#quick little ficlet from a few days ago in between everything else
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nix-nihili · 6 months ago
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“You okay there, mate?”
“Simply… tired.” Edwin waved Charles off, already picking himself up from the chair he’d collapsed into, an errant sort of exhaustion wearing him down. The day out had stretched on longer than we would have liked and he had only felt the smallest hint of relief at having returned to the Agency before he caught sight of the still-expanding case list. It was shaping up to be a long few weeks at this rate, and as much as Edwin lived for solving each mystery, each case, each unfinished business, he missed having the scarce hours to himself. 
No. Correction, not himself.
He missed spending time with Charles alone.
“Woah, Eds” – Charles was suddenly across the room, gently pushing Edwin back into the chair – “you can take it easy for a few ticks, yeah?”
Charles’ hands held him in place and Edwin didn’t have the energy to fight him off but he still tried to say, “But-”
“Nuh-uh,” Charles tutted, leaning over him, and from here, Edwin could count each eyelash, trace the perfectly put eyeliner, and watch escaped curls fall onto Charles’ forehead. “I need the break as well. This way, we both decompress.”
Then Edwin was being pushed further into the inviting chair as Charles leaned in, non-existent huffs of breath intermingling before Edwin’s lips were captured in a kiss, soft and sweet. He sighed into it, felt his limbs go lax and his head settle as he kissed back, lifting an arm to settle it against Charles’ waist where he bent.
Charles pulled back first, smiling down at him, eyes half-lidded. “Alright?”
It had been too short but it was all they could afford at the minute. He nodded, filing the memory away. Not for rainier days, because Charles would always be there on those too, but just because he could. Because he wanted to save each one.
“Perfect.”
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alinastracker · 3 years ago
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hello my dear bonnie, if you're still taking prompts, can i suggest #47 👀 ?
LOVE THIS PROMPT!!! here you go my love<3
prompt: you’re casually seeing my roommate and think they’re in the shower when you strip down to join me and we end up screaming and my roommate thinks it’s the funniest thing and tries to set us up on a date
yikes at this going from a quick lil ficlet to 6.7k oof
would it be okay if i came home to you (explicit) (ao3)
Alina steps into the shower, wondering how the hell she ended up rooming with Zoya to begin with.
Don't get her wrong, she loves Zoya. But her raven-haired friend can be difficult, and she was supposed to have buffer. Originally, it was going to be her, Zoya, and Genya living together, until Genya backed out last minute to move in with her boyfriend David instead.
"I'm so sorry, but it just makes sense," Genya said to them over lunch one afternoon. "Besides, if things go how I think they will, you two will be on the same path that I'm on soon enough."
Zoya scoffed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Alina had the same question, considering both of them were hopelessly single.
Genya just sipped her tea and said in a sing-song voice, "You'll see."
At first, living with Zoya was fine. They agreed easily on most apartment related things; splitting up chores, rules about not touching each other's food, a timely heads up before having friends or potential sexual partners over. Zoya could get nit picky about a few things, like the lecture she'd given her on the proper position of the toilet paper roll. It goes over, Starkov, understand? Under is for heathens and natural selection is coming for them. But otherwise, things had been fine.
Until Mal.
He was a part of the friend circle she had surrounded herself with since freshman year. But there was something about Mal that had drawn her to him in a way that was different from the rest of the group — different from anyone else she had ever met. He was like a drug, a magnet, the missing link that had her saying, where have you been my whole life, when you're meant to be here beside me? So quickly he had become her closet friend, and as much as their group liked to tease them, they both denied feeling anything beyond fierce friendship.
But Alina was such a liar.
Which makes it her own fault, really, for ending up in this situation. Zoya could, quite frankly, be a bitch — but she wouldn't have gone after Mal if Alina had just owned up to her feelings.
Though she really could have told her about it sooner.
Alina had been studying in the living room one night when a knock at the door startled her. Zoya hadn't mentioned having company, and neither of them had ordered food. Hesitantly, she rose and stood on her tiptoes to peek through the peephole. Then her face lit up, and she swung the door open. "Mal!"
Saints, he looked good. He appeared freshly showered, dressed in a silky green shirt and dark jeans. He had actually put effort into his hair for once, and he had a small gold hoop earring in his left ear.
"Hey, Lina," he said, something a little off with the smile he gave her. As he passed by to come inside, she could smell expensive cologne.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, butterflies in her stomach. Her head was already filling with wild fantasies. He wanted to surprise her, so he showed up without notice. He put effort into how he looked, because he wanted to impress her. He was going to reveal his true feelings for her, and she would revel in the fact that he wanted her as much as she wanted him.
Instead, Zoya entered the room and said, "He's here for me."
Mal had the decency to flush and offer a sheepish shrug. "I'm gonna grab some water," he said, and scuttled off to the kitchen. Of course, Mal had been here plenty of times before. He knew where everything was.
Alina had barely heard him though, Zoya's words repeating on a loop in her head. He's here for me. She knew what this meant, even as her mind tried to deny it. The room was spinning and she couldn't quite steady herself, like something had broken inside of her.
She swallowed, and as calmly as possible, said, "What happened to the heads up rule?"
Zoya arched a brow. "I texted you two hours ago."
Alina frowned and pulled out her phone. Sure enough, there was a text from Zoya. Got a guy coming over in a couple hours. She must have missed it, lost in her studies. But still, something in the text ignited anger in her chest.
"You could have said the guy was Mal."
Zoya shrugged, so frustratingly nonchalant. "What does it matter?"
It matters because I am so hopelessly in love with him, and you're supposed to be my friend, and now I have to blast music so I don't hear the sounds of you two fucking, she thought.
"He's my best friend," she said. "It's just a little weird, I guess."
"Don't worry, Starkov," Zoya said, turning toward the kitchen, probably to grab Mal so they could get the night started. "It won't affect anything between you two."
Alina waited until the two of them were tucked away in Zoya's room. Then she pulled on her old running shoes and slipped out — there was just no way she could be here, knowing what was happening in the room across from her own.
She ran with no destination in mind, pumping her little legs as hard as they could go, music pounding from her headphones. When she became too tired to go further, she checked her surroundings and sighed. Of course, her feet took her to one of her favorite places in the city.
It's not anything, really. A quiet street with an old abandoned building at the end of it. But on the building's brick wall is one of her favorite pieces of art. A mural of the sun, complex in its simplicity, using colors she had never seen used to express the sun before, yet perfectly capturing the feeling of a warm sunny day.
Alina leaned against the wall, slid down until she was sitting on the old, cracked sidewalk. Only then did she realize that she was crying. Turning off her music, she called Genya, and told her everything.
"You have to talk to Zoya," Genya said.
"No!" she said quickly. "I don't want her to feel bad. It's not her fault. And if Mal likes her — well, it's not like he's shown any interest in me. I'm not going to get in their way."
"Alina," Genya sighed.
"It's fine," she promised. "I just—" A sob escaped her throat, the pain overshadowing any coherent thought. It was not fine.
"Send me your location," Genya said, and Alina did.
She spent the night at Genya and David's that night, David promising he was more than okay with taking the couch so her and Genya could have the bed. Which was needed, because Alina had a lot more crying to do.
"Just don't tell Zoya," she said.
"Alina, I don't know."
"Promise, Genya. Please."
Finally, Genya sighed. "All right."
That was four months ago. Zoya had told her it wouldn't affect her close bond with Mal, but it had. Alina never invites Mal over anymore, too afraid that he'll come to watch a movie, sit on the couch beside her — much closer than most friends sit. They would point out everything terrible about it, because they loved to watch bad films together as they stuffed their faces with popcorn. Then the movie would end and Mal would say goodnight, but instead of leaving, he'd go to Zoya's room, and the popcorn they ate would sour in her stomach.
There were so many little changes, too. Like when they hung out as a group, and suddenly Alina was questioning every move she made around him. Was it still okay to playfully ruffle his hair, to sit close enough that their shoulders pressed together, to look at him like he personally hung the sun and the moon in the sky, all while Zoya was there to see? Was it wrong to look at his lips and fantasize about how they would feel against her own, pressed to her collarbone, sucking her most sensitive spots? Zoya and Mal were a casual thing, they had both said so. But still, the natural intimacy her friendship with Mal had built for the past two years suddenly felt wrong, and she hated it.
Needless to say, Alina has been looking into new rooming possibilities for next year. She can't do this anymore. Every time Mal comes over, she waits for them to lock themselves away in Zoya's room, and then she leaves. She runs to her sun, sometimes just sitting and letting her sad song playlist make her sadder, sometimes bringing her sketchbook to at least make art out of the pain.
But tonight she has a very rare opportunity — the apartment to herself. Only for a couple hours, but still. She has spent most of the time so far blaring music, and her neighbors probably hate her, but damn it, they can deal with it for a night.
She lets the music play as she takes a much needed shower. Sure, she could have gone the bath route, but she doesn't want to waste all her time getting clean. Alina has decided her hours alone should end with a much needed date with her vibrator and an Owen Gray video that she's going to watch without headphones.
Olivia Rodrigo's Brutal is pounding from her speaker, and though Alina's twenty-one, not seventeen, the lyrics hit all the same. She's so into the music, thinking about her life for the past four months, thinking about moving as soon as she possibly can, thinking yeah, it really is fucking brutal out here, that she does not notice the telltale signs of someone entering her apartment, and even more worrisome, someone entering the bathroom. Not until it's too late.
"Thought you were too cool for Olivia Rodrigo," a very male voice says, and then the shower curtain opens.
Screams fill the air from both of them. Alina's already holding her conditioner bottle, and on instinct, hurls it at the man's chest while her other hand reaches for her razor.
"Oi!"
Only then does her mind register that it's not a strange man come to sexually assault her, it's Mal. Her best friend. Her roommate's casual lover slash fuck buddy slash whatever. It's Mal, completely naked before her. She gets a quick glimpse of his cock, half-hard, before he curses and turns around.
It doesn't help that his backside is just as nice to look at. He's well toned, muscles flexing as he reaches to grab the clothes he must have just discarded. He bends, giving her the most sinful view of his ass, and Saints, her mind goes wild. She pictures him turning back around and pushing her against the wall, slamming inside of her. As he fucks her, she would reach around and grab that delicious ass of his, dig her fingers into the plump skin, and leave little half-moon indents.
Mal is apologizing over and over again — "I thought you were Zoya!" — as he gathers up his clothes and makes a beeline for the door. Alina finally snaps out of her filthy fantasy and slides the shower curtain closed with a shaky hand. She leans back against the tiled wall, breathing hard. Her heart is pounding like never before.
The song is winding down. Olivia is crooning, God I don't even know where to start.
Neither does Alina.
~
By the time she musters the courage to finish her shower and leave the bathroom, her robe clutched tightly around her, there’s no sign of Mal in the apartment. Zoya isn’t back yet, either.
With a sigh of relief, she flops onto her bed. Her previous plans were out the window now. Taking a breath, she goes over the facts in her head. 
One: Mal has now seen her completely naked. 
Two: she has now seen Mal completely naked. 
It was the wrong thing to think about, because now she’s picturing the smooth expanse of his skin, his perfectly tight ass, and the quick glimpse she had gotten of his—
Heat pools between her thighs. She’s positively aching, when she should be feeling horrified. She should absolutely not be reaching for her vibrator as she lets the images of Mal’s naked body settle in her mind. It’s wrong, because Mal is, at least somewhat, Zoya’s, and Zoya is her friend. Besides, it was Zoya that he had come looking for, Zoya that he wanted to fuck against the shower wall. 
But Alina does grab her vibrator, and as it buzzes her to multiple releases, she imagines Mal shoving her against the wall, pressing kisses to her neck, fucking her like it’s his sole reason for existing. Fucking her like she’s his, and he’s hers.
~
She doesn’t see Zoya until the next morning, passing out sometime after orgasm number three. Saints, if the memory of Mal’s bare skin had been enough to keep her going for three rounds, she wasn’t sure she could even handle actually being with him. 
When she walks into the kitchen, Zoya is sitting at their tiny excuse for a table. “Good morning,” Alina says as naturally as possible. 
Zoya only says, “Sit down, Starkov.”
It’s unnerving, how quickly can could take over her entire body. Saying nothing, still going for casual, Alina sits across from her. “What’s up?”
“That’s my question, actually.” Zoya arches a brow. “What happened with you and Mal last night?”
Shit, shit, shit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I think you do. I know he stopped by before I got home. When I asked why he left, he got all weird and said something came up with Dubrov. But I know that’s a lie, because Dubrov was happily posting drunken stories last night. So obviously something happened when he was over.” Zoya sits back in her chair and stares her down, making her insides twist. “And since I don’t live with him, the only person I have to grill is you. So get talking.”
Alina sighs, knowing she isn’t strong enough to deny Zoya when she’s like this, and babbles out the story. Really, it wasn’t her fault. Mal was the one that walked in on her. It was just incredibly embarrassing for both of them. 
When she finishes, Zoya lets the information sink in, and then she laughs, harder than Alina has ever seen her laugh.
“Well I’m so glad this is funny to you,” she huffs, arms crossed over her chest.
“It is! I can only imagine your faces, shit.” Zoya wipes at her eyes. “Too bad you already know each other, that would make for one hell of a meet cute.” She pauses and says, “Well, it still could be your origin.”
Alina frowns. “Our origin?”
“You know, if you guys dated.”
She momentarily loses her breath. “What? No, you guys are a thing.”
Zoya rolls her eyes. “We’re fucking, Alina, that’s it. And actually, I was planning on cutting it off after last night.” She stands and pours herself what is at least her second up of coffee. “There’s someone else I’m interested in.”
“Someone else? Who?” Zoya says nothing. Alina pops up as it comes to her. “Oh! It’s that rich blond guy from the bar, isn’t it? The one that transferred here this semester. Nikolai or something, right?”
The tiniest blush spreads on Zoya’s face, and Alina squeals. “It is him! Saints, he’s attractive.”
“Yes, he is,” Zoya snaps. “And not bad for conversation, either.”
“Conversation?” She grins. “Why, Miss Nazyalensky, do you actually have feelings for this guy?”
Zoya scowls. “Shut it, Starkov.”
“Oh, you totally have feelings for him!”
“Keep it up and you will pay for this. I’m devising a plan as we speak.”
Alina just laughs. “Okay, Mrs. Whatever Nikolai’s Last Name Is.”
Under her breath, Zoya mutters, “Lantsov,” and stalks off with her coffee as Alina laughs harder. 
~
Zoya, apparently, hadn’t been kidding when she said she was devising a plan. 
When the weekend rolls around once again and Zoya texts the group chat they have with Genya about getting lunch, Alina jumps at the idea. She missed Genya, and it had been a hell of a week between juggling exams and thinking about her encounter with Mal. They haven’t spoken at all, and she had used her classes as an excuse to get out of any hang outs where he might show up. 
Zoya’s words from the morning after had been on her mind a lot, too. It still could be your origin. Could it? Was Mal even interested in her — and would he even want to try, after he’d had something with Zoya, or would it just be inevitably awkward?
Alina approaches the restaurant and sucks in a breath. She’s decided to finally tell Zoya about how she’s had feelings for Mal all this time, and maybe with her and Genya, the three of them can come up with what the hell Alina should do next. 
Zoya had texted five minutes ago saying she grabbed them a table in the restaurant’s outdoor patio, so she makes her way there. Only it’s not Zoya or even Genya waiting for her.
It’s Mal. 
He looks just as surprised to see her as she is to see him, and for a moment, she believes it really is some crazy coincidence. 
“Alina,” he says, standing. Neither of them can quite meet the other’s eye. “What are you doing here?”
Her hand is doing some nervous twitchy thing at her side, so she shoves it into the pocket of her dress. “I’m supposed to be meeting Zoya and Genya.”
Mal curses under his breath. “I’m supposed to be meeting Zoya, too.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Shaking her head and feeling incredibly stupid, Alina takes out her phone and fires off a text to Zoya, WHAT THE HELL????
The next message she receives comes from Zoya — only not in the text chat between the two of them, but rather a newly created group chat with the two of them and Mal. 
consider this the official end to our fuck-mance, oretsev. yalls little bathroom flash show was the perfect opportunity for a new beginning, because yes, i see the doe eyes you give alina when she’s not looking. you too, starkov. i’m sorry for getting in the way for so long. have a good date, no throwing bottles at each other xoxo
They finish reading at the same time, looking up from their phones, eyes meeting before flickering away again. 
Mal sighs. “I think I hate her.”
“I think I hate her, too.”
He scratches the back of his neck. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”
Alina bites her lip. Because he doesn’t want to do this, she thinks. “Oh, well, I guess—”
Mal cuts her off. “But it might be a nice chance for us to talk.” Her head snaps up, and this time when their eyes meet, neither of them look away. He smiles shyly. “I missed you this week, Lina.”
Her smile matches his. “I missed you, too.” 
They sit, and after the waiter takes their order for drinks and an appetizer for them to share — a sample platter, both of them too indecisive for any singular thing — Mal starts to stutter out an apology. Alina stops him with a hand on his arm. He looks down at where her fingers brush against bare skin, and she wonders if he’s thinking about all the skin they’ve bared to each other now. She certainly is.
“You don’t need to apologize, Mal,” she promises. “It was an accident.”
He shakes his head. “Still, I can’t imagine how terrifying that was for you.”
“Well, it was,” she admits, then adds, “at first.”
“At first?”
She shrugs, but says nothing, thankful for their drinks arriving to save her from answering. Because the truth was she had been scared for maybe three seconds. Once she had realized it was Mal, she’d only felt desire.
With their awkward shower encounter out of the way, they fall into fairly easy conversation, complaining about exams and projects, annoying classmates and neighbors. Soon enough, they’re back to being themselves. Alina pulls out her phone to show Mal all the memes and TikToks she had wanted to send him this week, and he does the same. Hours fly by without their notice, and now the dinner crowd is filing in. 
“Oi, I think our waiter is silently praying for us to leave.”
She laughs, pulling out her wallet. “Definitely.”
Mal waves her off. “Let me get it,” he says, taking his own wallet out. “I mean, since this is apparently a date and all.”
Alina hesitates, a little flutter in her chest even though he’d said it teasingly. “Okay, fine. But I’ll get the tip.”
“Deal.”
When everything is paid for, they stand. Going home is the last thing she wants right now, and not just because Zoya will be there. 
Mal looks ready to pull her into one of their standard hugs, but pauses. “Do you want to come over? We can find something shitty to watch. Mikhael and Dubrov will be around, but I just really don’t want to see Zoya right now.”
Alina smiles, the flutter in her chest returning with vigor. “Yeah, okay.”
~
At Mal’s flat, they settle onto the sofa together, close enough that their shoulders brush. Mikhael and Dubrov tease them about looking like lovebirds, but otherwise surprisingly leave them be. She doesn’t mind their company — but admittedly, she was glad they stayed to their respective rooms tonight. Mal puts on an indie horror flick that’s so bad it’s good, and they laugh and joke with each other throughout, per usual. 
About halfway through the film, they share a knowingly look — their that foreshadowing is so obvious, RIP to that character in twenty minutes look — and sport matching grins. But when the moment passes, neither of them looks away. 
“Alina,” Mal says softly, and her breath hitches. Has he ever said her name with such longing before?
His eyes flicker down — to her lips. She thinks of Zoya’s text then, basically calling both of them out for having feelings for each other. And while neither of them had confirmed it, they hadn’t denied it either.
Her heart is beating so fast. She gives him the tiniest nod.
Mal understands, he always does, and then he’s leaning in. Their noses brush before their lips do, and it could be silly or awkward, but instead it’s a different kind of intimacy she hadn’t known she wanted.
“Alina,” he breathes once more, and then he kisses her, so softly at first, it’s barely anything. Her stomach is doing cartwheels regardless. She takes initiative, kissing him back. Still soft, still careful, afraid that whatever this is between them is something fragile, something that needs delicacy. In some ways, it is. Her closest friendship, blossoming into something more. 
Mal lets out the softest moan, and it snaps something between them. 
He pulls her closer, his hand on the back of her neck, and now Alina is the one moaning, fervor replacing the softness, the delicacy. It’s the kind of kiss she’s been fantasizing about, made even better from how obvious it is that they’ve both wanted this for a long time. A desperate kiss bursting with desire. 
Alina shifts closer until she’s practically straddling his lap. Mal brings one hand to rest on her lower back, the other curling into her hair. His lips move to her neck, trailing down until he reaches her collarbone, where he nips and sucks, undoubtedly leaving a mark. 
“Mal,” she sighs, her head tipped back from the feeling as her hips roll against his. He curses against her skin. Her hands move to the hem of his shirt, ready to pull it off. 
All of a sudden, Mal pulls away, stopping her hands with his own. “Alina, don’t.”
She blinks her eyes open. “Do you want to move to your room?”
Mal bites his lip and shakes his head.
Alina frowns, any warmth in her chest turning cold. She quickly returns to her own side of the couch. “I don’t understand. I thought you wanted this.” Wanted me, she thinks but doesn’t say. Because he certainly had no issues with Zoya.
“I do!” he says quickly, taking her hand again and trying to pull her back. She holds her ground, pulls her hand out of his. “I do want this, Alina. Saints, I do. But this is technically our first date, right? I don’t want to do first date sex, not with you.”
Alina rolls her eyes, looking down and tugging at a loose thread on her dress. “Is this where you say something you think sounds respectful but really just puts down all the girls you have had first date sex with?”
“Alina, please look at me.”
Grudgingly, she does. 
“You’re different because you’re my best friend, and because I’ve been hooking up with our mutual friend.” She flinches, but Mal continues. “I don’t want you to think we have to have sex because of that. What I had with Zoya — it was good, and I care about Zoya, but it didn’t go beyond the physical. That’s all we wanted from each other. But that’s not all I want with you.”
Mal closes his eyes. Alina’s unconsciously holding her breath. He exhales and opens his eyes again, holding her gaze. “I want everything with you, Alina. I want your highs and your lows. I want to take you against the wall as much as I want to hold your hand.” He does so now, both of his hands around one of hers, and this time she doesn’t pull away. “And if you didn’t want to be physical? I’d still want you. I don’t want you to think there’s anything we have to do. That’s why I want to wait — even if I also want to take you to my room and pin you against my bed, too.”
“Oh,” she says, barely audible. Alina shakes her head, a little speechless. “I don’t know what to say.”
The corner of his mouth tugs up. “Was that too rom-com confessional?”
The tension breaks. She laughs and climbs onto his lap again, wrapping her arms around his neck. “You’re such a dork, but you’re the perfect dork. So we’ll wait.” She pauses and looks up at him with innocent eyes. “But will you kiss me again?”
Mal grins, pushes her down against the couch, and does just that. 
~
When she gets home, Zoya is waiting in the living room, reading a smutty romance book Genya had recommended. “Hey, how’d it go?” she asks, too casually to actually be casual. 
Alina ignores her and walks straight to her room. She’s decided to let Zoya sweat it out a bit for the weekend after her little stunt, even if it was successful. 
Though really, she didn’t think it would bother Zoya that much. Hard as steel Zoya, who never let anything get to her. But on Sunday, she bursts into Alina’s room, interrupting her studying. 
“Okay, I know you hate me now or whatever, but at least let me tell you that I’m sorry. I didn’t know how much you liked him, Alina. Not until Genya told me.”
Alina closes her book, frowning. “Genya told you?”
Zoya nods and sits at the end of her bed. “Recently, when I told her about Nikolai and that I was thinking about cutting things off with Mal. Don’t be mad at her, just be mad at me.” 
“Well—” she starts, but Zoya cuts her off. 
“And honestly? The worst part is, part of me did know. I saw the looks you gave each other, but I brushed them off because I was selfish and enjoying myself. I was a really, really shit friend to you, and I’m so sorry, Alina. You don’t have to forgive me, but I just—
Zoya stops mid-sentence, cut off by the laughter bubbling out of Alina. 
“Saints, I never thought I’d see the day that Zoya Nazyalensky grovels.” She shoots her a grin. “I accept your apology. And as much as I want to hate you for your meddling stunt, it worked, because we definitely spent the night making out. I just did the whole silent treatment to make you suffer a little.”
A moment passes — Zoya is completely still, too still — and then she grabs one of Alina’s pillows and smacks her with it. “You little rat!”
Alina only laughs harder, fighting off Zoya’s pillow attack with her hands. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say sorry non-sarcastically! You did so well, Nazyalensky!”
“And you’ll never hear it again! You’ve lost apology privileges! 
Eventually, Alina moves into the living room to study, and Zoya joins her. When their brains need a break, Alina tells her about her date with Mal, and Zoya tells her about her own with Nikolai. If this is their new normal, Alina finds that she really likes it. 
~
The next week is outstandingly better than the previous. She’s back to talking to Mal each day, even more than before. Halfway through the week, he sends her a song with the message, This song made me think of you the first time I heard it, still does every time. It has her heart beating extra fast as she listens on her walk to class, not only because it’s incredibly sweet, but because Mal has played this song for her before, months and months ago, which means he’s felt this way the whole time. 
Early Saturday evening, Zoya announces that she’s spending the night at Nikolai’s. “He has his own apartment, so it just makes sense. I’ll be home in the morning, probably.”
Thank the Saints for rich boys. 
She texts Mal, and Zoya’s barely gone for ten minutes before he’s there. They make dinner together — well, Alina sits on the counter while Mal does the actual cooking, but he spends any down time kissing her, so she likes to think she was the moral support. They eat on the couch, watching their favorite trashy reality television, and play a few rounds of Mario Kart afterwards. Really, it’s just like how things were when they were simply best friends, except now Alina drapes her body over his as they watch their show, Mal’s thumb moving in slow circles on her ankle, and instead of talking or playing on their phones during ad breaks, they pick up where they left off in the kitchen, their lips pressed together in a blissful ease. 
They’re on their fifth game of Mario Kart, Alina in the lead, as she has been every round. She’s bragging about how she’s going to beat him again when suddenly her vision is blocked as Mal presses his lips to hers. 
Her surprise doesn’t stop her from dropping her controller and kissing back. She’s just getting into the kiss when Mal pulls away as quickly as he had started the kiss. He stands, and only then does she see he never dropped his controller. Picking up right where he left off, he steers Luigi towards the finish line. (“Who the hell picks Luigi?” Alina had asked him once. To which Mal responded, “It’s not fair people only care about his brother when he probably works just as hard at their plumbing business. It’s just like people only knowing Adam Levine and ignoring the rest of Maroon 5—” which led to a very cute rant that Alina spent less time listening to and more time staring at his lips while he was distracted.)
Alina fumbles for her controller, but it’s too late. Mal hasn’t come in first — some of the computers still beat him. But he’s beat her, which by the smirk on his face, was his only goal.
“You’re such a cheater!”
“It’s not cheating, it’s strategy.”
“I suppose you need your strategy, since you don’t have any skills.”
Mal raises a brow, a devious look in his eyes. “Is that so? Perhaps I should show you my skills, then.” He moves in front of her and kneels on the couch, a leg on either side of her body, essentially pinning her there, and kisses her again. 
Immediately, she can feel the difference from the strategy kiss and even the ones from earlier that night. He’s kissing with purpose, cradling her face with one hand, the other on her waist, and Alina is melting against him. She is putty in Mal’s hands, his to mold how he pleases. 
He’s holding himself so that his weight isn’t pressing down on her, but that’s exactly what she wants. Her hips buck up against his, and Mal pulls back to moan, “Fuck, Alina,” so she does it again.
“Please tell me we can have second date sex.”
Mal chuckles. “Are we even going to bother with the dating process?”
“I don’t know, are we?”
“I don’t know. Do I need to ask you to be my girlfriend?”
Alina grins. “I wouldn’t mind hearing it.
“All right. Alina, my beauty, my beloved, will you bless me with the honor of calling you my girlfriend?”
Her grin widens, and giddy butterflies dance inside her chest. No, not butterflies — fireflies. She can feel their warmth and wouldn’t be surprised if she was glowing from their light. “Oh, I suppose.”
Mal laughs. “I can’t stand you,” he says, and kisses her again.
Alina returns the kiss for a moment before murmuring against his lips, “You don’t have to stand me, but now that you’re my boyfriend, can you fuck me?”
He practically growls as he says, “Saints, yes,” standing and lifting her with him. Mal brings them to her room, kissing her the whole way. He unceremoniously shoves her school books off of her bed, laying her down and crawling over her. “You don’t know how often I’ve imagined this,” he murmurs, lips on her throat. 
“Tell me,” she gasps.
“Every time I came over, Alina. Every time.”
A shiver runs down her spine. “Even when you were here to—”
“Especially then.”
She has no idea what to do with this information. Her head is empty of thought save for the screaming need for more of him, so she pulls his shirt over his head. This time, Mal doesn’t stop her. Her hands roam over all the places she’s been dying to touch; down his back, tracing along his spine, up over his stomach, fingers running along the muscles of his chest, brushing over a few scars he’s accumulated through the years.
“You’re so perfect,” she whispers. Smooth in some places, rougher in others, but so incredibly warm everywhere.
Mal tips her chin up, kisses her lips once, hard, and then another to her jaw, down her neck, her collarbone. Then he’s the one tossing her shirt aside, his lips continuing their decent. He’s pressing soft words into her skin as he kisses her — beauty, beloved, cherished, my heart —murmuring his love for her even as he brings her nipple between his teeth.
“Shit, Mal,” Alina breathes. Her hips keep bucking, far beyond her control. He chuckles, murmurs something along the lines of no patience, and quickens his pace. Soon enough, he’s got her undressed completely — which isn’t too unnerving after the shower incident. Any lingering nerves flee once his head is between her thighs. She’s suddenly very thankful Zoya isn’t home, because even though it’s never been a problem during sex before, she absolutely cannot control the noises she’s making — and she’s loud.
Mal returns to her with glistening lips. She kisses him and tastes herself, a thrill better than any rollercoaster. Her hands move to the waistband of his pants, giving a half-hearted tug. “Off.”
“So lazy,” he teases, unclasping the button on his jeans, tugging down the zipper. “I could always make you work for it.”
“Have mercy on me, Oretsev. I’m still recovering from the pleasures of your cocky mouth.”
He looks so proud of himself, she wants to kiss him just to wipe the smirk off of his face. “If you enjoyed my cocky mouth, just wait until you feel my—
“Do not finish that sentence.”
But then he’s pushing down his boxers, and all Alina can do is stare as the cock in question springs free. He’s fully hard this time around, and her thighs squeeze together at the sight. He watches her as she practically drools over his dick, his smirk becoming even, well, smirkier. She reaches out and curls her fingers around his length, giving him two quick strokes — both to clear the smirk from his face and because she so very much wants to touch him. 
“Fuck, Alina,” he hisses. He’s reaching for his jeans, probably to grab a condom from his pocket, but she grabs his hand.
“I’m on the pill, and I’ve been tested recently.” Of course, there’s still a slight risk. But it’s Mal — finally Mal — and she wants to feel every inch of him.
He pauses, then nods. “Okay.” Crawling over her, he takes one of her hands and intertwines their fingers. With his other hand, he grips his cock and drags the tip through her folds like the damn tease he is, eliciting needy mewling from her that he seems to enjoy. In her ear, he murmurs, “How do you want this, Alina?”
“I don’t want to be able to walk tomorrow.”
Mal chuckles softly, but the sound so close to her ear sends more shivers down her spine. “As you wish, moya solnishka.” My little sun.
She has only a brief moment to bask in the sweetness of his words before he’s slamming into her all in one go, anything sweet flying out the window. Mal keeps a steady rhythm while sucking on her neck, which is good, because all Alina can do is moan incoherently as her nails leave scratches down his back.
When he senses her getting close, Mal brings his finger to her clit, circling just right. “Saints!” she cries, and comes undone beneath him once again. But this time, she gets to watch him fall over the edge with her, his eyes so incredibly dark as he moans his release. He’s the only man she’s ever let come inside of her, and it feels very right that it’s Mal — she doesn’t want anyone else filling her like this, marking her in a sense as his spend drips down her thighs.
They stay like that for a while, foreheads pressed together, sweaty and sticky, but blissfully so. 
“So, is the sex still good on this side of the apartment?”
In answer, he dips his head and bites down on one of her tits.
“Shit, Malyen!”
“Ridiculous questions get ridiculous responses,” he teases, then wraps his arms around her, tucking his face into the crook of her shoulder. “You’re all I’ve wanted for two years, Alina, and this still beat my expectations.”
Smiling, she rests her chin against the top of his head. “Good. I would hate to have to start fucking in Zoya’s bed just because you like the airflow better there.”
“Smart ass,” Mal mutters, but he’s smiling. Then he says, "You know, this may not be my first time fucking in this apartment, but I’m still checking off a first tonight — of many, I hope.”
Alina rolls her eyes. “Yes, I’m aware this is your first time fucking me in this apartment, dumb ass.”
"That’s not what I meant, rude ass.”
She frowns. “Then what did you mean?”
He squeezes her hip. “It’s my first time spending the night.”
Her heart does a little jump in her chest, and she doesn’t even have it in her to tease that she hasn’t actually asked him to stay yet. But stay he does, though he gets her off a few more times before they pass out for the night — definitely beating her vibrator. One time it’s with his fingers, so incredibly long that she knows all her fantasies will involve the slender digits now. Another is after Alina murmurs about how filthy she is and that she really ought to take a shower. 
Mal waits long enough to join her that she starts to worry he hadn’t understood her intent. But then she hears his footsteps, and the shower curtain opens. There’s no bottle throwing this time, though she can’t say the same for the screaming. He steps into the shower, kisses her slowly, sensually, then pushes her back until she shivers from the feeling of cold tile against her bare skin.
“I meant to ask, you do know you have mirrors in here, right?” Mal murmurs huskily into her ear. She’s too disoriented with want to understand until he says, “I saw you staring at my ass last time.”
Then he slams into her, and Alina no longer has to imagine how it feels to be fucked against the shower wall.
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the-crows-typist · 4 years ago
Note
riddle and floyd ficlet please! doesn’t need to be romantic. the word is “spoon”!
The Possibilities Are Endless
“The rules are meant to be broken.”
CW: potential OOC and discussion of medicine
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“That’s not the right way to use a spoon, Floyd.”
Octanivelle and Heartslabyul had gotten closer, its students growing connection between each other and forming bonds of friendship and friendly camaraderie. One could say that the two dorm were alike, very goal oriented and hardworking, very cunning and observant.  While Riddle was happy for this growth, there was a part of him that loathed the fact that he had to spend time with some less than savory company.
“Eh? It makes cake easier to eat!”
Floyd Leech was an enigma, an unknown, an annoying unknown to be exact. There was never a time Floyd and he were running after each other nor was there any time that Floyd would leave him be, it was nothing but chaos around him.
“It still isn’t right.”
Riddle was very uptight no matter what the situation may be and no matter how plain or how extravagant the event was. To Floyd, Riddle was too serious, too angry. He was his polar opposite and boy, was it fun to see what buttons can be pushed to see that normally calm and collect face heat up and turn the brightest of reds, like the goldfishes he needed to often get rid of. “Does it really matter, goldfishy? I’m still gonna eat it anyway.” Floyd took a spoonful of cake and shoved it into his mouth, letting out a hum of satisfaction at the sweet taste.
“Sea turtle’s cakes are always so good! We should have added him as an employee a long time ago.”
“Such slovenly manners.” The dorm leader muttered under his breath, bringing the teacup to his lips to drink his tea with brows furrowed in frustration. Eating with one’s mouth full was an incredibly big no-no and Riddle felt annoyance bubble in the pit of his stomach. There were stains on Floyd’s cheeks and the spoon, a soup spoon, was used as means of picking out the cake. That goes against every rule taught in etiquette! Riddle couldn’t stand it.
“I’m glad you like it.” Trey jumped in, letting Riddle calm himself and breathe. “Though I appreciate the gesture, I might be accused of moonlighting if my family found out I was working for someone else.” He was always so patient no matter who he was dealing with, Riddle guessed it was because he had siblings to take care of. “Eh? I’m sure your family will understand if you needed money for school.”
“I’m fine, really.”
“Boo…Boring!”
Jade raised his plate to Trey with a pleasant smile. “Seconds, please.”
“Azul, you can eat my share. I don’t want it anymore.”
“Finish it yourself. I already ate my share.”
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Floyd never liked to be held down, he hated the feeling of walls around him. He hated the way rules would hold him back and he absolutely hated those who tried to enforce it to ruin all his fun. Riddle Rosehearts was exactly that, he was uptight and brash, he was a goody two shoes and by-the-book. Floyd relished in seeing that face heat up, it was gratifying to go against someone like Riddle.
“Don’t run in the halls.”  He would say to him. “It’s improper.”
“You don’t know how to have fun don’t ya, Goldfishy?”
His words were harsh and blunt that not even someone like Riddle is immune by them. Riddle was silent and his shoulder hunched defensive. “The halls are not a place to do that, if you want to run then use the school’s field.” Floyd stuck out his tongue and ran away. “The field is boring!”
“Hey, I just told you—! Agh, what’s the point?!” Riddle stomped off, muttering about how there was no getting through to Floyd otherwise.
Floyd hated authority; he wanted to run as he pleased whenever he wanted to and where he wanted to. To be held down like a beast was like torture to him, like the weight of the shackles once put on his wrists.
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Tea parties were not an uncommon thing between dorms, Azul knew that but to have the opportunity to have one with Riddle was quite rare. “It is only right that I expand on the relationships of our dorm, Azul. Knowing you, you would be quick to take advantage of that.”
Jade and Trey stood beside each other and pouring their respective dorm leader a cup of tea. “Indeed, Riddle. When an opportunity presents itself, I take what I can get my hands on.” Azul sips his cup of tea. “Rest assured that this is nothing short of a pleasant visit, we just want to see Heartslabyul for what it is since you’ve been running it since your first year as well as further tightening the bonds of our members.”
“I must say, they’re like a well oiled machine.” Jade commented, Riddle took his cup of tea specifically brewed by Trey. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Jade’s tea making skills but that Trey’s skills were enough for him. “It is to be expected of Riddle that he runs such a flawless system.”
Riddle set down his cup with a small huff. “I am only doing what is right to further the teachings of the Queen of Hearts.” He looks to the two visitors with a practiced neutral face. “I don’t see the need to praise responsibility. The rules were put into place to ensure that that a group thrives under discipline, without it there will be chaos.”
“It seems you have to take a page off his book, Azul.”
“Now, now Jade. No need for the pleasantries to be aimed at me.”
Floyd huffed, sitting improperly on the chairs; this talk was boring and dumb and he just wanted to eat something to take his mind off this. The group let out a hum or approval when Trey set down a cake in front of them. White cream, the smell of vanilla, the accenting fruits glazed with water and sugar. It looked wonderful. Trey was a good baker and there was no doubt about it. “The offer still stands, Trey. You’re always welcome aboard the Monstro Lounge any time you feel like coming.” Azul tactfully slid his cake to Jade. “I’m sure that your cakes will reach bigger audiences through us.”
“I’m flattered, really I am, but I’d rather stay here. If my dorm enjoys what I make then that’s good enough for me.” Trey sets begins cutting the cake and handing it over to different people with the last being Riddle. “Besides, I’m sure a certain somebody will miss my cooking while I’m away and I can’t let that happen.”
Riddle sipped on his tea, eyes closed and posture poised. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, it’s not you Riddle.”
The two laughed among themselves all so prim and proper, Floyd didn’t like it.
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“Sea turtle and goldfishy have been friends since childhood, right?” Floyd said, a few grains of chocolate stuck on his face. “Woah, that’s amazing. You lasted that long with goldfishy.” Trey smiled at him as he poured another cup of tea while Jade helped himself to another piece. Riddle’s fingers shook for a moment but that soon calmed. Aww, he thought to himself, he didn’t react.
“That’s right; it was like us and Azul but a little less consistent. We did lose track of him at the start of middle school.”
“Yeah, he was always hiding in that pot of his. I didn’t know he was in there until I saw his pop out.” Azul grimaced at Riddle. “I nearly threw some seaweed in it too.”
“Yes, I remember that very well.”
Riddle set aside his used plates. “Floyd, elbows off the table.”
“Huh? Oh—.” Floyd pulled away from the table, Jade coming to him with some tissue paper and wiping his face as if he were a child. “I’d appreciate it if you would learn some manners for this kind of event, Floyd. Your slovenly ways don’t do well with it.” Riddle commented as he pat his lips with a napkin.
“Aw, come on Goldfishy don’t be like that. This is just a small tea party.” He said with a tone on edge, leaning towards Riddle to wrap his arm around his neck.
“I told you to stop calling me that.” Riddle slapped the hand away with a huff.
“Why not? It’s a cute name.” He brought a spoon to his mouth, a soup spoon with lots of cake.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s cute. It’s not my name, respect that.  And the proper utensil for eating cake is a fork. You’re not supposed to eat it with a spoon.”
“I’ll eat the way I want to. You’re just too prim and proper to try it out.”
“Settle down, you two. That’s enough.” Jade and Trey pulled the two away from each other. “Why are you always like this, Floyd?” Riddle demanded, his snarl was large and hand set down harshly on the table making the plates jump in place. “I’ve done nothing to you and you treat me like this! You’re uncouth, you’re rude! You’re everything the rules go against!”
“Huh?” The aura around him changed, the glare in his eyes was dangerous and his voice husky and low. “What did you say to me?”
“Floyd.” Jade stressed his voice, brows furrowed while Azul held his arm.
“What about you, huh?” Floyd shrugged off Azul in annoyance. “You’re always about rules and it’s no fun.” He pointed a finger at Riddle accusingly.
“I only enforce the rules because I’m supposed to. Without it, this dorm would be in chaos!”
Floyd scoffed eyes now slits and anger pushing through his veins in a fury of hot blood. “I’d rather see place in chaos than some stuck-up system being run by somebody like you. You wanna know why you overblotted that day?” Riddle’s eyes widened and his shoulders squared, his brows furrowed and lips tightened. Trey took to his side, arm out to protect Riddle and stop Floyd from coming any further.
“If you’re not allowed to have fun then no one’s allowed to. You got jealous cuz’ people stepped out of line and you couldn’t. If you can’t have it then nobody can. That’s what you are, goldfishy,” his finger pointed at Riddle.
“You’re just a jealous, small, stuck-up goldfish.”
There was panting, Riddle’s body shaking and eyes blown out in anger. His face didn’t heat up nor did he point his scepter at them. Instead, tears had begun to form in his eyes. Ones that were threatening to fall any moment.
“Get out.”
“Riddle,” Azul tried to reach over to the other dorm leader but was only met with the business end of the Heartslabyul’s scepter. “I said get out! I will not tolerate this kind of behavior. Take your things and get out!”
Azul sighed, standing up after and fixed his hat nodding to the two to follow him out.
“We’re having a talk later, Floyd.”  
“Whatever.”
Riddle relaxed into his chair, leaning back against the plush cushions with hands over his eyes and soon his façade began to crack, his lips trembled and his teeth were bared, his shoulder shook and his voice was no longer controlled.
The overblot was still fresh in his mind, the days spent trying to gain back his dorm’s trust, the talks he had with the woman who raised him to be this way, and the times he question himself and his magic while holding his pen close.
Trey knelt down, bringing him close to a hug. “Come here.” He looked to the path the trio had used to exit the dorm and then back to Riddle. “It’s okay.” He stroked the red hair with his fingers, his lips pressing a kiss to his head.
“It’s okay. It’s over now.”
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“Deuce, what is all this?”
“Well…”
“Riddle, wanna eat some lunch together?”
“Ah—I suppose I have some time to spare.”
“They have some nice sweet bread you might like too!”
The two never crossed paths after that day, Floyd never once approached Riddle once after the small insult throwing match they had during the disastrous tea party. It was probably because of the fact that the group that followed Riddle, his friends, were always by his side and not once leaving him alone.
Floyd had been given a stern talking after the party, Azul putting his foot down on his behavior suddenly growing a heart. “I don’t need to list off the reasons why I’m upset with you, Floyd,” He said, arms folded and eyes in an angry expression. “This is the closest our dorms have ever been in years and I am not willing to let this connection go to waste just because you and Heartslabyul’s dorm leader can’t get along.”
“You two are different, I understand that.” Jade said, his arms folding in place and eyes closed as if in thought. He was equally as upset but he knew how to hide it. He and Trey had begun a friendship of sorts after spending time in the botanical gardens and he feared that Floyd’s constant teasing would put a foot in the mutualism like friendship he had formed. “But what you did was out line and uncalled for.”
Jade’s patted his brother’s arm. “I know you’re frustrated, I don’t need to strain my eyes to see it. You hate people like Riddle…” He looked down, thinking about his words carefully. “But Riddle is not like those people.”
There was a smile; Jade’s comforting smile and he pat his brother’s arm again. “You’re smart enough to know what I mean but while you contemplate what I said, I suggest you cool off. Azul and I will take the shift this afternoon. I’m sure some students are free to take your slot.”
Azul adjusted his hat and nodded his head. “I’ll go ahead and make some calls.”
“Come on, you can’t stay in the library forever.” Cater pulled at Riddle’s wrists while Ace pushed him from behind. “Yeah, no wonder you’re so tiny.” There was a small growl and the twitching hairs that made up Riddle’s signature heart-like hairstyle. “W-what I mean is that lunch time is a time to eat, not study. You can do that during study hall.” The younger first year backtracked at the sign of danger and Deuce as well as Trey couldn’t help but let out a small bout of laughter.
“At least let me walk on my own.”
“Nope. You’ll just run off to the library again!”
“Honestly…”
Floyd watched him basically get pulled into the cafeteria by his group, his friends, and his eyes saw something he never got to see when they were together. Riddle’s smile.
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“You hate people like Riddle…But Riddle is not like those people.”
“You’re smart enough to know what I mean.”
He never once doubted Jade’s observations, Floyd knew better than to doubt his brother but those words caused a rift in him so much that he didn’t see the basketball flying towards him while his teammates yelled and screamed “Look out!” Floyd fell onto his back, his forehead sore and red. It was Jamil who pulled him up from the ground.
“Fucking hell,” The eel cursed. “That hurt.”
He was brought to the benches and Vargas inspected it with a huff. “What wrong, Leech?” He asked, putting his hands on his waist and expression serious. “You’re out of your element.” Floyd didn’t answer and only looked away with a huff. The swelling of his cheek was large and Vargas knew it needed medical attention. “Viper, Trappola, bring him to the infirmary.”
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“Thank you for your help, both of you.” Said the nurse with a smile disarming and kind, “We’ll take it from here, the both of you can go back to class now,” The two students nodded and said their goodbyes and ‘see you later’s’ to their fellow team mate.
“Ace?” Riddle’s familiar voice was soft against the hum of the ceiling fans that swirled air within the large room. “What are you doing here?” The dorm leader asked, clearly concerned. “Did you get hurt?”
“Floyd got hit pretty bad during practice so we brought him here. What about you?”
“Just the normal check-up. You know…”
“Ah, right. I’ll leave you to it, then. See you later, Dorm Leader Riddle!”
“Take care.” While Jamil and Ace walked away, Riddle continued walking in. There was a pause when Floyd and he met, the same sense of dread he saw in his eyes appeared in an instant but this didn’t spike the thrill he’d feel when he had the upper hand instead an awkward pit formed in his stomach and his senses seem to be aware of everything around him.
“Mr Rosehearts, right on time. Have a seat and I’ll be with you soon.”
“…Thank you.”
Riddle sat on one of the chairs behind Floyd, looking down and playing with his pen. The bright red crystal still slightly dirtied with ink blots, Riddle was still recovering after the incident in his dorm. While he was still able to stand on both feet, his pen said otherwise about his ability to produce magic. The ink blots were a reminder of what it felt like pushing himself beyond the limit of what was acceptable.
It was quite embarrassing to think but if it weren’t for the instigation of those four juniors of his he wouldn’t have noticed the bars of the cage he was staying in or many years that he put a leesh on himself, a limiter to what he can and can’t do.
If it weren’t for those four, he wouldn’t have been free for a very long time. Perhaps, he wouldn’t be free at all.
“Ah, I ran out of medical pads.” Said the nurse, pulling back after swabbing Floyd’s cheek with a special numbing brew and some cream for the sore skin, they smiled at the two students sheepishly. “I’ll go get some from the storage, you two stay put. I’ll be right back.” The nurse left and soon, the two of them were alone in the silent room.
The ceiling fans were loud in his ears and sounds of the field busy with activity reached their ears like whispers. Riddle closed his eyes and sighing in a way to calm himself down. Floyd had always annoyed him but the small argument they had was what cemented the growing fear that had been growing in him.
He, like many other students before and after him, was scared of the Leech brothers.        
“What are you here for?” Floyd asked, breaking the silence between them.
“Medicine and check-up.”
“For what?”
“My blot.”
Even during the elementary school, Floyd had been taught that using too much magic is bad and can cause an overblot which was even worse but as he grew older, he learned that it wasn’t only magic that contributed to the overblot but emotional fatigue thus there was a simplified point he stuck with: the bigger the fatigue plus the more magic used equaled to a very big overblot. While he knew treatment for it existed, he had yet to see firsthand.
But what baffled him was that the blot took a few days or weeks at best for it to subside. And yet here Riddle was, his pen still dirtied with ink and needing to take medicine. Was Riddle’s blot that serious? “I didn’t know blot needed medicine.”
Riddle set down his pen, eyes still down on his lap. “They only give medicine to those who have had a bad case of it.”
“Like you?” Floyd asked suddenly, his eyes angled to look to the boy behind him, one that stayed silent for a minute. “Yes,” he admitted. “Like me.”
The chair creaked as Floyd moved to sit the wrong way on the chair. Both of his arms resting on the backrest and his chin snug between them. His eyes drooped but held no malice but a form of curiosity.
“Why?”
It was a question Riddle couldn’t answer immediately. Why was he a bad case? Perhaps it was the amount of magic he used in one sitting? It was a factor of it, yes, but there was another underlying factor that led to his blot being bad, so bad that he needed to undergo medical intervention. During his mother’s numerous lessons, he was taught that the heart of a mage is the real powerhouse of magic, it is what differentiates one’s magic to the next and it the origin of one’s unique magic. While it was a very powerful tool, it was also one of the most sensitive. Emotions can greatly affect how a mage’s magic manifests and his overblot in the Heartslabyul garden was a manifestation of what could happen to a mage when the heart goes out of control.
Years of resentment and fear, of anxiety and jealousy, and all the other emotions he couldn’t think of at that moment piled up and had been pushed down for so long only for it to gush out of him like a broken faucet and unleashing all the pent up feelings he’d been storing for the years he’s been alive.
“Because my case is serious.” Was his only answer and Floyd had seemed satisfied by that.
“For someone who says a lot of stuff about others, you don’t say a lot when you’re talking about yourself.” Floyd commented, leaning on his good cheek while the other still stung. “It’s pretty ironic.” Riddle smiled, laughing to himself. It was different to see it for himself, in fact, there wasn’t a time that Floyd could remember seeing him smile at all. Before the overblot, that is.
“It is, isn’t it?”
“You know what I think?”
Riddle’s face then morphed to one of confusion and curiosity. “What?”
“You hate people like Riddle…But Riddle is not like those people.” Jade’s words echoed in his mind as he carefully put his thoughts to words. “You were taught to love the rules. You don’t follow them because you want to, it’s because you have to.” He began and he saw there was no trace of discomfort so he continued. “I don’t know what you’ve been through but it seems to be that it would have been real bad for you if you broke one even if there was no punishment for it.”
“There are.” Riddle chimed in,
“I know but it’s not that bad once you get used to it.”
Floyd looked to the pen on Riddle’s side. “It must have been tough.” Was his final comment on the matter and Riddle took the said pen into his hand with a sigh. At the moment, remembering his mother running towards him and screaming his name. For all the years he had been with her that was probably the only time he really saw his mother for what she was, overprotective and far too concerned.
There was no excusing how she raised him, there was no excusing what damage had been done to him but looking back on it Riddle began to understand why she was like that. He knew parents can’t be perfect; they are just as damaged and just as flawed as any other person was but there was a fine line between what was acceptable and what wasn’t for a parent to do for their child.
So, Floyd was right. It was tough.
“It was.”
Another bout of silence passed before Riddle laughed again. “What are you, some psychoanalyst?” There was a teasing tone Floyd had never heard coming from him and that was enough to keep the ball rolling between them. “I can be. Wanna see me predict the future with your star sign?”
“That’s astrology, Floyd.”
“I foresee that you’ll be treating me to a meat bun from Sam’s shop!”
“I am not going to do that. You have your own allowance.”
“Eh? But it tastes better when people buy it for you.”
“I am not buying you a meat bun.”
The two laughed among each other before Floyd chimed in again.
“It’s not too late, y’know?”
It was a statement that confused Riddle initially. “What do you mean?”
“You can always start breaking the rules now if you’d like. I don’t expect a goody like you to get right off the bat, though.”
He saw the way Riddle’s eyes widened at the mere idea of breaking the rules and he couldn’t help but smile at the way he thought about it. He thought back to Jade’s conversation with him and couldn’t help but chuckle to himself, he couldn’t wait to tell Jade about the day Riddle finally breaks a rule.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Eh? Why not now?? We can skip class.”
“I’m not doing that!”
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“Octanivelle’s purples and Heartslabyul’s red do have a nice accent to one another, don’t you think?” Another tea party had been planned right after Floyd had fully recovered from his sports injury and this time with a few changes to the décor, a break away from the white table clothes and red roses. “Indeed,” Riddle said as he brought a tea cup to his lips to sip at the tea that Trey had prepared.
“I had to take a few of your students aside to study the fabric and to see if we had some in storage.” There was a smile against his cup. “Luckily my students have perfected the color changing spell.”
Jade chuckled, his finger against his own lips. “As always, with Riddle as the dorm head, Heartslabyul is a well oiled machine.” Setting his cup down, Riddle smiles at his classmate, “I am only doing what is best for my dorm. That is all.”
Trey set down the cake by slice, giving it to each person at the table. Floyd and he exchanged looks and reach over for the utensils. At that moment, Jade, Azul and Trey watched as the two ate their cakes with their spoons. It was a confusing time for the trio, one even thinking he was dreaming.
“Hm, I suppose eating it with a spoon is easier.”
Floyd giggled, leaning back on his chair. “Right? The bigger the spoon, the bigger piece of cake you can eat!”
“That’s quite sinful, honestly.”
Trey chuckled, scratching his head in confusion.
“What in the world happened to the both of you?”
Riddle’s pen sat against his coat pocket, the medication in the other. The ink blots fizzling out little by little and he too, little by little, began living the way he wanted to.
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r6shippingdelivery · 4 years ago
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Outsider pov of a cashier at a shoo near the base has a crush on kapkan or glaz/chanka and slowly over time realized they are together, either by learning russian, seeing them be cutesy or smthn idk
I was about to go for the easy option, but then Tachanka's rework and elite came out, and with so many people thisting openly after him, I took this route instead, because Tachanka deserves at least one (1) lovestruck cashier fangirling over him :D 
And as always, you can read this on AO3 too, second chapter of the Tachanka/Kapkan ficlet colletion, woo!
Being a shopkeeper was terribly dull work, especially in a small town like Hereford. Same faces day in day out, same old stories. It was all so repetitive, she could have gone through it with her eyes closed. The most exciting thing she remembered was when old Daniels’ goose escaped from its pen and got inside Harriet’s pub. That was six months ago, and people still talked about it like it happened yesterday.
Then one day more people started appearing around. More often than not, foreigners. Everyone whispered about the nearby military base, looking at the newcomers with distrust, but she was over the moon. New and interesting people, that was exactly what the town needed. Who cared if they were military, they bought stuff like everyone else, right? And since her little shop was at the edge of town, it was often a place these people visited. That and the pub.
She liked to observe them and make stories about who they could be. For example, the young one with the Yorkshire accent, she could see him being the son of a general, and was following in his father’s footsteps. Of course, she knew the likelihood of getting any single detail right was minimal, but it was a fun way to pass the time.
_ _ _
It had been a boring day, and she was on her phone, browsing Instagram, when someone dropped a few items by the register. Anyone would admit the guy cut an imposing figure, being so tall and wide. And while most people would eye him warily, both suspicious and afraid, her mind had turned to mush in an instant.
Those arms looked like they’d make the sleeves rip if he flexed, and the hint of tattoos she glimpsed from his open shirt, oh goodness! Who cared he was a bit too old for her, looking was free and it hurt no one. Because yes, she was aware she was drooling over a stranger, but as long as every saucy thought remained in her head, there was no harm and she wouldn’t come off as a sexualizing creep. She barely paid attention to the items she rang, mostly beer and pickles, too busy stealing glances at this adonis in front of her.
“How much is this?” The man asked.
The first thing she noticed was the deliciously deep voice and the heavy Russian accent. Second, he was pointing at a cheap kid princess set, with a plastic tiara and wand. So not only was he sinfully attractive, he was a dad who thought of his girl too. She almost wanted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
Luckily, she didn’t stammer when talking, but after that everything was kind of a blur. He left, and she kept a dopey smile on her face for the rest of her shift. Holy shit, you didn’t see men like that around this little town! _ _ _
Next time the big guy came to the shop, another dude accompanied him. One who had really nice eyes but looked like he was sulking or trying to hide from everyone. Mr. Grumpy, as she dubbed him, was quite handsome too, but not as much as his companion.
They wandered around the shop, talking in Russian and loading their basket. Despite not understanding a thing, she strained to hear what they were saying. She felt like a gossipy old woman, but at least she was able to catch their names: Sasha and Maxim. Pretty sure the absolute hunk was Sasha, and Mr. Grumpy Maxim, but she couldn’t be certain. Sasha didn’t sound very fitting for him, though.
This time she paid attention to the purchase, a ton of booze, and couldn’t help herself from asking, “Did you little princess like the toys?”
He laughed, which made Mr. Grumpy scowl, and answered, “It was perfect.”
_ _ _
A quick research showed her that Sasha was actually a nickname for Alexander, and that was a much more regal name, befitting of him. For some reason she had thought Sasha to be a feminine name, although it possibly was a nickname for Alexandra too. Armed with that knowledge, she was now totally confident in dropping her made up nicknames and using Sasha and Maxim instead.
However, neither of them showed up at the store for two long weeks. When she finally saw them again, they both looked dead tired. Maxim stayed by the door, looking grumpier than ever, while Alexander went to buy some cigarettes and assorted snacks. She gathered the courage to say “Welcome back” to him, in what she considered a subtle attempt at letting him know she noticed his absence. Alexander just nodded, but she liked to think his eyes brightened up a little.
On the way out, he handed a candy bar to Maxim, who looked surprised and hesitant to grab it. Alexander wouldn’t take a no for an answer though, and Mr. Grumpy smiled at him while unwrapping the chocolate. How sweet, Alexander was such a considerate friend.
_ _ _
After that she saw them much often around, much to her delight. Sometimes it was just Alexander, others he came with some other Russian guys, but most often he was with Maxim. These two seemed almost inseparable.
The purchases were mundane yet never the same, which sparked her interest. Most people had stuff they bought often, what she called “the usual” of each customer. But not them. It was like they wanted to try everything or get a sample of all the items available, one by one. Although watching them interact was far more entertaining than what they bought.
These two bickered constantly, like an old married couple, and she was dying of curiosity to know what they talked about. However, short of learning Russian, she would have to live with that mystery. Observing their body language sometimes offered a little insight, but not much. She noticed they were quite touchy, more than the average guy friends around here, but it was probably a cultural thing. There was also the time she could have sworn they kissed.
It was just a peck on the lips, so fast that she even doubted what she’d seen. But then Maxim scoffed and half-heartedly punched Alexander, shoving him away. Alexander didn’t take it badly. In fact, he was laughing, which only added to her confusion.
She even watched the security footage to make sure she didn’t just imagine that. And there it was, a fleeting contact that lasted a few seconds. Friendly mouth kisses were a thing in the ex-soviet countries, right? At least that was what she heard...
_ _ _
For the next few weeks, every time she saw them, she kept thinking about what their relationship was exactly. And they came to the shop pretty often.
All their interactions showed a certain closeness between them, yet a friendship could easily explain it. Aside from that one time, she never saw them kiss again, but she kept wondering. At first she assumed he was married and with a kid at least, a little girl. But maybe he was divorced. He could be unfaithful, but she didn’t like to think about that possibility. Perhaps he was with his grumpy partner and… they adopted? No, this was far fetched, she felt. They were Russian and military, no way.
The confirmation that these two were together came in two parts. First was the time Alexander bought condoms. She couldn’t help noticing it was the XL kind, and wow, whoever was the lucky one, she low-key envied them. The most revealing thing that day was the smirk Alexander gave to Maxim, whom for once didn’t look grumpy, but flustered.
The second and final confirmation was only scant days later, when Maxim got a phone call while they were shopping. The conversation was in English, and at one point he asked for Alexander’s opinion on what option he preferred, to which he asked “Whatever you like best, princess.“
In that moment, everything clicked into place. She had always known she had no chance with him, mainly because she thought he was married and she was no home-wrecker. And yes, he was taken, but not in the way she imagined at first. That was fine; looking was free and she was always discreet in her ogling. Besides, while imagining Mr. Grumpy being gifted a cheap princess crown was hilarious, it was also cute in a certain way.
“You better treat this man like a king,” She mentally addressed Maxim. Because from what she had seen, Alexander definitely seemed the type to treat his partner like royalty.
They looked happy together, though, and that was always nice. Good relationships were hard to find, and she wished them the best.  But it would also be great if she had the chance to see Alexander shirtless, at least once. A gal could feast her eyes and daydream, right?
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circumstellars · 4 years ago
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Hello there! Can I have a ficlet with dialogue prompt, 'What's making him scream like that?' for Five and Diego, or any siblings you like ;)
[Ok so this turned out slightly longer than intended, but I was able to blend it together with another idea I had for a follow up to this ficlet.
The context is that this is canon compliant in that it happens somewhere near the end of S1EP4, when passed out drunk Five is recovering in Diego’s bed.
Basically Five has an PTSD episode, or a night terror if that’s easier, and the line you prompted I rearranged and altered a bit to fit the scene, so I hope that’s okay?
In this addition to the canon, when they were little Ben begins to have trouble controlling the otherworldly monster he uses, and Five has made a promise he won’t let things get out of hand. Fast forward to S1, where Luther and Diego are taking care of him, but before Al comes to deliver Eudora’s message, and it is sandwiched between two Five apocalypse flashbacks.
So so so many thanks to @michlle, or @/kkie on TUA Adult Fan Discord server. She’s an amazing beta that helped me in a pinch! So the only reason my grammar is so much better than usual is entirely thanks to her.
Very angsty. Blood, just a snippet a violence. Brotherly pain all around, emotional suffering. Enjoy! I hope you like it.]
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⟨p⟩=md⟨x⟩/dt=mddt∫∞−∞x|ψ|2dx=m∫∞−∞x∂|ψ|2∂tdx.­­­ 'It's a simple fucking equation, what is wrong?' His shaky fingers struggled with the chalk, accidentally snapping off one end against the concrete wall. Five swore, making a face at the broken piece of chalk like it spoke ill of his mother.
Oh god. Mom.  His face crumpled. 'The expectation values of displacement and momentum... obey time evolution equations analogous with,' a wet cough interrupted his deflated musing. He spun around and rested against the concrete he had been writing on moments before, before turning an eye to Dolores. '... the mechanics of Schrödinger’s equation.'  Dolores gave him a weary look. Five avoided her gaze. She didn't know. It's not like she had been forced to pick up quantum physics at age ten, and really, he had to forgive her for that.  The sun was powerful today, as it had been at least seventeen of the twenty-six days he'd been stuck in the apocalyptic ruins of his former city. It should have only been the end of April, if that newspaper clipping he held close was in fact the last thing to have been printed, but it felt hotter than middle July easily. The aggressive winds of mid-afternoon whipped all sorts of debris into his frail body and any exposed skin, and Five simply couldn't risk any injuries that could deplete his energy. He was on the cusp of fixing this, he could feel it in his exhausted bones.
He swallowed down the start of a painful sob, careful to steel over his expression. 'I know you said something about the farthest right term Dolores, but I'm not neglecting it,' Five chided, breathing into the dirty scarf around his face.
He turned around and scooped up the chalk he had rejected moments ago. 'The spatial extent of the particle wavefunction isn't smaller than the variation length-scale of the potential. You're clever, and pretty, but not that clever.' 
Five snorted at his own banter, smiling into the trails of chalk spilling from his hand as it ran across the rubble. 'Now, listen carefully this time...' --- Diego unceremoniously dropped Dolores on a nearby chair.  The fuck is this for?  He gave the mannequin an odd look. A few steps away Luther lowered their brother carefully into Diego's roomy, luxurious twin cot, rolling the sleepy, drunken Five so that he was resting comfortably on his side. 
Diego sidled next to Luther, joining him in looking over their tiny brother. Small, frozen in time for them both in memory and now, awkwardly, in reality too. The baby fat still very much clung to his still rounded features and made him look impossibly younger in a way that brought nostalgia roaring up the esophagus like heartburn. He was supposedly twice their age now? Diego scrunched his nose; to think this child, for all intents and purposes, laid here so serenely- so sweetly, dare he say it, looked like a boy who'd just tired himself out at school that day. Yet he knew, the moment Five sobered up, the illusion would crumble swiftly and without mercy. 'Funny, if I didn't know he was such a prick, I'd say he looks almost adorable in his sleep.' 
Luther snorted. 'Well, don't worry. He'll sober up eventually... and be back to his normal, unpleasant self.'
That's not good enough. 'Yeah - I can't wait that long.' Diego spun on his heel, intending to grab provisions. Five had about ten minutes of rest before Diego would be ready to forcibly pull him into consciousness with soda crackers and ginger-ale. 'I need to find out what connections he has to these lunatics before someone else dies.'
Luther didn't respond right away, eyes flickering to Five and back. He looked pensive, uncomfortable. Diego still hadn’t gotten used to the subtle changes in Luther's personality; it was disquieting the way he looks so much bigger than he used to, and yet now he seems so much smaller to Diego than he ever physically was. The big man had an air of constant uncertainty around him.
'That stuff he was saying before...' Luther began after a moment, 'what do you think he meant by that?' Diego glanced over his shoulder at Five's sleeping figure, curled up tightly in foetal position. His expression darkened in his sleep, and Diego frowned. 'I don't know...' The words came slowly, his focus narrowing in on his littlest brother. He turned quickly again, box of soda crackers forgotten on his dingy counter.
Five began to fuss, still unconscious, but his body began to shake some, and his entire expression was pinched in discomfort. Luther was watching Diego, puzzled, and followed his eyes back to Five on the cot behind him.
Then came the screaming.
Both Luther and Diego jumped back in alarm as the most harrowing, stomach-churning scream came from Five. He was folded into himself, clutching at his own biceps so hard his knuckles were bone-white. The screams that were coming from him sounded so raw Diego was sure he was damaging his vocal cords in some way.
Luther came down from his initial shock quicker than Diego and was at the cot in an instant. Diego held his breath, jaw fighting to unhinge. He was always quick in his reflexes, but something held Diego down and glued his feet to the floor. His body was alarmingly stiff with inaction.
Luther was gripping at Five, holding him as he jerked back and forth, scream after scream tearing through his rattled body. Over and over Luther tried to talk over Five, wake him up, continuously asking him what is wrong and 'what is happening Five? Can't you hear me?'
'W-ww-why is h-h-h-he screaming like t-that?'
Diego’s broken voice was swallowed up in the cacophony of Five's agonising wailing and Luther's panicked mantra of Five, Five, Please Five, Five!
Five's painful screams were tearing bloody wounds into Diego’s eardrums, and the sound of his little brother in such convincingly raw misery pulled terrifying tremors up from deep within his belly.
Go.
What happened?
Iego.
Five?
'-Iego. Diego! Diego!' Luther's voice hit him like an anvil. 'Hey?'
Why is he screaming like that?
All at once life moved forward with a start. Air sucked its way back into Diego's lungs and his attention snapped to his brothers. Five was no longer on the bed, but crumpled over on their large brother's lap, clutching not his own arms anymore but instead had all ten, trembling fingers gripped into Luther's jacket for absolute, dear life. Luther had a pained expression etched into his normally hard visage, and his arms came up to hold Five in place as gently as Diego had ever seen his giant brother move. It only dawned on him then, that Five wasn't screaming anymore.
Diego moved quietly, setting himself on the bed next to his brothers as silently as he could, almost as if he were afraid to spook an already terrified deer pinned between a rocky ledge and an oncoming truck. 
Mindlessly Diego laid his gloved hand to his little brother's head, cupping the back of it gingerly. Something heavy threatened to pull his heart into his guts, and the struggle disguised itself in the shadows of his expression.
For a while everything was deadly quiet. The pipes in the old building gurgled apropos nothing, the boxing business outside long closed for the evening with only Al's occasional footsteps any sure sign life still existed outside this hole he called home.
Diego couldn't hear much else, aside from the ragged breaths shaking Five's small chest. His eyes were still closed, creased with concern, delicate fans of black eyelashes twitching as his brain worked through whatever dark secrets Five hadn’t dared to yet share with any of his siblings. 
'Five...' but Diego’s voice aborted the words in his throat, and he met Luther's eyes. He found no answers.
What did you see, Five?
--- Day 42.
A rat scampered past Five’s feet and jumped into a pile of debris outside the remains of a nearby fast-food joint. He shaded his eyes with his left hand and looked over the large expanse of the now lifeless tundra he used to call home. The details of everything in the distance dissolved into the intensely hot horizon.
‘Today is as good a day as any,’ he said, exhaling loudly. Dolores agreed from where she was perched in her wagon. I’m ready.
Five ripped off his weighty, layered scarf and tossed it to the ground.  Today is the day. He was going to get back to his family.
He took another deep breath and ran over some calculations a final time in his head, his eyebrows pinching together with determination. Focus.
First, just a hum. Then, a moment later a spark. Five growled and redoubled his efforts, tightening his fists as hard as they would go, until the jagged half-moons of his nails cut right into the flesh of his palms. 
‘Come on!’  And then it appeared. Small, at first, but definitely, absolutely, positively the start of the vortex, undeniable as it began flickering into existence. It was immediately apparent Five couldn’t do this for a second longer than he had to; every muscle in his body was desperately working to help him rip a hole right into the material of the space-time continuum, and pain blossomed in every limb, one after another.
‘COME ON!’  The air around the wormhole became unstable, trying to escape the vacuum and whipping everything around Five into a frenzy. Dolores tipped over in her wagon, and Five nearly lost his grip on the material of time. He willed himself into ignoring her momentarily, letting out a howl as he pulled open the vortex as far as it would go. Five inhaled shakily, and let go.
I did it. There it was. He was finally going home.  Five’s knees nearly buckled underneath him as he was hit with a heady wave of excitement and relief. Luther. Vanya. Ben! Diego-- all of them. He was going to see them all again, today. Now. Tears spilt from his eyes, but he didn’t take any notice. There were flickers of life beyond the vortex, and then faces, and bodies, and Allison and Klaus, unmistakable as they filtered in and out of focus like the signal was dying on an old television set.  Five was animated in an instant and turned to grab Dolores. They had to go. Now.  He scooped up her feather-light body. ‘Leave it, Dolores! We don’t have time!’ He’d find her a new sweater once they were home. Hell, he’d buy her a whole rack of her own sweaters, anything Dolores wants, if only they got home right now.
And then the screaming came.
Five whipped around. 
Again. First one voice, then two. Many more joined them, and Five ran toward the wormhole. 
‘BEN!’
Ben? Five braced himself against the pull of the vortex, the air thin and difficult to pull into his lungs. It whipped around him with a force he’d never felt before, and his hat and goggles were snatched from his head and thrown well into the distance. The shrieking was getting louder, closer, and the images from the other side pieced together the closer Five inched into its grip. The voices were blood-curdling, and his whole body went cold with terror.
‘Diego, don’t!’
‘Ben! Klaus, get out of the way!’
‘BEEEEEEEEEEEENNN!’
‘BEN! WHATS HAPPENING!?’
‘BEN!’
No.
No, no.
He was going back, it was going to be okay. Five was going back, it was going to be okay.
It all happened within the span of three seconds.
The fuzzy images of his siblings running, screaming, blood soaked into their clothes, painted across their young faces – dripping from their feet as they scrambled away. 
Ben. 
Ben’s body dangling nearly fifteen feet off the ground, monstrous appendages thrashing wildly and destroying the surroundings with savage flings. 
Two grotesque limbs held his bloodied and mangled brother skywards, uninhibited by his terrified screams.
No. 
No. no. no. no.
No. no. no. no. no. nonononono-
‘Someone stop him!’
‘Klaus you can’t! KLAUS-‘
It felt like his skin was being flayed from his muscle. Five thought he might have been screaming too but couldn’t hear anything. All he knew for sure was the feeling of his molecules being pulled apart.
Everything was silent.  Like the deadness of space itself, for a fraction of a second, a microscopic fragment of time - absolutely nothing existed. Crunch.
The blood that hit his face hurt. And then someone pressed play.
Everything moved again and it knocked the wind out of his lungs. Five was violently thrown from the throes of the wormhole, sucked back into his own point in time and tossed several feet backwards into strewn debris. 
‘NO!’ 
The vortex he’d spent forty-two days working on was gone, just like that. Absorbed into the material of space, the deep wound he’d used every ounce of energy to create was now healed over in a matter of seconds, lost to some other dimension and out of his grasp. Ben. He’d promised him. He had promised his brother he would be there, that he would figure it out.
That Ben wouldn’t die. But Five let him. He watched the brutal final seconds of his brother’s life, his body torn into pieces by the beast he tried so hard to contain. Five wasn’t there.
He didn’t make it.  He had told Ben he wouldn’t let him die, but he did, and Five just watched it happen, unable to do absolutely fucking shit. The sun was merciless. It baked Ben’s blood on every part that had briefly touched the other side. It settled into the cracks of the tattered skin on his right hand, pulled at the skin under his eyes and on his cheeks – crusted where it had dripped into his mouth and over his tongue. When the trance that numbed Five finally broke, it was nightfall. 
He still sat on his haunches, a few fingers on his left hand barely curled around Dolores’ shirt.  And when it did, and his throat finally moved to swallow, his limbs twitching with overwhelming pain, and his chest trembling violently, the only thing Five could feel was the fiery strain of the unending wailing that tore ceaselessly from his lungs.
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lallivaesterstroem · 4 years ago
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Emil and Lalli. Stargazing. Emil tries to name all the constellations he knows. Lalli knows all of them, but listens to the Swede anyway.
ANON ILUSM FOR ASKING this is such a wonderfully sweet prompt i just had to take it the extra mile and it got away from me once again :’)) so this is waaaay too long for a ficlet LOL but i hope you enjoy it anyway!
EDIT: A BETTER VERSION OF THIS IS NOW UP ON AO3, GO GIVE IT SOME LOVE this will stay up for posterity tho<3
quick summary: Emil and Lalli meet up in a a dream. The night sky is too beautiful to ignore.
--
Lalli knew the colours spilling around him as well as he knew himself. He blinked once, twice, watched the familiar forest and lake take shape, molding slowly into a place he called his own. Then came the gentle noise of water, the rustling of branches and chirping of birds, and he could smell the pine surrounding him. He could sit here in silence, look into the water, wait for a sign and hopefully receive none. And so the mage sat up, arms resting on his knees and head hung low, listening to the sounds of forest, waiting for-
Someone else was here. Not a spirit, he could feel that much, a someone.
He stood up quickly, hoping to all the gods that it was neither braid guy nor Onni- he wanted nothing more than to be alone tonight- which only left the category of ‘things that want to kill him’ open. One hand reaching for his dagger, the other pushing his fur coat away, he spun around, looking for the source of the disturbance.
Emil was standing on the shore, glowing in the speckles of light passing through the branches, confused but smiling, and the moment he saw him, the ground opened up under them.
Once the dust had settled, he found himself on a grassy cliff with a steep slope, overlooking nothing but darkness, one of thousands around the world, yet somehow still familiar. Emil was a few feet away from him, looking around frantically. It dawned on Lalli that it was probably that hill they climbed in Reykjavik, that long day in the pouring rain, but he couldn’t think clearly enough to wonder why they ended up there, why it seemed to have been split in half, why it was the dead of night. The shock still hadn’t quite worn off. Emil had never appeared in his dream before, not like this, not in his dream. They’d always end up in a place like this, in-between together. Never in his space.
When he turned to Emil again, just to make sure they were both still in one piece, his friend was looking up for some reason.
“Your dream has a sky?” he said, and it sounded less like a question aimed at Lalli and more like thinking out loud, as if he were trying to get to the bottom of a problem. 
“Of course. Everything has a sky.”
“I guess I just never thought about it before,” Emil said, still craning his neck, still in that distracted tone, his eyes wide in a strange sort of wonder. Lalli didn’t get it, really. He could see the real light-speckled veil covering the Earth any time he wished, and there was nothing special about the one appearing in dreams. The stars, glittering gold forged by the sky-smith, were now a mere image in their minds, dream-approximation, not worth dwelling on this much.
Lalli looked into the distance instead, trying to make out the shapes- houses but no lights on, a village, indiscernible layout, shifting in the darkness. He couldn’t tell if it was the Icelandic village, or his own hometown, or something else entirely, perhaps a fragment of Emil’s memory. It was like the houses were in the bottom of a murky lake, roofs submerged, waves distorting everything, and by the time it reached his eyes they were unrecognisable. He didn’t dare to peer over the edge of the cliff, didn’t want to look straight down at whatever may be there. The wind whipped around him, against his face, and for a moment he felt completely alone.
A rustle coming from behind startled him out of his thoughts- Emil, sitting down on the grass, still looking up with that smile on his lips. He said something about knowing ‘a thing or two’ about the stars, pointed upwards at nothing in particular, and Lalli decided to join him. It seemed that there was nothing to look at beyond the dark plunge beneath the cliff, which he’d already scrutinised, and the stars in the sky. He sat next to Emil. He waited.
“See that one? That’s the big dog. Those three stars are the head, and then these are the tail,” Emil gestured, eyes fixed on the night sky.
Iso koira. The easiest to spot, with the brightest star at its head. Emil’s struggle to point it out was a little pathetic and a little adorable, depending on whether Lalli was looking at his fumbling outstretched hand missing the mark or his excited expression, squinting to see better. And then he turned to look at him and that excitement was gone, replaced by a frown.
“You can’t tell where I’m pointing at from there,” he said, fake-upset, “look here.”
Emil’s face was suddenly right next to his, an arm around his shoulder and the other still pointing at the sky, and Lalli froze. Perhaps it was the unexpected touch, the closeness, but something about it made him jump. To his credit, Emil noticed, letting go and moving away, an apology already on his lips. But before he could get to it Lalli inched closer, at his own pace, wanting to say that it’s okay, just let me, hoping his expression would do the trick instead. He just needed to ease into it, and soon enough they were close once again, so Lalli looked up, pointedly avoiding Emil’s gaze, in order to urge him to do the same. Back to the stars. 
“And the little dog- huh, shouldn’t it be somewhere around…”
Pieni koira, just a little off to the side, trailing behind Orion. Kaksoset, Härkä, Yksisarvinen. The stars were his constant companions, by his side every night when no one else was. Köli, Ajomies, Virta. His gaze swept across the sky. He knew them by heart.
Not that he’d say a word of it to Emil. It was much more amusing waiting for the realisation, that moment he stops talking and lets the cogs in his head turn: hey, what if that silly Finn who spends all night outside, where the stars are, maybe knows a couple things more about them…
But this was fine too. He didn’t have to think as long as he kept talking. Emil’s hair looked grey in the moonlight but with that same shine, messy from the wind, and Lalli couldn’t help but reach up and tuck a lock behind his ear, just so that it doesn’t bother him. No other reason. Emil turned to look at him for a moment, not enough to read his expression, and then quickly looked away.
“Orion is also, ah, somewhere,” his hand was now flitting between several constellations, none of them the one he was looking for. “This sky is weird. Did you ever notice that? That the dream sky is weird. But you probably already know, because you’re… you know. And I’m so new at this. Not at dreaming! Just, this whole...”
He decided to let Emil ramble nervously until he tired himself out, ending his rant with a frustrated little groan. It was strange that he couldn’t quite focus on the sound of his voice, how he could feel that lilt all Swedes had to their words but still understand him- another peculiarity of dreams he never really noticed until he and Emil became connected like this. Then they were quiet for a couple of heartbeats, taking in the view.
The corner of Lalli’s lips twitched into a smile, as close to softness as he could get. Emil was too busy staring up at the sky to notice. Lalli was too busy looking at him to care.
But something changed moments after. He could feel it in the air, creeping in slowly. Emil’s expression turned melancholy, resigned, and when he finally spoke, he echoed a statement he made a long time ago. This time, he said it with a smile, almost sad, mostly distracted, like he didn’t know the words would come out until he said them: “Makes me not want to wake up tomorrow.”
In the resulting silence, Lalli could hear something from the depths, from the village, and when he looked down, he saw a sliver of orange in the distance, like the stroke of a brush, a splatter. Fire. Emil’s fire. An uncomfortable feeling settled in his gut, a pain for someone else, something tugging at his heart.
“Why? You’re safe now. You have food and shelter,” he said instead, trying to keep him occupied. Steadying his voice took more effort than he expected, but he didn’t want Emil to notice anything was amiss. It was Lalli’s fault that his dreams were no longer silly meaningless thought-leftovers that played during the night. It was Lalli’s fault he was here in the first place.
“But I’m not… like this. With you,” Emil sounded distant, and he was looking away now, not at the stars and not towards Lalli, but at the ground next to him. Like he was trying to hide his face, but didn’t want to go too far, move too much. Like he was counting the blades of grass beneath them.
Lalli knew that he probably wasn’t talking about… whatever it was that they were. He was surely talking about the feeling of safety, the freedom of dreaming- the fact that they were in it together was simply a byproduct of an accident, his own mistake, surely not something Emil looked forward to, surely-
Lalli bit his tongue. He had to force himself to say it while he still could, before the connection that kept them here crumbled again. Before he had to deal with pouring his feelings into words, then forcing those words into the confines of a language he barely spoke. The wind whistled around them and he knew this was his last chance. He put his hand on top of Emil’s, caressed it with his thumb, not quite knowing what he was doing.
“You could be, if you want to.”
And then the world was plunged into darkness and he could feel reality looming in the edges of his consciousness. He’d deal with the consequences when he woke up.
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legobiwan · 5 years ago
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Obi-wan trial ficlet (part 2)
As I was lying in bed last night - wholly unable to sleep - I was visited by the spirit of writing at 3.30am. And thus, have this not-so-little extension of the “Obi-wan on Trial” ficlet. Note, I have basically no plot plan for this whatsoever, but since my imagination was running wild on insomnia and delirium, I figured I’d at least get something from my grand total of an hour’s sleep.
---
Cody glanced at his chrono for the fifth time in as many minutes. According to the General’s plan - which was disturbingly short on details - they were going to rendezvous here at approximately 1700 hours. Another fifteen minutes, give or take.
Already Cody’s gut was twisting with anxiety. Approximately and give or take weren’t standard vocabulary in the General’s lexicon, at least not when it came to missions, which Obi-wan usually had plotted down to the millisecond. But earlier today, the General had waved off Cody’s concerns with a breezy smile, promising that everything would make sense later on and that time on Coruscant was a far more flexible matter due to the proclivities of certain indolent politicians. 
In any other circumstance, the minor sleight would have set off alarm klaxons in Cody’s mind. The General, while as human as anyone else once one peeled through the many layers of reserve and Jedi stoicism, did not openly scorn other sentients, at least not without good reason. There are as many truths, as many realities, as there are points of view in this galaxy, he had once told Cody on a rare diplomatic mission. 
Politicians, however - Coruscanti politicians, to be precise - seemed to be exempt from that axiom. 
Not that Cody could blame Obi-wan, especially given the events of the past few days.
That Commander Tano had been implicated in the bombing of the Jedi Temple, that she had been arrested, twice by his fellow vod - Cody shook his head, still in disbelief. It was insanity. Commander Tano could no more kill innocents than Cody could dance the Dha Werda Verda with Count Dooku. 
And somehow, that event had led him here on the General’s mysterious orders, Commander Tano having been dragged away to some secret trial in the Jedi Temple, Rex, Cody, and the rest of the men not having seen nor heard anything from her since her recapture and imprisonment.
Impossible. She was innocent, the General would make sure of it. 
Still, that didn’t explain why he was stuck in the bowels of the Senate Judiciary wing, armed with a small artillery of grenades along with his standard blaster, an unregistered speeder sitting in the delivery bay just past the loading dock entrance. 
All part of the plan, Obi-wan had said. 
Cody had a bad feeling about this.
A minuscule change in the vent airflow caught his attention, and Cody glanced up, peering into the faraway flat-bottom discs that rose tall into the main chamber of the High Republic courtroom. Years on the frontlines of the war had honed his already well-engineered senses, which were attuned to the slightest crunch of a leaf or the faint odor of lubricant, all small clues that could be the difference between life and death, of victory and defeat. Not that he was expecting a battalion of battle droids to come stomping through the Senate, but if Obi-wan had him on guard duty down here, it had to be for a reason.
That reason, Cody realized with growing horror, was a speck plummeting through the narrow chasm of support beams and ventilation ducts. “Incoming 270, point-oh-eight vertical, approximately 80 kilograms, projectile type unknown,” he muttered to himself, drawing his blaster, his left arm bent at his chest, weapon perched on his forearm as he lined up the shot...
Damn! he cursed as the figure twirled out of range, swallowed by the long shadows of the podium base. Again, Cody did some quick math, calculating the likely trajectory of what he belatedly realized wasn’t a weapon, but a sentient. Sure enough in his estimate, the clone ran to the support spire, flattening himself along the opposite side of where he thought the figure would land. It was too dim to get a full visual on the being, but Cody had held the best record in the GAR’s echolocation target practice for three years running, and didn’t need to see his mark to hit his mark.
Taking a deep breath, the clone swung around, gripping his blaster with two hands, arms extended in front of his chest. 
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t shoot me, Cody.”
His blaster faltered, barrel drooping towards the floor. Cody’s eyes went wide as moons.
“Sir?”
Obi-wan Kenobi brushed off the front of his tunics, adjusting his utility belt before pushing a few loose bangs behind his ear. "There will be plenty of time to be shot at later," he explained. The Jedi made a "follow me" gesture, striding past Cody, making towards the exit with long, hurried steps. 
Cody felt as if he were glued to the floor.  
"Ahh...is everything okay, sir?" he asked, his earlier anxiety returning with a sickening flourish. Obi-wan spun around, placing his hands on his hips. 
"It won't be if we don't get moving," he snapped, his face folding in uncharacteristic open irritation bordering on outright anger. Cody's stomach swooped downwards. Okay, really not good, whatever this is.
"I trust you were able to acquire the speeder?" Obi-wan asked, glancing behind Cody. Checking for enemies, the clone assumed.
Cody jogged to catch up with the impatient-looking Jedi. 
"Yes, sir," the clone replied, defaulting to a standard, no-nonsense military tone. He would ask the General what was going on later, after the danger had passed. For now, they - he, at least - would to stick to the safety of military protocol and communication.
Obi-wan gave a slight nod. In the light, Cody could see the man was exhausted, his eyes bruised with fatigue, his face drawn. Still, there was something different about the way the General was holding himself, something in the sharp blade of his voice, an edge of danger Cody didn't think he had ever heard before. 
Distant echoes of frenzied shouting and hectic orders rang above them, followed by the familiar thunder of bootsteps. Obi-wan swore under his breath as the airflow shifted yet again, heralding the arrival of at least one, if not two newcomers. 
"Let's go," he said, breaking into a full run. 
Minutes later, they were in the borrowed speeder, catapulting through Coruscant's skylanes like a hyperactive Kowakian monkey. Cody gripped the side of the vehicle as Obi-wan made another ninety-degree turn, powering into the capital's main thoroughfare, nearly taking off the heads of at least three other drivers as he cut in front of a luxury-length rec speeder, tossing in a rude hand gesture as a bonus.
"Sir?" Cody yelped, wrenching his gaze to Obi-wan in astonishment. The Jedi's brow was furrowed in intense concentration, the momentary aberration in his  behavior already forgotten. 
"Get those detonators ready," Obi-wan ordered, terse. "On my signal."
Oookay, then, the clone took a deep inhale, giving a minute shake of his head as he fished out the explosives. This was definitely not the time to talk about whatever was going on, but once they had achieved their mission objective - whatever it's supposed to be, Cody thought sourly - he was going to have words with the General. 
Up ahead, the twin spires of the Republic holding facility came into view. A drab, depressing building notable only for its multivariate shades of grey and permanently smog-stained transparisteel windows - General Skywalker had once described it as being "like a Hutt vomited twenty years ago and no one cared enough to clean it up."
Beyond its charming aesthetics, however, the Republic holding facility was also notable in that it served as a transitionary custody space for those awaiting sentencing from the High Republic Courts. Cody's throat went dry. They wouldn't have put Commander Tano in there, would they? No, that was ridiculous. If Commander Tano were being held here, it would mean she had been found guilty, that she was only waiting to hear what her prison sentence would be. Or worse, Cody shivered. No, he refused to believe the Commander would commit such a heinous act and doubly refused to believe the General would allow her to be convicted of false charges.
They were nearly parallel the building now, Obi-wan bringing the speeder almost flush against the high, electro-barbed walls, sending sparks of energy flying as the Jedi inched the edge of the vehicle dangerously close to the barrier.
"Now, Cody!" 
All clones knew they had been bred for this war, to fight, to serve the Republic. While the clones themselves exhibited the same level of variation of personalities, of likes and dislikes as any general populace, all clones also knew that above all, they were bound by loyalty and duty. To their fellow vod. To the Republic. And to the Jedi they served under. 
Which was why Cody didn't think twice before lobbing a fistful of high-output grenades straight into the Republic holding facility's main generator on Obi-wan's command. 
Cody watched in stunned silence as there was a cataclysmic burst of light, the electro-barbs racing to a sharp peak before fizzling out, grimy stains rendered invisible as every bit of energy and electricity around not only the building, but the entire sector died out with a pathetic whine. 
What the kriff? Cody gaped.
The clone whipped around to demand an answer, to know why he had just bombed a Republic prison facility on the orders of a Jedi, of a High General. Of my friend, Cody grit, betrayal stabbing deep into his lower abdomen. 
But his furious storm of words died on his lips as Cody stared down the wrong end of his own blaster, muzzle only centimeters from his forehead. It didn't escape the clone's attention that the setting had been switched to "kill."
"I am very sorry, Cody," Obi-wan apologized, his voice almost preternaturally calm. "But for both our sakes, this needs to look convincing."
Cody froze, his brain refusing to process the visual input, the aural evidence, the logical conclusion that should have drawn from the situation. He was in a speeder. He had just bombed a Republic prison on Obi-wan's orders. Obi-wan was pointing a lethal weapon at him. And...Cody stretched his ears, not daring to take his eyes off the apparently insane Jedi in the next seat.
Those are CSF sirens, he realized, stomach sinking. Nu draar...dini'la jetti haar'chak! This wasn't a Republic-sanctioned mission, probably wasn't even a Jedi-sanctioned mission. This was...
Cody had no idea what this was.
He briefly considered taking a chance, throwing himself on Obi-wan to attempt to wrest control of both the blaster and the speeder from crazed Jedi. But a single flinty glare from Obi-wan stopped that plan in its tracks. On a normal day, the General was far more dangerous than many people gave him credit for. Cody didn't want to find out what he was like when that self-imposed restraint was dropped.
The next few moments passed in bizarre silence, Obi-wan weaving through skylanes, blaster never wavering from Cody's forehead. At one point, he slowed in front of an official city surveillance droid, letting the little machine take a good, long look at the bizarre drama unfolding in the front seat of the speeder. Obi-wan then gave the camera a slanted grin and jaunty salute before hitting the accelerator, pulling back on the yoke, sending the speeder plummeting down at least twenty levels. When Cody's stomach had made it back to his abdomen from his throat, he noticed the blaster was gone.
"Did I ever tell you," Obi-wan began conversationally, "about the time I flew a small transport through the corridors of a mining spaceship?"
Cody gawked at the other man. He truly had gone insane. 
"It was quite the mission, on Pijal. I must have been, oh, sixteen, seventeen at the time. I swore off flying forever, although Qui-gon never let me actually make good on that promise." Obi-wan shook his head. “Typical.”
The sirens, which had been gaining a dangerous amount of ground on their escape vehicle, were no longer audible, their wails having blurred into the usual, busy hum of Coruscant's normal traffic.
Normal, Cody almost laughed. Wouldn't that be a thing?
They were probably at least five hundred levels down now, maybe even more, the sky long since having disappeared from view, neon lights and the bright ends of spice sticks offering a cheap, counterfeit sun. 
Obi-wan swung the speeder into a narrow alley, cutting the engine with a satisfied sigh. 
"The thing about that mission, Cody,” he said after a moment, “was that it was my first real experience with the sticky, ambiguous substances that grease the wheels of the Republic. I, of course, acted in accordance with the Jedi, and thus the Republic government, earning myself only the ire of my Master, the betrayal of a monarchy, and nearly costing me my life," Obi-wan chuckled, a dark, cynical sound that set Cody's teeth on edge. What was going on? 
Obi-wan hopped out of the speeder, giving a small grin as he shrugged out of his out Jedi tunic. "How times change, I suppose."
Cody didn't move to follow, didn't say a word in response. He sat, staring at this person who was, on the surface, Obi-wan Kenobi, but in no way resembled the man he had come to know. Or, at least, thought he had come to know. 
His agitation must have been visible, probably the equivalent of a Gungan marching band in Force, as Obi-wan paused, a dark blue, long-sleeved tunic with a high collar pulled halfway over his head. He stared at Cody for a moment before finishing the movement, smoothing out the material of the unfamiliar garment over his chest. 
Obi-wan stepped forward with a small sigh. "And now Cody, I suppose I owe you an explanation."
The half-apology - words that sounded like Obi-wan, even if they came from a man who didn't resemble him at all - pulled Cody from his emotional stupor, fires of disbelief stoking somewhere deep in his chest. In one smooth movement, he hopped out of the speeder, striding to Obi-wan, fists clenched, teeth grit, his face so close to other man's Cody could feel the Jedi's hot exhales on his nose.
Obi-wan regarded him with muted curiosity. "Do you intend on striking me?" he asked. 
"I'm really tempted to," Cody grit. "Sir," he added, not quite able to break the habit.
"Then let me offer you a compromise, of sorts. We should be safe here, for the time being, at least long enough for me to provide what I hope is an explanation of today's turn of events. I do not expect you to like it, nor to necessarily agree with it, but certain circumstances have pushed me into a situation where a decision - a monumental decision, I may add - had to be made."
"If, after hearing me out, you wish to strike me, you are most welcome to, as I do believe you have earned that right. You will also be free to leave and return to the 212th at that point. That little stunt with the security camera should serve as more than enough evidence that you were coerced by a renegade Jedi and I am certain you will be welcomed back into the GAR with open arms."
"However," Obi-wan’s expression darkened, the drawled word imbued with an almost sensuous promise. "If, after hearing me out, you find yourself - " he cocked his head back and forth, pretending to be searching for the right language. "Sympathetic to my plight, then I would welcome your expertise, skills, and company."
Cody took a small step back. That...kind of sounded more like the General - the negotiation, the smooth justification. Certainly, Cody hoped Obi-wan had a reason for all of this, that he hadn't completely snapped or worse, gone dark. He didn't seem like Ventress, or Dooku, but Cody didn't know enough about the Sith or the dark side to make any kind of real judgment call.
But even with the promise of finally getting some kind of explanation, there was another question that had been niggling at the back of Cody's mind since this all began, brought forward by Obi-wan's sudden invitation. 
"Why me, sir?"
The inquiry apparently took the Jedi by surprise, his eyebrows rising in some odd combination of amusement and approval. "Because, Cody - I trust you. And I hope you will feel the same way after I explain just what has happened in the past few weeks."
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chasingforeverandaday · 5 years ago
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Prompt: Gendry is too exhausted from days/ weeks of forging weapons to fight in the battle so he is told to go to the crypts...
So that got away from me. Like a lot. Apparently I’m bad at writing quick little ficlets. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this and thank you so much for the prompt!
(also on ao3)
Staring at the far wall of the grain store, Arya listened to the distant sounds of the last night in Winterfell. The muffled music and shouting of those drinking away their pain; the laughing and crying of children too young to understand the odds of the coming fight; the moans and groans of lovers desperate for one last time together.
But mostly she focused on Gendry’s heavy breathing next to her on the sacks, unchanged since they’d rolled apart moments ago. Instead of passing out immediately, as she’d always heard men were wont to do after sex, he shifted closer and curled his body around hers, unarguably awake. When his hands began to wander once more, she grinned to herself before remembering the tiredness that had been warring with the desire in his eyes earlier. “You should be sleeping.” 
“Why would I be doing that, when I have you right here next to me?” Gendry nuzzled his nose against the nape of her neck, squeezing his arms tighter around her waist. She leaned into the touch, arching her back so her skin pressed against his. His arousal was quickly making itself known behind her as he began to kiss and suck his way along her neck, moaning as she ground her arse into him. Wrapped up in his embrace, she wanted to give in to the heat coiling in her belly once more, wanted to let herself fall back into his arms until nothing else mattered. 
But she couldn’t. He couldn’t afford her to. 
“Gendry, you haven’t slept more than a few hours since you arrived in Winterfell.” Turning in his arms, she lightly pushed his head away from hers and let the cool night air leech the warmth from between them. At his sad frown, she couldn’t help one more quick, simple kiss before she moved back again. “You need to rest, you have to be alert when the dead arrive.”
“How the hell would you know that?” He looked confused for a second and then annoyed, then almost angry. “Have you been spying on me?”
“Of course I have,” she rolled her eyes at the pouting now crossing his face, “how else was I supposed to make sure you were eating and sleeping?”
He raised an eyebrow. “By talking to me?” 
“You were a bit busy forging weapons the last few weeks now, weren’t you?” She sighed, not wanting to fight but knowing she needed to say things he may not want to hear, especially since he seemed so determined to have her again.  Not that she’d have complained under other circumstances. “You’re exhausted from all the labor, don’t hide it from me. I know how you lie.”
“Seems you know everything and I’m still a stupid blacksmith who knows nothing, is that how it is?” He released a loud huff as he collapsed down onto the sacking, no longer hovering over her.
Sensing that she’d riled him up in a decidedly not fun way, Arya bit her lip before settling herself back into his chest, head tucked securely into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, but please Gendry, sleep. You’re the one who said the coming dead were like nothing I’d ever seen before. We need to take all the respite we can in the hours we have left.”
“Maybe,” he said, “maybe.” Their eyes met, and Arya’s breath caught in her throat as she found the raw passion in his heated gaze. “But I believe you’re the one who said we were probably going to die, so maybe I want to enjoy my last few hours in this miserable world doing something worthwhile.”
Softening, she leans up to kiss him firmly on the lips. “I’ve changed my mind.” When a lusty look enters his eyes, she quickly covers his mouth with a hand. “You’re not allowed to die, I won’t let you.” Tucking her head under his chin, she feels him sigh before the strongest arms she knows fold her into his warm chest.
“As my lady commands.”
Half laugh, half yawn, the sound that escapes her is truly mortifying. “Don’t call me that.” 
A tired smirk crosses his face before sleep takes him, mumbling, “Yes, love,” into her hair. She snuggles closer, letting his steady breath lull her into the darkness.
-/-/-
When the bells ring out over the snowy grounds of Winterfell, Arya wakes. She is curled up with her head resting on her lover’s shoulder, a hand pressed over his steady beating heart. Breathing in his ever present scent of fire and ash, she sighs and kisses his chest once more before finally pushing herself up and looking for her clothing.
No words are said in the eerie silence, only the rustling of clothes and the growing sounds of a castle coming to life. It takes her a moment to realize there are no sounds of dressing from the other side of their makeshift bed, only the light snores that had been her lullaby. Pausing from lacing her boots, she reaches over to rouse him gently, trying to coax him back to awareness.
“Gendry, please, we need to go.” Still he snores on, though his hand bats hers away in his slumber. She shakes him harder, only getting a grunt in response. Slightly panicked now, she climbs over him, letting her weight drop onto his torso as she takes his face in her hands. “Gendry, wake up!”
Bleary blue eyes finally open, though they show little awareness. His hands slowly come up to grasp her waist, an exhausted mirror to their position hours ago. “...Arya?” he asks her, looking up with a confused smile.
“Yes, it’s Arya.” As his tired eyes track her movements to get off of him, her heart tightens in fear. There’s no way she can let him fight in this state. No matter his insistence on being a fighter, she’d be sending him to certain death. And that is a fate she cannot fathom for her blacksmith. “Gendry, I need you to get up, and get dressed. You need to get to the crypts before the dead breach the walls.”
“Not going to the crypts, ‘m supposed to be on the front line,” he tells her, struggling to right himself as she finds his clothes. 
Placing herself in front of him, she helps him back into his shirt and pants, nearly falling into hysterics when he can barely keep his head up enough for her to get it through the collar. His forehead rests against her stomach as she bites back tears and strokes his shaved head, so painfully aware that this may be the last time she sees him, wobbly and affectionate but in no way capable of fighting.
“Gendry please, I need you to go to the crypts.” Kneeling in front of him, she tries to put every bit of her fear into her eyes, locked on his. “Please, don’t make me fight knowing you’re out there like this.”
Her stubborn, stupid, brave bull looks down, jaw set even as his hands shake when they reach for and hold hers. “Arya, I have to fight.” 
And she’s crying now, feeling like the girl who desperately tried to save her father in King’s Landing so long ago; like the girl who was terrified in the pens of Harrenhal, watching her only friend be sentenced to death by a madman with a rat; like the girl who was held back as her best friend, the only person she could call family was ripped from her hands and sold for a bag of gold, going somewhere she could not follow. Leaving her all alone. 
She feels all the helplessness she thought she’d burned out of her body come roaring back with a vengeance as she watches him wrestle with his honor and that damn promise he gave Jon to fight with him. She doesn’t care if he breaks it, if only he will be alive to repent in the morning. The sobs wrenching their way out of her steal her breath, her lungs aching. She barely knows what she is saying, only knows she will say anything to keep him safe. 
“Gendry, please,” her voice is hoarse, no more than a painful whisper as she begs him. “Please, don’t make me lose you too. I’m not strong enough to survive it.”
His head drops, the weight of it all coming down on them both. Pulling her up and into his lap, his arms come around her shaking body as he rubs along her spine with one hand, stroking her hair with the other. He nods, not putting his acquiescence into words, but placing a soft kiss to her lips as he continues to calm down her demons.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows it’s a miracle no one has come looking for either of them yet, but she cannot bring herself to part from him until she absolutely must. In the end, he is the one to stand, setting her back on her feet lightly. They dress silently, no more arguments or heartfelt words spoken as they strap on belts and layers against the cold.
Ready to leave this little haven they’ve created against the outside world, he catches her hand and reels her in one last time. Enfolded in his arms, she feels safe. Looking up at him, she closes her eyes to force back the tears and rests her forehead against his. Into the air between them, he asks, “Promise me you’ll find me after.”
Part of her wants to remind him she may not make it through the fight, but she cannot bring herself to ruin this final moment together. Cupping his cheek, she kisses him fiercely, pouring every ounce on the emotions she will not name aloud into the way she’s holding him close, trying to brand him into her soul. Breathing heavy, they break apart but open their eyes so icy gray meets smoldering blue. 
“As you wish.”
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cowboyshit · 5 years ago
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Stay the Night
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I started writing this lil ficlet awhile back, right around Revolution. I decided to write a purely smut-filled one-shot just for indulgence sake, where a FOC would basically use sex to "take care” of Adam and make him feel a little better. Since I like using FOC’s who I’ve already established whenever I can, I figured Fawna Rose from Some Real Cowboy Shit fit the bill for this one perfectly. There’s a little angst as we catch up on why these two aren’t together, but for the most part this ficlet is purely self-indulgent smut.
Ship: Hangman Adam Page x Fawna Rose (FOC)
Summary: After their initial encounter, Adam and Fawna started to get close. Close enough that she was pulled in to the storm of his insecurities and, not able to handle the idea of not being the only man in her life, they decided to stop seeing one another. However, the night after Revolution, even though Adam and Kenny won and beat the Young Bucks, Adam finds himself holed up alone in his hotel room, drinking. Lonely. He makes a stupid, drunk decision and despite what unsolved aches lay between himself and Fawna, he decides the only thing that can help him is the chance to see her again.
Rating: NC-17 (Gratuitous smut)
Warnings: Alcohol use, smut
Length: 5,982 words
Available below the cut
There was still a ringing in his ears. An ache in his chest. No matter how much he drank, he couldn’t get it out of his head. The footage on the titantron in front of him. Matt, Nick, and Kenny. All three poised to superkick him after he and Kenny won the tag team titles. 
Kenny. The man who held the other half of the tag team titles alongside Adam himself.
But it was supposed to matter that they didn’t kick him, right?
That’s what he kept telling himself. Beer after beer. Shot of whiskey after shot of whiskey. It was becoming apparent that no amount of drunkenness was going to ease what was burning in his heart and that was when, drunk, a careless, reckless, and absolutely stupid idea popped into his head.
There was a sharp and sudden clatter as his clumsy, big hand swept a little too hard and tipped one empty beer can to crash into three more, sending them bouncing off the coffee table and onto the floor below. He muttered a curse and looked at the mess, noticing a few splatters of beer had spilled out and were soaking into the carpet. Unable to care enough to do anything about it, he made a nose of discontent in his mouth that was something like a grumble and returned to what he’d been trying to grab: his phone.
The bright screen made him wince as he unlocked it, but he soldiered on, mind set on one conquest and unwilling to give in until it did what was necessary. He navigated (with difficulty) to his contacts, scrolled, and clicked her name.
FAWNA ROSE
Their last text conversation popped up, long bubbles of thoughts they’d sent back and forth over a month ago, and her last words to him shone vivid and bright. He knew what they said – he’d read this conversation enough to memorize it – but he still forced his eyes to focus and read them again.
If you can ever find it in your heart to accept my situation, I’m here. Until then, I don’t think we should talk or see each other anymore. We’re just hurting ourselves by dragging this out Adam, and it isn’t fair to either of us. I care about you.
 I care about you.
He sucked in a hard breath and held it, broad chest lifted and lungs slowly beginning to ache. His eyes ran over those four words one more time and he exhaled in a heavy, sudden breath. Too drunk to think through what he was doing he clicked her name, clicked audio, and clicked the button to call her. He held the phone against his ear and stared wordlessly out the window from his hotel room and tried to keep his breathing low and slow. He didn’t know what he was going to say when she picked up (if she picked up). He didn’t know why he was calling.
 Yeah, he did.
The phone clicked and the ringing stopped but didn’t roll into the voicemail recording. She was there on the other line, but she hadn’t said anything. He pressed the phone a little harder to his ear, wanting her close, wanting to hear her breathing. His lonely heart ached and not just for the way he missed her, but for everything. For himself. The loneliness that chased his lashing out at men he’d once called brothers. The emptiness that no amount of alcohol seemed to fill, try as he might. The sting at the words echoing back at him in real time, with Nick’s and Matt’s voices, joining that of his insecurities and making it all harder to fight and to ignore.
“Adam?” She spoke first after enough silence passed between them.
He inhaled, tried to say something – even something as little as a hello – but found his throat was suddenly too tight to work anything through it at all. That air he sucked in hitched, betraying the shaky way he was struggling to hold his composure.
“Text me your hotel and room number, okay?” There was a gentility to her tone that stung his eyes with tears and made him pinch the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb to hold them at bay. The ache inside was a chasm ripped asunder and it begged to be filled with the care she so freely gave him. “Adam?”
“Okay,” he barely managed to speak, voice hoarse. He cleared his throat after and tore the phone away, ending the call with his heart pounding hard and his inebriated mind spinning.
After sending her the hotel and his room number, Adam glanced around and lumbered to his feet. His large frame swayed with instability, but he started to snatch and shove discarded towels and clothes around the room in an attempt to tidy up. He wasn’t necessarily a slob, and it was hard to make a hotel room messy after just a day when you spent your time in it completely alone, but drunken carelessness had him less clean than he’d normally be. He knew Fawna worried about him, too. Wouldn’t do for her to come in and see a bunch of beer cans lying carelessly around.
He didn’t call her because he wanted her pity, nor did he want to be lectured.
They’d gotten close after their first encounter. Close enough that she knew what he was going through. Close enough that when he started letting the fear of everyone close to him turn on him become true, he’d taken that out on her, too. Because he didn’t like that someone he was beginning to get real feelings for was already married. Because he was already feeling inferior everywhere else in his life, and no matter how many times she explained polyamory and her unique situation, he couldn’t shake the voice in his head that reminded him with her, he’d always be second.
 Always second.
He was so tired of being second. Or third. Or fourth. Or fifth.
When the fuck was it finally going to be time for him to be first?
There was a knock on the door and Adam jerked, realizing he’d been standing in the middle of the hotel room, holding the television remote, staring off into space as he drifted in and out of painful, misery-fueled thoughts and inebriated numbness. Shaking himself back to reality he glanced at the remote, frowned, and set it on the hotel entertainment center before making his way to the door. His weight lurched and he struck a palm on the door to steady his body and keep from toppling over. It was then he realized he hadn’t thought to put on a shirt and hesitated, just briefly before he slid his hand down the flat surface to the handle, pulling it open and glancing down his front at her.
Seeing her after a month of no contact brought up feelings he didn’t have the mental stability or sobriety to process. He sucked in a breath and tried to think about what to say, but his drunk tongue took over and robbed him of the chance to save face.
 “I miss you.” His brow pinched, and he swallowed back hard.
“I know.” She said, but gently, like she was cradling him carefully, minding his current fragility to keep him from shattering apart. Her autumn brown eyes on his put butterflies in his stomach and made him sway where he stood. Did she see the way she affected him? “I miss you too.” She admitted, volume a little smaller, like she knew she wasn’t supposed to say it but understood how badly he needed to know that. He felt guilty, then, making her go against everything she’d explained to him about how they couldn’t see one another unless everyone was on-board and okay with their situation.
He worried she was going to ask him if he’d changed his mind. His bleary blue eyes jumped with sudden sharpness between hers, waiting for it.
 “Can I come in?” She asked instead, gesturing to the hotel room behind him he was blocking with his thick figure.
 “Oh, yeah.” He said quick, stumbling back and out of her way. Adam held the door as she walked inside and then turned to close it, back to her as he tried to sort through everything and get a better hold of himself. Calling her here had been a drunk mistake, but he was still too drunk to take responsibility and send her home. He had her here. He needed her.
Adam turned around, hoping when his gaze met hers, he’d have a stroke of brilliance and know just what to say. “Fawna, I –”
“Shh,” she said, effectively quieting him as he frowned in confusion. Fawna drew close enough to lay her palm over his heart, and a smile tilted the edges of her full, sinfully kissable lips. “I can feel how hard your heart is beating,” she whispered, and it sounded like a roar in his ears with the way his blood rushed.
 “Wait. I can’t do this to you.” He’d lifted his hands to pull hers off him but let his fingers curl around hers and was holding her hand between them. “I still don’t think I like the thought of sharing you, I just…” Words failed him because he knew he was wrong. He knew it was wrong to ask her to stay anyways, to let them keep complicating things because he just wanted to feel good for a minute.
He was using her the same way he used alcohol.
 “Adam, it’s okay.” She said, surprising him. He frowned at her and she slowly pulled her hand away from his. 
She pressed her fingers onto his chest and though she didn’t have the strength to physically move him, he allowed himself to be moved at her insistence and stumbled backward until she had them turned with his back pointed toward the bed. When he glanced questioningly at her, she raised one dark, shaped brow as if to say: Do you really want to fight me on this right now?
It was easy to give in since it was what he wanted. Adam let her guide him backwards until he fell on the bed, and when he tried to speak as her hands went to his belt buckle, she clicked her tongue with gentle chiding and let their eyes meet.
 “Let me take care of you tonight, Adam.” She said.
Fawna waited for his nod, and relief swept immediately through his body. He laid back on the pillows and breathed hard through his nose as she released the tension of the belt, snapping the buckle and pulling the strap through. The sound of his jean zipper tugged down overpowered the jingle of her leaving his belt undone, and he groaned deep in his throat as she slipped her fingers beneath the elasticity of his boxer-briefs and wrapped her fist firm around his cock. The blood was rushing to fill it quickly, and he pressed his chin to his chest and watched with desperate eyes as she gave him that little smile that claimed innocence even as she behaved licentiously.  
 “Ohh,” he squeezed tight passed clenched teeth, “fuck.” A quick hiss sucked air hard into his lungs as she dipped and put her soft, wet mouth over the head of his cock and slipped him down her tongue. His body tensed and his hips arched upward, greedy, stuffing more of his inches and stretching her lips wide around his girth. His fingers curled and dug hard into the comforter over the hotel bed and his eyes, wild, jumped over the top of her head and watched her please him.
 A desperate, shaking hand unclenched the grasp it had on the comforter and moved instead for her hair. He pushed the strands out of her face, wanting to have a clear line of sight to his cock bulging her cheek at the same time he felt it running between her tongue and the warm, ridged roof of her mouth, the tip pushing between the warm wet walls of her throat before she pulled back up. His groans filled the room and mixed with the little wet noises of her lips and tongue servicing his cock.
 A little pop as she pulled up off his head, sucking back the saliva that left it glistening.
 “Feels good, baby?” She purred, and Adam’s fingers slipped to frame the back of her head, curling tight around the strands.
 “Mhm,” he grumbled, nodding as he pushed her head down, eagerly wanting her mouth on his cock again.
That soft, wet tongue of hers knew just how to stroke the skin, just where to curl and flick the sensitive lip of the head of his cock, and as badly as Adam wanted to keep watching her he was victim to the way his eyes rolled back in his head. Fingers still curling in her hair – pulling the strands a little too hard, his knuckles gone white – he pushed her down further and further, stuffing his cock inside her warm mouth until her lips kissed the base. He felt her struggle to hold his cock so deep and pictured the way they’d look from the side, where he’d be able to see the bulge of its shape down her throat. She choked again, body jerking, tender, wet skin squeezing his girth and making him moan deep in his chest.
Adam’s eyes snapped forward and he released the pressure of holding her down, watching as she slipped quickly up, little bits of spit bridged between her lips and the head of his leaking, desperately red cock. As she brushed the saliva away, Adam’s eyes traced the wetness glistening over her eyes and admired the way they shone in the soft white hotel light coming from the bedside lamp. He liked it like this - lights on - able to watch and see everything.
Fawna curled her fingers around his erection and used her spit and his precum as lubricant as she stroked with perfect pressure. Adam’s chin jutted outward, jaw clenched tight as another desperate, heavy moan ripped through his lungs and pressed between his teeth. She bent and he felt the tip of her tongue run down the blood-filled veins of his shaft toward his balls, and when she latched her lips around them and sucked the tender skin of his sac he made a desperate sound and curled his fists hard into the sheets at his side. Sweat dappled his forehead, sticking his crown of blond curls to his skin.
“Oh fuck, Fawna, baby,” he panted heavy and fought to keep his eyes forward when all they wanted to do was roll back again.
“Mmm, mhmmm,” she moaned and murmured while still sucking and licking the most sensitive, pleasurably spots, fingers rolling over the tingling, needy head of his cock. She sent vibrations through his cock as she did it and caused him to glance desperately down his body toward her head bent between his legs. 
“Wait, wait,” he breathed heavily, like he’d just finished performing an intense match in the ring, his large sweat-damp and lightly blond-hair dusted chest rising and falling with staggered breaths. As Fawna slowly pulled her mouth off him and looked with confusion, Adam was sure to move quick and shoved at his denim jeans to push them further down his thighs. He wanted them off, same with his boots and socks. Once Fawna realized this she pushed his hands away - she’d said she wanted to take care of him - and undressed him herself. 
She slipped off the bed and when his glazed eyes followed her with helpless confusion she answered with a little curve to her smile and slowly started to undress herself. “Stay put,” she commanded with a sweet murmur, and practically peeled the material off her skin inch by inch until his blood was roaring in his ears and the beat of his heart was pounding distinct enough to count. His fingers curled into the reprieve of the comforter again, needing to grab something since she’d told him he wasn’t allowed to reach for her. Hungry blue eyes nearly gone black, void of any softness they could otherwise have, ate up his delectable little treat as she - at last - peeled the lace lavender bra she wore and dropped it to the side. She curled her fingers in the elastic of her matching panties and made sure to turn about as she slipped them down and off her body so he’d have ample view of her ass as she did it.
It made him growl, more beast than man. His ass clenched as his hips lifted instinctually upward, wishing they were buried between those thighs he couldn’t pull his gaze from.
When she returned to kneel on all fours between his spread legs, she bent and angled her head inward, laying a slow, lingering, sensual kiss against the inside of his thigh. She trailed those affectionate, sweet touches up his skin to where his cock jerked and twitched, so hard it almost hurt, pre-cum beading and dribbling desperately down its head.
After pausing to wet her fingers she began to service him again, being careful to let off when it was clear she was building him too quickly toward the peak. The tease - the way she edged him - was the most glorious torture he’d ever experienced. He fought the instinct to put his hands on her hair and hold his cock in her throat until he made her gag on his cum by instead bruising her body with how rough he handled her. He grabbed fistfuls of the soft fat over her hips before he ran his calloused palms down her chest and over her nipples, pinching and pulling them just enough to make her squeak in that way that made a smug grin push into his round cheeks.
His sac sucked tight to the base of his cock as she bobbed her head in a quick, rapid motion over his sensitive, throbbing head. He felt the tight curl in his abdomen for the fourth time that night and his thighs tensed, the hard muscles beneath the natural fat showing. Fawna, used to the way his body communicated during sex, popped her lips off his head just before it was too late. He groaned long and low, mixed with an almost growl-like noise of frustration as his hips arched up and his cock leaked desperately, but he still didn’t cum.
“Are you trying to kill me, woman?” His voice was strained. Weak. He was a mess of heavy breaths and a sweat-sticky body. 
And she smiled that little smile with her lips red and swollen from how they’d sucked and licked at his cock for so long. That playful little innocent seeming smile that told you she knew she wasn’t pure at all. It made his eyes dark with hunger and his fingers cramp, wanting to curl hard into her skin and flex his strength over her. She leaned back on her calves, sitting upright between his legs, and slowly wiped the little glisten of saliva and precum from her lips before she fixed her eyes on him again.
“Of course not, baby. I’m just enjoying you.”
A shiver of pleasure rushed down his spine and a flood of pride filled his body. That was something Fawna did well from the very beginning; make him feel important. Needed. She could be anywhere in the world, even back home, with her husband, but she wanted to be here, squished between his hairy, thick thighs, making him writhe and moan and nearly cum before letting off and going again, drawing everything out for as long as they physically could.
“Besides,” she said, tone playfully matter-of-fact as she started to climb up him, knees on the mattress at either side of his hips, drawing her eyes back up to his, “those moans of yours have me drenched, and you’re not going to finish until you’re inside me.” His nostrils flared, jaw clenching tight enough to make the muscle jump beneath his closely trimmed blond beard.
She pressed back on his thick cock, the head slipping between her pussy lips but not yet allowed inside. He could feel the truth - how wet she was - and it made him groan as his cock slid up with ease between them and rubbed her clit. She ran her hips back and forth, slow and languid, teasing her clit to rise and making herself whimper and moan above him. Adam’s fingers bit into her hips and drove the pace a little faster, wanting to milk more and more of those trembles out of her body and hear those needy little cries she couldn’t help but make.
Fuck, she was so wet. He could feel it coating their thighs; sticky.
Before she could make herself cum by rubbing his cock over her clit, Fawna pulled her hips up and reached back, positioning him so that when she sat back, the leaking, red head of his erection buried an inch inside her. She sank her hips slowly; down, down, down until he was comfortably lodged deep and they both stilled for a moment, adjusting to the way they breathed with shaky, desperate breaths. She ran her hands down his bare chest and started to move, rocking her body slowly to stroke his cock a few inches in and a few inches out. She was building him again, content to make his head spin and keep his only focus on the love and sex that filled the space between and around them.
The moan from his chest was deep and yearning. He arched his hips up as she sank down, and his fingers readjusted where they gripped her. He was trying to reach through fat, through muscle, to bone. She moaned and Adam felt he’d never heard a sound that made him happier. The way her cries bounced off the corners of the hotel room and reverberated back, tangling with his own passionate grunts, the shifting of their bodies atop the sheets, was driving him toward a lack of control. He wanted it all, then and there. He wanted to flip them around so she was beneath his shadow, he wanted to push his palms hard against her thighs and roll her hips up until her knees touched her temples. He wanted to drive his hips hard and fast into her over and over and over until he bruised her and left her aching for days. This possessive beast inside him was nearly impossible to deny, and his hands gripped tighter on her hips, his own driving faster up into her. He forced his eyes open, though they wanted to clench shut from the pleasure tingling through his entire body, and watched the way her face pinched in pleasure, lips caught wide open, their edges still glistening wet from when she’d been servicing his cock.
He grunted and drove his hips up harder, readjusting his grip on her hips, happy to see the red and white marks of his hands in the fat there. Would it bruise? He hoped so. He hoped she’d have the marks of his fingerprints in black and blue across that pretty flesh, and think about this moment. How good it felt to have him deep inside her, stretching her.
Suddenly, she resisted him. Before concentrating, Adam was the hive of restless need, and only forced his grip on her a little tighter, trying to make her ride him to the rhythm he decreed. But, when she stayed firmly resolute against being drilled by his pace, his eyes met hers with question. She slipped her hands down his sweat-damp chest to where he held her body and curled her fingers around them. Lifting, she pried them off her body and set them atop the comforter cushion. Her eyes met his and she smiled.
“My pace, cowboy. Remember?” She grinned as she said it, stopping him once again from getting carried away and driving them to the orgasm his cock was desperate for, twitching and leaking inside her. The breathless quality to her voice, the way she seemed to need to catch herself for a minute, was more than enough evidence to see how he’d affected her and nearly threw her off her game plan for the evening.
Adam could barely smile, every muscle tense and tight, but still flashed her an impish one.
“Can you blame me?” He choked out as she brought the pace back slow, sliding languid up and down his length, head never falling from her drenched lips. He shifted his body beneath her, peeling his skin from the damp comforter and drew a ragged, needed breath deep in his lungs. His tongue swept his lips and he took another breath, letting the tension in his muscles slowly leak out. “You’re driving me insane.”
“Aw, I’m sorry baby,” she said with a purr in her voice and a look in her eyes that said she was definitely not sorry. “But tonight I make all the rules.” She kept that pace, that way she stroked the entire length of his cock up and then down. Moving her hands to either sides of his shoulders she leaned her body over his and let him be trapped in her shadow. Her nipples brushed his chest and made a shiver ripple through his body. Every slow shift back and up of her body rubbed them against his skin and made him want to make a mad grab for them. Instead, his fingers curled desperate into the sheets where she’d placed them.
Fawna lowered, but didn’t reward his lips with a kiss. Instead she left tokens of her affection on his neck, kissing, licking, down to his chest and up the other side. She suckled, not enough to leave any permanent marks, but enough to let the blood rush hot and tingles to race up and down his spine. As she nibbled at his earlobe she whispered huskily into his ear, “I’m here to take care of you tonight, baby. I’m going to make it worth your while.” And she dropped her lips back to his neck, kissing where the muscles jumped because he swallowed so hard at her repeated promise. She lifted her mouth from his neck and hovered over him. One of her hands reached so she could gently grasp his bearded chin, tilting his blue eyes to meet hers. “That means I decide when we cum and everything we do before then.”
A shiver ripped through him like a tremble and the satisfied look in her eyes made him bite back a groan. 
The slowed pace had taken him off the edge he’d been desperately at, and Adam wasn’t sure to be thankful or to curse her. Fawna slowly sat back and his cock twitched, buried inside her. He looked up her body, every imperfection on display by the glowing lights all turned on in the hotel room. She wasn’t shy - he loved that about her - and smiled at him watching her, lifting her arms and arching her body sensually. Her pink nipples were hard, and it took everything he had not to demand she bring them to his mouth where he could suck, lick, bite and give her beard burn on her breasts. His eyes fell down them to her belly, to her hips and thighs where his greedy fingerprints were still visible on her skin and back up again. When he’d had his fill of admiring her, Fawna began to move her hips again.
Adam wasn’t sure how much time had passed since she first came to his hotel. Time seemed to stand still in this place, even though he logically knew he didn’t. Nothing existed but himself and Fawna. Not the alcohol, not the turbulence in his self-identity and his questioning of the love and loyalty of men he’d once called brothers on his tongue and in his heart. None of it. He existed only in pleasure with her rocking hips, in the pressure of her pussy wrapped around his hard, pulsing, desperate, cock, and the sore tightness of his balls sucked up to the base of his shaft, needing that final release. They were both glistening with sweat, their hair stuck to their foreheads, temples, and neck.
Fawna pressed her palms against his chest gently and lifted her hips off him until his cock slid out, patched in creamy white from her own slick. It twitched, longing for the warm home it’d been enveloped in. She didn’t rob him for long, instead gingerly moving her body so she stood bedside and reached for his hand to tug him off the bed too. The sheets stuck to his sweat-damp body, his thick figure a frame in the comforter from how hard he’d been pressing himself into it.
“What idea do you have in that head of yours now?” He asked, but his voice was roughened by the relentless continuance of pleasure and the denial again and again and again of final satisfaction.
“You’ll see,” she said, and leaned over the bed, pressing one of her forearms atop it for leverage. She reached back, hand on his, and pulled him to stumble forward until his hairy, muscular thighs pressed against her legs and his cock slipped up between her cheeks, leaving a trail of his precum and her wet. When she let his hand go it was natural for it to fall to the ample curve of her ass and for the other to join it. His fingers pressed and curled into the give of the fat there and that hungry look passed his face again.
Fawna arched her back and moved herself into the cushion of the mattress and then back, squeezing him inside her cunt with ease, as if they were pieces of a puzzle meant to fit. Adam leaned his head back, letting the end of his curls brush his shoulders, and arched his hips into her pace. His fingers slipped up the curve of her ass with the intent to tighten a grip on her hips but then, unable to help himself, he lifted his right palm and brought it down hard, open-palmed, over her ass. The ripple of skin, the soft sting of red in the shape of his hand and the little squeal of pleasure and pain she made pushed his hunger back to the forefront once more. He raised his hand and brought it down again, making the fat jiggle and the skin redden.
This time Fawna did not stop him from choosing the pace and the more she let him get away with, the more he let the hunger inside take. His hips crashed with hopeless abandon into hers in quick, needy bursts. He knew he was going to bruise her, but he didn’t care. He wanted more and more of those whore sounds to moan out of her throat and bounce around his hotel room and back into his ears, filling it until it was the only sound he could hear. 
His fingers curled their grip into her skin and used it to forcibly pull her back hard on him, to assist the thrusts as he shoved his cock needy and deep inside her. He fucked her into the mattress, one hand reaching up her back and shoving her down into it between her shoulder-blades, pushing her ass more up toward him so he could fuck her deeper and make her cry out and moan even more loudly. His name joined her cries and it made him even more ravenous than before. Sweat dripped down between his chest and still, he kept driving his hips to crash hard into hers, shoving his cock relentlessly again and again inside her red, swollen pussy lips.
By offering him the final power - allowing him to answer that needy call inside himself to be the one in control for the final act - she gave him exactly what he needed.
But he could hold off. Just long enough.
The hand that had previously pushed her into the hotel bed lifted and instead snaked between her body and the mattress, fumbling as his fingers reached with greed and without apology for her raw, raised clit. He slipped past it momentarily, almost cruel as he pushed two fingers inside her, along with his girthy cock still stretching her. A devilish grin curved the corner of his mouth at her little cry and long moan of pleasure that followed. He pulled his fingers free and used the wet he’d drawn from inside her to circle around her clit, petting her harder, synching it with the thrusts of his pulsing cock inside her. Just a little longer… just a little longer… he could hold off, he could…
“Adam!” Her cry ripped audaciously loud before her thighs began to shake and her body convulsed, the muscles of her cunt gripping tight around him. 
A low groan crawled loudly from his throat, his jaw locked and he bent halfway over her before his own body could be denied no longer. Buried inside her Adam came, decorating her insides with ribbon after ribbon of hot, sticky cum. For a long moment, almost long enough to make them look like carved statues of exhausted lovers, they stayed still like that. Adam leaning over her body, his palms flat on the mattress, her body trapped under his, their skin glistening with sweat that caught the lights.
Dragging a deep breath into his lungs that smelled like sweat and sex, Adam slowly lifted himself to stand straight and gingerly pulled his sensitive, still semi-hard cock from between her red, dripping pussy lips. She crawled onto the bed and turned herself around to look at him, that same exhausted, happy expression relaxed onto her features. Before reality could stab into this sinful haven they’d created, Adam gestured toward the bathroom with a tilt of his head.
“Want to rinse off with me real quick?”
“Yeah,” she said with a smile, gingerly moving to set herself on her feet. When she swayed, he reached out to catch her, though his reaction was a little slower than it’d normally be. They exchanged smiles, amused at how they’d thoroughly exhausted themselves.
She yawned as they padded barefoot and naked around the bed and toward the bathroom. “Is it okay if I stay here with you tonight?” She asked, and though her tone sounded innocent, as if she’d just now thought of it, Adam had to wonder if she’d planned it all along. If she’d had the forbearance to know he didn’t want to spend the night alone, and all the sex in the world wouldn’t stop that emptiness from coming to steal away his happiness as soon as she left and he was the only one in his hotel room.
He wouldn’t put it past her.
Adam pulled her by the hand to stop her from walking into the bathroom and crashed her body back into his. His free hand reached to gingerly tuck a lock of her frazzled, tangled hair behind her ear and fell into tenderly holding her face. This was what made things hard between them. The way his heart beat for her. The way it wasn’t just sex.
“Yeah.” He said, and a faint, tired smile touched his lips. “I’d like that.” He leaned down, his hand slipping to pinch her chin between his thumb and forefinger, holding her face up toward him as he brushed his lips gently against hers and then sank in for a deep, passionate kiss that’d leave them both dizzy by the time it was through.
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thefangirlingdead · 6 years ago
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Prompt!! Dave (in modern time) not being used to affection in public bc obvs with his original time period. He eventually adjusts, but somebody makes a homophobic remark towards him and Klaus that sends him into a panic. Cue protective Klaus.
OH SHIT. I AM ALL ABOUT THIS. 
Here’s something that I intended to be a little Drabble but ended up being much longer. Let’s just say for the sake of this lil’ ficlet that the apocalypse never happened and Klaus has a little bit more control over his powers after his time in Vietnam. (also I wrote this while kind of day drunk on a Friday afternoon SO DON’T CRITIQUE IT TOO HARD)
“It’s a little different than the disco, huh?” Klaus asks, glancing back in Dave’s direction with a sly, wicked little grin. He’s pulling him by the hand through the vibrant, loud club, his voice barely audible over the thumping of the bass-heavy music, but the glint in his eyes accented in the neon lights.
Dave had been the one to suggest going out a few weeks ago, but Klaus knew that he didn’t anticipate this when he asked to see the types of clubs that Klaus frequented. And to think, this one is a little more tame than some of his other regular stomping grounds. This club in particular is actually rather small, the majority of the room taken up by a spacious dance floor and long bar that stretches from one end to the other. There’s a small balcony that overlooks the crowd, but Klaus rarely hangs up there. No, he’d rather be on the dance floor, letting loose, losing himself in the music, dancing with someone special. Someone like -
Dave. Dave, who pauses as Klaus drags him through the club, hesitating long enough that is catches Klaus’ attention and causes him to turn, shooting him a concerned gaze, head cocked just slightly to the side.
“You good?” he asks, just to make sure. Sometimes, the loud noises are rough. Sometimes, crowds can be too much. Even a few months past Vietnam, even a few months since Klaus brought Dave back to 2019, there are still some scars that run too deep, some battle wounds that still need healing. He gets it, because he feels them too.
So when Dave pauses, pulling Klaus’ arm taut, Klaus is quick to check in with him, to make sure he’s okay.
“Yeah,” Dave assures with a nod, but Klaus doesn’t miss that it seems like he’s trying to convince himself. “Yeah I’m good, I just - I’m not used to… this.” Dave motions between himself and Klaus, then, at the junction of their hands, and Klaus quickly understands. In return, he offers Dave a gentle smile, taking a few steps toward him to close the gap between their bodies and get close enough to speak over the thumping music.
“Hey…” he murmurs gently, and for a split second, they’re the only two people in the club. Dave is the only person who matters, and Klaus is determined to make him feel comfortable. Sure, Klaus wants to share this part of his life with Dave, but he also wants to make sure Dave has fun. If he isn’t enjoying this, they can leave. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with,” he assures, “If you’d rather go somewhere else, do something a little more low-key, that’s cool too.”
“No,” Dave insists with a shake of his head, offering Klaus a tight, reassuring smile, even as Klaus laces their fingers together, one hand reaching up to brush a stray curl from his forehead. “No, I want to - I mean, you wanted to come here and -”
“And it doesn’t matter what I want,” Klaus insists, “We’re not staying here if you’re not comfortable.”
Dave swallows, but he doesn’t balk away from Klaus’ intimate touch, nor his searching eyes. “No I’m - it’s just… an adjustment, is all,” he says at last, “I know you keep saying things are different now, but it’s just hard to believe sometimes, you know?”
“I know,” Klaus agrees. His hand drifts, thumb brushing Dave’s cheek, fingers tickling the short hairs at the back of his neck. “And I know I seem to have a pretty blasé attitude about everything, but I promise, we’re safe here.”
Then, with a smirk, Klaus adds, “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen people practically fucking on this dance floor before. We’ll be okay. I promise.”
And finally, Dave cracks a smile, rolling his eyes at Klaus’ words. “Well, I’m not trying to -”
“Hey, how about we just see where the night takes us…” Klaus teases with a wink. “Do you want to get a drink?”
And that’s how Klaus and Dave end up about three drinks deep, dancing close together among a swirling mass of bodies on the dance floor to some song that Klaus loves and Dave has certainly never heard before. It takes a little bit for him to fully come out of his shell, but once he does, he seems like he’s in his element, hands on Klaus’ hips, lips just brushing his on the dance floor. That’s how Klaus ends up winding his arms around Dave’s shoulders, leaning forward to press a passionate kiss to his lips and that’s how, ten minutes later, Klaus ends up pressed against the wall in the hallway near the bathrooms, arms pinned above his head, Dave hard against him, uncaring of whoever might see.
“Now that’s more like it,” Klaus murmurs in between kisses, a smirk spread across his face before their lips crash together again and god, when he first met Dave, the sweet little momma’s boy, the same man who actually asked before kissing him for the first time, he never thought he’d find himself here, pinned up against the wall of a club, getting the life kissed out of him.  But here they are, Dave easily pressing both of his wrists together against the wall with one hand, the other sturdy on his chest, Klaus struggling to keep his composure, struggling not to drag Dave into the bathroom and have his way with him.
They’ve come a long way since they first met, since they first realized that the feeling was mutual, and Klaus wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s already a miracle that Dave agreed to take the leap and come here with him, that they managed to survive this long, so Klaus can’t help the way he kisses Dave back as if he’ll disappear any second, as if he’s surprised that he’s still holding onto him, forgetting the world around them for a few moments and just focusing on Dave.
So it’s no surprise that Klaus doesn’t notice the group of men approaching them, that he doesn’t register their jeers and hateful slurs until they’re a little too close for comfort. And then, just as fast as he’s there, Dave is gone. With his attention focused on Dave - his lips, his hands, his body - Klaus doesn’t notice when some stranger purposefully shoulder-checks him as they come out of the bathroom. He doesn’t notice until they’re shoving Dave backwards and Klaus hears the end of some insult hurled at him -
“…fucking faggot.”
“Sorry -” Dave starts to mutter, but not before Klaus is moving, acting on instinct, his emotions taking over.
Klaus takes a step in front of Dave, putting his arm out as if to stop him from moving. “No, don’t be sorry,” he bites, loud enough for the stranger to hear him over the loud thumping of the club’s music, “This asshole should be sorry!”
And the stranger, the guy who Klaus didn’t even see because he’d been too busy kissing Dave, turns on his heel, eyes narrowed in Klaus’ direction, a smirk spread across his ugly fucking face.
“What the fuck did you just say to me?”
The man (and his two friends) steps forward, but just as he does, Klaus moves on instinct, acting before he thinks. He reaches a hand out, clenching it into a fist and the stranger freezes in place.
“I said,” Klaus growls, “That you should be sorry.”
The man’s expression quickly changes from anger to horror, his features transforming in the blink of an eye. And while Klaus despises using his powers like this - he only did it once or twice in Vietnam and it was awful - he doesn’t even hesitate when it comes to Dave.
“What are you doing to me, you freak?” The stranger cries, his voice terrified, strained. He tries to move, but Klaus keep him in place.
“You might want to watch what you’re saying,” Klaus mutters, voice barely audible over the sound of the music, but he knows that the man hears him. He knows, and with a slight flick of his wrist, the stranger is falling to his knees, unable to control his own body.
And god, Klaus hates his powers sometimes, but right now, it feels right. It feels just. Because shit, it’s 2019, and this idiot shouldn’t be talking to him and Dave like that, because this asshole deserves to learn a lesson.
But then, Dave’s voice is cutting through the noise in Klaus’ head, and the moment is broken.
“Klaus…” Dave sounds worried, he sounds upset, and the sound of his name on his lover’s lips breaks his concentration, it has his concentration breaking and the stranger scrambling to his feet and scurrying away without another word.
It isn’t until he’s gone that Klaus registers the gentle hand on his arm, the soft voice in his ear. “Klaus, I’m right here, come back to me -”
And Klaus shakes himself out of it, coming back down into his body, back to earth.
“Fuck,” Klaus mutters, shaking his head before he turns back to Dave, “Sorry, I just got carried away and -”
He stops speaking, however, when he spies the wide-eyed look on Dave’s face, just on the verge of panic, and -
“Oh shit,” Klaus gasps, reaching forward to touch Dave gently, pulling him close. He knows that look, because he’s seen it on himself before, has seen it in the mirror, just on the verge of a breakdown, and god, he hates seeing it on Dave, but he’s not surprised.
Without thinking, Klaus grabs Dave by the arm and pulls, dragging him into the nearby bathroom, away from the gaze of onlookers and away from the loud music pulsing throughout the club. And shit, Klaus doesn’t have any excperience in dealing with something like this - hell, he’s not even quite sure how to deal with it on his own - but he assumes that Dave needs a quiet space, that he doesn’t need to chaos of the club or the audience of strangers. If it were Klaus, he’d want quiet, so he tries to find that for Dave, secluded in the bathroom, alone, even if just for a few moments.
Whenever Klaus has dealt with the panic that he currently sees in Dave’s eyes himself, he’s only ever seen it in the mirror, staring right back at him. He’s never seen it on someone else, and honestly, it’s kind of terrifying. He doesn’t know what to do, but he tries to stay level headed for Dave.
He doesn’t know quite how to comfort someone, so Klaus lets them both slump to the ground, his hands hovering just over Dave’s arms, unsure of what to do. When he reaches out to touch, though, Dave jerks back, as if Klaus’ touch burns, and Klaus suddenly understands. Or, well, he thinks he does.
“Shit. Shit, shit,” Klaus mutters, backing up slightly where he’s crouched on the ground, hands raised in a placating gesture, as if to say he means no harm, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that, back there. I just - they can’t just talk to you like that and -”
“No,” Dave croaks out at last, shaking his head. His voice is breathless, barely there, just on the verge of a panic attack, but it sounds like a scream to Klaus’ ears. He reaches forward, gripping Klaus’ wrist before he can pull away fully, stopping him in place, “No, Klaus. That’s not it. I just - it reminded me of back… before we met, I was out with a guy once and - I - we -”
Oh. Oh.
“Ooooh. Shit,” Klaus mutters, sitting back on his heels at the realization of what Dave’s words imply.
He’s been through this before. He thought he was safe, and the same fucking thing happened.
Klaus isn’t dense. He knows what Dave means, and it’s insane, seeing someone like Dave, such a strong person, such an adept fighter, a fucking soldier reduced to this because of some shitty, homophobic comments from some stranger, because of something that happened to him in the past. Because of that fucking world, and close-minded assholes and the 60’s… and shit, Klaus had been the one to convince him that he was safe here, and look what happened.
“Fuck,” Klaus mutters again, “I’m sorry, Dave. I shouldn’t have pushed you into this, I -”
But Dave is quick to interrupt Klaus before he can finish his thought. “No,” he repeats, “It’s not you. Shit, Klaus, it’s not you. It’s just… a lot, is all. I know things are different now, but it’s still hard, hearing that and -”
And Klaus doesn’t let Dave finish before he’s pulling him close, embracing Dave on the floor in some shitty club bathroom, and fuck anyone who can see them like this, open and vulnerable and helplessly in love.
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fifiliphaser · 5 years ago
Text
Don’t Give Me Flannel (Cherik Ficlet)
[AO3 Version]
“You’re my roommate who’s super cute and it’s the middle of the night and you’re cramming for your exams in your flannel pajamas and disheveled hair and it’s becoming increasingly hard for me not to kiss you” AU
So, yeah, here we are. It was supposed to be a shorter one-shot, around 1,000 words or so, but I sort of took that prompt and ran with it, because apparently I cannot write something without any world-building in it. But it was a pure pleasure to write, even if I should've been working on my other WIPs. *sigh*
Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy this short—yet still somehow almost four times longer than intended—ficlet.
It's not beta-ed, just edited and proofread by myself, so you know the drill—and I'll be really grateful for any valuable remarks!
“Can you finally go to bed?”
Although Erik’s voice is hoarse, his annoyance seeps through very clearly. As a result, the question sounds more like an order, despite it not really being Erik’s intention. Nonetheless, he’s too groggy to care.
Generally, Erik Lehnsherr has always prided himself in being quite a heavy sleeper, capable of sleeping through anything and everything ever since he remembers. Even when he was just a few years old, he would occasionally wake up to hear about the storm roaring through the night, which did little to disrupt his sleep. His mother used to joke that the bomb blowing up nearby wouldn’t manage to jolt him awake. The manifestation of his powers in the early teenage years disrupted his routine for a while, but he managed to go back to it by the time he started university, and this time he hasn’t let anything get in the way of getting a healthy amount of sleep.
Willing himself to fall asleep has never been problematic either, even with a lot of background noise. Unfortunately, it seems like the light is his ultimate weakness. He’s been struggling to doze off for quite a while now, but a small lamp still kept alight turns it into a truly challenging feat. Facing the wall that his bed was pushed to, his eyes closed shut, he’s desperately trying to force his mind to finally shut down, having already given a shot to counting sheep and focusing on his breathing. Sadly, without the comforting darkness to drown out any unwanted late-night thoughts, he is unable to succumb to sleep. The worst thing is, he’s slowly growing more and more desperate and the thought to just ask Charles—the very culprit behind his current predicament—to do this for him keeps lingering at the forefront of his mind.
A quiet groan escapes his lips as Erik turns around, towards the rustle of paper behind him. Charles Xavier, his roommate, the fellow student who also happens to be a mutant, is sitting on the carpet between their two beds, surrounded by an array of textbooks and notes. He is, by far, one of the very few people whom Erik tolerates and who somehow tolerate him in return, which is still somewhat unbelievable to Erik—how such a person as Charles, so unbearably idealistic and impossibly kind, would like to as much as simply be in his presence continues to escape his comprehension.
Nevertheless, here they are, Charles spread on the floor and Erik failing to fall asleep. Overall, Charles is quite a nice roommate, certainly much better than the previous ones that Erik was unlucky to live with. (Or maybe it was them who were unlucky enough to cross his path, Erik wonders sometimes.) Although a chatter, Charles doesn’t bother with meaningless conversations and he has a quick wit, which is even more prominent over the chessboard that they sometimes use to play, all of which make him a pleasant enough companion even on the worst of days. His bright big eyes, with their remarkable blueness only accentuated by the flannel pajamas he is currently wearing and with his floppy hair falling over them, make him look rather appealing, as a quite impressive group of both male and female students can corroborate. Despite that, Charles’s favourable looks are no more than a pleasant addition, or so Erik tries to convince himself of.
He cuts that train of thought short, though. They are friends, even though this label hardly conveys the depth of their bond. Charles may be the closest person Erik has ever been to, other than his parents, which makes him just about the only family Erik has left. To ruin the most meaningful friendship in Erik’s life due to his irrational sexual urges is just unthinkable. So he proceeds to do what he’s been doing for weeks now, burying the budding attraction deep enough that the telepath won’t see it.
“I can’t fall asleep with the light on,” he grumbles, seeing that Charles has hardly reacted to his previous question. When that doesn’t work either, Erik continues, his brows furrowing, “I have an exam tomorrow, too, you know.”
Charles finally looks up at him, and his eyes are sparkling in the warm light of his bedside lamp, his liveliness evident despite the dark circles under them. Erik shouldn’t find that sight so endearing, and yet, he’s mesmerised all the same, almost forgetting his own annoyance.
“Yeah, sorry,” Charles says apologetically, gazing down at the notebook he’s just been leafing through. His lips, even redder than usual, what with the way Charles continues to chew at them, curl into a little self-deprecating smile. Erik can’t help but trace their movements when his friend adds, “Just… five more minutes.”
It’s clear how tired Charles is, leaning on his hand which is perched up on his lap and visibly fighting off the urge to let his head drop on his notes. Erik rolls his eyes, irritated with Charles’s insistence even more so now that he sees his exhaustion. It may even explain why Erik’s own tiredness feels so profound; if Charles is on the verge of falling asleep, his shields are prone to get weaker and sometimes he starts projecting his feelings, as if his mind was trying to get rid of the sense of fatigue simply by pushing it away.
In truth, Erik doesn’t mind it as much as he thought he would. He minds feeling more tired than he actually is, that is, but not the mental contact itself. It never fails to surprise him, how much he actually enjoys having someone brushing against his thoughts. Of course, he believes that all mutants should be treated equally, regardless of the nature of their mutation; and yet, telepaths are often facing quite a lot of resentment, even within the mutant community itself. For many, it is one thing to pass someone with a tail or a pair of wings on the street without batting an eye, and something else entirely to have a stranger overhear your thoughts—something intimate and meant to exist only for you to listen.
Erik can understand where such reservations might come from, even though he himself doesn’t view telepathy as so problematic. In fact, the anti-psionic bias seems to be chiefly the product of ignorance—there aren’t that many telepaths, most of whom not even powerful enough to fully enter someone’s mind without touching that person or at least being in a very close proximity to them, but people nevertheless are afraid of feeling so exposed, with more than unfavourable portrayal of telepathy in the media as manipulative and exploitative only feeding their fear.
Not that telepaths are actually interested in reading or controlling everyone’s minds; the fact that is obvious to anyone who has actually met a telepath. It would be exhausting, after all, to listen closely to every thought that comes your way. Not even mentioning the fact that a lot of people think they’re incredibly interesting and worthy of attention, while, in actuality, their thoughts are mundane and their secrets nonsignificant.
Erik has crossed paths with enough telepaths to know that. Besides, if telepaths truly did always listen to one’s every thought, Charles would already bloody well know how annoyed Erik has been for quite a while now.
“You’ve been cramming it for—” Erik reaches out with his power, tugging at the magnetic lines surrounding him, and feels the hands of Charles’s watch which is still wrapped around his wrist.
The soft hum of its metal is pleasantly familiar. Charles takes it off only to sleep, and its constant presence allows Erik to sense him, even if his friend is out of sight. It never ceases to surprise Erik how comforting he finds it, the possibility to feel Charles’s warm skin against the stainless steel of the watch anytime he wishes, wherever he is.
Erik reads the hour and groans resignedly, “—for six hours straight. You know everything that you need already.”
“I have to ace it,” Charles mutters, his gaze fixed back on his notes.
He bites his lower lip, again, and it’s truly infuriating how captivating it is. Erik spends entirely too much time looking at those plush red lips of Charles’s, wondering distantly if they’re as soft as they look and if their redness would be even more intense after a thorough kiss…
It’s getting ridiculous. He shouldn’t allow himself to think such things, especially not about a telepath.
“Did you even touch the tea I made you?,” Erik demands instead, resisting the temptation to ask another question that sits at the tip of his tongue, one that is as improper as it is stupid.
A quick glance at Charles’s nightstand confirms what Erik has already suspected. The green mug with a cat and a silly chemistry pun printed on it is standing exactly where Erik put it three hours ago.
Charles looks up once again, his lips rounding in a way that is both adorable and infuriating. What’s more, the sudden movement makes his hair, ruffled from the way Charles runs his hands through them every now and then, fall down his forehead, and Erik barely battles the urge to reach out and gently brush them away.
“Oh,” Charles breathes, his wide eyes making him look like a puppy whose owner has just scolded them for something that they are absolutely guilty of. “I’m terribly sorry, my friend,” he says sheepishly, averting his gaze. “I’ve got too immersed in all of this.” His hand flies around over all the books, the sleeve of his slightly too big flannel pyjamas tumbling down his forearm and falling over his wrist.
Why Charles insists on sleeping in that atrocious thing, whose only saving grace is its nice blue colour, remains a mystery to Erik. Their dorm room is relatively warm, even in winter, and yet Charles seems to be perpetually cold at night, sleeping under a pile of blankets all year long. Erik is reluctant to admit it, but it worries him that although the summer is about to start, Charles’ nightwear hasn’t yet changed. If he’s so cold, perhaps there could be a way to warm him up a bit. Which is hardly the best line of thinking for now, because the only solutions Erik can think of involve things that he’s pretty sure Charles wouldn’t want.
A small shudder runs down his spine, and Erik has to clear his suddenly dry throat, forcing his mind to think about something else—anything else, really. He ends up recalling the details of a few cases which will most probably prove to be useful during tomorrow’s exam, trying not to wonder how it would be to wrap his arms around Charles and pull him under the covers.
Frustratingly, even repeating in his head what he already knows by heart isn’t tedious enough to put his mind to sleep.
“You can’t keep doing that.” Erik’s voice sounds annoyed even to his own ears, more so than before.
“I know, I know…,” Charles says under his breath, clearly having completely recovered from his previous mortification.
“You should’ve started earlier.” Erik’s tone might be a bit too harsh, certainly more than he intended. He can’t help himself but be frustrated, though, what with everything that watching Charles raise his hand and gently tap his fingers against his lips does to Erik’s insides.
Charles sighs, burying his face in his hands. “I know that too.” Erik can barely hear him, his voice muffled by his fingers, but he can tell that Charles must be annoyed with himself too. “Just… this isn’t half as interesting as the project I’m working on,” he explains, with an edge to his tone.
Erik rolls his eyes, though there’s hardly any malice behind the gesture. “I can believe that, but it’s getting annoying,” he says a little less sternly, despite his patience seriously dwindling.
“Sorry.” But Charles doesn’t look so sorry as he grabs one of the textbooks and opens it, back in that study mode of his.
Taking a deep breath, Erik barely refrains from raising his voice, his irritation only worsened by the worry about Charles’s awful sleeping habits. “You know all of that. Go to bed already.”
Charles’s thoughts are clearly far away from their conversation when he mumbles, “Just… let me finish—”
“Charles, you’re overtaxing yourself.” Erik’s tone is yet again harsh, though this time he can’t keep worry out of his voice.
The telepath doesn’t even respond, his whole attention at the textbook on his lap. Despite his immersion in the text, Charles’s head continues to be drooping, his back leaning heavily on the frame of his bed, and Erik doesn’t know what to do anymore to make this man finally get some sleep.
It’s still somewhat bewildering to him, to care for another person’s well-being so much that he starts completely brushing aside his own. It’s not like he is uncaring, but ever since his parents passed away Erik hasn’t allowed himself to get too close to other people. His wounds haven’t properly healed yet, and the thought of losing anyone else is so unbearable that he’d rather isolate himself than face the prospect of going through that again. Yet, he finds himself growing more and more fond of Charles with every passing day.
Although everyone seems to love Charles—that goes without question—Erik isn’t like everyone and a creature of very little trust, so he can’t be easily swayed into liking someone, even if confronted with the smoothest of flattery. But Charles isn’t like anyone else either and hardly an overconfident and snobbish smooth talker that Erik thought he was upon their first meeting. It took more than a couple of heated discussions during quite a few classes and the mutant rights club meetings and one memorable party, however, for Erik to start appreciating Charles’s seemingly endless enthusiasm, his infuriating idealism and the admirable faithfulness to his own ideals, and, most of all, his unconditional kindness. 
As a cynic and a firm believer in the need for separation between baseline humans and mutants, Erik naturally would never agree with Charles’s integrationist ideas, though deep down he has to begrudgingly admit that such an approach might be beneficial in some instances. Besides, it’s not his fault, really, that Erik can’t resist that warm laughter, the playful quirk of that red mouth, and the mischievous glint in those hauntingly blue eyes. If he didn’t know much about telepathy, he’d think that this endearing charm is just a trick, but he knows better. Charles really happens to be just as charming, as if having the magnetic personality of an opposite pole, whose call is quite hard for Erik to resist.
Which doesn’t make Charles’s late-night study sessions any less irritating.
Erik must do something to make Charles finally go to sleep, and if the Charles way of talking and negotiating doesn’t work, it’s time for the Erik way. He slips from under the covers and jumps to the floor.
“Erik, give it back!,” Charles shrieks the second Erik snatches the book away from his hands, though his protests are much weaker than usual.
“I need sleep and so do you,” Erik says stubbornly, hugging the book to his chest. “So, just put it all away, or I’ll do that for you.”
Charles looks at him for a long moment, the exasperation in his expression mixed with something else, something odd. There’s a heaviness to his gaze that makes Erik shift minutely, slightly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of those brilliant eyes.
“You’re insufferable sometimes,” Charles says eventually, although he doesn’t sound resigned, only mildly amused.
“You’re the one to talk,” Erik snaps back, albeit good-naturedly.
Signing once again, Charles just shakes his head, a small smile creeping on his lips. Then, he fixes Erik with a stern gaze.
“I’ll go to sleep when I finish this chapter,” he says seriously, and the determination that is colouring his eyes suggests that he won’t step down this time.
Erik purses his lips and regards him for a moment, contemplating the offer. The chances for negotiating conditions more favourable for Erik are scarce, and now is not a good time to pick up a fight. It seems best to relent.
“Okay, I’ll take your word for it,” Erik decides, slowly releasing the book from his grasp.
Charles quickly goes to grab it before he can even let go of it, the telepath’s fingers brushing against Erik’s forearms and leaving a trail of the pleasant tingling sensation behind. Erik can’t help but sit here transfixed, the plush carpet soft against the bare skin of his shins, as Charles goes back to studying. There’s something enthralling in watching him in his element—because as exhausted as Charles is, there’s still so much passion in the way he’s practically devouring what is written on the pages before him. His eyes are alight again, and his lips are moving—lightly, captivatingly—as he’s quietly repeating the crucial tidbits of information.
Erik has never wanted to kiss someone so much in his entire life.
Although the book is once again laying open on his lap and stealing all his attention, Charles looks up from it, apparently having noticed Erik’s dumbfounded expression. “You can go back to bed now,” he points out lightly, his brows drawn in mild confusion.
“Not until I tuck you in first,” Erik responds before he has time to think much about his words.
He doesn’t even get a chance to start feeling self-conscious, however, as Charles is seemingly taking it all in stride. “That won’t be necessary, my friend,” he says, giving Erik an amused look, the corner of his lips—so distractingly red—rising in a half smile, and Erik finds it hard not to stare at them.
Instead, he narrows his eyes. “We’ll see.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Charles snorts and glances down at the book, his fingers finding their way back to his mouth.
The tip of his thumb begins to slowly trace the outline of his lower lip, back and forth, drawing all of Erik’s attention to that one delicate motion. He cannot help but be hypnotised, wishing against his better judgement that he could reach out and replace Charles’s fingers with his own. To map those lips with his touch, to explore the softness against his fingertips…
Erik looks up abruptly, his eyes boring in the ceiling. Breathing out, he almost groans, but refrains from doing so not to distract Charles. It’s really of no use, allowing himself for such mental escapades. This absurd infatuation has already made Erik’s life miserable enough, there is really no need to add fuel to the flames.
Except, he finds himself unable to stop. Everytime he sees Charles, hears his warm laughter, feels his fingers brushing against his own arm, is confronted with a clever and spot-on counterargument during their arguments, or witnesses a particularly cunning move during the game of chess, Erik can’t stop his mind from being consumed yet again by the thoughts of his best friend. It’s truly a miracle that Charles hasn’t picked up on those thoughts yet, and for once Erik is grateful for Charles’s strict moral code.
Nonetheless, Erik knows he has to put an end to it. It’s just a silly crush, after all, nothing worth putting their friendship on the line. No more foolishness from now on—he’ll just focus on getting through his studies, pushing all the other matters aside.
After some time, which seems to have stretched from mere minutes to long hours, Erik abruptly hears Charles close the book. He drops his gaze in time to see his friend put it down and then proceed to gather all the rest of the study materials into a pile.
“Okay, I’ve finished, happy?,” Charles says, pushing the pile closer to his bed. “You can tuck me in now.” He looks up and momentarily furrows his eyebrows. “Erik?”
Somehow, the earnest look of those beautifully blue eyes makes Erik’s resolve snap. So much for an end to all the silliness. Before he can stop his traitorous lips from moving, the question is already leaving his mouth, the one he’s been longing to ask for so long.
“Can I kiss you?”
There’s a moment of stunned silence, as Charles’s eyebrows slowly rise, disappearing underneath his dishevelled hair. He’s still for what feels like an eternity, and Erik can feel the tendrils of the telepath’s thoughts retreating from his mind, folding in on themselves, which can’t possibly bode well.
Panic begins to rise in Erik’s chest. With his breath quickening, he does his best to slip on a mask of indifference over his face, hoping against hope that Charles hasn’t seen anything damning in his mind, especially not any of those lewd thoughts he’s been having lately. But before dread can consume his mind like a wildfire, Erik sees Charles’s expression soften and then the telepath is leaning in, stopping only when his face is a few mere inches from Erik’s.
He’s so close that Erik nearly goes cross-eyed, Charles’s breath ghosting over his lips. Erik remains frozen, waiting for his friend’s response, anticipating and dreading it in equal measure. He sees that Charles’s eyes are flickering all over his face, filled with… Is it excitement, or rather nervousness? Regardless, his look is clearly inviting, so Erik lets himself hope that maybe his friend does want the same thing.
“Yes.”
For a second, Erik isn’t sure if he has heard it correctly. It was barely a whisper, and Charles agreeing to such a ridiculous request sounds too good to be true. It soon becomes clear, however, that Erik’s ears were not playing tricks on him when Charles gives him one last smile and leans in farther to close the distance between them.
Erik’s eyes close on their own accord, and it takes a heartbeat for their lips to meet. It doesn’t feel like a particularly world-changing moment—or maybe it does, just not in the way Erik expected. It’s not like a lighting strike, turning his world upside down and igniting a raging fire inside of him, but it rather feels as if long-lost puzzle pieces finally fell in their proper places.
Kissing Charles feels like coming home.
His lips are just so soft, pliable against Erik’s, the warmth of their gentle touch spreading through Erik’s whole body like little electric shocks. The kiss is rather chaste, close-mouthed; even so, Erik can feel the air between them slowly changing and starting to crackle with the kind of tension that has barely reached the surface before. The wave of excitement mixed with lust that swiftly encompasses his mind proves that he’s not the only one who notices it.
Erik senses something else, however, something much deeper and warmer, as his hands find their way to Charles’s face. He runs his fingertips over the expanse of smooth skin, gently stroking Charles’s cheeks, and he can feel the warmth rising there. He can’t help but smile against his friend’s lips, feeling an affectionate nudge in his mind in return.
And then Erik hears it, a soft murmur permeating his thoughts.
I thought you’d never ask.
If anyone's interested, here's the mug Erik was reffering to (I found it funny, don't at me ^^').
And I'm considering perhaps writing more in that 'verse, so if any of you has any ideas, prompts, or requests, I'll be more than happy to oblige ;)
(Generally, I have more in store for Cherik, especially after Dark Phoenix (we'll always have Paris, after all), but those works are also getting longer than expected. Still, I'm cautiously optimistic about finishing them in August.)
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cocomoraine · 5 years ago
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Vienna
Why would I turn a simple supposed to be a ficlet (about Boris and Valery sharing a croissant in Vienna) into a complicated character introspection, development, and angst? I’ll never know, someone please take away my laptop from me. 
A semi reward to myself for being alive after that grueling finals, and a coping mechanism while waiting for judgment. 
Warnings: unbeta’ed. That's it. And maybe kind of trashy because its created on a whim. Esp while taking a break from studying and awaiting the verdict for Mineral Economics.
Here y’all go!
Vienna 
(maybe I should reconsider this title, idk)
Arriving at Vienna, Boris was a little bit shaken up by the cold, but not as much. Valery was beside him in the car, still reading the technical reports given to him by Ulana before they left Moscow. His forehead is littered up with lines in thought. 
Vienna’s time zone is not far from Moscow. But as soon as the plane started to lower on the runway, Boris adjusted the time on his watch. 
He saw Valery’s watch is still set to Moscow. 
“Valera.”
Valery looked up at him, registering his voice. 
“Yes?”
Boris waited for a moment, then took a breath, willing away the uneasiness. Vienna will not be a disaster, we will all be fine, Valera would be fine. 
“The time.”
Valery looked at his watch, and immediately changed it. He sheepishly looked at Boris, murmuring apologies on the way. Boris looked at him, a mixture of fondness and exasperation on his face. 
“Just make sure you don't trip out when you walk out of this car.”
***
Late at night, and even far away from Chernobyl, Valery still can’t will himself to sleep. He finished his third cigarette of the night, looking out the window.
He was calming his nerves. I can do this. 
He saw the door opening, Boris coming in, probably already finished talking with their entourage for this trip. 
“Everything all right, Valery?”
He bit the inside of his cheek to prevent some smartass reply that would definitely calm his nerves, but may aggravate Boris. He winced instead, then faced Boris. 
“I am fine. Of course, considering all things, maybe this is a tame version of “fine” for us but not for other people.”
He noticed Boris pacing around the room, like a restless child, trying to figure out the answer to the riddle given to him. 
“KGB was kind enough not to bug our hotel rooms, yet still managed the manpower to send someone to be part of the entourage. Truly, what would they think we would do here in Vienna? We are not here on a vacation, we are sent as representatives of the Soviet Union, and diplomats apparently need agents tailing after them.”
He is still wearing his coat.
In quick steps, he reached Boris, and gently stopped him from his tirade.
“Borja.”
The softly exhaled name calmed Boris, and he gazed into Valery’s eyes.
“What? Do you need anything? Did anything happen?”
Valery smiled. Rueful. Always asking about me.
“Take off your coat, would you? You’re dripping snow all over the carpet.”
***
It's the day of the conference. 
They were given a few hours in the en suite, where they would be called when the program finally starts and it’s time for them to come in. 
Valery was a wreck. If Boris is agitated, he cannot imagine what the other is feeling. The man in question, the man who will tell the world what happened at Chernobyl, the man of the hour, the man the world is keen to hear and watch, is there a foot away from where Boris is sitting, pacing, muttering words Boris will never understand the meaning of, and wringing his hands, it’s a miracle they are not broken already. 
The breakfast croissant served at them a while ago sits on the table at the corner of the room. Valery ate his upon receiving it, a miracle considering the circumstances, because for the time Boris has known Valery, the man never touches food unless his body eventually gives up and needs him to replenish itself. It seems the scientist ate his out of nervousness, and something to do with his hands, instead of just wringing it around. Valery also drank his coffee in a single gulp, did he burn his tongue, how on earth will he be able to speak then? 
Boris’ breakfast croissant and coffee remained untouched. It's getting cold.
Valery keeps on pacing around. Forehead scrunched up in thought. The suit he is wearing is close to wrinkling itself due to the numerous and unceasing movements he is making. 
If back then, Boris would find Valery’s behavior annoying, now, he finds it endearing.
But he needs to calm down.
“Valera.”
Valery didn’t stop pacing.
He stood in the way of the man.
Valery nearly collided with Boris’ chest if he didn’t look up from where he was walking.
 “Boris.”
Boris held out his croissant and coffee. 
“Eat. You look like you will fall over.”
“Boris. This is your food. I cannot possibly--”
Boris divided the croissant into half.
“Half. One for you, then one for me. At least both of our conditions will be met.”
Valery stared at Boris. Then at the offered half croissant. 
Slowly, he took it.
If Boris spent an indeterminate time staring at Valery’s mouth eating the croissant, then the other man doesn’t seem to mind. Or noticed it.
He swallowed. Then looked at Boris demurely.
“I. Thank you.”
“Drink the coffee.”
Valery’s mouth opened in a rehearsed protest.
Boris sighed.
“Fine. You drink the first half, the other half goes to me. Happy?”
***
Vienna was a courteous affair. 
The people around Valery are clapping, some even stood up.
Soon enough, all the people present are giving him a standing ovation.
Valery looked through the audience. Hoping to see a familiar set of eyes that seem to be the one grounding him down when he drifts and forgets the world existing around him. He turned to the side and saw those eyes. 
Proud? Or defeated? What do you think of what I have done, Borja?
In a sea of people clapping, Valery Legasov can only hear the sound of his own heart speeding up when those unreadable eyes continue to stare down at him.
When they got out of the conference room, Valery’s mind is still reeling from all of the things he had said, its consequences, what will become of Chernobyl? Boris is walking alongside him, absently in thought, even when they were led to their car, to be escorted back to the hotel.
As much as Gorbachev wanted them to be back in Moscow as soon as the conference is over, they are forced to stay in Vienna for one more day due to technicalities and reasons only Boris knows. Valery snuck a glance at the older man in his side.
Boris looked miles away. 
As they walked down the hall, ultimately separating toward their own rooms, Valery couldn’t help himself but ask,
“Would you like to have a drink inside?”
The KGB agent was at the end of the hall. He doesn’t need to hear this.
Yet I did say it.
Boris turned to him, his whole body suddenly slack and open. He smiled, albeit little, at Valery. It did somersaults to the scientist, which he valiantly tried to calm down.
“Thought you would never ask.”
***
They were drinking, and talking, the vodka inside the bottle seems to be depleting fast. 
It was a few minutes before midnight when Boris turned from his monologue about who will win between Pikalov and Tarakanov when it comes to strength (the topics they’ve discussed became insane as the night progresses) and saw Valery sleeping in his chair. 
Boris smiled. 
Oh, Valera.
He walked towards him, and gently nudged him awake. 
“Valera.”
“Mhm.”
“Migrate to your bed. You are going to get a crick in the neck for sleeping in there. It will not be a good combination with your impending headache tomorrow morning.”
“Mm.”
Valery didn’t move.
Alright.
Boris half carried, half dragged Valery to his bed. Once he removed his shoes and glasses, he pulled the blankets and laid it up to Valery’s chin.
The man was apparently mumbling something this whole time.
Boris cannot understand most of it. Only one word managed to break into his alcohol-induced head.
“Borja..”
Boris looked at Valery’s sleeping face. Peaceful. Mouth slightly opened, due to saying his name.
A burning sensation filled his chest. He lowered himself until he is eye level with Valery’s sleeping form.
He pressed a light, feather touch kiss upon his forehead.
“Goodnight, my Valera.”
He stood up, downed the last shot Valery left behind, and went out of the room. 
Suddenly, being near Valery Legasov knocked out all of the air in Boris’ lungs.
***
Valery knocked upon Boris’ hotel room door the next morning. He has the phantom feeling of warm lips pressed against his forehead last night. He is not sure if it's just a product of his own head creating delusions because of mixing alcohol and fatigue, or it was real. He decided to think about it later. 
“Come in.”
Valery stepped inside. He saw Boris standing by the window. Coat already worn. 
“Valera.”
“I didn’t see you at breakfast today. Are you, alright?”
“I am fine. The headache just has been too much. But I am doing better now.” 
Boris fully faced him. 
“We’ll be leaving in fifteen minutes. Is there anything else you need before we fly back to Moscow?”
“No. I’m. Fine.”
Valery stared at the button pin in Boris’s suit. The emblem of the Soviet Union. A career Party man.
He noticed it was askew.
Before Valery could register what his feet were doing, he was already closer to Boris than before. He can feel his warm breath caressing his face. 
The somersaults only intensified.
The moment their eyes locked, it's like the whole gravity of the room shifted. Yet, Valery didn’t feel drifting or weightless. He feels grounded. By those eyes. 
“Um. Your. Uh. Your pin. It's not in line.”
Two trembling hands tried to fix the pin in Boris’ suit. It did only take a few minutes, but for both men in the room, it felt like a lifetime.
Eyes met again.
Suddenly, it became clearer. Oh. 
Closer. Dangerously close. 
Yet no one stepped away. They are like two atoms, neutron bullets, set on a course of hitting one another. 
Their lips never met. 
Valery’s lips touched Boris’s nose.
Boris’ lips touched Valery’s cheek. 
Fission.
Breaths on hold. Afraid a slight movement can create a disastrous chain reaction.
The knock on the door was the control rod.
***
When Boris met Valery’s eye in the helicopter, it's like the fissioning began again.
***
Their lips only touched fully when they were safely inside Valery’s apartment 
(Would you like to come up to have a drink? 
Great. The trip gave me a headache, I could use one. 
Send my things up to my home. I’ll call you when it's time to pick me up. 
Do you even know your neighbors? 
I don’t.)
All it took was for their eyes to meet again, in the threshold of his living room, and the door to be locked. Valery felt Boris’ arms circle around him.
Boris felt Valery’s own arms enclose his shoulders. He pulled him close. Closer. Dangerously close. 
How long?
Since when?
What now?
None of these thoughts, but both running on their heads at the same time were said out loud. The only sound inside the apartment was lips touching, breathless names, a soft dripping of water from the faucet, and the steady ticking of the clock.
When Boris started kissing down his jaw and neck, Valery cracked an eye open, and managed through the haze, to glance at the clock and saw the calendar right next to it.
1987. 
5:00 pm.
Four years.
He glanced at his watch. Then closed his eyes to get lost in the sensations. 
It was still set to Vienna. 
***
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frankchurchillsaysrelax · 6 years ago
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why you can’t raise your voice to say
Just a little ficlet that came to me last night. I imagine this happening some night before the drive-in but honestly I think it could happen at any point.
“What’s the deal with you and Max anyway?” Alex’s voice travels the short distance between them. 
With no moon in the sky the trailer is cloaked in darkness but the warmth of Alex’s body next to him is a reminder that he isn’t alone. They are close enough on his tiny bed that he can smell the sweat on his skin and feel the slow puffs of breath against his shoulder.
“What do you mean?” Michael can feel his defenses rising, unsure of where this conversation is headed.
“I mean,” he sounds confused, searching for the right words that won’t set Michael off. “You make it seem like you hate him but you still drop everything to go and help him. No hesitation. Is it for Isobel?” Alex absently drags a finger across his chest and Michael lets it distract him for a minute. The easy movement calms him, makes him feel safe.
“It’s complicated.” 
Silence falls over them as Alex patiently waits to see if Michael will offer anything else. He knows from experience that pushing him to talk never gets them anywhere.
“How much do you know about the three of us?”
“Nothing really.” The sheets rustle as Alex presses closer against his side and wraps his arm firmly across his waist. Michael holds himself tense even though his body is screaming to melt into the comfort he is being offered. “You three were always together, as long as I can remember.”
“We’re siblings. Not by blood,” he clarifies before Alex can say anything. “but we’re— we come from the same place. We grew up together.” He struggles for how to explain his family without giving away too much. He wishes, not for the first time, that he could tell him everything. Life would be so much easier with less secrets.
“We ended up in a group home and when the Evans came looking to adopt they only wanted two. They never even looked at me.” Memories of that day twenty years ago flood his mind. His body finally gives up the fight and leans fully into Alex’s hold. A kiss is pressed to his temple; lips linger against his hair. He hates that such a simple gesture makes him want to curl up and cry.
“So you blame Max?” Alex finally asks.
“No!” The word is practically a hiss. “Never. They didn’t have a choice. If they could have taken me with them they would have. And I knew they would be safe so I told them to go.”
“I’ll find a family too. Maybe we’ll be neighbors! Don’t cry Izzy, we’ll see each other soon.”
“Few months later, I got a foster family. And then another. And another, again and again. Sometimes I’d be placed in a different district but I’d always manage to get myself kicked out of those quick.”
A small noise of recognition escapes Alex. As if another piece of the puzzle that is Michael Guerin has found its home. No doubt he remembers all the times Michael would disappear from school for a few weeks.
“You always came back.”
“Yeah. Then freshman year I got emancipated. Perk of being a genius I guess, they think you’ll be able to look after yourself.” Michael’s body subconsciously curls further into Alex’s arms. He suddenly feels unbearably tired. His heart feels tired. It beats slow and heavy inside his chest.
“None of that answers my question.”
It’s a few minutes before he can gather the energy to keep talking.
“Max and I used to be close. He was my best friend. And then….”
“Never be extraordinary.” “She might not remember but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. It’s done Michael. We can’t leave her now.” “What are you doing? Roswell isn’t a prison, you could be doing so much more with your life.”
“Like I said, it’s complicated.” 
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faejilly · 6 years ago
Text
so I really really was gonna start this #100 Days of Shadowhunters with a drabble or a quick meta “why I have a Shadowhunters problem” sort of post, but then I started and it turned into a ficlet? Because I also have a Maryse problem, I guess. Anyways. Post 3x10, memory & relief, Magnus POV
Alec is with Jace. Isabelle is in the armory again. Or still, Magnus isn’t quite sure, and it’s not like he’s one to begrudge someone else the need to drown themselves in work for awhile.
Magnus doesn’t have that option. He’ll figure something out eventually he knows, he’s a survivor, he always figures something out, always will, always, he always has always, only now he doesn’t, and he doesn’t have work, he doesn’t have...
He’s alive. 
Lilith is gone, Jace is free, Alec is here, in all the ways that matter even if he’s not literally in the loft at this exact moment. Alec still wants to be here, still want here to be them, which is more than enough for anyone, and yet. Magnus doesn’t know what to do, with himself or his life, in general or specific, in the philosophical or literal, right now or tomorrow or next week.
The door buzzes and he winces. There’s no way to know who it is unless he asks, unless he looks, unless he steps over and makes it explicit that he can’t just wave a hand, that he can’t...
Magnus shakes his head and answers, accepts a package and sits down on his sofa to stare at it.
It’s addressed to both him and Alec, which is a reminder of too many conversations he wishes he could re-do. Some of which they still need to revisit, at some point, but they’ve been healing. Resting.
Avoiding?
The return address isn’t familiar.
The penmanship is lovely. Consistent and easy to read, with just the faintest shift in the thickness of the ink in the curve of the letters. He should probably be suspicious, but it’s been so long since he had mail, and he can’t help the smile, the flicker of curiosity warming the edges of the ever present ache in his chest.  It’s probably odd of him to see care in the curve of the g but that’s what it looks like nonetheless. Besides, he trusts Cat and her wards, even if he can’t do more than see the faint flicker of magic in the corner of his eyes.
He’s not sure if still having the Sight is a gift or a curse, a part of his father’s punishment or hope forgotten at the bottom of Pandora’s Box, but for now he’s glad of it. He can see Cat’s care in the shift of power still guarding his loft, and he knows that’s not just him being fanciful; she’d made that more than clear when she set them up.
He opens his package, ripping inelegantly through the paper as he’d forgotten a knife or scissors and the tape at the corners is too thick and smooth to pull apart with his fingers.
There’s a note on top, and even before he reads it he sees the name at the bottom, Maryse. He allows himself a moment of dizzy disbelief that he’s glad to see her name on a gift, that the world has turned around so completely from where it was just a few short years ago.
Dear Alec & Magnus,
I thought you might need this right now more than I do. Remember why, my boys. Exitus acta probat. I’m proud of you both. Take care of each other.
Maryse 
Magnus blinks, and he’s not sure if he wants to cry or laugh or rip the note in half or save it forever. While it’s usually translated as the end justifies the means, he’s pretty sure that’s not quite what Maryse means, and her awkward Nephilim pride in their sacrifices, her assurance that what they did, what they gave, has meaning, has value, is more comforting than he’d expected.
He sets the note aside and finds himself in possession of a photo-album, one of the most common style from fifteen years or so ago, with the ubiquitous almost-tacky gold border on the cover.
He opens it to the sight of a familiar Maryse and Robert from over twenty years ago, only they’re nothing like he knew them then. They’re wrapped around each other, ignoring the camera completely in favor of smiling down at the baby in Maryse’s arms.
Smiling down at Alexander. 
Magnus is sure the smile growing on his face is at least twice as sappy as theirs were, though there’s no one here to take a picture to prove it.
Next are pictures of Alexander as a baby, wide-eyed and dark-haired with tiny little fingers almost always curled into fists as if he was already preparing to take on the entire world.
Toddler Alec is almost always carrying crayons, and Magnus’ favorite picture is him sitting at a full-sized adult desk writing very carefully with one, the tip of his tongue just sticking out between his lips as he concentrates.
A second baby shows up, and even if he hadn’t known it was Isabelle he would have recognized the look in Alec’s eyes, exactly as fierce and devoted as he is now every time he sees his sister. 
It’s adorable, they’re adorable, and each new picture of them together manages to break Magnus’ heart and heal it at the same time.
When Alec is probably somewhere between eight and ten it starts to change. There are fewer smiles, and the occasional hunched shoulders, as if he’s starting to see too much of his future, as if he’s starting to notice the ways in which he doesn’t fit... but Izzy is still laughing, still clearly delighted by her brother’s company. 
Magnus has to close his eyes, hand pressed flat against the smooth plastic protecting the photos. Even then, Alec was trying to carry the weight of the world so she wouldn’t have to... 
He opens his eyes, and turns the page, and Jace arrives.
There’s a formal portrait of the whole family, and Jace’s eyes won’t meet the camera’s lens, his face ducked just a little. Alec’s shoulders are angled towards him, as if he’d already decided that Jace needed his protection just as much as Izzy.
After that they’re back to candids, baby Shadowhunters training and eating and studying and occasionally still laughing. Alec’s guarded now, in a way he wasn’t when he was younger, but Magnus can see he’s happy, his posture easing whenever Jace and Izzy are smiling.
The last picture is clearly supposed to be an echo of the first. Robert and Maryse  are standing together, but there’s a space between their shoulders, and his face is formal as he stares at the camera. She’s looking at the baby in her arms again, but this time her smile is small, and there’s a shadow in her eyes. Jace and Izzy look bored, fake smiles plastered on their faces even as they’re clearly counting the seconds until they can leave, but Alec. His Alexander is standing on Maryse’s other side, ignoring the camera completely as he smiles down at Max. He’s even got his hand out, Max’s tiny fist wrapped around one finger. 
Magnus sighs, and trails the tip of his finger along the line of Alec’s arm. 
Family means everything. 
Alec still has his family, even after everything.
Maryse is right. The end is worth the cost. Magnus nods, and starts to close the book. The last page shifts, and he blinks as he realizes it’s not actually the end, there’s one more page. He turns it, and his eyes widen as his breath catches in his throat, and he almost drops the album onto his foot.
The actual last page has two pictures are of him and Alec. First a formal hand-shake before a meeting, though there’s a glint of humor in Alec’s eyes, and Magnus recognizes the shift of his own shoulders in response. Second it’s him and Alec at the Hunter’s Moon, leaning on their pool cues and smiling at each other. He remembers that night, that date, the warmth in Alec’s eyes and the way he’d laughed when he’d lost their game. Magnus doesn’t have a clue who took the picture, though it’s obvious why he hadn’t noticed, his focus entirely on Alec. 
Magnus blinks, feels the heat in his eyes barely held in check. 
Maryse put Magnus in her family album, and sent it to them both to show them why, to tell them she’s proud, to remind them to take care of each other...
Magnus smiles again, helplessly, delightedly, and puts the album next to the note on the coffee table. He can’t wait until he can go through it again with Alec.
Family means everything.
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peanutbutterjelly-pie · 7 years ago
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A Simple Hello
Content: Dean tries to get a gorgeous guy’s attention - but it doesn’t go as expected.
A little something for @jhoomwrites‘ Reverse Emoji Ficlet Challenge
Prompt: 🎱🎧🤔
“You're pathetic, Dean.”
“Shut up, Sam!”
“Really pathetic.”
Dean grumbles some incoherent words underneath his breath and glares at Sam across the pool table, his mouth a thin line. For the last fifteen minutes he had to listen to similar accusations in a row, over and over, and it's starting to strain his nerves.
Who the hell thought it'd be a good idea to invent annoying little brothers?
“How about we carry on with our game?” Dean suggests, pointing at the colorful billiard balls which are scattered all over the table in front of them. “That's why we're here, right?”
“We're here because I needed unwind for a bit and figured it'd be nice to spend some time with you,” Sam says. “After all, you're not the worst to hang out with.”
Dean scoffs. “Jeez, I'm feeling the love.”
Truth be told, Dean had been more than happy to accompany his brother when Sam proposed some quality time. Since his high achiever of a baby brother got his fancy job at that super important law office downtown a few months ago they barely had any time just for the two of them, so Dean didn't make much of a fuss when Sam dragged him to this weird hippie café/pool hall/place-where-dreams-die, ordered them some unidentifiable drinks and pushed a billiard cue into Dean's hands right after.
So yes, Dean had been more than determined to enjoy his time with Sam.
But his resolution went straight to hell as soon as he entered the place and noticed the blue-eyed guy sitting at a table near the window.
Disheveled hair. Stubble. Strong jawline. Tanned skin. A habit of chewing his sinful lips more often than not.
In one word: gorgeous.
Dean had been unable to focus on anything else ever since he laid eyes on the man.
“Just go over there,” Sam urges, for the millionth time. “You'd regret not seizing the opportunity and I would be the one never hearing the end of that!”
Dean scowls. “Just look at the guy!” he says. “He's reading a book and has his headphones plugged in – a clear indication that he wants to be left alone.” He sighs deeply. “Not to mention the fact that he looks like a college professor or something. He's probably reading Goethe and listening to some classical shit like Vivaldi. I don't have much to offer in that area.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “You're far from stupid, Dean. You're a kindergarten teacher …”
“Yeah, glitter and unicorns.” Dean snorts. “Very impressive.”
“Just take a chance, moron!” Sam presses. “I think I saw him glancing at you a few times when you weren't looking. I'm quite sure you've got a shot.”
Dean finds himself hesitating for a moment. It sounds way too good to be true, actually.
“And how am I supposed to get his attention?”
Sam looks at him like he's an idiot. “Just go over there and say 'hello'.”
Dean blinks once, twice. “'Hello'?” he repeats incredulously. “'That's your awesome advice? 'Hello'?”
Sam pulls a face, obviously not happy with his brother's unenthusiastic response. “You're making this harder than it is.”
Dean lets his gaze linger on the guy for a moment again, noticing that he at some point abandoned his book and is now staring at his phone, his fingers gliding elegantly over the screen while he furrows his brows in concentration.
“Just look,” Dean sighs. “He's got a serious thinking face on. Probably talking with a colleague about a complicated math equation or about battle strategies of the Roman Empire. He won't be impressed by a simple 'hello'!” The sheer thought seems ridiculous. “I guess the least he'd accept is a poem recited to him in a dramatic fashion. Preferably one by Goethe, of course.”
Sam shakes his head in disbelief. “You're pathetic.”
So what?
It's not like he's the first person on the planet feeling insecure talking to man so freaking stunning you can even hear angels sing while looking at him.
“I don't know, Sammy,” Dean says. “He's just so …”
He flails with his arms, keen to show his helplessness somehow, but in the process totally forgets about the cue still in his hands.
And he rams the damned thing right into his eye!
Well, okay, he misses by maybe a mini inch, but it still hurts like fucking hell!
Dean exclaims in pain and surprise, stumbling backwards and naturally knocking down the table right behind him in the process, the glasses on top of it falling over and crashing on the ground with the loudest noise imaginable.
Great.
Every single soul in this goddamned place is suddenly looking at him – even the gorgeous guy, as Dean realizes instantly – and Dean flushes all over, wondering if it's really possible to die of mortification.
It'd be quite convenient right now.
Dean presses his hand against the painful spot way too close to his eye and moans miserably, hating his life.
What the hell did he do to deserve this?
“Are you alright?” a voice next to him asks in concern.
At first he thinks it's Sam, probably just suppressing a laugh and feigning actual worry, but just a moment later Dean's head catches up on the fact that his brother's voice isn't that gravelly deep.
No, it's someone else.
Dean cautiously blinks his eyes open and is immediately met with a gaze so intense and so blue it takes his breath away for a second.
Wow.
He never thought that the man would be even more mind-boggling up close!
“Are you okay?” the guy repeats the question, his warm hand resting on Dean's shoulder and squeezing it slightly. “This looked quite unpleasant.”
Dean turns even redder, cursing his bad luck. Figures that he'd make an utter fool of himself right in front of the first person who makes his heart flutter in ages.
“Um …” Dean answers eloquently. “I'm … I'm fine.”
“Are you sure?” the guys asks skeptically. “You're not hurt anywhere? You remember your name?”
Dean can't help his chuckle. “Yeah, man,” he says. “Dean. Dean Winchester.”
The man still doesn't seem convinced. He leans closer, inspecting the spot where the cue hit Dean right into the face, and gestures at the woman behind the main counter, his movements obviously telling her everything she needs. Just a minute later Dean feels something cold pressing onto his face, making him wince.
“Sorry,” the guy apologizes, adjusting the ice bag a little bit. “You shouldn't underestimate injuries so close to the eyes. I mean, your case doesn't look bad, you'll probably just get a bruise, but a little ice won't hurt. At least it's going to lessen the swelling.”
Dean just stares at the man, not sure what to say. He's so close, his warm breath brushing over Dean's skin, and Dean feels his brain short-circuits.
“Uh …”
“Sorry again.” The guy's cheeks tinge pink. “I'm a doctor and sometimes I can't help myself. It's a curse.”
A doctor. Of course he is.
Dean isn't surprised at all.
“I'm Castiel, by the way,” he introduces himself with a smile.
“Castiel,” Dean tries the name on his tongue. It's unusual, angelic, and he kinda likes it.
He finds himself staring at Castiel, probably looking dazed and a tiny bit besotted, and he barely notices Sam appearing suddenly beside him and dragging him to a chair nearby, his strong arms determined to make sure Dean wouldn't be stupid enough to hurt himself once again. He pats his brother's back, mumbling something that sounds like fond exasperation.
Meanwhile Castiel sits down on a stool next to him, apparently not keen to leave him alone just yet.
“You're really okay?”
The insistent concern is rather endearing, Dean has to admit. “I'm fine,” he reassures, smiling shyly. “Just … embarrassed.”
Castiel laughs. “You don't have to be. Just a few days ago I went straight into one of the glass doors at the hospital I'm working. That dumb place has way too many of those.”
Yeah, that sounds like something that would have happened to Dean too.
“Still … it's embarrassing.” He shakes his head. “Figures.”
“To be honest, I'm actually quite glad this happened,” Castiel admits. Just a second later, however, his eyes widen as he realizes how that might have sounded and he's quick to add, “Of course I'm not happy that you got hurt, Dean. I didn't mean it like that.” He squirms, looking adorably flustered. “I just … since you came in I wanted to come over and talk to you.”
Dean listens up straightaway. “Seriously?”
Did he suffer some brain damage after all, hearing things he'd want to hear?
Castiel blushes and ducks his head. “The whole time I was contemplating how I should approach you. I even texted my brother and asked for advice because he's usually way better with handling social situations like this than I am. But he merely suggested to go over to you and just say 'hello'.” Castiel rolls his eyes. “Can you believe that? 'Hello'?” He sighs deeply. “As if a simple 'hello' would be sufficient with … with someone like you.”
He gestures at Dean's everything and flushes some more.
And Sam huffs in the background, muttering something like “meant for each other”.
Dean, though … one minute he finds himself shell-shocked, just gaping slack-jawed at the stunning man in front of him, unable to actually believe what's happening right now, and then a moment later he's beaming all over the place. Like Christmas and Easter just arrived early together, walking through the door hand in hand.
Damn.
He can't remember the last time he's got so frigging lucky. And even if this indeed turns out to be the sole result of some serious concussion, it's one hell of a great hallucination.
“So … would you terribly mind if I would stay with you for a while?” Castiel asks, sounding sorta sheepish all of a sudden. “Just to be safe. Because of your injury and … stuff.”
Dean feels his heart melt. “Um … yeah, alright,” he agrees instantly. “That … that'd be nice of you.”
Castiel scoots closer right away as if he just got an invitation to forget any rules about personal bubbles ever invented. And Dean doesn't mind one bit.
On the contrary, he decreases the space between them even more as well.
“Well … read any good Goethe poems lately?” Dean asks, smirking. He even tries for a wink, but recalls his damaged face in the last moment.
Meanwhile, Castiel furrows his brows, looking rather confused for a second, before realizing that Dean's merely joking. So he answers, with as much conviction as possible, “I can't even recite one single Goethe poem to save my life.”
Dean laughs, aloud. Best news ever.
“That's really good to hear, Cas.”
And by the end of the day Dean goes back home with a serious and most likely incurable crush, a new phone number in his pocket, a bright grin on his lips and a little brother that can't stop telling him over and over again that a simple 'hello' still would have been way less painful.
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resident-of-storybrooke · 7 years ago
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For That Special Someone: A CS Fic:: CSFE prompt #1
Title: For That Special Someone Rating: M (it’s smuffy)  Summary: Killian didn't understand much about this realm's strange traditions, and usually they were too busy defeating villains for someone to explain it. The Prince did explain to him however, that it was tradition to get those who love a gift, something meaningful. He needed to find the best gifts, but nothing would be worthy of his Swan. What's a pirate to do? AN: Written for the @csficexchange, really excited for this project! No beta on this bad boy so please show mercy!! Can you also guess what Christmas movie I stole the title from??? Happy holidays to all! You can also read this on ff.net (where you can catch my other stories) All the love! 
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Prompt #1 Write a CS drabble/ficlet that includes the following elements: - Killian giving Emma a gift - Killian wearing no shirt at some point - Killian fighting with sellotape - Snow
Killian didn’t understand much about this realm and it’s strange traditions, and usually they were too busy defeating villains for someone to explain it all to him. Typically, if everyone was busy Henry helped him, but he was busy helping Regina get ready for this tree lighting ceremony thing. He didn’t understand why the people of Storybrooke would want to set a bloody tree on fire, but he was in no room to cause a fuss.
The Prince did explain to him however, that it was tradition to get those who love a gift, something meaningful. Killian knew that Emma was purposely leaving out some of the details of this holiday; the gift exchange for whatever reasons was a part of that. He needed to find the best gifts, but nothing would be worthy of his Swan.
Speaking of which, he was late to meet her at the station so they could get lunch together. Killian quickly jumped out of bed in hopes of not keeping Emma waiting; if she didn’t eat Henry said she would get “hangry”. He was able to get dressed in no time, his change of wardrobe had definitely come with some benefits, one of them being how fast it took to put on - more importantly take off - his clothes. Killian grabbed his leather jacket, remembering the last time that Emma had worn it, with nothing else. That woman was going to be the death of him, teasing him like that, and if he didn’t get make it to lunch soon she would surely kill him.
Emma had offered to teach him how to drive, but Killian refused to get behind the wheel of that blasted yellow vessel of hers. He had to keep a steady pace in order to make it remotely on time, but then it caught his eye. In one of the shop’s window was a giant sign that read “For That Special Someone”. Killian knew he didn’t have time to waste, but with Christmas in just two short days he knew he needed to get something for Emma, she was indeed that someone special for him.
Without a second thought he walked into the store, overwhelmed with some very strong perfume, which he made a note of not to get for Emma. Immediately someone who had to be a fairy greeted him she was so small. The lass had long dirty blonde hair; her hair was long as she was. She was wearing a dress, obviously made by hand, making her green eyes shine, just not as brightly as Emma’s does of course.  
“Killian Jones, why I never thought the day would come that we’d see you in the store. Can I help you find something in particular?” He looked down at her nametag, which simply read “Ina”, she knew him of course, but he could not for the lives of him remember the lass. “Ah, Captain I’m offended. You don’t remember me, do you?” He shook his head modestly; he soon caught on to her sarcasm, which was a relief.
“Here I go by Ina, but maybe you remember me from the Enchanted Forest as Thumbelina?” Ah! The lass had helped him many moons ago back in their land with some stitching after a close encounter with Blackbeard.
“Sorry about that lass, bad form to forget an old friend.” She covered her mouth as if she was trying to hold back her laugh, “No worries Captain. If all the rumors are true, you’ve been busy the last few years. And with the Savior nonetheless. I take it she’s the reason why you’re here today?”
“Aye, I need to buy her a gift, but I have no idea where to begin or…” That’s when Killian looked  around and say some of the items the store had to offer, a blush crept across his cheeks which Ina was kind enough not to point out. The two of them walked around the store for a few minutes, she answered all of his questions about the variety of items he was debating between. He knew he needed to hurry up, he had already kept Emma waiting long enough, and Ina was kind enough to offer to wrap the gifts for him and to hold onto them until so that she would not see the gifts at lunch.
Killian ran to the station, no Emma in sight. There was a note waiting for him on her desk:
Killy,
Another Leroy call, raincheck on Granny’s? Probably won’t make it home in time beforehand, so I’ll see you at the tree lighting!
- Your Swan
He laughed at the nickname she had bestowed upon him after their trip back from the Underworld; apparently, Liam was able to share one embarrassing story with her. He would be lying if he said his heart didn’t skip a beat whenever she referenced to the house and their home. Seems as though the Lost Girl and Captain Hook found their home, together.
He ran back to the store and grabbed his gifts for Emma, along with a small box to put another gift in that he had waiting back home.
Killian was walking around Main Street trying to find Emma and the rest of the Charming-Swan-Mills-Jones-Hood-Stiltskin clan, god this family was ridiculous. He found Gold and Belle, who seemed to be trying to get baby Gideon to look at all the lights hanging on the buildings. After a quick chat they pointed her in the direction of Granny’s, of course she was in there.
He found the rest of their family all piled in the one booth with Emma inhaling what he believed was her signature side of onion rings. She merely waved as he walked over to the group, too busy trying to finish her dinner.
“Swan, you know you can breathe, right? No one is going to take your food away from you love.” She shot him a sarcastic smile back as she lifted another bite to her mouth.
“Killian are you excited for the ceremony?” He looked over to Henry, he reminded him so much of Bae at this age, it was something that he loved, but it also served as a reminder of all his past sins. He tried to be a better man, not just for Emma, but for her boy as well. He knew Henry looked up to him as some sort of paternal figure and he never intended on letting the lad down. Henry had always welcomed him warmly and went out of his way to make sure that Killian always felt included in everything that they did.
“Aye lad I would say so. Although I don’t understand why we’re lighting a tree on fire in memory of that baby.” The entire table busted out in laughter, he knew they meant nothing by it, but he could feel his face burning up with embarrassment. Emma slide from out of the booth and grabbed his hook.
“We don’t actually light the tree on fire Killian, it’s with little bulbs.” To try to help explain her point she pointed to the bar covered in a string of lights. Killian chuckled, trying to play it off, but his blush wouldn’t seem to fade.
Emma tried to help change the subject to help their family talk about something else for the moment. “Hey I need to go on patrol real fast, want to come?” Killian never turned down a chance to go on patrol with Emma; he loved spending time with her. Especially now that he was the deputy sheriff they took advantage of any alone time they could get. She gave her parents a hug goodbye and was able to grab a running Neal and swooped him up for a big hug. It was amazing seeing Emma and her brother get along so well, every time she held Neal he couldn’t help but picture her holding their own babe, maybe one day.
“Hey I’m sorry that I didn’t explain the tree lighting thing better Killian, I didn’t mean to leave you in the dark like that.” Killian told her not to worry about it; he knew she didn’t mean any harm by it.
They walked down the Main Street, saying hello to everyone enjoying the festivities, but Killian could see Emma started to get uneasy for some reason. She clang close to him, not that he minded, but he knew she did this more often when she was upset.
��Love?” She looked over at him, breaking her train of thought. “I’m a bit tired from today, and I know you had a long one as well. Why not go home for a little and relax? You said the tree is not going to be lit for another 4 hours. Shall we sail away?” She gave him a knowing smile, the one where she remembers he can read her like a book. They decide to walk home, they were halfway there anyways and the bug was on the other end of the road.
As they walked in the door Killian could still see Emma was tense, her past demons still trying to mess with her. Killian couldn’t blame her, here he was nearly 300 and there were nights he would wake the house up from his nightmares.
“Shall I prepare a bath for you my love?” He grabbed her by the waist giving her one Captain Hook’s famous sly smile as she blushed. He loved that after all the monsters, battles, hell, they were married, and he could still make her blush like that. Deciding he wanted to go over the top, he picked her up bridal style and carried her up the stairs to their room. He left her in their bedroom while he started the bath for her, making sure it was just perfect for her.
“Emma, would you like me to grab you some wine-” Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. She found his gifts. All of them, thankfully they were in boxes.
“Killian would you like to try and explain all of this?” She didn’t seem mad, just shocked which was good he guessed. She was just staring at him, waiting for him to explain himself.
“You see, a certain Prince may or may not have told me that in this realm it is customary to give someone special a gift around this time of year. Therefore, when I was walking by Thumbelina’s store today and the sign said “For That Special Someone” I thought it was a good idea, which obviously it wasn’t. Emma I’m sorry I-”
He was cut off; she had ran over to him kissing the hell out of him. It reminded him of their shared moment in Neverland, gods he would never forget that moment. When he finally knew how her lips felt against his, it was just a taste and he would never be sated. This kiss, however, started to grow hungrier by the second. Each turning their heads trying to deepen the kiss, trying to get closer to each other. Emma wrapped her legs around Killian has he picked her up.
“Now love what am I to do with you? I was trying to be a gentleman and run you a nice relaxing bath, but now? Now I have half a mind to take you just like this. What shall it be?” He grinded his growing member into her barely clothed mound to try to expedite an answer from her.
“Gentlemen are overrated.” With that, Killian removed the rest of her clothes and she stripped him of his shirt. She rubbed her hands around his chest while he was kissing his way down her neck.
“Love do you want to unwrap some of your gifts?” His accent always sounded rich during their more enjoyable activities, but tonight it was truly thicker. He started making way down her body with his good hand, and using his hook to play with her breasts.
“Killian, god, uhh I don’t think...stop teasing me! I don’t think right now is the, fuck, most appropriate time for them.” He pulled back from her, hearing a slight whimper come from her kiss swollen lips. Killian looked at her, pupils blown, just like his. She leaned in trying to kiss him again.
“Ah ah ah love. I think you might enjoy,” he walked over to the dresser half naked with his pants barely above his ass, “these two specifically.” He gave her a hungry look as he strolled back over to her with the gifts in hand. When Emma saw the gifts in question, her mouth dropped.
In his right hand was a vibrator, it was large, but not as big as Killian was. He knew his ego didn’t need the boost, but it never hurt. The other was a custom gift Ina made just him and more importantly his hook. It was an attachment, just like his hook, it was like a prosthetic except with three fingers.
By the way Emma looked at him he knew exactly what those three fingers were going to be doing in a moment. “Killian, I told you before I love you just the way you are, hook and all. In fact, how many times have I told you I find the hook sexy?” Her voice all the sudden huskier, he needed to remove the confines of his pants because it was just painful at this point.  
“Emma, love, I know that you’re a fan of every part of me, but I wanted to try something new. If you don’t want to then I will gladly put it away.” She closed the distance between them with a soft and tender kiss, chaste but full of passion nonetheless. They used the attachment and the vibrator, smashing their old record of three orgasms making it a groundbreaking six.
By the time, they were finished they were a sweaty mess, limbs intertwined, they couldn’t tell where one started and the other took over. Still trying to catch her breath Killian leaned over to look at his Emma.
God she was breathtaking. Her hair fanned out across the pillow like a goddess, and her blush, which once was restricted on her face, now spread throughout her body as if she were glowing.  “Love? Not to ruin the moment, but can you explain what happened?”
“Killian, when two people love each other very much they-” she cut herself off with fits of laughter, Killian snickered, but waited for her to answer his question. “You know my story Killian; you know it wasn’t an easy childhood. I know it’s silly to still get emotional about these type of things, but I can’t help it sometimes. I see Neal and I know he’ll never wonder if our parents love him.”
“Emma your parents love you so very much.” He didn’t mean to interrupt her, he just couldn’t help it.
“No, I know they do, but I didn’t know that until I was 28. He will never have a day go by that he questions it. I’m so thankful that I found my parents and that I found you, but it still scares me sometimes. I know how fast happiness can be taken from me and I just can’t imagine life without you and everyone else.” Killian wrapped his arms around her, holding her until she stopped shaking and her breathing returned back to normal. He kissed the top of her head reminding him that he would never leave her; no one would ever leave her again.
“Well, I was going to wait to give you this gift love, but since the other surprises are spoiled it can’t hurt.”
“Killian, please I don’t think my body could handle another round.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek as he walked back to the dresser to grab the small box and handed it back to her. She gave a weary smile back to him as he nodded for her to open the gift.
There inside was a gorgeous glass swan pendant attached to a bracelet. Emma looked up at him holding back her tears.
“It was my mother’s.” He stated in a calm manner, a ghost of a smile graced his lips before he continued, “When I was younger she would tell us these grand stories, one of them being about this swan. It was this tale of how a hero needed to get across this lake to find this great treasure, the missing princess and help the rest of the village bring back their happiness. The problem was there was no way to walk around this lake, you couldn’t merely swim across it, and no boat had made it to the other side. This hero wouldn’t give up, sounds like a few heroes I know.” They both shared a soft laugh, things hadn’t always been easy between her parents and him, but they came to love one another regardless of their rocky start.
“The great hero went to the water and the only creature in sight was this giant swan. It never spoke to him, but he was drawn to the creature. Every day he could come back to the same spot, he would try to figure out how to make it across. All the while, he would feed the swan, making sure it was taken care of. One day the hero had finally figured out what to do to get across, he went to say goodbye to the swan, but alas, she wasn’t here. For some reason he couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to the creature that had helped in, listened to him, really been his only saving grace. He waited for the swan to return, finally in the morning she appeared guiding him to the water. For some reason he knew the swan meant for him to get upon her back as she would take them to the other side.
When they finally made it to the other side the hero turned around, gave the swan a kiss on its head, and this light blinded him. It turns out the swan was the long lost princess all along. Her beauty was unmatched and they knew they were true love. She always told us that one day we would find our swan, the woman who would be our savior. I don’t think she thought I’d fall in love with the literal savior or a Swan, regardless I wanted you to have this. It’s the last thing she gave me before she passed.” Killian had held back his tears for long enough, when Emma embraced him he finally let go.
“Killian, it would be my honor to wear this. Can you help me?” He helped remove the charms from her bracelet she was wearing to make room for the swan. “Beautiful, absolutely beautiful, thank you Killian.”
“Merry Christmas my love.”
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