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itsallabouthedetails · 2 years

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soapy (knj x reader)

Pairing: android!Kim Namjoon x human!reader with a vagina

Summary: You've been given a sex android and are trying him out for the first time

Word count: 2.6k

Warnings: 18+, smut, pwp, soapy sweaty Joon, shameless self-indulgence (OC ofc, not me, what are you thinking), dubious use of dish soap, penetrative sex, fingering, knotting, edging or maybe just wrong timing, excessive use of–, vibrations in various body parts, lots of fun and lots of swear words.

A/N: First things first, the biggest and warmest thank you to @hesperantha for betaing and also coming up with this writing prompt in the first place. Who knew it would be so much fun to dive into this.

I usually don't post on Tumblr for various reasons, but this feels right. You can find the rest of my stories on AO3

(This is actually a prequel to my current series "Everything & Nothing". Don't read it if you're into more smut with Joon but do read it if you're into slow burn with Yoongi )

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The new android, (Joon, you remind yourself) is standing at the sink, his broad back turned towards you. Next to him, he’s lined up the wine glasses he has decided to wash up, even if you never use them. You don’t even like wine, and even when you’re serving it to guests you usually use cups.

Come to think of it, it was probably the dust on them that triggered him in the first place.

The white shirt he's wearing is too tight but at the same time exactly to your liking. You bought it out of impulse because the weird sweat suit he came with didn’t match the colour of your couch. You don’t know anything about clothing for androids, but you'll figure his size out over time and if you don’t, well, his naked body comes straight out of a magazine, quite literally. It’s so mouthwateringly muscular and tanned, it would be absolutely intimidating if it belonged to a human. Even belonging to an android (who, in turn, belongs to you), it’s almost more than you can take.

Which was such a shame, considering the fact that he was solely designed to satisfy your needs.

And needs you have, especially right now.

You've been dancing around trying him out for the first time ever since he arrived. You own a lot of other sex toys, after all, and they work really well.

But since he’s right there–

Fuck it. You walk over to him, sneaking your hands around his waist

“Baby,” you say, just to find out what he'll reply. “Baby.”

He turns in your arms, hands still wet and foamy. His shirt is partly wet too, and it’s almost a relief to see that you aren't the only one who still needs to figure things out.

“Take this off,” you say, tugging at his damp shirt.

He dimples down at you and you want to eat him up or at least run your tongue across his cheeks. Right now you have no idea what made you wait so long.

He steps back and takes his shirt off in one swift motion (it's amazing what tech can do these days) and you marvel at the flawless sight of him. Even his nipples look real, ready to suck or sink your teeth into. You scrape your nails lightly over the curve of his chest and he purrs before lifting you up effortlessly and placing you on the cabinet.

"What do you want me to do, hm?" he asks, his voice so incredibly low it makes your core pulse.

"Kiss me."

You don't expect it to be good but oh boy are you wrong. Whoever designed him knew what they were doing. Your tongues entangle and he makes all those little noises you love to hear and which turn you on even more. By now you can't wait for him to fuck you.

Things get heated real quick. You take your shirt off as well and wrap your legs around him and he sucks at your neck and your earlobe and he touches you just right until you whisper "fuck, you get me so wet" and your smart new android dips his hand into the water in the sink and splashes it all over you.

For a moment you freeze. The water is warm but you are so surprised your brain short circuits. Before you know what you do, you splash water on him too, leaving him glistening and foamy and looking just as surprised as you.

Droplets of water run down his chest as you stare. It shouldn't make you hornier but it does. He looks like a god just coming from the gym (do gods even need to go there?), all sweaty and bulky and you run your wet hand through his hair until it looks sweaty too.

Damn.

“Fuck me,” you say, not able to think about anything else anymore.

You shove down your pants while he gets rid of his. When you look at him again, he’s hard, he’s waiting, he’s ready to go.

“Hold on, I just need to–”

You spread your wetness a little with expert fingers and (thank fuck for not needing protection) guide him between your slick folds without further ado.

“Oh, you’re very warm,” he says, his hands bracing himself on either side of you and you burst out a laugh.

“I can’t believe this is what they teach you to say when you fuck someone.”

“What do you want me to say instead?”

“I don’t know, my brain doesn’t work well right now. What’s all this talking? Fucking move already.”

He finally does and a groan leaves you that sounds surprisingly feral, but you forget to care after a second, because ha, he’s not human and won’t judge you.

Oh yeah, the designers definitely knew what they were doing.

His thrusts are so powerful you’re thankful there’s a wall behind you for he would probably shove the cabinet across the room otherwise. (You make a mental note not to ask him to fuck you on the dining room table.)

Maybe it's because it's been so long since you were last fucked properly (actually you’ve never been railed like this) or maybe he’s just this good, either way you feel your high approaching embarrassingly fast.

And then, when you are already a panting mess, he suddenly starts to fucking vibrate.

“Oh what the fuck, holy shit, are you out of your mind?!”

You come right there and then, pulsing around his perfectly sculptured hardness and he slows down, curiously looking down at you.

“You like it?”

“Joon,” you catch your breath, “really? I just came like a fucking tornado and you’re still asking whether I liked it? Jeez, what’s wrong with your senses.” You gasp for air, leaning your forehead against his still-glistening chest. He smells faintly salty and you would laugh again if you weren’t so spent. You need to check out the dish soap later. Must be ocean breeze or something.

“You want to see what else I can do?” he says lowly into your ear, making your core clench around him.

He’s still inside you, still rock hard, still ready to go. And honestly, you’re still not satisfied.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and sigh. “Yeah. But please go slow, I need some time before I’m ready to take you full force again.”

“Babe,” he says matter-of-factly, “I was far from going full force.”

He carefully pulls out, then glides back in, even easier now, slicker and sloppier after your orgasm.

Goosebumps arise on your skin, as he keeps a languid pace until your sensitivity makes way to pleasure again.

“Faster.”

His movements speed up slightly.

“More. Do I need to say ‘three levels up’ or stuff like that?”

Joon makes a sound that pretty much resembles a snort and quips, “who’s the one talking too much now, hm?”

You raise your arm to slap him playfully but your hand slips off his shoulder right away and lands on his bicep instead. His very bulgy bicep that’s actually moving beneath his skin. Like, what the hell.

“Are you ready?” he asks and winks as you stare at him in mindless horny wonder.

“Yeah. You aren’t starting to glow or anything, are you?”

“I can play music if you want.”

What is he, some buy-one-get-all-household-appliances-in-one-body-for-free-on-top-machine?

“Seriously?”

“If you’re still able to talk so much, I’m not doing it right.”

After that you expect him to speed up his thrusts. But no, he patiently keeps the pace.

Until you feel it.

He’s getting gradually bigger, stretching you deliciously and the slow movement is just right.

“Tell me when it’s enough,” he whispers, watching you.

“Yeah, now I guess, hold on, wait, go slow, yeah, like that.”

He almost comes to a halt inside you and you take a few deep breaths. The fullness is awesome, it presses against your walls and–

“I’m not done yet, babe.” A smug grin spreads across his face.

It takes a while before you feel it. You gasp. Oh, holy shit.

He expanded it. Like–

Oh.

It feels so damn–

full.

"Oh shit, oh shit, this is–”

While you are busy losing your mind, Joon looks very pleased with himself.

"Can you-"

"What, baby? Use your words."

Damn, who taught him this.

“That’s exactly what they say in those dirty stories all the time, Joon,” you grumble, trying to sound scolding but instead you sound very breathy and very much gone.

He chuckles. Chuckles. Seriously? Is there anything he can’t do?

“Those people who designed you, really knew what they were doing,” you pant, circling your hips on his dick, relishing the feeling of fullness in all the right spots. “Can you still vibrate like this?”

“Would you like that more than me moving inside you?”

“Yeah. Prepare, I’m going to show you my tricks now,” you announce smugly.

He starts the slightest vibration and you lean backwards, reaching between your legs to touch yourself. He watches you gliding your fingers through your wetness, squeezing your lips and circling your clit repeatedly.

“Move,” you breathe. “Just a little bit.”

He does a faint body roll, rhythmically catching the light on his wet skin. His abs move. You watch them, mesmerized, how they shift and contract, how they shine with that damn soapy water that doesn’t seem to dry even though it feels like you’ve already been fucking for who knows how long.

The intensity of all this at the same time, the view, the feeling, the fullness, the tingling of your whole body, is too much to keep to yourself and you begin to spill words and words and words.

“It feels so good, you’ve no idea, more vibration please, yeah, like that, oh hell, oh what the hell, I’m so close, so fucking close, I–, Joon, don’t fucking stop, don’t you dare stop, oh shit, oh fuck, oh–”

Fuck.

What the hell.

You haven’t noticed that the pressure has decreased until Joon pulls out while you are just seconds away from coming really hard.

“What, no, what are you doing???” You’re yelling and you don’t feel bad about it.

“I’m not done yet.”

“Yeah, guess what, me neither and I was so damn close and you fucking ruined it!”

You’re pissed. You know about edging but don’t people agree on this shit beforehand and not out of the blue when they’re fucking getting it on for the first time ever?

Glaring at him, you shift and deliberately slip two fingers inside you.

“Oh no, we’re not doing that,” Joon says calmly, taking both of your wrists and holding them away from your throbbing core. “You’re either coming around me or not at all.”

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Your anger slowly turns into curiosity. He seems damn sure to get you off nicely, so maybe there actually is more to it.

“I promise it’s going to be worth it.”

“You better not leave me hanging a second time,” you huff, already pulling his hips towards you again.

He slips inside you effortlessly. “I won’t, I promise.”

“Carry me to the bed, please.”

He lifts you again and makes his way to the bedroom with ease as if he's just carrying a stuffed teddy bear.

A teddy bear that actually is pretty much stuffed.

He stays inside you as he walks, each step sending shocks of pleasure through you.

"I love this," you say blissfully, while you relax in his grip. Your cheek slips over his pecs. "And dish soap will never be the same again."

On the bed, he lays you down, but after a few thrusts, you impatiently decide it's not deep enough and plant yourself before him on all fours.

He doesn't wait for a command, just lines up and shoves inside with perfect care. It doesn’t take long until you feel the tension inside you build again. Maybe it wasn’t all that bad that he stopped before you came. What coils up in you now feels even more intense, more all-consuming.

"Goddamn,” you blurt after a particularly deep thrust. “You feel so good, I can't believe how fucking good this feels."

It's also a kind of full-body exercise to try to steady your body on the mattress.

"Could you-" you start, then remember he won't ever judge you, "Could you bite me? Please?"

“Where?” he asks eagerly.

“Anywhere. Neck. Shoulders.”

He leans down and his soapy warm chest glides against your back.

Teeth sink into your flesh. You wheeze.

"Do that again!"

It's the most animalistic sex you ever had. You feel like a mammal in a documentary, giving in to your most primal instincts.

"Wanna know what else I can do?" he teases against your neck, his teeth sinking into your flesh once more. By now everything is slippery. Your sweat mixes with the soap, creating seams of foam where your bodies meet. Wetness is running down your arms and your thighs, staining the sheets around you.

"What?" you huff, "more tricks?" You aren't sure you could take more of his surprises, but hey, quitters never win.

It's hard to speak coherently by now. Your arms hurt. Actually your whole body does. But there’s no stopping now. You just need a little more. Just a little more and you’re done for good.

It’s right there already.

"Okay, show me."

He slows down and slips a hand over your ass until one of his fingers dips between your cheeks.

Oh.

"Relax," Joon says softly, leaning forward again and licking long stripes of additional wetness onto your back.

Thank goodness he doesn't mind the taste.

He reaches your hole with a thumb at the same time his other hand brushes your clit.

Your body jolts. "What the hell." Eyes wide, you try to make sense of it, of being touched everywhere at once. Your limbs begin to tremble.

His thumb puts on a little pressure and enters you the tiniest bit.

"Fuck, Joon, what the hell are you doing?"

He moves as if he's about to pull away. But that’s definitely not what you want.

"Don't you fucking stop. Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop, I'm so fucking close, so close," you're babbling again but you don't fucking care.

And then he vibrates again.

And you scream.

And come.

And there's suddenly even more wetness all around you.

What the fuck. What the actual fucking fuck.

It’s an explosion. A very very satisfying explosion, but damn intense nonetheless. You collapse on the bed, laughing at the top of your lungs, gasping for air and still spilling curse words like you’ve lost your mind.

“Are you alright?” Joon’s hands run along your back soothingly until the heaving of your chest subsides and you slowly return to the here and now.

“Damn Joon, you weren’t kidding.”

He beams at you, from head to toe a very proud lover. With his damp skin and his hair sticking up in all directions, he very much looks like someone who just had sex.

You pad the bed beside you. “Come, lie down with me for a moment before I realise I’m covered in all kinds of fluids and want to take a shower.”

He crawls onto the bed, taking you into his arms. It doesn’t take long until it’s getting uncomfortable.

“Want to spend the night with me?”

“Is that a code for asking me if I’m down for a second round?”

You just stare at him. “It’s a code for ‘you were a good lay and I want to cuddle now and feel loved and cherished’.”

“Oh, ok. Yeah, sure.” He smiles at you innocently. “Go ahead and shower. I’m waiting.”

You climb off the bed. “The hell you are,” you say pointedly, raising a brow. “You can change the sheets, while I’m away. You know, I don’t keep you just for the fun of it.”

#namjoon smut #namjoon x reader #bts smut #bts x reader #bts fanfiction #namjoon fanfiction #bts pwp

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foxtaild · 2 years

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𝐋𝐀𝐖 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃

𝐨𝐧𝐞. this blog is highly selective & pretty much private , meaning i will only be returning follows to people i really see a chance to interact with. sometimes it can take a long time for me to check followers , so please allow a week for me to check out your blog. if after a week i still haven't followed you back , that likely means that i do not see a way in which our characters can interact OR that i feel as if i am already following enough people. if this happens to you , i am sorry. i am trying to keep this account as easy to maintain as possible as i do already have another blog that i am using more frequently over at @evelicious.

𝐭𝐰𝐨. there will be a high level of not safe for work content on this blog due to the nature of my character. i will be tagging everything as follows : death tw , gore tw , manipulation tw ... the only exception to this is tagging sexual content. thanks to tumblr's ban on this , i will be using the tag : lemon tw & suggestive tw. please do not interact with this blog if you are a minor , if you do it will lead to me hard blocking you immediately.

𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞. any graphics or edits you see on this blog are my own. the exception to this is my icon border , which was made by the lovely @/unprocione ! this also goes for any headcanons that i post. i ask that you please do not steal from me , whether it's copying a graphic that i have made or a headcanon. this kind of thing makes me really angry and if i see anyone stealing from me i will hard block you and all of your accounts.

𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫. when it comes to writing , i use small text & triple spaced words and icons. if anything is unreadable for you in our thread , please tell me as i am happy to adjust to your needs ! as for me , personally i can read pretty much everything & all i ask is that you cut your posts when making replies to things. otherwise , graphics & icons do not matter so much to me and i am happy to write with everyone.

𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞. i have been around in the tumblr/lol community for a long time , this has lead me to decide that i do not want to have anything to do with the league of legends community. there are a few blogs i will follow and interact with from that fandom , but there are also a lot that i will steer away from. this is not because i have any personal issues with anyone here , it is simply because the amount of drama i've seen in this fandom is just a huge turn off. that being said , if i see any drama on my dash i will simply block everyone involved and try to stay out of it as much as possible. however , i do support calling out harmful people !

𝐬𝐢𝐱. do not interact with me if you support/write the following : incest , rape , homophobia , transphobia , racism , aging up underage characters for sexual purposes , white wash characters ... i absolutely do not support any of these things & if i see it on my dash it's a straight up instablock and you're going on my dni list. as of right now nobody is on that list and i hope to keep it that way , but if you see me interacting with a harmful person please let me know ! i cannot be aware of everything that has happened in the community due to my low activity.

𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧. thank you for reading my rules , i really appreciate it ! my name is reed and i go by she/he pronouns. i am 24 + and currently living in the south of france with my wife. i do play league of legends on euw and i do have discord , if you're a mutual and are interested in those please shoot me a message and i will be happy to give it to you.

#rules.

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spicy-deluxe · 3 years

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Recording pt. I

Pt. 2

eren x reader

Camboy Eren and Horny Reader

Cw: smut, masturbation, cursing

Minors DNI

Word count: 963

A/N: This is my first official post for tumblr and I wrote this at 2 a.m. 💀. I will be writing a pt 2 of course. Please message me with any recommendations or requests as well. Have a good day and if nobody told you today, I love you ❤️

Finals week was wrapping up for this semester at your university. Taking 18 credit hours has not been an easy task but you were confident you would finish strong. Tonight you were completing an exam for statistics which was proving to be more of a challenge than expected.

11:42 p.m.

The exam had to be completed by 11:59 p.m. on the dot. Sweat beaded across your forehead as you scribbled and solved equations. The sounds of buttons be pushed on the calculator echoed off of your apartment walls as you hastily solved the problems on your screen.

11:56 p.m.

Frantically, you begin selecting answers to make sure the exam is completed in enough time. The exam automatically submits with the last few questions being blindly answered. After submission there is not an immediate grade and you knew that your bad time management would bite you in the butt. The anxiety of having a bad grade starts amping up.

Luckily for you, around midnight is when your favorite “show” comes on. You exit your online exam and click a link out of your favorites and there he is. The anonymous man that you watch faithfully that never fails to make you tingle between your legs.

After clearing off the bed, you prop your laptop next to you and get comfortable as you wait for the “show to start”.

Stargirl143: hi bby it’s good to see you again ❤️

You send the message into the chat. He smiles silently as he reads your message. You knew you were one of his favorite viewers as you were there almost every night if you weren’t busy. Your attention is caught once the no-face, unnamed man turned on his slow reverb at a low volume. It changes the mood and lets you know he’s getting started.

You watch him slowly rub his hands down his toned abdomen and down onto his clothed bulge. He brings his hand back up and repeats the motion a few times. You do the same to mimic the touch. You pull off your large t-shirt leaving you in your bra and sleep shorts. You rub your delicate hands past your belly button and back up, slowly grasping your right breast.

You watch the slow rising and fall of his chest as he breathes and continues with his sensual movements. He brings both hands down to the waistband of his underwear slowly pulling them down as his dick springs out against his lower abdomen. You quietly gasp because it has to be one of the most beautiful things you have seen and never disappoints.

You can see the slight precum leaking from his pink tip as he teases himself with light touches. He grabs the base of his dick and gives it a slight shake sending tingles down to your aching cunt. You pull off your shorts and slowly graze your hand over to feel how wet you were.

He starts to pump his dick and you hear slight moans coming from his mouth as his abdomen contracts to the pleasure. You bring your middle and ring finger to your clit and begin to rub small circles and begin to moan yourself.

“Fuck,” you hear him say softly as you increase your speed.

He cups his balls and begins to pick up the sped just a bit and let out louder sounds as his pleasure begins to build. You take your other hand and insert two fingers into your leaky cunt. The sound of his moans and the lewd squelching coming from you had your orgasm approaching rather quickly.

You can see his breathing begin to pick up tremendously as he speeds up his stroking. You close your eyes as your impending orgasm begins to take hold.

“Oh my god, f-fuckkk,” you hear and see his milky white cum shoot out onto his abdomen and down his fingers as he rubs out his orgasm.

You squeeze your eyes shut as your orgasm slams into you, heating your whole body and making your legs shake. You withdraw your fingers to see the sticky liquid coating your fingers and feel the wet spot beneath you on your sheets.

“Thanks for viewing tonight, I hope you all have a good night,” he says as he winks at the camera and end the stream.

You sigh as your post-orgasm clarity takes over as you hop out of bed and collect your sheets to put them in the wash.

After starting the load, you pull on a pair of leggings, a ragged t-shirt, and your slides. You grab your keys and head out for a late-night snack run. Turning the corner to the elevator of your apartment building you run into a man’s chest.

“Fuck- oh, I am so sorry,” you say as you take a step back and look up at the man.

He was beautiful. Green eyes looking down at you with a slight smirk on his face. He had his hair pulled back into a slightly loose bun and had on a tank with a pair of joggers and slides as well.

“It was my fault, I should have been paying attention,” he laughs.

“What’s your name?”, he asks.

“Y/N,” you quietly reply.

“I’m Eren, you have a beautiful name.”

You give him a small smile. “Thank you.”

You both stood there for a few seconds before you excused yourself and continued to walk to the elevator.

He stood back a bit watching you walk away, “Be safe and have a good night,” you hear him say.

You give him a shy “you too,” and step into the elevator. You lean against the elevator and think about how this simple interaction had you THIS flustered. A man you didn’t even know or have ever seen before - or so you thought.

#eren jaeger #eren yeager #eren x y/n #eren x reader #smut #finnabuss #first fic #camboy

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rebrandedbard · 3 years

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@greyduckgreygoose Tumblr ate your ask when I tried posting it two minutes ago. You requested prompts 5 or 6, which I choose to read as 5 and 6. Stay tuned for prompt 6 in the future. If you like this, perhaps I’ll make it more Valdo. Whump or healing—you pull the trigger, goosey. Or perhaps I’ll use prompt 6 for some Filavandrel fun. Let me know.

5. “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”

tw: alcohol, depression

WC: 1600 even. Whoo! Even hundredth place! Two goose eggs!

A Good Man

Geralt meets Valdo Marx while taking a contract on a ferry, protecting its passengers from an unknown threat on the water. Valdo himself is an unknown threat, until the two of them get to talking, and Geralt learns a quiet truth.

Geraskier. One-sided Valdo/Jaskier

Valdo Marx, troubadour of Cidaris, was the last person Geralt expected to meet on the ferry from Brugge. Per Jaskier’s rambling, he’d assumed the bard stayed put, living it up in Oxenfurt or Cidaris—Geralt was never quite sure if Cidaris were his home or simply a place he’d chosen for his adopted title. He’d wondered if Jaskier were a ‘Bard of Thereabouts,’ but he was never curious enough to ask where-abouts. They both travelled so much, Jaskier could be from anywhere. Something told him that Jaskier would choose Lyria if asked; the name was lyrical.

But Geralt supposed bards were of a travelling nature after all. Besides, the ferry down the Yda was the fasted way to travel inland from Brugge to Craag An, and just beyond was the Adalatte. A straight shot through Kerack would have Marx home in Cidaris in no time at all, and people with coin to spare liked to hurry to and fro in laid-back comfort. It was a paradox Geralt often found amusing.

He paid no fare for his ride, having been hired on for protection. It would seem that, of late, people were disappearing from the ferry before reaching their final destination, reaching a much more final destination than anticipated. Drowners, probably. Sirens were less likely, but not entirely out of the realm of possibility. The channels were connected to the ocean; something could have come washing downriver. It wasn’t altogether unheard of to find displaced sirens after the summer rainstorms. If asked which he’d be more likely to meet, Geralt would have chosen sirens before Valdo Marx.

Geralt recognized him as a bard from the off: it was impossible to mistaken anything so brightly decorated. True, the man did not carry his lute about his person as Jaskier would, but he wore the uniform of satin, the season’s colors all in coordination and too impractical for the weather. It was a mark of their trade, their plumage like birds of paradise and that theatrical air.

Well, the atmosphere around Marx was less the foppish theatrics Geralt had come to expect. He did not saunter across the deck wooing a crowd, nor reciting poetry. He did not do much of anything to draw attention to himself. In fact, he was quite unlike anything that made up Geralt’s image of bards, drawing back against the bulwark, completely silent. Like a fool, Geralt presumed they would go all the way to Craag An without confrontation, but it would be a snowy day in the desert before bards acted predictably.

It was late afternoon the second day on board when he approached, the sun falling low, bringing on the evening. Geralt was keeping watch at the stern: if anything was about it would be disturbed, knocked back as the ship made headway, clawing its way onto the deck from the rear. Geralt kept to the lower main deck, closest to the water. If anything came crawling up from below, he would be in position to dispatch it. The passengers aboard had likely been warned beforehand, or else they’d heard the rumors, as they stayed on the upper deck and bow. With the lower deck abandoned, he easily read Valdo’s approach from a distance.

“White Wolf?” he asked, leaning casually a few feet away from Geralt. The question was monotone, almost disinterested, but he would not have come if there had been no reason.

There was nothing else to do and, truth be told, Geralt was bored. So he turned to Valdo and nodded. “Geralt,” he replied. He’d never quite grow used to the fanciful title, but it brought him good business. It made him recognizable, and therefore comfortable, in so much as anyone could be comfortable around a witcher. Reputations had influence.

“Valdo Marx. I’m sure you heard of me.”

Geralt hummed. There was something in his manner of speech. It was not an obnoxious flaunt of his fame: there was something resigned in it. Bitter, perhaps. It was the same tone Lambert used to say, “There was a wraith in Gulet. I’m sure you’ve already heard.” It had taken a witcher down from the school of the viper. The tone implied notoriety.

For a while, they did not speak. The only sound came from the water below lapping against the side of the ship. Geralt waited, glancing at the troubadour once more before he turned his attention back to the water. He supposed that had been it, a simple acknowledgement. People were often curious, coming to him only to confirm his identity as Jaskier’s witcher. It was a title he’d grown comfortable with more quickly than the White Wolf. It was truer, and he smiled to himself when he thought of such instances in private.

“You’re a right lucky fuck,” Valdo muttered.

Geralt looked up again from the water. He turned to examine Valdo silently, wondering what, exactly, Valdo thought he had going for him to mark him as lucky.

Valdo stared back at him, looking tired and severe. “Maybe I would have had better luck if I didn’t talk so much,” he continued. “If I didn’t sing … ”

“Bards are supposed to sing,” Geralt replied. He now wished Valdo would go back to the upper deck. Nothing aggravated him quite like people who refused to get to the point. He scented an undercurrent of hostility in the air. That, and an abundance of vodka.

Valdo produced a flask from his jerkin and gave it a swig. “Never was trying to be a bard,” he muttered. He took another sip, let it sit, then concealed the flask once more. It occurred to Geralt that the man’s leaning was not entirely owed to false causality.

Geralt knew not what to say. So he simply said, “Hm.” He heard the knuckles crack in Valdo’s tightening fist.

“Melitele’s tits. Years of poetry and songs, and you come along with your … ‘hm,’” Valdo mocked, “and that’s it. Not even a melodic hm. Just … hm.” He raked his fingers through his hair, hissing through his teeth in frustration. He was muttering something under his breath, but it was incoherent, even to a witcher’s ears. When Valdo looked up again, his eyes were red. Neither that, nor the sour note in the air were owed to the alcohol, Geralt surmised.

“He won’t love you,” Valdo said. “He can’t. He doesn’t hold on to things that way. You’re just—” he flapped a hand, searching for the word “—a fascination. You’re something shiny and new. He’ll forget about you the moment he leaves your bed.”

“Who?”

“Who the fuck do you think, witcher. Don’t mock me,” Valdo snapped, voice cracking. If he didn’t look so pathetic, if his words did not carry such weight, Geralt might have chuckled to hear Jaskier’s infamous rival croak unprofessionally. It was not flattering of bards. But there was nothing funny in what he said, nor in how he said it.

“Wait a minute,” Geralt said. He had said less than ten words to the man, none of them mocking in the slightest, and he meant to say as much.

But Valdo held up a hand to silence him. The broken man slipped down to the deck, curling against his knees, head bowed. When he spoke, he mumbled against his knees, fingers tangling in his hair. “I went to Oxenfurt for him. I chased after him for so long, watching him fall in and out of stranger’s beds for less than a wink. But all he wanted me for … he only met me on the stage. Irked if I played below standard, livid if I won. Try what you will, there’s no pleasing Jaskier.”

Geralt thought he understood him then. “Are you jealous?” he asked.

Valdo lifted his head enough to meet his eye. His cheeks were wet, shining in the fading light. “Are you Jaskier’s witcher?”

“Yes,” Geralt replied.

“Then you have your answer.”

Geralt paused a moment. He approached Valdo slowly and lowered himself to his side. They sat together in silence, hidden in the shadow of the bulwark as the sun set behind. Valdo produced the flask again, offering Geralt a sip without a word exchanged. Geralt took the flask.

“Have you kissed him?” Valdo whispered.

“No.”

“Don’t. If he never kisses you, he might not leave.”

Geralt watched as Valdo finished the last of the vodka. “Did you?” he asked.

Valdo stared across the empty deck. “No,” he replied. “But I don’t count. He sings songs about you. I only exist to him three days a year at the bardic competition.”

“He talks about you,” Geralt offered. It was a poor comfort when one knew how Jaskier talked.

Valdo sighed and tucked away the empty flask. He stood on unsteady legs, turning back toward the stairs to the upper deck. “I know. I have a rough idea what sort of man you must think I am from his gossip.”

“I don’t hold with gossip.”

“No,” Valdo chuckled. “Your kind wouldn’t.” It wasn’t an insult, but empathy. There was an understanding between them on that mark. “I wanted to find out for myself what kind of a man you were to entice him so. I hate to think I see it.”

“What do you think you see?”

“A man. One whose best friend’s first wish would be to strike death upon his rival, and knowing him, would allow that rival to approach him without preconceptions. Who would share a flask with a sobbing drunkard and listen earnestly. A good man, in short. So ... hatefully good.”

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therealjammy · 3 years

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The Lady of Half-Death

Hi, hello, posting this here for the Tumblr crowd, in case you don’t feel like venturing to Ao3.

This work’s alternate title: “Lucky One”

Content Warnings: Very NSFW, a brief but graphic depiction of violence. (This work is meant for 18+ only!)

It’s also told in first person POV, the Forbidden Perspective, so sorry if that’s not your jam.... Thank you for reading xx

November, 1937

On a bitter November day, early in the morning, I was roused by the tinkling of the bell hanging beside my bed. Being Mother Miranda’s most competent servant, I was long used to a summons during the small hours of the dark. She was night’s creature, bent over her studies and her subjects until a bitter sun lit the sky, almost unaware of time’s passage, while her servants kept in perfect time with every striking hour. I splashed sleep from my features with bitterly cold water from the basin on my dresser and wrapped myself in my warmest robe. I lit a candelabra, savoring its small warmth as I donned my silver mask. It had frightened me at first, how the servants wore these metal things elongated into an elegantly startling bird’s beak, but when serving the Lady of Ravens, one had to know to whom they pledged their loyalty, both inside and outside the house’s grounds. Though the metal was light, it still made one’s head ache after only a few minutes of wear, and was a constant irritation after many hours. But like a pain that was more a nuisance than anything, it was easily set aside.

I walked quickly through dark hallways and creaking staircases, passing through rooms whose furniture was covered in sheets and rooms whose contents were not. Each was quiet as the long-dead.

The doors to the laboratory opened on soundless hinges. Inside, there was only a spotlight on the latest occupied table and the stoic figure of Mother Miranda leaning over it, her hands coated in deep crimson, her subject unmoving. Her face was drawn into a deep, displeasured frown.

“What may I bring you, ma’am?” I asked carefully.

“Tea, Trudy,” replied Mother Miranda. By the ancient tiredness in her voice, I knew the kind I ought to fetch.

Staying true to her grief, Mother Miranda had a fondness for black tea, steeped for five minutes to be strong, made stronger with a dollop of Sanguis Virginis, a sweet but robust red wine made by Lady Dimitrescu. She kept the largest bottle for herself, but sent a smaller one to Mother Miranda every winter. The bottle was red and adorned with golden flowers crawling up its sides.

By the time I brought the fresh tea to her, Mother Miranda’s hands were washed of blood, and the subject on the table was covered with a white sheet, slowly turning scarlet. I set the teacup and candelabra beside her and gave a professional distance.

“The nature of science,” Mother Miranda said, picking up the teacup, “is to fail again and again.” She held it delicately. There was rage underneath that delicacy. “Every vessel thus far has been unfit, even if it’s accepted the Cadou, and with each unfit one I feel as if I am losing her more.”

“You might feel like Tantalus, ma’am,” I said after a pause, “with your goals evading your grasp, but I rather think you must be like Orpheus.”

“Attempt until death,” she murmured. “Yes, child, I believe you’re right.” A long sip of tea. Underneath her golden mask, her pink lips turned a deep red. She set the cup gently in its saucer and rose from her chair, black robes shuffling quietly. “Come. Let us begin anew.”

I lifted the mutilated subject from the table, wrapping the sheet about her carefully, and carried her fresh limpness to the courtyard with the others. Her cooling blood seeped from the sheet and onto my robes, and it dripped onto the bricks and my feet, leaving a sticky trail. It was cloying, but it was a sweet perfume compared to the rich decay that wafted from the courtyard’s cold soil. In the dark, I saw there was already a space made for her. I lay her carefully in it. A good sacrifice deserved gentleness once the deed was done, after all. In that sense, I was more merciful than Mother Miranda. Once a body was no longer of use, she would carry it out herself and toss them hastily aside, for only one body mattered above the rest.

“In life and in death,” I said over the grave, “we give glory to Mother Miranda.”

I sprinkled a handful of dirt over the covered girl and left her to the bitter, near-winter air.

Inside again, I scrubbed the table twice with soapy water and dried it thoroughly. I lit more candles, placing them around the table’s edges, away from the notes that Mother Miranda spread across the surface. While she organized them, I brewed another pot of tea, bringing it and the gifted bottle of Sanguis Virginis with me. When I had poured my own cup, Mother Miranda gestured to the wine. Pour that in, too. I obeyed without question. Grey eyes watched me drink, unchanging even when I made no face at the taste of wine and blood mixing with strong black tea. I’d learned long ago that reactions caused reactions. I remained impassive, though my stomach still curdled and rebelled at the taste of the sinful wine. To the others—Mother Miranda and Lady Dimitrescu— the wine was a sweet and prized possession. If ever it was sold, it would be incredibly expensive.

I brought a chair and perched myself next to Mother Miranda. It was always a thrill to be at her side, to study her volumes of notes and drawings and glimpse the way her mind worked. But more than that, I cherished the nights like this, when it was only the two of us. I enjoyed her company. I desired more of it, because I desired her. At times I believed she knew this, but then she would dismiss me so easily, brush by without a care, and I’d question if she knew at all.

Attraction, I reminded myself, was a science, too, and like an experiment gone horribly wrong, it was best if one didn’t share the results.

I cleared my throat and straightened in my chair. “We should begin where this one failed,” I said. “Pinpoint a reason, compare it to the rest.”

We pored over notes for hours, comparing observations, Mother Miranda writing furiously in her looping scrawl underneath a page titled Quinn. The candles burned low, and the sky lightened outside the laboratory’s several windows, revealing a cold, white-filled dawn.

“The conclusion is painfully obvious,” Mother Miranda sighed at last, pushing her nearly empty teacup aside. It’d turned cold hours ago. “I must find a truly unique vessel. The village is rotting with diluted blood and therefore cannot be used again. Three of the Lords—those children!—were ones I found outside. Diluted in other ways, perhaps, but strong enough.”

“Yet you declared them all unfit,” I remarked.

“Because they were too much,” Mother Miranda said stiffly, “and the rest have been too little. They served their miserable purpose and now I must find yet another clean slate! And to think I’d chosen so carefully…” A hand curled into a fist, clenched improperly due to taloned fingertips.

“Send me to the field, Mother Miranda,” I said. “I will search for you.” But it was the wrong thing to say, for her other hand darted quickly out and knocked her teacup and saucer from the table. They shattered on the floor, black-red tea pooling around their remains.

“Do not be dim, child; it cannot be done by you. It must be me.” She paused for a long moment, coming back to herself with a single, sharp shake of her head. “Please,” Mother Miranda said around a breath, “forgive my outburst.” She moved smoothly to the shattered teacup just as I did. We knelt out of time but reached for the same piece, her gold-plated fingers brushing my bare ones, sending a brief, hot shock through my being that ended in my chest.

“You need never ask my forgiveness, Mother Miranda,” I said, slowly withdrawing my hand and reaching for a different piece. “A woman in grief doesn’t know her own actions.” And it was her grief, I thought then, that made my heart ache for her. That made everyone’s hearts ache for her. Mother lost a child, they’d say. No greater tragedy exists. We must be kind.

“Grief is some people’s undoing,” Mother Miranda said. She had stopped picking up shards of teacup, a few pieces cradled in a hand. Her gaze was on the puddle of bloody, wine-soaked tea. “It festers like a splinter left in too long, or a piece of metal unable to be dislodged, and it consumes, until its host perishes with it. I’ve known it for many stretches, but rather than give myself to despair, I have chosen determination; for the parasite cannot fully live while its host fights it. So fight I must.”

Her face was a pale reflection on the tea’s surface.

II.

The next morning, a snowy one, Mother Miranda went for a walk. In her absence, her rule passed to me, and then to the Head Housemaid Vera, a stout older woman who kept the other servants in strict line. I was, however, only consulted for advice or for orders. Other than that, I was blessedly alone, a spectre haunting the laboratory while I organized Mother Miranda’s notes and gave into my own musings, letting my mind take up the cluttered space. Many things ran through it: thoughts of my former life, of the people I’d once seen and never would again, and if I followed that line, I knew exactly how I’d come to be here. Sitting alone in a tepid laboratory, surrounded by paper, rotting with attraction.

It’d been there from the beginning, for there was always attraction to a leader, and many reasons behind it. People were attracted to safety and to comfort, to promises and protection, but highest of all, a deity that preached all the above. People backed off their words more often than they gave in to them, but a deity never would; their word was given and kept. It was learned, it was ingrained, and so like everyone else, I held that same attraction. I gazed upon the same likenesses of Mother Miranda and prayed for protection, for strength. I prayed to one day work for her—the highest blessing of all!—and that prayer was answered. She came to my door in all her godly glory and the paintings held no candle to her real beauty.

The attraction molted once I’d begun to work for her properly. She was aloof and cruel and methodical, but there was talent and beauty, too, and soon enough I began to realize there was a person underneath the deity. And it was the person whom I thought of, now, wondering where her walk was taking her, who she was talking to, what she was thinking. I imagined her underneath a cold white sky, ashy flakes of snow sticking to her black robes and veil, the harsh, mountainous landscape reflecting her own desolation back at her.

I thought, as I filed the last of the notes away, that I would make her return easier. Oftentimes her walks changed her mood; one never knew the sort she’d bear when she walked through the doors. It could be the silent sort of rage, during which she’d seal the doors of her laboratory shut and refuse to emerge for days, or the one where she’d return with a deadly ice in her eyes and drag the nearest servant by the wrist to her chambers. Sometimes they’d be alive and shuffle from the room with their clothes barely on; other times there was an unfortunate mess to clear away.

During my luncheon, I called Vera to me and ordered the most frequented rooms be given a thorough cleaning, excluding the laboratory and Mother Miranda’s bathroom.

“And her dinner?” asked Vera, once she’d given the orders to four maids. “Something comforting, I assume, as the latest loss is still ripe in the courtyard.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “A shepherd’s pie with marmite in the gravy, and the bottle of Sanguis Virginis.”

“Very good, Miss Bevan.” Vera bowed her head and left.

I went over the bathroom myself, being careful to put every object in its proper place. I drew a bath, the water unbearably hot, but by the time Mother Miranda returned, it would be perfect.

I loitered for a long while in the bathroom’s silence, sat on the chessboard floor, gazing out the window to the snow-covered hills, the occasional drip, drip of the tub’s taps serenading me into a trance, filled with visions of blonde hair and grey-blue eyes and impeccable hands.

I wasn’t the first to think of her in this light. Far from it. Worship came in many forms, after all, and many people fell to this one. Except mine was to the woman I knew, not to the idol emblazoned on a shrine dangling from a peeling wall.

Unable to think of nothing but the bathroom’s suddenly stifling heat and the absent Mother Miranda, I left, unaware of where I was going until I collapsed on the chair I’d occupied earlier, everything about me aching for someone who saw me only as a servant in high regard—but a servant nonetheless. The fact, I thought, unbuttoning my uniform enough to feel cool air caress my chest, made me desire her all the more.

I propped a shoed foot on the seat’s corner to give myself better access and began my pleasure gently, my head falling against the back of the chair once the rhythm was established, my free hand indecisive on where it wanted to stay—a breast, the chair’s edge, the table; at least until my mind offered me a vision of Mother Miranda ordering me, from between my thighs, to keep it planted firmly on the chair’s edge. There it stayed while my other moved, and behind my closed eyes I saw a skilled tongue working me up, teasing, licking slowly as if to claim ownership to even that part of me; I saw intense eyes meeting my own, telling me to give myself over; in my mind I whispered my glory to her. I twitched erratically, my movements almost clumsy; a few moments more and I’d be tumbling into the blissful void—or would have, had I not heard the door open and the familiar, near-silent movement of the woman living in my head.

The silence that beat between us lasted only a moment and yet it felt like centuries. Mother Miranda’s eyes narrowed to deadly slits, and before I could manage to stumble out an explanation, she strode to me in five heavy steps.

“You dare defile this space with your musings?” Mother Miranda hissed, her grip on my wrist vicelike. “Do you not know how ill I find this gesture? How ill it makes me to think you care naught for the meaning of this room?” Claws slashed at my cheek, the first sting of it only surprise at first; it burned when I realized she’d cut flesh. I felt blood welling, but I could not bring a hand up to staunch its flow. Nor could I staunch the fresh wave of heat that pooled in my core at Mother Miranda’s fury. Cold eyes darted from my still-wet hand to my face. Mother Miranda scoffed, roughly releasing my wrist. “Attraction is a damned wicked creature,” she said. “It morphs perspective and thought. It makes one act rashly, makes one believe they’re subtle. You think I’ve not seen your lingering gazes, child? How you bask in my company the way you would underneath the sun? How you are afraid of my rage but it arouses you all the same?” She chuckled lightly, dragging gold-tipped fingers over my cheek, the metal blessedly cool against my heated skin. Having spent so much time in close quarters with this woman, I was no longer terrified by the talons. Their scraping made the coil in my belly curl tighter, and if she were to slip bare fingers against me, she would find me all too ready for her. I met her eyes with a steely look of my own, hoping she wouldn’t see shame, but Mother Miranda was wise in ways I couldn’t fathom. She saw through people as if they were cheesecloth.

She hummed, fingers roving lower, tracing my pulse hammering in my throat. “Is there any shame about you, Trudy? I should think so, as you are not my equal.” Moving lower still, to the buttons I hadn’t undone, hovering like she wished to tear them—and perhaps she did, for her hand gave a small twitch. “I am higher than you will ever be, yet you stand here, gazing at me so defiantly, trembling with your want of me… Do you think it will make you rise to my level?”

Her words were fog clouding the forests of my brain. I could think of nothing but how I wanted to serve her, to fall to my knees and pledge fealty, even if it was sworn with her hand guiding my mouth between her thighs. I said, “No, Mother Miranda.”

“No, indeed. But,” a taloned thumb slid over my lower lip, “it’ll bring me pleasure to see you try.”

When she kissed me, it was with a slowness that one could believe was care, but I sensed the possession. I opened my mouth to it, leaned into it, every nerve alight at the thrill of kissing someone I had once dreamed of serving under. Her hands drew me close to her, splaying across my back, bunching up my uniform, and her kisses became rougher, filled with need. I met every one with a need of my own, my shaking fingers undoing the rest of the buttons down my front. The movement caught Mother Miranda’s eye; she pulled back, her gaze intense, the color high in her cheeks, watching intently as the top half of my uniform parted and revealed bare skin. She reached out, two fingers gliding smoothly over my collarbones, my sternum, tracing the swell of a breast; gooseflesh rose in the touches’ wake, and my breathing trembled.

“You are practically untouched,” Mother Miranda said quietly. There was, to her, no greater sin than a specimen that remained unstudied and uncatalogued.

“Only practically, Mother Miranda,” I returned.

She leaned down, burying her face against my bloodied neck. Lips pressed softly, tongue lapping slowly— tasting me. “Have you not known love?” she said. “Or devotion?”

“Fleetingly.” There was the blacksmith, Cristian, in whose strong arms I felt safe. There was Tatiana, who made me feel at peace even after our desperate acts. But with this life, they were fleeting. To serve one of the Lords or Mother Miranda herself, it was until death. “The only devotion I know,” I continued, my voice growing thinner the lower her mouth travelled, “is to you.”

Mother Miranda hummed against my chest. “You worshipped well, then, Trudy,” she said, rising, taking my chin between two fingers and tilting my face up to hers, “but what of now? How shall you prove your worth to me?”

I grasped her unoccupied hand and pressed it against my breast, holding it there. I wanted her to feel it, to feel my heart underneath it, to know she could reach in and take it because I offered it to her. “Take what you will,” I said.

What was left of her resolve crumbled. Mother Miranda swept me into her arms with a low growl, lifting me as easily as she would a child and setting me hastily onto the table we’d cleaned the night before. Impatient fingers worked the rest of my clothes away. She tossed them aside and pressed me into the cold wood, impossibly dark eyes drinking me in, lingering on my neck, my breasts, my thighs. Places I hoped she would kiss. Places she did, in that order, her mouth untamed, leaving harsh love-marks behind. Throughout that act, she didn’t once touch me; I was strung so tightly that even one finger tracing me would’ve been my undoing. It was a sort of torturous study, I realized, clamping my tongue between my teeth when it nearly made me beg for release; she was seeing me as a case, testing my own resolve. How long could she make me wait before I begged forgiveness? Time ceased to exist. I could not tell how long she made me hang.

When she finally did touch me, I was relieved. Instead of a sigh, a long whimper escaped my mouth. Mother Miranda groaned in response, her fingers twitching and pausing against me, surprised at the slick want they found. Her second touch was heavier, more confident. My hands couldn’t help but cling to the back of her neck, which was covered by a thick cotton veil. I realized I’d touched her without her consent, but when I made to pull away, her free hand came to rest over both of mine, and together we slid the veil from her head.

Blonde hair, a darker gold in the dim light of the laboratory, fanned around her face, gracing my bare forearms, soft as silk. Without the veil, it was tantamount to seeing her naked.

“Cling to me,” Mother Miranda breathed.

It was as much permission as I was going to receive.

I buried my hands in her hair and leaned up to kiss her. I accepted her tongue when it slipped between my teeth. I opened for her when, at last, she slid fingers inside me.

And when she truly took me, she devoured me, sprinkling evidence of her use across any expanse of skin she could reach, uncaring if teeth dug in too much, if my back was rubbed raw from the wooden table, if her golden talons left angry scratches. I clung harshly to her during my crisis, my cries only winding her further, for when I was barely limp, she withdrew entirely and carried me to her own chamber. Deposited on her bed, I watched through bliss-filled eyes as she undressed.

Black robes pooled at her feet. In the blue-white moonlight, she was harshly ethereal. Everything about her seemed to glow, including her eyes. And sprouting from her back were five pairs of midnight wings. I wanted to catalogue it as a dream, a delusion caused by a mind still recovering from an intense crisis, but the wings, like Mother Miranda’s arms and legs, were very much a part of her.

“Look while you can,” she said. “Commit it to memory, for true revelations are rarely given so freely.”

She stood for study, allowing me to take in every inch. My eyes lingered where hers had lingered on me.

“Do you reject me, Trudy?” she questioned softly.

“No, Mother Miranda,” I replied. I offered her my hand. “I’d fall to my knees in prayer if I were not otherwise occupied.”

She accepted my hand and leaned over me on her bed, naked and otherworldly, and in my long, exquisite worship of her, I met death eye to eye and thought there would never be another equal.

#resident evil #resident evil village #fanfic #mother miranda #mother miranda x oc #mother miranda x reader

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all-things-fic · 4 years

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Country Lane | Divorce Harry III

Thank you all for waiting for this one. Massive middle finger to tumblr for screwing the post up! Divorce Harry III is finally here!

Shoutout to my lovely ladies who taking time to read this for me @harrytheehottie, @harryfeatgaga, @haute-romance-quotidienne and of course @waitingfortwilight. Also, thank you to all my lovely anons and those of you who come off anon to talk about this, I’ve really loved the general chit chat about the series <3

Without further ado, enjoy! Lots of love and happy Saturday! x

*~*

You had no idea where you were.

Surrounded by nothing but overgrown grass and the odd wooden fence. If you listened carefully in the distance you could hear the traffic of what you thought could be the A34 road and you were pretty sure that the last sign you had seen before your car cut out had been for Congleton.

Rubbing your hands down your fresh face, your spa retreat to Mottram Hall for the hen-do of one of the school Mum’s entering her second marriage, was nothing more than a distant memory. As you sat freezing, in your car, looking out onto the harsh autumn weather of October, you were far from relaxed and rejuvenated.

Worrying your bottom lip with your top teeth, you juggled your phone from palm to palm. You knew you had to call him, you effectively didn’t have any choice. Especially after you’d pulled your way through your glove compartment and you hadn’t come up trumps with your breakdown cover documentation.

Part of you was cursing in that moment at how you’d handed the piece of paper which held all telephone numbers and car insurance policy account numbers over to your son to scribble upon during one particularly long car session, just to keep him quiet. You were actually sure it was now stuck on your fridge with a lovely drawing of what you presumed to be Marvel characters all over it.

The worst of it all was that you knew whatever had happened to your car was bad. You knew simply from the way the car had spluttered and started to grind before almost seizing up and stalling to a halt.

Unlocking your phone, you scrolled through your contacts and landed on his contact card. Clicking on it you saw when the last time you had called him was and recalled the soft FaceTime he’d had with your eldest son, who wanted to tell his Daddy about how he’d been picked for the schools first rugby team, taking him out of reserves and off the bench.

Breathing deeply, you ignored the ache the fond memory began to cause and tapped Harry’s name. The dialling tone that greeted you filled the pit of your stomach with knots as you tried to relax in the leather seat of your Range Rover.

Again, you started to worry your lips at the fifth ring, before the line clicked and you heard his warm voice. You froze at how friendly he sounded, his voice held an edge of laughter to it and you heard shuffling faintly in the background, followed by chatter, before it was shut out.

On the other end of the line, Harry had found himself dodging his way around people in his Mother’s kitchen in Cheshire, before leaving the room and catching your call before it cut off.

“Sorry ‘bout tha’,” he spoke an unnecessary apology, probably because of how long it had taken him to answer, as you remained quiet on the other line.

You blinked harshly at the sound of your name being spoken. “Are you still there?” Harry asked, pulling the phone away from his ear to see that the call was indeed still running.

“Ye- yeah,” you stuttered, partly due to a soft tremble to your lips from being cold.

“Everythin’ alrigh’?” He asked, a concerned edge to his question, as you dropped deeper into your car seat.

Another small amount of silence.

“Not really,” you responded, honestly. “Where are you?”

With a small frown, he answered, “‘M at Mums. ‘S her birthday this weekend, remember?”

Shit. You’d forgotten.

Heavily breathing in response, you said, “It slipped my mind. Sorry.”

There was a chuckle at the end of the line.

“Not like you tha’,” he playfully jostled, causing the pit of your stomach to fall through again. You hated how he always managed to make any conversation between the two of you not seem as if you were in the middle of a prolonged divorce. “Usually got everything colour coordinated on our kitchen calendar.”

And he still did that so smoothly too, spoke about things as if you still did them together. The use of ‘our’ and ‘we’ was second nature and so naturally fell off his tongue in a velvety way that was soothing but left you shivering if caught by your touch in a different way.

As if he could read your mind, before you’d thought it, he said, “Don’t worry. I added everyone’s names to the presents so she thinks they’re from all o’ us.”

“I shouldn’t have called, you’re busy,” you responded without feeling, starting to pull the phone away from your ear and back to thinking about how you could get in touch with your breakdown cover. There had to be a way, surely.

“Hey, no,” he was urgent. “Don’t hang up, ‘s fine. I’ve pulled myself away. ‘S okay- please. Don’t hang up on me, something’s not right ‘ere. ‘S okay to still need me sometimes, y’ know?”

“It’s okay, I can sort it myself-“ you flung your car door open. “Can you just tell me know how to pop the bonnet up on this car, cause it’s been so bloody long since I last had to do it-“

“Pop the bonnet? Why’d you need to do that? Have you broken down somewhere?” His questions were clipped as he asked.

“Don’t get arsey with me-“

“‘M not,” he replied, quickly cutting. He really was. “Are the kids wi’you?”

“‘S alright for me be stranded on the side of the road on my own when it’s about to get dark-“

“Did I say that?” Again, he words were clipped. “Are you trying to wind me up?”

“Why have you not told me how to raise the bonnet?”

He sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose before walking the short distance in his Mother's hallway to lower himself, slowly, down to sit on the stairs.

“Underneath the passenger side there’s a lever,” he paused his softer tone, giving you time to find it. As he spoke you trampled against the grass closest to the passenger side and opened the door. Looking down at a red lever, which had clearly made itself known to you now that it had been brought to your attention.

“Found it?” he asked, hearing you hum.

You shut the passenger door of your car and stared at the slightly popped up bonnet, Harry’s voice filling your ears again. “If you feel underneath the bonnet, between the E and the R there is another little lever. Squeeze that and it’ll release the bonnet-“

“Where’s the little thing to keep it up?”

He breathily chuckled, “‘s on hydraulics so keeps itself up.”

Again, you didn’t respond and he was met with silence. Harry rested his chin against his palm waiting for you to speak, eyes looking towards the dimming light as night began to approach.

“Wha’ can you see?”

“Not a whole lot, it looks fine to me.“

“Darling, just let me come to you.”

“But this is why I pay for breakdown cover,” you snapped.

“Where are you?” He asked, voice deep and to your annoyance laced with concern that he should no longer hold.

You stammered trying to figure out some sort of excuse to bullshit him with, eyes taking in the country lane and the vast greeness around you.

“Last time ‘m askin’,” he harshly cut in. “‘S gonna get dark soon, so jus’ tell me where y’are.”

“Somewhere near Congleton.”

“And wha’s the matter wi’the car?”

You noted his voice on his last question was a bit pinched, probably from focusing on another task like pulling on a pair of trainers to bring him to you. He clearly wasn’t playing along anymore.

“Well, I think I’ve had an oil leak but none of the lights have come on to officially let me know whether I have or haven’t. The only thing is the nasty black marks that are on the driveway at home, but ‘s nothing that couldn't probably be jet washed off-“

As you rambled about cleaning the oil from the drive of the Hampstead home, Harry zoned out beginning to list the things he would probably require to bring with him. He was sure some of it could be found in Robin’s old garage, knowing that boxes of tools were still piled in the far corner.

“Send me your exact location via text.”

“Harry-“ you sighed.

“‘M not askin’, ‘m telling,” he abruptly responded.

***

People say that Googling symptoms is never a good thing, you suppose the same could be said for a car.

Were they symptoms though? You couldn’t quite coherently think of another descriptor for them as they brought up search after search at how you quite possibly could have ruined your car.

You tried not to dwell as the sky around you began to get darker while you sat in the safe passing place on the country lane. It wasn’t like you had much choice but to stick around.

Cold, and dithering slightly, you had taken to throwing your coat over your body like a blanket as simply wearing it wasn’t keeping your entire body warm enough.

Car doors locked and eyes closed, you tried to find some solace in your waiting. You didn’t have much avail, as you were interrupted by the harsh white lighting of LED headlights breaking through the dimming dusk sky.

You frowned, eyes squinting as the light got closer and pulled in behind you. A sense of uncertainty filled your body at the new arrival, along the otherwise desolate road.

A figure of a male jumped out of the car behind you, causing you to still all of your movement in your car seat as you tried to make out any features to you that would make you comfortable in knowing it was Harry.

The blinding lights made it far too difficult to see anything and you were beginning to think that the person behind you had left them on, on purpose. Unless they were those annoying ones that slowly turned themselves off.

Staring out you vaguely were able to make out the figure approaching you and as he got halfway you relaxed.

It was Harry.

He rapped his knuckles gently at your driver's side window and then smiled to himself as he realised how you wouldn’t be able to open it due to your inactive engine.

“Open the door for me,” he spoke, his voice slightly muffled as it came through your car window. He watched as you reached for the door handle inside and pushed the door ajar ever so slightly. “Could you have picked anywhere more hidden away?”

You didn’t respond straight-away, deciding instead to take him in as he stood with his left arm leaning up against the doorframe of your car. His right arm taut as he held the car door open and away from you both, not wanting it to cause any obstruction.

Underneath his khaki parka you could faintly make out a worn Versace tee as it hung open, unzipped. You internally rolled your eyes. What kind of person wore Versace to fix a car and possibly get covered in oil in the process?

As you rested your head back against the seat behind you, you silently enjoyed the way he looked down at you. It was always quite frustrating, even more so now you weren’t together, how magnetising he was.

“Do me a favour?” He broke the silent stare, “Lean over and pull the lever for me? Don’t quite fancy walking around the car and possibly going down a ditch.”

“My parking isn’t that bad!” You chastised, watching the way his lips twitched. “I’m being courteous of other cars on this tiny lane, given them extra room near the passing place-“

“You got miles of space this side of the dotted line,” he spoke cutting in, eyes wide and filled with humour. “Surprised you didn’t drive down the hill bank the other side to be extra courteous.”

“Can pull the lever yourself now, hope you break your ankle-“

“No you don’t-“

“I’d just leave you here, you know? Take the keys out of your pocket and go.“

“Don’t need to resort to petty crime,” his voice was a bit weaker now but still just as cheeky. “Could’ve just asked for ‘em.”

Your eyes moved towards the glinting keys that he held loosely by the key ring after quickly retrieving them from his pocket. Tauntingly wanting you to reach out from them.

“You’re just going to pull them away, if I grab for ‘em.”

“‘M not,” he stressed with a slight laughter. “You’re always so cynical and defensive. Not even thanked me for driving out to come and get you.”

You didn’t respond, instead you gently reached for the keys, feeling him slightly shift them from your grip as he enjoyed the determination on your face.

Fingers filled with want, you still grabbed for them, successfully but having to be halfway out of the seat and door of your car in order to fulfill your achievement.

When your feet met the ground beneath you, you quickly shifted around to pull your coat on properly. As you moved from the doorway, you watched as Harry dropped his chest onto the driver's seat and reached across the width of the car to pull the lever without needing to walk around the car to do so.

Putting a bit of distance between you, so you didn’t fall foul of staring too long at his bum in his blue jeans, you stalled yourself as he pushed his body up to standing and flipped through a book in his hands.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?” He said, flicking through what you now knew to be the car’s manual that he must’ve also grabbed from the glove box while inside the car. When you didn’t reply he tore his eyes away from the pages and over to you.

“You’re a good man.”

The honesty in your voice, knocked him. “‘M not, but ‘m trying t’be.”

The two of you stared at each other in the dimming darkness and you knew your gaze matched his sad one.

Clearing his throat, he threw the manual against the driver’s seat. “Anyway out m’ sight, leave the men to the work an’ all tha’. ‘S got heated seats an’ all, if you’re into tha’ sorta thing.”

***

You felt bad watching him out in the cold and dark, a light hanging from the bonnet the only source around him that you imagined was keeping him going.

Sitting in the passenger seat, you let your eyes roam around the black interior of his car that was incredibly spacious and so suitable for your barrage of children.

Your attention turned to outside again as you saw Harry move around from your car and walk up towards his own. His forearm came up to wipe across his mouth, bringing your attention to his facial hair that seemed to be getting thicker and thicker.

Without needing to be prompted, you pressed the button to lower the driver's side window and watched as he pressed his forearms into the resting place you had created for him now there was no window blocking his way.

“Can you get me one of them shammy cloths from out o’the boot please? Jus’ need to double check the dipstick.”

You nodded as he continued, “Would do it m’self but-“ he paused, opening out his hands and showing how dirty his fingers were to you.

“It’s fine,” you said, leaving the car and joining him. “I feel a bit useless anyway,” you admitted.

Both of you remained silent when he joined you at the back of his car, two sets of eyes easily spotting what you were looking for. You opened the packet of two cloths, a horrible peach colour, and passed him one before swapping places with him.

You moved to stand at the side of the car, watching him drop his head inside the boot to see if there was anything else he needed while he was at the other car.

“Since when did you become one of them?”

“One of who?” He asked, his head popping around the side of his car and out of the boot to look at you.

“Your lights on this car are far too bright.”

He rolled his eyes, remaining quiet as he turned back to the contents of his boot. He wasn’t going to respond to your unnecessary nitpicking.

“It’s really nice inside though. Single about me did well then,” you found yourself saying the comment in a biting fashion, unable to hold your tongue.

“Which one?” He bit right back, a clanging heard from the boot, “I asked you if you wanted a credit, you said no.”

You clammed up. He hadn’t taken what you said as a joke. A bit of light humour, you thought, for the road. It was your own fault. You’d become that sort of annoying person you often could get when you found yourself awkwardly doing nothing with yourself. Your delivery of your joke didn’t help either.

“Think I preferred you when you stayed sat, quiet, in the car,” Harry said, head moving out from the boot again so you could read his expressions. Raised eyebrows and twitching lips.

“Piss off,” you glared at him, slowly turning to walk away.

Now it was Harry’s turn to think you were joking, as he shouted after you. “Really gonna be like that after I turned up to save you. That’s twice now I’ve had t’remind yer.”

“You insisted-“

“I know I did,” he spoke around a chuckle. “Now where’re you off to?”

“‘M walking home-“

“Don’t be so fucking ridiculous,” he shouted after you, a frown jarring through his light features when he moved from the open boot to walk closer to you as you turned back around to face him.

***

He managed to coax you to sit back in the car not much longer after you’d stormed off in a huff. Not without a fight, but this was one he was willing to back down on just to get you to stop storming off.

Looking back on it now, the scene was probably quite funny to some passerby or outsider, or it would’ve been if you weren’t so secluded. A female dressed in the most fetching of clothes - sarcasm noted - arguing in the middle of a street. Like some five year old in need of a nap.

Speaking of naps, your eyes shot open wide at the loud bang of your car bonnet being shut. You hadn’t realised that you’d begun to doze until you were abruptly woken.

Bleary vision was quickly erased with a rub of your eyes, as you moved to face the front and pushed your hair from your face.

You were met with Harry busy fiddling with the wires of his lamp. His face dropped down and hair falling so easily into his eyes. He kept walking rather than look into the car to see if you were still with him. Instead, he dropped everything that was in his hands into the boot and proceeded to annoyingly continue to subconsciously show off by pressing a button to close his boot automatically.

Staying wrapped up in one of your kids car blankets, you curled your legs underneath your body and rested your right cheek against the headrest. You continued to be silent as you started to wake up, eyes blinking slowly as you watched Harry in the dark pull open his car door.

He swung his body into the car with an almighty groan, one that caused you in your sleepy haze to softly smile. He looked shattered as he relaxed in his seat and rested his head backwards.

With eyes closed he sighed heavily, letting you take him in without a care. You’d noticed that at some point since your nap he’d removed his coat and now he sat in just his t-shirt and jeans. Both, of which, now looked like they had seen better days.

His brow had begun to perspire as he entered the warmth of his car, the quick switch from the Baltic (slight over exaggeration) temperatures outside to those more welcoming inside the G-Wagon could do that to you.

“Don’t think it’s fucked completely,” he said to break the silence, wiping his face and sweat with the back of his hand and wrist, to try and ensure his oil covered fingers didn’t leave any other stains on his skin.

You enjoyed the way he used the back of his hand, wrist and forearm to wipe at his now slightly clammy skin. Stupidly it emphasised how defined his upper body had become. “Dipstick wasn’t as dry as I was expecting,” he continued, “Just topped her up and ‘m ‘oping she turns over and sounds as good as new.”

Again, silence. His eyes staring straight ahead of him, yours enjoying his profile. God, he had a fantastic nose. It was definitely something that your daughter had inherited and you wondered if it would be a feature that a loved one in her life would sometimes admire in the next generation.

“Got any baby wipes wi’ you?” He cut his eyes to yours from the corner of his vision, taking in the way you were curled up in the passenger seat wearing the car blanket of your eldest son.

His eyes lingered on your shape for a while, dropping down and enjoying the way you had curled yourself up and presented to him in such a cosy vision. It meant you felt relaxed around him and that was all he ever wanted.

It was a nice contrast to the emotive happenings between the two of you that had almost become commonplace of late. A foreign feeling that was so simple, but so exciting.

Without verbal response you reached from your handbag that was in the footwell to have a look inside at the contents.

“Don’t wanna leave this car, been a bit spoiled over the last hour or so. Could do with an upgrade myself as they’re all getting older and need a bit more room,” you spoke as you rummaged around, movements still slightly sluggish.

You were successful in finding what you needed, the rustling of the plastic packaging jarring to your ears. Quickly pulling at the cover overlay, you swiftly pulled out a couple of wipes with such a mom-like finesse that had you balancing them on top of the now closed packet as you turned to face Harry.

“Don’t even think about making it a clause in the divorce,” he joked, eyes looking up at you from underneath his brow. His eyebrows snapped up in shock as you snatched at his hand and abruptly pulled at the baby wipes you’d retrieved from inside your handbag.

The two of you fell silent as you wiped at his left hand first, watching the black of the oil slowly leave his fingers. Breathing was heavy in the empty space as you didn’t dare raise your gaze higher to look into his eyes, that you knew were watching you.

“It’s so attractive, how much of a Mum you are,” he dared to say what he really thought as his humoured expression fell away. “Cleaning my hands up nicely, like ‘m your child that’s made a mess of m’dinner.”

“Harry,” you sighed his name, fidgeting softly in your seat. He chuckled in such a husky way that you found yourself softening regardless of the way it riled you.

Releasing his left hand, you reached straight for his right. Seeing the way he caught himself and stopped it before it fell against his lap. He smoothly reached for you, brushing your hair behind your shoulders as it began to curtain across the right side of your face.

“Last time m’hands were this dirty, you were licking and sucking ‘em clean.”

You felt your face begin to heat up from his brazenness.

“Are you blushing for me?” He whispered, his left hand moving along your jaw, to tilt your head upwards. He had a hold of your jaw, slightly rougher than before and while your face played ball, your eyes did not. “‘S been ages since you blushed fo’me.”

Again the sound of breathing filled the car, Harry’s gaze all over your features before his other words punctuated the air, “Look a’me.”

As your eyes moved sharply to the right, you looked at the way he’d lolled his head back. His thumb slowly pulled at your bottom lip, watching the way it softly bounced from his touch, before he lifted it to trace faintly over your Cupid’s bow.

“Missed your lips,” he admitted, enjoying the light puffs of breath that bounced against the pad of his thumb. Before you could think, you’d taken his thumb inside your mouth, an appreciative groan leaving his lips.

You felt the way his fingers cupped under your chin, gently stroking at your skin, silently caressing. Teeth nipping playfully against the skin of his thumb as you pulled away.

“How much?” You asked, lips turning to ghost against the inside of his hand.

His eyes lingered as you watched him nudge his chin up slightly, silently asking for you to come to him.

You sucked in a heavy breath as you leaned into him, the dimming ceiling light of the car slowly allowing darkness to swallow you both. A faint smile nudged your lips as your nose fell against his top lip.

He scooped you under his arm - lining you up better - hands trying to hold you as near to him as he could as you leaned over the centre console of the car to be closer to him.

“Enough,” he husked, before adding, “Your nose is cold,” in a passing tone, lips against your temple now. Breathing deeply through your nose you let him pull you even closer, unable to believe that you weren’t close enough. Muffled apologies left your lips, about how your nose was cold.

The soft drag of his lips to yours pulled you under a haze that swept away your apologies and into a tender reacquaintance. His lips were slightly shaking against yours and you weren’t sure if it was to do with the cold that he had found himself in or if it were due to his nervousness.

Regardless he was steady. Knew exactly what he was doing and what he wanted. Pulling kiss after kiss from you in the slowest fashion that you felt yourself beginning to warm up.

“‘S nice to have a little kiss,” he gently spoke against the corner of your mouth. “Missed you treating me to ‘em.”

“I think you just know exactly what to say,” you murmured as you allowed him to continue ghosting his lips over yours. “Know exactly what you're doing.”

“‘F you’re suggesting that I’m trying it on,” he murmured against your lips, “I absolutely fucking am.”

“Would never have guessed,” you looked at him with heavy eyelids, head now nudged back slightly to enable you to see his entire face. He smirked at you, eyes blinking slowly as he willed you to him once more.

His hand was secure around the back of your neck, fingers messily woven through your hair. His other hand gently massaged at the top of your back, over your fetching loungewear that you had chosen to drive home in.

“‘S it working?”

“What do you think?”

Harry’s eyes dropped in a slow blink as he felt the way your hand lowered down his chest and abdomen, which was wavering slightly from his nervous anticipation.

Dropping your head down to his chest, you left a kiss to his pec as you mumbled and felt the button of his jeans giveway to your fingers and thumb. “I am grateful, you know?”

“Yeah?”

The ruffle of your hair against the cotton of his tee filled the car, him recognising it as you nodding.

“Me too,” he assured.

And he was. Grateful.

For the life he’d had with you up until this point.

The family the two of you had created. The one you were so fiercely fighting for. Messily and viciously, all from a good place. The best place.

He licked at his dry lips, leaving his mouth to hang open slightly as he watched you descend down to his semi that was hidden in the confines of his jeans.

“Both of us need warming up,” he mused, his hands sliding from your hair and down your back, slowly and gently to your slightly raised bum from how you had placed yourself over the center console. “In’t that right?”

A dull slap of his hand against your leggings-clad bum had you rocking back as you felt his hands slide under the waistband to massage at your cheek.

Swallowing heavy, Harry tilted back his head and even through his hooded eyes he caught his blissed expression in the rear view mirror, as he felt you take his balls into your mouth and gently suckle.

He rasped your name as he basked in the dirty licks, heavily laden with saliva from your watering mouth before you took him into your throat. Obscene sounds from your actions wove between his heavy breathing and quick pants.

“Fuck me, darling.”

With his hand that was still against your bum, he pulled you closer. Hands desperate to have purchase of something as you gently but messily sucked and licked, desperate to feel the tickle of his pubic hair against the tip of your nose to know you’d successfully taken him all the way down.

His breathing was shaky, a quick hiss leaving his lips as he felt the way your nails dug into his denim clad thighs from his previous movements to try and hold steady. The position wasn’t ideal, but the feeling of your shaking breath against his wet cock as you nosed against his jeans had him smiling.

As you turned your head slightly to look at him from the corner of your vision, you noticed the way he was looking down at you. How powerful he seemed in that moment as you were slightly beneath him.

The thought changed though with the way his hand came up to your face, his thumb against your wet lips for the shortest time before he cradled the back of your head to help pull you back up and avoid any mishaps.

He tugged you forward to crush his mouth to yours with pleased hums as he tasted himself on you. Lips smacking as he pulled kiss after kiss from your mouth, smiling at the eagerness of you both.

His hands joined yours as they pulled at his jeans, his hips lifting in the seat and his arms strong as he pushed the denim and underwear down to sit closer to his knees.

“Mm,” he hummed, as his bare bum cheeks met the heated seat beneath them. “Put the seats on fo’me.”

“Don’t say I don’t ever treat you nicely.”

He huskily chuckled as he brought your lips back to him again. “Nice an’ warm,” he lazily spoke, acknowledging the heated seats. “Jus’ for me.”

And he knew every bit of his words meant the double entendre that you had caught,looking on as you pulled away to sink back into your own seat

Looking over at him, you noticed the lust behind his eyes as he slowly pumped his hand up and down his wet and aching cock when you sunk back into your own seat and watched his head loll against the headrest once more. His nostrils flared as he bit down on his bottom lip and nudged his chin up, getting you silently to come to him once more when he’d seen your movements in removing your own bottoms had ended.

“Wouldn’t do this for anyone else, y’know that?” You said around your messy kiss as you raised your legs and felt his hands guide you to straddle him. Hands splayed across your lower back and the top half of your bum as he secured you to him.

“Should bloody ‘ope not.”

As you sat above him, you could feel him there. Sprung back and wet. Your mouths rested against each other, heavy and open. Eyes moving to and fro over each other’s.

“Been at this too long to start sharing now.”

Your hips moved forward at his words, with the smallest of motions but it was enough to make his cock glide between your lips. His expression was one of immeasurable pleasure regardless of how little the touch.

Deep down you knew you didn’t have time for this sort of behaviour. The kind where you revelled in the nudge of him against your clit, and the way it caused you to gasp lightly while your brow creased and forehead fell against his.

“Take it,” he encouraged as you rolled your hips on him. “Let me in.”

Heavy breathing and shaking hands, you held Harry’s eyes as you reached behind you to take him in your hand.

Wrapping your fingers around his length, you raised yourself, feeling him shuffle down slightly in his seat to help ensure you didn’t bump your head as you lifted. Fingers gave way when he lined up nicely, slipping only his tip inside of you.

This stretch was one like no other. A burn that you savoured as much as the expression that welcomed you from the desire felt by the only man who had ever made you feel this way. His one hand crawled up your back, to cup around your neck, anchoring you to him.

When you were fully seated shaky exhales bounced against each other’s lips. Every tremble of you above him felt so vividly by Harry. The way your thighs shook from the small confines you found yourself in, to the quiver of your fingers against his neck and jaw.

“You’re so big,” your moan was feeble. Embarrassing in many ways. Especially given the amount of times you’d done this with him.

“Mm,” he agreed. “‘S cause ‘m so hot for you. Got me so hard. Always have.”

“Always will-“

“Always will,” he confirmed.

Your moan was thick as it left your throat, his words enough to get you to roll against him and have you clit drag pleasing against his pelvis.

He groaned, knowing that’s what you were doing too. Having been in this position so many times before. No one had ever had you this way, and you knew no one ever would either. A pleasure this giving was one of familiarity. Aided so deeply by feeling.

When your mouth met his again the only word to describe your kiss was sinful. His tongue waiting to meet yours, flicking so easily and far too filthily for those on the cusp of middle age.

But he still had it.

The gleaming boyish gaze and curling smile. Could charm his way into any heart and into any pair of knickers. But the ones he had chosen time and time again were yours. Regardless of their sexiness at times.

“Yes,” you gasped, pulling away from his mouth and feeling his hands encourage the knocking of your hips against his.

You were close, nowhere to go and not wanting to go anywhere. How you had made it here so quickly, you weren’t sure. Maybe it was the surroundings, how you potentially could get caught. Maybe it was because your partner - husband - just knew you so well.

His eyes didn’t want to leave you as they admired the flushed skin you were beginning to show and the gleaming, plush lips that you were rolling into your mouth to hide your pleasure.

“That’s it, fuck me,” his voice was hushed, quick in its delivery. “‘S wha’ it’s all about,” he hummed, as you rocked your hips over his. Knocking his head back against the headrest once more.

As he looked down his nose at you, he watched as your eyes fell to your navel, taking in each roll of your hips. Your expression dropped with realisation, slightly pained. “What’s wrong?”

Looking up at him, you wish you hadn’t. You wished you’d kept your eyes down to see the ripple of his abdomen each time your body flexed around him. That way it wasn’t doused in emotion, it was just raw pleasure that lived in your mind.

“We shouldn’t be doing this anymore. Needs to be the last time.”

A mix of a breathy laugh and scoff left his lips as he urged you to restart your hips that were starting to stall above him, “Bit late for tha’ now, don’t yer think?”

Falling against him, you hid your face feeling his lips over the shell of your ear and against your hair. His hand gently stroked at your hair, lips moving to your temple and pressing affection kisses that did nothing but make you feel worse.

“Do you want t’stop? Mm?” He asked, feeling your hips so tight against his, but your core so open that he hoped you would say no. Widening his thighs he pressed his feet into the footwell, seeking momentum to meet your hips with his own.

“‘S okay to love me still,” he groused, feeling your chin tremble from his words. “‘S okay to let me love you still. This is okay, us just doing this is okay.”

It wasn’t okay and he knew. He also knew everything he was saying - every single word - was just a way to satiate you.

So, you let them. Swallowed the lump in your throat and inhaled deeply.

His words were cut short as he groaned, “Sit up for me, fuck me properly.”

Sitting yourself up, you felt the way Harry’s hands moved so that the backs of his fingers were smoothing against your lower stomach. Sweaty palm turned, he pressed it gently down your stomach and let his thumb finger your clit.

The softest frown hit your brow, as his thumb slowly rubbed in a downwards motion at your sensitivity. From his actions you felt a warmth pool around both him and you, Harry groaning appreciatively as he felt it too.

“Yeah,” he stressed the word as you gripped at his t-shirt which sat against his stomach. Cotton in handfuls as you scrunched the fabric. “‘S tha’ nice- good?”

You nodded.

“‘S it enough?”

You nodded with more fervour. Eyes holding his as you sucked your bottom lip into your mouth and scratched along his right forearm as he continued to gently swipe at your wet clit.

The abruptness of the rock to your hips showed itself as the warmth within your belly grew. Eyes now hooded, you were unable to stop them from closing as your mouth parted to desperately say, “Don’t stop.”

And you didn’t know who you were talking to; yourself or Harry.

Harry responded with a moan so deep that you clenched down around him, causing his free hand to reach up and squeeze harshly against your hips.

“‘M going to come so hard for you ‘f you keep doing that,” he gritted, breathing shallow as he felt his chest constrict. “Like tha’, just like that.”

His words were low, and like just moments before you weren’t sure if they were for him or you, but they had you moaning his name. Head dropping against his, his hand gripping at the back of your neck.

With one hard roll of your hips, you cried out, forehead against his chin and mouth fallen. His hand squashed between your bodies as you shook and convulsed.

Pliant for him, you were too dazed to move as you felt his arm wrap securely around your back and hold you to him, tight.

A merciless and repeated smack of his hips upwards, which you were sure would have the car rocking, made you aware of him seeking his release. He moaned your name, as he pulled you down to him, his orgasm shooting into you.

His heavy breathing was hot against your sweltering skin when you finally came to, his grunts melding into your neck as your core continued to flutter in the aftermath of your own release.

His hands somewhat selfishly and most definitely greedily moved you against him, both crooning at the sensitive rush that met you before he lifted you to aid himself with slipping out.

Cold air met his sensitivity, as he nuzzled against you. Hand crawling up your back, under your shirt and feeling your damp skin peel away from his own as he moved his hand up and down.

“Want to try out the back wi’me after this,” he hummed, brushing your hair off your face with his other hand. His words were heavy as they pressed into the skin of your cheek while he still tried to catch his breath.

As much as you knew you should, you didn’t even try to stop yourself from nodding.

***

Looking forward to hearing all of your thoughts! x

#Harry Styles #harry styles smut #harry smut #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fan fic #harry styles one shot #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #harry styles x yn #harry styles x y/n #my writing #divorce!harry

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jasontoddiefor · 3 years

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Title: would you be so kind Ship: obikin Second: Ten years ago, Obi-Wan Kenobi met Anakin Skywalker, a charming young mage from Naboo, but as fate willed, they could not be together. A decade and thousands dead later, Alderaan’s High Court Sorcerer meets a Forger and his excited apprentice. AN: I forgot to post this on tumblr apparently, but here’s the first chapter of my second long WIP I am working on!

Then

The ship was crammed, filled to the brim with people clinging to one another, staring either at the home they’d lost or the home they hoped to be sailing to. Hundreds of ships had left Dromund Kaas already, carrying refugees across the ocean to safer harbors. The tension was high and sharp enough to cut as they sailed away from the doomed country and only relaxed when the pressure of the country’s shields finally left their shoulders.

“An awful sight, isn’t it?”

Anakin startled, instinctually pulled his coat around himself. Were he in a better shape, he would have lashed out immediately, winds, bindings, blood—

But the power flowing through his veins was too constricted, caged like a wild beast. Instead, Anakin just turned to look at the person who’d addressed him. An old woman with snow-white markings and long lekku stared at the dying country just as he had moments before, grief and resignation painting a sorrowful picture. “I never thought I’d leave this place. Did you?”

Wordlessly, Anakin shook his head. No, he certainly hadn’t thought he’d ever leave this place again. He’d been ready to be buried under the ashes of marble altars, not see this new dawn.

“I was born here, married too. All my children were born within the boundaries of this country and perhaps that is the reason they all left,” the woman continued. “I am glad that they weren’t here. If I think about what could have happened to them were they anywhere near the capital… I apologize; I hope you don’t mind my rambling. You looked like you needed company. Are you traveling to Naboo?”

He opened his mouth to reply, to give an affirmation, but stopped. He hadn’t quite thought where he’d go, except as far away from this place as he could. Naboo was certainly an option; Padmé would be glad to see him, he was sure. She’d take him in without asking a single question and defend him against the storms that were sure to come.

But Padmé was his friend and Anakin couldn’t allow her to shoulder his burden.

“No,” Anakin heard himself saying. “I’m not traveling to Naboo.”

“They are quite defenseless right now, yes, you are right. The fact that it’s the first stop of this ship is tempting enough for most to disregard what troubles might find them there.” The woman nodded in understanding. “I’ll be going to Alderaan myself. My eldest lives there, and in a country as strong as that, a tragedy like this can’t strike.”

She turned to look at the remains of Dromund Kaas again. The coastline used to be covered by beautiful large trees; his Master used to tell him how vital they were for its defense.

Now there was nothing but ash and darkness. Even here on the outskirts, where it had taken the longest for the remains of the catastrophe to reach, nobody was safe from it. Dromund Kaas had been in a pitiful state after the last war, which had made it an easy place to hideaway in. Alderaan might be stronger, the blooming center of magical education, but Anakin doubted they’d be able to defend against an attack like this. Nothing could save them from an attack such as this.

But Alderaan’s distance to this cesspit of disease was enough to provide a different kind of security.

Thousands of refugees would search for safety there, and Queen Breha was as cunning as she was kind. No one would be turned away and Anakin could slip in just right with them.

“I’m going to Alderaan as well,” Anakin replied.

The woman looked him over, then she beamed as if she were a young child and not already among the older members of her species.

Her smile was the first Anakin had seen in weeks. “Looks like we’ll be traveling companions then! You must tell me your name, young friend. I’m Raya Tano.”

She held out her hand and Anakin awkwardly shook it with his own left.

“My name is—”

Now

“Anakin Skywalker! Your automaton is ruining my kitchen!”

Sighing, Anakin let the spell sink back into the metal and settle into it. So much for working on his commissions today. A quick glance around the workshop told him that it was not one of his automatons running wild. Artoo was currently charging up and Threepio was keeping himself busy cleaning up. All the other small automatons Anakin crafted when he was bored were either asleep and charging or hurrying around the workshop, washing up the floors and putting away the tools Anakin had been using.

Anakin tugged off his gloves and threw them to a tiny and eager little automaton before picking up his softer everyday gloves. The leather was still quite resistant and had more runes stitched into it than most people dared to weave into one cloth, but they were nowhere near as excellently crafted as his work gloves. The dragonhide gloves were worth a fortune and so they never left his workshop unless Anakin had to. Anakin watched the little automaton put the gloves in their usual compartment until he could hear the click reassuring that the lock was in place. At first, that had only been a measure against thieves as he hadn’t had much to his name, but by now, it was a habit.

And it discouraged Ahsoka from stealing them for her own projects.

Anakin walked out of his workshop and crossed the courtyard to the small cottage he called his home, finding a kitchen in disarray, Raya standing on a chair with a small red automaton attempting to clean the floors.

“Look what a mess it’s making!” Raya said accusingly. “Instead of polishing my floors, it’s dirtying them!”

“I can see that,” Anakin hummed. He waited until the small automaton had reached his feet, then he bent down and pressed his hand flat on its small back, stopping it. Ahsoka’s handiwork was getting better; this little guy had kept moving for a while despite her absence. Anakin had no idea what the formal apprenticeship for forgers entailed, when they ought to hit what milestone, but he was willing to bet that Ahsoka was years ahead of her peers. Her spells were strong, her rune work fantastic, and very few actual weaknesses were left to explore in her automatons.

But Anakin was still a Master and Ahsoka only an Apprentice. Her work was not yet good enough to keep out foreign interference. Without much thought, he deactivated the automaton completely.

“This was your granddaughter’s handiwork,” Anakin commented. “She’s improving in leaps and bounds.”

Raya huffed and stepped from her chair. “I’m glad to hear that, but weren’t you meant to teach her control?”

“I am,” Anakin said, the argument an old and fond one. They returned to it frequently, mostly to annoy the young Apprentice. “And were she still as much of a mess as three years ago, she hardly would be able to craft such a fine automaton. Can’t do anything about her manners.”

Especially since she’d become a teenager. Anakin didn’t remember being as much of a pain as Ahsoka could be.

“And here I was thinking Masters were supposed to teach their Apprentices a medium of decorum.”

Anakin snorted. “Yeah, well, that’s what she has you for, doesn’t she?”

Raya’s expression softened. “That she does.”

Anakin sometimes wondered how Raya managed to stay so kind and calm when the world had taken so much from her. Her husband, country, her children— and yet she still stood straight, caring for the fellow traveler she’d never allowed to leave and the granddaughter that had been dumped on her with just a warning for Ahsoka’s generally explosive tendencies.

“Where is Ahsoka anyway?” Anakin asked, looking around the kitchen as if she would jump out in the open any moment. “I sent her on an errand earlier this morning, but she hasn’t returned yet.”

Unfortunately, Raya couldn’t tell him either. “I have no idea where that girl is running around—”

“Anakin!”

Speak of the dark and it shall appear. The door was thrown open and Ahsoka rushed inside, tracking even more dirt all over the floor, causing Raya to throw up her arms in defeat in a way Anakin knew meant Ahsoka would be left with all her favorite chores for the next week.

“Welcome back, Ahsoka,” Anakin said. “You’re late.”

“Yes, yes,” Ahsoka replied and rolled her eyes, obviously disinterested in what he had to say. “I got all you asked for and ordered the new metals, but look at this!”

Ahsoka raised her hand, revealing a ripped-off poster. It was tasteful in design, fine cursive writing on light blues, gold ornaments in the corners and, of course, the royal crest right in the middle of it.

Her Majesty the Queen of the Kingdom of Alderaan, Breha Organa, invites all Alderaani Practitioners of the Mythic Arts to attend the festivities in the capital of Aldera—

“Absolutely not,” Anakin said before he could even read the rest of the text. “We’re not going to Aldera to some festival.”

“Why not?” Ahsoka shot back. “It’s no summit, but it would at least be something.”

Her bitterness did not go unnoticed. Ahsoka had begged for months to attend this year’s summit. Every five, all magic practitioners gathered on Tython to exchange notes on their craft and pretend they were not also discussing the politics of their respective countries, forging alliances and the like. Anakin hadn’t been to the last summit, it having been just after Dromund Kaas, and the one before were tainted by the memories that followed, no matter how sweet the time had been. Ahsoka, of course, had begged to attend this year’s one, but it would only be foolish and reckless. He couldn’t just walk into the biggest gathering of mages in the whole continent and expect to get out of it without anyone realizing who he was, asking questions, concluding what he’d done.

Anakin had too much to hide, too much to lose, and he wasn’t going to risk his little Apprentice for it.

Not that Ahsoka knew any of that and wasn’t in the least satisfied with Anakin’s reply and immediately made her displeasure known.

“What would you even want to see there?” Anakin asked, trying to downplay how entertaining such an event was. “It’ll just be all the posh court sorcerers showing off with their fancy focusing crystals. It’s utterly boring and uncreative.”

“Like you wouldn’t use a focusing crystal if you had one,” Ahsoka muttered, arms crossed. “It’s just— there’s nobody else around here who can do magic. And all you ever do is work on machines.”

“Which requires a lot of concentration as it’s not just the manipulation of one aspect, but—”

“—but many, yes, yes, I know the speech,” Ahsoka said and dutifully listed all elements that went into their craft. There was a reason why not many forgers existed. Most mages lacked the talent, patience, and education to learn this craft, or were just plain afraid that they’d permanently damage their ability to use magic at all.

And with the speed technology was evolving and magic weaponized to terrifying new heights, not too many people still had use for forgers. Where two-hundred-years ago, you wouldn’t have gone out to hunt a dragon with a simple sword, but only with one crafted by a Master forger, nowadays you didn’t necessarily need one. Battle magic was on the rise again, especially with more and more countries growing uneasy, peace treaties falling apart. Combined with the threats from the northern continents, it was no wonder people cared less and less about expensive forgers when they could mass-produce and enchant simpler items.

“I just hoped you’d allow at least this,” Ahsoka finished. Her shoulders dropped. “Should have known better. I’ll go finish my readings.”

Ahsoka turned around, her shoulders still hanging, her head low.

Damn it.

Anakin knew that she was doing it on purpose. His Apprentice was cunning and had learned how to play into his every weakness. Slowly she marched into the direction of the door, dragging her feet behind her for effect and dramatics.

Raya raised a brow at him. She usually stayed out of Ahsoka’s tutelage, knowing next to nothing about magic herself, but even with his past being little more than a mystery to her, she could read him better than anyone else.

“Urgh, fine,” Anakin heard himself say. “Fine, we can go to the festival.”

Ahsoka turned around quicker than light and jumped up. “Yes!”

“But that means you’re not going to bring up the summit again!”

“Yes! Of course!” A moment later, Anakin had an armful of an apprentice. “Thank you so much, Master, you’re the best!”

Once she let go of him, she went to hug Raya and hug even her dirty automaton to her chest, still radiating happiness. “I need to go pack my bags immediately!”

“The festival is not for another week—”

Ahsoka obviously didn’t care. So caught up in her joy, she rushed upstairs, heading to her room to start packing. It shouldn’t surprise Anakin that she was so motivated. Ahsoka was a person who thrived on interaction, being surrounded by other people. While the people of their village were friendly, none of them were mages or even just sensitive to magic. It was one of the reasons Anakin had decided to stay without too much fight. But growing up so far removed from other mages had made Ahsoka twice as curious to meet others.

The thought made his stomach churn. He’d have to give Ahsoka formal lessons about their trade now, just if somebody asked questions that were too pointed. She’d also need a bit of the know-how on how you usually interacted with other mages and which pretentious bastards to call sorcerers before they threw a hissy fit. All these capital folks were much too sensitive about terminology after all. Anakin had never bothered to tell her the differences before, but Ahsoka would kill him if she accidentally embarrassed herself because he hadn’t seen it fit to instruct her properly. Forget teaching Ahsoka how to improve her automaton, the next week would be full of etiquette lessons. Skies, there’d be people trying to steal their spellwork too. Had he even mentioned that kind of theft before? Anakin honestly couldn’t recall.

“Already regretting it?” Raya asked, her voice just a touch amused.

“Just a bit,” Anakin replied.

“It’ll be good for her,” Raya said, convinced and confident enough for the both of them. “And good for you as well. I’ve known you for years now and you’ve never even brought a friend over. I’m not going to be young forever, you know. I do expect to be introduced to your future spouse at some point.”

“And this is my cue to go packing as well,” Anakin announced and followed Ahsoka up the stairs with Raya’s laughter following him.

He had no intention of being with anyone, ever, unless he could find glamours that held up even when majorly distracted. On his way up the stairs, Anakin caught a look of himself in the window, saw black vines curling around his neck, inviting someone to take a closer look.

It was better this way.

#obikin #star wars #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #ahsoka tano #fanfic

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foxghost · 3 years

Text

Joyful Reunion, Chapter 89

Translator: foxghost @foxghost tumblr/ko-fi1 Beta: meet-me-in-oblivion @meet-me-in-oblivion tumblr Original by 非天夜翔 Fei Tian Ye Xiang Masterpost | Characters, Maps & Other Reference Index

Book 2, Chapter 20 (Part 3)

Xichuan, nighttime:

“Your Highness.” Zheng Yan strolls slowly over. “We’ll have to head out tomorrow. Your Highness should wash up and get some sleep soon.”

Cai Yan sits facing a pile of memorials from behind his desk. He sends Zheng Yan a glance, and replies politely, “Zheng Yan, you may go get some rest.”

“Still waiting for that guy?” Zheng Yan is always hitting him where he hurts, and he has no filter at all. Sometimes Cai Yan really does want to make Wu Du poison Zheng Yan to death.

“Who am I waiting for?” Smiling, Cai Yan answers a question with a question, “Well there’s no one in particular I’m waiting for, but who are you waiting for, Zheng Yan?”

“Oh — well naturally you’re waiting for a corpse, then?”

Cai Yan can’t even force a smile anymore; his expression is utterly forbidding. And so with a smile Zheng Yan says to him, “I’m going to go see your uncle and have a drink with him. Would Your Highness like to come? I presume the corpse won’t be coming any time soon.”

Cai Yan can only say stiffly, “Zheng Yan, you jest.”

“The general amnesty is coming tomorrow.”2 Zheng Yan rocks the cup in his hand. “I heard a whole bunch of bastards will have to be set free. Looks like Your Highness is just full of benevolence, hmm?”

Once again, Cai Yan seems to freeze. He says with perfunctory formality, “His crimes are not so grave as to be deserving of death, and now is the time for new blood. Unless there’s something you want to say about ‘Feng’, Zheng Yan?”

Zheng Yan looks Cai Yan up and down with a smile on his face.

“You’re not like your dad.”

Cai Yan’s entire expression darkens in an instant, turning terribly grim — as though he even has a mind to kill Zheng Yan now.

Zheng Yan adds, lackadaisically, “Life is bitterly short. One must make merry while one is able, hmm?”

“Zheng Yan.” Cai Yan’s voice is shaking, as though it’s filled with an anger he can barely contain. “Go get some rest. The day of sacrifice is already over. Don’t come to goad me again. I’m exhausted.”

But instead of leaving, Zheng Yan sits down instead on the steps in front of Cai Yan’s desk with his back towards him.3 He speaks, as though mumbling to himself, “The world is basically a great big dyeing vat; get close to a certain sort of person, and that’s what you’ll become.”

Cai Yan says gruffly, “What are you trying to say, Zheng Yan? Are you telling me to keep my guard up against ‘Feng’?”

"While it’s true that ‘Feng’'s schemes are malicious, what he has are covert schemes, and not overt schemes. They never did reach the level of needing one to go out of one’s way to be on guard against. I’m merely suddenly reminded of the late emperor.

“All the manifestations of the world are multicoloured and filled with far too many colours, and any person will be dyed the colour of whatever position they’re in; save the late emperor, who was his own colour altogether.” Pausing here, Zheng Yan rises, and smiles at Cai Yan. “Whether black or white, the late emperor with the Zhenshanhe in hand remained unmoved. Work for him long enough, and you’ll somehow see your own true nature. All the other colours will fade away, and what’s left is a sheet of white paper. It’s a bit like being able to steal a glance at the ‘will of heaven’, more or less. I only hope Your Highness will also keep this in mind.”

Cai Yan finds himself momentarily distracted, much to his surprise. Zheng Yan gives Cai Yan a shallow bow, and without showing any sign of his prior drunken stagger, kicks up the ends of his robes as he exits calmly from the room, leaving Cai Yan lost in thought in the palace hall.

An autumn wind blows by, and the gardens are full of fallen leaves. By now, barely anyone is left in the palace to prepare for the commencement of their journey tomorrow.

Li Yanqiu is sitting inside looking out at the view in the gardens, his mind wandering. Empress Mu Jinzhi has already left with the Mu retinue. The giant palace around him is full of empty halls and feels rather dismal. There’s a bowl of medicine on his desk, already gone cold.

Zheng Yan walks past via the corridor, looking as though he’s never quite awake. He sits down next to Li Yanqiu.

“Let’s drink!” Zheng Yan raises his bottle full of wine at Li Yanqiu. “I drink my wine, you drink your medicine.”4

Li Yanqiu picks up his medicine bowl and bumps it lightly against Zheng Yan’s bottle.

“Did you just come over from the Eastern Palace?” He asks.

“Your Majesty’s darling boy is still in the Eastern Palace, annotating memorials.” Zheng Yan leans back against the edge of the low daybed. “By the look of him I’d like to think he’s a bit like you, and not like the late emperor.”

The Li family founded their empire by military might, and this spirit has passed on through the generations so they’re not all that strict when it comes to etiquette. Li Yanqiu is rather casual in the way he treats his court subjects, but Zheng Yan is special — rather to say the relationship between them is that of an emperor and his subject, they’re more like old friends.

“He doesn’t have my brother’s temperament.” Li Yanqiu sighs and shakes his head. “But he has a good heart. I’m sure he resembles my sister-in-law in that way.”

Zheng Yan thoughtfully turns his gaze up at the blue sky beyond.

Li Yanqiu adds, “I fell asleep for a while earlier, and somehow had a dream about him. He didn’t come on his death anniversary, but he’s come now.”

Zheng Yan doesn’t reply. Absentmindedly, he takes another sip of wine.

“I dreamt that I was on a bridge. I suppose the opposing shore wasn’t even the mortal world anymore, and there was a sheen of moonlight over everything. He said to me, ‘My son’s come home, so it’s about time to relocate the capital. It’s been another year’.”

Zheng Yan has remained silent until now. “Your Majesty, you may want to rethink declaring general amnesty. If you let Feng out, he may just stir up trouble. The Eastern Palace really does need people, and if the late emperor is still around, I wouldn’t be so worried, but the current master of the Eastern Palace is the future lord of the realm. Your Majesty …”

“The general amnesty has already been announced.” Li Yanqiu sighs. “A ruler does not go back on his word. You think you can take it back? As for Feng, Rong’er was the one who requested him specifically. I’m sure you’re well aware of the pros and cons of such an act. Feng was a commanding officer in the Shadow Guard for many years, and even though he committed a crime against my father that landed him on death row, he’s still as loyal to Great Chen as he ever was.”

Zheng Yan shakes his head and heaves a sigh.

“But you’re quite right. As of yet, there aren’t any retainers in the Eastern Palace, and that’s not right. It’s been more than half a year since Rong’er returned, but since he had Wuluohou Mu to look after him and there’s been so many trifles at court, it’s slipped my mind. Once we move we’ll have to take the time to do so.”

“Forgive my bluntness, but,” Zheng Yan drinks and says casually, “the current Eastern Palace always feels like it lacks something.”

"It lacks spirit. Rong’er has great potential, and sitting in that position, he knows what he’s supposed to do. When it comes to reading and annotating memorials on my behalf and reviewing matters of commoners’ welfare, he’s doing an exceedingly admirable job. But he hasn’t realised one thing yet — this is his family’s estate, and he hasn’t been letting himself work on it with a free rein.

“Or, in other words …” Li Yanqiu picks up his medicine bowl, his gaze fixed on his own features in the pitch black decoction as though another familiar face is watching him from the reflection. "He hasn’t started seeing himself as one of the Lis. When he’s settling matters of state and steering the imperial court, he’s still doing it to help me, and not doing it for himself.

“But showing his talent and appearing too sharp is not a good thing, after all.” Li Yanqiu knocks back his medicine in one gulp, so bitter it makes him frown. “Zheng Yan, help me get this done for him. The crown prince still needs attendants; a study partner, for instance. Just recruit them in the guise of looking for retainers.”

Footsteps echo through the corridor, sounding in quite a hurry.

“The crown prince would like to request an audience,” a guard in the outer room announces.

Li Yanqiu raises an eyebrow. Both he and Zheng Yan turn their attention towards the corridor. Cai Yan appears from around the corner with a big smile on his face.

Cai Yan gives him a bow first, and then another person appears behind him — who else but the travel-worn Lang Junxia.

“Wuluohou Mu?” Li Yanqiu says with a frown, “You left without a nary a farewell, and I haven’t even punished you for leaving your post without permission yet. Where on earth did you go?”

“Uncle.” Cai Yan walks over to him and sits down. “Take a look at what he’s brought with him first.”

Lang Junxia takes a glance at Zheng Yan. They’ve never met before, but the other’s reputation precedes him.

“Here you are,” Lang Junxia says.

Zheng Yan gives him a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Here I am.”

Lang Junxia unties the sword from his back and lays it down on the table with both hands. The sword sheath is engraved with a relief of the Mahasthamaprapta riding on the back of a tiger as he cuts down demons; the sword handle is carved out of a giant clam shell, inlaid with a luminous, shimmery sarira.

“Fortunately, I did not fail my mission,” Lang Junxia replies before withdrawing from the room, and stands outside the door to await further orders.

Li Yanqiu puts one hand down on the hilt and pulls the sword out of its sheath, producing a low, resonant hum. The blade is plain and mottled with blood, and a name is carved into the metal: Duanchenyuan.

The morning is graced with brilliant sunshine and gentle breezes; farmers are busy taking in the autumn harvest on the mountain terraces across the way.

Standing outside their inn by the riverbank, Duan Ling yawns, stretches, and asks a server for a bucket to draw water with. After drawing some water he proceeds to boil it so he can make tea for Wu Du, and to change his bandages.

It’s the most peaceful night of sleep he’s had in a year, but Wu Du had tossed and turned the whole night through and didn’t fall asleep 'til dawn. Not long after he falls asleep, the commotion Duan Ling makes while boiling water has him going from half-dead to shocked sitting upright in an instant. Utterly exhausted, he puts a hand over his forehead, his mind racked with irritation.

“What time is it?” Once those words are out of his mouth he realises how wrong they sound — what kind of subject asks the crown prince the hour? He should have gotten up earlier to wait on him instead, but Duan Ling’s already boiling water, so what else can he do?

“It’s dawn. Are you alright? Not feeling well?”

Wu Du’s eyes are rimmed in red, and he stares at Duan Ling for a little while. “From now on, just leave me with the housework. Even if I don’t … don’t treat you like the crown prince, I should still be the one who takes care of you. That’s what I thought since the day we left Tongguan anyway. And besides, you barely even got to live comfortably for a few days since you’ve been with me …”

Duan Ling knows Wu Du has basically figured things out. “It’s not like any of that matters. If you didn’t know that Cai Yan is an imposter, and you’re his attendant on a trip, would you tell him that too?”

“Of course not. But you’re not like him.”

He poured a pile of words at Wu Du yesterday all in one go, and Duan Ling actually feels a bit embarrassed now that he’s thought about it. Smiling, he says, “Then if … the one Wuluohou Mu brought back was me, and we met under different circumstances, as people in different positions, would you feel that way too?”

Well, Wu Du has never thought about it, but now that Duan Ling’s mentioned it, his head feels even more like it’s been stuffed with a tangled ball of flax. If Duan Ling isn’t the Wang Shan he knows now, and they have to spend time alone with each other, knowing himself and his standoffish attitude, he definitely wouldn’t give his heart and soul to Duan Ling. At most he’d feel sorry for him, and go out of his way to pay more attention to him — of course, that’s under the pretext that the crown prince regards him with sincerity.

He does consider it for a little while, and after that Wu Du can but concede, “Fine,” he says. Finally at ease, he meets Duan Ling’s eyes, and they both smile.

“The whole night I was thinking about your problem," Wu Du says.

Duan Ling unties the bandages on Wu Du’s hand and reapplies the ointment. Without raising his head, he makes an affirmative hum.

“There is someone … I can take you to meet him. His name is Xie You, and as long as he’s certain that you are who you are, he’ll protect you even at the cost of his own life.”

“I know of him. He’s loyal to the rightful emperor, isn’t he? But the rightful emperor right now is my fourth uncle.”

Wu Du’s eyebrows draw slightly together, and he stops talking.

“As long as Uncle acknowledges me, Cai Yan won’t pose any threat at all.”

Wu Du nods. “There is one more thing. It’s still far too dangerous for you to show yourself. I’ve always had the suspicion that Chancellor Mu is going to do something about that imposter and His Majesty — the poison I was working on before? He never told me who he wanted it for. It may just be for the imposter.”

Duan Ling finishes re-bandaging Wu Du, and Wu Du tries to get down, so Duan Ling helps him put on his boots. Wu Du watches Duan Ling’s every move, and Duan Ling is waiting on him like it’s matter of course, then he puts one of Wu Du’s arms over his shoulder so he can support him as he walks outside.

The autumn sky is clear and bright, and the air is fresh and clean on the plains. Duan Ling washes his face, crouching by the river, and says to Wu Du, “Worse case scenario, Uncle doesn’t believe that I am who I am and locks me away. And we don’t have any evidence either … Then we’re totally done for.”

“That’s true.” Now that Wu Du thinks about it, that is extremely risky. Too much depends on luck.

“Best case scenario, Uncle does acknowledge my identity and kills both Wuluohou Mu and Cai Yan. But then what?”

Then what he’ll have to face is the violent power vortex within the imperial court — Mu Kuangda will very likely use every possible means to poison him to death. Of course, with Wu Du around, he doesn’t have to worry about anyone trying to poison him, but what is Mu Kuangda trying to accomplish anyway?

“And then,” Wu Du says solemnly to Duan Ling, “I’m going to tell you one thing. But you mustn’t let slip that you know about this in front of Mu Kuangda, otherwise some people are going to want the both of us dead … Aiya, but I suppose that doesn’t really matter.”

Duan Ling stares at him silently and a bit shocked.

“But if it really is exposed, they’ll come to kill you. Then all we can do is take a risk and try to fight our way out and poison the whole lot of them to death.”

“Um … Please tell me what it’s all about first.”

I do not monetise my hobby translations, but if you’d like to support my work generally or support my light novel habit, you can either buy me a coffee or commission me. This is also to note that if you see this message anywhere else than on tumblr, do come to my tumblr. It’s ad-free. ↩︎

It’s called a general amnesty, which sounds like everyone under the heavens is given amnesty, but in reality it’s usually a couple dozen people, and it’s not complete amnesty. Maybe those sentenced to death would be exiled instead and so on; also, people who committed things like treason cannot be pardoned. ↩︎

In case you’re wondering, this is extremely rude. Actually, sitting with your back to the emperor is something you can lose your head over; I’m not sure what the punishment would be if you put your back to the crown prince. Cai Yan also never told him to sit down. Zheng Yan gets away with everything because he’s essentially Li Yanqiu’s only real friend. ↩︎

This isn’t a typo, Zheng Yan just be “I” and “you” at the emperor all the time like that. (He’s like this at Cai Yan too, most of the time.) ↩︎

#相見歡 #fei tian ye xiang #joyful reunion #xiang jian huan #fox translates things

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destiniesfic · 3 years

Photo

A little dark!Alina for Tumblr user @darkalinas. Merry Christmas, Maven! I was your Secret “Sankta” for @darklinadaily’s Darklina Secret Santa. 👼 I had a blast writing this and I hope you like it. ♥

Fandom: Grishaverse (post-Ruin and Rising and King of Scars) Pairings: Darklina & Malina Word Count: 5,000 Rating: T+ Summary: Three years after the end of the Ravkan Civil War, the woman once known as Alina Starkov begins to dream.

Or: he can go anywhere he wants (just not home).

Read on AO3 or read below:

It would have been easy to think the mistress of Keramzin, who saw that the orphans straggling through her door were fed and cared for, little more than a girl herself. Boys of twelve seemed tall beside her, and the more daring among them would ask her to stand back to back with them so they could measure the difference in height and come away whooping at how they’d grown. She wore her hair unbraided and walked the halls with bare feet. Sometimes she would lose herself in a daydream and move to tackle a different section of her latest mural with her brush still wet in her hand, trailing little drips of paint like a line of kisses on the floorboards.

But appearances deceived, for the girl was a woman now, and married. She and her husband took their meals sitting among the teachers and staff, not their charges, although either of them could be tugged away from the table with the slightest excuse. Some of the youngest children, confused by her snow white hair, called her Baba like she was a grandmother. Though she was still a young woman, she sometimes moved stiffly, after she had sat too long or hunched her shoulders up to her ears while she painted, like whatever she had done before coming here siphoned some of her youth away.

When the woman slept at night, it was stretched out beside her husband under a warm duvet, safe. Neither of them dreamed often, and when they did they dreamt mainly of sunlight dancing over skin, of the woods’ silent call. But the other times, the few bad times, he was there when the nightmares reached for her with greedy fingers.

“It’s all right,” he would whisper, gathering her into his arms. “You don’t have to carry it all alone. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Although they were the right words, the things a person should say, her mouth always went dry before she could tell him that she knew.

When one night she arose from their bed in the very early hours, nothing seemed wrong. She had not woken from a nightmare, just suddenly, with no preamble and no cause. Her husband slept on beside her, his brown hair rumpled, one shoulder, sun-kissed from work outdoors, turned toward the ceiling. She thought about kissing it, but she didn’t want to wake him. She left her bed and went to the window, sitting on the bench in front of it and looking out at the pond.

The moon was strong tonight, a silver dish suspended in the sky. Everything she touched—the grass, the sliver of creek—seemed to glow. Her light spilled in through the window, washing the floor and the foot of the bed in desaturated hues, somehow making them both more and less. Where the light did not reach, shadows pooled on the floor like tar.

Most people thought that darkness was the absence of light, its opposite. She knew a different truth. Without light, there could be no shadow. Where one ventured, the other kept close.

And then, out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw one of the shadows move.

She spun around, but her room was as she always knew it: sleeping husband, solid oakwood furniture, dead fire in the grate. Across the room, a ghost stared back at her, hollow-cheeked and bright-eyed. She startled, but it was only her reflection in the full-length mirror. Then, in her periphery, motion: darkness like smoke, sliding under the closed door and into the hall.

She followed.

The rebuilt Keramzin was completely dark this time of night, orphans and staff alike asleep, lost to their own dreams of tomorrow. Patches of moonlight glimmered at her feet, but the shadows between them seemed to grow darker, deeper, until she thought she might fall into them if she took a step forward. Yawning chasms, or hungry mouths.

This was like no dream she could remember. As far as she could see there was no one beside her, no one behind her. Yet she could feel a presence, she would swear to it. Something winding around her, working its way up her body. Something with a voice.

Alina, it murmured. A name only her husband called her now, when the fire was dying and they were alone, the children tucked safely in their beds.

“Alina is dead,” she said. “No one here has that name.”

A lie—Ravkans began naming their daughters for the Sun Summoner as soon as they learned of her. There were two little Alinas, both under four, in the nursery where the youngest children slept. But she didn’t think this phantom cared for technicalities.

The voice chuckled. Are you really so eager to forget yourself? She felt the brush of lips against her ear, but when she turned her head there was nothing. She was alone in the darkened hall, and she thought he had left, but then a whisper slithered into her other ear. Are you so eager to forget who you are?

“I am the mistress of Keramzin,” she told the voice. “I am the painter of these walls. I am the guardian of these children. I have made my home here, and if you won’t leave it, I will drive you out myself.”

There was silence. Then:

With what power?

“Darling?”

She turned. Her husband stood in the doorway of their room, his hair sticking up endearingly at odd angles, pajamas slung low on his hips. The shadows reverted to their normal shade, strangely innocent, keeping their secrets.

“What is it?” he asked. “I heard you talking.”

She blinked back to herself and reached for a plausible explanation. “I don’t know. Must have been sleepwalking.”

He nodded, distantly, then walked over and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Back to bed,” he said, a yawn stretching the last word wide.

“Back to bed,” she agreed, but not without a last glance over her shoulder.

---

“Have you heard from our friend in Os Alta?” the woman asked her husband over breakfast that morning.

That’s what they called the king, that or sometimes their friend in the palace. They had a handful of friends in Os Alta, of course, the lingering remnants of another life entirely. But those friends—the Grisha Triumvirate, the king’s bodyguards, and others—could be mentioned by name occasionally. Davids and Nadias were common enough. Nikolais were, too, but it was better to be cautious with him. Better to leave nothing to chance.

Her husband frowned. “No,” he said. “Were you expecting something?”

She shrugged. They had briefly housed the king’s escort a few weeks back, sans king; the orphans had crowded the windows to gawk at the gilded carriage. When the riders went on their way to the palace, she sent a letter with them. Nothing serious, for there was nothing serious to report from Keramzin, just well-wishes and a request for news from the court. The king was a lively correspondent and usually quick to reply, happy to unburden himself of gossip or fears which he could not, or would not, share with courtiers.

“I wrote to him,” she said, spooning sugar into her tea. “But I haven’t heard back. He’s probably busy.”

“Busy choosing a wife,” her husband replied, with a hint of a snort and a solemn undercurrent that said he did not envy the king one bit.

The woman looked into the glassy surface of her tea. “I forgot,” she murmured, though that news had reached them even in Keramzin and the staff had been buzzing about it for weeks. A royal betrothal was a rare event, and an important one.

Her husband bumped her knee with his, and teased, “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

“Hardly,” she scoffed, and smiled at him. That ship had sailed long ago.

Still, it bothered her that she hadn’t heard from her friend. She knew that court obligations must be keeping him occupied, especially with eligible young women swarming the capital, but she wished she had a letter back so she could reply in kind. He was the only person who understood the way darkness had lodged itself between her ribs like a long thorn, reaching to pierce her heart. If she could just slip in a question about his demons, if she could just have reassurance that all was well with him, then maybe she would cease to worry about the impossible.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the earthy scent of her tea. It seemed silly to have those fears here. The air was bright with the chatter of children being herded into their first lessons of the day, with cooking smells, with autumn sun. Half the walls were covered in paintings of fantastical scenes, her own doing, and she wondered if she had been trying to create a ward to keep the darkness out.

“I heard there were earthquakes last night,” her husband said, changing the subject. “Maybe that’s what woke you.”

She frowned. “Earthquakes? Here?”

“All over Ravka. As far south as Dva Stolba.”

Dva Stolba. A shiver ran down her spine. “Why do they think it happened?”

“An act of nature,” said her husband, unbothered. “These things happen, beloved.”

The woman nodded and looked back into her tea. Strange things had been happening all year, it seemed—bridges of bone, statues sprouting flowers, forests falling in the night. It might mean nothing.

And yet when she tried to paint that day, her blues kept running into her blacks, and shadows marred her paintings like bruises. She retired to her room early, dreading her dreams.

---

She did not dream that night, nor the next, nor the one after that, and she breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that her husband was right, that things do happen. That sometimes earthquakes were only earthquakes, and dreams only dreams.

The next time she woke unexpectedly it was to the sound of a bright, sustained note, like ringing in her ears. Someone was playing the piano downstairs. One of the kids must have gotten up and decided to wander around in the night.

Her husband slept on next to her, bracketing her back, and she knew it would fall to her to handle this before the playing woke up the rest of the orphanage. She sighed, pushed her hair back from her face, and slipped out of bed, quietly pulling the door to behind her.

The child fooling around with the piano kept playing and holding the same note, as if not sure where to go from the single key they’d discovered. It was in one of the upper octaves, and although she’d begun to learn how to play the piano alongside some of her more gifted charges, she did not have the knack for knowing which note it was.

But when her feet found the cold tile of the foyer and she hurried to the drawing room where the piano stood, she saw the person sitting at the keys was not a child at all.

The phantom had shape now. He wore a long cloak of all black, with the hood pulled up to cast his face in shadow. She knew what he would look like if he drew it down, and it was that terrible knowledge which rooted her to the spot. He sat on the piano bench like there was real weight to him.

“You’re not here,” she said, as if the words alone were a revocation, a shield.

The phantom pressed the piano key again, and the note held, high and wavering, suspended in the air between them. She looked around, thinking it might wake the staff, or maybe some of the children would stumble bleary-eyed from their rooms, but in her heart she knew no one would come.

“You’re not real,” she insisted.

“Come and sit,” he said. His voice was cool like a poisoned spring at the height of summer, the last drink of the desperate.

She refused to slip into the well of him and stayed where she was, folding her arms over her chest. “You’re in my home.”

“Yes, and such work you’ve done, rebuilding it.” He didn’t need to remind her that he had once burnt Keramzin to the ground, slaughtered all those that had a hand in raising her. She could hear the smile in his voice, picture the way his lips curved under that hood. “Sit with me. I’ll be on my way soon enough.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Would you believe a dead man’s word?”

She shook her head. She wouldn’t have believed him when he was alive. “All you’ve ever done is lie, dead or not.”

“I bent the truth to my will, Alina. I omitted.” There it was again, the name that was hers and wasn’t. She hated the tenderness with which he said it, the same her husband’s voice held when he called her beloved, or my heart.

“A lie of omission is still a lie,” she said.

He made a small, skeptical sound, and then began to play in earnest, coaxing sad, strange music from a piano more accustomed to the clumsy fumblings of students. She had never heard a song like this, composed of discordant notes that didn’t quite fit together and made the hair on her arms stand on end. She found herself moving closer to the piano, watching his bone-white fingers move over the ivory keys, trying to figure out how he was doing it.

He softened his playing, gentled his touch, so that he could speak to her with his head still bowed. “How long has it been since you’ve seen my face at night?”

“Years,” she whispered. Another lie. She couldn’t keep him from entering her thoughts, the man she’d almost loved, the man she killed. She would go weeks at a time without thinking of him, and then he’d glide into her last thoughts before sleep, or she’d feel her husband’s callused hands on her skin and think of the one breathless night he’d gripped her thigh and nearly had her, all of the other evenings that weren’t.

“Would you like to see it again?”

“No.”

He chuckled and stopped playing, then reached up to draw back his hood.

At first she saw only what she expected: his familiar, beautiful face, with its high cheekbones, his thick, dark hair, his cruel mouth curving up at the corner. There were the faint scars that marked his survival of the time she stranded him on the Fold. But that was what she wanted to see. The other half of his face was a rotten mess. Mottled grey skin flaked away from bone, a dark hollow gaped where his eye should be. There were no lips to hide his straight white teeth, and no nose at all. How he would have rotted, if he hadn’t burned.

He smiled.

She screamed.

The cook, emerging from her room to set out breakfast, found her asleep at the keys, her forearm slung in front of the music rack, pillowing her forehead.

---

The woman was led to her bed, skin hot, buried in blankets as soft and heavy as the first snow of winter. A doctor from the nearby town was summoned to diagnose her with influenza, told her husband to see to it that she rested and drank her tea. She had always been prone to sickness when the weather changed–except for the one glorious, blazing year that her ill health could not touch her, when the light she wielded kept it at bay.

She gave that up. She was supposed to have her happily-ever-after.

“I saw him, Mal,” she said, clutching at her husband’s sleeve as he pressed a cool compress to her forehead. “I saw him.”

“Your temperature’s still high,” he replied, cupping her cheek in his work-roughened hand. She closed her eyes. “Fever dreams. He’s gone, love. You saw to that.”

Later, she saw her husband standing in the door, speaking in a low voice to the doctor, asking about paranoia, about delusions, about what it meant that his wife saw ghosts. The doctor shook his head, told him she needed to sweat it out, that after a few days she would be right as rain.

She told no one there was a weight on her chest that had nothing to do with her flu.

But her body won its fight eventually. After a few days her skin cooled, and instead of sipping clear broth from a bowl held carefully by one of the orphanage nurses, she was able to join the rest of Keramzin at dinner, seated at her husband’s side. The staff all greeted her warmly and told her how much better she looked, even though she knew they whispered about the circles under her eyes even when she was well.

Sitting there in the dining room, she was struck suddenly by a sense of profound dissatisfaction with her life. Why should she endure gossip and speculation? Why should she have her counsel so easily disregarded by the physician, by her husband, her words of warning dismissed as flights of fancy? She, who had been a saint. She, who was nearly queen. Why—

But then one of the little girls threw her arms around the woman’s legs and said, “Baba, I’m glad you’re better,” and the world righted itself. She let her hand rest on the back of the girl’s silken head, and breathed.

---

“Keep me awake tonight,” she told her husband later, as they turned down the gas lamps and climbed into bed. “I don’t want to dream.”

“You need your rest,” he replied, smoothing a lock of white hair back from her face.

She twined her arms around his shoulders. “I’m not glass,” she murmured. “I won’t break. Keep me up.”

He tried his best, and so did she, but sleep, ever the creditor, claimed its debts in the end. Although at first she did not realize she was asleep, having sild into it sideways; one moment she watched her husband’s chest rise and fall, and the next she blinked, and the waning moon had moved outside the window. The back of her neck prickled with the creeping certainty that she was being watched. There was someone else in the room with them.

She reached for her sleeping husband to wake him, to tell him, to show him, but her hand passed over his shoulder like rain running down a windowpane. She jerked it back, as if she had burned it. Her husband didn’t stir.

“He won’t wake,” said the soft, cool voice from behind her. “You’re in my domain now.”

The woman closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, steadying herself before speaking. “I thought it was ours,” she said after a moment. “Not yours. I could call to you, too.”

“But you haven’t, have you, Alina?”

“There’s no point calling on a dead man.”

“Am I so dead?”

The more fool her, expecting a nightmare to know he was deceased. The more fool her, for thinking him just a nightmare. She turned over, holding her blankets close to her chest, and found a figure standing at her bedside, nearly human, not a shadow, not half corpse.

She blinked up at him. “You’re whole now.”

“I only wanted to remind you of the damage you did,” he said.

How could she forget? She killed both him and her husband that day, so much heart’s blood gouting warm over her hands. If one had returned to her, it didn’t seem so unlikely that the other would as well, even though she’d watched him burn.

But she wondered if that was it, or if he simply had the strength now to appear as he liked. He had been formless at first, just a whisper in her ear. Now he stood at her bedside, lifelike. His hood was pushed back from his face, and the moonlight glimmered on his sharp, elegant cheekbones, haloed his dark hair. His scars, which had appeared after she stranded him on the Fold, were gone. He looked down at her with his pale grey eyes, and she very much wished she were clothed.

“What do you want?” she asked, smoothing her hand over the blankets.

“A word. A walk.”

“And what if I don’t want to give you those things?”

His mouth curved into a smile, but she read sadness in his eyes. “Then I will come again, Alina. The tracker may think he has you in the day, but your nights are mine.”

She closed her eyes again and imagined him eroding her dreams over and over, until he became the only thought left in her head. She imagined sitting up for days, trying to avoid him. It chilled her blood. If they had thought her paranoid before…

“No tricks,” she told him. “Look away. I need to dress.”

He scoffed, “You act as though we’re strangers.”

“Some things belong to me,” she reminded him. “Look away.”

He pursed his lips, but turned his head away from her. She slipped out of bed, careful not to touch him, and gathered up her discarded nightgown, her underwear, dressing as quickly as she could. She stepped into her slippers, determined to make him wait as long as possible, before asking, “Where are we walking?”

“Around your orphanage, to start.”

“Fine.” She crossed her arms and tucked her hands under her armpits so he couldn’t take them.

The door to their room had a squeaky hinge, one her husband had been meaning to grease for a couple of weeks now. When the phantom opened it, it made no sound. She listened, hard, for his footfalls on the floor.

“Tell me, does this life suit you?” he asked, as they walked side by side through the darkened hall, the only two awake in a house, or perhaps a world, of sleepers. “Do you enjoy being painter and patroness?”

“I do,” she said. It did not taste like a lie.

He hummed. “Do you enjoy being a mere wife, when you might have been a queen?”

“Men wanted to make me their queen,” she reminded him. “That was never something I chose for myself.”

“All the more reason you would have been a good one,” he said. “Power is wasted by those who crave it. It’s twisted, perverted, misused. You would have made an excellent queen.”

“That’s a rare moment of self-awareness from you.”

An amused glint lit his eyes, a candle flame in a darkened window. “I never wanted power for power’s sake, Alina. I loved my country.”

“Did you?” She paused for a moment to consider a painted vine snaking around a bannister, which was already beginning to flake off. She scratched at a leaf with her index finger; green came away under her nail. “Then why couldn’t you stop destroying it?”

“Ah,” he said.

“Well?”

“So young, so wise, so married,” he mused, “and yet you know nothing of love.”

He took the stairs without waiting for her to follow. She did, of course, determined to chase him down and to explain all the ways that he was wrong, then realizing, partway down, that he would only take her arguments as defensiveness. So she reminded herself of what she knew. She loved her life. She loved the children in her care. She loved her husband. Her love would not destroy them. It would not destroy her.

But she had loved power, too, once. And now her power was dead.

He waited for her by the two grand double doors that stood at Keramzin’s main entrance. She tried to follow the lines of his cloak with her eyes, but it bled into the shadows at his feet. He watched her steadily.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Now we walk.” And he held out his hand.

She stared at him.

“You won’t get to where we’re going if you don’t take it.” He spread his fingers out a little, beckoning her. “Alina.”

She held his gaze as she slipped her hand into his. She half-expected to feel the surge of power, familiar and wild, that used to always manifest when she touched him. She didn’t feel that, but she didn’t feel nothing. Some dark thing fluttered just to the side of her heart, a fledgling raven not quite ready to leave the nest.

“Aleksander,” she said.

He pushed open the door.

They stepped together, and for a moment it was as if the shadows had swallowed them whole. She felt like she had stepped back into the nothingness of the Fold, an all-consuming, weightless darkness. But then it resolved itself, and she saw that she was in a grey, windowless room. She blinked and pressed her hand to one of the walls, feeling cool stone under her palm. With a surge of panic, she looked over her shoulder and saw the only door was metal and sealed tight.

“This is a cell,” she said, her heart sinking. Had she stepped into a trap without knowing? Would she be able to leave? “Why would you bring me here?”

“A glimpse of the future,” he said, ever inscrutable.

And then his mouth was hot and hard on hers, and her back collided with the wall. She was so surprised that for a moment she didn’t react, for a moment her lips parted and she let herself be kissed, and then she grabbed his shoulders and pushed him away.

“What are you doing?” she cried, as if someone might hear, someone outside. Someone who could intervene.

“What you want.”

That dark thing fluttered behind her ribcage again. “I have a husband.”

“Your husband,” he said, voice heavy with derision. “The tracker. Have you forgotten? You murdered your husband the day you murdered me.”

“Clearly it didn’t take.” She kept her hands firm on his shoulders. He certainly felt real, firm and strong, all lean muscle.

His laugh was low and dangerous. “Are you so deserving of good things? Are you so deserving of kindness? You put a dagger in both of us, Alina. Tell me why I shouldn’t repay you in kind.”

She felt one of his hands slip up her nightdress, settling on her thigh, a strange echo of the position they’d been in years ago, that very different night. Her blood pulsed hot in her ears, and she knew it was not a dagger he was planning to stick her with. “You’re dead,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. She refused to let him rattle her. “I think that would make it difficult. No blood to spare.”

He gave her a narrow, rueful grin. “If I’m truly dead, does it matter what we do?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

His other hand traced a half-circle over her collarbones, where Morozova’s antlers once sat, before gently tilting her chin up. She could not look away from him. In life, there was always such intensity in his gaze, and the gaze of this nightmare, this dream, was no different. “I’m going to kiss you again,” he said. “Tell me to stop, if that’s what you want.”

She didn’t tell him to stop. He was gentler this time, his lips ghosting over her cheek before finding hers, molding to her instead of forcing his way in. She shut her eyes tight, but her grip on his shoulders turned into something else, a near embrace, another battle in their war. She could even smell him, cool and crisp like the approach of winter. His hand was warm on her thigh.

“You have something of mine,” he murmured against her mouth. “Do you know how to use it?”

“What?” she asked breathily.

She felt him smile. “I’m not so far away, Alina,” he said. “Come and find me.”

---

When she opened her eyes, she found herself standing in the middle of Keramzin’s drive in her nightdress and slippers. Although it was late autumn and a breeze brushed her white hair back from her face like a lover’s fingers, she didn’t feel the cold.

Dawn was just beginning to break in the east, a pink tinge illuminating the dark branches of naked trees. She stood there, watching the morning sun rise, and held her hands up to it, hoping to catch the rays in her palms and hold them for a while. But they glided over her skin, indifferent to what she wanted. She tried not to let her disappointment swallow her. She had felt a tug when he touched her. She had hoped...

But maybe that wasn’t the answer.

“There you are,” said a voice from behind her. She turned and found her husband standing in the door, his feet bare. He had dressed in haste, and his shirt didn’t quite sit right on his shoulders. She saw the nurse peeking out behind him.

“Sleepwalking,” she called from the drive. “Don’t worry.”

“You should come in,” he said. “You’ll make yourself sick again.” She could hear his concern warring with his impulse not to frighten her off. If they could only pretend everything was fine, then everything would be.

“In a minute.” She looked toward the trees bordering the drive, their little patch of forest. “There’s something I want to try.”

“Ali—” he began, then stopped, remembered himself. “Just come in.”

She smiled at him like she couldn’t still feel the ghost of another man’s kiss on her lips. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

Before he could say another word, she walked off into the trees, where the shadows grew thick like underbrush, even at midday. But it was dawn, with the sun’s light slanting at an angle, and the thick trunks of trees sprouted long, dark shadows that blanketed the leaf-covered ground. She walked until she was sure she could no longer be seen. Eventually, someone would come to bring her in. Better to be quick. Better to be sure.

Alina held out her hands.

The shadows greeted her like an old friend.

#darklina #alarkling #darklinadaily #darklina secret santa #grishaverse #alina starkov #aleksander morozova #the grisha trilogy #shadow and bone #mine: fic #darklinasecretsanta

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penguintransporter · 3 years

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Winning the Game Called Love (Hector Bellerin ) Part III

Hello, lovely people of Tumblr. This is the third part, two more to go. Despite no one really reading this, I still post it, for my sake. I still hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoy writing it. If you like it, please share your thoughts or at least reblog because maybe someone else will enjoy it. I haven’t gotten a simple kudo since I started posting it. Oh well..

Part I

Part II

____

Aida definitely wasn’t the shyest person out there, or the quietest – that’s for sure, but she seemed to turn into a tiniest mouse when she was in the company of someone she fancied, unless she had couple of shots of tequila, which she didn’t. Even if Héctor’s car was warm and comfortable, it still didn’t help her relax as they drove through the streets of London that seemed to be just a passing pictures of distorted lights and raindrops on the wind-shield.

She clasped her hands on her shoulder bag that rested on her lap.

“Where are we going?” she asked, shifting a little as she glanced at Héctor when they stopped at the red traffic light. She wasn’t sure she knew the area, but it certainly didn’t look as if they are going to some cafe or similar – they passed many of them on their way.

Héctor looked at her from the corner of his eye – corner of his lips lifting just for a slightest. “You don’t know it yet,” he started as he took a turn to right, and they entered a fancy residential area – houses lined up perfectly along the long lane, “but I make a killing cup of hot cocoa.”

It took her exactly thirty seconds to realise what his answer meant, and another few for Héctor to slow down in front of a house with a hidden garage driveway. Aida’s heart sped up as the doors the very same garage slowly opened and closed automatically once Héctor drove inside with ease.

I should have accepted a glass of two of that champagne that kept going around at the party.

Héctor killed off the engine – the soundless car becoming completely silent before he unbuckled his belt with ease and Aida wanted to say something; anything. She wanted to break the silence as they sat in the dark, illuminated by the tiny light above their heads.

“Is this your house?” she asked at last – her voice barely a whisper, and she groaned internally.

Of course it is his house, Aida. He didn’t bring you here to meet the Pope.

She tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear – letting the silence fill the car yet again. Waiting for his answer, she decided to nervously pick on the small tear on her sheers, well aware that she could break them any second.

“Yes,” Héctor finally answered, taking a moment to look at her with an amused expression. “You seem nervous.” he stated jokingly and Aida glanced back at him – her heart making a flip inside her ribcage. Was it so obvious? Despite not saying anything back, she knew that her silence answered his question. “I won’t do you any harm, if that’s what you’re nervous about?”

“I wasn’t implying—,” Aida started off awkwardly, finally making enough courage to look at him. “I am just surprised, I was thinking, maybe Costa’s or something.”

Héctor gave her a wink, getting out of his car, letting Aida’s rambles hang in the air awkwardly. “Come on, unicorn,” he spoke, straightening his back before looking down at her with a dorky smile, “as much as I love this baby, I rather go inside.”

Unicorn.

Aida bit down at her lip, releasing herself from the seatbelt as she tried to get out of the car as quickly as possible, but while she was scrambling her way out, Héctor was already walking around and entering the house through the large doors. She hastily placed her bag over her shoulder as she straightened her dress, and with a small intake of breath, Aida followed after him.

The moment she entered the house, she stopped for a moment – confusion overcoming her nervousness. Héctor was nowhere to be seen, and the only light illuminating the entryway was coming through the glass panels of the entrance doors.

Her stomach made a gymnast-worthy flip as she looked up and saw the glimmer of light upstairs.

“Héctor?!” she called out nervously, taking a step towards the stairs, almost tripping on the slippery floor. Her voice echoed ever so slightly, appearing to be louder than it actually was.

“Upstairs!” he called out. Aida felt a shiver spread down her back as she took a nervous step towards the stairs, but quickly backed off when Héctor spoke again. “Down the hallway is the sitting room. I’ll join you in a second.”

Embarrassed at her own thoughts, Aida shook her head as she blindly made her way through the short and dark corridor before stepping inside of an open and sparsely furnished sitting room with adjacent dining area. Aida opened her mouth in surprise, scanning the room. There was a big TV mounted on the white wall, even bigger sofa facing it and a mess of cables on the floor where it was connected to the gaming console. She looked towards the dining area, recognising the designer dining table and a slim laptop resting on top of it, in front of one of the equally expensive-looking chairs.

She couldn’t help but wonder if Héctor knew just how lucky he was.

“Mi casa es tu casa,” Héctor spoke suddenly from behind her, making her jump in the place – the sound of his voice in his native Spanish sending chills down her spine. His voice sounded husky; more mature. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he apologised after few seconds, stepping next her, “didn’t meant to scare you.”

Aida could feel the warmth radiating off of him, and her heartbeat accelerated.

Swaying on her feet lightly, she stole a glance at Héctor. “You have a lovely house,” she complimented.

“Thanks,” he answered smoothly as if he expected her to say that. “Shame you cannot see the garden because of the dark, but it’s one of the best things about this house,” he added. Maybe one day – Aida bit back a wishful sigh as Héctor stepped away from her. “Here,” he changed the subject nonchalantly, and Aida curiously peered at his hands, noticing that he was holding out a hoodie and pair of men’s socks. She gave him a quizzical look, and he gave her a toothy smile in return. “If you want to put something warmer on. This house is usually cold for non-Spanish people. Just ask Kieran,” Héctor smiled, “poor lad puts seven layers before coming over.”

***

After Héctor’s apologetic smile and “I am so sorry, but I only have oat milk left,” Aida finally got the chance to curl her hands around the mug of steaming hot cocoa that he fixed for her. Wearing in the old Arsenal merch over her dress – hoodie that has been washed more than few times and those woolly socks, Aida watched Héctor pour warm liquid in his own mug – look of pure concentration painted on his face.

“Not a word to the manager, okay? This is not the healthiest hot cocoa out there,” he told her as he placed the pot in the sink, turning around to look at her and Aida smiled in her mug, taking a sip.

“I have no intentions on creating drama on my last few days at work, don’t worry” she responded with a grin, licking the corner of her lip to pick up any leftovers that might have stuck on it.

Héctor finally sat down with his own mug, letting the silence fall upon them, but despite of the slight awkwardness, both of them were mentally present, smiling at each other as they sat opposite sides of the kitchen island. Aida let out a small breath, watching him as he looked towards the sitting room. She enjoyed the view more than she should – probably, but she couldn’t help but appreciate him. His hair wasn’t in a perfect bun anymore, but rather messily tucked behind his ears, and the crisp white shirt that used to be neatly tucked in at the party was now falling over his trousers – edges wrinkled and sleeves rolled up, showing his tattoos.

She really, really fancied him.

“Okay,” she started, “I need to ask you something.” She placed her mug on the marble counter-top in front of her and Héctor looked at her, nodding. Aida nervously tucked her hair behind her ear, suddenly tongue-tied as she pulled on the sleeves of his hoodie. “Sorry,” she breathed out nervously, “I just don’t know how to phrase the question.”

“I didn’t think that your friendliness was sincere. That’s all,” he answered her unspoken question as he shrugged once, setting the mug in front of him.

“No?” Aida curiously looked at him – confused. He didn’t seem like he wanted to elaborate on what he just said, and Aida lifted her mug before setting it down again – curiosity filling her brain. “I am confused now,” she honestly replied, “If you thought that I was faking my friendliness the entire time, why make such an effort with hot cocoa?”

Héctor shrugged again but didn’t say anything for a while and Aida could feel the anticipation build inside of her.

“I just felt like it,” he finally answered as he leaned on his elbows, inching closer to her and Aida felt slight blush creep up on her cheeks, “and anyway, if I can recall, it was you who asked for it. I was just being nice.” Still blushing, Aida gasped jokingly, raising both of her eyebrows at him, ready to take on the banter he was starting, but he beat her to it. “You can keep it if you want?”

He was still close to her, and she knew that he could see the redness on her cheeks which made her want to look away, but a sudden burst of confidence mixed with a strange adrenaline made her stomach do a one-eighty.

“What? The mug of hot cocoa?”

Héctor rolled his eyes at her response, leaning back in his chair. “Hilarious,” he mused.

“Why, thank you?” she grinned, feeling her cheeks cooling down. “Thanks on the offer, but I don’t want your girlfriend to get mad at you. I bet she’s got an Excel sheet, keeping a tab on all of your clothes.”

Aida are you flirting? Maybe you should stop because you are not doing yourself a favour.

Héctor grinned, running his fingers along his moustache before placing both of his hands behind his head, and Aida wasn’t sure if she wanted to stare at his full lips or his physique. “You can just ask if I have a girlfriend, y’know?”

Aida almost chocked on her sip of cocoa and her heart went into an overdrive.

“Wh...what—” she stuttered, “what makes you think that I am interested in knowing that?” she corrected herself clumsily – the very same blush painting her cheeks red.

“You tell me,” Héctor winked, and Aida looked down at her cup, wanting to disappear inside of the murky beverage.

***

“So, what are your plans now?” Héctor asked as he gazed at Aida with something resembling a concern in his eyes.

Aida shrugged. “I did intern at the Royal College of Speech and Language Therapy for a bit, here in London, but I took a break from uni last year. It was disgracefully expensive,” she finished, looking down at her bare nails, “I might go back, we’ll see.”

After all the silly banter and the disastrous try at flirting from Aida’s side, their conversation steered towards more serious matters. Héctor told her about his move to the UK when he was still very young, his environmental work and she opened up about her struggles with uni and life in London, and how she was afraid to disappoint her parents who didn’t know she took a break from her education as she tried to collect money to continue it.

“Would have never guessed you are into it.” Héctor said, watching her with a keen interest as she shyly smiled. She wasn’t used on people showing actual interest in what she really wanted to do with her life. “You must know sing language then?”

Aida nodded proudly – her excitement mixing with confidence. “Of course. I can teach you some if you want?”

Héctor nodded excitedly, brushing a stray of hair that fell over his eyes back in place. Aida stopped for a second, taking a sharp intake of breath – he was ridiculously good-looking. “Can you teach me how to say, my name is Héctor—“he grinned mischievously at her, getting his face closer to her, “but you can call me papi?”

It took her few seconds to realise what he had said before she burst out laughing, shaking her head. Aida was about to tell him to sod off because his joke was stupid when his phone light up next to him with a new message and Aida couldn’t help but lock her eyes with the time on his screen – a sudden wave of panic washing over her.

“Shit, it’s already so late?!” she half-asked, half-cried out.

“You mean early?” Héctor grinned, dismissing the text with a flick of his tattooed finger.

Aida rubbed both of her hands across her face in frustration. “I need to get back to the training centre to pick up my car.” She slid off the chair as she spoke, pulling the hoodie over her head at the same time. Aida stopped when the hoodie was halfway off, looking at Héctor who was still calmly seated, watching her with his head tilted to one side. “They already locked the gates, no?”

He nodded calmly. “It’s almost three in the morning, and even if that party was a banger, which it wasn’t, it’s a charity dinner. Two thirds of the attendees are already fast asleep.”

Aida grumbled her response, folding the hoodie before placing it on the counter-top. She proceeded to take off the socks – not welcoming the cold that seeped through her barely clad feet as they touched the floor.

“I think I’ll get an Uber.”

“I could give you a lift home,” Héctor offered, watching her with an amused glint in his eyes as he slid off the chair, “but first I need to ask my girlfriend if I can do that. Excel and that shit.”

Aida wanted to roll her eyes at him, but instead she bit her smile back as she made her way through the dining area and into the sitting room where she left her bag upon arrival. It rested on the big sofa cushion, next to Héctor’s suit jacket, wallet and car keys.

As she was picking up her bag, a different kind of panic entered her body when she realised that she wasn’t sure if she had her flat keys with her. She has never been very organised person and more than often she would put her belongings in random places – change in her pocket instead of wallet, underwear in her drawers with socks and house keys on the seat of the car instead of her bag. Scrambling to open the bag, she unzipped the small pocket at the back of her bag and huffed out a sigh of relief, seeing the key resting inside.

“At least I have my fla—,” Aida started, turning around to face Héctor, but stopped quickly – thoughts and words vanishing from her brain. “Shit,” she whispered.

Héctor stood in front of her, closer then ever before.

Not counting that time when they slammed into each other in the corridor at work.

He was so close that if either one of them made a slight move forward, their bodies would be touching. She was losing her composure and in order to avoid doing something stupid, she looked down, trying to quiet her heart that was beating so loud that she could hear it in her ears.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of her looking at their shoes, she seized enough of courage to meet his eye, only to find him grinning at her as if he just proved that the earth was in fact round. Her cheeks turned a very deep red, making him smile wider, and Aida wanted to crawl under a rock and hide there for the rest of her life.

Why was he so close?

Mortified, she sucked in a deep breath as Héctor started closing in on the distance between them. Aida opened and closer her mouth, unsure what to do, but he just moved around her – brushing gently against her arm as he leaned over the sofa’s backrest.

“My car keys,” he whispered when he was close to her ear, and Aida swallowed the invisible knot in her throat.

“Car keys, yes...” she trailed off – her voice cracking slightly.

Héctor took a step back, sliding his wallet in the back pocket of his trousers, giving her an amused but pleased look.

“Let’s go, unicorn,” he said in his normal voice before turning around and making his way towards the doors.

Part IV

#footballers #football fanfiction #footballer fanfiction #football imagine #football oneshot #soccer imagines #soccer fanfiction #hector bellerin story #hector bellerin fanfiction #hector bellerin imagine #hector bellerin fic #arsenal fc fan fiction

35 notes · View notes

nbrook29 · 3 years

Note

hiii, number 35 for the dialogue prompts. hope you'll have a wonderful day ✨

158 for Sobbe, I can swear that at some point in a AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES context Sander said this to Robbe, but I can't prove it sjjsjsjsjjsj

120 + 160 😋💜

1 for Sobbe! I've been listening to the song 'let's get married' by Mitski and it's soooo them, and maybe you get inspired by it too if you write this lol. Have a good day/night 💕💕

154, 28, 18, 9, 2 (just the ones u want❤)

30 for Sobbe 🧡🧡🧡

Hi y’all! I managed to compile all of these prompts into one 8k fic, I hope it’s okay 🙈 It’s too long to edit on tumblr so I’m posting a link to ao3 and a snippet of it below 💛

Also, I super appreciate all the comments in the tags and stuff ❤️

The dialogue prompts involved:

158. [text] Living alone for four weeks has given me unrealistic expectations of pantslessness

30. “Did you do this on purpose?!”

28. “Stop pinning this on me! You started it!”

2. “Do you want me to leave?

120. “Your hair is so soft…”

160. [text] Who says no to sex and donuts?!

1. marry me

35. “I can’t believe you dragged me into this.”

LINK ---> hold all my cliches on the tip of my tongue

***

When Robbe enters the downstairs bathroom on a Saturday afternoon, it already looks like a mess, and they haven’t even started. The sink is full of various utensils and bottles thrown in there haphazardly and he looks around, his mouth quirking a little at how the place is currently the perfect representation of Sander’s chaotic energy. It’s probably for the best his mom is far, far away on another continent and doesn’t have to encounter this because she’s an orderly woman compared to her artist of a son, and it’s quite possible she would get a stroke seeing this.

And that’s even before they undoubtedly turn this place into a battlefield with their bleach shenanigans.

“Ready?”

Sander passes him in the doorway, accidently brushing his shoulder and shooting him an expectant smile. He’s carrying a wooden stool in one hand and a large chocolate chip cookie he’s happily munching on in another. He must’ve changed out of his black hoodie because now he’s wearing his “creative hours” white t-shirt, stained with a palette of intense colors that barely washed out in the washing machine. The cut off sleeves reveal his arms, and the tanned skin is contrasting so nicely with the whiteness of the material that Robbe’s gaze lingers a little on his lean tricep, taut when he puts the sturdy looking stool down.

“I was born ready,” he replies with feigned confidence that makes Sander arch his left eyebrow.

“Oh really? What happened to you being hesitant about this?”

“I realized you’re gonna look hot either way, bleached blond or bald, so there is no wrong outcome here, really.” Robbe smiles innocently, but his eyes are anything but, mischievous glints dancing in those big brown irises and it’s a look on him that never fails to make Sander’s fingers itch with the desire to have his way with him.

They have work to do though so he resorts for a cheeky comeback for now, knowing it’s going to tint Robbe’s cheeks pink right away.

“Are you talking about your secret fetish again?”

And there it is, a pretty flush spreading on those cheekbones chiseled by god himself and it’s super cute, even when followed by Robbe’s indignant scoffing. Sander absolutely adores that even over a year later there are still things he says that can make him blush and he already mourns the future days when it no longer happens and Robbe gets immune to his cheesy jokes. But, at the rate they are going so far, it’s not going to happen anytime soon.

Thank god.

“I don’t have a baldness fetish, jerk!” Robbe gives his shoulder a half-hearted push, flustered.

“Right, right, I forgot, I am your fetish.”

He’s expecting another shove but instead, Robbe’s features morph into a private little grin, his gaze dropping to Sander’s lips as he twists his fingers into his t-shirt, bringing him closer to seal their lips together for a few magical seconds before pulling back with a loud smack, laughing a little at Sander’s dazed but intrigued face.

Then he slaps his butt cheekily, effectively pulling him out of his reverie and leaves Sander wondering where that beautiful innocent and sweet boy he fell in love with almost a year and a half ago went. The beauty and sweetness is still there but the innocence flew out the window a long time ago and Sander feels pretty responsible for this glorious corruption, oh yes he does.

“Okay, let’s do this ‘cause otherwise we’re gonna be here till Monday.” Robbe points vaguely at the compiled accessories and then resorts to watching Sander mixing the developer and bleach together, occupying himself with reading the instructions on the bottle. He scrunches up his nose as the chemical smell irritates his nostrils and he’s honestly starting to feel sorry for Sander’s hair.

Once the mixture is ready and Sander is perched on the stool with an old towel around his neck, Robbe buries his fingers in his brown strands, loving the feeling of silkiness when he combes them back, making sure to scratch a little at the scalp.

It always makes Sander’s eyelids droopy, and the soft groans that leave his mouth when there’s a scratch at a particularly sensitive spot pull a giggle out of Robbe.

“I swear you were a cat in the previous life.”

“Probably, yeah,” Sander agrees in a soft voice that tells Robbe the skillful ministrations of his fingers are currently putting him on cloud nine.

“Oh my god, baby,” he moans, rolling his head slowly back and forth, and Robbe can see a shudder going through him. “If I’d known your hair bleaching assistance comes with a free head massage, I’d have recruited you sooner.”

His entire body visibly relaxes, Robbe’s magical fingers erasing every bit of stress that accumulated through the day with a practiced precision. “I swear, those fingers of yours were the god’s gift to humanity,” he pauses, his eyes searching for Robbe’s in the mirror as his lips stretch into a smirk. “Well, or at least a gift to me.”

Robbe indulges him because how could he not when Sander’s being so sweet and putty under his hands, so he doubles his efforts, receiving the cutest little purr at some point.

“Your hair is so soft,” he marvels, combing through it with awe. “I kinda hate myself for what I’m about to do to it.”

“It’s okay, Robin, my hair forgives you.”

Robbe lets out a woeful sigh and reluctantly disentangles his fingers from the strands. “Okay, now after I said goodbye to brown, let’s get it over with, shall we?”

#wtfock

26 notes · View notes

allandoflimbo · 4 years

Text

Bad Guy

Summary: You experience another night out in your new hometown. One that has you reaching for a drink, and maybe ending with a certain someone between your legs.

Warnings: Drinking, cursing, and (mild, well for me) fucking.

A/N: This is a submisstion for @amanda-teaches 2k Writer + Reader Challenge. My prompt was “Everyone keeps telling me you’re the bad guy.” This was really fun to write. Thank you for letting me participate in this! And I hope you really enjoy this one. :) It’s pretty light hearted. As most of you know, I will no longer post my writing on Tumblr, i’ll just be sticking to my other platforms now. If you wanna check me out i’ll be on AO3, mostly. This is my final closing. :)

The night was turning crisp, a heavy contrast to what it had been that afternoon.

It had been humid and overbearingly hot; too scorching for a late August summer.

It was around six o’clock when the temperature had dropped a sudden ten degrees. Now it was pleasant, and those that had hidden away all day in their air conditioned homes, finally decided to venture out into the cooling air.

There was an intense misconception about New York City that not many understood, not until they experienced it first hand, at least.

Sure, it was beautiful in its bright lights and air that seemed to ooze hope for everyone’s future. It gave off a vibe that made you admit, that yeah, it kind of was like the movies.

Except that it wasn’t.

From afar, it was quite the spectacular, but as you narrowed down and took a closer look, you’d see it for what it really was.

The brownstone buildings that housed the speakeasies and restaurants on the ground floor; they were beautiful, surly.

So were the homes across the streets, with their lights still on.

The streets, they were nice too.

People stood all around, greeting new friends and old ones, talking about which place they would go to next or which bar.

You liked the village. It had its pros and cons, but at the end of the day, you were glad you settled for that fifteen hundred dollar studio on the first floor.

It had a nice view of the deli and the prestigious restaurant across the street, and it was a brownstone.

Yeah, all of that was really nice.

Except when you took a closer look and realized that even the prettiest of things had its faults.

Those streets filled with smiles and laughter also had trash bags piled up every ten feet and on every corner.

Those restaurants and speakeasies - the brownstones were older so the walls outside the building were washed out, aged.

The air also had a strange, but yet addicting, smell.

It was a mixture of all the restaurants around mixed with booze.

The stairs that led down into the restaurant entrances were old and rusted.

The ATMs that lounged outside each one - because that’s right, most of them only take fucking cash - six out of ten of them were always out of service and served as nothing but mediocre décor next to the window.

Heavy graffiti lined their sides.

The doors to the restaurants were older, too. Some of them never even closed properly or were too damn heavy.

And your apartment...it was perfect.

You’d have to settle into become a minimalist to even fit your bed inside.

The flooring was also old and scratched and the walls needed a new paint job. But it wasn’t too bad. It could’ve been worst.

But you loved it.

You loved the feeling of the city around you, and you loved how you had made your new friends so easily after moving in from your old home in little ole’ Ohio.

You loved going to bed being able to hear the life outside, the laughters and sound of people making new memories and falling in love.

And those restaurants and speakeasies that looked flawed up close, they were anything but inside.

The owners were always so imaginative. The lighting was always warm, there were always people inside enjoying life and the food- in every single one of them.

Because, that’s right, all their food were good food.

New York City was beautifully flawed.

It was just what you were looking for.

You think this to yourself for the hundredth time since you moved here as you walk down the street towards a new bar you hadn’t been to yet.

You pass by locals as well as tourists and it’s nice.

You’re about to cross the street when you see a couple getting out of their little apartment.

Your heart warms as you see the man take the girl’s hand in his, both of them giggling as they prepare for a night out of making memories.

You feel your phone vibrate as you arrive to the other side of the intersection.

You hear a car horn in the distant and a nice summer breeze blow in through your hair.

You open your lock screen.

Nat

You here yet?

You quickly type away a message while also trying to avoid walking into others coming in the opposite direction as you.

You hold tighter onto your bag as it bumps into a girl, your small heels clacking beneath your feet.

You open your map to see the distance of the location and then reply back to her.

I’m a block away.

You see it from where you’re standing and it had it a decent sized line to get inside.

Budapëis

It read in white letters on the blackout windows.

You sped up a bit as you got closer, your excitement growing in your belly.

It doesn’t take much longer after you’ve been in line to realize it was actually moving pretty quickly.

A larger and dark man greets you at the entrance and you hand him your ID which he quickly scans. He gives it back to you and you thank him.

Inside the bar was loud. The people chatted away happily and the music thrummed in your bones. It was also very dark, the only light being the orange glows of the candles on some of the tables and the dimmed warm lights hanging above.

You watched as the cute male bartenders worked proficiently and sync, but also making sense to make small talk with each client as much as they could over the loud noise.

A girl says excuse me but still manages to nudge into you.

Spinning your head around, you realize there are no more seats left to sit and it makes sense why half of the people were all standing around and huddled like cattle.

Oh boy.

You feel a tug on your arm and you spin around to see Nat holding a Martini in her right hand, her left arm going in for an immediate hug.

“You made it!” She says.

“Of course!” You hope she can hear you.

She pulls away and tugs you towards her, “Come on, we’re all in the back.”

You let her lead you to the “back” which is really just a small space in the corner of the bar.

You immediately recognize Steve, Sam, and Wanda from afar.

“Oh, hey, you made it!” Steve yells, grabbing you in a tight hug.

“Hey, Y/N” “Oh, hey.” Sam and Wanda greet you.

“Hi, sorry I took a bit long. I was doing laundry.”

“Ha.” Sam snorts out loud, “come on you need a drink.” He adds.

“I will, I will —“ you dart your eyes to his own cup and point, “what’s that?”

“New York sour. Tastes like shit. Wanna try?” He says way too excitedly.

“Sure.” He hands you his glass and you take a sip.

You barely have the tip of the glass all the way out of your mouth when a body hits you on your side, making you stumble.

The drink doesn’t spill crazily, but it’s enough to get on your hand and to leave it sticky, leaving you annoyed.

You’re also not too fond of the face full of hair you just got and the elbow that keeps nudging into the side of your rips.

You stumble a few centimeters to the left, because seriously, it’s not like you have an option right now.

You look over to the girl who is now laughing and talking exceptionally loud with Nat and all your friends.

Did they really not see that?

But you wouldn’t blame them, there was barely any light in the place anyway.

If it weren’t for Sam reaching over the girl’s head to grab your glass, you’d be certain he had forgotten all about you.

You hand it back, cringing as you try not to elbow the girl in the face.

Sure, she was rude, but you weren’t going to return that sentiment.

“What’d you think, Y/N?” Sam shouts to you.

It’s then, finally, when the girl looks over at you.

She was drop dead gorgeous. At least 5’9. Her hair was a natural light brown and her eyes a piercing green.

Clearly a model trying to make it big in the city.

Her face is emotionless at first but then she attempts a smile.

You feel awkward under her gaze, awaiting an apology when Sam pulls you around.

“Come on, lets get ya something good.” He says, dragging you the bar.

You follow him until you’re at the side of the counter closest to when you first came in.

You sigh, already dreading this night, when you overhear Sam ordering two shots of tequila and two lemons.

“Me and you, y/l/n.” He says, taking the glass from the cute bartender.

Sam hands you the shot and you both countdown together before taking it simultaneously.

You chase it with the lemon, and okay yeah, you feel a little bit better.

“Glad we finally got ya out to a real bar.” Sam smiles.

You shrug.

“It’s been a while. Been busy trying to work, book places.”

“Oh, yeah, what is it that you do again?”

“I’m a singer, Sam. Whole reason I came from Ohio. Hello?”

He shoots you an infectious grin.

“I know, I’m just messing with you.”

You sigh.

Sometimes you did feel like people forgot though, especially in a city with 8 million other people trying to reach the same dream as you.

You hang around your friends for a bit longer, finally, finally getting the opportunity to wish Nat a happy birthday.

It must’ve been about an hour now later and you’re glad that one girl was gone.

Whoever she was.

“Is Bucky still coming?” Sam asks randomly out loud.

“He said he would get here as soon as he was done with his shift.” Steve mumbles, looking down at his phone, a glass filled with amber alcohol in his other hand.

“Shocked he’s taking so long. Wonder if he knows Aubrey is here.” Sam says.

“He’s an ass. And a whore. He knows.” Nat screams over to the guys.

You look over at Nat and Wanda and you see them already out of it giggling while looking at some guys’ Instagram feed.

“I’m gonna get another drink.” You announce.

“Hell yeah you are, y/l/n!” Sam yells with a wink.

Steve elbows him in the side.

“Stop peer pressuring her.” He says.

“I’m not, she just needs to let loose—“ he voice fades as you walk away.

You sigh, suddenly feeling exhausted. You contemplated ordering some fries or maybe mozzarella sticks.

You fold your arms onto the cold counter, waiting for the bartender to give you his full attention.

It takes a bit with the amount of people he’s serving along with the other bartender.

Finally he looks over at you and he smiles bright.

God, so cute.

You lean your head on your hand.

“Hi, can I have a gin and tonic?”

He taps the table top.

“Sure thing.” You watch his arms flexing as he makes your drink.

Mmm.

He slides it to you with a wink.

“You on a tab?”

You tell him Nat’s name and everything necessary and he nods.

You sip your drink, letting the music drown and numb you along with the alcohol. Your finger trails the condensation on the glass gingerly.

“Hey, man.”

A soothing voice comes up next to you, greeting the bartender.

The bartender’s face lights up.

“No, way. Finally out of his damn shell.” The bartender greets him with a over hand handshake.

You slide over to the side a bit, giving them some space.

The man next to you orders a drink, giving the bartender his card and requesting a tab.

You feel the heat of his presence as he leans on his own arms over the counter right next to you, and you can’t help smelling the delicious smell of cologne wafting off his body.

You don’t know if it’s the alcohol but you feel yourself biting on your bottom lip, and sticking your ass in the air, still dragging your hand up and down the glass.

But this time on purpose.

It doesn’t work.

You look over to take a look at the man in question and you swoon.

His dark brown hair was begging to be pulled and he had the softest of scruff on his face.

He wore a black leather jacket and jeans and shoes that looked way too expensive.

You drag your eyes back up his body to see a smirk, and fuck, he’s looking straight at you.

Those eyes. They were so blue.

You blush faintly, turning back to your glass and taking another sip.

You know he’s still there, eyes stilling lingering on you.

He takes his drink and then clears his throat.

You’re expecting him to say something when he leaves.

Your smile fades and you feel a weird emptiness. Rejection?

No that couldn’t be it.

You’re finishing your drink when your eyes drift back up to your friends.

Sam, Steve, Wanda, and Nat are all smiling.

But then Steve is smiling more and the commotion is even bigger as they spin around.

You perk a brow as you watch the man that was just next to you a few moments ago greet your friends.

Was that Bucky? The infamous asshole?

He was beautiful.

Of course he was.

You try to compose yourself before walking back over to your friends.

Sam looks at you disappointed, eyes darting to your empty hands.

“I thought you were getting a drink.”

“I already drunk it, dumbass.”

“Why drink there, drink here.”

You chuckle, your eyes darting to Bucky briefly who eyes you for a moment making a connection.

His friends were your friends too.

There was something strange the entire time, about the connection in the air between you two.

It must’ve been the alcohol. He was way out of your league.

But you didn’t understand the asshole your friends were talking about. Well, not that you really knew him that much anyway.

As you pretend to be intrigued in your conversation with Nat and Wanda, yours was actually focused on Bucky.

It’s like you both are playing a playful game of who can catch the other looking first.

You find yourself licking your lip...twirling your hair around your finger…

You swear he’s staring at your finger.

God, what was happening to you?

“Hey, babe!”

You heart Plummets into your stomach as you see the same girl from before (the one who spilled the drink on you) wrapping her arms around Bucky’s neck and oh yeah, she’s definitely sticking her tongue down his throat.

You feel your heart in your stomach and the strong taste of the gin in your mouth.

He pulls away with a moan and a slight grimace.

“Hey, Aubrey. What are you doing here?”

His hands go to her arms, prying her off of him.

“I came with a few friends and ran into yours. You haven’t been answering any of my messages.”

“Yeah, we broke up, remember?”

Everyone’s attention is now to Bucky and Aubrey as they watch their interaction.

“But come on, just one more night, one more good fuck for all times sake.”

A heavy snicker leaves your throat, but you quickly try to disguise it by pretending to wipe your mouth.

The girl’s head spins towards you and she peaking a brow at you.

She quickly ignores you and turns back to Bucky.

“Come on, Bucky.”

Bucky looks over it.

“Aubrey, Aubrey stop.” He says seriously.

She pulls back from him and they stare at each other for a moment longer before she scoffs and spins on her heel.

You turn away from the scene, suddenly needing another drink or at least some fresh air.

You settle for the latter, telling your friends you’d be right back.

You settle to lean back against the brick wall of the bar, taking in the sweet smell of a summer night.

The contrast of the silence outside felt amazing your ears, and the small amount of alcohol in your system only made it better.

You cursed yourself for being a horny little freak. But you chuckle to yourself as you pull out your phone. You couldn’t help that you needed physical attention.

You’re skimming through your emails when you feel someone next to you. You look up to see Bucky, his left shoulder leaning on the wall right next to you.

You find yourself smiling at his little smirk and you bite your bottom lip, looking away.

“You were trying to get my attention so bad before, and now you don’t want to talk?” He asks playfully.

You shake your head, but you still have a smile on your face.

You feel your cheeks grow hot.

“Wow, seriously?” “Am I wrong?”

You think about your answer as you continue to look through your emails, except at this point you were just trying to look like you were.

“No, but that was before I realized who you were.”

His smiled slides off slowly.

“What do you mean?”

You finally decide to put your phone away and you spin around to look at him, now face to face.

The look in his eyes are intense and you find yourself blushing. You knew all these things about him, but yet he had this aura about him, almost like everyone else was wrong.

Your eyes dart from his eyes and to his lips.

“Everyone keeps telling me you’re the bad guy.” You say quietly.

When he doesn’t say anything, you look back up until your eyes meet.

“Are they wrong?” He asks.

Your perk a brow at his answer.

“I—I don’t know.”

He chuckles.

“Exactly.”

You nod, pushing yourself off the wall. You take a deep breath, looking at the people on the street.

“It’s getting late, I should get going.”

Bucky nods, still not moving from his spot.

“Okay, yeah.”

You stay glued to where you are, your eyes darting back to his.

“Yeah.” You repeat back.

You watch as the tip of his tongue licks his lips. You feel the heat in your core and you feel the heavy beating in your chest.

“Do you live close by?” He asks huskily, looking over your shoulder.

____

You don’t know how it happened, but one minute he had you up against the public hallway wall of your apartment building - where literally anyone could see you - and the next he was pushing your jeans passed down your hips in your living room.

You groaned as your lips connected again, and as you pulled on his hair again.

He cursed into your lips as he cupped your center, feeling how wet you already were for him.

You whimpered as he rubbed small circles over your clit, before finally inserting his finger deep inside of you.

He pushed you down onto your bed, his left hand still fucking you. You lifted your left leg onto the bed and he groaned into your mouth as he quickened the pace of his hand.

You threw your head back, moaning.

You felt your desire quickly dissipate as he pulled away from you.

Bucky chuckled at your whine, but your disappointment was short lived as your watched him pull his shirt and jeans off.

You did the same with your own top and then your bra.

He was on you in a hot second, capturing your lips in a long kiss that had your toes curling against your blanket.

When he pulled away you were captivated by how delicious he looked. You also couldn’t help but swoon at the look he had in his eyes.

Endearment? You weren’t sure.

Your fingers trail over the side of his face as he continues to stare down at you.

“I’m not the bad guy,” he kisses you. He slides into you with a grunt, “I swear, I’m not him.” He kisses you again.

Your hook your left leg over his hip, pulling him in deeper into your hot core.

You pull away from his mouth, your left hand going down to his stomach.

“Fuck. Fuck.” You pant heavily. It felt too good too fast and you know he felt it too as he stretched his forearms on either side of your head.

A long whimper leaves his lips as he sets a faster pace, fucking you into your bed.

He almost looses it completely when he feels you reaching down to rub at your clit, your fingers hitting the base of his cock and his little hairs.

You feel your pussy tightening around him and you know you’re so damn close.

“Yeah, come on, baby. That’s it.” He coaxes you, panting desperately into the crook of your neck.

You feel the fire burning in the pit of your tummy and you know that with a few more thrusts and a few more rubs on your clit that you were done for.

The sounds in your little apartment were filthy. You could hear his hips snapping against yours and both of your groans.

He slowed down his pace as you felt yourself come undone.

“Shit, I’m cumming.” You tell him through gritted teeth, your face only millimeters from his.

He has a wicked smirk on his face and some of his sweaty strands of hair stick to his forehead.

“Me too, fuck, I’m cumming, too.” He says.

You scream as you pulse around his hard cock, not missing the way his own eyes squeeze together, a strong grunt leaving his mouth.

His hips slow down to a stop and when you open your eyes again, he’s already staring down at you.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.” You say, running your hand through his hair.

Bucky chuckles as he leans forward to leave a kiss on your collarbone.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you #bucky x oc #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #captain American fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bad guy #2k challenge #allandoflimbo #alandoflimbo #my fics

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syntheticpoetry · 4 years

Text

Kintsugi

Summary: Kurt and Blaine have a mature heart to heart involving Blaine's insecurities.

Tested reaction fic where I just really gratuitously expanded on the dialogue and included the missing smut scene that very obviously must have occurred off camera.

AO3 Link || FFN Link

Author’s Note: So during our Tumblr Gleewatch group viewing I was left wanting so much more out of this scene and it kinda just spiralled from there. There's some smut, but a lot of dialogue driven conversation following the canon dialogue where I felt like the conversation should have continued rather than end with their little heartfelt hug. The way Blaine just shattered and started crying and Kurt just held him with a straight face.... yeah. There was definitely more that happened there. So here you go. See more notes on the end explaining the title. Huge thanks to @blog-carmex for beta reading for me and offering her invaluable input :D

__________________________________________________________

It has been three hours since class ended. Three long hours since Blaine watched Kurt stride right past him without so much as another word after they changed out of their fencing gear. After their sparring match they had retreated to opposite ends of the classroom, huffing in silence and shooting daggers at one another. The mutual refusal to speak to each other had persisted all the way into the locker room where Kurt then proceeded to peel off his shirt in front of everyone. Blaine had slipped into a bathroom stall to change, a mix of embarrassment and guilt beginning to wash over the anger as he shimmied out of the white pants plastered against his sweaty skin. By the time he had emerged again Kurt had shouldered past him, tight lipped with eyes fixed in the distance, leaving Blaine to stand alone, his mouth hanging open and staring dumbly after him.

“I just find it funny that we haven’t been intimate in like a week and maybe this is why.”

“No, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I got up early and forgot to text you.”

“You know what, Blaine? Sometimes I think we talk too much.”

After class Blaine had retreated to Kurt’s apartment in the hopes of another attempt at conversation, but has been melding himself into the couch for the last two hours with nothing but the silence and Kurt’s words to bounce around his skull as he waits for him to return. It feels like such a stupid fight. All of their previous discussions about just going to one another to air out their grievances, to talk about when things are bothering them feel like a distant memory. Blaine tried to talk to him. He tried to take the steps that they had outlined. But Kurt just shut him down. Kurt didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to let Blaine try to explain himself. Instead they were left to physically act out their aggressions in combat class of all places. Okay, so maybe Blaine wasn’t being completely open about the extent of his insecurities, but Kurt’s instant decision for distance and his ability to become an ice prince once Blaine had actually tried to initiate a conversation reminded him why it has always been so difficult to speak his mind.

Blaine is terrified. Terrified of rejection, terrified of Kurt finally peeling away his loosely fastened mask of confidence and seeing him for what he truly is— a coward. He had never felt brave until the day Kurt stared at him from across that table in Dalton like he was this wise old sage so full of advice and wisdom. It had been so easy to slip into the disguise, to feign the persona of a boy who had suffered and prevailed. Who was he kidding? Prevailed. What a joke. Blaine knows that whatever semblance of true bravery he ever possessed in the first place to compel him to bring a boy to a school dance in Ohio had been beaten away all those years ago in that parking lot. He told Kurt that he ran from his bullies and regretted it, but the truth is he knows he is still running. That he has never stopped.

Not like Kurt. Kurt, who had suffered in silence for months at the mercy of his own bullies and still emerged with his head held up high. Kurt, who had experienced his own hate driven assault, and had learned to become stronger and stand his ground so much quicker than Blaine could even begin to wrap his head around. Kurt, who is so much braver and resilient than Blaine can ever imagine himself being. Kurt, who does not actually need Blaine to guard him and guide him the way that he once used to.

And it terrifies Blaine to feel this insignificant again. To become a shadow of doubt beneath a rising sun.

The door to the apartment slides open and Kurt strolls in, phone pressed to his ear, instantly catching sight of Blaine on the couch. Blaine hunches over, arms resting against his knees, and braces himself for the explosion. All afternoon he has been waiting for Kurt to return, but now that he is actually here his instincts are screaming to just get up and run. Keep running. Don’t stop.

“Yeah, he’s here. Okay. Okay, bye,” Kurt slings his bag onto a chair at the kitchen table and turns to Blaine. “That was Rachel, she was just confirming us for her opening night.”

“What’d you tell her?” Blaine asks.

“I said, ‘Yeah, if we don’t kill each other in combat class, count us in,’” Kurt replies, eyes trained carefully on Blaine. Blaine does not want to return the focus though, choosing instead to tip a can of ginger ale into his mouth to douse the desert in his throat. Little distractions for idle hands and a restless mind.

“What happened in there?”

Here it comes— the avalanche. There’s a sudden tightness in his chest as he avoids meeting Kurt’s eyes. “You were really coming at me like— like… as if you had something to prove. What, I’m not sure.”

“That I’m as strong as you are,” Blaine says. The words sound surprisingly more bitter and resentful than he had initially intended them to. He remembers his place— don’t lose control — and tries to reign in some of the tension, just bottle it back up again.

“Okay,” Kurt says and strides towards him. Blaine takes note of the distance he keeps between them, the minuscule gap that feels like the Grand Canyon. Is it intentional? “But it’s not a contest.”

“Isn’t it though?” Blaine responds with the same bitterness again. “On some level? Cause for the first time in my life, I really feel like I’m losing.”

He can feel the loss of the control, the steady spiral into the depths of despair and uncertainty that he has trapped himself in for months. The knot in his stomach twists itself tighter, yet he cannot help himself. Once the train derails, there really is not much else to do but let the collision run its course. “I’ve felt that way ever since I got to New York. I feel like,” Blaine sets the can down and waves his hand between them, “We’re in this race together and you are just so much farther than I am. Like, it just feels like the whole balance has shifted.”

“What balance?” Kurt’s eyes narrow. He takes a seat in an armchair, keeps his distance.

Now he really has gotten himself in too deep.

“I guess it started when we first met,” Blaine shrinks back against the couch, avoiding Kurt’s piercing gaze. “And you came to Dalton because you were trying to get away from Karofsky, and I wanted to help you through that.”

“And you did,” Kurt says quietly.

“And I loved the way that felt. I loved it,” Blaine swallows and leans his head back against the couch, speaking to the ceiling. “I loved being able to protect you, but now I look at your life and…”

And now it hurts. Now it feels like I don’t fit into any part of it. Now it feels like I have never been, nor will I ever be enough for you because you don’t need me anymore. Nobody needs me the way that I need you. Why is this so hard?

“It’s completely different,” Blaine finishes and finally settles his eyes onto Kurt. “You’re a star at school, you have all these cool new friends, you started this band and I just,” Say it. Stop hiding. Say it. Tell him. “I feel like you don’t need me anymore, to protect or anything.”

There is a glint in Kurt’s eyes that sends Blaine’s heart careening down into his stomach. This has been a mistake. Saying anything at all, letting his guard down— it has all been a mistake. He springs up suddenly, anxious to disappear. “I mean, you asked me to move out, for God’s sake,” He murmurs bitterly as he walks past Kurt.

“We made that decision together,” Kurt replies, tone heavy and unimpressed, as he spins around in the chair to face him. “So is that what all this stuff is about that’s going on? I mean, you trying to get me to eat more?”

You are missing everything. You are missing the entire point. Do you even see me when we’re together? Can’t you tell?

“I don’t like the way I feel about myself anymore, Kurt! Okay?” Blaine’s raised voice takes them both by surprise. Through the open window, the sound of sirens permeates the post-confession silence. Blaine closes his eyes, already feeling the tears clinging to his lashes. He knows opening his mouth again is going to be yet another mistake, but so far he has been a glutton for punishment and self pity tonight, so what more is there to lose?

“And you have this amazing new body— do you know why we haven’t been intimate? It’s because I feel insecure around you. I feel insecure around my own fiancé, and Fratboiphysicals.com isn’t gonna judge me!”

Somehow this feels worse than keeping everything bottled up. The terror of Kurt’s reaction leaves him feeling dizzy and sick as he finally opens his eyes to absorb the blow. Somehow Kurt’s eyes exude a softness beneath the two smoldering flames. A sort of fierce protectiveness that only leaves Blaine feeling more pathetic than he did in the first place.

“Neither will I. Ever ,” Kurt responds and stands up to approach him. “But I am not going to apologize for not being some delicate flower that needs his boyfriend to protect him.”

“Kurt, I—”

“And you know what? Maybe you’re right. Maybe it is a contest. Maybe that’s the way it has to be with two guys. But I would much rather be running this race with you than against you.”

Blaine knows what it is to be lectured. Understands all too well that familiar feeling of being put in his place, his actions chalked up to overdramatics and oversensitivity. Looking up at Kurt towering over him, he feels even smaller now. Whatever certainty he possessed, whatever feigned strength he must have siphoned off of Kurt when he entered the apartment to stagger his way through his confession has evaporated completely, leaving behind a hollow shell. His words come out apologetic and frightened, tiny and remorseful.

“Me too, I just—”

“As equals ,” Kurt says sternly.

Equals. Something about the word flips a hidden switch. Equals. He has never felt a kinship with that word before, never understood what it felt like to stand beside someone and hold each other up, sharing the weight. He has always struggled to be the pillar for someone else, to mask the cracks in his own foundation. Something about the way Kurt says it makes him feel ashamed.

“I know, I know,” He presses both palms over his eyes, keeps pressing until spots of crimson and white appear scattered across the darkness behind his eyelids like bursts of fireworks. “I-I know. I know that , I’m so sorry. I’m just…”

I am not worth this. I am not worth your time.

“I’m just so scared that you’re gonna...”

His throat constricts because he can already envision it. He drops his hands, shaking his head, and focuses on the door just past Kurt, pictures him walking right through it like it is the easiest decision he has ever had to make. Kurt holds all of the power in this relationship, and Blaine knows that. Knows that whatever semblance of equality Kurt is preaching about right now is only a mirage. Blaine ruined their perfect balance the night he let his demons take control of his emotions and lead him to that weak moment of infidelity. One more wrong move and they are bound to break again. But Kurt does not walk away, he stands before him and continues to wait patiently.

“I’m just so scared that you’re gonna keep changing, and you’re gonna keep getting stronger, then one day you’re gonna wake up and realize, ‘I don’t love him anymore.’” Blaine shrugs his shoulders, tears glistening, and smiles in resignation to the paranoid confession as fact. Even children discard their favourite toys once they are broken beyond repair. So why would this be any different?

“Never,” Kurt replies, his gaze unwavering on Blaine. The quiet intensity of his determination makes Blaine’s stomach lurch again, anxiety twisting tighter and tighter. “I’m always gonna love you. And I don’t want you to be insecure or ashamed around me.”

It’s only when Blaine exhales that he realizes he had been holding his breath, clinging to the tension in every centimeter of his muscles.

“Next time you’re going through something like this you— you have to be honest with me.”

Blaine can feel himself nodding without any actual control, like it is a trained reflex in place to diffuse the rest of the uneasiness and settle the confrontation. Anything to make this stop. His lips go numb, eyes still fixed on the door as the next word comes out on autopilot, drained and defeated, “Okay.”

Kurt’s arms around him spark the calamity laying dormant though, pull him away from the resignation and suddenly he is grasping at every inch of Kurt that he possibly can, sinking into the embrace as though clinging tightly enough will fill the gaping hole in his chest. The ebbing shame becomes a tidal wave, crashes over and over again and threatens to drag him beneath the riptide as Kurt’s thumb brushes over his shoulder blade. He feels so undeserving of such kindness and patience.

“Blaine, I think maybe we should have a conversation about where all of this comes from,” Kurt presses his lips to the thick layer of gelled hair atop Blaine’s head. “Don’t you think?”

“What more is there to say? Can’t we just cuddle on the couch for the rest of the night?” Blaine mumbles against his neck.

“Don’t deflect, I think this is the most honest you’ve ever been with me about yourself and I want you to keep talking to me,” Kurt pulls away, hands on Blaine’s arms to push him back enough to look at him. “I want you to feel like you can talk to me because you know I’m not gonna judge you. I love every piece of you, no come on, don’t look away,” Kurt’s hand is immediately beneath Blaine’s chin, tilting his head back to center. There has always been a sadness buried beneath the constant glimmer in Blaine’s eyes, usually well hidden and mostly undetectable. In these rare moments of vulnerability, that sadness is always directly on display. “I love everything about you, even the pieces you try to hide away from me, especially those.”

“Kurt,” Blaine whispers urgently, his face contorting as he struggles against the grief, and tries to keep the controlled tears from transforming into full on ugly crying. But Kurt does not let him go. Kurt does not let him look or run away.

“How many times have you seen me cry? There’s no shame in letting go sometimes, Blaine.”

“I don’t want to do this,” Blaine breathes out. He tries to take a step back, but Kurt does not drop his arms. They remain firmly wrapped around him, rooting him to the spot. “I don’t want—”

“I’ve got you, and I am not letting you go,” Kurt says. “You remember what you told me the first time we met?”

“I said a lot of things,” Blaine closes his eyes and feels the warm streaking of tears down his cheeks. He has cried in front of Kurt before, but he’s never cried in front of him. The breakdowns have been reserved for solitude, behind locked doors, hidden away from the world.

“You told me that you ran away when things got tough, and that you regretted it ever since. Don’t run from me too, Blaine— stay.”

The perfect catalyst.

“I’m sorry,” Blaine chokes out. “I’m sor—sorry, I’m sorry,” He continues murmuring, the words becoming an incoherent jumble of consonants decorating the layer of heaving sobs and gasps for air in between. With eyes shut tight, he nestles his face back into Kurt’s neck, body trembling against his steady arms, and continues mumbling the only two words his brain seems capable of conjuring.

“Blaine, honey,” Kurt strokes his back and presses kisses to the top of his head. “Blaine, why are you apologizing?”

“I don’t know,” Blaine shakes his head, forehead against Kurt’s shoulder. “I don’t know.”

Now that it’s begun, it feels like it will never end. Control feels like a foreign language as he continues to shake and cling to any part of Kurt he can get his hands on.

“Come on, come here,” Kurt commands soothingly, leading them over to the couch. He drops down, pulling Blaine onto his lap. Blaine snakes his arms around Kurt’s neck, burying his face into his own arm. “I’ve got you, it’s okay, I’ve got you.”

The reassuring words seem to be having the complete opposite effect on Blaine and only draw out more tears. Crying feels like an effort rather than a cathartic release. The mask has finally been ripped away, leaving him feeling exposed, dissected. He feels weak. Ashamed and self-conscious. How could he lose control like this? What’s worse, how can he be so incapable of reigning it back in?

“Sweetheart, talk to me,” Kurt won’t stop pressing kisses to any area of skin he can reach. His lips are warm and wet against Blaine’s temple. Something tangible he can tether himself to. “Please?”

How do you condense years of pent up doubts and microaggressions of self-sabotage into a logical explanation? Where do you even begin?

“You know,” Kurt runs his fingers over the protective layer of gel, wriggling them in between to break up some of the strands. Blaine bites down on the inside corners of his bottom lip and allows Kurt to continue burrowing his fingers past the barrier. He had caked on so much of it after class it is a wonder Kurt is even able to break up any of it at all. Yet his dexterous fingers reach beneath and he massages Blaine’s scalp. It’s another calming, tangible gesture Blaine can tether himself to. “I have that keyboard in my bedroom. I can get that if you would rather sing something first right now. Usually helps you open up.”

The more Kurt’s fingers tangle and twist his hair, the calmer he feels. Once the tears have ceased enough he trusts himself to speak. “Okay,” Blaine has to mouth the word first before clearing his throat and rasping it out. He shuffles off of Kurt’s lap and spends the literal seconds of his absence wrenching his fingers together, both legs bouncing hurriedly against the wood floor. Kurt returns, keyboard secured underneath his arm, and sets it up on the coffee table in front of the couch before taking a seat beside Blaine. Before turning it on Blaine runs his fingers over the plastic keys. Will it ever get any easier to channel his emotions without a crutch? Kurt simply sits and watches, palm draped over the small of his back. Blaine exhales, the breath shuddering with the weight of all he tries to expel to lend his voice the strength to begin. He slides the switch up to turn it on and positions his fingers on the keys, gently tapping out a somber melody.

“ When you come home I feel the earth start to change, I am alive, I am alive, I am in love with this place. I love it most how you whisper my name And so I catch it in a bottle for my lonelier days.”

He never has to think when it comes to music. His fingers always seem to know just what notes to play. And the words always come easier when they are borrowed from someone else. He shifts closer to the keyboard, hands steady and certain as he continues with the melody. Kurt understands him so well, knows just the right things to say and do to coax him through the storms.

“The moment slows inside the palm of your hand, Oh I could stay like this forever or as long as we can. And in the morning I pour a warm cup of tea And hope you'll stay a little longer, stay a lifetime with me.”

He straightens his back, puts more vigor into the tempo as he pushes past the fear and lets his voice crescendo into the next verse. The one that means the most. The one he wishes he could say without having to hide behind the safety blanket of song. Maybe someday he can learn. But for now it is easier to parrot the words that bare a glimpse into his heart.

“Cause when you go, like summer gives to the rain, I am uncertain, but I'm certain I am losing my way. When you let go, I don't see straight anymore— I am unwinding, I am broken, I am losing my core.”

His voice breaks on the last line, raspy and watery with the weight of tears once again. He closes his eyes, languidly drags his fingers over the keys, lulling back the gentle melody as Kurt slides his hand up to his mid-back. He continues with the interlude, repeats it, drawing out the time to build up the courage to continue again. Kurt shifts closer beside him, wraps an arm around him and rests his chin on his shoulder. Tangible. Comforting. Reassuring.

“There is a door that opens at the sight of your face, I feel it all, I feel the warmth of every long summer day. And like an angel, you circle back with a kiss, You are the one I'm dreaming of, you are the one, you are the one. You lift me up with every step that I take, You are the reason, you're the answer when I'm drifting away. And through it all, when I start making a mess, You are forgiving, everlasting. You're my everything.”

The warmth of Kurt’s breath raises the hairs on the back of his neck. When Kurt’s lips press into the crook where his neck meets his shoulder the notes start to get sloppy, crescendoing and decrescendoing when a wave of goosebumps runs its course throughout his entire body. He abandons the keys, voice so low that some of the sound cuts out as he half-whispers a fragmented collection of the remaining lyrics.

“You are the one who holds my heart. When you come home I feel the earth start to change, I am alive, I am alive— there is a reason to stay.”

They sit in the stillness for a while, Kurt’s arms fastened loosely around Blaine’s waist, with only the distant muffled sounds of the city coming to life in the early hours of a Friday night to keep them company. Unlike the bustling renegades of New York City, there is no sense of urgency or obligation between them tonight. Blaine sinks back against Kurt’s chest, sluggish and exhausted, but he knows the night is nowhere near its finale. The song was merely an introduction, a segue into the next section of the grand orchestral piece.

“I remember telling you once that I’m not good at romance,” Blaine breaks the silence. “That I have no idea what I’m doing when it comes to this.”

“Probably the biggest lie you’ve ever told,” Kurt responds affably. Blaine can hear the tentativeness as he tries to keep the conversation light and playful and knows he is trying to work out just where he is headed with this train of thought.

“Is it though?”

“Blaine, you are probably the most romantic person I know. I used to think I was the hopeless romantic in this relationship, but you definitely have me beat.”

“I hate that phrase,” Blaine says indignantly, trying to shrink back against him more, but there is nowhere else to go. Kurt deciphers his body language and embraces him tighter. “Hopeless romantic— why does it have to be a hopeless romantic?”

“It’s just a phrase. Of course you aren’t hopeless,” Kurt begins pressing kisses to wherever he can reach again. Blaine closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the couch cushion. Maybe Kurt was right. Maybe a week without intimacy really was far too long. The soft desperate whine that falls from his lips as Kurt continues to litter his neck with delicate kisses definitely suggests as much.

“Kurt, can we—”

“Soon,” Kurt says. “We aren’t done talking yet.” He sucks the skin at the base of Blaine’s neck between his teeth and gnaws gently and Blaine can feel the slight upturn of his lips against his skin as he lets a sharp, breathless exhale slip out.

“Well, I don’t know how well I’ll be able to concentrate if you keep—” Kurt moves his head away, only centimeters but he may as well have relocated himself across the room. Blaine scoots closer, practically sitting on his lap again now and whines, “No, no, no! Come back!”

“How about we play a game?” Kurt replaces his lips on Blaine’s neck and runs his tongue over the reddened bite mark.

“What kind of game?” Blaine rasps out, shivering as a new wave of goosebumps breaks out.

“A game of trust and honesty,” Kurt raises his head to whisper against Blaine’s ear. Blaine turns ever so slightly to face him, their noses touching, vision blurred and unfocused at such a close distance.

“Sounds like truth or truth instead of truth or dare. What are the rules?” He asks apprehensively.

“I’ll ask a question, you give me an honest answer. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but if you do you can tell me what to do next,” Kurt replies. At Blaine’s continued exhibition of hesitation he adds, “We can even take turns, if it makes you more comfortable. You can ask me anything you want.”

Blaine tilts forward, resting his forehead against Kurt’s and hesitates before he nods a fraction of an inch. “Okay. Who goes first?”

“I’ll ask first,” He leans back and Blaine falters in the absence of his support before adjusting, back straight against the couch cushion. Kurt twists sideways, shoulder against the couch back and places one hand over Blaine’s. “Why did you pick that song?”

Blaine furrows his brows, tilts his head slightly, caught off guard. The song choice seemed self-explanatory. “Because it makes me think of you.”

Kurt doesn’t ask, he says, “Elaborate.”

Blaine squirms, doesn’t understand. Didn’t he listen to the lyrics? What more is there to say? Kurt merely smiles back at him, interlocks their fingers, and waits.

“Well, I guess because that’s how I feel with you. You make me feel safe. You remind me what it is to truly be alive and without you I feel,” He stops, throat suddenly tight.

Lost. I feel so lost without you sometimes.

“Feel what, honey?” Kurt prompts softly.

“Lost.” The word sounds small and fragile when he says it and yet it feels so heavy now that it is out in the open. But Kurt shows no indication of surprise at the confession. On the contrary, he seems pleased, as though this is exactly what he was hoping to hear.

“Why?” He rubs his thumb into the back of Blaine’s hand.

“Because,” Blaine starts and stops again. Talking used to feel so effortless between them before he had created this rift. Ever since their breakup every word has come carefully selected with the fear that it will be the absolute wrong thing to say. Just because Kurt has agreed to marry him, that does not mean he cannot still change his mind. And what if he does? Blaine cannot even bear to think about that. “Because you make me feel like I am really worth something when I can’t remember why. You gave me— us, you gave us another chance and I am so afraid of fucking it up all over again because you are the best thing to ever happen to me and I can’t… lose you again. I can’t go back to being alone and just pretending to be brave because everyone expects it of me.”

He feels winded by the end of it. One question in and already the endeavour feels draining. Kurt’s expression is unreadable when Blaine summons the courage to look him in the eyes. Is that… fear? He lifts one leg, drapes it over Blaine’s lap and leans forward to kiss him. Blaine kisses back hungrily, desperately.

“Tell me what you want and then it’s your turn to ask,” Kurt whispers against his lips. Blaine swallows, already half-hard from the simple act of kissing. With the weight of an entire day of silent brooding being lifted, his body cannot help but remind him just how desperately he needs to be touched. Needs to be needed. How many questions will they have to get through first though?

“Bite my neck again, harder this time though,” He requests. And Kurt obliges. He allows himself to be swept in it for the moment, palm riding over Kurt’s thigh as he feels the gentle brush of teeth and tongue over his skin before he sucks and bites and fuck that feels good. Too soon though, he stops and Blaine wants to whine and protest but remembers what he is waiting for. Right. A question. Something he is afraid to ask, but wants to anyways. That look in his eyes… Okay. Truth time. He can do this.

“Does that scare you? What I just said.”

“A little bit,” Kurt does not even hesitate, which does nothing to quell Blaine’s nerves. It feels like a slap in the face, affirming all of his fears to be true after all. A strange swooping sensation in the pit of his stomach leaves him looking crestfallen, but Kurt slides a hand up to caress his cheek and continues. “I think you use me to define yourself and measure your worth a lot of the time, and that’s the part that scares me sometimes. I don’t want you to need me to tell you that you are enough, I want you to feel it because you know it. And I have a funny feeling that this is something you’ve been doing long before we ever met.”

Kurt holds his face there, eyes soft and intense. Blaine’s lip quivers, eyes darting wildly as he searches Kurt’s face. Searches for what? He is not wrong. Deep down, he knows he is absolutely right. For as long as he can remember he has tethered himself to the attention of others, weighing his worth in compliments and just being noticed at all. Kurt had just been the first one to take it a step further, to love him in all the ways a human being could be loved, to make him feel seen and needed and wanted . He does not know how to verbalise this though, so instead he asks, “What do you want me to do?”

“Take off your sweater and your shirt.”

“Shouldn’t we move to—”

“Rachel has rehearsal all night, she won’t be back for a while.”

Blaine’s eyes automatically dart to the door but he nods stiffly and works the sweater over his head. He moves his hands to the base of his shirt, pauses and swallows. Yes, Kurt does not want him to feel insecure around him. But one conversation is not going to fix that. With the way they’re sitting on the couch, with the lights completely on— Blaine is completely aware of how he will look once that shirt comes off. Kurt presses a kiss to his cheek and slides his hands over Blaine’s, murmuring, “This too, my beautiful boy.” Pink in the face, Blaine licks his lips and allows Kurt to help him lift the shirt over his head. He tries to sit up straighter, keeping his eyes on Kurt to distract from the way his stomach protrudes and hangs over the edge of his pants.

“Your turn,” Blaine says, throat taut, so the words come strained and thick.

Kurt languidly drags his fingertips over his bare chest, just drinking him in for a moment. He rests his palm over Blaine’s heart before he asks, soft and loving and gentle as he possibly can, “Why do you think I would just get up and leave you? Where does that come from?”

It’s immediately evident why Kurt has positioned his hand over his chest when Blaine instinctively tries to sit forward, ready to stand and pace and will himself to vanish because, remind him again— why do they have to be doing this right now? Why can they not just be naked and sweaty and rutting against each other, drowning out the need for words and difficult conversations between desperate kisses and breathless moans in the dark?

You were right, we talk too much.

Kurt’s hand moves deftly over his chest, warm and reassuring, and his voice comes as eloquently and unwavering as it has all night, “Remember, you can skip, but I hope that you don’t.”

How is he supposed to just shut him down after that now? It is a request, not an obligation, but Blaine wants to please him, wants to make him proud. Because what does their relationship even mean if he is too afraid to speak to his own husband-to-be about the horrible things he has only whispered within his own head for years and years and years?

We’re getting married. He wants to marry you. The hard part is over. He said yes. Just let him in.

“Because,” He inhales sharply, exhales it into a long trembling breath and holds his hand over Kurt’s, pressing harder against his chest. Kurt nudges himself closer, wraps his other arm around his shoulders and draws him in. “Because everyone else does, so it feels like it’s only a matter of time before you do too.”

“This has to do with your family, doesn’t it?”

And of course Kurt knows already. Of course he has just been waiting for Blaine, stupid Blaine, to come forward and finally say it. How can he possibly have been this clueless? Despite the recent miscommunications and misunderstandings, the missteps in their natural abilities to decipher each other’s body language with nothing more than a glance of understanding, how could he ever think that Kurt would not know how to trace the root of all of it with such precision that he may as well just write the instruction manual on how to operate Blaine Devon Anderson?

“How stereotypical, right?” Blaine asks, partly because he does not know how else to respond, but mostly because he is soberly aware of the fact that he is sitting here, shirtless and defenseless, ready to cry for what feels like the thousandth time in the past week and just wants to maintain the shattered art of deflection. Sardonic and dizzy and bitter and angry with himself for bottling it up for so long when it was always in plain sight to begin with, he can’t help but think— So much time wasted. And for what?

“Stop that,” Kurt says quietly, tone so serious it feels like a kick straight to the ribs. Kurt was usually the one to crack a joke, humour cynical and so biting that he could take the edge off of anything. But then again, that was usually reserved for his own tragedies. Today has not been about laughing away the pain and self-deprecation, he has tried to make it something more. “Don’t make it less than it is. It’s something that matters to you, don’t make it a joke.”

“Sorry,” Blaine says, a pre-programmed response that makes Kurt’s brows furrow in what can only be perceived as disapproval. He simply shakes his head though, runs both hands over Blaine’s bare chest and varies his gaze, eyes darting back and forth between Blaine’s lips and eyes.

“You barely talk about them. I don’t know if you even still talk to them.”

Blaine moves to fold his arms over his chest, another defensive play that Kurt refuses to yield to. He moves his leg off of Blaine, drops it to the floor and then he’s tugging and coaxing and murmuring affections until Blaine is situated on his lap, their torsos pressed firm. The material from his sweater is scratchy and rough against Blaine’s bare skin and he thinks, desperately, Please just take that off and fuck me until I forget.

“Do you?” Kurt asks delicately.

Blaine swallows and the words come out thick as molasses, “Coop, sometimes, if I call him. My parents,” He licks his lips, shimmies down against Kurt’s lap so he can hide his face into the crook of his neck. With arms firmly around his waist, he presses fingertips into his back, that damn scratchy sweater, he just wants to rip it off of him and beg and beg and beg— make me forget, just make me forget. “My mom texted me when I first moved to New York to ask if I made it, I haven’t heard from her since.”

“And your dad?” Kurt probes cautiously.

A pause. Blaine spends the next few seconds just breathing against his neck and presses his fingertips down harder. “Fuck my dad,” He finally says, quiet and fragile. It is a wonder the words don’t crack and slice his throat right open on the way up.

He feels Kurt’s arms, so strong and protective, close tighter around him and maybe it is the silence that follows— because when does Kurt Hummel ever become speechless?— or the way Kurt keeps pulling and squeezing, trying to weld them together as one or the sudden influx of scattered kisses he presses to his forehead, but something in him shatters . His entire body shudders with the riptide of the sob that courses through him, but Kurt just holds him steady, rocks and whispers his little mantra, “I’ve got you, I love you, I’ve got you.”

“Hate him, I hate him— He’s just— And I’ve never been able to— He hates me, he's always—”

Blaine hiccups and babbles and gasps and cries, unable to pluck one coherent thought from the rush of water now that the dam has finally broken wide open. Kurt presses his lips to his forehead, whispers affections and instructions against his skin, and strokes his hair, his arms, his back— every possible inch of him that exists, Kurt is sliding his hands over, fingertips grazing and pulsing. Drained and dazed from the weight of everything the insane idea enters Blaine’s head— if you’re looking for the ‘off switch’ I have no idea where it is either.

One shuddering breath collides into the next with no space in between until Kurt is lifting his head, cupping his face between both hands. He tries to twist away, but Kurt’s thumbs stroke his cheeks, hold him steady and Blaine is just so tired he has no strength to fight him.

Please don’t look at me, I can’t stand it.

“Sweetheart, you’re hyperventilating. You’re gonna pass out if you keep going like this. Just let me help,” Kurt’s thumbs brush over his cheek bones, already red-raw and stinging. Blaine burrows his fingers deep into his back again and barely notices the feel of the sweater he has been scornfully regarding as he nods a few times between Kurt’s hands.

“O-o-o-k-kay,” He sputters, gasps and cries some more, wishing, again, to just simply disappear.

“Purse your lips together, I’m gonna count while you breathe,” Kurt kisses his forehead. He closes his eyes, tries to focus on the feel of soft, wet lips against his skin and nods again. He makes it to three on the trembling exhale before breathing in, sharp and quick. Thumbs against skin, lips against forehead, they reset. Kurt continues kissing his way across his face between murmured instructions, lips planting invisible X-marks-the-spots all over the raw geography of familiar terrain like it still needs to be thoroughly explored and mapped out. Blaine has been so focused on following his voice, desperate to latch onto each whispered command, he does not realise his breathing has slowed until their lips are finally touching. He lets Kurt take control, allows himself to be cared for and coddled and carefully handled like he is actually a broken sheet of glass filled with cracks, bound to shatter at the slightest hint of pressure.

Lips still pressed together, he whispers into Kurt’s mouth, “I feel like such a mess.”

“My beautiful boy,” Kurt breathes back and it is a conscious effort on his part not to just start crying again because fuck , he feels anything but beautiful right now. “We can stop for now, if you want. I know that was a lot.”

“No, I want to tell you. I–I know that I just… shut down sometimes, but I want you to know. It’s just,” Blaine leans backwards enough to look him in the eyes. “It’s hard for me to talk about these things.”

“I know,” Kurt’s thumb brushes his cheek again and Blaine leans into the touch. “Take your time.”

“I feel like I don’t even know him, you know?”

Kurt just watches him, one hand still caressing his face and the other rubbing gentle circles into his back. Kurt doesn’t know. Kurt will never know. Blaine releases a shaky exhale before continuing.

“He was never home, always working. And when he was home it’s like we were living on two different planes of existence, I felt invisible around him. He hasn’t been able to see me for a very long time. And my mom has just been so checked out— honestly, she’s been a mess for as long as I can remember. It was just— It wasn’t a happy home, Kurt. Cooper got out the second that he could, and I can’t really blame him for it. Even though we didn’t always get along and he was constantly trying to show me up, it was really lonely without him. I didn’t have a lot of friends at school, there was no Glee club— no safe space for anyone who was gay. It was just me and one other kid who were publicly out.”

“The one you went to the dance with?” Kurt asks quietly.

“Yeah,” Blaine nuzzles his neck and breathes in deep. “Afterwards he told his parents going to the dance together was my idea, and it was, and that was it. They didn’t want us being friends anymore, they blamed me for what happened and he just… walked away. Well, I think they moved, but he just stopped talking to me.”

“I’m sorry. That must have been— I’m sorry,” Kurt kisses the top of his head.

“My parents shipped me off to Dalton after that. I didn’t even want to go at first, if you can believe that.”

“Really?”

“Really. A boarding school with a dress code and a bunch of snobby rich kids? I was dreading it. But it became home. They didn’t care that I was gay, they accepted me right away. Then joining the Warblers? There were so many times I was convinced I was just in a coma and dreaming the entire thing up. We were treated like rockstars, it was the first time I felt good about myself in a long time.”

“Now I feel bad for making all those snarky remarks about everyone just being back-up singers to you,” Kurt says, earning a quiet laugh from Blaine.

“Well, you weren’t wrong. You were right to call it out. The whole reason I fell in love with being a Warbler was because everyone had an equal say, I just got so swept up in finally being noticed that I lost sight of the fact that there were probably some other guys that wanted to be noticed too. You kept my ego from overinflating.”

“You seemed like the most confident person in the world to me when we first met,” Kurt says. “I never would have guessed you struggled with any self-esteem issues.”

Blaine shrugs nonchalantly and presses a kiss to his neck. “You didn’t know because I didn’t want anyone to know. We didn’t… talk about feelings at my house. You started bringing that out in me, making me believe I didn’t always have to hide and pretend. But I lose sight of that sometimes, I guess. It’s easier to just shut down and bottle it up, but you’re right… I have to be able to come to you, we have to be able to come to each other. I’m— I’ll be better, I promise I will.”

“Thank you for sharing all of that with me. I’ve been able to guess at some of it for a while now, but hearing you finally say it— I’m proud of you. I always want you to feel safe with me, so I hope that you do talk to me more about things like this that are bothering you.”

Blaine nods against his shoulder, eyes stinging and blurring. He does not know why he expected anything other than absolute understanding and compassion from him, why it was so difficult to force the words out in the first place.

“Do you want to keep talking?”

Make me forget. Love me and don’t let me go and just make me forget everything else.

“I think I need a break from talking. I just need you, I—”

And then Kurt is kissing him and Blaine is kissing back like it is the first time all over again. He catches Kurt’s lips with his teeth, sloppy and hungry and desperate to be as close to him as possible because the great gaping canyon in his chest demands to be filled. Please! Please! Please! His heart thumps away the greedy melody and when Kurt pulls away, widening that endless cavern, he actually whines . But Kurt is tugging at the sleeves of his sweater— normally a crime , you always pull from the collar, he constantly tells Blaine— and Blaine’s hands hurry forward to help him strip it away.

Blaine has watched him while he works out, has witnessed firsthand the care and consistency and the effort behind those hardened muscles in his arms and chest and oh god those abs . He is like a living statue and Blaine is the only one privy to the private viewing of his full display of perfection. How could he let his stupid insecurities keep him from this?

“You’re staring.”

Without even looking Blaine can tell he’s smirking. “Can you blame me?”

He looks up to see another playful smirk, and that Kurt is staring right back at him, lower lip ever so slightly tucked in beneath his teeth. Fuck .

“So,” Kurt says, voice low and husky. “You still have to tell me what you want me to do next.”

Make me forget. Make me forget.

“Take control,” Blaine says softly. When Kurt’s hand travels up his thigh to fiddle with the button of his pants, he rasps out, “I’m all yours, take control.”

The caress of lips against his jaw, the ice cool touch of smooth fingers dipping below his waist band, teasing and exploring— Blaine closes his eyes and surrenders himself to sensation. Who needs pretty words when he has the tender touch of a lover’s fingertips to ignite bursts of starlight beneath his skin? Kurt’s hands find his and the gentle pull against them forces his eyes open where he finds Kurt ushering him off of his lap. He shifts off and allows himself to be lifted as Kurt stands, eyes alight with curiosity and wonder until Kurt’s mouth is on his again and he is lost, lost, lost once more.

Kissing Kurt is everything. Early November and his lips are slightly chapped, leaving only the faintest hint of his current favourite chapstick. It reminds Blaine of their nights nestled up by the fireplace in Dalton, coffees from the school cafeteria in hand and stealing vanilla and mocha flavoured kisses in between every break in conversation. He forgets that they are standing in the middle of Kurt’s living room, forgets that they are drifting through borrowed space as Rachel or even Santana, devious in her ways of sneaking around, could waltz in at any minute despite Kurt’s insistence that they won’t. As Kurt hooks his thumbs into belt loops and draws him closer, both of their bodies desperate for the heat and friction, he forgets about his insecurities and doubts. There is only the handsome man before him and nothing else in the world matters.

Lips locked, Kurt navigates them towards his bedroom. Neither of them wants to disentangle from each other long enough to lead, Blaine just has to trust him not to let him trip. His knees hit the edge of the bed and buckle, but Kurt grips his hips, digs his fingernails in and grinds their bodies together until they’re both moaning into the kiss. His pants feel unmanageably tight at this point now.

“Kurt—”

“Working on it,” Kurt kisses his way down to his neck, teeth gnawing sweetly until first the button, then the zipper and Blaine’s suddenly being pushed backwards onto the bed. He hastily props himself up on his elbows, panting softly, eyes lust blown and following Kurt’s every move. He’s kneeling down in front of the bed, yanking Blaine’s pants off from around his ankles now and every second feels like it is being stretched too long. Finally free though, his cock bounces against his stomach, throbbing and aching by the time Kurt settles between his legs. Blaine’s eyes dart to the bedside table, hand just starting to reach out when Kurt bends over and curls his fingers around his cock, flicking his tongue over the head before sucking hard. He pulls his mouth off with a faint pop! and brushes his thumb over the underside of the head.

“F-Fuck,” Blaine trembles, arm outstretched, its purpose completely forgotten. “You’re right, a week was too long.”

“Glad we’re on the same page,” Kurt says and takes him completely into his mouth, palm cupping his balls.

“Jesus— Fuck!” Blaine instantly bucks his hips and fills the spaces between his fingers with Kurt’s hair, breathless as he quickly adds, “Sorry, are you—”

Kurt hums his response and hollows his cheeks, breathes in through his nose and takes him further down. They have just barely gotten started and already Blaine feels himself coming undone. He struggles to keep his hips steady, but Kurt is moving torturously slow through all of this until he just stops moving his head altogether, mouth very much still full of Blaine’s cock and he could honestly scream because how dare he just stop like that—

Oh.

Blaine knows what he wants.

“Please,” The word comes hungry, breathless and on the verge of a whine. “Please, I need you, please—”

And Kurt’s head moves backwards, sucking as he goes until he reaches the tip of Blaine’s cock, where he flicks his tongue over it playfully. Blaine balls up the sheets of the mattress in his other fist and tugs on that instead of Kurt’s hair, the quiet desperate moans falling out of him like whispered secrets in the night. Kurt pulls his mouth off of him again, turns his head and kisses the inside of his thigh, before biting down and sucking. Blaine hisses in a breath, knuckles turning white, and lets Kurt mark him.

Yours, I’m yours, and no one else’s.

There is a moment when Kurt pulls away to rummage through the nightstand when Blaine cannot help but to stare again. How far they have come from the shy teenager who could not even look him directly in the eyes when discussing pornography. He remembers so vividly the day Kurt lamented he would never see himself as sexy , the word whispered with such discomfort like it was dirty and inconceivable. It was the day they were practicing in the mirror, Kurt had been trying so hard to get the look right but ultimately kept shying away, embarrassed and self-conscious with the effort, saying Blaine just made it look so easy. Neither of them had a clue what they were doing, but disguises had always come easy for Blaine. Now, Kurt looks up at him, dark-eyed, mouth slightly parted before that devilish smirk takes over again, and Blaine is weak and breathless beneath his gaze. How the times do certainly change.

Kurt’s fingers are already coated in lube when he starts kissing Blaine’s thigh again and circles one finger around the tight ring of muscles. Blaine wants to rush ahead, squirms his hips down and Kurt tuts disapprovingly, leaving him to lie still once again and wait patiently at his mercy. He really can be such a goddamn tease sometimes. But he does not make him wait long before sliding one finger in, stroking and twisting, until Blaine pants, “More, please, more.”

He takes his time, adds another finger and scissors and stretches him as Blaine squirms and begs beneath his touch. Only two fingers in and Blaine is beginning to completely unravel, hips involuntarily jerking up as Kurt strokes and twists and kisses and bites, leaving tiny reddened marks all along his thighs. It never takes Kurt long to find that sweet spot, and sure enough Blaine is arching his back and panting as his fingers continue to brush over and massage his prostate. Slowly, he withdraws his fingers and when he pats the side of Blaine's leg and tells him to sit up he cannot help but whine loudly in protest.

“So impatient,” Kurt says, eyes twinkling with amusement as he settles himself against the headboard and tugs until Blaine is positioned above his lap. Kurt’s in control, but he knows this is Blaine’s favourite position.

“Condom?” Blaine’s thighs are already shaking as he holds himself up.

“I trust you,” Kurt replies, bringing his hands up to cup his face, voice so low and sultry it is a wonder Blaine doesn’t just stagger into his orgasm right on the spot. “And I want you to feel it.”

What did I do to deserve you?

Blaine groans into the kiss as Kurt strokes himself, coating his cock with lube before he holds it firm for him to lower himself down onto. The sweet heat and friction already feels like it is almost too much to bear. There is no way he is going to last like this, and they both know it. He positions his hands on Kurt’s chest, sinks all the way down and pants loudly against his mouth, pausing to let himself adjust before rising up again. Kurt relocates his hands to his hips, fingernails digging in and helping him rise and fall, their rhythm slow and synchronized. It doesn’t take long before it becomes more sporadic and urgent, Kurt’s hips bucking up as Blaine’s thighs tremble and burn to match his rhythm until he’s hitting just that right spot again. He yelps his moan, fingernails burrowing into Kurt’s skin.

“There, there, there— right there!” Blaine exhales quickly, winded and sweaty as he clenches and shakes. With the way Kurt’s gripping his hips he knows there are going to bruises where the thumbs sink in. The thought of it alone sends a rush of heat up his spine that erupts as another breathless gasp.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Kurt groans out. “ So fucking gorgeous.”

Blaine’s laugh comes out half-strangled as he gyrates his hips faster, thighs trembling violently as he slams one palm against the headboard to keep himself balanced. “So are you, fuck, so are you. So—” Kurt slides his hands down, cups his ass and quickens his thrusts, throwing the rest of Blaine’s thoughts to the wind as he all but crashes his head forward against the headboard and cries out. He becomes acutely aware of Kurt’s mouth against his chest, of his tongue circling his nipple, but barely registers Kurt’s breathy laugh, “Sorry, you okay?”

“Don’t stop,” Blaine breathes back. “Don’t stop, don’t— fuck, you feel so good.”

Kurt sucks on his nipple as Blaine’s breath hitches, heavy and desperate. Kurt slips one hand down and closes it around his cock, earning another loud strangled sound somewhere between an exhale and an actual word.

“You’re perfect, you’re so perfect— Kurt, fuck I’m gonna—”

Kurt works his hand faster, hips bucking wildly as Blaine cries out again, stars exploding behind his eyes as he comes. Kurt cups his ass again, squeezing and panting heavily against his neck as he keeps thrusting, chasing his own orgasm only seconds later. Blaine’s legs give out, leaving Kurt’s firm grip on his ass, his hips still jerking upwards sporadically, as his only support. Blaine keeps his eyes closed, fingers curled tightly around Kurt’s shoulders and forehead resting against the headboard, as Kurt finally slows to a stop. He does not want to move, does not want Kurt to pull away and leave him feeling empty again. As though reading his mind, Kurt holds him there, pressing lazy kisses to sweat soaked skin as Blaine’s body continues to tremble.

“God, I missed you,” Kurt whispers, raising his head enough to kiss his neck.

“I love you,” Blaine rasps out. “So much. More than anything.”

Kurt feigns a dramatic gasp, lips brushing against his neck and tickling him. “Surely not more than hair gel.”

The smile on Blaine’s face almost hurts before they both break out into laughter.

“Need some help?” Kurt squeezes his ass playfully, earning a soft, sleepy moan.

“My legs don’t work anymore,” Blaine laughs breathlessly, limbs heavy and useless. Their earlier conversation feels like a lifetime ago.

“I’ve got you,” Kurt says soothingly, lips back against his neck.

In the post-orgasm haze Blaine is barely aware of their movements as he comes to settle down beside him, limbs tangled and still desperate for touch. Kurt wipes cum off of his stomach with a tissue— Blaine cannot help but think about the midnight trip to the laundromat they will most likely be taking to salvage the sheets— before he draws him in close, those strong arms like a promise and a safety blanket. It is moments like these he loves the most, where the world stops spinning and they are frozen in a perfect carefree moment of mutual adoration and comfort within each other’s arms.

“I’m sorry about your dad, about all of that,” Kurt suddenly says softly, jarring him from the temporary peace.

“Not your fault,” Blaine mumbles, snuggling in closer to him as though melding their bodies together physically will drive away the uncomfortable feeling of emptiness starting to creep in all over again.

“Do you actually hate him?”

“No, of course I don’t. I just wish,” Blaine sighs and presses a kiss to his chest, arm curling tighter around Kurt’s waist to keep himself tethered down. “I just want him to be proud of me and it really hurts that he’s not, that I basically don’t exist to him.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Hmm?” Blaine asks distractedly.

“Have you ever thought about talking to someone?”

“What do you mean?” Blaine shifts his head, too lazy to actually lift it off of his chest, and settles his eyes on Kurt’s jaw.

“Like a therapist,” Kurt says carefully. Involuntarily, Blaine stiffens between his arms. “Have you ever thought about that?”

Blaine sluggishly drags his hand over Kurt’s chest, fingers tracing invisible patterns. Kurt tilts his head down, nose pressed to his loosely gelled hair and breathes in deep before pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I might have,” Blaine whispers, heart thudding violently now. Kurt has been nothing but understanding and patient, yet the anxiety still clutches tightly and forces him to want to retreat and hide.

“Maybe you should,” Kurt says gently.

“Maybe,” Blaine parrots quietly.

“I’m not suggesting something is wrong with you,” Kurt adds, pressing another kiss to the top of his head. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”

How could you tell?

“It just might be good to talk to someone unbiased, don’t you think?”

Blaine continues trailing his fingers over Kurt’s chest, silent and pensive. He had certainly contemplated the idea plenty of times in the past, never sure of where to even begin. After the attack at the dance, when Kurt moved away, when they broke up— every time he had come remotely close to researching, shame and panic had chased the idea away.

“Say something?” Kurt asks softly and runs his fingers through his hair, far more pliable now that the gel has been somewhat dissolved by sweat.

Blaine’s hand stills against his chest and he props himself up on his elbow to get a better look at him. There is no judgement on his face. Those eyes like endless oceans of concern and compassion. Everything about his expression screams I see you, I love you and I see you.

“You’ll uh,” Blaine starts and struggles to hold his gaze, his first instinct telling him to stare at anything other than his eyes. “Will you help me look for one?”

“Of course I will. We’re a team, aren’t we?”

The smile on his face makes Blaine’s heart beat just a little faster, but there is no feeling of shame behind it. “Yes. We’re a team.”

He settles down in Kurt’s arms again, but silence between them never lasts long. It is only a matter of moments before Kurt’s speaking again. “Have you ever heard of Kintsugi?”

Blaine furrows his brows and tilts his head up towards him again. He is always full of these random little tidbits of information. “No? What’s that?”

“It’s a phrase used in Japan. It’s the art of mending broken pottery.”

“Okay?” Blaine trails the word out, the tickle in the back of his throat not quite a laugh just yet. He usually has a point when he brings things like this up, but sometimes he does not. Right now it is not obvious which side of that line he is on.

“Instead of using clear glue, they use powdered gold or silver, usually gold. So when they put the pieces back together, they’re not trying to hide the fact that it was broken. The process of being broken and repaired is part of its history, and they choose to highlight and display that fact by turning it into something new with these golden scars to show for it. I think that’s beautiful, don’t you?”

“So, are you calling me broken pottery?” Blaine asks, the laugh finally breaking free.

“No,” Kurt replies, placing two fingers on his chin to tilt his head up. “You’re a perfect work of art with a history to show for it.”

And as he leans forward, eager to press their lips together and soak up as much of him as humanly possible, Blaine thinks, And you are the artist.

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The song Blaine sings is When You Come Home by Mree, which instantly made me think of our boys when I first heard it.

I don't remember where I first learned about Kintsugi, but I became absolutely obsessed with it. To be able to take something broken, mend it and showcase all of its imperfections as something beautiful and apart of its history... just something about that really hit close to home for me. Here is one example. Take some time to google image search some pieces, they are absolutely breathtaking. And I think it is a perfect metaphor for how we can come to deal with our own traumas.

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it.

#klaine #klaine fic #glee tested #glee 5x16 #kintsugi #syntheticpoetry writes #smut #blaine anderson #kurt hummel #glee #glee fic #tested reaction

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