#the way his nose just slots in over to the trophy...... | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

timextoxhajima · 3 years

Text

Nevertheless: Wishful Thinking [1]

[completed] [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

synopsis: why would the college flirt want anything to do with the innocent heartbreaker? a [somewhat] nevertheless au featuring tbz's eric son young jae

genre [per chapter]: suggestive material, mentions of alcohol, SMUT *this series is a smut series so* please don't read if you're uncomfy. if you're underaged and you still wanna read, i'm not stopping you. i don't care because that's your responsibility to know what's fiction and what's not.

word count: 2.8k, half of which is probably filth

taglist: @from-xero

{this is a work of fiction}

"i'm sorry, i just... i just don't see you that way."

the boy tries his hardest not to choke (or sob) as he lowers his head, the bouquet of flowers in his hands crinkling when he brings it down to his side.

he huffs, using his tongue to poke the inner sides of his cheeks as his grimace pulls out into a smirk.

you look at him with utmost guilt, fingers awkwardly intertwined with one another as you scan the distraught on his face.

"so..." he slowly nods, looking up from the floor. "not even the most popular person on campus can win you over, huh?"

the label strikes a chord in you.

honestly, you were just waiting for him to say those words. you hadn't expected the campus star boy to confess to you tonight, much less at his own graduation party.

he was two years your senior and frankly way out of your league - leaving you with absolutely no clue how he came about to develop feelings for you.

you had wondered if he was merely capitalising on your growing reputation as the 'innocent heartbreaker'.

the pretty, new, freshman who just couldn't seem to stop heads from turning.

one of those heads was his.

wooseok scoffs, obviously unhappy and dissatisfied with your response.

how dare the pretty freshman reject the hottest boy on campus?

"okay," wooseok nods, still holding out the flowers to you. "at least take the flowers, would you?"

grimly picking the golden-wrapped roses from him, you scan his eyes, glossed with a layer of tears as his nose sours.

"wooseok-"

"no, don't," he interrupts you, sucking in a deep breath as he puffs out his chest. the yelling from outside his bedroom door calls the both of your attention.

"the party's still going on until morning, are you staying?"

with a light shake of your head, you hug the flowers close to your chest. your heart slows down, calming from the fact that he had brought you in here just to confess and not something else you were afraid of.

the guilt sinks in when you realise you didn't trust wooseok all that much.

"okay, well..." he clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. the silver shine off the school's logo on the varsity jacket glimmers under the room's ceiling light. "at least stay until we finish the first bottle of vodka? we have games later."

"oh, wooseok, i can't-"

"come on," he reaches forward and grabs your hands, his hands hot and warm. probably from the adrenaline he had to give himself to make this feat. "the first bottle."

you look up from his fingers and at his face, his fringe covering his eyes and casting sharp-angled shadows all over his lids.

your lips part, but before you can even utter a sound, he hops right in and exclaims with a grin on his face. "great! i'll see you around and come find me when you're leaving, okay?"

the smile lines extend from the sides of his nose and down to his lips, the shadow lines on his cheeks shifting as he turns on his heels, hands sliding off yours.

"i'll-" he points to his door, already reaching for the handle. "yeah. bye."

wooseok pulls the door open for him to exit, and right before he can shut the door behind him, his eyes come between the gap to take one last look at you.

the door clicks shut after he moves off first, and you're left with the roses in your arms, standing in the middle of his room, having just rejected the most sought-after bachelor in the school.

looking down at the roses once more, your finger-pads rub against the velvet petals, heart aching for him.

the neon lights in his room were casting a bright blue hue all over the walls and the carpeted ground, trophies for baseball and customised bats decorating almost every corner.

you turn to his bed, thinking of leaving the flowers on the cushion and leaving quietly through his window.

but your train of thought violently snapped into two when the party outside yells, followed by the loud thunking of the bass throughout the house.

the flowers are a reminder of how shit of a person you are.

you didn't ask to be a heartbreaker.

people tend to think you find joy in rejecting the brave ones who get their feelings across but you don't. not at all.

carefully laying the bouquet of flowers back onto his bed, you pull the door of his room open and step out into the hallway, the music blasting like everyone was deaf and hard of hearing.

the crowd in the living room comes into view when you start walking down the stairs - everybody jumping on beat to the likes of superbass and people yelling the all-time classic rap.

your knuckles whiten from gripping onto the wooden railings, unable to return yourself to the party when you've done broken the heart of the host himself.

so you turn on your heels, deciding to return to his room and crawl out through his window - only to be met by someone else.

"party's downstairs."

if you were the innocent heartbreaker...

then eric son was the vicious one - the male, sluttier equivalent of you.

"oh, well... party's not for me," you offer a tiny smile, slightly embarrassed to be caught making a u-turn.

eric tilts his head to the side, holding out an arm and resting it on the wooden railings. you lower your head, taking a step to your left in a bid to walk past him.

but you're stopped yet again by his arm reaching out, palm pressing flat into the concrete as he looks down at you.

you don't realise your fists are clenched (and sweating) until you rub them onto your dress.

"look, eric- i- i had a bad day and i just-"

"so walk out the front door," he raises a single brow, taking a step down and removing his hand off the wooden railing.

your feet fumble around each other in a bid not to topple down the stairs. turning to face you, he forces you to step back to maintain the safe distance between you.

"i don't want to make a scene-" the bad habit of picking your nails returns when your back hits the wall, and eric's standing an uncomfortable distance from you now.

"oh," he lifts his free hand and mirrors the other, keeping your neck between his forearms. but you are the scene. you can't just... leave."

a flustered chuckle runs through your throat as you lean your head back against the wall. "i don't have the time for this."

"make time for me," eric cocks his head to the side and glances down near the bottom of your face. "you can tell me about your bad day."

"i think i'll be fine on my own, thank you," carefully squatting and trying to shrink out from the wall-eric sandwich, your brows furrow as you shift.

but eric son buckles his arm and halves the distance he has between your faces, the sudden surge forcing you back upright.

now his breath is hot on your jaw and you turn away from him, lips pursed into a thin, tight line.

"the 'innocent heartbreaker'," he gently hums, fingers reaching up to play with the curled locks fallen around your upper arms. the fleeting brushes of his skin across yours draw out chills, and a harsh inhale twitches your facial expressions to his liking. "i can see why boys would fall for this."

with your eyes still glued to the party downstairs, you part your lips, wanting to explain yourself.

then eric, with the weight of feathers, reaches up to your chin and tilts it towards him.

his lips are parted as he slides his tongue across his teeth. he sighs softly, eyes travelling from yours to your lips and back up.

by now, you can feel his breath on your philtrum.

"you're pretty," he whispers, almost against your lips.

and your stomach plummets when he pulls away completely, the cool air rushing in to replace the bodily heat.

without breaking eye contact, even for a single second, eric pushes himself off the wall. lips drawn out into a wide smile, he adjusts his jacket and runs his hand through his hair.

"but not that pretty."

you don't realise your heart's racing until you feel your chest heaving, unknowingly panting from the unruly interaction the vicious heartbreaker has just provided you.

the world finally seeps back into view and into complete perfect audio, the music finally rumbling through you again when your eyes trail after eric, walking into the crowd jumping in the living room.

the taste of iron seeps out from the inside of your lips, and you dart your tongue across the mark that your teeth have left on your flesh.

clearing your throat and shaking the thought of eric out of your head, you turn back up the steps and head back into wooseok's bedroom.

the blue hues of the room start to sink into your consciousness again, the yellow shade of the bouquet wrap looking more like green under the lighting.

you take a moment to fester - over wooseok, over your reputation, over eric.

college just started and here you were, feeling guilty over something that wasn't even your fault.

the final decision comes to rest on your fingers in the form of pulling wooseok's window open, carefully lifting your feet and crawling under the glass.

now, troublemaker was playing, muffled but definitely loud enough to be heard at least 3 houses down the road. you climb onto the roof of his garage, eyes scanning to cars parked outside and along the road.

you stride to the side where you know wooseok had a wooden plating attached to one of the walls, fake vines intertwined between the planks.

it's a relief when your feet meet the concrete ground, and nobody was in sight - until you back up into someone's chest and you turn to find eric, again.

"what in the world-"

he cuts you off by grabbing your waist, slotting his lips between yours and holding your chin to align your faces.

you were nearly bought into it, but the consciousness seeps back into you and you rip your face off his, palms one his chest with his hands still on your waist.

"what do you think you're doing?"

"i could ask you the same thing."

"you already know I'm leaving."

"you can't leave just yet."

"why the hell not?"

"because I'm not done with you."

with a low huff, he hoists you up onto his hips, lips crashing onto yours as he walks you backwards, your shoulder blades hitting the wall where you had climbed down from.

there's a gentle rattle when he keeps you up against the wooden planks, his palms riding the skirt of your dress up and over your hips.

his fingers slide under the material of your underwear hugging your pelvis, hot skin gripping onto the flesh of your rear.

then you hear a tear amongst the mess he's making on your lips, and the material of your underwear loosens.

"what the-"

"shh," he smirks, now turning his head into your neck to nip on your jaw. your chest heaves from the sensitivity, the fluttering sensation of his lips on your neck drilling chills all through you. "make a sound and everyone will know you couldn't say no to me."

conscience returns to you for a split second.

"eric- we can't-"

before you can finish your sentence, eric drags the thin material out from under you and dangles it before you, his eyes clouded and dark.

the darkened patch of material on your underwear washes your face in pink and heat.

"you were saying?"

your stomach plummets, and you now register the coolness on your core. eric smiles, rolling up the material to shove it into his pocket.

"eric-" your fingers dig into his left forearm as they return to the wall by your head, his right carefully undoing his belt.

the clink of the metal followed by the zipper coming undone forms a knot in your stomach already, then his fingers coming to spread your neediness all over you forces a sharp whimper up your lungs.

"I've done nothing..." he shakes his head, sliding a single finger up and down your core. "and you are so wet."

he lifts his finger from under your skirt, his fingers glistening under the sharp, fluorescent lighting.

your hooded lids are just about tearing with the overwhelming ache that's throbbing through you, and he makes it worse by running his tongue all over his finger.

eric's pride swells when a whine escapes your throat, and he presses himself into you, chest against yours with his hands digging into your thighs. your arms circle around his shoulders, pulling him closer for a deep, slow kiss.

he prods against you, the throbbing ache spiking when his manhood rubs against your core. groaning into the kiss, your entire being squirms between him and the wall with the muffled music still blasting from the living room.

he doesn't bother to wait for you before he finds his manhood and aligns it with your entrance, gently prodding before sliding himself in like it was meant to be.

he buries himself inside you by holding your thighs around his hips even tighter, drawing a low and prolonged moan from your lips.

eric pulls away, pressing his forehead into yours to let you breathe. but he finds some kind of sadistic pleasure when he pulls his hips away, only to slam right back in, earning a sharp yelp from you.

"go any louder, princess, and i won't be the only one enjoying this."

he grins to himself, licking his lips before diving into your neck and picking at all the right spots. every kiss and nibble earned him a moan or a mewl and it ruins your pride over and over to know that you had just broken someone's heart tonight.

yet you were outside that someone's house, letting eric rail you like he owned you.

your fingers claw and grip at his shirt as you feel your back jerk and rock against the wooden plank. with every thrust he offers you, he sounds like he's laughing and panting at the same time, the hot breath on your neck making you writhe in a guilty pleasure.

he offers a few slower thrusts before grabbing your chin to look at him, eyes slightly fucked out and your thighs tired from keeping your body locked to his.

slowly pulling out and sliding back in, he takes the time to revel in the way your brows furrow and your lips fall apart, your curled hair now a mess around your chest and shoulders.

"that's it, princess," he leans into your ear and coos. "tell me how good that feels."

unable to form a coherent word in your head, you whine in response, pulling his face to yours and planting your lips onto his with every ounce of energy left in you.

his hands fumble under your skirt and find your sensitivity, pressing his thumb flat onto you. the pressure jerks you upwards and he takes the opportunity to reposition himself, changing the angle ever so slightly.

by some miracle, the tip of him buried inside you finds the magic spot, and when he picks up his pace, the knot starts to find you in eternal bliss.

eric pulls away again, huffing as he thrusts himself into you, fingers flicking and abusing you as if your legs weren't already shaking and convulsing around his hips.

"good girl," his breath is heavy on your jaw as he plants a few wet kisses there, his pants bringing you to some newer heights. your vision starts to fade into white with a few more thrusts and his fingers dig into your thighs when your lower body starts to spasm.

muscles flexing, your entire body squirms and trembles as you meet your high.

then eric hurriedly pulls out, the hot fluid dribbling all over the ground under you.

while you come down from your high, eric's strained grunts rumble through his torso under your arms. the vein that popped out on his neck was still there, and your senses only allow enough for you to focus on eric now.

he bites on his bottom lip and pushes his hair back with a deep inhale. he turns to you, eyes wide open and clear.

"not such an innocent princess now, are you?"

#nevertheless: wishful thinking #the boyz smut #the boyz scenarios #the boyz imagines #eric smut #eric scenarios #eric imagines #tbz smut #tbz scenarios #tbz imagines #eric sohn scenarios #eric sohn smut #eric sohn imagines #eric x reader smut #eric x reader #tbz x reader #the boyz x reader

585 notes · View notes

writingfics-passingtime · 3 years

Text

Playing the Part

~8300 words of steamy Loki tickle fluff

PG13 for this one, kids. Lots of making out.

CW: some swearing, suggestive humour, mentions of murder/death, alcohol consumption

Every job has its ups and downs, and every employee their good days and not-so-good days. You’d hardly classify yourself as an employee because you didn’t get a paycheque, your entire occupation was a hazard unto itself, human-resources was punching it out on the sparring mat and your boss was either a 100-year-old super soldier or an eccentric billionaire, depending on the day and who was wearing what suit.

Wait… should I be getting paid for this?

Looking around your room that you paid no rent on, in a multi-billion dollar superhero compound, you decided that wasn’t a question you were ever going to ask. The question of the hour was which dress would best conceal your thigh-holstered gun.

Today, your job entailed one of those tasks that could be fun if you decided it would be, or hell if you had a bad attitude about it. You prided yourself on always being up for any mission, so that answered that question, though infiltrating some black-tie gala undercover was never as exciting as fighting alien forces.

You gave up feeling guilty about being a little excited when Earth faced threats long ago; no one had to know that impending planetary destruction was your favourite kind of mission to help out on.

Selecting a red strapless dress from the middle of your mission closet (which was differentiated because most of these dresses were bulletproof) you slipped it on over your underwear and thigh holster. A knock came at your door as you were reaching behind yourself to zip it up.

“Come in!”

“Agent, we- oh… Oh.” Loki’s featured turned from surprised to playfully smug in a matter of seconds.

“Can you get this zipper?” You winced at the stuck metal. He nodded and approached, you turned and held the fabric up. Before he even made it halfway to you he gave a brief wave of his hand and used his magic to unstick the zipper, bringing it to the top.

“Thanks,” you smiled, familiar with that particular kind of help from Loki. “Can you see my gun?” You did a little spin and he shook his head. “Great. You look nice," you commented, gesturing to his impeccable black suit.

“As do you.”

“Ready?”

”I suppose there are worse charades to play on a Saturday evening. Ones that don’t include fine wine and the prospect of a tussle with a Midgardian security man.”

You shot him a look as you two walked towards the garage together. “You said no Midgardian wine could be classed as fine.”

“Save for one region in Italy, I’ve discovered.” Loki shrugged, tightening the fastener on his cuff link.

You gave him a mock look of shock. “Are you telling me… you were wrong?“

“Smugness is not becoming, Agent,” Loki playfully warned.

“Hmm,” you narrowed your eyes. “Looks like I’m spending too much time with you.”

You bickered and bantered good-naturedly as you entered the garage, which was more like a hangar but only for cars. This mission would be you, Loki, Natasha, Sam and, strangely enough, Tony wanted to drive the van. He gave some excuse about wanting to test some new equipment and spend time with his team. Though you knew it was because Pepper wanted him to attend her aunt’s seventieth birthday, and Tony had a long-standing feud with that particular aunt ever since she went on a forty-five minute tirade about how much she hated Led Zeppelin. You weren’t sure if it was the sentiment behind it, or the fact that she could talk for forty-five minutes straight without the awareness to stop. Either way, Tony was on the job tonight.

“Black Widow is already onsite,“ Tony handed you three some photos as you entered and took your seats. “Your names are on the door, fake ones obviously, here they are.” Tony pulled up some information on the screens and then commanded the self-driving van to go with a few taps at a holographic control centre.

You went over the plan, the objective, who to avoid at all costs, where the gun was supposedly hidden. There was a gun used in a murder of a journalist - the employee of an old friend of Tony's, a young guy working on an exposé of a filthy-rich family dynasty in New York City. The journalist was sure the McDane family money came from arms dealing, but he was found dead just a few short months after he started investigating. The following week, Charles, the charming and likeable newly-married eldest son of the family, announced his run for mayor.

Whether Charlie McDane ordered the murder, or if he didn't even know it happened, Tony's source said this family kept trophies of their victories and the murder weapon would most definitely still be in the house.

On the face of it, it was an unusual assignment for the Avengers. If you didn't think that hard about it, you could have just sent Nat in alone. However, the McDane family was even more powerful than they loved to show on the surface, and this wouldn't be a simple theft. Hence, a small team was going in to avenge the fallen journalist.

Natasha had been planted on the inside, posing as an event manager for a soirée the family was hosting to celebrate Charlie’s birthday and, since he’d invited everyone in the political and social scene, it was the perfect chance to enter the mansion; there’s no way he’d know who each and every person was and should be.

As you walked down the road with your arm slotted through Loki's, you eyed the metal detectors at the front entrance. You gripped his arm and slid your hand into the pocket of your dress, but the pocket was hollow and only existed as easy way to grab your gun. Wordlessly, you passed it to Loki and he concealed it with his magic in the exact same way you planned to smuggle the murder weapon out later that evening.

Maybe it was Loki's elegance or your years of training that started when you were very young, but the way you two could instinctively weave around each other's thoughts, ideas and actions without so much as a glance was something special you didn't take for granted. You both had keen senses, but there was some kind of unexplainable energy that made them align perfectly.

You never let your mind wander on nights like these. On missions. Perhaps if you were less professional you'd take a moment to fantasise about what it would actually be like to go to a party with Loki. If the way he led you through the room with a gentle hand at your waist was more than a ploy to look like an adoring couple, or if he knew your favourite wine because he cared, instead of just having heard you order it a million times before.

He kept things light with jokes and little jabs, never once crossing a boundary when fake-flirting with you, but it wasn't lost on you that it was unusual to have this kind of working relationship that had all of the chemistry with none of the awkwardness. It was almost as if it was second nature now for him to pull you a little closer when you were in a nice dress, considering you'd only worn them in front of him on missions. And so he did pull you closer as you approached the bouncer to give your names.

You spied Nat at the front, leaning around a security guard's shoulder to point to something on his list. She always played her parts so well. She stole a glance at you and Loki through her fake glasses and that was it. No indication she knew you, no special treatment, no way she'd do anything to blow this. She walked up the outdoor staircase as you gave your aliased names to the guard and flashed fake drivers licenses that were pretty much real, considering the government had created them.

Loki declined the arrival champagne for the both of you, immediately leading you to the bar. You looked at him as if to remind him that you weren't here to drink, and his subtle smirk replied that he didn't care. He ordered two glasses of a merlot from the one region in Italy that'd won his respect, passing the glass to you once it was laid on the bar.

"To the finer things," he cheers'ed your glass and you scoffed with a laugh, taking a sip of the wine. The rich flavour burst through your mouth. It was dark and deep, spiced with... with... "Cedar," he offered, reading the analysis on your face. "Rosewood, cedar and some sort of stone-fruit."

"Nectarine."

He smiled and took another sip. "We don't have that on Asgard."

"This wine is good," you nodded as you two turned and deconstructed the room and all of its guests.

It made you kind of sick seeing all of these wealthy people in one place pretending to give a damn about Charlie McDane's birthday. It's not that you liked the guy, not at all, it just felt weird to know that every person in here was the exact kind of person you hunted down. Power-hungry. This mansion may as well be a lion's den. But full of naïve lions, who had no idea two apex predators just walked in.

Just when you started wondering how many people in your line of sight had also committed murder to protect their wealth and power, you saw Natasha give a subtle signal of which way the room with the safe was. Loki saw it too.

It was upstairs, but there wasn't much cover to get upstairs. The great foyer's ceiling was three stories up, the two floors above the ground floor you were on had square balconies that let the people upstairs peer downwards into the masses. Nat's fingers adjusting her hair told you that the room was on the second floor. Thankfully, there were guests on the second floor. Under the guise of admiration for the architecture and a desire to explore the great house, you pointed out works of art to Loki as you ascended the stairs together. When you walked past Natasha she smiled politely, like a good host, and asked if you were enjoying the wine.

"It's most divine. Though, I believe my beloved may be in search of a room to powder her nose."

You would have rolled your eyes at his usual choice of asking for information if you weren't aware that security's eyes were everywhere. Even on the event manager.

"You might find what you need up the stairs, down the first hall, third door on your right."

The way her hands were motioning didn't match her hushed description, so you followed the instructions in her voice instead of the way her hands were telling you.

You allowed Loki to lead you upstairs, down the first hall. When you two were certain there were no eyes, he concealed you two with his magic. The hallway was darkened. He pressed his hand against the lock and unfastened it with an unseen pure magic and you two slipped inside. It was a large office with grand mahogany furniture, decorated exactly as you'd expect Old Money Americans to decorate their office. Right down to the bear head above the fireplace and the first edition novels sitting proudly on the shelf, probably unread by their owners. That also made you a little sick: great words sitting unread as trophies.

Scanning the room for any obvious signs of the safe, your eyes settled on a panel in the wood on the side of the desk. There was a slightly smaller gap in the wood on one side, indicating hinges. You held your hands up to Loki and he conjured thin gloves to grace your fingers, then you pressed gently on the wood to engage the latch. The panel swung open to reveal the safe. Shifting out of the way, Loki took your place and placed a gloved hand on the dial. In less than three seconds, it spun rapidly in each direction before clicking open.

"We should really consider robbing banks," you whispered as the black metal door swung open and you were met with stacks of paper and envelopes.

"Need I remind you I am a Prince? If it's gold you want, darling, say the word."

"Eh," you shrugged, feeling around for the gun. "I meant more for the thrills."

Loki chuckled as your fingers found a familiar-feeling package. You pulled the envelope out and peered inside before showing Loki the sight of a small pistol. He nodded and took it from you carefully, then concealed it in some unknown magical space close to him.

You closed the safe carefully and then your gloves disappeared. Moving quietly back to the door, you listened for several moments to make sure no one was coming. Then, you both slid out and began walking down the hall like a loving couple.

Suddenly, a guard appeared at the end of the hallway. Thinking fast, you opened the closest door to you and pushed Loki inside. There was a shout you vaguely heard before you shut and locked the door again.

"Shit," you hissed. You were in someone's bedroom. Or maybe it was a guest room, considering how clean and un-lived-in it looked. There was a fireplace, like in the office, and a large four-poster bed against one wall. In the middle of the room were two plush couches that faced each other and were side-on to the door. You two walked over to them to get the vantage of being in the centre of the room and quickly searched for an exit.

"I'll cast an illusion," Loki whispered, ready to wave his hands and make it look as if you two weren't here.

"No!" You whispered, eyes wide. "They already saw us come in here. If we disappear, they'll know something's up and lock the place down."

"Then what do you propose?" He held his hands out, annoyingly unbothered by the prospect of blowing a mission. The doorknob twisted and you both snapped your heads towards it, then back at each other.

"Sit," you hissed and shoved him back onto the sofa right behind him. He stumbled and fell with a small indignant noise of surprise. You heard the tinkling of keys and your heart beat in your chest.

"Agent?"

Knowing the security team was about to enter, you acted fast. "I'll never hear the end of this," you mumbled before sliding forward to straddle his lap. His eyebrows shot up his forehead as you wrapped your arms around his shoulder and looked at him with nervous urgency. "Kiss me."

Loki didn't question it, and he certainly didn't need to be told twice. His hands found their place. One at the small of your back, one firmly gripping the hair at the nape of your neck. Then, he pulled you in for a fiery kiss.

You barely heard the door open as you lost yourself in the strength of his hold, the steady and eager grasp with which he held you. His hands found their places as if they'd been there a thousand times before, as if he knew exactly how you'd feel the safest, feel the most desired. You pulled him deeper by the back of his neck and could have sworn he made a small noise of satisfaction.

Oh no.

He kept kissing you, you kept kissing him, even after the head of the security team had cleared his throat a number of times. As much as you knew you'd already sold it, and boy you sold it well, you couldn't bring yourself to pull away. Were all Asgardians this good at kissing, or was it just Loki?

Oh. No.

"HEY!"

The sudden loud command pulled you away and, much to your internal mortification, you didn't need to feign how flustered you were.

"O-oh my," you squeaked and looked up at the man, blushing profusely.

Okay, the squeak was fake, but it felt almost real.

You stayed put where you were straddling Loki's lap and grimaced when you saw Natasha, still in character, entering the room. "What's going on, I need you downstairs to- oh!" She looked a little taken aback by your position atop the prince who, you were fuming to see from the corner of your eye, had the audacity to be smirking.

"My apologies," Loki drawled in his growly regal voice, trailing his hands around to your sides. "I simply couldn't control myself, seeing my queen in this dress..." He punctuated it with an "Mmph" and a firm squeeze at your hips. You flinched and squirmed a bit under the ticklish touch, trying to keep your composure but letting a small giggle slip out. Then, catching the pleased and mischievous glint in his eye, you dug your nails into the back of his shoulder to warn him off trying that again.

"This room's off limits," the guard tilted his head towards the door and you made to move your way off of Loki's lap. Instead, with his incredible strength, he stood with his hands still at your hips, lifting you to your feet before turning and wrapping an arm around your waist.

He looked the guard up and down, "Of course, good sir." You bit your lip and blushed, cowering in Loki's hold as you exited the room together. Nat smirked at you and winked before proceeding to fall back into character and tell the guards there was a belligerent drunk man downstairs needing to be kicked out. That man would be Wilson, who was playing his part as tipsy distraction.

Loki led you down the hall and you rounded a corner, then you broke off from him and held a hand to your chest. "That was too close," you breathed deeply once, then met his eye. You glared when he saw him smirking at you.

"Do I have lipstick on my face?" He asked, feigning worry.

"Oh, shut up," you swatted his shoulder. "I did what I had to do."

"I never knew you had the passion in you, Agent," Loki smirked again. You glared once more and peeked around the corner, only to jump and hold in a yelp as Loki's pinching fingers found your hip. "I also never knew you were so ticklish."

"That's not something people advertise- cut it ouhout!" You swatted his hand and squirmed away from him as he prodded his fingers into your side. "We have the gun, let's get out of here."

"Tsk, you're no fun," Loki scoffed.

You exited the party and made your way down the block towards the van, knowing that Nat's glasses had broadcast at least the last part of your little tussle with Loki. Steeling yourself as you gripped the handle, you reminded yourself that you were a professional, and this was sometimes a hazard of the job. You needed to play it cool when the eventual teasing came.

"Hey, lovebirds," Tony quipped the second he saw your faces.

"Hey," you chuckled, stepping inside and removing your heels the second you found your seat. "We got it."

"Here," Loki closed the door behind him and pulled the enveloped gun from the magical space he'd hidden it. "So you saw the Agent's display of passion, did you?"

"You wound me, Loki," you deadpanned. "I thought we had a mutual connection."

Perhaps those words were a mistake considering all the truth behind them. However, all the best lies were founded on truth, and for now you needed to convince everyone in the van that you weren't totally freaking out because you'd felt the most passionate attraction you'd had in years with a former villain. I mean... how predictable.

Loki looked at you suspiciously as he took his seat, but something in his gaze told you he wasn't going to prod deeper on this. Not right now, at least. Not in front of everyone.

Nat and Sam joined the fray five minutes later and you all got a move-on back to the Compound. Nat poked more fun at the position she'd found you two in, and you laughed good-naturedly at all their jokes. Loki was uncharacteristically silent, and seemed to always be looking at you when you laughed and instinctively checked to see if he was laughing too.

The jokes shifted to Sam and the wine he spilled down his shirt, then the conversation shifted to the next steps of what to do with the gun, then you all arrived back.

Tony got to work dismantling his rig, declining your help, and so you took your field weapons over to the cabinet to put them back in their places. As you were unclipping the magazine from your pistol, you felt a presence behind the door. You peered around to see Loki.

"What's up?" You raised your eyebrows and snapped the case shut, then closed the door.

He looked at you meaningfully, quizzically, but didn't say anything.

"Okay..." you chuckled uncomfortably and put the latch on the door in place. "I'm going to shower."

You made to walk past him but he grabbed your upper arm, stopping you by his side. Facing different ways, he leaned in a little closer and spoke quietly. "I can spot a lie from lightyears away."

Turning to look at him, you'd probably have been caught off-guard by how close his face was if it hadn't been for the events of earlier. You shrugged, pulling your arm from his grasp. "I didn't lie."

He scoffed and also turned to look at you, eyes flitting once down to your lips, then back up to pierce your gaze with his. "You know what I meant."

You were proud of how composed you kept yourself when you shrugged again and kept walking, swallowing hard.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Never one to waste water, you took an uncharacteristically long shower. Haphazardly smearing face wash over your skin to scrub the makeup off, scrub away the flustered energy. But no amount of scrubbing could help you forget the feeling of his kiss, and shampooing the hairspray from your head only made you remember the feeling of his fingers in your hair.

You reminded yourself that it had been a very long time since you'd kissed someone. You were probably just desperate, definitely a little touch-starved in general, so the fact that it was Loki didn't matter as much as the fact that it had happened.

That's what you told yourself over and over as you threw on sweatpants and a soft long-sleeved shirt. It was cold and the marble floors could be unforgiving, so you thought it best to go for fluffy socks, but then pulled some slippered boots over the top. You didn't bother brushing your wet hair, letting it fall where it wanted as you made your way to the kitchen.

"That smells good," you commented as Nat pulled some dish out of the oven.

"Mmm," she agreed with an excited smile. "Nico is my favourite," she admitted slyly, referring to one of the chefs Pepper would call in to prepare a bunch of heatable meals during busy periods. Delivery app drivers would probably cancel the order if you tried, thinking it must be a joke that a super solider was asking for a Big Mac to be delivered to the Avengers Compound. Besides, by the time it was scanned and made sure to not contain a deadly poison, it would be cold and stale. "There's enough for you too," Nat said, pulling out another plate and serving you a steaming slice of vegetarian lasagne.

"Thanks," you smiled, still a little distracted. Of course, with someone as perceptive as Nat, that wouldn't be allowed to slip by.

She leaned against the counter and poked at her meal, not meeting your eye to keep it less direct. "You alright?"

"Hmm?" You looked up, and so did she, then you looked back down to your food and shrugged. It was no use lying to her. "I think I'm lonely," you laughed humourlessly, nervously, sadly.

"The kiss got to you," she said knowingly, placing her fork down to give you her full attention. You didn't return the favour, nervous about what you'd say if you were really talking about this. Which, as long as you were here eating dinner, you weren't really talking about it.

"It's not like I haven't kissed a fellow Agent before to keep cover," you sighed a little, shaking your head. "It's just been a while, I guess, since I've had... anything... or, someone."

"I get that," she nodded, picking up her fork again. You two ate in silence for several moments. "This is really good," she declared through an extra-large mouthful. You chuckled and nodded, swallowing another bite. After several more moments, she said quietly, "It's okay if you felt something."

That made you choke a bit. Noticeably, unfortunately. You shook your head, but didn't deny it. "No. It's not okay."

"Why not?" She asked as if you were crazy.

"It's not okay," you repeated firmly, stabbing your fork again at the lasagna. "It's not."

Before she could attempt to pry for more information, Thor and Loki entered the kitchen together. Great.

"Good evening," Thor beamed a toothless smile.

"There's more in the fridge if you're hungry," you looked up at them in an attempt to not seem as regressed in on yourself as you felt. Thor looked at your plate and nodded in approval, opening the fridge. Then you looked at Loki, fully expecting to see some kind of calculating stare as before, but his expression was soft. He looked you over, probably noticing your out-of-character hunched posture and the way your head hung a little lower than usual, and he gave you a look that was subtly laced with sympathy.

Now that made your blood boil. Who was he to feel sorry for you?

He seemed to notice the way your jaw clenched under his gaze, and opened his mouth to say something but Thor spoke first.

"There's a film Stark wants us all to watch this evening."

Nat chuckled, finishing off her dinner. "You say that like he's showing us training videos. He's just trying to bond the team over some cheesy nineties movie." She looked at you and nodded to your clothes. "You look ready for a movie night."

Before you could explain that you'd rather go to bed, Thor beamed again. "Excellent, then! We'll all be there."

Thor was always kind to you, so you didn't want to disappoint him over something so inconsequential. You smiled warmly at him and nodded. "I'm gonna go claim a good spot," you excused yourself, aware it was almost time for it to start. You quickly did your dishes and left the kitchen, making sure to get a seat on a large armchair so you made it clear you'd rather have some personal space right now, even though it was the exact opposite of what you wanted. Maybe it would be good for you though, to remember that you were alone for a reason. That this life you chose wasn't kind too love.

Gods, love. Why did you think of that word, of all the ones out there. You were spiralling. Sentiment, you corrected yourself with a swift reprimand. Sentiment, loneliness, desperation.

You busied yourself chatting to Wanda as people filtered in, taking note of how she seamlessly wove herself in and around Vision as they sat on a two-seater next to you. Determined not to look at or think of Loki or romance or kissing or anything like that, you trained your eyes on the screen as the movie started.

But you spiralled.

There were these two main characters in the movie with this undeniable bickering co-worker chemistry that reminded you of Loki, the jokes he’d whisper into your ear during meetings, the harmless mischief he’d pull to make you laugh, the way his hand felt at your lower back- NO. You couldn’t think about that.

Wanda and Vision were in your line of sight from the corner of your eye and you saw her fingers lace through his, you then saw him place a silent kiss on the crown of her head. Biting down on your tongue, you remembered Nat and Bruce, Pepper and Tony, Thor and Jane, Clint and Laura. All those people who seemed to find love, even temporary love, in the midst of all this madness.

So maybe it wasn’t this life. Maybe it was just… you.

Biting your tongue a little harder, you reminded yourself how powerless you were compared to all these super-people. Sure, many of them were human like you, but all the other humans seemed to have someone who loved them.

It felt hopeless, knowing the only person in this room who you wanted close was so extraordinarily out of your league. He was a god. You were a human. Your life was a flicker compared to his, of course he’d never waste time indulging the likes of you.

But it felt real.

Halfway through the movie you decided you couldn’t sit there and see these buddy-cop characters fall in love. You couldn’t watch Wanda and Vision so enamoured with each other. What you needed was to hit something hard, and then go to sleep. So you excused yourself without a word or a glance at anyone. It was late, anyway. You weren’t even the first one to leave.

A turn of a black-haired form told you that Loki noticed you leaving, but the lack of footsteps behind you as you walked down the silent hall told you that he hadn’t followed you.

Slipping into your room and then into some workout clothes, you jammed your headphones into your ears and put on some classical music; you weren't sure you could stand to hear any words right now. You laced your shoes a little tighter than normal and practically sprinted to the gym, very unwilling to have anyone notice you were gone and decide to come check on you.

Hitting the bag felt good. It was the perfect consolation prize for what you'd actually prefer right now, but with every crushing of your knuckles against the thick canvas you found it easier to forget how it felt to have your fingers looped through his hair. The sweat dripping down your face replaced the feeling of his breath against your skin when you'd broken the kiss, and the aching in your obliques from your tensing and turning to hit the bag took the place of any memory of his hands at your waist. The aching was here, and he was almost gone.

After a half-hour of interval sprints, it was just past midnight and you were exhausted. Not knowing how you felt about no one coming to check on you, you traipsed back to your room in silence. The faint echoing of your footsteps through the hallways made you quiet yourself further, stepping as lightly as you could to prove to yourself that you were still a good spy. Good spies don't get caught up with feelings. Your footsteps fell, dead quiet, and you regained some confidence.

Your muscles stung the next morning but in a delightful way. You'd treated yourself to another hot shower when you got back to your room, so this morning it would probably be best to have an icy one.

As the cold water hit your skin, you felt okay again. The boxing and running last night had really shaken everything out of you, only the smallest lingering of lonely desire remained and it could easily be ignored. Of course, that was easy to say. The second you walked into the kitchen to see that Loki had heard you coming and poured you a coffee you felt a tug at your chest.

His hands closed around the mug to pass it to you and you remembered how his fingers had closed around your waist. He smiled good morning and you remembered how his lips felt against yours. Holding it all in, you smiled and took the coffee, then proceeded to have a short conversation with him like a normal person would. He made jokes about last night, but not about that, and you chuckled at them. After perhaps too short a time for how long you usually chatted, you excused yourself to go do some paperwork. You caught the way his brow furrowed a little, but he didn't question you.

The next few days were more or less like this. You'd try to engage with Loki normally but spiral a little more, convincing yourself that the more you continued like you always had, the more normal things would be again. But he was just so... beautiful. Everything about him was beautiful and now you couldn't help but notice.

One evening, nearly a week after you'd kissed, you were having a bit of a vulnerable day and you walked into the kitchen for some ice cream. Loki had just finished cleaning up after his dinner and turned to say hello, but you couldn't do it. You just turned and walked right back out again. He called after you but you didn't stop. It's not like you were going to cry in front of him, but you just couldn't do this right now.

Seeking refuge in your bedroom, you shut the door and slid down to the floor with your back against it. An immediate soft knock frustrated you, especially knowing who it probably was. You sighed and stood.

“Hey,” you greeted Loki with a nod when you opened the door, immediately turning away to make it look like you were about to do something else. “What’s up?”

Loki stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, which made you stop and give him your attention. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied.

He squinted for the faintest second and smiled a little sadly. “Light years,” he reminded you how he could spot a lie without harshly calling you out. It pained you that he didn’t. That his lack of sarcasm indicated that he saw you as a bit fragile right now.

You sighed a little and ducked your head to the side, conceding the point. “I’m a little haywire,” you admitted. “I think I need to get some stress out and go to sleep.”

”What troubles you?”

Ah. What a question.

You didn’t want to shut him out, but you certainly didn’t know how to explain that one simple kiss undercover had brought a massive crashing wave of insecurity and anxiety that made you feel completely unlovable. Or... maybe you could just say that?

You were silent for so long that Loki spoke again.

“I’d like to offer my apologies,” he said very diplomatically. “If I overstepped the bounds of our relationship.”

“I’m the one that made you kiss me,” you winced. “I should be apologising.”

”I didn’t mean that,” Loki shook his head. “I meant after, when we returned. When I cornered you.”

You had to laugh. “You didn’t corner me, Loki. I appreciate you wanting to make me feel better but you have nothing to apologise for.”

”Very well. But you didn’t make me,” he replied firmly.

“I know, I know…” you rolled your eyes. “A god submits to no one, I just meant that I put you in a situation that I shouldn’t have. Believe me, I’m paying the price.”

That last part came out a little faster than you’d intended it to. In fact, you didn’t really mean to say that last part out loud at all. Or maybe you did. What a perfect Freudian Slip. Quickly collecting yourself, you spotted your headphones and went to pick them up but noticed that Loki was taking slow steps towards you.

”Paying the price?” He asked carefully. You stopped and folded your arms, shrugging.

“People poke fun, you know.” You bit your tongue. Then, you saw him smirk a little. Ah. Lightyears.

“I thought we had a mutual connection,“ he raised his eyebrows, teasing you with your joke from That Night. You gave him a firm stare, but couldn’t help but notice he wasn’t that far away now.

“Loki, that was-“

“A thinly veiled truth,” he interjected, leaving no room for debate. He also left very little room between the two of you. You opened your mouth to respond, seemed to not be able to, and he smirked at your speechlessness.

"Y-you can't." You shook your head. "There's no way."

"There's no way, what?" A smiled tugged at his lips at the way your eyes widened when he took a strand of your hair and wrapped it once around his finger.

"... Mutual?"

“Now that we won’t be interrupted…” he brought his hand up next to his face, flourished it, and you heard your door’s lock click shut. You held your breath as a mischievous grin graced his lips.

Oh gods, you were looking at his lips. You couldn't seem to look away.

He lowered his voice to a gruff whisper. “Might we finish what we started?”

With the smallest nod of your head, he immediately ducked his head to press his lips against yours. Your small noise of surprise made him pull away for a second and grin, before he playfully growled and lifted you from the ground. His eyes stayed trained on yours as he walked a few steps and firmly shoved your back against the wall. Your breath hitched as his hand found that place at the back of your neck, and this time, you kissed him. Eagerly, hungrily, feeling so overwhelmingly euphoric that this was even happening.

It had to be a dream, you thought as his lips trailed along your jawline, his hot breath hit your neck and his strong unwavering arms kept you above the ground and level with his gaze. He kissed you not just like a god or a great lover - he kissed you like he wanted you. Like he‘d also been waiting to do this for an unspeakable amount of time. It felt like relief.

Pulling you both back from the wall, Loki's lips didn’t relent as your fingers tangled once again in his hair. He walked backwards and found his seat on the end of your bed, sitting with you in his lap as he had at the party.

“Gods, you enrapture me,“ he pulled away, a little breathless. He grinned and his eyes were hazy. He looked at you intensely before looking back at your lips, subconsciously slipping out his tongue to wet his own. Before you could respond, he was kissing you again. You could have melted into his touch. In fact, you were fairly certain you just might.

He leaned back and you both fell onto the bed, you on top of him. You laughed at the sudden impact and you pulled away for a few seconds to catch your breath. You looked at his adoring gaze and blushed. “I never thought someone like you could want someone like me.”

He furrowed his brow, unsure if you were about to reference his nefarious past.

”You’re so… mighty. You’re a Prince, a god, you’re wickedly smart and powerful and… and I’m just a human.”

“Watch your tongue,” Loki scolded somewhat seriously and held you a little tighter. “Don’t speak of yourself as if you’re insignificant.”

You rolled your eyes and smiled, giving him a look. “You know what I mean.”

“Of course I do, I’m wickedly smart,” he smirked and you playfully swatted at his chest. He smiled contentedly and ran his hands firmly down your sides to settle at your hips. It was an innocent romantic gesture, one to position you for further making-out with Loki, but your eyes widened at the memory of his discovery the previous weekend and the assumption that the God of Mischief was about to turn the tables.

Unluckily for you, your flustered expression rendered it a self-fulfilling prophesy.

“Loki…” You warned as you saw the glint in his eye.

“That’s right…” His smirk widened to a devilish grin.

”How about you keep kissing me, huh?” You laughed nervously and leaned in closer. Loki laughed and nodded, bringing his hand up to cradle the back of your neck as you pressed your lips to his. Once your arms were around his neck, he deepened the kiss and rolled over, putting you underneath him. Still on the edge of the bed, your feet barely skimmed the floor. Then, he suddenly became the classic Loki you knew.

“Mmmhmhm!” You whined and giggled a little into the kiss as the fingers belonging to his arm around your waist started ever so gently scratching at your side. “Mmnnoho!” You broke away and gave him a pouting look. He lifted his head and smirked.

Gods. He’d never looked so unspeakably hot.

Messy curls framing his face, that look he gave you that said You’re In Trouble in his distinct Loki way, mixed with the desire in his piercing blue eyes; you’d gladly endure his torture if it meant he looked at you like that.

But maybe that’s because you had no idea what was coming.

“Darling,” he cocked his head and kissed your cheek before kissing just below your ear. “I am the God of Mischief….“ he kissed your neck in a way that you were sure was intended to tickle. You giggled and bit your lip. “And now that I've got my hands on you, you simply cannot expect me to not exploit this little weakness to its fullest extent.”

“L-Loki!” You blushed at the very real threat and he chuckled.

“How about you guide me, hmm? Where should I start?”

“I’m not playing this game,” you laughed nervously, squirming a bit underneath him and resting your hands on his shoulders to push away the ticklish kisses.

“Aw, come now,” he lifted his head and that same beautiful smirk made your heart beat quick. His hand behind your neck slid down under your shoulder blade until it sat at your upper ribs. You stole a glance down to where it may be, even though you couldn’t see it. He cocked his head again. “No? Alright, I’ll choose.” With a wink his thumb slipped around the side and up into the hollow under your arm.

“LOKI!” You gasped, clamped your arm down from instinct and immediately started squirming and giggling, even though his thumb wasn’t even moving. He grinned again and kissed your lips once more.

“You've been down all week, love. Let's have a bit of fun,” he whispered, then sprang his hand at your waist into action, scratching and grabbing at the soft skin hidden beneath your shirt. You gasped again and started laughing softly, then squeaked when his thumb started wiggling into the hollow under your arm.

"NOHOHO!" You shut your eyes and then squealed loudly when his fingers underneath you began clawing into the back of your uppermost ribs. Damnit, you thought he may start easy on you, not go for three different places at once. You were already in a desperate cackle, bubbling incoherent pleas spilling from your lips as you writhed underneath his amused self.

"I'm honestly delighted you're so ticklish," Loki teased with a chuckle. "It's adorable, really. So professional all the time, yet..." He finished his sentence by intensifying his touch and speed at all three sites of attack, drawing a small shriek from your laughing lips and a jolt from your body. "Has it always been this easy to undo you?"

“OHMYGOHOD!” You shrieked, throwing your head against the bed and trying to buck your upper body against him to no avail. He paused his torture and kissed you deeply again, lips curled into a smile as he pressed his lips to yours. You shook your head and broke away, still laughing. “Youhou’re ridiculous! We were hahaving such a nice moment and y-you ruined ihit,” you whimpered. He kissed to again to silence your complaints.

“What did you expect?”

“I-I expected a nice romantic moment!” You laughed and brought both arms between you and him to shove at his shoulders. “Now,” you gave him a stern look. “Do you want to tickle me, or kiss me? You can only choose one.”

He scoffed. “I don’t do ultimatums, darling.”

“You do now.”

“Bold.“ He stuck his tongue against his cheek then ducked his head to the side in consideration. He then looked at your face, which you’d been attempting to hold in some semblance of a firm glare. He lowered his lips to your ear and you heard him chuckle once. “Far too bold for someone so ticklish.”

He whipped his arms out from under you and pressed his weight down again, trapping your arms between your bodies as he clawed into the front and sides of your lowest ribs.

“NOHOAHAH!” You immediately fell into desperate belly-laughter as his fingers drilled and clawed into the spaces between your bones. Your feet kicked helplessly, merely grazing the ground as laughter kept spilling from you. “NOHO! NO! LOKIHI I CAHAN’T!” He shifted his hands further up your ribcage and snuck his fingers around to dig in at the back and, after one more shriek, your laughter went silent. It was trapped in your chest as his squeezing and vibrating fingers found every sensitive space on your ribs that made you want to melt into a little puddle. You were gasping for air by the time he halted his attack, squeaking and wheezing as you tried to regain your breath.

It was torture, but you hoped he wouldn’t ask you if it was worth enduring to have him this close. If he could spot a lie from lightyears away, how much easier could he spot it when he was close enough for you to see the flecks of green in his eyes.

”You’re… you’re gonna kill me,” you hiccoughed. He smirked and leaned in for another kiss. “Nuh-uh,” you pulled your finger up as much as you could from where your arms were trapped. “You made your choice.”

He grinned and slid his hands down your sides with a wink, "Oh? Then I'll gladly continue."

"W-w-wait! I dihidn't th-WAHAIT!"

His thumbs drilled relentlessly into your hips as Loki joined in with your loud laughter. You finally managed to wiggle your arms out from where they were trapped at your chest, shooting them down to grab at his fingers. Your feet having no traction and his near entire weight pressing you to the bed made it impossible to buck or lift any part of your torso, so you were completely trapped with nowhere to go as he gripped and grabbed at the skin of your hips, kneading at the pressure points that made you squeak and squirm beneath him.

When he tired of your fingers trying to grab his, he did a devilish swift lift of his own body and slotted his hands between the two of you, settling them palms-down over the majority of your belly. You made a huge gasping noise and started frantically giggling and squealing even before he'd moved his hands. You shook your head and begged for him to kiss you instead, nervous high-pitched giggles interlacing your words.

"N-noho, Loki just kihiss me, kiss me plehease! PLEASE!" You squeaked, cupping his cheeks and gently pulling him towards you. He chuckled and grinned, gently digging a few fingers in just once. You thrashed and renewed your struggling and squealing efforts. "Dohon't you DAHARE! I won't kiss you agahain if you do this!" You threatened. He cocked his head and leaned in a little closer to look deep into your eyes. Then, he grinned and whispered:

"Lightyears."

You thought for certain you'd pass out from laughter when Loki's fingers sprang into action and rippled against your hypersensitive stomach. You laughed loudly, completely powerless to stop his fingers from digging in wherever they pleased. After not much time at all, your laughter went silent and you weakly batted at his shoulders, sides, face, anything your hands could find for themselves since your eyes were shut so tight. Any words your brain even began to think of forming got lost as laughter ripped through your chest from the electric intensity of his fingers against your body.

When your hands finally found both sides of his face, you used all the energy you had left to press your laughing lips against his and, finally, he relented. You fell back with a loud gasp as he retracted his hands with an amused chuckle and took his weight mostly off you, propping himself up with a hand planted either side of your head.

"Alright there, darling?" He teased as you coughed weakly and wiped the tears of mirth from your cheeks. You gave him a scowl, but he found it adorable.

"Thihis isn't fair," you crossed your arms defiantly.

"No?" He smirked. "Pray tell, my love. What isn't fair?"

Oh. My love. His love.

That took any breath you'd managed to get back in your lungs.

"Y-you... you..." But your words were lost in the bliss of being his. He seemed to quickly understand how his words touched your heart, and it softened his teasing demeanour, and softened his smirk into a smile. "You found my worst spots so soon," you managed to murmur through rosy cheeks.

"Was only a matter of time."

"But now you have the upper hand."

"Dear heart, this isn't a struggle for power," he laughed heartily. "I do not seek to rule over you. Anything you ask of me, anything in the Nine Realms, I will give to you."

"Tell me where you're ticklish."

He chuckled and pressed a chaste kiss to your lips before falling down beside you. He hummed in contentment as he wrapped his arms around your waist to pull you as close as you could be.

"Anything but that."

#loki x reader #loki fluff #loki tickle fluff #ler!loki #ticklish!reader #marvel tickle #marvel fluff #marvel reader insert

356 notes · View notes

pinkmirth · 4 years

Text

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ (ch.1 | feenin')

—𝑶𝑵𝑬.

SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT CHAPTER | WK: 2.8K

Frenzied cheers buzzed throughout the raving auditorium, the basketball’s reverberating bounces against the slick court floor adding onto the thrill. This match was nothing but hyped, but in a good way so.

The sports chants of the college goers sounded rather foreign to you, since it wasn’t like you attended Stohess University anyway. The fellow audience around you were at the edge of their seats, hailing their team’s basketball players as the raving shouts began to sound borderline intoxicating. So much so that you couldn’t help but clap along to another school’s anthem.

“Havin’ fun?” Marco questions, the corners of his mouth upturned into a smile that showcased his quirky dimples. You beamed right back at the freckled male, plush lips curved into a grin of your own.

It all seemed trivial, just a friendly collegiate basketball match that your friends Jean and Marco had invited you to free of charge, but it was all the break you needed from your own studies and more.

“Hell yeah I am,” you chuckled in reply, “but you know what’d make it better?”

His doe brown eyes flitted between you and the vibrant box of candy in hand, which was seemingly low in supply after you and him dipped your hands in for a bite a countless number of times.

“A refill on these, yeah?” His claims were just as what you were thinking, earning your brief nod of agreement. Marco subtly shook the snackbox within his hold, the spare pieces left beginning to rattle around with the motion.

“You read my mind, Coco,” you grinned, rising up from your reserved seat with spare cash stuffed into your back pocket. “I’ll be right back, ‘aight?” He sends you a brief smile in compliance.

“Get the sour patch this time!”

“You got sour patch money..?”

He pursed his lips momentarily, unsure as to whether you had been joking or not. “M’just messing ‘round with you, Coco,” you snickered with a teasing grin, slipping a hand into your pocket to retrieve the few bucks. “It’s on me.” Was all you said before making your way through the crowded stands, descending down stair after stair.

“It’s only the first game of the season, and our pride and joy, the Stohess Scouts, are already dominating tonight’s guest competitors!” the commentator boomed through the mic, their voice adding onto the various noises that filled the gymnasium. “We’re calling for a halftime, but let’s keep our fingers crossed that Kirschtein can pull through with a fair amount of two-pointers by the upcoming final quarter—“

The mentioned name of your close friend makes you beam with pride, content that your Jeanie was the star of the show. You set eyes on the brunette from where you stood, who was now making his way to the sidelines for a desperately needed and duly earned swig of water, his light brown hair in a disarray of stray strands fraying out from underneath the simple hairband you’d given him a while back.

You eagerly began to flit down the stands to reach him, striding past the poor row of benched players, from the injured to the water boy.

Jean eventually takes notice of your arrival and instantly beams, subtle puffs of air leaving his agape lips after all the running and dribbling and such that came with game day.

The first thing you do is taunt upon your arrival,“Y’all had better win, Jeanie.”

As always, Jean only smirks. “You doubting that I won’t bring that trophy home, Pookie?” you playfully grimaced and let out a stifled laugh over the somewhat embarrassing nickname— one that you made up when the pair of you were seven, and it's the same one that he’s been holding onto for all these years, even at nineteen.

“Well, I’d be lying if I said you aren’t lookin’ pretty damn promising out there,” your reply is genuine, the soft grin that you display causing Jean to display one of his own. It was an affable, never ending cycle— you’d tease and he’d do it right back, until the both of you would laugh over it and depart with a brief smile.

“M’getting snacks, I’ll be back before the breaktime ends, okay?” Kirschtein briefly nods in compliance, sending a few adjusting tugs to the white basketball sleeve hugging his bicep before departing with the sharp squeak of his shoes sprinting against the court floor.

Once again, you find yourself strolling past every individual seated on the benches. You’re speed-walking alongside them, anticipating to retrieve a couple snacks for you and Marco, until something— Someone catches your eye.

It was brisk and almost too sudden, but flashes of green meet your line of vision. You managed to make out the blur of thick brows, long dark hair having been thrown into the messiest attempted bun, a modest, charming smile, and a pair of turquoise irises that seemingly peered into your own with an intensity that made you take it personal. Yet, you hardly even caught a good glimpse of their face, whoever they were.

You passed by said person a good thirty seconds ago, already pushing your way past the double doors and over to the vending machines stationed along the semi-populated hallway, but that striking gaze was still heavily implanted within your mind.

Hazy green-grey eyes, you recalled, accompanied with them shooting you the briefest grin just as you whisked by. Though, as recent as it was, that was all in the past now.

You glance around to see a decent handful of people here to buy food of their own, being perched at other vending machines. The snack-wielding contrivance before you isn't drawing much attention and doesn’t have an awaiting crowd standing around for a bag of potato chips, so you withdraw the dollars from your back pocket and attempt to straighten them out a bit before inserting them into the slot.

“Wow,”

This sudden breathy gasp from a “random whoever” is something that you take notice of, but it isn’t enough to rip your attention away from your scavenge for Marco’s sour patch. To their dismay, you do nothing but continue with what you came to do. In your opinion, whoever that was had been getting a bit too close for comfort..

Albeit the evident way you choose to ignore, another whistle resounds, along with an unpleasantly suggestive hum. It sounds somewhat louder, and it seems much closer than before. You can’t help but tear your gaze away from slot E7 and look up, since it seems so directed towards you.

You've hardly turned around before being met with the abrupt presence of a stranger uninvitingly looming beside you, the man’s beaming grin seeming sickeningly sweet. Almost too approachable.

“Oh, I’m sorry to pop up out of the blue,” his apologies come out within a chuckle, and as inviting as he attempts to seem, your brows only furrow. “—but you really caught my attention!” He was greatly unfamiliar to you, some white male around your age with shaggy auburn hair and chestnut colored eyes in contrast. Despite his subtle charm, you weren't growing a liking to him and his stupid little smile.

“Oh,” You muse with a dull hum, pursing your glossed lips before releasing them with a slight pop, “Did I really?” His nod is too enthusiastic, and you hardly try to cover up the mug-like expression that overtook your features, eyes grazing across his plain face uninterestedly. You promptly slide the dollars right back into your pocket, “Nice to know. Can you mind your own now?”

“Wait! I'm not meaning to be a bother, but.. I don’t see girls like you around much..” You're instantly encased with a shiver of deep cringe, one that annoyingly scurries up your spine and makes your lip twitch into a vexed glower.

You emitted the most exaggerated huff, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, all the while glancing at the sheen glass of the vending machine to see your own reflection. It was plastered all across your face, yet this dense-ass man still couldn't get it; you were pissed-off.

Great. You internally groan, Another snow roach who thinks I’m exotic.

“I really appreciate how different you look,” Was he really still rambling on, despite knowing damn well that you were growing uncomfortable? Or maybe, he was just an utter dumbass and couldn't take the painfully obvious hints.

“You wanna know what I’d appreciate, hm?” You say sharply, taking a swift inhale through your nose, “If you left me alone.”

Your smooth, placid voice was the first thing that Eren heard when he trotted into the hallway, that of which sounded dulcet and intriguingly accentuated, but more annoyed than anything else. He turns the corner and is met with the sight of a bastard that looked too smug for his own good, and a girl, such a pretty girl, whose melanated skin even found a way to gleam under the shitty fluorescent school lights.

It then clicks in Eren’s mind, briefly but distinctively. You were the person who'd strolled by the bench that he was sitting on earlier. You were also the same one who did a double take upon seeing him, glancing once— No, twice, with those captivating eyes of yours. He remembered the way his leg started to bop along the floor with a newfound excitement that he just couldn't place. Though, more than anything else, Eren recalled that he did the exact same; hold his gaze and grin at the sight of you.

“Ah, but you can spare me a minute more, can’t you?” You respond with the swift roll of your eyes, eliciting an exasperated groan, “Nigga, I said bye.” Eren’s thick, neat brows falter into a furrowed position, looking upon the scenario that was being splayed out before him, which everyone else in that hall was seemingly content with ignoring. It couldn't have only been him that saw that this bastard was relentlessly bothering you, could it?

“Woah, no need to get aggressive,” Eren’s expression contorts into a grimace upon hearing every little word, the tips of his ears red with brewing rage. Despite his matured will to control his daily outburst of emotions, it was safe to say that he'd never exactly gotten past his trial of anger issues since he was a kid.

“Listen, this is my nice way of tellin’ you to fuck off, but I can get aggressive if you want.” Your offer sounds downright threatening, “Do you really want that?”

You’re snappy and direct, and Eren can't deny that he likes that. Though, as much as he's growing fond of your strong will and defensiveness, he knows he can't stand idly by all day, he just can't. Besides, everyone knew well— It was practically Eren Jaeger’s forte to intervene.

The green eyed male eventually begins to make his way towards the scene in the form of subtle limps, being cautious of his ankle sprain as he grows closer, which was the reasoning behind him being benched in the first place.

You were much too preoccupied with that cheeky, unrelenting bastard to notice the way that Eren was gradually coming over, anyway. What could he say? He was a fan of the element of surprise.

You halt in the middle of your opposing rant, growing aware of another’s emerging presence. You're yet again bombarded with somebody else making their way beside you with an act of stealth that you were unknowingly soon to be thankful of.

Before you get the chance to merely peer in their direction, tall, a long haired male clad in the black and grey Stohess basketball uniform is towering alongside you, his toned, burly arm slinking around your shoulder.

This sudden proximity leaves your head spinning in the best way possible, and how could it not? You don’t know a single thing about this alluring stranger, but he’s close, so close, and it gets your heart and mind racing miles in a minute. You were subtly, but instantly enraptured once the weight of his arm rests comfortably upon you.

Eren doesn’t pay the confused male not one glance, but instead tends to you and your own state of delighted shock. “Play it cool, alright? I wanna help.” Your breath instinctively hitches once he leans down to ease out his whispered plan into your ear, flashing you a consoling half smile.

You return a brief nod before dragging your eyes along the male’s face, which looks so much better up close. Your interpretation of his image was more literal and precise than you thought to be; The dark, long tresses that had been pulled back with the aid of a thin elastic scrunchie, his expressively thick brows, pink lips that upturned into a supportive smirk, and those sea-green eyes that left you feeling weak right in the knees.

Albeit Eren’s prior grin, he eventually turns his attention towards the unrelenting man for a second or two. In that moment, his expression speedily grew all the more intense, practically sharper than before, and contorted into something of a scowl. Although, you can tell he’s trying so hard to channel his temper and mask away his revulsion.

“I’ve been, ah.. waiting for you to come back to your seat!” Eren begins to improvise, flashing you a subtle gleam that made it seem as though the pair of you were familiar with each other. “S’been a while since then."

He purses his lips within a pause, nimble fingers draping along your shoulder before shooting you a reassuring squeeze, "Is it ‘cause this bastard is keeping you occupied? He’s bothering you, isn't he?”

You're damn near close to stammering over the words that were bound to leave your mouth. Though, it doesn't take much for you to regain yourself. Your lips fall slightly agape all the while you briskly dragged your line of vision along his charming features, but your response follows after in a quick manner. It was just that you couldn't help how his unnerving gaze left you mesmerized.

“—Yes. Yes he is.” You hum, accompanying the claim with your hands crossing over your chest as you leaned into his grasp, in an attempt to appear convincing. Your confession sounded assured and stern, which was the complete opposite of how girls would act around him.

Eren knew well of the doting effect that he had on females— It was hard to forget when he’d merely ask for a spare pencil and wind up with an unasked phone number in return. Though, he admired the way you saw him as any other person and played along so well.

The brown-haired male scornfully laughs, and just the sound of him leaves you feeling uncomfy, “Whaddya' mean? We were just having a small chat, isn't that right?” Your contorted expression is full-fledged disrespectful, and Eren has to stifle his chuckle over your unsmiling glare and scrunched up nose. Damn, were you entertaining.

“Small chat, huh? Well, it was real one sided..” You voice out an irked murmur, “You're over exaggerating, you just haven’t warmed up to me yet—”

“If I didn’t know any better,” Eren makes a very much intended interruption, “I’d say that she doesn’t want to mingle with a sorry bastard that should leave her alone already.” You note at the subtle flex of Eren’s clenching jaw, signifying the way his already weary patience was running rather thin.

“Bastard—? Wait, who even are you?”

“Who am I, huh?” scoffs the green eyed male alongside you, a twinge of drawled hesitance in his voice. Eren pauses momentarily, only now beginning to realize that his little hero act wasn’t as planned out as he thought to be.

What could he say that would be persuasive enough to get this sorry fucker to leave you alone other than throwing fists unnecessarily? Jaeger’s emerald-hued eyes eventually light up in the dawn of an idea. One that he’s somewhat unsure of, but it’s much better than nothing.

Besides, this plan of his had been set in stone by the very moment he had draped his bare arm around you and shot you that all-too-suggestive smile, so he might as well finish what he started.

Eren’s touch trails downwards swiftly, spreading riveting tingles from your shoulder down to your forearm, then along your wrist, and even past there. His hand is now encasing the left side of your hip as his lithe fingers press into the curve of your supple waist. He takes a light inhale, giving you a light squeeze with his large palm, as though signaling for you to brace yourself over what he was bound to say.

“—I'm her boyfriend.”

—𝑭𝑰𝑵.

275 notes · View notes

seijohsfairy · 3 years

Text

Anonymous

ahh!! all the nii-san posts are so good, but have you considered twin brother tobio who thinks your the only one for him

I have,, It has affected my sanity and rings in my head a hundred times a day. I hate it here. Truly. This became sorta really long? But I hope you enjoy (・´ｪ｀・)

tw incest, dubcon if you squint

The flashes of light are incessant, an obnoxious wave of noisy shutters filling the silence in between mutters and questions. Your fists around the bottom lining of your old jacket, denting the fabric under the light ministrations of your fingertips. It’s nerves, they still creep up from time to time when you feel the eyes. They linger, curious or accusatory ones alike. Another flash makes you blink, then it’s quiet. You take a breath at the same time he does, accidental, but of course you do. You’ve always mirrored him after all, even when you weren’t trying. Tobio holds the air until everything grows completely immovable, like still water in winter.

His eyebrows twitch slightly, before he speaks. “I am happy.” Simple, straightforward, you can’t help but let your smile shine through. He eyes the interviewer for a moment, before nodding. “We’ve all worked hard to prove we deserve a spot on the court, it was a good match and I’m happy with the outcome.” The interviewers quickly take notes, before another sea of flashes rains down on the curved panes of his face. It’s his standard post-match ramble, nothing new there, but you can see the spark of victory where it bends him in two and shatters at the fold. “And,” his eyes flick around across the small group of people.

They find yours. “My sister came to support us in the stands so I am very proud.” The deep blues rest on you like you’re the end of a war, his lips turning upwards at the sides. He is proud, of you, and you of him just as much. Or even more if possible, though you are quicker to lower your gaze at the attention. An interviewer to your side clears her voice, before clicking her pen a few times in rapid succession. The press irritates him, though he’s gotten very good at hiding it over the years. In this moment though, you can tell.

It’s written all over in the way he stands on balls of his feet, like he’s ready to sprint out. You wonder if he would reach for you before setting off, or if you’d have to chase him down the hall like another of the fans. Either way you wouldn’t be far behind, it’s just the nature of your relationship. The lads presses her ruby lips together. “When will you take another girlfriend to a game? You broke up with your last girlfriend in May, fans want to know if it is true that you are keeping your newest fling private.”

Ushijima gives you a little head tilt as he walks past, his cheeks coloured from exhaustion, towel still dangling around his neck. You return it. A few of the interviewers immediately turn their attention to him, snapping photos and calling out for him with an almost violent greediness, the small interaction not going unnoticed. You think you hear someone mention your name to him in the same line as ‘dating’, and Wakatoshi’s deep chuckle is comforting when he leads the bunch of them down the hall. Tobio is frowning when you turn back, at the woman with the high ponytail and red lips that shimmer under the artificial lighting.

“I would’ve kept all of it private if that could have been the end of it.” He raises a hand to brush some of his sweaty hair away from his face, before dropping his eyes to the floor. “I only bring the people precious to me to my games.” He does. He asks happily, over the phone like a giddy child, at the crack of dawn when he goes for his run. You’ve complained about it many times. He still does it though, because Tobio is nothing if not persistent. You only notice him moving because the people around you gasp and gawk, flinching away from him like he’s other. He is, too, a different breed entirely.

His long fingers are around your wrist, pulling you from behind the lenses to his side, tucked against his shoulder like a little parasite. That’s what you think you must look like when the flashing starts. Tobio’s arm wraps around your back and rests his chin on your head though, allowing you to fit right in his hold. Another one of his shiny trophies. His smile looks a little brighter from this angle. “My sister is the only one who has never missed a game of mine. If you want to report on anything, this is the person I am most grateful for in my life right now. I’m very lucky to have her support.”

It feels unreal. Someone calls out your name, the shutters get the noisiest they’ve been all day. It won’t be a headline in the making, you try to calm yourself, bowing at the same time Tobio does. He drops his hand to wrap around yours, and tugs you behind him. It’s straightforward, your brother always is. The violent banging against your rib cage is less so, but you’ve gotten used to it already.

///

“Why did you say all that stuff to those guys earlier? Were you not feeling too well?” Tobio looks up from where he’s putting his bag down, his eyes shooting up along your body. “You’re normally good at dealing with the press post-match.” You put the towel under the water, before turning back towards the main room of your apartment.

“What did I say that was wrong?” He tosses his sweaty shirt on the heap of jerseys and leggings to wash, picking up his towel and swinging it around his neck. You look down again, playing with the fluffy fabric as you approach.

“Nothing, Tobio. I just-” you linger at the couch, resting your hip against it, “you don’t normally egg on rumours about your dating life. It’ll be fine because it’s me, but if it were anyone else people might be cautious of your words. They really want a story on the details, you know. And I’m not really used to being next to you on pictures, it was a bit surprising, s’all.”

“I meant what I said.”

He closes the rest of the distance for you, standing toes to toes. You don’t look up until you can feel the soft puff of air on your head, where he lays a kiss. It feels warm, and good, and you bite your tongue when the pounding of your heart starts feeling painful against your chest. You duck away from it the second time, pushing his chin up with two fingers instead. Tobio smiles into his exhale, as you trace across his features with the wet towel. Brows, eyes, nose, under his chin and along the line of his throat. “Are you mad at me?” He drops his eyes back to yours when you frown, before tacking onto your slight frustration. “Or about the dating?”

“Tobio,” you mumble, pulling out of his vicinity too late. His hand is already on your forearm, tugging you right back in place. Face to his chest with barely enough space to look up all the way to his handsome face. You try to keep it out, but your tongue starts to feel a bit bitter anyway. “I really don’t want to-”

“Because we can stop doing that as soon as you say so. They get paid a lot of money, money I’d rather be using on us. I’m tired of doing it.”

Even now, still spent from the match, he smells like safety. Like home, perfectly familiar. You have to physically distance yourself from him by turning your eyes to the couch, not to melt right into him. “Then don’t,” you nod. “But then I have to stop being less… everywhere with you too, and I don’t think you want that.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not a good actor, Tobio. I can’t pretend not to care and people will look at us, and see.”

“Then let them.”

You sigh, dropping the towel aside under the arm that he’s still holding. He draws gentle circles into the soft skin, like he’s trying to unpick the rips in every single fiber of your threaded sanity. “You’re impossible.” He bends his knees and drops to your level, kissing you. Softly, a few feather-light kisses that shut you up, and then one that breaks you open. He pulls you into him by the waist, the hard lines of his chest against your softer ones. The press of his lips to yours is sweet, though entirely guilty as he uses the leverage on your body to walk you back a little, melting into you.

He bites at your bottom lip and swipes his tongue at yours, sucking eagerly. You imagine his tongue to spell out ‘mine’ on the soft parts of your mouth a million times, because when he gives you a break to breathe you’re dizzy. “You said we weren’t going to do this again.”

“I‘ve been a better liar than you for a while, little sister,” he grins, though you can see the hesitation in his eyes too. This is such a bad thing, it’s wrong, you know it and Tobio must know too. It eats you up inside, but maybe that’s why it’s so easy to believe him. You let your face drop against his chest, letting the rise and fall of his chest dictate yours. “You were made for me, remember? And I for you. And I wished that we’d get married and you wished we’d always be together forever.”

“On our fifth birthday,” you remind him, ignoring his hand when it starts playing with the edge of your worn jacket. It’s his, you suddenly hate how obvious you are. Tobio hums softly at your frown.

“I never stopped meaning it.” He uses one of his long legs to hook around yours and pushes you over into the couch, though you land softly. And while you’re trying to catch your breath from the sudden tilt, he follows you down, coming to lift your knees open and upwards. He leans down on his forearms on top of you, and presses another kiss to your lips. This one is lazier, like he’s already won. He has. Because you shouldn’t be in this situation at all. “I love you,” he whispers, starting to kiss down your neck and zipping open his old jacket from your body.

His large body slotted in between your legs, he presses his hips into you just enough to drive you absolutely mad. “I can’t stay away from you, so stop pushing already,” he moans, reaching down to shift himself in his shorts. Your body, the traitorous thing, basically shudders in excitement when he pulls your top underneath your tits, leaning down to take a bud into his mouth. “Say it,” he ruts his hips into yours now, the friction making you whine. It feels so good, he feels so good.

“I- I love you,” you close your eyes when he smiles at you again, lifting himself from your body to drag your shorts and panties down your legs. “Ah- ‘want you, Tobio.”

“Fuck,” he hisses, sitting back in the couch, “want you too, been wanting you for so long. So long, you have no idea.” He pulls at you until you get up too, sitting you down on his lap, his hard cock slotted between your thighs with a his. “How did you expect me to fuck this perfect, little hole and forget about it, anyway? I belong in this tight cunny, it belongs to me.” He’s rambling, humping you in his lap with his head thrown back and his fingers digging so deep into the skin of your hips they might leave permanent indents.

You press a few kisses to his throat, which he grunts at, before lining up and sliding down the head. He’s already so big, that’s what you remember most. You twitch as you lower yourself on him, moaning through the deep breaths. He stretches you so wide it’s hard to think of anything else, just Tobio. Tobio, Tobio, your Tobio. He drops his forehead on your shoulder when you’re full, before thrusting up into you. You start moving up and down too fast for his liking but your patience has worn too thin for slow. “Wait, you’re going to hurt yourself,” Tobio chokes, shoving you back down in his lap. His cockhead is already at the very end of your sloppy cunt, pressing against every inch.

“Want your fat cock to break me open, please. I need it. I need you. Tobio, please.” He kisses down your face and neck to let you adjust a moment longer, before rolling his length deep inside you once, twice, filling you up over and over again. Mind blank, you lift yourself up a bit higher to drop down on him, his breathing getting shallower by the second. He mumbles out soft curses, and you cling to him. You won’t last. “T-Tobio,” you beg, and he slides his hand between your bodies to rub at your clit with precise movements. “Wanna cum on your cock. You too, cum into me, please.”

He only picks up the pace more when he flips you back over on your back, rutting his cock into you so deep it kisses your cervix with each thrust. Fingers sliding through the sticky mess with calculated precision. “Cum then, slutty girl. Cum on your brother’s cock, you deserve it. I’ll fuck you until you can’t ever think of what others think again.” His hips smack into your doughy skin with every pump, stretching you wide open for him. You can only hang onto him while you cum, moaning his name over and over. “Ahg— Tobio, fuck, holyfuckholyfuck I love you. Love you, Tobio!” Your arms around his shoulders, nails ruining his beautiful skin. “I’m sorry,” you breathe as he kisses you, never once stopping.

He doesn’t give you rest, can’t. But his lips are all over yours, comforting you even now. “I know, baby, I know.” He forces himself to slow down a little as you clamp around him so tight, not ready to let this end. His hips twitch, eyes sharpening on your fucked expression. The rush of love he feels should be illegal. “You’re mine. Don’t fucking forget it ever again. I’m going to fuck you limp.”

19 notes · View notes

sl-reign · 4 years

Text

Luminous Enigma

Fantasy and Supernatural Novel By Sharina L Martin

Warning, this chapter snippit has Gory descriptions.

Chapter 6. WTF?

I've Just experienced the longest and worst day of my life.

It's 5:00am and its a freezing dark early morning, every surface outside is covered with snow. I throw the last black garbage bag into a garbage bin in a dark unpopulated alley behind some random restaurants. I made sure to fill other garbage bags with unimportant junk to cover the bags I was trying to get rid of. I close the bin then hurry and walk off with my hands stuffed in my jacket pockets.

I stuck around long enough.

Going back and forth from my SUV carrying out at least 6 or 7 bags I was really pushing it. I was so out of breath considering I was a small skinny woman, those heavy bags really took a lot out of me. I look around my surroundings once again as I approach my expensive truck. I quickly pull out my keys then unlock and start it with a push of a button. An old man walking by on the sidewalk with his dog where my SUV is parked smiles at me. I force a quick obvious fake smile and immediately hop into my truck. I watch the old man walking away with his big furry dog in my rear view mirror.

"SHIT!"

I scream to myself while repeatedly hitting my steering wheel. I snatch off the hat I wore to cover my long blond hair and throw it angrily at the windshield. I was hoping I wouldn't be spotted by anyone but that hope just went right out of the window. The day started off so normal and ended with me throwing pieces of someone's chopped up remains in a garbage bin. I don't know how it got this far, and I can't believe I've taken it this far. But I'm not going to prison for murder! I can't! My life is finally coming together. I Just found out I was pregnant a few days ago and I'm getting married to the man of my dreams in a month. His ex-girlfriend came to my house threatening to expose to him that I've been sleeping with someone else. Not only would that ruin my relationship, but it will have him doubting if the child is even his.

He's been away for months across sea's helping different countries that got hit with natural disasters. They needed more medical help and him being a respected traveling doctor, he didn't turn down the opportunity to help those in need. He comes back and visits a week or so out of every month, but I've gotten so lonely with him being gone. He'll finally be back for good in another week, but as my luck had it his ex-showed up yesterday revealing she's been watching and filming me, she even showed me a printed-out photo of me and the other man making out. I asked her what she wanted and she told me to give her fifteen thousand dollars a month for the next year. My fiancé just added me to an adjoined account but there was no way I could just take that money out. We had a lot of money, but it would be such a big repeated noticeable amount gone that it wouldn't be over looked, it was insane. She also revealed that she knew I was stalking him before we dated. She knew I was the cause of their breakup because... I framed her by making him think she broke into his mother's business and destroyed the place. At the time, I learned that her and his mother didn't get along and even argued so it was perfect. Now, she had the raw evidence proving her innocence and my guilt on many levels. She refused to be reasonable and told me to take the deal or leave it. The tramp was a scorned gold digger who lost her trophy and she wasn't letting him get away without getting some money out of him.

"This is all so unreal."

I say out loud to myself.

I was paranoid and frightened. I couldn't get the gory scene I created out of my head. All the limbs and blood that filled up my tub, I was a monster. I sawed her apart and it's a vision that I will never forget. I murdered someone in the big brand-new home that me and my fiancé were starting our life in. I took someone's child someone's friend possibly a sister. The sick part is I had so many chances to stop...

I told her to take a seat on the couch, my mind was racing a million miles a minute. She continued rubbing it in calling me a whore and calling him an idiot. She went on bragging about how she would reveal the evidence to him if I didn't pay up. She laughed at the thought of seeing me as a poor single mother struggling to raise a disgusting bastard child on my own.She went on to talk about my upbringing and how she knew I was homeless for many years then upgraded to white trailer trash.I didn't understand how she knew so much about me. She laughed at the thought of me going to jail for the crime she was falsely accused of. The more she dug up my life the angrier and more desperate I felt. The thought of being found out was eating at my insides like a virus, I almost wanted to faint as the room began to spin. Finally, in a fit of silent rage I grabbed a small marble figurine sitting on my fireplace then came up behind her and hit her on the back of her head. She fell to the side on the coach moaning in pain while swearing at me. I walked around the couch and hit her three more times until she stopped moving. I backed away while looking at her bloody head and dropping the figurine to the floor with shock. What the hell have I just done?

"NOOO!"

I cried out in desperation.

"Oh no, oh no no no no.!!"

I look down at my shaking bloody hands then back at the woman soaking my white couch with hauntingly deep red blood. I spot my cell phone on the table across the room and begin walking over to it. But I stop in my tracks.

"No, I can't call the police my life would be over! I can't do that I just can't!"

I walk back over and look at her.

"What am I going to do?"

I asked myself as I continued pacing.I kept looking from her to my phone as if fighting with my instincts on the right thing to do . My eyes finally break the back and forth cycle once I stare at the hallway that led to the garage door. Quickly, I went and grabbed a big blue tarp from my garage and rolled her onto it. I brainstormed for another couple of minutes until I decided to drag her to my downstairs bathtub. After covering her the best I could with the large tarp I began to drag her. Suddenly, I started hearing gargling and moaning coming from her. She was still alive! I stopped dragging her and stared down at the tarp with eyes as wide as saucers. In complete shock I began to once again pace back and forth while covering my mouth with my hand as tears starting falling from my eyes. I didn't know what to do, I've come so far and if she stays alive my life is sunk. Not only would I lose my fiancé and my baby, but I'd have tough charges pressed against me. Him and his family would hate me! I love his family so much! I finally felt at home with them and it would all be taken away. My child wasn't being born in prison and my child wasn't growing up without me!

Mind made up, I grabbed her legs and continued dragging her to the bathroom. I finally reach the bathroom and sit on the toilet out of exhaustion. She continues making noises as I stare at the tarp moving around slightly. I then get up from the toilet and use all my strength to get her into the large bathtub. After again catching my breath I walk out of the bathroom and head straight to my kitchen. Grabbing a large knife out of a drawer, I quickly walk back into the bathroom. For a moment I just stand at the entryway, I had to take a moment to convince myself that it had to be done. Finally, I walk into the bathroom and stand over the woman wrapped in a tarp inside of my bathtub. The knife is squeezed tightly in the palm of my hands as my breathing gets faster and faster. The woman surprisingly begins to mutter something.

"Please..."

She says in a cracked painfully desperate tone.

My eyes fill with tears as the knife burns in the palm of my hands. The woman mutters the words again but louder. It was then that I knew I had to end it. I lifted the knife up with force and brought it down with all the strength I had in me....I stabbed her repeatedly. I just stabbed her until I was convinced that she was dead. Shaken, I drop the knife then back away out of the bathroom with streams of tears running down my face. Eyes wide in sheer disbelief at myself, my back hits the closest wall and I slide down dropping to the ground. My hands and my pink sweater were covered in blood.

"HONK HONK!!!!"

Back in the present I snap out of my flashback when a car behind me honks at me for not moving after the light turned green. I begin to drive again as I let out a long sigh.Where does my life go from here?

I then find myself pulling up to an apartment complex. I couldn't understand what possessed me to drive here. I park in an empty slot and just sit in the truck.

"I don't even remember how to get home. What is going on with me?"

I put my hands in my face as begin to sob. My face and nose are quickly wet. It felt like invisible walls are closing in on me, I've ruined my life and I've taken a life. If I would have given in and gave her the money that she asked for I would have been figured out eventually. There would have been no way of hiding it! And if I told my husband about the affair he'd drop me and I'd be homeless again. If the child was his he'd take full custody and I'd never see the baby. If it wasn't his I'd be out on the streets with a baby in my stomach. I love my husband but as nice and caring as he is, he could also be a ruthless person. The man that I had an affair with was married and has four kids. He ended things with me when his wife found out about us. She threatened him with divorce and taking the kids along with her money. Even if we did decide to just stay together, he wouldn't even have any money to support the two of us. He married into money just like I did and she made him sign a prenup. He was nothing but a broke pretty boy getting taken care of...I guess it's what we both had in common.

I look back up at the apartment complex then get a moment of deja vu, this place looked familiar. I look around at all the apartment numbers and my eyes are drawn to apartment number 22 on the second floor. I turn off my truck then step out into the cold winter air and look around once more. Snow begins to lightly fall from the sky instantly reminding to reach into the car and grab my jacket. I put it on and begin to walk pass a few parked cars in their assigned stalls before I stop in front of stall 22. There parked in stall 22 was a green Volkswagen. Feeling a chill from the breeze I shove my hands into my coat pocket where I surprise myself by pulling out a pair of keys. Hooked to them was a car remote, I stare confusingly at the keys for a moment.

These aren't mine.

I then instantly remember throwing her keys in my pocket amidst my panicked rush. I look up at the beetle realizing it had the same logo as the car remote. I hit the button and the car chirped and blinked.

"What?"

I then notice that attached to these set of keys was what looked to be a personalized green key hanging on a gold frog charm. I look up at apartment 22. Oh my gosh, no way. Is this her place? Now that I think about it, not once did I wonder about how she got to my place. She must have taken a Lyft. What are the odds of me ending up here...this is so strange. I gulp and a more worried look spills across my face. Is this a twist of sick fate? Being here was a really bad idea.

I began to head back to my car but a thought stopped me and I looked back up at the apartment door.The rest of the evidence to my affair had to be in there. I couldn't just leave it; it would lead the cops to me. I grip the keys tightly in my hand just like I did the knife and curse at myself. Hesitantly I walk towards the Apartment. Finally standing in front of the door I look around before I slide the key in and unlock it. I step inside and close the door, Immediately I'm hit with a foul smell. I cover my nose with the sleeve of my jacket.

"What in the world is that smell?".....

Read Lumious Enigma on Wattpad >>> https://www.wattpad.com/story/240528799-luminous-enigma

#LuminousEnigma #Fantasy #Powers #Drama #diversity #fantasy novel #Sharina L Martin #SLMartinNovels #slmartin-novels #black authors #black writers

21 notes · View notes

kirk-spock-in-the-impala · 5 years

Text

Between You and the World (2 of 6)

Chapter 2: Sound, Summer, Year 1252

CW: Geralt's headspace, mentions of blood, prejudice and xenophobia.

Link to AO3

Approx. 5600 words under the cut

Story summary: Geralt's senses are extraordinarily acute, allowing him to perceive far more than average. As necessary as those senses are for his profession, they can become overwhelming.

Five times Jaskier helps Geralt through sensory overload

II. SOUND – Summer, Year 1252

It was mid-summer and Geralt and Jaskier were winding their way slowly northward through Kaedwen, keeping close to the Kestrel Mountains. The oppressive heat was eased by the cool breezes meandering down off the snowy peaks high above them. The warm, long days lent an air of relaxation to their trek and Geralt settled into a languid rhythm, long legs easily covering the trail as he breathed deeply of the warm, pleasantly scented air and tilted his face up to catch the warm rays of the noon sun high above.

As they walked along narrow trails through meadows buzzing with insects and full of the bounty of summer flowers, of which Roach frequently availed herself, Jaskier trailed several paces behind, focusing intently on his lute as he practiced, perfected, and practiced again his newest set of songs.

They were headed to the Kaedwen Regional Bardic Competition, a qualifying event for the Continental Finals that winter in Novigrad. When Geralt had gone to the Alderman to turn in his last contract, Jaskier had caught sight of the notice posted for the Regional Competition on the village board.

With only five leagues and three days between their current location and the Regional Competition, and no pending contract to give them their next heading, Geralt had agreed to travel with Jaskier to the competition, held in a small town in Northern Kaedwen at the base of the Kestrel Mountains. That close to dragon territory, Geralt would likely find a profitable contract on some type of draconid, Jaskier had argued. Geralt could see how much the competition meant to Jaskier and could not bring himself to refuse.

So, they set off, Jaskier taking the long hours spent walking as ample opportunity to fine-tune and practice the new ballads he’d written based on their adventures together that past Spring. Apparently, old material “simply wouldn’t do, Geralt!” Or so Jaskier had insisted. Geralt was unsure of the difference, given they’d yet to travel this far North, so it was unlikely anyone here had heard Jaskier’s ballads, and certainty not yet from the source, but he held his tongue, unwilling to risk dimming his dearest (his only) friend’s enthusiasm. If it made them some extra coin or put him in range of a profitable contract, all the better.

At their current rate, they would arrive at the Competition by late afternoon. As Jaskier explained it, preliminaries would be held the following morning, with each bard given a private meeting with the Judges. The winners of the preliminary phase would then hold a public competition in the evening at the local inn, with each bard running through a set of three songs on which they would be judged. The top three bards would receive a certificate granting them entrance to the Continental Finals, along with a monetary prize.

And so, they walked, Geralt and Roach leading the way through the sun-drenched meadows accompanied by Jaskier’s lilting melodies. Geralt had thought all his life that he preferred silence, but this, perhaps, might be even better.

________________________________________

By that evening, Jaskier and Geralt were settled into the last available room at the local inn and Roach was comfortably bedded down in a large stall with a thick blanket of straw and fresh-smelling oats.

On the way in to town, Geralt had taken a contract from the village’s notice board for a wyvern that had recently taken a liking for mutton. As this village relied largely on sheep farming for their trade and subsistence, the wyvern needed to be eliminated.

As Geralt buckled on his armor in preparation to meet the Alderman, having removed it in the day’s heat, Jaskier was annotating his sheet music for the competition ahead, picking out a few notes on his lute here and there as he went along.

Geralt strapped his swords across his back and said, “I’m going to meet the Alderman.”

“Wait!” Jaskier jumped up, sheets of parchment fluttering to the floor. “I’m coming with you.”

Geralt held up a hand. “No need, it’s too late to start the hunt now. I just need to speak to him about the details. At most, I’ll perhaps scout the location the wyvern has been seen stealing sheep.”

Jaskier moved to disagree, but Geralt insisted. “Stay. Finish your preparations.”

Jaskier moved as if to follow, then stepped back with a huff. “All right. But if you change your plan, promise you’ll come back and tell me. If you get hurt, I can’t find you unless I know where you are.”

Geralt tilted his head and stared at Jaskier, confused. “Why would you need to come find me?”

“Because, dear one, if you get hurt and can’t easily make it back, I don’t want you stuck in the woods for hours bleeding out!”

Geralt shrugged. “I’d make it back once I healed enough.”

Jaskier threw up his hands. “Not the point! I don’t want you to suffer needlessly.”

Geralt couldn’t understand the cause of Jaskier’s sudden upset. He’d always taken care of himself, patched himself up after hunts. Sure, it was nice when Jaskier was there to help with the hard to reach spots, but he would survive without assistance. He always had, and he would again when Jaskier decided he’d had enough of travelling with a witcher.

Jaskier expression faded from exasperation into consternation? Sadness? Geralt wasn’t sure, it was an odd sort of expression. Jaskier shook his head and gently, sadly, smiled at Geralt. “Go on, talk to the Alderman. We’ll talk about your appalling lack of self-care later.” He sat back on the bed and took up his notes.

Geralt didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing, and walked out the door.

_____________________________________________

The following afternoon, Geralt hauled himself back into the inn after a successful hunt. Contrary to the Alderman’s description, it was not a solitary juvenile wyvern, but a mated pair with a clutch of eggs. They'd given Geralt a good chase, covering close to a league over several hours, and a hairy fight once Geralt had finally caught up, but he was able to subdue both in the end. He kicked the eggs over the edge of the cliffside nest to ensure they had no chance of viability, removed the two heads as trophies, and started the trek back to the village, dripping blood, a mix of his own and the wyverns’, along behind him.

Given that horse was definitely on a wyvern’s menu, Geralt had left Roach safely back at the inn’s stables, a decision he was equally glad about and regretting as the large heads pulled on his already sore and tired shoulders.

It was fortunate he’d insisted Jaskier stay behind. The hunt had taken much longer than planned and Jaskier would have missed his morning preliminary slot with the judges had he accompanied Geralt as usual, something Geralt had been unwilling to risk. He had given Jaskier a detailed description of where he was heading, at Jaskier’s insistence, and they planned to meet up that afternoon at the inn so Jaskier could be sure of Geralt’s continued survival.

As Geralt stalked through the throng of people awaiting the results of the morning’s preliminary competition, they parted easily around him, many turning to spit and curse at him as he passed. Geralt was used to such a reaction and tuned it out. Just because he took care of their monsters didn’t mean he was different enough from his quarry that normal people wanted to associate with him without cause.

He reached the Alderman, pushing open the door with his foot before dropping the two, bloody heads on the waiting burlap sack. The Alderman started at the sight of him, coated in entrails and blood, dark shadows under his wild eyes.

Geralt sharply indicated the two heads. “Wasn’t a juvenile, but a mated pair. Think we need to renegotiate payment.”

The Alderman frowned, color rising in his cheeks. “Now, see here, you took the contract based on the information I gave you, information you knew was not that given by an expert. It’s your risk that the situation might be different than you expect.”

Geralt’s expression turned murderous. “Alderman, you contracted me for a single wyvern, not a pair. Would you rather I had left the second one alone?”

“How dare you!” The Alderman spat, “you’d leave innocent people to suffer for your greed? You truly are no better than the monsters!”

Geralt took a measured breath in through his nose, attempting to control his anger. This pushback was not an uncommon occurrence, and it would do him no good to snap. “I wouldn’t leave it and I didn’t. The remaining wyvern would have rampaged over the death of his mate, and I would not prompt a slaughter. I’m simply asking that you compensate me for the additional kill.” Despite his best efforts, Geralt’s voice grew louder as he went on, drawing attention from the crowd outside.

“What’s this now?” A large man, a farmer by the look of him, red faced and sweating, stepped across the threshold and into Geralt’s space. “You threatening our Alderman here, freak?”

“No,” Geralt ground out, well aware of how quickly this could turn into him getting run out of town without any pay, or worse, by a stoning. “I’m explaining to him that the contract price was based on one wyvern, but there were two. A payment adjustment is therefore required.” His tone was carefully measured.

The large man stepped back to stand next to the Alderman, facing the curious onlookers outside. His lip curled, contempt dripping off his words, “I think you’d best take what was agreed and move on, Witcher.” The way he spat out the title made his true feelings clear. This was a man who, like many, saw little difference between a witcher and a monster.

Geralt scanned the crowd outside, seeing largely aggressive faces looking back, itching for a bloodletting and sighed heavily, the fight draining out of him. What was one more unfair payment? He couldn’t risk getting run out of the village and ruining Jaskier’s chances in the competition.

“Fine. Give me the coin and I’ll go.”

The Alderman flung the bag at Geralt’s chest. Geralt caught it before it could hit him, tucked it into the pocket of his pants, and left, the crowd at the door parting for him, but just barely. He felt their stares on his back until he turned the corner toward the inn, more than ready to scrub himself down. He would need to be careful until they could leave again, a crowd like that was only too happy to turn into a mob.

____________________________________________

As Geralt was brushing Roach, murmuring the details of the morning’s hunt to her as he worked the soft bristles over her gleaming coat, Jaskier burst into the stable.

“Geralt! I got into the final!” He bounced on the balls of his feet, beaming.

“Hmm.” Geralt gave him a small smile, looking up at him over Roach’s withers. “Well done.”

Jaskier bounded into the stall to Geralt’s side, passing a juicy red apple to Roach and scratching her favorite spot on her forehead.

“The final competition is this evening at the inn! There are six bards in the final, and I go third in line. I’m to choose a set of three songs, one ballad, one jig, and one of my choice.” Jaskier smiled at Geralt, hands waving in his excitement. “I’m going to be able to play all the new ones I’ve been working on! For my largest crowd yet!”

“Hmm.” Geralt smiled as he listened, eyes crinkling as his hands continued to brush down Roach.

“You’ll come, won’t you?” Jaskier said, a hint of nerves dampening his excitement.

Geralt caught his eye briefly before returning his attention to Roach. “Of course.”

Jaskier’s smile rivaled the sun and he grasped Geralt’s shoulder in a firm hand, gripping once before releasing him, sliding his hand down Geralt’s arm. Geralt jumped at the contact, but relaxed immediately, warmth spreading from the spot Jaskier touched.

“So,” Jaskier said, leaning back against the stall door, “how was the hunt? I see you survived.”

“Fine. They’re dead.”

“Descriptive as usual.” Jaskier rolled his eyes before straightening. “Wait, ‘they’re’ dead? I thought you said it was one juvenile?” Jaskier asked.

“That’s what the contract said, but it was a mated pair.” Geralt explained, eyes firmly training on Roach.

Jaskier’s tone sharpened with concern as he pushed away from the stall door. “A mated pair? Geralt, are you hurt? That can’t have been an easy fight.”

“Just a few bumps and scratches, nothing serious.” Geralt reassured him, mostly honestly. The deeper contusions and cuts would heal in time, none serious enough to warrant a healer. Geralt knew if he mentioned the injuries, Jaskier would insist on a full treatment, and Geralt would never forgive himself if he distracted Jaskier from his successful completion of the competition.

Jaskier frowned, staring Geralt down looking for any trace of falsehood. Satisfied, he relaxed again. “All right, but I hope you were appropriately paid for the extra trouble.”

Geralt winced, glad his expression was mostly hidden by Roach. “I collected my pay from the Alderman before returning.” It wasn’t a lie. He wouldn’t lie, not to Jaskier, but neither would he rile him up over nothing before his performance. It was expected that people wouldn’t pay him for unexpected additions to the contract. He was used to it. He couldn’t even keep his temper this time when his request for a pay adjustment was refused, so he deserved to be docked for his lack of control.

Jaskier sensed there was more to the story, but knew it wasn’t the time to push. Geralt might be persuaded to tell him when they were comfortable and alone, but not here in a public stable with the crowd outside. “All right, good.”

Geralt’s shoulders relaxed and Jaskier knew he’d made the right decision to leave it for now. He continued, “I asked the innkeep to reserve the corner table by the stairs for us this evening. I know you won’t want to be in the middle of things, but you should be able to see and hear everything from there.”

Geralt turned to look at Jaskier, frowning at the thought of Jaskier taking time away from his competition for something so insignificant as Geralt’s comfort. “You didn’t need to do that. I would have managed to find a place to watch.”

Jaskier smiled softly at him. “I know, but I wanted to be sure you were as comfortable as possible. I know you don’t enjoy crowded spaces.”

Geralt was surprised Jaskier had noticed. They didn’t often visit large gatherings, and Geralt preferred to avoid cities. There was little chance in their travels for the issue to come up. Regardless, the consideration made something lighten in his chest, something he’d rarely felt before. It felt like gratitude, like affection. Like something of which he never believed, would never believe, he could be worthy. But he wouldn’t upset his friend by refusing the considerate gesture. “Thank you.” He said quietly.

Jaskier gave him a jaunty salute before turning to leave. “The competition starts at last light, but your table will be ready for you starting at dinnertime. I am told I must eat with the other finalists to avoid any chance of impropriety, so I will see you at the competition.” Jaskier flashed one more, bright smile over his shoulder before heading back out to rejoin the other competitors.

Geralt smiled down at Roach, the warmth of Jaskier’s presence, of his unlikely, extraordinary friendship with one such as Geralt, easing the bitter exhaustion caused by the morning’s events. He didn’t deserve Jaskier, but he would enjoy whatever Jaskier deigned to offer and hope that, maybe one day, he could offer something back.

______________________________________________

Geralt sat at his corner table, alone, back to wall, with a large tankard of ale held in a loose fist. The competition was about to kick off and the inn was bursting with people visiting from across the region for the famous competition. The chatter of near a hundred souls crammed into the modest room bounced against the low ceiling, coupling with the sounds of tankards hitting tables, chairs scraping the floor, and the barkeep’s yelled orders to render a deafening din.

Geralt took a slow breath, thankful, for once, that he was given a wide berth in human settlements. His ears already rang, but at least he wasn’t crowded. The exhaustion from the day, the fights with both the wyverns and the Alderman, weighing heavily on him, making every sound seem that much louder.

He heard the inn’s large front door bang open and watched as Jaskier filed in with the other finalists, the judges leading the way. The six bards lined up on the impromptu stage set in the center of the inn’s main room. One by one, the three judges introduced the six bards in the order they would perform, each bard prompting cheers from their fans that rattled the windows and sent spikes of pain through Geralt’s temples.

When Jaskier was introduced, he flourished a bow at the crowd, catching Geralt’s eye with smile and a wink. Geralt saluted him with his tankard, careful to keep any trace of his discomfort from his expression.

As the first bard took the stage, a lithe woman from the southwest, the audience pounded their tankards on the table and stomped their feet, cheering her on. Geralt barely contained a flinch as the noise level rose, fingers tightening on the pewter tankard almost hard enough to dent the metal.

The other five bards, Jaskier included, sat in a line behind the performer. The judges, all three in elaborate black robes with hood liners made from various colors of crushed velvet, sat in front of the stage with the performer’s submitted sheet music in hand, quills ready to take notes.

The woman launched into her first song, an upbeat jig that well matched her strong alto, stomping her feet to the beat as her fingers flew across the neck of her lute. The crowd responded, clapping, stomping, and singing along to the chorus in a variety of discordant keys. Clearly, unlike Jaskier, this bard had chosen a well-known favorite.

The wave of sound felt like a physical blow, slamming into Geralt from all sides as the walls and low ceiling caused the noise to ricochet. His fingers crushed into the pewter tankard, leaving obvious dents and causing warm ale to spill over his hand. The feel of the liquid jolted him back to attention and he deliberately unclenched his fingers, glad the angle of view prevented Jaskier from seeing him from where he sat in line.

Geralt clasped his hands together and rested them on the table in front of him, mentally running through his alchemy recipes as a distraction from the noise in the room. It wasn’t Jaskier’s turn yet, and he was sequestered in the darkened corner, so he could safely turn a portion of his attention inward to bolster his flagging control. The memory of a small, coastal fishing village abruptly came to mind and he forced down the memory of (the longing for) the comfort Jaskier had provided. He would not be that weak again. It may have been forgiven then, but interrupting Jaskier’s competition would be completely unacceptable. Running away and missing it would be equally so. Even Jaskier might not forgive him for that.

So, Geralt clenched his hands together, ground his teeth, and ran through his alchemy recipes as the first bard gave way to the second, who drew an equally loud series of cheers and stomps, and, finally, thankfully, to Jaskier.

Jaskier jumped lightly up onto the stage, Filavandrel’s lute in hand, and bowed gracefully to the judges and to the crowd. He caught Geralt’s eye, a frown of concern darting across his face as he saw the tension in Geralt’s jaw, but it was gone as soon as he turned back to the judges to begin his set.

As he launched into the first song, a powerful ballad about the White Wolf’s fight that past spring against a fearsome Bruxa, he caught Geralt’s eye and indicted the stairs with his chin, giving him permission to leave.

Geralt caught the gesture and froze. He couldn’t leave, not while Jaskier was performing. How would that look? If the judges noticed the person who left mid-song was none other than its subject? The risk was unacceptable. No, Geralt would stay and support Jaskier. He could control himself. He was trained for control, mutated for control. He wouldn’t shame his friend by failing again.

Geralt closed his eyes and focused his acute hearing entirely on Jaskier’s voice, on the melodies drawn out of the lute by his skilled fingers. He discreetly sniffed the air, catching the comforting scent of Jaskier’s rosin and honey. He forced his attention to stay on Jaskier and Jaskier alone, trusting that no great harm would come to him while under Jaskier’s eye. The familiar voice, even if the melody and lyrics were new, soothed his frayed nerves and some of the pressure in Geralt’s head eased.

As Jaskier finished his set to the most raucous applause yet, he ran his eyes over Geralt again, pleased to see he looked more relaxed than earlier, but still concerned. Geralt wouldn’t thank him for drawing attention to his discomfort, but Jaskier planned to get Geralt out of there as soon as he was released from the stage for the judges’ deliberations. He sent Geralt a reassuring smile before returning to his seat and losing sight of him behind a large pillar.

Geralt tried desperately to cling to the calm brought about by Jaskier’s performance, but the fourth and fifth bards each belted out loud, fast, tunes replete with banging chords and stomps, riling the large, increasingly drunken audience up more and more.

By the time the sixth bard, an older man with an aristocratic air, took the stage, Geralt was nearly at his limit. The clapping echoed in his skull, the stomping rattled his bones, and the singing sent piercing pain through his temples.

The volume increased as the end of the performance neared, audience members losing all control of their voices as the ale took firm hold. When the sixth bard struck his final note and bowed, the crowd exploded, jumping to their feet and screaming out the names of their favorites.

The windows rattled in their frames from the noise. In the wall of sound, the sudden, sharp scrape of a chair shoved backwards against the wood floor close to his right side made Geralt flinch violently into the left-hand wall, cracking his head on a wooden beam. He felt his breathing rapidly increase, his heart pounding in his chest, as his body interpreted the aural assault and the sudden pain from the strike to his left temple as an attack.

Alchemy recipes were no longer a distraction. The pain in his head, the pain in his jaw, from where his nails dug into his clenched fists, none of it was sufficient to overcome the overwhelming assault on his senses. Geralt felt his control slipping away and hated himself for it, for failing again to restrain his reactions. He felt panic rise, the corner suddenly feeling less like a reassuring embrace and more like a prison, trapping him between the immovable walls and the relentless, painfully loud noise of the crowd.

Suddenly, there was a presence on his right side. A hand landed gently on his right forearm and Geralt flinched, baring his teeth and spinning to face the intruder.

Jaskier took in the tension in his friend’s frame, the bruise blossoming over his left eye, and the wild, unfocused expression. He instantly remembered the coast, how painful the overwhelming smell had been for his friend and how long he had fought against the pain before finally succumbing. His heart dropped. Geralt had been pushed past his limits yet again and he knew the public nature of the breakdown would make it that much worse.

Jaskier spoke softly, gently rubbing his thumb over Geralt’s forearm. “Geralt? It’s Jaskier. It’s past dark and you’re in the inn for the bardic competition. Can you look at me, please?” This was the first time Jaskier was grateful people did not stray too close to his Witcher. In the dark corner, Geralt was largely hidden from the eyes of others and people were unlikely to disturb them.

Geralt’s eyes darted around room, tracking spikes in sound, before slowly focusing on Jaskier, the familiar voice and grounding words breaking through the panic. Geralt couldn’t speak, couldn’t respond, his words stolen away, overwhelmed by the assault on his sensitive ears. Geralt felt unable to escape the storm of noise causing his distress but looked to Jaskier for a port of calm.

“There you are.” Jaskier smiled, keeping his voice light and cheerful. “The judges are deliberating, so I think it’s time for us to head upstairs. I could use a rest, and they’ll be a while.” Jaskier knew focusing on his own needs, rather than Geralt’s would be more likely to prod Geralt into motion. Jaskier desperately wanted to soothe his friend, to ease his tension, to embrace him, but knew Geralt would not, could not, relax in public and would be deeply shamed by displaying anything he perceived as weakness where others could see.

Geralt frowned, eyes focusing more as concern for Jaskier penetrated his overwhelmed mind. He nodded and rose from the bench, letting Jaskier lead him toward the stairs. As they ascended, one of the local bards not in the competition struck up a lively tune to keep the waiting crowd entertained. As the noise level suddenly rose again, this time at his open back, Geralt flinched away, a whine caught in his throat, hands raising as if to cover his ears before he forcibly stopped himself, digging his hands into his thighs.

Jaskier reached back and took Geralt’s hand, drawing him quickly up the stairs and into their room – thankfully at the back of the inn – and shutting the heavy wooden door.

As the noise suddenly diminished to a dull background hum, Geralt stopped in the middle of the room, panting with relief. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, eyes darting around before landing on Jaskier with a silent plea. Geralt didn’t know what he needed, just that he needed, and he was still unbalanced enough to forget himself and ask for help, albeit without words.

Jaskier answered immediately, stepping into Geralt’s space and guiding him over to sit on the bed, gently directing him until he was lying down, head in Jaskier’s lap. Jaskier covered Geralt’s ears with his hands and rubbed soothing circles across his temples and jaw. Geralt’s eyes closed, trusting Jaskier to keep him safe.

Slowly, slowly the tension left Geralt’s face. He heaved a sigh and his eyes opened. Jaskier could see the moment he fully returned to himself, as Geralt’s expression shifted quickly from soft relief into deep shame. Geralt moved to sit up and Jaskier stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“Easy, just lie back.” Jaskier instructed, calm and authoritative. “You need to let your body recover.”

Geralt briefly pressed up against the restraining hand before giving in, eyes flicking up and away from Jaskier’s, shame coloring his cheeks and warming the tips of his ears.

Geralt took a breath, opening his mouth to speak several times before it took. “Forgive me. Again. My lack of control is inexcusable.”

Jaskier’s lips pressed into a thin line, heart aching for his friend, for the impossible standards to which he held himself. For the lack of care, of comfort, in his long lifetime that had led him to believe such things were unwarranted when applied to him.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Jaskier said gently, firmly, echoing their earlier conversation on the coast. “I only ask one thing.”

Geralt looked up, eager to hear how he could fix this, how he could please his friend, repay him for having to coddle him through yet another breakdown.

“Tell me next time so I can help you before it gets to this point. Or, if you can't, just leave, give yourself some distance from whatever is hurting you.” Jaskier was almost begging, pleading with his friend to take even this modicum of care for his own needs.

Geralt blanched. “I wouldn’t leave you.” He said, an almost frantic note in his normally measured tone.

Jaskier rubbed a hand across Geralt’s forehead, smoothing back his hair before pressing a kiss between his eyes. “I know, and I wouldn’t leave you either. I just want you to go far enough that it’s not too loud, or too stinky, or too whatever for you. I couldn’t abide it if I were the cause of your distress because you felt you needed to stay somewhere for me. If you need to leave, I will understand, and I will find you again in that safer place.”

Geralt blinked at the kiss, shocked. No one had ever done that to him before. It was unexpected. Nice? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t know how to respond. But Jaskier had done it, so it must be all right.

He heard the words, saw how important this was to Jaskier. “I will try.” He said finally. He couldn’t promise more. Wouldn’t leave if Jaskier could get hurt. Or disappointed. That wasn’t worth it. But maybe if there was no harm, he could give himself a little break when things got to be too much. He should be able to control himself, to let the overstimulation wash off his back, but if his control failed, if he were already shamed, maybe a little relief wouldn’t hurt? He’d consider it.

A sudden shout cut through the hum from below. Not loud, not startling, just enough for Geralt to make out that results would be announced shortly.

“We should go down.” He said to Jaskier, “results are about to be announced.” He sat up and straightened his clothes, taking a fortifying breath as if he were about to head into a battle. In a way, he was.

Jaskier wanted to stay, wanted to keep Geralt here in this quiet room, wanted to protect his friend, to sooth the furrows and lines of tension and shame from his face. But he knew that wouldn’t help now. Geralt would blame himself for Jaskier missing the announcement, and that would overpower any relief staying in the quiet could provide.

Jaskier sighed and smiled up at his impossible, selfless, stubborn friend. “All right, but let me do something for you before we go.” He held up an admonishing finger when he saw Geralt about to protest. “No arguments.”

Jaskier stretched across the bed and grabbed the strap of his bag, pulling it over and digging around inside. Triumphantly, he brandished the linen handkerchief he’d found before tearing off two strips of the cloth and forming them into tight balls.

“Come here,” Jaskier directed, patting the bed. Geralt sat. “Now, face me, please.”

Jaskier reached up and placed a ball of linen in each of Geralt’s ears, gently positioning them to fully block the ear canal without forcing them in far enough to hurt.

Geralt scrunched up his face at the tickling sensation. As Jaskier settled the balls of linen into place, the noise around him was muffled by half. His eyes widened.

Jaskier smiled at him. “Better?” Geralt nodded. “Good. We can go now.” He said, standing and holding out a hand to Geralt.

Geralt took his hand and stood. Just before placing his hand on the doorknob, Jaskier turned back and pointed a finger at Geralt, saying firmly, “if it gets too loud, you’re to come back up here right away, you hear?”

Geralt frowned. “I can handle it, especially with these sound blockers you’ve made.”

Jaskier poked his finger into Geralt’s chest, emphasizing his words. “Not the point. I don’t want you to suffer. If it’s too loud, if it hurts, come up.” Jaskier softened his tone, flattening his palm to Geralt’s chest. “Please.”

Geralt’s shoulders loosened, hearing the honest plea. “I promise.” If it would make Jaskier happy, he would do it.

Jaskier beamed at him and they walked back down the stairs, hand in hand.

Jaskier positioned Geralt at the base of the stairs, leaving him with a clear route of escape. With the linen in his ears, the sound was greatly diminished. Still loud, but not loud enough that Geralt would need to leave or risk breaking his word.

As Jaskier joined the other five finalists on stage, the crowd hushed. The judges announced their winners. In third place, the first bard, the lithe southwestern woman, in second, the aristocratic uncle.

The crowd held its breath.

“And, in first place,” the announcing judge took a dramatic pause, “Master Jaskier!”

Jaskier face lit up and he immediately caught Geralt’s eye. The ensuing cheers were loud, but not painfully so, and Geralt allowed a fond, proud smile to form, nodding at Jaskier warmly.

Jaskier beamed at him before turning to accept his prize.

If allowing Jaskier to help made him this happy, if it allowed him to witness Jaskier’s triumphs, maybe it would be all right to accept the help.

As Geralt watched Jaskier accept the adulation of the crowd, gaining the recognition he fully deserved as the cheers flowed around Geralt without assaulting his sensitive ears, protected as they were by Jaskier’s invention, Geralt's chest filled with an unfamiliar warmth. It felt suspiciously like joy.

#kirk-spock-in-the-impala writes #yeah this is six chapters now #this is getting out of control #between you and the world #the witcher #witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #dandilion #gerlion #geraskier #geralt/jaskier #soft!geralt #soft!jaskier #protective!jaskier #thesunshinemanman

76 notes · View notes

lilac-5ky · 1 year

Text

Roommates from Hell, pt.5 (Toji x Fem!Reader)

Chapter 5: Off to the Races/A can of worms

Chapter 4 | Story Masterlist | Masterlist | Requests

A/N: reposting cause tumblr is being a bitch with the tags Worm's debut, aye! Also, let us all who thought it was horse races and not boat races lament in silence.

Warning: Curse attack counts as a warning I suppose. Mentions of blood, strangling, etc.

The furniture carrier service arrived with your stuff two days later, on a rainy Monday morning. The two middle-aged men congratulated you in broken Japanese for your wedding, whose ceremony apparently took place at Okazaki Jinja (also known as Rabbit’s Shrine) on Christmas Eve, and according to Toji, you looked most stunning in your shiromuku kimono.

His descriptions were so vivid that whenever he called you honey and wrapped an arm around your waist, you questioned whether your own wedding invitation was lost in the mail.

The charades continued even after the men departed, reaching their climax when Toji tossed you a slotted screwdriver and willed you into work, because what is a wife if not a slave?

That’s not to say Toji was a lousy fake husband. Not only did he offer to christen his new bed together, but to also perform “the shit” out of his marital duties. Neither happened, and every mention of you as his pretty little wife faded with the melting of the ice and the blooming of the plum trees.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and before you knew it, the two of you had fully adjusted to each other’s presence. For the most part. You still found it excruciatingly hard to get over the recurrent mess he left in the bathroom as if he were digging for Atlantis, his habit of discarding bloodied clothes in the corridor rather than the hamper, the Easter egg hunt you regularly embarked on in search of his stashed dirty plates, and of course, his turning the living room into a gym, not minding that his roommate just so happened to be a single female with urges of her own.

And for the record, his offers to join him in the shower only multiplied after he got his hands on the first water bill and insisted bathing together would help cut down on unnecessary expenses.

Toji was a handful, and living with him felt as if you were a contestant at Takeshi’s Castle, minus the guards whooping you with sticks and the exorbitant cash prize to justify your endurance. But even with the constant temptation that he was, you’d grown appreciative of your shared routine.

A typical weekday involved you getting up at the crack of dawn to prepare breakfast and side dishes ahead of lunch. The sounds of tinkering pots reached his ears before the whiff of freshly brewed coffee got to his nostrils—a bedhead Toji sheepishly stumbling his way into the kitchen with sweatpants low around his hips and a fist jabbing the sand off his eyes as he greeted you with the groggiest of Mornin’s.

You shared breakfast until duty called, and on days he found sitting at home as a trophy wife too tedious for his tastes, he popped by the diner for a “free” meal paid straight out of your pocket.

By the time you got home late in the afternoon, Toji had already half-assed his assigned chores and would either be zapping through the channels or going through another one of your belongings. Last week featured your junior high diary, whose existence and table of contents remained blurry until he cracked a joke about your short-lived crush on the hot substitute history teacher and you snorted a noodle out of your nose.

The nights were spent evaluating teenagers in idol shows, betting pizza slices on MMA fighters, dissing soap opera protagonists for their terrible life choices, and attempting to solve the cases in crime dramas ahead of the detectives. Cheap thrills for cheap entertainment, with the one to get the most correct answers during “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” entitled to minor rewards ranging from red bean soup in the cold months and shaved ice in the Summer, as well as foot rubs for you and shoulder rubs for him.

Time in your apartment moved at the languid pace of snow globe snowflakes and at the hurried tempo of hourglass sand. Five months later—in June, specifically—you barely remembered how to replace light bulbs or the bus routes from and to your job because you couldn’t recall a day-to-day life without Toji. Your hand naturally set a second plate on the table; your voice naturally placed an extra wonton order at the Chinese joint; your eyes naturally crinkled at each of his antics; and your lips naturally arched upon his welcoming you home; you naturally weren’t alone anymore.

And in a way, this was everything you’d ever wanted, but in plenty of others, you were terrified of losing it all to his former lifestyle when Toji came to his senses and realized this kind of life wasn’t for him—that you weren’t for him.

To reward him for being somewhat frugal and to exercise impulse control, you gathered some of your savings and surprised him with a trip to one of his favorite places. However, what ended up stealing the limelight was the big floppy hat on your head, which had last been in fashion before the Titanic sank.

In your defense, whatever impression you had of horse racing came from Hollywood movies where the rich and mighty spectated from their VIP seats with their fancy binoculars and fancier parasols. A near-empty venue with takoyaki stalls and an audience of men spread as sparsely as the hairs on their scalps was not what you expected.

“She’s a foreigner,” Toji explained to the bookie, whose eyes narrowed at the odd combination of your yellow umbrella-shaped hat paired with a white formal sundress and matching barrette heels.

“You should’ve told me,” you huffed as Toji led you to a corner next to the booths.

“Tell ya what?”

“That I’d stick like a sore thumb! Feels like everyone’s staring at me.”

He licked his fingers and hastily flipped through the racing cards. “That’s because you are the prettiest in ‘ere.”

You tugged your hat lower over your reddened face, mumbling, “They’re all pensioners anyway.”

He didn’t pay you any more attention until he was done sorting the papers. He went over the general rules of betting, recommending you put your cash on the odds-on Narita Brian, a Thoroughbred stallion that already counted seventeen victories in his seven-month career. And you would have trusted his intuition if you hadn’t suddenly remembered about his one-sided affair with Lady Luck.

While Toji was off to grab seats, you wagered half of the money on his choice and the other half on the newest entry at the very bottom of the list—an Arabian horse named Doraemon. You collected the slips and spotted him in the middle rows of your section, his feet arched against the empty front seat and his arms spread over the ones beside him. You sat down on his left and handed him his slip, glancing down at the tracks.

Men in identical caps that merely differed in color were tending to their mounts, fixing their halters in place. The race wouldn’t start for another thirty minutes, during which Toji ran on about jockeys, breeds, and records, letting you in on how the majority of the contesting horses were between the ages of two and three and how they collectively shared their birthdays on January 1. It was unlike him to gush about his interests, but there was no mistaking it; he loved it there.

You did your best to keep track of the complex terminology and Doraemon’s blue flair as the herd of horses made it to the starting gates. The bell rang without any further delay, and Toji’s voice fell into an abrupt hush as he watched Narita Brian fall second to Golden Wind and third to the newcomer Doraemon. He tore his slip into bits while you struggled to come up with the right words to say—though the cash spoke plenty of its own.

“Beginner’s luck,” Toji scoffed, maintaining a five-step distance as the two of you walked toward his rental of the month, a German silver sedan with ivory leather coating.

You triumphantly fanned your face with the envelope. “Is that what losers call it?”

“Beginner’s luck,” he repeated.

“This has nothing to do with luck. Simply me trusting in my childhood hero to save the day.”

He slurred something under his breath and hopped in the driver’s seat, banging the door with a thud that bounced across the parking lot, filled with the cars of people from the family restaurant next door.

“I’ve saved your ass a lot more than that stupid robo-cat, but I don’t see ya trustin’ me.”

You rolled your eyes and fastened your seat belt. You shuffled the banknotes and split them into twos, gesturing for Toji to open his palm.

“I trust you. Just not your luck.”

For once, he was hesitant to accept. “Save your pity cash. You earned it.”

“No, we earned it.” You grabbed his hand and slotted the bills right in. “I bet our savings. Even if your prediction fell out, you are still entitled to half of the prize.”

His fingers closed around yours, his thin obsidian brows relaxing as you held the weight of his persistent stare. “Wouldn’t do the same if our roles reversed.”

“I know.”

“And you’re wrong to gimme half. I pay less rent and snatch the spare change when you’re not lookin’.”

“That’s why I trust you,” you smiled. “If anything, you are consistent.”

His bottom lip twitched as if there was something else to say. There wasn’t. He let your palm fall empty onto your lap and put the key in the ignition, slinging his arm over your headrest to back into the road. You didn’t budge. Not in the slightest.

Not even when his mouth was inches away from yours, hooded jade eyes teasing his intentions.

“You are hopeless,” he said.

“Already know that,” you answered.

Not long after you hit the road, you found yourselves parked outside a grocery store in Minato City, the horizon melting into saturated ripples of copper gold and dusty pink. Toji motioned for you to hurry and reclined against his pushed-back seat in an attempt to escape the invasive sun glare.

You stepped out of the vehicle, momentarily popping in to drop your hat over his face. He groaned before acknowledging your gesture with a soft Thanks and an even softer smile, both hidden under the hat’s wide brim.

“I’ll cook you something real tasty for dinner. Your favorite!” The words scattered behind you as you broke into a jog, hair flowing freely against the wind and heart thumping lightly to the monotone chirp of the cicadas.

A beep declared your entrance to the three conversing part-timers who rushed back to their registers—two of them experienced enough to greet you with a bow of their heads, and the other too preoccupied with her phone. Teenagers. Around the same age you were when you got your first gig at that convenience store in Sendagaya.

You grabbed a basket and surveyed the aisles for ingredients. It was too hot for motsunabe but just right for yakitori. You could get some liver (since he was particular about offal) and toss it in the pan, or broil it in the oven. Or, you could go all out and opt for the priciest cut on the shelf: ribeye steak. Granted, Toji wouldn’t tell the difference between Kobe and Sirloin even if it was pointed out to him, but you wanted to savor such a delicacy at least once.

The closer you got to filling the basket, the emptier your wallet got. At checkout, the employee rang up your groceries and stuffed them all in one bag. She thanked you for your purchase, and you trudged outside.

A tinge of violet contoured the pale moonlight, the starry curtain yet to drop. It was the kind of night that made you wish you had a rooftop to yourself. Just you, the stars, and the man whose arm dangled lazily from the driver’s window.

“Hey, what time is it?”

It was safe to assume Toji didn’t share your sentimentalism.

You fished your phone out of your handbag, balancing the groceries against the trunk. “Like, uh… 7:32. Why?”

His fingers drummed at the door, while his lips kept his contemplation private. “Mind goin’ home on your own?”

“On my own?” you blinked. “Why, what happened?”

“Something came up,” Toji said, revving up the engine. “Won’t take long.”

Without getting to ask about the gender of that so-called something, you were deserted in the empty parking lot, witnessing all color in the skies be swallowed by absolute black tar.

You made it home an hour and three buses later, your first initiative being to check on the thawed ice cream pint. Chunks of Belgian chocolate floated on the surface like skerries amidst a vanilla-bourbon ocean. You slammed the lid shut and tossed it in the trash. No dessert for him—assuming he made it in time for dinner, that is.

You threw yourself into work, marinating your suspicions in soy sauce, glazing your apprehension with sherry vinegar, chopping your anger into fine bits, and lastly, searing your frustrations over the stove’s fire.

Whether he was clinking virgin margaritas with some non-virgin Mary at a rooftop garden party in Hibiya was none of your business. You had no right to ask. No right to phone him. No right to worry. No right to blow a fuse either. He had his life and you had yours, and for every point they intersected, a million others existed to divide them.

Still, you had every right to feel like a world-class idiot for thinking these past months ought to take the wild out of the wolf.

The first text came at a quarter past ten. Be there soon. You set the table and messed with the cutlery, arranging and rearranging it over and over again. Steak’s best eaten warm, but it’d be fine. He’d be there soon.

Around eleven, you got a second message. Start without me. You’d already eaten half the salad and gotten a head start on the main course. The meat was worth every penny. It was simply delicious.

By midnight, only his side of the table remained untouched. The ice in his water had melted, the glazed carrots had turned soggy, and the main course was as stale as damp dog hair. What a waste.

You processed the vacancy in his spot, sticking Toji’s image on the chair like a cut-out from a magazine. Inanimate, but there. So close that you could almost tell him off about the overgrown fringes he’d consistently refused to let you snip, when your thoughts were cut short by another buzz—this time, a single word.

Sorry.

Your fingers rehearsed different replies. It’s fine, paired with a smiley face that’d surely cost you a few hundred yen. What are you sorry for? Another fine, albeit more aggressive, alternative. A direct approach with a Who is she, and the most pathetic choice of all: Why can’t it be me?

You dropped the phone and piled up your dishes, emptying the rest of the salad into his. You’d barely reached the sink when the device began to vibrate again, each ring driving the phone closer to the edge of the furniture. The caller hung up before you had the chance to press Decline. Or so you thought until an agitated Toji yelled at the other end of the line. You disposed of the plates and rushed to the table, bringing the speaker to your ear.

“What are you on ab— Hello?” A series of acute beeps terminated the dial.

Please don’t tell me it’s broken, you pleaded while you examined the screen, tapping it on the back as if it were one of those stubborn old TVs— your eyes widening at the final text in your SMS window. You swore you’d deleted everything, but faced with such compelling evidence, your conviction seemed worthless.

You tried to punch in an excuse when a second round of buzzes launched the phone to the floor, where it typed away on its own, twisting your words into incoherent slurs that exceeded the character limit, the last of which repeated the same three-letter word in uppercase letters.

DIE

Startled, you tripped against your chair and knocked it down, the flickering lights drawing your attention to the ceiling. You stole a glance at the intact switch and dashed to the far-end table corner, piecing a steak knife between trembling fists. You’d watched enough horror movies to know those who acted last died first.

“Hey, asshole! That scared to show your ugly mug, you’ve gone into hiding?” You swung the knife forth. “Come out; promise I won’t judge.”

The electricity in the room settled only for the air to turn abnormally cold, your puny strikes facing resistance against the invisible body of your opponent. You gulped, wrapping your fingers tighter around the handle.

“Okay, maybe you aren’t a wuss, but you’re still rude! Attacking me in the middle of the night, implying, what, that I’m single? Since when is that a crime? Breaking and entering, on the other hand, now that’s a felony!

The lack of reaction prompted you to further your display of wits. “Wake up. This is the 21st century, and women can do just fine without man-whores in their lives. Gotta be a real stuck-up to think otherwise.”

Your spiteful insults tackled you to the ground, as your attacker seized the opportunity to entangle themselves around your ankles and decisively shimmied up your throat. A snake? No, this thing definitely had claws. A centipede maybe?

“Who the fuck you think you are deciding if I live or die? Y-you think,” you coughed, blindly stabbing anywhere you felt its presence, “dating is that easy? Why not do it yourself, then? W-what are you here f-for?”

Flight wasn’t in the cards anymore. The spirit’s clutches sank deeper into your flesh as it feasted on your emotions, steadily growing stronger. You combed through Toji’s stories for something to help you get rid of this thing before it got rid of you—a weak spot, a way of striking, a non-sorcerer technique—anything. But staying focused when the oxygen tank that fueled your brain begged to be depleted was plain impossible.

Choosing fight over fright, you ripped through the air with your knife once more. The limitations between your body and the curse’s were unclear. Warm blood trickled from where the sharp edge nicked your unpracticed knuckles, the grip loosening until all there was left for you to do was flap the air, falling victim to the overwhelming pressure in your head.

You were really going to die. Alone and helpless on the unmopped kitchen floor to a foe imperceptible to the naked eye.

What would Toji do?

He’d probably be the one to find your body shaping one of those funny chalk outlines from Law and Order. You didn’t want to admit it, but he was the better detective. Even if the cops wrote you off as another serial case victim, he’d know a curse did it.

You pictured his reaction, hoping he’d at least shed a tear at your loss, that your absence would at least strike a chord in his heart, that you’d at least be included as a highlight in his collection of scars; that you at least wouldn’t be forgotten.

It was fine to be selfish this once, right? After all, you didn’t ask to be missed or honored like a lover or a wife would. Just to be remembered with a smile, as fondly as you recalled him during these final breaths of your pitiful life—a life he alone made worth living.

There were so many things you wished you’d told him, though what you regretted the most was not thanking him for that day at the bridge, knowing fully well you’d never get the chance to.

In the throes of death, two brown antennae sprouting from a gruesome creature you lacked the courage to describe overtook your vision. Thank God you weren’t able to see this earlier. You would have shat your pants and died in a pool of shit.

“There you are… ugly bastard as expected.”

Just when you thought you’d set sail for the other side of the river, a sound akin to that of a bug being stomped pulled you back into what you prayed was reality.

“Been called a bastard before, but ugly?” A viler crunch followed, the centipede crumbling into a pile of dust to reveal the smug grin on your savior’s scarred lips. “Now that’s a first.”

Relief washed over your self-inflicted wounds and abused trachea as you somehow found it in you to stumble rather than leap to the heaven of your choice, an ugly sob muffling all which you tried to say. The sword—judging by the volume of the collision—dropped to the floor as Toji welcomed you in his arms, a large palm rushing to rub the small of your back while his other hand combed through your hair reassuringly.

“It’s okay,” Toji cooed. “I got you now.”

You wept even harder, the gentle tone as he repeated those four words bringing about the opposite of the desired effect. How could you’ve given up so easily when it meant not hearing his voice or seeing his face ever again? How could you doubt your death would shake him when he was frantically kissing apologies on the crown of your head, cradling you as if he was the one who needed to be saved? How could you feel so idiotically ecstatic when you’d nearly turned into curse food?

Still sniffling in his shirt, you wiped your eyes against the fabric and peered at him, taking in his knitted eyebrows and downturned mouth—the worry in his features—and eventually the extra body between you.

“Hey, Toji. What’s that around your waist?”

The potent smell of antiseptics took your kitchen by storm as Toji laid out the first aid kit’s contents over the congested dining table, fitting sterile gauze dressings and iodine bottles in the gaps created by the plates. His chair was dragged closer to yours while he constantly hunched forward, holding both your hands in his own and operating with a little less care than you were willing to tolerate.

“Ouch!” You flinched when his knuckles grazed another of the myriad open wounds that spanned from the apex of your elbow to the chipped tips of your fingernails—none too deep to demand serious medical expertise.

Ignoring your whiny tone, he looped the bandage around your thumb again, this time pressing even harder against your bone. “What a crybaby.”

“Anyone would cry if they were being mummified!”

“Not mummies, they wouldn’t.”

Your next protest lost its turn to the shrill squeak emitted by the elephant, or rather, the worm in the room, whose presence you’d temporarily forsaken. Despite it being of the tubular crawling kind, it didn’t look half as appalling as the monstrosity you witnessed. If anything, its plump lips and rounded cheekbones resembled a human baby more than they did an actual worm.

The creature continued bobbing its head up and down on Toji’s shoulder, its eyes perfectly shut, while it shuddered at its master’s quip. Not only was it sentient, but it was also openly laughing in your face. You hated it.

“What is that thing anyway?” you asked.

“How many times you gonn’ ask? Worm.”

“I can see it’s a worm, Toji, I’m not blind,” you sighed. “I’m asking what’s this worm doing wrapped around your neck like a travel pillow.”

He kept silent while binding the remainder of your fingers—four of them together and the fifth left apart—though “encasing” seemed more appropriate given his dedication to providing you with a proper pair of mittens. He taped the loose end and grabbed the second roll, letting go of your treated hand.

“A’right, quiz time.” Twin shimmers sparkled playfully in his jade eyes. “How do chefs carry their equipment around?”

“You mean their knives?” He nodded. “They stuff them in a roll so they don’t knock each other.”

Toji snapped a quick thumbs-up. “Next question, what’s the name of that movie we watched last week?”

You processed his question while kissing your teeth. “Can I get a hint?”

“A hint, huh?” He scratched his jaw, eventually grinning. “The one with the pervy lawyer and the hot chick who pissed herself.”

“You mean ‘The Secretary’?”

“Rephrase it.”

“The assistant?”

He crooned in approval. “And now for the million-dollar question,” he leaned closer. “Why do people keep mutts?”

“For company? For uh… protection?” He shook his head at both.“Really? Can I phone a friend?”

“Nope. Go simpler and you’ll find it, ain’t that hard. Well, not as if you have anyone to call either.”

You kicked at his chair’s front leg and faked a slap on his giddy face. “You are lucky I have these on, or else!”

“Or else what?” Toji caught your wrist. “You’d hit me?”

You dabbed his cheek lightly enough for him to return to his seat with a complacent smile as he resumed dressing your hand.

“You are the lucky one. A real centipede would have bitten its venom into you. Must have annoyed the livin’ shit out of that curse to have it choke the words outta your potty mouth.”

“You call that luck?”

He hummed, flipping your palm on his knee to pour iodine over a scratch. You hissed as he brought it to his mouth and blew on the wound. “Don’t wanna know about Worm anymore?”

“I… do.”

“Then answer,” Toji said.

“Fine, fine.” You groaned. “You said simpler, so… pet?”

“Bingo. Put ‘em together, and you get your answer.”

“So you are telling me that this worm is your knife carrier, slash hot assistant, slash pet? Is that it?”

He carefully folded the bandage on the inside of your palm and crossed it between your fingers. Again, he didn’t speak until the work was done and you’d retracted your hand.

“In other words, the inventory curse, yes. Reason why you couldn’t off that curse is because ya hit it with a regular knife. You need something imbued with cursed energy; everything else just tickles.”

“That explains a lot,” you mumbled bitterly.

“Can’t cut bread with a cheese knife, can ya?” Toji continued. “Worm over here carries my cursed tools for me. He doesn’t cap, doesn’t bark, and doesn’t drop his pencils either.” He sneered as he cued the worm to open its mouth. “Watch.”

Without receiving a single order, the curse parted its lips to reveal the fur-embedded hilt of a broadsword twice the size of your table, which Toji easily unsheathed and set on the ground.

“That’s 500 million for ya. Cuts through pretty much everything.”

Your eyes widened while he proceeded to showcase his collection, bringing out daggers and claymores that ranged from hundreds of thousands to even a billion yen. He went into some detail when it came to the fancier ones, but the majority were dismissed as either “sword” or “gun”.

Finally, he pulled out the hat you’d lent him and placed it on your head—not a single blotch of saliva, despite it coming straight from the worm’s intestines.

“Don’t you dare tell me you can’t afford rent next time!” You scoffed, watching as the worm crawled down his torso and gobbled up the weapons one by one. It was amazing. Kind of disgusting, but amazing all the same.

“So, Mister Zen’in.” You curled your fingers however best you could and shoved them in his face like a makeshift microphone. “What’s it like being a single dad at the tender age of 28?”

Toji smacked your hand away. “Keep callin’ me that, and I’ll give ya a taste.”

You would have given yourself another injury if it weren’t for his quick reflexes stabilizing your chair in time. You were blushing mad, and it wasn’t from the shock. He was smirking, and it certainly was from the way your thighs instinctively buckled around his hand—something you became aware of only after your feet had landed on the floor.

“Done with the interrogation?”

He plopped down on his chair and motioned for the worm to come over. It obeyed, wrapping itself first around his leg and then around his torso before nuzzling his neck. They both seemed so content in each other’s presence that your joke felt more like an expression of reality. Toji with a pet—now that’s new.

Putting his question on hold, you stabbed a carrot with a fork and offered it to the creature. “Here, wormie, wormie! Have a treat.”

“Wormie?” Toji quirked a brow.

“Cuter than you calling him Worm,” you imitated his raspy tone.

Wormie glanced at its master for confirmation before opening its mouth and swallowing the carrot along with the fork. You wondered if you’d ever get that back, but were stunned to see Wormie slide from Toji’s shoulder and devour two of the plates like that masked spirit in Spirited Away.

He—taking Toji’s word that Wormie was a male—slithered across the table and stood in front of you with an amicable expression, his lips rounding to emit three little toots that you gladly interpreted as Thank you for the food; it was delicious. My owner is an idiot for missing out.

Begrudgingly, you lifted your hand to pet him, managing a small head pat before Wormie returned to Toji. At least his pet had superior tastes to his—both in women and in food.

“Done now?” You nodded with a faint smile. “Good, ‘cause I’m beat.”

“Wait!” You blurted as soon as he stood up. “I mean, what if that thing has friends?”

“Friends?” Toji echoed with a chuckle. “Scared a curse more popular than you?”

Really lucky, you growled.

“What if… What if they team up against me to exact revenge while I’m asleep?”

“Oh? That’s what scares ya?” He laughed again, and you should’ve known he was up to no good when he answered, “I can fix that.”

“Is this really necessary?”

Your question felt out of place when the two of you were crammed in the sleeper sofa like canned sardines—Toji’s left arm comfortably stretched beneath your head as a pillow, while his other willed your body into a snug, albeit humid, embrace. Summer was hot enough without being subjected to his breath fanning steam onto your neck or having the press of his bare chest against your clothed back, and you were already sold on this being your new sleeping norm.

“You’re the one who didn’t wanna sleep alone,” he gruffed in a tired voice.

In a way, he was right. You were the one who dug her heels in the couch and refused to budge even after he checked every house corner for signs of a demonic presence. Incidentally, you’d also been the one who acted as if you wanted to watch a late-night rerun on TV, promising not to disturb him.

One thing led to another. He put Wormie to sleep by quite literally ingesting him, cracked a soda open, and joined you. Your show ended; a movie began. He stole the remote; you threw a fit. He tossed you his shirt and made room; you slid off your dress and put it on. It smelled of gardenia; it smelled of you.

You stayed.

Any other day of the year, you would have raced to your room and hidden your head under your covers like an ostrich in the sand, yet no place in the world felt safer than his arms, knowing they hadn’t hosted another.

Of course, you weren’t keen to admit that. “I never said that!”

“You didn’t?’ Toji yawned. “Sure sounded like you did. Now zip it and sleep tight.”

Can’t get any tighter than this, you meant to argue, but your will to protest had died out. The first harbingers of dawn started gathering outside as chirping birds at your window ledge, drowning the mournful song of the cicadas. Bless Sakurai and that new part-timer for taking on your early Monday shifts.

You closed your eyes and let yourself be lulled into sleep when a realization shook you to the core. How could he possibly protect you while asleep?

“Would you suit up for my funeral?”

“Woman, one more word, and I’ll feed your ass to Wormie myself.”

You gasped, craning your neck to catch a glimpse of his chiseled yet visibly frustrated profile. “Wormie eats humans?”

“If he doesn’t, I will.” He fastened his arm around your stomach as if to get his threat across.“Shut up while I’m asking nicely, won’t ya?”

Some time passed since you’d last disturbed him, and his breathing evened out into a light snore, a hint of raspiness tingling the shell of your ear. He wasn’t lying about being exhausted, and although you’d spent countless nights sleeping in the same house, not once did you sleep close enough to hear all those little sounds he let out when he was at his most vulnerable.

You wished you had something to record him with, but mostly, you wished your view was that of his face as opposed to the ghost nightlight on the table.

A different version of today’s events replayed in your head, excluding all the harrowing details that haunted you in the night’s darkest hours. The races were fun; you should save money from now on to do that more often. The compliment wouldn’t hurt to accept. The food was amazing, the episode was alright, and his coming to your rescue was something straight out of a movie.

“Toji?” Making sure he was still asleep, you rolled to his side.

You had to brace yourself not to sigh in splendor as your eyes trailed over the unmapped expanse of his body, skimming over every valley and every peak leading down to the defined V-line that seemingly finished miles below the elastic of his sweatpants. You wondered how many kisses it would take to traverse that distance if the starting point was that of his agape lips, the outline of his scar dim between the greenish shadows in the room.

He had no right to look this beautiful. You returned to your old habit of counting rights and wrongs—and at the time, you couldn’t find a single fault to him, but a dozen in you, as you tilted your head and printed a gentle kiss on his lips.

“Thank you.”

As soon as the words were out of your mouth, you were locked in a kiss independent of your own wretched volition, as Toji’s lips branded yours with one of equal gratitude.

“You’re welcome.”

That should’ve been the end of it, but before you had the chance to pass judgment, you followed his lead in closing your eyes and were recaptured by his indelible warmth, lips moving together in sync as if there was something to be gained from each other’s mouth, bit by bit chipping in more than you’d bargained for, so desperate in your game of chance that your hands greedily seized the smallest of earnings.

His long fingers sank deep within your hair while he hiked up your (his) shirt, palm fondling the swell of your breasts without an inch of reservation, and it felt good—it felt bliss; so much better than it did at that hotel and all the other times your mind invented since. He was certain about where and how he wanted to touch you; every other woman he’d ever been with just practice for this moment, and even though he’d never said it out loud, you must’ve known that to be true.

It was always you.

Your hips bucked against his own as Toji squeezed your bodies together, his teeth joining in the action of his tongue as he bit down on your lip, feeling your leg coil tight around his torso and the tap of your heel on his toned back. That was the only way for you to feel him, considering the bandages greatly restricted the movements of your hands, which were awkwardly thrown over his back.

“You’re such a stubborn brat, know that?” He panted, pressing your ass firmly enough for the tent in his pants to poke at your clothed entrance. You nodded, brushing your nose against his. “Tell ya one thing, you do the other. Ask to kiss you, and you gimme your cheek. And now this?” He couldn’t resist slotting his tongue between your lips, pouring all his resentment into one sloppy and heady exchange of spit. “Gonna give ya a reason to thank me all week long.”

You shuddered at his words, attempting to steal his next sentence from his mouth before you were forcibly unlatched and turned the other way, your waist caged by both his arms so that you couldn’t budge.

“Week doesn’t start until tomorrow.” Toji seared a kiss on your nape, prodding the hair out of the way with his nose. “Now let me fucking sleep.”

A/N: so apparently tumblr fucks up posts when the tag list is featured inside the fic, which sucks and that might be the reason why I had to make three posts for this fic to be seen in its respective tags. I’ve tagged those who had to be tagged in the first one of these three posts, but since this chapter is hard ruined, I’ll do the tags on a reblogged version from now on.

this website seriously sucks. here are the two other versions of the exact same thing ._. first and second

you can still comment here if you wanna be tagged on future updates, and sorry for this entire mess ._.

#toji x reader #fushiguro toji #Toji Fushiguro #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #toji x y/n #toji x you

44 notes · View notes

rosesupposes · 5 years

Text

Ivy League

In which Race goes to dinner with Spot, his professor, and his asshole classmate and Spot ends up defending Race’s honor.

This is v v v self indulgent and probably doesn’t make much sense. Just know that Kelly Smaltzer is modern girlsie Smalls who just hasn’t gotten her nickname yet.

Read on AO3.

“Thanks so much for your help, Race. I was sure I was gonna fail this test.”

“No problem, Davey,” Race said, packing the empty containers from his lunch into his bag. Spot was on a meal prep kick and Race hadn’t been able to escape it. “After my midterm this morning, it actually reminded me that physics isn’t crazy.”

“Your Planetary Relations class right?” Davey started packing up his bag.

“Yeah and then my Dance Comp one later. But Albert and I are having rehearsals beforehand and then we’ve got another rehearsal for a showcase.”

Davey looked confused, as he gathered up the trash from his lunch, along with the trash Jack and Crutchie had left when Race and Davey had started reviewing for Davey’s Physics I test. “I thought you and Spot had that dinner with his professor tonight?”

Race groaned and held up the garment bag he’d had to bring along with his backpack and dance bag. “We do. I’ve been lugging my pants and shirt around all day. I have to wear a tie, Davey. A tie.”

Davey rolled his eyes. “You’ll survive. Spot must really want to impress his professor if he’s risking making you wear a tie.”

“I resent that but it’s not untrue. And he does. She takes an intern every summer from her first year classes and he thinks it’s a really good sign that she invited him to this dinner. But she also invited that asshole classmate that Spot’s always complaining about. He’s bringing his girlfriend.” Race wrinkled his nose.

“Oh, I see. That’s why your wearing the tie,” Davey said with the know it all tone that Race knew meant he was teasing.

“What?”

“You’re trying to out trophy wife the girlfriend.”

“Shut up and go take your physics test,” Race said, pushing Davey’s arm and then walking away from him. His phone chirped with a text from Davey not 30 seconds later.

I’m adding 3 points to your pettiness score. You’re in the lead now.

His Dance Comp midterm went well, even if it ran over. He blamed Albert for drawing the last performance slot because he could have left early otherwise. His whole body ached, protesting the Pilates class from hell that he’d had before lunch and the three hours of rehearsal he’d had after. Going home and vegging out on the couch sounded infinitely better than going to Spot’s dinner. The food would be good, sure, and Spot’s professor was paying but he’d learned early on in Spot’s law school career that when people at law events found out he wasn’t also in law school, they tended to lose interest pretty quickly. He was usually relegated to the role of trophy boyfriend- which he could do and do well but it was kind of hard when he was this exhausted and coming right from a day of midterms.

He tied his tie while he waited for his Uber and attempted to fix his hair using Snapchat as a mirror. Spot had mentioned that his asshole classmate’s girlfriend was apparently model pretty and Davey was right; Race was nothing if not petty. He was definitely going to be the better trophy wife tonight, even if he was exhausted and coming from four hours of dancing.

As soon as Race was in his Uber and had an ETA he trusted, he texted Spot.

mdtrm ran ovr b there 5 min l8 blame al

Okay

ur gonna wow her n then well get wine drunk w javid 2nite 2 celbr8

After texting Jack and Davey to make sure they could get wine drunk when Race and Spot got home, Race was happy to find his AirPods shoved into his wallet and he put them in so he could start reviewing the choreography for his upcoming Repertory midterm in his head. He got another text from Spot when he was about five minutes from the restaurant.

They're seating us now. Just ask for Taylor Caine.

k eta 4 min ur gonna kill it luv u

Race went right to the hostess when he entered the restaurant. She probably had a fancier title than hostess at a place like this but Race definitely didn't know the word, even if it was probably Italian. "Hi, I think my party's already been seated. I'm with Taylor Caine?"

The hostess gave him a once over, eyes catching on his poorly tied tie. "Of course, follow me, sir." She led Race through the main dining area and to another, smaller area where Race immediately picked out Spot and his group. He waved, hoping to catch Spot's eye and sure enough Spot saw him, his face brightening in a way that most people didn't recognize.

"Speak of the devil," he said, grinning as Race took the empty seat between Spot and who he assumed was asshole classmate's girlfriend. "This is my boyfriend, Antonio Higgins."

"Call me Tony, please," Race said, as if he ever used that name. "I'm so sorry I'm late, my dance midterm ran over."

The woman on the other side of Spot set her menu down and pushed her reading glasses on top of her head, offering her hand to Race, who took it. "No worries at all, we've only just ordered our drinks. I'm Taylor Caine."

"Oh the famous Professor Caine," Race crowed. "It's so great to meet you after all of Sean's stories."

"Only good ones I hope?"

"The best," Race agreed, grinning at Spot, who was getting the look he did when he was almost about to blush. Race decided to back off a little instead of laying it on so thick. "He loves your classes."

"Oh don't flatter her," the woman next to her said. The way she put her hand on Taylor's shoulder spoke of years of easy familiarity and it made Race smile to think of having that with someone- with Spot- one day. "I'll never hear the end of it. I'm Dalia."

Race shook her hand and then turned to the man at her side- presumably Spot's classmate. Race offered his hand. The man took it, but not before staring at it disdainfully. He eventually deigned to introduce himself to Race, but not before Race reintroduced himself first. “Antonio Higgins.”

"Joseph Huntington III. This is my fiancée, Kelly Smaltzer."

"Great to meet you." Race was sitting next to Kelly so he turned to her as well and offered his hand, which she shook. "That dress is absolutely beautiful. Vera Wang?"

Kelly's face lit up. She was very pretty and Race felt a little bitter. "Thank you, yes. How did you know?"

While the others discussed whatever it was lawyers discussed, Race told her about Jack’s internship at the fashion magazine and how they would obsess over spreads together for hours and they fell into an easy conversation about fashion magazines. Kelly, it turned out, was writing for the website of a competing fashion magazine but she quietly admitted to Race that she was hoping to break away from fluff pieces soon and then move to a magazine more like the one Jack worked at- one that was focused on fashion but strived for inclusivity and female empowerment. She had some interesting ideas and Race was slowly starting to like her. She and Jack would be a force to be reckoned with if put in the same room together. If they were relegated to conversation as trophy wives for the night, he didn’t think he would mind it.

Eventually the waiter appeared with drinks. Spot leaned into Race's space to tell him, "I ordered you a seltzer, babe."

Race kissed Spot on the cheek, taking his glass from the waiter. "Perfect, thanks."

As the waiter took their orders, Race suddenly realized he hadn’t looked over the menu at all- a dangerous choice, since he could be pretty picky with his Italian food. He began reading over but he only got through two appetizers before Spot interrupted him, quietly pointing out two of the menu items. “There’s lasagna you’ll like and a pasta primavera, if you want something lighter.”

“You know me too well,” he said with a wink and Spot rolled his eyes. He thought he heard Joseph scoff but he ignored it.

Once they'd settled back into conversation after ordering, Race found himself the center of attention. "So, Tony," Taylor said as she put away her reading glasses. "Sean tells me you're also at Columbia?"

Race nodded. "I am. I'm still an undergrad though- only a junior. Sean's too smart for me; he graduated high school and undergrad early."

"Don't sell yourself short. You’re-" Spot started but was interrupted by Joseph.

"You're a dance major then?"

"Yes," Race said, taking a sip of his seltzer, "a dance major and-"

“And what do you plan to do with that?”

“Well, I’m not quite sure yet but I also-”

"At Yale, dance is folded into the Theater Studies major. It’s not a very popular major. Most students at Yale choose a more… useful path for undergrad. I majored in political science. Joseph continued, a not so subtle attempt at shifting the focus of conversation to himself..

"Oh, how interesting," Dalia said, sounding perfectly interested though Race didn’t miss the little annoyed look that crossed her face.

Joseph launched into what was probably meant to sound like a description of undergraduate life in New Haven but was actually just a thinly veiled list of his accomplishments. Race nodded politely at all the right points in Joseph’s resume but caught Spot tensing his body out of the corner of his eye. Hoping to head off Spot’s seething, Race grabbed his hand under the table and squeezed it once, shaking his head a little. He waited for Spot to nod back to him before turning to Kelly. God, Spot could be such a drama queen. And, coming from Race, who was now leading on the pettiness scoreboard in their apartment, that was saying a lot.

Race turned back to Kelly, hoping to hear more of her ideas for future articles. She seemed excited just to have the chance to talk about them and after listening to both Katherine and Sarah rant for hours on end, Race felt like he knew how to actually engage in the conversation as an ally without being a total jerk.

By the time their food came, it was clear to Race that Spot’s assessment of Joseph as a Grade A Asshole was correct. He attempted to make every conversation about him and his opinions. He kept making digs at Spot’s less than ideal childhood and cutting off his own fiancée to speak for her. He was sitting next to Dalia but spent the whole time clearly trying to impress Taylor. In his effort to engage with Taylor, he ended up essentially ignoring Dalia, Kelly, and Race, and only engaging with Spot because he had to. No one seemed overly impressed with his accomplishments or his attitude which helped restore Race’s faith in humanity a little but it did not make for a fun dinner table.

Race could tell Spot was getting closer and closer to going off. His jaw was tight and he kept clenching and unclenching his fists under the table. It was one of the things Race loved most about Spot- his righteous outrage in the face of someone treating others like shit- but now was not the time for an outburst. He kept one hand just above Spot’s knee, even while talking to Kelly, slowly rubbing circles right above his knee cap.

Taylor and Dalia were wonderful, trying to keep everyone involved in the conversation. It was when they asked Kelly about herself that Race really started to get annoyed with Joseph. He kept talking over her, even when she was asked a direct question, ascribing opinions to her that Race could tell from her face she didn’t really hold. He told their engagement story with a focus on how amazing his plan had been while barely mentioning Kelly. When he excused himself to use the bathroom shortly after that, Race made it a point to ask Kelly again about the articles she wanted to write for her magazine. Taylor and Dalia both listened intently to her ideas of what fashion magazines could- and should- be.

“Sorry,” she said after a few minutes, putting her hands back in her lap and blushing a little. “I just get really excited about this kind of stuff.”

“No, no,” Taylor said. “Don’t apologize, you have a lot of really intelligent ideas and you’re very good at expressing them.”

Kelly beamed. “Thank you. I don’t have much chance to talk about them, even at work.”

Dalia hummed thoughtfully and nodded. “I remember seeing some profiles on your magazine recently. I thought they mentioned how progressive it was.”

“In some ways, it is,” Kelly said thoughtfully. “But in a lot of ways it’s white feminism and it’s lip service. There are a few articles on intersectionality in relation to feminism that I was sure I would get to write if I pitched them but I’ve been shut down again and again. They only want the type of feminism that’s palatable to their investors and they refuse to push for anything more. And we need to push for more. Intersectionality is the most important part of feminism and if I can somehow provide visibility to trans women or women of color-”

“This again, honey?” Joseph said, grinning as he sat down. “Sorry about that. She gets overexcited sometimes.”

Kelly looked visibly upset but also a little like she was used to it. “I’m not overexcited, Joey. This is important.”

“I don’t know why you care so much. It doesn’t affect you.”

“It does and even if it didn’t, then it’s even more important for me to care.”

Race could see a real argument brewing and, while he wouldn’t mind Joseph making himself out to be even more of an asshole, Kelly didn’t deserve to be put down in the middle of a restaurant, by her fiancee, when she was right. Without even thinking about it, Race took a sip of his almost finished seltzer and then set down his glass towards the edge of the table, tipping it into his own lap. “Oh my god, I’m such a klutz.” He stood, giving Spot a significant look and hoping his boyfriend picked up his cue to change the subject. “Excuse me, I’ll just go clean myself up.”

Race pulled a waitress aside as he headed to the bathroom, telling her about the spill. He cleaned himself up quickly. Thankfully, the air dryer helped with his wet pants. By the time he returned to the table, everyone seemed calm, though Kelly was decidedly not looking at Joseph. Dalia was speaking when Race sat down again. “I can’t say much obviously but it’s very exciting to represent them, even just in the patent filings. I mean, I have a degree in physics so it’s fun to go back to my roots with all the intermediary work before their next spacecraft is ready. Oh, Tony, is everything all right?”

“All set,” he said, taking his seat. “Just a little seltzer. Sorry, did you say you were working on patents for a spacecraft? Is it the Kord Industries one?”

Dalia’s eyes brightened. “Yes, actually, do you know it?”

“I do,” Race said at the same time that Joseph snorted. Race ignored it but could feel Spot seething next to him and reflexively reached a hand down to grab his knee. Spot was not going to blow his shot at this internship over whatever he thought was Race’s honor; not if Race could help it.

“And how do you feel about them? Most people who know enough to recognize them from such a brief description have strong opinions.”

“Oh, he does,” Spot said, a lot calmer than Race would expect.

Race laughed. “I guess that’s fair. I-“

“What would a dance major know about spacecraft?” Joseph had said it quietly to Kelly, who did not look pleased with him. The comment was clearly meant just for her but he hadn’t said it quietly enough because the whole table had heard him loud and clear.

“Joseph,” Kelly said, sounding scandalized. “Stop it.”

“It’s okay, Kelly,” Race said, forcing a smile onto his face, even though he was kind of exhausted from dealing with Joseph tonight.

“No, it’s not okay,” Spot interjected, standing in his seat and leaning over the table a little. “Antonio is double majoring in Dance and Astrophysics, which you would know if you hadn’t been interrupting him all night. He is the smartest and most passionate man I know. He has more talent in his pinky finger than you have in your entire body and will graduate with two very difficult degrees with no class overlap from an Ivy League school in 4 years. He’s already co-authored 2 papers as an undergrad and presented at 4 major conferences this year alone. And what have you done? Relied on daddy’s name for a degree and law school entry?”

“Spot,” Race hissed under his breath, tugging on Spot’s wrist. Both Joseph and Kelly were frozen on the other side of the table. “Sit down.”

“No, Racer. He’s been rude to everyone all night and he doesn’t get to insult your intelligence because one of your majors is dance and he couldn’t bother to listen to you and find out the other.”

Joseph seemed to have collected himself enough to lift an eyebrow, looking amused. “And you got in based on what? The scholarship for poor orphaned kids from Queens?”

“I’m from Brooklyn, asshole” Spot hissed and Race almost laughed. Leave it to Spot to bring up Brooklyn rather than his LSAT score of 179.

“I’m sorry but that is completely inappropriate language for a restaurant like this,” Joseph said still sounding amused. He looked to Dalia and Taylor, apparently aiming for conspiratorial. “I guess a place at Columbia is no guarantee for good breeding.” He turned back to Spot and Race, arms crossed as if he had won. “You should go now.”

“Actually, I think you should go, Joseph.” All eyes turned to Taylor who did not look happy at all. “Sean is right. You’ve been very rude tonight and I can’t say I blame him for lashing out. Kelly, darling, you’re welcome to stay. I’d love to hear more about your article ideas.”

Joseph’s absolutely shocked face would forever be one of Race’s favorite memories. He seemed frozen in his shock but Kelly jumped to action, standing and pulling Joseph up with her. “Thank you so much, Taylor, Dalia, but we’ll both be going. Sean, it was lovely to meet you. Tony, I’ll send you that article I was telling you about. Thank you all so much again. Have a lovely night.”

Kelly grabbed her coat and purse and pulled a shell shocked Joseph out behind her, without another word from him. Spot relaxed a little as he sat back down but Race saw the exact moment that he realized what had just happened.

“Professor, I am so sorry, that was completely inappropriate. We should go too-”

“Please don’t,” Taylor said. “You and Tony have been a delight tonight unlike Joseph. This is exactly why I do these dinners. You never know how a student behaves outside of class unless you meet them outside of class.”

“Yes, please stay,” Dalia said. “I’d like to hear Tony’s opinions on the Kord Industries spacecraft. The younger generation tends to have the most innovative thoughts on these things, in my experience. But first you’ll have to tell us where the nicknames Spot and Racer come from.”

Spot and Race grinned at each other.

“Well, you see,” Spot started, turning back to the older women. “My brother likes to think he’s very good at giving people nicknames.”

#newsies #newsies live #newsies 2017 #newsies fic #newsies fanfic #newsies fanfiction #race higgins #racetrack higgins #race newsies #racetrack newsies #spot conlon #spot newsies #sprace #modern au #college au #abb writes

45 notes · View notes

shark-from-the-park · 5 years

Text

FIC: The Fitzier of It, Episode Three

A Fitzier The Thick of It AU in several parts. You can find Episode One here and Episode Two here. With sincere thanks to @casperthefriendlylittlefan and @coffeesugarcream for their cheerleading and encouragement and to everyone else who has read and enjoyed so far. Mwah.

In this installment, James is getting stressed out as Sir John’s resignation looms and he still hasn’t finalised his future plans. And Dundy eats some more.

Warnings for bad language, NSFW themes, endlessly snacking LeVesconte, a badly mangled baguette and Cornelius Hickey.

@litttlesilkworm @boisinberryjamarama @thegreenmeridian @cinemaocd @the-jewish-marxist @hereliesnils @nashilena @itisa-profoundbond-sarandom @idlesuperstar @what-a-terrorific-mess @kahootqueen69 @jaredharrisankles @shit-in-silk-stocking @bobbole @fellowshipofthegay @aconfusedwriter @uncannybrightside @glorioustidalwavedefendor @zaphodbeeblebro @sasheenka @intrepid-inkweaver @full-of-terrors

Contact me via some smoke signalling or other method if you’d like to be tagged/untagged (mostly things I tag as fitzier do not show up in the fitzier tag).

Episode Three

James had an extremely productive morning forcing the resignation of a junior minister whom he would have happily eviscerated for getting caught up in another bloody PFI scandal, and then swinging by Hudson House to comfort Henry Collins, an anxiety-ridden shadow cabinet minister of Sir John’s whose past addiction to prescription painkillers had just wound up splashed across the tabloids.

James was secretly quite fond of Collins, and he put in a few phone calls to newspaper editors to see if he could get them to lighten up on the man via the use of a few veiled threats (his intimate knowledge of what the news teams had gotten up to at their last Blackpool conference once again proving invaluable).

Hungry enough to eat a horse, he dropped into Pret-a-Manger on his way back to Sir John’s offices. He was perusing the baguettes, struck by the notion that without Dundy present he might actually get to finish one by himself, when Cornelius Hickey oozed up behind him from whatever crack he usually called home.

“Fancy bumping into you on this side of town, James Fitzjames.” The diminutive man said.

James felt every hackle he had rise.

Clutching a chicken and avocado baguette as though it had wounded him in some way, James turned to face his rival spin doctor, a winning smile plastered on his face.

“Cornelius. What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Not on your way over to Baffin House are you, by any chance, James?” Hickey was, as so often, offensively chipper. “Only I heard that you’d been sniffing around Francis Crozier’s door...”

“Well, as you know Cornelius, Westminster whispers often can’t be trusted.” James beamed, only just this side of a rictus, avocado squidging out of the sides of the baguette between his fingers.

“I thought, surely not, James can’t possibly be so desperate for a candidate that he’s sniffing around Francis. Him and Francis have always hated each other… Poor James, I thought, it’s almost like he doesn’t know what to do in the face of Sir John’s resignation...”

“Rumoured resignation.” James said quickly. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear on street corners at 3am, Cornelius. Wasn’t it you who Francis once called the most immoral man in Britain? What else did he say now... That’s it, the love child of Piers Morgan and Katie Hopkins… Oh dear, you weren’t hoping for a shot at working for him, were you Cornelius?”

“Oh James, you know I never discuss my plans with anyone, even a dear friend such as yourself! And while we’re reminiscing, what was it that Francis said about you while you were still doing the long hair thing? Like you were trying to look like David Ginola, but were coming off more as Neil from The Young Ones? That was it. Ouch. The man’s references can be a bit dated but he does tend to hit pretty much on the nose, doesn’t he? Anyway, sit down James, let’s get some lunch and have a proper chat, shall we?”

Struggling not to visibly shudder with revulsion at the idea, James said “Er, no thanks Cornelius, I have to get a sandwich back to Dundy, you know how he gets, blood sugars and all that...” He grabbed blindly for another sandwich and a few packets of crisps before making his way to the queue, feeling Hickey’s grinning, calculating gaze on his back all the way.

*****

“So what you’re telling me...” Dundy managed around a mouthful of pulverised avocado and baguette. “Is that you and Hickey fought over Francis in Pret, and I missed it?”

James swallowed a huge mouthful of New York deli sandwich. “I could honestly have strangled the little weasel-faced bastard. As if he could ever even stand a chance with Francis after everything that happened with Silna that time. And even before that he never stood a chance anyway... The slippery little prick...”

“Tell me you had a dance-off James? Give me this one thing. I mean, you and Hickey having a dance off for rights to Francis Crozier in Pret-a-Manger, that’s pretty much gay culture in a nutshell, isn’t it?”

“Dundy, you’re straight. You don’t get to say what is or isn’t gay culture.”

Dundy inhaled a handful of crisps, then spoke around the bulk of them. “What, even after I’ve been your hag for all these years?”

“Anyway, if we had had a dance off I definitely would have won.”

“No question.” Dundy agreed loyally. Then he ruined it by getting a stupid sly look on his face. “You’re really quite possessive over this Bolshevik boyfriend of yours considering that you don’t fancy him at all, aren’t you?”

“Fucking hell Dundy! If you don’t start taking our next moves more seriously we could both well end up working in a bloody Pret-a-Manger before the year is out! Do some fucking work and stop making daft jokes or I’ll choke you with a sandwich and use your corpse to bludgeon Hickey to death!” James was surprised to find that he had raised his voice.

“Everything alright out there gentlemen?” Echoed the kindly voice of Sir John Franklin from his voluminous office next door.

“Fine thanks!”

“Right as rain, Sir John!”

They bent their heads back to their work, James pouring over his notebook frantically and Dundy redrafting a speech on his laptop, still with a stupid smirk on his face.

*****

To say that James and Dundy were snowed under with spin in the run up to Sir John’s resignation speech would have been a gross understatement. Between them they killed more negative stories about boot-gate, redirected more journalists and called in more favours than a likeable but frankly mediocre politician probably deserved.

James Fitzjames was a born charmer, but the thankless offensive he’d been on these last few weeks had exhausted even him.

Now he and Dundy stood next to each other, squeezed in at the back of the public gallery at the House of Commons, awaiting Sir John’s resignation speech – a masterpiece of class and dignity that they’d painstakingly co-written.

The session before Franklin’s slot was a foreign policy debate that they were catching the tail end of.

A cabinet minister made the sort of crass and factually inaccurate generalisation that characterised his administration.

From across the other side of the house, there was a flash of greying ginger on the back bench as Francis indicated and stood to respond. His lyrical yet acerbic voice resonated clearly around the chamber as he calmly eviscerated the cabinet minister’s comment for the patent absurdity that it was. His words were polite enough but his tone loudly called the other man a racist piece of shit.

The house erupted into murmurs in the aftermath as a completely unruffled Francis sat down again.

Excitement rumbled low in James’ belly as he imagined Francis on the front bench, forthright and unapologetic in his leadership, giving the party the direction and purpose and bite it had been lacking for so long.

He laughed breathlessly.

Dundy elbowed him in the ribs and gave him an incredulous look. James sobered at once, just in time to see Sir John rise to deliver their masterpiece.

*****

There was a small, slightly subdued sort of function at HQ afterwards, canapés and weak champagne and Lady Jane milling around, that sort of thing.

James smiled charmingly at everyone and was overwhelming in his enthusiasm and positivity. Even Dundy turned on his own not-inconsiderable charm.

Many ministers, aides and hangers-on had come to commiserate with Sir John and wish him luck for the future. Also to congratulate him on his excellent speech.

Francis sent Sir John a brief message of goodwill for his retirement, but declined to attend the gathering, which was exactly what James had predicted.

The two or three other likely candidates for party leadership in the wake of Sir John’s resignation were all in attendance, however. And they all had to be seized up and courted as James considered his and Dundy’s next moves.

As the evening wore on, Dundy stepped out to call his wife, and James found himself stood alone at the counter which was serving as a bar, deep in thought.

His soul nearly jumped out of his body when a voice to his left intoned;

“Ey up.”

Tom Blanky was standing beside him, dressed in his his usual rumpled suit, hair as wild as ever. James’ arrow paper-clip was still affixed to his shirt pocket like a trophy. He appeared to be wrapping canapés in serviettes and shoving them into his jacket pockets.

“That was a right nice speech of Franklin’s today, James.”

James blinked. “Well. I can’t take all the credit. Henry wrote it with me.”

“You two come as a package deal, I expect.” Blanky said conversationally.

“Yes.” James responded at once, though he wasn’t at all sure where this was going. It was true that James did the bulk of the work, but he couldn’t have coped without Dundy’s steady, loyal presence beside him. A spin doctor with a close colleague who was also a friend was almost unheard of. A thousand times better to be working with Dundy than to have to work against him in some capacity.

“Yer’ve done a right good job with Franklin these last few weeks, the two of yer. Tha’s just a fact.”

James tried not to let his surprise at this unexpected praise flummox him. This couldn’t possibly be the invitation it appeared to be, could it? He needed to keep his wits about him.

“Well, thank you for that, Mr. Blanky. And I, er, I thought Francis spoke brilliantly in the house today. Very upstanding and forthright.”

Blanky gave him a considered look with his sharp, intelligent little eyes. One corner of his mouth was quirking into what might have been a smirk.

“The thing about Frank, James, is that he says exactly what he wants to say. Obviously he spoke off the cuff today. He usually does. He writes his own speeches. Has me and Ed look over ‘em for ‘im, ‘course. But he always knows what he wants to say, and ‘e usually knows just how to put it, too. He’s a wicked smart man, is Frank. D’yer really think you can be of use to someone like that?”

The question surprised him, but he answered as confidently as he could, even under scrutiny. “If I didn’t think I could be of use to Francis, I would never have approached him in the first place.”

Tom Blanky smiled at him then, downed two glasses of champagne, stuffed a packet of crackers inside his jacket, and bid James goodnight.

*****

Whether Blanky’s approach had been sanctioned by Francis or not, James had no idea, but he couldn’t help but feel encouraged by it.

James’ other rival spinners had already begun to attach themselves to other candidates for the leadership. Meaning that James was now going firmly out on a limb by trying to work for a man who more than likely still hated him.

Dundy, as always, was simply content to follow where James led.

There was a short, and no-doubt stressful, window of opportunity here, a matter of days in which for James to make everything fall into place.

He had to keep himself and Dundy relevant, and ideally still working in top-tier politics.

With overwhelming support from the grass-roots of the party, and the general public generally perceiving him as a breath of fresh air, Francis really was the one to watch. All of James’ political instincts had been telling him that for years now.

And Blanky hadn’t approached any of the other spin doctors who had been schmoozing at the gathering last night, had he?

No. He only came to talk to me.

That had to mean something.

Time to swallow my pride and approach Francis again...

Maybe Dundy, and even Sir John, had been right in a way though. Maybe James did need to inject a bit more humility into his manner.

The thought made him feel uncomfortably warm somehow.

James huffed in irritation.

The thing was, he’d already reached the top of his profession, being Sir John’s media enforcer throughout his leadership of the opposition. The only way for him to go now was down.

Unless Francis really was considering hiring him.

James knew, deep down inside, that Francis was the man for the job. The one who deserved it. Francis was someone you could actually – perish the thought – believe in.

That sort of thing hadn’t seemed to matter very much to James, before.

And yet here he was.

Definitely sensing a sea change.

Right then.

There was nothing else for it. It was time to do what he did best. It was time to get to work.

*****

“Word on the street,” Dundy informed him with a conspiratorial air between bites of carrot cake in Cafe Nero, “Is that Francis actually chased Hickey out of the building last week, James. Out of the building. When you look at it from that perspective, we’re actually still in with a good shot.”

Dundy, having a wife and kids and therefore a life outside politics, could always be relied upon to take a more balanced view on things than James.

“You’re right.” James said, mostly just for something to say, though if he’d considered it, he might’ve realised that he meant it about more than the Hickey debacle.

James didn’t pause his furious scribbling into his Moleskin notebook.

Names, phone numbers, offices.

He had a plan.

*****

Episode Four here...

#fitzier #the fitzier of it #jimmy fitz is in love #francis crozier/james fitzjames #fuckity hi

38 notes · View notes

daysswithyou · 5 years

Text

Fallen Chapter 9: Well done again my friend

previous / next

Characters: DAY6 Young K x OC (Rachel)

Genre: angst, fake dating, high school romance, fluff, romance

Warnings: Mentions of blood, mild cursing

-----

Once out of the public eye, first aid personnel rushed over to take over your position, dragging Brian and Sungjin away. The sudden loss of human contact left you empty and cold, your hands already missing the warmth of his body as soon as he left you. Not wanting to go back to the roaring crowd yet not knowing where to leave, you slotted yourself carefully in a small corner, making way for the rest of the team to enter. Looking at their exuberant faces, you found yourself smiling softly at the sight, happy that their efforts for the past few months have paid off greatly. You didn’t know many of them personally, but you didn’t need to know someone to feel happy for them. You just did. At this moment, more first aid personnel rushed over, doing a once-over of the boys to check for anyone that had wounds that needed to be tended to.

The sight reminded you of the reason that you were in the locker room in the first place: Brian Kang.

Scanning the room frantically, your eyes finally zeroed in on the man sitting right on the opposite side of the room. His jersey was now gone, and you could see the entire left side of his body flare up in an angry red. It started from his shoulders till the middle of his ribcage but every inch was soon covered in blue ice packs, hastily pressed in place by the first aid personnel. His eyes fluttered shut at the cool sensation, a welcome relief from the pain he had been enduring the entire game. His ankle was being slowly wrapped up in compression bandages, and he knew that this injury would heal fine on its own. But the worst was not over yet. Blood was still pouring down the right side of his face, the small towel he was pressing against his brow almost soaked through. The first aid personnel did a great job in clearing off most of the blood on his face within minutes, giving you a clear view of the gapping split. It was an inch-long split that started at the end of the brow, travelling up the length of his forehead. Looking at the plethora of injuries that he had on his body, you winced, wondering how on earth he could endure so much pain for half the game.

Kang Younghyun, you crazy bastard… All of those must really hurt…

You wanted to keep your eye on him longer just to make sure that he was really alright, but the moment you saw the glint of the curved, wicked stitching needle under the harsh light, you immediately turned away, not having the stomach to witness the sight of a gaping wound being stitched up. Besides, you’ve been in this space that isn’t yours to begin with for too much time, and he was in good hands now. There was no reason for you to stay any longer.

Where’s the damn exit?

Finally, you spot your saving grace right at the back, and you headed straight for it, closing the door lightly behind you once you were out in the hallway alone. Melting against the white brick walls, you exhaled deeply to let out the breath that you’ve been holding in all this while, reminding yourself to breath normally. In the quietness of the empty hallway and away from the crowd, the tranquillity of the moment gave you time to look back upon the blur of events that had just happened, each memory becoming sharper and gaining greater clarity in your mind.

The kiss.

Unconsciously, you ran your fingers lightly against your lips, remembering the feeling of his lips against yours, albeit short. His hot breath fanned across your lips just before you closed the space between the two of you, feeling his entire body tense when you placed your hands gently against the column of his neck. His lips were chapped; you could feel the broken skin pricking yours slightly. But still, his lips were soft like a pillow, making the kiss a comfortable one. You can still acutely remember the feeling of his sharp nose pressing against your cheek slightly during the kiss, feeling like a cute little boop instead of being uncomfortable. Your cheeks continued to flush a deeper shade of pink each time your mind replayed the same scene over and over again, the temperature in the hallway rising with each second. You mentally reprimanded yourself for being so silly, allowing yourself to feel so flustered over a kiss. It wasn’t like you haven’t done it before – so why was this particular kiss affecting you so much?

Aish stop thinking about it, Rachel Hwang! Get a grip! And stop acting like a lovesick child!

You slapped your cheeks rapidly with both palms, hoping the pain would shock your senses back into normality. (And most importantly, away from any further thoughts on Brian Kang.)

“Ya, what are you doing?”

You weren’t expecting anyone to witness your little episode so when Esther’s voice boomed through the empty hallway, you shot 2 feet into the air, grazing your head painfully against the hard brick wall.

“Ow… Ya! You scared me! What are you doing here?”

“What was that big reaction for… Ya! I could ask you the same question! Where did you disappear to after the match? What are you doing here outside their locker room?”

Esther walked over to stand right before you, folding her arms in front of her chest as she tapped her foot lightly against the ground, tilting her head up to look at you from above with hooded eyes. You glared at her from your spot below, still wincing from the pain as you continued rubbing circles over the sore spot.

“The answers to your questions aren’t important anymore. I’m leaving now, so help me say hi to the boys, and tell them that they did well.”

You turned to walk away from the scene, only to be yanked back to your original spot by Esther.

“Classes for the day have been cancelled in celebration of their victory so you’ve got nowhere else to be now. Besides, you’re right outside their room now, might as well tell them what you want to say in person.”

Reaching behind you, she pushed open the door with one hand as the other shoved you into the room, and you found yourself back at where you started, the only difference this time was Esther by your side, blocking your escape route.

The sight before you were one to behold. The team was lifting Brian's battered and bruised self above their heads, tossing him up and down as he hugged their hard-earned trophy in his hands. He occasionally lifted the trophy up into the air as he let out a triumphant roar in sync with the rest of the team, the handle of it almost grazing the ceiling. You worried that his wounds might suffer more abrasion from the rough manhandling but then realised that he probably trusted his “ride-or-die” team more than anyone else in the world, and you should too. Esther and you contented yourselves by standing at the side-line; it was hard not to beam at the team celebrating in joy despite your worries about Brian’s physical health.

The team only broke apart when Jae finally caught sight of Esther, signalling for the rest of them to put Brian down slowly. Esther immediately ran forward to launch herself into the arms of the tall, lanky male, giving him a small peck on the lips when he leaned his neck down for her to reach. You widen your eyes at the couple in disbelief, marvelling at their fast progress. You’ll have time to question them about their relationship later but right now, you have a more pressing issue to settle, namely – a certain Brian Kang making his way towards you. He’s limping on his good foot to reach you, and you decide to make the distance shorter by walking up towards him instead. Now that both of you are face to face, you got to have a better look at him.

The most jarring thing that stood out on his face was the stitches that formed a neat row of crosses to seal the wound, the edges now crusted with his dried blood. The bruise on his cheek from the punch just now still looked painful, even though the red swelling was slowly toning down to a shade of purple. The same thing was happening to his body, uneven patches of purple forming along his chest and shoulder.

Still, this crazy boy in front of you could find the energy to smile, firing questions and exclamations rapidly at you.

“Oh Rachel! You’re still here! I was wondering where you went just now after you brought me in. How was the match? Did Ayeon and – ”

Before he could get another word in on Ayeon and Jaebum’s reaction to your little kiss just now, you cut him off by wrapping your arms around him lightly, careful to not place your hands on his shoulder, your fingertips just hovering above his skin. You chose to place your head on his left side, not wanting to brush against his sore, right cheek.

“Thank you for taking all the hits for the team and pulling through with the game despite the immense pain you were. Well done Brian Kang, you did really well today.”

Not being able to do anything else, you press your face a little harder against his, hoping he could feel the sincerity behind your words. Brian stood still in your arms for a short while, not daring to believe the words he’s just heard. Did someone really…just…praise him for…playing a game? Over time, as he got better at the game, Brian had gotten used to taking hits for the team; he would rather it be him than them, if that meant that the rest of them would be left alone most of the time to make goals. It had become a silent given at this point of time; no one ever thanked him for taking hits for the team.

But today… someone finally did. Furthermore, it was coming from someone that had come to see him play for the first time. In a short period of time, you were able to see his effort and that itself, touched his heart immensely.

Breaking out into a smile, Brian buried his face further into your hair, finally bringing his hands up to place them on your lower back, locking his fingers together as he tugs you closer to him. Word were lost to him now that he was overwhelmed with emotions, and it took him some time before he could get the simple words out.

“Th- Th- Thank you… Rachel.”

You let out a small laughter at his flustered self, amused at this new sight of the typically composed Brian Kang losing his cool. Pulling away from Brian, you and him share a private moment, exchanging genuine smiles with one another for the very first time as tears glisten slightly in both your eyes. There was no audience watching, no one to put up a show for. Everything about this moment was picture perfect – the only problem?

Both of you had broken the first rule: No displays of affection outside the public eye.

39 notes · View notes

fanficsforpogchamps · 6 years

Text

| Bakugou & Reader |

WARNING: SLUDGE MONSTER INCOMING!

NOTES: This is a smol draft thing :))

When you didn’t answer your phone, Bakugou knew something was wrong. Normally, around 5:30 pm, he would call you to know if you would be late from your work before you got on your daily train on the way home. The ash blonde drummed and tapped his fingertips against the countertop while he allowed the curry to sizzle in the pot on a medium heat, the aromatic smell of paprika and tikka hitting his nose quickly. The current time was 5:53 and you still had yet to answer him back or accept his calls, almost every time the phone ringing out. The realisation that something might have happened hit him like a smack and he reached for the remote so he could switch on the news.

“-LLAN HAS BEEN SEEN WITH A HOSTAGE, A YOUNG PERSON IS CURRENTLY IN THE VILLAINS GRASP AND WE ARE PRAYING FOR A HERO TO SAVE THEM-” Nothing more had to be said before Katsuki switched off the food and abandoned the meal for the more pressing fact that the villain attack was in the area that you normally walk to get the train, and that you wasn’t answer your phone? Too coincidental for him to NOT worry. The explosive man pulled on a coat and flung open the door in a fit of worry and rage, notthathe’deveryadmithewasworried.

You grasped at the sludge, trying to claw your way from its liquid as the villain invaded your lungs, mouth and nose disgustingly as a way to enter your system. The beady eyes watching you struggle only seemed to be more amused at your efforts than the pathetic attempts Kirishima and Deku gave to get you out. Your feet dangled from the floor as the sludge held you up high, almost as if you was a trophy to be showed off. “I can’t- b-breathe,” You gasp, spluttering and coughing at the lack of oxygen you got. “Oh don’t worry~ It will only hurt for 45 more seconds! Then your body will be mind~ And what a delicious quirk!” He sneered, teeth baring into a wide smirk as more and more sludge seeped into your gut. It was an almost lewd suggestion, but the lewdness was thrown away as you remembered the suffocation you was going through.

You raised your palm, the sludge sticking to it, and tried to activate your quirk yet the only thing that came out was a few spluts of gold, the liquid metal leaking from your fingertips. ‘This is it!’ you think, your eyesight darkening in the corners while the visions in front of you blurred slightly. “Just give up,” ‘My body can’t take anymore,’ Normally you wouldn’t give up this easily, but the adrenaline you got while fighting him before wore off a few minutes ago and the panic settled in that you could die. He put up quite a fight, being able to easily dodge your attacks and melding his body to match the terrain of the streets. Your quirk didn’t help of course if you couldn’t touch him- your quirk being able to produce multiple compounds from your fingertips such as gold or platinum but you needed a solid surface to change. Being liquid was your worst nightmare. And it seemed he was toying with you before finally capturing your body and slowly poured himself into your mouth and nose.

“Die you prick!” You had yelled, picking up the words ‘Die’ and ‘Prick’ from your boyfriend Katsuki, the explosive boy you loved for the past few years. In U.As second year he had asked you out in the weirdest way possible-

“Hey!” My fingers wrapped tightly around my backpack straps as I bid goodbye to my friends and turn to my locker. The voice that called out before suddenly got closer with another. “Dumbass (Y/N)!” Of course- I roll my eyes before switching to face the owner of the voice in question. Before me stood Bakugo Katsuki the hothead of Class 1-A while I was the nerd of Class 1-B. We slotted together as friends perfectly because of his love for training and my strange quirk which was always able to catch him off guard. Not only was he strong- confident and kind of funny, he was incredibly handsome in his training gear and those arms. “Yes you Pineapple?” I tease, my tongue poking out from between my lips slightly to show him I meant no hard. His crimson eyes bore holes into me while I waited for him to respond. The boy seemed to be in a thinking manner, as his eyes would flicker over my face a few times before coming back to my eyes.

Next thing I knew a shoe was next to my head and he had leant closer to me, close enough to push me further against the locker. My breathing caught in my throat for a few seconds while I held in a whimper and pressed my back against my locker door. “K-Katsu,” “Date me,” … … … Wait- “What?” I ask, cheeks flushing a deep red at what he just said. “I wont say it again after this you dumbass!” He snapped, and only now did I realise how red his cheeks were, probably from embarrassment. “Date me,”

How could you say no?

‘Please Katsu-’ You gasped out mentally, your fingers slowly stopping their movements and dropping to your side, motionless. ‘Hurry,’

#bnha fanfiction #bnha katsuki #AAAANGST #part2?IdkYouDecideBoo #bnha x reader

29 notes · View notes

bat-losers-inc · 6 years

Text

Collisions in the Dark (Ch 9): Berserker

Summary: In the wake of some devastating news, Tim act out against Ra’s al Ghul in a very Jason-like fashion.

Pairings: Jason Todd/Tim Drake & Tim Drake/Ra’s al Ghul & Jason Todd & Talia al Ghul

Chapter Notes: Berserker: A rash playing style characterized by frenzied attacking with one or two pieces, perhaps with little regard for strategy or danger

“This must be what love is: a pain so radiant it cuts through all others.” — “Beekeeping”, Sara Eliza Johnson.

Tim squeezed his eyes shut tight and tried to remember how to breathe. He wrapped his arms around his middle and felt the press of his chest against his forearms with every inhale he took. He stayed sitting that way in rigid silence until he’d convinced his body that he was still alive, despite the pain that thrummed in his chest.

Tim opened his eyes and stared at the floor. He could feel Ra’s presence behind him and the uncertain eyes of every worker in the room as they stared at the two of them in fearful silence. Tim knew that if he looked up at any one of them in that moment, he would see an earlier version of himself. It must have been what he’d looked like to Jason on that first night during dinner with Ra’s, where he was so afraid to attract the Demon Head’s eye that he scarcely looked in his direction, his eyes fixed on only Jason and his plate. Tim knew that he wasn’t that person anymore, he couldn’t be after being in Ra’s corrupting presence for so long.

“Clear the room.”

The silence was momentarily filled with the squeaking of chair wheels and the shuffle of footsteps. Tim watched their shadows slide across the floor tiles in front of him. He tilted his head, ear straining until he heard the door click shut behind the last man.

“Why did you do it?” Tim had to take a breath before saying it. He didn’t want to taste those words on his tongue… to hear the words ring in his own ears.

“Kill him,” Tim finished, hating the finality of it.

He gave a small abortive shake of his head, trying to slot Ra’s decision into some logical place in his mind. “You could have just sent him away. You won… he knew that you’d won. If you had told him to leave and never set his eyes on me again, he would have done it. So, why kill him?”

Ra’s moved forward until Tim thought he could almost see him out of the corner of his eye. “Jason was a distraction that needed to be eliminated. Permanently.”

Tim laughed. It hurt. “A distraction?”

“You and I both know that he would have lingered in the back of your mind if he still lived and breathed. Your focus would be elsewhere. I couldn’t afford to take that risk.”

Ra’s was right. As long as Tim had hope and the memory of their one night together, Tim wouldn’t be thinking of anyone else.

“And sending him to his death.” Tim turned to stare at him over his shoulder. “You didn’t think that would distract me? That it wouldn’t make me hate you?”

“You’ve always hated me,” countered Ra’s. There wasn’t any anger to his words, this was just an understanding that Ra’s had come to on his own.

Tim shook his head and pushed slowly to his feet. He turned around to address Ra’s properly. “No, I was afraid of you. There’s a difference. But now you’ve truly earned my hatred. You took him away from me.”

“No!” Barked Ra’s, some anger finally pushing through that cool demeanor. “He was taking you away from me. I was eliminating a threat. Protecting what’s mine!”

Tim’s anger flared and he didn’t bother to restrain himself. What did it matter anymore? Jason was alone and dying. The mission was done. He had no pretense to maintain anymore.

“I was never yours!” he roared. “Did you really think that any of it was real? That I could actually love you? You don’t even know how to love.”

Tim panted, breath ragged. “I’ve seen your type before… the old bachelors at Bruce’s galas who come from old money and care only about flaunting it in everyone’s faces. You’re greedy and cold. You only want me to say that you have me. To show me off like I’m a trophy! Well, I am not your possession and I don’t love you. How many times do I have to flat-out reject you, before you understand that?”

Ra’s latched at his wrist, despite Tim’s delayed effort to pull his arm out of reach. Tim tugged futilely against his hold anyway, hating the feeling of being shackled, feeling like he did that first night when he woke up here, his wrist chained to the headboard.

“You could never make me not love you.” Ra’s declared. “Despite what you might be feeling right now, despite where you go in a month… a year from now. I will always search for you and try to prove my love to you.”

Tim’s mouth opened, but it took a moment before any words were ready on his tongue. “Is that romantic to you? Because it shouldn’t be. It feels more like a threat than a declaration of love.”

Ra’s smiled. “I guess it all depends on your mindset.”

Tim slipped his wrist slowly out of Ra’s, not yanking… no he didn’t want to make himself look like a threat. He was calm as he put more space in between them, pressing his back against the desk and planted his hands on the desktop for support.

“You want a declaration of love? How’s this… Even when he’s dead and buried in the ground, even when the bugs and rot have gotten to him and his face is unrecognisable from its former beauty, and he no longer holds the space in the back of everyone’s heads… even then I will still love Jason Todd more than I could ever love you.”

Once Tim said it out loud he knew it was true. There was nothing Ra’s could do to change that. No matter how hard he tried.

Ra’s smiled, there was anger there but also a fierce determination to change those facts to his favor. “Not even death will part us, Timothy. Not even—”

Tim couldn’t stand to listen to it anymore, knowing it was true. Despite his stubbornness and his devotion to Jason, Ra’s had an army and a lazarus pit on his side. Tim was never going to escape here.

In an unexplainable act of ,very Jason-like, suicide his hands found the wireless keyboard on the desk and he brought it around in a savage, two-handed swing. It collided with the side of Ra’s face, cracking in half on impact. Tim felt a rush of adrenaline at the knowledge that he’d caught Ra’s off guard. Ra’s stumbled, dazed, and fell to one knee.

Tim knew he couldn’t stop now. He dropped the broken remains of the keyboard and found another within reach, striking at Ra’s again, but the older man was ready this time, throwing up his arms to deflect the blow. Ra’s’ hands ripped the keyboard from Tim’s grip and chucked it across the room.

When Tim looked at Ra’s face, dripping blood into his left eye from a cut above his eyebrow, Ra’s’ face was caught in a mix of shock and anger. Tim believe he might have forgotten that his beloved “detective” held such rage in him. Tim was intent on reminding him.

He stepped in towards Ra’s and struck up with his knee. Ra’s snaked his arm around his leg and pulled, sending Tim crashing to the floor.

Then, Ra’s was over him, hands grasping for his arms to press them into the ground. Tim grit his teeth and pummeled the man with his knees and feet until he managed to kick Ra’s’ feet out from under him. Tim coughed as the air exploded out of his lungs at the extra weight on his chest, but planted his feet all the same and rolled both of them until he was on top.

Tim wasted no time in striked Ra’s in the face. Tim felt raw and unrepentant in his violent behavior. He thought at this moment that he might finally understand what Jason felt like when he was brawling in the dark alleyways against Gotham’s most notorious villains. Taking all of those emotions that had built up from nightmares and old, unhealed, wounds and releasing them through your fists. Feeling in that moment like you were overpowering it with the breaking of skin and the spray of blood.

Tim burrowed his knees and heels into Ra’s’ sides to prevent him from bucking him off. Ra’s was dazed and down but Tim knew him well enough to know that he was not out. Tim would not underestimate him again.

The commotion their brawl was making must have alerted Ra’s servants. It was hard to tear his gaze aware when that tunnel vision was starting up, but Tim looked up towards the far doors. He really shouldn’t have, the distraction was all Ra’s needed to strike. His hand shot up and grasped Tim’s neck like a vice.

Tim choked on a breath and dug his fingernails into the flesh of Ra’s’ hand, trying to pull one of his fingers back enough to dislocate it. Ra’s didn’t give him a chance, though, using his leverage to throw Tim off him.

Tim’s head cracked against the tiled floor, black spots dancing before his eyes. Tim blinked hard through his distorted gaze, shoving himself backwards even as his body urged him to stay still. He couldn’t see much, but he could make out basic shapes, like for example, the oblong shape which was Ra’s and was currently standing and moving towards him.

“I thought we’d gotten past this behavior, Detective.” Ra’s wiped at the blood that trailed from his nose.

Tim staggered to his feet and, with a cry, ran at him. They came together and traded short, sharp blows to each other’s head and torso. Tim’s world narrowed into jabs, blocks, and breaking grips. Ra’s arms clutched at Tim’s shoulders, yanking him in to deliver bruising thrusts of his knees to Tim’s sides. Tim took the beating and thrust his elbows down, breaking Ra’s grip on him. His kicked Ra’s in the stomach and then higher, across the face, sending him stumbling backwards. There was blood splattered across the floor.

Tim wanted to relish the breathing room he’d gained, but knew if he did then Ra’s would have the upper hand again. He actually wanted to figure out who had entered the room while he was getting his ass handed to him and if they were going to be a problem, but he could only deal with one problem at a time. He came at Ra’s kicking, striking at his shins and sides. He bounced back on the balls of his feet and came in again with a roundhouse kick with his opposite leg.

Ra’s trapped Tim’s leg against his hip and twisted. Tim collapsed as his balance was thrown off. The blows that rained down on him after that were quick and brutal, punching the air out of his lungs. Tim was on the floor again with Ra’s staring down at him, expecting Ra’s boot to come down on his face at any second and end this fight. Ra’s was prepared to fill that expectation, it seemed, and his leg rose.

Tim didn’t think that either of them were prepared for one of the men that had been hanging off to the side to come charging out of left field and knock Ra’s off his feet like a linebacker. Tim stared in shock at Ra’s as he slid across the tiles.

Hands were under Tim’s arms, dragging him up and backwards. Tim jerked back into awareness of his situation and tried to twist out of his attacker’s hold, but the man had ahold of his shirt and, short of undressing himself, he couldn’t get free.

“Stop fighting me. We’re on your side.” grunted the man pulling Tim towards the doors.

“What is the meaning of this!” Ra’s bellowed from across the room as three more men approached him, blocking his path towards Tim.

“Talia al Ghul sends her regards.”

Tim stopped struggling and allowed himself to be put on his feet. The same man that had been dragging Tim clutched his arm and pulled him through the hallways of the compound. Tim was aware of more men surrounding him, protecting him from all sides, but his mind was occupied with thoughts of Talia and the aid she had sent him.

He couldn’t understand why she would help him, until he thought about Ra’s and Jason’s deal. Talia hadn’t known about it. Only a day ago she had been urging Jason to flee and save himself, she wouldn’t have just gone along with a plan to martyr Jason. Well, she had definitely found out now and it seemed she wasn’t happy. Tim felt oddly proud that she had chosen his side over her own father’s.

“There’s a car fueled and waiting for you.” The man shoved a piece of paper into Tim’s hands. “You must find Jason Todd and take him to this location. You may find an ally there who could save Jason.”

Tim was out of breath and his thoughts were out of order with the whiplash speed that everything was changing at. Save Jason? There was a possibility he could still be saved? “But how do I get to him? He’s all the way in New York and I’m… here.”

Tim wasn’t entirely sure where here was, but he knew it was going to take a long flight to reach Jason. And Jason didn’t have that much time. Plus Tim had to worry about not spreading the anthrax poisoning to anyone else.

“I’m sorry but that’s for you to figure out.”

Tim was yanked to a stop as someone came charging around the corner, katana drawn. Tim was pressed against the wall, shielded bodily, as the adversary was cut down. As he was pulled along again he asked, “Why are you helping me?”

The man leading him spared him but a glance, his expression unknowable through the black fabric that covered everything but his eyes from view.

“We owe a debt to Talia from long ago. Now we are repaying her, even at the cost of our lives.”

They made it to the car park and stopped in from of a black sedan, the back seats packed full with food and camping gear.

“Exactly how far away is this place?” Asked Tim with mild concern.

“A days drive or more, but the demon’s head will be looking for you. Your travel time might be delayed if you are evading search parties and it won't be safe to stay the night in a town.”

The man handed the keys over and stepped aside to let Tim into the driver’s side. Tim slammed the door shut and spoke through the opened window. “Evading packs of ninjas. Sounds fun. Any advice?”

The man placed his hand against the side of the car and leaned in. “Drive fast. Very, very, fast.”

Tim blinked at him. “Right… That's reassuring.”

He turned the key in the ignition. The radio came to life, a foreign pop song thumping through the speakers. Tim was reminded of the last music he’d heard, a song sung by a boy in almost hushed tones to a scared little girl, separated from her mother.

“You need to leave. Now” The man urged with a glance back the way they’d come from, like he was expecting company at any moment.

“I can’t,” said Tim.

“You have to!”

“I need you to promise that you’ll do something for me. Free the scientist and his family. I don’t want them to suffer at Ra’s hands.”

The man considered it for a moment, before settling on the honest answer. “I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything.”

“You’re best is more than they had before, so… thank you.”

There was noise in the corridor. “You need to leave, right now.”

Tim put the car and reverse and made a quick two point turn out of the parking spot, he glanced back in the rearview mirror as he was driving away, the men that had rescued him were already turning, distracted by an influx of ninjas that burst into the car park. Tim hadn't expected to get a send off anyway.

As he was driving down the winding road that ran down the mountainside and away from the compound, Tim fumbled in his pocket for the comm that Jason had left him and placed it in his ear. He’d have to wait until he was a safe distance away before he could stop and find the correct line to call.

“Shouldn't you be calling the big man with the pointy ears for this?” The voice asked, full of concern. “I mean Ra’s al Ghul is usually a Justice League issue. Not a Young Justice issue.”

Tim was sitting with a laptop perched on his lap. The car he was driving was currently pulled off of the road and parked behind a patch of bushes, obscuring it from view.

“The Justice League is already handling the aftermath in New York. Besides… I need someone fast not someone qualified. Bart, please! I need to get Jason here as quick as possible.”

There was a long pause that had Tim biting his lip in concern.

“Alright,” Bart said, finally. “You said I’d find him in New York?”

“Check all the hospitals,” suggested Tim. “I don't know how much he was exposed to. He might have been checked into one of them with the other evacuees.”

“Be back in a flash.” Tim smiled, envisioning the wink that went with that phrase.

Tim pushed the driver’s side door open and got out of the car, eager to feel the cold air on his skin. He had driven far enough that there was no longer snow on the ground, but the temperatures towards the bottom on the mountain range were still chilly enough to require a durable jacket.

There was a gust of wind that was strong that the ones that had been blowing against the back of Tim’s neck just a minute ago. He almost dismissed it until he heard the snap of branches underfoot.

Tim turned and stared at the two figures that stood before him, one of whom was sagging sideways into the speedster. Tim’s breath caught. “Jason.”

#collisions in the dark #Jason Todd #Tim Drake #Jason Todd/Tim Drake #Ra's al Ghul #ra'stim #bart allen #DC comics #Talia al Ghul #cw violence #tw violence

26 notes · View notes

drizzitwrites · 6 years

Text

Football RPF Linear Challenge - Day 1: First Impressions

This month I'll be participating in the Football RPF writing challenge. I've chosen to do the linear challenge and, as such, will be trying to either write a short scene or type out my headcannons for the characters around each of the themes--one per day.

I know the idea of this is to post to the AO3 collection, but since what I’m writing here is going to be short scenes that are parts of bigger fics or head cannons or things that might not make sense without the context of a bigger fic, I plan on posting most things here to this blog and if I end up using them as one-shots or somehow end up writing something that I can post to AO3 later, I will do. For now...I’m trying to update here every day. It will be a work--especially in terms of making time--but that’s the point of the word “challenge” and the hope I have is that it will get me back into writing as mentioned below.

The first day is "First Impressions", which is something I've spent a bit of time both thinking about and trying to write about for a few different fics, but have never managed to write in a way that I've felt satisfied with. It's actually super hard to write the moment that someone meets someone else and their impressions, especially in the way my characters would do this in my created universe.

Further thoughts on the challenge and today’s theme, along with today’s fic scene are below the cut to save your dashboards.

It's odd because in my headcanon Vincent has all this history of knowing who Christian is, but Christian has never met him before and if he's heard of him it was vague and in passing because of him being the leading scorer at AZ the season before he came to Spurs. So he's not a total unknown to Christian, but he's also not someone Christian has given a lot of thought to, unlike the reverse where Vincent has spent many years of his life sort of secretly following along with Christian's career and recording his matches so he could watch them in secret when his roommates were asleep and all that. So you really get two very different sides to things. Add to this the fact that Christian is Danish and really doesn't understand his feelings OR want to acknowledge them (due to his culture and his position in life and some things that happened to him in the past) and you need to create the appropriate amount of internal narrative tension where Christian is looking at Vincent and saying "I acknowledge that this man is really rather good looking, but he's my teammate and not only do I feel like I *can't* act on that, I actually don't know how to parse this feeling and it's sort of just a general disquiet like...I think I felt something, but also maybe not, maybe I can just appreciate how good someone looks and then we move on." Honestly, I don't even think I can explain it well while NOT writing it and just speaking about it.

Basically, there's a fine line with writing Christian's feelings on meeting Vincent where it's easy to take it too far and push it into the overdramatic of Christian being like wow he's super gorgeous and I'm having a major reaction to this and I don't want to have these feeling for a teammate. You need some of that, but it's easy to push it too far and instead of having it sort of there simmering under the surface you have Christian almost TOO self-aware when it comes to his feelings.

Conversely, it's easy to slip into Christian feeling nothing at all and being wholly oblivious to the whole situation. Which works to some degree, but it doesn't exactly make for an interesting story unless you then juxtapose it with Vincent's feelings of really high-key stressing out because he's meeting this man who he sort of idolizes and has had a fanboy crush on for upwards of five years. So you'd need to put it in a setting of Vincent being VERY ON EDGE and nervous and worried he'll suddenly just yell out something embarrassing about how excited he is to meet Christian or how much he admires him and you have Christian here like...hello new teammate, you're Dutch, that's nice, I will speak Dutch to make you more comfortable but none of this is registering for me as feelings. Which...let's all be honest, I tend to live on the side of over dramatics where Vincent is awkward because he's stressed out that he'll say something wrong and Christian is awkward because he's having a feeling but doesn't understand that he's having a feeling and everyone is awkward and it's the most strained, bizarre first meeting that ever happened.

So...in short, I'm not actually sure where the best place to go with this sort of scene is, and I'm not sure there IS a best place to go with it, but I'm going to just start writing the scene that's in my head for this (which is part of a very drafty WIP that mainly just exists theoretically) and see where it goes. Because that's what this month is about for me. It's about writing a scene or two or three or, who knows, an entire fic with abandon and very little editing or checking myself and putting it out there and sharing it with you all and just letting myself feel vulnerable through writing so I can get back into a place where I'm not putting pressure on myself to be perfect, but I am putting pressure on myself to just write and not worry about anything other than where the scene carries me.

It is November, after all, and while NaNoWriMo is never a thing that worked for me, I think the concept is a sound one in terms of stressing to people that one of the keys to writing is sitting down and making words. Planning is important, editing is important, but you'll never have a finished story if you never sit down and write it in the first place.

Let's write a scene and see where we end up, shall we. I admit that in this case I had some of this written already thanks to my WIP, so it's not totally new. I had hoped to also write a scene from Vincent's POV that follows this (for a different fic I want to write that hasn't been started yet), but I'm not sure time will permit me to do that. We'll see.

Today’s scene--from Christian's POV:

Chris pushed around Mousa, darting behind him and to his right then swinging toward the goal to pick up the pass from Tom, dribbling two steps before switching his weight to his left side and angling a pass in toward the goal that Coco just managed to tap into the net before Toby closed the gap.

Coco put a fist in the air and pointed over toward Chris as the whistle sounded to signal the end of the match. “Golazo! We win!”

Coco’s triumphant yell grew nearer until a body slammed into Chris’s side and nearly sent both he and Coco tumbling to the ground. “Victory!” Coco yelled into Chris’s ear as he pressed his body ever closer against Chris’s, wrapping Chris into a tight hug and then using Chris’s shoulders to lever himself upward. The other three members of their makeshift five-a-side team--Jan, Tom, and Michel--all jogged in and clapped Chris on the shoulder as Coco jumped down and started shaking his hips to the imaginary dance beats running through his head.

"Gather up!" That was Miguel from the sidelines, one hand cupped around his mouth and nose and the other waving them all towards him and off the training pitch.

They were still in early days of training at the height of English summer, so Chris was grateful for the break, no matter how short. He loved training, but was still easing back into his life in London after a month of rest and relaxation in the sun. The season would start soon enough though, and they'd all need to be ready. They'd come so close to closing out the season with a second place finish in the league, but in the end they'd all been just a bit too tired and a bit too unfocused and had let things unravel, slipping down in the table to eventually finish in third place between their North London rivals, Arsenal. It wasn't the season any of them had hoped for and from the first day of training Christian had felt the buzz of determination and belief rippling through the dressing room. This was their year. They'd grabbed a spot in the Champions League, their squad was strong and determined, and they were ready to bring home a trophy to close out the club's final year at White Hart Lane.

This was their moment, and none of them were going to let it slip from their fingers this time.

Chris ducked out of the huddle of bodies, jogging to catch up with Mousa as they rejoined the rest of their teammates to await instructions for their next training exercise.

“Good match,” Chris said, clapping Mousa on the shoulder.

Mousa turned toward him, shaking his head with a laugh. “I’d better put in a few extra hours of strength and fitness if I’m going to keep up with you lot.”

Chris grinned. “Nah, I just know your moves too well. You’re still running well enough...for an old man.”

“Yeah, we’ll see who beats who next round,” Mousa retorted, but he returned Chris’s grin.

Chris and Mousa picked up their jogs, joining up with their teammates at the side of the pitch, all of them gathered in a loose semicircle around Pochettino and his assistants. Chris found himself pressed between Mousa on his left and Ben on his right, stepping forward slightly to allow Jan to slot in behind him, their bodies all damp with sweat and radiating heat.

In front of them, the Gaffer was joined by another man Chris didn't recognise. A new signing, Chris assumed. His friends had been buzzing about something of the sort at lunch, some hot new international teammate of Michel's. Jan had seemed particularly keen to fill Chris in on everything they knew about him, but Chris hadn't paid them much mind. He assumed they'd all meet him sooner or later, and he preferred to wait until he could form his own opinions of people.

Around Chris, the murmurs and whispered conversation died down as the Gaffer stepped forward. He was joined, as always, by Jesus Perez to his right. Pochettino's English was as good as any of theirs at this point in time, but he still preferred to have Jesus close at hand in case he needed a translation.

He began with the usual platitudes about practice and how they're all doing well and working hard, but it is important to push harder and gain their fitness for the start of the season. "We have only a few weeks before we will begin matches, so I want all of you to give more effort. I think that we have a good team and a strong team if we all work together then we will also have a team who can win."

This was met with a chorus of shouts and cheers from the gathered crowd, Chris joining them with light applause. It was nothing new, they'd all heard similar words the day before and the day before that and the day before that, but Chris knew the importance of hearing it all on repeat. At this point in time they were all balanced at the cliffs edge, and they would decide together whether they were going to charge up the path to safety, or topple over the precipice to whatever was waiting below. They needed to believe in themselves and in one another, and they needed to feel the support of the Gaffer even as he pushed them harder and harder with each passing day.

Pochettino waited until his team had quieted, then motioned for the man standing beside him to step forward. "I want to introduce you to our newest teammate. We're fortunate to have him joining us from Holland. I hope you all will make him welcome."

“Top scorer in the Eredivisie,” Mousa whispered.

“Newest, hottest thing,” Jan added, putting unnecessary emphasis on the word hottest. Chris turned around to fix him with a glare which Jan rewarded with a wink and a grin.

Chris flashed him a rude gesture, then turned back to face his new teammate.

The man--Vincent, Chris supposed--stepped forward, his brown eyes wide and a little wild as he scanned the sea of faces in front of him. Chris could understand that feeling. He'd been there himself a few times, albeit not recently. New club, new teammates, new city. The hopes of the fans riding on you and the pressure to live up to the sum of money attached to your name. It was overwhelming at the best of times. Add in making the switch to a completely new league where the game was faster and more nuanced and the expectations higher-- Yes, Chris understood.

Vincent smiled, then launched in to the usual speech in uncertain, hesitant English. "I am glad to be here at Tottenham and I am looking forward to working with all of you and being a part of this beautiful club..."

Chris let the familiar, comforting sound of Dutch-accented English wrap around him. It wasn’t as though the accent was uncommon for him these days as the club had plenty of Dutch speakers, but the way Vincent hesitated just slightly on some syllables and his soft, almost shy tone brought Chris back to the day nearly seven years ago when he’d first arrived in Amsterdam to join Jong Ajax. He’d worked hard to learn some Dutch before leaving Odense, but had still found himself struggling to form the unfamiliar syllables and find the right words. His teammates took pity on him and spoke to him in English for a time, and Chris recalled fondly the way the accented English had been strangely comforting as he eased into life in Holland.

Chris felt himself sway forward slightly as he tuned out of the exact words and lost himself in his thoughts and Vincent’s soft, warm voice. Behind him, Chris felt Jan’s hand against his shoulder and leaned into it, treasuring the closeness of the contact with one of his oldest friends. Jan always seemed to know when Chris needed him close, even when Chris didn’t know it himself.

Murmurs of voices and the stir of bodies around him, and Chris opened his eyes, bringing himself back to the bright lights of the pitch and the press of his teammates around him as the group broke up, each stepping forward to shake hands with their new teammate. Michel led the way, welcoming Vincent into a casual hug then stepping back with a smile, though remaining by Vincent’s side.

Chris hung back, letting his teammates step forward to greet the new signing, welcome him to London and to the club. He tried not to stare at Vincent, whose smile threatened to take over his entire face as he greeted each of his teammates in turn, accepting their welcome in gracious English.

Toby stepped forward to greet Vincent, followed closely by Jan and Mousa.

“You have to meet Chris,” Jan said as he reached behind him for Chris’s arm. Chris tried to move out of reach, but Jan slid towards him, grabbed Chris’s wrist, and tugged him forward into the group.

Vincent stuck his hand out toward Chris, his grin somehow widening even further, which caused Chris’s mouth to involuntarily quirk into a shy smile in return.

Chris looked down at Vincent’s hand, realising that at some point he’d clenched his own hands into fists and they were now sticky with sweat. He frowned and tried to discreetly wipe them on the back of his shorts before returning the handshake, hoping Vincent would just think Chris was still cooling down from training.

“Uh…Christian. Eriksen. Chris. Good to meet you.” Chris introduced himself in English. He could have shifted the conversation and slid into Dutch for Vincent's benefit, but they were in London, and the Gaffer expected everyone to communicate in English to ward off the formation of cliques or isolation of groups.

Vincent’s grin broadened even further as he pumped Chris’s hand. “I know this. That is...you are Christian Eriksen. So of course I know,” he stammered out in English before his smile dimmed slightly and he chewed at his lip.

“Het spijt me," He said, switching into no less flustered Dutch before flipping back to English once more. "I was...at Almere for a time. I saw you play...with Ajax. You were...I...um...remember you. It is...an honour to meet you. I am looking forward to playing together.” He released Chris’s hand, then brushed his own hand across his cheek and nose as he lowered to the ground, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks.

“I…” was all Chris could manage in response. An honour to play with him? He'd watched Chris at Ajax? Of course, Chris had left his mark in Amsterdam--joining together with Jan and Toby to win a series of Eredivisie championships and kickstarting his career with a bang--but to meet a new teammate who had this reaction, well, it was all a bit much. Chris felt his own face flushing hot in response.

“That’s...well...thank you?" he finally managed to stammer out. "Welcome to London. And Spurs. Jan and Toby are also from Ajax, so...”

“Oh, yes, I know this,” Vincent said wide, dark eyes now fixed on Chris's. “It will be nice to have friends here who know Amsterdam. I was not raised there, but I enjoyed my time in the city. I am so thankful to come to a club where I can feel like I have a piece of home as it were. You know?”

“Ja,” Chris responded, instinctively flipping into Dutch for the affirmation. Even though it wasn't his native tongue and he'd been in England for five years now, he still tended towards the Dutch 'ja' and 'nee' thanks to his time in Amsterdam and then nestled in at Spurs among the Belgians and ex-Eredivisie contingent.

He did know. He’d been through not one, but two moves to different countries and different cultures. No matter how prepared you thought you were for that, everything was still overwhelming and strange. He’d been beyond glad to see Jan when he’d arrived in London. The presence of a familiar face every day at training was invaluable as he’d adjusted to life in England and the faster pace of the Premier League. He could understand Vincent’s enthusiasm about having not one, but three teammates who’d once lived in Amsterdam, and at the very least he owed it to Vincent to help him find his feet in London.

“Let me know if I can help with anything,” Chris said, eschewing English and continuing in Dutch, despite Pochettino's preferences. “Where to eat, shopping--although that’s not really my thing, but I can try--if you want to know the best neighbourhoods for your house or anything. I mean, it’s not like I get out much, but I’ll do what I can.”

Vincent’s eyes widened as he once again grinned at Chris. “Your Dutch is good.”

Chris felt his mouth quirk into a shy smile at the compliment. “Oh. Thank you. I feel it’s important to learn the language wherever you’re playing, so I worked on it a lot before I moved to Amsterdam. These three still correct me all the time, though.”

“Because your pronunciation is terrible,” Toby chimed in from where he, Mousa, and Jan were standing behind Chris.

Chris opened his mouth to toss a sarcastic retort back at his friend, but Vincent dropped a hand to Chris’s shoulder, making the words die in Chris’s throat as his breath hitched at the intimacy of the gesture after only a few minutes of conversation.

“Never listen to Belgians on the right way to pronounce Dutch,” Vincent said. “I think your pronunciation is just fine.”

Vincent’s wide grin shrunk to a shy smile as he fixed his eyes on Chris’s. Chris struggled to hold the look, to return the smile, a friendly thank you to a new teammate, but had to look away.

He needed some air. Some space. To duck inside and stand under a cold shower until whatever these impulses were that currently surged through his body, making his head spin and his legs weak, rushed away.

Chris had been here before, and had sworn a solemn oath to himself that he'd never let himself return. Vincent was attractive, there was no doubt--tousled coffee brown hair that Chris's fingers itched to run through, warm dark eyes, a thin, straight nose, and a strong, square jawline visible even under the days growth of beard. Dimpled cheeks, perfectly straight, white teeth--and he’s a teammate, Chris. A teammate. Nothing more. Never anything more.

This was football. The world was getting more progressive and more and more teammates at least came off as understanding about these sorts of things, but some things would never be accepted. Chris had always been cautious to keep his personal life his own--no matter who he happened to be seeing at any given time. One slip in an interview; one photo taken of him in the wrong place with the wrong person, and this career he'd worked so hard for and made so many sacrifices to build would come crashing down around him.

But feelings for a teammate--no. Chris had learned that lesson all too well. Even if you both went in with the best of intentions and every precaution, it was never worth the risk. In football, you had to separate what happened in your personal life from what happened once you arrived at the training centre, and when your personal life arrived at the training centre along with you, well, Chris didn't know anyone who could compartmentalise that. No. His best option was to step away and gather himself, then come back onto the pitch ready to act like the professional he was.

He flicked a glance to the side, looking for the closest teammate Vincent hadn’t met yet. He spotted Ben standing a bit behind him to his right and took a step back, grabbing Ben by the arm and half dragging him forward.

“I...thanks. Um. Have you met Ben? You two should meet. I...I have to go, I’m sure I’ll see you at training this afternoon.”

Chris fumbled his hand out of where he’d shoved it into a pocket and flashed Vincent a wave so awkward it might rival Dele’s as he stumbled away from his teammates and back toward the coolness of the training centre.

#30 day challenge #30 day writing challenge #football challenge #football rpf #linear challenge #writing #drizzit writes #thoughts on writing and life #november writing #christian eriksen x vincent janssen

7 notes · View notes