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get-shiggy-with-it · 4 years ago

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collab masterlist

✧ pairing: villain!hawks x afab!reader

✧ word count: 5k

✧ warnings: this is like all smut, angst, ambiguous but happy ending, unhealthy relationships, mentions of transactional sex, reader has a healing quirk but it's really just for poetic purposes, reader has a vagina, no other gendered parts, oral sex (reader receiving), vague metaphorical drug reference, mentions of blood, mentions of wounds, mating press, soft sex (?), sorta, slight potential could be read as dubcon but they're both into it

✧ summary: for years you've stitched hawks back together when the world has torn him to shreds—and he always pays you back, though you can't help but start want more than he can give you.

✧ a/n: hey y'all this months theme was villain/hero swap with a shared opener! please go check out all the other wonderful works in this collab, there are so many talented writers/artists involved!! credit to @/lady-bakuhoe for the amazing intro. also bonus points if you catch the old aesthetic tumblr post references.

Breaking news: We have yet another report to add to the slew of attacks this month, this comes just days after we broadcast rumours of villains running rampant over the city. This spate of attacks has put the entire metropolitan area at a standstill, road closures and damaged property making it difficult for commuters to get to work in the morning. Road maintenance endeavour to do its best to keep the city running, but it seems futile when these attacks continue to increase. The entire city was brought to a standstill by the mysterious villain who has still not been named, but reports show they are nothing like we have ever experienced before.

Where are the heroes now? Who will save us from the terror overwhelming our city?

Every day the crime toll continues to rise and we have no one here to protect us. The Hero Public Safety Commission assured us earlier in the week that the crime rate would go down, that the top Heroes are out there protecting our city, but if so, where are they? Is it really safe to go out anymore, who can we trust? Would you put your life in the hands of a Hero today? When they have proved our streets are no longer safe. We still have no information on what is going on, or who is involved but we must remain observant. We will continue to report the latest news as we receive it, but for now, we must implore you to heed the warnings of the city-wide curfew that is soon to be implemented. If anyone has any information on these occurrences in the city please send them to us or contact the police, you can remain anonymous. The safety of our citizens is what is most important, stay vigilant and don’t go out unless it is absolutely necessary.

One thing we know for sure: we can no longer rely on Heroes to protect us. The streets of our once-great city are no longer safe, we are no longer safe.

***

You can only touch him when he’s dying.

That fact is made even more horrifically apparent as he stumbles through your open window—and how long has it been since you’ve slept with it closed?—dripping with blood and panting from his flight.

The T.V. blares in the background, filling your tiny apartment with incessant ramblings that only grow louder by the day, and you already know what they’re going to say before they say it. Because you see him, before the reporters stumble upon heroes in the wreckage—you see what they do to him before they’re warning the public of dangerous villains loose in the streets.

They spout off about failing heroes but you think they’ve done a pretty damn good butchers job. Red feathers matted together, sticky and brown, fall in tufts from his back. You burn with shameful jealousy at the thought of those who would call themselves heroes having laid hands on what is yours.

He isn’t really yours and you know that, though you often wish you could be a bit more delusional. It might not hurt so much then.

They call him a villain. They call him a threat to society.

But even faced with the truth spilling from him and onto your creaking floors, it is easy to forget what a ruthless predator the man before you becomes when he leaves these four walls.

Especially as he falls forward on heavy feet straight into your arms, outstretched and waiting. There are stains on your shirt but you’ve known the secret for getting blood out of clothing for years now. Cold water for the fabric, warm to wash away the grime on his lovely skin.

“Gonna need you to fix me up again, sweetheart,” Hawks mumbles into your shoulder where his forehead rests.

His breathing is even more ragged now, not just from the flight.

“I know,” you reply and your hands shake when they find the gaping wound at his side—wide and deeper than the ones before. “I know. Can you walk?”

He doesn’t respond but that mop of golden hair shifts a bit as he slings an arm over your shoulder and rests his weight. You don’t need to direct him to your bedroom. This is an old game you’re playing and he knows the steps.

So do you.

Though, you’re never sure if it's dread that fills you and makes your stomach knot and your knees weak. Or if it’s that awful, momentary rush of excitement at the prospect of being able to run your fingers over him, bare and giving you free reign.

As long as he’s bleeding out on your floor.

Then you can feel him.

When he’s dying and needs you.

Needs you to fix him.

But won’t ever let you close enough to finish the job the way you want to.

You comfort yourself in with the knowledge that at least he lets you this close. At least those thin, silver-skin scars are the unmistakable mark of your healing hands. At least you’ll always haunt him like the red feather down that sticks to your pillows or between your floorboards.

So you strip him carefully and try not to let his sculpted chest distract you from the work. Hawks is silent, such a model patient as always. Only grunting when your fingers move to knit together the ragged edges of his flesh.

This will leave a nasty mark, you know it already. But you can’t find it in yourself to mourn the loss of that lovely skin.

It will only make it harder for him to forget you.

You’re knelt beside him, laid out on a towel you keep at the edge of the bed. Blood will soak through to the sheets regardless, but you try your best. He takes a sharp breath, white teeth catching the back of his hand between them to stifle groans.

You wish there was more pleasure to it. That he was biting back moans for you instead of trying not to scream as his flesh pulsed and grew hot while it was rebuilt under your fingertips. So you indulge, pretend your hands are elsewhere, roaming his perfect waistline and pulling whimpers from him.

Your dangerous, villainous, predator Hawks sprawled on his back, wings spread and cumming onto his chest under you.

The sounds above you change, and you know it hurts—must be excruciating as bone is set back into place—but you chose to believe it’s because he’s trying to keep himself from screaming your name as he reaches his release.

Hawks, you’d croon to him—Hawks because you don’t know his real name. Don’t know who he was before he started this underground life of crime on the fringes of a society that called him a monster and then turned him into one.

He isn’t a monster in your bed, though he may cry like one.

Cry as you mold his flesh and try not to look him in the face. Try to pretend they are an overflow of some better emotion. And when those summer wheat field eyes roll back in his head and those horrible pretty noises stop, you push past the growing ache in your limbs until the skin under your palms is smooth and no longer leaking thick, red blood.

And you do your best to resist the itch to feel more of him while he can’t stop you. Even with your fingers numb from overexertion, you can’t help but fall back on your heels and long for the feeling of his cheek in your hand, or his chest on your face.

But your part of the transaction is done.

And your permission doesn’t extend past these limits.

And it pains you to wish harm on him.

But it hurts even more when he does not need you.

So you sit and hate yourself and hope that those heroes with their disgusting philosophies get their shit together just a bit more. So you won’t lose your purpose. So he’ll keep coming through your window, permanently open through rainstorms and snow and spring heat.

Hawks’ breath evens slowly, and you stay still as a watched painting—no shifting eyes or moving limbs.

You crave these times like water or warm food—constant and instinctively.

And this is the only time you’ll ever have them, hands so filled with pinpricks of fried nerves that you can barely feel the soft, relaxed muscle beneath them.

What a tragedy.

What an injustice—

You can only touch him when he’s dying.

***

“Hmm,” he groans, sitting up and wincing as the new flesh protests under his movements.

“You should rest for a bit longer.”

Hawks looks at you, stretched next to him on the mattress—a purposeful few inches of space left between your bodies. It’s both selfish and practical advice.

But he isn’t here for that kind of help.

“You know I can’t just be sittin’ on my ass,” he quips, flashing you that eyes closed, wide smirk that sets your heart hammering in your chest. “Can’t have anyone tracing me back here.”

“Normally I’d agree,” you don’t find it in yourself to give the words any bite, “but you were just actively bleeding out a few minutes ago.”

“Sure, but that was a few minutes ago,” he winks and you can already feel the bed shifting as he moves to settle himself over your hips, one toned thigh on either side to bracket you against the bed. “Now, let me pay you back for all that hard work, yeah sweetheart?”

You wish the way he peered up through those long lashes, gold eyes honed in on you like a piece of meat on a hook, didn’t make your face burn this much.

It doesn’t mean anything to him.

Because this arrangement really is transactional—so you have to get something out of it too. At least, that’s what he tells himself, you think. He doesn’t know that those scant few moments you hold his life between your fingers is more than enough payment.

It’s been this way since the very first time you stumbled across him, half dead in an alley. But then you think it might have just been a ‘heat of the moment’ sort of thing that had just stuck.

You heal him and he makes you writhe on the sheets with his tongue and his hands, until you're fucked into unconscious bliss and he can slip away without your prying eyes watching him go.

But you still aren’t allowed to touch Hawks, even when he reaches into those deep parts of you and molds them to fit only him.

“You don’t—” you start to protest, partly because you want to believe you don’t want it and partly because you want to hear him insist that he does.

“Shh,” Hawks presses a calloused finger to your mouth and it takes every ounce of strength not to suck it past your lips. “I don’t like leaving my debts unpaid.”

That’s the end of your determination for the night. So you try to relax into his touch as slides your bottoms off and tosses them to the floor. Try not to clench up under those fingers that spread your legs. He doesn’t like it when you squirm away, when you flinch from his hands.

You want to think it’s because he hopes you aren’t afraid of him—of what he is—like the rest are, and not because he wants to get it over with as quickly as possible.

You want to.

But he’s so hard to read, and your mind is not often a kind place.

“Mm, god I’m always so hungry after you patch me up baby,” Hawks licks his lips as he stares down at you. “You won’t mind if I eat you right?”

You cringe at how fast your head shakes.

“Mm, course you wouldn’t.”

You can hear the smirk in his voice, and he’s right though you resent it a bit that he’s got you pegged so easily.

But you’re weak, you’re no villain, you’re no hero.

And so you’ll never be able to resist him. But, damn, did you wish you had a name to cry out. Then at the very least, you could keep a part of him with you too. Then you’d have some to moan on the nights he goes uninjured and you have to bring yourself to lonely release, only thinking of him.

Of those wings spread above you like a burning, red sunset, obscuring the rest of the world from view with his blinding light.

“Hawks…” you hiss instead as he shifts your legs over his shoulders and lays his tender chest on the sheets. “Please.”

“Yeah, yeah, what’s it gonna be tonight then?” he asks, breath ghosting over the damp folds between your thighs.

“Thought you said you were gonna use your tongue,” you whine, impatient now for any scrap of attention he’s willing to give.

“If that’s what you want,” he presses a kiss into the crease of your leg and hip, nipping the delicate skin so you whine again. “It’s whatever you want, you know that.”

It isn’t though.

It’s not whatever you want.

You can pick the position, you can ask for his mouth or his fingers, but even then, they won’t go past your neck. Your hands must stay firmly knotted in the comforter and away from him while he works. Cause he is working. This is part of the job to him, it's only in your fantasies that he’s doing it simply for the hell of it.

Hawks nudges your embarrassingly soaked slit with his nose and hums at you, “So is that what you want? Want me to eat your pretty pussy, yeah?”

“Yes—ngh,” you don’t get much in past the confirmation.

He’s a busy man.

He doesn’t have time for your stupid, romantic day dreams.

So he dives right in, and it’s enthusiastic enough that you can convince yourself he simply wants you that badly.

Hawks tongue licks a long strip from your hole to your clit and sucks the little bud past his plush lips. They’re a lovely, soft pink against your skin and they make a mess of you in seconds. He starts up an even rhythm, drawing circles into the nerves that sing and have heat building up in you only seconds after he’s started.

You hate that you love how well he knows your body.

You hate that you only know his when it’s shutting down.

“You taste so good, you know that?” he mumbles, lapping at you and kneading your thighs. “Could live down here just drinking you every fucking day.”

He doesn’t always talk like that but you’re happy he is now. It distracts you from the deep, ingrained urge to yank him by the hair and taste yourself on his lips.

“Makes me wish I’d let those damn heroes get hits in more often,” he’s back to panting and you keen at the sound. “Want my fingers too?”

“Fuck yes,” you don’t even bother hiding the desperation anymore.

He deserves the boost to his ego. You’d shower him with praise if he’d let you, bathe him in warm words and press them into his skin with your tongue.

But he doesn’t let you.

Hawks’ hand on your thigh trails slowly against the sensitive skin until he’s pulling back to run his fingers through your folds to ease the stretch a bit as he pushes two inside. He knows you can take what he gives to you, knows you love the way he fills you up.

Your tingling hands ache to grab his head and force his lips back as he sits for a moment, eyes glued on the space where his fingers disappear into your body. He groans low at the wet sounds your bodies make at their joining. Your legs shake where they rest on him, the one other point of contact he’s allowed. Those deadly soft feathers brush your calves as he curls his fingers up and waits expectantly for the strangled cry he pulls from you.

“There it is,” his voice is so much lower when he speaks now. “Can’t exactly show you the real ones, but how ‘bout you let me make you see some stars, huh?”

He asks so much of you. So much. So often.

In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever actively asked him for a thing he hadn’t already offered in the few years you’d known him. Hawks does it all—the taking and the giving and the demanding.

And you’re simply along for the ride, holding on for dear life lest he drop you, let you plummet like rock to the barren ground.

Still, you are mortal and you crave and you will take what you can get.

“Mhm,” you whimper when his deft fingers increase their pace, not thrusting but grinding mercilessly into that delicious spot inside.

“You wanna cum now, sweet thing?”

Then, true to his villainous nature, Hawks latches his lips back onto your clit, wracking your body with waves of truly sinful pleasure. His tongue draws quick, perfect circles across the bud just how you like. You’ll never know why it feels so much better when it’s him touching you.

How he knows exactly what you want.

Most of it.

Then his other hand is reaching around your hip, thumb taking over to press down where his tongue had been. Panting for the third time, his gorgeous head rests on your thigh and he stares dead on into your eyes. That predator yellow gaze pins you to the pillows better than any hand could and he licks across his lips while you watch, moaning as he tastes you there.

You groan deep and unabashedly at the sight.

“What is it?” he’s teasing you, unable to keep that part of his cruelty hidden even now. “What do you want?”

You shake your head and wish you could turn away, flop against the mattress and writhe but you can’t. You just can’t give up this moment that’s etching itself into your retinas—like you’re staring head on at an eclipse, celestial and short-lived.

“Tell me,” Hawks whispers, nipping at your thigh and working his fingers harder on you. “Whatever you want, you’ll get it.”

And maybe it’s the sudden heat of the room, or the little breeze from his wings spreading defensively to block you from view of his nonexistent audience—the outside world maybe? To keep you, this secret indulgence, hidden from their prying hands. Or quite possibly it’s just your own weakness at the feet of years and years of loving—because you do, you love him, it’s clear by now that’s what this is—this man whose name you don’t know and whose eyes never seem to leave you even when he’s gone.

Maybe you simply crack under the pressure of keeping this awful, looming silence for too long.

You feel your lips split at the seams and it all comes rushing out in a polluted flood—a stagnant river of secrets.

“Let me touch you,” you gasp and close your eyes then just so you won’t have to see that grin slip from his beautiful face. “Please Hawks, let me touch you. I can’t do it anymore, just—I need to kiss you, I need more.”

All this time he hadn’t let up on pulling pleasure from your skin, but he stops now, bringing your release to a screaming halt.

The quiet that follows—devoid of fast breaths and wet slapping—is suffocating.

You wish you regretted the outburst, the waste of years worth of work to keep him coming back.

But you don’t.

Of course you will in a minute, when he slips away and doesn’t return.

But now it just feels as though that boulder of secrecy has been lifted off your chest and you can finally take in lungfuls of sweet, unhindered night air.

It’s only after that dreadful minute has passed and there are still hands on you—buried in you—that you dare to open your eyes again.

Hawks is staring blankly, an expression you’ve never seen before, so stark from the usual quirk of his lips and tilt of his chin. Blank, but calculating. You can see the gears clanking as his thoughts rush a mile a minute, faster than he’d ever dream of soaring over the city skyline.

He blinks once, twice, then again and you can see the redness blooming at the corners as his eyes grow glassy between each flutter of lashes. And then, as though moving through honey, he draws back from you, only to crawl up your body until your noses touch.

You hold your breath, lip caught between your teeth, but his slicked thumb comes up to pull it out of your gnawing reach. He strokes across the puffy skin, never meeting your gaze, until he slowly, slowly leans down.

It’s not really a kiss, more of an accidental brush, so little of your lips touch you could easily have imagined it. When he speaks again, you can feel him forming the words against you.

“I—” he starts and licks his lips and yours and you don’t think it’s an accident, “I can’t.”

It isn’t what you want him to say, but it’s better than a silent loss .

You know truth when you hear it.

“I know.”

And you do, you do know, you’ve always known. He’s darker when he’s not with you. You’ve seen the carnage he leaves behind broadcasted on screens, but it’s never stopped the ache before.

He can’t keep you the way you want, can’t have things that get in the way.

You can only touch him when he’s dying. You can heal him, reform his flesh and bone—pull him back from the brink—but you’ll never feel his chest against yours or his hair slipping through your fingers or have all of him buried inside you. He’ll never love you like you want him to.

It doesn’t stop you from wishing.

And apparently, it doesn’t stop Hawks from kissing you anyway.

“I can’t,” he repeats and it sounds so broken you almost think that wound has reopened and he’s going to start slipping away again.

But the only thing that slips is his tongue past your lips and tangling with your own.

And then the levee breaks.

It’s a sudden torrent of hands and legs knotting together like the torn edges of too many injuries. Hawks covers every available part of you like an addict seeking his fix. It’s breathless and uncoordinated but you’ve never felt more alive, alight, aflame.

He presses his lips to yours again, pulling away and then diving back in. Frantic hands pull you off the mattress until your back is against the headboard and he’s straddling your lap. You take the opportunity to sink your fingers into that goldenrod hair and it’s just as silky as you’d imagined it to be.

Hawks moans into your mouth, kissing you wildly, like the beast he is with teeth clacking and your tongue sucked between his lips.

“I can’t,” he keeps mumbling, between groans and hips grinding and hands grabbing, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t— “

You wonder then which one of you he’s trying to convince.

But you don’t ask, just let your hands wander to the delicious curve of his ass on your thighs and squeeze, rolling his bulge against you. His fingers push and proud, ghosting across your chest and stopping to pinch your nipple. He drinks down the whimpers you let out, letting his lips wander your jaw and throat, sucking bruises—leaving his own scars on you—as he goes. He pushes you back down to the pillows so his lips can continue their work, latching onto the quickly hardening bud and suckling lightly. His groan sends little shockwaves through you and he looks up with brows furrowed like he’s in pain with how good it all feels.

“I’m sorry,” he says and it’s so soft you barely hear it between licks at your chest.

“No,” you finally find it in you to respond, shaking your head and pulling him back to your lips.

“I’m sorry,” he says again while you nip at his earlobe and down his jaw, tight pants yielding under your hands as they’re tugged away so he’s just as bare as you.

“No,” you shake your head and any response dies on his tongue as you dig your fingers into the feathers at the base of his wings and pull him forward.

Hawks lets out a choked gasp as his length, bare, hard, and leaking glides across your cunt. Any other time, you’d have liked to savor this moment. Get on your knees and worship his pretty cock—and you know it's pretty, just from your short glimpse. He’s long and perfectly thick, just how you dreamed he would be. The cute tuft of blond curls at his base is course in the best way as you trail your fingers through it to take him in your palm.

“Ahh,” he keens, arching above you with his head thrown back as you stroke him for the first time.

It’s been so long, you're not sure how you ever resisted this before. Not with how heavy and warm he is in your fist.

“Hawks,” you moan, sucking at the dip in his collarbone and moving to bite at his nipple. “Hawks, please.”

“I—” you think he might protest but you flick your thumb over the tip and it pours precum to help the slide of your fingers.

He’s already got those powerful arms hooked under your knees, all he has to do is lean forward and sink into that tight, awaiting heat, and he knows it. You can see the resolve cracking.

“Hawks,” you beg again. Because you are begging, that’s what this is.

And he looks at you, drool slipping from the corner of his mouth and brows all bunched up with his head shaking.

“Hawks.”

His hands grip the underside of your thighs and knock your hand from his dick.

“Hawks.”

His forehead comes down to rest against yours, eyes squeezed shut and red at the edges. You feel the sting at the corners as if they were your own.

“Hawks.”

You can only touch him when he’s dying.

Is he dying now?

Are you killing him?

“Hawks.”

His breath hitches, whatever he might have said is long gone when the head of his cock catches against your entrance.

“Hawks—”

He sinks in to the hilt all at once and the last utterance of his name is a yelp. Your walls clamp down hard around the intrusion, so much bigger than his fingers, so hot and long and thick as he pulses inside you.

There are no words after that.

No names, no refusals, just his face pressed up on yours as he pushes your thighs to your chest and rolls his hips, fucking you evenly into the mattress.

Not soft or slow or overly rough.

Though it is all of those things at once as well.

Hawks has always been full of contradictions. It makes sense that this is too.

Both your eyes stay open, lips brushing and sharing breath as he slips a hand back down to your clit and starts those perfect circles up again.

He doesn’t ask you questions now. Just stares in your eyes and sinks his cock into your over and over until you feel fuller, more complete than you ever have in the whole of your life.

There’s no warning leading up to the end. You feel the crest approaching, the coil waiting to snap low in your belly and you don’t dare take your eyes off his face. You need to commit the entirety of this moment to memory. Just in case.

Just in case it never happens again.

Or worse, it happens over and over until it doesn’t.

Until you run out of chances to touch him.

Until he comes to you too far gone.

“Oh fuck,” he mutters and that’s all the warning you get.

All the warning you have the strength to listen to as you tumble over the edge, waves of rolling pleasure burning under your skin. You clench hard around his cock as his hips stutter in their pace, thrusting unevenly as you gush and he spills rope after rope of hot release deep into you.

And you’d been wrong before, because this was full. This was whole, your stilling bodies pressed together at every point with his cock still hard and twitching as your walls milked him of cum that warmed you from the inside out.

This is what you would die for.

***

Later when you stumble into unwilling wakefulness, there are hands tucking a thin sheet over your bare skin.

Hawks has pulled himself from you after resting like you’d told him he should. He’s dressing, though not hurriedly, and you can’t find it in your jelly bones to move or stop him.

You’re both silent, even when he looks down to find your eyes alert and raking over him—costume donned and wings prepared for flight.

His face is drawn in a way that might have been resentment. Maybe towards you for breaking his resolve, maybe at himself for indulging in what he cannot have.

I can’t.

You hear the words as clear as though he’d just said them.

I can’t.

Can’t have you. Can’t forget his purpose. Can’t have gentle things.

Hawks is a villain, first and foremost, above all else and that includes you.

So you don’t move to stop him as he walks softly through your door. You just watch as he makes his way to the open window and perches on the ledge. He does look back, only briefly, to see you draped across the sheets, head resting on your arm and staring at him as he leaves you.

The ghost of that cheeky grin crawls its way onto his face before he tips backwards off the landing and into the night sky. He winks once before the indigo of the night swallows him like the maw of a leviathan. The city has teeth and it will chew him up and spit him back out into your arms soon enough.

So you’re content to wait.

You know this isn’t the last time. That he’ll come back to you as he’s always done. And offer you more and more of himself each time.

Because you can only touch him when he’s dying.

And this world is nothing if not determined to kill him.

So you can keep your purpose.

And by extension, you can keep him.

#hawks x reader #hawks x y/n #keigo takami x reader #villain!au #bnha fanfiction #tw blood #tw dubcon #hawks angst #hawks smut #bnha smut #mha smut #bee.writes

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intheticklecloset · 3 years ago

Text

Hide and Seek (My Hero Academia)

ShinDeku AU

Summary: See above.

A/N: This prompt was so much fun to work on for these two! Thank you so much! I can't wait to delve further into this incredibly self-indulgent AU. Enjoy! <3

Word Count: 1,649

@kwaiibb

~~~

Since admitting their feelings for each other over their spring break, Shinsou and Deku had begun to spend more time together. They didn’t exactly plan any of it; it just happened to work out naturally that the former was spending more and more time in the 1-A dorms, which was where Deku happened to live.

They hadn’t made anything official yet. Without really talking about it, they’d both decided to just see how things went for a while. Shinsou was certain that if they continued to like hanging out together as they seemed to, one of the two of them would end up asking the other out, but he was in no rush, and Deku didn’t seem to be, either. He was okay with that.

One afternoon about three weeks after spring break was over, Shinsou found himself texting Deku asking if he wanted to hang out. Deku replied with an ever-enthusiastic yes and invited him over to the dorms for lunch. They hugged – their new standard greeting – and chatted over sandwiches and chips and soda, enjoying each other’s company in the simplest way.

However, once they’d finished and cleaned up in the kitchen, a lull in their conversation turned into a bit of an awkward silence, during which Deku looked timidly at Shinsou and bit his lip, shuffling his feet a little. “Hey…do you want to play a game?”

“Sure.” Shinsou smiled. He was more than willing to do almost anything with his crush. “What do you want to play?”

“H-Hide…” Deku trailed off, seeming embarrassed about his choice. “Hide and seek?”

“Oh?” He was adorable. Completely, utterly, unfairly adorable. “Interesting. Why that game?”

“I, uh…just think it would be fun? I kind of like the anticipation of it, you know?”

Shinsou was learning new things about Deku every day. He grinned. “You like getting all antsy when someone’s getting close to your hiding spot?”

Deku blushed. “I mean…kind of…”

“All right. Then I’ll seek first. Sound good?” Shinsou smirked. He had a feeling there was more to it than the greenette was implying, but he was willing to let it go for now. Clearly Deku was really hoping to play, and how could he deny him something so simple? “What should I count to?”

“One minute,” Deku replied, a relieved and excited smile spreading across his face.

Shinsou chuckled, made a big show of covering his eyes with his hands, and began counting a little louder than was necessary. “One…two…three…” He heard Deku take off down the hall from the living room and smiled wide, feeling a giddiness rise up inside him, almost as if he were a kid again. He counted up to one minute, then uncovered his eyes and said to himself, “Ready or not, here I come.”

At first he assumed Deku would have tried to find a place as far away from his seeker’s location as he could, which – in Shinsou’s mind – meant he’d have gone to one of the upper floors of the dorms. Since he hadn’t heard the elevator doors, he figured Deku may have taken the stairs. Maybe he was hiding in one of the stairwells? He set off to find out.

Deku wasn’t in the stairwells, or on any of the upper floors. He wasn’t hiding in anyone’s room whose door was open and inviting, and Shinsou was pretty sure he wouldn’t be hiding in someone’s room if they didn’t have it open to indicate willingness to socialize.

He tried the laundry room on the first floor, as well as the grounds immediately outside. He searched for almost fifteen minutes, and there was no sign of him anywhere.

Where could he have gone? Shinsou wondered. Then it hit him. He hummed in curiosity, then traversed back inside and down the first hall to Deku’s dorm room door, which was closed but unlocked. He opened it, stepped inside, closed it behind him, took a couple of steps into the room, and…

Bingo.

Deciding to have a little fun, Shinsou could barely contain his smile as he exclaimed dramatically, “My goodness! I can’t seem to find Midoriya anywhere! Where on Earth could he be?” He took another couple steps into the room, noticing how the figure under the bed’s comforter shifted a little. “I thought maybe he’d have run to hide in his room…oh, look! His bed is all messed up! Jeez, I never took Midoriya for the sloppy type.”

Shinsou swore he heard a muffled giggle at that. He was dying to pounce, but he was going to take his time, draw this out, give Deku the anticipation he so clearly enjoyed.

“Well, perhaps I should help him out. We can’t have lumpy bedsheets, can we? They’re no good to snuggle up in when we’re tired at the end of a long day.”

Shinsou went quiet after that, taking slow, deliberate steps toward the bed. He was curious to see if the waiting would be enough to draw Deku out on its own, but though the covers shifted a little more, the greenette never showed himself in any way. By the time Shinsou had reached the mattress, he was grinning with pure, childlike giddiness, nearly bouncing in place for how excited he was. Maybe Deku was on to something with the whole anticipation thing.

Suddenly his hands shot down to the lumpy form under the comforter, digging blindly, just hoping to connect with a sensitive spot or two. He wasn’t disappointed. Deku’s distinct, high-pitched giggles filled the air within seconds, and he began squirming under the covers more than he had been before.

“Jeez, this is a really stubborn bed! It just doesn’t want to be made!” Shinsou laughed playfully, fingers flying everywhere he could reach. After a few moments he leapt onto the mattress and straddled Deku as best he could manage not knowing exactly where his limbs were.

He must have hit a hot spot, though, because the next thing he knew Deku was screeching and one of his hands shot out from under the comforter, flailing uselessly in the air.

“Ehehehehehehahahahahahaha! Shihihihihinsou, wahahahahahait! Wait, it’s mehehehehehe!” he squealed, finally finding the top of the blanket and shoving it down to reveal his beaming, pink-cheeked face. “Shihihihihinsou!”

Shinsou gasped dramatically. “Midoriya?! You were here the whole time?!” Now having a better idea of where the rest of him must be, he scooted up a little to properly settle on his thighs, digging his fingers into his belly and ribs through the comforter. He knew he’d get a bigger reaction if he eliminated the blanket entirely, but it was just too much fun to mess with his crush this way. “No! How could I have been so easily tricked?!”

Deku’s giggles were half-ticklish, half-amused as he continued to flail and squirm. “Ehehehehe! I’m juhuhuhuhust too good at hihihihihihide and seheheheheek!”

“Alas, I have much to learn from the master.” Shinsou grinned, trying to find his hips. “Please teach me, oh great one!”

Suddenly Deku spasmed, his giggles turning into a sharp bark of laughter. He tried to arch his back but couldn’t. “NOHOHOHOHO!! Nohohohohoho, not the hihihihihihips! Plehehehehease, not thehehehehere!”

Shinsou got the distinct feeling that Deku was only playing along with his impromptu tickle monster routine, “begging” for it to stop but not really meaning it. That – plus the anticipation that he’d so clearly loved before this – finally helped Shinsou put the pieces together.

“Why, Midoriya,” he said teasingly, slowing his tickling to a stop and climbing off of him. “Did you want me to tickle you when I found you?”

Deku looked slightly confused as to why he’d let up on his attack, but when the comforter was suddenly ripped off of him, giving Shinsou full access to every ticklish spot at once, his eyes lit up and his giggles were back in full force. “M-Mahahahahaybe…”

Shinsou climbed back on top of him, grabbing his wrists and slowly pushing them above his head, leaning down to smirk in his face, enjoying how Deku suddenly looked incredibly flustered. “Why didn’t you just tell me? I’d have been more than happy to play hide and tickle with you if you’d just asked~”

“I d-didn’t want to…to just say it,” Deku admitted, averting his eyes sheepishly. “I wanted you to figure it out on your own.”

“Aww. Are you a little shy about liking such a cute game, Midoriya?” Shinsou teased, crossing his arms at the wrists and pinning them down while trailing a single finger back down his frame to wiggle into his underarm. “You really shouldn’t be, you know.”

Deku squeaked, giggled, and twisted away from the teasing finger as much as he could.

“What’s this? Nothing to say now? Are you getting a little too flustered to communicate, cutie?”

Cutie? Shinsou wasn’t sure what had prompted him to say that, but he wasn’t complaining, because it made Deku’s cheeks blossom a beautiful shade of red.

“Oh, great master of hide and seek,” he teased, barely able to contain his own giggles from how silly this had all become and how much fun he was having with it, “please allow me to offer you this humble gift as a reward for being so incredibly adorable and ticklish.”

Shinsou’s hands flew down to Deku’s hips in a flash, and Deku tossed his head back with an elated scream, laughter flying past his lips in crashing waves, hands shooting down to grab his attacker’s arms but not really push them away. “NAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! NOT MY HIHIHIHIHIPS, PLEHEHEHEHEHEASE!! SH-SHIHIHIHINSOU, HAHAHAHAHAVE MERCY!!”

“Mercy?” Shinsou challenged, finding the hollows of his hips and kneading in deeply, drawing out the hardest, most desperate laughter he could manage from his crush, who looked like he never wanted to leave this ticklish chamber he’d found himself in. “Oh, Midoriya…I think you know by now that hearing you scream ‘mercy’ only makes me want to tickle you more.”

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boop-le-snoot · 4 years ago

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stephen strange x oral fixation selfship

it made me horny writing this goodbye. i chew on stuff when i am focused and if were dating you better be giving me your fingers to chew on, bubs. and lemme make-out in your lap for 102828 hours. 😤

cant wait for borders to open so i can go to germany and get my tongue split finally.

based on a sex dream. thank you benefits cucumber for being sexy as fuck.

"You're going to bite it clean off one day," his amused voice interrupted her thoughts briefly, causing the girl's fingers to stutter in-between flipping pages.

She raised her eyes upwards, unbothered by the apparent disrespect for each other's space bubble - neither of them was sure when or how they crossed the lines; perhaps, she was naturally that casual about touch and he didn't have the heart to react in any negative way. He craved it almost as much as she was ignorant of pesky things like societal norms and whatnot.

"Yes, Stephen" true to herself, she offered an exaggerated agreement, emphasizing his name, still worrying that damned, plump lip between her teeth. He could see the miniscule wounds, the healed scar tissue below the line of it. It was a long-time habit for her. "That's why I got my fangs filed," teasing, she smiled, baring her teeth. The inhumanly jagged incisors glinted at him mockingly.

"Kids these days," he continued the familiar banter, fighting the smile at the corners of his mouth. Stephen didn't pretend to understand why she decided that fangs and split tongue was something a human being should possess but he wasn't one of those people who told others what to do with their bodies.

Having thought about it more than strictly necessary, he had decided it did suit her, to an extent, to be as peculiar outwardly as she seemed to be on the inside. Stephen's attention slid back to his own book, he almost managed to ignore the tiny girl sitting in-between his outstretched legs, flipping through several tomes at a time.

Every now and then, a focused sigh would emanate from her and he would have no choice but to briefly cast a glance towards her; the little crease between her eyebrows betrayed the intense thought process she was in. Her foot was twitching against his knee, she never seemed to be able to sit still and even more so when her brain worked overtime.

She reminded him of Tony, which in turn, made him want to just wrap her in his arms and never let go. Just like the engineer, behind a wall of sass and snark, there was a gentle, sensitive person with a world full of colors.

Her lips were steadily turning crimson. The more she got into it, the more she chewed.

"Anything of value?" Stephen couldn't bear to look at it anymore.

"Nothing new," she replied absentmindedly, tucking a long strand of hair behind her ear. Feeling his eyes glued to her face, she raised her head in confused. "Huh?" The eyebrow arch, the exasperated face.

"Do you need a chew toy?" His own face must've mirrored her because her frown deepened.

The very tip of her tongue snuck out, running over her chapped lips.

He followed the movement with his eyes, tenatively reaching out a finger to brush against the puffy, sensitive flesh, torn between watching himself touch her and the miniscule flutter of her eyelashes as she very obviously tried to conceal her reaction.

A worm of malicious glee took a home in Stephen's chest; as much as she liked to act cool and nonachalant, sometimes they did catch her slipping: lingering looks and quiet sighs.

The corner of her mouth rising slowly, derisively should have been a warning enough. But he was just a man, burdened by his vices and at times, weak. Leaning into him not more than an inch or two, she wrapped her lips around his thumb, the dull scrape of her incisor causing his blood to suddenly run cold. Stephen's toes twitched as she readjusted her position, butt on her calves, a hand firmly planted next to his inner thigh.

As gently as she could, she chewed on his thumb, eyes drooping shut in a gesture almost pornographic. Stephen exhaled, noisy, a breath he didn't know he had been holding, at the seemingly innocent bite to his hand.

Breath hot on his hand, he had no choice but to watch the fine hairs on that arm stand up in response to her. Eyes laughing, she may have been mocking him, waving the ambiguity of their friendship (or was it something else?) as a banner of his stubbornness and her own insecurity.

"Like this?" Briefly pausing the gnawing, her tongue snaked out to scoop up the moisture at the opposite corner of her mouth, briefly enveloping his thumb in her hot, wet mouth strictly more than necessary.

"You..." Stephen was at a loss of words, which only prompted for her mischievous smile everybody was secretly afraid of grow.

"Me," she replied with a nod, resuming the slow, delicate gnawing.

It was a head rush. He was sure, if she'd wanted to, she could easily draw blood, pierce his skin with the gentlest of touches. The thought of it was what broke the camel's back.

The free fingers of his hands wrapped around her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. "You're trouble," he stated, slowly pulling her in and giving her the time to pull away, should she change her mind.

"Mhm," denying the obvious wasn't in her nature. She obediently followed the movement, shamelessly wrapping her mouth fully around his thumb, shuffling closer to his chest with small movements until she had no other option but to hold onto his shoulders for balance.

He decided quite liked her on top of him, not like that was anything new. As the distance between them closed, Stephen easily slipped his thumb from her mouth, leaving a wet trail of spit on her chin and down her neck as he repositioned the hand from her front to her nape.

The side-smirk was still glowing smug in her face, too adorable for someone who just masterfully trolled a sorcerer twice their age. Stephen leaned in first, catching the plump of her abused lip gently between his own, eyes sliding shut at the sensation of the slightest, most reluctant tremble coming from the girl in his lap.

There were small cues almost all the time she was around any of them; now, Stephen could feel the hitch in her breath, the desperate clutch of her fingers on his collarbones as she displayed the reactions she denied herself out of spite on a daily basis.

His tongue slipped in without any resistance as the barest hint of a moan leaked into the kiss; he wasn't as patient as the girl in his lap, gathering her closer was a feat as quick as it was rewarding. The noises grew louder as she felt the results of her little games under her hips. All want and no finesse, her knees and calves landed noisily outside of his thighs, her center planted firmly over his erection.

Now, it seemed stupid for Stephen to ever have had thought that he stood a chance against her. The hot, wet and messy kiss was just the beginning.

#Stephen Strange smut #doctor Strange smut #buns selfships

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cornacopicimagines · 5 years ago

Text

A Rose Blooms │t.h

pairing: prince!tom holland x princess!reader

words: 8.4k (WHOOPS)

warnings: arranged marriage, SMUT (we been knew), slight praise kink and 10000% breeding kink, therefore unprotected sex, swearing, slight cockwarming & good lord there is so much

summary: Perhaps God does have a sick sense of humour. To allow such misguided souls to one another. Souls that shouldn't be allowed to feel the sense of happiness he can provide, that should accept their dire situations. The Prince of Wales and his new bride can attest to the quite well.

a/n: what do y'all mean a historical prince au!tom holland with major smut and breeding kink is not a thing. i know the sluts want it, even if they never ask for it. i must provide it.

masterlist

━━★✼☆｡

y/n of Burgundy was a splendid piece of artwork. A sweet and humble French Princess with a huge dowry and a bright future. It was as if DaVinci had casted the girl from Venus's shadow and gifted the baby to displeased parents. Parents who so wished for a boy, that the arrival of a healthy girl is so overlooked that the girl is better off dead. The sadness is heard across not only France but the entirety of Europe. Poor y/n of Burgundy! The Unlucky Princess of Burgundy! It's all she hears; she is deemed a tragedy before her life is even written. Perhaps that is her greatest misdeed in this life, that because she is born the wrong sex to what is expected she is casted to the side as a woman destined for slight and anguish for her entire life. Even if this is the case, y/n wished to think of herself as unwritten for the moment being. A woman waiting for a calling no matter how big or small. A woman who's only current wish to sit atop this windowsill, letting the cool September French breeze kiss her flushed cheeks. Alas, even this is stripped from her.

"Get off the window, y/n!" her mother's shrill voice shrieks as The Duchess yanks y/n to the floor. It's harsh and frantic, as if an arrow is to fly through and hit her. Her tightly coiled chest hit's the wooden floor hard. It knocks the only wind y/n really has left, a wasteful shame.

"I am sorry mama," y/n responds quietly, her hands desperately pat to find a piece of wood that will not cut up into her as she attempts to regain her balance. Though her room is filled with four maids not a single one offers their own hand to help her. She knows it is because of her mother's cowl. If they dare so move in a direction towards her, The Duchess will become a Fury of Hell himself.

"The breeze is so sweet at this time of afternoon." Finally, y/n does place her feet back on the floor with a small clack of her heels. She takes a moment to take in the state of her gown. While she has countless others, something about the pure white of the satin being destroyed by the inevitable dust that has collected is disheartening even to her. The pattern of bright red roses now looks more of a dull blood grey than a true flower.

"The breeze is something so frivolous my dear," The Duchess is suddenly content with her surroundings. "Busy yourself with something more intelligent, it makes for a much better bride."

"Thank you for the wise advice mother," y/n snaps, her fingers gripping the ruined material of her gown. "I'll be sure to not engage myself in something that gives me the slightest bit of freedom in the lifeless castle," it was no louder than a whisper. Her braided hair still muffling the sounds.

As if her words seemed to not even reach her, The Duchess mumbles in agreement before taking her leave. The door shutting loudly behind her, the air was finally safe to breathe. The maids immediately begin to swarm her. Like flies to honey; they grapple her, prod at her and pinch her. It was too much. It was as if a million ants had swarmed her body, nipping at any piece of flesh they could just because it was what they were meant to do. An instinctive need to draw more blood than necessary, it was overwhelming. They inspected her perfectly capable hands, wondering if their incompetence has cost them their heads because y/n of Brittany split her blood and The Duchess refused to let them help. She was suffocating.

She didn't mean for it to slip, it just did. Her voice raised, "Get out." It was softer at first. "Get out," they still didn't move, still abusing her. "I said get out!" Everything stopped for a moment, the air her mother had ensued had now come back. The maids all took a single step away from her. y/n felt the tears threaten her, warning by dancing across her lower lashes. "Do none of you listen, get out for Christ’s sake!" That's all it took, in a matter of seconds y/n was finally alone. She could hear the faint song of the trees whispering to her, it was calm, but she couldn't appreciate it. She dropped to her knees and began to softly weep into her palms. The groans muffled by the skin of her hands and the tears halted from falling by her fingers. In this moment and forever ahead of her, she was desolate.

But like all things, even this bleak minute of sorrow was cut to an end by the deafening sound of her father's boots storming down the hallways towards her room.

━━★✼☆｡

Tom spectated as the pole shattered into a thousand pieces. The splinters hitting ever edge of the arena. He watched as the knight fell limp and as his horse rode on through the chaos. The young prince roared out of his seat, his knees hitting the harsh wood of the royal box. His name echoed on the young knight's medallion above his breast. He had picked the winning side and rightfully so, Sir Harrison had never been defeated. For a moment, Tom turned around to face his beaming mother. A woman who loved the games, Tom always relied on his mother to accompany him to these festivities but his father. The Prince would always ask graciously but was refused every time. Constantly belittled for the consul of old men with a working cock between them, it was a joke. The King had many failed efforts to rile the English people to cause, Tom had offered a large gathering to help inspire the people. The King told his son this would cause nothing but useless panic and many painful deaths. Scoffing, Tom waltzed back to his seat. It was uncomfortable, it felt as if ants hand made their nets below the seat's support. He wished to ride alongside them.

"You cannot and you will not," The Queen smiled at him, waving to squires as they led the horses away. Tom's head swivelled around to meet his mother's. "I refuse it my son."

"I had said nothing mother," Tom replied quietly, he too doing his duty to the lower noble men who had come out today. Each one sweatier than the last. "Perhaps you are hearing things, 10 childbirths can change a woman's mind," Tom stifled a laugh, too which he received a slap on the arm for.

"Don't play smart with me son," The Queen spoke coolly, her countless rings clanged as she rose from her seat. Tom followed suit, allowing a hand for his now middle-aged mother for gracious help down the impossibly large stairs. "I almost lost your father to one of these silly little cock shows, I will not go through it with you my boy."

Tom raised an eyebrow, watching his mother's golden trim become bleaker by the stain of the grass. "I had half a mind to believe you enjoyed these silly little cock shows," Tom played. The Queen peered up at his through hooded lids. It was dangerous waters even for him, a man who has seen the blood of war. He allowed his mother and her ladies to return to Windsor, watching as if to wait for the shark to disappear.

"Your Royal Highness, if I may have a word," a soft voice called out from below the podium. Tom paced to the edge and stared down. Constance, he thought to himself as he smiled wickedly. She was a short and mildly plump woman, with wild unruly hair that had to be constantly shoved out of her face. He remembers her name because of how sweet his name sounded dripping from her tongue. Countless nights spent in the throes of passion, wearing moonlight as cloth. Tom knew he had dishonoured her just by bedding her, but he couldn't help himself. She was the first woman who really took an interest in him. Still, he had to come to her aid on multiple occasions. While he likes the way, she grips at his biceps, he however, doesn't like when her father comes storming into court demanding his daughter's honour back because Tom had prayed on her. Perhaps, it was the odd lack of ladies that would flock to his side or maybe it was simply because he wanted a little bit of fun before the inevitable.

"You may, my Lady," Tom smiled widely making his way to her side. He could tell the mud was ruining the polished leather of his boots, he completely forgot about his favourite riding boots he had put on in hopes that he may indulge himself in the sports. Still, he pushed the though deep down at met her eyes. He not an unusually tall man but the way he almost dwarfed her was delectable. As he watched her squirm, he wondered as to why she would speak with him where anyone could see. There was no danger for him, but the world's eyes were on her.

She played with the small ring on her pinkie finger, riding it up and down the skin. "Why did you not tell me," she whispered, refusing to look up at him. Tears began to well.

"What on earth do you mean?" He queered, genuinely curious as to what had got her all worked up. His hands went to stroke her cheek gently, but she abruptly pulled away from him. This time her eyes did meet his, the salty liquid glossed over her eyes.

"It is bad enough that I am called the Prince's Whore but now they are cursing my name because I have ruined the royal couple!" she cried out, her deep green dress swallowing the mud below. "That a stupid maid slut has stolen you away from the beautiful French Princess!"

Tom saw nothing but red. Not because of Constance but because of what she said to him. He had begged his parents to let him choose his own wife. If he was to rule England after his father's passing, he wished to at least have a woman whom he truly loved by his side. He said nothing to her as he stormed away. The small drizzle of rain hitting his skin as he picked up his speed. He knew that his father was in a council meeting alongside his mother. Perfect opportunity to unleash his rage. He faintly heard her calling after him, that was muffled by the buzzing in his ears.

He had been told who he was meant to be and what he was meant to be from the moment he was born. Hardly ever seeing his mother or younger brothers because he was eldest, never knowing true companionship because he would be constantly cooped up listening to his advisors and tutors as they taught him the art of war and foreign policies. This was his one chance to spend his life with a woman who understood him and would grow a loving family much in contrast to what he had.

His hands pushed the heavy wooden doors, they hit the walls with a large smack. The entire council stood for the Prince, with the exception of his mother and sickly father. He walked past them with ease and took his seat at the opposite end of table. His eyes focused solely on his father as he absently noted the appearance of his son.

"Wonderful of you to finally join us," The Duke of Essex smiled weakly, in any attempt to deflect the tension elsewhere.

"When were you going to tell me?" Tom spoke, his voice barely above a whisper and laced with venom. His elbows digging into the cool wood of granite of the table. He watched his father finally face him; the man was a wreck. His greying hair stuck to his hair with copious amounts of sweat, his brown eyes had sunk deadly back into the sockets and his skin was pale and filled with wrinkles. "When were you going to tell me father?"

"You were spending too much time with that scullery maid," The King respond calmly, still flipping through royal documents. Tom was on the verge of an explosion. If the Prince was known for something, it was his anger. Much like Mount Vesuvius, he didn't get angry often, he hated how it affect those around him. The times he is pushed to the breaking point however, he was destroy everything in his path. "We had to put an end to it."

"We?" Tom pushed.

"Your mother made the arrangements; she is being brought here as we speak." Once more, the King had no interest with the devastated look on the Prince's face. Too caught up in an attempt to stile a cough.

"You promised me my own choice of bride," Tom seethed. He faced his mother, if the King wouldn't listen perhaps the Queen would.

His mother sighed; the silk of her sleeves draped over the arms of the chair. "That was before you had instinctively made the choice, we hoped that perhaps you would have fallen for the daughter of a Duke or at worst an Earl. You were going to marry that girl, after everything her family has done against the court. We couldn't allow it."

Tom jaw clicked. "Who is she?" He was done arguing, done protesting.

"You'll marry the granddaughter of the French King; y/n of Burgundy," his father spoke up before his mother could sugar coat it. "The family sent a portrait of the girl as the first payment of her dowry; it has already been placed in your room. Hopefully, you can find the slightest bit of attraction for your new bride before the wedding."

"Will I get to meet her beforehand?" He at least hoped to see the girl with his own eyes before calling her his wife. Finally, the King met his eyes. He dropped the quill on the desk as locked his eyes, leaning towards him.

"Did you really think you'd get that luxury?"

━━★✼☆｡

The sea breeze prickled at y/n skin as she sat atop the deck. She could tell they were getting closer. The wind went from a soft tone to a howling scream, something her great aunt had told her all about. English weather could go from a perfect sunny day to god's worst mood. In all honesty, she preferred it to French. It was wild and unpredictable, something she so desperately needed.

She remembered how she got into this predicament as she lay down a 9 ace on the table. Waiting for the ship to land.

"You'll leave tomorrow, it will take you a good couple of days to get there." Her father exclaimed, picking a raspberry from the plate and eating the sweet fruit. y/n stood in silence, still reeling her tears back into her eyes. She refused to weep in front of the Duke. She moved around the large room, in order to hear his words. "You'll make a fine queen," he smiled, placing his hands atop her cheeks. y/n smiled warmly before raising a concern.

"How do you know this will be different than the last?" she asked quietly, staring down at her shoes. Her father sighs before picked his coat up from the chair.

y/n placed her bets, her hand is exquisite. Three queen and a pair of Kings. If she doesn't win, it's as if God is going against her. The men that sit beside her raise their brows in confusion. She's not backing down.

"Because, you know their language and their culture from Great Aunt Mary. You were her favourite after all," her father tells her, the memory of the old lady teaching her English brings a curve to her lips. That was not the answer she was looking for, however. Her father knows it as well, he knows the answer she wants but he cannot give it to her. "Trust me pumpkin," the endearment is wonderful. Unlike her mother, y/n's father has always been kind to her. She doesn't know if it because she is his eldest daughter or because her brother is a lousy boy and she is the only child with a head still attached to her shoulder blades.

She releases her tension; she knows whatever comes out of this she must go along with it. She must accept whatever situation is handed to her and accept her duty as a future queen and mother to the English Throne.

y/n squeals, her hand's won. The rest of the chips are placed in her corner, she is asking if they want to go another round but instead, they all huff and walk away from her. y/n feels her heart sink into her stomach. Perhaps the English wind has turned their moods sour. Soon enough her worries are washed away as the boat docks into Brighton and y/n hears the cheers for her. She can't exactly make out what they are saying. Sadly, she doesn't get a chance to even greet her new subjects as her new English ladies are gently pushing her towards the carriage. The only thing she can do is wave and smile at them, hoping to instil a fraction of hope for the new royal couple. As she steps into the carriage, a huge white dress follows her. The abundance of ladies and herself are stuck in the cramped space for a little over an hour before they start agreeing to change her dress into the one being coddled.

"Why? This is dress is perfect as it is," y/n laughed gently, her fingers playing with the pearls that lace the neckline.

"Forgive me, my lady, but His Majesty; The King has requested that you wear a white gown." One of the younger girls pipes up. Sighing, y/n nods her head to agree and goes to stop the carriage.

While they don't completely undress her, she knows that the smock under her dress is shear and leave nothing to the imagination. Quickly they strip her of the current dress, even unlacing the corset before adding another one. As they place the soft silk of her veil over her head, she can hear the ringing bells at Westminster. It hasn't completely dawned on her what she is exactly going through. Marrying a man she has never met. Marrying a man for all she knows could be a tyrant. She's heard quite a few English Monarchs fall under that said category. Her heart started to jump now; she could fell the beat thump against her vocal box.

The people began to line the city. Countless bodies waved at her as she strolled through the city of London. The abbey somehow seemed ten times bigger in person. White rose petals fell through the air as the coachman opened the door for her. The walkway was paved with red velvet. Her heels felt as though she was ruining the beautiful material as she walked.

Tom can physically hear her pounding heartbeat from where he stands. He can't exactly make out her face, but he can see the white gown strutting towards him. It's the same patterns as the dress his mother wore more than 20 years ago. He's seen it in countless paintings, his mother scowling as she attempts to salvage any positive thing out of such tremendous pain. Harrison lays a hand on his shoulder; the contact makes him jump.

"I heard she looks like a siren," he joked, dusting a small particle of fluff off Tom's shoulder. "Perhaps she'll sound like one too," the comment was enough to grant the knight a hard whack on his arm from the Prince. He truly did wonder if she would as beautiful as the painting which depicted her. A small red rose for his house in her fingertips as she grinned softly. It was as if she was staring into his soul.

Tom reached out to allow her aid in getting up the stairs. She graciously accepted muttering a small thank you as her other hand lifted the countless layers of fabric to mend her steps. Her touch was soft, something he wasn't used to. The gentle touch of a noble woman, even if it was only upon his fingers. The entirety of Westminster Abbey went silent as the faced each other.

y/n could barely hear anything over her rampant anxiety. Though she was eased slightly as she blindly grasped at his fingers, she was afraid she gripped a little too tightly. Finally, she stood in front of him. The gown dipping down the stairs to end in her ladies' hands. She wondered what she looked like to him. Wondering if it was a glorious sight to witness a new bride waltzing towards him. Or if it was one of dread, to be in holy matrimony with someone you've just met for the first time. She's still trying to decide between the two.

The ceremony was beautiful. A simply yet elegant affair, as two young royals wed. She knows that she is marrying the Prince of Wales, a worthy husband for any noble woman. Yet she can't help the dread that builds as the Archbishop drones on. The hymns falling deaf ears. She tries to pay attention, but she can’t, all she can hear is the drumming of her heartbeat. It pounds against her ribs, creating echoes in her head. Before she knows it, his hands reach for hers. There was no strength in his grip unlike beforehand, it was soft and gentle. As if she was a beautiful yet delicate doll, that she would completely shatter if he pressed just that bit too hard. Their fingertips locked; her skin fell into the ridges of his knuckles.

“I proclaim thee, y/n of Burgundy to be my lawfully wedded wife from now until the end of my days,” he hesitated. She could hear it in his voice. “She shall sit beside me as I rule the kingdom.” The ring passes down her skin, the metal biting at her finger.

She repeats him. “I proclaim thee, Thomas – Prince of Wales to be my lawfully wedded husband from now until the end of my days. I shall sit beside him as he rules this beautiful country.” She smiles at the end, though she never intends to. y/n thanks her ladies that they cover her grinning face behind the thick white lace of her veil.

The entirety of Westminster Abbey is silent, no one dares even breathe as Prince Thomas coils his fingers around the tipping of the lace. He lifts it over his now wife’s face. He taken aback slightly. The painter wasn’t paid enough, clearly. She was even more beautiful standing in front of him. The same clear complexion now glistening in the soft sunlight of England. He doesn’t pry of course; it would be rude of him. Just to stare at his bride, as if they were the only people in the hall. Good lord, does he wish it was.

His hands reach her cheeks. Tender once more, he brings her forward. She shifts on her feet as they meet. A quaint and soft kiss, unlike anything either of them has felt ever. He can’t remember the last time, it was this – well, gentle. Thomas doubts he has ever kissed a woman of such luxury in his entire life up to this point. y/n is the first to pull away, her fingers resting lightly on his raised wrists. Their eyes meet for a moment, a short moment.

Westminster Abbey erupts into celebration. Red rose petals fall from the ceiling and music begins to flood the area.

As she stared around, y/n began to think to herself. I do not know what will come out of this, but I already can see that joy my presence brings to these people. I shall not let them down.

Prince Thomas of England, Heir to The English Throne and y/n of Burgundy, Granddaughter of The French King had been wed. They were now locked in holy matrimony, a feeling unlike any other. Both horrendous and hospitable.

━━★✼☆｡

The Hall is a grand party. Laughing and singing is heard from every corner, mugs of beer and wine are flung across tables and scraps of food are being thrown to the dogs. y/n has never seen such a scene unfold. Too contained by the prudish French court. The most scandalous thing she has seen is a risqué dance meant to be for a married lover.

That is what she always despised about the French Nobility. Their secrets. Whispers and Rumours spread faster than fire. If you had committed some heinous act, the entirety of France will hear about it by the end of the week. Perhaps that is another reason why she felt so trapped in Burgundy. y/n could never do a single task on her own before her ladies’ loose tongue would find their way back to her mother. A delicate little flower, such a waste of potential.

Tom noticed her prodding, her fork twirling the few peas left on her plate. He hadn’t said a word to her all night and yet he looks at her if she’s unwillingly to speak. Does she know any basic English? Perhaps not.

“How are you liking the food,” Tom asked her, leaning into her. She smiled up at him, he spoke to her in French. It made her heart swell for a second. y/n turns to face him, smiling warmly. Tom wishes he could keep that smile forever.

“It’s is very well Your Grace,” y/n replies to him. Her flawless English rolling off her tongue with a petite French accent. It’s like heaven to his ears and he’s taken aback. “My Great Aunt was an English Countess, I loved her very much. I was fluent in English before I was 8.” She explained, almost as if she had read his mind.

“You need not call me Your Grace,” he teased, it was somewhat natural for him.

“Then what shall I call you?” y/n queered.

“I am your husband now, whatever pleases you pleases me,” Tom replied, turning back to his empty plate in an effort to hide the rising red flush on his face. y/n knew she should leave it at that, so she turned her attention elsewhere.

“Are royal weddings usually this,” she paused, “loud?”

Tom laughed quietly, he too turned to face the ruckus crowd. Men laying in the laps of maids, dogs feasting over food that had been flung across the floor. Loud chants to the beat of the music filled the hall. He would have been completely embarrassed by the state of his people in front of his new bride, if he hadn’t seen the amused look on her face. “Not usually, I have only been to one other wedding and that was extremely sombre.”

“How so?” she asked, sipping from the freshly poured wine.

“I went to my uncle’s wedding a few months ago. He had also married a noble woman like yourself, but the poor thing was only 11. My uncle was 35 and counting.” He wishes it was different but like all things in this world, he is powerless to the wills of those who think they are higher than others.

He peered at her; y/n was already looking at him. An eyebrow and a lip raised in disgust. It was quaint.

“I wish I could be more repulsed by that,” Tom wondered if she was joking or if she was serious. He couldn’t tell just by the use of her tone. He did however note her wit. Something he so longed for. They talked for hours, sitting by one another and discussing anything that arrived at the conversation. Tom can’t decide whether it’s her honey-like voice or her banter but it’s making him feel things no one should for someone they are being forced to wed.

Just while they are comparing the contrasting jousting techniques, the joyful music suddenly stops. It’s a quick snap and the entire hall is now dead quiet. The Earl of Salisbury mounts himself on one of the tables. His cheeks red with drunkenness.

The Earl points directly at y/n and Tom as they sit in confusion. “The final tradition, an honour for any noble man. The Great Bedding!”

y/n turns to Tom, clinging slightly to his sleeve. He takes immediate notice. “Thomas, what is The Great Bedding?” There was great concern in her voice as she watched all of the men rush towards them. He didn’t get to answer as the women abruptly hauled him out of his seat and down the hall, away from her.

y/n didn’t fear too well either. At least a dozen grimy hands placed themselves all over her body, pulling harshly as they brought her into the air. Dancing her down the halls. She constantly whacked their hands, to no avail of course. They only dropped her once they got to a dimly lit room.

It was already buzzing with people. Hustling around a single bed, covered by finely woven silk. The men dropped her gently, placing her feet against the ground. y/n tried to turn around to give them a piece of her mind but was stopped as her corset began to become loose around her waist. Incredibly uncomfortable, y/n looked up to distract herself in any regard and found Tom at the other side. The maid’s hands undoing every buckle of his coat, tiny fingers unthreading the lavish ropes across his body. y/n blushed at the sight.

Tom was trying his hardest not to look at her, not to stare as countless men of the court undressing her. He could hear the bulky wedding dress hit the floor of the room, he could feel her eyes on him, and he could see the variety of unknown nobles swarming them in any hopes to achieve the right to gossip tomorrow morning. It was despicable.

He climbed in first, the cotton of the blankets itching his skin as he settled. The only comfort he found was in the softness in his unkempt hair. Not restricted by the gel he was forced to wear.

y/n slowly followed his lead, it was dead silent. No one dared breathed as the new Princess of Wales found her spot next to The Prince. All the while, the exact same priest Archbishop chanted away, and priests flung holy water at the bed. Some of the liquid found itself on her skin. Finally, the crowd bowed to the couple and began to take their leave.

Tom watched in peace; he would be alone. He closed his eyes and let out a soft sigh, perhaps he would be able to get some well needed sleep. That seemed achievable until he felt a cold grasp around his wrist. His eyes shot open to find his father’s glare directly at him. “Don’t let the spring pass, I hope to see a grandson in the next few months,” The King spat.

It had been hours since the quarry of guests had left the room but the the monarch’s words etched themselves into his mind. Echoing nonstop, getting wilder as Tom felt y/n settle herself next to him. The mere presence of her alongside the duty he had to fulfil was too much for him. Tom shot up and quickly gathered his things, hauling his boots and clothes. He couldn’t be near her for another moment, too afraid of what he might do if she was subject to this sort of cruel punishment. Tom quickly decided he was sleep next door, just far away to have the thoughts no longer plague his mind but not too far that he would impose the wrong meaning on her. He reached for the door when she chimed in.

“Where are you going?”

He halted instantly. He wished that they could have gotten along like most royal couples should. A cold and initially distant meeting, then hopefully something would blossom over the years. Instead they had gotten along quite well, too well in fact. He was used to going slowly, taking his time in bedding a girl. A constant glaze over the court every few days, then promiscuous banter and in the span of months he would have her melt in his hand with a simple word. Now, he was feeling flustered and out of control and all of it was happening over a single night. Tom pressed his forehead against the wood, taking a deep breath. He turned to look at her, just like a painting coming to life. Her hair was down, unlike anything he had ever seen. Not grimed with sweat and dirt nor was it pinned underneath a headdress or away from her face. This time, the soft curls framed it. The nightgown clung to her shoulders; the fabric dangerously close to falling off. It made his life that much more difficult.

“I am sorry. You are a beautiful woman, but I just cannot fulfil the expectations that are placed upon me tonight. I will be sleeping in the room next door if you need me,” Tom blurted out. He waited for a response before he could speed out. She sat there, like a perfectly sculpted statue. It was torture.

y/n sighed, “nothing has to happen tonight.”

“But they will ask, they will pry like they always will,” he countered.

“Who says we have to tell the truth?” y/n giggled. God, it was a symphony to him. Tom watched her leave the bed, waltzing around to meet with him at the door. He wanted the tell her to stay exactly where she is, not to move even an inch closer but with ever step she took, his breath hitched higher in his throat. “I would prefer to spend the first night of my marriage with my husband, whether something happens or not.”

He swallowed thickly, “you are incredibly calm.” He now met her, his full attention on y/n as she chuckled in delight.

“I am filled to the brim with anxiety, just not that same fear that you are feeling,” she told him as she sat down the small longue in the middle of the room. She took the wine from the table and poured each of them a glass. Tom was hesitant at first, still wishing to flee the room and into the safety of his own solitary. Still, he found himself pacing towards her. Taking soft and flinching steps until he sat beside her.

“Then what is the fear?” He took the other glass, quickly chugging the alcohol. y/n said nothing but just stared at him in confusion. “The fear you feel, why?”

It was now her turn to become flustered. He looked genuinely curious as to why she was feeling doubtful, but she was unsure if he truly wanted to know the answer. Her father made her promise never to speak of it to anyone, a shameful secret that would ruin her future if it was released. But Tom was now her husband. They were bonded by law, a thought she really didn’t wish to dwell on. Surely, whatever she told him wouldn’t cause them any stress? Still, it would be rude of her not to tell him the reason after he had just clearly demonstrated his own fears in the commitment. “You must promise not to become angry.”

Tom nodded his head gently, even more intrigued then he was before.

y/n quietly exhaled, avoiding looking at Tom. “I was married once before, he passed from the sickness 3 months into our matrimony. Perhaps it was God way of guiding me to a better future, but it ruined almost everything. His death caused create strain for my family as they attempt to rebuild myself as if I was not capable of it myself. I am terrified that I am cursed, that I shall find myself falling in love with you only to be weeping over your coffin months later.” She had poured her soul out, shared such a personal section of her life. She was ashamed to see his face. Too afraid that pure anger and disgust would paint his face.

“Who was he? The man whom you had married?” Tom asked her again. His voice calling out as she stared directly at the purple velvet beneath her dress.

“The Prince of Spain,” y/n squeaked.

“That inbred!” Tom joked, suddenly becoming relaxed by the mere mention of the Spanish Royal Family. “I am surprised you got three months and not three days, that kid was on death doors for his entire life,” Tom was now in a fit of laughter. It wasn’t directed to her but more that they allowed such a beautiful woman to be the wife of such a dull man. y/n peered up, thoroughly embarrassed as she gave him a light whack. Tom finally came down from his laughing fit, staring directly at her. “You are cursed Princess; you are just coddled. Forced into a life clearly not meant for someone like yourself.”

The mere mention of the cradling of her life got y/n riled up, “that’s another thing! The Spanish constantly treated me as if I was some porcelain doll ready to shatter if they dared even look at me! I felt like a child trapped in a woman’s body and he touched me like that as well. God, I was finally ready to truly live my life and then he just was too soft, I wanted something much mor-” Oh. Oh God. She had run her mouth too far, dug her own grave with her rambling. Her hands clamped against her mouth as a heat rushed to her face. She could see the French ships arriving for her next month, giving her passage because she was not in pristine condition. Hopefully Tom didn’t pick up on what she was inferring.

“You aren’t a virgin?” his voice was quiet, almost dark. She felt her entire world shatter. Tom scooted towards her slowly, it was completely unnoticed. She was too deep in panic to recognise the growing flirt rising in the Prince of Wales. y/n shook her head feverously. “That little tick took you?” When he put it like that, it made her stomach tingle. She had never heard such a sentence used in that tone. She was drowning in thoughts.

“I didn’t know what I was doing, that’s why I was so unsatisfied,” she tried to explain, her hands now bunched up the fabric against her knees. “He was just so soft, too soft and I wished he would have-”

“Would have what?” he toyed. Tom doesn’t quite know why he was acting like this. So intent on prying her little secrets out of her. Usually, he would have just simply got straight to the point but now, seeing her become red with frustration was a view causing him great pleasure. Any abstinence he hoped to place upon himself earlier in the night had been thrown out the window. He finally felt back in control, something he longed for. Something she was serving to him on a silver platter.

“I..” she began but the words got caught in her throat. Her tongue stopped completely, almost refusing to finish the damning sentence. She wanted him to be rougher with her, she wanted him to treat her like a woman and not a girl. “What happen to you wishing to keep your hands to yourself?” She attempted to change the topic, trying to flee but to no avail as he quickly caught her wrist in his palms. Their skins igniting on sight.

“Don’t try to change the subject Princess,” he purred, standing up to meet with her at the side of the bed. Her title now held a completely different meaning, it wasn’t being used to describe her. It was being used to utterly destroy her; a nickname only meant to be whispered in the dim light of a dozen candles. “I can see right through you,” Tom’s calloused fingers met the loose fabric on her shoulders, dancing over her collarbone. It was soft but held meaning. “I can see that you wished he touched you differently. Touched you like a real woman, rougher and passionate.”

His words were damned. She should feel ashamed that she was feeling light-headed just by the grazing touch of his fingers above her perked breasts. “Yes,” it was the only thing she could get out. The only single three lettered word that allowed itself out of her mouth. Tom pressed his lips to her neck, underneath her jaw.

“Perhaps, he too was inexperienced.” He spoke through small pecks. “Allow me to show you something different, something better,” it was barely above a whisper, but y/n heard every word. Her fingers tangled themselves in his hair as he peered at her.

“I would enjoy that very much,” y/n responded just as quiet, all the gentle touches he currently had placed upon her turned darker. He pulled her into his embrace quickly before tripping her feet from under her and ending atop her on the messily made bed. His hand instantly found the inside of her thigh, his finger bruising her skin. It was delightfully, the slight pain sending shivers down her spine.

Their lips met, gentle at first. Her hands moulding themselves against his jaw, moaning into his mouth as he pushed her deeper into the mattress. She wished she could stay like this forever, wrapping in Tom’s embrace as they mended together. Alas, he pulled away from her. Lips separating with a small pop and a soft whine from y/n underneath him. Tom took a distinct look at her; she was sprawled out and whimpering for something more. Did she give this look to him as well? Did she use the melody that was her voice to beg him to do anything? Tom didn’t particularly wish to replay the thought in his head but yet, he couldn’t help himself.

Her nightgown quickly found itself discarded; her nipples perked in the cold. His lips immediately latched on, massaging the soft tissue. He never knew something could feel this smooth, without any flaws or imperfections. Even though he knew he could spend an entire night between the valley of her tits, he too longed for something more.

In a matter of moments, he found himself staring directly at her sex. A glorious sight to behold, glistening with her arousal in the pale moonlight. She was practically dripping onto the sheets below her. He placed a soft kiss to her pelvis, she jumped at the contact. “If you feel uncomfortable, you need to tell me,” he told her all the while his fingers toyed at her hot hole. Dipping even so slightly into her heat. She was already in euphoria just from the slightest bit of pleasure. y/n nodded her head before locking eyes with him.

He didn’t waste another second, quickly licking a fat stripe through her folds. The taste was pure heaven, he didn’t give her a moment to register the feeling before diving right back into her juices. Sucking and pulling at her, wasting the night away feeling her thighs clamp around his head every time he flicked her clit coupled with a singular finger prancing in and out of her.

y/n wasn’t quite sure how loud she could truly be. She knew that even though they were in the far south-east of the castle, there could be a dozen scullery maids listening right outside the door. Or if someone was trying to achieve some sleep right beside them. At this very moment though, with Tom’s head in between her thighs devouring every inch of her throbbing cunt, she couldn’t give a single fuck. y/n allowed the string of curses and praised to tumble from her lips as she clasped onto the bed sheets for dear life.

“Such a dirty mouth,” Tom remarked, releasing her for a few seconds, “for such a pretty and delicious pussy.” He chuckled darkly. y/n wanted to bite back at him, but she was cut short but the addition of another of his digits sliding into her tight entrance. y/n clasped down hard on her hand. A foreign feeling began to drive itself into her stomach. While unusual, it was not at all exotic to her. It was thrilling, feeling her walls contract around his fingers as y/n began to instinctively rock her hips against his digits.

“God,” he purred, “that’s it, make yourself cum on my fingers Princess. Let me see that gorgeous face while you do it.” Tom had now retracted his mouth from her, completely mesmerised by the way her eyes screwed shut as she reached her peak. A cacophony of beautiful and dazzling sounds stumbling out of her mouth as he felt her climax all over his hand. Such a tantalising sight for any man.

y/n was too deep in her own return that she didn’t notice the retraction of his presences from the middle of her legs. So, when he felt his hands roughly pull her to the edge of the bed, she almost choked. The exhilarating feeling of his strained cock rubbing against her drenched folds made her forget her place. Made her speak before her mind could catch up. “I want you to fulfil the expectation.” She told him, her eyes never wavering from him.

Tom halted all his movements. It was painful but he needed absolute clarity before he did anything without her reassurance. “You need to elaborate Princess,” he told her darkly. He knew exactly what she was asking of him, he knew exactly what she desired.

“I want you to come inside of me,” she spoke as if she was a different person. y/n doesn’t quite know whether it’s the shift of mood or her own personal feelings but either way, she wanted to feel their juices mix and then leak out of her. Wanted him to fill her right up to the brim until the possibility was certain.

“You want me to fuck my seed right into you?” his words were dirtier than she expected but so was he as he slid in and into her. His naval hitting hers with a loud smack. He refused to move until he had played with her just that tad bit more. y/n’s head thrashed into the sheets behind her. She was so full, never has she felt this complete in her entire life. He wasn’t even moving but she could feel every inch of him deep inside of her.

“God yes,” she whimpered. “I need it so bad,” she was going to drive Tom insane. Just by a simple sentence, he was going to lose his mind and cum right now without even doing anything.

“Want to carry my child, our own Prince or Princess,” he pulled back out of her and slammed right back in, knocking the wind out of her y/n. It was so profoundly dirty, just discussing it. It thrilled her to the very core, child-bearing was meant for women not girls. Perhaps that is why she is so drawn to the talk, the talk of something so primally feminine set her entire body on fire. She couldn’t speak a coherent sentence instead she just let out a continuous plea.

He began slow, hips rocking to find that perfect beat. He revelled in the only sounds in the room, the sound of his cock hitting the divine spot inside of her over and over again and her delirious moaning. It was a symphony he was lucky enough to hear. He wanted to hear more, listen to the pure sounds of him railing into her. So, he picked up the pace. His thrust became not only deep and harsh but fast.

God, if he could immortalise this feeling he would. The feeling of her walls constricting around him as he pounds right into her, the feeling of her legs wrapping around his constantly thrusting hips and the feeling of her sweating skin underneath his fingers as he grips for support. It’s like the Lord himself made her tight little cunt just for him.

“You’re so big,” y/n praised mindlessly. He’s never had someone say that to him without it sounding forced. It’s so raw that he can’t help but go even harder into with each praise that falls off her lips. “Fill me up, I want to feel you all inside of me.” It’s a dangerous game, she’s tapped on something so feral inside of him it hurts.

y/n wants to prop herself up and explore his body while he pounds into her, but she simply can’t. Her limbs give out with every thrust. Her entire body spasms each time he hits the perfect spot inside of her. She a moaning mess, trying to maintain any sense of normality but failing miserably. It’s a constant state of pleasure, she’s afraid that she’s lost track of time. That is until the faint, but all the desirable fit finds itself lit in the pit of her stomach.

“I’m almost there,” she whispers, it’s the only thing she can get out. His thrusts, that once had gained a steady and harsh rhythm are now falling. He’s losing focus with each grip he receives. With her words though, he gives her the final stretch. No longer does he has some form of structure but instead he’s just railing her like a wild animal.

It’s an explosion and neither knows why but it’s addictive. y/n climaxes around him, her toes curling as her final orgasm hits her long and violent. Shaking underneath, him as she unknowingly milks his own finish out of him. Tom’s fucking his cum right into her, he doesn’t stop for a second. Too focused on the goal ahead of him. Placing it where it counts. It’s a feeling he wants to never forget, better yet it’s a sight he wants permanently etched into his memories. As he pulls out of her, their climaxes tumble out of her. Dripping down her leg.

“Hold your legs up Princess,” he teases as he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. “I heard it works wonders.”

The rose blooms only for those who care properly for her.

━━★✼☆｡

a/n: please don’t flop, omg this is so long and no one asked for this shit. please don’t flop chile 🤡

3K notes · View notes

nugnthopkns · 4 years ago

Text

it all pours out after dark

word count: 5.8k

warnings: insinuated!fem reader, cursing, mentions of alcohol (but no consumption), expressions of self doubt

recommended listening: the knife | maggie rogers

series masterpost: here

a/n: first installment of hiiapl!! very excited about what’s to come. here is some bffs/roommates to lovers with petey :))

Elias’s friendship was a welcome surprise.

You hadn’t expected much when you met the Swede – after all, you were serving at the annual Canucks charity gala and he was the rookie poised to win the Calder trophy. There were a million other things you would have rather done than spend a Saturday evening walking around in sky high stilettos and passing out flutes of champagne, but the catering company paid generously, and you needed to come up with the funds for your next tuition installment. Vancouver may be beautiful, but it’s incredibly expensive.

So you spent the night with a kilowatt smile plastered on your face, staying silent in the background and making sure no one’s glasses were ever empty. You were barely legal to handle alcohol, freshly nineteen and waiting for an opportunity to experience the city’s nightlife for yourself. There was no way you should be regulating the alcohol consumption of adults but you were doing it anyways. The tips were very generous, more than you should have probably been receiving, but you accepted them with a smile because the athletes making millions could certainly afford it.

No one paid you any attention, but you didn’t mind. The night was beginning to wear on you and the event didn’t plan on stopping for another couple of hours. You debated on what to do with your tray while you tried to work out the knots that were forming in feet from standing for so long.

“Let me hold that for you,” a gentle voice sounded from behind you.

When you turned around you were face to face with Elias Pettersson. “That won’t be necessary,” you stated, tone kind but firm. If your supervisor caught you, you would have been fired immediately.

He didn’t take no for an answer. “Please,” he urged, thick accent ringing out in the space between you. “Your feet are going to cramp. Take your shoes off for two minutes.” The English was broken, but you appreciated the sentiment. He really wanted to help.

After a little more insisting from the blonde you agreed, and he diligently stood watch to ensure you wouldn’t get in trouble. It was a relief to be out of the torturous constraint of your shoes for a few moments, and you thanked him profusely.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, a small smile on his face. Shouting erupted from some other players then, looking for him.

“You better get back before they miss you too much.” You nodded in the direction of the voices, to which he begrudgingly agreed. Elias handed you back the tray of champagne flutes before taking one for himself.

He was about to fade into the crowd when he turned to face you again. “I never caught your name,” he stated.

“It’s Y/N.”

“Elias.”

With that he disappeared into the throng of people. You never expected to hear from him again, chalking it up to a kind interaction with a stranger, but a day later he had messaged you on Instagram after searching through the countless profiles that shared your name and were located in the general Vancouver area. Conversation flowed easily between the two of you, and you became fast friends.

☼☼☼☼

That first meeting was nearly four years ago, and countless memories had been made since then. You treasure your friendship with Elias, and truthfully it’s the one you hold closest to your heart. This could be because over the years you’ve developed a small crush on the lanky blonde, but it’s a secret you’ll take to the grave. No one knows of your true feelings for Elias, and no one ever will.

“E? I’m home,” you shout into the quiet apartment, wondering if he’s home from morning skate yet.

After you completed your undergraduate degree and your lease ended, Elias insisted you move into his spare bedroom. The offer was too tempting to resist – you got to live with your best friend and continue your education in a city you adore. Moving your stuff had been a bit of a pain, but your life fit seamlessly into Elias’s. The two of you worked well as roommates, and over the past few months the space began to reflect not just Elias, but you as well. Hair ties were randomly thrown on counters and the bookshelves began to fill.

You’re setting the few groceries you picked up from the local market on the counter when he comes down the hall.

“Hi sunshine,” Elias says softly, voice riddled with sleep. He must have returned home earlier than you thought and had a quick nap.

You smile at the nickname. Elias had gifted it to you early in your friendship when you were in a terrible mood. He had meant it sarcastically at first, but it stuck. Now he hardly calls you by your name.

“How was practice?”

“Really tough,” he admits, moving behind you to place the apples in the fridge. “Coach is being hard on us because we aren’t performing well.”

You frown but hold your tongue. Your degree in sports psychology tells you that isn’t the way to improve players’ morale, but Elias doesn’t like it when you lecture him on what the Canucks staff are doing wrong. He knows things aren’t perfect within the organization and hopes desperately the situation will improve when they start winning again.

The two of you put the rest of the food away in comfortable silence and then unwind by watching numerous episodes of House. You had recently decided to give the medical drama a rewatch, and Elias’s interest was piqued by the snarky physician who always saves the day. It’s become your favourite way to relax and it seems that both of you need it today.

“How does Wilson do it?”

You’re perplexed. “Do what?”

“Put up with House,” Elias sighs. “He’s an asshole.”

Laughter tumbles from your lips. “The same way I deal with you, grumpy.”

“No,” he scoffs, tossing a pillow in your general direction. “You’re House and I’m Wilson, sunshine. Being an asshole is how you got that nickname in the first place.”

You couldn’t argue with Elias’s point – he was right. Between the two of you, you’re the one most likely to be snarky with your anger and he’s more likely to shut himself off from the rest of the world. “Fuck off,” you giggle.

When Elias crawls on top of you and drops his weight you don’t flinch. You’ve become accustomed to his casual yet spontaneous displays of physical touch, and by now the two of you can frequently be found with your limbs tangled together.

The rest of your afternoon passes in the blink of an eye. You fall asleep a few episodes in, and you assume Elias did as well because when you wake up his body is still pressed against yours. Once your eyes adjust to being awake, you notice it’s well into the evening. Your stomach rumbles and you decide you have to get up.

“E,” you say softly, not wanting to completely disrupt his rest. The season is off to a rougher start than everyone hoped for, and he hasn’t been sleeping well.

There’s no response from the boy on top of you so you try again, voice a decibel or two louder. “Elias, please let me up. I’ve gotta start dinner.”

“Mhmm,” Elias murmurs, not opening his eyes. “Or you could just stay here. You’re so warm.”

You roll your eyes. “Dude, we’ve got to eat. Come on.”

He doesn’t move. In fact, he presses more weight on you, effectively trapping you on the couch. “We can just order food in a bit,” Elias suggests. “Please just stay and nap a bit longer.”

That’s all it takes to convince you, and you let your eyes flutter shut again. In the comfort of your best friend sleep comes easy, and neither of you move far from the couch for the rest of the night.

The next few days are incredibly busy, and you don’t see Elias much. School is heating up and you’re struggling to stay afloat. In an effort to get the team to put up a few wins, the Canucks organization is holding extra practices and development workshops in between games, so Elias is barely home. When he is he’s exhausted and spends most of his free time in his room, chatting with friends at home or playing video games.

You do your best to not let the distance bother you, but not being able to have a conversation that lasts more than fifteen minutes before one of you is running out the door is wearing you down. You miss your best friend.

Elias is set to go out with some of the younger guys on the team this evening, and though he invited you, you’re in a graduate student society meeting until well after they’re supposed to be leaving. He deserves the time to unwind, but a part of you is jealous he actually gets it. Both of you have been running around like chickens with your heads cut off and it seems like Elias can finally slow down. You on the other hand cannot.

Approximately twelve million things go wrong throughout the course of the day. First, you left your lunch and wallet at home, leaving you unable to eat. Then your advisor was late to your meeting and insisted it was your fault. To top everything off, the graduate student society dismissed your proposal for more funding into public outreach programs. You really, really wanted to be at home.

The door to the apartment is unlocked upon your arrival home, which you find strange. Elias isn’t one to forget to lock it on his way out the door. Brock was terrible about remembering that sort of thing, so you assume he was the last one out. You open it with a sigh and kick off your sneakers. It has been a long day, and you’re looking forward to opening the bottle of wine you picked up with groceries last week.

It doesn’t dawn on you that Elias’s shoes are still by the door or that the living room light is on. You’re so preoccupied with getting comfortable you don’t realize you aren’t alone until you hear a voice from down the hall.

“Rough day sunshine?”

Elias is standing at the end of the hallway, staring at you intently. It’s as if he can sense the tension rolling off your shoulders.

“Yeah,” you sigh. “I thought you were going out with the guys?”

He just shrugs. “Didn’t really feel like it. Besides, I knew you were having an off day because you didn’t text me on your lunch break so I wanted to be here for you.”

You nearly tear up from his words. Elias is a lot of things, and kindhearted is certainly one of them. “Go have a shower,” he insists, “And I’ll start dinner.”

“Thanks E.”

A hand comes up to ruffle your hair on his way by. “Don’t mention it.”

The two of you spend the night tucked against each other, eating pasta and telling stories. You never make it to the fridge to get that bottle of wine, but you don’t mind because during your shower Elias made hot chocolate for you both. Conversation flows into the early morning, and by the time you head to bed you can’t remember why you were upset in the first place.

☼☼☼☼

The season drags on. The Canucks still aren’t playing well, and it’s beginning to wear on Elias. He’s spending more time in his room, reviewing tape and tweaking his workout regime to achieve maximum results. You worry he’s beginning to isolate himself and that it won’t be good for his mental health.

“Do you want to go hiking tomorrow?” you ask him at dinner. The team has a rare day off, and the coaching staff want them to decompress before leaving on a long road trip.

Elias shrugs, not looking up at you as he continues to cut his vegetables. “Not really sunshine. I have some clips I need to watch.”

You sigh loud enough to make him feel bad, and his eyes meet yours. “E, you need a break. Let’s go to that trail you like and just relax for a while. I’ll pack a lunch and we can just go slow.”

Whether or not he’s just appeasing you or genuinely wants to go you aren’t sure, but Elias agrees. He places a hand on your shoulder in silent thanks before loading his plate into the dishwasher and retreating to his bedroom. You take it as a victory, however small, and are glad he didn’t completely shut down the idea. The rest of the night is quiet, with you finishing a book and falling asleep on the couch.

Neither of you are quick to rise in the morning but it doesn’t matter. There’s no timeline for your upcoming adventure so long as you’re back before dark. You make it to the kitchen before Elias and take it upon yourself to make breakfast for the two of you. It’s nothing fancy, just oatmeal, but your best friend appreciates it when he finally makes an appearance. Elias looks like he slept for a maximum of three hours, and you have half a mind to tell him you’ll take a rain cheque, but you know he needs a change of pace.

The two of you chat idly throughout the meal but it isn’t tense or awkward. Neither of you are completely awake, and both like time to reflect in the morning. It’s nearly an hour later when you meet Elias at the door. You grab your keys, much to his surprise.

“What?” you shrug.

Elias cocks a brow in your direction. “You hate driving on the highway.”

He’s right – you have no issues navigating the traffic riddled streets of Vancouver, but as soon as you get out of the city and onto the freeway you freeze up.

“Gotta get over my fear at some point. Come on superstar.”

There’s no complaint from Elias, and you suspect he’s secretly relieved. Driving isn’t his strong suit either but you know he does it so you don’t have to. The ride is quiet, and once you hit the city limits the car feels lighter, as though Elias left all his stress behind. Some lo-fi playlist trickles through the speakers as you get closer to your destination. It isn’t your kind of music, or Elias’s for that matter, and you’re pretty sure Brock gave him the link. The parking lot is empty when you arrive, and you back into a spot with ease.

Usually Elias would comment on your driving quirk, teasing you because ‘no one under the age of sixty-five backs into a parking space’, but he’s quiet. You wonder if he even noticed. Nerves about the possibility of a far-away look in Elias’s eyes subside when he scrambles to get out of the car.

“First one to the top wins,” he shouts, metres ahead of you as you double check to make sure the car is locked. You let out a full laugh but don’t try to catch up – he’s going to win anyway so you might as well enjoy yourself.

The hike does wonder for Elias. Just being outside, in the fresh air that doesn’t hold any expectation of who he should be, is enough to lighten his mood considerably. You trail behind him the entire time, allowing yourself to marvel at his beauty from afar. The longer you live with Elias, the harder it’s becoming to mask your feelings. A couple of times he pauses to wait for you to catch up, and once at the top of the small summit he lifts you into the air in triumph.

“Alright E, put me down,” you giggle, squirming out of his grip. He obliges and places you back onto the rocky surface as though his previous act was the easiest thing in the world.

The two of you marvel at the view from the top of the mountain for a bit longer before making the trek back down to the car. Halfway down the trail you fall behind significantly, exhausted from not only hiking up a mountain, but worrying about Elias and stressing over some school deadlines that are rapidly approaching. Elias slows his steps so you can catch up, and insists you jump up to piggy-back the rest of the way. You try to protest but he isn’t having it. Eventually you give in and doze off with your face tucked into the crook of his neck.

You let Elias drive home, too worn out to think about the traffic you’ll inevitably hit. When you get home you allow him to tuck you into bed, and don’t tease him when presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

The road trip both flies by and drags on. At home, you're busy with school, work, and taking care of Brock’s dogs. Coolie and Milo have become a welcome responsibility, and truthfully you love having them around. They make the absence of Elias less apparent. Each night you curl up on the couch, a dog on either side, and watch the game intently. The Canucks seem to be on the up, winning the first three games with ease. It’s like something has clicked between them and on-ice communication is no longer a problem. However, that changes quickly, and they lose the entire back half of the trip.

You do your best to comfort Elias from afar – sending him periodic text messages of encouragement, random memes you find on instagram, and calling after every game. The streak of misfortune is getting to him, and it’s beginning to affect his play. He adds only one point the entire trip, an assist that didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things since they were blown out of the water. When you talk to him it’s easy to hear how upset he is, and you imagine he’s hearing a lot worse than what you’re telling him from the coaching staff. It makes your blood boil – how they’re treating him – but you’re helpless. Nothing you can say will undo the potential damage.

The Canucks get back late, and you’re tucked into bed with the dogs, nearly asleep. You’ll return Brock’ pets in the morning. If you hadn’t had a disastrous meeting with your advisor you would’ve met them at the airport, seeing as it’s Friday and you often don’t go to bed until well into the morning, but your body is thoroughly exhausted.

You don’t hear the door open and are only alerted to a new presence because the dogs perk their ears. Footsteps echo through the silent apartment, and you think you can hear Elias grumbling in Swedish. He makes no attempt to find you so you assume he thinks you’re sleeping. You should be. Up until three minutes ago you were on the verge of sleep, but now you wait with baited breath to see if you can hear any indicators to Elias’s mood.

A door closes and seconds later the shower turns on, so you assume he’s feeling alright. Most certainly not great, but well enough to maintain his normal routine. You don’t try to move, knowing you’ll talk to him in the morning, and finally allow yourself to commit to sleep. There’s a few minutes of bliss where you’re almost unconscious, but your slumber is disrupted by a quiet knock at your door.

“Sunshine?”

Elias’s voice sounds like a different type of exhaustion that you’ve never heard, and you know right then that you won’t deny him entry to your room.

“I’m awake E,” you mumble, praying he can hear you because you spoke so softly. The door creaks open and you can just make out his facial features in the dark.

Standing tentatively in the doorway, Elias looks at you with tear-rimmed eyes. “Y/N, I think I’m going to get benched.”

☼☼☼☼

His suspicions were, unfortunately, right. The decision to bench Elias had apparently been made on the plane ride home, but he wasn’t informed until the team meeting after practice the next morning. You knew something bad had happened because when he came home there was no conversation. He slipped through the door like a ghost and disappeared into his room. You knew better than to go after him right away – Elias is the type of person who needs to process his emotions alone before sharing them with others.

You busy yourself with editing the chunk of your thesis proposal that has occupied your brain for the past few weeks. It’s getting closer to the end of your first year of graduate school, and you need to get approval for your topic soon. You hope to research the effects of locker room speech on athletes’ mental health. The focus group will be the Vancouver Whitecaps, and you’re excited to work with them. Your advisor has some personal connections and pulled a few strings to get you the gig and you’re extremely thankful.

An hour or two passes before Elias pads his way into the main living area. Wordlessly he flops onto the couch and holds his arms up in the air. You can read Elias like a book – you know he wants you to stop working and lie on top of him. The action brings him comfort, which he desperately needs in this moment, so you don’t have an issue with it. On your way over you grab a banana from the fruit bowl and offer it to him. He takes it, but sets it gently on the coffee table.

Once you’re settled, Elias wraps his arms around your body, holding you to him like he’s scared you’ll slip through his fingers otherwise. You absentmindedly trace patterns on his forearms for a while, letting the silence soothe him.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

It’s a shot in the dark, you know, but you try anyway. Elias doesn’t answer, instead asking you what you did while he was gone. You indulge him, knowing it’s the only way to take his mind off the heartache, and narrate the menial chores you did in painstaking detail. It seems to help, and eventually Elias brings his own anecdotes into the conversation, telling you something dumb Brock had whispered in his ear at practice.

Eventually Elias has to get ready to go to the rink. Though he isn’t playing he’s expected to be there, dressed sharply and watching from the press box. You help him as best you can – ironing his favourite tie and filling his lucky mug with just the right amount of coffee.

He gives you a short hug in thanks before bending down to tie his dress shoes.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come?” you ask. “I can easily get a press pass and we could sit together.”

Elias shakes his head. “You have work to get done. I’ll be fine sunshine,” he says, doing his best to convince himself along with you that everything will be alright.

You watch him open the door and gingerly blow him a kiss as he turns to wave goodbye. It’s a silly ritual the two of you started a few years ago, before you’d moved in with Elias. He insisted you spend time with him before each home game, which meant you wound up cooking dinner and making sure he drank enough water. To annoy him you started blowing him kisses as he left, and the tradition continued once his place became yours. Elias catches it with his left hand and blows one back.

Not much work gets done while Elias is gone. You’re too worried about him to focus on your proposal and end up with your eyes glued to the television as you watch the game. The Canucks desperately need a win, something you hope they can get so your best friend can be put back into the lineup. Your eyes zero on Elias every time the camera pans to him sitting in the rafters, and your heart breaks each time you see the defeated look in his eyes. It seems to have worsened since he left home.

The game does not go well for the Canucks. It’s as if the team isn’t communicating with one another on the ice, and a lot of passes don’t connect. Shots aren’t on goal either – you know Elias is fuming from within the press box. He feels responsible for the team’s deterioration even though he isn’t playing. You watch the rest of the game with furrowed brows and think of ways you could support Elias.

After sharing a space with him for almost an entire trip around the sun, you know Elias doesn’t like ‘grand’ gestures. He’ll hate if you draw him a bath, and besides, that’s not something roommates or best friends do for each other. That’s strictly reserved for romantic partners – something you’re sure you will never be to Elias. Ordering food is out of the question because he refuses to eat after nine-thirty, and sure it’ll be past ten before he walks through the door. You settle on warming up his favourite blanket in the dryer and making the both of you a cup of tea. If he wants to take them into his room to spend time alone and decompress that will be okay with you.

Your phone chimes from its resting place on the kitchen counter. Wondering if it’s a friend wanting an explanation to Elias’s absence from the game, you grumble on your way to the device. The notification is from Elias himself, and you open it with baited breath. You know he’s devastated and pray he’s only letting you know he’s on his way home, not sharing bad news.

Heading out now. Probably going to get stuck in traffic, got any sad song recommendations?

The message makes your heart break, but you respond with a playlist link that features your favourite songs to cry to. A short message is tacked on to the end to let him know you’re always ready to support him.

Hopefully this fits the mood. I’m here for you.

Elias’s response fills you with a small bit of hope.

I know.

You set your plan into motion, and finish pouring the boiling tea into your favourite mugs as the door opens.

“Hey,” you say tentatively, not sure what Elias’s mood will be like now that he doesn’t have to have his guard up. “I made you a cup of tea and there’s a blanket in the dryer that should still be pretty warm.”

“Thank you,” he mumbles, but it doesn’t make his words any less sincere. You can tell Elias is drained in every sense of the word by looking at him, and you decide you aren’t going to push him to talk tonight. The communication can come a bit later.

The blonde trudges down the hallway to the small room where you keep the laundry and reappears moments later wrapped in the plush navy blanket you had prepared for him. Elias doesn’t even bother to change, too exhausted to get out of his suit. You blow some of the steam away from his mug before picking it up and padding over to where he’s sitting on the couch. Elias takes the mug gratefully, and tries to smile at you in thanks. It comes out more like a grimace.

It’s silent as the two of you sit side by side, staring out the large window at Vancouver’s skyline. The absence of noise isn’t as unsettling as you feared but it still puts you on edge. You can tell Elias’s emotions are beginning to boil over, and you aren’t sure what to do about it.

“It’s my fault,” he says, voice small and fragile.

When you turn your head to see him, you’re met with two ice blue eyes brimming with tears. Your heart breaks for what feels like the hundredth time that night. “Elias, listen to me,” you urge, grasping his hands in yours. “The game wasn’t your fault. You not being on the ice did not cause the team to lose.”

Elias scoffs and rolls his eyes. For a split-second, hurt seeps into your bones, but you dispel it because you know he’s upset and didn’t mean to be so abrasive.

“Not the game!” he shouts, anger clearly winning the mental battle of what emotion to present. “The entire fucking season. We’ve played like shit all year and it’s my fucking fault.”

“Elias,” you say as calmly as possible, knowing it’s important for one of you to be rational. “You’ve consistently put up points all season, and you’re only going through a short dry spell. You pick up the slack where needed and try your hardest to succeed. You’re a damn good teammate and the best hockey player I know. Please don’t be so hard on yourself.”

It’s then he breaks, collapsing into your wide open arms and sobbing. You hold him close to your chest, afraid that if you let him go he’ll disappear in front of your eyes. The sounds of his ragged breathing and your gentle encouragement bounce off the walls until all you can focus on is his heart rate returning to something in the ballpark of normal. Elias cries for an unknown amount of time and you don’t even bother to calculate it. He needed to let everything go – hopefully he can now turn the page on the past couple of months.

When he seems like he’ll respond again, you speak. “I know they put a lot of pressure on you, and I know that you’re a professional athlete, but what they’re doing to you isn’t right. E, you don’t deserve to feel like this, regardless of how you’re playing or where the team is in the standings.”

“I just don’t know what to do,” Elias hiccups. “Everything has become a lot lately, and it keeps piling up. It’s affecting my play, and I just want the team to be successful. I want to be successful.”

You wrap your arms around him tighter and card your hands through his hair. “You are successful, and don’t you dare let anyone tell you otherwise. I’m always available to talk, but if you’d like I can book you an appointment at the clinic and you can talk to someone who’s actually qualified.”

“You’re so close to being fully qualified,” he encourages, always wanting to make sure you matter too. “But that would be really nice. Thank you.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

That phrase had first confused Elias when you first directed it towards him, but he now understands it’s your way of saying ‘Of course. I’d do anything for you’. You rarely use the phrase with anyone else, and it makes him feel special inside.

Eventually you untangle your limbs from Elias’s, getting up to refill your mugs and insisting he change into clothing that’s more comfortable. He’s gone a lot longer from the couch than you are, and you begin to worry he won’t be reappearing. The creaking of a hinge wrangles you free from your thoughts. Elias pads back into the living room, dressed in a pair of ridiculously patterned pyjamas you had bought him two Christmases ago.

“Hey,” he practically whispers. “Can I tell you something?”

You do your best to keep the alarm you feel from appearing on your face. After the conversation you just had, his mind could be going in a million different directions. “Always,” you reply, volume matching his.

“If it weren’t for you, I don’t know if I’d still be playing hockey.” You make a sound of protest, but Elias doesn’t let you form it into a thought. “I’m dead serious. The night we met? I was a wreck. Sure, I was in the middle of a rookie season most players dream of, but I was so miserable. I cried every night on the way home from the rink and felt completely alone. You were the first person in Vancouver that didn’t expect anything of me, that still doesn’t. I’m so fucking thankful for you. I love you.”

Tears flow freely from your eyes and you raise the sleeve of your sweater to wipe them away. Elias isn’t one for heartfelt confessions – that’s much more your style. He shows his appreciation through random acts of kindness, so you deeply treasure his words.

“I love you too E.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t understand,” he insists. “I really love you. I don’t mean it platonically, and I never have.”

You’re sufficiently shocked. “Don’t say something you don’t mean,” you mumble, pushing off the couch to go hide in your room.

It’s Elias’s turn to grab your hand. His grip is gentle but still firm enough to let you know he isn’t going to drop the conversation.

“Why wouldn’t I mean it?”

“Because,” you sigh, “You’re Elias fucking Pettersson. You’re the star centre of an NHL team and there’s a million other people better suited for you than me! Sure, I might be head over heels for you but we aren’t on the same level. I’m your best friend E, and that’s okay. I can live with that. What I can’t live with is you letting emotion get the better of you and confessing something that isn’t true. You’re grateful for my support, and I think we should just leave it at that.”

He shakes his head fervently. “This isn’t a spur of the moment decision Y/N,” Elias says. “I’ve been debating telling you for months, but the season kind of derailed my plans and got in the way. I love you.”

Before you can process the gravity of his words, Elias is pressing his lips to yours in an effort to show just how sincere he is. You falter for a split-second, shocked that this isn’t a dream – your best friend, who you’ve had a crush on for years, is in love with you and you’re in the process of kissing him – but you recover quickly. Kissing Elias feels like a long awaited homecoming. It’s as though you’ve found true peace, and nothing will ever be as good as your lips connecting. You lose yourself in him quite easily, and only focus to your surroundings when he pulls away to look in your eyes.

“So,” Elias sheepishly tucks a misplaced strand of hair behind your ear. “Think I could take you out, like on an actual date?”

You beam at him, leaning forward to place a chaste kiss to his lips. “That can most certainly be arranged.”

☼☼☼☼

taglist: @jamiedrysdales @kiedhara @tortito @boqvistsbabe @iwantahockeyhimbo if you want to be added just shoot me an ask :)

#god i want to be petey's roommate turned lover so bad #elias pettersson imagine #elias pettersson x reader #elias pettersson fic #vancouver canucks imagine #hockey imagine #hockey fic #nhl imagine #nhl fic #cwrites #hiiapl

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giowritess · 5 years ago

Text

— prompt & trope list —

p r o m p t & trope l i s t — m a s t e r l i s t

— under the cut you have a compilation of prompts and tropes I’ve created and found here on Tumblr and internet.

— don’t forget to check my fandoms post to see who and what I write for!

TROPES

1. Christmas

2. New Year

3. Valentine’s Day

4. Mother’s Day

5. Father’s Day

6. Wedding

7. Arranged marriage

8. Babysitter

9. Coffee shop

10. Book store

11. Fake dating/marriage

12. Forbidden love

13. Pet store

14. Parent

15. Teacher

16. Flower shop

17. Locked in a room

18. Bed sharing

19. Stranded due to weather

20. Next door neighbors

21. Bakery

FLUFF/GENERAL/ROMANCE

1. You seem like a bad boy/girl/person type. 2. Oh my god, did you just say that out loud? 3. You expecting someone? 4.Do you need a place to stay for tonight? 5. Look at us, we’re basically a couple already. 6. Compliments won’t pay my drinks. 7. Maybe, just maybe, if I get a free drink I might consider talking to you. 8. That won’t work. Try again. 9. You couldn’t handle me even if I came with instructions. 10. Do you trust me? 11. Can I kiss you? 12. It’s lonely here without you. 13. Is that my shirt? 14. You own my heart. 15. We’re more than friends and you know it! 16. I don’t wanna sleep alone tonight. 17. It was you the whole time. 18. I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending they’re you. 19. I’m not going anywhere. 20. You make me want things I can’t have. 21. Steal the blankets again and I’ll put my cold feet on you. 22. You’re in love with her. 23. I don’t know if I want to kiss you or shove you off a bridge. 24. Are you even listening to me?! 25. I didn’t think you could get any less romantic. 26. You make everyday worth living. 27. You’ve shown me what love feels like. 28. You’ve always felt like home. 29. I can’t imagine a world/life without you. 30. I am home. 31. I’m right where I belong. 32. Can’t you stay a little longer? 33. You’re the only one I wanna wake up next to. 34. You make me want to be better. 35. I think I’m in love with you, and that scares the crap out of me. 36. I think you’re just afraid to be happy. 37. Why haven’t you kissed me already? 38. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. 39. I can’t stay away from you. 40. I’m better when I’m with you. 41. I tried my best not to feel anything for you, but I failed. 42. I don’t want to be alone right now. 43. I don’t trust myself around you. 44. I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before. 45. Can we just lie here for a moment? 46. I’ve never hated you. You just... make me feel things I don’t understand. 47. If you don’t tell me to stop, I’m going to kiss you. 48. I could get used to waking up next to you, actually. 49. Please, don’t cry. I can’t stand to see you cry. 50. You’re a terrible liar. 51. You’re the only person I want to be with tonight. 52. You’re not going anywhere. 53. You were always good for me. 54. You’re more than just a one night stand. 55. I’ve been falling in love with you since the first day we met.

ANGST & SAD

1. I can’t stand the thought of you. 2. Don’t fuck this up. 3. How stupid do you think I am? 4. You broke my heart and all you can say is sorry? 5. Don’t you dare to leave me. Not now. 6. I’m dying. There’s nothing you can do about it. 7. I’m not gonna lie. This isn’t how I planned for this to go down. 8. I can’t do the things you do. 9. I might never get another chance to say this. 10. Tell me I’m wrong. 11. How much of that did you hear? 12. I thought I could trust you. 13. Are you just going to leave me here? 14. Don’t. I don’t have to hear your pathetic excuses anymore. 15. You knew about this all along, didn’t you? 16. I still believe there’s a good person in you. 17. It was necessary. 18. I’m sorry this had to go down like this. 19. What the hell is wrong with you?! 20. Is that how little you think of me? 21. I’m too sober for this shit. 22. It’s not that easy. 23. You’re more than that. 24. She’s hot, but she’s evil. 25. Well, behaved women rarely make history, do they? 26. That’s not what I meant and you know it. 27. I have to tell you something. 28. Why am I not surprised? 29. She’s not yours. 30. There’s no us. There never was. 31. I made a mistake. 32. Please, don’t walk out that door. 33. When were you going to tell me? 34. The worst thing is, that even after all of that, I’m still in love with you. 35. Would you just shut up and listen to me for two goddamn seconds? 36. If i asked you to stay, would you? 37. I don’t know who you are anymore. 38. I trusted you. 39. Hang on. You’re gonna be okay. Keep breathing. 40. You crossed a line. 41. There’s no turning back from this. 42. I needed you, and you weren’t there.

SMUT — 18+

1. Don’t make me take you home and punish you. 2. I’ve never wanted anyone to fuck me this badly. 3. You’re more than just a one night stand. 4. Like what you see? 5. Try to stay quiet, understand? 6. We’re in public, you know. 7. I really don’t care. You still look hot and i’m trying not to kiss/fuck you senseless right now. 8. Are you sure? Once we start, i might not be able to stop. 9. Make me. 10. Stop teasing me so much. 11. You’re in trouble now. 12. First one to make a noise loses. 13. Mine. 14. Behave. 15. What did you just say? 16. Come here. 17. Watch me. 18. If you interrupt me one more time, so help me god. 19. If you insist. 20. Could he make you feel as good as i do? 21. You make a sound and its game over. 22. If i have to stop what i’m doing, you wont be able to walk for the next week. 23. I haven’t even touched you and you’re already this wet. 24. C’mere, you can sit on my lap until i’m done working. 25. What? Does that feel good? 26. If we get caught i’m blaming you. 27. We have to be quiet. 28. Tell me again. 29. Say it. 30. If you don’t like my teasing, then why are you moaning? 31. I’m gonna fuck you so hard that you forget you ever even met that asshole. 32. You better shut that pretty little mouth before i put it to work, doll. 33. I really want to kiss you right now. 34. Then do it. 35. You’re not taking me to bed. Ever. 36. Who said it had to be on the bed? 37. She may seem like lollipops and rainbows but i bet behind closed doors she’s latex and whips. 38. Ah, he’s playing hard-to-get. Thats cute. 39. Don’t fucking touch what is not yours. 40. I’m not sure if its a sexual thing or not. 41. There’s people here. 42. I don’t care what you do, just fuck me. 43. Fuck you. 44. I’m not going to touch you unless you beg. 45. You can’t tease me like that and expect not to be punished. 46. I’m gonna strangle you. 47. Is that a promise? 48. You look a bit tied up, want me to come back later? 49. Stop distracting me. 50. I know for a fact that you can be a hell of a lot louder than that. 51. Saddle up doll. 52. What are you doing in my bed?! 53. If you're going to act like a little brat then I'm going to treat you like a little brat. 54. You'd better be quiet or everyone's going to know what a naughty little slut you are. 55. Look at you, I've only started using my fingers and you're already shaking. 56. I can't wait to be on my knees for you later. 57. Oh honey, you know, you really shouldn't tease me. 58. If you keep making those sounds I'm not going to be able to stop myself. 59. Such a needy little thing, aren't you? 60. You better watch your fucking mouth. 61. I love the way you look with my fingers inside you. 62. Wanna see what I'm wearing underneath all this? 63. I wonder what your girlfriend/boyfriend would do if they knew what you were doing right now. 64. Do you know how beautiful you are? It's truly distracting. 65. If you leave the house wearing that then the second you get back home I'm going to bend you over that bed. 66. I'm gonna fuck you in front of the mirror, I want you to see how pretty you look when you're spreading your legs for me. 67. Let me show you what happens to little brats who don't follow the rules. 68. You know, there wasn't a single thing to eat in the kitchen until you walked in.

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owl-with-a-pen · 3 years ago

Note

We didn’t get much insight on nias breakup with brainy, like how nia was feeling through the whole thing! It was pretty upsetting. So how about an almost rewrite of reality bytes where Yvette takes nia out to a party to loosen her up, she gets drunk, and brainy comes to the rescue? Like takes her home, stays with her when she gets sick and takes care of her kinda thing. Thanks!

- Okay the word count speaks for itself but this one really got away from me. But I had to throw in all the angst I possibly could. Thank you for the prompt! x

Working under the oppressive eye of Lex Luthor grew worse by the day.

Brainy had always been a master at multitasking, and so he had never assumed it would be exactly there that he would struggle the most.

And yet, here he was. Trying his hardest to focus on Lex’s latest tedious task to keep him in check. After all, Lex Luthor may have very well believed Brainy’s impassive charade, but that did not buy trust. Only time and a one hundred per cent success rate would accomplish that.

To achieve it, distractions had to be eradicated. He had already made his excuses time and time again for not attending one of Kara’s famed game nights, and despite Alex’s insistence, he had not given in to any other form of group activity, either – especially those involving Al’s Bar. He needed to maintain a clear head, to do as his doppelganger had instructed; to protect his friends and their future, he had to rid his mind of them. All of them. It was imperative to success.

And yet, the moment his phone buzzed with an incoming call, Brainy’s heart leapt into his throat.

It was Nia’s name that popped up on his screen. Nia’s face. So jovial, so care-free. In the photograph, her arm was wrapped around Brainy’s shoulders where she had pulled him in for a last-minute selfie. She’d kissed his cheek just seconds after it had been taken, insisting it’d be an awesome couple photo.

He had meant to change that. Why had he not…?

He swallowed hard, focusing instead on his computer screens, relaying information back and forth between them. It was without passion, meaningless data that could be shifted anywhere whilst maintaining the same result. But, it still served a purpose, keeping him from his intestinal inclination, that gut instinct to reach for his phone and answer without a moment’s hesitation.

When was the last time he had heard her voice?

He had been keeping his distance where he could, maintaining a professional formality with her whenever he caught her in the field as Dreamer. He knew it hurt her, every time it hurt her, but he could not avoid his duties in as much the same way she could not avoid hers.

They were in effect destined to bump into each other. The only way Brainy could lessen that hurt was by avoiding conversation as much as possible, throwing up every wall he could think of, even if he had to stumble over his words to do so.

When Nia’s face disappeared, Brainy released the breath he’d been holding, letting it dust across his screens.

Then, his phone buzzed twice more.

Voicemail.

Nia never left voicemails. Not since he had ended things with her so abruptly, walking out of her apartment, refusing to elaborate, to offer her any kind of closure.

It was a calculated hurt powerful enough for her to abstain from asking questions; a necessary evil, and one Brainy would never forgive himself for causing.

He shouldn’t be doing this, his mind warned, but his thoughts were racing, derailing from all twelve tracks at once.

His hand was already poised over his phone. Before he could think better of it, Brainy snatched it up, connecting to his most recent voice message. He pressed it to his ear, pursing his lips in anticipation.

“You suck, you know that?”

Brainy flinched, the phone nearly slipping right from his hand. Nia’s voice was harsh, anger tinged with upset, but it was her voice. It could have been filled with all the fury in the world and Brainy would have still listened just as eagerly, if only for the chance to hear her again.

As the voicemail continued to play, Brainy realised that Nia’s words were slightly obscured by the heavy beats of music playing in the background, not to mention the loud chatting and whooping of people he certainly did not recognise. Brainy frowned. She must have been at some kind of party. Although, none of the voices present sounded as though they were talking to her specifically.

A nightclub, perhaps?

Nia wasn’t usually one for clubbing. So, why would she-?

“And y’know what?” Nia’s voicemail continued out just as harshly, cutting off Brainy’s train of thought. “Yvette’s so right, I deserve better than some guy who’s gonna leave me hanging, who leaves with zero explanation, and I- oh crap, sorry-” There was a scuffle, one caused by Nia knocking into a fellow patron if her apology was anything to go by. The slur in her voice was very evident, which led Brainy to conclude that she had been drinking heavily that night, enough to pick up the courage to call him.

His stomach lurched when he heard another voice in the background.

“Girl, what are you doing?” It was Yvette. Of course Yvette would have been the mastermind behind this apparent night out, likely with the well-minded intent of assisting with Nia’s mood.

Yvette’s voice grew louder as she came closer. “What are you- wait, are you calling him? No, no, you get off the phone right now, that’s messy as hell!”

Brainy was inclined to agree. Nia, however, seemed to have other ideas.

“It’s fine,” she insisted. “I-”

Before Brainy could hear anything more, the message cut off.

Brainy squeezed his eyes shut, clenching and unclenching his jaw methodically.

He shouldn’t do it. He shouldn’t be giving into gut instinct, not now, not-not ever. Not with so much at stake. He was supposed to be monitoring Lex’s movements, doing everything he could to keep a step ahead of whatever he was planning. So far, he had failed at that. And, if he continued to lose sight of his objective, he would only slip further still.

But, if there was one thing he could count on now more than ever, it was the Big Brain. Perhaps it was not that his skill at multitasking had been limited as of late, but more-so that he was not utilising it to its fullest extent. He could easily keep a thought track open for any updates on Lex’s data entry, could even continue development on the bug he was planning to slip into Lex’s private servers. For the moment, they were obstructed by a firewall even he was having difficulty breaching. But, with time…

Brainy’s fingers curled together, winding tightly around his phone. He had the room to deviate from his plans for one night. Besides, it would take mere seconds to get a lock on Nia’s GPS…

He had been trying so hard to keep out of her private business these last few weeks. The little he did know were only of her recent exploits as Dreamer that had been plastered all over the news. But, even knowing what she’d accomplished in such a short time, how capable she had become as a hero, it could not stop the worry that clogged so suddenly inside his throat.

He just had to know where she was, he rationalised. He just had to know that she was safe.

The moment her co-ordinates flashed in his mind, Brainy’s chest caught, lips parting. She was close-by, an estimated three minutes by flight from his current location.

He shouldn’t be doing this.

Brainy’s eyes scanned empty air, but beyond that he saw everything. The security for the club was rudimentary at best, and far too easy to hack. Nia’s most recent location had pointed her somewhere near to the club doors, which was only confirmed when Brainy linked up to the cameras out front, pinpointing her almost immediately.

Yvette was with her, holding up her weight as Nia slumped precariously into her side, nearly tripping down the club’s steps in an effort to remain upright. If it hadn’t been for Yvette’s guiding hand, she likely would have.

Brainy gritted his teeth. Just how much had she had to drink? He had never known Nia to drink so excessively, especially with how rigorously she had been training as of late. This was new behaviour for her, but not unpredictable. Brainy was more than aware of the many coping mechanisms one might find themselves adopting in times of emotional distress.

He had caused this.

He could fix this…

But he couldn’t, couldn’t - no matter how much his heart insisted otherwise, he could not give in. Nia wanted nothing to do with him, that much was clear from her message. And… Yvette was with her. Yvette would get her home safely.

But Yvette had clearly been drinking, also. What if something were to occur between the club and their apartment? Nia was disorientated, vulnerable, and with alcohol marring her judgement, her reaction timing would never match that of a clear-minded foe.

Brainy stood from his desk all at once, nearly toppling his chair in his haste. Fortunately, he was in a private office. Another upgrade from Lex. He swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth; at least he could use this particular gift to his advantage.

He needed to get to Nia undetected. Immediately.

Brainy’s calculations had been - as expected - totally correct. He reached the club in no less than three minutes, giving himself ample distance to land so that no drunk bystanders might notice his arrival. Not that their likelihood of remembering any of this come morning was very high, but it was best not to push those odds.

The moment he saw her, Brainy’s world stopped moving.

Nia and Yvette were sat together on the club’s steps. It appeared Yvette had not been successful getting Nia all the way down them. Now, she was stubbornly trying to encourage Nia to drink from a water bottle she’d had stashed in her bag. Nia only turned away from her with a grimace, pushing her face firmly into her hands. Her cheeks were rosy from alcohol consumption, her dark hair beginning to thicken and frizz from the humidity of the club. The dress she wore danced with row upon row of sequins, glinting in purple and pink tones beneath the streetlight.

She was so beautiful it nearly caused a physical ache inside of Brainy’s chest.

Never had he wanted to go to her so ardently, to scoop her into his arms, hold her close and never let go.

But, he couldn’t. He was bound by his decision and, what’s more, he was the very cause for this entire situation in the first place. Nia was only in this position because of what he had put her through, and he couldn’t take that back. So long as Leviathan was a threat, he could not give up this ruse, he could not tell her the truth.

Even if he did… the acidic tone in Nia’s voicemail told him all he needed to know. That he may have well lost her for good by doing this. And he could barely stand to think it.

Again, a distant part of his mind queried why he was even here? Was this not already traipsing on incredibly dangerous territory? If Lex found any reason to distrust him, this logical and distant image Brainy had been parading would’ve all been for naught, and his Earth would meet the same fate as his female doppelganger’s.

No, no. Regardless of his decisions, the side he had been forced to take, he was still himself. In which case, there was nothing wrong with helping those that required his assistance, even if they hadn’t exactly asked for it. In that way, he could at least be there for Nia. If she would even allow it at all.

He hadn’t expected a warm welcome, but when Yvette recognised him from halfway across the club grounds, the look she gave him was practically poisonous.

“You,” Yvette sneered, wrapping an arm protectively around Nia’s shoulders. Nia only groaned, digging her fingers against her face. Yvette’s eyes narrowed distrustfully. “Voicemail didn’t cut it, hm? You know you broke her heart, right?”

“I’m… aware,” Brainy said tightly, trying his hardest to maintain the same collected calm he’d been offering the rest of his friends. Any slip-ups now could be the end of this ruse once and for all.

Nia had yet to lift her head, and so Brainy took that as his opportunity to remove his phone from his pocket, very clearly displaying the Uber app on his screen, making his intentions clear. “I can help get her home.”

Yvette snorted derisively, tightening her hold around Nia. “Uh-uh, there is no way I’m leaving Nia alone with your cheating ass.”

Brainy’s face fell. Cheating? Was that what Nia had told her? Or… or had that been Yvette’s own assumption of events? “I didn’t cheat on her,” he said, a little defensively.

“Please,” Yvette scoffed. “No one’s feelings magically change overnight unless there’s another woman involved.” She gave him a snide once-over. “She can do better than you.”

Brainy’s stomach sank, his eyes flickering to Nia, capturing every inch of her. “I… I have no doubt.”

It took some back and forth, but eventually, Yvette agreed to his help on the condition she came back to the apartment with them. Brainy understood that she hadn’t wanted to cut her own night short, but Nia’s health came first. At least on that, they could both agree.

Regardless, it was a very awkward Uber journey back to the apartment.

Nia didn’t speak the whole car ride, and Brainy began to wonder if she was lucid enough to understand her surroundings at all. She didn’t look up from her hands, and more than once Brainy considered that she might be doing it purposely, far too aware of who she was currently sharing a car with.

Although, the steadily worsening pallor of her skin pointed towards another, far likelier, possibility.

Which was confirmed the second they got into the apartment’s elevator.

The juddering motions of the small space was all it took for Nia to break her silence, cupping a hand desperately over her mouth.

“I feel sick,” she murmured into her palm.

“Hold off,” Yvette said gently, rubbing Nia’s shoulders. “We’ll be home any second.”

Brainy wished it could be him to offer Nia comfort like that, but he’d practically backed himself into the furthest corner of the elevator, acting as nothing more than a passive shadow to the night’s unfolding events. He dug his hands into his pockets, clenching them tightly to keep from reaching out to her, watching with worried eyes as Nia grabbed suddenly for the elevator’s rail with her free hand, swallowing thickly.

The moment the doors opened, Nia stumbled out, nearly tripping in her haste to exit. Brainy maintained his distance while Yvette helped Nia down the hallway, waiting awkwardly with his arms folded as she fumbled with the keys to the door. He hovered hesitantly outside the doorway when Nia broke from Yvette, rushing into the bathroom, although he noticed that Yvette was wary to follow her in.

When he caught her eye, Yvette grimaced, shaking her head. “I- I can’t, I’m a sympathetic vomiter,” she explained weakly. “If she hurls, I hurl.”

Brainy nodded his understanding, reviewing the door’s entrance as though it might swallow him whole. After a long moment, he ducked his head, stepping inside. “I can stay with her, if you would like,” he offered, quirking a brow. “After all, you are in need of rest as well.”

Yvette pulled a face, staring at him suspiciously. “You really don’t quit, do you?”

Brainy only shrugged.

“I’m keeping my eye on you,” Yvette said, which at first Brainy didn’t understand as an invitation. That was, until, she stepped aside, waving her hand in the direction of the apartment’s bathroom.

Brainy didn’t waste any time. He barely managed a breathy thank you before he headed the way Nia had disappeared.

Nia was curled around the toilet when Brainy pushed the door open, her hands pressed firmly against the rim. She hadn't appeared to have thrown up yet, but she was pale and shivering, her jaw clenched tight with discomfort.

The moment he was close enough, Brainy dropped to his knees, reaching out a hand hesitantly towards her, gauging her reaction. When none came, Brainy carefully rested the flat of his palm across her back. She didn’t try to move away from his touch; instead, with a shaky sigh, she relaxed against him, eyes fluttering shut.

And so, Brainy continued, boldly enough to massage his fingers gently and precisely around her spine, quickly finding a pattern that she seemed to appreciate. He rubbed her back in large, repetitive circles, filling the silence with the quiet crunch of sequins as they rolled lethargically beneath his palm.

It wasn’t long before Nia’s shoulders tensed up. Her chest convulsed and she groaned out, throwing her head over the toilet just in time before she vomited into the bowl. As expected, the contents of her stomach appeared to mostly be liquid, which certainly explained the dangerous level of her intoxication. Brainy remained exactly where he was, holding her back steady with one hand whilst studiously bunching Nia’s hair behind her shoulders with the other, tugging away loose strands that had caught across her lips. No sooner had he done so, Nia gagged again, squeezing her eyes shut as round two commenced.

Brainy continued to rub her back, murmuring soft comforts at her side, slipping between both English and Coluan. Nia had certainly picked up some of his native language in the months they had been together, but not enough for her to realise in that moment the weight of what he was telling her. Or, rather, what he wished he could be telling her - in a language she might recognise.

When Nia was reduced to dry heaving over the bowl, Brainy realised that her mascara had begun to run, bleeding black streaks down her face. The strain of vomiting could certainly cause such a reaction, but something in his heart told him that this was more than that.

He wished he could brush those tears away as tenderly as he once had, that he could reassure her that everything would be okay.

But how could he when he knew the probability of their relationship rekindling once the dust had cleared? How could he when said relationship was already in shambles, pushing them apart even while they were sat so closely together on the bathroom tile?

“Here.”

Brainy blinked out of his thoughts, turning his head to find Yvette stood in the doorway, trying very hard to keep her eyes away from Nia’s current condition. She held a glass of water outstretched towards him.

Brainy took it gratefully, lowering his head into a sincere bow. “Thank you.”

“You’re still so weird,” Yvette said, although for just a moment, he thought he caught a fondness in her tone. Then, she cleared her throat. “This doesn’t mean I like you,” she said quickly, heading back out into the hall. “Remember, I am one room over. You try anything, and I’ll-”

Her words were cut off by the slam of her door, but Brainy understood well enough the threat she had posed. He nearly smiled. If anything, he was glad Nia had a friend and roommate as protective as Yvette. She had been there for Nia in a way that Brainy had not been able to for far too long, offering her a shoulder to cry on, and a party to draw her mind away from the pain, if only for an evening.

Perhaps it hadn’t worked as Yvette had wanted, but Brainy hoped that even for a little while, Nia might have experienced something other than heartache that night.

When there was nothing but bile left in Nia’s stomach, Brainy took her shoulder, offering the water glass out to her. “Nia,” he said gently. “You must try to drink this. It’ll help-”

Before he could finish, Nia shot to life, slapping away his hand so hard that the glass’s contents sloshed down Brainy’s arm, drenching his sleeve.

“No!” Nia cried out weakly. “No, get off me, you jerk!”

Brainy let go of her immediately, shuffling away from her forlornly. He watched instead as Nia folded her arms angrily across the toilet bowl, pressing her forehead against the rim.

For a while, only her harsh breathing echoed around the small space. Then, Nia stopped, arms clenching as she squeezed her hands into fists. “Why’re you even here?” she croaked.

“You… called.”

Nia snorted. “That’s never stopped you from ignoring me before.”

Brainy’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. “You were in need of assistance,” he said instead, trying his hardest to keep his voice from crackling.

“What is this, Brainy?” Nia asked exhaustedly. She lifted her head, dark hair curtaining her face, but Brainy could see that her eyes were trained downwards, seeing nothing. “Why’re you doing this to me?”

“Nia—”

“No, no, you go radio silent on me for weeks. You don’t give me any explanation, you don’t talk to me, you act like I don’t exist. And you think you can just turn up now and- what? What do you want?”

Brainy’s eyes were beginning to burn. He blinked quickly, doubling down on the same toneless voice he’d perfected over the last few weeks. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Nia laughed, although it sounded more like a sob. She spat into the toilet, lips twisting sourly. “Well,” she muttered darkly. “I’m not. You broke my heart. And you can’t fix that.”

Brainy’s own heart felt as though it might shatter in his chest. He opened his mouth, only to close it again when he realised there was nothing he could say that might absolve him. He didn’t want to be absolved. Nia was right. No matter what he said, even if he folded and told her everything right that second, wouldn’t fix what he had already broken.

He didn’t try to touch her again. Instead, he simply knelt there, watching as she picked up the water he’d left out for her, drinking the half that hadn’t spilt over his sleeve.

When Nia didn’t appear to be in danger of vomiting again, Brainy walked her to the bedroom. He stayed a respectable distance from her the whole while, enough that he could steady her should she decide to fall. At the last few steps before her door, she did stumble slightly, and Brainy held his arm out to her on reflex. Begrudgingly, Nia took it, staggering the final distance down the hall.

Nia let go of him the moment her bed was in sight, practically falling against the mattress, uncaring of the uncomfortable and clearly not bedroom-appropriate attire she was still wearing. Instead, she curled up quickly beneath the comforter, hugging her knees close to her stomach.

Silently, Brainy set about placing a fresh glass of water on her nightstand, as well as retrieving a trash can from the bathroom, tucking it within easy reaching distance of the bed. When he was done, he stood there a moment, watching the steady rise and fall of Nia’s back, wondering briefly if she may have fallen asleep.

“You know the way out.”

Her voice was devoid of any care, and yet it was still sharp enough to cut a hole through his heart. She sounded so empty and drained, exhausted by the night’s events.

But, worse yet, she had been exhausted by him.

Brainy closed his eyes, a million and one apologies budding on his tongue, desperate to leave him in a fierce burst, to explain everything, to beg for her forgiveness in every language he knew.

But as always, logic won out. No matter how much he wished he could tell her, he couldn’t. Not unless he wanted to put his family’s lives in mortal danger.

And so, it was upon Nia’s instruction that he left her without another word.

It wasn’t until he was out the front door, halfway back towards the elevator, that Brainy’s chest hitched, his breathing jerking harshly outside of his control. He stumbled into the wall, baring his teeth as the first of his tears began to flow.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured to nothing. To no one. After all, he knew in his heart that those words would never be enough; no words would ever be enough.

The longer he kept this up, the more he knew with one hundred per cent certainty that Nia would never forgive him.

And that hurt more profoundly than any words she left on his voicemail ever could.

#supergirl #brainia #dreamdox #nia nal #brainiac 5 #supergirl: yvette #brainy #querl dox #my prompts #my asks #anon #my writing #this really. REALLY. got away from me.#but i really wanted to go more in depth about how the two of them were feeling throughout season 5 #supergirl fanfiction #vomit tw

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katnissmellarkkk · 4 years ago

Note

Angst #9

Hahahaha, so uh... you wanted angst? You got it. It may not be exactly what you wanted but it’s what came to mind when you sent this prompt.

This turned out wayyyyy longer than I intended but 🤷🏼‍♀️. I always overwrite 😂💁🏼‍♀️🤦🏼‍♀️.

Context I think necessary to know for this prompt is that it’s set four years Post-Mockingjay, three years post “so after”, and I think that’s all you need to know?

Oh yeah, and I should also mention that I definitely took creative liberties here. And also, trigger warning for choking.

Prompt: Angst “Did it mean anything to you? Did I mean anything to you?”

"Peeta," I yelp as he playfully splashes me. "Stop."

"Get in here," he demands, pointing to the water his whole body is immersed in.

"No," I refuse, laying on my back, maybe a little teasingly. "I just dried off."

Today was a particularly sunny day, with the bright light from outside our windows rousing us from bed even before our usual wake up time. I know the people of Twelve will be disappointed they can't get their bread and pastries today--especially seeing that Sunday is the most popular day at the Mellark Bakery--but I just couldn't pass up a lazy day at the lake with Peeta.

Still though, I didn't get as much sleep as I've grown accustomed to and after hours of swimming in the lake—and, jokingly, teaching Peeta to find katniss roots—I'm lethargic. My exhausted body is perfectly happy to lay in the grass with the sun beating down on me, either darkening or burning my skin.

But Peeta, it would seem, has other plans.

"Don't you dare," I hiss as his cacophonous footsteps approach. Even without the noise he still makes when he moves, the sound of dripping water would have given him away.

Not listening to me and definitely not heeding my warning—either he's grown fearless in the four years since the war or I've lost my bite and grown soft on him—Peeta reaches down and grabs me up by the waist, easily hoisting me up into his arms.

"Did you say you dared me?"

"Peeta," I try to command, as a last ditch effort, before bracing myself for what I know is coming.

Like clockwork, just as I have my eyes shut and sucked in a breath, Peeta tosses me in the deepest part of the lake before jumping back in himself.

I easily push my head above the surface just as he creates a massive splash of water with his impact.

"You're going to drain the lake," I complain as his hands find themselves on my hips, pulling me in closer. I go without resistance, but remain annoyed he just tossed me back in the water.

His lips find residence on my cheek, trailing lower and lower, underneath my jaw and down my neck, a non-verbal apology.

"Is all this water really good for your prosthetic?" I murmur after a long moment, some of the irritation fading from my body as he kisses down my shoulder softly.

"My leg is waterproof, Katniss," he reminds, chuckling a little.

"Oh yeah," I try to respond but his lips trail down to my chest, pushing me up higher against him, and speaking becomes difficult. "Generous of them," is all I can manage.

He lets out a real laugh this time. "Can always depend on the generosity of the Capitol, can’t we?" He quips just as I capture his lips with my own.

I don't know if in the last three years that we’ve been together I've become a better kisser—I've definitely become more experienced—and I can't say for certain if our kisses feel any different now to him, but I do know for a fact that Peeta has grown leaps and bounds with time. His lips, which were always soft and warm, now move with expertise, now hold a confidence I didn't realize was missing all that time we were putting on a show. Kissing Peeta now is another kind of experience and one I never knew I needed, one I never thought to ask for, before I had it.

Of course, I get some credit here. I am the one who's lips have given him the practice, who's tongue has freely wrestled with his, the one who he's gained all his expertise from.

As we pull apart for air, my face lolling down into his shoulder, burrowing there, I hear a peculiar sound. One I don't cognitively recognize at first but my sense memory captures instantly. It's a sound that makes my stomach twist and lurch before I can comprehend exactly why.

Peeta tenses too, rather abruptly. I feel his hands grip my thighs tighter to him, almost wrapping me around him, as if to keep me protected from whatever is buzzing above us.

The buzzing only gets stronger—so much stronger, in only a matter of seconds—and I have to consciously force myself to breathe as it hits me where that sound is coming from.

Tracker jackers. A whole lot of them.

Someone, somewhere, must have knocked over a nest. Someone must have been both unlucky and careless and somehow expelled an entire hive by mistake.

That's what I tell myself, at least. That this was purely a mistake. That this isn't an attack, set out to hurt us, to endanger us for deadly entertainment labeled a game.

Because unleashing a whole hive of tracker jackers on us, while we're out alone, secluded, in the middle of the woods, is the exact kind of thing the Gamemakers would do.

"Katniss," Peeta whispers, his voice close to my ear now. I can tell instantly that he's petrified.

Of course he's petrified. Tracker jacker venom is exactly what he was injected with, over and over again, in an attempt to destroy his memory, his mind, the very essence of his being.

"Katniss?" He says again, a little louder and a little rougher. But I'm still too shocked to move. I'm useless, completely frozen in place while the horrible creatures, that are deadly in large quantities—just ask Glimmer—finally come into view, circulating above us.

"We need to run," he urges, and I don't have to look at him to know his blue eyes are desperate.

Nodding blankly, I don't take my eyes off of the venomous creatures flying over our heads. Somehow, a very sore, exhausted part of my brain wakes back up and I feel myself go into survival mode.

A mode in which I had wished to never transition into again.

My legs unwrap from Peeta's waist and I interlock our fingers, squeezing his hand as tightly as I can. I swim to the edge of the lake, towing him behind me, and climb onto the grass just as I hear the buzzing grow closer.

Peeta is only inches, if even that, behind me, and we both grab our shirts and pants from the blanket we set out and dress ourselves while moving through the trees. Our soaked skin makes this more challenging but not altogether impossible, and soon I feel Peeta's hand yanking on mine, propelling me forward.

I know he's even more afraid than I am when I realize he's running ahead of me, dragging me behind him. Peeta is by far a slower runner than I am. The idea that there's enough fear in him to compensate for a naturally slower gait and a fake leg makes my heart ache.

I hear the tracker jackers still getting closer though, no matter how fast we move. It's not a surprising, really, as when these creatures were designed, they were made to lock in on a target and chase it down until it died. After all, they were made to be a weapon in the first war.

And they were used as one in both.

I feel myself let out a loud sigh of relief as the sound of the wasps begins to fade away, as we come closer and closer to the edge of the woods.

Still, it isn't enough. It's never enough.

Peeta's prosthetic does better than I cynically imagined but in the end, it gives out just as I knew it would and he goes tumbling face-first down into the dirt and branches. I didn’t see it but I can tell by the way his leg, his only real leg, is scraped up, that it must have gotten caught on the fallen branches strewed across the ground.

"Peeta!" I scream, louder than I intend to. Louder than I know I should.

I kneel down beside him, adrenaline still pumping through my veins like red, hot blood, and I yank and tug at his arm, trying to force him to stand and run again, as my wail evidently alerted a few stray wasps that hadn't entirely disappeared yet.

"Peeta," I cry out now, desperation taking over my entire being. "We have to move." I try to push him to stand, to move forward, but he's shaking his head with a sad, defeated expression.

"Katniss, just run," he orders firmly, his voice surprisingly strong. "Leave me here, I'll be okay."

I give him an incredulous look, so shocked by his statement that I completely ignore the small growing buzz flying closer and closer by the second. "Peeta, I'm not leaving you!" I exclaim, as if the thought is outright offensive. Because to me, it is. "You can't honestly think I'm going to abandon you-"

"Katniss, please!" He snaps now, his eyes getting desolate. "Please, just go! I'll be home as soon as I can-"

"No! You're coming with me!" I demand furiously. Just as I am preparing to quickly stand and drag him by force out of these woods, his baby blue eyes widen fiercely and he envelopes me into his arms, shoving my body underneath his.

It all happens in a matter of seconds. Peeta holds me down the way he used to hold his opponents down in a wrestling match, paralyzing me into place, and I can't move to escape, to try and run and drag him with me.

I don't understand what he's doing though, what his true intent may be, until I feel through him, through his body that is sheltering mine, the vibrations of the tracker jackers' stingers.

I don't know how many times he gets stung but it's not enough to kill him—especially not him, who has such a high tolerance after the abuse he was subjected to—but enough to hurt him. Enough to have an effect.

Enough that only seconds after the creatures fly away, he flings himself upwards, attempting to get as far away from me as humanly possible. Attempting to put as much distance between us as his distorting mind will allow.

"Peeta!" I cry out again, plainly reaching for him. It doesn't click in my head what could be happening. It doesn't seem even real anymore, after four years home without a single episode, after three years of bliss together, that he could ever again become that dark, twisted shell of a person he was in Thirteen.

"Stay away from me!" He hisses and I recoil instinctively into a tree trunk behind me. His stumbles backward and snaps a branch with his prosthetic leg. The sound is enough to set him off and he practically snarls down towards the ground.

I don't know what he's seeing, what terrifying hallucination is taking over his psyche. I can't even imagine where his mind is right now, but I know that’s horrifying.

"Peeta, it's okay," I try again, but my voice is breaking and I must have started crying at some point and my eyes are wide and displaying just how blatantly unnerved I feel and I know I'm of no comfort right now. Still, I can't stop myself from saying, "it's just a tree branch, Peeta. Nothing is going to hurt you out here, I swear."

"Except you," he states, so blankly, so matter-of-fact, that I visibly flinch as he turns the gaze of his cold, dark eyes on me.

The sweet blue sky that live inside his irises are long gone and in their place is a blackened night and I haven't seen it in so long, I actually forgot what it looked like.

"Peeta," I whisper now, knowing it's fruitless to say anything, to try and get through. But I just can't leave him here, alone, when he's been hurt, when he's still suffering from what Snow did to him to destroy me.

His hands shake and he clutches the roots of the tree beside him to the point of pain. As if the wood can keep him in place. As if the wood can stop him from reacting to the venom like his every impulse is surely screaming to.

"Go away," he spats at me, his teeth clenching together so tight I'm afraid he'll chip them. "Would you just go!"

"No!" I yell stubbornly. My legs suddenly find a way to work and the shock must be wearing off because I find myself manically crawling through the dirt and leaves towards Peeta, where he's practically locked himself against a tree.

"You're a stupid mutt," he snarls as I come closer—closer enough to touch. "A mutt created by the Capitol to trick me. Don't touch me!"

I ignore his words and lay my hand on his forearm. "Peeta, please-stop!" I order desperately as he swings his arm in my direction. "Listen to me, please! This isn't real! I swear, this is just a bunch of lies the Capitol told you!"

"The only lies that I've been told were from you, sweetheart," he practically spits at me. "And I'm tired of your lies. In fact, I think I'm tired of you altogether-" He cuts himself off, one of his hands flying up from the branch and smacking him in the face. "Run!" He abruptly exclaims in a different voice. A voice that gives me hope. Hope that he can mentally fight this off. "Katniss, go!"

"No!" I refuse still, my jaw clenching and my eyes locking in on his furiously. "I won't leave you here!"

He squeezes his eyes shut at my words, and when he reopens them, my every hope he would be able to pull himself out of this evaporates. "I hate you! I absolutely hate you! Why won't you ever leave?"

"Because I love you," I hoarsely shout, not caring that he's in no position to listen to me. "I love you, Peeta. I love you and I'm not going to leave you."

I never say these things, even now. Even after the years since the war, I rarely offer sentiments. In words at least. Peeta knows I love him. I know I love him. But there's little need for me to proclaim it every single day and night.

Until now, until right now in these woods, with Peeta and all that he is nearly evaporated, do I wish I had showered him in verbal sentiments over and over again. No matter how unnatural words as opposed to actions are to me, I should have forced myself to speak up more, to say how I feel, to overdose him in it until he's tired of hearing my voice.

Maybe if I had been more vocal, he wouldn't still be so fast to believe the worst. Maybe then he wouldn’t be susceptible to these dark thoughts when the venom enters his system.

I shake that idea off as soon as it comes. This isn't my fault and it definitely isn't his. The tracker jacker venom isn't something we could have seen coming and it isn't permanent, I force myself to remember. This will wear off.

I just have to make sure Peeta doesn't hurt himself before that happens.

"Peeta," I whisper now, seeing his eyes squeezing shut again. I don't dare to let myself hope again he's fighting the hallucinations off. Cautiously, like I'm about to pet a tiger, I lean my hand in to touch his cheek.

He doesn't relax into it but he doesn't snap at me either and I take it as progress.

At least, I do until he opens his eyes.

They're still black as coal and my heart sinks at the realization. But before I can think to do anything else, his mouth opens again, his voice now slow and quiet and pleading. "You're the worst thing that ever happened to me. I loved you so much and you cost me everything."

I feel myself let out an involuntary sob at that, my chest heaving before I can swallow it down. Because it's true. If it weren't for me, if I'd just eaten those stupid berries myself, he wouldn't have been tortured and hijacked. Millions of people wouldn't be dead from the war. Finnick would be playing with his son right now, probably teaching him to swim or fish or tie a knot.

Prim would still be alive.

As if reading my mind, his next sentiment matches my line of thinking. "You destroyed me, just like you destroy everyone. My family is dead because of you. You killed them. You killed millions of people and laughed about it. You even killed your little sister."

And I know he's not in his right mind, but his words still ring true to me and all I can say, while trying to suppress the overflow of tears gathering behind my lids is, "I know."

"But it never meant anything to you, did it? No matter who you hurt or how much pain you inflicted, it never mattered to you."

I shake my head automatically, not even registering that I'm about as good as arguing with a wall here. "That's not true. I do care. I've always cared."

"Liar," he hisses again but it's under his breath, through clenched teeth and I can't respond to it. "You never cared about anyone besides yourself."

"Not real, Peeta!" I frantically try to get through to him. "Not real, not real, not real!"

He acts as if I hadn't spoken. "I always, always loved you. So much." He says it, not as a compliment or endearment, but as a dark fact, as a burden to bear. As if it were a heavy load he was forced to carry. "Did that mean anything you? Did I mean anything to you? Or was I just second best to him?"

"Peeta," I whimper out desperately, wiping my eyes with one hand and reaching out to grip his palm with my other. "You mean everything to me. You're my whole world."

Something flickers in his eyes and he snaps like the branches beneath our feet. "Liar!" He screams again, and shoves my hand off his. "You're a mutt! You're a liar! You’re not going to kill me like you did everyone else!"

"Not real!" I scream on the top of my lungs, giving up every other defense I have, just for the insane hope of getting through to him.

I remember how I got him to cooperate, to see reason, to fight, in the middle of the war. How I kissed him desperately, knowing I rationally should kill him, knowing there was a likely chance he'd kill me for even trying to save him, but how I did it anyway, in the face of all that.

It was different then. He wasn't freshly full of venom. He was already beginning to overcome his hijacking on his own. He was already starting to fight his way back to me.

But that doesn't mean the same methods couldn't be repurposed here. That doesn't mean they wouldn't work again, under different circumstances.

Somehow, in the seconds I considered this method, my eyes had traveled to his lips and my plan was foiled before it could be put into action.

"Don't you dare," he threatens, his voice dripping with fury. Even more deadly than I heard only a moment ago. "You're not going manipulate me like you always do, mutt."

Before I can gather my bearings or even process what he's implying, he forces both his hands to let go of the roots he's managed to maintain an iron tight grip on. His hands come flying at me, knocking me back against the forest floor, knocking the wind out of me painfully.

I feel my shoulder blade take the impact and fight back a wince, just as two large hands wrap themselves around my throat.

They squeeze tight, effectively cutting off my air supply, giving me the same horrible sensation I still remember from his rescue. The horrible day I still sometimes have nightmares about.

This whole entire thing is a nightmare come to life. Just as much as it was back in Thirteen four years ago.

I stare up at him, my vision swirling, my eyes stuck on his. And, in spite of how angry I should be—at Snow or Coin or the Capitol or just life in general—I find myself uncharacteristically hoping. Not hoping that he won't kill me. But rather hoping that when he comes back to his senses, he is able to forgive himself for this. That he is able to forgive himself for all of it.

I stare into his eyes, because if this is my end, I want the last thing I see to be the person I love, even if he isn't himself. I want him to somehow retain the memory of me right now, at this moment. So he can know that I'm not angry with him, that I don't hate him. That I love him. In spite of every reason anyone has tried to create for me not to.

I'm so focused on his eyes that I don't even notice that his grip is weakening. I don't even register his stance changing. All I see, all I register, is his eyes suddenly changing from black to blue and then black again. It's haunting to see up close, like a demon is stuck inside of him and he's having to fight it off from the inside out.

"Peeta," I whisper hoarsely, reaching my hand up to cup his cheek as his irises become a blue ocean again.

But his body language remains stiff, even as he clumsily pulls himself upwards and off of me. He trips backwards once again, and I watch in a frozen stupor as his eyes change once more to ebony.

"Go!" He shouts abruptly, his features wild and downcast and tormented. "Katniss, go!"

And I don't know if it's the fact that he's seemingly fighting off the darkness now or if the tracker jacker venom may be growing weaker inside him or if it's just the plain fact that he sounds like my Peeta again, but I listen this time. I roll over gracelessly and cough and sputter and grapple for a breath before finding my footing and blindly racing out of the trees. Blindly leaving Peeta behind, hoping he'll be able to find his way back to me.

Hoping that he'll come back to me at all.

I crash onto the couch as soon as I step foot into the living room, lying down on my stomach, burrowing my face into the cushions beneath me.

I mindlessly ran from the woods, tripping and falling and unable to catch my breath, my heart racing a thousand beats per second. I didn't stop when Thom waved at me or when Haymitch barked to ask what I was up to now. I didn't even stop to lock the front door.

I wasn't worried about Peeta coming home to harm me. He was in enough control in the woods to hold himself against the tree, to stop himself from strangling me, to yell at me to run. If he was going to chase me down and hurt me, he would have done so in the woods when I refused to leave.

No, I wasn't worried about Peeta coming home to harm me. I was worried he wouldn't come home at all. I was worried that this is going to push him to the edge, that he won't trust himself, that he will insist he has to go back to the Capitol for hospitalization. I was worried that this will cost me him and our life together and everything we've worked so hard to build.

I squeeze my eyes shut to hold in my tears, terrified that the tracker jackers are going to cost me him, even after all this time. That what Snow did to take Peeta from me will finally succeed, even after his death.

Me and Peeta don't see eye to eye on this topic. This topic is one of the few things we can't agree on.

Peeta still gets flashback, on a fairly regular basis. He still grips the back of a chair or clutches a wall, hides in the back of the bakery when a customer triggers some atrocious memory by mistake. He still has insomnia some nights and still paints his nightmares.

Some of those paintings consist of things I never could stand to know. Some of his paintings, so haunting and gut-wrenching, display things that have brought me to tears more than once.

I was looking at them one morning over a year ago when I blurted out the worst possible thing I could have.

"What would happen if you ever were hijacked again? If you ever became the way you were in Thirteen again?"

I honestly expected him to say that Dr. Aurelius has warned him that there is a possibility of that happening and that he has a plan in place and he would have to go to the Capitol again and just about a million things I don't want to hear but I as much as expected.

But instead he caught me entirely off-guard and simply said, "I'd leave. Go out to the woods and probably never come back."

It's only now that I realize his wording, that I realize I left him out in the exact place he specified disappearing and I feel my blood run cold as I process this.

I don't know what I intend to do, as I stand up off the couch. I don’t know if I intend to go to Haymitch and see if he's too drunk to be of any help, to go maybe to Delly or Thom or anyone in the district who cares for Peeta, or if I even intended to just go searching for him myself in the woods, but in the end it all becomes irrelevant.

Because as soon as I stand, frantically trying to stop my shaking and figure out how I planned to find him, Peeta walks in through the front door.

His eyes are blue again and they've lost the cloudy look that have always appeared in his episodes. I don't know why I forgot that until now.

Probably because I black out the things that really hurt me. The things that hurt my heart too much to fully process.

Peeta, the sweetest boy I've ever known, being tortured and destroyed to pay for my acts of rebellion is at the top of that list.

I just stare at him, taking him in now, here, alive, relatively unharmed aside from some scratches. His eyes are clear but they're so sad and so desolate and I open my mouth to speak. To say just about anything that'll convey to him that I'm not angry with him, not in the least. That I just don't want him to leave, that I can't take losing him again.

But all that comes out are choking noises and I don't know if it's the cries I fought off or if it's because his hands were wrapped around my throat not long ago, or if it's just plainly that I don't put my feelings into words well. By any stretch of the imagination.

Either way, it doesn't seem to matter. Peeta just shakes his head slowly, the skin around his eyes already wet and swollen and pink and before I can utter another sound, he's walking forward towards me and falling down onto his knees, wrapping his arms around my waist. His face buries itself into my stomach and suddenly, the most painful, the most wretched sobs fill the room and if I wasn't right here with him, if I couldn't physically see Peeta, the cries would almost be unrecognizable as him.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

I try to resist it, I try to hold it back, I do everything I can to fight it, knowing it'll only make him feel that much worse, but in the end it's a lost effort and it's all I can do to raise my head up to the ceiling just as the tears come pouring from my own eyes. If they're out of shock or fear or pain--or a combination of all three--I don't know, but I do everything I can to hide them from Peeta.

It becomes just one more thing I fail at, as he somehow instinctively notices and squeezes me tighter to him, clutches me like Prim used to clutch her baby blanket.

"Please forgive me, Katniss. Please, please, please forgive me."

I open my mouth to say there's nothing to forgive but once again, the words won't form. All that comes out is a simple sob, quiet but strong, and I feel Peeta squeeze me again.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"Roll over for me," Peeta whispers softly, his hand as tender as his voice, stroking my hair back attentively.

I do what he asks, rolling onto my stomach, but still manage to say, "this isn't necessary."

He ignores me, his eyes no longer wet but still swollen and bloodshot from the hours he cried. Lifting up my shirt—technically his shirt originally, but we repurposed it as my sleep attire months ago—he slides a cold cloth onto my back, holding it in place for a long moment of time.

There's now a particularly large bruise already forming on my back from where he knocked me to the forest floor. I couldn't care less. I got worse bruises than that from hunting on a regular basis.

But the look in Peeta's eyes when he saw the mark, almost--but not quite--rivaled the look in his eyes when he stood upright and saw my neck. I hadn't even seen at it yet, I hadn't even given any thought to checking for red handprints, but when Peeta stood upwards, when he'd calmed down enough to look me in the eye, his gaze flew there instantly and words can't convey how awful he must have felt.

If there were a way to verbally say how wretched and sick he felt inside, Peeta would be the first one to do it.

Telling him it wasn't his fault didn’t work. Telling him he couldn't have known about the tracker jackers nearby, he couldn't have known what would happen, did absolutely nothing to convince him that he shouldn't feel responsible. Especially not when I'm speaking in a hoarse tone of voice.

Of course, I knew he'd feel this way. I would feel this way. But somehow I just can't stop trying to alleviate his remorse, no matter how useless it may be to attempt. Somehow I just can't stop trying to remove that tragically sad look from his eyes.

As soon as he lets go of the cold cloth, I spin around in the bed and snuggle myself tight into him.

He takes me into his arms willing, wrapping his every limb around mine, burying his face in my hair. His lips press repeated kisses to my forehead, his hands rubbing up and down my spine, massaging my back.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, probably for the twentieth time.

"Peeta," I all but groan, leaning my head back slightly to peer up into his heartbroken eyes. "Stop. There's nothing you could have done."

He looks like he wishes to argue but nothing comes out of his mouth. Instead he rubs my back again and squeezes me tighter. I shut my eyes against him, breathing him in, a part of me finally relaxing for the first time in hours.

Even after he returned home, even after his breakdown, I remained cautious at first. The last thing I wanted was to let my guard down too soon and have the venom—that is surely still working it's way out of his bloodstream—cause him to snap again, to lash out at me or attack.

Just like the last thing I wanted was to make him feel worse, make him feel remorse for something that was done to him, something he didn't ask for and he'd worked so hard and made so much progress in controlling.

But when he'd noticed the tears I’d tried to hold in, down in the living room, the remorse was inevitable.

"Are you sure you're okay?" He whispers now, moving my hair aside carefully, pressing his lips gently to the red marks where his hands had left their imprint.

This isn't the first time he's asked though and despite the fact that I rather enjoy his lips on my neck typically, I can't help but respond with ire. "Peeta, I already told you my neck and back are just fine. Please stop worrying," I say tensely, my voice tired and worn thin.

He says nothing in response, instead placing more kisses against my throat and collarbone. I let out a sigh I didn't even know I was holding in and reach out to stroke the back of his head, massaging where his skull and neck met, where his blonde curls touch his skin.

"You scared me," I whisper finally, the words easier now that I can't see his eyes and he can't see mine.

"I know," is all he can say.

"Not physically," I immediately correct before he can take that and internalize it. "I don’t mean you scared me physically. You... you..." Speaking becomes a challenge all over again, the syllables not wanting to form intelligibly on my lips. But when he pulls back and looks me deep in the eye, his gaze full of love and sorrow, I force myself to just say how I feel. "I was scared I was going to lose you," I whisper, leaving whether I meant lose him physically or mentally up in the air.

Still, he doesn't seem surprised by the confession, whatever way he took it. "I know."

I have to bite my lip to keep an awful choking sob inside, as one is doing it's best to escape from the back of my throat. Almost as a distraction I bury my face into his chest again, shutting my eyes, and I allow myself to be thankful that Peeta's still here and he's my Peeta again.

When he doesn't fill the silence though, I realize I have to or else the tension in the room will continue to linger. "I was so scared," I admit, so quietly it's almost inaudible.

"I know, baby."

I scrub my face against his cotton-made shirt before rubbing my nose with the neckline of my own sleepwear, just as something hits to me. Peeta's words in the woods, even while hijacked, still sting inside my head. Not the cruel things he said, because even though I know they're true, I also know he doesn't truly believe any of them himself. He doesn't think I murdered his family or am an evil person who laughs at the misery of others, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, he doesn't think I'm in any way responsible for Prim's death.

But originally, his hijacking was predicated upon his insecurity and uncertainty in our relationship and in my feelings for him. In the last three years I know I've made my feelings clear. At least, in my mind I have.

But a quietly violent voice whispers, and I ache deep inside as it questions, what if I haven't expressed how I feel enough to him? What if he truly still feels unsure of my love for him?

"Peeta?"

"Yeah?"

"I just... I want you to know-" His finger presses against my lips now and he's shaking his head, his eyes forlorn.

"Katniss, if this is about anything I said, just don't. Okay, I meant none of it. I hate that those words even-"

"Peeta, you mean everything to me," I blurt out then, clumsily cutting him off. "You're the only thing that really matters to me an-and," I stop myself then, having spoken too fast, rushed my words and now am stuttering. There's so many things I want to say, so many things I want him to know. So many they all become jumbled up and confused in my head, and it's all I can do to say the simplest, plainest thing that comes to my mind. No matter how unnatural it feels for me. No matter how painful it is to rip down your walls and to physically have to force away an armor you spent years of your young life building up. It's so hard and so painful and I don't even recognize my own voice when I speak again, when I force myself to spit out how I actually feel. How, until today, I told myself he knew I felt. "I love you so much," I try to say but it comes out choked and raw. "I love you and you were never second best. To anyone. You're everything to me and I don't know-I don't know how to convey this right or say the right thing-"

He cuts me off—finally—then and moves his fingers against my cheek comfortingly. "You've conveyed it perfectly," he promises, his lips moving then to press lightly against mine, in a grateful but simple and sweet gesture. "I know you love me, Katniss," he assures again as he pulls back and breaks our kiss. "I've known it for a long time."

As his finger traces the outline of my mouth, I whisper, almost to myself, "So have I."

He gives me a smile, that is full of guilt and devastation, but still somehow warm and hopeful and kind. "Oh, have you?" I know he's feeling better when he teases me.

But my reply isn't sarcastic or cunning or anything but simple and small. Just like me in general.

"Longer than I could ever admit."

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hopelessly-me · 4 years ago

Note

I wish you would write a fic where Clint is extremely competent in a surprising skill (and seduces [your choice] in spite of it, because of it, or with it).

Hi anon! =) This skill may not be overly surprising, at least it wasn’t to me, but it was to Bucky. I hope you enjoy. (word count 1472)

In his defense, Bucky did not purposely break things in his home- he had just bought a rundown condo that needed a lot of repairs that he kinda knew about when he bought it but hadn’t thought much of it because he had gone with the idea that maybe it wouldn’t happen right away. He had been wrong. So very wrong. Ever since he bought the space, it seemed like every week something was happening and Bucky just- he didn’t have the energy to deal with it. Hydra never deemed home repairs to be a necessary skill for their assassin, so Bucky hadn’t even learned the basics, but he was trying.

But… the try part took a back seat the first time Steve had suggested that he call Clint. Bucky grumbled about it- he was used to watching Clint do all sorts of things the wrong way. When you work with a guy that leaps out of buildings like it’s a fun game to chance, you kind of assume that person’s an idiot. A skilled idiot, sure, but an idiot. And how many times had Bucky watched Clint fumble his way through competency testing at SHIELD? Or the time he got smacked in the face, not once, but twice, by a robot he was supposed to be dodging? Bucky hadn’t bought the lack of caffeine mumbling, and blamed it on the fact that Clint Barton was 100% a disaster.

But Steve swore Clint was the guy to call for help so he did. It was better to have someone he knew in his space instead of calling and asking for the name of a repair man so he could do a background check two weeks deep before his dishwasher could be fixed. Within an hour Clint had shown up at Bucky’s condo, carrying a duffle bag with him. After a short greeting, Clint went to the kitchen and went to work.

And honestly- it was something. That extreme focus he got on missions was the same as when he worked on anything. Dishwasher, ceiling fan, the bathroom when the plumbing seemed to be a problem. Anything Bucky called him about, Clint seemed to know exactly what he was doing. If it was an easier fix, Bucky and Clint would chat about whatever came up, and usually Clint was the one who started it. If it was harder, Bucky stood off to the side in case he needed help with something but otherwise he watched him work and wonder just how Clint got good at all of this.

But this? This was almost too much. Bucky was seated and watching Clint as he worked on the electrical in the laundry room. He had started by checking the obvious things first, the plug, the outlet, the cords in the room. With a sigh he asked if he could take down the wall because he was positive that it was something in the back, likely a short wire. Without any reluctance, Bucky agreed, and Clint went to work. Now he was standing on a step ladder, working on something above his head, his shirt riding up, or his pants riding low, Bucky couldn’t tell and he didn’t care. All he cared about was the fact that Clint’s arms were in motion, which had always been hypnotizing enough, but now he got to see abs and he wasn’t sure he was going to make it through this session.

“You should let me just tear this place apart and start new,” Clint commented.

“What?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah. I mean. You can afford it, we both know it,” Clint answered, shoving some line through a hole he had made to where the breaker was, a new wire he had to attach him. “This place is really outdated with the electrical and the plumbing. Nothing that will start a fire yet but… I know how to do the fixes this place needs. I can run it cheaper than other renovators. And what I don’t know I can figure out with some books and youtube videos. I mean, it’s how I learned most of this stuff anyway.”

“How… long would something like that take?” Bucky asked, because if that meant more time with Clint like this he was pretty sure he was ready to sign up.

Clint looked over and flashed him one of his bright and snarky smiles. “Tired of hanging out with me already?” he asked, teasing before he looked back at his work.

“No. But if you do all that work, I’m going to have to pay you,” Bucky pointed out.

“Uh- no? I mean, I can’t always be here working on it, but I can plan on doing the hard stuff for a few days in a row that way if I have to leave for a mission you have a mostly functional space, just a little torn up.” Clint stepped down from the ladder and walked over to his tool bag, digging through it before pulling out a tag and a pen, writing on it. “But you don’t have to pay me.”

“What about… in pizza and coffee?”

Clint looked up from the tag and grinned. “The way into my heart,” he replied before he turned and climbed back onto the ladder, back to his abs showing and yeah, it was definitely the shirt riding up Bucky decided. “Just think about it, alright? It would take me a couple of weeks, but I can get this place in tiptop shape so you aren’t having one emergency after another.”

“Maybe I like having the emergencies,” Bucky said before he could give it much thought.

The moment the words processed in his head, alarms started to sound. It was toeing the line of flirting, or maybe possibly suggesting that he liked having Clint around, and maybe more. Clint wasn’t exactly stupid, he could see through Bucky’s game right? But he was also oblivious, so maybe he hadn’t.

This time, Clint paused and looked over questioningly. Bucky put on his confident smile, the one he had learned back when he was a kid, back when he knew he could fake his confidence with the right look. The problem was- Clint had that annoying ability to read people and see through the masks. The problem was, Bucky was sure Clint could see through this one.

And then he smiled that bright smile, and chuckled before he looked back at his work, muttering something inaudible under his breath. Whether he saw through it or not was lost on Bucky now since Clint hadn’t made a comment. But something was there in that look, Bucky could swear he saw… was it hope? Shyness? A bit of awkwardness? Maybe it was Bucky putting his feelings into the situation, but he thought maybe it was a dare- almost begging him to say something more.

Bucky was frozen for a moment, watching as Clint hopped off the ladder and moved to where the electrical outlet was, whistling as he worked. He watched the way his body swayed a little to whatever song it was being whistled into existence, and wanted to move closer to watch as his fingers worked carefully at securing the wire in it’s spot. He wanted to know if he was right that Clint was just daring him to take it a step further while being terrified to learn the results.

“Fuck it,” Bucky said as he got up.

“Fuck what?” Clint asked innocently.

Bucky had taken a few steps by the time Clint had turned around. Bucky got into his space, bracing his hands on the wall on either side of Clint, and kissed him, surprised when it was reciprocated. But it was short lived before Clint leaned away, raising an eyebrow, his lips pulling up into a smile that he would get before he would start laughing.

“What?” Bucky asked.

“Screw.”

“What?”

“I made a funny joke in my head about being screwed,” Clint said, holding up his screwdriver. “And then I dropped the screw for the outlet panel and I can’t-”

“... you are fucking kidding, right?” Clint let out that laugh and shook his head, his whole face lighting up as it scrunched. For a moment, Bucky thought about punching him. But that joy on Clint’s face made the thought fizzle out and he couldn’t help but feel fondly exasperated. “You’re the worst,” he said, unable to hold back his smile when Clint’s eyes opened and locked onto his.

“I am,” Clint confirmed. “We can maybe try it again after you buy me pizza?”

Bucky nodded slowly. “Maybe after pizza,” he agreed. “And you grab that screw.”

“That’s after the third date,” Clint replied with a wink, laughing even louder than before when Bucky’s face heated up. “You are so going to regret you kissed me.”

“Challenge accepted.”

#winterhawk #early morning warmup

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javajunkieao3 · 3 years ago

Text

Never Have I Ever: Post-Series Fic

Ben Gross prided himself on being smart. And falling in love with Devi Vishwakumar? Well, that was just about the dumbest thing he could do.

But, it happened anyway.

He didn’t exactly know when, but somewhere between first grade and watching her dance with that tool, Paxton Hall-Yoshida, she had gone from the person he always wanted to beat to someone he genuinely hoped would win. Because she deserved that. After everything she went through with her dad and then everything after, she deserved a win.

But, did that win have to be him?

“Of course, it’s him,” Ben said, voice colored with defeat and just a hint of indignation. He still hated losing. Even if he technically wasn’t in this game. Aneesa was waiting for him over by the punch. “It’s always been him.”

Beside him, Eleanor said, “What? No, it hasn’t. After you took her to Malibu, she wanted to choose you.”

Ben listened incredulously as Eleanor explained how she and Fabiana had talked Devi out of choosing him. It was fucked up, and he was going to tell her as much, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Devi, imagining how different things would have been. It would have been him with her, not that glorified meat puppet.

“So, just for the record, it hasn’t always been him.”

Eleanor walked off after dropping her figurative bomb and he stayed rooted in place, not knowing what to do or think next. He wasn’t used to this level of indecisiveness and he probably would have just stayed there, staring at Devi dance with another guy, if Aneesa hadn’t come over, sliding her hand over his shoulder.

“Hey, I thought you were meeting me over by the punch,” she said, glancing over at where he had just been staring. “Oh wow, good for Devi.”

Aneesa looked up at Ben, noting the tense set of his jaw. “But…you don’t think that.”

“What?” he said immediately, finally looking away from the slow train wreck happening across the dance floor. “I don’t care about them. I mean, he’s a tool who, based on what I’ve seen, can barely read above an eighth grade level. But, I don’t care.”

“Uh, yeah, you do.”

“Aneesa-“

“Ben, I saw the way you were looking at them. At her.”

He went to argue, but then realized he had no defense. Aneesa ducked her chin to her chest.

“Okay. So, I guess I’m going to go now.” She turned to leave, but then stopped, turning back. “Don’t mess this up for her?”

He didn’t know what he hated more, the implication that he would mess things up or the fact that Aneesa was maybe a little right. The song ended and he watched Paxton and Devi kiss before Paxton dipped his mouth to her ear. Devi nodded at whatever he said, and then Paxton walked away, not letting go of her hand until the distance made it necessary. Devi’s grin widened and Ben hated Paxton even more.

Devi stood alone on the dance floor for a moment, seeming blissfully content, and then she caught his gaze. Ben noticed that her grin dimmed slightly and then she walked over, clasping her hands nervously in front of her.

“Look, I know what you’re going to say,” she began.

“No, actually, you don’t.”

She widened her eyes slightly. “Okay. Then, what are you going to say?”

I know you wanted to choose me.

“I’m happy for you, Devi.”

It wasn’t what she expected, and not what he wanted, so they both felt out of sorts. But then her shoulders slackened, a genuine smile spreading on her face, and Ben knew he did the right thing. Because she deserved the win. Even if it wasn’t him.

“Thanks, Ben.”

Paxton came over with two glasses of punch and handed Devi one, his now free arm going around her waist. He gave Ben a lukewarm hello which, given their history, wasn’t entirely unfounded.

“Anyway, I’ll see you around,” Devi said.

“See you around, David.”

Paxton looked at him strangely, but Devi only smiled wider.

-----

There were only a few weeks left in the school year after the dance, and Ben did his best to keep his distance from Devi. She hovered a bit after learning about his and Aneesa’s breakup, but then they all got busy with finals and then the schoolyear ended. Ben was grateful for the time apart. He didn’t know how long it took to fall out of love with someone, but he figured summer break’s three Devi-free-months should do the trick.

That summer, he lined up a volunteer program to pad his college applications just like every other summer. He was supposed to help out with pro bono work at his dad’s firm, but at the last minute his dad hired a law clerk instead so that he could bill out his time at a markup. So, he was stuck with a retirement home. Everyone volunteered at retirement homes, which meant it was the last thing Ben wanted to put on his resume. But, there was nothing else left and it was better than nothing, so he grudgingly accepted a spot at one about fifteen minutes from his house and prepared himself for a summer of moth balls and stories about “the war”.

Instead, he got Devi.

“I thought you were working at your dad’s firm this summer,” Devi said.

“Something came up. Weren’t you supposed to do Habitat for Humanity?”

Devi nodded. “I had an incident with a hammer. Apparently, you aren’t supposed to bedazzle it.”

Ben smirked. “You bedazzled your hammer?”

“Oh, yeah. I added feathers, too. Honestly, it was an upgrade.”

“I can’t imagine why they wouldn’t want to take you,” he mocked.

Devi shrugged. “Probably for the best. I mean, would you want a house built by me?”

“You make a fair point.”

“So, here we are,” Devi said. “Slumming it at the retirement home.”

“You may want to say that a little louder. I don’t think the guy in the back with the hearing aid heard you.”

“But, you know what, if anyone can make the best out this, it’s you and me, Gross.”

She flashed him a smile and he felt it all the way down to his toes. This was going to be a long three months.

----

It turned out, Ben was surprisingly adept at being around old people, and Devi was an immediate crowd pleaser.

“Even Marvin likes me,” Devi said. “And I’m pretty sure he’s a low-key racist.”

“Not that low key. He specifically asked me to help him fill out a banking form yesterday because, as he put it, your people are good at that.”

“Damn. Remind me to not give him an extra pudding cup.”

One of the long-time residents, Gladys, rolled by with her walker and said, “Benjamin, don’t forget my granddaughter is visiting this afternoon. I told her all about you.”

“I won’t forget, Gladys.”

“Look at you, Benjamin.” He rolled his eyes. “Using the residents to get a date. Honestly, it’s sort of genius. If I wasn’t dating Paxton, I would totally use these guys to pimp myself out.”

“Slow down, David. Gladys came to me about her granddaughter. I’m not that desperate. I have options.”

“Sure, you do, Ben.”

“But, um, you and Paxton? That’s going well?”

He didn’t know why he asked. You don’t ask the girl you’re in love with how her relationship is going, but he asked, and now he had no choice but to hear the answer.

“Yeah, it is,” Devi said. She tucked her hair behind her ears as she smiled, and Ben wished he could sink directly down into the ground.

“That’s great.”

“Yeah. It is.”

That afternoon, he asked Gladys’ granddaughter out on a date.

----

Ben could always tell when Devi and Paxton were fighting by her mood. She had never been good at hiding her emotions, and while in a relationship, that hadn’t changed. He noticed it a few weeks in. She went back into the employees’ area and shoved her bag forcefully into the cubby hole.

“Did the cubby hole do something to you?” he asked.

“No,” she said stubbornly. “The cubby hole is doing nothing. Which is the problem. The cubby hole just sits there playing video games all day. Which, sure, I can play some Mario Kart here and there. I’m a team player. But, at a certain point, enough with the stupid video games. I am not dating freaking Yoshi!”

Ben was quiet for a moment and then said, “I didn’t know a cubby hole had apposable thumbs to play video games.”

She shot him a look, but then couldn’t help but laugh.

“The cubby hole was a metaphor.”

“Yeah, I caught on to that.”

----

Ben found it remarkably easy to be around her, even as his feelings stayed rooted to the core, and at a certain point he became resigned to it all. Maybe Devi was just one of those people he would always have feelings for. Isn’t that what they said about your first love? You could move on, but you never really forgot it. So, he would love her and just move on.

He dated Gladys’ granddaughter, enjoying himself but never really feeling anything beneath surface level. But, she was nice enough, and Gladys was delighted by the pairing, even as the volunteer coordinator was not.

“Just don’t have sex anywhere on property,” she had said in a huff.

“I, uh, won’t. Thanks for the clarification.”

He was dating someone else. He and Devi were finally sort of back to how they were before. And then he accidentally ate pecans.

“Oh my God, Ben, your mouth is getting huge,” Devi said, eyes wide with concern.

“I am so sorry,” Gladys’ granddaughter said. “I thought the muffin was banana-walnut, not banana-pecan.”

“Do you have an Epi-Pen or something?” Devi barked at the terrified looking volunteer coordinator.

“No, and even if we did, I don’t think we can technically use it on a non-resident.”

“Are you freaking kidding me right now? Do you see him?” She pointed at Ben, whose face was rapidly growing in size. “You know what, I’ll just handle it myself.”

Devi dragged him out to her car, which was concerning since he knew she only just got her license the week before, and he also knew based on what she told him that her passing was a total fluke.

“I think I’d rather go into anaphylactic shock in there,” he said, already turning back toward the retirement home.

“Don’t be dumb, Ben,” she said, forcefully pulling him back to the car. “You are not going into anaphylactic shock. I’ll take you to my mom’s office and she can give you a shot or something. She’s only a few minutes away.”

He reluctantly got into the car, and Devi started her car, forgetting to put it into reverse before she pressed on the gas. The car lurched forward, nearly hitting the one parked in front of them, and Ben said, “Please don’t let me die in this car.”

“No one is dying today, Ben Gross. So, calm down, okay? I got this.”

It was not exactly a smooth ride, but true to her word, five minutes later they pulled into a parking spot in front of Dr. Vishwakumar’s office. They burst into the office, Ben now leaning a bit on Devi as it became harder to breath.

“I’m pretty sure I’m going into anaphylactic shock,” he gasped.

“No, you are not. You are fine.” Devi’s words were calm, but her tone was not.

Nalini Vishwakumar walked out of her office and stopped short when she saw Devi and Ben.

“What in the world – Benjamin, what happened to your face?”

“He ate pecans which, turns out, he’s also allergic to,” Devi said quickly. “Can you give him a shot or something?”

“Devi, you should have taken him to the emergency room!” Nalini said, rushing over to her daughter and Ben and bringing them back to an examination room.

“The hospital was farther away.”

Ben became to gasp for breath and Nalini hissed, “He’s going into anaphylactic shock.”

Ben could barely breathe, but he managed a, “Told you.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know!” Devi said loudly.

One shot of epinephrine and an IV full of antihistamines and cortisone later, Ben could breathe again, but Nilani made him stay for a while longer so that she could observe him. She put he and Devi in one of the unused examination rooms, and told them to let her know if he had any more trouble breathing. Devi sat next to him, her knees pulled tight into her chest.

“I’m sorry that I almost killed you.”

“You’re not getting valedictorian that easily.”

He was joking because, yeah, his throat had almost closed up and she probably should have taken him to the hospital and not her mom’s office, but it was fine now. Except, when he looked over at Devi, she still looked scared. After a beat, she launched herself toward him and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said, rubbing her back. “I’m okay.”

She pulled away and gave his arm a light punch. “You really scared me.”

“Yeah, well, next time I’ll double check my banana-walnut muffin actually has walnuts.”

“And I’ll believe you when you say your throat is closing up.”

Devi’s phone rang and he saw Paxton’s name flash on the screen. He asked her, “Do you need to get that?”

He watched her hesitate before sending it to voicemail.

----

Devi and Paxton broke up a week later. He found out from one of the retirement home residents, who he overheard telling Devi, “You’re better off, Devi. Take it from an old woman. You have the rest of your life to be with one person. Now is the time to be free. Sow your wild oats, if you will.”

“Um, I don’t really know what that last part means, but I feel you. I mean, I’m too young and hot to be tied down, right?”

“Exactly. You know, I have a grandson you might be interested in. He’s pre-med.”

“I appreciate the offer, Beatrice. And offering me your grandson after I just broke up with my boyfriend? Savage. But, I think I need to take some time by myself.”

That afternoon during bingo, Ben casually brought up the breakup after calling out B-27.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” she said. She ran the machine and picked out the next ball. “B-13!” She put the ball down and said in a regular volume voice, “We just didn’t have that much in common.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Ben said automatically.

“Wow, okay,” Devi said with a laugh that didn’t exactly sound reassuring.

“I didn’t mean,..” he trailed off, because he kind of did. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay.” He paused and picked up the next ball. “N-7!”

“Bingo!”

----

Summer was coming to a close, and so was their time at the retirement home. For some reason, Ben felt an impending sense of dread. Sure, he would still see Devi, but it would be different. Everyone else would be added back to the mix, including Paxton.

Their last big event at the retirement home was a movie night. They set up a projector in one of the recreation rooms and made it up like an old theater, complete with velvet ropes and individual little bags of popcorn. They even wore old-timey usher costumes they rented from a local costume shop.

“Does yours also smell like nachos?” Devi asked.

“Yeah. I’m trying not to think about it.”

The movie was It Happened One Night, and Devi and Ben sat in the back, watching the movie along with the residents. It was secretly one of Ben’s favorites. He and his mom had spent little time together when he was growing up, but she shared with him her love of old movies.

It was the Jericho scene, where Clark Gable’s character was setting up a sheet between him and Claudette Colbert in their motel room. He stripped down to just his undershirt, and Devi mused, “Clark Gable was super bangable.”

“Shh,” Ben said. “This is my favorite part.”

Devi looked over at him and grinned. Feeling her gaze, he glanced over and felt his breath stop when their eyes met. They were close, and in the darkness her eyes seemed to glow. He always thought she had pretty eyes. Even before, when he hated her more times than he liked her. He felt an urge to lean forward. It would be so easy. Just the slightest lean and his mouth would be against hers. But, that would just be a kiss in the back of a dark room. He wanted more.

“Eleanor told me that you wanted to choose me after Malibu.”

She blinked rapidly. “What?”

“After you scattered your dad’s ashes. She said you wanted to choose me, but they made you also consider Paxton.”

“Okay.”

“Is that true?”

Devi didn’t answer, so he kept talking.

“And she said that you started the rumor about Aneesa because you thought that we were dating and you were jealous. And, you see, I’ve had it in my mind all this time that it was always Paxton. And that I was, I don’t know, some detour on the way, but-“

“You were not a detour,” Devi said immediately. “You were…you were perfect. And I messed us up.”

“So, Eleanor was telling the truth?”

Devi nodded. “Yeah, she was.”

Ben took a deep breath. “Devi. I’m going to kiss you now.”

She nodded, all business, but he could hear the nerves in her voice when she said, “Okay. Thank you for the advanced warning.”

He leaned in and captured her mouth with his. The kiss was sweet and unhurried, like they had all the time in the world. And in a way, they did. There was a noise behind them, and they pulled apart abruptly. Their supervisor stood over them and said, "Remember what I said about no sex on property?"

"Are you kidding me right now?" Devi said. "Who is having sex in these gross costumes?"

"You'd be surprised."

The supervisor walked away, and Devi looked at Ben. "You don't think she meant..."

"I think she absolutely did."

"I need to take this off immediately."

#never have I ever #ben x devi #devi vishwakumar #ben gross #never have I ever fanfiction #post-series fic

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basicjetsetter · 4 years ago

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Part III

♡ Pairing: Peter Parker x Black!FemaleReader

▹ Warnings: Mild Language, Small mention of suicide attempt, Start of the Slow Burn

▹ Words: 3.1k

▹ A/N: Get ready for the slowest slow burn of your life.

Peter Parker is your Soulmate.

Peter Parker is also Spider-Man.

Your bewildered brain tries to rapidly absorb this news as he swings you back onto your apartment’s roof and nimbly sets you down on your feet, safely away from the ledge.

Well, that explains all the times he went missing during school trips. Those days are like a distant memory now, but you hazily remember the day Spider-Man rescued your classmates from a collapsing elevator in the Washington Monument. It was all anyone in Midtown talked about for weeks.

The boy-next-door was your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man all this time. Shock lags in your system. For some weird reason, you aren’t that surprised by the sight of Peter in the Spider-Man suit or by the idea of him being an Avenger, and as you stand on this roof mere feet from him, all you're concerned about is what he might possibly say.

Your heart races as you skeptically watch him spin around to face you.

He rubs a quick, nervous hand against the back of his neck and then, in a split second, pulls off his mask.

Time’s barely touched him, but then again, you long pieced together that your Soulmate must have suffered from the blip. His slightly disheveled hair is still the same chestnut brown, and his cute, boyish features remain intact. The only thing different is his eyes. Nothing extremely drastic changed about them, but even in the dark of night, you spot that they’re somehow more mature than you remember, older in a way that oddly aches a small place in your heart.

All while you scrutinize Peter’s exposed face and apprehensively stare into his eyes, part of you braces for the fireworks to explode and all the stars in the universe to align. This is it, isn’t it? The fated moment your childhood stories preached to be an epically magical experience? Aren’t you supposed to feel something? Anything?

A cricket chirps nearby.

Peter clears his throat, extends a hand to you, and sheepishly says, “Um, h-hi.”

You stare at his hand until it drops down to his side.

“Oh, geez!” he smacks a hand to his forehead. “Sorry, sorry. That was dumb. You probably aren’t thinking about that right now. Are you okay?”

It takes a while to part your lips, and once they’re open, all that comes out is, “Huh?”

“Are—are you okay? You just fell off that ledge over there,” he adds the last part with a gesture to the ledge, as if he’s trying to jog your memory.

You glance at the edge of the roof behind you, then slowly drag your gaze back to him. “Yeah.” Shaking your head, you repeat louder, “Yeah, I’m fine. It was… it was an accident.”

He blows out a relieved breath. “That’s great. Glad I got to you in time cause that would have been a nasty fall.”

You try to hide your flinch, but you’re sure he catches it because he immediately casts his eyes downward, mumbling more apologies while shuffling from one foot to another.

Sobering silence clouds the air around you as the last five minutes replay in your mind. You nearly died. You were seconds away from ending your life. Peter Parker saved you.

Gulping past the enormous lump in your throat, you whisper, “Thank you.”

Both sides of Peter’s mouth quirk up into a soft smile. “You’re welcome.” He pauses for a few beats, appearing to choose his next words carefully, then says, “So… you’re my Soulmate.”

Hearing him speak the words aloud thickens the obstruction in your throat, and all you offer back is an acknowledging nod, which expands Peter’s smile into a grin so bright it trips up your galloping heart.

“I was beginning to think I’d never meet you. I kept, you know, hearing you say my name in my head, so I kinda guessed you were still out there somewhere. Just never thought you’d be in my neighborhood.” He holds out his hand again, and this time you grudgingly shake it. “We had Spanish together, right?”

Once again, you’re stunned into silence. How the hell does Peter even know you? Back in your high school days, you don’t ever remember speaking a word to him, let alone doing something memorable enough for him to know which class you took together. As far as you can recall, Spanish was the only class you shared, and half the time, he was too busy waiting for class to end to notice you.

While you search your memory's repressed files to trace back any time you may have interacted with Peter, he says your name, causing your eyes to flash to his.

“You know my name?”

“Yeah…” he answers like it’d be strange if he didn’t. “We were in the same class for a while, and you painted that really awesome Starry Night with my friend, Ned.”

Something faintly warm and fluttery pitches around in your chest, but you’re quick to stow away the feeling into a locked box. It’s just a compliment—nothing more, nothing less. He seems like a nice guy and all, but there is clearly nothing between you two. No sparks. No deep gazes. No instant connections. Nothing.

Disappointment stings like a cut in your chest as you hurry over to the ledge and gather up your art supplies. When you turn back around, Peter’s staring at you with disheartened confusion, furrowing his brows.

Words haphazardly spill out of your mouth. “It was nice meeting you, Peter, and um, thanks for saving me, but I gotta go cause I have work early in the morning, and it’s super late—”

“Wait, wait, wait!” he rushes, marginally lunging forward as you take a few steps toward the exit, hand outstretched to stop you. “I just—can you tell me where you work? Maybe I can come by, and we can, y’know, talk a little bit. Get to know each other?” he ends with a hopeful, lop-sided smile.

The “No, I don’t think that would be a good idea” sits right on the edge of your tongue, armed and ready for dispatch, but Peter’s anxious little smile stalls it in its tracks. Instead, you shockingly find yourself replying, “Hal’s Diner.”

Peter perks up. “Oh, cool. I know that place. It’s got good pie. So… um, guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” you mumble, trying hard not to kick yourself for giving in so easily. Out of courtesy, you force a small smile onto your lips and say, “Goodnight, Peter.”

He returns your smile ten-fold. “Goodnight.”

As the exit door shuts behind you, you hear the slightest Thwip.

Why couldn’t you just say no?

✦ ✧✦ ✧

Bright and early, you show up at Hal’s Diner thirty-five minutes before you’re scheduled to be there, currently helping Hal prep for the Sunday breakfast crowd. To say your boss was astonished to see you at the front door nearly an hour before opening would be an understatement, but he thankfully didn’t question you.

After everything that transpired last night, from the fall to meeting Peter, the last thing you expected was a restful night’s sleep, but you were zonked the moment your head touched the pillow. For the first time in forever, those words didn’t plague your dreams and your every conscious thought. Your mind is now gloriously quiet.

You finally met your fated person, and now, you can eventually move on.

Except, not really… because Peter thinks it’s necessary to get to know you. Not if you can avoid it.

With that thought looming over your head from the second you woke up, you zoomed through your morning routine and made it out of your apartment in record time. You didn’t really have a game plan or destination in the works when you left, but you knew that your hands and mind needed to be busy to keep the more pressing thought at bay. Hence, your reason for prepping with Hal. At the moment, he’s droning on and on about what a mess last night’s shift turned out to be while you peel potatoes.

“And that new hire, the Dennis kid, screwed up three orders. Three consecutive orders! Two of ‘em from the same couple. If the boy weren’t so good at cleanup, he’d be out the door,” Hal swears, eyeing his inventory list. “Looks like we’re gonna have to stock up on eggs again.”

You hum to show you were listening, but it didn't really matter. Hal could go on like this for days, with or without an audience.

He leans his heavy body against the gigantic industrial refrigerator, then perches his thick-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his bulbous nose. “Alright, now you mind telling me what’s got you here so early?”

“Nothing,” you lie breezily, taking your bowl full of naked potatoes to the sink to rinse them off. The hot water runs freezing cold but gradually warms as you painstakingly rinse the whole surface of every potato, struggling to keep your hands and mind busy. “Just thought I’d be a good employee and help out my boss.”

“Yeah, right,” he scoffs with a laugh, “If that’s true, then there must be pigs flying in Central Park.”

You counter, “Are you insinuating I’m not a good employee?”

“No. Good help like you is hard to come by these days, and everyone in Queens knows I’d be the first in line to praise your workmanship. I’m actually just expressing a nagging concern I have with you notoriously being late and then, in the blink of an eye, turning up here before I can even fit the key in the door. Now, either something’s real wrong or something’s real right. Which one is it?”

Experience with Hal and his prying questions over the last three years taught you how to lie tactfully. Always start with a full lie, then go with a half-truth to throw him off your trail. “I finally got more than four hours of sleep.”

“Great!” Hal beams, clapping his hands together. “Now, why’s that?”

You sigh exasperatedly, “For the love of—Can’t good news just be good news, Hal? Must there be an explanation?”

“Alright, alright. I’ll back off.” He pushes his glasses back up, harrumphing, “Just know that truth is too damn narcissistic to be kept in the dark. It always finds a way to be seen.”

With that, Hal grabs a tattered dishrag and a bottle of cleaning solution off the nearest counter and leaves you in the kitchen, heading out to the dining area to give the booth tables one more wipe down, grumbling about buying new upholstery for the seats.

Try as he might, Hal doesn't have a hope of scaring you into telling him the whole truth. You’re not rolling over that easily. No one in this diner is ever going to find out that you met your Soulmate, and if you’re lucky, it’ll stay a secret until literal pigs are flying in Central Park.

Somehow, someway, you’re going to figure out how to escape whatever this connection is because there must be some cosmic loophole for those who simply don’t want their destiny. There’s no way you’re the only person on this planet who’s ever decided to break from their Soulmate.

If there is any sliver of a connection between you and Peter, he’d understand why you can’t stay. He’d understand, and he’d move on.

You hold onto this hope throughout the rest of the workday. Hal doesn’t badger you again as the diner opens and the Sunday crowd comes bustling in, hungry for syrup-saturated French toast sticks and freshly brewed coffee.

Every time the welcoming bell at the entrance jangled, your eyes fearfully snapped to the door, expecting chestnut hair and a boyishly thousand-watt smile. And every time it wasn’t him, an obnoxious pebble of dismay sank to the pit of your stomach. Between serving customer after customer and watching the door, time slipped away from you, and before you even registered the difference, the warm afternoon sun streamed directly into the diner, and the last ten minutes of your shift approached.

Chris is dragging out a goodbye with a dazzled mother and her teenage son, inadvertently milking more tips out of them with a hilarious story about his favorite ketchup stain on his apron, while Wendy mops over the same black and white tiles for the seventh time, blinking in and out and stifling yawns. You set down two plates of grilled cheeses and steak fries for a young couple, smiling with your plastic smile and brightly telling them to enjoy their meals and to call for you if they need anything else.

As soon as you turn around to check up on the regulars sitting at the stools, the bell jingles, and there in the entrance stands Peter, cheerfully greeted with a perfectly timed, “Welcome to Hal’s, dude!” from Chris.

Your heart stutter-stops, then bursts into a full-on sprint, and before you even understand what you’re doing, you duck down, scurrying behind the bar. Two regulars on the stools, a middle-aged biker nicknamed Spikes and his buddy Garrick, lean over the counter with querying stares. Hastily, you mouth, I’m not here, and they curtly nod in unison, sitting back down.

On the other side of the bar, you hear Chris seat Peter in a booth that sounds dangerously close to your hiding spot, so you squinch down as far as you can go, balling yourself up in a position your knees and back will hate you for later.

“My name’s Chris, and I shall be your server this fine afternoon. Anything I can start you off with…?”

“Peter,” Peter fills in, then answers, “And a slice of Banana Cream Pie would be great.”

You intently listen to the scratch of pen against paper as Chris scribbles down the order. “Sweet, dude. I’ll bring that out to you as soon as possible.”

“Thanks. And, hey, um… does a girl named Y/N work here?”

Your eyes bulge.

“Yeah! Do you want me to get her?” asks Chris helpfully while you internally scream, adding, “I think she might be in the back. Could have sworn she was out here a second ago.”

The best scenario out of this situation would be if Chris miraculously misses your hiding spot, walks into the back and sees you’re not there, then comes back out, missing you again, and informs Peter that you must’ve gone home early. The absolute worst being Chris trips over you and nearly breaks his neck.

By the way things are shaping up, you might as well give yourself away.

“Y’all talking about the little miss with the bun in her hair?” Spikes gruffly interjects. “Cause you just missed her.”

You almost puff out a sigh as relief washes over you like a tidal wave. Spikes has got free burgers and milkshakes coming his way for a month.

“Huh… thought she was here.” Chris stays quiet only for a second, probably questioning the efficacy of his eyesight, before speaking to Peter again. “Sorry about that, man. Still want that pie?”

Just like that, your heart kicks into high gear. Please don’t say yes. Please don’t say yes. Please don’t say yes.

Again, to your utter relief, Peter says, “No, thanks, I actually gotta get going. Mind if I borrow your pen and paper real fast?” You hold in a tense breath as Chris rips off a piece of pad paper and hands it to him. More pen scratches against paper, then Peter speaks up, “Can you make sure this reaches her?”

“Definitely. Have a good rest of your day, and come back anytime, dude.”

You don’t uncoil yourself from behind the bar until the door jingles again and a good five minutes pass. Your muscles and joints achingly cry out from the mistreatment as you warily stand to your full height, and Spikes and Garrick give you a confirmational thumbs-up when you smile at them gratefully.

Chris, spotting you out of the corner of his eye, swivels around and gapes, “Where’d you just come from?”

“The back.” Not entirely a lie.

Chris frowns, “But Spikes just said—”

“I was leaving,” you hurriedly cut in. “But I—I, um, I forgot to…” Your eyes rove around the diner and land on the couple you recently served. You hit your head with your palm in an oops manner and nervously chuckle, “I forgot to give those guys their check. So, I’m just… gonna go and… do that.”

You skirt around Chris’s inquisitively raised eyebrow and head over to the cash register to tabulate the couple’s bill. That was a way too close call. And by the way Chris is still staring at you, it looks as if you’re far from being out of the woods.

Once you hand the couple their check, rush to the back and clock out for the day, and come back out in the dining area to leave, Chris is waiting by the door, holding up the triangled piece of paper Peter left for you.

“Some guy named Peter came by to see you. You know him?” A flash in his eyes dares you to deny it, as if he caught onto your game.

You defiantly square your jaw. “I might. Did he leave that for me?”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, “Wanna tell me who he is?”

“No, I don’t think I will,” you winningly grin as you snatch the paper from his hand.

Chris wears the same winning smile. “Fine, don’t tell me. I’ll ask him when he comes back tomorrow.”

You blanch, “Wh-what—what makes you think he’s coming back tomorrow?”

“All my customers come back. Always,” he promises. Chris never seemed like the type to issue positive threats, but here he is, threatening you with that friendly smile lighting his jovial face.

The promising threat rings in your ears as you walk out the door and head to your apartment. Halfway there, you remember the crumpled piece of paper grasped in your balled-up fist. You move out of the flow of pedestrian traffic, lean against the brick façade of a mini-mart, and unfold the paper.

Peter’s straight-forward scrawl reads: Sorry I missed you. Be back earlier tomorrow :) – Peter P., and at the bottom of the note is a phone number with an arrow pointing to it, saying, My cell #.

A small, itty-bitty smile flits across your lips as your eyes linger on Peter’s smiley face, and for the briefest moment, you’re transported back to the roof, losing your breath all over again as he smiles that innocently beautiful smile.

Avoiding him is going to be tougher than you thought.

...

Part IV

#peter parker #peter parker au #peter parker x reader #peter parker x black!reader #spider-man x reader #spider-man x black!reader #soulmate au #marvel fanfic #peter parker fanfic #peter parker angst #post endgame #post infinity war #peter parker soulmate au #pre far from home #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker slow burn #slow burn #black!reader #how to trust a heart

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batbirdies · 4 years ago

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It was late, and the gala was only about half over but Tim was maybe a little exhausted and not wanting to admit that he might not be 100% over his most recent illness. He was perfectly fine, but the residual phlegm, throat clearing, and coughing that was mild during the day tended to get more prominent at night. So he’d slipped out of the ballroom earlier than he might normally allow himself and retreated to his room, where he took off his tux and put on a hoodie and sweats and decided to just veg for the rest of the night.

The den was quiet and watching mind numbing television sounded like the best way to waste some time in the place of schmoozing the rich and famous.

He must have drifted off, leaned back against the armrest with his eyes drooping. The next thing he was aware of was faint shuffling sounds coming from behind the couch. He figured it was Alfred, taking a short break from the event himself and checking in when he didn’t see Tim in the ballroom anymore. However, when he took a deep breath and shuffled himself to an upright position what he found was not Alfred, but Damian.

Tim blinked at the image before him, because the kid was still in his mini tux, red bow-tie in place, and he was methodically arranging a chess board that hovered near the back wall between two bookshelves. Tim stared for a bit, the voices from the tv behind him sounding more like low buzzing than words.

It had been louder before, someone - he supposed Damian - must have turned it down.

“What are you-” Of course his voice came out in phlegm and gravel and he had to pause, clearing his throat before he finished. “What are you doing in here?”

“I have grown tired of the Gotham elite. Father excused me for an early ‘bedtime’.” While Damian didn’t look up, he still put air quotes around ‘bedtime’ and glared at the chess board with all of his derisive might.

“Care for a game of chess, Timothy?” At this, he did finally look up.

He stiffened though when he saw Tim’s no-doubt dumbfounded look.

He quickly schooled his expression, grimacing internally at the awkward silence that followed before Tim watched whatever openness had been on Damian’s face quickly shutter away. “Sure,” he tried after a too-long pause, a twinge of guilt in his stomach at the forced blankness on Damian’s face as he turned back to the board.

“You do not have to,” he spat back, shoulders high and tense, “I am only bored and do not wish to indulge in your trash tv, as you so call it.”

“No, it - uh, it’s a good idea. I’m bored too.” It took a moment to untangle himself from the blanket he’d wrapped up in on the couch. He left it draped over the armrest, shuffling over to the chess table. Sliding into the seat opposite Damian always felt a little bit like sitting on the other side of a police interview, with how intensely he stared, but it no longer held the underlying edge Tim used to expect.

He’d called him Timothy, even. Which was...not entirely new, but something Tim had been noticing more and more. It wasn’t his favorite but it was definitely better than Drake, and didn’t hold any of the old animosity he was once accustomed to either.

That didn’t mean Tim still wasn’t a little bit cautious as he watched him finish arranging the pieces. Nor did Damian’s shoulders completely lower as he set the last one in place.

“You have first move,” he gestured lightly to Tim’s pieces as he leaned back in his chair, surveying the board.

Tim looked down, mildly surprised to see he indeed had the white set in front of him, meaning Damian purposefully gave him the first move. It was definitely odd, he thought, as he moved his first piece, not putting that much thought into it.

Damian normally stayed at those events until the very last one of them was finally heading back up to the private areas of the manor (usually Bruce), refusing to “give in” or something, Tim didn’t know. But it was a pattern. And here he was, taking an ‘early bedtime’ to come in here and play chess with him. The very implication of a bedtime was normally grating to Damian, as it would be to Tim.

There weren’t a lot of reasons Tim could think of that would send him up early, unless something had upset him, enough that Bruce told him to leave. Or, it was something he didn’t want the others to know about.

“So,” he started, watching as Damian confidently made his first counter move. “These things are the worst, right?” Tim could cringe at himself. Of all the ice breakers…

Damian, however, didn’t give him a disdainful look or make a snide comment, he only sniffed haughtily and nodded. “Indeed. Father’s peers are insufferable.”

Tim glanced down at the board, doing his best to actually concentrate, knowing Damian wouldn’t take it well if he thought he wasn’t trying. Three moves later they already had two pawns in deadlock and Tim was still trying to wrap his head around how to ask without getting his head bitten off.

Maybe it was none of his business. And Tim wondered, a little, why he was suddenly concerned; but for how Damian’s shoulders were still high and tight and he knew how the people at these things could be. He probably saw the least of it of all of them, really. Most of the sycophants who tried to talk to them instead of either ignoring them or just existing in the peripheral already knew Tim from when he was small. He’d existed in these circles for years. And not to mention he was white, and “well bred” by most of their standards. Damian had no such advantages.

But Tim wasn’t good at the older brother thing, really, if he even considered himself one. Dick seemed to think so, though, and Cass. Even Jason sometimes made offhand comments about ‘little brothers - right Tim?’ when he was in a good enough mood.

So maybe.

Quietly, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. He opened his text window and scanned the conversations there. No new messages.

“Dick’s asking if I’ve seen you.” He glanced up, gauging Damian’s reaction, but he only looked up in mild surprise, eyebrows raised. “Should I tell him no? Or does it matter?” Tim knew that if Damian was upset, and he hadn’t gone to find Dick, he either didn’t want to see him for some reason, or he felt like he couldn’t interrupt whatever he was in the middle of in the ballroom. Maybe he was dancing, or charming some reporter into writing the right article.

“You may tell him whatever you wish,” was the cryptic response, as Damian looked back down, eyebrows scrunched together in concentration. Tim frowned, locking his phone and slipping it back into his pocket.

“He’s probably just surprised you headed up early. It’s a little out of the norm, I mean.”

Damian’s hand paused where his fingers rested just on top of his knight. “Yes well,” he said quietly, “even I grow tired of acting.”

Tim hesitated briefly, before sucking it up and asking directly, hoping this shift in dynamic might stick. “Did somebody say something rude? Because if they were being -” He didn’t want to outright ask if someone was being racist, but it had happened before. “Bruce puts on a show but he honestly doesn’t put up with that stuff. If you tell him who it was, he’ll make sure they don’t get invited to these things anymore.”

Damian pulled his hand away after making his move and finally looked up, expression unchanged, though the tension in his shoulders seemed to lessen. “What, exactly, do you assume was said?”

“I...I don’t know.” Tim shrugged, feeling mildly wary, like this could be a trap he hadn’t seen coming. “Most of the people at these things just suck.” He had to clear his throat at the end, residual phlegm taking that moment to come up and mangle his last word, following up with a short round of wet coughs he tried to smother into his elbow.

Damian was frowning at him when he looked back up. “I am fine,” he said, voice a little more forceful than necessary. “I’m not sure the same can be said for you, however.”

There was a curl of distaste to his mouth as he watched Tim make his next move, sniffling loudly and glancing around for his water that he’d left on the coffee table. Tim almost snapped something defensive back but just then there was noise outside the room

They both looked up to find Jason swinging around the doorway, tie undone and hanging loose around his neck. “This where you made off to, Gremlin?” He asked, glancing between them as he stuffed his hands in his pockets and leaned against the doorframe.

“I do not see why that is any of your business.” Damian grumbled, reaching across the board and taking Tim’s bishop. Tim stared at it for a moment, the move computing in his head before he swore under his breath and Damian smirked.

Jason’s heavy footsteps padded across the carpet until they stopped just next to the board.

“This is priceless, you didn’t even change your clothes.”

Damian looked up with a glare, eyebrows drawn low, “And I see you must have chosen to change into a second tux then.”

Jason snorted, hiking his pant legs up before he squatted down to stared at the board at eye level, scrutinizing their game. “Nah, B sent me to find Tim and make sure he wasn’t hacking up a lung in secret. I’ll take any excuse to leave these things early. Dames, he’s gonna take your knight.”

“Jason,” Tim held no compunction about reaching over and shoving Jason in the shoulder, knocking him off balance enough that he fell sideways, landing on his hip and holding himself up with one hand.

“I do not need your help.” Damian added for good measure, though his expression when he looked back at the board was distinctly unhappy.

Instead of getting back up, Jason shifted until he sat cross legged on the floor. “You two are a picture.” He slipped his phone out from somewhere, Tim noticed when he glanced away from the board, and held it up, “Damian in a tux, Timmers in his pajamas, I feel like it’s a real representation of who you are as people.”

Tim looked down, mildly concerned at the phone pointed his direction. “Are you drunk?”

“That would explain it,” Damian mumbled under his breath. Tim let out a huff of unexpected laughter, having to suppress another cough when Jason dropped his phone back in his lap.

“Hey, it’s the only way to get through these things. I’m sending those to Dick, by the way.”

Tim made eye contact with Damian over the board and they both rolled their eyes.

“So in sending you to come find me, Bruce was actually just trying to get you out of there before you embarrassed yourself.”

Damian snickered, stifling a grin as he curled over the board a little more closely.

“Hey now, I am not drunk, just a little tipsy, I don’t overdo it at these things, ok?” Jason pointed a finger at both of them in turn and then smirked as he leaned back on his hands. “It may have been a fool’s errand though, since Damian was already on duty.”

Tim was ready to roll his eyes again but Damian sent a glare toward Jason and hissed, “I was merely bored.”

“Sure you were,” Jason grinned, “no way you were concerned about recovering-little Timmy, vanishing out from under our noses.”

Tim blinked while Damian sputtered, face going slightly red, “I am not under the impression that Drake needs a babysitter,” he finally managed to snap, glancing at Tim just in time to make fleeting eye contact before his gaze darted away again.

“Jay,” Tim said under his breath, a warning tone to it before the other man raised a hand in surrender, picking his phone up to look at and summarily dropping the subject.

Damian looked tense again, jaw and eyes hard as he glared at the board, refusing to look up when Tim didn’t make his next move right away.

He almost brushed it off, letting his gaze fall back to the match...but it did make sense. It would explain why Damian left the party early, why he didn’t seem to care if Dick knew, and why he might be willing to play the part of a tired little kid to get out of there for the night. And why he was suddenly so defensive when Jason implied it.

Tim was utterly blank for a moment, processing that. He glanced up for a second as he reached toward the board and found Damian staring at him again, before his eyes flitted back to the game between them, the tips of his ears going bright red.

Tim was about to push his rook forward, putting Damian in check, but he veered his hand toward the other side of the board at the last second, moving his second bishop to take a pawn instead. Jason was watching again, sitting up just straight enough to see over the top of the board and when Tim looked over, he winked.

Tim felt his own face heat as he rolled his eyes a second time, leaning over the game board and swiping a wrist under his nose briefly as he let Damian take his Queen, resting his chin in his hand.

Damian won, which was no surprise. “Ah well,” he said as he stretched over the back of his chair. Jason had eventually retreated to change out of his tux and returned in sweats and a t-shirt. He was currently lounging across the couch on his phone.

Dick appeared just as the match was ending, clearly having showered, hair wet and a damp ring around the neck of his shirt. “Good game,” Tim said as their oldest brother wandered into the room.

“Yes,” Damian agreed with a short nod, beginning to put the pieces away in their respective boxes. “It is unfortunate you are at a disadvantage while you recover. We will be on more even footing next time.” Tim cleared his throat, suppressing a smile as Damian stood up. “I will go change.”

He spun around in time to almost run into Dick, who quickly veered out of his path, brushing a hand over his head as Damian ducked away and out of the room. Jason peered over the edge of the couch and Tim stifled another cough as Dick fell into the chair Damian had just vacated.

“Having fun?” He asked, obviously suppressing a smirk.

“Shut up,” Tim went to kick him under the table and he laughed, grin spreading over his face. Tim looked away the minute it turned to something softer, fiddling with the top of the one of the game piece boxes and thinking he could probably do this if things kept on the way they were...make the whole older brother thing work.

@lilan-norah

#fanfiction #Batman #Tim Drake #Damian Wayne #Dick Grayson #Jason Todd #fluff #sibling relationships #JUST BE HONESTY WITH EACH OTHER #ITS OK TO BE CONCERNED #idk #this is from a super old prompt I was sent back in August #but I needed a break from my Nano project #so decided to go back through them #don't ask me when this is supposed to take place #sometime between when Damian and Tim hated each other and now lol #They do love each other #Batbirdies writes

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