#which also makes me squint because what if that strange sense of safety and understanding is because we both endured the same things?

[yikes-ajax-thats-sad]

Fantasizing about pulling my cousin aside and asking him about our childhood because I know our older cousin abused him and for a summer we all stayed together and the dissociative symptoms don't align right because I was too young for it to be the other trauma and aaaaaaaa

[moonlights-inkwell]

Demand an Encore

Jaskier x Reader

Word Count: 6,958

Summary: anon said: hello! i see your requests are open...! could i maybe get a Jaskier x reader where the reader very shyly explains (maybe after an embarrassing moment?) that they are into spanking? and Jaskier indulges them and it is fluffy/smutty? if not, that's okay!! i figured I'd ask. thank you! 💜

A/N: Anon. I literally owe you my life, because Dom! Jaskier now literally lives rent free in my head. A fic from Jaskier's perspective? It shocked me too. Oops. Also. Clapping joke title on a spanking fic? I think I’m way funnier than I am  

Warnings: Smut. Spanking. Oral (female receiving). Clothed sex? Sorta. Discussions of Sadomasochism. Canon complicit violence. A very bad take on Jaskier's perspective.

Title from Wild Blue Yonder

“Oh wank!”  

The expletive draws his eyes from his lute and upwards, to you.  

You’re busy, always busy, swinging that blade about and clashing it noisily into Geralt's. Parry, swipe, dodge, sword fighting is as boring a sport as Jaskier can even imagine, only marginally better than fencing because at least there’s some danger to sword fighting. Paint drying is a more interesting thing to watch, lectures less painful to listen to. Jaskier hates it. Sparring holds no interest to Jaskier, beyond when he tries to describe how sword fighting looks for a new song, but there are no new songs. The monsters have seemingly realised that Geralt is about, and have kept themselves to themselves, and so the well of songs about danger and adventure has dried up- like a brook during a heatwave. There’s no song about battles to be won, and if he plays Toss A Coin once more then he’s quite sure that Geralt will shove his lute up his arse sideways. All he wants is to work on a new melody and the clanging is quite possibly the worst thing he can imagine. The clanging, clanking, crashing of steel on steel is enough to drive him to distraction. All he needs is a new song, but no. He simply must be tormented by the sound of metal hitting metal. Needs must apparently, at least when it comes to sparring. 

He’s sure Geralt is doing this to spite him specifically. Revenge for years upon years of songs and mindless chatter and taunting, wrapped up with the knowledge that the bard would never complain about your training- that your safety is paramount to him, even if it is noisy as all hell and infuriatingly distracting.  

Cornflower blue eyes scan up and take you in, on hands and knees and holding your sword at such an angle to block Geralt’s swipe; face crumpled with effort and concentration while the Witcher above is as stoic looking as ever, bringing his blade down closer and closer until you slide to the ground and roll away from the sword. The buckles of your over-bust drags against the ground and knocks loose two of the buttons of your blouse, revealing an expanse of skin below the clavicle and to the dip in skin between breasts.

He wonders, not for the first time, how you manage to fight in a corset. When he was a lad, a little longer ago now than he’s quite happy to acknowledge, how a girl at a ball had collapsed because her corset was laced too tight and even after fetching a healer, the girl walked awkwardly until he left for Oxenfurt, probably long afterwards too. Yet, you can fight in one, swing that blade around with a relative ease that Jaskier can’t even manage if his trousers are tailored too high in the crotch. It’s strange. Watching you duck and twist, bend and thrust that blade around all while being held in place by tightly laced bones, it’s impressive- like watching someone dance. You aren’t a master swords-man but you’re skilled and it’s nice to watch. The exhilarated grin across your face, panting with heaving chest: it’s beauty. Pure, unadulterated beauty, even with a smear of dirt across your cheek, sweat beading about your forehead and a nick on your arm that’s letting out a small but steady stream of blood trickling down from your upper arm.

“Better.” Geralt says firmly, Jaskier watches as your face breaks into a grin and you just glow. A relaxed, genuine smile that makes you look younger than you are. You've mocked him before for how he just soaks up any validation, but even the slightest praise has your skin all but shining, cheeks flushed and mouth upturned. He understands entirely. Praise, acclaim, acknowledgement, it’s addictive; more so than any ale, any drug. Praise leaves you desperate for more, shaking and craving a next hit, almost insecurely hoping against hope that any second will bring that much needed praise. Bard's are like faeries, they require attention to survive while thriving on the energy people give, And Jaskier has been desperate for attention long before he became a bard.  

Praise from the Witcher is a seldom given gift- one that Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever been given- but he praises you. Training is important, and Geralt seems to have realised that he’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar, so sparring is when he speaks most, even then it’s minimal though; but he compliments. Your form, your grip, the strength of blows. Praise from the Witcher is a seldom given thing.

Jaskier isn’t jealous.  

He isn’t.  

Jealousy implies that there’s something to be envied, like a possession that he wants. You aren’t a possession, he knows that, and even if you were, you wouldn’t be Geralt’s. His fingers fall from the frets of the lute, sending a sour note that makes him cringe out through the clearing.  

“Gods, Dandy- if that’s a sign of what your new song sounds like then I don’t think I want to hear it!” You call over to him, head tilted as the sword twirls between your fingers. “I thought you were supposed to be a good bard.”

“You wound me, Love. Wound me.”  

“No good bard would write Toss A Coin.” Geralt says, but there’s humour in his voice- well, humour enough for it to be noticeable against Geralt’s signature style of stoicism. Must be a good sort of day, for Geralt to be joking about and complimentary. These sorts of things don’t happen every day.  

“Leave him be, Bully!” You swat at Geralt's side, grinning at Jaskier. “Don't you worry, Dear Heart, I love you- even with this brute insulting you.” It’s as if you don’t even remember that you started the insults, but that smile is enough to keep him quiet. That must be a sign of love, that Jaskier could be quiet for you: he’s never been silent for anyone before, even when he had himself half-convinced that he was in love with every person he's spent more than a night with, he’s never been able to keep quiet for more than a few minutes or so, he’s felt an overwhelming need to fill the silence. It’s pleasant to just bask in atmosphere that comes from being about you.  

The swat at Geralt had not gone unnoticed, even if it took a moment or so for him to strike you. Geralt, facing Jaskier, lifted a hand to thump you on the back, too absorbed by the simple pleasure of retaliation to have perceived two very simple things with those enhanced Witcher senses: that the laces of your boots have come undone, and that you had bent down to tie it.  

Time slows sickeningly, as Jaskier realises what’s about to happen only a second before the SLAP comes through the air at a volume none of you anticipated. Not to the lower back, a spot that while painful is little more than inconvenient when hit, but instead to your arse- angled upwards as you bent to fiddle with the ribbons of your shoes. The white-haired man had wanted something vaguely friendly but still running with undercurrents of the same energy that comes from sparring, but instead he had brought one enormous hand down onto your arse with some force. Unexpected, and completely out of nowhere as it is, it somehow is not the most surprising part.  

The moan is.  

A loud, broken moan- somewhere between pain and pleasure- which Jaskier knows all too well. That sound haunts his dreams. Jaskier would know it blind, dumb and senseless. Your moan, normally reserved for during the nights when his fingers slide inside of you, when his tongue breeches you. It’s weak, beautiful, and oh so very unexpected. Its a noise more beautiful than music, more beautiful than the sound of children’s laughter- always his , finally heard by another. Geralt looks horrified, cat-like eyes wide and filled with something akin to fear, but nothing like the unadulterated horror written across your face; sun-coloured skin turning red with embarrassment, lips parted wide but slowly contorting into a grimace, eyes wide but watering.  

Jaskier forces himself up and towards you, while Geralt steps back, saying your name softly and apologetically,

“I am so sorry-"

“Little Miss-"  

“I'm going to the stream to wash!” You say loudly, side-stepping around Jaskier to make a beeline into the thicket of trees, where a stream was hidden. Without any thought, Jaskier groans and looks up at the Witcher, eyes narrowed into accusatory slits.  

“So much for those Witcher senses of yours.” It’s a ridiculous thing to be annoyed about. Geralt does not have any feelings for you beyond the platonic, and Jaskier knows that, knows full well that Geralt wouldn’t do something like that to you, least of all in front of your lover and a man far too willing to write humiliating songs about Geralt.  

“It was an accident.” All stoicism has returned to Geralt’s voice, despite the still apologetic look written across his features. “She’s going to hate me. She sounded so pained.”  

That almost made the Bard splutter with laughter. Moans like that are many things but not pained, at least not in a way that isn’t seen as pleasurable. Somehow, he manages to keep the laughter down and instead claps a hand to the taller man's shoulder.  

“I doubt she hates you. Missy is a resilient little thing.” He tries to sound comforting, but some humour seeps through, making Geralt turn and squint at him.  

“This isnt funny, Bard.”  

“I’m well aware.” Jaskier nods. “I'm going to check on her though. To make sure she hasn’t drowned herself.”  

“Don’t joke.”  

“I’m not.” He trills as he walks along the step-worn path to the trees.  

The stream is a pathetic little thing really, barely a foot in width and surrounded on all sides by the thickest section of trees which almost blocked out all light. It was easy to believe it was around dusk, but it couldn’t be much later than midday, the shade made it appear so much later than it was. And there was you, hunched over by the reeds and moss, scooping up water and splashing it in your face and onto the gash still trickling blood to try to clean it. Even in spite of the shadows, your flushed cheeks are still clear to him and he stops to take you in.  

He’s had many lovers. Too many to list really, but not one of them holds a candle to you. Every girl before you was perfectly primped and polished, in fine clothes with perfect hair and made up faces, and they were beautiful but artificially so. Made that way by clothes and corsets and cosmetics. You though, you’re something else. Beautiful with the sun in your eyes, unkempt hair and rumpled clothes. Indescribably perfect cast half in fire-light, with bags beneath your eyes and blood across your cheek. Sonnet worthy while drunk and stumbling, singing out of tune to his ever songs. Godly in the dark, mouth open and back arching towards him as you stumble headfirst into climax. He loves you. He loves you, and it’s the first time he thinks he has ever really loved anyone: more than infatuation, more than lust, but actual love. Love that makes his head muddled and heart sore. He doesn’t deserve you. Wants you, needs you, but will never deserve you. Reckless, wild and brilliant you, willing to leave a life behind to fight monsters. A fool. Beautiful little fool, selfless and-

“I can feel you staring at me.”

“Hard not to stare at a goddess. Careful, I hear some gods will drown pretty things like you out of jealousy.”  

“Fool.” You say softly, but there’s a chuckle in your voice so he comes closer to you, stepping behind you to twist your hair away from your throat to press a kiss to the crook of your neck.  

“Your fool.” He breathes out shallowly, letting his chin rest on your shoulder while his arms wind about your waist. “Are you alright, Dear Heart?”  

“Embarrassed, I suppose. My pride will recover though, Dandy.” The lightness of your words combined with your stiff posture makes sure Jaskier knows you’re lying.  

“Little Miss-"

“Geralt must be embarrassed as well. I should have apologised to him before-"

“You moaned.” He cuts you off, making you shut up, stiffening even more. “And you may try to deny it, but I know that noise. I might just be the only person who knows that noise.”

“Jaskier.” It sounds like a warning, but he doesn’t care.  

“If it’s because it was Geralt, I understand.” He says softly, feelings coming out unbidden. “I understand, of course, and I love you but I understand if I’m in the way.”  

“I liked it. Be... being hit. Not Geralt.” You whisper.  

It truly is a day of surprises. Jaskier can feel the grin slip onto his face and his hands move from your stomach to your hips to begin tickling.  

“Is that so?” He asks softly, revelling in your choked-out laughter and how you lean back against him. “My Little Miss wants to be spanked. Well, darling, you should have told me earlier.”  

“I didn’t know it was a thing!” You argue between laughs. Jaskier so often forgets that you were a virgin before he got his hands on you, so of course you hadn’t known. His tickling doesn’t stop as he pulls you backward, rolling you onto the ground and climbing on top of you to continue his assault.  

“Would you like a lesson in masochism, Dear Heart?” He teases, head tilting to the side as he looks down at you.  

“Maso-what?”  

“The pleasures of pain.” He explains, and watches how your face turns pink once more. “Oh, she does!”  

“Stop taunting me!” You argue, thrashing beneath him but not with any intensity.  

“Taunting? Never. I’m just trying to work out if I need to rent two rooms when we next go into town.” He too easily grabs at your arm when you reach up to swat at Jaskier. “For your lessons, I mean.”  

“You... weren't joking?” You ask lightly and he shakes his head.

“I never joke about teaching My Muse about what brings her pleasure.” He says lightly, climbing off of you to sit by your side. “If you want me to.”  

“You Wouldn’t mind?” You ask incredulously, drawing out a chuckle from the bard.  

“Darling-heart, don’t be a fool, of course I wouldn’t. You know how I like pleasing you, and having you know what pleases you pleases me. Besides, it’s hardly my first dalliance into sadomasochism; there was a countess I used to know who couldn’t achieve orgasm unless tied up, with wax melted on her and at least three people watching her-"  

“Jaskier.” You say softly, and he stops.  

“Sorry. What I mean is, liking someone slapping your perfect bottom isn’t something to be embarrassed by, darling. Alright?”  

“Alright. Thank you, Jaskier.”  

“No need to thank me, Dear Heart.”  

It takes weeks for Jaskier's plan to come to fruition. Weeks of traveling and camping in the woods until the three of you are able to find a town in need of a Witcher and his services. It’s a simple job, just a few drowners, but the pay is good and there is a very decent inn more than willing to accommodate all of you, and with two rooms none the less- which is far easier to negotiate while the two of you are off to do what you do. The inn-keep is a pleasant, portly man in his middle forties who seems to appreciate Jaskier's way with words, and is more than willing to forgo payment on the rooms in return for a show- and who is Jaskier to disagree with a deal such as that?  

His friendly demeanour is welcome too, means the Bard actually has someone to talk to while he awaits your return- but that plan dies a death when the job takes significantly longer than he expects. Normally, it only takes a few hours for something like this, but the sun is set and his songs just coming to an end when you finally return.  

The crowds, cider-drunk and rowdy had sang along to every song they knew, and sang over these they didn't- but that was fine. Drinking songs were always nice to hear, but their song dies when the door to the inn-cum-tavern opens and you pad in, followed closely by Geralt. Both drenched from tip to toe and scowling, hair stringy and clothes dark with saturation. That explains a fair bit and even with how upset you look, Jaskier grins, grip on the lute loosening and stage persona rolling off of him. Wet and angry as the two of you are, the sight of you is enough to make the crowd let out a loud, drunken cheer before beginning an enthusiastic if out of tune rendition of Toss a Coin. For once, the Bard is uninterested in joining in and instead opens his arms wide for you, it takes less than a minute for you to run to him and wind your arms around his middle while the people mill around Geralt to interrogate him about monsters and the like. Jaskier sighs and presses a kiss to your forehead.  

“You had me worried.”  

“Almost drowned. But I’m fine.” You say apologetically against his jerkin. “Tired though.”  

“I’ve booked our room. And I think my performance is over.” He says soothing, fingers carding through your wet hair. “Come on, Darling-heart.” He offers a hand, though it takes you a moment or so to reluctantly pull back from him you take it and follow him up to your rented room.  

The room is tiny, little more than a box room with just a bed and small table but it’s clean and that is more than enough for you. Before even a minute can pass, you release Jaskier's hand to flop down onto the bed, moaning when you sink down into the mattress.  

“Comfortable?” He asks playfully and you hum in agreement.  

“I got you wet.” You reply after a minute and Jaskier chuckles.  

“I don’t mind, now wait here. I’ve something to sort out for you.” The door clicks as he slips out of the room and you’re alone in the room, just you and the tingling sensation running through your body and making your brain feel as if a mist has descended over it, yet you don’t even realise it until the door opens once more and you lift your head up to look at the noise. It’s a girl, looking about fourteen or so, carrying two large buckets to the archway across from the bed which you had not even noticed, and in your drunken haze you consider why she would be taking buckets to another room through yours. Jaskier follows after her, buckets hanging from each hand and you notice how steam is billowing from the buckets until he disappears beyond the doorway. Confusion comforts your mouth into a frown, so instead of giving it much thought you let yourself sink back into the mattress, deciding it not worthy of a second thought. Water crashing against water echoes from the other room as your eyelids grow heavy and slip shut. Someone had told you once that the sound of water is enough to drive even an insomniac to sleep, you believe them in this moment, the sound of water is so relaxing to your dazed mind that you don’t question why you can hear it at all, so you simply shut your eyes and listen. You have no idea how long you lay there, listening and breathing, it could be seconds or millennia.

“Are you awake, Dear Heart?”  

“hmm?”  

“Come on, I ordered you a bath, you need it.” A bath. You smile and he grins at you. “Now, darling. Come along. You'll soak the sheets through.”  

“I'll soak you through.” You retort tiredly, rolling off of the bed and toeing off your boots before following him into the bath's room. He watches as you walk through and is upon you within seconds, unlacing your corset and unlacing your chemise before you can move your fingers to do it for yourself. “Julian, I know you find me attractive but stripping me?”

“I don’t want you dying of cold.” He chides playfully, kissing the exposed akin of your shoulder as he pulls off the blouse. “Forgive me for loving you.”  

“I love you.” You say softly and untie your trousers, pulling them and your underwear off in a single movement. He smiles at the sight and presses a hand to your lower back once you step out of the sopping fabric.  

“I know, muse. Now in.” He says encouraging you into the bath, turning to fiddle with a few vials of scented oils. “Rose, Lavender or honeysuckle?”  

“Lavender. It smells like you.” You say softly and sink into the water, letting out a loud moan when the heat overtakes you. He turns back to you with a smile and pours a little of the oil into the water.  

“Oh, you like the smell of me?” He teases and moves around towards you.  

“Of course, I do.”  

He smiles at that and sinks down to his knees behind the tub at your back and picks up a rag, soaking it in the water and then moving it up to rub at your shoulders and the knobbles of your spine. The sweet floral smell is carried on the steam coming from the water, sweet and familiar and made all the better by the contented noises that come from you. He likes you like this, all pliant and sleepy and willing to let him help without complaint, it makes him feel useful in ways he never can on hunts. You shoulder so much, act so brave and mature and it’s so nice to see you just let him take control and look after you. He hums a little tune as he washes your back and feels your back move as you chuckle.  

“Tickles.” You say, giggly and more awake than before. “What song is that?”  

“It’s something my mother used to sing.” He says gently, scooping up some water with his hands and pouring it over your head before working out some of the tangles in your hair. “I don’t think it has a name.”  

“It’s pretty.” You hum, head tilting into his hands like a kitten. “Why aren’t you in here with me?”  

“I got the bath to warm you up, Silly Little Miss. I’m warm.” He says with a sigh and pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck.  

“I want to touch you." You whine, twisting around to face him.  

“There's time for that later, Dear Heart. “ He shakes his head affectionately and kisses the tip of your nose. “I have plans for you tonight.”  

“Oh?” You ask, leaning up on your knees and allowing your breasts to lean against the lip of the tub. It’s a trick, trying to lure him in, and he knows it, but gods above it’s tempting. Far too much willpower is exerted to not reach out and take them into his hands. A siren, sent to toy with his heart and mind. He sighs and leans in to kiss you gently.  

“You remember a few weeks ago? When Geralt slap-"  

“Yes!” You interrupt quickly and he rolls his eyes, reaching up to smooth your hair down.  

“And you said you liked the feeling?”  

“I remember, Jaskier.”  

He smiles and rubs his thumb across your cupid’s bow.  

“Well. We have the room to ourselves, so I thought that we could experiment with that."

You blink at him owlishly before squinting at him. It would almost be enough to worry him, but he knows you too well to think you’re angry- you’re confused, but still very relaxed.  

“Experiment.”  

“Yes.”

“With you... hitting me.”  

“With you letting me dominate you, spank you, and make you feel good.” He clarifies. It sounds foolish, and far too perverse when laid out so candidly to someone not well versed with this. You nod sagely.

“...And if I ask you to stop them you will.”  

“Of course I will.” He says seriously and rests his hands on your shoulders, leaning in so you are eye to eye. “This is for your enjoyment, if you say stop, this stops. Just like always.” You smile and close the gap between his lips and your own. It’s soft and lazy, with no indication of proceeding any further than just chastely kissing, his hands still on your shoulders and your hands creeping up into his hair. It’s perfect, always is, and not for the first time, Jaskier considers that he could spend the rest of forever just kissing you and never be bored. Still, all too soon he pulls away, fetching a towel while you heave yourself out of the tub waiting for the bard and the towel. Even though you reach for it, Jaskier ignores your outstretched arms and instead swaddles you in it himself, drying you.  

“I can do it myself!”

“You can, but you won't.” He says firmly, rubbing your skin. Beneath the soft fabric, he can feel you start to struggle which makes him hum and swat at your arse. It’s not enough to hurt, especially through the towel, but it serves as a good warning for who is in charge tonight. Dominance is nothing new for him, but he isn’t dominant with you. You were a virgin when he met you, all sex had to be approached with kid-gloved hands, even now that you are confident with it Jaskier has never felt any need to try and guide you towards that sort of thing. Submission, he had assumed, would be a difficult thing for you; you spend so much time fighting and fending for yourself during fights, asking you to hand over control never seemed to be a good idea. Control keeps you safe but you trust him. Trust him enough to give him control. It’s enough to rush to his head, that level of trust. Of course, it’s flattering when anyone allows him control, but it means so much more when someone who loves him, someone who is so dangerous would allow themselves to be vulnerable. He loves you, has since the second he clapped eyes on you, but this is more than love now, this is adoration. “Now, be a good girl and don’t argue.” Seldom does Jaskier have a need to be stern, so you doing as he says is to be expected. You go limp, eyes wide as he towels you dry. “There’s my good Little Miss.” He says once he finishes, folding the cloth while you stand stock still, pupils blown wide.  

“Good.” You repeat back to him, starry-eyed and blushing, so he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth before nodding.  

“Well, you are my Good Little Miss, aren’t you?” He asks gently, watching the enthusiastic nod he gets in response with a smile. “I know.” He says with an air of finality, turning away from you and heading back into the bedchambers to sit on the bed. It takes a few seconds of silent sitting for you to finally walk to the doorway. You’re naked as the day you were born, wet hair hanging in snakelike tendrils around your face, skin glowing gold from the warm light of the fire reflecting off of the still damp flesh. You’re beautiful. Too beautiful, comfortable in your skin and his looking at you, pale criss-crossing of scars running across the planes of your body like gold holding formerly broken ceramics together. How Jaskier has ever gotten a chance to lay his hands on you is beyond him, why a bard such as himself can even look at you, never mind touch or kiss you. A goddess, battle-hardened and wise, intoxicating and intense but oh so soft and kind.

“You’re staring.” You laugh, leaning against the door frame and smiling at him.  

“Yes. Yes I am.” Jaskier says simply and beckons you closer, which you do with a slight swing of your hips that he is entirely sure isn’t purposeful. You settle beside him, looking at him with a look somewhere between reverence and fear- like he's simultaneously the most beautiful and awful thing you’ve ever seen. He hates how much he likes it, the power it feels like he possesses in this moment. You look so small and defenceless, and he is too aware of how large he is by comparison. Usually, Jaskier feels slight- especially in comparison to Geralt and his hulking mass of muscle and manliness- but he’s suddenly far more aware of how big his hands are compared to your own, how he almost dwarfs you in height. You aren’t dainty, and he knows how much damage you can do with little to no effort, but you look so now.  

You lean in to him slowly and tilt your head, taking him in before smiling with a raised eyebrow. Well? Your face seems to scream. I'm waiting. It’s all the encouragement he needs to put his hand between your shoulder blades and push your torso over his lap unceremoniously. Every jutting bone, every knobble of spine, outline of rib exposed when you let out a noise of mild confusion, but rest there with your stomach over his thighs. His fingertips, calloused from lute strings but still soft from the warm water, trail down your back slowly; his skin is colder than yours, leaving goose pimples in his wake as he moves towards the rounded flesh of your arse.  

Pink and pert, the flesh juts out from the dip at the base of your spine, like a peach. Jaskier loves it. Loves all arses really. There is something so strangely enticing about them, likely the fact they’re so often covered that seeing them seems taboo in a way that seeing tits isn’t. Every inch of your skin that he gets to see is a luxury not afforded to others, and while his hands finally reach the plump skin, he had been moving towards he kisses your back, gripping one cheek firmly while rubbing soft circles into the other. A moan, airy and musical comes from you spurring Jaskier in his ministrations: shifting the cheek to the side, revealing a hole he had never paid much mind to at all, only to release his hold and watch as it bounces back into place. The jiggle is hypnotic, he thinks to himself wordlessly as he repeats the act on the opposite cheek, earning another moan from you in response.  

“Jask.” You whine out and he hums in confirmation, feeling you push yourself back against his hand. “Don't tease.” He chuckles. Teasing is hardly what he'd call it. No, this is isn’t teasing, teasing is something gentler than this. This is preparation. He can hardly just start spanking you, especially when you've never done it before, but the whining makes him smirk. “Jask, if you don’t hurry, I’ll go to bed.” You insist and try to push yourself off of him, so he presses down on the middle of your back and brings his hand down on your arse harshly.  

The sharp sound of skin-on-skin rings through the air, followed by a gasp. A tingle ran across his palm, and he snicks at the sensation.  

“I thought you were my good girl, not a brat, Missy.” He says, voice low and on the verge of a growl. “I told you, I am in control tonight. Not you.”  

Brat. You shiver at that, going still, and he smirks, grabbing the cheek he had just struck before tugging at it. He releases it before sliding his hand up your thigh.  

“I. I can be good.” You whisper meekly. That isn’t enough though and he swats at the cheek once more, lighter this time.  

“You will be good.” He corrects you, leaning in close to your ear and catching sight of your red cheeks and misty eyes. “I know you will be, won’t you Darling?” You nod quickly and he smirks. “That's my Princess.”  

At that, your posture loosens and you relax against him. Praise. That’s good to know. Lazily, he rubs a circle against the curve of skin before striking it once more.  

“I'm going to hit you ten times, and I want you to count them out loud for me. Can you do that for me?” He asks gently and you nod instantly. “I need you to use your words, Darling.”  

“I. I can do that.” You say, tilting your head to look at him with a sweet smile. Jaskier smiles back at you, then brings his hand back down with a hard slap.  

“One!” You say loudly, jolting forward and dragging your stomach across his crotch. He’s been so invested in planning and preparing that he hasn’t even noticed the hardness developing between his legs until it’s rubbed against. The moans from the bath had been enough to make him half hard, but seeing you like this, lips parted and the skin of your bottom turning an inviting shade of pink, it’s enough to have him fully hard.  

“Two!” You shout out after his hand lands hard against your rear before two more swats come in quick succession.  

“Three! Four!” The numbers are more moans than words, loud and needy. In the back of his mind, Jaskier wonders if the drunks downstairs are still singing and making noise, shouting and swearing, or if they too can hear the moans of pleasure. It’s sick, but he wants them to hear. Wants them to hear the pretty song that you’re moaning out, to look at you in the morning as you shift uncomfortably in your seat and know how you loved every second of it, see him smirk and know exactly who drew every noise from you.  

He’s a bard. He knows how to make noises, but these might just be the prettiest ones yet. A hand rubs at the pinking skin and then, quickly as it comes it's gone and brought down, this time to the space where arse meets thigh.

“Five!”  

He could listen to you moan all day. Sex, or at least sex while travelling, is normally a quiet affair. Quiet murmurs of affirmation, whispered begs and pleas, it’s not enough. Jaskier loves sex, loves the intimacy that comes from being as close to someone as humanly possible, but more so than the enjoyment of sex, Jaskier loves the theatrics of sex. Sex is like performing. Doing all possible to please an enthusiastic audience, listening to the sounds of enjoyment as it builds and crescendos, fingers moving faster, doing his best to not make a fool of himself.  

“Six!”  

Slap!

“Seven!”  

He can’t help himself from hoping that this won't be a one-time occurrence. For a few stolen moments you can hand over control to him and give the both of you what you need.  

“Eight!” Your stomach rubs against his cock once more and he chokes back a moan. You'll be the death of him. Ruin him entirely. It isn’t enough that he loves you, isn’t enough that you are the most beautiful person he could dream up, no you have to do things like this. Unintentionally ideal. Perfection given human form.  

“Nine!”  

His hand comes down one final time and you scream out a broken, “Ten!”, and Jaskier heaves out a sigh, rubbing the red skin as gently as he can to soothe you when you begin to tremble. Calloused fingertips slide softly across the abused flesh.  

“Oh Darling. My good girl. My good, brave little miss.” He coos sweetly, gently guiding you up to sit on his lap, one hand still running the skin while the other threads itself in the hair at the nape of your neck. “You did so well.” Gently, he presses his forehead against your own, staring into tear filled eyes. “Oh, Dear Heart, did you not like it?” Worry washes over him suddenly. He should have reminded you that you could say no once more, that he wouldn’t be disappointed.  

“Kiss me.” You breathe back against his lips and he sighs softly, hand shifting to your jaw to tug you into a chaste kiss. You tremble against his lap, but kiss back far more forcefully than he had kissed you. Gentle but seeking, tongue pushing between his lips to make its way into his mouth. He smirks slightly, but doesn’t open his mouth, feeling you rock against his lap- sweet nectar between your legs dripping through the fabric of his trousers while shaking fingers toy with the lacing of his doublet.  

“Darling-"  

“You're wearing far too much.” You whine pulling back to stare at him. “Take it off.”  

“Take what off?”  

“Everything.” One word has never held so much weight. He could look at you like this for always, so soft and desperate and wanting- it makes his heart beat faster and his cock jumps against the heat of your core. He wants to strip himself, rid himself of the offensive articles and just let you take from him all that he has, but he holds your jaw gently instead, using the warm skin as a means to ground himself once more.  

“Ask nicely.”  

“Jaskier.” You say with a slight scowl, but he narrows his eyes and tilts his head, trying not to laugh at your intent look. “Please. Please strip.”  

“I think you can ask nicer than that, Dear Heart.”  

“Julian, please take off your clothes. Please.” You ask softly and trail your hands along the chemise beneath his half-unlaced jerkin. “Please, Dandy? I want to touch you- can I?”  

The pet name brings a soft smile to his face, hands moving to your hips to shift you onto the bed before undoing the rest of his jacket and shucking it off, to toss it to the side. Ducking down, he peppers a few feverish kisses to your thighs, toying with the ties of his chemise while you tug it over his head. Needy and half frenzied is unlike you, but he can’t say that it isn’t perfection. Shy, unsure sex has been too common, the occasional rushed shag when you two can spare a few seconds less frequent, but this magically manic need is sweet. Jaskier is a performer; performers preen under the watchful eye of attentive audience, need the knowledge of a job well done, which he normally gets from you in the form of moans and frantic rutting. This enthusiasm is perfection, especially while his face is so close to your cunt that he can smell the arousal dripping from it.

Nudity can wait, The Bard smirks, grips your thighs in a vice-like grip and widens the distance between them so he can get his mouth on your sex, tongue gathering slick and relishing that sweet, musky taste. Sweeter than any fruit, more addictive than any wine. Jaskier’s lips find your clit, that bud of nerves that might as well contain every breathless moan that you can fit in your body, and sucks, tongue flicking across it with the moans and curses that such an act wrings from you. Nose buried in the curls that cover your mount, cornflower eyes look up to take you in, writhing in ecstasy, breasts quivering with every stuttered breath. He knew that he had missed something while spanking you’d but it falls into place now. Your face.

Every emotion flit across it, as clear to read as sheet music to him. You have an expressive face at the best of times, but it only seems heightened by sex. He knows many men prefer not to face their lovers and, hell, in his more adventurous days had preferred it himself, but seeing how you feel written across your features is part of the joy of sex. It had taken a while to convince you to stop silencing yourself during intimacy, that those moans are his and hard earned, but those expressions mean even more. Miniscule twitches of the brows and lips that let him know that you enjoy what he is doing, he loves them. Loves you. Those noises are meaningless without that face, pink and contorted with pleasure. That face. He could stare at it all day.

He doesn’t miss Lettenhove, not for a minute, but he does miss paintings. Portraits, moments trapped in time, forever perfect. He wants a painting of moments like this; nothing pornographic, just your face, with not a care for anything but pleasure. To see him through those nights when hunting takes too long and he's long asleep by the time you return. A little painting to have with him always.  

“Jaskier-" You whimper, fingers curled into his hair and tugging. “Please. Please.”  

He hums softly and slaps your thigh, revelling in the sweet little gasp that comes from you before a gush of fluid hits his lips. The Bard pulls back and blinks in shock. You’re shaking, twisting in the blankets as he just breathes you in. Squirted. You just squirted on him. He was half convinced that such a thing was just A rumour but... you did it.  

Blinking rapidly, Jaskier stares up at you awestruck and starry-eyed, trying desperately not to spill into his trousers.  

Oh yes. This is going to be a regular occurrence.  

[writing-gifts]

okay im back with the 7th part of the incubus!doppio au! this chapter is really long compared to the other ones!

also I made the decision to make reader asexual in this story, I mentioned it on my blog already but saying at again since it’s mentioned this chapter. so there definitely wont be any smut in the future 

AO3 Link

List of parts

@wasabi-mommy @mistabrainr0t @the-average-mastermind 

-----

It’s been 2 weeks since you last saw Doppio. He was most definitely avoiding you since you snapped at him, kind of. You realized you had upset him right after it happened too, but you didn't expect him to stop visiting because of it.

So when you weren't at work or trying to socialize with coworkers, you were by yourself. Being alone wasn't necessarily bad, but the whole time you'd end up dwelling on Doppio and stressing yourself out.

You tried to consider the positives, which there was one; Diavolo hadn't shown up either. But still, you missed your friend. And at this point, you were fed up with your thoughts going in circles. So instead of moping around your living room today too, you decide to go to the only other person you know nearby.

Retracing the steps you took with Doppio to get back home after your visit with the local witch--Was he the only witch in this area? You didn't know--you find your way back to the clearing in the forest with the giant lake and cabin.

Bruno looks surprised to find you at his door but lets you in. “I wasn't expecting you to come back.”

You shrug.

"By the way--" he says, "--it would be best not to wander too much in this forest. Many fae reside deeper within it and we don't want you running into any of them."

You nod since you didn't plan on going anywhere you hadn't been shown before anyway.

The comfortable looking couches around the fireplace are just what you need after that long walk. But as soon as you fall back into one of the loveseats, something sharp pricks your ass.

"Ow!" You shoot up and turn around. "What the hell…?"

A small pin you hadn't noticed was already occupying the seat. You pick it up and when Bruno sees what's in your hand he sighs.

"Okay, which one of you did it?" He sounds exasperated but stern.

There's no response and you wonder if the witch is talking to himself.

His brows furrow and he frowns, clearly frustrated by something.

He takes the pin from you. "Sorry about that ____."

"Uhh, it's fine? Accidents happen." You make sure there's nothing else in the seat and sit down. "...Who were you talking to?"

"My kids."

"You have kids?" You have never heard any noise or seen anything in the house that would imply that. Were they hiding?

Bruno drops the pin in the drawer of the small, wooden table next to the couch. He then takes a seat in the loveseat across from yours. “Well in a way. It's more like I just let them reside here.”

You were still confused but Bruno continues speaking before you can inquire more.

"Why'd you decide to visit?"

"I'm going to be honest. I was feeling a little lonely."

"No visitors?"

You rub at your arm and your slight frown becomes a full pout. "Yea…"

You didn't even have a certain cat anymore to help break the silence at home. Of course you weren't going to admit that part.

"Well that's not necessarily a bad thing."

"No. I already told you I want Doppio to stay with me, so it actually is."

Bruno hums. "I'm just trying to help you ____."

"You think you're helping me? Things don't have to go your way you know."

The witch looks completely unfazed by your words. “One day you'll understand and hopefully without you getting hurt.”

You deeply exhale. Talking to Bruno reminded you of a brick wall and you couldn't even find it in you to get mad.

"Wow…"

He raises a brow. "What?"

“You're stubborn as hell.”

"The same goes to you."

The two of you are quiet after that and the witch watches you. You felt like he was trying to see into your head and it made sitting still hard.

“Do you need something?” you ask.

“You're the one in my house ____.”

“Yea but you don't have to stare so hard...”

“You came here for another reason. Tell me.”

Caught off guard you take longer than usual to respond. You didn't know how Bruno could tell but it was best if you just said what you needed to instead of beating around the bush.

"Okay...I did. I was wondering about the exorcism, but not for Doppio--for Diavolo." You look down at your lap. "Do you think it's possible to exorcise him without hurting Doppio? I'm not even really sure how their whole situation works to be honest.”

You look to Bruno wondering if he had any answers.

"....A demon possessing a demon--that's what's most likely happening."

"Huh? That sounds strange."

"It is very peculiar, but I can't say it's impossible. So maybe there's a way to do an exorcism like you wanted."

Bruno's familiar swims by, above the fireplace and his eyes follow the eel. "Leone told me you two don't get along," he mentions.

"Me and Diavolo? Well yea. I'm sure you know he wants to kill me."

"Yes." His eyes land back on you. "That's why I'm not completely onboard with your idea."

"Okay but don't you think it would be better to at least get rid of one demon who definitely wants to hurt me instead of none?"

"I can't guarantee it; there's a chance it won't work and we'll only piss him off. Then you'd possibly be in more danger. It would make more sense and be much easier to get rid of both of them."

You frown but you weren't giving up. "Diavolo already has it out for me though. So not trying because of that is kinda pointless."

The rebuttal you just gave was weak and you weren't sure you could come up with anymore. So the longer Bruno takes to reply the more nervous you become.

"Listen, I'm not saying I'll do this but I'll at least look into it," he finally says.

You perk up. Even though you couldn't say he seemed convinced, you could at least work with it!

"T-Thank you! I'll even help!" You stand up eager to start. "Where do you want me to look first?" you ask.

From then on, you spend your off days at Bruno's home looking for any information about exorcism within his many books. A lot of which were in languages you didn't understand.

Surprising to you, Bruno turns out to be pretty good company when he isn't actively trying to get rid of Doppio. And you quickly find yourself enjoying coming over. It was the perfect distraction too.

You also now had the chance to really take in how cool the witch's house was. It felt like you were at the aquarium whenever you walked through it! So at first, you did a lot of that whenever you needed a break. Bruno's familiar which you found out was named Angeela, would swim along with you and keep you company. And even though there were no other fish it was still really relaxing.

But soon, strange things started to occur. Doors closing behind you. Items falling on top of you. It happened one too many times and started to freak you out so you brought it up with Bruno. It seemed to stop right after that though so you shrugged it off and decided to focus more on researching from then on.

During one of your visits, you focus a little too hard and accidentally end up staying too late. And there's no way for you to traverse back home safely so Bruno insists you stay in the spare guest room.

After dinner, you're ready to quietly head to bed for the night, but while you're cleaning your face, Abbacchio walks into the bathroom.

You raise a brow at the cat. You'd only seen hints of him this whole week. "What the hell?"

"Is there a problem?" The cat jumps up on the counter barely looking your way.

"Yea, you just walked in here without warning. What if I was changing you weirdo?"

"Then you wouldn't have left the door cracked open."

You roll your eyes and go back to what you're doing. "Where did you even come from?"

"None of your business. You don't want me around you anyway so it shouldn't matter."

"I said my house. I don't care what you do outside of it."

You wash off your hands and grab the tooth brush Bruno gave you. It's quiet except for the sink water running and the sound of you brushing your teeth. But you feel like you have to talk with Abbacchio in the room.

You spit in the sink. “Umm...is there something you need from me?”

The cat’s tail twitches before he answers. “Just making sure you don't do anything stupid."

Your lips purse. You were literally just trying to get ready for bed.

"Okay?" You go back to brushing.

The cat huffs. "You should stop trying to keep Doppio around. You're literally wasting time--"

“Ah, that's why you came in here," you interrupt through a mouthful of foam. You spit. "....I don't understand why everyone keeps doing this.”

"Doing what?" The cat sounds and looks irritated.

"Telling me this and that! I'm going to stay with Doppio and nothing you, Bruno, or Diavolo say is going to chase me off."

You expect to get lectured some more but Abbacchio glares at you. "Please don't tell me you aren't actually in love with him?" he asks.

"What are you talking about? I just want to stay with him because we're friends."

"You barely know him. It must be 'love'...or lust."

You shake your head. "Lust's definitely not it."

Abbacchio tilts his head but you weren't exactly in the mood to explain asexuality right now, especially to a feline, so you leave it at that and go back to brushing your teeth.

He squints at you. “Okay then. You're definitely in denial about your feelings though.”

"Can't friends care about each other--"

"Yes but that takes years. You're ready to throw your safety to the wind for someone you've known for a few months. You need to be careful before this crush gets out of hand."

You let out the most frustrated sigh. "Doppio wouldn't hurt me. I trust him."

"Hmph, you don't even understand this world but you think you know better."

You pause unsure how to respond. You wanted to say something back but he unfortunately had a point. This supernatural stuff was still new to you and you were honestly processing it kind of slowly.

Since you knew you weren't getting in the last word with Abbacchio and you were tired of being scolded by a cat, you rinse off your toothbrush and leave the restroom.

----

You open your eyes and stare at the unfamiliar ceiling for a several seconds before getting out of bed. You forgot to bring a glass of water with you and there was no way you would be able to get back to sleep with such a dry throat. So you creep out of your room.

The blueish glow from the tanks help light your way down the hallway to the kitchen. You see Angeela pass by before turning back and swimming along with you.

You smile before whispering. "Just getting water.”

The eel continues to follow you all the way to the kitchen. You rub at your arms once you enter to fend off the unusual chill in the room. Unfortunately, this was common in Bruno’s home. You suspected a draft problem but the witch didn’t seem to care.

Angeela swims out of view while you hurry and look for a glass so you can get back to your warm bed.

Once you find one in the cupboards, you fill it with water from the sink's tab and quench your thirst before filling it again. You move to leave but stop at the kitchen's entrance and look back at the refrigerator. You might as well eat something while you’re here.

Ready to grab the leftover food Bruno made for dinner, you open the fridge and scream. The glass you’re holding falls from your hand and shatters on the floor. And you slam the fridge door shut.

Abbacchio’s the first to appear in the kitchen. “There better be a good reason you’re yelling!"

“Something in the fridge--A HEAD--I don't know!”

Right after that Bruno rushes in. “What's wrong ____?”

“Something weird in the fridge--a head! I was just looking in the fridge because I was kinda hungry!”

Bruno pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fugo and Narancia come out now!”

A second passes before something phases into form in front of the annoyed witch. Then right after something small and sparkly flies out from behind the dish rack next to the sink. But you've barely registered the second thing cause there’s a little ghost kid standing there!

He had a tealish glow and you could see right through him.

A shiver runs up your spine and you want to run out of this cabin.

“Do either of you want to explain why ____ says they saw a head in the fridge?” Bruno asks. His breath is visible from how cold it's gotten.

The ghost looks down at his feet avoiding eye contact. The glowing light next to the ghost didn’t seem keen on answering either.

“Brats,” Abbacchio says before walking out of the kitchen.

"Narancia t-told me to…" the ghostly child's voice sounds watery and distant.

Bruno sighs before looking at you. “I’m sorry.”

“I...It’s okay,” you lie.

And you guess Bruno can tell because he stares at you strangely before speaking again. “Well I suppose I should introduce you to them since we all are here. This is Fugo." He points to the ghost. "And this is Narancia.”

You risk getting closer to the glowing small creature flying in the air and realize that they look like a shrunken child with wings.

“A...pixie?” you ask. You can barely believe your eyes but should you be surprised at this point?

"I think...I need to go to sleep," you say.

“Okay,” Bruno says, understanding. “Are you sure you're fine?”

“Uh huh.” You’re about to speed walk to the guest room, but remember the glass on the floor.

“Oh wait do you have a broom?" you ask the witch. "I-I'm sorry…”

“I'll take care of it.”

You nod and go back to your room. You wouldn't be wandering around Bruno's home again at night, if you ever stayed the night again that is.

-----

When you open your front door to walk out, you immediately tense up in surprise. Doppio's standing there, holding the key you gave him.

"Doppio!"

" ____--"

The both of you stop talking.

The incubus frowns and fidgets with the key in his hand. "Er ____...I'm sorry for keeping things from you! I really missed you.”

You hum but can't get any words out. For some reason you felt uncomfortable and timid.

“____?”

You clench your hands next to your sides and force yourself to speak. “I shouldn't have said what I did and especially not that harshly. I-I'm sorry and I missed you too.”

Doppio seems to relax but you stand in place awkwardly, struggling to make proper eye contact.

“That's okay ____. I understand why you were upset.”

"Yea but still…"

"Um, is it okay if we hug?" Doppio asks.

His expression is shy but he doesn't look away which makes you smile. You nod and open your arms. Your friend walks into them wrapping his own arms around you and giving you a squeeze. He smells like something sugary but you can't place it.

Once you're satisfied, you let your arms drop and pull away from the incubus.

“Do you want to come inside?”

He tilts his head. “Weren't you heading somewhere though?”

“I can go later. It’s not urgent.”

Doppio nods and walks past you inside. You shut the door and the two of you sit down on the couch.

“So what were you up to the last several weeks?” A question that you hoped would make any left over awkwardness disperse.

“I was on business for the boss.”

“Of course...Maybe he’ll finally stop being so angry with me.”

Doppio looks confused before his eyes widen, "Not that type of business!"

“Oh! What type of stuff then?"

"Um...making sure people stick to agreements. I don't think you'd want me to go into detail."

He gives a bit of a forced laugh. So you move on.

"Hey, you're okay right?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“Like you're not dying or anything? Diavolo said you would just lose your powers, but I just want to make sure.”

“Oh that. Yeah, I'm okay! I don't need sex to stay alive...”

You nod. “I guess I'm still trying to wrap my head around this incubus stuff--well demon stuff in general." You suddenly remember the events that happened at Bruno's house recently. “Actually, supernatural stuff overall. Soooo...just wondering, is it possible to exorcise a demon out of a demon?”

He grimaces slightly. “____, what are you trying to do?”

“I'm just speculating, but maybe we could get rid of Diavolo.”

Doppio's eyes widen. "N-no way. Why?"

”Don't you want to? He's literally leeching off of you.”

You liked Doppio...a lot and you wanted him to stay by your side but dealing with his alter ego frankily sucked. You had been able to tolerate him (barely) but after not having him come in and threaten you for the past couple weeks, any qualms (if there were any to begin with) about getting rid of Diavolo were gone. You just needed to get Doppio onboard.

“I don't know…I know he can be a lot but he's not all bad.”

You stare unbelieving at him. “Doppio, I think you might be codependent. He's literally the worst type of person.”

He avoids your eyes. "Well technically he's not even a person--"

“Demon whatever, he still sucks.”

"I don't think this is a good idea ____. He might be listening right now!"

That wasn't about to stop you. And even though Doppio didn't like to act like it, he had more control over this body than his "boss". The fact that Diavolo hasn't appeared to rip you apart proved that.

“If it doesn't work you can put all the blame on me. He won't hurt his own vessel anyways.”

“I'm not worried about me ____."

You smile a bit at his concern. "If we get this to work then you'll never have to worry about me."

Doppio sighs. "I guess...How are you even planning to do this?”

“Well, I've been visiting Bruno while you were gone.”

The incubus immediately looks disgruntled.

“Don't make that face okay. I actually managed to get him to consider doing things a different way.”

“B-But what if he's just using this as a way to get our guard down?”

“We are just researching. I haven't agreed to anything just yet. I really just want to know if it's possible…And wouldn't it be nice to have your own body?”

Doppio nods but still looks unsure.

“So let's just see what happens?” you say hoping to give him that little push he needs.

"Well if it's just research...it can't hurt to look into it?"

You nod and smile. “Right! I'll let you know if anything comes up.”

[southslates]

To Bleat or Not To Bleat  / ao3 / 1441 words / one-shot / canon-compliant / shadow and bone spoilers / jesper & milo / rated T / yes this is unforgiveable crack, no i do not apologize because if i had to think it you have to read it

This was not how Milo had expected his day would go. To be quite fair, he’d almost thought he was going to be sold to be butchered, so this was tangentially better than that. But being locked inside a metal cage with four people, none of whom seemed sane, was not the luckiest situation either.  

First, he’d been bought by a man who seemed more like a demon. Most humans Milo came across smiled the tiniest bit when they saw him. Sometimes he would bleat and nuzzle himself a little bit into them, and they would soften. But the demon man didn’t seem to care about the adorable vibes Milo knew he exuded. Instead, he clutched Milo roughly—a little too roughly, as though he didn’t quite know how to handle something warm and alive—and smirked evilly into the distance and limped himself towards the rest of his companions. The whole routine was tiring and dramatic. Milo thought the demon needed a nice whack up the head with the cane he carried. The stick was topped with an impression of a crow.

Milo hated crows. They pecked and were dark and annoying.

He did end up pissing a bit on the demon’s shoes while the demon was yelling at the shooter in the dark place they’d been in before the damned metal cage. He certainly didn’t regret that. The demon’s shoes were nice and dark and dirty enough already. Perhaps Milo could add character to his bland and dramatic ensemble.

Milo was not the biggest fan of the dark. Butchers’ shops were always dark. He couldn’t defend himself in the dark.

He hadn’t been horribly terrified of death, however, because the demon hadn’t killed him yet.  

The knife-girl seemed to be fond of him. She found him cute—and by the demon’s heartbeat, he found her . . . intriguing, whether he knew it or not. Milo could feel the demon’s four-chambered human heart speeding up when he saw the knife-girl. He wasn’t sure why, and he was certain neither of them knew why either.

So Milo had made sure to trot next to knife-girl. And then the shooter had showed up and then the three of them had entered into some sort of metal-cage-train with another man who yelled a lot and seemed like a bit of a caricature. The man looked at Milo as though he thought Milo had some sort of higher purpose, which felt nice.

Secondly, he had definitely been terrified when he’d heard the first cries of the monsters in the darkness. The darkness that they were in was different than the darkness of night. It was all-encompassing and terrifying. And he the sound of predators was in the air.

Milo was self-aware enough to understand what a sacrifice was. He was now domesticated, but when he had been younger he’d lived in the wild with his mother. And his mother had sacrificed herself and been overrun by foreign wolves while allowing Milo to run to safety. Milo knew sacrifices were important, and he would have loved to martyr himself, to be a saint amongst goats. If only he knew these people. While he found himself fond of knife-girl, he did not want to be remembered as a sacrifice for the demon. He was certain goats who made friends with human demons went to goat-hell, which did not seem like a very nice place.

A fire was kept high in the metal box. Milo made the mistake to relax after a few moments inside of the darkness. He ran around the feet of the shooter and the knife-girl. The demon kept a cane in front of him to stop Milo from running underneath him, which Milo found absolutely infuriating and mildly elitist. He was sure he was a far better goat than the demon was a human.

Third, Milo had to deal with the shooter. At first he was comfortable under the shooter’s feet, but the man soon started to raise pistols. Milo knew enough about pistols, and he didn’t want to be around someone who was tossing them around so frequently. The shooter’s hands seemed to flow well around the guns, and he was shaking a bit as he screamed at the man. Milo went back to the knife-girl after that. He was terrified of knives and had lost many fellow goats to them, but her eyes were kind. None of the people in the box moved very much, and Milo didn’t either out of a silent sort of fear. He crawled up calmly under the knife-girl.

That lasted for a very short amount of time. Then a creature got stuck on the roof of the metal box. Milo stared at it. It growled at him. He screamed. The shooter screamed. The demon was angry. He looked at the knife girl briefly. They all stared at the monster on the box’s ceiling and seemed certain they would perish.

The demon’s eyes kept staring at the knife-girl. Milo thought she could do better than him. She was pretty. The demon looked . . . well, like a demon. Then the other man pointed at him. “Jesper, grab the goat.”

Milo wasn’t one for profanities, but he bleated loudly under the knife-girl. Fuck.

“I’m not throwing out the goat!” the shooter said. Milo smirked at him. At least someone here had their priorities straight.

“Grab the damn goat. It’s not bait, it’s for you!”

Now that Milo had chosen to put the effort into listening to the conversation, he didn’t mind it. The shooter grabbed him and cuddled him in his arms. He was much nicer than the demon. “I need you to calm down. Hug the goat. Shut the hell up.”

Hugs were something Milo could get behind. He ignored the uncomfortable weight of the pistols at Jesper’s waist and tuned out the human voices once more. Listening to their strange conjectures of vowels and attempting to make sense of them was exhausting.

More of the evil creatures growled. Milo and Jesper clutched each other tightly. This was not how he expected his day would go. But he thought it was better to die here, clutched in the warm grasp of a human and surrounded by two idiots who greatly cared for each other and denied it, an ugly engineer, and a sharpshooter who smelled like magic.

Magic. Now that Milo thought about it, Jesper did smell interesting. He sniffed. It was a harsh scent. Yes, magic. He nosed Jesper gently. Do something, magic shooter. Get rid of the monster.

Milo did not actually want to die. Suddenly, Jesper walked forward, his eyes closed.

What followed was a lot of shooting. Milo screamed. He closed his eyes. He heard a lot of things fall away. Jesper moved a lot. Milo found himself at peace. He decided that he quite liked Jesper and his strange magic. As long as Jesper wasn’t turning those guns on him. At some point Jesper dropped him to the side, and there were a lot of loud bangs. Milo waited for the sounds to silent before he opened his eyes and found his way back to Jesper. As they held each other, Milo saw light fall into the box again. He squinted his eyes. He wasn’t quite used to the light anymore.

Jesper led him outside once more after they got out of the box. Milo made sure to pee on the demon’s feet and the man’s feet while outside. The demon didn’t treat knife-girl as well as he should have and the engineer man was simply annoying. Then Milo fell asleep for a while as knife-girl and Jesper petted him before waking up only to be in someone else’s arms.

“I leave you a bullet, to remember me,” Jesper intoned somberly to him. Milo felt something hard at his chest. “Let’s promise never to forget each other, Milo. But I must go now. I leave you in the care of this lovely barmaid, who needs your support here.”

Milo bleated sadly and turned to the maid. She looked nice. He could only hope she needed emotional support and didn’t want to chew off his leg.

He wanted to tell Jesper that he missed him, but didn’t quite know how. So he bleated sadly into the distance as Jesper walked away. This was not how Milo had expected his day would go, but he knew that he had made a friend of a lifetime, and also likely been privy to information the average human would not. Milo felt a little self-important, actually. His chest puffed.

He was a better goat for meeting Jesper and his insane friends.

[animeyanderelover]

Can you write number 48 to Pluto?

It’s my pleasure.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy mindset, unhealthy relationship, possessiveness, obsessiveness, clinginess,mentions of death

Prompt 48: “I hate it when you pay attention to something else besides me.”

“And why do I need to take care of him now? Not that I mind, I like Pluto. But still! Don’t you think I have other things to do besides taking care of a demon hound?” Ciel sighed loudly, not looking happy that he had to ask you for this favor. “Believe me, from all the people I could have asked you’re the last one I wanted to ask. But you’re the only person who I can trust with him. You know what he really is and besides...” You bent curiously closer. “Besides?” “Besides it looks like Pluto got very attached to you and you’re the only person he listens too.” You chuckled and glanced at his butler. “Hey. I thought you were one hell of a butler. How come that he doesn’t listen to you anymore?” Sebastian didn’t answer. “Well?”, Ciel asked you. You thought about it for a moment. “Alright then. I have nothing against coming over and taking care of him.” To your huge surprise you heard Sebastian and Ciel sigh in relief. “Thanks a lot. I was worried that he would burn the whole manor down if you don’t agree.” You raised your eyebrow. “Why would he do that?” “As I said, he got very attached to you.”

The next morning you quickly made your way to the Phantomhive mansion. Many people might wonder how you even know the young Earl Phantomhive. It was simple. Your parents and his parents had been friends since a very long time and you and Ciel had been friends since a very young age too. After the fire and after the loss of his parents he had become a bit more distant to you, but at least he had still talked to you. You knew about him and his butler as well. How? Well, you had always been fascinated with reading stories about demons, angels and all this other stuff. And one year ago you had caught him without his eyepatch, seeing the strange symbol he had in his eye. Ciel had panicked and tried to come up with an excuse, you on the other hand had just stared fascinated at it before asking him bluntly if this was a Faustian contract. Ciel had been stunned when you had asked him this and you had simply added one and one, quickly figuring out that his red-eyed butler must be a demon. You honestly weren’t surprised, you had always suspected Sebastian to be anything, but a human. Were you happy that Ciel had given his soul away? No. But you couldn’t do anything against it. Luckily Ciel had trusted you enough to keep it a secret, feeling impressed that you had figured it out.

You waited patiently at the entrance before Sebastian opened the door. “Miss (y/n). You’re finally here.” As soon as he mentioned your name, you suddenly heard loud barking. “Pluto! No! Wait!” Was that Finny’s voice? You stepped in, curious about what was going on. Finny was stemming his feet against the ground, leaning all of his weight back and pulling desperately on the leash he was holding. Pluto on the other hand was trying to move forwards, barking excitedly when he saw you and tried to run to you, but was harshly pulled back, whining loudly. At this point you were scared that he would choke. “Finny! You’re going to choke him if you continue to pull on the leash like this! Let him go!” “Are you sure?!”, Finny asked you. You nodded. The same moment Finny let go was the moment where Pluto jumped towards you, instantly making you fall down with his weight on your top. You started giggling when he started licking all over your face and neck. “Stop that! I’m ticklish!” Pluto barked excitedly. You started petting his head, going into full dog lover mode. “Who’s a good boy? That’s right, you!” You suddenly heard someone clearing his throat behind you. “Would you mind doing that somewhere else? Not right in front of the entrance?” You turned around to see Ciel standing on top of the stains. You started laughing embarrassed. “Sorry. Guess I’ll go into the garden.”

The next few weeks were spent with you visiting the manor every day to take care of Pluto. And slowly, but surely you noticed that Pluto had probably gotten a bit too fond of you. At first you had just brushed it off because this guy was after all a demon hound and dogs were known to be very clingy. But could his current behavior be considered as normal? You weren’t too sure anymore. It had begun with him simply refusing to leave your side, he was clinging on your waist all the time and whenever you had tried to leave him for even one second he had started whining and had refused to let go of you, even if you ordered him too. Whenever you had left the manor to go home he had thrown a drama. It had gotten that bad that Sebastian had to step in every time to prevent him from leaving and it happened more than one time that he had been forced to knock Pluto out. All of this was, even though highly annoying, still in a yellow zone. But it had gotten out of hand when Pluto had scared anyone away from you who even dared to come anywhere near you. For example when Mey-Rin had tried to talk to you Pluto’s grip around your hip had suddenly tightened and he had let a deep growl out of his chest, giving Mey-Rin a dangerous look which reminded you of a predator looking at his prey. He did that to everyone and at some point everyone had started to stop talking to you and if they wanted to tell you something they had started to yell it to you from the distance. Even Ciel kept a safety distance. And from day to day it became worse.

You knew that something was wrong the moment Pluto suddenly stopped acting excitedly. He was just staring at you with narrowed eyes before bending down and starting to sniff on your clothes. “...Pluto? Is something wrong?”, you asked confused. He just continued to sniff on your clothes before he suddenly started growling dangerously, his grip around you tightening. You needed some time until you finally understood what was wrong. He must have sensed the smell of your old classmate on you which you had met on your way here. You had bumped into him earlier this day and both of you had for a moment stopped whatever you had been doing to catch up on old times. When both of you had gone separate ways you had given him a short hug. You hadn’t thought of it as something bad, but Pluto seemed more than just enraged. He was furiously growling. “Wow! Pluto, calm down! He was just a friend of mine!” You had hoped to calm him down, but that didn’t work. Instead he became even more enraged when you mentioned the word friend. By now his nails were digging painfully in your skin and the look he was giving you made you feel scared. What was wrong with him? Was he really so territorial with you? Wasn’t it enough that you spent all your time with him? He had already scared everyone in the mansion away from you! You could endure a lot with him, but that was a bit too much! You had your free time as well! “Pluto! Quit it!” Pluto abruptly stopped growling and gave you a surprised look. You had never spoken that harshly to him since he normally always listened to you, but it seemed like you had to be a bit more stricter with him. “Listen Pluto! I really like you, believe me, I do! But you need to understand that I can’t spend all of my time with you! I have other people in my life and I won’t accept it that any longer that you scare every person who tries to make contact with me away!” Pluto looked completely crushed. He whimpered and tried to stretch his hand out to touch you, but you lifted warningly your index finger. “No Pluto!” For the rest of the day you treated him more coldly, being in a bad mood.

It was late at night when you were suddenly woken up from your sleep. You rubbed your eyes to get rid of the tiredness. What was that for a noise? You were sure you had just heard something right now. You listened closely into the silence of the night. For a few seconds it was quiet, making you questioning if you had just dreamed that. But then you heard it again. It sounded like...the whimpering of a dog! And it sounded like it was right in front of your house! You stepped out of your bed and left your room, heading downstairs quickly. You knew that whimpering just too well. But what was he doing here? He was supposed to be at the mansion this late at night. When you stepped down you suddenly noticed another noise coming directly from your entrance door. It sounded like someone was scratching with his fingernails against the wood of your door. You stood for a moment unsure in front of your door, not knowing whether to open the door or not. But then you decided to let him in, it would mean serious troubles if someone would see a naked man whimpering and scratching in front of your door. So you turned the doorknob around.

Pluto instantly stormed inside, jumping onto you and barking happily whilst starting to spread all his salvia over your face and neck. “Pluto? What are you doing he-“ You stopped when suddenly a nasty smell started to hit your nose which came directly from Pluto himself. The smell was overwhelming and made you nearly dizzy. What was that? You tried to push Pluto away from you so that you wouldn’t have to endure this sickening smell anymore, but as soon as your hands touched his bare chest you instinctively pulled back. His chest was covered in some sticky liquid. It was very dark and the only source of light was the moon who was shining through the open door inside your house. You squinted your eyes to try to get a better look at Pluto. Your eyes needed a moment until they had adjusted to the darkness. The second you realized what this liquid was you paled. Pluto was covered in blood! It was smeared all over his face and body and since he was laying on top of you your white nightgown was also smudged with the scarlet liquid. Why was he covered in blood?! Did he...? Pluto himself didn’t seem to mind that much, he just continued happily to lick all over your face. You gulped. “P-Pluto?” He lifted his head, signaling you that he was listening. “W-what did you do?” Pluto blinked for a moment before he suddenly hurried out of your door, grabbing something he had hidden next to the door before quickly returning and letting the object fall into your lap, looking proud of himself.

Your brain on the other hand stopped working when you saw what that thing was. It was an arm! Blood was still flowing out of the opening, staining your nightgown in even more blood. You took notice of the clothing that was still visible on the arm and that’s when you knew to whom this arm belonged. It was from your old classmate. Judging from all the blood in which Pluto was covered you didn’t think that he was still walking under the living. You should have screamed and thrown the arm away, but you couldn’t. Your whole body was paralyzed and your limps felt like they were made out of stone. No matter how much you yelled at your brain and body to move, they didn’t listen to you. Pluto nudged you with his nose and you slowly shifted your eyes to look at him. He had an expecting look on his face, wanting to be praised by you. You didn’t even realized when your hand moved to start stroking his hair and you told him:”Good boy.” Why did you do this?! You should scream at him, but your body refused to. Perhaps this habit had been too deeply engraved in your mind to shake it off and your brain probably thought that this was the best way to handle this situation. By telling him that he did good and encouraging him to do this again. Pluto was clearly joyful when he heard this and once again his warm tongue went all over your face. “W-why did you do this?” It felt hard to speak this sentence, your tongue feeling like it was made out of lead. For a moment Pluto tilted his head as if wondering if it wasn’t already obvious. He stared you directly into the eyes and it was like there was a silent message written inside of it, that was only meant for you. “I hate it when you pay attention to something else besides me.”

[rainbowcarousels]

seven days of valentines

DAY 2: Sephiroth/Genesis with some AGS thrown in. (Just Be Still With Me canon)

“I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. I love you not only for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me”. - Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Genesis was behaving strangely. 

 Given that he always behaved in an inexplicable manner and liked to contradict himself, it would be more accurate to say he had begun behaving more strangely. A little more highly strung than usual, a little more quick to fluster and a lot more likely to resort to fiery retribution if people brought up the issue.  Worse still, Sephiroth couldn't shake the feeling that it had something to do with him. There had been a measurable increase in staring, but he rebuffed active engagement on the topic. There had been more sparring, but it didn't seem to be providing the release it usually did.

 At first he had assumed perhaps the romantic relationship between him and Angeal had hit complications, but aside from the new staring matches and occasional walking off, there wasn't an observable change in his presence.

It had been a suspicion that he had been the cause in Wutai. When they returned a couple of weeks ago, suspicion turned to confirmation. It was clear he was attempting to keep some sort of distance between them because he didn't place his hand on his back to ask him to move, nor did he lounge against him to read and even during the post-mission medical review where he would usually be harder to get rid of than Heidegger's incompetence, he had been distant. It wasn't so much that he looked forward to these actions from him, he just had never stopped to consider that he would miss them if he stopped doing them.

Perhaps Sephiroth had offended him in some way but he doubted it. Genesis had no issue with confronting him if he felt he was wrong in the slightest.  Normally, when Genesis became unreadable, he could go to Angeal for an explanation but the boundaries had shifted in a way he couldn't fully understand and that meant he didn't know if he would cross them and earn his ire as well.

So when Angeal offered to cook dinner the night after a long, long day of justifying why throwing more troopers at a problem was only going to lead to a high death count without more SOLDIER oversight, Sephiroth was relieved to find himself in the quiet (well, as quiet as it ever got around Genesis) company of his friends.  However, once dinner was said and done and Genesis draped himself on the couch instead of sitting on it, the staring happened again made all the more noticeable by the fact Angeal seemed to be doing it too.

Genesis patted the seat by him, “Come and sit with me.”

It felt like a trap, like he was about to trigger something that had been brewing for several months and he wasn't sure he cared because at least then he would know what the problem was. What was more unexpected was Genesis reaching for his hand and placing it in his own lap, letting his thumb rub circles over his palm in a surprisingly soothing motion. Perhaps whatever it was had simply passed and he was eager to reestablish their previous levels of physical communication.

“Would you like one?”  Sephiroth's attention was drawn to Angeal, who was offering one of the dried, candied fruit skins he made when they were here long enough. He was a little full, but there were no scheduled monitoring for his diet here and Angeal had been enjoying them so it seemed rude to refuse one.

“Let me,” Genesis said, fishing his hand into the plastic container and pulling out an oddly shaped scrap he didn't recognise.

Learning a different variety of foods had been one of the more interesting experiences of these dinners, as they both had experience with certain foods he'd never really eaten before and occasionally, with ingredients he had never experienced.

Sephiroth then realised he was literally attempting to feed it to him and his confusion returned. “I'm not injured,” he said. That was the only occasion he tended to need any help eating and it was rare.

“Humour me,” Genesis insisted, holding the piece between his fingers and twisting it around.

It was possible he'd drunk a lot more wine before Sephiroth had arrived and as such, had slipped into a more whimsical mindset. It was also possible that Sephiroth had gotten on his nerves at some point and he'd decided to put something unpleasant in the food. However, if he had, Angeal wouldn't have gone along with it or been eating from the same container, so he did as he was asked.

It was a strange texture, chewy, almost leather like but also had some  fuzzy feeling spots to it. It was peculiar, but he liked peculiar textures, it made it all a bit more interesting. Except then there was a sudden new taste of something inside it and he felt himself squint as his cheeks pulled tight and heard Genesis laughing lightly. 

Was he wrong? Had he done something to it?

“You look like a chipmunk,” Genesis snorted.

“We can strike tart fruit off your list of likes,” Angeal added, ducking his head. “Do you want to try something else?”

“No,” Sephiroth said as the tingle in his cheeks began to fade.

Genesis's staring had resumed, but the quality of the staring had changed in some way. His expression was more open than mischievous and he reached a couple of fingers to the top of Sephiroth's hair parting, threading them down and through. 

“You're ridiculous,” he said softly.

What was so ridiculous about expecting fruit to be sweet? Admittedly, he had begun to develop a taste for sweet things and Angeal was often the driving force behind him finding new things, but it wasn't the first time he'd tried something he wasn't sure he liked.

“You're the one staring,” Sephiroth pointed out.

“Turn about is fair play,” Genesis told him. “You often stare at me.”

“You're impossible to ignore,” Sephiroth said. If he wasn't walking around in bright red with more materia than he could possibly use and spouting Loveless at anyone within his vicinity, he was still outspoken, like the very concept of silence offended him.

“So don't,” Genesis said. ”I don’t want to be ignored.”

Sephiroth hadn't realised he had been. “What do you want?”

“You,” Genesis's smile changed to the more familiar look that sent anyone with sense walking very quickly in the opposite direction because something was going to be set on fire. “Any way I can have you.”

That sounded – from his limited experience on the matter, it sounded intimate which made no sense at all. That was something he and Angeal did together. Sephiroth couldn't help but glance at him, finding he was watching the two of them with an expression that didn't seem upset or angry. It was something else entirely.

“What way do you want?” Sephiroth asked, just to be sure.

“You already know the answer to that,” Genesis tutted. “I know you can be dense but you're not that bad.”

“This is...” It was hard to put into words, so he looked to Angeal “This is something you do together.”

“Yes,” Angeal agreed.

“Then why do you need me?” Sephiroth asked.

“We don't need you,” Genesis said. “You didn't need three servings of the chocolate cream, but you definitely wanted it and enjoyed it. Is want not enough?”

Want he had some experience of. Want was being pawed at by the fan clubs, being told which people to speak to events, who to pose with, who it was imperative he let touch his arm or kiss his cheek because they were very important to the company. 

Want was uncomfortably like owing them something.

“You don't have to say yes,” Angeal said, quietly. “The last thing we want to do is make you feel uncomfortable.”

Uncomfortable was the wrong word. If anything, it felt too comfortable – the feeling of Genesis's thumb ghosting across his hand. the couch, the food and soft surrundings. “Are you certain you want to?”

“It's nothing I've considered before,” Angeal admitted. “But it wouldn't be a hardship either. You would be beautiful to watch together and I would be interested in intimacy with you, if you wanted that.”

“That's hardly a fair comparison,” Genesis said. “I look beautiful regardless of who I'm with.”

“You're our friend first. If you don't want this, that's okay but if you're open to trying it, we would take care of you,” Angeal promised. 

That tone was a promise. It was a strange concept, this idea he could or would need to be taken care of. It did make his heart rate increase when he tried to picture it, but the concept was foreign and he could only come up with vague impressions of feelings that felt too big for his body.

“I don't need taking care of,” Sephiroth said instead.

“But do you want to be?” Angeal pressed.

Taking care of had many meanings. The company took care of his schedule,  his medical needs, clothes and housing but they did already take care of many things for him. Angeal often took it on himself to take care of his nutritional needs or when words could be too difficult. Genesis took care of social engagements where he was often stuck for words while Genesis had plenty to spare and to push him to do things he would never have considered before. They both functionally cared for safety, especially in battles or as sentinels so he could get some rest without interrupting.

“I could take care of you,” Sephiroth offered instead, even if he wasn't entirely sure of how to do that. His experience in the area was extremely limited.

“I know you would,” Angeal said, kind enough not to point it out.

“We're getting a little ahead of ourselves,” Genesis said, giving his hand a pull to bring his attention back. “I would like to kiss you and I think I've been patient enough. Any objections?”

The last time he had been kissed, It had been a sloppy, wet experience from one of the investors wives and he'd wanted to scrub his skin clean away.

“I don't know if I like it,” Sephiroth replied.

“That's because you haven't been kissing me,” Genesis declared. He did love to be the exception to every rule. “Or Angeal for that matter, even if he has wandering hands every time we do.”

“I do not!” Angeal ducked his head away, shaking it slightly. “I'm just trying to get you to keep still.”

“I'm not sure anything short of sedation will do that,” Sephiroth pointed out. Even then, he tended to grip closely as if he were constricting a prey animal.

“We can stop if you don't like it,” Genesis decided. “More 'saying no' practice for you isn't the worst idea either way.”

It wasn’t bad. It was another thing to add onto the list of odd things Genesis did, because he moved strangely slowly for someone who rarely stopped to think about things once he'd made up his mind. He got very close, pressing his nose lightly against his and smiled – small, almost shy and clearly searching his eyes for something before he pressed his lips over his.

It wasn't at all as he expected. His breath was warm, but smelled vaguely of the 'cheap slosh' he'd been drinking all night and it wasn't unpleasant even if he was very, very close. It was slow, hesitant even where he had expected clashing mouths and hitting teeth like a training room duel and not at all like it had been before. No pinpricks of sweat, no desire to push him away and he found himself pressing his hand against his back, trying to get him closer instead, as if he just couldn't feel close enough no matter what. It was engulfing and terrifying.

Then all at once, it was over and he was pulling away and he found he definitely didn't want that so placed his hands on Genesis's hips to stop him.

Genesis laughed taking his hands from his hips and stepping backwards, “Come along,” he said, giving his hands a tug. “Let's go somewhere more comfortable where we can enjoy watching Angeal turn the same colour as his hibiscus.”

[adenil-umano]

12 Days of Spones Day 2: Blue

[Read on AO3]

Spock stepped off the bus gingerly to avoid the grey slush coating the street. He knew that just two hundred years ago the Georgia air would still be warm from the day, but Earth’s climate change had not been kind to the southern United States. It was a frigid and dirty snow which clung to every surface. Salt crystals cracked beneath his boots as he walked. The sidewalk was near-deserted--it was, after all, nearly midnight on Christmas Eve, and Spock was in a town with a population of just six-hundred.

If Spock had any doubts over whether or not the humans here celebrated the holiday they were easily laid to rest by the sight of raggedy wreaths and dingy tinsel wrapped around the light poles. It may have been silver, once, but now it was a faded grey. Occasionally the wind plucked free a single leaf of tinsel and carried it away. Ahead of him, the fuzzy gleam of a red neon light declared the bar OPEN. 

He tugged his knit cap tighter around his ears and pushed his way in. Immediately, his senses were assailed by the scent of stale beer and the not-so-dulcet tones of canned Christmas music trickling out of the staticy speakers. Spock scanned the bar and a rumpled man with wavy brown hair and a wrinkled blue shirt caught his eye.

He slid onto the stool two seats away from the man. It was best not to seem too eager, at least not before he had found out whether this was the man he sought. He ordered a whisky, neat, because that seemed like the sort of thing one drunk in a bar like this.

Spock sat nursing his drink for a few minutes with his ears perked for any sound. Even through the wool covering them and the grating sounds of holiday music he could hear the man muttering to himself.

“Damned thing...was just a little late...Needs to get that stick removed.” He took a long swig and slammed his empty glass down. “That man will never be father to my daughter.”

While no one was looking Spock leaned over the bar and dumped out his drink into the sink. With his glass empty he slid one seat closer to the man and said, “May I buy you a drink? You appear to need one.”

The man squinted up at him, pale blue eyes hazy, his mouth pursed in a sour line. “What’s it to you?”

“We are both here suffering alone tonight,” Spock said. “Perhaps we could suffer together?”

The man grunted. He waved over the bartender and indicated Spock with his hand. “He’s buying.”

Spock ordered two whiskeys. He took a sip of his, watching the man carefully. Was this really the man he sought? “You may call me Grayson.”

“McCoy. Leonard McCoy. Friends call me Blue.”

“Blue?”

Perhaps he had allowed too much of his incredulity to become evident in his voice, because the man turned a piercing glare towards him. “You got a problem with that?”

“No, it is only…” He should have been Bones. “You are not a doctor?”

“What? What the hell?” He pushed away from the bar, standing on unsteady feet as if ready to fight. “Who the hell are you?”

“I apologize,” Spock said quickly. “It is only--I had heard of a Doctor McCoy in this town.”

He held very, very still, blinking at Spock with drunken anger. After a tense moment his shoulders slumped and he crawled back onto the barstool. “That was my father. I’m no doctor.”

“I see.” He waited until the man had calmed down to ask, “Then, may I call you Blue?”

“We ain’t friends.”

Spock nodded and went back to nursing his whiskey. He should leave now that it was clear this wasn’t who he sought, but something enticed him to say. Perhaps it was the smoky haze that permeated the room, or the waves of despair rolling off of the man beside him. They drank together in silence and Spock ordered another round. He was human enough to begin feeling the effects of the first drink, and judging by  his companion’s slump the other  man was well on his way to passing out.

“Perhaps you should have a glass of water?”

“Shut up,” he said, knocking back the rest of his whisky with nary a wince. “We ain’t friends, and you ain’t my wife, either.”

“Then perhaps you can consider me a concerned stranger.” He waved over the bartender and ordered two waters.

The man grumbled but took a gulp, crunching loudly on ice. He slid his gaze over to Spock and seemed to be looking at him for the first time. His eyes roamed unsteadily up Spock’s lanky form, paused for a moment near his neck, and then fixated on his knit hat.

“Your momma never teach you not to wear a hat indoors?”

“Indeed, she did not.”

He harrumphed. “Explains why you’re so damned impolite.”

“It is colder here than I expected.”

“Always cold this time of year. Our own personal micro-climate.” His blue eyes dropped to meet Spock’s gaze. They held there a moment, suspended, and for a moment Spock saw clarity in his gaze. Perhaps he was the  man Spock sought? Then he looked away, back to his water. “Guess you don’t have anyone to celebrate the night with.”

“I do not celebrate Christmas. But as a general point you are correct. I am alone here.”

“Figured. No one who ends up here has any other place to be.” He was slumping further into his seat. “Only people here are the folks who’ve had everything taken from them. It’s just one damned thing after another. Can’t go out the front door without someone taking your shoes.”

Spock glanced down. “Your shoes do appear to be intact.”

“Yeah, well. I had to fight for them.” He finished the last of his water and stood, listing heavily to one side. He moved to pat Spock’s shoulder and missed, making contact on the second try. “Thanks for the drink, stranger.”

Spock watched the man wobble from the bar, worry forming at the sight of him going off into the cold night. He considered his options and covertly checked his watch. He still had a few hours before he needed to check in, so Spock paid his tab and followed Blue outside.

It had started to snow light, dry flakes that squeaked when he walked. He spotted the man a block away stumbling down the street, his hair gleaming under the artificial yellow glow of the street lamps. He didn’t even have a jacket, Spock realized, and he hastened to catch up.

The man glanced at him as he came alongside. “You following me or somethin’?”

“I was concerned for your safety. You are not in possession of all your faculties at the moment.”

“When am I ever?” he grumbled. He turned away again and stumbled. Spock shot out a hand to catch him, holding fast to his arm and keeping him steady. The man squinted at him again. “You are a strange one.”

He found himself lost in Blue’s eyes, searching near-frantically for some sign, some faint hint that this could be the one he needed. “...You are also strange,” he said after far too much silence.

Blue frowned but he didn’t pull away. He leaned into Spock’s grasp. “If you’re gonna be weird at least be a gentleman and walk me home. It’s that way.”

Spock followed his point and began walking into the darkness with Blue leaning heavily against him. He could feel Blue’s lightness, all the places where he was too thin and too broken. Blue turned his head and breathed out warm air against Spock’s neck and Spock felt his skin pebble in response. He had a sense-memory, then, of carrying Leonard over some alien landscape. What planet had that been? How long ago was that? Leonard had been injured and bleeding, and Spock had felt that tight knot of fear in his side.

The house was just outside of town, ramshackle and lopsided. It had come off its foundation by nearly a foot. The porch light was burnt out but Blue led him up the front stops with relative ease, stopping in front of the door to fish his keys out of his pocket.

Spock hung back, uncertain, as Blue unlocked the door and pushed it open. He didn’t go inside right away. Instead, he reached back with one hand, groping towards Spock without looking at him.

“Grayson?”

“I am here.”

He reached out and their hands met. Blue’s shoulders slumped. “...You wanna come in for a cup of coffee?”

Spock hesitated, knowing enough about Earth culture to understand a euphemism when he heard one. “I do not wish to take advantage of you.”

“You could. If you wanted.” The man turned to face him then, his gaze matter-of-fact. “But if you don’t want to, you don’t want to. Just keep me company, stranger.”

Spock followed him inside. 

He stood in the small kitchen with its cracked tile floor and watched the man brew a pot of coffee. It was late--or rather, early now--but Spock’s body wouldn’t react to the caffeine regardless. They sat together on the couch, and Spock enjoyed the warmth of the coffee. The house was cool and drafty. It was an excuse, at least, to keep his hat on.

“Why’re you here?” the man asked after a while of silence.

“I do not know what you mean.”

“I mean, here. In this podunk little town drinking whiskey at the worst bar in available. You’re clearly not from around here.”

“No. I am from...far away from here.”

“So? Why here?”

“I was looking for something. For someone.”

He sipped his coffee. “For Doctor McCoy.”

“...Yes.”

“Sorry to be the one to tell you this, but my Dad’s been dead for years.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

He leaned his head back against the couch, his blue eyes slipping shut. “You one of his old patients?”

“No. I am...merely an admirer of Doctor McCoy’s work.”

He hummed.

They sat in silence for a while, finishing their coffees. When they were done Blue set aside his mug. He slid closer to Spock and pulled the mug from his fingers, setting it aside as well. Spock watched curiously as the man slid a little closer still, his head tipping to one side. Spock’s heart beat against his side. How long had it been?

Leonard--Blue tasted of coffee and whisky. His lips were rough and chapped, but warm. The contact ripped a terrible sound from Spock, deep and animalistic, and he grabbed Blue’s shoulders to hold him close. It was the same; it was the same. 

Blue climbed into his lap and Spock opened up beneath him. He let Blue kiss him senseless, lick into his mouth and trace his teeth. He let Blue tug his shirt up to untuck it, found himself arching into the contact of those skilled hands against his stomach. This man should have been a surgeon, in this world and every other. 

Spock felt a hand on his neck, a single finger tracing the edge of his knit cap and treading dangerously close to his ears. He pulled away and stilled Blue’s hands.

“I am sorry,” Spock said thickly.

“C’mon,” Blue murmured, his voice all southern-charm and unkept promises. “I’m not that drunk. I know what I want, and it’s you.”

Spock gulped. “I-I cannot.”

Blue sighed and slid off Spock’s lap, landing in a rumpled heap on the far end of the couch. Spock wanted him back immediately. It was selfish, he knew, to desire that warmth and that familiarity from a man who was nothing like the one he’d lost. 

“You got a place to stay?” Blue asked after right himself.

“No. I was merely passing through. I’ll be gone before morning.”

Blue didn’t seem to find that odd. He picked at the hem of his shirt, looked sideways at their empty coffee mugs. “I got a bed. I won’t try any funny business, just...These winter nights are cold.”

“Yes,” Spock breathed, falling in love again despite himself. “They are. Quite cold.”

He let Blue pull him to his feet. Followed him down the narrow hallway to the single room where an unmade bed greeted them. Blue struggled out of his shoes and Spock slipped off his boots. He followed the man under the covers, let those arms encase him. He pulled Blue close and shivered as Blue’s cold nose pressed against his neck. 

“Mm,” Blue murmured. “Knew you’d be warm…”

Spock held him tightly. “I would not want you to catch a chill.”

He chuckled, low and sweet. “How kind of you.

Blue relaxed in slow increments. He was nearly asleep when he spoke again. “That name…”

“Yes?”

“Grayson. That ain’t your real name, is it?”

“No. It is not.”

Blue hummed. “That’s okay,” he murmured. “Sometimes I feel like my name ain’t right either.”

Spock hugged him as he fell asleep, absorbing the gentle rhythm of his breathing. Around them, the Earth continued to spin, but for a few moments all Spock knew was the weight of this man against him, the pleasure of this transient closeness.

As the clock passed four a.m., Spock disentangled himself. Quietly, he slipped on his boots and made his way back into the living room. He held up his watch and fiddled with the buttons, inputting the “all clear” code. 

“Mr. Spock to Mr. Scott. Do you read me?”

“Loud and clear, Mr. Spock.” Mr. Scott’s voice was small and tinny through the watch’s speakers. 

“This is my 24-hour check in. No unusual circumstances to report. No side effects felt from travel.”

“Did you locate the anomaly?”

Spock looked back down the hallway. He’d left the door ajar and he could see just the tips of Blue’s fingers hanging over the edge of the bed. 

“I did, yes.”

“Is he our man?” Mr. Scott asked hopefully.

“No,” Spock said. “I’m afraid he is not what we’re looking for.”

“Ah, a shame. Well, I’ve got the coordinates for the next jump already calculated if you’re ready to come back.”

He wasn’t ready, probably would never be ready. But duty called. “Yes. I am prepared for transport.”

As the transporter whine took him he saw Blue’s hand shift against the bedspread searchingly, as if looking for something. Or someone. There was a faint sound, barely perceptible over the transporter beam, and he could almost trick himself into believing it was Leonard calling to him.

“Spock?”

Spock closed his eyes tightly and felt the cold melt away.

[akaluan]

Erich/Kisuke/Alexis: Soulmate AU + Character in Peril Part 18

It’s nearly pitch-black under the tree by the time they’re finished eating, what little light there is barely enough to see Urahara and Alexis’ outlines, and it’s… it’s tempting to just call it a night and try to get some rest.

He won’t though. Can’t. Not when he promised to make up for his earlier blunder.

“Shall we meditate?” Alexis asks as she inches closer and then settles, pressing against his side.

“We should,” Erich says in agreement, then turns towards Urahara and reaches out to grasp the man’s wrist. “Come on,” Erich murmurs as he guides the man closer. “Alexis and I usually sit back to back for this, but with three of us…” he trails off with a thoughtful hum, trying to picture how they should all be sitting; the problem is that he’s currently still wearing Benihime, which definitely puts a crimp in places that Urahara can sit.

Unless…

It takes a single thought to cancel the harness holding Benihime to his belt, and he uses his free hand to set her across his lap; he really doesn’t know what sort of rules exist for scenarios like this, but… he can’t imagine just setting aside an entire portion of Urahara’s soul simply because it’s in the way.

Not when they’re about to meditate together!

Urahara stiffens in his grasp, threads of wonder-astonishment-trust slipping through their bonds. “You… ah… my sword…”

Erich frowns and twists around a bit more to squint at the shadows over Urahara’s face. “Have I done something wrong?” he asks even though he doubts it, not with the feelings he’s getting from Urahara.

“No, no! It’s just… Shinigami have a technique called jinzen, where we commune with our blades in order to become more in tune with each other. You just… you’re sitting in a very similar pose,” Urahara hastens to explain.

“Hmm…” Erich looks down at his lap and traces his fingers over Benihime’s hilt for a moment. “Think of this as… similar,” he says as he tugs Urahara the last few inches closer, feeling the man shoulder thump against his own. “Let Alexis and I lead.”

Urahara makes a soft, thoughtful noise and cautiously shifts closer, until he’s pressed almost as close to Erich as Alexis is.

It’s a strange, prickly feeling, if Erich’s being honest; on one hand, Urahara is his soulmate, is part of him, but on the other…

On the other, he has a Shinigami pressed against his back, a Shinigami soul-sword across his lap, and he’s about to meditate with his people’s greatest enemy.

He breathes in. Tips his head back. Stares at the shadowed canopy overhead. Forces his mind to settle when all he wants to do is pull away—

(He can’t, he won’t!)

(He promised!)

“Maa, you don’t have to include me,” Urahara murmurs in reaction, starting to pull away before suddenly freezing in place.

“Tell our soulmate that if he tries to be unnecessarily noble without my permission, I will tie him up so we can get on with it,” Alexis announces blithely.

“Alexis!” Erich protests, then sighs and says, “I apologize for Alexis’… insistence. Will you trust me — us — to know our limits in this? I… want to try.”

Urahara slowly relaxes back against him, an undercurrent of nervousness-uncertainty-awkwardness belying his outward ease. “Very well. But—”

“I’ll let you know when it’s too much,” Erich promises, then carefully leans into both Alexis and Urahara and closes his eyes. Breathes. Focuses inward and—

Finding where their souls touch is achingly, wondrously easy from this distance. Alexis is familiar, is safe, is love-trust-forever where her soul mingles with his own, decades of careful cultivation having blurred the edges of him and her into him-and-her; it’s only obvious when they’re this close, of course, because they’re soulmates but they’re still humans, still tied to their physical bodies no matter how much time passes.

Urahara is… becoming familiar, a bare handful of interactions not enough to do more than smooth out the very worst of their jagged edges. Like this, Erich can feel the distance between them more sharply than ever; they can share emotions, share power, say as many words as they like about trust, but…

Urahara is afraid.

(Just like he is.)

Afraid of rejection, afraid of judgment, afraid of Erich-and-Alexis who have been together for decades and have mingled their souls and who know each other more certainly than anyone else can or will…

(While he’s afraid to trust, afraid to hope, afraid that the one thing he truly wished for is now forever out of his reach because of fear-enmity-hate and—)

Erich breathes out. Reaches out. Takes Urahara’s hand in his own at the same time he reaches across the gap between their souls and—

Urahara twitches back, twitches away, then freezes like a terrified deer, minute shivers racking his body.

“Trust me,” Erich murmurs, brushing concern-patience-steadiness against Urahara’s senses and then waiting-waiting-waiting until the tremors ease, until Urahara’s body relaxes back against his own, until Urahara’s very soul stops curling away from his touch.

(It’s… unnerving to realize exactly how lost-terrified-lonely Urahara truly is.)

(He’d suspected as much, but to feel-sense-know it is… different.)

(Humbling.)

He doesn’t stretch far, doesn’t intrude the way he senses Urahara wants-fears-expects, just… lets himself settle there, their souls barely brushing, together-but-separate just like their bodies; the difference is already noticeable, their connection cleaner-stronger-purer than before and their twined powers settling more comfortably. Even Benihime seems a bit less prickly against his senses, her presence smoothing out as Urahara begins to relax into this new closeness.

Carefully, cautiously, Erich draws Alexis in closer, acting as the bridge between their souls, hoping they can find some measure of ease the way he and Urahara have; any amount of familiarity will be a boon at this point, when they have to bring an enemy into the heart of their clan home without even a by-your-leave.

(The better they feel about Urahara, the more convincing they can be.)

(Oh, let this not be a mistake…)

He waits, keeping his breathing steady and his mental presence steadier, as Urahara and Alexis… linger right on the edge of letting their souls brush.

(Urahara is trembling again, expecting-fearing-wanting again…)

(It makes him wonder what the man’s been through to expect them to just take without asking.)

(He… probably doesn’t want to know.)

(For the sake of the vengeance he might otherwise demand, at the very least.)

Eventually they settle, separated by a hairs-breadth but so, so much closer than before, and Erich lets himself relax at last; Alexis doesn’t need to pretend the sort of closeness that Erich does, so the distance between them is fine. No one will question her about it, not really, not when she only just met the man and cannot even speak his language.

Erich hums quietly and turns part of his attention outward, carefully gathering threads of natural power and pulling them into himself, into his soul, filling up his reserves with the steady-even-ancient power all around them. At his side, Alexis reaches out, reaches beyond, into the deep darkness where glittering sparks of life-strength-power gather into strange shapes; she gathers the wild power radiating from those sparks and takes it into her soul, smoothing away the raw, jagged edges and making it hers the same way he makes the forest’s natural strength his own.

Urahara’s breath catches as he turns his entire focus on them, wondering-curious-fascinated by what they’re doing; he even tentatively reaches beyond himself and closer to Erich, trying to investigate without intruding.

“This is why I can support you tomorrow,” Erich murmurs as he carefully makes the absorbed power his and then feeds it to Urahara, paying close attention to how empty the man’s reserves are; he doesn’t want to stress Urahara by attempting to force too much power into him, but he also doesn’t want to leave the man weakened for the march tomorrow. It’s a careful balance, but one he’s had experience with over the years.

“Can all Quincy do this? I mean, you’re both pulling from different sources, aren’t you? Is that… usual?” Urahara asks as he leans further into Erich’s back and turns his head slightly.

Erich shrugs a bit awkwardly and continues to pass Urahara power, trying to figure out how to phrase his answer. “Quincy… rely on the world around us, not… not inside us. Not really. We take your power and turn it against you.” The way Urahara stiffens at his words makes him scowl, and he reaches back to rest a hand on the man’s knee, pressing reassurance-apology-safety into their connection. “We don’t… steal,” he tries to clarify, stumbling over his words as he scrambles for the right way to explain. “We… take what is free? Loose. Available. Like what we’ve done tonight. Nothing… nothing from inside you.”

Urahara slowly relaxes at his stumbling explanation, his wariness replaced with even more curiosity, and asks, “What were those… things out there? I didn’t recognize them, but they were clearly empowered.”

Erich grimaces and lifts his hand from Urahara’s knee to scrub at the side of his nose, debating how best to answer that tangled mess; he doesn’t have even half the words he needs to explain the concept of legendary beings that no one has ever seen first hand, but that every Quincy knows are out there.

“Beloved?” Alexis asks softly, sensing his tangled emotions.

“He’s asking about them,” Erich answers with a wry smile. “He could apparently sense at least a bit of how we see the world, and he, ah… noticed our little neighbors.”

“Sounds like a conversation not to have out here,” she replies dryly. “I’d rather not draw their attention in the middle of their lands.”

Urahara makes a confused noise and twists around a bit more. “What is… I do not understand? You don’t… speak of it?”

“Some things are best left unsaid,” Erich answers in Akitsugo, then shrugs awkwardly when Urahara presses disbelief-puzzlement-curiosity towards him. “We can speak more when we aren’t in their territory.”

“I… see,” Urahara murmurs thoughtfully, then sighs and shakes his head, switching back to Akitsugo to say, “My reserves are mostly refilled now, you… don’t need to continue.”

Erich carefully passes just a bit more to Urahara before pulling back and releasing the last of the power he’d gathered. “Will you let me do so tomorrow?”

Urahara hesitates, clearly turning the idea over in his mind before finally, finally, making a soft noise of agreement. “So long as it does not stress you, I… I will accept. But if I sense you faltering…!”

“Trust me to know my limits,” Erich repeats firmly, then lifts Benihime from his lap and carefully rises to his feet to stretch. “We should go to sleep,” he says once he’s loosened his muscles a bit. “Morning will come early once more, and we need to keep the same pace as today.”

“Wonderful,” Alexis mutters as she, too, rises to her feet and starts to make her slow way through the dark to where they’d set their bedrolls out. “Just what I always wanted, to be part of an army.”

Erich chuckles softly and follows. “It’s only for a bit longer, love. Then… I think all of us will welcome the chance to… be something else.”

She hums, leaves rustling as she settles on a bedroll and her weight shifts the pile they’d made. “That’s understandable, love. Once the war is over… well, I doubt anyone will complain if you retire.”

“They better not,” Erich grumbles as he pauses, then turns back towards where he can sense Urahara lingering awkwardly and says, “Come, we all need rest and the nights get cold without proper bedding.”

“But… you, ah… earlier…”

Erich grits his teeth and tugs lightly on Urahara’s power, silently urging the man closer. “Urahara Kisuke, a few nights sleeping next to you will not kill me. Come. To. Bed.”

His words startle a laugh from Urahara and, more importantly, ease some of the man’s uncertainty. “Maa, maa, so insistent,” he murmurs as he slips closer. “But if you’re certain…”

“I am,” Erich says, shoving aside the edge of nervousness that he can feel gnawing at his mind; he is… reasonably certain that Urahara doesn’t mean him any harm at this point, not after everything that’s happened and everything he’s sensed from the man.

(Now if only he could convince his instincts of that…)

(Ugh.)

With a soft sigh that’s more exhausted that he’d like, he lowers himself to the makeshift bed, grimacing at the rustle of leaves and the feel of hard-unyielding-cold ground just below it; as much as he hates camp beds, even that would be better than sleeping on the ground in his opinion. Still, there’s no help for it, he just… needs to make do.

(He can do that.)

(Just for a few more days.)

(Just a few…)

[op-peccatori]

sweeter than dreams (nsfw) | MLQC Lucien

Fandom: Mr Love: Queen’s Choice

Pairing: Lucien/Reader

Rating: 18+

Word count: 3400

Summary: On your way back home from the winery, your impromptu nap is interrupted by an inappropriate dream involving your boyfriend (and current pillow). The man in question reacts in a way you don’t expect.

Warnings: explicit nsfw content/sex, (public) vaginal fingering, Lucien’s teasing, semi-public sex, oral sex

a/n: It’s Lucien’s birthday month!! and my thirst for him as at an all-time high. This is an alternate version of the winery date, where they’re already dating.

Your eyelids flutter open to warm light on your skin. Your head is burrowed into a firm pillow, your breath heavy and heart-pounding from where your sleep lead you. 

 A dream crafted solely to torment you, with violet eyes and a wicked tongue. Not the first, and most definitely not the last. You freeze as you realise you’ve been squirming on an uncomfortable seat, pressing your thighs together in a desperate attempt to relieve the ache brought on by your own mind, and some fantastic wine.

The pillow under your head moves then, a familiar silhouette providing shade when you squint up at it. As your awareness creeps back in, you realise that a jacket is draped over your form, shielding your bare thighs from the air-conditioning in the moving bus. 

“You seem to have had a restless nap,” comes a low, modulated voice that is an eerie echo of the one you just woke up from. A tilt of your head shows Lucien staring back at you, mouth tugged up in a strange smile. Your heart restarts its stumbling song at seeing the very face you had just been pressing fervent kisses to in a damning dream. “Had a bad dream?” 

At his words, the sound that comes out of your mouth resembles a panicked croak, and Lucien’s mouth purses in what you think is a kind attempt to suppress a laugh. Your face warms at the thought of telling him, of him knowing of the truly depraved things your mind is capable of conjuring.

“Not-not a bad one per se,” you say, wincing at the rough note brought with sleep. “Just...unexpected.” And with unfortunate timing, as you’re on a public bus and not in bed where you could’ve easily slipped a couple fingers into your underwear to take care of your throbbing sex – it wouldn't be the first time. “It was probably the alcohol.”

“Hmm.” He studies you intently, looking for something in your face that you dearly hope he doesn’t find; you try your best to look like someone who didn’t just have a wet dream about him. “Alright. We should be home in another twenty minutes.” 

Damn. 

“Oh, okay.” You stay still, cuddled up to his side, wondering if you did anything to indicate what you were dreaming of while you were out. You seem to be in safe waters, not sensing anything from him. Perhaps Lucien had also drifted off? You can only hope there wasn’t anything for him to notice. You throw your thoughts toward anything other than his warmth, the subtle tones of his cologne, the way he smiles at you. 

“And now that you’re awake, I’ve been meaning to ask – would you like to switch seats?" he asks sheepishly. "We did agree to take turns.” You agree easily, eager to have the chance to stare at something other than his hands and the old lady in the seat across the aisle, who seems to have dozed off as well. Just to avoid more contact that wouldn't help your situation, you get out of your seat – tugging at the hem of your skirt self-consciously –and let him step out before sliding in, settling into the window seat with no small amount of relief. 

You keep his jacket on your legs, not quite ready to leave the sense of safety it gives you and half-worried that there’s a smell because you know you’re not imagining the damp cloth pressing against you. 

You’re also not imagining the hand that has crept under the cloth to rest on your thigh. More concerning is the way your body reacts to it instantly; breathing hitching in your throat, walls clenching around nothing, the absolute need that rushes through. Just a little higher, and it’ll be where you need it. With how worked up you are, it wouldn’t take long if he works you as fast as you know he can. There aren’t too many people on the bus, and you’re sitting towards the back anyway. Your thoughts whirl around your mind as you try to think of what you could do to give him a hint. Should you just tell him? He wouldn’t leave you wanting. The physical aspect of your relationship is quite new, but Lucien has been really good to you.

And then the old lady coughs loudly, breaking you out of the hold of your desire. You’re on the bus. You can’t ask your boyfriend to finger you in public. What would he think? 

Lucien’s thumb traces soft patterns on your skin, almost absentmindedly, and you bite back a sigh at understanding that he probably means to provide comfort, not pleasure. You feel a bit embarrassed at how you let your baser instincts overwhelm you. 

Leaning into him with a small, fond smile, you turn to look out the window at the tall trees that pass by, marvelling once more at the beauty of the maple leaves; as the sun begins its slow dip below the horizon, it paints the sky in bold strokes of red and gold. The image it creates arrests you long enough that you almost don’t notice the way Lucien’s hand has caressed its way to the tender flesh of your inner thigh, the back of his hand meeting your other thigh in a snug greeting. 

As you sit there with his hand very solidly between your thighs, suspicion is slow to dawn. Is he just trying to warm it or–

Cool lips press against your ear. “I almost didn’t hear you moaning in your sleep, it was so soft...but when I did?” His teeth close around the shell of your ear in a playful nibble, and a gasp tears it’s way out your throat. “Do you know how hard it was to keep my hands to myself?” The sensual tones of his voice wash over you in tandem with his fingers pinching your skin harshly. 

“Lu-Lucien!” you say, voice hushed and eyes wide. You look around in a panic, but the other passengers aren’t paying attention to the cosy couple at the back of the bus. 

“I had to sit there, feeling so left out, listening to you whisper my name so needily, left to only imagine what could possibly be driving you to react that way. My fingers? Or my cock?” he breathes, a light chuckle leaving him as you tense and look up at him pleadingly when his hand moves higher. He returns your look steadily, completely calm but for the perfervid look in his eyes. “Don’t be shy. Let me see.” Long fingers press against your slit, rubbing it lightly through the thin cloth. “Oh? You’re wetter than I thought.” 

Your mouth parts when he rubs your clit, the firm pressure making you nearly jump out of your seat. He pauses at once, removing his hand to wrap his arm around your shoulders, tucking you in to his chest as he turns to face you more. Before you can voice your protests or slump over in relief, his left hand has already replaced his right in its position at your entrance, rubbing and coaxing and tormenting. 

“Someone will see,” you whisper, teeth clenching when he just laughs in response. Desire throbs unwaveringly through you, and you hurry to make sure the jacket stays in place. “Lucien!” 

“Are you going to stop me?” he asks, mocking and knowing, fingers dipping into covered puffing lips. Your hands curl around the edge of your seat, struggling with indecision. You both know one word from you will be enough for him to stop but...you can’t bring yourself to say it. It feels good. It feels really good. The fear of someone seeing is still present, but it’s a thrilling sort of apprehension. His jacket is shield enough, and the way he’s curling around you is intimate enough to discourage most people from looking too closely. 

The calm you talked yourself into feeling is cracked when a dexterous finger gets past the cloth to push into you with long, slow strokes. He stops when he’s knuckle deep in you, feeling the way your falls flutter and squeeze and pull at the digit with visible delight. Your hips cant up, trying to get him to move his hand, but he just kisses you on the cheek, soft and cruel.

“You’re terrible,” you whimper into his chest as you lean your forehead against it in resignation. The arm curled around you tightens briefly, fingers tangling into your messy hair. 

“And you shouldn’t have teased me,” he replies blithely. His finger begins a lazy massage within your slick flesh, sending smooth waves of pleasure coursing through you that keep you close to the edge but not giving you enough. “What exactly is a man to do when the woman he loves begs for him in her sleep? I was this close to pulling you over my lap.” 

You can’t believe you’d thought him innocuous. A fool’s mistake. Your boyfriend loves his traps, and you do enjoy playing the role of prey; you glare at him in outrage, breath stuttering on a low moan. “I was asleep-“ 

“Speaking of which,” he cuts in smoothly, ignoring your grumbling. “What exactly were you dreaming of?” 

Your thighs close in around his wrist as he slips another finger into you. The rhythm of his hand quickens, your fingers clenching around his sweater as you try to remain steady. You can’t bring yourself to reply, a mortified blush blooming across your face at the very thought.

“___,” he warns, tugging on your hair lightly. It's enough to let you know he will get it out of you one way or another. “Tell me. Please?”

“You-we were outside my apartment, I think,” you stammer, your skin warming all over, the flush deeper on your cheeks. His fingers slow down deep within you, palm brushing against your swollen nub. Your eyes squeeze shut at the contact. “I’m not sure why. And...we were kissing.” 

“Go on.” 

“...That’s all.” You brace yourself.

He pinches your clit roughly and you keen, hastily burying your face in his sweater to muffle the noise. You don’t want to look up and see if anyone heard that. “That’s most definitely not all. Go on.” 

“And then...I turned to open the door you pu-pushed me against the door...and lifted my skirt.” You nearly cry out as he strokes you harder, fingers curling to rub against a sensitive spot. “Your mouth was...on me.” 

“And then?” his voice is huskier, breath heavy against the side of your face. You swallow your smirk and lift your head, brushing your lips against his. His eyes have darkened, his gaze burning with anticipation. 

“And then you fucked me,” you whisper against his mouth. 

It feels as if your confession has frozen time itself. Everything around you falls away as you watch each other, breath mingling, the tip of your nose brushing his. You slide a hand onto his crotch, satisfaction clenching your insides at the bulge you find there, at how he stiffens against your touch, at the way his eyes flash with barely restrained desire.

“Right there? Against your door?” he asks quietly, lips curving wickedly. Your fingers trail a curious path over his erection, encouraged by the slight hitch in his breath. You would've missed it if your faces hadn't been so close.

“Mhm.” The quirk of your lips fades as his fingers slip out of you, and you watch in slight dismay and with a lot of hunger as he leans back and pops them in his mouth, eyes glinting with satisfaction. And then he’s lifting his arm off your shoulders, lacing his fingers through the ones trying to tease him, stopping that game right there. 

“Well, our stop is almost here,” he announces, looking past you and out the window. You watch him with pursed lips, trying not to wilt with disappointment. And he tried to give you crap for something you can’t even control, only to do this.

“Right.” 

As the bus slows to a stop near your building, you both rise to your feet and move towards the door. Before you can exit, Lucien drapes his jacket over your shoulders instead of putting it back on.

“It’s a bit chilly outside,” he tells you cheerfully, and you fight down the urge to stomp on his foot. The short walk to your apartment is filled with silence on your part, and oblivious remarks on his. You make a mental appointment with your vibrator, because the urge to do something violent to Lucien is still very much present, stoked by his apparent indifference to your state of being.

As you both step out of the elevator, Lucien walks you to your door. You would think he’s oblivious to what’s on your mind, but you know better now. You’re starting to doubt he’s even capable of missing things happening inside you.

Mind made up, you stop him with hands bracing against his chest. You lift up on your toes, palms curling around the back of his neck to pull him down to you; he’s already smiling as you press your lips to his, slipping your tongue into his mouth and moaning at the taste of him, at the way his tongue intertwines with yours and licks into you. Your hands traverse the length of his torso greedily, lingering on the firm planes of his abdomen as his arms wind around you, crushing you to him. You want and want and want.

You pull away panting, the feeling of his erection pressing into you setting off another hoard of butterflies. You feel lightheaded with desire, feeling as if you could wrap your leg around him and grind yourself to completion out here in the hall. 

“Do you want to come in?” you ask, eyes glossed over as you step away from him. Your fingers dig into your purse blindly, looking for your keys. 

“Hmm. No, I don’t think so,” he says distractedly, much to your surprise. You turn around to hide the disappointment you know is clear on your face, mingling with disbelief. The way he just kissed you wasn’t chaste by any stretch of the imagination. Is he really going to tease you and just – go to bed? That’s cruel. 

“Al...right, then. I have an early – morning!” Your sentence ends in a yelp as you’re pushed up against your door, your purse falling from your hands and Lucien’s body pressing into you from behind. “Lucien!”

He kisses up the slope of your neck hotly, ending at the base of your ear, where he bites into tender skin. His arm wraps around you, tugging your shirt out of the waistband of your skirt, slipping his jacket off of you and throwing it to the floor. His hand creeps under your blouse, palming your soft breast while the other slips up your skirt, pinching your slit; stuck between his body and the cold wood, you can only writhe in response to his rough handling. 

“Isn’t this how it went?” He tugs at a taut nipple in emphasis, kissing along your jaw. "We don't need to go in."

“Ah, but – the security camera!” you moan, deeply aware of the ever-present security device in the lobby, and of the irresistible way he’s pressing into you, his dick hard against your rear. 

“Do you trust me?“ 

“Yes.” You angle your head in a way that lets you meet his fervid kiss, lifting your hand to brush his bangs back and deepen the meeting of your lips. His intensity frightens you on some level, unconcealed and bright in this moment, ready to set you alight with its force.

“Do you want me to stop?” 

“...please don’t stop.” Even more frightening is your own devotion, the pure want, the willingness to let him fuck you outside your apartment with no shame and only eagerness. 

He guides you into pressing your palms against the door, back arched and ass presented to him to caress and knead. He tugs your panties down your ass, following along the same path to go down on his knees. He helps you step out of them, stuffing them into his back pocket before he turns his focus to you. He tucks the hem of your skirt into the waistband and parts the round globes of your ass, revealing your slick sex to his ravenous eyes as he squeezes a handful of flesh, pressing reverent kisses across whatever parts his hands don't cover.

“I’m a selfish man, ___.” The first flick of his tongue against your clit has your eyes fluttering, mouth parting on a curse. “I don’t like sharing you, not even with dreams. Not if I’m not there with you.”

Your laugh dies in your lungs when he tongues you swiftly, relentlessly and with precision, hands holding you in place as you moan and cry instead, forehead falling to your door with a thump. Your pleasure builds up in an earth-shaking wave and is held there as he rises to his feet swiftly, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants hastily.

“My gorgeous girl,” he purrs. The tip of his cock slides against the plump flesh of your rear, leaving wet streaks on your skin as he strokes it to the visual of you spread and ready for his taking. “Did you really think I would leave you like that?” 

“Ah – I thought you didn’t want to.” 

“Oh darling,” he croons, feigning hurt. His hand comes down on your ass in a light, chiding slap. “I always want you. And to help make your dreams come true. Especially ones so...improper.” 

“Lucien,” you moan as he slides into you, thrusting shallowly as he stretches you out, warm palms heavy on your hips. “So good. You feel so good.” He snaps his hips into yours, skin slapping against yours, the sound lewd in the silence of the building.  He angles it just right, taking a moment to still deep within you and begin a slow, hard grind as his hand wraps around the front of your throat firmly. Your shoulders slacken as he squeezes lightly, your desire throbbing and wound tightly deep within you. 

“There we go. Good girl,” he praises you as you push back into him, prompting him to transition into sliding his cock out and back in, in hard thrusts, pulling you by the hips back into him with each one. He moves as if he’s mad with desire, drilling into you as you let out a wail of his name and other things you can’t quite comprehend at the moment. “You want me to fill you up, darling? Is that what you wanted? Oh, my filthy girl.” You reach down to your clit desperately, rubbing it in tight, furious circles. Your eyes roll back into your head as the high wave finally crashes and snaps, your walls clamping down around him, sheathlike and unyielding.

“Please, please, please – come in me, come in me!” You’re overcome by the hunger for it, for wanting to feel him come within you, for leaving his mark in you.

He lets out a throaty groan as your velvet heat drags him into unravelling, throbbing, filling you up in unsteady thrusts. In this moment, Lucien is nearly incoherent in the way words of adoration leave his lips. It's just you and him. You both stay there for a moment, breathless and sweaty, with you struggling to stay upright on your trembling knees and him hissing as he tucks himself back into his pants.

Who needs dreams when you’ve got a man like him?

Lucien helps you straighten, pulling you into an embrace to nuzzle your cheek, his arms wrapped around you to keep you from sinking down like you're sure you will. You tilt your head back and catch him in a languid kiss, content to rest your head on his shoulder, lazy with a kind of tranquillity only his arms can bring.

"God, I love you." The sudden force of it nearly leaves you incapable of further speech. The words are simple, like the cloak pockets of a magician hiding unknown depths. You hold back a giggle at the way his cheeks, already flushed, darken at your words. His eyes, though – you don't miss the blend of love and possessiveness in them, the triumph in his smile at quenching your thirst, the way he sticks close like he can’t bear to put any distance between you both. You wonder if it rivals your own desire to never let go, to spend every moment with him: learning, healing and loving. Playing games that leave you flustered. Blushing when he teases you, watching him try to keep a tight rein on his mask and fail when you bare your heart. 

Your eyes close against soft lips on your forehead.

“Now we can go in.” 

[bittykimmy13]

Best Wishes (GT) ~ 2

A print named Autumn is caught off guard when a human, Tucker, seeks out her help in writing a love letter. Among a slew of problems she has with that, Autumn also has feelings for the target of Tucker's affections.

(( Read from the beginning ))

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Normally, the bike ride home was the reason Autumn didn’t look forward to the end of her shift. Today, she had to worry about a different monster entirely. And then her ride home on top of that. As she dragged herself out of work, she was tempted to skip the library entirely. That might have been a viable option if there was a different route to the print housing district. Plus, there would be nothing stopping Tucker from chasing her down tomorrow if she flaked today.

She made her way to the print entrance of the library and locked up her bike under the canopy near the door. Pausing in front of the glass, she took a steeling breath.

It’s just one stupid letter. It’s good money. Don’t be a wuss.

Pushing past the door, she strode inside. With it being the middle of the summer, the scattered tables were mostly empty. There was a cart of tablets for rent, and it looked like not a single one was checked out. Made sense. There were no school assignments to do verified research for. With no one in need of assistance, the young clerk behind the desk was as out-of-use as the tablets. He was leaning back in his chair, watching a video on his phone without the smallest attempt at discretion.

Autumn glanced at the sets of doors scattered throughout the room. Not quite up to the task of exploring the place, she stopped in front of the desk and cleared her throat. The clerk didn’t look up.

“Excuse me.”

The clerk lifted his eyebrows first, then his gaze. She vaguely recognized him from high school—at least two years behind her. He didn’t seem to know her at all. “Yeah?” he grunted.

“What’s the quickest way to the human section?”

He frowned. “Uh… you mean research on human history? Tablets are right there. Grab one if you want. If you need help citing, it’s pretty straightforward—”

“No, I mean the human section of the building,” Autumn said.

“Oh.” He gave her a strange look. “Why?”

“I guess I’m meeting, uh… a friend.”

It must have looked like the word gave her an ulcer, because the clerk set his phone down and eyed her with concern. “You in some kind of trouble?” he said in a softer voice. “You know, if you’re having human problems, there’s people you can call about that.”

She almost laughed. If the local professional mediators were actually any good at their job, maybe she wouldn’t be so eager for summer to end so she could get the hell out of there.

“I’m making extra money helping some guy with a college admission letter,” she said, her voice tight with impatience. “Are you going to tell me which way to go, or not?”

“Oh, uh…” He pointed to a door on the far right, past the tables. “Go through there and up the stairs. Stick to the walkways to be safe. They go around most of the human section. If you need any help—”

“I don’t.” She walked off, her face burning.

She knew exactly where the clerk was coming from, being so worried. For one thing, she was alone. For another, prints had no reason to go to the human section when there were resources right in their own scaled room. Still, there were walkways for print accessibility in the human section. Some government officials must have pushed for it at some point in the name of unity.

At the top of the stairs, she passed another doorway, which led to the dizzyingly vast main building of the library. The structure of the inside looked older, which made sense. The print section had to have been added on many, many years after the main library was built. Much like the print section, there were tables scattered around, and charging stations for tablets. The most striking difference besides the scale of everything was the glass cases. There were shelves inside of them, stuffed with physical books that no one was allowed to touch. She had never seen anything like it before, outside of movies that showed libraries the way they had once existed.

Another, more troubling difference: there were actually patrons in this section. A few groups of humans chatted at the tables near the cafe. A librarian was reading to some kids on a corner rug. The tables near the shelves were occupied here and there, too. 

Autumn’s eyes landed on the furthest table, and she sighed in disappointment. She had hoped Tucker might forget, or maybe even change his mind. But there he was, hunched over a sheet of paper with a pen in his hand.

Keeping to the print walkway, Autumn rounded the perimeter of the room. The elevation kept her more or less level with human eyes. About halfway to her destination, Tucker lifted his head and looked around. She froze when his overwhelming gaze locked onto her.

A big grin spread across his face. “Autumn Yang! You’re here!”

Although she wasn’t anywhere near him yet, she staggered one step back from sheer surprise. Did he even notice that roughly ten pairs of eyes jerked toward him after his exclamation? She wanted the ground to swallow her whole when all those eyes followed his gaze and consequently settled on her.

Going against her instinct to bolt back to the safety of the print room, she forced herself to walk the rest of the way, getting as close to Tucker’s table as the elevated path would allow her. She stood away from the guardrail and looked down at him, clearing her throat.

“Think you can move over to this table?” she called. “That’ll make it easier.”

She glanced around self-consciously. A couple people were still looking, but thankfully, the rest had lost interest. That was unless the familiar faces by the cafe were murmuring conspiracies about why Tucker West was greeting a print so excitedly.

“Why? I’m already all set up over here.” Tucker stood and came over to the walkway. With him being so freakishly tall even for a human, he was still able to look down at her. Much to her horror, he lifted both hands in her direction. “Come on, I’ll take you over—”

“Stop!” She meant it to come out loudly, but all the breath left her lungs, diminishing her voice to a pathetic squeak. She bumped into the rail behind her.

Tucker frowned, opening and closing his mouth for a few seconds. “Sorry, I mean—I didn’t mean to freak you out. Honest. Look, I’ll be careful. This won’t be like the bike thing, I promise.” 

She tried to gauge his sincerity, wanting so badly to call this whole thing off. But she needed that money, and she wanted to be out of this stupid building as soon as possible. If that meant letting a human pick her up, then fine. There were plenty of witnesses around. There was no way a whole room of humans would simply ignore it if this was all some trick and Tucker was out to hurt her. He couldn’t be that stupid to try something here.

“Okay,” she breathed, white-knuckling the strap of her bag as she inched close to the rails in front of her.

To her surprise, uncertainty overcame Tucker’s face when his hands closed the distance. Which wasn’t exactly reassuring. He roped one hand around her waist, while the other sort of hovered uselessly on the other side of her. All the breath spilled out of her lungs when her feet left the walkway. He wasn’t moving fast or anything—it was just a little terrifying to place her entire literal life in the hands of some jock she barely knew. 

“Okay,” Tucker muttered, seemingly to himself as he pulled her away from the platform and started toward the table. “Okay, okay, this is fine, this is cool. We got this.”

He lowered her to his table. The moment his hand released her, she released her bag strap and gathered herself.

“Wow.” He gave her a crooked smile and took a seat on the chair in front of her. “Never done that before.”

She gave him a flat look. “Could you try not to be so exhilarated?”

“I mean, have you ever been, you know… picked up before?” he asked.

Clenching her jaw, she averted her gaze. “Sure I have. Every print has. Sort of comes with the territory when the world isn’t built for you.”

He cocked his head. “What do you mean? You’ve got walkways and little rooms, don’t you?”

She pursed her lips. As much as she wanted to explode on him, she was not here to talk print hardships with Tucker West, who wouldn’t understand empathy if it bit him on the ass. She turned her attention to the stack of sheets on the table. There were crumpled up wads of paper all around her, too.

“Let’s focus on the letter,” she said. “What do you need me for? Looks like you’re getting plenty of practice on your own.”

Tucker redirected himself like a switch flipping. “It’s not good enough, though. Like I told you, I’m not good with words. But you are, right? I just need some words. Some good ones, so she knows how I feel.”

A pang of regret slithered through Autumn. If it were anyone other than Lacey he was writing to, maybe she wouldn’t be so crabby. Crossing her arms tightly, she stepped closer to the paper and tried to ignore the fact that it meant she was stepping closer to him too. This guy couldn’t be more looming than he already was.

“Read what you’ve got so far,” she said, squinting at his handwriting. “And write slower for the next one. How do you expect her to know how you feel if she can’t even read what you’re saying?”

“Right. My bad.”

He scooted closer and leaned in, prompting Autumn to flinch back from the sudden movement. She kept her eyes on the table’s surface as he read out loud:

Dear Lacey,

I think you’re so beautiful. I bet you hear that a lot, but I really mean it. Not only that, you’re so smart and nice. Like wow. It’s so hard to find girls who are all three. Beautiful, smart, and nice. I mean even if you were just two of those things, I’d still be super into you. But you’re like all three, just to be clear.

Here’s a little about me. I’ve got two brothers and two sisters. I’m the best looking one of all of them, just so you know. I work in my parents’ furniture shop. So like I have money if you want to go do something like grab some food. 

I know a place that has really good milkshakes and fries. I like to dip the fries in the milkshake. Is that weird? I hope you don’t think that’s weird. If that’s weird, then I’ll stop doing it. Anyway, do you want to go out sometime?

Love, 

Tucker

“Oh, my god,” Autumn said slowly. She eyed all the wads of paper on the table and wondered how on earth this could be his best go at it. “That’s your love letter?” She squinted at the page. Even with his handwriting, she could see that roughly every other word was misspelled. 

“I told you I’m not good at this,” he said, his face flushing. “Is it that bad?”

“Get a fresh sheet.”

Tucker did as he was told, grabbing the pen as well. “Is there anything I can keep from mine? The milkshake thing is pretty important.”

“The only part we’re keeping from yours is ‘Dear Lacey’. We’re scrapping everything else.”

He made a dramatically choked noise. “Are you serious?”

“Lacey’s not gonna take that seriously! Trust me. She won’t be very impressed. Now, do you want my help or not?” She started pacing in front of the paper, feeling Tucker’s eyes follow her intensely after he wrote the greeting at the top. “Look, I can tell you you’re not gonna get anywhere with her with the whole ‘you’re not like other girls’ thing. She’ll roll her eyes and toss it in the trash.”

“Oh. For real? Huh. Then what should I write?”

“You said she’s smart and nice. What makes you say that?”

“Well, whenever she would walk into class, you could just feel it, you know?”

Autumn knew. “What else?”

“Uh…” He planted his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand, rattling the ground beneath Autumn’s feet. “I dunno, she’s just so pretty.”

“More than that, Tucker.”

“She never makes fun of people! How about that? And like, when she does tease someone, you can tell she’s just goofing around. And she ends up making people feel better instead of worse when she jokes.”

Autumn stopped pacing. Maybe he understood Lacey’s light better than she thought. “Okay, start with this. I wouldn’t consider myself a shy person, yet here I am, writing a letter to tell you the things I’m not brave enough to say aloud. Even if things don’t work out the way I hope…” She swallowed hard, praying that Tucker wouldn’t notice that these words were coming from a much deeper place than her impersonation of him. “Maybe you’ll find some comfort in having all the things that make you brilliant in writing. Because a person as brilliant as you deserves to know just how brilliant she is.”

Tucker said nothing. When Autumn looked up, she found him staring, mouth agape.

“Holy shit,” he said. “How’d you do that?”

“Just write it!”

“Okay, okay.” He was grinning again, his excitement palpable. 

The sound of his pen scratching against the paper drew her eyes down. Just like that, he was stealing her words. No, buying them, she reminded herself.

“Could you repeat all that?” he asked.

She repeated it, and then some. Over the next hour and a half, they traded the way that Lacey was a brilliant person. Autumn kept needing to steer him away from focusing on Lacey’s looks alone, but at least he eagerly agreed with her suggestions.

You light up a room, and you keep that light going, even on your worst days. One of my favorite things was when you would tap on someone and whisper “I thought that too” when they got an answer wrong in class. You’d do it quietly, so you wouldn’t draw attention to how nice you were. But I noticed.

“I didn’t even know she did that,” Tucker said with a sigh, scribbling it down. “Isn’t she awesome?”

“Yeah,” Autumn muttered.

She had him write and rewrite and rearrange and spell-check until the letter was perfect and as legible as it was going to get. Then she had him read it aloud three more times before she decided her work was done. Considering that toothy grin he couldn’t seem to wipe from his face, she had a satisfied customer.

“This is perfect,” he said, hunkering down so that his eyes were nearly level with her. “You’re amazing. Like, a poet. Ever win any guys over with this stuff? I mean, you’d probably have a boyfriend on lock if you wrote someone a letter like this.”

Just like that, her walls went back up. “Oh, no. I’m not talking about my love life with you. Focus on your own, so you don't need anyone helping you flirt.”

He chuckled and straightened back up. No sooner than she had her personal space back, he invaded it again by holding his hand out for a handshake. Or rather, a fingershake. She really wished he’d stop doing that, but at least this time she wasn’t scared for her life that it was some trick.

“Thanks for this,” he said, blessedly pulling his hand back. “Really. I don’t want her to see me as just some dumb jock. I mean… it really sucks sometimes, you know? People expect me to be a certain way because of how I look.”

Autumn stared at him in disbelief. “Yeah, must suck being super ripped and tall and athletic.”

He nodded earnestly. “See, you get it.”

She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, but a small laugh escaped anyway. She had to admit—there was a kernel of truth to his statement. He acted a lot nicer than she assumed he would be. 

“Wait, I still gotta sign it, right?” Tucker lifted the pen.

“Hang on. Don’t put Love, Tucker.”

“Why not? I’m in love with her.”

“Yeah, but that’ll scare her off.” She thought on it a moment. “Best wishes. That one. It’s a pretty safe bet, and it matches the rest of the letter pretty well.”

He sighed. “Fine, okay. You’re the love letter expert.” 

“Writing expert.”

“Don’t lie, Autumn Yang. I bet you secretly read a bunch of romance books and just don’t wanna admit it.” Before she had a chance to dispute that, he started to stand. “Okay, so we’re done, right? I just slip it under her door? But first I guess you need a lift back to the walkway.”

“Actually, there’s one more thing.” Autumn pulled out her phone and gave him a serious look despite being caught under his shadow. “Payment. And I think I’ll slap on an extra ten percent for that romance book accusation.”

[aethelar]

The shooting star that careers through the night sky and crashes, quite spectacularly, into the muddy lake is not, in fact, a shooting star. The man that pushes open the emergency hatch and hauls himself, gasping and wheezing, onto the ruptured ship is not, in fact, a man. And the emergency response comm he aims at the stars and swears at in a harsh and alien language is not, in fact, working.

Graves would like very much to know which utter dipshit in Transfers had managed to screw up his warp jump quite this badly and whether Graves was allowed to throw them out of an airlock when he got back.

Then the heavens open and Graves discovers that the delightful little planet in the middle of delightful fucking nowhere has a working water cycle, one that brings with it a great deal of cold, a side helping of misery, and a whopping dollop of wet.

Oh, and apparently when he crashed he broke several ribs, fried the electrical connections to his left knee, and rolled in a pile of broken glass. Grand.

He retreats into his broken spaceship and cannibalises a control panel to fix his knee. It… mostly works. That done, he digs through enough old textbooks to identify where he is (backwater, uncivilised, and uncontacted - glorious), what language he needs to program into the translator (there are a ridiculous number to choose from, more than any one planet should reasonably need; he goes for the first seven in the list and hopes that’s enough) and what basic field-notes he needs to add to his mental database (far too many, most of them gathered from a distance, at least half of them marked with question marks and sounding blatantly ridiculous). And, because he’s currently hurting and light-headed, he says screw it to health and safety and just uploads the whole lot at once. The resulting headache has him staggering into the wall, missing the wall and tumbling through the breach in the hull, flailing and half drowning his way through the lake, and fetching up somewhere on the bank. And he’s still getting rained on.

“Fuck this planet,” he coughs through a mouthful of lake-water, and faints.

He manages, somehow, to survive undrowned until morning and it’s Newt that finds him, sprawled unconscious in the mud. Well, Niffler that finds him, Newt that scrambles after Niffler and almost trips over him in the process, but that’s just semantics, really. Newt’s the one that asks, hesitantly, if he’s alive; when he doesn’t get a response, Newt’s the one that manhandles him into the case and cleans his wounds as best he can.

When Graves rejoins the land of the living, Newt’s the one who stutters to a halt, blushes lithium red, and throws a sheet his way while backtracking pronto out of the room.

“I’ll get clothes!” he squeaks from halfway up the suitcase ladder. “There’s food in the kitchen, see you soon, don’t let Niffler out thank you bye!”

Graves blinks. “Illgetclothes,” he repeats. “Thankyoubye.” Then, switching back to a more familiar language, “Identify and translate. Please.”

Whirr. Beep. Whirr whirr. Ding! English, the text across his vision reads. Activate real time translate Y/N

Feck it. The headache can’t get worse. “Activate,” he agrees. “Yes, that means yes. Yes. Activate - Y. I want the Y option.”

Activating real time translate. Target language: English. Please note minor vocal edits required for accurate pronunciation.

“Minor vocal what now - glerk.” Graves lifts a hand to his throat, frowning the disturbed and confused frown of someone who’s just had their voice box rearranged without sufficient warning. And, from the feel of it, the back of his throat as well. Maybe? He opens and closes his mouth a few times to get used to the new sensations. “That will never not be weird,” he mutters to himself. It comes out in English and translates itself back into real words by the time his ears pass it back to his brain and the double-overlap does exactly squat for his headache.

Graves predicts direly that he’s going to hate this planet and distracts himself by turning his attention to what’s around him.

The room is soft, muted colours with strongly yellow-orange tinted lighting. The basic set-up is surprisingly familiar - he doesn’t need the fieldnotes ticking over in the back of his mind to identify that he’s on a bed, or that the primary building material is some kind of local plant matter. The assorted objects strewn around the room are less familiar and Graves takes a minute to run through the new words that flash up for each one (chair is obvious, but what’s book or slippers and why does the door have handle is that the keypad? There’s no control panel on it, and this place really doesn’t look advanced enough for motion sensing so what?)

Bored with the room, he turns back to himself. He’s wearing a clean bandage, wrapped tight around his chest, and part of him wants to unravel it to see how his back is doing underneath. It hadn’t seemed so bad, but he had passed out so there was a potential that one of his internal systems was wonky; based on what he’d seen so far of the planet it was doubtful the Earth-inhabitant who found him had known how to fix them. On the other hand, he feels surprisingly fine for a ship-wreck survivor.

He rests a hand on the neatly tucked end of the dressing for a long moment before shaking his head. “Food,” he says instead. “Food, kitchen, no niffler.” They seem simple enough instructions to follow.

Error, the translator warns. No entry for “Niffler”. Update dictionary when possible.

Error, the fieldnotes warn. Nudity detected. Local customs require nudity to be dealt with before proceeding.

Graves groans.

It takes some trial and error to work out what, exactly, the nudity problem entails, but he finally narrows it down to his lower back and the tops of his legs. That sorted, he winds the sheet round his waist and shuffles his way out of the bedroom into what is either a kitchen or a health hazard, or quite possibly both. The field notes haven’t yet given him the intricate understanding of Earth culture he needs to tell the difference, but there’s something about the haphazard way pans and bottles and jars are stacked on the shelves that seems a bit unstable to him. He proceeds with caution.

After about five minutes of careful study he slumps down on a stool and confesses to himself that he has no idea what he’s looking for. The small four-legged creature that had followed him around the kitchen hauls herself onto the table and tips her head with a curious chirp, and Graves decides, somewhat desperately, that she looks like she might know.

“What,” he asks her, “What, precisely, is food?”

She chirps. It’s not English. Life wouldn’t be that simple.

“Identify,” Graves says tiredly. “Translate. Please.”

Language not supported. Download new language Y/N

“Screw it, why not.”

Four and a half minutes later, with a headache to rival a nova-shot hangover, Graves repeats his question.

Lots of things, the creature answers with a series of drawn out squeaks. Things that smell nice. Things that look nice. Things you want to eat.

Ah. Fuel. Graves reaches for the nearest bottle of thing that smells nice. He thinks. He doesn’t have much to compare it to, not of Earth smells, and it’s very different from anything he’s familiar with. It looks nice, that at least he’s more certain on, but wanting to eat is a stage he and the unfamiliar food-fuel haven’t yet reached in their relationship.

“Is this food?” he asks.

The creature wrinkles her nose. Not for me, she says, and Graves nearly puts it back - but Mummy eats strange things. It could be food.

Mummy, Graves assumes, is the blushing human. He squints at the bottle. It’s labelled, and it takes a second for the unfamiliar script to resolve itself into something Graves can read. Lavender, it says, which the fieldnotes classify as colour and plant. Graves squints further. How can a colour be bottled. Electromagnetic radiation doesn’t listen to cork stoppers. Are the fieldnotes sure about this.

Plant, the fieldnotes insist petulantly, and Graves allows that ‘colour’ may be a translation error - he’s stuffed a lot of data into his brain in the last eighteen hours, he can’t expect it all to go right. Plants, though. Plants are carbon. Carbon is a (primitive, but workable) energy source. Plants are probably food.

“Bottoms up,” he mumbles, and removes the stopper.

Lavender, he decides, is a bit dry, a bit difficult to swallow - and yes, he can now confirm that his throat has definitely been modified to speak English, he’s only glad it didn’t need further modification to speak the small creature’s squeaking language as well - but other than that, perfectly good enough. He toasts the creature with his bottle, and she makes a hopeful gesture at the door and asks if Graves is going out.

“Ah,” Graves guesses. “Niffler. Mummy said not to let you out.”

Mummy’s a killjoy, Niffler grumbles, and crawls her way into Graves lap to curl up and sulk. Graves shrugs; Mummy has also taken him in and, from the feel of his back, poured far too much time and effort into healing him. Even his hastily-repaired knee feels better. He’s happy enough to keep Niffler in the kitchen if that’s all Mummy asks in payment.

He’s two thirds of the way through the lavender by the time Newt returns.

“Hello?” Newt calls from somewhere down a corridor. “Are you in the - oh, hello, potions lab. That’s. That’s fine. Hello.”

Graves smiles. It feels awkward. Are smiles always awkward? Maybe he’ll ask Niffler later. “I found food,” he says, holding up the mostly empty bottle of dried lavender.

Newt manfully holds his tongue about potions ingredients and food and not really quite the same. “I found clothes,” he replies, holding out the bundle. Graves puts the lavender aside and stands up to take them, toppling Niffler to the floor as he does so.

Naturally, she digs in her claws and takes the sheet with her.

Newt eeps, bright red again as he all but throws the clothes at Graves. “Wasn’t sure about your size, hope you like them, do you want tea I’ll put the kettle on kitchen down the hall,” he babbles, and flees.

Graves stares at the empty doorway, completely bemused. “Mummy is odd,” he tells Niffler.

Well obviously, she grumps, wriggling backwards out of the sheet. He’s Mummy. It’s what he does.

Graves absorbs the new information while he struggles his way into the clothes. Unlike the sheet, they don’t seem willing to stay if he wraps them round, and there seem to be too many of them for the number of limbs he has. What, he wants to know, is wrong with skin-tight nano suits. Who thought clothes were a better idea and are they still alive for Graves to explain why exactly they’re not. “Fieldnotes,” he finally says. “Help?”

The fieldnotes give him a barrage of images. The translator helpfully annotates each one; petticoat, gauntlet, jumpsuit, scuba tank.

“Ok. Niffler. Clothes go how?”

She grumbles something about clothes being ridiculous (Graves privately agrees) but manages to talk him through the way Mummy wears clothes until they make some vague amount of sense.

Buttons, on the other hand, do not. Graves admits defeat and gives up. The trousers probably are the right size but without the buttons done up they hang low and almost falling off his hips; as for the shirt, Graves is lucky to have worked out the arm holes but he leaves the front open over his bandaged chest.

The belt, he abandons. No clue. Some sort of restraint, a collar of some kind? The fieldnotes suggest using it to tie his hands to a bedpost which seems highly counterproductive. He’ll ask later.

Niffler paws imperiously at his bare foot until he bends down and lets her climb to his shoulder. Get me a sugar cube, she demands. Mummy puts them in tea. I want one.

“More food?” Graves asks. Sugarcane the translator tells him is another plant, as is sugar beet but there doesn’t seem to be an entry for sugar cube.

You won’t like them, Niffler hurries to tell him. Kitchen is through that door.

Graves hums and follows. He suspects he may have to try a sugar cube for himself before he decides if he’ll like it or not.

“Hello Mummy,” he says politely as he comes into the kitchen.

Newt spins round with wide eyes, takes in Graves’ rather lax approach to getting dressed, and brandishes a teapot in distress.

Graves pauses and frowns, confused. He has clothes. He’s found the kitchen (it’s not much less of a hazard than the potions lab). He’s not yet let Niffler escape. He’s not sure what’s wrong, but Newt is bright red again, and all but hyperventilates as Graves steps nearer to cage him against the counter.

Error, the fieldnotes protest. Data suggests current breathing method is inefficient. Lack of oxygen fatal to earth residents.

“What are you doing,” Newt asks in a rushed, high pitched breath.

Graves presses their foreheads together. Newt’s skin feels hot against his, even moreso than their different biology can account for. Fever, the translator supplies worriedly. Sign of sickness and ill health. Then the fieldnotes chime in with increasing panic: Error: sickness leads to death. Reduce fever where possible.

“I’m helping,” Graves says out loud to all three of them, and modulates his skin temperature to be cool and soothing. It costs more energy than he’d hoped and it’s unnerving to see the proof of how weak he is, but when he leans back Newt’s sudden fever is gone.

He’s still flushed, and now his pupils are wide and his breathing has stopped altogether. The fieldnotes begin to bleep in distress but the translator shushes them. Earth phrase identified: take my breath away, it says soothingly, to which the fieldnotes start shrilling about giving it back. Graves deems him probably not in danger anymore and nods in satisfaction as he steps away.

“Better?” he asks.

“Newt,” Newt blurts (semi-aquatic, pond dwelling, small creature similar in size to a finger), which is an odd thing to answer with, but then he goes on to clarify, “My name is Newt.”

He lies, Niffler says. His name is Mummy. Don’t believe him.

Newt seems a lot larger than a finger, but he was near a lake when he found Graves so Graves elects to ignore Niffler in this. “My name is unpronounceable on your planet and may vibrate your vocal chords to shreds if you tried,” he says to Newt. “But I don’t mind if you call me Graves.”

Newt stares for a long moment. “Ok,” he finally says. “Graves. Ok. Vibrate my - ok, that’s. Ok.”

Graves smiles, and, potentially, it’s less awkward than before. Maybe. Graves is working on it.

Niffler pokes him in the ear and comes dangerously close to short circuiting his auditory processors. Sugar cubes, she reminds him.

Graves scans the table for something Mummy puts in tea and solemnly hands her a teaspoon.

It’s ok, she says, patting his hand. You’ll learn.

[fiive-second-cookies]

Aromantic!Roman Logince Arranged Marriage AU??

I had an AU idea and wrote it down in bullet points as I thought about it, so here is that. Disclaimer: I am not anywhere on the aro spectrum and I’m not very knowledgeable about what it's actually like to be aro, so there’s most likely some mistakes and incorrect things. Feel free to (kindly) point out the misinformation and correct me on it. Also this is pretty long so most of it is under a cut

Warnings: slight arophobia/unaccepting parents, let me know if there’s anything else!

Arranged marriage AU ish??

Or just they have to get married for financial/safety/etc. reasons, whatever

Originally I thought Logicality but like, now I’m thinking Logince?

So Ro and Lo’s parents have them meet and make them go on a date and BAM their parents break the news like

“y’all have to get married in six months there’s no backing out so like start getting to know each other and form a relationship”

the boys aren’t happy but they Understand

except, one problem, our boy Roman is aromantic

although, he doesn’t know there’s a word for it

he just knows that he’s never thought of someone romantically, never looked at someone and wanted to be romantic with them, and the idea of being in a romantic relationship does not sit well

he doesn’t say anything for a while because it’s not like it’ll change anything, they need to get married

so the boys go on dates once or twice a week for a few months and hang out a lot

and Ro definitely thinks Logan is a great interesting person and really appreciates their new friendship

but this is a big No Romo zone

Roman tries to bring it up with his parents and explain that the marriage won’t work because he doesn’t feel That Way about Logan

but his parents say he’s just making up excuses

which hurts quite a lot

so Roman keeps going on dates and getting to know Logan better

and god is Logan an amazing person

and Roman doesn’t mind them holding hands or cuddling or having deep personal conversations or going out to dinner or dancing around the living room

in fact he quite enjoys those moments

he can’t deny that Lo brings him so much happiness

but there are no butterflies fluttering in his stomach

and the few kisses they’ve shared, however brief, have all left him feeling a bit bleh and icky

the way he feels about Logan isn’t too much different from the way he feels about his best friend Virgil

although his feelings for Lo do feel a bit different? Stronger maybe? Roman isn’t quite sure???

but he knows he doesn’t want to have a romantic relationship with Lo

so, two months before the wedding, in the midst of chaotic planning and preparations and decision-making and fittings and taste-tests

—because gosh darn it, weddings are really cute and sweet and if Roman is being forced to have his own then it’s gonna be perfect—

Roman pulls Logan aside

and explains as best he can how he feels

Logan listens intently as Roman explains that, although he feels strongly for Lo, the feelings are purely platonic

Ro is certain that Lo will be upset and call the wedding off and never speak to him again

and it doesn’t help that Lo’s only response is

”I see. Thank you for telling me, Roman. Now, please excuse me”

and then Logan leaves the room

and Ro is heartbroken

but slightly glad that he won’t be forced into a romantic relationship and marriage

but the wedding planning continues, much to Roman’s confusion

Lo and Ro don’t see each other much and don’t get much time to talk, due to being pulled left and right by their parents to make sure every little detail is perfect

they’re only around each other when they must work together to make a decision, and then the conversation is strictly about the wedding

plus, whenever they do have free time, Logan disappears somewhere by himself without a word

and yeah Roman is definitely heartbroken

one month before the wedding, Virgil and Logan’s brother, Patton, decide that Ro and Lo need a break from all the stress

so V and Pat drag the other two out to the park for a picnic

and it’s a lovely time

except that Lo and Ro only directly address each other when absolutely necessary

everyone chooses to ignore the obvious tension

they visit the local town and walk around

Logan drops by the book store to pick up something he had apparently ordered before?? but he ignores everyone’s questioning stares

later that night, Logan knocks on Ro’s door with a package

Ro takes it but his father calls him to do something before he can open it

so he forgets about it

and a few days go past and he still hasn’t opened it and Logan has been giving him weird looks and he’s not sure why??

but finally, almost a week after Lo gave it to him, Roman remembers the package and unwraps it

inside he finds a book

Just Queer Things: An Extensive Guide to All Things LGBTQ+

which is a little bit of a strange gift, Ro thinks

inside the cover there’s a note

“Dear Roman, I’ve done lots of research since our previous conversation, and this book proved to be the most useful. I believe you should skip directly to page 73. And, perhaps, to page 82. Enjoy your reading. I hope you find the information enlightening. Love, Logan.”

curiously, Roman turns to page 73

Ro gasps softly as his eyes scan the page

“Aromantic: to experience little to no romantic attraction”

Roman’s eyes fill with tears as he continues to read more about the identity

His identity

he can’t believe there’s a word for how he feels

the tears stream down his cheeks and a grin spreads across his face

after a few minutes, he wipes his eyes and takes a shaky breath, then turns to page 82

“Queer Platonic Relationship, otherwise referred to as a QPR”

when Roman finishes reading the description, he jumps up and sprints out of his room

he searches the house and asks their parents, in search of Logan

finally, he finds Lo sitting out in the middle of the field behind the house

he runs over and shouts “aromantic!!”

Logan jumps halfway into the sky and squints through the dark at Roman’s form that’s racing towards him

“you figured it out, Lo!! I’m aromantic!!”

Logan smiles at the sight of Roman’s wide grin illuminated by the moonlight

Roman crashes into Logan with a giant hug, making them both laugh

“took you long enough to open my gift,” Logan says as he wraps his arms around Roman

“thank you so much, Lo. I never would’ve figured it out without your help.”

“of course, Roman”

“I’m aromantic,” Ro breathes out with a laugh. “Everything makes sense now! I’m not weird or broken or making excuses!”

“of course not, Princey,” Logan says, pulling back to look into Ro’s eyes. “You’re not any of those things. You’re wonderful and incredible. And you’re so so valid”

they share another hug (and maybe a couple of tears shh)

and after a few moments of comfortable silence as they walk back to the house, Roman looks up at Logan

“so… what do you think about the whole QPR thing?”

Logan pretends to give it some thought before responding “I suppose it sounds quite satisfactory, don’t you?”

Roman just smiles and lets out a cheer, making Logan laugh at his little victory dance

“gosh, Roman, I’d have to say I’m very fond of you”

Roman presses a kiss to Logan’s cheek

“and I’m pretty fond of you, too, my nerdy QPP,” he responds before grabbing Lo’s hand and dragging him back to the house

Ta da! Hope you enjoyed! This is the original basics that I wrote first, but I’ve thought a little bit more about other details in this AU, so let me know if you wanna hear more? Reblogs are appreciated!

(Hey @the-princey-pie and @royalnerd829, y’all asked me to share it)

[honestlyfrance]

Title: No Hesitation Square Filled: Assassins AU Warnings: cursing Summary: Bucky Barnes had a target: Sam Wilson, and just because the man was pretty good looking doesn’t mean he’s not gonna pull the trigger.

A/N: In Bucky’s POV! for the @sambuckyevents​ bingo cards!! i’m absolutely in love with the squares, love, just so you know

—

You must remember that I am an international assassin, and I do not fuck things up so easily when it comes to my job. I once was assassinating against my will, until the coding in me began to fade away and I became more human—I walked away from HYDRA with so much blackmail and secrets that could cause the world to collapse. I haven’t seemed to falter in my deadpan expression until this target had caught me off guard.

Samuel Thomas Wilson. Sam. Works at the Veteran’s Affairs. Lives in D.C. Washington. Jogs at ungodly hours every day. He’s got that cute smile he got going on whenever he yelled during his runs, and I agree wholeheartedly; anyone who calls yelling during runs weird is invalid and doesn’t know that it helps so much.

I’ve been watching this man an awful lot now, seeing him in some places before he became my target, but seeing him so open and bare sent me backward in time. Sam Wilson was a bastard, in my opinion, and he had no right to look that good as the red streaks of sunlight settled on his cheekbones. 

Was he even real?

He’s a twenty million dollar target, and I deserve to slow down on this.

I’m situated by the damned building that he kept passing on his jog, the Lincoln Memorial, and I see him through my scope, jogging at a steady pace in a sweatshirt and shorts, getting his routine on the go. I’ve only watched him from this point of view yet I have learned so much from him.

Actually, no I don’t.

Which was probably why I let myself linger on this case for a full week before pulling the trigger.

The time I found my place was when I woke up at three a.m. to eye where his usual routine was, and he was there thirty minutes later jogging; I didn’t even see him by the Monument, he just passed by me when I was walking up the goddamned steps. The fuck? I’ve seen things more ridiculous than this before the sun had risen, but I have to admit, a target that wakes up before four in the morning to do mundane things is completely out of my lane.

I mean, look at me: I woke up at two in the morning so I could set my rifle. There’s crazy shit happening in two in the morning.

I have then dedicated the first two days of my given time to study Sam Wilson and his habit, and all I learned so far was that he comes at the same time on the same path, and he did not once flinch or bothered to look around when I threw some rocks or made some suspicious noise on purpose. It was as if this man didn’t care if I just blocked him mid-jog and pulled out a SIG Sauer P226 and buried his decaying corpse in New Jersey. 

The third day, however: Sam Wilson came in a few minutes late, just eight minutes, and he jogged at his usual place; this was when I hid behind the trees instead, and I was so close to him. That’s when I saw the thigh holster on him, and there I deducted from the shape his shorts formed that it was a small weapon. Just seeing it sent shivers down my spine, electrifying me in a way I didn’t understand. The possibility of having to encounter him in combat then aroused me somehow, and strangely enough, I could see him pulling out the knife and striking me without hesitation. 

I went back to my first hiding spot behind some columns in Lincoln Memorial.

Everything else became mundane. I watched him through the scope of my rifle as I lay on my stomach, hidden by the shadows. The sky would then turn a dark violet as Sam Wilson passed by me several times, and his ignorance only proved fruitful; there’s a sick part of me that wishes he’d discover me, and then I realized I was just starved of companionship. I’ve come across a lot of targets who were skilled in combat, but there was something human about this man that made me reel into his persona. I never knew I could want to know someone this badly, badly enough to risk my profession and safety.

I only became my assassin-for-hire when my empty pockets burned a hole on my skin; it granted me the fear of the people, and I know that the only way to keep people away from you was to make them fear you. It’s not my fault they’re afraid of me though. It’s also not my fault I kill people for a living. I was hungry, starved, abused—I knew that the only way to survive was to kill instead of dying. 

I mean, that’s what I knew.

It was on my fourth day that I decided that enough was enough, shooting Sam Wilson blank in the forehead was like shooting a sitting duck. He’s a clear shot. No one came into the picture until five in the morning, so I’ve got two hours of a window. It was too perfect. Sam Wilson was too perfect.

He’s walking now, oblivious to my presence, and I feel so giddy.

As an assassin, my targets tend to see me as their last sight they’d see before they pass. So the fifth day was pretty confusing.

It was barely three in the morning when I crouched down in the same Lincoln Memorial I’ve made a home myself for. I saw my target approaching, Sam Wilson in all of his sweatshirt glory. His way of jogging was with arms leveled by his chest, leaned forward just a bit, and his knees moving him along, so it was not a surprise when he fixed his sleeves as he jogged.

Then I think: Shit.

A bullet flew into me, knocking me over right after I pulled the trigger. I staggered back onto my side as I bring my body behind the column, clutching the area between my shoulder and neck, right by my collarbone. A few seconds later I recovered from the strong push of the bullet, patting myself on the back for the super-soldier serum and the bulletproof vest I wore. I quit my panting and listened in, but I didn’t even hear the wind; there was a ringing in my ear. With my metal hand, I picked at the bullet lodged in my clothes, and a few seconds later I crushed the bullet between my fingers, cursing at the blinking red LED light that dulled and died. It was a smart move, distracting me with a damn ringing ear.

Then I remembered my bullet.

I pulled out a compact mirror and angled it, and there I saw Sam Wilson in his glory with knitted eyebrows as he gaped at the column I hid behind. I watched for a long moment, noticing that he was clutching the middle of his chest. He rubbed on it, but he didn’t make a sign or move that he was going to keep going on his jog. Well, okay—Committed much. I did ruin his routine, but was it entirely my fault when he held the Glock 16 in his hand?

“Hands where I can see them.”

He’s right above me. 

I look up at him, and his eyes contorted for a moment into bafflement, but his lips still sneered. I mean, I would too if I looked at myself: the mask over my eyes seemed like it came from a comic book, and the mask over my mouth looked more like a muzzle than to hide my face, add that to the long hair and the holsters on my thighs, flesh arm, and back, I’m what you would think to see when you look up the word “assassin.”

I raised my hands. Sam Wilson nudged my rifle away from me. He nodded at me as his gun steadied itself on my forehead. “Buyer,” he said, and his voice was so smooth and rough at the same time, and there’s a sense of exhaustion in his tone that I liked somehow. “I want it. Who paid you?”

I decided that if out of all the hundred targets I’ve been commissioned to take out, I want my hundredth target to kill me off right after I said something that made them shoot me in the first place. “Me? I should be asking you. You have nice hands on that gun. How much did they pay you?” I laughed dryly, and I saw his eyes squint under the darkness. He didn’t shoot me though, or yet; I feel relieved, however. I don’t know why.

I nodded subtly. “Twenty million.” I knelt before him, my eyes intent on his every move. I don’t feel vulnerable in his presence, but I do feel a little bit embarrassed. The price seemed too high, and it made it seem I was a professional, so it was pretty awkward to say my check out loud when I’ve screwed so hard. 

He jerked his head. “Half a billion,” he said.

Then I think: That’s hot.

“Honestly, what the fuck, V.A.,” I said, completely in disbelief. What he said implied two things: he was paid too, and he was a killer-for-hire too; it only made my head spin as I straightened all of my thoughts. “You were the only honest thing I’ve encountered in the past years,” and my voice became small at the end, and there’s this pounding feeling in my chest I didn’t think was possible. Was this a side-effect of the serum? “And… I… I hesitated…” my eyebrows knitted and my forehead creased. My eyes lowered to the ground but I raised my chin high.

Sam Wilson raised his head, watching my every move. “Your client, Winter Soldier.”

I haven’t heard that code name in a while.

“Alexander Pierce,” I say, and he curses at himself and dropped his arms.

“S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Sam Wilson said, and the way he carried the tone made me want to change his grimace into that smile once more. “Pierce is S.H.I.E.L.D.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I knew him to be HYDRA.” and it clicked.

Huh.

Sam Wilson crouched down in front of me, sitting on his toes as he looked me in the eye like I was a scolded child; so what? I feel like a child around him, so young and innocent, and it makes me feel so good. “Listen to me,” his hand tightened on his gun. “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes and you’re a war hero. Steve Rogers tells me all about you, Bucky— That’s your name. You still with me?”

I blinked for a moment, then I nod.

“I’ve done my homework on you and I can pretty much tell you that our client is messing with us, intent on killing us both off with each other. He didn’t tell me directly to shoot you, but he ordered to kill the Winter Soldier the moment the assassin breathed,” There’s something soft in Sam Wilson’s eyes that lulled me into a daze, and for a moment I lost my grasp on his words, barely realizing that he was talking about my life. “—Bucky. Hey, Buck. We don’t have to do this.”

I watch him set his gun on the floor and slide it away from us. It slid down the steps, making a thumping noise as it went down its way on the pavement. The sky became a noticeable purple now.

I wanted to test something out because just because I like him doesn’t mean I trust him yet.

I pulled out my knife from the small of my back and he pulled out his own from his thigh holster. He blocked my right strike with a defensive right, our knifes barely colliding. I pushed him on the chest, and I set my body above him, pinning him down successfully; I twisted his right arm above his head and his left splayed on the floor. We panted, but we weren’t exhausted by the actions.

“What was that for?” Sam Wilson whispered.

“I always wanted to do that to you.”

Sam Wilson grinned for a slight second before his lips contorted into a grimace. “You wanted to pin me down on top of me? That’s… blunt.”

I sputtered, on my elbows as I looked at his glad eyes. I felt my face paint itself into an embarrassed expression, and I could feel my face flush as I couldn’t help the smile coming on my lips. “No— No—No— I,” my eyes stumbled on his defenseless body below me. I stumble as I got off of him, but I only got up halfway as I explained to him. “I wanted you to pull a knife on me.”

“What?” He chortled.

Fuck.

I made a whining sound as I bring my hands on my cheeks; then Sam Wilson rested on his elbows as I sat on my heels. I removed both of my masks, his eyes scanning my every move, and it was making me insecure for a bit. There was not a moment I was this vulnerable, and even if there was a time that did happen, I couldn’t seem to imagine it without this man.

“Have I met you before?” I asked, my smile coming together; it hurts, to smile like this. My face didn’t seem to exercise smiling enough. “Like, in another time, or?”

Sam Wilson shook his head, sighing. “Highway somewhere there,” he jerked his head into a direction, but I was too preoccupied with his body language. His body read: comfortable—I was jealous for a moment before I reminded himself that he made himself comfortable for me. “We were fighting. Helicarrier, too. You ripped off my wings.”

“I’m sorry. Did you fix them, anyhow?”

Sam Wilson tilted his head back, his tongue poking the side of his cheek for a moment. He turned his head away then he raised an eyebrow at me, and there were a million expressions on his face that I couldn’t keep up with. “Not the question,” he said. “What are you gonna tell your client when you let me out of this alive?”

I raised my chin at that question, raising an eyebrow. “If I let you out, he says. Hmph. I don’t even know if you’ll let me out alive.”

“Of course I would. Half a billion was a reward, and I don’t need those things right now.”

“Then what do you need right now?”

He looked upwards as he hummed in thought quite playfully, and I crack a grin. We were so comfortable with each other it seemed impossible for me to think that just a few minutes ago we just shot at each other on purpose while knowing who the other was. 

Sam Wilson shrugged, and his lips matched my grin. “I want to get out of S.H.I.E.L.D. and its toxicity. I wanted it so much it became a need.”

Then, my mind clicked.

I didn’t know if in the past life I was just naturally reckless, but the idea that I would begin to pitch seemed bonkers.

“I know a guy,” I said. My voice became a whisper, and he leaned in close until my lips almost kissed his gentle ear. “She’s a covert-op. Best. Black Widow. She could handle us. We’d run away after she does her job.”

He turned towards me and he’s breathing my air. I don’t seem to mind it. “Natasha Romanoff,” he says, and it’s like we’re sharing secrets. “She’s good at her job. I trust a man who trusts that woman.”

“I’m that man,” I nod.

My stomach flips when he smiled at me, his eyebrows creasing. I drown in it for a moment, and in the background, the sunrise gave his face a nice halo, one that made me believe angels existed in this universe. I never knew a time I saw an angel as human as he was.

Newspapers cried a few hours later: WINTER SOLDIER AND THE FALCON, DEAD AFTER REVEALING S.H.I.E.L.D SECRETS. On the bottom, you would read that their bodies were still being fished out of the river and that the Black Widow had helped with the taking down of HYDRA as well as Captain America. It was a roller coaster of events. It made me sick to think of it.

The whole world thinks I’m dead.

After a few whole amnesia-filled years of thinking that I wanted to be known, as I feel so deeply with Sam Wilson, I think: Maybe being dead doesn’t mean to be fully missing.

I’ve been found. I can’t imagine a world where I wouldn’t look for him too.

[dracoqueen22]

Making Friends I - Conversation Starter

Title: Conversation Starter Universe: Tethers Characters: Tempest Teapot, Dakota Sorrel, Rathi of the Cinders, Easton Rating: K+/G Desc: Tempest is surrounded by pretty people, but Easton is the newest face, and so it must be up to her to make the first overture. 

Easton loitered in the periphery of their camp like a stray animal who couldn't decide if he wanted to be kept or not. He sat on a stump, legs curled lotus beneath him, long white braid tucked over a shoulder, studiously ignoring their entire party. Tempest couldn't stop staring. He was so pretty. Pretty like women were pretty. She didn't know men could be so pretty. She imagined him painted up like a princess, his hair dripping in jewels, his body draped in fine materials, perhaps a dress to swish around his ankles. Oh, they’d suit him well. He was pretty enough for it. She gnawed on a strip of dried venison and contemplated their guide. He was tall, too. A little on the thin side. Gods, he had the longest legs, too. They went on for days. He wielded a longbow, which meant he had strong arms and hands. Good for lifting things. "You're drooling," Dakota said. "I'm not!" Tempest said. Except maybe she was. So she wiped at the corner of her mouth.

"He's so pretty," she mumbled around the meat. She shifted her weight, calves aching a bit from the casual crouch she'd dropped into.

"Aye, and likely to bite your head off if you try, so don't bother," Dakota grumbled as he bent over the new pair of socks he was knitting for her. It was a strange thing. Her socks kept getting holes in them, right at the tip where her big toe was. She went through socks like most people went through... well, something they tend to go through quickly anyway. "Maybe he's nicer on a one-by-one basis," Tempest contemplated aloud. She sucked her fingers clean. "He just needs to get to know us." "I don't think that's going to help," Dakota warned, but there wasn't much strength behind it. Just a kind of tired resignation. Good. He was learning. Tempest stood up, hissed when her calves protested, and bent over to rub at them. "I'm going to go talk to him," she declared after the initial spasms ended. Dakota sighed. Tempest adjusted her clothing, dragged a hand through her hair, and then realized she'd kind of dragged a bunch of jerky-spit through her curls, too. Oops. "Wish me luck," she said and picked her way through the camp, skirting around the low fire and tossing a wink at Rathi as she passed. "You beat me to it," Rathi said with a slanted look at Easton, a bit of hunger in her eyes. Tempest couldn't blame her. He was so damn pretty. Then again, their whole party was gorgeous. Tempest wondered how she got so lucky to be able to travel with a whole group of pretty, pretty people. She could ogle all day and never get bored, except Dakota. He was pretty in his own way, but Tempest didn’t ogle him. That would be weird, and a little gross. He was like her little brother. She had to keep an eye on him for his safety, not for ogling him. "You can have the leftovers," Tempest promised. Rathi chuckled, and Tempest let her be, approaching Easton without bothering to hide the fact she was doing so. She didn't want to sneak up on him. He seemed like the type to shoot first and ask questions later. Closer now, she could see he was reading. He balanced easily on the log, and a book was open in his lap. He leaned to the side, one elbow on his knee, chin balanced on his knuckles, and though he looked completely absorbed in the book, Tempest figured he had to be paying attention to his surroundings. He had to know she was coming. Still, she tromped extra loud on a few crunchy leaves just to make sure. Easton’s short-sword was within reach, and though she couldn’t see the longbow, she figured it was close at hand and ready to draw in a flash. “Isn’t it too dim for you to see that?” Tempest asked as she moved to crouch in front of Easton, so that he couldn’t hide from her by looking down. He turned a page without meeting her gaze. “I have dark-vision,” he said. He had a deep voice, deeper than she would have expected for someone so lithe. Tempest propped her elbow on a knee and her chin on her palm. “Oh. Well, that’s handy. I wish I had dark-vision.” He said nothing. He focused on his book as if he thought she’d give up and go away, probably in an annoyed huff. Well, Dakota would. Probably Tyrael, too. Not Tempest though. Her curiosity outweighed all of it. He had such pretty eyes, too. They were honey-brown, but toward the pupil, they were an amber-red in little uneven spikes. She thought he was maybe a half-elf or something, because he had those slightly pointed ears, and most elves were of the lithe sort. “Whatcha reading?” Tempest asked. She didn’t understand the fascination with reading herself. Books were boring. Sitting in one place to read a book was even more boring. There were much better ways to spend her time. Easton tilted the book so she could see the spine and the cover and the title. Not that it helped. Tempest could read, but not whatever this language was. The writing was broad and looping and the letters made no sense to her. “Okay, so I can mostly read Common, and I can kinda speak Elvish when someone is talking to me nice and slow, but there’s no way I know what this is,” Tempest said. She could also speak Halfling, but doubted that was relevant. He lowered the book so it was easier for him to see. “Then you don’t need to know what it is.” “Wow.” Tempest’s eyebrows crawled toward her hairline. “You’re nice to look at, but you’re kind of a jerk, aren’t you?” Easton blinked and finally looked at her. He lifted one sculpted eyebrow -- did he sculpt those himself? “Should I be something else?” “Huh?” “We’re strangers,” Easton pointed out. He sounded impatient and put out, like her very presence grated on him. He hadn’t told her to leave yet though so she figured she was winning as long as he didn’t say it outright. Tempest pushed air through her lips. “So?” She stared at him, like Blizzara used to stare at people who were being rude and ought to know better. “Doesn’t mean you have to be rude about it.” Easton, without taking his eyes away from her, marked his place in the book and closed it, resting one hand on the cover. “What do you want?” Ohhh. Progress! Tempest grinned and rocked a bit where she crouched. “You said it. We’re strangers. How about let’s fix that?” “And if I’m not interested?” He had a weird way of talking, too, lingering on certain words like someone told him he was supposed to emphasize them, but he kept forgetting which ones it was. Maybe Common wasn’t his native tongue. Tempest tilted her head, aiming her left ear toward him so she could hear better. “That would be a shame. I’m a pretty interesting person.” His lips twitched, like he was fighting off the urge to smile. “An odd one at least.” “You probably think you’re insultin’ me, but you’re not,” Tempest squinted at him. She swallowed a laugh because she thought that might make him clam back up, and she was already making progress. Besides, looking at him was hardly a trial. He was just so goddamn pretty. “I rest my case,” he said, but there was a shadow of a smile in his lips, on the edges. She wondered what he’d look like with a real smile, with his eyes bright from humor or happiness. Tempest grinned and pointed at his mouth. “I saw that.” He, however, pretended she hadn’t said anything. He gave her a keen look, like he was measuring her, probably in the same way she’d measured him. “... Tempest, right?” “You remembered!” Tempest stood up, wincing as her calves protested, and shifted from foot to foot. “I’m proud of you. See, we’re not as much strangers as you thought.” He rolled his eyes, and some of the tension in his shoulders eased away. He looked at her directly which was nice because Tempest did not want to have to crouch again. Her calves did not like it. “Now you’re being a smart-ass.” “What gave me away?” Easton snorted and sat back a little on the log, looking more engaged this time. “Fine,” he said, with a vague gesture. “What do you want to know?” Oh, boy. So, so much. But she had to be careful or she’d scare Easton away. “Hmm.” Tempest tapped her chin before planting her hands on her hips. “What were you reading?” “It’s a bestiary.” Tempest blinked. “A what?” One of Easton’s lips curled with amusement. “Bestiary,” he said, repeating the word slowly. “They’re encyclopedias of various creatures.” “Does it have pictures?” “A few.” Tempest frowned and rocked back and forth on her heels. “I prefer pictures,” she said, and decided to tiptoe into more personal questions, maybe get him to open up. You had to be careful with these stubborn, asshole types. They clammed up faster than a… well, clam. “Where are you from?” Easton’s lips thinned. His face immediately closed down, and Tempest cursed herself for asking the wrong question. “Nowhere in particular,” he said, and his voice grew thicker, as did his accent, like words were the hardest thing to manage. “It doesn’t matter.” “Sad past, huh?” Tempest asked, careful to keep her tone light and airy, like she wasn’t really invested in the answer, even though she most definitely was. Easton squinted. “What makes you say that?” Tempest tilted her head from side to side, staring up into the canopy of the trees. “Dakota gives me the same answer when I ask him about his hometown. I put two and two together.” “Perceptive of you,” Easton said. “I’m a perceptive person!” “Except for the part where I wanted to be left alone.” Easton picked up his book and brought it into his lap once more, opening it to the marked place. Damn. She was losing him. “No one really wants to be alone,” Tempest said, because she knew this to be true. People might say they wanted solitude, but the truth was, they just didn’t want to be hurt anymore, and couldn’t trust the world wouldn’t hurt them. “I do,” Easton said. Tempest scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Then you’re lying.” “Am I.” It wasn’t a question, not the way Easton said it. His head tipped down, back to his book, and Tempest was left looking at the crown of his head, the intricate knot of his long, white braid. She wondered how soft his hair was, or if he liked it being pulled. “We’re done here.” Tempest opened her mouth to speak, but then snapped it back shut. Easton and Dakota were a lot alike, but she got the feeling, she couldn’t push Easton quite like she pushed Dakota. With Dakota, there was a little kernel of affection she could prod at. Tempest knew the name of that kernel only because Dakota had muttered it in his sleep once. Mathias. His little brother. Who Dakota loved above all else. Tempest knew her existence tapped into the part of Dakota desperate to care for another person, and Tempest was willing to slide into that slot, if it brought Dakota out of his shell. Easton, however. Easton would need a different approach. So Tempest smiled brightly, though Easton wasn’t looking at her. “Alright, well, enjoy your book.” She left with a parting wave, but Easton didn’t acknowledge her departure. He kept his attention focused on his book as though it held all the mysteries of the universe. Well, it was a start at least. Tempest hummed to herself as she traced her route back to Dakota’s side, passing Rathi along on the way and offering her a wink. Rathi gave her a thumbs up, but went back to whatever quiet conversation she was having with Celeste. Tyrael was already asleep, wrapped up in his blanket and curled in the roots of a tree. Dakota didn’t look up when she approached, but he spoke when she flopped onto the forest floor beside him. “How’d it go?” Tempest grinned and folded her arms behind her head, looking up at the stars through the canopy of trees. “I’m going to adopt him.” “I don’t think that’s how it works,” Dakota said, and there was a hint of chastisement in his tone, probably a tone he’d used with his younger brother too many times for him to count. “Why not?” She slanted him a look, idly noticing that he needed a haircut sooner rather than later. “I adopted you.” Dakota’s brow furrowed, but then he peered at the yarn wrapped around his fingers, and Tempest assumed he was frowning at a knot. “I am reasonably certain it was the other way around.” “That’s what you think,” Tempest said. She watched Dakota for a moment. It never ceased to fascinate her, how deftly his fingers moved, almost too quick to track. How he could take a bundle of colorful yarn and within an hour, a sock had taken shape. She’d always heard orcs were clumsy, brutish creatures, but there’s nothing clumsy about Dakota. Tempest figured a lot of stories she’d heard about a lot of things were just that – stories. They didn’t often match the reality of a thing. “He’s lonely,” Tempest added after a minute. Dakota snorted. “I doubt that very much.” “He is. He just doesn’t want to admit it, so he’s a jerk to people.” “What makes you say that?” Dakota asked as he squinted at his work, in much the same way Easton had squinted at the pages of his book. Tempest crossed one leg over the opposite knee and set her foot to bouncing. “You two are a lot alike.” Unsurprisingly, Dakota said nothing. His face darkened into a glower, and he sighed, doing something with the yarn in his hands. He shook out the sock, in all its garish colors because he knew Tempest liked having ridiculous socks. “Let me see your foot,” he finally said. Tempest stuck her foot in his lap, her worn socks covered with dirt and leaves, her big toe sticking out of the hole. She wiggled her toes. Dakota rolled his eyes, but he held up the sock to the bottom of her foot to check the fit as if this wasn’t the fourth pair he’d knitted for her. He checked the fit every time, and Tempest wondered, had he done this for Mathias, too? Had he knit socks for his younger brother, and had to check the fit as Mathias had grown? “It’ll work,” he said. “Take your dirty foot back.” Tempest grinned and obeyed. “We’re gonna keep him,” she said, slanting a look at Easton, who she could barely see around the crackle of the fire, still bent over his book and studiously ignoring everyone else in the party. “I guess we’ll have to see which of us is right,” Dakota said, and went back to work on her socks. Pah. Tempest already knew what the end result was going to be. Easton was one of them. He just didn’t know it yet. ***

a/n: Feedback is absolutely welcome! Feel free to reblog, chat in the tags, send me some comments... etc. I’d love to know what people think of my characters, the universe, etc. This is gonna be a pretty hefty series, I promise! I’ve got loads and loads more content to come. 

[until-we-fall-in-love]

(remember me, love,) when i’m reborn: chapter two

Read the Prologue - Read Chapter One -

(remember me, love,) when i’m reborn Masterlist

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader, Natasha Romanov x Reader if you squint

Summary: You play careful games in order to lead Fury and Natasha in the right directions.

Warnings: light smut, mentions of abuse/Bucky’s torture

If you are under 18, you should not be reading this!

A/N: hello again!! thank you to those who are giving comments and feedback and whatnot!! it means a lot to me!! i hope you guys enjoy this chapter, let me know what you think!!

Read on Ao3

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Chapter Two: Sublime

2015

Two years of gathering information on Project Insight, on watching it slowly, painstakingly be built in the belly of SHIELD, masquerading as good, leaves you feeling restless. As if you are waiting for something to explode and expand in your face. You’re on some sort of precipice, a calm before the storm.

Pierce grows weary of Steve. You have befriended him in some way over the years, though tried to keep him at a distance after the first night. With all that you know, it feels too strange, too much like betrayal.

But occasionally, Steve surprises you. And you surprise yourself. It’s hard not to give into him at times. You remember fleeting moments, when he’d gotten too close to kissing you, when you’d gotten too close to kissing him. And the occasional moments that the distance had closed entirely between the two of you, left you trembling and full of adoration or desire for him, near desperate to be so close to him again. But then thoughts of Bucky would flood your mind, overwhelm you, threaten to choke you. All of those secrets you have tucked so deeply inside of you suddenly sit heavy on your shoulders, press hard into your back.

And as if Steve can tell, he asks you, pensive and soft;

“What’s holding you back?”

“What are you shouldering, sweetheart?”

“Do you want to talk, honey?”

And each time, you tell him it’s nothing, each time you tell him you’re fine. You don’t know how to explain why you fight your draw to him, the way you try and put distance between the two of you. You know it confuses him; the way in which you recede from him after almost falling into his arms, into his bed, into his love again and again.

It’s so damn tempting, when he looks at you like you’re valuable and dear to him. As if you could nearly be the whole world; a devotee. Loyal until the bitter, fading end of it all. There’s a desperation between you two, one that you hadn’t known existed inside of Steve. There’s a hunger in him for you, a little darker than you’d thought; he tastes too similar to Bucky sometimes, in those sparse moments that you give in to your sudden, sparking need for him.

You remember when he’d asked for your birthday, something you hadn’t mentioned to anyone since your sister had died. There was never a celebration, barely a happy birthday, if you even saw her that day. And Bucky didn’t even know the decade, you wouldn’t bother him with something as trivial as your birthday. But Steve had asked and you’d told him. You expected him to forget, you expected nothing. However, when the day rolled around, he’d caught you in your office.

You’d been about to leave to meet with Pierce, standing in front of your desk, gathering papers to bring to him when Steve had walked in. You’d turned at the sound of the door, found him with a small cupcake in his hand, a candle standing tall from the lightly blue frosting of it. And surprise had flickered through you, heart squeezing because you-- you didn’t think you had ever blown out a candle on your birthday. No wishes, no dreams, no hopes for you in your world without stars. Only wide, empty darkness.

But here Steve was, remembering you. Giving you a wish, a flash of brilliant, aching hope.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.” He’d said all soft and fond and he’d gone in to press a kiss to your cheek.

But you’d been so caught up in your sudden emotions, so overwhelmed with the thought of being remembered, of feeling suddenly cared for that you’d turned and caught him in a proper kiss. And he’d made a noise of surprise, set the cupcake off to the side of your desk and eagerly, hungrily, kissed you back.

And it was as if a key slid into a lock; you opened for him, let him in.

You hadn’t been ready for the full force of him, of his desire. His hands were everywhere then; on your cheek, dragging to cup your jaw, the back of your neck. Into your hair. Pulling you flush to him, gripping your waist tight. As if you’d disappear if he didn’t. Maybe you would.

Your head had spun with him, with the desperate nip of your bottom lip, the way he pressed you into the edge of your desk, knee going between your legs. You’d whimpered, swallowed by the deep kiss he gave you.

You were heady with him, dizzy, control slipping, and when you pulled away, his eyes were fever bright before his lips slid to your neck. Claiming, sucking kisses and bites made you cling to his large frame, dig nails into his shoulders.

One hand slid between your legs, right beneath your skirt that was now rucked up high on your thighs. His fingers were quick, slid against the fabric of the lace of your underwear and you’d squirmed, jolted under his bruising grip.

Faintly, you’d wondered if you were only human, would his grip be too tight? Would he be hurting? It didn’t matter now-- not as you arched into him, hips pushing needy into his willing hands.

“I’ve missed you,” He had said low, into your neck, “I can’t get you out of my head.” He half-growled, as if you drove him insane, and he gave you a firmer stroke of his fingers.

And even if you wanted to agree, to keep rocking your hips into him, to show him just how much you appreciated the cupcake, the kindness; a flash of guilt had hit you like lightning. His words forced you to recall Bucky, the way he always sang praises, told you he missed you, that you were his. Your heart had dropped into your stomach with it all then.

“Steve,” You’d gasped, warning in your voice. He seemed to have sensed it because he’d gripped you a little tighter.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” He’d near begged and it could’ve been your undoing. “Just let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good.”

You almost gave in, almost said fuck it, but you sucked in breath, forced your head to clear. “Steve,” You half-pleaded with him, voice dropping to a whisper, “I can’t.”

And that seemed to lift the haze of desire from him, letting his hand fall from between your legs. He stayed near for a moment, though, still crowding you against your desk. You didn’t want his warmth to leave, but you couldn’t stop thinking about Bucky. “Okay,” He’d murmured, accepted your rejection like everything he did; with a sense of grace, of honor, and respect. Your heart twisted.

So he stepped away from you, cheeks tinged pink. He’d looked at you then, eyes still strangely bright, feverish with you, opened his mouth to speak again--

But now Pierce looks at you with beady, blue eyes, dragging you back to the present, memory lifting like a thin haze of early mornings. “I want you to keep an eye on Captain Rogers, do you understand me? I don’t want him getting in the way of anything.”

You’d blinked up at him, eyebrow quirking.

“Can you handle that? Or does your relationship with him jeopardize that?” Pierce snaps and it makes you bristle. You hate that Pierce knows of anything between you and Steve or you and Bucky. You want to covet your relationship with each, keep them safe, guarded and tucked away.

But your face remains aloof, save for the slight roll of your eyes, “There’s no relationship for me. This won’t be an issue.”

Pierce considers this, “Does he trust you?”

“He’s very trusting.”

“Good.” Pierce decides, “Good, we could use that perhaps. Keep it, then. And watch him.”

“I will.” You promise, though know now that you need to pay a little visit to Nick Fury.

Which you do, almost directly after Pierce has left you. You walk into Nicky Fury’s office unannounced and you aren’t intimidated by the way he levels you with a slight, irritated glare. You stand tall regardless. Unfortunately, Natasha is nowhere in sight. She trusts you more than Fury does. Regardless, you have at least some of Fury’s trust because you are Pierce’s assistant. He has no idea the betrayal that lies beneath him. You intend to change that.

You know that Pierce has not only tasked you with the job of watching Steve and being sure he stays out of HYDRA’s way. You know Agent Rumlow is also keeping a keen eye on the Captain and that makes your skin crawl.

You want to even the playing fields.

“Pierce has requested a shadow on Captain Rogers, for his own safety.” You say, “He tasked me with finding an agent we trust to do so. Any recommendations, Director Fury?” Your lie comes easily and you pray it doesn’t wind up coming back to bite you. If Fury brings anything up to Pierce…

“Why is he concerned with Captain Rogers safety?” Fury asks, scrutinizing you. You don’t flinch away from his gaze.

“Precaution. You know Alexander.” You reply easily, “He fears that Captain Rogers attracts far more attention than the usual field agent given his...status as an Avenger.”

Fury considers this, silent for a moment. You try to remain open faced and casual as you stand in front of him.

After a moment, he says, “I’ll enlist one of my agents.”

“Do you have one in mind? I’d like to let Mr. Pierce know who it is.” You lie, you have no intention of telling Pierce, but you need to be sure Fury chooses a SHIELD agent, not a HYDRA one masquerading as such. You want at least one more person keeping an eye on Steve. If anything happened to him and you knew, and didn’t try and stop it--

Nick sighs, leans back in his chair a moment. “I do.” He finally says, and then, “Tell him I’ll enlist Agent Thirteen to look out for Captain Rogers.”

You think back, wracking your brain for a moment to place a face to that name. Honey blonde, dark eyes. Sharon, is her name, you think. Sharon Carter. You release a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, worry unfurling from your chest. She’s SHIELD through and through.

“I’ll tell Mr. Pierce. Thank you, Director Fury.” You respond, and move to take your leave. But just as you are about to leave, you pause by the door, “And sir?”

He picks his head back up and looks at you once more.

“Do you, by any chance, know where Natasha is?”

-----------------------------------------

You find Natasha in one of the gyms, where she is seated on a bench, water bottle beside her. Her hands are wrapped, her face glistening with sweat, hair tousled and pulled away from her face. You are a stark difference from her at the moment, in your pencil skirt and heels that click and echo on the gym floor.

She picks her head up, green eyes lighting up when she sees you.

“Natasha,” You greet, give her name the lilting, Russian pronunciation it was meant to have.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” She asks, a slight smile pulling at her lips.

You move to sit beside her on the bench, primly, folding your hands into your lap. You cross one leg over the other and tilt your head, gazing at her, “Can’t a friend visit a friend?” You ask.

“Are we friends?” She replies, mischief glittering in her eyes. And though she is part teasing, part cheshire, there is another genuine question that hangs between you both. Your relationship predates SHIELD, predates all of this and you remember her in fleeting, smoky memories; sticky, lip gloss kisses and smeared lipstick down your neck, skimming knives tucked away on her body and sly, smirking lips. Rolling, dirty Russian words husked between kisses, between bodies.

You’re both definitely….something. Not quite friends, not quite exes, not quite lovers. Your moments with Natasha in the past were quick and surreal, like some sort of far off fever dream. There was no distinguishable beginning or end with your relationship, it simply appeared when she did, disappeared when you did.

But you know odd quirks about her. You know she has a wicked scar on her shoulder blade, another on the top of her right thigh. And of course, the one Bucky gave her on the lower part of her waist. You’d kissed it soft when you’d found it; it’d been still pretty new at the time. She’d told you of her encounter with the Winter Soldier afterwards, entirely clueless to your connection to him.

You were glad it had only left a scar.

“If you’d like to be.” You respond aloofly.

Natasha hums in amusement at your response, “And would you like to be?”

Your instinct is to say yes. Desperately, you realize, you want a friend. Need a friend. You wished you weren’t so alone in all of this. Your chest tightens, loneliness and frustration claw at you, tear you apart from the inside out. You wish you could tell her everything suddenly, wish you could let go of all the secrets you’re keeping so tightly coiled inside of you. You swear you’ll burst one of these days;

SHIELD is actually run by HYDRA.

I was made from the same serum Steve Rogers was.

I’m not Pierce’s willing assistant. My sister was killed for him.

The Winter Soldier is James Buchanan Barnes, Steve’s old best friend.

And I’m caught between them somehow--

“I could use a friend.” You admit carefully, giving her a sideways glance.

“Just a friend?”

“Just a friend.” You exhale, turning to look at her. And maybe there’s something in your eyes, something she catches, because she asks very bluntly;

“Is it Rogers?”

You blink, heart swooping low inside of you for a moment, “What--”

“Is it Rogers that you’ve got on your mind?” She presses and you can’t tell if she’s curious or jealous or both. Maybe neither.

“We’re just…” Your voice trails off because are you friends with him, too? Can you say that? “There’s nothing between us.” You half-lie. You aren’t even sure if that’s true, but you force yourself to believe it. You have Bucky, you can’t have Steve, too. Or even Natasha.

You can tell she doesn’t quite believe you, but regardless, she drops the topic. Maybe she can see how conflicted you are, the distress that creeps over your features, the guilt and emotions that roll deep inside of you.

How many more secrets can you keep? How much more entangled can you become with all of them?

These secrets won’t last forever. You only hope that if they’re going to leak, if they’re going to come spilling out like a flood, you’ll be able to make it out with Bucky. Steve and Natasha will be able to escape fire, too. You don’t know when they became so important to you, too, but you need to ensure their safety. So after a moment, you speak to Natasha in Russian;

“I need you to be cautious.”

Natasha cocks a brow at you, “I’m always cautious.”

You swallow. Some deep, intrinsic part of you knows you can trust Natasha not to let anything you say slip-- or perhaps you’re so desperate to share, you convince yourself of it. Regardless, you turn to face her.

“Do you know how I got to SHIELD?”

Natasha quirks a brow at you, then shrugs her shoulders in a slow rise and drop of them, “The same as me, maybe.” She guesses. It’s logical to assume that.

But you shake your head the slightest amount, almost as if you hadn’t moved at all. Natasha catches it, and presses, “Then how?”

“Find out.” You tell her, unable to look at her. Your heart thuds dully inside of you; this is the closest you have ever come to admitting any of this out loud. This is the closest you have ever come to even uttering that you have not had control of your own life for decades. Your fingers squeeze, tighten where they are clasped together in your lap. Your breath comes in shallow and you feel suddenly lightheaded, panic threatens to constrict you--

Natasha sees this, eyes tracking you fast. “Calm down.” She murmurs, “Breathe. Why can’t you just tell me?”

“Precaution.” You respond clipped and quick, exhaling through your nose, and trying to regain your composure. “Find out.” You urge her again, turning to face her for a moment, catching her startling, green eyes.

But before she can respond, mouth opening and closing, searching for words; you stand, and flee from the gym, from Natasha. You only hope that she pulls on the thread you have given her.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

There is a night when Bucky goes to you; he’s supposed to be on a mission for Pierce. He isn’t supposed to be sitting in your bedroom when you return home late one night. The sky is devoid of moon, devoid of stars. A dark nothingness that engulfs the room. The drapes around your window flutter, window opened, night breeze cooling your room. He doesn’t startle you when you flip on the light to your bedroom, revealing him to be seated in the armchair in the corner.

You do pause, though, wary. This could get you both in a severe amount of trouble. The unflinching, vacant gaze that he gives you indicates you’re talking to The Winter Soldier and not Bucky.

“Does Pierce know you’re here?” You ask, shutting the door behind you. You don’t fear him, not even with all the weapons you can see on his body, made for violence and brutality. Usually, you are stripping him bare; no weapons, no strength, no soldier. But now he is before you in all his brutal, cutting glory.

“Net,” He replies in Russian. No.

You wade further into your room, step out of your heels gracefully, settle them at the end of your bed. You begin to unclasp your necklace, take out your earrings. Just as you do every night.

“You could get in trouble.” You caution as your last earring falls into your waiting palm. You set your jewelry on the nightstand before glancing at him. His eyes are fixed on you, dark, and shadowed.

You reach around for the zipper of your slim dress at the back of your neck. Your back arches, fingers grasping for it. He stands silently and you feel your heart nearly stop, stutter, as he moves to stand behind you.

There is an eerie, gentleness that overcomes him as he carefully, slowly pulls the zipper down, over your shoulders, the slope of your spine. Your back, vulnerable and unguarded is bared to the Winter Soldier. Metal fingers that are cool and a little startling make you gasp as he eases the dress from your shoulders. It falls forward, reveals your collar bones, the skin of your chest, which rises and falls quick, and fluttering, until the fabric falls away and pools at your feet.

The brush of rough leather, tactical gear, and metal against your back makes you shiver. His fingers are still gentle, cold to the touch, as he unclasps the back of your bra, pulls it from you with a measured, slow move. He’s barely touched you and you're already breathing quick, a flush slowly gathering despite the goose bumps that erupt over your skin. The warmth of his general body behind you is a sharp contrast to the cool night air, to his fingertips.

Your bra drops to the floor.   

And you barely breathe as his metal hand makes contact with your ribs, glides over the bones beneath. The gravity of the touch is not lost on you; the usual violence that his hands commit, now being used to touch you so delicately, so strangely soft for him. (The gentleness almost reminds you of Steve, the way Steve’s roughness almost reminds you of Bucky. Your heart twists, struggles).

 But he’s sublime. Terrifying and extraordinary and intoxicating.

 His hand slides to your waist, hooks in the line of your underwear and pulls them off with a slowness and patience you don’t seem to have, because you squirm, trying to ease them off faster and he grabs your waist with his other hand. His grip is tight, a little punishing, forcing you to stay still. You gasp lightly at the suddenness, at the jarring roughness, but you understand the message; don’t move. Not unless he wants you to.

So you still yourself as he slowly drags off the last article of your clothes, sliding down with them, until he drops to his knees. His hand touches your calf, soft, and you step out of your dress and underwear for him.

He turns you then, to face him and you look down at him in the soft, faded light of your bedroom. The sight wrenches, bends, twists something inside of you into desire, into flame, and love, and brilliance. His hands skim up the outside of your legs and you shiver. When he glances up at you, his eyes are still stone and ice and unseeing. But he leans in, brushes his lips to the tops of your thighs; not in anything so firm as a kiss, but only skimming, sliding by.

“Sidet,” He commands, voice rough and soft against your skin.

And you obey for him. You sit back, at the edge of your bed and he eases between your legs, shoulders them apart with his broad body, all muscle and hard lines. His nose skims along the sensitive, delicate part of your inner thigh. Your hands drop to his hair, tangle in it, tighten as your breath shudders.

“James,” You exhale, excited and apprehensive and feeling breakable in the best way possible. You want him to fucking shatter you.

His eyes flutter at his name but he doesn’t recognize it, and he scolds you with a harsh bite that makes you yelp, sudden and high. Your fingers flex in his hair. It ebbs into a slow, sucking kiss that makes you arch. Warm mouth, cold hands that suddenly grip your waist and tug you close.

His lips ghost over your center and you are seconds away from begging, feeling suddenly unhinged. Your heart is a trapped bird in the cage of your chest. He’s some strange, new creature of delicacy and viciousness and you love him-- you love him but you think he’s going to ruin you.

“Ty prinadlezhish' mne,” He tells you with sudden bright, sudden sharp eyes that peer up into your face. He looks all predator. Monster. Killer.

But you agree quickly, “Yes,” Half-begging, “I’m yours.”

He rewards you now, opens his mouth against where you need him most and tightens his hold on you to near painful. His eyes soften, warm at the whimper you let out, as if some part of his very soul knows the sound. And he looks perfect. Angel. Savior.

And he makes you cry; he doesn’t let up, he doesn’t make this easy and soothing. He forces you into hypersensitivity, begging and gasping in English, in Russian, in nothing half-words because he is cruel and awful. But you love him. You need him.

He needs you, too. You can tell by the way he pushes into you later, the way he holds you as if you're something to be coveted, tucked safely into his chest, right beside his heart. He rumbles in Russian about how you’re his and you’re perfect and you’re everything. He likes your tears, kisses them sweet, bites your neck sharp.

By the end, it feels as if you’ve been torn apart, cleaved open with brutality, and delicately kissed with tenderness. He doesn’t stay, disappears in the pale, graveyard light of the city below your apartment like a phantom.

When you see him again, it is after Pierce has gotten ahold of him. Bucky’s temples are bright and angry. He’s vacant and hollow and you can’t help the sinking, souring thought that he’s been caught for straying from his mission and punished more severely for it.

You hold him against your chest in the shower, hurt and pity and fear burning through you for him, leaving a gaping, vulnerable hole in your chest. Hateness and bitterness for Pierce roll around inside of you, too. For anyone that has ever touched him. You feel monstrous with your anger and vengeance. Predator. Killer.  

“Ty prinadlezhish' mne,” You tell him, kissing the ache of his temples, reverent and gentle.

He slurs “Yes,” Then calls you perfect. Angel. Savior.

And he makes you cry; wishing with all that you have inside of you for your brighter futures, for the small, kernel of hope and fury you have grasped at over the bitter, horrible years of it all.

---------------------------------------

The STRIKE team is employed alongside Steve and Natasha to a SHIELD ship taken hostage. You know better. And you suggest to Fury slyly that perhaps it is wise to investigate a little, to pull information. You almost pray that the small seed of suspicion you have tried to plant in him has taken root.

Natasha returns with a little too much (hidden) information. Fury looks at you differently. And you are certain that suspicion has begun to blossom.

---------------------------------------

“1991,” Natasha says one day, catching up to your brisk walk down the halls of SHIELD. Your heart drops straight into your stomach. You glance around to see if anyone important has heard. No one has, you don’t think. Regardless, she continues, “That’s all I can find on you. Some HYDRA project in 1991.”

You turn to face her, but before you can speak, she presses, “I don’t say this lightly, but you’re a hard girl to trace.”

“Who do you think brought me to SHIELD?” You carefully guide her.

“Fury?”

You shake your head quick and small.

Her eyes light up when she finds the answer and your breath catches, excited and hopeful and scared.

“Pierce.” She corrects herself and disappears from your side as if she’d never even been there at all.

----------------------------------------

“Bucky,” You murmur one night, under the pale lights of the shower. He doesn’t respond, but his flesh hand continues to draw strange, swirling patterns into your back. The water cascades over you both, steam warming and curling around you. His head is dropped onto your shoulder as you stay in his lap.

You venture into unknown territory with a shaky question, “Do you remember Steve Rogers?”

He stirs, blinking wet lashes against his cheeks, looking up at you. “Steve?” He repeats in a startlingly fragile and small voice. Your heart cleaves straight down the middle. “I-- I don’t--” And he looks so painfully lost and searching that you put your hands on either side of his face.

“I can’t--” He blinks hard, eyes glittering with sudden tears. His breath comes in sharp and sudden, “Did I-- Steve--”

“Hey,” You try to hush him, to calm him, “It’s okay,” You murmur, pulling him back into you. “It’s okay.” You try to soothe, but you have a sinking, awful intuition that this is going to cost you dearly in some way.

-----------------------------------------------

Fury approaches you one day, in your office. He observes you as if he is seeing you for the first time. You hold his gaze, and hope that he does see you newly now.

“You’ve been leading me towards something,” He says quiet and low. You swallow. And here is your precipice, you think, here is that edge you have being anticipating and fearing and desperate for. You race towards it. For you. For Bucky.

“Yes,” You agree.

“Who can I trust?” He asks as if he knows, and perhaps he does. Or perhaps he only knows partly or next to none of it. Regardless, it is a good question to ask.

“Steve,” You tell him, “Natasha, too.”

“Anyone else?”

You shake your head and he allows that to settle inside him, as if he accepts it slow. You know there are others but-- but right now, those are the only two you want him to trust.

“How much more can you lead me?” He asks then, shoving his hands into his pockets.

And you don’t get to answer, because Pierce enters now, eyes flickering between the two of you. Your stomach rolls anxiously, flipping over itself horribly. But you and Fury remain calm. Your eyes flicker, subtle, to Pierce and then to Fury.

Whatever Fury sees in your eyes, he nods behind Pierce’s back. And you smile, “Mr. Pierce,” You say, but you feel predatory, as if he has walked into your trap, right into your waiting jaws and jagged teeth. You are hungry.

But you ask, luring and mild and tempting;

“What can I do for you?”

[natt-the-kitty-cat]

The Storm

Okay so I have been absolutely in love with a certain someone’s mermaid AU since it was first created, but after her post about it I just couldn’t help myself!!

So, here is a little gift for @thestarrynightgazer

Hope you like it, Kat~ (Mind my spelling and grammar errors it is not proof read)

- 

Damn it. That was all he could think. Damn it all. Of course going outside the safety of the reef during the biggest storm of the year had been a stupid idea; why had he ever believed otherwise? Oh yeah, that’s right. He had wanted to prove his brother wrong. Meliodas was always so overprotective of him, never let him do anything on his own. He had never even swam outside the last ring of corals without him. But today he had had enough, and somehow he had gotten it into his mind that the best way to show he was capable to make it in his own was to swim outside their protected home and collect the materials they needed for their next project. He had been so sure he’d make it back in time before the storm, or that he could at the very least be able to out maneuver the currents to make it back home in time. But joke was on him, he had ended up making the biggest mistake of his life. The currents was far too strong for him. No matter how much he swam and fought against it, he only seemed to get further and further away from the reef. He had since long given up on trying to bring back the seashells they had been looking for for so long in favor of just trying to get home, but even that he was failing at. Oh how much he’d give to be with his brother again, safe within the protective walls of the corals and plants growing around them. But no, instead he was here; fighting for his life not to get swept away.

He squinted his eyes, trying to make out his surroundings in the dark waters but could see nothing. All he could see was black all around him, along with the feel of the cold water engulfing his entire body; making it go numb. He could no longer tell if his tail was moving or not, the only thing on his mind being the absolute exhaustion he felt. Maybe if he could just close his eyes for a few seconds….. No. If he did that the streams would sweep him away and then he might never find his way back home again. He slapped his own cheek, trying to hit some sense into himself.

“Come on, you have to do this” He told himself, shaking his head to try and bring more clarity to his foggy mind. “You have to! Otherwise you’ll never see the others again!” The thought hurt. To never be able to see his friends again…? To never be able to hug Meliodas again..? Even if he thought his brother was absolutely insufferable at times, he still loved him… Because he was the only family he had left. Come on now Zeldris, get yourself together! You just have to- He inhaled sharply as the pain washed over him in waves. He flailed his arms, feeling the current starting to sweep him away as he could no longer move his tail. He winced  as he could taste the blood around him; panic suddenly clouding his mind. Oh no. This was bad. He was bleeding…. A lot. He moved his hands down over his lower body, letting out a muffled noise as his fingers moved over his lower rib cage where his skin was cut open. He bit his lip, taking a deep breath before pressing his hands over it. He had to stop the bleeding, or else it might attack sharks of other predators to him, which would be and absolute catastrophe. He let out a string of curses as he desperately tried to get himself in the right direction, to try and swim home again. But he was spinning around so quickly that he could no longer even tell what was up and down.

“No no no, please!!” He pleaded, turning and spinning in a useless attempt to get it to stop. “Meliodas! Please help me!!” His shout echoed through the empty waters around him, but received no response. He could feel the burning in his eyes again - it’s what the humans called ‘tears’ he had learnt - but could do nothing as he was brought further and further away from his home.

“Anyone!! Hel-” His sentence was cut short as the pain shot through his head, before everything stopped.

Arthur lazily kicked the small stones on the ground in front of him, walking along the beach by himself. All he could hear was the waves gently hitting the rocks and sand around him, occasionally splashing up enough to reach him where he was. He let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head as his eyes trailed along the edges of his little island. His mentor had left him here a few weeks ago, intending to keep him safe from all the chaos on the mainland. She had been kind enough to provide him with a nice house and more than enough food and servants to keep him happy. However, being the young and energetic man he was, Arthur was already bored out of his mind. Earlier this morning he had snuck out of the large mansion and down to the beach, going to search for interesting or peculier things that might have washed ashore during the storm that had raged on all night. This far he had only found large tree logs, seaweed and some cloths here and there, but nothing that really caught his attention all too much.

That is until he heard a strange sound coming from just beyond the cliffs at the far end of the shore.

Shit. That was far too close. Zeldris bit his lip as he shifted in the shallow water, his back scratching painfully against the rock behind him. He had never seen a human this close before, and he was honestly caught off guard by it. He looked very young, with bright orange hair that seemed so extremely fluffy that Zeldris had forgot to breathe for a second. He put his hand over his mouth, trying to slow down his jagged breathing where he sat. It was rare for him to be up at the surface, but he had no choice this time. He was currently stuck in an extremely shallow pool of water, and it did not seem like he was getting out of there anytime soon. The storm must have washed him up here. Judging from how the sun stood, Zeldris quickly drew the conclusion that the high tides were already on their way out; which meant his little tiny water puddle would very soon be dry land. Which also meant that he’d be even more stuck than he already was, though it also brought the risk of him getting dried out and potentially….. dying. He internally cursed himself again. Why had he done this. It had been so stupid. Why couldn’t he just listen to his brother for once!? He tried turning where he sat, wanting to get out of this miserable spot as soon as possible, when he felt a sharp pain over his lower rib cage again. He winced, hand flying down over the place the pain was radiating from. It was almost so that he did not dare look, afraid if what he would see if he did. After taking a few unsteady and panicked breaths - not being used to breathing air - he finally managed to direct his eyes down to examine the wound. He could feel himself let out the breath he didn’t even know he was holding as the would proved to be much less serious than he had initially thought. It was bleeding yes, and it also hurt like all hell. But it didn’t seem to be anything deadly. The worst thing that could happen was that he could get a scar. He shook his head, placing his hand back over the cut in his skin to stop more blood from flowing out. That’s when he heard the noise. It was footsteps; the sound of bare feet scraping against gravel. Oh god no, this isn’t happening. Zeldris watched in horror mixed terror as some of the bushes next to him were pushed away; revealing the ginger haired human from earlier staring at him with wide eyes.

“No way….”

He knew that Merlin always told him to stay out of trouble, and to not go and investigate possible dangerous things on his own. However, Arthur was also very very bad at actually following the instructions she gave him, as his curiosity tended to always get the better of him. So that was how he had quickly found himself carefully sneaking over to the source of the weird noise. Walking over, he didn’t really know what he had expected. But as he stood here, jaw dropped to the floor as his gaze was locked on the creature in front of him, this was really beyond his expectations. He had heard many sailors tell tales of mermaids swimming through the ocean, however he had never for a moment stopped to consider if it might be true. And he desperately wanted to cling onto that little piece of logic he had always seen in the world, that no such fairy tale creatures existed. Yet he could not deny the fact that the mermaid in front of him was real. He gulped a little, blinking several times before he trusted that his eyes were not fooling him. He let his gaze wander over the clearly terrified mermaid in front of him, and he could quickly conclude several things. The stories were not overstated, there creatures really had an out of this world beauty to them. Everything about him seemed so…. extraordinary. Those deep green eyes, his raven black hair and that long, green tail that looked to be made of pure emerald as it glittered in the sunlight. The third thing he noticed, which his brain seemed to have somehow skipped over at first, was the fact that this wasn’t really a mermaid, but more of a merman. And the last thing he saw was that he was hurt. His hand covered up the wound itself, pressed over it almost painfully hard it seemed, however the blood was still dripping down on the ground. Without really thinking, Arthur immediately went to try and help him cover it up, to stop any more serious infections while it was still possible. But as soon as he moved, the boy in front of him seemed to panic and tried to move away from him. However, the pool of water he was in was far too small for him to get anywhere. He was stuck.

“No no no wait!” Arthur said, holding out his hands to try and get him to calm down. “I’m not going to hurt you, I just want to help you with your wound!” He was met by a sceptical look on his face, his green eyes still colored with terror.

“Can you understand what I’m saying” He continued, sitting down next to the little puddle. “Do you have a name..?” Silence spread between the two of them, the sound of the waves crashing into the stones around them being the only thing that could be heard.

“M-my name is Zeldris” Arthur's eyes widened in surprise when he heard his voice. It was so…. Alluring. It had this strange softness to it, like the ocean waves on a calm day, yet it still had somewhat of a sharp edge to the tone.

“I’m Arthur” He smiled at him, reaching out his hand for a shake, however Zeldris just gave it a strange look. Okay, humans and mermaids do not have the same customs. He made a mental note to remember that in the future, might prove to be useful.

“So… You said you wanted to help” Zeldris mumbled, looking up at him though his dark bangs, still seeming somewhat sceptical.

“Yes, I want to help you clean that wound. It looks like it might end up getting infected if not treated soon” He explained, pointing to the blood that was still dripping down on the ground. Zeldris looked down at it, seemingly considering his options for a moment.

“What do you gain out of helping me? What do you expect in return?” He questioned, voice suddenly much sharper than before.

“I…. I don’t expect anything” Arthur managed out, shocked and confused with his surprising reaction. “I merely wish to treat you. That’s how I was raised…. I was always taught to offer help to those in need” The merman eyed him up and down, squinting his eyes as if it would somehow help him see through a non existing facade.

“Fine, I’ll.. I’ll accept your help” He finally sighed, shoulders dropping down as he relaxed from the tensed up posture he had held for several minutes.

“Good” Arthur smiled, feeling proud of himself for convincing him to accept his help. “Stay here and I’ll be right back! I just need to run and gather some things so I can give you proper care!” He stood up again, feeling somewhat dizzy from the sudden drop of blood pressure. However he easily shook it off and started to head back to the mansion.

“W-wait!!” Zeldris called out, reaching out a hand towards him to somehow get him to stop. And he did. He looked back at the merman with a confused expression, tilting his head slightly.

“What is it?”

“Y-you can’t tell anyone that I’m here…” He said, redirecting his gaze away from him. “Please?”

“Of course. You have my word that no one shall find out you’re here” Arthur promised before quickly turning around and running back up the long hill towards the house.

Zeldris was still shaking slightly even as the human was gone. Uh oh, this is bad. Meliodas had always warned him of humans. They were the rulers of the surface world; selfish and ruthless creatures that just destroyed and took as they saw fit. Many parts of their home had been completely ruined by their inventions in the search for food. According to his brother, the human race had lost all their sense of balance many thousands of years ago, abandoning the sacred ways of giving back just as much as you take from the world. Zeldris had seen them on their ships, fighting and killing even each other without even batting an eye. It had been a horrific scene. After that, he had sworn to never ever speak to a human, yet here he were. His survival now depended on this young human man with violet eyes and fiery hair. Arthur. It was a name he had never heard before. To his ears it sounded strange, yet still beautiful. I like it. He sighed for himself, looking up at the bright blue sky. Wonder how I’ll find my way back…. I must be far far away from home. Maybe he could possibly ask that human, Arthur, if he had any idea where they were. Though on the other hand, humans and mermaids probably don’t use the same names on things. He shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment. He had to figure this out…. But for now, he would just rest. He could sort things out later, when he wasn’t half bleeding to death. Yes, that was a good idea…. That’s what he’ll do.