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fangirlingincamouflage · 6 years

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Blind Hope Chapter 1

Title: Blind Hope Author: Rosie Dayze Word Count: 2299 Pairing: Nick Jakoby x Reader Rating: PG-13 Themes: Angst, Plot, affectionate frustration Disclaimer: I do not own Nick Jakoby, he is the intellectual property of Netflix Originals. I make no money from this fanfiction.

Authors Note: This was supposed to be like...five hundred words. I don’t know what happened, but here you go. I put in a break so that this didn’t take up anyones feed too much. Also, sorry I got so moody with this. It had a bad anxiety day.

You are engrossed in work when you hear someone call your name. By the sound of it, it isn't the first time they've tried getting your attention. You look up from your desk and see a courier in a red and blue uniform holding up a bouquet that can only be described as extravagant. Roses of every available color mingle with babies breath and other, smaller flowers that you don't know the names of.

“If you could...just sign here?” The courier is doing their best to sound professional, but you get the feeling that the flowers are heavy and there are other delivers to make. Stunned, you sign for the flowers. Relieved, the courier puts them on your desk and absconds.

Transfixed, you run your finger across one of a petal so dark blue it's nearly purple. It's like dewy satin beneath your touch. The bloom opens and a soft floral scent fills the room. It brings with it a gentle, silvery chime. These aren't just flowers, you realize, they are elven roses. They'll continue to bloom for a whole year, maybe longer with a bit of care, and they carry song as well as scent.

They are also, ridiculously expensive.

“What...on earth?” June's voice cuts through your reverie. Bashfully you whirl around, hoping against hope that you can block out the sight of your unexpected gift. “I...uhm...” But June's already there, manicured fingers on her lemon yellow hips. You decided long ago that June was pretty much the most beautiful woman to ever walk the earth. An amalgam of American genetics mingled with a dash of magic gave her rich brown skin and hazel eyes and hair so dark and curly that the sun could get lost in it. Her eyes narrow and then go wide “Are those what I think they are?” she asks in a voice made for radio. “Maybe?” She rolls her eyes and skims past you. Gentle as can be she bends to a blossom that matches her outfit and takes a deep whiff. Her lips, glossy and bright, curl into a cat like smile. “Entarnian,” she says in perfect elfish. The tiniest points in her ears, nearly invisible beneath the wealth of her hair, belie a distant heritage. “Oh, sweetie, these are incredible.” You assumed as much, but getting June's stamp of approval means that these flowers are pretty much exactly as expensive as you thought they were. “I was afraid of that.” June blinks. “Afraid? Why?” She pulls away from the arrangement. “Who are they from?” You bite your lip. Honestly, you aren't sure. You've been on a lot of dates in the past few months, and only one of them went well. No, you admit, it was perfect. Sure, it was just dinner, and a walk, but you'd really felt something. You thought he had too, but then he didn't call. He didn't text. It's been nine days since you heard anything from Nick Jaokby and you are pretty sure you aren't going to hear from him ever again. At first you were angry about it. Now you're just confused. “I don't know. I went on a date with that banker last night.” June's nose wrinkled. “The thrice-divorced? Oh...sweetie.” You shrug. You hadn't really wanted to go on the date either, but you had hoped that dinner and a show would pull you out of this five day funk you've been feeling. It hadn't. Mr. Peter Prescott was pretty much everything you dislike in a potential partner. It wasn't his looks, those were plastic perfect, it was everything else about him. He'd spent the first ten minutes of your date demanding to know if you'd even slept with an elf and it had pretty much gone downhill from there. You desperately hope that the flowers aren't from him, but they seem like exactly the kind of thing he might send in the hopes of guilting you into a second date. The very thought of it makes your stomach turn sour. “I don't know,” you repeat. “Well, only one way to find out.” Quick as a lash June's hand dives into the greenery. The roses chime merrily, creating a delicate music. Moments later her hand reappears, clutching a tiny, pink card between her fingers. “There we are.” You see your name written in hurried script. It's not the fine, practiced hand of a florist, but there is something charming about it all the same. June passes it to you. “Open it.” You raise your brow. “You aren't the boss of me.” It's not true, and you both know it. June, who is your best friend, is also your direct superior. She just crosses her arms and gives you a long, deadpan look. “Alright, alright.” You tug at the envelope flap and a little card spills out. It's not particularly large, but you think it's bigger than the average floral notecard. You hesitate to open it. Right now the note, and the flowers, could be from anyone. Right now they are Schrodinger's flowers, and you kind of like them that way. Perhaps someone from your family is celebrating, and everyone you are related to got a bunch of overpriced, musical flowers. Maybe they are from a secret admirer who is practically perfect in every way. Maybe...just maybe they are from who you'd really like them to be from. You don't even realize you are holding your breath when you open the card. I wanted to say I'm sorry The note begins. Your heart gives a hopeful leap. Ward told me that I wasn't supposed to call for three days or I'd look stupid. I looked stupid anyway because I broke my phone when putting my warbag into my locker. I didn't know how to say I'm sorry. Ward said to send flowers. I didn't know what kind. I hope these are okay. At the very bottom of the card, hastily scrawled in what little space was left, is a phone number. “Well now. That explains it.” You bite your lip. You want to believe it. You really do but there is that tiny, ugly voice in the back of your head screaming at the top of its anxiety crafted lungs that breaking a phone doesn't delete all the information. He could have found another way to get your number. Right? And yet, maybe he couldn't. Or maybe he was nervous. Or maybe... “Stop it,” June says. You look up from the card. “Stop what?” “Stop thinking whatever you are thinking that's putting that look in your eyes.” You close the card. “What look?” “The one that says you are going to overthink whatever that card says until you make yourself sick.” Gingerly she plucks the card from your grasp. You let her take it. As she reads it her lips curve. Her eyes go bright. “Awww!” You roll your eyes; part amused, part annoyed. You wish that you had the same reaction. You wish the only thing you felt was the sweet joy that is practically beaming out of June's demielf eyes. “He could have called you, could have gotten my number all over again like he did before.” June's smile wilts. “Don't do this.” She sighs and deposits the note on your desk. “I am begging you not to do this.” “Do what?” You cross your arms. The turmoil of emotions that's been stirring in you for nine days bubbles up inside your chest. “Not take what some guy I went on one date with says happened?” “Nick isn't just 'some guy' and you know it.” “I had a four hour conversation with him.” You aren't sure if you are telling her or yourself. “I was a nice conversation, but that's all it was.” She narrows her eyes at you. June, despite being no more than two months older than you, has this amazing mom expression. Its that particular mix of I-care-about-you and you're-being-dumb that only the most nurturing of people can master without even trying. She crosses on Jimmy Choo clad foot over the other and takes in a slow breath. “Call him.” “What?” “I know you are already talking yourself out of it. You are already coming up with seven different excuses of why it can wait until later.” “I'm working.” You point at your desk. “No you aren't. You are officially on break.” “I already-” “I swear to god if you don't call him I will fire you.” You return her direct look with one of your own. “No you wont.” She sighs. Her shoulders drop an inch or so. She reaches behind her and picks up the card. “You're right. Bluff called. But darling, I love you nearly as much as I love my wife and I am telling you that by second guessing and overthinking you are going to do nothing but hurt yourself.” She presses the card to your hands. “You don't have to call him right now. Take what time you think you need but please, I'm begging you.” She touches a single finger to your forehead. “Stop thinking the worst of people.” She squeezes your shoulder, and walks away to leave you with your own thoughts. You don't think the worst of people, honestly. You just know that sometimes people are the absolute worst. Some more than others. It's printed clearly on the front page of newspapers, emblazoned across social media. It's all there, plain as day. You aren't Nick, you aren't sure that everyone is just trying their best. Your thoughts come to a crash behind your eyes. Nick. The memory of him saying those words with the fervent tone of a true believer rolls through you. He said it so honestly, with such genuine hope that you found yourself looking at the world a little differently. You started to notice things, nice things. At least for the first few days. Then he hadn't called and you'd stopped looking. You sigh to yourself. So what. So he didn't call. It was only nine days, not the totality of your existence. Nine days was nothing. Even so, that ugly voice wont shut up. You spend the rest of the day at your desk. At five o'clock you gather up your things, including the flowers and take the trolly home. You stop at your favorite deli and pick up a sandwich for dinner. You give half of it to the little old lady who lives in the apartment next to you. She comments on your flowers, asks about who sent them. You give a vague “oh, no one” answer before retreating to the sanctuary of your apartment. You read and reread the note a thousand times. You come up with worst case scenarios and fairy tale solutions. You binge watch a television show and think about adopting a pet. You eat your sandwich. You smell the roses. “Damnit,” you mutter as you pick up your phone. You dial the first four numbers and then erase them. You dial the first five and erase those two. You toss your phone down and pull your laptop into your lap so you can look at pet adoption sites and social media pages. The sandiwch in your belly starts to feel like lead. If it had been someone else you might have been amused, maybe flattered, But this wasn't someone else. This was Nick Jakoby. You spent four hours in his company and started to see the whole world differently. You saw more kindness and hope than you ever expected to. You saw a glimpse of what it might have been like to see things the way you think he does. And then he didn't call. Oh, you'd think about calling him. You'd even picked up the phone. He'd said that he'd get in touch with you and you had believed him. After all the liars and the idiots and the buffoons and thrice divorced bankers you had wholehartedly believed him. You had believed he'd want to see you. That you would wake up and there would be text asking you for coffee, or something later asking if you wanted to go for another walk. But nothing had happened. One day turned into two, and two had turned into nine and by the end of it all you hated him for not keeping his promise. But more than that you'd hated yourself for not sucking down your own anxiety and reaching out to him first. “Damnit,” you snarl and pick up the phone. Before you can stop yourself you are jabbing his number into your phone hard enough to make the screen rainbow. Ring This is dumb, you tell yourself. You are in a bad mood. You should not call him right now. You should hang up. Wait for your mood to settle. June is right. You overthink things. You drag yourself down. You let your hope for the best get drowned out by your expectancy of the worst. Ring What are you even going to say if he picks up? That you've missed him? It'd be the truth. You have missed him. But that's not the point. Maybe you should tell him you are angry that you haven't heard from him. You've been worried. That would be true too. But is it the whole truth? Nothing but? Ring The call connects with a brief click and smoke sound. The first thing you hear is his breath, a sharp intake of air that sounds hopeful. He says your name like a prayer. You sag against your couch, pull a pillow into your lap and push your phone harder against your ear like that can somehow bring him closer. “Nick?” you ask. “I am so glad you called.” He says it the way he says everything. Like he means it. “I am too.”

Chapter 2 Found Here

#Fanfiction #nick jakoby #bright movie #Bright fanfiction #youfic

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astoryisaloveaffair · 3 years

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Fix You - Chapter 3: Rattled Over You

Fic Masterlist

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Fem!Reader

Read on A03

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Chapter Summary: Frankie realizes his feelings, and maybe, so do you.

Word Count: 5,500

Rating: Explicit (HERE WE GOOOOO)

Chapter Warnings: Brief SMUT, masturbation (m), dirty talk, doggy style p in v if you don’t blink, language, alcohol consumption, mentions of previous substance abuse, anxiety, legal age difference (10-15 years), fluff, mentions of TOM “REDFLY” DAVIS

A/N: HELLO. I have RISEN. And I have brought smut! Please be kind, despite being a hoe, I literally have never written smut before, hopefully it’s not terrible. I did have a beta look over it but I’M SO NERVOUS. That being said, we also have some long awaited for fluff, because Frankie deserves a goddamn break. So far we have been spending a lot of time in Frankie’s brain, that will eventually start shifting. Frankie is way more fucked up than our girl so I needed to establish where he’s at. I hope you enjoy and if you are feeling like you shouldn’t be able to like reading fic of your faves, you absolutely can, and strangers on the internet’s opinion on it DOES NOT MATTER. Read what you like, write what you like, like what you like, there’s nothing wrong with that. Thank you to the lovely @whiskeyyourwaytomyheart for being my smut beta!

Suggested Songs: “Rattled” by the Traveling Wilburys, “I’ve Just Seen A Face” by The Beatles, “More Than a Feeling” by Boston, “Somebody to Love” by Queen

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It was your second shift, and after watching Toy Story with Gabriela, several tickle fights, and checking every toy to see if they came alive, you had finally put her to sleep. You opened up your books, but you found yourself constantly distracted by the desire to know more. You wanted to know more about him, and your ability to resist doing a little snooping had run out. You pull yourself away from your studies and soon find yourself walking from room to room, taking in the home, looking at anything and nothing in particular. Frankie kept his home neat, aside from a child’s toy or two on the floor. You wonder to yourself if his bedroom was as neat, but firmly told yourself that that was crossing a line. That door was closed, and would remain so.

He had a nice house. Three bedrooms including a guest room, a kitchen with a large island that opened straight into the “dining room” with a farmhouse style table, and living room. The most expensive non-furniture item he seemed to have in his home other than the video game system at the base of his tv was a dual espresso and coffee maker. A serious coffee drinker, you think in approval. Eventually, not finding anything else of much interest other than standard bachelor stuff, you return to the living room, ending up at his massive tv stand filled with a variety of DVDs, blue rays, books, manuals, video game sleeves, and photographs. Here we go.

You scan your eyes down the book titles. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Slaughterhouse Five, The Road, Watership Down, Crime and Punishment, One Hundred Years of Solitude, and several more obviously well-read, psychological fiction titles. And a serious reader too. You opened up One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, the most noticeably well read, flipping through the worn spine and finding little notes and markings in most of the pages, like he’d found things to relate to and analyze separately on his own time.

Putting that book back, you switched to the next shelf, which was loaded with a random assortment of military aircraft manuals and history books, predominantly on helicopters. Types of helicopters throughout US history, flight command signal manuals, helicopter maintenance texts, and more.

You move on, bending lower to look at several photographs decorating the next shelf. One, of an obviously much younger Frankie, strapped into the pilot’s seat of a helicopter, flicking off whoever was taking the photo, making you laugh at the image. God, that jawline...and he’s only more attractive now! You suddenly understand why Gabriela feels so strongly about her little toy helicopter. You were a helicopter pilot in the Army, Frankie. You think about him strapped into the cockpit and find it fitting, and not just a little sexy. Next, a picture taken much later, probably within the last decade, of Frankie standing between four other men, smiling in big military vests. He was wearing his signature hat, longer hair and scruffy jaw on full display, and you smile at the strong comradery of the group in the photograph. He was definitely the most handsome of the bunch. Definitely more attractive with age. Another photo of him and one of those men hugging each other tightly in full military gear, smiling stupidly. And a photograph with another of the men from the group photo, leaning against a truck, smoking a cigarette and grimacing at the photo-taker. This photo, unlike the others, was decorated with a small patch that said “Special Forces” on it, as well as a tiny little metal plaque with the word “Redfly” on it. You wondered what that meant. A nickname, maybe?

The shelf ended with several photos of Frankie with Gabi, occasionally featuring some of the other men in the previous photos. You could tell at one time there had been more photos here, but they had been removed. One of the pictures was of Gabriela sitting on Frankie’s shoulders at some sort of theme park as a baby, another of them playing at the beach, one more of her being held by two other men from the group photo, giving her kisses on each cheek, and a picture of her with cake all over her face from a birthday. You were about to move on to the next photo when a low teasing voice suddenly broke the silent house, “Digging some dirt on me?”, and you turn around abruptly to a smiling Frankie, who had apparently arrived home and you hadn’t even noticed.

Your ass. That is the first thing his eyes beeline to the moment he enters his house. And oh, he tried so hard not to look. But there you are, facing away from him, bending over right in front of his tv stand looking at photos of him, your ass on prominent display in those fucking workout leggings with the seams framing your butt cheeks in the most enticing way, the middle seam in between each one indenting just enough for him to imagine exactly what your ass looks like without clothes on. He is completely paralyzed. And completely turned on. His brain shuts down and can only process his lust. He thinks about what it would be like to step up behind you, to grasp your hips in his hands and press his hardness against you. Would you grind yourself back on him? Would you let him pull your leggings and panties down, nudge your legs apart, push you to brace your hands on one of the shelves as he shoves his cock into you?

He almost moans out loud at the thought, which jerks him back into reality. He is standing there salivating and staring at your ass, not saying anything, like an absolute creep. He forces himself to turn away and close the door, tucks his erection into the waistband of his jeans to hide it, and makes himself fucking say something to you that is normal.

“Digging some dirt on me?” He realizes he’s completely startled you, as you whip around quickly and smile guiltily, like you think he’s actually mad at you.

“Oh! Hey, Mr. Morales, I’m sorry, I was curious.”

He shakes his head, reassuring you, and his heart drops into his stomach thinking that you were curious about him and would want to know more, which is definitely not helping with his dick. But he tells himself that it must be a professional interest in the person you’re working for, and nothing more.

“Did you find anything interesting?” He tilts his head and moves further into the room, hanging up his coat and setting down his hat.

You can’t even control yourself. You’re too excited to know more, you have so many questions. Your mind goes to the most interesting thing, and you forget to even mention his amazing book collection. “Mr. Morales,” you breathe excitedly, “did you fly helicopters?!”

He grins widely, “I do! Well-I did…” His smile suddenly vanishes, and his face sobers up a little. “I uh, I can’t fly right now. But hopefully soon.”

“Oh. Well...what's it like? I’ve always wondered what it would be like to fly. Sometimes I see hawks in the sky and I get so jealous, just being able to fly and see anything they want…”

He cheers at your words, the light slowly returning to his face. “It’s the best feeling in the world.” He steps a little closer to you, opening one of his manuals and showing you different pictures of the models he’s flown. You look over them all with true interest, listening to mundane details on each one, not the feigning interest like someone just trying to humor him. As you look at the pages, he looks at you, his thoughts of you going to a softer place. What it would be like to see you fly with him. What your facial expressions would be like when he takes off, or as he flew you over the ocean. If you would be scared at first, or be fearless the whole time. What your excited breath would sound like in his headphones.

“It’s like floating,” he continues, and you look back up at him. “Nothing else exists, just you, you and the clouds and the mission and your team. You can’t hear anything outside, just the sound of the motors and blades and your crew. The control that I have moving this huge machine, it makes me feel a sense of calm, which is always good before the chaos of the mission. I hope you get to fly in one someday.”

Your lips part as you listen to him describe it in that incredibly sexy voice, low and husky, and you imagine it’s what his pillow-talk sounds like. He talks about it like he’s in love with it, you can’t help but become affected by it. Your heart clenches, your tummy flutters with butterflies, and your head is getting fuzzy with yearning. He’s so incredibly handsome, and sexy, and soft right now, you can barely stand to look at him just standing there, all big and strong and smelling delicious, and you just want him so badly. But you can’t look away, because his dark eyes are staring right into yours, burning you from inside out.

You have to remind yourself that he’s talking about flying. He’s not talking or thinking about you. You’re just his babysitter, and your heart sinks. You’re not sure what you were expecting. It’s a familiar tug of war, indulging the feel good desires of getting to know someone you’re crushing on better, and reminding yourself that the person you like is not really attainable and you’re setting yourself up to get hurt again. You should know better. Yet you respond, "I hope so too,” and think to yourself: but with you. You break the moment before you melt into a simpering puddle and make a fool of yourself.

“Well, I guess I should be going. I have a project I need to complete in a few days, and I’m still struggling to understand the material.” You turn away from him and head back to his coffee table, where you had spread all your class materials and research texts. Frankie loosens himself from his waistband, his body now under control. He wants you to stay, his face falls seeing you packing up to leave, and he frantically looks around to find a way to distract you into staying longer. His eyes land on your open books. “US Military Presence in the Middle East…” he mutters to himself. “Not to impose, but what’s this project on? I was stationed in Iraq and Afghanistan for most of my deployments, in Special Forces.”

He insists then on helping you, and you accept his offer to help you understand the material, grateful despite that voice in your head that the fates have placed this opportunity to stay later with him into your open arms. He sits down on the floor next to you, knees bumping yours, and you scoot closer than you probably need to as he begins looking over the material.

“What is this project on?” He suddenly asks after a few minutes.

“American Imperialism in the 21st Century.”

He furrows his brow and is silent for a moment. “I can’t tell if that’s an insult or not.” And then, you both burst out laughing.

Frankie can’t sleep. Again. You had left after an extra hour or two, full of gratitude and feeling much more confident in your work.

The thoughts that started since he met you kept sneaking into his head, but this time, he wasn’t able to push them away. He didn’t want to push them away. The flash of your cheeky smile, the heat of your thigh as it pressed against his, the way your cleavage was just barely poking out of your v-neck tee as you leaned over the coffee table, writing things down he was explaining. The way your neck was so close, he could smell you, and he wouldn’t have had to move much to gently press his nose into your sweet spot to get a better whiff. The way you licked your lips, and stuck your tongue out of your mouth when you were almost done writing a long sentence. He wanted that tongue on him, slowly poking out to touch the tip of his dick experimentally before he would grab you by the back of the neck and slide himself further in your hot mouth.

Fuck. He was getting hard, and he starts palming himself over his pajama pants, finally succumbing to the temptation that he’s been trying to resist for three weeks now, letting his mind spiral as he remembers how he found you when he walked in the door. What he could have done to you, if you were his.

He’d have placed his hands heavily on your hips and pulled you back into him, rubbing his arousal against you, and you would hum and wiggle yourself against his hardness.

“Frankie…” you would whine, and you’d turn your head to look at him, attempting to raise yourself up to full height. He would slide his palm under your shirt and up your back, feeling your hot skin, gently bending you back forward.

“Can I take you like this, baby?” He’d ask, rubbing your back and rocking his cock against you, tilting his head back, and softly moaning, his eyes fluttering closed at finally getting relief for his lust.

“Frankie...yes, please,” you would beg.

He would take his palm out of your shirt and back up his body from yours, then push his hand between your thighs to rub the entire length of your pussy through your leggings. You would be so wet for him, he would be able to feel it through them.

“Tell me. Tell me what you want me to do. I need to hear it.”

“I want you to fuck me right here Frankie.”

Frankie moans out loudly and slides his pants and boxers down his thighs, taking his stiff cock in hand and stroking up and down the shaft, slowly and loosely as he hardens further. He reaches over to his nightstand and fumbles in one of the drawers for a tiny bottle of travel sized lotion he hides in there for this exact purpose, squeezing a small amount in his hand. Taking himself again, he pumps himself faster with the added lubrication, tightening his grip every time he reaches the sensitive head. He can already feel the pre-cum oozing out and mixing with the lotion, and his eyes flutter shut as his breathing escalates with his fantasy. He knows he won’t last long. He’s been holding back thinking of you like this for so long. It’s like an overflowing dam with a cracked foundation. It simply cannot hold anymore.

He would fuck you just as you asked. He’d yank your leggings and panties down, seeing your wetness beginning to slide down your thighs.

“Oh, honey...is this mess all for me?” He’d murmur, pushing his thick fingers through your slick and smearing it around.

“Yes, Frankie, just for you. No one else.”

He’d nudge his knee through your thighs to open them, spreading your legs as far as he could with your pants still around your ankles, shoving his own pants down and lining his cock up against you, rubbing it back and forth through your wet folds until you’re practically sobbing for it. And then, finally, he’d slam into you, the force of it pushing against the heavy tv stand, slightly rattling the contents of the shelf you’re holding onto for dear life while he sets a hard and fast pace. You would cry out loudly, and you’d be so perfect, so warm, he just knows you would be so tight around his girth, he’d feel like he barely fits, he-

“Shit. SHIT. Holy fucking shit. Fuck fuck fuck-FUUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKK….” Frankie feels his release working up his shaft, pulsing overwhelming pleasure, and he pants out harshly, gritting his teeth and lifting his hips while speeding up his strokes until he orgasms. His cum spurts out on his stomach and hand in ropes, thick and warm, his eyes slamming shut as he rides it out. When the aftershocks reside, he flops his head back onto his pillow, arms flung out in exhaustive release. His mind is in euphoria; fuzzy, empty, and blissed out.

“Fuck.”

After several minutes, his heart beat slows back down, and he reaches for some tissues to wipe himself clean, throwing them on the floor when he’s done. He pulls his pajamas and boxers back up, rolling over on the bed and settling in, finally relaxed enough to attempt sleep. He thinks once more of you as he drifts off.

Not a fucking chance in hell.

Gabi’s drop off at Lex’s house on Sunday goes well, an unspoken, awkward agreement to not antagonize each other and try to make this work as seamlessly and stress free as possible. They rarely speak, resorting simply to texts when they aren’t face to face, gestures, nods, and one word answers when they are. The next two weeks crawl by unbearably. He misses Gabi, and if he’s being honest with himself, he misses you too. He thinks about your project and hopes it went well. At one point he considers calling you to ask about it, but then talks himself out of it, thinking it would be out of line.

He busies himself with work, taking extra shifts to make the two weeks go by faster, meeting up with the guys more often, and catching up on the sobriety meetings he wasn’t able to attend the past two weeks he’d had Gabi.

I have to figure that out at some point. He knows how important going is to the courts and to his sobriety, and scolds himself for not having any foresight whatsoever. It was an aspect of him that drove Lex absolutely crazy. He was never great at planning or thinking ahead for potential problems and solving them before they became a problem. He wonders if it’s too soon to ask you to come more often. Would you need to know the specifics on why? Would it scare you away?

He has to ask you. You were well aware that if things were going well, you would be asked to pick up more shifts if needed. That was mentioned in your first meeting. It wouldn’t have bothered him before if you knew he was a recovering addict. But now...he likes you. He likes you a lot. Even though he knew there was little chance of reciprocation, now it matters to him. He doesn’t want you to be scared off. Gabriela has already taken to you so quickly, and so has he.

When Sunday arrives, he tries to focus solely on the positive: being back with his daughter. He had missed her so much just in those two weeks away. Somehow, being able to spend so much more time with her makes the absence of her worse. When he finally has her in his arms, he takes a moment to sit in his truck just holding her, right in front of Lex’s house. He nuzzles into her soft hair, peppering her head and face with tiny kisses, trying not to cry, until she gets sick of it and lightly smacks him on the head to let her have her personal space. He chuckles, planting one more sloppy kiss on her cheek before he straps her into the baby seat in the second row of his truck cab and heads back to his house.

When Friday arrives, the anxiety starts setting in hard. He paces back and forth in his house from the time he gets home from work and daycare pickup to when you’re supposed to arrive, riddled with nervous energy. Even Gabriela notices, quietly watching him from her booster seat while she has her dinner. You’re gonna run, he thinks. He probably would too.

You had been thinking of him the whole time. Your presentation had gone well and you had him to thank, several of the questions he had straightened out were things your colleagues asked you about. When you burst out of the hall in relief, you had immediately started typing out a text to him to thank him, but something stopped you. You were unsure where the lines stood between you and him. You wanted to think he was starting to be a friend, not just an employer you unfortunately had a crush on, but you didn’t know where he stood. He had never texted you, and so you second guess yourself, delete the message, and place your phone back in your bag with a sigh of irritation.

You were used to being a loner now. You had friends, but most of them were back home while you were in grad school, and though you talked to them on the phone frequently, you lived alone and didn’t make many friends on campus. The way you spent your days here used to be enough, but now felt less so. They felt more hollow. You found yourself eager to see not just Gabriela, but Frankie too, and it terrifies you. You had a habit of putting yourself in situations to get hurt, but you couldn’t help how overwhelmingly excited you were to go back.

You pulled up to Frankie’s house that Friday and practically bounced up the porch steps to his door, but when he greets you and lets you in you can tell there was something off about him. He’s twitchy and nervous and seemed more unfocused than normal. You wanted to ask if he was okay, but left it alone, figuring he’d tell you if he wanted to. Maybe he’d just had a bad day. You head right to Gabi, who babbles excitedly to see you and you set up Hercules for you and her to watch. Frankie’s behavior becomes more serious to you when he leaves with little conversation or small talk, the first time he’s ever done that with you, and it scares you. Is he not happy with the arrangement? Maybe he wants to find someone else? Are you going to get fired? Did you do something wrong? You try to center yourself knowing there’s nothing you can do while he’s out, focusing your attention solely on Gabi and the movie.

When Frankie comes home, you are perched on his couch reading, and you stiffen the minute he locks his sad looking eyes on you.

“Hey…” He greets softly.

“Hi Mr. Morales, did you have a good time?”

“Yea, I did...” His voice trails off and he looks away from you, pulling his hat off and running his fingers through the hair. You‘ve noticed he does that when he’s nervous. You wait for him to say what he needs to say, your heart pounding so loud you’re surprised he can’t hear it. He starts towards you, then stops, puts his hands on his hips, and pulls a face.

“Do you want me to go?” You ask, unable to remain in the awkward silence.

He starts at that, and jerks his eyes back to yours. “No!” You widen yours eyes and he realizes he unintentionally raised his voice at you. Frankie takes a heavy breath and approaches you carefully, sitting on the couch next to you.

“I’m sorry. I have to ask you something, but I’m nervous, and I’m being weird.”

“Oh. It’s okay. What is it?”

Frankie breathes out a quick forceful breath, attempting to shake off the nervous energy. You can smell the alcohol on his breath. It smells stronger than it usually does, but he doesn’t seem concerningly drunk. You wait patiently for him.

“I wanted to ask you if you would be willing to pick up some more shifts? I know I mentioned it when I hired you, but I didn’t want to put too much on your plate before we knew if this would be a good fit. I have these....meetings I go to twice a week, and I missed them all when it was my time with Gabi. I didn’t think it would be a big deal to go less often, but….I don’t like not going. I-I need to go. I have them after work on Wednesdays and Sunday evenings, but you don’t have to do the Sundays, Benny and Will said they’d take her Sundays while I go, but would you be willing to pick her up from daycare on Wednesdays and watch her until I come home?” He realizes he’s rambling and ends on the question, looking up at you in apprehension.

You don’t realize that you’re sitting so quietly without answering him, putting all the pieces together. Meetings. Twice a week. AFTER work, so it’s not work. And on Sundays...that he NEEDS to go to... and then, you figure it out. The silence seems deafening to Frankie, and he is about to tell you to forget about it and say nevermind when you finally respond.

“Yes. Yes, to both days if you need it.” You meet his eyes unwavering, and he quietly expels a sigh of relief. “Why were you so nervous to ask me?”

“I was afraid...that you'd say no,” he says, trying to be as vague as possible, “and I-we really like you, Gabi talks about you often and I think you’re perfect. For us.”

“Oh…..Frankie…” you say, and It’s the first time you’ve said his name, his real name, and his heart almost cleaves in two from that alone.

He knows you know, and he opens his mouth to explain, but you cut him off by putting your hand on his arm.

“No, you don’t need to tell me, if you aren’t comfortable. I will do it, no problem. No questions asked. But please know, you shouldn’t be ashamed of anything you’re doing to make yourself a better person. Whatever it is, you should be really proud of yourself. And if you ever want to talk about it, we can.”

He thinks he might be hallucinating

He never expected this reaction, and it makes it so real to him how incredibly fucked he is, how easily he could fall for you. Your acceptance, your kindness, your quiet support, your humor, your youth and the way your presence just makes him feel so good. He hasn’t had that from a woman in so long. You’re special, you’re special to him .

You pull him from his thoughts before he can do something stupidly impulsive, like kiss you.

“Who are Benny and Will?”

He’s grateful for the distraction. “They’re my squadron brothers. They have a house near here and we meet up a lot. They’re who I go out with on Friday nights.”

“Ooo, are they some of the guys in your pictures?” You stand up and walk over to the his tv stand and he joins you. “Show me which.” He points to the photo you love of Gabriela being kissed by the two men.

“That’s them.”

You hum, and continue down the shelf, pointing at the photo of Frankie hugging the other man. “And this one? I love this picture.”

Frankie chuckles, “That’s Santiago, but we call him ‘Pope’, cause he’s so full of himself. He’s my best friend, but he’s in New Zealand right now. Haven’t seen him in a bit.”

“Is ‘Pope’ like his Army name or something?”

“Yep, we almost all got one. Will’s is Ironhead, cause he got shot in the head.” You open your mouth in shock, but he just keeps going like it’s not a big deal. Benny’s Will’s brother, and he’s the baby, he doesn’t have one. Just Benny.”

“Do you have one?”

“Yea, but you’re gonna laugh at me.”

“Oh please! Now I have to know even more!” You jump up and down. “TELL ME!!!”

He laughs at you, putting his hands up to appease you. “It’s Catfish.”

You stop jumping and stare at him, before a smile cracks through and you burst into laughter, and he does too, set off by your own.

“WHY is it ‘CATFISH’, Frankie?!”

He slaps his hand to his face and mockingly groans like he’s annoyed. “It’s cause I can’t grow a full fucking beard. They are always raggin’ on me about it, saying it looks like a catfish. Fucking patches missing, and now there’s gray spots.” He turns his cheek to you to show you, and you reach out and rub your fingers through his patchy scruff.

“Oh, it looks good! It’s endearing.”

He does his best not to react, but he’s going crazy on the inside at the compliment. Is she...flirting or am I in so deep I’m fucking imagining things now?

You giggle and pull your hand away, moving to look at the last photo. “So, who’s Redfly?” You can tell immediately you shouldn’t have asked. Frankie suddenly stiffens, his adorable smile falling from his face.

“He uh, he was our captain. Tom, was his name. He...died.”

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry Frankie. I-I should have realized, I shouldn’t have asked.”

He shakes his head. “No. No, I’m happy you did. I want you to know about him. He got that name cause he would always plan our mission details. A redfly is a fishing lure. He was our glue, you know? Shot five times in service. I thought he’d never be the one to...to be the one that died first, out of all of us.”

You’re silent for a while, but it’s not sad or awkward. Just a respectful moment of silence. “I’m sorry for your loss Frankie. He sounds like he was special.” You put your hand back on his arm and he looks up and smiles faintly at you.

“He was. He was also a dick, but he was our dick.” You both chuckle.

“Can I hug you? I think you need one.” You say suddenly. He blinks at you, then nods. You’re not wrong. He can’t remember the last time he was hugged. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, making sure there’s enough space to keep it loose, and after a few beats, he wraps his arms around your waist. But the magnetism between you quickly makes him pull your waist flush against him, and he lightly places his nose in your hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo, your light fruity perfume, and the essence of just you . You can’t help but gently lay your head against his clavicle. He smells fucking incredible, you want to stay in his arms forever, but you know you shouldn’t make this any longer than a casual hug. You place your hands on the top of his shoulders and give him a quick pat, and he reads your signal to release you and you awkwardly back away from each other.

“Thank you…” he says. “For taking the shifts. And...everything.” He says, struggling to find the right words.

“Of course. I’m glad I can help. I want to help. So, I’ll see you Sunday? Wednesday?”

“Wednesday. I'll send you the address of the daycare tomorrow on your phone, if that’s okay. You can just come straight to the house.” He shows you the lockbox where he keeps a spare key and you accept the code, swelling with happiness that he trusts you with a key to his home. Frankie helps you pack up your things, then suddenly remembers.

“Your presentation! How did it go?”

“Oh my god, Frankie, you were a lifesaver. I totally would have looked like a fucking idiot if you hadn’t helped me. Thank you so much.”

He grins widely. “I wanted to text you to ask how it went, but I didn’t know if that would be weird.”

You shake your head. “You can text me…” You tell him softly, “I almost texted you too.”

“Okay, so we can text. And cuss apparently.” He huffs out a laugh.

“Well, to be fair, you cussed first.” You giggle together again as he guides you to his door, his hand hovering over the small of your back. He’s not even touching you, but you can feel the heat of his palm. You turn back to him, wanting to hug him again, make him happy, protect him, kiss him. But you don’t. You say goodbye and you leave.

Later that night when you are in bed and your brain isn’t all fuzzy with endorphins, you remember. You remember how he pulled you into him during your hug, how he slid his arms around your low waist, keeping contact with you the whole time. How you’re fucking falling in love with him like an idiot, despite everything you’ve been through. Am I reading too much into this? you think. Of course I am. I always do, falling for someone, trying to fix them, then getting hurt every time. What a fucking cliché I am , simpering over a random, sad but hot dad like we’re going to fall in love and live happily ever after. Ridiculous. You groan in frustration and smack your pillow, throwing it over your face. It takes forever for you to fall asleep.

Chapter 4

»»———————►

Taglist (Let me know if you want to be added!): @absurdthirst @hnt-escape @silverstarsandsuns @heythere-mel @missjessie21 @magikfanatic @theinnerrebelnerd @nexuswhisperer @sarahjkl82-blog @hb8301 @thou-creature-of-the-deep @thisshipwillsail316 @pascalpanic @driedgreentomatoes @freeshavocadoooo @the-tres-geckos @phoenix-of-loki @empress-palpat1ne @dobbyjen

#fix you fic #frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal character ff #pedro pascal character fanfiction #smut #multichapter

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the-lonelybarricade · 3 years

Text

The Rumor of St. Peterburg: Chapter 2

Chapter title: Stay, I Pray You

Fic summary: A Feysand/acotar adaptation of Anastasia Following the rumors of the survival of the Grand Duchess Feyre Archeron, Rhysand and his brothers come up with a plot to escape Russia and claim the Dowager Empress's reward for the princess's return. But could the likeness of the amnesiac they've groomed to be Feyre be more than a coincidence?

Read on AO3 ⟡ Masterlist

⟡ ⟡ ⟡

One week. That’s how long they’d given themselves to prepare Clare, gather documents, and seek entrance to Paris. Four days in and rumors were already circling like vultures over their heads. It was pushing Azriel on edge, his informants coming back with gossip too close to the truth—a street sweeper rumored to be the lost princess.

Azriel was usually the stoic, cool-headed one. His agitation did nothing to soothe Rhysand’s rising anxiety. He was pacing the halls of Acheron palace relentlessly. The three of them were meant to meet Clare here to continue their preparations. Azriel had set off early that morning to procure train tickets and hadn’t yet returned. And Clare was late. Extremely late.

It was almost midday when Azriel stormed in. Rhysand went rigid, reading his brother’s mood immediately.

“What is it?” he asked warily, already certain he didn’t want to know.

“Clare’s been arrested,” Azirel said grimly. Cassian swore.

“When?” Rhys demanded.

“This morning. I assume she was on her way here.”

“But how did they know to take Clare of all people?” Cassian asked, throwing his arms out in exasperation. “We’ve been as discreet as possible.”

Azriel’s eyes darkened. “I assume one of the girls who auditioned saw her and turned her in. One of them must have put it together.”

It was foolish of them, Rhys thought, to have described the princess’s appearance so explicitly and then hold auditions in this very palace. Too on the nose.

“They’ll kill her,” Rhys whispered, feeling grief-stricken for the woman that he’d only known a few days. Cassian looked disheartened, but not truly ready to submit to the idea. They’d all warmed up to her. She was a spit-fire, but an endearing one.

Rhysand’s mind was whirling. He wanted to go after her—barge into the office and demand they free her. But he knew it would accomplish nothing besides getting his brothers killed. He wondered when he’d come to care about strangers enough to feel so reckless. Gods, he wanted to punch something.

“I’m here!” the sound of her voice, strained and unnerved, was nearly enough to undo Rhys. Nothing but his pure shock prevented him from falling to his knees in relief.

“What happened?” he demanded, his voice rough even to his own ears. “We’d just heard you were arrested.”

He studied her appearance, checking for any injury. The new order wasn’t one for gently apprehending people. Clare’s face was flushed, her hair mussed. She looked flustered, a bit jittery, but not harmed. He nearly wept with relief, then shook himself for feeling so overcome with emotion. Rhysand convinced himself it was because of the stakes at hand. His family’s survival was on the line, afterall.

“I was,” she said, a bit breathlessly. “By a man called Tamlin Vaganov. He… just wanted to warn me.”

“Warn you?” Rhys repeated in disbelief. He’d run into Tamlin, the Bolshevik general, enough times to know that the man wasn’t particularly forgiving. “What did he say, exactly?”

“That the Princess Feyre is dead. And that I shouldn’t be parading such dangerous rumours around. He warned me to stop, or else I’ll be killed.”

“So he threatened you,” Cassian growled. His brother’s anger was justified, but a threat was merciful. Rhys didn’t understand why Tamlin would let Clare go.

“He was… trying to be nice, I think,” Clare said, bemused. Rhysand sincerely doubted it. “I’ve run into him before, once,” she added. “Just in passing on the street. He helped me when I’d fallen. I-I don’t think he’s a bad person.”

The three brothers scoffed. They’d seen enough first-hand brutality from the Bolshevik soldiers to not so readily agree.

“Count yourself lucky for being a pretty female, Clare,” Cassian said, not unkindly. “Any other who has ties to the Czar, no matter how fictional, has not been dealt with so mercifully.”

Clare looked outrage at the dismissal, but she quickly shut her mouth as she studied the three brothers. Her eyes narrowed, then softened. Whatever she saw, she decided not to comment. Rhysand could tell that despite her words about the general, she was still shaken by the encounter.

“Why don’t we call it a night, guys?” he asked, clapping his brothers on the shoulders. “I think we’ve all had enough excitement for one day.”

“There’s still one more piece of bad news,” Azriel said, frowning.

Rhysand groaned. “What else?”

“We don’t have enough money for the train tickets. I tried to barter the price down, but even pulling in old debts wasn’t enough for four tickets.”

Clare looked stunned, as if she’d assumed the tickets would be acquired through some other means. Rhysand swallowed a string of curse words. He knew they wouldn’t offend the lady—who turned out to have the mouth of a sailor—but they would do little to help the situation.

“I’ll figure it out,” he said stiffly, running his fingers through his hair in exasperation.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡

This brush with the Bolsheviks had gotten under his skin. They needed to leave as soon as possible, before Tamlin made good on his threat to Clare. But how he’d come up with the money, he had no idea. It was distressing, always being in charge of such things, but the stakes were too high to lose his cool.

Rhysand had sought sanctuary on the rooftop above their dwelling. It was where he always went to clear his mind and think—sometimes living in a small room with his two brothers could drive him up the wall. It was nice to have a place to escape.

“Azriel told me you’d be up here,” said a bewitching voice behind him.

Rhysand turned, the corners of his mouth curling into an easy smile. “So you found me,” he murmured. “I didn’t realize you and Az were on speaking terms.”

“I realized he’s actually a massive teddy bear with a sharp mouth,” Clare answered with a soft laugh.

The sight of that little amused smile was rare and it melted Rhysand’s heart every time, despite how hard he tried to ignore it.

“Cassian’s the real teddy bear,” Rhys mused. “There’s no sharp mouth or thick walls you have to break through with him.”

“And with you?” Clare asked, coming up beside him to lean against the railing.

“What about me?”

Clare bumped him with her shoulder. “What’s your tragic backstory?”

Rhysand scoffed, a bit shocked by her forwardness. He was a street rat, it wouldn’t take a genius to guess. “Who says I have one?”

Clare frowned, studying him carefully. Rhysand felt a bit unnerved by her expression, as if she could see him past the facade of nonchalance he’d perfected at an early age. He didn’t like feeling so laid bare, and quickly turned his eyes towards the skyline of the city.

“The look you and your brothers shared, when I said that Tamlin seemed like a good person. I sensed there was more… like you had first hand experience that said otherwise.”

Rhys nodded, frowning at the church spires he’d fixed his eyes on. Clare was more perceptive than he’d given her credit for. “There’s not much to say, Feyre darling. I’m a Russian street rat through and through. And since the Bolsheviks have taken over, they've been trying their damndest to wipe the streets clean of people like me.”

“People like you?” Clare repeated, ignoring the nickname.

Rhysand allowed himself a sideways glance towards her. He sighed, sensing she wouldn’t drop it until he gave her something a little more.

“I was an orphan,” he said. “And I was pretty much left to my own devices in these gutters. So I got good at getting by. Bartering, stealing, peddling, whatever I needed to survive. My choices were to be clever, or dead. And somewhere along the way I met Cassian and Azriel, clever street rats like me. We banded together and have looked out for each other since.”

“It must have been nice to find each other, at least,” Clare said, a bit wistfully. “I’ve been left to my own devices, too. But I didn’t find a family to look out for me. Fairing for yourself… it’s lonely.”

Rhysand understood. He’d been eight when he’d met Cassian, and twelve when he’d met Azriel. But those years when it had just been him… they’d been tough. Rhys couldn’t say for sure that he would have survived so long if he didn’t find his brothers.

Rhysand turned to Clare, regarding her carefully. She looked a bit confused by his sudden attention, but met his gaze head on. It almost made him chuckle. So resolute, even in the smallest moments.

“You might come to have a family yet,” he reminded her. “The answer awaits in Paris, right?”

“Right,” she echoed, but her voice had taken on a somber note. Rhys guessed that she was reluctant to let herself hope for such a thing—lest she just be disappointed. It was a plight he could relate to, and he suddenly found himself desperate to cheer her up.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

Clare blinked. “What?”

“Just—close them,” he repeated, an edge of humor creeping into his voice. She could never just follow directions, could she? After a moment’s scrutiny, Clare eventually shut her eyes. “Good. Now, put your hand out.”

She extended her hand towards him, eyebrows nearly raised to her hairline. Rhysand stifled a laugh, not wanting to discourage her. She was just so fucking cute.

Not productive, he snapped at himself, hastily shaking the thought away. He pulled the item out of his pocket and gently placed it in her outstretched hand.

Clare opened her eyes when she felt the weight in her palm. She looked at the object curiously, bringing it in front of her face to examine.

“What is it?” she asked curiously.

“A music box,” Rhys answered. Then, bashfully, added, “but it’s broken. I’ve never been able to open it.”

“It’s beautiful,” Clare gasped, fingers delicately searching it. Then, she frowned. Rhys saw something flicker behind her eyes, and she looked very far-away as she found a hidden notch and began winding the music box, opening it with an ease of familiarity. A slow, tinkering melody floated between them.

“H-how did you do that?” Rhysand gaped, completely astonished. He, Cass, and Azriel had all tried to get the damn thing open on several occasions.

Tears were glittering in Clare’s eyes as she stared at the music box, which completely caught Rhys off guard. Shit, he thought panickedly. He’d given it to her to try to cheer her up!

“Clare?” he asked gently, pressing a comforting hand behind her back.

She snapped her eyes to him, furiously blinking back the tears. “How soon do you think we can go?” she demanded. “Trains are being cancelled right and left. And Tamlin’s threat…”

She trailed off, as if she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud. Rhysand nodded, understanding anyway. The longer they stayed, the more Clare was at risk.

“The money—” Rhys interrupted himself with a heavy sigh. “We’re not even close,” he said honestly.

Clare bit her lip, seeming to consider something. Then, she thrusted the music box back to him. He almost felt inclined to let her keep it, since it had seemed to trigger something sentimental, but there was a fervor in her eyes that he didn’t want to deny. So he accepted, then watched as she dug through her coat, searching frantically for something.

“Now you close your eyes,” she instructed.

Rhysand eyed her warily. “Why?”

Clare scoffed. “Are you kidding? You’re the most stubborn person I’ve met!”

Rhys laughed wholeheartedly, but obeyed as he muttered, “that’s rich, coming from you.”

Feyre made a huffing noise, but then he felt the soft touch of her fingers as she pressed something hard into his palm. He nearly shivered from the contact.

When Rhys opened his eyes, he was certain they were nearly bulging out of his head. “A diamond!?” he exclaimed, looking to Clare for an explanation.

“One of the nurses found it sewn into my jacket when they found me. She kept it safe until I could leave and told me not to reveal it to anyone… until I found someone I could trust.”

Rhys inspected the diamond carefully, holding it up to the sun. This would be enough to pay for the train tickets, and then some. He was completely stunned. Clare was watching him carefully, if not a bit nervously. As if she didn’t fully trust that he wouldn’t pocket it right then and run. Instead, Rhys pulled her into a bone-crushing hug and twirled her around. She yelped, half in surprise and half in joy.

When he set her down, they were both grinning at each other.

“Congratulations, Feyre darling. Consider this your official initiation as one of lowly street rats of St. Petersburg.” He extended his hand towards her. After a moment, she took it, offering him an unrestrained smile.

He might as well have been hit by a train, for what it did to him. He took several moments to catch his breath, and even longer to meet her eyes and smile back.

“Let’s go take this to Az, eh? We have a train to catch.”

⟡ ⟡ ⟡

There was a train at midnight. As soon as Rhys had delivered the diamond to Azriel, who had uncharacteristically gaped at the precious stone, the group wasted no time springing to action. They had a diamond to pawn off, tickets to buy, and exit documents to procure.

Azriel was able to buy them passage as members of the Diaghilev Ballet Russes. Clare was a buzzing energy ball of nerves beside Rhysand as they waited on the platform. He watched as she clenched and unclenched her fingers, shifting weight between her feet.

“Cool it,” he whispered to her under his breath, subtly eyeing the platform guards. “We’re trying not to attract attention to ourselves.”

The platform was crowded with aristocrats and intellectuals alike—the very people the Bolsheviks were scrambling to get rid of. It was no surprise they were flocking to few trains leaving Russia. Frankly, it was a miracle Rhys and his family had gotten this far.

Suddenly, a man fell to his knees before Clare. Rhys and his brothers started and Rhys went to put himself between Clare and the strange man, but Azriel put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“That’s Count Ipolitov,” Azriel murmured in shock as the man grasped Clare’s hand and kissed it.

Clare looked stunned, and uncertain how to respond. Especially as the man bowed his head and praised, “God bless you, your highness.”

Cassian’s mouth fell open. Rhys restrained the urge to smack himself. So much for not drawing attention, he thought dismally.

A voice overhead announced the train was boarding, and Azriel grabbed at Clare with an urgency that nearly made her stumble. The Count gave Azriel a hard look for manhandling the assumed princess, but he went on his way.

“We should go,” Az said gravely. The four of them wasted no time, hurriedly boarding the train before the platform guards could think too much on the spectacle.

They sat in the carriage on bated breath, pleading that the train would move. Praying that the guards wouldn’t barge in and apprehend the girl parading around as the missing Grand Duchess. Tamlin had only arrested Clare that morning—surely the Bolshevik spies didn’t move quickly enough to catch wind that she was fleeing the country.

When the train lurched forward, they let out a collective sigh of relief. Rhysand noticed the glistening in his brother’s eyes as they watched the station retreat from sight. This place, this country, was the only home they’d ever known. It had been a brutal and unforgiving place, to all of them. Yet there was something difficult about saying goodbye so definitively.

Azriel bowed his head solemnly, as if paying his respects to their homeland. The place where they had shared tears and sorrows. The place where they had found each other.

“Я благословляю свою родину,” Cassian murmured gruffly. I bless my homeland. A bittersweet farewell.

Clare took Cassian’s hand, her eyes glittering with tears. “Я благословляю свою родину,” she repeated. “пока я не умру.” I bless my homeland, until I die. A much more fervent prayer.

Rhys studied Clare in surprise. With her desperation to flee to Paris, he hadn’t taken her for having a sentimental attachment to the motherland. She’d grown up in the streets, too. And as a woman on her own, he suspected she’d faced worse cruelty in some cases. Yet she stared out the window, now, with something like grief on her face as St Petersburg faded in the distance.

Clare noticed his unassuming stare, and her eyes hardened. “No prayers for Russia, comrade?” she demanded, her voice a tad defensive.

Rhysand nearly scoffed at the use of the word, comrade. It’s what the Bolsheviks had taken to calling everyone. She’d used it purposefully to grate on him. Suspecting her anger was mostly grief driven, Rhys shrugged his shoulders.

“Blessing to my homeland, sure,” he said casually. “But my home is wherever my brothers are.”

They had raised each other almost as much as the city had. Clare’s eyes seemed to soften at that. She didn’t have a family she could remember, so he understood why she would feel loyalty to the only scrap of identity she possessed. Feeling like a prick, he reached to take her freehand, the other still holding Cassian’s.

“I know it’s hard to leave,” he murmured softly. “But we’re safer for it.”

To his surprise, Azriel began humming. He was a gifted singer, but he used his talent so rarely. Rhysand recognized the melody instantly. God Save the Tsar. The national anthem of Russia, before the Bolsheviks had taken over. It was an act of rebellion to sing it, but they were on a train flush with aristocrats. Rather than the dirty, panicked looks they might have received in the gutters of St Petersberg, the others in their carriage began joining in. A soft, hushed hymn of Russian people, offering a bittersweet farewell to their homeland. For what it used to be, and for what it became. Clare joined in, her voice a soft, lulling soprano that wafted around Rhysand’s chest, constricting his lungs for a moment. Then, surprising even himself, Rhysand began to sing, too.

The moment was touching, and had almost moved Rhysand to tears. Were it not for the gunshot that suddenly rang through a neighboring train cabin.

The singing halted instantly. Rhysand’s ears were ringing.

All heads swiveled to the doors to the cabin, where Bolshevik guards were barging through, demanding to see people’s papers. Whispers raised through the crowd, and Rhys caught the name Count Ipolitov. The man must have been caught, then, he thought solemnly. He turned his panicked eyes to Azriel, then to Clare. She was already shaking with fear.

“Calm her down,” Az snapped in a low voice, so that the guards didn’t hear. His brother stood up. “I’ll investigate what’s going on.”

Rhys glanced to Cassian, both of them paralyzed for a moment. Being the one sat beside her, Rhys slung an arm around her shoulder and pulled her into his chest.

“Shhh,” he cooed in her ear, stroking her hair soothingly as he pressed his face close, so the guards wouldn’t hear. “It’s alright, darling. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Clare seemed to relax a bit at his touch. Rhysand continued to murmur gently to her, but he flicked his eyes up to watch the scene unfolding before them. The guards were inspecting each passenger’s papers. They hadn’t made it over the Russian border yet—someone must have tipped the guards off about illegal passengers.

“You’re safe,” Rhys repeated in her ear, rocking her gently against him.

Clare murmured something into his chest. Rhysand pulled away enough to look at her.

“What was that, darling?”

Her eyes were wild with panic. This was something more than being frightened by a gunshot. “That’s what the soldiers said,” she whispered.

“The what?” Rhys asked, moving his hands to cup her face reassuringly.

“The soldiers,” Clare repeated. She had that far off look again. As though she were in another place all together. “They had their guns pointed at us, but they said they were taking us somewhere safe…”

“No one’s pointing any guns at you,” Rhys assured, trying to meet her with his steady gaze. If she could just focus on him, let him ground her away from whatever memory was trapping her, then maybe she would calm down. “Look at me, darling. Look.”

Her eyes focused as they met his. Again he felt swallowed by those deep, deep blues. “I’m here. My brothers are here. We’re not going to let anything happen to you, okay?”

He tried to avoid the word safe, that seemed to be a trigger word. Slowly, Clare nodded, and he could sense she was coming back to herself. Still, she gripped Rhys tightly. Which was fine, since he didn’t feel particularly inclined to let go. He continued stroking her hair soothingly, even as Azriel approached, his face grim.

“We need to go,” he said hurriedly. “Soldiers have boarded with instructions to arrest three men and a woman.”

“That could be anyone,” Cassian protested, glancing around the cabin. The guards were still on the other side of the cabin, inspecting papers. Azriel handed him a folded up piece of parchment.

“I don’t think so,” Az responded grimly. Rhysand leaned forward to see the paper Cass was unfolding. Wanted was printed in bold lettering across the top. Then, an illustration of Clare, and a description of the three men travelling with her.

Rhys felt himself go pale. “Let’s go. Now.”

Cassian looked pointedly out the window, to the landscapes rushing past. “Go where?” he demanded. “We can’t exactly get off.”

“We jump,” Rhys said coolly. His brothers went silent, but didn’t protest the idea. Their options were limited, and if they stayed on the train then they were going to be shot. Clare, however, looked aghast.

“Jump!?” she screeched in a barely hushed voice. “Are you out of your damn mind?”

“Got any better ideas, princess?” At her silence, Rhys snapped, “didn’t think so.”

As discreetly as possible, they hurried out of the cabin. Rhys and Clare went first—an exodus of a group matching their description would certainly raise eyebrows. Rhys kept his body between Clare and the guard’s sightline, grateful that he towered over her slight figure. They stood on the rickety gangway, waiting for Cassian and Azriel, who joined them after several tense moments.

Rhys released a breath of relief to see his brothers alright. As much as he wished to hug them and wish them luck, they couldn’t waste time. Knowing it could very well be the last time he saw them, he met each of them in the eye and gave them a solemn, affectionate nod, hoping to convey decades worth of love and loyalty. Then, he helped Clare over the safety-rail and joined her.

“On the count of three,” he said to her breathlessly, taking one of her hands. The other held firmly to the rail. They jostled from the movements of the train, wind whipping around at a ruthless speed. “One… two... three.”

He leapt. Rhysand had been worried he’d need to jerk Clare with him to ensure she left the train, but she jumped on his count with a blind trust that made his heart ache. He used their connected hands to pull her closer, hoping to sustain the brunt of the impact.

They landed on the ground, hard, and Clare was thrown from his grip as they tumbled with the momentum. Rhys struggled out a wheezing breath as he finally fell onto his back, his body already sore and aching. As far as he could tell, he hadn’t broken anything.

“Clare?” he rasped, meaning to call out to her. But he couldn’t sustain enough breath in his lungs to shout, so it came out weak and gasping. He didn’t have the strength to sit up yet, but he angled his head to search for her.

He could hear her wheezing breaths, so she had to be close.

“Here,” she choked.

Thank Gods. Rhys wasn’t capable of looking towards the noise, but his body went limp in relief to know she was conscious and breathing—however laborious.

Hands were on Rhysand’s shoulder, hauling him up. Rhys hissed as they jostled his bruised body, struggling to recollect himself on his feet. How his brother’s were already so spritely from the fall, he’d no idea.

“Come on, brother,” Cassian was saying. “We’ve got to hurry. We haven’t passed the Russian border yet—Az suspects the Polish border isn’t far off.”

“Just a moment, you bastards,” Rhys groaned. He looked to Clare, who was being helped to her feet much more gently by Azriel. She was sore and wincing, too, but didn’t appear injured. The fact that they were all alive was a miracle in itself. “Is everyone alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re fine,” Cassian grumbled, waving away Rhys’s concern. His brother grimaced at the movement, but seemed to grit his teeth against the pain. “We’ll be better once we’re in Poland and there’s no longer a price on our heads.”

Rhysand turned to Clare, who was leaning heavily on Azriel. “How are you feeling, darling?”

She offered him a dry, humorless smile. “Peachy,” she quipped, though he noticed she was holding her elbow delicately. Still, she was feeling fine enough for sarcasm.

Rhys allowed himself one heavy sigh. They were all survivors, they’d certainly all suffered through worse. “Right then, let’s go.”

⟡ ⟡ ⟡

#Feysand #Feysand fic #Anastasia #fairytale retellings #acotar #actoar fic #fanfiction #feysand fanfic #sjm #sjm fic #Rumor of St Petersburg #True Love's Kiss

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dawncleyne-blog · 7 years

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I’m soo sorry

I feel horrible you all I desprately wanted to post on halloween but my computer deleted the whole doc including my backup. and I know you all were really loooking forward to it. I’m so sorry that I let you all down I hope you all will forgive me! I’ll get youfics soon as possible

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jessicatheshark · 5 years

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wouldn’t it be nuts if fanfics had big fandoms outside the actual fanfic sites, as if they’re movies or published books or something

jesus

nobody would be able to keep track of what’s canon and what ain’t

also imagine logging onto tumblr and the first thing you see is a big long character analysis some blogger wrote; you click the link to the story they’re talking about and it’s a 50 chapter Youfic about getting it on with Godzilla and one of the tags is #incorrect usage of torpedoes

#sharktales #literally the only one everyone knows is my immortal

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rm-multi-fandom-fanfiction · 7 years

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By: Youfic

One-shot, Hermione catches Ron and Harry in the showers after a big Quidditch game. Things soon begin to heat up when Hermione takes control of the situation. Harry/Ron/Hermione smut.

#Harry Potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #Hermione Granger #Ron Weasley

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ss-shitstorm · 5 months

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Properly curated reader-insert fics are like self-shipping enablers for whoever happens to be reading them at the moment. You are enhancing my daydreams. You're fertilizing my subconscious soil. You're enriching my enclosure with jungle gyms and tire swings and plants from my native range and cozy little hiding holes to increase the chances of me and my blorbo bonding in captivity. All just so you can watch us mate from the blurry b/w CCTV camera feed in the zookeepers office. I love you reader-insert authors.

#to whoever wrote that yu yu hakusho Hiei/reader fic on quizilla back in 2003 #you fucking made me who I am #reader insert #youfic

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shyspider · 1 month

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Chapter Summary: You find out the real reason you were abducted. Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Fandom: Transformers - All Media Types, The Transformers (IDW Generation One) Rating: Mature Relationships: Soundwave & You, Shockwave & You, Skywarp & You, Rumble & You, Frenzy & You, Starscream & You, Prowl & You, Hot Rod | Rodimus & You, Drift | Deadlock & You, Sideswipe/You, Sunstreaker/You Characters: Soundwave, Shockwave, Starscream, Megatron, Skywarp, Thundercracker, Rumble, Frenzy, Ravage, Buzzsaw, Lazerbeak, Flatline - Character, Optimus Prime, Prowl, Bluestreak, Jazz, Omega Supreme, Wheeljack, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, OCs, Background & Cameo Characters, You, Reader Additional Tags: Angst, Human Experimentation, Action/Adventure, Gunfire/firefights, Minor Character Death, Fear, Kidnapping, Graphic Violence, Manipulation, Trauma, Incorrect assumptions, Fluff, Developing Friendships, Romance (background), polyamory (background), Rescue Missions, 80s setting, Outer Space, biological mutations, Resurrection, You are a Medical Scientist, You/Reader has a name (kinda stuck with it now), You/Reader has a background for plot, Enemies to Friends, Captives to crushes, suggestive content, Sexual Content, Marked/Skippable explicit chapters, longfic, Hurt/Comfort, pre-MtMte/LL storyline, Canon Events rearranged, Implied/Referenced Character Death, attempted redemption, PTSD, Blood and Injury, Additional Warnings in Author's Notes

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nonobadcat · 3 years

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AU! YANDERE TROLL MUSCULAR X FEMALE HUMAN READER

Full Story on Archive of Our Own

Rating: Explicit

TW: Non-con monster fucking (or at best dub-con under implied threat of death), graphic depictions of violence/gore, troll on troll and troll on human cannibalism, mentions of previous sexual slavery/rape, menstural cunnilingus, fellatio, drugging, kidnapping, graphic depictions of lung disease, breeding kink.

NOT a vore story. Reader will live and be unmaimed.

Final Chapter Excerpt:

“My oh my, are you lost little one?”

The voice was low and gentle. Where it came from you couldn’t see. A bead of sweat dripped down your brow and you felt the urge to look back at the forest behind you. However, that might give away Msucular’s position… wherever he was. Instead, you clenched your teeth and clutched the fabric in your fingers until your knuckles blanched.

“I’m not lost, sir,” you replied in honest nervousness. “I-I’m just not sure what to do. I’ve been driven from my home and now I don’t know where to go.”

“You poor thing. You must be scared.”

You stared at your feet, rocking your toes in the dirt. “A little.”

“From where I’m standing, it seems like more than a little.”

You swallowed. “Who are you? I can’t see you in the dark.”

“A friend,” the voice cooed. “Are you hungry? I have some bread I can share.”

You took a step back and waved your hands in front of you. “Oh no! I couldn’t, sir. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Nonsense, I’ve plenty to share. Come closer so you can see for yourself.”

You took another step back. “I think I’ll find my own way, but thank you very much for the offer.”

“You are very polite, little one. Good manners.” There was a short pause and then the voice sounded deeper, huskier. “I think I like you.”

“Thanks?” you squeaked. “You… um… seem nice too?”

The voice in the night chuckled. “Are you sure you won’t come closer? It’s so rare to meet someone on this road and there are dangers in the dark. Wouldn’t it be better for us to travel together?”

Geeze! Where was Muscular?!

“How do I know you’re not one of those dangers, sir?” you asked, taking a step back.

The bridge groaned under something heavy. An amused chortle danced in the air. From the fog emerged a behemoth figure. It was a head taller than Muscular with densely packed muscles. He wore simple wool overalls in the color of moss. You could see massive pale scars littering his chest and neck, as if he’d fought a tiger. The beady black eyes and spiky locks of unruly hair reminded you of Muscular. That alone sent a shiver down your spine. What made it worse was the bulbous nose. It was long and wide, taking at least half the beast's face. Dead in the center of the nose was a deep hole with curling, scarred edges. Your eyes bulged at the sight as the words Muscular told you just a few days ago echoed in your head.

“...but Mamma is the one who put a giant hole in his nose with a hot poker.”

“I’m really quite friendly, little one,” the beast insisted, uncurling a long-clawed hand towards you. His mouth opened wide, revealing the glowing saliva you knew to fear. He licked his fat lips. “Especially now, I can tell you need someone to care for you. I promise I’ll be kind to you if you just come here.”

Something about the way his eyes flared as he said the words sent a blaze of adrenaline careening through your body. “What do you mean, especially now?”

The grin on the troll split his face to his ears.

Okay… not waiting around for that answer.

Read the final chapter on: Archive of Our Own

@shigashigashig

#yandere muscular #troll muscular #troll muscular bnha #reader x muscular #muscular bnha #muscular x reader #bnha fantasy au #reader insert #bnha x y/n #bnha x reader #second person pov #youfic #yandere x reader #yandere bnha #tw cannibalism #tw unhealthy relationship #darkfic #bnha smut

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fangirlingincamouflage · 6 years

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Blind Hope Chapter 2

Title: Blind Hope Author: Rosie Dayze Word Count: 1508 Pairing: Nick Jakoby x Reader Rating: PG-13 Themes: Angst, Plot, affectionate frustration Disclaimer: I do not own Nick Jakoby, he is the intellectual property of Netflix Originals. I make no money from this fanfiction. Chapter One Found Here

“I'm sorry-” he starts.

“I wanted to-” you say at the same time. His words and yours overlap, mingle, and fall apart. The laughter that follows is tight, like the both of you are afraid to be amused or angry or something in between. But, beneath that, hope blooms.

If you can laugh about something so simple as talking over one another, then maybe there is more between your than apologetic flowers and wasted days.

“I'm sorry,” he says again, softly. It's amazing how someone with such a gruff voice can sound so gentle.

“You go first.” You pull your legs beneath you. When that's not enough you pull a blanket across your legs. It's soft, and the feel of it as you brush your fingers anxiously back and forth offers a little comfort. A sliver of moonlight turns the fabric silver. “Please.”

“I should have found a way to call you sooner.” He lets out a breath that you can almost feel through the distance of the telephone.

You chew on your lip, twist the blanket between your fingers. “Why didn't you?”

“I broke my phone.” There is something about the way he says it, like he's practiced the words a thousand times that makes you uncertain of their authenticity.

“It's a funny thing,” you say, plucking at a piece of invisible lint. “You're a pretty careful guy. I noticed that during our walk. You seem to be pretty aware of your strength, Nick.”

The silence stretches again, this time it's heavier. Anxiously you tug the blanket off your legs and readjust your legs. It's like you've suddenly forgotten how your body works, like you can't remember how you like to sit.

“Well, I didn't break it. Johannson broke it.”

You raise your brow and go still. Your limbs don't matter anymore. “Johannson?”

“A co-worker. He was...he was messing around.” The words are flat, the amusement forced. You think the huff of air that follows is supposed to be a laugh but it is empty of amusement.

“Like a joke?”

“Yeah. A joke.”

You chew on your lip for a moment. There is a weight in your chest that you can't put a name to. “Hey, Nick?”

“Yeah?”

“You aren't a very good liar. If you don't want to tell me everything, you don't have to. But don't lie. Please?”

The sound of his pacing echoes through the phone. That feeling in your chest grows heavier. Had you said too much? Pushed too hard? After all, one date didn't necessarily mean he had to explain everything in his life to you. And yet, you think as you slide from the couch to do a little pacing of your own, it seems really important that you know what happened, and understand. Nine days felt like forever, and you want, maybe even need, an explanation.

“I'm sorry,” he says again.

“I know.”

“It's like that thing that frat houses do to new members. You know, to make sure they are letting the right people in.” You wonder if he's trying to convince himself, or you. “It's normal. It's...funny.”

“Breaking your personal property?” You come to a stop in the middle of your living room and swtich the phone from one ear to the other.

“Well, he thought it was funny,” Nick finally says.

There was a universe of hurt in those few words. It staggers your heart in a way you did not expect. You suddenly wish he were right there, rather than halfway across the city. Though, to be fair, you have no idea what you might do to fix the pain you heard.

“Oh, Nick-”

“It's fine. Really.”

It's not, and you know it's not. You are pretty sure he knows that too. Anxiety and frustration carry you into the kitchen. Your eyes land on the roses. Their colors really are striking. The more you look, the more you notice. Pink petals have veins of blue and green weaving their way through them. The yellow ones have the slightest hint of silver dappled along the stems. The orange blossoms are tipped ever so slightly with red. They remind you of his eyes. Your lips curl ever so slightly. Slowly you reach out and touch one. For a moment nothing happens, and then, as if by magic, the petals deepen in hue. It's like a blush.

“Ward told you to send me flowers?” you ask. It's an olive branch. He doesn't want to talk about it, and you don't want to make him any more uncomfortable than he already is.

“I didn't know what to do for a human woman.” He pauses. “That sounds terrible.”

Curiosity has you tilting your head. “What would you do if I were an orc?”

“Well, three hundred years ago I'd have pillaged the home of someone who had trespassed against you and stolen something that you wanted.”

“Well that's both illegal and romantic.”

The laughter that rings through the phone is warm. It fills you from your ear to your toes. You pluck the orange blossom from the bouquet and run it over your lips. You remember the way he kissed you and that warmth becomes a tingle.

“Today,” he says, “if you were an orc woman, what I'd want wouldn't matter.”

“Why not?” The moment the words are out of your mouth you know they are the wrong ones to ask. “I'm sorry, that was rude wasn't it?”

He sighs. “It's okay. I just...”

“You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, Nick. Honestly.”

“No. No, you deserve to know.” He clears his throat. “Do you know what Clan Law is?”

Not really, you want to say, but that's not ultimately true. You've heard about it on the news. Journalists toss the phrase around whenever there is a confrontation in orc heavy locations. It's a theme in orcish music, and during your orc language studies it was only lightly touched on because, as the teacher explained, humans just couldn't understand. Moreover, you tried to do a little research after your first date with Nick, but the thought of admitting that makes your cheeks flush in embarrassment.

“I know a little,” you finally admit. “But I'd prefer to hear your explanation.”

“Clan Law is...it's important,” he tries to explain. “No, that's not right. Hold on. I haven't tried to explain clan law since I was a kid.” He clears his throat. And, when that isn't enough, he coughs. “For most orc, nothing matters more than your clan, and the stories of your clan. Being able to trace your blood back to someone who did something great is the best thing an orc can offer to his clan. More than that, those same great heroes set down our Laws. Telling us what we could and couldn't do and more.” His words, which had been picking up speed, come to a sudden halt. “Clan Law is supposed to decide everything an orc does.”

“Okay.” You turn the words over in your mind. You think you understand, at least the surface idea, if not the complexities.

“Laws can change a little, from one clan to the next. But, you know, if you can't trace your line back, if you've never done anything heroic or great, you aren't blooded.”

He says blooded like it ought to be capitalized, like it needs its own definition in a dictionary.

“You are going to have to explain that one to me too.”

“Blooded is something I'm not,” he finally spits out. It's a toss up if this bothers him more or less than Johannson breaking Nick's phone. “My father's not, my mother's not. We aren't welcome among most clans because of our round teeth.”

Your heart feels heavy. A piece of the puzzle that is Nick Jakoby falls into place. Here was a man who wasn't accepted by humans for being an orc, and yet wasn't orcish enough for that either. Here was a man who had clung to the idea of being a cop, and yet there was at least one man on the squad who wasn't making Nick feel welcome there either. Suddenly the fact that he hadn't called no longer matters to you.

“Well, on the plus side,” you say, trying your best to sound light, “You send excellent flowers.”

“You mean it?” he asks.

“Enough that I am seriously thinking about asking you out on a date this weekend.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, something extra cheesy, I think.” You run the rose across your own cheek. “I mean, we covered the traditional dinner date. Maybe a movie next?”

“I could do a movie,” he says. “I do the night shift this Friday.”

“Saturday night? Or Sunday morning?” you offer.

“Saturday night.” He nearly pounces on the offer. “I'd really like that.”

“I would too.” You realize you are grinning. You spin the rose through the air. “And Nick?”

“Yeah?”

“Feel free to call me every day between now and then.” Chapter 3 Found Here

#Bright #bright fanfiction #nick jakoby #youfic #Rosey Dayze #fluffy #chapter fics

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mersuperwholockabuff · 8 years

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Don’t Fucking Fix Me

Summary:

Cas makes you so angry sometimes! He doesn’t need to be constantly over your shoulder and worried about every little thing you do and treating you like some child and you feel like you just need to scream and- and- and oh god, you’re having sex.

A/N: Prompt by hanaleim for “Cas x female reader. Anger bang. Less than 5,000."

Ao3 link (my blog is not good for reading)

“The Winchesters aren’t the only ones that can save the world, Castiel!” You scream for what feels like the dozenth time. If your hand didn’t hurt so goddamn much, you would be punching the fucking wall by now. “I can help! I was helping! If you hadn’t showed up and zapped me outta there I would’ve had that son of a bitch!”

Cas is just standing at the door to your bedroom, stoic and impassive as ever. Only the slight gleam of irritation boiling somewhere in the corners of his eyes hint he is starting to get angry too.

“You’re hurt,” he says and gestures towards your busted arm. “I had to,” he throws up his hands for air quotes, “zap you out.”

Well kudos to him for getting the fucking quotes this time. For some reason that only spikes the anger zipping through you and you actually end up flexing the arm with splintered bones, making you hiss through your teeth. He seems ready to gloat so you cut him off with, “So what?! It’s part of the fucking job! It’s just a scratch anyway. That demon barely touched me.”

“That demon had you cornered with no weapon and no way out.” Cas’ voice finally starts to rise, “If I hadn’t-“

“I would have figured something out!” Cas looks ready to protest but you are far too done with this argument to listen to anything he has to say. You raise your hand –the non-broken one, thank you very much- and shout, “What are you even still doing here anyway? If you’re hoping for the thank you card then you’ll be waiting a long time cus the mailman already lost it.”

That didn’t even make sense and you know it, but at least it provokes that irritation back up in Cas. Finally, you wiggled that stick up his ass just enough to set his stone face sour. His fists flex and you can practically feel his wings ruffling. You smirk to yourself in guilty satisfaction.

Castiel grinds out, “I will leave after I fix your arm.”

“And here we go again! I know guardian angels are like a thing or whatever but your Dean’s, not mine. Stop being so overprotective!”

“Your arm is broken!”

“Thanks for the newsflash, Captain Obvious. Now fly outta here before I break yours too.” Empty threats aside, the twitch in his jaw makes it worth the effort of screaming past your aching throat. “I don’t want you here. I don’t need you trying to fix me!”

“You are reckless and irresponsible. You are going to get yourself killed.”

“Then that’s my own goddamn fucking problem! If I don’t try the rest of us are just gonna get killed anyway. Or haven’t you noticed? It’s apocalypse number fuckenty out there. If I don’t help stop it then I’ll end up a pile of ash anyway. And that’s the best possible scenario. So fly off and angel-mojo help already! Stop trying to be my watchdog. I don’t want to hold your leash, little pet. Go see if someone else will.”

“That’s enough.”

“Is it? You talk about how you’re an,” you pause to drop your voice to the ‘mocking Cas’ level, “Angel of the Lord with all this power. Well I have yet to see any of it. What good are you actually? Other than being the almighty babysitter.”

The air punches out of your lungs as your back hits the wall and your arm slams to the side. You blink a second too long to orient yourself and find you’ve flown half the room and ended up with Cas pinning you against the wallpaper, his glowing eyes now not hiding any of his fury, his hands digging painfully tight into your shoulders. “I said that’s enough.”

You know you should shut up and stop, but that’s never really been your specialty. You smile at his showboating and croon, “Ooooh. Puppy wants to show his teeth?”

“Stop comparing me to a canine.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

His hands tighten and your hands curl from the pain that shoots out from your busted arm. If he notices he doesn’t show it, just leans in close, his weirdly warm angel breath puffing over your lips, and growls like the damn canine he is, “I have you cornered, just like the demon. How were you planning to escape without my help?”

“I’m not stupid, Cassie. I had a plan.” Well, a shitty plan but he doesn’t need to know that. “Sneak attack.”

He tilts his head to the side in that idiotic way, definitely teasing you. Oh god, he is so infuriating! “How?”

If you weren’t pinned, you really would be punching him across the face. But you are pinned, so Plan B it is. “Like this!”

You shove your face into his and –screw your bruising lip to hell (with that demon who gave it to you)- you move your lips over that scratching stubble and onto his.

Yup. This was your big Plan B! And now your lip is probably bleeding again.

Not for nothing but it’s come in handy before. People –and monsters- never really expect the smooch/sucker-punch routine when you’ve just been trying to bash their teeth in.

It is even working on Cas. His arms have lifted and the rest of him has stilled completely, that anger he was shaking out stuck rattling in the ether with his wings.

You’re not actually about to sucker-punch Cas, though the idea is tempting, and instead spin your way out from between him and the wall, saying, “I think I made my-“ You squeal as Cas’ hands spin you back to him again, the vertigo making your heart leap painfully hard in your chest. You’re no longer pinned against the wall but you’re not exactly loving the death grip he has on your hips either. “Ow! Cas, what the-“

“That was a stupid plan.”

“It worked, didn’t it? I got out of being cornered.”

“But I still have you.” He squeezes your hips to make his point and you trip a half step into him, almost colliding with that massive chest of his. “As I said, it was reckless and would not have worked. It was a stupid plan.”

Your hammering heart is starting to beat some red into the corner of your vision and you lean in close to snap, “That wasn’t the full plan dumbass! It would have been something like this-“

You slam your mouth against his again, only this time there’s nothing chaste about it. You use all working limbs to curl around him, your good hand pulling him close by way of that stupid trench coat. Even your tongue does its fair share of work, slipping past his unmoving mouth and gracing his teeth.

He stills for only a moment this time before he opens his mouth –no doubt to say some other shit- so you pull back your body, turn your waist, and slam your fist into the side of his face.

Cas’ head snaps to the side and you fall away, shaking out the hand that had two seconds ago been the good one. It’s bleeding now.

“Son of a shit fucker!” You jump up and down twice before realizing that hurts your fractured arm worse and simply shake out the other one. “Jesus! Why the hell is your head so goddamn hard?!”

Cas reaches out and you sidestep him. He steps again and you practically want to growl at him to step the fuck off.

“I want to fix your hand,” he says, irritation lacing every syllable. He apparently didn’t appreciate the sucker-punch part, even though you barely left a mark on him.

You back up again, orientating yourself towards the door, even though Cas could easily zap you back into the corner if he wanted. But that would mean he would have to actually make a decision on his own for the first freaking time in his immortal life.

“I told you not to fix me.” You doge him again, nearly tripping over your discarded shoes in the process. “I don’t want you to fix me.” Your voice catches and your eyes burn so you overcompensate with volume, “I don’t need to be fixed! Stop trying to fix me!”

Your harsh scream is cut short when Cas’ hand flicks out and you are sent flying to the other side of the room –the side away from the escape route. Your landing isn’t as harsh as it was the first time but as soon as you open your eyes to yell at him again, he’s there and you’re stuck. He has you by the better arm, pinned above your head. Your lame arm is limp and not even the slightest bit helpful as you struggle against his immovable body.

Cas closes in even tighter, his body locking you into place as he presses against you. His steely muscles curl against your stomach and chest and you know you’re screwed. You know it… but you’re still you and that won’t stop you one bit.

“You are physically injured,” he says as calmly as he can. It’s clear there’s a power coursing just under the surface and he’s trying hard to keep it locked down. “Let me heal you.”

“I can take care of myself!”

“I want to help.”

“Leave me alone!”

“You are infuriating!” Cas finally yells back, his free fist slamming against the wall near your head, spraying plaster dust over your side and face. “I am trying to help you!”

Between clenched teeth you spit out, “I don’t want it.”

His fingers press deeper into your wrist and you can start to feel it now. He’s going to leave bruises and, any harder, he may just start squeezing bone. You don’t show him you’re affected so he goes on, “You are a tiny, stubborn, annoying human being that should learn proper respect. I am not as stupid as you think.”

You’re about to yell at him for being stupid because you never actually called him stupid, he called you stupid, when his mouth is suddenly covering yours. He’s skipping the chaste route too and dives in, teeth first, nipping at your lips and shoving his tongue inside. You bump his tongue out with your own, getting him back for the nips with actual bites, your mouth gasping as you roughly push your lips into the action.

Your body curves, shoulder blades digging into the wall, your pinned arm fighting to get free of his grasp, your legs trapped between his unmoving ones. You open your eyes to see if he really is only moving his head while you’re here grinding the wall and realize that Cas is kissing you.

Cas. Is kissing. You.

You push him back again, strong and hard- feeling no pain. At all.

Your eyes jump to your hands in surprise. Apparently, Cas has used your trick against you and sucker-healed you without you even realizing it. All your little cuts and scrapes are back to being fresh, bruise-able, baby soft skin without your consent.

“Did you just heal me?!”

“Sneak attack,” he deadpans.

You do growl this time and snatch him by the lapels, spinning him against the wall this time. And damn him for letting you do that -for letting you think for even one second that you could repay him by giving him your former aches and pains.

The phantom soreness of your hand is the only thing that reminds you you can’t.

You attack this time, showing him exactly how this kissing thing is supposed to work. You come in just as hard and greedy as before, your body a frenzied mess as you test out your newly healed parts, touching and rubbing and grabbing. You start with his freaking beautiful hair, tugging until he’s forced to lean back and expose his neck. Then you really start biting, down his neck and over his suit.

Why does he never take the damn thing off?

You start shoving at the coat, pushing it off his shoulder so you can see the fucking buttons and get those fuckers out of the holes. Cas barely lets you get two out before he’s trying to help.

Always trying to help.

You slap his hand away but he tries to help again. You double slap them away but he has your mouth again and you spin as he pins you back against the adjacent wall.

You kiss and push back but all you end up doing is grinding against his thigh as he rips away the belt from your jeans. You won’t let him get much farther than that as you grind against him again, your center igniting with desire as his body leans into yours.

Before you can cum like a goddamn preteen, fully clothed and unintentional, you get back to the attacking of faces and unbuttoning of stupid suits. The fact that your hands don’t even have a twinge of ache because of the dumb healing fuels that fire and the heat returns again, this time from the annoyance bursting back into anger.

Why the fuck are you taking the full suit off anyway?

Your hands jump for his pants, quickly undoing the belt, button, and zip before he can do more than moan. While he’s busy biting at your neck, you frantically get your jeans undone and kick them on the ground.

He steps back, apparently surprised, and you roll your eyes. It’s so like him to be shocked by something inevitable. You grab him by the pants and yank him back, slip your hand into his boxers and grab onto his erection, hot flesh twitching against your fingers as you yank again.

“You’re not read-“

“Shut up,” you breathe and pull him in by the back of the neck. You keep him occupied with your mouth and move your hand off his cock so you can pull your panties to the side.

Panting in tune with your pounding heart, a mix of adrenaline riding the fast lane straight from the corner of Rage and Lust, you know you can’t wait very long. You’ve been slick and empty from the very moment he had his hand locked around your wrist. If you don’t get his cock in you soon, you are going to start throwing punches again.

You rip his boxers away and grab onto his erection, leading him to your body and wrapping a leg around his waist, lining yourself up as best as you can when he’s half a foot taller than you.

The moment his velvety head slips against your clit, a bumbling move where he jumps at the feel of your wet folds, you say, “Fuck it,” and jump into his arms.

Lucky for him, he manages to catch you and hold you up against the wall, barely a moment lost before your mouths rejoin.

Somewhere in the back of your head -the functioning bit- you have to admit you’re pretty impressed with Cas’ tenacious hunger as he holds on tighter, his mouth now slipping over your chest and mouthing at your shirt, unable to lick at the sensitive flesh underneath. The taunt makes you whine and you curve your body up, hold your panties to the side and slide down until his head is grazing at your entrance.

You have to roll your hips a few times, pushing down and pulling back before you growl and readjust your legs around his middle, making him take more of your weight so you can open wider and swallow up his dick, inch by inch until you’re finally full.

The stretch feels amazing and you rest your head against the wall to catch your breath, digging your hands into his shoulders for some payback as the slight burn quickly fizzles into only pleasure.

Then his hips start to move, at first little jerks to test but then you’re kicking your heels into him, urging him to go faster and deeper until he’s pounding into you. Until his jeans rub your thighs red and you’re reaching back to grab the wall for support as you gasp out your breaths.

Every thrust is accompanied by his grunt, your returning moan, and a thump against the wall. The harmony is pretty damn beautiful.

The friction is unbelievably good for all of two minutes.

It’s just not enough. He’s hitting all the wrong places and now your panties are starting to rub you the wrong way.

Freaking angels.

Just as you’re about to tell him to get a grip already, you’re spinning through the air for the fourth or fifth time –you’ve lost track- that day and find yourself dropped onto the bed, his cock still planted deep inside you. You gasp at the way that hit just the spot you were looking for, but that sensation is ruined the moment you realize where he placed you.

You are so not in the mood for any of his missionary style B.S. You drop your legs, scratching yourself on his belt as you go, and try to pull yourself off the bed but his hulking body is in the way.

He looks confused for a moment and pulls his dick out, starting at you as you jump to your feet, wobbling –because, yeah, wall fucking will do that to a girl- and you tear your panties off.

He’s a panting mess, sweating and breathing harder than you are, as he asks, “What are you doing?”

You look at him, grind your teeth, and warn, “I said, shut up.”

In a flash you flip yourself around and put your hands on the bed, presenting your ass to the asshole who is seriously pissing you off. Seriously, does he have to be so worried all the fucking time? You are obviously fine!

He still isn’t doing anything. You look over your shoulder and see he’s just staring at you. Idiot. “I know my ass is great-” you say with a smirk, “-but can you just fuck me already?”

You widen your stance to give him a sense of where this is going and finally you feel him move in close, his cock bouncing off your thigh before it is hastily corrected, following the trail of your arousal and impaling your body with an easy hard thrust.

You groan and the bed sheets fail to hold under your grip, peeling off the corners. Finally, he’s not holding back.

Fresh breath is knocked out of you with every drive of his hips. His strokes have become almost as violent as his fists and he needs to wrap his hands in a harsh grip around your waist in order to stop himself from slipping out of you.

You moan and lean into him, because how could you not? Those fingers are pressing into just the right muscles, outlining your hipbones and linking to your sex. Every thrust is hitting you just right. The exact amount of pleasure following by only the slightest pain to take the edge of your heat off.

The slapping of skin on skin joins in your chorus of cries as he picks up the pace and his jeans fall to the side, his breathing more frantic than ever.

You try to reach towards your center to give yourself a hand, just the right amount and exactly what you need, but as soon as Cas sees you reaching, his hand is inching around, trying to help you out.

“I wanna,” you pant, barely able to make the thought coherent before Cas has thrust it out of you. You rip the sheets nearly half off the bed with his powerful strikes. You try again, panting, “I wanna-“ You lose yourself to the feeling of his hands wrapping around your thighs. “Goddman that is distracting as fuck.”

“What?” Cas tries to ask, stopping his fucking.

You growl -because who ever told him he could stop?- and push up. The angle is awkward with a cock inside you so you grab onto Cas’ slipping coat and fist your hands in the fabric, pulling yourself up and stretching it out so you can curve back to his front.

He’s helpful and grabs you around the middle. Just this once, you’ll let it go.

“I said,” you say, “I wanna touch my own clit, thank you very much.”

Cas groans into your ear, mouthing his way around the places he can reach –making you tremble with his tongue and teeth as they graze your damp skin. He’s barely able to keep himself from driving in, just giving tiny pulses of his member inside you. “I don’t-“

“Keep fucking me,” you command and reach a hand down between your thighs.

You can feel him the moment he starts back up again, not only inside you but you move your hand to his cock and feel it with the tips of your fingers as it slides in and out. You can picture it so perfectly. The way you open for him, the way he disappears inside you.

God it just feels so good. The heat is coiling in your abdomen and you know you’re close. You’re rising higher, your limbs start to shake. Your knees start to buckle and you reach out with your free hand.

You’re nearly close enough to grab the wall for support, but short just a few inches. Cas must notice because next thing you know you’re being pushed against it.

Your breasts push flat and your flushed cheek feel cool against the wallpaper, the rest of you hot and sweaty. Your hands jump for something to grab onto, coming up with nothing but flat and your fingertips dig into brown and gold floral prints, scratching the walls beyond repair.

Then your hand slips into plaster dust and lands in the hole Cas’ fist made in his spurt of uncontrolled anger.

You groan and your fingers dive into the spot, bracing yourself as Cas pounds into your body. So close, you drop your free hand to your clit and start to circle, faster and faster as he fills you up inside, until you start to lose control of your voice.

“Ugnh-“ You gasp, moving your hand even faster as Cas picks up pace. “Oh god,” you cry as your hand slips from the hole in the wall and into the wallpaper, ripping it from its place. “Cas- oh god- Cas- I’m gonna- ah- ah- Cas!”

The electric pulse of your orgasm shoots through your limbs, legs buckling and hands scratching down sheetrock. Cas keeps you up from behind as he continues to thrust into you.

You’re about to open your eyes and fix your positioning when you hear him yell, “Don’t open your eyes!”

You squeeze them shut and a bright flash fills the room, Cas’ hips stuttering in pace. Only when the light dies down do you blink them open to find every bulb burnt out or fizzing with smoke. The TV is making weird noises too. Whatever.

Through your orgasmic haze you chuckle and say, “I think your sneak attack plan beats mine.”

There’s a pause a tad too long and you’re worried you may have done something wrong, but then you feel Cas’ forehead on your neck, chuckles rolling over your skin as he hugs you from behind.

For some reason, you don’t feel quite as angry anymore.

#spn #castiel x reader #supernatural #fanfic #youfic #second person #angry sex #cas x reader

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