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certifiedskywalker · 3 years

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Breathing Room - Bucky Barnes

Thanks to Sharon’s new profession, you have a chance to catch your breath in Madripoor. Though, Bucky never fails at stealing it away.

WARNINGS: drinking (?) and tensiooooonnn

“I’ve never seen him look at anyone like how he looks at you. Except for Steve.”

“It’s not like that,” you persisted as you shook your head.

Ready to prove your counterpoint, you traced the path of Sharon’s pointed gaze. It landed on Bucky who, amidst the party of stiff art connoisseurs and writhing criminals, looked strangely at ease. When you let your gaze linger, you saw him shift against the far wall he was leaned on. His eyes found yours in an instant as if he had been glancing in your direction before. As if he already knew where you were stood.

Under the colored lights that seemed to flash in tune with the music, Bucky’s eyes, once bright and blue, were dark as he focused on you. Despite the heat of all those that danced, you found yourself frozen. A chill rolled up your spine and threatened to overtake you, thrust you in the depths of Bucky’s stare. Only the sound of a knowing, humming sigh freed you.

“Uh-huh, sure. It’s not like that,” Sharon echoed sarcastically. You glared at her as she moved out from behind the bar. She passed a glass of dark liquor over to you with a grin. Gently, you nudged the drink back across the counter and shook your head.

“I’m on a mission.”

“So is he,” Sharon quipped as she tipped her head towards Bucky. Steaming embarrassment rose along your skin as you glanced back over towards the super-soldier. He was no longer fixed on you. He instead squinted at Zemo as the Baron broke it down in the most awkward, display of dance you had ever seen.

“Yeah, and I’m not it.”

“You are, you just won’t admit it,” Sharon sipped at her drink before she continued. “The way he watches you...he’s ready to take a bullet for you.”

“He already has,” you sighed, gesturing to your left arm. “Vibranium, remember? He’s covered me more than once.”

“Couldn’t forget it.”

“Also, he stares at everyone.”

Sharon scoffed, a light laugh slipping from her lips. “Sure, but not like that.”

“Do you really think...he’s hard to read. I don’t know if he really means to…”

“You’re right, he might not mean to look at you like you’re his lifeline, but it doesn’t change the fact that he does.” Sharon downed the rest of her drink and rested the empty glass on the counter. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m on a mission too: to sell some art and information.”

With a wink, she sauntered away, towards a group of individuals clad in formal wear. You watched her go for a moment longer before you shifted your gaze to sneak a glance at Bucky. When you did, you found he was already looking at you, dark eyes fixed on your face. It was tough to tell in the red tones that shone down on him, but you thought you saw Bucky’s mouth quirk the slightest bit upward. Though, you did not stare long enough to see if it morphed into a full-fledged smile.

You were too aware of how your chest tightened to let yourself linger on him. Especially with Sharon’s teasing, her insights, you could not find it in yourself to stare back. Not then, not when there was a chance Bucky felt the same as you had for years, which meant both of you were too stubborn, or too wary, to say anything about it. Even the thought of it knocked the air from your lungs. You eyed the liquor Sharon had poured out for you, considered downing it to distract yourself from the new wave of nerves that washed over you. Before you stretched your fingers out towards the glass, a sudden warmth brushed against your left shoulder.

“You gonna drink that?”

You turned and saw Bucky, his side nearly pressed against yours. The scent of the cologne Sharon had forcibly sprayed on him before the party filled your nose. Fragrant balsam and clove: warm, welcoming, and enough to numb your racing thoughts. When you didn’t respond to his question, Bucky leaned in closer to you with furrowed brows.

“Y/N?” Up close, you noticed just how clear his eyes were, how wholly focused on you he was. Silently you hoped he didn’t detect the shuddering breath you took.

“Yeah,” you said as tipped your head towards the drink, “it’s all yours.”

Bucky nodded at you as he reached for the glass. As he moved, his gaze remained fixed on you and you could not tear your eyes away. The moment the lights flashed an almost natural white, you swore you saw hints of pink on Bucky’s cheeks; but before you could truly tell, the fixtures flickered between blue and red. As Bucky brought the glass to his lips, you forced your eyes to the granite countertop.

To busy your mind, distract yourself from the lure of Bucky’s presence, you traced your fingertips along some of the natural patterns on the stone’s smoothed surface. It was only when you heard the clinking of glass against the countertop over the music that you felt enough courage to face the man stood at your side. Bucky’s eyes were still trained on you when you looked back up at him, full of that same attention Sharon had noted earlier.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink before,” you remarked, “or relaxed.”

“I’m not relaxed,” Bucky said, shouting slightly to be heard over the music. You smiled as he leaned in closer to add, “I don’t think I’ve ever been. Not since….”

“The forties?”

Bucky averted his eyes from you at your teasing question and turned his gaze to the floor. “Well, yeah, honestly.”

The smallness of his voice made your heart ache. Without a moment’s thought, you reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. At your touch, Bucky met your eyes again, and then you saw it. It must have been the glint that Sharon picked up on before. A ferocity, but not one that frightened you. It was a ferocity born of passion, the same, deeply rooted feeling that forced the air from your lungs when you let yourself stare at Bucky for too long.

The passion that you had kept bottled in your chest since you met him, the real Bucky, not the Winter Soldier. It had taken so long for you to truly see him and he was just finally seeing himself. Until the party and Sharon’s observations, you hadn’t realized that maybe he was seeing you too. How long had you been blind to each other, giving each other breathing room when all you wanted was to be close?

“Honestly, I think you look good,” you said, with a confidence that surprised you.

Bucky cocked his head to the side slightly, with the faintest hints of a smile on his lips. “Really? I don’t...it’s been...I haven’t been to a party since the forties. I haven’t danced…”

“You look great, Bucky,” you pressed as you let your hand fall from his shoulder. Bucky blinked at you a few times as if trying to compute your compliments. You gave him a soft smile, an expression that he, shockingly, returned.

“So do you, Y/N.”

The way he said your name sent another chilling shiver down your spine and tightened your chest. Your breath grew ragged and you became suddenly self-conscious about the volume of your breathing. Though, when you noticed how Bucky’s chest rose and fell a bit more rapidly than before, your worries faded. They melted into the music and the smell of his, Sharon’s, cologne until all you felt was warmth and light.

“Do you want to danc-”

Before Bucky could ask his question in full, a drunken party-goer knocked into your back and sent you leaning off your stool. As you tipped forward into him, Bucky opened his arms to catch you. The cool metal of his left arm dug into your waist as your hands braced against his chest. Once you found your footing, you glanced up at Bucky.

“Are you alright?” His eyes scanned over your face as he asked. Yet, all you really heard was Sharon’s voice: he’s ready to take a bullet for you. Ready to fight for you too.

“I’m fine.”

Despite your assertion, Bucky looked past you and towards the person that had nearly knocked you over. For a moment, you saw the man that Zemo had ordered around in the Power Broker’s bar. He wasn’t your Bucky. The passion had turned to anger in his eyes. Quickly, you trailed your hands up from his chest to cup the sides of his face.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” you forced Bucky’s face to turn until his eyes found yours. “I’m fine. Are you fine?”

Bucky didn’t respond. Instead, he just stared down at you, his eyes flickered from your eyes to your lips and back again. Gently, you rubbed the pads of your thumbs along the peaks of his cheekbones. At the contact, eyes glinted and you knew he was the Bucky you loved again. The scruff that lined his jaw and grew up the sides of his face prickled and tickled the skin of your palm as he drew in closer.

Suddenly, there was no more breathing room; but you were so wonderfully okay with that. Each breath you each took mingled between you until there was no space at all. Bucky’s lips brushed softly against yours, a tentative ask for permission before you closed the gap. He tasted like whiskey as you kissed and, when his arms tightened around your waist, you felt that you might drown in him.

You were prepared to do just that when you heard someone loudly clear their throat. With a small gasp for air, you and Bucky parted and turned your attention away from the other. Sam, clad in Sharon’s spare turtle neck, stood with his arms crossed over his chest and a knowing grin on his lips. Your hands slipped from Bucky’s face and the super soldier’s arms went a little more slack around your waist.

“So, if you two are done, Sharon found Nagel.”

“Y-yeah,” you stammered, “we’ll...follow you.”

Sam glanced at you then Bucky and back again. “You really gotta work on your timing. We’re on a mission, guys. Seriously.”

Before you or Bucky could comment, Sam started off towards Zemo and Sharon. You glanced up at Bucky who seemingly sensed your eyes and looked back at you.

“He’s not wrong.”

“Don’t tell him that.”

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ace-in-a-shopping-cart · 4 years

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Day 6

Prompt: When your soulmate is injured you will experience pain in the same area.

Word Count: 795

Main Taglist: (Send an ask to be added or removed!) @starlocked01, @spoopy-turtle, @lizluvscupcakes, @more-fandon-than-friends, @i-cant-find-a-good-username, @vindicatedvirgil, @star-crossed-shipper, @justaqueercactus, @gayboopnoodle, @sanderssidesweirdo, @the-sympathetic-villain, @8-writes Soulmate taglist:(Send an ask to be added or removed!) @elizabutgayer, @melodiread, @tsshipmonth2020, @mikalya12, @8-writes

Logan sucked air in through his teeth, feeling a phantom cut spring up on his arm. From the feeling of it, it was probably another cat scratch. He sighed, not waiting for the pain to fade before going back to his task. He truly couldn’t complain about the odd scratch or prick of a bite, after all, he hurt himself more navigating his home on a daily basis than his soulmate did.

He tended to bump into things often, turning pages too fast and getting paper cuts, having some unexplained bruises popping up every now and then. His soulmate seemed to get injuries mainly on the arms and occasionally on the lower legs. He didn’t know much else about them but he didn’t need to know much else.

Grabbing his coat, Logan walked out the door. The air was crisp, the smell of Fall tumbling in the wind like the leaves. He set off at a leisurely pace, having all the time in the world to enjoy the lovely weather. The leaves were changing to the browns, reds, and golds he loved. The scarf around his neck gave him a welcome comfort and protection against the wind that assaulted his cheeks. His walk was calm and relaxing, nothing too eventful happening within it, allowing him to arrive at the library without incident.

Instead of simply checking out books and leaving, Logan decided to sit at one of the tables and read. He was getting into the book, his eyes scanning the pages faster as the scenes intensified. His mind became lost in the story, his eyes flying over the words until he was almost watching it play out as a movie or play would. His senses zeroed in on the book and he no longer cared about where he was or who was around him, his focus completely on the book.

This meant that he was flipping the pages with abandon, not caring about the amount of force he was using. He was brought solidly back to the real world when he got a paper cut from the page, making him hiss in pain. Down the table, another person clutched their finger in the exact spot Logan had just cut.

Logan looked over at them and took a chance. He scooped up his book, made his way over, and sat down across the table from them. “Excuse me, did you get a cut on your arm this morning?”

The person glanced up at him and nodded. “How’d you know?” Even with the question, their voice was devoid of surprise. After all, it wasn’t that uncommon for soulmates to introduce themselves in this manner, nor was it out of the ordinary for perfect strangers to attempt to strike up a conversation with something like this.

Logan couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face. “I felt it. I also noticed you felt the paper cut I got just now.” He held up the damaged finger as if for proof.

The person nodded, putting a bookmark in their book, Logan couldn’t help but notice that it was about vampire lore, and stuck out their hand. “Hi, my name is Virgil and I go by they/them pronouns.”

Logan’s smile grew as he took and shook the hand. “My name is Logan and I go by he/him pronouns.”

They continued to talk for a bit, getting to know each other. They eventually got kicked out for being too disruptive, giggling over the insanities of vampire lore that was forgotten by the general population. Both checked out their books before walking together down to the local bakery. It was quiet in there, not many customers choosing to stay despite the wonderful cookies that were served.

Soon, it became a regular meeting place for the soulmates. In the beginning, they met up and talked about books or fandoms or things. Soon, it progressed into their personal lives. Virgil learned that Logan taught history at the high school, managing to slip in queer facts and highlighting times when women did the work while the men reaped the profits. Logan learned that Virgil worked at the local shelter in addition to having their own cat at home, rescued from that same shelter.

They soon progressed to inviting the other to their homes. Logan got to meet Muffin, Virgil’s russian blue. Virgil got to see Logan’s extensive book collection, receiving permission to borrow any book they liked. Over the course of the next year and a half, they got to know each other better and better until the day came that Virgil proposed.

Logan accepted enthusiastically and they got married that Fall. The wedding theme perfectly matched the leaves and Logan couldn’t be happier in the life he and Virgil got to live.

#tsshipmonth2020 #analogical #virgil sanders #logan sanders #soulmate au #injuries #ace writes

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tmntgirlie · 4 years

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Saviors in a Half Shell 2

It was always the same routine. Find somebody (or somebodies) causing trouble, get there as soon as possible, and kick ass. He knew his role- he knew he could rely on his brothers to know what to do as well. They worked almost seamlessly as a team every night. As soon as the shadows began to fall, they were there to protect the city.

This was nowhere near as easy.

“You alright there, miss?”

“I’m pretty sure this is pretty illegal. Leonardo.”

Very few humans had ventured down to the turtles’ lair. It wasn’t the most inviting place. All sewer lines and tunnels leading to the lair stunk like nobody’s business. It was no surprise nobody ever accidentally made their way down.

It didn’t take long for Y/N to begin her complaints about the smell. Longer than he expected, but still. Even when she asked where they were going, why the smell was so strong, nobody gave her a straight answer. It was a good thing she had a blindfold.

Leonardo wasn’t sure why she didn’t seem disgusted at the sight of them. The few humans that had witnessed them had varied reactions- even April was in a state of shock the first time they met face to face. What could she be thinking about them now?

She didn’t even ask what they were. She had seen them.

“Ah, home sweet lair!” Mikey sighed with glee as he hopped down from the rather large ‘pipe’ like entryway. “Welcome to our crib, Y/N!”

The woman took in a deep breath as Raph set her down on the ground. She was thankful he didn’t put her on her feet, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stand right. “Was the blindfold really necessary?”

The orange-masked turtle snickered. “Of course it was.”

“I guess the smell isn’t so bad now- wait, did we just go through the sewers? Why is it so cold down here?”

“Guys, I think she figured it out.”

“Can it, Mikey.”

Y/N could hear a quick ‘thud’ before someone untied her blindfold. She blinked a few times as her eyes began to adjust to her surroundings.

Oh, this would take more than a few seconds to adjust to.

She got to her feet finally, brushing off the thighs of her pants. She did a slow spin, looking the room up and down. She pursed her lips together before she finally turned to the four that had kidnapped her.

Leonardo stood first, his arms placed tightly around his back. She noticed he wasn’t the tallest of them all, but he definitely wasn’t short. This one stood at least a foot above her, and was a wall of green muscle.

Green muscle?

She assumed the next was Raph, he had been referred to a few times on the way there. He’s the one that carried her. He was definitely the biggest, both height and muscle wise. She made a mental note to make nice with that one. Though, she thought, if they had meant to hurt her, they would have done it by now. They wouldn’t have taken her.

She wasn’t going to use the term ‘rescued’ just yet.

The third one was adorned with a purple mask and- were those tortoise-shell glasses?

About that last one.

“Well, whaddya think?” The green thing with an orange mask asked. He was practically jumping up and down. “You’re here!”

Y/N frowned, not saying a word. This was definitely a lot to take in. Were those shells on their backs?

“My bad, my bad! Allow me to introduce ourselves!” the orange-masked green one said quickly as he waved his arms in the air, as if to erase everything up till now. “I’m Michelangelo, the best one of the group. That’s Donatello, the brains. Raphael, the muscle, and Leonardo.”

She slowly turned towards Leonardo. “Huh, you don’t get a description. What’s that about?” It was unclear if it was sarcasm or pure curiosity dripping from her voice.

The blue-masked turtle smirked at her. “Don’t need one, miss.”

She waved a hand mindlessly through the air. “Y/N is fine. I guess. You guys live in the sewers?”

“How’d you guess?” Raphael had never given a better deadpan look in his life.

“I mean, it makes sense. Not sure how you could afford an apartment like this in the Big Apple in this economy,” she shot back, though it was clear this was no longer sarcasm. It wasn’t anger, irritation- what was it. “Now. Do you guys regularly kidnap women on rooftops or was this a one-time thing? I’m sure there are more out there.”

Leonardo shook his head. “Not that we’ve seen.”

“I guess I’ll have to cross ‘mutant turtle ninjas’ off of my list of things I don’t think are real,” she said slowly, thoughtfully, looking towards the ceiling. “That’s really high up.”

Not as high up as I had been earlier, she noted.

“What made you try to do it?”

She turned back to them, not sure which one had spoken. “What?”

“Stand on the edge. What made you do it?”

“It’s… It’s complicated, I guess,” she said quietly. “Probably not something you’d be interested in hearing about.”

The blue-masked turtle (Leonardo?) took a small step forward. “We swore to ourselves and our allies to protect this city at all costs. That includes you.”

“I’m not sure my life story up until now is something you can mentally prepare for.” Y/N forced a laugh, shaking her head again. She had convinced herself time and time again that it was just another sob story, one more tally that might not even be worthy of being drawn. “I’m gonna be frank here. So, are you guys turtles? Not regular turtles, obviously.”

“Mutant turtles, miss,” Raphael said through a grin. “Unlike any other.”

She tapped on her chin. “Mutant turtles that are about twice my height, made of muscle, that… Fight in favor of the most populated city in the country.”

Michelangelo tipped an imaginary hat to her. “Saving damsels in distress in the shadows.”

“I’m definitely distressed,” she snorted. “I must be dreaming.”

It surprised Leonardo how easy it had been to get this woman to talk to them. She didn’t seem afraid, and she didn’t say why. He wasn’t about to ask.

Sure, she didn’t divulge into her life story with them, but she did agree to play a multiplayer video game with them. Even April didn’t indulge at their requests.

He settled on the belief that she thought she was dreaming. It was an easier reality to swallow than a human simply accepting that she was napped by mutant ninja turtles. He couldn’t stop from questioning what made him notice her in the first place.

It was a quiet night. The brothers were jumping from the rooftops both for exercise and pleasure. It definitely wasn’t to see who could do it the fastest. And Michelangelo definitely was not the fastest.

He never bragged, of course.

“How did you get all of this stuff down here? Did you really carry things one by one through the sewers?”

It was amusing how easily she spoke now versus just an hour ago. And while dominating at Super Smash Bros, nonetheless.

“We’ve been living here for as long as we can remember, we’ve had years to collect,” Raphael answered before Leonardo could even open his mouth.

“Collect much more and you’d be considered ‘hoarders’,” she said, grunting as she was taken out by none other than Michelangelo.

She set the controller down in front of her, leaning back against the couch. She felt even smaller sitting against the couch on the floor, but it was her fault. She had declined a space on the actual couch.

“Finally! Thought you’d never die!”

As the words left Michelangelo’s mouth, everybody in the room fell silent.

“Oh. Was that too soon?”

That was putting it lightly. You could slice through the tension in that room with a knife. Or a katana.

“Is there anything to drink in here?” Y/N said finally, looking up to the first turtle she could see without straining her neck. She made no comment about what Mikey said.

“What were you thinking you’d want? We have sodas, juices… Not much juice. We have soda that tastes like juice, though,” Leonardo said. He stood up. “Come on, I’ll show you where it is.”

Y/N grabbed a chip from the bowl positioned between Michelangelo and Rafael as she followed the oldest brother. He had to be the oldest. Donatello was a close second, but he didn’t seem nearly as confident.

She was certain that all eldest siblings were just dripping with that oldest-sibling, leader, person-in-charge kind of confidence.

It wasn’t nearly as long a walk as she expected to a room that faintly resembled a kitchen. There looked to be a stove of sorts in the corner, something that resembled a deep freezer next to it, and an assortment of tables between those and a refrigerator.

“You guys kind of have it made down here,” she noted as she followed him towards the fridge. It had to be an older model, but there were wires sticking out the back that made her feel like it had been ‘upgraded’ somehow. “Solitary, no neighbors to disturb you, all the fixings to have a good time.”

“We make it work for us,” the large mutant turtle told her. “It’s our safe haven. Up top, we’re heroes, but only if we’re not seen. Here, we can be ourselves.”

“I always have to be ‘on’, a facade of myself,” Y/N said. “But no matter what I do, it feels like it’s never enough.”

The two stood in silence before Leonardo slowly, oh ever so slowly, opened the fridge. He gestured for her to look inside.

This kind of stock would put any caffeine-addicted young adult to shame.

“Sodas, all flavors, we have cherry, vanilla, orange- I probably wouldn’t touch the orange without Mikey’s permission, he might cry.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” she bobbed her head. “Is there anything… Not carbonated? But also not water.”

“Before you ask, we don’t have any coffee or alcohol. Or milks, not our thing.”

She tilted her head to one side. “Any tea?”

He perked up. “You want some tea? I could brew some. Any requests?”

“Anything but green tea is fine with me,” she shrugged. “I don’t like leaf water that looks like.. Green leaf water.”

Leonardo quickly ushered her out of the ‘kitchen’ and back to his brothers, crossing his fingers that they would stray away from the ‘death’ comments. Mikey was going to pay for that later.

He took his time looking through their rather large selection of teas. It was curious that she asked for tea specifically- his brothers barely touched it unless they were sick. They stuck to the bubbly, syrup-filled beverages that he swore would make their teeth rot within the next few years.

White teas, black teas, caffeinated and decaf varieties covered the table. He had decided to lay them all out to really choose. It took a few minutes of pondering before he settled on his favorite. He hoped she liked chamomile.

As the water was brewing, he could feel a new presence in the room. He turned to see his adopted father, and quickly gave him a slight bow. “Sensei.”

Why was he surprised? He was more surprised it took this long of them being home for him to come see them.

“You brought a civilian home,” Splinter said carefully.

He felt his heart drop. “I had to, dad. She was standing on the edge of the roof- I thought she was going to jump.”

Splinter let out a slow breath. “I see. It was a good decision to bring her.”

“I couldn’t just leave her, even if I talked her off, what if she actually did it?” He didn’t want to imagine that. He barely knew her, but the idea of anybody willingly taking their own life wasn’t something he wanted to picture. She didn’t seem like a bad person. She seemed good. She didn’t deserve it.

“Now that she is here, what will you do?” his master questioned, flipping the switch off of the kettle as the water began to almost boil over. “I see she has already made herself welcome with your brothers.”

“If Mikey can keep his comments to himself,” he gritted his teeth. A deep breath in, a deep breath out. He poured the hot water into a cup, though now that he thought of it, he wasn’t sure she’d be able to hold that quite comfortably. They weren’t exactly for small human hands.

“Leonardo, what will you do now?”

“Dad, I don’t know what to do. I swore to help the people of this city, but against the bad guys and robbers and thieves- I don’t know what to do. What should I do?” He felt smaller with every word.

He was supposed to be the leader, the turtle with a plan. It was his idea to help her, his idea to bring her to their home. He hated to even think the words ‘suicide watch’, but that was it, in a nutshell.

“Dad, do you think we can help her?”

“If she came this far without a fight, I have no doubt she is able to be helped. Mental illness is a complicated matter. I implore you to help this woman see the light. At this point, she might need someone to show her that life is worth the journey to get here.”

Leonardo, as he always was, was both enlightened and baffled by his father’s words. But if he said that he needed to show this human that life was worth the journey, that show her he shall.

Starting with that chamomile tea. He just hoped he didn’t burn the tea leaves.

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt 2k14 #tmnt 2k16 #tmnt leo #tmnt raph #tmnt donnie #tmnt mikey #tmnt splinter #tmnt x reader #tmnt imagine #tmnt imagines

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gofordrakgo · 4 years

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Dwelling Chapter Seventeen

"He blinked and glanced around as if the room itself could answer the questions his brain was too sleepy and muddled to ask. It was when he spied the blurry image of Shea at the kitchen table, her cheek pressed sleepily against one hand, reading a book splayed out on the table by the glow of the other, that he started to piece together what must have happened. At least some of it."

Dwelling Summary

Dwelling Chapter One

Dwelling Chapter Sixteen

Dwelling Chapter Eighteen

Drew couldn’t remember if the sun had already set before they’d sat down to eat, or if they’d been staring at each other for so long that it had gotten dark while they remained seemingly frozen in time. All he knew for sure was that - between the tick-tick-tock...ing of his watch and the thrumming of his heartbeat in his ears - the silence between them was too loud. There was an awkward clearing of a throat - his throat, maybe - and his eyes dropped away from her face to the hood of his sweatshirt still bunched up around her neck.

He also knew it was his voice that yelped, “We should get a turtle!” although he didn’t feel his mouth move. Wrapping his fingers underneath the sides of his chair, he held on for dear life, sure that if there was ever a perfect moment for him to topple over and die of embarrassment, it would be that moment. To make matters worse, he continued to blabber, even as Shea shifted her blank stare to her bowl, forming a pit of dread inside his chest. “I– I like turtles. They’re adorable! And we’re… I’m… We can have—”

Shea’s dark mutter interrupted him. “She probably deserved it anyway.” She sounded like she might be sick. The scrape of her bowl against the table as she pushed it away from her was too loud too. “I’m not hungry, anymore.”

“I… I’ll save it for you,” he offered, the pit of dread burrowing down deeper inside of him, mingling with shame and guilt he didn’t want to acknowledge.

What was wrong with him? What kind of so-called genius would blurt out something like ‘we should get a turtle’ after someone confessed to… to what? Accidental murder? Could it be murder at all, if she didn’t mean to do it? How did that—? And there he went again, having too many thoughts in his head to stop and consider how stupid they were!

“Are you okay?” he asked, unsure if he should be asking.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, pausing with her chair pushed halfway away from the table. He was glad, now, that she wasn’t looking at him. He wasn’t sure if he could handle it if she did. “They… they weren’t good people. But I don’t know if– does killing her make me worse than them? Even if I didn’t know… didn’t mean to do it?”

He shrugged, if just for something to do. “I don’t think it does. I don’t… I don’t know who these people are or what they did but… Even if they were good people you didn’t try to hurt anyone on purpose.”

“But I have hurt people on purpose!” she shouted at him, slamming her hands down on the table so hard he was almost - almost - distracted from the tears pooling up in her eyes. “I’m– I’m the reason why people who don’t deserve it are in jail! They needed help not… Not us. Not me!”

“Shea—”

“Just don’t,” she nearly begged, the momentary fight in her gone.

Insistently, he tried again. “But it wasn’t your fault!”

“Really?” she scoffed incredulously. “It wasn’t my fault?”

“You didn’t know—”

“I knew that I didn’t need to hit that guy as hard as I did tonight,” she spat. “I knew that and I did it anyway. I knew that Magnus didn’t need us to fight him from day one, but I did it just because I was told to.” Scoffing again, a sound of disgust he could only assume was directed at herself. “And when I don’t hurt people…”

Her voice trailed off and she fell silent for one sudden moment, right before launching out of her chair. The next thing Drew heard was the bathroom door slam shut.

Staring between the two still-full bowls of chili mac, he went to war with himself, wondering if it was better to let her be or to follow her. He hadn’t actually made a decision when he felt his knuckles rap against the door.

“Are you okay?” he asked, though he was even more sure it was a stupid question than the last time he tried to ask less than five minutes before. It took a moment before he heard her mumble a reply, pleading with him to go away. “Please, come out of there,” he begged in turn.

He waited, and waited, and waited. She didn’t respond to him.

“For what it’s worth… I don’t think you’re a bad person, Shea,” he said, feeling strange talking to a door for the second time in one day. “I know we don’t really know each other very well, so what I think is unrelevant but I still think—”

“Irrelevant.”

Being interrupted never made him smile so much in his life.

“What?” he asked, trying to stifle a laugh.

The door opened and she brushed past him, strands of hair clinging to her face the only indication he saw that she’d splashed water on her face. He wondered if that was just a normal way to calm down, or if it had something to do with her glow. Though she said she didn’t feel hot when she used her strange powers, he still wondered if… well, it was hot, so maybe cooling herself down helped to stop the flames from creeping into existence when she didn’t want them. Maybe that was why she ran from the table.

“The word is irrelevant,” she reiterated, as she marched past him. Then she paused, frozen between the kitchen table and her room as if she couldn’t decide where to go. “And you’re wrong. A good person would regret killing someone. I don’t.”

“I think you’re lying.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” “I know that if you were a bad person it wouldn’t even occur to you to worry about being a bad person. I know that a good person recognizes when they went too far, even if going too far was out of their control. A bad person wouldn't care, or they would lie... Or make jokes," he added, bitter memories surfacing before he could shove them out of his mind. “A good person asks if doing something bad to a bad person makes them worse.”

Shaking her head, she stuffed her hands in her pockets. “I think you’re letting the hero label fool you.”

“I’m not.” At least, he didn’t think he was. She didn’t respond, but she didn’t budge either. “Fine!” he finally gave in, choking under the pressure of silence again. “You’re a bad person! Is that what you want me to say? Do you want me to say that– that you should go? That I’m scared and don’t want you—”

“You are scared, aren’t you?” she choked, and he stepped toward her as she wiped a hand across her face. Putting his hand on her shoulder was a mistake, he realized when she whirled around to face him. “You’re right,” she managed through tears she was obviously trying to suppress. “I should—”

“If you say you should go, I swear, Shea,” he snipped, finally his turn to interrupt. He took a breath, trying to calm the tumult of emotions… tumulting around inside of him. “At least just… eat your dinner. Sleep on it. I don’t want you to go. I was only…”

“I know what you were doing. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re right. It’s selfish of me to be here.”

“Well, it– it would be more selfish of you to leave now!”

She raised an eyebrow suspiciously at him. “How?”

“Um… Be-because I made dinner? And… and you haven’t checked my work enough to pay back the clothes I bought? So… you owe it to me to stay because we made a deal?”

He knew he’d won the argument when her face flushed. Maybe he should have joined the debate team, back in high school.

“I’m still not hungry,” she grumbled. “But… fine. I won’t leave. Yet.” She didn’t sound quite so sincere in her threats anymore. And her claim to not be hungry didn’t sound so sincere anymore when her stomach growled. She didn’t fight him when he slipped past her to snatch up and shove her abandoned bowl back into her hands.

“Eat,” he commanded, and with a roll of her eyes, she popped the spoon into her mouth. A low chuckle escaped him as she turned away from him as if that would keep him from noticing her shovel in an even bigger bite. He sat back down in his seat, gesturing for her to do the same and slowly she drifted over and sat back down.

They finished their dinners in silence, at least until Shea murmured, “Are you afraid of me?”

He glanced up and immediately regretted it. Her stare caught his, freezing him in place like a terrified Medusa. It was Medusa, right? That turned people to stone?

“No,” he answered, maybe a little too quickly. “Well…”

“I knew it.” She sounded disappointed, in a way. Unsurprised. But disappointed.

“I’m not scared of you.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means– I don’t know. I’m not scared of you but… I don’t want you to have to go back,” he confessed. “Not if it means going back to… Sorry, I don’t want to call your parents horrible or anything but…” He shrugged, trying to break some of the tension coiling up in his muscles.

She nibbled her bottom lip, scraping her spoon against her empty bowl. “They never used to be. Before, I mean. After the comet and all this,” she emphasized her words with a brief display of flames, “they didn’t think we were the same people anymore. Or people at all.”

“I’m scared of you having to go back to that. It can’t be… good for you.”

“Oh,” was all she could seem to muster.

Nodding, Drew stood. “I have work to do,” he announced, hoping she wouldn’t assume he was just trying to get out of the awkward conversation. Not that that wasn’t part of it. She barely acknowledged him with a nod of her own, though she cleared both bowls before he could bother to ask, which he took as permission to retreat into the living room.

He did sit down on the couch with the intention of starting on the work his professors had assigned, at least.

When he woke up, not remembering having fallen asleep, the room was almost completely dark, save for the blue-ish glow of the television. Blearily, he propped himself up on one arm, tugging the blanket that he was certain he’d thrown over the chair, up with him. And he was even more certain that he hadn’t turned Mighty Martian on or put his glasses on the coffee table. Let alone taken them off in the first place.

He blinked and glanced around as if the room itself could answer the questions his brain was too sleepy and muddled to ask. It was when he spied the blurry image of Shea at the kitchen table, her cheek pressed sleepily against one hand, reading a book splayed out on the table by the glow of the other, that he started to piece together what must have happened. At least some of it.

He ducked back down before she could spot him, realizing he probably shouldn’t try to get attention to ask why Mighty Martian was on until he could get the dumb smile off his face. Which would take as long as it would take for him to get the thought of how cute she looked, even as little more than an indistinct blob, out of his head. Bringing the blanket up to his face and thinking about how sweet it was of her to put it over him - for the second night in a row, no less - did not help the matter. Bad person, his ass. There was no way she was a bad person, no matter what she said.

He realized that his thoughts were having the opposite effect, only cementing the dumb smile on his face. Trying to distract himself with the thought that her hand looked like a lava lamp brought a different kind of smile to his face. It was still too dumb for him to be willing to disturb her, but at least the heat coiling low in his abdomen started to disperse.

“I know you’re awake, you know,” she said, and he almost fell right off the couch, she startled him so badly, despite how soft her voice was. He was glad he didn’t. Doing that once had been embarrassing enough. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself, debating whether or not he should sit up and confirm for her that he was awake. Her quiet laugh brought all the awful thoughts right back to his addled brain and even before she giggled, “Fine then, I guess you’re not,” he’d already decided there was no way he could sit up and risk looking at her again.

“Why’s the TV on?” he croaked, glad to think she couldn’t guess his thoughts from his voice.

He didn’t hear her get up, and the yelp that escaped him when she sat down on the chair was far more embarrassing than falling off the couch would have been. Maybe. He snatched up his glasses, jamming them onto his face as if to hide behind them.

Unphased, she announced, “You were having a nightmare.”

“I was?”

“Well, you sure were crying a lot for someone who wasn’t having a nightmare. The screaming was a pretty big hint too.” Was she joking? He was too tired to be sure of anything except the fact that being so tired around her was probably not the best idea. Especially not when his gaze settled on her lips. He probably shouldn’t have put his glasses back on.

Maybe, “I’m sorry,” wasn’t a normal response to someone mentioning you were screaming in your sleep, but it sure was the only thing he could think to say. He just hoped he wasn’t talking. There were plenty of conversations he wasn’t sure he was ready to have yet. Certainly not without plenty of alcohol. “But um… why’s the TV on?” he asked again.

“Well,” Shea began, shifting almost uncomfortably. “I tried to wake you up when you started crying, but as soon as I touched you, you started screaming. My brother still falls asleep to reruns of his favorite dumb kids’ show when he has nightmares, so I thought maybe it would help.” He didn’t miss her added mutter of, “At least he said he did in an interview once,” though he figured it was best left unaddressed.

“Did it?”

“What?”

“Did it help?”

“Oh. Yeah, seemed to. You stopped crying, at least.”

He wasn’t sure if he was just tired or if her speech was a little slurred. Given the way his, “Well, thank you then, I guess,” sounded a little slurred too, he figured it was just him. Either that or she was just as tired as him.

How blank his mind went when he turned his focus to the nostalgic cartoon, the way his body started to get that floaty half-asleep feeling to it, should have been all the warning he needed to just let himself fall asleep. Instead, he had to be a moron and let the desire to stay up and talk to her beat out common sense.

“What were you reading?” he asked, between yawns.

“Nothing,” she blurted so quickly he couldn’t help but glance at her. She blinked, green glowing blush creeping onto her cheeks. He didn’t want to think about what she might be reading that would cause such a reaction. Not that he could help it. She quickly turned away from him, throwing her legs over the arm of the chair. He wasn’t convinced she was actually watching the show, despite how intently she stared at the screen.

“You took my glasses off,” was the last… okay thing he said.

“I didn’t, actually,” she corrected. “You threw them at me. Woulda busted my lip if you actually had any strength behind it.” She glanced back at him as she spoke, and unsurprisingly his gaze settled on her lips. Again.

His stupid brain. Why couldn’t it just let things go sometimes? And why did he have to be stupid enough to stay awake even when he could practically feel his social intelligence turning off?

Forget saying something stupid about turtles. If he could have up and died over anything he said it would have been just then when he blurted out a question that had been playing on his mind earlier. “Would it hurt to kiss you?”

“What?”

“Earlier you said—” He didn’t even notice that his speech was garbled by another yawn. “And I just wondered if kissing you would burn cause of your glow. Or would it taste like plasma?” At least he saved himself just a bit by chuckling, “For scientific purposes.”

“You want me… to kiss you?” Shea asked slowly, turning to sit up in the chair, leaning his direction.

He had the presence of mind to blush and lie, “Just… curious.”

He didn’t, however, have the presence of mind to realize that it still sounded like he was asking her to kiss him. Maybe if he’d been looking at her he would have realized it.

At least she didn’t hit him.

Not that the fact that she stooped toward him, catching him completely by surprise, and pressed her lips to his with one hand fluttering on his cheek, was much better for him. It was like an electric shock coursed through his entire body, and he hated that he couldn’t just blame nerves for the heat pooling in his stomach. But the shock didn’t come from her lips - not in the sense of burning him, at least.

The kiss didn’t last very long, whether she pulled away or he pushed her he wasn’t entirely sure. In the brief second their lips were connected he did notice that she tasted good. Good in a particularly familiar way. A caramel apple way.

He really shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d gotten into the last of the alcohol. Still, “Have you been drinking?” left his lips, though he knew the answer already.

“No.” She paused. “Maybe.”

“That’s… that’s okay. Just um… You shouldn’t do… that again,” he stammered, gesturing vaguely between them.

Her face glowed.

“Right. Sorry. Um… I think maybe I should go to bed,” she practically squeaked, and before he knew it, she was gone, her door clicking quietly shut behind him. He hoped she wouldn’t hate him in the morning. And he hoped that, eventually, his lips would stop tingling.

No matter how hard he tried to focus on the episode of Mighty Martian playing quietly on the TV, or how many different ways he tried to list the elements of the periodic table, his mind kept going back to the feeling of her lips on his. And the thought that he would give anything for her to do that again.

Every muscle in his body felt tense and agitated and– and that was his first kiss, he realized. The most beautiful human being he had ever laid his eyes on just kissed him. And he pushed her away. He told her not to do it again. He knew it was the right thing to do - it was what he’d always been taught anyway. That didn’t exactly stop him from regretting it.

He all but threw his glasses away from him and grabbed for the remote she’d generously left within his reach. Going back to sleep was just about the only thing he could think would get the thoughts off his mind. At least, he hoped.

He debated getting up and retreating to his own room. The comfort of the couch, with his warmest blanket already wrapped around him, and the knowledge that if he stood up at all he’d head straight for what little alcohol he hadn’t already used for his caramel apple specialty - which surely would not help the way he was feeling - kept him from budging.

Ignoring the way his pants felt tighter than usual was easier said - well, thought, in this case - than done. Suddenly he was far more glad than he had any right to be that she was the only one with any alcohol in her bloodstream at the moment. He was starting to doubt the likelihood that he would have been able to push her away if he’d been drunk on top of being exhausted. At least not before he tried to take a stupid little curiosity-satisfying kiss too far.

As it was he was still looking too deeply into it. Wasn’t he? She– She didn’t actually want to kiss him, had she?

Groaning he pulled the blanket over his head. While he was wondering if his stupid inability to just shut up had just ruined any chance at a decent friendship, he managed to fall back to sleep.

He didn’t know how much later it was that he woke up again. The light had been turned on and Shea was standing over him, a glass of water in her hand, shaking his shoulder as she quietly called his name.

“Drew,” she repeated. “Wake up.” When he blinked at her, latching onto the blanket, she explained, “You were having a nightmare again.”

He most certainly had not been having a nightmare.

“Right, thanks,” he squeaked, more appreciative than ever of the fact that she’d dropped the blanket on top of him.

“Are you alright?” she asked him.

He most certainly was not alright. He nodded anyway. He just hoped she would walk away soon, an all too familiar chill in the front of his pants sending heat flooding his face, almost bringing tears to his eyes with how humiliated he was. Even if she didn’t know. Dear God, he hoped she didn’t know.

Evidently, sleeping didn’t do jack to take his mind off of her.

And, evidently, she was more inclined to watch him with a concerned look crossing her face than she was to walk away. He managed some awkward stammering - a vague “goodnight” mixed in somewhere - before he wrapped the blanket as tightly around himself as he could and all but bolted into his room, locking the door behind him.

He couldn’t strip his shame-soaked clothing off of himself any faster. And he certainly didn’t dare risk sneaking back out to try and wash the mess off.

The only other time he’d cried after a wet dream had been when he’d had his first and had assumed he’d started wetting the bed - one of the only childhood failings that he’d never faced before. A very different type of tears slipped down his cheeks as he cleaned himself off the best he could with spare tissue, collapsing onto his bed after pulling a new pair of boxers on, out of habit.

He’d been sure it was just a stupid little crush. At most. He thought she was cute, not someone he would ever have any real sexual desire towards. Conscious or otherwise.

Maybe… Maybe if he couldn’t get himself under control she really would be better off finding somewhere else to live.

#drakgo #drakken #drew lipsky #shego #shea go #shego x drakken #drakken x shego #fanfiction #drakgo fanfiction #Dwelling #14 pages #3888 words

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sassyhazelowl · 4 years

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Title: Of Chlorine, Nephews and Things Getting Better Pairing: stingue Word Count: 3, 400 Rating: PG Warnings: none A/N: @blackbloodrose20 I’m your secret Valentine for the exchange hosted by @ft-fairyexchanges. I hope you enjoy the story! It got a bit away from me, as this pairing tends to do, but I think it works.

This was not Rogue’s day.

“That was so embarrassing, Uncle!”

Rogue ignored the faint smells of wet clothing and chlorine that permeated the car and the soft croon of the radio, fingers gripped tightly around the steering wheel in mortification. His clothing clung to his skin and his hair to his scalp. When he’d slipped on the side of the pool and fell in, he hadn’t been planning to take a dip.

Shut up, shut up, shut up.

This was said silently in his mind of course. Neil, his nephew, already had reason to doubt his sanity after what happened this afternoon. No reason to give the poor boy more evidence. Really, he probably shouldn’t even be driving, the shaking made things a bit unsteady and it was hard to focus on the road.

“For you or me?” Rogue replied archly, a beat too late.

Lips burning, he took a hand off the wheel and scrubbed the back of it across them, hard. It felt good, for a second, then the burn came back. It had been a long while since he’d had a man’s lips on his.

The pre-teen in the passenger seat stopped to consider the question seriously, as he always did. Unfortunately for him, he was very much like Rogue was at that age. Awkward, quiet and serious. He tended to fade into the background of things, like a child-shaped shadow. He’d been like that for as long as Rogue had known him, which was about two months.

Neil flipped his too-long bangs from his eyes, peering over, “Are you okay?”

“Just wet.”

“You did fall in a swimming pool,” Neil pointed out and Rogue could feel his stare at the obvious and lame answer. “And Mr. Eucliffe had to pull you out and give you mouth-to-mouth.”

Rogue nearly hit his forehead on the steering wheel at the reminder but the last thing he needed today was to be pulled over.

When Neil had brought home a permission slip and interest for swimming, Rogue’s friend really pushed for Rogue to let the boy join. Yukino seemed to have these sorts of things all figured out - at least where Neil was concerned. She said the boy needed a confidence boost and something to keep him busy. Rogue really just signed it because he thought that would buy him an extra hour three times a week alone - he didn’t realize those three hours would be spent in a damp, smelly building surrounded by a handful of middle aged moms on their cellphones.

And he definitely hadn’t thought he’d be fished out of the pool like a drowned rat in front of everyone. Then kissed -- no, not kissed, mouth-to-mouth, absolutely not a kiss, it was a valid, medical procedure.

It was a violent flashback to high school times. Stomach heaving, he shoved those thoughts away. That was the past. It was the past, and it couldn’t hurt him anymore. He was past that now, in a better - ok, well, different, anyway, place.

“I’m fine,” Rogue repeated numbly, realizing with dawning horror that the next swimming practice was sooner than he could handle. All those people were there. Mr. Eucliffe would be there too. High school never ended, did it? “It’s fine.”

Everything was fine.

What was another emergency visit to the therapist?

“Hey! You’re that guy from Swimland!”

If Rogue’s shoulders could creep up any higher, he’d be an actual turtle hiding in his shell. Lacking a shell and a retractable neck in general, he winced and slowly pivoted around, life-sustaining coffee in one hand and an indulgent raspberry danish in the other.

“You are! Everything good?”

The overenthusiastic swim instructor’s bright blue eyes twinkled and his smile gleamed. Too bright, too shiny… too loud. Suddenly, the burning on his lips returned, along with the butterflies. That danish was expensive, flicked across his mind, which was a shame because he’d most certainly not be able to eat it now.

I hate my body, Rogue thought to himself crossly. He’d really, desperately needed a sweet treat for the week he was having.

“Hello, yes, I’m fine, now, uh, thanks.”

“No problem.” Wink. Smile. Rogue’s stomach squirmed a bit more. “Not every day I get to save someone like you.”

“What does that mean?”

The swim instructor blinked, taken aback by Rogue’s tone shift. He reared back a bit, shifting an eyebrow and becoming more guarded. Some of the shine hid behind those clouds, the sunshine more bearable when he frowned instead of smiled.

“Uh… sorry?”

Rogue sighed, blowing the air out with a mix of regret and irritation at himself. He was fairly certain he wasn’t misreading the intent, but what if this guy really was just cluelessly friendly and a natural flirt? He probably had a girlfriend at home and was just nice with all the parents who paid his salary, so once again, Rogue was blowing things out of proportion. Rubbing the bridge of his nose and taking several deep breaths, he forced a smile with more teeth than cheer.

“No, I’m sorry. I’ve been having a bad week… month… several months, actually. Can I buy your coffee as an apology?” Rogue really, truly couldn’t afford that, but he’d also feel terrible for the rest of the day if he didn’t at least offer.

“If you’re having a bad week, maybe I should’ve bought you a coffee. I’m Sting Eucliffe, by the way. I’m sure you probably know that --” Rogue didn’t, which made him feel worse -- “But I really came up on you like a pal instead of someone I haven’t officially met yet. My friends say I can come on strong. And you are?”

“Rogue, Rogue Cheney, Neil’s uncle. I’d shake but…” He held up his coffee and danish.

Sting looked him up and down with a tug of a smile that made his stomach flutter even more, “You’ve got your hands full. Uncle, huh? Neil’s a good kid; good swimmer too. Say, might be coming on too strong again, but you look like you need to talk. I’ve got a few hours before work… fair warning, I talk a lot, you might get sick of listening.”

Rogue sincerely doubted that. It would be like getting sick of the sun.

But Mr. Eucliffe might get sick of him. He didn’t have a lot of cheerful and chipper topics at the moment. Broke up with his long-term boyfriend, rather violently at that, last year on Valentine’s Day. Something about him being too brooding and not into fun. Lost his job to office politics, scrabbling to collect unemployment and find a new one. Hence why he was at the coffee shop in the first place, laptop waiting and white mocha in hand. Acquired a pre-teen ward, one he didn’t even know existed until he got a phone call two months ago. Rogue wasn’t close with his family after the falling out, but his sister had always been fond of him. Still, he’d spent long nights wondering why Neil was with him and not their parents. He was too afraid to call and ask.

He looked up into that hopeful, puppydog look and felt the resistance on the tip of his tongue disappear.

“...Sure.”

“Hey! Mr. Cheney!”

Rogue looked up, startled, nearly but not quite losing his balance. It was tempting, for a split second, to fall in. But at some point Mr. Eucliffe would realize Rogue was not only a proficient swimmer, but had won many competitions in college. Plus, he’d just regained his reputation with the moms - they hadn’t harassed or teased him too much about it. But falling in seemed to have broken some ice and more than once he’d been invited into their little gossip circle. It felt nice to belong, even if it was just a group of bored moms that would go their merry ways after their boys lost interest in swimming and moved on to the next sport.

Rogue had gotten in the habit of showing up a little early because Neil wanted to help set up. Today was the big meet, and Neil had been anxious all morning.

“Congrats, man. Neil told me.”

Rogue felt a smile slip onto his face, although he wasn’t sure if it was the warm congratulations or the fact Neil was starting to open up to people. He’d taken a particular shine to Mr. Eucliffe, and Rogue found it nice to have someone who seemed to care as much about his nephew as he did - Neil gave them an excuse to talk. A coffee date here, some time after a meet there, before practice started during set-up.

“Thank you, Mr. Eucliffe.”

“I’ve told you this a million times, it’s just Sting. I don’t stand on ceremony.”

That was true enough. Rogue had been regaled with many exciting stories of Sting, the globetrotter, getting in trouble for his lack of decor. Swim instructor was just the latest in a long career of job hopping and city changing lifestyle. Rogue had to wonder how long… how long before Sting grew bored and moved on. Like sunlight, he never stayed in one place.

Swallowing the lump that formed, he tried not to choke on his smile. He should be happy; he finally found a job. And it was a good job, a better job than his last one too. Things were looking up. It was too soon to be fretting about the future, like his therapist always told him.

“Thank you… Sting. You’ve been… you’ve been a big help. I probably couldn’t have done it without your support.”

“Aww,” Sting flushed an adorable shade of pink, his normally cocky look taking on a more boyish cast with embarrassment. Rogue had to fight back a blush of his own.

Neil stared between them with a look only a teenager could pull off but he didn’t make any quips.

“Good luck out there, kid,” Sting said to him, giving him a friendly punch to the shoulder. Ducking his head, Neil mumbled in response before slipping away to get changed. He turned to Rogue, rubbing the back of his neck, “I guess this is it, huh? The last big meet.”

Rogue’s smile slipped this time but he didn’t say anything. What was there to say? This little bubble of happiness wasn’t going to last forever after all. Happy things didn’t last in Rogue’s life.

“Yeah.”

“Since it's the last meet, we should celebrate. Take the kid out for some pizza, get wasted on root beer. It can be a little party.”

“For the group?”

Sting cocked his head, doing that thing that made Rogue feel like he was trying to read him. He shrugged, trying to pass it off nonchalantly, “I was thinking just the three of us. Love the other kiddos, of course, but there is a team party on Saturday. After this meet, I’m not the coach anymore anyway.”

Rogue sensed a trap. That anxious feel was creeping up on him, little and lurking, something wasn’t right, something was coming, he needed to do something, anything, because something wasn’t right, something was coming, he needed to do…

“No.” Rogue’s reply came out a little too sharp, a little too shrill. He backtracked, staring away at the unnaturally blue pool water as he mumbled, “No, um, sorry, Neil and I already have plans with Yukino.”

“Oh.”

Rogue didn’t say more or look before retreating to the bleachers, waving to Amara and Nicole as they stomped in, armed to the teeth with entertainment for younger siblings and bags full of supplies so their families didn’t starve. He knew within minutes the husbands would troop in, having gone to park the car, and then the rest of the crowd would follow to get a seat. For once, timing was on his side.

He had an easy out, and like a coward, he took it.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Rogue’s friend Yukino was eyeing him with a soft, concerned expression.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

She fiddled with the end of the blanket a moment, debating, before sighing, “Well, you keep inviting me over or out for coffee or to take Neil out, and that’s great and no problem. But it’s kind of weird? And you’ve been mopey. I thought things were going well with the new job.”

“It is.” It was. The new job was great. It paid the bills, his bosses appreciated him and he enjoyed the work. It was a big step up from being stuck under his old boss’s micromanaging and unethical thumb.

Neil, who had been quietly watching the movie Yukino and Rogue abandoned from the shadowy chair, piped up, “He’s sad because swim season is over. I told him I want to do it next time too but he’s still unhappy.”

Yukino wasn’t a fool. Armed with the new information, her gaze sharpened and she narrowed in, dropping the kid gloves behind her.

“Oh, so it’s about that. I see. And what have you done, exactly, since swim season ended besides moping and trying to use me to distract you?”

Rogue had nothing to say for himself that wouldn’t be damning.

Yukino smiled a smile he wasn’t the biggest fan of and remarked, “Valentine’s Day is in a few days. I know you are the Scrooge of V-day after He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named…”

“Voldemort?” Neil blinked in confusion and a laugh of surprise barked out of Rogue, breaking him out of what was the beginning of a spiral at the mention of his ex. Doggedly, sensing he was now part of a grownup conversation, Neil pressed on, “I didn’t know you liked Harry Potter, Uncle Rogue.”

“Your Uncle is the biggest Harry Potter nerd, Neil,” Yukino confirmed. “But that’s not who we’re talking about.”

“Oh, okay. Maybe we can talk about Harry Potter later though, Uncle Rogue?” Neil asked hopefully. Rogue felt stabbed through the heart. Was this the same withdrawn, sulky child he picked up from the bus station with a backpack and small rolling suitcase?

“Absolutely.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” It was the easiest promise Rogue had ever made and he hadn’t hesitated for even an instant.

“Great,” Yukino clapped her hands together, “Now the task at hand. Uncle Rogue is going to take some initiative!”

“With Mr. Eucliffe?” Rogue winced, thinking fast how to explain things to Neil, feeling things crumple. But the boy added quickly, “I hope it’s with Mr. Eucliffe. Uncle Rogue, you’re always so happy around him, and I want you to be happy. Plus, he’s always so happy when he sees you too.”

“It’s settled. Let’s get to work.”

His finger hovered over the bell. He’d only been here twice before, once with Sting’s car broke and he needed a ride and another when Sting got wasted at a bar crawl calling Rogue’s number by accident. Neither situation was particularly romantic, and Rogue hadn’t the nerve to cross the threshold then.

Sucking in a deep breath from between his lips, he shoved the bell, torn between hoping no one answered the door and desperately hoping someone did.

When the door opened, he swallowed, hard. An intimidating woman answered the door with cutting edge fashion, perfect make-up and an expression that made Rogue want to close the door like he was in a horror movie. She looked him up and down with the interest of a large predator gauging meal or toy. Sting never mentioned a girlfriend! In fact, Rogue had hinted about it more than once and Sting always insisted he was single and free. Who was this? Did Rogue go to the wrong house? Did Sting go get someone to take away the pain of Rogue’s rejection?

“Is this the Eucliffe residence?”

“It is.”

Pursing her lips, she raked him up and down, before stepping aside and motioning in. Even her heels clicked judgmentally on the foyer’s tiles. So not a girlfriend? Definitely not a sister or at least not a full sister.

“We are roommates. I’m not surprised Sting did not mention it. I ate his last boyfriend alive. So you are here for some groveling I see, along with Valentine’s gifts. Smart. You better not have cheated on him, or I will eat you alive too.”

Rogue felt a full body flushing coming on, pausing to listen to the well-manicured roommate’s dirge of information. Sting had literally talked for hours and hours and never mentioned a roommate, an ex or the fact that they were apparently dating?

“We are dating?” slipped out of Rogue’s mouth. A wicked smile curved her lips in a less-than-reassuring way and she offered a slender hand, “I am Minerva Orlando. It is a pleasure to finally meet the man of the legend in person, Rogue Cheney.”

“Min? Who’re you talking to? I thought you were getting ready to go out on your date!”

“Maybe you should get out of your boxers, put the tissues away and worry about your own date, moron. Your boyfriend’s here looking dapper with a box of candy and some roses after all.”

Rogue wasn’t sure about that, but it sounded better than what he actually looked like, so he kept quiet. He had the feeling she was hassling her roommate at his expense and enjoying every second of it.

“What?” Sting yelped from the other room, followed by the sound of crashing and stumbling then a hefty body hitting the wall so hard it shook at the impact. Much to Rogue’s relief, he did not appear in his boxers. Hair wild and in a hideous pair of sweats, Sting was shedding a trail of candy wrappers and swears behind him as he tore into the doorway. Seeing Rogue, his face went through a myriad of emotions before settling on sheepish for a long moment then he ran his fingers through his hair, trying for suave.

Minerva rolled her eyes, “Okay Casanova. I am going out on my date. No sex on the table.”

“Wha--” Sting sputtered, eyes wide, and Rogue wanted to melt into the shadows forever. That had definitely not been on his mind 3 seconds ago, and now he was having trouble focusing on what he came to do, remembering all those times he’d seen Sting in swim trunks and only swim trunks.

“Uh, hi,” Sting said uncertainly. “I kind of… thought you were done with me. I mean, at the swim meet… you were pretty clear.”

“We are dating?” was the only intelligent thing Rogue could say in response, everything all jumbled up.

Sting scratched his cheek, “Ignore her. It sucks, but anytime I have a friend, she assumes I’m dating. Hazards of being gay with an aggressively supportive roommate, I guess.”

The front door slammed noisily, confirming Minerva had left the building.

“I brought you these… as an apology,” Rogue abruptly changed the subject, shoving the sweets and flowers at Sting unceremoniously. Not chocolates, not roses, that’d be Too Much, but it was a start. Sting took them awkwardly, that megawatt grin of his lighting up the room as he admitted while smelling the gift, “Never gotten flowers before. What do you do with them? Min! Min! Oh wait, she left… shit.”

Snapping his fingers, he made a wait-here motion, disappearing back through the doorway and leaving Rogue standing in the hallway. Just as he was about to peer through the door, Sting returned, flowers shoved into a coffee mug with a crass saying printed across the front, still in the plastic sleeve and looking a bit bedraggled. He handed the whole thing back, making another motion, and disappearing in another direction.

The next time he emerged, he was changed and presentable.

“So… ready to go on a real date?” he asked with a smooth and causal tone that Rogue envied. Sting really did do things on the fly. “And I’m not just saying that because of Min. I was going to ask you at the pizza place weeks ago if you wanted to go out for real. Also, I’ve seriously been jonesing to kiss you this whole time, not going to lie. Your lips have been on my mind since day one.”

“Maybe you should fix that before we go out on our first real date then,” Rogue replied with a rare giddiness pulling the other man in to indulge in his fantasies.

This was totally Rogue’s day, and he was going to make the most of it.

#fairy tail #fanfic #stingue #fairyhearts2020

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wendynerdwrites · 6 years

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Jonsa Smut Week Day One: Performance

For @jonsasmutweek Day 1: Try something new or teasing.

Late 19th Century Western AU. Sansa’s a burlesque-ish ingenue, Jon’s her bodyguard/bounty hunter. For his birthday, Sansa decides to make Jon part of the show.

Jon’s witnessed Sansa’s show at least a hundred times by now, used his fists during a few as well. The life of a “bodyguard”. Never his Colt 45’s, of course. He’s a bounty hunter, not an outlaw, and he can’t scare off her audience, especially if they’re ever going to draw out their mark. But it’s always good to keep them visible enough so lads remember to behave, keep their hands to themselves. Sometimes, someone had just one too many and forgot this little rule, and Jon had to step in.

Well, punch in, really. Sansa was sometimes the one who “stepped in”, quite literally. She has a total of seven costumes, and each one comes with a matching pair of steel stiletto heels that Mya sharpens regularly. The first time he saw them in action was in Harroway’s Tower, Arizona. A fresh young soldier boy took a twirl about the neck of her boa as an invitation to grab her by the waist and yank her into his lap. He had a pair of heavy duty, brand new army issue boots, built to withstand the worst of the desert. Sansa shoved it right through the top of his boot. The soldier went red faced and rigid, and when she pulled her heel out, a bit of blood leaked out of the hole. She’s used the giant pins for her head dresses too.

Granted, there’s only so much footwear and hat pins can do if you’re in the really rough sort of place where the other patrons will join in harassing a lady. Sansa’s got sharp accessories and an even sharper mind, but Jon was a State Trooper, an army captain, and was personally taught to box by Jeor “The Old Bear” Mormont. As a bounty hunter especially, he’s built up a reputation for himself, and he always makes a point of being seen entering a town with Ghost by his side. He’s as known for being a tough customer as Sansa is for her show, and he’s got the training and the muscles to back it up.

He’s on edge tonight. Not because the crowd is unsavory --- she’s playing the San Francisco Stage Port tonight, a proper, city, high-end establishment with a real stage, paneled walls, a full band, and all the patrons are expected to don their Sunday best. Her biggest show yet. The sort of venue that would never host a show like hers back East. Thank God for the West Coast, where the heat, open air, and less rigid society made everyone a little more… permissive.

The sort of place folks go to dine, even the wives come along and enjoy the show, laughing and playfully swatting at their husbands for drinking in the performers, pretending not to admire the ostrich feather fans. The audience watches from candle-lit tables with white linen cloths or from a lacquered paneled bar at the back. Sansa has a real dressing room and doesn’t have to change in a coach or tent behind the building, Mya has broken out the scenery for the stage, while Myranda got to distribute the sheet music to the band.

Jon’s on edge tonight for a pretty stupid reason --- it’s his birthday, and no one has said a word. It’s nonsense, really. He’s thirty-three years old and his last eight birthdays have gone uncelebrated. Bounty hunting isn’t the sort of trade that often lets a man settle down long enough for any sort of occasion, let alone keep track of the date. Five times in the past eight years he’s gone his birthday not even realizing the date passed until he stopped over into a town with a well-watched calendar a week later.

He doesn’t even know when Myranda or Mya’s birthdays are. For all he knows, theirs have passed uncelebrated since he joined them. Maybe it’s just not the girls’ way these days.

But it’s a pity, if so. Jon remembers growing up with Sansa at Winterfell Estate, the cakes and parties they’d had whenever someone gained another year. Sansa always made a fuss. She loved planning parties, like the perfect debutante-to-be she was. Growing up, Jon would sometimes get mocked by the boys at school for being the bastard son of a ruined woman, not having a father and carrying his ruined Mother’s name. But it was his birthdays that gave him the strength to brush that sort of thing off, because Stark birthdays proved over and over that he had a proper family, no matter what anyone said.

Of course, that’s ancient history now, isn’t it? That was back before the family was ruined, before Mr. and Mrs. Stark, Mama, Robb, and Rickon were lost. Before Jon’s no-good Father burst into his life and tried to drag him off to be a proper Targaryen heir. Before the army. Before Littlefinger. Jon looks back on those days with fondness, but maybe for Sansa, it’s just pain she feels. Jon left the Stark house and became a railroad heir and ran off by choice, master of his own fate. Sansa? She lost everything, ended up in the house of her mad aunt and her new, crooked, foul husband who trapped Sansa, hid her away, and made her into Alayne Stone, his bordello star. Her journey here was less “make my own way” and more “escape.”

So he hasn’t said a word. If it hurts her to relive those springtime picnics with the steamers hanging from the branches of the weirwood and those pretty cakes Mrs. Mordane used to bake, he’s not going to prompt it.

It’s just that… There’s so much they’ve shared, and so much that has gone unspoken. The way they sometimes act, you’d think they’d met the very day Jon joined her tour.

While he has no interest in a party, or cake, or gifts, or any sort of fuss, a mention might have been nice. Just to know she remembered.

But then, she’s been preoccupied, of course. They’ve had some leads tracking down Baelish, and this is a major gig. It’s the opening night of her week-long engagement here.

So Jon says nothing. He keeps his post near the corner of where the grandstand and the audience area meets, and he keeps to himself as the girls fuss over the show. There are to be spotlights, and Mya’s designed all new background screens and arranged for special props and furniture. Sansa’s been rehearsing since ten o’clock this morning, though not all of it on the stage. Myranda has been adamant that Jon keep his distance so preparation goes swimmingly. “You make the musicians nervous.”

They should be nervous, Jon thinks. He’s witnessed a few rehearsals and seen how some of those players ogled his girl. One trumpet player broke tempo to wolf-whistle, earning him a look from Jon that made him try to huddle under his starched collar, like a turtle withdrawing into its shell.

Jon likes Sansa’s show on its own. Indeed, on its own, he likes it far more than any gentleman should. Her proper lady’s education included music and poetry, and Sansa always sang like a bird and wrote dainty little verses when she was small. As a future high society wife, it would be her duty to charm suitors and entertain her husband’s guests. She definitely entertains now, still sings, and writes verses, though the way she’s employed those skills are hardly what her mother had in mind. Sansa’s always been good with words, and that extends to making clean words sound as risky as anything with four letters. She and Myranda hammer out the tunes on local saloon pianos or, when on the road, on guitar and harmonica, during the off hours. They’re nice, catchy, flirty little ditties, but clever enough to be classy. You kept an even enough tone and didn’t belt the lyrics too loud, you could get away with singing a Sansa Stark tune in public without blushing.

Mya has a real talent with tools, too, honed from years of driving wagons, carts, and carriages cross-country. She and Sansa are real artists (A proper Lady’s education also included charcoal sketching, pen drawing, water colors and oil paints), and make some nifty foldable screens. Sansa and Myranda made pretty clothes and drapes and such and with a few pieces of borrowed furniture, the girls regularly turned piss-and-whiskey-soaked saloon platforms into palace boudoirs and fairy forests.

And, of course, there is the dancing and the costumes. The girls spent a year cleaning houses, working textile mills, delivering goods, and teaching pioneers their letters to save up and spend it all on Sansa’s first costume and proper horses and carriage so they could transport the clothes as carefully and securely as possible. All of Sansa’s things, as her show wardrobe expanded, have been stored in carefully padlocked, silk-lined cases with tissue paper wrapped around the garments. A few pieces even had to go in boxes with air holes in them, like they were puppies or bunny rabbits. Everything Sansa wore on stage always required a lot of fuss, but not always a lot of actual fabric.

Sansa wasn’t the sort of performer to show her bare backside to the audience, but more than one of her costumes allowed her fans to know the exact shape of it. Jon still isn’t sure what witchcraft the girls use that keeps her bosoms contained within her bodice just enough to keep her nipples from making their public debut. Especially given how she moves, shaking, leaning over, stretching, leaning…

As a girl, Sansa begged her mother to let her learn ballet. Catelyn had reservations, viewing it as rather risque and unladylike, but then Sansa went to her father with her quivering pout and big blue eyes, and so she got four years of instruction. She isn’t just one of those bordello, rough-trade so-called tavern wenches who just shook their fringe and thrust their chests over into a patron’s face. Sansa definitely did some shaking and bending and teasing, but she was graceful, tasteful. Sin personified, sure, but the sort of sexy nymph that did more than make a drunk fool hoot and tent his trousers. The sort that the ladies enjoyed just as much, stylish and fine enough to make the women see a glamorized reflection, a risky inspiration, and feminine standards that matched their own instead of a threat or pathetic attention-seeker.

It did help that she isn’t technically a full burlesque performer. Sure, she wasn’t above feather fans and boas, but she never wore less than her stocking, bloomers, and corsets and garters. She did have one number that involved the removal of garments, but it was her play-acting a sort of scene that was more “melodically preparing for cotillion” than “peep show.” The bits where she removed garments consisted of her dropping a robe behind a semi-translucent dress screen, and she ended the bit in a gown, technically in more clothing than she started the number in. And she didn’t just dance and sing, she told jokes, proper jokes, good ones, not just the odd suggestive comment.

Still sexy beyond belief, though. And she knew how to shake as well she knew how to arabesque.

Jon bloody loves Sansa’s show, really.

Except for the part where it’s a show with an audience. The show would be perfect without an audience.

Sure, there’s sometimes a strange surge of pride Jon feels when Sansa first comes out on stage and the jaws start to drop. It gives him a bit of a thrill to know she’s so admired, because she’s his. He has the woman every man in the room wants. They can only stare.

But after a couple seconds, the thrill drops. And it’s more like he’s surrounded by threats, men who would probably kill to have her. He fears for her, surrounded by so many strangers aching to touch, hold, and do unspeakable things to her. No one touches Sansa. Except Mya, Myranda, and him, and that’s only because she says so. She’s already had far, far too much experience with the unwanted grasps of men. And it’s hardly lost on him that it was the worst of them that started her at this career.

There are too many men in this world who refuse to accept that a smile, a friendly word, a bat of the eyelashes, or a skimpy costume onstage was license for them to take whatever they wish.

Even with the more genteel folks, like the “gentlemen” she’d be entertaining tonight, the sort who knew better than to lay a hand on her, Jon didn’t like them, either. They didn’t care about Sansa, they didn’t love her. They loved flesh, giggles, silk corsetry, a woman being there to please them and nothing more. They love a fantasy. They grin at the high-pitched, childlike giggles she gives off when she glances over her shoulder. They have no idea that when something is actually funny to her, she either throws her head back to release a full, round laugh, or makes a small, hard-edged little snicker. They probably wouldn’t care to hear those. They wanted a woman who made girlish giggles and beckoning eyes at them as if they’d done something witty without actually having to be witty. They want to see her move only in a way designed to please them. She might as well be a prized thoroughbred or one of those talking birds. They know nothing of her, have no thoughts of her beyond the carnal, no interest. Most of these “fine gentlemen” would probably sneak off to the local brothel at some point this week to patronize the redheads. Hell, there’d likely be at least a couple “invitations” from some especially rich, married gentlemen seeking to make her into a conquest and/or mistress.

Jon could watch Sansa perform all day and night, if not for all the strangers watching with him.

And it’s not like that initial bolt of pride lasted long. A far as anyone and everyone knows, he’s her bodyguard. Unattached fellows who see her show are often happy (if nervous) to send her messages, flowers, invitations, and such. Some outright proposition her. There are the ones who considered themselves romantic gentlemen, the ones who, after a single show, come to her lodgings with their hair combed back and flowers clutched to their chest, fall to one knee and ask her to flee her hard, fast-paced, tawdry life to be their bride. Sure, all they know of her is seeing her sway her hips in a satin corset for an hour onstage, but they tell themselves they’re in love, that she’ll fall to their feet because they mentioned a church and surely she wants to give up her whole life to be the Mrs. of a man she just met. Everyone who watches her sees her as for the taking to some degree.

Jon just wants these fools to stop thinking they can have her. Not just because they’re together. Even if they weren’t, even if he saw her as a sister the way he still sees Arya. But because she’s not to be taken, or had. No could have her. They could only be chosen by her. And these men did not understand that. They thought to possess her, if only for an hour or so. Like she’s a thing.

Sansa’s not a thing. Jon doesn’t possess her. She’s chosen him. And it’s a grand thing. Jon wishes they knew that. Because often, the only thing that will keep a man from thinking he can have a lady is if she already “belongs” to another man. Sure, Sansa doesn’t belong to him, but he is her fellow, and if some of these louts knew that, they’d set some true boundaries. There’d be no “dinner invitations” and unsolicited parcels of chocolate or jewelry that were really just intended unofficial payments for a “private show” she’s never offered. Not if they knew the ManHunter with the Wolf was her beau.

There’s some selfishness to it, too. Sansa pours so much of herself into her show. It’s her life. It’s her art. Her livelihood. It’s the thing Littlefinger pushed her into to try and make her his pawn that she turned into independence and expression. She has so much love and passion for her performances. And Jon can’t help but wish that some of that could be for him, not for a bunch of ignorant voyeurs.

It’s not that he doubts her love for him, of course. Gods, what they have is exquisite. Despite the artistry Sansa devotes to her work, it’s still artifice, still a show. But with him, she’s given her true self, and all the courage required for it. She gives him something that she’s given no one.

She’d never seek out Baelish to bring him to justice with anyone else. Only Jon. She’d never whisper her greatest fears, the reasons she’s so afraid to do so, to anyone but him. She’d never throw herself into an embrace so fearlessly and joyfully for anyone but him. And the way she knows him so well. Sometimes, it’s like she can read his mind. Sansa fears connecting with anyone, after everything that has happened. Men especially. She would fear knowing someone so well, getting attached enough to learn so much. But she puts that fear aside to know him.

Still, though…

Jon watches as the patrons settle themselves in, perusing the leather-bound menus and uttering hushed orders to white-vested waiters. The time is nearing. Laden plates and full glasses start coming out. Jon observes with some interest as waiters mount stepladders and start dimming the candles and lamps. This place really is top-rate. Meanwhile, lights go up on the closed plum curtain. As the lights dim, so does the chatter. The band strikes up a rendition of… something. Jon doesn’t recognize it. Something new? When had the girls composed a new song?

It’s very grand, though, almost like one of those operas Mrs. Stark used to drag them to.

Sansa deserves it.

Finally, the curtains part, and the audience gives an initial pause. The stage is made up to look like a lady’s boudoir, but it’s not the usual set they use. That one is all red velvet-esque, with an oriental dress screen. But this… This is all powder blue, dove-grey and white. There is a dressing table, and a couple of comfortable-looking arm chairs. There’s a dress screen, but, like the background and the coverings on the prop furniture it resembles…

...Winterfell. It looks like one of the grand family chambers at Winterfell.

They’d really brought out all the stops for the San Francisco Stage Port.

The first glimpse they get of the star are her fingertips, appearing around the edge of the white dress screen. She utters a high note. “Ooooh….”

She turns the corner and reveals herself. “I’m not a girl to stay put/Some say I’ve lost my home/I said the same myself/But then I didn’t know.”

The costume isn’t entirely new, just reworked. It’s a satin bustle gown of satin that used to be red, but had been dyed blue. It’s a high-formal number that she usually dons at the end of her “getting ready for the ball” number, with a wide neckline and short sleeves. She’s got long, white satin gloves and a matching wrap about her shoulders. Her hair is piled high atop her head, woven with white roses. She looks like an angel.

“When I set out on my own/I swear I never knew/that home could be a someone….” She trails off and turns. The music stills. Jon watches, amazed and a little nervous. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was facing towards him.

“And that someone---” She points, towards him, but not at him, surely, “Is---” Why was there a light glaring down on him all of a sudden? “You!”

The band kicks up again, but while their tempo is suddenly rambunctious, their volume is low enough for Sansa to cry out over them.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, forgive me, but this is a very special night, you see!” A spotlight follows her as she moves to the far end of the stage and start descending the staircase there. She comes towards him. She takes his hand, then clutches his cheek, whispers ‘Happy Birthday’, then starts dragging him up on stage.

Jon suddenly finds himself in front of what seem like an infinite number of very elegant people who had not asked him to be there.

“My friends,” Sansa announces, beaming, “I’d like you all to meet someone very, very special, my wonderful husband, Captain Jon Stark Targaryen!”

Jon looks at her, suddenly feeling a bit dazed. Husband? They aren’t married. Not that he’s opposed to the arrangement. It’s just that her constant deflections whenever he proposed such a thing had given him the impression that she was.

There is some muffled confusion, but the audience does cheer, especially the ladies. Jon takes an awkward bow.

“You’ll have to forgive my old ball and chain. He’s not used to the spotlight.” The first big laugh of the night.

“And forgive me for hiding him away from the world like I have. But be honest, ladies,” she says with an arched brow and a display gesture, “If this was your man, wouldn’t you want to keep him all to yourself?”

There are cheers of approval, the sort one would never, ever expect from respectable, high-society wives.

“But I had to bring him onstage, as I wanted to give him a very special present on his birthday. His first since we got married. You see, Jon and I have known each other our whole lives. We grew up together. But, misfortune befell my family, we lost everything, including the house I was born and raised in, and our lives pulled us apart for many, many years.”

Jon looks at Sansa curiously. This is all true.

“As a performer, my work requires me to wander, never settle down. I was fine with that, because after losing everything, I figured I’d never have a home again, so I might as well not even try. But, against all odds, one day this rugged, kind-eyed, callous-handed bounty hunter walked back into my life and not only did I find him again, but I found home again, too. Our work keeps us on the road, always, but home isn’t a place. It’s a way of life. It’s love, safety, and happiness. So while I’ll probably never see my mother’s garden or my father’s study again, I’m home, riding through the American West, traveling from place to place with my wonderful, darling Jon.”

She turns to him and cups his cheek. She kisses him, and the audience applauds. Jon’s heart beats a million times a second. He tries to blink back tears as he embraces his… well, his bride, he supposes. They’ll have to get in and out of the church discreetly, perhaps, but they’ll manage.

When she pulls back, he thinks that’s the end of it. But the music gets louder and faster, Sansa grabs his arms and smirks. First at him, then at the audience.

She starts pushing him upstage. Jon finds himself falling backward into an armchair. Sansa dances about the chair, getting behind him and massaging his shoulders.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid that with the show, I haven’t had time to give my man a proper celebration. We’re busy folk, see. Me drawing in the respectable, him rustling up the guilty. And sometimes, well, I feel my man gets a little cheated. You all get to see me in all my under-Sunday Best, but when the curtain closes and we come together for married life, well, let’s just say in private, I go more for comfort than glamor. But for his birthday, I’d like to delight my man in all my glory. At my most beautiful. Now, don’t get too shocked,” she assures them all, including him, “I’m not about to give the sheriff a reason to come calling, or scandalize any of you good people… too much… Even for a showgirl like me, there are some aspects of private life and duty that stays private. Most of my wifely duties stay behind the curtain. But I’m sure family folk like yourselves won’t begrudge us a little preamble. Indeed, I’d say that after my darling here, this show tonight is for the ladies in the audience.” She winks. “Give you some ideas to try out yourselves. Show those husbands of yours you at your most beautiful--- even if they don’t deserve it, they’ll make themselves worthy.”

She spins around the chair again and plops into his lap. He swallows.

“You don’t mind, do you, Handsome?”

He breathes. Sansa looms over him, practically glowing. The lights are really bright and the audience is so dark and seems so far away. Like they’re not even there. But they are there. The men in the audience… There’s a real boundary now. They’re fading away beyond the glow, beyond her. They know. She’s just a performer on a stage, not to be had. Not even performing for them so much as performing for their wives and… for him. Because he’s her Fella, her one and only. The only one she’ll have. No one touches her. No one but him.

That fleeting tremor of pride hits him, but this time, it’s not fleeting. It burns within him. He grins. All this. She’s done all this for him. Claimed him before her greatest audience ever.

Every yearning he’s harbored in secret, she’s satisfying all at once without him saying a word. She just knew. She always knows.

Still… There is… One concern. He clasps the sides of her waist and pulls her back towards him. She squeals. The audience laughs.

Jon whispers.

“Darling, if you’re really going to do what I think you’re going to do, erm, I fear that I might end up… overcome in a way not fit for public viewing.”

“I’ve thought of that,” she whispers, “And don’t worry, I’ll pace it out a bit. You’ll only be on until intermission. And all you have to do is sit and enjoy the show.”

“Erm, okay.”

She pulls herself up again and grins at the audience. “And to think, all of you fine folks in the front row thought you got the best seat in the house!”

More laughter. Sansa rises from his lap and strides forward. She undoes her little wrap and tosses backwards. It lands right in his lap.

“Now, I think I was in the middle of a song?”

The music changes again, reverting back to that gentle melody from the beginning.

“I’ve grown too big for Papa’s arms/But I’m just right for yours…”

Sansa turns, still facing the audience, but still looking at him, and she sings like one of those ‘divas’ from the operas Mrs. Stark used to drag them to. Except Jon isn’t bored. He’s drawn in, because she’s singing to him, for him. Her song about finding home with him.

“I hear the laughter of those we lost/And they don’t seem so lost anymore…”

And gods…. It’s so beautiful, because she sings in a way that Jon suspects she’s always wanted to. She sings with her heart as much as with her lungs. Singing words just for him, to a melody just for him. Dressed as she is, singing as she is, she seems like the lady her mother always wanted her to be. Despite the fact that this whole number is orchestrated by her, Jon somehow feels like he’s given her something. But how? How could he of all people inspire something like this?

When she finishes, he’s crying. He’s never felt so cherished. So lucky. So blessed. There’s loud applause. Sansa pulls a handkerchief from her skirts and buries her face in it for a while. But, eventually, she looks up again, straight out at the crowd. Jon can tell by their reactions that she’s wearing a smirk and a mischievous raised eyebrow.

“And now, what you’ve been waiting for!” The music rises again into a walloping dance beat. Lots of horns. Sansa begins to shake. She leans forward so that her respectable-looking ball gown suddenly seems a bit more scandalous, and slowly begins pulling off her right glove.

“I get lots of boys and men/all with the same question/They see the silk and hear me sing/and think I’ll want a ring/You all may wonder/With how I wander/And how I cut them loose/Just what made me choose?/Just what made me pick this man?/Well I’ll tell you if I can…”

She’s free of the glove and turns to shimmy towards him. Their eyes meet. She sweeps over him, leaning over his shoulder and stroking his cheek. “He’s got a smile/ that makes the sun look dim/Just how good he looks/when he goes for a swim/..”

She removes the other glove and runs it along his face before dropping it. This song is ridiculous and adorable and absolutely ridiculous, but true. She belts out a line about him always lending a helping hand as she places the end of one of her gown laces between his fingers, then does a little rhythmic march forward. As designed, that one lace being tugged is enough to make it all come loose. The bodice begins to drop down her torso, and she pretends to be shocked for half a second before grinning again and slowly letting it fall around her hips.

Sansa backs up and tugs at the sash under her bustle. The waist of her dress comes loose and her skirts pool at her feet. She bends over, and Jon finds that her glorious backside, bedecked with beaded fringe, is inches from his face. Then it’s in his lap and his face is pushed between her breasts as she finishes the last few lines. It’s only once the last note is done that she pulls him up for air again and kisses him deep.

They’re gasping by the time they’re done. Sansa fans herself.

Jon is hard as the Rocky Mountains. She leans over and whispers in his ear. “I sort of lied when I said you just had to sit.”

“Mmmm…” He says, not entirely recovered. He tries to focus. “What?”

“When the song finishes, I need you to get up, throw me over your shoulder, and carry me backstage. Can you do that?”

“I was probably going to do that anyways.”

She slinks off his lap and sings a coy song about constructing a humble homestead with her pioneer man that is, in fact, not at all about constructing a humble homestead with a pioneer man, no matter how much she goes on about hammering and driving nails into wood or how excited she is to open her gates to him when he returns every evening. She mimes some of her ‘homemaking’, as it were. She ends on a big highnote, which Jon takes as his cue. Not at all faking the desperate passion he displays, he grabs her and tosses her over his shoulder. She squeals and the curtains close.

Myranda and Mya hurry out of the wings, but Jon sends them backing away with a look.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Sansa blows the audience a few kisses as the curtains close and laughs. “Okay, Jon, you can put me down now!”

“I could, but I’d rather not,” he says, a rough undercurrent to his tone as he continues to carry her down the right wings. Sansa feels a fluttering in her stomach and catches Mya’s eye. She grins.

She’d been so nervous about this. Most of her told her that her instincts were right. But her self-doubt was always present. Maybe he’d hate it, be humiliated, refuse. He’s not a showman. But she’s watched him as she’s performed. She’s observed the way he scowls whenever she admonishes him to restrain himself in public, how jealous he gets, how sullen he sometimes is. The longing in his eyes during the shows.

Thank gods she was right. She can tell by the way he’s discreetly stroking her inner thigh as he marches her backstage towards her dressing room. Thank gods the Stage Port provided a chaise. It would be a long intermission. A long, glorious intermission.

Her heart skips a beat when he kicks the door closed behind them so it really slams. Slams in a way that tells everyone within a hundred yards that that door would stay slammed until he opened it again.

She’s so wet she fears her bloomers might stain permanently. It was so hard to focus onstage, especially when she sat in his lap and felt just how overcome he really was.

Sansa squirms over his shoulder, hoping, praying that he’ll----

---Yes! He flips her over and throws her down onto the chaise like she’s nothing, looming over her with heated eyes. Sansa arches her back, hands above her head. She’s so happy she chose to wear tear-away underthings. She suspected that it might be necessary.

But Jon doesn’t take advantage of it at once. Oh no, his fingers slip down between her legs and he strokes her through the satin. Sansa thrusts against his hand, on fire. She tugs at the stupid tuxedo jacket that the venue’s dress code demanded of anyone not specifically paid to dance in impractical underthings, desperate to feel his rippling muscles and sweat-slicked skin against her bare fingertips.

She gets his shirt off, but he still strokes her through the satin. So good, but so cruel. Not enough, not enough!

“Please, Jon. The costume is tear-away!” She whispers.

He pulls away from her, eyes like hot coals, and sits up. She whimpers from the lack of contact until he grabs her by her waist with both hands and sets her on her feet in front of him.

“Is that so?” He says gruffly. “You really had every bit of this planned. So what you’re saying is, I just need to pull this and---”

He tugs, and the top part of her corset falls open so more of her cleavage spills out. She gives a mock-squeal and pretends to cover the space between her breasts. Jon grins and tugs at another lace. The corset falls open further. Sansa keeps pretending (poorly, she’s grinning), to be scandalized when Jon reaches for the two unjoined edges at the center of her garment and yanks them apart. The whole thing falls away. Sansa catches her breasts just in time, flexed fingers over each nipple.

“And these?” He asks, reaching each hand towards a lace on either side of her bloomers. They come apart and the front flops down, exposing her soaking sex. She gives another squeal and reaches to cover herself. Jon takes her fingertips in his mouth and sucks on them, gazing up at her as he releases them and moves his mouth to her cunny.

She comes apart in his mouth in no time at all, flying high. The sound of him undoing his belt brings her back. Seconds later, he’s thrusting her onto her back again, then thrusting into her. Sansa moans, nearly howls. When they’re done, she’ll probably be mortified by what the staff may have heard, but not now. She wants them to hear!

He pushes into her hard and fast, then grabs her again. Jon gets to his feet, then bends her over the back of the chaise, taking her from behind. He gives her backside a good smack.

“That’s for taking me at unawares,” he moans, then bends over to kiss her cheek tenderly. “That’s for making me your husband.”

Sansa luxuriates in the kisses he lavishes on her cheek, ears, and neck. She reaches a second peak and when she does, Jon starts going faster. He grips her breasts so, so hard as he slows his pace but increases his force, spilling within her with a strangled cry and faltering juts of his hip.

Jon practically crumbles away from her, and Sansa spills back onto the seat, gasping and smiling. She reaches over the edge of the seat and tugs him towards her. He climbs up on top of her and they embrace.

After a while, though, they start to remember where they are and what’s going on. Jon reluctantly peels himself off of her and starts tugging his tuxedo back on. Sansa remains on her back, watching him.

“The show must go on,” she murmurs tragically.

“If you like, I’ll carry you off the stage for the finale as well,” he offers.

She suddenly feels the drive to get up again, and winks. “I’ll see you when the curtain goes up.”

He kisses her again, then shuffles out.

Feeling rather brazen, Sansa remains as she is as Mya and Myranda shuffle in. Myranda lets out a whistle.

“There should be a real spring in your step for Act II, I think.”

#jonsasmutweek #jonsa #actuallyjonsa #jon x sansa #day one

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the-karasu-no-one-knows · 5 years

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Jonas.

I remember 4 Winds back in January of 1993. The WTC bombing crap and my psychiatrist at boarding school nearly had me ripping his heart out through his chest due to a really fucking stupid theory he had about me and my sibling. That stupid bastard (Dr.Marcus) mouthed off and I ended up at 4 Winds.

I had ended up, at 17, in hiding due to a crazed boyfriend. I had no idea he was a huge gang leader in Chinatown. I also told this crazed Chinese lunatic (who all of a sudden loved me and didn't want to lose me) where my school was at. He threatened to kill my friends and bomb my school, forcibly holding me to watch it happen and then; slit my throat after. That led to a tongue lashing by the head mistress and head master and another reason that led me to 4 Winds on 1/30/1993 (my Senior year at HH).

I remember Kate, David, Colette and Anne. I also remember Jonas, my counselor/nurse.

I hated Jonas in the beginning because when my parents brought me there, the only male staff member was assigned to me and two others. The worst part of this was not only that he was male, he was of Asian decent (phillipino). I was so freaked out due to the HORRENDOUS trauma M Lee put me through (nearly raped but beaten).

When Jonas came to meet me that night, I threw my hair brush and toiletries at the door when he tried to enter and I told him to fuck off and die. Yes....I said and did that. The second night, I sat against the door so he could not enter (I had no roommate yet). The third night was the same. The fourth night I threw books at the door and at him and still he was EVER so patient. The fifth night, I got into trouble because I ran to the door and pushed him out and he ended up hurting his hand.

I did feel bad that time because he told me that he wouldn't be back till Monday night because he had weekends off. He also told me that he would not give up on getting to know me. Over the weekend I was trying to figure out how to make him NOT want to know me. However, I felt bad that he injured his hand due to me.

I had no cigarettes for the smoking room but Kate always gave me some and I was terribly stressed over the weekend trying to figure out how to have Jonas "hate" me. Kate was so pretty and ditzy and she had no issue with my sexuality at the time either. David was fascinated by it and my boyish behavior so he and I were always picking on each other. Anne...her story will come at another time. Monday night came and Jonas was there.

Kate, David and Anne were watching t.v. in the day room when Jones said hello to everyone. Boy did my eyes roll. Kate asked me if I had a plan to oust him out. I told her that I was going to give him a chance. She stared at me like "huh?? 9pm and before med rounds I'm in my dorm room dressed. In my Stussy gear and flannel with a turtle neck. My clothing mainly were boy clothes and anything to do with skater gear and rugby's from Britches and A&F (before A&F became trendy). Lots of black, blue and blood red burgundy and at least 4 pairs of my Doc Martens from home. No skin showing really ever.

Jonas knocks on the door with his hand wrapped and asks to come in. I said, in a pretty miserable tone, "uh...yeah...sure". I pulled my black turtle neck completely over my head so just some length from my short cropped hair stuck out like a radish top. He cleared his throat and asked if he could sit on the bed across from me.

I responded..."mmm...hmmmm".

He asked me if I planned on throwing anything or worse as he sat in front of me. I told him if he came closer, I would. He immediately respected my boundaries. He was very soft spoken and at least 29. I had no idea what his ethnicity was. All that stuck in my head was that this Asian guy would try to sexually assault me.

He introduced himself and told me that he was trying to think over the weekend why I was so adamant on making it known to him that I wanted him "dead". I said nothing. He told me that he really did care about my anger towards him and that he wanted to understand my pain and anger. I started to tremble in anger. He sat quiet and still and told me that he wanted to learn how he could speak to me without me becoming volatile.

I yelled at him telling him "I don't talk to people like you! He asked me "people like me?I told him that I do not trust people who are Asian.

I was yelling actually. Yelling and quietly shedding tears inside my turtle neck. He asked me if I wanted to see someone else. I didn't respond. He told me that he wanted to show me that he wasn't the guy who beat me and tried to rape me when I was 16. He told me he would do everything he could to make me feel safe around him.

I didn't say anything, yet it was apparent to me that he read my case file. He got up off the bed and told me that he left something for me on my dresser. Something that would bring me comfort. He read my case file and told me that he had purchased an item to give to me to show me that he cared. He told me that he hoped to continue to be my counselor from that point on. He wished me a good night and thanked me for allowing him to sit across from me in my dorm room.

After I heard the door shut I pulled down my turtle neck and looked at my dresser. He had purchased a Thrasher magazine for me. A skateboarding magazine at the time.

I looked at the door, sat down on my bed and smiled.

The next night after dinner, his shift started and the staff did their usual notes and crap. He ran the after dinner group. It was an activity group. It was a self esteem group. Ugh! Fucking self esteem. What is that??

It was a card game type activity. It wasn't that bad at all. Jonas actually made it fun. He was very dedicated and would smile at me when using certain words to describe certain attitudes towards descriptive words. It was pretty funny because that dark sarcastic side of me was opening up. The other patients were laughing and opening up and after group, several patients thanked me for opening up like I did and that it had helped them feel more comfortable during the group. I felt pretty damned accomplished.

After med rounds it was time for my session with Jonas. Dressed from head to toe as usual, I waited for him to show up. The usual knock on the door, he asked to come in. This time, I said "yes you can come in".

I wasn't covering my face. In fact....my whole head was sticking out of my navy blue turtle neck. He stood by the door and before he asked I told him he could sit on the bed. He walked over, sat on the bed and admitted that he was pretty surprised that I not only invited him in but I gave him permission to sit on the bed. He asked me what gave me the "courage" to invite him in and give him permission to sit on the bed.

I responded...."you're not Matt".

He smiled, I sighed and we started to talk for the first time in nearly 9 days.

***I'm putting this all down on my smartphone because my regional DVD of The Young Ones is occupying my computer. I'll continue this more tomorrow because my hand is cramped beyond reasoning. :)***

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vintaehge · 7 years

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2| For The Sake of Dancing

Ballet or dance! AU Ship: Jimin x reader A/N: It’s friday!!! Which mean update day! Hope you like this chapter. Sorry for any spellings errors. Word count: 1247

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Two days after you conclude the deal with miss Choi, you finally managed to obtain the permission of your parents to go to Ballet high. At first they were really happy because they thought you finally gave up on you hip hop plans for ballet but then when you explained the deal they were a little bit less enthusiast about you going to the prestigious school.

Anyways, here you were a Tuesday morning with your huge bag containing everything you've got to have. You head to the park near center town to wait the members of your group. When everyone finally arrived, you all waited a little bit more for miss Choi and mister Wang to get you. As previewed, they arrived with a school bus. You climbed in the bus and put your bag next to Janel's in the seat behind you. Then miss Choi and mister Wang started talking to you.

"Well, let's take this bus ride as an opportunity to talk about Ballet high," started the man, "first of all, as you already know, you'll have to take classes with the ballets's. We already assigned you a group, regardless your age or your talent. All we can tell you is that they are the best of this school. One more things before we talk about the classes; does everyone as a pair of ballet shoes and leotards?"

Everyone looked at each other confused, except you, hell if your parent would let you go to Ballet high without at least two pairs of ballet shoes and leotards...

"I have mines but I don't think the others do." You said simply.

"Hm what's leotards?" Asked Jackson.

You got your black one out and showed him. Everyone looked at the clothes and they frowned some grumbling. It looked really uncomfortable, in comparison Marison's baggy pants or Josh's ripped jeans looked really comfortable.

"It's okay we'll stop at a store to get you everything you need." Said miss Choi as she smiled sweetly to the group. "Now let's talk about classes. Mister Wang."

"Yes, classes. You will have Pas de deux that is a classes where you dance by duet. In this class, you'll learn to trust your partner and dance with someone else. You'll have ballet history too. Ballet history is simple... but if it was only by me this class wouldn't exist it's really long an annoy- hey!"

Miss Choi slapped mister Wang's back sending him a glare.

" You know students can't work all day! They won't have any toes anymore if they do!" She mumbled angrily.

The man chuckled nervously and scratched the back of his neck. "Right sorry Sulli... where was I?"

"That you found ballet history pretty annoying." Respond Janel amused by the situation.

"Yes, thank you. Well you already know, history of ballet is a class where you'll learn the what, when, how, who about ballet. Then you have a simple class where you will learn basics things like what you do to the barre and also how to do arabesque, développé and other moves. These are the only classes you will attend. Of course, there will be some rules to follow. Miss Choi."

"As mister Wang just said there will be some important rules you should respect even if you're not officials. First of all, you'll have to be ready for 7 O'clock in the morning. You'll have one hour to eat breakfast. So at 8:30, you should be in classes. That's it for the morning. For night; 22 O'clock lights off. Supper is at 18 O'clock. Of course, I didn't forgot about our proposition. In the afternoon after Ballet history, at 15 O'clock, you'll have a room for yourselves to practice Hip hop until supper." She said smiling.

"Ho and before we stop to the ballet shop," started mister Wang as the bus slowed down near a mall," You'll be in the seniors dorm with all the other members of the group we assigned you to."

~~~

After everyone finally finished to buy their pointe shoes and their clothes, you all climbed in the bus and rode to school. It took all day and when you reached the school, everyone looked out amazed by the grandiosity of the place. The slight darkness made it even more beautiful. It looked... mysterious even.

The bus stopped and miss Choi leaded you in the huge building that is Ballet high. The hall was even more beautiful than what you thought it would be. There was chandelier made in crystal hanging everywhere, a huge wooden stair was standing a few meters away, the floor was covered by white ceramics and the walls were paint in a cream color. But something was a little wrong in fact. This place was beautiful indeed and it wasn't the problem. The problem was that when you 12 entered the hall, every students roaming around stopped to look at you. They were whispering things, some looking at you disgust, some with admiration, some giggling like preschool girls when they see their crushes.

You knew why they acted like that. It was simple. These persons are completely the opposite of you! Look at them; leotards pink or black with leggings the same color, for girls perfect tidy buns and all of their faces were on flick. And then here you guys were: Marison was wearing a grey baggy sweatpant with a slack black t-shirt and classics Adidas shoes, her blue and black hair tied in two messy (really messy) buns, Jess was wearing a huge white sweatshirt and black skinny jeans with classics converse, her brown and red dyed hair down and a bit messed by the wind, a hat covering them, Alexa was wearing a pink turtle neck shirt with leggings and white and red Nike, her brown hair tied in a ponytail as her bangs fell lazily on her face, Janel was wearing a black leather jacket over a white lazy shirt, a black skirt and a pair of classics Adidas, her short blond hair and bangs down, the boys were wearing pretty much the same thing jacket, grey shirts and ripped jeans with Jordans, their colored hair totally messed and there you were wearing a white t-shirt, a long grey cardigan attached over it, pale ripped jeans and black boots, your (H/C) hair down a black beanie on your head. You made a funny show for them. What were you wearing clowns's clothing? Of course, it wasn't everybody's thought but for most of them you all looked like a bunch of homeless peoples.

Mister Wang saluted your group and went away telling everyone to get back to their work as Miss Choi was climbing up the stairs with you to go to your dorm. The whispering noises stopped when the woman passed but that didn't stop the glares and looks the students were giving the ten of you. After going up two floor, miss Choi finally stopped in front of a door. She knocked and a girl opened.

"Good evening miss Choi." She said smiling brightly letting you in.

"Hello miss Pranpriya." Answered the elder woman politely.

You looked around as a little crowd was forming around you when suddenly your (E/C) eyes met with a pair of black ones. You breath caught in your throat as you told yourself to stop blushing. You shifted and that was enough for you to be hidden by the muscular frame of Isaac.

"So it's them?"

#Jimin x reader #bts #park jimin #x reader insert #ballet au #dance au #ballet!jimin x hiphop!reader!#Ballet jimin #blackpink insert

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