#she cast her fair body in the water so deep and she closed her pretty blue eyes forever to sleep <3 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

whatifyoulivelikethat · 3 years

Text

bullseye, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

summary: Are you the insufferable, cocky, absolutely-no-good-for-anyone female equivalent of a fuckboy? Maybe. Okay, yeah. But guess who decided to come along and interrupt your conquests? Jeon Jungkook. What now? Complain to your best friend Kim Taehyung all day or fucking do something about it?

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; alcohol consumption; Taehyung getting shitfaced lol; you're a cocky asshole and so is Jungkook, welp; schemes; smut (fem reader, making out / dry humping in public, cowgirl, m-masturbation, edging / orgasm denial, penetrative sex, so much kissing); non-idol!BTS; (secretly pining) fuckboy!Jungkook x bisexual, fuckgirl!reader; ft artist, best friend!Taehyung; mostly reader's POV with a short JK's POV

yes, it's purple-haired Butter JK

now playing – 마.피.아. in the morning by itzy

“Are you kidding me? Fucking Jeon Jungkook, again?”

“You need to calm down,” Kim Taehyung said, patting your shoulder and handing you a mojito.

“What I need is a fucking bow and arrow to shoot down this fucking pest!”

“I know you were the archery champion in high school, but that’s still a weird thing to think,” replied that baritone voice, pushing you into a chair so he could sit down as well, observing you violently chugging down the entire mojito in your rage. He seemed highly amused, looking a bit like a young French socialite in a black beret, loose tan dress shirt, and black slacks with black loafers. Gold accents because Kim Taehyung was that bitch. “Never ceases to impress me that you can do that.”

You pulled the glass from your lips, ice and mint clinking. “This is the third girl I’ve been dating that he’s just–” You flapped a hand in the general direction of the crowd at the bar, completely ignoring Taehyung’s comment about your record-breaking skills of draining cocktails. “–unashamedly making out with when clearly I’m right here.”

Taehyung rolled his eyes, far too crass for how drop-dead handsome he was, but it seemed that he didn’t care. “I doubt he knows you’re here or that you’re dating them. And to make it fair on him, you were casually dating them all at once, so technically, no one is at fault here,” he added.

You narrowed your eyes. “I wasn’t–”

Taehyung gave you this look.

The look of ‘shut-up-you-know-I’m-right’.

Being your best friend, he had a right to do that.

“Shouldn’t you be mad at the girl anyway? Being faithful and all that, which, by the way, you are not.”

“Dating is not the same as being in a relationship,” you argued.

“Mmm, so fucking them is not indicative enough that you should be less of a fuckboy.”

“I’m not a fuckboy,” you muttered. “I’m a woman.”

Taehyung raised an eyebrow. “The general term still stands because you’re a class-A asshole.”

You closed your eyes and sucked in a deep breath, trying not to bolt home and buy a bow and arrow online to shoot, not Jeon Jungkook, but Kim Taehyung, because he was testing your last nerve with the truth.

“Again, why are you not mad at them?” Taehyung reoriented the conversation with a sweep of his arm when you opened your eyes, prompting your gaze to shift and witness Jeon Jungkook with his tongue down a pretty girl’s throat. This cheeky bastard was even wearing a leather jacket and white shirt, just like you. The only difference was that you wore a leather miniskirt and he wore black jeans with rips in the thighs, but both of you were wearing heeled black moto-style boots.

“Because he’s the denominator in this equation,” you snapped, smacking your glass on the table.

“Please do not make math references. My brain is not made for that.”

“Fractions? Tae, seriously, are you defective or–”

“Maybe he’s doing it to piss you off.”

“Well, I am pissed off!”

The bar was very loud with music and noise. Your shout was still clearly heard. Neither you or Taehyung seemed to care that people turned to look at you two and shake their heads.

Taehyung shrugged. “Then he succeeded.”

You clicked your tongue. “Why, though? I didn’t do anything to him. He just started popping up stealing my girls. What if I switch back to chasing dick and he takes them too?”

Taehyung snorted. “I doubt it. You’re just continuing on this train because you’re stubborn.”

As usual, he saw right through you.

He raised an elegant hand and tapped his lips. “Maybe he likes you.”

You gave Taehyung the most disbelieving, fiery, indignant look that you had ever produced in your life.

“Or, he doesn’t,” he hastily corrected. “Let’s face it, sometimes I don’t even like you and I would murder for your dumb ass.”

You tapped the melting glass of icy mint onto the tabletop.

Menacingly.

“If you think about it,” Taehyung began tentatively, scooting his chair slightly away from you with your flaming eyes boring holes in the back of Jeon Jungkook’s head. His hair was dark violet now so you could spot him easily, pinning your (not yours, but you know, that was your prey at one point) girl against the back wall of the bar. “He always goes after your target. He wants you to notice something.”

You watched a YouTube video once about making your own bow and arrow. It didn’t seem that difficult, all things considered. Sharpening a long stick with a knife and–

“Stop thinking about murder.”

You jerked your head back to Taehyung and his honey-brown curls framing his amused expression. You glared in response.

“I’ve never interacted with him a day in my life,” you frowned, abandoning your homicidal tendencies for the moment. “What does he want me to notice?”

Taehyung gave you a pained look. You returned with a black stare. Then he sighed and shook his head.

“He’s a fuckboy. You’re the female equivalent of a fuckboy. What do you think he wants?”

“My body count?”

Taehyung slapped his own face, muttering under his breath. “… be part of your body count.”

“Sorry, what?” You raised your voice over the bass. “Can’t hear you over the music.”

He raised his head. “I don’t know. Fight him. See what happens.”

“I’m not gonna win a fistfight.”

Taehyung looked ready to fistfight you.

You stood up, dragging him by the arm. “Come on, wingman. I need another drink. I’ll buy, since you got me the last one.”

Taehyung laughed, loud and full, yanking his arm out of your grip and clapping a hand around your shoulders, pulling you to him so your body knocked into him. You grimaced, now forced to walk side by side with him, not seeing the looks shared between the patrons witnessing you two together.

“Now we’re talking. I wanna get trashed.”

“Cure for a broken heart, am I right?”

“Mine’s shattered,” Taehyung chuckled, rubbing the left side of his chest playfully, but you couldn’t help but notice the hurt in his eyes. It was his idea to go out tonight and assist you with getting laid but, one, you didn’t need assistance and, two, he had recently broken up. It was pretty obvious he just wanted you to buy him drinks and have an excuse to do something.

Which was fine with you, until Jeon Jungkook showed up holding your previous eye candy.

Hmph.

Whatever, you had a Taehyung to nurse back to health with an obscene amount of alcohol.

Two hours later, you were standing in the men’s bathroom, holding Taehyung’s beret with one hand and his hair in the other as he vomited loudly into the toilet.

“Sup.”

The guy looked in the stall and then looked at you.

“You’re not supposed to be here…”

You raised an eyebrow. “You wanna hold his hair?”

The guy slunk away at your dismissive tone.

Taehyung tapped your thigh and you patted him on the head soothingly. He flushed and coughed.

"S... sorry," he croaked wetly.

You chuckled. "Wash your mouth, ya nasty."

He got up and you straightened his clothes in an almost maternal fashion.

"Need water, I think..." he winced, stumbling past you to the counter. You followed him to make sure he didn't hurl in the fucking sink.

"I'll be right back. Don't do anything crazy."

"Heh, that’s you," he slurred as he put his hands under the tap to wash up.

You plopped his beret on your head and sauntered out of the men's bathroom, unbothered by the stares and the people trying to catch your eye. It took you no time at all to waltz to the counter and obtain the water, striding back to the men's bathroom with the tall glass.

Only to run into you-know-who.

The girl sputtered your name in surprise as if she hadn't met you in this very bar a couple of weeks ago.

You completely ignored her existence, narrowing your eyes at the smirking face of Jeon Jungkook.

There was no denying his attractiveness. His purple hair was a little messy now, curling around his high cheekbones and large brown eyes. The dim light of the bar cast strange shadows over his chiseled jaw and shapely lips, curved into a devilish grin. He had a mole and red lipstick residue underneath his lower lip.

You had a strong urge to douse him and his leather jacket with your giant glass of water.

Taehyung was the one who found out Jungkook's name for you. You sent him on the mission after the first time this little shit started meddling in your business.

At this moment, you remembered that.

You pointedly looked away, walking past Jungkook, knocking into his arm forcefully and on purpose, annoyed that he seemed pretty strong under that jacket, muscular and lean. Whatever. You had a large bear cub named Kim Taehyung to take care of. You didn't have time to waste on Jeon Jungkook.

"Hey."

You stiffened at the deep, silvery voice. Of course. He had to have a sexy voice too. Bitch.

"You should apologize."

Your eyes flickered to the glass of water. It was pretty cold in your hand. You raised your chin back up, facing towards the bathrooms.

The choice was easy.

You continued waking and raised your free hand to flip Jeon Jungkook the bird, off to deliver the water to your best friend.

Some guy at the urinal screamed as you entered the men's bathroom but you completely ignored him, only focusing on Taehyung, who was gripping the corner of the sink, turning not to pass out, pallid face dripping and looking green.

"Drink this and I'll take you home."

"Ugh, thanks for the other day... sorry I wasn't the best wingman... I ended up making you exorcize my demons instead..."

You laughed, jabbing a toothpick in the steaming fried chicken. You and Kim Taehyung again, hanging out in the afternoon at the local chicken spot.

"It's cool. I know you needed it."

Taehyung frowned. "If you knew, why did you play along?"

You shrugged. "You would've done the same for me."

He smiled and popped a piece of crispy chicken in his mouth. "Yeah, if you ever had a serious relationship for once."

You glared. "This is a non-judgment zone. Shut up."

He chuckled. Then he leaned in and you grimaced, catching a whiff of his chicken breath. He was wearing a pinstriped shirt and neglected to button the first two because he was too hot to bother with some stupid buttons. You weren't going to say you could relate, but you were wearing a loose black sweater dress that was bordering on flashing your panties, so, maybe.

"I heard from a little birdie that you had a run-in with the bane of your existence."

You raised an eyebrow. "The tax man?"

Taehyung rolled his eyes. "No, the other one."

Now it was your turn to roll yours. "Oh, right. The Dark Lord."

Taehyung gave you a weird look. "Is that a movie reference or..."

"Harry Potter, ever heard of it?"

"You're such a nerd."

"That's not... anyway, so what?"

He wiggled his eyebrows. "He spoke to you."

You narrowed your eyes. "Where do you get your information?"

He fidgeted. "Uh... a reliable source that chooses to remain anonymous."

Your eyes became slits. "Who."

Taehyung stick his tongue out at you. "The whole point of anonymous is you not knowing!"

"Who are you, fucking Rita Skeeter–"

"Stop with the weird references!"

"For fuck's sake," you hissed, causing a mother sitting at a table near yours to chastise you, covering their kid’s ears. You frowned, lowering your voice. "Alright so what? He opened his mouth; nothing original came out." You jabbed another piece of chicken.

"Well? Feel any tension? Sweet romance? Unbridled fury?" Taehyung piped, greatly interested in your two-second interaction with Jeon Jungkook.

You chewed, huffing. "I had a big kid to take care of. I didn't give a shit."

"Hey, I'm not a kid!" he shot back.

"Yeah, yeah. Anyway, you’re more important to me than poking his pretty eyeballs out of his head, so I didn't even reply."

Taehyung paused, mid-chew. "Really?"

"Yes, I didn't say–"

"No, that I'm important to you."

Taehyung was doing that thing where his big brown eyes went all sparkly and sentimental. It was making you uncomfortable. Bad with feelings and all that. The only reason you tolerated it was because Taehyung had been like this ever since he was that dorky weird kid you defended from bullies in elementary school. A folding chair was involved and you might have watched too many WWE TLC (tables, ladders, chairs) matches as a kid, but hey, those bullies didn’t bother Taehyung ever again, did they?

You got sent to detention for the rest of the year and anger management counseling appointments, but Taehyung remained your friend throughout the whole ordeal and for years to come, tolerating your poor life choices so… worth?

You reached over and shut his open mouth. "Of course, you are, that's why I'm not calling you a disgusting pig for chewing with your mouth open."

"Oi, that's bullying!"

"You bully me all the time," you snorted and the same mom made a noise of distaste that you pretended not to hear. "Like now you keep bringing up the spawn of Satan."

"You're also the spawn of Satan, by the way."

"Yeah, and you're my guardian angel and he ain't got shit, so I’ve already won this war."

Taehyung laughed nervously.

"Er, yes... totally..."

Another day, another conquest.

Well, you had to find the prey first, but that wasn’t going to be hard.

“You’re a chronic asshole.”

“Thanks, Tae. You sure you don’t wanna come?”

He rolled his eyes at you as you shrugged on one of his black dress shirts. You checked the tag. Silk. Damn. Kim Taehyung was a fancy bitch. He leaned against the closet doorframe as you fitted your black leather corset-style belt at your waist to cinch it in. You often raided Taehyung’s closet and paired it with your accessories. Did he enjoy your fucking in his clothes? Probably not, but you always returned them cleaned in the proper way, so he couldn’t complain.

He did anyway.

“No, I don’t. Let me sulk.”

“Ah, yes, moody starving artist, I’ll let you be,” you snickered, slinging the waist bag over your shoulder, wearing it across your chest instead of your hips. You lightly punched him in the arm and he pretended to topple over exaggeratedly. “You going to paint today?”

He shrugged. “I think. Dunno what media I want to use.”

“Just use a bunch of different ones. Your mixed media stuff is amazing,” you replied, waltzing out of his bedroom, past his messy studio with a blank canvas balanced on a wooden easel in the center of absolute chaos of paints. You helped him organize them once, but Taehyung often was too in the zone to pay attention to neatness.

“When’s the exhibit? I want to drop by,” you commented, seeing the line of his works safely wrapped up, leaning against the wall.

“Um… next week, Thursday through Sunday,” Taehyung replied sheepishly, cheeks flaring red at the mention of his own art exhibit. He was humble even though he was talented. “I’ll text you the address. Don’t show up looking like a high-paid escort.”

You tucked your feet into your heels and raised an eyebrow.

Silk black men’s shirt worn as a dress, belted at the waist to show off your curves, bare legs out, toned calves standing out due to your sleek black high heels.

“Who, me? Never.”

Taehyung shook his head. “Text me if you need a ride.”

“You got it.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

You tapped your nails on the bar, having already finished your peach mojito.

“Fucking Jeon Jungkook, again?”

You needed to invest in a bow and arrow, like, yesterday.

Shoot right between his pretty eyeballs. Dude even pulled back his long, deep purple hair into a smooth ponytail with wispy strands framing his sculpted face. Was that damn eyeliner and mascara making his eyes look sharper, sexier? Fuck, he even knew how to make himself look even hotter.

Not as hot as you, of course.

“How does he always know where I’m at?” you muttered under your breath, turning away to look at the bartender and order another mojito. Watermelon. It seemed interesting. Fuck it, you were going to focus on drinking rather than the thorn in your side, Jeon Jungkook and his black dress shirt halfway buttoned and his tight-fitting black slacks with sleek oxfords. The bartender slid your glass in front of you, a gradient of pink to transparent with a little sprig of mint on top. It was a pretty drink.

You reached into your waist bag to pay, but the bartender stopped you.

“The gentleman over there paid for you. A gift.”

Oh? Maybe a potential for the night. You shifted your gaze to–

Oh.

“Tell him to fu–”

But the bartender was already off servicing other customers on this busy night.

Shit.

You know what? Fine. He put himself up as the target. He wanted to play this game.

And you never missed a bullseye.

You tilted your head to survey Jeon Jungkook out of the corner of your eye, making his way over to you, bringing your drink close to your lips. He stopped right next to you. The colorful lights of the club made rainbows dance across his lightly tanned skin and his dark lips, curled into a smug smirk.

“Hey.”

You cocked an eyebrow.

Drank.

Mmm, fuck, that was some deliciously smooth rum. The watermelon was a refreshing addition to the mint too. You probably weren’t meant to drink it all at once, but you were glaring at Jungkook who was pointedly watching your throat swallow and it was aggravating you more and more, the entire drink disappearing in record time, leaving nothing but ice and mint.

You smacked the glass down on this table with a hiss.

Jungkook purred your name with that deep, silvery voice of his. His eyes flickered down to your exposed collarbones and then back up to your face.

You clicked your tongue.

Then you turned away from him dismissively, walking past him, knocking into his arm forcefully and on purpose.

But instead of letting it happen, Jungkook shifted his weight and slid to block your path. You stopped, eyes darting up to narrow at that conceited little brat’s face. Now you could smell his cologne, fresh, sensual, a mix of pungent dragon fruit and black coffee.

Hold on.

You inhaled. Yup, no mistaking it.

That was your perfume.

Jungkook grinned as the realization hit you. How did he know what perfume you used?

“The fuck you want?” you growled.

He licked his lips slowly. He ticked his chin, taunting you.

“Finally got you to talk to me,” he purred, chuckling.

Alright, you were past causing actual bodily harm these days – jail being your primary reason – but that didn’t stop you from staring down Jeon Jungkook and his self-satisfied smirk with your signature tapering of your sharp stare.

You just stood there.

Menacingly.

He bit his lower lip, exposing that tiny mole underneath, shivering under your gaze. “Are you mad at me?” he asked, almost innocently, but there was no chance in hell that he was.

You quirked your head, lifting your chin defiantly. ��Absolutely fuming,” you replied acidly.

He took a step towards you, closing the distance, so close you could feel his warmth, your breasts brushing against his chest. Now people were whispering around you two, sensing the tension between you and Jungkook. The similar outfits, the same violent energy, the same predatory aura.

As if the fox had confronted the wolf.

“What’s there to be mad about when we play the same game?” Jungkook drawled.

Cocky. The fox was so damn cocky.

“You’re just nibbling on my leftovers,” you countered, stepping forward so you pressed against him, burning body heat to burning body heat. “Which makes you the scavenger.”

Jungkook leaned down, dark brown eyes glittering with amusement.

“Then why so angry?”

His lips ghosted over yours, breathing in your exhale.

“I’m just a pest, right? A mere annoyance in your eventual victory.”

His lashes lowered, arrogant smirk reaching his dark eyes.

“Play your ace. Let’s see if it works,” he purred in the deep, sexy octave of his.

Shut up.

A low snarl rumbled in your chest.

“Shut up, Jeon Jungkook.”

You gripped his belt and yanked him to your body, rolling your crotch into his, your lips colliding with that maddening smirk, alcohol, dragon fruit, black coffee, flint igniting the dry wood, devouring his lips hungrily, his hands sliding up your sides, and his smile.

Triumph.

Shit.

You couldn’t give two fucks about Jeon Jungkook and he was into it.

Like the impossible enigma, he couldn’t figure you out but he was drawn to you anyway. The whole world was your plaything, and you treated it as such. There was something exciting about you, the thrill too irresistible to avoid when you made your presence known. Always you and that teasing smile, never getting serious, making everyone hesitate to take it farther with you. Who could blame them with your borderline brash attitude and ease of moving from one to the next?

That and your friendship with Kim Taehyung, who was a whole damn tiger next to your wolfish nature.

At first, Jungkook was intrigued.

As time went on, he became frustrated and annoyed.

What gave you the right to ignore him?

You picked up guys far less attractive than he was, not that he was that vain but, seriously, he was right here! Waiting to be caught. He didn’t try to interfere at first. In fact, Jungkook wasn’t even the sleep-around-and-mess-with-feelings kind of guy. But the more he watched you, the more impressed he was, seeing the way you charmed your way into everyone’s hearts, the way you focused on them for that moment, making them feel like they were the most perfect creature on Earth before slinking to the next, leaving them with a pining heart and lost in fantasies of what-ifs.

And, yeah, you were hot.

What was Jungkook going to do?

He could do nothing.

Or he could befriend Kim Taehyung, get under your skin, and make you notice him.

Not a scheme, per se.

Kind of a scheme.

Alright, definitely a scheme.

In Jungkook’s defense, your best friend Taehyung was all for it. Taehyung was the one who came up with all the ideas, informed him of your location, and the names of the girls you were after.

“Give her a taste of her own medicine. She needs a reality check.”

The problem was, Jungkook didn’t really want to let you go now that you were in his arms.

“Silly pretty boy.”

You had his chin in your palm, pressing your thumb against Jungkook’s lower lip, opening his hungry mouth to tease him with your tongue, tracing his soft lips and thrusting in, his low moan filling your lungs. His hands on your waist tightened, pulling you closer even through you were already in his lap, murmurs and eyes on you, but neither your nor Jungkook cared, used to this by now.

You were, after all, making out in the club.

The chair scraped against the ground as Jungkook firmly placed your thighs on either side of his, thrusting upwards into your core, letting your feel his rapidly growing hardness with every one of your kisses. Your hair feathered his cheeks and shoulders as your free hand toyed with his ponytail, twirling it in your fingers, smirking into his lips with his gasp from you grinding back down on his crotch, rolling your hips into him.

“Thought I was the bane of your existence?” Jungkook taunted under you, squeezing your ass through the silk and meeting your movements, staring into your eyes with his. So dark, so smokey, so fucking sexy, almost like looking into a mirror, because you too wore similar makeup, maybe a little darker and a little more of a flick to your eyeliner. “Just going to kiss me to shut me up?”

You wouldn’t be surprised if the other clubgoers were eagerly watching now, waiting to see what was going to happen between you and him.

“I don’t need to be on your mouth to shut you up,” you mused, tugging his ponytail back and kissing down his neck, tongue tracing the contours of his muscles, feeling him shudder under your lips and teeth, lightly nipping at his skin. Tracing circles, gentle kisses, relishing in his gasps and his tightened grip on you, letting your breath linger for that extra second, that extra what-if, kissing back up his neck and onto his jawline, murmuring his name sweetly, tip of your tongue curling around his earrings and bouncing them, sighing softly in his ear.

“Can’t claim my leftovers when my leftovers are you, now can you, naughty boy?” you chuckled darkly, pressing your breasts on his hot chest and your clothed pussy on the tip of his stiff length, rutting against it, making him hiss your name.

“I have no intention of being leftovers,” he growled into your ear.

Your eyes flew open as his lips transfixed to the space under your ear, sucking hard, forcing you to squeeze your thighs at the attack on your erogenous zone, sparks of arousal flinching through you, soaking your panties. You gasped, hips bucking into his needily, barely processing his words, his tongue flicking against your throbbing skin, lips and teeth, and then his mouth was moving, traveling up your earlobe, nipping at the curve, your eyelids fluttering, clutching his purple ponytail tightly.

How did he know? Did he ask your previous conquests to spill the information? There was no time to think, his hands traveling up your back, clenching fistfuls of your shirt and digging his nails into your back, your body responding and squirming against him, the quiet whine of his name escaping your lips and drifting right into his ear.

“J… Jungkook…”

He groaned, turning your head forcefully, him kissing you this time, just as ravenous, just as powerful, basically simulating sex in the middle of the fucking club with the way your hips were twisting into his and he was thrusting back against you, breathless, whispering in your mouth so only you could hear his words resonate in your chest.

“Fuck, you’re so hot, you turn me on so fucking easily, I just have to have you,” he murmured, his forehead pressed against yours, capturing your lips again and again. “There’s no way you’re any good for me, but I don’t care, fuck.”

You snickered, eye to eye, trapped in those expanding pupils and his heavy pants. “They say the same about you, Jeon Jungkook.”

You felt him smirk. “Nah, not me. No one calls me the spawn of Satan.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You sure? Because I do.”

Jungkook’s tongue licked your lips, making your shiver in delight. “That was special treatment. Just for you.”

Hold on a second.

Through your hazy buzzed brain, you began to piece the puzzle together. With each part falling into place, the amusement in Jungkook’s eyes grew and grew, seeing you fill in the missing blanks. Your eyes widened and you curled a finger around his ponytail, yanking roughly to pull his grinning face away from yours. You jerked back, but his strong hands held you in place.

Wispy strands of violet framing that devious expression.

“Taehyung,” you breathed, venomous.

Jungkook had the audacity to cock an eyebrow.

“Yep.”

You were going to kill Taehyung. That little shit! Taehyung was no idiot, so he must have planned this somehow. He always telling you to get serious and stop messing around. That’s why Jungkook always knew who you were dating, where you were, and what you were wearing! Did Taehyung recruit Jeon Jungkook to trick you? Fuck! He was dead meat, scheming against you like this!

Jungkook brought you out of your homicidal tendencies with a soft drawl of your name.

“For the record, he was helping me out,” he murmured, pulling you to him, pressing your chest to his. You narrowed your eyes, his hard cock still throbbing against your panties. “I want you.”

He lowered his face, breathing hard.

“Not just like this.”

Your eyes widened.

“I said I’m not going to be leftovers.” Looking deep into your eyes, holding you tightly. “I’m not going to let you throw me away like the rest.” Every inhale making your body rise into his touch, his deep, silvery voice saturated with lust and determination. “I’m going to make you fall in love with me as much as I am in love with you.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but…

Jungkook gave you this look.

The look of ‘you-know-you’ve-already-lost’.

You could sit here and pretend, but you were also grinding back onto his dick right out here in the open, clutching his purple hair and his pretty face. His hard body was tucked snugly in your thighs. That smug little smirk. Shit, shit, shit.

Jeon Jungkook got you and he got you good.

He knew it too, his hands sliding down and grabbing your ass again, rolling his hips into yours.

“Come on. Let’s fuck.”

“Oh, fuck, yes, yes, yes!”

Jungkook threw his head back onto his pillows, exposing his straining throat, veins popping out, clutching your hips strongly to rut back against you as you smacked your crotch down onto him, riding him hard and fast, your hands next to his head, his long purple hair a mess even if it was still in the ponytail, sweat glistening on his forehead, moaning loudly with your walls closing in on his hardness. You were too busy fucking the daylights out of him to say anything, but Jungkook had plenty to say, hazy eyes opening and gasping as he viewed your body hovering over him, naked with his hickeys on your neck and breasts, strong thighs flexed on either side of him, his rock-hard cock repeatedly disappearing into your tight, wet hole.

“Fuck, I knew it, I knew you would be so fucking good and so fucking sexy,” he whined, nails digging into your hips and adding more force to your thrusts.

Your clothes and his clothes were all over his bedroom floor.

Your phone was on his nightstand.

Tonight, you sent one text to Kim Taehyung.

I’m gonna buy a bow and arrow and shoot you in the ass.

You screen flashed, indicating Taehyung had replied. One quick flick of your eyes and you smirked.

Oh shit.

Jungkook squeezed your ass, making your return your attention to him.

“Focus on me,” he begged, blown-out pupils. “Only me, please.”

“So needy,” you teased, licking your lips slowly. He groaned under you, mouth opening, his pretty pink tongue lolling out, desperate to be sucked. “If you think you can keep me, you’ll have to last longer than this, Jungkook.”

He swallowed hard at the way you said his name, a mixture of warning and desire.

“P-Please… it’s too good, I-I can’t…”

You redoubled your efforts, roughly slapping your hips into his, enjoying the loud sound and the way your core tightened, constricting him inside you, telling him he couldn’t cum until you did and deliberately holding yourself back, shifting your attention when you felt it rise, denying him over and over, until he was like this, whole body shaking, grasping your ass, sweat on his chest. His right arm, covered in tattoos, looking extra delicious in the moonlight, so fucking perfect with his forearms flexed with tension. You purposefully stared into his brown eyes overtaken with lust, his lips trembling from denying himself his own orgasm.

Jungkook whimpered your name.

On the verge of breaking, helpless at your command.

A sharp throb inside you, wildly turned on by his duality.

You smirked.

“Jungkook.”

You inhaled deeply, sighing in satisfaction with the wave of pleasure, intense shivering pulses running up and down his length, sinking down so he could feel it all, the tight and rough massage of your orgasm taking over, low moan of his name emitting from your throat, and Jungkook followed suit, louder and lewder, eyes rolling back as he shot into the condom with jerking hips, burying the twitching head deep inside you, swelling the latex with thick cum, rocking you back and forth on his length, your juices dripping down and coating the inside of your joined thighs.

“Oh, fuuuuuuuck, so good, s-so fucking good…”

You know what, he was right.

It was so fucking good.

You savored it, the ecstasy that seemed endless and overwhelming, squeezing Jungkook between your thighs and moaning, just something about it, so satisfying and gratifying listening to his wheezing gasps and content whimpers, lowering yourself to his face, and he raised his, your hands sliding under his head, giving him what he wanted, light, maddening, carnal kisses, his cheeks, his chin, his quivering lips, whining your name, pleading with you to play with him more, more, tugging on his ponytail and his hands stroking your breasts, rolling your hard nipples between his index and thumb fingers, shaking at your hissing inhale.

“Hey,” you murmured, clenching him between your legs to get his attention.

Jungkook blinked at you, brown eyes unfocused, panting hard. “Y-Yeah?”

“You should apologize.”

The side of his swollen lips quirked upwards despite his fucked-out state. His deep voice was slightly hoarse. “What for? Tell me and I will.”

You raised an eyebrow. “For your scheming and using my own best friend against me.”

Jungkook smirked slyly.

“I’m sorry.”

He lifted you and made sure he had the condom before he pulled out, still semi-hard. You narrowed your eyes. He sure as hell didn’t sound sorry. Didn’t look sorry either, peeling the condom off and crawling over the bed to toss it in the trash before straightening.

“Sounding insincere there,” you remarked coolly, balancing your chin on the back of your knuckles, elbow on the bed, tapping the air impatiently.

“I mean it,” he purred, reaching for the towel beside the bed and knocking the condoms from his nightstand to the sheets. His right hand wrapped around his glistening length, still covered in lube and his cum, toned hips thrusting into his closed fist, grinning with his lower lip between his teeth as you watched him.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

Slowly jacking himself off as his eyes roamed over your curves, moaning lustfully, lingering on your legs, clutching the towel in his left hand so hard his knuckles were pale, forearms flexed, the slick head of his cock turning purple-red, emerging from between his closed fingers, throbbing as it was choked by his harsh grip.

“Let me make it up to you,” Jungkook shuddered, stroking faster, making wet squelching sounds, his muscular thighs bulging with effort.

Fuck, he was so damn attractive.

You kept an indifferent look on your face, raising your leg, your free hand sliding down, tracing the outside of your already wet opening. Those hungry dark brown orbs immediately fixated on it, moaning imploringly as you dipped your fingers in it, soft squishing noises as you spread open your soaked pussy, slipping a finger in your heat, gently thrusting.

He gasped your name, begging you.

It made you wetter, seeing his want. He knew it too, brutally fisting his cock, hips quivering.

“Stop.”

Jungkook whined despairingly, pulling his hand away, his stiff cock bouncing from the swiftness of the movement, cutting off his own orgasm. He sucked in a shivering breath, tipping his hips up to you so his glossy, hard length twitched.

You shifted, laying back against his pillows, opening your legs.

Smirk on your lips.

“Mmm, fuck, yes, fuck me with that.”

Jungkook smirked back.

It took him no time at all to wipe his hand and crotch off, ripping open another condom and moaning as he rolled it down, the mere contact of the thin encasement stimulating his sensitive skin. He slid up to you, gripping your knees and spreading you even wider, pressing the tip against your drenched heat.

He whispered your name, like sweet smoke.

“Hm?”

Jungkook leaned down, kissing you deeply as he sank into you, drinking in your gasp at the fullness.

“I’m going to make you feel so, so good,” he mumbled into your lips, pecking you softly.

He was about to retreat but your hands snapped up, tangling into his messy violet waves, clutching his ponytail. Jungkook blinked at you, questioning.

“Not too far away,” you said with a playful smile. “I wanna see that handsome face of yours.”

He bit his lower lip, tiny mole and wicked grin revealing themselves.

“Okay.”

He lifted his hips and plunged fully into you, the connection of your hips making a loud, wet smack.

“Fuck, Jungkook…!”

And you could tell from his elated expression and his furious pace that he was ecstatic at your response, chasing it, chasing you, moaning as you caught him between your thighs and wrapped your legs around his waist, gaining some leverage and meeting his thrusts, fingers tightening in his soft hair, fuck, so beautiful, the way the pleasure overtook his handsome features, his hazy dark brown orbs shrouded in lust, his pink lip trembling in his teeth, sharp jaw set, but still maintaining a little bit of that cunning exterior that ensnared you in the first place, unknowingly at the time, the side of his lips ticking up, this cheeky bastard.

Jungkook saw the way you looked at him.

He adjusted the position, hitting deeper, swelling inside you, and, fuck, you couldn’t help it, you smirked too because he was so, so full of himself and so were you, insufferable, troublesome, competitive even now, the obscene smack of his crotch hitting your hips, wet and noisy, the squish of your juices smearing against his inner thighs as you wildly matched his rapid, bruising rhythm, your moans blending together, sweet hot harmony, his bedframe ramming against the wall, and, as usual, neither of you caring, far to occupied with yourselves, pleasure snaking between you, up your spine and into your head, mixing with the light buzz of alcohol, a different kind of euphoria from every other one-night stand, because this was Jeon Jungkook and he wasn’t going to be a one-night stand.

His lower lip popped out of his teeth and he gasped your name.

Longingly, breathlessly.

Was he thinking the same thing?

You lifted yourself a little, your hands molded to his head, whispering intensely against his shaking lips.

“Don’t worry, Jungkook. We have all night and the morning.”

Fuck, he had a brilliant smile.

It was actually doomed for you, but you weren’t mad about it.

Eye contact, and he didn’t waver, thrusting deep into you, low moan pulled from his chest, jolting shudders sliding down his shoulders and then in between you and him, his cock twitching and spilling into the condom again, roughly clamped by your tightness, and you were already there, falling over the edge with a soft cry, straining your neck and pushing his head down to you to collide your lips with his, greedy for his kiss, his taste, his whimpers at your forcefulness.

“Jungkook, ah…”

He said your name in the same tone, delicate and possessive, a bullseye right to the heart.

“On one hand, I’m glad you’re finally serious about someone.”

You paid absolutely no attention to the annoyed baritone voice of your best friend.

“On the other hand,” Kim Taehyung gritted out, smacking you in the shoulder blades as you crawled into Jeon Jungkook’s lap, kisses intensifying, a needy whine in his chest, his hands wrapping around your waist. “Really feeling like a third wheel, you two! Stop making out for one goddamn second!”

He threw up his hands as both of you pretended to be deaf.

interlude respect drabble — "how much did you see?" popcorn drabble — "who are they?"

part ii threesome, ft kth — got it bad

masterpost

#jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #bts smut #jungkook smut #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x you #jeon jungkook smut

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tomtenadia · 3 years

Text

Dreams of Gold

Rowaelin month day 11 - Surprise kisses

Rowan loved swimming. He had been doing it since he remembered. His parents had put him in a swimming pool when he was very young and according to their stories he had loved it immediately, so when he was a bit older they had sent him to swimming classes and then once at school he had started competing as well. Small tournaments while he was in elementary and middle school, but once in high school he had joined an actual club and had started competing seriously. He had won his fair share of medals and trophies and his parents loved to brag about their son’s athletic prowess. Sometimes it was bordering on embarrassing.

Now at uni and on his second year of a degree in computer engineering he had taken his love for swimming even further.

He had joined an actual professional club and with time he realised that butterfly was his favourite stroke. He was quite skilled at freestyle as well but he loved the raw power in the butterfly. It had taken him a lot of time and training to master it to perfection but now that he did, he’d never change it for any other stroke.

Juggling university and a heavy and very strict training schedule had been exhausting at times. Sometimes he even wondered why he bothered studying but his parents had made him promise he’d have a plan b. They had faith in him and supported him throughout his career. Drove him for hours to competitions when he hadn’t his licence yet and then following to all his events. But they also believed that the sports world was fickle and that glory would not last forever. He had agreed and had a plan b. At least he liked working with computers and was pretty skilled at that as well. He had fixed both his parents laptops and taught them as well how to use them properly for their jobs.

It was a January day and Rowan was running across campus to get to his car as quickly as possible and get to training. He hated Thursdays. His last class of the day finished twenty minutes before he was due at the pool and without traffic it took him seventeen minutes to reach the sports complex. He was looking forward to the semester to be over and rid himself of that boring class.

Luckily for him, that day the traffic had been light and he had made it with four minutes to spare.

He parked his car, grabbed his duffel bag and ran inside.

He peeked through the big glass windows and saw the team already gathered at pool side for the daily briefing.

What he had tried to avoid thinking was that it was a special day. The federation was going to release the names of the people who were going to be chosen to attend the olympic games the following year. Rowan had been training even harder, smashed records and won a few more competitions to prove that one of those spots was his.

Sighing heavily he ran and joined the team.

“Sorry coach.” He apologised.

“Don’t worry, Rowan. It’s Thursday and I am aware of your class finishing late. Glad you could join us.”

Coach Gavriel was a legend in the swimming world. He was a multiple olympic gold winner. He was a butterfly swimmer like him and his regime was strict. Once he retired he had created his own professional team and many of the people he had coached had gone and won medals.

He moved closed to the blonde woman with the blue swimsuit “Galathynius.”

She turned and gave him the most beautiful of smiles “Whitethorn, excited for the big announcement?”

He nodded.

“I don’t think I ever wanted anything so badly.” She told him eagerly.

I do. Thought Rowan. You.

His secret was that he was madly in love with her. It had happened all of a sudden. One evening they had both stayed late for extra practice. Aelin was a freestyle specialist. That night during training he had noticed a small error that she would do and that he was sure would cost her time. So he had coached and fixed the slight issue allowing her to cut the water perfectly and almost null the friction. With her long golden hair and her deep turquoise eyes with a ring of gold in them she was like a goddess. And he was madly in love with her. But he never said anything. He had bottled up his feeling. Plus he was positive she saw him as nothing but a friend.

“I am sure we are all excited to discover who is going to represent Terrasen in next year’s olympic games.” Gavriel started, drawing the attention back to him “Some of you will go home and will have a lot to celebrate for. Having the chance to attend the olympics is the greatest goal for an athlete, it’s the prize after years of hard training and sacrifice.” His tawny eyes swept the group in front of him “For some of you it won’t be this olympic games, but I don’t want you to be discouraged. Keep training. It will happen.”

Rowan cast a side glance to Aelin and saw her head high and a hopeful face. He wanted her to get a spot too.

“Ok, people here we go.” Shouted Gavriel flapping a sheet of paper in the air. The list. The list of those who were going to the Olympics.

Rowan’s heart raced.

Gavriel went through the list and announced all the specialties for the guys. He was slightly detached until he announced his specialty.

“Men 100 and 200m butterfly,” Gavriel’s voice woke him up and he closed his eyes for an instant. That was it. That was the moment of truth. “Rowan.”

His heart stopped. He knew that there were other three guys in the team up against him for that spot but he had got it. He was going to the olympics. He turned to Aelin and the smile she gave him made the moment even more precious.

Gavriel started calling out the names for the relay teams and Rowan almost cursed when he was added to the freestyle one and then in the butterfly leg for the medley. He hated relays.

He took another step closer to Aelin “I have all my fingers and toes crossed for you.” He whispered to her.

“Thanks and well done for making the team.”

He nodded and went back listening for the female selections.

He zoned out until he heard the magic word freestyle and refocused straight away on Gavriel.

“Aelin will swim both 50m and 100m freestyle.” Rowan’s head flipped to her side. He saw her look at him with the biggest smile ever seen.

And then, his body moved of his own accord. He closed the distance between them and swept her in his arms, up high and tightened his strong arms around her body. She folded her legs around him and he started spinning in joy and then out of the blue he kissed her. Deeply, with passion and with all the love he had for her for a long time. Everything around them disappeared. There was only the two of them wrapped in each other arms and the taste of her lips on his. He had been dreaming about that for so long and it hadn’t disappointed.

“We are going to the Olympics.” He whispered against her lips.

“You just kissed me, Whitethorn.” She replied.

“Any complaints?”

“Yes, only that it took you so long to do it.”

Eventually he put her down and apologised to the team for the extreme level of PDA. Everyone had laughed and told him it was about time. Apparently it was not a secret that he was in love with Aelin.

“Ok, people Rowan finally made his move. Now let’s all go back to training. You won’t win a gold metal by sitting on the side of the pool relaxing.

Everyone scattered and Rowan went to the changing room with the biggest smile on his face.

He was going to the olympics and Aelin at his side.

Tag

@thegreyj

#rowaelinmonth #rowan whitethorn #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #rowanwhitethorn #aelin galathynius

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fandom-puff · 4 years

Note

Hey! Can you write a tommyxreader where they get arranged marriage for a deal with a rival gang. And the first time they sleep together is after tommy loses his shit seeing someone flirt with her and can’t control himself

Thank you for requesting this! Hope you like it ♥️♥️

In holy matrimony

Warnings: smut, swearing, arranged marriage, sleazy men at the bar, the entire FIC not being proof read so maybe some questionable autocorrect?

“You may now kiss the bride,”

You gulped as your new husband brushed his lips against yours as everyone clapped. You blushed prettily and slid your arm into his as he led you back down the aisle. He hardly looked at you, hardly spoke to you, and when the party drew to a close, he didn’t carry you to his room, bridal style. He asked his maids to show you the way while he cleaned up some business with your brother, and did not return until you were fast asleep under the covers. The next morning when you woke up, he was just leaving the room.

For the first three months of your marriage, you barely saw one another, stuck at Arrow House while he toed and froed between Small Heath and London. The maids whispered and gossiped about your passionless marriage as you played with Charlie, reading him stories and singing to him to get him to sleep. One night he called you mummy. You cried yourself to sleep that night. He saw you as a mother, but no matter what you did, you couldn’t get your husband to see you as a wife.

It was a Friday, and your sister in law had insisted that Tommy bring you to Small Heath to go to the garrison- “She’s family, Tom. She’s your wife, bloody treat her like it,”

You were sat in the side room, nursing gin and tonic while Tommy smoked. The silence was uncomfortable and no one knew quite what to say. You were a fair bit younger than Tommy, in your early 20s, and you were sure his brothers knew he barely slept in the same room. Gulping, you rested your hand on Tommy’s knee, murmuring “I’m just going to get some more tonic in this,” you murmured, standing up and leaving the room before he could tell you to just use the hatch.

You waited at the bar behind a load of men, trying to get the barman’s attention to no avail, constantly getting shoved to the back of the queue every time you were next in line. When you finally got to the front and ordered your drink, you felt someone groping your arse. you gulped as he leaned into your ear. “Let me buy that for you, darlin’”

“Er...no thank you, Sir,” you murmured, trying to shift to the side. “My drinks are on the house,”

“I bet they are, a hot little thing like you eh? Bet you make such pretty noises with that soft little voice, huh?”

“Sir, I’m actually married-”

“ah, you won't mind me fucking you into next week, love, and I’m sure your husband won’t mind, and even if he does, he doesn’t need to know, yeah?”

“Actually he does mind, and he does need to know,”

You had never been so glad to hear the low voice of your husband. instantly you hurried to him, leaving your drink at the bar. Subconsciously, you slid your arm into his, the same way you had done on your wedding night. Feeling your small arm tremble in the crook of his elbow set something alight in Tommy, and he announced, quite loudly to the rest of the pub “Any of you fuckers touch my wife, I swear to god I will throw you in the cut,” he walked you back into the side room and grabbed his coat. “I’m taking my wife home,” he said.

“Will you be coming back, Tom?” Arthur called as the door slammed.

“No... I don't think he will. He has that look in his eye,” Ada smirked. “Looks like he’s gonna acknowledge the fact that he’s married a lovely young woman,”

“Only took him three months to bloody consummate it!”

****

“Mr Shelby, I know you don’t love me... you don't have to... consummate this marriage, m-my brother said you’d probably call it off once you sorted the business and that’s why you wouldn’t have me...”

“I’m not Mr Shelby to you. I’m Tommy. And I finished the business with your brother on our wedding night,”

“But why didn’t you sleep with me... why have you just ignored me for three months?” you whispered, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “We’ve never been together and yet I miss you,”

He sighed, rubbing his face. “You... You’ve got to understand, YN... I’m over ten years your senior,”

“I don’t care,” you mumbled, but he still carried on.

“I’m over ten years your senior, you’re young, gentle, good, caring...”

“Listen to me! I don’t care that you're older than me,” you blushed when he stared at you but carried on. “I don’t care, alright! You made me feel safe tonight when that man was feeling me up. I’ve grown up around my brother’s gangsters and criminals making sure I don’t get attacked, but I’ve never felt as safe as when you... took my arm,” you looked at the ground. “You make me feel protected and I-I think I love you. You don’t have to say it back, or do anything, not if you don't mean it-”

He was kissing you, cupping your cheeks in both his hands, his lips pressed firmly against yours. He pulled away and pressed his forehead to yours. “I think I love you too,” he murmured. “I’m starting to... to love you...”

You gulped as you wrapped your arms around his neck and leaned to kiss him gently, testing the waters, sighing gently as he deepened the kiss. “Shall we consummate this marriage, Tommy?” You murmured and he groaned softly against your lips, lifting you up, hands squeezing your buttocks. “Oh god yes,” he groaned, laying you down slowly.

He trailed soft kisses down your throat, running his hands up your body and hitching your dress further up your thighs each time his hands went up. You sighed, arching your back and stroking his cropped hair. “Tommy... I’ve never done... I’m... ive never been...” you whispered, panting.

“You’re a virgin?” He murmured, stilling his movements. For a moment you thought he’d leave you again, but your worries were quashed when he pressed a soft kiss to your lips. “Alright, love,” he whispered, before kneeling, slowly unclipping and rolling each stocking down, kissing every inch of newly revealed flesh as he went. You sighed softly, stroking his hair gently, but gasped when his deft fingers skittered over the delicate skin of the inside of your thighs. Fingers twitching, you lifted your dress up and over your hips, undoing the button at the bavk and slinging it to the side. Tommy groaned at the sight of you in your silk slip and knickers. He crooked your thigh, throwing your leg over his shoulder as he kissed and sucked at the inside of your thighs. You whined at the curious mixture of suction and the tickling of his tongue, writhing your hips at these new sensations.

When Tommy pressed his thumb to your clothed clit you nearly jumped off the bed, spreading your legs a little wider and arching your back, gasping. He smirked up at you as he rubbed slow, tight circles, your underwear causing a delicious burning friction. You whimpered, clutching onto the bedsheets as your hips twisted, an unfamiliar tension coiling in your stomach. Thighs quivering, you called Tommy’s name, but he simply said “let it happen, YN,” pressing just that little bit harder. Waves of pleasure washed over your thrashing body as you moaned, biting your hand you quiet yourself. A few moments later, Tommy resurfaced, smiling gently at you as you looked at him with hazy, dazed eyes. He grinned when you reached for him and he fell next to you, rubbing your sides soothingly. “D-does that always happen?” You asked, thighs still twitching slightly.

Tommy grinned boyishly and caressed you’re cheek, pushing a stray strand of hair out of your face. “If a man knows what he’s doing,” he said, the corners of his mouth tugging into a slight smirk. You giggled, blushing ever so prettily, stroking a finger over his buttons absentmindedly. “You want this off, YN?” He asked, gesturing to his waistcoat.

“Yes please. Your shirt too. And your trousers. I want it all off, mine too,” you whispered, sitting up a little. He grinned, sitting up with you and together you managed to undo all of his buttons and strip him down to his underwear. You hummed, kissing him deeply as you spread your palms over his bare chest, tracing his tattoo and grasping his strong back. You pulled away from him and, taking a deep breath, you got off the bed, standing before him as he lay propped on his elbows, and lifted your slip up and over your head. He palmed his cocked as you did, and his breath caught in his throat when you unclipped your bra and cast it aside. You then bent over, sliding your knickers and garter belt down your thighs, kicking them away. You blushed and stood with one hand across your tummy gripping your other arm as Tommy’s eyes scanned you up and down, from the swell of your breasts to the pert peaks of your nipples, the soft flesh of your tummy, hips and thighs, before finally, settling on the curls between your legs.

He cleared his throat and you saw his Adam’s apple bob. “Fucking hell... come here, love,” he said, voice barely more than a hoarse whisper as you crawled over to him, long hair falling over your shoulders. You looked at his tented boxers and licked your lips, before looking back to his eyes. “Be my guest, love,” he rasped. You grinned, and slid his underwear off, giving him a lovely view of your rear as you freed the, from his ankles. You trailed one finger up the vein pulsing on the underside of his heavy shaft, breath coming in little pants as his thighs tensed. Watching his face, eyes fixed to his, you slowly wrapped your hand around him and pumped his cock languidly, eyes lidded with desire. He grunted and grabbed your chin, breaking your focus. “Fucking... YN... I need you love,” he said, almost pleadingly.

“I’m all yours,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his. He groaned and pushed you onto your back, and you gladly cradled him between your thighs as he kissed you hard, his cock leaking warm sticky precum onto your bruised inner thigh. “Please...” you moaned out, nipping his lip experimentally. He groaned lowly, and you felt the vibration running through his chest as he lined his cock of with you. He pushed the tip in, stopping when he felt resistense.

“This’ll sting, just for a bit, okay, YN?” He murmured into your shoulder. “But id you wanna stop, you’re to tell me, understand,” you nodded, already panting. Your eyes screwed shut as you felt him push through your barrier and you pushed your face into his neck, thighs clenching a little tighter around his hips. He grunted slightly, pushing in until he had no more to give, before waiting for you to tell him to move. When you bucked your hips up slowly to meet his, he groaned and together, you settled into a slow rhythm, every inch of skin touching one another. You locked your ankles behind him, using your heels to dig into his back and pull him closer, deeper, impossibly so. You just felt so... full. Tommy Shelby was clouding your every sense and you were quickly becoming addicted, undulating your body to grind your nipples against his chest, your clit against his pelvis, and your innermost pleasure points against his pulsing length.

You felt that coiling pressure in your stomach from earlier and whimpered “Tommy,- Tom... Ah! Tommy, I’m-I’m-Ah!” You moaned desperately, trying to find a word for the immense pleasure he was churning deep within you. Your inner walls clenched tight around him as a deeper, more intense pleasure flooded every nerve of your being as you moaned his name loudly, pressing your lips to his in a sloppy, passionate kiss. Feeling you grip his cock, he moaned into your mouth, and with a few final frantic thrusts, he spilled inside you, pumping your womb full of his essence, holding you close as you rode out your highs.

Practically boneless, you lay under the covers, snuggled into Tommy’s side, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the Romani sun rising on his chest as he smoked. You sighed happily, tucking your head into the crook of his shoulder, kissing the available skin gently. He laughed slightly. “You up for another round, love?” He teased. You giggled and shook your head.

“No... not tonight,” you said, yawning softly. “Tomorrow morning maybe- you’ll still be here tomorrow?” You asked quickly. He stubbed out his cigarette and kissed your forehead.

“Of course I will be. Christ, I’d happily lay in this bed all day long if you’d let me,” he grins.

“Maybe I would,” you giggled and looked up at him. “I think... I think this marriage will work out fine, Tommy,” you said gently, nuzzling into his chest.

He stroked your hair gently. “You know what, YN? I reckon it will too,”

#fanfiction #imagine #fluff #smut #peaky blinders #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x you #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby smut #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders smut #request

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mashiraostail · 4 years

Note

Hi I'm soft, can I please have a fix of Aizawa's S/O taking care of him after the USJ attack?

soft is the mood!

“Shouta, pick your head up.” “it’s up-” “No, it’s not, look straight ahead.” A pause as he shifts, then you huff, “thank you.” You comb careful fingers through his tangled hair. Normally you’d really be on his case about letting it get like this, but given the current circumstance..you supposed you couldn’t hold this against him, he was in practically a full-body cast, after all. You spray some more detangler into it. “How do you feel?” You ask quietly, running a comb through the newly wet strands. “The same.” His voice is indifferent, if he was in pain he wasn’t gonna tell you. You just hope he’s not lying. “Not better or worse?” “Just the same.” He nods again and you hum pulling all his hair back off his forehead and temples, away from his ears. “I’m sorry.” “It’s not your fault.” He deflects you. “I know. But I’m sorry you’re in pain.” You retort and he mutters something before saying louder, “I’m not in pain. The medicine is fine. And recovery girl is doing her thing. I should be alright in no time.” “Shouta. It doesn’t matter how you’re going to feel it matters how you feel now.” He can’t see you from his seat between your legs, but he can tell your frowning from the hardness in your voice. And you’re right. “Yeah. It’s alright. Sorry I know I shouldn’t do that. It’s not that bad really. I get a headache sometimes, but for the most part the medicine works. ” “It’s okay.” You kiss the back of his head and he slumps a little bit forward, you can tell he’s done talking about it. “Do you have the elastic?” He nods at it where it rests on the bedsheets by his leg. He can’t help but feel a little useless right now. He can’t do anything, not a single thing. He needed you or Hizashi for everything, he couldn’t even bend his fingers. “Shouta Aizawa I am not going to tell you to pick your head up again.” You say it meaning to sound stern, but there’s a little laugh underneath it that makes him grin under all the bandages. In all fairness he appreciates your usual prodding, if you handled him like glass he’d honestly simply feel worse. “It just feels good.” He picks his head up again anyways, he couldn’t help it, you were effectively putting him to sleep, your fingers carefully slowly pulling through his hair, wrapping the strands around each other. You just hum at him affectionately, pulling him back lightly by his hair to kiss the crown of his head again, “push that elastic over here.” He does his best, it’s probably not as close as you wanted or much at all to really be helpful but you reach it anyways. “Thank you.” He just hums back at you. “How is it?” You pull away after wrapping the tail of the braid in an elastic a few times, “not too tight?” Aizawa shakes his head as much as he can. “It feels better this way, thank you.” “It won’t get too tangled now either.” You hum, leaning back into his pillows and letting him follow, resting his tired frame against your chest. “Are you exhausted?” You hum and he nods, he’s always tired sure but he can stay up usually...but right now...just sitting up for a few minutes while you cleaned him up was enough to put him out of commission, he’d only gotten up for the day a few hours ago and he already wanted to call it a night, it was hardly even noon. “Why don’t we take a little nap? I’m tired too honestly.” You wrap your arms around his shoulders gently, “and then when you wake up we can take off some of the bandages, recovery girl said she’d stop by as soon as she could this afternoon so we can leave them off for a little bit until she gets here, let everything breathe?” “That sounds good.” It feels stupid to be so upset. he wasn’t mean to get like this, he was rational, level headed, but all he wanted to do right now was cover your arms where they rounded his shoulders, he wanted to hold you back. “You know for, a guy who isn’t allowed to shower you still smell pretty nice.” He feels you press a long kiss to the skin behind his ear, one of the only places exposed. “Take a deep breath Sho.” You lean into him, “it’s alright.” He falls asleep with relative ease after that. When he wakes up again you aren’t behind him anymore. A first aid kit is on his nightstand, and he can hear you pattering around. It takes about 5 minutes for you to find your way back in there. “Oh! You’re awake!” You sit beside him, “recovery girl came while you were asleep. Feeling any better? You could have called when you woke up.” He did, a little, and he felt worlds less swollen, though the looseness of the casts on his arms should indicate that to be a reality rather than just a feeling. “I was gonna, I just woke up so it’s fine.” He shuffles a little bit and you nod. “You really did yourself no favors going back to teach so early.” You scold him, sitting before him in his bed. “I had to.” “No, you just let Hizashi talk you into every hair-brained scheme he comes up with.” You beacon for him to sit up, “you need to be more careful. I know you probably don’t want to hear this from me...” You start removing the casts on his arms, “but you seriously had me worried.” You’d held off giving him this speech until now, he supposed he should hear you out. “When I saw you all wrapped up in the hospital..” You carefully slide one off, “I thought I was as good as on my own again.” You start wrapping his arm in some tough feeling bandages, he guesses Recovery Girl healed the break, now it was just a crack, a sprain maybe. Either way, he probably had about 2 more days of these slings. “I’m proud of you for keeping your kids safe. I can’t say I would have done anything differently.” Your voice gets quiet, “but how would you feel if it were me sitting there like you right now?” He nods curtly at that, not even really wanting to imagine it. You pull him toward you by his jaw and press a long kiss to his forehead, covered in bandages. “She said we could take these off now.” You add and he hums gratefully, “thank god.” You unfasten the wrapping and slowly unwind it until his face is exposed. You’d seen his face a few times since the incident, taking bandages off to change them, it was only for a few minutes but still it was nice to see your boyfriend’s face instead of a mummy man. His nose is wrapped up in a splint and there’s a row of stitches under his eye but at least it’s still Shouta. A couple of extra bumps and bruises sure, but Shouta nonetheless. “I’m so proud of you Shouta.” You take his jaw in incredibly tentative hands, unsure of what hurt or felt tender without the support of the bandages. “You’re really strong..” Your voice is somehow softer than your hands on his skin. He clears his throat, you’d been together a long time and he always knew you loved him sure but it was palpable right now. “I just did what anyone else would do...” He’s really not used to all the priase, part of being an underground hero he supposed. You chuckle at that. “I should have guessed you’d say something like that.” You tuck a loose strand of hair back into it’s braid, “either way, you’re really brave. Those kids are lucky to have you...I’m lucky to have you too.” “It’s been 10 days since we kissed.” You can tell he’s trying to slink out of the spotlight, despite the only people in the room being the pair of you. “Maybe that’s why you haven’t started feeling any better.” You laugh as you move to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. “That’s a pretty good theory.” He agrees leaning forward a bit, of course you oblige him, you hated to sound selfish but you missed him like this, you didn’t mind taking care of him and you always would be there to do it whenever he needed you but he got broody about it...well more broody than normal. Getting to feel him relax into a kiss was nice. “well now that that’s out of the way, we really could use a shave. Stay there.” You stand up and he groans, “I could just go into-” “No way mister tough guy.” You shake your head at him, “you wanted to go to the sports festival, and teach so bad even with all your broken ribs? Well this is the price you pay. Until Recovery girl says the breaks are all healed you aren’t getting out of that bed when I’m around, do you hear me?” You sit back down, “save your energy for the kids. I’m here and I wanna help, so let me.” He supposed he couldn’t argue with that, and your hands felt mesmerizingly nice on the sides of his neck and jaw, his eyelids are heavy by the time you’re done with him, carefully patting his newly shaven skin dry. “Thank you.” He lets his head drop back into the pillows and you hum, “my pleasure.” You say it like it’s nothing, it rolls off you like water, he can’t put into words how much that puts him at ease. “No, seriously, thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He opens his eyes and looks up at you, “I’m really lucky to have you.” He turns your words back around on you. “I’m glad I’ve got you worrying about me.” “Make me worry like this again and you’re dead meat, Shouta.” He huffs out a quiet laugh at that, “I don’t know, I think some broken ribs, 2 broken arms a broken leg, broken nose and a fractured orbital plate was well worth it for all the extra attention I’ve been getting.” “If you want more attention just ask! Don’t break every bone in your body you maniac!” You wanna wack the back of his head but you stop yourself. He just looks really happy with himself, “but it’s sweet when you worry.” “I can worry about you without you almost dying!” You can’t even pinch his nose because of the splint, “seriously Shouta!” “Alright, alright I’m kidding.” He insists, “come relax a little.” You don’t argue, instead you just climb into bed beside him. “How’s it feel?” You reach out and brush your hand over his jaw, “I didn’t shave it all, you’d look naked.” He laughs as you lean back against him, “I appreciate that, and It feels better, thank you.” You hum and turn his head toward you. “It’s good to see your face.” You thumb affectionately at his cheeks and he clears his throat as you continued, “I missed it.” “Yeah I...guess it’s good to be seen.”

#aizawa shouta x reader #aizawa x reader #eraser head x reader #bnha x reader #bnha request

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kookicat · 4 years

Text

Consequences That He Renders

He's shaking hard enough for her to feel, fine tremors running through his hands, his arms and it's freaking her out because as a rule, Eliot Spencer isn't a man who shakes. The last time she'd seen it was after a job went majorly, horribly bad, when he'd been so battered and bruised and bloody they'd actually managed to get him to visit a hospital. It's too dark in the car to get a proper look at his face, but the streetlights offer glimpses and she'd swear on a stack of hundred dollar bills that he's pale, eyes shadowed, gaze fixed at some point miles past the glass.

The car hits a pothole, hard, and he grunts, lip curling, one hand creeping up to cup his left shoulder. It's the one he favours first, some nagging remains of an old injury, and it makes the tension in her stomach curl a bit tighter, like a snake burrowing into the sand for the night. She's a thief; she's trained to notice the smallest detail because it can be a matter of life and death if she misses something. Another piece of the mental jigsaw she's building clicks into place when he shifts, jaw tightening as some sore spot somewhere presses against the seat.

"Eliot," she starts, resisting the urge to poke him, to see how badly he's hurt this time in favour of leaning over a little.

"Parker," he says, voice hoarse with exhaustion, and turns towards her. He can't quite meet her eyes. Another piece. Something bad happened. She's not great with emotions but she's learning. It's not shame on his face, but sorrow.

"Are you okay?" She gives into the urge and presses her hand against his arm, half expecting him to move away.

He doesn't, just blinks tiredly at her and dredges up a weak smile. "I'm fine," he says and she lets the lie slide because she knows he's not fine at all.

"What happened, at the warehouse?" She keeps her eyes on his face, seeing a flicker of something before he shoves it down deep.

"I did my job. Got Nate and his Italian friend out of there." As he says the words, voice flat, the smell of cordite floods his nose, thick and bitter and choking. He can feel the weight of the guns in his hands, feel the shock of the recoil burning up his wrists as he takes the next target out. As he kills the next man, the voice in the back of his head mocks.

It had felt clear and clean in the moment, the kind of clarity only found at the right end of a gun but he's reeling, because he stepped into the kill box and didn't expect to walk back out. His life for his team's, a fair and more than even trade. He'd do it again in a heartbeat, but after the fact, he's not quite sure how he managed to survive.

"Oh," she says, voice so small, it makes him really look at her. There's a pensive frown between her eyebrows that he longs to wipe away but his hands aren't clean and he doesn't want to stain her. She needs a distraction, and he inadvertently gives her one when the car hits another bump, forcing another soft grunt out of him.

He's wrenched his back and bad shoulder all to hell and he's pretty sure that both knees are skinned raw from his slide. There's a low grade throb in both hands that he knows will evolve into a full on ache before too much longer. He knows guns, but he rarely uses them and he's paying the price.

"I thought you said you were okay!" She reaches for him, and he wards her off with one arm, biting the inside of his lip when she grabs his arm right over a growing bruise.

"I've had worse," he says, and it's true. He's pretty sure nothing is broken. He's just sore all over, abused muscles aching but it's not life threatening, just enough to make him miserable.

Something in her eyes shifts and she blinks, hard, hand tightening a little on his arm. He expects her to speak, but she just presses her lips together and leans against him gently, staying there until the car stops.

Hardison looks up from his laptop, taking in the scene with a sweep of his eyes, and gets out, coming round to open the door. Parker slides out of the other side and Eliot realises with a jolt they're all waiting for him, even Sophie and Nate.

It's going to take him a moment to get out and he'd really rather not have an audience for the performance.

"I'll catch up," he says and holds his hand out for the keys.

Parker snatches them from Nate. "We'll catch up," she says, giving Hardison a meaningful glance.

Sophie catches on and takes Nate's arm, tugging him towards the hotel entrance, casting a worried glance back at the car as she goes.

Eliot gets a good look at his friends’ faces and chokes back a sigh. They're going nowhere at least not without an argument, and he just doesn't have the energy for it right now. He swings his legs out of the car, pausing for a moment when his back spasms, then forces himself to stand. Being upright hurts, the long muscles in his abs tight and sore, back aching. The shootout ran him through the wringer and the aftereffects are starting to kick in.

"Come on, man," Hardison says and leans past Eliot to slam the car door. One hand lifts like he wants to offer assistance, but the older man shoots him down with a quick look.

They flank him, Parker on one side, Hardison on the other as he limps towards the entrance, feeling the denim peel away from his knees in a way that makes him want to hurl. His shirt is sticking to his back in a similar way and he rolls his shoulders in annoyance. It sends a bolt of pain down his spine and he stops, eyes closing until it eases.

"You're freaking me out, man," Hardison says, running his gaze over the other man, checking for blood. There's a few spots - his left shoulder is sporting a nasty blood stain, as are both of his knees, but nothing major jumps out. They've seen him hurt worse and walk it off but this time is different and Hardison just can't put his finger on why.

Eliot starts walking again, eyes fixed on the doors, but he's distant, pensive and Hardison realises with a jolt that's the problem. There's a level of quiet they only see from the older man when he's really hurt but that doesn't tally with the visible injuries and it's ringing alarm bells in Hardison's mind.

He glances at Parker, getting a nod in return. Something dreadful went down in that warehouse, bad enough that Eliot doesn't want to talk about it, bad enough that he's pulled back into his shell. The thought of what it could be sends a chill down Hardison's spine. Part of him wants to push, to needle a confession from the other man but a bigger part of him doesn't want to know. Their hitter had done his job and got everyone back safe and beyond that the details don't really matter. They won't judge him no matter what he did.

There's an elevator waiting in the lobby and they shuffle into it. The mirrored walls show Eliot just how bad he looks, and he suddenly understands why his friends are so concerned. He's pasty, dirt streaked and vaguely clammy in the air conditioning. He wants a shower, a change of clothes and a time machine, so he can go way back before this whole mess started and stop Nate from throwing them at Moreau. He knows which of those he's likely to get and leans against the wall with a sigh.

He's lucked out on this stay, managed to get a room to himself and he fishes in his pocket for the key, vaguely surprised it's still there.

Parker and Hardison are looking at him and he licks his lips, tries to dredge up some sort of response and settles for a quick, tired smile that he knows doesn't come close to reaching his eyes. "Thanks," he says and unlocks the door, "I'm going to go clean up. See you in a few."

He ducks inside, closing the door on them, knowing it's a shitty thing to do. He's pretty sure they'll forgive him, pretty sure they'd already figured out this wasn't a normal job and he's not in the mood for twenty questions. He pauses, slides the chain into place like it'll stall Parker for more than a couple of seconds if she decides she wants in.

Pain runs through his fingers as he grabs a change of clothes and carries them to the bathroom, starting the shower. His clothes stink, a bitter mix of smoke and cordite and sweat and he struggles out of them, throwing them in the corner for now. The water engulfs him, washing away the physical traces of what he did and it suddenly hits him, hard enough to unlock his knees so he ends up sitting with his back to the shower wall.

The tears are a surprise, because he thought he'd forgotten how to cry, used them all up. He pulls his knees up and rests his forehead on them, gulping in breaths when black spots swirl through his eyes. He's not weeping for the men he killed - their own choices put them in that warehouse, and none of them was an innocent - but for the man he was becoming, someone closer to the kid he searches for everyday in the mirror. They leave him aching and empty and hollow and it's going to take a while to soothe the new raw spots inside his soul.

He's chilled from sitting in the cold tile and the water is starting to run cold so he forces himself to his feet, reaching for soap and a washcloth, scrubbing any last trace of the battle from his body. It stings in places, highlighting minor cuts and knicks he didn't know he had until the lather found them, painting a map of damage to his body. He can't quite lift his left arm high enough to wash his hair and settles for doing his best one handed. He rinses, shivering, under the now cold water and steps out, wrapping a towel around his hips, leaning towards the mirror to find out why his shoulder hurts so much.

There's a splinter longer than his hand in the back of his shoulder. He can see it in the mirror but he just can't get the angle to dig it out. It hurts, a nasty throbbing ache that makes him want to tear his arm off and he tries again, flinching when his fingers just brush the wood. He's going to need help and stoops to find his phone in the pile of filthy clothes, sending a quick message.

He drys himself, slipping into soft sweatpants, draping a towel carefully around his neck to catch the water trickling from his hair. Somehow he's not surprised to find Parker and Sophie are already in the bedroom when he opens the bathroom door and steps out. There's the big medical bag between them on the couch and he pauses, steeling himself because the damn thing has to come out but it's not going to be a fun process.

"Hi," Parker says, voice just a tiny bit unsure, like she's not sure how he's going to react.

"Hey, Parker," he says, voice so rough that he winces, tries to swallow. "Sophie."

He's not sure which one of them is more surprised when she stands, wrapping her arms around him carefully.

"Thank you for bringing him home," she whispers in his ear and he nods, having to swallow hard before he can answer.

"I'd do the same thing for any of you," he says simply and lets himself lean into the hug for a second.

The towel slips and she gasps when she sees the sliver of wood lodged in his flesh. "Jesus Christ, Eliot!" she says, ducking out of his arms for a closer look. "This is not a little problem!"

He flinches, a little at her raised voice, knows they both notice. "Still needs to come out."

The room has a small table and he turns one of the chairs, sitting down slowly and resting his good arm on the back. His left shoulder doesn't want to bend and he gives in, tucking his arm in in front of him.

"Eliot, are you sure about this?" Sophie asks. "I'm sure we can find an actual trained medical professional to remove this from you."

He scoffs at that. "It's a splinter. If it was somewhere I could reach, I'd be digging it out myself right now."

"It's going to hurt," she says and if his head wasn't already throbbing, he'd roll his eyes at that. It already hurts, and getting it out before an infection sets in is his main concern.

"Just do it," he says, and put his chin down on his good arm, watching Parker as she lays out various medical supplies on the table in front of him. There's tweezers, squares of gauze, dressings, tape and wound ointment. He bites the inside of his lip, lifting his head to speak. "Grab the scalpel and stitch kit too," he says simply and she nods, one sharp bob of her head and reaches back into the bag.

Sophie presses an ice pack over the wound and he shivers under the chill, but it helps, takes some of the throbbing away and he's damn grateful for that.

Parker slips a pair of gloves on and moves behind him, reaching over him to grab some gauze and the tweezers. The closeness makes him feel twitchy and his hand tightens on the chair.

He grits his teeth as she lifts the ice pack off and probes the sliver with the tweezers, the plastic catching on the wood. It makes him flinch, muscles twitching and he feels her freeze behind him.

"I'm okay. It's okay," he says quietly. "Keep going."

"Tell me, if you need me to stop," she says, one hand brushing his bare back before she gets to work with the tweezers again.

It's a nasty sliver, maybe four inches long, jammed in the muscle just under his shoulder blade. The end is ragged and friable and every time she thinks she's got a good grip, the wood breaks off. The muscles in his back are tense under her hands, breathing deliberately steady and she knows all the poking must be agony.

"Parker," Eliot says, voice slightly hoarse, and she stops instantly. "Just cut it," he adds and blows out a ragged breath.

"Cut you, you mean?" She glances at the scalpel and shudders.

"Yeah," he says, and turns as much as he can to look at her. "That's where the damn thing is, after all." He's pale again, eyes shadowed, and there's a fine sheen of sweat on his face.

She licks her lips and nods. "Tell me what to do."

He does, in more detail than she ever wanted and her hand only shakes a little when she picks the scalpel up, trying not to think as she follows his instructions, swabbing his back with antiseptic first. Shaky doesn't seem an acceptable trait for performing minor surgery and she presses the ice pack against his shoulder until she has the shake under control. She places the blade against his skin and makes one swift cut. It frees some of the splinter and she reaches for the tweezers again but the wood still stubbornly refuses to come free.

It rips a pained grunt out of him and he swallows so hard she can hear it.

"Eliot…" Parker says, free hand on his good shoulder, thumb rubbing absent circles on his skin. She looks up, meeting Sophie's horrified gaze. It's not the first time they've had to do stuff like this and given their jobs, if probably won't be last but that doesn't make it any easier.

"Just get it done," he rasps, tacking on please as an afterthought to soften his tone.

"Okay," Parker says and makes the cut bigger, swiping away blood and letting the gauze drop to the floor.

His back is still under her hands, but she can hear the strain of it in his breathing when she goes in with the tweezers again. His good hand is gripping the chair hard enough to turn his knuckles white, head tipped forward so his hair falls past his face, hiding his expression.

Blood wells again as she gets a good grip on the wood and tugs. It moves this time, sliding out maybe half and inch and Eliot makes a noise halfway between a hiss and a grunt.

His whole world has distilled down to the throb in his shoulder, the sharp but cleaner pain from the incision, the ache down his back as he fights his instincts to stay still so he doesn't scare Parker half to death.

"Nearly done," Parker says, and he can hear the wobble in her voice that means she's crying and trying to hide it.

Must be the day for it, he thinks. "You're doing great," he tells her, because she is. It's a damn brave thing she's doing, and he's not sure how to make her understand how grateful he is for the help.

She changes her grip on the tweezers and takes another hold on the sliver, pulling slowly, easing it out from under his skin. The entire thing slides free suddenly and she feels like cheering. "It's out," she says and drops it on the table in front of him.

He swipes his hair back from his face, blinking at the damn thing in surprise. It had felt huge in his back, like a stone in a shoe, but it's actually bigger than he'd expected.

"Well, fuck," he says simply, and takes a deep breath that doesn't pull obscenely at his shoulder.

Sophie hands over a dish of antiseptic and more gauze. "It says it doesn't sting," she says and takes a minor risk, resting her hand on his arm. His muscles tense under her touch at first before he blows out a long breath and lets himself relax.

She's right, it doesn't sting at all as Parker cleans the wounds, adding wound ointment for good measure before taping a dressing securely over the top. He's glad she's being so thorough because pallet wood tends to be coated in all kinds of dirty stuff and the last thing he wants is an infection.

He's exhausted and all he wants to do is give into the pull of the bed and sack out for a couple of hours, give his brain and body chance to rest a bit but he's painfully aware of Parker standing next to him, face pale.

"Thank you," he says. "Feels better already," he adds, and it's not quite a lie.

She nods, sharply and he forces himself to his feet, accepting a t-shirt from Sophie who tips her head towards the door and slips out quietly.

"You were shaking in the car," Parker says and he sinks back into the seat. "Why were you shaking in the car, Eliot?" she asks, like it's something she can't quite square in her mind.

He licks his lips, knowing he's too exhausted and mentally fried to have this conversation right now. He also knows that he owes her. "It was a rough fight," he says simply, after a long pause, thankful there's enough cuts and bruises on his skin to sell the story.

"Did you kill someone?" She can't look at him and he feels a stab of self hatred rip through him, more painful and cutting by far than the wound on his back.

He hesitates, again, because he doesn't want her to think badly of him, but she's been brave enough to ask the question and he needs to be brave enough to answer. "Yes," he says and doesn't try to explain or excuse it. He did his job and he'll take the consequences, no matter how much they hurt.

"Okay," she says and looks at him. "You should rest," she says and a rush of gratitude races through him for the way her brain works. She's got the answers that she wanted and she's not going to press him for more.

He stands, body aching, and brushes past her, dropping a featherlight kiss on her temple on the way to the bed. "Stay?" he asks, in the same tone she'd once used on him, and she nods, curling up one one side of the big bed, one socked foot resting against his calf.

It takes him a while to get comfortable and he watches as the tension slowly drains from her face before he lets his own eyes close.

Thank you, he thinks. Thank you for not hating me. Thank you for giving me another chance when I don't deserve it.

He's not sure how or why or which God is setting up a long joke at his expense, but he's found a family and he's going to do everything he can to keep them whole.

Even if it costs him more of his already tattered soul.

That's a consequence he can live with.

Losing them isn't.

#leverage #eliot spencer #whump #hurt/comfort #parker #team as family #emotional whump #big bang job tag #minor surgery

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oathofoaksart · 3 years

Photo

YOUNG JUSTICE OC: KITSUNE

bio under the cut!

BASICS Name: Leiko Ara A.K.A: Kitsune; Lei, Kit, L.A [only by Charlie] Age: 16 [S1 Era], 21 [S2 Era] Gender: Cisgender Female Orientation: Grayromantic Bisexual

Skin: Fair Hair: Plum-Black Eyes: Black, fully golden and slit-pupiled as Kitsune Height: 5'6”, 6’1” in platforms Build: Lithe, built like a dancer Distinctions: Distinctly pretty. Sharpened canines and nails. A sharp dresser, obviously wealthy, rarely seen without some type of heel.

RELATIONS Parents: Ryuu Ara and Cho Miyamotou [estranged] Siblings: N/A Friends: Wally “Kid Flash” West, Zatanna Zatara, M’gann “Miss Martian” M’orzz, Raquel “Rocket” Irving, Kaldur’ahm “Aqualad”, Dick “Robin” Grayson, Conner “Superboy” Kent, Artemis Crock, Haley Overbea [OC] Partner/s: Wally “Kid Flash/Flash III” West (ev. post-S3) Misc.: Charles “Scribe” Jenson [OC], Penelope “Poppet” Caskett [@PoltergeistPrincessa] Affiliations: The Spiral, The Team

PERSONALITY Personality Type: ENTP-A [Assertive Debater] Temperament: Choleric-Sanguine Alignment: Chaotic Good Clever | Self-Assured | Driven | Arrogant | Spiteful

Aristocratic in both upbringing and nature, Leiko likes to carry herself with regality. Her confidence and well-honed charm makes her a popular figure among her school peers, even though she keeps everyone at a cool arm's length. Her social aloofness leaves her with little to no close friends, which she figures is just as well, since she finds friends to be a waste of time.

Around others in the heroic scene, Leiko allows herself to show off. She’s known for her theatrical and flamboyant attitude, topped with a haughtiness she cares little to subdue. She’s assertive, witty, and adores a challenge. She lets this completely unfurl as the vain and dramatic Kitsune, who views the world as her stage and anyone watching her audience.

Leiko struggles with unlearning a deep-seated cynicism against others and is often skeptical of actions claimed to be done out of good will, which clashes with the ethics of heroism. Her grasp on empathy leaves much to be desired as well; she can be condescending, sharp, and impatient when the situation calls for exactly the opposite.

Still, steadily Leiko finds herself learning humility, trust, and care from her teammates, along the way forming friendships no Swiss bank account could buy.

ABILITIES AND WEAKNESSES

Powers and Abilities:

Physiology:

Lei doesn’t possess a human soul, but of that of her namesake, a kitsune. Her “soul” is instead a Hoshi no Tama, usually referred to as her soul bead. It is a fist-sized pearl that resides within her body. This is the source of her magic as well as her heightened physical attributes.

Enhanced Senses: Lei demonstrates fox-like senses. She sees just as well at night as she does during the day, hears better than a normal human, and has a better sense of smell. This doubles in the supernatural side, she can see, hear, and smell beyond the mortal plane.

Enhanced Physiology: Lei exhibits above-average speed, strength, endurance and rarely if ever comes down with diseases, viruses and the like.

Onmyodo: A traditional Japanese occultism

Illusion Magic: Lei’s strongest suit is her hold over illusion spells. Using a variety of paper charms, mirrors, physical cues, written and verbal spells, she's able to create confusion over her opponent. These illusions range from visual to audial, making it difficult to rely on one's own senses. Her illusions are often grandiose, jarringly colorful, with nods to the overall aesthetic influence of traditional Japanese art forms. In turn makes her relatively immune to similar tactics.

Barriers: Can alternately use barriers as a sort of defense or a barring mechanism. Barriers set up by paper charms are stronger and more durable than barriers set by simple verbal spells, however combining both techniques grants the best results.

Pyrokinesis: Lei’s kitsunebi is a mystic fire she can conjure in the form of pillars and spheres. Notably different to “mortal” flame, as it burns exclusively supernatural/otherworldly beings, but brings the sensation of weakness and illness to the human body.

Weapons and Inventory:

Enchanted Parasol:

Kit’s go-to weapon. By reaching over her shoulder, the same way one would unsheath a sword, her oil paper parasol materializes into her hand in a burst of flame. It serves both as a defensive and offensive tool.

Closed: While in her hands it doesn’t appear to weigh any more than a regular parasol, in combat it carries an inexplicable weight, able to break concrete. She uses it as a melee weapon, much like a bat or a club. Kit also uses it as a makeshift wand/staff, for bigger and more complex spells. And a favorite stun tactic of hers is to mimic pumping the action to a shotgun, aiming her parasol and “firing” it. It creates a momentary illusion of being “shot” to whomever her target may have been.

Open: Popping it open creates a quick-time personal shield, able to deflect various attacks and withstand a fair amount of explosive power. Ducking behind it obscures her from her opponent and she uses this window of time to work up a spell. Spinning the canopy of her parasol causes momentary dizziness. When jumping off of highland, the parasol allows Kit to glide for long distances (the amount of time and smoothness of the glide suffers when another person is in tow).

Ofuda: These paper charms can be used as delayed “bombs” affected by sticking them into walls, either simply timed or activated by touch. They also serve for warding spells. Gohei: A summoned short wand with a decorative paper trail, the length of the trail stretches during use. Lei uses it as a sort of weaponized gymnast ribbon, or a whip. Most effective against intaginable objects or enemies. Balance Charm: With Scribe's help and after many mishaps, Kit wears a beaded charm around her ankle which enables her limited enhanced movement. She appears to glide along, unweighted, making her movements seem feather light. It helps slow or cushion short distance falls and balance on unprobable surfaces. May also explain how she manages to fight in heels. Spellbook: Kit carries a small notebook with variant spells written herself for safe-keeping and for a quick reference check. Mirrors: Kit holds a small, two-faced mirror. The mirror serves to see through glamour illusions or create more intricate illusions of her own; more often than not, she uses it to admire a makeup job well done. Purification Salt: Ghosts in particular are vulnerable to salt, circles of it makes areas inaccessible to them. Calligraphy Set: A horse-hair brush, inkwell and a small stash of paper for written spells

Limitations and Weaknesses:

Water and Aquatic Environments: As host of a fire kitsune, Kitsune’s main and biggest weakness is water. Being around areas with large amounts of water dampens the potency of her magic, being doused in it cuts off completely until she dries off. While her parasol helps repel rain and small splashes, it can only do so much. The water effect includes any type, Lei incapacitaed by things such as baths and showers as well until she properly dries herself off.

Cynophobia: Lei’s “unprompted” fear of dogs, or really any sort of canine that aren’t foxes, can be traced back to Japanese folklore. Dogs were considered enemies of foxes, being used to hunt them down. People accused of being possessed by, or being kitsune, were sometimes forced to be licked head to toe by dogs in order to expel the demon to it’s true form. Dogs make Lei largely uncomfortable at best, aggressive dogs will either send her into a state of frozen terror or at worst, unabashed panic.

HISTORY [TRIGGER WARNING: SEXUAL HARASSMENT]

The only child of Ryuu Ara, a successful luxury hotel chain owner and president, Leiko grew up with the world served to her on a silver platter. She enrolled in the best schools, excelling in academics, popularity, and was starting to make headway as a teen model. Leiko formed into a pretty, precocious, if pretentious, girl.

At age 14, after wrapping up a student council meeting afterschool, the student body president forced her into a corner when she’d turned him down for a date. The boy grew increasingly aggressive, but was stopped from going beyond grasping at her blazer when a brilliant white flame unfurled from Leiko’s hands. She fled the second she found an opening, calling for help until she caught the attention of school security. The boy was found unconscious, but physically unharmed. (She would later find out, he complained of sudden illness and a downslide of rotten luck, with little to no memory on how he’d been knocked cold.)

Ryuu spared no expense on making sure justice was properly handed out, although that was simple when compared to the news Leiko gave him about her new ability to conjure flame. But he’d taken the revelation far easier than Leiko thought he would. Ryuu admitted it was something he’d been somewhat expecting, even dreading.

Leiko’s mother was something of a taboo subject. Outside of knowing her name was Cho (Ryuu never mentioned her maiden name) and that there had been an ugly divorce shortly after Leiko was born, she didn’t know much else. Even then, her father didn’t go into specifics beyond blaming Cho for Leiko’s newly discovered “peculiarity.” Ryuu ultimately decided it was best for Leiko to pretend she hadn’t discovered it. She had a bright future ahead of her as his heir and it wouldn’t be marred by her mother’s blood. Leiko obeyed despite her protests. They’d both come to realize, however, fire was just the beginning.

Over the following weeks, more abilities came to emerge, from heightened senses to supernatural awareness. She struggled under the pressure of maintaining the semblance of being normal. The weight of stress and desperation finally proved too much for Leiko, leading to a discussion gone sour, ending only when she noticed Ryuu backing away from the looming shadow of a four-tailed fox she cast on the wall. She would miss the following days of school when her eyes refused to revert back from their completely golden, slit-pupiled appearance.

Resigned, Ryuu took to looking into someone who could help Leiko with her magic troubles as this was beyond his reach.

That someone came to be a man by the name Scribe, a semi-public mystic who operated within New York. Scribe’s interest piqued at the mention of Leiko’s transformation and to the Ara’s slight relief, Scribe proved himself to be a sorcerer of true magic instead of a con-man looking for a quick buck. He’d confirmed their suspicions of Leiko being tied to the kitsune, fox spirits of Japanese lore, although he admitted he had little to no experience with said creatures.

Scribe refused to leave Leiko to sort things out on her own, however, and offered her a proposition. Scribe’s lifelong work dealt with a massive, mystical library he dubbed the Spiral, which housed knowledge from across space and time. Despite his years slaving away at discovering and archiving its secrets, progress was going at a crawl. He’d take Leiko under his wing, giving her access to whatever she could get her hands on and import what they couldn’t find from his various connections. In return, she’d take up being his personal assistant. Ryuu had been reluctant to let Leiko have a hands on approach and had made his dislike for Scribe apparent, but relented.

The world of magic was a far cry from the straight-laced, business-oriented life Leiko had grown in; it both terrified and fascinated her. Scribe, real name: Charles Mordichai Jenson (Charlie for short), proved to be an eccentric, but well-meaning guide where he could. As the two dove into research, Leiko let loose a sense of freedom and expression she stifled to fit her father’s expectations. Charlie was quick to help enable this. They were polar opposites in many ways, but Charlie saw a passion and potential in Leiko that mirrored his own at her age, and he fully intended to see it shine. It wasn’t long before Leiko wasn’t just checking inventory and jotting notes for both The Spiral and Jenson’s Comics (Charlie’s civilian pop culture store), but followed him out on relic retrievals and even the occasional “mystic field trip”. Charlie had been adamant on one thing when she stepped out of the safety of The Spiral however, much as he’d taken Scribe as his mantle, Leiko would have to make one of her own for the sake of her identity. It wasn’t a hard choice for her as it was practically staring her in the face, Kitsune took life. Over the next two years, Kitsune proved herself to be a capable magician despite being self-taught. Juggling her home, school and magic life was busy, but thrilling. Perhaps a little too thrilling. During an outing, Scribe and Kitsune were ambushed by a sorcerer named Felix Faust, who ultimately took Scribe prisoner. Well-aware of just how over her head she was, Kitsune went on a one-girl rescue mission to save her mentor anyway and was beyond relieved to find a young group of supers on the same trail.

The group, known simply as “The Team”, had been alerted of Scribe’s abduction through their resident mystic, Zatanna. Scribe had managed to send a distress signal before all communication cut off. Shoving down the twinge of jealousy that came with that revelation and of being out of the loop, Kitsune allied herself with the Team until Scribe was rescued. She was offered a permanent position on the Team, which she said she’d think over even though she had no interest in becoming a hero. She was more persuaded by the opposition placed by Scribe and the oddly genuine endearment shown by the Team’s speedster, Kid Flash.

Less than a few days later, an argument between Leiko and Charlie sparked by his confession of thinking she wasn’t right for the Team just yet sent her right to them out of spite.

Now taking a crash course in heroics, Kitsune tackles supercrime, training, self-reflection, team building and the frustrating, but integral importance of friendship.

NOTES

Kit has alternate versions of her Kitsune outfit and will switch between them mid-battle, either because she wasn’t feeling the one she was wearing, it got dirty, or a specific attack called for a wardrobe change

Because Lei’s brand of Onmyodo is largely “home-brew” given she’s self-taught, she incorporates other types of magic and styles to compensate

Lei has the passive ability of being ridiculously lucky, she never loses games of chance such as coin flips and dice rolls

The nickname ‘Lei’ was originally coined by Wally West and it’s a nickname she only allows within the perimeter of the Cave

Lei is proud of her musical skill, it’s not uncommon to hear her singing to herself and will shred an electric guitar when given the chance

She has a pet Bearded Dragon named Prince. Prince was a at-Death’s-door rescue surrendered to Charlie, who gave him to her after she helped nurse Prince back to health and she wound up attached to him

Lei’s father is unaware she’s taken up heroism, as far as Ryuu knows, she’s studying under Charlie to get her curiosity of magic out of her system

#young justice oc #dc oc #gar's oc #gar's art #oathofoaks #leiko ara #meet the OCs

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hale-13 · 3 years

Text

Conditioned

By Hale13

For the Summer of Whump Day 16 - Touch Starved

“Can I take a shower?” Peter blurted out, shifting uncomfortably. He felt gross from the dried sweat and the bloody residue that was left on his scalp and around his hair line felt the intense need to get cleaned - broken arm be damned.

Words: 2084, Chapters: 1/1 (Complete), Language: English

Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)

Rating: Gen

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Helen Cho

TW: Literally None - Just Fluff

Read on AO3 or below the line break.

“Well Peter, I see no reason why you should have to stay here any longer as long as you promise to actually rest and allow yourself to heal,” Helen said firmly but with a smile toward him and Peter nearly sagged with obvious relief.

“Oh thank god,” he said he’d, already struggling in his attempts to climb out of the MedBay bed he had been sentenced to since the day before with some help from Tony. He flinched a little as he tweaked his sore arms, moving the wrong way, but trying to keep his muscles as relaxed as possible to prevent any further damage. His recovery is going to be annoying enough as it is without making it worse.

In his most recent fight against the Shocker the night before, he had caught a direct hit on his right arm which had successfully and cleaning broken his radius and ulna in two. In his haste to get away and then catch himself on a poorly shot strand of webbing he had dislocated his left shoulder. The pain had been so stunning he had barely been able to finish webbing up Shocker and get away before the police showed up.

It probably didn’t do much to help the injuries when he had swung back to the Tower but he had been numb and delirious by that point so he probably wasn’t really thinking straight. He does remember Tony not being super impressed with him when he nearly passed out as soon as he landed.

“I’m serious about resting,” Dr. Cho warned him as she helped him settle his, still sore and recently reduced, arm into a sling. “You need to take it easy for at least another few days or you’ll risk re-injury and possibly surgery.”

“Oh that shouldn’t be a problem,” Tony said breezily. “I have no problem cuffing him to a bed if I have to.”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter whined, trying to stand and balance without using either of his arms – it was much harder than he thought it would be – and already trying to edge toward the door. Tony just quirked up an eyebrow at him.

“Your aunt, definitely against her better judgement and with an amazing amount of misplaced trust, is letting you stay here with me so you don’t get into any more trouble during your convalescence so if you could just work with me for a couple of days here that would be much appreciated,” he told Peter very pointedly with a final wave at Helen as he herded Peter toward the elevator at the end of the hall.

Peter just rolled his eyes at his mentors dramatics but allowed himself to be directed – to tell the absolute truth, his arms still hurt pretty badly and he wasn’t really looking forward to his oral painkillers (that made him sleepy and emotional) and his anti-inflammatories (that made him into a right bastard if he was being honest) and trying to convince Tony that he didn’t need either. He wasn’t super confident about his success rate with that. “Can I take a shower?” He blurted out, shifting uncomfortably. He felt gross from the dried sweat and the bloody residue that was left on his scalp and around his hair line.

“You know that you can’t get your cast wet,” Tony reminded him holding up a hand when Peter opened his mouth to interrupt. “I mean, I suppose I can wrap it in a bag or something if you really want to shower that bad.”

“Yes please,” Peter eagerly agreed. Ever since the Bite all of his senses had been more sensitive but none more so than his sense of smell and he wasn’t a particularly big fan of the fact that he could currently smell himself. It made his skin crawl and was completely disgusting.

“Alright then,” Tony nodded. “Shower first and then a movie marathon slash prescribed nap directly after. Do we have a deal then Mr. Parker?”

“Only if we can get pizza for dinner later,” Peter bartered as the elevator opened up on Tony’s floor of the compound. “With pineapple this time,” he continued with a wrinkled nose, “the olives you got last time were disgusting!”

“You have astonishingly terrible taste but yes fine. Pizza later.” Tony nodded, herding both of them into the kitchen with a single-minded determination. The Wal-Mart and cling wrap cast protection apparatus Mr. Stark rigged together left a fair amount to be desired in the looks department but was completely functional when it came to water-proofing which was good enough for Peter.

It took some skill to slip away from his mentor but Peter was soon slipping into his room, struggling to get out of the sling on his own and finally succeeding. It made him wince from the extra pain it caused but it didn’t overshadow the relief of doing it on his own. He knew his limits from previous dislocations and knew that it was crucial to not overdue it while the joint was healing or he risked the chance of re-injury and, as Dr. Cho had reminded him earlier, surgery.

With a grimace, Peter rested that arm across his stomach and used his bagged up right arm to pull his shirt over his head. He was barely able to manage it when it pulled at his sore muscles and broken bones. Maybe he should use a button down or zippered hoodie instead.

Thanks to FRIDAY (bless her seriously), the water of his shower was already running and warmed up to his preferred setting of skin melting and he was quick to turn his back into the spray and luxuriate under it for an extended time. The high pressured water felt amazing on his back and shoulders, loosening up the knots and clenched muscles and providing relief.

“You doing okay in there kid? You drown yet?” Tony asked, knocking on the door and indiscernible amount of time later and knocking Peter out of his stupor.

“I’m good!” Peter called back, hurriedly reaching out for his body wash and cloth painfully and cleaning himself up to the best of his – limited – ability. By the time he was ready to wash his hair and hairline he felt exhausted and achy despite the excellent water pressure and all the good work it and the heat had done to relieve the pain in his shoulder and back. “Fuck,” he cursed, trying to lift his arm above chest level and spectacularly failing, finding himself unable to without making his muscles seize.

Peter was pretty bendy due to his powers so he attempted a couple different contortions to reach his head before just flat out giving up, turning off the water and taking his towel off the heated towel rack installed in the bathroom (rich people – seriously). It took longer than Peter cared to admit, but he was able to dry and dress himself in sweats and a zippered hoodie. He was even able to shuck the bag off his cast with little struggle so he was feeling pretty decent when he ventured into the living room with his hair sopping wet and dripping onto his shoulders since he wasn’t able to adequately dry it. Whatever. It would dry on its own eventually.

“And what’s all this supposed to be?” Tony asked, glancing up from his phone and wrinkling his nose but not moving from where he was leaned against the counter in the kitchen. “Why are you dripping all over my floor?”

Peter fought off a blush and tried to hunch his shoulders, stopping when it hurt. “I couldn’t reach up to get my hair,” he grumbled, failing to completely push down his blush.

“I guess that explains all the blood still caked in there,” Tony hummed, leaning over to move the dampened curls around to look at the blood still matting some of his hair together and crusting up around his scalp. “Well that’s pretty easily remedied. Welcome to the salon Underoos,” Tony said, pulling over one of the barstools and setting it in front of the kitchen sink, gesturing for Peter to sit.

“Uh… what?” Peter questioned, brows furrowing in confusion.

“I’ll wash your hair for you,” Tony clarified, looking pointedly between Peter and the stool again. “Just sit down while I go and grab some things!” And, with that, he took off in the direction of the bedrooms and associated en suites.

Peter, still pretty confused but (mostly) trusting his mentor, sat down unsteadily on the stool just as Tony came back around the corner with an armful of towels, shampoo and conditioner bottles along with a wide-toothed comb and an expensive looking hair dryer. He triumphantly arranged everything on the counter next to the deep sink and wrapped one of the towels around Peter’s neck. “Lean back buddy,” Tony said, using a finger to push on the center of Peter’s forehead until he gave in and let himself be pushed back to lean back with his head in the sink.

Doing his best to ignore the weirdness of it all (weirdness was pretty common around Tony Stark after all), Peter closed his eyes and crossed his arms across his stomach as the water turned on. He tensed up a little when he felt fingers start dragging through his hair but was quick to relax and release the tension in his body under the careful massage of his mentor’s hands through his hair and the warm water cascading across his scalp. He let out a little hum of contentment.

Tony let out a soft chuckle, squirting a healthy dollop of the shampoo into his hands and lathering it up before applying it to Peter’s hair, working through the snarls and tangles with care and scrubbing the leftover blood out of the curls. Peter went nearly boneless under his ministrations and Tony would definitely be lying if he said he didn’t milk the washing and conditioning portion at least a little bit. He knew that Peter had to be feeling pretty miserable and it settled something buried deep inside him to provide just a little extra comfort.

All too soon, though, he had rinsed out the last of the conditioner leaving Peter’s hair clean and dripping as he turned off the water. Peter made no move to get up or to open his eyes, breathing deeply and seemingly on the very verge of sleep, so Tony grabbed one of the towels and started to wring the extra water out of the kid’s hair, running the towel through it cautiously. “Just need you to sit up for a second here kiddo okay? Then you can nap, scout’s honor.”

Peter grunted and grumbled but did slit his eyes open and let Tony help him sit up, swaying back and forth and little on the stool and Tony ran the towel through his hair a couple more times to really get rid of the water as much as possible. He dropped the towel on the counter in exchange for the comb and the hair dryer. He ran the comb through the mess a few times before starting the hair dryer up. Peter practically melted as the warmed air fluffed up his curls. It didn’t take long to dry at all and, by the time he was done, Peter was listing forward nearly into Tony’s chest.

“Couch or bed buddy?” Tony asked with a fond smile, running his hands through Peter’s warmed and clean hair.

“Couch,” Peter muttered, leaning into his petting and making Tony’s chest warm up. This kid… god. He ended up supporting most of Peter’s weight but was able to quickly get him lying face down on the supple cushions with his head pillowed on one of the throw pillows resting on Tony’s lap, the ratty fleece blanket Tony kept draped over they back of the couch draped over him and a heating pad resting across his healing shoulder.

“Let’s start a Star Wars marathon FRI. Volume at thirty percent,” FRIDAY was quiet as she dimmed the lights and started the movie, the familiar logo and music making Peter relax even further into the couch, completely gone. As the opening theme ended and the camera panned to the shots of Leia’s ship, he felt Mr. Stark’s hand rest on his back, digging into the knotted muscles of his back.

It maybe wasn’t ideal to mess up his arms so much but, Peter thought, he couldn’t think of a better way to spend his recovery.

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump16 #Prompt: Touch Starved #irondad #spider man #Summer of Whump 2021

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amerrierworld · 4 years

Text

in dreams (pt 2)

The Hobbit fanfiction

Part 1

Summary: You meet the Lady of Lothlorien for what you think is the first time, but she’s already very acquainted with who you are.

Characters: Galadriel x fem!reader, Gandalf

Word Count: 2,003

“Come along then, quickly,” Gandalf ushered you along, staff tapping the ground as he led you through hallways and stairways. You hurried after him, distractingly gazing at Rivendell bathed in starlight and moonlight around you.

“Where are you taking me, Gandalf?” you asked, squeezing the last bits of water from your damp sleeves. Your clothes were slowly drying now that the sun was gone, but the air was still comfortably warm.

“To someone who wishes to speak with you,” the Wizard spoke ominously, and you rolled your eyes.

"Ah, very helpful.”

Gandalf shot you a glance over his shoulder. He led you to a winding staircase that opened up to a platform close to the mountain side, hidden behind forestry and waterfalls. There was a curious basin at eye level in the middle of the space, and you stepped closer, watching the dark water that barely seemed to move with the breeze.

You wandered to the far edge of the platform, peeking through the occasional gaps of the water and seeing the bright moon staring back at you.

“Gandalf, there’s no one here- is it some sort of prank?” you turned around, “I don’t see why-”

You halted mid sentence. Gandalf had left, inconspicuously it seemed, and the figure standing across from you was none other than Lady Galadriel. Her blue eyes reflected starlight and brightness to the point where your own might burn at the sight of them. Her pale hands were clasped in front of her, a white dress shimmering with every movement she made. Your mouth went dry and you cast your eyes downwards.

“H-hello,” you stammered.

“Greetings,” she said, softly. Softer than you could have imagined, a clear whisper still heard above the rushing of water. As you stared at your feet, she took you in. You shifted your feet around nervously, your clothing and hair still not fully dried from your skirmish in the fountain from earlier, and Galadriel felt a smile tug at her lips.

You couldn’t see it, but her heart was thundering in her chest. There you were, bashful and uncertain about your meeting. She realized with a slight sadness that you probably had not had any of the visions she had over the last few years, otherwise you would have been reacting differently.

“Do you know who I am?” Galadriel asked, remaining in her place. Your eyes crept up to meet her gaze, again startled at how clear and bright her eyes were.

“Yes, my lady,” you murmured. “You are the Lady of Lothlorien, Galadriel.”

“The elf-witch,” Galadriel replied. You flushed, blinking rapidly.

“I didn’t- that wasn’t me who- the Dwarves, they were..”

You stammered defensively, until you saw the teasing gleam in Galadriel’s expression and you huffed.

“I- I don’t think you’re a witch, my lady,” you added.

“No? Then what am I to you?” Galadriel questioned. “You seem to know who I am, clearly.”

“Well, yeah, of course,” you said, glancing down again. “Where I come from- I, I guess I know a fair bit about you.”

“Is that so? Enlighten me then.”

You blinked. “W-what?”

“Tell me what you know of me,” she ordered. You gaped at her, clearing your throat in surprise.

“Uh, o-okay. Well, I know your name is Galadriel here, but you have like, a lot more names than that. Just like Gandalf. You, uh, you’re really old and- wait, no, you’re not old, I just meant- damnit.”

You turned around to shake the nerves and watched the water and the moon instead. “You witnessed the Two Trees, right? The creation of the world, or something like that. Gosh, I can’t remember all the details, but that makes you, like thousands of years old,” you chuckled, “I’d be surprised if I even make it to one century, y’know?”

“You’ve got a husband, Celeborn- did I say that right? One of the Sindar, I think. And you, you’re one of the.. the- uh, Noldor? Pretty cool stuff, if you ask me. Lady of the Golden Wood and stuff. Oh! You have a child, right? Celebrian, Gandalf told me that was Elrond’s wife.”

You were rambling at this point, avoiding Galadriel’s eyes as you kept talking, trying to remember all your Tolkien knowledge. At the mention of her daughter, Galadriel felt her hands’ grip tighten and she took a deep breath.

“Galadriel..” you said, thinking. The Elf Queen felt a shiver as you said her name. “Or.. Artanis, right? Or, or, Nerwen. There- there was one more, Ata- Alata- uh-”

“Alatariel,” Galadriel whispered, remembering her old names, the old memories that came with it. She was frozen, watching you speak her distant selves into existence again, your ridiculous accent on Elvish names pushed aside for now.

You turned to face her again, blushing but nodding. “I must sound like a fucking creep. I just know a lot of things, I suppose. Not just about you! Gosh, I’m not a stalker, I promise. I just know about.. Middle Earth.”

“I see.”

Silence filled the space for a moment. Galadriel’s head was spinning with thoughts, unsure how to tell you how she knew about you.

“My lady,” you breathed quietly. “Why did you ask me here? Gandalf said he wanted to bring me to someone who needed to speak to me.”

“I know you, Y/N,” Galadriel said in response, startling you at the sound of your name on her lips. “More than you realize. More than I understand.”

You frowned in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Galadriel felt flushed, and she approached the basin in the centre.

“You know of the mirror?” she asked. You nodded. She beckoned you closer.

“Look.”

You obediently dipped your head to look at your reflection. Slowly, ripples formed and the image shifted. Galadriel appeared in a hazy mist, turned away from you, but wandering as if in a dream.

She was reaching out to something, following a figure that was just out of reach. Slowly, your face appeared, and you were looking at yourself through Galadriel’s eyes. You were running through Lothlorien’s trees, snapshots of your life back home appearing. Your memories were being replayed back at you, but you could sense that Galadriel was witnessing them with utter confusion, was only enraptured by your eyes and your echoing laugh.

The last image you could see Galadriel reaching to touch your own face, and a tingling formed along your cheek as you watched, before a flash overtook your vision. With a gasp, you fell back, catching yourself before your head hit the floor.

Galadriel looked slightly apologetic as you lay, gasping, your cheek feeling a bit numb. You scrambled to your feet, trembling.

“What does that mean?” you asked, eyebrows furrowed. Galadriel took a deep breath, watching you from the other side of the basin.

“Elven companionships, when special, are akin to a special bond. Most common in marriages, I have only ever shared a bond with my husband. It is an expected feeling, a foretelling before you even meet that person. But when you do, you know it, and you feel it.”

She turned and was slowly pacing in front of you. You watched her significant profile as she spoke, and felt an ache pull inside your chest.

“I believe these dreams tell me that you and I, though you are not of elf kind, share a bond like that.”

Her blue eyes flickered to you. You held her gaze this time. “You have been in my dreams for nearly some decades now, Y/N. You may not have even been alive when they started, but as you are now is how you always appeared to me.”

You stared, blinking. “What.. what does that even mean? Are we married?”

Galadriel chuckled, like the ringing of a bell. “No, dearest. Not quite. It is a connection between beings, an understanding beyond words.”

“I don’t understand,” you breathed. “You-you’re this amazing powerful elf who’s super old and wise, and I’m just a human!”

“A human from another world. There are none like you.”

“But it doesn’t make sense! I didn’t come here expecting this! I joined the quest to- to..” You bit your tongue.

“No one expects their futures, Y/N. It simply happens.”

“Easy for you to say! You knew this was going to happen.”

Galadriel shook her head. “I never knew who or what you were, or where you would come from. But something drew me to Rivendell, other than Lord Elrond’s call to the White Council here. I thought it be related to your Dwarvish friends and their dragon, but it was more than that.”

You felt pale, and a little weak in the knees. The look you and Galadriel shared felt like a piercing stab inside of you, opening up your soul and mind to her. You expected her to read your thoughts, but you felt nothing probing or digging around your brain. Perhaps she couldn’t, with you.

“Magic,” you whispered at the feeling. Galadriel smiled, her eyes crinkling, and you nearly melted on the spot.

“This world has lots of it.”

She stepped closer to you. She was tall, God she was tall, but you didn't mind. You couldn’t resist drawing a hand up to hers, and the minute your fingertips brushed her, a sharp electric shock coursed through your veins. The both of you gasped and a tingling feeling remained in your hands.

“I cannot recall anyone who has ever experienced a bond like this,” Galadriel whispered. This time you noticed her chest rising and falling quicker than you thought, and her pupils were starting to grow as she watched you. “I don’t think any of us will ever understand it.”

“That’s fine by me,” you responded, your fingers twitching. A beat. “Can I kiss you?”

Galadriel blinked, and a blush filled her cheeks. But, regaining her composure, she cheekily responded, “I don’t see how you’ll be capable of that from where you stand.”

Realizing she made fun of your height, you snorted at her. You turned so you stood up on the steps of the pedestal that the basin was on. Still a bit shorter than Galadriel, you got up on the tips of your toes and pulled her closer.

The contact felt like an electric current again, numbing your toes and fingers, making your heart stutter and your body feel alive. Galadriel’s hands grasped your upper arms and you cupped her face, gently bringing your mouths together.

A breathy whimper escaped her, much to your delight. Long fingers dragged up from your arms to your neck and held you there, coolness soothing your heated skin.

She arched her body into you and you raked your fingers through her long golden hair. When you pressed your hands to the base of her skill and tugged gently at her tresses, she gasped, loudly, and pulled away. You stumbled back a bit and nearly tipped the basin behind you over, the water sloshing over the rim.

Shaking, you lifted your fingers to your mouth, feeling the tingles and numbness left behind there.

“That’s what magic feels like?” you asked. Galadriel nodded slowly. Her eyes cast up towards the moon and a realization hit her.

“I must leave you, Lord Elrond is expecting me,” she said. Her voice was ragged and low.

“Will I see you again?” you asked. “How long are you in Rivendell?”

“As long as you wish,” she whispered, coming up to you again. This time she led the kiss, holding you firmly. You tasted the sweetness of her mouth and groaned a little.

When she pulled away she seemed satisfied by your response and lifted your hands, kissing your knuckles with a brush of her lips. Then, she briskly turned and left you there, astounded and more than a little aroused.

A/N: Yay elf love! I have no idea how true this holds to Tolkien lore, but who cares. If there is an interest for Part 3, whether it be smut or no, let me knowwww! I loved writing this, flustered Galadriel is my fave.

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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 3 years

Text

Love Where You Are

Bucky x Black Female OC.

Bucky's got to learn that sometimes people don't want more out of you than you already have. Not perfection, but what's there right now.

Fluff. Just lots of Fluff. Does take place right after The Falcon and the Winter Solider.

Masterlist (multifandom)

_____________________

“And if you are alone, that is the quietest most personal hell. And James, that is very hard to escape.”

It rings his ears, long after he leaves the office, long after he returns the notebook, long after the sun has set but sitting here, at the pier feels right. The boats rock gently with the waves and the metal anchors tap against the metal husks. It reminds him of New Orleans, of hearing the giggles and fake punches being thrown. The community that always banded together no matter what.

Bucky did really think he was alone. Just a guy, with a friend of a friend. Well, maybe he wasn’t really a guy anymore. Not in the sense that guys were young, making mistakes--that was a guy. Or at least the way he saw it back before. Back when Steve was still the kid stuffing his shoes with newspaper, and lying on enlistment forms. Back when Bucky was playing the courts for the both of them and nights out were spent drinking just as much as they were spent getting into tussles to save Steve’s ass.

A more fair assessment would be that Bucky was maybe a guy. He had made his mistakes while trying to fix them. But he sure as hell wasn’t getting younger. But he was a guy that’s definitely trying to move on. Trying to figure out what it means to be a guy now at this moment--even though the nightmares still linger.

Sam would probably tell Bucky that the nightmares are common. He’d maybe even say it’s a good thing. They show Bucky he’s still human. And maybe that’s what Bucky’s still struggling with--how to be human more than anything else. What does it mean to have friends again? What does it mean to get a chance of life that he gets some control in? No more fighting other people’s wars. Well, for right now at least.

“A fish out of water, I see.”

Bucky turns to the voice. “Who sent you this time?”

Patricia smiles before sitting next to Bucky. “You’re forgetting I’m the one who showed you this place. So the real question is why are you jocking my happy place?”

Bucky laughs. “I am not stealing your happy place, I swear.”

“Yeah, sure could’ve fooled me.”

“It is a pretty nice place to come to, just let go of everything,” Bucky whispers, staring back out at the horizon. The sun’s just starting to duck behind the horizon casting just enough of an orange glow onto the water. Patricia hums, turning her attention back to the water in front of them as well. And for a moment, it’s silent between them. Minus the slight buzz of the water beneath them of course and the traffic on the pier.

Bucky glances over his shoulder to Patricia. The moles are all still there, scattered across her face. She still looks the same, like she did when they met in Wakanda. Patricia’s not Wakandian at all. However, when Shuri started to oversee the Science center back in Oakland, she reached out to see if she could find some people locally to help her run it. Patricia happened to be one the very few people to make the list. And occasionally, she came to Wakanda to have meetings with Shuri when Shuri couldn’t leave, or didn’t want to. Though her visits were brief, Patricia never seemed to be shocked by Bucky’s presence, and a couple of times when he happened to be in the area of the castle, went out of her way to talk to him. And in those moments, though Bucky never had much to say then, Patricia would tell him about what was happening in the world, or share personal stories.

He’s not sure what made her trust him and he’s not sure why he trusted her either. Maybe it’s because at the time, she didn’t seem bothered by him. It’s like she just saw a man, some body, and not a machine. Bucky hadn’t told her, not initially who he was, or what he had done not initially. But then Patricia asked why he was in Wakana too. That question made him freeze, unsure of how to answer. And rather than answering it directly, he dodged around it and gave what he thought was a vague response. And in the sunset there, Patricia didn’t seem bothered by the answer. Instead she pushed forward, steering the conversation to something else.

“Shouldn’t you be on the other side of the country?” Bucky asks, suddenly realizing that he’s not even close to the West Coast.

“Vacation. Boss mandated vacation, but vacation nonetheless.”

“Visiting home then?”

“Yeah. Checking in on my mom and dad. They’re going on a cruise in a couple of days for their anniversary. And I try to see them before their yearly vacation too. The last I heard you were rag tagging it with Sam though. And I definitely didn’t think you’d say in New York, not after what happened.”

“You--how long have you been in town?”

“Long enough to hear and see that the life of being a superhero is never easy.”

Bucky never considered himself a superhero. Not after what he’s done. “Oh, no, I’m not. Just--” What was he doing? Trying to recklessly hold onto a person, to an idea of who he was in someone else’s perspective?

“Just Bucky?” Patricia suggests. Gently, she reaches out to take his left hand.

Bucky tenses for a second and then has to make sure to relax so he doesn’t hurt her. He goes to speak and the air leaves him for just a moment when she threads his fingers through his. With a deep breath he finds the sentence again, “You make that sound so complete. Because I-I don’t even know who Bucky is even more.”

“I think you have more of a clue than you let on.”

“Perhaps subconsciously, there is more than I know consciously.” Bucky almost wants to flex his fingers, try to figure out the right way to carry her hand and how much pressure to give. He glances down, the black metal of his arm accented with gold pairs nicely with the deep red brown of her skin. But it still feels foreign, like the first time he wore a shirt again with his new arm and he was worried the threads would get snagged in the divots.

“How long are you in town for?” Patricia asks.

“Oh, I live here in Brooklyn.”

“You never told me you were from Brooklyn.”

“Born and raised. I just recently moved back here. In Wakanda, when you told me about the pier, how you liked coming just to clear your head, I liked to hear how you saw it. Besides, it had been quite a few years since I had been back to see it. So, it was nice.”

“I mean it hadn’t changed all that much in a few years,” Patricia comments off handedly.

“Well, maybe it was, uh, a little bit more than just a few years.”

“Like several decades more.”

“Who told you?”

“I may just be the assistant director at the center, but I am let in on a lot of secrets that have a very real chance to impact us. Someone might think we have access to certain materials,” she taps his metal arm with the phrase, “or if we have information that may help them and we have to be prepared for that.”

“So that means you know about everything.”

“Only need to know. And your unique relation was classified as a need to know for me.”

With a sigh, Bucky shakes his head. “That makes this incredibly easier and ten time more awkward.”

“If it helps at all, James, clearly I haven’t run for the hills.”

“Please, call me Bucky. The only time I’m used to hearing James is when I’m in trouble or from my therapist when she was fed up with me. And as much as my mother would absolutely like to have a talk with me from the great beyond, I think I’m going to hold out on having to hear that lecture for as long as I can.”

“I don’t think she has that long of a lecture.”

It’s with a slight lump in his throat that Bucky realizes he hadn’t thought about his mother is so long. What would she think of him? What would she think of what he had done? He blinks back the tears and clears his throat. But the tears come back, the lump reforms. “Oh, God, I-my mom,” he whispers. She’d been gone for a while; that fact wasn’t new. But what was fact was that he didn’t want to disappoint her. Even though she was gone, it didn’t mean that Bucky was trying to make it hard for her to watch over him.

Patricia takes the hand holding his hand and gingerly rubs across his shoulder. “Hey, it’s alright.”

It takes a moment and a pinch at the bridge of his nose between his eyes to keep the water works at a minimum. “Thanks. I’m okay.”

“I think this calls for ice cream. My treat. What do you think?”

“Oh-I don’t know.”

“C’mon. It’s a couple scopes. It’ll make you feel better.” Patricia stands, holding out her hand, fingers motioning for him to stand.

It’s here, in the in between, between standing and sitting, between giving into the ice cream and standing firm on his denial that he wonders, why would someone like Patricia be nice to him. As far as he knew, she didn’t know about war, or constantly fighting or always looking over your shoulder. And maybe that wasn’t fair. Maybe she knew more about it than Bucky was giving her credit for as a Black woman in America. Much like he hadn’t known the similar things about Sam and the shield. But why would she want to give someone like him a chance? Shouldn’t she be more afraid?

“What’s this all about?” Bucky asks, standing but not taking her hand.

“Ice cream to help soothe mental wounds.”

They stand face to face. He towers over her by a few inches. But it’s enough where she looks up at him ever so slightly. “No, if you know about me, why do any of this? Even back at Wakanda.”

There’s a pause from Patricia. She turns on her heel and he follows. Though he’s not sure he should be. They get a couple steps from the bench before Patricia exhales heavily. Perhaps, it was not the smartest move to admit this clearly after an emotional moment. But her nerve would leave her as it always did if she didn’t strike now. “On the one hand, Bucky, it’s this little thing called flirting.”

“Flirt-flirting?”

The wide eyes and dropped jaw make her laugh. “Yeah, flirting.”

“I am a little over a century old. But that-that is not flirting.”

“I am not great at it, but I was attempting,” Patricia returns, with a bit of annoyance creasing her brow.

“Oh, doll.”

“Aht, no, you do not get to ‘Doll’ me. I am not a doll. No, do I look like a doll?”

Bucky smirks. It’s all too easy; it would be all too easy. He won’t do it. Not now at least. “I apologize. But I’m just saying being nice to someone isn’t necessarily flirting.”

“Wakanda was different. I was trying to get to know you and I knew things were complicated for you. So I kept it to being nice. And then I knew I’d be Stateside most of the time. However, when I got the call from the Dora and Shuri that you were moving to the U.S, I thought maybe I could get a chance. But then the expo was coming up and I was essentially working as director and counselor to keep the center open late to let kids work and things just never worked. But then I saw you, here, at the pier and I thought it might be my chance. Sue me.”

Bucky nods as she speaks, keeping stride as they weave through the crowd. “So inviting me out for ice cream was the move?”

“It was like move two. Get you to go with me for ice cream so then I could ask you for dinner.”

“I don’t think you need to worry or waste time with me.” If Bucky could stop it, he would. If the little voice in the back of his head didn’t get so loud sometimes, he wouldn’t even have to deal with Patricia’s full halt and tugging him off to the side. If Bucky could keep the doubt down, his comment wouldn’t fall from his lips. But unfortunately, what he wants and what he does isn’t always on the same page.

“Repeat that for me,” Patricia demands.

It’s the way she says it, like he can try to repeat it but he’s sure it wasn’t lack of hearing that she’s asking. “I just mean--I’m still not like a hundred percent...together. And it’s not a process I can hope to do in seconds or one that I can promise won’t be ugly. So I don’t know--”

“Sometimes, Bucky, people want to love you where you are. No one’s perfect. Not even us non-superbeings. I’m not asking for the perfect you. I’m asking to go on some dates with whatever version of you is here, right now. I want to disasterly cook a meal and then order pizza. I’m asking you to give me whatever you have now. ”

And if you’re alone, that is the quietest most personal hell. But Bucky still doesn’t want to drag her into this world, this mess he was in. But here Patricia is, asking for whatever he has, whether it’s perfect or put together or not. And there have only been a few times in his life that people wanted whatever he had. It’s that soldier, the barking commands from his training officers that can make it hard. They always wanted more, they wanted perfection in some ways. They wanted obedience more than anything, but Patricia’s not asking for any of that.

“No-no one’s just wanted the mess I am. I thought I lost the last person that wanted that from me.”

“Well, if you let me in and say yes to ice cream and a dinner date, where I do not cook initially, then you’ll have gained another person that wants you for whatever mess you are.”

“By mess, I mean mess. Like I sleep on the floor of my own apartment. I just want you to be aware of where the bar is.”

Patricia smiles, a small tuft of laughter escaping her. “Consider my expectations set.”

“Then I would be honored to get ice cream and eventually go to dinner with you.”

Her grin widens, heats heating at the bit of a twinkle settling into his gaze. She’s thankful her blush is not visible at all. “You’re going to have to stop looking at me like that. Because a look like that is dangerous.”

“Looking at you like what?”

She circles his face with her pointer finger, “Like that, like you’re plotting something devious.”

Bucky laughs, holding his hands up in defense of himself. “You’re the one planning. Not me.”

“It’s a Mr. Suave look. I know it when I see it.” She starts back down the pier and Bucky’s quick to catch up, right hand slipping into hers. “See, now you’re plotting something for sure! But I’m not that mad at it.”

Gingerly, he gives her hand a squeeze. “Good. And thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fluff #h writes #marvel #marvel fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes x black oc #bucky barnes fanfic #marvel fanfic

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coffeestainsandcashmere · 3 years

Text

Let No Man Steal Your Thyme - (older Dramione), Part Four

Well, here’s part four for you! It’s really just part three continued, but since I didn’t want the previous part to be 7k words or so long, I split it up. The total wordcount is 12.4k words now!!

Thank you very much to those of you who’ve commented and sent me lovely owls on here to let me know you’re enjoying it! (this is a sideblog for me, so I don’t respond to comments on posts, but I do answer asks as Cashmere).

I know a lot of folks (me included) don’t like starting to read WIPs that are unfinished, so thanks to those of you who have hopped on now. Consider yourselves honoured beta readers! It’ll go up on AO3 when it’s all posted on here and completed.

No real warnings for this one, just some discussion of their past relationships (for both Hermione and Draco) before the plot thickens and things warm up a bit in part five. Not sure when that’ll go up - it kind of depends on how much feedback I get on this one I guess! Comments and reblogs feed an author’s muse after all.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

___

At her wry smile and tiny shrug, Malfoy laughed, apparently reassured. “A little,” he repeated softly to himself under his breath.

After a heartbeat she shot him a sidelong look and added, “You’ve changed so much, Draco. I can hardly believe it, but it’s clear as day.”

He did a little double take at the sound of his name on her lips, and then he smiled. It was such a tiny, fragile melting of his expression that she nearly missed it.

“I mean it,” she said, tightening her fingers on his steel-cable forearm for a fraction of a second. “I don’t know if it was the war or your marriage, or becoming a father, or something else entirely, but… you’re not the same person you were back at Hogwarts. Not at all.”

“Thank fuck for that,” he hissed. “I had a hell of a lot of growing up to do. I think I did ninety percent of it in the space of sixth year. But Astoria helped steady me after… after Hogwarts and all the bollocks and bullshit of the aftermath of… of… you know.”

“‘Bollocks and bullshit’ is a mighty casual way to say ‘a short stay in Azkaban and three years of house arrest’, Malfoy. That’s got to change a person, for sure.”

He shrugged. “I’m just glad it’s all in the past now. For the most part, anyway.” The silence that followed spoke volumes of the baggage that they were all still hauling around with them, of one kind or another.

They wound their way across the park’s pathways with no particular direction in mind. As the glittering waters of the Serpentine drew into view in the deepening dusk, she murmured, “I’m glad you came tonight.”

“Me too,” he said, voice little more than a low rumble above the sussurating wind in the trees. “Theo seemed on fine form, and it was nice to see Pans again. It’s been a few months. Longbottom looks good too,” he added as an afterthought. “He grew into himself, didn’t he?”

“Mmm,” she nodded. “Never would have called his and Pansy’s relationship though. I thought she went for the bad boys like you and Blaise…”

Malfoy snorted. “I’m a ‘bad boy’ now, am I? That’s an interesting spin on my past.”

“Maybe not so much ‘bad boy’ now as ‘grumpy reclusive Mr. Rochester’. How about that?”

“He one of your Muggle heroes?” he asked without sting.

“Yeah. He’s Jane Eyre’s leading male. A bad-tempered rich man who has a big house in the middle of nowhere and a secret deranged wife in the attic.”

“Well, I hit three out of the four criteria…” he said and Hermione’s heart lurched as she remembered he wasn’t a bachelor but a widower.

“Shit, Draco, I’m sorry,” she said. “That was thoughtless of me.”

He shook his head, the silver hair of his forelock tossing about as he chuckled, an entirely unfamiliar sound which she decided she wanted to hear again almost immediately. “It’s fine, Granger. You haven’t got a malicious bone in your body. Besides, it was a long time ago.”

They came naturally to a halt in front of the man-made lake and stared out at the lapping water for a time before she uncoupled her grip from his arm and shucked her coat back on.

That done, she drew in a deep breath and paused, leaning her forearms on the back of a cast-iron bench overlooking a flock of huddled, plastic pedalo boats moored up offshore. Malfoy remained a pace behind her, back straight as an arrow, his hands tucked into his pockets now that she was no longer hanging onto him.

A fair few Muggles were out and about, some walking lazily as she and Draco had been, others pounding along the pavement on their evening run, and a good number were walking dogs. The sheer mundanity of it all struck her deeply for a moment and her breath caught in her throat.

“Granger?” he asked in a soft voice.

She straightened and turned to look back at him over her shoulder. “I was just thinking how close we came to losing all of this… Sometimes it seems like a million years ago, and others…”

“Like yesterday,” he finished a beat later. His eyes glittered in the half-light, pale lashes ghostly and ethereal, and in the dark, his pupils were wide and black and inviting.

“Let’s keep going, hmm?” she chirped.

In fact, he walked her all the way back to her rather modest apartment in Muggle London. “You didn’t want to live closer to work at the bookshop?” he asked as she fumbled for her very ordinary, Muggle keys with half-frozen fingers.

Giving up, she murmured a quick ‘alohomora’ and pressed her hand to the extra ward she had placed on it. “I’ve lived here since I moved out of the house with Ron. Never seen any point in looking for something bigger or whatever. It’s cosy, and it’s just me anyway. You want to come in? I’ll have to tweak the wards if you do.”

“I… I don’t want to be a bother,” he said, his expression pinching.

“No bother. It’s a three minute job, if that.”

He looked torn, teetering on the edge of a refusal, but as she swept her curls back out of her face and blinked up at him, he seemed to waver, and finally he nodded. “Alright. Yes please.”

“Stay put. I’ll be right back,” she said, and left the door open so that he wouldn’t feel like a stray dog shut out in the cold.

After setting her bag and coat down on a sofa in the main living room, she stood and centred herself, reaching for the wards with her magic. They thrummed reassuringly as she wove a slightly different pattern into them, allowing Draco Malfoy to come and go, and then she released the magic once again.

“Ok!” she called to him and he stepped tentatively inside, shutting the door with a polite click behind him and levering off his fancy dragonhide Oxfords at the doormat.

There was something so intimately sweet about seeing him pad across the fake-wooden lino of her living room floor in his dark socks that she couldn’t help grinning.

“Those are some powerful wards you’ve got up,” he commented as he blinked curiously around the room.

“Hangover from the Ministry days, I suppose. Plus this is technically a Muggle building, so I can’t have anyone noticing anything strange. There’s another witch here, up on the seventh floor, but we don’t see each other often. You want something to drink? I’ve got tea or coffee, and a small selection of wine, though nothing nearly as nice as what Theo has on tap…”

He smiled. “A tea would be lovely.”

She ducked out into the tiny galley kitchen and lost herself in the simple task of filling and boiling the Muggle kettle. She turned to find Malfoy leaning his shoulder against the door frame, hands cupped under opposite elbows, watching her with that owl-like intensity again.

“Muggle kitchen,” she grinned almost sheepishly. “Magic is great for a lot of things, but some routines just can’t be beaten.” Ron had always hated and mistrusted things like electric kettles and refrigerators, not quite fully understanding the way it grounded her in her Muggle upbringing.

“I’m not judging you,” he said, voice low and slightly hoarse. “I’m just interested. Do you mind?”

“No,” she said, fishing in the cupboard for her selection of teabags. She held the cardboard box open for him to select one and her eyebrows rose when he chose a delicate mint and chamomile one, but she offered no comment. “I can give you a masterclass in using Muggle kitchens if you like.”

His lips pulled back into a broad, dazzling smile and he laughed. “Go on then.”

“Fridge,” she said, opening it and showing him. “Keeps things cold; powered by electricity. Freezer, keeps things, well, frozen…” She continued her tour while the tea steeped, and by the time she was done, the tea was ready and they made their way back out into the humble living room, with a second-hand sofa and a battered old coffee table with more ringed coffee-stains on than visible surface.

Her stomach rumbled and he raised an eyebrow at her.

“I didn’t get a chance to eat anything yet, other than nibbles at Theo’s,” she cringed.

“Don’t let me stop you having something for supper then,” he said.

“I’m not going to scoff a freezer dinner on my own while you sit there and watch me,” she blurted, laughing. “Unless you want to join me? I’ve got a couple of pizzas in the freezer. Nothing fancy, but they’ll be ready in twenty minutes or so if I put the oven on now.”

Malfoy looked like he’d missed something somewhere but was too embarrassed to ask, so he just said, “Pizza? Sure. The last time I had pizza was when I took Scorpius to Rome.”

“Well,” she said, setting her mug down on the table and heading into the kitchen. Over her shoulder, she called, “I can guaranteed these won’t be nearly as good as those were, but they’re pretty tasty. I think they’re both chicken and pesto - is that alright?”

“Perfectly.”

Oven on, she returned and folded herself into the squashy armchair which sat at right angles to the sofa, tucking one leg up beneath her and drawing the other foot up beside her. Malfoy, of course, sat like he was about to take tea with the Queen, while she felt like a pretzel on a shelf. A comfy pretzel though, she thought as she reached for her mug.

“I’m glad we walked back,” she said after a moment. “I can’t believe I worked myself up into such a tizzy over Ron like that. It’s so childish…”

Malfoy sipped his tea and then cradled it between his long, pale fingers for a moment. “What happened between you two? I thought you three were —”

“— the ‘Golden Trio’?” she purred, voice laden with sarcasm.

He made a conciliatory gesture with his head but said nothing more.

She sighed. “We were. I mean, Harry and I are still super close - I’m James’ godmother after all. Ginny’s the sister I never had, but something went wrong with Ron somewhere along the line.” She knew exactly what the final blow had been, but there had been a myriad other issues on both sides before that. “I think… I think he felt like he never had a real niche, you know? He was always second fiddle to Harry in the heroics and quidditch departments, and, well, everyone knows I was the brains of the trio,” she said self-effacingly. “That’s not to say that he’s stupid — he’s not.”

Malfoy scoffed at that, and for a moment she saw the petulant, petty little thirteen year old he had once been. A deeply sceptical look filled his eyes, and he looked like he was physically biting his tongue to keep himself from disagreeing with her.

“No, really,” she scowled. “He just makes stupid, split-second decisions without thinking anything through. I’m not defending what he did or how he behaved at the end of our marriage, but…” she sighed heavily and drank a mouthful of too-hot tea that scalded her throat on its way down. “He’s in a pretty good place now with Lavender. We just… rub each other up the wrong way, even now I think.”

“Theo said he was being an arsehole earlier,” Malfoy pushed.

She shrugged. “A bit. I think he carries a lot of bitterness towards…” she gestured vaguely in Malfoy’s direction, “… Slytherins? I’m not really sure. Stupid house prejudices that a lot of witches and wizards clearly never get over. As if one moment in our history defines us for the rest of our lives, or as if we’re limited to the characteristics of the house we were sorted into at the age of eleven… It’s just so fucking dumb, Malfoy!”

He laughed softly at that.

“What? You don’t agree?”

“No, I absolutely agree with you. I was enjoying hearing you swear, that’s all. Forgive me.”

She flushed and looked away, anger leaving her as swiftly as it had come. “Ron has a lot of insecurities, and a few of them centre around me, but… I guess I just wasn’t enough for him in the end.”

“How could you possibly be ‘not enough’ for someone, Granger?” Draco asked in a hoarse whisper. “And you were the bloody Minister for Magic for Merlin’s sake…! What more did he want from his witch? Morgana herself reincarnated?”

She laughed long and loud at that, and Malfoy seemed to relax a little in the wake of his little outburst. “My reign was very short though,” she said as she stood and took the opportunity to put the pizzas in the oven. When she returned, she asked carefully, “What about you and Astoria?”

“What about us?” he asked, voice even and steady, though his eyes swirled softly like Trelawney’s crystal balls, hiding their secrets behind a shifting sheen of silver.

“Were you happy?”

Malfoy’s eyes slid away from her to stare unseeing at a point across the room, and he sat back against the sofa cushions, still nursing his cheap, Tesco mug between his hands.

“Yes,” he said eventually. “For the most part we were. It wasn’t… earth-shattering or anything, but it was pretty good, all things considered. It was arranged by our families, you know?”

She nodded.

“I knew Astoria’s older sister, Daphne, far better than I knew her, but Daph promised to an Austrian count already. He’s actually very nice. I’m glad for her.”

“I vaguely remember Daphne from school, but I didn’t have many classes with her as we got older.”

“I’d met Astoria a few times before it was all formally arranged, but even then, we only met a total of perhaps five or six times before the wedding proper. It wasn’t the huge event my mother had always dreamed of throwing for me, but with my father in Azkaban and me under house arrest, the mood wasn’t really there, you know?”

Hermione did some quick maths and realised he must have been only nineteen or so when he’d been married, and her eyes widened. She’d only been twenty-two when Ron and she had tied the knot, but still, that struck her as very young. Scorpius hadn’t been born straight away though, and there had been vicious gossip about blood-curse-related infertility until the little mandrake had arrived. Hermione been about to make the leap to Minister at the incredibly tender age of twenty five when the attack on the Manor had taken place, and Scorpius had been mere months old at the time.

“Toria and I grew to know each other better,” Draco went on, “And in time, I think we came to love each other, in our own way. She certainly adored Scorpius before the blood curse took her.”

“What was she like?” Hermione asked in a whisper.

Again, Malfoy sighed and closed his eyes with his head tipped back to rest against the sofa cushions. “Quiet, intelligent, articulate, easy-going most of the time, but when she got passionate about something, she could be pretty stubborn. Scorpius inherited a lot of that from her.”

“He looks like you though,” she said. “I mean… almost exactly like you did at that age. It gave me quite the turn when I saw the two of you on Platform 9 3/4 you know?”

He smirked and cracked an eye open. “Tell me about it,” he said. “Mother is always calling him ‘Draco’ instead of ‘Scorpius’. It drives him nuts.”

They shared a laugh at that. “Your mother lives with you at the Manor then?”

“Yes and no,” he said, shuffling a little and getting comfy again, relaxing his torso more casually against the arm of the sofa at last. “She moved out of the main manor when Toria and I married. Now she lives at what we affectionately call the Dower House. Officially it’s called Nightshade Cottage.”

“Ominous name,” she said and he smiled again.

“Apt though. There’s a rambling, stone-walled potion-garden round the back of it, full of all sorts of interesting plants, and a stunning rose garden at the front. It’s really beautiful in spring, and rather potent in summer.”

“You make it sound almost welcoming,” she said without thinking and he huffed a dry laugh.

“Parts of the estate really are lovely, Granger; its sordid past notwithstanding.”

When the beeper went on the timer, Malfoy jumped and looked confused, but she laughed and showed him. She did use her wand to cut up the pizzas though, and by the time they were seated back on the sofas with plates in their lap, they resumed their easy talk as if they’d never been interrupted. Watching Malfoy in his fancy clothes and eating pizza with his hands was almost too much for Hermione to bear, but if she focused on his voice too much instead, she found herself mesmerised on that front too. Who’d have thought that Hermione Granger would have found herself growing more and more attracted to Draco Malfoy all these years later.

Long after they’d finished eating, they spoke a little more of Scorpius, and how Malfoy guessed he was getting on after his first week at school. “Of course, he hasn’t written to me yet, but I’m hoping he might pen something this weekend…”

“You worry about him, don’t you?”

“Constantly,” he snorted. “One of the burdens of being a father, I suppose.”

“Of being a good one,” she amended, and she didn’t miss the way he swallowed thickly and blinked his glassy eyes rapidly a few times.

Then he sighed expansively and then levered himself to his feet. “It’s late, Granger, and I should probably be going. I’ve got a meeting to get to early tomorrow morning in Scotland, and I still have a bit of paperwork to do tonight.”

“But it’s the weekend, Malfoy,” she said as she rose too. “You can’t have to work, surely?”

He nodded and shrugged, but made his way to the door and slid his feet back into his shoes without further comment or explanation.

A little, fluttering, doxy-wing cloud of nerves shimmered to life in her chest as they stood face to face at the door. Malfoy swallowed again and hitched a tiny, lopsided smile. “Thanks for tonight, Granger. And…” he faltered and shook his head. “Yeah,” he said roughly. “Thank you.”

“I feel like I should be thanking you,” she said. “You got me out of my funk and walked me safely home.” She ran her fingers through her mass of curls and didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered to watch the movement before he blinked and turned away to open the door, clearing his throat.

With his fingers still on the handle, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. “My pleasure, Granger. Sincerely.”

Hermione barely managed to offer him a watery smile before he was striding off down the corridor.

She lingered in the doorway long after his footsteps had faded down the stairwell — apparently using the Muggle lift alone had proved too daunting for him. After she locked the door and recharged the wards behind her, she picked up his empty plate and mug to put them in the dishwasher.

As she passed the dresser that had once belonged to her mother, she caught sight of a moving photograph of Crookshanks. The half-kneazel was staring at the flat’s front door with his yellow, lamp-like eyes wide. “What do you think of him now, huh Crooks?” she asked the photo. “Bit different, eh?”

Photo-Crookshanks purred and circled in the bottom corner of the frame a few times, bottle-brush tail twitching, before returning to his fireplace and curling up with a look of contentment on his face. God, she missed that cat.

“Yeah. I think I like him too, Crooks,” she said. “Merlin help me, but I think I like him too.”

Part Five

___

I’ve only written all 12,410 words of this because people told me they liked it, otherwise it’d have stayed on whatever the first chapter was, so if you want more, let me know with a reblog! Feel free to send me an anonymous owl too if you’re more comfortable doing that.

Anyway, take care, and more soon, I hope. I’ve got a fair chunk plotted out, and it should take us up to Christmas in the storyline (it’s September now for them).

writing masterlist | Ao3

#dramione #dramione fic #older dramione #draco malfoy x hermione granger #hermione granger x draco malfoy #draco x hermione #draco x hermione fic

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feralthoughtdump · 3 years

Text

Sign of The Times

Part One: Kiss With A Fist

Part Two: Only Angel

Part Three: Arsonist's Lullaby

Bucky and his Angel’s time in Riga is coming to an end and possibly their little fling.

CW: violence, slight angst, John Walker being rude, fluff, slight smut, nightmares, slight allusions to religion and maternal trauma, crying, Sign of The Times by Harry Styles, time jump

Word Count: 6.6k

Angel wakes up next to Bucky and her heart is filled with regret.

No, not regret over the sex, rather what happened after the sex.

You’re the only one who’s made me feel human.

Why did she say that? Why did she admit to that?

She hopes that he didn’t hear her. She hopes that he’ll forget what she said to him.

Never in her life, even after the sex that she’s had, had she ever admit to something so stupid. Something so personal.

But then again, she’s never had sex with someone like Bucky until now.

He’s made her feel something. He’s made her feel full in more ways than one.

He’s made her feel good, and never in her life, has anyone made her feel good.

Bucky stirs next to her, pulling her body close to his.

He’s warm, and his embrace makes her feel warmer.

She turns around, careful not to wake him, so she can see his face.

She can’t stop thinking about him. He had managed to crack the hard shell that was ingrained into her. He had managed to reach into her and pull out someone else. Someone she was unfamiliar with.

Someone human.

Thirteen years ago, when she would study the blurry images that were put in front of her, She would have assumed that they were cut from the same cloth. But now? As he is lying right next to her, holding her in his arms, they couldn’t be more different.

Bucky killed because he didn’t have a choice. He wasn’t in control.

But her? That wasn’t the case. Violence was a part of her. It ran through her blood.

She needed it like a shark needs to swim.

As for you, you seem to have this, how do I say it, a compulsion to kill. It will always stick to you.

She thinks about Zemo’s words and a bitter taste fills her mouth.

He’s right. She was ruled by anger and compulsion.

She knows that when this is over, she would go back to killing. She wouldn’t be able to stop no matter how hard she wanted to.

Bucky’s metal hand clasps over hers, pulling her from her thoughts.

“What are you thinking about sweet Angel?”

She quickly paints on a smile and kisses him.

“Nothing, Buck. Just admiring you.”

How could she, a monster, have pulled a man as good as him, she thinks, staring into his bright, blue eyes.

“Well, I’ll lie here and admire you too.” He smiles.

His words improve her mood, practically melting her stress away. He doesn’t mention her confession at all and it fills her with relief.

She basks in his warmth and gentle gaze until a knock on the door startles them.

“Alright lovebirds, it’s half-past ten,” Sam remarks. “We’ve got some work to do.”

Angel smiles and gives Bucky one final kiss.

“I’m going to get dressed. So get out.”

She closes the bedroom door and sits in front of the mirror, quietly dabbing concealer around her under eyes. Her tongue slightly pokes out from between her teeth as she meticulously fills in her brows. She turns her head to the side and grins.

“Pretty.” She whispers to herself.

Pretty made her feel nice. It made her feel sweet. Feeling pretty made her feel slightly less monstrous.

As she twirls in front of the mirror, she grins at her appearance. Sure, the pink puff-sleeved dress was obnoxious and the volume and ruffled hem made it slightly impractical, she thought it was lovely. A cute little number she bought the second she saw it in a store window in Paris. A reward for herself. A little ‘good job’ gift after her twenty-fifth kill.

It almost made her look angelic.

She grabs her white heeled boots and opens the door, lacing them up as she hops through the entrance.

“Nice dress.” Sam notes, peering at her outfit.

“Really?” Angel grabs a Turkish Delight from the counter and pops it into her mouth. “Thanks. I got it in Paris.” She chirps.

“You’re in such a good mood today,” Sam mutters. “Does it have anything to do with your wild night with Bucky?”

Bucky chokes on his water and coughs.

“You heard us?”

“Of course I did. You two need to learn how to control your volume.”

She walks over to the couch and sits down, the dress poofing around her.

“Bucky needs a good lay anyways.” She ties the laces of her boots into a bow. “It’s good stress relief.”

The sun casts a colorful light onto the floor and Angel admires him, bathed in reds, blues, and greens.

“Well, I saw a crepe place nearby.” She stands from the couch, balancing on her boots. “I’ll be back soon.”

…

Sam and Bucky were deep in conversation when she walks through the door, a bag of crepes in tow.

“Something’s not right about Walker.” Bucky says.

“You don’t say.” Sam replies.

“Well, I know a crazy one when I see one.” Bucky looks down at his plate. “Because I am crazy.”

“Oh hush.” Angel giggles, passing him a box of crepes. “You’re a little rough around the edges but that doesn’t mean you’re crazy.”

Zemo chuckles and leans against the dresser, a glass of whiskey in his hands.

“You’re an assassin who kills with no hesitation”

“Baron, just because I kill with no hesitation doesn’t mean I’m crazy.” She laughs, placing another box in front of him. “I’m able to stay cool and calculated and need I remind you, it’s my job.”

She walks past Sam and hands him a box. He mutters a quick ‘thank you’ and shuts his laptop closed.

The four of them have a long-overdue debrief of the events that happened the day before. They go over what went wrong, and what went right.

When the conversation shifts to the serum, the mood changes.

“Hypothetically, if you were offered it,” Zemo asks Sam, “Would you have taken it?”

“No.” Sam says.

“No hesitation,” Zemo notes. “Impressive.” He turns to Angel. “What about you?”

“No.” She sets her fork down. “I don’t like the idea of becoming, you know, more of myself.”

“What do you mean by that?” Bucky questions.

Her mood is quickly soured when John Walker kicks his way through the door.

“Alright.” He commands. “That’s it. I’m ordering for you to turn him (Zemo) over.”

“Here we go again.” She mutters, standing up to pour herself a tumbler of whiskey.

“Hey,” Sam stands up. “Slow your roll. Shield or no shield, the only thing you’re running is your mouth. Now, I had Karli and you overstepped. He’s actually proven himself useful yesterday. And we need all hands on deck for whatever’s coming next.”

“And what exactly has Princess Peach over there done to help?” John scoffs. “How does strutting around Latvia in her little outfits and playing with knives help?”

“Hey!” Angel snaps. “Shut your mouth. At least I have more than one outfit to wear while sauntering around Europe.”

John speeds over to her and raises his hand, but she catches his wrist.

“Ooh,” she chastises. “Hitting women, huh? Not very Captain America of you.”

Bucky stands from his seat and crosses his arms.

“Don’t you dare touch her, Walker.” He seethes.

“I can hold my own, Buck.” She narrows her eyes. “Step away John, or I’ll break your fucking wrist.”

“Listen here, John.” Sam walks over to him as John pulls his arm from Angel’s grip. “She’s been helpful this entire time, keeping an eye on Zemo, helping us track down Karli, and defending us when our lives were put at risk. Yet, you’ve been nothing but hostile to her. If you want us to work as a team, I expect you to at least show her some decency.”

She bites the inside of her cheek, trying to push away her anger. All she wanted was to punch him in the face, maybe stab him in the neck, but she knows she shouldn’t. At least not when Bucky and Sam are around.

“Thanks, Sam.” She mumbles.

“If a fight is what you want, why don’t I put down the shield huh?” John fumes. “Make this fair.”

As the shield touches the ground, a spear whizzes past Angel, the momentum fluffing the edge of her dress.

She turns around to see a woman clad in red.

The Dora Miaje. She’s heard the stories about them. The female warriors of Wakanda who had fought the titans after the blip.

Angel had always been one to prepare for any outcome, but this? She wasn’t expecting this. Not that she didn’t mind.

Her head whips around as two more walks past the doors, brandishing spears.

One speaks in Wakandan, and Bucky looks down in shame.

She may not understand her, but she knows that they were not happy with him.

“Release him to us now.” The woman demands.

“Bucky?” Angel turns to look at him. “What did you do?”

He doesn’t answer her, he only looks at the table, avoiding her eyes.

She sighs and takes a sip of whisky, scowling at the taste.

“Hi. John Walker.”

Angel quirks a brow as he walks up to the Dora Milaje, holding out a hand. He receives no handshake nor a verbal reply.

“Well, uh,” John holds out his arms. “Let’s put down the pointy sticks and we can talk this through, huh?”

“Hey, John, take it easy,” Sam says, a frustrated smile on his face. “You might want to fight Bucky before you tangle with the Dora Milaje.”

John rolls his eyes.

“The Dora Milaje don’t have jurisdiction here.”

Angel internally winces. She may not have expected this, but she knows this won’t end well.

“The Dora Milaje had jurisdiction wherever the Dora Milaje find themselves to be.”

“Okay.” John scoffs. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

“John,” Angel warns. “You really should shut up right now.”

Her warning falls on deaf ears as he places his hand on the woman’s armor.

Within the blink of an eye, a fight ensues.

She observes from afar, deciding it was best that she doesn’t involve herself.

Her drink is placed on the counter as she walks over to Sam and Bucky.

She stands back with an amused look while John faces off with the Dora Milaje.

Sounds of clanging metal and fighting echo throughout the room.

“Do I have your permission to join them? Any excuse to fight Walker is a good excuse.”

She whispers to Bucky.

“Best you stay out of it and enjoy the show.” He whispers back.

Sam turns to them.

“We should do something.”

“Looking strong, John” Bucky yells over the fighting and Angel claps a hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh.

“Bucky.” Sam scolds.

In the corner of her eye, she spots Zemo reaching for his coat.

He’s making a run for it. And she’s not letting him get away.

Before the doors of the bathroom close, she wedges her foot in between them.

“You’re not going anywhere.” She glares at him.

Zemo sighs.

“I really liked you. So please don’t take this personally.”

He pulls her through the doors as they close and slams her head against the edge of the tub.

She tenderly touches her forehead and winces.

“You son of a bitch.”

“I need to visit my home.” He says as dark spots form in her vision. “Just one last time. I hope you understand.”

All she can do is lie there, head on the tile, as her vision fades to black.

…

She wakes up with a concerned Bucky hovering over her.

“Oh, doll,” He murmurs, brushing his fingers over the developing bruise on her forehead. “I shouldn’t have strung you along.”

“It’s okay, Bucky.” She murmurs, pain rushing through her head.

“Now I’ve dragged you into this… this mess-”

“Hey, hey.” She sits up and cradles his face in her hands. “If I didn’t want to be here, I would’ve gone back to Amsterdam right after what happened in Madripoor.” He looks down, refusing to meet her eyes. “Bucky,” She lifts his chin with her finger. “Look at me. I’m here on my own accord. I want to be here. With you.”

Sam walks over to them and hands her a wrapped ice pack.

“Are you okay?” He asks.

“Yeah, yeah.” She accepts it and places the cool towel against her head. “What time is it? How long was I out?”

“For a few hours,” Sam answers her. “You hit your head really hard.”

“What’s next, what else do you need me to do?”

“No,” Sam shakes his head. “You aren’t going anywhere. You need to rest.”

“I’m fine.” she stands but Bucky places an arm on her shoulder, pushing her back onto the bed. “Guys, I let Zemo get away, I need to-”

“Hey,” Sam crouches down next to her. “I meant what I said, about you being helpful. And Zemo getting away isn’t your fault. Stay here and rest. I just don’t want you to be putting yourself in danger.”

“He’s right.” Bucky agrees. “You need to take care of yourself, doll.”

“I can handle it.” She struggles against Bucky’s hold on her. “I promise. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Hey,” Sam places his hand gently on her forearm. “We don’t know if you had a concussion, but concussion or no concussion, we’re not letting you endanger yourself.”

She lies back down on the bed and shuts her eyes, giving in.

“Fine. Just don’t get hurt.”

…

She lies there for what feels like hours, staring at the ceiling, reading her book, drawing in her sketchbook. But when she turns to the clock, it’s only been twenty minutes

She’s bored. And nothing good comes out of being bored.

You’re the only one who’s made me feel human.

God, why did she say that?

Why was she feeling this way?

Despite their hostile reunion

An angel? Sure. But not the angel Bucky thinks she is.

She wasn’t like the beautiful angels hanging in the Louvre. Ones who brought peace and lights. She was the angel the world had painted her to be. One of death, rage, and destruction.

How could he ever see her as an angel? How could he show her this gentle, tender love that no one else has?

Does he love her?

Does she love him?

“Love.” She mutters to herself. “Such a funny word.”

She doesn’t even know what love is. How could she know what Bucky has been showing her is love? The gentle touches, calling her Angel, holding her close when they fall asleep. That was love, right?

Deciding that her thoughts have gone too far, she reaches into her bag to find an orange bottle of sleeping pills. She changes out of her dress and reaches for Bucky’s dark red henley that was bunched up on the floor.

Her nose buries into the fabric as she inhales his woodsy smell.

With a sigh, she pulls it over her head and walks to the bathroom to wash off her makeup.

Her fingers roll the pale pink pill between her fingers. Deciding whether or not sleep was worth it.

Finally, she just decides to take the pill, swallowing it dry and a grimace crosses her face at the bitter taste.

She lies down, covered in Bucky’s smell, and closes her eyes.

…

Angel doesn’t know where she is.

Well, she does. The house is still the same, only this time, it was up in flames.

Screams echo around her.

“Look at what you’ve done!” They tell her, voices distorted.

“Monster!”

“Devil!”

“Evil!”

She turns around to face a woman in a black dress, her face obscured by a matching veil.

“Oh, my dear.” She says, voice croaking and broken. “Why didn’t you save me? Why did you leave me there to die?”

“I-” Angel stammers. “I’m sorry.”

The woman sinks to the ground and Angel runs after her, crouching down to see where she went.

When she stands, she sees that she’s surrounded by broken mirrors.

No matter where she looked, she was faced with her distorted reflection.

“Look at yourself!” The voices return. “Look at what you are!”

“No!” She screams back. “No! No! No!”

A force knocks her onto her knees and she sees that the floor has turned into a mirror as well.

The fire burns her, making her skin peel.

She claws at her face, trying to peel the reddening skin away and she scrambles back when it reveals the cracked gray skin.

“This is who you are!” They scream.

“Stop!” She sobs. “Shut up!”

Angel looks down at her hands, fingernails growing into long black claws. When she looks up, she screams at her appearance.

Her soft, glowing skin and peeled away to reveal a pale, ghostly face. Her eyes, once bright, are now pools of black.

“You’re a monster!” A different voice booms throughout the room.

“Mama?” She whimpers. “Mama, is that you?”

“You were always the bad seed. You were always filled with darkness. Evil.”

“No Mama!” She cries. “Mama, please! I’m sorry!”

The mirrored floor cracks around her.

“I never wanted you! I should’ve killed you the second you came out of me!”

Angel scrambles around the mirrored room, avoidant the cracks around her feet.

"And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea,”

“Stop!” Angel covers her ears.

But her mother’s voice is louder “having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy."

“Angel?”

“Please stop!” She begs her mother.

“Angel! Wake up!”

“Angel!”

She screams, batting her arms, trying to push anyone and anything out of her path.

“Get away from me!” Her voice is hoarse from screaming. “I’ll only hurt you.”

“Angel,” Bucky places his metal hand against her heated skin. “Angel, you’re okay, you’re safe. You aren’t going to hurt anyone.”

Tears stream down her face as she meets Bucky’s gentle, blue eyes.

“Bucky?” She shakily whispers.

“Yeah, it’s me. It’s Bucky.” He gently rubs at her cheek with his thumb. “You were having a nightmare.”

She reaches out with a shaky hand and places it against Bucky’s cheek, rubbing at his stubble.

She needed to know he was actually there. She needed to know that he was real.

As her sleep-clouded vision clears, she sees the bruises and cuts on Bucky’s face and she starts crying again.

“Oh, Bucky,” She pulls her hand away. “Did I do this to you?”

“No, no you didn’t, doll.” He gently smiles at her and presses a soft kiss to her forehead.

“Then who did this to you?” She whispers.

“Sam and I had to get the shield back. John decided to get a little scrappy but I’ll be okay.” He moves her sweaty hair out of her face. “I have enhanced healing, remember?”

Angel gives him a shaky nod and burrows her face into his chest.

A loud sob leaves her lips as she shakes in his arms.

“Oh doll,” he coos at her, reaching his flesh hand under her (well his) shirt and tracing his fingers up and down her back. “Shh. It’s okay, honey. You’ll be okay.”

When her sobs subside and she’s left a shaking form in his arms, Bucky presses a kiss on the top of her head.

She looks up and sees Sam peaking at them from over his shoulder.

He’s got a look of sympathy in his eyes.

“Nightmare?” He asks.

Her throat hurts too much to speak so Bucky answers for her.

“Mhm.”

Sam walks over to them and places a glass of water on the nightstand.

He takes a seat next to them and places a supportive hand on her shoulder.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Angel shakes her head. Talking wasn’t what she wanted. She didn’t want to burden them further.

“Sam?” She quietly asks. “Can I have a hug?”

“Of course.”

Sam wraps his arm tightly around the both of them and rubs Angel’s back.

“I don’t know what you’re dealing with, and I don’t know what you’ve gone through, but I just want to let you know that it’s okay to feel weak.”

He gives Bucky a gentle look.

“I’m, uh, I’m headed back to Louisiana in a few hours. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

Sam gives Bucky a soft pat on the back and turns to Angel.

“And if you ever need to talk, I’m here for you. So is Bucky.”

When Sam leaves, the crying returns. She’s much too tired to sob, but silent tears stream down her face, wetting Bucky’s soft t-shirt.

“Come on, doll. Let’s sleep.”

She vehemently shakes her head. Not wanting the nightmares to return.

“No, no.” Her breathing quickens. “I- I don’t want to. I’m scared.”

“Okay, okay.” He strokes her back. “Let’s just stay like this for a while.”

They sit in silence, holding onto each other. She feels vulnerable, weak, and tired. Oh, so tired. All the years of building up her walls, pushing people away, destroying anything good in her path, had finally caught up to her.

She wants to strip her skin away and emerge as a new person. She wants to open up her body. Take out all of the ugly, the evil, the darkness, and stitch herself back up. She wants to destroy herself.

And maybe, after she pays the price in her own blood, she can finally be good.

This world wasn’t made for her, she thinks, and though she gave up on faith a long time ago, she thinks that after all the things she’s done, she’ll never end up in heaven.

And having Bucky here? Having him hold her, and caress her, and call her his Angel?

That was the closest to heaven that she’ll ever get.

Bucky pulls her back to reality when he lifts her chin up.

��I have an idea.” He smiles. “Now, I haven’t done this since 1943, but why don’t we dance?” He helps her stand up and brushes her hair back.

Angel looks away from him bashfully.

“I- I don’t really know how to dance.”

“Here.” He hands her his phone, Spotify open on his screen. “You pick the music and I’ll show you how. It’s really easy.”

“Should it be a 40s song?” She mumbles.

“No.” He smiles and shakes his head. “It can be any song that you like. I just wanna make you feel better, doll.”

She quietly browses through his song library and then, turns to the search bar.

“Here you go,” she hands it back to him. “I think you’ll like this one.”

“Sign of the Times.” He chuckles. “Can you dance to it?”

She shrugs.

“I hope so.”

Bucky places his hands on her waist and pulls her close to him.

“Okay, Angel, so I’m just going to hold your right hand like this.” He intertwined his right hand with hers and raised it to his shoulder. “And your left hand goes on my life shoulder.”

As she places her left hand against the metal of his shoulder, Bucky keeps his left hand on her waist.

“Now what?” She quietly asks.

“Now, we just sway.”

He quickly unlinks their fingers to press play on the song.

As the sounds of a piano fill the room, Bucky starts swaying and Angel follows along.

Just stop your crying

It's a sign of the times

Welcome to the final show

Hope you're wearing your best clothes

“You were right, I do like this song.”

“You do?”

“Mhm.”

You can't bribe the door on your way to the sky

You look pretty good down here

But you ain't really good

If we never learn, we been here before

Why are we always stuck and running from

The bullets?

The bullets

Angel closes her eyes and allows herself to rest her head on his chest. Even with the music playing, she can hear the quiet thumping of his heart. It calms her. She relaxes her shoulders and smiles, humming along to the song. Bucky holds her tighter as the chorus approaches.

Just stop your crying

It's a sign of the times

We gotta get away from here

Just stop your crying

It'll be alright

They told me that the end is near

We gotta get away from here

Just stop your crying

Have the time of your life

Breaking through the atmosphere

And things are pretty good from here

Remember everything will be alright

We can meet again somewhere

Somewhere far away from here

Peace. She feels at peace in Bucky’s arms. He is her sanctuary and she hopes that she can be his.

We never learn, we been here before

Why are we always stuck and running from

The bullets?

The bullets

We never learn, we been here before

Why are we always stuck and running from

The bullets?

The bullets

She hopes that this won’t be temporary. She hopes that this moment can last forever, being held by him.

Just stop your crying

It's a sign of the times

We gotta get away from here

Stop your crying

Baby, it'll be alright

But even though she can hope, she knows it won’t last forever. Bucky, this man, this man who is filled with good, even with all he’s been through, never let that good fade away. He will see her for who she truly is, how she was never good. He will see how she was born with darkness and he will see how the darkness overtook her.

They told me that the end is near

We gotta get away from here

We never learn, we been here before

Why are we always stuck and running from

The bullets?

The bullets

We never learn, we been here before

Why are we always stuck and running from

The bullets?

The bullets

We don't talk enough

We should open up

Before it's all too much

Will we ever learn?

We've been here before

It's just what we know

“I’m…” Her voice wobbles. “I’m a monster.”

“You’re not a monster.” He places a kiss on the top of her head. “You were never a monster.”

Stop your crying, baby

It's a sign of the times

We gotta get away

We got to get away

“I’ve killed a lot of people, Bucky.”

“So have I.”

We got to get away

“But you didn’t have a choice. I did.”

We got to, we got to, away

The music comes to an end and Angel pulls Bucky over to the bed.

“Have you ever thought about what you’ll do after you stop?” He asks her. “You know, when you retire, I guess.”

She sighs.

“I’m not sure. I have enough money to live a quiet life in Paris. That’s the closest I have to a retirement plan.”

“When will that be?”

Angel lies down.

“I’m not sure.”

Bucky braces his arms around her head.

“We’ll figure it out. Okay?”

“Okay.” She pulls him in for a heated kiss. “But first, I want to feel you.”

Her hands cradle his face and she kisses every cut and bruise on his face.

“My sweet Angel. You’re too kind to me.”

He litters kisses down her neck, onto her collarbones, down her sternum, and onto her scar.

“So beautiful. So, so beautiful.” He murmurs.

Angel cards her hands through his soft hair as he rests his head on her lower stomach.

She giggles when he nuzzles at her tummy.

“Tickles.”

“Can’t help it. You look so pretty in my shirt. I just want to make you feel pretty.”

He places his fingers along the waistband of her panties.

“Can I?”

“Mhm”

As he pulls them down her legs and kisses along her thighs, she reaches out with her free hand and links her flesh fingers with his metal ones.

He’s gentle with her this time.

She can’t speak, only gasping his name. She arches her back and pushes her hips closer to him, silently begging for more.

Instead of teasing her, he gives her what she wants. Never forced her to beg.

He handles her delicately like she’s made of glass.

He calls her sweet names, doll Angel, honey, as he licks into her. Her moans are soft and sweet.

He coaxes an orgasm after orgasm out of her and she lays back, relishing in the pleasure, in the love he gives her.

It feels like heaven.

He feels like heaven.

And when he unbuckles his belt and pushes inside of her, he is still gentle, slowly rocking himself back and forth.

Though she’s still sore from the night before, the pain never overpowers the pleasure.

She wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, silently telling him that he is hers and much as she is his.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” He groans into her neck. “I never stopped thinking about you.”

“I can’t stop thinking about you too.” She pants. “You make me feel human. You’re the only one who’s made me feel human, Bucky.” This time, she wants him to hear her. She wants him to know.

The skin on skin contact, feeling his body pressed against hers, it’s all everything she’s ever wanted. It’s everything she’s ever needed.

“You’re mine.” He rocks his hips faster. “You're my Angel. Say it to me.”

“I’m yours. I’m your Angel.”

She doesn’t think she can cum one more time, but she does. Walls clenching around him, making him gasp with pleasure.

“I’m…” he murmurs against her lips. “I’m gonna cum.”

She presses her lips against his.

“Come on, cum for me, my love.”

…

Bucky quickly fell asleep. Tired from the fighting and tired from the fucking.

Angel spends the rest of the night caressing his face and playing with his fingers.

They spent only a few days together but she’s been able to fall for him in this short time.

Though she doesn’t know what love feels like, she thinks she loves him.

Being with him, it’s changed her.

She knows that she’ll eventually have to leave, go back to Amsterdam. He’ll go back to New York.

They will be apart again for who knows how long.

But she doesn’t want that to happen so now, all she can do is live in the moment, and pretend that they can live in this moment forever.

“I love you.” She whispers. “I love you, James Bucky Barnes.

…

On the drive to the Sokovia memorial, they’re quiet. But it’s a comfortable silence. They listen to Bucky’s 40s music and admire the scenery.

She’s decided that she doesn’t want to kill anymore. At least not kill as much.

She’ll settle down somewhere. Somewhere on her own. In her fantasies, it would be with Bucky, but realistically, she thinks, it’s best that she’s on her own.

“I’ve been thinking, when this is over, we’ll go back to Amsterdam.” He says, breaking the silence “You can pack all of your things and you can stay with me. In Brooklyn.”

Her heart stops. He wants to go home. He wants to go home and take her with him.

“I’ve never been to New York.” She says over the sound of Dream A Little Dream of Me.

“I’ll show you around.” He turns to look at her. “We can start a new life together. I- I know someone you can talk to. Someone who can help you work through whatever you’ve been through.”

It��s too good to be true. Yet every part of her urges her to accept his offer.

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

“You don’t need to give me an answer now, and you don’t have to come back with me immediately, but know that I’ll be waiting for you.”

She sighs.

“Bucky, you have so much in you. You have all this love, this kindness, this goodness. I don’t want to be the person that ruins it all for you.”

He pulls the car over.

“Sweet Angel,” he caresses her face. “You could never do that. You-“ he looks down and takes her hand. “I believe that you have the same good inside of you. You just don’t know it yet.”

She looks away at him, eyes finding the memorial in the distance. Maybe he’s right. Maybe she does have that goodness inside of her. She just needs time to find it.

“You sound so sure of yourself.”

“I am sure. Yes, you actively chose to kill, but the people you killed? They aren’t good people. They’re people who had no qualms about harming others to get their way. Do I agree with killing them? No, but you did what you thought was right.”

She shakes her head.

“It’s not the fact I kill people for money that makes me a bad person, Bucky. It’s what I did that got me that job.”

“So what did you do then?”

Angel gulps, not wanting to meet his eyes.

“I don’t remember much because I was a kid. I… I don’t really like talking about it.”

“Hey,” He tilts her head towards him. “Look at me.”

She averts her gaze, shame bubbling inside of her.

“Angel,” Bucky’s tone is more authoritative now. “I need you to look at me.” She finally allows her eyes to meet his. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s alright. There are things I’ve done that I don’t want to talk about either.”

Angel nudges her cheek deeper into his hand, wanting to feel more of the contact.

“I want to believe that I’m good, and I want to believe that I won’t hurt you.” She bites her lip, no longer wanting to discuss the subject. “We can talk about this later. Right now, I think you have some unfinished business.

…

Angel went back to Amsterdam alone.

The two had gone to the airport together, bags packed, and hand in hand, but after Bucky had gone to buy a cup of coffee, she disappeared.

She didn’t leave him empty-handed. She went to the airport toy store and bought a small brown bear. When the stomach was pressed, Bucky could hear her voice say “I’ll come back to you. I promise. Love, your Angel.”

He had found it in his duffel bag along with a small bottle of apple cinnamon body wash and a note written on a napkin.

I hope you won’t be mad that I left you, but if you are, I understand.

I need to figure things out, tie up some loose strings before I find a lasting home. Maybe a lasting home in New York.

But I promise you, I’ll see you again. And I never break my promises.

I hope you’ll wait for me.

I love you, Bucky

He felt his heart shatter, but he understood. She needed time.

So he went home, back to his Brooklyn apartment. And he waited.

When he woke up, he waited.

When he’d listen to the voice in the bear, he waited.

When he’d go get lunch with Yori, he waited.

When he went to Louisiana to help Sam with the boat, he waited.

“Did you find your Angel?” Sam had asked him, looking out into the sunset.

“Not yet.” Bucky had replied.

Even after the events in Lower Manhattan, he still waited.

For days on end, he waited. Constantly checking his phone, calling Sharon, scouring through European newspapers, looking for any sign of her.

But he found nothing.

He wanted to give up, but a small part of him knew that Angel would come back. He could feel it deep within him.

She made him a promise.

Five Months Later

Angel stares at the red water rush down the shower drain, the metallic stench of blood permeating throughout the bathroom.

There was so much of it, not even her body wash could cover the smell.

She had said ‘one last kill’ three days after she stepped foot back in Amsterdam. And then she had said it again three kills later.

And now that her body count had reached a perfect two fifty, maybe this would be her last kill.

Two fifty was a good number, she thinks as she pulls Bucky’s red henley over her head. A good number to stop at.

The buzzing of her phone turns her attention away from the soft fabric.

She picks it up, brow furrowing at the ‘unknown number’.

Cautiously, she answers.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me, Sharon.”

Angel stands.

“Sharon? How did you get my number?”

“I was a hustler in Madripoor. I have my ways. Don’t worry though, I’m using a burner phone.”

“Why are you calling me?”

There’s the sound of a refrigerator opening and closing from Sharon’s end of the line.

“I just want to let you know I’ve been pardoned.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“And I’m back in the CIA.”

“Congratulations.” Angel’s voice is tinged with sarcasm. “Now you’ve got an entire database of American government secrets at your disposal. Have fun with that.”

Sharon laughs.

“You know me too well. Which is surprising considering that we spent less than twenty-four hours together.”

“Well, knowing how to read people is a part of being an assasin.”

There’s a sigh on the other line.

“I don’t want you to panic, but there’s word that MI6 reopened your case.”

Angel closes her eyes and pulls the top of Bucky’s henley over her nose. In the beginning, when she had left him at the airport, she had taken the shirt with her. After a really bad job, or when she needed to feel okay, she'd bury her nose into the fabric and inhale, clinging onto the only piece of him she had with her.

But his smell had started to fade away and it filled her with sadness.

“So you’re telling me that they’ll come for me.”

“I doubt they’ll find you. After our talk in Madripoor, I managed to erase almost all of their progress. Still, I just wanted you to know.”

“Thanks.”

Silence fell in between them.

“So, what are you going to do now?”

Maybe it was time. Time to put her weapons down, pack her bags, and start over.

She thinks about Bucky’s offer. How he said that he would be waiting for her in Brooklyn. Maybe he’d still be waiting for her. Plus, she had made him a promise. She never broke her promises.

“I think it’s time to retire.”

...

Bucky had come home from late-night grocery shopping when he could smell the unmistakable scent of apple cinnamon body wash.

It could’ve been him. He found himself using it regularly. But this time, the smell was stronger. Sweeter.

He opens the door to his dark apartment, the only light coming from the city lights peeking through the curtains.

He quietly sets his bags down and turns on the lights. There, sitting on his kitchen counter is a cake box.

The fancy gold script indicated it was from one of the expensive bakeries in Midtown.

He hesitantly approaches it and gently opens it, revealing a fancy white cake covered in delicate piping and rosettes.

In the center, iced in simple pink script were the words ‘Miss Me?’

She’s here. She kept her promise.

The sound of his front door closing made him jump.

He whips around to see Angel. His sweet angel, wearing the same pink dress from their last day in Latvia, leaning against the door, arms crossed, and a wide smile on her face.

“Hey, Bucky.” She chuckles. “Thanks for waiting.”

...

Once again, a huge thank you to @sojournmichael for being my beta read, check out her writing, it’s amazing <3

#bucky x female reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #tfatws

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spencersawkward · 3 years

Text

switchblade faith // spencer reid - chapter 4

summary: one month after joining the BAU, Clea is still settling in. between solving murders and getting acclimated to DC, the only comfortable thing in her life is her friendship with Dr. Spencer Reid.

word count: 3.5k

masterlist

there's a place between the bank of a river and the actual water where the soil is soft. it's more like silt, leftover grains of earth not yet swept away. they're extremely delicate, made up of minerals and rock.

I love the earth. I love feeling it under my feet and the way it gives into my fingertips when they push through the surface. I love when I can sense the twisted roots of every plant. they reach for moisture, thin tendrils. there's something very pure about all of it.

which is why seeing the faceless corpse of a woman splayed out on the banks causes my stomach to wrench.

I guess it isn't the only reason, but it certainly doesn't help.

"the edges of these cuts are smooth, not torn," Rossi straightens up from his spot by her body. I don't know how he can get so close. when he waits for me to say something, my lips purse.

"so he must have used a sharp instrument to remove her face." I cross my arms over my chest. the water in her lungs makes me wonder how much pain she was in, how much it hurts to drown. unimaginable.

the slightly blue undertones to her skin imprint themselves in my mind, and my only thought is that I'm glad her eyes aren't open; I get nauseous when they are. instead of dwelling on the gaunt nature of her body, I speak to one of the crime scene experts about the time of death. his voice is barely audible over the rush of water against stones.

we spend about half an hour exploring the site, although something about this place in particular puts me off. I keep edging towards the sides of the river.

"we should meet Aaron back at the station. ready to go, kiddo?" Rossi catches my attention, beginning to make the short hike up the incline. he walks carefully to avoid sullying what I'm sure are expensive shoes, his face contorted with mild disgust. the nickname makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

"sure." I turn to scramble behind him, my gaze catching on the scene. jewel-toned leaves heavy with rain, tipping to spill weighted drops in a slow, drowsy fall. and it's now filled with police officers and crime scene experts hauling this poor woman's body to somewhere not so public.

what a world.

we get in the car and Rossi turns the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life. I sit with my hands folded neatly in my lap; I'm rigid, though grateful, when working with Rossi. it's something I still need to get used to.

"you okay, there?" he asks as we turn out into the street. my eyes turn away from the locust swarm of cop cars that are parked by the crime scene and I take a deep breath.

"yes, why?"

"you're not usually this quiet."

"really?" I deflect. I've never been particularly chatty at times like this. my mind usually gets sucked into what I'm seeing, memorizing every detail against my will for replay later that night.

"I'm a profiler, too, Clea. and a much more seasoned one than you," he glances my way with raised eyebrows. his features are softer than the photos I've seen before this. even the lecture I attended painted him in a different light. I forget how old he is. but his eyes return to the road while he sighs. "I know when something is wrong."

"nothing in particular," I shift in my seat a little. although I'm sure he gives great advice, I'm not ready to share with anyone the dreams that I've been having. "just still getting settled in, I think."

he must notice that I'm lying; I've never been quite good at it, even in front of non-profilers. but Rossi senses the discomfort that I'm trying to hide and nods.

"well, if it helps, I'm going to be having a wine tasting at my mansion once we get back to Quantico. the whole team is invited."

my words get knotted up in my throat as I think on this. "wine tasting?"

"yes. I've got plenty to spare." there's a slight archness to his tone. I smile.

"to be honest, I really don't think I've got the skill set for that," my limbs relax a little. "my experience is pretty limited."

"and you think the others know a lot?" he waves his hand dismissively. we both laugh.

"okay, then." I nod. "thanks, Rossi."

"Prego!" the sudden Italian interjection makes me roll my eyes playfully.

...

our case doesn't take nearly as much time as I expected. with the unsub's narcissism and general lack of intelligence, we catch him rather quickly and are home before the end of the week. there's a collective gratitude for this fact on the plane ride home which takes the form of lively card games and plenty of friendly trash-talking. we also enthusiastically discuss getting together in the evening.

the wine-tasting event that has been so praised by the team turns out to really be just an excuse for everyone to get drunk while draining Rossi's liquor supply. I've had about three different types of alcohol and, beyond the color, I have no idea what kind.

Penelope is pouring more chardonnay in her glass when she offers some to me. I nod, watch the lovely liquid fill up.

"I'd like to make a toast." Rossi announces, much to the feigned chagrin of Prentiss and Hotch. they roll their eyes while the Italian raises a scotch glass into the air. we're in the kitchen, standing around the counter while bantering about our personal lives and past cases.

"keep it short, Dave. I have to head out, soon." Hotch reminds. Rossi gives him a look, but then turns his eyes to me with a paternal affection.

"to Clea," he says, the rest of the team breaking into smiles. "and her hopefully very long career on the team-- if she can stand us."

there's a chuckle that rolls through the group, but then we all clink glasses. even Reid, who has been downing sparkling cider at an alarming rate, taps his flute against mine. I smile at him, at everyone who is now flooding me with questions. I get a happy, bubbly feeling while I drink. Penelope drops her head on my shoulder and mumbles something that I can't quite understand. JJ talks to Spencer about something, his eyes drifting between the contents of his cup and the clock on the wall. he's distracted by something.

"you okay there?" Emily leans against the counter next to me. she's following my line of sight until it lands on JJ and the boy genius. I nod.

"yeah. just thinking."

"about?"

"how it would feel to be this rich." I send her a smirk. she snorts.

"I would love to know."

"how often do you guys have these things?" I peer around at the guests. everyone seems to be accustomed to the behemoth household that Rossi keeps, except for me. and all of it is so clean, too.

"here? only a few times a year. Rossi doesn't like having people over." she says the last part with a laugh, nursing her drink. I cross my arms.

"fair enough."

"I think people are gonna be heading home, soon, though." she checks her watch. I remember how almost everyone here is bound somehow to someone else, a family or significant other or someone who misses them. I'm not tired at all.

"what about you?"

"I have date night plans with Sergio." she grins.

"I didn't know you have a boyfriend." I raise my eyebrows at this knowledge. Emily seems like the type of person to play the field; her settling down with one person is surprising by itself.

"Sergio is my cat," she tells me. "much more cleanly."

"even better." I laugh. we discuss the merits of owning a pet over dating people until JJ decides that she needs to get back to her family. Hotch is heading out, too, and the steady departure stream of guests begins to form. it's not very late and I'd much rather do something else than go home and watch TV, so I survey the room.

"hey, Reid." I find myself standing beside him while he puts on his coat. it's got elbow patches and there's a scarf that he wraps around his neck to accompany it. he peeks at me curiously.

"yes?"

"would you wanna get a coffee or something?" I grab my jacket off the hanger. before he can say no and shy away from my offer, I explain. "I'm just not in the mood to get home right now."

"uh," his eyes dart down to his shoes, then back up at me. "sure. yeah, that would be... fun."

"awesome." I beam. ever since we hung out in that museum in Boston, I've been thinking about how to get to Spencer. maybe it's just because he's been the slowest to warm up to me, but I'm getting more and more curious about him. that moment when he did something playful-- there has to be more of that. and we obviously have some things in common. it might be nice to have a friend like that, someone with whom I can go to art exhibits.

we all thank Rossi for a lovely evening and I'm about to ask if Spencer wants to Uber somewhere when he starts walking purposefully toward a gorgeous yellow car. it's old-- like, 1950's refurbished, old-- and well cared for.

"whoa." I say as he opens the passenger side door for me in a surprisingly courteous move. I slide inside and breathe in the delicious scent of leather and something crisp and sharp. I wait until he gets in on the other side to ask my questions. "is this yours?"

"yes, actually. I got it about a year ago and I don't drive it very often." he runs slender fingers over the wheel, touching it with a quiet admiration. I turn to him in the dark, the glow from his own headlights casting pale shadows over his face as he starts the thing up. it rumbles to life in a charming, old-timey way.

the sounds of the engine defuse the silence between us as we drive into the city. Spencer almost forgets I'm there, the muscles in his wrists and arms relaxing as he handles the steering wheel. I, on the other hand, am painfully aware of his presence.

every time we make a turn, every time his lips part, I start to think he's going to say something. but he never does, and there appears to be no inclination whatsoever. I wonder if I should ask him some random question to get him rambling, but the nervous energy he usually radiates has softened to something more muted.

it's entertaining when he speaks. I think it's also a guard against vulnerability; at least, that's why I speak so much when I'm anxious. I take his silence as a compliment.

finally, he manages to maneuver his way into a parking spot. I glance around the street, not recognizing the place.

"what is this?" I ask curiously. his hand wraps around the stick shift and parks, turns off the vehicle.

"I come here on the weekends." he glances briefly at me before climbing out of the car. I get out and watch him come around to my side. he's only wearing a cardigan over his button-up, which looks surprisingly cozy.

"so, what kind do you usually get?" I ask. we start to walk down the sidewalk, passing streetlamps and small individual trees that are just beginning to go barren with autumn. the restaurants around here are still full of people.

"coffee? black, usually."

"with five or six sugars." I recall, and he turns to me. there's a dimple in his cheek that tells me he's amused by my memory.

"what about you?"

"I like an iced caramel macchiato, or just a latte." I muse. he pulls open the door to a cute corner place with a steaming mug on the logo. it must be exclusive to the neighborhood.

inside, bookshelves are crammed with used titles and people getting a late-night caffeine fix. most of them are glued to laptop screens or flipping through books. it smells warm and delicious.

"do you know what you want?" he asks, drawing me from my observations. I realize that I've been looking everywhere but at the actual menu. it's drawn in curvy chalk.

"yes." I step forward and the barista behind the register smiles at me. I order my favorite drink and am about to ask my co-worker what he wants, but Spencer cuts me off by ordering and then paying for me. I raise my eyebrows as he hands over the crumpled dollar bills, pleasantly surprised.

when we go to wait for our drinks, he shoves his hands in his pockets and doesn't say anything.

"that's not fair." I frown.

"what's not fair?" his voice is distracted.

"I invited you-- I should have paid for both of us."

"it's okay." he gives me a tight-lipped smile. I find myself taking a step close and poking his arm.

"you're so polite."

"thank you." he doesn't know what to do with this information and it partly amuses me.

"so, I know you're from Nevada, but that's pretty much all of my Spencer Reid knowledge." I oh-so-gracefully segue into the topic. our coffees show up on the counter and we grab them before finding an empty table towards the back of the shop. it's in both of our first instincts to seek out the corner spots.

"well, I--" he starts, but then I remember something else.

"and I'm fully aware of your IQ and plethora of degrees, so don't give me that trivia information." I tease. he's looking down at the lid of his coffee. his eyelids are the color of something slightly bruised, and he lets out a nervous laugh.

"what else is there to know?"

"everything." I grin, my elbows resting on the tabletop. it's a small surface, so much so that even leaning forward a little bit gives off an air of intimacy that makes me hesitant. "we're spending a lot of time together, so you might as well tell me about you."

"I'm really not very interesting." it's an easy way to dodge questions and I don't want to push him too hard or scare him away. I just want to be friends, and that can be kind of hard when I don't know the first thing about him.

"I'll start then, if you'd like." I propose with a smirk. he nods and swallows, the Adam's apple in his throat bobbing.

"well, I was born in Atlanta, but I grew up in Montana. my family still lives there, though. I'm a big fan of the Real Housewives of Atlanta, I'm a scorpio sun, and I hate mushrooms." I fight a smile as I list random facts about myself in an attempt to get him to relax. I'm not hoping for him to divulge his biggest life traumas; there's no pressure.

it works. his high cheekbones poke out a little as he hides a smile behind his drink. my eyebrow quirks at his reaction.

"okay, now you have to go!" I prod. he puts his coffee down, though he fidgets with the sleeve on the cup.

"I guess I'm technically a Scorpio, too." he concedes.

"what? no." I almost laugh at the prospect. at first take, he doesn't really align.

"yes."

"what's your moon sign?" I narrow my eyes.

"I'm not sure, actually." this seems to frustrate him almost as much as it surprises me.

"you'll need to find that out if you want to understand your chart better." I shrug, leaning back in my seat. he fixes his gaze on my face as he tries to read the seriousness of my words. I'm only partly joking.

"what's your problem with mushrooms?" he asks instead, prompting my eyes to widen.

"don't get me started!" this time, I lean my elbows on the table. "I just don't like the thought of eating a fungus. and the texture--"

"what about milk, though?" he asks suddenly. I pause, mouth still open as I think on this.

"what about it?"

"is it weird to you that people drink cow milk in the same way that it's weird to eat fungi?"

"I suppose not." my brows draw together.

"lots of things humans do are 'weird'." he puts the word in air-quotes and it brings a smile to my lips.

"you're opinionated, aren't you?" I tilt my head a bit. this side of Spencer is new to me.

"mushrooms are rich in various nutrients and have been consistently used across time and cultures for medicinal purposes-- not to mention the burgeoning therapy treatments now in development with micro-dosing psilocybin." he replies. I giggle.

"big on shrooms?"

"what? no, I--" he gets a little flustered, shifting his sitting position and getting a rosy tint to his cheeks.

"I'm just joking, Reid." I set my palm flat against the table, something of a truce between us. he runs a hand through his hair. I move on. "I think the psilocybin research is actually really fascinating."

"isn't it?" Spencer's features appear somewhat ghostly under the café lights. he's got a sort of unusual face, although that isn't a bad thing at all. it's interesting.

he begins to talk about depression treatments that are being developed from shrooms, gesticulating wildly. his watch glints on his sleeve as he speaks. I notice the pretty arch of his eyebrows and the way he speaks through a grin. his voice has got a soothing quality to it, each word an individually selected puzzle piece. it's clear, low, and a bit filled with a childlike passion.

I rest my chin on my palm as he rambles, occasionally drinking my coffee and adding in my own thoughts. I think that Spencer could go for days if I let him, that he could talk enough to fill the pages of those books on the wall.

I'm not sure how long we sit in the café-- it could be an hour or three. we jump from medicine to philosophy to his obsession with Medieval literature. this, being something I know almost nothing about, intrigues me.

"my mom was actually a professor of it, so she read a lot of those books to me as a kid." he tells me, not even stumbling over the word was. either she died when he was young or she isn't dead at all-- there is no loss in the weight of this fact. I don't ask about it, but I pocket the piece away for later.

"explains the chivalry." I joke. he frowns.

"sorry?"

"your manners."

"oh," he blushes slightly. "she's always romanticized it, I think."

the change in tense tells me she must not have passed. I run my fingertip over the rim of my drink.

"does she live back in Vegas?" I hope it isn't too invasive.

"yeah, she does," his eyes flit between the tabletop and my face. "she, um, lives in a sanitarium."

his willingness to confide this almost takes me visibly aback. he seemed so hesitant to share personal details earlier this evening; something in my chest warms.

"oh," my voice is thick in my throat. I don't know what to say. "I'm sorry."

"it's fine." it's not, but I get not wanting to dive into it.

my intentions really weren't to prod at something that obviously is close to his heart, so I sit a bit straighter in my seat and look around the shop. we're the last people here, the only other sounds from the two baristas and the whir of machinery.

"are you-- do you wanna head out?" I ask. part of me feels no desire to leave. we probably should. it's getting late and I never know how much sleep I'm going to get. the hours for this job aren't steady by any definition of the word.

"sure."

when my head turns back from peering around the café, he's staring at me. I smile, stand up and push my chair in. he follows, both of us throwing our empty cups away before heading out.

it's much colder. a slight shudder runs through my body as we step into the night. involuntary, but Spencer falters a moment on the pavement.

"uh," he clumsily shrugs off his cardigan. "sorry." hands the thing to me.

my cheeks flush in surprise. his awkwardness is contagious, apparently.

nevertheless, I wrap the thing around my shoulders and feel a little better. it's warm. we keep walking in silence back to the car, my head now filling with thoughts that I can't quite sift through.

he's a very nice boy. I start to feel grateful that my craving for caffeine has given me the opportunity to get to know him better. when I glance at him for a second, his head ducking beneath a low-hanging branch of one of the sidewalk trees, he catches me and offers a ghost of a smile.

baby spencer is such a sub I literally can't--

#spencer reid #matthew gray gubler #dr. reid #criminal minds #mgg #fanfic #fanfiction #wattpad #friends to lovers #BAU #slow burn

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lazaefair · 4 years

Text

Has anyone done the Disney Princess AU yet

Part 1 - written by me, @poemsingreenink, and @iwritesometimes

poemsingreenink: Like, if anyone has big, soft innocent eyes it's Marwan who I swear to god looks near happy tears in most intense scenes. I at one point during Aladdin in theaters thought "You know Jafar's maybe just not had a great life. He's really having a day here." BECAUSE OF HIS BIG SOFT EYES.

lazaefair: LUCA MARINELLI HIMSELF SAID IT

sarah: HOWWWWW DID HE EVEN GET CAST AS JAFAR LIKE THOSE ARE DISNEY PRINCESS EYES

lazaefair: I...I need somone to draw Joe in a Disney Princess dress

sarah: but WHICH PRINCESS i feel like belle's off the shoulder gold ballgown has promise

lazaefair: Ariel’s pink gown would really drive the point home, though Although you’re right, Belle is a literate, dreamy brunette who loves poetry, so she’s closer as an archetype

sarah: i'll be honest: i was mostly thinking of getting his shoulders nude

lazaefair: Nicky is Ariel. Big blue eyes, otherworldly, utterly uncivilized.

sarah: YES

So imagine: Prince Yusuf, who had a giant statue of himself gifted to him on his birthday, and who hates it because his best friend (and immortal general of the army) Andromache is NEVER GOING TO LET HIM LIVE IT DOWN.

Also imagine: feral merman siren Nicolò who bites off fishheads and communicates through weird clicking noises, when he’s not singing men to their deaths. He’s not one of those useless pretty koi mermaids, no. He’s a motherfucking creature of the deep. Lamp eyes that are used to distract fish prey. Claws and pale fins and an intense stare and fangs.

Now imagine: Prince Yusuf going overboard in the storm that hits his royal yacht. Struggling, swept away, half-drowned and losing hope fast when an unearthly song fills the air, low and sweet and compelling. He’s swimming towards the singing before he realizes it, delirious, until something closes around his ankle and drags him under. The thing under the water kills him quickly.

And then kills him again, when it doesn’t take. After the third killing, Nicolò’s on his way to being well and truly mystified (“Okay, don't panic. They all die eventually, maybe...maybe I’ll just need to do it again?”) and gives up after the fourth and fifth killing. He drags his (attempted) prey to a little sheltered island he knows about, kills it one last time just to make sure, and then watches, resigned, as the flesh heals up and the lungs push water out until it’s coughing its way back to undeniable life.

“You rescued me,” is the first thing Yusuf says to him. “Your song – it is the song of my heart. My soul.”

Nicolò...has no idea what to do with this, coughs awkwardly in reply, and leaves before he can think too hard about the warmth in his chest answering to the warmth in the human’s expressive, grateful eyes.

(He doesn’t tell Yusuf the truth about their bloody first meeting until years later. It’s too goddamn embarrassing, to be perfectly honest.)

Of course he comes back within a day, almost shamefully quickly. Unable to help being fascinated by this gorgeous, well-spoken, kind and generous human who cannot die. He starts bringing things to Yusuf: at first just fish, then interesting-shaped fragments of rock and coral, and then bits of treasure he’s collected over the years, just to hear what new poetic turn of phrase Yusuf will spout on the spot when he’s given something.

“...this is my family crest on this treasure chest, Nicolò. How strange.”

“It is the chest you said your great-great-grandfather lost,” Nicolò says, the words coming out dry and halting from long years of disuse. Watching Yusuf’s hands as he traces the elaborate lines engraved on the lid, now blurred with rust and coral.

“That’s amazing. Truly. I am at a loss for words,” Yusuf says, smiling.

“No, you aren’t,” Nicolò says, and keeps watching so he can see the moment when the smile turns into a laugh.

Another day, he brings to Yusuf what Booker had told him was called a ‘dinglehopper’ and was what humans used to keep their hair in order, as they did not have the ocean to spread it out like beautiful seaweed in the waves. Yusuf takes it, mouth twitching in a way that makes Nicolò doubt the accuracy of Booker’s explanation. Yet Yusuf does not correct him, but in fact solemnly thanks him before offering the dinglehopper back and asking him to help untangle his riot of curls.

And so it goes. Days pass. Fascination becomes infatuation, turns to desire and then into love, until neither can imagine living without the other, and yet—

Eventually, Nicolò has to give Yusuf up. The prince is too noble and good to just abandon his people indefinitely. And because Nicolò loves him, he goes out and once more lures a ship in with his song, but not to dash it to pieces on jagged rocks this time. He leads them to the island. Watches from a distance as the astonished shouting begins, then back-pounding hugs and joyous celebration as Yusuf boards the ship and sails away. Watches Yusuf turn back more than once to scan the beach, clearly looking for Nicolò, but Nicolò does not follow. Instead, he watches until the ship is lost to his sight and he cannot feel the ship’s current or smell, and then he dives deep and goes to visit Merrick.

Meanwhile, Yusuf arrives back at the capital, where his other best friend, Quỳnh (immortal admiral of the navy) feels terribly guilty about the prince going overboard on his birthday. Which is why she uncharacteristically doesn’t give him shit when he comes back babbling nonsense about mermaids. Or when he spends the next few weeks moping around, writing mermaid poetry and drawing mermaid pictures.

To be fair to him, the particular mermaid he sketches over and over does look pretty striking. Otherworldly and all that. Good cheekbones. Nice pearly scales. “Fucking...giant anglerfish eyes,” Quỳnh mutters while she and Andy look over the latest pile of sketches Yusuf’s left abandoned on a library table. “Our prince has been fucking bewitched by a fucking fish.”

“Mm,” Andy agrees.

So when Nicolò arrives at the palace one fine summer’s day – naked, his fangs smoothed away to look perfectly human, a giant emerald in one hand and a silver fork in the other – and walking, on legs, it causes a bit of an uproar.

“You still smell like the sea,” Yusuf says hoarsely into Nicolò’s neck, the two of them wrapped around each other as closely as two bodies can be.

“Oh, fuck,” Andy says, lowering her axe. Quỳnh looks more closely at the dirty naked wild man their prince is embracing as if his life depends on it. Angular face. Skin encrusted with salt. Absolutely enormous piercing blue eyes. Naked, did we mention naked.

“Oh, fuck,” Quỳnh says.

“You get them separated,” Andy says. “I’ll go...get them a bath.”

The price Nicolò paid for his new human shape:

His siren song.

His immortality.

What he gets in return:

Yusuf teaching him what a dinglehopper is actually called, and what humans actually use it for.

Yusuf teaching him how to read and write his native tongue, and a few other tongues besides.

Yusuf reading poetry to him or sketching next to him on long lazy afternoons in the gardens.

The immense pleasure of intimidating the fuck out of any remaining would-be suitors for Yusuf’s hand in marriage who are still hanging around the palace for some reason.

“I am Nicolò di Genova,” Nicolò replies to the marquis’s indignant demands – predator’s smile still frightening even without endless rows of needle-sharp teeth. “You have seven days to leave this place forever. Get your affairs in order.”

Friendship with Andy and Quỳnh.

“Holy shit. Did he just—”

“—stab the marquis with a fork, at dinner, in front of the entire court? Yep.”

“...”

“New best friend.”

“Obviously.”

Yusuf writing poetry about him and to him. Nicolò likes them all. He wouldn't know a good human poem from a bad human poem, but nothing Yusuf touches could be bad, so ergo it's good.

Sightseeing throughout the kingdom with Yusuf’s strong, gentle fingers twined around his.

Yusuf breathing blissful curses into Nicolò’s ear, exactly like he used to do on their island, as they move together on his enormous bed.

Yusuf. Yusuf. Yusuf.

(Booker is also there. He insisted on being turned human, too, and coming along to make sure Nicolò doesn’t totally fuck this up, but he’s really mainly there for the entertainment. And the booze. Andy asks him at one point about losing his immortality. He shrugs. “Look, if we die, we die,” he says, then offers Andy another pour of fine French brandy. The two of them get along famously.)

It’s all going great until one night on the beach, while they’re walking along hand-in-hand under the stars and idly discussing human and merfolk constellations. Someone approaches them, dressed splendidly and moving with arrogant grace. He is also angular, also fair-haired, also possessed of unsettling eyes. And he has Nicolò’s siren song, gently humming from the shell that adorns his neck.

“Merrick,” Nicolò hisses as Yusuf’s eyes grow glazed and blank, and he tightens his hand on Yusuf’s, afraid for the first time. “Our deal—”

“He can’t bear the idea of living forever without you, can he? And so he hasn’t proposed,” Merrick says, smiling cruelly. “You’ve missed your chance. He’s mine.” And he extends his hand out to Yusuf—

Who stirs, suddenly, and turns to Nicolò. “Limpid, or shimmering?”

“What?”

“Shimmering,” Yusuf decides, peering into Nicolò’s eyes. “Yes. Limpid would be too pretentious, I think.”

And that’s pretty much that – we don’t actually get the plot with Merrick the Sea Witch because Yusuf only has eyes for one weird-looking white guy. Also, his one artistic failing is that he's tone deaf.

They do eventually kill Merrick because true love wins out and we are all about those happy endings, Grimm’s can suck it, etcetera, so Nicolò gets his immortality and his siren song back. He’s also back to being a merman, but Yusuf does not care. “I could paint your beautiful tail for the rest of my life, my love, and still fail to capture the luminous iridescence of you,” he murmurs, stroking said tail with tender fingers. The last person to touch Nicolò’s tail got his hand bitten off. Here and now, Nicolò runs his claws through Yusuf’s hair, clicking deep and happy in his throat.

(“This is weird, right?” Quỳnh asks from where she and Andy are busy scraping evil kraken guts off their armor, a prudent distance down the beach from the lovers. “I’m not the only one who thinks it’s weird?”

Andy says nothing, just offers Quỳnh the rest of her bottle of vodka. This is why Quỳnh loves her so.)

(The wedding is a nightmare, at least according to the palace chef charged with cooking the wedding feast. “What is this, this, abomination? What in heaven’s name have you brought into my kitchen!”

“Tubeworm,” Booker says. “Considered a fine delicacy among our people. Don’t worry about it.”)

#the old guard #joe x nicky #immortal husbands #kaysanova #disney princess au #by lazaefair

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frostsinth · 3 years

Text

Laughing at Clouds - Commission One-Shot

This was a commission one-shot for the lovely @toocurly4me who requested a monster match based upon some information given. The request was set to modern day, and with a little info about what our MC is into, I was more than happy to write out a little something for them! I had fun writing this. It was nice to be in our own time for once, and I love seeing our monsters out and about with the rest of us!

Want your own commission? I have a few slots left open. Check out my post HERE for details, or DM me directly. You can also BuyMeACoffe while you peruse my other ramblings on my MasterList

All the best and enjoy!

It was a rainy day on campus, with the cold biting chill of the morning lingering in each droplet that beat against the navy fabric of her school sweatshirt. The forecast hadn’t said anything about rain today. The storm felt like it had come out of nowhere. Hell, it was nearly the middle of winter! If the weather was going to do anything unpredictable, it should be snowing! Then she wouldn’t be caught so horribly unprepared; it would have been easier to brush off soft powder instead of soaking up the ice cold water into every inch of fabric on her body and plastering it to her small form. Until she was completely miserable, and pretty certain her dark skin would have a distinctive blue tint to it from her sweater’s dye bleeding into it.

But there had been nothing for it. Attempting to wait out the worst of the storm in the back of the science building where she had snuck in to view the new zoology exhibit had led to the downpour only getting heavier. And she had that end of term paper due the day after tomorrow. There was no way she could waste another minute lingering beneath those flickering lights. It was only a ten minute walk. How drenched could she possibly get in ten minutes?

The answer was “very”. “Soaked to the bone” also seemed a much more concrete and visceral description to her now than it ever had before in her life. And the young woman wasn’t even sure if she was even still headed in the right direction anymore. Three years on campus had imprinted the memory of the sidewalks of the commons into her mind's eye, but the rain was driving down sideways now, and she had bowed her head and pulled her hood as low as she could over her thick braids to keep it from smacking her in the face.

So she had a lovely view of her grey and black striped boots right when she hit something far more solid than the sheets of rain.

Her center of gravity forcibly shifted, a soft squeak escaping from between her lips before she could even process the fact that her feet were trying to continue forward even as her upper body fell backwards.

Just before she completely lost her balance, she felt something strong and firm catch hold of her flailing arm. Stubbornly denying the will of gravity.

“Hey, woah! Watch out!” Came the cry, the smoky sounding voice muffled by the pounding rain.

But it seemed to no avail. She was going down, and now whoever was the owner of the voice would be coming with her. The young woman toppled backwards, catching the majority of the impact on her bottom before toppling the rest of the way to her back. The icy cold puddles on the sidewalk splashed up about her in a stumpy wave almost comically. Or at least, it would have been comical, had another form not fallen pretty much directly on top of her as well.

Her lips sputtered for air momentarily, stuck somewhere between the weight of the stranger’s body forcing the air from her lungs and the pouring rain making her feel as though she were halfway underwater. She flailed her arms about, gasping in surprise as she tried to get her bearings.

Her progress was impeded by the person currently flailing about themselves as they tried to find solid ground. The full realization of her predicament had her face flushing dark, and she managed to sink her palms into the puddles on either side of her and start to prop herself up. Feeling the water thoroughly soak into the seat and back of her worn jeans as she did.

Her would-be rescuer slash the instigator of all her woes managed to get to their feet first, and she found a hand extended into her line of sight. Dark brown eyes darted up, blinking through the rivers of rain streaming down her face that seemed to pool at the ends of her long lashes. The first thing that cleared the mists beyond the tip of her nose was a set of sharp, sparkling white teeth bared in a sheepish smirk above her. The young woman reached up in a daze, and found her forearm caught in his offered hand. She could barely make him out through the thick turrets, but as he leaned back to help tug her to her feet, she was very aware of the fact that he was not human. Not that she could really tell much else amid the pouring rain. The man was about her height, perhaps shy an inch or two, and that was about the extent of her analysis at the moment. That, and those glitteringly sharp teeth he shot her once more. She couldn’t help but stare a little in surprise even as she got her feet back under her.

It certainly was not entirely out of the scope of possibility. Her university was one of the most diverse in the area. But still, having come from the middle of bumfuck nowhere, and coupled with the fact that she tended to avoid the more crowded aspects of college life in favor of quieter, more solitary activities, the young woman was always a little surprised at first to run into any of the non-human students of the campus. In this case, she was being quite literal about the “running into” part.

“Sorry!” He exclaimed as loudly as he dared, having to raise his voice to be heard over the din of the rain. “I wasn’t looking where I was going!”

Under any other circumstances, she would have laughed as she fished for her soaked hood. “Me neither, I’m sorry too!” She replied quickly, eager to be on her way and out of the downpour. She cast an eye about, and realized she must have turned right at the fork instead of left. She was going completely the wrong direction, which would mean even longer out in the icy grip of the storm. She shivered at the thought.

He seemed to be looking about as well, and reached for what appeared to be an umbrella that had been lost to the side of the path in the scuffle. As he scooped it into hand and turned it right side up, she gave a shriek of surprise which matched his own yelp as a fresh bucket of water fell on both of them.

“Aw, fuck!” He shouted, jumping a little. “Damnit! Fuck, I’m so sorry!”

Now freshly soaked and feeling like a drowned cat, she looked at him. Her arms wrapped around her shivering body, her thick hair plastered to her face and neck. He moved to hold the umbrella high over the both of them, again returning her bewildered stare with another sheepish look. He managed to reduce the rain’s assault on the tops of their heads at least, save for a few errant drips, but increasing its pounding crescendo tenfold in their ears as it pounded against the top of the umbrella instead.

“Look, my place is just there,” He told her, pointing to one of the scraggily buildings repurposed for dorms a few yards down the road, “Come on, it’s fucking cold out here. We’ll catch our deaths.”

She glanced over at the building, still shivering, and opened her mouth to reply. Quite before she could, she found his arm scooped in hers. Steering her the few yards to the creaky iron gate and up to the door. She was far too surprised to object.

Once on the covered porch, he released her arm, then shook the excess water from his umbrella and turned to look back over the drenched campus behind them.

“Gods above, what a dreadful day.�� He grumbled before turning to face her properly. “I’m sorry I knocked you over…. And then dumped water on you…” He cocked his head to the side, smirking grin returning to his face, “And then proceeded to kidnap you. Let me make it up to you, yeah?”

The woman blinked at him stupidly a few times, finally able to take him in from head to toe without the rain impeding her line of sight.

He was slender built, with an athletic form currently generously framed by the way his drenched clothes stuck to him like spandex. Water dripped from the tip of a long slender nose, and his eyebrows arched in the center of an over pronounced brow as he looked at her. It was impossible to tell what color his hair was normally, as it was several shades darker now with water dripping from the spikey tips that were currently flattened to the top of his head. She ventured to guess it was probably a copper brown, and he seemed to have the sides shaved stylishly short while the top was wild and long. Long enough to possibly braid down the back of his slightly oversized head she imagined, should he so choose. He also boasted a pair of large ears, nearly as wide as her palm where they connected to the side of his skull, but then tapering into a broad but slightly rounded point a few inches beyond. The tips were loose, and shifted with his features as he talked. As expressive as his wry lips, which curled back into that sheepish smirk as she watched. She would also venture to guess that he was a deep, mottled green, though in the dim light of the morning it was hard to tell the exact shade, and she imagined he might be a fair bit paler from the cold.

The goblin cocked his head back to the side under her inspection, perhaps used to such staring, and offered out his hand “I’m Jaco, by the way.”

“Uh... “ She realized her mouth was dropped open a bit, and quickly endeavored to close it. Reaching out to carefully take his hand in hers. But as she met his bright yellow eyes… the knowledge of her own name suddenly fled her. “Oh.. I’m… Um…”

His brow raised quizzically. “... Ah, Are you alrig-”

“Rachelle!” She blurted quickly, then cleared her throat embarrassedly. “... I’m Rachelle…”

That sheepish grin returned, and his eyes glinted mischievously. “... Perhaps you hit your head when we fell?” He offered, almost as if he could read the loud hum that seemed to be currently filling her cranium. Though it certainly wasn’t from falling. Well… not the fall he meant at least...

She did laugh now, releasing his hand bashfully and pushing the loose strands of her sopping hair out of her face. “Something like that…”

“Sorry again about all that... “ He shuffled his feet, clearing his own throat and sneaking a peak up at her. “Can I make it up to you? Perhaps some tea or coffee? Or maybe hot chocolate, if you’ve got a sweet tooth?”

Rachelle gave a hefty sigh, shaking her head. “I really shouldn’t, I’ve got a term paper due that I haven’t even started-”

“Well, you won’t be able to start until you get dry, right?” He interrupted. “Why not dry off and warm up over some cocoa with some company?”

Her face blazed hot again, and she sheepishly rubbed at the back of her neck. “I’d just get wet again.” She pointed out with a small smile.

“I’ll escort you back, if you want.” He offered. “Or you can take my umbrella; I’ll enchant it this time so you won’t get a drop on you.” Her eyes lit up at the word ‘enchant’, and the goblin eagerly latched on. “I’m here studying enchantments.” He explained. “Working on my thesis actually, in thermopartical magicks and their effect on…” He dropped off, looking a little embarrassed at the sudden gush of enthusiasm for an obviously favored topic “... Ah, I don’t want to bore you with the science-”

“No, it’s not boring at all!” She returned quickly, almost bouncing on her toes in excitement. “I’ve always wanted to learn more about magic, but humans aren’t allowed to study the Application field, only research and historical.”

His sharp toothed grin grew to reach almost to his ears. “I am certainly not above showing off with a few magic tricks for a beautiful woman.” He teased, and his ears flopped as he cocked his head to one side. “Especially if it makes her eyes sparkle like that when I do.”

She nearly toppled over as her head spun at his words. A shy laugh petered from her lips, and she shuffled her feet. But she couldn’t completely hide the embarrassed smile that slipped across her lips. Jaco waited a moment, then bowed his shoulders, trying to catch her eye.

“... Can I tempt you again with the hot cocoa, Rachelle?”

She grinned again, looking up at him coyly. “... I could probably be convinced.”

He returned the smile, and reached for the handle of his door, bowing melodramatically at the waist as he opened it for her. She couldn’t help another laugh, and moved to step around him. As she did, her foot slipped on the old wooden boards of the porch, having spent the last few minutes becoming horribly slick with the water dripping in streams off their clothes. She gave another squeal, and felt herself sliding backwards for the second time that day. This time, Jaco reacted quicker, and his arm snaked out, catching her and lending his strength as she gathered her feet beneath her once more.

However, the motion brought him perilously close to her, and both of their eyes widened slightly at their sudden proximity. A hesitant silence filled the air, punctuated only by the drumming rhythm of the rain around them. Her breath caught and fluttered about in her throat, her heart skipped sporadically in her chest. He smelled of rain right now, but there was also the distinct hint of something spicy beneath it… cinnamon maybe? The realization that he was close enough to distinguish that made the balls of her cheeks grow hot despite the chilly morning air.

She couldn’t help her eyes darting down to his thin lips. Which curled into a smile as she did. Rachelle quickly corrected her gaze, meeting his yellow eyes with dark pools of velvet brown.

“Don’t let me stray down that train of thought,” He warned her lightly, his voice teasing and soft, “I’m trying to be a gentleman. Cocoa and an enchanted umbrella seem more than sufficient for a good first impression, no?”

She straightened a little more, and realized his three fingered hand had lingered in the small of her back. “Oh?” She managed after a shallow little wisp of a breath. “And I suppose a gentleman wouldn’t kiss a woman they’ve just met?”

She meant it to sound teasing and light, but his sharp yellow eyes danced at the sound of her voice. She caught him sneaking a peak at her full lips and they tingled under his scrutiny. She chased a nervous breath down her throat with a quiet swallow.

“I suppose they might. But the problem is,” He purred, leaning a little closer, “If I kissed you now, I don’t know if I’d be able to stop...”

#monster lover #monster fluff #monster x human #goblin lover #goblin boyfriend #modern monster #terato #exophilia #soft stuff #one shot #citrus #monster romance

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boop-le-snoot · 3 years

Text

masterpost • main masterlist • taglist & faq

previously on...

Chapter 1! Reader's job has no chill and Wanda means well (Tony does too), but, as we know, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Reader discovers the source of some peculiar things and can't help but be overcome with curiosity. F-bombs galore!

Fun fact: this story's main soundtrack is Claire de Lune, for some reason. Usually I can't stand classical music.

I didn't anticipate my first day at the bodega to be remarkful in any way but I was quickly proven wrong. My expectations were low: few customers, some of them flat-earthers of the garden variety, perhaps one or two of those 'witches' from social media blogging platforms and an overzealous Satanist or two, since I was pretty sure I saw an Ouija board and a silver pentagram hanging in Odette's office on the day of the interview.

Boy was I wrong.

We averaged a customer every fifteen minutes with each person requesting increasingly strange items: healing quartz and sage were on the closer end of normal; I felt like I had teleported to Hogwarts and was now attending Professor Snape's Advanced Potions class, having to race between the high shelves and memorize the exact location of each and every ingredient. In the end, I sacrificed a few dollars and bought one of the beautiful, leather-bound notebooks off Odette to write down the shelf and position number for the most commonly requested items and planned to begin memorizing them at home.

There's a little bit of Ravenclaw in all of us, I supposed. My curiosity only extended further: sometimes, a haggard looking person would come up and declare they had an appointment with Odette and was quickly whisked away by my boss to her office, coming out looking slightly less haggard in about half an hour or so.

I adapted to the routine fairly quickly, choosing to make my personal peace with the strange customers and Odette's mysterious meetings: after all, I got the job because I needed money - who was I to judge her for doing Tarot readings and spiritual séances for an extra dollar?

The bodega's atmosphere did grow on me rather quickly, as I had thought it would. It was warm and homely even on the rainiest afternoons, there was an unlimited supply of herbal tea, free of charge, and I grew to appreciate it just like I learned to find the positives in my job at the café. That remained a constant, mildly interesting affair too - my regulars, especially the superheroes, had started coming in during the morning hours and we were able to resume our chit-chats without a hitch.

Wanda still fished for my most recent, memorable reading and Dr. Banner left his incomprehensible scribbles on every napkin within an arm's reach for me to return to him on his next visit. The fully grown man with multiple PhDs didn't fail to blush like a schoolgirl every single time it happened, causing Mr. Stark to double on his own salacious jokes, should the engineer have had come with. They often came together, blabbering things I couldn't even fathom understanding even with the help of Google.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Wanda sounded surprisingly chipper for it was freaking seven in the morning.

I blanched, banging my arm against the display door painfully with a softly muttered, "Fuck!".

The witch frowned. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I muttered, hoping my face wasn't portraying the mixture of confusion and fear that I felt. "Something weird happened at my other job yesterday, I'm still processing," I replied honestly, looking to the side.

In fairness, I didn't know what to think. The situation wasn't something that should have shocked me, with aliens and magic people an abundance in NYC, but seeing it with my own two eyes had been jarring.

A limping, paranoid young man had arrived for an appointment with Odette shortly before closing time; I had escorted him to her office without as much as a blink, only noticing he was dripping oddly colored blood when the door behind him had closed. I cleaned it up, dead set on confronting Odette about the obviously injured person - the blood, it was more of an attempt to clean it, since it merely stuck to the rag, refusing to wash off it with water or any of the organic cleaning solutions kept under the sink.

I had to leave the rag in a paper bag, acutely aware of the fact it could not have belonged to a normal person. My best guess was that a man was a mutant - NYC had plenty of them living behind a blue wall. Odette's office wasn't soundproof: I heard a pained yelp and then a vocalisation of relief as whatever was causing the man to bleed had been removed. In a few minutes while I was closing the cash register, he came out looking almost brand new - and as I paid him a more careful look, he was missing his scleras, leaving his eyes to look slightly terrifying.

And then he winked at me, a surprisingly human, boyish gesture - the smile that crawled up my face was purely automatic. I was sure it looked frozen. He disappeared without a word as Odette herself emerged from the backrooms, a tired sheen to her brow.

"Did you manage to clean up?" She asked, eyebrows raised at the lack of stains on the hardwood floors.

"It stuck to the rag," I replied, eyeing her warily. "The rag is in the unmarked bag next to the sink. I didn't know what else to do with it."

"Sometimes it does that," her sigh was very telling. This was to be expected to become a regular occurrence. She motioned for the notebook I got to keep track of everything in the store, rattling off a recipe for a cleaner and solvent combo, made purely from the items she had inside the store, giving me stern instructions to add the ingredients in the exact order I was told. I sighed but added the footnote. Odette was a far cry from the greasy git from Hogwarts so she deserved the benefit of the doubt at least.

I didn't dare to ask any more questions about the strange man; not that day, not after I had suprised Wanda with a quick recap of my story. It's not like I had anything against mutants - as long as they were peaceful and didn't harm humans with their abilities, I was content to co-habit, share my space and even be friends with them. A very nice old lady who came by three times a week had gills peeking out of the top of her turtleneck and she was just the most polite, sweetest thing.

Wanda's curiosity was understandable and not suspicious in any way: I was under the impression she was a mutant, too, along with her twin brother - so the feeling of dread that blossomed within me as soon as the two suited figures entered the small store I attributed to the larger size of the man and vulture eyes of the woman. They both appeared extremely out of place with their black two-pieces and badly hidden pistol holsters, topped off with badges I couldn't take a good look at without losing my customer service facade.

I decided to play it dumb, self-conscious of the thudding of my heart in my ribcage. My body screamed 'danger' at me. "Hello, how can I help you?"

The woman cast an observant look over me, my plain clothes, lingering on my star-patterned scarf and matching hair band. "Are you the owner of this store?"

"No," I frowned, not liking where this was going. "Do you have an appointment with Odette?"

"We'd like to see her," the man pointedly moved his arm, exposing the gun and the badge.

I dropped the nice act, staring him down in earnest. I never liked self-righteous, pushy government officials; even less so, when they didn't follow protocol and started the conversation with demands instead of proper introductions. As I shot a quick text to Odette, noting that there were 'strange people in uniform' looking for her, my suspicions were only confirmed when the woman looked around the store with eyes that knew what they were looking for. Those two definitely weren't cops or even feds, they were straight up shady.

Odette all but flew to the bodega, the imposing, suffocating aura I'd seen only once on full display. It was hard to breathe standing so close to her; with muted satisfaction, I noticed both agents squirm, their fingers twitching, as they took in shuddering inhales through their, undoubtedly, lying mouths.

The whole spectacle was over quickly. I had managed to serve and quickly usher out Ike, one of the Satanists (yes, we did, in fact, have a few of those as regulars) with his paper bag full of powdered goat horn and a fresh cat skull under his armpit before the curtains parted and the two agents left without saying a word. I thought their eyes looked - wrong, like glass marbles, dull, lifeless and unseeing.

Odette dismissed my worries with a frivolously waved hand: "They won't be bothering us anytime soon," closing the door to her office - it reeked of strong incense and horseradish, for some reason. Like she'd been making some hell salad in front of the two nosy officials.

I took a deep breath in and then a deep breath out. The weirdness should've bothered me more, I knew, but I couldn't bring myself to decide whether I wanted to know what that interaction was actually about or live in blissful ignorance, where my boss might be some sort of a mutant or an actual witch that helps other mutants.

The longer I thought about it, the louder anti-mutant propaganda articles screamed at me: children being killed or abandoned because one day, they woke up and could fly or move things with their mind; every potential situation could end up like Carrie or Brightburn - two movies so blatantly obvious in their point to instill fear against children that could grow to work alongside Earth's Mightiest Defenders.

Needless to say, my conscious calmed down pretty quickly. I had felt the hairs on my nape stand up as soon as the agents entered the room and in my experience, a reaction like that was never good. I had been taught to trust my gut.

Odette had cancelled her visits for the day, holing up in her office as the whole store rapidly filled up with the stench of horseradish, old blood and sage. The occasional noise came from the office, interrupted by mumbling, and I was quickly told to just turn up the old, vintage radio if it bothered me.

I was too busy taking in the contents of her office - the table that previously stood in the far end of it, stood in the middle, folded out into the shape of a circle. Something was drawn on it, something the color of dried blood, and there were light candles, white and blue, littered on almost every possible surface. The air was clouded with incense smoke, so thick, it made my eyes water.

Odette's grin was sardonic as she met my eyes, wide and shocked, that had previously landed on what looked like a pot- or a cauldron, emanating the strongest bitter stench that wafted even through the lead curtain of incense. No wonder the whole store reeked.

Before she gently shut the door in my face, I caught the centerfold of the whole show - an extremely large, tattered, leatherbound tome with yellowed pages and a heavy metal padlock laying next to it. Overcome by stupor, I didn't manage to make out the intricate silver letters on its cover.

Needless to say, walking home that day was an adventure. In part, I was cautious that the agents would find me, follow me home, interrogate me - I've never been arrested even by usual cops and it was unlikely that shady government agencies were delicate in their approach. A larger part of my brain was wondering about the implications of what I had seen, I'd nearly chewed off my fingernails remembering the vacant, lost face expressions on the agents' faces.

As soon as I got home, I set to do some serious googling. And find information, I did. Plethora of minor details - candle colors, herbs used, deeply individual incantations and mythical deities that chose to work with a particular witch. It was nothing short of a whole science; I'd go as far as to say it was a complete lifestyle. The use of magick bled into every aspect of daily life, from sleep to food to communication with others.

Part of me felt incredulity at the implication of sacrificing so much to get results that might be the opposite of the ones desired. A larger, braver part of me - the very same that used to push me to explore abandoned buildings with my friends and drink booze given by a stranger - admired the work and the dedication my boss and her kind put into their work.

Having received my first paycheck and successfully having made it through rent day without having to make excuses, my conscious allowed me to treat myself to a few items - I decided to give into my curiosity and placed an order for a few books on modern witchcraft, happily waiting for the package to arrive next afternoon. I went to sleep with my head full and a new world at my feet to explore.

The books were late - or more like, never showed. The refund couldn't come soon enough. My curiosity began to reach unbearable levels the longer I worked the front desk at Odette's. These days I didn't need much assistance anymore, ready to help any new or returning customer with the help of my notebook. Time after time, I noticed a certain working order, a pattern to things if you may - and was able to recommend a few things here and there. In short, I stepped over my initial apprehension and dove into the world of natural remedies and energetic manipulation headfirst.

It made all the sense that Odette would start to take absence from the bodega as my training progressed. On the days she had fewer or no appointments, she would don her favourite scarf and trot out the front door, large purse in tow, to run errands or restock on the rare, pricy items that couldn't get delivered directly to the shop. I'd grown accustomed to locking up on my own; the spare key to the entrance door was my pride and joy, the dull silver a warm comfort hanging on a chain around my neck. Its antique design made a fairly pretty necklace.

The customer coming to pick up a special order hardly disrupted my time. I had Janis Joplin blaring from the old radio, my skirt swayed to the rhythm of the song together with me. The elevated mood while working in the shop was something I appreciated fully - with a kind smile, I departed for the backrooms to search for the package with the customer's name, not finding it anywhere near the proper place. A call later, I was opening Odette's office and extracting the paper-wrapped shoebox from the fridge, passing it into the customer's arms with utmost care: 'FRAGILE. KEEP REFRIGERATED AT ALL TIMES.' read on it in Odette's sharp cursive.

The bell above the door rang as the woman departed but I was already inching behind the curtain, overcome by sudden inquisitiveness.

The book. It stood right in the middle of Odette's desk, shut, but missing its padlock, beckoning with the thick gothic letters spelling out 'PRACTICAL ALCHEMY'. I noticed it as soon as I stepped into the office, confused and puzzled by my own unbearable desire to approach it immediately. I knew something was amiss, yet, my legs had a mind of their own and my hands firmly placed themselves upon the heavy cover of the book, seemingly without the input from my brain.

"What the hell..." I muttered to myself, finding the books contents to be - for the lack of a better word - peculiar. "Protect a babe born on all Hallows Eve..." I numbly mouthed the first words that my eyes registered. The pages made a soft noise as my shaking fingers turned them, one after the other. "Bestow healing upon a barren womb... Punish a thief..." There were - spells, and potions, and so many plants I've never even heard about before.

The pages turned and handwritings changed - at the start, words were written out precisely, the cursive neat and sharp, obviously written by an ink pen. Some things were scribbles, pencil or charcoal, so barely intelligible I had to guess about a third of the words written. Towards the end of the book pages made with a typewriter appeared - blocky letters and numbers, language modern, ash and cigarette smell coming from the paper.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The longer my hands touched the pages, the stronger the tingling sensation became - I failed to notice it at first, attributing it to the exhilaration of finding something so strange yet so precious, but as I was finishing a page that contained a fairly short spell for protection of a witches' home, the discomfort of my palms rose into a mild stinging pain.

"Fuck," I yelped, casting a look at my fingers. They were hot, angry, as if I had briefly touched boiling oil - and the skin on my fingertips began to blister, little white pustules forming where I had gingerly held the pages of the book in place. "What the fuck?" Was my reasonable question to nobody in particular.

The books contents were, no doubt, interesting but I was more concerned with the state of my hands - had I ignored the pain for five more minutes, I might have had to go to the hospital to treat what was beginning to look like a second-degree burn. I slammed it shut none-too-gently, placing it exactly as I found it and winced when barely a second of touching it brought on more excruciating pain.

The healing peppermint oil salve I knew people bought for mild burns only soothed the initial sting, so I had to suffer until I clocked out, stopping by a drugstore on my way home to purchase some much-needed burn cream. And while it didn't make it worse, I knew that my next day at work was going to be Hell.

Most thankful, however, I was to my voice-to-text option on my cell. Not only it allowed me to communicate with my friends without hurting my abused skin even more, but it also dutifully saved the short, simple spell that was supposed to protect my house. There was no harm in trying it, I supposed, after seeing what I didn't doubt was the book's own protection wreak havoc on my snoopy little hands.

The tag list is open until the story is finished.

@couldntbedamned @mikariell95 @letsby @sleep-i-ness @toomanyrobins @mostly-marvel-musings @persephonehemingway @schemefrenzy @lillsxd @bluecrazedandbeautiful @slothspaghettiwrites

#bun writes #practical alchemy #tony stark x reader x stephen strange #tony stark x reader #stephen strange x reader #stephen strange x y/n #tony stark x y/n #Stephen Strange x you #Tony Stark x you

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