#and I finally just snapped when it wouldn’t register my taps on a literal hard difficulty song | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dizzydancingdreamer · 3 years

Text

Patience | Loki Laufeyson

Hey lovelies!! I caved and wrote this in the car today LOL! I've never written smut this short so I hope it still has all the goodness of a longer piece! it's def a challenge but I am quite pleased with the outcome! I hope you've all had a wonderful day and do enjoy Loki edging his girl in the castle gardens!

Appetizers (Tags): Smut, Fluff

Entres (Pairing): Loki x F!Reader (third person)

Sides (Prompts): 7: “Teach me.”

Notes: Loki is 'teaching' reader how to use her magic, requested by @hellotvshowtrash

THIS IS AN 18+ ONLY FIC!!!

Word Count: 1.7k

Dinner at Dizzy’s Master List

“Teach me.”

When she had asked that she never thought it would mean this. She never thought it would mean her back being pressed against the castle wall, Loki’s hand— one of many— pressing against her lips, keeping the feeble moans contained as another hand traces a delicate line down her navel.

She’s still fully clothed when his invisible fingers dip past her panties, only just having begun a walk through the gardens with the trickster god she’s grown fond of. He’s been charged with showing her the ropes of magic. Her abilities— quite like his own and rapidly increasing— needed honing and Frigga thought it best to learn from him. She wasn’t going to complain— she had become quite close with him in the months beforehand. Now, though, it’s different.

Very different.

Loki is a very— erm— hands on teacher.

She moans against the hand— the heavy, invisible, warm force that is entirely Loki but also entirely not— against her lips and he tsks, a teasing smile on his luscious lips. “Patience, dove. That’s the key to control. You must be patient.”

She balls her hands at her sides, pressing her lips together as she stares up at her teacher. In turn he meets her gaze, his real, physical hands resting neatly beside her head, caging her against the stone and shielding her body from anyone who may be passing by. She wants to complain— to grab those magic fingers she knows he has and shove them inside her. But he’s right. Frustratingly so. She knows the wait is worth it.

He leans down, nose brushing against her face, lips grazing her cheek so lightly she could scream. His breath is hot against her face, fanning her skin with his frosted lemon scent. It takes everything in her to keep her eyes on his and not rolling into the back of her head.

“Are you going to be patient?” He murmurs, nipping at her ear.

She doesn’t answer— she doesn’t nod like she knows he’s expecting. No one said she was an obedient student. When he pulls back she gives him what she hopes is a deadpan look— I can’t answer if you’re not going to let me talk. He sighs, rolling his crystal eyes, but the traces of his mischievous grin lingers and he snaps his fingers anyway. With a gasp the invisible hand over her mouth falls away, her lips meeting the cool garden air.

She smiles up at him, head cocking. “Maybe.”

The pressure on her stomach increases, ghostly fingers tapping on the soft skin below her waistband, just above where she aches for his touch. She scrunches her nose, swallowing the newest moan but holding her smile. His face remains calm, his lips inches from her own and twisted cruelly. She won’t win this— she already knows that— but she’ll try.

He leans down, letting his mouth wisp over her, smiling when he hears her tiny mewls. “You never learn, do you? What am I going to do with you, hmm?”

She grits her teeth, trying to shift her hips upwards towards the fingers but— like freakin’ magic— they move with her, remaining the same inch from where she needs him. It makes her throb harder, knowing that he’s right there.

“Keep teaching me?” She squeaks, voice airy— both from her attempts at teasing the trickster god back and from how pent up she’s beginning to feel.

He chuckles and it sounds like sex itself— sultry and easy and fun. “Oh you would like that, wouldn’t you dove?”

She nods furiously, sighing when his fingers— his real ones— wisp down her cheek, drawing over her neck before curling loosely around her throat. His thumb presses against the side of her neck, no doubt testing her response— her willingness. She— as always— presses back. Challenging him. Trusting him.

“Yes.” She breathes— whiney and hot— when she catches the flick of his brow.

She’s rewarded with the first touch of his magic, invisible fingers swiping through her folds, pulling a tiny gasp from her lips as sparks dance across her skin. She can taste them on her tongue, metallic and citrusy— completely him despite the fact that when he does it again, fingers circling her clit, she can feel her own magic in her fingertips.

This time when she pushes her hips up she isn’t met with resistance, only the skillful swirling of Loki’s energy against her and his amused, soft laughs. His hand around her throat pushes harder, steering her to let her head fall back against the wall while his other hand twists beside her cheek. He’s doing something and if she weren’t so lost in his ministrations— the hazy feeling clouding her head and the building pleasure in her squeezing core— then she would ask; what are you doing—

“Oh my— Loki—” She gasps as two magic fingers push inside her, pumping in and out so slowly she wonders at first if she's imagining it but— no— they’re definitely there.

“See what you can do with a little focus?” The god teases her, blue eyes electrified and dancing to her open mouth, fingers— flesh ones— pressing against her bottom lip.

She wastes no time wrapping her lips around them, bringing them into her mouth and sucking. He tilts his head at her when she swirls her tongue, brows drawing together, fingers pumping harder into her core, brushing the spot that has her seeing stars. When she moans around his fingers he blinks— the magic stopping and leaving nothing but a buzzing, fluttering between her thighs.

She goes to whine, nose scrunching again, but he beats her to it. “Patience, remember? It’s about control, dove.”

She understands the concept— she understands she has to focus and be patient— she just doesn’t want to do any of it. She doesn’t want control. Not now when her clit is aching and his fingers— fingers, magic, whatever— feel like the only thing that can make it go away. She just wants to cum. And she hopes he can see that when she pushes against his grip, pulling her lips from his fingers and pouting.

“Please Loki.” She bats her lashes at him, the waning of her pleasure making her fingers spark slightly in annoyance. “Need you so bad.”

His lips turn up again— that cruel twist of pretty flesh— and he blinks— again— and suddenly he’s back, fingers circling her bud and fingers pumping in and out of her at that steady, agonizing rhythm. He twists them, brushing her walls and drawing a little mewl from her lips. It should be concerning how fast she falls back into the pleasure— how quickly it builds up again— but she can’t think too hard about it when he’s curling his digits so wonderfully into her heat.

Still— despite the wonder it’s still too slow. The pleasure is all around her, consuming her bones and making her thighs shake, but she only teeters on the edge. If he keeps it up she will cum— she isn’t worried about that part— but she wants it now. She wants to fall off the edge and she wants him to push her.

She bucks her hips against his hand, brows pushing together and voice a mere whimper. “Faster— please, please, please faster!”

He only smiles and— “No Loki! don’t you dare—” Blinks.

When the hands disappear her tongue bursts with all the stored energy in her body once more. This time it doesn’t just taste like lemons it tastes like fire— like anger and passion and the throbbing ache of her damn core— and she could cry, tears pushing at her eyelids from how damn close she is. Her whole body feels like a live wire, humming with the memory of his touch. She wants to scowl at him— to lash out— but his blue eyes are too deep and she’s too weak to every little spark of pride.

“You’re doing so good for me. So so good—” This time it's his real hand— his warm, solid, completely him hand— that pushes past the waistband of her pants, long fingers pressing against her clit and sending an oversensitive jolt racing up her spine— “I think you’ve learned today’s lesson, don’t you dove?”

She can’t answer; she can only raise her hips, so desperate to feel him inside her that her own magic pulses at her palms, slamming into the stone behind her and making it rumble slightly. She blinks at the rush, her core throbbing with the new ebb and flow of her magic. It is that very moment which Loki sinks his fingers back into her, stroking the spot that seems to call his name. Her back arches off the wall, fingers biting into the stone and taking off chunks as she finally is brought back to the edge. Her body pulses under his touch and her power, vision spinning as she finds those blue eyes again. She’s so damn close—

“Let go for me.”

His words and the pleased, awed look in his eyes is all it takes for her to fall, core clenching around his fingers as her orgasm bursts behind her eyes. The power of it is unlike anything she’s ever felt— both at her hands and his— and if she weren't so blissed out she would roll her eyes at him for being right all the damn time. Stupid wonderful god with magic hands. Faintly, amidst the pleasure erupting in her stomach, she registers that there’s a green haze to her climax, tinting her surroundings the same jade as his shirt.

Always one for theatrics.

He doesn’t stop twisting his fingers until she's wrapping her hands around his wrists, legs trembling and blood more molasses than anything as she pulls him from her heat. He watches her closely, his own chest heaving, and, in a move bolder than she would normally enact, she brings his fingers— the very same ones that were just buried inside her— to her lips, slowly licking them clean of her. He tenses, eyes darkening, and she feels like the cat who got the cream— literally. He deserves it, she tells herself when she sees his other hand clench at his side, composure waning. Take that for being such a tease.

When she’s done she lets his hand drop, clicking her fingers and rearranging her disrupted clothes. She giggles when his jaw drops, dark brows furrowing. She does it again— snap— and moans gently at the feeling of her hair gently weaving itself back to it’s prior composed state. She passes him a coy smile.

“Control was never the issue.” She simpers, leaning up to press a chaste kiss to the gods throat. “But maybe I’ll need another lesson in patience soon.”

#Loki Laufeyson #Loki #Loki x reader #Loki x y/n #Loki smut #Loki fic #Loki imagine #Loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson x y/n #loki laufeyson smut #loki laufeyson fic #loki laufeyson imagine #mcu #mcu fic #marvel cinematic universe #Dinner at Dizzy's

238 notes · View notes

bastillia · 3 years

Text

Loyalties Lie

AO3 Mirror

Summary: You're a bartender in a Lothal cantina, living a quiet life in the Outer Rim after the fall of the Empire. You can't help but wonder what more might be out there for you. One dangerous guest in particular keeps catching your eye. Unfortunately, you've also caught his.

Rating: E

Words: 6.1k

Warnings: possibly mild dubcon, threats with a weapon, rough sex, verbal degradation, mentions of alcohol, cumplay, Boba Fett has a 24oz monster can dick and he knows how to use it.

A/N: Remember when I said I had a Boba Fett WIP laying around like, months ago? Well guess who showed up in Mando S2 with a sexy dad bod and the fattest dick in the galaxy to overhaul my dreams and make them a reality. Fuck me. Yes this is the first thing I’ve written in months hi I’m still here. No I don’t know how many chapters this will be. I live in hell. Welcome. Thank you to @kylorengarbagedump for graciously beta reading and listening to me literally scream about this man all the time. Love y’all so much PLEASE ENJOY.

It’s the kind of night that hums.

Like a moonlit Lothal prairie, quiet and alive somewhere beyond the outskirts of town. Except that in here, the crickets swoop past your bar to buy shots, and the stars fall steadily to become the lovely tink of credits in your tip jar. The twin moons are shifting hues of neon light, and time seems to stroll by, like it has nowhere better to be.

Tonight has been steady.

It’s not busy enough tonight to challenge you, but not slow enough to let you rest. Your guard is up, as it always is when you’re behind the bar. But your hold on it can afford to be loose.

Tonight has been…

Boring.

No brawls, no assassinations, not even a drunken paw fumbling across the bar towards your tits, attached to some overly rowdy patron who you then get to watch with quiet glee as they’re dragged out by the ears. No, in fact, it’s hard to remember the last time something remotely interesting happened around here. So much for the Outer Rim’s rugged reputation. You hate to say you miss the Empire’s occupation from time to time. But at least it brought nightly intrigue.

Tonight, your guests are especially calm and happy, lulled by liquor and the easy flow of conversation, murmurs blending like a stream through the grassland. And you suppose you shouldn’t complain. You’ve more than earned your keep for the night, and then some. Best of all, your boss has no reason to be breathing down your neck.

In fact, he’s happy, too, you note when the Lasat’s bellowing business-laugh resounds overtop a few flutes of spotchka, glowing inside a booth across the room. You pass a cloth around the rim of a clean glass, feeling a tickle of interest as to who he might be schmoozing this time. When you glance up, you can just make out a pair of well-dressed Rodians seated across from him through the leisure-thick air of the cantina, nudging each other and laughing at whatever witty, schmoozy thing he just said.

A soft snort puffs through your nose. At least Dakk is a predictable man, if nothing else. Must be rich folk, probably well connected. Good. You’ll get no help tonight, but at least he will be occupied for a while.

In fact...

Flicking a quick glance around the room, you take your chance and shrug your outer tunic off your shoulders, quickly smoothing down your much more revealing undershirt until it clings to the shape of you. You know Dakk hates when you do this, always goes on about keeping the place “classy.” But he’s not looking, and if it puts a few extra credits in your jar by the end of the night, it’s worth it. Anyway, you’re in a good mood tonight. Bored nonetheless, and the combination always forges a mischievous kind of boldness in you; a tiny spark that glows just bright enough to cast the idea of consequence in shadow.

You scan the bar for an empty drink, a flirtatious urge rolling off of your freshly bared skin and filling your ribs with air. It’s not long before you hone on your target-- an unsuspecting guest sitting alone, head turned away. Probably eavesdropping. A smirk curves your lips and you sidle over, plink a glass down between you, leaning your elbows on the bartop.

“Something else for you, sugar?”

His head whips around with a guilty swiftness, but you just offer an easy smile, shifting your weight through your hips to coax his eyes down your body. It works like a charm.

“I, uh...“ The young Mirialan stammers directly at your tits. “Yeah, c-can I, ah…”

As you wait out his struggle, an idea sparks in your freshly emboldened mind. Maker’s sake, might as well help the poor thing out.

“Got a ruge liqueur in stock, last shipment off Alderaan. Rare these days.” Your lashes flutter, tongue just barely playing your along your lower lip as if teasing some unspoken promise. “I just couldn’t help but notice, you seem like a person of exceptional taste.”

The words are warm summer air on your tongue, practiced and enticing. You can see them go to the kid’s head like spice smoke, his cheeks immediately flushing deep emerald beneath diamond-shaped tattoos.

“Y-yeah?” He straightens, runs a hand through his hair, grinning sheepishly. “I mean...yeah! I, uh, I am. That s-sounds great, yeah. Um. Please.”

You smile. Too easy.

Now, it’s not technically a lie. You do have the ruge in stock, it’s just that--well, it’s definitely nothing this kid can afford. But you’d bet a week’s worth of tips that you can slip him a cheap offworld varietal instead. Charge him triple its price, pocket the excess. Poor thing wouldn’t know the real stuff if it bit him.

You swell with the thought. That amount might even let you buy something nice for yourself for once. It might be a little slimy, but... fuck it. Kid seems well off enough. Decently nice clothes, cologne, that misplaced air of belonging that comes with sheltered entitlement. Surely he won’t miss a few extra credits. Anyway, you deserve this, right?

Moving to speak again, you prepare to lay the flirting on thick, really sell the gambit. But before you get the chance, a loud bang snaps your attention upward just in time to see the cantina door slam open.

You straighten where you stand, irritation and curiosity pricking your ears in equal measure. But then a slight hush cuts the ease of your buzzing meadow, and your chest squeezes with it.

Boba Fett.

The hunter takes up almost the whole doorway, a broad tower of matte green beskar catching the soft neons of the cantina. The distinctly cold gaze of the Mandalorian helmet scans the room, stirring murmurs and averting eyes until it comes to rest, finally, upon you.

It feels like two cold weights set down on your shoulders, being the focus of that stare.

Even as the energy picks back up around you, as conversations cautiously resume, it’s like you’re trapped in it, breathless under its weight and unable to look away. You vaguely register the Mirialan turn back to your tits and ask them something about when your shift ends. But you’re still transfixed, watching the armored man take a few deliberate steps towards the bar and straddle a stool, the visor trained like a crosshair upon you as his forearms settle on the bartop.

You’ve seen him here before. Heard his name whispered in weighted ripples ever since news spread through the Outer Rim that Bib Fortuna was dead. Since then, he’s come through maybe once every few dozen cycles, each time with a couple new chips in the paint of his armor. He comes here on business--or at least you assume that’s what it must be, since he always meets someone, speaks in hushed tones enshrouded by the dim corner booth in the back. He’ll toss a few credits on the bar when he leaves, but has never uttered a word to you, never ordered a drink.

Never even glanced your way, for all you know. Until right now.

You swallow. Fucking hell, if there’s anything you’re used to, it’s being looked at. So why is this gaze kicking your pulse up into the base of your throat, making you feel exposed? A prickle of heat is already settling in your cheeks.

And then the visor cocks, and just barely tilts down the length of your figure.

A tight breath snaps into your lungs, and your eyes dart to the bartop, across the room, back to the Mirialan still babbling dumbly at you, your face now hot. Kriff, what is wrong with you? Since when are you outright flustered by some stranger copping an eyeful? You try to breathe, ignoring how the hairs stand on your neck.

But you can still feel his attention like the heat of a sun warming your bare shoulder, and it makes something start to coil in your belly and glow there.

“I’ll have that ruge right up, sweetheart.”

You’re pretty sure you interrupt the kid, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just calls out a stammered thank-you as you pivot away towards your new guest, your heart kicking against your sternum. Your feet almost feel weighted to the floor, and by the time you reach him, your pulse has an edge like a blade.

“Something I can interest you in?”

There’s a breathlessness to the warm air of your voice now, and you pray to the Maker that it doesn’t betray you. You lean against the bar, hoping that the solidity of the wood will somehow teach your nerves to follow its example. It doesn’t.

He seems to study you for a moment, motionless. And then his shoulders shift, his elbows widen, and he leans in towards you.

“Information.” His voice is low and direct, barely above a graveled whisper, the single accent-laden word dragging through your belly and sparking like metal on stone.

Fuck.

Of course he’s after the one thing you’re not willing to sell.

Your heart stalls while your mind starts to race, eyes searching the dark visor. Of course you’d be a fool to deny him, and he knows it. That’s why he’s asking you. Why would you risk rousing a scene in your own bar, especially when the night is so mercifully calm? Easier to give him what he wants. Tap into your collection of liquor-loosened secrets, and knowledge of the local crowd.

The thing is, you’ve built a good rapport for your discretion. You think. Not to mention the number of cutting warnings Dakk has laid on you about the consequences for selling secrets in his bar. Is it really worth risking? Fett intimidates you, no doubt. But he’s also banking on the assumption that you won’t make this difficult for him. He has to be. And now unease and excitement are starting to play a game of catch between your ribs with that tiny, dangerous spark of boldness.

“Fresh out.” Your fingers drum the wood beneath them, trying to ground your reflexes through the rush of adrenaline that accompanies your words. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and you stare into the blackness of the visor as you let the tiniest, playful smirk flit over your face. “Perhaps something to drink?”

Slowly, achingly slowly, Boba Fett settles back on the bar stool. Unease lances you, splintering with the immediate question of whether you just made the right choice. You don’t want to think about how many he’d manage to kill before you could even blink, if he decided to do something extreme. His hand starts to shift back along his thigh, drawing a path towards the blaster at his hip. You swallow, panic pricking your neck.

Just as your muscles are primed to dive behind the bar, convinced you’re going to have to evade his quickdraw, his palm just takes a lazy rest on the hilt. The helmet levels, and then leans slowly to the side.

“No.”

Dizzied, you blink. It’s impossible to know what he’s thinking through that helmet, and he’s offered you all of two words. But was that… amusement, you heard? No. Anger? Fuck, now you’re really imagining things.

Still a little breathless, you straighten, sensing that you’re dismissed. The thought of flirting with a killer was a much-needed rush, but you need to take his indifference as a mercy after that little stunt and get on with your job while he’s giving you the chance. What little you apparently have left of a survival instinct is at least telling you that much.

You shrug.

“Suit yourself.”

It feels dangerous to take your eyes off of him. But you force yourself to do so anyways, turning your back on the hunter and making your way to the dim doorway at the end of the bar, his attention still heating your spine.

It’s a fucking relief to slip through the door to the storage room, ease the door shut behind you, and for the first time in what feels like moons, you let a long breath fill your lungs. The familiar scent of dust and wine-aged wood floods you, and something like disappointment tugs at your heart.

Maybe that stupid, adventure-craving side of your imagination took things too far, fueled by your boredom and the prospect of something exciting finally happening. You suppose you projected that naive hope onto Boba Fett, if nothing else just because he’s the first person to come through here in a long time that actually intrigues you. That confounds your prized, finely-calibrated radar for reading people without having to speak a word to them.

Fuck, he really wouldn’t give you much more than a word, would he? Guess he’s determined to keep scrambling your sensors. It shouldn’t deject you as much as it does. But... come on, the least the son of a mudscuffer could do is flirt back if he was gonna fucking undress you with his eyes like that.

Or maybe that was just your imagination, too.

You sigh, scanning a shelf on the back wall for a ruge that will make a convincing enough dupe. A synthetic varietal, perhaps. No--too cheap. You’ve got something from a Naboo vineyard in here somewhere. Anyways, whatever, since when are you desperate for any man’s attention?

No, okay, it’s... you know that isn’t what this is really about.

It would just be nice to feel important, is all. Like the secrets you’ve gathered might be worth something. Could someday give you a place in something bigger. Or at least like anything about you might be worth more than equivalent to a shot of shitty spotchka.

Forget it. As if that will ever happen.

Your finger absently traces the dusty label of a bottle, and then a soft clink of metal behind you freezes your blood.

You whip around to meet a wall of beskar, inches from your face.

You start to scream, but the sound catches in your throat when a big hand seizes you by the back of the neck and wrenches you around, bending you at the hips and slamming you chest-down against the stale wood of a storage crate. Cold metal presses your thighs and your heart smacks your ribs, your body completely trapped under Boba Fett’s mass in one motion.

“I said I need information, little one, and you’re going to give it to me.” His voice scrapes over your body, sliding through the dim room like the shadow from a candle flame. You quail beneath him, brain racing with shock.

“I d-don’t—ugh!” The weight of his forearm comes down between your shoulder blades, pressing breathy little grunts from your lungs as you squirm. “I don’t sell out my customers.”

You freeze when the distinct click of a blaster registers right at your temple.

“Never said I was buying.”

Panic zips down your spine, your chest heaving against the wooden crate as heat slams your core. Somewhere, your rational brain is scrambling to parse the threat, but something about the sheer filth and danger of it is setting your whole body on fire, making far more primal nerves come alive. Trying to shake the feeling, you squirm.

“At lea--ngh, least nothing’s changed there.”

Fucking hell, what are you doing? Besides sassing the known murderer with a blaster currently trained at your head, alone in a dark room. Yet somehow that very fact is making arousal bloom so wicked and fast that you can already start to feel your cunt throb against the fabric of his pants.

“Willing to die to protect a few spineless slime crawlers who don’t even know your name?” Boba rocks his weight against you, powerful and lazy in the way he simply leans into his hips, grinds them up hard against your ass to keep you flattened over the edge of the crate. “Boss man lines his pockets while his good little pet works for scraps.” Air feels more scarce to your lungs by the second. “Interesting, how your loyalties lie.”

Indignance flares up your spine.

“I w-ouldn’t expect you to understand.” You try to put venom in the words, but it’s difficult between your breathlessness and the sheer eroticism of this position you’re in. “Small price to pay, f-for a good life.”

Through your annoyance, you can’t help feeling a twinge of enjoyment at his solidity, at how you can just discern the outline of him through his pants. An excited thrum of your pulse snaps to your core like a fuse.

Above you, Boba Fett chuckles.

“Is that what he gives you?” There’s a mockery to his tone that heats your blood, and you start to squirm in defiance before remembering the blaster at your temple. Fett simply crushes you harder, drawing your attention back to his crotch. “Seems to me like you’re the mouse in his attic.”

“I suppose you’re better than him? Than any of them?” you immediately bite, not wanting to acknowledge the truth behind his words. Instead, you grab that spark of bravery and crank the voltage until it drowns your doubt, throwing your caution to the stars faster than punching an airlock in hyperspace. “Do you even know m-my name, Mando?” A tiny giggle ripples your chest. “I know yours.”

“Might be the last one you know,” Boba growls, but you’re becoming fixated on his cock now, the way you could swear that it’s growing more distinct by the second.

Fear and pleasure wrack your brain, the combination intensifying so deliciously with the pressure of his groin against your ass that you can hardly think straight any more. In a moment of sick indulgence, you arch your back and shift just slightly, wanting to feel that pressure against something now pulsing and sensitive.

The grip on your neck locks tight, and your breath stops.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be, princess.”

He kicks your legs apart and crushes his hardening bulge against your pussy. And, fuck, you moan. You don’t even mean to, but the thrill of helplessness has you so mindlessly turned on that you can’t stop the noise from squeezing out of your throat.

“Filthy little thing you are.”

There’s a shift in his tone now. The vice hold disappears from your nape just before your pants are wrenched unceremoniously over your ass and down to mid thigh. You gasp at the feeling of air brushing your bare lips. He takes a moment, and you think he must be looking at you. Heat blossoms from your face all the way down to your chest, and then he’s against you again, a palm coming down between your shoulders as coarse fabric presses flush with your cunt.

You can really feel the outline of his cock now, hard enough to rival his armor but warm and thick against you, and you whimper. It’s only a click that snaps your awareness back to the weapon pointed at your head.

“Let’s try this again, little mouse.” Boba’s voice comes lower and airier through the vocoder now in a way that blazes right through you. “You give me what I want, and perhaps you’ll inspire my generosity.”

In emphasis of his intent, he rocks his erection against the cleft of your pussy. Your eyes snap wide, an almost painful stab of arousal making you immediately whine louder than you intend to. “Fuck--oh, please!”

“Careful.” His hand slides up your neck, angling your face so that he can see it twist in shame and pleasure. “Wouldn’t want anyone finding you like this.”

Your cheeks blaze. Shallow breaths stutter in your lungs as his thumb tugs the pillow of your lower lip. And then he releases you, his hand moving back somewhere you can’t sense. The pressure against your ass shifts for a moment, just before the wide, hot shaft of his bare cock caresses your cunt.

“Last night there was a man here, Mon Cala, middle aged.” Your body is on fire as he speaks, the skin to skin contact dousing your brain in blind want. You grit your teeth, screw your eyes shut, trying hard to focus on what he’s saying while your pussy twinges around nothing. “He talked to the owner here, then he met with someone. Tell me who.”

A reluctant whimper leaves your lips, and the noise might just be one of the most pathetic you’ve ever made as your tongue still stubbornly refuses to slip. But Fett’s words ring again through your head with a resentful pang: the mouse in his attic. Is that what you’ll die as?

At your temple, the blaster’s safety disengages.

“Fuck! Okay, okay.” Your breath comes heavily, brain uncertain and lust-addled, fumbling for the details. “He um. Met a--mmh, a woman, I d-didn’t catch her name. Please--” Your voice trails off in a soft whine, your hips shifting back, trying to find the means to swallow his cock where it teases your tender core, entice him with the diversion now that you’ve given him a crumb.

“You must be dumber than I took you for, sweetling.” His hips retreat slightly, evading you. The sheer display of restraint is infuriating, electrifying. It shallows your breath with need. He stills again, a rough, gloved hand running firmly up your spine, pushing your shirt up to bare more of your skin to his view. “Tell me the rest.”

Your teeth set with a final, feeble whine of hesitation. More instinct than anything. But then a cold ring of metal presses your temple, and fresh fear unbinds your tongue in a deluge.

“S-she had, ah--civilian clothes, but, um… an Imperial s-standard issue blaster.” Your eyes screw in concentration, details flickering like a glitchy holocom through your brain. “I heard them talk about, uh. A shipment. For… Fuck, uh. Th-three cycles from now.”

Boba hums, a sound that makes your eyes roll back as you feel yourself nearly dripping against him, your slick coating his cock where it just barely parts you.

“Smart girl.” His hand drags indulgently down your back, coming to rest on your hip and squeezing. “Where’s the shipment going, princess?”

Torture. This is some kind of galactic war crime, you’re sure of it. Pleasure surges from your teased cunt and his grip on your flesh, and his voice is almost soothing now, coaxing you further towards complacency. It’s all too much. Your head rests against the crate, defeat washing in a gentle tide over you.

“Going... to Hosnian Prime.”

A soft, satisfied puff of noise comes from the modulator. The barrel retreats from your temple.

“Now, there’s a good girl.”

Warmth crashes through your lower belly, a strange and exhilarating sensation that suddenly makes you want to... purr? No one has ever spoken to you like this, and it’s tickling a part of your brain that feels far, far too good. But then his cock glides thick and heavy along your folds, obliterating your thoughts, and all you can think about is having that inside of you.

“Fuck,” you whine as he slowly aligns himself, teasing up and down the drenched, tender flesh of your pussy. He takes his time, massaging the blunt head over your clit and sending little shocks through your muscles, making you shiver and clench. “Please, please…”

“Tame little creature when you want to be,” he grits, pressing against your entrance with an exhaled groan. “Keep being good for me.”

Slowly, he starts to push. And, oh, fuck.

You’re not ready.

You’re wetter and needier than you’ve ever been in your life, and you’re still not fucking ready to take a cock like this one when it crushes in and stretches you, setting an ache through your hips that tells you whatever happens, you’re bound to feel him for days.

A cry sticks in your throat and you will yourself to breathe, to relax as he sinks in further, forcing your walls to flutter and part around him. It truly feels like being broken open, and your fingers have to dig into the wood beneath you when he pulls out an inch and then pushes again, sinking deeper this time as a choked noise pulls through the vocoder.

By the time he finally bottoms out, you swear you can feel him shifting your guts. Every muscle in your pelvis is straining to take him, the intensity mind-numbing already. You’re nearly choking on your own attempts to breathe while he pauses, sheathed like this for a few moments, seeming to concentrate on his own breathing at the same time.

And then his voice comes again, a growl, pitched even lower and more ferocious than before through a clutched breath.

“Fuck, you’re a tight little thing.”

Stars.

This is different.

It’s so hard to think, you’ve never felt more full, but something in the back of your mind is unfurling, turning hot and primal with a roiling kind of need that burgeons and begs at the feeling of his cock rooted so fucking deep inside of you. You’ve had sex before, sure, but this…

You’re about to get fucked.

“Please…” you mewl. Desperation pierces you when you feel his fingers flex strong and firm around your hip in response. You turn your head, trying to glimpse him--only to realize that the blaster is still right next to your face, its angle nonchalant, close enough to brush your lips.

Your mind is so drenched in lust, the first urge that strikes you is to stick out your tongue and wet the metal, its sharp alloy piercing your senses and making your pussy seize with the shudder of danger.

In your periphery, you see the visor snap to attention, like he wasn’t fully looking at you before, lost in his own pleasure. But now he is. And he gives the weapon an experimental twist, allowing for your lips to wrap, delicate and wet, just around the tip of the barrel.

“Fearless little mouse.” There’s something dark and charged in his voice. “You look good like that.”

A slight wiggle to open your jaw, and the blaster shoves past your lips, resting thick and cold on your tongue, lighting your spine with a new thrill. Your voice swells on a muffled moan around it, such a soft and lovely sound to accompany a thing that’s orchestrated countless deaths.

“There we are. Nice and quiet now.”

Finally, finally, he starts to thrust, slow and measured, forcing your body to yield around the width of him. Something burns hot in your belly with each steady stroke, wiping your brain of everything but his presence.

The rough material of a glove smothers one of your asscheeks, grips and pulls at the pillowy flesh, spreading you open as his thrusts take up a steady, powerful rhythm. Boba Fett lets out a long groan, and you can only imagine the view he has right now. It sears you alive, the knowledge that he likes looking at you like this, pitching and whimpering with his rhythm, the sight of your pussy stretched, helpless around his cock and your mouth wetting his blaster.

Your spit slicks the barrel more with every thrust, and you can feel the mechanics shifting dangerously between your lips. But his trigger finger is steadier than death, and his control gives you the nerve to let your tongue lick out along the barrel, bathe in the electric wash of fear that sets all of your nerves into overdrive.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he snarls as his pace starts to kick up wilder.

Intense pleasure cracks through you now, visceral in a way you’ve never felt, and it’s all you can do to keep relatively quiet. The barrel on your tongue is a sharp enough reminder, yet it fuels your arousal to burn hotter and wetter all the same. The more you concentrate on the powerful bliss coiling in your core and rippling outwards, the more you can feel yourself starting to tighten around him, your body yearning vaguely towards a release it can’t seem to center on.

You hear him groan as you squeeze him, his grip on your flesh flexing and shifting. A few more strong thrusts, and then his cock pulls all the way out of you with a woeful pang, the blaster vacating your mouth in the same motion to leave you empty, dizzied and clenching. But before you can unscramble your brain, the blaster slots back into its holster and he’s moving you. With an effortless kind of control, he flips you over, shifting you until the solid wood of the crate supports your ass.

He hikes both of your legs onto one shoulder and in one swift, easy motion, whisks your pants over your shoes and off of your ankles, tossing them carelessly into the darkness of the room before hooking your legs around his armored waist.

“Going to watch you cum, princess. Nice and pretty.”

Your mouth opens on a gasp at his words, and a gloved thumb immediately presses your tongue, the taste of leather and plasma residue grounding your senses enough to register that he’s lining his cock back up at the heat of your entrance. You whine around his thick digit, and he growls somewhere low in his chest as he pushes the thick head back in, this new angle making you see stars all over again.

He doesn’t bother letting you adjust this time, just uses your wetness to his advantage to start railing through your tightness, burning and stretching you as that warm swell starts to crest again. It’s such a deep, full feeling, spreading a delicious ache from the spot where he hits you deep in your tummy.

Your brows draw together, your whines pitching higher as you search the visor. It’s a wordless plea, your vision swallowed by the power of him fucking you deep, your body now screaming to cum but needing something you can’t quite pinpoint.

The hunter’s thumb slips out of your mouth, his hand forging an eager path down your body. He palms your tit over your shirt, before grabbing the low collar and yanking it down, baring your nipples to his view one after the other. His whole hand spans your torso as he hooks the lower hem with his thumb, bunching the material until both your belly and tits are bare, your shirt like a handle at your diaphragm that he uses to pound you even harder, watching your body jolt, overpowered by his thrusts.

Airy little wails brush through your lips, the pleasure all too intense and not enough at the same time. You can’t take it anymore, you need something on your clit, and your fingers twitch to seek out that precious target. But he’s already moving, his hips slowing to a lazier pace while his free hand finds some destination at his belt, and what he produces freezes you in your tracks.

“Steady now,” he breathes as he slips a long blade out of his belt and spins it by the hilt, his fingers almost too quick, too tactful for such a brute.

Instinctual panic grips you at the sight of the weapon, making your legs try to close. But he’s pushed too deep in you, his frame has you pinned open, and there’s nothing you can do against the sheer breadth of his body. Powerless, you simply whimper.

“Wh… what are y--”

“Hush, princess.”

A flick of his thumb and the vibroblade springs to life, its hum filling the quiet air. He starts to bring the blunt hilt of it down where your body yields to his. Alarm pierces you one final time, but then he touches the pommel, just barely, against the tender swell of your clit.

You want to fucking scream. As if in anticipation of this, he claps his hand over your mouth just in time for you to bite down on his glove while your eyes roll back in a powerful wave of ecstasy. The vibrations surge through the sensitive nerves, lighting your whole body up in a way you’ve never felt before. It’s pure bliss, and then a low, long growl slips through the helmet’s modulator at the feeling of your walls pulsing tight, strangling his cock.

His thrusts deepen again, powerful and steady, stroking some devastating spot deep inside you. Your muffled wails get lost in the breath-dampened fabric of his glove while the intense pleasure crests from your clit, higher, higher, lasering in on that intangible cusp and barreling you straight towards it.

You suspend at the peak, all senses failing, and then your orgasm takes you in a riptide, surging through your nerves like liquid fire. The magnitude of it rends you, stronger than you’ve ever felt, dragging you under and forcing you to ride it out while it just pulls and pulls. By the time you regain your sight you’re shaking, waves of bliss still pulsing and crashing through your body in time to the strong rhythm of his hips, the glowing epicenter that unwavering vibration at your clit.

Sobs wrack your chest, pour out high and lose themselves somewhere in the meat of his hand, and you think you try to catch a few breaths, but you can’t even come down. Boba’s voice cuts through the rush in your ears.

“Good. Good girl.”

He holds the buzzing hilt of the blade impossibly steady against your clit and that glow is still so bright, twitching, starting to spill through your nerves again and holy shit you think you just might--

“Again.”

Your second orgasm shreds you like a plasma cannon.

You’re blind, numb to everything but the intense pleasure, nerves now as raw and sharp as the edge of the blade itself. His hand is tight over your face and you feel your cunt convulsing and gushing around his cock, slick cum spilling to wet your asscheeks, and it must be your own because his pace hasn’t let up.

A clatter resounds on the edge of your consciousness and when your eyes come into focus, Boba’s hand is locking into your waist, the blade discarded somewhere in the room. His hips piston hard with a few vulgar slaps of flesh, the head of his cock crushing against your deepest parts before he wrenches out of you and spills over your bare stomach with a strangled roar, gripping himself at the base and thrusting against you as warm, thick ropes paint your skin.

His release is long. Grunts distort into rough static through the vocoder as he rides out the last pulses, until finally he braces himself on the crate beside your head, hunched over you like a beast, his chest plate rolling with heavy breaths. You can only blink at him through hazed, damp eyes, your body feeling weak and utterly fucked dumb. The hand over your mouth slowly unlocks its grip, dragging downwards and leaving you to take shallow gulps of air while he gives your tit a deliberate squeeze.

And then he drags himself off of you, straightening with an almost-concealed groan as he adjusts himself and leaves you to blink at the dark ceiling, still letting oxygen find your brain.

When you shakily manage to sit up, you just glimpse him slipping the discarded vibroblade back into his belt and turning towards the door. Even through your dizziness, you scoff. Figures. Bastard is just going to fuck your brains out and then leave you like this.

“You know,” you sigh, watching him and lazily trailing your fingers in a circle on your tummy, enjoying the lingering buzz of your skin and gathering a bit of his spend where it coats you, still warm. “I’d say that tip-off was at least worth a handful of credits in my jar on your way out.”

He turns and looks at you then, the helmet cocking in consideration for a moment. As soon as his attention is on you, your fingers move from his mess on your belly to your mouth, where you slowly suckle him off of your fingers, never once taking your eyes off the visor, a tiny ripple of playfulness wiggling your shoulders and curling your lips.

His shoulders square to you, and that hunter’s stance still makes your chest seize, sends a pulse to your exhausted pussy.

Metal clinks softly as he walks towards you, stepping between your knees until you’re forced to drop your hand from your mouth and look up at him, heart fluttering again. He brushes the knuckle of his forefinger under your chin.

“Fresh out.”

His back turns as you stare, speechless. And then the door swings on its hinges, and Boba Fett is gone.

#boba fett #boba fett x reader #boba fett x you #boba fett smut #star wars fanfiction #smut #loyalties lie #my works #masterlist

514 notes · View notes

sweetpeasgirl · 3 years

Text

A Northside, Southside Romance | Sweet Pea

Description: Sweet Pea goes to Pop’s when he wants to feel like a normal teenager. He orders a strawberry milkshake and curly fries. Tonight, with his order, he gets something unexpectedly sweet. He gets something he can’t want but does anyway. Tonight he gets y/n.

Word Count: 1.9k

Pairing: Sweet Pea x Female!Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: FLUFF

Sweet Pea walks down the dusky streets of Riverdale after dark. His head is ducked, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He knows where he's going but that doesn't mean he wants anyone else to know. After all, Serpents don't drink milkshakes. How would it look if one of their toughest is seen drinking a strawberry one in the light of day?

The door to Pop's opens with a welcoming chime. To Sweet Pea's ears, though, it sounds more threatening than cheerful. That's the price of being in a gang; constantly glancing over your shoulder. There have been too many times where he's had some punk try to backstab him. Quite literally, to clarify.

Glancing around the old establishment, Sweet Pea grins to himself. Completely empty. Just how he had hoped it would be. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out his wallet. The old man waiting for him at the register is too familiar to not grin again. Sweet Pea, although he'd never admit it, has spent many long nights under this very roof talking to him.

"Sweet Pea? How’re ya’ doing kid!" Pop never fails to set his mind on ease.

The old man peers at him with concern but the smile never leaves his face.

"Rough day," Sweet Pea runs a hand through his dark brown hair, "just taking a lot of crap from all you northsiders lately."

Pop laughs- a big belly laugh- and writes down an order before Sweet Pea tells him what he wants. It's not like it would make a difference whether or not the tall Serpent had answered. He orders the same thing everytime; a strawberry milkshake and curly fries.

"You just need some good food, boy. Go sit down and I'll have someone bring it over when it's done."

Sweet Pea nods, pulling out a ten to pay with but the jolly old man just shoos him to an empty booth. Pop sees a lot more than he lets on. When a kid only has a ten in his wallet- and you live in a place where sometimes the only way to get yourself out of a problem is cash- you don't take the money. What's the loss? Eight-fifty and a home cooked meal? That’s worth it any day.

Sweet Pea, sitting down in the booth, lets his eyes wander all around the retro diner. He's always felt at home at Pop's, more so than in his own home. It's warm with that ‘you belong here’ kind of atmosphere. It's been his hideaway for some time now. Whenever he has a rough day he just sinks low into a booth and lets the world keep going without him for a little while.

Today had been no exception to that. Some arrogant northsider had been running around the southside with a can of red spray paint. Needless to say, the bruise forming under his eye is hard to miss. He wonders why Pop didn't mention it.

"Hey, Pop said these were yours," Sweet Pea's head snaps up at the sound of a sweet voice.

A young waitress, about his age, stands in front of him, a tray with a strawberry milkshake and curly fries in her hands. For a moment he's frozen, staring into the most beautiful eyes he has ever seen. They're wide and bright, nowhere near as afraid as most are when they see him. She has a huge smile on her face; like she's actually happy to be working the midnight shift on a Friday if only because she had wanted to see him.

He feels his shoulders relaxing and snaps himself out of his daze. She's just some stupid northsider. She hates him. He has to hate her. Yet, when she places the milkshake and fries on the table and turns to leave, his eyes never leave her retreating figure. He shakes his head when she disappears around the corner. A northsider and a southsider- a Serpent- would never happen. Especially not with him. Anything star crossed is just too much work for his already hellish life.

He goes to take a sip of his milkshake when he stops abruptly. There, on the whip cream, are two cherries and a piece of red licorice in the shape of a simple smile. What on earth? Sweet Pea can't tear his eyes from the ice cream in front of him, he tries but he can't stop the small grin that forms on his face. He knows the cute waitress from before had something to do with this.

Speaking of which, a musical giggle interrupts his staring competition with the ice cream. He quickly glances up in time to see her half hidden by the counter and a wall that leads to the kitchen. She has a hand over mouth to try to cover up the onslaught of laughs but it's half-hearted; she's genuinely pleased with herself for the little gift she left for him. His heart beats faster when he catches her eyes and she nods her head at him, a breathtaking smile on her face.

He doesn't know why he does it- nor does he know he's doing it until it's done- but he winks at her and mouths a thank you. Her cheeks flame with a blush and her doe eyes widen again before she scurries back into the kitchen. Picking up a fry, Sweet Pea just laughs to himself.

However, those, too, are quick to end. What is he doing? Flirting with a northern girl? That's not only a death sentence for himself but for her as well. But why would that even matter? He doesn't care about her. He'll never care about her. He can't care about her. He talks himself out of it, or at least he tries his hardest to. In the back of his mind, though, he can still see her eyes.

Sweet Pea runs another agitated hand through his hair, glancing out the window and into the night. Beyond the red glow of the diner the stars are shining brightly. Of course, that brings his mind back to the waitress. He sighs to himself, clenching his jaw as his heart thumps much too hard. Nothing is working; this is hopeless.

"Uh," the same melodic voice brings his attention to the same pretty girl who stands once more in front of his booth, "so I'm on my break and I was wondering if I could sit here. I wouldn't bother you or anything I just- this booth has the best view."

Sweet Pea raises an eyebrow at her request but nonetheless answers, "If you want."

"Thanks!"

With that the girl slides into the other side of the red leather booth and leans her head on the window. Sweet Pea watches with visible amusement as she starts tapping out a sporadic rhythm on the table top, wondering where her mind is at this very moment. His is on her, the spotlight now fully shining over the northsider. He can feel the smile coming back again but doesn't bother to hide it this time. Something about her makes him ready to do anything to make her laugh- or to even just make sure she keeps tapping to her own little beat- but he doesn't know why.

"Thank you for the milkshake. Made my night." The words are out of his lips before he can stop them, a light blush to accompany them on his cheeks.

Her head bounces up, the smile already on her lips, "you looked like you needed it. And I finally found where Pop hid the licorice from me!"

This time he laughs out right. He can't help it, the girl is too innocent and beautiful to not lose himself in the moment. He wants to deny the connection that he feels with her, and northside girl, but he can't anymore.

"Why'd he do that?"

She runs a hand over her face, yawning before answering, "because I had a bad habit of giving them to all the little kids who came in here. I couldn't help it! They were so dang cute!"

Sweet Pea watches as she leans her head on the window again, closing her eyes for a moment. She looks as tired as he feels, striking a protective nerve in him. Maybe that's why he pushes his fries towards her. He's not that hungry and he'd rather she ate something. She looks like she could use the energy.

She looks like she's about to protest but Sweet Pea cuts her off, "just eat them, baby."

Her eyes widen but she takes them anyway. In the silence, Sweet Pea takes the time to close his eyes and take a breath. His face is killing him and he knows his knuckles aren't looking much better. He's exhausted but it's not like going home will give him any solace. He has more responsibility there than anywhere else. He just wants to escape for a minute.

"Are you okay?" Her sweet voice- now laced with worry- washes over him.

Sweet Pea glances at the girl sitting across from him. Her eyes look concerned, trained on the purple bruise under his eye. She reaches over the table, her fingertips brushing her over the mark on his face. He holds his breath, his eyes never leaving her as she traces her soft fingers on his skin.

"I'm okay. It doesn't matter anyway." He gently grabs her hand, placing it back on the table.

He wanted her to keep her hand there- he really did- but she had to move it. She can’t get attached to him. He can’t let her.

"Yes it does," the waitress sneakily pulls the strawberry milk towards her, stealing a sip, "you're hurt and that matters to me."

Sweet Pea smiles as he watches her drink his milkshake. If it was anyone else they'd be missing a few fingers by now but he sees the way her eyes sparkle with humour and delight as she sneaks sips. It's adorable. He hates it. Well, he wants to hate it.

"You don't even know my name," he pops one of the cherries into his mouth, winking at her if only to see her burst into color again.

"That's an easy solution," she wiggles her way out of the booth and stands in front of him for the third time that night, much to his amusement, "hi, I'm y/n! What's your name?"

He leans back, stretching his arms across the back of the booth as he takes her in. A yellow Pop's t-shirt, a pair of yellow rubber boots, and two shining eyes. There's no way he can deny the way his heart beats faster looking at her wide smile. He reaches a large hand out, taking her smaller one and shaking it once.

"Sweet Pea. Just call me Sweet Pea."

She giggles and nods her head, causing butterflies to erupt in his chest. She glances to the clock on the wall and lets go of his hand quickly.

"Crap! I'm back on! Hey, I'll catch you around soon I hope. I work Fridays! Bye Sweets!"

He shakes his head, the mirth clear in his eyes, as she scrambles to get back behind the counter. With that he stands up, shooting her one last smile, before walking back into the darkness that abides in Riverdale. He'll deny it to anyone who asks but he knows he'll be back next Friday.

#sweet pea riverdale #sweet pea #sweet pea imagine #sweet pea imagines #sweet pea x reader #sweet pea x you #sweet pea x y/n #sp x reader #sp x you #sp x y/n #sp riverdale #sp imagine #sweet pea riverdale imagine #southside serpents #riverdale #riverdale imagine

404 notes · View notes

karlnapity · 3 years

Text

I Hope You Die in a Raging Inferno of Pain

AO3 link

TWs: panic attacks, depicted death

Jack Manifold is ambushed on a Tuesday. He’s at the hotel, the front desk where he always is, and he barely has time to register what’s happening before Tubbo is dragging him outside. He sputters, tries to wrench his arm from where Tubbo’s holding it, but he wasn’t strong even before he died, and he’s got no chance.

“Tubbo- what-” He’s quieted by the other’s shushing.

“This is an intervention. You’re going to therapy.” Tubbo’s voice is gleeful, but Jack can parse the underlying serious tones.

He scowls even as he trips over his feet as he’s pulled along. “I don’t need therapy.”

Tubbo laughs at that one. “Bossman, I think we could all use a little, and Puffy’s offering it, so you’re going.”

“Puffy hates me.” He scoffs.

Tubbo huffs. “Give it a shot, at least?”

And Jack can’t refuse him.

Jack hates everything about this.

He rubs his sweaty palms on his jeans. He didn’t even know he could still sweat.

Puffy sits across from him, tapping her foot in a rhythm that makes him want to pull his hair out. She hasn’t said anything yet, seemingly waiting for him to start the conversation, and he’d rather die again than actually talk to her.

He doesn’t want therapy. He doesn’t need someone else to tell him he’s a horrible person. He can do that himself.

Eventually, after what seems like years, Puffy clears her throat, and his attention snaps to her. She leans forward, slightly, on her chair.

“So Tubbo brought you in?” She asks. He nods, once. He doesn’t look her in the eye. He really wants to leave.

“Well,” she starts with a rueful smile. “I wouldn’t usually say it’s good to drag people to therapy against their will, but this is the fucking Dream SMP. Sometimes I think it’d be good if we just had one big group session.”

He grunts something that would be a laugh in more comfortable circumstances. “Someone would die.”

She chuckles at that. “You’re probably right. Maybe it’s for the best.”

After a few moments of awkward silence she leans forward again. “So, tell me about you. Do you think you need therapy?”

He feels very small all of a sudden. He shuffles his feet. His legs ache. Everything aches.

“Dunno,” he mutters.

“I need a little more than that, Jack,” she coaxes.

“I… guess?” He wants to melt into the floor, maybe fall back into hell again if it means escaping this conversa

(Fuck)

(No)

(No no no no no no no no)

(He can’t think that he doesn’t want to think about that why did he think that joke was)

“Jack?”

There’s a bit of pain in his arms and he realizes he’s clutching them, fingernails digging in painfully. He doesn’t want to loosen his grasp.

He starts as he notices Puffy next to him. He’s not sure when she moved. She tugs his hands away gently, and he relaxes reluctantly.

She catches his eye. “What were you thinking about?”

The question is asked so gently, and he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, eyes darting to the floor to avoid the way they water just slightly.

“You know I died?” He asks, and his voice feels raspy like his lungs are still full of fire

(Don’t think that)

He tries to draw his arms back in but she holds tight on his wrists.

“What life are you on?”

He barks a laugh at that, something pitiful and angry and he tries not to yell.

“Four,” he croaks, and her expression twists.

“That’s not funny, Jack,” she reprimands, and he pulls himself away, stands to face away from her even as his vision swims.

“Well I’m not fucking joking, am I?”

(Wilbur told him once when it was still L’Manburg that Jack was like a small animal, or some fucking metaphor like that, all puffed up and angry to cover up that he was scared, and Jack told him they were in a fucking war, and he was allowed to be scared, and Wilbur laughed and told him ‘There he goes,’ and Jack thought it was funny.)

(This was, of course, before Wilbur killed him.)

Puffy seems to have realized he was serious, and he hears her stand behind him. She doesn’t ask the normal question, which is good, because he doesn’t want to talk about it.

“How did you lose them?”

He turns to her. She looks so out of her depth he almost wants to laugh.

“Wilbur, Tommy, Techno.”

She sucks in a breath. After a moment she chokes out, “Tommy?”

He does laugh, then, and then there’s nothing but fire in his veins, on his skin, and it burns so much. “Yeah, your fucking precious kid? The one who can do no wrong?”

Puffy hasn’t even said anything, but he’s started, now.

(Tommy once compared him to a firecracker.)

“He fucking killed me. And no one knows I died to Techno, and no one cares about Wilbur, and no one has even acknowledged or even knows that I fucking went to hell, and no one cares and no one’s apologized and the only person who even cares about me is apparently fucking Wilbur and I think he was manipulating me anyways and-”

He chokes off in a scream, crumpling to a crouch, and after a second he feels Puffy’s arms around him. His skin still feels like it’s burning and he pushes her away desperately, fighting her the whole way down, but she holds tight.

He gets tired of both trying to push her away and choke in sobs and breathes he doesn’t need, eventually, and goes limp, letting her hug him. His breaths still as he calms and he feels her tense before she realizes it’s okay he’s not breathing.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, and that almost starts him up again. “I’m sorry I didn’t know, and I’m sorry you’ve felt alone, and I’m sorry that no one’s been here to help you. But we’ll get there.”

He clings to her, then. Some part of him tells him to stop embarrassing himself, to keep the facade, but it’s washed out by the utter relief.

Someone is listening to him. Someone knows what happened to him. Someone is paying attention to him and it’s not to laugh at him or to tell him he’s an asshole or to look down on him.

(Something feels a little bit wrong, in his chest. It feels cold.)

(His fire is flickering.)

Therapy isn’t fun, he learns quickly. It’s actually kind of hard.

After the initial ‘guess what, I died’ he finds he likes talking about his other issues much less. Puffy encourages him to spill, and she always listens, but after every word he fears she’ll laugh or look at him with disgust or fear.

But she takes everything with stride.

He needs to tell her about his death. His mouth feels dry. He can tell she’s waiting for him to start.

“So, um, dying,” he stammers. She nods.

“You don’t need to tell me about it if you don’t want to.”

“I do, though,” he snaps before he talks a breath like she taught him to.

(I don’t need to breathe, he says, and she balks for a minute before stammering an indignant You should try it anyways.)

“The final one- The one that killed me for real- Techno took an axe to my head on Doomsday. But I didn’t go to hell immediately, I guess? I just came back to life like normal, though things were weird, and it took a day for me to just. Fall through the ground?” He can feel it now, but he pushes it away. He just needs to get the words out.

“And I was just falling and falling and I saw Her and all I could think about was how I couldn’t die until I got revenge and I was so angry and then I just kept falling and then I was on the Prime Path again.” He twists his fingers in his lap. “And then I realized I was dead and I think I might be slowly falling apart like a fucking zombie and everything’s fucked up and the only thing keeping me alive- literally, I’m pretty sure- is how angry I am.”

He looks up to Puffy then. She gets this look on her face, sometimes, like she’s shocked and appalled and sad, which is kinda starting to become a recurrence in their sessions.

“What do you mean falling apart? Run me by your symptoms again?” She scribbles a few notes.

“Um.” He suddenly feels very aware of just how unnatural he is. He feels disgusting. “Can’t sleep, can’t eat. My senses are worse? It’s harder to hear and to feel and to see and stuff. And my body hurts a lot. Like, a lot.”

She nods. “Have you noticed anything that helps?”

He looks at the floor. He doesn’t want to say it.

“Jack?”

“Um.” He twists his fingers and they hurt. “When I’m angry?”

He takes a peek at her and she gestures for him to continue.

He had no idea so much therapy is just being encouraged to speak.

It does feel nice to be listened to.

“When I’m angry, it feels like this fire in my chest. It feels like I’m alive.” He sighs. “I think it’s what’s keeping me around.”

“Your anger?”

He nods. “When I was falling, all I could think about was how much I wanted to get them back. Techno and Tommy and everyone. I just wanted apologies.”

Puffy asks him if he wants to talk to Tommy. He really doesn’t, but she fixes him with a look and he can’t really say no.

That’s how he finds himself sitting across from Tommy in her office. Tommy is staring at the ground and Jack pretends to find something interesting in the wall.

“So, Jack, do you want to start?” Puffy asks. He sighs.

“No.”

“You tried to kill me,” Tommy starts, and the fire flares.

“You did kill me!” Tommy shrinks back, just a bit, but he doesn’t stop.

“I came to visit, because I was your fucking friend, and you just kept going on about how no one cared about you when I was right there and you shoved me into lava! Why the fuck do you think I wanted to kill you?”

He’s seething, but Tommy just looks confused.

“I killed you?” His voice is small. Jack doesn’t care.

“Do I actually fucking matter so little to you that you don’t even remember killing me?” His voice chokes and he shoots to his feet. He can hear Puffy call his name, but he’s already storming out.

He swipes furiously at his eyes as he crouches outside. He can’t cry anymore, which is more cruel than anything, but the sensation is still there.

“Jack?”

“Shut the fuck up, Tommy,” he’s saying before he even has the time to realize that he’s fucking crying in front of him. He bristles, but Tommy has crouched beside him.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy says, quieter than he should. Jack can barely hear him, and he’s not sure if it’s just his shitty hearing or what.

“I’m so fucking sorry I killed you, and I’m even more sorry I don’t remember. I- I wasn’t doing well then. At all. I’m still not. I did a lot of things I regret.” He sighs. “You don’t have to forgive me. You really don’t. But, um. If you ever want to talk to someone about being dead.”

Jack sighs, runs a hand over his head. “Yeah, but you came back to life the easy way.”

“Puffy told me you’re, like, actually dead?”

Jack holds out his hand and Tommy presses his fingers to his wrist, murmuring something in awe when he can’t find the pulse.

Jack feels something like affection and tries to push it down, but it’s too late.

Tommy’s fingers feel like ice. He gasps when something breaks in his chest, jerking his arm back. Tommy blinks.

He puts a hand to his chest. Something is wrong. He’s pretty sure Tommy is calling his name but he feels far away.

Everything is so cold. His teeth are chattering, he’s pretty sure. He shivers.

Something is happening, he’s being moved, but he can’t tell what’s happening. He jerks when he feels hands on his arms, on his back, but they hold tight.

He’s laid on his back. Someone touches his forehead, but he can hear murmuring after a minute. Their hands are like ice.

It takes a long time for him to start to come to. He’s rolled onto his side at some point. He feels drifty, like when he first came back from hell, and that fear is enough to startle him awake.

He’s on the couch in Puffy’s office. She’s sitting in her usual chair, but she stands when she sees him blinking at her.

“Are you okay?” She asks worriedly, crouching beside him and taking his hands. He jerks back at how cold she is.

“What happened?” He croaks.

She shakes her head. “I don’t know, Tommy said you just collapsed. We were so worried.”

Tommy was worried for him. He gasps again, clutching his chest. She helps him sit up, rubs his back as he recovers.

He knows what this is. He doesn’t want to admit it.

“Can you imagine,” he starts, chuckling bitterly. “Can you imagine therapy fucking killing you?”

His anger is fading, and in some cruel, sick sense of it all, it’s not a good thing, healing isn’t a good thing, and it’s so. Fucking. Unfair.

He tries to keep on with his life, tries to keep up with therapy, spends time with Tubbo, and Tommy sometimes, and Niki when he’s lucky, but in the back of his mind all he can think is how it will end, and it happens all too soon.

He wakes up one day and he can’t get up.

He’s so tired. He registers, dimly, that it’s not normal, but the fog in his brain leaves him unwilling to explore the idea.

It takes three days and a missed appointment for Puffy to come find him.

She stands over him, arms crossed, and chastises him.

She starts to worry when he doesn’t even shift.

There’s no pulse, no temperature to check, so all she can do is shake him, and after a few long moments he opens his eyes.

She exhales shakingly, pulls him close to her chest. “Oh my god, don’t scare me like that.”

He doesn’t quite have the energy to refute her, so he lets her hold him. His eyes slip closed again, and she shakes him.

“Tell me what’s going on?” She asks. She sounds so worried.

He’s not good at talking at the best of times, but he’s got to try. His mouth feels dry. He can’t even remember the last time anything passed his lips. He misses eating. He’s losing consciousness again.

“Tired,” is all he manages to murmur. She shifts him in her arms.

“I need a little more than that, Jack.” There’s something in her voice. “This isn’t normal for you. You told me you don’t sleep.”

“I don’t,” he tells her as indignantly as he can muster. He knows it’s not right, how he’s feeling, but he’s so tired that he can’t be arsed, and he whines when Puffy shakes him again.

“You need to stay awake, okay?”

He’s so cold. It feels like his limbs are frozen.

Puffy keeps murmuring, talking his ear off to try to distract him, try to keep his attention, and he tries to hold onto her words. They just slip through his grasp.

He’s falling.

No. This isn’t fair. None of this is fucking fair.

He doesn’t want revenge. He doesn’t want to hurt anymore. He doesn’t want to maim.

He wants to live. All he’s ever wanted is to live. All he’s ever wanted is safety and security and love.

And he’s fucking got it so this isn’t fair.

And the fire is lit.

Jack Manifold crawls out of hell on a Tuesday. He crawls out of hell because he’s a stubborn motherfucker. He crawls out of hell because he has friends, a therapist, and a way to move forward. He crawls out of hell because he has apologies to make and people to forgive and he can’t die before he finishes his argument with Tommy.

He crawls out of hell because life is unfair and terrible and awful, but he will be worse.

And there’s a hand extended. He grins and takes it. It’s warm.

#I'M SO PROUD OF THIS ONE PLEASE READ IT #based on the idea that jack's anger is the only thing keeping him alive #personal #jack manifold #jackmanifoldtv #captain puffy #captainpuffy #tubbo #tommyinnit #dream smp #dsmp #mcyt

89 notes · View notes

whump-only · 3 years

Text

intro -- golden (vamp whump)

Ok so I have a vampire whump addiction now..... (thanks @deluxewhump + @ashintheairlikesnow). NEW WIP NEW OCs eeeeee

tw: broken bones, reference to gore (removal of teeth), captivity, restraint, it/its as pronouns, physical abuse/manhandling, non-sexual nudity, manipulative/abusive relationship, referenced death / murder

----

“Come on. Just let me just show it to you.” Hyde phrased it as though it was a request, but he stood blocking the front door. Daring Pollen to refuse him.

“No. Find someone else. I’m leaving,” Pollen said, but they both knew that wouldn’t happen. Pollen really, really regretted agreeing to housesit, For a whole month? On Hyde’s turf? Idiot! But he didn’t think Hyde would spring this on him.

Hyde stepped forward and took Pollen by the elbow. “I’ll protect you…” he said cheekily, pulling Pollen towards the basement door.

“Fuck you.” Pollen planted his feet firmly. To think Pollen would agree to living with a vampire…

“Fuck! I said just look at it. How is that hard?” Hyde snapped with that ferociousness he was capable of. It’s why he was a top tier vampire hunter, but it startled Pollen when it came out like that.

But just like that, the flash of anger was smoothed away, and Hyde was soft, coaxing. “Listen… if you actually look at it and still think it’s dangerous, then I’ll kill it before I go? Okay?”

Pollen was baffled. Did Hyde really think this was reasonable? Knowing what vampires did to his life, to his family? “…You’re serious?”

Hyde grinned before leading the way. That smile of assured victory that everyone swooned over. That Pollen used to want to kiss. Pollen clenched his teeth.

Hyde opened the door to the pitch black basement and already everything in Pollen wanted to say, Close the door, get the fuck out! Leave it down there! That’s what any sensible human would do.

Hyde flicked on a pale yellow light and padded down the steps. Pollen stopped at the threshold of the door, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. Run. Run! Those last words of his mother echoed in his head, the memory of that night wrapping itself around his neck, like a snake. Run!

Hyde looked up at him, raised his eyebrows mockingly. Scared?

Pollen reasoned that if the thing somehow got loose it could kill Hyde first and give Pollen time to run away. Or something. And so, he forced himself to step down, one creaky, labored step after another. The smell of rotting, horrible something hit him so hard it triggered a coughing fit. “Ugh, god. You never crack a window down here?” Pollen called.

Hyde was already out of sight, somewhere down there. “No windows.”

Pollen’s eyes watered and he could barely see anything in the yellow glow of the overhead light. Hyde was near the far wall, and Pollen urgently scanned the bare room for the monster. With a shock he realized it must be the figure at Hyde’s feet, curled under a blanket.

With the clink of chains, the thing suddenly shifted and let out a whimper and Pollen’s heart leapt into his throat.

Hyde kneeled down next to it and Pollen braced himself for it to leap up and rip open Hyde’s face.

But instead Hyde lifted it clean off the floor and held it up. Its blanket fell away and it was naked, so thin that it looked like its every bone was visible through its grey skin, making it all the more inhuman. It looked like an eerily accurate mannequin, utterly plastic and lifeless, yet still detailed in its rendering. The chain that dropped down from its neck looked heavier than its body. The thing remained limp in Hyde’s arms, its head drooped down to its chest, its bound wrists hung loosely. Its mop of black hair covered the top half of its face and the bottom was obscured with a muzzle. Its legs dangled a full foot off the ground. There was no way it was full grown, Pollen realized.

It did not paint an intimidating picture. But Pollen still flinched when it growled suddenly.

Hyde didn’t seem to register the sound at all, even though he was holding it against his body. He switched to holding it up with one arm. “Look at its eyes.” With the other hand he moved its matted hair out of the way and pulled up one of its eyelids. The iris was a deep, almost golden, yellow. “Such a pretty color.”

The vampire’s eye seemed to fix on Pollen, its pupil growing small in an instant. Pollen turned away, finding himself overwhelmed. Those eyes. Just like—

“Want to touch it?” Hyde said, almost reverently.

“No,” Pollen said firmly. “Just stop.”

“Suit yourself.” Hyde dropped the vampire so suddenly that Pollen jerked in surprise as it hit the floor and cried out.

Hyde stepped over the cowering creature and with a gleam in his eyes. “See? Didn’t I tell you?”

Pollen stepped back, momentarily forgetting the vampire, but nonetheless terrified. Hyde was alive now, glowing with excitement. At any moment his energy could be redirected by a swift turn of anger into a quick bone cracking punch or the instant unsheathing of his knife. In this basement, Hyde could get away with anything, Pollen thought.

But Hyde was in good spirits, seemingly assured that his presentation had been thoroughly convincing. So he was now onto logistics, “The freezer upstairs is filled with cow blood. Give the vamp a block every day or so. That’ll keep it alive but it won’t get strong enough to give you trouble. You can always lower the portion if it’s getting too energetic.”

Pollen’s head was still spinning from the slow realization of what he’d gotten backed into doing. “And what, take off its muzzle? What if it bites me?”

Hyde grinned with chaotic glee. “I took out its fangs! And the rest of the front ones too.”

Pollen unconsciously raised his hand to cover his mouth.

Hyde continued. “Still gotta be wary of the things growing back of course. You can use the pitchfork to pin it down, but trust me, it doesn’t move around much anyway. It’s pretty easy.”

Pollen tried to relax his clenched mouth. “Right. Cow blood. Got it.”

Hyde tapped his chin. “Other than that, I just dump a bucket of water or two every few days, to wash down the piss an everything to the drain there.”

Literally mopping shit. Unbelievable that Hyde would take him for granted like this, Pollen sulked. “I hate you. You’re a bad friend.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” Hyde said tenderly. He reached for Pollen’s hand and teasingly wrapped his index finger around Pollen’s pinkie. With the other hand he gave Pollen’s butt a little squeeze. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Ridiculous. Did Hyde think he was so good that sex would make up for this?, Pollen wondered. Pollen wasn’t that desperate.

And now Pollen was insulted. “Hey. I never say I’d do it. Chained up or not, toothless or whatever, I’m not going to be able to sleep knowing there’s a vampire under me. That’s a risk you’re willing to live with. But not me. What if it gets away and comes upstairs to kill me?”

Hyde sighed. “You really think that thing is any threat to you? Be serious.”

“Yes!” Pollen insisted.

Hyde’s eyes narrowed and he smirked coldly. “So sad. But I get it. Can’t be too careful with vamps. They killed your folks right?”

Pollen already knew Hyde wasn’t just giving up. But Pollen didn’t know how to stop him. How to not walk into the trap. So Pollen yielded, “Yes. And my siblings. I had two sisters.”

“That’s too bad...” Hyde turned to the vampire that had somehow managed to silently twist most of itself back under the blanket. “Hey, Goldie. Mr. Pollen doesn’t trust you…”

Hyde walked purposefully toward a metal baseball bat that Pollen hadn’t noticed before. Pollen didn’t think he imagined the dark staining on it.

Hyde glanced over, trying to catch Pollen’s gaze. “…What can we do about that?”

Pollen felt very cold in his stomach, remembering Hyde’s promise to kill it if Pollen thought it was dangerous. “Hey, come on Hyde. Hyde! Don’t do that,” Pollen said, but he wasn’t sure. The vampire couldn’t be released back to the outside to terrorize people, they both knew that.

The vampire too, must’ve sensed the lurch toward danger, because it broke out of its stupor. As Hyde loomed over it, it struggled and whined, tried to scrabble against the concrete, pull itself away. But Hyde firmly stepped down on a part of it, pinning it.

“Stop! No!” Pollen shouted, but Hyde raised the tool above his head—

Pollen turned away and covered his ears to block the piercing cry of the creature. With every new breath it screamed into its muzzle and seemed to choke on its own voice before screaming again. Pollen panted in horror, unable to look up.

“One broken leg,” Hyde reported, loudly, over the thing’s cries. “Or if we’re really being more exact, it’s probably shattered from the knee down. Still think vampy can get away?”

Pollen shook his head. “Hyde. I can’t…”

“What do you think, Goldie? Can you still crawl up the stairs and kill Mr. Pollen?” Hyde addressed it with a tone that approached tenderness. But he still held that bat, weighing it in his hand. Pollen realized Hyde never intended to kill it.

Pollen wished he could jump up and snatch away the bat. But his body wouldn’t move. “Hyde. Hyde, please stop. Just stop.”

Hyde looked right at Pollen with dark eyes as he raised the bat again. “Sorry, Goldie. One leg to go.”

Pollen finally unfroze and raced up the stairs two at a time, tripped once, bashing his chin into a stair, but it didn’t slow him down until he was back in the kitchen. He felt dizzy so he sank to the floor and clapped his hands over his ears as the creature wailed.

The stairs creaked as Hyde climbed them. He softly closed the basement door, muting the sounds of pain.

The ringing finally subsided in Pollen’s head. “Why the fuck did you do that?” Pollen demanded.

“You know I’m the last person on earth who’d underestimate a vampire. I wouldn’t leave you in a situation where you could get hurt,” Hyde said sweetly.

You knew it’d make me guilty, Pollen thought. To get back at me for resisting you, right? But Pollen said nothing, and took the hand Hyde offered.

Hyde pulled Pollen to his feet. “I know it’s scary. Especially for you. But you can do this.”

Pollen rested his head on Hyde’s shoulder, pretending that this Hyde, the soft one, couldn’t switch back if he was hugging Pollen. The broken moans of the thing could still be heard through the door. This whole exercise seemed so cruel now, so unnecessary. Pollen mumbled into Hyde’s shirt. “Why can’t you just kill it?”

Hyde wrapped his arms around Pollen. “This is a rare opportunity. I’ll take it around to fairs and things, earn a little cash showing people something they’ve never seen before. It’ll be something to do between my hunting trips. Maybe I can even travel less, if the money’s good… I’m not getting younger, you know?”

The creature’s pitiful sobs echoed in Pollen’s skull. Pollen gripped Hyde’s shirt tighter. “Mhm.”

Hyde approvingly pecked a kiss onto Pollen’s forehead. “Thank you.”

Pollen cursed the fluttery feeling it gave him. He broke out of the hug. “You’re welcome, asshole.”

Hyde began to shuttle around the house, scanning for things he might’ve forgotten to pack. The vampire had gone quiet.

Finally Hyde stood at the door, ready to leave.

Pollen joined him to see him off. “Have a nice trip. Kills lots of vampires for me.”

“That I will.” Hyde gave a salut and marched off.

Pollen closed the door and slumped down to the floor. “Fuck!”

#vampire whump #captivity whump #golden the vamp #whump writing #broken bones #gore #captivity #restraint #it/its pronouns #non-sexual nudity #manhandling #physical abuse #abusive relationship #manipulation #referenced death

70 notes · View notes

cockasinthebird · 4 years

Note

billy filling up steves hole with his cum and then shoves a butt plug in steve

Dear anon, Oh... oh ho ho, this got good, like I am very satisfied with this! Truly a splendid way to... reintroduce lemons to my posting again now that I am free from flag!

Do enjoy~

Billy hides his wide, self satisfied grin behind a hand; his elbow on the desk, chin in palm, pretending to pay attention to English class, but he's acing it so why bother anymore?

Steve's squirming in his seat, constantly repositioning himself carefully, face flushed red like he's running a fever - feels like it too, blood boiling and skin slightly sweaty.

He steals a few glances in Billy's direction every now and then, finding blue eyes piercing into him, tongue occasionally darting out to wag salaciously before licking his lips that curl something so mischievously.

Is it obvious? It feels like it's so impossibly obvious, but no one has said a thing yet, and every other student in here stares blankly up ahead, disinterested and bored as all hell.

The clock ticks slower and slower, wearing Steve's patience thin, seconds away from shattering.

He turns to look at Billy again, who cocks a brow, his chest stuttering with a laugh, almost as if he can read Steve's thoughts. Or maybe he just knows him well enough by now that that wouldn't even be necessary to do.

So Steve shifts around again, the plug keeping him closed rubs at all the right muscles, hitting sweet nerves that scatter up his spine in a euphoric dance, encouraging a moan to search for freedom, only to then get caught just barely before jumping off of his tongue.

He keeps his legs closed tight, hoping it'll conceal the impressive bulge in his jeans. It's gross and disgusting and perverted and shameful, to sit through class with an almost full erection, but that all only elevates the thrill of it, the stupid excitement of danger, a rush of adrenaline that pumps through him whenever he looks at Billy.

Billy, who didn’t leave after last night.

Billy, who woke Steve up by rubbing his veiny cock between Steve’s thighs.

Billy, who fingered Steve’s slightly sore hole all nice and sweet while cooing and praising him.

Billy, who thrust into Steve from behind as they laid on their sides.

Billy, who right after he came plugged Steve’s ass still full of every drop of his cum.

Billy, who kindly asked Steve to wear it all day, whispering about how hot that would be babe, you walking around with me inside of you, sitting in class ready to burst.

And Steve, who’s been unintentionally edging all day since, agreed all too readily, but Billy has this irresistible charm about him that just turns Steve to butter. A flash of teeth, soft caressing, voice deep.

It’s magic.

When the bell rings for lunch, Steve barely registers it - lost in the vividly fresh memory of this morning, of last night, of the past few weeks. Every one of his classmates stands up, talking loudly, chairs scooting around as they flood out of the room.

But Steve stays. Billy stays. Even as they’re the last people here, they stay.

“Not hungry?” Billy drawls, tapping his foot a few times before turning in his seat, angling open legs in Steve’s direction.

Whose fingers are currently testing the strength of his pencil; thumb pushing against the yellow painted wood. He hasn’t taken a single note all day, staying home would have been more productive in truth.

“I can’t get up.”

Billy laughs, loudly, uproarious, throws his head back with it before running his gaze up and down Steve’s stiff posture. “I don’t think that’s your issue right now.”

And Steve groans at that, at other things too, rolls his eyes in frustration even though he absolutely would have found that funny at the right time. Now is not then.

“Fine, I can’t stand up-” Lips shuts closed quickly as he finally looks at Billy, and sees the clear outline of his thick cock reaching down his thigh underneath too tight jeans. The pencil in his hand snaps.

His own hard dick twitches at the sight of that, at the brief moment of wondering just how long Billy’s been like that, wondering if he’s going to do something about it. He meets with Billy’s excessively lustful gaze, pupils blown till there’s barely even a sliver of blue left. Lips part as Billy ever so slowly reaches down to wrap wide fingers around the shape of his shaft, hissing and groaning cautiously, eyes darting to the door then back to where Steve is caught in a trance.

“I don’t think I can wait till the end of today, princess.” Billy stands up and walks over to Steve in one fluid motion, where he leans closer, raised above Steve still, staring down at him. “I’m gonna need to fuck you now.”

Steve probably wouldn’t have even really struggled against the suggestion of fucking on top of his desk in their classroom, door wide open, shutters drawn, the most exposed and illegal it could get. He would have gladly bent over and let Billy have his way with him, finish what he started this morning, get him nice and well fed on every drop of cum his body can contain.

But no, sadly that’s not a risk Billy’s willing to take. Rather he yanked Steve up from his seat, got a good look and thorough feel of his painfully sensitive erection, dragged him through mostly empty halls to the completely empty boys locker room.

His hairstyle gets ruined as he presses the top of his head against the orange tiles, staring down to watch his own hands fumble in their hurry to unbuckle his belt and zip down his jeans. From behind he hears the same tune played with a far more confident hand, as Billy releases himself with a refreshing gulp of air.

Seconds after Steve drops his pants and angles his briefs down just far enough to free his own leaky prick, a hand slaps against the tiles next to his face as Billy leans in to kiss where the collar of his striped polo can’t reach, gentle and soft lips travel up and down Steve’s neck, sending luscious waves of delight washing over him, hushed moans slipping from parted lips.

“Have to be quiet, baby,” Billy whispers, kisses the shell of Steve’s ear. “Think you can be quiet?”

“C-can you?” Steve barely manages with a huff of a laugh, and he feels Billy smile against his neck.

“Only one way to find out.”

And he’s gone - taken a step back. Steve looks over his shoulder to watch him stroke and slick up his fat cock with pre, staring like a hungry wolf at where Steve pushes his ass out to accentuate the shape of it.

“Spread your cheeks,” Billy demands with a tone that almost implies an unspoken ‘or else’. “Show me how full you are.”

Steve doesn’t hesitate- wouldn’t even dream of it, as he presses his face against the icy orange tiles for support as he moves both hands behind, down, a handful of cheek in each as he pulls them apart, exposing the base of the dark purple buttplug that keeps him stuffed, keeps him stretched out, keeps him ready.

When Billy prods at it with one finger it sends electric jolts through the entirety of Steve’s being, sensitive and heightened, he gasps a bit too loud and bites back a moan.

“D-don’t do that, fuck,” he breathes in a heavy sigh.

“Why not?” And Billy does it again, with more intent this time, pressing harder and drawing circles around.

A motion that makes it near impossible for Steve to shut up, fingers digging into flesh with bruising restraint, his lonesome cock spurting and dripping with pre onto the floor. “A-ah- Billy…”

Billy’s chuckle practically reverberates off of the tiles, his self-satisfaction palpable in the bass of his voice.

“Can’t wait to fuck you so good ‘n hard, pretty boy,” he drawls and runs his fingers along the edges of the flat base.

“B-be careful, okay?” Strings of nerves pull at Steve’s stomach, a heat of embarrassment flooding out into his cheeks at the worry that it might hurt.

Billy’s adventurous, buys them all kinds of fun toys to play around with, dildos and fleshlights and beads and cuffs and clamps, literally anything he can get his hands on, but they’ve never tried this with a plug more than three fingers wide.

But then there’s a calm hand on his; Billy lacing their fingers together where Steve is still spreading himself wide, and it doesn’t exactly calm the storm brewing, but it does close the window to it.

“I got you, baby, I got you,” Billy coos, kisses his way across Steve’s fingers, across the cheek, up to his tailbone before leaning away.

Fingers closing around the plug as he pulls and… it doesn’t hurt, not exactly, it’s more of a strained feeling in the muscle, hints of pain here and there mixing deliciously together with the raw euphoria of it all, so fucking good Steve’s worried for a moment that he might actually cum from this alone, chanting fuck fuck fuck.

“Shit Stevie,” Billy sounds positively awed. “Wish you could see yourself right now.”

Steve tries though, looks behind to see Billy staring at his fluttering hole, butt plug shiny in hand, slick with cum and whatever lube might be leftover from hours ago.

“So fucking sexy…”

He can feel cum running out, warm from having been kept inside of him all day, leaking down his balls and thighs. Then he’s full again - three fingers full, as Billy thrusts those digits into him with ease and pleasure.

“God, you’re so wet and loose, princess,” Billy growls as he stands up to press himself against Steve. “Listen to that…”

Billy pumps his fingers in and out, the squelching of it all obscene like he’s fingering a soaking pussy, Steve’s pussy, who has never struggled to keep quiet this much in his entire life, every dive in stopping just short of reaching that perfect bundle of nerves deep in him, it feels almost deliberate.

“Just dripping with my cum.” Billy licks and nibbles and kisses up and down Steve’s neck where he can reach, making the skin there red from abuse and attention. “Think you can handle more? Get all fat on my cum?”

“Y-yes,” Steve whimpers between ragged breaths and nods profusely.

“Yes, what?” Fingers curl at a tortuous angle, like a light punishment that only makes Steve’s dick leak worse.

“Yes, please, I need you so bad, fuck me, please,” he rambles as a response, ready and willing to keep going, anything for Billy.

But the devilish chuckle signs that that’s more than enough. “Hmmm since you asked so nicely.”

The thick digits are quickly replaced with the blunt head of Billy’s cock, eager and horny, gently pushing into the easy and wet stretching of Steve’s ass, watching it reverently where pale hands are still spreading the cheeks wide for him.

When there’s no more hard flesh to offer, Billy keeps moving closer, wraps his arms around Steve and buries his face in the crook of his neck. They stand still like that for far too many seconds, as near as near gets, both of them pushing into each other, as if it would be possible to connect deeper than this.

At the start of it all it was quick and rough and often too dry in their rushing of getting together, but now it’s… this. Whatever this is.

Whatever it means when Billy mutters, “Feel so good.”

Whatever it means when he doesn’t leave after.

Whatever it means when they hold one another like it’s something dear.

Steve’s not the biggest fan of getting fucked from behind - he can’t see Billy, touch Billy, kiss Billy, but the way his steely cock drags against his insides as he starts thrusting gives Steve an incomparable amount of ecstasy, when hands grab on to his hips to control the tempo, push and pull and pound, skin slapping as Billy slams into him.

Choked whimpers is all he can offer up here- all he’s allowed to, and he feels the restraint hurt in his throat, every single salacious little sound fighting for their freedom, the rhythmic movement of Billy’s hips snapping against Steve’s ass only encouraging every rebellious impulse that’s contained within.

But the silence between them now speaks more than words, as Billy himself barely even grunts past hitching breaths. His biggest fear is getting caught, he once admitted, and that only gets him hard. Even brushing fingers at the movies can get him going apparently, which is a delightful little secret Steve discovered all on his own.

“Fuck,” is the first real word to escape him in minutes, as he bends over and places his hand on top of Steve’s where he’s supporting himself on the wall. “I’m close, baby.”

Steve’s almost convinced he could cum untouched, but he’s not patient enough for it, bringing his free hand down to fervently jerk his pulsating dick, utterly soaked in pre cum, yearning for release after hours of being half hard.

It’s become an easy feat by now to match the quick and irregular pace that Billy always finds leading up to his orgasm, Steve’s hand following the pattern with practiced precision, eyes closed and focusing solely on how wet and slippery and glorious Billy’s veiny cock pummels rapidly into him, pounding against that golden bundle of nerves that makes Steve want to cry out, knees going weak, stars glistening behind his eyes.

And when he cums, hot and white into his hand, it’s blinding, the stars exploding like fireworks, raining fiery bliss down upon him, toes curling in his sneakers, biting into his lip till it cracks and bleeds.

Behind him Billy makes a strangled noise; an abrupt and dissatisfying sound compared to his usual roar of a peak, as Steve’s dripping wet hole chokes around every inch of Billy’s girthy dick. Steve puts forth a foot to counterweight the way Billy presses into him with all his force, both hands on his hips now to keep them like this, his forehead pressed between Steve’s shoulder blades as he empties out for a second time inside of Steve’s poor, puffy, abused ass.

Steve’s convinced he can feel it, wet and burning and full. Fuller. Brimming, ready to burst, that if this was a porn vid the camera would angle down to watch it all spill out of him, and he can’t be blamed for the breathy moan that escapes at that imagery.

“God, princess…” Billy’s voice hoarse and raspy, weak and satisfied. He snakes his arm around Steve’s waist and runs a hand up and down his stomach. “That was…”

“Yeah,” Steve eventually huffs, neither of them truly finding much use for words in the moment.

“Mmhm,” Billy whirs and props his chin up on Steve’s shoulder, tilting his head till their eyes meet. “I’m thinking…”

A chill flees down Steve’s back immediately at that notion, because Billy rarely ever thinks of anything else other than… “What?”

“What if we… plugged you up again?” Billy grins like he’s already won this, like the cat that got the cream.

“Billy, please-”

“Steve, please.”

They stare at each other in silence, Billy still with that same twist of lips, Steve’s… uncertain. He loves the idea of it, but in practice? Today has already been hell on him this way, but Billy…

“Come on baby, please? Keep you wet and full of my cum all day, and tonight I’ll buy you a really nice dinner and clean you up in the shower?” He kisses promises against skin, nuzzling his nose against the shell of Steve's ear. “Light some candles… I’ll be real gentle with you.”

Steve’s not gonna be able to sit right for weeks to come after today, but he nods in agreeance. Because those promises almost sound like a date.

#Harringrove #my writing #lemon #5 pages and 2.6k words #this is the most I've written since the flagging #Anonymous

306 notes · View notes

quidfree · 3 years

Note

can you Please write the scene with bakugou's piercing SGDHEFEH the concept is too funny to me !!!

anon you’re lucky 報復性熬夜 is a concept i am firmly attached to so here i am at 1 am rattling this off instead of getting my beauty sleep. please excuse the standard of writing as a result

by the second day, katsuki is seriously considering agreeing to todoroki’s earlier and ambiguously sincere proposal that they play i spy.

he doesn’t know what it is about this particular job that’s so unbearable. no, scratch that- of course he knows what’s unbearable; it’s sat right next to him on a too-small chair in their too-small room staring impassively out of a too-small window. but he’s been thrown into so much shit with icyhot you’d think he’d developed some kind of immunity by now, the way vaccines microdose you on viruses so you can resist the real thing. call katsuki an antivaxxer, he guesses, because he has overdosed on todoroki ever since he met the asshole and he’s still not ready for how far up the wall he’s driving him when they’re stuck together for two straight days without a breather or any contact with the outside world.

cards on the table: stake-outs aren’t his thing. he does them just fine, fuck you very much, but he doesn’t like ‘em. why would he? they’re some ungodly blend of extremely boring and extremely tense, where nothing happens right up until way too long into it and then everything goes to shit unprompted. it’s rare he ever gets called in on jobs like this- people tend to assume he lacks the temperament for it, for one, and for another he’s too useful to lock away for days on end. it’s only because their suspected target is so insanely volatile and dangerous that it’s the two of them waiting for her to show her ugly face- no one else is even allowed in the perimeter. which is fucking fine, but he just wishes the cops would get their shit together for once and actually have the proof ready by the time they call the pros in so he doesn’t have to wait before he goes in guns blazing. instead they talked some bullshit about how critical of a stage this was and blah blah fifteen years of (obviously mediocre) work had gone into setting this trap, etc etc. the point is that it’s led to katsuki stuck in the world’s most disgusting little apartment, staring out of a splintered window for two-going-on-three days with no one but the world’s most annoying prodigy to keep him company. the place is such a dump they’re sleeping on mats in sleeping bags. it’s like fucking UA summer camp, and at this point he’d take the kidnapping over the waiting.

day one wasn’t so bad, right up until he realized there would be a day two. day two is bad from start to finish. they’re supposed to take turns on watch but there’s fuck all else to do except sit on their phones, and katsuki can only quote tweet so much dumb shit before he gets bored. he can’t talk to anyone outside because of confidentiality bullshit, and there’s no point checking work shit when he can’t do anything from where they are. so it’s either silently watching the warehouse or talking to todoroki, and todoroki is a fucking terrible conversationalist.

the thing with icyhot is this: katsuki doesn’t hate him, okay. like, he hates him, but also not really. they’re, at a push, maybe, sort of, friends. verging on close ones. not that he’d say so, but after the amount of dramatic self-sacrifices and final stands against a joint enemy they’ve endured he can’t really muster the energy to argue otherwise. todoroki’s tolerable, sort of maybe. usually katsuki borderline likes working with him, because if nothing else he’s good at what he does, and they know each other too well to be anything but in sync in the field. if they were doing almost anything else he’d be relieved at the choice of pairing.

they are not, however, doing anything else, and todoroki still fucking sucks at talking like a normal person. when he’d woken katsuki up for his shift of night-watch he’d loomed over him ominously like a fucking ghoul and said, voice belying no humor: “do you think plants can feel pain?”

there’s fucking nothing to talk about. anything interesting is essentially vetoed because it’d inevitably distract them from the whole intent observation thing, and katsuki hates small talk on a normal day but especially when todoroki’s doing his ‘alien attempting earth dialect’ bit and asking him about weather or the tokyo transportation system or whatever. so they just sit in semi-silence and occasionally go on very stupid tangents katsuki is glad no one can witness and remain overall bored out of their fucking skulls.

by day three they’ve already exhausted i spy and also the alphabet game and hangman, and katsuki draws the line at tic-tac-toe. todoroki looks implacable as always but his eye has started twitching a little. katsuki tries to think of literally anything that could plausibly take up their time and not take their eyes off the window, comes up short. twister is not a good idea even ignoring their lack of a board. shop talk is so very tempting, but he’s not losing this villain and wasting two days’ suffering because they get carried away on some long-winded discussion, so that’s not an option either.

“how’s your ear?” todoroki says, and at first katsuki thinks he’s really fucking lost it if he’s started asking after the wellbeing of his individual body parts, but then he remembers the last time they saw each other katsuki was throwing himself into the path of some jackass with a trumpeting quirk who nearly blew out his eardrum, so he guesses half ‘n half’s not entirely insane yet. he shrugs, shifts in his chair.

“fine. couldn’t hear shit from it for like three straight days, though. and my balance was fucked.”

“it hasn’t scarred at all.”

“yeah. lame place for a scar,” katsuki says, flexing his fingers absently. they’re all of them more roughed up than they were at UA, but talent and good healers have kept him mostly intact, give or take a few big nasties like the time he got gutted in first year or his near loss of an eye around graduation. privately he suspects genetics have dealt him a good hand, what with his gene donor’s perfect skin, but then todoroki doesn’t have that excuse and he’s not scarred anywhere ugly except the obvious, though katsuki could point blind to most of the nasties he’s accumulated under his suit.

not that he thinks about what’s under todoroki’s suit. god, he needs to get out of here.

“i don’t know,” todoroki is saying now, thoughtful. “a lot of people have ear-scars, no? from piercings.”

“that’s different,” katsuki says, immediately contrarian, even as he thinks about it. by the warehouse a truck stalls, but then moves on, lessening his momentary excitement. “most people don’t let that shit heal. unless you’re a moron there’s no point getting a hole jabbed through your ear if you’re not sure you want it.”

“would you?” todoroki asks, mildly curious, and taps his ear where katsuki can see him in the window’s reflection. “get a piercing, i mean.”

“what’s it to you?”

todoroki rolls his eyes at him like he’s being pointlessly difficult, which he maybe is a little. “i don’t know. i think it would suit you.”

“yeah?” katsuki sniffs, mollified and trying not to show it. it’s always a mistake to let icyhot know when his obvious ploys are working. “been thinking about it?”

“i can hardly sleep at night for thinking about it,” todoroki deadpans, which makes katsuki scowl and stomp down on the extremely unwarranted flush crawling up his neck in response.

“fuck off. i guess i’d do like one or two.”

“really? you always say no to tattoos.”

“that’s different. i don’t trust some asshole to draw a fucking infinity sign on my knee or whatever. sticking a hole through an ear is hard to fuck up, and you barely register it after. if you get a shitty tattoo you have to think about it all the time.”

“if it’s easy then why don’t you have any?” todoroki asks, but he sounds genuinely curious more than like he’s trying to catch him out, so katsuki thinks about it honestly.

“don’t have the time. ‘s not like i can really afford to pencil in an afternoon to the nearest parlor or whatever just for that.”

“i read you can pierce your ears with a needle.”

“i guess i haven’t fucking thought about it that much, then,” katsuki grumbles, forever irked by todoroki’s smart mouth. problem solver his ass. the guy goes around making problems for everyone.

they sit in silence for a beat, watching the breeze rattle the wooden planks barricading a window opposite them, and then he thinks needle, and does some very quick mental arithmetics to reach the conclusion that todoroki is probably also landing on, judging by the way he blinks when katsuki briefly glances his way.

he thinks about the job, and how close he’d come to throttling todoroki during i spy, and the great dawning nothingness ahead of them for fuck knows how long still. at the very worst, they have to start moving with a needle in his ear.

“pass me your medikit.”

todoroki does, but when katsuki unzips the pack he shifts. “it’d be easier if i did it.”

“it’s not rocket science,” katsuki mutters, considering the needle critically before glancing back out of the window. “'s not like i give a shit about precise location.”

“i’m just saying i wouldn’t have to go in blind. and you can keep watch while i do it.”

“or you can keep watch while i do. same shit.”

todoroki only shakes his head, because unlike some people who shall not be named he is not so incredibly psychosexually attached to offering help where it isn’t wanted. “fine.”

katsuki eyes the window, squints at his ear. tissue’s the best bet- he thinks he could probably manage cartilage fine, but on the off chance they have to drop everything and run he doesn’t want to accidentally snap a bone and start the fight inconvenienced. lobe it is.

“wait,” todoroki says, just when he’s focused, and then reaches over without removing his gaze from the window to press two fingers to the needle, tip going blisteringly red-hot before he releases it. cauterised. their kit’s sterilised anyway, but katsuki grunts his begrudging thanks, repositions himself.

“wait,” todoroki says again, and this time katsuki can’t help but turn to glare at him where he’s still watchfully staring outside.

“fucking what, icyhot?”

“two seconds,” todoroki promises, gaze flickering his way for half a second with something like self-effacing amusement before he turns his eyes dutifully away and reaches his other arm around to pinch his ear, which flares cold so quickly katsuki hisses even as his cheeks heat. fucking weirdo.

“could’ve just said,” he mutters, ignoring his not at all jumpy pulse to refocus on the task at hand as todoroki does that obnoxious lip-twitch thing that means he’s smiling internally.

physics dictates that he keep his wrist at an angle if he wants the needle to come out right, so he does, braces and jabs. it goes so easy he almost doubts his own success, not even the slightest twinge of pain ensuing. he twists for good measure, removes the needle, watches tiny beads of blood emerge from the piercing.

well, that was anticlimactic, katsuki thinks, retrieving an anti-bacterial wipe for the needle, and then pauses, staring at the window.

“motherfucker.”

“what?”

“what the fuck am i supposed to put through this?”

todoroki’s mismatched eyes go gratifyingly wide in the window, and for one spectacularly braindead moment two of the world’s most outstanding pro-heroes stare at one another in a shitty broken window with equal amounts of retroactive dismay.

“um,” todoroki says, or as close to ‘um’ as todoroki will ever say. katsuki wishes dearly he was still of an age where he could throw him through a wall. then his eyes focus elsewhere, sharpening with what could pass as professional focus but is mostly naked relief. “um.”

um in-fucking-deed. by the warehouse, a door has just opened a sliver.

“you owe me a fucking earring,” katsuki declares, but so fast it lacks any aggression, already halfway out the window by the time he finishes speaking, atrophied limbs reviving with an ecstatic chemical burn as fresh air hits their faces.

god. if he ever gets stuck on stake-out duty again he’s sleeping by himself under a parked car or some shit.

they make disgustingly quick work of the fight, in the end, days of pent-up frustration and skull-numbing boredom leaving them so bursting with power that it’s almost embarrassing for the villain, but when the first kow-towing police officer reaches them full of praise and suggestion that they handle another job he has queued up they chorus a ‘no’ so violent the guy actually jumps.

todoroki’s not so bad, katsuki thinks fondly, watching his face slide into frigid blankness with absolutely no idea of how shitless he’s scaring the officers around them. it’s almost enough to make him forget to kick his ass for the enormously shitty banter he’d had to endure vis-a-vis his still-bleeding ear throughout the entire tragically short fight.

almost. not quite. who even knew there was a ‘gay ear’?

#qui parle #qui ecrit #anon #todobaku #bnha #tdbk

23 notes · View notes

joonkorre · 3 years

Text

They got a plan for (you)

@drarrymicrofic prompt: Dangerous by Big Data (ft. Joywave)

this song emits a very, hmm, being-in-the-middle-of-a-conspiracy vibe. so. here we are. enjoy. AO3

Harry knows the person standing in front of him. Or maybe he doesn't. If anyone else knows, well. They're not supposed to.

“Cormac McLaggen? Haven’t heard of him in years.”

“Of course you haven’t,” Ron replies, twirling his quill. Harry tries to copy it and gets ink on his face instead. “The bloke’s fucked off to the Mediterranean for some consultant work. He came in, I helped sorted out his paperwork, and he’s gone. It’s been, ah, five years, I think.”

“Right, right. Remember how he was back in Hogwarts?”

“A fucking nightmare.”

“I know,” Harry agrees. “The Sorting Hat should’ve put him in Slytherin— wait, maybe not. He and Malfoy would tear the school apart.”

Ron looks at him odd for a moment before snickering. “The things you say, mate…”

Harry stills. Has his sense of humor changed in some way for Ron to say that? And not just him, a few others of his friends have remarked along the same lines as well.

He sips his tea and grimaces. It’s gone cold.

“Anyway, hopefully his attitude’s improved somewhat.”

“Oh, it has to,” Ron says. “I mean, he’s assigned as your partner. Soon, you’ll be stuck with him here while I’m halfway across the building. So I’m not scared he’d do you in,” Ron points at Harry. “I’m scared you’d snap and end up in Azkaban within an hour.”

“Your trust in me is astounding, Jesus Christ, Ronald.”

There’s a knock on their office’s door. It swings open, revealing Head Auror Robards. Harry and Ron stand up in unison and bow.

“Good morning, gentlemen. I trust you both are working?” Robards taps his cane on the floor, and the door closes with a quiet clack. His bad leg is acting up, it seems.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Diligently?”

“There might have been a bit of discussion,” Ron says, his shoulders loosening, “all about work, I assure you.”

“Mhmm,” Robards says. As his retirement looms, he’s more like a grumpy grandpa than a boss these days. “Smart mouth. Potter.”

“Yes, Sir,” Harry straightens.

“You’ve gotten the news?”

“I have, Sir,” Harry says, slipping the document from a folder on his desk. “My new partner is Cormac McLaggen while Auror Weasley is transferred to admin.”

“Correct. How are your lungs doing, Weasley?”

“Ah,” Ron shrugs, but a sheen of sweat can still be seen on his forehead, “same old, same old, Sir. I can’t say I won’t miss fieldwork, though.”

“I know,” Robards nods, a rare sympathetic expression on his face, tapping his cane once more. “Your eye for detail and diplomatic abilities will serve everyone well. Just because you can’t jump all crazy and shit anymore doesn’t mean you’re useless, Weasley, remember that.”

Ron bows and start collecting the piles of paperwork he’s packed up on his desk. Harry reaches over and clasps him on the shoulder, getting a teary smile in return. For a moment, nothing is heard except the rustling of paper.

“Well, gentlemen.”

Harry retracts his hand and turns toward Robards.

“I’m just here to check in on you both. It appears that McLaggen’s encountered some trouble with his International Portkey, so unfortunately, he won’t be—”

There’s another knock on the door. “Excuse me, I was informed Head Auror Robards is currently here?”

Robards lets out an audible sigh of relief and twists the knob. Over his shoulders, Harry can see a head of blonde. Very, very fair blonde.

“Yes, I’m here. Apologies, I had some matters that need to be discussed in person with Mr. Weasley and Auror Potter, so I wasn’t in my office.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all. I was at fault, anyway. My Portkey was on the cheaper side, so there was a bit of malfunction. Thank Merlin I made it just in time. Your secretary— Miss Brown, is it?— was lovely. You ought to give her a raise.”

Robards laughs politely. “Everybody always says that about her. A hard worker, that woman, I’ll inform her of your commendation.”

He invites the man inside, and Harry feels his world roll upside down.

“Potter, here is Dr. McLaggen. He will be here as consultation, and with your upcoming case,” Robards peers at him over his thin glasses, “his expertise in Potions and International Law will help immensely.”

The man grins, all teeth, but completely non-threatening. His waistcoat fits him snugly, highlighting his tapered waist. The silvery specks in his eyes— not blue like they should be— glint in the summer sun, almost colorless, as he offers a hand toward Harry.

“Malfoy.”

Harry grips those long, pompously manicured fingers of Draco Malfoy tightly, barely registering the growl that rips out of his throat.

“Pardon?” Malfoy— not McLaggen, never McLaggen— tilts his head. His look of confusion is almost convincing.

Something sharp jabs Harry’s side. He doesn’t flinch, but he does drop Malfoy’s hand, who holds it with the other to his chest protectively.

“Mate, what is wrong with you?” Ron hisses in Harry’s ear. The latter whips his head to stare at him. Ron stares right back as if Harry is the one being insane here. “McLaggen was a douche, yeah, but he’s not even doing anything. Why’re you antagonizing him?”

“Antag— Ron,” Harry stresses, aware of a keen gaze flickering back and forth between him and Ron. “That’s literally Draco Malfoy standing in front of us. Tell me you’re not buying this.”

“What?” Ron strains his head back, eyes wide. Harry’s ears pound, and with the way Ron is shaking his head, he can tell he’s not going to like what’s coming out of Ron’s mouth.

“Who the fuck is Draco Malfoy?”

Harry tries and tries and tries. Tries to make sense of this. He fails.

All he can do is watch, numb in a detached sort of way, as Ron shakes Malfoy’s hesitant hand and apologizes for his best mate’s behavior, really, he’s been feeling ill these days, you know how the weather is. Malfoy lets a generous smile stretch across his cheeks, dimples deepening, and Harry hasn’t seen his face look like this before, hasn’t seen those dimples once in all the years he’s known and remembered Malfoy. It looks unnatural. Ron is sold.

Harry swivels to Robards, disbelieving. Robards has to know what’s going on. He’s too good to let someone like Draco Malfoy cast such a blatant Disfigurement Charm or whatever else he did to fool everyone. He can’t be falling for a criminal’s tricks. Yes, this must be a test, or a covert mission only a few are aware of.

Robards, who has been silent during the whole ordeal, catches Harry’s eyes. A presence pierces through his Occlumency shield, clean like a well-sharpened blade through unsuspecting flesh.

You will be dealt with, Auror Potter.

The presence leaves.

Robards says something dry and witty to the other two occupants in the room, and they laugh. With one final shake of hands with McLaggen—no, Malfoy— he wishes both Harry and his new partner a good day. Ron follows him out, a briefcase and a large box in his arms, desk now void of everything ‘Ron.’ He throws Harry a look, that signature ‘don’t do anything I wouldn’t do’ look, before closing the door behind him.

There’s no one else in the office but Harry and someone called Cormac McLaggen.

“I’m… sorry,” that person says, putting his briefcase on the surface of Ron’s desk gently. He tucks a messy strand of hair behind his ear, allowing Harry a better view of his face. “You must have mistaken me with, ah…”

“Yes. Draco Malfoy,” Harry says after a moment, putting his hands behind his back. A test. The person only blinks. “You’re both blonde and your facial structure is. Quite similar.”

“I see,” the person nods in understanding before sending a quick, warm smile at Harry. He looks honest. The past decade of Auror work clears out the fog in Harry’s brain, and he sees it; he really is honest. “It happens, don’t worry about it. Let’s just take a few moments to get to know each other, shall we?”

There’s no sign of recognition in the man’s eyes when he talks to Harry. Whoever did this to him, to everyone else, was sloppy. Arrogant. Harry makes a mental note to bring his backup wand from now on, especially in the event that he’s called to Robards’ office.

“Sure,” Harry sits down and gets comfortable, gesturing for Malfoy to do the same. Whatever is going on, he’d be damned if he won’t get to the bottom of it.

“Let’s.”

#drarry #drarrymicrofic #prompt: dangerous #harry potter #draco malfoy #aurors #drarry fic #drarry fanfic #government conspiracy #hope i put enough plot in this mf #i've always loved things that makes the government look like ass #bc they are lmao #and memory loss/alteration is also to my taste #so boom here it is #joonkorre writes

31 notes · View notes

stellacolletore · 3 years

Text

title: you're so gorgeous (i can't say anything to your face) summary: the springtime of youth has finally caught up to Chihaya-chan

It was Chitose-neesan's fault. If she had just let Chihaya watch the movie in peace, not blurting any of the weird things she said last night, then maybe she wouldn't find it hard focusing in class today. The conversation started out casually enough.

“Say, Chihaya. I’ve been wondering,” Chitose uttered nonchalantly, eyes trained on the television.

Chihaya flinched when a zombie sprang onscreen. "Hm?"

"Mashima-kun's handsome, right?"

Chihaya blinked. Even though it was Chitose's habit to ask random things out of the blue, Chihaya still gets surprised sometimes. Deciding to think nothing more out of it, she replied, "Um, yeah. He's popular at school. Girls give him tons of chocolates for Valentine's Day."

"That's not what I meant." Chitose interjected. "I'm asking you. Do you find your boyfriend attractive?"

Chihaya's eyes trailed off from the movie, connecting with her sister's. "W - what?"

Chitose was looking at her with curiosity. "I don't know if it's because you guys know each other since you were kids, but I think you're seeing Mashima-kun as if he's still your classmate in grade school. Or your karuta playmate."

Chihaya blanked. What is she getting at? Chitose sighed for the second time. Despite sounding resigned, her sister suggested, "All I'm saying is—you may want to take a good look at him." She proceeded to take a sip from her mug, attention returning to the film.

"Wouldn't want to waste all that beauty in vain."

"—haya-chan," Kanade's waving hand pulled Chihaya from her thoughts. "Is everything all right?"

Chihaya surveyed the room, finding only a few of her classmates loitering around. She must’ve been lost in thought for quite a while. Turning to her concerned friend, she gave a reassuring smile. "I'm fine, Kana-chan. What brings you here?"

Kanade tilted her head. "Did you forget? We're having a group study in the library today. Everyone's already there."

“Ah,” Chihaya remarked lamely. She really should snap out of this confusion as soon as possible. It was exam week—the absolutely worst time to be worrying about anything else besides upcoming tests.

After cramming her notebooks and pens in her bag, Chihaya proceeded to move. “Let’s go, Kana-chan.”

Maybe she should just try to figure out what Chitose meant right away. It shouldn’t be that hard to do, right?

"Quit it, Chihaya. People are staring," Taichi grumbled beside her, pretending to be absorbed in his review materials.

"One minute." Chihaya insisted.

Of course, Chihaya has enough self-awareness to know how silly she must've looked to others, sitting beside Taichi with her chin propped on one arm above the long table, eyes gazing intently on his side profile. She's heard whispers from the students seated at the other tables, collectively wondering whether Ayase Chihaya was seriously flirting in front of public eye. She knew her friends have already placed various bets among themselves, attempting to decipher what's suddenly gotten in the mind of their resident airhead captain.

But Chihaya can't afford to be flustered. She has yet to understand what Chitose meant.

Having no clue how to go about it, or what it was she should even be seeking, Chihaya decided to begin her inspection by listing out the changes that existed between grade school Taichi and high school Taichi.

There was the hair, of course. He kept it longer now, the just enough for the tips of the strands to reach past his eyebrows. It still looked well put and silky, though, and if Chihaya would extend her hand to rest on the mop of his head, she’s sure to find it soft, too. She was about to ask for his permission to do just that when she caught herself. That was a weird thing to ask, wasn’t it?

Discarding the thought, Chihaya focused again at the task at hand, taking meticulous notice of Taichi’s stature—his sharp features and porcelain skin, the trademark long lashes, striking amber eyes…

Do you find your boyfriend attractive?

As soon as her sister’s words echoed unbidden in her mind, Chihaya’s world shifted.

Literally and figuratively. “Chihaya!” She instantly registered concern in Taichi’s voice as her head struck against the table, having slipped unceremoniously off her arm. Heat pooled at her cheeks as the temperature in the room spiked, making her feel like she was suddenly shoved inside a microwave. Every pair of eyes in their table was directed at her, equal parts worried and confused. “Are you—” Taichi was about to place a hand on her forehead, meaning to check if she was running a fever, when Chihaya shrunk back, yelping, “Water!”

A beat later she leapt to her feet, following through the first excuse she could think of, “I—I’m gonna drink some water.” Without further ado, Chihaya rushed out of the library and sprinted through the hallway, leaving everybody in the room dumbfounded in her wake.

“Never again,” Chihaya vowed, wiping off the water that dripped on her chin. “I won’t listen to Onee-chan ever again.” She pressed the one-liter bottle on her cheek, cooling her skin. How was she supposed to face Taichi now? It would be practically impossible to look into his eyes without bursting into flames.

Chitose-neechan must know how to deal with this, Chihaya hoped. She should head home at once and demand answers. With a newfound resolve Chihaya stood up from her crouching position—before smacking a palm on her forehead. "Ah! My bag—"

"—is here," a familiar voice cut from behind her. Spinning on her heels, she saw Taichi heading towards her next to the vending machine, both their bags slung on his shoulder. "T - Taichi," she said helplessly, her eyes instantly latching on his shoes. She gingerly inched closer. "G - give me that. I'm going home."

He turned away from her, then started walking. "Let's go."

Chihaya panicked. "Wait! I - I can go by myself. You should go back to the others. I'm fine, really."

Taichi resumed walking. "No, you're not. You look like you're bound to walk into a pole, and Ayase-san would be mad at me if I let you."

With you, I might do just that, Chihaya retorted. Having no other choice, she followed him towards the school gate.

Chihaya has always been grateful for her exceptional hearing, but today proved to be day unlike any other, and so she wasn't surprised upon finding herself annoyed with how her ears easily picked up the chatter around them. The train cart was packed with students, many of them being girls who were spending the better part of the ride gushing about her boyfriend. As unsettling as it was for her, she had to admit that the sight of Taichi studying his notes with a calm look on his face was nothing short of eye-catching. Although it had only taken a second to glance at him, Chihaya felt her cheeks flush nonetheless. In utter embarrassment, she covered them with her palms.

She was determined to shield her vision for the rest of the trip when her phone buzzed.

from: Mashima Taichi to: Ayase Chihaya Do you feel dizzy?

Chihaya's breath caught. Her fingers typed in a reply.

from: Ayase Chihaya to: Mashima Taichi No I'm ok

She heard Taichi tapping on his phone.

from: Mashima Taichi to: Ayase Chihaya Were exams hard?

from: Ayase Chihaya to: Mashima Taichi Of course You didn't need to ask

Chihaya was beginning to wonder why they're suddenly conversing through their phones when a new message stilled her thoughts.

from: Mashima Taichi to: Ayase Chihaya Why aren't you looking at me?

The next stop was still a few minutes away. There was no way she could sprint away from him again in this compartment. Taichi would easily see through her lies. She had no choice but to come clean.

Since it was more mortifying to type it out than to simply voice her concerns, she tucked away her phone on her skirt pocket. After clearing her throat a bit, Chihaya declared with a slightly shaky voice, "B - because you look like that."

"Like what?" Genuine cluelessness was evident in Taichi's tone.

Chihaya buried her face in her hands again as she whispered, "Handsome. Too handsome."

Silence stretched between them so much that Chihaya wasn't sure if Taichi had heard her. She risked taking a peek at his expression when she noticed him beet red, staring past the train window.

Chihaya wanted to cry. Chitose-neechan better know how to fix this mess she's gotten them in.

In the end, Chitose wasn’t of any help. After laughing at her sister to her heart’s content, she merely commented, “My, what a problem you have there, Chihaya.” She threatened to boycott her sister’s next magazine release as payback.

Grasping at straws, Chihaya then dialed Kanade’s and Sumire’s numbers. As soon as all the amused reactions winded down, Kanade stated, “Although I don’t have any useful advice to deal with what you’re experiencing, I think avoiding Mashima-kun is the last thing you should be doing right now. We’ll be entering university soon, and it’ll be harder to meet each other then. You wouldn’t want to regret that, ne, Chihaya-chan?”

Chihaya sighed. “I don’t.”

“Ayase-senpai,” Sumire chimed in. In a tone reminiscent of the time she guided them confidently through making Valentine’s chocolates to cheer up Taichi, Sumire announced, “There’s only one way to fix this. You have to build immunity.”

‘Building immunity’ apparently meant weathering through all the blushing and the rapid heartbeats until she got used to them. It may be a tall order, but there weren’t any alternatives and Chihaya had been worried about making Taichi worry about her. Putting her faith on Sumire’s reputation on matters concerning love, Chihaya found herself waiting anxiously on the train platform the next morning.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you this early.” Taichi stood next to her and she grounded her feet, desperately willing her face not to redden. Glancing at him, she stuttered, “O - ohayou, Taichi.”

Small talk passed between them until their train arrived. Settling on the empty seats, Taichi regarded her with mild surprise. “To be honest, I don’t think I’ll be seeing you at all for the rest of the week.” Chihaya clasped her hands. “W - well, Kana-chan said hiding isn’t a good idea.” She struggled to make eye contact, “A - and I want to be immune as soon as possible.”

Taichi looked at her blankly for a full three seconds. Then he broke into laughter, face lighting up so brilliantly that Chihaya had to avert her eyes.

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.

Chihaya can’t find it in herself to sincerely complain, though.

#Chihayafuru #ayase chihaya #mashima taichi #taichihaya #let me know if you liked the fic!

26 notes · View notes

thatoneitaliangirl · 4 years

Text

It’s a wallet. PERIOD.

Mammon x Reader

Warnings- Swearing, mentions of blood.

Just a little thing I thought up. Considering I do the same thing with my wallet-

I’m having major writers block when it comes to my Soul Mate series, but Beelzebub part 2 is almost done! So here’s a little something to hold you over. Hopefully. Enjoy, friends!

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

"It's gotta be something important." Satan groans for the umpteenth time at Mammon's ridiculousness. Finally giving up on his book, he places it down in irritation and glares at his brother.

"It's her wallet, of course there's something important in there. It's called money; any idiot with at least one brain cell could figure that out." Mammon growls at his brother's comment.

"I'm not stupid! I know there's money in there! But she takes it with her everywhere she goes, even to the bathroom. And you can tell that puppy is filled to the brim!" Pinching in between his eyes, Satan sighs and stands up. Usually, the library is his sanctuary, but it would seem that it has become overrun with stupidity.

"Why don't you just ask her yourself? And please, stop bothering me. I'm usually above begging, but I'd prefer not to kill you."

With that, he walks out, leaving poor, confused Mammon behind.

The mystery of the jean wallet. That's what Mammon has decided to call his next mission. The object of question? _____'s wallet. About the size of a small clutch purse, the wallet has a leather strap, a front pocket, and a large zipper. _____ carries it with her everywhere, even at school, and even to the bathroom most of the time. It's so filled, she has a hard time closing it. And whenever Mammon has tried to sneak a peek inside, _____ turns away and zips it back up.

"Stop being nosy!" She tells him and puts her arm through the loop. At least, he thinks to himself, he knows what's in the front pocket. A container of gum, and she always shares. But what mysteries lie inside that brown zipper?

Tapping his sunglasses on the table, Mammon bites his lip. Sure, there's money in there. Mammon's seen her bust out her Devildom Express every once in a while to buy him something, but that tiny card is only a fraction of what's beyond the opening. Could there be riches of grand explorations in there? If so, why has she been holding out on him?

How could she hind such a thing from him?! He's got to find out! But, this requires a plan . . . A very sneaky plan. And we all know, Mammon is know for his stealth-

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

"Alright, class, the bells about to ring, so just as a reminder, your Demonic Runes exam is on Wednesday, and your essay's on the Demonic Royalty are on Friday."

Mammon taps his foot impatiently, waiting for the bell to ring and _____ to come out of the classroom. He skipped class just to be here on time, and he definitely doesn't want Lucifer finding out . . . But this is a very important mission! It's worth a few bad grades.

"Mammon? How'd you get here so fast?" The demon jumps a bit, startled from his thoughts.

"Well, ya know, The Great Mammon decided to show up a little bit earlier- only because I felt generous enough to not make you wait so long . . . " He can't have her knowing his true intentions.

"Right. Well, The Great Mammon should know that I, a humble little human, am very grateful for his generosity." A blush spreads across Mammon's face.

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever . . . "

"So, got any plans for lunch?"

"Uh," Quick, think of something, oh powerful Mammon!

"Plans. Got big . . . Plans . . ." Oh, so smooth. Like butter! Or, like cottage cheese . . .

"Right. I don't normally see you until halfway through lunch, so do you want to go through the lunch line with me?" Yes! Step one of Mammon's Amazing Plan To Find Out What's In _____'s Wallet is complete.

"Yes! I mean, yeah, sure, whatever, human. I'll humble you with my presence or whatever."

Making their way through the lunch line is like literal torture. It's so slow! By the time his greatness normally gets to the cafeteria, most everyone has gotten their food already. Who knew it would be so agonizing. So caught up in his thoughts, Mammon almost forgot to start filling up his plate.

It's just, he can't help but anticipate the moment when they get to the end of the line, _____ opens her wallet, and he can finally see what's so important to her that she's gotta hold it hostage from her number one. They inch closer and closer to the lunch lady, and Mammon can feel in his bones the sheer excitement.

What if it's a present for him, and she's just been waiting until his birthday to give it to him? Or like a large stack of money that she's been saving to buy him something? Or a sack of coins she's been hiding until just the right moment to give it to him and profess her love? Not that he loves her or anything.

"Hi, _____! How's your day been so far?" The human exchange student smiles brightly at the older demon.

"Okay for the most part. Another day of learning, and another night of cramming. You?" The lunch lady groans as she types in _____'s total on her cash register.

"You wouldn't believe the type of demons that come through this line, darling." _____ laughs.

"You say that every day, Darleen." As much as Mammon loves to hear his human laugh, this conversation is lasting a lifetime. Get on with it!

"Okay _____, here's your receipt." Wait, what?

"Doesn't she have to pay?!" _____ shakes her head.

"You didn't know, Mammon? The exchange students are all on a free lunch plan."

"Part of Lord Diavolo's generosity and hospitality!" Lunch Lady Darleen says, ringing up Mammon's food.

"That'll be twenty Grimm."

WHAT.

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

Okay, so plan A failed, but what kind of respectable Demon would he be if he didn't at least have a plan B? Which he does! And definitely didn't just come up with it last night.

"Good morning! Mammon, you're up early. Something wrong?"

"Nope! Just figured I'd wake up a bit earlier this morning and help you with breakfast duty. Ya know, since your weak and all, I thought you might get hurt or something, and what kind of demon would I be if I didn't help out my human?"

"Wow Mammon, that's very kind of you!" _____ beams up at him, completely oblivious to his true intentions.

"Well, since your helping, can you go and grab the carton of eggs from the pantry? I have trouble picking it up . . ." Feeding the House of Lamentation breakfast, lunch, and dinner is a task when Beelzebub is a diner at the table. Picking up the large carton of eggs, Mammon glares down at _____'s wrist.

Dangling there right in front of him like it's taunting him is her wallet in all its glory. It'd be too easy to just rip it off her arm and run, but he doesn't actually want her knowing he's taken it. A quick glance inside is all he needs. Just one peek-

"Mammon? This is early for you . . . Are you okay?" Satan asks, slipping into the kitchen.

"Yes, I'm fine! Just wanted to help out the human!" He says, a little irritated by his brother's presence. Satan knows of his curiosities. He could ruin his plan altogether.

"What are you doing here?" A light blush dusts under Satan's eyes and he coughs into his hand.

"Well, I sometimes come to the kitchen in the mornings to help _____ carry stuff," That's oddly nice of the Avatar of WRATH. Suspicious.

"But I can see that you've got it covered this morning."

"Hey, _____- Mammon? Wow, you're up early! You okay?" Levi asks, walking into the kitchen with his eyes glued to his DDD. Mammon puts down the carton of eggs in a huff.

"Why does there have to be something wrong with me to be up early?!"

"LOL, don't get all upset at me for your terrible sleeping habits!" Mammon glares at Leviathan.

"Oh yeah, and why are you up so early, huh?!" Levi scoffs.

"Bold of you to assume I actually slept last night." Satan rolls his eyes.

"The two of you are a distraction in the kitchen. You should just leave me and _____ to breakfast duty and get on with your lives." Satan says as if he's _____'s first man. Well, he's NOT.

"Hey, I was here first! Not to mention that I'm _____'s first always and that if she needs help, she should be asking me."

"Well, I'm the one who forced you and her into a pact in the first place, so I should have first dibs on _____!" Leviathan growls, finally putting down his DDD.

"Oh, please," The fourth brother crosses his arms and glares at his brothers.

"_____ is her own person. She doesn't belong to either of you."

"She doesn't belong to you, either!" Levi counters.

Having enough, _____ grabs an empty plastic cup and slams it on the counter creating a loud echo sound.

"Okay! Out of the kitchen, all of you!" But, plan B!

"But-!"

"No buts! Out!"

Dammit. Plan B- total fail . . .

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

OKAY plan C it is then, not that he had wanted to stoop this low, but, the time has come.

"Please, please, PLEASE ASMO, I'm BEGGING you!"

"Well, I'm certainly not opposed to the site before me. But what makes you think I of all people would help you?" Mammon, on his hands and knees in front of his brother, sighs.

"I need to know. The curiosity is physically painful." Asmodeus hums in thought, tapping his chin with a well-manicured nail.

"Okay, I'll help you." Mammon's head snaps up towards his brother.

"You will?" A wicked smile spreads across the fifth's face, his eyes glowing a beautiful orange.

"Under one condition." Sweat begins to form on Mammon's face as he leans back on his knees.

"Condition?"

"You didn't think I'd just help you out for free, now, did you?"

"Kinda thought you'd want to help your loving, awesome, great big brother out." Asmo laughs heartily and wipes a tear from his eye.

"This day just keeps getting more and more amusing as it goes on." Growling, Mammon stands up.

"Look, whatever it is, I'll do it! Just, help me!" Asmodeus nods, shooing his brother away.

"Alright, alright, I'll help you."

"And the condition?"

"We'll go over the details later. After all, you'll do anything to get a peek into that wallet, right?" Asmo says, smiling at himself in the mirror of his vanity.

"Yeah . . . Just be sure to be there tomorrow!" The older brother huffs leaving in a hurry, closing his brother's door behind him.

Rubbing his face cream into his cheeks, Asmo rolls his eyes.

"Simp."

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

The morning and afternoon have come and gone leaving poor Mammon in anticipation of the night's events. Opening up his DDD, Mammon shoots his brother a text confirming his position.

It's time.

Walking out of RAD and into the night, the glorious second born rubs his hands together. He's finally going to see what's in that wallet! And this time it'll definitely work! Spotting his brother and human on a bench just outside of RAD, Mammon hurries forward.

"Hey, Mammon! You ready?" _____ asks as Mammon approaches. Asmo uncrosses his legs and stands as she does, giving his brother a knowing look.

"Yes Mammon, are you ready?" He nods, throwing his arm around _____.

"Yup! I'm totally ready! So ready. More ready than either of you could ever know!"

"Yeah, well, we're just walking home Mammon. You seem a little on edge." Mammon scoffs.

"Me? The Great Mammon? On edge? I don't even know what you're talking about."

"Okay . . ." _____ raises an eyebrow at her companion but chooses to ignore him. After all, Mammon is a little weird around her sometimes.

"So," Asmo starts, getting the human's attention.

"Any cute boys you're interested in? Or girls? You know I don't judge, love." He winks at _____ and she just rolls her eyes.

"You know damn well who I've been pining after, Asmo. As if I'd change my mind just because he's an oblivious dumbass." Wait, _____ likes someone? Who?

Why hasn't she ever said anything to him? He's her first! He deserves to know! And what's worse is that she's been going to Asmodeus for advice on this guy? Why is this dude so important, huh?

"Who is it?" Mammon asks, tightening his grip on _____.

"Oh, just someone. No need to worry about it, Mammon." She doesn't want to tell him? Maybe he doesn't mean as much to her as he thought he did. Could that mean that whatever's in her wallet has nothing to do with him?

The trip home continued on as normal after a brief stop for road snacks. Mammon holds his hands nervously, knowing that the time is coming that he'll finally see what's in that wallet.

"Hey, _____, do you think my new bracelet goes with my eyes?" Asmodeus asks _____, holding his wrist up to his face. It's his cue to Mammon that their plan is being put into action.

"Really Asmo? You know your freaky eye charm thing doesn't work on me." Asmo fakes an offended gasp and puts his hand to his heart.

"As if I'd ever try, _____! Not unless you wanted me to, that is." He winks, pulling her close.

"But, what do you think? Does it match?" One arm wrapped around her waist holding her dominate arm to her side, he raises his hand up again, showing her his eyes and his new bracelet.

"Wow, it's so pretty!" _____ exclaims and touches the bracelet with her free hand. Asmo jumps in excitement, jostling her around just enough for Mammon to put his pickpocketing skill to work and slip the wallet off her wrist. Unfortunately for them, _____ is not stupid.

"Hey, I dropped my wallet." Realizing the weight is no longer on her wrist, she breaks free from Asmodeus's grasp and turns around. Mammon freezes, holding the wallet in his hand by that stupid leather strap.

"Oh, thank you for grabbing it for me, Mammon!" She reaches out to grab it, but Mammon pulls back.

"Mammon?" This is his chance to see what's inside. Sure, she sees him with it, but screw not getting caught! He's got the wallet in his hand right now. All he has to do is run. He may never get an opportunity like this ever again!

"You okay, Mammon?" Before she even knows what's going on, Mammon makes a break for it through the front gates of the house and front door, all while Asmo laughs hysterically behind him.

"Mammon! Get back here!" _____ yells, chasing after the demon as fast as she can, but Mammon is faster. He takes a left into a hallway as Beel exits his room, and shoves the bigger brother to the side and in _____'s way, slowing her down a bit. He then takes another turn into the Library and slams the door. That should give him a few moments.

"What the Hell?!" Satan yells, glaring at Mammon.

"I got it! I got her Wallet!" Glaring, Satan raises his voice again.

"That's what you came barreling into the Library for?! It's supposed to be quiet in here!" Hearing fast footsteps in the hall, Mammon ignores his brother and quickly opens the wallet. This is it! This is his moment of glory! He'll finally know what the Hell she has stuffed in here! What has been gnawing at his brain for the last few months, what has been completely taking up all of his thoughts! The moment is here, and it's-!

What.

Mammon frowns, taking the contents of the wallet out and spreading them onto the coffee table. Small cylindrical things wrapped in crinkly plastic, square things with adhesive strips? Chapstick? Is that a fucking dead flower? What the Hell is this?!

"You're an asshole, Mammon!" _____ rips her wallet from his hands and grabs all its contents from the table to put back neatly.

"What is all that?" _____ glares at him.

"Do you really want to know?" He nods enthusiastically.

"Yes! Please!" She rolls her eyes and puts a hand on her hip.

"Their fucking feminine products, Mammon! Pads, tampons!" Slowly but surely, Mammon's face begins to turn bright red, now officially knowing what her wallet held this whole time. What he's been so desperate to find out was just her . . . Feminine stuff?

"Oh . . ."

"Oh? That's all you have to say for yourself?" He shrugs, not quite knowing what to do.

"Well, if it was just feminine products, why did you feel the need to keep it so hidden from me? You never let that wallet out of your site!"

"Do I really need to say it? It's a wallet with money in it! And, no offense Mammon, but you have a habit of taking wallets. I couldn't afford you to take it when I needed it the most. It was never about money, I just didn't want to be left with a full tampon and no replacement." Somehow, his face gets even redder. Satan claps his hands slowly, alerting them that he is in fact still there.

"Wow, all this time you've been so worked up about what was in that wallet, and now you're practically speechless. What, wasn't what you were expecting?" Mammon scrunches his nose and furrows his brows.

"Shut up, Satan! Nobody asked you!" The clapping stops, and everyone freezes.

"What . . . ?" The air goes cold in the room as Satan stands from his chair, an angry purple aura surrounding him. Mammon bolts out of the room as Satan goes full demon and chases him out.

"I never expected to get this much entertainment from this little adventure!" Asmodeus laughs, standing next to the human girl.

"Yeah, well, at least you had fun! I had to stand here and explain to Mammon what my tampon was!" This makes Asmo laugh more, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Stop! I don't think I can laugh much more!" _____ rolls her eyes, picking up the rest of her stuff and shoving it into her wallet.

"By the way, _____, what's with the flower?" She blushes, carefully putting it back in its special spot.

"Oh, um, it's from the bouquet of tiger lilies Mammon gave me on my birthday . . . " Smirking, Asmodeus wraps his arms around his dear friend.

"He'll notice one day, dear."

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

About a week later-

"Mammon, do you have a sec- what are you doing?" Mammon blushes, covering up his chest in embarrassment.

"I-It's not what it looks like!" Asmodeus laughs as he buttons the last hook on the bright gold bra wrapped around Mammon's torso.

"Oh, sweetheart, it's exactly what it looks like."

#obey me!#obey me! x reader #obey me! x mc #obey me! lucifer #obey me! mammon #obey me! leviathan #obey me! satan #obey me! asmodeus #obey me! beelzebub #obey me! belphagor #obey me! mammon x reader #obey me! mammon x mc #obey me! satan x reader #obey me! satan x mc #obey me! leviathan x reader #obey me! leviathan x mc #obey me! asmodeus x reader #obey me! asmodeus x mc #funny

45 notes · View notes

nightowlfandom · 4 years

Text

Prompto Argentum- Under The Waterfalls

These times may seem dark, but this too shall pass. I hope that I can work extra hard to brighten someone’s day throughout these next few weeks.

Masterlist here

Let’s Begin.

...

"You know what I just noticed?" you asked aimlessly to no one. It was probably one of the hottest days of the year and you and your friends had decided to just load up the car and take a drive somewhere. You didn't know if camping, hunting, chilling at the beach or whatever would come from this trip, but whatever happened was gonna be an adventure.

"What would that be?" Ignis chuckled from from front seat, already knowing what you were gonna say. It was a routine thing that you always did. You always found something about one of the guys you liked on a particular day. "What ever could it be this time?"

"Hold on, I'm thinking." you tapped your chin. "Gladio finally finished that 30 book series he was working on!" you suddenly said, looking over at the taller muscular guy who was nose deep in yet another book you probably didn't know the name of. "Ignis learned five new recipes this week! Noctis caught three rare fish in a row in the same place!" you continued.

"What about me?"

Prompto turned his head to look at you as he had been sitting in the front seat. He narrowed his eyes at you as if assuming you wouldn't have mentioned him in the first place. Call it paranoia, but you weren't too sure Prompto necessarily liked you. Sure he was nice and everything, but there was something about when you would try to talk to him. You didn't know if he just hadn't warmed up to you or secretly wanted you to get run over by a train.

"….Your hair is super floofy today!" you said. You resisted to urge to reach out your hand to touch it. "…and you have a Chocobo feather stuck too." you put a hand over your mouth to resist laughing too loudly.

"Huh?!?" he instantly turned away from you, looking in the side view mirror to see a large neon yellow feather stuck to the top of his hairstyle. "Awh man!" he groaned. "I'll ruin my hair if I try to take it out!"

"Then keep it in! I think it makes you look cool!" you commented!

"Really?" His tone had changed from partially annoyed to curious. "Like it works for me?"

"One hundred percent!" you replied.

"And that concludes thing 576 Y/N noticed today." Noctis joked, nudging your shoulder. "What will it be next week?"

"Now why would I reveal my secrets! That's something between me and well-….me!" you warned.

"Ah I see! A magician never reveals her secrets." Ignis laughed as he pulled the car to a stop.

"Camping…why am I not surprised." you grumbled lowly. There was a waterfall nearby the campsite. The water rushing through the river was crystal-like, clear as the cloudless sky. "At least it's not that disgusting swamp from last time."

"Yeah, I wonder whose idea that was." Gladio glared over at Noctis.

"It was the perfect fishing spot!" he protested.

You could only shake your head as you walked around to the trunk. You were about to grab one of the bags when a pale hand grabbed the hand before you could.

"I got this."

"Oh, Prompto! It's okay, I can carry it-" you tried to say.

" When a man offers you help, take it." was his reply. Without another word, he grabbed the other bag you had reached for then turned away, walking off to set up the tents. "Remember what happened last time." you could hear him mumbling. Of course he was referring to the time you grabbed something really heavy and took an entire ten minutes just to drag it along to the car.

"Right." you tried to laugh it off. You were left to your own devices after a while, the boys never asked you to help with anything. Them and their traditional ways. You tried to carry a cooler by yourself once, the next thing you know Ignis is scolding Noctis for letting you carry it alone. "Thanks for the tip." you mumbled sadly.

Okay, you may or may not have had a thing for Prompto since…well since you met him. You were really good at hiding it … from him. Only him in particular, he just didn't seem to like you much. Not even as an acquaintance. It felt like he only tolerated you because you were part of the team, but other than that. Did he even see you as a friend? Not in your eyes.

(Meanwhile)

"You did it again, idiot." Noctis flicked his best friend in the back of the head. Prompto threw down the bags, turning to face the raven-haired male.

"What are you talking about?"

He motioned towards you who was currently having a chat with Ignis who was setting up the cooking station. It took Prompto a second to register what he was referring too. When he realized it, he wound up kicking something.

"AAH FUCK!" he snapped, realizing he rammed his foot onto a boulder in the process. "Damn it!"

"For someone who threatens us on the daily to stay away from Y/N, you're doing a terrible job of marking your 'territory'." He used finger quotes. You didn't belong to Prompto, not even a little. However, the way he talked about you to the others had them thinking he was living in a fantasy land when he said you were off limits.

He didn't intend to come off and rude and mean but for some reason, he always did when it came to you. He didn't know how to explain it, other than the way he knew best. Stay away from you and there wouldn't be any problems. Ignis however must have decided to ignore such a demand.

He could only watch in fury as you laughed at something Ignis said. It must have been real funny because you were holding your sides.

"That little….four eyed miscreant!

"…Do you even know what miscreant means?"

"Shut up!"

...

By the time night fell, you were far from sleepy. You snuck off from the campsite with a towel and a change of clothes. Alone time! Sweet! That sweet waterfall was just begging to be dived into. You tip toed around the tents and as soon as you were far enough, began jogging towards the lake.

You tilted your head to look up at the waterfall. You could see the moon peeking out from the mist of water that followed the falls down to the clear pool. You set down your stuff at the edge of the lake.

Off came your shoes, then your pants, then the shirt. You turned your head towards the campsite. You could barely make out the tents from afar. "It'll be fine." you unclasped your bra. "Not like they're gonna wake up any time soon." you mumbled, letting it fall to the grass. "Off you go demons." you let your undergarments fall to the ground. Without a second thought, you jumped into the water, making a huge splash. You just prayed none of your stuff got wet.

As you surfaced, you allowed yourself to just float for a moment. You stared up at the night sky, it was clear and cloudless. The stars scattered across the sky and the moon was so close you felt like you could touch it with your fingers. The moonlight shone down on the waters, casting a glow over you and everything around you. You waded over to the waterfall, moving behind it to peek out of the distorted lens. You reached out your hand to touch the falling droplets. You sat yourself on a rock, kicking your legs in the slightly warm water. Nothing could possibly ruin this peaceful moment-

"You should be sleeping."

You turned your head to the left, only to see a half dressed Prompto. Apparently he had found the back entrance to the lake. Both of you were hidden from the open space behind the falls, so it didn't worry you too much, but that didn't explain why he was here.

"HOLY SH-!" you instantly crossed your arms over your chest, covering your breasts. " What are you doing!?"

"Hey! It's only me!" You watched his and he unbuckled his belt. "And keep your voice down! You'll wake everyone up."

"D-don't take off your clothes!" you began freaking out. "I was trying to relax here!." you whined.

"Am I not allowed to relax too?" he pulled down his pants and threw them over a rock.

"Not when I'm practically naked!" you snapped. "Did you follow me?"

"I saw you leaving, I just wanted to make sure you were alright!"

"Why would you do that? " you scoffed, turning your head away from him. "You barely even like me." That also didn't explained why he was currently stripping down to his birthday suit!

"You don't know what I like."

"Well I know how you act towards me. It's enough."

Prompto peeled off what was left of his clothes and got into the water. His ducked his head under the waterfall, drenching his hair. He ran his hands through those blonde locks, washing all his stress away. He seemed to not be phased by the situation at all. "You gonna stare at me all day or what?"

"Please. I wasn't looking at you." you lied through your teeth. Yeah, that was believable. You both were literally two feet away from each other, which was really close now that you really thought about it. You turned your head the other way. Whatever, no way in hell were you leaving.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said after a while.

"Very."

There was an awkward silence between you two. You had never been left alone with Prompto before, and especially not in the nude.

"Been a while since I got to just enjoy a night like this."

"Tell me about it." you replied with a laugh. "Seems like we're always busy with something. Wouldn't be surprised if we had something to do in the morning." you turned your head towards him to find him running his hands through his dripping wet hair.

"Don't jinx it, because it actually might happen." He cracked a smile for the first time since he got there.

"Just stating facts." you slowly turned your head so you were looking straight at him. Your arms were still crossed, forbidding him from seeing anything. "You know how Ignis is with his missions."

"Where the lie in that?" He joked, making you laugh as well. Prompto tried to not let his eyes wander. "Why did you run off anyways?"

"Like I said, this is probably the only time I'll have to myself for a while. I'm taking advantage of it." you shrugged. "Speaking of Ignis, he was talking about you today."

"About what?" He narrowed his eyes into a glare. "What did specs say about me this time?"

"It wasn't anything bad. He was just talking about you liking me or something." you giggled at the thought. "I was laughing because of how unrealistic that thought was. You'd think for such a smart guy, Ignis would make his observations more clear. No way in hell would the be possible, right?"

Prompto stared blankly at you. He went from staring to slowly taking a step, then another then another. It was almost predatory with how he was moving in the water.

"Uh….right?" you nervously laughed again. "P-prompto?" you tightened your arms across your chest to the point where it was starting to ache. You were slowly but surely growing more and more nervous.

"Wrong." were his last words before he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you close to his warm body. He abruptly pressed his lips against yours. It felt kind of weird since he was anchoring his body over your arm, so you lowered them. Your felt your breasts push up against his broad chest as he comfortably tightened his arms around your waist. He was surprised how easily you melted into his touch but happy nonetheless. It took all your strength to not collapse against the rocks. You ran your fingers against his wet hair, gently pulling at each strand. You heart at this point was racing a million miles a minute

When Prompto pulled away, his entire face has flushed a deep pink color. Whether from embarrassment or lust, you couldn't tell. He stared down at you with hooded eyes and an unreadable expression. "You look so-…so damn hot right now."

The way your chest rose and fell so heavily, your innocent expression, those water droplets traveling down your neck, drip down your chest. "W-wait. Don't you have a thing for Cindy?"

"Used to." he corrected. "That changed a long, long time ago. Now all I can think of is you. All I fucking want is you." He began trailing prolonged sloppy kisses on your shoulder. You tilted your head to the side to give him more access to your shivering skin. You absentmindedly wrapped your legs around his waist, giving him permission to go further with his actions. "I can see you feel the same way." he laughed. Only this wasn't his usual happy-go-lucky laugh. His voice was deep, vibrating almost. He almost sounded like he was growling with every word. "My question is…how far are you going to let me take this."

(….Yeah I couldn't finish this or else this would have been longer than a Game Of Thrones book. So what happens next is left to your discretion. See you next post.)

187 notes · View notes

inforapound · 4 years

Text

Emboîté Part 2

A/N - Part 2 of @youbloodymadgenius writing celebration fic. Part 3, next week.

Pairing – Ivar and Sarah (Aethelswith)

Words – 3,000 approx

Series Warning – explicit smut, dance industry inaccuracies, fluffy Ivar, possessive Ivar, semi-slow burn, ‘baby’ used as a term of endearment.

By the end of the auction, I had in fact, received the highest bid. As uncomfortable as the entire event was and surely the awkward supper ahead, I was genuinely pleased for the theatre. Being honest, I was also pleased for myself. That bid would have me stand out to the board and at age twenty-six, nearly twenty-seven, I needed every bit of leverage I could get. I had been in second position to our principal for ten months and I hoped they could see me as the next lead dancer. It was career do or die time and I could not allow a life of pain, sweat, and literal bloodied toes to simply fade away as it had for my mother.

The audience had been ushered through into the attached ballroom where large round, white linen-draped tables filled the space. Breaking from my fellow dancers I headed out, as expected, to meet the man I would share an evening with.

---

Standing to one side, like a well-behaved dog, I waited for him to look up and acknowledge me. Not the most outgoing person, I was typically not this awkward but nothing about this man gave the impression he was approachable. His shoulders looked tense and he stared down at nothing, seemingly distracted by whatever was on his mind. Held in his large hand was a black walking stick with a pewter handle, his middle two fingers tapping some silent beat.

“Hello.” The brother, who looked slightly older, smiled and tapped Ivar’s side with the back of his hand.

Glancing first to him, Ivar finally looked over in my direction. His steely blue eyes locked with mine for a second before he looked back down as if I wasn't there. Diss. My stomach dropped and my teeth clenched, holding my brittle smile in place. Standing beside him for less than fifteen seconds, to me, it felt like an hour. It was humiliating.

“Mr. Loth...”

“Ivar,” he interrupted, flicking his eyes back up. The expression on his face was severe as if anything I dared to say would be ripped apart.

The brother who had greeted me pushed his chair back and rested his hand on Ivar’s shoulder.

“Dinner will be served soon, just enough time for another drink. We’ll be back.”

Standing, the man smiled again with a look of something in his eyes that I did not register. The third brother, on the far side, rose and the two walked toward the bar, not glancing back.

“Thank you for your generous bid Mr...Ivar.” God, he wasn’t helping me a bit. “A woman named Wynne will be contacting all bidders to arrange reservations…”

Lifting his hand, he waved dismissively, “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m sorry,” my head shot back.

“The date...dinner, whatever. Don’t worry about it. I planned on donating regardless.”

He hadn’t even looked at me when he said it.

“I see,” clearing my throat, I wondered what, if anything, I should say.

So, mumbling some variation of thanks for supporting the theatre, I turned on my heel and walked. No idea where I was headed but I had to keep moving. The skin on my cheeks felt warm. Where was the relief that I was spared from a night with a man like that? Instead, I felt embarrassed. Not to mention annoyed with myself for caring that a rude patron waved me off. I had done my duty. I didn’t need to sit and eat banquet food with people I spent fourteen hours a day with. Not when I could call an uber, go home and eat a mango and instant noodles in a very expensive, borrowed dress. Fuck this...

---

“You what?” Hvitserk leaned forward, flabbergasted, holding a drink in each hand.

“I told her not to worry about it.”

“You do realize how insulting that is?” Ubbe asked as they both shimmied in, taking their seats.

“Is that why she walked away like you just killed her goldfish?” Hvitserk looked at Ivar, who sat, scowling, fiddling with his cane. “I don’t know, Ivar…” Hvitserk continued, shaking his head. “Turning a woman like that away? That is a messed up.”

“You take her out then,” Ivar spat, glancing over.

“Okay!”

“Pfft,” he looked back shooting Hvitserk a pointed stare. “Too bad for you, I wrote the cheque.”

“You are no longer having awkward hookups with what’s her name?” Hvitserk asked, grinning as he took a sip of his drink.

“No.” Frowning, Ivar looked back to Hvitserk. “Is that what she called them? Fuck her.”

“I think that was her problem. You wouldn’t fuck her.”

“I wasn’t feeling it! So... what’s the point?”

“Wasn’t that the same deal with the one before. And the one before her. You didn’t want to sleep with them or was it…”

Ubbe shot Hvitserk a look, his eyes round with warning.

Sinking further down into his hard chair, Ivar scanned the far side of the ballroom, tracking the group of dancers making their way toward their two reserved tables. Taking their seats, his focus landed on the one empty chair at the otherwise filled table.

“This is a waste of my time.” Grabbing his cane, he pushed his chair back and strained to stand. Glancing over at his brothers, he moved away from the table, “Fuck this...”

---

Without turning around, I could hear the sound of his walk. I had never heard his walk of course, but somehow, I knew it was him. One footstep slightly heavier than the other followed by the stamp of a cane hitting the pavement.

He couldn’t possibly be coming to the side boulevard of the hotel because of me? Unless he was not yet finished displaying his arrogance. One thing certain, I was not going to show him the effect he had.

“Let me help you. I’ll call you a car.”

“No, thank you,” I replied over my shoulder, not turning around.

Silence.

The only sounds came from the cars passing up on the main street and the slightest din of music drifting from the hotel.

“Would you like a lift home?”

Now he’s a gentleman, I internally screamed, scoffing in my head?

“I have called an uber, thank you.” Just because he had been rude did not mean I would be.

“Sarah.”

My name slipped easily off his tongue. His raspy, smooth voice making it sound like he was beckoning me. Turning around, I wrapped my black coat tighter around me, squeezing my clutch in my hand.

“If you have come outside to make me feel worse, please just stop.”

Instantly his face changed. As if hit with surprise. “Worse?”

Turning back to the street, I shivered, the spring night air feeling colder than it should.

“How have I made you feel…. anything?”

This time I couldn’t prevent the scoff that slipped out. He sounded so genuinely baffled.

Where would one start a conversation with someone like him? Someone oblivious, or indifferent to his own lack of decency. It was not my responsibility. This was a big week and the sooner I got home, the sooner I could put Ivar Lothbrok and this entire evening behind.

“I’m not sure your car is coming.”

“Here it is,” I announced sounding pleased, if not a little smug. A black SUV turned the corner, its headlights illuminating us both as is slowed to the curb in front. The driver hopped out, rushing around to open the door for me. Glancing back, I looked at Ivar leaning slightly onto his cane, much taller than I had realized.

“Goodnight.”

Stepping up into the vehicle, I slid onto the leather, the door closing between us. Inhaling, I rested my head back against the seat and exhaled loudly.

The back door on the far side opened and Ivar climbed in, placing his walking stick between his legs.

“What are you doing?” I squinted at him. The light on the ceiling illuminating his dark, perfect hair.

“This is my ride,” he replied, looking straight out the front window.

The driver hopped back into the front and adjusted his mirror. “Where to Mr. Lothbrok?”

“Wait, I,”

“Relax, Sarah,” he sighed quietly but I still heard it. “It is just a ride home.” Turning to me, he lifted his brows, “Where can I drop you?”

Clearing my throat, I leaned forward directing my response to the driver.

“172 Grantville Court, off of 48th.”

The driver put it in gear and pulled away from the curb and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ivar glance over.

“Someone has to live there,” I mumbled feeling like a poor girl wearing a costume.

Yes, I was being dramatic in my deflated state, but the dance company paid peanuts. I was lucky to survive the ten-month season on the salary of an understudy. The two-month seasonal break was no different but I did have a guaranteed position at a small studio, teaching young kids their first steps.

“Dario,” Ivar lifted his chin. “On second thought, take us to Piccolos.” Turning to me, the passing streetlight, brightened his face. “We both missed supper and I’m not taking you home until you’ve eaten. Especially when you’re dressed like that.”

Turning away from me, he looked out his side window and I could have sworn I saw a reflection of his smile in the glass. “And… I did pay a substantial amount of money to dine with you.”

Okay, I could play.

“Mr. Lothbrok, do you enjoy the ballet, or did you simply want to outbid Ronan Dorst?”

His face snapped back to mine, the severity back in his expression. Even in the dim light, I could see the tense muscles in his jaw.

“I told you to call me, Ivar.” Clearing his throat, he strained his neck side to side as if to elicit a loud crack, “I think you will like this restaurant. It’s my favourite.”

---

The restaurant was stunning. Shining white mini lights around the entrance, with round sculpted boxwood planters, mullion French doors, complete with a red front doormat. The waiter or maitre d, whichever they were called at such a place, waited like a solider out front.

The sharp-dressed host greeted Ivar by name and seemed delighted I was in attendance. Ushering us straight through to the back, he collected our coats, settling us into a private booth, tucked off in a small alcove. The ambiance was magical, and I was relieved not to feel overdressed in my black gown.

Champagne was poured, and without gushing, I showed Ivar what manners were.

“This is beautiful. Thank you for bringing me.”

Saying nothing, he subtly nodded. I didn’t know him well enough to say but he seemed pleased to hear this. His lips looked like they wanted to smile.

“What do you like eating?” he asked, looking different in his own environment.

“Oh, I eat everything. Anything, really,” I smiled noticing his eyes drop down to my mouth. Needing to fill the silence I blurted, “Surprise me. You choose.”

After hearing the specials from our waiter, Ivar ordered beat and feta salads, grilled halibut with a miso crust and a bottle of something that sounded expensive.

To my great surprise, Ivar took the lead. He actually asked questions. Asked about my experience growing up in Montreal and how I was recruited to the theatre. Asked about my position in the company. Infinitely more at ease, he maintained eye contact the entire time I spoke, listening to my answers. He looked gorgeous. Fuck. The light from the candle at the center of our table lit his cutting blue eyes, adding a warm tone to his smooth skin and dark thick hair. By the time we were into our meal and I had finished my second drink, his handsomeness was downright painful and I had to remind myself of his earlier behaviour.

“Do you hope to become prima ballerina?”

My laughter erupted into my wine glass, creating an attractive honking sound. He immediately snickered as he swallowed his bite of fish.

“We do not actually call them primas. Or ballerinas even. We say lead dancer or principal. But the answer is yes. Yes and yes.”

I launched into how I hoped to be promoted to the principal dancer when Giovanna, or incredible lead, moved on. Paris was really the next and last stop for her, any of us, and our company measured only slightly behind the Paris Opera Ballet.”

“You would move to Paris?”

“In a heartbeat. I would likely have to sleep in the Metro but, yes.”

“Why would you have to do that?”

“Dancing doesn’t pay well,” I forced out the words, hearing my mother’s shrill voice yelling to never discuss money with a man. “Once you are the principal dancer, the scale changes, particularly in Paris.”

“Hmm,” Ivar said scrunching his forehead. “It must be nice to do something you love.”

“It is all I have ever wanted. Without it, I don’t know who or what I would be. Probably nothing,” I laughed softly.

“I doubt that,” he smiled back, his eyes never leaving mine as he took a drink of wine. He seemed to be studying my face.

“What?” I furrowed my brow, knowing I would have never asked, one-glass-of-wine ago.

“You have this way of talking where you move your bottom lip more than the upper.”

Reaching up, I pressed my fingers to my mouth. My lipstick long gone.

“Oh… is it weird?” my voice mumbled from under my hand.

Rolling his eyes, he smiled, “don’t cover yourself, I was just…” His smile faded, seriousness returning to his face for the first time since arriving. “You are very beautiful Sarah,” he looked at me with slightly narrowed eyes.

OH GOD! I wanted to drop out of the booth and roll under the table.

“Thank you,” I instead replied, grateful for the fake lashes and ambient lighting. But honestly… I did feel beautiful.

Dessert was placed in front of us and for a moment, I wondered when we had ordered it.

“Chris knows I love Creme Brule,” he explained, noticing the confusion on my face. “He automatically brings it.”

“Ivar?” I skipped topics, wondering about something he had said.

His eyes shot up and I realized it was the first time I had called him by name.

“You don’t enjoy what you do for a living?”

Looking down at his dessert, he opened his mouth and paused as if unsure of how to answer. I worried I had pushed into too personal a topic.

“There was just this assumption…” he began without looking up, his spoon cutting the smooth yellow custard on his plate, “this expectation...that we would all be involved in our family’s importing business. My father passed away and I was shocked that he chose me to take on the more senior position out of all my brothers. There was, is, a lot of pressure. There are five of us. Four now as my half brother moved into straight consulting.” Glancing up, his eyes focused on mine. “It's just not…what I want to do forever.”

“What do you want to do?” The question slipped out before I could catch it.

Pressing his lips together, he adjusted on the bench seat and I could see he was fighting with himself. Perhaps deciding whether or not to answer.

“I have a hobby,” he rushed, his eyes finding mine again.

“Yeah?” I smiled, letting him know I was listening.

“I like,” he swallowed, clearing his throat, “taking pictures. It’s just a hobby.”

“A photographer? That’s amazing. See, you do enjoy the arts.”

“I suppose,” he smiled broadly, looking almost relieved, but I could still see his discomfort with his admission.

“You know,” my eyebrows shot high and I took the last sip of my wine. “If you had succeeded in blowing me off, I would have never learned that about you.”

Grimacing, he looked down, shaking his head. “I’m sorry about that. I am bad at this and it wasn’t about you. Just a terrible day and I hate those sorts of events. The thought of sitting down with a stranger forced to converse…. kill me.”

“I’m sorry this has been utter agony,” I laughed, feeling as if the table between us was suddenly much smaller.

“No!” his eyes went round. “On the contrary,” he looked back to me, his parted lips looking soft.

“This is....unexpected.” Raising is hand, he looked out beyond the booth, “I’ll get us another drink.”

“No, thank you. As much as I would love to stay, I do have a long day tomorrow.” Rubbing my lips together, my eyes flitted down to the cleared table, “this has been unexpected for me too.” Looking back up, I was struck by the change in his demeanor. His face had hardened. “Thank you so much for tonight.” The moment felt strained. “And for saving me from Ronan Dorst,” I smiled hoping to save the atmosphere from moments ago.

Running his hand over his hair, he quickly smoothed the coolness in his expression. With a subtle nod, he again raised his hand and called for our bill. The night was done.

---

The ringing seemed to go on and on. Pressing my cell to my ear, the thought hit me, TEXT. Who even spoke on the phone anymore? If I socialized or had friends, I might have realized this before the ringing began.

“Hello.”

Fuck.

“Hi Ivar, this is Sarah�� Pearson…from the theatre.” Rubbing my hand across my forehead, I cringed. It had been just over 48 hours since we had supper.

“Yes Sarah, I do remember you.” His tone was flat, but I swear I could hear his smile through the phone.

Choosing not to smash my cell on the floor, I gathered my thoughts as he seemed comfortable to just wait in silence on the other end.

“I’m sorry to disturb you. I, ah, okay, are you free today? By chance. I’m in a pickle.”

“A pickle?”

“Yeah, I could really use your help.”

@youbloodymadgenius @naaladareia @whenimaunicorn @lol-haha-joke @ceridwenofwales @jaydelesley4 @sweeneythots @funmadnessandbadassvikings @fangirl-nonsense @thiahilmarsdottir @redama @mdredwine @didiintheblog @yourpurplequeen @londongal2810 @fields-and-fields-of-poppies @readsalot73 @hexqueensupreme @silly-bullshit-collector @littlecarolina94 @oddsnendsfanfics @youbelongeverywhere @blonddnamedhandz @waiting4inspiration @flowers-in-your-hayr @zuxiezendler @heavenly1927 @squirrelacorngliterfarts

#vikings #ivar #ivar lothbrok #ivar fanfiction #ivar ragnarson #modern ivar #ivar love story #ivar love #romantic ivar #fluffy ivar #possessive ivar #ivar smut #ivar slow burn #vikings smut #Smut #Ivar The Bonless

77 notes · View notes

kittinoir · 4 years

Text

Echoes of You Ch. 11

Read on Ao3

Marinette sighed and tapped her pen against the half-filled page of diary. She was halfway through recording her day, but she kept getting distracted. Of course, Adrien had that effect - but not in the usual way.

He’d missed yet another half day of school that afternoon and, for once, he hadn’t been at fencing club when she’d gone with Nino and Alya to drop off his homework. Her friend’s hadn’t seemed to find it weird, but she’d never known Adrien to not keep to the schedule she’d somehow accidentally memorized.

Nino had ended up taking the homework with him, saying they’d worked out a system for sneaking the missed work past his dad, and worse, his dad’s nosy assistant, Nathalie. It made sense, she guessed. Gabriel Agreste was known for his strict and solitary life-style.

But still, she couldn’t help but worry.

Frowning, Marinette flipped her diary closed and put it back in its’ nifty lock box. She remembered making the box to thwart Chloe, but she thought she remembered making it with a friend. When she’d asked Alya about, though, she’d said no. Still, the box came in handy. She could only imagine what Chloe would do if she got her hands on it. Chloe was somehow the only person not in her circle of friends who knew about her monstrous crush on Adrien, but she’d decided it was beneath her notice. However, Marinette imagined the copious paragraphs in her diary describing that very crush would not be.

She left the diary on her desk for the dress form in the corner. It had the muslin mock up pinned to it with the sketch pinned to the wall behind it but the drawing was still woefully lacking details. Maybe choosing Chat Noir for inspiration had been a mistake. She paused in front of the sketch, tracing the now-familiar shapes with her eyes, but inspiration wouldn’t strike. She couldn’t stop thinking about…

Adrien.

“Maybe I’ll just drop by,” Marinette said out our, grabbing her purse. “Just for a second. With some pastries. Real casually. Friends can drop by, right?”

It was like missing a step, she thought briefly, as she paused by the trap door and found she felt like she was waiting for a response from an empty room. She frowned, but stopped again as she again caught sight of her purse.

“Why…do I keep bringing this with me?” she wondered, unslinging it. “It’s empty.”

But it had felt natural, she realized, to grab it as she’d left. It did match her clothes, she guessed. Still, better to leave it at home.

“Hi, mom!” Only two customers were browsing the bakery this close to the dinner hour. Marinette was careful to circumvent them, ducking behind the counter as the bell over the shop door chimed and snagging a box on her way by.

Sabine shot her daughter a grin as she snagged a few pastries and layered them in the box. Marinette swallowed a smile as she included some passionfruit macarons and their world-famous croissants.

“Uh, excuse me?” Marinette jumped, whacking her head on the shelf and nearly dumping the pastries onto the floor. “Can I get some service here?”

Marinette straightened and squinted over the counter. “Chloe Bourgeois?”

Chloe rolled her eyes, but the move lacked the usual attitude, like her heart wasn’t really in it. “I need a dozen macarons and a dozen chocolate chip cookies.”

Marinette frowned, confused, but reached for a box. Rule Number One in the bakery was always help the customer - even if they were a pain in the butt from your class who had bullied you for literal years.

Still, a small part of her couldn’t help but feel bad for Chloe. The girl had hurt her, yes, and she’d made terrible choices, but now she was suffering terrible consequences. If Chloe had been her normal over-bearing, bratty self, Marinette might have been able to ignore it, but she just…took it all so stoically. The cold stares. The snide comments. It was no less than Chloe had done to any of them, but…

It all came back to Adrien.

Marinette had never known him to turn his back on anyone. Not even Chloe, not even when she deserved it - until now.

Which was probably why Marinette did what she did next.

“How’re you doing?”

Chloe’s head snapped around to stare at her one-time rival. “Ex-cuse me?”

Marinette fought the urge to roll her eyes. “I asked how you’re doing. Have you been…ok?” It was stupid. She knew that even as she asked, but how else did one ask how a classmate was coping with being totally frozen out?

“I’m great, Dupain-Cheng,” Chloe snapped, snatching the box out of Marinette’s hands. “Thanks for asking.”

The other girl stormed over to the cash register and Marinette scowled, grabbing her own box of pastries. A waste of time to even ask. She ducked out the back door to avoid any more scathing comments and made for the metro that would deliver her neatly across the street from the Agreste mansion. She must have thought of a dozen things to say by the time she arrived, but as usual, as soon as those massive iron gates came into view, every single one evaporated.

Except the usual flush of giddiness was tainted by…anxiety? No, stronger. Foreboding.

As Marinette stood across the street, taking in the manse, a flood of confusion and fear swept over her, a storm like she hadn’t experienced in weeks. Part of her wanted to sprint right back down those stairs and back home. She was back on the edge of that precipice.

‘CHAT NOIR!’ The girl’s scream echoed across the Pont Neuf. A flash of gold, a boy in black was knocked back again and again. She could do little but watch as she desperately tried to free herself. The boy stumbled again, his back against the shallow wall. She saw the monsters’ horrible grin, all those teeth, as it struck again. The boys’ baton snapped in two, and he fell.

The girl screamed again, frantic desperation lending her strength to finally free herself. She didn’t bother trying to follow him; she dove into the frigid black waters closest to her and swam. Her lungs were close to bursting when she finally found him, but her relief was short lived as green light suddenly illuminated the water, revealing a familiar face. Shock made her gasp, and as silver bubbles raced for the surface, they were both abruptly drowning.

The images, ragged and disjointed as they were, slipped through Marinette’s fingers before she could even fully recognize them.

“I…” She hooked a strand of hair behind her ear with one shaky hand. “What was…” A half-faded dream? More like a nightmare. She glanced at the house again, but whatever it was had passed; only faint, fragile anticipation remained.

Rallying her resolve, Marinette stepped forward onto the sidewalk - and promptly into someone as they made for the metro. She managed to snag the hand-rail and keep herself from pitching completely down the stairs, but the box of pastries was not so fortunate. Croissants and macarons spilled across the sidewalk and down into the metro station.

“Oh my god!” Heat spilled across Marinette’s face, but it was hardly the first time she’d run into someone - or dropped a box full of baked good. “I am so sorry. And so clumsy. Sorry.”

“You said that already,” the boy said, brushing off his ornate jacket. At least, she thought it was a boy; a Venetian mask covered his face and a hood obscured his hair. “Watch where you’re going.”

The blush only got stronger, but Marinette scowled as she stooped for her ruined box. It wasn’t like she’d run into the guy on purpose. He didn’t have to be rude about it. “I’m sorry,” she said one more time, if only because she didn’t know what else to say. “Is your jacket…”

“Fine,” the boy snapped, brushing the last bits of dirt only he could see from the material. He froze. “I know you.”

“Um…I don’t think so,” Marinette said, glancing up from her inspection. “I mean…I think I’d know if we were friends.” Besides, her friends knew how clumsy she was. They never would have given her a hard time about it.

“I didn’t say we were friends,” the boy said. He leaned in, the purple and gold lacquer on the mask glinting from the shadow of his hood in the late-afternoon sun. “You’re the one who’s in love with Adrien.”

Marinette’s eyes went wide, and she was fairly sure her blush had blown all the way up to her hairline. No one but her girls - and quite possibly Nino - knew that secret. No one.

“I don’t - I’m not - I don’t have a crunch - I mean, a crush,” Marinette spluttered, frantically re-arranging her pastry box. “Certainly not on Adrien. We’re just…we’re just very good friends.” The words were bitter even as she fibbed; she couldn’t say them without remembering the times Adrien had used that exact same phrase. The difference was he meant it.

“Mhmm.” The mask tilted. “Is that why you’re outside the Agreste mansion with a box of gourmet pastries?”

Marinette straightened with as much dignity as she could muster. “Who are you anyway?”

But the question would have to wait as a tell-tale rumble rippled across the cobble-stones. Cries rose in the air as the people in the street stumbled and clung to anything around them. Marinette elected to drop the box for a second time and cling to the railing rather than risk tumbling into the annoying stranger a second time. He, on the other hand, seemed to navigate the tremor with relative ease, cursing up a storm as he anticipated each roll of the street.

“These attacks are getting closer and closer together,” Marinette growled as the tremors finally began to abate. “Doesn’t Hawkmoth have a hobby or a job other than terrorizing us?”

“Wish I knew,” the boy said, sounding about as pleased as she did. He glanced towards the Agreste mansion, almost as though that had been his destination as well, but ultimately ended up turning away - in the direction the tremors had come from. “See you around, Lovebug.”

“I am not his Lovebug!” Marinette stamped her foot. Deja vu swept in again, but dispersed as the rumbling started back up. “Wait!” She scrambled after the boy, not nearly as graceful as he was. “What are you doing! Are you crazy? You can’t go that way.”

“I’m crazy? You’re the one following me,” the boy said, glancing back at her over his shoulder.

“Seriously,” Marinette said, reaching for the boys arm as she caught up. “You could get killed. At best you’ll be a distraction.”

The boy pulled his arm away, slipping out of her grasp as he rounded a corner as easily as if she were made of air. “Go away,” he snapped, an edge in his voice. “Go hide. Leave it to the heroes.”

Marinette balled up her fists, wishing she’d worn her purse after all just to keep her hands busy. “They’re just people,” she snapped, following him down an alley. “We have to help them. Staying out of their way - that’s the best we can do.”

“Not all of us.” The boy paused at the mouth of the alley, looking out into the street beyond. Marinette peered over his shoulder and cringed as she beheld the fight.

It was already in full swing. Both Ladybug and Chat Noir were out there, but they were getting tossed around pretty badly. Any time they tried to co-ordinate an attack the akuma would engage them, preventing any progress. Ladybug looked better than the first time Marinette had seen her, but she seemed to be lashing out, more desperate than focused, more scared than confident.

Chat Noir, for all his skill, couldn’t pick up the slack. He was trying to run defense, but Ladybug couldn’t seem to antipode either her enemy or her partner. It wasn’t going well.

The boy in the mask seemed to feel the same way. He looked back at Marinette again. She got the distinct impression he was appraising her, measuring her worth behind that inscrutable mask.

“If you could do more,” he finally said, “Would you?”

“I - ” She ducked as another tremor rocked the alley, but made herself nod. “If I could. They shouldn’t have to do this alone. I…I want to help.”

“Not afraid of joining the list of casualties you seem so convinced of?”

“I’d rather be on it and go down swinging,” Marinette said. She was surprised to find it was the truth. The boy seemed to believe her, too.

He reached inside his huge coat, rummaging around inside a satchel she hadn’t realized he’d been concealing. Marinette felt again like she was on the brink, but this time there was light at the bottom of the crevice, an answer to her question. The boy finally produced a little black box with decorative red scrollwork on top and held it out to her.

“You just carry those around with you?”

He ignored her. “Ladybug and Chat Noir need help, Lovebug -”

“Marinette,” she hissed though gritted teeth.

“They need help, Marinette,” he repeated, unphased. “Will you use the Miraculous of the mouse to aide them in saving Paris, your home?”

Marinette nodded. “I will.” For the first time, serenity surrounded her. Every step was new, but it was like she’d walked the path a million times before. She wasn’t sure where it lead, but she wasn’t afraid of what she’d find when she got there.

“Will you return the Miraculous to me, Salem, when the fight is done?”

“I…I will,” Marinette said. Her pulse was steady, even. She was ready.

“Then I give you the Miraculous of the mouse,” Salem said, tilting the lid back. A floating mouse burst forth in flash of pink light. Marinette fell back in surprise, but managed to keep from freaking out. She’d accepted this. She would do it. And it didn’t seem interest in crawling through her clothes.

“Marinette!” the mouse chirped, swirling around her head. “Marinette!”

“Hi there,” Marinette said. She couldn’t help but smile; its excitement was infections. Suddenly she remembered Chat Noir’s conversation from a few nights ago: Multimouse, right? Right…this all seemed… right. A little familiar. Didn’t it? Or had she dreamt it? She wasn’t sure anymore.

“Say ‘Mullo, let’s get squeaky’ while wearing the necklace,” Salem instructed as she lifted the jewellery from the box. “She grants the power of multiplication, but we warned, you only have five minutes. Don’t mess it up.”

“She knows!” Mullo chirped, swirling to a stop. “Oh, she knows!”

For the first time, Marinette thought that maybe she might. “I’m ready,” she said with a tight nod. “Mullo, let’s get squeaky!”

#echoes #echoes of you #writing #miraculous ladybug #miraculoustalesofladybugandcatnoir #fic #miraculous fic

11 notes · View notes

unfolded73 · 4 years

Text

Husbands: Two Years In (1/5) - schitt’s creek ff

Hi, remember me? I finally wrote something new. This fic is complete, and will be posted over the course of the next two weeks. While I'm including it as part of the "Labels" series, the preceding fics are not required reading. Previous fics in this series: Boyfriends; “I Love You”, Partners, Fiancés

Warning: This fic deals with depression as one of its major topics.

Rated Explicit, this chapter 5059 words. (ao3)

Thanks to @high-seas-swan for cheerleading and B13_MaybeThisTime for many valuable comments (and also cheerleading).

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

Chapter 1: Winter

Patrick stuck his head behind the beige curtain of the storeroom at Rose Apothecary. “Bethany, can you cover the register? I’ve got to get to my council meeting.”

“Sure,” she said, leaving off from the merchandise she’d been unpacking and joining him behind the counter.

“I should be back in an hour and a half,” he said, slipping his laptop into his messenger bag.

“No problem. Is David planning to come back to the store today?” she asked.

“I doubt it. He’s gone more than halfway to Thornbridge to meet with potential vendors, so I expect he’ll be late getting back.” Patrick’s thumb strayed to the smooth gold of his wedding ring and he gave it a turn, an ingrained habit now after a year and a half of marriage.

“Okay,” Bethany said to him before turning to the customer who had just approached the register. “Find everything you were looking for today?” she asked in a cheerful, retail clerk voice.

Patrick ducked into the back again to get his coat and gloves and hat, pulling them on and zipping his parka up to his neck before braving the icy temperatures outside. Not for the first time, he wished the store had a vestibule and another set of doors to keep the cold from rushing in every time people came and went during the winter months. He made a mental note to add that to their wish list for a second Rose Apothecary location, when and if that ever became a reality.

David was certainly invested in the idea, spending more time out on the road these days, wooing new vendors or shoring up renewal contracts with existing ones. Hiring Bethany meant they didn’t need to be in the store at the same time, and while the flexibility was more than worth it in terms of the time it gave them to work on growing the business, Patrick had to admit he missed the old days sometimes. When it was only him and David at the store together, sneaking into the back to make out when things were slow.

On the other hand, there was probably something to be said for not spending every hour of every day together, he told himself. Marriages thrived on a little bit of separation. But looking up at the grey sky while he walked through town, it was hard not to feel lonely, the oppressive winter weighing him down.

Patrick ducked into the town hall, always drafty in winter, and pulled his hat and gloves off as he made his way to the desk he used during council meetings and during the one afternoon a week that it was his turn to be on duty, handing out permits and answering questions. It was a good system in a town too small to pay for municipal employees, and helping his fellow townspeople was probably his favorite part of serving on town council.

“Patrick,” Ronnie muttered as he passed by her desk. “Kind of you to grace us with your presence.”

Patrick glanced at his phone. “I’m literally one minute late, Ronnie.”

“One minute late is late.”

“Also, Roland’s not here yet,” Patrick said as he dropped into his desk chair and set up his laptop to take the minutes of their meeting. Ronnie had been quick to inform him that taking minutes always fell to the newest member on town council, although when he expressed his surprise at the idea of Moira Rose doing that job, she’d had to admit that Moira had never actually taken any minutes. Patrick easily agreed to take over from Bob, whom everyone agreed had been terrible at it.

Ronnie just rolled her eyes and waved a hand dismissively at him. She had sort of supported Patrick when he ran unopposed for Moira’s vacated seat (although he also suspected she was behind the whisper campaign to write in Ted the Turtle, Alexis’s former pet who now belonged to Roland Junior — Ted got thirteen percent of the vote), but that didn’t stop her from continuing to needle him at every opportunity.

Roland finally arrived ten minutes later, and they began working their way through the agenda as Roland wolfed down a sizable sandwich at his desk with table manners that his three-year-old son would have looked askance at. They voted on whether to have a stop light installed outside the café (2-2; tabled for further discussion after the next public forum), whether to confer historic landmark status on the old Hockley barn (1-3 nay), and on whether to finalize the calendar for the “Clean up the Creek” days in the summer (4-0 yea).

“What’s next on the agenda, Ronnie?” Roland asked, his mouth full of his lunch, as if he didn’t have a copy of the agenda on his desk. Patrick looked over, and noticed that Roland had emptied a bag of potato chips onto his agenda.

“The annual blood drive,” she replied, consulting the paper in front of her. “Canadian Blood Services is requesting six volunteers, as we’ve provided in the past, to log people in and to hand out juice and cookies after. We need to have the promotional posters printed and get the word out, and then a volunteer meeting will need to be organized by the end of the month. Patrick, you wanna take the lead on this?”

He looked up from his laptop. “On the blood drive?” His stomach twisted, and he considered saying no. “Uh… sure. Sure.” He typed that into the minutes, his fingers tapping sharply on the keys.

The rest of the meeting passed uneventfully, and they disbanded after another twenty minutes. Ronnie made her way over to Patrick as he was emailing the completed minutes out to the other members of council, a task he liked to do right away before he forgot about it.

“You didn’t seem thrilled to be put in charge of the blood drive. If you’re squeamish around needles—”

“I’m not squeamish about giving blood.” He snapped his laptop closed and shoved it into his bag. “I earned a lapel pin in college for donating blood,” he muttered.

“Oh. Then what’s the problem?”

“There’s no problem. I said I’d do it.” He stood up and shouldered his bag. “Be in charge of it, I mean. I won’t be donating blood because I’m not allowed.”

Ronnie’s eyes turned sympathetic. “Right.” She sighed. “The blood donation rules about gay men are outdated and discriminatory; you don’t have to tell me.”

Patrick shrugged. “It is what it is. I really don’t mind being in charge of the blood drive.” He did, a little, but not enough to make a fuss about it. If this was the only way he could contribute now that he fell into the ‘men who have sex with men’ category, then so be it.

When he was halfway to the door, she called out, making him stop in his tracks. “If our community always just said ‘it is what it is,’ then we wouldn’t have made the progress we’ve made. You wouldn’t have been able to stand in this room and marry the person you love. If it’s wrong, then we fight.”

Patrick turned and looked at her. “I kind of missed the activism part of the queer experience,” he admitted. “Although, I used to buy cupcakes from the GSA bake sale in high school.”

Ronnie rolled her eyes, heading out the door and leaving Patrick to follow her. “You are truly a pillar of the queer community,” she drawled, but there wasn’t any heat in it. She even patted his shoulder and said “see you around” as they parted ways.

Still, he felt unsettled as he walked back to the store. The extent of the time that he’d been aware of his sexuality, he’d mostly spent in a homophobia-free bubble. The people of Schitt’s Creek accepted him, his family (with a couple of notable exceptions whom he no longer spoke to) accepted him. He wasn’t used to being confronted with discrimination, and so even this relatively minor thing in his life, that he couldn’t donate blood — as anonymous and bureaucratic as it was, it was still painful.

The rest of the afternoon did little to lift his mood, and he dragged through the motions of closing up the store with Bethany, then drove home alone. He didn’t want to text David in case he was driving, so when he got home he checked the location of David’s phone and saw that he was still at least two hours away, assuming he was even on his way yet. With a heavy sigh, Patrick let himself into their quiet house.

It was almost nine o’clock when David finally arrived, the familiar sound of him knocking snow off his boots rousing Patrick’s attention from his phone. He flipped off the television, the hockey game he wasn’t really paying attention to disappearing into blackness, and turned toward the door as it opened and David came in with a swirl of snowflakes.

“It’s starting to really come down out there,” David said breathlessly, unlooping his scarf from around his neck and hanging it on the coat rack by the front door. “I’m glad I wasn’t running any later.”

“Me too. It’s supposed to be ten centimeters by morning.” Patrick leaned up and kissed David’s cheek, cold against his lips.

David grimaced. “Just enough to be annoying, but not enough to close the store for the day.” He braced himself on the wall and lifted first one foot and then the other to pull off his boots.

“Yeah.” Their front door tended to stick, not quite latching, so Patrick leaned over and gave it a little push, listening for the click of the latch before he locked it. “Did you eat?”

“I grabbed a burger on the road.” His winter coat off, David pulled Patrick into a hug, his long arms moving into their usual place over Patrick’s shoulders and wrapping around him. “Aren’t you going to ask me how it went?”

“How did it go?”

“I got the clover honey contract.”

Patrick grinned. “I knew you would. And the others?”

“The woman who crochets those little animals is still mulling it over. She might be a no. Belinda Jensen signed on to provide the larger supply of soap we asked for. A couple of others — I left all the paperwork in the car.” He kissed Patrick quickly on the lips. “How was your day?”

Patrick struggled to remember through the fog in his brain what he’d done all day — work and his council meeting and the leftovers he’d reheated for dinner and the hockey game he hadn’t been watching. “Uneventful,” he finally replied.

He felt a surge of irrational anger that David had such a wildly productive day, a day that materially benefited their business, while Patrick had… treaded water. He pushed the anger away — he had no reason to be angry with David. He should be proud of David, of the way he continued to work to make their business thrive, of how good he was with the vendors.

The remainder of the evening was quiet, David on the sofa intermittently reading and texting with Alexis while Patrick made a grocery list, and then another list of tasks he wanted to accomplish over the weekend. It only served to remind him of all things he’d meant to do this winter that he hadn’t gotten around to yet. He just kept getting paralyzed lately; going over and over all the things he needed to do in his mind, but not actually starting any of them.

“I’m ready for spring,” he muttered to himself.

David looked up from his phone. “What are you talking about, you love winter! Winter has hockey, which you love.”

“Yeah.” Patrick sighed. “I’m not really feeling it this year. I’m exhausted.”

Reaching over to rub his shoulder, David gave him a look full of sympathy. “Anything I can do?”

Patrick shook his head and stood up. There wasn’t really anything wrong, so what could David do? “I’m gonna get ready for bed.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you up there in a minute,” David said, distracted by another text from Alexis that made him smile down at his phone.

Patrick had dozed off into a light sleep by the time David crawled into bed next to him, but the dip of the mattress woke him. He rolled over toward his husband, lips against the stubble of David’s jaw, inhaling the scent of his moisturizer. “Missed you today,” he murmured sleepily.

“Missed you too.” David turned his head, brushing his lips against Patrick’s. “Mm, you’re warm.” He wriggled his body, snuggling closer.

Patrick pressed another kiss against David’s mouth, and then another, with softer lips — a little bit longer, a little bit slower.

“Thought you were sleeping,” David said, his voice syrupy and mellow.

“I’m kissing you goodnight,” Patrick said. Another kiss — longer still, slower still.

“That’s how it starts,” David said with a smile, his hand burrowing down and finding the jut of Patrick’s hipbone.

He had a point. There were times when they went to bed with no particular intention to have sex, but the simple press of their mouths together would ignite a fire between them. Patrick wondered if that tendency would ever fade. He hoped not. Especially lately, the physical intimacy he shared with David was one of the only things that made him feel good. It was the only time that he didn’t feel like everything was sort of disappointing and foggy, when he could ignore all of life’s recent shortcomings and annoyances. He could turn off those thoughts and feel the pleasure that David was an expert in drawing out of him.

“Do you wanna have sex?” Patrick asked.

David gave him a crooked smile. ��I thought I was too tired, but I might be coming around to the idea.”

Patrick scratched his blunt nails across the back of David’s neck, humming into his mouth as their kisses got deeper and messier. His heartbeat accelerating, that good, fizzy feeling suffusing his body, Patrick shifted closer, enjoying the sensation of their bodies together through their pajamas.

Long before they were married, they established a pattern where Patrick was more often than not the one to take charge in bed, but tonight he wanted it to be David. He felt like he needed to be taken, and used, and useful.

“Can you…” he started to ask, then paused as he tried to figure out how to put what he needed into words. He still struggled with the vulnerability of that, sometimes. Of asking for what he needed. He found it much easier to let David ask for things.

“Tell me what you need, honey,” David whispered as they pulled off their clothes.

Make me forget that I’ve been feeling so shitty, Patrick thought. Show me you still need me.

“Can you hold me down and… fuck my thighs?” Patrick asked instead. The sex act was easier to talk about than the feelings that were underneath it.

“Mm hmm, I can do that,” David said. In the dark, Patrick couldn’t make out David’s facial expression, didn’t know if David was reading any of his churning thoughts. Couldn’t tell if David thought it was odd that Patrick was asking for him to be the dominant one. Not that he’d never been submissive in bed, he had, but he’d done it because it was something David was in the mood for. He’d almost never asked for it.

“Turn over,” David said, the liquid tone of his voice making Patrick shiver as he followed the direction.

Patrick reached over for the lube from the bedside table, handing it back to David before he positioned his back against David’s chest. David didn’t do anything with it right away, though, his mouth wet and sure against Patrick’s shoulder, hand running up and down his hip and thigh over and over, then coming around to gently scrape his fingernails across Patrick’s balls before taking his dick in a loose fist, stroking with a teasing lack of pressure. Patrick moaned, pushing back against David’s erection. He almost changed his mind and asked David to fuck his ass instead — having David inside him really would get him out of his head; it always did. But both of them were tired and the preparation would take awhile, and his original instinct was fine. He didn’t say anything, tipping his head to give David more access to his neck.

After a few more minutes of foreplay, David finally grabbed the lube, getting the inside of Patrick’s thighs and his own cock slick before positioning himself. Patrick clenched his thighs together and David groaned at the friction, fingers clenching on Patick’s hip briefly before his hand moved around and took hold of Patrick’s cock again, matching the rhythm of his hips to the rhythm of his stroking. He wasn’t trying to draw things out now; he was working Patrick’s cock to get him off quickly, and the sensation of it, the way it demonstrated how perfectly David knew him, knew his body, allowed Patrick to stop thinking and sink into the pleasure. He had just enough presence of mind to cup his own palm over himself before spilling over David’s fist, coming with a gasp and a bitten off moan.

David let him pause long enough to grab one of the little towels they kept a stack of on the bedside table to clean himself up, to keep the sheets unscathed, before pushing Patrick down onto his stomach and fucking more vigorously, his cock sliding between Patrick’s thighs and against his balls. Patrick closed his eyes tight and gripped his pillow and let David take him, let him fuck against him, his weight bearing down on Patrick’s back, his pelvis slapping against Patrick’s ass.

“Fuck,” David whispered, and then he lifted up, pulling away from Patrick’s body. “I need to…” he said, and then Patrick heard the slick noise of David jacking himself, and then very quickly the warmth and wetness of David coming on his lower back.

“Sorry for the unnegotiated cumshot,” David said as soon as he caught his breath enough to speak.

Patrick held the towel he was still clutching up for David to take, laughing. “You’re good,” he said as David cleaned him up. “I only need warning if it’s gonna be on my face,” he continued as he flipped over, taking the towel from David and tossing it toward the laundry hamper. While David went to the bathroom to wash his hands and then pulled his pajamas back on, Patrick considered doing the same, but then David was curling around him under their heavy duvet and Patrick couldn’t bring himself to move. He closed his eyes and let the drowsiness from his orgasm pull him under.

~*~

His alarm went off early, and it took Patrick a few seconds to remember why he’d set it so early: the snow.

Mournfully extracting himself from the warmth of bed, Patrick pulled on yesterday’s jeans and a hoodie, then made his way downstairs to don all of his winter gear. Opening the front door, he took a second to admire the pure, untouched snow that blanketed the world before he perturbed it with his boot prints.

Everything seemed preternaturally quiet, the snow dampening what little noise there was. Patrick thought there would have been a time when he would have loved this quiet, would have loved being alone with his thoughts while he did some meditative manual labor. This morning, he shied away from the contents of his own brain, electing to put his earbuds in and to listen to a podcast instead. Patrick fell into a rhythm of snow shoveling in the winter pre-dawn light — push, lift, throw, repeat — so he didn’t notice David until he was almost down to the end of the driveway where Patrick was working.

“David!” Patrick pulled one of his earbuds out, letting it hang. The cold had made the wire stiff, the angle of it unnatural. “I didn’t think you’d be awake yet.”

David had jammed his feet into snow boots, the joggers he’d worn to bed bunching up around his calves. A hat was jammed down on his head, covering his ears, and he shivered as he struggled to zip his coat with gloved fingers. “You not being in bed wakes me up sometimes. And I felt bad that you were out here by yourself.”

“You don’t need to feel bad — you’re covering the store today.” They each had a day each week when they worked the store with Bethany while the other had the day off, and today was David’s day to work. “The least I can do is dig your car out for you.”

David huffed. “Let me help.”

Patrick tilted his head to the side, regarding his husband thoughtfully. “Okay, David. There’s another shovel in the shed.”

David tromped away as directed, and a minute later he was shoveling in a parallel track to where Patrick had been working. It wasn’t something that Patrick could have pictured David Rose doing a few years ago, but David had seemed determined to meet the challenge of homeownership in a lot of ways that Patrick couldn’t have pictured before they were married.

When they finished and went back inside, David groaned as he bent over to pull his boots off. “Ugh, my back,” he whined.

Patrick tried to put a hand on David’s lower back, but his puffy winter coat prevented any contact. “Go take a shower and I’ll make your coffee,” he said.

Patrick put on water to heat up, rubbing his hands together to warm himself, and began getting things set up for breakfast: he ground coffee beans for David’s French press and got out tea for himself and eggs for both of them. He moved automatically through the morning routine, ingrained habits from their year and a half of marriage and from all the mornings before that, when David spent the night at Patrick’s apartment.

After making David breakfast and seeing him out the door with a reminder to drive carefully, Patrick curled up on the sofa with his phone. He had a list of chores he wanted to tackle, and he had a book he wanted to read, but he spent over an hour switching between social media apps, dipping into the first few paragraphs of news articles before dipping back out, not focusing on any one thing for more than a few minutes. He opened a couple of game apps, but closed them again just as quickly without doing anything. These days he’d been mostly avoiding Facebook — he knew the ethical thing to do these days was to delete your Facebook account, but he was afraid of losing touch with all the people he didn’t communicate with any other way. He opened the app now, scrolling through the posts on his feed, most of them family members and friends from high school and college.

He paused briefly on a candid picture on his cousin Sara’s page of her son Justin. “Justin’s last performance in Newsies was last night!!! Great job to all!!!!” Wrinkling his nose at all the exclamation points, he took a good look at his cousin’s kid. They weren’t at the wedding, but he had seen Justin very briefly at the engagement barbecue his parents had thrown for him and David. He’d been a gawky fifteen-year-old at the time, quiet, ghosting along beside his parents with the disdain for attending a family function that only a teenager was capable of. The boy in the picture was older, and something about the way he looked in the picture, his arms slung over the shoulders of a couple of his castmates, made Patrick smile. Congrats to Justin!, he typed into the comments.

Finally, he dragged himself upstairs to shower and get dressed in some clean clothes, regretting that he’d already squandered part of his day off. He could have gone into the store with David if the alternative was this, a day at home feeling adrift and empty.

A hot shower helped, and afterward Patrick started a load of laundry, settling onto the sofa with a basket of towels from the dryer to fold. He unlocked his phone and started one of his history podcasts playing. Most of the rest of the day passed by as Patrick did the bare minimum of household chores, interrupted by long stretches of lost time when he was doing nothing in particular.

Stevie stopped by at a little past five o’clock, flopping down at the kitchen table while Patrick looked in the fridge and tried to decide what he was going to make for dinner.

“Do you want to hear something hilarious?” Stevie asked as Patrick took a packet of chicken breasts out and checked the date. They were still good, and he figured they would do for dinner. A serviceable, boring dinner — the Patrick Brewer of dinners, he thought uncharitably. He also took out some mushrooms, and grabbed an onion from the bowl on the counter.

“Sure,” he answered.

“I saw Gwen yesterday.”

“Bob’s Gwen?” He pulled a chef’s knife from the block and sliced the onion in half.

“Okay, she hasn’t been Bob’s Gwen for a few years.”

Patrick huffed. “No, I know, I was just asking if that’s who you meant. Because she moved to Elm… somewhere. Elm Valley?”

“She moved to Elm Ridge, actually, but she was in town for some reason, and I saw her.”

He squinted at Stevie. “And?”

“And she asked how it was working out among the three of us, and it was clear she meant… like, she thought we’re a throuple.”

Patrick laughed. “We do spend a lot of time together, you, me, and David.”

“I know, but you’re gay.”

“Sure, but I can’t say I’ve ever explained the particulars of my sexual orientation to Gwen. Maybe she assumes I’m pansexual like David.” He blinked up at her. “Are you worried that people will think you’re off the market?”

Stevie shrugged. “The kinds of people I tend to hook up with wouldn’t care.”

“Fair enough.” Patrick felt the old impulse to reassure Stevie that she’d find the right person eventually, and he had to remind himself that he needed to take her at her word, that romance and love weren’t necessarily what she was looking for.

“Are you okay?” she asked with narrowed eyes, watching him carefully as he put dinner together.

“I’m just tired. Had kind of a shitty day.” He couldn’t articulate what made it shitty, though. It was the vague ennui that had been plaguing him lately, the pregnant rain clouds in his brain that were casting a shadow over everything, washing the colour out. “ You staying for dinner?”

“Yeah, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“It’s always fine, Stevie. You know that.”

“Thanks.” She walked over and grabbed a beer out of the fridge, opening it with the magnetic bottle opener that Patrick kept on the door.

“Maybe I just haven’t been getting enough sunshine lately,” Patrick said.

“Do we need to get you one of those light therapy things?” Stevie asked, taking a swig of her beer.

Patrick chuckled. “I don’t know, maybe.” He bit his lip, unsure if he should share more. “It kind of reminds me of the way I used to feel before I ran away and moved here. But back then, I had a good reason to be sad. I’ve got no reason to be sad now.”

“Depression doesn’t have to have a reason. I mean, it doesn’t have to be because you’re… engaged to the wrong person, for example.”

He knew that, intellectually. But he wasn’t sure he really believed it, deep down. “I guess.” He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “When’s your next trip?” he asked to divert the conversation onto another track.

Patrick cooked and the two of them gossiped for a bit longer until David got home from the store, planting a kiss on Patrick’s lips when he joined them in the kitchen. The easy banter among the three of them over dinner quelled some of Patrick’s unhappiness, and he found himself laughing through the familiar see-saw of their interactions, as they cycled through every combination of two-against-one. They finally settled on the sofa, David putting on the episode of Derry Girls that they had left off with the last time Stevie was over. Stevie sat between them, leaning against Patrick’s shoulder with her socked feet up on David’s lap.

“Can’t imagine why people think we’re a throuple,” Patrick said, lifting his shoulder and adjusting to a more comfortable position before gesturing for her to lean on him again.

Stevie snorted. “In your dreams, Brewer.”

“Nope.” Then he thought about it. “Well, there was that one time during Cabaret, but I’m not responsible for who turns up in my sex dreams.”

David turned and eyed him. “Who turned up in your sex dreams?”

“Me, apparently,” Stevie said as she poked David in the leg with her toe.

“Ew,” David said.

“Ted, a few times,” Patrick said, which got him an eye roll from his husband.

“I assume you mean the turtle,” David said, looking back at the television.

“Yeah, I’m so hot for turtles.”

Stevie started flipping through a dating app on her phone, her attention only half on the show they were watching.

“What do you think of this one?” she said, holding up the phone so that Patrick could see the blandly handsome shirtless guy on the screen.

“Meh.”

“He’s got nice arms,” Stevie said.

“He looks like an asshole.”

“Doesn’t mean he won’t be a good fuck.”

He supposed not, and it didn’t seem like Stevie really wanted his opinion anyway, even though she’d asked for it. He watched as she swiped right on Mr. Shirtless.

Patrick dozed off after a little while, existing in that place between wakefulness and sleep where he was still convinced he was following the story of the show they were watching even though his eyes were closed. He was distantly aware of the warmth of Stevie pressed up against his side and the smell of her hair, and of the safety of being with the two people who knew him best in the world.

(Chapter 2)

#schitt's creek fic #david x patrick #david x patrick fic #david x patrick ff #schitt's creek #my fic #schitt's creek ff

7 notes · View notes

khrscenarios · 5 years

Note

H-hewwo how would the varia react to meeting their soulmates that were civillians with cute jobs (like a florist, baker, barista etc.)

Thanks for requesting and I am so so sorry it took me literal months to get to this!! Also, since I apparently can’t write short things anymore and get really carried away with writing, most of this will be under the cut!

XANXUS: Xanxus grumbled with annoyance as he pushed his way towards the counter at the bar, not even flinching when another customer yelled at him for knocking into their table and nearly spilling their drink. He just wanted to have a drink before he had to return to the Varia mansion where he was sure to get a headache from his ring guardians bickering about some minor issue or another.Languidly sliding himself onto a bar stool, he glanced around behind the counter to see if he could get a bartender’s attention. His eyes landed on your form, your back facing him as you were placing a bottle of whiskey back on the shelf.

“Oi. You. Pour me some of that on the rocks,” he demanded, his low voice reaching your ears and causing you to turn in confusion. You met his gaze and tilted your head to the side, silently asking him if he had been talking to you. He felt his breath catch in his throat as his eyes narrowed in observation of the beautiful person who had just turned to face him. He nodded his head and you grabbed a glass, dropping a couple ice cubes inside with a clink before pouring a bit of the whiskey out.

“Here you are, sir,” you said, walking over and sliding the glass across the counter. Xanxus took the glass and swirled the amber liquid around before taking a sip, his eyes never leaving you. He felt the satisfying burn of the whiskey slide down his throat, a warm feeling beginning to heat his body from the inside out. He continued to stare at you as he took another sip, suddenly aware that his body was heating up a lot more quickly than usual. How fucking strong was this whiskey anyways? He could usually drink this stuff like water.Downing the rest of his drink in one gulp, he slammed the glass back down on the counter, albeit a little harder than he had intended to.

”Oh, would you like some more?”

There was something so lovely about your voice; he couldn’t put his finger on it. Xanxus hummed in response, the corner of his lips tugging into a slight smirk as he nudged his empty glass forward. You gave him a small smile as you set to pouring him another drink. His eyes followed your every movement, his gaze intense as you slid the refilled glass back towards him. His fingers briefly brushed against yours as he reached for the glass and a warmth seemed to spread across his hand from where your fingers had grazed his own.

You recoiled a little too fast, cheeks slightly pink as you bowed your head and moved a little further down the bar where a customer had called out an order. A full-blown smirk now adorned Xanxus’ lips as he took another long sip from his whiskey. You certainly were cute, and he wouldn’t mind spending the whole night at this bar if it meant getting to mess with you.

SQUALO: Squalo rubbed his eyes and let out another groan as the line inched forward. Of course this coffee shop had to be ridiculously busy when he had to rush back to the Varia mansion and finish up some paperwork. He had honestly debated getting out of line and just leaving, but he was at that point where he had been waiting too long to just give up his spot. After about 10 more minutes of waiting, he finally made it to the register at the front.

“Fucking finally,” he grumbled, shoving his hand into his pocket to pull out his wallet, his other hand coming up to rub at his eyes again.

“Um, I’m really sorry about the wait…What can I get for you?” you asked, an apologetic smile on your face as you waited to see what the man would order.

“Just get me a goddamn black coffee. The biggest fucking size you have,” Squalo said, handing you his credit card as you rang up his order, his eyes screwed shut as he tried to ward off the headache he knew was coming.

“Again, I’m really very sorry you had to wait so long. You see, we’re a little understaffed this morning…” Your voice trailed off as he finally made eye contact with you, his sharp gray eyes boring into your own.

Squalo immediately stopped glaring when he finally registered who he was talking to. You were actually…really cute. And he had just given you the meanest, most undeserved death glare. He knew what it felt like to be understaffed (since his own goddamn subordinates could be so incompetent sometimes) and he awkwardly backpedalled.

“Oh, uh, yeah. Understaffed and all. Sorry, um. That sucks. Yeah…”

He awkwardly took his credit card back, and stuffed it into his wallet as you handed him his receipt.

“Thank you, your drink will be ready at the window to your left.”

He tipped his head lightly in acknowledgment and caught your gaze, his eyes much softer than they had been before.

“I’m really sorry for um, snapping at you and stuff. Busy morning for both of us, it seems…Um, good luck with everything.”

You gave him a small smile in response and he felt his cheeks grow warm at the sight.

“No worries, sir. I hope the rest of your day turns out a little better.”

You bowed your head slightly before turning to call for the next customer in line. As Squalo moved away from the register, he resolved himself to coming back to this coffee shop as often as possible. After all, he really wanted to make a better impression on the lovely barista that had kindly taken his order.

BELPHEGOR: Belphegor grumbled under his breath as he stepped inside the small, yet cozy bakery, the little bell above the door jingling as the door swung shut. Lussuria had asked him to pick up some of their freshly baked baguettes because they were “simply divine~!” His words, not Bel’s. The prince thought their baguettes were just okay.

He strolled up to the register, pouting, and angrily let out a huff of breath that blew his long, blonde bangs out of face for a split second. Where the hell was the cashier?

“Hellooooo? Is anyone here?? I just need some goddamn bread…,” he muttered as he tilted his head to one side, hearing the satisfying crack in his neck before he rolled his shoulders and began tapping his fingers obnoxiously on the counter.

“HELLO-oh.” He cut himself off when he saw you rush out from the back, carrying around ten loaves of baguettes.

“Hello, sir!! Sorry no one was here to assist you, I was just grabbing some fresh baguettes from the back. What can I get for yo-”

“I’ll take all of those baguettes,” he said quickly, cutting you off and leaning over the counter slightly, flashing you an impish grin.

“You need…all ten?”“Mhmm~”

Raising an eyebrow, you placed all the wrapped baguettes into a paper bag and pushed it across the counter towards him.

“Can I get you anything else?”“Your number, perhaps?”

His blunt question caught you off-guard and you gave him a nervous laugh. He cocked his head to one side, waiting for your response.

“Well, I’m working right now, so, um, maybe after my shift is over…”

Bel’s lips inadvertently turned downwards into a small frown as he pouted over your rejection. After all, how had he been rejected?

Sighing once again, he handed you the appropriate amount of money before picking up the paper bag stuffed with baguettes.

“Guess I’ll have to try again later then. Bye bye now~,” he said, giving you a little wave before exiting the bakery, the bell over the door jingling once again.

Now, Belphegor wasn’t usually one to keep pursuing someone after being rejected. He often considered that a waste of his precious time. But there was something about you that had him intrigued and he didn’t think he would mind if this turned into quite the chase.

LUSSURIA: Lussuria was practically skipping down the street as he made his way towards the new tea shop that had recently opened in town. He finally had a day off and he had been dying to come try the tea here since everyone had been raving about it.

When he opened the door, he was greeted by the gentle, herbal scents of various teas as well as your voice that rang out in greeting.

“Welcome! Is this your first time here?”

Lussuria swore his heart stopped when you flashed him a smile. He returned your grin and walked up to the counter, eyes flitting up to the handwritten menu that was hanging behind you on the wall.

“It is!! And I must say, this is a lovely little place. I’d love to try some of your tea! Do you have any recommendations?”

You paused for a moment to think, nibbling a bit on your lower lip as you mulled over your favorite drink.

“Well, my personal favorite is probably the Earl Gray with a little squeeze of lemon juice added in.”“I’ll try that then!”

It really felt like Lussuria couldn’t stop smiling as he paid for the drink and went to sit at a table. He watched as you moved around to prepare his drink, not even realizing he had been staring so hard and spacing out until you appeared literally right in front of him, steaming teacup and saucer in hand.

“Enjoy!”

“Thank you, dear,” he crooned, trying to mask his surprise at your sudden appearance by delicately picking up the cup and moving it towards his lips. The tea tasted absolutely divine, and he let out a sigh of happiness before placing the cup back on the saucer.

“This tea is lovely. I think I’ll have to make this tea shop my regular spot!”

You laughed as you began to boil another pot of water.

“I’d love to see you here again!”

“I promise I’ll be back,” Lussuria said, sending another smile your way before taking another sip of tea.

Of course he would come back; after all, the tea really was quite good. But his ulterior motive would definitely be returning just so he could see you again and maybe even begin to get to know you better. After all, you were absolutely charming.

LEVI: Ohmygod…they’re an angel. That was the first thought Levi had when you approached the little table he was sitting at to take his order.

“Hi! My name is _______ and I’ll be your waiter you today. Could I start you off with something to drink?” you asked, giving him a small smile as you waited for him to respond. Levi was silent for a few moments, eyes glued to your face as you cocked your head to the side.

“Um, sir? Would you like something to drink? Or are you ready to order…?” Your voice rose uncertainly as you gave the fierce looking man a questioning look.

“Oh. Um, I–yes sorry, uh, I would like water. Um, water in a glass and uh,” he quickly glanced down at the menu, flustered that he had been staring at you for so long, “and…water?” You bit your lip to hide the wide grin threatening to spread across your face and laughed quietly.

“Alright, I’ll get you some water to start. And I’ll, um, let you think a little longer on what you’d like to order,” you replied, flashing him another sweet smile before turning back to the kitchen.

Levi’s heart was pounding in his chest. He had just made a goddamn fool of himself…but at least he had the rest of the meal to try and make a better impression. Because there was something special about you and he wasn’t about to let that opportunity slip away.

FRAN: When Fran saw you arranging bouquets of red roses outside the local flower shop, he knew he had to do something. He approached you quietly, smoothly taking the last bouquet out of your hands and presenting it back to you.

“Beautiful flowers for a beautiful person,” he tried to say as suavely as he could with a giant frog hood on his head. Raising an eyebrow, you gave the strange man a curious look before taking the bouquet back from him and placing it into the store’s display.

“Thank you, but you know I was holding this about two seconds before you took it out of my hands and then gave it back to me,” you said with a wry smile. Fran feigned offense.

“I can’t believe you would just toss aside my gift,” he joked, placing a hand over his heart. “You wound me.” His deadpan delivery made you giggle as you turned back to the bouquet he had “given” you.

“If you pay for it, then I’ll accept your gift.”

“Deal,” he replied quickly, reaching into his pocket for his wallet.

“Ah, would you also accompany me on a date too?”

His forwardness shocked you, and you paused a moment to collect yourself before turning to face Fran with a playful smirk.

“I guess a date with a guy like you wouldn’t be so bad~”

#katekyo hitman reborn #khr #varia #xanxus #squalo #belphegor #lussuria #levi #fran #it's been 20 million years but i've finally completed a request #i hope you like this!! and i'm sorry it took me so long to write #also it's so freakin long asjfshaf i'm sorry i hope it's readable #i got a little carried away and didn't know how to. shorten any of it.#but please enjoy and thank you for requesting!

73 notes · View notes