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hongism · 3 years ago

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10 - k.hongjoong + public/recorded sex (18+)

» k.hongjoong x fem!reader (ft. j.wooyoung) » 18+ dni if minor » language, explicit smut, studio sex, public sex, record/camera, exhibitionism, friends with benefits, rimming, oral sex: m receiving, cum facial, anal fingering, unprotected sex, manual stimulation, creampie, gendered slur used exactly once:tm: » wc 4.0k » link to masterlist

“hey,” you greet, a little breathless already as you step through hongjoong’s door. “what’s so important that i had to rush over here?”

“hm?” said man turns in his chair and swivels it towards you, giving you a good view of his desktop monitor and the music program open on it. “give me a second to finish this up, then i’ll tell you.” he motions to the couch beside his desk then turns back to his work without offering any other explanation. you huff out an exasperated sigh but do as told anyway without complaint. in the very least, his couch is more than slightly comfortable, and you can say that with confidence based on how many times you’ve been laid out on it in various positions because of your friend. you make yourself at home on the cushions, dropping your bag to the side of the armrest and flinging your legs up over the side to watch hongjoong work in silence.

it takes far more than a second for him to finish with whatever he’s working on, but you aren’t going to interrupt him in the midst of it either. you’ve fallen victim to his anger from interruptions quite a few times, along with the self-induced stress that comes out of hitting a block in inspiration. perhaps you’re sparing yourself a bit of his annoyance, or perhaps you’re being a good friend. either way, he takes another fifteen minutes to run through his work, beats and rhythms thumping through the oversized headphones over his ears all the while, and you simply enjoy the sight of him before you. bright red hair that’s started to fade to a pretty orange fanning over his forehead under a white beanie, a blue hoodie that has one of the drawstrings chewed to pieces, and a matching set of sweatpants that bear unintentional rips over the knees. his shoes are over by the door, leaving him in just a pair of white socks that are covered in dirt on the bottom, but it’s something that’s so inherently hongjoong that you can’t even find it in you to be bothered by the sight of it.

typically when you visit him in the studio like this, it ends in one thing: sex. and that’s not an arrangement you mind really; it’s a mutual agreement that you two have without disrupting the balance of your friendship beyond the whole post-sex cuddling on this very couch. and you’re half-expecting tonight to end the same way, but his text read a bit of urgency so you rushed over as soon as you could, still dressed in your own ratty t-shirt and sweatpants that got a few side-eyes on the bus ride over.

“okay, so—” he swivels on you out of the blue, startling you out of your little peaceful reverie that consists of staring at his pretty side profile with perhaps a bit too much attention to detail. “you know wooyoung, right? my dancer friend?”

“hm, the one who wanted to be in a boy band?” you bring a hand up to tap at your chin in a poor attempt to conceal how hard you were just staring at the man in front of you.

“yeah, him.” hongjoong pushes back from his desk. as he moves, you catch sight of the other side where his mouse rests, and beside it, a film camera that you don’t usually see in his studio. you squint at the object, dragging your gaze back to hongjoong after a moment of hesitation. “so, he’s bi.”

“okay…” his tone isn’t necessarily wary or hesitant, but the way he speaks sounds like he’s amping you up for something that you may not be expecting. you pull yourself up into a sitting position on the couch, deciding that maybe laying down for this conversation is not the direction you want to take.

“he has a crush on me.”

that’s certainly not what you were expecting hongjoong to say, and the shock must read humorously on your face because hongjoong lets out a loud laugh that has his head tilting back.

“like — well, how do i explain this? so he’s… nonmonogamous. polyamorous, to be specific. he’s seeing san, the guy who runs the flower shop down the road? yeah, anyway, well,” hongjoong rambles himself into a stupor, pausing to let his mind catch up with his mouth, and you watch the way he blinks up at the ceiling. “he knows we have a thing, at least that we fuck around, but he thinks we’re together together.”

“where’s this headed, joong?” you interrupt as his tone becomes a tad more frazzled. “are you… wanting to? get together, i mean?”

“no, no, no! sorry, no, that’s not what i was trying to say. we were chatting earlier today, as people do, and maybe he might have asked to sleep with us?”

“maybe,” you echo, dropping your legs over the side of the couch. “maybe he might have asked to sleep with us.”

“us. as a unit. in a threesome. make sense?”

“it makes perfect sense, joong, i understand what you’re saying. i’m just trying to understand why he wants it to be us and not just you.”

“oh, he finds you very attractive, and he’s super down to fuck you. or be fucked by you if you’d rather do that, but his dick is reportedly huge, and i know how you feel about big dicks—”

“are you still butthurt about that? it was dirty talk!”

“do i look like an insecure man to you? i get you to cum around my cock every time we fuck; i guarantee i’m not concerned about comparing sizes.” that effectively shuts you up, mostly because you can’t deny the truth in the statement, and hongjoong smiles with a bit too much pride gleaming on his features. you let him get away with it for the time being. “anyway, he wants it to be us because even though he has a crush on me, he wants to fuck around with you too.”

“okay.” you let it settle for just a moment, long enough to mull over the situation and what it could entail. frankly, it’s an easy choice to make. “when were you thinking we’d do this? tonight?”

“what? you — no, not tonight. i wasn’t expecting a yes from you, at least not one so quickly.”

your initial response is to shrug, then you take a deep breath and shake your head a little before coming up with a more wordy reply.

“he’s attractive to me too. if he’s clean, and he’s someone you’re mutually interested in, then i don’t see why not?” you glance over his desk once more. that film camera stares back at you, just past hongjoong’s shoulder, and you decide to go out on a limb for a moment. “does this have anything to do with the camera behind you?”

hongjoong blinks several times like he’s confused by the question. then he glances over his shoulder and looks down at the device.

“ah, no. that’s wooyoung’s. he forgot it here after we got dinner.”

“he’s already wining and dining you?” you inquire, a smile pushing through on your lips.

“i paid.”

you tilt your head and maintain the grin, just to watch the flush of embarrassment creep up hongjoong’s neck.

“that’s not… not something i considered.”

“well,” you start, pushing up out of your seat and stepping closer to hongjoong’s chair. he slides back a hair as you move, but his eyes glint a bit under his studio lights. “if he’s interested, then would he also be interested in a bit of pregaming? to see if it’s still something he wants to be a part of? i’m assuming you haven’t outed all our dirty little secrets to him.” your hand comes to rest on hongjoong’s shoulder, and the man tenses under your grasp for a split second before he’s exhaling and relaxing again. “not that we could expose everything we do together in one video, but still.”

“unless you packed a strap in your bag, then no.” hongjoong laughs more to himself than to you, eyes filling up with some level of fondness as he looks up at you through pretty lashes.

“unfortunately for you, no. didn’t think it would be that kind of night, but maybe next time.”

“didn’t peg you for one to like being in front of a camera during sex,” hongjoong says under his breath, but he’s already reaching for the camera on the edge of his desk. you huff out a laugh at his choice of words before pulling away to return to the couch.

“as nice as it would be to ride you on that chair… i don’t think it can handle both of us.”

“never made a sex tape before, i’ll be honest.”

“think you can handle holding it while you fuck me?” you’re midway through pulling your shirt off when a different set of hands interrupts your motions. hongjoong grips your hips and spins you around, easily pushing you down to the couch before dropping his full weight on top of your thighs. his knees press down on either side of your body, then he’s leaning over to the side and fiddling with the camera in his hands. you can’t see what he’s doing very well with the angle; it’s only when he pulls back and settles back onto your lap after setting the camera on the armrest that you realize what he’s done. his tongue darts out to wet his lower lips, eyes darting between you and the camera where the red light blinks back at both of you.

“we’re really about to do this?” hongjoong whispers as his hands move to cup the back of your neck.

“i-i think so.” your jaw hangs open a bit even after speaking. “we can always delete it after if… it’s too much.”

“he likes too much. loves it even.” the man above you eyes your lips.

“cool. yeah. that’s nice.”

“yeah,” he repeats back to you. the two of you really aren’t usually like this — things move so smoothly it could be just an extension of yourselves at this point, but right now, with the camera staring you down from the side, there’s an unbridled excitement bubbling in your gut that you aren’t quite sure how to handle yet.

“kiss me? please?”

“yeah,” hongjoong pants like he’s already been kissing you for minutes before this.

that first connection of your lips is all you need to break the seal of awkwardness, the comfort and familiarity behind the feeling of his lips against yours snapping you back to the rhythm you’re more at ease with. his tongue is quick as always to slip into your mouth, and when it brushes over yours, you can taste the americano he usually has on late nights on his tongue. it’s another sense of familiarity, a comfort that pushes you to lose yourself further in the kiss as hongjoong runs his hands up to your cheeks. you pad around his waist in search of the hem of his hoodie, but even when you catch hold of it, he doesn’t let you separate your mouths quite yet. you whine into his mouth, trying to pull the fabric up and over his head until he finally takes the hint and pops off your lips.

“needy baby.”

“you’re one to talk,” you mumble back. hongjoong sinks his teeth into your lower lip before settling back on his heels and stripping the hoodie off his torso, tee underneath going with the fabric.

“your turn, darling.”

“just — hold on,” you start, slipping out from under hongjoong’s weight to resituate. he watches you go with a bit of stunned confusion on his features but doesn’t voice his question until you’re already settled behind him on your knees.

“y/n?”

“can i eat you out?”

hongjoong’s so startled by that question that he falls forward, bracing himself on the back of the couch and gripping the cushions hard enough to make his knuckles bleed white.

“y-yeah, okay, yeah, you can but jesus christ, y/n, a warning would be nice.”

“that was a warning!” you catch hold of the band of hongjoong’s sweatpants as you protest. perhaps there’s a bit too much delight coursing through you as you watch him jolt from the touch, a pretty curve to his spine that makes you want to move faster and get on with it.

“you’re such a menace, you know that?”

“you love it though.” hongjoong helps you get the sweatpants down to his ankles, lifting each knee as you pull the pants lower and lower, then his backside is fully exposed to you, cock hanging between his legs half-hard and already weeping with a bead of precum. “pass me the camera.”

hongjoong does as asked with surprising haste. he looks back at you over his shoulder as you take it between his legs and prop it upright at the edge of the cushion. it’s not the perfect angle, but it’s good enough to where the view will be directly on your tongue and hongjoong’s ass, and you don’t doubt that will be plenty of masturbation material for wooyoung whether you end up fucking around with him or not.

the first drag of your tongue over hongjoong’s hole has him keening so far forward that he goes out of frame entirely, and you have to snake an arm around his abdomen just to yank him back into it.

“hold still for wooyoung, darling,” you taunt, letting some edge creep into your tone. it does its work based on the scoff that follows, and you shut hongjoong right up with another well-placed lick. it takes all of two seconds for you to have hongjoong whining into the couch under your ministrations, and it takes one breach of your tongue into his ass for him to spurt precum onto the same cushions. “you’re so messy, joong. does it feel that good?”

“yeah, talk it up, y/n. just wait until i — ah, fucking christ, until i fuck you senseless, then we’ll see where that confidence goes.”

you have to fight the urge to roll your eyes, only managing not to do so because you flip hongjoong over into a more natural sitting position a second later. he takes up the camera on his own without your prompting, and you don’t doubt it’s because he knows where this is headed. when he angles the camera down towards where your face now rests against his inner thigh, his tongue pokes out to tease the corner of his lips.

“smile for wooyoungie, y/n~”

you ignore him in favor of spitting onto your palm, rubbing the saliva up to your fingers before settling your lips over the tip of his twitching cock. the view is lewd and filthy, about to be made worse by the eye contact you make with the blinking red dot beside the lens of the camera, and you take your wet fingers back to hongjoong’s asshole as you sink down to the hilt on his member.

“that’s it, baby, use your pretty little mouth on me.” hongjoong moves his free hand to your hair, pushing the bits that have fallen forward away from your face to get a better show for the video. you have to give credit where credit is due — the man knows how to drive you crazy with dirty talk, even when you’re trying to make him fall apart, and that’s certainly playing to his advantage now when it’s for show. “gonna get me nice and wet to take your cunt? or do you want me to fucking ruin that pretty face with my cum?”

as much as you try to lose yourself in the weight of his cock against your tongue, the feel of your fingers pushing into his ass and brushing over his sensitive walls, his words have a way of dismantling you with little effort. you moan around his member, tongue slipping down to caress the underside of him. you sink lower until his tip taps against the back of your throat. he’s not quite big enough to gag you, but the small thrust he gives when you sink your fingers further into him has you gagging and dripping saliva out the corners of your mouth. you don’t let up though; you’re anything but a quitter, and he’s not going to get away with one tiny thrust before you’re finished. part of you wishes you could see his face so you could see your efforts paying off on his pleasured expression, but that damn camera blocks his face just enough for you to only be able to see it and the way his eyebrows are drawn together. if anything, it encourages you to work harder, to bob your head along his dick without bothering to be clean about it. you can’t focus on properly fingering him open, but thankfully you don’t need to tonight.

“so good, baby, your mouth feels so good around me. does my cock taste that good? want it in you forever, hm? bet you’d look even prettier with a bigger, fatter cock to stretch your lips and throat.”

and maybe later you’ll tease him about how quickly he reaches his orgasm, because it takes less than three minutes for him to yank you off his cock by the hair. strings of saliva connect your lips to his member still, even as you take his cock between your fingers and jerk him over your waiting tongue with a heavily-lidded expression that’s properly debauched for the camera. you squeeze your eyes all the way shut when his cum falls over your face, missing your tongue by quite a bit and hitting your cheeks and nose instead, and you don’t stop until his cock has nothing more to offer for now.

“fuck, look at you.” hongjoong leans forward and in turn presses the camera further into your messy face. his hand combs over your scalp, palm coming to rest against your forehead and pushing you back in a way that displays the streaks of cum over your features. “like being put on display like this? showing off what a good cumslut you are for me?”

your eyes flutter shut as he drags his fingers down your face, and the action causes the cum to smear further, like he’s trying to paint your whole face with the substance, his very own piece of art to show off for wooyoung to see. that thought fills you with more arousal than you’re willing to admit.

when he releases you, it’s only to stand up with the camera still pointed down at your face, and he nudges you with his foot. you move without thinking too hard, stripping yourself of your clothes in ten seconds flat (maybe even a new record, if you’re being honest), and you don’t think twice when you take his spot on the couch. you perch just as he did at first, hands gripping the back of it and digging into the cushions as he stands behind you. there’s a warm hand on your ass, one that rubs small circles into your skin.

“think you’re already loose and ready to take me, baby?” hongjoong murmurs. the words nearly knock the air out of your lungs, and you mumble out a response that sounds loosely similar to ‘yes’. although in reality, it might just be a string of nonsensical profanities. “of course you are. my pretty baby… made to take whatever cock is put in front of you.”

he pushes against your folds, and his cock is still a bit soft when he pushes into your cunt. your walls squeeze around him, sucking him deeper into your heat with ease.

“come on, fuck me, joong,” you whine into the cushion, only to earn a half-hearted laugh from the man behind you.

“you know, wooyoung is a brat. you’d have to beg a lot harder than that to get him to fuck you.”

you don’t need hongjoong to run his mouth to get off, especially not as you snake a hand down your stomach to rub over your clit, but his incessant comments are going straight to your core in a way that has your muscles shaking already. teasing hongjoong for cumming so quickly might be off the table based on how your gut is coiling and twisting with arousal so much so that you think you could cum with the slightest stimulation.

he rolls his hips forward after what feels like hours, driving his cock harder into your pussy. he might not be the biggest in terms of length down there, but his refractory period is a bitch to deal with because of how often it ends with him overstimulating you to high heaven. that might not be an issue tonight — you’ll probably stop after you hit your own high — but it does bring him to full hardness inside your cunt and fills you out in turn. his following thrusts are shallow but punctuated enough to have you crying out around the couch, fabric caught between your lips.

“let wooyoung hear you, baby. sing for him, little songbird~”

you’re going to have to beat this fucker up after this for the way he’s running his mouth, that’s for certain. but right now?

right now you’re going to sit back and enjoy the feeling of his cock rubbing up against your walls as you tilt your head back to moan into the empty air before you. he’s pleased enough with the action to shut up, for the time being, focusing his attention on his thrusts and groans as he drives into your cunt. the blessed silence never lasts long, and tonight it lasts maybe four minutes at best before he’s back to chatting up a storm behind you.

“you close, angel? can you cum for us?” you’d just forgotten all about the presence of the camera in his hand until right then. the little reminder has your spine curling, hand working faster at your clit to force yourself into a speedy orgasm.

“g-gonna cum, joong, fuck, i wanna cum so bad.”

“go ahead, baby. and tell wooyoung how much you want him while you’re at it.”

you press your face into the crook of your elbow, eyes scrunching shut as your high hits. something close to wooyoung’s name tumbles from your lips, but it’s interrupted by a moan as hongjoong’s thrusts speed up, driving over your g spot with more haste now. you could very well be sobbing into your elbow, or it could simply be the mixture of cum and sweat on your face — you have no way of knowing right now. you are vaguely aware of hongjoong’s cock twitching inside you, a telltale sign that he’s cumming, and then there’s a fuzzy sensation filling your gut. he pulls out of your cunt too soon for your liking, so quickly that the cum starts spilling out of your fluttering entrance as soon as he empties himself in you.

“my cum is so pretty dripping out of you, baby. your sweet little used hole can’t even keep it in, huh?”

there’s a click, then a snap, and you see the camera fall down next to you on the couch cushions. the light isn’t flickering anymore, and the reality of what all you just did and recorded hits in the wake of your orgasm. hongjoong’s weight presses up against your back. wet lips kiss a path up your spine and rest against the nape of your neck.

“can’t wait for wooyoung to fuck you.”

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writefightandflightclub · 3 years ago

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The fourth wall (Dieter Bravo x acting coach!fem!reader)

Summary: They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Is the same premise true for veteran actors? Because trying to coach Dieter Bravo, is a pain in your ass. Maybe though, of all people, you can help to spark some passion in the man?

Author’s note: I WROTE THIS PRE-MOVIE RELEASE DATE (I just didn’t post it in time) so this is WRITTEN BEFORE I SAW THE CANON. I fleshed out my interpretation of Bravo from a few seconds of the trailer, and I kinda like this version of him, personally - he was fun to explore! But, he may be a very different Bravo than the guy in the movie (which I’m gonna watch soon so no spoilers please!) :P I hope you like him anyway!

Word count: it’s 15k. I have NO IDEA if ANYONE will read this and I may regret everything. But it came into my head and wouldn’t leave me so here we are.

Genre / rating: idek what this is? Two people annoying each other then...? Sort of romance / attraction? Sort of platonic? Sort of character study? Sort of character development / emotional arc? Some angst and some steam.

Warnings: reader does most of the emotional labour here. Bravo’s a bit of a dick in this but not all the way through. Steamy themes for definite but NO SMUT. Mentions of loss of loved one. Mentions of therapy / mental health. Mentions of smoking / alcohol / cursing. Mentions of anger. Coach / client relationship (sorta). Lmk if I missed anything.

Rating: 18+ for Mature themes. Not explicit.

GIF:by @pascalsky

Session One

The bastard doesn’t show.

At least, not until 5 minutes before your class was scheduled to end.

You send him to buy you a coffee for his tardiness, but he doesn’t return.

Session Two

“Do you have passion, Bravo?” you say with energy, your voice reverberating around the fresh interior of your studio theatre - your very own hard-won empire in downtown L.A.. The place is bright and sparse – empty aside from you and your current client. The oppressive late summer heat filters through the wall of latticed windows and makes its presence known too.

A gust from the jittery, rotating floor fan shifts the man’s mop of brown, tousled hair, and he drags his gaze from the tatty script balanced on his ripped jeans and up to you. “You” being his acting coach, for the Godforsaken hour a day he is contractually obliged to spend with you.

It’s a surprise, honestly, that he reacts at all. Bravo had so little energy and presence in the last read through that you had been starting to wonder if he was actually falling asleep. You couldn’t exactly tell - not between the barrier of his D-frame shades and the unmoving, slouched position he had adopted in his chair.

Now, he scrunches his face up as though the sound of your voice causes him physical pain, and he rifles hastily through the pages as though he might find his answers there, looking like a panicked high schooler who didn’t study for a test, now burning under his teacher’s glare.

“Um… He-”

“No,” you say robustly, swiping your arm out to knock the script to the floor, snatching his focus back to you as you shake a (slightly melodramatic) fist in the air. Oh well - all the world’s a stage, and all that. “Not him. Not your character. You, Bravo. You.”

Well, does he? Have even a shred of passion left? The studio certainly doesn’t seem to think so, and even when they’d booked you, they’d agreed that you couldn’t be expected to “work miracles”. Just make him “suck less”, they’d said. With him in the room too!

You fold your arms and exhale deeply as you wait for his response - his response being to sigh emphatically and scuff his ratty sneakers across the shined floor, leaving a rubbery trail behind. You tut inwardly, pretty confident you’d specified non-marking soles. Unsurprisingly, yet another instruction he had failed to heed.

Under you unrelenting stare, Bravo groans softly, collapsing his body to the side as though being crushed by an invisible pressure from above. His hand dives beneath his plaid shirt to scratch at one of his pecs. To rub his own shoulder, in what you can only guess is some kind of self-soothing gesture. (Either that, or he’s simply an especially itchy person?!) His shirt hangs open at the collar, almost entirely futile in its attempt to function as a piece of clothing, since he’s neglected to fasten half of his dratted buttons.

Still, witnessing the slight sheen of sweat on his bared chest makes you conscious that your own clothes feel a little cloying against your skin in the baking room. That the back of your neck prickles with warmth - from the heat as well as the effort of being the only one giving anything in this equation. You’re wearing black, fortunately obscuring any sweat stains, but the room hangs heavy with the odour of bodies exerting themselves.

Maybe it’s exacerbated by the heat setting your nerves on edge, but Bravo irks you. Causes you to lose your cool. There’s nothing you detest more than apathy, and ironically, he is highly enthusiastic in his commitment to it.

He spreads his legs, squirming in his seat as you await his answer. However, you are not averse to making him squirm even more. You think he may even deserve it.

Who the fuck does he think he is, anyway, with his open shirt and his obnoxious little earring? With that perpetually bored, infuriating pout? Wearing his shades inside and slouching in his chair and giving you nothing. Not even his respect.

You’re hailed as the best acting coach on the west coast, and just about every renowned performing arts institution in the western hemisphere - and further afield- is desperate to bag you for a seminar. Your classes and 1:1s are booked out 12 months in advance, with hundreds more people on your waitlist. You’ve coached unknowns to household names. Your students have bagged awards from Oscars to Emmys to Césars.

You’ve worked with the best. More than that, you made them the best - at least, you had a huge part in it. And now, here you are. Apparently, wasting your time with Dieter fucking Bravo.

You can work clients through any number of blocks, so long as they show willing, but this one has you stumped. You’re simply not used to dealing with people who don’t want to be here. You’re used to passion, and Bravo is…

Bravo is a limp fish. A sack of flour. A wet towel. A threadbare robe. Thoroughly uninspired.

“Bravo!” you clap loudly in his face, your voice rich and authoritative, filling the whole space as though the room is your stage. Someone ought to be charismatic, you consider, given this is acting class. Bravo startles a little at the sharp, intrusive sound, jumping in his seat as though he’d forgotten you were there at all. “Yeah. You should make the most of that sound. It might be the last applause you’ll ever fucking get - unless you start taking these sessions seriously.”

Okay. So, you have a reputation as a proponent of the tough love - but, in your defence, only when it’s needed. You’ve offered Bravo a succession of carrots today that he failed to munch on, and so maybe it’s time for some stick.

(God, the fact his name is Bravo is a whole new level of irony.)

You snap your fingers to prompt him this time and the man twists his face up further, slipping it into a grimace until it grows as crumpled and lined as his un-ironed shirt. You’re pretty sure, on inspection, that it’s the same crumpled outfit he had on yesterday. If he had a particularly wild night, you’re not sure you want to get close enough to detect any residual odour of… whatever he may have put in his mouth last night - alcohol or otherwise. Therefore, you lean in, your hand planting on his shoulder but keeping him at arm’s length, just to be on the safe side. He hunches his broad shoulders up towards his ears.

Christ. Quite how someone can look so intensely uncomfortable whilst at the same looking like they’ve just crawled out of bed, is confounding. What’s more, how someone can make you oscillate so starkly between frustration and pity is beyond you. However, when the man isn’t riling you, he’s just so… forlorn, that in some moments you want to pull his head into your lap and rock him all better. At other times, to be fair, you want to slap him around the face; and of course, in reality, you wouldn’t dream of doing either.

You shake your head softly to yourself. Is this really him? The same guy you’d always had a distant celebrity crush on? The one who had always appeared so dapper and suave, whenever you’d see those red-carpet press shots? The same guy who positively wowed you with his monologue in the movie Summer Rain all those years ago? Who delivered one of the most intense and heartfelt scenes you’ve ever seen in your life?

Him?

Of course, you’ve met enough actors to know that internet gossip so rarely paints an accurate picture, but this time it’s so far off the mark it’s a little hard to swallow. This guy in front of you now doesn’t look at all like that version of a man. Honestly, right about now, he looks like a sorry, washed-up, asshole of a guy. In fact, no. It’s even worse than that; a washed-up asshole who didn’t learn his lines.

“Fuck, Bravo,” you chide, and he must sense you’re about to tell him off because you can practically see him doubling down on his apathy. Sinking further into his chair.

“I’m sorry, lady, but these sessions are a joke,” he scoffs, quickly raising his palms in surrender, like a total coward. “No offence.” Maybe you’d have a little bit of respect for him if he had the courage of his convictions, at least.

You begin to shake your head incredulously and he stands then; though, it is hardly a victorious surge to standing. Rather, it is one borne out of petulance. He’s throwing a strop. “I need a fucking cigarette.”

You watch him finger a box of smokes from his jeans pocket, the packet almost as battered as him. Damn. How did this man get to be so crumpled and sad, you wonder? He looks in desperate need of a bubble bath and a tender lay or something.

You might even have been inclined to help him like that, if he wasn’t being so… him.

“These sessions are keeping you in a job,” you say tersely, jabbing your finger in his direction.

You see his eyebrows pump up once, over the rim of his shades. “Pretty sure they’re paying you for me to sit here.” You huff out air between your teeth. You can hardly believe the audacity of him. Bravo, meanwhile, simply shows his teeth, giving you the fakest of smiles. His whole manner signals despondency. “Now excuse me while I…” -he wafts his hand in the direction of the door- “…fucking leave.”

You stamp your foot. God, you can’t stand him. You’ve never worked with anyone quite so unprofessional. So rude.

“Where do you think you’re going?!” you yell to his back as he saunters towards the door, pushing it open. Anger flares in you as he hoists his arm into the air, delivering you the finger.

“Oh, this?” he asks facetiously, gesturing at the door as it cracks open. “Consider it breaking the fourth wall, sweetheart.”

Your eyes close and you seethe in a breath as the slammed door quakes on its hinges. Clenching your fists and clamping your arms to your sides, you take a few deep, calming breaths in an effort to recompose yourself.

Oh well. It could be worse, you think.

Whatever hellish emotion that was he exhibited… it’s surely gotta be a step up from apathy?

Session Three

Lo and behold, Bravo came back today. Fifteen minutes late -likely just to spite you - but he made it. He had walked in to find you sat cross-legged on the floor of your studio, a cold brew in your hand, various scripts and your laptop spread out before you. You had glanced down towards today’s notes - shuffling them from the pile - and had sighed dejectedly, shooting a pointed look between him and the clock. That was all more wasted prep you could have skipped out on last night - in favour of that screening your friends had invited you to as well.

Bravo looks even more like a lost puppy today. He’s still hanging his head, but this time you think it’s in apology. Because he knows he’s done wrong. Even so, just like a puppy, you’re not entirely convinced the man has learned his lesson just yet.

Adding weight to that theory, he doesn’t bring anything more to the table this session, necessarily; but he at least seems a little more resigned to his fate. You’re guessing the execs may have had a stern word. Reminded him of the clause in his contract.

Today, the shades are off too. It doesn’t make all that much difference – from one brown, glossed-over surface to another, his eyes just as empty of enthusiasm as those lenses. However, at least it’s slightly more obvious that, no, he definitely isn’t paying attention. Nothing much else has changed either. He still has that just-rolled-out-of-bed look about him, but the half-open shirt and that ire-drawing earring seem marginally less obnoxious now that he’s working just a little harder, as though the two things directly correlate.

Bravo runs through the warm-up exercises with relative obedience, but you just know there’s going to be a hiccough at some stage. And, sure enough, you aren’t waiting too much longer. As soon as you push him on anything real - his character’s motivations in the script- he bristles all over again, doing whatever he can to wiggle out of it. To be purposefully obtuse.

Your exchange of words grows heated enough – as hot as the close air in the clammy room- that Bravo stands and begins to pace, his undone shoelace slapping against the floor with each animated step. You gripe at him again, until the bastard decides he has had enough, actually daring to pop a cigarette inside your studio.

He hangs his head out of the cracked window, the blare of traffic intensifying as he pushes it wider still, hurriedly scuffing the lighter with his thumb. Luckily, you manage to hasten over to his side and deftly pinch the smoke from his lips before the flame catches, leaving him looking petulant all over again - his plush lower lip popped in a pout. You even see him longingly eyeing the door as though he might hatch a second escape plan.

Well, nope. No way. You’ve been here before, and you refuse to tolerate such behaviour another time. Determinedly, you pocket his cigarette and fold your arms against your chest. “Consider the fourth wall closed today, hun. Today you work.”

“Look, lady.” You saw your jaw back and forth. It really wouldn’t be hard for him to say your name. “It makes no difference what I do here. I’m Dieter fucking Bravo.” Christ, he even says his own name like it’s scripted. In fact, his arrogance seems to be the only thing about him which is well-rehearsed. The only thing with an ounce of finesse. “I’m signed on for the whole fucking franchise. Every god damn sequel. There is no Cliff Beasts without me.”

His words sound singularly prideful at first; however, you are nothing if not a pro at reading between the lines. You feel his unabashed disdain for the franchise bleeding through. Perhaps even a shame attached to his supposed badge of honour.

He huffs next, waving his arms lazily in the air, the unbuttoned cuffs of his shirt sagging floppily around his forearms. The fan causing his half-fastened shirt to simultaneously balloon and cling to his figure. He’s pleasingly proportioned, you note, underneath his single-handed attempt to start a pirate-grunge fashion trend. “You want passion from me but… come onnnn. Cliff Beasts? Six? Would you feel passionate about that, sweetheart?”

You blink. You mull it over.

You note that his voice is particularly rough and scratchy today. Even more of a deep, scuffed rumble. He sounds tired. Fried. Done. So done.

You almost veer towards pity for him.

Almost.

But your frustration wins out.

You’ve dealt with some characters, but Bravo is up there with the most infuriating of all. In fact, you could swear steam must be coming out of your ears. Hell, even with the price hike you’d negotiated with the studio after yesterday’s diva-ish display, you’re definitely not getting paid enough for this.

You’re working your ass off to try and make him look good. And, meanwhile, he’s getting showered with riches for doing less than the bare minimum. Whinging and whining because the meanies at the studio have affronted his ego by daring to suggest he needs to do better. How long did he really think he could coast for?

“Do you know how deluded you are?” you needle, and he looks at you disdainfully, reaching up to scratch at the pattern of unruly, patchy scruff along his jaw. You notice the peppering of grey hairs there for the first time. That could look quite distinguished. Quite hot, if he wasn’t so… him, just like a lot of features he possesses. Bravo is a man who is undoubtedly less than the sum of his parts. “There’s a break clause, Bravo. Don’t you read your fucking contracts?”

His arms flop limply by his sides, and he lets his jaw go slack, curling his tongue in his mouth like he’s trying to tie up an olive stem. God. You hate it when he does that. Why does he do that? You can’t stand him.

“You might imagine Cliff Beasts won’t continue without you, but I know differently. I know that if you don’t give this a decent go, I don’t sign you off from the programme. I don’t sign you off, and the execs will find another greedy hole to stuff your obscene pay check into. Probably someone younger and prettier and less fucking entitled than you.”

He tousles his mop of brown hair, some sweat-dampened strands clinging to his forehead. “They wouldn’t do that. They need me. I-“

You clamp your hands down firmly on his forearms, shaking him a little. Perhaps hoping to jolt some sense into him. Maybe also to hurt him a little bit -verbally- as retribution for his disrespect. “-They auditioned for your role, Bravo.”

Well, that shuts him up. Clearly, his arrogance has made him short-sighted. Clearly, that’s something he didn’t know.

He takes a step back from you, looking momentarily wounded but quickly smoothing over the emotion brimming in his eyes. (Finally, some hope that maybe he can act!) Then, he freezes to the spot, his hands on his hips and his tongue poking out to wrap around his top lip, dipping the crown of his head towards you as he stares intently at the floor. He stays like that for a moment, until he begins slowly nodding, shaking himself around from the shock of hearing your revelation.

“Fuck this shit,” he curses, sweeping his arm along the windowsill and sending his script tumbling to the floor. “Nine fucking years of my life for this.” Behind his back, you eyeroll so hard you’re worried that it was audible. Of course he’ll deflect blame, you think. Sounds about right. Of course none of this could be his fault.

He stays like that for a moment more, his arms braced against the sill, head hung between his broad, hunched shoulders as his palms grip the edge. The rattle and shush of the fan and the distant blare of traffic envelop the stifling room for a moment, and, given his stillness, you watch the bead of sweat roll down his temple as though in slow motion, the small and very human detail activating your empathy for him in spite of your better judgement. He reaches his elbow up to his face and wipes his brow on his shirt sleeve, before his voice comes back smaller than usual. “Is there no fucking air-con in here?”

“Yeah, sorry about that. Bad time for building maintenance.” Then, silently, you fill him a cup of water from the cooler in the corner and offer it to him. He takes it but doesn’t thank you.

He looks so distressed now that for a split second, you think about shuffling closer to him. About reaching out and smoothing some circles into his slightly sweaty, plaid-adorned back. However, then you remember his antics yesterday and decide better of that. Instead, you simply look on at his sharp side profile as he tips his heads up, staring out of the window wistfully, gazing across the lot. It’s a new layer to him. He even looks as though he might be about to actually care about something for once - even if only the prospect of losing a rather lucrative pay check. However, in the very next instant you chide yourself for holding out any hope of him caring. The man shrugs his broad shoulders up to his ears and drops them emphatically. “Whatever.”

Jeez. He’s like a wet towel. Is there really no fight left in him?

“Goddammit, Bravo,” you sigh. He’s so infuriating. Half your clients would kill to be where he is now. Shit - all of them are working their asses off to try and get there, and here he is flushing it all down the toilet.

The saddest thing is, you think he really does have talent. At least, you believe it’s buried somewhere in there, underneath all the apathy and arrogance.

With a softer, far more disheartened sigh at the intrusive thought you might have failed him, unable to draw that talent out, you drop your gaze to the floor. You slowly tread over to the fallen script, picking it up. You begin to leaf through it solemnly, even though you already know it inside out. Bravo’s copy though, is predictably blank compared to yours. Not a single scrawled note in the margin. No dog-eared pages, no highlighted lines. You shake your head and you have to wonder - did he even fucking read it?

You roll the script into a baton and bat him lightly on the shoulder with it, your tone altogether more gentle this time. Maybe you can try yet another tac. Carrots nor tough love have worked thus far. Maybe there’s something else. “What do you think this movie is about, Bravo?”

He snorts ruefully, face still turned and basking in the golden glow of the late summer sun. “Cliff Beasts. Six of ‘em.”

He turns his head over his shoulder to glance at you, and you throw him the fakest, most disdainful smile you are capable of. “A reminder. Your apathy isn’t cute, sweetheart.” He returns your grin with a smarmy, disingenuous smile.

“You know. You seem stressed,” he snarks bitterly, his half open shirt billowing in the breeze of the adjacent fan, revealing flashes of his smooth, tan chest to you. “I hear pilates is a gamechanger - maybe you should try that. Or was that big in the 90s? I forget. Is it all ASMR and meditation apps now or-?”

“-Bravo,” you interrupt, thrusting the script abruptly towards his chest, leaving his arms to spring up and cradle the crumpled pages like it’s a small baby. His humour is likely a well-rehearsed defence mechanism but it’s one you don’t have time for. “Don’t be a dick. You have $4mil in the bag for reading your lines adequately. The execs still like you. They don’t really want someone else. They just want you ten years ago. They just want someone who doesn’t sound…” -you fish for the right metaphor- “… like they’ve been held hostage and they’re reading the lines at gunpoint.” You snort, but suddenly Bravo doesn’t seem in the mood for humour when it’s at his expense. “I believe in you. Even you can surmount that low of a bar.”

He pushes up from the sill and turns his body so that he’s facing you, squaring off. His brown eyes flick towards you, and at this proximity, meeting yours directly, they’re more disarming than you might have expected. That irks you too.

Despite yourself, you actually find yourself willing this underdog to come through. Even if only to garner you some credit. Is this it? Could this be the tipping point, where he elects to turn it all around?

Maybe?

Except…. No.

No, because Bravo scrunches his face up as if in pain all over again, idly twiddling his earring between his thumb and forefinger and looking thoroughly despondent.

“Well. Therein lies the rub.” Still, only apathy. No reaction. No fire. No attack. No passion. And that, more than any of his arrogance or his snitty comments or that bizarre earring riles you. “I can’t do that.”

Fuck’s sake.

All you require is a spark to nurture, and you have to believe he can muster that much.

Does he simply need more of a push?

“Come on!” you yell, attempting to whip him into more of a frenzy about this. Attempting to provoke him. “Bravo, aren’t you embarrassed that they’re making you take acting lessons? Don’t you have something to prove? A little fucking self-respect?” You clap your hands loudly a few times into the space between you. “Come on, Bravo. Maybe this rockstar attitude flew when you were young,” -he saws his jaw back-and-forth at that sleight- “but now? For god’s sake, everyone has you pegged as some washed-up asshole.” You lean into him, grabbing him by the lapels of his shirt so securely that you actually pop off a button -much to his surprise- hoping that you can shake some life into him. “So what in the hell are you going to do about it?”

You stare deeply, pointedly, into his filter coffee brown eyes, willing some fire to ignite there, amidst the wash of cool and cultivated indifference. Bravo, for his part, doesn’t respond to you. Not verbally, at least, but he does set his jaw. He does meet your gaze right back - which is something. He does alter his stance, standing taller and broader than he has done all week.

His eyes are molten now. The brown in them suddenly rich and full of warmth. Your hands fisting in his lapels automatically relax into smooth palms, momentarily flattened against the warmth and broadness of his chest.

Maybe, just maybe, your pushing is finally getting you somewhere?

You drop your voice low, barely above a whisper, but injecting it with all the intensity of a yell, your hands still resting against him. “What do you want?“

You are willing him so hard to want something. Anything. Your own chest is heaving and so is his, his nostrils flaring as his breath saws in and out of him, a frown sinking into his brow.

Good, you think. That’s good.

You just want him to feel something. To desire something. Even if that’s a cheeseburger, you don’t care anymore. If Bravo would express even some basic, banal desire to you, you’d consider it progress. How can he know his character’s motivations, if he doesn’t even understand his own?

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” he says solemnly, fixing his warm hands over yours, and sliding them from his chest. He holds them momentarily by your sides, the pads of his girthy thumbs pressing lightly into your palms – a slow drag, his skin tacky against you. Then, he tugs in a deep breath and releases his grip, as though this small effort -letting go- pains him.

Doesn’t everything?

You swallow roughly as he shuffles marginally closer, slipping his hand in between the two of you, to where his commandeered cigarette pokes teasingly out of your top trouser pocket. Nimbly, he thieves it back, meeting your eyes the whole while, gaze bouncing from left eye to right. A gasp escapes you as the warmth of his vanishingly brief touch bleeds through the thin linen fabric, and at that point Bravo’s gaze dips towards your lips, his presence suddenly dominating the space -and your focus- as much as the oppressive heat. “Not even I can be me from ten years ago.” His voice sounds thoroughly sunken now. Scraped out. He threads the tip of the cigarette between his plush lips, a heavy weight settling on his brow. The stick bobs with his words, and his eyes narrow a little with derision. “I’m not that good of an actor.”

He hovers close to you for a moment more as you drink him in, his presence suddenly so imposing and his features so captivating that you are arrested there.

It is he who turns from you then, and when your tongue hangs less slack in your mouth you call out, the words spoken to his back, his shoulders hunched over and the scuff of a lighter sounding as he tries to light up.

“I think you are that good, Bravo.”

He turns back towards you, confused ire on his face. “What?” he says grittily through very deliberate puffs on his cigarette, coils of smoke being whipped around him by that rickety, insistent fan, and his features looking sharper almost, in contrast to the delicate wisps and curls of smoke.

“I think you’re pretending not to care,” you venture, throwing your voice across the room as much as you are throwing your deduction out there. You wait for his reaction but of course, none comes. He simply takes another drag, looking down at his sneakers. Looking suddenly vulnerable. Making you think of bubble baths and tender lays again, goddammit. Your tone even softens. Becomes less accusatory. “Is that not tiring, Bravo? Putting on that act?”

Despite the lost puppy look in his eyes, you can see tension roped through his body. Can note the way his eyes are sheening with emotion.

“Bravo?” you say softly, feeling your own face twist involuntarily with concern. You take one small step forward, truly meaning, this time, to reach out to him - but with it he is gone, leaving only smoke swirls behind.

The door swings on its hinges and when he’s gone, you catch a glance of yourself in the mirrored wall and feel ashamed of the look on your face. At the fact he has discombobulated you. At the fact he has left behind one thing a little more substantial than cigarette smoke. He has left you with a longing; or, an echo of it at least.

You even require a moment to gather yourself, laying down in front of the fan and contemplating existence.

“Phewfff!”

You stare up at the ceiling.

It’s far too hot in here, you think.

And, Bravo may be less than the sum of his parts, but there are parts of him that sure are something.

You breathe deeply and you close your eyes, until you no longer see his.

Session Four

The next day, Bravo arrives on time.

He still looks rumpled. His face twisted up and his tongue probing insistently along his own lower lip with a nervous tick, travelling from corner to corner.

However, his energy is different. Upon arrival, he immediately shrugs off his canvas cross-body bag, setting it down on the perimeter of the room. He drains the dregs of his Grande Frappuccino with a slurp and tosses the cup in the trash.

He is in the centre of the floor before you can make it there, tugging his too loose jeans up and tightening the clasp of his belt. Rolling up his floppy shirt sleeves and combing his mop of fluffy hair back from his forehead.

“Let’s run the scene,” he requests, energy coiled through his body, and still pacing on the spot, no slouch or lethargy in him today.

You are so pleasantly surprised it takes you half a moment to catch-up. “Really?” you question, about to make some other offhand quip, but Bravo interrupts you with urgency.

“Let’s run the scene,” he states firmly. “Let’s get this over with.”

Sensing his determination, and wishing to capitalise on his sudden change of heart before you lose him again, you toss your session plan aside and tread to the centre of the room.

Bravo’s eyes are busy with thoughts, and he doesn’t have his script in his hand.

“Which scene are you-?” you ask, offering your own script to him, which he quickly flips to page 43 and thrusts back at you.

“Here. I know the lines.”

You quickly skim the page. The scene between him and his love interest. “Yes. Okay.” You nod curtly. This is pretty much him monologuing, so you dip to slide your own copy of the script across the shined floor until it bumps up against his bag.

His choice of scene is interesting, though unsurprising. This is an emotive scene. One of the few character-to-character scenes he has in the movie, unencumbered by CGI sabre-tooth tigers. Bravo isn’t a character actor - that much is apparent. He puts his own self into his work. The past decade his work had lacked depth and you could argue this was a reflection of the man -shallow- but you hold out hope for something more substantive. Something altogether more raw. If any moment in the movie is his opportunity to shine – this scene is it.

“Is there anything in particular you want to explore with this run-through or-“

When you look back up at him, you see that Bravo is ready to launch. Not thinking, but feeling, and you know that any of your technical questions will be futile in this moment. He’s about to tumble into this scene and he’s primed for it. Practically standing up on his toes and ready to tip into you. His energy -such a shift- makes you excited too. Makes your heart slam just a little faster in your chest. Makes you bounce from foot to foot as a pulse of adrenalin fires through you.

“No. Let’s just try it.” His tongue swipes along his lower lip. “Can I get physical with it?”

You nod. “Fine. Find the gestures that feel natural with the words and-”

“-Can I touch you?”

“Yes.” Yikes you wish your voice wasn’t suddenly shaky. “I’ll tell you if it’s too much. Are you ready?”

Bravo nods in confirmation, and then retreats from you to the perimeter of the room, coming to lean up against the mirrored wall to one side of the studio. He reaches his hands up and plants them against the glass as his forehead comes to rest against it, his hips leant against the ballet barre. You look him over. The way his raised arms hitch his shirt up, revealing a band of tan skin at his middle. The way his ragged breaths fog the mirror, and the glass squeaks as he drags his fingers down like claws, his broad shoulders rippling beneath his thin button-down in a way you didn’t know they were capable of, the taper of him leading your eyes down to his narrow hips and long slim legs.

“Dammit, Sheila,” he rasps, and his voice is altogether darker than you’ve heard it before. The sound of it startles you from your study of him and you marvel at how easily he placed you in the role of spectator, even as you’re meant to be playing opposite him here. The way you jump a little when his voice finally sounds is not at all manufactured. “Don’t you trust me by now?” He pushes up from the glass, still with his back to you, and his body hunched but roped with tension.

“I…” you begin breathily, reciting your line conscientiously. “I know how much you need this win. Those eggs.” God this movie is lame. “I can’t believe you’d choose me over victory.”

Bravo -in character- turns his body towards you then, and you see that his eyes are wet with the beginning of tears. You knit your brows together in concern -your natural surprise at his emotive portrayal aiding you - your eyes shimmering as you searching his, watching his gaze flit all over your face as he begins taking slow but even steps towards you.

“I need this, baby,” he rumbles, and the intensity of him and his physicality tells your feet to move back. You play off of him and follow that instinct, letting him walk you backward until you can go no further. Until you are backed-up against the nearest wall. The press of the cool wall against your bare arms is a relief compared to the close heat of the room. “I need the money more than you could know, but I need you more than that.”

You throw your head to the side, imagining that your character cannot bear to meet the earnestness in his eyes a moment longer. The she does not dare to trust it. Bravo moves closer to you then. Slow and tentative. His movements and micro-expressions subtle. Small. Too small for theatre, but just right for the screen – you imagine the transition to the cropped frame would fit well here. “I’ve heard a lot of pretty words before, only to get screwed over at the last second. How do I know anything is different this time?” You inject an intentional break into your voice, giving his character hope that you may cave yet. That you doubt your denial of him.

“Look at me,” Bravo urges, a whispered ad lib as his warm palm snakes around your neck, his tone hushed and intimate. His thumb strokes circles into the spot just behind your ear, his lips dipping close enough to yours that you can smell the vanilla syrup on his breath.

The sweet, melted honey of him is suddenly cloying, disarming, and his touch on your skin enough that you want more, your lips instinctively chasing his. Despite yourself, desire plummets like a stone through your molten core, weighing your body down. Making your gaze heavy as you look back at him. It is all you can do to shake your head and focus on suspiring his character’s name instead of his own. Especially as he slides his hands between you, slipping them up from your waist, trailing up your sides and capturing your arms, drawing them above your head and pinning them to the wall as you languish beneath him, your legs quaking – not at all part of your performance.

“I want you,” he intones huskily, his lips sinking to graze the column of your neck. It’s a staged action, you know it, his nose and his cheek doing most of the nudging, but still - as you feel the rough brush of his scruff against your throat, the whimper you expel is entirely real. He draws back from you then, cupping your cheek with his hand now, and your arms fall from their pinned position, your palms finding his chest, caressing the bare skin revealed by the open “v” of his collar. “I want you and it scares me so goddamn much. My bravery is famed. I’ve fought dragons in space. But this? I can’t lose you. Not you.”

Dammit, Bravo. You had searched his eyes. Perhaps you had searched them a little too deeply, for he had faltered. And in that moment, the illusion had shattered, ripping you harshly from the scene.

“You’re flat on those lines,” you add efficiently, tapping his chest so that he steps back from you. “Reset. You’ve lost the fucking passion. Go back.”

He huffs, but he does indeed reset, running his lines again. Asking you questions.

“How was the physicality?”

“Fine, but too much too soon. Try and hold it back. So that when you finally touch her, it’s meaningful. Make the audience want it too.”

You make him run it again.

Again, and again.

You rework the lines. You set aside the script. You piece something more genuine together.

The words mean less than the emotion at this stage. You let him play around with it.

It gets better; then it gets worse again. Next, it’s middling.

You give him tips and notes. You torture him with feedback, seeking perfection. Seeking an unlocking of something you now truly believe is brimming below the surface.

It excites you.

He excites you.

You torture yourself with his proximity. With the scent of him. With his hands on your hot body. The textures of him against your skin. The sound of his voice in your ear. Against your neck.

“No! I don’t believe it. You’re at the end of the line. You love this woman, Bravo. You need more passion.”

“I can’t give you anything else!” he spits, sweat beading on his forehead. The back of his shirt dampened with a pattern of sweat too, creeping down his back.

“I don’t believe that,” you spit right back, circling each other in the space like a bull and a matador. “There’s more. Why this moment, Bravo? Why is it this line that blocks you? I’ve already lost too much-”

“Fine. You fucking want passion, huh?” he snarls, and your eyes spark back. That’s it. Finally. Finally, he’s coming alive. You’d stop antagonising him but it’s working. Something in him is opening up.

He’s making some poor choices. Misplaying some moments. But his acting is freer and lighter than you’ve seen it since Summer Rain – the role he’d shone so brightly in.

It’s baking in here. The fan tries in vain but your clothes are clinging to your skin. Desire clings to you too, a cruel tension, stoked yet unsated with every fleeting contact. Strands of his hair are flattened against his forehead and you know he wants to quit but you won’t let him. Not now. Not yet. Not when you’re so close.

He can do this. You believe he can do this. You’ve finally seen that spark.

“Can’t hear you, Bravo,” you chide, antagonising him further, and his lips draw back, revealing the line of his lower teeth. “I want to see what it is you want. Show me.”

“You want passion, sweetheart? Huh?” he shouts, pacing like a man undone. “You want me to show you what I want?”

You don’t get an opportunity to reply back as Bravo turns towards you in the next moment, directing the full scope of his feeling towards you. The way your stomach flips is obscene as his manner grows increasingly focussed, determined, casting him as a decisive man. Altering the whole set of his body. The look of his face.

He looks fiery. He looks hot. He tosses his well-thumbed script to the floor and with the heat of his gaze trailing over your form, you feel that he is showing you. He’s making your skin ignite, everywhere his gaze snags leaving a trail of fire.

He barrels towards you and his urgency seems a product of his barrelling want. A desire you feel on your skin and in the pit of you before any confessions leave his parted lips.

“I want you,” he breathes, his face twisted in torment, his whole body primed to touch you but holding back. Holding back so much that you crave nothing but his touch. Feel nothing but the lack of it. “I want you,” he suspires again, his breath shaky and hitching as he lifts his thumb, ghosting it along your lower lip. Tracing the shape of your mouth. You gasp from the contact – this morsel of touch, and you can’t stop the tip of your tongue fleeting out. Contacting the pad of him. Tasting the salt on his skin in a way that makes him groan, deep and low in his chest, the sound turning you molten. It makes you want to open up for him. To truly taste him. Feel him. But, you feel powerless to move, held in a thrall.

His eyes flit over your face in earnest, and you languish against the wall as he shuffles his body closer to yours, only enough space for the quickened rise and fall of your chests. You whimper, your eyes fluttering closed as Bravo swallows roughly. As his face dips towards yours, his shaky breaths fanning over you. The fan billowing the scent of his musk all over you, until it’s surrounding you just like the cage of his body, his arms pressing into the wall either side of your head.

Your heart is hammering apace as his mouth hovers moments from yours, and you whimper as his lips graze against yours; but, in the next moment, you feel him pulling back, your chin jutting out in a futile attempt to chase his kiss.

He’s full of passion now, and his gaze dips to your lips. He settles his warm palms around your elbows. His tongue skims along his lower lip and words writhe through his body, as though he’s finally about to say something with some meaning. As though he’s about to launch a true confession. Something from a place deeper than he’s ever dredged before.

“I want you… a-and it scares me so much.”

His brown eyes look soft and afraid. Molten with it. Soft and liquid, settled amidst the sharpness of his features. You tug in a breath, reaching your hand up to his cheek, settling your palm over the rough brush of his patterned beard, hairs bristling as his eyes close shut and he leans into your touch in a way that suggests he hasn’t felt anything so tender in what feels like a lifetime.

You tug in a breath, wishing to offer comfort for his pain. A balm to his torment. You tug in a breath, and his name is readied in your chest.

His name is readied in your throat.

His name is readied on your tongue.

His name.

Bravo.

“I want you, Sheila,” he intones, scooping your face up into his warm, broad hands.

Sheila.

The name.

Her name.

The name from the script.

“And I’ll save you from these cliff beasts if it’s the last thing I do.”

Your skin heats with embarrassment. Heats with the realisation that you had been entirely suckered in. Convinced it was you he wanted. Lost to the moment. Remiss in thinking this was anything but a performance.

“I’ve fought dragons in space, baby. My bravery is famed. But I can’t lose you. Not you. Not you too.”

You exhale your breath on a wave of despair as your all too real want remains unquenched. As the intensity of the emotion he is conveying seeps beneath your skin. Flutters against your bones like late summer butterflies kissing the core of you. Making you feel weak and fragile.

“I’ve already lost too much and…” God, his eyes are shimmering. His eyes are brimming with liquid stars and it doesn’t feel like a line. This doesn’t feel like a character. It simply feels like truth.

Until… “Fuck,” he curses, tearing himself away from you and turning away, the points of his elbows protruding as he raises both hands to claw his hair back from his face. His voice sounds as fragile as the thrum of a butterfly’s wing now. Thrumming with emotion. Sounding fragile, like he may wane and turn to dust with the scarcest confrontation. “I’m sorry. I thought I could do this but I…”

Your brow creases. You don’t understand. You push yourself off the wall and move towards him instinctively, keen to remain within his orbit. “Bravo… Are you kidding? That was… Fucking… Wow. I…. I’m shaking.”

You are. Shaking.

Bravo is too though. You note a tremble in his hand as he sinks down to his knees on the floor, drawing his hand up to bridge across his forehead, massaging into his temples and shielding his eyes from your view.

When he lowers his hand and blinks up at you, you see that his eyes are almost brimming over with glassy tears, his mouth fixed in a grimace as he attempts to quash them, but to little avail.

“Hey,” you half soothe, half exclaim in surprise as you realise his predicament, shaking your head softly with lack of understanding, but instantly dropping to your knees too, settling at a right angle to him and smoothing circles into his shoulder. “Hey,” you say with infinitely more softness, and that is when Bravo’s resolve collapses. His chest jolts with a sharp intake of breath, and the tears spill over on to his cheeks.

Your eyes search his as he swivels his head towards you -so helplessly- and you are stunned into silence, your mouth falling open with nothing to offer. Instead, your arms offer him something and you cautiously draw him into you, lowering his head into the crook of your neck, and rubbing and patting his back to offer him comfort, even if you don’t fully understand why he needs it.

You pats feel formal at first. Awkward, but soon, your motions across his broad back and shoulders are fluid and sweeping. Slow-moving, splayed finger motions, feeling every contour and muscle and bone of him beneath the path of your fingers. Soon, after a few moments of his tears wetting your shoulder, Bravo is wrapping his own arms around your waist, nuzzling into you. Soon, he is breathing in deeply, inhaling the scent from your skin and exhaling a warm breath which billows down the front of your cleavage.

Soon after that, Bravo’s hands are moving too. Slow hands, beginning as the pads of his fingers working over the notches of your spine – dancing over the fabric of your clothes. Then, his hands are flattened and achingly warm against you. They are sliding up and down your back, and you realise that you should have stopped this slow inch only when it is too late. Only when he pulls back from you and tilts his head, eyes full of a question and lips pouting as though he could answer it himself.

You tell him yes too. Yes, with your tongue, which unconsciously fleets along your lower lip. With the small breath you gasp in, as though you are surprised that something like this could be awakened in you. That a desire so heavy could make you feel so light; so light-headed.

And yet…

He dips his head forward to move in for the kiss and you tear your head away, blinking profusely and dipping your chin to your shoulder. Dropping your arms so that you can push your palms into the shined floor and shuffle away from him. Putting some distance between you – and that is all you can do, as when you look back into his face you are rooted to the spot, only so that you do not crawl back to him.

His warm hands are no longer on you. His shirt hangs open at the collar, his chest glistening with sweat. You are frozen in regret that the moment wasn’t to be. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t.

As soon as you move, Bravo screws his eyes shut in dismay. “Fuck. I’m sorry,” he chides himself, his apology far more earnest than you feel is necessary when you are equally culpable here. “What a fucking asshole.”

“No,” you state clearly, your voice ropey and frayed. You surge to standing even though your legs feel weak and cross to the water cooler, needing something to quench you and needing to put as much distance as possible in the small studio between you and him. “It’s…” You swallow harshly, your mouth infeasibly dry. “We’re projecting.” That’s it, isn’t it? That’s all it is? This isn’t real. “From the scene. We got caught up.”

You’re not sure why the words come out a little strangled, sounding like a question, but you do know that when you look back to Bravo it is a lie when he says “yeah” with a slow nod.

After all… He’s not that good of an actor.

You feel it’s fortunate that you’ve already drained your cup of water, when you note you are squeezing it in your fist as he looks on at you. Forlorn, all over again, as he moves to standing, his hands shoved into the back pockets of his jeans, his hair pleasantly scruffy again from his rifling fingers.

“Again. I’m sorry,” he offers, his hands quickly held up in surrender and maintaining a healthy distance from you. “I thought you might have wanted…” You stare at him unblinking, chewing on your own lip, and a hard swallow trails down his corded neck. He effortlessly reads your signal to leave it there, thank you very much, looking down at a patch of floor – neutral ground between the two of you. “I misread it. I’m sorry.”

“Take a walk, Bravo,” you order, your voice shaking subtly. “Go and cool down, huh?”

He looks wounded, but he doesn’t protest further. He simply nods softly and quietly scoops up his things as you stand on the perimeter of the room, your arms folded tightly against your chest. You watch his every move, even if you’re suddenly unable to meet his gaze, and so you see when he nods towards the clock. “We over-ran anyway. Let’s call it there.”

“Okay then,” you nod. “Fine.” Christ. It doesn’t sound like it’s fine to you. Your voice sounds unnatural. A little more shrill. Still, this is not enough on its own to prevent him from leaving. It is not a protest, even as all the butterflies in your body tug towards him.

God, you feel giddy.

He looks back at you over his shoulder, his eyebrows knitted together in concern, but still you let him go, and still he opts to leave.

You try to remind yourself. That he’s an actor, and that in real-life, there’s nothing real about him that he’s prepared to give. Not from what you’ve seen so far. That on screen there’s an honestly, like it’s the only place he dares to share his truth. That none of this is real.

You try to tell yourself that, but his question – in the next moment- catches you off-guard.

“This?” he asks, his voice robust and grounded and counter to your flighty butterflies. “Is this an act?”

“What?”

“You. Wanting me.”

You scoff. “I do not!” You try to smile. To laugh it off as though the notion is preposterous, but you can barely breathe. You try to put on an act but you are all too aware however, that in real-life, you don’t know how to be anything but honest. You are all too aware that you’re not that good of an actress, and that your face betrays your truth, plain as day.

It’s fleeting, but you think you spot it. The briefest of smiles tipping Bravo’s lips, before he smooths it over. He takes one long look at you, as if you could alone could quench the thirst he has worked up from hours of rigorous rehearsal in this heat trap of a room. “Right. Why would you? Think you’re just projecting, sweetheart.”

When he turns to go you take one step forward - futile as it is. He turns back towards you, looking over his shoulder, but you have no words to offer. At least, none that are bold enough to make it past your chest.

Bravo. Are you alright?

Bravo. Kiss me until I can’t think.

Bravo. You worked so hard today.

Bravo.

Luckily, he finds the words for you, with an ease as though they’re scripted. “Thank you.”

These simple words - after all of his resistance and apathy - suck the air right out of your chest. Still, you shake your head softly, in confusion. “What for?” Lord knows you can’t take credit for teaching him to act. The kind of talent you eventually saw today has to be innate. It had felt indistinguishable from truth, even though you were in on the illusion.

His expression becomes wistful, his voice fissured and fragile all over again. His voice tips up at the end, as though it’s a question. “For making me want something.”

Then, he sets his shades across his curved nose as though, otherwise, you might be able to see all the way into the depths of him, and he shuffles out from the stifling room into the stifling evening.

When he’s gone you release the longest breath, your head suddenly thumping as the rush of adrenalin begins to dissipate.

No, you don’t believe you can take all that much credit for Bravo’s talent. You’re not sure you have succeeded in coaching him at all. After all, this has all been strictly on his terms so far, despite your best efforts. In fact, the only thing you might have succeeded in, is developing the world’s most embarrassing crush on Dieter fucking Bravo. And, to your surprise -and relative dismay- not even a crush on the polished celebrity version of him, this time.

No. You think you have succeeded in developing a crush on the scruffy, hapless version of him. The one with the absurd earring and undone shoelaces, who -you most definitely maintain- is in dire need of a long bubble bath and the very tenderest of lays.

Yikes. For more reasons than one, after that session, you are in serious need of a cold shower.

Session Five

The next day, you have flouted your own personal rules on work attire. You’re wearing a spaghetti strap dress, thin and floaty. It’s too fucking hot. You have even resorted to a bag of ice chips, dabbing it against your chest and neck at intervals.

Your mission today is to keep your cool, in every sense of the word.

To remember why you’re here, as you’re sat cross-legged on the floor opposite Dieter Bravo, your dress hitched up above your knees to cool your clammy thighs.

You’re here to be a professional. You’re certainly not here to lust after the man and get all hot and bothered… Even if he is wearing goddamn EYELINER, so help you, as a result of his hair and make-up test shoot earlier today. Even if he is loosening his collar to dab the bag of ice chips over his bare skin.

“I want to talk to you. About yesterday.”

“Oh God,” he cringes, plopping the ice chips down in the bowl you nabbed from downstairs’ kitchenette, and crossing his arms over to grip each of his ankles. You can basically see him stiffen, his body wanting to constrict and squirm and tie itself in a knot. This shy, avoidant version of Bravo is becoming much more familiar than the passionate character you had encountered yesterday, even as you battle to reconcile the two. Familiar and safer, you think; until his awkwardness circles all the way around to endearing (and sexy in a pathetic meow meow sorta way) and you suddenly hate yourself for being such a weaky. “About me trying to kiss you? I-”

“No,” you deflect quickly, unwilling to open that can of worms, even as the mere suggestion of his lips on yours sends a heat snaking down your spine. (Christ, didn’t you “hate” him mere days ago? It’s amazing what a little eyeliner will do.) “About the work. I…” You slide your copy of the script towards him, across the meagre expanse of floor between you, and his gaze dips to it – a welcome relief from his eyes on you. “What do you think this movie is about, Bravo? Aside from ‘Cliff Beasts’? ‘Six of ‘em’?”

When you echo his disdainful words from a couple of sessions ago, Bravo smiles. It’s a cute thing – you hadn’t noticed his dimple before. You unconsciously mirror his smile, and you consciously wonder if this is the right approach to take. If finally, you’ve nailed it. You’d initially swallowed the studio line, but that’s not who you are. You work for the actor. With them. Figure out what they need to grow. You now believe that Bravo may have had the right idea all along. That maybe you have been taking this too seriously. In a world of CGI tricks and illusions, maybe what Bravo needs is someone to start being honest with him.

And so, you opt to try it out. “Look. This franchise is bullshit. I know it, you know it. The script is largely drivel. You’d think with all that money they could afford a decent script doctor-“

“-I think the script doctor was the one who fucked it up-“

You laugh lightly along with him, whilst remaining on track. “But, there are undeniably some nice moments in here.” He looks highly cynical, but you take it as a victory that he doesn’t verbally protest, at least. And so, you shuffle on your bum until you are closer to him, leafing through the script and showing him your new additions. “I marked some scenes. Some themes. It’s not about cliff beasts. Not really. It’s about longing.” You turn the pages to your next marker, fingers smoothing over the text as though you could feel the texture of the words themselves. “It’s about greed.” You flip the pages again, a weight settling on your brow. “It’s about loss.”

When you look up from the page to meet Bravo’s eyes, half-expecting him to have zoned out, you find his gaze intent on you, his eyes subtly smiling. “You really love what you do, don’t you?” he asks softly - with a hint of admiration, even.

“Yes,” you respond wholeheartedly, without hesitation. “Don’t you?”

Bravo simply pumps his eyebrows once in response, deflecting, and then nods downward, directing your attention back to the page. “I’m listening,” he reassures after a sceptical look from you, and your mouth lilts into a pleased smile.

His focus today is surprising you; you really can’t pin him down from one day to the next, can you? “Okay. Well.” You hum, finding your place on the page again, fingertips contacting the roughened paper. “It’s about fear, friendship. Love.” When he returns your look of scepticism -can this shitty movie truly encapsulate all that?- you reach your fingers out unconsciously, brushing his forearm, and finding the texture of him warmer and smoother than the leaves of the script. Dropping your voice, you level with him. “You might think the franchise is a joke, Bravo, but a lot of people adore it. It makes people happy. A lot of people are going to see this. So,” you shrug, “you might have to give a monologue while being pinned by a CGI sabre tooth tiger.” His brows twist in a gesture of self-pity, but you squeeze his arm, delivering your encouragement with gusto. “It doesn’t matter. Make it the best fucking monologue this award season anyway. Sell it, Dieter. I know you can.”

The man’s eyes soften as you search them, and he tugs in and releases a heavy, slow breath. For a moment, he looks down at your fingers resting on his arm with an idle curiosity, until you become self-conscious enough to pull your arm away. “Come on,” he says, voice gruff. “Makes people happy? Who actually likes this shit?”

You examine him with amusement twitching your mouth as he rifles his hand through his mop of hair, and now it is your turn to squirm self-consciously. You wring your hands in front of you. You’d hoped that you wouldn’t have to do this. “Alright,” you declare with a certain finality. “Confession time.” With a giddy grin you reach for your cell, ticking an eyebrow up at Bravo as he eyes you with interest. After a moment, you pass the cell over to him, sliding it into his broad palm.

As he focusses in on the screen, the device dwarfed in his hand, you watch him bashfully. You watch a full-blown smile capture his features as he eyes the photo you have presented him with, and a hint of colour deepens his cheeks. “You’re cute,” he notes, eyes shining wistfully as he lingers on the image, a throaty, delighted chuckle even escaping him as he zooms in for a better look. You feel the strain of a mirroring smile on your own cheeks too, his own mirth hard to resist.

It's an image of you and your friends at the local premiere of Cliff Beasts 4. You are each adorned in franchise-inspired costumes. You are dressed in a rather elaborate attempt at a pterodactyl costume, complete with headdress, winged sleeves… and of course, some little booty shorts to add a touch of sex appeal. “As you can see. I’m a fan.” You’ve never missed a release, in fact.

Your heart flutters a little as Bravo hands the cell back to you, his hand brushing against yours momentarily. The smile lingers on his face, that single dimple still carved out of his cheek reminding you he is, in fact, rather handsome underneath all of his actively repulsive qualities. “The movies are silly, but they’re fun. They have heart.” You blink a few times in rapid succession. “And if nothing else, they have eye candy, let’s be honest.” Bravo’s eyes pump up in interest, and his tongue does that thing, as though he’s trying to tie it in knots. That thing you used to hate, but now… it seems to tie your stomach in knots. Seems to leave you feeling a little tongue-tied too. For a moment you can’t meet his gaze. “People do like them. They like you.”

Bravo blinks rapidly now too, his gaze soft, his body squirming in that familiar way; except this time -despite all his front- it reads as shyness. It reads as uncertainty.

Resisting the urge to slide a comforting hand over his knee, you reassure him verbally. “You can do this, Bravo. You can do this well. Yesterday you-” your voice fractures simply remembering it. “The emotion you had.” You shake your head lightly in disbelief, your voice becoming full of air. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you, Bravo.” You watch a soft swallow trail down his neck. “I have a theory. You can fucking act. This display of talentlessness – the reason you ended up here - is entirely self-imposed.” You surmise he never truly needed an acting coach. A therapist? Maybe yes, in all seriousness, but that’s another conversation. This time, your hand does reach out, resting gently over his knee. Your voice is dropped to little above a whisper now, as breathy as the blow of the rickety fan which waves Bravo’s increasingly untamed locks. “You can do it.”

His voice barely makes it out of his throat, seemingly pinned by shards of emotion; emerging full of holes. His eyes sheen too. “I can’t.”

You actively try not to sigh over Bravo’s self-defeating nature – a stark contrast to the veneer of arrogance he’d presented when he’d first encountered you. The persona he’d built himself as a shield, you think. The greatest act of his life. Yesterday, you feel you’d seen something else. In the scene and without of it. He’d finally shown you some truth, and so, you push him as far as you dare to, in case there is even the slightest chance of seeing it again. “Would you like to talk about what happened yesterday? Something…” you chew on your lip, taking pains to be delicate. “Something is… blocking you?” You might have said “your process”. Blocking “your process”, but you feel that for Bravo, it’s one and the same. He's not a character actor. He brings so much of himself to his roles.

He is blocked.

His voice sinks, low in his chest. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

So there is something?

You snatch your hand back and hold it up in surrender, nodding in understanding. You can see your question has provoked him. His ire rises, tension roping through his jaw and neck, and, as his ire builds, you can see every iota of his effort focussed on directing it away from you. You see him turn it all inwards. Even as he stands and moves to the windowsill, hunching his body over – arms pressed against the surface. You see him twist and squirm and collapse beneath the weight of his burden, until whatever knot has formed in his chest crawls up his throat, and he lets it out in a soft, defeated grunt, slapping his palms against the sill.

For your part, you sigh heartily, no longer attempting to mask your despondency, and you turn away from him, crouching to collect up the rogue, now trodden leaves of paper he had waded through.

He doesn’t want to talk. And you’ve already learned it’s useless trying to encourage Bravo to do something he doesn’t want to do. Even if you think it might be good for him. That isn’t your choice to make anyway. He’s master of his own ship, even if he wishes to dash it against the rocks.

And so, as you gather up the leaves of paper, you opt to tell him something instead. Your sessions are drawing to a close. You might not get another chance. You’re not even sure he’s listening, and part of you doesn’t dare to look. You deliver the words into the room almost as though they’re a soliloquy.

“I never told you this but… Your monologue in Summer Rains?” You huff out a breath. “My God. Bravo? I sobbed. I practically fell in love with you – with your passion- through that screen. I got chills.” You scoop up the final papers, and come to standing, only now turning to face him, where he remains hunched in that now familiar way, shirt billowing in the puff of the fan. Skin sheened with sweat in this godforsaken room. Still, encountering no resistance, you continue on. “I used that monologue in my class for years. I’ve used it with some of the greats; same when I taught at Juilliard.” Bravo’s head angles towards you then. “No-one has ever sold it like you. Not even once.” You look down at the floor. “The reason I’m such a good acting coach? The reason I push my clients so hard and so far? I’m chasing that kinda magic. The kinda magic that you have.”

He remains hunched, but one hand rises to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. You half expect some smart-ass remark and you brace yourself for it, but you are surprised when instead, you get something genuine. “You saw that? Shit. I never even watched the final cut. Couldn’t bring myself to after-”

He trails off, and you opt to fill the space. “Yeah. I saw it. It’s a beautiful movie.”

He snorts out a breath. “I must have been such a fucking let down.”

“No,” you protest swiftly, taking a few steps towards him, soothing a hand over his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt dampening a little with sweat as you press it flush to his skin. He finally pushes off the sill and meets your gaze again, turning his body to face you. You can’t help the soft smile which blooms on your face then, as counterintuitive as it feels in the face of his despondency. “Not at all. Because yesterday, after years of chasing it, guess what, Bravo? Yesterday I finally witnessed magic.”

Bravo juts up his chin then. Sets his jaw. He sucks a taut breath through his nostrils, and you know it’s to quash the burgeoning shine of tears in those warm coffee-cup eyes of his, tipping up suddenly to the ceiling. He rests his hands on his hips as if to brace himself, his chest protruding forward as his breath expands his lungs. He looks back to you as he releases it, his eyes and expression full of subtleties you have yet to learn the full meaning of.

“What’s blocking you, Bravo?” you probe gently. “I know it’s… different with you.” It’s gotta be. You don’t want to be wrong about him. Not this one. A more playful disposition shifts your face, hoping to lighten the mood. “I know it’s not ‘cause you have the emotional range of an eggplant. Not like some of the talentless hacks I’ve worked with.”

Bravo’s arms coil around his own middle now, wrapping and tugging his shirt all out of shape.

You blink slowly, in understanding. “It hurts you, doesn’t it?”

“What?”

“I- I don’t know.” You shake your head. “I don’t know, but I can feel it.” It’s coming off of him in waves. It must have been hard for this guy to block all of that feeling for so long. Exuding emotion feels like it’s as natural for him as breathing. The toll it must have taken to mask that? He deserves a fucking Oscar.

And, sure enough, there it is again. Glossing over his pain, his anger rises. His nostrils flare in annoyance, his jaw setting and the line of his lower teeth becoming visible as you take the conversation somewhere he does not like. Still, it’s not a threatening anger. It is one which twists within him. It will not act upon you, you believe. Not in anything more than snarky comments and slammed doors, and you are past that now.

“Anger’s easier, Dieter,” you speak gently, lifting you arm to squeeze his shoulder firmly. Letting him know he is held. “Tell me something. Tell me something real.”

You feel his body sag beneath your palm. A release of the tension in his muscles. Permission, perhaps, to finally abandon the pretence. He first lets out an anguished groan, his first expression of his pain too raw for words. “I used to,” he admits in a small voice, picking a spot on the floor to attach his gaze to. “I used to love what I do. Used to love a lot of things.”

His brown eyes stare deeply into yours, and you are captivated by his stillness, as his perpetual coiling and squirming and constant apology of limbs gives way to standing firmly in his presence. Arriving at it. Your palm slides down his arm and then releases. You are not part of this scene. It his moment to give and your moment to spectate.

Your question is implied, with only a slight parting of your lips and gush of air. What changed?

“I’ve been shit,” he continues. “I know I’ve been shit.” He circles the heel of his palms over the scruff along his jaw, hairs bristling beneath his touch. His voice grows just as rough and raspy. “But I didn’t want to feel.”

Again, your question hangs in the silence of the room. In the beats between the words, like ripe fruits for him to pluck. And, like, any good actor, Bravo is adept at reading between the lines. Why? Why didn’t he want to feel?

The next line is hard for him to speak. You feel it before the words come. Detect it through the new lines etched into his face as his brow contorts with a weight, and you briefly consider the happy and carefree man he may be without this burden. Your own face, too, grows heavier to mirror his. His foot starts a gentle, accelerated tap on the floor, his fingertips tapping against his thighs; but, when the words are spoken, he is unmoving, as though the pain weighs his flight down completely. You note the undone shoelace meandering next to his rooted feet, and the humanness of this small detail has an affection and a sympathy tangling in your chest even before his words might give you greater cause to feel it.

“I lost someone.” His eyes pool with tears but they do not spillover. “Right after Summer Rain wrapped. I lost my- uh…” He pumps his eyebrows once, searching for the word but deciding that none will do to fill the hole in his chest. What could possibly be adequate enough? Lover? Life? Heart? They each fall short. “My person.”

“I didn’t know,” you breathe. It’s an imperfect thing to say, you realise. You say it as though you’re sorry for your sleight. As though you should have been able to recognise that the feeling hiding behind his eyes was grief, all along. Able to recognise that he was a person bereft of a part of him, as whole as he appears to you.

“The tabloids don’t have the whole story on me,” Bravo responds dismissively, misinterpreting your reaction. Like you imagine you should have known because of the press. Because he’s an actor, and not because you are before him peering into the windows of his soul; because he’s a human. One who is being vulnerable with you. Allowing you to see him. “Not everything the tabloids report is true,” he bumbles hurriedly, deflecting with an attempt at humour. “I didn’t trash that yacht in Monaco.” There’s a beat. “It was in Capri.”

You reach forwards – seemingly to Bravo’s surprise- and grasp his clammy hands in yours. “I’m sorry,” you say earnestly. To your surprise, he doesn’t pull away from your touch. He nods, looking off to the side for a moment, eyes unfocussed and glassy. Dancing with some old honeyed memory, before the sweep of your thumbs over his skin slowly segues his attention back to you.

“It’s an old wound,” he says wistfully. “But I… After. I didn’t want to feel. It hurt. Too much.”

You squeeze his hands in yours and nod in understanding. Once again, your question is implied. He maintains the spotlight. And now?

“Now?” Bravo asks, as if in surprise that he is in the present moment after all, and not in some faraway place and time. Even so, when his eyes find you now, he is very much present. Very much back in the room. With you. A gulp trails down his throat. “It’s taken me some time to realise that not feeling isn’t working out for me. That it’s not exactly possible.”

Your own swallow echoes his. “As an actor?”

He cocks his head to the side. “As a human.” His gaze flits gently over your face, a tentative smile gathering lines around his eyes. “I came here pretty numb. I thought I could coast - I’ve been doing it for so long. I figured…” His tongue curls to nudge at the pillow of his pouty bottom lip. “But you…” His hands become a little more slick in your grasp, and he tugs away from you, folding his palms across his pecs. “You made me feel…” He trails off, as though he’s reaching to find the right word again, and, as he lands on one his eyes glow, his lips curving in a smile.

Magic? That’s what you hope he’s thinking.

But, he swallows the thought. He keeps it to himself. Maybe that was it? You made him feel. Something. Anything. Even irritation.

“These scenes,” he continues, gesturing towards the nearest script. “You’re right. It’s about love. Loss. Longing. That’s been a problem. I signed on for action. I did this shit to myself. I signed on for a decade of something so ridiculous that reality would never be able to touch me.”

That’s what he had wanted - to be buried. Where better to hide his pain than in a franchise? What better place to forget real events than to fight CGI monsters in space? A sound strategy, perhaps, but at the expense of so much more that he has to offer.

“Now. What do you want?”

“To be good,” he says with a conviction so robust that it surprises you, even now. “I don’t want to be a joke anymore. Dieter fucking Bravo.”

You can see the tiredness in him as he says his own name with such disdain. You can see how ready he feels to cut the performance and the persona. That he’s sick of the fakery in his world full of CGI, and masks of so many kinds. You can see how he wants something real too, perhaps. How lonely it must be to pretend when you’re the only one with the script to your illusion.

“As an actor?” you press.

His face drops, his eyebrows and lids slanting to give him a sorry look. “As a human.” He paces away from you, scuffing his feet over the floor, that damned lace slapping all the while, and he perches himself on one of the little wooden stools strewn about the place in a dejected heap.

Damn. There he goes looking all forlorn. Looking like he needs a gentle bubble bath and a tender lay all over again and pulling at your heartstrings.

You draw in a breath, animating at the same moment with sudden purpose. “You’re not,” you insist, falling to your knees where he sits and gently undertaking to uncross his feet - as he looks on with mild confusion. “You’re not a joke,” you say again firmly. He doesn’t believe you, you can tell. Regardless though, your hands carefully shift his foot from where it was tucked behind his opposite calf, planting it flat to the floor. He looks on in awe as you gently loop your fingers in his shoelace, tightening his scratty shoe before deftly tying a bow. It’s a small act of care and reverence, but it’s one which makes the meaning of your words sink a little deeper into him, you think.

Still, he is inclined to protest further, idly spinning that dratted gold hoop between his finger and thumb. “Egh. Maybe I should throw in the towel. They should probably give my part to someone more pretty anyway, like you said.”

It is then you realise that kneeling before him may have been a mistake, as, when you look up at him from your position and he says those words, the only thought which springs to mind is: impossible. You suddenly don’t think anyone could be more pretty than this forlorn, dishevelled, open-collared, eyeliner adorned, pirate-grunge man you see before you.

Looking at him like this makes a heat unfurl in your belly like ribbons. Makes your heart punch you from the inside to remind you you’re alive. “You’re still pretty,” you admit, with a mildly devilish smile. One which sends a deep colour flushing across Bravo’s cheeks as you look up at him from on your knees.

Is that all it takes to make you blush? Oh, honey.

He clears his throat. Looks surprised again. “You think so?”

You brace your hands on the points of his knees to push yourself to standing, delivering him an affirmative. Then, instead of stepping away, you linger a moment as Bravo tips up his chin to you from where he is seated. You push all the other courses of action clamouring for attention aside – your more base desires- and instead, simply opt to brush the back of your hand gently over his cheek. “Thank you, for being real with me.”

At your words, his blush deepens, but he doesn’t recoil from your touch. In fact, as you move to step away, Bravo’s hands clamp gingerly on your hips instead, pinning you in place – even if you could move away at any moment you wished it.

“I… I haven’t been real with anyone in a long time,” he breathes, voice like a long gritted road, rough and drawn-out, taking you in a million directions. Stretching out like possibility in front of you as he looks up at you with big brown puppy dog eyes. “I didn’t think I could ever do this again,” he admits, and you don’t know any more if he means the role or something else, but you recognise the relief and apprehension in him, spinning him in circles all the same.

And so, because you feel he needs it – and perhaps because you need it too – you wrap your arms and draw his head into your stomach, enclosing him in a hug. Bravo releases a long breath, and then, his arms tighten around your hips. He buries his forehead into your stomach as you smooth your flattened palms over his shoulders. Card your fingers like rakes through the unruly mess of grizzled brown hair, until he begins to hum contentedly, safely held in your sturdy circumference.

You don’t let go. You don’t let go because his grip on you tightens as though you are a lifeline, and to let him go would leave him adrift all over again. Like he has been for so long.

“You can do this,” you reassure softly. And, so there can be no doubt what you mean – “You can be the best anyone has ever been in Cliff Beasts.”

The two of you stay there for a stretched series of moments, Bravo melting into your freely given comfort, his hands broad and warm against your back. The contact makes you warmer in turn, and although the room is already close and sticky, you don’t want to break the loop of his arms around you. Don’t wish to lose the softness of his waves between your fingers, slightly crisp with hair and make-ups slew of product. At least, not just yet. Not just yet, because you could cry for him. For the way he clings on, like someone who hasn’t felt a kind, warm touch in longer than he could say; except for the ephemeral heat of a warm coffee cup. Of a photocopied scene rewrite grasped between his palms for a moment before it cools. The kiss of the sun on his face before the sheets next to him cool. A rotation of warm bodies who will never know anything real about him.

You know something though.

You know at least one thing real about him.

“I forgot,” he eventually says, his cheek now pressed against the swell of your stomach. Your question is again implied – what did he forget? “I forgot some feelings can be good.”

Your heart breaks for him then. With your hands placed on his shoulders, you gently create some space between the two of you, his arms dropping away and even leaving you feeling cold and bereft despite the heat you endure in this room. A prickle dances up your spine, as if calling out for more contact.

There’s an energy crackling between you, you think. At least, enough of it to spark your imagination. To think – as his eyes brew with a cautious heat as he tips his chin up at you – about the want building within you. The hot glow of molten arousal in your core, burning dim yet steady.

About how he might announce I want to kiss you and you might respond breathily: It’s too late for scenes. How his soft, needy expulsion of air would follow as he surged up to standing, his hand snaking up your body with him – everything rising. Heat spiking and colliding as he insisted this was no act. That you are his honest desire.

How his mouth might slant against yours -and you have to wonder briefly how he won you over so fast. How his tongue might delve to taste you, as, if you can’t defeat this balmy torment you may as well give in to it. May as well writhe together with slick skin on this shined floor. Watch your bodies combine and convulse in the wall of mirrors until sounds of pleasure drown the rickety rush of the fan, and you each become liquid, the taste of his salt in your mouth like a slick tide swallowing a hot shore and relieving this impossible heat.

That would be nice, you think, and you imagine that the same possibilities might be swimming deep within his dark eyes too, pools too limpid for you to decipher in this moment.

You get the sense there may be something more here. That there could be. Possibly. But, in this moment, you estimate that Bravo needs something quite specific. Perhaps something even more straightforward for now than that bubble bath. You think he needs a friend. Someone to witness and accept the real him, for precisely who he is in this moment. And so, you squeeze his shoulder, the fabric soft and worn and forgiving. Comfortable. He even looks more comfortable now too.

“You need to go to a therapist, by the way.”

His eyebrows leap towards his hairline, and he huffs out air in indignation. “I mean. That’s rude, but probably. Yeah.”

You squeeze and release his shoulder, stepping back and looking away. Looking around the room so that your question can be delivered as casual, rather than pitying. No big deal.

“Hey. Do you want to go for a drink, Bravo?”

He stands from his stool, body pointing towards you as you gather up your bag and keys. “Well… Are we done here?”

He scratches the scruff on the point of his chin, and your face can’t help but split into a frustratingly fond smile. “Yeah. I think we’re done here.”

He smiles too. It’s a nice change. “Then. Yeah. Alright, sarky.”

You each gather up your personal effects, Bravo slinging the cross-body bag over his shoulder. You flip light switches and convey used coffee cups towards the sink or to the recycling. As you do so, you toss bar recommendations between the two of you, wondering where might be best to avoid prying eyes - and the inevitable spate of Hollywood gossip which might follow. Then, you head out into the hallway, Bravo mopping his brow with the loosened cuff of his sleeve.

“Oh!” it occurs to you, when you are a few paces along the hall already. “Hold up. I need to lock the fourth wall, Dieter.” You use his first name, which you’ve generally avoided, but this time you note that the word is not uttered in exasperation. Your tone comes across altogether more convivial, and in the neutral ground of the hallway, you feel able to shed yet more remaining layers of this tutor / client dynamic than you have already.

“Shit. By the way,” Bravo says as you swivel keys, scuffing his shoes across the floor like a nervous senior about to ask you to prom. “If we’re going to hang? Well, this is a little awkward.” Still, he spits it out regardless. “My real name’s Nathan.”

“Oh ho ho ho!” Your bright, hearty laughter bounces giddily off of the walls of the hallway. “What the actual fuck?” You even clasp your hands to your cheeks in shock and disbelief. “Nathan? Nathan Bravo?”

His cheek dimples with an even smile, his brown eyes soft behind his fluttering lashes. “You’re not going to believe this…”

“Hit me.”

“I was born as Nathan Fillion.”

You howl. Folding forward and grasping on to his forearm to steady yourself. “What?!”

“The other fucker had already registered with SAG, so I had to choose a stage name.”

You toss your keys into your purse and you and Bravo fall into step as you make your way out of the building, still plying him with “wows” and statements of disbelief at his reveal.

“And the earring?” you point. “Were you born with that, or is that a stage thing too?”

His face crumples in dismay, hands shoved into his pockets. “You don’t like it?”

“It’s growing on me…” - you opt to try his real name on for size, to see how it fits him – “…Nathan.”.

It feels a little weird to you, but when you say his real name it stops Bravo in his tracks, his sneakers squeaking to a halt. That is, until you link your arm into his and gently encourage him to keep walking. You can see his face is a little ashen at first, as though he’s been visited by a ghost. Next though, a deep blush of colour paints his cheeks. You can guess why from context. “When was the last time someone called you that? Your real name?”

“A long time ago,” he admits, and you let a contemplative silence hang for a moment, Bravo’s eyes busy with thoughts. Thoughts about you, it seems. “Hey. Listen. I’m… sorry for being as ass to you.”

“Meh.” You appreciate the apology - which sounds genuine - and yet you already feel like you’re over it. Clearly, he’s been going through something. In a very accelerated fashion too, given the intensity of your classes. And, since you’re an acting coach, you’re never not going to be here for some genuine character development. You’re pleased he broke through that wall, and just hope he can truly find some healing. Some passion, related to his gift, but also for himself too. “Thank you for saying that. But you’re not so bad.”

“No?”

“No. In fact, maybe you can come back to mine later? Sign my boxset of Cliff Beasts one through five?” You smile at him hopefully, clenching and shaking your fists a little in anticipatory excitement. His face creases with mirth upon seeing your enthusiasm. After all, from your pterodactyl outfit he knows this isn’t some flimsy pick-up line. He knows that really, you’ve always been a fan of him, ever since that monologue which had blown you away all those years ago. The one which had made you “fall in love” with him. At least, with an illusory version of him. With his passion.

“Is that what you want?” he laughs, looking increasingly handsome to you by the moment as he relaxes in your company. As he sheds the act. The persona. Delivers something real.

In response, you nod enthusiastically as you reach the doorway of the building.

You unlink arms from him so that you can settle your shades across the bridge of your nose, preparing for the searing early evening heat. You step outside, venturing out across the Lot. You stride in a determined trajectory, keen to beeline for the cool, airconditioned interior of the bar situated opposite.

However, Bravo has other ideas, apparently. Having fallen behind, you turn to locate him, seeing him stood in the centre of the Lot, looking up at the sky. His eyes brimming with tears, and his palms held upwards.

“Bravo?” you inquire, your nose crinkling in confusion. That is, until a fat dollop of rain plops down at your feet. Another, then another, in quick succession.

“It’s raining,” Bravo breathes disbelievingly, awed eyes tipped up towards the sky.

Indeed, the sky is cracking, a building deluge finally fracturing this stifling, oppressive heat. It begins to pour, and everyone else around runs immediately for cover as the water begins to soak them beyond a light relief from the heat – begins to soak them to their skin.

You tug on Bravo’s arm, keen to shelter him too - but he is firmly rooted to the spot. He simply looks at you, repeating his words all over again. “It’s raining.”

You understand suddenly, as soon as you deign to read between the lines.

This is symbolic for him. This is his relieving downpour after a drought. This is his serendipitous portent. His epiphany. This the allegory for his relief. For the way he might grow again; refreshed after the rains. This is his coincidence. His full circle. His new beginning. His cheesy movie climax.

You look on, and you see it plainly now. You see that his passion is reignited; but apparently, it wasn’t a spark that he needed. It was a flood. He just had to release the dam he’d held back for so long. Let himself feel. It must be such a relief, alike to the cool sluice of water down your body.

As the summer rain relieves you of the heat, Bravo looks at you as if you are magic, even as the force of it bedraggles you.

And, you could dare say, in this Summer Rain, as his gaze delivers a wordless monologue, that you fall in love with him all over again.

You take his hand and you revel in his rebirth. No camera trickery or CGI needed – not this time. This is the real thing.

You can feel it. The best thing is, you know that he can finally feel it too.

With a rush of gratitude, he pulls you into a sopping hug, and you rock with him in this moment, your figures cutting a strange scene.

“Are you a bath or shower person, Bravo?” you ask gently, after what feels like an appropriate interval.

“Hmm. I like bubble baths, I guess,” he responds in evident confusion.

At his answer, your smile grows so wide that your face aches.

#Dieter bravo x reader #pedro pascal #dieter bravo #the bubble

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stevie-wicks · 4 years ago

Text

red, black and blue

She’d taken the photo in some empty parking lot in downtown LA, sunlight two years younger glinting off the hood of the Camaro. Billy’s moustache was still a couple of stray gold whiskers on his upper lip; his hair just past the tips of his unpierced ears. A different Billy to the one Hawkins had seen, but post-California Billy hadn’t had much time for Max’s amateur attempts at photography. Or for Max, in general.

“It’s a good photo.”

Jonathan Byers was not a formal wear kind of guy. He looked stiff and uncomfortable in his ugly suit- or maybe that was just an extension of how he was feeling. How they all were.

Max wrapped her hands around her elbows, suddenly regretting resisting her mother’s attempts to usher her into a jacket. “Thanks. I know he looks- different.”

Jonathan looked for a moment like he might offer her his ugly coat; then he probably remembered the uglier shirt he wore underneath. “He looks happier.”

“He was.” Max dug her nails into her skin. “He hated it here.”

Jonathan shoved his hands into his pockets. “Listen, Max; I know it’s not- it’s not really the same, but when I- when I thought Will was gone, I-” He swallowed. “Will is my best friend. I know that sounds really lame, but I just thought that. Maybe you’d feel better, or, I dunno. I know what it’s like.”

He was trying so hard. Max almost felt bad for him. “I don’t think you do.”

She’d wanted to sit next to Lucas, but her mom hadn’t. Some murmured nonsense about Neil not liking it; some louder nonsense about how they were a family and that now, more than ever, they had to stay together.

El became the compromise.

Not that Neil was gung-ho about El, either; not with the oversized flannel and suspenders she’d refused to change out of. Light blue eyes bore a hole into the side of Max’s head as she shuffled into the pew next to El. They weren’t the same shade of blue as Billy’s; he’d had more green to his, more like Max’s own. Neil’s were like ice chips.

A bony hand reached over, and Max looked up at Joyce Byers’s warm brown instead. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” she whispered.

Stupidly, Max said, “He owed you a plate.”

El stirred. “I owe him my life,” she said quietly.

The last funeral Max had been to had been for some distant Mayfield relative. She’d been six and she’d cried all the way to Glendale because she was missing Jabberjaw. Then Dad bought her an ice cream and she’d forgotten all about Jabberjaw. She fell asleep halfway through the service, and they got home in time for Speed Buggy.

Billy’s service took half as long and felt an eternity longer.

Mom had offered to do a eulogy. She’d brought it up over breakfast, nervous eyes darting between Max and Neil, as if either of them would put up a fight. She tottered to her feet now, shuffling awkwardly to the front, in a dress a few laundry cycles short of being grey. For a fleeting moment, Max wished she had put up a fight. Billy would’ve died-

Max bit her cheek hard enough to taste copper.

Mom cleared her throat. “Billy and I didn’t know each other for very long, but I wish we had. He was a wonderful young man.” She dabbed at her eyes with a ratty handkerchief.

Max sank back into her seat. Maybe it was for the best; she could never lie about Billy the way her mom did. Not when all she could think of was the blood- God, so much blood, his blood- his last scream torn out of his chest by misshapen claws- apologies on a dying breath-

She stood up. Mom paused midway between some crap about Billy’s ‘respect and responsibility’.

“Maxine,” Mom said, mortified.

“I have to go.” She tore outside, knuckling her burning eyes.

The breeze nipped at her skin. She leaned against the wall, rubbing her hands up her arms. It was mid-July, for Pete’s sake.

She should’ve worn the stupid jacket.

She wiped at her face roughly. When her vision cleared, Lucas stood in front of her.

“Your mom’s done talking, if you wanna head back inside.” He kicked at a pebble.

Max kicked it back. It skittered away, just out of Lucas’s reach. “Not really.”

He squared his shoulders. “Mind if I join you, then?”

She shrugged. He hesitated for a moment before sidling up next to her, arms barely brushing.

“Steve’s giving his speech now.”

Max’s eyebrows reached her scalp.

“For the basketball team,” Lucas clarified, then added, a little awkwardly, “None of the other guys showed up.”

It shouldn’t hurt, but. “Yeah, well. Didn’t think Steve would, either. He hated Billy’s guts.” She dug her heels into the gravel. “You all did.”

Lucas fell quiet. “I didn’t hate him.”

Max snorted. “’Cause you’re not supposed to hold grudges over people who are-” She blinked back a fresh wave of tears. God, Maxine; you’re such a goddamn girl, Billy would’ve said. “You should. He was awful to you.”

“I didn’t hate him,” he repeated. “I mean, he scared the shit out of me, sure. But still. He was your brother.”

“That’s not an excuse. And he was my step-”

“He was your brother.” Lucas had turned on his side, fully facing her now. “And I know you lo- cared about him. And I’m trying to tell you that it’s okay to cry.”

Her eyes welled with tears. She hadn’t allowed herself to; not since Starcourt, not since she’d read the twenty-eight other names in the paper, not since she’d come home in an ambulance and her brother in a casket and Neil locked up Billy’s room and tore down everything else that had belonged to his son and threw it all in the trash like he’d been waiting to get rid of it-

Lucas held out an arm. Max buried her face in his chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt and turning it translucent with her tears.

She cried long enough for her tear ducts to run dry, and then stood sniffling into the wet shirt. She was probably making it all gross with her snot, but she didn’t let herself get too torn up about it. The Sinclairs could afford a washing machine.

“Maxine.”

Max went rigid. Lucas, unbothered and oblivious, kept his arms around her. “Hey, Mr. Hargrove.”

She turned around slowly, just in time to catch the flicker of revulsion that passed over Neil’s face. “And who are you, boy?”

There was a painful pause. Max’s nails carved crescents into her palms.

“Lucas Sinclair, sir,” Lucas said at last.

Neil’s eyes were glacial. Max barely suppressed a shiver when they trained on her. “Maxine; something you learn when you grow older that there are a certain type of people in this world that you stay away from. And this boy?” Neil cut his gaze to Lucas. “This boy is one of them.”

Max reeled back. “I-”

“You stay away from my daughter, Sinclair; do you hear me?” Neil hadn’t raised his voice once since he’d started speaking. To any passers-by, this would look like a normal conversation. “Stay away.”

He didn’t wait for Lucas to respond, tugging Max away with a harsh grip on her wrist. She didn’t dare to turn around.

“I don’t want you anywhere near that boy, Maxine.” His hold loosened the closer they got to the car- Neil’s car, a respectable Ford sedan. She didn’t dare tug her hand free, either. “I hope you learn your lesson with this. Billy didn’t; not at first. I’m afraid I had to use more- forceful- methods with him. I trust I won’t have to do the same with you.”

Max turned to Neil despite herself. It was the first time he’d said Billy’s name since the Fourth of July.

His eyes gave nothing away. “Do I make myself clear?” His fingers tightened again.

“Yes, Papa.”

“Good.” Neil’s smile was a mirror of Billy’s; shark-like and vicious, moments away from tearing into your throat. “It’s about time you got some new friends, too. Girls your age shouldn’t be hanging around with boys too much.”

“El’s a girl,” Max told her shoes.

Neil scoffed. “Really? Did she show you proof?”

What happened to you, Mad Max? Billy would’ve asked. You’re not going to stand up for your little hick friends?

Or maybe-

I had to use more forceful methods with him - the bruises she’d see on Billy while his own knuckles remained unscathed- Mom whisking her away on impromptu shopping trips whenever Neil and Billy raised their voices- forceful methods -

- maybe he would understand.

★

Billy’s life couldn’t have fit into a garbage bag.

Max hadn’t gone into his room since she’d gone with El, but he had to have more than what Neil had thrown out onto the sidewalk. Outside the four walls of his room, it was like Billy hadn’t even existed.

She slipped out of bed in the quiet.

Billy had taught her how to pick a lock, back in California. “Use a hairpin, or somethin’- you got one of those?”

She unfurled her fingers. The hairpin was damp with sweat. She wiped it on her t-shirt, and slid it into the keyhole.

“Keep your big ears close to the door; you won’t hear squat that far away.”

She held her breath, pressing her ear to the cool wood.

“Wait for the sound- there, you hear that? That’s how you know the tumblers are in place.”

The door swung open with a soft click.

Max half expected to be assaulted by cigarette smoke and hair metal. But it had been almost a week, and all that Billy had left behind were stale air and silence.

She flicked on the flashlight. The blinds were drawn, the bed unmade, half his closet on the floor. Air the room out, and you could pretend he’d walk right in.

His schoolbooks balanced an ashtray; the desk was not for studying. Instead, he’d cluttered it with beer cans and tapes and a tree’s worth of loose-leaf.

She padded over and sat down in his chair, trying to imagine him hunched over the desk, scribbling on page after page in messy letters. Billy’s handwriting was just as angry as he was.

Her eyes flickered over song lyrics- snippets from the racket she’d been forced to sit through every weekday morning and afternoon. Somehow, silent car rides had lost their appeal.

Strange little doodles decorated the margins- band logos and cars and anatomically inaccurate depictions of women. “Gross,” Max said aloud, pushing the papers away with a theatric shudder.

The tabletop had not been exempted from Billy’s artistry; Max shone the flashlight on more band logos and cuss words and names engraved into the wood. Here there was a crude AC/DC logo, the lightning slash extending down to form the ‘t’ in ‘TWAT’. There was a ‘María’ right next to that, the accent mark angled in the wrong direction. Max remembered her; she’d gone out with Billy for all of sophomore year- the longest Max had ever seen him go out with one girl. She’d taught Max how to do makeup.

A few paces away was Tina- the prettiest girl in Hawkins High, everyone agreed- Laurie was a slut, but she’d complimented Max on her hair- and then Karen. Max traced the ‘K’; she didn’t know any Karens who went to Hawkins High- but then again, she barely knew all the kids in the middle school. There could be a pretty blonde cheerleader somewhere, talking to her friends over the phone. “Yeah, I went out with him a couple of times,” Max imagined her saying. She’d twirl a strand of hair around her finger, lips pulled down in a pout. “And now he’s dead. Spooky.”

She knuckled her eyes. The beam of the flashlight caught on the letter S.

She held the flashlight up, frowning at the name that made itself obvious. Stevie- except the ‘i’ was jammed haphazardly between the ‘v’ and the ‘e’, like it had been an afterthought.

She stared at it until the light flickered overhead.

“Shit!”

Max dropped the flashlight, head snapping back to the door. It hung ajar, just as she’d left it. Heart in her throat, she inched towards the doorway.

The hallway light flicked on.

Max held the flashlight close to her chest, knuckles bone-white and stark. She stepped outside, and the light turned on in the living room.

When she stood in the doorway, staring out at the lifeless room, the telephone started to ring.

Her feet felt heavy as cinderblocks. She plucked the receiver from its cradle, bringing it to her ear with shaking hands.

From the other side, someone breathed heavily.

Max pressed the phone closer, hard enough to hurt. “Billy?”

A crackle of static. Some peculiar noise.

Apologies on a dying breath.

Then, “Max.”

ao3

#stranger things #stranger things 2 #stranger things 3 #tw: death #tw: mentions of child abuse #tw: racism #max mayfield #billy hargrove #steve harrington #lucas sinclair #harringrove #lumax #el hopper #joyce byers #post season 3 #stranger things 4

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i-did-not-mean-to · 3 years ago

Text

Back to school - chapter 5

Being sick at home, I have time to update my different stories :D

So, here's another Kira-chapter with a few surprises :))))

Fandom: The Hobbit (still an AU)

Characters : Thranduil x OC (and the others being awful)

Words: 4,5 k (+/-)

Rating: Gen

Warnings: reference to alcohol, silliness, awkwardness and a small surprise :D

Waking up was hard; Kira’s head vibrated with pain.

She should not have opened that aged rum just to numb the second-hand pain; she was not 20 anymore and she now paid the price for her reckless behaviour. “A new day, a new chance.” She told herself as she saw her bleary complexion in the tiny bathroom mirror.

A quick glance on another crumpled sheet of paper Gandalf had handed her informed her that she would have her class twice today. One hour for literature and another one, in the afternoon for “social studies and integration”. If she hadn’t been that miserable, she would have laughed as Gandalf had struck out the words and written “etiquette” beneath the line.

How the ever-loving hell was she supposed to teach those kids etiquette and manners? She had almost been stoned to death for taking them out into the courtyard and now she was supposed to teach them…table manners?

Brushing her hair back in a neat ponytail and slipping into her ratty old cardigan, she opened the door just to almost bump into a pristine white shirt. “Good morning, Kira.”

“Thranduil.” She sighed, recognising the woody, masculine scent, and the melodious voice. “I am quite able to find my way to school on my own.” She ground out, trying to push past the intrusive colleague. One could count on people like him to show up, perfectly styled and handsome as the devil himself, when one was feeling low and looking like a pile of…undesirable and unattractive things that might or might not have exited another organism.

When she turned around, he stood rooted to the ground, an unfathomable expression on his beautiful face. “I thought you might care for some company, even if it’s just me.” He murmured, lower than she had ever heard him speak.

Oh, here’s another one who isn’t loved well, Kira thought and her heart gave an unexpected and involuntary jerk.

“That is very kind of you.” She nodded slowly, seeing his eyes widen. When was the last time someone had called him “kind”, she wondered, feeling strangely sorry for him.

“The kids call me Thrandy.” He informed her as they walked to the unseemly building, earning a few nods and a few fearful looks. The kids call you all kinds of names, Kira thought to herself, but kept her mouth shut.

Her first class wouldn’t start for over an hour, but she had wanted to return Thorin’s file and maybe poke around in the school a bit before having to teach. Only, how was she to get rid of the man who seemed to have become her veritable shadow in the few hours she had been in this town?

“Don’t you have a class to teach?” She asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. “Yes.” He replied simply.

Without consciously choosing to do so, Kira walked alongside him to his class. She really was not at her best on this morning, otherwise she would have parted ways with him earlier.

“Hi, Miss Kira. Do you remember me? I’m…” – “Thorin’s sister.” Kira supplied readily, with a warm smile.

“Dís, go in, please.” Thranduil ordered and she obeyed with a smirk. “Oh, Kira, you’re early.” Gandalf hastened down the corridor. “I am not late, I am never late, I arrive exactly when I mean to arrive.” He informed Thranduil when the other man cocked an eyebrow and lifted his eyes to the clock fastened to the opposite wall.

“Yes…I had an idea. I will wander around some, except if the bogeyman might come and grab me off the stairs here inside the school as well?” Kira mocked, being met with two very disapproving looks.

“You should be fine here.” Thranduil replied calmly, making his class fall into silence by merely shoving his face, quite creepily if one asked Kira, into the classroom and giving them a punitive stare.

That man had an absurdly long neck, Kira thought, and he looked quite ridiculous, poking his head around corners like a grumpy giraffe. Really, he and Thorin seemed to be in a perpetual contest who could look dourer for the longest time.

“Miss Kira.” Ah, speak of the devil. Kira turned around to find Bilbo with Thorin hovering just behind him; the young boy’s very own dark raincloud. “Bilbo, Thorin, good morning.” She turned on her teacher-smile.

In the long months before coming here, she had almost forgotten how much she loved working with teenagers. They thought themselves so grown-up already, but they smelled like cheap shower gel and half-outgrown dreams.

“Did you have a nice night?” Bilbo asked. “I…Yes, I was very eager to come to work though.” Kira replied. Bilbo was an adorable kid: small with a penchant to growing slightly pudgy maybe, he had eyes that reminded her of the rolling hills of the countryside…and of its bustling, invincible life.

“Yes, I couldn’t wait either.” He gave her a wide grin and let himself be herded into class.

“Was it really bad?” Thorin nodded at the file sticking out from her satchel; a file that might well reek of spilled rum and tears now. “You tell me, Thorin, was it really bad?” She asked back earnestly.

“He’s a troublemaker.” Thranduil interjected, lifting his hands placatingly when Kira spun around, eyes ablaze. “But, there’s a but, woman, let me finish! This one is a pain in the ass, excuse my French, but not all of what you’ll find in the files is 100% true…or fair.” She stared at him in confusion, had he really said what she thought he had?

“I’ve got to go teach. The kids usually go home for lunch, but there is a lunchroom.” Thranduil nodded and went into his classroom without waiting for Kira to collect her thoughts and reply to his surprising admission of fallibility in teachers.

“What was that about?” Kira scratched her head. “I think the dear colleague wanted to invite you to have lunch with the staff?” Gandalf said gently, but his smile was sharp and too radiant to be honest.

Kira blushed, confusion writ plain on her face. “If…my idea works out, I shall have to go home again. I’ll be fine.” She smiled, wondering if her colleague would think that her no-show would be some kind of rejection.

Thorin was still staring at the closed door, apparently aghast that Thranduil would admit that he was indeed not actually the Antichrist reborn. “Thorin, can I beg for your illustrious presence in my mathematics class?” Gandalf prompted the boy with a rumbling chuckle.

Kira watched as he slid his impassive mask back on and trudged into the room as if he was under duress when she had clearly seen the tiny smirk he had given his headteacher before returning to being the sullen boy everyone expected him to be.

“I’ll hand them over soon enough, don’t you worry.” Gandalf grinned at her and closed the door.

Kira huffed, her superior seemed to know everything and have an amazingly good understanding of what went on inside of people’s minds; she had noticed that the previous evening already, but he was so humorous and nonchalant about it, that it had only struck her when she had returned to the void of her apartment.

Resolutely, she struck out for the administration office and returned the file.

“Ah? And? Already scared off?” The same lady asked her casually. “Not in the least.” Kira replied pugnaciously; the more people tried to warn her off, the harder she would doggedly stay true to her course.

“Is there a ballroom here?” She asked. “A what? There’s the festivity room, but it’s never used. Whatever do you need a ballroom for? Do you want them to dance? Dwalin will give you a bloody nose.” The woman laughed.

“Dwalin will do nothing of the sort. He’s a decent fellow.” Kira contradicted calmly which made the woman freeze in the middle of her movement as she was bringing a cup of coffee to her lips.

Her eyebrows rose in slow-motion. “Decent? Dwalin? He brawls like he’s paid for it. Always black and blue.”

Kira’s stomach turned into a block of ice. There were other reasons for kids to be bruised and she would have to look into it. No, his brother had not struck her as someone who would mistreat a young’un like that.

“Let that be my worry. Where is that room?” Kira enquired and took off as soon as she was given the information she had asked for.

Yes, she thought, this would do nicely.

There was even a small kitchen down a corridor. “A small lunchroom, huh?” She muttered to herself.

Table manners, yes, and who knew? She might even get the kids to dance.

Either way, if it was at all possible, she would organise a ball. A winter formal for her kids, for she saw them as her very own and she was fiercely loyal to them already, and all the others.

“Air…We need air and sunlight.” No matter how dark the times were, children needed fun and something to look forward to and she would be damned if she didn’t at least try to provide that for them.

If necessary, she would clean the whole room by herself, decorate it by herself, cook by herself. Kira had a purpose, and she would not be set adrift again, not when she remembered all too well how it had felt to haunt her own life as a shadow of herself.

Dreaming her time away, she had to run to be on time for her class and she nearly bumped into Thranduil again. He was like a moving wall, always in the way, he was the very symbol of the labyrinth she had fallen into.

“Kira…” He started, but then ran out of words. “Thranduil.” She replied in that same cold tone.

“So…Oh, the Silmarillion? You know that they’re borderline illiterate?” He mocked as he saw the book she was extracting from her satchel. “You know that you’re…unfair?” She shot back and pushed past him, which felt like squeezing along a statue of marble. He didn’t budge. She didn’t even throw him off balance. Cocky bastard.

“Hello Miss Kira.” Unisono, the class greeted her, and she could see the astonishment in Thranduil’s eyes as he was still standing in front of her open door, eager to see her flounder and fail, probably.

“Hello class.” Kira replied, her warmest smile on display and then, turning to her colleague, “Was there anything else I can do for you? If not, be so good as to close the door, please? Thank you.”

Kira was unsurprised to find that the kids were not anywhere near illiterate. Yes, their reading skills had to be improved upon, but they listened carefully as she explained J.R.R Tolkien’s early mythology and were willing to read some of the parts as their curriculum for this class.

“Will we have to buy the book?” Ori asked, worrying his lower lip. “There might be a copy or two in the library…but…” He went on, looking intensely miserable.

Kira caught Bilbo’s discreet look and the almost imperceptible shake of the head; his index rubbed ever so lightly across his thumb and Kira understood: money was an issue for some of these kids.

“I’ll see if the school can order them.” Kira replied vaguely. “And we get to keep them?” Ori exclaimed, his eyes sparkling like precious gems in a deep cavern.

Kira looked at her class, everyone but Bilbo looked wretched, but Kira knew that it was not for the same reasons. Having experienced Thranduil’s reaction first-hand, she could understand why Legolas would be afraid to bring home a book his father would think so far beyond his capacities that it would make the boy hate it; Tauriel, Ori and Bombur were probably loath to ask their parents or guardians for money for a schoolbook, especially as their actual schoolbooks were clearly hand-me-downs. Thorin and Dwalin worked hard for their money and should have the right to spend it on fun and extravagant teenage pleasures rather than dusty old books.

“The school will not spend one cent on us.” Thorin grumbled. “Well, tough luck for them, because I have a long wish list.” Kira replied, a steely note in her voice.

“What if the school says “no”?” Tauriel asked, taking into account everything that had been said.

“If the school says “no”, I’ll ask them why.” Kira answered. “Because they think we cannot read.” Legolas muttered.

“In that case, I will buy the rotten books myself and we will read them and that will teach them…No, I’m sorry, but is this a school or a prison? If a school decides that kids are denied materials to learn because they are unable to learn, then the fault lies with the school and not the kids. How about that?” Kira took a deep breath; it would not do to show the students her irrational frustration and anger with the school system in general and this school in particular.

“You’ll get yourself into trouble, Miss Kira.” Bombur commented between two bites of his sandwich.

“Good. I have to prove myself worthy of my class. So, where are we on those presentations?” Kira asked.

The minutes just flew, intelligent questions were asked, and answers were dug out, discussions were sparked and entertained, and Kira could feel herself breathe again. This was what she had dreamt of doing all her life.

“Listen class, I see you this afternoon and I wanted to ask you for a small favour. I want you to draw up, in your mind, your understanding of formal clothing. We’ll meet in the festivity room, and we’ll talk about an idea I had.”

Blank stares followed by excited chatter.

Bilbo’s eyes lit up. “I can wear my formal clothing. If I do, will you?” He asked Kira with earnest joy in his eyes.

“Deal.” She said and they shook hands on it. “No lunch for me then…” She chuckled, not in the least dismayed.

“See you this afternoon.” She waved at her class and made her way out of the school before someone else got it into their head to walk her to and from home.

What had she agreed to? Kira was exasperated by her hair and her sickly pale face, but she had given her word and she would not go back on it.

The long dark red dress shimmered in the midday light as she stepped out of the shower and pulled her hair up in a formal bun; she might as well go the whole nine yards, she thought, and put on make-up.

She felt silly and she couldn’t shake the impression of being watched as she walked back to school, her dress sweeping over the floor with every step.

“Kira.” Jesus Christ, was he everywhere? How many times had he said her name today?

“Thranduil?” She turned around, the flowing fabric billowing around her and almost making her stumble.

“Why do you…You look…Why…?” He would have looked adorably flustered if it hadn’t been for the frown that crossed his forehead as if some moody god had tried to strike out his face.

“Etiquette class this afternoon. We’ll start with formal clothing.” She replied haughtily and tried to walk away from him again, but he took one smooth step to block her path. Now, he was definitely doing it on purpose.

“Ah ok…Erm…Good afternoon.” He snapped, turned on his heels and walked back into the very direction he had originally come from. Did he often just walk to and fro for no reason?

“Miss Kira!” Ah, that was a much more welcome voice, Kira thought as Bilbo caught up with her. “Amazing idea, I am invited to Tho…Dís’ this afternoon and now, I don’t have to go home to change.”

Kira cocked her head questioningly. “That is nice, what is the occasion?” She asked. “Homework.” Bilbo replied.

“You do homework with Dís? In your formal clothing?” Kira frowned mockingly, exaggerating her confusion.

“No…erm…I…I do my homework with Thorin of course, but Dís invited me and I wanted to make a good impression on his…her…their family.” Bilbo spluttered, blushing a dark pink and rubbing his nose in embarrassment.

“Well, that is even nicer. I am glad to hear that you take your homework so seriously.” Kira smiled and let the boy lead her into the school. He was wearing a white shirt and a tawny waistcoat over a very formal looking pair of brown pants. Down to the pastel cravat and the pocket handkerchief, Bilbo looked like the very picture of sophisticated adolescence.

“I think you should not have worried that much.” Kira whispered as they approached the locked festivity room.

“Oh sweet potatoes and gravy.” Bilbo cursed under his breath, or at least his tone made Kira believe that it was meant as a curse.

Thorin looked like he was going to a funeral. All clad in black and dark blue, he reminded her of a raven more than of a boy, and his perpetual scowl had never looked as appropriate as in this moment.

“I look like a fool.” He complained, and Kira was about to tell him that she had never asked or forced him to don his most refined clothes, but Bilbo was quicker and his breathless “You look amazing” was probably also the better answer.

While she unlocked the room, a swishing sound got Kira’s attention and she turned around to see Legolas and Tauriel coming their way; they were both wearing clothes that looked foreign in cut and material: flowing, silky and absolutely stunning.

Kira patted herself on the back for her idea and, a few minutes later, when the whole class had arrived, she could feel excitement and interest burgeon instead of open hostility. Apparently, all of them had agreed to dig out their Sunday best for this class and Kira had to hold back not to stare at them in amazement.

They had never seen each other like that and the fact that they all seemed awkward and ill-at-ease made it easier for them to bond over the shared experience of trying to wear the clothes and not let the clothes wear them.

“You look absolutely marvellous.” Kira declared finally; her voice heavy with pride.

“I look like a clown.” Dwalin grumbled, the dark grey dress shirt taut over his broad chest and his dark hair slicked back elegantly. “You don’t.” Kira contradicted. He looked imposing and obviously uncomfortable, but he also looked very elegant and handsome in his dark trousers and his well-ironed shirt.

“We grown-ups wear our best clothes as an armour and as a reminder of who we want to be and what we want to represent. I see that you respect the weight that comes with formal clothing; your posture has improved, and this is the first time I don’t see any downcast looks and averted faces.”

She sighed: “You deserve to be proud of yourselves just as much as anybody else. This class is an etiquette class…and I want it to be a redemption. Children…we will have a ball.”

“A ball?” Tauriel piped up, her voice strangled with emotion. “A ball. We will have a winter formal.” Kira confirmed.

“Just us? Dís would love that.” Thorin blurted out and then hid behind his disapproving, grumpy mask again.

“No, not just us. We will organise it and the others will come and dance.” Kira smiled.

“We will?” Ori was doubtful. “Yup, we will see where your strengths lie and then we’ll work on everything that goes with it: cooking, serving, making small talk with Thranduil.”

“Are you sure you’re able to teach us that?” Dwalin muttered, apologising immediately when he realised that he said that out loud and that it was an insult that might well lead to ruining the good will Kira had for them.

“I am not, but we will all try. Should we try that?” Kira was worried that they’d refuse outright, that they’d laugh at her, but once again, the class surprised her when they all started talking at the same time.

“I am a good cook. God, I love food.” Bilbo exclaimed. “So do I!” Bombur laughed and ambled closer, already thinking up recipes that would work in that context.

“You’d dare organising a ball?” Thorin was standing right in front of her, his voice dangerously low.

“Yes…I’ve been told that Dwalin would give me a bloody nose for it.” Kira replied, acting braver than she felt.

“Dwalin? Never…He’s a good dancer and he loves it.” Thorin chuckled, a sound like faraway thunder rolling over the land and shaking the ground. “A ball…” Thorin mumbled pensively, his eyes wandering to Bilbo again and again.

Ah, yes, that was a part she had not thought about duly, Kira had to admit: with formals came the whole teenage anxiety-inducing ordeal of asking someone out and buying flowers and corsages.

“Hmmm, there should be fairy lights.” Ori muttered beside her, chewing on the end of his pen pensively. “We’d need a contraption of sorts for that, wouldn’t we?” Kira thought aloud, charmed by the idea and happy to have another one of them on board.

“That can be done. Legolas here is good at climbing things and we are good at crafting things.” Dwalin muttered in a low growl that was much less impressive as his eyes shone with a fierce glimmer of joy.

Kira had the feeling to grow taller by the minute; she was so proud of those kids who had been hailed as Satanists and who had followed her into every single thing she had pitched as a project. She would do her best not to let them down.

“Uh-oh.” Legolas made, standing a few feet away from her and looking around the walls to gauge how tall the ladder would have to be to attach fairy lights below the ceiling.

Whirling around, Kira almost ended up smothered in a dark grey woollen cardigan partially covering the white button-down she had looked at from much too close up this morning already. How many times could this man just manifest right behind her? Did he float? Was she deaf?

“The door was open.” Thranduil declared as if that explained his sudden appearance. “Yes, this is a school. If I locked myself in with a bunch of teenagers, with this bunch of teenagers, I’m sure someone would have called the firemen and the police by now.” Kira rolled her eyes. “Are you spying on us?” She asked with a wink.

“No…Class is over and I…I was curious what you were doing, looking like that…” He looked around and caught the embarrassed gaze of his son. “Oh, you look nice, Legolas.” He commented which made the boy’s ears turn pink with pleasure. “Thank you, Sir.” He breathed shyly.

“So…what is this going to be when it’s over?” Thranduil leant against the door he had pulled shut behind him and Kira couldn’t help noticing how tall he was; he had slender limbs and his whole body seemed to flow in almost liquid lines.

Snap out of it girl, he has asked you a question, Kira admonished herself and replied: “A ball. We’re going to have a ball.”

The closed door made her feel claustrophobic all of a sudden; it felt strangely as if she was the one pressed against the hard surface with Thranduil towering over her, the cool, gauging expression in his eyes making her squirm.

“Ah, really? And…will you send hand-written invitation to said ball?” Thranduil cocked one eyebrow. “Maybe we will.” Kira gave back in a stroppy tone. “So, the other classes are invited?” He pressed on.

“Why? Do you want to chaperone?” Thorin chuckled grimly. “As their headteacher, it falls within my responsibilities to oversee this kind of celebration if my class is to attend.” Thranduil answered stiff-lipped.

“Oi, lads, we are going to send old Thrandy an invitation.” Dwalin hooted under his breath, for he had caught the flash of embarrassment in the teacher’s eyes; Thranduil wanted to come, he wanted to be invited.

“Yes, quiet, Dwalin, thank you. Those are things to decide later in the process.” Kira tried to prevent a complete derailment of the conversation into complete and utter chaos.

“You are dismissed, I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.” Kira ushered the children out, confused by the fact that her colleague made no attempt to follow either the stream of chattering youngsters or his own son.

“I had hoped you would come to the lunchroom.” Thranduil murmured as soon as the students had vanished around the corner, flipping a strand of his perfectly smooth almost colourless hair over his shoulder nervously.

“Dude, this,” Kira pointed at her face and her dress, “did not happen in a jiffy. I had to go home and change. Otherwise, I would have come.”

“Ah…yes…well, it would be a shame to waste such a tremendous effort.” As he saw Kira’s face sour, he went on quickly: “Not that I want to insinuate that it would take a great deal of effort to make yourself look lovely, but as you’ve pointed out that you’ve taken pains to create this…” He waved helplessly at her, “I wondered what you had planned for dinner.”

I don’t cook myself a three-course menu, Kira thought, remembering the can of beans in her cupboard; she had not had the time or the inclination to go shopping since arriving and she was not exactly looking forward to the beans.

“Nothing. Why?” She asked, shrugging and retrieving her satchel from the floor.

“If you don’t mind seeing your students AGAIN today, there’s a little restaurant down the street. I feel like we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. Maybe, we can resolve that issue over dinner.”

Was she seeing things or did his face twitch?

“What makes you say that?” She asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

“You’ve called me an asshole? I am confident in saying that you do not like me overmuch.” He muttered, visibly annoyed. “True. I am sorry for insulting you.” Kira stood firm, not sure if she fancied having dinner with her stuck-up colleague whose eyes were dancing with dizzying stars like fireflies over a frozen lake.

#Fanfiction #Bagginshield #Kira chapter #AU #School AU #Thranduil #OC #dinner?#upping the cliffhangers #First try AU

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alecmagnuslwb · 3 years ago

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Teenagers, We Think We’re Smart

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Zatanna’s one hundred percent certain that her father rues the day he brought John Constantine home as his latest project as he paces the floor in front of her running a hand along his goatee with a loud sigh every few minutes.

“He’s a smart young man,” she remembers her father saying to her as Constantine roamed the edges of her father’s study picking up magical tidbits here and there and flipping them around haphazardly. “He’s a little rough around the edges, but he’s got a sorcerers mind. With the right tutelage he might even catch up with you one day.”

Rough around the edges had been her father’s polite description. Really he was the father of a teenage daughter’s worst nightmare, he just somehow missed that part as he allowed John into their home and began training him.

The sandy blonde hair always purposefully tousled, the tattoos that peaked from the edges of his ratty old jacket covered in patches and pins, the line of piercings along both ears and the handsome face with a nose that had been broken a few too many times were exactly what any girl would bring home for dinner to terrorize her parents. And here he was already sitting at the dinner table.

But Zatanna had no interest in making her father angry about the boys she spent her time with. She told herself that to her Constantine would be just another in a long line of young proteges her father picked up hoping to challenge her a little more.

They never did and she was content with letting the Constantine phase pass quickly. Constantine was talented her father had been right about that, but he was also a shameless flirt who liked to live a little too dangerously. It annoyed her to no ends, or at least that’s what she told herself the first few months.

“You’re exhausting,” Zatanna said standing up from her seat at the table they’d been occupying quietly reading until he’d started on a rant about some ancient demon he’d been reading up about. For all that she claimed he was exhausting, she chose to stay at the table for the entire rant. Just like he’d listened to her talk about the finer, boring details of backwards magic the other day. She was just keeping things civil, balanced, that’s all. “And one of these days my father is going to hear you going on about raising demons to fight just fights and he’ll never let you in here again.”

Constantine chuckled standing and following her as she made her way to the door. He caught up putting an arm in front of the exit loosely and just high enough she could still leave if she wanted, but with a quiet request to stop if she chose to as well. She should have ducked under his arm and gone on, but she stayed put turning her head to meet his eyes.

He looked her up and down once that little frustrating almost smile he always seemed to sport when he looked at her on his lips as he held her gaze.

She squirmed under the look. “You know this whole hot, bad boy schtick thing you’ve got going on, doesn’t work on me, right?” she said pulling the book still in her arms tighter to her chest.

“You think I’m hot?” he said with a raise of his left eyebrow, the one with the little scar from where his father had thrown a bottle at him when he was nine. She’s not sure he meant to tell her that story, too vulnerable of a moment to share, but he’d let it slip one night when her father had rushed off to some meeting of sorcerer’s or something of the like leaving the two of them to their own devices. Something had shifted from there; she couldn’t quite be as annoyed with him as she wanted to be anymore.

“Not the point,” she scoffed loosening her hold on the book and letting one of her arms drop to her side. “What I mean is the schtick doesn’t work, because I see there’s more underneath it.”

She didn’t really think after that she just acted lifting herself up and kissing him on the lips once hard and quick. She smiled at him before ducking underneath his arm that had slipped just a little from the shock of her kiss and walked off. She turned back just once before heading up the stairs passing her father who was oblivious to what had just happened to catch sight of Constantine running the tips of his fingers across his lips shaking his head with a smile.

Since then five days a week when he’s at the mansion they’ve been stealing kisses in shadowy alcoves and holding hands a little longer than necessary when conjuring something and the other two days either John’s in the audience of her father’s shows while she assists him or they’re slipping off to get into their own brand of trouble.

Tonight had been the latter and finally after months of caution and her father not so much as batting an eye at them, they’d been caught.

“I cannot believe you did this,” her father says finally speaking for the first time in nearly twenty minutes. Zatanna sits up straight from where she’s been slouched over her head resting on her hand watching as her father’s pacing comes to a stop.

“How long has this thing been going on?” he asks gesturing to the closed door on the other side John is, as far as she knows, still waiting for her father to inevitably ban him from the mansion.

“A few months,” Zatanna shrugs not wanting to go into the details. If he knows it’s been six months and that as weird as it can feel they call each other boyfriend and girlfriend and that a few short days ago John casually and quietly told her he loved her for the first time he’d flip out even more than he already is.

“Months,” he mutters under his breath rubbing a hand across his forehead. “And how long have you been spending your nights in pocket dimension magic bars that you’re not old enough to be in?”

“Just the once,” she quickly answers. He doesn’t need to know about the other pocket dimension magic bar they found themselves in last month and the subsequent bar fight John got into when a four-armed creature got three of his hand’s way too close to her. He’d probably be proud she’s perfected a spell to fix a broken nose without any pain however.

Her father opens his mouth about to say something else when suddenly the faint smell of smoke drifts under the door freezing him in place.

“That better not be a cigarette in my house out there Constantine,” he shouts loud and angry, the fearful sorcerer he is on full display. The smell of smoke dissipates almost instantly just as the clatter of something metal, a conjured ash tray she’d bet, falls to the ground.

She smiles a small amused smile that drops as soon as her father turns back to her.

“You are a child,” he says and Zatanna straightens up even more.

“I’m seventeen,” she says indignantly.

“Exactly, a child, both of you are,” he says once again gesturing to the door John sits behind. “A place like that is no place for you to be.”

“We didn’t even drink or buy anything,” Zatanna defends knowing it’s a weak defense that won’t win this argument. It’s the truth though, her father had just happened to walk into that same bar the moment when John had picked up an empty glass to show her a new trick he’d learned, which looked pretty suspect with no context she’s willing to admit.

“That is not the point and you know it. You have been lying for months and,” he says stuffing his hand into one of the pockets of his fancy black slacks. He pulls out a key with a bright pink motel keychain attached to it, John’s room number blazoned across it in bold black letters. “I found this by your door, you must have dropped it on your way out for drinks.”

She rolls her eyes and he gives her a sharp look that stops the roll in its tracks.

“How many nights have you not slept here?” he asks an eyebrow raised angrily.

“A few,” she shrugs, slinking back into her chair. It’s fifteen to be exact, another thing he doesn’t need to know all the details of.

“So, not only have you been galivanting off in bars you shouldn’t be in and lying about what you do with your free time, but my little girl has also been spending the night with some boy?” he says his voice getting a little louder. Not quite yelling, but definitely not happy.

“A boy you brought around,” she scoffs crossing her arms.

Her father let’s out an angry huff. “Well, not anymore. He’s done. I won’t have a bad influence around my daughter any longer.”

Zatanna stands from her chair grabbing his arm as he turns to the door on a warpath to kick John out for good.

“You can’t do that,” she pleas tugging his sleeve so he looks back at her. “He’s worked so hard, he’s bright just like you said when you first found him.”

“Bright doesn’t excuse lying and dragging my daughter around god knows where,” he says, but Zatanna holds tight to his arm pleading their case, pleading John’s.

“He didn’t drag me anywhere,” she practically shouts to hold her father’s attention. “I was the one who wanted to go tonight, I’m the one who kissed him first, I’m the one who asked for a key. Me. Not him.”

She takes a breath soldiering on.

“You never want me to go anywhere, I ask for you to show me more and you won’t. I know my magic has limits that you won’t let me discover, but I want to,” she pauses dropping her hand from his arm. “I know you worry and it’s dangerous, but I’m not a little kid anymore. So I went to some of the places and learned some things I’ve been curious about not because John is a bad influence, but because I wanted to. At best he was a protective hand to hold mine if things got too scary and at worst a willing and caring accomplice.”

“No matter what, you’ve still been lying to me, both of you have,” her father says eyes still hard, but softening just a bit.

“Yeah, you’ve got us there and if you want to make us sit in silence and read history of magic books for weeks on end as punishment for sneaking around you can, but don’t send him away. He’s no angel, don’t get me wrong, but he’s not a bad influence, if anything I’m too good of an influence on him that’s the first he’s smoked in weeks,” she says gesturing to the door with a chuckle. “You said it yourself we’re kids. Dumb kids who lied, but every choice I made was mine, and everything we did was between two people who lo-“ she pauses not really wanting to share that with her father right now. She hasn’t even said it back to John yet so she course corrects. “Care for each other in a fully consenting way.”

She finishes her argument off with emphasis hoping her father doesn’t try and go there specifically tonight. She doesn’t need another birds and bees talk from her dad. The first one was painful enough.

Her father’s shoulders slump and he lets out a sigh more dramatic than necessary.

“Fine,” he says before reaching for the door and turning the handle. John practically falls through it when it opens, catching himself at the last moment.

He clears his throat standing to his full height and gives her father a smile that’s perfectly balanced between apologetic and humble, trying to play off the fact he was very obviously listening to everything that was said through the door.

“Three weeks,” her father says as John settles next to her. He starts to reach out for her hand, but thinks better of it at the last second. “You will both be sitting quietly reading magical history books that will bore you to tears for three weeks, no spells, no conjuring, no magic of any sort.”

“Yes, sir,” they say in unison. John’s shoulders which were rigid with tension, clearly worried he was going to be sent packing all the way back to London, drop and he steps a little closer to Zatanna.

“There will be no more lying, no more magical bars until your both of age,” he continues on holding himself in a parade stance in front of them, all business. “This key,” he says pulling it back out from his pocket and shockingly handing it over to Zatanna. “May be used, but you will come home at a prompt and discussed time when it is.”

“Yes, sir,” they say once again. John seems to feel a little braver now and reaches out tangling his fingers with hers.

“And if you do stay the night, you better be as sly about it as you have been and you must be safe,” he says his eyes staying put on John’s specifically in warning.

“Yes, sir,” he says with a confident nod. “Always am.”

“Good,” her father says softening his stance. “As for tonight though, I think it’s best you went home, John. I’ll let you say your goodnights.”

Her father gives her a small smile before swiftly leaving the room.

John lets out a long-relieved breath once he’s gone.

“Bloody hell I thought for sure he was going to send me packing, or just kill me,” he says letting his head drop down to her shoulder. “Definitely assumed he was about to melt that key right in front of us.”

Zatanna chuckles ruffling his hair and tugging at the ends until he lifts back up.

“Good thing he didn’t cause that one’s yours actually,” she says with a smile dropping it in his hand and pulling her own key from her shorts pocket dangling it in front of his eyes.

“Shit,” he says slipping it into the inside pocket of the long black trench coat he’s taken to wearing of late, she weirdly thinks a tan one would suit him better. “When the hell did I lose that?”

“This morning probably,” she says referring to when John had been sent upstairs by her father that morning to retrieve her for an early morning lesson. Things had gotten a little out of hands in the doorway when they’d been given a moment alone.

“Oops,” he says with a chuckle. He leans down kissing her lightly on the lips once, twice until the loud definitely magically manufactured sound of a ticking clock breaks them apart.

“Sounds like that’s my farewell song playing,” he says leaning in one last time, the linger of the cigarette he barely smoked in the hall still on his lips. “I’ll see you Monday for history lessons.”

Zatanna nods her head smiling as their arms travel along one another until it’s just their fingertips and he’s backing out of the door.

He turns and she follows watching as he heads for the intricate stained glass front doors.

“Hey, John,” she says leaning against the stairs. She can feel her father lingering at the top of them just out of sight, but she doesn’t care. “I love you too.”

He turns half in the door, half out with a big smile on his lips that she’s still getting used to seeing.

“Telling me just as we’re grounded, damn Zee. You’re gonna be the death of me luv,” he says smile still in place, he gives her a wink as he finally makes his way out the door the magic of the mansion closing it behind him.

She hears her father’s footsteps heading down the stairs as she pushes herself off of them.

“You two are going to make me regret giving you that key back aren’t you?” he says with a put-upon sigh.

Zatanna just smiles and makes her way up the steps patting him on the shoulder playfully as she passes.

“We’ll behave, I promise,” she says once she hits the top of the stairs and turns the corner.

“Go to bed,” he shouts after her sounding more like an exasperated single father than he ever has before as he trudges his way back up the stairs.

“As you wish father,” she shouts back playfully making her way down the hall to her room. As she turns the knob to her bedroom door she hears her father mutter with another loud sigh one solitary word: teenagers.

#my fic #johnzee #john constantine #zatanna zatara #writersmonth2021 #getting a late start and will be posting so many out of order prompts but i intend to do the whole month so stay tuned!

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korpuskat · 4 years ago

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Start Game [Tomura Shigaraki/Reader] - Part 1

[Ao3 Mirror]

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 1,456 Summary: In which your gaming partner decides to play a new sort of game. Contains: AFAB but Gender Neutral Reader, Public sex, Fingering, Oral sex,

===== [Part 2] [Part 3] =====

“What if someone sees?” Your voice trembles, fingers twisting into the ratty texture of his hoodie. It’s seen better days, but it doesn’t stop Tomura from wearing it every single time you’ve met him. It and his odd gloves and the weeks-deep bags under his eyes and the suspicion he hasn’t seen a warm shower in years are how he finds you every time.

“They won’t.” He says, crowded up too close to you. “They’re all too busy with their games. Nobody comes over here.” He glances down the short hallway- he’s right. The only thing besides you in this corner of the arcade is a stack of forgotten chairs, covered in dust- probably unused since the last time the arcade had hosted any kind of event and the service door for hauling in new coin-ops. You know this. “Besides, I’ll be on this side. They won’t see you at all.”

This is a bad idea. You tremble against the wall, glance over his shoulder to the dimly lit room, the flashing lights- two people yelling, but you can’t decide if it was pvp or co-op. Tomura’s ahead of you, pulling open the button to your jeans and pushing his hand between your legs. He’s got that light in his eyes, a grin that spreads just too far to truly be happiness on his face- the kind of face that should make you want to run away, not spread your legs as much as your pants allow.

You keep one hand curled into the front of his hoodie and true to his word, Tomura sets his shoulder to the wall. His height blocks your view of the rest of the building. His glove chafes against your right thigh and you worry that you’ll ruin them- but Tomura never seems to worry about money, about time- about anything at all, really- and then his exposed fingers circle your clit.

“You’re really wet.”

You tense against him, desperately lift up to your tip-toes to peek over his shoulder. “Don’t, they’ll hear you…”

You can’t tell him how much you love his voice, the quiet raspiness to it, as though he never talks to anyone except you. It doesn’t matter, his fingers continue on, stroke in lazy circles and he leans in. His lips land somewhere above your ear, makes your whole head vibrate as he speaks. “You like this. That’s why you’re so wet.”

You whimper, buck your hips against his touch. Your voice isn’t your own as the words slip out. “It’s wrong.”

Tomura’s grin only widens, “That’s why you like it.” He pants and his finger slip down, press against your entrance. Complaints about teasing rise in you throat- and die out just as fast. He pushes his hips up against your side just as he slides both fingers into you- taking them all the way to the knuckle. You shudder, your mind unhelpfully picturing his cock as he rocks against you. “It’s okay, I like it too.”

He nestles the heel of his palm up against your clit and between his fingering and your hips moving against him, the pleasure builds quickly- coiling in your belly as you curl your toes. “You’re doing so good.” He praises, barely hiding the wet noises of his fingers moving inside you. “Warm and soft inside, you’re perfect…” You can only mewl weakly and press your face into his hoodie to mask your growing whimpers.

”Dude!” Someone yells.

You clench so hard you worry you’ve broken his fingers, that you’ve shredded his hoodie- but Tomura is unphased, impossibly cool-headed as he twists to look over his shoulder. You don’t have to wait for his answer to know, “Nobody’s looking.”

You swallow, nod- his voice is quiet, soothing “Relax.” He urges you with a pleasant rub to your sensitive front wall that makes your toes curl. You mutter an apology and try to breathe, to release the stranglehold you have over his hand. You ease up and his fingers come to life again, still sliding into you with ease. “That’s it, you’re so good for me…”

The praise makes your knees weak, but you can't quite fall back into the rhythm. It’s hard to find that vein of pleasure again; each noise from the arcade beyond makes you jump and gasp and anxiously glance to Tomura’s face for reassurance. He gives it freely and continues on, only the slightest downward twinge of his brow betrays any thought. But that, too, becomes something to worry about- can’t you just relax long enough to cum? Doesn’t his arm hurt by now? The longer you’re here, the more likely it is you’ll get caught and-

His teeth catch against the shell of your ear as he talks. “I want to make you cum.” You shudder, nearly lose yourself to him right there. “Come on… I want to watch you.”

Embarrassment and shame nearly steal you voice, but you choke out a quiet “I… I don’t think I can.”

His face tightens- "Why not?" and, oh, you’ve really disappointed him- "Is it not enough?" His fingers curl inside you, the heel of his palm grinding down on your clit. A whimper escapes you lips as you lift your hips to meet his touch.

You lick your lips, try to look over his shoulder again. You could just tell him you’re not feeling it, that maybe you’re sore or unused to the position- but when have you been able to lie to him? “I don’t want to get caught.” You swallow, look to the floor, unable to meet the intense gaze you know is beating down on you. “I can’t focus.”

Tomura hums in his throat, a little noise of acknowledgement as his fingers slow. It still feels good, the long, thin lengths working inside you with all the precision he uses in his gameplay. Maybe he’ll give up- you still enjoyed it, it wasn’t exactly a waste- but even from the corner of your eyes you can see it. How his thin, cracked lips spread wide into that same expression that shoots electricity down your spine. “You know…” He says, and this time how his lips brush against your ear is all intentional. “I think I can still make you cum.”

He doesn’t wait for your approval. The wall of his body between you and the rest of the arcade falls and Tomura sinks to his knees. You gasp, grab at the shoulders of his hoodie, succeeding in only pulling on handfuls of black fabric. "No, Tomura, wait, they can-"

His tongue is warm and wet and so sinfully soft and every thought that isn’t oh. flees from your mind. Your knees wobble, so he holds your hips in place with his free hand and his tongue doesn’t stop. The angle is awkward, your pants still high on your thighs, but fuck, you can’t stop now to shove them down more, because all you can do is tangle your fingers into his greasy hair and cover your mouth with your hand in a futile attempt to quiet yourself. And even with his mouth hidden in the curve of your skin, you can tell he’s grinning, that fire dancing in his eyes just like when he’s winning.

He fingers curl again and all you can hear is his words in your ears: I want to make you cum.

Your body jerks against him, white-hot pleasure shooting from your clit out and out until you think it’ll burn you. You bite your hand to keep from screaming and Tomura’s eyes close as he moans against your skin. The orgasm makes your body shake, muscles contracting on their own, but his arms are stronger than they look in his loose-fitting clothes and he holds you there, keeps you nice and still as he takes his time licking you clean. Even as you tremble in overstimulation, he keeps on, until you’re fighting for your voice- now hoarse and choked-up- just to beg him to stop.

He stands, but keeps one hand at your waist. You soak in the sight before you: his already unkempt hair is mussed even more from your grabbing, pupils blown wide, but with the ever-changing light out beyond the hallway, his face glistens. You’d blush if you had any blood left to go anywhere else but your still twitching clit. From the tip of his nose down his chin and spread in a wide arc over his cheeks, your slick covers him. His over-sized hoodie hangs low, but does nothing to help hide the tent that sits heavy between his legs.

He can only grin, that same thing that got you into this mess. Got him into that mess- and with one sleeve of his hoodie he wipes off his face. It takes him a few tries to get enough that he must not feel it anymore, despite the fact that his sleeve is practically soaked through. You don’t even want to look at his gloves.

“Come on.” The phrase makes your knees weak again, but if he notices he says nothing. “There’s a rhythm game I think you’d like.” Your head spins and you struggle to find your balance, to follow him back into the loud noises of the arcade. “It has co-op.”

#tomura shigaraki #shigaraki tomura #tomura x reader #shigaraki x reader #tomura x you #shiagaraki x you #boku no hero fanfic #boku no hero imagines #tomura shigaraki imagine #tomura shigaraki fanfiction #start game #kat talks

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astringofmadhousefloozies · 4 years ago

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Hobbies and Holidays, Or The Halloween Fic

Yes, I know it’s June. I just like Halloween, man. Yuu’s quiet dedication to the finest of holidays sours when confronted with assholes who fuck around for clout.

Contains coarse language, attempted violence, sexuality and nerds being nerds. As always, if you enjoyed it or have any questions, let me know! I like talking with people.

~*~*~*~

"What's cooking?" Ace, cheery as could be, walked his way up towards your set up on the Ramshackle front lawn. "Is it curry? I hope it's curry."

"You might not want to stand downwind." You poked at the bubbling mess on the propane stove, sweat rolling down your back. A beautiful August day, perfect for your project. This sure as hell wasn't something you wanted to do indoors.

"Whaddya mean by that?" The breeze shifted towards him, and he turned an impressive shade of green, stumbling back with his nose covered. "What's in there?"

"Mice. I told you to keep upwind." You went in with a hand strainer, and scooped a pile of tiny bones onto a ratty towel.

"Why are you boiling mice?"

You mirrored his are-you-goddamned-stupid-or-something face back at him. "I wanted the bones. I went to Sam, but he said he's not allowed to order in dermestid beetles after last time, so I gotta do it the old-fashioned way."

"That's absolutely disgusting,” her said, the disgust and disbelief plain on his face.

"Don't we all know. Grimm fucked right off when the ghosts showed me the mouse graveyard."

"And your first thought at a pile of rotten mice was 'ooo, free bones' like some kinda crazy necromancer?"

"Yup." You scooped out another pile of bones. If you left them in there too long, they'd simply dissolve like in a cooked fish. As it was, you'd have to find a way to strengthen them. Maybe dip them in resin?

"Why am I your friend, again?"

"Because you feel responsible for me."

"Yeah. And you're fun when you aren't being weird and doing shit like taking cemetery pictures."

"I'll stop taking the pictures when I stop finding good grave iconography."

"Yeah, weird. I'm going to leave you to be a gross little maggot by yourself today."

"I'm not eating them."

"They're stewing in a pot."

"To get the meat off!"

"Yeah, whatever. See you at supper. I hope you don't stink."

"We'll find out, won't we?" you muttered, sotto voce, but he was already gone.

~*~*~*~

It was a beautiful day in September, and you heard him far before he knew you had. When you turned to look at Idia, floss wound around your fingers, he started. "Is my stealth that bad?"

You gave him the ghost of a smile. "You're not as quiet as you think you are." He hasn't cottoned on that you can hear what's in his headphones, if they aren't set just right on his head, and you aren't about to tell him. The face he makes when you pick him out so easily was too good to lose.

He nodded, fidgeted, looked at the spread on the table. "What are you doing?"

"Well, she's got to dry. So I'm working on this pattern until the top coat goes on."

'She' was a currently eyeless, disembodied head, that you'd picked up along with her body in a second hand store for a pittance. You'd unstrung her, scrubbed her clean, and now were putting on a face to match her sweet if imperious expression, a bratty princess of a girl in miniature. You hadn't realized you'd liked dolls until you'd seen her. But, when you had, your breath fled your throat in the same way it had only once since coming here.

He looked, but knew better than to touch. He did a little bit of craft work himself, mostly model painting, and wasn't about to muss your hard work. "She's... nice?" He didn't quite get the appeal, despite having two vinyl dolls you knew of stowed carefully in their packages under his bed. When you'd asked, he just muttered that they were anime characters and didn't come out except for photos because something something collectibles something resale value. Boys.

"I could do better. But it's enough. Thank you for letting me borrow the painting set up."

"Y... welcome." He squinted at the embroidery, finally noticing something. "Are those bones?"

In the center of each withered, poisonous blossom in your embroidery hoop, you'd stitched a tiny vertebra to serve as the center. "Yeah?"

"Why?"

"Why not?"

He wasn't ready to push it any further. "If you want..." He hesitated, and stumbled, and you waited until he just brought out his tablet to tap it out on a screen instead. "You can come do that in Board Game Club, if you want. There's a window. Azul shouldn't mind."

"I'll join you after I gear up and put the sealant on her. Thank you for inviting me." You gave him your best, most dazzling smile. "You know how much I like when you include me in your stuff. I know it's not always easy for you; how shy you are and all."

He squeaked and looked away, and you continued. "I should be there in about an hour. Make sure Azul doesn't keep up trying to wager me in chess. I can't fucking play worth a damn and he knows it."

He smirked. "He likes easy marks. Maybe try and get goo-"

You flicked a bone at him, and it hit him square on the nose as he yelped.

~*~*~*~

Welcome, October. Coolness and colour, a certain something on the breeze that felt like a home you'd never let go. Even if it hadn't quite hit the dorms the same way as they main area of the school. (Those little fairies that ran the weather machine didn't seem to believe in seasons for the dorms, or perhaps Crowley gave them a chewing out after the spring?) In amongst the Heartslabyul roses, you'd think it was still summer, and you weren't one to let a day of warmth go.

"Oh, in this chapel of ritual, smells of dead human sacrifices from the altar..."

"Stop that."

You looked up at Riddle, who'd found you in your secluded corner. "Why?"

"You can't sing and the lyrics are awful."

"Is there a rule against that?"

He nodded. "The queen gets to approve all music."

"Ah, of course, mine rosen liege. My petaled monarch. Emperor Rosa." A collar appeared on your neck, and you did not slow down. "Cardiac Sovereign. Dauphine De la Coeur. I can do this all day, Riddle; that collar don't do shit cause I ain't magic."

The colour was high on his cheeks. "Is it your job to annoy me?"

"Oh, you got me. I wake up and spend every moment thinking 'How do I best piss off Riddle Roseheart? How about I stand outside his door and blast nightcore from a boombox?' "

He narrowed his eyes at you. "Stop joking."

You laughed. "Yeah. I only do that with Shoenheit."

That managed to get a bit of a smile out of him. "Why are you being a pest over here, and not at your own dorm?"

"I'm just doing crafts, man."

"While sitting on the grass."

"Yeah, man. Won't be any grass to sit on soon enough. Made sure to not be on the croquet grounds or anything."

He looked at the mess of foam and ribbon around you. "What are you even doing?"

You looked down, and back up at him. "Crafts?"

"More specifically, before I kick you out for being awful."

You held up a padded frame, that you were carefully wrapping a satin ribbon around the many bars of it. "What does that look like?"

He just glared instead of admitting he didn't know, so you got to your feet and held the frame over your chest, the shape clarifying by being pressed over what it mimicked. "It's ribs. It'll tie on with more ribbon. Might put beads and stuff on it too."

He looked for a beat before nodding. "For later this month?"

"Indeed."

"... Continue, then. But be quiet!"

He was nice enough to remove the collar before he left, but not nice enough to leave it off as soon as you resumed singing to yourself once you'd assumed he was out of earshot.

~*~*~*~

"Hey, Lil?”

"Yeah?"

You looked over the riot of cheery pumpkins and Far East aesthetics that had sprung from your lawn. "You should've asked me, first."

Lil smiled at you. "But then you would have said no."

"I wouldn't have. But," you guestured to the papier mache dragon, "Really, my dude? This isn't what I would have picked at all. I'm not going to match."

"You're working on a costume? Already?" He lit up. "What's it going to be?"

"You'll see."

"Do I get a costume?"

You looked down at your not-cat. "Grimm, I didn't think you'd want one."

"I do now!" He scrambled to your shoulder and tugged at your hair, wailing. "Costume! Costume!"

You rolled your eyes. "Stop that, before I sell you to Lil to practice recipes on."

~*~*~*~

Grimm was no help. He changed his mind every few minutes on what he wanted. At least your incorporeal roommates were a sweet help, finally gearing him up with a hat by the beginning of the week.

"Do you still need one, Yuu?" The middling ghost, the one neither plump nor skeletal, seemed concerned.

"No, babe. I've been working on this since..." August, you think. "I'm good. I hope I can get a week out of it. I could at least do a different face each day."

Realization dawned across his face. "That's what that was for? I see. I guess you won't need..."

Oh, he made you a costume. Layers and layers of rotten gauze from the curtains, a spindrift take on the bedsheet ghost.

"Hey, I can use this, don't worry. Can you stoke the fire? I've got to dye this to match, I'll need some water boiled."

~*~*~*~

There's too many fucking people. You don't know any of them, they're loud, and they cram in wherever you need to go. But their fussing over you, their asking for pictures is nice. If only...

"Hey, are you lost, kid?" You lean down and reach a hand out to a fearful-looking six-year-old. "I can help you find someone who can help?"

He promptly burst into tears and collided into Floyd as he ran away.

"Hey there itty bitty. You need an adult? Hold on." Even with Floyd... being Floyd, he was a hell of a more welcome sight to the kid, and soon had him balanced on a shoulder to yell for his parents. "Who's under all that?"

"Your favourite shrimp, you overgrown string bean."

Floyd make an o of surprise and flicked the veil up. "It is you under all that! See, kid, She's not scary. She's pretty."

The kid simply eyed him dubiously before going back to trying to wave his parents down to get away from these lunatics.

All your hard work paid off beautifully. A mass of bones, beads and decay, a beautifully jeweled skeleton crowned with a fine halo of gold-and-bone spines and dried flowers. You rattled gently with every step, eyes staring out from a painted skull. They only thing you regretted was Riddle catching you earlier. Even if he hadn't intentionally steered it that way himself, everyone would assume you'd intentionally went to match Heartslabyul. Even more, now that you'd turned those curtains into a veil, even if you'd stuck all the bone and garnet drops you could onto the edges.

"Thank you, Floyd." You leaned up towards the kid. "Didn't mean to scare you, little darling."

The kid just stared at you in fear, and fortunately his parents came along to claim him, leaving you and Floyd by yourself.

"Shrimpie~" He'd scooped you up to replace the kid in his arms before you could protest. "You're so cute like this! Let's go to the alchemy room."

"What's in the alchemy room, Floyd." At this point you were used to him just... hauling you wherever. And you’d found that if you went along with the lighter end of it, he took you seriously when you said no. Weirdo he was, he'd at least gathered that you'd hang out willingly if he didn't push it.

"Oh, well you look so nice! You'll look much nicer in the water tube than the dummy we have in there."

"There are several reasons that can't work, Floyd. Least of it is I only breathe air."

"You're a ghost right now, you don't breathe at all."

"This outfit would not survive a dunking. I'm not sure it'll last the week if I don't repair it every night."

He kept smiling at you. "Even better! Wearing nothing at all on Halloween! Everyone would take even more pictures."

"Yeah yeah, and you have nothing at all in your room if I want to speed that up." You flicked his nose. "Put me down and we can walk over and check how it's going."

"Excuse me?" A stranger. "Can I take a picture of you and your boyfriend like that."

"I'm not her boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend. Go ahead though."

~*~*~*~

"What are you working on?"

Idia's voice was slightly muffled under the pumpkin head. "People kept calling my projection 'cute'. Idiots! They don't know the true fear of Pumpkin Hollow. So I'm adjusting the projection mapping so it's less cute, and more accurate."

"Hm. It seems fine to me as it is."

"You would think that. You don't care if there is a cuteness to things that are scary."

"There's beauty and sweetness in even death." You thought for a moment. "This is for that series you sat me down for? You got mad when I played with the toys?"

"Those. Are. Collecta-" he stopped when he whirled on you, faltering into silence. You really wished you could see the face he was making, he made such sweet faces, especially when he looked at you. You craved them, wanted him to look only at you with those expressions.

You smiled at him. "There's no use in leaving a toy in a box! I don't buy anything I don't intend to play with."

"Ah. Errrrrrrrrghhhmmm." He turned back to his work, took a deep breath, and turned back around. "You watched them, would you give me feedback?"

"Sure. Could you lean down a little?"

He did, and you carefully pulled off the pumpkin, revealing - nothing. No head at all.

You laughed. "Turn that off."

"Why?"

"I just opened your box. Time to play."

He made a strangled noise and started back, looking this way and that. "Right now? Anyone could come in!"

"Just for a moment! How can I give you a kiss if I can't see where I'm aiming?"

His head flickered into view, with a face full of mischief. "... Just one?"

~*~*~*~

"What happened to your makeup?"

"Wouldn't you like to know, model boy." You looked Vil up and down. "You're actually pretty hot like that. It's a miracle."

"Of course you would only find me attractive when I look like a corpse." He rolled his eyes hard enough to sprain. "Do I need to go lie down in a glass coffin too? Stay very still while you actually work up the courage to touch me?"

You snorted. "You wish I would touch you, you overblown jackass."

"With you looking like that? I'd die."

"Bite me, asshole."

"You'd like it if I did."

Your tone grew playful. "Is that a promise for later?"

"Ugh." His shudder was too exaggerated to be anything but an act. "Go ask your ugly little playmate for a bite, we all know what gross shit you get up to."

"You're just mad it's not you."

He pointed a perfectly manicured nail at your painted nose. "You're just mad I want nothing to do with you."

"Then why are you even talking to me?"

"I- why am I talking to you. Go away."

You did, but not before pulling on his cape to wrinkle it.

~*~*~*~

You had a dreadful feeling things were about to get worse. Call it intuition, or paranoia. But with any luck, that would change after a good night's sleep.

(It did not.)

~*~*~*~ These fuckers were getting exhausting. What a grand idea, picking unknown flowers to stick in your hair for selfies! That wasn't an excellent way to come down with a hideous case of contact poisoning at all. You had to swat one girl's hand away from a bed of monkshood, reciting symptoms of aconite poisoning at her until she stalked off in a huff.

And futzing around with the decorations! The only reason you didn't outwardly congratulate Leona on trying to rip apart a bunch of tourists was that murder is supposed to be bad, no matter how irritating and disrespectful the murder victims were. Even you knew better than to go around fondling random ears and tails!

(That's why you'd made the anatomy books in the library your friends. Far more polite than going up to a fellow student and saying, "May I feel around your skull for a few hours to satisfy my scientific curiosity? No one at home has ears like that and I'm very curious about the underlying muscle structures." )

Better see what's going on everywhere else.

~*~*~*~

You got up in tiptoe and lightly touched his arm. "Hey, Floyd?"

"??? Yes, Shrimpie?" His face instantly brightening, he dropped the absolutely delighted Magicammer he'd had pressed to the shelf and turned to you, leaning in as you crooked your finger.

You whispered in his ear, "Why waste magic on them when you can do so much more with your fists?"

He shone like the sun as he pressed his cheek to yours in lieu of something more intimate. "You always know just what to do."

~*~*~*~

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE."

The crowd of idiots instead turned on you with flash photography. "Another ghost! This'll get so many likes!"

"I MEAN IT!" Blinking away the spots from your eyes and casting all good sense to the wind, you grabbed a fire poker from inside your bedroom door and started swinging. They laughed and clapped - and only stepped back when you got the damned thing stuck in the wall while taking a swing.

"What an excellent show!" And more. Fucking. Pictures. How in the fuck Vil deals with this shit without murdering everyone in a hundred-foot radius, you'd love to know.

"I SAID-" yank "GET THE FUCK-" yank "OUT OF MY HOUSE!" The force of finally pulling the poker from the wall sent you careening onto your ass, and Grimm only stopped long enough to laugh at you before resuming his own ineffective charge. You stumbled to your feet, muttering. "Stupid little mother fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking..."

"Oh, it's a chase game! Let's go!" And they all fucking scattered into different rooms as you watched them in disbelief.

"I am going to kill everyone in this building and then myself for good measure."

~*~*~*~

"Leave."

"Aren't you going to scare me, Miss Ghost?" This last idiot was joyfully skipping around a bedroom that you'd had the ghosts empty out, nattering into her phone. A livestream, you think.

You're in you goddamned pajamas. "Sure. We don't use this room because the floor's not sound. Get the fuck out and leave before you fall through to the next floor."

The girl instead started to hop in place. "Oooooo, so scary! You'll have to try better than that!"

You rushed her. You probably would have throttled her (and wound up with a new ghostly roommate in the process) but as she backed up, your leg went through the floor where she'd weakened it, which left her cackling.

"You weren't kidding! Bye now!" And she just fucking left you there like the wretched asshole she was.

~*~*~*~

"I'm so sorry, Yuu."

"Nothing to be sorry about, Mal."

He rested his head on your bare knee and looked up at you. "If I hadn't picked your home as a stamp location, people wouldn't be invading this dorm, and you wouldn't have been injured."

"You fixed me up, didn't you?" He was the one who had pulled you rightways, and shut the scratches on your leg. Of course, he could have left your socks on to do that, but hey, those had been fixed too. You reached down and put your hand on his cheek, rubbing circles by his eye while he stared up at you like an adoring dog.

"This was supposed to be fun for you, so you could have a perfect Halloween."

"That's still a few days away yet. There's still time. And hey."

He blinked up at you as you leaned your face in close, flushing faintly as you did. "Any luck, we'll all make it to November without assault charges."

~*~*~*~

"Yuu?"

You subconsciously growled like a rabid animal as you turned to Lilia with your eye twitching.

"By all the queen's powers." He shrank back. "You alright?"

"Magimons broke the lock on our bedroom and shook her awake last night." Grimm was, by some miracle, in a better mood than you; content to be a comforting weight in your arms and be your anger translator.

"They took," you added, "my groceries."

Lil looked at you in blank shock. "What about the wards on your doors?"

"That's for magic, not fucking morons with no sense of personal space." If you made it through 'til November without actually biting someone's throat out and getting put down like a mad dog, you'd be sincerely surprised. "You of all people should know that."

"Hey, I put them back up after I drop in. You want to go sit with Malleus today? I think you need it."

"Nope. If I snap at him he'll take it to heart. Or just kill everyone who's not staff or student because they upset me."

"No he wouldn't."

"We both know he would."

"He would not because that would be bad press for the kingdom."

"... well, damned if I ever though I'd say this, but thank god for politics."

~*~*~*~

You stare at the empty plinths as everyone started yelling and scrambling. You look to the rubble of the statues, the bases, to Cater, and back to the rubble, nudging what may have once been a staff with you toe.

"And it's not even for a fucking political movement."

~*~*~*~

"Yuu, if we can get rid of the magicam monsters, we can have the party!" Grimm smiled up at you, all sharp teeth and blue eyes. "Aren't you happy?"

You didn't have the heart to tell him that at this point, you'd rather they'd just cancel everything and simply sleep through till All Saint's. Fuck your costume work. Fuck the party. Fuck everything. If you see another jack o lantern you will smash it. Fuck this holiday. You're so tired.

"Yuu, do you have ideas on how to drive the magicam monsters away?"

You stared past Cater's ear because you didn't feel like looking anyone in the face. "Tried to brain a few with a fire poker. Th'just thought it was funny."

This was met with the sound of air sucked through teeth, and a warm hand on your shoulder. "Come with me please!" And Ortho pulled you away with the force of a vaudeville hook.

"You're having a very bad time!" So sweet, so earnest. Right now he was the only person here who could be that chipper and you not want to put their nose out the back of their skull.

You gave him a weary smile. "What was your first clue, honey."

"She keeps kicking in her sleep. When she sleeps. And she's all snappy and horrible!"

You gave Grimm a single light warning shake. "Shut up, Grimm."

"Would you like to stay over so that you can rest properly?" He was hovering directly in front of your face. "Maybe if you're somewhere you won't be woken up, you'll feel better."

You raised an eyebrow and stared over at Idia, who was trying very hard to pay attention to both your conversation and his. "Shouldn't you clear that with someone first?"

Ortho rolled his eyes, the effect on his little boy face frankly hilarious. "Oh, he'd be so upset you have you over. Deeply so. He wouldn't get a wink of sleep with you there." He leaned in. "Except he would, because you wouldn't do anything to keep him up with me there, would you?"

You wheezed. "You think so little of me, Ortho."

"I like you very much even if what you both get up to is gross."

"Of every boy in this school, Yuu. You picked that one."

Ortho glared down at Grimm. "That is my brother you're talking about."

"Stop it. Can we check back in?"

~*~*~*~

"So we're going to run round and scare the piss out of them?"

Jade nodded. "That is the idea, yes."

"... Can I help?"

"Of course, Yuu." Jade smiled his smile that didn't reach more than a millimetre beneath his eyes. "But we've agreed you can't have any blunt objects. For everyone's safety. And the school's reputation, of course.."

"... Yeah, that's for the best."

~*~*~*~

"Can you guys watch Grimm for the evening?"

"Of course." Mal beamed at you from his seat on the Ramshackle steps. "Where will you be that he doesn't want to be?"

"I don't like the horse."

"You ride horses?" Idia was sitting between Mal's legs as Malleus carefully arranged the bright hair into a high ponytail.

"Epel taught me." You paused for a minute. "Do you?"

"Mother made me learn. I haven't in years."

"Makes sense." He didn't like the outdoors, after all. "Mal, how'd you convince him to let you touch his hair? He only lets me do that in private."

"It will look nicer coming out of his pumpkin helmet if arranged higher." Mal crooked his mouth and dragged his lacquered nails along Idia's scalp, making a soft noise when Idia gasped, shivered and abruptly stood up.

"Nope nope nope nope no more of that-"

"May I at least put the elastic in?" Mal held up a black band. "It's fireproof."

He instead snatched it and ran for the library as fast as he could without cracking the armour. You and Mal watched him leave.

"Hm."

"Mal?"

He was still watching the blue light vanish into the distance. "I think I can see the appeal." His dreamy smile gained a sharp edge. "What a delicious sound."

You snickered. "God, I know, right? You should hear some of the other ones I've got out of him."

"You're both disgusting."

~*~*~*~

You hadn't worked out an actual story for this one, just your ghostly roommates and Grimm telling everyone to leave the statues alone. But some asshole, wearing aviator shades and the ugliest piecemeal hoodie you'd ever seen, mounted a plinth to start taking selfies. And once that started, more got the idea, and joined him, trying to nudge the statue away to make room.

So, that's where you came in, pulling into sight at the end of the drive, in tarnished gilt and rotten splendor, jeweled Death on a pale horse.

Sunglasses looked at you and froze, before snapping another picture.

Fucking pictures. You're so sick of pictures.

You snapped the reins and nudged your heels, and who knew anyone on two legs could move that fast? Though potentially being run down by a warhorse was great motivation to move thine arse, as it were. And, thank god, everyone else booked it out the gate after him.

It only took a little maneuvering to lock the gate while still up on a pale horse named Beans, and now? Time to take him to his stable and go the fuck to sleep. Maybe through past tomorrow. Fuck Halloween.

~*~*~*~

You were riding your merry way when a familiar voice called out to you. "You dropped some loot!"

"What did I lose, Idia?" His little speakers mimicking the clang of armour were working overtime as he jogged up beside you. Once he reached you, he held up... a shoe.

"Huh." You looked down, and you had indeed lost a shoe while charging down a bunch of Magicam-obsessed assholes on a warhorse. "Thank you." That's when you gave Idia a level gaze, and stuck you leg out at him.

He swallowed back his noise of shock, and shaking, took your stockinged foot and slid the shoe back into place.

"Good boy."

He was turning from shell pink to a deep red that rivaled the roses in Heartslabyul. But that didn't mean he didn't know how to keep playing when emotions were high. Before letting go, he leaned down and kissed the top of your foot.

Now it was your turn to go red; a wonder the painted skull didn't simply melt off of your face.

~*~*~*~

"Shrimpie~"

You took a breath and prepared yourself. Scoopsies was inevitable.

True to form, Floyd had his whole conversation with you in a bridal carry. "We're gonna have the party!~ We chased them all away!~"

"That's..." Honestly, despite all the rage and pain this week had caused, you were rather happy about the news. "Nice."

"Ah - where'd your face go?" He leaned in, and you stopped him from getting too close with a finger pressed to his lips.

"I didn't feel up to wearing everything." Your embroidered gown and painted skull was replaced with a simple back veil and black dress. "I kind of hate this whole holiday right now and I'm ready to kick the next pumpkin I see."

He nodded, kissing your fingertip as he did. "I can help you after. But we need this all for the parade." He brightened. "You should paint up and get on the horse again for it!" He smiled, full of dreamy fondness and not a small amount of hunger. "I heard what you did to the magicam monsters... I wish I could have seen."

"Hey, I heard you didn't do too badly yourself." You leaned in conspiratorially. "Anyone pee themselves?"

He smiled like the sun post-eclipse. "Yup!"

~*~*~*~

Epel had been nice enough to help you kit out Beans in a fancy black harness, so in amongst the crowd of costumed students, you were both equally eye-catching. And hell, pictures weren't so bad right now. People were keeping a distance, murmuring to each other as they aimed their cameras. You thought you were getting a dirty look or two from Vil for stealing his thunder, but he had himself on the prow of a ship! It wasn't comparable.

"So," you said, leaning down a little, "How are you handling this?"

Idia looked up at you, you thought. "The mask makes it easy. They're looking at the costume, not me."

"I'm glad it helps. I wish you'd take it off, but you being comfortable is more important."

"What? You want me to ruin the effect by taking the mask off? Clearly you have no respect for the holiday." His voice had the sweet, bubbling quality that came when he was excited and happy, and it warmed you to hear it.

"Oh, no, of course not. But why would I want to taste a plastic kiss,” you said, reaching a hand down to run the trailing ribbon of his hair through your fingers, “when I could taste you instead?"

You had to give him credit, he only faltered for a moment before continuing. "Right now? In front of everyone?"

"I would if you'd let me, right now." You lowered your voice. "And worse."

He stifled a groan and only walked funny for another ten minutes.

~*~*~*~

"I thought you didn't like horses." The stables were in sight, but Idia had turned up, surprising you.

He rolled his eyes, and held his arms out. "Dismount, fair maiden."

What.

"I mean it. Your Pumpkin Knight awaits."

You shook your head, voice soft. "Baby, no."

"I'm trying to be romantic. Like your novels."

"Idia."

He stared back at you, sour-faced. "What."

"I outweigh you by at least sixty pounds."

"I can do this. I carry Ortho around all the time."

"Ortho's chassis is mostly fibreglass and aluminum. I can carry Ortho. I think Grim could carry Ortho."

He took a step forward. "Do you want me to leave you on the horse or not."

"His name is Beans." But, you managed to dismount into Idia's arms, where he stood stock-still and trembling.

"Kkc."

"Babe? Put me down before your back goes out."

His knees gave out first, and he crumpled beneath you as you both yelped.

"You alright?"

"hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh"

You crawled off his chest and he could actually breathe again.

"Better?"

After a few breaths, he managed a weak smile. "Maybe kiss it better."

Beans beat you to it, snuffling at Idia's face to make sure he wasn't dead.

~*~*~*~

You are not much of a party person. You like them, but the ideal party is a few friends hanging around in the same room, chatting at a reasonable volume and then going home to go the fuck to sleep. This was a little much.

But you know what this party had that you hadn't seen in what felt like years? Cute girls. In cute costumes! You've been flirting your ass off, with decent success; it turns out that the Magicam Live you did with Vil weeks ago had paid off in the form of smiles and fluttered eyelashes as girls crowded around you to hear tales of how fucking obnoxious you could be in this school and get away with it because you had friends in high places.

At least, until you caught something out of the corner of your eye, and you stopped. "Hey, I gotta check on someone - raise your hand if you like boys. Okay, you see -" You stopped and pointed at your poor, unsuspecting target. "With the blue-black hair and the painted spade? That's Deuce, he doesn't know how to talk to girls worth a damn, so give him some slack. But he's a sweetheart, you won't regret it."

"What about the redhead?"

"Ace is a prick but he's delightful. Chat him up too." With that, you went to check on Idia, huddled into a corner after an attempted force-feeding.

"You alright, babe?"

He nodded. "They're too much. But I'm alright now."

You leaned back against a nearby chair, looking him up and down. "You sure you aren't going to eat anything? I don't think anyone's going to care too much if you have your face out."

He remained completely still, and you realized you could hear a faint whirring. "Idia. Have you been using the robot double all evening."

"... I swapped out ten minutes ago."

You made a noise and he flinched. "I was going to swap back in after it calmed down!"

"... No you weren't."

"Okay, no I wasn't. But I was there for a while. I have proof, I brought plates back with me."

"You could have just told me. It's been a hell of a lot for you, I know what you're like."

Idia - well, his robotic avatar - shrugged. "If you're going to lecture me... come by and do it here."

You stopped. "You really want me to yell at you in person?"

"I want you to come by. If you want. You can stay as long as you want... if you want. I have snacks, and movies, and games that even you could play."

You snorted. "Oh, the siren call of a fucking nerd trying so hard to woo his chosen..."

"I changed my mind actually, you can't come."

"Aww."

"... That's a lie." He paused. "You can even take the Yume Twins out."

Those vinyl dolls he never let you touch. You throw your veil back and kissed the stupid plastic pumpkin head. "It's a date."

~*~*~*~

"Yuu?"

You peered at Malleus from around a stack of Tupperware. "Mal?"

"You.. enjoyed it all, despite everything?"

"Despite everything." You hefted the stack towards him. "Would you like to help? I want to grab stuff from the party that'll keep at room temperature."

He absently flicked a finger, sending the dishes swirling around to settle in a stack in midair, before placing a hand on your shoulder. "I have a... request."

"Anything," you said, and you regretted saying it as his breath hitched.

"Would you..." His voice faltered, and instead he simply wrapped you in a tight embrace, leaning down to bury his nose in your hair. You could feel him, chest heaving, scenting your greased hair through tulle, murmuring something against your scalp.

"Malleus."

He stopped, but did not move.

"No spells."

"You would not forgive me if I tried." You could feel his smile against your hair.

"I would not." You pulled back enough to look at him, and nearly froze at his besotted gaze before he schooled it into his more usual face. "Mal, you know you only feel this strong because I'm your first friend, right?"

"Does it matter? It is sincere."

And that makes it so much worse. "You know I don't feel about you like that."

"..." The grief that flickered across his face was enough to shatter a stone heart. "To stand with you and hold you is enough."

And they said fairies can't lie. They could, they were just terrible at it.

"You said you were going to ask for something?"

"... Not anymore. I doubt you would give it."

He vanished into thin air in a swirl of wind, and the Tupperware clattered to the steps, the spell holding them gone.

~*~*~*~

The nice thing about Idia's room is that, being a prefect, he had an attached bathroom to scrub the paint off of your face. It was a monochrome murder in the sink, splatters of grey with the occasional pinprick of red where you'd disturbed the new bumper crop of pimples from painting up as a skull for a week. Thank fuck that was over with. Even if the day proper had been lovely, the events of the week had thoroughly soured you on Halloween.

"You alright?" Idia poked his head in, long since divested of armour.

"Yup. How'd you get that shit off so fast? You got a suiting-up machine hidden somewhere?"

"It's less complicated than you'd think. Cosplay magic."

"That's nice. Unbutton me."

"... wha."

You looked at him via the mirror, meeting his wide eyes and shimmying in place. "Unbutton me. I can't reach them all myself."

"How'd you get that on every day?" He hesitantly walked behind, eyeing the row down your back as though it would burn him at the touch.

"I have roommates, remember?"

"Mmh." He finally undid the first three, before flicking his gaze back to yours in the mirror. "A... Are you sure?"

"I wouldn't ask, otherwise." You kept looking, as he took a breath and resumed. "Idia."

He paused.

"Keep going, I'm just going to chat at you for a bit." Two more. "You know I..." How to phrase this. "I don't intend to stay mint on card forever, you know. You can take me out and play."

He twitched, but kept going. "Maybe I don't want to damage you. There's only one of you, after all."

"I'm not so breakable." You had one side of you face completely clear, the other still smeared grey in the creases. "Would you rather stay mint condition, yourself?"

"..." He took a moment to gather himself, staring at the exposed skin of your back. "Maybe I want to... admire a bit. Get to know my- your- Uh."

You waited with a soft smile, until he found the words. "No one said you have to play straight away when you take something out of the package. Right?" He placed an experimental hand on the expanse of flesh between bra band and waistband, and did not draw away.

"Right."

"... Maybe I just want to hold you a bit before we play."

What a sweet boy you had. "Take all the time you need to. Even if we never play like that, I like you. Spending time with you is what I want."

You could see the motes of pink flickering through his hair. "Can I hold you now?"

"Of course."

He slid his hands under your dress, around your waist - then grabbed your soft, flabby tummy in both hands and squeezed. "Soft~"

You squealed with laughter. "What are you doing?"

"It's bare skin that's neutral territory," he huffed, before hugging your back to him and resting his chin on your shoulder. "And it's warm, too."

"Not so much as you. Keep me warm, will you? It's getting so damned cold at night."

He buried his face in your hair. "I can do that."

~*~*~*~

You woke to someone banging at the door.

"Son of a bitch." You managed to free yourself from Idia's sleeping grasp and make it to the door as a familiar voice started up. "Shroud, your tin can brother's already helping with clean-up, if you skip out because of a stupid game I will-"

You opened the door and looked levelly into Vil's face, which twisted in surprise. He gave you a once over (unshaved legs, mussed hair, boxer briefs from the men's section and a blue-black striped shirt that was clearly not yours) and then peeked over your shoulder at Idia (dead asleep, smiling faintly, possibly naked under the blankets). He kept looking between the two of you with increasing disbelief and horror, until he stepped back, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Good for you."

"Thanks." Your face still hadn't changed.

"It's twelve thirty. If you're not both out helping clean up by three, I'm telling everyone."

"That's not much of a threat."

"Maybe to you. Shroud!"

Idia shuddered awake, bleariness washed away by terror as he saw Vil in the door and covered himself in the blankets.

"Be out helping cleanup by three or I'm telling everyone exactly why you're late." With that, he stalked off and you shut the door, mirroring his nose pinch.

"Dramatic bastard, ain't he? Even when he's being nice."

"How is that nice?" He only stopped shivering when you sat back down on the bed.

"Two and a half hours, Idia."

He blinked at you.

"How much can we do in two and a half hours?"

Realization dawned, and he started snickering as he dragged you in close.

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland fanfiction #idia shroud #malleus draconia

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freebooter4ever · 4 years ago

Photo

Eugene follows Snafu Back To See The Caboose

After the girl on the train rejects him feistily, Snafu disappears once lunch is finished. So Eugene decides to hunt him down...

A short enemies to lovers 'missing scene' type oneshot that is basically a fanfic of a fanfic because the UST in @badgerms's F.M.L was too high, I needed them to kiss...so I wrote this using lolki's "what are you gonna do about it?" moment:

The back of the caboose is as deserted as Snafu expects it to be. The door to the outside deck shuts behind him with a literal and metaphorical heaviness. Snafu hopes he remembered to unlock it first. He slides his tie loose, unbuttons the top of his shirt, and slumps against the rail. After years of no real need to dress nice, Snaf starts getting antsy all dolled up among polite company. There was an ease in wearing his ratty service uniform everyday that he kinda misses. It was like a second skin, really. And eventually, when he wore it long enough, he stopped noticing the grime.

He lights a cigarette and sighs, watching the railroad ties pass underneath his feet as the train chugs along. His head feels so heavy slung between his shoulders, he could almost join them.

Watching the track is hypnotic, something to think about without thinking. Because the one thing currently filling his entire mind needs to go away.

Eugene Sledge.

Take necessity out of the equation, and he and Sledge are barely left with a friendship. Eugene doesn't look to Snafu for guidance like he used to, he doesn't look back to make sure Snafu is still running behind him - he doesn't look at Snafu much anymore period. Unless Snafu is acting like an ass. Or a fool. Or both at the same time. Like Eugene considers him some form of mild entertainment.

It hurts more than Snafu would like to admit. It hurts even worse when Snafu is forced to listen to Eugene's talk about 'when they get home', as if 'home' is a concept Snafu is expected to relate to.

Eugene and his ridiculous posturing about 'no plans'. Snafu knows better. Sledge is gonna leave K company behind, go back home to mama, get pa to get him a job, work his way up the social ladder, become successful, and forget all about the war.

Goddamn asshole.

Goddamn beautiful fucking asshole.

With perfect timing, the door to the caboose opens. "Hey," Eugene's shy voice comes up behind Snafu.

Snafu glances at the door. Without making eye contact he holds his cigarette carton out to Eugene.

"No thanks," Eugene says quietly, "Been trying to cut back."

That makes Snafu pause. He pockets the carton, and retreats from the usual cloud of smoke surrounding his head. Waving his hand through the air to try and disperse it, he backs up into the farthest corner of the caboose deck till his butt hits the cold railing. He's trying to put as much space between them as possible. Not that there's much space to begin with. The train is probably less than five feet wide.

"Am I interrupting?" Eugene asks politely, though his tone says he doesn't give a shit if he is.

Snafu just smirks at him. He flattens his cigarette between his lips, grasps onto the ladder attached to the caboose wall, and hoists himself onto the rail. He sits there and smokes, with one leg wrapped around the corner pole to keep himself stable.

Eugene eyes him warily, looking minorly concerned for Snafu's wellbeing if he falls off the train, but says nothing. He walks to the opposite end of the deck and leans over the rail there.

It gives Snafu a pretty good view of his ass.

The silence over them is awkward. They never had to fill silences like this during the war, in foxholes or on the roads. Back then they had too much noise, too much exhaustion for words. Now Snafu wishes Gene would just fucking say what he is thinking.

"Sorry," Eugene says.

Snafu grunts. He's gonna need more than that.

"Sorry for that girl stickin her nose up at you," Eugene continues.

"Only to be expected," Snafu mutters, petulant, "You didn't see her making her way back here, did you?"

Eugene shakes his head. "This happens every time. Anybody would be better than you at talking to girls. Even me, and I've never talked to a girl who wasn't Sid's kid sister in my life," Eugene complains, "You've got the looks but as soon as you open your mouth you step in it, Snaf. There's no way that girl was ever gonna show."

"Never thought she would," Snafu drawls. He wonders why Eugene is even bringing this up.

"So why do you do it then?" Eugene asks, sounding annoyed, "Antagonize those girls?"

Snafu shrugs even though he knows Gene can't see it with his back to him. "No reason," he says. 'To make you look at me again, to get your attention back on me where it should be,' he adds inwardly.

Eugene bristles. Snafu swears he can see the hair on the back of the guy's neck stand up. "You sure you don't do it just to mess with me?"

"Why the fuck would me talking to girls mess with you?" Snafu scrunches his face up in confusion.

Eugene falls quiet. Like he only just now realized what words fell out of his mouth.

Sensing Eugene isn't going to explain himself, Snafu shrugs and says, "I dunno, Sledgehammer." By now his cigarette is finally finished and he's ready to get back inside and away from whatever weird mood Sledge is in, "I just say shit. I don't mean any of it."

Eugene turns to look at him, and takes a few steps closer to lean against the rail nearby. He doesn't say a word, he just stares at Snafu with those soft sad eyes, and instantly makes Snafu feel like the biggest piece of shit to walk the earth. "You don't mean any of what you say?" he asks, his voice strangely vulnerable.

"Nah," Snafu throws the cigarette butt off the end of the train.

Eugene looks like a kicked puppy.

"I don't think about shit I do before I do it, Sledge," Snafu says, "Too much fucking work. Who does that?"

Eugene rolls his eyes. He's growing increasingly surly, as if Snafu is pushing him into this bad mood.

"Why do you care anyway?" Snafu asks.

"Remember what you said to me, the night of VJ day?" Eugene asks, "After Burgie left us alone on those rocks to go get drunk with the other guys and I said to you, 'looks like it's just you and me again'?"

"Yeah," Snafu says.

"Did you mean what you said?" Eugene demands to know. Eugene goes all haughty and poised as if he deserves every right to be putting Snafu on the spot like this.

"I ain't the one reading anything into it," Snafu retorts.

"Is that a no?"

"No!" Snafu snaps.

"So you never mean any of the shit you say?" Eugene demands.

"Nope."

Eugene turns away from him, presents Snafu with a cold shoulder.

Snafu wishes he could kiss that sour face better.

Instead Snafu scoffs, "-And yeah, what if I did mean it? I ain't the one reading into things, and I ain't the one who's been avoiding the other. You're the one who thinks you're better than me. What's it matter if I did mean something six months ago, if it's changed now? What are you gonna do about it?" He says it like it's a challenge but judging from Eugene's change of expression, Gene takes it as an insult.

Eugene stares intently down at the tracks, his posture an exact replica of Snafu's earlier. There's a stubborn furrow in Gene's brow. His shoulders are tense. He's wound up tighter than a spring.

Snafu laughs at him, mocking him. It's a relief, to finally get the meanness out, how much he hates not being under Gene's skin - so much that he's come to dislike him. A string's been snapped in Snafu's brain, he lets loose, he laughs and laughs. He gets caught up in his own amusement. He doesn't see what's coming for him.

Not till Gene's hand darts out and grabs the knot in Snafu's tie. Eugene yanks him forward - it takes all of Snafu's concentration not to slip backwards off the train - and crashes their faces together. Eugene's teeth hit Snafu's chin and Snafu gets the tip of Eugene's nose half in his mouth. Eugene quickly adjusts and this time when they reconnect, Snafu's lips fuse to his.

Eugene takes this as encouragement and shoves his hand into Snafu's hair to better control the kiss. He threads his fingers through and pulls, hard.

Snafu loses his balance on the rail and tips forward, stumbling into Gene's space.

Still focusing on the kiss, Snafu blindly grasps onto whatever part of Gene he can reach. The minute his hand touches Eugene's hip, the other guy gets spooked. For one wonderful moment Eugene is licking into Snafu's mouth and their hot, alcohol laden breath is mixing together, and the next minute Eugene is retreating like a shamed schoolgirl.

Eugene folds his arms in front of his chest, closes himself off, and turns his face resolutely to the door, away from Snafu. "Sorry," he breathes.

"Jesus christ, Gene," Snafu groans. He shares Eugene's sentiment in being unable to look his buddy in the eye. He doesn't want the physical contact to end, though. Snafu moves his hand from Gene's hip to his neck and leans his forehead against Eugene's soft shoulder, "Warn a man next time." He rests his head there, keeps his eyes closed, and takes deep calming breaths.

"It wasn't true," Eugene says hotly, "What you said - I wasn't avoiding you. I don't think I'm better than you."

"Okay," Snafu says, his heart still pounding.

"I have been distant…" Eugene admits, "Because I was afraid if I wasn't I might

…" He trails off.

"...do what you just did?" Snafu helpfully provides an end to his sentence.

Eugene doesn't say anything.

"God, Gene," Snafu sighs, grinding his forehead into the bone of Eugene's shoulder. Saying Eugene's name feels different now. He's no longer choking down all that fucking batshit yearning. He can say it like he wants to. With everything he wants behind it. Like how he wants to slide his hand up to Eugene's cheek and turn Gene's stubborn head so he can kiss his blushing face. And keep kissing him till Eugene's as desperate and clingy and horny as Snafu feels. "Eugene…" Snafu whispers. It's almost begging really. Begging this dumbass to please please stop fucking with him.

Eugene turns his head and draws Snafu in a little closer so he can press his face into the top of Snafu's curls. "Why is your shirt unbuttoned?" Eugene mumbles.

"The fuck does it matter that my shirt is unbuttoned?" Snafu asks.

"I was just asking…"

"It's fucking hot…" Snafu claims.

"No, it's not," Eugene counters.

"It's boiling. I'm sweating like a stuck pig in all these layers," Snafu says.

"It's March," Eugene argues, "We're still in the dead of winter."

"No we ain't," Snafu whines, "Don't you see that bright sun up there?"

"You just shivered, Snaf," Eugene says, "I felt it…"

"Maybe you're feeling something else," Snafu smiles and raises his head enough to nose along Eugene's long neck. He kisses him there, relishing in the way his lips stick lightly to Eugene's flushed skin. Snafu leaves his open mouth pressed against Eugene's neck and just continues to try and breathe.

Eugene appears entirely unaffected. Despite the fact that he was the one who fucking started this.

Snafu gives up. He drops his hand off Eugene's shoulder, lets it fall to Eugene's waist, where he slides his fingers along Eugene's tightly cinched belt before letting go altogether. Snafu disconnects from Eugene and takes a single step towards the door.

Eugene stops him. Eugene's hands find their way to Snafu's hips and he shoves Snafu against the platform rail. The cold bar digs into the small of Snafu's back. Snafu squirms against Eugene's body as Eugene presses in close. He almost bends Snafu backwards over the rail in his efforts to touch as much of Snafu as possible.

"Eugene…!" Snafu says with an embarrassing amount of longing.

Eugene kisses him silent.

Snafu's arms go around Gene's neck, and he holds onto him for dear life. Gene's hands stay strong against Snafu's back. Till Eugene slides them down, digging into every inch of Snafu's spine.

That makes Snafu shiver as much as the cold does. He loves him. Snafu loves this asshole whose hands and thoughts are all over him, inside and out…and maybe, just maybe, Eugene likes him back.

Eugene drops his hands from the small of Snafu's back to Snafu's ass and smoothly brings their hips together. As if Eugene had all this planned. Like he's taking it one step at a time, going down a list he had all mapped out.

Snafu briefly breaks the kiss to take a breath and tells Gene in a shocked whisper, "Thought you were a virgin?" Cause Eugene seems like he knows what he's doing.

Eugene steps back.

Snafu immediately regrets opening his big mouth.

"I am," Eugene scowls. He leans in and kisses Snafu one last, glorious time. "Funny...I thought you were better at this...with all your big talk about getting people," he says in Snafu's ear. And then opens the caboose door, walks through without looking back, and slams it shut.

"Fuck," Snafu swears and drops to the deck because his legs can't hold him up anymore. He's not sure what kind of game they're playing, but he's pretty sure Gene just won.

SLEDGEFU MATERLIST

(Thank you @edteche2 for editing!)

#Sledgefu #Bad germs

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moonstruckbucky · 4 years ago

Text

The Wilds [5/?]

Summary: After a bitter divorce, you seek solace in the wilds of Alaska. Unbeknownst to you, it’ll change you in ways you could have never imagined.

Warnings: More sadness, some anxiety.

Notes: Uh, hi? Please don’t kill me for the absolute nosedive I took with this story. I had some personal issues in my life (false alarms, thank god) that hit a little too close to both the content of this story and some personal experiences, so I had to take a step back. Please enjoy this next chapter where we’ll learn a bit more about Bucky! x

Series Masterlist / Main Masterlist

The lake doesn’t feel so peaceful despite the quietness along the water, which matches your mood. Turbulent, unsettled, marred by rolling whitecaps as a result of the slightly rough breeze. It’s cool today, and as you sit by the water, you try and let the wind carry your uneasiness away. You’ve been doing good, so good, and as if he could hear it, Shawn had to make his reappearance. You’d known he would - he couldn’t let you sit for too long. Had to reassert himself, had to reassert his control.

Control you’re fighting like hell to regain and keep.

He’d called to taunt you, to remind you that he was moving on, happy. Flaunted it in your face by talking about their upcoming wedding. The wedding you did have, only bigger, better, with even more flowers and the best money could buy.

You felt pathetic, irritated that you’d had no confident words to spew at him for his games, and you’re embarrassed by the fact that you’d cried after hanging up the phone. Halfway through another sentence comparing you to Lizzie, and you’d had enough, pulling the phone away and slamming the End Call button as hard as you could. It wasn’t very satisfactory - the effect lost on the development of touchscreen phones.

As you sit by the lake, wind rustling the trees and your hair, blowing it around your face, you allow yourself some small victory - you hung up on him, stopped his attempts to bait you in their tracks, regained some control. It’s a small step, but a step forward all the same, and that little bit of optimism, sun through the clouds, brings a small smile to your dampened face.

Your therapist will be proud when you tell her, admit how much relief you feel just from the minute act of hanging up the phone. Eventually, you’re sure, you’ll stop picking up if or when he calls again to torment you. You can take back control.

Fall’s approaching. There’s a sharpness to the air now that signals the approaching end of summer, and some of the maple trees have begun to turn bronze. Alaska is pretty like this - one season fading into another and for a minute, you don’t ever want to leave. But then you remember that you should find a job, stop living off of Shawn’s money despite the alimony you’re sure to receive. Maybe you’ll settle some place like Alaska, open and free, without the constraints of a city. Somewhere there’s fresh air, but still society close enough should you need human interaction.

For now, you let yourself absorb what the wilderness has to offer.

Until your quiet reverie is interrupted by frantic barking some time later. You know only one person with a dog within living distance of you, and despite your instincts to brush it off, you’re overcome with the need to investigate.

Natalia finds you first, dark fur standing out against the green of the forest foliage. She winds herself around your feet, nips gently at your pant legs, grabs hold of your sleeve and tugs.

“What is it, girl?” you ask, and she barks again as she lets you go, tears off into the trees.

Without question you follow her, dodging in and out. She doubles back a few times, makes sure you’re still behind her. She leads you past the path back to your cabin, past the waterfall where you first met Bucky.

Bucky.

Oh god, what if something bad has happened? Unbidden, your heart clenches tight in your chest, cuts off your air as you run to keep pace with Natalia. You’re not even sure why - you hardly know Bucky but you’re worried regardless.

You nearly eat dirt and leaves as your foot catches on a raised root, but you quickly find your balance and push on. Breath coming harshly, you stomp down the painful stitch in your side.

Natalia dashes up the steps to a cabin similar to yours, though smaller. Quainter. The front door is open, leading you to believe she’d forced it open in an effort to find help. Or Bucky just left his front door open for the hell of it. Either way, you don’t think twice about running inside.

The lights are off, and despite the sunlight, you can hardly see a thing. Natalia’s nails click on the floor as she runs down the hall, barks three times from another room, and you do your best to follow it, feel your way across the cabin’s small space, stub your toe on a corner of a wall. Grimacing, you skim your hand along the wall until it meets the wood of a door frame.

“Bucky?” you call into the room, where you can hear Natalia panting and whining lowly. You squint in the dull lighting, barely making out a shape hunched on the floor beside the bed.

“‘M here,” he answers, voice low and monotone - empty. It twists your heart painfully, face tugging into a look of concern, and you approach slowly.

“Are you okay? Natalia found me…” you offer by way of explanation. In the dark, you see Bucky duck his head, hear his heavy sigh.

“I’m...I’m okay. You don’t have to worry.”

Lips pursing at that, you lower slowly to your knees in front of him. His eyes glitter in the dark where they’re focused on his knees, bent and hugged to his chest. Carefully you lay a hand on his arm, and you feel his body go rigid. Beneath your palm, his forearm is hard and unyielding. He shifts it out from under you, tucking it close to his body, shielding it, lets your hand drop to his knee.

“Bucky, what happened? Why are you in the dark?” Your voice feels loud in the still silence, against the quiet breaths of the man in front of you. Breaths when you really listen to them, quicken, shorten. Your fingers curl into his knee. “Hey, Bucky, you’re okay. Deep breaths okay?”

His breathing slows again, and you can feel him relax a little. Piece by piece, inch by inch, he unfurls his body until he’s a little more open, a little more spread out. You sit back on your heels, give him a little more room.

“S-Sorry,” he whispers, and in the dimness you see him drag a hand down his face.

“It’s okay.” He moves as you speak, rises to his feet to flick on the bedside lamp. Soft orange throws deep blue shadows across his walls, and you forego examining his room to scrutinize him instead.

He looks...rough. Deep circles under his eyes, a haunted look within them that you don’t think you’ve ever seen before. His hands are buried in his sweatshirt pocket, shoulders hunched in a way that suggests he’s trying to hide. You stand as well, rethink reaching out for him. You don’t know him that well, despite the way his obvious struggle tugs at your heart.

“Can I make you some tea? Or fix you a drink?”

Bucky looks like he’s ready to decline, mouth opening to do so as the wall goes up behind his eyes, but he closes it. Nods, just once. Follows you out into the living room, flicking on the lights as he goes. The inside of his home is no surprise to you - mostly empty, save for a couple personal trinkets here and there. Otherwise, no decor on the walls, a tattered rug in front of the fireplace, no other signs that this is his home.

It saddens you for reasons you’re unsure of, but you let it go for now and busy yourself with filling the kettle. Bucky takes down two mugs and then reaches above the fridge, takes down a bottle of amber liquor that’s about a quarter full. He upends it into his mug, takes a long sip of it and avoids your curious gaze.

When the kettle whistles, you fill both mugs, regardless of the alcohol still in Bucky’s. He drops a tea bag into it and lets it steep, gestures to the living room where a ratty couch sits. You sit at the far end, opt to give Bucky some space to clear his head, but to your surprise he sits close to you, close enough that his thigh brushes yours.

“‘M sorry you had to see that. That Natalia bothered you,” he says gruffly after some time. The dog looks up at the sound of her name, tilting her head curiously.

You shake yours, fingers warm from your mug of tea. “She didn’t. I’m actually...glad she found me. She seemed really riled up.”

His smile is tight, uncomfortable, and he shifts on the couch. “She’s really in tune to my….to me.”

It isn’t the whole truth, but you don’t push. Sip from your tea and busy yourself by looking around the room. Now that you’re not overcome with worry for Bucky, you can look a little more closely. The fireplace is covered in soot, a half-burnt log inside it. The paint is chipping in places on the wall above the mantel.

In the center of it is a single photograph. You can’t make out the faces too clearly, but there are four of them in the photo - three men, one woman. You avert your eyes lest you stare too long, but Bucky’s noticed. His shoulders are stiff and there’s a pinch to his lips as he stares hard at the photograph. Awkwardly you sit and drink your tea until the mug is empty.

You ask before you can think about it: “Why were you sitting in the dark?”

Bucky’s breathing hitches, and you grimace, an apology on your tongue. But before you can utter it, he simply says, “I get panic attacks. I had a bad one and...and that’s why Natalia found you.”

Again, he keeps it short, speaking quickly - there’s more he isn’t telling you, but you daren’t push. He’s still skittish, erratic, eyes bouncing around the apartment only to settle on that photograph again for a moment. It clearly holds significance for him, if the way his eyes strain just slightly when he focuses on it, the shadow that seems to pass over his face.

It spreads throughout the room, darkening it despite the lights he’d turned on earlier. Obviously his mood is souring again, and you feel awkward, your skin itching with the urge to get away - back to your cabin where you can fret and overthink in peace. The phone call with Shawn left you on edge, a raw nerve ripe for irritation, and Bucky’s stony, less-than-pleasant demeanor is rapidly putting you off.

He must sense your rising panic, because he looks over at you, the tension in his face softening just a bit to something more somber, something sadder.

“I’m sorry I’m making you uncomfortable,” he utters, taking you mildly by surprise. He rubs at his forehead and drops his eyes - a truly pitiful look rife with self-loathing. It breaks your heart.

“N-No,” you argue, and he gives you a skeptical look. “I understand. I understand really well actually. Um, my, um...my ex...he called me, after you left yesterday. It, uh, it threw me for a bit of a loop. My head’s a little all over the place.”

It’s the most you’ve ever given him about your history, about your struggle, and you can see his face softening, an invitation for you to open up more. But your tongue feels heavy enough after giving even as little information as you have, and you stay quiet, pick at a seam in your jeans idly.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, but this time he isn’t talking about his panic attack or pulling you from whatever you’d been doing. He’s apologizing that your ex still seems to have a hold over you.

If only he knew.

He could, a small, quiet voice chirps in the back of your head. Its presence stills you as Bucky’s gaze burns the side of your face while he watches you. He could if you let him in.

God, how you want to. Despite the terror you feel at getting close to another person, you feel that tug in your heart - the one you felt for Shawn when you first met him. The desire to experience that intimacy with another person, it both thrills you and frightens you. Frightens you so badly you still feel that urge to run.

“I’m okay, if you’d like to leave,” Bucky says, and he says it with a gentle smile. His eyes, though, are tinged with sadness at the thought of you leaving - and you don’t know what to do. He knows you’re uncomfortable and he’s giving you an out.

Do you really want to take it?

Sensing your struggle, Bucky stands up, extends a hand. “How about a walk? Fresh air might do us both some good.”

You eye his hand warily, flickering between it and his face - open, completely readable. He wants you to say yes, but he won’t make you.

That flutter in your heart again at his patience, it’s all the resolve you need.

You take his hand.

#bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky x reader #the wilds #lumberjack!bucky #bucky au #lumberjack au #bucky barnes angst

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pagingevilspawn · 4 years ago

Note

Thanks for getting back to me so quickly! I’m the one that asked about the fic recs ☺️ could you please do a fic where jolex have a cute tickle fight with all the fluff in the world?? Thank you 🙏🏼

oh, darlin’, don’t you ever grow up

this took so long to fulfill like holy crap. I’m so sorry about that. I had to improvise a bit, because jolex is so not the tickling kind of couple and much more of a ‘slap dat booty’ kinda pair you know? But hey, i don’t think that anyone is complaining about jolex babies, right?

again, thank you all SO MUCH for 100 followers! i still can’t believe how crazy that is! this is super fluffy so yeah, i hope you enjoy it! also, tickle scenes are so much harder to write than i expected...

Alex Karev peeled his bloody surgical gloves off with a relaxed sigh, taking off his gown and tossing it into the bin while simultaneously telling a resident to finish closing up for him. When he gets back to the scrub room he leans against the sink, hands taking hold of the sturdy metal, closing his eyes for a minute because it feels like he can finally breathe.

His surgery had gone on for seven hours. The kid on the table crashed twice and had lost so much blood at one point he didn’t think the boy was going to make it. Luckily, thanks to skilled hands, surprisingly helpful residents, and Meredith Grey, nine year old Mike Harper was going to be okay. He removes his scrub cap from his head, tucking it into his pants and running a hand through his hair before turning on the faucet and putting his hands under the water, scrubbing off with the bar.

He shakes his hands dry, little water droplets flying here and there before exiting the room, traveling down the brightly lit halls of the surgical floors until he reaches the elevator. He clicks the button for the ground floor, where the parents are waiting. From there it was routine procedure. He tells the couple that their kid is gonna be alright, they cry tears of joy, they thank him, they ask when they can see their son, he informs them that they’re closing up right now, so he should be relocated to the PICU soon, and they thank him again before sitting back down.

Alex makes his evening rounds on patients, goofing and joking with them until he’s done and can finally head home. He’d been on call for the past sixteen hours, and all he really wants to do is go home and see his girls.

Unfortunately, he learned from the nurses that Jo was pulled into an emergency surgery a few hours earlier, and had yet to finish, so he didn’t know how long it would be until she was done. He changes out of his scrubs and into his regular clothes, bidding a short goodbye to Meredith, who laid sprawled out on the attendings lounge couch, grumbling that she was trying to sleep and he was making too much noise to allow her to do so.

Adjusting his old, ratty jacket on his shoulders, he slips his phone, wallet, and keys into his pocket, making his way up to the daycare where the littlest Karev was waiting. The worker, Patricia gives him a warm smile, sliding the sign out sheet across the counter.

“Hey Doctor Karev! Picking up I'm assuming?” she gestures towards his attire, making him nod in response.

“Yeah. I know Jo usually finishes first on Fridays, but she got called in at the last minute.” he says, which earns him an understanding chuckle.

“Well, I’ll be right out. She was just taking a brief nap, but don’t worry, she’s only been down for about fifteen minutes or so.” she reassures him.

He nods, shoving his hands in his jeans, pulling out his phone and checking the time. 7:23 pm. It was getting closer to his daughter’s bedtime, so it would make sense that she would start to be getting tired. Alex smiles at his lockscreen, a picture of him, Jo, and their little girl at her two year old birthday party a few months ago. Jo had gone all out, decorating their yard with extravagant streamers, decorative backdrops, and a huge bouncy house. In the picture that stared back at him, Jo and their freshly two year old toddler were both wearing pink, Jo’s in the form of a sheer blouse, and their daughter’s in a frilly dress that Jo spent way more money than she should’ve on. Alex matched, wearing a pink tie and white button down. He had refused immensely at first, but after much pleading from the tiny girl, he gave in. Because what kind of father could say no to puppy dog eyes?

“Daddy!” he sees the little bundle of blue run towards him, causing him to sweep down and pull her into his arms, bunching the thick fabric she was wearing.

“KK!” he exclaims, matching her enthusiasm, taking the backpack from Patricia, giving a silent nod to her as a way to say both ‘thank you’ and ‘goodnight’.

His daughter bounced in his arms as they made their way through the door, asking to be let down a few seconds later. Donned in a Cinderella dress up gown and purple converse, Katrina Karev started to race down the hallway in all her glory, the mini ponytail that Jo had done that morning swinging from side to side as she prompted Alex to come catch her. He lets out a small laugh, jogging to catch up to her before she can potentially get in the way of nurses coming in and out of rooms, scooping her up again, making her let out a loud squeal and turn into a fit of giggles.

“C’mon Kitty-Kat, we gotta go home.” he places her on the ground, holding her tiny hand in his. “No running. What have Mommy and I told you?”

Katrina sighs, puffing out her lips dramatically. “No running in hossal.” she grumbles. She had trouble pronouncing words that had a sharp sound to them, like ‘p’, ‘t’, and ‘j’, but both Alex and Jo found it quite adorable.

“That’s right. Because Mommy and Daddy’s friends are working really hard to help everyone, and we don’t want to get in their way, right Kat?” he reminds her of the rules, because as much as both he and Jo wished that they could say that their child was perfectly well behaved, she wasn’t. It was simply what having a kid was like. He’d never met a child who listened to every word their parent’s said, followed every rule, and never talked back. And despite what so many different television programs liked to show, it was completely normal for kids to be that way, no matter how crazy it drove the adults.

Kat murmurs in response, taking on her Dad’s grumpy persona. She wanted to run! She’d been inside of daycare with Scout all day, playing with blocks and crayons, which meant that she was stuck sitting. She wasn’t allowed to play tag in the circle room, no matter how much she asked Miss Lynn.

The duo makes their way to Alex’s car, unlocking it before lifting her up and strapping Katrina into her carseat, brushing back a couple strands of hair that had fallen in her face. He slides his way into his drivers side, revving up the car when Kat speaks from the back.

“Music Daddy, music!” she cheers, a crooked grin across her face as she bounces around in her seat.

Alex lets out a breath. As much as he loved his daughter, listening to the same exact Disney princess songs over and over were less than enjoyable. So far this week, he’d heard Let It Go twelve times, You're Welcome ten, and Be Our Guest seven, and those were just the most popular ones. He begrudgingly picks up his phone and puts on Into the Unknown, thankful that this was only his second time hearing it in the last couple of days. He swore that if Kat asked him to listen to Dyawne Johnson singing that damn song one more he was going to hurl himself out of the car.

Little hums come from the backseat during certain parts of the song, and when the chorus plays through the car he mentally prepares himself for the yells that were to come. Poor Kat couldn’t sing, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. What kind of monster tells his two year old daughter that she sounded like a dying cat? Katrina Karev was good at a lot of things, (math, spelling, and playing dress-up just to name a few) singing just wasn’t one of them.

With a more than relieved sigh he pulls into the driveway, turning off the car, and therefore the music. Whatever tiredness the toddler was feeling before had gone down the drain, so he knew it would be a while before he would be able to get her to bed. Kat unbuckles herself, getting out of the car and playing hopscotch with the homemade chalk version she and Jo made on the walkway up to the house’s door. She hops from one foot to the other, and Alex had never been more grateful for the fact that she had a good sense of balance. The last thing he wanted was Jo to come home to a bloody kneed Kat and have to explain to her that she fell while doing hopscotch. Honestly, he didn’t even think kids played that game anymore, but when Jo pulled out the sidewalk chalk a few days prior and started drawing, Kat was immediately hooked, and used every opportunity she could to hop across the little squares. Jo laughed when she saw how entranced the girl was, telling Alex that she had been the same way when she was a bit older, and the only thing that got her through some of the tougher houses was when she would go down the road and create a hopscotch game of her own. It became such a comfort in fact, that the tradition continued until she was a teenager. She told him that it would only seem right to share that little bit of joy from her childhood with her daughter.

They make their way up the steps and Alex unlocks the door, flipping on the light switch as soon as it swings open. Chilly air greets them, since the house hadn’t been in use since earlier that day, and the temperature had been in the low fifties the past week in Seattle. He lets Kat toddle up the stairs, walking over to the thermostat that sat the hallway and cranking it up, knowing that if there was one thing his wife liked coming home to more than her family, it was her family in a warm and toasty house.

“KK, you hungry?” he calls from the kitchen, being able to faintly hear footsteps padding around upstairs. He winces when he hears something thud to the ground, but assumes it was either Kat or her backpack.

“Yeah!” the girl cheers from upstairs, causing Alex to chuckle and pull out some box mac and cheese from the cupboard. Kat had been a particularly picky eater lately, much to her parent’s annoyance, and had acquired a taste for a very limited amount of foods. Thankfully, she still liked mac and cheese, which was one of the few things both he and Jo could cook. Alex had gotten significantly better at cooking over the past year or so, but Jo was just as helpless as she was when she was in high school. Either way, both of them preferred takeout, but that wasn’t always an option when they had a two year old they had to take care of.

“I’m making mac and cheese, change out of your clothes, put your jammies on, clean up your room, and it should be done by the time you are.” he calls up the steps, taking Kat heard him when a groan is what he received in response. Kat was all Jo in the fact that she was incredibly sassy, and not to mention stubborn. She was fine with changing into her pajamas, but she hated cleaning up her room. The way she saw it, it was like one big painting, with all of her toys and books scattered around, but to her parents, it looked like a tornado had come and hit her bedroom. No matter how many times the two of them put everything away, a couple days later Kat’s room only seemed to have gotten messier. Maybe they could blame it on the terrible twos, except rather than having her act out behavior wise, it was a complete destruction to her room.

He pours the water into the pot, waiting for it to boil before adding the noodles. He pulls out his phone, skimming through emails and texts while the noodles cook, noticing a text from Jo that says that she just got off and was now heading home.

Once the noodles were done, he pours in the cheese packet, followed by the milk and butter. He felt his mouth water, hunger from the day finally catching up to him. He was grateful that the box was large and Kat was so young, so that meant he could steal some of her dinner, and thankfully still have enough left over for Jo if she wanted some too. The last thing he had to eat was a small snack before his surgery hours ago. When the food finally came together, he turns off the stove, picking out a pink plastic bowl from the cabinet for Kat and a regular glass one for him. It was kind of funny how much their cupboards changed once they had their daughter. Half of what they owned was plastic and princess themed, cheap little things bought from places like the ninety-nine cent store. They quickly realized that the printed patterned bowls and cups from dollar stores worked just as well as the ten dollar four pack they purchased. Plastic spoons littered the drawers rather than just metal, little stars and hearts on the end of them different than tiny, intricate designs that they had gotten used to, since after their honeymoon they realized that one of the gifts they were registered for was real, fancy silverware. He liked those plastic spoons much more though. After all, the smile Kat got on her face when she asked for a princess spoon or fork never failed to melt his heart.

Just as he placed Kat’s bowl on the island counter, the little girl comes bumbling down the stairs, dressed in her favorite Cinderella nightgown and stuffed monkey clutched in her hand. She practically runs to her stool, making grabby hands so Alex knew she needed to be picked up. He does so, placing her in the seat before she digs into her food, smiling as if it was the best mac and cheese she’s ever tasted. She shovels the food into her mouth, getting it all over her face, finishing it even quicker than Alex, all while talking about her day in daycare in only a way a parent would be able to understand.

He laughs to himself, wetting a paper towel and wiping off her face, which proves to be a struggle because Kat couldn’t stop giggling. “Go put on some TV, I’ll clean up in here and we’ll watch something ‘till Mama gets home.” he ruffles her hair, messing up her ponytail, and Kat wastes no time before scurrying off the chair and dashing into the living room, climbing up on the couch and turning on the television, an old episode rerun of Max and Ruby playing.

Alex finishes up in the kitchen, washing the bowls before putting them in the dishwater and starting it, since it was now a full load. He walks up the stairs to his and Jo’s room, throwing on a pair of pajama pants and a shirt before settling down on the couch, pulling his daughter close to him. Kat immediately snuggles into his side, taking a tiny fist and bawling it into his shirt, something she’d been doing since she was a baby. (Katrina would always be a baby in his eyes, it didn't matter how old she got.)

Around halfway through the episode, he feels the little hand unclench his shirt, fingers start to violently attack his neck in strokes. He lets out a laugh, looking towards Kat, “What are you doing silly girl?” he grins.

“Tickling you Daddy!” she cheers, continuing to try to get a laugh off of him.

He opens his mouth dramatically, eyes widening as he takes in her delighted giggles. “Oh, Kitty-Kat, you don’t know what you’ve just done,” he sighs. Kat stops, looking up at her dad, confused.

“You’ve unleashed,” he meets her eyes, breaking out into a wide smile, “the tickle monster!” he pulls her towards his tickling her feet, sides, and neck all at once, the little girl's loud laughs filling the air.

“No tickle monster daddy!” she squeals, squirming around, trying to stop the attack on her sides, laughs echoing off the empty house.

At that moment, Alex makes eye contact with a grinning Jo, who was just stepping through the front door. At the sound of her daughter’s laughs she felt wide awake, and she knew that by Alex’s mischievous look she could join in on the fun. She silently heads toward the couch, plopping down and starting her own fingers assault on the little one’s sides.

“Mommy help!” Kat squirms once she sees her mom, looking directly at her with eyes that were a mirror image of her own.

Jo pulls the girl into her arms, planting a big kiss on her head, leaving behind remnants of her cherry chapstick. “Mommy’ll save you KK,” she grins, only to bite her lip and pull away.

“But Mommy is a tickle monster too!” she flips Kat around with ease, bringing her little feet up to her face and blowing raspberries on them like she did when she was still a baby.

“No no Mommy no!” the girl giggles, thrashing around in a failed attempt to wiggle out of her grasp. Just to her luck, her dad decides to join in again, giggles turning into loud laughs that came from her little belly, a grin so wide neither one of them had ever seen it before.

“I’m gonna eat you!” Jo presses little kisses all up the girls, legs acting as if they were bites, making her laugh even more in the process. Jo gnaws at the skin, making pops with her lips and clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Mmm,” she hums face scrunching up playfully, “delicious” she grins, the sound of her daughter giggles filling her ears until it was all she could hear.

Alex and Jo share a look. This was one of those moments, the ones where all they wanted to do was just pause time and stay in this one freeze-frame for the rest of their lives. It was moments like these they wanted Kat to stay this way forever, this perfect age and unconditional love she had for everything.

But for now, these pure, unfiltered moments of happiness were all they would need.

46 notes · View notes

shreddedparchment · 5 years ago

Text

Pseudo Princess Pt.01

Among the Muck

09/27/2019

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader Word Count: 4,835

Warnings: Language, future smut, future dub-con (because of the time period this is set in), future angst, future violence

A/N: I’ve been watching a lot of the Tudors and inspiration struck. I’ve been wanting to make a Medieval AU but this will be different to those I’ve read. These characters will still be them. Tony is still Iron Man (you’ll see how I do that), Bruce will still be Hulk, Steve and Bucky will still be super soldiers. So this falls under more Medieval Fantasy than just pure Medieval. As such, this will not be historically accurate but hopefully within the historically accurate bubble in all other aspects. This will not be a fluffy story. There will be some fluff (I love soft moments and I do them often) but there will also be some major angst. Anyway, I hope you like this first chapter. xoxo

If you would like to be tagged. Please, send me an ASK. I will not add you if you send me a private message or if you do so in the comments.

Coarse dirt is caked underneath your fingernails. Your feet squish against the wet gloop of mud. With a gasp you falter, losing your balance, and throw out your hands to catch yourself.

They sink in all the way to the elbow, stretching the muscles on the back of your thighs until they burn.

Labor is something you are familiar with, but this. This searching is exhausting.

“Are you alright, dear?” An old woman croaks, voice quaking with age.

Glancing back at her with her withered white skin, caked in grime and dried sweat, you smile.

It’s meant to be reassuring but you feel as if it’s really a grimace.

“Yes.” You answer simply, as she worries, watching you struggle.

She’d been walking along the side of the uneven dirt road when a group of teens—from the village because you’ve seen them before—rushed by on stolen horses. They avoided the lady easily but the guard chasing behind them did not.

They barreled towards the old woman and she’d had to jump out of the way to avoid being trampled.

She’d landed in this mud puddle, losing her purse in the process.

Watching it all happen, you’d dropped your pails and raced over to help her.

Grateful, she’d accepted your offer of assistance and you’d sat her on an overturned tree stump to wait while you looked for her bag.

Well, since your hands are already in, you might as well take advantage of it. You reach around freely, searching. Making small groaning noises in the back of your throat from the effort it takes to wade through the viscous muck.

“Thank you for helping me, young lady.” The old woman sighs. Probably tired.

“My name is Y/N, grandmother. Feel free to call me as such.” You tell her, peeking once again with a reassuring smile.

“Not many young people would help a fallen old woman.” She continues, as if you hadn’t interrupted.

“Then I guess there ain’t many decent young people then, is there?” You ask rhetorically.

“No.” She answers sadly. “There ain’t even much in my purse. Maybe you shouldn’t bother?”

“Nonsense, grandmother. I will find your purse and return it to you, and I beg you to keep off the roads in future. We don’t need you breaking your neck on account of the guard.” Just then your fingers make purchase, a small string of rope passes between your fingers and you grab it. “Gott’it!”

It takes a mighty tug to free the small ratty bag from the muck. You nearly lose your balance again and fall back onto your behind, but you manage to catch yourself and once you’re steady you turn and traipse back towards the old woman. By the time you reach her, you’re sweating.

“The string is still tight.” You tell her. “Your money is safe.”

You hand her the bag and she takes it, opens it—quickly wiping off as much of the mud as she can then smears it onto the grass beside her to clean her hand—then reaches in for a large silver coin.

“Here. You deserve it.” She says.

With a furrowed brow, you pull yourself out of the mud fully. You wipe your hands on your long tattered brown apron, but you know you’ll need a bath to get all he mud off. “No. I’m alright, grandmother. I don’t need payment. I’m happy to help.”

“Take it, young woman.” She shakes her fist at you, silver coin dangling between her thumb and forefinger.

You shake your head, dropping your apron before you move to her and squat down beside her. With the skirt of your woolen dress still pulled up and tucked to create a pair of makeshift pants, you take the silver coin and her dirty purse and shove the coin back into the bag.

“I said, I don’t need it. You keeping well is all the payment I require.” You draw the string closed and then reach out to shove it into the pocket of her own dark gray skirt. “Your skirt is torn here, and your bodice needs mending too. As does that shamble of a hat you’re wearing. Why don’t you get yourself a decent set of dresses with this money before winter comes instead of handing it out?”

“At my age, what does it matter what I wear when I freeze? I’m going to die sooner rather than later. New clothes would only be a waste of money.” She sasses you.

“Even so.” You put your elbows on your knees and smile at her. “It would make me much happier to know that you’ve spent the money taking care of yourself. I can’t always be here to help you when the world takes a bitter turn.”

The woman cackles. “Oh, sweet girl, you’re much too late.”

A sudden rumble pulls your gaze up towards the road. Through the tall rows of trees that make up the outlying forest, you see a distant coach and six horses riding hard and fast.

“What’s that?” The old woman asks, “Help me up.”

You get up, untying your dress so that it falls around you again to shield your legs, then help the old woman up. Keeping your hands on her elbows until she’s steady, you observe the smaller details of the approaching carriage.

“It’s a royal carriage. There’s gold and silver fixtures upon the horses' harness.” You observe.

“You can see that from here?” The old woman gasps. “I really must be old. I can’t see shite.”

She squints in the same direction that you’re staring and as the carriage gets closer, the sounds of hooves, a whip, and the call of the coachman becomes louder.

He’s dressed in a fine black tunic, a singular bright baby blue circle at the center of his chest that slowly grows out in smaller circles darkening in color until it reaches the edge of the circle. The pattern makes it look like it’s glowing. From the circle crop out several silver lines of thread that line the seams and edges of the rest of his uniform, tunic and all.

On his head he wears a hat. Simple. Nothing too exciting. No feathers at least.

“It’s the King’s carriage.” You whisper at the old woman and as the carriage grows closer, you and she drop your heads and curtsy as it passes.

“We can’t give up.” A male voice says from inside the carriage. It floats out and reaches your ears and while you try not to listen, you can’t help it. “We’ll find a girl that’s suitable if we have to search every village in my Kingdom until-wait…did you see that?”

“See what?” Another male voice says.

This one you recognize. Colonel James Rhodes. He comes into the village every few months to look over the new recruits for the king’s army.

Polite. Nice. No time for funny business though. Stern.

“That girl. Stop the carriage.” The other male voice—the king you suddenly realize—calls.

“WHOA!” The coachman says. “Whoa…”

The carriage rustles to a stop, gravel and dirt grinding against the thick reinforced wheels. The footman jumps off the back of the carriage and hurries forward pulling open the door. He saunters out with sharp movements that you observe for all of one second before you avert your gaze again, legs beginning to ache from your held curtsy.

You’ve never seen the king up close before and you did not expect him to be so young. Well, not young, but he wasn’t old. He might have been an older uncle or your father.

“This one.” He says, and you can almost feel him pointing.

You peek up at him, take in his leathered tunic, dark and supple. His sword resting at his hip, a deep blue cape with a black bear’s pelt around the collar to keep him warm as the last vestiges of summer slip into autumn. His hair is dark brown, only the slightest hint of gray along his temples.

His body is lean. His gloved finger pointed at you, just as you’d thought. His deep brown eyes watch you with curiosity, eagerness, and surprise. Happiness too. He’s excited.

His travelling crown is a golden three-inch band with very little jewels. Only about four or five red rubies are set within it and they dazzle you in the midday sun before you avert your gaze again.

“That one? Really?” The Colonel has joined the king.

“Yes. She’s the right age.” The king asserts. “Come here girly, stand before me. Here.”

He makes an X in the gravel of the road, but you can’t seem to find the strength to move. You’ve never been so nervous in your life.

Here you are, face to face with the fucking King of Malibia, and you’re covered in mud. Your hair is falling out of its braid. You’re sweating and haven’t bathed in almost a week. You look worse than you’ve ever looked in your life.

“Hey, girl, are you deaf? Did you not hear your king?” The Colonel asks, military voice hard and commanding. “His Majesty has given you and order.”

It takes you another half second to urge yourself out of your curtsy and move to the spot marked on the ground.

“Stand up straight.” The king orders.

You do.

“Head up.”

You lift your chin.

“Shoulders back. Don’t slouch.”

You push out your breasts.

“She’s perfect.” The king says.

“Your Majesty…” Colonel Rhodes begins. “…Tony, she’s a peasant. Look at her. She hasn’t bathed in almost a month.”

You glower at the Colonel, unable to help yourself. You’re not that dirty. Not a month’s worth. Jerk.

“We can easily fix that. She’s the one, Rhodey. Our search is over. Problem solved. What’s your name, girl?” The king suddenly asks, moving to stand closer to you, his hands behind his back.

You bow your head, not meeting his eyes. “M-My name is Y/N, your Majesty. At your service.”

“Do you have any family?” He asks, worried suddenly.

“No, your Majesty. I don’t have anyone.” You don’t mean to sound sad about it but not many people as you that question.

Everyone in the village knows your story so you have no reason to retell it.

This is the first time you’ve realized that you’re alone in the world. No one will miss you if you die.

“Perfect. Excellent. Magnificent. Get in the carriage.” He turns and leads the way back, disappearing into the mouth of the open door.

“P-Pardon me, your Majesty?” The shock in your voice is apparent and you find your limbs frozen and locked again.

“You heard his Majesty.” The colonel says with exasperation. “Get in the carriage.”

“B-But where are we going?”

“Will you just get in? We don’t have time for all your questions. His Majesty will explain everything on the way.” The colonel moves to you, grabs you by the elbow and drags you away from where you stand to the carriage door.

One foot up on the step in, you look to the old woman with large, terrified eyes and she’s staring at you with an utterly worried expression. She shifts from foot to foot, hand at her throat as she watches you get taken away.

Strange that she’s worried about you when she’s never shown such emotion before. Guess there are some good people in the world.

“Goodbye…” You mouth to her and she gives you a tiny wave before the colonel is pushing you into the carriage.

You find your seat on the far corner, opposite the king.

As the colonel sits down beside him then hits the roof of the carriage twice, the king can only smile.

No. It’s a smirk. A grin. A pleased one. He’s so damn happy that he’s kidnapped you.

You suddenly remember rumors about the king. Whispered secrets in taverns from drunken lips, spoken with shifting eyes and pounding hearts.

The king devoured young girls. He’d steal them away from their families and towns, trap them in his castle and have his way with them. He’d been with many. Hundreds, they say.

Is that what this is? Are you being taken to be the king’s fodder?

Too afraid to ask, you mash your lips shut and stare at your mud caked hands.

It’s dried and when you twiddle your thumbs, your skin pulls against the stiff coating of dried muck. It cracks and dusts, but you don’t dare look up, afraid you’ll get your answer in the king’s piercing gaze.

~~~~~~~~~~

You ride in silence for what feels like hours. Head down, thumbs twiddling away.

There’s a slow inhale of breath, the click of a tongue draws your eyes up.

“Do you always come silently when you’re abducted?” His Majesty asks, leaning his elbow against the small window’s ledge, fist resting against his chin.

“No, your Majesty.” You reply, somewhat meekly. “I mean…I ain’t-”

“Haven’t.” King Anthony says.

“Your Majesty?” You peer at him with confusion.

“Haven’t. It’s I haven’t. Not I ain’t. Better start speaking properly from the get-go or you’ll fall into bad habits.” He orders.

“Oh.” You lick your lips, feeling a slight bit of shame.

It’s not your fault that you’re not exactly eloquent. You’ve never been to school. Not once.

“I haven’t ever been kidnapped before, your Majesty.”

“I haven’t been kidnapped before.” He says, editing your reply. “Keep it simple. Have you been taught? Did you go to the school in the village?”

You shake your head. “Before they passed, my mother and father said that my place was at home where I could help mother take care of the house. My father was away a lot.”

“Mm.” The king nods. “And where are your parents now?”

“They’re dead, your Majesty. Sixteen years ago now.” You’d been a child when they died.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Did they die in the famine?” He checks, giving your body a quick up and down almost like he was checking to see if you had been marked by death too.

“No, your Majesty.” You shake your head.

“War?” He wonders. “Accident?”

“No. The plague took my mother first, my father followed shortly after. I’ve been alone ever since.” It’s funny, you rarely ever think about it like this. Like you’re alone and orphaned.

“The plague?” His Majesty asks, confused by their deaths and you know why. “But the plague didn’t take many lives. We were well prepared for it.”

“Yes.” You nod. “My mother was the first to die. Her death raised the alarm and my father’s death came shortly after. Too quick before his Majesty’s medicines made it into the village. It happened very quickly. They didn’t suffer long.”

A peachy gloveless hand reaches out and settles over your nervous twiddling thumbs, preventing them from fidgeting.

You look up, startled by the gesture, and meet his stunningly bright brown eyes.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” The king says. “And your parents are heroes. Without them, we wouldn’t have been able to prepare as quickly as we did and the losses to my kingdom would have been much greater. Thank you.”

You don’t know why you should be thanked for losing your parents, but you understand what he’s saying.

There’s kindness in his eyes and he means nothing by it. You didn’t know that the king could be so nice, and he speaks in an offhandish tone, but there’s feeling in his expression.

“Your Majesty.” You say, thanking him for his kindness. With a look back down at his hand over yours, and because it’s what people do, you pull his hand up to your dirty lips and kiss it in gratitude.

This is your king and he’s surprisingly nice.

The colonel suddenly clears his throat and you lower his Majesty’s hand back to your lap.

He gives you one more squeeze then takes his hand back, regloving it.

“We’ve still got a few hours before we reach the castle. If you want to sleep, you should sleep. Once we arrive it will be some time before you can rest.” His Majesty says.

It takes you a while but eventually you do doze off against the side of the carriage.

When you wake up, you find that the king is also not a liar. You’re awoken by a young man, the footman from before, shaken gently who then wraps your shoulders in a long black cloak. He pulls the hood over your head and then double-checks to make sure that you are properly hidden beneath it before he leads you through a side door of a tall dark gray stone wall.

You’ve never seen the castle before, and you attempt to take in as much of it as you can while you’re led in but all you see is the cobblestone walls of the lower floors. Servant’s quarters usually, and a large parapet wall, that stands at what must be twelve feet in height. Maybe taller.

It’s too dark to make out much more than the distant illuminated windows of the upper floors then you’re weaving your way through a confusing array of twists and turns.

“Where are we going?” You ask the footman and he sighs.

“His Majesty told me to show you to your quarters and say nothing else. I’m sorry, miss. His Majesty will explain everything later.” He gives you an apologetic look.

“Where is his Majesty?” You wonder, since he can’t tell you what’s going on, clearly, maybe he’s willing to tell you about the castle?

“He and the colonel have gone to take care of some business. Queen Virginia has been waiting all day for his return. I’m sure he’s greeting her too.” The young man says.

The way he smiles makes you think that he’s right. You’ve heard that King Anthony Stark loves his queen more than any King has ever loved his Queen in the history of the kingdom. Any kingdom.

She’d been his right hand, and best friend, long before she was queen. After courting many women, his Majesty had seen the light and pursued Miss Potts until she’d given in and agreed to marry him.

Shortly after, they’d had their daughter and the Kingdom had rejoiced. With an heir to the throne, prosperity in the kingdom doubled.

“Wait,” You reach out and grab the young man’s wrist and pull him to a stop. “Are we going the right way?”

He’s leading you upstairs. It’s a small narrow staircase that winds up and up and up. The servant’s staircase but one that no doubt leads up to the nicer bedrooms upstairs.

“I am only following orders, miss. Come along. I have other things to tend to after I drop you off.” He pulls his arm from your hold and leads once more.

You follow in silence, growing more and more nervous.

Were the rumors really true? Is the king going to have his way with you? Are you going to be taken in as his mistress?

No.

Your mind flashes back to the kind look in his eyes in the carriage and his gentility with the news of your parents. You can’t link the sweet and noble king in the carriage to the rumored philandering king that those rumors paint.

He loves the Queen. Why would he stray?

The hallway you are brought out on is a surprisingly light. Gleaming limestone above a floor made of alternating black and white marble. Gilded chandeliers with flickering candlelight illuminate the darkened hallway.

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” You ask in a whisper, afraid to wake up some nobility sleeping over.

“Yes, Miss. This way.”

He leads you down a second hallways, this one nicer and lined with stunning paintings of the various landscapes in the kingdom.

King Anthony must really love his homeland.

Finally, the footman stops before two large, steel reinforced oak doors. He pushes them open inside the small entryway is a chair and a decorative table, beside another set of doors that already stand open.

You move in, gawking at the light blue and white damask wallpaper. The golden vanity with a tall ornate golden mirror to match, both beside a tall four post bed with baby blue sheets, fluffy gray pillows, and a beautiful canopy made of heavy white draping. At the end of the bed is a pink chaise lounge, a soft fur blanket waiting to be draped over a shivering body.

Several candles have been lit to illuminate the large space which is big enough to fit your small home in it thrice. A floor to ceiling window has been drawn closed. There’s a desk with a letterbox for writing. Comfy chairs and a small table for card playing. Another two cushioned chairs by a big fireplace for reading.

Beside the chair is a smaller table with a plate of fruits and bread.

Your stomach growls and the pain of hunger hits you suddenly.

“This is where I leave you.” The footman says.

“Wait!” You gasp, turning to follow him into the entryway of your room. “Wait, are you sure this is where the King asked you to bring me?”

“I’m positive. Have some food. That’s why it was brought. Then wait for his Majesty to come find you.”

He gives you a quick head to toe.

“Maybe stay out of the bed until you have cleaned up? Mrs. Parson would not be happy with you if you ruined the sheets.” He gives you a smile then leaves you there, shutting the doors behind him.

At first you hover around the entrance, hesitating each time you’re tempted to go back into the large bedroom.

When you finally give in, instead of racing for the food immediately, you wander around the room looking at all of the fine furnishings and the items having been left for you.

Your favorite by far is the large wardrobe. Full of dresses and outerwear made of fine silks in every color.

When your stomach growls again, you give in and move to sit at the very edge of the chair by the small table in front of the blissfully warm fire. It crackles and dances as you munch on grapes and apples, then bite and tear into the bread. A small pitcher of wine has been set aside for you and you gulp down a small glass before pouring yourself another.

The food hits your stomach painfully. Too hungry for too long. Now that you’re filling it, your stomach stretches uncomfortably.

You put your hand on your stomach and groan, still chewing on an apple slice.

The sound of your doors opening startles you up. You set your food aside as his Majesty suddenly sneaks in and quickly shuts the second set of doors behind him.

Heart pounding, nervous, and suddenly worried that you are about to be ravished by force—well, sort of…if your king wants you, then you’ll surrender yourself to him. He’s your king!—you back up until your back hits the post of your bed.

“Were you eating?” He asks, smiling happily as he looks from your terrified form to the plate you’d just abandoned. It’s almost empty. Only a few grapes and an apple slice left.

He looks back at you and seems to realize that you’re scared. He holds his hands out to you and beckons you forward.

Because you must listen to your king, you move towards him, avoiding his gaze.

He reaches down and takes your hands, dirty as they are, then leads you to the chair you’d been sitting in again.

“Please, sit.” He urges you and once you’re seated, takes the other. “You must have lots of questions.”

You nod.

“Tell me.”

“Why am I here?” You look up at him, swallowing past the nerves loudly.

“Straight to the big one, huh?” He smiles. “Very well, we’re taking you in.”

“What?!” You ask in shock.

“Pepper—that is, Queen Virginia—and I are taking you in. We…where to start?” He wrings his hands, sits back and looks up at the ceiling. “Three months ago, the King of Broklin sent me a letter. He asked if it were reasonable, that I introduce him to my daughter. He wants to marry her as his own Queen died a year ago and he is called upon by the duty to his people to give them not only a new queen but an heir to the throne.

“Because Princess Morgana is heir to my throne, I wrote back to him and told him that I would need to discuss it with my own queen and after much deliberation, since the two kingdoms are neighboring, we decided that with their marriage and upon my death or his, we might combine our kingdoms for good.”

He smiles a little tightly, a frown you realize.

“What happened?” You wonder.

“Well, Morgana is very young but either way she has always been a woman of her own. She’s strong minded and strong willed and she wasn’t raised to expect to share her kingdom. Not only that but she has since declared that she will only marry a man whom she loves. She will not marry for political purposes and when I told the King this, he took offense.

“War hasn’t threatened our Kingdom in almost sixty years. Even if I have the means to defeat his kingdom, I would rather not have it come to that. So…against my wife’s wishes…I may have told Morgana that she will marry the King of Broklin whether she likes it or not.”

That seems…well, not reasonable but understandable considering the consequences if she shouldn’t.

“And what did the Princess say?” You ask him, leaning forward and completely invested in his retelling.

“She ran away.” He smiles at you, eyes sparkling. “She’s like her mother. A strong woman. And she gets her iron will from me.”

“She ran away?” You gasp, shocked by the Princess’s behavior.

“She did.” King Anthony nods. “And we can’t find her.”

Okay, so all of that makes sense but what exactly do you have to do with it all?

“Since I am not going to be able to marry my own daughter to the King of Broklin…I concocted a plan not to deceive him but so that we might both be happy. You will be my eldest daughter.”

“What?”

“I know it’s a crazy plan, but we’ve already begun to spread the news and I wrote to the King this morning that I have an elder daughter. One who I sent of when she was very young because she suffered from emotional problems.” He explains. “And was obviously a daughter born from an unfortunate tryst in my youth.”

“What?!” You rise to your feet, shocked beyond reason.

“A special school up north has reformed you and you are recently returned to us. And now that you are cured, we’ve welcomed you back into the castle with open arms. Since Morgana has been trained to rule our kingdom, you would make a lovely queen for his. Or…something like that. I can’t remember how I worded it exactly.”

“Emotional problems?” You demand again. “A tryst?”

King Anthony winces, but he smiles at you.

“It happens. Lots of royals have them. Both the emotional problems and the affairs. Anyway, that’s why you’re here. We need an older princess to send to the King of Broklin and you are the lucky winner.” He says, almost laughing, congratulatory as if you’ve really just won a prize. “You will be the queen of an entire kingdom. Lucky you!”

“Your Majesty-” You begin, shaking your head because you can’t be a queen! You don’t know how queens act or speak or move or think. You’re an orphan from a small village where you’ve taken to sewing to earn a few coins just to get by.

“Please?” King Anthony reaches over and takes hold of your dirty hand. “I…can’t bring myself to condemn my only daughter to a life in a loveless marriage. I married for love and I want her to be able to do the same. I’m sorry to ask this of you. It’s not fair to you either but without you, our kingdom might have to go to war.

“Lost lives can be prevented simply by your marrying the King of Broklin. Please, please do this for us. For the Kingdom. Please?” And his begging is genuine.

You. A nobody from nowhere has brought a king, your king, to his knees to beg.

“I-If I marry him, it will prevent a war?” You double check.

“Yes. You’ll be keeping the lives of the young men in our kingdom safe.” He urges.

You stare at him, wondering if you’ll really be able to pull this off. You’re going to have to work harder than you’ve ever worked before and that’s because you work with your hands when you can’t earn enough money with the sewing.

Calloused hands. Not the hands of a royal.

King Anthony massages those hands, staring at them as he waits with bated breath.

“Okay.” You relent. “I’ll do it. I’ll marry him.”

This time, King Anthony kisses your hands. Dried mud and all.

#steve x reader #steve x reader fic #steve x reader fanfic #steve x reader fanfiction #king!steve x reader #king!steve x reader fanfiction #king!steve x reader fanfic #king!steve x reader fic #king!steve x princess!reader #king!steve x you #king!steve x y/n #king!steve/reader #steve/reader #marvel au #marvel fanfiction #avengers x reader #medieval au #pseudo princess #pseudo princess pt01

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ubernoxa · 4 years ago

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The Token: A Guns N’ Roses Fanfiction

Chapter 10: A Little Black Book

Story Summary: Story inspired by the movie She’s the Man. A female Duff is tired of dealing with the bullshit of trying to make it on the strip as a female bassist. Did Michelle think it through as she chopped her hair? Nope. All she knew was that she wanted to make it on the strip. If she had to mascarade as a guy, so it shall be.

Chapter Summary: After Duff accidentally reviews that she is a girl she tried to not get kicks out of the band. The little black book part is inspired by @niksixx

MASTERLIST

Taglist: @viralwolf02 @littlemisscare-all @smokeandmirrorz @aratbaby @slashscowboyboots @achiweyow @queen-crue

I had never knew a room filled with music could be so silent. The notes that were once filling the small room had gone silent. No, the record Slash had chosen earlier hadn’t stopped play. Instead my brain had gotten rid of the sound. I focused on my breathing, frozen in place while my mind raced a thousand miles per a second.

“Slash...I..” I stood up and started to walk over towards him as I spoke. Maybe he would be okay with this? Maybe this wouldn’t destroy my position in the band.

Before I could continue, Slash shot up and walked past me heading towards the stairs, practically running me down in the process. As he bumped into me, I lost balance and fell back onto the couch.

Fuck. There was no way this wouldn’t have repercussions.

I felt like a mute as I tried to say something to

Slash. I didn’t know if it was my brain or my lips, but one of them was failing me.

“Aren’t you going to fuckin say something?” I screamed across the room. Slash froze when he was halfway up the stairs.

“Leave me the fuck alone.....just...what the fuck....Michelle.” He didn’t yell. I expected him to scream at me. He had every right to be mad or angry or furious. I would be the first to say that what I was doing was by no means normal. What I was doing was fucking insane.

I tried to keep my breathing even and hid my face in my hands. It was moments like this where I wished that I still had my long hair. It was a curtain for me to hide behind, but here I was still on a couch burying my head in my hands trying to figure out what the actual fuck I could do to save this situation.

I practically jumped out of my skin when I felt something cold touch my shoulder. I looked up to see Izzy silently offering me a glass of cold water. I began to sip the water, hoping that maybe it would sober me up.

“What the fuck do I do Izzy?” I hadn’t meant for it to sound desperate, but it had.

“Fuck if I know Shelly. Just go talk to him. He is probably really confused,” Izzy shrugged joining me of the ratty couch.

“Well he seemed pissed off”

“He has every right to be!”

“But Izzy, you weren’t mad. You didn’t seem to care,” I quickly shot back.

“Well first off, I was rather annoyed that you lied to me.”

“Really?” I turned towards him. I wanted to slap myself at my own stupidity. Of course he was mad at me. I LIED TO HIM.

“Well yeah,” he laughed back.

“Why were you so calm about it? You never yelled at me,” I sent him a confused look as I spoke.

“I don’t care if you are a chick or a guy. I know some do, but I don’t give a damn. Also, it was actually kinda fun to mess with you,” he admitted before finishing off his beer.

“Does Slash care?”

“No, I don’t see why he would honestly.”

“Then why is he mad? Why did he storm off?” I shot back.

“Shelly, you ripped off your shirt and said I am a girl!’ Not very subtle of you. Finding out your bandmate is a chick is a lot to proceeds...trust me,” I rolled my eyes at his reply.

I eyed the staircase for a couple of second before deciding to head upstairs to talk to him.

When I stood up I felt Izzy grab my wrist and pull me back.

“What the fuck Izzy, I gotta go talk to him!” I shot back.

“Just let him simmer, you’ve had a long week,” I ignored Izzy’s comment as I headed up the stairs. I could have sworn he said something as he watched me walk up the stairs, but I ignored it.

I remained frozen in front of the only closed door. I took a deep breath before knocking.

After a couple of moments of silence I tried knocking again, but once again silence filled the air. Did he escape? Maybe he crawled out a window or something.

I slowly opened the door, and was met by a loud groan.

“Izzy, this isn’t like some of the bull shit we deal with Axl. You don’t need to fix it. Just leave me the fuck alone...” his voice trailed off as our eyes met while I walked into the small room.

His room was dark. The only reason I could see him was a dim light outlining his features coming from a streetlight.

“Well I’m not Izzy,” I stood awkwardly in the doorway leaning against the doorframe.

“Then who the fuck are you?” I remained frozen at his question.

When he leaned forward, the light finally showed his face; however, I couldn’t look at him in the eyes. Instead I was distracted. I was distracted by the snake that was casually wrapped around his arm. I felt petrified as I looked the creature in the eyes. By the way it kept me frozen in place, it was like the snake was plucked from Medusa’s head.

I heard him chuckled and I immediately looked him in the eyes, pulling my attention from the snake.

“You ever seen a snake before?”

“Yeah, I saw a garden snake once....this one is...a little bigger,” this earned some laughter from slash.

“Yeah...she is a little bigger,” I could tell that he was finding my uneasiness hilarious as he continued to chuckle at my reaction.

I sat on the ground, not inching towards the snake as I watched it flick its tongue in the air.

“Is...is that...is that some sort of hissing?” I focused on my breathing as I spoke, making sure to keep a calm relaxed diminutive. You’re supposed to remain calm around bears, so maybe..maybe it would work the same for snakes. At the end of the day, it couldn’t make things worse.

“No, quite the contrary. She is just tasting the air,” Slash casually responded as he lifted his arm up to get a better look at the snake.

“Are you sure....” I spoke not much louder than a whisper. I made sure to keep my voice soft, not wanting to provoke the creature.

His laughter filled the room once again.

“Yes I’m sure. She isn’t clinging onto me any tighter. She’s just chilling. Wanna come closer?” I froze again at his offer.

Hell no.

Hell the fuck no.

There was no way in hell that I was getting any closer to the hissing beast than I have to.

It wasn’t until he spoke again that I began to contemplate taking a few steps closer.

“Come on, no need to worry. I think she likes you,” I nodded as he spoke and slowly scootered forward, my eyes never leaving the snake.

“Just remain calm as you are, and you should be fine,” I nodded at Slash’s words. Just remain calm, and everything will be fine, I repeated to myself over and over again. Im not going to die today.

Within no time I felt like I was face to face with the beast. How many snakes did he have? I hoped just one. I was in no position or mood to meet a second snake tonight. I froze again when I made eye contact with the snake. I couldn’t tell what it was, but I felt a calming sense flow through my body as I stared down the creature.

I looked up to see Slash smiling down at me as he stroked the beast.

“Is it tightening around your hand?” I whispered.

“No...she is still calm,” I relaxed as Slash replied. At least someone in this rundown place didn’t hate me.

My eyes stayed focused on the beast as he explored Slash’s hand. Slithering around every which way it pleased, clearly causing no harm to Slash. I looked up to see a wide grin grow across his face.

“What?” I inquired as I felt his gaze on me.

“Nah it’s nothing,” he immediately shrugged it off, but I wasn’t taking such a lame excuse as an answer.

“Hmmm...I beg to differ,” I teased back.

“No..well...it’s just that the last person to meet my little girl here was Axl..and he...,” I interrupted him before he could continue.

“Let me guess, your little girl here didn’t like him.”

“You are spot on,” he smiled back, once again looking at his little girl...as he called it.

“Well she isn’t the first and probably won’t be the last girl to hate him,” I teased back, my own laughter erupting and filling the room.

“Shh, not too loud. She likes it quiet,” Slash said, his smile never leaning his face as he tried to hide his laughter.

I nodded and looked back at the snake. A comfortable silence filled the room as the two of us watched his snake relax on his hand. It was rather clear that since the snake appeared to like me, slash hadn’t cussed me out or bitten my head off yet.

“Why?” Slash broke the silence as he spoke.

“Why what?” I quickly asked back without thinking. He sent me an ‘area you fucking kidding me’ look before rephrasing his question.

“Why are you pretending to be a guy?”

“I was tired of being a girl,” I shrugged back leaning into what I could only assume to be a nightstand.

I could tell by the look on Slash’s face that he was no please with my answer.

“Why?” I rolled my eyes as he acted like my little three year old cousin repeatedly asking questions.

I let out a sigh as I fidgeted with the hem of my shirt.

“I was tired of all the bull shit that comes with being a chick on the strip! Do you know how hard it is for a girl to make it on the strip? Whenever I show up to a gig, I’m immediately treated as either A) a potential sex symbol or B) someone who knows absolutely nothing about playing music. For Christ’s sake, if I had a dollar for every time I had someone mansplain to me on how to play, I wouldn’t ever go hungry. I just...it’s exhausting....and I just wanted a change,” I sighed before I took a sip of the vodka that I was holding.

“How much of it is true,” I could feel my eyebrows scrunch as Slash spoke.

“How much of what is true?” I asked back, trying to get my mind wrapped around what he was getting at.

“The rumors I have heard about you and Pixie?” I laughed at his question. There were hundreds of rumors of what happened between me and my old band.

“Slash, man you’re going to have to be more specific,” I replied before offering him the bottle which he quickly took.

“Are you really that good at sucking cock that it got Pixie priority gigs,” he seemed hesitant as he spoke. Of course his first question was going to be sex related. I don’t know why I was surprised.

I let a laugh escape me as I shook my head, trying to find the right way to reply to Slash.

“I have never sucked cock or had sex to get a gig. It’s against my code,” I causally responded back as he handed the bottle back to me.

“Ohh,” he seemed a tad disappointed as he spoke.

“Why are you disappointed by that?” I shot back forgetting that there was a snake in the room.

“Well....if things ever went south with the band...you could...well you know...take one for the team,” he teased back. I couldn’t help but laugh at his response.

“It’s good to know we have a well thought out backup plan,” I teased before taking another sip of vodka.

Before we could continue, I heard a knock at the door, causing an abrupt end to our conversation.

“Slash did you kill our bassist?” I turned to see Izzy poking his head through the busted door.

“Nah, still breathing,” I felt a smile flash across my face as Izzy walked into the room.

“At least for now,” Slash added causing a soft giggle to escape my lips.

“Was I interrupting something,” I watched as Izzy appeared tense as he sat down next to me.

“Not really, Duff...uhh...Michelle..was just debunking some rumors I’ve heard about him...her,” I smiled as he tried to correct himself and use the correct pronouns. It was sweet of him, at least he was trying. To be honest, I truly didn’t care which pronouns his used, but I still appreciated his attempt.

“Well, I got a question then,” Izzy paused before he faced.

“Are you really that good at sucking cock to get gigs,” there was no force on Earth that would have been able to help me contain my laughter. If I was sober I would have been annoyed with their childish questions, but I was far from sober. I wondered if this question was on every guy’s mind. I wondered if maybe he was jealous.

“What?” Izzy immediately asked as laughter erupted into the room.

Once my laughter calmed down I turned towards Izzy, “I never sucked cock for gigs, but I am pretty good.”

“Says who?” I watched as a smirk grew on Izzy’s face.

“Says my little black book,” I teased back. I felt my heart quicken as I felt Izzy’s eyes on me.

“Ohh please tell me you don’t actually keep a book,” Slash stole my attention as he spoke.

“Fuck no, it’s just an expression,” I replied. I froze as I looked at the pair as they remained motionless in front of me.

“No...you guys don’t....that’s not a thing right?” I was baffled as they remained silent in front of me.

“Seriously? I expected this out of Nikki Sixx, but not you guys....” before I could continue, Slash interrupted me.

“Don’t worry, we don’t,” Slash motioned towards him and Izzy as the pair laughed.

“Wow, Axl fucking Rose has a little black book? I knew he had an ego..but Holy Shit..I didn’t think it was that big,” I laughed at the thought of Axl writing down the names of girls and where/how to find them to have sex.

“I wouldn’t be laughing too hard..you were almost in that book,” Slash added, causing me to freeze in place.

“No...seriously ?!?” I shot back.

“Can you blame him?” I turned my attention back towards Izzy. I watched him take another sip of his beer before eyeing me over.

Just like the snake that was wrapped around Slash’s arm, I wanted nothing more than to wrap my mouth around Izzy’s cock.

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amisarchive · 4 years ago

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we make a long way from easy livin' look good, baby [Geri/Hoyt, Walker 2021]

Geri is thirteen when she first meets Hoyt Rawlins.

He’s loud and over the top – disruptive as the teachers like to say – and she’s not sure she wants to be friends with him. He is fast friends with Cordell though, so by extension, they are also kind of friends whether she likes it or not.

She and Emily spend a lot of time watching the boys, playing football mostly. Hoyt is lanky but he has a killer arm, and he makes QB without even trying. It makes his innate cockiness even worse, in Geri’s opinion, and he has half the cheerleading squad fawning over him before ever playing a full game.

The thing is, she is not immune. He’s charming, disarmingly so, making silly jokes and funny little quips, and she finds herself laughing more times than not. It’s embarrassingly easy for him to worm himself into her life – all of their lives, really – and after a few months, Geri has a hard time remembering their tight little group before Hoyt.

He balances them, the adventurous to Cordell’s careful, the loud to Emily’s quiet, the funny to her serious.

Geri is fourteen when Cordell and Emily become CordellandEmily. Honestly, it was only a matter of time, they all saw it. Still, it throws off their dynamic. Despite their friendship, they are very much still Geri and Hoyt, separate, their own persons with no close ties to each other.

So instead of Cordell&Emily&Geri&Hoyt, they are CordellandEmily, Geri and Hoyt.

It’s different and it takes some time to get used to it. They still hang out, all four of them, and Geri needs a second to get to where it doesn’t feel so weird anymore. She spends considerably more time with Hoyt now; even when they are all together, it’s really just her and Hoyt, with CordellandEmily in their own little bubble.

They bond over mocking their lovesick fools of friends, ribbing them any chance they get. It takes a few months, but they get to a place where they become Geri&Hoyt, friends, with their own shorthand, their own inside jokes.

It doesn’t take long for everyone else to notice, too, and before long, there is no Hoyt without Geri, no Geri without Hoyt. If one of them is invited to a party, the other is, too, if one of them is not going, the other isn’t going either.

Geri is fifteen the first time she notices.

She’s on her way to the library when she literally runs into Hoyt – obviously late for football practice. His frame has filled out some in the last year, his shoulders broader, corded muscle on his arms.

She’s not blind, of course she notices, she sees him often enough. But it’s not what makes her stop in her tracks. His football jersey is riding up high on his shoulder and she can clearly see the handprint in mottled blue and green, marring the skin of his arm. She asks him about it and he just pulls the jersey down and brushes her off with a grin and some lame excuse she doesn’t buy.

It’s a week later that she startles awake in the middle of the night and it takes her a moment to connect the noise that woke her with the knock on her bedroom window. She stumbles out of bed, pushes the window up.

Hoyt looks a mess, with the bloody nose and the black eye, and he tries for a smile but fails miserably. He awkwardly climbs in through the window and for a moment Geri is not sure what to do. He looks smaller, defeated, nothing like the devil-may-care jokester she spends her days with. He sinks down on the edge of her bed and she quietly sneaks into the bathroom down the hall to get a towel.

He’s still on her bed when she returns and she lifts his chin, carefully cleaning the blood from his nose. He winces away when her hand comes too close to the bruised skin at his eye, and she starts to apologize but he just shakes his head sharply. He grips her wrist then and she drops the towel, lets him tug her closer until she’s standing right in front of him. He looks like he’s about to say something, but the words don’t come and he just lets go of her hand with a soft sigh.

She doesn’t ask what’s happened, doesn’t push him for answers, just climbs back into bed, watching his back shake when he draws in a few labored breaths. Honestly, she just doesn’t know what to do, what to say.

It takes another few minutes, but Hoyt eventually toes off his boots and stretches out next to her, on top of the covers.

‘Thank you, Ger.’ The words are quiet, his voice raspy, emotional, and she grasps his hand in response, gives a squeeze and this time, he doesn’t let go.

They wake up in a tangle of limbs, Geri’s head against his chest, one of her legs between his, the cover still between them.

It becomes a thing, Hoyt sneaking in in the middle of the night. She leaves the window unlatched for the nights he needs somewhere to go. Sometimes she’s still up, other times she wakes up in the morning with his weight against her back and an arm slung across her hips.

They don’t talk about it, not with each other and not with Cordell or Emily. It’s their little secret and it brings them even closer together. He’s still loud and over the top but she knows what’s behind the façade now, can see the lonely boy with nowhere to go.

Geri is sixteen when she realizes she’s hopelessly in love. She can’t pinpoint when it starts but somewhere along the line, she catches feelings.

Hoyt’s father and older brother get arrested for burglary and Hoyt moves in with the Walkers for a while. It puts a stop to their sleepovers, there’s nothing for him to run from.

And the thing is, she’s happy for him. But a tiny little selfish part of her still wishes he had a reason to leave, to come sneak into her bedroom at night. She misses having him close, getting to know things no one else knows, little glimpses of the real Hoyt, not the persona.

Still, she settles on just being his friend again, on laughing at his dumb jokes and the occasional shoulder bump. Hoyt doesn’t seem to have a problem with it, and it hurts a little how easily he just seems to go back to normal, without giving it – giving her – a second thought.

It’s so much more of a surprise when a month before prom, he’s suddenly down on one knee in front of her in the middle of the hall, surrounded by everyone, asking her to go to prom with him. She can feel her cheeks heat at his theatrics but he’s also smiling up at her with a smile that’s more Hoyt and less QB1 and so she says yes, ignoring the dirty looks from the cheerleaders having their hopes crushed in a very public way. He rises and pulls her into a hug, and she laughs, her heart fluttering nervously in her chest.

She’s already half asleep when the knock comes that night. She scrambles out of bed, suddenly acutely aware of the rat’s nest on her head and the ratty old shirt she is wearing, the one with the hole in the shoulder. It’s at least two sizes too big on her but she loves it anyway, a reminder of her brother from before he joined the army and didn’t come back.

The window is still unlatched – a stupid little hope she can’t bring herself to abandon – but he still waits for her to invite him in and her heart does this little fluttery thing again that she still doesn’t quite know where to place. She pushes the window open, and she wants to ask him if everything is alright, but Hoyt grins at her as he folds his long limbs through the narrow window, so she guesses there’s no real emergency here.

‘Hey.’ She can’t stop her hands from reaching down and pulling on the hem of her shirt, so aware of her bare legs and while Hoyt glances down briefly, once his eyes lock with hers, they don’t stray. She can feel her skin flush, the heat creeping up her neck, and it’s ridiculous because it’s just Hoyt.

But she can see it now, the uncertainty in his eyes, the way his grin has vanished, the tension in his shoulders, so much like the boy crawling into her bedroom with a swollen eye and a busted nose. His voice wavers just the slightest bit when he echoes her ‘hey’ and she takes a step closer, reaches for his hand. It’s nothing they haven’t done before, but it feels different tonight, and she knows, right in this instant, that there’s no going back once she crosses that line; the way her heart feels like it’s about to beat out of her chest, with nervousness, with excitement, telling her everything she needs to know. From the way he looks at her, she thinks he feels it, too.

She hopeshe feels it, too, as she presses closer to him, leans up, brings her lips to his before she can think better of it. He freezes for the tiniest second and she’s about to pull away, backpedal and blame it on her sleep-addled mind, when he brings his free hand up to cup her neck, keeping her close and their lips connected. She smiles against his lips and when she presses her body flush against his, the sound that rumbles through his chest makes her shudder.

He pulls away a moment later, runs a hand through his hair with a pained sigh while his other hand remains firmly on her hip, her shirt bunching under his fingers when they flex against her. ‘Fuck, Ger.’

For a second, she thinks this is it, years of friendship ruined, he’s going to tell her this was a mistake and disappear from her life forever. But when she looks up at him, his eyes are wide, filled with wonder, and she bites her lip before taking a step closer again and leaning up for another kiss. He groans into it this time and Geri can feel her heartbeat in her whole body with how fast it’s going. He tastes minty, like the gum he always chews, and it’s so familiar and new at the same time. She’s out of breath by the time she pulls back, and she still can’t quite believe this is happening, her mind racing a million miles a second.

Geri turns seventeen the night before prom. She doesn’t have a party, but they all hang out at the Dairy Queen. Emily is rambling on excitedly about possibly being elected prom queen (like she isn’t sure she’d win, like her and Cordell being crowned queen and king isn’t a foregone conclusion) and she’s only half-listening, swirling the spoon in her melting blizzard, when Hoyt shifts beside her, bringing his mouth to her ear. ‘D’you want to be prom queen, babe? I can make that happen.’

She smiles at his words, and his eyes sparkle with just enough mischief that she believes he could pull that off. But she doesn’t care enough about these kinds of things and Emily does and she’s not petty or mean enough to spoil this for her friend just for kicks. ‘I’m good. Thank you anyway.’

She turns to steal a kiss and across from them Cordell pulls a face. They’re still new enough to elicit this kind of reaction apparently, although Cordell had no qualms making out with Emily in front of them whenever the mood struck. Cordell carefully schools his expression into indifference when Emily elbows him in the side while still chattering on about prom. It’s not the most exciting birthday but she has all her favorite people with her.

The next day, she helps Hoyt spike the punch at prom, the burn of alcohol on her tongue a pleasant distraction from the frilly, grossly romantic, over-the-top production that is their prom. It’s not who she is, it has been enough of a challenge to find a dress she likes that isn’t full on princess and still goes with her boots. So while Emily and Cordell enter the stage to accept their crowns as king and queen, she leans back into Hoyt’s chest, melts into his embrace, his breath warm against her neck.

Geri is eighteen the first time she thinks she might be pregnant. She’s so busy with school and partying and Hoyt, she doesn’t even notice she skipped her period until someone makes a stupid comment about her crabby mood at school. It takes her a while to figure out how it could have even happened – she’s usually so careful about all things birth control, Emily likes to tease her about it. But she eventually remembers. She remembers partying with Cordell and Emily and Hoyt in the Walker ranch’s bunkhouse. She remembers them getting high on subpar weed and drinking more beer than they should, remembers Cordell and Emily slinking off to one of the small bedrooms in the back after rudely making out in the old ratty armchair until Hoyt had none-too-subtly suggested they get a room. Which they did. Which had let to her and Hoyt making out on the couch and things had escalated from there. Hands everywhere, lips everywhere, and her being just buzzed and stupid enough to give in on skipping the condom when Hoyt didn’t have one with him.

Her heart is beating out of her chest with the realization, with how stupid she let herself be, her life flashing in front of her eyes. A crying baby, dirty diapers, a night job to make ends meet, Hoyt doing his best but ultimately disappearing on her. It’s horror scenario after horror scenario and she feels like she’s going to be sick. She stumbles down the hall and into the girls’ bathroom, Emily hot on her heels. ‘Are you okay, Geri?’

She pushes open one of the stalls, bending over with a dry heave. Emily’s hand is gentle on her back, rubbing in soothing circles, and Geri wants to speak, tell her all about this mess, but all that comes out is a hysterical laugh, the anxiety bubbling inside her finally finding a release. Emily stays with her until she calms down, drawing in a couple deep breaths. ‘I need to go buy a pregnancy test.’ Emily is quiet beside her, the only indication that she heard the way her lips form a surprised, if silent, oh.

The whole day is a blur, but she eventually pees on a stick and after the longest three minutes of her life it only shows one line and she breaks out in tears with how relieved she is.

When she sees Hoyt later that day, she punches him in the shoulder and tosses him the box of condoms she’s bought together with the damn test. His only response is a grin and Geri can’t bring herself to tell him how close the call really was.

Geri is nineteen when she leaves home. She’s enrolled in the local community college to get a business degree and she would have gladly stayed at home to not have the extra expense but her father – who she loves, he’s a great dad – hates her being with Hoyt with a passion. It’s not that she didn’t know her parents disapproved of Hoyt, his family history, his loud persona, his sneaking around, but they never made it quite as obvious as they did right then.

It’s the outright ultimatum her father gives her – living at home or being with Hoyt – that has her stubborn streak flaring up something fierce and she’s packing a bag and walking to the front door before her mother even tries to start to reason with either of them.

They move into a trailer parked in the front yard of someone Hoyt might know or who might be friends with Hoyt’s brother, she’s not sure. It’s cramped and they literally live on top of each other but it’s still better than giving in to her father and not being with Hoyt, even if it’s still hard. They don’t have much money with Hoyt working odd jobs and her picking up shifts at the mini mart whenever her college lessons leave enough time, but they manage to make it through somehow. It’s a month later when Hoyt comes into some money – she doesn’t know how, and she doesn’t ask – and it’s enough for them to move into a crappy one-bedroom apartment in a crappy neighborhood that’s still a step up from the run-down trailer.

Geri is twenty-two the first time she has to bail Hoyt out of jail. The call comes in the early, early morning and it costs her all her savings from her job tending bar at the Side Step. Hoyt smells terrible when he throws an arm around her shoulder and presses a kiss to her cheek before whispering ‘Thanks, angel’ in her ear.

She can’t help the shiver and although a part of her is furious with him, the charming smile and the hand sliding into the back pocket of her jeans like this is nothing, like they are just walking home after a long night at a bar, have her cracking her smile before soon. She doesn’t ask what’s happened, drunken disorderly Officer Henderson had said when she’d shown up at the police station, just shoves him in the general direction of the shower when they make it home.

It’s still early, only a little after eight, and she allows herself a moment of rest as she sinks back onto her bed. She’s barely drifting off when her eyes fly open again as water drips onto her face. Hoyt is holding himself over her, grin on his lips, water dripping from his hair to her forehead. He smells infinitely better and getting arrested doesn’t seem to have affected his mood at all and she wants to tell him he has to be more careful, stop jeopardizing his freedom, their life together, for a cheap thrill or a couple hundred bucks but instead she just pulls him down and brings her lips to his.

He tastes like mint and just the faintest hint of whiskey and she’s still young and reckless enough to let herself get swept up in the taste and the sense of danger and adventure that comes with being with Hoyt. She groans into the kiss when his hands sneak under her shirt and she can feel his lips curve into a smile against hers.

He knows he’s won, knows she won’t be mad, knows she won’t leave.

The charges are dropped a week later, shit just doesn’t stick to him, and he pays her back a month later, in cash, with interest.

Geri is twenty-three the first time it happens.

It’s a Saturday, 2:06 am, at the Side Step, and she’s slightly buzzed but not drunk. They have been celebrating, Cordell and Emily’s engagement, but the crowd cleared a while ago. It’s just her and Hoyt and one of the regulars who’s had a few too many in the corner booth and Kelly is behind the bar and none-too-subtly glaring at her for still being here.

She’s only half-listening to the stupid joke Hoyt is making to get Kelly to lighten up as her eyes flickers to her watch again. 2:08 am.

She pushes off the bar stool and beside her Hoyt does the same the moment he sees her move. She slaps some cash on the counter to settle their tab, plus a nice tip for Kelly who just takes the cash with a nod of thanks and a goodnight.

Hoyt takes her hand as they step out into the warm night air and she interlaces their fingers, his palm hot against hers. Sometimes she still can’t believe it’s been ten years – TEN years – she has known this man, spent time with this man, sometimes against her better judgement.

She leans up for a kiss, lets their lips meet for a moment before pulling away again. She can’t quite place the flicker of emotion in his eyes when he looks at her for another moment. She’s about to say something, anything, to break the silence when he squeezes her hand, pulling her focus, as he sinks down onto one knee in the dusty parking lot.

Her heart flutters in her chest and she has to swallow against the sudden lump of emotion in her throat. Surely, he’s not-

‘I love you, Ger. Marry me.’

He is. And God knows, there’s a part of her that’s burning to say yes. She can tell he’s not that drunk, eyes still clear, a hopefulness in his eyes she hasn’t seen in a long while.

‘I didn’t have time to get a real ring, but-‘ He opens his palm, revealing a makeshift ring, a curled up cocktail straw from the bar, bright red, so tacky and yet oh-so-perfect.

She takes the ring, slips it on her finger, before pulling him to his feet. ‘Baby, I love you, too. And you know, the answer’s always yes, right? But we don’t have real jobs, we don’t have money and we don’t have a baby on the way like Cordi and Em. Someday, yeah?’

He twists the straw ring on her finger, steals a kiss, maybe a bit more urgent than usual, his forehead resting against hers when he pulls away. ‘You and me, though, right?’

She brings her hand up to run her fingers softly through the messy strands of his hair, eyes never leaving his. ‘Always, baby. You and me against them all.’

Geri is twenty-six when everything changes. Old Hunter wants to sell the bar, wants to sell herthe bar and she is considering it. Sure, money is tight, and it would require a loan to start a company for her to officially take over, but it’s a step in the right direction and she’s excited about the idea.

She tells Hoyt close to the end of her shift when he’s sitting at the bar, nursing his whiskey while waiting for her to finish. He seems genuinely excited for her as he leans over the counter to pull her in for a kiss. She indulges him (and herself) for a moment before pushing him back with a laugh. He grins, winking at her, and she can feel that this is going to be good. For both of them.

When she finishes her shift half an hour later and locks up, it’s just the two of them as the wipes down the bar counter. Hoyt’s helping by picking up the last remaining empty glasses from the back tables and she watches him for a moment. She picks up a cocktail straw on impulse, twisting it a few times.

‘You okay?’ Hoyt asks as he joins her behind the bar to set down the used glasses on a surface she hasn’t wiped down yet. She turns, takes his hand.

‘Hoyt-‘ She tries, she really does, but her voice fails her and instead she just opens her hand, revealing the straw ring she made.

‘Are you asking me to marry you, Ger?’ He sounds surprised and just a tiny bit amused and Geri shifts from one foot to the other before forcing herself to meet his eyes.

‘Yes? I mean, I know I said someday, but today feels like someday and I love you and-‘

‘Geri.’ His voice is quiet, and it makes her shut up almost instantly, her eyes flicking up to his. He takes the ring from her, slides it onto his finger. ‘The answer’s always yes.’

She laughs, softly, before meeting him halfway for a kiss that is more chaste than expected. He pulls her to him, and she goes easily, lets herself be held.

‘You and me.’ She whispers into his neck and she can feel his lips curve into a smile against her temple. ‘Always, baby.’

She spends the next day with a stupid smile on her face, but she also spends most of it at the bank, trying to get a loan to buy the bar. It’s not going her way, she can feel it, and it puts a damper on her mood but not enough to spoil her day. There’s more than one bank in town and she’ll try again the next day.

It’s a rough night at the Side Step, though. They run out of beer and a few of their regulars start a fight over some poker game that almost ends with her own nose broken. It’s only when she closes down, exhausted after the day that she notices she hasn’t heard from Hoyt all day. It’s not that uncommon but she starts feeling a little uneasy by morning.

She’s just gone to sleep for an hour or so when the phone rings. She doesn’t immediately recognize the number, but she picks up anyway and her stomach drops when the voice at the other end of the line is Abeline Walker’s.

It’s all a blur after the words Hoyt and arrested come down the line and Geri mentally tries to count the remaining money she could possibly scrounge together to bail him out, until realization hits.

If Abeline is calling her, she got the info from Cordell who either was involved in the arrest or got the info from the Rangers who were, and if Rangers were involved, they most likely weren’t talking about a drunk and disorderly charge.

‘Geri, are you still there, honey?’

She swallows against the dryness in her throat, blinks against the tears forming in her eyes.

‘How bad is it?’

Abeline sighs at the other end of the line. ‘Honey, you’ll have to talk to Cordell.’

Geri doesn’t mean to slam the phone down so hard, and she feels sorry for Abeline; she really doesn’t deserve her anger. She immediately starts dialing Cordell’s number, but he doesn’t pick up and her anger flares again.

He finds her hours later at the bar and she’s pissed at the nonchalant way he comes sauntering in, like nothing’s wrong, like he hasn’t just upended her whole life. He has the nerve to lean on the bar and ask for a shot of whiskey and Geri loses it for a moment, though she instantly regrets the resounding slap in his face.

Cordell holds his face for a second before his hand closes around her wrist and he pulls her with him until they are in the small manager’s office in the back. ‘I’m-‘

‘You arrested him? Why, Walker? You need a collar that bad?’

‘Geri-‘

‘Why would you- after everything he’s done for you!’

‘It wasn’t me, Geri!’ His voice booms in the enclosed space and Geri finally falls silent, though her arms cross defiantly over her chest. She listens quietly as Cordell tells her what has happened, bank robbery, Hoyt as the wheelman, two of them getting picked up, two getting away.

She’s angry all over again by the time he finishes, though she’s not entirely sure who with. ‘So what now?’

Cordell shrugs, and he seems uncomfortable as he speaks again.

‘He’s going to prison, Geri. I don’t know for how long.’

She resists only a little bit when Cordell pulls her into a hug and holds her tightly till she goes limp against him.

The next week is a blur and she’s nursing a permanent hangover thanks to too many shots during her shift and far too many after. She’s not proud of it, but the uncertainty and possibility of spending years without Hoyt after spending more than a decade with him is harrowing.

She’s just taking a moment to rest her forehead against the wood of the bar counter when there’s a knock on the door.

‘We’re closed!,’ she yells, but the door opens anyway and a man peeks inside, some kind of delivery service judging from the cap and jacket.

‘Sorry, I have a delivery for-‘ he looks down at the package in his hand ‘-Geraldine Broussard?’

She nods and motions for him to come closer and he sets the package down onto the bar with a thud as she signs for it. ‘Have a good day, ma’am.’

She grimaces at the ma’am but gives a half-hearted wave anyway before turning her attention to the package. There’s no sender, just her name and the bar’s address in big black block letters. It’s also heavy, very much so, and curiosity finally gets the better of her.

She rips the easy-open strip and a scrap of paper falls out the moment the package is open. It’s a handwritten note, just the words for the bar scrawled in a handwriting she doesn’t recognize. What catches her attention, though, is the straw ring taped to the bottom of the note.

She can’t help the small smile as she takes the tape off, running her fingers along the twisted green plastic before slipping it on her finger. She folds open the box a bit more and her mouth falls open in a gasp. It’s money, lots of money, and she hesitates for just a second.

It’s got to be Hoyt’s cut; Cordell had said they hadn’t found the money with Hoyt and the other guy they picked up. She quickly closes the box again, twisting the ring on her finger. She knows the right thing would be to turn this over to the police, or Cordell at least, but she ends up shoving the box into the safe in the manager’s office before starting her shift.

She goes to see Hoyt in jail a few days later. He looks tired, dark circles under his eyes, hair messy, beard way beyond the close-shaven stubble. He also seems genuinely surprised to see her, his hand reaching for receiver almost immediately. ‘What are you doing here, angel?’

She just looks at him for a moment, before bringing up her hand, showing him the twisted green ring on her finger. ‘You and me, right?’

She barely resists bringing her palm to the plexiglass between them in a stupid movie move and just drops her hand into her lap. ‘I got your gift.’

His mouth quirks into a grin. ‘Good. You still wanna marry me?’

The tone of his voice betrays the easy grin on his face, and she sighs, leaning back in her seat. ‘How long do I have to wait?’

‘Two to four, depending on the judge’s mood.’

‘Hoyt-‘

For the first time, his grin falters. ‘I don’t expect you to wait, Ger.’

She brings her hand up to silence him. ‘You and me, always. I’ll be busy with my bar anyway.’

And yeah, maybe she’s become a little more flexible with her morals over the years but that’s not saying her father was right when he accused Hoyt of being a bad influence her all these years ago.

She buys the bar from Hunter, takes out a small loan from a local bank for appearances, starts a company to manage it – Straw Ring LLP – and generally just stays busy. As per Hoyt’s request, she doesn’t attend his sentencing hearing, but Cordell stops by later that day to tell her it’s two years – two years in prison for Hoyt, two years for her without Hoyt.

Geri is twenty-seven when she learns how to get creative with accounting. The bar is making money but still not enough money to justify the amount in her safe or in the company’s bank account.

Two more packages have arrived over a period of 6 months and she’s still figuring out where to put it all. She takes it home for now, hides it under the loose floorboard in her new house, the one she can now finally afford. It’s small, but still big enough for the two of them, maybe someday even three of them, and she likes having this space that is just hers, will be just theirs, a sanctuary from the world.

Geri is twenty-eight when her father dies. The call comes late on a Tuesday and she tries to make it to the hospital in time, but he’s already gone when she comes barreling through the doors. Her mother’s a mess, quietly sobbing in her seat in the family room, and Geri wishes so much that her brother were here, with his larger-than-life presence and calm voice that had never failed to put her mother at ease. As it is, it is just the two of them, quiet, tense, with just grief and unspoken anger hanging between them.

Everything up until the funeral is a blur. It’s a week of phone calls and condolences and casseroles and spending the nights in her childhood home. Being back in her old room makes her miss Hoyt something fierce, every corner of the room bringing up memories, good and bad. It’s also bringing up the guilt of not being there enough, not calling enough, of never fully forgiving her father for kicking her out almost ten years ago. It’s a twisted mix of grief and love and guilt that she would love to drown in cheap tequila and bad decisions, but she keeps it together, for her mother.

The day of the funeral is hot, sweltering, the Texas sun unforgiving in the small cemetery. Beside her, her mother is disappearing under the large black hat she’s wearing, her head bowed, the tears silently flowing. Emily is on her other side, her hand firmly holding Geri’s, squeezing every so often, but by now, Geri’s all cried out, there are no more tears left. She’s not even really listening, the priest’s words just a distant buzz at the back of her mind only interrupted by her mother’s sobs beside her.

She just watches in silence as the coffin is lowered into the ground and her mother weakly drops a handful of soil onto the wood. She follows suit, her head still buzzing with the noise of people around her, and she wishes she could cry now as she looks down into the 6 ft hole in the ground. She wishes there were some feeling left besides the numbing emptiness as she steps back to her mother’s side to accept more condolences from other guests.

The sun is blinding in her eyes and while her mother talks to their next-door neighbor in a quiet voice, Geri takes the moment to shield her eyes, letting her eyes wander the cemetery, over sun-burnt grass and weather-worn headstones. It’s only then that she notices the lone figure in the distance, casually resting against a tree in the shade, dark denim jeans, red-checkered flannel, tan cowboy hat.

For a moment she thinks she’s hallucinating, that the heat and the grief have gotten to her, but when she blinks and refocuses, she can still see him, he’s still there, right there, so close, and it feels like her heart’s going to beat out of her chest. Her body moves before she even realizes, breaking into a run, fully ignoring her mother’s indignant hiss of her name.

She slows down only once, halfway to the tree and just long enough to take off her shoes when a heel gets stuck in the ground, leaving them right there in the grass, the ground warm and dry beneath her bare feet. She all but throws herself at him, her arms going around his shoulders as she burrows her face in his shoulder.

His hands are steady at her back, holding her close, his body so warm against hers, so real, and she pulls away for a second, looking up at him, the stupid blue eyes, the day-old stubble, and she pushes his hat back by the brim until it hits the ground behind him. She surges up for a kiss, short, just a press of lips against lips, before throwing herself into his arms again. ‘You’re here.’

She’s not sure he even understands her mumbling against his neck, but she doesn’t care. He’s here, Hoyt’s here, today of all days, and she can feel the tears streaking down her cheeks now. ‘I got you, angel.’

She doesn’t know how long she stands there, just clinging to Hoyt like a lifeline, but she never wants to stop. He eventually pulls away, just far enough to look at her, his hands coming up to frame her face, thumbs brushing away the tears. ‘I’m so sorry.’

She looks up at him and tries for a smile. ‘How are you here?’

‘Early release, good behavior and all that.’ He winks at her and she can’t help a small laugh. ‘Thank you. For coming. I know my dad wasn’t your biggest fan-‘

Hoyt shushes her, brings her hand up to press a kiss to her palm. ‘He was yours, that’s enough for me.’

He steals another kiss, still slow and soft, and it ends way too soon when someone clears their throat behind them.

‘Hey Cordi.’ Cordell nods to Hoyt in acknowledgement before turning his attention to Geri.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt but you should go, Geri, your mother’s waiting by the car.’ He dangles her shoes from his fingers, and she takes them reluctantly, steadying herself on Hoyt’s shoulder to put them back on. She can see Emily waiting for her a few steps back, but she still turns back to Hoyt one more time, her hands smoothing over his chest. ‘I’ll see you later?’

He simply nods and she turns to Cordell. ‘You have the spare key to my apartment?’

‘At home, but we’ll get it.’ She takes a breath, allows herself a moment to wipe a smudge of her lipstick from Hoyt’s mouth before taking a step back. ‘Alright, later then.’

Her mother is pissed at her. Something about inappropriate behavior and that boy – Geri just stops listening to the rant after a while. The wake drags on endlessly and while she enjoys hearing stories about her father, old and new, she still feels overwhelmed. Guilty for not being there then, guilty for not really wanting to be there now.

She’s tired, oh-so-tired, by the time she finally makes it home. The apartment is dark save for the flickering on the tv from the living room and she sighs as she slips out of her shoes and undoes the clip holding her hair up. Her feet are still dirty, leaving small dust prints on the light carpet but she can’t bring herself to care.

She stops in the door to the living room, allowing herself a moment to just appreciate the sight of Hoyt sprawled over her couch, his eyes closed, leg hanging of the edge. He seems comfortable, peaceful, and her heart expands with joy, happiness, love, despite the sorrows of the day.

She crosses the room until she’s right in front of the couch, rests a knee in the gap created by Hoyt’s legs. He stirs but doesn’t open his eyes as he blindly reaches for her. She goes easily when he tugs softly on her hand and she exhales against his chest once her body comes to rest on top of his, his arms tightening around her immediately. ‘You doin’ okay, angel?’

His voice is rough with sleep and she shivers at the sound. ‘Not really, but having you here helps. Are you okay?’

He tightens his embrace around her. ‘Perfect. I like the apartment.’ She shifts up just enough to bring her lips to his in a soft kiss. He hums against her, one hand coming up to twist into her hair, gently angling her head to deepen the kiss.

Geri is thirty-five when Emily dies. It’s the first time she actively misses Hoyt, misses having him close, to lean on. She misses him when she makes it home from that fateful run to the border, misses him when Cordell breaks down with grief, misses him at the funeral. There are so many things she wants to tell him, needs to tell him, things that are burning at the tip of her tongue. Instead, she smiles, tries to offer support to Cordell and his family, just like she did when Cordell was on deployment. Just good ol’ Geri, being there when needed.

It’s also the first time she resents him for not being there. She’s tried reaching out, and she’s sure, wherever he is, that he must have heard by now, from someone, what has happened. He should be here, for Cordell, for her, but he isn’t and it’s stupid how angry she gets. She takes it out on one of the pool cues and a bottle of cheap whiskey, the splintering and shattering a welcome, if short-lived, distraction.

She’s still angry when she wakes up the next morning and she’s still angry when Cordell asks about Hoyt a few days later.

Geri is thirty-seven and still a bit angry when Hoyt comes sauntering into the Side Step with Cordell like no time has passed at all. He turns on the charm, lays it on thick, but she’s determined to resist, to not give in that easily, not this time.

It stings a bit when Cordell confirms she isn’t even Hoyt’s first stop, but it only helps strengthen her resolve; her replies remain snippy, her demeanor cool. Until the bastard drops down on one knee and has the nerve to propose and her stupid, stupid heart starts to flutter just like it did when she was sixteen. She still can’t tell if he’s being honest or just putting on a show for Cordell, though, so she does the only thing that could provide some clarity. ‘You don’t even have a ring.’

When he opens his hand to reveal the red straw ring, her whole world stops for a second. Yes. The answer’s always yes. It echoes in her mind, makes her head spin; his stupid blue eyes and his stupid grin melting the anger of the last years and her resolve without even trying and he knows.

There are a million things she wants to say, ask, yell. Questions she needs to know the answers to.

‘Sit down.’ It’s all she can get out while still carefully keeping a somewhat neutral expression on her face. He settles at the bar with Cordell and a deck of cards, and she pours them all a shot of whiskey. She joins the game after getting everything ready for opening and it’s easy, like old times, just without Emily.

Every so often her eyes flicker to Hoyt, taking him in, the ease in his posture, how he just acts like nothing’s happened at all. She puts on a brave face, goes along with the jokes, but she knows they’ll have to talk, sooner or later. It’s something they’ve never been good at and she’s sure part of him dreads it just as much as she does.

They never make it that far; she knows the moment Cordell’s stupid partner walks in that she’s up to no good. Sure enough, Hoyt’s in handcuffs before long and while she’s not surprised, her heart still skips in her chest at the possibility of losing him again so soon. Cordell follows them with a somewhat apologetic look on his face, but it does nothing to relieve the sudden ball of anxiety in her chest.

She doesn’t hear from any of them until the next day when Cordell’s girl partner comes walking in and orders a shot of tequila. The money she lays on the counter is topped by the red straw ring Hoyt had made the day before but the words he left it for you before he left town are empty, they both know left townis just code for prison – again- and while a part of her wants to cave, give in to the pain as she slides the ring onto her finger, she retains enough composure to con the Ranger out of some more money with a stupid quip before sending her on her way.

It takes her almost two weeks to work up the nerve to ask Cordell where Hoyt is. He hesitates to tell her, but she knows which buttons to push to get the information she needs. She hasn’t visited Hoyt in jail or prison since that first time, it’s not what they do; plausible deniability, she guesses, for when mysterious packages of cash show up on her doorstep.

He still keeps putting her on his visiting list each time he gets locked up, though she’s never completed the form before.

Hoyt is surprised to see her, for sure, but she thinks she can also see some relief in his eyes. She’s itching to reach for his hand, but there’s no touching, all the signs say so. It’s harder, out here in the open with just a table between them, instead of plexiglass separating them. ‘What are you doing here, angel?’

Her heart aches with the familiar phrase and she barely manages a smile. ‘Stopping in for just a game of poker isn’t enough after three years.’

He grimaces and the cuffs on his wrists jangle when he stretches his hands out to her. Throwing caution to the wind, she allows herself a moment of weakness and reaches to close the gap, intertwining their fingers for just a moment until a guard reprimands them way too soon. She drops her hands to her lap instead and it’s harder than expected to keep eye contact. ‘Ger, look, I know I screwed up when I left and I’m sorry. I didn’t deal and I left you alone to deal with-‘

She stops him with a hand gesture. ‘We both didn’t deal; it wasn’t just on you. I just- you didn’t come back. Not even when Emily- you didn’t come back, Hoyt.’

He flinches at her words and for a moment he looks so much like the young boy who used to sneak into her bedroom at night, it makes her heart hurt. ‘I know, baby, and I’m sorry. But I need you to know, I’ll always come back. It might take me a little longer sometimes, but I’ll always come back to you. You and me, always, right?’

She nods, biting her lip. ‘If I were to leave for a while, start over somewhere else, would you come find me?’

He grins at her then, his blue eyes sparkling. ‘Always, angel.’

She makes the decision to sell the Side Step a few weeks later. With Hoyt in prison and Emily gone and Cordell back to work and taking care of his kids, there’s nothing holding her here.

It wasn’t what she was going for when trying to sell the bar but taking Emily’s life insurance money feels like some kind of karmic justice, for all the times she stuck up for all of them, for all the times Hoyt was taken from her by Cordell or one of his colleagues, for all the times she didn’t get anything in return.

There’s a bag of cash in her trunk and a check in her purse, a straw ring in the cup holder. She doesn’t know where she’s going but she knows Hoyt is going to find her, wherever she may be, whenever he might get the chance.

It just her and him, no laws, no rules, always.

Hoyt is forty when he shows up at Geri’s new home in Georgia with a diamond ring.

‘You and me, right?’

He watches as Geri’s lips quirk into a smile as she slides the ring on her finger before she closes the space between them. The warm tickle of her breath against his ear, the scent of her hair when he burrows his nose into it, her body fitting so perfectly against his, it’s all enough, no matter the answer.

#fic #unfinished #walker 2021 #geri x hoyt #hoyt x geri #geri broussard #hoyt rawlins #ami writes #archive

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let-it-show · 5 years ago

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All The Love I Found In You 1/?

Oh boy. This is...the first longer fic I’m posting for the fandom. Heh, how ‘bout them nerves... Anyway a couple weeks back someone said something about a fic with Elsa and Anna switching bodies and I have decided to run with that. Heh. They gotta figure it out. THINGS will happen. It’s emotional. Will everyone be okay. Alright, here’s our intro part.. (Part 2 is found HERE)

The wind was whipping around the glacier in a fury, pushing the sea to rage just as angrily. Above it all the sky was black in between sudden bright bursts of lightning that was eager to strike the water. Nokk was unsettled and nervous while Gale dodged the higher waves of the sea to calm the fellow spirit. Both remained far below the top of the glacier on which another spirit stood.

Elsa's eyes were alight with joy and a certain wildness while the air crackled around her. She knew she shouldn't be up there, and she knew if Anna could see her she would rightly be losing her mind. But Anna wasn't there, and Elsa found herself daring to do little tricks and taking risks she shouldn't, all to learn more and more.

Sometimes learning bled into fun and that's why she found herself playing with ice in a grand storm. Oh, it'd only been a minute or two, and she would go back to safety soon. It was fun to create the ice around her and throw it into the clouds, though, and offered her a great release. Too much lately had been knotted in her heart and head, and she couldn't shake it. Thinking about Anna being far, her kingdom, the many little adventures they had in those three years...

Maybe her risks weren't just in the name of curiosity and knowledge.

She didn't get to think much more about it before suddenly a loud crack was heard across the sky. It wasn't thunder but the sound of a whip made of lightning striking nearby. Closer than nearby, in fact. It was like something suddenly pushed her with a massive force and she was nothing against it.

Elsa saw Anna's eyes before her own, and suddenly there was nothing.

----

All too soon Elsa felt herself waking up. The light invaded her eyes which was strange, nowhere she slept ever really got the bright. Ahtohallan wasn't bright inside, the tent at the Northuldra camp was solid, and she kept her curtains closed in her room at the castle. Why? Oh-

As she stretched she realized she had passed out on top of Ahtohallan in a storm. Of course, the sun was going to do that to her, disturbing her from her nice sleep in the thick blankets.

Blankets.

Elsa's eyes shot wide open as she sat up quickly. She immediately noticed a purple and pink blanket was over her. She turned to look at the pillows under her. They were fluffed and pink. She looked to the source of the light. It was the big window in Anna's room, curtains pulled back to allow the light in. Anna had such trouble waking up that she used the sun to help her out. It was half-effective, if that. Anna rarely slept in there anyway.

Panic surged through her. Why the hell was SHE in there though? Elsa rolled out of the bed in confusion, her foot tangled in the blankets. She hopped forward while breathing hard and was suddenly aware that she should be watching the long train on her dress. But she didn't feel it...her world was spinning.

Something was very wrong.

When she got her balance she didn't feel right. She didn't feel like her. Something about the way she stood? No, not that. Her head felt full of cotton while she worked through her thoughts. She was in Anna's room and felt like her body was lacking something. It was a way she was sure she couldn't possibly describe, and the only reaction was a loud "Aaah!?".

She tried to even her breathing out, tried to focus. As she started to come down just a little, she waited for the tingle that always graced her fingertips when her emotions evened out. It even helped a little to ground her when she felt that. It had become welcome over time.

The tingle didn't come.

"What...what!" She shook her hands and noticed what was wrong.

There was no magic surging through her body!

She nearly screamed but caught herself as tears welled in her eyes. Her heart cracked in that moment and she knew it - she was without that curious companion, that energy that was her magic. It was always there, it pushed and pulled at her just as naturally as the rest of her body worked together. It was just gone. She was hollow. She was a shell! Her sobs were threatening to build and she began to sink to the soft carpet beneath her in shock. Had she been nearly killed on Ahtohallan? Had Nokk carried her magic-less body to the castle, dumping her and banishing her from the glacier?

Her breathing was fast again, she felt she may pass out. She was almost to her knees when she caught a bit of herself in Anna's mirror. She blinked and studied harder. What she saw had her frozen in place completely.

The person staring back at her, was Anna.

At first, she started to scream. Her mouth opened, and voice began to rise. As quickly as it started though, the sound snuffed itself out as Elsa suddenly felt an overowering rush of adoration. The warmth took her over enitrely as she looked at the darling face of her sister, even if her mouth was open in Elsa's scream.

"Anna?" she asked, and yelped.

Her voice came out as Anna's voice.

Elsa went right back to her feet and rushed backwards from the mirror, her mind screaming. She couldn't even think, all she could do was spin in place, grab the door, and go rushing out of the room. Nothing made sense! She hurried into the hallway to do- to do what exactly? No one was in the immediate area, so she ran toward Gerda's room. She needed to know if she was hallucinating or-or what. But she did notice the way her hair felt heavy and ratty, and her dress was shorter and her sleeves were long.

She nearly ran into Gerda, veering at the last moment to nearly slam into the wall before she stopped. "Gerda!" she called, and again, Anna's voice!

"Queen Anna? Goodness, are you alright?" Gerda asked, her eyes wide and hand places across her heart in alarm. "Queen Anna?"

That was the confirmation she needed. Elsa drew a sharp breath and turned away, taking off from Gerda again. She had to see her room. Anna very often slept there instead of her own room and Elsa hoped to find her, somehow, in that bed. Maybe she looked like Anna but the real Anna was there. And that thought didn't make much sense, but she wanted to see her.

She reached the room in no time and threw open the door. She rushed in and saw the bed was empty. It was unmade and looked like it had been very recently vacated, but it was empty. Elsa leaned over it and stared, her eyes unbelieving. She wasn't understanding what she was seeing!

And at the same time, she was well aware. She was in Anna's body, and she didn't know what that meant for Anna's soul or her own body. Each concept terrified her. She walked around the edge of the bed and stroked the dark blankets, trying to think, trying to make sense of things. This made no sense! How would she find out what was happening?

"Hey, are you okay?" she heard behind her suddenly. A hand touched her with a bit too much firmnes. It was the touch of someone who knew her well and she felt as the hand skimmed over her back. She felt the body of someone else getting way too close to her.

It was a caring touch but in her concern she immediately elbowed the person coming up beside her and jumped on top of the bed as she whipped around. He arm raised and finger pointed as she got herself poised and ready to use her magic. An instant later she remembered she couldn't.

"Ouch! Anna, why'd you do that?" Kristoff asked, standing back from where he had been and rubbing his stomach. A look of pain was on his face. "...Why are you standing like that?"

"Kristoff!" she replied, and Elsa lowered her hands in guilt. "I'm sorry! I just didn't expect you!" She should have, she really should have. She had been so in her strange head that she was totally unprepared. She remained thrown off with every wrong sound of her voice.

"Why should you, I only come up to say hi every morning," he said, watching her. "It's okay, it happens," he followed with, trying to smile.

Elsa blinked. That's right, she didn't look like her. She looked like...someone's fiancee. Her face drooped. "No really, it happens! I'll still, ha, hug you," he told her, still trying to smile.

Hug her. She liked Kristoff but didn't want any cuddling from him, at all. "No thanks. I mean thanks! But I'm okay, I just ah...woke up weird." That was an understatement. How was she supposed to say she wasn't really Anna?

"Ah, thinking about Elsa again? I still think you ought to talk to her."

"No I'm-huh?" Talk to her? Elsa was so caught off guard she was unable to worry about her current situation of being in the wrong body. When a line like that just dropped, she had to know more. "You think I should talk to her?"

Kristoff didn't speak for a moment, watching her. He had to know something was up. "Yes...Anna, I've told you this several times. I don't mind saying it again. And I'm not going to say anything different, either."

"I...don't expect you to say anything different." Elsa felt a bit of guilt. She had just discovered she was in her sister's body and hadn't a clue what was happening, but boy was she ready to use it to snoop. She worried about Anna, though, and learning Anna was supposed to talk to her about something only made her worry more. "I just want your take on it." No no she was doing something bad and wrong and should be fixing her huge situation-

Kristoff ran his hand through his hair, looking like he was holding something back. It gave Elsa the idea this was something they had talked about a lot. "Again...I think it's complex. There's more to this sort of stuff than a lot of people realize and I'm not that upset about it anymore. I get where you're coming from and I want you happy...and if you need Elsa to..."

Elsa could feel heat rising to her - well, Anna's - cheeks. Where was he going with that? Should she silence him and wait. "To...?"

"You know! If she makes you feel-"

"Queen Anna!" And then they were rudely intruded on by a guard. At the bedroom door. "There's something you need to see!" His intrusion infuriated Elsa! She was getting somewhere- not where she should be going- AND it was the bedroom! He was just outside the bedroom...too close, anyway.

"WHAT!?" she snapped, making both the guard and Kristoff jump.

"I apologize, Queen, but your sister is approaching and quickly! Something seems wrong!" the guard cowered.

Elsa could only imagine how she must look on the bed, her hair a mess, in a nightgown, with her face red. But as soon as she processed the words, she jumped back off the bed and darted for the doors to the balcony. So, someone that looked like her anyway, was coming toward the castle. She dared hope it was actually Anna but she couldn't be sure.

She threw open the doors and ran out to the edge. And there, out on the sea, she could see herself riding Nokk at maximum speed across the water. It was hard to make out much from a distance but she could see Nokk seemed disturbed by the way he was running, and there was a trail of snow and ice shooting out from behind her own body, as if her double didn't have any control over it.

Someone who didn't know how to use the magic was in her body, and if it wasn't Anna then there was about to be big trouble.

One again Elsa twirled around and bolted, this time through the bedroom and blowing right past Kristoff and the guard. She hurried as fast as her legs could carry her and ran down all the stairs even if she knew the actual Anna would go right down the banister. Anna had that down and Elsa was likely to topple and break absolutely every bone in her current body. She couldn't trust the banister like she could her ice.

Then it was out the very bottom door she had been out many times to shoot her powers at the edge of the water. The breeze blew and she shivered.

Shivered.

The inside of the castle was nice and warm on a spring day, welcoming with fires lit in every occupied room. It was comforting. Outside? She never noticed how crisp and cool it was off the water. Elsa wasn't used to being cold. She could feel changing temperature in the air, but not exactly, well, the chill. It nipped at her face and ears, her feet felt heavy. It wasn't a feeling she liked at all.

She almost got distracted from the voice loudly screaming 'ELSAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!' as it grew closer and closer. Somehow that told her it was Anna for sure...

"Why is she screaming her own name?" Kristoff asked suddenly from beside her, making her startle.

Elsa continued to shiver, looking from him to the figure that was approaching surrounded by snow. The snow was only growing - leave it to Anna to form a terrified snowball on a horse. Oh this was going to be bad...

Nokk stopped short of the shore and bucked hard. Elsa's body - or rather the ball of snow with her head - flew off and onto the ground. The snow exploded everywhere as Elsa's body went facefirst to the ground, landing with all her limbs outstretched. Behind her was a hovering trail of ice, easy to see once Nokk disintegrated into the water again.

Elsa rushed to her face-planted self, scared for her well-being and worried about her power. Around her the air was growing colder and Elsa's teeth were starting to chatter. "Anna?" she asked, reaching for her own shoulder, covered by her nearly white colored hair. She shook her gently and immediately, Anna rolled over.

Her eyes were wide and her face screwed up in a painful cringe. It was one of the most disturbing things Elsa had ever seen. It wasn't like seeing herself in the mirror, it was her real face screwed up in pain and covered in dirt.

"Elsa!" her voice said and immediately those arms were around her as her body sat up and pulled her into a crushing hug. Ice suddenly took over the ground beneath them and Elsa slipped and slid against the embrace.

"Anna! Anna get control of the ice please!" It was her first experience of her butt freezing and she was eaager for it to go away.

"O-oh." She felt her take a deep breath, pause, and then the ice began to fade. "Sorry. I'm trying to-sorry! I keep panicking! I've been trying to think of you and everyone I love and be careful, it's hard though, this magic is-"

"Insistent? Pushy? Bossy?" Elsa added, and felt her body relax against her. She knew how her magic could be.

"Yes! When I woke up I thought I was about to explode and it was weird enough I woke up in the snow! What is happening!?" Anna asked in Elsa's most frightened voice.

And yet, as scared as she was...having her sister there and in the same predicament helped. Her beating heart began to slow to its normal pace. Something inside her settled and that familiarity was there. That satisfaction she felt whenever they were together- it didn't care that they were in different bodies.

She just wished she could bury her nose in Anna's real neck and inhale her scent. It wasn't exactly the same being in her body. "I don't know. I'm just as lost as you are!"

"Where did you wake up? In your bed?" Anna asked and finally released her. The two studied each other and Elsa squirmed as she stared into her own eyes. That was way too weird.

They both dropped their gazes. "Um, no, your room. I thought you didn't sleep in there much so it threw me even..more..." Elsa mumbled. How did she even begin to phrase that one?

"I don't. I usually stay in your bed, especially after you've just left. Then it's-it's best." The voice grew small as though Anna realized she had said too much. When Elsa looked again, she had red cheeks.

They didn't even get to venture into that. "Wait a second." Kristoff had stepped closer to them, looking down at the two in astonishment. "Elsa...you're Anna and..." He made switching motions with his fingers. "Did I hear that right? Did I...?"

Anna nodded up at him, and then seemed to realize he was actually there. "Kristoff!" She jumped up and suddenly Elsa was watching herself hug Kristoff enthusiastically, squeezing him and then hopping back in glee. "Yes! You did! It's me Anna and no, I have no idea why!"

Elsa sighed and stood, touching her midback. The white dress was cold as hell, was it always like that? "Hey, you're making me look weird, calm down!" Kristoff knowing was okay, but guards and other castle staff had started to gather and look down. Elsa shivered again in the cold. "Anna-"

"Oh you're right!" Anna immediately went rigid and held her head up high - ridiculously high. She adopted the most snobby look Elsa had ever seen and she was sure, she was damn sure, she didn't look like that. At all.

"Anna..." Elsa buried her face in Anna's hand, sighing. It was with that she realized she wasn't acting very Anna-ish either and that wasn't good. "Let's uh, let's go inside. Hurry!" She took her hand and started hauling her with her to the door. "Kristoff, come on! You too!" she hissed, knowing right away they were about to need some help.

Anna let herself be tugged along, stumbling at first but then managing to run in after Elsa. She laughed awkwardly, probably because she was alarmed. Elsa found her chest starting to tighten again. Kristoff hurried along behind them and closed the door behind them as soon as they were inside.

--------------

Somehow the three of them escaped up to Elsa's room. As soon as they were in there, Elsa closed the door and sat with Anna on the bed. Kristoff leaned against the wall nearby, concern across his face. The air was crisp and ice was creeping across the ceiling above them. It had started to go up the walls before Elsa pointed it out, making Anna pause, think, and stop it for the most part.

She still couldn't seem to stop all of it. Elsa tried not to shiver yet again. The fact she was affected by the cold brought about a deep pain in her. She had to move past it. She couldn't think about it.

"You're cold," Anna had said with a gasp when they were sitting. Elsa nodded and Anna gathered a blanket from the bed. Elsa had to shift to help her get it off but the next thing she new, those arms were wrapped around her with the blanket and she was instantly warmer. How much of that was the blanket and how much was Anna's essence surrounding her, she wasn't sure. She wanted to drown in it- ah, that part was Anna.

Elsa sighed. "Yes, cold," she replied quietly. Her own face hovered too close. Maybe Anna wasn't put off by looking at her own face but Elsa still wasn't sure how to take it. "I wouldn't mind it, maybe, if I were used to actually feeling it."

"Not feeling it is weird too...I know I should shiver but I'm not. It's so...it's not right." Anna continued to hold her. "I love you but I don't think I want to be in your body."

Elsa couldn't help a little smile. She looked at her own eyes once again and was surprised, startled. They were her blue eyes but it was Anna's soul looking back at her. Maybe she was slow to catch on and that was what Anna had been seeing ever since she rode up.

"So no idea how this happened?" Kristoff asked quietly, looking at them.

They both looked to him. Elsa shook her head. "No. I just woke up in Anna's bed."

"And I woke up on Ahtohallan! Not in - on! Elsa why were you up there?"

Now was not the time to confess to playing in a lightning storm. It was even less of a time to confess to being knocked out in it, somehow. So Elsa decided to dance around it somewhat. "Oh, watching the clouds and the weather."

"Wasn't it storming that way last night?" Kristoff asked and she could have killed him.

"Elsa likes storms," Anna replied and Elsa could have hugged her, if she wasn't underneath a big blanket. "Though dozing off in one isn't a good idea," she said as she directed an annoyed look right at Elsa.

"Anyway! No, we don't know why this happened. I fell asleep outside. What did you do before bed?" she asked Anna.

"Hmmm. I was reading a book with Olaf about...about..." She was struggling to think. "Well there was some kid and he almost got killed by a ship crashing into his house, but a voice lured him outside. Oh but there was something about time travel! There was a god who kept appearing as a rabbit..."

"Where do you find these books?" Kristoff asked.

Elsa heard enough. "Okay, so you read some high fantasy and fell asleep, you're sure that was it?" she asked.

"Yes!"

"Okay..." That got them nowhere.

Kristoff spoke again. "Uh, Anna? I don't want to make things harder, but your day starts soon, and the staff is still wondering about Elsa coming here and...what should we do?" he asked.

It was a genuine question and Elsa knew they were going to have to face the day eventually. "Okay. Okay aah...Kristoff, can you stall them again?" She knew he was used to it. When Elsa visited the castle, she often lounged in bed cuddling with Anna. They liked to stretch their time out as long as possible and often it was Elsa who had to pry Anna's arms off her and coax her to do her duties.

He nodded. "Sure. I have some ideas this time too! Plus, the ambassador you have today - he and I get along great so I got this morning covered," he said with a smile.

Relief flooded through her. "Oh, thank you!" she told him.

"You're the best!" Anna added, beaming up at him.

He smiled back at her - both of them, really - in a sad sort of way. It surprised Elsa but she couldn't concentrate on it. "Alright. I'll see you two soon," he said. "If you need me, I'll be in the castle," he told them, moving toward the door.

They both told him bye and soon he was gone. Then they looked at each other again. Elsa didn't know what to say about their predicament. "It's weird being you," she started with and regretted it. That wasn't good to say.

But Anna laughed. "It's weird being you too. I have magic. I have a dress made of...ice? I lost it. Twice! I was naked on Nokk! Then I had to think real hard and here it is."

Elsa blinked and then she laughed too. "Oh yea...my clothes. Yea, I have to create them-well don't have to, but like to. I forget it's not uh, normal."

"It's cool though! I wish I could play around with it, but I don't know how to control it all still, so I just focused on what you wear."

"Hmmm." Elsa started to frown. "And I...it's weird, not having my magic. It feels empty." In that moment though, she realized she hadn't thought about that emptiness since Anna arrived. She knew she didn't have magic but she hadn't felt... "Well, it felt terrible, but when you showed up I started to feel a little better," she admitted.

"Yea...I think I made a couple mini snowstorms on my way here but it helped to see you." Anna leaned against her.

Something...shifted. Elsa didn't know what it was. She couldn't put her finger on it. Anna was taking it all way too well, or at least she appeared to be. Elsa tried to read her spirit for any fear but she wasn't finding it. If it was there, it was we buried beneath joy and fondness. The ice seemed to have stopped forming as well.

"Anna?" she asked gently. "Are you alright?"

"I..." Anna stayed against her. "I think...so?" she replied. "I'm just so happy you're here." She lifted her head to kiss her cheek, meeting her eyes again. "Heh, that was my cheek I guess, sorry. I just wanted to, you know."

Elsa knew. She leaned into her. It felt so good... "Yea. I get it," she told her. "I do. You just seem to be handling this really well."

"I wasn't this morning!" Anna laughed. "Not at all! I made spikes all around Ahtohallan! I got to the Northuldran camp and accidentally froze Honeymaren in a giant ice cube! And-oh no I hope she's not in there still..."

"You don't know!?" Well, great, that was going to be a fun one to explain.

"No! I freaked out and left! I wasn't okay until I saw you, or rather, saw me but I knew it was you. And then- when we're together everything is okay," she explained rather meekly.

Elsa laughed. "Hmm. You're right." Everything was better with her sister at her side. "But we have to figure this out."

"How?" Anna asked, her head against Elsa's.

To that, Elsa shrugged and closed her eyes. "I don't know."

#Frozen 2 #fanfic #elsa #anna #kristoff #eventual elsanna hmmm?

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