them, without hesitating. His eyes flicker nervously back to the camera and then away again.

"Yeah, well-... yeah well what, pet?" Nanda laughs as he pulls the Boxie into his lap, toying one hand already damp from the tub over the ring at the front of his collar. "Cat got your tongue after that fun we had together?"

"Tongue's the only thing you didn't take," The pet responds, almost playfully flirtatious. "I guess you'd miss it too fucking much."

"If I took your voice, who would call me a fucking idiot before I fuck him into the ground, hm?"

The pet flushes, looking down at the water, at the slightest pink of his blood still running into it. "Sir-"

"Ssssshhhh. I like you insulting me. I like punishing you for it more." Nanda mouths at the unmarked side of the pet's neck, pulling him back-to-chest where he sits, so he's facing the camera directly again. The pet's back arches when Nanda's teeth dig in, making a soft, high-pitched whine as his head drops back onto the man's shoulder.

The camera picks up the quiet splash of water as the pet tries to move away and is pulled roughly right back, catches the refracted sight of Nanda's hands on the pet's thighs forcing them apart, each of his calves on the outside of Nanda's thighs.

"Please-... H-hurts-"

"You love it," Nanda whispers, and bites down again, right into the crook of the pet's neck where it meets his shoulder. The cry this time is wild with a mix of pain and something darker, the pet's hands moving helplessly up and back to clasp just behind Nanda's head. His back is nearly a bow, every muscle trembling with a need to escape and to hold perfectly still, both at once.

When Nanda pulls back this time, the camera picks up the blood smeared on his teeth before he runs his tongue over them. It finds the light glinting off the fresh blood welling from the new bite along the pet's shoulder.

"It's too much," The pet says, struggling to sit back up straight, turning to look at Nanda. For a moment, his shaggy damp hair and angle hides his expression from the camera's gaze.

The twist of his spine, though, shows the bloodied whiplashes making their way up his back nearly to the nape of his neck.

"It's too much," The pet repeats, in a whisper. "Please. Please, it's too fucking much, if you fuck me again I'll fucking die. Please."

"Now, pet," Nanda teases, flirts shamelessly, running his wet hands through the pet's hair. He grips on tight and forces his head back again. The profile of the pet's face shows the slight bump of a broken nose healed almost perfectly, but not quite. The gasp he makes when Nanda's free hand presses over the welts on his chest is loud enough for the camera to catch. "You know you don't get to say when it's too much."

"You'll f-fucking kill me," The pet protests, voice tight from the angle forcing his collar to dig painfully into his throat. "Please, I... everything hurts so much..."

"You love the pain." Nanda's eyes look up to meet the camera before a more sinister smile finds its way across his face. "I know what you can take better than you do, pet, and I think you can handle one more. Sssshhh, here we go. There..." Nanda exhales softly as the two of them shift in the tub, the pet making a soft pained sound, his hips rolling as he is worked slowly down into position.

Then Nanda chuckles and slides his entire arm over the welts marking the pet's torso, holding him tightly in place. "Now take a deep breath."

"Wh-what?" The pet's eyes widen, comprehension coming a half-second too late. "Wait, don't-"

Nanda's hand gripped into the pet's hair plunges him forwards, bent at the waist, forcing the Box Boy's head suddenly under the water. The pet struggles desperate trying to get his head back up to breathe. Nanda grunts in a rhythm as his hips snap up and down again. He groans, "So fucking tight, goddamn I love you, you fucking slut for me-"

[/END VIDEO]

The video cuts off there, but my friend tells me the rest of it is basically the kind of stuff you have to pay a monthly fee for everywhere else on the internet.

But there's another video, from way later, that I find a really interesting contrast and comparison. Same friend got me this one. It involves Robert, whose write-up you can see right here.

[EMBEDDED VIDEO: Titled Holy Shit, No Wonder He Killed Him]

The screen is black for a few seconds, with the sound of someone taking the cap off a camera before things come into blurry view and then slowly into focus.

The bathroom in this video is tiny. It's barely large enough for everything in it, and a person sitting on the toilet will damn near bash their knees into the side of the bathtub. The grout in the tile floor is dark with old stains, and the tile itself needs either serious scrubbing or an exorcism.

Sitting naked in the bathtub is a young man with long blond hair that hangs in filthy, dirty clumps down to his shoulders. His face is streaked with mud and worse, and he has a black eye that has nearly swelled his left eye shut entirely. His hands are bound with rope stained brown with dried blood, held up in front of him.

His one good eye, maybe blue, follows with a kind of resigned terror the person behind the camera.

He sits in water up to his waist, but by the way he is shivering, it's clear that the water is not even warm, let alone hot. Further bruises mark his ribcage and his legs. One leg juts out in front, and something about it seems like it might be broken.

The camera is handheld, panning slowly from the young man's torn and lacerated heels and feet through his bruised leg - one swollen - and then back up to his face.

"Tell me your name." The voice is Robert Weber's.

The young man's mouth twists in a snarl that fades as quickly as it came and he looks away, to the side of the tub marked with deep soap scum. When Robert's house is searched, there are scratches in the tub as though someone had clawed that deeply into the sides in an attempt to escape. "It's..." The young man inhales, winces at the pain. "It's twe-... Twenty-One. M-My name is... Twenty-One."

"Good. And-... what did we practice saying next?"

The man's jaw trembles visibly onscreen. Then he says, flat and numb, "My name is Twenty-One and I have... two weeks to l-live."

"Perfect. Now I promised you a good scrubbing if you played along downstairs-" The young man flinches, closing his good eye and curling up in the tub as best he can. "-and I will keep that promise." There's a pause, jostling as the camera is slotted into a tripod to continue filming. Then, Robert's voice is suddenly deafening. "Dog! Get the fuck in here!"

The door opens with the creak of hinges deeply in need of oiling, and then the Boxie moves into view. He's skinny, malnourished and underfed, and his hair is roughly cut short in uneven hunks. He has bald spots worn in by the muzzle that is buckled over his mouth, making his breathing an audible rasp. He glares with unhidden hatred.

"Give Twenty-One a bath," Robert says, and his hand moves into view as he pats the Boxie on the head. The Boxie flinches but then forces himself to hold still, closing his eyes as the pat turns into prolonged petting. His muzzle is unbuckled and then removed. Robert's fingers drift over his bald spots, play along the red marks pressed into his skin by the muzzle, move over a scar cut into one side of his mouth that wasn't there in the video with Nanda.

The Boxie is naked but for an old dog collar around his neck.

Robert hums, disappears entirely from view. The door opens and closes again. The sound of a lock clicks.

The Boxie looks at the young man in the bathtub, who doesn't look up. "Fuck this shit," The Boxie mumbles, but he moves - dragging one of his legs a little, and there are ropes tied around his ankles that ensure he can do little more than shuffle - and finally kneels next to the tub. "Are you going to be a shit?"

The young man looks at him with surprise. "You... I've never heard you talk before," He whispers, looking fearfully to the side towards the door.

"You've never seen me without the fucking muzzle before, either," The pet replies. His voice is far rougher than the first video, suggesting long-term damage to his vocal chords. "I asked you something. Are you going to fight me and be a shit about this or no?"

The young man hesitates, then shakes his head. "I couldn't fight if I wanted to anymore," He says, like a man confessing a sin. "It all hurts too much. You know? I had a girlfriend-"

"Stop it." The pet cuts him off and leans over, picking up a stiff washcloth and soaking it in the water until it's soft enough to use again, running it over the young man's shoulders. For all the edge of meanness in his voice, the pet's touch is clearly gentle. "You're going to fucking die here, better if you don't talk about stuff that gets you fucked up first. Forget her."

The young man leans over to give easier access to his back. The soft whimpers he makes show that there must be some grievous injuries back there that the camera can't see. "I-I know I will. Die, I mean. Do I really have-... is it really two weeks?"

"Yeah." The pet takes a bar of soap and runs it over his own hands, rubbing them together to work up a lather. The soap found in Robert Weber's house after his death is Irish Spring and Dove - it is believed he used different soap for different captives according to his own odd whims. "He's put little heart shapes on a calendar he marks off. He'll hurt you a little worse every fucking day and then make you beg for him to end it."

The young man slowly nods, looking at his bound wrists. There's a soft sniff, but he seems too tired for tears. "There's no chance of getting away, is there."

It's not really a question.

The pet answers anyway.

"You're the twenty-first, and none of the others have. What do you think?"

"I-I can't do this."

"You have to." The pet gets a red Solo cup sitting on the side of the tub, fills it with water, and pours it down the young man's back. He hisses and cries out softly in pain. "He doesn't exactly ask your goddamn preferences."

"Help me escape," The young man pleads. "Help me get out of here."

"I'm fucking hobbled," the pet snaps. "He'll be on us both before we even made it out of the hallway. You think I'm fucking stupid? I'm the only one who might not die if I stay good. Come on, lean forward so I can wash your hair."

The young man moves to obey, hands disappearing beneath the filthy bathwater, and then he turns, looking over his shoulder. He and the pet share a long, silent moment. Then he leans over far enough to put his mouth nearly to the pet's ear and whispers something so low that the camera doesn't pick up the words.

The pet inhales sharply.

He looks at the door, and then back to the young man.

"Are you sure?" He asks, and the edge is totally gone from his voice, now.

The young man nods, slowly. "Please," he says, a little louder. "If I have to-... please. Not him. I-I know you'll get punished, but... please. God, please, just this one thing." His hands come back up to grip onto the pet's hand where it lays along the side of the tub.

The young man leans forwards, and his forehead gently rests against the pet's. They are silent for a long moment.

"Please, don't let him be the one to kill me," The young man says. "I know I'm g-going to die, but... let me take that a-... away from him. Please. God, I don't even know your name, but-... please."

The pet swallows, then nods, tipping his head back to press a kiss to the young man's forehead. "I don't have a name. What's your name? I'll remember it. Your real name."

The young man's throat bobs and he whispers into the pet's ear again.

He sits back up, leaning over until some of his long hair falls into the water. "I'm-... I'm ready."

The pet takes a deep, deep breath, moves up to kneeling with his thighs vertical, lays both hands on the back of the young man's head, and says, "I hope it's better, wherever you go."

Then he pushes the young man's head underneath the water.

[/END VIDEO]

According to my friend, there's more to that video as well, but obviously it's been cut to take out the end of the poor guy. Now, my friend swears up and down the pet is crying at the end of the video, that he can see tears, but I'm not sure.

That doesn't really line up with the pet killing people before this, you know?

But one thing it does prove is that the Boxie knows the name of one of the unidentified victims. If he could be found, we could give that man back his name and get his family the closure they deserve.

I know some of you argued with me last time that the Boxie is clearly a VICTIM and not a PERPETRATOR, and I definitely admit this second video maybe suggests you're on to something there.

But I still think we have a Boxie killer on our hands here - I just think maybe I was wrong about why he's killing them at all.

I guess we'll find out if he kills again.

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @whump-tr0pes @raigash @eatyourdamnpears @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @boxboysandotherwhump @outofangband @whumptywhumpdump @thehopelessopus @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @butwhatifyouwrite @newandfiguringitout @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump @oops-its-whump @endless-whump @cubeswhump @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @whumpiary @burtlederp

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newtonsheffield · 4 years ago

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okay so i don’t think words can describe how much i loved ‘Goose’. That chapter is so beautiful and im so happy for these fictional characters ( david can suck it).

I wonder if how matthew and eddie continue the wednesday tradition with an older (toddler and maybe speaking) edmund? cause that’s all my heart wants.

side note ‘Goose and Eddie’ would be an amazing name for a romantic 90s-2000s sitcom or a romcom movie

Okay! I cannot tell you how relieved I am about how much everyone seems to be enjoying Goose! This fic was a largely selfish venture because I made myself fall in love with Matthew Goose Bagwell who just met a girl in the museum who was smart and funny, and she made little puns about dinosaurs to her Nephew who had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, and fell a little desperately in love with the way her nose crinkled when she smiled and had no idea that she was that Edwina. The Edwina Sheffield who by this time had been voted England’s most beautiful woman thrice in a row. And then I think like a grand total of 1 person asked to see more about them and I forced this fic upon you all, in true Molly Fashion!

David can get Wreckkkkkked. He never deserved Edwina and after she was with Matthew, take comfort in the fact that Edwina fully realised how ... unsatisfied she’d been by him. (Get it Girl)

And YES I want to watch “Goose and Eddie”! I want to watch this fic that I wrote as a romantic comedy tbh. Is that vain? Probably.

Now, I fully, subscribe to the fact that Edwina still takes Edmund to the museum every week, and then miles, and then Charlotte and her own Daughter Sarah, and Mary, and eventually her son. And Matthew takes a long lunch and sits with his wife’s family, more than content to watch Kate’s manic children run all over his office little hands grabbing at everything within reach.

“Auntie Eddie! Edmund is pushing!” Miles’ tiny voice called out as she shut the car door. Edwina sighed, turning towards her Nephews, Edmund looking very innocently back at her. “I wasn’t!” He said, the charming smile Anthony used to get away with things fixed on his face, slightly startling on a boy barely three years old. Edwina fixed them with her sternest look despite how adorable they looked, Miles’ electric blue glasses strapped to his face, An astronaut on his shirt. Edmund’s shoes flashing brightly as he tapped his foot excitedly. “Boys we have to behave, otherwise we’re going straight home, and Grandma Mary will probably make broccoli for lunch.” Both boys wrinkled their noses and Edwina had to bite back a laugh as though her mother would ever force Kate’s children to eat anything they didn’t like. Mary Sheffield had been a very kind mother, but stern when needed. Grandma Mary didn’t know the meaning of the word. Kate’s boys seemed to have her wrapped tightly in their little fists, all of them were trapped there really.

“Okay, then, Hold hands.” She said, holding her hands out for the boys to take, making their way down the street to the museum. “When Mummy has the new baby, are you going to bring her with us?” Edmund asked as they made their way. Edwina hummed. “Probably. What makes you so sure it’s a girl Neddy?” Edmund grinning at the nickname only she used. Eddie to Neddy she always said when she told him faux secrets and his little face lit up with joy. “Because I already have Milo. So now I need a sister, like Mummy has you.” He said, shrugging as though that made perfect sense. Edwina chuckled to herself as they came through the door, the boys both grinning excitedly just like always.

“Where’s Uncle Matty?” Miles said, tugging on her arm as he looked around the foyer scanning for him. “Uncle Matt can’t meet us today, sweetheart. He’s a little busy setting up something new to show us next week.” Edwina said, her heart clenching at the way both boys pouted. Edmund sighed, “Is it gonna be cool?” He said sceptically a crease forming between his tiny eyebrows, and Edwina had to bite back a laugh. “I think it will be very cool.” “Well I suppose that’s okay.” He said as though that quite settled the matter tugging his aunt and brother in the direction he had decided they should go.

“It’s bigger than Uncle Ben!” Miles practically shrieked in delight as he looked at the triceratops skeleton his little legs moving with excitement just like it always did. And Edwina felt her heart skip. This was why she loved bringing them here, watching their little faces light up with excitement, watching them discover and learn new things, it was truly beautiful. And a strange sense of longing welled in her chest. Matthew was enough for her, really he was, but recently she couldn’t stop imagining him with their own children rather than Kate’s. He was so patient and kind with them, and god she just wanted. But she’d chickened out every time the thought had pushed at the back of her throat.

“Excuse me, Miss?” A familiar voice said behind her, bringing a smile to her lips “It’s not usually my specialty but maybe I could give you a hand.” Edwina turned to find her husband grinning broadly, his hair flopping into his eyes, that were shining at her in the bright lighting, and her breath caught a little. But even so, “Mmmm, thanks but, no. I’m waiting for my husband.” Matthew laughed. “Ooof he must be a lucky man.” He said as he leaned in and pressed his lips lightly to hers only to be interrupted by Edmund sprinting headlong into Matthew’s legs. “Uncle Goose! Auntie Eddie said you weren’t coming!” His little voice cried out excitedly and Edwina’s heart stuttered as Matthew Crouched down and let out a little honk at his nickname, grinning broadly as Miles barrelled into him as well. “Hmmm Auntie Eddie can be very silly.” He said shooting her a quick wink. “How could I not see my favourite palaeontologists today?!” both boys grinned excitedly, tugging him towards the skeleton

“Triceratops has 800 teeth!” Miles called out and Matthew gasped theatrically “No way, Milo! You’re making that up!” Matthew said and Edwina thought, in that moment that she couldn’t be any more thankful that this man had bumped into her just a few feet away.

And that night, when the thought pushed at the back of her throat as they sat on the sofa, his head resting lightly in her lap, she let it fall out. “Matt, I want to have a baby.” Matthew’s eyes softened as he looked up at her “Yeah?” He said lightly his eyes staring into hers carefully. And she forced herself to nod, as nervous butterflies beat against her stomach. And then her heart skipped as a broad smile spread over his face. “Then let’s have a baby, honey.”

#bridgerton and sons au #edwina x bagwell #edwina x matthew #edwina x matthew + baby bridgertons #edwina sheffield #edwina sharma #matthew goose bagwell #goose is a cutie #molly's asks and answers #tbh I think I just wanna go to a museum

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appalachianwiine · 3 years ago

Text

Family Portrait || Chapter 4

Please just tell me everything’s gonna be alright

I’ll let you break your promise, you can tell me lies

And you don’t have to worry if you don’t ask why

Just tell me everything’s gonna be alright

-“I WENT TO HELL AND BACK” by As It Is

Five months ago…

The days wore on and turned to weeks and Leah seemed to become more drawn in. Daryl found himself watching her more closely, the tired easier then before and seemed to be sicker than before - or maybe she wasn’t hiding it from him anymore. The last of spring had burned off too, summer heat resting hot and sticky around them now.

One morning about a month after Leah had told him of the pregnancy he woke early in the bed next to her. The morning light dripped through the curtains and over the floor, turning bits of Leah’s hair bronze. The sheets are pushed down around their legs, kicked off in the heat of the night. Leah’s bare form is stretched out next to him, breathing deeply with sleep. He rubs his eyes and looks her over. In sleep she looks peaceful and ever beautiful. His eyes wander over her, something is different too. Her stomach, once flat and tight with sinewy muscle, has the slightest curve to it.

The sight of the little bump makes Daryl;s heart swell and he shifts so he can lean close and put a hand on it. It’s firm and warm. It’s their baby.

Their baby.

The thought, which had so paralyzed him when Leah first told him, now fills him with a new feeling. Anticipation. Anticipation at the idea of a tiny baby that is half him and half Leah. He presses a kiss to the bump, the warmth of Leah’s skin making it hum with life beneath his lips.

Leah shifts underneath him, stretching and yawning. “It’s hot.” She murmurs.

“Gonna be worse this afternoon.” Daryl mutters, his cheek resting on her stomach.

“What are you doin’ down there? Not hoping for a repeat of last night I hope, cause I’m not up for it.” She smirks, one of her hands resting on top of his head.

“You loved last night.” He chuckles.

“Oh last night was heavenly.” Leah agrees, pushing her hair out of her face with her other hand. Sweat already glistens on her brow. “But you wore me out. Now why are you down there?”

“The baby.” He lifts his head off her stomach and sits up. “You got a little bump, we can see the baby.”

“What?” Leah doesn’t sound nearly as happy about it as he is.

“Leah -“ He reaches for her but she pushes him off and gets out of bed. She crosses to the broken mirror on the dresser and looks at herself, turning to the side. He watches as she runs a hand over her stomach and her shoulders sink, a cloud settling over her. Leah?” He gets up then, crossing to her and wrapping his arms around her from behind. He kisses her neck gently. “What’s up?”

“It’s really happening.” She whispers, her grey eyes filled with tears. I-I’m having this baby it’s - it’s really in there.”

“Yeah.” Daryl whispers, holding her tightly. She’s shaking in his arms. “It’ll be okay Leah.”

“What - what if it’s not.” Leah whimpers, turning to face him, watery grey eyes looking at him desperately - wildly. “What if - what if this kills me Daryl?”

“Hey.” He whispers, cupping her cheek and brushing her tears away. Hey, it’s gonna be okay. We - we don’t have to stay here Leah. My family, they’ve got doctors in their towns. We’ll go there and - and then you’ll be fine.”

“I’m not leaving this place Daryl.” She whispers. I can’t leave Matthew.”

“Leah, you can’t give birth out here.” Daryl says. “You can’t.”

“Women have given birth without doctors for millenia and the human race went on. Besides, there’s no antibiotics. No OR. If I need a c-section I’m fucked anyway. There’s nothing anyone can do. It’s in God’s hands now.” She leans into him, pressing her face into his bare shoulder, silent tears wetting his skin.

Daryl doesn’t find the sentiment that it’s in God’s hands to be all that comforting, but it doesn’t seem like Leah intended it to be comforting. The words had fallen from her lips in heavy resignation. He pulls her close and kisses her hair, trying to comfort her.

“You wan’ somethin’ t’ eat? Or ya still feelin’ sick in the mornin’s?” Daryl asks.

“I’m not nauseous Daryl.” Leah says, backing away from him and grabbing his shirt off the floor. She shrugs into it and grabs her underwear off the back of the chair. “I’m gonna go pee and bring in the water. Feed the dog.” She opens the bedroom door and exits. “Stay Dog.” He hears her say before the sound of the door opening, and then shutting.

Dog trots into the bedroom and cocks his head at Daryl, giving him a quiet “woof”

“Hang on.” Daryl sighs, pulling on his underwear and jeans. In the kitchen he takes the food scraps off the counter and scrapes them off the dinner plates into a metal dish. “Sit.” The shepherd licks his lips and faulls back on his haunches. “Good boy.” Daryl sets the dish on the floor and releases the dog to his breakfast.

He starts rooting through the cupboards. He produces a tomato and a few eggs. Next he grabs the jar of grease and a clean shirt off the back of a kitchen chair before he goes outside. He sets the grease, eggs, and tomato on the log next to the small fire pit. With the heat of the summer having set in they’d begun doing most of their cooking outside. The set up was small, just a fire pit and a water basin, and an old table to use as a counter, but it’s something. Daryl pulls the shirt over his head and sets about starting the fire.

Once he has the fire going he fetches the pan from inside. Halving the tomato, he drops it and the eggs into the pan with some grease. They’ll have a good breakfast before long. Footsteps prompt him to look up, Leah is back with the water.

“You mind grabbin’ sausage from the attic?” He asks.

“If I do that I’m going to throw up.” Leah grimaces, setting the water buckets on the steps. “That bacon grease is going a good enough job to make the morning sickness come back.”

“Sorry.” Daryl says he should’ve remembered the smell of cooking meat was making her sick these days. “I uh - I wasn’ thinking.”

“IT’s fine.” Leah mutters.

“Look.” Daryl says tentatively and looks over at where she’s scooping water into a pot to boil. “We gotta talk ‘bout the food situation.”

“What about it?” Leah asks, bringing the pot of water over and setting it on the fire.

“We’re gonna need more.” Daryl says. “We got that garden, but that ain’t enough. I can hunt, but I’d probably be gone fer a couple a days.”

“I - I can’t be alone here Daryl.” Leah shakes her head.

“I know.” Daryl agrees. The idea of leaving her here alone doesn’t sit right with him. He hasn’t left her alone since learning of the pregnancy, still worried she might do something stupid. Still they’d need meat come winter and it would mean leaving her at some point or coming up with some other solution. Ideally that solution meant going to the settlements, but he knew she wasn’t ready to bend on that yet. “Which is why we oughta go to the settlements, but if you won’t do that we need a new solution.”

“A new solution?” Leah’s eyebrows raise. “What does that mean?”

“Rabbits.” He says. “They’re easy enough t’ catch in live traps. I’ll build a couplea hutches t’ put em in, we breed em an’ eat the young when they get big enough. I’ll still need t’ hunt but hopefully won’t have t’ be gone overnight. We oughta start fishin’ again too. I know you ain’ felt up t’ a whole lot but we gotta stockpile food now.”

“Winter is a long way off Daryl.” Leah mutters, sitting down on the log.

“Winter is, but with that baby growin’ you ain’ gonna be able t’ do much soon. Once tha baby gets big you’ll need t’ rest, t’ take care of yerself, and I don’t want t’ be leavin’ you to go look for food like that. Besides, we barely made it through the last one.”

“We?” Leah says. “You’re the who was frost bit to shit at the first cold snap.” Her defensive tone tells him that he’s drifting into dangerous territory here.

“Hey.” He says calmly. “I know that, but last year was different. ‘F my math’s right you’ll be givin’ birth right before the first snow. That lays you up fer most ‘f fall an’ winter. We gotta prepare for that.”

“I know what it means.” Leah concedes, pushing her hair out of her face. “I - I don’t like it. I don’t want to be incapacitated all winter.”

‘I know.” He assures. “But we ain’t got much choice. ‘S why I think we should get started on building rabbit hutches t’day. We finish em this week, get some rabbits in em. We’ll do a couplea hunting trips too, you can come while yer still able, but I will have to do some on my own this fall when the deer get big. Will you be okay then?”

“I don’t really have a choice now do I?” Leah mutters.

She’s right, she doesn’t, and neither does he, but he hopes in a few more weeks she’ll be a little better, a little less hopeless about the pregnancy. Maybe by fall she’d even be a little bit excited, like he was finding himself now.

“Breakfast is almost done.” HE says, turning his attention to the fire. “You get a couple plates?”

“Yeah.” Leah mutters, getting up and moving back into the cabin.

They sit in silence during breakfast, Leah mostly poking at her food with a fork in lieu of eating. The cloud that had descended over her when he pointed out the small bump didn’t seem to be easing up, instead he could sense it growing darker over them both.

“I’m sorry.” Leah says finally, breaking the silence.

“What for?” Daryl asks, taking a bite out of his half of the tomato.

“When I woke up.” She says. “You - You were excited and I was a bitch about it. I’m sorry.”

“‘S okay.” Daryl frowns. “You’re scared. ‘S okay t’ be scared.”

“I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. At least one of us is getting excited over this.” She whispers.

“You still ain’ feelin’ good.” Daryl stands, kissing her hair and reaching for her plate. “You’ll get excited when you’re not so sick.”

“Sure.” Leah mutters, letting him take the dish from her and dump the leftovers into their food scraps and the plates into the wash basin. She doesn’t seem particularly convinced, but he’s holding out hope. He wants her to see the light about this. A family. A future. It’s bright if she’ll elt it be. As she stands and stretches, he observes the bump again, the top of her jeans is unbuttoned because of it. Clothes are another thing they should start thinking about. Both maternity clothes for Leah and baby clothes for the baby. For that they’ll have to scavenge or he’ll have to go to the communities. MAybe if he could get her to come with him for a visit she’d be open to moving there to have the baby. He doesn’t want to push her on it too much now, but he’ll keep working.

“You up to helpin’ me start the hutches?” Daryl asks.

“Sure.” Leah agrees. “Might need t’ rest later with all the heat though.”

‘Yeah.” Daryl agress. “We’ll take a nap ‘r somethin’ round noon. It’ll be too hot t’ work by then.”

“It’ll be too hot for that bedroom too.” Leah says. “I usually move the mattress out to the screen porch for the summer. The bedroom is just too hot.”

“Yeah?” Daryl frowns, it was a decent idea, that bedroom was getting awfully stuffy, even at night. “‘S a good idea, kinda hard t’ lock the Dog out so he can’t watch us though.”

Leah snorts .”We don’t have to lock him out at all. He’s a god, he doesn’t know when we’re screwing around.”

“Oh yes he does.” Daryl insists. “He knows exactly what we get up to and if we’re on the porch where’s he gonna go?”

“We’ll lock him in the house.” Leah giggles, the smile that graces her face is the first he’s seen in a long time and it fills him with relief. “God it’s like you’re a monk.”

“I am not a monk.” He scowls playfully. “I just don’ wan’ him judgin’ me.”

“He’s not judging.” Leah leans over and kisses him. “He’s a dog, Daryl. Dog’s don’t judge.”

“That one does.” Daryl insists, slipping an arm around her. “He rates us too.” That makes her laugh again.

“He does not! That is disgusting, Dog would never do something that - that perverted.” She laughs and Dog prances around them barking at the sound of his name.

“Then why does he watch?” Daryl chuckles.

“Because we’re not exactly quiet.” Leah laughs.

“We?” Daryl pokes, trotting up the steps and pulling the door open.

“Yes we.” Leah rolls her eyes, going inside. “I’m going to wash my face, then we’ll start the hutches?”

“Okay.” Daryl chuckles, letting the door fall shut behind him. This was the most laughter he’d gotten out of Leah in a long time, since their fishing trip last summer he thinks. That has to be a good thing right? They have to be turning a corner. Yeah, he decides. They are, they’re gonna be alright.

#daryl dixon #leah shaw #daryl/leah #leah twd #dog twd #twd fanfiction #twd fanfic #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon fanfiction #the walking dead fan fiction #fic; family portrait

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naerysthelonesome · 4 years ago

Text

Unravel me, slowly

Thomastair again, because I am experiencing FEELINGS

Mild Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Implied sexual content at the end?

Start of fic:

It'd been a year since that day in the sanctuary. A year since he had first been kissed by, he was pretty certain, the love of his life.

Alastair had then been adamant that he wasn't the right person for Thomas and that they'd never work out, but had since been thoroughly convinced otherwise. They'd bought an apartment together; close enough to Alastair's old place that he could visit Sona and the baby whenever he wished. They'd even "taken in" a couple cats.

Certainly, they were close. They were closer than they'd ever been. By the angle, they were in love! Which is why Thomas couldn't figure out why Alastair was hiding things from him again.

Okay maybe that was an exaggeration. Alastair wasn't keeping secrets or even lying, as far as Thomas was aware. He was just... Being closed off. Again.

He'd come home looking wan and tired, kissed Thomas once on the cheek and gone off to bed. Usually, around this time, he'd pick up one of his books and settle down on the couch with his boyfriend and read. They'd talk about their day, and pet their cats, and be blissfully ignorant of the world for a few hours.

Thomas could guess what was upsetting him, of course. There had been a clave meeting that afternoon; one Thomas had elected to skip in order to help Christopher with another one of his experiments (clave-issued, so it was a valid enough excuse). Charles had attended that meeting, so of course Thomas had assumed it was he who was at fault; as one should.

He'd asked Alastair as much when the latter had woken up a couple hours later, but he only shook his head and walked away to the kitchen.

Fine. If Alastair wanted to be difficult once more, that was okay. Thomas hadn't chosen the easy path, declaring his love for him, deciding to live with him, damning Matthew's "reservations" to hell. He could handle this much.

When his lover returned with, Thomas belatedly noticed, two cups of steaming drink, the taller man was seated on the couch in front of the gently burning fireplace. This was their safe space, where they felt most at home. Maybe here Alastair could be convinced to open up a little.

The dark haired man sat down beside him, close enough so he could reach out and rub the back of his neck slowly. He felt Alastair shiver slightly and sigh, before handing over the coffee and moving away.

Thomas was starting to get a tiny bit offended at his boyfriend constantly pushing him away that day. Then he saw that Alastair was only moving to lean back against the arm rest and prop his legs up on Thomas’ lap. He gave him a relived little smile at that.

Thomas watched Alastair slowly sip his coffee. Normally, he might’ve though about how his skin practically glowed in the firelight, or of how, despite his hair being the messiest it’d seen it in weeks, he still looked like fine-boned, bronzed God, or he might’ve admired the perfect curve of his lips, or his eyes, but there were other, slightly more important things, on his mind right then.

He was unsure of how to initiate the conversation, but knew he’d have to be the one to do so.

“So. How was the meeting?” Straight to the point worked most easily with Alastair, who hated being manipulated in any way.

“So-so”, was the reply, accompanied by a hand seemingly determined to wave the question away.

“Alastair.”

The man being addressed rolled his eyes at the insistent tone, but glanced up at Thomas anyway.

“You need to talk about it.”

“Do I now?” he inquired with a raised brow.

“You know you do. You can’t go back to burying everything deep down again”.

Alastair continued to simply look at him. But Thomas could see the gears turning behind those immovable eyes. He knew Alastair knew he was right.

“Come on”, he coaxed, “Tell me what happened”. He placed the coffee mug on the short table beside himself, and began to rub Alastair’s feet. For good measure.

Alastair made a rude comment in Persian, but finally spoke up.

“It’s been more than a year! …More than a year and he still makes me feel like trash”.

“Charles?” his voice came out tighter than he expected. That man never failed to get on his nerves.

“Who else?” Alastair said, as he tipped his head back. “You’re going to crush my foot if you keep tightening your fist like that”, he added, looking pointedly at his feet.

“Ah sorry!” Thomas immediately loosened his hands around them and began to rub small circles along the soles. “What did he do this time?”

“Hmm… let’s see”. Alastair held up a hand, then started to open up his fingers one-by-one while reciting Charles’ transgressions.

“He was rude, obnoxious, and out of turn”. Thomas slipped his thumbs along the arches of his feet.

“He interrupted and spoke over me, under the unbelievable guise that he had better ideas”. His hands moved to encircle his lover’s slender ankles.

“He uh- he invalidated my opinions. Thomas what are you doing?!” Alastair practically yelped. Thomas had just bent down to place a kiss atop his foot.

“Hmm?” he hummed, kissing the other foot in the same way, “Validating your feet?”

He looked up to see Alastair’s face flushed red. “Should I stop?”

Alastair seemed unable to move. Taking that for the non-answer it was, Thomas continued with his ministrations, although still listening for any signs of protest.

He pushed up the right leg of Alastair’s pant, and began to kiss up his calf, then repeated the action on his other leg.

He looked up to see Alastair still staring at him, eyes wide, mouth open, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening.

“What else did he do?”

“Who?” Alastair’s voice was just a breathy whisper. It was only rarely that Thomas made Alastair a stupid mess, and all Thomas wanted to do was get drunk on the feeling. But this wasn’t about him.

“Charles.”

“Oh. AH right! Yes… him. I’m sure he did other things, but do we have to talk about him?”

Thomas repositioned them so Alastair was on his back on the sofa, and the taller man lay between his legs, his face now resting above his torso. Alastair let out a little huff as Thomas began to undo his shirt, flushing even darker.

“Mm no. We can talk about how he made you feel instead.”

Alastair let out a sound that could only be described as a whine at that.

Thomas began to mouth at his hip as he pulled the shirt back bit-by-bit, leaving little kisses all over the skin he revealed. Alastair’s breath was coming out in hitched gasps at this point. Thomas being gentle or loving always seemed to unravel him in ways very little else could.

“Thomas…”

“I love you, Alastair”

“Oh.”

Thomas stopped and looked up at that. “Oh?” “No. No I know. I just-”

“What is it, love?” Thomas used the word on purpose.

“I don’t deserve this”, the words were a soft mumble, but they felt to Thomas louder than a scream.

It’d been a while since Alastair has said things like that, but he knew the words were always lingering just under the surface. His father, and then Charles had made sure of that. Thomas and the other merry thieves hadn’t exactly helped, either.

He needed to let Alastair know that he was loved. He needed him to see that he did deserve this. He deserved everything good and pure and beautiful in the world. He needed to believe he did.

“Oh Alastair…” Thomas said as he tipped his head back down to pepper kisses up his chest, “How could you not deserve this?”

He kissed along his shoulder and felt him shudder under him. “You are good and kind and considerate.

“You have made mistakes, but have tried harder than anyone to remedy them”. Thomas moved his mouth to Alastair’s collarbone.

“I hurt you, Thomas” his voice was soft. So soft.

“And I hurt you back. We were young.” The kisses moved up the column oh his neck, increasing in pressure now.

“Matthew…”

“You did what you thought you had to. What happened next was not your fault”. His lips trailed along a trembling jaw.

“I-”

“Shh…” their lips were aligned now. “It’s been years, and you’ve paid tenfold for what you said or did back then”, he said as he pressed their lips together, “You’re a better person now. We both are”.

Their kisses were growing more desperate now and the words even more so. Alastair was grabbing onto his shoulders as Thomas continued to speak, “You’re one of the best parts of my life Alastair Esfandiyar Carstairs. I love you so much”.

Alastair couldn’t speak, but that was okay. He didn’t to say the words back. Thomas knew.

“You’re beautiful, and you’re good, and you deserve everything, Alastair”.

They lay in each other’s arms for a long time after. Long enough to let things escalate until they could feel and think of nothing but the other.

End.

Wow. That turned out longer than I’d originally planned.

#thomastair #thomastair fanfiction #mild hurt/comfort #hurt/comfort #thomastair fluff #body worship #kinda-sorta?#much FLUFF #thomas lightwood #alastair carstairs #chain of gold #chain of iron #the last hours

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theoswriting · 4 years ago

Text

fault line [part. i]

summary: To y/n, freedom feels like wind in her hair, sounds like old school rock'n'roll and tastes like Elle's lips. From the fire in front of them comes warmth. With every passing second, bloodied clothes burn beyond the point of recognition.

pairing: elle greenaway x fem!reader

a/n: uhm okay, this totally got out of hand. from that request, my brain went crazy and I ended up having to cut it into two, so this is part 1. Hopefully I'll post part 2 in a couple of days. I feel weird about this story, but I hope you'll enjoy it at least a tiny bit, haha.

warnings: mentions of rape and sexual abuse (nothing graphic), murder but it's pretty lowkey, sociopathy?, bad profiling,

ao3

Jennifer Jareau's steps are hurried when she walks from her office to Hotchner's.

She can feel the eyes of Prentiss, Morgan and Reid following her as she crosses the bullpen. She ignores them, the files she's holding in her hands are far more important. She doesn't wait for an answer after she knocks, not caring that she's interrupting Hotchner in the middle of a phone call.

Hotch doesn't startle at the irruption, and when he sees the urgency in the liaison's eyes, he doesn't hesitate before saying, "I'm afraid I'll have to call later," to whoever was on the other side of the line.

"We have a bad one."

***

To y/n, freedom feels like wind in her hair, sounds like old school rock'n'roll and tastes like Elle's lips.

Elle's hand rests on y/n's thigh as she drives with the other, sunglasses covering her eyes as she stares at the road straight ahead. There's a strength in the way she holds the steering wheel, getting them to their next destination with nothing but confidence. As she looks her over, y/n feels a familiar spark wake inside her. It makes her lean towards the driver's side to drop a long kiss on the corner of Elle's mouth.

Elle doesn't hesitate to turn her head and make it a real kiss, the kind that always leaves y/n breathless and wanting more. When Elle leans back to focus on the road again, the car has swerved to the other side of the road and Elle brings it back to the right lane.

Not that it matters. It's been hours since they had passed another car, not a lot of traffic in the middle of the Nevada desert. And if they were to drive off the road, what a way to go, y/n thinks. She'd happily die twice if it meant dying with Elle kissing her with all the love and passion in the world. That'd probably be the only way y/n would ever make it to heaven.

For now, she leans her head on Elle's shoulder and sighs contentedly at the kiss her girlfriend drops on her temple.

"I think we can stop soon," y/n says after seconds, "We're far out enough, and I really need to stretch my legs."

It's barely fifteen minutes later when y/n finally gets to use her legs after being in the car for so long. As she stretches, Elle stands beside her, drinking from a water bottle. She passes it to her and y/n thanks her. The heat of the desert is heavy around them, but y/n barely feels it.

The warmth comes from the fire in front of them, small and controlled.

With every passing second, bloodied clothes burn beyond the point of recognition.

***

"LAPD called me this morning for a consultation on two cases they suspected might be connected."

Everyone looks at the files as JJ begins presenting the case.

"First victim, Matthew McGregor, 36, was killed with a single gunshot wound to the head a year ago after he came home from a party," She explains, "Second victim, Eric Laurens, 28, two days ago, same M.O., single GSW to the head coming home from a party."

JJ sees Derek nod slowly as he reads over the information again, "Seems pretty clear to me that they're connected."

Emily hums in agreement, "And both had gotten arrested on rape charges, but weren't convicted, prior to their deaths."

"A vigilante?" Rossi theorises out loud.

"There's more," JJ sighs as she clicks on the remote. Five more men appear on screen, a picture from their driver's license and one from a crime scene, "LAPD aren't the only ones who called about similar cases."

Spencer frowns at the screen, "Wyoming, Illinois, New York, these are from all over the country," he observes.

"Yeah" JJ nods, "And the oldest murder goes back to 2007, the most recent being Eric Laurens two days ago."

"That's seven victims over the last 3 years," Derek observes and that's when Hotch gets up to stand next to JJ.

"Seven that we know of," He says, "We might have a transient serial killer in our hands. We'll be flying out to LA to see what we can learn from the most recent crime scene. I've already asked Garcia to look for unsolved murders with a similar M.O. all over the country, we'll debrief more on the jet. Wheels up in 20."

Without another word, all the agents leave the room to gather their belongings and get to the plane that'll take them to their case.

***

After being together for almost four years, y/n and Elle had settled into a routine. It was inevitable, y/n guessed, that after so much time together. Some things were bound to become repetitive.

Elle always takes the left side of the bed, while y/n prefers the right. Elle always cooks if they want their food to be edible, and y/n always cleans up. When it comes to coffee, though, y/n always makes it, Elle's always coming out too strong for both their tastes. When it comes to work, Elle excells at planning while y/n handles the social part.

Their routine is rooted in balance though, and y/n loves the way they compliment each other.

y/n lures the men, Elle shoots them.

She worries sometimes. She worries that their lives are getting boring, that they have settled into this routine too comfortably and forgotten how to surprise each other.

"Mmmh," y/n feels Elle stretch next to her, "G'morning."

Her worries never last very long. How could they, when all y/n has to do is look at Elle to realize that there is no way she's ever falling out of love with the woman.

"Good morning," She replies, getting closer to her girlfriend to drop a kiss on her lips. Elle hums contentedly into the kiss and y/n can't help the grin that takes over her features. When Elle leans back, she keeps her eyes closed and settles back into her pillow and y/n bites her lip as she watches her.

"We need to go soon," Elle mutters.

y/n quickly agrees, even though she's pretty sure no one is on their tails. They can never be too careful. Never stay in a place too long if you don't want to get trapped. They'd stopped in a random motel for the night, paid in cash, left most of their stuff in the car, ready to take off at any time.

It was the way things always were the days that'd follow one of their… projects.

Some would consider this lifestyle tiresome. y/n, however, thinks she's the luckiest person in the world. In the last four years, she's travelled through the country and seen the most beautiful sights with the woman she loves by her side. Sure, they have a job to do, but it's never really felt like a job to y/n. She's always heard that people weren't supposed to enjoy their jobs, that's always what grownups had complained about when she was a kid.

And y/n? Well, she enjoys her job very much.

***

Reid stares at the board in front of him. He's just put up all the information they have so far and it's… a lot.

Or rather, there's very little useful information, but many, many, victims. Garcia has managed to find an overwhelming number of unsolved cases with a similar modus operandi: men, killed by a single gunshot to the head on their way home from a party, all previously accused of rape or sexual misconduct.

They are up to 32 possible victims on top of the 7 they started with, from all over the country. That number only keeps going up the longer Garcia keeps looking.

By now, they are pretty sure all these cases are connected, even though no evidence connects them directly to each other. Even ballistics couldn't link the different shootings.

They're missing something. Spencer only wishes he knew what that was.

On the jet, they'd all agreed on a few things concerning the preliminary profile. Their unsub was most likely highly intelligent and had military or law enforcement training. It was most probably a man in his mid-thirties, carrying out his own justice after the system failed him or someone close to him. He was organized, evident by the lack of clues left behind. Whoever the unsub was, he might even have stalked his victims prior to the crimes.

It sounds right on paper, but something is missing. Spencer knows it.

Something is missing.

***

y/n's hand is wrapped around a cup of coffee as she sits on the patio of a little shop. Her sunglasses are small, barely protecting her from the rays coming from the sun above. It's almost noon.

The world is an ugly place.

That statement had made its way into y/n's head years ago, laying roots, unmoving. With every stroke of her father's anger, with every touch of a man's hands, the roots dug deeper and deeper until they found their way to y/n's heart. The world held no justice for people like y/n. They didn't care about the bruises, the touching, the screaming for help, they never listened.

She had learned a long time ago that if she wants something, she needs to do it herself.

"How can you be married to someone like that?" Elle suddenly speaks up from next to her.

When y/n looks at her, Elle's eyes are fixed onto the man they'd followed. He's at the restaurant on the other side of the street, right in front of the coffee shop. He's sitting with his wife, holding her hand and y/n tilts her head.

"Maybe she doesn't know."

Elle's eyes don't leave the couple, her face still contorted in disgust, "Then, we're doing her a favor."

It brings a smile to y/n's face. The way Elle's voice sounds resolute, confident. It's comforting. It reminds her that she's right to trust Elle, that Elle hates the world just as much as she does and that she'd gladly watch it burn with her. It makes her want to lean in and kiss her, but that would attract too much attention. Instead, she reaches out for her hand and brings it up to her lips. Elle shoots her a small smile, and y/n's heart warms.

It's impressive how a smile from Elle offers y/n a reassurance she hadn't even known she craved. It had always been her against the entire world, the only love she knew was the love she was willing to give to herself. That hadn't always been easy.

Then, she'd met Elle and she had shared a story so different from y/n's but the consequences of it felt familiar. It made sense that y/n had been drawn to her, the strength Elle exuded softened by the understanding y/n saw in her eyes each time she talked.

The world was an ugly place, but Elle Greenaway makes it worth holding on for a little longer.

***

"The body was found right where you're standing," Derek says as he looks back at Prentiss from a few feet ahead, "Which means our unsub must've been standing right here," He adds, pointing to the ground under his feet.

He looks around him as Prentiss voices his exact thought, "There's no way he didn't see the unsub coming. There aren't any good hiding spots out here."

They're standing next to a fence, on the outside of a park, "The sidewalk is big, no trees, or parking allowed, so no cars to hide behind," Derek observes, "Which means our unsub is unsuspecting, someone the victims wouldn't consider a threat."

Emily nods and starts looking up, in search of camera surveillance. Two catch her eye, on the other side of the street and she points out to Derek with a raised eyebrow. Local PD hadn't found anything of use but they decide to call Garcia anyway. If anyone could find something, it was her.

As Morgan talks to their tech analyst, Emily walks past him, then back, retracing the steps their unsub had most likely taken two nights ago. When she stops, she raises her hands, mimicking a gun and aiming at where the victim would've been standing. Whoever it is, they're a good shot which makes her think they were right in saying the unsub had some kind of firearm training.

She sighs as she drops her hands down and puts them on her hips. As she looks around again, a thought crosses her mind, "Where did Mr. Laurens live?"

Derek who just hung up with Garcia wracks his brain to remember the address he'd read in the file, "He lived… three streets down, that way-" He points out to the direction their victim had supposedly been walking from and it dawns on him, "So why was he walking in the opposite direction to his home."

Emily nods, "And how did the unsub know they'd find him here."

"They followed him."

"Walked past him, turned around and shot him?" Emily asks as she walks back to stand where the body had been found.

"Or, he was lured out here," Derek speaks and Prentiss has to agree with him.

"It's the perfect killing spot," She says pointing back at the cameras, "Even if Garcia gets anything from them, it'll be grainy at best, impossible to get a clear shot of our unsub."

Derek looks at the empty street, void of any passerbys, "Quiet street in the day, probably even quieter at night. Less risks to run into an unwanted witness."

"So if he was lured out," Emily says, "We need to figure out who he left that party with."

***

y/n stumbles slightly and giggles as a strong arm wraps around her waist and helps her stay upright.

"Shoot, I'm such a klutz," She adds with a laugh and her companion replies in kind.

His laughter grates on her nerves. It's too loud, resonating all around them and using up too much oxygen. She only has to walk with him a couple more minutes but even that feels too long. She feels his too big hand squeeze her hip and she feels anger spike inside her chest. She wants to hurt him.

Deep breath. Clenched fist. One more minute.

He's started talking again but y/n isn't listening. She's staring straight ahead to the street they're going to walk into where Elle will be waiting for them and the hand will finally fall from her hip. That's when you feel it, that spark you've come to call freedom. It's small but grows as you round the corner with him following you closely.

It starts burning under your skin when you spot Elle's silhouette further down the street.

The man next to you doesn't even take notice of her and isn't that ironic. He spent his life thinking of women as less than and y/n finds it befitting that what'll bring him to his end is the last woman he'll ignore.

Elle raises her gun and with the sound of the gunshot ringing in her ears, y/n's whole body is set aflame.

She watches as the hand lays limp next to his lifeless body and a gleeful laugh escapes her. The hole in his head oozes blood and she can't stop laughing. The hand is laying there unmoving and y/n feels the urge to step on it.

Hurt him, hurt him, hurt him, hurt him like he hurt you.

She's vaguely aware of Elle calling out her name but y/n doesn't snap out of it until a hand yanks her away from the body by the shoulders. She steps back, but slaps the hands touching her away. Only then does she realize that it's Elle looking at her, confusion in her eyes and something y/n doesn't want to ever see from her own girlfriend.

Fear.

"We have to go," Elle announces slowly, like she's explaining it to a child, or a wounded animal. y/n doesn't know which comparison she likes best. She looks back at the body and regretfully nods.

They start walking away, hand in hand, but something inside of y/n doesn't feel quite right. The fire that had roared inside of her is long gone and she feels her body shiver at the cold. Elle notices and wraps an arm around her shoulders, dropping a kiss on her hair as they keep walking side by side.

She wants to smile but she can't manage it.

He hurt her.

He was going to hurt Elle.

He hurt her.

***

"Laurens' friends say he left the party alone," Emily announces to the team as she sits down next to JJ in the conference room. At the same moment, Derek's phone starts ringing, attracting everyone's attention.

"Baby girl, tell me you have good news," Derek answers, putting his phone on speaker so everyone around the table can hear.

"I wish, but no. The cameras on the street were of no use, it's a blind spot. I tried the cameras from neighbouring streets but got nothing. Whoever it is your looking for, they're like a ghost."

There's a collective disappointed sigh and shoulders sagging, and Garcia isn't done, "to make a bad day even worse, a body was just found in Twin Falls, same M.O."

Everyone visibly tenses at the news, Rossi speaking first, "Two kills in less than three days."

Hotch looks at JJ and before he can even say anything, she's out of her seat, "I'll call the local PD, tell them we're on our way."

Hotch nods his approval, turning his stoic gaze to the rest of his team, "Get your bags ready, we're flying out as soon as the jet is ready."

***

It is getting boring and y/n had been right to be worried.

That's the first thing that crosses her mind as she wakes up next to Elle, hours later, in a nameless city in the middle of nowhere.

Elle lays peacefully next to her, deep into slumber, and a smile stretches y/n's lips. She watches her girlfriend's chest rise and fall, her naked body barely covered by the sheets. It's a hot night, y/n can feel the sweat in her lower back making it uncomfortable for her to fall back asleep. As she gets up from the bed, Elle moves, getting closer to where y/n lay seconds ago, chasing the heat despite the already too high temperature.

y/n lets herself watch her for a moment before walking to sit on the chair next to the window. There's nothing to look at, the motel they'd chosen is outside of the city and the lights are barely visible. It's dark, except for the slight light of the moon landing on the cars outside.

She feels empty tonight. The thrill she'd felt hours ago hadn't lasted long and the only thing she could remember about it was the look Elle had thrown her way.

Fear.

Elle had always looked at her with interest. From the moment they met, y/n had been drawn in by her hazel eyes. Something in her made her feel safe in a way she never had before and days after meeting her, she had told Elle about her unpleasant memories, how the world wasn't a nice place.

Elle had listened and, to y/n's surprise, agreed with the statement. Usually, whenever y/n told people about the ugliness of the world, they tried to make her see the parts that weren't so bad, try to make her see that some things, and some people were worth it. Elle hadn't done any of that, she had scoffed and agreed.

"Only person you can trust is yourself. The rest? Always leads to disappointment."

They had ended up in bed together soon after that, spent the night in each other's arms and imagining a world that'd be worth their time.

Two days later, they had killed their first man together.

Their routine hasn't changed in nearly four years, and it used to be enough for y/n. She's the bait, easily transforming herself into whoever the men want to see in front of them. She pretends to be too drunk, unstable on her feet, asking for help to walk back to her place or her car, and the men never think twice before following her.

Elle waits for them and then. She shoots.

And it used to be enough for y/n to watch the proud look on Elle's face anytime she made a perfect shot. Smoking gun in hand and a confident smirk, y/n had never seen anything sexier in her entire life.

What followed was always a passionate kiss and hurried hands, trying to touch every inch of skin.

Earlier, y/n hadn't even kissed Elle, the only contact between them being the arm that Elle had thrown around her shoulder.

y/n can feel that there's something not quite right. She feels it in her body, in the way her arms itch, in the way her chest feels a bit too empty for her too breath comfortably.

y/n loves Elle, there's no way that has changed. She's sure of it. When she turns her head to watch Elle sleep, her heart flutters at the sight of her girlfriend curled up on the side of the bed that she had vacated. She couldn't see it, but she could picture her girlfriend's face, mouth slightly open if she were to believe the little snores she could hear.

She is just bored of the routine.

When she finally climbs back into bed with Elle, her girlfriend automatically drapes a hand over her waist.

"Where did you go?" Elle asks sleepily, and y/n lays a kiss on her nose. It makes her scrunch up her face and that's the cutest sight she's ever seen.

"Couldn't sleep."

Elle hums and goes back to sleep. y/n sighs and follows suit, not long after.

***

"What's this, on the palm?" Morgan asks the M.E., pointing at the left hand of the victim where the skin seems slightly bruised.

The doctor on the other side of the autopsy table nods at Derek and Spencer, "His hand was broken post-mortem, although I'm having a hard time figuring out what broke it."

Reid leaned closer to the hand and frowned, "It looks like something was pushed from the palm to the other side."

Again, the doctor nods, but before she can say anything else, Reid suddenly stands up straight and looks over at Morgan, "I know what did this."

At that moment, Morgan's phone rings and upon seeing Hotch's name, he excuses himself to reply. When he comes back, his face looks somber.

"A man was killed not far from here, local PD just got the call. Hotch wants us to check it out, just in case."

#elle greenaway x reader #elle greenaway #elle greenaway imagine #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds x reader #elle greenaway x you #elle greenaway x y/n #criminal minds

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enbies-and-felonies · 4 years ago

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Only Then I am Human / Only Then I am Clean

(AO3 link)

@jatp-rules-my-life, this is your fault (based on this post)

Summary: Alex listens to 'Take Me to Church' by Hozier and maybe it affects him in a way he wasn't prepared for, maybe it just let's him heal a little bit.

warnings for homophobia and religious themes

taglist, just ask to be added or removed (i know it's not my normal work but,, yeah): @barrel-of-cat-mituna @completekeefitztrash @tiergan-andrin-alenefar @lemontarto @hershis-kotlc @genesiscaveat @everything-else-and-mars @juline-dizznee @chaotic-basics @an-absolute-travesty @classyfunnyquotesmuffin7 @smolanxiouscatvoids @itstiger720 @introvertedscarecrow @sunset-telepath @an-idiot-in-a-trenchcoat @cowboypossume @anaccidentwaitingtohappen @sofia-not-sophie @fire-sapphics @dr-alan-grant @real-smooth @juline-dizznee

The first time Alex heard 'Take Me to Church' he was on the verge of dozing off, which was an interesting feeling as a ghost, like he was a boat tethered to a dock and he might drift away if he fell asleep for too long. The evening sun was casting lazy beams through the windows of Julie's garage, and he smiled as the warmth hit his face, causing his eyelids to droop lower. At least as a ghost, he could still enjoy some of the simpler things in life.

An old radio crackled on the little table nearby, playing songs Alex had never heard before. He enjoyed a few of them, but others he rolled his eyes at. Idly, he wondered if Reggie and Luke were having fun with Julie; She had taken them on a trip to see some sights, but Alex had opted to stay home, feeling listless, and decided to catch up on whatever new tunes had came out since he was alive.

He bopped his head slightly to 'Bad Liar' and hummed a bit to 'Counting Stars'. He had missed out on a lot of good songs. Yawning, he stretched and settled deeper into the couch, giving a contented sigh as the next song started playing, a strong piano coming in and setting the tone.

Alex liked the man's voice, and he raised an eyebrow at the lyrics.

"-She's the giggle at a funeral / Knows everybody's disapproval / I should've worshipped her sooner."

He sat up and cocked his head by a margin, feeling a tiny, guilty thrill at the way his lips quirked at the lyrics. There was a forbidden excitement that came from it's gentle blasphemy.

"Every Sunday's gettin' more bleak / A fresh poison each week."

His heart twinged. A choir, a pulpit, fire-and-brimstone preaching, he was just a kid-

"We were born sick / You heard them say it."

He sucked in a breath and his eyes flew open, throat tightening like a noose, trapping his breath like a fluttering bird in his lungs.

~~~

"This Sunday we will be touching upon the topic of a Biblical marriage!" The preacher's voice booms across the congregation, and fourteen year-old Alex's stomach sinks as he tries to slouch further down in the pew, as if he could just slip low enough that the words won't catch in his heart and weigh him down like so many stones. He briefly thinks about the millstone the preacher once mentioned. He tried to remember the context, but the only thing he comes up with is that it was for people who sinned. He gulped.

"Now, 'what exactly is Biblical marriage?' you might be asking yourself! Biblical marriage is a holy union between one man, and one woman-"

Pastor James' voice carries on, and Alex does his best to let the words pass through his ears without hearing them, the rocks weighing him down turning to boulders. His stomach turns.

"-now, the men gotta love their wives!! Just like Christ loves the church, and cares for her. Marriage is a wonderful blessing, the greatest blessing we could ever experience in fact! It is perhaps the second greatest gift God has given to humans, and as such we must respect it.

"There are many ways you can disrespect the holy marriage bed. Divorce of course is one of them. In fact, in Matthew chapter nineteen, verses one through eight-"

Alex tries to tune him out harder, knowing what's eventually coming and yet still hoping to avoid it. He counts the number of stained-glass windows -twelve without turning to either side, thirty-six if he rotates all the way- and taps his fingers on his leg to the cadence of Pastor James' words.

One, two, three, four. One and two, and three, and four-

He makes increasingly faster and more intricate beats, imagining drumsticks in his hands, base-drum pedal beneath his foot.

One and two-o-o, and four and, one and two and three-e, four-

His fingers are pattering rapidly, and he forces himself to swallow, trying to remember not to bounce his leg, trying not to distract his mom and dad, trying not to dwell on the words he can't avoid, trying not to scratch at his wrist, trying-

He can't breathe. He's trying to calm himself down but his fingers aren't a drumset and he can't play away the sin that coats his soul and he's just a kid but he can't breathe, he can't-

"And that leaves us with those who have disrespected the sacred act of marriage by letting themselves be lost in sexual perversion. I am, of course, referring to those disgusting individuals who have chosen to live the transsexual and homosexual lifestyles. People like these were born sick."

Alex's hands quit their anxious movement. He's completely still. He was born sick.

He was born sick.

~~~

"The only heaving I'll be sent to / Is when I'm alone with you."

And he started breathing again.

"I was born sick, but I love it / Command me to be well / A-a-a-amen amen amen"

Air was rushing back into his lungs and maybe it was the way reliving that memory gave him closure, but it felt like the song was purging the preacher's burning words from where they'd branded his heart with wounds he never thought would scar-over.

Alex felt his eyes close again, letting the lyrics and the lilt of the man's voice wash over him in a cleansing baptism. His fingers began pattering against his lap, joining in with the beat, weaving him together with the music, becoming one with it.

"We've a lot of starving faithful."

He thought of himself when he was younger, sitting in church week after week begging God to fix him. He thought about the girl who bowed her head at the foot of the altar the Sunday after a lesbian couple was attacked, he thought of the way her fingers linked together like someone else's hand used to hold them, and he thought of the way she cried: silent, tears streaming down like shooting stars, her lips whispering unspoken prayers.

This song was for him, he realized. It was for him, and every moment he cried himself to sleep under his parents roof, thinking he was dirty, thinking he didn't have God's love, didn't have God's forgiveness.

It was for every time a prayer caught in his throat like a trapped butterfly, the prayers he could never bring himself to say because he was 'unworthy'.

"I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife / Offer me that deathless death / Oh good God, let me give you my life"

The lyrics seeped under his skin, replacing the lies that he had believed over the years. The lies about himself, about his faith, about his gayness-

Washed away like a world-destroying flood.

Because this song? This song was for every cold-shoulder from his parents instead of a warm hug, and it was for every time he had to watch him mom recoil from his touch, every time his father didn't quite meet his eye.

"There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin."

The first tear slipped past his eyelashes, and he heaved a shuddering sigh.

"Only then I am human / Only then I am clean."

He cried, but there was a smile on his face.

~~~

When Julie and the boys got back, the radio was long silent, but Alex still sat on the couch, tear-tracks on his cheeks and a relieved smile on his face.

He had sat there a long time, reliving moments in his life, and then letting them go, letting them be washed away. He was quiet when he was surrounded by the rest of Sunset Curve, letting himself be held by them; Julie comfortingly running her fingers through his hair, Reggie linking their fingers together and side-hugging him, and Luke tugging him halfway onto his lap. They were his family, and they loved him.

"You okay, Lex?"

Alex took a deep, slow breath, letting himself take in each of their faces, and he gave a small smile.

"Yeah, I really am."

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broadstbroskis · 4 years ago

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drunk dial | auston matthews

a very long time ago, an anon sent me an ask with a prompt that was like “so we’re just ignoring the fact that you drunk dialed me to tell me you love me?” with auston and @nolypats and i have been chatting recently and, well this is finally completed

-----

It’s a typical Saturday night and the boys don’t have another game until Wednesday, somehow, someway, so you arrive at Scotiabank Arena dressed for the bar after and notice immediately that you aren’t the only one who’d made the choice to do so.

“Ohhh.” Steph runs her fingers along the sleeve of your leather jacket as soon as you slip into the seat beside her. “I love this! New?”

You nod at her, but are already busy gushing over her sweater to answer anything else about the jacket, which you’d openly lusted over for months before your best friend had surprised you with it for your birthday a few weeks ago, despite your insistence to Auston that it was too much.

Steph seems to have been waiting for you to arrive because as soon as you do, she flags down Alannah, who grins as soon as she sees you. “Wine o’ clock!” She cheers and you grin, standing and following the two of them to the closest spot in the club level for you each to get a glass.

It sets the tone for the evening, with the three of you giggly and tipsy by the time the game ends and you meet up with everyone in the lounge downstairs.

“Oh boy.” Zach’s eyes widen almost comically, when he’s the first one to approach the three of you, coming out of the locker room fresh off his shower. Alannah straight up squeals when she sees her husband, throwing her arms around him like she hasn’t seen him in days or weeks, instead of like five hours, and you give the reaction the giggles it deserves, hearing Steph join in right behind you. “Oh boy.” Zach repeats, looking between the three of you.

“What’s going on?” Mitch asks, appearing at his side, with Auston and Will right behind him.

“It’s wine o’ clock, bitch!” Steph cheers, erupting into a fit of giggles, and that’s the last thing you remember.

-----

Considering how much your head is pounding the next morning, you’re just happy to wake up in a bed, even if you know right away that it isn’t your own. It takes you a few minutes to open your eyes, but you breathe a sigh of relief when you do, taking in the familiar sights of one of Steph and Mitch’s guest rooms.

Poor Mitch. You bite back a laugh, taking your time to sit up at the edge of the bed, and a couple deep breaths as it makes your headache even worse. You might not remember last night, but you know from prior experience that having to wrangle a drunk you and Steph back here was no easy task for him. You owe him big time.

The two of them are both, unsurprisingly, already awake when you make your way downstairs, nursing large and larger cups of coffee. “Any more of that?” You ask hopefully, and Mitch snorts, while Steph points pathetically toward the counter.

There is, blessedly, a good portion of the pot still left, and still warm, and you pour it in a mug, hugging it toward your chest like the lifeline it’s about to be. “Sorry, Mitch.”

“You will be when you see the pictures.” Mitch says cheerfully, way too cheerfully for this early in the morning, especially considering how hungover you are.

You groan immediately, noticing Steph’s done the same only after she bangs her head against the counter and follows it with a soft, “Ow.”

“Where’s my phone?” You whine reluctantly. You might as well get the roast over with.

Your phone is hiding in the blankets of the bed you’d slept in, almost dead, where you’d apparently just thrown it at some point. Steph’s already back in the kitchen when you make your way down, her face paling even as she occasionally laughs at whatever she’s scrolling through.

Your own phone has more than a few messages with pictures from last night, as well as a few more chats that are blowing up with texts this morning, commenting from last night, but there’s one message that catches your eye.

It’s from Auston, separate from any of the group chats, and it catches your eye because it’s just...not like a usual text he’d send you? you good? is the only thing he’s sent, no emojis, nothing, and it’s strange enough that you ignore the other incoming texts to explore through your phone a little to see what you could have done to get a text like that.

Instagram and Snapchat both yield nothing- embarrassing videos, sure, but nothing overly terrible- and the photos making their way through the texts are the same, but your call log is another story.

“Shit.” You groan, swiping back into your messages with your best friend.

“What?” Steph asks.

“I called Auston, like, ten times last night.” You tell them, more focused on texting him. i’m sorryyyyy. didn’t mean to keep you up

it’s good. He sends back a few minutes later, and you frown, because as cool and chill as he might pretend to be, he’s not, and this is strange.

couch movie day? You ask him. The coffee has done the trick; you at least feel like you could move, and there’s no better way to spend a hungover Sunday than with your best friend, lounging on his supremely comfortable couch. i’ll even agree to football if that’s what you so desire.

yeah alright, that sounds good. It’s punctuated with the fingers forming the ok sign emoji,though, and that, at least, is close enough to normal that you smile. You must have kept him up later than you even realized with your calls, for him to be so short with you.

“Alright lovelies.” You suck down the last bit of coffee and address your hosts. “Thanks for the bed last night. I owe you big time, Mitch.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll come collecting!” He teases.

“Headed to Auston’s though.” You press a kiss to Steph’s head and then Mitch’s as well. “Comfy sweats and a couch calling my name.”

——-

When you let yourself into your best friend’s place, it comes as almost no surprise to find a giant ginger sitting at the counter. “Freddie!” You beam, throwing your arms around him and regretting it pretty quickly, once your head starts to pound again. He starts to squeeze you, returning the hug, but you shake your head quickly. “Nope, don’t do that.”

“Alright, fair enough.” He laughs. “So rough night last night, huh?”

You level him with a look but he barely even blinks, and you sigh. “Where’s Auston?”

“Right here.” Your best friend is still shirtless as he walks out of his bedroom, yanking some ridiculous graphic tee over his head as he gets closer, which gives you the second you need to look away and take a breath after even just that tiny minute of exposure. Auston’s abs are honestly unfair and they are, objectively, not even his best feature. “Hey.” He gives you a nod, fixing the glasses he tries to pretend he’s too cool to actually need, refusing to wear them outside the house unless absolutely necessary, and you grin back; as annoyed as he may have seemed over text, he’s not acting that way at all now.

“Is there coffee made?” You ask hopefully. Auston rolls his eyes at you, but nods over at his absurdly fancy machine, the one that had taken you about three months to figure out how to use. “Sweet, you’re amazing. I’m stealing that and then going to steal some sweats, okay?” You don’t even wait for him to respond, knowing it’ll be fine. Precedent is on your side here. Instead, you reach for a mug and address Freddie instead. “Fred, you joining?”

“Nah.” Freddie says, surprising you a bit. You’ve never known him to turn down a lazy Sunday. “You two have fun.” He says, giving you a knowing glance, which means he definitely caught you looking at Auston earlier, and it’s only the fact that Auston is standing right there that stops you from flipping Fred off on his way out the door.

It figures Freddie’s freaky goalie powers would be working now. Catches onto your more-than-best-friends-feelings for Auston, sure, but too oblivious to notice the hot neighbor in his building he’s crushing on is practically in love with him. Good one, Fred.

It’s barely a minute after Freddie clears out that you slip past Auston to go change, bringing your coffee mug along with you and reaching for your favorite pair of sweatpants the minute you enter his room. They’re old and perfectly worn, from his first year in the league, too small for Auston now, but just large enough for you to feel cozy in. One of his comfier sweatshirts completes your outfit for the day. Auston might be able to survive the day in a t-shirt, always radiating heat even as he complains about the Toronto cold, but fuck that, you were ready to be comfortable and nap through an afternoon of American football.

Auston is already settled on the couch and if you weren’t so hungover, you’d throw yourself on him, just to be obnoxious, but as it is, you settle slowly onto the cushions beside him, and then lower your head to rest in his lap, frowning to yourself when you feel him tense.

But it happens so quick; one minute his quads are tight underneath you and the next he’s relaxed again, you find yourself wondering if you imagined the entire thing. Maybe he wasn’t even annoyed with you this morning either; maybe you were just projecting your annoyance at the entire world onto him.

His hand moves to your hair, just like it always would, and you decide your hangover must have you paranoid. “How’s your fantasy team going to do today?” You mumble, already ready to fall back asleep.

Auston hums. “Good, I think. I play Willy this week and he’s a fucking disaster.” You giggle into his lap; his hand stills for a second, but then goes right back to playing with your hair. “Hey, uh, you-” Auston starts, but whatever he says next goes unheard by you, as you give into the sleep that’s been ready to overtake you since you settled onto his lap only moments ago.

-----

It’s hours later when you come to again and you only know this because whatever football game Auston has on is well into the second half.

It takes you a few minutes to wake up again, slowly coming out of your sleepy state, before you realize that Auston’s talking to someone- quietly, but talking pretty freely- and it’s actually this that’s what has woken you up.

“Yeah it’s-” Auston cuts off frustratedly. He sounds kind of like he wants to be pacing but your head is still in his lap and his hand has moved from your hair to rest on your shoulder, brushing gentle strokes over the curve of it. “I just haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

Ohhh, juicy. You don’t want to listen in on Auston’s conversation; you know he’ll bring it up to you when he’s ready, but well, it’s hard not to. You can’t get up without alerting him that you’re awake already. You shut your eyes again tightly, focus on your breathing, and try to fall back asleep, but he’s talking again. “You don’t just get the fuck over that, Fred.” He hisses and ohhh, that sounds angry. You wonder what could have possibly happened to make him sound like that; the two of them never fight. “I would have gotten over her already if I could.”

And that’s the end of that for you. You’re already feeling sick enough today before hearing Auston and Fred talk about one of Auston’s girls. You squeeze your eyes closed tightly and re-double your efforts on trying to fall back asleep, concentrating on blocking out the sound of his voice.

It works a lot better when you focus on how his hand feels on your shoulder, but it still feels like taking the L.

-----

The second time you wake that afternoon is much smoother. Your headache is basically gone, but the tradeoff is Auston’s thumb digging into your upper trap, which you ease off. “Sorry.” He winces, soothing that spot immediately and you don’t have to look up at the TV to know the Raiders have just done something terrible for his well being.

“I’m hungry.” You whine at him and he laughs.

“Two minutes.” He responds, checking the time, which of course, turns into more like five, because the difference between “football time” and “real time” is fucking riduclous, but when the half does end, you sit up, the two of you swiping between food delivery apps to decide on dinner for the evening.

When you look up from your phone, Auston’s looking at you with a soft smile, that one you can’t let yourself look at for too long. “I’m gonna shower real quick, if you don’t mind?”

You’re already standing before he answers, but he nods, smile fading from his face a little. “Yeah, go for it.”

“Thanks.” You call, already moving towards the master bath, ready to steal a second pair of sweats for the day.

The shower is the distraction that you need, the step away from that smile that’s too close to everything that you want. The large walk-in a scalding reminder of every other girl who may have been in this position, of the girl who Auston wants to keep around in this position, the one girl who’s managed to do the thing hundreds of girls in Toronto thought was impossible. Auston’s soap smells bitter today, as you lather yourself in it, wondering how you became one of those girls.

You must have taken longer than you thought in the shower because the food’s arrived when you come back out. Auston’s unpacking the takeout bags onto the coffee table, with utensils ready. “Ohh, smells good.” You tug the long sleeves of his shirt over your hands, settling into the couch next to him again and watching him spread your takeout favorites out in front of the two of you. “Thank you.

Auston hums in response, passing you over your favorite dish ordered, the one that you love and he hates, and you only kind of watch him make a plate for himself, a mish-mash of options from the rest of the meals that you’d ordered, more focused on the plate of food in front of you, which is maybe why it’s a total surprise when he says, “We’re really just going to ignore you drunk-dialling me to tell me you love me?”

You choke. “What?”

Auston pales. “Uhh.” He freezes; his fork’s halfway to his mouth, but you can’t even chirp him for how lame he looks right now and it’s not even just because you apparently did something a hundred times more stupid.

No, it’s because your mind is racing at the fact that you did do something a hundred times more stupid last night and you can’t even put together a coherent thought about that, let alone anything else. No fucking wonder he’s been strange all day.

“Uh.” Auston repeats. “You know what? Don’t worry about it.”

“Absolutely not!” You protest, words finally coming back to you. “What the fuck? God, I’m so sorry!”

And somehow, that makes this worse? Auston’s shoulder’s tense, he looks extremely interested in his food suddenly. “I mean, it’s cool.” He shrugs, acting again too chill for the situation.

It’s a long moment before you respond, trying to gather your thoughts before you say something you don’t mean. “Is it though? Because you’ve been weird all day and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, but, like, I can’t take it back now. So the best I can do is leave and like, let me know if you want to talk about it ever and promise not to make things super weird everytime I see you if you don’t want to talk about it.” You don’t realize you’ve stood up at some point in this chat, but Auston still hasn’t responded, and well, maybe it’s for the best that you’ve stood.

You turn to leave, only for him to tug you back gently toward him, but he either pulls harder than he thinks or you’re just not expecting the tug, and you land in his lap instead of the couch. It’s hardly a graceful fall, with Auston having to loop his free hand behind your back to catch you, your nose bumping against his shoulder on the way down, and your legs folding under you unnaturally until you squirm around to fix them.

Auston’s barely breathing when you finally look up at him, a little annoyed that he’s still acting weird after what you said. “Could you-” He trails off. “Just sit still for a second please?” You give him a look, but settle down, stopping your movements, and he takes a deep breath, relaxing, finally. “I’m sorry if I’ve been weird all day, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you telling me you loved me.”

You huff at him, annoyed and ready to climb off his lap to storm out, but he tightens his grip on you, like he knows what you’re thinking. “You don’t have to rub it in.”

“I swear, I’m not!” His thumb slides up to brush a spot of skin between the waistband of the sweatpants and the oversized shirt. “I haven’t been about to stop thinking about that, and then you came in here, looking like you always do, in my clothes all day, and I’ve been trying so fucking hard not to ruin shit between us for months now,” Your eyes widen and your jaw drops as everything starts coming together. “Until last night, when you called me and left me that message and I thought maybe we were on the same page…”

“Except I didn’t remember doing it.” It pains you to even say it; you hate that he’s been feeling uncertain throughout the entire day. Uncertain and unsure and just...hanging. “Auston-” You reach your hand out to brush against his cheek.

“You didn’t even mention it.” He says. “Not in your texts, not once you got here. I thought...I thought you just wanted to carry on with things as normal, that you regretted saying it, or wanted to take it back completely?” He shakes his head, like he’s clearing his thoughts, but you don’t let him move away, putting your hand right back on his cheek.

“I mean, I wish I remembered saying it.” You tell him softly. “But I don’t think I’ll ever regret loving you.”

“Good.” Auston says firmly, and you barely have time to grin in response to that before he’s tugging you closer in his lap and kissing you soundly.

#auston matthews imagine #auston matthews fanfic #hockey imagines #hockey fanfic #hockey fanfiction #nhl imagines #nhl fanfiction #my hockey fics

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manicmarsupial · 4 years ago

Text

Tiny Arthur

Sorry for the crappy title. My brain did a dumb and couldn’t think of anything better.

I think both @tiny-james and I are equally responsible for the shenaniganary that made me write this. I’m not happy with the last sentence, but whatever. On with the story

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

Hosea Matthews has seen a lot of shit in his life, not to put too fine of a point on it. But this takes the cake. And he’s stone cold sober…this time.

His sharp eyes track what appears to be a miniature person dart across the floor of the grimy saloon. He keeps his eyes on it as it stays skirting along the walls.

When a group of people leave a table, the little person bolts under, grabbing crumbs from the floor and stashing them into a bag. Hosea leaves his untouched glass at the bar and puts on a drunkard act, making wobbling steps toward the table. With deft fingers, he fumbles through his pocket, spilling coins as he pays the bartender, ensuring some of the fallen change rolls under the table.

“Oh dear, I’m all thumbs, aren’t I?” he gives a drunken laugh as the bartender grunts in reply.

Hosea crouches down and grabs the coins he had dropped, making sure to scoop up the tiny being as well.

Using the well-practised dexterity of a lifelong pickpocket, he drops the coins into his pocket and keeps his new passenger securely within his hands.

He maintains the alcoholic fool act until he’s out of sight of the saloon, feeling tiny fists pummelling his palms the entire time.

Once he reaches a secluded area, he unfurls his hands, his own eyes meeting the frightened blue ones of a teenager no bigger than his thumb.

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

At first, Hosea thought he was dreaming. It would have been convincing but for the slight weight in his hands. For once in his life, the eloquent silver-tongued con man is speechless.

“My word…” is all he manages to whisper after a long pause.

He moves his hands slightly closer to his face to get a better look at the tiny teenager, who unfortunately appears even more terrified by the slight movement.

“It’s okay. I won’t hurt you,” Hosea attempts to calm the small person in his hands.

Based on the fact the poor teenager is taking panicked breaths, it’s not working. Gently tipping the tiny human into one hand, Hosea rummages through his satchel and pulls out a broken bar of chocolate. He snaps an even smaller piece off and offers it to the frightened person, who backs away shaking his head.

“Take it. You must be hungry,” Hosea holds his hand flat, the small piece of chocolate resting on his fingertips.

The tiny teenager shakes his head again, but his stomach betrays him with a grumble which Hosea actually hears. The teen pouts and takes the chocolate. Hosea gives a slight smile as a look of delight passes over the tiny features as the teen gorges the chocolate.

It doesn’t take much thought for Hosea to decide that he’s going to take care of this tiny, half starved street kid. All that remains is gaining his trust. He waits until the teen finishes the chocolate.

“I’m just going to put you in my pocket. Don’t worry, you’ll be safe,” without waiting for an answer, Hosea slips the miniature human into his shirt pocket, feeling the little hands scrabble for purchase on his palms.

Quickly righting himself after dropping into the pocket, he begins fighting, attempting to escape the confining material.

It nearly breaks Hosea’s heart how averse this teenager is to kindness yet makes him set in his determination to care for the young man. He calls for his horse, trying to ignore the tiny fists punching his ribs. Mounting up, he sets his horse to a gentle trot, trying not to jostle his tiny passenger too much.

Sometime during the trip, the fighting stopped, replaced by faint soft snoring. The tiny teen exhausted himself, Hosea restrains the urge to laugh lest the shake wakes up his passenger.

After setting up camp in a secluded area, Hosea gently takes the tiny human out of his pocket. The teen grumbles, beginning to stir. Hosea softly brushes the teen’s dark blond hair with his finger, lulling the small person back to sleep. Using a glove and his neckerchief as a makeshift bed, he places the sleeping figure down before settling in for the night himself.

Arthur sits bolt upright. The last thing he remembers is being captured and dropped into a human’s pocket. Part of him wished the human had outright killed him, get it done quickly. But why give him chocolate? Red flags go off in Arthur’s mind. Maybe giving him a false sense of security before torturing him. Humans aren’t as nice as all that.

That didn’t explain why the human gave him a glove and a scarf as a fairly comfortable bed. He whirls around at a soft noise, biting back a yelp upon seeing the human frighteningly close to him. Although the man is asleep, he still towers over Arthur. Choosing not to linger, Arthur wriggles out of the glove.

Only a few steps and he pauses in thought. He was at his most vulnerable. Not only asleep, but asleep in a human’s pocket. Yet here he was, unharmed and in comfort. Ever wary of humans, Arthur turns to leave.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a booming voice makes him jump and whirl around

The human is awake and sitting up.

“Why not?” Arthur demands with more bravery than he felt.

“You gonna hunt me down?”

“Me? Nah. I’d be more worried about coyotes,” the human sounds calm, almost friendly.

A chill goes through Arthur’s spine at the mention of those carnivores.

“I don’t much like coyotes…humans neither,” Arthur mumbles.

“Can’t say I blame you,” the human chuckles.

Arthur almost smiles. The human’s laugh seems so genuine.

“Ah, where are my manners?” the human exclaims.

“I’m Hosea Matthews. You got a name?”

“…Arthur”

“A good, strong name,” Hosea smiles.

Arthur stands still in confusion. This human, Hosea, is simply talking to him, making no attempt to harm him. Everything he’s heard about humans being cruel, soulless, Hosea is being anything but.

“You got family?” Hosea’s question interrupts Arthur’s thoughts.

Arthur shakes his head.

“Not anymore”

“I’m sorry,” Hosea replies softly.

“s’not your fault,” Arthur mutters.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“Humans caught ‘em. I never saw them again,” Arthur trembles as he holds back a sob.

He stares at the ground avoiding looking at Hosea.

As Hosea studies the tiny form of Arthur, he wants nothing more than to embrace and tell him he’ll be okay. As Arthur trembles, Hosea slowly places his hand behind the tiny teenager and gently strokes his back, hesitating as Arthur flinches.

“Hey, it’s alright. You’ll be okay, Arthur,” Hosea croons.

Arthur leans into Hosea’s hand, then buries his face into the older man’s palm, quietly sobbing. He doesn’t flinch as huge fingers wrap carefully around him.

“If you want, you can come with me.”

Arthur wipes his eyes and looks up.

“Is it safe?” he asks.

“Well, no. I have the law constantly after me.”

Arthur looks worried.

“But you’ll be safer from animals and being trod on,” Hosea digs through his satchel, taking out the chocolate bar, breaking off a piece.

“You’ll be better fed too,” he holds out the tidbit.

“Unless you’d rather keep having stale saloon leftovers.” Hosea smiles.

Arthur thinks about this. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s taken the food from Hosea, then clambers into the older man’s palm, munching the chocolate.

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

It’s fair to say neither Hosea nor Arthur had planned their day to end up like this. It took a lot of negotiation for Hosea to think of a safe place for the much smaller Arthur that the teen was comfortable with. His pocket would’ve been too restrictive and riding on his hat would be too unsteady.

Arthur wakes up due to the noise Hosea was making packing up the camp.

“Good sleep, Arthur?” he smiles.

Arthur responds with a noncommittal grunt.

“We’ve got a long day’s ride ahead of us,” Hosea stands up, lifting the camp accessories onto his horse.

Arthur’s voice catches in his throat as the human stands to his full height. He knew humans were big, but to be so close to such a towering figure made Arthur’s stomach churn, terrifying him slightly. Seeing the human so casually lift up a bundle hundreds of times heavier and larger than he was. He shudders at the thought of what the human could do to him with strength like that.

Arthur flinches as Hosea turns around to face him, heart pounding as the human’s ground-shaking footfalls approach. He trembles a little as Hosea’s huge form crouches down.

“Ready to go, Arthur?” Hosea holds out his hand next to Arthur.

He nods and climbs onto the hand before him.

“Careful now. Hold on,” Hosea warns.

Arthur wraps his arms around Hosea’s thumb, the wind rushing through his hair as the human stands up. Awe fills his face as he looks around.

“You okay there?” Hosea asks softly.

“Y…yeah. Everything looks so different from here,” Arthur mutters.

“Hmm, I suppose it does. I haven’t given it much thought,” Hosea muses.

He moves his hand near his neck where there is a slight gap by his scarf.

“Go on, hop in, Arthur.”

Arthur slides off the hand, landing on Hosea’s shoulder. It’s not a bad spot. He can easily hide and see what’s going on. The scarf provides a nice wall against the chill breeze, and the human’s body heat is creating a nice warm area wrapped by the scarf.

Arthur’s slightly startled when he’s practically squashed against Hosea’s neck by the older man’s hand. He yelps as he feels a wide swinging motion, then a steady clopping. The pressure of the hand releases.

“You alright there, Arthur?” the closeness to Hosea’s booming voice, Arthur gives a frightened squeak.

“Sorry. I didn’t want you to fall while I mounted up,” Hosea apologises.

“’s alright. I’ll be fine,” Arthur mutters, trying to calm his racing heart.

“Why do you have the law after you?” Arthur pipes up.

He won’t admit that he likes this spot. He can still talk to Hosea without shouting, being seated below the man’s ear.

“My friend and I steal valuables from people who can afford to lose them.”

“Then what?”

“We give it to people who need it.”

“Why would the law chase you for that?”

“It’s complicated. Rich people don’t like having their stuff stolen, much less being given to the poor. The people who are supposed to keep the law…well…they like money. Whoever has the most money, has the law on their side,” Hosea explains.

“Humans are confusing,” Arthur replies.

‘My dear boy, you just said a cotton-pickin’ mouthful,” Hosea chuckles, the shaking of his chest jostling Arthur.

There hadn’t been much sound nor movement from the tiny person snuggled on Hosea’s shoulder. He was still there. Hosea could feel Arthur huddled under his scarf. Carefully turning his head, he sees the teen sound asleep, curled up under his shirt collar. He smiles and lightly brushes some stray locks away from Arthur’s eyes with his finger.

Arthur stretches with a groan. It only slightly shocks him that he’s right next to a human. If he were honest with himself, he should be worried at how quickly he got used to it.

“Comfortable there?” Hosea asks with a smile.

“No,” Arthur lies, yawning.

“You think we should stop for some food?” Hosea asks.

“I suppose,” Arthur mutters.

“Hold on then,” Hosea dismounts when he feels Arthur grab the scarf.

He takes his hat off and holds his hand up to his shoulder. Arthur clambers onto Hosea’s palm, holding on as the human places him on top of the hat.

“You will be safe there while I set up the fire,” Hosea gives Arthur a friendly smile.

Arthur had seen fire before, but never like this. Normally raging through a building, however in this case, slowly licking at some dry wood. The flickering was mesmerising and soothing.

“Arthur?” Hosea’s voice brings him back to reality.

“Hmm?”

‘I asked if you’ve ever tried rabbit.”

“Uh…no…”

“Now’s your chance.”

Arthur wouldn’t admit it to Hosea, but seeing the human rip apart the rabbit with his bare hands so easily honestly scared him, an uneasy feeling in his stomach as Hosea impales the chunk of meat with a knife. Continuing to remind Arthur of his insignificance alongside the towering human. He shudders despite the warmth of the fire. The sun has some bite to it, yet the chill seeps into his bones as he sits in Hosea’s looming shadow. Arthur quickly turns to face the fire, distracting himself from his terrifying thought processes,

“That should do it,” Hosea sits up, testing the meat tenderness with his fingers.

He slices off a sliver and hands it to Arthur. The tiny teen cautiously takes it, warily sinking his teeth into it. Admittedly it tastes quite nice, if a little weird.

“So, what do you think?” Arthur hadn’t realised Hosea was watching for his reaction.

“It’s alright, I suppose,” Arthur mutters.

He can’t help but look up as the human takes a bite of the rabbit meat. The chunk bitten off, he notices, is almost four times his size. His blood feels like it turned to ice seeing Hosea’s jaw move, his teeth probably bigger than Arthur’s head, no doubt mashing the meat into a pulp. He shudders at how easily this human could eat him, a mere snack, barely enough to fill his stomach.

Arthur feels the blood run from his face as he watches the mush descend as a lump down Hosea’s throat, disappearing under his collar, on its way to the digestive system.

“Arthur, you okay? You’ve gone pale,” Hosea looks concerned.

“I’m fine,” Arthur mumbles.

“We shall see,” Hosea says, reaching a finger toward Arthur.

‘Whoa, what are you doing?” Arthur protests.

“Relax, dear boy. I’m just seeing if you have a temperature.”

Arthur pouts as Hosea presses the pad of his finger to Arthur’s forehead.

“A bit low, but nothing to be alarmed about. Don’t want you to get sick,” Hosea scoops up the teen, gently depositing him between his neck and scarf.

Arthur holds on to the plush material as the huge form of Hosea packs up the camp and mounts onto the horse.

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

“Now, my friend may be loud and scary looking, but he won’t hurt you,” Hosea explains.

“But what if he does?” Arthur hesitates.

Hosea turns to face the tiny figure of Arthur.

“You can stay with me if you feel safer that way,” Hosea suggests.

Arthur nods and snuggles against Hosea’s neck as he approaches a campsite. Dismounting and securing his horse to a hitching post, he puts his hand to his shoulder.

“Come on, Arthur,” he urges softly.

Reluctantly Arthur climbs onto the offered hand, holding on to Hosea’s thumb as the human walks to a tent in the middle of the campsite using one hand to shield Arthur.

“Hey, Dutch,” Hosea calls to the man sitting under the tent.

Looking through the gaps between Hosea’s fingers, Arthur can see another man sitting down reading.

“Welcome back ‘Sea. Anything good?” the man looks up.

“Well, I may have found a new gang member,” Hosea replies.

“Really? You only went to scope out targets. Where are they, then?”

Heaving a sigh, Hose opens his hands to reveal Arthur to his friend.

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

Arthur thought he had mentally prepared himself enough to meet another human. He was wrong. This new man had an air of darkness surrounding him, whether due to his clothing choice, or the fact he was looking at Arthur like prey, just as a hawk or a snake studies a mouse. The smile Dutch suddenly makes doesn’t make Arthur feel any better. In fact, Arthur’s survival instincts kick in, and he goes to hide. The only place he can go is under Hosea’s shirt sleeve, causing a yelp from the older man as Arthur climbs up, stopping and hanging on for dear life near Hosea’s elbow.

‘I take it you didn’t expect that?” Dutch’s laugh thunders in Arthur’s ears.

“I didn’t expect him to be that scared of you, Dutch,” Hosea’s voice rumbles beside Arthur.

“You want to try saying ‘hello’ to Dutch again. You don’t have to go that close to him,” Hosea whispers.

Dutch smacks his friend’s arm.

It doesn’t take long for Arthur to poke his head out from under Hosea’s sleeve, then crawling onto the human’s palm, clutching the shirt material like a security blanket.

“Arthur, this is Dutch. Dutch, Arthur,” Hosea introduces, gesturing with his free hand.

“Pleasure to meet you, young man. Didn’t mean to scare you,” Dutch greets formally.

Arthur nods in acknowledgement, slightly tightening his grip on Hosea’s cuff. He can’t help but suspect that Dutch is a conniving sort.

#Red Dead Redemption 2 #RDR2 #RDR2 G/t #Arthur Morgan #but he's tiny #Hosea Matthews #totally would kidnap a tiny little malnourished street kid #only to take care of him #Dutch Van Der Linde #scares the poor little kid #The Curious Couple and their Unruly (tiny) Son #has a nice ring to it #Why do I make everything I touch G/t?#I can't help it #G/t #Giant/tiny #Giant #tiny

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monikafilefan · 4 years ago

Note

Love your writing so much! Can you write a New Year’s fic set in season 6 where they actually kiss? No Fowley angst if you can? Thank you

Thanks so much. This turned out longer than I hoped so I’m a little late, but I hope you enjoy. Takes place just before Tithonus.

——

10:02 PM: Mulder swallows another mouthful of Shiner Bock, letting the alcohol warm him from the inside out. He sets the beer bottle next to the other empty ones with a clink and the beat of the music vibrates along the golden table cloth beneath him. Laughter and muffled conversations of fellow agents fill the silence of isolation he’s purposely surrounded himself in.

He doesn’t want to be here. Not at this New Years Eve bureau mandated banquet, sticking out like a black sheep among the herd of Kersh-loving ass-kissers, and certainly not forced to appease the Deputy Director in the name of another successful year of wielding justice. He sure as hell doesn’t want to celebrate the loss of his life’s work to his ex-wife and Kersh’s errand boy he’s currently hiding in a dark corner from. Wielding justice…

What a crock of shit.

But Scully is here, and the loss of his near constant contact with her is something he will never celebrate acknowledgement of. Not ever. He feels their absence on the files like a missing puzzle piece, teasing him with its existence lingering just out of his reach. Yet as he stares longingly at her across the room in her black satin dress, drinking wine as red as her lips, and smiling with their peers from the bullpen, Mulder can’t help but smile in return.

10:38 PM: Scully turns his way and scans the room, her big blue eyes flickering from person to person. She’s searching for him, he thinks. He knows. He’d told her hours earlier he decided to forgo following rules forcing him to be social. And still she looks for him, hopeful, unable to accept he can truly leave her partnerless for even one night. She’s right. As he sips at another Shiner, Mulder knows the heat of the beer isn’t the only thing warming his chest tonight.

A slow song begins to play as the lights dim. His pulse quickens at the thought of asking her to dance. Of holding her petite body close to his. Of kissing her at the stroke of midnight. He stands, unable to resist the pull of her proximity a moment longer, when another man swoops into his eye-line and offers Scully his hand.

Mulder’s fists clench as an agent from the lab arrogantly claims her bare back with his meaty hand, sloppily twirling her around the dance floor. Her surprised laughter is as loud as it is fake, but she doesn’t pull away. She accepts his hand with a tight-lipped smile and promptly stares at her three inch stilettos instead of at the man attempting to woo her.

Mulder does the same while his nostrils flare with every indignant breath.

Turning away, he picks at the yellow label on the bottle until only the brown glass reflecting his scowl is showing.

10:55 PM: He hears Scully laugh again. Then again and again. He doesn’t know what she’s chuckling about or who with, but it doesn’t matter when she’s enjoying her last remaining hours of 1998. She’s having fun drinking and dancing, he tells himself. She deserves this. He wants her to be happy, always. He just refuses to watch someone else make her that way.

This time, when a high-pitched, unScully-like laughter slices through the sound of his heart thudding against his eardrums, his gut clenches along with his fists.

11:02 PM: One hour and four - no five - beers later, Mulder is ready to leave. To flee, more like it, when a thick hand slaps at his back.

“Agent Mulder,” Skinner’s voice booms over the music. “Glad to see you decided to show up.”

He scoffs, “I was summoned.”

Skinner glances at him, his heavy hand squeezing the meat of Mulder’s shoulder; hard. “You mean she asked or you wouldn’t be here,” he corrects, nodding towards Scully draining yet another glass of wine. “She wants you here, Mulder. I suggest you remember that.”

11:32 PM: Mulder does remember that. In fact, that’s all he’s been thinking about for the past half hour when he lost sight of Scully within the crowd. After dodging both Diana and Spender, three agents requesting a dance, and one persistent secretary’s offer for much more than that, Mulder halts his search for his partner and ducks into the restroom to break the seal.

He glances at his cell phone. No service. Goddammit.

The entire time he’s been looking for Scully, the sickening thought of her having left with someone else has weighed heavily in the back of his mind. He should’ve taken Frohike up on his offer of Mexican and movies and saved himself the heartache.

11:44 PM: “Yes, I do know I’m leaving before the ball drops, and no, I don’t have a date I’m waiting for,” Mulder repeats to Agent Matthews at the coat check.

“You want one?” he asks, smirking. “Because I’m outta here in ten.”

“Oh uh,” Mulder can’t help but smile. “Thanks, but I’ll have to pass.”

“I knew it. But hey, a guy can dream.” The man shrugs and hands Mulder his jacket. “Agent Scully is one lucky woman.”

“You’ve seen her?” Mulder questions, ready to interrogate the poor guy. “Did she leave?”

“Maybe,” Matthews says, chuckling at Mulder’s unabashed desperation. “But I’ve seen her walk by looking for someone special a couple times earlier, though. I guess that someone was you.”

“Yeah, thanks. Have a good night,” Mulder groans as he walks away, feeling more and more like an asshole as the minutes tick by.

11:50 PM: Mulder makes his way down the side stairwell and shuffles past the ladies room tucked away in an alcove at the end of the hall. Fireworks spark outside the window next to him and he can’t help but wonder if Scully is looking at them, too.

He sighs, takes three steps, and stumbles when a flash of red catches his eye.

“Scully?”

“Mulder, you’re here!” she praises, her cheeks flushed with wine. Her eyes flick down to his coat slung over his arm and her smile fades. “You’re leaving.”

He falters, shifting in his Wingtip Oxfords he’d worn just for her. “You know me, Scully,” he feigns nonchalance. “I’d rather pull out my hair than kiss the asses of the ‘powers that be’ more than I’m forced.”

Scully shakes her head and is quiet a moment before boldly brushing a lock of hair from his brow. “Can’t have that now, can we?”

He stifles a moan. The familiar feeling of her touch lulls him where they stand. “A full head of hair means that much to you, does it, Scully?”

“Mm…” She nods while his hand covers hers sliding gently across his scalp. “You do have great hair.”

“Melvin will be crushed.”

She laughs - this it’s time for him - and Mulder swears it’s the most beautiful sound echoing through the hall. They continue to stand in the hallway, staring at one another as her fingers dance through his hair, letting the soft melody of the muffled music fill the silence.

“So why show up then?” she finally asks, her fingers trailing over the shell of his ear, down to his cheek, hovering there. “Why come at all?”

The alcohol that flows through her veins, leaving her open and vulnerable deserves only honesty from him. “Because you’re here,” Mulder confesses.

“I am.” Her eyes hone in on his fingers twining through hers. “And you were about to leave without saying goodbye?” She arches a brow, pins him with an accusatory stare. “Or hello, for that matter?”

“I-you were enjoying yourself out there. You were…” he sighs, guilt washing over him for not being a better partner to her. For not walking out on that dance floor and showing her exactly how much he appreciates her. How much he loves her. “Scully…”

“Mulder, it’s okay. I get it, really.” She rolls her eyes, tapping his tie with a manicured nail. “Plus, Skinner told me that if you’re as smart as your IQ says you are, you’d be here to ring the new year with me.”

“Ha!” It’s Mulder’s turn to roll his eyes, imagining the AD just itching to dance with his beautiful partner. “I’ll bet he did.”

“I told him you were smarter.”

Mulder’s heart began to race at the husk in her voice. “And if I hadn’t shown up?” he wonders. “I have a feeling Skinner and every other person in that ballroom would give anything to dance with you tonight.”

“They asked to dance with me, Mulder, not date me.”

Mulder’s jaw clenches at that, his free hand dipping down to settle gently at the base of her spine.

“And besides,” she arches into him, amused and emboldened. “There’s only one person I wanted to dance with tonight.”

“Scully.” His voice catches when her sapphire eyes snap up to lock onto his, imploring him to say more. “I-you looked… you look...” The liquid courage swirling though his mind gives him the nudge he needs. He touches her face, softly tracing the slope of her jawline from her ear to her chin. She hums and he melts. "...Stunning, Scully. You look stunning.”

Her half-grin twitches higher. "Bet you say that to all the girls, Mulder."

“No,” he denies in earnest. “Only you.”

She nods slowly, unblinking, as if she’s always known. Her eyes are large and luminous in their dimly lit corner, the deep blue sea of them beckoning him into dangerous waters. Lashes fluttering under his gaze, she leans into him like a feral kitten, fierce and unyielding in her affection. And it’s a good thing, Mulder thinks as he leans in too, that he’s an excellent swimmer.

“You showed up, Mulder,” she whispers. Her tiny hands skim down to his waist and tug his body flush to hers. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me for that,” he begs. “Don’t thank me for anything.”

He palms her neck and she allows his hand to wander up into her hair, tangling the silky waves through his fingers. He watches her eyelids flutter half shut, her lips parting.

“And why did you come, Scully?” he blurts, curious.

“Why do you think?” she retorts, challenging him. Suddenly, Mulder knows exactly why she came. Why she’s still here, staring up at him with dark eyes and rocking against him with hardened nipples.

He forgets to breathe.

“Tell me,” he says, cradling the base of her skull and letting his forehead fall forward against hers.

“No,” she breathes while stroking the curve of his ribcage, nudging the tip of his nose with her own. “I’ll show you.”

Her eyes flutter shut and a gush of warm breath tickles his cheek. As he leans down, her cushy lips press softly to his and his heart threatens to burst from his chest.

Her mouth tastes of red wine and sugar - a tart sweet-filled sin laced with a hint of blush-colored lipstick. She tastes more satisfying than any dessert. She tastes like raw desire.

Reluctantly, he pulls his hips away from her soft belly when his rock hard want for her becomes impossible to ignore.

She whimpers with her arms now wrapped around his neck, tugging him down for more.

Mulder gulps and kisses her nose, her cheek, inhales the fruity scent of her shampoo. He breathes her in while keeping a lung full of her essence within his chest. The warmth of her baby soft skin beneath his lips makes him wonder if he’s having an out of body experience: an erotic X-File, as his soul quite possibly ascends into the unknown.

A sudden cacophony of cheers bursts through the cracks of the heavy ballroom doors. Mulder jumps while Scully clutches at his back, keeping him close. Their heavy breathing mingles with the chorus of Auld Lang Syne playing in the background as fireworks boom outside the window pane. Bursts of copper and cerulean stream across the ink-black sky and it rumbles the carpet beneath their feet, reminding him that, yes, his feet are still on solid ground.

Two hours, two minutes, and one kiss from Dana Scully are all it takes for his world to tilt on its axis.

“Wow. Wha… what was that?” he gasps dumbly.

Scully arches brow. "I would have thought that's fairly obvious," she purrs. "You asked me why I came here, so I kissed you."

"Yeah, I know that, Scully, believe me. But...” Fuck, he berates himself. Why does his conscience hate him so damn much?

“Shh, just shut up and kiss me again,” she slurs.

His eyes flutter shut. He wants this - wants her - more than his next breath, but she’s been drinking, he remembers. They both have. “Shit, I want to, badly. But I think,” he hesitates, no more than a whisper, “I should hail us a cab.”

“Mulder…”

“In case you don’t remember these last few minutes when you wake up in the morning,” Mulder explains further. “Or worse, you regret them when you do.”

“But…” Scully frowns, hiccuping as she sways within his arms. “Okay…” she sighs, rolling her forehead against his sternum and mumbles to herself, “Fine, but the cab’s on you.”

“Deal,” he chuckles, his love for her growing with each passing second. His lips brush against the crown of her head, his palms smoothing over her hair and down to the lithe bare blades of her shoulders. “I can do that.”

“Happy New Year, Mulder.”

12:10 PM: This year, Mulder thinks as he waves down a cab. This year will be different. When Scully’s pinky loops through his, he squeezes it in promise. This year, he will do better.

“Happy New Year, Scully.”

And next time, when he looks into her eyes and tells her he loves her again, Scully will finally believe.

Tagging @today-in-fic

#msr fanfic #new years eve #season 6 #first kiss #jealous Mulder #romance

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midnightsnyx · 4 years ago

Text

Consequences - Matthew Tkachuk: epilogue

summary: you absolutely hate Matthew Tkachuk so it’s just your luck when you wind up pregnant with his child.

a/n: this is the end! i don’t even know where to start! i wanna say sorry real quick for how long its taken me to post the epilogue. i just wanted it to be as perfect as i could manage for you guys!

i want to thank every single person from the bottom of my heart who read this little series i wrote and took the time to like, reblog or send me a message! it truly means to world to me and i hope you guys enjoyed reading it as much as i did writing it.

so thank you all, so, so, so much!

also, here is a poll that @hannahmb did up for me because im literally a grandma when it comes to some stuff and it’s ideas for the next series im going to write.

anyways i’ll stop rambling now lol

- allie

Epilogue

“Henry Eli Tkachuk!” You yell. “Get your little butt down here right now.”

The patter of tiny feet echos through the hallway and you watch your five-year-old slide into the kitchen, nearly crashing into the wall. He’s as clumsy as his father, which you didn’t think was possible.

He looks at you curiously, eyebrow raised and hands on his hips - the spitting image of Matt.

“Yes, mama?”

You point to a plate of cupcakes on the countertop. “There were twenty cupcakes here ten minutes ago.”

“Yeah.”

“There are only fifteen now.” You raise an eyebrow. “Do you know what that means?”

“That someone was hungry?”

“Henry.”

“Mama.”

“Who ate the cupcakes?”

He shrugs his shoulders and giggles before running off towards his bedroom. It’s possible that he ate them but there are seven other people in the house who could have. You can eliminate at least three, maybe four out of the seven which is why you find yourself calling out to your husband and his other half. Unlike Henry, Matt actually crashes into the wall when he comes running down the hallway. Though to be fair, you’re pretty certain that Brady pushed him.

“Yes, dear?”

“The cupcakes.” You raise an eyebrow, eyes darting between the two Tkachuk brothers standing in front of you. “Who ate them?”

“Not me,” Brady says, hands raised defensively.

“I didn’t either!” Matt says and you’re pretty sure that one of them is lying but then Johnny walks into the kitchen, two cupcakes in one of his hands, and is taking a bite out of another one.

“Dude, these are-”

“Johnny!” The three of you exclaim at the same time.

“What?” He mumbles around a mouthful. “They were just sitting there.”

“They are for Nell’s birthday!”

“Ellie’s birthday party is today?” He asks in confusion and you sigh, shaking your head. Why did you think it was a good idea to invite a bunch of constantly hungry hockey players to your three-year-olds party?

“Everyone, out.” You say, waving your hand dismissively. They all clear out with the exception of your husband who slowly walks towards you.

“Will you hit me if I touch you?” He jokes and you roll your eyes but let him wrap you in a warm hug. The two of you have come a long way, you’re the perfect epitome of enemies to lovers story but you wouldn’t change anything. Especially because of what you’ve gained along the journey.

“How’s the bun in the oven?” He asks and you pull away, raising an eyebrow.

“I hope you mean the baby and not Eleanor's birthday cake because I think it may have burned.”

His eyes widen and he rushes over to the oven, pulling the cake out. Luckily, you caught it in time and there’s only a little black on top that can be brushed off.

“Why didn’t you just order one from the store?” He asks, picking up a cupcake and taking a bite. You sigh, realizing that you’re going to have to make more due to the fact that everyone is eating them.

“Homemade cakes are the best.” You answer quietly and he just nods his head, not questioning the vagueness of your answer.

“Attention everyone! I found a wild child in the backyard!” Brady calls, walking in the kitchen with your toddler sitting on his shoulders. She’s laughing loudly, clinging onto his hair.

Curls as wild as Matt’s and eyes just as blue, Eleanor Ruth Tkachuk graced the world with her presence 3 years ago. After Henry, you weren’t sure you wanted more than one kid because life with just him and Matthew was absolutely perfect but you didn’t know that it could get even better until she arrived.

“There’s my princess!” Matt says, taking Nell from Brady. She happily goes with him, grabbing a hold of his hair too. You watch your husband wince but the look of pure love in his eyes when he looks at her isn’t like anything you’ve ever seen.

“Warrior Princess.” Brady corrects and Matthew nods seriously.

“Daddy, cake!” She squeals, pointing to the cupcakes and reaching towards them. Matthew spins around and starts walking away to get her attention off them. “Let’s go find nana.”

You watch the two of them walk outside, hand unconsciously resting on your belly. Baby number three was kind of an accident. You and Matt weren’t exactly trying for another but you weren’t doing anything to stop it. You both decided that if anything was meant to happen, it would. And it did, obviously but you weren’t surprised because you’re pretty sure Matt secretly wants an army of Tkachuk’s due to the number of times you’d had sex before you became pregnant again.

But it didn’t bother you, the idea of a bunch of mini you and Matt’s running around. It certainly wasn’t something you really envisioned in your future and you never realized how much you really wanted a family until after Matt.

“How’s Brady Jr.?”

You grin at Brady who’s leaning against the counter.

“Still not named Brady Jr.,” you say, starting to get the cake ready to be decorated. “But he’s doing great.”

Brady smiles and opens his mouth to say something but Chantal walks in the room, cutting him off.

“Honey, go help your father finish decorating.” She says, shooing him out of the room before starting to help you get the last of the food ready. The two of you work efficiently and in silence, something you’re used to when getting things done with Chantal’s help. You’ll never be able to thank her for everything she’s done for you since she came into your life. Being with Matt meant gaining an entire family who was the most tight-knit, caring, and encouraging family you’ve ever known.

They didn’t have to accept you as easily and quickly as they did and you’ll always be grateful for them.

. . .

Long after the birthday party settles down after the kids are asleep, Henry curled up with his head in your lap and Nell tucked in Matt’s arms, and all the adults sitting around the fire pit in the backyard, you take a minute to reflect on how much your life has changed in the last six years. Longer, if you count how long you’ve actually known Matt. You never would have guessed that this is where life would have led you, how crossing paths with Matt changed you as a person, and changed your entire world forever.

How you learned, loved, and gained so much in these past years.

How lucky you are.

“What are you thinking about?” Matt whispers, nudging you gently. You turn to look at him, his eyes warm and smile gentle.

“You. Us.”

“All good things, I hope?” He jokes and you smile, pulling him close so that you can kiss him softly.

“Always.”

#matthew tkachuk imagines #matthew tkachuk fanfiction #calgary flames imagines #calgary flames fanfiction #nhl imagines #hockey imagines #allies writing #consequences series #matthew tkachuk imagine

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