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falcor-thee-luck-dragon · 4 years ago

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Love Cuts Deep

Chapter 2- Together We Stay

Bucky Barnes x (f)reader Series Rewrite (Civil War, Infinity War/Endgame, TFATWS)

Summary: After learning that you’re on a national watchlist from the exposure of Hydra, and seeking the only other person who’s lived a life like you have. Now you and Bucky adjust to being around one another in Romania.

Warning: big fluff, SMUT, more fluff i promised

Masterlist

5 weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since you’ve been allowed to stay with Bucky in his little one bedroom apartment in Bucharest, Romania. Fortunately for you, he’s kind enough to let you take the shit excuse for a bed while he claims the hardwood floor on the opposite side of the room, just about every single night. That’s just how its been, through true at it is, either one of you could handle sleeping on stone, but this bed is admittedly nicer, and you’ve got someplace to stay for the time being.

And Bucky.

He’s a quiet type for sure, keeps to himself, only really speaks when spoken to or when asking if you want something from the marketplace. But you’ve begun to witness first hand how he’s kind, funny in his own right, and respectful of your space and body within the time that you’ve had the chance to really know him. Which is more then most could say while you’ve been on the run in the past, from authorities and the Winter Soldier alike.

Most days the two of you wander the various streets of this large pleasant bustling city, watching for any signs of danger or an odd person out of place as you go about your day. Other times the two of you would go hiking to the outskirts of Bucharest where no one could be of a bother, there, the two of you would spar each other for hours. Gotta keep alert, he’d always say.

When he did speak.

But the nights when the city was sleepy with brightly beaming stars blanketing overhead, now those became your absolute favorite. You and your new found companion would spend those hours playing cards against one another, lasting deep into the wee hours of the morning when the sun was just barely rising into the sky.

Although as of late, Bucky has begun to speak more and more to you, even just yesterday when you shit talked some cheap vendor who was being very persistent as he wanted you to buy his ugly scarves, Bucky cracked a smile. Maybe even stifled a laugh. If you weren’t so invested in messing with the annoying little man, you would have seen the way Bucky’s eyes trailed adoringly over your mischievous face.

Maybe you would have seen how the corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement as you flipped the guy off and practically swaggered away like the coolest person he’s ever met. Too bad you didn’t, but you would have loved to have seen it. Even for just a moment.

That’s what it’s been like recently between the two of you, small fleeting glances here and there, friendly nudges when you’re walking out in the park, and more time spent laying side by side with one another after an excessively intense workout session. Granted you’re sprawled out in the dirt and grass, sweaty and appearing like you just ran through a dust storm, but next to Bucky, things feel pleasantly different.

It’s strange, you can’t remember the last time you’ve actually felt comfortable around anyone since your mother, but that was a very long time ago. And she’s dead, and you’re not.

Unlocking the apartment door, you quickly turn the faded golden knob and walk into the dull sunlit room. The windows are covered in thin faded newspapers for the dying sunlight to struggle through, as this appears to be the only real source of efficient lightning since all lights are currently turned off. Though you can see well enough due to your body’s enhanced vision, small perks of the serums mutation that made you.

It’s almost 7pm on this cool breezy evening as you walk into Bucky’s apartment, shutting the door just as swiftly; letting your black cotton trench coat slip gracefully from off of your shoulders, you kick your boots off next before walking over to the kitchen and setting the coat on the back of the old wooden chair.

A tired sigh escapes from your parted lips as a sudden smirk begins to break out upon your sleepy face, “James.” You muse with a genuine smile as you turn to face your mattress for a bed, and the man sitting on it, “Nice to be greeted when I come back.”

He hands you an apologetic look before swiftly rising to his feet, “Just making sure you’re paying attention.” He quips with the flash of a grin, “You passed.”

“Alright smartass I brought you a sub from that little coffee place.” His cheeks dust pink as you hand him the sandwich from out of your bag, God he loves your accent, Bucky hands you a pursed lipped grin as you wink, “Just how you like it, old wet lettuce, a chunk of rat, and a moldy bun. Your favorite.”

He lets out a breathy snort as you practically swagger over to the fridge, opening it up to grab two beers before finding yourself a chair right across from him. “Here.” He quickly accepts your thoughtfully brewed offer of friendship, “Drink up Barnes it’s a new day tomorrow and we’re still kicking.”

He watches as you laugh before popping open the glass and taking a hearty chug, a small yet joyous grin pulling at the corner of your lips after you set it down again.

“To another day.” States Bucky before doing just the same.

Soon enough the two of you find yourselves seated comfortably on opposite sides of the old mattress with cards in each of your hands. A solid look of determination and fake suspicion on either of your faces as you stare each other down.

“Got any fives?” Asks Bucky with a raised brow as you simply roll your eyes, then biting your lip while you watch as he tucks a stray tuff of dark hair behind his ear.

“Fuck you.” Slips from your mouth as he bursts with the sweet sounds of laughter, his cards fall from his hands as you throw yours at his stupidly attractive yet winning face. Dammit you could have won.

“I can’t help that you’re a sore loser Y/N, I’m just that good.” Brags Bucky as you throw him a deadly glare.

“Whatever. It’s nearly 4am I’m off my game tonight.” You retort, shrugging as a yawn approaches right on cue.

Bucky glances at the wall clock before looking back at you, an tinge of disappointment lacing his soft voice, “Right. I’ll just head over to my spot then...”

Rolling your eyes yet again, you gently slap his folded thigh before he can attempt at leaving, “Awh come on Buck, you’re back has got to be shit by now. Let me sleep there tonight okay, it’s only fair.”

“Y/N I’m fine, seriously.” Admits Bucky kindly as he shows the flash of a smile, “Don’t worry about me. I’m good.”

Your teeth press firmly against your bottom lip as you think of how to thwart his stubborn mind, soon you look down to pick up some cards, “No, we gotta take turns. And don’t say “I’m good” because if you go over there I will have no choice but to fight you.” Words wrapped in sarcasm, you lay it on him, yet your face appears to flash with something different.

“Fight me? You’d fight me for the shitty hard wooden floor?” Asks Bucky in bewilderment as you simply nod, agreeing to your last stated truth.

“See! You even admit it’s shitty.” You exclaim with a humored laugh while shaking the cards in his beautiful face. Y/N don’t you dare think about it, stop flirting idiot.

“Well...yeah.” Mutters Bucky as you both suddenly sit in an awkward silence, nothing heard except for the wind as it rattles against the old windowpane. You both are breathing a tad more heavily from the teasing argument a couple seconds ago, but now, some unseen yet intrusively felt emotion shifts the air. Is this what you think it is, or does your underlying feelings for him just like fucking with your better intuition.

Something is afoot, however your mind still doubts it. God he can be so hard to read sometimes.

Bucky’s blue irises flicker from you, to the floor-like-bed across the room and then back to you again, conflict clear in the way that his face shifts apprehensively, suddenly he moves to stand, “Wait.” You command with urgency, causing the man to stop dead in his tracks, curious eyes on you in a second.

Letting out a nervous breath, you decide to make sure he gets some proper rest for once, “Just sleep on the goddamn bed.” You deadpan as his face keeps unusually stoic, his body as still as a statue before without so much as a warning does he swiftly lean over and immediately crash his lips to yours.

Within seconds the cards are left for tomorrows cleanup as they flutter to the hard ground, completely forgotten as he presses a metal hand onto the bed for some stability while his lips move sweetly against your own, his flesh one positioned comfortably against your left jaw and partial cheek.

The shock you feel quickly gets shoved to the back of your mind as your hands immediately begin there exploration as they sift through his long dark hair. He tastes impeccably more delicious then you could have ever even imagined, not that you fantasized about tasting the Winter Soldier or anything, though maybe it popped into your mind as a harmless curiosity. Now however, you’re pleasantly satisfied to find out by the way his soft plush lips dance across your own; it’s enough to send your heart fluttering into a thousand excited butterflies, more like an avalanche for Bucky.

All too soon does be abruptly pull away to seat himself next to you while you begrudgingly retract your hands from exploring him further. His eyes quickly find the floor in embarrassment as you smile adoringly at him, “Sorry that was...”

“Fucking hot?” You muse as his flustered face immediately snaps over to yours, hope clear in his shimmering gaze and a tad bit of puzzlement. Guess he didn’t expect his little move of bravery to produce such an apparent positive reaction.

“Uh, well...that’s uh, good..” He mumbles while rubbing the back of his neck, eyeing shifting across the bare mattress before they slowly glance up to find yours once more. This time he hands you a shy nervous smile,”...can I kiss you again?” Wonders Bucky with the sweetest puppy dog eyes you have ever seen in your entire life.

Smirking mischievously, you gently caress the side of his cheek while he happily leans into it, “Bucky Barnes....you can do a lot more then just kiss me.” And with that said does your sweet man press his lips against yours, admittedly more hungry then the first.

He kisses you with such vigor and passion this time, becoming more bolder by the second as he gently tugs at the bottom of your shirt. Smiling against him, you quickly break from his charm to give him your approval, “Shirt comes off if yours does first.” You tease as he plants a chaste kiss to your cheek, then jaw.

Rolling his eyes while continuing to plant love marks around your neck, you take that as a positive sign to reach over and hastily remove his top, he then wastes no time in carefully slipping yours off as well, taking a second longer to unclasp your bra and fling it to the side. Problems for finding later. After the introductions are had, you both immediately take a long heavy moment to trail your eyes over every curve and blemish of each other’s body. You’ve never done this with him before, never even witnessed him without a shirt on, God is he ever more divine then you could have ever even imagined.

Trailing your eyes over ever muscle and crevice in the dull shadowed lighting of the room, your heart begins to sink with sadness and anger while you study the scarring on his left shoulder, the area between where metal meets flesh. Bucky watches as you frown before he takes your left hand in his, eyes softening while he holds it gently, “They hurt you like they hurt me.” He whispers.

Your eyes quickly flicker over to see his shadowed face, and the dark hair that frames it so perfectly, “They hurt everyone.” You whisper back as he brings your wrist up to his mouth, a second later be places the softest of kisses against your weathered skin, right where your tattoo is. The one you’ve had since you were eleven, the one Hydra gave you.

“Did they do this too?” He wonders, already knowing your answer as you slowly nod in silent reply; the black inked marking shows 00X13 as it sits horizontally against your wrist from where those bastards essentially branded you.

Frowning deeply at the black ink on your wrist, you take a slow breath as Bucky watches your every move, “I’ve tried to cut it off of me a couple times long ago.....but they did this to me before the second serum altered my body so that I could heal faster. I guess my body registers it as part of the skin now, but I’ve grown to live with it. It’s a reminder of my past and survival, I cannot stay angry with the dead forever.” You mutter thoughtfully, referencing to the former doctors and scientists who did this to you, understanding that those people are all dead now or incredibly old.

Bucky bows his head, dark hair tickling your hand and wrist as he holds it close to his stubbled face, brows furrowing you wonder what internal turmoil he may be processing, soon he rises his stormy ocean of blue to find your gaze, “I hate them. All of them.” He grumbles lowly, the icy dark storm clouding over in hidden rage that flashes within his eyes.

Not wanting to darken the blessed moment a second more, you push a piece of hair out of his eyes before placing a gentle kiss against his lips, pulling away he slightly follows, “It doesn’t matter now. We’re two lonely souls together in this fucked up world and I want you to make love to me.” A small grin replaces the once bitter frown as he leans in closer.

“Then I will.” Answers Bucky, his voice as soft and velvety as the most precious flowers, he soon moves forward to gently push you on to your back, stealing another kiss along the way while he hovers over your heated body.

His form is much broader then your own as he pins your vessel to the bed, hands drag lazily through his increasingly messy hair as you slowly part your legs for him to rest his clothed nether regions against your own equally as kept queen jewels. Now he lays flush against your clothed bodies, fitting perfectly like two golden pieces of a Kings prized puzzle.

The growing friction of his hardening member against your sensitive nerves is enough to make you growl in frustration from lack of satisfying contact. Tugging his head back from your lips, you smirk as he pouts, “I’m enjoying this Buck, I really am, but our pants gotta go.” He promptly breaks out into a knowing grin.

“I was thinking the exact same thing.” Muses Bucky in agreement as he leans back to give you some space for safely kicking off your pants and undies as he fumbles with his own from the spot next to your left. Naked and shining in all your magnificent glory, you watch in amusement as he struggles to shove down his jeans before a small giggle escapes your lips when he frustratingly throws them across the floor.

Knees guarding your hidden treasure below, you smirk while resting your arms against the bed, eyes flashing in entertained contentment as they glance up at him, “I’m not going anywhere, Buck.” You quip as he shakes his head in embarrassment.

“Yeah. Well...” He’s quickly interrupted as you pull him back down against your naked form, “oh, hi.” Whispers Bucky as his face keeps mere inches from your own, pieces of black hair tickling the sides of your face.

“Hi.” You mutter back with a shy smile before raising a brow and glancing downward for a brief moment, “Care to take those off?” You ask in referral to his underwear that’s still keeping it all in, his poor manhood that looks just about ready to rip through his boxers any second now.

Glancing down as well, he quickly smiles as a dust of pink coats his stubbled cheeks, “oh, right......just a moment.” His body leaves yours once again to kneel on the mattress as he almost trips out of them, you stare on in anticipated excitement as he swiftly pulls down his undies to reveal a very hard member indeed. He was packing this whole time!

Cheeks flushing pink once more, he gives you a shy nervous grin before placing his hands on either side of your closed legs. With pleading eyes of dashing cobalt, they flash a stormy sky of hunger and lust. Bucky draws his lips closer to your knee before suddenly placing a gentle kiss against your naked skin. “Is this okay?” He asks cautiously incase you might have changed your mind about everything, still completely uncertain if this is all some cruel dream and he’s about to wake up at any moment.

Parting your legs on your own accord, you smile fondly at him, “Of course. Now come here.” You beckon with a confident nod of your head, openly inviting him to join you now in the most intimate of ways.

Heeding to your pleasing command, the super soldier hovers over your naked body once again as you part your legs even wider for his wanting hardness that just barley brushes past your inner upper thigh, so close to your entrance. You could just about melt into a puddle of goo.

Your breaths are more heavy now as you both anticipate the sweet moment to come; both flesh and metal arm fall to either side of your face as his lips ghost over yours, breath hot against your smiling face, “I haven’t done this in awhile, I’ll admit. Sorry if I don’t do grea...”

Kissing him roughly, you shut him up real quick, “It’s fine. No judgment here, I promise.” You add honestly with another sweet kiss as you feel downward for his hardened cock, finding it rather quickly he hums in surprised delight as you grasp it before leading him to your slick entrance.

Once close enough to get there on his own will, do you smirk up at him with a face more valuable then all the diamonds in the whole entire world; your hands grasp either side of his biceps, as he studies your nodding face, “I’m ready.” And with that does his tip touch your fiery skin, slowly he pushes into you with a pleasurable groan escaping from his parted lips.

Immediately do you gasp in surprise at his fullness graciously stretching your walls, “Did I hurt you?!” Worries your new lover as you wrap your legs around his hips before sending him a confident wink and a kiss for good measure.

“Nothing can hurt me.” You confirm with another heated kiss to his lips, soon you begin grinding into him the best you can manage as he starts moving pleasantly against your core. His strong hips pushing you back into the mattress in the absolutely best way possible.

Bucky soon finds an effective pace and with that begins thrusting into you harder now as he gains more and more confidence with your wanting body of pure flame and desire; only the delicious sounds of skin on skin contact making itself present in the tiny apartment, besides your labored breaths of intense love making.

Your mind is nothing but foggy mush as he pushes himself deeper and deeper into your slick entrance with each beautifully graceful stroke of his godlike hips. Soft moans and muffled grunts continue to leave his throat as he pumps in and out of you over and over again. Ugh, you could just about die happy.

Causing you to whimper in pleasure as the tiny growing coil inside you gets tighter and tighter with every new thrust to your center walls. His hard cock twitches against your sensitive nerves as his own orgasm begins reaching its inevitable climax, he’s so fucking close.

With a couple more powerful thrusts does he finally succumb to your glorious body and cum hard inside you, his voice gravely and deeply enthralling as he moans in pleasure of the golden release. Feeling his member twitch angrily from within is enough to send you over the edge with ecstasy, causing your walls to clench instinctively against his dexterously slick cock. Fuck he feels good.

More whimpers and moans fall helplessly off of your tongue as your fingers trail pink fiery lines across his glowing skin, he’s without a doubt just as sweaty as you are by this point, and all the more beautiful.

Kissing your lips hungrily, Bucky pounds relentlessly harder into you now as the two of you silently decide to continue on for a swiftly approaching round two. In no time he has the both of you cumming even harder and messier then the first, with moans and groans of plenty reverberating off the aged old walls of his tiny apartment.

Leaving your body a shaking and sweaty mess as he thrusts a couple last pumps into you for good measure, pink swollen lips not once leaving yours until at long last does he gently pull out for the first time in what seems like hours. Though you definitely weren’t complaining, both of you have a plethora of stamina to spare, though you did wear him out.

Falling into an exhausted heap of Bucky next to you on the messy bed, his chest quickly rises and falls with heavy breaths as your does the same. For a few long moments do the two of you keep silent, just the sounds of your heavy breathing the only thing of any significance in the darkly room lit room.

After giving yourself a couple minutes to cool down, Bucky blissfully chuckles, causing you to turn your head towards his beaming face as he stares up at the ceiling, “Something funny Barnes?” You muse in that gloriously prominent accent of yours that drives him wild. He turns his sweat covered head over to you, pieces of long hair sticking to the sides of his handsomely beaming face.

“Are we dead? This feels like a dream and I’m going to wake up alone any second now.” Mutters Bucky, eyes blinking in hopes this is real and true as life itself.

Laughing, you move from your back to lay flush against his left side while watching your every move, kissing his chest you hum, “Well, you’d have a real mess in the morning.”

Bucky immediately scrunches his nose up in slight disgust as you sling an arm over his bare chest, “Thank you for that image Y/N.” He retorts with a short burst of air leaving from his nostrils, indicating he did indeed find it rather amusing.

Kissing his cheek you shrug, “It’s not like your load isn’t still....in places, it’s sex Buck. It’s messy and beautiful and I’m glad I could do this with you. Seriously, I thought we’d never get here.”

Bucky’s face appears rather thoughtful for a long moment before he finally speaks, “I didn’t think you liked me like that.”

“What!?” You exclaim in bewilderment, causing him to snicker as you continue with your explanation, “Was I not obvious enough with the stolen glances and whatever else I could get away with? I was trying actually if you wanted to know....in my own way, but still.”

“I did try to kill you once.” Confirms Bucky as you lay comfortably against his metal arm, head resting on his upper chest while his eyes flicker back up to the ceiling.

Scoffing, you flick a piece of his hair, “I didn’t take it personally.”

Thinking for a moment, he finally looks down at you, “I’m glad you didn’t. And I’m glad that you found me.” Whispers your lover as he reveals the most dashing smile you’ve ever seen, while his flesh arm gently caresses down your shoulder in a blissfully comforting manner.

“Me too.” You add, pressing another soft kiss to his lips as you trail a finger down his side, “Now let’s take a shower......and probably change the sheets.”

“We don’t have sheets.”

——

An annoying ray of golden sunlight shines brightly in your closed eyelids from a small tear in the middle of the window newspaper, as your senses slowly come back to the world. You squint before taking a deep breath and shifting your gaze to make a full circle of the room, since you do happen to be facing away from the wall.

Your eyes trail over to Bucky’s usual spot only to reveal absolutely nothing, your heart suddenly jumps in your chest as the pleasurable memories of last night come flooding into your head once again, and some of the leftover smells, you can thank those fucking scientist for that.

That’s right, you think, you slept with Bucky, and he’s literally snoozing away right behind you.

Smiling into the morning sun, you quietly sit up before turning your head to look down at Bucky, his hair is an absolute adorable mess as it lays across his face in various dark strands. He’s currently shirtless with the exception of some sweatpants and the thin blanket he owns that’s positioned across his torso.

You’re clothed as well, deciding it best to be dressed and comfy after the heated shower session you two shared; oh to be back in that moment for another minute longer, how nice that would be.

Slipping away from your daydreaming of Bucky, your heart skips a beat as he stirs, soon enough does his beautiful blues open up to the world. Finding your adoring gaze, he rests a hand on your folded leg, “Mornin’ Y/N.” Mutters Bucky in that raspy early morning voice of his, the actual greeting sounding more like a toddler learning to speak for the fist time then anything truly coherent. Or like a drunken man.

Rubbing a hand through his dark locks, you smile lovingly down at his stubbly morning face as he closes his eyes yet again, showing pure bliss while your fingers run through his scalp. “Touch starved much?” You quip as he opens his eyes and yawns like that of a sleepy old bear, metal arm flashing a quick stray beam of light when he shifts.

“Maybe.” Teases Bucky as he silently beckons for you to lay down with him, heeding to this hopeful inquisition, you scoot yourself onto your side and graciously welcome as his flesh arm reaches over your torso to pull you in closer.

Noses mere inches from one another, you raise a brow as he stares lovingly into your eyes, “Cozy?”

Gently kissing your lips in reply, he pulls back to reveal a positive lazy grin, “I think so.” Jests Bucky as he pushes you onto your back so that he can sling an arm over your rib cage, essentially pinning you to the bed with no real intention of letting you go any time soon.

The both of you stay like that for a good couple of minutes, just enjoying each other’s company in the late morning sun before he finally decides to speak, “Was last night....uh, good?” Wonders Bucky in nervous apprehension as his head rests comfortably against yours.

Giving him a light peck, you grin, “The best I’ve ever had.” And you mean every single word.

He gently squeezes your side in reply before muttering, “You were great too.”

Lightly chuckling, your eyes squint as you smile brightly at him, “Well that’s good to know. Glad I hadn’t lost my incredible seduction skills.”

“Yeah, I was thoroughly seduced.” Quips Bucky as you snicker.

Tagged: @minigranger @bibliophilewednesday @holyhumorliteraturelight @diegos-butt

#bucky barnes series #the winter soldier x y/n #the winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier x you #the winter soldier #Bucky Barnes #tfatws x reader #Bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n

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elriel-oblivion · 4 years ago

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So it's been four days so here's part two 😁 Just wanted to say a huge thanks to everyone who read/liked/commented/reblogged the last part! It was such an amazing response, especially given it was my first time posting my writing here, so thanks for all the love you shared 🥰🥰

Heads up, this part is actually part one from Elain's pov. Initially I wanted to continue from where the last part left off in Elain's pov, but as I was writing the background, I realised I'd written too much to just skip when Az gets to the estate and cut straight into a continuation of part one, so I ended up rewriting the whole thing in her view. So there's no new elriel moments, but you'll get a lot of new stuff anyway 😅 I would've said you don't have to read this part to understand part three, but when I was rereading the later parts a few hours ago, I realised there's some stuff that alludes to things in this part, so I strongly recommend you don't skip this 😅😅

Also, wow, some of my fave paragraphs I've ever written are in this part 😁 Bonus points if you can find them; there are four I'm thinking of in particular 😉

Word count: ~ 3.1K. Lemme know if you'd like to be tagged/removed 😊 Next part up in two or three days 😊

AO3

Ashes from the Deep

Part II

It had been a pretty uneventful day as Elain worked through her new plant textbook. Feyre and Rhysand had decided to spend the weekend away at the mountain cabin, Cassian and Nesta were away doing things she wished not to think of, and Mor was at the Winter Court.

Amren had only been round in the mornings, probably to check Elain was still alive. She'd glance round the living room, examine some of those fine crystal glasses in the display cabinet and then leave. There was no difference today, though Elain always felt Amren's scrutiny upon her even when that muted silver gaze was directed elsewhere; perusing Rhys' wine collection had become a tired ruse.

So besides preparing and taking her meals with Nuala and Cerridwen, Elain had spent her afternoon with her book, making notes and copying drawings. The twins had gone off on some errands, so she'd wandered into the garden at some point to tend to her many plants, telling them how lovely they each were. The crocuses looked particularly stunning this autumn day, their pale violet colour breathing life into the shades beneath some of the trees.

With her book, she'd identified new weeds, digging into the soil to rip some pesky ones out. Sometimes she didn't want the help of a tool; sometimes she needed to feel those roots on her bare skin.

Harvesting the carrots and beetroot was also on the agenda today, along with seeding for some spectacular displays next year. She'd been collecting the seeds from some of her summer blooms, like those soft clouds of baby's breath, saving them to replant. These she sowed directly into ground she'd prepared days before, her fingers digging into the crumbly clumps of earth.

Autumn onions she'd plant tomorrow, perhaps. Feyre always remarked on how their strong taste complimented meats well, so Elain wanted to harvest some fresh for her sister for once. It'd take a few months of waiting, but there was little else better than picking out and eating food one had grown with their bare hands and the essential ingredients of love and care.

Setting her book on the patio table, Elain surveyed the garden. It was a good day's work. Plants watered and sown, weeds uprooted, and hands sweaty and soiled, Elain was proud of what she'd achieved today. There were no distractions, nothing to take her from the one thing she always found satisfaction in.

After a long shower, she found herself back in the garden with a cup of tea and a blanket. The sunset washed the sky in a blaze of red and orange glory before it yielded to the cool tones of twilight then night. Elain sat in silence, hands wrapped around her mug. How long would it be until someone's arms were wrapped around her, until she felt the warmth her sisters finally had?

Silly, these thoughts. Immortality stretched far ahead, there would be time to develop that companionship. Months and years were but a heartbeat in the life of a High Fae. She wouldn't even notice the years pass.

Or so everybody else kept saying.

With her tea finished, she perused the book of recipes she'd borrowed from Nuala. Some recipes jumped out, ingredients for which she'd been growing for a few months now. Pumpkin pie sounded especially delightful, the gourd having almost darkened and hardened to ripe quality just a couple days ago. They should be ready for harvest tomorrow.

A chill wind sent Elain inside to prepare and have her dinner in pleasant silence. Even her mind was quiet tonight. After washing her dishes, she stood by a bay window, fingers idly tapping the windowsill.

Faelights bobbed like tiny lamps, dotted through the garden. The full moon was now high in the sky, its ghostly glow illuminating the datura flowers she'd seeded half a year ago. She pulled on her blanket and went out again for a better look at those gorgeous blooms, the petals opening only at night.

Elain couldn't be happier she'd found seeds of a triple-flowered variety. They'd grown to produce large trumpets, three layers of petals ruffled against each other. Somehow she thought of her sisters as she crouched and stared at the flowers, each layer so similar, yet fighting for space and breath as it unfurled before another. It was only when they were all fully open that they could sigh along the night breeze as one, an ethereal song of togetherness, tinged with notes of poignancy, only heard by those with the will to look deeper.

The white petals were stained with velvet violet, a true vision in her garden. While the others had given her passing compliments on the flowers, Azriel had seemed stunned the first time he saw them, citing them his favourite of all the plants Elain had grown so far. Something about their shape and contrasting colours, he'd mentioned.

She smiled fondly at the memory, where his eyes sparkled as he reached for one of the soft petals.

Her hand lashed out to grab his wrist. 'Don't touch them; the leaves and stems are highly poisonous.'

His brows rose. 'You wouldn't think that at first sight. But they're beautiful, Elain. Truly magnificent,' he said, his smooth voice so low, a voice that was night given sound. And how befitting, as even those datura flowers seemed enraptured by his presence, one shy petal finally unfurling towards him.

She beamed at him. 'They like you. Flowers like it when you talk to and compliment them - but these ones haven't given me the same reaction as they have to you. I think they really like you, Azriel.'

His answering smile was heartbreakingly tender.

A few more seconds passed before she realised she still held his wrist. She silently let go.

It was a shame she'd have to dig out the datura shrub and move it inside for the winter; it did look magnificent in the moonlight.

The sky shifted past its midnight velvet, and still Elain crouched, admiring the flowers. She shivered in the night's chill. The stars above twinkled and glistened, cold and distant as ever, yet stunning - infinitely more striking than they'd ever been when she was human. A thousand different colours sparkled in that vast expanse, the moon a phosphorescent queen in the centre of her court.

The Night Court truly lived up to its name in the wee hours of the day. Its opulence never failed to mesmerise her; the enhanced Fae eyesight was at least one thing she was grateful for from this body.

Her eyelids became heavy and she yawned. Why was she still out here? It was late into the night; she should be in bed by now. But the night was so beautiful and it was so quiet and she wanted to appreciate it all just once. Just once without the expectations of others, without having to wear that miserable smile all the time.

Of course, it didn't look miserable, which is probably why almost nobody ever bothered to look deeper into Elain. She should be used to it by now, but it still felt - wrong. That most overlooked her so long as she wore a smile. That most didn't think her capable of feeling the utter bitterness and loneliness she had once seen so plain on her sisters' faces.

And in acknowledgement of her sisters' hardships, Elain didn't fault them for not looking, for not seeing her. To see past the thick blanket of darkness in one's own mind was a trial in itself. But it had been years since the war now. And still they didn't notice.

They didn't notice that Elain was being shredded from the inside out.

It was almost laughable. But not funny enough.

No, it was not funny that people still treated Elain like a child, that people wanted to keep Elain in some weird impasse of a stage between child and adult. She'd thought finally carrying out her duty and giving her hand in marriage would show everyone that she was growing up: Elain Archeron, middle born but first married. Of course it was still on her own terms, to a man whom she'd loved. A man who'd seen her through the rubble of her family's lives. But she'd overall hoped doing what was expected of her would be enough.

Clearly not. She didn't even know who she was any more. Did she ever? Everything she'd once yearned for, gone. That fragile human life would soon be just a speck on the horizon of her past.

She sighed. Rebuilding herself was going to take a long time.

But what would she have to do for people to see her, to listen to her? Throw a rage? Fall into a drunken stupor and break a few dozen bottles?

She definitely could, but those were not her. She was Elain Archeron. And so she would wait. Patience wasn't a bad thing at all; she saw it on the shadowsinger's face all the time, that tranquility and calmness she so wished to feel inside.

Azriel. Her heart softened as he entered her mind again, and she dug her fingers into the soil, if only to occupy her fidgety hands. As sure as the chaos of her visions these days, there was a mess of butterflies related to him she wasn't willing to show. Or understand.

Elain and the spymaster? Now that was laughable. Truly laughable. He was wise and patient, while she - well, everyone already thought her a child, and though he listened like no other around her, surely even he couldn't glimpse the adult she so desperately wanted everyone to see.

No, it was foolish to entertain the idea of a relationship with him. No matter how much he saw.

No matter that he was the first to see her since Graysen.

Elain exhaled. She stifled another yawn, smoothing out the soil, then brushed her hands clean. She wrapped the blanket closer around herself and stood. Twinkling stars and velvety darkness and -

There, a knot of shadows materialising at the far edge of the garden, collecting and swirling into a larger mass before Azriel himself stepped out and sagged against a tree. His shadows whirled and obscured him, a dark fire with him burning at the core.

Elain's voice left her throat before she even thought to call him and she ran over to his figure slumped in the dimness.

She couldn't help but say his name again as she neared. 'Azriel!'

Those beautiful hands fiddled with a Siphon, but he looked even worse up close. Fatigue dragged at his body, a second weight to all the muscle and armour he already had to carry. Sweat and dirt clung to him, his hair. At least the shadows were parting, swallowing each other and misting away as they often did around her. Perhaps she should ask someday why they did that. But not today, not when his breathing was so laboured.

She raised a hand - to do what, she had no idea. She couldn't just touch him right now. 'You don't look okay.'

Something else limned his features as he huffed a light laugh and said, 'I'm fine, don't worry.' His voice was raw, so starkly different to its usual icy smoothness. It was common for him to guard his emotions, but in his state, this kind of thinking was just unhealthy. What would it take for him to be honest with her?

'You don't have to pretend with me, Azriel,' she said, lowering her hand. She studied the ground, embarrassed that she'd come up to him. What could she even offer in her pathetic childlike state when he was so clearly affected by his mission right now?

His hand rose. Her heart faltered, she had to do something, and she blurted, 'Can I wash your hair, please?'

His eyes widened, his entire composure crumbling. It wasn't often that the shadowsinger looked startled, but Elain was far too shy to show that she quite liked the effect her question had on him.

'You want to wash my hair?'

His face was so exquisite, it hurt to look at it. His eyes would be even worse; it wouldn't be the first time she was rendered speechless by their kind gaze. A myriad of colours swirled in their glistening depths - gorgeous greens and brilliant browns, all so natural and rich, if only she could look at them long enough to find their matches in the garden around her. Though, his eyes were an entire spectrum of colour in their own right. How would she ever pick out each and every shade?

And if she somehow did have the courage to meet his eyes now, what would she see of herself in their reflection?

A lovesick puppy? A doe-eyed, fearful fawn?

No, she didn't want to know.

So she swallowed and focused on his hair. Perhaps this Fae eyesight was a curse, for even his hair was shockingly fascinating. Only flat black from a distance, the faelights bobbing about the trees highlighted layer upon layer of silky raven locks up close. His hair was so dark it seemed to absorb the surrounding light. Mud stained one side of his head, and it was an effort to keep her hands from brushing it away, so she said, 'I'm positive that's mud and you shouldn't sleep with that in your hair. It'll only take a few minutes.'

He ran a hand through his hair, clumps of dirt falling out.

'You've managed to get some on your face, too.' There were light specks of mud and blood across his face, a more noticeable patch along his cheekbone, thrown into sharper relief by the faelights and his own weariness. Was that a cut beneath the patch? And another on his temple?

She leashed her arms.

What had happened? He wore the signs of a fight, but why would he come here when he knew Elain was the only one home?

His eyes bored into her face, but she refused to meet them. He seemed to lean forward then, stumbling.

Ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous that he wouldn't even acknowledge he was in need. Azriel rarely stumbled. Any fatigue Elain had felt just a while ago was now burrowing down a little longer. Her voice was firm when she spoke. 'I'm washing your hair. It'll help relax you into falling asleep.'

His brows rose, but if Elain stood there one more moment she wouldn't have the courage to do anything for him. For herself - she could take care of someone else. She could do for Azriel what she hadn't done for Feyre all those years as a human.

And for Azriel, she could tend to the male who'd provided her with comfort and safety in this world of distress and danger.

So she pulled him along, clenching her jaw and refusing to look back. Her heart hammered in her chest but she continued, hand wrapped round his armoured arm. Her hand slid down to his wrist but just as she was about to replace her grip, he grabbed her other hand and pulled her into him.

The shadows instantly began to ensconce them, dozens of those cool tendrils twining like vines. The estate loomed huge before them, and Elain gripped Azriel's hand tighter.

'My bathroom,' she said. Beneath the low whisper of those shadows, her blood thrummed, her heart so painfully obvious against her ribs now. It would be a wonder if the spymaster wasn't aware of it. Though she did hear another flutter above, right by her ear. But as expected, the shadows made quick work of their journey and she didn't have the chance to dwell on it further.

Now out of the comfort of Azriel's hold, Elain set down her blanket and made to grab a chair from her bedroom. His dark presence was so overwhelming that she exhaled lightly as she entered the room and took the chair. She dragged it to the sink, avoiding his gaze, and pulled a towel, soap and a large jug from the cupboard by the door.

As she settled the soap and jug on the sink, she dared a glance at him. He was still clad in full armour, those black scales gleaming like obsidian over his skin, his Siphons glistening jewels across his body. 'I think you'll have to collapse your armour for this,' she said.

He inclined his head and tapped a Siphon, those scales lashing back into each other with cruel elegance. They were a mirror of their master: cold, controlled and unyielding, forged from scintillating darkness. He was a night sky riddled with stars; light existed if only one bothered to look for it.

Azriel's great wings righted themselves as he stood straight, now looking smaller in just his black tunic and trousers. Something about him seemed vulnerable without the armour, so Elain breathed, 'It's beautiful, all of it.' The hulking armour, the classic simplicity of the tunic and trousers, and the male who wore them all.

He was just so wonderful, Azriel. An enigma that could see her own. Her heart clenched.

Azriel rustled his wings, colour blossoming on his cheeks.

Elain blinked and pulled the chair out a little. 'Please sit.' As he sunk down, she rested the towel on his shoulders, hovering her fingers above his forehead. Her body tensed and her fingers remained suspended. It was like a spark of tension flickered in the space between their skin, teasing her, tempting her, taunting her.

After all, she'd offered to wash his hair, an act that would certainly require touching. But why was she so hesitant? She'd touched him before - kissed his cheek, even. Although that had been in the heat of adrenaline, a mark of her gratitude where a simple thank you wouldn't suffice, not for risking his own life for hers.

This was - what was this?

She finally lowered her fingers through that tense spark, pushing his head back against the sink. It was exhilarating, this contact, but he lowered his wings, shifting on the seat. Elain moved into the space he gave, turning on the tap as he went still. Just as her body was taut, taut as the skin of a drum.

She checked the water. Warm. It was time to start.

Azriel was looking up at her. Something like yearning swirled in his eyes.

He looked so tired. It made her heart ache.

'You can close your eyes,' Elain whispered. And he did.

___

Feedback's welcomed; thanks for reading 😊

If anyone wants to know what the datura flowers look like, CTTO:

@illyrian-lover-flower @julesherondalex @nooriee @mis-lil-red @verifiefangirl @tswaney17

#elain archeron #azriel #elain x azriel #elriel #acotar

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cryinginthebackseat · 4 years ago

Text

initials t.c.

Fandom: Open Heart

Pairing: Tobias Carrick x MC

Words: 7.299 (I’M SO SORRY)

Summary: Tobias Carrick makes Claire an offer she can’t refuse.

Warnings: 50% plot, 50% smut, swear-a-thon, blasphemy

Author’s Note: when the book first introduced us to tobias carrick, the first thing that hit my mind was “okay, but that dude is like the carbon copy of jesse williams and that’s hot” but then, once it reveals who he is and what’s his role in the book i went “interestinggggggg” cause you know, i’m a sucker for morally grey characters and all, and i’m not even ashamed to admit it. also, carrick is shaping up to be such an interesting character with each chapter and maybe one day- okay, maybe this sounds like a pipe dream- but one day, i hope he can be a li (let a girl dream plz) lmao

also if anyone’s interested, i made a PLAYLIST to accompany reading the fic.

the title is inspired by serge gainsbourg’s initials bb

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Cast down off heaven Cast down on my knees I’ve lain with the devil Cursed god above Forsaken heaven

To Bring You My Love - PJ Harvey

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Whenever Claire thinks about Tobias Carrick, admittedly, unfortunately, tragically, she always thinks about his eyes first before remembering what a colossal pain in the ass he is.

It always comes in that order. Like the number 3 always comes before 4, like the seawater dragging back from the shoreline before a tsunami occurs, like pouring milk before the cereal (she honestly didn’t get what the fuss is about until one day Elijah cried ‘oh, hell no you don’t, satan!‘ one morning and proceeded to give her bullet points why pouring the milk before the cereal is considered a sin and more of an abomination than Nephilims’ existence and that there’s a higher probability that she’s a psycho for being a ‘milk first’ kind of person). So apparently, Claire’s a psycho now which explains so many aspects- but she digresses and the point is, the reaction is uncontrollable and she high-key hates how she can’t control her goddamn mind most of the time.

The point is, she needs to stop thinking about him to begin with.

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Claire Castelnuovo was born in the summer, under the sign of Gemini. Marilyn Monroe once said that stands for intellect, being a Gemini, but she was too blissfully unaware of this guerdon that she devoted her adolescent years to being outdoors instead. Too many days she spent trampling along the cornfields with her cousins until the skies faded out with brilliant purple-tinged amber and she was carrying a piece of the sun in her skin and smelled like one, stuffing wildflowers inside her boots as she walked around the neighborhood with her dad’s old stethoscope, napping in a hammock with Oasis’ All Around the World on repeat. By the time she hit 15, her black strands had turned brown from repeated sun exposure. She loved it.

But it was a different time, a different place. Somewhere that only exists on the margins of her memories, lost and hidden.

Now, Claire prefers the night.

It’s 9:30 pm when she arrives at a hotel bar in downtown Boston. A newly christened establishment which has somehow become a regular spot for Hemingway’s enthusiasts once the Boston Globe wrote an article about their Hemingway Daiquiri and how, as they wrote it, ‘probably the only place that’s brave and crazy enough to adhere to the 1930s original recipe’ and bourgeois party birds at wee hours during the weekend.

Her eyes are gritty, dry and strange. Her mind’s much worse for the wear- she feels like shit, like in the middle of watching that scene from The Green Mile shit when all is hopeless and you feel like walking out of the theater, but you’ve spent your last savings just to buy the ticket, so you decide to stick through it.

Claire makes a beeline for the bar, tries to flag down the bartender. She orders an Old Fashioned, making sure to specify to double it because she’s not a regular here and he’s not Reggie and that’s how she’s been taking her drink for years.

She knows well deep in her bones that she should be somewhere else. Somewhere more familiar, somewhere where Tim Mcgraw often plays from the subpar speakers, and the rustic wooden bar countertop is gouging and discoloring from the cheap household cleaners and alcohol stains, and her friends are cramming together in the same booth in the back, reveling and laughing until they close the bar down and make a mess all over. Perhaps it’s a mistake coming here, where no one’s a familiar face and the drinks are a tad overpriced for her budget.

But then, perhaps this is exactly what she needs; the unfamiliarity, the visceral feeling knowing that she doesn’t belong here, where no one knows her name and the huge deal of weight she’s currently carrying on her shoulders. Perhaps, she can’t face her friends after what happened, after what Esme has done. Shit, how could any of this happen? Claire knows this all on Esme’s, but her guilt has grown hopelessly tangled with her anxiety. She’s her intern, for fuck’s sake, Claire’s supposed to prevent this from happening in the first place.

Man, where’s Declan Nash when she feels like punching someone in the face?

Claire makes the mistake of drinking her drink too quickly, because it hasn’t been ten minutes and she’s drained half of the content. Then she reaches for her phone in her bag, fiddles with it, absent-minded, equal parts bored before then settles on watching the band performing Art Pepper’s You Go To My Head and immediately thinks of that time she accidentally dropped her brother’s saxophone in a moment of her rather graceless, wine-soaked self with the whole family present.

Someone plops down on the empty stool next to her. Claire’s now scrolling through her phone- again, bored. Sienna commented on the post Elijah shared to the group chat with a few unnecessary-yet-totally-necessary emojis to the already convoluted series of texts and Claire only reads them in silence, not only because her friends’ texting behaviors are too chaotic for her to follow sometimes but she’s not really feeling like talking to anyone right now.

“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Famous last words.

Claire freezes in her seat. Her phone’s still glowing in her hand, alighting her features. She recognizes that voice- too well, that is and it’s enough to set off her flight-or-fight response.

She glances up from her phone, preparing for the worst.

Well, what’s presented before her is literally the worst.

“Of all the gin joints…” she says once her eyes find Tobias Carrick sitting next to her, still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled-up, a few buttons undone, reeking of smoke, soap and antiseptic with a shit-eating grin plastered over his face.

She should have gone to Donahue’s instead.

“Evening to you too, Castelnuovo. Drinking your dinner tonight, I see?”

“What, this? No, this is breakfast. 100% daily value of alcohol and pretty much nothing else. I mean, it’s not the weekend without a bad case of hangover and an aspirin snowglobe in the morning, am I right? You know, like a glass of aspirin? Not a literal snowglobe?” she blabbers, realizing just so by the time she hears him snort. Claire chokes down another sip to shut her mouth up. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m about to commit first-degree murder and burn this whole place to the ground,” he drawls, the ever goddamn sarcastic. “What do you think? I’m trying to get dru-”

“No, I mean what are you doing here, of all places? Can’t you get drunk somewhere else?” she interrupts, her midwest accent does funny things to the vowels and consonants- something that only happens whenever she’s in distress, or at least according to Jackie.

“Last time I heard, this joint’s still owned by the Hilton, not a certain junior member of the Diagnostics Team at Edenbrook hospital.”

“Dude, what do you think of the H in Claire H. Castelnuovo stands for?” Deadpan, trying to keep up with the rolling sarcasm, she retorts. He smirks.

“Horatio?”

“Get the fuck out of here,” she mutters, mid-eye-roll, mid-snickering.

He chuckles, his voice rich and smoky amidst the late-night swing and distant chatters. Carrick doesn’t leave, of course, typically him- if those anecdotes Ethan told her has taught her anything about his character, that is- defying everything, scheming his way to the top, the embodiment of ‘those devilish boys with their heavenly eyes’ type your mother warns you about.

Not that the latter is relevant.

“Or what?” His mouth twitches but there’s a hard, challenging light in his eyes that she knows too well by now.

“Or I’m leaving.“ She shoots him a glare. He’s testing her patience- again, like it’s his finesse. Some things never change, it seems.

“Come on, Castelnuovo, don’t be a sourpuss. The night is young and I can promise you, the last thing I am is a horrible drinking buddy.”

With a touch of irony, she replies: “I’m sure. I bet you asked your friends to fill out a questionnaire every time you went out with them, did you?”

Carrick hums.

“You’re funny.” But he says it in the same tone that someone might say Jesus fuck, you’re probably one of the most frustrating creatures I’ve ever laid eyes on. Also, because the next thing he says is: “A little rough around the edges, but funny nonetheless.”

“That makes one of us then.”

Carrick frowns, which is kind of a surprise because she’s half expected him to flash her that signature cheeky grin of his.

“Listen, I’m just trying to make a friendly conversation here. I know we haven’t really seen eye-to-eye with each othe-”

Claire snorts and crosses her arms over her chest. “That, doctor, is an understatement of the fucking century.”

“Okay so, we’re like Tom and Jerry but sans the background music and a naive little duckling running around calling one of us his momma, but I feel like now’s the time to call out a temporary truce between us.” A beat, then: “I heard about what happened with the intern.”

Something flashes across her face- and Carrick must have noticed it, because his face does this odd thing- it softens, even for a moment. She hates it. He’s not supposed to be looking at her like that, not supposed to see her at her weakest state or saved her ass- And Jesus, why does she have to be indebted to Tobias Carrick, of all people- But god forbid, the last thing she’ll ever do is crying in front of him.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she mutters, barely audible, trying to temper her fluctuated emotions.

“Then don’t. We can talk about anything else or fall into some sort of endless, meaningless platitudes. Whichever will work.” As if sensing Claire’s lingering hesitation, he adds. “Tell you what, to sweeten the offer, your next drinks are on me.”

She assesses him for a long minute, eyes narrowing. She’s shaking her head, but her mouth, as if against her will, instead says: “Careful, Carrick, there’s a chance I’ll be abusing that offer and run you dry.”

"Hey, if you want to butcher your liver so bad, don’t stop on my account,” he says. “Don’t worry, though, I’ll make sure to save your ass again this time around. Pro bono.”

Claire looks as if she’s just swallowed a dead rat. “Thanks, but no thanks. Death seems more like an appealing choice.”

“Well, I stopped death from interfering then, I’ll stop it again.” Carrick winks, she pretends to gag again yet remains still in her seat, so Carrick waves at the bartender for their order- she orders for a refill and he, a martini and Claire is this close from asking 'shaken or stirred?’ but then remembers who he is and immediately washes the question down with her drink.

“You know, if anyone told me weeks ago that I’d be having a drink with you tonight, I probably would have socked them.“

Carrick is in the middle of lighting his cigarette, but laughs instead. “The Times They Are a-Changin’, as Bob Dylan said.” A puff of smoke escapes his mouth, curling around his fingers. Claire instinctively looks away. “Which reminds me of that one time your mentor sang Ballad of A Thin Man on the fucking subway when we were 20.”

She swivels her head to his direction, on the verge of choking on her drink. “Hold on, hold on, Ethan Jonah Ramsey sings?”

“Give him a dare he couldn’t refuse and a few shots of whiskey, and I promise you he’ll sing like Sinatra on crack.” He grins, his eyes are all crinkled and bright; she thinks that means he’s genuinely amused. “Ah, good times. We were like- wait, who was it he’d like to say we’re like again?”

A small smile pulls at her lips. “Bert and Ernie.”

“Jesus, he really fucking compares us to some Sesame Street characters, huh?” She laughs at that, loud and bright. He does the same. “Personally, I’d always say we were like Butch and Sundance back then- rebels with a cause, a band of misfits, trying to leave our marks on the world. You know those types. We were young, we wanted so much- I still do. I mean, let’s be real, whoever’s wanted to be defeated at their own game?”

A crease forms between her eyebrows, not quite a frown.

“Nobody,” Claire concurs, hating herself for it. “But was it worth it? Betraying the closest thing you had to a brother or a lover…” Carrick coughs on his smoke from the latter. “or whatever in the process just to get what you wanted?” Claire was obviously aiming for that brash, hard-hitting jab, but it lands gloriously too soft.

The bartender finally places their ordered drinks down on the bar. Carrick reaches for it, taking a careful swig, then sets his glass down. He takes a deep breath.

"It’s nothing personal. It never was. I never considered him as my rival.”

“Yeah, but by doing whatever you did, you’ve made an enemy out of him,” she counters. “Look, Carrick, I know we live in a dog-eat-dog world and I know being good sometimes doesn’t get the job done. Perhaps Machiavelli was right. Perhaps, when necessary, you have to be ruthless, dissembling and manoeuvring- what did he say again? ‘The end justifies the means’? But if any worthwhile end can justify the means to attain it, if everyone outright surrenders to their darker side, then what’s left of our humanity?”

For an interminable moment, there is only silence. He simply stares at her, as if she’s a walking, talking Rubik’s cube he can’t solve or a book that he has opened and now he’s got to know so much more and she feels pinned under those warm irises, uneasy.

Suddenly, his mouth begins to take shape; the corners hike up, stretch and then he does the unexpected.

The bastard fucking laughs.

“Excuse me?!” she spits, white-hot anger lacing each word. Carrick laughs harder- the audacity- despite Claire’s growing razor’s edge stare. “Did you just laugh at me? I was being fucking seriou-”

“Sorry, sorry.” Wiping an imaginary tear from his left eye. “I was just remembering Harper’s words. She’s right, you really are on the side of the angels, aren’t you?”

She points at him with her glass, snarling. “And you, mister, are the devil himself with a medical degree and an egg head- and I don’t mean the slang for a highly academic person.”

“Ouch,” Carrick says out loud, still kind of laughing, borderline frowning. “Okay, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“Damn straight. Though you have a lot to apologize for.”

He groans. “Don’t tell me you’re still pissed about that one patient I stole under your nose?”

“The North remembers, ser,” she says, mean-spirited.

“Then does the North remembers that I saved her life?”

“Oh, so you’re discrediting the efforts of the other doctors that helped you make the cure?”

“Alright, alright. You win.” Carrick holds up his hands, the universal gesture of defeat and takes one final drag of his cigarette. He stubs it out, all the while keeping his gaze on her.

“So, how exactly can I make it up to you?“

Claire blinks- once, twice, thrice, realizing his intent. His voice drops an octave and he’s leaning in, close enough for her to notice the constellations of freckles splaying across his face and the way his brown eyes glinted like two shots of whiskey under a stream of light, intense and all-consuming. She feels her mind races, her brains feel as if they underwent a short-circuit and get caught on fire, and the fact that her mind’s on the precipice of exploring the idea is not helping.

A burst of laughter erupts from her throat, not that it’s funny- there’s nothing funny about the situation, but someone ought to diffuse this shift of tension between them, or that was her aim, at least.

“What, you wanna pay me back?” she asks, trying to keep her voice from cracking but failing miserably. Fingers trembling against her glass as she chugs nearly a quarter of her drink in one go.

He notices that.

"A Lannister always pays his debts, does he? If you think that I owe you one, then I’ll gladly pay.” His eyes flick back to her face, searing into her. The air crackles between them. The band is playing a different song now, a sound that only exists on the margin of her attention. If they’re in, say a mid 2000s rom-com movie, someone would probably interrupt this moment and save her from this. But this isn’t a movie.

Claire licks her lips, a candid reaction which encourages him to inch closer- or is it her? She can’t tell anymore. Tracing odd patterns on the palm of her hand with his finger and oh god, this is Carrick, the bane of her fucking existence, she’d shoot him first before she kisses him. But something about the prospect of fucking this bastard twists her insides deliciously into a confused mess.

“How? By fucking me?” she inquires, feigning scandalized- all that Catholic guilt bullshit.

He grins, all-teeth and wolfish and shrugs as if they’re talking about his life insurance policy or shit. “Well, that’s the idea.”

“But you don’t even like me.” It should come out as I don’t even like you, but even she knows that’ll be just another lie she tells.

“On the contrary, I enjoy our rivalry far more than I should, Castelnuovo,” he purrs and places a hand on her knee. Her throat bobs. She’s wearing a skirt, it didn’t seem important then, but now his hand feels warm against her skin, dangling on the edge of impropriety. Like gravity, all it takes is a little push for him to cross that line.

“I should be disliking the way you talk to me, challenging me and putting me on the back foot every goddamn time. I should be focusing on taking you down a peg, but the more I see you, the more I realize you have an attractive kind of power. And I’m just one man. And if there’s anything I learned, the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”

But then his movement suddenly ceases. Claire almost asks why.

"However…”

“What?” she stares up at him, eyes wide, breath hitching.

“However if you only accept alcohol as the currency for transactions, then I’ll tell the bartender to get us another round instead,“ he tells her, offering her one last chance to back out from this, from making this mistake with him.

Claire stares into her drink, actually mulling this over. Her mind tells her no, but the other part- the alcohol-infused part of her mind- whispers otherwise. She imagines if Ethan or any of her friends are here, they would probably grab her shoulder and shake the living hell out of her for even reconsidering his offer.

But then again, intelligence, alcohol and desperation have always had a bad history of getting along together.

“What about June?” Claire asks against her better judgement, after a long, considerable pause. Carrick raises a confused brow.

“What about her?”

“I thought you guys…” she trails off, makes a face, feeling all-kind of flustered and aroused and wow, she’s really doing this, huh? “I mean, I don’t know- I don’t wanna get in between you guys.”

“Nah. It was only a three time thing, but there’s never been anything between us.” He chuckles at Claire’s askance look. “If you don’t believe me, you can fact-check it with the woman herself,” Carrick adds, looking at her dead-on with his eyes like he wants to get the message across.

She regards him silently for a long second, and maybe she’s a touch drunk now, maybe the bartender put something in her drink, or maybe she just needs to blow off some steam after what’s been happening in these past few weeks and Carrick happens to be a decent warm body for the occasion, but Claire finds herself shifting closer.

"Then I want you to pay me back.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah,” she answers, more sure this time, more determined.

Her nose bumps his, his breath fanning across her face all the while Carrick’s slightly pushing her skirt up, letting his fingertips travel higher. His eyes keep darting back and forth from her eyes and lips, checking for her reaction. There is no inhibition here, not anymore. People might be watching- heck, they could be already watching and it terrifies her that she doesn’t give a damn about it.

“But if you tell anyone about this, I swear to god… ” she warns and a shadow of mirth passes across his eyes, making her almost regretting this. Almost.

“Claire, darling.” It’s the first time he’s ever said her name and her stomach does a tango. “Your secret is safe with me.“ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He gets them a room in the hotel, it’s on the twentieth floor. Carrick handles the accommodation- he can afford it, apparently, which is not really surprising and the nuisating check-in procedure while Claire only waits in the lobby like a beautiful, agitated china doll amidst the turbulent sea the whole time until he comes back, flashes the room key at her and beckons her to follow.

She goes ahead of him, but he catches up. His body heat sends her anxiety rocketing sky-high through the roof as they walk next to each other, hands briefly brushing against one another but she ignores that (or at least she tries).

They are silent in the elevator, they are silent even once they reach the designated floor and walk down the hall to their room where the dim and shadowed lights follow their steps like vultures.

Carrick holds open the door for her and she enters, taking in the windows and the striking view of Boston skyline peeking behind the curtains, the TV and the queen-sized bed. The latter does nothing to assuage the anticipation that’s bubbling in the pit of her stomach, by the way.

Claire hears him shut the door, locking both bolts. She peers at him over her shoulder, half-turned, one eye on him. Their eyes meet, neither speaks. He’s taking off his black peacoat, back against the door, he’s looking at her as if wanting her is his full-time occupation and the realizations comes in like a mule kick, how that tiny voice inside her head, the one that tells her that this is a bad idea and she’s better off leaving never comes.

The room is not considerably huge (with $110 per night, you would have expected you’d get a bigger room), he could easily have her in six large steps, yet he stands there. Sizing her up, smirking rather devilishly, handsomely as if challenging her to make the first move. It’s another fucking game with him. A display of power, waiting who would fall first.

Claire finally turns around to face him. With a renowned determination, she removes her coat, letting it fall unceremoniously onto the carpeted floor. Her blouse follows next and her skirt, which she tugs it oh so slowly down her legs.

Carrick’s eyes widen, if she doesn’t know better, she thinks he’s speechless. He takes a deep breath, his gaze religiously following every movement as she twirls around once more to unhook her bra. His jaw clenches and unclenches. He’s having a hard time keeping himself in check which she takes an immense pleasure in. Claire just wants to see the man squirm for a change, even if she has to shed every article of clothing she wears.

By the time she slips off of her underwear, she is breathing raggedly. He hasn’t yet approached her so she crawls onto the bed, lying on her back with one elbow props her up, legs crossed. She kicks off her heels, rolls down her stockings with a bit of that noir come-hither, Lauren Bacall-esque heavy bedroom eyes.

Finally, Carrick steps closer until he’s only a hair’s breadth away, like a target, filling her line of sight. The tension in the room is hot enough to send the thermometer reaching its maximum limit and she’s burning, burning, burning right through the core.

Claire cranes her head up to meet his gaze, noticing the way he’s drinking in her body like a pirate ogling a bottle of rum. High-strung, tense, Carrick lowers his head to her, his fingers carding through her long hair. Dimness consumes him raw, his silhouette is starting to find its place amongst the shadows except for his eyes. Never does the fire in his eyes falter, merely alight.

They are already nose-to-nose when Claire suddenly raises her hand over his lips. He withdraws from her, looking confused and hot and bothered.

“Take a seat over there, will you?” She motions to the settee near the bed, her tone leaving no room for argument.

He smirks, but she can see his bravado if faltering. “Ordering me around in the bed now, are we?”

“Didn’t you say tonight is about you making it up to me?”

“Touche, touche.” Carrick straightens his posture and makes his way to the settee across from her, shifting uncomfortably in his seat given the growing issue in his pants.

With eyes still trained to his, Claire cups her own breast, fingers pinching her pebbled nipple before the same hand travels lower down her stomach, her thighs. Carrick leans forward in his seat, obviously liking where this is going before Claire slowly and teasingly part her legs for him to see.

A surprised groan escapes him.

“Jesus, Claire,” Carrick hisses. “Fuck, I didn’t know you’re a goddamn tease.”

She doesn’t bother replying to him, but a winning grin finds its way across her face as she lays on her back, her shame and modesty are distant, knees pulled up so he can have a clear view of her. With two fingers, she runs them along her folds, dragging them slowly up to her clit. Claire imagines they are his fingers- which once upon a time would have horrified her, but tonight, as she repeats the motion over and over, knowing that he’s sitting there, watching her without being able to get his hands on her, she decides to submit to this newfound fantasy.

A rustle pulls her back to reality. He’s undoing his own pants, palming his cock, runs his fingers over the leaking head.

A low moan catches in her throat at that, her gaze snapping up from his erection to his face where his irises have darkened and pupils dilated. He wants to show her, that’s he’s as depraved as her when it comes to wanting, that he fucking wants her and in spades and she fails to think like a normal human being anymore.

Claire uses that image to work on herself harder, faster, feeling the intense pressure beginning to build beneath her fingers. She’s so wet now, despite him being able to see that, she wants him to hear it as well as she uses her idle hand to tap against herself. Carrick growls, his pace matching the rhythm she’s setting.

She slips her fingers inside her, drops her head back against the mattress and bites a loud moan that threatens to escape her lips. Flushing scarlet all over her abdomen, her breasts and up to her neck. Her blood thumping louder than bombs in her ears, her breaths begin to come in gasps.

Another fast and hard thrust from fingers, and Claire finds herself sighing his name.

“Tobias…”

And every last bit of his self-restraint snaps.

In just a blink of an eye, Carrick is already on his feet, grabs her waist, harshly, and tugs her down onto the edge of the bed where he’s now kneeling before her. He doesn’t bother with the teasings or soft kisses or caresses, and even before Claire has the time to register what’s happening, he crushes his face between her parted legs and eats her out.

She gasps, high and fleeting, twisting the bed sheet between her fists while his tongue flicks over her, moving back up, back down, lapping along her folds in the same motions she showed him with her hand, how she likes it. Claire forgets how to breathe. It just occurs to her just how arousing the sight of him on his knees like this, sending her mind hitchhiking into outer space.

“Oh, fuck.” She breathes, back arching on the bed with a drawn-out moan. “Fuck, Tobias!” Her hips gyrate over his mouth and she presses her heels against his shoulder blades. She’s so close. All she needs is a little push to send her careening into oblivion and it seems that Carrick can sense it because he brings two digits to her entrance and slides easily inside her, setting a ruthless pace.

With her hands reaching out to the back of his head, Claire cries out his name and trembles violently. Encouraged, Carrick curves his fingers inside her, hitting that exact spot that finally undoes her as she comes, long and hard, around his mouth and fingers- the kind of orgasm that you can feel deep in your bones- and watches as fireworks dance behind her lids.

When she finally comes down from her high, everything is hazy. It’s like waking up from a deep slumber after a decadent soak in a scented bath and she loses all orientation, until she feels him nipping the inside of her thighs. She hisses, glances down, heavy-lidded eyes finding Carrick is leaving bruises after bruises all over her skin like some kind of a lewd memento of his work, like he wants her to remember this the next time she wakes up in her own bed and he’s not there.

"Are you trying to turn me into a Na'vi, doctor?” She asks, still kinda breathless, feeling surprisingly conversational despite having just experienced, if not, one of the best orgasms in her life. He smiles against her thigh and withdraws from her, only after her thighs are sufficiently bruised enough, licks his fingers clean and stands up at the end of the bed.

“Maybe. You’d make a cute blue extraterrestrial creature, though,” he replies cheekily, then undoes the button of his shirt, showcasing his naked torso.

Claire feels her cheeks heating up again, but forces herself to stare; eyes following his pectoral muscles, down to the toned lines of his abdomen while he slides off of his pants. The man is one fine specimen, alright, and he knows- smug bastard- and she thinks it’s such a shame that Carrick is… well, Carrick. If the man learns how to shut up for one minute or avoid trying to sabotage everyone’s career at Edenbrook altogether, maybe, just maybe, she’d consider him.

“But honestly, I just wanted to hear you say my name again,” Carrick continues, crawling his way up to her, pulling her out of her musings. He settles between her thighs. His lips finding her ear and nibbling at the lobe while his fingers pinching and pulling at her nipple. Claire shivers. Nails scraping along his skin, raising angry marks that would certainly be there tomorrow.

When they kiss, it’s so good that she can’t help but curl her toes. He kisses her like he’s trying to steal her breath or her name. She can taste herself in his mouth, which sparks so many feelings inside her. Her mind’s foggy, sweat pooling on her forehead. Carrick is but shoves his tongue into her mouth, lapping at her, biting, sucking and she leans hard into the kiss, retaliates by scraping her teeth against his bottom lip. It spurs him on. Making his cock twitch against her thigh and Claire decides she can’t wait anymore.

Claire rolls her hips at him. He takes the hint and rolls over to grab a condom from his pants. Then he’s back on top of her, his weight and heat crushing her most deliciously and brings her body further up the bed with him; she drapes her legs around his hips, hands gripping his arms. Her lust and anticipation collaborate to the point of near madness.

Carrick nips the taut line of her jaw and drives himself into her.

They both groan in unison.

“Oh, fuck.” Carrick mumbles between shaky breaths, his face pressed against her throat. “Fucking hell, Claire, you feel so warm.”

Claire, on the other hand, goes rigid under him. Her mouth hangs open and her world narrows down to the feeling of his cock inside her and the pleasure that builds up again in her abdomen.

This is happening, she thinks, he’s inside her and it feels so amazing. She might as well be crazy for agreeing to do this with him in the first place, but the promise of the thrill beats the doubts.

He starts slow, just the smallest fraction of hips, gently thrusting back and forth in shallow motions. She whines, frustrated and impatient, raising her own hips to meet his, but Carrick’s weight pins her onto the mattress and she can’t fucking move.

“F-faster,” Claire stammers, her molars grinding like toothache.

The bastard smirks, like he’s been anticipating the word coming out of her mouth.

“Beg for it.” His words are punctuated with every unhurried stroke he’s giving her, teasing her and if she’s not in the middle of being fucked right now, she would have kicked him in the balls.

Growling, she swallows her plea by pulling Carrick down for another kiss. This time, she’s the one who does the biting and the sucking, making sure he’s distracted enough and then just like with all the things she does in her life, she takes the matter into her own hands.

With all her strength, she scrambles up, pushes him off of her and knocks him onto his back flat on the bed. When she swings her legs to straddle him, his eyes pop.

“Holy shit, you are feisty.”

“Only cause I’m angry and horny,” she bites off. Angling herself above him and with one hand, guides his shaft back to her opening. “And you- you weren’t doing a proper job fucking me.”

He smirks. “I was trying to wind you up.”

“Fuck you.”

She lowers herself and sinks back onto his cock, relishing in his moans and growls.

“Baby, you’re doing it.” His hands curling around her waist, his head falls back onto the bed, exposing his throat and Claire is so hard-pressed not to bite him there.

Claire ignores his smartassness, naturally, and lifts herself, drops back down. Slamming her hips into his until she’s bouncing on him. Nails clawing at his chest. Finally be able to set a pace she desperately craves for, finally wiping that smirk off of his face.

Under her, Carrick is biting his lip in an effort to not to lose control. His hands are everywhere now; her stomach, her breasts, her neck, her cheeks. Leaving fire on its wake. She might still hate him after this is strange, little arrangement is over but at this juncture, he’s exactly the remedy she needs after everything.

Then Carrick wraps his arms around her and picks up the pace, thrusting into her hard and fast. Claire shakes. She can’t catch her breath, her forehead pressed on his shoulder, her teeth latching onto his skin. Breathing a string of 'fuckfuckfuck’ while he squeezes her ass and continues to fuck her with careless abandon.

"Tobias.” Her moans amplify. She’s close to climaxing again, her legs quivering. Eyes wide shut. “Please, please.” So much for not begging.

He pulls her to him so their foreheads meet. Their lips brush against each other, but they aren’t kissing, merely trading breaths. A hand touches her cheek and her lids flutter open, finding his eyes- those depthless, amber eyes that pretty much lead her to this point, are watching her, pulling her in.

“Say it again,” he encourages darkly, face twists in pleasure. “My name. Say it again.”

She does it again, it comes out as a groaned whisper, repeating it over and over again like a sacred mantra.

Her second orgasm sweeps through her, making her spine arches, it tears a winded moan from her throat and it’s more than enough to trigger Carrick’s own release; fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, groaning gutturally.

Panting, sore but sated, Claire collapses on top of his chest, his arm still drapes around her. The rise and fall of his breath lull her to sleep. Before she knows it, he gently rolls her to his side, pulling the covers for them and kisses her on the shoulder, which comes out as… odd for her.

The bed moves and she feels him leaving.

He’s leaving.

She doesn’t know why it stings, but it does. But also Claire opts not to pay no mind to it and forces her mind to surrender to sleep that once again tries to take hold.

Claire wishes she doesn’t dream of him that night, but she does.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It’s way past midnight when she wakes up. The room is dark. The curtains are closed. She’s still naked and sore under the covers, mind reeling in from what has just transpired.

One might ask in which universe does Claire Castelnuovo agree to sleep with Tobias Carrick? Well, apparently they did it in this one and oddly still, she doesn’t regret it. Though she’s still low-key sad that he left her straight after sex, but hey, what can she do about it? This arrangement itself is nothing but a means to an end, anyway, a perverse alternative for him to pay back what he allegedly owes her, she shouldn’t be surprised if he left after the ‘debt’ is paid.

Feeling her mood somehow takes an unexpected dip, she gets us from the bed and gathers her clothes on the floor.

She’s in the middle of zipping up her skirt when the bedside lamp flickers and comes on.

Claire turns around. Carrick, rousing from sleep, looks at her, rubbing his eyes and stifles a yawn. His lips still tinged from her kisses and bites.

“Leaving so soon?” he asks, voice still raspy from sleep and Claire thinks her mouth is hanging open, standing rooted to the spot like a spider on an icicle; frozen in time.

For a moment, she does nothing but stares at him, being rendered speechless. For many times, Tobias Carrick never fails to surprise her. Just when she thinks she has him all figured out, he comes sneaking in through her windows like a thief in the night and it just strikes her, how he really is an uncharted territory for her. Despite her having him pinned under her, exploring the hard planes of his body under the touches just a few hours ago.

The man is like a fucking myth, at this point. She knows him only from stories and her limited time around him, but who is exactly Tobias Carrick? Is he the competitive doctor at Mass Kenmore, the Machiavellian asshole that severed his friendship/relationship with Ethan for the sake of his greed and ambition? Or is he, Tobias Carrick, the man who saves her life, makes her laugh and kisses her shoulder in the afterglow?

She’ll probably never know.

“Yeah, my roommates will probably deploy a search party if I don’t come home tonight,” she replies, distracted, finally finding her own voice back. He nods, feigning disappointment- or is he not? She clears her throat and continues putting on her clothes. “I thought you left.”

He chuckles at the absurdity of her deduction. “And without saying goodbye?” Carrick rolls off of the bed and rises to his feet. He’s already wearing his pants- thank fuck for that- and approaches her. “I may be an asshole, Castelnuovo, but just so you know, my mother raised me better than that.”

So they’re back to their usual last name basis perimeter. That’s good, right? After all of this, she thinks a little familiarity would be nice for her sanity.

“Good to know, then.”

Silence encompasses the room. It’s awkward and overwhelming and it throws her a little off-balance. At the bar, they seemed to know exactly what to say to each other- especially him; but now, even she can sense the hesitation in his gait, at the way he’s looking at her and a faint alarm is trilling her head. Because if he’s making this awkward, she can do a whole lot of worse.

"Oh, before you ask, that makes up for pretty much everything, yeah. I mean, it’s alright.” You fucking dumbass, she thinks to herself, averting his gaze while a smile blooms on his face.

“Good to know, then.” He parrots her words and she huffs a laugh, freely and sweetly, like she’s currently not knee-deep in her problems or she’s just fucked the most incorrigible man that ever exists. He does too, but his gaze lands on her mouth before going back to her eyes.

Another silence passes. It’s time to go.

“I have to go now.”

He nods mutely and moves away so Claire can step past him.

She wears her coat. In the mirror, she still looks thoroughly fucked; her hair’s dishevelled, she smells like him now, but she really needs to go. She promises herself that this will be a one time thing because, Jesus fuck, she’s supposed to be smarter than this. She’s not fifteen anymore, and this is not the summer where she can watch the sunset from the cornfields with her cousins even though his eyes possess the same color.

Yet she walks toward the door in a daze, like she’s forgetting something but can’t pinpoint what it is.

“Can I-”

“Hey, do you-”

She stops, mid-turning, and closes her mouth. She doesn’t realize she’s interrupting him.

“Oh, sorry,” Claire says, embarrassed. “You go first, it’s alright.”

“Can I have your number?” he asks, uncharacteristically hesitant.

She thinks he’s joking or maybe he’s just feigning interest, but one look at his eyes and she can tell that this isn’t smoke and mirrors.

The eyes, chico. They never lie. It’s dumb, but that line from Scarface is the first thing that comes to her mind. That’s why when she hands him her phone, her hand is shaking slightly. She has to bite her lip to stop herself from grinning like a maniac.

Claire takes a cursory glance at her phone once he returns it. He saved his number solely as t.c. with the water drop, the syringe, the ghost, the eggplant, the firework emoji and she chuckles endearingly, questioning the universe how he can easily get both a rise and a laugh out of her.

“I’ll text you?” Carrick asks again and she nods a little too enthusiastically at it, but what the hell?

“Sure.”

“Alright.” He takes one look at her, steps closer and for a moment, she thinks he might be going to kiss her.

“Goodnight, Claire,” Carrick says instead and she nods, admitting the fact that he’s not going to do it.

“Goodnight to you too, Tobias.” Then pauses at the doorway, feeling surprisingly bold. “I gotta give it to you, though, for someone who’s become the bane of my existence for months, you’re a damn good lay.”

He barks out a laugh, obviously, that Claire can hear all the way down the hall. And she thinks she can get used to the sound.

fin.

Tag list: @villain-fuckarooni @beckaroo @arfeiniel @this-person-is-busy @colossalpainintheass @drethanramslay @hatescapsicum @theeccentricbibliophile

#playchoices #open heart #tobias carrick #tobias carrick x mc #open heart mc #oh mc #pixelberry #choices stories you play

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isitgintimeyet · 4 years ago

Text

Just A Friend

AO3

Another Sunday, another chapter. Hope it’s a good weekend for you all, despite these uncertain times. I always intended this story to be a bit of fluffy light relief from the real world. Thanks for all the support for it.

There will probably be another 3 chapters after this, depending on how the characters behave. I cant seem to make them do what I want sometimes!

Thanks to @wickedgoodbooks for the beta

Chapter 11: From Marriage to Mackenzie

It’s 1pm and I’m in a hotel room, still in a bathrobe, sipping Buck’s Fizz whilst a hairdresser wrestles with my wayward curls, finally managing to corral them into some sort of recognisable hair style.

Geillis is sitting on the edge of the bed incongruously dressed in tiara and bathrobe, her hair arranged in an elaborate updo. I catch her eye through the dressing table mirror and smile before my vision is obscured by a miasma of hairspray.

A few final tweaks of my curls and it’s done. I am just amazed that my hair can be cajoled into such glossy, bouncy curls, held behind one ear by an ornately decorated comb. With suitable compliments and thanks, Geillis and I bid goodbye to the hairdresser.

The bride stands up and adjusts the belt of her robe. She seems the epitome of calm.

“Are you not nervous, Geillis? You’ll be walking down the aisle in about an hour’s time.”

“Weel, I am a wee bit worried about a couple of things,” she admits. “I dinna ken how ma cousin Janie will behave. She may try tae proposition every man under the age of seventy five. And as fer Dougal’s Uncle Eric—he has been known tae get steamin’ drunk and puke in the rose beds. But about the marrying? Nah, I dinna have any nerves about that. I want tae spend ma life wi’ Dougal and that’s what today is all about. I have nae worries about making that commitment. He’s the one fer me. When ye ken, ye ken. Trust me, Claire.”

The pocket of her bathrobe begins to buzz. She quickly pulls out her phone and reads the message.

“I’d best go. That was Mam, fretting about something or other. Are ye ok getting dressed on yer own?”

“I’ve managed for the past twenty nine years or so. I dare say I can manage another day.” I sigh theatrically.

“I ken. Ye can manage on yer own. Ye always do. But thanks fer being here with me today. It means a lot tae have the people who mean the most tae me around,” she leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “But remember what I said, Claire, when ye ken, ye ken. Dinna ignore it.”

Pausing at the interconnecting doorway, she does a quick body shimmy and grins. “Woo hoo! I’m getting married. Canna believe it’s here now,”

From the adjoining room, I can hear a shouted response. “Geillis Duncan, ye get here now. Yer mam reckons that makeup lassie has done her eyeliner wonky. It looks fine tae me. Can ye come and talk some sense in tae the daft cow?”

“Alright, Da, I’m coming.” Geillis yells back before leaving to deal with her parents.

I sit down and study my bridesmaid’s dress, now hanging on the wardrobe door. I’m getting excited about the day ahead. Probably not as much as Geillis, obviously, but a host of butterflies appears to have taken residence in the pit of my stomach.

I’m truly thrilled for Geillis to be marrying Dougal—they love each other so much. But, also, it’s scary to me. She is willing, eager even, to commit to one person, to base her future life, her future happiness on one man. If they should ever leave…well, I’m not sure I’d be able to cope with that. If you love too hard, you can hurt too much. Trust me on that, I know. People leave you. Don’t give your heart to anyone, keep it hidden away, protected…intact.

The ping from my phone diverts me from this somber train of thought.

I’m downstairs at the hotel. Can you come and say hello?

I quickly type:

Come up to the 2nd floor. I’ll meet you by the lift.

Making sure the keycard is in my pocket, I slip my feet into the hotel’s complimentary slippers and shuffle out to meet Jamie.

I’m already waiting as the lift door opens and he emerges. My first thought is oh wow, as is my second...and third. He has made an effort for this wedding, and it’s certainly paid off. Eschewing the more formal Prince Charlie style, he’s wearing a charcoal grey jacket and waistcoat, perfectly matching the grey in his kilt. A crisp white shirt and burgundy tie complement the secondary colours in the tartan. His sporran is black leather, heavily etched or embossed. I can’t quite make out the detail. Then I feel myself blush as I realise I have been clearly staring at his...er, lower body. I look up quickly.

Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to have noticed. He looks me up and down and smiles. “Nice outfit,” he comments drily. “Is the bride wearing white towelling too? What’s the theme? Salon chic?”And is that part of the design?” He points to an orange stain on the front of my robe. I pull a face and tie the belt tighter, trying to tuck the offending piece of material out of sight.

“Must have spilled a drop of my Buck’s Fizz.”

“Drinking already? Dinna be staggering down the aisle.”

He reaches out towards my hair and pauses for a second before making a random circular motion with his hand. “And this…I like yer hair. It’s verra…verra…” he searches for the word. “... asymmetric.”

“Thank you,” I hold the ‘skirt’ of my robe and bob a little curtsy. “That’s totally what we were going for—asymmetric.”

He laughs. “Nah, seriously. Yer hair and yer makeup look grand. I’m sure ye’ll look lovely in yer dress.”

I gesture to my room. “I’d best finish getting ready.”

“Aye, I’ll see ye downstairs.” He presses the button for the lift.

“By the way, you look grand too.” I try to say it in an understated way. It’s true, but I don’t want him to read anything into the statement.

The lift arrives and he steps inside. As the doors close, he fires a parting shot. “Especially the sporran, eh?”

*********

Now in my bridesmaid’s dress, I practice a couple of pirouettes in front of the mirror before hearing a quick knock on the door to the adjoining room.

“Ye ready, Claire? Mam’s jes’ gone down. Only us three left.”

I walk through to the other room to be met by a riot of open suitcases, bags and boxes. A variety of towels, dressing gowns and footwear seem to be carpeting the floor.

“‘S ok,” Geillis’ voice comes from behind me. “It’s no’ ma problem. I’m no’ sleeping here tonight. I’ll be in the bridal suite. This’ll be Mam and Dad’s room.”

I turn to see my best friend now fully dressed and ready. Her father is hovering next to her, clad in kilt and full formal regalia. I always knew she would win that battle.

As beautiful as she looks, the thing that really strikes me is the way her father is watching her, with such love and pride. She returns his gaze and brings her forehead to rest against his cheek.

I swallow hard, fighting the desire to shed a tear. It’s such a precious image, so intimate, but also, I realise that, since Lamb died, I have nobody, no father figure, to share something like this. I feel a momentary pang of, not jealousy, but a feeling of regret over an emotion that I will never get to experience.

And then, just like that, the moment passes.

It always does.

Geillis passes me a creamy white posy tied with a simple ribbon and gathers up her bouquet of peonies, roses and fragrant eucalyptus.

“OK,” she takes a deep breath and breaks into a huge grin. “I think I’m late enough tae get Dougal jes’ a wee bit nervous. Time tae roll.”

*******

The hotel’s orangery provides a perfect setting for the wedding ceremony. Softly diffused sunlight filters through the white muslin drapes at the large windows. A slight breeze wafts the fabric gently, giving tantalising glimpses of the formal gardens outside.

At the end of the room, Dougal and Angus stand beside a large arch of succulent green foliage, staring straight ahead as Geillis and her father begin the procession down the aisle with me following.

Even before he turns to look, I can spot Jamie — his auburn curls are head and shoulders above those around him. He stays still at first, but as we draw near he turns around and grins before doing his funny blink, screwing up his face and closing both eyes, which I have learnt, is Jamie’s attempt at a wink. I return his smile before focussing on the arch getting ever closer.

Dougal appears rooted to the spot, but Angus turns around and watches for a moment before giving me a perfectly executed wink. I smile politely even as I shudder inwardly. The sheer self confidence of that man is beyond belief. Then he disappears from my thoughts as Geillis reaches the arch and passes me her bouquet to hold. The joy on her and Dougal’s faces as they prepare to make their vows is wonderful and I’m so happy to be a part of it all.

***************

They say the sun shines on the righteous. Well, Geillis and Dougal must be exceptionally good, as it’s a perfect summer afternoon. It’s beautifully warm, but not too hot, as all the guests mingle in the gardens, admiring the beautiful surroundings whilst drinking chilled champagne.

The photographer has finished with the formal photographs, so I’m allowed to relax and enjoy a glass or two. I can still spot him wandering around, ready to take more natural, candid shots of the proceedings but nobody seems to mind.

I was initially worried about inviting Jamie to the wedding for a couple of reasons. The first was my friends. Of course, my friends are great, but Anna and Mary can sometimes have an issue with boundaries and I had visions of the ‘conversations’ they might try to have with Jamie — ‘nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition’ unless Anna and Mary are around.

The second reason was that Jamie would literally know only one person at this wedding —me. And that, when I was off doing official ‘wedding stuff’, he would be on his own, billy-no-mates. But, as I look around, I realise I had absolutely nothing to worry about on that score. He has the knack, it seems, to get on with everyone.

At the moment he’s talking to Geillis’s father, laughing and joking like they’re old friends. He notices me looking at him, lifts his empty glass up and points to me. I hold my glass up and nod. He excuses himself and strolls towards the bar.

There’s a slight touch on my elbow. “Hello, dear.”

I draw my attention to the old lady standing next to me—Geillis’ great aunt Frances. I’ve met her on a couple of occasions before and have always enjoyed her company. She’s a straight talker and makes no bones about it. “When ye get tae my age,” I remember her commenting to me “ye dinna have time tae beat about the bush, ye need tae say what ye think.” I like that in a person.

“Hello, how nice to see you.”

“Ye too,dear. I must say ye’re looking awfa bonnie in that dress. It’s a fine colour on ye.”

“Thank you. And you’re looking lovely yourself.”

Frances makes a self deprecating ‘hmph’ sound, dismissing my compliment with a wave of her hand. “Away wi’ ye. Ye do yer best wi’ what ye’ve still got. Which isna much in ma case.”

I shake my head. “Not at—“

But she decides to change the subject and moves on with her next question. “Is that yer young man over there?” She points at Jamie, heading towards us with two glasses of champagne. “He’s a handsome chap, is he no’? Mind ye, that’s no more than ye deserve. Sae, mebbe ye’ll be next?”

“No, we—“

I have no chance to say anything more, before Jamie is by my side and handing me one of the glasses. I take a sip as he notices that Frances has no drink and, without hesitation, he passes the second glass to her.

“Aren’t ye kind… er?” She accepts gratefully.

“Jamie.”

“Weel, Jamie, let me tell ye. It’s been a long while since a good looking young man has brought me a drink. I should make the most of it. Anyway, I was jes’ saying tae our Claire here, how bonnie she looks today. Does she no’?”

She fixes her gaze on Jamie, demanding an answer.

“Aye, she looks lovely.” His eyes meet mine for a second, before I look away and try to change the subject.

“Don’t you think Geillis looks beautiful, Frances?”

But, it seems that Frances has one line of conversation that she is keen to pursue. “Oh aye, she does. But, Jamie, I was jes’ saying tae Claire that mebbe she’ll be next. What d’ye think?”

Fortunately, I’m spared any response as a gong sounds and the maître d’ announces that dinner is served and that everyone should make their way inside to the dining room.

****************

Having narrowly avoided any embarrassment, I am somewhat apprehensive to see Frances at our table. Fortunately, Geillis’ cousin and baby are enough to divert her attention away from any matrimonial prospects that may or may not be on my horizon.

With Jamie sitting by my side, I catch him up on all the behind the scenes activity of my day and we fall into our pattern of easy conversation and gentle banter. From time to time, I can see Frances, opposite, watching us with a look of approval on her face, but she says nothing.

Once the speeches and toasts are over, there’s a palpable change in the guests. Jackets are draped over chair backs, sleeves rolled up and waistcoat buttons undone. I can spot more than one woman moving awkwardly in her chair, struggling to locate the shoes that were eased off out of sight under the table. Cheeks become flushed with an abundance of rich food and tongues become looser with a surfeit of fine wine.

I sip my whisky, savouring its peaty smokiness. Jamie is in a serious rugby related conversation with his neighbour. A rustle of fabric behind me announces the arrival of the bride, a look of frustration on her face.

She greets the table politely before whispering “Can I borrow ye, Claire?”

I make my excuses and follow her into a quieter room.

“What’s up, Geillis? Is everything alright?” I’m concerned that there’s something genuinely wrong.

“It’s his bloody family,” she hisses. “The Mackenzies, if ye give them an inch, they’ll take a fuckin’ mile.”

She takes a deep breath and continues. “Dougal invited his second cousin Gary and his wife tae our evening do. Jes’ the two of them mind. Sae they turn up an hour and a half early and try tae cadge dessert and brandies from the waiters.”

“Where are they now?”

“Och, they’re sitting outside wi’ a couple of spare bottles of wine.” She gestures angrily to the gardens visible through the window. “And they’ll be first in the queue fer the buffet this evening, nae doubt. And what's more, they took it upon themselves tae bring their three bairns too. Weel, I say bairns, but they’re all in their twenties so it’s no’ as if they dinna have a babysitter.”

She finally sits down and lets her shoulders relax.

I take her hand and try to look serious. If this is the worst thing that happens today, that’s not so bad. Although clearly, in Geillis’ eyes, this is a catastrophe. “It’s not going to spoil anything really is it? They didn’t gatecrash the meal or the speeches,” I speak in a soothing tone. “Are you ok now?”

She nods. “Happen ye’re right. I jes’ wanted tae get it off ma chest. And I kent what I was getting in tae wi’ his family. But tae drag Gregory, Alicia and Laoghaire uninvited wi’ them jes’ pisses me off.”

I stare at her. “Laoghaire? Laoghaire Mackenzie?”

“Aye, that’s right. Unusual name, is it no’? Ye dinna find many of them around—thank god.”

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yeet-me-dad-dy · 4 years ago

Text

The Drug in Me is You - Pt 2

Warnings: None

Summary: Dark wakes you from a nightmare, and you and he share a quiet moment.

Characters: Darkiplier x Gender Neutral Reader

Words: 2,003

Author’s Note: Thanks to @moriimae for requesting a part 2. I never would have written this otherwise. Hope you like it.

Late nights awake in his room are not a rare occurrence for Dark. He doesn’t sleep much - he doesn’t need to, as he’s technically not alive - so he spends the dark hours either working on various projects or keeping an eye on the house and the others.

The entity wanders down from his tower in the mansion at a leisurely pace. He’s not in any hurry to get down to the kitchen for a glass of water, so he stops by each of the others’ rooms to make sure they’re all sleeping soundly - especially Wilford and Google, who are both known to get into trouble in the wee hours of the morning.

Once sure that he’s the only one awake, he pads on bare feet across the manor’s cool, dark wood, and down multiple flights of stairs, until he reaches the kitchen. He allows his fingertips to ghost across the black stone top of the long counter as he follows it to the sink and the cupboards that hang above it. He pulls open a high cabinet and retrieves a clean glass. Ice cubes click against the bottom as he drops them in, and just as he’s about to pour himself clear water from the pitcher in the fridge, he hears something that gives him pause. There’s a sound from in the living room. A sort of… whimpering.

With a furrowed brow, he leaves the glass and the pitcher on the counter and makes his way cautiously out of the kitchen and toward the living room’s double archways. Thick, black, smoke-like magic swirls around his clenched fists. As he approaches the back of the couch, there is the barest hint of movement from on the cushions. He raises a hand, fingers curled like claws, ready to defend his house and his family from whoever or whatever this intruder may be.

He freezes when he sees you, curled up in layers of blankets, with only the top of your head and your eyes sticking out. Your brow is furrowed, and beads of sweat glisten in the moonlight filtering in through the open window across from you. Dark knew that you had come over to hang out with Mark earlier, but he didn’t realize that you had stayed. He would have to talk to Mark tomorrow about not offering you the guest bedroom. The expensive couch, as comfortable as it is, is no place for a guest to sleep.

A chill breeze sends the curtains fluttering, and you pull the blankets closer around you, as if trying to hide in the cocoon that they make. Dark tilts his head when you whimper and studies you closely. You’re shaking, though not from the cold, and even through the blankets he can tell that your entire body is tense, like a coiled spring. He��s had his fair share of bad dreams, so he’s unsure if he should wake you or not. He doesn’t want to frighten you, in case you should accidentally hurt yourself. Ultimately, when you release a sob and begin to hyperventilate, he decides that it would be best if he step in.

He kneels next to the couch and reaches forward to give you a gentle shake.

“Y/N. Wake up,” he whispers.

You swat at him in your nightmare-addled state, so he pulls his hand away. He’ll have to try and get through to you with his voice alone.

“You’re dreaming, Y/N. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Another whimper, and you tuck your head into the blankets.

“Shh, it’s okay. Listen to my voice. Follow me out of the nightmare.”

After a few tense minutes of gentle coaxing, your eyes flutter slowly open and you gaze at him through wide, terrified eyes.

“It’s just me, Y/N. You’re safe,” Dark repeats. “You’re at Mark’s house, on his couch. Nothing can hurt you here.”

Your shoulders relax only barely, and you blink a few times squinting to try and see him through the darkness. He reaches over, slowly so as not to startle you, and flicks on the lamp beside the couch.

“Dark?” you ask groggily. “What’re you doin?”

He smiles softly and settles back on his heels.

“Waking you from a nightmare,” he answers quietly. “It sounded like a pretty bad one.”

You cover a yawn with the back of your hand, and then reach up to rub the sleep from your eyes. With a sigh, you push yourself into a sitting position and lean heavily back against the cushions. Dark watches as you scan the room behind him, gaze resting briefly over every shadow and shape that could possibly be a threat.

“You’re safe,” he repeats reassuringly. “This is the safest place you could possibly be. Nothing will hurt you here.”

Your eyes find his, and after a moment of quiet contemplation, you nod. The nod is followed by a shiver, and you pull the blankets up over your shoulders. Dark glances back to the open window. It was a beautiful warm day earlier, but with the setting of the sun came the black of the night and the chill that accompanies it. He uses the edge of the couch to push himself to his feet and then strides over to the open window. In one swift movement, he pulls it closed and latches it, then pulls the curtains together to hide the twisting shadows that move on the front lawn. They’re just shadows, he knows, but you might see the objects of your nightmares, and he doesn’t want that.

Quietly, he wanders over to the fireplace across from the couch and kneels down to poke at the ashes. They’re cold, as they have been for hours now. A new log and a warm breath from the entity later, and there’s a new fire, crackling peacefully and radiating warmth.

He turns subconsciously when his ears pick up the quiet hum of contentment from your direction, and he rises to his feet once more to make his way across the large room and back to your side.

“May I sit with you?” he asks, gesturing to the unoccupied cushions to your left.

You open your eyes and look up at him. “Oh. Yeah, sure. Sorry, think I dozed off there for a second...

He chuckles, and you bundle the blankets up on your lap so that they’re not in his way, then he sits gently next to you. You gaze momentarily at his bare chest and then turn your attention to the fire in the hearth.

“Y’know, I don’t think I ever considered that you wear anything other than your suit,” you smile. “Definitely didn’t expect to ever see you in flannel pajamas.”

He laughs quietly, and it’s then, when he sees jeans peeking out from beneath the blankets, that he realizes you’re still fully dressed.

“Didn’t change into pajamas before you passed out?” he asks amicably, with equal measures of curiosity and concern in the back of his mind.

“Mmm, didn’t bring any. Didn’t expect to be staying over here tonight.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“No?”

“Nah. I got in a fight with my partner just as I was about to leave. I didn’t wanna go home, so Mark said I could crash here. He did offer me the bedroom, but I’ve always been more comfortable on couches.”

Dark hums thoughtfully. He didn’t expect to be learning so much about you in the middle of the night after having woken you from a nightmare. To anyone else this would seem like simple conversation, but to him... To him there is a lifetime worth of stories in those few simple words.

“I’m sorry to hear about your relationship troubles. Your nightmares, as well. I know how much of a pain both of those things are. Would you like to talk about any of it?”

You’re silent for a moment, and then a sigh escapes your lips and your shoulders relax.

“There’s not a whole lot to say. The nightmares are just PTSD and my partner is sometimes an asshole. That’s it.”

“That is a whole lot, Y/N. I know you don’t know me all that well, so I won’t push you to talk if you don’t want to, but I do want you to know that you can talk to me. You can talk to any one of us here. We’re all happy to listen, and I’m sure some of us even have advice that you might find useful.

You nod and offer him a small smile.

“Thank you. I do appreciate that. One day, maybe, I’ll feel comfortable enough to talk to someone about what’s going on with me, but for now... ”

He nods. “I understand.”

A comfortable moment of silence passes.

“You should try and get back to sleep,” Dark suggests.

You let out a dry chuckle.

��I don’t think I want to go back to sleep. I’ve had enough nightmares for one night.”

“Yes, I’m sure... When was the last time you slept for more than four hours, Y/N?” he asks plainly.

Your lips twist up into a sheepish grin as you suddenly find the blankets in your lap very interesting.

“Uh… couple days? Couple weeks? I can’t really remember.”

He nods.

“That’s what I thought. You need to rest. What would make you comfortable enough to go back to sleep? I can leave the light on for you if you like, or I can turn on the television.”

“Just the light and the fire are fine. And maybe...”

“Yes?”

“No, I dunno. I was just thinking.”

He tilts his head and regards you knowingly.

“You can ask what you were going to ask.”

“It was nothing, promise. Just my tired brain.”

“Y/N.”

You huff and throw your head back in mock exasperation.

“Alright, alright.” You bury your face in your hands. “I was gonna ask if you’d be willing to stay with me,” you mumble through your fingers.

Dark smiles and reclines back on the couch.

“I would be more than happy to stay with you.”

You turn your body toward him and rest your head to the side on the back cushion.

“Why?” you ask, suddenly serious. “Why stay out here for me?”

“You asked me to.”

“Yeah, but why say yes?”

That’s a damn good question, Dark thinks, and he’s not sure he knows the answer. Or, if he does, he doesn’t want to admit it to himself.

“If I leave you, it’ll be to return to my room and do work. I could use a break, and there’s no reason why I can’t do that here. I get to enjoy the fire, and you get to have someone with you.”

You squint at him, and he thinks for a moment that you might try and argue, but your heavy eyelids betray just how exhausted you are. Too tired to argue, surely.

“Get comfortable, Y/N. Try and go back to sleep. I’ll be right here until morning.”

Your eyes are already closed, breathing deep and even. You offer a hum, barely audible, and then you’re out like a light, as evidenced by your gentle snoring. He smiles softly at the sight of you, then leans over to pull the blankets up under your chin. He mimics your posture, turned toward you on the couch, with his legs pulled up under him and his head resting on the back cushion.

“Sweet dreams, Y/N,” he whispers.

His eyelids feel heavy, and there’s a burning behind his eyes. Focusing on his work had prevented him from realizing just how tired he was. Just because he doesn’t need as much sleep as he used to doesn’t mean that he doesn’t need any at all. He does still have a mostly working body that needs to rest and recharge. He allows his eyes to flutter closed, and he adjusts to make himself comfortable on the rich velvet couch.

He sighs deeply, content in this moment, and is lulled to sleep by the steady beating of your heart.

#darkiplier x reader #darkiplier x gender neutral reader #markiplier fanfiction #darkiplier fanfiction #markiplier egos fanfiction

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mraaronwhite · 4 years ago

Text

THE GOLDFISH

We sat in the conservatory of my weathered, beach side cottage, overlooking some tomato plants and a splintered oak bench that I collectively called my back garden. Now, being a cottage, you would be forgiven for thinking that this was a small affair, the kind of cottage that malicious, child-eating witches would inhabit deep in the woods. Not this cottage though. There was actually too much room believe it or not. Well, too much room for a man and his cat at least.

You see, I grew up in a cramped, narrow excuse for a flat in Edinburgh. Usually being able to touch two opposing walls at once. So, when I inherited this place, a fortnight ago, from my recently deceased Aunt, it was a breath of fresh air to say the least. It felt like the perfect excuse to have a party. Not to celebrate my Aunt just dying (she was a grumpy old boot, mind you) but rather the fact that after twenty-three years of always wanting a place of my own, I finally had it.

I messaged the group chat, letting them know of the upcoming shindig to mark my housewarming, informing them that they would all be coming. None of them having a choice in the matter, I joked. There were ten of them in the group, eleven including myself, and we had been inseparable since the later years of high school. That fact surprises most people actually. Given that when folk head off to university, college or go backpacking through Asia, they normally lose contact. After all, it’s a perfect chance to reinvent yourself, and doing that sometimes means saying goodbye to some folk.

Not us though. We had to be different. Having nearly been out of high school for as long as we were in it, our collective friendship was as strong as it ever. We hadn’t all been together in nearly a year as well, so when I sent out the invites, they all jumped at the chance.

The night itself exceeded my wildest expectations. We laughed, we sang, we laughed again. It was a night of pure merriment and happiness and it will live forever in my head as one of the high points of my life. As I sighed a breath of relief when I moved into my sand surrounded home, I did the same when I saw all my friends together again that night. My face literally started to hurt with the amount of smiling I was doing, which only made me smile all the more.

All good things must come to an end though I thought, and as the clock flashed one in the morning, the designated drivers began ferrying home their passengers. Before they left however, we had but one tradition to enact. An exclusively Scottish ritual that you have to do at the end of a good party. Listening to Runrig’s Loch Lomond at full volume and jumping up and down like a bunch of toddlers on a sugar high. Once the song was over however, the party was too unfortunately. One by one, they said their farewells and staggered down my grassy strewn path. They waved and honked their horns until eventually they fell out of sight, becoming part of the jumbled mess of streetlights and other late-night travellers.

I ventured back inside my new home and couldn’t help but feel lonely. Lonelier than I had in a while. At least I had Bean though, I thought to myself. She was my ashen-haired feline companion, and we’d been through thick and thin together. I don’t know what I’d do without her to be honest. She’s a nervous wee thing though and doesn’t do well around crowds, so had been chilling in the spare room for the night. That was until I opened the door of course, and then she was out of there at damn near mach four.

As she sniffed and scratched her way around the room, I flung myself into the heap of cushions and blankets people had sat on in the conservatory, their lazy attempt of tidying up before their departure I concluded. I sighed, letting out a small chuckle. Planning on just kipping there for the night, I shut my eyes and soon felt myself drifting off into the endless depths of my unconscious.

A distant toilet flushing filled the house and swiftly brought me back to reality. Then click clack, click clack, click clack. Footsteps. They were closing in and at this point I was on my feet, starting to panic. I had never been in a fight before, but I was about to be if my theory of a murderer checked out. In my drunken state, I never thought to question why someone would go to the toilet before killing me. I looked about the conservatory, trying to see something I could use to defend myself and grabbed the first thing that came to me. A tube of Paprika flavoured Pringles. In hindsight, I could have probably picked something a little more useful, but hey ho, that’s what a night of binge drinking and anxiety gets you. Then as the “Murderer” got closer, she appeared in the doorway. Clio DeLuca. My best friend.

“Where did everyone go??” she said, cool as a cucumber, leaning on the frame of the door.

“They left like half an hour ago” I replied, my face a picture of confusion “What the hell are you still doing here though?? We all thought you left ages ago” I asked, half laughing, while letting out a sigh of relief.

“Funny story. I went to the toilet and kinda just fell asleep half way through.” She told me, sitting down the arm of the raggedy couch. Then flopping onto my makeshift bed, that I had been nice and comfy on only moments before.

“What are you like??” I said, now properly belly laughing. “You might as well get comfy, the buses stopped at eleven.” I paused “Sooo, do you want another drink?”

“Yeah but my heads splitting, nothing hard.” I was about to offer her some of the special stuff but she got in before me “Oooh in fact, have you got any hot chocolate??” She asked, looking up at me with those wild green eyes, that I first met oh so long ago.

“Now we’re talking” I exclaimed with glee “I’ve got just the thing!” I then marched off into the kitchen, meeting Bean as she was having a nibble at some of her biscuits. I flicked the kettle on and shouted through “What one you fancying then?”

“I dunno - hic” she mumbled. The sounds of her then rolling off the couch and wandering through soon followed. “What kind - hic - you got?” she asked, parking herself at my breakfast bar.

“Weeeell” I started, opening my cupboard I that housed my secret obsession “I’ve got your normal supermarket kinds - Cadburys, Galaxy, Bournville?”

“Yeah, one of them is fine” she chimed in.

“Nah, that’s the boring stuff. I’ve also got white chocolate, orange, peppermint, vanilla bean, salte” Bean scuttled into the room, hearing this, thinking I was talking to her, to which prompted Clio to scoop her up.

“Well hiii, where have you been hiding all night??” Bean purred, gladly accepting the cuddles and attention. Clio looked back up at me, staring through her shadowy locks that fell onto her face like a waterfall in the night. “Please continue” she smiled, nodding at the cupboard, all the while still scratching Bean’s belly.

“Ah yes, where we, so we’ve got salted caramel flavour, cinnamon, apple pie and the Pièce de résistance of my collection, genuine Peruvian hot chocolate.” I turned back to her “Think I’m gonna go for the Peruvian blend, you?” I asked. She was back looking at Bean again, given her some more lovin’. She’s always had the attention span of a goldfish, and I always found it quite funny. “I’ll just make the you the same” I laughed.

“Sorry, aye, sounds lovely.” I spooned the mixture into two bulky mugs, hearing purring and some meows coming from behind me. “Sooo” she started, “When did you become the Ramona Flowers of hot chocolate?” she jested.

“What you talking about, I’ve always been into hot chocolate?” she started to speak before I cut her off “Cream and marshmallows by the way??”

“Ooh yes please” Her eyes lit up “But yeah, I know you’ve always liked it but this is like obsessed. Like I’m scared if I don’t like this” she paused, while pointing her head at our mugs “that you might actually kill me.” She looked so sincere as she told me this.

“Shut up” I pleaded, in the moaniest voice I could muster “You know, I don’t have to let you sleep here tonight, I’m doing it out of the pure goodness of my heart.”

“Nah I’m being serious, and once the papers find out, you’ll probably get a cool nickname as well. The hot chocolate killer, perhaps? Whadda ya think, Bean?” She gave a solemn meow.

“Fuc..” she cut me off, looking aghast, while covering Beans ears.

“There’s children present” she shot back, with a hint of faux anger and a wry grin. I then simply mouthed my retort, all the while giving her the finger. Then, just as quickly, she flipped it right back at me. We then both had a good giggle as I stirred our drinks, plopped in the marshmallows and squirted the cream on top.

“Shall we?” I asked, while gesturing to the conservatory with my head as my hands were full. She cradled Bean like a new-born, stood up and we both made our way through.

I gently placed our steaming mugs down on the glass topped coffee table, moving some meekly filled beer bottles out of the way to give us some room. We both fell back into the warm embrace of the couch, prompting Bean to hop out off Clio’s lap and curl up between the two of us.

My Bluetooth speaker, which sat in the corner atop some books, echoed out the tunes of my Spotify playlist which I had shuffled at the beginning of the party. Turning it to a whisper when folk left, I turned it back up again to fill the room with some life.

Looking about, the room, and the rest of the house was an absolute state. Crisps everywhere, too many cider cans to count and an embarrassing amount of smarties lay scattered about the floor, from when I was trying to toss them up and catch in my mouth earlier in the party. A dozen or so polaroids were sprinkled about the place as well, and when one caught my eye lurking under the armchair in the corner I got up and quickly collected the rest. “Get any good snaps?” Clio asked, while taking a generous sip of her hot chocolate, leaving a lovely big creamy moustache under her petit, turned up nose. I smiled, deciding not to tell her. “Daaamn, this is gooood!” she exclaimed, in a warm, satisfied tone, telling me she loved the drink just as much as I did.

“Told ya!” trying to not look smug “Let’s see here” I pondered, thumbing through the small pile of photos. “Hmmha” I grinned, looking at Clio, who was puffing her cheeks and making her eyes go crossed “That’s a good ‘un” handing it to her. She flung herself back onto the seat, seeing the picture.”

“Oh my God, what the hell is wrong with us?” she chortled, leaning forward again to take another sip of the sweet goodness. Her face then quickly soured “Can you skip this one, it reminds me of when I worked in Asda. They played the same six songs on repeat. It was actually hell.”

“Us!?” I asked her, while I pulled out my phone, skipping to the next song “Speak for yourself! I take only good photos.”

“Is that right?” she laughed back, cocking her head, proceeding then to snatch the bundle of photos from my hands. “We’ll see about that” in a determined tone, while furrowing her brow. I took the opportunity to indulge in the heated sweetness of my mug and no less than ten seconds later “Here, look at this, what the hell are you doing with your lips?” shoving the polaroid at my face.

“Its called blue steel, look it up” I confidently hit back.

“I dunno what that is but you LOOK like a goldfish”

“I think you’ll find I look damn sexy” making sure to sound as cocky and arrogant as I could.

“And by sexy” doing air quotes with her fingers “I take it you mean the lesser known definition of the word, meaning to look like you live at the aquarium at Dobbies?” she ranted, putting one her best condescending voice as she could.

“You know, sometimes, your words, they hurt.” Looking back at her, attempting to appear actually upset and offended. She could always see right through my piss poor acting skills though, and we both just started giggling again.

This is the norm for when me and Clio hang out. I make fun of her, she makes fun of me, we laugh about it and on and on it goes. It’s been our routine since primary four, when we first met, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The rest of that night was no exception, we bantered about for a bit then did some actual serious talking as well. Our sexuality, putting the world to rights, family shit. The usual kind of deep topics you chat about after a night of drinking and partying, and before we knew it, I looked at my phone and it flashed 4:33AM.

Bean had migrated over to the open window by this point, she was doing some serious loafing. Presumably to cool down I thought. The dregs of our hot chocolate sat in the now cold mugs and the two of us were cosy under a massive blanket. Her head gently rested on my shoulder.

I peered out through the double doors that lead to my garden, amalgamating into the sands and shells of the dark beach. The North Sea lay before me, stretching as far as the eye could see, eventually bleeding into the never ending abyss of space. An army of stars littering its canvas, shining down on us mere mortals below.

I stared at the colossal entity that was the cosmos, trying to make shapes out of its burning suns. I was at a loss at how the early astronomers of prehistory were able to see anything apart from a jumble of distant polka dots. “Hey” I whispered, gently nudging my shoulder.

“Hmm” She softly moaned to let me know she was listening.

“Do you see anything up there? You know, in the stars.” I continued, still whispering. She craned her neck back and opened her wild grassy eyes to look up at the sky above.

“I dunno” she looked from corner to corner, eventually pointing toward the right of where we were sitting “There’s Orion’s belt.”

“Nah like I mean something new, not an already existing constellation.” I prodded.

“I really can’t say. What can you see?” she asked, shutting her eyes getting comfy under the blanket again. I gazed about the dark blue sky with great curiosity. Then, directly in front of me, high above the wispy clouds I faintly made out the shape of goldfish. Probably because it was on my mind from earlier, but nevertheless, I could see it clear as day. I jostled Clio’s head once again.

“Look, there, right in front of us. Can you see a goldfish?” Groggily sitting up, she focused to where I was pointing and tilted her head.

“Yeah, I can actu…” She trailed off, as did my music. Both of us were looking at the fish in the sky, but now, the stars in our newly discovered constellation were twitching and swirling. They also began glowing much brighter than the other stars in the sky. Both of us were transfixed. The whole thing eventually started pulsing. Going dim and then shining bright. It was slow at first but then gradually got faster and faster. Then, and I’ll remember this moment until my dying day, it appeared in front of us.

There, in the obsidian blackness of the sky, it shone down on us. A gargantuan, glowing goldfish. It swam about as if we were looking through the cold, wet glass of an aquarium. Darting about the night sky as easily as it would have underwater. Its visage, although similar to a normal goldfish, was still very different. Apart from the obvious size distinction, the one before us existed purely as an outline defined by the stars. Its body was see-through, the same inky darkness as the rest of space. I couldn’t believe my eyes, and neither could Clio given her jaw was almost touching the floor. We were both outside by this point, wanting to get as clear a look as possible.

“Te.. tell me you’re” I mumbled “you’re seeing this as well” I eventually mustered, breaking the silence. Clio simply nodded, staring unblinkingly at the godlike being as it swished and swooshed through the cosmos.

“Okay” she finally said “Either we’ve fallen into some weird sci-fi novel or you spiked my hot chocolate” trying to make sense of the impossibility of what was happening.

“Why isn’t it cold though? I asked, looking up and down the beach, and after a few moments had passed, she eventually processed my question prompting her whip her head at me.

“There’s a massive floating fish made out of stars in the sky and you’re worried about the weather? She half yelled, with great incredulity.

“Clio, its 5 in the morning. In February. In Scotland. It should be freezing.” She thought about what I was saying and looked about as well. “Its warm though, and there’s no wind.” I paused “And no noise for that matter.” I paused again “I don’t understand”.

“It’s weird” she started “I feel like I should be scared or freaked out or… something” she looked at me “But.. it feels right. It feels like we were meant to be here. To see” she paused, looking back at the fish who was still merrily swimming about the sky “whatever this is.” I felt the same way, in my gut. I knew that whatever was happening wasn’t meant to hurt or frighten us. So, I began walking forward, taking Clio’s hand as I did so. We walked far onto the beach. It was still warm, still completely quiet.

We eventually reached the waters edge, as close as we could get to the being in front of us, when we notice that the sea itself had stopped. It plateaued to a complete halt. No waves. No tide. Nothing. It looked like a gigantic mirror, that stretched out past the horizon. Reflecting everything that was happening above. I bent down and dipped my fingers in, expecting it to be solid but it was just as wet as the normal sea. Just completely still. As if someone had hit the pause button.

I sat down, cross legged on the shore, as did Clio, and we watched the fish for hours. It swam to the left, to the right. It swam far away, getting smaller, then past the horizon only to jump up again as if it was a dolphin doing tricks.

The sky was gradually getting lighter, now a dusky blue, and we both knew that the fish’s departure was upcoming. Potentially any minute now. It suddenly came to a gentle stop, high in the twilight sky. It was looking right at us, into the deep-seated depths of our souls.

Now, I’m not an emotional man, it takes a lot to upset me. Even the most heart wrenching of films doesn’t evoke a reaction. But at the very moment, I couldn’t help but shed a few tears. Not out of sadness, or even happiness. It was just raw emotion. I could tell by Clio’s sniffling that she was having a similar reaction.

Then, as mysteriously as it arrived, it vanished. Its image fading back into the now pale blue of space. The stars that made up its outline, in their original position. It’s retreat from our world meant that it was back to normal, and in perfect synchronisation, the temperature dropped to just above zero, the wind blew at our backs and the once static waves drenched us in salty seawater.

Needless to say we both screamed out in discomfort, then looking at each other deep in the eyes, we embraced. I hugged her tighter than I had ever before, never in my life had I felt as close to someone as I did in that moment and I could tell she felt the same way. We swiftly then ran back to my cottage to warm up. After a nice warm and soapy shower, a fresh change of clothes (her having to borrow some shorts and a hoodie) she joined me on the couch, where we first saw the big fish, only a few hours ago.

We sat in the conservatory, in silence for the most part. My tomato plants blew in the wind, gently tapping against the glass of the doors. Bean now sitting, curled up between us. Purring softly as I patted her silvery fur. Clio eventually spoke.

“Y’know, no one is gonna believe us” she said, in a solemn tone.

“No” I sighed, while shaking my head.

“Then why should we tell them” she exclaimed. “They’d think we were insane”. I acknowledged her sense; everyone, anyone we told, would think we were mad.

“I just don’t get why” I interjected, to which she looked puzzled “Why did that happen to us, what does it mean?”

“Does it have to mean anything?” I couldn’t help but furrow my brow, not being content with her answer “Look” she began again “When you see a sunset, a deer in the wild or you’re caught in the middle of a thunderstorm, do you ask why?” She paused, looking at me “No, you just enjoy them for what they are. Beautiful acts of nature.”

“But what we saw, Clio. It was Impossible. It shouldn’t have happened. It defies all the laws of physics that we know.”

“So?” she said, shrugging, casually as ever.

“So, don’t you want to know how all of that was possible?”

“Of course, I do, but even if I did, it wouldn’t make what just happen any more meaningful. In fact I think it would detract from the whole thing.” She could tell I was confused, which only made her smile, sit right next to me and take my hand in hers “When you see a magic trick, when you see a magician pick the card you were think of from thin air, what’s the best bit about it?” She said, looking right at me, with her wild green eyes. I thought about it for a few seconds.

“The trick” she smiled even wider “The mystery of it all and the trying to work it out.”

“And if you knew how it was done?” she continued

“It would ruin it.”

“Exactly.” I finally got what she meant and appreciated our night-time visitor all the more. I put my arm around her, pulling her into another hug. Gently kissing her on the side of her head.

Things aren’t beautiful because we understand them or know when they’re going to happen. It’s the fleeting mystery and spontaneous nature of it all that truly makes it exciting. The late-night conversations, when you can’t stop dancing with your pals, warm hot chocolate, a cat’s affection, silly photos with funny faces and stargazing with your best friend. Its moments like these that make you really appreciate the wonderfully weird gift of life.

#Goldfish #sci-fi #scottish #short fiction #short story #weird #fun

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incorrectblockb · 5 years ago

Text

friendship

↳ a woo jiho fanfic

word count: 2,200+

genre: pure fluff, slight angst, mutual pining

pairing: zico x gender neutral reader

warnings: alcohol consumption, zero proofreading, i’m not good at ending fics so that too

author’s note: i listened to yunb’s latest ep/album or whatever while writing this but i particularly like this song called friendship so if you need something to listen to while reading here it is!

in which, you’re more oblivious than you realize.

9:46 pm

“jiho, come on!”

the night started out like any other night. it was friday so you had worked all morning at your stuffy job and you wanted nothing more than to let loose and have fun with your friends that night. hyoseob had texted you that they were all meeting at the club your little social circle frequented at 10 pm. he also informed you that it was your turn to get jiho to leave his cave that night.

getting jiho to leave his studio for more than 10 minutes was always a feat in itself. he was a workaholic, to say the least. he was always working on something, be it music or even a brand new one-man entertainment company. you weren’t sure how exactly you were going to convince him to leave that night.

you found jiho at his computer, his headphones covering his ears. when you walked closer, you could hear the start of a beat he was working on. it didn’t seem like he had even noticed your presence yet with the way his eyes stayed glued to the screen and his hands flew over the soundboard. without a word, you pulled up a chair next to him at his desk. you saw the way his lips twitched into a small smile and his eyes flitted towards you then back to his computer.

“did you get hyoseob’s text?” you asked him as he removed his headphones.

jiho let out a sigh and nodded. “but i can’t go, i have to finish this.”

“it’ll still be here when you get back,” you replied, with a playful eye roll. “besides, have you even left this room all day?”

he glanced your way and you could see the sheepish look he had on his face, giving you your answer. you always tended to go into parental mode when you found out your friends weren’t exactly taking care of their well-beings. woo jiho may be a famous rapper/idol but he was no exception to your nagging.

“so i’m taking it you probably haven’t eaten in hours?”

“i ate some noodles at like 3?” jiho shrugged, nervously playing with some switches on the soundboard, avoiding eye-contact. he was like a little kid getting reprimanded by his mother.

you huffed and stood up, tugging on his sleeve as you went. you saw the hesitant look on his face but you spoke before he could protest.

“we don’t have to go to the club but you at least need something to eat.”

jiho knew you well enough to know not to fight you. but he also appreciated the fact that you respected him enough to not drag him to the club, knowing he wouldn’t be able to have fun. of course, there were plenty of days when jiho would be more than happy to go out with all his friends and have fun. when he was in work mode though, there’s no stopping him; he’s focused and determined.

that was the thing you loved about your friendship with the rapper, you both understood each other. sometimes you thought he even knew you better than you knew yourself. that’s why you considered him your best friend.

“fine, but only for a little bit,” jiho finally gave in, standing with you. he pulled a nearby hoodie over his head and shoved his wallet and phone into his sweatpants pockets. he looked over at you with a questioning look. “the usual?”

you stared at him for a moment. you had always loved the more casual look on him. the effortless way he looked so handsome had always made your heart flutter but you would never tell him that. you had to shake yourself from those thoughts by flashing him a bright smile.

“yeah, the usual.”

10:25 pm

the usual was a little korean bbq restaurant around the corner from jiho’s studio that the two of you frequented. it was run by a sweet little middle-age woman and her son. she always knew exactly what you wanted the minute you stepped foot into the door. the first time the two of you had come for a late-night snack, she had no clue who jiho (or rather zico) was and once she found out, she never treated him any differently. she would scold him for not eating the same way you did and always bring him extra side dishes without asking. she was basically like a second mother to the two of you and you both adored her.

she was there when you entered that night like she always was. you both greeted her as she motioned you to your usual table in the back corner. you didn’t even have to order as she brought out meat for you to grill and plenty of side dishes. she also didn’t hesitate to set down two bottles of soju before she bustled away to help other patrons. you almost called her back to take them since you hadn’t planned on staying that long but jiho stopped you.

“might as well since they’re already here?” he poised it as a question, letting you decide.

you nodded in agreement before he reached over to fill your glass for you. you returned the favor and then you both raised your glasses and playfully clinked them together before each taking a sip. jiho set to grilling the meat as the two of you sparked up a casual conversation about your days. you then ate as you both sipped on a couple more glasses of soju. at that point, you both were a little tipsy but not drunk.

out of habit, you pressed your palms to your warm cheeks and giggled at something jiho had said. his smile seemed to brighten as you laughed.

“you’re so cute,” he stated, matter-of-factly.

you didn’t think much of the compliment as you brushed it off and continued your conversation. you always called each other cute, so this time wasn’t any different, right?

it was when jiho blurted out how beautiful you looked that night that you really started to notice the shift in the compliments. they didn’t seem so innocent anymore. your palms began to sweat at the thought of them meaning something more. and apart of you hoped it wasn’t just due to the alcohol.

you could never really pinpoint the moment in time when your feelings for jiho went from purely friends to pining for something deeper than that. it was just like one day, you wanted nothing more than to spend your days with him. he was handsome and smart and talented and undeniably sweet. it was no wonder you fell for him. but for so long, you had always assumed the feelings were one-sided and you had kind of come to terms with that.

“let’s play truth or dare,” jiho exclaimed as you were lost in your thoughts.

furrowing your brows, you shook your head. “isn’t it weird with just two of us? besides won’t it just us basically picking truth since there’s not much you can do in a public restaurant without getting kicked out, ji.”

he sighed, “fine, then just a game of truths. 20 questions, per se.”

eventually, you agreed. the questions started off tame from the both of you. nothing too scandalous, just “who was your first kiss,” or “would you do this, this or this for 1,000 dollars.”

“who’s the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen?” you questioned, without really thinking. you smirked as you took a sip of your drink.

jiho had met many enchanting people in his years as a celebrity so you were sure that one of them had caught his eye. he had dated a few women in the several years you had been friends so you were just waiting for him to answer with one of them. his answer shocked you, though.

“you.”

“oh, shut up,” you grumbled, leaning forward to shove his arm.

he pouted as he rubbed the spot you had punched. “i’m serious, why do you never believe me? i always tell you how beautiful you are.”

you froze, ready to land another hit but your heart did a somersault in your chest. “are you flirting with me?”

jiho ran his hands through his hair as he met your unwavering gaze. “you finally noticed?”

you squinted at him from across the table. this was all so surreal to you. was he actually saying all these things to you or were you just imagining it? you half-expected to wake up from this dream at any moment in time. “wait, what do you mean, finally?”

he chuckled as he moved to pay the check. “you only get one question at a time.”

12:48 am

the two of you walked in silence back to the building where jiho’s studio was located. your head was still reeling from the whole conversation that you didn’t even know what to say. you wondered if he was freaking out too but as you looked over him, he took a deep breath of fresh air and smiled to himself; it seemed that wasn’t the case.

you watched as jiho entered the passcode to his floor of the building before you finally built up enough courage to speak up.

“i’m just gonna head home now,” you mumbled as he looked over at you.

“why?” he questioned, pushing the door open and holding it in place. “you usually stay over?”

he wasn’t wrong. usually after your late dinners, you would come back and fall asleep on jiho’s couch as he continued to fiddle with his music until the wee hours of the morning. you wanted tonight to be no different but at the same time, you knew that there was a conversation that needed be had and you weren’t sure if you were ready for it.

“i just have some things i need to do early in the morning,” you replied.

jiho seemed to notice how tense you had become and you saw the way his expression changed to disappointment. it made your heart clench.

“i’m sorry if i made you uncomfortable,” he said to you and you could hear the sincerity in his voice. “i don’t know what came over me.”

you watched for a minute as he fiddle with his hoodie string before gently ushering him into the studio. “maybe we should talk about it?”

“okay, if you want to.”

you pulled him to the couch and sat down beside him. you could feel him staring at you as you tried to piece together what you wanted to say to him.

“you didn’t make me uncomfortable, ji,” you started out. you saw him visibly let out a sigh of relief and you had to fight the urge to giggle at how cute he was. “i just want to know if you mean it? what you said about me?”

“i’ve never lied to you about anything so why start now?”

that was true. the two of you never lied to each other. you were always honest (at least when directly questioned about something).

“and the flirting? what did you mean when you said i ‘finally noticed?’“

jiho let out a small laugh. he seemed shy in that moment. “just that you’re kind of oblivious.”

you went to protest but he cut you off. “like right now, you’re pouting at me, looking like the cutest human being on the planet because you thinking i’m making fun of you when in reality i’m trying to confess that i’ve been in love with you this entire time.”

you didn’t know what to say. your mouth opened and closed a couple times. but jiho just continued on.

“but maybe you did notice and all this time you’ve been too scared to say anything. i know you feel the same way but i wanted to wait until you were ready. i know it’s scary for you. it’s scary for me too. you’re my best friend and i would never want to lose you but i’m willing to take a risk if it means i get to finally hold you and kiss you and be with you.”

he was right and you knew it. he always was. he knew you better than anyone so why would you ever think he didn’t know how you felt about him. what caught you off guard was that he felt the same about you. honestly, you never thought in a million years that he actually liked you, let alone loved you. and yes, you were scared. you were scared if he knew how you felt, he’d push you away and you’d lose your best friend. and even in that moment, you were scared of all the possibilities.

“i can’t believe i’m confessing my deepest feelings for you, and you’re analyzing everything, even now,” he chuckled. he grabbed your hands and laced your fingers together.

“jiho, i love you,” you breathed out finally, giving his fingers a squeeze. you knew you had to let go and just be in the present for once. you would never get this chance again.

“i know,” jiho replied with a knowing smirk.

“don’t quote star wars at me, you’ll ruin the moment.”

“literally nothing could ruin this for me. not now. not ever. because i love you and that’s that.”

#block b #zico #woo jiho #block b scenarios #block b fanfic #zico scenarios #zico fanfic #i have feelings for woo jiho #this actually turned out a lot longer than i thought it would be so #writing #fanfic #scenarios

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blueumbriel · 6 years ago

Photo

Connor and Colin in the Reverse AU of the Brothers AU! :D

Basic information about these twins, and what they do, below the line!

Order of birth:

These two are twins, yes, but they were born in separate days. An hour at least, anyways. Connor was born like around 11 pm, but then Colin came to the world after midnight, so technically, they’re born on two separate days.

Connor:

Always seems to put on a strong face for Colton, his anxious twin and Conan. The last thing he needs is more worries.

Has the tendency to do it himself (thus him cooking even though he’s not as good as Colin)

Only shows emotions around Colin (and Hank later on)

Sometimes acts like the Oldest™, when he has to be

Memes

Klutzy af, but hey he gets the job done at least

“Where Sumo at”

Colin:

Timid and a wee bit insecure; soft spoken BUT does become overprotective/worried af when Connor gets sad

Tends to cling onto Connor for reassurance

Does most of the cooking (takes up cooking club/classes at school)

Is the best in emotional support for Conan (hugs for daysss)

Wants to show that he can do the best he can, even though Hank can see the immense effort the boy is doing (like I am so proud of you kiddo)

Both:

NEVER resorts to anger and violence except when it comes to the ones who hurt Baby Conan likE PHCK OFF WILL YE

Has this Wise Dog™ secret language going on and it never fails to confuse Colton when they do it

The Weird Brunette Versions of Fred and George from Harry Potter

Both excel at school (besides from Conan amongst his peers)

Like really good grades and is well known and friendly around the school staff, like most of them are nice and tries to help them out when they can

BUT the twins has a bad tendency to compete against one another, like, you would expect them to cooperate in class, like as a team buT NAH

They want to see whose the Smartest Twin™

Especially in those pop quiz contest shizz, like they would be placed in different teams and they would shout, “YO WHOEVER LOSES GETS TO WASH ALL THE DISHES TONIGHT!!!” “YOU’RE ON!!!”

Around the household:

With Colton being super hardworking and busy around the precinct and taking long hours in investigations, this leaves the twins to handle the baby brother, Conan, the cooking, as well as the cleaning and Sumo care and maintenance.

Other:

Connor is more on the cleaning side of things, while cooking is more for Colin, so the two of them balance each other out when they work together to make food and keep things in order around the house. But, with Colin being busy with his schoolwork (somehow his classes are way more hectic than Connor’s), this just leaves Connor to take the lead. But with him being a klutz sometimes, he tends to hurt himself when cooking.

Do note that Colton never intended to make his younger brothers do the hard work for him. Far from it. It makes him feel worse about himself and how he handles his siblings ever since their parents didn’t make it after the car accident four years ago, but he does appreciate their efforts and tries to own up to them, being the Big Brother™ that he is.

He loves them so much. They have no idea. He just wished that he could’ve done something to make things...easier.

Doesn’t quite show it as often, but they’re super close to Colton. Like the Eldest has watched over and bonded with them ever since they were born and came home from the hospital. Like every moment that they could remember, Colton was always there in the memory. Always.

Their bond is so deep to be honest. So it hurts the two to see Colton like the mess that he is in this AU and how they yearn for his hugs every time he comes home late after a rather long day and just conks out right off the bat when he lands on the couch.

But things did change for the better when HK800 and two others came into the picture. The twins noticed this for damn sure.

#Draws #DBH Connor Brothers AU #Detroit Become Human

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a-splash-of-stucky · 6 years ago

Text

how long will i love you?

Pairings: Artist!Steve Rogers x Artist!Reader

Summary: Nothing lasts forever, except, perhaps, your love for him.

Warnings: So much angst. Major character death/grieving. Language.

Notes: Written for @barnesrogersvstheworld’s writing challenge using the prompt ‘paint tubes’. Kisses are featured, though how ‘significant’ they are is up for debate (sorry y’all, I tried)

Some inspiration taken from the ‘Over and Over Again’ music video, and title is from ‘How Long Will I Love You’ by Ellie Goulding. Sorry in advance for the heartbreak, but on a separate note: I’m really proud of how this turned out.

My Masterlist | Want to be added to my taglists? See here

“You need to clean it out,” Wanda says, for the dozenth time in probably as many minutes.

“I don’t need to do anything—”

“It’ll be cathartic,” she says, “You’ll find closure, you’ll...I dunno, you’ll find those pizza socks that you’ve lost, maybe?”

“I do miss those socks,” you say forlornly.

“So, you’ll clean it out?” she presses.

“I’ll...think about it.”

—

The art studio is exactly how you’d left it, albeit with a thin film of dust clinging to every surface. That is to be expected, given that you haven’t set foot in this room for over two years. As you step into it now, you feel as if you’ve just gone back in time, to a point in your life when things were brighter, easier.

You sigh heavily as you flick on the light switch.

It’s a small, square room, with an enormous corner window. When the blinds are drawn open, sunlight floods into the place, making the studio seem much bigger than it really is. You cross the room quickly to do just that.

You rest your back against the cool glass of the window as you carefully survey the place. The room is in a state of organised chaos, with some semblance of order built into the messiness. An eclectic collection of DIY shelves and IKEA storage units housing your art equipment line the wall beside the door. Some of the drawers are practically overflowing with their contents.

A large desk has been pushed against the wall to your left and on it, there are glass mason jars with paint brushes still inside them. You know that if you were to open the drawers of that desk, you’d find all of your old sketchbooks and a few unfinished pieces of art. Larger equipment like tripods, a drying rack and easels are arranged against the wall opposite the desk. The window takes up most of the fourth wall, so you’ve put no furniture in front of it, in order to not block out the light.

It’s bittersweet, being in here.

You slowly make a circuit around the room, trailing your fingers over the paint-stained and pencil-marked surfaces. His presence fills the room, despite the fact that he has not been in here for the last two years, either. The stuff in here is as much tied to him as it is to you; both of you shared this studio, both of you used these brushes and those easels, both of you used to blast your music as you painted into the wee hours of the night.

It’s difficult enough, having to live in the home that you once shared with him without having to come in here and be harshly reminded of his absence. Nearly eighteen months ago, you moved into a studio-office downtown, so that you could work in a space whose every square inch had not been infused with the essence of his being.

You remember the times when you would open the door to this studio and see him hunched over the desk, new splatters of paint decorating his apron. His tongue would be sticking out of the corner of his mouth and his brows would be furrowed in concentration as he worked on his latest piece. Music would fill the air — something mellow and old-school, something that reminded you of jazz bars and speakeasies.

You’re torn between the urge to preserve the room exactly as it is, and clearing everything out, giving you the opportunity to start afresh.

As you perch yourself on one of the stools, your eyes land on a cardboard box balancing precariously on top of one of the smaller drawer units. You dimly remember dumping it there ages ago, fully intending on coming back to it in a couple of days’ time.

Funny how two days can so suddenly turn into two years.

You cross the room to examine it more closely. The box is exactly how you remember it, black, with the brand name written across the front in simple, clean white text. Hesitantly, like you’re afraid that something might leap out and bite you, you lift up the lid with a single index finger. The paint tubes are still inside, untouched — pristine as the day they came. There are ten of them in all.

In the grief and darkness of the last two years, you’d forgotten about them.

He would not want them to go to waste.

In a sudden burst of motivation, you drag an easel, a small table and a stool over to the window, before rooting around the storage units for a pre-stretched canvas. You grab all the utensils you think you’ll need and don your old, paint-stained apron before sitting down.

You have not put a brush to canvas for a long time, but perhaps, it is time to revisit your roots.

—

You scrub the back of your hand over your face, groaning in frustration when you realise that you’ve probably just smeared blue acrylic across your cheek.

It’s a Friday night and, while most people are ushering in the weekend with booze and parties, you’re stuck in the art department, frantically trying to finish your coursework piece in time for the Monday morning submission deadline. You’re lowkey hating your past-self for being so ambitious and/or being really shitty at time-management, but what’s done is done and your present-self must now deal with the consequences of your own incompetence.

It is at this precise moment that the door to the art studio creaks open and a broad-shouldered, blonde-haired hunk of a man walks in. It takes a moment for you to clock him as Steve Rogers, otherwise known as the guy that you’ve been crushing on for the better part of the last academic year.

He’s wearing a light-grey t-shirt, dark blue jeans and a black bomber that hugs him just right. He’s got a canvas backpack slung casually over one shoulder, and big, square-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He does a double-take when he notices you, like he’s surprised to find anyone else here, on a Friday night.

“Uh...hey,” he says, waving a hand in greeting.

“Hey yourself,” you reply, straightening up in your seat.

Of all the times for your crush to see you, it had to be when you were wearing your least-flattering pair of sweats and had paint smeared across your cheek, right?

“You’re, uh...you’re Y/N, right?” he asks, as he slowly walks over to you.

“Yep, that’s me. And you’re Steve?”

“Steve Rogers, that’s me,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He stops beside your table and gives a cursory glance over the mess you’ve got spread across it.

“Coursework?” he guesses, jerking his chin towards your painting-in-progress.

“Yeah,” you sigh.

“Same, I got some things I needed to finish up before I can hand it in,” Steve says. “I gotta admit though, I didn’t think anyone would be in here this late.”

You frown in confusion. “It’s not that late, it’s only like...oh,” you murmur, as you look at the clock hanging over the door.

Steve chuckles. “What time did you think it was?”

“Like...maybe almost nine o’clock?”

“Yeah, and then somehow, you find out that it’s five past midnight, huh?” Steve says, nodding sagely. “Yeah, I’ve been there before.”

You smile wryly. “The struggles of being a student artist, huh?”

“You can say that again,” Steve says, shooting you one of those disarming, carefree grins. “But hey—at least you’re not alone anymore, how much longer are you planning to stay?”

“Uh…” you mumble, as you assess your work and quickly estimate how much more time you’ll need before you can pack up. “I need to get the painting done by tonight, ‘cause I need to go over some of the parts with pencil tomorrow, so...maybe another couple hours?”

“Cool,” he says, as he dumps his stuff onto the table to your left. “I’m probably staying that long too.”

“Cool,” you mutter, despite the fact that internally, you are anything but cool. You’re a nervous wreck, praying to the heavens above that you don’t make a fool of yourself in Steve’s presence.

Eh, you’ve already got paint on your face — how much worse can it get?

You covertly watch Steve out of the corner of your eye as he pulls out a set of drawing pencils and a sketchpad from his drawer and gets to work. It’s nice, having him there to keep you company. The two of you make small talk every now and then, but for the most part, you’re both focused on getting your work done as fast as possible.

Sometime after the one-hour mark, Steve brings up his Spotify account and puts some music on in the background, to keep you going for the home stretch. You’re unfamiliar with the artist, but the music is calming and bluesy, enough to occupy the silence, but not too much to make you lose your focus.

You hunker down and finish off the rest of your painting in record time, sitting back triumphantly as you appraise the nearly-completed piece. You need to let it dry before you can add in the last bits of pencil shading, and you still need to mount it into a proper frame, but you’re confident that you can get all of that done by Monday morning.

Steve finishes his work just as you start cleaning off your brushes and palettes in the sink. He comes over and dumps his stuff into the sink beside yours, before turning on his faucet.

“Productive?” he asks, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the running water.

“Yeah. But I’m really tired now.”

“Yeah, well — it’s almost 2AM, that’s kinda expected,” he says, laughing gently. “You live far from here?”

You shake your head. “Nah, just on the other side of campus.”

“Oh really? I’m near there too, I can walk you home, if you’d like.” he offers.

“No, it’s fine, I don’t wanna bother you.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah! I’m just gonna walk through all the campus buildings, I’ll be okay.”

He opens his mouth, about to press his point further, but winds up shrugging his shoulders and dropping the topic instead. You finish cleaning your brushes, then place them and your mixing palettes into the appropriate drying racks. When you turn around, you find Steve’s eyes staring directly at you. He startles and turns around quickly, the slight flush on his cheeks making it obvious that he was just checking you out.

Wait — he was checking you out?

Are you imagining things? Could it be? Holy shit.

Steve is resolutely ignoring you, focusing intently on making his brushes as clean as physically possible. You could either confront him, or live with the agony of not knowing what happens next for the rest of your life.

You decide to bite the bullet.

You clear your throat loudly to get his attention. “Is something wrong?” you ask.

He frowns. “Uh, no? Why would anything be wrong?”

“Well...you were just looking at me funny...did I forget something?”

Steve’s eyes widen in panic. “Oh! Oh, that — no, nothing’s wrong, you just...you got something on your face,” he says, gesturing vaguely with one hand. He clears his throat. “I uh...I can get it for you? If you’d like?”

“Sure,” you reply, rolling one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug.

You watch, strangely nervous, as Steve turns the faucet off, dumps his brushes into a holder to dry and wipes his palms on his jeans before stepping closer. Your breathing hitches in your throat as he gently cups your chin and brushes his thumb over your cheek in a featherlight caress. He’s close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his body, and the warmth of his breath on your skin.

Quick as a flash, he ducks down and presses his lips to yours — a touch that is gone as suddenly as it came.

His cheeks are flushed a scarlet red when he pulls away.

“Um...sorry, I — yeah,” he mumbles.

You blink rapidly, trying to get your thoughts in order. Did—did that just happen?

“Did you just kiss me?”

His blush deepens, if that were possible. It spreads down his neck and disappears beneath the collar of his shirt — a part of you is curious to find out if he’s a full-body blusher.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

You chew on your bottom lip as you take in the situation. Steve’s body is still curled towards yours, and the faint, pleasant scent of his cologne fills your nostrils, making it hard to think. He hasn’t taken his hand off your cheek; beneath his palm, your skin tingles with anticipation.

It’s now or never. Carpe diem, and all that crap.

“That was...something,” you murmur, as your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, his gaze flicking from your lips to your eyes, and back again. “It was.”

“I—uh, I think we might need to do that again. So that I can figure out what the ‘something’ was. For science,” you add hastily, as the corner of your lips quirk up into a half-smile.

His lips pull into a grin, one that threatens to outshine the sun and makes your heart do an excited little flutter. It’s a smile filled with hope and promise, and it’s taking everything in you not to lean over and kiss him stupid.

“The start of something new, maybe?” he suggests.

You bark out a surprised laugh. “Oh, do not start quoting High School Musical at me, or this’ll turn into an impromptu sing-and-dance number real quick, I promise you that.”

Steve throws his head back and laughs, even as he leans in closer, curling one hand around your jaw and the other around the back of your neck.

“Anything can happen,” he sings, softly, and horribly off-key, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “When you take a chance.”

“You’re such a dork,” you breathe, as you surge forward and crush your lips together.

—

You’re painting aimlessly, putting paint on canvas merely for the sake of it.

Since his passing, you’ve tried to keep your distance from any and all types of paints; there are just too many memories associated with him. Painting doesn’t have the same allure to you as it once did. Instead, you’ve developed your skills in the world of digital art, favouring Photoshop and cameras and high-tech gadgets over traditional media. Between the two of you, he’d always been the more-skilled painter, anyway. Now, with you being so out-of-practice, a brush has never felt more foreign in your hands.

The colours on your canvas are disjointed and discordant, bold splashes of red juxtaposed by sickly greens and dark expanses of blue. You feel as if you’ve forgotten everything you’ve learnt; how to mix colours, how to dilute the paint to get lighter washes, which colours work well together.

You have no direction in mind, with this piece.

You’re not happy with where things are going, but at least you’re reacquainting yourself with your brushes. You hadn’t realised how much you missed their weight in your fingers, the satisfying give of the bristles as you press them to the canvas. Surprisingly enough, the muscles in your arm and hand still remember how they should move to best lay down the colour. Your fingers are covered in specks of paint and similar flecks of colour now adorn your light-wash jeans.

Despite your best efforts, this piece is becoming increasingly unsalvageable. Layer after layer of colour simply adds to the dissonance in front of you.

A part of you just wants to quit.

You can hear his voice in the back of your head, reassuring and encouraging and comforting in a way that only he could be.

Stop over thinking it, sweetheart. You’re good, you know how to paint. Don’t use your head, just...listen to your heart, paint what you love.

It clicks, then.

He’s been kept alive in your memory for so long, perhaps it is time to share his greatness with the rest of the world.

You stand up, hurrying across the room to get a fresh canvas and a new jar of water. You can see the painting taking form in your mind, with its golden tones, simple brushwork and muted palette. You push your unfinished piece to the side and position your new canvas on the easel, before dragging your stool closer and picking up a clean brush.

You have a portrait to paint.

—

You and Steve are walking down the street hand-in-hand, weaving through the throng of last-minute Christmas shoppers. It is the first holiday season you’re celebrating as a couple, and you’re excited to spend a cosy weekend at home, trading little presents and gentle kisses under the warmth of the covers.

“I fucking hate crowds,” Steve grumbles, “Everyone’s so goddamn rude.”

You laugh, threading your arm around his and pressing your cheek to his bicep, still warm despite the chilly winter air. “Let’s hurry up and get you your hot chocolate, then, before we get crushed to death by all these people.”

He grins, patting your hand affectionately. “You’re filled with great ideas, aren’t you?”

Just then, a store that you’ve never seen before catches your eye. Eager to investigate further, you tug Steve over to the shop window, making him yelp in surprise.

It’s an art supply store — a fancy one, if the decor is anything to go by. The display boasts an impressive array of beautifully-crafted easels, handmade brushes, premium colour pencils and, most notably, a Winsor and Newton 10-colour gouache paint set.

The sleek box is front-and-centre of the display. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the elegant white tubes, with the simple Winsor and Newton logo emblazoned across them. A sheet of paper beside the box holds a swatch of each colour; they look positively dreamy.

“They’re gorgeous, aren’t they?” Steve murmurs appreciatively.

You hum in agreement. “Shame you’d need to drop nearly 90 bucks to get them.”

“I’ll buy them for you,” Steve promises, turning to face you. “I mean—not now, obviously, but one day.”

You smile as you wind your arms around his torso and tip your head back to look up at him. “Yeah? Once your pieces have made it into the Guggenheim and the Tate, you mean?”

“Exactly,” he says, grinning as he bends down to press a kiss to your chilly, slightly-chapped lips.

“I’m fucking freezing,” you mumble, as he pulls away.

In response, he wraps his arms around your shoulders, smushing your face into his torso in an effort to warm you up.

“My little icicle,” he says fondly.

“That...that sounds vaguely sexual,” you say, your voice slightly muffled.

Steve snorts, gently pushing you back so that he can tuck you under his arm. “Get your mind out of the goddamn gutter, please.”

“Fine,” you grumble, giving one last longing look at the set of paint tubes before the two of you resume walking. “Hot chocolate?” you prompt.

“Hot chocolate,” Steve agrees.

—

It is strangely bittersweet, using these paint tubes.

In your mind’s eye, you see his slim, strong fingers wielding a brush expertly, the backs of his hand and knuckles covered in splotches of paint. He was so confident whenever he mixed his colours, knowing instinctively how much he needed from each tube to create the exact shade he was looking for. He had an intuition, a deep-seated knowledge that you’ve always admired.

You personally had never reached quite the same level of skill that he had attained, but you never envied him for it. He had his strengths, he had his weakness and you, likewise.

With this piece, you have a much clearer idea of where you’re going. The painting is taking shape before your very eyes, a creation that is coming straight from your heart. You are literally pouring a part of your soul onto the canvas, exposed and vulnerable, for all the world to see.

As the brush glides across the canvas and deposits streaks of colour in its wake, you feel as if you’re functioning on autopilot. Your brain has taken a backseat and your heart is now running the show, painting what it loves dearly and longs to see. You have no reference besides the memories in your head, the ones that have been your sweetest grief in the most difficult period of your life.

You might not have the same knowledge of colours and composition that he had, but what you lack in skill you make up for through sheer force of will. You don’t allow yourself to question your actions or second-guess your decisions; you know how to mix the exact shade of golden amber for his hair, the precise colour of blue for his eyes, the perfect shade of pink for his lips.

You’re moving on instinct. Your hand and arm and fingers map out the planes and curves of his face, the slope of his shoulders, the breadth of his torso. His image is burnished into your memory, just as his name has etched itself onto your heart.

He may be gone from this world, but you promise yourself that you’ll never let him fade from your memory.

—

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” Steve says, as he drops a package wrapped in brown paper into your lap.

“What’s this?” you ask, examining it in your hands as you sit up straighter. Steve bites his lip and shrugs as he comes to sit beside you on the couch.

“Open it,” he says simply. His hands are clasped in his lap and he is twisting his wedding ring around his finger with his right hand — a nervous tick that he’s recently developed.

“But—Stevie, you’ve already got me a birthday present!” you protest.

“I know, I know...this is like...an early Christmas present. Or a late Christmas present, however you wanna call it.”

You narrow your eyes in suspicion. “I thought we don’t do Christmas presents?”

“Then, well—this is…oh, for fuck’s sake, just open it, will you?”

“Okay, okay,” you mutter, hastily peeling the tape off.

As the wrapper falls away, your eyes are met with a plain black cardboard box, with Winsor and Newton written across the top in simple white font. From the weight and size of the box, you have a feeling you know what this present might be.

“Steve,” you breathe, as you turn to face your husband. “Is this—”

“Just open it!” he begs, “I’m literally dying from the suspense.”

You laugh, despite yourself, rushing to peel away the protective plastic wrapping that encases the box. Tentatively, you lift up the lid to peek inside, gasping when you set eyes on ten tubes of gouache paint, each one pristine and elegant and so bloody beautiful, just waiting for you to use them.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, putting the lid to one side before running your fingers over the tubes reverently, lips parted in awe. These paints are the stuff of legends; your hands are itching to play around with them.

“Stevie,” you whisper, at a loss for words.

“Do you like them?” he asks, voice heartbreakingly timid.

You nod your head vigorously as you lean towards him, clumsily wrapping an arm around the back of his neck as you crush your lips together, all whilst trying to balance the box on your laps, so that the tubes of paint don’t tumble to the floor. The kiss is clumsy and uncoordinated and you accidentally nip his bottom lip too hard, but that only makes it more perfect.

“I love it,” you whisper fervently, as tears of joy prick at the corner of your eyes. “I love them so much, thank you, honey, I love you.”

“I love you too,” he says breathlessly, strong arms snaking around your body to tug you closer. “God, honey, I love you so much. “

As amazing and unexpected as the paints are, what’s more significant — what’s making tears stream from your eyes — is that, after all these years, Steve still remembers how much you’ve been wanting them.

These paint tubes — yeah, okay, they’re paint tubes, but they’re also more than that. Your heart is on the verge of bursting from all the meaning and significance behind this gift. Painting — and art more broadly — has been a cornerstone of your relationship from the outset, weaving its way into every single significant occasion that you’ve shared, and all the little moments in between. These paint tubes symbolise how far you’ve come as a couple and hopefully, how far you have yet to go.

—

Who would’ve thought that just two days later, he’d be caught in a freak car accident that would ultimately steal him from your grasp? Who would’ve thought that you’d be left a widow, before you’ve even hit your fifties? Who would’ve thought that you’d turn into a shell of the person you used to be, passing through day after bleak, monotonous day without a purpose to guide you?

Life is achingly brief. The things that we take for granted can be taken away in the blink of an eye, leaving us bereft and lost.

Nothing lasts forever; that is the cruel, unfair truth.

You’re allowed to curse and sob and scream with anger, frustration and sadness, but you can’t change the rulings of fate. What’s done is done, and you can either let the subsequent current of sorrow drown you, or rise above it, stronger than who you were before.

For the past two years, you’ve been drowning under the weight of your heartbreak, which has been a crushing burden on your shoulders. It’s been a struggle, just to survive.

But maybe—

Maybe it’s time you tried kicking a little harder, tried to break the surface of these dark and murky waters, to see if you truly are strong enough to rise above.

It’s what he would’ve wanted from you.

You put the final few finishing touches on your painting before setting down your brush and standing up, groaning as you stretch your arms over your head. Your bones crack and pop as you move your body around, your muscles stiff from being in the same position for so long. Outside, the last rays of the dying sun paint the sky in vivid shades of red, pink and orange. You grimace — the fact that the sun is setting tells you that you’ve been working on this painting for at least three hours.

The loud rumble in your stomach serves to reinforce your conclusion.

You take a step back to study your finished piece: a painting of him, from the torso up.

Despite the fact that you’re a little rusty, the resemblance of the portrait to his likeness is striking. It is a painting of him as he has been immortalised in your mind, an image of him as you’d loved him best.

You’ve painted him with his head angled slightly to the right, frozen in mid-turn. His rosy pink lips are parted, the corners pulling up in the beginnings of one of his pure, tender smiles. His bright blue eyes are glinting with mischief, the corners crinkling with joy.

You’re proud to have been able to capture the sharp lines of his cheekbones and jaw, the dusting of freckles across his nose, the ever-present flush of pink that sits high on his cheeks. His blonde hair is slightly tousled and falling over his forehead, the way it used to look like in the early mornings, when his skin was still sleep-warmed and his voice was low and throaty.

You’ve painted him in one of those plain white t-shirts that he used to love, the material hugging his broad shoulders and ridiculously perky chest.

To emphasise the golden shine of his hair, you’ve kept the background dark and simple, abstract strokes of brown slapped onto the canvas with a dry brush. It had been one of his favourite techniques to use to achieve texture whenever he was making expanses of flat colours, and you’re pleased to have incorporated it into your work; it makes it more Steve, somehow.

As a final touch, you’ve used some amber and white paint to make a thin ring behind his head, feathering the paint slightly with a small offset spatula. The end result is that you’ve created a pale, ghostly halo.

Angel boy, you think absentmindedly.

You gaze upon the fruits of your labour with wistful nostalgia hanging heavy in your heart. Though it saddens you to have been made acutely aware of his absence in your life, the process has been strangely therapeutic. You haven’t cleaned out the room as you’d promised Wanda, but maybe, you’ve done something better with your time, and found closure in your own roundabout way.

You still miss him terribly and you’ll probably continue to miss him, for the rest of your days, but—

To miss someone is to have loved someone and that, surely, is better than to not have loved at all. Nothing lasts forever, except, perhaps, your love for him.

#Attie’s Marvel Kiss Challenge #steve rogers x reader #steve x reader #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers au #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers x you #steve x you #my writing #how long will i love you?#steve rogers angst #steve angst #steve rogers fluff #steve fluff

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let-it-raines · 6 years ago

Text

Second in Command (Ch. 12)

Summary: Life as the "spare to the heir" isn't all that it's cracked up to be when you're the supposed screw-up of the family, but people don't know what really happens behind closed doors.

Rating: Mature

The entire story available on ao3 | HERE |

A/N: I like to think that this chapter has it all. Romance, drama, witty banter, Christmas-themed celebrations...murder. Just kidding, there’s absolutely no murder. I haven’t quite branched out into the crime-solving branch of story-writing yet :D So enjoy a Christmas in October. I hear it’s even better than Christmas in July and that more words than usual are involved.

PS: This is now over 100,000 words, and I don’t know how that happened. Part of me wants to do something special like write a long part from Emma’s POV or ask for prompts from you guys, whether they be for different things you want more detail on in this story or maybe just general prompts for anything. I don’t know when I’d even get around to them, but I think I may still like to try. I don’t know. Let me know if that’s something you guys want :D

Tag list: @resident-of-storybrooke @kmomof4 @wellhellotragic @profdanglaisstuff @ekr032-blog-blog @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @a-faekindagirl @mayquita @captainsjedi @captswanis4vr @teamhook @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91 @branlovesouat

Killian hates flying. It’s not that he’s nervous about being suspended thirty thousand feet in the air with mountain ranges or deserts or entire fucking oceans beneath him. If he thinks about it too much, that does cause him a wee bit of concern, but he mostly hates flying because more often than not if he’s flying somewhere, he’s going to be away from home for long periods at a time. He’s thankful and appreciative of the fact that his life affords him the luxury of not just seeing the photogenic parts of the world, but also the parts that are struggling to survive. It allows him different perspectives, and he’s nothing if not someone who is willing to broaden his horizons. It’s just that those horizons take him away from home, from Emma, and there’s no place like home, especially now.

There’s also the fact that he’s on a plane for over ten hours right now, and while he’s not stuck in economy with cramped legs and a snoring neighbor who doesn’t know what deodorant is, he’s ready for his feet to touch the dirt, solid and firm.

He spends his time reviewing his itinerary for his next few weeks and brushing up on the wildlife preservation efforts. He’s done a few of these trips before, but it’s mostly Liam who has handled them. He’s happy to do it, though, so that Liam can spend time with his family and his newborn daughter. Killian cannot imagine ever having to leave a child of his own for over two weeks, let alone one he’s just now been able to meet like Liam has with Elizabeth. He knows that it’ll happen one day, though. He’ll have to be the dad whose children learn to kiss computer and phone screens while he’s away from them on these kinds of trips. They’ll tone down for him once he has an official family of his own, but they won’t stop until his hair looks more like salt and pepper than inky black.

His text chime goes off from his phone’s place on his table, and while he expects it to be Emma telling him something she forgot to mention before he left, it’s his mother.

Allison: I realize that you’ve just gotten on a plane, but the jewelers have finished Emma’s ring. They need your approval before it’s completely set.

Well, shit.

Would it be too much to turn this plane around?

Killian: Will you go look at it for me? I’ll check on it as soon as I get home.

Five hours later his mother texts him again, just as the plane is making its descent, touching ground in Africa while his mind is in England.

Allison: It’s beautiful, my boy.

His week seems to pass by slowly and all at once. He spends his days waking up early to go on expeditions, astounded by the beauty of the wildlife reserve as miles of open land extend beyond him with the sun rising and coating the grounds with an orange glow every morning before the crackling heat takes over. On the days he doesn’t spend observing nature, he works with the people who try to preserve this land and these animals every day. It’s work that he could never do, but if he can support them in their endeavors and bring light to both the struggles and the successes of their organizations, it would be a win for everyone. Sometimes he feels like he’s simply a poster boy, and while that can be true, his name and his face help people by merely being there and showing his support.

One day, though, he’s lucky enough to visit an underfunded school where the Royal Foundation is providing new supplies for both the staff and the children. He’s thrilled that he can help out, but he’s also been told that these children have a particular fondness for football even with their total of two outdated, deflated balls. So he arranges with his aides to get new balls and jerseys for the children. It’s the least he can do, and the way the children squeal when he brings the mesh bag full of balls around causes him to throw his head back in laughter.

He’s dressed casually enough in his slacks and loose button down, so when they ask him if he’d be willing to play with them, he can’t help but comply.

“How old are you, Prince Killian?”

“Twenty nine.”

“You’re out of breath like you’re much older.”

He’ll have to make sure to tell Emma about that when he finally gets to call her later.

And when he catches his breath.

He and Emma have either been totally missing each other on their nightly calls, or he’s been falling asleep either before a call starts or in the middle of it. Thank the heavens for texting, but reading words on a screen don’t bring quite the same sense of comfort that actually being able to hear her voice does, let alone seeing her face, even if it’s just through their computer screens. Maybe he’s already a bit like the man whose loved ones have to kiss him through a screen.

He runs late that day, keeping to how this week has been going, getting caught up talking to some of the teachers at the school before he has another engagement that night, and by the time the car pulls up to the house he’s staying in he’s practically sprinting inside and running to his room so that he can get to his laptop, quickly opening it and dialing Emma twice before her face finally showed up on the screen.

“Hi,” Emma greets, waving her hand at him like she’s not sure what to do with her hands, and oh is he so glad to see her.

“Hello, beautiful. How was your day?”

“Oh good,” she laughs, tucking that loose strand of hair behind her ear. “My dad apparently threw out his back, though I do think he’s being a bit dramatic, so I spent the day restocking the shelves and doing inventory at the pub before we open since Will has the next two days off. So that would explain,” she picks up her computer and moves it around to show him where she is, “why I’m sitting in my very empty old room with sheets that have clouds on them.”

“So you’re staying with your parents tonight?”

“Tonight, maybe the next few days.”

“Why aren’t you sleeping at home?”

“My bed here is much more comfortable than our couch. Plus, you know, people who talk about more than if a baby is eating enough.”

“Why are you sleeping on the couch?”

She simply stares at him, her lips in a straight line as she quirks her eyebrow. Oh, she’s not sleeping in their bed because he’s not there. That’s…love. Maybe a little bit crazy, too. But what is love without a little crazy? That’s love to not want to sleep in their bed when he’s not there when it has to be infinitely more comfortable to sleep in a bed alone than with him.

Though he will wake up in the middle of the night here, eyes flashing open as he worries that he’s rolled a bit too far to the right and on top of Emma only to realize she’s not there and his body is only meeting more mattress.

“I love you, Emma. More than anything.” “I love you, too. Infinitely or whatever since you stole the ‘more than anything’ line.”

He chuckles at the indignant look on her face. She’s never been one to verbally express her love as explicitly as he does, but even if her words aren’t as eloquent or as often, he still knows that she means them. “Now tell me about your day.”

“So I began the day looking at a herd of elephants and in the middle there was this lad who called me both old and out of shape.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, we were playing a bit of football, and I guess I lost my breath. They all got a kick out of it. Pun intended.”

They talk for a bit longer, but before he manages to wish her a goodnight, she’s fallen asleep sitting straight up against the headboard of her old bed, her head drooping forward to rest against her chest.

“Ten more days, my love.”

He caresses her face through the screen, his fingerprints marking up the laptop, before shutting the device and shutting away Emma.

By the time his two and a half weeks are over, he’s exhausted, the long days and physical treks having him be completely knackered on his plane ride to London as well as in the car back to his actual, physical home in Kensington. He’d meant to have a look at Emma’s ring, give it the final approval, but he simply couldn’t force himself to go anywhere other than home. He cannot wait to see Emma, and he knows from their sporadic talks that she’s had a difficult few days without him. But he’s home now, just feet away from her, and that’s the only thing that really keeps him from falling out as he walks through their front door.

“Emma,” he calls as he steps into the apartment, the one bag he managed to bring from the car trailing behind him until he drops it against the hardwood. “Darling, are you here?”

He’s checked both the living room and kitchen, walking through the dining room and sitting area as he goes, and there’s no sign of Emma anywhere, just boxes of Christmas decorations they need to put up. He knows she should be home. He texted her as soon as he landed, and she said she was.

It’s then that he sees her bounding down the stairs at breakneck speed and before he knows it her arms are wrapped around his neck and her legs wrapped around his waist as she peppers kisses everywhere she can reach. It’s bloody wonderful, and he can’t help but nuzzle his face into her hair and breathe her in.

He’s missed her.

Bloody hell, he’s missed her.

“Hello, love,” he laughs after she’s cupped his face and planted a smacking kiss on his lips, his arms now completely supporting her weight under her thighs. “Did you miss me?”

“Not at all,” she jests as he walks them to the kitchen, setting her down on the countertop so that he can stand between her legs and give her a proper kiss, his tongue edging into her mouth and tasting the peppermint he smelled on her breath a moment ago.

“I missed you like crazy, my love,” he sighs against her lips while he runs his hands up and down her biceps over the softness of her sweater until his hands find the exposed skin at her stomach and he trails his hands under the material until he’s brushing the sides of her breasts through her bra.

She cups his face again, running her thumbs underneath his eyes. “You look tired.”

“I’m not that tired,” he protests, running his thumbs over the flat of her stomach while his other fingers work at her back.

“Killian.”

“I’m bloody exhausted.”

“You should go to bed, at least a short nap.”

“I’d really rather take you to bed.”

He begins kissing at her neck, mapping her skin with his tongue in the way he hasn’t been able to do in over half a month, until she pushes at his shoulders and he rests his forehead against her collarbone.

“Later. After you sleep.”

When Killian wakes up from what turns out to be a much more rejuvenating nap than he was aware he needed, he and Emma finally begin decorating the apartment for Christmas. They’d gotten everything out of storage before he’d left, but the only thing up was the tree, which was still bare of all lights and ornaments. Emma’s got a Christmas playlist playing on speakers throughout the apartment, and she most definitely spiked his hot chocolate with rum, not that he’s complaining.

Growing up, his family would never personally decorate a Christmas tree because their staff would always do it for them to make sure the trees were decorated the same every year, and then the children would add a few ornaments at the end. It wasn’t until Emma that he began decorating on his own, and it wasn’t until his third Christmas with Emma and the Nolans that he got to celebrate in the way that most people do, having been unable to be with her for the first few.

They’re decorating the Christmas tree that’s currently situated where his favorite couch in the Nolan’s apartment usually resides. Actually, no. They’re trying to decorate the Christmas tree, but the lights are tangled and every time he manages to get one string undone, Emma’s handing him another thread of colorful lights that are twisted into knots that shouldn’t even be physically possible. What the hell happened in these boxes over the past year? Did the lights come alive?

“So you’re telling me that you’ve never gone to a Christmas tree farm?”

“When would I get the opportunity to go to a Christmas tree farm? I have to go through secret maneuvers just to get here, inside a private apartment, just to see you, love.”

“I don’t know?” She shrugs, taking the current string he’s working on out of his hands and messing with it because apparently he’s taking too long to untangle it. “Sometime in the dark of the night with prosthetics on your face and a blonde wig?” “Well that’s an image of myself I never wanted.”

“What? You don’t like blondes? There are a lot of us out there.”

“Don’t I know it?”

“Hey,” Emma protests, tossing a plastic candy cane in his direction, “there better only be the one blonde in your life.”

“Aye,” Killian acknowledges before standing from his spot on the floor and pulling Emma toward him so that their bodies are pressed together and her arms are around his neck, her hands playing with the tips of his hair. He just got it cut, and whenever he does that Emma’s hands always manage to find their way into it to test out the new length. “You’re my favorite blonde, darling.”

“And don’t you forget it,” she laughs before capturing his lips with hers, a leisurely sway of lips turning into a passionate dance of tongues, and before he knows it he’s got Emma pressed against the remaining couch while his body covers hers.

Her hands have just reached into the back of his jean’s pockets, squeezing his ass and aligning their hips better together, Killian rolling his to get some friction for his growing hardness, when both of Emma’s parents walk in the room.

“Hey, do you two want to…what are you doing?”

“Good heavens, Mary Margaret. You have eyes. You know what they’re doing.”

All Killian knows is that he wants to melt into this couch right now and take Emma with him. He hasn’t moved off of her yet, and she’s most definitely using his body as a shield from her parents. Oh shit, her hands are still grabbing his ass.

“Right,” Mary Margaret stutters, and he can see the flush against the white of her cheeks, “we’re just going to go back to our room now. We forgot some decorations, didn’t we, David?”

He’s not quite as mortified as Emma is, though he is a tad bit embarrassed that her parents just caught them dry humping on the couch. He’s a twenty-six year old man, and his girlfriend’s parents should never even really have the option of knowing about his sex life. Of course, her parents’ room is right across the hall from Emma’s, and they’ve probably heard a lot worse than what they’ve just seen…not that he would ever dare point that out of Emma. He might be out of both a girlfriend and sex all in one sentence.

“I really need my own place,” Emma mumbles as he pulls away from her so that he can look down at her. He was right. She’s gone red as Christmas.

“I’d probably help if you had taken your hands off my ass at some point.”

“You’re being an ass.”

“I’m simply stating the obvious.” He pops his hips up to point out the fact that she’s still very much feeling him up, and she finally gets the hint, removing her hands so that he can climb off of her to try to go back to decorating and to get his still tight jeans situation under control.

David and Mary Margaret eventually come back out into their living room after texting Emma to make sure that the room was safe of all plundering, and the four of them finish decorating the tree. Most of their ornaments are homemade, things that Emma made for them in primary school. He finds several that are pictures of young Emma in what seems to be a snow globe made of colored construction paper, and he wishes that they had things like that in his home. He’d of course made crafts in primary school, and while the occasional few would go on display around the house, it was never in the way that the Nolans keep all of Emma’s work. Mary Margaret basically kept them in as pristine of condition as she could, and even if Emma is embarrassed by having some of the items on display, he is simply glad to know that Emma’s always been loved.

None of them are working in the pub that night, Emma only sneaking down to get a bottle of whiskey clad in her pajamas, when her parents begin telling him stories of Emma as a teenager. Even if he’s heard them all before, he still takes delight in how embarrassed Emma becomes over them, her cheeks flushed with both the alcohol and the desire to never hear about when she was a cheerleader for two weeks before quitting the team.

“Do you still have that uniform, love?”

“Yeah, you interested in seeing if it’ll fit you?”

That night he watches as the Nolans lounge about in their living room, Emma’s hair messy and un-brushed as she lies with her head in his lap, and not a one of them caring how they look or if they meet the right dress code and eat their food the right way. Not every one of his family’s Christmas traditions are stiff. Some are quite fun if he’s honest with himself, but they would never dare to lounge in front of the television in their mismatched pajamas, drinking whiskey out of coffee cups and Chinese food out of the cartons. Instead they sit in a great hall watching a movie on a projector, drinks served in fine stemware.

David and Mary Margaret fall asleep around eleven, snoring on the couch in a position that he knows will hurt them if they stay that way all night.

“Put your coat and shoes on, Killian.”

“Why?”

“Just trust me.”

He does as Emma says while she stuffs her feet in her boots, throwing on her insulted jacket and a beanie before walking down the hallway and turning into her parents’ room, unlocking the window before climbing up the escape ladder. It’s freezing outside, a slight bit of snow falling, and he has no idea what could possibly drive her to want to go up to the roof. But he’s not going to stay inside and never find out.

“Emma, what the hell are we doing up here? Are you going to freeze me to death?”

“No,” she deadpans bending down and picking up an outlet and an extension cord, “we have a heater and the rest of that bottle of whiskey.” She finishes making sure that the electric heater is working before walking over to him looking more like a human snowman than Emma, and grabbing his hand to lead him to the edge of the roof. “Look,” she points to the road below, “you can see all of the other people who have decorated from up here.”

She’s right because when he looks down onto the cobblestone street he can see that different businesses and homes have lights brightening up the place more than the usual streetlamps, and if he looks carefully he can see Christmas trees inside the upper floors of the buildings where most of the business owners reside, some of the lights flickering off the later in the night that it gets as the light snow continues to fall, painting the rooftops in a faint dusting of white.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Aye.”

“It’s one of my favorite things about moving to London.” He nudges her shoulder. “I mean, besides you. At home we’d go on car rides around the town, looking at the neighborhoods and downtown just to see what decorations people came up with that year.” She sighs before she moves to stand in front of him, his arms over her shoulders as he rests his chin on the top of her hat and she reaches up to rest her hands over his. “Mom would make to-go cups of hot chocolate.”

“With cinnamon?”

“Sometimes with peppermint. And we’d drive and drive until I’d seen every house in the town at least once before Christmas. There was this one…oh my God, Killian. It was amazing. It was like something out of a movie, the way the lights were strung around the trees leading up to the house and these giant wreaths that are bigger than me.”

“That sounds wonderful, darling. Like a real winter wonderland.”

“Yeah,” she exhales, leaning back into him even more, “I miss being able to do that since at least one of us is working most nights, so I like to come up here and watch the neighbors…which sounds creepy now that I say it out loud.”

He laughs before kissing the material of her hat even if she can’t feel his lips.

“Thank you for sharing and for showing me this. One day I’d like to drive around to look at all of the Christmas lights. With you, if that’s okay.”

“If you bring me hot chocolate with either cinnamon or peppermint, I’m yours, babe.”

“I’ll bring both.”

Between Emma and Killian, they get most of the apartment decorated, the usual shades of gray and blue now replaced with reds, greens, and golds. It’s festive in the way that it should be for those who celebrate Christmas, and as much as he hates that Emma waited on him for weeks to decorate, he’s glad that they’ve gotten it done now and done it together.

Six years together, and it’s their first actual Christmas together. No celebrating a few weeks early or days into January. This is Christmas, completely together.

He’s still bloody exhausted, however, and so he goes to bed earlier than expected that night and doesn’t feel the bed dip until a few hours later when Emma joins him, backing up so that her back is nestled against his front. She reaches back to pull his arm around her stomach, but he’s already there, wrapping himself around her and pulling her closer as he kisses the back of her neck.

“That wasn’t even the longest we’ve been apart, and it felt like forever. Like it was never going to end.”

“I know, darling. I know, but it’s over now.”

He crawls out of bed early the next morning, just before the sun rises, and texts his mum to see if she wants to go with him while he gives the final clearance on Emma’s ring design before it’s fully set in the band. Emma’s still as asleep as she can be, stretching out on the mattress when he moves off of it, and he needs to pick up the ring while he has the opportunity to do so before all of the holiday festivities begin.

It’s beautiful, stunning really, and while he’s never been one to wear much jewelry himself, he’s been raised in a world where his family is in possession of some of the most stunning jewels in the world. This is one of them, and he’s almost giddy with excitement over the thought of it adorning Emma’s finger one day soon.

He doesn’t know where he’ll hide it in the apartment, wary of Emma stumbling across it in her search for one of the items she always seems to be losing, so when his mother offers to keep it with her at home, he doesn’t hesitate to agree to that, handing her the velvet box with his most prized possession inside and giving his mother a kiss on the cheek as they part ways and make their way to their respective homes to prepare for the Christmas gala tonight.

Emma’s still asleep when he gets home, and he lets out a sigh of relief knowing that he won’t have to explain his absence from her. Instead he strips from his clothes and into the shower, trying to get as ready for this evening as he can so Emma and the stylists she’s bringing in can have the bathroom for the rest of the day without his interruptions. She’d protested having someone doing her hair and makeup, but it’s going to become as much of a part of her life as any other weird aspect that comes to being with him. She’s going to have a love/hate relationship with having a stylist. He already knows.

“Good morning,” she yawns when he walks out of the bathroom to see her piling her hair on top of her head, an errant strand sticking to her forehead and the sheets pooling around her waist. “You’re up early.”

“Darling, it’s nearing ten in the morning, and we’ve got a big day today. People, your mum and Ruby included, are coming over in a few hours.”

“I don’t want to get up.”

“You have to,” he leans down to kiss her good morning, lingering against her skin before walking downstairs and getting on with his day while Emma most likely goes back to sleep.

He spends most of his day downstairs, just passing the time by watching the television or last minute Christmas shopping online while Emma and the girls get ready, everyone arriving a little after two. His family doesn’t give each other much, but they do give a little so he needs to finish up on a few items as well as checking that the rest of Emma gifts will arrive on time for their own private celebration in between his family’s celebrations.

Mary Margaret and Ruby come down the stairs, fully decked out in their dresses, hair and makeup done as they settle beside him in the living room, so he knows that Emma must have offered to go last.

“You look beautiful, ladies,” he compliments, taking both of their hands and kissing their knuckles before he makes his own way upstairs to get dressed for the evening. He can’t very well sit around as a slacker all day, now can he?

Emma’s makeup and hair stylists are packing up their bags and their tools when he enters the bathroom, nodding at them before opening the closet door only to have Emma standing there with her hair trailing down her back in loose curls and nothing but lacy black underwear on. His breath catches at the sight before he closes the closet door behind him so that no one out there is privy to this sight besides him.

“You’re not supposed to be in here yet,” Emma protests as he comes to stand before her, one hand running down her side and landing at her hip while the other lightly caresses her face, careful not to mess with her makeup or her hair.

“You look so stunning, my darling Emma,” he breathes, voice deeper, huskier than he intended as he looks into the emerald of her eyes before his gaze flickers down to her bare breasts, her nipples slowly hardening into peaks.

“You only say that because I’m basically naked,” she laughs as her own hands run up his back to rest at his shoulder blades, her breasts pressing into his chest. “But thank you. I cannot wait to see you in your tux.”

“Can I convince you to take me out of my clothes before I put the different ones on?”

She laughs as he backs her up to the island counter in the middle of the closet, hoisting her up by the waist and placing her on the cool marble while he’s busy nuzzling his neck against hers, kissing the skin at her pulse point while his hands trail up at the insides of her thighs, feeling the soft skin over her twitching muscles.

“Baby,” she groans, tilting her head to the side so that her hair falls to her back and he has more access to her neck. It’s almost swan-like in its length when she does this, and he runs his tongue along the straining cords there, the scent of her perfume enthralling him. “Baby, we can’t. I’ve already got my hair and makeup done.”

“I won’t touch your face or your hair.”

“Well it’s no fun that way.”

A chuckle passes through his lips and his hands move from her thighs, painstakingly slowly up her sides while he listens to her breathing deepen, hitching when his thumbs run over both of her nipples in a gentle caress.

“Oh,” she gasps when he pinches her, and the sound goes straight through him just like the blush now gracing her chest. She’s watching his every movement, every inch that his hand moves or every path that his tongue traces until his lips are ghosting against hers. She chases after his lips after he lingers there for too long, but he jerks up to kiss her nose in that moment. “You’re so annoying,” she laughs before she reaches up and runs her hands through his hair, the feeling of her nails scratching at his scalp causing him to gasp as well.

“You still love me though.”

“Always.”

He dips his head to kiss her for real before running his lips down the concave between her breasts before reaching her stomach, dipping his tongue into her belly button so that she has to brace herself on her hands behind her, a folded sweater falling to the floor. When his lips reach the lace, he looks up to see her nod before pulling her forward on the countertop so that her ass is on the edge while he hooks his fingers into the lace to pull them off her legs.

He takes his time, even if they really don’t have any, kissing up the inside of both of her thighs before kissing her mound, building her up as quickly as he can, her whimpers just urging him on while he teases at her, licking long, flat stripes through her folds and circling her bundle of nerves until her whimpers cease and her back arches, her release hitting her while he eases her through it.

“That’s not what I was expecting today,” she sighs as she pulls him up to kiss him, her lips rough as she molds their faces together, her makeup obviously be damned, “but I’m glad even if I am going to be slightly sweaty.”

“I think they call that glowing.”

She laughs against him, pushing at his shoulders until he gets the hint and backs up, helping her off the counter with her legs still slightly shaky.

“This was both a brilliant and horrible idea because,” she shuffles through a draw before slipping into a different set of lingerie while going to unzip the garment bag with her dress, the black material catching the light, “while it was amazing for me, we are officially out of time. And I know for a fact that your tux pants are tight, so you’ve got to get rid of your problem, babe.”

His chuckle is mixed with a groan as he turns around from her to take his tux in the bedroom and get dressed while he calms himself down. She was right. It was both a brilliant idea and a horrible idea, but he doesn’t regret it in the slightest as he gets dressed. He’s got everything on but his bow tie as it hangs loosely around his neck, white shirt unbuttoned at the top, when Emma comes out of the bathroom in a sinful black dress that hugs her top before billowing out at the waist, yards of tulle covering the slit that goes to her mid-thigh. She’s added that red lipstick she loves as well as some of the jewelry he’s given her over the years.

“You look beautiful, Emma,” he compliments as she sits down on the bed to slip on her heels, buckling the straps as she smiles over at him.

“Thank you.” She rises to come stand before him, her palms running up his chest until they land at his undone bow tie. She ties it for him, continuously having to restart because she’s never quite satisfied with how it looks until she finally gets it right, harrumphing in light of her success. “You look handsome. Very dapper and dashing and one hundred percent like you should dress like this more often.”

“Yes, black tie around the house all of the time,” he chuckles before taking her hand and guiding her downstairs, the slight train of her dress trailing on the hardwood enough that he scoops down to hold it for her.

He and Emma, along with Ruby and Mary Margaret load into a car and make their way to Buckingham with David meeting them there. He has to enter separately from Emma, so he leaves her be to go and join his parents and his brother, Abigail not attending as a part of her maternity leave, so that the four of them can wait in a sitting room until all of the guests have arrived and they can make their entrance. He’s always found this to be a weird tradition, entering a room at official events through order of succession so that his father enters last, but some traditions do not fall to the side, and this is one of them.

Once they enter the ballroom, he makes his rounds through all of the people he’s obligated to speak to, government officials, foreign diplomats, the occasional celebrity who he is much more excited to see than the third cousin of the Prime Minister. Killian catches up with a few of his old university friends whose families were invited before he sees a flash of blonde hair in his peripheral only to have her come up to him and wrap her arms around his elbow as Robin regales the group with a story of Killian singing karaoke at a pub one drunken night.

“Please tell me there’s a video of that,” Emma laughs, looking up at him, the black of her eyelashes highlighting the green of her eyes. She’s so beautiful that sometimes he cannot believe it, cannot believe that he gets to spend his days with her by his side.

“Sadly it was before the time of everyone having an iPhone in their palms. I’m Robin,” he sticks his hand out to take Emma’s, “you must be the literal famous Emma Nolan.”

“And you must be the famous through Killian’s stories, Robin Locksley.”

Robin laughs at the two of them as Emma fishes for stories of Killian in his younger days before Killian eventually leads Emma to the dance floor as the music slows and the sounds of soft piano fills the room.

“Are we going to just sway or am I going to embarrass myself by having to do a waltz or foxtrot or something where I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“We’re simply going to sway, darling,” he answers as he pulls her into him and rests his hands around her waist. “But if we were to do one of those other dances, there’s only one rule.”

“What?”

“You pick a partner who knows what he’s doing.”

“And that’s you?”

“That’s me.”

She laughs before resting her cheek on his shoulder, her hands resting at his lower back, and this is a wonderful night. Magical almost under the glistening lights of the towering Christmas trees and chandeliers tinted in silver lights that coat the room.

When the song finishes, he leads her off the dance floor, finding an empty section off to the side so that he can speak without having to raise his voice.

“Do you want a drink?”

“Oh my goodness yes. I’ll meet you at the bar after I run to the restroom, okay?”

She gives him a sweet kiss before they part ways.

“Two glasses of whatever wine you’re serving,” he tells the bartender before resting his back against the counter, watching as people mill around the room, some dancing, others eating, all talking.

“Having a good time tonight?”

He turns to see his father’s younger brother Albert standing at the bar to his right, nursing what looks to be a glass of whiskey. He didn’t even know they were serving whiskey tonight.

“Aye, it’s a wonderful time. Everything is beautiful this year. Mum did a great job.”

Albert laughs before putting his glass on the bar top and turning so that he’s completely facing Killian. His uncle has never resembled his father too much, hair too light and eyes too dark, and even if Albert also grew up as the so-called other spare to the heir, Killian has never found comfort in speaking to him.

“You know, Killian,” Albert drawls, “when you brought these people around for your birthday, I thought it was just a phase. And then you released that statement, and I was sure that you’d lost your mind.”

“Uncle, you’ve had too much to drink tonight.”

“Just the one glass. I’m perfectly sober. Your father, my brother, must be always inebriated though. He’s gone soft, letting you bring your flings to these events. And how rude of you to take the street trash to the hospital for Elizabeth’s birth. Weren’t you taught anything by those tutors and excellent schools you received while my children got your table scraps?”

“What is your fucking problem?”

“What is yours? We are a monarchy. We do not associate with the common whores like you have been.”

Killian’s jaw ticks as he tries to regulate his breathing, regulate his anger. All he wants to do is break Albert’s bloody nose, but he cannot do that. They are in a room full of people, photographers and journalists included, and it would be unwise to assault his uncle no matter how satisfying it would be or how much he deserves it.

He really fucking deserves it.

“Oh yes,” Emma spits, and shit, when did she get here? “I am a common whore, using my vagina and womanly wiles to seduce the prince so that I can have his money and his power. Because isn’t that what I’ve always been, a lying American criminal?”

“Emma,” Killian warns, grabbing onto her hand before she snatches it away from him.

Albert doesn’t say anything else, his heavy breathing increasing as his dark eyes stare into Emma like she’s an antelope and he’s the lion.

“Lass, you don’t belong here. I’d suggest you remember where you come from.”

“The only people who don’t belong here are the assholes who think they’re better than someone just because their parents happen to be royalty.”

“That by its very definition makes me better, makes Killian better, than you.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’d like to do that, wouldn’t you, Ms. Nolan?”

Killian’s not sure if he or Emma are going to punch Albert first, but when he sees Emma’s hand flinch at her side, he reaches to squeeze her side as a silent encouragement not to do anything, relieved that she doesn’t snatch it away from him again. Neither of them get the chance because suddenly Liam is in between the two of them and Albert with his main security detail behind him.

“Albert,” Liam sterns, his eyes cloudy with irritation. “Get the hell out of here. You’re not welcome if you say things like that, you sod.”

“I was here before the two of you were ever born, and all you’ve done is shame this family, especially your spare. I would have never been this disgraceful.”

“You’re being infinitely more disgraceful than Killian has ever been, you prick.”

Albert is discreetly guided away, and Killian thanks Liam, wanting to discuss what the hell just happened, but he can practically feel Emma fuming beside him, her hands clenching and unclenching as she tries to calm herself down while he does the same.

“Killian,” she grits, not bothering to look at him, “I would suggest that you take me to your room here right now before I do something else that I’m not supposed to do.”

He guides her out of the ballroom, through hallways and corridors until they reach the private part of the palace. When they get to the grand staircase that leads upstairs to his room, Emma stops to take off her heels, using him as a base to steady herself as she shrinks four inches right in front of him before picking up the bottom of her dress and walking up the stairs like she has any idea where she’s going while he watches her, frozen in his spot as his mind runs wild.

“Love,” he calls out while trying to track her down, taking two steps at a time and then jogging as she completely passes the door to his room. “Emma, hey. Emma.”

“What?” she whips around, her hands running through her perfectly coiffed hair before she slaps her hands against her thighs and starts pacing again. “What could you possibly have to say to me right now?”

“I’m sorry. I want to say I’m sorry.”

“What the hell are you sorry for?”

“Um, maybe my asshole of an uncle and the former assholes that were my father and brother. And then maybe just all of the collective assholes all over the world that are full of shit and apparently feel the need to pass that shit onto you.”

She stops her pacing when she gets directly in front of him, her head directly under his chin as she looks up at him with much more kindness than she should be capable of expressing.

“First of all, don’t say sorry again. I don’t want to hear it.”

“But Emma – ”

“No,” she raises her hand, “stop. I am fucking livid right now, but in no way am I livid at you or with you or the fact that I’m only in this situation because I’m with you. I’m pissed that someone thinks they have any right to not only insult me like that, but to also have the gall to insult you. I mean, damn. Does the list of assholes never end?”

“I think we produce them in bulk.”

A bitter chuckle passes through her lips before she wraps her arms around his waist and deflates, the anger rushing out of her and simmering down to irritation that could still pack a punch if she wanted it to. He does the same, embracing her before he nuzzles his head against the top of her hair and simply holds her in the middle of an ornate hallway in a ball gown and a tuxedo looking every bit like the magical fairytale couple they claim not to be.

Magic comes with a price in the same way that privilege does and running away from balls to stand shoeless in a hallway may very well be one payment in a line of many.

“I just can’t believe our night has turned out like this. This was supposed to be a good night. We get dressed up, dance for more than one song, I get to take that suit off of you to celebrate you coming home, and now we’re hiding away so that we don’t cause a scene after being basically stepped on and then spit upon.”

“I know,” he exhales into her hair, tugging her closer to his chest and pressing his fingers into the small of her back. Trying to bring back some of the light to the evening because he won’t let this night be ruined, he changes the subject. “Do you want to see my childhood room?”

“You have no idea.”

He guides her back down the hallway until they come to his door, and the smile on her face is more genuine than any that he’s seen since the incident at the bar. He’s going to have to deal with that later, with Albert and any underlying hostility with Emma that still runs in the family. He doesn’t expect everyone to accept her with open arms. He doesn’t even expect them to accept him with open arms. But as long as the ones who matter, his immediate family who he wants to accept Emma and to love her, he couldn’t give a fuck what the others think…as long as they don’t think it out loud in front of Emma again.

Not in front of him again either. He’s having to contain his fury right now in an attempt to salvage this night.

“These books all seem very prim and proper and not at all you,” Emma quips as she runs her fingers along the spines, stopping every now and then to look at a picture frame or trinket that adorns the shelves along with the books.

“I’ve got a different collection underneath the bed, but check the Anna Karenina.”

She does, only to find the cutout with the flask inside. When she pops it open, her lips tug downward, and she was obviously hoping for there to still be something in there. They never did get their drinks earlier.

“This is much more you,” she laughs, holding it up before putting it back in the book with the utmost care. She pauses, obviously running over something in her mind. “Do we need to go back to the gala? People will notice that you’re gone.”

“I don’t care.”

“What if I said that I wanted another dance?”

“Well,” he begins before making his way over to the closet, shuffling through a cabinet before finding an actual, literal cd player, “we could always dance to this.”

“No,” she giggles, and at least she’s still capable of having a good time, “there’s no way that’ll work.”

“Only one way to find out.”

He plugs in the player in an outlet on the wall before sounds of, and he’s only slightly mortified by this, the Spice Girls comes through the shoddy speakers.

“May I have this dance, milady?”

She laughs before nodding her head and placing her hands in his. He moves her from side to side, spinning her around in silly circles that he’d never be able to do downstairs. She laughs the entire time, her chest visibly moving, and he does the same. This night could have turned into an undeniable shit show, and while he’s sure that shit show hasn’t reached its conclusion, he hopes it has for now.

He just doesn’t want Emma to be upset, even if she has every right to walk around this place kicking and screaming.

When they make it back downstairs some of the crowd has filtered out, and the only people who really seemed to notice their absence were their families.

“Did you guys really leave a party this fancy to go do it in a coat closet or something?”

“Rubes,” Emma laughs, glancing over to see that her parents aren’t paying any attention to this conversation. “What have we said about those kind of comments?”

“Sex is a very healthy part of life, my darling Emma Nolan. And you two are so hot that anybody who believes you’re not sharing a bed has lost their mind.”

“Well, of course, I am a common whore after all.”

“Hey,” Killian grabs her arms and holds her so that he’s sure she’s looking at him, “you know nothing about that is true.”

“Emma,” Ruby questions, “what the hell are you talking about?”

“Nothing, Rubes.”

“Ems, it’s obviously something. You don’t make bitterly sarcastic jokes like that if you’re fine. You’re upset about something.”

She shakes her head before turning to Ruby and squeezing her bicep. “We’ll talk about it later, okay?”

He doesn’t miss the look Ruby gives Emma, and he definitely doesn’t miss the look Ruby gives him.

“Darling, why don’t you go dance with your dad? I think I’m going to take Ruby for a spin?”

“Well, aren’t I the luckiest girl at the ball getting to dance with a prince?” Ruby jokes as he leads her onto the dance floor, looking over his shoulder to make sure that Emma has found David. Sure enough she has her head resting on David’s shoulder while they sway to the music.

“Ruby?”

“Yeah?”

“Does Emma talk to you about everything that’s gone on? I know you see it all because you don’t shield yourself away from the media, but does she talk about how she’s feeling about things?”

“Most of the time, yes.”

“She’s doing okay, right?”

“I mean, she’s had some all out rages over some things, but Emma’s a badass, even when she’s vulnerable. Maybe especially when she’s vulnerable.”

“Too true, lass,” he laments before spinning her around and pulling her back to him. “I simply want her to be okay, to be happy.”

“She is. You just have some assholes in your family. Plus all of those other assholes that open their mouths when they should be keeping them closed.”

Asshole is a popular word tonight, and it shouldn’t be.

“I just worry about her.”

“She does the same to you.” Ruby urges him to spin her again, the bottom of her dress slightly moving with the motion. “I think the two of you going away is going to do wonders.”

He pulls Ruby in closer so that his lips are close to her ear for one moment. “I’m going to ask her to marry me on the trip.”

“Well, fuck, man,” Ruby whispers despite her usually loud nature, “finally.”

He laughs, and he can hear the music winding down around them. “It’s not been that long, just six months really since all of this started.”

“It’s been six years.”

He doesn’t say anything else, hugging Ruby when the dance is over before finding Emma and taking her home.

The next few days pass quickly, and before he knows it Christmas Eve has arrived, and he’s loading into a train carriage for Sandringham with Emma, David, and Mary Margaret. They’re technically breaking many a protocol by the three of them attending the Christmas celebrations, even if it’s only the private ones, but he still cannot believe that his parents willingly made the offer for the Nolans to join them for Christmas.

It’s not too long of a train ride, and when they arrive at the estate, Liam and his family in the next cart over from them, he can feel the awe running through Emma and her parents. His family is a lot to take in for many a reason, but stepping foot on the grounds of the estate for the first time is something that would put awe in anyone who didn’t grow up in palaces and sprawling country estates. He simply reaches down to hold Emma’s hand, squeezing her palm through their gloves, as they all walk into the front doors, thankful for there to be no cameras awaiting their arrival this year.

Killian hands off the suitcase of gifts for the extended family to one of their butlers, noting to catch up with all of the staff later this afternoon, before he guides David and Mary Margaret to their suite, dropping them off and promising to pick them up for lunch before taking Emma to their own suite.

Everything is more relaxed here, furniture far lass ornate and much more akin to that of a normal home. Well, as close to normal as they can get. The uniqueness of the estate comes from the way everything is draped in reds and golds for the holidays, the smell of freshly baked pie and apple cider somehow always permeating throughout the grounds.

The lunch and afternoon tea are much more casual affairs than the dinner tonight, and he leaves Emma to rest in their room, letting her know that she can feel free to wander around the grounds or go visit Abigail and the kids, before calling his father to see where he is at that moment. He finds him in one of the sitting rooms, book in his hands and cup of tea sitting on the side table, exactly how he would portray his father if he had to paint a portrait of the man.

“Happy Christmas Eve, Killian,” Brennan greets before marking his spot in his book and placing it on the side table next to the cup of tea.

“Happy Christmas Eve.” Killian sits in the armchair across from his father, leaning forward and running his hands over his face before he begins what he came here for. “Is Albert coming today?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I’d tried to convince him to go somewhere else, even offered up one of the other estates, but he and his family insisted that they belonged here today.”

“Did you talk to him about what happened at the gala?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He didn’t seem the slightest bit remorseful, and I know it’s because he and I are cut from the same cloth. He simply never had someone tell him that he was being a certifiable prick all of the time. He didn’t have you to show him the error of his ways.”

Killian smiles before leaning forward and placing his head in his hands, elbows perched on his knees. “I just don’t know what to do, Dad. It’s like we fight one demon and then another one pops up out of nowhere. I mean, first it was you and Liam, and then Neal. All of the press. And then we finally get over all of that, and more comes from this family. I mean, were we all born with sodding asshole DNA? Is there not one of us who hasn’t had a stick shoved up our ass in the last few decades?”

“Probably not. Maybe just you. You’re the exception.”

“What are we going to do, though? I’m going to be married to Emma.” He pauses, smile crossing his face for a small moment. “Hopefully. We’re going to get married, and she’ll never know when a family member will attack her character. Albert fucking called her a whore.”

Brennan grimaces before running his fingers at his temples, seemingly trying to rub out a headache. “I know, son. I know. I’m going to figure it out somehow. Maybe have a talk with everyone. Maybe threaten to cut them off. It’s petty, but I can do that and it would hit them hard. I’d do that for the sake of you and Emma.”

“Thank you. Truly.”

“She’s special to you, and she’s special to your mother and I as well. And one day, hopefully as you said, she’ll be a senior member of this family whether Albert likes it or not.”

His family is cordial at their lunch, Albert purposely seated far away from Emma and her parents, and he only sees Emma tense once when she makes unintentional eye contact with the man. It’s a nice time, one of his favorite parts of their Christmas celebrations, but after tea and opening their friendly, gag gifts, they all play a game of friendly (or not so friendly depending on the level of competitiveness each person possess) football. He and Liam always lead separate teams, picking their members from the family and staff each year in turn. Liam, the bastard, gets to pick first this year, and to everyone’s surprise, he picks Emma first.

It might not be to Emma’s surprise because when she walks to stand next to Liam, she winks at Killian before wrapping her arm around Liam’s shoulder like to two of them are just the best of pals, thick as thieves.

He feels like the wool was pulled over his eyes.

He doesn’t mind at all.

Emma is surprisingly good, her fondness for running helping her even if she’s always claimed not to be too athletically skilled, and she and Liam are kicking his team’s butt. There aren’t enough young people on his team, and try as David might, he’s nothing compared to his daughter’s skills right now.

At one point Emma scores a goal on Killian, and Liam lifts her in the air and spins her around while Killian is left standing in his spot with his arms on his hips.

When the game is over, Killian’s body slick with sweat and his confidence and team totally defeated, Emma makes her way over to him and wraps her arms around his neck, giddy grin on her face as she smiles up at him and he looks down at her with fondness, hands finding purchase on her hips.

“So I just kicked you ass, babe,” she laughs before kissing the underside of his jaw, her lips as soft as ever against the hair there.

“Next year you’re going to be on my side. I pick before Liam, and you, Emma Nolan, are going to be my first pick.”

“Yeah?”

“Always.”

They’ve got a bit of free time between the game and their formal dinner, so after showering and slipping into comfortable clothes before later donning suits and dresses, he and Emma take the time to exchange their own gifts with each other. He’s not the best at gift giving, knowing that he’s more comfortable showing his love and affection through words and actions rather than items, but he does rather like giving things to Emma simply to see the smile that graces her face when she loves something.

They dress for dinner, Emma in another beautiful gown, and he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to her being this acclimated to his life and all of the traditions and customs the his family partakes in. It’s so different than her family and the traditions he’s partaken in with the Nolans for the last few Christmas seasons, but traditions can merge, even if some of them are royal ones.

Everything goes perfectly fine at dinner, the courses served and the conversation flowing like the wine, and there’s something to be said for small miracles like Emma and her parents being able to enjoy a Christmas celebration without something chasing at their heels and nipping at their necks.

No one can retire to bed until his father does, and Brennan seems to have inhaled vats of caffeine today, laughing and drinking and keeping everyone entertained by stories of his younger days mixed in with tales of both Liam and Killian as children. It’s far past midnight, his suit becoming incredibly uncomfortable and his eyes becoming heavy. He can tell everyone else is beginning to feel the same way, and when Emma drapes herself over his lap and buries her head in his shoulder, he knows that she’s struggling to stay awake.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” He strokes her back, running his fingers across the bare skin exposed by her dress, the bones of her spine protruding from the way she’s hunched forward.

“I really want your dad to go to bed so that we can go to bed. This dress makes me feel like I can’t move.”

“You might not be able to move, love, but you cut quite the figure in that dress.”

“I think it’s more that my bra is cutting me,” she chuckles against his neck, “but thank you.”

His father does eventually retire to bed, and Killian doesn’t even want to think about how few hours he’s going to get to sleep before the Church Service in the morning, instead helping Emma out of her dress and taking the bobby pins out of her hair while she wipes away at her makeup. It’s a long process, and by the time they collapse onto the bed it’s much closer to sunrise than midnight.

In the morning he quietly slips out of bed to get ready for the service, kissing Emma’s temple before he joins his family members on their walk to the church. He walks in behind Liam and Abigail, making sure to wave to the crowd that’s gathered and take some time to speak to a few of them. It’s bloody freezing outside, and these people have decided to spend their Christmas morning simply hoping to catch a glimpse of his family. He doesn’t understand it, but if he can bring Christmas cheer to someone by talking to them for a short moment, it’s legitimately the least he can do.

When they return to Sandringham Emma and her parents are waiting in one of the sitting rooms, David and Mary Margaret laughing at Emma trying to adjust her fascinator on the top of her head since one is required for the ladies at lunch today. She’s been such a good sport about so many things, but he has a feeling it may all come undone by the red hat gracing her hair.

“Hey,” he greets before placing his hands on her hips and pressing his lips against hers, “Happy Christmas, darling. Did you sleep well?”

“I slept great, Killian. Thanks for asking,” David jests, laughing at his own joke.

“Well you do need your beauty sleep, Dave.”

“I slept fine,” Emma eventually answers before reaching up to adjust her hat again, her face forming a scowl that no one should have on Christmas. “Merry Christmas, babe.”

“Emma,” Abigail laughs before handing Elizabeth off to Liam, the one-month old dressed to match her brother in shades of green, “come here. Let me fix this for you, honey.”

“I just don’t understand how I’m supposed to get it situated on the side of my head.”

“Well that’s what hairdressers are for, but luckily for you I have years of experience doing this.” Abigail works with Emma’s hair for a little while longer before finally being satisfied with her work, harrumphing in satisfaction. “There. Now let’s eat.”

That evening they retire to one of the great halls, projector set up on a wall that’s been removed of decorative weaponry that could still be used in a battle, and dining tables replaced with recliners and couches, piles of blankets and pillows kept in baskets at the hall entrances that people can grab before cuddling up into one of the seats. The extended family is invited for this part of the evening, so it’s a much more crowded affair than the last night, children tailing along with their parents and taking up the seats directly in front of the projector.

“This is insane,” Emma whispers to him as they settle into one of the oversized recliners, both of them having changed into joggers and sweaters, Christmas-themed socks gracing Emma’s feet as she wiggles her toes to pull their blanket further down their legs.

“Aye, it reminds me of celebrations with you family.”

“Yeah, but with a much larger screen and a bigger selection of gourmet popcorn.”

“There’s also hot chocolate.”

“Where?” she gasps, hitting his shoulder as she moves from her position like she has to have the hot chocolate right now.

“They’re going to bring it out to us once the movie starts.”

She sighs before settling back down beside him, moving his arm so that it rests over her shoulder while her head rests on his. “What are we watching?”

“It’s a wonderful life.”

And despite everything, it is.

#second in command #captain swan #cs fanfic #cs ff #cs fic

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niall-is-my-dream · 7 years ago

Text

Jealousy - part one

You popped the plastic storage box down on the floor of the lift and pressed the number three button. When the lift door open you heaved the box back up into your arms, and made your way across the hall to the front door to your left.

You pressed the doorbell and heard footsteps approach. The door flung open and instead of seeing Willie stood there, it was Niall.

"Hey gorgeous! Didn't expect to see you, thought you were back Sunday?" You asked.

"Got back this morning, I'd finished everything I needed to do and I wanted to surprise you and be back for your birthday night out." He replied smiling.

"Yay, so glad you're back for it! Wouldn't have been the same without you."

"What's with the box?" He asked.

"Oh god, can I come and put these down, they are so fucking heavy! Then I can give you a hug. Have missed you Horan!" You smiled.

You walked in to the living room and popped the box down at the end of the sofa. "These are some vinyls I said I'd lend to Willie. He said he'd be back by now, thought it would be him answering the door."

"Willie text about an hour ago to say he would be late, some fuck up at work" Niall explained.

You leaned in for a hug, you'd not seen each other for three weeks as Niall had been in at his house in LA. He embraced you snuggling into your neck and lifting you off your feet. He placed you back down and pulled away giving you a kiss on your forehead. "Missed you" he whispered. "Missed you to" you whispered back.

You and Niall had been friends for a few years, but since his hiatus with one direction he'd been around a lot more, although he did go to LA every few weeks to work but never for long. This 3 weeks had been the longest he'd been away since though, and you'd got used to him being around. You'd gotten really close this last year but had never let anything go further than the odd snuggle on the sofa watching a film although you'd wanted it to. He was your friend, and if he'd wanted more you were sure he would've asked you out by now or made a move on you.

"Working late on a Friday, that's pretty shit. Doesn't matter I'll leave them here for him if that's ok?"

"Yeah of course" he replied. "You got plans tonight, I'm just starting dinner? Want to join me?" He asked gesturing towards the kitchen.

You hesitated.

"Chicken stir fry, and I've got wine!" He said smiling.

"Oh go then, as long as I'm not intruding?" You replied laughing.

"Right you park that sexy backside of yours up here and watch me try my best Jamie Oliver impression!" He said patting one of the stools at the breakfast bar laughing.

"Ha! Cheeky!" You said winking at him as you sat up on the stool.

"Can't help it, those jeans of yours are incredibly tight and your arse just looked amazing bending over to put that box down!" He said with a smirk whilst pouring you a glass of wine.

"Stop flirting and start cooking Horan!"

He laughed as he started chopping up an onion ready for the stir fry.

"So how have you been then?" He asked.

You'd text a few times whilst he was away but hadn't been able to have a proper long chat since before he went away. So you filled him in on the office gossip from work which he loved to hear about and told him about the new guy Josh.

"So is this Josh guy good looking then?" He asked.

"Um he's ok I suppose, he mentioned going out for a drink sometime but I'm not sure that will happen"

"What like a date?" Niall said surprised.

"Yeah I think so."

"A date date or just a date?" He said stopping what he was doing and sipping some of his beer.

"What's the difference?!" You asked laughing at him and then taking a big sip of wine.

"Well a date is 2 friends going out and being just friends and a date date is where he's interested in what you have for breakfast?" He said with a serious face.

"Fucking hell I've been out of this dating game too long, I literally have no idea what the fucking hell that all means!" You said laughing. " I'm not sure I'm interested in him anyway to be honest."

Niall continued to chop up the veg whilst the chicken cooked in the pan, occasionally stopping to sip his beer. He'd just made the atmosphere really awkward, why did he care if you dated Josh? You were about to make this conversation even more awkward. You put your empty wine glass down on the work top.

"Why, you jealous?" You asked him feeling gutsy after your one glass of wine.

"Maybe" he said catching your gaze winking.

Fuck, you didn't know what to say to that. That wasn't the answer you were expecting. He didn't say anything as he went to the fridge to get a beer and get the bottle of wine. He refilled your glass, still no words escaped his mouth.

"Good to know" you replied finally smiling.

Silence filled the air again.

"So how was your trip? Get some writing done?" You asked desperate to ease the awkwardness.

"Yeah had some good sessions, feels like its coming together finally."

He dished up the stir fry whilst you jumped down from your stool and got some cutlery out of the drawer. You laid the table and Niall joined you with the food. It looked delicious. "Wow looks good Niall" you said.

He sat down at the head of the table and you to his right. You continued to catch up about what had been happening in London while he was away. The whole date/josh/jealous conversation forgotten. You ate and drank and laughed together like you always did.

You helped clear the table and while Niall loaded the dishwasher you got out the wine topped up your glass finishing the bottle and grabbed Niall another beer. You went to help wipe down the work top when he stopped you. "Go sit down, I'll finish up. Go find one of those shit rom com's you like!" He said laughing.

"Hey my rom com's are not shit, you said you loved The Vow when we watched it last month."

"No I liked watching you swoon over Channing Tatum, plus Rachel McAdams is cute!" He said laughing.

" I can't even deny that, I was proper fan girling him!" You replied chuckling. "Oohhh lets watch Magic Mike!"

"Fuck off! I love you but that's a big no!" He said.

Trying to not react to the love word you sat facing the tv pretending to be looking at what was on. He meant it as a friend but your heart still raced.

"Um how about The Inbetweeners then, the first film?" You called out to him in the kitchen.

"That's hilarious that one, get it set up, I'll just finish up here. Be 1 minute."

You got the film ready and then Niall appeared from the kitchen carrying a bag of m& ms. "You just ate!" You said as he sat right next to you, putting his right arm around your shoulders. " I know but its a film so you need snacks. I'll even share with you!" He said smiling. "Ha! Thanks." You replied.

You started the film and put your feet up on the coffee table next to Nialls. He kept jiggling his feet and knocking them against yours. "God you're such a fidget!" You said laughing. "No just trying to play footsie with you!" He said winking. "Whatever" you replied.

The film was hilarious, you were both howling with laughter, you even had to cover your eyes at some of it. The 3 glasses of wine now having slowly gone to your head you had the major giggles!

"Oh god I need to go to the loo before I wee my pants" you said getting up.

"Yes please go I don't really want you weeing on my sofa!"

When you got back from the loo Niall had opened another bottle of wine and refilled your glass. "Oh god I can't drink anymore I'll never make it in my house! The neighbours will find me lying on my front steps!"

"Stay here then, saves you coming back in the morning for your car. I assume you drove here with that massive box."

"Yeah I did, I'll be ok , I'll have this one and then I'll call a taxi when the film is over." You said sitting down.

"You don't have to, you know you can sleep here. You can have my bed and I'll sleep on the sofa."

You hesitated.

"Ok if you're sure?"

"Yes, just get cosy again and watch the film. I was enjoying the cuddles." He said smiling at you.

You got comfy again leaning in to his chest, sipping your wine. Your feet were up on the coffee table next to his again and he looped your feet in with his. It felt comfortable and natural to sit with him like this.

Just then you heard the door open, Willie walked in looking exhausted. "This looks cosy, am I interrupting something?!" He said with a smirk.

"Shut up, we are just watching a film. There's stir fry in the microwave for you, thought you might want it. Grab a beer and join us. I'll have one while you're there" Niall added.

"You ok for a drink Claire?" Willie asked. "Yes thanks babe" you replied.

Willie brought over beers and his food and he ate in silence whilst you all watched the film occasionally laughing at a scene.

"I'm going to bed" Willie said after he'd finished his food "work was awful this week and I can't wait for tomorrow night. Bit of partying for your birthday Claire"

"I know I'm looking forward to it." You replied.

Willie left the living room and headed off to his bedroom leaving you and Niall alone once more. By the time the film ended it was late. Niall was already snoozing on the sofa, his arm still wrapped around your shoulder snuggling up to you.

"Babe we should go to bed" you whispered to him.

"Mmm ok" he replied his eyes still closed. Clearly not wanting to move.

"Come on , we can kip in together in your bed." You said.

His eyes opened "oh can we?! I like the sound of you being in my bed."

"Calm down Horan! I didn't mean like that."

"Ok maybe some more cuddling then, little bit of spooning?!"

"Maybe!" You said giggling "Come on."

You got up to turn off the tv while Niall turned the lights off everywhere before you both walked towards his bedroom. "Can I borrow a t shirt to sleep in please?" You asked.

"What you don't sleep naked?!" He asked.

"No I don't and you're not either, you dirty boy!"

He passed you a t shirt whilst he went into the bathroom laughing away to himself. You took off your earrings and undid your jeans, slipping them off. You then pulled off your shirt and folded your clothes placing them on the chair in the corner of his room. You turned around to walk back to the bed where the t shirt he gave you lay when Niall came out of the bathroom wearing just his black boxer shorts. You instantly attempted to cover yourself up.

"What you doing that for? I've seen you in a bikini before its no different to that." He said laughing at your awkwardness.

"Its not the same! My bikini is not as revealing as this."

"I don't know that blue one you wore the last time you were at mine in LA was pretty skimpy"

"Niall!"

"What it was?!"

You walked over to the bed, picking up the t-shirt and putting it on laughing. You put your hands up behind your back unhooking your bra and then taking it off under your shirt. You could see Niall looking at you out the corner of his eye as he got into bed.

"I can't sleep in my bra it's uncomfortable" you say seeing him looking.

"Didn't say anything" he said turning off the bedside lamp.

"I know but I saw you looking."

"Difficult not to."

"Niall stop your drunken flirting and move over!" You said climbing into bed with him.

"Hey you said flirting was ok! Bit of cuddling, bit of spooning!" He laughed as he turned over to face you.

You weren't sure if your cheeks were flushed from the four glasses of wine or from him flirting. The lights were off now so there was no way he could see.

You laid there facing each other chatting, you could feel him close to you. You wanted nothing more than to reach out to him. He must have felt the same as he moved closer and placed a hand on your hip. He moved the hem of your t-shirt up so that his hand was placed skin to skin. You moved your hand up to place it on his chest, running your fingers through his chest hair. This felt way more intimate than you'd ever been with him. You were close friends and you wondered if this was too much.

You lost yourself in thought as you both fell asleep, snuggling up to each other.

Part two

https://niall-is-my-dream.tumblr.com/post/168212761328/jealousy-chapter-two

#niallsmut #niall horan #niall fan fic #niall imagine #jealousy part one #Niall smut #emily writes

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f1gs · 7 years ago

Text

fragile || taeyong

in which you come into conflict with the neighboring fraternity

word count: 1094

As your dog Pepper stopped to sniff some flowers by the sidewalk, you couldn’t help but admire the neighborhood. You had lucked out; your house was located in a nice suburb not far from your university, and you had great roommates who were friendly and cleaned up after themselves. Too bad your home was across the street from such a rowdy frat house.

You passed by the Sigma Mu driveway, where two boys were unloading packs of soda and beer from the trunk of an SUV. While you were preoccupied with trying to remember names (finally coming up with Jaehyun and Yuta), Pepper had bounded over to inspect one of the boys’ shoes.

“Cute dog.”

“Thanks,” you deadpanned, silently cursing said dog for forcing you to make an interaction. You took note of the mountains of snacks and beverages in the trunk of the car. “Another party tonight?”

“Yeah,” said Yuta, a six-pack of beer in each hand. “You’re welcome to come,” he added with a wink.

Not buying into his charms, you crinkled your nose at the thought of blaring music, sweaty bodies, and the smell of cheap alcohol.

“I’ll pass. Just try to keep it down this time, okay?”

You pulled on Pepper’s leash, hearing them snicker at your sass as you turned your back and walked to your front door across the street. It wasn’t the first time you had an unfavorable interaction with the boys of Sigma Mu. By now you were pretty sure they considered you an uptight, grouchy prude, but it was also a not-so-little known fact that you weren’t a fan of them either. You doubted that the frat boys would heed your request but at least you had made it clear that you were unhappy with their noisy late night antics.

You woke up the next day and made yourself a cup of coffee. Sure enough, the blaring party music last night had kept you awake until the wee hours of the morning. You decided to head to the gym.

You were already in a rather bitter mood thanks to the lack of sleep, but that was nothing compared to what you felt when you saw your car in front of the house, littered with broken eggs. Shells were scattered across your windshield and on the ground nearby, and the proteins had developed a sour odor in the heat of the morning sun. You immediately knew who the culprits were.

Furious, you got in the car and drove until you reached the driveway of the neighbors across the street, eggshells and all. You stomped up to the front door and rapped on the wooden surface.

The door opened and you stood face to face with a sleepy looking Lee Taeyong, president of Sigma Mu.

“Can I help you?” He said with a confused expression and a slow blink. Any other time you would have been flustered by how good-looking he was despite being slightly hungover, sporting disheveled hair, and wearing slept-in clothes, but now you experienced nothing but anger.

“Are Jaehyun and Yuta home?”

“I’m not sure,” he furrowed his brow, “Why do you ask?”

You huffed and crossed your arms.

“Tell them they need to come out here and wash my car.”

His eyes widened in surprise, and you leaned to the side a bit, exposing view of the driveway. Once he caught sight of your vandalized car, he sighed, running a hand through his pink locks of hair.

He muttered something under his breath—you could’ve sworn you heard those idiots—before he stepped out of the house, giving you only a split second to move to the side as he slipped by. You watched as he picked up a garden hose from beside the bushes in the front lawn. Following him towards the car, you stood with your arms crossed as he hosed down the back window. He walked around the car, washing the sides and spraying down the front windshield, until finally the car was sparkling and eggshell-free. He switched off the hose and turned towards you.

“Better?”

“Yes. Thank you.” you said, mustering up a more appreciative tone of voice.

With that, Taeyong gave you a nod before heading back into the house, and you got in your car and drove away.

You thought that had been the end of the egging incident, so you were surprised when later that day you answered the door to find Taeyong smiling brightly at you, standing on his tippy toes in order to keep his arms wrapped around a sheepish-looking Yuta and Jaehyun.

“These guys have something they want to say to you.”

Only when you accepted their apologies for egging your car did Taeyong release the two boys, sending them off with a playful okay, you guys can go home now. You were left with only Taeyong on your doorstep, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Sorry again about your car.”

You leaned against the door frame and shook your head.

“Thanks for cleaning it up.”

“It’s no problem. They’re good guys, really, it’s just sometimes they do stupid things when there’s alcohol involved.”

“I didn’t expect you to bring them here to apologize, so thank you for that as well.”

“Let me make it up to you,” he started. You opened your mouth to protest, thinking that, given the car wash and apologies, you two were already even. But the rest of his statement catches you off guard.

“…by taking you out on a date.”

You freeze.

“Oh. Um. I mean if it’s just because of the egg thing, don’t feel obligated to…”

“It’s not. I think you’re pretty cute, and I’ve been meaning to ask you out for a long time.”

You can’t help but smile.

“In that case, I guess it’s a date.”

“Cool. I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow?”

“Yeah, that works for me,” you confirmed with a nod.

“Awesome.” He leaned forward and planted a chaste kiss on your cheek. It was so quick that you wouldn’t have been sure the kiss was real if not for the lingering warmth where his lips had touched your cheek. By the time you realized what had happened, he was already jogging away from your front door. Once he reached halfway between your stoop and the sidewalk, he whirled around to face you again.

“By the way,” he shouted, walking backwards, “my name’s Taeyong.”

You laugh, yelling your name back. He shot you one final grin, making your heart skip a beat, before crossing the street and disappearing into his own house.

----

sequel: care

#can u tell i dont own a dog #taeyong scenarios #nct scenarios #taeyong #nct

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divine-ruin · 7 years ago

Text

Synthetic (Prompt #2)

something made by a synthetic, or chemical, process.

“Alright, baby girl. Grab that toolkit over there. Yer gettin’ a crash course if things that go boom.” The color drained from my face. “D-Daddy…a-a mine?!” He grinned with the cigar still in his teeth. “Gotta learn ya real well if'n you wanna be on top of the game, darlin’. How else ya gonna know anythin’ about NDI? Mines ‘n’ bombs’re normally the easiest things ta build!” He’d gesture wiping a fake tear and fake a trembling nostalgic tone. “My little girl…all grown up and buildin’ 'splosives! Ugh, such a proud papa right now.” He’d put a hand over his heart in what I thought was false sincerity while his wolfish grin still bore the lit cigar.

I dressed for the occasion as best I could: leather leggings, leather boots, and a somewhat loose fitting shirt so I could move about; my hair was tied in a high tail behind my head by a leather chord, my bangs out of my eyes with an older headband that had just been sitting in a jewelry box. He walked me into one of the large garages that belonged to a vesselhouse. My eyes widened as they just stared at the parts scattered and strewn about. He’d dangle a pamphlet that was roughly only 23 pages long in front of my face.

“Ya gotta week, baby girl. This’s where ya gonna eat and sleep for it. Imma give ya some free time tonight so you 'n’ Ian can have some alone time with tryin’a figure this out, but 4:30AM’s gonna come quick so I wouldn’t stay up too late if'n I were you.” His voice was almost taunting at that point. “Alrighty, let’s take a look at whatcha got in ya toolkit. Uncle Reese and Uncle Ivar put together a real doozy for ya so ya gotta pay attention ta the smaller details.” I had a pallor at that point, he just laughed at me. “Iria, ya gonna be fine, baby. Just remember to take things slow. Use that brain Thaliak gave ya ta be critical about the construction. You’ll be done before ya know it.”

“A-Am I allowed to have someone help me if I get stuck on a part or direction? You’re going back home, so I know it’ll take you a while to return if I need you, so–” He’d interrupt me with a throaty laugh. “Maybe Ian could help you, or e'en hell, maybe Sebastian if ya play ya cards right. Sometimes it takes more'n one good mind ta figure out where ya shortcomin’ is. Just gotta think 'bout your resources and timeframe, baby girl. If'n ya smart enough with that, you’ll kick this thing’s ass'n no time flat.”

I opened up my toolbox, grimacing as some of the tools looked like things my sister would likely use during an autopsy. He threw a pair of leather gloves my way. “Can’t be havin’ those purdy hands gettin’ all cut up and bruised. Now, Imma leave ya ta study that thing in order ta be gettin’ better acquainted with that monster yer 'bout ta take on.” He gave me a thumbs up. “Do me proud, baby girl. Ya got this, no doubt.”

As soon as he closed the door, my heart and all other vital organs dropped into my stomach, my brain seeming to go with them as it was like looking at those directions made me feel temporarily like I forgot how to read. I tilted and constantly rotated the instruction booklet in my hands to make sure I was looking at it right. Oh Thaliak-blessed, lend me your guidance and infinite patience on this one…

As I began to look over my tool chest that was put together for me by one of my father’s most trusted NDI employees: Reese Nicholaides, my father’s youngest brother. Inside I find a message that he wrote in what I thought might have been complete and utter haste.

“Baby girl”, as most of my father’s associates (as well as my family!) that have been with Nicholaides Defense Industries since before my birth affectionately referred to myself and sisters as, “I’m hoping this is helpful. Your Da was very specific on what he wanted you to have. I promise I didn’t put nothin’ in here that you ain’t gonna use. If you need help, holler. Love and luck, Uncle Reese.”

This alone made me more nervous than anything because Uncle Reese’s mechanical concoctions had a tendency to blow up on him whenever he wasn’t focusing. However, something in the note made me smile. He was always fond of his butterscotch candies, and made me extremely addicted to them as a child when I would come with Daddy on business trips. He always made sure that Ian, Zara, Ada, and myself had one in our mouths at all times. I found one attached to the note with a PS written at the bottom.

“If you need more, I’ll sneak them in to you.”

One thing about my father and his business associates: they were always really close as they had all been brothers-in-arms in service together. Most of the older employees were either under his command on his naval vessel the LNS Warhound or they had served with him in some other way. Needless to say, I had a ton of “uncles” that were constantly over to discuss business with him or help him develop new schematics even if it was just for recreation and to get away from their wives. I chuckle at that thought because I remembered a time when I was roughly nine years old, and walking into Daddy’s war room with a huge throng of men in the wee hours of the morning, ale mugs about as they were all huddled over his main table discussing various different blueprints. I remembered I had had a nightmare and Daddy was always the one to help chase them off. Instead, I got a whole throng of men singing a lullaby to me mostly drunk but it made me laugh.

I shook my head, getting back to work on working the screwdriver slowly in order not to bald any of the screws as I started working on completing the shell of one of the inner components to the mine as the pamphlet had indicated…and then Shida walks in. BLAST! Well, blast, but not blast as I was actually really glad to see her, but my time was slipping away from me.

“Iria, you have a few schematics Lord Declan wanted me to pass your way. I don’t think Ian’s gotten a chance to look at them, but he said you’d be the best judge of character for these." I smiled, Daddy’s already starting to hand the reins over to Ian soon. "No problem, Shida. Could you place them over there for a moment? And…hold this for me, please?" I had her literally keep her hands closed upon this device as an already-built component lay inside. I screwed the small outer shell shut with her help and smiled at my handiwork. It only took me an hour to put that together. "One down…eighty-billion to go?" She looked around the vesselhouse and pouted. "You know, if you want me to stay out here with you I will!” I nodded my head, gesturing over to the chemical compound I had already started of explosive powders and synthetic coating for all of the mine’s wiring.

I smiled even wider at the thought. “You’re more than welcome to! I just don’t know how much help I’m going to need and I really need to focus. Maybe if you can look over some of those schematics for me and just read them to me while I work on this thing it’d be very helpful. Once I commit them to memory they’ll be destroyed as is the norm for both Ian and I. I’m hoping to expect Sebastian at some point tonight, maybe he’ll help make this go by a bit quicker.”

Shida nodded, her smile widening. “I’ll go get us some tea started and –" "NO." She looked taken aback for a moment. "No tea, love. I’ll take some of Daddy’s bourbon if he’s got a flask lying about." I grinned. Apparently I was more like Lord Declan Nicholaides that I ever would’ve thought myself to be.

I had a pocket knife wedged between my teeth as Shida’s entire body was stretched out over the shell of a huge naval mine trying to keep it shut as I was working as hard as she could to tighten all the screws she put into place. The sight would’ve been one of hilarity and curiosity as the aide’s body was draped over it like stretched putty. As soon as I had tightened all twenty-eight screws in what seemed record time, I took the pocket knife from my teeth and tried to wedge it into the small groove where the top half of the mine shell met with the bottom one. As soon as the point was in place, I jabbed it in a little and it slipped out, catching the hand that was braced against the metal. “Shit! Grrrr…Gods fucking damn it!" Again, I cut myself. It bled a little, and I took a drink from the flask at my hip that my dad had left me in the huge toolbox that was organized and put together solely for my usage. Shida slipped down the face of the mine until her toes hit the carpet. Rushing over to a first aid kit, she pulled out some bandages, both of us women completely unaware of Ian entering the vesselhouse in Limsa. Apparently he had gotten my letter. My temples and cheeks were smudged with oil and gunpowder from all the hard work. Even with the leather gloves Dad had given me, the knife’s blade had landed in the side of my hand under my pinky finger and, while the wound wasn’t dire, it was bleeding quite a bit. "If I didn’t know better, I’d say that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you curse, Lady Nicholaides.” The voice held the big man’s humor. Ian made his way into the room, hands linked behind his backm, the smile on his lips shrinking a bit noting the cut. “That’s… unfortunate, sis. Got anything to help with that?” While Shida was retrieving said kit, Ian made his way to my side, running an arm around my shoulders to give me a quick embrace. I blushed profusely, noting that the small draught of whiskey I drank as soon as I got the injury probably didn’t add any help to her current situation either. I laughed embarrassedly. “I believe it is, and I believe it will be the last, younger Lord Nicholaides,” I chuckled. “You won’t believe the project that Dad has given me to take on,” I hissed as Ian peeled the glove off and took the gauze wrap from Shida’s hands. “I’ve an idea that it may not be. Just as long as it isn’t in front of any of the children you teach before they’re old enough to understand and know better.” A light shrug as he helped with what he could on the wound. “What does he have you doing, unless you mean learning how to put this mine together, hm?” “Oh I’m so very careful, and honestly, I think that’s the second time I’ve ever cursed, I’m just under a lot of pressure right now, I’m so sorry Ian,” I lowered my tone as I hissed once more as he finished wrapping it. “Daddy’s brought me this mine. He wants me to finish it. I don’t understand since you are taking over NDI, but he was wanting to talk to you soon about a possible role for you where all of that was concerned. However, as ‘second head of the House’, he wants me to know how to put this together within a week’s time.” “I don’t know how I’m going to be able to put something like this together. Uncle Reese left me a lot of detailed and in-depth instructions, put it in simple terms that I could understand, but the mechanism just isn’t coming together like I think they expect it to,” I admitted defeatedly. "I’m sadly not allowed to give you much help, or else I’d offer a bit more technical expertise.” He hummed in thought a moment, tearing the gauze, and tying it off around my wounds. “Is there just a certain point where you find the thing falling apart? Where everything doesn’t come together? Or maybe the instructions you were given were a little lacking? You know how Uncle Reese can be a little scatterbrained at times.” “I don’t think the directions are wrong, sweetie. I just think I lack the aptitude to take on such a task. However, you are going to be back out in the field with Daddy soon just to brush up on business and learn how to make contracts and he wants me to have the knowledge as well since this was about to be part of my inheritance as well. Uncle Reese is usually pretty spot-on with his instructions because he personally trains people how to build these things within a day." My shoulders slumped. "I’ve been given a week but I need to make sure I use my time wisely, so I was here at 4:30 this morning to get started,” I sighed gently. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up this morning. The whole beginning of my day doesn’t start until I’m able to feed you and Dad.” “I completely understand so no need to apologize, baby girl. Gathered that something worth it took you away for a time, then I got your note, and had no worry at all.” He finally embraced me, and leaned over to kiss the top of my head with a smile. “Have you made progress in this work since you began at the very least?” A tilt of his head in the question with a cocked brow, always ready to help where he could. “I have! It’s just that the wiring on the prongs outside of the mine are what detonate it. Once the prongs are touched, it triggers the wiring to make the timer countdown to explode. This particular one is allotted a five second time. However, the issue is that, while the prongs have been touched, and this is just a dummy mine with no real inner workings that will detonate, it does go through the motions and when the prongs are touched the timer is not getting activated.“ "Some disconnect in the wiring somehow that’s gone unnoticed?” He paused. “Maybe the timer is faulty? Or the power source to it is off?” He ran down the options he could think of at the very least. How long has this problem been occurring?" My eyes widened immediately at the power source comment. "OH! Oh my stars you are a genius!" I hopped up, wrapping my arms around him immediately, only to slip down quickly against the length of his body before I rushed to start untightening the screws. "The crystal power source that Dad gave me probably wasn’t set in there correctly. It was something he charged with pure electricity so it had to be handed with rubber gloves. However, he says that it has a two-year active life once the power switch is turned on after the mine has been submerged." Shida breathed out a long drawn out sigh with a chuckle as she looked over to I. "Does this mean I get to be the Raen rubber band again?" I looked at her with a big grin. "Not yet, I may not need you to. If you can just lift that other part, I’ll have Ian hold this side and I’ll look into it to see what happened.” I looked at the diagram again once more as Shida slipped her fingers between the small crevices that kept the two parts of the mine together. “It looks like Uncle Reese’s ink might’ve smudged a little, because the crystal is actually asymmetrical, it’s bigger at the top than it is the bottom, and here they almost look equal. All I can do is lean in, switch it around, and hope to Thaliak that it works. There is supposed to be a light that comes on on the inside of the mine near the switch when it has power." Shida lifted her side, and though it was light enough, the metal was bulky and awkward to hold. Her brother nodded a little bit with a smile, all too happy to swing her about a little bit as she jumped up into his arms. "No need to stretch anymore, I don’t think. Unless you would prefer me just watching you both work.” He nodded a little bit, indeed going to help keep the mine open as is. Hands slipping into the gap left by Shida’s own hold. “Fingers crossed here. In spirit. About as well as they can be at the moment!”

I slipped on the rubber gloves and leaned over as far as I could as not to disturb the wiring. Hanging over the edge of the middle of the open mine, my arms stretched out as far as they could go, my gloved hands fumbling a little as I managed to take the crystal out of its electrical bed and switch it. As soon as I snapped it into place, the light inside the mine flickered on with a few little zaps resounding in the metal orb. My feet were completely off the floor as my short stature was a hindrance, my feet crossed behind my backside in mid-air as I covered the electrical bed where the crystal sat back up, tightened the screws around it, and did my best to check the wiring. As I was hung on my belly over the side of the mine, I started to slip out as carefully as I could, almost falling over as my feet finally found the dirty carpet again.

“Alright, I think it will work now! Thank you, you two. We can put the top back on and I’ll screw it back down. I’m pretty sure the rubber blockages Dad had made will keep it pretty airtight. I’m just hoping that nothing else goes wrong." I sighed heavily as I looked at it once more. "I think I’m done for the night, my mental capacities are fading at the moment,” I admitted as I looked up to Ian with a smile. “Shida, please feel free to get some rest." The agent was more than happy to say her goodbyes and bolt out of the door of the vesselhouse as I and Ian stood there looking over the mine. "So, what do you think, brother-mine?”

“I think… I’m definitely proud of you, and what you’ve accomplished already given such a short amount of time.” He nodded a bit, going to slide an arm around my shoulders. “And that I’m sure you’ll end up doing just fine with this little test, rising to every challenge pointed at you as always.” A slow nod as he considered more before looking down at me, free hand stroking his chin.

I burst out laughing. “So does the oil match my hair color? Should I trade makeup in for the mess I currently am?" I turned to look up at him, aquamarine eyes gently reflecting all the love in the world for my older brother. "Let us just say that Dad had a feeling you’d be meeting me out here, so this was a challenge for the both of us, not just me”, he admitted reluctantly. “He knows you have a long history with warfare, so he thought having me do this would also introduce me to your line of work in a bit of a hilarious way,” I said with a smile.

“Maybe not trade for it, but, it does still look good!” He just chuckled a little bit, shaking his head. He couldn’t help but grin, eyes reflecting that same love right back at me.

#ffxivwrite2017

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