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percervall · 2 years ago

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ever our lives entwined (I'll be yours and you'll be mine)

Player: Mats Hummels Words: 3213 Warnings: smut, oral sex (f receiving), face sitting, p in v, unprotected sex, cockwarming (if you squint), mentions of sexism, porn w/feelings?? I guess?? A/N: This fic has been brewing since idk November?? December?? Funnily enough it took getting covid and yelling about this fic idea to @kostasstsimikass and @emilielfc for the pieces to fall into place

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Pulling the car door closed a little more forcefully than necessary, you buckle your seat belt and cross your arms across your chest. Anger was prickling under your skin, like an itch you can’t scratch. Mats looks at you, both puzzled and taken aback. Every question he asks you is met with short, mono-syllabic answers and you refuse to look at him. You can hear the gears turning in his head as he mulls over what happened in the showroom of the kitchen specialist. Logically speaking, you know Mats was only trying to do the right thing, but the way he went about dealing with that sleaze of a salesman made your blood boil. You had been willing to grin and bear it, suffer through thinly veiled sexism to get those new appliances, but of course your husband had left his brain at home that morning.

You head straight into the kitchen after Mats parked the car in the garage. You hear the kitchen door click shut and the jangle of keys as he drops them in the bowl on the island. Pouring yourself a glass of water, you try your hardest to ignore him as the anger courses through your body. You know he normally loves seeing you this worked up –he’s told you so on many occasions as you made out in stadium corridors after you had ranted about how unfair the referee had been or how that player should’ve at least gotten yellow for that challenge.

“Schatzi-...” he starts, but you don’t allow him to finish that sentence as you turn around to look at him. You can feel the hardness of your stare and you see him gulp as your eyes meet his.

“You stupid, stupid man,” you say calmly, but your words are laced with enough venom to kill an army. Mats stands rooted to the spot, incredulity across his face.

“Me? What the hell did I do?” You put your glass down a little harder than necessary and he flinches at the sound.

“What did you-.. You put your foot in that big mouth of yours, is what you did. Why did you have to go and play knight in shining armour?” You can see him visibly bristle at your accusation, annoyance flashing in his eyes.

“He was insulting your intelligence! ‘Oh look at this, extra special functions for the modern housewife har-har’,” he mocks as he rounds the island.

“I was well aware that he was using sexist stereotypes as a sales pitch, thank you very much. Who insulted whose intelligence now? I was this close to getting us that oven upgrade with a steamer function for a fraction of the original price,” you retort, holding your fingers a hair’s breadth apart. Whatever Mats is planning on saying in return dies on his lips at your admission. Instead he stares at you dumbfounded.

“Yes Mats, I was playing him like a fiddle and it was working until you opened your mouth,” you say, a sardonic smile tugging at your lips, “Guess you just enjoy spending over a grand on an oven because we are getting that one.” The tone of your voice leaves no room for argument. You can see the irritation drain out of him, shoulders slumping as it dawns on him just what he has done; he had undermined your intelligence just as much as the salesman had done, but it was worse because he knows just how clever you are, how quick witted.

He moves closer, taking your hand in his.

“I’m sorry sweetheart, I should’ve known better,” he says quietly, eyes trained on you. You sigh, feeling the last of the anger dissolve.

“How can I make it up to you?” he murmurs, pulling you closer. You look up at him, a wicked glint in your eyes replacing the fury.

“Your big mouth got you into this mess, I’m sure you’re smart enough to figure out a way to get out of it,” you say with a teasing tone as your hands come to rest on his pectoral muscles. Mats tilts your face up, pressing his lips against yours. Your hands move higher, tugging on the hair at the nape of his neck as he angles your face to deepen the kiss. Mats lets his hands wander down your sides to the backs of your thighs before lifting you up. You’re quick to wrap your legs around him as he walks the two of you into the living room.

Mats sits down on the couch with you now in his lap as his hands curve around your hips to rest on your ass.

“Although I hate being the object of your anger, it never fails to turn me on,” he murmurs in the space between your lips when he breaks the kiss.

“I can tell baby,” you all but purr, rocking your hips against him, making his breath catch in his throat.

“I think I know how to make it up to you,” he says, voice rough as lust clouds his thoughts when you keep grinding against him. His fingers grab hold of your hips, lifting you off his crotch. He asks you to stand up, his hands moving to unbutton your jeans, sliding them down your legs and helping you step out of them. Mats slides down the couch and sits on the floor, hand outstretched.

“Sit on my face, sweetheart,” he all but whispers as he pulls you closer. You hesitate a moment, feeling your cheeks heat up in both anticipation and something like shame.

“Wh-what?” you stammer, not sure whether you heard him correctly.

“Sit on my face. Let me make it up to you. As you said, my big, stupid mouth got me in trouble, only fair I put it to good use now,” he explains, rubbing slow circles over your wrist.

While his request takes you by surprise, you would be lying if you said you never fantasised about it. Especially every time his lips would quirk up in a smile, laughter lines in place. You try to push those thoughts back down as you look down at him, back resting against the couch, legs spread to undoubtedly accommodate his erection.

“Mats, I-I don’t.. What if you suffocate?”

Mats chuckles at that.

“Schatzi, let me worry about that,” he says, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist before he pulls your panties down and helps you kneel on the couch. You rest your hands on the back, looking down at your husband whose face is now inches away from you. Even though the sight of his brown eyes glittering with sheer want for you is empowering, you’re still not entirely convinced that this is a good idea.

“Sweetheart, out of all the times I’ve gone down on you, how often did that end with me suffocating?”

You have to admit that he has you there. “Well, none but-..”

“Exactly,” he interrupts, “Besides, if I’m not at least panting by the end of it we didn’t do it right. If I need to come up for air, I’ll tap your thigh twice okay?”

You nod but you’re still hesitant, worried about all the ways this could go to shit.

“Just wanna make you feel good baby,” Mats murmurs, stroking a hand down your thigh as he presses a kiss to the inside of your leg, just above your knee.

“My smart, sexy wife… Using the patriarchy in her favour. God, I love you,” he says, sounding almost reverent despite the fact he is about to do the most sinful things to you. As you tighten your grip on the couch cushions, you look down once more, biting back a whimper at the sight of him buried between your legs while he kisses your thighs. His fingers dig into your skin as he pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to the most intimate part of you, making you suck in a breath at the contact. His tongue darts out, slowly, so agonisingly slow, licking a stripe from your entrance to your clit. Your eyes flutter closed as your fingers dig into the cushions and you try to widen your stance. Mats hums appreciatively, moving back to your entrance. He keeps this up until you feel your body relax into his touch. Mats’ fingers are still firmly wrapped around your thighs as his tongue slowly dips into you. You can’t stop the strangled noise that comes out of your throat as he licks into you, trying to find that spot he knows will have you whimpering in seconds. Mats pulls out, moving his lips to your clit, sucking it into his mouth as he flicks his tongue over it. A slow heat climbs itself up your spine and you can feel your arousal start to wet the apex of your thighs. Mats moans, the vibrations against your clit stealing the breath from your lungs.

It doesn’t take long for your body to get a mind of its own as he keeps fucking you with his tongue. Your hips undulate against his face as a hand fists his curls. You are pretty much riding his tongue by this point and all coherent thoughts have left you as pleasure zaps through you. Leaning back slightly, you manage to pull your hoodie off, feeling too hot all of a sudden. Mats holds your cunt against him in this angle, groaning as his tongue dips into you, and his nose brushes against your clit. The added stimulation against that sensitive bud in combination with the scrape of his beard against your inner thighs has you reduced to a whimpering mess. Your eyes are closed as you chase your high, using him to get what you need. You can feel it building in the pit of your stomach, like a cord that’s being pulled tighter and tighter until you don’t think you can take much more.

“Mats-.. Oh fuck.. Need-.. I’m gonna-…” It’s impossible to form sentences let alone finish them. Mats doesn’t need you to as he redoubles his efforts. He shifts his focus to your clit, sucking it into his mouth as he swirls his tongue around it, the vibrations of his moans only adding to your pleasure. Tightening the hand in his hair, your back arches as that cord finally snaps and you’re coming all over his mouth and chin. Your thighs quiver and the only sound that leaves you is a strangled cry of pleasure. Mats keeps licking and sucking, making appreciative noises as he tastes you. You try to squeeze your thighs shut, the sensations suddenly too much, having forgotten in the haze of lust that your husband is still very much buried between them. As you try to lift yourself off him, you almost fall forward, limbs heavy and uncoordinated. Mats reaches his hands up, encircling your waist as he steadies you. The sentiment fills your heart with so much love that it feels as if you could burst as his whispered affirmations and praise register. This is one of the many reasons you fell head over heels in love with him all those years ago; It’s knowing that despite your stubbornness and fierce sense of self, he will always be there to catch you when you fall.

He guides you up and slides out from underneath you, quick to pull you down. You’re not entirely sure how he manages to manipulate your body in such a way that you end up in his lap, but you’re grateful that he does. You kiss him, the need too strong to ignore as tears burn at the corners of your eyes. He kisses you back, one arm sliding underneath your t-shirt to rest on your back holding you to him as the other hand curves around your jaw to angle your face. Mats bucks into you involuntarily as you rake your nails over his scalp and you can’t help but moan at the feeling of his denim-clad erection pressing into your core. Panting, he breaks the kiss.

“Need you, sweetheart. Need to feel you…” He sounds as desperate as you feel. Raising up on your knees, you pull his sweater up and over. Mats quickly unbuttons his jeans and pushes it past his hips. The angle makes it a little difficult but he manages to get it off, leaving him in just his boxers, which quickly join the pile of clothing scattered through the living room. You reach one hand down, taking hold of his cock and sliding it through your folds to coat it in your wetness before angling him at your entrance. Mats’ hands encircle your ribs, pushing your t-shirt up and your body down onto him.

“Oh.. Oh fuck,” you whisper at the stretch. The feeling leaves you panting as you slowly move up and down to accommodate him. There’s no way you’re able to take all of him like this and you know that it’ll only end in pain if you keep trying. Leaving just the tip of his cock inside, you lean forward, capturing his lips in a searing kiss.

“Be right back,” you whisper and climb up. Mats leans back, arm resting on the couch as he watches you walk away. You dig through a drawer of the built in bookshelves and make a triumphant noise as you find the bottle you were looking for. This is not the first time the two of you hadn’t made it to the bedroom. Mats had quickly learnt that it was easier to keep lube in pretty much every room than to run upstairs to get it. You quickly check the expiration date before turning around. Mats looks up at you, legs spread as he lazily strokes himself, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. There’s a heat, a want that’s simmering in those brown eyes as his thumb sweeps over the weeping head of his cock. The sight of your husband spread out on the living room floor like that –all angles and soft lines on show for you to lust over, has you clenching around nothing and your clit throbbing. Dropping the bottle next to him, you quickly pull off your t-shirt before kneeling down. Mats holds out a hand, letting you squeeze a generous amount onto his palm. He rubs his fingers and thumb together, coating them, and gently slides two through your folds while he holds onto your hip with the other hand. You throw your head back as he curls one long finger into you, digging your nails into his shoulders. It leaves you breathless, eyes fluttering closed.

“I know, I know,” he murmurs against your skin as you whimper when he pulls back. Mats quickly slicks his cock and lines it up with where you’re aching for him. You watch him watch you take all of him as you slowly lower yourself onto his cock. The stretch always catches you off guard, but it soon gives way to waves of pleasure. Mats presses his lips to your sternum, kissing down the valley between your breasts where the lace of your bralette gives way to skin.

“So good, always so good…” he mutters as you set a rhythm that’s agonisingly slow. You feel each drag of his cock against your walls, the tip curling deliciously against that spot inside you with each roll of your hips. Mats closes his lips around your nipple through the fabric of your bralette, making you clench around him.

“‘M not gonna last,” he groans, fingers digging into your hips as he desperately tries to hold on while bucking into you.

“Don’t want you to,” you all but whisper, before he captures your lips in a kiss that leaves your head spinning. You brace yourself on his shoulders, angling your hips just right for him to keep hitting that spot that has you melting into him. His lips attach themselves to your neck as he licks and sucks, surely leaving marks.

“Right there.. Mats, right there, don’t-.. God, don’t stop..” It’s all the encouragement he needs to fuck into you, picking up the pace. It’s anything but graceful at this point, but you don’t care. A fire is building in the pit of your stomach and it’s threatening to consume you whole. You feel his thumb rubbing tight little circles over your already overstimulated clit and you cry out as your orgasm wrecks through you, leaving you clenching around him in waves. Mats groans, muttering his praise into the skin of your clavicle as he follows you over the edge and spills deep inside of you.

You all but collapse into his arms, your muscles turned to jelly. Mats remains inside of you and you can feel him soften as he holds your body to his. He kisses you tenderly, languidly.

“I’m sorry for doubting you, sweetheart,” he says quietly after breaking the kiss. You brush the curls that are now sticking to his forehead back, a loving smile tugging at your lips.

“All’s forgiven, my love,” you whisper back, kissing him briefly before snuggling into him, head tucked under his chin. Mats runs lazy patterns over your shoulder as the two of you remain cuddled on the floor. You’re not entirely sure how long you stay like that, or when exactly you drifted off, but you jolt awake when you feel him shift underneath you.

“Sorry baby,” Mats pretty much coos, “I didn’t mean to wake you. My ass was going numb.” You chuckle and then shiver as the air hits your cooling skin.

“Let’s get cleaned up,” he says quietly, kissing your temple. You nod and slowly climb off him, groaning as the muscles in your legs protest at the change. He helps you get back to your feet, handing you your panties. You smile gratefully, knowing you’d rather not spend the next couple of hours removing cum stains from your hardwood floors. Mats keeps hold of your hand as the two of you make it up the stairs and into the bathroom. While he turns the shower on, you quickly use the toilet, trying to clean up as much as you can, throwing your underwear in the laundry basket. Mats holds out his hand once more and you allow him to pull you under the stream of the shower, moaning as the hot water hits your skin. He hugs you with his front pressed against your back, lips pressed against your hair as he murmurs sweet nothings. You allow your eyes to close, soaking up the warmth of the shower and his body, his words. Swallowing around the sudden lump in your throat, you turn around and kiss him, pouring all that you’re feeling and thinking into that kiss. He brushes your hair back from your face and smiles against your lips.

“I love you, sweetheart,” Mats whispers, resting his forehead against yours. You smile, feeling a tear roll down your cheek, almost as if your love for him has no other place to go. He brushes it away with his thumb, and you know he will always be ready to support you in any way you need him too, know he is yours, mind, body, and soul, and you are his.

Tags @football-and-fanfics @kostasstsimikass @lfc21 @nyctophilic0vitnir

welp, can't believe I actually wrote this 🙈 also no one will ever know the search terms used researching this fic. Let's just say I learnt more while writing this than during sex ed. It might not seem out there compared to other fics, but this was uhm an experience for sure

Please let me know what you thought! Your comments/messages are like bread crumbs for the fanfic duckies in my brain

#football fanfic #football oneshot #football drabble #mats hummels fanfic #mats hummels oneshot #mats hummels smut #bvb fanfic #bvb oneshot #borussia dortmund fanfic #borussia dortmund oneshot #nsfr

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huntingteeth · 9 months ago

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hey, a thing, i love a thing, thanks @dafuq-lyrehc, i love doing things

last song/album:

für immer frühling - akustik version by soffie this place will become your tomb - sleep token

but also i made a playlist on spotify that i've been slowly adding songs to that's all women softly singing about being angry that's called 'and a rage, simmering' and it's only four songs long right now but it's scratching an itch for me

favorite color:

like a forest green. a hunter green. my comforter is a hunter green and it really does it for me

spicy, sweet, or savory:

mmm, probably savory. or like sour-savory, like the tom yum soup i had last night for dinner. like a good kosher dill pickle. maybe a little spicy

last tv show:

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, does dimension 20 count because if dimension 20 counts, then either fantasy high: junior year or the unsleeping city 2. if that doesn't count, idk because i'm not out here watching tv that often. maybe letterkenny because that's a comfort show lmao or drunk history because that's also a comfort show lmao. or, i did just watch the most recent episode of mystery files from watcher, does that count as a tv show?

last film

the last movie i watched for me was the fear street trilogy last year lmao. the last movie i played in my classroom was the grinch (2018) which is coincidentally the last film i saw in theaters because i actually hate going to the theater. i really don't watch movies lmao. i'm wayyyyyy more likely to watch ending explained videos for horror movies i'm never going to watch

last thing i googled:

"time change 2024" uh because thinking about the time change makes my head want to explode. google tried to be helpful but my brain can't math the math so i had to ask my friends about it instead of looking at google and boy was it a trial but we eventually got there, kind of

relationship status:

single, head of household; uninterested in dating/being in a relationship

current obsession:

i hate to break this to you guys but i'm two hours and ten minutes into two hour and half hour deep dive video (part one) of teen wolf from a person whose opinions on teen wolf i do not agree with even if i, an intellectual who has written 33 fics in the teen wolf fandom, know that it's objectively not a great show lol so i guess it's that because it kind of makes me want to watch teen wolf again

or maybe sleep token is my obsession since the fic is nearing almost 50k! that's wild to me tbh. i take it back my obsession is building out the lore on this fic lol. i mean i have a draft with all my commentary on the fic lined up for when the fic finishes so i can share it with you all which is wild and maybe more indicative of an obsession lol

uh @branches-in-a-flood @shatterthefragments @vamprlestat @unfoldingsky uhh if you wanna, no pressure

#huntingteeth irl

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sergeifyodorov · 1 year ago

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I just reread strange trails and I'd love to know your inspirations for it! Your ideas behind the worldbuilding, the genesis of the plot, all that good stuff if you'd like to share!

the backstory

im a college student and was unemployed all summer. in order to pass the time while waiting for local jobs to reject me i started a crochet project. throughout pretty much the entire month of june. and possibly also may. i would make my squares and listen to the strange trails album. straight through. every day. i may have gone a little bit insane.

but it's okay. i'm already insane.

lord huron (the band who made the album) has like. lore. am i familiar with this lore? no i am not. am i aware nonetheless that there is lore? yes absolutely. if you listen to their discography there's definitely lore -- recurring themes (resurrection, adventuring, magical seductive women, etc), motifs (depends on the album but strange trails is big on flowers, trees, snow, although there is one song that's set in the desert), characters (they keep mentioning a guy called the world ender.) anyHway the point of all of this is that the music is [solid 7.5 out of 10 but it scratches my exact brain itches] and very evocative of the imagery and idea of a deeper world. my favourite off the album (and one of my favourites in the discography) is la belle fleur sauvage, which tells the listener about a long perilous quest for some mythical thing (a flower. also a woman. metaphor), although one of the ones whose imagery i enjoyed the most is frozen pines, which is a little less concrete but invokes images of cold, the side of a mountain, strange happenings, etc.

the idea

those songs are definitely the most direct inspiration for it but unfortunately my process for developing ideas is kind of terrible because it involves less "sitting down and coming up with stuff" and more "wait for a 60% formed idea to smack you upside the head like rapunzel in tangled and her cast-iron frying pan." which quinn and his sad little corpse did.

if you go back far enough in the quinnfic tag on my blog u can see the post right after it Happened. the idea was literally "quinn hughes carries a corpse up a mountain, and horror."

so i take this little piece of grit from which my pearl of questionable moral integrity will be built and i ask it questions. first off: quinn, why are you on that mountain? who is the corpse? is anyone else with you? soon enough petey decided to join him (although quinn is and was always the protagonist/pov character). the body was The Ghost Of Vancouver before it was brock over top of that.

another inspiration, which i realize i'm leaving out, is this

this is artist grayson perry's work "hold your beliefs lightly" from tomb of the unknown craftsman, and this image of a long perilous upward journey towards some sacred place really combined together with la belle fleur sauvage to form the base idea of the world for the work.

and of course why would you carry a corpse up a mountain to some sacred place if you couldn't resurrect it at the end?

quinn

im big on metaphor. if i'm writing something long it has to have a Point to it, some larger theme than romance and stuff (this is mostly because i'm bad at writing romance)(and also big on curses and the like.) and also because quinn hughes asexual barb i never fucked/i never fucked/all my life man, fucks sake. this was also being written right before the peak of Canucks Captaincy Debate, and in our hearts didn't we all know quinn was going to be the one to wear the c?

so it became pretty clear pretty quick that as well as my attempt at writing horror that this was going to be a quinn character study -- and this is where i should talk about my other fic scheherazade.

in scheherazade, auston actually doesn't make a lot of choices -- he tags along, arguing with the narrator/bill, and only starts to take an active role in the way the story is going near the end, when he finally gets sick of it all. quinn, however, is not at all the same kind of person as auston. he's less artistic and more practical; an older brother instead of a younger one; jewish; not nearly so squeamish. he takes an active role in the story from the very beginning, showing up to the base of the mountain with his pack full, both prepared and not for what lies ahead.

the mountain

vancouver is smack in the middle of the north shore mountains, so there's a million hiking trails about, but the one i can most easily think of (as someone who hasn't been to vancouver in several years) is the grouse grind trail, a popular and fairly short trail that the canucks prospects actually do every year, so i knew quinn and petey (both vancouver draftees) would be familiar. i've never actually done the grouse grind, which was part of the reason i decided to kind of. toy with reality. you can't call me out on inaccuracy when it's Not Real On Purpose (although the sign at the 1/4 mark is copied directly from photos i've seen.)

petey and the plot

once i added petey, i knew i'd have to get rid of him -- a lot of the scene ideas were quinn-only, and petey's way too sarcastic and useless (AFFECTIONATE) to engage seriously with the ideas presented to him like quinn would and did. so i needed to divide them up.

the original plot idea from the outline is actually pretty similar up until the end of chapter 6 (the conversation w the ghost), but it differs in a few crucial ways -- one, quinn breaks down again, crying and everything, and two, he actually does go through with the resurrection instead of using his wish to get petey down the mountain safely. i realized around then that this wouldn't work with the quinn i'd created, especially after his argument with the ghost: he's far less focused on glory than stability, less interested in the cup or his contract and more interested in the safe long bet than high rolling. in a cold, wet environment like the mountain it's a lot easier to get hypothermia without noticing than it is in a dry environment, even if the dry environment is several degrees colder than the wet one. and quinn would know that, having seen petey's thin little sweater and knowing his stubborn ass is going to freeze.

so after that it became about hypothermia. i actually had a bit of a writing pause after this because i knew i was going off-outline, so i had to kind of inch ahead until i knew where i was going. but i'm happy with how it turned out!

#asks #quinnfic #hope this satisfies ur curiosity anon!

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branmuffins22 · 8 months ago

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13, 26, 35, 39, 44 from this ask game

Ooo, that's a lotta questions!

13. Do you outline your fics? How much of a headache would someone get if they just looked at an outline of yours without reading the fic?

The short answer? NOT EXACTLY BUT I REALLY REALLY SHOULD

The longer answer?

Technically, I have almost every major plot point written down in some form or another before I write a thing. That said, they usually aren't in any sensible order, and are buried in a mess of a channel in my private discord server, where ALL my brainrot goes.

When I write, I mostly just pick a starting point from one of my notes, and walk it forward from there. I tried properly outlining for one of my fics, and it got me... somewhere, but for the most part, my brain just doesn't work that way. An outline becomes a task list, and I can't stand task lists.

My current system is kinda horrid, but I'd be more worried about someone getting bored sifting through all my scattered notes than getting a headache from them.

26. What’s your biggest distraction when writing?

That one's... probably a tossup between a lot of things. Bodily needs, background streamers mentioning something I actually have an opinion on, my mother barging in with shame and deadlines for cyclical tasks (man, I need out of this house), my twin having something funny to show me... basically just ~Life~, lmao.

I guess part of the problem with my current life situation is that I don't have a lot of time that's truly, unequivocally my own, so I get pushed and pulled around by whatever or whoever calls my attention loudest.

...Or maybe that's just the adhd talking.

35. How much has writing fic changed your life?

SIGNIFICANTLY.

Now, I've been known to struggle with feelings of situational/emotional permanence, so I could be a little biased by the fact that it's my current biggest hobby, but at this point, around half of my social life happens in fandom/fanfiction circles, which wasn't the case a year or two ago.

Two years ago, I didn't read for fun. Like, full stop. I only started doing that after Thanks to Them released, when the hiatus brainrot got me seeking content and community from more than just the show itself and the friend who got me into it. I think the very first fanfic I read was a oneshot someone cross-posted to tumblr, which somehow convinced me to join both tumblr (technically rejoin tumblr) and Ao3 around the same time. Well. maybe a month or so apart, because of the weird account-creation queue thing Ao3 has goin' on. But still.

I don't think I started to consider writing my own fanfiction until I read A Blight on Bonesborough, by GeminiAlchemist, and got a bunch of ideas from the way they expanded upon the lore and magic system and characters and all that of the Owl House.

From there, it kinda took over my life completely, lmao.

I wanted to write about Luz's experiments with glyphs, and some potential avenues of missed opportunity brought to my attention by The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled, by IdeaHunter, and that eventually turned into the Artificer|Overthinker AU (to this day i still haven't picked the name).

Later, I wanted a story about Luz experiencing human high school again after all the dust settled, and after reading a fun fic whose premise was great but whose execution didn't quite scratch the itch (Luz Noceda and the mysterious case of her imaginary girlfriend, by Imkindagayyk), that slowly evolved into Masha and the Very Normal Nocedas (which I actually started writing over a year ago, and still haven't gotten to a postable state with even a single chapter, lmao).

Ever since, I've pretty much been rotating some fic idea or another in my head 24/7.

Nowadays, I wake up and check ao3 for fic updates/new fics, I read while I cook and eat breakfast, I browse tumblr for new stuff from my faves and mutuals, I check ao3 again every few hours, sometimes (but not often) I find the motivation and such to actually write, and I kinda keep up like that all day.

It's maybe a little excessive/obsessive/destructive/etc, but fanfiction kinda defines all the intentional parts of my life right now.

39. What’s something about your writing that you pride yourself on?

Voice and gimmicks.

The most prominent examples I can think of are the various literary tropes I try to imbue certain characters and such with. I usually write in 3rd-person limited perspective, so the characters' voices influence not just the way I write their dialog, but the way I write entire scenes.

There aren't any good examples of it in either of the fics I've actually posted so far, so you'll kinda just have to trust me on this, but a great example is the way I establish the POV character of a given scene.

It's easier for some characters than others, and I haven't come up with a gimmick for every character yet, but I try to open each scene with a literary trope that emphasizes some aspect of the POV character's voice.

For example, scenes written from Luz's point of view always start with speech, either hers or directed at her. Luz is a rambunctious, chatty, and kinda awkward character, who tends to exert herself on every situation she comes across, so I figure an unconventional (and arguably obnoxious, according to some people) opener works great for her.

Hunter is an outwardly-cocky character with some deep-seated self-worth problems (and a very slanted worldview besides), so his scenes always start with a self-affirmation of some kind, usually followed by a contradiction. Often, he's either intentionally or subconsciously trying to convince himself of something, or to do whatever it is he's about to be doing in the scene.

Vee is a bit of a special case. Like Luz, her scenes start in media res, but she tends to borrow the gimmicks of characters around her. She's a shapeshifter, and learned about life in the outside world as a doppelganger, so she has a tendency for mimicry, intentional or not. She also has a secondary gimmick, one that's a bit more her own, in that narration about her often finds itself filled with alliteration, especially involving the letter S (since she's sort of a snake, and snakes hisssss (and doing it with the letter V was too hard lmao)). It started as a running gag she played on Masha in MatVNN, but then I couldn't stop using it, so it's kinda everywhere now.

Masha is a superstitious (though slightly apathetic) character with a keen eye (and no attention span with which to wield it). They tend to seek out meaning even where there isn't any, and thus often completely miss the broader details in favor of the little things. Their scenes start with an isolated excerpt, usually a tarot reading. In an ideal world, the readings would foreshadow both the events of the scene and at least one of the ways they've misinterpreted them, but unfortunately, I haven't yet actually learned enough tarot to do that. It's a big part of why Masha and the Very Normal Nocedas is taking so long to get to a postable state 😅.

That's pretty much all the opening gimmicks I've worked out so far, but another one I'd like to mention has to do with the way magic is written.

Whenever a spell is cast, I whip out my thesaurus and try to sprinkle in a few words nearby that relate to the kind of spell being cast. For instance, I might say that when Willow casts a wall of vines, she first "plants her feet on the ground", or "stifles her budding anger". Before Luz casts an invisibility spell, she might think about "hiding the cards she was dealt" or maybe "her hands disappear into her pockets". Stuff like that.

The way I imagine it, magic taps straight into the caster's homonculus (broadly, the part of their brain that decides and understands what encompasses "the body") in such a way that the caster becomes part of the spell just as much as the spell becomes part of the caster.

Luz in particular, having the knack for magic that she does, tends to start this process of "becoming the spell" as soon as she decides to cast it, not just at the moment she actually casts it. It's like working yourself into the headspace of a thing, before sitting down and doing it. I've got a whole huge segment in one of my more dramatic fics that's basically an entire page of this kind of thing, with Luz preparing to cast a really big spell (or, well. technically a pair of big spells (TECHNICALLY technicaly it's one normal spell being used to prepare to cast the two massive spells. it's a whole thing)). It honestly might be the highlight of my writing portfolio, which is a huge shame because it's a MASSIVE spoiler.

Anyways, uhhh yeah. I really like gimmicks.

44. Rant about something writing related.

WELL SHITDAMNFUCK, IF ONLY I READ ALL THESE QUESTIONS AHEAD OF TIME! I COULD'VE SPARED SOME OF THOSE PRIOR RANTS FOR HERE!

Well. Guess I aughtta find something else to write about.

How about the ultimate enemy, the scourge of our people, the cornerstone of suffering itself, the dreaded and feared, the great and terrible:

Writer's Block.

It may come as a surprise to the ignorant among us (hehe, amogus), but I, too, suffer from Writer's Block from time to time! In fact, I'm even suffering from it right now! And I have been for the past... oh goodness, over 2 months now.

I had one good day of writing, in all that time, which only came about because I nearly fell asleep in the tub. I somehow daydreamed my way into a really good turn of phrase that I just HAD to put into context for Backlight and Bitrot.

So far, that singular scene, set (the equivalent of) several seasons into the story, remains both the only thing I've written for that fic, and the only thing I've written at all since January.

It's infuriating! I have all these ideas, all these things I WANT to write, all these people I want to share these ideas with, all this time, all this passion, all this brainrot, and yet I Just! Can't! Write!

AUGH!

It would be one thing if I'd simply run out of ideas; I could call this whole thing something pretty like a "dreaming phase" or a "break in order to recharge" or whatever. But I've been dreaming for ages! This break has been in no way relieving! I'm just wallowing in my inability to do the things i love, while the world moves on around me!

You've had an excellent way of phrasing this for yourself, recently: "The executives are on vacation."

It's not some pleasure cruise for me! Those darn jerks (basic brain functions) who dictate every little thing that goes on around here just fucked off to who-knows-where! Completely blind to the consequences (stagnation, suffering, shame) of their absence, and how those affect their employees (me)! I just work here, man! Lemme do my job! I wanna do my job, but I can't if you don't let me! Ugh.

I want to write so goddamn bad. I've got all these projects to write for, all these brainrot spores to spread. I've got so much I want to accomplish, and yet my dumb bitch brain can't seem to get the memo. Work phone is powered off, I suppose.

It's gotten to the point lately that even those random notes to myself have slowed down. I'm having less new ideas than before. I'm picking old ideas out and polishing them less than before.

I'm worried I might end up having to find a way to cater my writing to the dumb mammal part of my brain somehow, in order to bring some momentum back. Write about something crude and easy and filled with every instantly-gratifying fantasy I can imagine.

No more of this 'careful thought' and 'consideration for themes' junk, we want it LOUD and we want it NOW.

Ugh.

Writer's Block is the worst.

What a bummer to end on. Oh well, I'm gettin' kinda sleepy, and I'm out of questions anyways. Thanks for the ask!

#ask games #thanks for the ask!

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scarrunner05 · 2 years ago

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Fics are all well and good until suddenly you’ve spent a year and a half with an obsession with a ship that exists exclusively in a million word crossover fic. And it gets worse when suddenly, no other pairing with those characters are sufficient anymore because this oc x canon decided to be so insane and scratch all the itches in your brain.

How many times will this happen to me?? What have I don’t to deserve this (actively encouraged it every time). Like it’s Worth It but also screaming crying sobbing on the ground.

There’s like opposite problems with two of these characters too, one of them is a background character whose constantly forgotten about and has little content, and all the other ships with him are all Icks to me. The other is a big character with a big ship that’s nice sure but never stood out to me, it just never rattled my skull correctly, and instead I looked at this oc from this fic and went “yeah this is the one” and now even that relatively good ship is insufficient it does not spark the insanity like this one does.

It’s like brain why ya gotta imprint on these rare pairs why ya gotta get me obsessed over these losers

#All with complete love for the fic and characters #I want to be able to enjoy the normal fandom ships but dirkthree just had to be insane #Halsaph are the only hal ship I can actually tolerate though so that’s better actually #also every time I think about the dfth and hopes chains characters in general I feel like this #(This entire ramble is positive #I’m complaining but about a good thing that I enjoy)#dirkthree #halsaph #Erishu #bloody knife #that one gets to be in here too #ultimate rarepair my beloved #ignore me I’m rambling into the void

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nikki-writes-stuff · 5 years ago

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Three Is Company (Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes)

Summary: The first thing you felt upon realizing who your soulmates were was fear; you spent years avoiding the two men whose names were engraved upon your skin, dreading the day they met you and realized how ordinary you were. Your fear of disappointing them haunts you until one fateful day when the universe brings the three of you together...

A/N: Hello! I’ve been itching to write a Soulmate AU, and when a wonderful anon suggested this story idea, I just couldn’t resist. WARNING: This fic contains dub con/non con. Read at your own risk! And please let me know what you think!!!

It was hot outside. Intensely so. The asphalt and concrete of the city had trapped the summer’s heat in until it was stifling, rising up in thick heatwaves from the pavement. Your studio apartment was situated above an old, crumbling used bookstore, and your ancient A/C unit had given up three days ago during the hottest week of the year. Your landlord was getting it fixed soon, but you’d slowly been going insane as you spent your days laying beneath your ceiling fan, only getting up to retrieve glass after glass of ice water from your kitchen.

It was the heat that drove you out of your apartment on that fourth day, and it was the heat that made you break your usual self-imposed rules in regard to your choice of clothing. Ever since your 20th birthday, you’d vowed only to ever wear short-sleeves in the privacy of your home, and you kept your hair long enough to cover the nape of your neck, never daring to pull it up unless you were also wearing a turtleneck. It was safer that way, you’d told yourself.

No one but you could know your secret.

That day, though, you left your apartment in a pair of shorts and a white tank top, your hair thrown up into a bun as you nervously made your way down the street to your favorite café. You squinted in the sunlight and dug through your purse for your pair of sunglasses. Once they were securely on, marched onwards, eyes scanning the street around you closely. You dug your right hand into your pocket, keeping your forearm pressed against your body, and you’d left a few fly-away hairs loose at the back of your head; you could feel them tickling your neck with every step you took in your canvas-colored high-tops.

When you finally reached ‘Cool Beans’, you nearly moaned as a blast of air conditioning licked at your heated skin. People were scattered about the coffee shop; you hadn’t been the first to come up with the idea of seeking refuge within its walls. You ordered a strawberry smoothie for yourself, and when it arrived you pressed the cold, sweating plastic of its cup against your cheek as you made your way to a vacant sofa in the corner. You sat down and pulled your notebook out of your bag, seeing the flash of black letters against your skin with every movement of your right arm.

James Buchanan Barnes

You sighed, pushing the man out of your head as you started jotting down an outline for your next three chapters, hoping that no one saw. You’d made sure to sit with your back facing the wall, not wanting anyone’s eyes lingering on the name scrawled into the skin beneath your neck. Steven Grant Rogers was a name that too many people were familiar with.

Not everyone had a soulmate; in fact, only about a third of the population did. It was even rarer to have two, but you’d been among the lucky few. Or unlucky was more like it in your case.

You were terrified of both of the men whose names were permanently seared into your skin. Their lives were dangerous, full of villains who would stop at nothing to tear apart anything or anyone they cared about. You weren’t cut out for that lifestyle; you couldn’t handle constantly looking over your shoulder.

Or at least…that was what you told yourself.

On the days when you couldn’t lie to yourself anymore, on the days where you drank your feelings until your head spun, you knew that you were really just terrified of yourself, of not living up to them. They were both as powerful as they were beautiful, and you were just…you. A little girl living in Brooklyn, her head in the clouds of whatever novel she was working on at the time. The universe must have been laughing when it chose you to be their third soulmate. How could you live up to the two titans you were meant to love? And how could they ever want you?

You were so certain that you would disappoint them that you fell off the grid, keeping the identity of your intendeds secret to everyone who knew you. You published under a pseudonym and deleted all of your social medias, letting your fear control you.

Now, your 20th birthday was long past you, and it was the first time you’d been around so many people with your soulmarks visible. As you sipped on your smoothie and focused on the scratch of your pen against paper, though, you were starting to relax. No one had so much as batted an eye at you, and inspiration was finally taking hold as you planned out the course of your lasted work-in-progress.

You became so focused on your thoughts, in fact, that you didn’t even notice it when a hush suddenly fell over the coffee shop. People whispered amongst one another all around you as two sets of feet started making their way to the line in front of the barista. Your ears perked up when you heard the word ‘autograph’, though, and after finishing the last sentence you were writing, you glanced up towards the front of the café.

And you swore that your heart stopped beating.

Captain America – no, Steve – was smiling good-naturedly at the girl behind the counter as he scrawled his signature on the napkin she’d offered him, handing it to her while saying something you couldn’t quite make out. The man standing next to him was almost as tall as he was, and his long brown hair was pulled up in a bun. Despite the heat, he was wearing leather gloves and a long sleeved Henley, but you would recognize him anywhere even with his metal arm hidden.

Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes were standing less than thirty feet away from you, and you couldn’t fucking breathe.

You couldn’t help but stare as they placed their orders before shuffling around to the end of the coffee bar, waiting for their drinks as they talked with one another. Bucky said something that made Steve laugh, and you gulped as his eyes lit up and his mouth split into a wide grin. They were even more handsome in person…

You shook your head and looked down at your notebook as your heart beat frantically. You squeezed your eyes shut, pushing yourself to just think. They were right there – they could see you. You needed to leave, but what if they noticed you when you stood up? Maybe you should stay and lay low? But that would just be stupid, right?

Your breathing was heavy as your eyes darted upwards, and you felt your blood run cold when you found two pairs of blue eyes looking right at you. It was the look on their face that made you shiver, though. They knew you. They recognized who you were, despite you having never met. And that was when your instincts kicked in. Run, your brain whispered. Get. Out.

You immediately stood up on shaky legs, shoving your things back into your purse while keeping your right arm pressed to your abdomen. Your knees wobbled as you headed towards the door, and you forced your eyes downward as you watched your unsteady feet move.

As soon as your back was to them, though, you heard one of them suck in a breath, and that was when you remembered the name on your neck. You froze where you stood and clapped your left hand over it, spinning on your heel to look at them with wide eyes.

For a long moment, all three of you just stood there, not knowing what to do. You were starting to feel numb from shock, and your throat was growing tight as tears filled your vision. Not like this, not now, not them…

But then Steve said your name, the question just barely audible as it left his lips. Your arms fell limply to your sides, and Bucky’s eyes widened when he finally saw the words on your forearm.

“It’s you,” he murmured.

A sound that was dangerously close to a sob escaped your lips, and without a second thought, you turned and ran, pushing the café doors open and turning towards your apartment. Your sneakers slapped against the concrete, and you didn’t even feel the heat as you heard two sets of feet chasing after you.

“Please, wait!” Steve shouted. “We just wanna talk!”

You didn’t turn back, sprinting until you came upon the used bookstore. You almost tripped as you turned down the alleyway, not even aware that you couldn’t hear Steve and Bucky behind you anymore. Huffing and puffing, you climbed up the rickety stairs to your front door and fumbled with your key, shoving it into the lock roughly and jiggling it until it opened.

As soon as the door closed behind you, you leaned back against it, closing your eyes as you caught your breath. A flurry of emotions were raging within you, and your heart was hammering in your chest. You let your eyes close as sobs started to shake your body, and tears were starting to make their slow descent down your cheeks.

But that was when you heard someone clear their throat. Your head snapped up, and your lips parted in shock as you watched Bucky and Steve walk out of your bedroom, your open window just barely visible past the broad expanse of their shoulders.

“How…” Your voice trailed off, and your throat felt dry as you swallowed thickly.

The two men shared a glance, seeming to be able to read one another’s thoughts. They turned to you in tandem, and Steve took a deep breath in through his nose before speaking.

“…I really don’t know where to start,” he sighed. “This isn’t how we wanted this to go.”

You bit your lip to stop it from trembling, wincing when you heard the gears in Bucky’s arm shift as he clenched his fist.

“Why did you run from us?” he demanded, his shoulder brushing against Steve’s as he took a step towards you.

You shook your head and looked away, hugging yourself as they started closing in on you.

“I… I can explain-“ you began, but Steve just huffed and shook his head.

“Explain what? Why you tried to run away from your soulmates?” he asked. “Or how about why you’ve been running from us since you woke up with our names on your skin?”

You blinked in surprise, and Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Honestly, doll, you think we haven’t known about you?” he scoffed. “You know who we are. We could track down anyone we wanted to.”

“Then why-“

“We didn’t want it to go this way,” Steve repeated. “We’ve been keeping an eye on you, waiting until you seemed ready for us. We didn’t mean to run into you at the café. But now that it’s happened…”

His fingers drifted towards your face, but you flinched away, suddenly realizing just how close they were to you.

“Wh-What do you mean, you’ve been keeping an eye on me? Have you… Have you been spying on me?”

“We’ve been making sure you’re safe,” Bucky insisted. “You don’t exactly live in the nicest part of Brooklyn, doll.”

“And since you made it clear that you didn’t want us around… We kept our distance. Tried to do this right,” Steve added. “We didn’t wanna scare you.”

“Well you’ve failed!” you exclaimed, shoving past them and backing up towards your bedroom. “I’m terrified. You tell me that you’ve been stalking me, and then you act like I’m the one to blame?”

“We didn’t ‘stalk’ you-“ Steve started, but Bucky stomped towards you, his jaw clenched.

“We wouldn’t have had to watch you,” he growled, “if you’d have just…just accepted us.” His voice broke, and you felt your heart clench as you watched him blink away tears.

“Are we… Am I,” he corrected, “really that frightening?”

You frowned, not understanding what he was implying, but then his eyes drifted towards his metal hand and you understood; he thought that he was the one to scare you, that his past was what kept you from wanting them.

“I… That’s not why,” you insisted. “That has nothing to do with it.”

Surprise flitted over the Winter Soldier’s features, and he seemed too stunned to respond. Steve sighed and set a hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

“I told you, Buck,” he murmured. He turned back to you, and that feeling of unease came back in full force. “But what was it, then? What was the reason why you didn’t want us?”

“It… It doesn’t matter now,” you stuttered, shaking your head. “You two are scaring me; I want you to leave. This isn’t… This isn’t right-“

“But it is right,” Steve insisted, caging you in between them. “The universe itself wants us to be together, hon. That’s why our names are on your body. And its why yours is on ours.”

He rested one hand on your shoulder, keeping you securely in place while the other pulled back the neckline of his t-shirt. In bold black letters, your name was scrawled over his heart. Your eyes widened, and you felt your fingers twitch with the sudden impulse to touch it. You refused to listen to that thought, though, and tried to turn around, but you only found yourself face to chest with Bucky. He brought his metal arm up to rest on your hip, and you couldn’t help but enjoy its cool sensation in the sweltering heat.

His eyes never left yours as he pulled the hem of his shirt up, and you bit your lip when you saw your name arched across one of his hip bones. Steve’s name was written across his ribs, just above yours, and you felt tears spring to your eyes. They were right here in front of you for the very first time, and you were starting to feel so much more than fear.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” you whispered, jolting when you felt Steve’s lips descend onto the soulmark of his name written beneath your neck.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. “Whatever the reason was for your running, it doesn’t matter. We have you now.”

“And,” Bucky added, grabbing your wrist to bring your forearm up against his mouth, kissing his name, “we’re never gonna let you go, doll. It’s gonna be ok; you’re with us now. Where you belong.”

You struggled one more time, but they were too strong; you didn’t even budge. Their smell was overwhelming – sweat and sandalwood cologne – and it was starting to drown out your better judgement. Steve’s mouth was working its way to the side of your neck, and you gasped when his cool tongue lapped at your skin before he started sucking a mark into it. Bucky, for his part, was running his vibranium fingers up your waist, leaving goosebumps in his wake. His flesh hand reached out, gripping your chin and tilting your face up to his.

“Don’t you want us, baby?” he whispered. “We feel it too, you know. The pull. Why do you keep trying to fight against it?”

You blinked away the moisture gathering in your eyes, feeling your resolve start to crumble as you stared up at his crystalline eyes; he was right. You did feel the pull – it was as if there was a string tied between your hearts, forever linking and binding you to them. It had always been there, but now that they were here with you, touching you, it was harder than ever to resist it.

“What if…” You gulped, looking down at his combat boots. “What if I’m not good enough? What if I disappoint-“

“No.”

Steve’s voice was hard as steel, and you found yourself being turned around by his hands, maneuvered like a ragdoll. His face was stern, commanding, as he looked down at you.

“I don’t ever want to hear you saying something like that,” he demanded. “Forces that are powerful and wiser than you or me have decided we’re meant for each other; it’s disrespectful of you to even doubt for a moment that they’re wrong.”

You let out a sob, trying to push him away, but he grabbed your wrists, holding them against his chest. You bit your lip to keep it from trembling as you looked up at him, finding that his countenance had softened considerably as he watched you.

“And, doll… You are everything we ever could have hoped for and more,” he promised. “We’ve been watching, remember? Everything about you, even the parts you think are ugly, only make us want you more. How could we ever be disappointed with such a gift?”

Maybe it was the years of self-doubt, or maybe it was the bond between the three of you, or maybe it was your own fear that made you act next. You knew, in the back of your mind, that red flags were still flying; you were still horrified that they’d stalked you, and the arms wrapped around you were no less constricting. But a wall came crashing down within you upon hearing Steve’s words, and with a soft noise of weakness, you cupped his cheeks and pulled him into a kiss.

It felt as if his lips were made of fire as he kissed you back. Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips as Steve’s came up to your shoulders, playing with your flyaway hairs as he moved his mouth against yours. Though you had initiated it, he took control quickly, wasting no time in swiping his tongue across your lower lip. He forced it inside of you, licking into your mouth as you clung to him. You couldn’t fight back the moan that arose when Bucky planted his own mouth on your neck, his teeth worrying at your flesh gently. Your toes curled in your sneakers, and your heartbeat threatened to drown out the wet sound of the kiss.

As soon as Steve pulled away, Bucky was moving to take his place, and you only had a second to gulp down a breath before he was kissing you. His lips were more chapped than Steve’s had been, but he was even more certain in his movements. His tongue brushed against yours expertly, and when he nipped at your lower lip, you let out what could only be described as a squeak. Your cheeks grew hot with embarrassment, but Bucky only chuckled and leaned in for another kiss.

Steve was not idle, though. His hands started playing with the hem of your shirt, pushing his fingertips beneath it to map out your heated skin. At first, it tickled, and you couldn’t help but smile against Bucky’s lips. But then his hands started moving upwards, and you were tense all over again. You pulled away, taking a step back and moving to shove your tank top back down, but both men didn’t let you gain any distance.

“C’mon, baby, don’t be like that,” the brunette chided as Steve tsked. “It’s just us. And we’ve waited for so long…”

Your eyes widened at his insinuation, and once again the Captain reached for your shirt.

“W-wait, I don’t… I don’t think I’m ready for, um…that,” you stammered, but all you succeeded in doing was making them laugh.

“Oh, my god… Stevie, she’s fucking adorable.”

“So innocent… C’mon, doll, don’t you trust us?”

You narrowed your eyes at their smiles, about to say that no, you didn’t trust them considering the situation. But you didn’t get to say anything before Steve was pulling you into another bruising kiss, hands on your cheeks. Bucky moved behind you once more, and this time you yelped when you felt cold metal against your stomach. A harsh ripping sound was heard, and you felt your tank top fall away. You tried to turn your head away, pushing at Steve’s shoulders and kicking at his legs, but he didn’t move a muscle. He just ignored your protests, seemingly wrapped up in your kiss.

Bucky hummed and ran his fingertips up the curve of your spine.

“You’re gorgeous, you know,” he mused, sounding as if he were talking to himself. “So much prettier than any dame I’ve ever been with.”

You tried to scream when his fingers went to the waistband of your shorts, and Steve pulled away with a heavy sigh.

“Baby, c’mon,” he chided. “This’ll help us grow closer. I promise it’ll feel-“

“Please,” you cried, your nerves coming back with full force. “Please, I… I liked the kissing. We could just kiss; I promise I won’t run anymore.”

Bucky hummed, his nose brushing against your shoulder as he kissed it.

“Sweetheart…” You jolted when you felt something hard press against your ass, and Steve pushed his palm over your mouth when you tried to call out for help again. “Does it feel like I just wanna kiss you? No, baby. I want so much more than that.”

“We both do,” Steve added. He grabbed one of your wrists, pulling your hand to the bulge in his jeans. Your eyes widened when you felt the hardness there, and you tried to pull your hand away, yanking your arm back so hard that your shoulder ached.

“There’s no need to be shy,” he smirked. “Unless… Wait, have you never done this before?”

Bucky froze, still gripping your shorts by their beltloops, and you nodded frantically. Steve pulled his hand away, and you once more took in a deep breath.

“I’ve never… Please, I don’t want my first time to be like this,” you pleaded. “I’m not ready; this is all happening so fast…”

But it didn’t seem like Steve or Bucky were listening to you. They were looking at one another intensely, as if they were reading one another’s minds. And, hell, maybe they were, to a degree – when you knew someone for as long as they’d known each other, you must be able to tell a lot just from one look.

“…C’mon, Stevie,” Bucky suddenly said, “You’re longer.”

“Yeah, but you’re thicker,” Steve reasoned.

“I’ve actually been with virgins before. Remember how good I was for your first time? We do not want a repeat of when I first let you fuck me.”

“I’ve gotten better! You know I have; last night I didn’t hear any complaining.”

“That’s cuz I had to teach you how to stretch me! Jesus, that first time I’m surprised you didn’t split me in half-“

Your eyes grew round with terror when you realized what they were arguing about, and you started flailing again, desperate to get away. No, no, this couldn’t be happening…

Your sudden frenzy drew their attention back to you, and both of them gripped you tight, holding you still against Bucky’s chest.

“Woah, woah, woah,” the soldier breathed, his long brown hair tickling your neck. “Calm down, baby girl. Neither of us is gonna split you in half; we can go nice and slow, ok?”

“Let me go!” you wailed, kicking at Steve. He easily dodged your legs, though, maneuvering you so your legs were off the ground, his pelvis pressing against yours. You winced when you felt just how big his erection had gotten, shying away from him. All that did was press you harder against Bucky, though, which he misinterpreted completely.

“See, Stevie? You’re scaring her. Just let me-“

“I don’t want either-“

You were cut off by Steve’s hand on your mouth again, and the two men shared one more look. Eventually, Steve relented, sighing and giving Bucky a nod.

“Fine,” he groaned. “But you owe me.”

You turned your head just in time to watch Bucky press a peck to Steve’s lips as he grinned coyly.

“Don’t worry, baby. I know how I can repay you later.”

He finally turned back to you, and you found yourself being carried into your bedroom. You gave up on your struggles, quickly realizing that there was no use in trying to fight them; you were no match for either of the super soldiers, much less both of them.

“That’s a good girl,” Bucky praised, setting you down on the mattress. He sat down beside you, and you scrambled away, pressing your back against the headboard.

“Now, doll,” he said, pinning you with a look. “This can go one of two ways. You can be good and stop your whining, or you can keep on fighting. But both of us know that fighting won’t get you anywhere. And if you just let us be with you… Hon, I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

You looked between the two men, feeling your anger start to drain out of you. Because in spite of yourself, of what they were doing, there was a part of you that wanted this. It was the same part of you that had kissed Steve; it was the same part of you that had wondered about your soulmates ever since your 20th birthday. You knew that what Bucky was saying was true; there was no escaping this situation.

After a while, you heaved a sigh and met the Sergeant’s eyes. You gave him a hesitant nod, and that was all he needed to see before he was pulling you towards him by your ankle. You yelped as your head hit the pillow, but the weight of him laying between your legs quickly took up your focus.

“Good, baby,” he sighed, rutting against you. “I knew you would come around.”

You felt the mattress dip beside you as Steve lay parallel to your body, running his hand tantalizingly down your thigh. You winced when he suddenly gripped your flesh and pulled on your leg, maneuvering it around Bucky’s waist. You could feel his hard-on grinding against your shorts, and shame seeped through your blood when you realized you were enjoying it.

Wordlessly, Bucky once more grabbed the waist of your shorts, finally starting to push them down your legs. Your panties rolled down with them, leaving you in just your bra, and both men moaned at the sight of your damp folds.

“Knew you wanted me,” Bucky sighed, his metal hand moving up to cup your pussy. You flinched at the sudden change of temperature, trying to close your legs, but Steve’s firm hand prevented you from doing so.

“Ah, ah, ah,” the Captain chided. “You’re doing so well. Just give in. Relax.”

Your body was still tight as a bowstring despite his words, and the man on top of you huffed out a little laugh.

“It’s ok to be nervous, doll,” he assured you. “But don’t worry. I’ll have you begging for it in no time.”

His fingers started spreading your folds, the vibranium gliding along your heated flesh smoothly. You bit your lip when his digits skimmed over your clit, and you could see Steve lick his lips out of the corner of your eyes.

“So pretty and pink, doll… Your pussy is so cute.” Bucky smirked, and one of his fingers slid inside of you without warning. You whined, letting your head fall back at the intrusion – it was only a finger, sure, and you’d fucked yourself with your little pink vibrator before, but it still stung.

Your breathing grew heavy as he started pumping his finger, curling it and working it in and out of you as the heel of his palm pressed against your clit. You shifted your hips, gasping at the friction it created against your bud, and you once again rolled them, this time upwards into his touch. It was fucked up, being used like this against your will, but your body didn’t seem to mind the violation.

Within seconds, Bucky was adding a second finger, and though you would never admit it, you welcomed the stretch. Your brows were furrowed with the effort it was taking to hold in your moans, but neither of your soulmates seemed to care.

“God, can you hear how wet she is?” Bucky breathed. Steve nodded, starting to unbuckle his belt.

“She’s gonna feel so good, Buck. I just know it.”

You chanced a glimpse over at Steve, and your cheeks felt like they were on fire as you watched him reach into his jeans, pulling his throbbing cock out. Your eyes widened at the size of it, and you quickly snapped your gaze away as he started stroking it lazily. Bucky caught your eye and gave you a wink, smirking as he started to scissor the fingers inside of you.

“See something you like, dollface?” he murmured. “Just wait till it’s inside you. Fuck, I can’t wait to see those big, pretty eyes roll to the back of your head.”

You gulped, opening your mouth to protest, but your words died on your tongue when he added a third finger. A moan escaped your mouth unbidden, and you clapped a hand over your lips to silence yourself.

“Hey,” Steve grumbled, pulling it away. “No, no, baby. We wanna hear you.” His words were thick with his suppressed moans, and you watched as his lips parted in pleasure as he pumped his cock.

“Fuck it, I can’t wait anymore.”

Your head snapped forward once again, and you whimpered as Bucky pulled his hand away and started undressing. He shed his shirt, first, leaving you to watch his muscles flex and contract as he started working his jeans off. Your gaze lingered on the angry scar that was wrapped around the line where skin met metal, and you winced at how red and irritated it looked.

Bucky caught you staring and grunted, throwing his jeans and boxers to the floor with an impatient flick of the wrist.

“Don’t look at it, baby,” he whispered. “I know it’s hard to take in. I’m still all man, though.” He took your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm before guiding it down his stomach. You closed your eyes as your fingers brushed against his cock, trying to tune out Bucky’s moan as he rutted against your palm. “See that, baby? That’s all for you.”

“You’re starting to make me feel left out over here, ya know,” Steve grumbled, his hand stilling on his cock as he quirked an eyebrow up at Bucky. The former soldier only smiled, though, and leaned down to kiss the blonde’s lips. You felt your pussy clench as you watched their mouths move against one another, biting your lip when you saw Bucky’s tongue slide into Steve’s mouth. You felt as if you should look away, not wanting to encroach on such an intimate moment, but when Steve pulled back and pulled you into an even more searing kiss, all of those thoughts went out the window.

As he was kissing you, Bucky knelt between your legs and spread your thighs wider. Your eyes snapped open you felt the head of his cock bump against your entrance, and Steve pulled back, pressing his forehead to yours and forcing you to look at him.

“It’s gonna hurt for a second, baby,” he told you. “But just relax; Bucky’s gonna make you feel real good.”

With that, you felt him start to push inside of you, and you wailed as he stretched your virgin pussy inch by inch. The moan that escaped his lips drowned you out, though, and you watched as he tossed his head back, the muscles in his throat working as he slowly bottomed out.

“Fuck, doll,” he panted, pressing a quick peck to your lips, “God, you’re fucking tight. Tightest pussy I’ve e-ever fe-elt…”

He moaned once again, biting his lip as he started circling his hips. Your pussy felt white-hot with pain, but you couldn’t deny that it was accompanied by a sense of pleasure. You were so wet, and so full, and the noises that both men were making went right to your cunt. You shut your eyes tight and tried to follow their advice, tried to relax beneath Bucky as he slowly started thrusting his hips.

“That’s good,” he praised. “Just enjoy it; lay back and let me take care of you…”

His thrusts started out shallow, just barely pulling back by a few inches before pushing back in, but he was still managing to graze your g-spot with every shift of his hips. His hair hung in loose tresses around his face, and his skin was already starting to grow slick with sweat. Steve, meanwhile, had already shucked off his shirt and his pants, and he was working on shimmying his boxers down when Bucky started moving faster.

“I-I’m sorry, doll,” he grunted, “I know I should be going slow, but you’re so fucking good…”

You let out a moan as he started snapping his hips harder, and your fists clenched around the sheets on either side of your hips. Your legs were splayed out wide, swaying with the movement of his hips, and once Steve tossed his boxers to the floor, his hands were on you. One of them trailed down between yours and Bucky’s body, his fingers seeking out your bud. His other hand was in your hair, pulling your head back as he attached his lips to your neck. You knew that, come tomorrow, you were going to be covered in bright purple bruises.

Your breath caught in your throat when Steve found your clit, and Bucky let out a sharp moan when your hips instinctively bucked up against his.

“That feel good, baby? You like it when Stevie plays with your cute little clit?”

You felt yourself nodding, and suddenly Bucky’s hands were behind your knees, pushing them up towards your chest as he fucked deeper into you. In this new position, you swore you could feel him in your stomach, but between the way his cock was hitting against your g-spot and the swirling of Steve’s fingers, you knew you wouldn’t last much longer. Your fear, your pride, they both faded into the background as you were fucked into the mattress, and you were only vaguely aware of your own voice, moaning and begging for more, yes, more, please I need it so bad…

“You want me, baby?” Bucky growled out from behind clenched teeth. “You want this? Then prove it. Cum for me; I know you’re close. Cum all over me; do it now, doll, cum for me-“

Your head pushed back against the pillow beneath it as your body suddenly went taught. A strangled gasp left your lips as the knot inside of you burst, and just moments later you felt warmth flood you as Bucky found his release. Both of your voices were hoarse as you came down from your high, hips lazily rocking with one another as you rose out your orgasms. His eyelids were half closed, and his lips were just barely twisted up into a tiny, satisfied smile.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby… You did so good.” He leaned down, strands of sweaty hair brushing against your forehead as he pressed soft, gentle kisses to your temples and cheeks. You allowed it without complaint, feeling weightless the pleasure finally ceased washing over you. You leaned into the cold metal of his hand as he brushed some of your hair out of your eyes, and his smile grew as he watched you.

“Not to ruin the moment,” Steve said suddenly, “But I’m still waiting for my turn.”

Bucky let out a chuckle and rolled to your left, and two strong hands suddenly gripped your hips and pulled on you. You didn’t struggle as Steve manipulated your body, making you straddle him as his hands rested against your ass.

“I know you’re tired, baby, but look how hard you got me.” You looked down obediently at his cock, flushed a deep red and leaking a bit of precum. “You can do this, baby. I’ll help you. Let’s see if I can make you cum one more time.”

He guided your hips, and when you felt his head press against your entrance you gripped his wrists, your nails biting into his skin.

“N-no, wait-“

Your protests were ignored as he made you sink down onto his cock. Despite just getting fucked, your pussy still felt stretched as he slid inside, but you were so wet that he met with no resistance. Bucky had been right earlier; Steve’s cock was longer, and you felt it brush painfully against your cervix as your pussy finally rested against his pelvis.

“Oh, god…” You planted your hands on Steve’s chest for support, watching his eyelashes flutter and his lips part as he felt your tight, wet heat. “Fuck, doll, you’re… Shit, this is so good…”

“Language, Stevie,” Bucky snarked. You glanced over at him; his arms were crossed beneath his head as he watched the two of you, and his lips were bright pink and swollen from kissing you. You winked at you, actually fucking winked, and Steve let out a growl as he reached over to swat at his thigh.

“Shut up, jerk,” he grunted.

His hands once more found your hips, and you gasped as he started moving them.

“Ride me like this, sweetheart,” he begged. “Please, just… Move those little hips for me, just like that.”

Despite having just cum, you let out a moan as you did as he said, starting to roll and bounce your hips just like he’d instructed. Your walls were sensitive, and every time Steve bottomed out, you winced at the feeling of his pelvis brushing against your clit, but it still felt so good, so unlike anything you’d ever felt while pleasuring yourself alone at night.

You gradually started finding your own rhythm, leaning back to press your palms against Steve’s thighs for better leverage. The new angle made both of you let out a deep, drawn out moan, and unbidden you started to move faster, chasing your second release as it started building up inside of you.

Steve’s hands closed down on your breasts, squeezing them and watching them bounce as you rode him. His thumbs tweaked your nipples and you preened, arching your back at the foreign, pleasant feeling.

“Oh, you like that, huh?” he murmured. “How ‘bout this?” He leaned down and took one of your nipples into his mouth, letting his bottom teeth just barely graze it before letting his tongue lave over it, tracing tight little circles against it.

You nearly screamed at the sensation, bouncing faster on his cock until he had to let his head fall back, his eyes screwed shut tightly.

“Shit, doll, you’re gonna make me cum,” he grunted. “Don’t stop; don’t you dare fuckin’ stop…”

His hands closed down on your hips again, and you glanced over when you heard Bucky moan. He was still watching the both of you, but you gasped when you saw him thrusting into his fist, his cock hard once more. He was biting his lip, eyes focused on your face, and suddenly your second orgasm was hitting you like a freight train.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your lips parted in a scream as you felt your pussy clench around Steve’s cock. You heard a muffled curse escape his lips, and he started thrusting up into you as your cunt fluttered around him. Once, twice, then three times, and he was spilling his seed inside of you.

You slumped against his chest, his cock softening before he shifted his hips, pulling it out as both his and Bucky’s cum started leaking out of you. If you had felt more present, you would have been ashamed of how that must look, but you didn’t give it a second thought as your head rose and fell with the cadence of Steve’s breathing.

“…Fuck.”

Both of your soulmates let out a laugh upon hearing you say that one little word, and you were tempted to crack a smile of your own. But then the gravity of what had just transpired washed over you anew, and you sat up in shame, looking between the two men who had just… They’d just…

“Shhh, doll,” Bucky cooed, pulling you down to lay between them. Two sets of muscular arms wrapped around you, and you felt a sob wrack your form as dread started to overtake you. “It’s ok, shhhh…. I know, I know. You’re feeling a lot of weird emotions right now. But it’s all gonna be ok.”

“He’s right, princess,” Steve murmured, ghosting his lips over your hairline. “Everything is gonna work out; you’ll see. Me and Buck are gonna take such good care of you. You’ll see, in time. You’ll love us, just like we love you.”

#stucky #stucky x reader #stucky imagine #steve rogers #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #steven grant rogers #captain america #the winter soldier #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #dark!steve rogers #dark!steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #dark!bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes x reader

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bakugoukatsuki-rising · 4 years ago

Text

Black Balloon

Enjoy the pain my dudes, this fic is also up on my Ao3

WARNING: Character Death

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At first everything was quiet.

Too quiet.

The lack of sound felt like suffocation, and then there was a soft sound. Something that couldn’t be made out at first, it was so gentle, seeming to run off every time he tried to focus on it. Then it grew a bit louder, and louder, and louder, until it was directly in his ear. A steady beeping.

Beep……..beep……..beep………beep

Then it faded again, and suddenly there was pain.

He hadn’t been aware that pain could have a sound, but this pain was audible. It rang viciously in his ears, popping off like static from an overused television. As he managed to pull his eyes open to see unfamiliar fluorescent lights and off-white ceilings that left him feeling lost, he just barely managed to turn his head to try and figure out where he was; eventually concluding it must be a hospital. He was plugged into what felt like dozens of machines, and he couldn’t really feel anything below his neck.

It was like he was a head floating without a body, just resting in this hospital bed without a hope to become something more than a pile of wreckage.

There wasn’t much time to focus on surroundings though, as the static in his ears piercing through his skull and felt like it shattered his jaw. His eyes snapped shut as quickly as they opened, and he let out a howling cry. It felt like there were sharp blades slowly penetrating through his skull, ripping his brain clean in half. It was torture, and despite no feeling in his body, he could tell he was thrashing. He thrashed until there was force keeping him down against the bed.

“………….doctor! ………….the tranquilizer………..his arms………..he’ll end up worse if we don’t hurry up!”

Hot, fresh tears bubbled at the corners of his eyes as he screamed through the searing pain that sent spikes of agony through his mangled body. It felt like this was going to be endless. Like this would be what he experienced for the rest of his life, and he would just have to suffer through it.

For a moment, he even begged for death.

This couldn’t be what his life amounted to. All the work he had put in, he couldn’t let this be it. Despite the torture his body was putting him through, he could single out a small prick of pain in his arm against the pressure of the nurses and doctor’s bodies that kept him to the bed, and though it felt like years to him, within about 30 seconds, things began to subside. The pain was still quite unbearable, but he was able to think a little clearer. The static in his ears hushed slightly, and gradually he could put things together.

The war.

Shigaraki.

All for One.

….Kacchan.

Tears fell steady down his hospital sanitized cheeks now, and he at the same time he was able to deduce that the onslaught of pain was probably caused by Danger Sense, and there was so much happening that he couldn’t do anything about. Helpless. Powerless. Useless.

Despite the tranquilizer he was given, the pain evened out, but didn’t go away. It was more like an aggressive nagging in the back of his head now. Like he had a terrible itch he would never be able to scratch, and it burned in the back of his skull and made his eyes roll for a second like he was attempting to get to it, but it was all in vain. Until the danger was handled, he just assumed this was something he’d have to deal with. There wasn’t information given to him about Danger Sense for him to know the ins and outs about it, he just knew the 4th stayed far away from other people, and as he lay there incapacitated and unmoving, he understood why.

No one should suffer through such horrendous pain, even in the name of saving others.

The weight around his body eventually subsided as the nurses and doctors checked their machines to make sure he was stable, before leaving him alone once again. When he opened his eyes for the second time, he was by himself. The emptiness felt huge. It felt like, even though the room was no bigger than his bedroom at home, like he was all alone in the middle of a gigantic space with nothing around him. The feeling of suffocation was pressing against his throat again, and the tears were relentless.

He hiccupped and whined like a child, wishing for anyone to come be with him so he wasn’t smothered by this immense loneliness inside of his chest.

Kacchan.

A sob ripped through his throat as he thought of him again and remembered what happened before everything went black. The last thing he remembered was facing Shigaraki and then there were sharp spike like objects hurdling toward him, and then…Kacchan. Then there was Kacchan and then he was falling, and then everything went black.

The rattle of the hospital door snapped him from his misery for a second and as he looked to the door, his eyes widened to the size of saucers. In a hospital gown like his own, bandages evident beneath the cloth, a disheveled mess of blonde hair and scorching crimson eyes, the only person he actually wanted to see was slipping into his hospital room like he had heard the wish from down the hall, despite Deku never saying a word.

“..Ka..” His throat felt like a thousand needles that had been coated in flame stabbed into it simultaneously, and he winced. Talking didn’t seem like an option, and it left him feeling even more lost. How could he not even be able to speak to the other? There was so much he had to say! But as Bakugou approached the bed, and he looked into the other’s eyes, he didn’t feel the need to talk anymore. Something in his expression made him feel like words wouldn’t matter, anyway. It left such a thick, weighted feeling inside of his heart. The blonde boy didn’t say a word as he moved to the bed and then shifted to climb on top of it, and then rest himself next to the smaller teen; their bodies pressed against one another.

Bakugou shifted an arm around Deku’s mid-section and rest with the side of his face on the pillow so he was looking at the freckled teen, who could just barely turn his head enough to make eye contact with his friend. Unlike the doctors, there wasn’t weight with this body. It felt warm, but there was no presence to it. Like there was just a comforting pocket of air enveloping his body and easing the pain inside of him.

The tears that had been endless till now, settled. The pain spreading throughout his broken body, settled. It was like he was in a bubble where nothing could affect him, and he couldn’t look away from the smoldering red of Bakugou’s eyes.

His eyes eventually shifted to Bakugou’s mouth as it moved, but he couldn’t hear anything. At first, he wondered if it was from the pain or if something was wrong with his hearing, but the incessant beeping from the machines alerted him that it wasn’t anything like that at all; Bakugou wasn’t speaking, but he knew what he was saying even without hearing anything. The way his lips moved mimicked the sound of his voice, and Deku could play the sound in his head from memory.

“You aren’t alone, you stupid nerd. Stop trying to do everything by yourself, and let the others help you. As for me, don’t even waste your damn time worrying about it when you have bigger things to focus on. We’ll meet again, eventually, and I’ll apologize to you for real.”

As the words settled inside of him and he connected the dots, another sob racked his frame and he let out a wail of desperation unlike any other. Like a child whose entire world had been ripped from their hands, like he lost his entire world.

“Deku, don’t fucking let me down, I’ll be watching you, nerd.”

Another sob, and soon warm arms were holding him, the voice of his mother filling his ears as she rushed into the room and took him into her grasp. All he could do was wail like an infant. Speech was unrecognizable to him, as was movement, and he was reverted to a helpless child, whose entire world was crumbling down around him.

Meanwhile, 2 rooms down in the same corridor sat Mitsuki and Masaru, holding each other and mimicking those wails that tore through their son’s childhood friend.

This hospital room didn’t echo with repeated beeping, instead, there was one steady, harrowing beep that signified the loss of a life. On the hospital bed just a foot or two away from his parents lay Bakugou, bandaged and irreparable from the damage done to his body. His expression was calm, almost serene, and his eyes rest closed, never to open again.

Even in death, he wouldn’t have lost the opportunity to give one last smartass remark to the one person he should have given all of himself to when he had the chance.

#bnha #mha #bkdk #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #bnha spoilers #bakudeku #kacchan #deku #midoriya izuku #bakugou katsuki #writing #bnha fic #bkdk fic #bnha angst #bkdk angst #character death

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thetomorrowshow · 4 years ago

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Slower Than Words Ch. 1

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

A/N: Welcome to my latest fic! I’m projecting about 10 chapters for this. If you’d like to be tagged, just leave a comment or shoot me an ask or send a request by falcon or w/e, I’m not picky!

Just to preface, I'd like to warn that there will be cult content in this work. I am in no way endorsing cults, nor am I criticizing anyone's religion. The intent of this work is to entertain, so please enjoy!

CW: Food, inflicted blindness, imprisonment

Virgil wasn’t expecting a roommate.

He’d only been here for a month or so, but he’d been alone for a while. He’d been quarantined for the past twenty days, and experimented on before that—Virgil didn’t want to think about that.

He hadn't known he had a roommate until someone brushed up against him as he curled up on the cold floor. He couldn't find the bed, otherwise that was where he'd lie. But something touched him and he reared back, ready to attack.

Whatever it was didn't touch him again, and Virgil slowly let himself relax. The sudden movement had sent a migraine to pound at the walls of his head. He groaned and let his head rest on the cold floor beneath him, before hearing some rustling. He jerked right back up, flinching again when something heavy fell on him. A blanket.

“Hello?” he ventured. No answer. For a moment, Virgil was certain he was making it all up, that he had gotten the blanket himself but had forgotten. Then another noise—a scuffle, the sound of someone sitting nearby. A hand touched his shoulder, and Virgil did everything in his power to not draw back.

“Who's there?” he asked, his voice quivering. “I can't—I can't see. I can't see you.”

Even after they'd taken the bandages off his eyes, Virgil had been unable to see anything. The first week, his eyes had burned and itched. He'd restrained himself from scratching, but now he wasn't sure if it would have made a difference. He had lost his sight, and with it his whole world.

The hand didn't leave his shoulder, and Virgil reached out cautiously. His hands met something solid—a person? Yes, a person, and Virgil's hands clutched desperately at their shirt. He hadn't had safe human contact in so long. . . . The person seemed to understand that, and gently placed his arms around Virgil. Virgil let himself be wrapped in the hug, arms awkwardly against his chest. The person smelled like soap and dust and immediately warmed him. Virgil relished the fiery contact, pushing his head up into the person's shoulder and sighing. For the first time in weeks, he felt safe.

The person pulled back and Virgil floundered, reaching again into the empty air. A hand caught his and held it still. Virgil frowned, confused. What was happening? Were they not supposed to know about each other? Was the person about to lead him back into that room, the bright one where they leaned over him and—

Virgil wrenched his brain away from that train of thought. He needed to focus on the here and now, not the terrifying past. Starting with who the other person in the room was. Said other person suddenly let go off his hand and pulled him close again. Virgil decided to not worry about who they were or why they were both here, and melted into the person's chest.

When Virgil woke up, he blinked blearily before remembering that he couldn't see. Someone—the person from the previous day—was still holding him, but his slow breathing indicated that he was asleep. At some point, they'd moved to a bed. It was nice, all things considered. He wasn't alone, he was in a soft bed with a soft person, and he had no need to go anywhere anytime soon.

A loud clang! interrupted his drowsy thoughts and he jerked up, feeling the person beside him stir in their sleep.

“Hello?” Virgil said, his voice shaking. No answer. His roommate sat up beside him and placed a gentle hand on his back, calm and reassuring. Then the person slid out of bed and seemingly vanished—Virgil could no longer reach them, no matter how far he stretched out his arms. He whimpered unwillingly, then covered his mouth. No use seeming weak. A little voice in his head reminded him that he'd certainly done worse than whimper when they'd taken his sight.

A terrifying moment later, a hand was on his arm and guiding him into a standing position. Virgil stumbled a bit, but allowed himself to be led across the room until the person eased him to the ground.

As it turned out, there was food there, laid out on a tray. Virgil felt his way around the tray before lifting what he was certain was a spoon, letting the other person place a bowl on his lap. It was full of instant mashed potatoes, Virgil soon discovered. He hadn't really been focusing on his stomach, but he realized some sustenance would be nice. While he ate, the other person traced seemingly random patterns on his wrist.

The bowl with mashed potatoes was pulled away from him, then returned but filled with canned beans. Virgil grimaced: he'd never been one for beans, but at least they were warm. It struck him as he ate that he had no idea what time it was. Was this an odd breakfast, or a poor dinner? It reminded him of something his dorm mate might have made—and just like that, tears were forming and his nose was burning.

Why did they take him? Out of every twenty-something person they could've kidnapped to fulfill their sick desires of blinding someone, why him? Virgil missed home, he missed school, he missed his obnoxious dorm mate, he missed his terrible paying job making terrible pizzas—

The bowl was gently pulled from him and Virgil willingly fell into the person's arms. He sobbed into their shoulder, lost and sad and homesick. How many times had he cried alone in the past month? How many times had he longed for human contact only to wrap his arms around himself? Now he cuddled closer into the warm weight of another human being, gripping as tight as he could.

The other person lightly placed a kiss into Virgil's hair and Virgil felt safe, and warm, and still so so awful but also okay.

Virgil pulled back and fumbled around for the bowl again, still sniffling as he took another bite. The person continued to trace the patterns into his wrist, slow and soft. Over and over. Familiar, like they had no meaning yet every meaning simultaneously. Over and over and over. . . .

That was—repetition? Did the pattern start over? Virgil set down the bowl and placed his hand on the other person's, who immediately stilled.

“Come on, do it again,” Virgil croaked. He gestured at his wrist, trying to get his meaning across. “I wanna feel it.”

Slowly, the patterns started up again, and Virgil traced along with them.

a . . . b . . . c . . . d. . . .

The alphabet. The person hadn't spoken at all thus far, and Virgil felt unbelievably ecstatic about this form of communication. He pushed his hand into the other person's, food forgotten in the giddy anticipation of someone talking to him. Old Virgil would have scoffed, unimpressed at his thirst for human contact. Old Virgil wanted to be alone. Old Virgil hadn't spent weeks alone in darkness.

Virgil could pick out some of the letters the person traced, but the rest felt like random scribbling. He definitely felt an 'a', and an 'o', and then an 'n', but the rest was unclear. He shrugged, then put his hand over theirs again.

This time he could feel the letters more clearly, as the other person carefully guided his hand.

P-a-t-t-o-n.

V-i-r-g-i-l, Virgil spelled. V-i-r-g-i-l.

V . . . i . . . n . . . y . . . l . . . l.

“No, Virgil, not vinyl,” Virgil groaned. V-i-r-g-i-l.

V . . . i . . . r . . . g . . . i . . . l.

“Yes, yes yes!” Virgil impulsively hugged the man whose arm he'd been spelling on a second earlier. His name was Patton, and through much trial and error, Virgil had discovered that Patton was about his age and could see. Why he wasn't talking was a mystery that he hadn't decoded yet.

Virgil and Patton had been curled up on the bed for hours, tracing into each others' arms. It was mostly the alphabet, over and over again as they tried to instinctually recognize the letters. It was slow going, but Virgil felt they'd gotten far enough for his name—and they had. It exhausted both of them, he was sure, so he wasn't surprised when Patton fell asleep, him following shortly.

The past few days had been too short, it seemed, after the unbelievable length of the month he'd spent alone. Hours of tracing and sleeping and eating and just touching helped the days fly by. Every day Patton held Virgil steady as the walked the perimeter of the room, one hand on the smooth wall, the other clenched into Patton's shirt. He was slowly beginning to envision their cell in his mind's eye. He knew how many steps it was from the door to the beds—because there were two of them, apparently, though Virgil spent most of his time on the same bed as Patton. When it was night, he couldn't bear to let Patton go, afraid he'd wake up alone again, not able to find anyone. On nights when the fear was particularly bad, Patton held him to his chest and wiped the tears away.

They were almost constantly touching, in some way. When they were both mentally worn from the struggle of communicating, they often lay on the floor, hands entwined. In those moments, Virgil let his mind explore beyond the room, sometimes imagining himself to be a great wizard or adventurer. He went on grand quests to retrieve lost treasures, journeyed into caverns that dripped with shadows. Most of the time, though, he imagined he was going about his normal life. He pictured his dorm mate, the paths he'd take to school. He thought about the tree that grew outside his window, the aloe vera on his desk that was somehow managing to survive. Those bittersweet thoughts always led to a wave of homesickness, and Virgil would find himself curling into Patton's arms to cry.

Now, though, Virgil woke up slowly, automatically squeezing his grip to make sure he was still holding Patton's hand. The man squeezed back, then spelled something onto his arm.

V-i-r-g-i-l.

Virgil smiled sleepily and spelled back: P-a-t-t-o-n. Who was he to break morning routine?

F-o-o-d-s-h-e-r-e, Patton spelled out slowly, making a slicing motion on his arm to indicate a space between words. Virgil nodded, forestalling the man as he began to spell it again.

“I heard, I heard.”

Over breakfast, Patton continued the alphabet lightly. Virgil tried to keep his arm free, but he needed one hand to hold the bowl and the other to eat the oatmeal, so it wasn't going too well. Soon enough, the tray was taken from them (by the morning food-bringer, Virgil was beginning to be able to tell their footsteps apart) and Patton squeezed him in a brief hug before taking Virgil's hand and placing it over his own, tracing more letters onto Virgil's skin.

I-a-m-d-e-a-f.

That couldn't be right. Virgil wracked his brain, trying to think of which letter he misinterpreted. Before he could pick it out, though, Patton was tracing again.

I-a-m-d-e-a-f.

Taglist (let me know if you want to be added/removed!): @enragedbees @gotta-love-alejandra @bunny222

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saokpe · 4 years ago

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HDLW Sibling Week 2020 - Day 3: Family Photo

I’m having a whole lot of fun writing these HDLW Week fics and this might be my favorite so far!

@hdlwsiblingweek2020

Photo Preparations

The morning in the mansion dragged long. An overjoyed Webbigail waits in jittery excitement as, from just around the corner, enters three unusually dressed identical triplets. Their faces burrowed in clear annoyance, all stretching horribly in the costumes discomfort. Expressions Webby could not dare emulate, instead she wore an elongated smile and beaming stare.

Before they reach the living room sofa that the excitable Webby waited by, Huey complains, “I love him, but Donald really does pick THE WORST clothes for these family photos.” The duck, absent of his usual red cap, signals to his combed and meticulously designed outfit. A thick red vest, stray pieces of thread fuzzing over the also red undershirt he begrudgingly wore. Oh, and it was all covered in polka dots, from head to toe. Not a spot was left without a spot, it was anything but attention grabbing, multicolored polka dots in a bright red background, beautiful.

“MY question is: why do we need to take a sibling only photos in ADDITION to the family photo, the parents photo, the uncles photos, the rich uncles photo, which is literally just Gladstone and Scrooge, and the ‘anyone else we have passing knowledge of’ photo! I would think the last one would tick all the previous boxes.” Louie, whose loose shoulders wore the bear of a t-shirt anyone would doubt he would like immortalized. The shirt, a couple of sizes over his body type, obnoxiously said, in outdated impact font, “I’m not arguing, I’m just explaining why I’m right!” The utter void of any type of enthusiasm echoed in his sunken eyes.

“Well I want to know why this sweater is so ITCHY!” Dewey forces himself ahead, unaware of the couch he crashed into as he vigorously scratches his body, rolling across the sofa while struggling to fight the liberally designed blue sweater. “AND WHY DOES IT SMELL SO WEIRD!”

As their sequence of whining comes to a still begrudged end, their uninspired trek halting as they reach the only ray of enthusiasm in the room, i.e. Webby, she tosses her opinion into the frey. ”I think you all look great, your photo is gonna be amazing!” She exclaims.

“Wait.” Louie approaches Webby, her body bolting backwards as the distance closes. “Why are you wearing your normal clothes? Did Uncle Donald let you wear anything you wanted!?” Disbelief and shock rings in his angered assessment.

“Oh, no-” Webby attempts to excuse herself before being interrupted by Dewey, who still drags his nails violently over the obnoxious sweater, adds:

“Really!? Lucky!” The boy stumbles over his contorted feet, falling face first to the room’s rug, not stopping the erratic fight he had with his clothing.

“No, no, no, no, guys-” The girl waves her hand over the accusive triplets, chuckling as she explains, “This is the sibling photo, I’m not in this one.” She continues the giggle.

Little response leaves the triplets as Webby’s forced laugh permeates. Dewey, who halts his pursuit of comfort and stands beside his brothers, Huey, and Louie stare oddly at the girl. The deafening silence of their looks complimented by a perfectly synchronized eyebrow raise. Eventually, despite her lacking social skills, Webby reads the room, thinning out her somewhat sad laughter and replacing it with awkward eye contact with the boys. It takes a second for the fourway gaze to break, the embarrassingly dressed kids turning to each other before, simultaneously, speaking out:

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“Yeah, Webbs goes in the sibling photo with us, I’m pretty sure.”

“Us four, and Mom and Uncle Donald.”

“Uhh-” Webbigail, somewhat paralyzed from the overheard mumbles of her family, tries to intrude. Unfortunately the attempt is foiled when they turn their bodies back to the stunned sister.

“You probably just didn’t see your clothes, I asked Donald to let mom pick it out for you so-” Huey begins before getting intersected by Louie.

“Actually, Huey asked me to convince uncle Donald, he was real adamant about the outfit he picked out for you until I persuaded him otherwise. No need to thank me, unless you want to, in which case, who am I to refuse?” He smugly assures.

Huey pushes the scheming brother aside before finishing, “-point is, you’ll probably look a bit better than us…. Maybe.”

“Uhhhh-” Webby didn’t dare move as her brothers explained the situation, her mouth agape and droning. Her mind ran, every fiber of her brain overthinking the words the conversation brought. She probably liked to believe herself a sister to the triplets, but that wasn’t written down in the family tree, it can’t be the case. Right? I mean, she would’ve known and added it by now. Wouldn’t she?

Salted tears begin to well, the stray droplet splashing over the shaky smile her body forced over her. The emotive response doesn’t go unnoticed, Dewey returning to his feet after a valiant round against his sweater.

“You okay Webby?” Genuine concern oozes over the duck’s equally concerned tone of voice.

Louie and Huey, who discussed the clothing situation they still suffered, are the next to take notice.

“Whoa, are you alright? What’s the matter- Oh.” Huey stops himself, his expression souring in embarrassment as he continues, “Did you want to wear what Donald got you instead? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to exclude you I just-”

“Way to go dude!” Louie lightly shoves his older brother.

“You were the one to convince him! I feel like there's equal blame here.” He attempts to retort.

“Cause you told me! If I knew that Webbs wouldn’t-”

“No! No! No!” A stray laugh escapes the overwhelmed Webby, her arms rubbing across her eyes, drying them. “That’s not it, I just-” She contemplates her answer a little longer. Her thoughts prove blank, another chuckle preceding a larger hug. Her arms drag the triplets together before wrapping them tightly, abnormally tight for some her size. “Thank you.” She whispers between them.

Lungs crushed, the triplets are able to spew out:

“No problem?”

“You're welcome.”

“This somehow makes this sweater itch MORE.”

The embrace parts, leaving those squeezed out of breath and aching. But before any complaint can be filed, their sister runs off. From the distance she screams. “I’ll be back in a second, wait for me.”

“Alright!” Huey screams back.

Silence continues as the remaining group, Dewey while scratching the living hell out of his now burning torso, look ahead to the dashing Webby.

“That was weird.” Louie finally breaks the silence.

“We’ve got a weird sister.” Huey responds.

A second moment of silence, occupied only by Dewey’s struggling grunts, returns.

“OK THAT'S IT! I’M DESTROYING THIS STUPID SWEATER! I’LL GO SHIRTLESS IF I HAVE TO!”

“Dewey! NO!”

The following pictures were deemed unusable by Donald as Dewey refused to put his, by then, burnt and torn sweater. Webby still keeps them in her room, though, the blurred lines of action and chaotic composition struck a chord with her. A good representation of their relationship as siblings, she thinks.

#HDLW #ducktales #Huey Duck #Dewey Duck #Louie Duck #Webby Vanderquack #hdlw sibling week 2020

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clydeloganisababe · 5 years ago

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What I Wouldn’t Do (1/3)

Sometimes, you just need to write the incredibly niche, indulgent smut you wish to see in the world. So, in honor of Adam’s latest SNL appearance, please allow me to present a flower shop ABO au featuring the one, the only, the king, Robbie the Biscutie.

The whole thing is going to be 3 chapters, with the third chapter being a no holds barred smut-fest. Chapter 1 is the meet-cute, Chapter 2 is the date, Chapter 3 is the heat/rut. Now on AO3.

I’d love to dedicate this fic to other writers whose work has sustained and nourished me over the years and to other Robbie enthusiasts, especially @theweddingofthefoxes. Let me know if you want to be removed or added to any updates!

Author’s note: Robbie has a girlfriend at the start of this mess, but there’s no cheating.

And now, without further ado:

~~~~~

Many customers, regardless of their designations, liked the sweet smell of the shop. Actual product varied by day but there were almost always roses and lilies in stock, which incidentally were among the most fragrant flowers. When customers weren’t looking for floral arrangements they could also sample the various soaps, diffusers, oils, candles, and perfumes that littered the store front. The barrage of scents was almost overwhelming, but that was how you wanted it. You took great care to hide your own scent, but it was still difficult to hide the odor of an unmated omega without a little extra help. Working in a fragrant shop made it that much easier to blend in, and for that you were grateful. Decorum, and at times your safety, depended on it.

There was an enormous wedding this weekend so by Tuesday you were already in pre-production. You were in the middle of taping floral foam to a tray when you heard the tell tale tinkle of the door bell.

“Welcome! Come on in, I’ll be right with you!” you called, drying your hands on a nearby towel. You were almost to the front when it hit you: the unmistakable musk of alpha pheromones. You whipped around, trying to find the source.

Striding up to the counter was an absolute beast of a man. His navy suit draped attractively against his broad frame, but his languid strides revealed rippling muscles underneath the wool. The first button of his brightly patterned shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a flash of gold at his throat. His messy black waves were pulled back into a knot at the back of his head. You typically thought that man buns were silly, but this guy was pulling it off.

The rational part of your brain said that he looked like a bad New York stereotype. But the secret, primal part of you whispered he’s big and broad and smells like sandalwood and cinnamon, he’d give you healthy pups and a big fat knot.

How could you smell him this clearly? You were on very strong suppressants and shouldn’t be able to smell him, let alone separate the notes of his scent. Maybe he wasn’t on blockers? He looked like the type.

As you slipped behind the counter, his dark gaze finally found yours and a ripple of understanding passed between you both. There you are. Judging by the look on his face he could clearly smell you too.

“Hi, do you need some help today or are you just browsing?” It’s easy to slip into the friendly, customer service persona, even when you are beginning to tremble at his proximity.

“Yeah, I need something for my girl.” His voice is a deep, rough rumble. Fuck. Of course he has a girlfriend. You sniff delicately, trying to be subtle. He’s got a girl, but you can’t smell anything lingering on him. Beta.

You go over all the details as professionally as you can: he needs the bouquet tonight, she likes roses, money’s not a problem because my girl deserves the best. “I wanna pick it up at 5 o’clock sharp. I’m surprising her at dinner and I wanna to be on time.” He’s going on about his girlfriend, but his dark eyes linger over your form. He feels it too.

“Of course! I’ll have the bouquet ready for you right at 5.” It’s an innocuous statement, but his eyes darken at your quick obedience. He pays with a shiny black card.

“Thanks sweetheart, I’ll see you at 5.” He turns to leave and you can’t help but watch his thick thighs as he slips out the door, bell chiming in his wake. You want to be mad about the pet name, but you aren’t. You hope he’ll say it again.

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

5 pm rolls around and the hot alpha from before is punctual. His credit card had the name Robert on it, but you don’t think it suits him. Robert sounds much too formal. Does he go by Bob? Maybe Rob?

As promised, his rose bouquet is waiting for him on the counter, spilling out from a delicate crystal vase. You chose pink and white roses, but added some burgundy ranunculus and white anemones for texture, framing everything with eucalyptus, salal, and seeded eucalyptus. The effect is soft and romantic.

“I wanted you to see it before I wrapped it up for you,” you explain. He remains silent, inspecting the bouquet. “Do you like it?” You shift nervously. He’s taking a long time to answer.

“It’s perfect,” he finally announces. “Better than I imagined. She’s gonna love it.” She’s gonna love it. Right.

“Excellent! I’ll wrap that up for you.” You snap to work, trying not to waste anymore time.

“Did you make that?” he asks, leaning against the counter. You catch another whiff of his sweet, spicy scent and you stifle a whimper.

“I did!” you offer, topping off the plastic wrap with a cream ribbon. He whistles lowly. “Stunning work, sweetheart.” He takes the vase from you, his hands engulfing yours for the briefest moment. “I’ll have to remember this place for next time.” You practically gulp. “Please do! I’d be happy to make you something else.” He holds your gaze for just a moment too long, then turns and slinks out the door, off to a date with his girlfriend. Goddammit.

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

Life moves on and you try to forget about the hot alpha with the incredible scent, who pinned you with his gaze and complimented your work. Until the next week when the store bell tinkles and the warm telltale notes of sandalwood drift through the shop. Your gland itches and you snap to attention.

“Welcome back!” you call to him as he swaggers confidently up to the counter.

“You remember me?” he teases.

“I do. You’re very memorable,” you admit, blushing. He smirks, pleased with himself. Your gland prickles and you clench your fists, resisting the urge to scratch it in front of him. “So what can I get you this time?”

“I need something classy. Elegant.” He looks at you expectantly, like you know exactly what that means.

“Of course. What’s the occasion?” You hope your probing isn’t too obvious.

“I wanna surprise my girl. She’s been going through a rough time lately.” He briefly looks away and seems momentarily embarrassed. Trouble in paradise? You suddenly feel bad for flirting with him.

“Absolutely. Would she prefer pastels or jewel tones?”

“Whichever one, just make it real pretty.” Fair.

“You got it. What’s your budget?” You hate this question, but it’s necessary.

He smirks. “Money’s not an issue.”

“Alright. Do you want to pick up your arrangement or should I have it delivered?”

“I’ll come by around 5.”

“Perfect! I’ll see you then!” You flash him a winning customer service smile and he extends his hand. “I’m Robbie, by the way.”

Robbie. His hand is huge and warm. You give him your name and unable to resist, you overextend your hand, slipping a finger outside of his grip to brush the gland at his wrist. His scent spikes with arousal, flooding your nose with his intoxicating scent. He growls softly, sending a shiver through you. You know you’re playing with fire, but you can’t let go. Don’t leave me, alpha. He finally releases your hand and stalks out of the shop, leaving you an itchy, unsatisfied mess.

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

You fall into a routine. Robbie comes in every Friday, orders an arrangement for his girlfriend, you both flirt, then he leaves. You look forward to it. You know it’s not going anywhere, that he’s just the hot alpha customer and you’re just the cute omega shop girl, but seeing him still makes your day.

In fact, he’s due any minute to pick up his arrangement. The bell tinkles and you immediately perk up. But the scent is off, it’s a little too woodsy. It’s another alpha.

“Welcome, how can I he-“

He cuts you off. “Hi, do you have any yellow roses?”

“I don’t believe so, but let me check.” You scan the back room and peer through the coolers. You’ve got a handful of spray roses, but you can tell that’s not really what he’s looking for.

“I’m so sorry, we only have small spray roses, were you interested in an-“

“Well, do you have anything yellow?” he huffs. His smell is bitter.

“I’m sorry, we really don’t.”

“You really don’t? What kind of florist doesn’t have yellow flowers?” You miss the tinkling of the shop bell, but it’s impossible to miss a sudden waft of sandalwood.

“I’d be happy to order some for you, I could get them by tom-“

“My anniversary is tonight! What good does that do me?” You fumble for an answer, but Robbie doesn’t.

“The fuck you say to her? Is that how you talk to a lady?” Robbie barks from across the shop. He barrels towards the front and the other alpha visibly shrinks before him, his damp scent souring with fear.

“This is so unprofessional,” the other alpha whines. Robbie starts to crowd him but he immediately backs away.

“Then find another florist before I throw you out myself,” Robbie growls. The other alpha shoots you one last glare, but slinks out of the shop with his tail between his legs.

Robbie finally turns to look at you and you exhale a shaky breath that you didn’t realize you where holding. “Robbie, you didn’t have to do that,” you insist weakly.

“Yes I did,” he comes behind the counter and wraps you in his arms. “I couldn’t let him talk to you like that,” You bury your face into his chest and he purrs, a deep rumble. A shudder ripples through you. “Thank you for saving me,” you murmur, running your hand along his spine. “Any time, doll,” he chuffs.

You linger against him, much longer than is appropriate, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You nuzzle into his chest, soothed by his purring. Robbie’s hands wander up your back and one settles between your shoulder blades, fingertips just shy of your mating gland. You tremble at its proximity. The other snakes its way along your ribcage, just shy of your breast.

The shop bell tinkles and you break away from him, the moment shattered. ‘I’ll be right back with your arrangement,” you murmur. You hand him the flowers and he fixes you with one last smoldering look.

“Have a nice dinner,” you offer weakly. It breaks the spell and he finally looks away. “Right,” he grumbles, taking the vase. He moves towards the door but he stops, looking back. “Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone,” he calls. You smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Robbie.” He gives you one last lingering smirk, but then he’s gone.

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

The week drags by slowly. Robbie hasn’t placed an order yet, which is odd, and you wonder if you’ll ever see him again. Maybe your obvious connection is too much, too inappropriate. He has a girlfriend and that should be the end of it, you begrudgingly remind yourself. But you’ve been itchy and antsy all week, and you’re worried that you’ve started something out of your control. Like your heat. You should have another month or so to go, but the close proximity of a compatible partner can still mess with even the best suppressants.

The shop phone rings and it’s a welcome distraction. “Hey, doll,” he rumbles through the receiver. Both relief and anticipation shudder through you.

“Hey, I was beginning to wonder if I would hear from you this week,” even you can hear the needy whine in your voice. “What can I get you this time?”

“Actually, I was hoping you could help me with that.” You can hear him shifting on the other end of the line. “I want you to make something that you would like. Can be anything you want, big or small, any budget, I just want you to make something that you would want.”

“Really? I’m surprised you are letting me decide, you always seem to know exactly what you want.” You can’t help but tease him. Designer’s choice was always a popular option, but it’s odd coming from someone as decisive as Robbie.

“Oh, I do babydoll, make no mistake about that,” he growls. “When do you get off work on Friday?” You gulp. “Usually around 6 unless there’s an event. Nothing this week though.”

“Good. I’ll pick it up at 6.”

“Sounds great, see you then, Robbie”

“Bye, babe.” You both linger on the line, but you finally disconnect the call. It’s not weird, Robbie just likes your designs, you reason. It’s expected that a floral designer should design an arrangement.

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

Unfortunately for Robbie, you have expensive taste. You lose yourself in the creation of the handtied that you are making, an asymmetrical bouquet spilling over with greens, black baccara roses, plush dahlias, ranunculus, anemones, queen anne’s lace, and thistle. It’s wild but soft, dark and deep. You throw in some carnations for a pop of color. You have no idea if Robbie’s girl will like this, carnations can be controversial, but you like it, and that is what Robbie had asked for. That thought makes you smile to yourself.

You are a little nervous to see Robbie when he rolls in at 6 pm on the dot. “I wanted you to see it before I wrapped it up,” you explain, handing him the bouquet. He’s silent, inspecting it on all sides. His thorough examination puts you on edge. “I can change it, if you want, that’s not a problem,” you can hear yourself blabbering, but you can’t stop yourself. “It’s unexpected,” he finally offers, looking over and pinning you with his dark stare. “But so were you. This is perfect.” He leans closer and you instinctively inch towards him.

“I got a confession. These ain’t for Sophie. We broke up a week ago,” he pauses, scanning your face for a reaction. “If you want ‘em, they’re yours. If you don’t want ‘em, then I’ll keep ‘em to remember you by. But I hope you want ‘em.” You are stunned into silence. No one has ever done something like this for you before. You gape up at him.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” the sour taste of nerves invades your senses and he begins to back away. “I can be pushy, I’m sorry if I-“

“Robbie,” you reach up and rub the glands on his neck and he moans openly. “Is that a yes, baby doll?” he rumbles. Taking the bouquet, you reach up on your tiptoes and gently press your lips to his.

“That is definitely a yes, Alpha.” He groans, scooping you up and burying his face in your neck. You shiver at the hot swipe of his tongue against your gland. You can feel the gentle rumble of a purr beginning in his chest and you clench around nothing.

“I’m taking you to dinner.” He presses his lips to your neck, eliciting a soft gasp from you. “And then after that, I’m taking you to bed.” He draws back, tilting your chin so you look into his eyes. “Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect.”

#robbie the biscutie #robbie x reader #adam driver snl 2020 #adam driver snl 2016 #adam driver x reader #abo hell

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dazebrasrecs · 5 years ago

Text

Fic Recs: James Flint/John Silver (Black Sails)

All individual fics are completed but not all series.

Any Port in a Storm by Farasha

Length: 51k / Rating: E / Genre: Drama / Warnings: BDSM, Dub-con, Imjury

Summary: The situation in Nassau has become complicated. The situation between Flint and Silver was always complicated.

Bathed by twofrontteethstillcrooked

Length: 3k / Rating: E / Genre: PWP / Warnings: injury

Summary: An itch had caused him to reach back to scratch. His fingers came away red as the pain shot like cannon fire across his shoulder.

Silver went pale as he rushed nearer. “You told me you weren’t injured.”

Flint shrugged. “I didn’t think I was.”

Silver seemed to be clenching his teeth hard enough to crack rock. His nostrils flared. “We should see to it before you head much further inland.” He sounded like someone Flint did not want to test on the matter.

Burning In It by PrimalScream

Length: 3k / Rating: E / Genre: PWP / Warnings: N/A

Summary: So this is based on hawkbi-pierce’s promt and she has graciously allowed me to take a stab at it. Hope I did it justice.

okay but please consider: James Flint and face sitting. where Flint has never sat on anyone’s face before because he’s a bit embarrassed by the idea because it seems rude, and Silver practically begging Flint to sit on his face. please consider Flint losing his composure and being loud. please consider this in light of last season’s facial hair developments and the beard burn that would result

By the Oath River. by Craftnarok

Length: 8k / Rating: E / Genre: PWP / Warnings: N/A

Summary: In the wake of their victory against Governor Rogers' forces, Silver suspects he knows the best way to bring Flint down from the bloodlust of the battle, and he could do with some release himself, so he sets about giving them both what they need.

Force of Nature by zelda_zee

Length: 3k / Rating: E / Genre: PWP / Warnings: N/A

Summary: After their reprieve from certain death, Silver's rapport with his captain shifts in a way he did not foresee.

Hey Jealousy by PrimalScream

Length: 3k / Rating: M / Genre: PWP / Warnings: N/A

Summary: No definitive time line, but set sometime in the near future, shortly after they become lovers. Silver isn't all that fond of the new crew member, but that's between he and himself, or is it? “

You don’t need to worry about Havers, he’s got nothing I want, he can’t hold a candle to you, or to this.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.

”“Don’t you? You’ve been glaring daggers at the man since he came aboard two days ago.”

His Love of Books by Magnetism_bind

Length: 3k / Rating: T / Genre: Romance / Warnings: N/A

Summary: Silver starts bringing Flint books.

I Hold a Beast, an Angel, and a Madman in Me. by Craftnarok

Length: 3k / Rating: E / Genre: Angst/AU / Warnings: N/A

Summary: Mod!AU. Silver is coming to terms with the loss of his leg, and Flint is trying to help him, but he's finding Silver's lack of self-care troubling. Starts a little angsty, but it gets happier, I promise.

I know you like what's on my mind by PrimalScream

Length: 3k / Rating: E / Genre: PWP / Warnings: N/A

Summary: S1ish - Straight up porn for porn's sake

I know you really want to move me, you know I'd like to see you try by PrimalScream

Length: 5k / Rating: E / Genre: PWP / Warnings: N/A

Summary: The one in which Silver likes to touch things that aren’t his….yet

“Who else could I have possibly been thinking about after what you’ve been doing this last month? You’re a fucking tease.

”“And whose fault is that? I made myself perfectly clear. You could have had me weeks ago, but you’re too fucking stubborn to take what’s right in front of you. ”

Immaculate dream made of breath and skin by PrimalScream

Length: 22k / Rating: E / Genre: AU/Romance / Warnings: sex work, daddy kink

Summary: James had gone looking for something different and he sure as fuck found it.

The Kissing!Verse by Magnetism_bind

Length: 25k / Rating: E / Genre: Romance / Warnings: BDSM

Summary: Silver's led to believe the crew all take their turns pacifying the captain, which leads to misunderstandings, unwanted arousals, and pining until he comes up with a way to get what he wants.

Lease Agreement series by twofrontteethstillcrooked

Length: 24k / Rating: E / Genre: AU/Romance/Humor / Warnings: minor violence

Summary: Lonely homeowner James Flint meets renter John Silver, and questionable meals follow.

let us possess one world by vowelinthug

Length: 8k / Rating: E / Genre: Hurt/Comfort / Warnings: past child abuse

Summary: They return to Nassau after their defeat of the British Navy, only to be met by Agitator Billy and his propaganda machine. This is why Captain Flint tries not to let other people decide things.

In which: Flint wears a disguise, Silver tells a terrible story, one bathes the other, and only one man died the whole night which is, like, definitely a record for them.

memories you bury or live by by mapped

Length: 4k / Rating: E / Genre: PWP / Warnings: N/A

Summary: Silver has never ridden a horse before. Flint asks Silver to ride with him. One thing leads to another.

Never Let Me Go by 13thDoctor, JHarkness

Length: 28k / Rating: E / Genre: Humor / Warnings: Violence, homophobia

Summary: When Captain Flint arrives in Nassau with a ring on his hand, the island's inhabitants and the Walrus' crew are left to wonder who the unfortunate dame might be. Meanwhile, John Silver is enjoying the married life as well as reaping the benefits of his superstitious crew's bets.

Open it up tonight the devil can ride by PrimalScream

Length: 5k / Rating: E / Genre: PWP / Warnings: N/A

Summary: Set in the past, early S2. They’re still on Nassau. The one in which Silver gets exactly what he asked for. “Has it been so long since someone has wanted you, just you the man, and not what you could do for them, that you don’t remember how it feels to be wanted? There’s no grand plan here. No scheme I’m aiming for. Maybe someday I’ll want into your head, but today, right now, I just want your body, your hands, your cock. I just want you.”

The Pirate Captain's Wedding by Magnetism_bind

Length: 25k / Rating: E / Genre: Romance / Warnings: BDSM

Summary: Once he has his hands on the thief Flint is willing to do whatever it takes to get the page from him. And then Billy & Gates say marriage is the only solution left on the table. Or rather matelotage – the time honored pirate form of matrimony. Billy says it’s the only way to regain the crew’s trust, by marrying one of them, and Gates agrees. For once Flint’s desperate enough to agree to it. He never expects to actually fall in love with the little shit.

Seedlings by twofrontteethstillcrooked

Length: 23k / Rating: E / Genre: AU/Angst/Humor / Warnings: N/A

Summary: "If there's anything I can help you with, or if you'd like to order flowers for an upcoming occasion--"

"All right, honestly?" Handsomely disgruntled customer looked Silver dead in the eye and said, "I'm looking for a gift that says, 'You are making a dreadful mistake. Call me when you've figured out what a fucking hash of things you've made.'" He spoke the way some people chewed tinfoil.

Silver felt two things: lust like a plague of locusts, and the words 'uh-oh' waft through his brain.

The SilverFlint Mixtape. Vol 1 and Vol 2 by vowelinthug

Length: 20k / Rating: M / Genre: Hurt/Comfort/PWP / Warnings: N/A

Summary: fics originally posted to tumblr for H/C dialogue prompts

Strike like a match on my skin by PrimalScream

Length: 5k / Rating: E / Genre: PWP / Warnings: N/A

Summary: Sometime in S2 on the warship. I just needed a reason for Silver to be a huge tease.

To Sleep Perchance to Dream by Craftnarok

Length: 8k / Rating: E / Genre: Romance / Warnings: N/A

Summary: John Silver has never been a good sleeper, waking up at the slightest disturbance, and it's particularly tricky on a ship crammed full of noisy men. It turns out that difficulty sleeping is something else he has in common with Flint. This is what happens when his inability to sleep sends him wandering the ship two nights in a row.

Until death it is all life. by Craftnarok

Length: 12k / Rating: E / Genre: Romance / Warnings: N/A

Summary: Ever since Flint told Silver about Thomas he hasn't been able to stop imagining Flint with another man. But then that turns into him imagining Flint with him, and it's only been a few days, but Silver thinks he might be about to lose his mind. So he has to do something about it.

we pull apart the dark, compete against the stars by mapped

Length: 7k / Rating: E / Genre: Drama / Warnings: N/A

Summary: After Silver learns about Thomas Hamilton, he cannot stop thinking about that man and what he means to Flint. He knows that he wants Flint, but how can Flint want him back when he's nothing like this man that Flint speaks of with such undisguised adoration?

you are the queen and i am the wolf by vowelinthug

Length: 10k / Rating: E / Genre: Humor / Warnings: N/A

Summary: They call him John the Giant. Flint calls himself James the Early Risk for Heart Failure.

Your eyes could steal a sailor from the sea by PrimalScream

Length: 7k / Rating: E / Genre: AU/Romance / Warnings: N/A

Summary: Matelotage. Like that was going to secure the safety of any crew. Like that would guarantee loyalty. James understands that there's a problem, but surely there has to be another way.

Your Hips, Your Lips, Your Skin On Mine and sequel This Year's Love by Magnetism_bind

Length: 9k / Rating: E / Genre: AU/Romance / Warnings: ableism

Summary: Flint's model cancels on him for his last class of the semester. Fortunately Max has a friend who might be able to step in. Everything seems fine and dandy until Flint sets eyes on the model.

#black sails #fic rec #silverflint #james flint #john silver

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seriousshit88 · 6 years ago

Note

Stiles falls into a patch of poison ivy in the Preserve (in his defense, it's not supposed to BE in California at all.) Cue Scott scrubbing him down with detergent and exfoliant, and then careful, tender application of calamine lotion. Just buddies being dudes, right? Except Stiles can't get the memory of Scott's hands on him out of his head.

Loz. This fic turned out to be over 3 times longer than it was supposed to be. I’m still not sure I did your prompt justice, but thank you for being patient with me.

“This is torture,” Stiles groused.

“Scratching is just going to make it worse, dude,” Scott said as they made it back safely to their tiny, two-bedroom apartment. He scrolled through his phone looking for info on poison ivy. And based on Stiles’s description, it was definitely poison ivy and not the far-more-likely poison oak. Because Stiles had the kind of luck that allowed him to find the lone patch of poison ivy in all of California.

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one whose skin feels like there are thousands of fire ants crawling all over. Oh, my God! This is the worst!” He flung both of his shirts to the living room floor and stalked to the bathroom, where he could finally get a good look at his splotchy chest in the mirror. He cringed at the sight. “The. Worst.”

Hours ago, he and Scott were out in the Preserve following up on a very credible report of a Bigfoot sighting. Being a freshly-minted FBI Agent meant Stiles had to investigate stuff like this in the event there were real X-Files somewhere (he was pretty sure they existed, even though his more senior colleagues gave him weird looks whenever he asked). Unfortunately, they never found Bigfoot. But somewhere along the trail, Stiles tripped and fell onto what he thought was a normal bush. The itching didn’t start until the ride back home. It only got worse from there.

Maybe the mere presence of poison ivy in California was the real X-File all along. It’s something that certainly required investigation. By someone who wasn’t him.

Scott followed Stiles into the bathroom, tutting in sympathy once he saw Stiles’s bare chest. But then he cocked his head a little to the side in confusion. “Okay, how the hell did you get rashes under two shirts? It looks like you just stuffed a bunch of poison ivy under them.”

“I don’t know,” Stiles whined. The bathroom was too small for the both of them to comfortably be in there. They weren’t smushed, but it was close. It made Stiles feel funny in ways that had nothing to do with itchy plants.

Stiles made an absent-minded attempt to scratch his chest, but Scott swatted his hand away.

“Ow!”

“Turn around. Let me see your back.”

Stiles did as he was told. His hips knocked into Scott’s on the way around. The funny feeling only intensified.

Scott let out a soft gasp. “Oh, man.”

“What? Is it bad?”

Stiles felt Scott brush his fingers gently across a spot on his back. The incessant itch briefly gave way to an involuntary shiver.

“Um. Well. Let’s just say I’ve seen pepperoni pizzas with clearer complexions.”

“I know you’re used to your patients having four legs, fur, and barking to communicate, but your bedside manner for humans sucks ba-aahhhhhh…” The itching all over Stiles’s body ceased almost immediately.

“How’s my bedside manner, now?” Scott asked a little too smugly.

The sound Stiles made was somewhere between a moan and a sob. “The absolute best. I love you.” Thanks to the pain drain (itch ditch?) Scott so graciously administered, Stiles no longer felt like separating himself from his own skin.

Scott directed Stiles to sit on the edge of the tub, and proceeded to rummage through their medicine cabinet for supplies to clean and disinfect the rashes all over Stiles’s back. This involved touching. Lots of touching. And with the distraction of the horrendous itch reduced, Stiles couldn’t block out the feeling of Scott’s fingers on his bare skin. They felt good roaming all over his exposed back. They also felt good good, and Stiles really didn’t want to have to explain the confused boner he knew was just waiting to pop up at the worst moment. With how his luck was going, that was a distinct possibility.

“Are you okay? Your heart rate is through the roof right now,” Scott said.

Knowing Scott could easily hear the lie he wanted to tell, Stiles decided to go with something a little closer to the truth. “I’ve been better, dude.”

Scott patted his arm. “I’ll get the calamine and finish up back here, then you can do your front. We’ll be through in no time. If the itching flares up again, I can help you out with it, if you want.”

Though grateful for the itch relief, Stiles hated when Scott put that kind of strain on himself. They hadn’t discussed it, but Stiles knew Scott was doing it for the animals at work who needed it. Sometimes that was a lot.

“Thanks, but the calamine should be enough, right? I’ll manage.”

“You sure?” Scott asked as he trailed his fingers along Stiles’s side in a spot he very well knew was incredibly ticklish. “It’s really not a problem for me.”

“Scott, I swear to God, don’t you dare do what I think you’re about to do,” Stiles warned.

“What?” No one did fake innocent like Scott McCall did fake innocent. Stiles loved it.

“Just get the calamine, and no tickling, you dweeb,” Stiles said with no real heat. He couldn’t see Scott, but he knew Scott was smiling to himself.

The lotion was shockingly cold, and Stiles flinched a bit when it made first contact with his raw skin. Between Scott’s hand and Stiles’s back, though, it warmed pretty quickly and started feeling more like a massage than basic first aid. After the shit-tastic day he’d had, Stiles found it was way too easy to just…drift…

“…probably going to blister later, so try your best to keep it clean. You might have to sleep sitting up. If it gets worse, we’ll head straight to the ER. I’ll fill mom in, too. Oh, and you need to wash the clothes you’re wearing. Don’t forget the shirts in the living room. And I’ll wash mine too, just in case.”

Stiles’s brain barely processed any of what Scott said, but it sounded important. “Thanks, Dr. McCall,” he replied.

Scott handed him the lotion and hurried out of the bathroom, presumably to get started on the stuff he had to do.

With Scott gone, Stiles felt like he could finally breathe normally. He made quick work of his torso, and now that he felt significantly better, Stiles very gingerly went to help Scott.

***

Sleep was impossible. Stiles couldn’t find a sitting position comfortable enough without getting calamine lotion everywhere. He couldn’t put a shirt on or a blanket over himself, so add “cold” to the list of reasons why he couldn’t sleep. But that wasn’t the worst part. Every time Stiles closed his eyes, his thoughts went back to Scott’s hands on him, fingers roaming with the lightest pressure, just enough to make Stiles wonder what it would be like if Scott touched him for real. He could always claim curiosity, but who was he kidding? This wasn’t the first time he’d pictured Scott’s fingers brushing a nipple or slipping beneath his boxers’ waistband. A more mature person would deal with the situation head-on. Stiles, however, was not that person.

Sometime around 2am, the calamine wore off. There was no way Stiles would be able to reach his back to reapply the soothing lotion. With the itch rising in intensity with each passing second, and the impulse to scratch becoming harder and harder to fight, Stiles realized he had a very difficult decision to make.

***

Scott’s door was cracked. Stiles peeked in and saw Scott curled up beneath his covers and sleeping like a baby. He really hated having to do this.

“Scott?” he whispered into the dark bedroom.

No response.

He tried again, this time stepping into the room. “Scott? I kinda need you right now, buddy.”

Scott stirred. “Stiles?” he asked sleepily.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m sorry to wake you, but the itch came back, and-”

He couldn’t get the whole sentence out before Scott threw back a corner of his covers and scooted over to make room for Stiles in the bed.

“Are you sure? I mean, I’m sticky with this calamine crap, and I don’t want to ruin your sheets.”

“I can wash them later. C’mon, get in here.” Scott patted the empty spot next to him. He wasn’t fully awake and hadn’t sat up, yet, but he still wanted to help. A tiny part of Stiles wondered if he wasn’t taking advantage of Scott’s generosity.

The miserable urge to scratch kept gnawing at him, though.

“Okay.” Scott’s sheets were pleasantly sleep-warm under Stiles’s butt, and his headboard? Surprisingly comfortable. If he had to sleep sitting up, this was definitely the best way to do it.

Scott’s hand found his in the darkness. The itch was gone a few moments later.

“Thanks, man,” Stiles sighed. Relief flooded through his veins and radiated across his skin. For the first time that night, Stiles felt like he could relax and get some sleep.

“Stiles?” Scott asked, giving his hand a little squeeze.

“Hmm?”

“No more Bigfoot tips, okay?”

Of all Scott’s touches so far, this one had to be Stiles’s favorite, and if it meant not getting to fall asleep with the soft weight of Scott’s hand in his, Stiles wasn’t so sure he could agree to that.

“Sure thing,” Stiles said knowing full well he didn’t mean it.

Scott burrowed a little deeper into his covers, never letting go of Stiles’s hand. “Finally got you in my bed, though,” he slurred into his pillow before letting out a soft snore.

Yawning, Stiles felt his eyelids droop. Blissful sleep was just around the cor-

Stiles’s head whipped around. Wait, what did Scott just say…?

#foreversciles #sciles #scott mccall #stiles stilinski #mobile users there's a cut #my fic #thank you bigfoot #lozenger8

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playfullyevil · 7 years ago

Text

Walkabout chapter 3/3

The last part of my fic for The Magnus Archives

Jonathan is in trouble, what happens now? (aka: I am bad at summaries)

As always thanks to erikaangelchild for the beta!

**Edit** so I initially posted the whole thing as one big post but when I woke up the next day it had been cut off after the first chapter. Now that post has the whole thing again? idk so this may be a repeat, I don’t even know anymore.

Returning to consciousness was not a straightforward journey for Jon, he bobbed near the surface of awareness, brushing against it, but couldn’t quite seem to break through. A slow drip of water echoed in what sounded to be a large space from very far away before retreating back into nothingness. He thought he may have opened his eyes at one point. There was dim light and soft shapes that stubbornly refused to focus but they didn’t last long. Trying to concentrate was exhausting, his meager grip on reality slipped and all was again darkness.

He might have been laying down but couldn’t quite tell in which direction “up” is hiding. Maybe there was movement from somewhere around him but that could be his own breathing. His thoughts were beginning to come into focus. Though they were disorganized as the archive he managed.

Used to manage. The thought came stumbling in a bit after the last. Jon chose to take comfort that he was able to correct an error in his own thinking before fading out again.

Moving any part of his body seemed like more effort than he could bear at the moment. Even the thought of opening his eyes seemed a herculean task. He settled on passive observation to gather information. The dripping sound was back. So, not deaf. Put that in the column labeled “good news”, he remarked dryly to himself. Ah, sarcasm, there’s another for column A.

The dripping wasn’t loud or overly frequent but it was steady. As far as he could tell, he wasn’t wet, more good news. The air smelled damp to a degree that lined up with the water sound. It took effort but his thoughts were beginning to coalesce in a more orderly fashion. The desire to slip back into unawareness beckoned to Jon but he pushed past it.

Okay, so musty smell and dripping water. Sewer? No, a sewer would smell worse. Basement? Maybe. Oh Christ! Please not the tunnels! Have I been brought back so the Not-Them could finish the job?

The thought prompted a sharp gasp of air which wheeled his attention back to his own body.

His sense of awareness in space was much less confused than earlier. Jon was not lying down as he initially thought. He was seated, well slumped, in a high backed wooden chair. His head lolled back and to the left, nestled between the chair back and his shoulder. His arms rested on those of the chair, and his legs were planted on the floor roughly shoulder width apart. It wasn’t the most comfortable of positions but the act of actually moving to do something about it still seemed still beyond his grasp.

He thought about moving without actually succeeding in doing so for some time. He tried to focus on twitching his hand or stretching out his leg but his mind drifted back toward something akin to sleep before his muscles would obey. Eventually, he managed to crack open his eyes. The light was diffuse and the world was out of focus, but in a familiar way. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. Unfortunate but not incapacitating. His eyesight wasn’t that bad compared to some, just enough to give the world a soft focus like what they used in the old Star Trek reruns he saw as a child. After a few blinks he was able to focus on what appeared to be the ceiling of a cellar of some kind.

His face and mouth itched enough that the urge to scratch finally overrode the weight of inertia he seemed to be under. His hand twitched in the direction of his face but never reached its destination. Not for lack of trying though. His wrist was secured firmly to the chair. Both were. Legs too he discovered a moment later. Damn.

Jon struggled to lift his head and get a better look at his situation. The blood that had collected in the back of his skull drained readily as gravity took over. The world tilted making him lightheaded and a bit nauseous. The sensation reminded him exactly why he hadn’t touched tequila since university. Facing forward, he focused on what appeared to be a door and took several steadying breaths while he waited for the room to cease its swaying.

Stomach and brain mostly settled, Jon took stock of the room, at least what he could see from his vantage point. The area in front of him was about three meters across. The wall was old brick but to Jon’s relief, they were red and not the black brick that lined the tunnels under the Institute. A rough hewn door was placed centrally in the wall. Light filtered in from somewhere above and behind him. He had no way of knowing how far the room extended behind him but if he had to guess, he was in what was once a coal storage room similar to the one in his grandmother’s basement.

Looking down at himself in the low light he saw his arms and legs secured to those of the chair by means of silver duct tape. At some point while he was out his coat had been removed, but it was not so cold for that to be a problem. Jon pulled at his bonds to no avail. He was likely to have bruises show up in a couple of days if he wasn’t careful.

If I live that long.

A rue laugh huffed out of him. The skin around his mouth still itched and burned a bit but he wasn’t gagged. The thought of yelling for help occurred to him. Judging from how thick the walls appeared and the lack of outside noises filtering down from above, it was unlikely that anyone but his captor would hear his cries for help.

“If screaming could help me, I doubt I would be capable of doing it at present.” The words came out dry, in a way that pricked at the back of his throat uncomfortably. His attempt at clearing it sent him into an outright coughing fit. A wave of dizziness passed over him as he coughed, but nothing as severe as earlier. When it cleared, he still felt a bit off but less akin to his idiot uni binge drinking, and more like two ciders on an empty stomach. Whatever it was seemed to be clearing out of his system at a decent pace.

Small favors, I suppose.

Jon swallowed carefully and sighed, “Well I’m not just going to sit here and wait for death or…” Sighing again he set about pulling free one of his hands. The left one seemed to have a bit more give. Working methodically, he felt he was making some minor progress at least. The tape around his wrist seemed to be stretching a little.

Maybe, just maybe… Tucking his thumb as much as he could Jon winced as he did his best to squeeze his hand from its restraint.

The sound of someone descending creaking stairs stopped him cold.

Jon gave another frantic tug and let out a pained hiss of breath when the tape refused to give way. It was no good, with enough time he might have been able to work free one of his hands but he no longer had that time. The footsteps finished their decent and the crisp sound of hard soled shoes rang across the stone floor as they approached the door.

Bottling down on the panic that threatened to overwhelm him, Jon closed his eyes and resumed the closest thing he could recall to the position from which he had awoken. Doing his best to even out his breathing, he waited. There was a click from behind the door and through closed eyes, he could tell a light had been switched on.

More sounds, a ring of keys, the turning of a lock, a door opening. Whoever it was stepped through and shut the door behind them but did not seem to lock it. Jon couldn’t remember if there had been a lock on this side of the door, he hadn’t thought to check.

A disappointed sigh came from the air in front of him. “I know you’re awake, Jon. You can stop this play acting.”

He considered continuing to feign unconsciousness simply to spite the man whose voice he identified as belonging to his former boss. Ultimately, Jon decided against provoking a suspected murderer. There didn’t seem to be an obvious threat in the statement but his voice was firm and discouraged argument.

Cracking open his eyes, Elias Bouchard, head of the Magnus Institute, stood framed against the wooden door. At first glance, he may have appeared casual but Jon knew that every move Elias made had an undercurrent of power and control. He wore creased brown trousers paired with matching jacket. Above a dark blue V-necked sweater, a white shirt collar peaked out, secured at the neck by a knotted, paisley tie. No signs of the day’s previous struggle rumpled his immaculate clothes. He stood, back straight, and in his left hand he held a glass of water with a pair of glasses hooked between his fingers.

“That’s better,” he said with an edge of satisfaction and took a step towards Jon.

Jon flinched away, pressing himself as far back in the chair as he could. The sudden movement overbalanced him and he began to tip backward. Elias’s hand shot out and grabbed the chair back before it could fall, the sleeve of his jacket brushed against Jon’s ear.

Jon tugged again at his bindings, trying to squirm away from the man now looming over him while Elias settled the chair firmly on the floor.

“Shhhh, Jon, calm down.” Elias’s hand moved from the chair to Jon’s shoulder. He squeezed in what may have been an attempt at comfort or what could have been a threat. Judging by how close the hand was to his neck and how firm his grip was, Jon really couldn’t be sure either way. Elias’s eyes met his and he cocked his head ever so slightly, and gave a small smile. Again, Jon was unable to discern intended comfort or threat.

Whether from the touch, the words, the eye contact, or simply paralyzed by blind fear Jon stilled.

Elias gave Jon’s shoulder another squeeze before releasing him and stepping back.

“Elias, what is going on? Where am I and why have- “

“Would you like some water?” the older man cut him off, “You must be thirsty.”

The words had a genuine sounding kindness to them that made Jon pause. At the mention of thirst, he swallowed and coughed once. “Um… yes actually, I…” His eyes shifted from Elias to around the room before landing once again on his former boss. “What are you playing at? What is all… this?” he gave a halfhearted tug against the chair to punctuate his words.

“I couldn’t have you running off again before we had a proper chance to chat.”

“I, uh…What?”

“Would you have come willingly if I had asked nicely?”

“Probably not.”

“Precisely.”

Elias produced a knife from his pocket and opened it with a click making Jon’s heart skip a beat.

“Do calm down,” Elias scolded as if addressing a particularly disobedient puppy. “You’ll need a free hand if you want to drink the water. I’m not going to feed you like an infant.”

The older man bent down and slid the sharp looking blade between Jon’s wrist and the chair it was held to. A quick motion sliced through the bunched tape and Jon’s left hand was free. Elias took a smooth step back before Jon had more than the briefest flicker of a thought to make a grab for the knife.

His newly freed hand throbbed slightly as the blood returned to full circulation. Red marks on his wrist stood out in stark contrast to his pale flesh. He flexed his hand experimentally and shook out his arm once before bringing it up to scratch his face. It was more tender than he thought and he winced when he came across what seemed to be a sore on the side of his mouth.

“Chemical burn,” Elias responded to the unasked question, “chloroform has a rather low vapor pressure. An unfortunate side effect but nothing too severe, should heal in a couple of days.”

The hand holding the knife had been lowered but he made no move to put it away. “Are we going to have a problem?”

Jon fixed Elias with an incredulous look but managed to bite back the words threatening to spill out of him. Are we going to have a fucking problem!? You kidnapped me! I’m tied to a goddamn chair! Of course, we have a problem!

“Any new problems at least.” Elias amended, reading the look on Jon’s face. He held up the glass of water, not quite offering it just yet. Not a drop had been spilled despite Elias having moved suddenly to catch his falling chair. Of course, Elias would be the kind of person who could carry a cup full to the brim down a flight of stairs without a drop ending up on the saucer.

Wincing as he passed his hand over his mouth again he managed to grind out a, “No, I suppose not.”

Anger was replacing his previous fear and the impulse to resist at every possible moment was strong. The picture Jon’s logical brain was piecing together however, implied that Elias didn’t want him dead. Not yet at least. Elias wanted something, whether as an agent of Beholding or as something else, only time would tell. But that meant that he had time to pick his moment later.

The older man fixed Jon with the full force of his gaze, scrutinizing him. A few moments later he stepped forward to hold the water within Jon’s reach.

It was warm to the touch and lighter than he had expected. Plastic, not glass as he had originally assumed. That definitely lowered its value as any kind of weapon. Jon caught a faint hint of lemon and some kind of sweetness when he sniffed at the liquid. Was he trying to hide some kind of poison? Jon met Elias’s gaze over the glass and cocked a questioning eyebrow.

“Really, Jon? Why would I poison you? If I wanted you dead you never would have woken up in the first place. You had a rather nasty coughing fit while you were unconscious. It seemed you could do with a bit of honey lemon water. No one is forcing you to drink it, dump it on the floor for all I care.”

The thought of throwing the drink in Elias’s face was quite appealing. Anything to rumple the older man’s proper appearance and bring him down a peg or two. It wouldn’t be worth it though. As glorious as the mental image was, truth be told, Jon’s throat was dry and sore. If he threw this away it was doubtful he would be getting more anytime soon.

Jon raised the glass to his lips took an experimental sip. The warm drink was indeed soothing on his sore throat. He paused, waiting to see if his previous nausea or drowsiness returned. When none did he continued drinking.

Jon nodded to Elias, “Are those my glasses?”

“They are. Would you like them?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

Elias stepped forward once again, extending the glasses. It was a bit awkward with only one hand to work with but eventually Jon managed to get them settled on his face. The world came into focus, giving him access to a few more details. Elias’s crisp suit had dark blue pinstripes matching the sweater he wore. But more interestingly, a red mark stood out on Elia’s temple. It would seem Jon had managed to clip him with a wild punch or an elbow during the attack. Seeing that the older man hadn’t made it out completely unscathed caused Jon to smile slightly.

If Elias noticed the change in expression, he did not react.

“Jon,” he began, “you are not a stupid man but you certainly have been behaving as one lately.”

“Says the psychotic killer.” Jon spat, glancing toward the knife.

“Rather messy work were I to guess, and not something undertaken lightly.” Elias said darkly, contemplating the knife in his hand briefly before returning his gaze to the Archivist. “And I’ll thank you not to interrupt me.”

Jon narrowed his eyes at Elias but did not speak.

“As I said, you’re not a stupid man. However, bumbling your way through morning rush hour…” Elias made a tsk noise as he folded the knife with a practiced motion and returned it to his pocket. “You nearly walked right into a trap.”

“It would seem I did walk into a trap!” he used his free hand to gesture to the basement cell they currently inhabited.

“Though it may not look it, it was in fact, a rescue.”

Jon scoffed. “In that case I don’t suppose you’ll mind if I get myself out of here.” He began to work at the tape holding his right arm to the chair.

“Jon,” Elias warned, “Don’t”

The command gave him pause, but a heartbeat later he resumed work.

“You will be released when we are finished here, but until then-“ Elias seized Jon’s wrist with surprising strength. “This is for your protection as much as mine, we are worried you are going to hurt yourself.”

Jon managed to twist free from Elias’s grip and land a punch to the side of his head. The older man stumbled back with a cry of surprise and pain. Jon scrabbled at the tape wrapped around his still bound wrist. It was too bunched from his earlier escape attempts to tear easily.

He had managed to work a small tear started along one edge when a hand caught him across the face, stunning him. His ears rung, his head swam, and he tasted blood. Then Elias had him by the throat and pulled him forward.

“Jonathan Sims, I am not an unreasonable man but you seem determined to test my limits” Every syllable was clipped, clear, and enunciated with precision. Only the strong pulse of the vein on his neck, of which Jon had a close-up view, betrayed anger in Elias’s calm demeanor.

Blood pounding in his ears Jon grasped at the hand around his throat, desperately to pry free the squeezing fingers. No good, darkness was creeping at the edges of his vision, he had to try something else. Abandoning his previous plan of attack, he decided to go for the eyes. Elias was fast, almost as if he had anticipated the move and with his free hand batted away Jon’s attack.

Releasing his throat, Elias grabbed Jon’s arm in both hands and slammed it back against the chair’s wooden arm sending a shock of pain up his elbow. Through great gasps of air and a subsequent coughing fit, he was dimly aware of the older man reaching behind the chair to retrieve a roll of tape. Using one hand to press down on Jon’s now quite sore wrist he wrapped the tape around several times, much more tightly than before. After a quick look at the state of it, the process was repeated on his right arm.

Jon’s hands throbbed as the bindings began cutting off circulation. He grunted and pulled at them to no avail before sagging back down in the chair, defeated.

The commotion had mussed Elias more than a bit. His hair in every which way, jacket out of place, and tie askew. There had still been a bit of water in the glass and what was left had managed to spill down the knee of his trouser legs. The placement and quantity weren’t all that evocative of having pissed himself but Jon took what little comfort he could at his former boss’s expense.

The older man undid his top button and began pulling at the knot of his tie. Taking piece of paisley fabric off, he folded it and stowed it away in the jacket’s inside pocket. He brushed the residual water from his slacks then shed his jacket and folded it over one arm. He raked his hand through his hair and took a breath to compose himself.

The end result was the most casually dressed he thinks he’s ever seen Elias. Tim had once made a joke that the Bouchard children must all born wearing perfectly tailored suits. Martin had chimed in with, “Bespoke Babies, by Bouchard” It had actually managed to illicit half a rare laugh out of Jon. That was back before Prentiss, when the archival team were all on speaking terms.

“Are you finished having your tantrum?” Elias sighed.

Jon glowered and shifted in his chair to a more comfortable position. Flexing his bound hands, he said nothing but reluctantly nodded once.

“Good.” He regarded the man seated before him for moment, seeming to look almost through him. “You need to be more careful. All it took was a few notes from Nikolai Denikin’s steam organ to send you flying away in a panic.”

“How do you know about- “

“How do you think, Jon? Watching is what we do. You were reasonably well hidden from them before but after today, I fear they will be narrowing their focus on you. The archives are protected but I cannot let you return to them just yet. We need those statements.”

“What? I don’t- What-? The statements?” Jon was suddenly at a loss. “And what makes you think I would want to ever set foot in that cursed building again!?”

“You’re the Archivist,” Elias said without a trace of irony, “you belong there. It is more a home to you than you have ever had or ever will.”

It was something he knew deep down but was unwilling to admit. Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, marked by Beholding, belongs in the Archives. No matter what he does, how he tries to fight against it, he will always return to the Archive. That realization hit him like a physical weight and he blinked back tears.

“As for the missing statements, they have a way of finding their way back to the Archivist even if was an Archivist who initially stole them. For some reason the statements we need the most are being prevented from returning to the Archive itself. Once you left, lo and behold, they started showing up at your door.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Once you stop fighting and accept your role you will be able to answer that for yourself.”

“Stop fighting…”

“Yes. At least with us, Jon. For now. Larger things are coming and we need you with us on this one.”

“The Unknowing?”

“The Unknowing. Gertrude hid things away from us, things we need for the coming battles. Those statements give us the shape of what we’re up against.” Urgency crept into Elias’s voice as he spoke. “Pieces are moving sooner than we anticipated and it is crucial we see the whole playing field before the fight begins.”

“So, you need me to stay in hiding, waiting for breadcrumbs from my dead predecessor.” Jon leaned forward, tape digging into his arms, “My predecessor, whom you murdered in cold blood.”

“I told you, I don’t want to hurt you. There are larger things at stake than the life of any one person,” his voice hardened, “even if they are the Archivist.” His eyes met with Jon’s and held them there.

“Would you like some time to think on this?”

The two men stayed that way for some time, eyes locked on one another. Jon held is gaze for as long as he was able but in the end, blinked first. Elias looked resigned as he pulled out the knife from his pocket.

The Archivist held his face impassive as the older man approached.

The knife opened with a click.

Elias crouched, bringing himself to eye level with Jon. The Archivist closed his eyes and waited.

There was a sharp tug at his left leg, then his right. Jon opened his eyes to see Elias evaluating the much tighter tape restraining his arms. The older man seemed to contemplate this for a moment before folding away his knife and getting to work peeling up the end, unwinding the tape from around Jon’s arm. The last few loops had dug in deeply and he hissed out a noise of pain as they came away.

Before he could pull his arm away completely from the chair, Elias placed a firm, but oddly gentle hand on the back of his hand. “Not yet.” He made quick work of the other arm before stepping back and nodding.

Jon’s hands ached and throbbed in time with his beating heart as circulation in his fingers was restored. His left wrist was especially tender and he took turns massaging one then the other.

“Am I free to go?”

“Yes. Of course, you are still wanted by the police so I would advise against returning to your flat. I did however, take the liberty and you will find some clothes and cash upstairs”

The thought of Elias rummaging around his flat was not a pleasant one. Especially after the man had framed him for murder.

“Detective Tonnor drew her own conclusion on the matter. I never suggested you were the culprit.”

How did he-?

“You’re very easy to read, Jon. Don’t worry, we’ll work on that when you get back.”

Jon stood to meet Elias’s gaze. “’When I get back?’ How long do you suppose that will be?”

“That depends on how many statements need to find their way back to you. We’ll be in touch.”

“If I can’t go home and I can’t go back to the Magnus Institute, where am I supposed to go?”

“Back to Georgina Barker’s, of course. Do clean yourself up a bit before you go, you know how she worries. Lucky for you it is cold enough for long sleeved shirts.” He said, glancing down and the angry marks on Jon’s wrists.

The Archivist’s hands balled into fists and he imagined punching the smug expression off Elias Bouchard’s face. He forced it down and made himself open his hands.

Elias raised his eyebrows and seemed genuinely pleased. It was unsettling.

“I don’t want to put her in danger. Is there any way to guarantee her safety?”

“Almost certainly not. No one is ever safe, especially with what is coming. What I can tell you is that she is in no more danger than any other person in the city. Provided you don’t lead them directly to her door.

“Keep an eye out, you’re better at spotting these kinds of things than you know. I would never have hired you otherwise. This won’t be the first time they try to flush you out. They want you to act without thinking. Don’t let them dictate your behavior. You were lucky I got to you before they did.”

Jon scoffed and continued rubbing his wrist, “Yeah, lucky.”

“You have no idea how lucky.” Elias fixed Jon with an intense stare. “I did what I had to do quickly and quietly. If you had managed to cause a scene the both of us, along with anyone else who’s attention you called, would be off somewhere having our flesh peeled away with excruciating slowness all while they render the fat from our still living bodies. Believe me, they can extend that process for months. Every moment an agony, unable to move, unable to sleep, unable to scream.”

That stopped Jon cold. The two men stood in uncomfortable silence.

“Do keep an eye on cats.” Elias suddenly remarked. “They don’t react favorably to aspects of the Stranger. Think of them as an… early warning signal.”

“Okay…?” Jon responded, off balance as the tension bled away. “Are there any lying in wait nearby? Aspects, not cats.”

“Not here, they seem to be focusing on the south side for now. They will probably disperse soon enough, they typically don’t have the patience for a drawn-out hunt.”

“Comforting.” Jon remarked dryly.

“We take what little comfort where we can.” Elias shifted his jacket to his other arm before opening the door to the small room and walking out. “I need to get back to the Institute. You’ll see yourself out?”

“Fine, sure.”

Elias nodded, turned, and walked away. As he climbed the stairs. Jon could swear he saw a hint of something metallic tucked in the waistband at the small of the other man’s back.

The Archivist, and that’s what he is no matter how he struggles against it, stretched and turned to survey the room now that he’d been freed from that damn chair. His limbs ached from sitting on its hard surface for who knows how long.

Off to the side of the wooden chair, he spotted his coat sitting atop what appeared to be a large roll of industrial garbage bags. He tried not to think too hard about it as he retrieved his coat. Footsteps creaked on the floorboards overhead and the sound of a door opening then closing drifted down from above. Elias had left. Time to retrieve whatever clothes and money are waiting for him upstairs before doing the same.

As his hand hovered over the switch to the light for that small room, Jon remembered Martin describing how he found the previous Archivist. A small square room, underground, in a wooden chair, covered in dust, three gunshots to the chest. He suppressed a shudder. It would seem Gertrude Robinson’s chat with Elias Bouchard ended differently than his own.

Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, flipped the switch and turned to leave. He had work to do.

#The Magnus Archives #i made a thing!#fic

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