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gretavanlace · 2 years ago

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Sugar (part 16)

Jake & Josh Kiszka x reader

18+ only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: graphic sexual content, unprotected sex, language, dirty talk, masturbation, alcohol and marijuana use, aggression, upset, and dark themes

“Fuck, Josh…please.” You beg, but for what, you’re not sure.

His hand is braced lightly around your throat, holding you in place with an absence of force. He doesn’t need it, with you draped over top of his trembling body, back flush against his chest as he fucks up into you from below, he has you right where he wants you.

“What, sweet girl?” he breathes, lips pressed against your temple, legs curled up around you to pin you in place. “Tell me what you need.”

“I don’t know.” tears are streaming from your eyes still. Which incidentally, is exactly how you landed here. He’d woken up to you quietly crying. You’d hardly made a sound at all, but he’d heard you anyway. He’d felt the anxious waves of sorrow emanating from your soul, even in his sleep.

“Bad dream.” you’d lied, the truth too horrible to speak. If you say it aloud, you’ll be forced to face it head on. “Just c’mere and make it go away.”

“Tell me.” he repeats, kissing into your tangled hair.

You scramble to clear your head, searching for an answer just as the hotel room door clicks open, framing Jake, with a cardboard carrier bearing styrofoam cups of coffee in one hand, and a wrinkled white sack with a smiling cartoon donut splashed across the front, in the other.

He allows the door to swing closed and abandons the fruits of his morning journey on the corner table. “Well, what do we have here, sugar?” sauntering over, he studies your face intently as his brother never misses a beat. “You know how I hate to be left out.”

“Jake…” you whine, turning your face away to escape his scrutiny, feeling so completely on display as his gaze wanders over your tears.

“Don’t.” Josh calls softly, lovingly admonishing you. He doesn’t want to hear his twin’s name on your tongue right now, he wants his.

“Why’s she crying?” Jake addresses Josh, but keeps his stare trained on you.

“Bad dream.” Josh’s reply is winded and clipped, but it proves he’s blindly accepted your deception as truth, and it breaks your heart.

Is it really that much of a lie, though? This really is a nightmare.

“Aww, pretty girl.” Jake clicks his tongue and crawls onto the bed. Kissing the tracks of your tears. “Poor little love. You okay, baby?”

A nod is all you trust yourself with, but it seems to be enough, and he begins kissing down your jaw only to settle into sucking delicate bursts of warmth along your throat after pushing Josh’s hand out of the way.

“And you thought he could fuck it all away for you? Without me?” he’s teasing, but it brings forth a fresh stream of white hot tears.

“Don’t upset her.” Josh snaps with great irritation when he hears the sighing sob that slips past your lips. His hand snakes around to cover your heart soothingly.

“Not trying to.” Jake assures, sweeping his palms over your cheeks until they’re once again dry.

With Josh moving faster beneath you, the tip of his cock spoiling that beautiful little spot inside you, your head is becoming fuzzy, blanking out just the way you’d hoped it would. Jake is above you, nibbling and suckling at your skin, murmuring gorgeous, dirty, musings…his brother agreeing from below, adding his own sentiments.

You begin a frantic struggle with Jake’s belt, desperate to get your hands on his cock. To lose yourself in both of them. To forget.

“I’ve got it,” Jake’s voice is a rasping shell of what it normally is as he pulls your hand away, guiding your fingers to your slick, swollen clit. “You just baby this pretty cunt for me, sugar.”

Strangely, you shy away, like you haven’t been in much filthier positions with them a hundred times over. Perhaps it’s the emotions you’re trying so hard to stave off…

The drawl of Josh’s voice floats into your consciousness. “Do it, mama…touch yourself.”

His hand has found its way into your hair, clutching at it as though you are the calm in his storm, and maybe you are. Maybe that’s exactly what you all are, to each other.

Doing as you’ve been told, a hitching cry whines out of you when Jake slides two fingers inside your clenching cunt as Josh continues to fuck into you with a perfect rolling rhythm.

You find your ends together…with your fingers circling your throbbing clit, and Josh buried deep inside you. Jake spilling across your stomach with his fist tight around his cock, two fingers tucked up warm inside you where there should be no room left to be had thanks to Josh and his beautiful cock.

The room is humid and warm…stifling in the best way, filled with the sounds of your bodies writhing and curling together, desperate to be even closer.

You feel safe and loved between them. Cherished and protected.

If only you could stay, just like this, a cloud in both of their skies...forever.

Danny whips open the door, glancing around Jake’s dressing room as you pick through a meager selection of snacks. Does his entire rider have to be alcohol? Would it kill him to throw a candy bar or two on the list?

“Have you seen the twins?” he asks, as if you aren’t already involved with a task of your own.

“They’re off in wardrobe or something.” an idea dawns on you and you eye him over your shoulder. “Got anything sweet in your room?”

“Does Disaronno count? I have apple cider too, mix ‘em and it’s like Autumn in a glass, babe.”

“Jesus Christ!” you snap, sinking into a chair, defeated. “You’re all a bunch of alcoholics. Get out, they aren’t in here.”

He does the opposite and slips quietly into the room, soundlessly closing the door. “Alright. What’s going on? What’d they do?”

“Nothing, okay?” you feel badly for being so unkind to him, you just can’t seem to stop. “I just want a fucking candy bar. That’s all. Can you just, I don’t know…just find somewhere else to be?”

Back out the door he goes, and you almost call out to him…you should apologize – but the tears come instead. You work fast to gather yourself, Josh or Jake could come barreling in any second and then you’d be forced to lie about what has you so upset, and you detest being untruthful with them.

Instead, it’s Daniel that reappears, this time bearing a Snickers bar triumphantly. “Vending machine.” he grins, tossing it at you.

“Absolute fucking angel. That’s what you are, Daniel Wagner.” you swoon, as if he’s presented you with something precious.

“It’s both a blessing and a curse. So,” he plops himself down on the loveseat, splaying his long legs out in front of him. “Out with it.”

Your simple reply comes muffled around a mouthful of nougat and peanuts. “No.”

“You know I like you better than them.” he winks, “I’ll take your side.”

“They didn’t do anything.” you sigh, blissfully enjoying the treat you’ve been so badly craving.

“Sam? I’ll kick his scrawny ass, I swear.” he’s trying to make you laugh, but it only serves to make you cry…he’s too sweet for this whole world.

He moves to stand, no doubt ready to fold you into a comforting hug, but you hold a hand up to stop him. “I’m alright. I’m okay. I don’t want them to see me crying…they’ll ask a thousand questions. Josh won’t shut his mouth until he has an answer and I –” you trail off, gulping down a sob.

“Okay, so tell me.” he sounds worried now and with that comes the guilt. He cares so deeply. “At least tell me that you’re okay.”

“I’m late.” blurts out of you before you can think better of it, and you want to melt into the floor and disappear.

His eyes flit to the clock on the wall, “No, we’ve got time. S’like an hour before we go on.”

“No, Danny.” is all you manage to mumble, gaze glued to your shoes.

“Oh.” his back lands against the couch with a muted sound of shock. “Oh….”

“Yeah.” you nod, willing the tears burning in your eyes to go away.

The silence is deafening until, at last, he meekly questions, “Aren’t you guys, like, safe?” Right away, he thinks better of it, “You know what? That’s none of my business…”

“No, it’s fine.” you wave him off, what’s it matter now? “We are…but, you know, nothing’s a hundred percent.”

“Well, can I ask how you’re safe? Because this isn’t exactly a shining endorsement for it, and I’m trying to be a bit of a slut, now that I can.”

He’s trying to make you smile, and he succeeds…a little.

“Have you taken a test?” you shake your head and he latches on to the hope there. “See? There you go, you’re probably worried about nothing.”

“Hi, Danny, have we met?” you deadpan. “I’m the psycho who was in tears a few minutes ago over a candy bar.”

“In your defense, candy bars are fucking phemonenal.” you share a gentle laugh and then he catches your eye. “Which one, do you think?��

Your throat closes up and the room begins to tilt. “I have no idea. Oh my god, that sounds horrible. What the hell is happening? What am I gonna do, Danny? I can’t tell them.”

“Why can’t you tell them?” he argues softly. “You shouldn’t have to carry this all on your shoulders. I mean, if you’re afraid you might lose one if it’s the other’s, you can forget that right now. They both love you more than –”

“That’s the thing…” your tears are coming fast and hard now, streaming down your cheeks to converge and mingle together at your wobbling chin. “Identical, Dan. Remember? There’s no way to know.”

“Fuck…” he pushes his hand up through his bangs and huffs a whooshing puff of air out, as if the wind has been knocked clean out of him. “Okay, first thing’s first…a test. I’ll run out and get you one,” he glances at the clock again. “There’s time.”

“That’s not going to work.” you rasp around the lump aching in your throat. “How would you even get to a pharmacy? And what if somebody sees you?”

“We’re not that famous, babe.” he points out.

“There’s an arena packed floor to ceiling with screaming fans right now that says otherwise…and this entire city will be crawling with them right now. You can’t.”

You’re right and he knows it. “Alright…so what now?”

“Nothing now.” you wipe your face and rise to inspect your makeup in the mirror. You dab around at your eyes, wiping away a smudge of mascara, and then turn to him. “Want me to do your liner?”

“You don’t have to.” he sounds worried and anxious. Well, join the club, buddy.

“Come on.” you pat the chair in front of the mirror. “Let’s doll that pretty face up a little.”

Moments later, as you’re smoking his eye with a tiny brush, he speaks up gently “For what it’s worth, I think you’d make an incredible mama. Just wanted you to know that.”

“Ah, Danny…” he always knows just what to say. “my platonic prince charming.”

“That’s where you were supposed to say that I’d make an incredible uncle, but ya know, whatever.” he blinks up at the ceiling, a silent signal for you to get back to work on his makeup.

You share a soft, sad, laugh together as you lean in to accent his beautiful eyes.

The show has long since come to an end, but the onstage energy is still very much alive amongst the group that has congregated in Sammy’s room.

Tiny throngs of roadies and stagehands are dotted about the space, sharing drinks and conversation, while you watch from the sidelines, perched on a couch, doing your best not to draw attention to the fact that your miserable mind just wants to rest and slip into a deep, dreamless sleep.

“Hey there little red riding hood…” Daniel sidles up beside you, serenading you with a classic, trying his best to make you smile. “You sure are looking good…”

“You’re anything but a big, bad wolf.” you rest your head on his shoulder while he hums the rest of the verse, and watch as Jake and Josh lean in to speak to one another, back and forth, back and forth, like a choreographed dance that they both seem to instinctively know.

“You want to get outta here? Go back to my room for a little while?” he offers sweetly. “We could tell them I want to talk about the break up or some shit.”

“No, no…” you sit up and give his knee a pat. “You kicked ass tonight, you deserve to blow off a little steam. I’m fine, really.” you cross your heart to seal the deal.

He starts to protest, but the twins are abruptly standing before you. They’re so quick and silent sometimes, like sleek cats slinking rapidly in and out of sight.

“Here, sugar.” Jake presents a sweating glass of amber liquid. “You look thirsty.”

Waving him off as nonchalantly as you can, you do your best to sound casual. “I think I’ll pass tonight…I don’t feel like being on the bus all day tomorrow with a hangover.”

“Hmm.” he grunts, taking a long pull on the lowball. “How very lightweight of you, love. That’s not very rock n’ roll.”

“Good thing you’re the one with the band then, I guess.” you wink.

“I suppose so.” he winks back.

A blunt gets handed off to Josh, as a face you don’t catch passes by, and - ever the gentleman - he holds it out to you first.

You recoil as though he’s just offered you a grenade sans pin, and then hurry to recover. “Danny and I just smoked. I’m faded as it is.”

“No you didn’t,” he argues, with a confused shake of his head. “I’ve been watching all night and you haven’t so much as touched…” he trails off, searching your face for answers…while Daniel, sensing a shift, pads off to find Sam.

Josh, still silent with a confused frown, pulls his cell from his pocket to double check the date. The man can’t remember his own phone number, but he knows your cycle like the back of his hand. Mostly because he has the tiniest kink for it that he refuses to admit to.

Jake just looks unbothered, albeit slightly confused, until his twin turns to catch his eye. A wordless exchange takes place, and then Josh is pulling you to your feet, leading you out the door and down the hall to your room, with Jake bringing up the rear.

Lie. That’s what you’re going to do, you decide…because this isn’t real. You’re overreacting! You’re just a little late. No need to concern them. They have bigger fish to fry. Right?

You’re a raging coward, and you know it.

When you’re finally alone, Josh speaks first. “What’s going on, mama?”

Well, his favorite pet name certainly seems fitting to a degree it never has before.

Be cool, be cool, be cool. “What do you mean?”

“Sugar.” Jake sounds firm, boot stomping into the carpet with a muted clip. He’s read it on Josh’s face…something is wrong and he won’t have any of your shit right now.

“What?” Christ, you sound like a teenager trying to weasel her way out of trouble.

“Third week of the month.” Josh steers the three of you back on track. “And yet this morning, nothing. You haven’t had a drop to drink and you lied to get out of smoking. Now, what the fuck is up?”

Jake’s face turns white as a sheet as the realization sets in. “Oh my god…” he drops into a chair, rubs his fingers at his temples as if to will it all away, and then finds your eyes. “Talk to us, sweetheart.”

“There’s nothing to say.” you’re pacing around the room like a cornered wild animal. “Everything is fine.”

Josh, never one to exercise much patience, cuts right down to the thick of it. “What’s happening here, baby? Are you pregnant?”

You wrap your arms around yourself protectively and find the couch when your knees weaken, wincing at the sound of shock that escapes Jake as his brain short circuits.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.” Josh strides over, bending to look you in the eye. “Okay, let’s all just relax a little and take a few deep breaths, right?”

“Whose is it?” Jake asks, staring off into space and very obviously not thinking.

“Are you serious?” Josh turns his attention to his twin. “She’d have no way of knowing under normal circumstances, nonetheless this…” he waves his hand between the two of them, “Besides, we don’t even know if…”

Josh is stunned into silence and you’re reduced to quivering tears when Jake snatches a decorative bowl from the coffee table and hurls it at the wall. It explodes into pieces, and then, like nothing out of the ordinary at all has occurred, Jake eases back into the chair…his heaving chest the only indicator of his distress.

“What the fuck?” Josh couldn’t look or sound more shocked if Jake’s head just happened to suddenly fall off, you’re sure of it.

“What the fuck?” Jake shouts, jumping to his feet while you flinch away from the scene. “What the fuck, Josh? Really?” He is now in his brother’s face, shoving at his shoulders gently, like he can’t imagine hurting him even in a fury. “I loved her first, you said it yourself…but I let you have her, just like I’ve always let you have fucking everything! And now I have to settle for all this.”

“Fuck you for that!” Josh shoves at his twin with aggression completely unlike himself. “I fucking shared her. I gave you that. I gave you both that. I’ve given everything up for you. Fuckin’ always. Whose dream are we living? Because it sure as shit isn’t mine!”

“Please…” you’re on your feet now, trying to put a little distance between them, sobbing so uncontrollably you feel you might hyperventilate. “Please don’t fight. Please, please, please…” you fall into the word, repeating it like a mantra that might make everything go away.

They watch you, with the concern they feel for you battling with the rage they feel for each other, until they step back in perfect sync, choosing you over their anger. Josh leads you back over to the couch and sinks to his knees once he’s got you seated.

He rests his head in your lap while you struggle to draw in a breath that doesn’t stutter. Jake watches the two of you with something indescribable and palpable radiating from him. Then, with a shake of his head he stares into your eyes.

“I want it to be mine…and I can’t do this anymore, sugar. You have to choose.” he whispers as if the two of you are alone in the room. And then he’s gone.

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leelysian · 4 years ago

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Unwell

genre: slight angst with fluff ending, implied crush au, one shot

pairing: female reader x best friend!Minho

word count: 1.4k

context: you're terribly sick, you haven't told anyone but your best friend somehow knew something was wrong when you wouldn't reply to his numerous texts.

A/N: this may or may not have turned into a rant because I was sick for the past few days akskakdksks

Seasonal flus were the worst. Slightly chilly from hot or slightly warm from cold and suddenly your body decides, “You know what? I don’t vibe with this weather. I’ma just break down.” You had a mild fever and a cold. While the fever was mild, it was annoying because you weren’t sick enough to just pass out for hours and having a cold meant your nose either:

Dried up like the Sahara which ended up burning your sinuses and it felt like your skull was on fire.

Got blocked like the path between the North and South Korea; nothing got in or out which meant breathing through your mouth which also dried up.

Runny like the Amazon river, there’s crumples of tissue paper all over your floor. Your nose was red, rough and raw from blowing so much, the delicate skin was irritated.

Here you were, slumped on your bed with the covers on top of you but a leg and an arm sticking out because it got too hot to be fully under the covers and too cold to be fully without. Sleep eluded you the previous night, you just couldn’t sleep, it wasn’t gonna happen. Somehow you’d fall asleep only to wake up a little while later, and end up tossing and turning in your bed. Because you were unsuccessful in your attempts to get a good night’s rest, you woke up with a pounding headache from your eyelids to the back of your head. Your whole body ached.

Leftovers in your fridge were finished so you forced yourself to get up and heat some instant noodles to eat with your meds. Water tasted bitter. Your appetite vanished. Eating was agonising because afterwards you felt suffocated, an invisible pressure on your torso prevented you from breathing fully, your lungs not taking in air fully so your breaths were short. Hell, peeing was a chore. At least you weren’t on your period, maybe if that happened, you’d actually die. Imagine having to frequently change pads/tampons and underwear while feeling like you got ran over by a truck. Were you overreacting? Maybe. But it was allowed at this point.

So in short, you were suffering since the past two days. You were absolutely miserable. You wanted to cry but crying meant your nose getting runny then eventually blocked and then a headache so you sucked it up. You brought a hand to your head to massage your head because it hurt, grimacing by the tangles and the grease. You reached for your phone, unlocked to see various social media notifications which you cleared and messages from your friends which you also elected to ignore and reply to later. Playing a playlist with slow music with medium volume and dropped it back on the bed, you closed your eyes and let the soft melodies flow into your ears in hopes of helping you forget about your headache once again. This is how you held on to your last shred of sanity but you failed to hold on to your consciousness and fell into a dreamless sleep.

You woke up to a cold compress on your forehead, your room clutter and mess free, the windows open and something nice smelling. You thought you were dreaming when a face you know all too well walked into your bedroom with a bowl. “Minho? what are you doing here? Get out. I’m sick, you’ll get sick too.” you rasped. “Well, about time you acknowledged my existence, even if it’s to tell me to get out. I should’ve been here earlier, maybe it would’ve been helpful if you told me you were dying in your pigsty of a room.” he snapped. He put the bowl on your nightstand, you realised it was water, he was probably going to replace the cold compress.

“You look terrible.” he said. “Gee, thanks.” you retorted. “You need a shower.” he advised. “Nooooo.” you whined and snuggled further into the covers. “Come on, y/n, there’s no way you’ll get better if you feel disgusting. I’ll help.” He said and snatched the blankets. “Minho, stop. You’ll get my germs.” He sighed and rolled his eyes, “Don’t worry about it now come on.” he said and helped you sit up then suddenly with strength you didn’t know he had he carried you princess style to the bathroom and you yelped. “Jeez y/n you’ve lost so much weight.” he tsked. “Do you think you can wash your hair on your own?” he asked as he sat you down on the counter. “I’ll be okay.” you replied tiredly. “If you need help, just ask.” he said and adjusted the water temperature in the shower then left.

You took your time showering, the first five minutes just standing under the warm water which opened up your sinuses, having the steady stream of water beat down over your back and easing your sore muscles. You washed your hair slowly, so as not to tire your arms out. Stepping out of the shower, you felt immensely better, finally able to breathe a bit easier. Drying off, you wore your fluffy bathrobe and walked out to see a big shirt (one you ‘borrowed’ from Minho) and pajama shorts laid out on the bed. Thankfully, he didn’t lay out underwear for you. You dressed up and got settled back in bed, already tired again.

You unlocked your phone and saw the concerned texts from Minho because you weren’t answering them or his calls and felt guilty. A knock resounded from your door, “come in.” you said and Minho walked in with a tray. “Well well, finally I see y/n and not a corpse.” he teased. Whatever was on that tray smelled heavenly and your stomach rumbled. He put the tray down on your lap and he brought the back of his hand to your neck to check your temperature. “Hm, your fever has probably gone down but I think it’ll be back.” he notes. The whole time you stared at him. “Hey. I’m sorry I ignored your texts.” you said and twiddled with your thumbs, the guilt unbearable. He took your hands in his own, “It’s fine. I’m sorry for snapping. I was just worried and scared. I thought you actually died at first glance and I panicked.”

He turned to the tray and lifted the lid from the bowl, “It’s chicken rice porridge. Eat up and take your meds.” Your eyes were still downcast, “I can’t I feel horrible afterwards.” and you explained in detail. “It’s probably acidity, clearly you’ve been eating junk and it’s not sitting well in your stomach. This won’t cause you discomfort. At least eat a little bit. Please? For me? I made this for you.” he said and used the signature kitty eyes. You looked up and he’s already holding a spoonful of the warm concoction. You hated when he pulled the look on you, you could never say no to those eyes but then again you didn’t want to because that porridge looked pretty darn appetising. You opened your mouth and Minho fed you the gloopy goodness.

You could’ve just eaten yourself but you quite liked being pampered so you said nothing. Minho carefully spoon fed you the whole bowl, blowing delicately on the first couple of spoonfuls until the rest became tepid. Halfway through the bowl you felt full so you told him you didn’t want to eat anymore but he pulled the kitty eyes again, and now you’re stuffed. He handed you the glass of water and meds which you gulped down and went to clean up. He came back and stood awkwardly in your doorway. “You’re leaving already?” you asked sadly. “Do you want me to?” he asked back. “No grab my laptop and come watch Spirited Away with me.” you pouted. He smiled, got the laptop from your desk, grabbed one of the sweatpants he left from previous times he’s been to your place to change into, and then settled in bed next to you under the covers.

You took one of your many pillows and settled your laptop on it and settled back. “Hey, Minho?” you called. “Hm?” he enquired. “Thanks for taking care of me.” you smiled softly. He was going to say something snarky but decided against it and said, “It's alright.” About half an hour into the movie he felt a sudden weight on his shoulder and he looked bewildered to see you’ve fallen asleep on him, breathing softly. He turned off the laptop and placed it on the ground before wrapping his arms around you, placing your head over his chest and reclining back. He looked at your sleeping face with soft, adoring eyes and a gentle smile. He gently rubbed your back with one hand when suddenly you stirred and threw your arm over his stomach. Slowly, he too, drifted off to sleep with dreams of you and him together.

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13tinysocks · 4 years ago

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Mini Mart Massacre

Nine Jeff X Reader One shot (3206K words)

Content warning for graphic gore, murder, mentions of vomit.

You’re covering for your shitty coworker’s shift again. Late night, it’s slow. A mysterious man comes in and starts killing your friends left and right. Will you live to see the end of the night?

Nine Jeff belongs to @killersnarl / @carnalhaus

“God, I can’t believe him.” You grumbled to your co-worker, putting twenty-ounce cokes in their place.

“I know right.” Ricky mindlessly agreed. Understandable after hearing this sort of frustrated dribble from you for the fifth time this week. But you just couldn’t let it go, Shaun was really starting to piss you off. Didn’t even have the courtesy to call out of work or even ask for you to cover his shift. He just didn’t show up. Hardly had been for the past two weeks but the past few days he’d nearly dropped off the face of the earth.

Gabe said he got a text from the deserter, with a smile he told you that Shaun was in love. Good for him but if he wanted to run off with some prince charming then he better quit first so your personal time wouldn’t continuously be uprooted. Money was cool and all, you needed it to live but having to constantly cover the guy’s ass was fucking awful. You’d always gotten a weird vibe from Shaun, quiet, reserved, always stared so creepily at other people. If you didn’t know any better then you’d think he knew something about you and everyone else. Something bad.

“Dude,” Tara called from the aisle behind you, “He’s happy. Give it a rest.”

“Well, I’m not. It’s annoying. I was gonna watch trash TV tonight but no, I gotta close with y’all. No offense.” The shift really wasn’t as bad as you made it sound. All you had to do was stock up the frozen food section with Ricky, sweep, and go home in fifteen. Tara would take care of the shelving in the aisles as there were only three that were mostly full. The Mini Mart only got enough business to stay afloat after all. Out in front was Gabe, last you saw he was leaning on the register counter and smiling at his phone.

“Some taken.” She snickered, “Really though, can you just stop being such a player hater?”

“Yea,” Gabe called from out front, “Makes you seem bitter.”

“I am not- Whatever.” You just wanted to get home already, didn’t wanna argue about stupid shit. You could foresee yourself being short with your friends for the next few days since they were so adamant about being on Shaun’s side.

Ding-dong!

The cheerful robotic bell alerted of an unwanted customer. From your position in the back, you couldn’t see them. A hush fell over the store, the place was closed. Little red and white sign hanging from the front door's handle said so. Guess they didn’t read it.

You could have sworn the blue fluorescents overhead started to burn a little brighter, buzz a little louder. The familiar pale blue tint only grew more saturated, the air felt thick. Dust discordantly floating about in the blue otherworldly shine. Owners really had to buy themselves better lights because this shit happened like clockwork. Every hour on the hour for nine minutes.

“Hey, sorry man,” Gabe started at the thing that cast a long shadow across the floor, “We’re closing up shop right now. You can come back tomorrow.”

There was no booming footstep, no quiet approach. Just a normal everyday sound of someone walking.

“Hey dude, seriously. We’re closed. Put that down.” Gabe’s voice started to waver, hints of apparent fear bleeding through his stern intonation.

“Would you have if they could have pleaded?” Deep and raspy, there was something about the way that man spoke. Something that didn’t sound annoyed or defensive but paralyzing instead. You could feel it deep in your gut, on the hairs standing up the back of your neck, on the goosebumps that’d risen from your forearms; He meant harm. Bodily. Psychologically.

“What?” Gabe scoffed, “Ya’know what? I don’t care. I’m calling the cops.”

“You like that they trusted you, that they never thought to fight back. You like to watch them die.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!” Gabe bleated back. The footsteps didn’t stop. You and Ricky glanced confusedly worried at one another.

He started to pull out his phone when the mystery intruder spoke once more, “Why are you backing away then? Is it because you don’t want to drink like a thirsty dog?”

“I- WHAT!?” A screech ripped from the front of the store. Morbid curiosity pulled you to crawl toward the nearest aisle and peak around it. Tera was staring, frozen and shaking at the sight.

“PUT THE ME THE FUCK DOWN! FUCKING SQUARE HEAD!”

That man, that thing, was huge. Tall, broad, imposing. Only his side profile was available for viewing. Mostly obscured by long black hair, most of which had been tied into a loose ponytail. Stern browed, nose downturned, teeth showing through a tight smile. One hand about Gabe’s neck was all it took to lift the fully grown man two feet off the floor. Thumb jammed in the soft flesh where his jaw and neck met, forcing his head back. Gabe wiggled about, holding onto the man’s thick forearm for some stability but he still looked like a fish on a hook.

“SOMEONE! HELP!” Bulging brown snapped to you and the woman. No way that you were going to play hero against that fucking behemoth. Still, there was a slew of emotions kicked up by seeing a friend in that position.

The man held a fat bottle of Bleach. Mostly used to clean out the nasty bathroom, sometimes the floor. Uncapped, tilting toward Gabe’s face. Getting what was about to happen, he twisted his lips into his mouth.

“You don’t want it?” His attacker cooed, "Aren't you thirsty after a day of hard work?"

Gabe vigorously shook his head, whining and struggling. All the three of you could do was watch. Ricky was on the phone with an operator, hopefully, help would be arriving soon but none of you wanted to brave running out the front door he was only feet away from.

A yellowish liquid dribbled over the bottle's opening, right onto Gabe’s wide open eyes. You don’t think you’d ever forget the shrill, animal-like way he screeched. Mouth open, the man took his opportunity to jam the opening between his teeth. Gabe’s body violently revolted against the product cleaning the mucus from his esophagus. Another fat hand slapped onto Gabe’s flesh, this one squeezing his lips around the neck of the bottle. Forcing him to keep in a reactionary stream of vomit. Not without thumb and pointer pinching his nostrils shut.

"Honestly," The man started evenly, "This is so much faster than diluting it with water." Gabe violently twitched, no longer holding onto his attacker's arm but instead trying to pry to bottle away from his mouth. Nothing he did had any effect. "Hurts worse too, huh?"

You jolted, nearly letting out a shriek when someone tapped you on the shoulder. Ricky had crawled up behind you, phone pressed between his ear and shoulder. Head jerking in the direction of a gray door. Backroom, concrete floors, ceiling hight storage shelves, always smelled vaguely if cheese.

You caught his drift easily enough but Tera wasn't looking at either of you. Completely entranced with the two in front. As much as you wanted to bolt, you had to get her attention and get her to leave.

Calling her over would get unwanted attention. You held up a finger to Ricky, no minimum wage worker with no healthcare benefits left behind.

Slow and steady you got yourself off the ground. Step by step, closer and closer. Hands raising to give her a little tap while your eyes didn't leave his face. With your approach, you only got to see more and more of his face. It was something of the likes you'd never seen.

He looked like he didn't know what moisturizer was at first. Skin warped, texture looking uneven and off-color. But it wasn't a bad case of extreme and crust from not showering. His skin shone too little in the bright light. Flesh stretched and shifted when his lips curled back into a wider, toothy grin. With the movement the indent of irritated flesh running across either cheek shifted, top and bottom moving slightly different from the other as tectonic plates of scar tissue.

Beady eyes focused on Gabe, twinkling softly hateful. You couldn't tell if all he had was a pupil or if his irises were that pale.

Please, you internally begged, don't stop looking at that shuddering body.

One finger was all it took to place a gentle tap on Tera's shoulder.

Gasp.

She jumped and turned, unfrozen and wide eyed. So did he.

The wicked wretch drawled, “Oh, hey you.” You didn’t think someone could smile that wide. “It’s nice to see you again.”

His dubiously friendly gaze locked Tera in place. You were pretty sure she was about to piss herself. All she had to say was, “Jeff.” Applying such a human title to that thing felt very, very wrong.

“I wanna say the one and only but ya’know, common name.” Jeff flatly joked.

“I- I- I haven’t done anything else. I swear. Please-”

Jeff wheezed, fully whipping around, Gabe’s body sickly swinging in his grip. “Come on now Tera. You don’t think I haven’t been checkin’ in you? You really do think you're clever.”

THUD.

Gabe’s body lay forgotten on the floor. Bottle finally rolling away from his open mouth but it was too late. Consciousness had already slipped and judging from how hollow the container sounded as it nonchalantly rolled away, he was gonna be dead soon.

“If it wasn’t for me he would have suffered for hours. Was it the guilt you felt with yourself? Was that why you didn’t kill that poor vagrant? Or are you that pathetic to the point where you try to kill an unmoving target and fail?”

You didn’t know what he was talking about. Either way, you wanted out of there. Since you didn’t want to be guilt ridden for the loss of another, you tightly gripped her and tugged. Her shoulder was like pulling on the start of a chainsaw, after you did so, things were set into violent motion.

Jeff lurched forward, brandishing a hunting knife that'd been yanked from it's sheath. Survival instinct kicked in fully and you let go of Tera, bolting away from the ground-shaking behemoth. She just watched him come.

Nothing was like the sound she made when the knife buried itself in her soft belly. Her body crumpled in on itself. People compared a car crash to something they couldn't peel their eyes from but this was more like a burning, three lane pile up.

You’d completely forgotten about Ricky until he grabbed you by the forearm and screamed, “Come on!”

Jeff’s head robotically snapped up to meet your eye as you were being dragged toward the storage room door. “Hey, wait up!”

“No!” You screeched, stumbling behind Rickey, “You sick fuck!”

He sighed, exasperated by your rejection, “Your friend and I are the same, you know. You'd be better off with me.”

Romantic implications and the sound of someone groaning in agony were never the best combo. A taste sweet yet vile like milk a few days past it’s expiration settled over your tongue. You’d never felt so disgusted and you just wanted him to, “Go away!”

Whatever Jeff was doing to her sounded distinctly wet. Mac n’ cheese that squelched so loudly that it could be compared to good pussy. But when he came around the corner to give chase, you found that he’d rearranged her guts in the worst way possible.

Balled tight in his massive fists were slimy pink ribbons. Sticking out between his fingers, tightly pulled over his knuckles. All leading back to a fat slit in Tera’s belly. Screaming and sobbing, she clutched desperately onto her own small intestine to try to pull it back. Nothing worked and she continued to be dragged along the floor like a dog on a leash.

“No,” He wouldn’t stop smiling, “I don’t think I will.”

Ricky burst through the storage room door, you in tow. You’d been back here more than a few times but what you hadn’t done was load stock into the room. It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen the doors before you sort of forgot in your piss-pants state of mortal terror.

The shelves towered far over your head, compensating for the tiny space area. No sign of the exit was in immediate view. Ricky better hurry up and pick one of three possible paths or you’re dead meat.

If this was a badly directed horror movie, Ricky wouldn’t have known where to go. He hurriedly dragged you down a narrow pathway lined with half unpacked boxes.

Tera and the backroom door screeched with Jeff’s entrance. His footsteps heavy and floor shaking. “The door's not going to work.”

Ricky went to shove the door open with his side, it opened only half an inch. Again he rammed his body into the thing only for it not to budge. “Oh, no, no, no, no.” He kept at it while you looked for an odd lock or something obvious jamming the door.

Tera finally stopped screaming. Passed out from shock, poor thing.

The giant of a man cast a long shadow over the thin passage, backlit by pale blue. Giant hand relaxing, letting Tera’s stretched guts wetly flop onto the floor.

“There’s a way out for you, butcher.” Jeff spat out the title between grinding teeth. He was smiling so tender but his eyes didn’t reflect the sentiment.

“There is?”

Wider. More teeth. “Look at you, hopeful little thing. Of course there is.” One step, slow, barely closing the distance. “An easy, free way out for someone who takes, and takes, and takes.” Two, three, four, faster. Knife bloody but not satiated.

You knew Ricky to steal chips from time to time but that's really it.

Ricky quaked against the door. “No I- I donate to charities,” His eyes landed on the rosary idly hanging out of the pocket of his pants. “To the church! Thou shalt forgive or something, right?”

“Thou shall not kill.”

“Yeah, that-”

“You haven’t been a very good boy, Ricky. God wouldn’t be happy with the bodies buried underneath your basement.” Five, six, seven.

You desperately looked around for something to defend yourself with. A pack of pudding cups within your immediate reach was snatched and thrown at the beast. “Shut the fuck up!”

Caught. “Thank you.”

Eight. Closing in. You pressed yourself into a corner and looked for an escape. There was none. All you had to cut him with was fear filled shouts, “That was meant to hit you, fucking hypocrite!”

Hand over his heart he sincerely sneered, “I am a hypocrite and I deserve to rot in hell. What does that change (Y/n)?” Morals did nothing for corpses.

Dread. Stone cold and heavy in your stomach. “You know my name?”

Jeff smiled fakely docile, “I know that you steal candy from isle two. I know that you’ve been working more hours lately.”

All things Shaun would’ve known. Wait a second. “Are you Shaun’s boyfriend!? Did he send you to fucking kill us? I didn’t think we sucked that much dick!" You sobbed.

Jeff scratched the back of his neck, “Boyfriend is a strong word.” Ouch, poor Shaun.

The giant snapped back into his imposing demeanor, “I came to cleanse.”

Ricky quaked, “Okay, uh, fine, I can do forty-five Hail Mary’s! I can atone!”

You didn’t understand.

Nine.

Hot, heavy, chest heaving breaths wracked Jeff’s giant body. Icily staring down his prey/ Body so wide you didn’t have a hope of slithering passed.

You don’t know how long you all stood in that tense limbo of inaction. Eventually, Jeff moved, slow and steady he tucked away his knife. It’s over.

Ricky was off the ground in the blink of an eye. One of Jeff’s hand’s on either side of his head, thumbs pressing into his open eyes. Ricky kicked, screamed, and begged for mercy but judgment had already been decided.

Crraaaaccck!

Ricky’s head molded into Jeff’s fingers like cracking clay.

Yank!

Hot blood splashed onto your face, your work uniform, everywhere. Ricky wasn’t begging anymore. His voice box was ripped messily in half along with his head and upper torso. Pink and red squishy bits of gore started to slide out of place. Jeff toothily smiled at you from between the two foot gap in Ricky’s front teeth.

Yank!

Ricky’s body flopped apart. One side hogged all his vertebrae, while the other had most of the brains.

Pleased, Jeff ran his tongue over his reddened lips. Loudly slurping as he sucked in an unidentified piece of gore.

You vomited in your mouth, pounded your fists fruitlessly against the back door and sobbed.

The two halves of human dropped from his hands. Landing with a sound like an egg breaking on tile floor.

Jeff stepped over the body. You pressed yourself harder into the wall, hysterically shaking your head.

His body heat radiated powerfully from his chest, few inches away at most. “You.”

Instead of playing the useless sole survivor, you decided to attempt to go with a fight. “Fuck off!”

Your totally kick ass, defiant attempt to punch him in the face actually worked. He just took it. Didn’t stagger back or even yelp. Stare unbreaking.

“Eat shit!” Another punch. “Die!” Another.

The beast jerked forward with a throat-tearing roar, bloody hands coming straight for your face. You screwed your eyes shut and waited for a horrible death.

It never came.

You popped an eyelid open to find him still as a statue. Hunched over, face so close you could smell the blood on his breath. He pinched your chin between his pointer and his thumb, tilting your head back and luring your eyes to meet his. Baby blue, sparkling with mischievous delight.

Vile.

You gathered all the spit you could and pelted him in the cheek with a soft slap. Clear-ish ooze dribbled down his skin, picking up a red hue as it went.

Sirens distantly wailed.

Jeff beamed almost affectionately at you, patted the top of your head, then kissed your forehead as you uselessly gnashed your teeth at him. “Be good.” Hands dragged off of your stained body with a sense of lingering desire, almost as if he didn’t want to leave the poor, broken, thing behind. Alas, the police were closing in and he couldn’t have you screeching like a banshee as he tried to get away.

Mercy.

The wannabe angel began to lumber away. You didn’t hold your breath, waiting for the fake-out to end. He stopped. Here it comes.

“Oh and (Y/n)?” Tender and kind he sounded like an old friend.

You raised shaking fists, “What?”

With one last lovely look, Jeff sweetly told you to, “Have a good night.”

Mental auto-pilot had you reply with a, “Thanks, you too.”

Nine steps and he was out of view. Three more and he was out the backroom door.

Traumatized, confused, out of friends, and caked in their blood you made a promise to yourself. Next time your paths would cross you’d have a better weapon than pudding cups.

#jeff the killer #nine jeff #x reader #creepypasta #one shot #writing #yes i left it open ended for possible continuation #well mf see #happy holidays SWAG #creepypasta x reader

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peantbutter-honeycombs · 4 years ago

Text

The Hollowing Series: Part II

Title: The Boy and His Companion

Word count: 3,339

Characters: The 11th Doctor, Amy Pond, ocs

Warnings: Platonic fic not romantic.

Notes: Originally the story was going to be completely told from the point of Sophia but after a few drafts I decided it should follow Oliver. My college friend who sometimes beta reads my work used to hate the boy but now she likes him. He used to be mean and dismissive toward Sophia but clearly I changed things. Even I quite like his character now.

Speacial Thanks to @underskaro for beta reading this chapter. I know your busy and this really meant a lot to me. So thank so much.

Figured I tag @mirkwoodshewolf because they kindly edited the first chapter and I want them to know I finally got around to the second.

———

The rain had ceased, leaving a heavy blanket of grey white on the hills. It hugged the rain-soaked ground, dancing around each of the kid’s heels. The late day fog controlled the landscape, making it blur in the same way as the opening credits of Mary Poppins.

The entire walk home, the two walked in silence. Oliver, in one hand, held the middle bar of the bright green trike. The metal was ice in his palm. He gripped the bar so tight his knuckles were turning a ghostly shade of white. He held Sophia’s hand in the other, though not nearly as tight. However, still tight enough to make the little girl uneasy.

Sophia would have “said” something if it wasn’t so woefully clear Oliver was cross. His soulful hickory eyes were hard as stone. Instead of their usual boyish spark, there lingered a disdainful flicker. She could swear he was muttering something bitter. Now and then she’d fear a foul word, he’d probably later scold himself for saying.

Whoooooooooo.

He stopped, eyes narrowing. He took a deep, rather stiff breath and sharply exhaled through his nostrils. Adrenaline surged through his system so fast he felt it burn a path through his veins. He spun around, pulling Sophia behind him. Oliver had a glacially callous glare on his face, eyes fixed on the horizon.

The wind tore at the collar of his slicker, and his damp mess of blonde curls. Their surroundings were clouded, hidden, shrouded by the thick veil of fog. Oliver stood silently, the only sound coming from the ferocious flapping of his jacket. He scanned the stretch with the careful eye of a concerned mother.

The fog is not the mist. The fog is not the mist.

The second they arrived home, Oliver condemned Sophia to the time-out chair. She quietly settled in on the stool, positioned in the far corner of the dead end down stairs corridor, without protest. It was an older item. The hand carved mahogany always felt stiff on her bum. But she thought it better not to whine.

Oliver, he sat alone in the living room. A damp, worn out mess of a human being. He tiredly sunk into the couch. He ignored the clammy feeling of his rain-soaked clothes. He completely collapsed across the cushions. Every muscle in his body just surrendered to gravity. He could feel the tiredness pressing on his chest, weighing him down, draining his energy, exhausting his patience.

Why would she think?… Especially now. He rolled off his side onto his back and focused his eyes on the ceiling. She can’t just… Ugh!

He brought a pillow to his face and screamed.

The seconds ticked away into minutes; in the isolation of the sitting room, Oliver let the world around him fade into silence. The minutes ticked into half an hour; Sophia absentmindedly twiddled her thumbs, humming a familiar song in the back of her head; Oliver had been awake for sixteen hours. His consciousness was grasping at straws.

One sniff and Oliver’s eyes are open. He rolled on to his side. Immediately his face fell into irritation. Oliver locked eyes with a familiar pair mere inches from his face.

“I’m not done with timeout. Go back.”

Sophia blinked, processing the instructions she’d just been given. Her eyes darted around, searching his face for any traces of sarcasm or falsehood. Nothing.

Sophia lightly pecks his cheek in the sloppy little kid way. It left a little wet mark, one he’d wipe away once she’d left the room. Oliver chuckles softly, carefully bumping his forehead against Sophia’s. The little ginge giggled, stumbling back, whilst raising a palm to where her temple had been nudged.

“Ten minutes?”

Sophia nods and politely shuffles off.

The landscape blurred, clouded, the fog lingered hovering above the cool streams and the crowned hills. The brilliant greens and vibrant patches of rich wildflower were poking through the fleeting fog. Soon the sun would begin its descent. Lowering, lowering until it was nothing more than a single sliver of gold vanishing on the horizon.

Eyes closed, arms folded over his chest, which rhythmically rose and fell with each dozy intake of breath, Oliver laid quietly on the couch. The father clock at the top of the stairs ticked, the pendulum swung from side to side. Quarter till four, it read.

Sophia sat in her timeout chair, continuing to hum her melodic tune. In these moments of boredom with no toys to play, no stuffy to “talk” to and no Ollie to cling to, all Sophia could do was wait. She sighed, blowing up a long strand of hair that kept dipping, falling between her eyes.

Oliver stuck his head through the white Tudor arch way that separated the sitting room and entryway corridor. Sophia, having somehow positioned herself upside down on the small stool, gave the boy a dopey smile.

Oliver rolled his eyes, pulling at the fabric of his shirt.

“Hey Soph a loaf,” Oliver softly sing-songed, sitting against the wall directly beside the timeout spot. Being upside down, her auburn hair fell in waves suspended centimetres above the rough and stained planks. She was holding her shirt down, preventing it from exposing her stomach.

“You… Wanna make a pillow fort?”

The quiet of the house is shattered by Sophia, letting out a blaring squeal. In moments she somersaults off the bench, landing clumsily on the floor. She’s up on her feet in a heartbeat, bouncing, squealing, stomping.

Oliver chuckles lightly. “Sophia, Sophia, Sophia.”

Sophia poked her head through the arch at the call of her name.

Sophia whined, tilting her head as if to ask ‘what?’

“Nothing. Just… love you Soph a loaf. Lots and lots.”

The pillow fort took longer than expected, given that they both took the construction of fort building oh so seriously. They rushed through putting on their pjs, then moved on to making dinner. No one could tell them not to eat under the bedclothes.

“You can’t put peanut butter on grilled cheese!”

Just as it did every day, the sun set. The shadows of the trees and the aging building stretched up the hills, as the golden ball of orangish yellow began its descent.

Beneath navy blue blankets, patterned with rocket ships and sea creature stickers, sat the two children. Oliver had built much of the fort; Borrowing cushions, towels and blankets from around the house. While Sophia had eagerly decorated their cloth kingdom; twinkle lights, stickers, and scribbled drawings decorated the walls and ceilings.

“So her dad was killed-- Ow. By the same agent trying to recruit her?"

Cuddled firmly against his side was Sophia, her body glued against his similar to Double Pops. Every time she moved, her knees or feet would buck, nailing Oliver in the ribs or hip. He had an arm wrapped around her neck, functioning as both a pillow for her head, and one support for the tablet he was holding.

“That’s quite coinc-- Ow! Sophia!”

Sophia bit the edge of her lip, trying to contain her giggles. Her giggle was a violin playing the open string G (Sol), alluring and dulcet. Considering she burst into a mini giggle fit with each jab, Oliver’s face crumpled like a discarded wad of paper.

He could feel Sophia wiggling against him. Her legs squirmed in a boyishly wild fashion. Her knees curved, beating him in the ribs.

“Ow!" Oliver sat up.

“Okay.” He inhaled sharply. His body was stiff from high levels of irritation. Sophia calmed herself, gently curling her toes. Her brown eyes followed Oliver’s movements, becoming larger, curious.

“Sophia, do you have to use the toilet?”

Sophia drew in her lip. She bent her knees, so she grabbed her toes. She stared, thinking hard. He watched as her face became still, eyes blinking frenziedly. Within fifteen seconds, she nodded.

“Let’s go then.” He stood, helping Sophia up.

He crawled out of the fort’s entry tunnel, it was barely big enough for him to squeeze through. They’d run low on pillows, while building some part of the structure had to be sacrificed.

He heard the soft scuffling of sock padded feet against the old wooden floor. “Sophia?” He looked back over his shoulder, realising Sophia was making more noise than necessary.

“No! Soph, you’re not bringing a blanket to the loo.”

“We lay my love and I…” Oliver sang.

Oliver sat on the third step of the stairs. Beating his hands against his thighs. He was a child. His rigid posture had been replaced by a chill slouch. Sophia had taken her time correcting the blanket as she shifted. She was just now clambering out of the blanket fort.

“Beneath the weeping willow…”

Sophia shuffled past him into the next room, across the corridor from the sitting room. As she passed, Oliver gently took hold of the back of her shirt. Sophia backtracked, then turned on her heels to face him. Oliver had a focused look, his eyes fixated on the ginger like a surgeon during brain surgery.

“Sophia. Where are you going?” He asked.

Sophia wrinkled her nose, pointing in every direction. Oliver simply rolled his eyes.

“Then go find your sweater.” He instructed. Sophia points to the room she was headed toward. “No. It’s not in the drawing room. You left it in my room. Upstairs.”

Sophia let out a pout huff, making Oliver chuckle. She looked past him at the stairs, eyes narrowing to a thin line. Nonetheless, she began her slow ascent upwards. A downside of wooden stairs. If you’re not wearing shoes, instead socks, it's easy to slip. Her sock covered feet slipped and slid, making her ascent up the stairs look clumsy.

“One foot in front of the other.” Oliver teased. Sophia, her face only inches from his ear, blew a spitty raspberry. With the satisfying feeling of retaliation, Sophia pressed on.

“Remember to use the toilet.” Oliver reminded, wiping the flecks of spit from the side of his face.

Oliver patted his thighs and then stood. Standing rather motionless, in his sharp black and orange KTM Factory pyjamas, he distinguished himself amongst the rustic clutter of the foyer. After a moment of stillness, he leapt from the third step, landing on the floor with a hard thud. He resets himself, brushing a hand through his mop top of dirty honey blonde hair.

He wanders around the corridor, gently running his fingers across the wall, over the knickknacks and along the edges of the chair rail.

"But now alone I lie..." he quietly sang, “...And weep beside the tree...”

The house was old. Ancient. It looked like it had been plucked from an autumn-aphile's Pinterest board. Time had been kind to the country home. While the creepers crept along the worn grey cobbles, the inside was a monument to times long gone by.

Thump, thump, thump.

Sophia. She was moving around upstairs.

His mother was a collector. Her husband called her a hoarder. She called herself a dreamer. She was a traveller. When she had been young, before the children, she'd seen the world collecting baubles and knickknacks that now cluttered the home.

Thump, thu, thu, thum.

"Your feet aren't drums!"

A single overhanging lamp dimly illuminated the foyer, mirroring the glow of candle light. Their neighbour had once asked why they didn’t store all their tchotchkes away in the shed. Stacks of completed books left careless about rough wood carvings from around, antique finds nestled beneath blankets of dust, dried flowers, and colourful drawings from Oliver’s younger days.

Thump, thu, thu, thum.

The house, so full of things. Some would shudder at the chaos of it all, others would be queasy because of claustrophobia, and rest would be quietly fascinated.

Oliver stood himself in front of Credenza, pushed up against the left wall. He eyed the reflection staring at him through the distressed mirror mounted about mahogany sideboard.

He’d forgotten a lot rather recently. Thirteen. He’s thirteen. His eyes are a weak shade of brown, not like Sophia’s, the colour of almond coffee. His dirty blonde hair softly curled and tucked, just barely overhanging his sunken eyes.

Thump, thu, thu, thum.

“Singing ‘Oh willow waly’…” he sang, “… by the tree that weeps with me.”

Oliver retreated, leaning against the sloping stair posts. He checked the clock hanging above the front door. Four minutes had passed since Sophia had gone upstairs. Standing there with nothing to do but listen to the creaky footsteps from above.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

“Singing—”

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

His nerves abandon him quickly. His breathing becomes shallow and erratic. He couldn’t hear his rapid breathing, the chaotic beat of his heart dominated. His fingers curl into a fist, nails piercing the tender skin of his palm.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

His eyes dart to the clock. 6:11.

It’s as if his hidden sixth or seventh sense activates. Every tick of the clock is a threat, every creak of a floorboard is a risk. His fingers twitched as he defensively moved toward the door. His body stiffens, trying to shut him down before he can reach the front door. He keeps moving.

His hands tremble and his skin becomes rough with goosebumps as he reaches towards the door handle grip.

No one knocks. No one could would.

He grips the handle tightly thumb pressed on the thumb-place, the metal would surely leave a mark on his palm. He finds it hard to swallow, lungs betraying him. Slowly he presses down on the thumb-place, pulling on the handle.

“Hello!”

Oliver’s blood ran cold. He tightened his jaw.

“You followed us?” Oliver murmured. His grip on the door handle tightened, to where he could feel the cool metal dig into his palm. Standing square, shoulders defensively strained back, he felt a knot forming in the back of his throat. Fear sat quietly, waiting like a vulture, ready to claim him.

“You followed us home?” His eyes darted to the Moors, where a small cloud of mist was slowly forming. He wasn’t quite scared. His eyes showed more of a wary concern. After all, he was all that stood between two mysterious strangers and his world.

“Yes. We did.” As he spoke, Oliver observed the Doctor with slight aversion. When he spoke, he’d move his hands about. A little unnerving. Still Oliver held his ground, preventing the Doctor, still a stranger, from entering his home. “We have some questions…”

“Questions?”

Thump, thump, thump.

That’s when Oliver jumps. A pump of adrenaline surged through his system almost triggering his flight or fight instinct. Without his support “system”, it would have been flight. Oliver shook his head, pushing down his panic.

Thump, thump, thump.

He was the barrier between his world and trespassers. A wave of boldness washed through him, demanding he be bold and shielding. However, a light gust of embarrassment from his jump made his cheeks glow.

“You-- you have questions?” he stammered.

The Doctor seemed to take this as an invitation. He moved to enter the cobblestone house. Oliver slammed a hand across to the other side of the door frame, so he couldn’t enter.

The Doctor’s brows pressed together, his shoulders slumped, and his mouth hung slightly open and loose. His expression gave way to his confusion. A hard stone glare carved into Oliver’s tired eyes. A warning. The doctor took heed and took a careful step back.

His lighthearted manner returned within seconds.

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m the Doctor, this is my friend Amy. What’s your name?” He asked as he extended a hand out for Oliver.

Oliver shook his head, smiling a little, as he gently pushed the Doctor’s hand down and said.

“Can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

Just because someone introduces themselves, they aren’t any less of a stranger. Though most of what he observed of the Doctor seemed safe, suspicion and caution still governed his mind. He’d be more trusting in different circumstances. But there weren’t many people worth trusting, at least not anymore.

“You’re still a stranger.”

The Doctor nods, scratching at his chin. “Fair enough.” Something about the grown man’s cluelessness. The right corner of Oliver’s lip twitched, threatening to curve upward. He started gesticulating again, moving his hands about as he spoke. “Answer me this then where is everyone else?”

His brain stuttered for a moment, his face fell, and the blood drained from his face, leaving him as pale as a sheet. He recomposed himself, adopting a more stoic expression.

“Home,” his tone was cold, cold as ice.

“Home?”

The Doctor observes Oliver’s shift in manner with calculative eyes. He leans back, arching a brow. Oliver only nods in response. However, he could see it. The Doctor could see it, the fear trying to hide in the corners of the blonde child’s eyes.

He’d figure that out later, for now…

“Tell me, why should we be wary of the mist?”

Oliver scratched the back of his head. His eyes struggled to focus on one point. Again, they settled on the Moors. His stomach twisted and sunk with his nerves, as he gripped the fabric of his shirt tightly, wrapping it around his hand.

“Hard to see, you could get lost.”

The Doctor squatted, so that his eyes were level with Oliver’s. He carefully studied Oliver’s face as he lowered his mouth. He went to speak, but Amy, she spoke first.

“Have people gotten lost?”

Thud.

This time his muscles become tense. “I-- I better get inside,” he stammered, gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder. His unsettled eyes shift down to the ground, avoiding the watchful looks of the Doctor and his companion. Oliver cleared his throat and then croaked out.

“You should get back home, before it’s too late.”

Without another word, he shut the door, leaving the Doctor and Amy in the chill of dusk.

Oliver was silent as he fell back against the front door. The tick of the grandfather clock at the top of the stairs felt louder than before. As the full realisation of his conversation sank in, he ran his hands down his face. A loud groan of frustration flowed past his lips.

It’s foolish to trust, he reminded himself, for no one knows what the mist does hide.

A small whine snapped him out of his stupor. He immediately stood. Sophia stood one step from the top of the stairs. She wore a puzzled expression. Oliver rolled his eyes, his brows creased, and he put on a fake smile.

“It was no one,” he lied, dismissively waving a hand in the air. Sophia’s eyes narrowed. “It was no one Sophia, leave it alone.” He insisted, trying to laugh the matter off.

“Now, I have some work to finish.” He said as he moved toward the drawing room. As far as he was concerned, the matter of who was at the door was finished. His mouth twitched into a genuine smile, and his tone softened. “If you’d like, you can color at the desk while I work.”

Sophia shook her head, gesturing with an arm toward the entire upstairs. “No? Just going to play in the upstairs?” He asked. She nodded, making her ginger tresses bounce. “By yourself? Are you sure?” The way her one dimple crinkled, the shifting of her freckles, gave him his answer.

“Fine, have fun, bed in an hour.” Oliver brushed his fingers through his hair, strolling into the drawing room.

Sophia brought a hand to her mouth, then blew him a sloppy kiss. Hearing the noise of the peck from the other side of the archway, Oliver bent an arm back through the doorway to catch it. He cast his head back through the opening, a goofy grin plastered on his face.

“Love you too Soph a loaf. Lots and lots.” he gently laughed. “You be good,” he reminded moving into the drawing room.

“And Sophia,” His tone became serious, and resigned. “Let's stay out of the master room.”

#11th doctor #11th Doctor x child oc #Doctor who fandom #doctor who fanfic #doctor who fanfiction #doctor who imagine #doctor who imagines #doctor who series #11th doctor fanfic #doctor who series 5 #amy pond #ocs #11th doctor imagine #matt smith #karen gillan #noah jupe

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yourlocallovesickie · 4 years ago

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Paul McCartney x reader sickfic request

Warning: contains emeto and mention of scat

I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO ADD THE READ MORE LINK I WILL LEARN FOR FUTURE REFERENCE BUT FOR NOW JUST DONT READ IT IF YOU DON'T WANT TO

You sighed, feeling the heat from the heater envelop you as you walked in from the chilly night air, Paul following suit.

He'd taken you on a surprise date to a new restaurant that had opened up. It was way fancier than what you're used to but being Paul's date made you feel less out of place. He'd ordered some chicken and steak thing with mashed potatoes and you went with spaghetti. When the order came he'd completely pigged out, moaning between bites and constantly saying how good it was and urging you to try some. You declined and stuck with simple spaghetti, not without a few snide comments from Paul, and then payed and decided to head home for movie night.

You kicked off your shoes and hurried off to your room, eager to get into something comfier. When you walked out in your pajama pants and baggy t-shirt you saw Paul laying on the couch, also changed into more casual wear. You sat next to him and he wrapped his arm around you, you falling into his touch.

"Tonight was wonderful," you thank him and he smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

"It was." He gets the remote and turns on the telly, flipping through the various channels and seeing whichever caught either of your eyes. Finally, a movie was showing that seemed interesting enough and you brought your legs up to curl deeper into Paul's side.

Almost an hour into the film Paul started to shift. He couldn't sit still, constantly changing position and sighing irritated sighs that slowly turned more into whimpers when he couldn't find a comfortable position.

"You ok?" You ask him after the 15th sigh (yes, you'd been counting). He hesitated before answering.

"'M fine."

"You sure?" You heard a loud squelching gurgle come from Paul's stomach, and he shut his eyes tight, sweat gathering on his forehead as he pressed his free hand against his abdomen. He nodded, though his teeth were gritted in pain.

"I'm fine. I just ate a little too much is all." He didn't even sound like he believed himself. He tucked his legs back up again and resumed his attention on the movie, though the hand pressed against his stomach didn't move.

The movie ended and you looked over to Paul, noticing that he had his eyes closed. His breaths were coming in shallow and restrained and the hand on his stomach was rubbing it firmly in small circles.

"Paul?" You called, shaking his shoulder lightly until his eyelids fluttered open and he released a small moan. He turned his head to face you, a pitiful expression apparent on his face. "You okay, baby?" He shook his head, eyes shining with pained tears threatening to fall and the beginnings of fever. "What's wrong?"

"M-my belly doesn't feel too good- ooh.." His face scrunched up with a pained moan as a long low gurgle came from his stomach.

"Aw poor baby.." You ran a hand through his hair, sweat starting to cling to his bangs and leaving your hand damp. "You think it's dinner?" You asked, trailing the hand down and resting it gently on his stomach. Through the fabric of his shirt you could feel it churning and vibrating violently with each angry grumble.

"I don't know... I thought I just ate too much but-" his stomach cut him off, and you could feel the movement as a bubbly gurgle rolled up his throat. He belched and then whined as the momentary relief fleeted him. You patted his stomach gently before starting to stroke delicate circles into it. Paul whimpered again but didn't object.

"How about we get you to bed, hm? I'm sure you'll feel better after you get some sleep," you suggested and Paul waited a moment before nodding. His jaw was clamped shut and his eyes still closed. You helped him up and held him close as you walked back to your shared bedroom.

When you reached the bedroom he immediately fell unto the bed, a small groan muffled in the sheets. You pulled the blanket over top of him and went to the bathroom to brush your teeth. When you returned to the room Paul was flipped over on his back. One arm was draped over his eyes and the other was rubbing his stomach again. You sat down on the bed, it creaking under your weight accompanying Paul's whine as he turns toward you, tears in his eyes and almost pouting.

"C'mere," you shush him, pulling him closer until he had his face buried into you. You could feel his upset stomach pressing against you. It was bloated and you could feel the way is churned against your skin, Paul trying his bring his hand to it again.

A few hours and you and Paul now lay in the dark, the only sounds being the ticking of the clock, cicadas outside, and the steady rhythm of Paul's breathing as he'd fallen asleep. You stroked his back, about to fall asleep yourself when you heard a small burp vibrate against your chest. Usually this would've gotten a reaction out of you, but now you simply comforted him as a wetter burp started to stir him from his sleep (and stir his stomach as well). Slowly regaining his consciousness, he rolled away from your grasp, another burp ripping out of him. He placed both of his hands to his stomach and whimpered, slowly getting up from bed and stumbling to the bathroom attached to your room. Knowing what was to come you got up from the warm covers and Paul's indent of body heat and followed him into the bathroom.

When you step foot on the cold tile you see Paul sitting on his knees, trying to hide the tears rolling down his cheeks but to no avail. He sniffled, accompanying a belch that sent him leaning over the toilet cautiously.

"I don't feel good," he mumbled, rubbing his droopy, red rimmed eyes and whimpering. He looked pitiful; hair a mess, features sunken and slick with sweat, you could tell his belly was upset through the shirt he wore, and he was shaking like a dog.

"You're okay, you're okay.." You rubbed his back, ignoring how damp his shirt was getting. His shoulders and back suddenly hitched and Paul heaved, his half-digested meal splattering into the toilet bowl with a swirling pool of bile. His back hitched again, another heave bringing up more vomit. His body finally allowed him a moment to breathe, you whispering comforting nothings into his ear as he burped up a bit more, mucus and a small chunk of chicken running down his chin. You both waited a moment, preparing for an encore if it came but nothing except bitter saliva and wet belches.

You tore off a piece of toilet paper to wipe his chin, a drowsy smile as a 'thank you'.

"You feel better?"

"A little," he burped again, stomach gurgling. "I don't think I'm done.." he whined, turning back to the vomit pool in the toilet and closing his eyes. You rubbed his back, waiting for the inevitable. A loud choppy burp exploded out of him, followed by another as he leaned farther over the bowl, sick pooling from his mouth. His back convulsed, and a bit of puke splattered against the seat, Paul whimpering into another productive heave. After a bit of panting over the bowl, a tiny sob escaped him, tears continuing to stream down his cheeks. You cleaned them along with the bit on the seat, Paul muttering all the way. "I'm sorry..." he sobbed. "I didn't mean to, I'm sorry I'm so gross.." You pulled him into a hug, rubbing his back as he cried into you.

"Shh, shh.. You're okay, baby. You're not gross, you're sick, and that's okay. You need to do whatever you have to to get the bad stuff out, alright?" You kissed his warm, sweaty forehead, and he sniffled, wiping his tears and nose and nodding. "I love you."

"I love you too," he said, but the tiny comforted smile faded and his eyes widened as he brought a hand to his stomach. "B-baby can you.. get out for a bit?" He asked, obviously embarrassed but the need was stronger. You were confused at first but as a cramp went through him and another type of gurgle sounded it clicked. You pressed a kiss to his temple and left.

"Call me if you need anything," you called through the closed door. You could hear a noise of affirmation under the faucet running to drown out the noise.

You checked the bedside clock. 4 am, great. Paul was in for a long night

#sickfic #emeto tw #emetophilia #tummy ache #food poisoning #paul mccartney

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louiserandom · 4 years ago

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Play Games with Me

Pairing: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara | Rating: E

A/N: Commission for the amazing @rookie-d💙💗 thank you so much! *hugs*

Read on AO3 or continue under the cut :3 Ko-fi and fic commission info in the header!

Tobirama SenJERK has never had sex in his life, Madara types, as always brimming with spite when it comes to his least favorite person in town. Maybe on the planet.

Rereading the comment and satisfied that there aren’t any typos or any hint whatsoever at some kind of hidden affection (which isn’t there, never was and never will be, Madara reminds himself firmly), he hits ‘Comment.’

“Take that, you dumbass,” Madara mutters under his breath, and really, this could be classified as childish, were he not completely in the right to take vicious revenge upon the fucking asshole who dared refer to Madara as ‘so idiotic it’s pitifully adorable’ on his last stream. Hah! Like Tobirama isn’t the less intelligent one of the two of them; Madara has watched enough of his Uncharted 4 gameplay to note that Tobirama took twelve seconds longer than him to figure out arguably the most difficult puzzle in the game. And although Madara’s sub count doesn’t quite reflect his superior intellect compared to Senju’sーnot that he’s checked in a whileーit’s likely a testament to the viewers’ total lack of taste, if anything else.

(Two thousand, nine hundred and thirty four viewer’s, to be precise, according to this morning’s stats and minus the handful of Madara’s fake accounts that he created just in case to keep up with his chief competitor. Admittedly, it might be a tad annoying.)

A notification pipes up.

Hm, I wonder how you’d know that, MaddyGamerboy? Are you stalking me? I must admit, I’m flattered.

Madara sputters at the reply. At yet another butchering of his perfectly adequate nickname. The fucking nerve of the guyーand people fucking wonder why Madara hates his guts?

(Madara knows it doesn’t really help his case that he’s touched himself to fantasies of the younger Senju more times than he’d care to count, but hate-fucking a thing isn’t it? Hate-masturbation must be too, he supposes. Not the healthiest outlet for negative feelings, but it makes him feel good enough.)

(Heavenly, to be precise.)

I AM NOT, YOU SELF-OBSESSED DUMBASS, Madara types, simultaneously taking care of the half-a-dozen typos that appear of their own accord.

No.

Deep breath. Stop fingers from shaking. Think about something witty to say.

Pff, he writes, for lack of any better word to express his indignant huff, like I give a shit about you. You’re dumb.

It did sound much better in his head, but Madara has spent over a minute writing the comment already, and he doesn’t want to appear as if he’s thinking too hard on it.

He posts his answer, not dwelling too match on the number of likes on Tobirama’s comment far outnumbering the hundred Madara’s garnered. Again, Tobirama’s audience is clearly not the best judge of character.

“FUCK. YOU. SIDEWAYS, SENJU!” Madara shouts at the reply that follows, consisting only of the words:

Thanks for the sub btw.

“You fucking piece of shit,” Madara hisses. “Like eight fucking fake accounts do anything to boost your stats, I don’t even like all your videos from each one of them, you ass!”

I DID NOT SUB DONT BELIEVE HIM

I’m happy to have another loyal fan ;)

HE IS FUCKING LYEING!!!

With seemingly every single person in the comments raving about how it’s about time MadGamer69 and admitted he admires FlyingThunderGod’s skill, Madara has to consciously restrain himself from smashing his laptop against the wall.

“You can just tell him you like him, you know.”

Madara startles, almost stumbling to the floor when Hashirama returns with their drinks and quickly put-together snacks, always the one to rummage through Madara’s kitchen because Madara hardly cares what edible and inedible things existed there or what to do with themーthat’s Izuna’s job.

“I do not,” Madara snarls, as Hashirama flops next to him on the couch, “like that stupid clusterfuck you call a brother!”

“Madara!” Hashirama whines, with that ever-present pout on his face. “Be civil.”

“Yeah, when he returns the favor,” Madara glowers, grabbing a milkshake from Hashirama’s hand. “Did you forget that he fucking started it? Do I need to quote his “pitifully adorable how so much stupidity can fit in such a short man” again?” Madara can’t help flailing his arms a little, though far too conscious of this habit now since the Tobirama has started pointing it out. He makes up for it with what he hopes is a deadly enough glare. “Did no one in your family bother to teach him manners? Did you?”

Hashirama only sighs. “And did you forget,” he asks, “how before that you abused my invitation over to our place to hide his Golden Youtube Gamer Tablet?”

Madara groans. “It’s called a Gold Play Button. Idiot.”

“Now you’re insulting me,” Hashirama grumbles, “and who cares? The point is, you’d be upset too if he hid yours.”

“Youtubers care,” Madara says, “and also, that’s irrelevant, that was revenge for him making fun of my perfectly adequate gameplay.”

“To be fair, you were dying quite a lot in that playthrough...”

“He took twelve seconds longer to figure out that puzzle in the game!” Madara growls.

Hashirama rolls his eyes. “Well, of course, because that Yellow Flash guy was flirting and distracting him in the chat.”

Madara blanches. "That good-for-nothing pipsqueak was what?”

“See,” Hashirama drawls, “you are jealous. Why would you be jealous?”

“I-I’m not!”

“Madara, you are so far in denial, that as your best friend,” Hashirama says firmly, slapping a hand over Madara’s mouth before he can muster another protest, “I cannot stand by and watch you suffer. Anymore, that is, because this has reached a breaking point. So, please, for me, I am begging you, just try politely asking if maybe Tobirama would like to accompany you for coffee somewhere tomorrow? Maybe brunch? I mean, come on, I know you guys don’t hate each other anymore. Seriously, you guys seem like you enjoy arguments, and hey, who am I to judge how people express affection?”

“Affection?!” Madara shrieks, shoving Hashirama’s hand away.

“And please stop pretending you don’t have printed out screenshots of my brother’s videos hidden under your mattress because Izunaー”

“Is a fucking snooping rat!” Madara hisses.

Hashirama sighs. “If it helps you feel better, maybe Tobirama might possibly not feel extreme dislike towards you but actually the opposite,” he says, smiling nervously as Madara blanches.

Because... what?

He blinks, running Hashirama’s words through his mind again.

“And how would you know that?” he asks, suspicious. “I swear if you dared tell him anything about my possibly nonexistent feelingsー”

“Possibly?” Excitement starts bubbling in Hashirama’s eyes. “That’s progress!”

“Definitely nonexistent feelings, dammit!”

Hashirama, the asshole Madara calls best friend for some reason, giggles. “Don’t worry, I didn’t. I promise, stop glaring or I will start pouting,” he threatens, and Madara schools his expression back into a light scowl to avoid the infamous Senju pout.

Like a curse, memories of said pout curling Tobirama’s lips spring to mind, and Madara has to physically shake his head to banish those thoughts.

“Listen, the fact that we’re not as... aggressive as we used to be,” Madara says, “doesn’t mean we suddenly like each other.”

“Madara, you insist on coming along every time we hang out,” Hashirama points out.

“I like hanging out with you.”

“Yet every time we do,” Hashirama presses on, “you’re hyperfocused on bickering with Tobirama instead of talking about wholesome stuff with me. Did you even notice that I brought Mito with me the past few times and it was literally a double date?”

“Was not!” Madara shoves at Hashirama with his shoulder and stands up to pace, because there goes the tell-tale sweating of his hands, the fluttering in his chest and stomach and the memoriesーof him and Tobirama secretly filming the other on camera when they do stupid shit, their almost daily Best Playground Insult Contest that’s been memed half to death on Twitter, the one time they got separated from Hashirama and Izuna in Disneyland because they’d got caught in their arguments so much it devolved into discussing their favorite games and an actual conversation that had Madara’s insides tingling.

No.

No, no, no. If anything, they were just gradually becoming something not unlike friends. And Madara’s occasional fantasies behind closed doors were nothing but a means to a pleasant end.

Not. Feelings.

No matter how much he’s grown attached to the site of messy, white-gray hair that he knows is soft to the touch from all the times he’s tugged on it to irritate him. No matter how piercing Tobirama’s unique red eyes may look. No matter how objectively hot his recent workout routine video wasーand Madara knows he’d only watched it so many times because he wants to improve his own routine, right?

Right?

Madara groans. “Why are emotions so fucking confusing!” He slumps onto the floor and wraps his arms around his knees, hitting his head over and over again on his kneecaps because, “I don’t even know what I want from him, okay?”

There’s a brief silence before Hashirama joins him and keeps him from abusing his head further. “How about,” Hashirama suggests, rubbing a comforting hand on his back, “you just ask? Listen, he’s my brother. And you’re my best friend. You two fighting less and at least making an effort to get to know each other better?” Hashirama brings out the puppy dog eyes. “That would mean the world for me.”

Madara glances at him before looking away again, focusing on a random photo of the wall. One featuring Tobirama right after his university graduation with a wide smile on his face. Quite the adorable face, too, and the unprompted thought makes Madara want to descend into oblivion. Preferably forever.

“That’s difficult,” he says lamely.

“But not impossible,” Hashirama says, “and hey, it’s better than waiting for the Yellow Flash guy to actually make a move on Tobi and start occupying all of his time. He’s a really big fan.”

“Fuck Minato,” Madara scoffs, “the guy just showed up and is just shamelessly emulating Tobirama’s style. That’s dumb.”

“Dumber than you claim Tobi is?” Hashirama prompts.

Madara thinks about it. “You know what? Yes.”

“As I saidーprogress!”

Madara can never go through with his impulses to punch his well-meaning best friend, and so grabs the nearest pillow from the couch and smashes it into Hashirama’s face to shut him up.

Tobirama returns home only to find Hashirama and Madara standing by the front door, frowning as they watched something that sounded like a tsunami of some kind.

“Listen, it’s gotta be one of those black holes or something twisting that vortex. Look how stuff disappears right into it!” is his brother talking, and Tobirama is already heaving a frustrated sigh.

Please don’t tell me you think there’s a black hole on Earth.

“There’s no black holes on Earth, idiot! The nearest one is way off, like near Pluto or something,” Madara says.

Ah. Even better. Tobirama chuckles under his breath, crosses his arms and leans against the wall, observing the two idiots he knows and loves.

He mentally kicks himself.

Well, one of them, he loves. Of course he loves his brother.

The other is... complicated.

“And besides, that could just be the Loch Ness monster or a cthulhu or something. See how dark the water is?”

“Or maybe,” Tobirama says, making them both jump, “it’s a natural phenomenon that’s a tad too difficult for both your brain cells to comprehend? I’m happy to explain though.”

“I’m happy to see you fuck yourself,” Madara greets him his usual way, scowling despite the exceptionally conspicuous blush painting his cheeks.

The contrast never fails to make Tobirama’s heart beat faster. He hates himself for it.

“Mm, Madara,” Tobirama teases, “not in front of my brother.”

As expected, Madara starts spluttering, and Tobirama is left wondering again how he avoids making a total fool of himself in each and every one of his videos. It seems Madara saves most of his flailing for the comment section.

“You,” Madara snarls, pointing Tobirama’s way, “are an asshole, Senju, but spending time with the better part of society might do you some good. So see you at brunch tomorrow and do not be late.”

And with that, Madara gives Hashirama a cursory wave and stalks off, leaving Tobirama frozen on the spot.

Did Madara just?..

Tobirama blinks, swallowing heavily as he feels his throat running dry and his heart rate pick up.

No fucking way.

He must have imagined it. Through his stupor of trying to figure out what the hell just took place, Tobirama vaguely registers Hashirama’s facepalm.

“Sorry for that,” Tobirama hears his brother speak through the rush in his ears. “He meant, uh, will you please join him for brunch? Tomorrow at 11 am, Eggspectation?”

Tobirama blinks harder.

“I,” he starts, “I don’t... Did you blackmail Madara into asking me out?”

Hashirama looks scandalized. “What? No!”

“Did Madara just ask me out?”

“Well, yes, Tobi.” Hashirama chuckles nervously. “You sure you’re feeling okay?”

Tobirama glares. “The idiot’s wake up text to me today was literally a collection of trashy limerick poems about how much I suck. Sorry if I’m a little skeptical.”

“You,” Hashirama says, wincing as a long-suffering expression settles on his face, “you guys send wake up texts to each other?”

A moment of awkward silence hangs in the air.

“Sometimes,” Tobirama says, defensive, although the damage is already done.

“And you’re still not going out? Tobirama, you do realize he’s in love with you, right?”

“Don’t say things like that, Anija!” Tobirama snaps, hoping the dim lighting in the corridor conceals the blush he can feel heating up his cheeks. Fuck. Now he’s turning Madara. “Yet, I mean.”

“I’ll save the celebrations until after your date then!” Hashirama sing-songs like the idiot he is.

Tobirama resigns to his fate. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You’ll thank me for this.”

“If it goes well,” Tobirama glowers though it’s ineffective, really, against his brother’s bubbling positivity, and the sheer awe still coursing through him from Madara asking him out on a fucking date is actually enough to make Tobirama want to hug him. He refrains. "Now, thanks, Anija, but I have work things to attend to.”

“Sure! Just don’t forget, 11ー”

“Eleven eggs and uh, no expectations, got it.”

“Wait, Tobi, noー”

With no time to waste, naturally, Tobirama bolts into their apartment and straight to his room to choose an appropriate outfit. And to mentally prepare himself for something he’s almost given up hoping for.

Tobirama cannotーwill notーmess this up.

Tobirama makes sure to arrive about ten minutes early. Not because he’s worried or nervous, of course; maybe just a little, but mostly just to get his bearings beforeーfinallyーa date with Madara goddamn Uchiha.

Madara, who’s been Tobirama’s stupid crush since high school, and just as in love with gaming as he is, only that didn’t turn out to be such a great bonding point between them, as Tobirama had hopedーbefore he actually got to know his Anija’s best friend.

Madara, who seemed to dislike Tobirama at first sight and only grew to hate him more over the years as they both found more joy in arguing than they did in talking.

Madara, who, despite this, blushes every rare time Tobirama genuinely smiles at him or drops a suggestive joke, who has an arguably unhealthy obsession with Tobirama’s ass which he always ogles when he thinks no one is looking.

Madara, whose plastered ass Tobirama had to drag home the other week, amid drunken speeches about capitalist injustice, some wacky conspiracy behind the disappearance of the dodo bird and... something quite interesting.

“Listen, Senju,” Madara was slurring against Tobirama’s shoulder, as the latter cursed every single nonexistent god that Hashirama had chosen that fucking day to go on a road trip with Mito, Toka and Izuna, leaving Tobirama in charge of this walking trash fire of a man. “Listen. Tobira... Tobi. Tobirama. You’re so hot.”

The words almost made Tobirama stumble.

“What, Uchiha?”

“And cute... So pretty, too, I wish you could see that...” Madara went on babbling. “I think you do. But still. Wish you could see me like I do. I mean see you. Like I do...”

“Tobira, you’re just, you’re unfair...”

“I hate you and I like you then I love you and I hate you again, why you’reー” A hiccup. “How do you exist...”

“I just want to hold hands and just... walk and talk and be together and...”

Tobirama watched in ever mounting confusion as Madara leaned completely into him, humming as he hugged Tobirama tightly and said,

“Is that too fucking much to ask...”

Tobirama stood, shell-shocked, with Madara whispering impossible nonsense in his arms, wondering if he was in a dream.

The next day saw Madara returning to his usual self insulting Tobirama at every goddamn opportunity, which left Tobirama... confused.

Confused, and conflicted, and sleepless for the rest of the night, thoughts held captive by the utter idiot whose ultimate goal seems to be to ruin Tobirama’s life.

It’s maddening.

Of course, he’d suspected that Madara’s flailing and constant blushing interspersed with screams and insults (the most creative ones, reserved only for Tobirama, it seemed) were signs of not so much dislike, as the complete opposite. Of course, Tobirama had tried flirting with Madara, just bordering right there on the edge of suggestive, only for his advances to be seen as patronizing or condescending. And hearing Madara speak to him this way, in a drunken stupor no less, when he’d probably have no causeーor abilityーto lie is...

Maddening. Annoying. Exhilarating. A tantalizing opportunity. Maybe a glimmer of hope.

And of course, Tobirama told his brother; they never really had any secrets between them. And of fucking course Hashirama had a hand in convincing Madara to change his usual behavior, which is nice and all, but doesn’t help the nerves wracking through Tobirama’s body, nor the crippling fear that he’s going to somehow screw this up.

But no. Deep breath. Exhale. And remember Anija’s advice.

Tobirama takes the last turn before he’s faced with their meeting place, surprised to find Madara already there.

Even though he’s usually always late. Sitting inside by the window, looking out onto the street with a slight frown, Madara keeps worrying his bottom lip and, apparently, trying to break a spoon.

It paints an endearing picture. Tobirama sighs, feeling a smile tugging at his lips.

This man...

Tobirama comes in, approaching him slowly, allowing himself a few moments to watch Madara needlessly fix his wild mane of hair, appraise his reflection in the spoon, try out several fake-looking smiles before settling on a scowl and going back to his nervous tics again. With another sigh, Tobirama takes the few steps left to his date, repeating Hashirama’s advice over and over in his head.

Just be yourselfーand have fun!

Just a few minutes into their date, it becomes obvious that Madara didn’t get the same advice from Hashirama.

Or just didn’t get the advice, period.

With their orders made and beverages served, they’re left to wallow in a less than comfortable silence, broken only by Madara’s... uncharacteristic attempts at conversation.

“Are you enjoying the tea?” Madara asks Tobirama with all of the softness of a brick wall.

Tobirama isn’t used to the man being eloquent, much less polite, and he has yet to have at least one conversation with Madara that doesn’t devolve into a pissing contest. So theoretically, Tobirama should be enjoying this.

But it only seems wrong. Annoying. Not them.

He tries to recall if, maybe, their first meeting was an adequate exchange? Tobirama thinks to the day Hashirama first introduced them. Only flashes of spilled milkshakes and jibes at intelligence run through his mind, and of course that was the very first time he’d called Madara an idiot pipsqueak, receiving quite the lame ‘stuck-up dandelion’ in turn.

Unsurprising.

“Yes,” Tobirama says, taking another sip as he eyes Madara struggling on the other side of the table. Struggling to do what is the question: either sit straight, or assume a more relaxed posture, or reach towards his own drink, or avoid eye contact, even though he keeps glancing his way when he thinks Tobirama won’t notice. Tobirama does, every time, and that just makes the whole ordeal more awkward. “Nice weather,” Tobirama says, with about as much enthusiasm.

If Madara wants to play this stupid game, Tobirama will indulge. Just to see how long it takes for Madara to break and return to his blustering status quo.

“Yeah...” Madara clears his throat, eye twitching as he manages to hold Tobirama’s gaze for a commendable three seconds this time. “Hate the sun. I meanーI mean I love the sun. Ugh. It just, uh. Burns.”

It’s both saddening and funny to see Madara visibly deflate.

“Skin too sensitive, huh?” Tobirama starts small. “Just like your ego?”

Madara’s jaw clenches and his nervous look shifts into a glare before he looks away again, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to calm himself down before he flashes an unnaturally cheery smile.

“Heh, nice,” Madara grits through his teeth, “nice joke, Senju.”

Tobirama raises his eyebrow as Madara flinches at his own words.

“I’m glad you appreciate my sense of humor,” Tobirama says, barely reining in a smirk.

“Sure! You’reーyou’re funny.”

“And?”

“And what?” Madara frowns, confused.

“And what else am I?” Tobirama demands, feigning thoughtfulness. “A recent assessment of yours was that I look and act like a self-obsessed dumbass, I think.”

“No-no,” Madara blurts out, looking much a cornered animal, “I think you... you are... you look not at all so terrible today?” he finishes with a nervous chuckle, running a hand through his hair.

Tobirama wants to scream from the agony.

No. This won’t do, otherwise he might as well leave.

“Can you just call me a stuck-up asshole like you always do or recite one of those horrible limerick disses?” he demands.

Madara actually yelps. “What? No! I mean, wait.” He narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“Because you’re acting weird.”

“We’re on a date, if you were too stupーpreoccupied to get my invitation, Senju,” Madara says, jaw still clenched as he doubtless refrains from swearing, “and I’m being civil!”

That’s the advice he must have gotten from Anija, Tobirama thinks.

What a tragedy.

“Madara,” Tobirama implores, leaning his eyebrows on the table and meeting Uchiha’s gaze, “have you considered thatーI prefer it when you aren’t?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, thank fuck!” Madara slams his hands on the table, heaving a massive sigh as Tobirama laughs in relief. “I was ready to fucking die, you piece of shit! How does your brother stay so fucking kind all the time, it’s fucking torture!”

Tobirama rolls his eyes. “It’s a talent, naturally. Just like your talent at embarrassing yourself and mine at being awesome.”

“You’ve got it a little backwards, Senju,” Madara sneers, “but it’s excusable, given your level of intellect.”

“Twice as high as yours?” Tobirama parries.

“Twice as little.”

“That’s more like it,” Tobirama says, grinning despite himself, “I thought you were a decoy or something. You’ve told me to fuck off every single day since we first met and this was getting worrisome.”

Madara’s laugh is sudden, melodic, sending those irritating tingling sensations through Tobirama’s body. He makes an effort to appear outwardly calm.

“Maybe because you managed to piss me the fuck off every day that I’ve known you,” Madara scoffs, “but you’re all right sometimes. I guess.” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance even as he keeps nervously fixing and running his fingers through his hair.

A stupid, tantalizing habit. Tobirama imagines carding his own hands through the messy locks, tugging Madara’s head back toー

He forcefully aborts the thought process before he’s faced with a problem of the harder kind. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll try to strangle each other when we game together.”

“We’re playing today?” Madara asks.

Tobirama tilts his head to the side.

“You haven’t planned one gaming session after our date?”

“Um,” Madara says, blinking rapidly, “why should I be the one with the plan?”

“Because you’re the one who invited me,” Tobirama deadpans. And anyway, Madara is always the one to egg Tobirama on to gaming, which would usually only ever lead to semi-playful brawls and their fighting making Hashirama cry.

And without Anija there to assault them with his antics, Tobirama wonders what their play-fighting might lead to... and promptly shuts off those thoughts again. Control, dammit.

Madara opens his mouth, then closes it, sighs explosively and says, “All right, fair enough. But you’re the strategy pro here. And my thing is RPGs.” He smirks. “I can improvise.”

And Madara does, in fact, improvise, leading Tobirama on what he hopes is a satisfying daylong adventure. It’s strange, walking by themselves around Konoha without anyone else with them (not that they’ve taken to ignoring Hashirama and Mito anyway on their most recent group outings), free to talk about and do anything they want. Strange and perfect, the way Tobirama switches between poorly concealed bashfulness and his usual confidence, as their jokes and jibes at each other, every little prank they pull never fails to make them both laugh.

It’s perfect.

Just like Tobirama’s smile is, directed at him without any pretenses as they set off to explore the lush, gigantic forest surrounding the city, rumored to be home to mythical, many-tailed creatures. And that’s followed by their forays into an abandoned chemistry lab; the scares they get in the woods from intermittent growls coming from the shadows are nothing compared to the horror Madara feels when Tobirama insists on touching broken vials and experimental equipment, and going through doors with dilapidated ‘DANGER. CHEMICAL HAZARD’ signs.

“If we’re infected by some deadly and insidious poison,” Madara whispers as they explore the lab’s tunnels, “I’m going to fucking kill you before it does. Painfully.”

“It’s for science,” Tobirama says. “And trust me. We’re safe. I got a degree in this.”

“Youtube is practically your full-time job at this point. What the fuck else do you need?”

“The satisfaction of discovering something cool?”

“And deadly.”

"Unlikely.”

Madara groans, cursing his life, as well as his inability to say no to hisーapparentlyーnew boyfriend.

The boyfriend who’s just discovered another hidden pathway to a deeper level and has scurried off towards it like an excited five-year-old. Despite himself, despite his intent to keep complaining, Madara can’t hold back the grin tugging at his lips.

Still perfect.

Just like their lunch date which turns into a picnic by the Naka river, where Madara remembers meeting Hashirama way back when. Just like the first time Tobirama grasps his hand, fingers gently massaging it as he laughs at Madara stuttering to a stop from whatever rant he’d been on, heart in his throat and mind suddenly focused on whether his palms are too sweaty or not.

His mind goes blank. Eyes focus only on the man in front of him, whom he yearns to strangle just as often as he craves to tackle him onto any surface and ruin him completely. And it should feel wrong, it should be, only Madara hasn’t quite felt so right about anything in a long time, and with every minute they spend with their familiar bickering, just with a layer of something more behind it this time, it becomes harder and harder to deny how good being near Tobirama makes him feel. Happy. Complete.

Madara winces. Oh, gods. He’s waxing poetic now.

All worries about that fly out the window when Tobirama, without so much as a word of warning, leans in and draws Madara by his collar into a kiss.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t spring up to awaken alone in his bed like he always does, after dreams like these.

And, unsurprisingly, it turns out to be Madara’s best kiss to date.

Maybe he’s exaggerating, if just because he’s been craving this so damn much. Tobirama’s lips are hot, gentle, and welcoming against his, a curious tongue darting out to coax Madara’s lips open and deepen the kiss. The delightful drag of his tongue, his hands, rough and demanding on Madara’s chest, waist, thighsーit’s not long before he’s dizzy with it, barely holding back moans of pleasure for fear of sounding too desperate.

“Fuck,” Madara gasps as they pull away for breath, lips still touching as their eyes stay locked and he’s treated to Tobirama’s downright ravenous gaze. “That wasー”

Tobirama cuts him off with another kiss, then another, and it’s not long before they find themselves tangled in a mess of limbs and loose clothing. The hard ground presses against Madara’s back as Tobirama settles on top of him, ravaging Madara’s mouth with a passion that soon has his pants feeling too tight.

Fuck.

He groans, hips thrusting of their own accord and feeling Tobirama's own erection through the fabric.

Madara makes an immense effort to pull away, stifling a whine at the loss of contact.

“Bed,” he says, mortified at his own crudeness far too late after the word comes out. “Fuck, I meantー”

“Yes,” Tobirama growls, capturing Madara’s lips in another open-mouthed kiss before he hauls him up to start gathering their things. “Your place or mine?”

“Yours? Izuna,” Madara rasps, head too clouded to explain more in-depth, but Tobirama seems to understand.

“Anija shouldn’t be back for a while,” Tobirama says, a devastating grin on his face, “lots of time for us to play.”

Gods.

Madara scrambles to his feet fast enough to stumble, and for once, Tobirama has nothing to say about his clumsiness.

They all but crash through the front door, not even bothering to lock it as they rush through a cursory check to make sure Hashirama is out like he said he’d be.

“Fuck, thank the gods,” Tobirama sighs in relief before dragging Madara back into liplock.

Madara can’t hold back a moan this time, heat ratcheting up between them as he wraps his hands around Tobirama’s neck, pulling him closer as they stumble to the couch. Madara ends up straddling him just so that their cocks brush through too-rough clothing, kiss growing urgent and sloppy, as wandering hands touching every inch of uncovered skin.

Clothes fall away, leaving them both shirtless, and Madara needs a few moments to take in the miles of pale skin, so soft to the touch, toned muscles rippling as Tobirama squirms under him, gasps and groans escaping his lips in answer to every one of Madara’s touches. He leans in to mouth Tobirama’s neck, sucking bruising kisses onto the soft skin there pleasure flaring at the base of his stomach each time Tobirama moans and arches against him.

“You’re so sensitive,” Madara whispers, with a hint of incredulity. “That’s... fuck.”

“Yeah,” Tobirama rasps, eyes unfocused, “because... just get on with it.”

“If I knew this is what it took to finally get you to shut up,” Madara chuckles, “I would have tried this a long time ago.”

If he weren’t so sure Tobirama genuinely despised him. Butー

“I fucking wished you would!” Tobirama snaps, though the irritation rings hollow with the breathless tone.

Madara blinks in shock.

“You did?” Madara asks, moving lower to lap at Tobirama’s nipple, sucking the hardened nub into his mouth and eliciting another delicious whimper. “You thought about this? About my hands on you, touching you?”

“Yes!” The desperation in his tone only adds to Madara’s mounting confidence, one that he so rarely ever feels in Tobirama’s presence.

“My mouth on your cock,” he continues, heart hammering against his ribs as he trails kisses lower and lower, “would you like that? While I finger you, getting you ready to take me?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Tobirama’s hips jerk, making them both moan at the friction.

“Off,” Madara grunts, tugging at Tobirama’s pants with one hand as the other works the belt off his own. They scramble, a bit awkwardly, until they’re both naked and sprawled on top of each other, and Madara all but drools at the sight of Tobirama’s cock, hard and straining, beads of precum already leaking from the tip.

Perfect.

It’s tempting to just let go but Madara decides to take his time. Strokes Tobirama’s sides and chest, fingers his nipples, kisses every inch of skin he can reach, sucking bruises and biting slightly. He marvels at every little keen and groan he wrings from Tobirama, relishing how needy he grows with each second, how he moans Madara’s name, curses him and urges Madara to touch him, sliding his dick against his and huffing when Madara doesn’t do anything about it, before finally devolving into pleading.

Just what Madara’s been waiting for.

“Madara, please,” Tobirama’s whines, a soft, desperate sound that makes Madara groan in turn.

“Please what?” he asks, knowing he’s being a tease and enjoying the hell out of it.

Tobirama musters a pretty non-intimidating glare. “Just... fuck.”

“Tell me.”

“Fuck you.”

“Is that what you want?” Madara raises an eyebrow, making sure to wet his lips, letting his tongue gently graze the head of Tobirama’s cock. “I can bottom. I don’t mind.”

“Fuck!” Tobirama squeezes his eyes shut, heavy breathing interspersed with desperate whines. “Just... suck me off. Please. Now.”

“That’s it, Tobirama,” Madara drags out the syllables of his name, a smirk tugging at his lips, “when you ask so nicely, how can I refuse?”

He wraps his lipsーfinallyーaround the head, licking at the salty fluid gathered there, ears ringing from the heady feel of Tobirama’s cock against his mouth, his hands tangling in Madara’s hair, the sounds slipping from Tobirama’s lips that are borderline fucking obscene. Madara takes a breath to brace himself and takes Tobirama a few inches deeper. His length is hot, stiff, and heavy in his mouth as Madara presses the flat of his tongue against the underside, sucking hard, wringing another delectable whimper. Tobirama’s thrusts up, cock hitting the back of his throat, and Madara chokes for a moment, his own dick jerking at the sensation.

“Madara,” Tobirama breathes, “Madara, gods, you feel amazing.”

The words send another rush of pleasure through him, and Madara takes himself in hand to release some of the unbearable tension, stroking himself slowly as he relaxes his throat and sinks down to take Tobirama to the base.

Tobirama’s moan is a sweet, drawn-out melody. One that Madara enjoys making louder and louder as he starts moving, setting a fast-paced rhythm, uncaring for how debauched he may look, drool leaking out of his mouth and coating Tobirama’s cock, throat constricting around it as he takes him deep, lets him stay there, tongue gliding along his shaft. Tobirama soon devolves into barely coherent pleading, until ‘please’, and ‘more’, and Madara’s name are the only words coming out of his mouth.

It’s intoxicating. Overwhelming, far too much. Madara gives up stroking himself, the pleasure ramping up far too quickly, too soon, though Tobirama isn’t doing much better. Madara draws his lips up along his length, lapping up more precum gathered at the head, even as Tobirama’s hips jerk again and the hand in Madara’s hair tightens, urging him back down.

“Madara, please,” Tobirama keens, “I need...”

Madara has a pretty good idea of what he needs. He swirls his tongue over the head, descending again until his nose is pressed against Tobirama’s stomach. Madara swallows around him once, twice, a third time before he feels Tobirama nudging at his shoulder in a warning he doesn’t pay heed to, starting to bob his head again, wrapping his fingers around the base of Tobirama’s cock, using both his mouth and hand to bring him to completion.

“Fuck, Madara, Iー”

Madara lets out a muffled groan once he feels cum spilling against his tongue, swallowing rapidly as Tobirama’s cock pulses, again and again, through an orgasm that has him writhing and and trembling underneath him, hands tightening in Madara’s hair enough to hurt with the kind of tantalizing pain that only adds to the pleasure.

“You feel so fucking good,” Tobirama pants, watching Madara through white lashes, eyes dark and hazy as another shudder runs through him, “fuckーI want...”

Madara releases him with a wet pop. “Want what, Tobirama?” he whispers, voice too hoarse for him to speak properly.

Tobirama grips his shoulders in lieu of an answer, directing Madara to turn around so his back is pressed against his chest.

Then Tobirama’s hand wraps around his cock andーoh.

Madara has pretty much forgotten about his own pleasure, too focused on not coming too soon and making sure Tobirama was enjoying himself.

“My turn,” Tobirama murmurs against his ear, tone still breathless but with a commanding edge to it now that makes Madara shiver, “and lemmeーlet me hear you, Madara.”

Gods. He groans just from the sound of Tobirama’s voice. The feel of his teeth nibbling at his earlobe, his hand setting a quick, harsh rhythm that builds up the pleasure to impossible degrees. Tobirama’s heated skin pressed against his back, his thighs, the fingers of his other hand carding through his hair with a gentleness that contrasts with his harshness before.

It’s too much.

“Go on, Madara.”

Tobirama’s fingers swiping at the precome gathering at the head of Madara’s cock, smearing it over his shaft. His voice, a muffled whisper coaxing Madara to let go, to come for him, to say Tobirama’s nameー

“Just like that, Madara,” Tobirama grunts, “louder for me, come on.”

Madara thrusts into his grip, all but fucking into Tobirama’s fist at this point, moans his name as the heat grows unbearable the closer he gets to release.

“To-bi-rama...” He comes with a broken groan slipping from his lips as cum spills all over his stomach and Tobirama’s hand, each pulse coming stronger than the last, leaving him dizzy and boneless in Tobirama’s arms for however long it takes for his orgasm to abate.

Feels like forever. Probably a lot less. Time does seem to slow down, though, both of them collapsing against each other onto the cushions, breathing raggedly and curling into each other as Madara turns to bury his head in the crook of Tobirama’s neck.

It still seems unreal. Too perfect. So right.

They lie there for a minutes, coming down from the high, limbs tangled and lazy kisses exchanged here and there. Tobirama looks so peaceful, like Madara’s never seen him before: eyes half-lidded, hair messier than ever, sticking in every direction, skin still flushed and marked, all over, with hickeys and teeth marks, the mere sight of which has Madara’s dick stirring in interest, recent orgasm or no.

“You know,” Madara says, hands running over Tobirama’s chest, barely grazing his still sensitive nipples and making him shiver, “if this is the game you want to play, I’m really not against binging it. The rest of the dayーweekend, if you want.” Madara presses a kiss to Tobirama’s neck. “Make the playthrough as thorough as possible.” To his collarbone. “Unlock all achievements and, uh,” Madara trails his hand along Tobirama’s chest to his groin, past his length and to his ass, "explore every location.”

“If that was some thinly veiled euphemism,” Tobirama says, barely holding in laughter, “for you wanting to fuck me sideways...” Madara holds Tobirama’s gaze as his fingers hover just over Tobirama’s hole. “Then Madara, for fuck’s sake, stop trying to be subtle and get to work.”

Madara barks out a laugh.

“Whatever you say, Tobirama.”

Madara dips his voice low and deep, like he’s noticed Tobirama loves, and relishes the whimper it earns him. Relishes the way Tobirama arches against him, looking for friction, how delectable he looks, ready and responsive, so eager for Madara’s touch.

He knows then and there that if it’s up to him, Madara will do anything to make this last.

#madatobi #tobimada #modern au #youtuber au #lou writes #idiots in love #madara is in denial (and thirsting)#tobirama is laughing (and equally thirsting) from the sidelines #fluff and smut #humor #meow

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mysterioh · 4 years ago

Text

Saajan Ji Ghar Aaye - Chapter One

Bucky Barnes x Desi!Reader

Synopsis: After a brisk romance in London, Bucky follows you back to your home in Upstate New York where the preparations for your marriage to the son of a family friend are well underway. As the inevitable countdown to your wedding begins, Bucky remains optimistic in his pursuit of your love and your family’s acceptance.

Arranged Marriage/Forbidden Lovers AU

“Saajan Ji ghar aaye” means “your beloved has come to your home”.

Masterlist

I. Koi Mil Gaya

Koi Mil Gaya. Mera Dil Gaya.

There’s a peculiar charm to airports. The continuous hum of cheerful chatter, luggage wheels rolling softly on shining white tiles, and cell phones ringing create a lively atmosphere. The pungent aroma of coffee beans wafting from cafe stalls brings the comfort and warmth of home to a junction where different parts of the world connect.

It’s late in the afternoon. The sun pours through the large ceiling to floor windows that curve around the place. Streams of people flow through the terminal building while others sit in the lounge, either excited or bored.

"Oho, Ummi, I'll be fine," you groaned on the phone, pulling your carryon as you made your way to the gate. "I've been on a plane before.”

Ummi replies with a snarky remark, but you know she's just worried underneath it.

“Okay, maybe not alone, but how hard can it be? I’ll be fine. Stop worrying,” you replied. Ummi releases a deep sigh and hands the phone over to your father. "Hello? Abbu?" you said, "Hanji, main thik hu. Hanji, hanji, sab kuch meray paas hi hai.”

"Are you sure you'll be okay?" Abbu asks one last time just to make sure.

You sigh deeply. "Yes, I promise. I’ll be fine. It's a direct flight to London. I just have to get on the right plane. That's it.”

Unfortunately, your word wasn’t enough for him. He goes on to lecture you about the dangers of the airport with the classic “young girls shouldn’t be traveling alone” spiel. After hearing the very same lecture for years, reiterated with a new subject matter so many times, it automatically goes through one ear and out the other.

You knew he meant well. He always did. Every step he took had the wellbeing of his family in mind. But sometimes he overdid it; and it was those certain moments that made you cringe.

Your ears perked up when the PA system spoke overhead. “Passengers for Flight 9B4 to London, please go to Gate 36.”

"Abbu, I’ll talk to you later!” you exclaim. “They're calling my flight. I gotta go. Bye!" You hang up on him before he can say anything with a mischievous grin.

You speed walk down the terminal, using the overpass with directions as a guide. Another announcement has you running through the crowds, slightly pushing and whispering sorries as you do. By the time you get to the gate you’re a heaving mess. You give your boarding pass to the gate agent while bending over to catch your breath.

“Made it just in time,” she chirped with an amused smile.

You reply with a breathy laugh, unable to say a word.

Damn, I’m out of shape.

She verifies your boarding pass and hands it back. “Enjoy your flight.”

You thank her before entering the air bridge and into the plane. A gorgeous blond attendant at the door greets you warmly then guides you up the aisle towards the first class seats. You find your seat by the window. Slipping your carryon into the overhead compartment, you take your seat then pull out your phone to message your dad about successfully getting on the plane.

From the corner of your eye, you see a guy lifting his bag to place it in the compartment above. The hem of his shirt hovers just above his waist as he stretches, showing the band of his Calvin Klein boxers and a teaser of what seems to be a very sculpted torso.

You whip your head towards the window, embarrassed by yourself for looking at him. You hear the seat next to you dip and groan inwardly. You give him a side glance as he rustles through his backpack for something.

His side profile is gorgeous. Short, fluffy brown locks just begging your fingers to run through them. A perfectly straight nose and a sculpted jaw.

A phone notification forces you to look away. It's a message from Abbu wishing you safe travels. A grin spreads on your face.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome onboard Flight 9B4 with service from New York to London," the head attendant announces.

"Mind if I squeeze this right here?" he says, already pushing his bag between your legs and his.

I mean you already did?

"Yeah, that's fine," you reply.

"Thanks," he grins.

"We ask that you please fasten your seatbelts at this time and please turn off all electronic devices, including laptops and cellphones," the attendant drolls. "Thank you for choosing British Airways. Enjoy your flight."

You listen to her directions and securely strap yourself in. You take a deep breath and relax into your seat as the plane begins to move.

"Nervous?"

You turn over to find the guy looking at you with a goofy smile.

"No," you replied, a bit harsher than you intended to.

"I was just asking," he chuckles. "I'm nervous."

"First time?" You asked.

"No," he denied with a shake of the head. "I always get nervous. You never know what can happen y'know? Like what if the engine bursts when we're over the ocean? We're all fucking screwed."

He had a point and it was a plausible fear, but what decent human being would actually come out and say it while the plane was taking off?

You look at him completely dumbfounded.

"Didn't mean to scare you."

Your lips contort into a pout. "I'm not afraid."

He shrugs. "Looks like you are."

"Well, I'm not," you affirm.

"Alright, so when the plane takes a nosedive into the ocean, I'll count on you to save me 'cause I'm going to be scared out of my mind."

"I'm not going to save you," you reply flatly.

"Ouch," he chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he does. "Whatever happened to being a Good Samaritan?"

"We'd both die instantly. There's no point in helping."

"Geez, you're depressing."

You fall back into your seat as the plane begins to rise.

"Oh, this is it," he announces with exaggerated excitement.

"Can you please be quiet?"

"Sorry," he whispers apologetically.

You look out the small window, watching the plane lift off the ground and rise into the sky. Even as the engines rumbled and the ringing in your ears grew irritating, the scenery through the little window made your heart feel at ease. The clouds flowed constantly like sheets that stretched to the horizon. As the wings sliced through the dense layer, a brilliant evening sun scattered a hazy pink over the clouds, leaving you in awe and admiration. The plane levels and sets on a steady course over the clouds.

You reach down into your handbag and pull out the novel you've been trying to finish.

"Is that the Kite Runner?" he asks.

"It is," you reply with a smile. The first time you've smiled in your short time with him and he has to admit it's a pretty one.

"That's a great book! I finished it in three days."

"Oh wow," you exclaimed, slightly embarrassed that it was taking you weeks. Not your fault though. You were busy.

"Yeah," he sighs, reminiscing a good memory. "I don't read many books, but that one," he points at the book in your hand. "It moved me to tears."

Your hand brushes over the cover. "Yeah, I like it so far. I love how flawed Amir is and how he strives to be better. It's so relatable."

"Yeah, it's so realistic," he replies. "I cried when he found out Hassan died."

"Hassan dies?" You gasped.

From the dumbfounded look on your face, he realizes that he's committed one of the greatest sins. "What? No!" He laughs nervously. "I meant Baba dies."

"Baba dies too?"

"No," he shakes his head. "Nobody dies. They all live—happily. They all live a happy ending."

He can feel a thousand curses shot in his way just by the way you're glaring at him.

"Aha," he laughs awkwardly. "I'll just shut up now."

"Good idea," you mumble.

"Would you two like anything?" The flight attendant asked.

"Uh, yeah I'll have some water," he replies then turns to you. "Do you–"

"No thank you," you replied curtly, opening up your book to where you left off.

Bucky takes the bottle from the attendant with a sheepish smile. He decides not to bother you anymore and pulls out his air pods to listen to some music that would hopefully lull him to sleep. He puts on his slow playlist then shifts into his seat until he feels comfortable. He closes his eyes, allowing the music to relax him and just as his consciousness begins to ebb, a heavy thud on his shoulder brings him back to reality.

He turns to find you fast asleep with your head resting against his shoulder.

Bucky couldn’t stop his lips from stretching into a wide grin. There's just something so intimate about someone —stranger or not— falling asleep on your shoulder that makes your heart flutter. It made his insides flip and a light blush scatter on his cheeks. He sits quietly, making sure not to move too much so he doesn’t wake you.

Wide awake, he twiddles his thumbs, wondering what to do. He sees the book in your lap and slowly slips it out from underneath your hand. You wouldn't mind if he borrowed it. He flips to the first page and starts to read, delving deep into a distant world that rested in his hands.

As Bucky travels back to 1970’s Afghanistan through the memories of his flawed storyteller, Amir, a brilliant idea pops in his mind.

It's a stretch, but it might just work.

All he needs is a piece of paper and a pen.

"Farhan!" You wave in excitement.

"Y/N!" He shouts back, weaving through the crowd to get to you.

You jump into his arms and give your brother a tight hug.

"I've missed you so much!" you whined, shaking him from side to side.

"I've missed you too," he says, a chuckle coloring his words. You push him back to have a good look at him.

"You look kinda skinny," you comment, "have you been eating?"

Farhan rolls his eyes. "You sound like mom." He takes the suitcase by your side and pulls it along. "Now come on, let's get out of here."

Farhan was your mother's pride and joy. She loved all her children, but she loved him just a little bit more.

He was the trophy child of the family, and as the heir to one of the largest enterprises in the world, he had to be. He was the best in school, the best on the field, and had a magnetic personality that attracted crowds from miles away. If it wasn't his personality that attracted others it was his looks. He was the very definition of tall, dark, and handsome with the most gorgeous hazel eyes that fringed with smooth green under the right light. You can't recall how many times your friends asked if he was single. As if you'd actually give them a chance with your brother.

After graduating from Oxford with an MBA degree, he decided to stay in England and work at the London branch of the company, honing his skills before he took his throne.

Farhan was perfect in every way and your parents wouldn't miss a chance to boast about him. He was the envy of the elite. His name was clear of scandals and only marked with achievement after achievement, raising the family name to soaring heights.

Only problem he had was that he refused to get married. He wouldn't even look at the pictures of girls your mother offered him. When she'd asked him why he didn't want to, he always had the same answer.

"They don't want me, they want my name."

Sometimes, you wished you had his boldness.

"How was the flight?" Farhan asked as he pulled out of the parking lot.

"Good," you replied. You cringe from embarrassment, remembering how you slept on that guy's shoulder the entire flight.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," you turn to look out the window, watching raindrops racing down the side of the window. "It's kind of weird sitting on this side of the car," you laugh.

He chuckles. "It is, but you get used to it after a while. How's the wedding going?"

You exhale deeply while leaning against the window. "I don't know, ask Ummi."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, Ummi does everything. I just sit there and look pretty."

Farhan laughs from his stomach. "Why not tell her to ease back a bit?"

"I don't mind it,” you explained. “Honestly, I'm grateful. I can't plan shit, but I just wished she wouldn't talk about it so much."

Farhan’s brows crease in confusion. “You’re not getting cold feet are you?”

“N-no!” you stammered. “It just gets me anxious, that’s all.”

He sighs, waiting at the light. “You bring it on yourself, Y/N,”

Your head whips towards him. “And what do you mean by that?”

“You try so hard to please everyone else, that you end up not caring for yourself."

“That’s not true—”

“We both know this wedding is only to please Abbu," he interjects with a sad chuckle. “You’re only marrying Ayan for him.”

You scoffed. “I’m marrying Ayan because I want to," you counter. “He’s sweet and really nice—”

“But do you love him?”

You fall back against the window with a sigh. “Farhan I don't want to talk about this," you mumbled.

"But don't you think you should?" He questions.

“Yeah, Abbu picked Ayan for me. So what about it?" you lectured, waving your hands around. "He's always done what's best for us. So what’s to say he won’t pick the one that’s the best for me?”

“But shouldn’t you be the one who knows what’s best for you? Not Abbu?” he contended, eyes fixated on the street. “You say you’re an independent adult, Y/N, but you’ve never stepped out from underneath his wing. You've never tried anything for yourself, it's always what he wants," he jabbed, hitting you harder than he had intended to.

You retreat to your window in defeat and shame.

“Hey," he whispers, shaking your arm. You don't look at him cause you might just cry; and that's one thing you'd never do in front of him. At least not anymore.

"I’m not trying to make you feel bad, I just worry about you sometimes," he confesses. "I want you to be happy doing what you want to do and not what others want from you."

You turn just a little to peek over at him with a quaint smile. He smiles back, holding your hand tight. “This is what I want. Really it is. Don't worry."

He laughs in defeat. "Whatever you say, Aloo."

You smack his arm. "Don't call me that!"

You plop onto the bed after unpacking your bags. Farhan had to take a business call, leaving you to your own devices. You scroll through different apps, bored out of your mind and a bit sleepy.

A notification drops down.

Ayan

Have fun on your trip! Call me when you get the time. 😊

Your insides twist at the message and not in the excited, butterflies in your stomach kind of way. It’s more like a dreadful duty that you don’t want to do right now.

You swipe the notification away, promising yourself that you’d call him tomorrow, and decide you should go to sleep. You reach over for your bag on the bedside table to get your phone charger. You pull out the novel you quickly shoved inside before leaving the plane, and notice a paper sticking out at the top of the book. You raise a brow in confusion. You never had any bookmarks, and just folded the corners to save the page. You pulled it out and weren’t expecting a message.

Sorry about spoiling the book. Maybe I can make it up to you? If you’re staying in London, hit me up.

917 - 569 - 2156

- Bucky

Translations:

“Hanji, main thik hu. Hanji, hanji, sab kuch meray paas hi hai.” - Yes, I’m fine. Yes, Yes, I have everything with me.

Aloo - Potato ( a nickname)

Taglist: @anjali750 @desibarnes @regainedworld @saintsebastian-stan

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes au #desi au #bucky barnes x desi!reader

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sladedick · 5 years ago

Note

hi!! for a porn prompt could i suggest slade using dick as a fucktoy? maybe just sitting around using him as a cockwarmer or fucking him casually whenever he wanted kfngkn. maybe titans verse or comics verse? any verse would be good lmao !

ao3

content: fucked up domesticity, my version of fluff, cockwarming, rape/underage

One thing becomes apparent as Robin fades his way into consciousness, the last trappings of a dream fading back into the depths of his mind - he aches. It’s a steady, deep ache, in between his thighs. It shifts every time he does, Robin finding out that it’s not going away.

He opens his eyes. All he can see is a half-obscured view of across the room. It gets better when he raises his head with a mumbled sound. The shift in his weight sends that ache through him again, desperate and deep. Slade’s heavy arms box him in on either side, and Robin can hear television vaguely in the background. A hand is warm on the back of his neck.

The ache in him, Robin realizes, is Slade’s cock. He remembers being fucked, then, still impaled, pulled against Slade’s chest. The dozing off had been an accident, but Robin’s glad he wasn’t awoken again. Slade’s sleep schedule is erratic at best, and Robin hasn’t been sleeping well.

He adjusts, a little, to find an angle that doesn’t hurt. It’s not much better, so he tries to put more weight on his thighs, pull himself up. Slade’s hand on the back of his neck presses him back down firmly. Even if Robin didn’t know better than to fight, he wouldn’t be able too - Slade is too strong and the angle is terrible.

This isn’t … terrible. Robin has learned to judge his life in terms of bad and worse, and this isn’t worse. If he tries to make it better, it will get worse. That truth has been shown over, and over, and over. He sighs, head falling against Slade’s pectoral again. Robin wants to go back to sleep, but he doesn’t know if he can.

On impulse, he asks, “What are you watching?” Slade’s hand tightens on the back of his neck and for a second Robin thinks he’s made a mistake and opens his mouth to beg forgiveness, but Slade responds neutrally.

“Some dumbass cop show.” Slade’s fingers card idly through his hair. He doesn’t seem to be conscious of it, after this long. Robin supposes he isn’t either. It’s become part of his routine. Before, he had resisted any physical contact with Slade, but now he hears the beat of Slade’s heart and leans into his warmth like someone desperately seeking comfort.

Robin loathes that, deep in himself, where the boy he remembers being lives. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything to stop Slade from touching him, from holding him, from being inside him. The alternative is being alone. It’s worse. Robin’s checked.

Instead, he tries to move his hips again, to try to relax the pain. Robin feels Slade stiffen inside him and stops instantly, eyes wide.

“Are you looking to get fucked?” Slade asks lazily. Robin shakes his head in shivery motions. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“No, I didn’t mean - ”

“Then stop rolling your hips like a little slut.” Slade is irritated. It sends a pang through Robin’s body. He wants to apologize. Robin holds the feeling, examining it and turning it over in his mind. It can’t be discarded. It must be endured.

Slade’s hand traces the bumps of his spine idly. Robin shivers as the fingers move down his body. Slade’s fingers clamp onto his hips in a vice grip.

“What the hell,” Slade mutters. His next hand moves before Robin can react.

“Please,” he whines, but Slade is already pulling his hips up. Slade’s cock slips out of him a few inches, slick with fluid. It pushes into Robin again, and he arches. He doesn’t get time to recover before Slade’s pulling him down onto his cock again. It’s all Robin can do to bite back his cries.

Slade seems to sense it. He slams harder, crueler. Robin’s breath chokes past his lips, an ah, ah sound as Slade moves in and out of him. It’s barely louder than the slap of flesh against flesh. It stretches his cunt, wide to the size that Slade has molded it into, aching against the sides. Robin’s perfectly slick around him, perfectly easy.

Maybe he should be grateful that he’s always wet when Slade fucks him. All Robin can feel, though, is a dull hatred towards himself for giving in so easy - even involuntarily. Sometimes, Robin will move to get Slade off quicker, but it’s hard to do when Slade is fucking him. Instead he just clenches down, feeling the shaft aching inside of him.

“You want it, you little slut?” Slade sounds more amused than anything. Robin shakes his head again, but Slade is going faster. Another sound slips out of his mouth, this one a choked moan. Slade slams inside him in the same spot, again, just to hear Robin’s choked groans.

You will do whatever amuses me, Slade is saying. I can do whatever I like with you.

Robin moans again. He’s totally slick now, Slade moving with ease, Robin spreading his legs so it hurts less every time he moves. Slade’s teeth worry at the side of his neck, painting themselves in the purple and green of other bruises that taint his body.

Robin wants this to be over - wants to reach down and touch his clit to make it stop aching, but he knows that if he does, Slade will punish him. Maybe he’ll break his fingers, or pull out his fingernails, or keep his hands bound for weeks. All he can do is whine into the air as the heat burning in him takes over. Slade bites down. Robin feels his tongue lapping at the blood as he moves, Slade inside him over and over again, brushing against oversensitive nerves.

Slade doesn’t say much. Not as much as he used to, the constant stream of degradation and humiliation. Now he’s silent, because Robin is his toy, and he has no reason to talk to a toy. Just reason to use it, mercilessly and selfishly. That doesn’t stop Robin’s body from responding in the worst of ways - doesn’t stop him from spasming as Slade fucks him through his orgasm.

Robin’s mouth falls open, saliva wet on his tongue, eyes half-lidded. In that half-second of pleasure, he’s not impaled on his enemy’s cock, coming like he wants it. He’s somewhere else entirely, somewhere where it doesn’t hurt quite as much.

“Look at you,” Slade murmurs, low and pleased. “You still trying to pretend you’re not a little slut?” Robin shudders, Slade still fucking in and out of him but instead of pleasure, this time it’s just too much, over and over, tongue lolling as small gasps leave his mouth. His hands grab at Slade’s white shirt, clinging to the fabric around his shoulders, rocking back and forth. It’s the only stability he gets as Slade moves inside him.

It’s a relief when he feels Slade come deep inside him, the warmth filling him up. Robin falls against Slade’s chest, panting. He sucks in deep breaths, hands still fisted in Slade’s shirt.

A rough hand brushes the sweat off of his chin, pressing his head back so Slade can look at him. “What are you out of breath for?” Slade murmurs. “I did all the work.” Robin stares at him, unsure if he wants an answer. Slade sounds more amused than angry. Fucking Robin usually puts him in a good mood. Robin certainly doesn’t dare move with Slade still in him, even while come leaks down to stain his thighs.

Slade lets him go. The TV blares its senseless sounds, aching in the back of Robin’s mind. Robin’s face falls back against Slade’s chest, Slade still sheathed firmly inside him. It aches, but Robin can grow used to it. From here he swears he can hear Slade’s heartbeat, a bump bump bump that thrums against his cheek. Slade smells of mint and sweat and high-end shampoo, achingly familiar even if not quite comforting.Robin feels his lids slipping down again. His hands haven’t move from Slade’s shoulders, breathing evening. Robin doesn’t even twitch as a hand moves to the back of his neck, warm and calloused and familiar, fingers carding fondly through his hair.

#Anonymous #freak fic #sladin #sladedick

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fluttersnap · 4 years ago

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Falsificado

After the reawakened spirit's commitment to the trek to seek answers, they began their journey.

In the beginning, they acknowledged their surroundings, noticing how much things had changed over since they were last awake. They had spent a long time in this rainforest; it was their home for hundreds of years. They couldn't help but recall many sweet memories of their companions and community. It was a lovely place to live. Everyone was always happy! However, beloved memories quickly shifted to thoughts of concern. It was the perfect place to live, and now it was gone. These feelings drove the spirit to push further through the rainforest to find anyone for some answers.

At some point, for some reason, the spirit began to move through the terrain without much thought. The movements of their canine body became monotonous. They crossed streams and large barriers with no consideration. Something had happened to the spirit's mind, but the body continued to travel north, following the north star. It pushed further beyond the biome's edge, through hundreds of miles of unfamiliar terrain, until it entered a simple deciduous forest. The spirit's mind was unaware of the great distance traveled, but it was merely dormant. It would eventually awaken without complications. The body, however, had done nothing but move for multiple lunar cycles. It was growing tired, hungry, and very thirsty. Eventually, the lack of physical necessities being met caused the body to collapse.

When the spirit regained consciousness, they were immediately hit with the worst physical sensations they've ever felt. Their body was sore, and they had the worst headache thrumming through their mind. Unable to even stand and not knowing what else to do, they began to crawl forward. Their vision was hazy, but they could see a lot of greenery. A lot more light too. Was there even a dense canopy up above? The air was also less humid than their familiar rainforest. Where had they ended up? Suddenly, their paw became submerged in something cold and wet. Straining their vision, they could see their paw was in a small pool of water. The dryness of their mouth was suddenly unbearable, and they quickly scrambled forward to lap up what was surely a gift from the Creator. Once hydrated, the spirit was promptly well enough to notice just how hungry they were. They shakily got back on their paws and looked around.

They were at a crossroads with three faint diverging paths. The left seemed to lead to open grasslands, the middle to a peaceful forest, and the right to foreboding mountains. Before the diverging paths, however, was a small dark figure. The spirit, curious, approached the figure and discerns that it is, in fact, a stone idol of some kind. They took a closer look and noted that it was in the shape of some canine. Perhaps a wolf? The small idol wasn't very detailed; it looked more like a toy a human child might make to practice. Instinctively, the spirit sniffed the idol and pressed their nose to the cold stone. The small idol began to glow with a golden light, startling the spirit into backing away. The idol started to rise, and the glowing intensified. Air currents swirled around the spirit, and they could hear a faint and familiar song emanating from all around. The spirit tried to see what was happening to the small idol, but it was too bright; they instinctively shut their eyes and turned away.

When the strong wind and song faded, the spirit opened their eyes and looked to where the statue once lay. Surprisingly, in its place was a monochromatic wolf. There was no other color on this wolf; it had a gray nose, gray skin, white claws, and its fur only had more shades of black, white, and gray. Curious once more, the spirit inched closer to the body and sniffed intently, though cautious to not touch it. The spirit did not yet have much experience with the sensitive nose of a canine, but they were able to notice something was strange about the wolf's scent. Namely, the fact that it was nearly impossible to pick up a distinct mortal scent. The wolf still smelled like the little stone idol, not like a living breathing thing. They circled around the wolf, trying to find a scent. Instead of a scent, however, their nose caught an irritant. It could've been some pollen from a nearby flower or a speck of dust brought by the wind; the result was the same—a very sharp sneeze right into the ear of the dormant wolf.

The monochrome wolf responded like any other being would if awoken by a loud sound with no warning. It let out a piercing shriek and attempted to get away from the noise as quickly as possible. The spirit, surprised by the response, let out a yelp and backed away from the other wolf. They watched as the other wolf attempted to gain its bearings. The other wolf was much larger than the spirit. Its eyes were unfocused, wildly scanning the surroundings, and they could hear its ragged breathing. The spirit, wanting to catch the other wolf's attention, let out a low and concerned whine. The other wolf hears and turns its head sharply in the spirit's direction. It intently watches the spirit, and after a few moments, snarled, "What did you do to me?" The wolf turned its whole body to face them. Hackles up and teeth bared, it barked, "What have you DONE to me?"

The spirit is confused by the aggressive response. What had they done? They didn't know. The other wolf lunges toward them before they can respond, and the spirit only barely manages to dodge the attack. "I don't know!" the spirit tells the wolf, panicking. "Who are you? Why are you so angry?" they question. The other wolf does not answer and only growls before attempting to rush another attack. The spirit tries not to fight back but is quickly losing patience. In a moment of frustration, the spirit retaliates and latches against the other wolf's throat.

The other wolf is shocked and freezes in the spirit's grasp. It stands entirely still, barely breathing, and the spirit can smell terror emanating from the wolf's pelt. The spirit is exhausted; staying latched to the other wolf was making it difficult to breathe. They let out a low growl, a warning, before letting go. Once released, the other wolf takes in a deep breath and huffs to spirit, "Well? Answer the question."

#wolvden #pack lore #Los Verdaderos #Los Verdaderos pack lore #Lupe lore #Mara lore #queueing this

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sidewritings · 5 years ago

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A Bit of Rem and Chessy

Pairing: None

Genre: Stream of consciousness

Warnings: Remus Sanders, disturbing imagery, blood, I hate this and I wrote it so I can’t imagine ya’ll enjoying it

Word Count: 330

Author’s Note: I realized that my favorite talking cat would get along well with Remus and my brain made my hand slip.

Remus lay draped over the top of Thomas’ flat screen tv. It defied physics and was disturbingly erotic, so that was normal. What was more unusual was the large purple cat grinning over Remus’ left shoulder. The duke contorted to pet the cat with his right hand which prompted a purr from his feline companion.

“I can’t. I can’t keep ignoring this. We weren’t even watching Alice and Wonderland!” Thomas exclaimed irritably from the couch.

“Just focus on the film Thomas. Do not engage,” Logan replied, not even looking up from his sudoku puzzle.

“How come Remus gets to enjoy kitty snuggles without allergic reactions and not me?” Patton whined from his spot on the floor.

“Imagination has it’s perks, doesn’t it Chessy,” Remus grinned, matching the feline’s expression?

The Cheshire cat’s response was to bite Remus’ fingers, letting blood drip down his fluffy chin as he continued to purr. Remus cooed and purred back.

“You would conjure yourself a cat as crazy as you,” Roman spat from his spot on the far edge of the couch, as far from the tv (and Remus) as possible.

The Cheshire cat released Remus’ fingers and turned to look at Roman unblinking, his tail whipping back and forth behind Remus’ head. “I’m not crazy, my reality is just different than yours.”

Roman recoiled slightly, tempted to leave the room entirely to get away from his brother, that damn cat, and Thomas’ growing anxiety. Speaking of which...

Virgil was glaring daggers at the tv, doing his best to follow Logan’s advice and ignore the dark side laying atop it. The image bordered on comical, given that Patton had chosen the movie and they were watching The Many Adventures of Winnie The Pooh.

Thomas groaned in frustration and tried to refocus on the film as Tigger pounced on Pooh.

It was incredibly difficult when Remus and Chessy began to playact the scene, with Remus mouthing along with Pooh’s lines and the Cheshire cat imitating Tigger.

#Sanders Sides #alice and wonderland #Remus Sanders #the cheshire cat #title is a play on the show A Bit of Fry and Laurie #Character Thomas Sanders #Logan Sanders #Patton Sanders #Roman Sanders #Virgil Sanders #A Bit of Rem and Chessy #sidewritten

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coffee-omo-bi · 5 years ago

Text

here we go

some stream of consciousness, run-on sentence headcanons

@nsfwitchy

Five

he's hypervigilant and anxious normally and extra so in public bathrooms after being alone for so long(and basically going wherever he wants, not cornered in one location, except for his years at the commission). Anyone could walk in while he's vulnerable and he’s always lowkey worried about more commission agents so he ends up being bladder shy and can't go (i dont feel like that one HQ exploding is the end of the commission in the tv show canon so 🤷)

he is stubborn and figures he will never get better at holding it if he always goes right away so he tries to wait until home

sometimes he'll wait too long and get locked up from being TOO full and can't go at all even if he's alone then panics(he can't fight like this, what if something happens!!) which in turn makes it worse

he usually can't jump when he's too desperate cause he can't concentrate on it but when he does manage he usually loses it right after cause the force from jumping is too much for his bladder, at least he’s usually alone and near/in a bathroom when it happens

one of the many reasons he prefers to drive is because he can control when they stop without his siblings being assholes

PTSD bedwetting and stress wetting because he definitely has a lot of anxiety

hyper focuses on his work and doesn't notice how bad he has to go until its almost too late

again he’s Anxiety and he gets super irritable and snappy when he starts having to go cause, especially around a lot of people cause I’d imagine he’s not comfortable around crowds either.

the sibs dont really notice at first cause he always channels his anxiety into being irritable & snappy, they dont get why until they notice why he's fidgeting so much

tries to be quiet and not show any signs when he's desperate but can't help showing signs when its really bad because he'll do anything to try and make it, he hates that he gets so obvious but he hates wetting himself more, its messy and he feels disgusting after and of course he hates being perceived as childish in any way but god he's the full cliche: squirming and eventually full on potty dancing, desperate noises and sobs getting caught in his throat, full on bent over with his hands stuffed between his legs but still losing it, he starts whining "no no no" under his breath when he starts crying, the whole shebang

as much as he hates it, he is in his teen body and he is going through puberty again and he has all the emotional mood swings that go along with it and he tries not to be embarrassed but he always flushes very red and feels himself tear up whenever he doesn't make it.

I'm already giving him so many more problems on top of what he has in canon so I feel like he's alone most of the time for any accidents I don't wanna be too mean and I'm weak and don't like public humiliation that much

he gets mad cause he doesn’t remember this being such an issue when he was actually 13 but he also didnt drink coffee and alcohol when he was actually 13

tbh half his problems are from baby bladder body and half are him being stubborn and waiting too long though I do imagine as he ages he does get better at holding

Klaus

he doesn't really care about wetting cause he's been through grosser tbh, I mean dumpster diving in like, the first or second ep I don't remember

but bc of his drug use and being under the influence most of the time I'm sure he's woken up having wet himself at least once

also being locked in the mausoleum, he obviously didn't have anywhere to go except a corner but i can see him being too scared to move around and he just wets himself, and oh fuck he’s prob been bedwetting from the ghosts since he was a kid, less so now but still sometimes.

he's probably long moved past disgust

the show has established he's kinky so imo he likes holding it if he can get away with it but only if he's in the mood? like the scene where he makes Diego untie him so he can pee cause he knows his withdrawal is not gonna be a fun pee holding time

but yeah he's a Nasty Boi so he's into sex/masturbating while he's full and I could see him going either way on whether he likes wetting or not because he doesn't really care about the mess like I said earlier

R/obert is so fuckin slim, a bladder bulge would be very visible above those low tight leather pants he wears 👀

also probably has PTSD & stress wettings from like, the ghosts & mausoleum and maybe even Vietnam flashbacks

Klaus is pretty shameless so he doesnt hide when he has to go or try to keep quiet and prob has loud relief sighs or moans when he does go lol

tbh i have just thought way more about Five because I don’t see Klaus as having many issues with this but Five definitely would because of his body

Some Shipping & kinda more general Grossness

again Five IS going through puberty again so the hormones/being horny all the time IS a factor and he realizes that helps him wait sometimes and then gets annoyed at having to deal with an inconvenient erection on top of everything else (your choice whether he uhhh ends up liking it)

Klaus is of course, sympathetic and tries to help Five when he can, I hc that when Klaus is comforting someone he's very liberal with affectionate nicknames (sweetie, sweetheart, baby, honey, fivey, etc) and like, forehead kisses and its the only time Five lets him get away with it cause he's too embarrassed to protest

one of my fav HCs is Klaus helping Five relax enough to go during one of those times when he just can’t, like hugging him from behind and softly rubbing the little bladder bulge Five has to help him unclench and relax enough. He keeps whispering "shh shh sweetie, it's just me and we're alone it's ok you can go" but keeping his face turned away and tells Five he'll lookout so he can relax and go

also kinda gets turned on if he sees Five all desperate bc he likes it but he's also weirded out bc young body but he gets less resistant as Five ages

but he also feels bad for Five at the same time, its a whole mess (me if i witness anyone irl)

Five’s angry when he finds out Klaus likes when he has to pee

"this has been extremely inconvenient & humiliating for me and you're getting fucking boners from it?!"

#text #fandom content #t/u/a #f/ive #k/laus #omo #long post #omo hc #some shippy klive bs as well #this is super self indulgent #with a healthy dose of projection lmao #also its just hcs and not prompts RIP #behold my essay #hope you dont mind the tag #i'm also ready for anon hate now tbh

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 6 years ago

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A love that never leaves (2)

Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Sad Bucky.

A/N: The plot thickens. Bucky recovers from a shit situation and learns more about the person who found him. Remembering is really hard and memories do not cooperate.

I’m planning to post a chapter a week, on either Saturday or Sunday. I tried to tag everyone who reached out, but if I missed you, it was unintentional, so please send me a DM or ASK, it’s easier for me to track. Otherwise you can find the new updates each weekend!

MASTERLIST ALTNL MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously...

The figure halts. A gloved hand reaches to pull back the hood of the white coat and a woman’s face appears. Even through the howling wind, Bucky hears her question clearly and he doesn’t understand why the two syllables feel like a knife ripping through skin and bone and thick sinew, straight to his heart.

“Soldier?”

She speaks hesitantly, her voice tinged with a peculiar hint of hope. Bucky wants to ruminate further, but his fingers are rubbing the slippery edges of his gunshot wounds and the snow around him is greedy, lusting for the hot blood he spills.

He wants to answer. He tries to answer, he really does.

Instead, he falls face first into the soft snow.

*****

MISSION REPORT

CONTACT MADE BUT RESPONDENT ELIMINATED. BASE DID NOT REVEAL INFORMATION REQUIRED TO PROCEED TO NEXT RENDEZVOUS POINT. HOLD AND WAIT.

WITHOUT ADDITIONAL SUPPORT MISSION FAILURE IS IMMINENT. REQUESTING BACK UP FOR –

For what? The words evaporate. Smoke in the wind. The pencil clatters to the floor and rolls away and his notebook follows. He goes to his knees in front of the brick wall and he slams his fist against it again and again, until his knuckles are shredded.

He screams.

****

Bucky’s entire body is on fire.

Burning hot, scorching him from the inside out. This can’t be right, he’s done. He’s supposed to be done with this shit, what are they doing now? Bleary eyes open and he tries to speak. To tell them no, to leave him alone, to please just fucking stop. Heat races through his veins, suffocating him and he feels rivers of sweat coursing down his face, down his chest, down his arms.

Above him, floats a blurry face, both intensely familiar and completely foreign. She wipes a cold cloth over his face and Bucky sighs in relief.

Darkness comes again.

*****

We’ll meet again…don’t know where…don’t know when…but I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day…

The melody flows like water inside his head and Bucky follows it slowly, swimming languidly into consciousness. When he breaks the surface, his brain comes to life, but his eyes stay closed.

It’s a trait he perfected over the years, waking up without anyone realizing. Back then, he’d quickly discovered if you’re flat on your back and don’t know where you are, your safest bet is certainly not to show them you’re awake. Once they know, you lose your advantage.

That’s usually when the pain starts.

Instead, he starts his internal assessment. Ears straining for any hint of sound, he waits, listening for anything. The intake of breath, a quiet sniffle, the whisper of fabric, a footfall. Anything. The silence stretches and he’s finally forced to conclude – either his captor is just that good, or he’s alone.

Cracking an eye, he draws a soundless breath, taking stock of his surroundings.

This is – interesting.

The room he’s in is dim, suffused with swaths of muted daylight streaming in through the massive window in front of the bed. His eyes track the expanse of clear glass, stretching from the floor, extending up the vaulted ceiling and ending in a wide skylight. A small fireplace is tucked into the corner, a basket of logs piled next to the dark slate tiles, and the soothing pop and crackle of wood lulls him toward a sense of false security.

Snow still falls outside, but it’s no longer the wailing blizzard; instead, fat, wet flakes drift quietly by, piling onto the tall evergreens hugging the window.

Feeling the silky sheen of satin against his skin, he peeks under the sheets to find himself nearly naked, wearing nothing more than a crisp white bandage and skin-tight boxers.

“What the sweet fuck is this shit?” he mutters, dropping the sheets and struggling to sit up. The bed is wide and covered in all shades of blue – a dusty blue duvet, sky blue sheets, a midnight blue quilt – and suddenly it all mixes into a watery blur when his vision goes sideways. Pain rips through him and he flops back, whining softly. Pressing gently against the bandage, the pain flares so fast, he digs his heels into the bed, spine arching unconsciously. He can feel it, actually feel it, the tugging sensation of his skin knitting itself back together. Sweat instantly pours down his face.

“Don’t scream,” he hisses through gritted teeth, “don’t scream you fuckin’ baby, don’t.”

Clamping his lips together, he swallows the sounds he’d desperately love to howl, focusing on counting the snowflakes drifting past the window. He loses count of the deep, calming breaths he takes and long minutes later, the worst appears to pass. For now. Bucky’s rigid muscles begin to relax.

He appreciates the whole healing fast thing, he really does, but the process is just fucking unpleasant.

Swinging his legs over the bed, toes curling into a plush rug, he wobbles to his feet. Looking around, he searches for his clothes, but he comes up empty handed. He doesn’t actually mind the lack of clothing, it’s more the lack of pockets for weapons that irritate him.

But a good solider can make a weapon from anything, so he snatches a log from the basket next to the fireplace, rotates his arm until the plates shift smoothly, and creeps from the bedroom.

Tiptoeing down the steps to the first level, he stops short.

The small town he’d infiltrated was derelict, gritty, downtrodden.

The home he finds himself inhabiting is the polar opposite.

Wooden steps lead down into a cosy stone and log cabin. The small kitchen has an island with a couple hand-hewn stools and an oak butcher block in the middle, burnished copper pots hanging from a rack above. The floor is a deep russet red, the wide-planked floorboards containing a myriad of knots and whorls. Above him, thick beams stretch the expanse of the room, with dark iron lighting fixtures casting a rosy glow through the room. In the centre wall of the living room, flanked with tall vertical windows, stands a fireplace, the uneven shapes of grey river rock fitting together seamlessly. From the tall windows, he has a clear view of a foggy mountain range. Another fire crackles and pops merrily in the calm silence.

A cracked white pitcher filled with pine boughs gives off a sharp, clean scent and Bucky finds himself struggling to remain overly vigilant, because it’s beautiful. It’s a home.

Beauty means nothing though. A lesson he learned the hard way through the years.

Slinking into the kitchen, he rummages through the silverware, turning up three finely sharpened knives. Two, he tucks into the elastic band of his boxers, feeling instant relief at the feel of the blades hugging his hip. The third, a large butcher knife, he flips around and holds outward, ready to swing.

Switching into stealth mode, he goes to work.

Rifling through kitchen cupboards and drawers. Lifting throw pillows and blankets from the sofa. Scanning rows of books arranged in alphabetical order. Searching a small linen closet. Ears perked for the sound of footsteps outside.

And yeah, he finds a few things.

A few weird things.

It starts in the small closet. Buried under a pile of quilts, he finds a heavy metal box. Pulling a bobby pin from the perpetual tangle of colorful hair-ties he keeps around his wrist, it takes a few tries before he has the lock picked. Lifting the lid reveals a perfectly folded pile of worn t-shirts. Shaking each out, he scans the logos – emblazoned across each one is a different city from Bon Jovi’s 1986 Slippery When Wet European tour.

They’re just old t-shirts, the kinds you find people hawking at concert venues or in the bargain bin at a thrift store. Nothing special or expensive. Yet here they are, folded into neat squares and tucked into a box that could probably withstand an explosion.

His confusion spirals, but Bucky fights a small smile. It seems odd, but hey, he really likes Bon Jovi too. Maybe he would do the same.

Re-folding the tissue thin cloth, he locks the box and stuffs it back in place.

Trying the bookcase next, he pulls books out, feeling behind them. Knuckles rap at random, tap, tap, tap, until he hears an unexpected thunk. The hollow sound gives it away and with a shove, he shifts the back panel and finds another small locked box. Holding it under his arm, he fiddles with the bobby pin again and the lid cracks. Two items appear.

A crushed red velvet jewelry bag.

A handful of cheap vintage postcards in a clear plastic bag.

Crouching to the floor, he shakes the contents of the jewelry bag free. A handful of silvery-blue pebbles clatter out and in the middle of the pile, a necklace. Bucky holds the worn chain up to the light. Spinning slowly on the end is a round disc, a little dingy and rubbed smooth, but he can see the outline.

Bucky wasn’t exactly a good little Catholic growing up, and yeah, religion wasn’t the sort of personal expression Hydra encouraged for the Soldier. His knowledge of saints was spotty as a kid and is extensively worse now, but he recognizes the medal – he knows Steve had one, wore it during the war and was wearing it when his plane went down. He donated it to the Smithsonian when he returned. Most of the military seemed to have one back then and Bucky assumes he had one as well, although he has no clue.

On the little medal, is the image of Saint Michael. The patron saint of Soldiers.

Fingering the medal pensively, he tries to summon a memory, any memory. He figures he must have something in there that could build off this particular war-related trinket.

But no. Just like always.

Setting it gently aside, he opens the clear bag instead. Pulling out the postcards, he lines them carefully up in front of him, internally translating the languages.

Covered with palm trees, an exuberant statement in French: Welcome to sunny Nice!

A colorful boulevard linked with green trees in Spanish stating: The Beauty of Barcelona

A laughing cartoon caricature of a man holding skis in Swiss German: Enjoy your Winter in Zurich

The solemn announcement in Italian, written over an image of the Coliseum: Hello from Rome: The Eternal City

Orange and red leaves, covering a giant beer stein in German: Oktoberfest in Munich!

And the dogged mantra of the stoic English, tall white letters against a soft pink backdrop: Keep Calm and Carry On

But the one that piques his interest the most, is last in the pile. A hand-painted postcard, the paint chipped and faded through time, of the Brooklyn Bridge at night. The title above in carefully printed letters reads: Brooklyn, New York – Thank God It’s Not Jersey. Bucky feels his heart stutter at the words, because he’s pretty god damn sure he and Steve used to throw out that same phrase.

On the back of the Brooklyn postcard, he finds the inked shapes of two hearts tangled together.

Bucky stares hard at the image, so simple but vibrating with some unknown meaning. Flipping through all the other cards, he finds them blank, nothing more than a pretty collection. Bewildered and careening toward frustrated anger, he gathers them together and slips them into the bag. He bangs the box shut and hides it away again.

He finds three more locked boxes in his search, each containing innocuous items. One with a thin, moth-eaten baby blanket. One with a random assortment of old Life magazines.

After stowing away the final box, housing an envelope with three sepia toned photos of a tall man and a small girl, he spends another ten minutes searching for clues. Finally, he’s convinced the room has shared all its secrets - until he notices the crease in the rug below the coffee table.

Shoving the table aside, Bucky flips up the rug. In the middle of the floor, he finds a plank of wood slightly thinner than the others, with a small chink in the edge. Crouching down, he runs his thumb around it and nudges it up, finding a hidden space below.

There he finds one more box. His beleaguered bobby pin gives a final brave attempt and with a quiet snick, the lock pops open.

Inside are three dusty books. Peeling gold letters line the spine of each, showing a single word, followed by three different numbers.

Journal, 1967 Journal, 1968 Journal, 1969

From the pages of 1969, a ticket stub flutters to the floor.

*****

Under the fall of lacy snowflakes, she walks. Circling the small cabin for hours, her toes are damn near frozen, but she finds herself unwilling to go back inside. He has to be waking soon and the thought of facing him makes her chest ache. Instead, she walks the narrow path along the bank of the rushing stream bordering her home and argues with herself.

Go inside. Ask him. Talk to him. See if he remembers. Tell him the truth! He deserves to know. Maybe he doesn’t want to hear it. Maybe he’ll just kill you and be done. Probably not though, you’re not that lucky.

Hysterical laughter bubbles up and she digs the puffy gloved heels of her palms into her eyes. She really needs to get out more. This constant talking to herself thing will get her institutionalized someday.

But she literally has no one else to talk to. And that right there, has always been the problem.

Brushing the snow from a giant boulder, she gingerly sits. Bending forward, she drops her head to her knees and wraps her arms around her legs, trying desperately not to give in to the panic attack threatening to drive its anxious fingers into her brain. Memories begin to swirl and even after all this time, the sound of his voice rises so easily to the surface, a sweet, drawling Brooklyn twang that turns her stomach to knots.

“Je vais avoir de la chance ce soir. Il y a de belles femmes en France qui ne m'aiment pas?”

“Can I walk you home?”

“Wait for me darlin’, okay? Will you? I’ll come back for you. I promise I will.”

“You’re what I want. You’re what I’m always gonna want.”

“You and me, this kind of love, it lasts forever, okay? It’s never gonna leave.”

“Dammit. Shit shit shit,” she chants to herself. Thick and heavy, the memories press down until she buckles under the burden of remembering. Tears begin to fall, hot trails down her face and she wipes them away, her hands shaking.

She stays on the frozen rock, letting time pass while the cold seeps through her clothes. The air is so icy, it makes her lungs seize.

*****

The butcher knife lays beside him, within easy reach. Bucky sits cross-legged on the floor, flicking through the pages at random. He pauses now and then, digging deeper, losing himself in the faded ink of another’s life.

19 May, 1967

America is strange. I arrived in Los Angeles with no goal, just rented a car and drove. First to the coast and saw the ocean. It was different than the first time Papa took me – I’ve never seen anything so blue. I tried not to think about it, but it was in my head. It’s always there. Blue everywhere. The water, the sky, his eyes. I can never leave it behind.

The songs on the radio here, they’re different too. It feels like the heart of this country is screaming and I see why. Vietnam is different. This war, it’s unexplainable maybe, but there’s a frustrated weariness in the words.

But then again, is it really that different? No matter the fight, Soldiers still give their lives and leave their sweethearts crying in the streets. They promise to come home, that ridiculously naive optimism of youth, and instead they die in a battle they never wanted to join. It’s the universal truth of every fight, since the beginning of time. The tears should be enough to stop this all from happening, but no. War keeps coming, one after another, and soldiers answer the call.

I still remember what he said that night. It’s stayed with me more than anything else. They’ll run out of soldiers eventually, he said, like he was nothing more than a cheap commodity. He was so tired by the end. I should have helped him.

11 April, 1968

Last week I was walking by the book stalls down at the Seine and saw a bargain bin of English language books. I found a book of poetry and I swear to god, that damn thing fell open on this:

He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good. W.H. Auden

I don’t think I could find a better articulation of my mood. Either Fate has something against me, or I’m just that unlucky. I bought it. I couldn’t help myself.

21 July, 1969

Sometimes, I think miracles do still exist in this world.

Down at an old hotel, the entire town was crowded in the dining room. They had a TV balanced up on a shelf so everyone could see and they caught the BBC1 broadcast. The entire room was dead silent. It was overwhelming, I can still hardly imagine it. A man walking on the moon!

The whole time I kept thinking how much he would have loved this. How he would have laughed. How he probably would have tried to sign up to be a spaceman! The more I remembered, the more I thought about that night by the river, after we first met. All those stars in the sky. Decades later and I still wonder about it – how it’s possible to be so in love with someone – but then again, how could anyone fail to love him? He was so warm, so full of life and excitement and dreams. God. We had so many dreams, so many plans for the future. We were so naïve, thinking the world might owe us a little happiness. What a joke.

And now here I am. Alone with nothing but memories – just like always. That life we wanted, it’s as far away as the moon. Unreachable and impossible.

1 January, 1970 We never He was I thought A Soldier with a metal arm?

The journal ends there.

Bucky looks at the ticket stub that fell from the delicate pages and the words bring forth a wavering reel of images, brand new and unfamiliar.

Moulin Rouge New Year’s Eve Ball Admittance: 1 Individual 31 December, 1969

The black lacquer of a piano. Silver sparkles reflecting from crystal chandeliers. The scent of fizzy champagne and the tang of blood and a dark apartment overlooking the twinkling lights of Paris.

Disoriented, Bucky sets the book down. What the hell is this? Who is she? She must be Hydra, she has to be. How else would she know the Soldier? Why did she take him, what does she want? Why does she have journals from so long ago, what do they mean?

It’s the eternal tragedy of his god damn life – always questions, never answers. He looks around the warm, peaceful little cabin and scrubs his hands down his face. He needs to plot his next move, but the bullet wounds throb with fresh, fiery pain and he’s suddenly and overwhelmingly exhausted.

So, he remains seated, surrounded by pages upon pages from someone else’s life.

Blinking back frustrated tears as he stares at the books, he knows without a doubt, that these three years of writing hold more memories than he could conjure in the lifetime he’s lived.

Distantly, he hears the slow crunch of boots on snow. Rousing himself from the miserable train of thought, he scrambles to his feet, turning to face the front door when footsteps hit the porch steps and begin to climb.

Bucky wipes the tears from his eyes. And he lifts his knife.

*****

Pacing back and forth across the small porch, she stops in front of the door and reaches for the handle.

And draws away again. Curses and keeps pacing. Tries again, pulls back.

“Open the door, you god damn coward,” she whispers harshly.

Squaring her shoulders, she turns the knob and pushes it open before she can lose her nerve. Stepping inside, the room is silent, just as she left it. Orange flames flicker in the fireplace, the smell of smoky wood and pine needles hangs in the air. She shuts the door quietly, shakes out her coat and hangs it on the rack. Taps the snow from her boots and unwinds her scarf. Rubbing her temples, she takes a deep breath and starts for the stairs, determined to face him.

She takes three steps, before the wind is knocked clean from her lungs.

The heavy body hits her from behind, one arm curling around her chest, the other pressing her butcher knife against her throat. The voice in her ear is so gut wrenchingly familiar, she nearly faints.

“Leaving a strange man alone in your bed with access to knives – not your best move.”

When he was lying unconscious wrapped in her quilts, she thought he seemed smaller than she remembered. Now, the breadth of his body against her back makes her realize just how wrong that assessment was.

“Yes. I should have hidden the knives,” she tries to speak. “Something to remember next time.”

“Tell me who the fuck you are.”

She should be terrified right now. The most prolific assassin of the 20th century has a razor-sharp blade sitting at her throat and a metal arm digging into her chest. With the slightest move, he could crush her lungs or slit her throat. He wouldn’t even have to try.

She should be terrified, but she’s not. Because the years, the decades, have been nothing more than an empty echo without him, and now he’s here. Against all odds, he is here with her. Relaxing in his arms, she leans back and closes her eyes.

Bucky stiffens abruptly at the movement.

Her hand floats up and reaches for the wrist flexing at her throat. She feels his grip tighten further, but for some reason, he allows her curious touch. Fingers trembling, they find the thin ridge, running down the long white scar curving from his right thumb across the back of his hand.

It’s nothing more than a gentle caress, but –

Like a hammer to his skull, his head splits head open. With a frightened snarl, he shoves her away and she stumbles forward, catching herself against the sofa. Slowly, she turns to face him fully.

Dark hair frames his face in sweaty tangles and his blue eyes are wild.

“What the fucking hell was that?” he hisses. The knife is held outward and he scratches at the scar, trying to scrub away her touch.

“I’m sorry,” she says, rubbing her throat. “I wasn’t – I’m sorry.”

“How the hell did I get here?” Bucky barks. “Last thing I remember, I was gut shot and bleeding out in a god damn blizzard.”

“I found you. Brought you here.”

“Yeah, obviously. Except I’m fuckin’ heavy and no offense, but you don’t look much like a super soldier. So, I’ll ask again - how the hell did I get here? Who else is working with you?”

“No one, it’s just me. And I’m not working. You – I don’t know, you just followed me. When you collapsed in the snow, I rolled you over and shouted your name, and your eyes just – they opened and you got to your feet.”

Bucky glares at her. “Convenient, that you knew my name. And how to wake me up.”

Jaw clenching, she glares back now. “I didn’t know how to wake you up. You were bleeding everywhere, but you stood there like you were waiting for something.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, he grimaces. He thinks he knows what’s coming.

“Say I believe you. Then what?”

“You asked for instructions, so I told you to get in my truck and I brought you here. I’m sorry, I didn’t know – I wasn’t sure what to do. When we got here, you wouldn’t go upstairs. You just laid down on the dining table and – ”

She pauses, but he sighs resignedly. “Keep going.”

“Both bullets, they were still – inside. I had to dig them out. I got bandages and tried to stitch up the wound. You were awake, I thought you were awake, the entire time. You were telling me what to do. Kept asking if – you kept asking if I was new.”

Bucky feels his face heat in embarrassment. Shifting uncomfortably, he grudgingly explains. “That was a secondary protocol. Something happens to the Asset, it’s programmed – I mean I was programmed - to help fix the problem.”

The cabin is quiet for a drawn-out moment.

“Oh,” she finally says. Her voice sounds small.

“So? You’re former Hydra then?”

She blanches at the comment. “What? No! I was never with them.”

“Really,” Bucky says sarcastically. “You just happened upon me and knew my name and brought me to a cabin in the middle of nowhere for no reason? That was all just luck?”

“Stop being a jerk. I said I don’t work for them,” she snaps, anger seeping into her voice. “I’d slit my own throat first.”

Bucky goes quiet, considering the statement. His loses some of the hostility when he replies, but his tone is still suspicious. “But we know each other. You know him. Or – me. The Soldier.”

“Yes. I know the – Soldier.”

“Well, I don’t remember you,” Bucky says harshly, and he watches her face fall. He feels a pang of remorse at her disappointment and almost points out that she’s not unique, he never remembers. But he holds his tongue.

Eyes dropped to the floor, her shoulders sag. “I didn’t expect you would.”

An awkward silence fills the room. Bucky feels that strange ache in his chest once again, a desire to smooth the unhappiness from her face, and an apology tumbles from his lips.

“I’m sorry I don’t remember. Trust me, it’s definitely not you.”

“No. Please don’t apologize,” she says quickly, looking up. She shakes her head like she wants to say something more; instead, she swallows the words and offers an olive branch. “Do you want to know? I mean - do you want me to tell you?”

Bucky considers the offer. Before him stands a lovely woman. One who knew the Soldier, who met the worst incarnation of himself, but without the security of Hydra to help her. He comes to a swift, depressing conclusion.

Chances are, he did something shitty to her.

Does he want to know then? Does he really need another gruesome memory clogging up his brain?

Sure. Because Bucky never knows when to quit.

“Yes,” he says firmly. “Tell me. I want to hear it.”

“Okay, I can do that,” she says softly. She motions him to sit on the couch, but Bucky hesitates.

“Can I, uh, have some pants first?” He asks stiffly. “This is sort of awkward.”

The surprise on her face makes Bucky think for one fleeting moment that she might laugh. But then she nods and disappears through a small room off the kitchen. When she returns, she’s holding a neatly folded stack of fresh laundry and he recognizes the contents of his backpack.

“Here,” she sets it cautiously on the dining table. “I’m sorry I went through your bag, I didn’t have any men’s clothing, so…anyway, I washed it all.”

Bucky snatches his ragged Captain America t-shirt and black sweats from the top of the pile, shimmying into them. Pulling a rainbow colored band off his wrist, he ties his hair back and drops to the couch.

She takes the armchair across from him, as far away as she can get in the small living room, and tucks her hands under her legs. Bucky knows he’s unlikely to enjoy whatever she has to say, but he folds his fingers together and waits. She stares down at her feet, appearing to gather her courage before meeting his grim stare head on.

Her voice is steady, as she starts to speak.

“Paris was cold that December and it snowed early. It was New Year’s Eve in 1969.”

*****

Next Chapter

*****

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wongxiexie · 5 years ago

Text

No matter what

Pairing: Kim Jongdae (Chen) x Reader (ft. EXO members) Genre: Angst, Mafia!AU Word Count: 1.654 words Warnings: Death, Graphic depictions of violence, Language Note: The photo’s from Chen’s Star1 photoshoot.

“Teleportation,” you grunt.

“What?” Jongdae asks shakily, his movements hurried and panicked as he tries to cover your gaping wound with his hands. He appears as if he is about to combust from the pressure when he sees blood still flowing through the gaps between his fingers.

“I--,” a pained cough escapes your parted lips. “Fuck, that stings like a bitch,” you groan when you open your eyes, blinking in irritation because of the sweat trickling down your temples.

“Invisibility,” another cough. “Ability to stop time...” a groan. “Whatever the hell it is we need to get outta here, that’s what I want.”

You curse again when Jongdae presses too hard on your wound, causing him to apologize right after.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he cries repeatedly. “I’m gonna get us out of here,” he says desperately but lowly, as if he’s trying to convince himself and not you.

“Those motherfuckers are too loud,” you grind out, hating the dominant sound of continuous gunshots that mark the death of every single one of your men. Even in your endangered state, the anger is still flowing off of you in waves. “I’m gonna fucking kill that mole, don’t you worry your pretty little head, Dae,” you hiss. “I’ll chop the head off that traitor myself.”

“I don’t care about them!” Jongdae shouts while tears stream down his face, and he has to angle his whole body closer to you just to be able to hear you.

The gunshots are getting louder and you’re sure the enemy is fast approaching. You wonder how many are still alive from your side, but if you have to hazard a guess, you’ll say not much because your best men are all in an overseas operation for the apparently false intel that mole gave you.

‘If only Chanyeol and Sehun were here,’ you think bitterly.

If thoughts could kill, then Kyungsoo would already be dead, and in fact, he’d be dead a million times over. You’ve always thought the kid was sketchy, but you didn’t think he’d have the balls to actually go against you like that.

Well, you realize he is part of that rival mafia all along which proves that he does have balls, the same mafia that the infamous Byun Baekhyun leads. Fuck, you’ve kept yourself away from your former lover for so long, even moved countries and continents just to avoid him because even though you are headstrong and stubborn, you aren’t stupid enough to deny power when you see it.

He can wipe out a country if he so desires and you know it. He knows that you know it too.

But the shivers that crawl up your spine aren’t for you.

You can imagine it already, the bloodthirsty eyes of his men flashing through your mind. Those lunatic Kim brothers, Minseok, Junmyeon and Jongin. You had a run-in with them a few years back and what you witnessed was on the opposite end of the spectrum of pleasantry. And can you even forget Baekhyun’s most trusted hunter, Zhang Yixing?

They kill without a second thought and without any remorse, but what truly frightens you is how they torture their captives. They enjoy it.

Every. Single. Moment.

They get a high out of hearing their victims beg and let out harrowing cries of agony, and they thrive on it.

You aren’t thinking of yourself right now, in fact, your own safety isn’t even on your mind. You’re starting to lose consciousness, but you fight on because you have an important job. You have to save Jongdae.

You don’t care what will happen to yourself, but damn every soul on every dimension if you let them hurt Jongdae, the one person who had foolishly shown you what that blasted accursed thing is.

Love, is it?

Whatever.

The point is, Jongdae’s safety is paramount. Fuck anything else, you think. You know it’s your fault, though. You shouldn’t have dragged him down this damned path with you. He’s too good to experience the horrors that your world carries.

Jongdae is still frantic, trying everything he can to save you, and as you look at his face, you grimace slightly when you see the frown that seems etched on his face.

Shame that it’s going to be the last expression you see on him.

Even with all the grim thoughts, however, your dark undeserving heart warms at the sight of him thinking about you and only you, that even amid everything, you are the only one on his mind.

Jongdae stops panicking and locks eyes with you. He feels as if calm has washed over his entire being when he sees you just looking at him with the most gentle smile he has ever seen on you.

He cups your cheeks and gives you a full kiss on the mouth, giving into his desires. You respond immediately, tearing up at the strong emotions Jongdae tries to convey through his kiss.

Closing his eyes, he rests his forehead on yours and tries to savor what he thinks is his last minutes with you.

A loud explosion sounds within the room, with Baekhyun himself bombing the heavy door to get to you. Jongdae jumps at the sound and diverts his attention towards the commotion, but you don’t even flinch when the door gives in, having already heard their rapid footsteps up the stairs moments before they brought the door down.

You place your hand tenderly on his cheek, enjoying the few seconds of just holding Jongdae, with him kneeling over you while you lay there bleeding to death.

But you’re not going to die soon, no. Baekhyun won’t let you die yet.

You bring Jongdae’s stare back to you as you smile at him, wishing with all your frozen heart for him to understand how much you really love him, and what lengths you will go to just to protect him.

You won’t let anybody hurt the only person you ever really cared about.

Baekhyun stalks through the door wearing a smile that tells you a thousand things that don’t even need to be said, and just as he says your name...

“I will love you forever, Kim Jongdae,” you give your one and only true love the final words you want him to hear, and a beautiful smile overtakes his features even with all the things happening around you.

And then--

*BANG!*

You let the gun fall from your hand the same time Jongdae’s lifeless body lands on yours.

His body is still warm, you think. He’s always so warm.

You hug his body close to you and you place a kiss on the top of his head. “I told you, I won’t let them hurt you,” you whisper to him.

You won’t ever let anyone hurt Jongdae, and if death is the only way to ensure he won’t experience any pain, then you will gladly bear the responsibility of his life with your own two hands.

“My, my...” Baekhyun’s mocking voice reaches your ears, obviously finding the situation amusing. “Didn’t know you had it in you, love.”

You sneer in disgust at his attitude.

“Such a shame, though,” he clicks his tongue. “I would’ve loved to have the opportunity to break every single one of his bones before he begged me for death.”

He stands before you and kicks Jongdae’s body to the side, causing you to growl in anger. “Imagine what Jongin could’ve done to him,” he says with an almost deranged smile. “Or Minseok,” he laughs, “My god, imagine how Minseok could’ve sliced him open without letting him die!”

Kneeling over you, he holds your chin with a harsh grip, keeping your eyes locked with his. “Wouldn’t like that so much, would you?” The grin he wears sends shivers running down your spine.

You cough, already starting to faint because of the blood loss. “In your--,” you say with a wheeze. “--fucking dreams.”

Spitting blood at his face, you let a weak smirk touch your lips. “I would never let you and your men lay your filthy hands on him.”

Your vision starts to blur and you welcome it with open arms, but Baekhyun’s cold voice reaches your ears before darkness overtakes you completely.

"I’ll make your life a living hell, love.”

——

"Healing.”

You sent a non-committal grunt towards his way, prompting him to continue.

“If I were to have a superpower, I’d like to have the ability to heal.” This time, you turned towards him and raised your brows. Setting down the gun you were cleaning, you faced him fully and took in the smile on his face.

‘He always has a nice smile,’ you thought to yourself. He looked like a cat and you couldn’t resist the urge to pinch his cheeks.

“Why healing?” you asked him, releasing your hold on his face as he massages the area your pinched. “You’re so lame.”

“Ah wae!” he gave you his signature whine. To be honest, you used to hate that sound because it grated your ears horribly, but now? Now, maybe you hated it a little less... maybe even liked it... a bit. Just a bit. Although you’d never tell him that. Ever.

“I want to be able to heal so I can cure you of anything!” The smile never left his face, but you saw the slight tinge of wariness that graced his features when he tried to subtly eye your gun.

You snorted. “Lame.”

He whined loudly again, but this time he did so with a grin that stretched from ear to ear when he saw the small upward tilt to your lips.

“But you love me,” he teased before standing up to go to the kitchen, most likely to retrieve himself a snack.

“Yeah,” you whispered, and you knew he didn’t hear you.

“I love you, Kim Jongdae,” you stared at his retreating form. “And I’ll do absolutely anything to protect you.”

#exo #exosnet #chen #kim jongdae #exo angst #chen angst #kim jongdae angst #exo x reader #exo x reader angst #chen x reader #chen x reader angst #kim jongdae x reader #kim jongdae x reader angst #exo mafia!AU

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my-little-dumpster-fire · 6 years ago

Text

‘Deed I Do

P A R T 2/3

You woke the next morning with a dull ache, just behind your eyes. However as consciousness returned to you and you wiggled, sinking deeper into the embrace of an antique sofa that was never meant to hold bodies for longer than a cup of tea, you became vaguely aware that the thin blanket over your shoulders was not what had kept you warm through the night and most of the morning, based on the pillars of light streaming in from between window panes. The foreign but not entirely unwelcome comfort of long arms and large hands holding you close was much more to blame. Without moving an inch, fearing wakefulness would rid you of this dream, you opened one carefully to survey the scene.

Your body was nearly flat against John’s chest, though at some point in the night you’d clearly slid more to his side. His hands had you locked in place however, keeping your bodies close and yours from tumbling to the floor in an embarrassing heap. You could feel the entirety of John’s palm flattened against your back. Curiously placed under your sweater, but chaste enough as the pads of his fingers dug into your side through the thin fabric of your blouse. The length of your skirt had been brushed up by the fingers gripping the back of your knee. You were suddenly keenly aware that your stockings from last night only reached your knee and John had managed to avoid the soft fabric in favor of the expanse of exposed skin just above. He held you with surprising strength even in his sleep and you rolled your eyes at the way your leg had been hitched up over his waist, uncertain if that was your doing or his. Were you that desperate for a man’s touch? Even in sleep your body clung to John’s without shame or fear of discovery.

Taking a deep breath and making no effort to jostle your partner awake, you lifted your head slightly from its resting place against John’s shoulder for the sole purpose of being able to find use in both of your tired eyes. You took a moment to glance around the room as best you could, though the only thing visible was the wall of books that sat just south of your legs tangled with John’s much longer ones that extended out past the arm of the sofa and seemed to be floating in the air from your angle. A slight turn to the left revealed the record player, needle eventually giving up hope had retreated to its resting place as the black disc stopped spinning. A little more and an empty bottle was accompanied by two still full glasses on a Victorian table. Just a bit more and-

“What a sordid display,” Marion’s breathy voice entered the room from where she was standing in the false doorway. You jumped immediately startled, but John’s hands only tightened against you when you attempted to pull away. Though presumably still asleep, John’s expression was the picture of peace as opposed to your furrowed brows as you slowly descended into a panic under Marion’s disturbing stare. You took John’s chin between your thumb and forefinger and shook his face gently. The first of your actions meant to rouse him, did next to nothing in your aid. In fact, it appeared to have the opposite effect, when you looked up and found his lips pursed and ready, waiting for a kiss you weren’t offering. When your lips kept their distance and your hand kept shaking, John let out a disturbed huff as his face scrunched in apparent disapproval, but still he made no attempts to remove his hands from you. You turned back to look at Marion and realized that you had no idea how long she’d be standing and leering at the two of you from the corner of the room, a book in one hand, the shelf covering the door propped open by the other.

“Tell me, Marion,” John sighed, finally removing one hand, though not the one you wished he’d slip out from under your skirt, to squeeze the bridge of his nose and make his annoyance crystal clear to his sister. “Is this more exciting than one of your novels?” Without the support of his hand against your back, you tightened your grip around his waist and pulled yourself nearly on top of him. The desire to stay off the floor outweighed the desire for a long forgotten decorum.

She gasped, making her disgust at the implication as clear as John’s irritation. “You cannot compare this this this- whatever this is to classic literature!”

“It’s pornography, you blister,” he said plainly, which made Marion blush bright red and dart from the room without further argument. “Doesn’t matter who wrote it,” John muttered, keeping his eyes closed and returning his hand to your back. At that point, your face was so buried into his neck, hiding from the embarrassing display just over your shoulder, that you could feel every word he spoke as it travelled up his vocal chords and tickled your nose. The hand under your skirt slid up a bit higher to squeeze your thigh, presumably as a show of reassurance, but your body tensed and jolted into John even more. He chuckled at your reaction and tightened his hold to keep you pressed against him.

“John,” you sighed, suddenly more tired from Marion’s intrusion than a whole night of drinking.

He hummed, though it sounded more like a moan in your ear. You started to lift yourself off the couch, though in the tangled mess you’d found yourself, it was proving to be a difficult feat. As you moved awkwardly over him, pulling the blanket which you now realized was actually John’s dinner coat draped over your shoulders, John hissed and grabbed your shoulders, holding you still. “Don’t,” he said quietly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t...move,” he sighed, holding you over him. Your hands were clutching the arm of the couch above his head and your body hovered over his own. A simply swing of your leg would have you dismounting him as easily as you would a horse. Ignoring his warning, you swung one leg over him and just barely grazed-

“Oh!” You squeaked, feeling something hard beneath you. A cursory glance downward revealed that indeed, there was a not at all subtle tenting clearly visible through his baggy trousers, where his manly whang was clearly awake despite the general sleepiness of the rest of him. “Well, good morning, General,” you said, tilting your head. You lifted one your arms off the couch arm and brought two fingers to your brow, balancing yourself carefully while saluting the man -and his weapon- below you.

“General?” He groaned and you laughed.

“Well, he looks ready for battle, doesn’t he?” You explain through a guilty smile and soon John’s tired face was splitting into his own. Not the well thought out smirk of the night before. It was too early for wiles. This was John. Just John. And he was happy in your presence. “I don’t know about you, Sir,” you teased, taking care to slither off John’s body, with his help and his hand on your hip as you stood next to couch addressing him. “But I am famished and I know that Veronica won’t save me any breakfast,” you turned, causing John’s fingers to slip over the fabric of your skirt as you headed toward the door. “She won’t save any for you either, John,” you reminded him from the entryway.

“No, but I can count on you to take care of me,” he said coolly, making no moves to extricate himself from the cushions where he lay. You eyed him curiously, tapping your foot with impatience as you hung out in door frame waiting for him to join you.

“I’ll be a minute, darling,” he said, lips quirked up as he nodded down to his own risen tater. You’d already forgotten and instantly your face burned in embarrassment again. You nodded and wished him luck, such a weird thing to say and John laughed loudly at the remark. Soon you were rushing down the hall to catch up to the Whittaker women, who were hopefully still in the dining room.

All thoughts of the night before were blurry and disjointed. By the time John had emerged from his father’s study, looking significantly more cheerful and awake than when you left him, you’d spoken to Farber about the return drive home and Mrs. Whittaker had expressed the closest thing to excitement she could muster. You’d be back in just a few days, staying with the family before and during the wedding festivities, helping to reign in your dear friend, Hilda. Not your idea, but your mother had insisted, perhaps trying to inspire you to marry again amid the chaos of another woman’s preparations. It wouldn’t happen. There weren’t enough peonies or Japanese lanterns or gloved guest silently judging from their seats in the world to make you want to go through that whole ordeal again.

Only a day had passed since that awkward morning, when you were called inside by the promise of a phone call that was explicitly and exclusively for you. Still breathless from your morning ride, you tucked the ivory phone handle between your shoulder and ear, while you stopped to unbutton and strip yourself of the black leather confines around your calves.

“Come back,” John’s pleading voice responded immediately to your perfunctory hello and you chuckled against the handset. “Why are you laughing? Run along and have a bag packed.”

“I’ve only been gone a day,” you sighed, finally ridding yourself of your boots and collapsing into a chair, with your feet tucked up under you in a way that would make your mother’s hair curl in anger. “And,” you added, sensing he was about to present you with a compelling argument. “I’ll be back in a few days for Hilda’s wedding. Why should I ache to return to quickly?”

“I’m bored,” he whined and you laughed at the pitiful sounds he made.

“John Whittaker doesn’t get bored,” you pointed out correctly. Between his seemingly boundless energy and what his mother always called a hopeless overactive imagination, John had never wanted for entertainment, finding hours of joy roaming the Whittaker family grounds, playing games on rainy days with only the loosest interpretation of the rules in place or his own entirely made up set, or finding mischief at the expense of his family. Now that John had grown into his limbs, barely, he found his entertainment alongside most young men of his age. The usual. You had no doubt that even at home, John managed to balance his duties to the family land with his own need for stimulation. He seemed just as comfortable astride some new equipment as he did in the buttery seats of a Riley Nine. Like that Gatsby cat from the American stories without the murder or the mood swings.

John’s voice had lowered as he was trying to conceal the conversation from someone you couldn’t see, while comfortably perched in your family’s sitting room. “I manage when the entire house is buzzing around Hilda like the delicate flower she is and there’s not a soul in sight that has the time or the coordination to play with me.” You giggled into the phone as he groaned. You reminded him that he loved his little sister and he agreed wholeheartedly, but cited many of his own failings that had barred him from being any assistance during the wedding preparations and exiled him. He was allowed in his bedroom and out in the barn and you laughed impolitely loud as he recalled the misery of his twenty four hours in your absence. “That settles it, I’m coming to get you.”

“Wha-“

“Have a bag packed,” he said with finality. You scoffed as the line cut out and dropped the phone into its cradle unceremoniously. Looking around the sitting room, you realized that John never took no for an answer. His car would speed through the dirt and trees, effortlessly skidding to a cloudy stop in no time. He’d be strolling through the front doors of your family home as if it were his own and if you weren’t ready by the time he did, you imagined him blowing through your bedroom door like a hurricane. He’d scoop you up like a child or hoist you over his shoulder, likely dumping the contents of your trunk in the process. Despite the giggles that would ensue, it would be incredibly inconvenient, so you abandoned your comfortable place and sprinted up the stairs, eager for your return trip to the Whittaker home.

So the week before Hilda’s wedding, that was your role. You’d anticipated assisting the family in more delicate tasks, but it became glaringly obvious that you’d been delegated the most delicate task of all: keeping John Whittaker occupied and out of the way. John was an extremely competent man who simply lacked the gingerly voice that everyone had taken to speaking with around a suddenly very easily spooked Hilda. He’d sent the baby of the family spiraling twice in the day you’d been back home and if Veronica Whittaker were equipped for expressions of relief, you were certain you’d have been the lucky recipient of them. The second you arrived with John, the staff could breathe easier, his mother too, as Marion bemoaned her own rotten luck and Hilda’s anxiety ran the house. You, on the other hand, hadn’t stopped smiling in days. Were your mother around, she’d remind you to gob creams on your face at night in fear of the wrinkles for which the Whittaker boy was solely responsible.

One such morning, while candles of every color were being delivered to the house, John decided that freedom was suddenly a necessity and the two of you set out on horseback for a thorough tour of the Whittaker grounds all the way down to the creek that served as a natural boundary for the Hurst land. John’s guilt weighed heavily on him and you could see it in his eyes. Though you’d only just been made aware of them, the rumors circling John’s abruptly ended engagement to Sarah Hurst were anything, but kind. Whispers suggested that Lord Hurst’s offer to buy the back acreage of the Whittaker land to help the family had been retracted and with John and Sarah’s silence on regarding their relationship, no one was certain whether the land deal inspired to split or vice versa. In the safety of your presence, John admitted to spoiling the deal. If only he’d been someone else entirely, perhaps he’d be useful to his family, perhaps he’d be what Sarah needed, and Lord Hurst wouldn’t have denied his mother in her time of need. It didn’t rightly matter how emphatically you told him it wasn’t true, John clung to the failed exchange tighter than his failed engagement. You loved and hated moments like this. You hated the Whittaker trait of self loathing and hoped it might have skipped your dear friend, but his white knuckled grip on thin leather reins next to you told you otherwise. At the same time, you loved seeing John like this. He was so much more than the grown child who called you up for a weeklong playdate. He was so much more than the elder brother and first born son who lived to love and terrorize his mother and sisters in equal measure. John Whittaker was a man who was trying to rebuild something that his father had abandoned long before the great Christmas party exodus. He saw his family’s land and the history that filled it and he wanted desperately not to be the weak link in a long chain of kin who’d owned and worked the land for centuries. With a tender hand, you guided your horse to stand a little closer to John’s so that you could brush back some of the dark hair that had fallen over his eyes on the ride. He smiled, thankfully, and leaned into the touch. You allowed yourself a moment to give into the whim and play with his hair, raking through it with your fingers and recklessly hoping the lies of inadequacy that plagued him may be pulled from his mind with each gently pass. John hummed and grabbed your wrist, kissing the fingers that had run through his hair as he thanked you. For listening. For being a friend. For reminding him there were better days ahead than those behind him.

With a lighter smile than he’d ridden out with, you and John raced home. If he’d been just a little more sad, you might have let him win. All the same, there was ample teasing and bumping of hips and elbows as you hung the expensive tack on its rightful peg, followed by jokes and furtive glances being tossed over the curved and sweaty backs of your steeds while the two of you took your time to brush the horses down. Two massive bodies stood on eight legs between you, yet you felt closer to John in that moment than you had in years. The childish sort of affection you’d shared had somehow managed to grow up with you and you were thankful for a friend who could make you make while talking about your former husband and who you could make smile instead of drowning in regret.

“Always room for improvement, darling,” he teased and shot a wink across the stalls at you.

“I taught you to ride, John, don’t forget that.”

“Yes,” John conceded. He draped his long arms over the horse’s back, rubbing the mares ribs with one of his large hands as his chin was propped up in the other. “But there are other beasts that are good for riding,” he grinned and licked his lips as he watched your expression melt out of confusion and into a scandalized scowl.

“John!” You shrieked, tossing your brush directly at his head. He ducked just in time, side sliding away from his horse. In an attempt to escape what would soon become a wrestling match if you were not careful, you tried to scoot away from your own horse, but found yourself wrapped up in John’s long armed embrace all the same. Giggling and writhing against him, you did your very best to pull out of his grip, but John was stronger than he looked and his slightly stubbled chin was digging into the side of your face as he made snapping noises with his teeth and growled into your ear, with no regard for how those sounds would haunt you later.

At that moment, the doors to the stable flew open and a hoard of people that you hadn’t been expecting burst through in a small dusty cyclone. At the head of the pack, Veronica Whittaker and your mother were wielding newspapers and advancing on your tangled bodies looking as those they intended to strike you like misbehaving dogs.

“So it is true!” Hilda squealed!

“I told you as much!” Marion insisted.

“Stupid boy, stupid, stupid,” Mrs. Whittaker moaned loudly.

“Of all the simple minded plans in all the world,” your mother shrieked.

Everything seemed to happen at once. You tried to pull away from John, but he kept one arm firmly around you, physically shielding himself from the onslaught of women and mildly amusement staff that followed closely behind them.

“We don’t have the time for this!” Mrs. Whittaker swung her crumpled newspaper at John’s head and the blow landed, causing him to duck and curl closer into you, while the hand that wasn’t digging into your hip grabbed carelessly at the paper that was swatting him. “I’ve called every vendor, June first is an impossible date!”

June the first….

“Why wouldn’t you wait?!” Hilda’s voice cut through the bickering crowd. “It’s my week, I’m getting married, why wouldn’t you wait until after!”

“Clearly your reception is their grand debut,” Marion wheezed, pursing her lips in a knowing and judgmental sneer. “Must you always be such a spectacle, brother?”

“The only spectacle is you lot!” John hollered, physically pulling your mother’s hands from where they were digging painfully into your arm. Once you were free, he pulled you closer and took a large step back from the tiny mob. You looked up at him pleadingly, but his own expression was lost. And then he was wincing again as his mother’s newspaper collided with his forehead again.

“You’ll have to host,” Mrs. Whittaker turned to address your mother, unsatisfied with the reaction she was getting from her son. “We can’t host two in a month.”

“Of course not, it would be an egregious display if you tried,” your mother agreed quickly. “Our home is open, but your greenhouses will be so much faster than a shop-“

“Right, right, yes, done,” Mrs. Whittaker waved her hand dismissively and your sighed heavily in relief.

“What are you-?” You tried to jump in, but your voice was overpowered by the two matriarchs going back and forth, making plans for an event that suddenly made you nervous. Finally, John managed to snatch a paper from his mother who paid him no mind, but continued to argue with your mother over all your questions, Hilda’s whining, and Marion’s quiet cackling.

Your eyes widened to an impossible size at the sight in front of you. When John shook out the paper to see what had everyone in a tizzy, you both froze at a printed copy of a hand written wedding announcement that was meant to never be seen or thought of again after that night in the Whittaker’s study. Thinking through the night and the next morning, you suddenly couldn’t convince yourself that either you or John had disposed of the announcement properly. Clearly you hadn’t as it glared up at you in smudged black and white. Plain as day, your plans made in jest and drunkenness were splayed out for the whole town to see.

“Mother,” you tried to interject as she verbally ran through a list of people she’d need to call right away to make sure they would be in attendance, while simultaneously taking note of how many people would fit in your gardens at the same time.

“We meant for it to be a small affair,” you heard John pipe up from above you and his mother turned to him appreciatively as you gaped up at him.

“John!” You gasped loudly in disbelief and he took your hand in his, dragging you over to a only slightly quieter corner. “They’re making plans for us! Our wedding! You can’t be encouraging them like that!” You told him in a harsh whisper. “Now we have to make this right!” You stated and turned away from him.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he repeated quickly, taking your hand in his again and pulling you back to the corner. “You can’t tell them,” he said quickly.

“What?” You said louder than intended, earning some curious looks from the crew of planners that were still engrossed in the logistical nightmare of your wedding to John Whittaker. “John, no! Of course we tell them! It was a joke!” You reminded him, pulling away again, only to be yanked back. “Stop making this difficult!”

“I will make this exceedingly difficult,” John said quickly. “More difficult than it should be.”

“You make everything more difficult than it should be!” You shot back and instantly John’s grip on your wrist loosened. His face fell, but not into guilt or grief like most would. His fell into a flat affect, more reminiscent of his mother in that moment than you’d ever seen him. It made no earthly sense. That announcement was a joke, never meant for anyone’s eyes. John knew that and it hadn’t even crossed your mind to ask if he was responsible. You knew he wouldn’t be, but somehow still your words were wounding him. With a sympathy solely reserved for John, you paused and considered for a moment. Did you really have to alert the mothers to the mistake? A cursory glance over your shoulder confirmed what you already knew. They were still locked in a heated discussion of logistics that had now ventured beyond the actual nuptials and into the ways the match would be beneficial to each family. Neither woman looked happy, no, their concern wasn’t happiness with each other or with their children. They were on a mission, holding up the families they’d provided for the men they’d once loved just as it was expected for them. For a moment, a fleeting but significant moment, you felt sorry for the women who had griped your whole life. Weren’t they simply preparing for this moment? When their work would finally be done and they could rest easily, knowing they’d fulfilled their vows to carry on someone else’s family legacy and prepare their children to receive it. You sighed and turned to face John, who was barely regarding you, his own eyes fixed on the women behind you. You wondered if he was thinking the very same. “Why shouldn’t we tell them the truth?” You asked, pulling John’s focus back to you. “We could right them today, they’d moan and complain and be embarrassed, but this need not continue.” Thankful for your friend, you thought it only fitting that you offer him an escape from a life he hadn’t asked for. He wouldn’t get such an offer from his mother, but you...you could grant him that. You could free him from the mistake.

His face softened and he stepped closer, taking one of your hands in his, brushing the knuckles with his thumb. “Because I can’t…” he said quietly, suddenly aware that no one should overhear his confession to you. “My first wife ran away with my father,” he chuckled humorlessly. “My second engagement ran back to her father,” finally John lifted his eyes from your joint hands, urging you to look at him. “If it’s discovered that my third is a farce, my family....” his eyes fell over your shoulder to the loud women that were now making their way out of the stables, chasing an inconsolable Hilda and shouting encouragements that this recent development wouldn’t detract from her special day. “I love them,” he said slowly and you nodded. You’d always known that. John was above all else, a family man. Who affectionately referred to his siblings as blisters, but would go to war for either of them without blinking should the need arise. “They’ll never be able to look at me.” The way he said your name, so soft and desperate, was unlike any previous utterance. “They’ll never forgive me and you know it. I can’t do that to them.”

You didn’t have words for John. Every concern he voiced was spot on. Another failed relationship for John would reflect so poorly on the Whittaker name. You weren’t entirely immune from recourse either. One divorce at your age was already bad enough, enough to worry your mother that you’d never find another sap to con into loving you. The news of your fake engagement to John Whittaker would prove that indeed, there was something wrong with you and there would be no hope for a future so long as you bore your name. The women never came out clean in situations like this. You’d learned that already with Henry.

Without a word, you stretched up on to your toes to kiss his cheek. John smiled, not a true John Whittaker smile with his perfect teeth on display and his eyes crinkling with joy, but it was still a smile. Small. Resigned. Only as ready as you for whatever came next. He tugged you in and wrapped his arms around you, tighter than you expected, and you responded immediately, holding him and molding your body against his as if space between you would cause your heart to fall out onto the dusty barn floor. It might, you thought, trying and failing to picture a life with your friend John as more than that.

—-

Hilda Whittaker’s wedding to the russet haired Cavendish boy was a county wide affair. It seemed every family whose name you’d heard in the last two decades would be in attendance. While there were many with daughters Hilda had danced or dined with in her youth, you suspected a great many of the guests in attendance were there for the spectacle. Whether this Whittaker managed to make it stick, was of no importance and it was sure to be a show either way.

You found yourself in John’s arms again, officially a couple as far as anyone in attendance was concerned, dancing in the low light as couples with more established histories chattered mindlessly along the edges of the room. Your head was tucked against his shoulder, while his face rested against yours and the two of you swayed gently to the melodic brass and string band. One of your hands was wrapped under his shoulder, keeping him close enough to lean on, while his was wrapped around your waist, resting against your lower back and holding you up during the slow dance. Where your hands were clasped together, John’s thumb was passing over your skin affectionately, reminding you that he was there. As if you could forget. The last few days had been a whirlwind. Preparing for Hilda’s wedding, while suddenly the expectations for you and John had changed. Being alone together was no longer, as two young people rushing to get married, it was assumed that any moments of privacy would be spent taking advantage of each other. The careless touches you’d come to expect from John stopped, for fear that they’d be viewed as inappropriate. This dance, this slow and close dance, that was barely more than a shuffle from foot to foot, was your public declaration of intent. Unlike the dances you’d shared before, suddenly people were watching every move and hedging their bets on how long ‘this one’ would stick around. Maybe it was the closeness or maybe it was your pride, but you wanted nothing more than to pull John’s face to yours and kiss him until your audience found something new to belittle with their gossip. You didn’t indulge and despite the sweetness with which John regarded you during your sudden engagement, he hadn’t made any moves to kiss you anywhere he hadn’t before. Like now, when his head lifted from yours, you correctly anticipated the soft pressing of his lips against your temple. It wasn’t the norm, but this kiss lingered on your skin. John didn’t pull his lips away, but rather murmured against the wispy hairs that framed your face.

“That’ll be us soon,” he whispered and you opened your eyes. Turning your head under his chin, slowly and allowing his lips to replace themselves against your forehead, you spotted Hilda and her new husband, locked in a similar embrace just a few feet away. Hilda’s expression was that of an angel’s. Ethereal happiness shining through a face tired from the day of excitement.

No, they’re in love.

Without a response from you, John pulled back to look down at your face, searching it for the words you weren’t saying.

Just then, the heavy doors burst open and a man swaggered to the middle of the dance floor.

“I think I’m due a dance with my daughter, no?”

None other than James Whittaker, missing in action for the second time in his life, had appeared in the last place he’d been seen just a year prior. The discomfort trickled through the crowd as gasps dissolved into satisfied muttering. Not at all what was expected, but exactly the brand of Whittaker entertainment for which many had been waiting all evening.

When Hilda shrunk away, clinging to her beloved as the shock and disappointment and a flurry of other emotions crossed through her mind and across her face, John immediately took a step toward the elder Whittaker. His chest was puffed out and his shoulders were squared as if preparing for a fight and he looked more like a man of the house in that moment than you’d ever witnessed. It was painfully obvious which Whittaker belonged and which was an unwelcome guest.

“John,” James regarded his son with open arms. “My boy.” His hands came down on John’s shoulders, with the intent to pull his son out of his way, but John was an impervious barrier between his father and his little sister. The hardened look on his face had qualities of his father, but there was something undeniably John in his features. James wasn’t one for dramatic displays, especially in regards to his family, but the subtle twitch in John’s upper lip told you that at least one Whittaker was looking for a fight. “Step aside, there’s no reason to embarrass yourself,” James’ eyes fell on you then. “Not in front of your fiancé, though she’ll be your wife next week. Congratulations, by the way,” he added quickly as if it was expected.

John stepped back with a furrowed brow and glared suspiciously at his father, who leaned in to whisper.

“Did you much like my engagement present?” He asked, with a subtle chuckle. John’s head tilted helplessly to one side. “Imagine my surprise,” James explained. “Returning home to my study and finding such wonderful news hidden away from the world,” he continued, watching as John’s face fell into realization. “So close to the date,” he tsked. “And still not in the papers. I thought it my fatherly duty to right such a careless oversight.”

Without thinking, one of John’s fists landed directly on the side of his father’s face, wiping the smugness from his bearded smile.

Hilda shrieked and Veronica elbowed her way to the front of the crowd, berating a staff for not alerting her the second the despicable man in front of her returned to the family premises.

James rubbed his jaw briefly, laughing as he felt a small trickling of blood slip down his lip. “Unwise,” was all he said as he let his own fist fly, knocking John right out with a disgusting crack of knuckles against teeth.

John came to just a few minutes later, lying against the floor with his head in your lap. The family had scattered, coddling their delicate sensibilities, likely gossiping about the events of the evening as if they hadn’t just happened, or otherwise staying as far from both James and John as possible. You were glad for the privacy when his dark eyes started to flutter open. He was seemingly unaware of the split in his lip and the swelling beneath it as he attempted a lazy smile. His upper lip twitched up as he winced and one hand flew up to assess the damage. When he found your wrist instead, fingers dancing through his soft strands, his mission changed. His fingers clasped around your arm, torn between wanting to hold your hand and hold it in place so that your subtle ministrations may continue.

“Have I managed to spoil this yet, darling?” John asked, his s’s only a little blurry under his puffy lower lip.

“You aren’t quite the cad you think you are, John,” you pulled your hand from his hair as you assured him. As delicately as you could, you dragged your index finger over his lip, collecting a drop of blood in the process. His eyes were glassy in appreciation and fatigue, prompting you to smirk knowingly. “However, you’re very close, but only because you overestimate all of your failings.”

His laugh was weak, but genuine as he tightened his grip on your wrist, holding your thumb to his lips. John winced as he puckered his lips and you felt both sympathy and curiosity simultaneously.

“I’ve never known you to throw a punch, John,” you pointed out warily.

“Nor the better, I suppose,” he scoffed, stroking his jaw. The joints clicked audibly as he tested the hinge, looking more like a cod fish than your fiancé in that moment. His self deprecation and ability to joke despite his wound should not have surprised you, but you had to turn away to conceal a giggle.

After composing yourself and noting the grin John wore as you turned to look down at him again, you tried again. “Why your father? Why now?”

“It has been my first and only opportunity to do so,” John answered only your second question, but he answered it quickly. “No one has seen him in months.”

“Why at all, John?” Certainly Jim’s presence was difficult to reconcile in the younger Whittaker’s mind, but reliving the events made you question John’s affections in ways he’d asked you not to.

“He stole my wife,” he closed his eyes, speaking as though in pain. He very likely was, having never taken a fist to the nose you could only imagine.

You felt your spine straighten in reflex. Suddenly you were overcome with a need to maintain proper posture, not the nurturing curve of your huddled frame.

My wife.

John noticed, as he often did, and glared upward. If you were looking at him at all, you would have noticed. “And he started this whole mess. He posted that silly announcement in the papers.”

Mess.

Silly.

“I heard him,” you admitted, flatly.

John frowned at your change in demeanor, much preferring the gentle fingers running through his hair than the woman who suddenly appeared as though a smile would pain her. He opened his lips to speak, but you were faster.

“My mother is leaving soon. I think I should go with her,” you stated plainly, lifting his head from your lap so you could stand causing it slip to the floor with an unintended klunk.

“Wait,” John pleaded, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. “What’s happened? I thought-“ he licked his lips and stood to face you. “I thought we were… are you alright?”

You swallowed and forced a smile, reaching out to touch his hand before he had the chance to do the same.

“I’m just fine, John.” He leaned in, moving as if he intended to kiss you, but you spun from him before he had the chance, leaving him in the empty ballroom. As soon as you were out of sight, you toed the shoes from you feet and sprinted up the steps silently. You packed your things quickly and met your mother out front, glancing back at the Whittaker house and noticing the silhouette of a lanky gentleman, looking out a high window back at you.

Silly mess indeed.

@something-tofightfor @the-blind-assassin-12 @strugglingsemicolon @breanime @disengagefrmreality @suchatinyinfinity @littlemermaidprobz

#deed i do #john whittaker x reader #john whittaker #john whittaker imagine #ben barnes character imagines #post easy virtue #oh johnny #you idiot

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