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#CURLS & TWIST
apocalypticgargoyle · 4 months ago
the “we’re fake dating to make someone jealous but actually end up together trope” reminds me of drrreeeaaaammmm😇😇😇
-🧚🏻‍♀️
YES YES 🧚 ANON I LOVE UR IDEAS YES.
I also included these: WELCOME 🦀 ANON and as always, 🍭 anon I'm in love w u.
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[𝐁𝐎𝐘]𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃. ♘ 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 (𝟏𝟖+)
pairing: dream x reader (dre™ my beloved)
warnings: vulgar language, mentions of sex, basically that one scene from Easy A, me lowkey trying so hard not to get carried away
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You took a sip of your drink; your mind racing with Clay’s words as you debated his plea. You hated the idea of pitting yourself against someone else for an envy factor and meddling in the love lives of your friends, but you knew you’d do anything for Clay. He could mention needing to kill a president and without a word, you’d be by his side. It had always been that way, so why were you so shaken by his request. Then again, you had brought it upon yourself.
“See that girl over there?” Clay asked, barely nodding toward the kitchen as he slumped down to your height so you could hear him over the pulsing music. The smell of the cologne your cousin bought him one Christmas in the hopes that he’d ask her to marry him wafted towards you. You had noticed how he had attempted to clean himself up when the two of you met at the bus stop before traveling to this shindig, but you had brushed it off, knowing it was probably for some girl’s attention.
You peered over his shoulder, seeing the kitchen packed with females. You shrugged slightly. “Yeah, which one?” You asked, raising your eyebrows.
He rolled his eyes. “As if it’s not obvious,” he mumbled sarcastically after realizing what you were talking about. His hand moved to hold your face, squishing your cheeks between his fingers as he angled your head towards one of the various women.
She looked up at the right moment, making eye contact with you and you pulled out of Clay’s grip, already knowing how idiotic the two of you looked staring at her as he blatantly was pointing her out to you. “Oh my god, she saw,” you whispered quickly and he drew in a sharp breath, the two of you freezing as if something were going to happen.
When she didn’t approach the pair of you, you went on like it hadn’t happened, Clay beginning to tell you about why he mentioned her. “We hooked up after calculus a few times,” he smugly boasted.
You raised your eyebrows at him. “Why are you still in calculus? Aren’t you a jun-”
“That’s beside the point,” he added, crossing his arms. “She hasn’t texted me back lately.”
You chewed the inside of your cheek, peering back over in her direction. It always shook Clay up when a girl didn’t vie for his attention. He was attractive and popular on campus, but there were always a few that would slip through his fingers. And it drove him absolutely crazy.
You wet your lips, exhaling as you thought. “Maybe it’s because you’re too available?” You spoke, thinking out loud and more to yourself than him. He tilted his head as if urging you to continue. You took a sip of your drink, also wondering what you’d meant. “Just start fooling around with another girl and she’ll come running,” you offered.
He nodded along as you spoke, leaning a hand against the wall behind you. “Wanna fool around with me?” He jested, making you snort.
“Oh come on now,” you broke, dropping your head back against the wall, nearly missing his thumb.
He sent you a cheeky expression. “No, you come on now. You suggested it!”
You lightly punched his chest as if to get him to hear you instead of just listen to you. “I didn’t mean me, idiot! Don’t you have like fifteen other people in your phone?”
His shoulders slumped. “Please! I’ve seen you charm the pants off Karl and Sapnap at the same time,” he begged. He straightened up as if he was about to reluctantly agree to something. “I’ll paint your kitchen like you’ve been asking,” he mumbled.
And that’s how you found yourself leaning against Clay’s side as the two of you talked to a group of his friends. His arm curled around your waist, fingers gliding beneath the hem of your shirt to settle against the skin of your hip. You willed yourself to think of something other than his fingers pressed against you, fighting every urge to blush at the contact.
The song switched to a stereotypical dance song and people began to move. You downed the rest of your drink to psych yourself up before eyeing the girl momentarily and standing on your toes to reach Clay’s ear. You wrapped your arm around his shoulder as you told him to dance with you, knowing she was watching the two of you with searing eyes.
You knew he was fighting to see her expression, keeping his eyes on you as you pulled him towards the mass of people by his belt loop. “This is going to be super cringey before the both of us, just pretend you like it,” you bit as you pressed your back to him.
His hands dropped to your waist, moving with you to the beat. “Maybe I will enjoy myself. Don’t be so bossy,” he chided, voice raspy and warm in your ear from talking over the music for most of the night. He was a loud guy, but he always seemed to lose his voice after a party.
You turned in his arms, his body close to yours. “Don’t get too excited,” you jested, pressing a hand to his abdomen as you kept up with him, letting him drop his head beside yours.
“Oh, bet. I’ll get so drunk and mistake you for someone else,” he mocked, his voice a welcome break as it penetrated through the heavy bass of the song.
You scoffed. “Like who? Your cousin?” You teased, making him bite back a laugh as he bit his lip. You felt a laser gaze digging into your back as his hands moved you pull your waist against him. Your hand moved to pull his face to the crook of your neck. You could see her at the new angle; glaring at you over her cup. You felt guilt twist in the pit of your stomach. You’d been at it for a few hours and you were ready to amp it up before she left without him.
“Dream, take me upstairs,” you mumbled into his ear. He pulled away from you, brows threatening to furrow at your words. “Trust me,” you gritted, slipping your hand into his and making it apparent you were looking for a room with him in tow. He was quiet as you lead the way. From where you were walking, you saw her move to inch towards the steps as if she was investigating what you were doing with him. You knew it was in bad taste to set anyone up for jealousy but Clay was your friend, and you really needed your kitchen painted.
You found an empty room, tugging him inside and locking the door. He looked at you with a red tinge to his cheeks. You weren’t sure if it was from embarrassment as if he’d been thinking about what the two of you would be doing in the room, or if it was just from the alcohol. “What now?” He asked.
You chuckled, grabbing his wrist. “Fuck me,” you stated, the words feeling weird with him on the receiving end. His eyes went wide and he awkwardly moved his hands as if he were going to touch you. You rolled your eyes, swatting away his hands before grabbing his wrist and pulling him up to stand on the bed with you after you kicked off your shoes.
You started jumping on the bed, but he just looked at you with a confused expression, making you gesture for him to copy you. He was always like that; you telling him to do something and without actually questioning, he’d go along with you.
You could hear talking outside the door and something clicked in your head. “Oh, that feels so good, Clay. Don’t stop,” you falsely moaned, glaring at him as he struggled not to laugh, the two of you jumping almost in sync as the mattress squeaked beneath your weight.
You motioned for him to add and he looked up to the ceiling, attempting to recover from everything that was happening. “You like that? Slut,” he matched your tone, making you roll your eyes and cover your mouth to hide your laugh at the degradation.
You moaned again, and he giggled quietly, moaning with you. The two of you had begun to loosen up, even timing your jumps so you could double jump and throw Clay off balance. If someone had told you a week prior that you’d be jumping on a nameless person’s bed with your best friend, pretending he was nailing you into tomorrow, you would have laughed. But it probably wouldn’t have surprised you.
The two of you slowed down, winded from the unnecessary exercise. You shrugged slightly, mimicking what you would sound like during an orgasm. It came out weak and Clay looked at you like you’d stabbed him in the chest. He mouthed, “Come on.” You rolled your eyes, wondering how you had found yourself in that position before moaning again, this time a bit too accurately.
You covered your mouth and Clay’s ears turned red as he laughed slightly. You’d been roommates with a friend of his in the past and it nearly dawned on you that he might have heard the sound from you before. You brushed the thought from your mind before it could completely sink in as you got off the bed. He plopped down on the edge of the mattress, catching his breath as you straightened your clothing, tugging your shoes back on. There was something hanging in the air between the two of you now, but you had quickly decided that you’d rather not address it.
After that night, you weren’t really sure how it had gone between Clay and the girl. You wanted to ask him about it, but you couldn’t bring yourself to after you noticed the two leaving together. You had done your job, maybe a bit too well.
In fact, the two of you had been avoiding each other since then. It wasn’t until a week later that you were finally in the same room with him at a birthday party for a mutual friend of yours. The two of you glanced at each other awkwardly before you stood beside him, nudging his arm with your own.
“So, how’d it go with that one girl?” You asked, glancing up at him, your eyes then settling on the group spread around the room talking amongst themselves.
He chuckled, scratching the back of his head. “Uh, yeah I ended up just driving her home,” he muttered, chewing on his bottom lip. You raised an eyebrow at him. “I just… I wasn’t in the mood anymore. I don’t know…”
You nodded at his statement, deciding that it was ridiculous for you to feel so weird around him for nothing. You knew it was all in your head and he wouldn’t be walking around on eggshells if you weren’t making him. This was Clay, after all. “All that work and for what?” You joked.
He sent you a smile, his shoulders relaxing. “I mean, come on. You had to have enjoyed that-”
You cut him off. “Oh yeah, grinding on you was literally the greatest time of my life,” you quipped sarcastically.
He grinned smugly. “I mean, it was the greatest time of my life to hear you moaning my name.”
You scoffed. “Hope you recorded it,” you mumbled, making him nod in agreement. You rolled your eyes playfully as everyone moved to gather around each other. Seats quickly filled up and Clay sent you a sly grin, patting his lap.
Just to prove a point, you took his offer, making him tense up as if he wasn’t expecting you to. He sat up a bit straighter to even the two of you out, making you shift on his lap. You moved again, setting your drink on one of the nearby tables and he groaned. You froze, hoping no one had noticed his hand press into your hip.
His lips were beside your ear; breath warm and inviting. “Stop moving,” he bit, voice barely above a whisper.
Your mouth curled into a smirk. “Why? Can’t control yourself?” You jeered, making his grip tighten on you.
“Don’t tease,” he nipped, making you smile wider. You moved again, this time pulling your knee to your chest and leaning back against him. With the new movement, you could feel him harden beneath you, and for some reason, you were into it. Your escapades in the bedroom had given you a series of oddly sexual dreams about Clay. Maybe this was your chance to relieve what tension had been built between the two of you.
His other arm moved to wrap around your knee, cementing you in place. “Cut it out,” he hissed, making your eyes settle on his. You could tell by the lust-blown look in his eyes that he was already thinking about you too.
“Do you wanna get out of here?” You quizzed, your heart hammering in your chest as his eyes danced back and forth between yours, searching your face for a hint of joking.
You could feel his heart skip a beat. “Really?” He asked, waiting for you to redact your words. You nodded. “You’re serious?”
“As serious as your mom and the pool boy,” you joked, instantly lightening the mood as he rolled his eyes, leaning forward and digging his face into the crook of your neck and making you laugh. You got off his lap, moving towards the birthday boy and saying your goodbyes with the claim that you had an upset stomach so Clay was driving you home.
When the two of you finally got out of the apartment building, Clay turned to you. He spoke with a clear tone now, “This is real,” his words coming out as a question in and of itself. “You’re not fucking with me?”
You sighed, shaking your head before grabbing onto his jacket and pressing your lips against his, your body flush against him as his hands hesitantly wrapped around you. Your kiss quickly became hungry and passionate. You’d never kissed him before; usually opting to live vicariously through your friends. As your hands carded into his hair, his fingers fisted in your clothing, almost as if you would float away from him.
Clay broke away almost breathlessly, his lips moving to press against your neck. “I want you,” he groaned, making you moan in response. As he pulled you towards his car, you knew the two of you would finally be relieving some long-time festering tension.
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daninotfound · 5 months ago
Text
— still into you
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Pairing: Luka Couffaine x Fem!Singer!Reader
Summary: With the Music Festival coming up, tension rises as Y/N’s ex tries to came a comeback. The only problem? Luka’s not having it.
Word Count: 2k
A/N: Based on this trend I saw on tiktok. Also let this be evidence that I cannot physically write a blurb to save my life 🤠
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“Hey, you okay?”
Indistinct chatter echoes in the background as you sat down at the edge of the stage. It’ll only be a few hours till you get on stage, meaning you have to wrap up your soundcheck before the festival starts. Today’s a big night — all of you know that. For once, there’s gonna be record execs watching to find their next star band — and who knows? With a little luck, it could be Kitty Section. As for you... you’re not an official member of the band — no matter how many times Juleka and Luka insisted you should be — but you agreed to help them after Rose lost her voice during last practice, giving you the perfect chance to present new song you’d been working on.
You should be buzzing with excitement. Why aren’t you excited?
You’ve been fidgety during the whole sound check, glancing at the few members of the tech crew that walk around the place, missing lines and beats. It’s understandable to get last minute jitters, but you’re not usually like this.
You turn your head to Luka, gaze evidently distracted. You hum in question, too lost in thought to hear what he was asking. He sets down his guitar before sitting with his legs crossed at the edge of the stage. He tilts his head, cerulean eyes trying to see through you.
“Stop that.”
He straightens, brows knitting together. “Stop what?”
“That... That thing you do.” You turn to him lips pursed into what he guesses was meant to form a frown.
Luka chuckles. “There’s no thing, Y/N.”
“Yeah, there is.” You turn to face him, vaguely gesturing his face. “That thing- that thing you do when you’re trying to read me. When you think I’m hiding something.”
He leans closer, tilting his head. “Are you?” He asks, blue eyes ever-so passive. “Hiding something?”
You exhale loudly, using your forearms to support your torso as you lean against the stage. “I don’t know, Luka.” You hesitate for a moment, something that doesn’t pass by undetected by your blue-haired friend. The exasperation in your voice drops, tone soft. “Can I ask for advice?”
“Shoot.”
You straighten, thinking of the best way to phrase it. You feel your fingers fidgeting with your silver bracelet — a gift from the guitarist beside you — before you finally make up your mind. “Back when you were dating Marinette, did you ever...” You lick your lips in an anxious manner, watching as Luka stares back at you, the confusion evident in his gaze. “...did you ever try to get back with her?”
He furrows his brows at your question, head tilted ever so slightly. He gives a look, as if to say, ‘why would you be asking that?’. Why are you asking him? They broke up a while ago — there’s no reason for you to bring it up.
Instead of voicing his doubts, however, he purses his lips. Without a hint of hesitation, he answers. “No.” The decisiveness of his words makes you perk up. “Don’t get me wrong, I loved Mari for a long time after we broke up. But it wasn’t the right time for her. She needed space, and we took a break. Eventually, the romantic feelings just sorta... faded out?” He runs a ringed hand through his blue locks, a sigh leaving his parted lips. “She’s still my friend, and I care for her, but I think we just weren’t meant to be.” He shrugs. “Her heart belonged to someone else and I-“ He cuts himself abruptly before he can continue and turns back to you. “Any reason as to why you’re asking?”
A small laugh escapes your lips, but it’s bittersweet. It makes Luka’s frown deepen.“You’d know I’m lying if I said otherwise.” You inhale sharply, back growing stiff. “Yeah, I’m kinda in a... situation right now.”
Luka notices your sudden change in posture, peaceful features now dripping with concern. “What kind of situation?”
You look down at your fingers, charm bracelet jingling as you play with a small star one. Your voice grows unbearably softer, as if you’re... ashamed of something. “You remember Leon?”
Does he remember Leon? He almost wants to loudly scoff at the question. Yeah, absolutely. He remembers how happy you were when you first started seeing each other. He also remembers how insecure you became after dating him for a month or two. He vividly recalls some comments he’d make when dating you.
“I guess I would consider myself lucky.” Leon chuckles beside Luka, the former watching as his girlfriend talks to Juleka next to the speakers.
“Why’s that?” Luka asks, mind unfocused. He’s only seen Leon a few times, talked to him maybe once or twice — which is why it strikes him as odd when the boy approached him, instead of sticking by Y/N’s side as he usually does.
“Dating Y/N.” Leon’s lip curves upward, gray eyes following his girlfriend’s figure. “I mean, you can be her friend and still see she’s hot, right?”
His comment makes Luka straighten, brows furrowed. I mean, yeah, but he wouldn’t phrase it like that-
“Really, I was shocked when I found out you haven’t tapped that, if you know what I mean”
Luka’s cheeks turn red with a mix of embarrassment and the urge to hit the guy in the back of the head. That’s Y/N he’s talking about- better yet, it’s his girlfriend, and one of Luka’s closest friend. His lips part to speak, ready to call him out on his disrespectful comment, when the girl at hand calls out to them.
“Hey, you guys comin’ or what?”
Luka clears his throat. “Your last boyfriend.”
“Yeah.” You say rather defeatedly. Your posture, your tone- it’s setting off red flags in Luka’s mind. You’re not usually like this. “So, uh- last week, when I had to stay late, he uh-“ You pause mid sentence, heaving a breath. “...he showed up at the lycée.”
Luka adjusts his stance, blue eyes trying to search into your e/c. “I thought you two broke up.”
“We did.”
“Did you-“
“He invited himself.” You explain, back falling against the stage. You stare up at the orange-tinged sky as you continue. “He said he wanted to talk, catch up. He invited me to get coffee, and he didn’t take no for answer.” Luka feels his spine growing stiff at your words. He doesn’t like Leon- and the fact that you had to face him alone makes his insides twist. “We got to talking, and I might have let it slip that we were playing at the Music Festival.” You raise your torso one last time. Still, you avoid Luka’s gaze, e/c eyes staring away into the Seine river in the distance.
“...And now he’s coming.” You hide your face with your palms, the urge to scream ever-so present. Your voice is muffled as you continue. “Said he couldn’t wait to see ‘his girl’ perform.”
“Y/N...” Luka begins, ringed hand reaching for yours. He interlocks his fingers with yours in a comforting gesture. Blue meet with e/c as you finally turn to face him.
“He’s coming tonight, Luka.” You echo, features somewhat rattled. You wanted to have fun, to enjoy the night — instead, you’ll be freaking out over your ex. Your asshole of an ex.
Luka immediately picks up on the way you’ve began to spiral. Before you can continue to go any further, he squeezes your hand comfortingly. “Hey.” You still look distant, so he gently reaches for your jaw, making you focus on his words. “Hey. I got your back- you know that. If he gets too close for comfort...”
You nod slowly, lips curling into a hint of a smile. “Thanks.” You breathe out, feeling as Luka’s hand lingers on your cheek.
You’re close. It’s not unusual when it comes to the two of you, yet this time... it feels different. You can’t quite put your finger on it. Your heart skips a beat, your eyes flicking down to his lips for a fraction of a second. No- no. Don’t do that. He’s just being your friend, your pal, your support.
Still, you can’t help but feel disappointed when Luka pulls away.
You feel your shoulders falling. A comfortable silence settles between the two of you, the sound of instruments being plugged and tested like a distant echo. Carefully, you place your head on Luka’s shoulder. He feels his lips tugging into a small smile, eyes fluttering closed as his thumb caresses your hand.
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Amps buzz. Cymbals crash. The crowd yells out cheers. And you are having the time of your life.
Fluorescent lights shine down on all of you as you lean against the microphone. The whole stage was thrumming with energy- from Juleka playing the bass, to Ivan rhythmically hitting drums, to Luka expertly strumming his guitar.
“Make you feel, make you feel better.” You sang into the microphone, body buzzing with energy. “It’s not a walk in the park to love each other.” You felt yourself bouncing on the balls of your heels, as you looked back at Luka, who offered a closed-lipped smile — clearly as energized at you were currently feeling.
You hear the sound of drums leading on the instrumental side of the sound, accompanied by a dimmer bass and electric guitar. “But when our fingers interlock,” You reach for the microphone with one hand, pulling it closer. You allow your gaze to get lost on the wild crowd, spotting a few of your friends among the mass. “can’t deny, can’t deny you’re worth it.” Marinette, Adrien, Alya-
Leon.
You feel your stance faltering for a fraction a second. He’s right there, right next to the others, right next to your friends. You swallow sharply. He knew you’d see him from here. The bastard, he knew- “‘Cause after all this time...” your voice loses the powerful edge it had moments ago. The urge to run backstage burns against your nerves. “I’m still into you.” Somehow, you remain grounded. You take a sharp breath, readying yourself for the chorus— still, your hesitation is evident. Like a deer caught in the headlights, with nowhere to hide, nowhere to run to.
“I should be over all the butterflies-” The sound of both your voice and the other instruments is drowned away by the striking sound of Luka’s guitar verse.
You snap your neck in his direction, eyes wide- from your sudden stage panic or the shock of his sudden action, you can’t be sure. He’s not supposed to play that loudly, he’s supposed to follow Ivan’s tempo with the drums, he-
Blue meet e/c. For a moment, you almost make yourself believe that his usually calm and peaceful blue are glacially cold. Whatever you think you saw is gone in a split-second, the corner of Luka’s lip twitching upward as he mouths. “Eyes on me.”
You feel heat dusting your cheeks, heart drumming at an incessant pace. You nod decisively, before you find yourself mirroring his smile. “I’m into you, I’m into you.”
With that sudden burst of confidence, you reach for your microphone from the mic stand and take it in your hand, striding towards the blue haired guitarist. “And baby even on our worst nights.” You sing into the microphone, your voice resonating all across the stage and the area. Luka looks down at you, fingers strumming his guitar strings as it continues to overpower over the other instruments. Juleka and Ivan don’t seem to mind — in fact, they share a look, stifling the urge to grin. “I’m into you, I’m into you.”
“Let ‘em wonder how we got this far,” Your voice sparks with power as you raise your microphone, staring up into Luka’s blue gaze. He nods encouragingly, biting at his bottom lip as he continues to play. “‘Cause I don’t really need to wonder at all.” You jump as you sing, feeling the eyes of hundreds of people on you — yet it’s only one of them you truly care about.
Luka’s chuckles as you jump back to your previous spot, his eyes never leaving your frame. He stares back at you with a particular glint dancing in his eye. Awe, adoration. No, it’s more than that.
You don’t find it in yourself to place it before you look back into the crowd, colorful glowing lights shining on the stage. You grin.
“Yeah, after all this time, I’m still into you.”
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acciopietro · 4 months ago
Text
a bit distracted - p.m.
pairing: pietro maximoff x fem! reader
summary: in which pietro needs to start paying better attention. and maybe listening to his sister more.
word count: 2005
tw: nothing!
a/n: hi hi hi!!!! in case you’re curious, when wanda and pietro are speaking in sokovian, i just use romanian cause i feel like they’d be very similar :)
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THE RHYTHMIC POUNDING OF CLENCHED, red-blotched fists against the one-hundred-and-ten pound punching bag was like a metronome in his head, ticking violently at an aggressive pace as though to remind him of the task at hand. And, unfortunately, although Pietro Maximoff had a fantastic memory, he wasn’t always the greatest at staying on task.
His own knuckles were strapped with beige boxing wraps, protecting the otherwise exposed skin from the harshness of the leather bag. He kept his feet shoulder width apart and his fists held up by his face like he should, but it was his eyes that he was having trouble gaining control of. Because she just so happened to be on the other side of the room— and when the girl you’re seriously into is tearing up a punching bag, you tend get a little distracted.
He had training at the same time as Y/N every day, and he had grown accustomed to sort of ogling her for the whole session all whilst thinking about ways he wanted to strut up and win her over. Maybe he’d say something suave and correct her stance, or he’d offer to help train with her one day. The only issue with that, was that Pietro was a bit embarrassed to admit that no matter how strong or fast he was, she could probably beat the shit out of him. But he kind of liked that.
She never spoke much during training sessions. She seemed to take them awfully seriously, not stopping for breaks or chats even when others entered the room. But Pietro was slightly grateful for this— she never seemed to notice how distracted he’d get by her, arms pummeling fists into the bag, strong legs planted into the ground, hair out of her face and leftover mascara just slightly smudged under her lower lash line —
“Hey — Maximoff!” Her voice snapped him out of his daydream and he blinked, straightening his shoulders as he met her eyes. He said nothing, all pick-up lines and witty comments fleeing from his head. “Fix your stance, will you? You’ll get the shit beat out of you if you’re standing like that.”
“Yeah — right — sorry,” he muttered, re-planting his feet into the ground, sending her a sheepish sort of smile that he prayed passed as charming through his anxiousness. She simply turned around and continued without another word. A scoff from the other side of his bag broke him out of his wallows.
“Lost your game, huh? Just go up to her,” Wanda, his sister, observed with a girlish laugh. “What happened to all the flirting you did back home? You used to try and pick up strangers.”
“I wish I could tell you,” he muttered bitterly, sending an absentminded punch to the bag. “I can’t just go up to her — it’d be weird, I can’t just —“
She had turned around, fixing her hair and grabbing her phone from the stand beside her. Pietro watched from the side of his bag as she leaned against the wall, tilting her head back and exposing the column of her throat as she caught her breath. Oh, yeah... he was down bad.
It had all really started after Sokovia fell, when he and Wanda left HYRDA and decided to join the Avengers. Y/N had been in Sokovia, sure, but Pietro had been much too preoccupied with the downfall of his homeland to ogle her. It wasn’t until after (after as in the ride back to the compound from Sokovia on the Quinjet) that he found himself seriously crushing on a girl who threw the hardest punch he’d ever witnessed.
They’d had their fair share of exchanges, whether it be during mealtimes or meetings or when Y/N and Wanda would spend time together, but it was the few one-on-one conversations that only amped his infatuation.
Y/N had always preferred the punching bags over the weights, so naturally Pietro became quite the puncher— not because he had a passion for boxing or anything, but because he wanted to have something in common with a particularly headturningly beautiful member of the team.
He’d jog by her under the pretense that he was simply admiring the grounds just to catch her eye. He’d unwrap and rewrap his hands just so he could be standing nearby when she entered the room.
Wanda had noticed his lurking before anyone, but Wanda knowing came along with Vision knowing, and he seriously didn’t need Vision reciting textbook articles on love and relationships to him. That was no help. And he certainly didn’t need Tony Stark’s blunt quips that practically exposed him.
Pietro quickly learned that having Wanda with him during the training sessions he shared with Y/N was not helping. He could’ve just straggled along, watching her work, thinking about scenarios in which he did manage to charm her over, but he couldn’t do that with Wanda nagging him to go say something.
That’d be ridiculous. Pietro may have been the town’s biggest flirt back in Sokovia, but none of that mattered when it came down to Y/N. What mattered was a) staying in her good graces, and b) making sure he didn’t look like a total idiot in her presence.
“Drop it, Wanda,” he grumbled, wiping the beads of sweat off his forehead, icy blue eyes flickering to his far right every so often.
“You got hit with tens of bullets and came out alright, but you can’t speak to a girl?” Wanda snorted, laughing to herself. Pietro shivered at the memory of his injuries, but rolled his eyes at her words.
“I think I’d take the bullets right now,” Pietro mumbled. “Why don’t you go make-out with the metal man or something?”
“Vision is not a metal man,” Wanda said defensively, turning red. “I’m just trying to help you, frate.”
“Help me by not doing anything stupid,” Pietro told her firmly.
“Because you’re not being stupid,” Wanda said dryly. “Stalking her all the time.”
“I am not stalking her,” Pietro hissed. “I’m just... stalling.”
“Stalling,” Wanda scoffed, taking a step away from the bag. “If you don’t tell her, I’ll do it myself—”
“What —? No, no, no, Wanda!” Pietro lunged forward, grabbing his sister by the wrist to tug her backwards. She halted, giving him an incredulous look. “Please don’t, come on... I’ll do it eventually, I’m just—”
“You are a damn Avenger,” Wanda said blankly. “An ‘enhanced individual.’ If anyone can get a date, it’s you. And you’re not hideous-looking!”
“Thank you,” Pietro rolled his eyes.
“I’m serious, Pietro,” Wanda said sternly. “She’s not as intimidating as you think. She’s really nice. If she rejects you, it won’t hurt too badly.”
“Oh, that really helps me out,” Pietro grumbled. “That makes me feel so much better.”
“What I’m trying to say,” Wanda said, walking out from the other side of the bag to place both hands on his shoulders and turn his body towards where Y/N was, “just talk to her. I’ve put in plenty of good word for you, and I’m sure you could charm her in no time, okay?”
“Right,” Pietro wondered if listening to his sister was a good idea, until he remembered that she could read minds; if he was about to walk into a pit of rejection, she’d probably tell him to stop, right? “Okay. To hell with it.”
“Poți face asta, Pietro!” Wanda cheered from behind him as he began to stride forward, rolling his shoulders back and holding his chin a bit higher in an attempt to hide his nervousness. The journey to where Y/N was felt longer than it truly was (maybe he had been slowing his pace a bit), and although Wanda’s nagging had initially been bothering him, he was starting to appreciate her whispers of encouragement.
When he came to a stop before her, she hadn’t acknowledged his presence. She kept punching at the bag, her eyes trained blankly ahead of her, and Pietro licked his lips anxiously. He cleared his throat.
Her e/c eyes shifted over at him for a millisecond, lips curling up as though to say a small hello before she continued her punching. His chest twisted.
“Hi,” He said loudly, offering a grin. Her arms fell from where they had been at the ready, and he could see the blotches of red along her defined knuckles as she wiped at her neck for a moment. “I was — er — you pack quite a punch.”
“Thanks,” She breathed heavily, wiping a strand of hair off of her forehead. Pietro nodded as a ‘you’re welcome,’ glancing momentarily at his sneakers. He swallowed, panic rising within his chest, and he strongly considered speeding away from her.
Shifting in his spot, he breathes, runs a hand through his silver and brunette hair and says, “You don’t wrap your hands, do you? Yeah, I usually don’t either...”
“Mm,” She hummed casually. “I like the 200″ wraps the best, though.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, me too,” Pietro said hurriedly, nodding his head in agreement.
He watched her lips twitch up at the side, and as she reached over to grab her water bottle, she said smugly, “Y’know they don’t make 200″ wraps, right?”
Uh oh. He’s gone. He started to strong and now he’s done.
“You sure?” He pressed further. “I dunno, maybe I just have special ones.”
“Special wraps for a special guy, I suppose,” She quipped, dipping her head back to quench her thirst. He blinks three times before he feels his lips curl upwards. She swallows and tilted her head back down, locking eyes with him, and she’s got that sort of playful grin on her face that makes his nervousness dissipate for a moment. “Any reason why you’re lying about your wraps?”
“Oh! I just—” Pietro paused, staring at her, thinking. If he can flirt with a perfect stranger on the street, he can do it with Y/N. Gathering up every ounce of confidence that littered his body, he blurted, “Cred că ești foarte drăguță.”
Y/N blinked.
“Sorry?” She asked.
Oh god, Pietro thought. I didn’t mean to say it in Sokovian.
“Uhm,” He stammered. She waited, but he watched in bewilderment when he saw her grin.
“I’m kidding,” She told him. “I know Sokovian, y’know.”
“What?” He gawked at her. Does this mean she’s understood him every time he talks about her to Wanda? “You do?”
“Mmhm,” She shrugs. “I think you’re very pretty, too.”
He paused as his face got hot, and suddenly his chest felt much lighter. Lips curving up into the lopsided smile he’s used to wearing when in a situation like this, he quipped, “Glad we’re on the same page, then, huh, Dragă mea?”
It was her turn to blush, and he feels the panicky feeling in his chest melt down to his feet and into the floor. She said nothing, only rolling her eyes and turning to grab her cell phone off the small stand. He sauntered closer towards her with a new energy to his steps, now grinning.
“We should train together,” He told her, steel blue eyes flickering over her now pink tinted face. One of her eyebrows twitched upwards.
“Oh, yeah?” She asked rhetorically. “You’d have to catch up with me.”
Laughing, Pietro said, “Dragă, I am the fastest person in... well, probably the world. I’ll catch up just fine.”
“If you say so,” She shrugged, stepping forward and brushing past him. “Okay, Pietro. I’m game. Don’t be late, then.”
“I’ll be early,” He promised her. She laughed, and Pietro felt his stomach do a backflip.
“M’holding you to that,” She told him. “Oh, and don’t wrap your hands.”
“Orice pentru tine,” He calls after her. She turned her head, grinning, but said nothing as she exited the room. He stares at the place she once stood for a moment before wheeling around to lock eyes with Wanda, who’s waiting expectantly.
And then, Pietro did ten laps around the room in less than a second before he stopped in front of his sister and said in a giddy voice, “She thinks I’m pretty!”
✾✾✾
translations:
Poți face asta, Pietro! - You can do this, Pietro!
Cred că ești foarte drăguță. - I think you’re very pretty.
Orice pentru tine. - Anything for you.
taglist:
@ginger-swag-rapunzel​ ​
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jamiemackenziefraser · 3 months ago
Text
All That Was Fair 
Chapter 28: The Precipice
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Summary: The bliss of blind optimism begins to dissipate
Read on AO3
Read chapter 28 on tumblr below the cut
Previous, master list, next
Jamie awoke the next morning to find Claire curled up against his back, one of her legs thrown over his and her arm draped across his chest. A content smile sleepily formed on his face as he came to the realization that he was the little spoon. As much as he didn’t want to disturb her— and he very much enjoyed this cuddling position and would have to keep it in mind for later— he thought she needed a little extra care this morning. 
Turning over with the utmost delicacy, Jamie tried to keep her limbs in position over him while he shifted to face her. Once he was face to face with his faerie, he could watch her expression as she slept. 
“Mo calman geal,” he breathed in barely a whisper. My white dove. 
She was so beautiful lying beside him, the early morning sunlight illuminating her alabaster skin. Her lashes were dark against her cheeks, and the curls of her hair twined around her face with abandon. He wanted to wake up every morning to the sight of his love like this. 
Leaning forward, he brushed his lips gently in the spot between her brows that was smooth with sleep. Moving along, he hovered his lips over her cheek before pressing the barest hint of a kiss along the cheekbone. 
She awoke slowly as he kissed her other cheek, murmuring something unintelligible and squeezing her eyes shut tighter against wakefulness. 
“Good morning, mo chridhe,” he whispered as he ended his exploration of her face with a quick peck on the lips. 
“Jamie?” she dazedly murmured. 
Her arms came up to wrap around his shoulders as her eyes fluttered open. 
“Hi, a leannan,” he said warmly. 
She pulled him closer and then rolled them slightly so Jamie was lying back and she could rest her head on his shoulder. 
“How are ye feelin’ this mornin’?” he asked. 
“Tired,” she replied, her voice hushed. 
“Tired? Ye’ve only just woken up. Could ye no’ sleep last night?” 
“I did. I’m just… tired,” she responded. The fatigue was apparent. She seemed muted somehow, speaking as though her head was underwater.  
This sent Jamie’s heart beating faster, and he lifted up his head so he could look down at her, studying every inch he could see. But to his knowledge, nothing seemed wrong with her physically, other than the fact that the sweet calm of sleep was dissipating, leaving her with a pallor and listlessness that made Jamie’s stomach knot. 
“And ye dinna ken why? Maybe ye’re sick?” he asked anxiously, “maybe ye’ve caught something?” 
He repositioned them, shifting so that Claire moved back to the pillow and he could brace up on his elbow above her. He placed a hand on her forehead, his thumb brushing over her brow, but found it cool. “Can ye tell?” 
Jamie held his breath, daring to hope that maybe she could simply heal herself as she’d healed him. Could faeries even do that? 
Shaking her head against his head, she seemed sad. “I can’t tell,” she answered softly, but couldn’t provide any more explanation, “I can’t feel anything.” 
“Maybe ye should go back to sleep, a leannan?” Jamie suggested, his anxiety mounting. He brought his hand up to brush his fingers down the side of her face. 
She gave another shake of the head, interrupting his motions. “I don’t want to. Can I just sit with you for a while?” 
His heart broke a little at her tentative question. 
“Of course ye can, my sweet one,” his voice caught a little on the endearment, “but why dinna ye jes’ stay in bed while I feed Adso and myself? I have time, I’ll be back before ye know it.” 
“I want to stay with you,” she insisted, the clinginess obvious in her voice. But instead of its usual feisty quality— the way she adhered to him with passion, as if every touch lit the fire inside of her— she seemed limp. As if the most she could do to keep herself by his side was ask. 
Jamie’s brow furrowed. He was really starting to get concerned about her. Studying her pale face, he traced a fingertip across her cheekbone. 
“We’ll stay then, a leannan,” he opted not to bring up his worries any further. Not when she was like this. 
Despite the words that had just left his lips, there was a lump in his throat and a tugging on his mind that he couldn’t ignore. They could only stay for so long… Jamie was supposed to go into work. To leave Claire by herself. Glancing at the clock, he saw it was only 6 am, and he let out a sigh. There was still plenty of time to take care of her before he had to leave. 
For the umpteenth time, he wished he could simply up and quit his job. Everything in his life paled in comparison to the consumingness of her. But he knew that this trouble would pass soon enough, and it wouldn’t be right to abandon his passion and livelihood simply because he wanted to spend every waking second with his lass. 
Claire was staring at him, her head tilted against the pillow as she watched this struggle play out on his face. There seemed a moment where her features darkened and her eyes fell. 
“I forgot about work,” she murmured, having correctly intuited exactly what was going on in his brain. Disappointment cast a veil over her normally open face. 
“I have time, a leannan. I always have time for you.” 
Jamie started to reach out, meaning to bring her into his arms again, but she shook her head. 
“Go on. You need food, and time to get dressed. Let’s go,” she said. 
Whether she was fighting it or not, Jamie would slow down. He shifted himself closer to her on the bed, cupping her face with one hand and sliding his other over her hip. He caressed up and down in long strokes, intentionally slow. 
“Ye’re the only thing on my mind right now, mo Sorcha. 
The look on her face made his stomach twist. Her eyes were downcast, not meeting his, and there was tension in the muscles of her cheeks, as if she was trying to hold a mask in place. She was quiet, and the only reply to his words was a shaky exhale. 
Jamie drew up so he hovered over her. Tilting her face up, he brought his lips to ghost a kiss over those beautiful pink lips. 
Even that didn’t seem to break the somber mood that trapped his love. Jamie felt excessively guilty as he stayed rooted in that position, staring into her eyes and cradling her face with both hands. He wished he could tell her he would take off again, that they could take a sick day together, and that he could hold her until she felt normal again, but he couldn’t say any of those things. 
“It’s okay, Jamie,” Claire murmured, turning those fatigued eyes on him full force, “let’s go downstairs.” 
*
While Jamie made breakfast, Claire wandered over to the kitchen table. He glanced over every few seconds to check on her, but she was so quiet. His concern amped up several notches when he looked over at one point to find she had laid her head in her arms where they rested on the table. Her eyes were closed and her breathing slow. 
Something was definitely wrong. 
Jamie turned off the stove and abandoned his parritch. He walked over to her and gently ran his hand over the back of her head, trying to shove down the worry that nearly made his hand tremble. 
Her response was to simply turn her head a bit on her arms, indicating she felt him, but she didn’t say a word. 
“Sassenach—” he started to say, but she lifted her head. 
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“I dinna want to leave ye.” 
She did raise her head then, turning big honey eyes up toward him. Her lips caught the heel of his hand in a kiss before she spoke. 
“You have to go, Jamie. It’ll be good. I’ll go back to sleep, and I’m sure I’ll feel more like myself when you get home.” 
Jamie felt like a toddler about to have a tantrum. He was tired of this conflict every damn day! He hated going into work and leaving her here, but he hated leaving his company when he knew very well they needed him. He felt like he was being torn in different directions and that one day he would simply snap. 
Taking a deep breath, he shoved down that line of thinking. It wouldn’t do Claire any good to have him strung out over work. While she was sick, he would simply have to keep it together and make one decision at a time. And today, whether he liked it or not, the decision was clear. 
“Okay, Sassenach. But that doesna mean that I willna give ye my full attention now while I’m here.” 
She smiled a little at this, lifting her head enough to fix him with that whisky gaze. “Does that mean you’ll have your breakfast on the couch?”
Jamie rolled his eyes but felt his muscles ease at the relief of seeing that glimpse of her usual self. 
Recently, she’d begun to rebel against the kitchen table. The kitchen chairs were no good— she would complain. No good for snuggling, she meant. Even when she scooted hers as close as possible to Jamie’s, that was apparently not close enough for her. She’d begun a campaign against the table then, trying to get him to sit on the couch for meals where she could burrow into his side. Finding her incredibly distracting and a bit disconcerting to have a faerie trying to apparently jump into his skin while he attempted to have a meal, Jamie had stood firm on his policy. Meals were taken at the table. 
Only now, seeing that tiny spark in her eyes at mention of breakfast on the couch, Jamie never stood a chance. 
“You win, a leannan. Jes’ this once, I’ll have my parritch wi’ ye in the living room. Come on, then, lass.” 
And so he found himself on the couch, bowl held out in front of him and Claire glued to his side. It didn’t take long for her head to meet his shoulder and her hands to wrap around his bicep in a sort of half-hug. 
His heart skipped a few beats as she clung to him. 
“Yer hands are cold, a leannan,” he noticed.
She murmured an uncertain hmmm? but didn’t say anything more. Jamie decided to drop it. Clearly she was under the weather, no denying it, but he hoped that an actual day of rest would do her well. He simply swallowed down his parritch and tried not to think too much about what he couldn’t control. Claire was silent nearly the whole time, just breathing deeply against his side.
When it came time for him to run out the door, he was ready to cry and stamp his feet at the unfairness of adult life. He tugged his bag over his shoulder with more force than necessary, and had to resist tearing it off again as he returned to Claire where she lay on the couch. 
“If I have a second free I’ll run back to check on ye, alright, mo ghraidh?” he said after getting her tucked underneath a warmth blanket, an edge of urgency on his voice. The blanket was a poor substitute for his body, but he didn’t want to leave her with nothing. At least he could wrap his tartan around her, imagining his protection enveloped her. 
“Don’t worry, Jamie. I’ll see you when you get home,” Claire said, already settling down on the throw pillow with her eyes falling closed. 
It eased him considerably to see her already burrowing in for a nap, and he muttered a quick prayer over her in Gaelic before giving her one last kiss to the forehead. 
“I love you more than anythin’, mo chridhe. Be well,” he said in farewell. 
“I love you,” she echoed, her voice already laced with the slur of sleep. 
***
Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser was no babysitter. 
Sure, he’d spent nearly all his free time with Ellen’s bairns, but that was different. He was a hard man, used to solitude, and he most certainly did not take care of people. 
Only when Jamie Fraser had called him from work, his voice dripping with anxious concern, pleading with him to go check in on his lass to see if she was alright, Murtagh had somehow lost his mind and relented. Maybe it was something about Jamie’s story— how Claire was feelin’ ill but he’d forgotten to leave a cellphone with her so she could call if she needed something— or maybe it was just the obvious worry in his godson’s voice, but something had made Murtagh give in. He hated letting down the lad more than anything, so he had decided that he could manage a little look-in that was most certainly not anything more than that.
A short time later, he found himself unlocking Jamie’s house with his spare key and yelling a greeting as he stepped inside. 
“Claire? Lass? Jamie asked me tae check in on ye. Are ye alright?” he called. 
But he heard no answer. Figuring she was upstairs in the bedroom having a nap, Murtagh made his way upstairs, only to find all the rooms empty. 
“Lass?” he called again, “are ye here?” 
He worried for a minute that she’d left, made a run for it while Jamie was at work so she could avoid saying goodbye, but then he remembered the way the lass had looked at Jamie, spoke about him, and he knew in his wame that there was no way the lass had up and left. 
He checked the basement before making another round through the house, only to find no trace of the wee lassie. 
There was one last place to look, even though only someone out of their damn mind would go outside on a dreich day such as this one. 
He slid open the back door reluctantly, squinting out into the back garden. His eyes swept lazily across it, not expecting to find anything, but then his gaze landed on the shape of a figure laying on the ground in front of the wee patch of dirt that was a sorry excuse for a garden. 
Adrenaline flooded Murtagh’s veins, and he ran outside, cursing under his breath. 
By the time he got to her, dropping to his knees beside her, she was struggling to sit up, pushing up on her hands and shaking her head, looking disoriented. 
“Have ye lost yer mind, lass?” Murtagh burst out, reaching to help her sit up. 
She didn’t answer, just pressed her dirty hands against her face and swayed slightly. 
Taking in the sight of her, Murtagh realized Jamie had been right to call him. The lass certainly was ill. Her face was pale and drawn, and she looked damn near ready to keel over again. Her hand shook where it was lifted to her face, and she was blinking hard. 
“Come on, now,” Murtagh said, much more gently this time. 
She still didn’t say anything, but she didn’t protest either when he took her arms and laid it across his shoulders so he could lift her to her feet with a quiet “up ye get.” 
Her breath hitched the moment they were upright, and she sagged heavily against him, barely supporting her own weight. Like a sack of grain against him, the puir lass couldn’t even manage to hold on. 
“Ye’re alright,” Murtagh found himself saying to her as she struggled to stay upright, “let’s get ye inside.” 
Slowly, they made their way inside, Murtagh taking the majority of her weight and offering encouragements he didn’t know he had in him. She didn’t say a word, white lips pressed tightly together as her feet dragged. 
Once they had finally made it inside, Murtagh deposited her on the couch before grabbing a blanket and tucking it around her. 
“There ye go, that’ll be more comfortable than the dirt outside, I’d expect,” Murtagh said. 
By this time, he was used to the lass not saying a word. He thought maybe she was one who simply shut down when she wasn’t feeling well. Besides, she seemed like she was barely conscious, let alone coherent enough to have a conversation. So he was surprised when she murmured out a weak, “thank you.” 
“Ye’re welcome, lass,” Murtagh said, trying to sound gruff and uncaring, but the words came out gentle as her tone struck some chord inside him, “get some sleep now. Ye’ll feel better wi’ some rest.” 
He must have been losing his edge if one sick lassie could turn him into a mother hen. 
“Jamie?” she asked, her voice muffled by the blanket which she was pulling up toward her face. 
“He’ll be back when ye wake,” Murtagh promised. 
She closed her eyes then, seeming content with that answer, and Murtagh left her to head into the kitchen where he could call Jamie privately. 
The poor lad was rocked by his report, sounding over the phone like someone had punched him in the stomach, and he’d promised to be home right away. He must have broken every traffic law because it took him only 20 minutes to get home from the city. 
Jamie burst in through the front door, disheveled and wild with worry, and Murtagh found himself rushing over and shushing him so he didn’t wake the lass where she slept on the couch.
His godson had quieted immediately, and before Murtagh could give him the story, Jamie was pushing past him into the living room. 
Murtagh watched as the lad caught sight of Claire, his eyes filling with soft worry. His entire demeanor changed from wired to gentle as Jamie knelt down beside the couch, brushing curls away from the lass’ forehead so he could press a kiss there. 
Her eyes fluttered open at the touch. It seemed to take her a second to orient herself, but the second she realized who was with her, her whole face melted. 
“Jamie,” she breathed out. 
“I’m here now, mo ghraidh, dinna fash,” he said, more gentle than Murtagh had ever seen him, “go back to sleep. I’m here.” 
“Will you stay with me?” she asked. 
Murtagh felt like he was intruding on a private moment, but he couldn't seem to look away as Jamie pressed another kiss to her brow. “In jes’ a minute, lass. Hold on, jes’ a moment.” He kissed her again, as if he couldn’t bear the words coming from his mouth. “I promise I’ll be right back.”
She nodded, barely moving her head, and then closed her eyes again. Looking like the weight of the world was on his back, Jamie stood and turned toward Murtagh, gesturing toward the kitchen with a tilt of his head. 
“So you found her in the garden?” Jamie asked once they were both seated at the table. 
“Aye. She looked like she’d collapsed out there. Something’s wrong wi’ the lass, Jamie.” 
Jamie looked sad, his blue eyes— so like Ellen’s— were unfocused. His mind was clearly in the living room. Shaking his head, he admitted, “I ken. I’m scared for her.” 
“Take her to a doctor, lad,” Murtagh told him, “she needs help.” 
For some reason, this seemed to pain Jamie all the more. He looked down, fiddling with his fingers. Something was going on in that brain of his, but Murtagh had no idea what it was. 
“Dinna fash, I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Murtagh told him, “take some more time off, see her well, and call me if ye need anythin.” 
“Thanks, Murtagh,” Jamie said, nodding as if to convince himself of the validity of Murtagh’s assurances. 
“Dinna think on it,” he dismissed, “Now, go back tae yer lass.”
***
When Jamie closed the door behind Murtagh, he had to take a second to lean his back against it, pushing all the air from his lungs in a long breath. He felt like his head was whirling, his body thrumming as he came down from the adrenaline. The drive home had been a mad dash, and Jamie didn’t even remember half of it. Now, the quiet stillness of the house seemed stifling. 
He wouldn’t think about Claire’s suffering. He wouldn’t think about her laying outside the garden all by herself.. He wouldn’t think about her perfect skin marred by dirt as she tried and failed to push herself up… he wouldn’t—
The punishing flood of mental pictures burned in his brain and twisted his stomach in guilty turmoil. 
He was a fool. He was a damned fool for leaving her. He’d known she wasn’t well this morning, and he’d known she was far too stubborn to take care of herself and simply sleep, but he’d left her anyway. 
As he returned to Claire’s side to find her fast asleep, he was torn between cursing her for her foolishness in going outside and cursing himself for deciding to leave her. 
“I’m here, mo nighean donn,” he whispered to her as he pressed a long kiss to her temple, lips lingering as if his touch could erase the mistakes of the day. 
Part of him wished that she was awake, if only to comfort him that things weren’t as bad as they seemed. But she was finally resting, and if his kiss didn’t wake her, he wouldn’t disrupt her sleep. 
Deciding she would be better off in bed, Jamie slid his hands underneath her and gathered her in. He carried her upstairs, taking careful steps with his most precious cargo before settling her again in bed. She barely stirred— hardly reacted at all to the change in location. Her eyes remained shut and her face still. 
“Rest now, mo ghraidh,” Jamie murmured over her. 
He allowed himself one caress over her brow and one kiss to the top of her curls. And then he left her to her sleep. 
The second he sat down at the desk in his study, he felt himself deflate like a balloon. He buried his face in his hands and swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. 
The only sound filling the room was the clock ticking on the wall.
***
Next
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pearlcaddy · 6 months ago
Text
Kiss Prompt via DM: “40 for the Soulmate AU?”
40: A gentle kiss that quickly descends into passion, with little regard for what’s going on around them (Sparks verse)
Inspired by this utterly gorgeous fanart by @mamirugbee
Now on AO3!
“LUKE.”
From her spot curled up on the rehearsal studio floor, Julie glances up in time to see Alex slap her boyfriend on the arm. Her boyfriend who is unabashedly staring at her instead of playing his guitar. Under the full volume of his adoring gaze, she can’t keep the grin from slipping onto her face, and as soon as she smiles, he bursts into a giant beam, which only makes her smile bigger and then his smile grows and—
“Is this a rehearsal or the middle school cafeteria?” Bobby grumbles.
“Middle school cafeteria?” Julie asks, bemused.
“Bobby did his best flirting in the cafeteria,” Reggie explains. “I say best: it was middle school, so he basically just smiled a lot and threw a bunch of ‘do u want to go out with me’ notes as paper airplanes.”
“Hey, those notes got me at least three dates.”
“Out of, like, two hundred,” Alex points out.
“I stand by my methods.”
Julie chuckles and glances back at Luke. Whose eyes are still very much focused on her. That blissful smile works its way back onto her face and—
Alex groans. “Do I need to pour water on you two?”
“Sure,” Luke replies absently.
“Not near the amps!” Reggie squeals.
“Okay, you know what?” Alex gestures pointedly at the studio door. “I am going on a coffee run. Bobby, Reggie, do you want to join?”
“But you said I’m not allowed to drink coffee anymore because it makes me ‘a bit much,’” Reggie tries to point out. Bobby rolls his eyes and elbows the bassist. Then it clicks. “OH. ‘Coffee run.’ Riiiiight.”
Alex studies the ceiling for a second, like he’s searching for rational people in the studio and coming up empty, and then marches out with Reggie and Bobby at his heels.
As soon as they disappear, Luke all but jumps across the studio towards Julie. She tries to put on her best approximation of a “responsible grown-up voice.” “You have got to stop staring at me and focus.”
He lets out an exasperated groan as he flops onto his back and rests his head in her lap. “How can I? You’re here.”
“It’s literally your job.”
But he continues on like she didn’t speak. “AND you’re wearing my clothes.”
She snuggles her shoulders further into his denim trenchcoat. “It’s cold in here.” Sure. It’s definitely the mild A/C. Definitely not that she loves being able to tuck her nose in the collar and fill her lungs with his familiar scent. Definitely not that every time she breathes in the indefinable Luke smell, she has sappy thoughts like “This is what home smells like.”
Capturing a stray curl, he twists it up around his finger. “Can we go home now?”
“You’ve been here for, like, two hours. Come on, you need to focus. This is cute, but it’s very unprofessional.”
He pouts up at her. “When have I ever claimed to be professional?”
“It’s one of the first things I remember you saying to me.”
He kisses the hair around his finger and releases the curl, gazing up at her with such soft joy that her heart beats a little faster. Or maybe it’s his heart beating into their bond. She can’t tell the difference sometimes. “Should I go home?” she asks gently, trying to ignore the immediately disapproving shriveling sensation in both her heart and the bond.
“Nah, if you leave, I’m gonna be just as distracted. Can’t I just take, like, two months off? C’mon, seven years of pining—I deserve two months of non-stop basking.”
“After you finish the Sunset Curve album.”
He pouts again. “No fair. That’s gonna be ages away.”
She wants to keep lecturing him, but… as much as he’s being absurd and over the top, she feels it too. Their journey happened as it was meant to, and she doesn’t regret a moment of it, but she can’t stop her mind from lingering on all the other periods in their lives when they would have had more time to revel in the new relationship. Running her fingers through his hair, she scratches against his scalp, and a smile purrs its way across his lips. “If you don’t start paying attention in class, your dads won’t let me come over anymore,” she teases.
“Can I at least have a kiss?”
Rolling her eyes, she leans down to place a gentle peck on his lips. But once she’s there, with his already familiar lips eagerly greeting hers, she can’t stop with just one. She tries to deepen the kiss, but her neck is bent awkwardly from this angle. As if reading her discomfort, he immediately flips himself around without separating their mouths, coming to kneeling in front of her. He cups her chin with one hand and teases her lips apart , while he runs the fingers of his free hand along the parts of her neck that he’s already learned are the most sensitive. She sighs into his mouth, and for a moment his lips lose the rhythm of the kiss as they twitch into what she suspects is a smirk. His free hand slides under his trenchcoat and around her waist, tugging her in closer to him, and the bond lets out a sparkling vibration, like a throat warbling out a high note. She pulls her mouth from his and starts to work her way across his cheek, reaching for the spot behind his jaw that she now knows is—
Luke jolts away suddenly, water spots speckling his clothes. “What the fuck?”
Alex stands over them, holding his water bottle up like he’s brandishing a sword. “Don’t test me.”
“The amps!” Reggie cries again, shuddering with the well-earned fear of his own lifetime of bad decision-making.
“If the amps get damaged, Luke will pay for it. Now can we please rehearse?”
Luke looks back at her, not nearly as sheepish as she suspects they probably should be. Holding up his pinky, he asks, “If I finish the album, two months?”
“Two months,” she agrees, and links her pinky with his.
He instantly pops to his feet. “Alright boys, let’s do this thing.”
129 notes · View notes
43sparrows · 10 months ago
Text
l o n g e d - {Five x Reader AU}
Read Part 1 & Part 2 & Part 3 / Part 3.5
Warning: smut
Word Count: 2,713
Note: please come scream at me in my inbox
Call me.
You've been dreading this note from Five for the past week. It's not that the words are new--a week ago, it would've been excitement causing the twisting feeling in your stomach--but it's the fact that this is the first note you've gotten since you're meltdown. Sure, he'd brushed off your apology, but it's been almost a full week since you've seen each other, and something just doesn't feel the same. Even your roommate has noticed something's off, and while you've shared the news about your ex, you can't bring yourself to tell her how you've gone and proven yourself to be more work than you're worth to Five. So, while the note itself is normal enough, you have the sinking sensation that this is his version of "We need to talk."
And you don't want to talk.
That's why it takes you hours to finally steel yourself up enough to return his call. The sky's growing dark by the time you dial in the number, standing in the hall with you head tilted back against the wall, the phone cord weaving between your fingers.
"Five." His brusque voice makes you want to hang up the phone. Instead, you adjust your grip and tug at the cord.
"Hey," you say, softly. "It's Y/N."
"Took you long enough." His voice is still flirting with being abrasive, but he's saying more than just a couple of words which must mean something. You're not sure what though. "What are you doing in...two hours?"
Confusion knits your brow together as you wrap the cord around one of your fingers. "Nothing, I'm free."
"Howling Rock Cafe. I'll be at the bar."
"Ok," you agree. There's a pause and then the other end of the line goes dead.
You sigh before slowly untangling yourself from the cord so you can hang up the phone and get ready
It's glaringly obvious within the first few seconds of entering the bar that this is not Five's scene.
You can't help but compare this place to the smoky night club where you first met.  It's like night and day--and not just because this place has strobe lights bathing just about every inch of the room in colorful lights.
For one, it seems to be crawling with barely legal drinkers. It's not like the two of you are that far removed in age from the rest of the crowd, but Five doesn't exactly seem the type to want to relive college nights out.
And then there's a cover band with the amps turned up way too high as they work their way through pop covers. You miss the lyric-less music of the other bar with its relentless beat that seemed to reverberate in your chest.
It crosses your mind that maybe Five had meant another place or that you'd misheard him on the phone, but then you catch sight of him sitting at the bar with a glass of amber liquid in his hand.
"What are you drinking?" You ask, slipping into the seat next to him. He looks at you with heavy lidded eyes, pupils already blown wide. His gaze slides from the curve of your breasts that disappear beneath the plunging neckline of your little black dress down to your legs.
His eyes flick back up to meet yours. "Brandy. For now."
The line would be clumsy on another man's lips, but something about the way he says it has you dizzy, and it's the one piece of Five that's seemed anywhere close to normal since that night.
You tear your eyes away from him, flagging down the bartender to order yourself a gin, neat.
"So," you say, anxiety knotting in the pit of your stomach as you toy with the question that's been on your mind the entire way to the bar. "Howl's?" You change course last second, asking a different, less terrifying question.
"I've heard things about this place," Five said with a shrug. "Figured I'd check them out."
"What'd you hear?" It's genuine curiosity, and maybe it's the refocused attention or maybe it's the large gulp of gin, but you feel yourself relaxing slightly.
"I heard they're heavy pourers," Five says, taking a sip of his drink. He lifts both eyebrows and places the glass back down on the bar.  "But it would seem I heard wrong."
You laugh. Nothing about this place suggests they have strong drinks. The prices are too cheap. The crowd is too young.
"At least the atmosphere is nice," you quip, and Five looks around the room before shooting you a mildly amused look. He opens his mouth to say something but is cut off by a loud group of co-eds who just walked in the door. You turn to look. One is draped in a pink "It's my birthday!" sash. This does not bode well.
"Let's go back to mine. I've restocked," you offer, but Five shakes his head. You wait for him to share a reason or even pick up the sentence he didn't get out, but he doesn't, instead taking another sip of his subpar brandy.
You wish that you had your own drink in front of you, shooting a look at the bartender who looks to be making about four drinks at once. The knot inside of you has come back, growing even tighter as the silence extends. Silence has never been uncomfortable with Five before.
You attribute this largely to the fact that up until this point you've always been so careful about following the rules of engagement, as it were. And while you don't know for sure, it feels like you're guilty of a breach of contract. You wish you could remember what you said, but you can hardly even remember what you did. It's all a blur.
You know he came over, you announced your ex's engagement, and then he tucked you into bed and made sure you had coffee the next morning.
There had to have been more to that night than just that, though. Because emotions and caretaking--that wasn't part of the deal.
Then again, neither was going out to bars.
The  bartender placed your gin in front of you and gratefully you took a long drink from it. You could feel Five's eyes on you as you lowered the glass back down.
"That kind of day?" he asked.
You returned your attention to him. "That kind of week," you corrected. He nodded and toasted you with his own glass before the both of you drank.
You tapped your finger lightly against the side of your gin, the alcohol had yet to take hold but you could feel the warming sensation flowing through you. It was enough of a comfort to know that soon the nerves that had been humming beneath your skin all week would be quiet. "So, why are we here?" The words slipped past your lips, earning a raised eyebrow from Five.
"I told you, I wanted to check this place out."
"That's it?" Your finger still beat steadily against the side of your glass.
You could see the awareness dawn on Five, a sly smile twisting at his lips. "I can't just want your company?"
Your heart skipped a beat. Or maybe it was three. And although the alcohol was supposed to have you pleasantly numb, instead you felt like you were on fire. "I would have thought you had enough of my company after last week."
Realization reached his eyes this time as he shook his head at you. "No," he said, angling his body more towards yours. "I haven't had enough."
The two of you are in the bathroom two hours later.
As far as bar bathrooms go, it's surprisingly clean and roomy. The second part is probably due to the fact the owners had opted for a single use closet style bathroom as opposed to anything remotely functional for the size of the crowd this place has drawn in with it's mediocre music and watered down drinks.
It's not the worst place to have sex, but if you were in your right mind you probably would have insisted that Five pop you back to your place instead. But the consecutive drinks and Five's hand trailing up your thigh had been so intoxicating, you didn't even protest when he took your hand in his and dragged you in here to push you up against the sink.
His mouth is on your neck now, his teeth lightly nipping at the skin there, his hands keeping your dress bunched up at your waist. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as he moves your panties to the side, pressing a finger into you. "Five," you mumble, a moan escaping you as he curls his finger.
"Louder," Five commands, his lips grazing against your neck, moving down to trail love bites along your collarbone. He pushes into you again, and his name falls from your lips again, this time at a normal volume.
"Louder," Five urges, kissing under your jaw, as you fist the back of his shirt in your hands. Your entire body feels like a taut string, and he's just getting started. You know this has to be quick, there's probably going to be a line outside, but the way his fingers are moving has effectively killed all thoughts outside of the fact that you haven't lost him. He's still, in some small way, yours.
"Five, please," you plead, and you're not quite sure what you're pleading for--release or more of him.
"Fuck," he swears, withdrawing from you and spinning you around, so you have both hands on either side of the sink, your ass exposed to him. He leans in close, and you can feel the length of his entire body against your back.  "I love it when you beg." His whisper is hot in your ear, and a needy gasp leaves you. Dirty talk isn't part of the usual routine, and you didn't expect it to have such an effect.
He withdraws, his fingers tucking into the sides of your underwear and dragging them down to your knees. Behind you, you hear his buckle clink as he frees himself from his pants. It's a second more of anticipation before his hands find your hips, and he slowly enters you, allowing you to feel each inch of him. His fingers dig into your hips as a groan leaves him. Warmth blooms in your chest, and you promise yourself that you'll remember this moment and that sound forever.
Five continues to move at a sensual pace, and your eyes flick up to the mirror, taking in his face. His eyes meet yours in the mirror, and an intense but unidentifiable feeling builds in you. And then his hips unexpectedly snap into yours, earning him a loud moan.
It also seems to earn a knock at the door.
"Alright guys, wrap it up. Other people need to use the bathroom," a gruff voice says on the other side of the door.
It might have been a bit of a mood killer if it weren't for the fact that Five repeats the motion, leaving you gasping. He pulls you up close to him, one hand on your hip and the other toying with your breast. "Can't leave them waiting," he grunts, and your head lolls back onto his shoulder. Despite the fact that it's been shorter than the vast majority of your sessions together, you're more of a needy mess then you've ever been. Maybe it's the combination of the alcohol and publicness and the sounds coming from Five, but whatever it is, it's not long before you're cumming, and not long after, he is too.
There's now pounding at the door.
"Come on, you guys gotta get out. Let's go."
Five smirks at you from where he's pulling his pants back up--or at least, if he was anyone else you'd call it a smirk. It's softer than usual though--although it's still not quite a smile. Like you're in on the joke with him. It makes your heart beat a little faster, and you're just able to stop yourself from a full blown smile, the corners of your mouth turning down in an attempt to seem cool as usual. He gestures with his head towards the door, and after checking yourself in the mirror and making yourself seem slightly more presentable, you follow him out, keeping your eyes trained on the floor so you don't have to look at the bouncer or line of people waiting by the door.
Unfortunately, the bouncer seems to have other plans.
"Y/N?"
You know that voice. Without the door between you and the fake gruffness, it's clear as day, and it feels a bit like someone has dumped a bucket of cold water over your head. You feel painfully sober.
Your eyes widen, and you turn to see your ex dressed in the black t-shirt and jeans, looking just as shocked to see you.
"Oh my God," you mumble.
"Uh--" he says, pointing to the door, and you make your way towards it, Five still next to you, and your ex following up behind you. You stop just beside the door, across from where another bouncer is checking IDs.
"Sorry, I--you can't stay." He does seem genuinely apologetic, and you're not sure if it's just the awkwardness of the whole situation or if he really feels bad.
"No, no. I get it," you shake your head. Five's hand drifts to the small of your back, and your previously blank mind remembers that oh yeah--he's here too. This is the worst moment of your life. "Oh, this is, um, Five. Five, this is Jordan. We...we used to date." That seems like a wildly simplistic introduction for both of them, but you're still reeling.
"Five? Like the kid from The Umbrella Academy?"
Five's smile is so fake you wouldn't be surprised if Jordan could also sense the thinly veiled animosity. "The very same," Five says, holding out his hand and shaking Jordan's. His arm returns around you.
Jordan looks like he's a mixture of confused and impressed, and before this situation can get any worse, you open your mouth and start saying words, hoping they come out in order and make sense.
"I didn't know you work here."
Jordan's eyes linger on Five for a second more before meeting yours. "Yeah, I had to pick up another job...I'm getting married."
"Oh, congratulations." you say less than earnestly, pushing hair behind your ear. Emotion swirls in your chest, pressure building to react--to sob, to scream, to sink into the ground. Anything but stand here.
"Well," Five says, coming to your rescue. "I should take her home." You look up at him, and there's a ghost of smugness on his face. If you hadn't studied him for so long, you might have missed the look, but it's there.
"Yeah. Yeah, of course," Jordan nods, stepping back towards the bar. "It was good to see you, Y/N."
It's a lie. But he's not the only liar here. "You too," you say nodding. "Good luck with the wedding."
"Thanks," he nods again like a bobblehead, and you turn and head out the door quickly with Five.
The two of you walk down the sidewalk and towards the parking garage in silence. It's not until you're passing rows of cars that Five speaks.  "Did you drive?"
You shake your head, your thoughts still on the way Five had handled that situation. You have a terrible feeling.
It's unspoken that Five will give you a ride home, so you don't bother to ask for a ride. Instead, you save up your question, waiting until the two of you are stopped at a red light, halfway home to ask.
"Did you know he worked there?"
The corner of Five's mouth turns up. "Might have been a thing I heard about that place."
You have more questions, but you don't want to ask them. That one was enough to shatter the illusion you'd been creating all night.
That he had brought you out because he wanted your company.
That he might return a hint of the feelings you had for him.
That this was something other than what it was.
Read the final part
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anntidote · 11 months ago
may i get tricked by iwa at 01:00 and 22:00 ?? tysm <3
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back to:
the candy bowl || ann’s playground
1. “go change, or i’m ripping that off of you.”
22. “you’ll regret doing that.”
this was not how you planned to spend the weekend, but you were certainly not complaining.
iwaizumi manhandling your right breast, twisting the bud roughly as he leaned forward, deepening the passionate kiss you moaned into. your panties already far beyond ruined, dragging your hands down from his neck and broad back.
all you did was go through his closet.
the aforementioned athletic trainer talked about his highschool years rather fondly. you saw the sparkle in his eyes when talking about the shenanigans of the volleyball club, the stupidity of his childhood friend, and just how happy he was.
and so, when you found the aoba-johsai jersey in one of the piles he left on the floor, you thought you’d give him a little surprise.
he’d been sitting on his phone, scrolling through emails when you’d pop around the corner, leaning against the doorframe.
“babe? what do you think?”
he’s hum in response, taking a moment to finish the sentence he’s reading before looking up- choking on his own spit.
there you stood, clad in his old jersey, hugging against your chest and worn out neckline falling prettily against your collarbones, like it was no big deal.
like it was no big deal, huh?
“go change, or i’m ripping that off of you.”
“huh?” you remarked in confusion, looking down at your appearance, as iwa got up from his chair and began making his way towards you. “does it look that bad on me? i thought i—“ you yelped at the end of your sentence, his tongue against yours and hands shoved down your shorts.
fast forward and your toes are curling. bare bottom arched up while your face is pressed up against the mattress. the number 4 facing up towards your boyfriend, as he pounded your rear into the next century. the mix of your moans and desperate whines were music to his ears, with the lewd scweltch of your velvety heat sucking his cock in further and further in.
“w-what were you thinking? wearing that thing?” pants between punctuated thrusts of his hips, you clutching against the bed spread, taking every brutal piston he gives you in stride, pleasure shooting into your veins. “i-i thought you’d like- fuck!”
grinding back into him and hitting one spot that makes you utterly dumb, you let out a silent scream, vision blurring. “ha-hajime!”
the clamp of your walls sent him into a frenzy. his initial curious hands under the shirt you wore, had latched onto your hips, somehow amping up the pace that made you see stars. “did i say you could cum?” he sneered. a shiver running up your spine.
“you’ll regret doing that.”
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a/n: i can’t type ‘yahoo’ without hearing ‘iwa-chan’ in oikawa’s voice,,,, man,,,, anyway i hope you enjoyed lolololol i miss the seijoh kids,,,
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317 notes · View notes
lizbotw · 8 months ago
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“i can teach you to play, you know.” it seemed your staring hadn’t gone unnoticed by semi. his fingers strummed some misplaced chord you couldn’t name if your life depended on it in tandem with his words—his nails were painted black (his choice) with messy silver stars drawn on his two ring fingers (your choice, although the instagram nail art videos were partially to blame as well).
the glossy sheen of his black electric guitar in the studio lights caught your attention, your gaze trailing to the wire attached at the end and down to where it was connected to his amp—you didn’t want to maintain eye contact with him with the way he was glancing up at you, smirk curling over his lips and misplaced silver strands of hair falling over his forehead.
“i’m not interested in music theory,” you grumbled, returning to your phone. you were laying upside down on the tiny leather couch, your legs thrown carelessly over the backrest and the top of your head almost brushing against the hardwood floor; your neck was starting to hurt from the angle but you ignored it.
semi pursed his lips, sitting back on his high-perched stool, studying you. “come on,” he whined. “not even for me? it’ll be romantic.” that made you roll your eyes.
“romantic is you going back to playing me music, mr. record player.” a snap of your fingers accompanied the sentiment. “come on now, chop chop, back to work.”
when semi laughed, it filled the room, butterflies fluttering in your stomach and your teeth clamping together because oh.
“come here for a sec.” there was still a lilt of humor in his voice and he was patting the stool next to him. “please? wanna show you something.” you were still hesitant, so he added, “something cool. i promise.”
well, you did like cool things and so, with a dramatic sigh, you twisted yourself out of your odd lounging position and rose to your feet, chucking your phone somewhere on the couch. you made yourself comfortable on the wooden seat to his left, feet caught on the stool rungs for support.
before semi could speak, you held up your hand to stop him, giving the guitar a hard once over. “i don’t want to learn how to play. that’s your job.”
“my job?”
“your job to serenade me, you idiot.”
semi laughed again and this time you actually cracked a smile, bottom lip caught between your teeth to keep the sound of your own giggles in.
“serenade you, huh?” he leaned closer, running a hand through his hair and tilting his head in question, voice vibrating.
you followed his lead, scooting closer to him, and traced a finger along his shoulder, eventually trailing it up to the back of his head to pull him closer, tangling your fingers in the silver strands. “yeah,” you breathed out, grin reflecting his.
you were but a few inches away now and semi closed the gap to brush his lips against yours—close, but not close enough. “hm... how’s this?”
“good. very good.”
semi didn’t need to hear any more and finally kissed you, one hand cupping your face while the other held his guitar in place in his lap.
you pulled back first, forehead against his, still smiling. “i thought you wanted to show me something cool.”
the exasperated sigh he let out was hot against your lower face. “this isn’t cool enough?”
‘you could’ve just told me if you wanted to kiss me, dummy,’ you almost said. “this is pretty cool,” you agreed instead. “probably would be cooler if we did it again though.” whatever words he was about to get out were forced back into his mouth when you pressed your lips against his again, breath heavy when his tongue nudged against yours.
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quickspinner · 4 months ago
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The Truth Hurts
(I’m sorry I know that title is super unoriginal but it fits so well)
Spoilers for S4E1 Truth
Also not especially a fix it fic, more of an aftermath fic, so prepare for pain. 
I’m late but this is for the LBSC Sprint Challenge prompt  2. “So, if you are too tired to speak, sit next to me because I, too, am fluent in silence.” I actually only spent two sprints on this and then I thought I was done enough, but I did add quite a bit more trying to bring it to a satisfactory close. I think I still fit pretty closely to the time restraints plus editing though. Except I’m already a day late so the editing was not very heavy on this one. Hopefully I didn’t miss too many errors or word repetitions. 
Luka pain (sorry) and Couffaine sibling solidarity. Special apologies to @airi-p4 because I didn’t fix anything, I just made it worse.  😅
Warnings for Dad Pain and abandonment issues. 
He woke up numb. Which wasn’t a bad option, all things considered. 
Then he rolled over. And there was the face. Staring from his wall, like it had been for, what...seven years? 
The face of his father.
He wasn’t so numb anymore. Luka shoved the covers off of himself and sat up, staring at that face. 
For a few minutes last night, heartbroken and sick at everything that had happened, Luka had known what it was like to have a father. One who cared. Jagged had hugged him. Ankara’s hugs were tight and hard, but she still had a woman’s body, soft and curved, a little plump with age and childbearing. All Luka could think of as his father embraced him was how bony he was. The metal clink of Jagged’s jewelry was nothing like the quiet click of Anarka’s beaded bracelets, and his arms were thin, his body broad-shouldered but thin, without any of Anarka’s cushioning. Luka had never really spent time imagining what a father’s hug felt like, but it was different from a mother’s, and that was good enough for him at the moment.
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t needed a hug just then. Badly, in fact. 
It all felt like such a dream; something from a movie plot. His father, his idol, suddenly one person, and promising to write a song with Luka, it...it was overwhelming. It was like every little-boy daydream come true. 
But it wasn’t a dream, and Luka wasn’t a little boy anymore. So he wasn’t al that surprised when Jagged left.
Because he had a party to go to. 
Because he’d left his family long ago for a rich and famous rock star life, and he had never once looked back. 
I know how to turn feelings into an awesome song . 
Luka lunged up out of bed, turning over the pile of stuff at the end of his bed until he found his laptop. With it in hand, he turned and reached to snatch the earbuds off his nightstand amp, and then paused with them tangled in his fist, thinking. 
“Luka?” Juleka mumbled, sitting up in her bed. 
Luka ignored her. As much as he loved her, he couldn’t take care of her right now. He couldn’t. He threw his earbuds down on his bed and went upstairs instead, jaw set, shoving crap out of his way carelessly until he unearthed the wiring for the sound system. 
He hooked up his laptop with shaking hands and blurring vision. He could barely breathe as he queued up his entire Jagged Stone collection, chronologically, from memory, because he was officially Jagged Stone’s number one fan and it wasn’t even hard. 
Luka cranked up the sound system, and pressed play. Jagged Stone’s very first album blared from the speakers above him. Luka skipped the first song hurriedly. He wasn’t ready to face that memory just yet.
“What in the seven seas—” he heard behind him, and he turned, fixing his eyes on his mother. He wasn’t even sure what kind of face he was making, but she stopped in her tracks.
She knew, all this time . She knew that these songs were about her, were about them . 
You are the donut of my life, Jagged’s voice howled from the speakers. The donut. Sweet, but heavy. Bad for you. Not something you ate every day. Not something that nourished you or made you better. 
God, how it must have hurt Anarka all these years, hearing those songs over and over and knowing.
It was hurting her now, he could see. 
Luka could have stayed below. He could have used the earbuds. He could have spared her. He could have suffered privately.
He wasn’t sorry he hadn’t. Not this time. 
Anarka sighed through her nose, and then turned and walked away, fists clenched. 
He’d feel bad about it later. It wasn’t like he didn’t have enough to be sorry for after yesterday. Might as well lump it all in together. Luka turned back to his computer, and pulled his legs up, wrapping his arms around them and setting his chin on his knees as he closed his eyes to listen to the blaring music. To the truth .
Even thinking the word twisted his stomach and made him feel sick. But that’s what this was, wasn’t it. The truth about his father’s feelings. Luka almost wanted to laugh. It explained so much, now. The sentimentality of Jagged’s early work. And here, around his third album, here was where he moved on . Where he got over them. 
I abandoned everything, but not my dreams .
Here was where he began to take on the persona of the true rock ‘n roll artist. Where he convinced himself it was all for the best because now he could make pure art, now that no one—now that Anarka and Luka nad Juleka weren’t holding him back .
My guitar is my only family.
Goddamnit, Luka loved that song. He buried his face in his knees and gripped his hair with both fists. 
He felt hands on his back. Two hands, flat against him, rubbing slightly. Soothing. His mind flew, irrationally, to Marinette, but when he raised his face enough to look over his shoulder, it was Juleka sitting there behind him, her hands resting on his back, her shoulders curled inward as she peered at him through her hair. Of course. Because Marinette had no reason to be here anymore, and he’d chased his mother out. Of course it was Juleka, who had never wanted to know the truth, who had preferred not knowing to being disappointed.
Luka was starting to see her point. 
And now he had forced this, all this on her. The truth she had never wanted to hear screaming out in stereo sound. 
God, he was such an ass. He might be angry at his mother but none of this was Jules’ fault. 
Juleka moved her hands hesitantly to his shoulders, and leaned against his back, resting her cheek against him. Luka lifted one hand to cover hers, and put his head down on his knees again, pulled a little bit out of his own selfish pain by her presence. He appreciated her silent forgiveness. 
Soon he would have to get up. The world wasn’t going to stop for his shattered heart, and Luka would have to get up, and put on his brave face, and deal with things like Luka Couffaine did. Honestly, head on, by telling the truth as he saw it. He owed it to Juleka to help her work through it too, since he was the one that forced the knowledge on her. Silently he vowed not to let her be overlooked. Jagged owed it to her to at least look at her and acknowledge her. If she didn’t want anything to do with him after that, then that was her choice. 
Juleka’s head nudged his back, and he sighed. She moved her hands again, this time putting her thin arms around him and hugging him tight. Luka took another long breath, and leaned back into her a bit, as Jagged’s Most Rockin’ Hits Vol 1 began to play.
Under the moon, deep within the woods...
Luka closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “I broke up with Marinette,” he said quietly. “Or maybe...we broke up with each other. I don’t know.” He sighed shakily. “I guess we just...weren’t meant to be. Right now.” He swallowed again against the lump in his throat. “It’s probably for the best. I’ve...got a lot to deal with right now anyway.” 
Juleka had tensed when he said it, with surprise, he thought. But she listened, and hummed a wordless acknowledgement, and hugged him tighter. 
If his tears dripped on her arms, she didn’t complain. The back of his shirt was feeling a bit damp, anyway. 
The truth hurt. He’d always known that, but he also believed in the healing it brought. Better to face the pain head on, where you know it’s coming, than let it fester and burst on you when you weren’t prepared for it. Luka had enough experience with denial to know that running away only left your back bared to the knife. 
Juleka’s face pressed a little harder between his shoulder blades. 
Luka sighed, and reached out to turn the music off. He turned towards Juleka so that she leaned against his side, and he put his arm around her, and they leaned on each other in the suddenly deafening silence. 
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magalidragon · 5 months ago
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making music | chapter 2 | a teaser
I bet you thought I forgot this fic huh? 🤣 I didn’t, I just have been distracted by others. I have one scene left to write and then chapter 2 is finished and whoops, of course it got extended now to three chapters. Here’s a tease!
She chuckled. "I didn't know you wore glasses."
"I take out the contacts when I ge thome, they're a bitch." He pushed the glasses idly up his nose, brows lifting with them. "So you want to get started?"
"I suppose first we have to discuss if this is something you even want to do." She didn't leave the workroom, instead lightly touching a couple of brass instruments set on one of the tables, in need of polish and shine. Her tongue ran over her teeth. "So it is true then, what they said?"
"I can neither confirm nor deny without more information."
She rolled her eyes. "Instruments, Jon." She picked up a discarded, smudged brass trumpet, fiddling her fingers along the three keys, her thumb tracing one of the valves, turning again to study him. The cool marble facade he put up had returned, his face expresionless. She lifted it to her lips and blew, but nothing really happened. It made a strange hissing sqawk and she coughed, her cheeks burning. "Ugh! How do you do that?"
He chuckled, taking it from her and eyes on her, lifted it to his lips, and easily blew out a jaunty jazz tune. When he finished, he arched a brow, challenging, pssing it back to her. She scowled, annoyed. "Practice."
"I never saw the appeal of the brass instruments."
"Aye, you're a string gal."
There was a way he said it, low and drawling, and she flushed, feeling a little uncomfortable. Double entendre? she wondered, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, shrugging a shoulder nonchalantly. She wandered around the worktable and stopped at a guitar, finished and just requiring a varnish. She lifted it up, positioned, and strummed a few chords.
"Guitar," he said, walking now to join her, taking it and setting it back on the table, a hand on his hip. "That's one of the four."
"I'm learning bass guitar." Not really, Daario hadn't called her back to set up any Zoom lessons. She smirked up. "20 instruments."
"Hmm." He tapped his finger to her chest, just above the v-cut in her lilac sweater. The touch of his callused index finger against her bare skin sent a shock through her, her toes curling in her boots. She forced herself not to shiver, but couldn't help the sharp intake of breath. She wondered if he felt the same feeling, gaze fixed on his. Was she imagining it, or did his pupils get wider? He leaned in a little closer, breath raspy. "But not hte harp."
Huh?
"Harp?"
"Hmm, twenty instruments but I can't play the harp."
She blinked, crash-landing hard back into their conversation about instruments. "Oh, um...I can teach you." It came out faster than her brain could process what she had just said. Damnit!
He edged towards the door. "Teach me?"
"Hmm...I can teach you the harp. You know all the others. Shouldn't be hard."
A small smile flirted along his sinful lips. He darted his tongue out, wetting them; she squirmed in place, hoping it wasn't obvious. Also hoping that she would drop dead because if her body was responding htis way, she clearly was having a stroke. He was Jon Snow. He was rude. He was annoying. He was...
Gods.
Her throat constricted, a dry patch forcing her to cough into her sleeve, hopefully not too obvious. Jon moved out of hte way and ended their discussion, going into the corner of the apartment that she had correctly assumed was his workspace. He fell into a chair, rolling it across the stone to pick up some music, thrusting the papers awkwardly towards her. She took them, saying nothing, and scanned the notes scribbled over the pre-printed scale lines.
He had very messy handwriting, she noted, frowning. "These are..."
"Aye, classical songs, with a twist."
"Hmm...is this my part or yours?"
"Yours."
Dany collected her violin, taking a seat in a spare chair by the workstation, Ghost following her back and forth. He sat down at her feet, head pillowed on his paws, and eyes lifted dolefully to her. She rubbed his fluffy butt with the toe of her boot and dropped her gaze to the music, reading it while she prepped the violin. Across from her, Jon did the same with a cello, this one different from his other. She paused, studying it, cocking her head. "That's an electric cello?"
"Hmm."
It was about half the size, didn't have hte full body of the beautiful cherrywood instrument he normally played. It looked like a stick with strings, a piece of metal curving out, wires plugging in and to the computer and to an amp. He ran the bow over, tapping at some keys. "We're recording?"
"Aye."
She huffed, frustrated with the one-word replies. "So we were supposed to talk about if we're doing this thing. I guess that means we are, right?"
Jon fiddled with the electric cello. "Aye, we are."
"That's it then? We're not going to talk about what this partnership ultimately will mean?"
He chuffed, the cello resting on his shoulder, his arms on his knees. He smiled. "It means Dany, we will work together on some songs, a showcase, we'll see if they like it. If they do, we can talk terms. If they don't, well, we can chat then. Until that time...." He ran the bow quickly over the strings, the sound a bit louder, more rock and roll than classic. He grinned. "Let's play some fucking music."
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harringrove headcanon!
billy is an adrenaline junkie and one day makes the impulse decision to go skydiving and steve is very much not happy about it and decides to give him the cold shoulder rather than actually tell him not to. until billy’s getting ready to enter the helicopter and he just turns his ass back around towards steve who was angrily waving him off and billy is like. “nope can’t do this.” and just runs into steve’s arms and steve is just all “thank god”
Honestly adrenaline junkie Billy feels so in character, especially after surviving Starcourt, he just needs that remind he is still alive and  Steve hates it so much because Billy and his antics are always scaring the shit out of him.
Billy is always doing things Steve does not approve of for the adrenalin. The motorcycle in the garage is a testament to that and Billy had managed to make Steve begrudgingly accept it, Billy does look pretty sexy on it and Steve has even gone for a few rides with him on special occasions. But skydiving absolutely not, there is nothing about jumping out of a plane with just some sewn together fabric that Steve is ever going to be okay with. 
 Steve knows trying to actually talk Billy out of it will not work, will only make the stubborn bastard more amped to do it. So Steve does the only thing he can do without risking egging Billy one, giving him the cold shoulder. Huffy and dismissive about everything involving Billy for the next two weeks, will not even touch his dick or let Billy near him for more than a chased pec on the lips.
 Steve is pretty sure Billy knows what he is doing because every time he pulls away from Billy he launches into excitedly talking about his upcoming skydive, with a smirk. Steve just sucks his teeth and leaves the room, making excuses to leave the house alone when Billy follows him around clearly trying to get him to break. The only thing Billy likes more than the thrill of adrenalin is the thrill he gets out of watching Steve snap, it always results in them fucking hard and fast but Steve refuses to give him what he wants. 
 Steve is not really sure how he ends up on the plane, how he let Billy talk him into coming with to watch him, he is pretty sure he did not actually agree to this like Billy says he did. He was half asleep when Billy had packed him into the car, back to snoring against the window before Billy had even pulled out of the driveway. So he is pretty sure whatever question Billy used to get him in the car was not in fact “Do you want to come watch me jump out of a plane?” Steve is sure even dead asleep he would not have agreed. He only gets on the plain after many reassurances from the staff that he does not have to jump, that no one will force him.
  They are in the air, the door open and three people have already jumped out and Steve's stomach is twisted because it is almost Billy’s turn and he really does not want him to do it. “Kiss for luck?” Billy shouts over the noise of the plane grinning as another person jumps out. Steve turns and gives him the barest of pecs before turning away again, not missing Billy’s little annoyed glower.
 Steve frowns hands clenching as he watches Billy approach the door, holding his breath as he waits for Billy to jump out, trying to keep the creeping panic from trying to rise at the impending free fall Billy is willingly about to take. Billy stands there, hands against the edges of the door, wind whipping his hair around his face, posture ridged. The instructor is leaning in saying something to Billy but Steve cannot hear him from where he is.
 A little inkling of hope wells up in Steve when Billy shakes his head and backs away from the door, the instructor patting his shoulder and motioning the next jumper forward. The hope blooms as Billy turns to him and a moment later he has a lap full of clinging Billy. “Fuck that, do you know how fucking far of the ground we are?” Billy bitches into the curve of Steve’s neck where he has buried his face.
 Steve rolls his eyes because yeah he knows, he knows exactly how high in the air they are because Billy spent the last two weeks telling him every chance he got. He does not say that though just curls his arms tightly around Billy, so fucking happy he did not actually jump out of a fucking plane.
 Thanks for the HC hun, it’s very cute. 💜💜😊
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language-of-love · 9 months ago
I’m sure someone has already requested this for the ‘Intimacy Prompts’ because of Noah’s scar BUT 7. Kissing scars.
This is set in late October before Rose Apothecary’s first Holiday Season... (AO3)
❅ ❆ ❅ ❆ ❅
“Well, I’m done, but if you want to give me a few more hours, I can come up with a completely different order that may or may not be the right one.”
The frazzled edges of Patrick’s voice as he emerges from the back room are alarming, in that David isn’t accustomed to hearing his almost unflappable boyfriend so distressed. Looking up from his box of creams, he takes in Patrick’s slumped shoulders as he leans back on the counter and okay, wow, he’s never looked like this before.
“Patrick, if we don’t get it one hundred percent right this time, we’ll take note of the things we need to change for next year. Holding on to that much stress is bad for your skin.”
A small smile cracks Patrick’s grim expression, so David chalks that up as a win. 
“I know, it’s just, I want to get this right for you.”
Oh.
Knowing the container by feel alone, he curls his fingers around a small tub of the eucalyptus under-eye serum from his box and crosses over towards Patrick with a determined smile.
“Up,” he demands, motioning for Patrick to sit fully on the counter.
“Huh?”
Giving the wood by Patrick’s hip a tap, he waits, a little impatiently, for Patrick to catch on and push himself up onto the counter as instructed. He still looks tired, but there’s a curious amusement crinkling the skin at the corners of his eyes and just that little physical reaction is enough to make David’s heart do a little flip. Fuck, he hopes that Patrick never catches on to how much he’s unable to hide how in love he is because David’s grown more than a little addicted to this trait of his.
Maneuvering Patrick’s knees so he can step in-between, he leans in close, relishing how Patrick’s breath comes out in a quick, warm puff against his nose as he takes his lips in a lingering kiss. 
Pulling back, he smiles against his mouth as Patrick tries to chase.
“First,” he whispers, “it’s us.”
“Us?”
“You want to get it right for us, not just me. Rose Apothecary is ours.”
Almost in complete synchronization, Patrick’s cheeks go pink as his eyes flicker down breaking contact and David knows he should say that more often. He forgets that as much as it means everything to him that Patrick wants to own this place with him, it means just as much to the man in front of him. 
“And second, I have exquisite taste in vendors and products and you are some kind of idiot savant when it comes to inventory projections, so I’m more than a little bit confident in your ability to stock us up for the holidays.”
“I know, but,” Patrick starts to argue, but David is having none of that.
“Did you order extra of the mulled spice mix?”
“Yes.”
“And the assortment of holiday flavored massage oils.”
“Yes.”
“And all of Jake’s unfairly beautiful wooden Christmas ornaments?”
“Yes.”
“Okay then, we’re good.”
“Yeah?”
There’s a tinge of Patrick’s usual confidence creeping back into this voice, so David breathes a small sigh of relief as he responds.
“Yes.”
“Okay. Can I ask one question?”
“Is it about inventory?”
“No,” Patrick chuckles.
“Okay, go ahead.”
Warm, strong hands find their way onto the sides of David’s hips and he finds himself being nudged a little deeper between Patrick’s open legs.
“Why am I sitting on the counter?”
“Oh! I got distracted.” David opens his palm to reveal the eye serum and twists the lid off the top with this other hand. “Lift your head up a bit for me.”
“Is that…?”
“Yes, I love you, but the dark circles forming under your eyes are not a good look.”
“No?”
Dipping his thumb into the soft cream, he warms it between his fingers before lightly dotting it into Patrick’s skin.
“No.”
He’s tempted to drop soft kisses to Patrick’s lips the way he did back when their roles were reversed, but he gets distracted by the small scar slanted over Patrick’s brow bone he’s always meant to ask him about. Moving the pad of his thumb up, he lightly passes over it as he meets Patrick’s gaze.
“How did you get this?”
“If I tell you, you have to promise you’ll never tell my Mom you know. She’s never forgiven herself.”
“I promise.”
“She was bouncing me on her knee when I was four and I wiggled out of her hands and fell. My eye hit the corner of our coffee table.”
“Oh my god.”
“It sounds worse than it actually was, apparently. I don’t even remember it, but my Dad says I didn’t even really cry as I got my stitches. My mom, however, can’t even talk about it.”
There’s a tiny pang in David’s heart that he doesn’t have memories like this of his parents, of having his small hands held after injuries or tears wiped away. But, he wouldn’t change anything about his past. He actually secretly loves the relationship he has with his family now. 
“She loves you too much.”
Patrick’s eyes go all soft and his lips curl up into a smile as he nods in agreement.
Something in David goes all soft, too, and he finds himself leaning up so he can press a gentle kiss to the small scar, the cooling sensation of the serum leaving a pleasant tingle behind on his lips.
“I know the feeling,” he whispers against Patrick’s temple. 
Emotional sentiments like this just seem to keep slipping out of his mouth lately, and while he means every word of them, it doesn’t stop his body’s near panic like reaction to the words being said aloud. Tamping down the impulse to pull away and hide his face, he moves his hand so he’s holding the back of Patrick’s neck and sucks in a deep, steadying breath against the side of his cheek. 
Patrick knows, he somehow immediately knows, and with a smooth shift of his head, his lips are just there, slightly wet from his tongue, sliding over until their mouths found home in a breathy kiss. David’s already unfurling emotions completely come loose as Patrick groans into his mouth and his hands move to encircle his waist under the hem of his sweater and all David can do is remember how to stand and open his lips to welcome the hot swipe of Patrick’s tongue. 
It’s well past closing and there won’t be a customer interrupting them for bath salts or applesauce or brooms, not this time. This time, David lets himself get carried away, lets Patrick take him to the edge of sanity with his confident kisses and lets himself get amped up from the heat pooling off of Patrick’s skin beneath the thin material of his blue button down shirt. He lets them take it as far as is prudent with their windowed store and the lights illuminating them still, before he’s dragging his boyfriend by the now open front of his jeans into their back room to remind him that there are many, many other things to do back there that are far less stressful than placing holiday orders. 
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rebelwith0utacause · a year ago
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Glass Figurines
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Requested: Yes (aeons ago by @wonderlandiswhereitsatyo​ from a prompt list but it took me a while to actually be happy with where it was going, so sorry Blanca)
Prompts: 
13. Strip.
16. Work for it.
with Luke
Warnings: don’t read it if you’re not comfortable with smut/kink, if you’re underage or Luke Hemmings.
Length: 3.8k
[ao3]
It is almost ridiculous how something so seemingly ordinary could make you feel carnal things. The silk ribbon feels like a dream as it glides through your fingers. You would normally use half of the time it took you today to put on your pointe shoes, but the reason behind wearing them makes you feel heady. You finish off with a bow and leave it untucked, nothing but following instructions.
You straighten up and move to stand in front of the mirror. Your hair is up in a ballet bun, every stray piece tucked away, your face is free of makeup and your skin is free of any jewelry, except for a dainty silver chain holding the tiniest triskelion pendant. Your shoulders are almost bare, just two tiny straps holding your wrap dress in place. The hollows of your clavicles create the perfect sensual shadows in the muted light.
Standing straight, like a true ballet dancer, you survey the reflection in front of you, noticing the fragility of your curves and the strength of your posture. The sharp curves of your shoulders and elbows turned at a slight angle make you look like a glass figurine, one of those breakable knick-knacks your mother used to keep locked away behind even more glass. But the eyes following the curve of your back invigorate you with a force so strong, you feel like you can take on the world, at least his, for the night.
There’s something about the way you two look in the mirror, his face reflected in the space over your left shoulder, almost reminding you of your personal demon telling you to let go of everything tonight. He stands leaning on the door frame, arms crossed at the elbows, a thin black crop almost hidden by his side. You can’t help but appreciate the single curl that’s fallen from his bun. His hair isn’t long enough to reach the elastic yet, but that blond strand is driving you mad, itching to push it back as you bury your fingers in his scalp. 
His eyes appear black as he takes you in, slowly moving his feet until he’s right behind you, the buttons of his silk shirt sensually grazing your naked back. “Did I tell you you could wear clothes?” He holds your gaze through the mirror and you can see a hint of disapproval in his stare. It robs you of breath for a nanosecond, but it’s enough to twist your stomach in a nasty coil. He moves a step back saying “Strip.” in an almost whisper. 
Your motions are jerky, hands trembling, knowing this is just the beginning. Your fingers find the knot and work on loosening it up. The two parts of the dress fall to your sides until finally, you shrug your shoulders and the thin strips lose their perch. The silky blush fabric lying crumpled on the ground, you are left with nothing but a black transparent g-string, covering everything yet nothing at all.
Feeling his eyes caress your naked form in the mirror makes your nipples tighten in anticipation like he’s already started playing with them. You try to stay put but it’s proving to be a workout for your willpower. His body, his whole presence is like a magnet, making your body sway backwards, dying to feel his touch. 
He meets you halfway, his free hand stopping your movements with a firm grasp of your shoulder. It slowly dips down, but it never really reaches your preferred destination. “Let’s work on your plies.” His fingertips find your necklace, playing with the little pendant for a beat too long. “Turn around to face me.”
You do as he says, using the smooth point of your left shoe to twirl in his direction. His hand is now on your other shoulder, stopping further movement. In hindsight, you should’ve known this was coming. He knows you better than you know yourself, knows all of the little things that make you tick and moan his name. He knows how his semi-buttoned shirts make you zone out, thinking about running your fingers through the little wisps of hair. So it comes as no surprise that he’s purposefully left it open, a button more than usual.
It’s right in your line of vision, there but unable to touch, not until he says so. Swallowing your urges, you tilt your head back to look him in the eyes, waiting for his signal. There are a million words passed between you two in the span of the two seconds it takes him to blink. You focus on two: trust and challenge.
Shuffling your feet, you assume your position, heels touching, feet in line, eyes still on him and you start to move. Your knees bend as you lower your body, arms stretched out on both sides of you, trying to keep balance, but it’s futile. There isn’t enough room for movement between the mirror behind you and his body in the front. Your weight shifts to the back and a moment later you find your ass hitting the floor, Luke tsking from above you. 
“Rookie mistake. You should know better than that by now.” 
It almost brings tears to your eyes. You want to please him every step of the way, and seeing him disappointed tugs at your heartstrings. 
“Come on. Get up. Start again and actually pay attention this time.”
You roll your ankles inwards, the rigidity of the pointe shoes making it a bit challenging, getting on your knees and lifting off of the ground. Eyes searching his, you assume your position again. 
“Steady now.” you follow his directions. “Focus on your hips and your thighs. Spread them and keep your muscles clenched.” You can feel the burn in your thighs and calves, your muscles elongating and contracting, but you welcome the pain. “That’s it, now hold your position. And slowly start lifting yourself up.” His eyes never leave yours. “Good girl.”
You almost lose your balance again. Hearing him call you his good girl has that effect on you. You move into position again, repeating the same steps a few more times. Your calves are starting to ache, but it doesn’t even compare to the ache you feel in your center. Every time you drop, the string of your panties moves to the front, creating a subtle friction at your core. You don’t have to check to know that the mesh material at the front of your panties is soaked through and leaking.
It doesn’t help that every time you get low, your face is in perfect alignment with the bulge in his pants. You can vaguely smell his arousal and it amps up yours.
Repeating the moves helps you get into a bit of a trance. Your mind fogs up, your breathing gets more shallow, spending energy only on working your muscles. That is why you never really expect the hit.
You can feel the sting of the crop on your left asscheek, the sudden contact of the leather bringing more blood flowing at the place of impact. His left hand lands on the side of your neck, fingers digging in your shoulder and his thumb pushing your chin up to look at him.
“Didn’t I tell you to pay attention?” He lifts both eyebrows, lips pinching in a thin line. “Or were you so distracted by my cock that you failed to follow simple instructions? Answer me!” 
Swallowing thickly, you shake your head. “No sir.”
His blue eyes turn as dark as the night sky, nostrils flaring at an exhale. “Then why was your ass out like that, huh?” He makes his displeasure known by smacking your right then left asscheeks with the crop in succession, making you flinch forward, spreading your thighs even further. “Why did you bend at the waist like you were waiting for someone to plug your holes from behind?”
Your breath catches in your throat. His words prompting your vocal cords to produce an embarrassingly long moan. You squeeze your eyes shut, the visuals hot enough to brand your mind.
The pad of his thumb finds your lower lip, applying a tiny bit of pressure and pulling it down. You’re an aching mess. Body in an awkward squat, ass blindly searching for the sting of the crop, panties so drenched they stick to your skin, nipples painfully hard, head blank with lust.
“Look at you… Such a needy little girl. You really want my cock, don’t you?” You nod your head enthusiastically, tongue poking out to lick his thumb on every down movement. He presses your face to his groin, the material chafing at your pouty lips. Inhaling the scent that is undoubtedly him heightens your arousal. Your constant moving has you on the verge of coming.
“Not so fast, slut. You have to work for it first.” He taps your ass again. “Hands behind your back. Show me how much you want it.”
His hand releases the back of your head to work on unbuttoning his pants. Before he can pinch the zipper between his fingers, you nudge your head forward, catching the little metal piece with your teeth and pulling it slowly down. Your eyes never lose contact and neither does your skin. His thumb is rubbing circles on your right cheek while he gazes into your eyes, knowing that this is the calm before the storm.
Releasing you from his grip, he lowers the waistband of his briefs. His dick bobs out a bit until it settles on your chin. You can feel the velvet of his skin as you move your head to the side, using the bridge of your nose to trace a vein. It’s a heady combination for your senses. Pursing your lips, you press a couple of close-mouthed kisses on his side, moving even lower to lick at the base. You flatten your tongue, not worrying about having enough saliva to help you coat him. Slowly dragging it to his tip, you trace intricate swirls and watch his eyes cloud over. 
After what feels like an eternity of anticipation, you kiss his tip, opening your mouth little by little to take more of him. You decide on a few test bobs, loving the weight of it on your tongue. Moans escape through your nose, too scared that if you take your mouth off of it, you may lose it forever. That thought spurs you on to take an inch more, and another one, and another, until you have most of it in your mouth and the tip is hitting the back of your throat.
“Almost forgot how greedy your little mouth is…” His eyes are twinkling, mouth turning into a condescending smirk. “You take me so well.”
The degrading remarks translate into praise in your foggy mind and you’d do anything to hear them leave his lips again. So you mentally prepare yourself and take him all the way. No matter how hard you try to tell yourself to relax your throat, you know that it takes a while. A round of coughing irritates your mouth long enough to produce so much saliva that a single strand of it leaves through your lower lip and dangles in the space between you and the floor.
Breathing through your nose helps. The initial panic subsides and you can feel your muscles relax against the intrusion. You move up and down on his cock, almost pulling out but never quite doing it, hollowing your cheeks to draw more of him in you. When you’re at the tip you make a disturbingly loud slurping sound, gathering his precum and your spit before you let it drip on you. You always liked the mess, a visual representation of your thoughts and feelings.
You go in for the kill, taking him entirely before backing away. You’re in control, in, out, in, out. You can feel it getting thicker. If your hands weren’t behind your back and were caressing his balls instead, you can almost swear they’d be ready to burst.
But you should know better than to believe you are in charge. The taps are light in the beginning. His body leaning over you to deliver the blows. The new angle takes his dick even farther down your throat, making you lose your rhythm. The more you bob, the more he smacks, your bum redder by the minute. And it gets worse from there.
It feels like he is about to come but it never happens. You’re growing frustrated, both sexually and mentally, like it’s your fault that you can’t please him. And it feels like he’s punishing you for it, his taps now moving towards your center, sounding even more ominous against the wet material.
With a final push, you get all up in his space, your nose pressing against the trimmed curls, tongue sticking out to lick at his balls, and he’s a goner. Without a warning, you can feel the spurts hit the back of your throat, and as parched for his praise as you are, you lap it all up and swallow.
He holds your head there for a few seconds more before grabbing your bun and pulling himself off of you. “Did that satisfy your cravings, slut?” You shake your head from side to side, knowing that the boldness might get you in trouble, but too far gone to pay heed. “Turn around.”
You pivot on your toes and you find yourself facing the mirror. The sight is… interesting to say the least. Your mouth is dark and your skin is red from all of the effort. You know that it’s gonna hurt in the morning because he’s not the smallest you’ve ever had. But it’s the eyes that have you making a double-take. Your pupils are blown wide and there’s a slight sheen of tears, but behind it all there’s a healthy dose of pride. That you’ve managed to make him come. That you’ve still got it.
He uses his entire body to push you closer to the mirror. You’re dwarfed by his size, head barely coming to rest on his shoulder. You can feel him trying to nudge his cock between your legs, panties pushed to the side, but no matter how hard he tries to do it, you’re a bit too short for it to be comfortable. So you go up on your toes and push your backside to him. You cross your legs at the ankles and brace your hands on the mirror, feeling him slowly push inside of you. The stretch feels like a million supernovas exploding every time his skin comes in contact with one of your nerve endings. 
Arms braced on top of yours, hips moving against your own, your body is almost plastered to the mirror. The glass is fogged up from your breath and your breasts are uncomfortably pressed against it, your nipples still crying for attention. You press your cheek against it, turning to catch a glimpse of him, but he’s too tall, so you completely move your chin up and find his stare in the mirror.
It’s like he’s looking in your soul, knows that it only takes a small move to the left to hit that spot, but he doesn’t do it. He likes to tease you until you are a whimpering mess, asking him to “Please, sir. Please make me come. I need it so bad. I promise I’ll be a good girl. Please.”
You know that he likes to hear it, the desperation in your voice. Likes to know that he’s the only one that can bring out your inner freak. His mouth tips in a side smirk and he moves it down to your ear. “No.”
The refusal is followed by a nip at your earlobe. “You don’t get to come yet. You’ve been very needy and very bad and you know the rules in this room.” 
“Bad girls come last.” You whisper through a broken voice.
“That’s right. Bad girls come last.” He ends the sentence with a kiss on your temple. “Now, I suggest you help me out here. Show me what you’ve got and I might drive the bad out of you yet.”
You start pushing back in earnest, trying to match his thrusts, and every time he gets close to you, you grind your hips in a downward motion, trying to feel him in your deepest darkest places. You work your inner muscles, clenching on him in perfect rhythm, trying to milk him dry, but he’s always had more stamina. You no longer see him in the mirror. It’s a blur of midnight blues and blonds, so powerful, they consume you.
You almost feel like giving up, happy to live in this overstimulated but never fulfilled state if it means that he’s right there beside you, but he loses the reigns of his control. His hips move more harshly against yours, knuckles turning white next to yours on the mirror. He switches it up, catching your g-spot with every push. Your mouth opens up in a silent scream but nothing comes out.
Knowing how he likes his control, in a last-ditch effort to be good for him, you hold off coming. Asking for permission has never been easier as you stumble over words, barely managing to utter “Please. Come. Need.” And he knows what you’re saying. His grunts fill your ears as he points each word with a piston of his hips. “Come. Now.”
And the dam breaks. 
You squeeze your eyes shut and moan his name.
Fireworks pop behind your eyelids.
There’s ringing in your ears as his moans reverberate in your mind.
You can feel your combined juices leaking out of your hole as your breath and heart rate turn to normal.
His breath is warm on your shoulder, his loose loc dangling in front of your breast.
“I think you broke me.” You can feel his laugh before you hear it, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. He nudges his head in the side of your neck, peppering you with little kisses on his way to your lips. It’s a leisurely affair, you’re in no hurry to move, and sharing the same breath somehow feels right. After a minute, he slightly pulls away, the awkward angle making your neck hurt. “Come on, sweetheart, time to clean you up.” 
You protest almost immediately, a whine leaving your lips. “But I don’t wanna move. Can we stay like this forever?” He kisses your lips once more before saying “You dirty girl.” His heat leaves your back and he pulls your hand in his, leading you both to the bathroom. “We don’t want a UTI on our hands, do we?” 
You almost gag at the thought of drinking another cup of cranberry juice again so you speed up your steps, almost dancing in front of him in your ballet shoes. You sit on the toilet, working on untying your laces while Luke tests the water for the shower. The sleeves on his shirt are slowly getting soaked through and it reminds you of another time, a week before, when he fingered you so hard, you came all over his hand, making a mess of his favorite dark green silk shirt. You were so sore afterward. He knows that you love your orgasms, but you love your punishment even more.
You’re pulled from your lustful thoughts by the sight of him undressing. It’s been years, your bodies changed, morphed from the youthful glow of adolescence to hardened adult skin. You’ve seen him bulk up, slim down, get a bit rounder and lose a few too many pounds, but his body never failed to amaze you. It seemed like it was everchanging, yours but never the same.
Stepping out of your shoes, you test the coolness of the floor tiles on the balls of your feet, silently moving behind him and pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades. Scenes always made you clingy, like a newborn kitten, paws out to get as much contact as you could. He stills in his movement, hand coming to rest on top of yours on his abs.
“You know that I love you, right?” You wonder if he can hear you, words getting lost on his skin. “No more than I love you, sweetheart.”
He pulls on your arm, moving you to the front and pushing you inside the shower. “Now stop stalling, dirty girl, and get to it.” You give him one last pout and turn towards the spray of water. You can feel him coming up behind you, soaking his hands in water to start the lather. He brings them to your skin, rubbing thorough circles with his palms to clean you. He starts at the top and slowly moves down, by the time he reaches your pussy, you already feel the zing of arousal.
This time it’s different, no pretenses, no role-playing, just one soul in two bodies trying to connect again. His fingers are gentle, but they just know where to caress and where to push, bringing you to a quick but shattering orgasm. “Babe, I think you broke me again.”
His laugh rings in the tiny bathroom. “I didn’t know you were made of glass, baby. My little glass figurine.”
You duck your head to rinse the suds off and hide the blush that’s working it’s way up your cheeks. Once both of you are thoroughly cleaned, you step into your bathrobes, warding away the cold of your apartment. You slowly dry off standing side by side in front of the vanity mirror with nothing but thoughts of cuddles on the bed. You’re done first with your routine so you move to the bedroom, making sure the bed is made. You pull on his Laconia shirt and a set of fresh undies before you get yourself all cozy underneath the covers. 
Luke comes out a couple of minutes later, already prepped for bed. He moves to his side, getting in and pulling you flush. Your head nestles itself on his shoulder, getting ready to fall asleep.
There’s a soothing sensation on your lower lip, something velvety and viscous with a faint smell of lemonade. You can feel Luke’s fingers rubbing your favorite lip balm on your lips, making sure every inch is coated before he closes the lid and turns off his bedside lamp. He shuffles a bit on the bed to get comfy and presses his lips to the crown of your head. 
You know it’s coming. “Are you okay? Was I too rough on you?” You love the way he’s so attentive, always putting your safety first, even though he knows you love nothing short of total destruction. “I’m alright, love. You were perfect. Don’t worry about me.” 
“You know I always will. Now go to sleep, my sweet little girl, you need it.” And it’s so easy to comply when he starts humming your favorite tune, your mind drifting off, handled with care in the safety of his arms.
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lawrising · a month ago
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( open ! / starter ! )
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with summer beating it's final pulses ( heat just bearable enough to draw people from the pools ) carnivals and fairs alike have been thriving. spreading through cities like an infection, and sticking around like one too. it's a sight some never bother seeing more than once, though matthew finds himself familiar with them to an unsettling degree. adorned in a fashionable 70s outfit and jerked to some game stand is how he spends his lingering summer days ; arms crossed and his back straightened as he admires the people drifting by with eyes quickly darting to the cluttered grounds. working as a carny ( what a delightful term ) wasn't within his original plans, but it pays decent enough to scrape by. at least the white and red striped booth provides 'okay' shade from the trembling sun above. shadowed enough by the dark with large stuffed animals to extend excellent cover if someone he admires comes waltzing through. hiding was heavily scolded by the boss of this stand, wilmer, but his fear of having his arm twisted red was easily outweighed by being seen like this. it's not like the outfit looked strange on him. peculiar at best. but what mat hid from was caused by his shame of working a shifty, unfair, totally rigged stand. winning games like these was made with stacked odds on purpose. behind him is some milk jugs ---- the secret lying with them only known by him. the bottom two are heavier then the top, since most people aim higher than lower anyway. if mat played a hand in analyzing passerbys, he tries not to own up to it.
idly, he fiddles with a softball resting on the stand. long fingers curling around the circular object to propel it along the worn wood ; before following it and repeating. wilmer's given up on making him attempt to draw in costumers, simply drilling it into the man's head he only needs to 'stand there and look pretty'. a statement that still causes his cheeks to flare up, already splotchy from the sun. he isn't sure how pretty he is in a white collared shirt ( sleeves rolled up to show slim arms ) with his fawn hair tousled to hell and back but ... whatever. when he ends up spotting his blond haired partner returning from his flirt session, matthew is cashing in on a bathroom break. finally fed up with fidgeting, the man lets himself hang out the tent and people watch. chocolate eyes obscured by yellow aviators, something he takes full advantage of. he watches people bicker, laugh, spill their drinks and litter : gross. there's a brief moment where he lets his brain freeze over completely. taking a rare opportunity to immerse in the moment so he can disconnect from the uncomfortable sweat making his shirt stick to his scorched back.
of course, this backfires miserably. wrapped up in the ( reluctantly ) beautiful sights around him, someone wiggles right past the carny. giving him zero time to try and duck away, or throw on his most charming grin : voice amping up to put on his best performance. any sultry or friendly tones dry in the back of his throat and leave his adam's apple bobbing when he catches the form standing so close to the booth. eyebrows shoot up immediately. body tensing and god, he looks so awful! matthew starts frantically running his hands through his dampening hair with a cough, trying to clear his throat even if it proves fruitless. at least any coloring can be blamed on the sun, or any stomach knots can be written away with bad carnival food. the only ball matthew has left in his court is appearing pitiful ; shamefully hoping that buys him something. an olive branch ---- anything. clumsily does the man finally grab the once discarded ball. clutched tightly in his grip so he stops visibly fussing. was he recognizable in this funky getup? mat hopes not.
“hi, hello!” the greeting comes out awkward ; he grimaces. “someone's dying to test their luck, hm?”
when he gestures to the entire game behind him, it's lackluster. timid. clearly he's unsettled by the sudden spring of company. be it stranger or familiar ; he acts oblivious nonetheless.
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apriorisea · 11 months ago
Yoongi said he has a rough time sleeping on tour bc of jet lag... imagine where you keep him company/help him fall asleep? 💕
"Relax” Yoongi x You
Clutching your favorite travel pillow, you sleepily follow Jungkook down the steps of the chartered plane into the bright afternoon sunshine. Your internal clock groans: it should be the middle of the night still. Caught up in your exhaustion, you nearly miss the final step and stumble, mentally preparing yourself for the fall that was coming.      Instead, you feel Yoongi’s hands on your hips, keeping you upright. He doesn’t release you until you’re steady on your feet once again. “Careful there, sweetheart,” he murmurs near your ear.       Smiling, you lean back against him a little in relief. “Thanks,” you say, once the two of you reach solid ground for good. Turning to face him, your smile grows bigger as you see his post-plane-nap messy hairstyle. Pressing your pillow into his hands, you reach up and run your fingers through his hair, quickly settling it into less of a mess.      When you’re finished, he leans forward and kisses you. “Am I decent now?” he asks with a quick grin.       “You’ll do,” you tease back.       Seokjin appears suddenly; he was smart enough to hide his messy hair under a baseball cap. “I forgot to leave him with my other stuff,” he says, extending his custom-made RJ plushy towards you. “Could you take him back to the hotel with you right now?”      You gasp dramatically. “Am I...am I being entrusted with...with THE RJ himself???”       He rolls his eyes.       You grin, taking hold of the doll gently. “Of course. Me and RJ will have a grand time together, won’t we?”       “Thanks,” he flashes you a genuine smile before turning to Yoongi. “We’re all taking one van to the venue, I guess. Are you ready?”       “Yes,” your boyfriend agrees. “I’ll be there in just a second.”       Seokjin nods and looks back at you. “Thanks again, Squid.” He grins playfully as he uses your nickname. “I expect to see him relaxing in my room when I get back.”       “I don’t know, Jin-oppa,” you say seriously. “What if RJ decides he likes it better with me?”       He gives you a look. “Don’t even joke.”       You laugh, lifting one of the doll’s arms to wave at him as he turns to go. Still smiling, you turn back to your boyfriend. “How long do you think you guys will be today?”      “Why?” he asks, one side of his mouth lifting in a crooked grin. “How much time do you need to pull off the great RJ-heist?”      “Nah, that’s too easy,” you say, lifting the doll and wiggling it around playfully. “Mission accomplished already.”       “Yah!” Seokjin’s voice carries all the way from where he stands next to the waiting van. “Don’t shake him like that!”      “Oops, sorry.”       Yoongi reaches out to brush a strand of your hair back behind your ear. “Hopefully it won’t be too long today.”       You nod, leaning into his hand as he lets it rest softly on your cheek. “Agreed. Be---”       “Noona!” Taehyung appears, carrying his thick brown peacoat in his arms. “Can you please, pretty please, extra please take this back to the hotel, too? I think it’ll be too hot.”       You’re already reaching for the coat as Yoongi sighs. “Taehyung-ah, she’s not a delivery service.”      You give him a placating smile. “I don’t mind. Anything else, Taehyungie?”      “Nope!” He gives your arm a grateful squeeze. “See you later! Hyung,” he adds seriously, looking at your boyfriend, “We’re leaving in 5 minutes.”      “I got it,” Yoongi says patiently. “I’ll be there.” After the younger man is gone, he studies you and sighs again. “You sure you’re okay?”      Arms now full, you smile and lean forward, lips puckered; your smile grows to a grin as he gives you what you want. “Yes. Don’t worry, baby. Just have a good soundcheck. Are you guys also rehearsing?”      He smooths another strand of your hair back. “We’ll probably do a rough run-through of some of the more difficult things, but nothing extreme.”      You nod. “I---” Catching sight of something behind him, you grin.       “What?” He narrows his eyes. “What---”      Namjoon calls your name as he approaches. “I forgot to put this back in its case before we got off the plane,” he says, gesturing to his brand new tablet. “Can you---”      “Take it back to the hotel for you?” You cut in with a laugh.      He smiles sheepishly. “Yeah.”      “You got it, Joonie. Anything else?” You pivot to look at the van where the others are waiting. “Last chance to check your stuff with the Me-Express, no-stop delivery service headed straight to the hotel!”      “We love you,” Namjoon volunteers with a grin.       You roll your eyes playfully. “You’re lucky I love you guys, too.”      “Thank you,” he emphasizes, then: “Hyung---”      “I know, I know,” Yoongi interrupts him. “I’m coming!”      When you’re finally alone again, he snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you close.       “How about you?” you say softly, smiling as you look up into his face. “Anything to send with me?”      He smiles back briefly. “Just this,” he answers, then leans in and kisses you.      When you finally break apart, you nod. “I think that’s my favorite item I’m delivering.”      “You think?” he asks, absently looking around to make sure he has all his things with him. “What about RJ?”      “Hmm...” you pretend to think. “A kiss from you has the tiniest edge over the world’s cutest alpaca.”      “Thank goodness,” he deadpans. Finally deciding he’s got everything, he looks back at you. “I’ll see you soon?”      You nod. “Be safe, baby.”      “Love you,” he says quietly, then turns and heads towards the van.       Watching them pile into the van, you wait until they’ve left before making your way to the remaining vehicles.       “Whoa. Can I help you with that?” one of the managers asks, raising his eyebrows at the load of things in your arms.       You laugh. “You can take the coat and the tablet if you want,” you answer. “But RJ’s off-limits.”
It’s dark by the time you hear commotion in the hotel hallway. Lying on your stomach, you reach for the remote and mute the TV to make sure it’s really them---the sound of controlled, comfortable chaos is unmistakable. Glancing at your watch, you’re both relieved that it’s not too late and worried that it’s that late for them to return, but both emotions are chased away when you hear Yoongi open the door to the room.      You slowly sit up, waiting for him to appear.       The automatic smile on his face when he sees you makes your heart squirm happily. “Hi sweetheart,” he says. His eyes dart around the room. “I won’t lie: I half-expected to see RJ in my spot there.”      “She wouldn’t dare!” Seokjin says from the hallway.     Yoongi sighs. “Goodnight, hyung!” he calls, then goes back and shuts the door more securely. Turning back to you, his smile grows even wider and he crosses to where you sit on the bed, taking your face gently in both hands and kissing you.       When you finally break apart, he plants another soft kiss on the tip of your nose. “I missed you.”      You grab the front of his shirt to keep him in place. “I missed you more. How was it?”     Ruffling a hand through his hair, he nods in satisfaction. “Good. The venue is huge, sweetheart, and the sound system is amazing. I can’t wait until you hear the title track tomorrow, it sounds perfect.”      You release him, watching as he wanders to the mini-fridge to grab a bottle of water, twisting it open as he talks. Too amped up, you think. You glance at your watch again: 2.5 hours.       “---and then the transition from Jungkookie’s song to Jin-hyung, it’s perfect, it might actually be my favorite thing in the whole show.” He’s still going, pacing around the room a little.       “That sounds amazing, baby,” you say calmly. “I can’t wait to see it. Did you eat yet?”      “I---eat?” He pulls up short, considering it. “No. Not yet. It---”      Four short knocks on the door cut him off. He goes to answer it, but you know who it is already.     “Hyung,” Jimin wanders in, dressed in loose sweats, hair messy. “Hobi-hyung and I ordered the dinner, do you want to come over to my room? Or---oh!” He spots you, a delighted smile crossing his face. “Noonaaaaaa,” he sings out, rolling onto the bed next to you. “Nevermind, we’ll eat here instead.” Sprawled on his back next to you, he pats your leg as a greeting and then focuses on his phone.       “Sure,” Yoongi agrees vaguely. He’s looking around the room, brow furrowed. “Sweetheart?”      “Yes?” You try to hide your smile, already knowing what he was going to ask. You absently reach out to fix a strand of Jimin’s messy, dyed-pink hair. “This is starting to fade already,” you add in an undertone to the younger man. “Are you going to re-do it before the concert?”      “Do you know where my equipment bag got put?” Yoongi’s still focused on his own task.        “It’s over there, babe,” you gesture. “Are you going to unpack now?”      He nods, already preoccupied with the task.        “I don’t know,” Jimin finally answers your question, looking up from his phone. “We were talking about it today. Should I do more pink, or change it up?”       You shrug. “What would you change it to?”       “I haven’t done mint in a long time...” he muses.       “Mint?” You lift another strand of hair. “I’m not sure it’s faded enough to do that yet, Jiminie.”      He pouts. “That’s what stylist-noona thinks, too.”      By the time Hoseok and the food arrives, Yoongi has most of his stuff unpacked. You sit curled up next to him while he and the others eat, and though they all gradually start to calm down, their full bellies leading them to drowsiness, you can still feel the restless energy coursing through him. You glance at your watch: 1.5 hours.      “Uggh,” Hoseok groans. “So full.”      “You ate well,” you grin, reaching out to playfully pat his head. “Ready to sleep now?”      Nodding, he gets to his feet. “Yep. See you guys in the morning.”      “Wait for me,” Jimin says, rolling off the bed like a puppy. “Noona, are you coming to rehearsal tomorrow morning?”      “Yes. I’ve heard the venue is amazing,” you say, sharing a quick glance with Yoongi.       Hoseok nods enthusiastically. “It’s going to be a good show.”      “The best,” you agree lightly. “Goodnight, guys.” When they leave, closing the door carefully behind them, you lean over to brush a kiss to Yoongi’s cheek. “How was your dinner, my genius boy?”      He turns his head to catch your lips with his. “Delicious,” he says when he pulls back. “The food wasn’t bad either.”      You laugh, playfully rolling your eyes. “Are you ready for bed now?”      He shakes his head a little. “No...I think I’m going to work for a little bit.”      Even though it’s what you expected, you can’t help but sigh. “You need some rest, Yoongi.”      “I know.” He cups the side of your face, stroking your cheek with his thumb fondly. “But I’m still too awake---the jet-lag and everything. I won’t be able to fall asleep yet.”      “Okay.”      “Are you tired, sweetheart?” he asks, searching your face. “I’ll turn down most of the lights and work quietly...”      You shake your head. “It’s okay. I’ve got a couple things I need to do first.”      He kisses you one more time, then gets up, moving to the corner area of the room where he had set up his equipment. With little preamble, he slips on his headphones and is lost in his own musical world.       You turn the tv on to something quiet and lie back in bed, scrolling mindlessly on your phone and smiling every time you hear him accidentally humming or singing to himself.      At 11:30, you quietly get up and rummage through one of your bags, finding what you need and taking it to the bathroom to get ready. By 11:55, everything is set.      At midnight, you walk over to where he’s still working, your eyes roving over the music program on his computer curiously. “Yoongi?” you say softly.       With his headphones on, he’s far too engrossed in what he’s doing to hear you.     Smiling faintly, you reach out and carefully slip the headphones off. When he looks up in protest, you gently run your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face, and lean down to kiss him. Leaning back just a little, you murmur against his lips: “Time for bed, baby.”       He nods a little, obviously tired though still avoiding it.       Slipping your hand into his, you pull on it until he gets to his feet and lead him to the bathroom; he follows you obediently.      You were prepared for this: the first day was always the worst, getting settled into a new timezone and a different routine,  and he always came back from rehearsals a little amped up. As soon as the two of you stepped into the lavish bathroom, the scents washed over you, and you heard him take a deep breath. Dropping his hand, you go over to check the temperature of the bath water: you’d timed it perfectly. Satisfied, you turn back, moving past him to dim the lights.      “It smells incredible, sweetheart,” he says, his voice a tired mumble.       You move to stand in front of him. “It’s relaxing, isn’t it?” you say softly, reaching out to help him take off his shirt. “Come on, love: the water’s perfect right now.”      The two of you spend nearly 20 minutes in the tub, talking softly about his day, your day, his worries, the things he’s excited about, plans for the next stop. He holds you tight, your back pressed up against his chest, and every so often he presses lazy kisses to your neck and shoulders. By the time you climb out, he’s a little pruney but also far more relaxed: his eyelids start to droop a little as he gets dressed in his favorite pajama set.       When he’s finished, you take him by the hand again and guide him back to the bed; he doesn’t protest, sitting on the edge easily, but his gaze wanders to the hallway and he frowns slightly. “I don’t think I double-locked the door,” he says, making a move to get up.       You put a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place. “It’s okay, I’ve got it. Just lie down.”       He does as you say, a ferocious yawn breaking free despite his best efforts to keep it hidden.       You lock the door and turn out all of the lights until all that’s left is the lamp on your side of the bed. You’re happy to see that he’s crawled under the covers already. Moving slowly so as not to disturb him, you climb onto the bed next to him and reach for your phone. “What time do you have to leave for rehearsal?”      “9,” he says, his eyes opening a little more at the thought. “I didn’t set---”     “Shh,” you run your hand through his hair again. “I’ve got it, baby. Don’t worry.” You set a few alarms on your phone, ensuring that he’ll get up early enough to break the jetlag cycle, but not so early that he’ll be a total wreck the next day.      He looks up at you and a smile slowly crosses his face. “I love you.” He says your name softly a few times. “I’m so lucky you’re here with me.”      Smiling back at him, you turn on a soothing-sounds podcast, make sure both of your phones are plugged in and charging, then reach over to turn out your lamp. As the darkness settles, you crawl under the covers, laughing a little as he pulls you into his arms immediately. He holds you close against him, brushing a few soft kisses across your forehead.       “I love you, too,” you say quietly. “Just get some rest, okay?”      He nods sleepily.       “So a few of us were talking,” you begin, keeping your voice low and calm even as you feel sleepiness start to creep over you, “And tomorrow we’re going to get dinner from that amazing steak place again.”      “Mm?” He rubs your arm absently. “Sounds good, sweetheart.”      “Yeah.”      “We also...” He’s fading fast. “..Can’t forget to grab that camera Taehyungie wants...”      You nod, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Right.”      By this point, he’s completely relaxed in your arms, jetlag forgotten. His breathing starts to slow and even out, so you squeeze him tight and murmur, “I love you.”      The last thing he does before he falls asleep is kiss your forehead; then, he’s out, coaxed into a deep sleep by your carefully planned relaxation techniques.      Day 1, you think as you start to drift off, Check.
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vldkeith · 10 months ago
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keithtober prompt #21: formal clothes
a/n: another one i started in like 2018 and just now finished, hope u enjoy! there’s some suggestiveness but it’s not rly smut
Keith sighs heavily, twisting around distastefully as he looks at himself in the full-body mirror. He had some event that he was meant to go to later with Shiro, a fancy dinner with Shiro’s world peace agency (or whatever) that his name had somehow gotten dragged into. In honor of the event, Shiro had even bought Keith a new outfit.
“You need to look classy and presentable,” Shiro had said sternly one morning, while Keith simmered at the assumption that his normal style apparently wasn’t presentable enough for this dinner. “So, I bought you this.”
Then he threw several garments at Keith’s face, topping them off with a pair of shoes and—Keith raised an eyebrow—a new pair of earrings. He had thrown Shiro a questioning look, but the man was already off to work, calling over his shoulder, “I won’t be home till late tonight, but I expect you to have tried these on by the time I am!”
And that is why Keith is now standing in front of a mirror, assessing himself critically not twenty minutes after school had let out. He’d even delayed his homework for this!
The outfit fits fine, because one of Shiro’s many talents is picking perfect sizes for people on the first try. And, Keith must admit, it does fit into his stylistic aesthetic—only amped up a few notches and sprinkled with a suitable layer of sophistication. He stretches out and angles his neck for a better look, allowing the embroidered pattern of red roses draped across his throat and shoulders to be thrown into the light, accentuating the paleness of his skin and slope of his torso. He fidgets slightly, folding his arms and pulling the black fabric taught against his skin—the shirt is already tighter than he’s used to.
Keith sort of thinks he looks like a shadow in this thing. Shiro seems to have granted him permission to wear his usual attire of black skinny jeans, as that’s what he’d bought, though they perhaps fit a little better than his usual pair; the shoes are sleek noir as well, but nothing special. They clack against the ground like heels when Keith gives them an experimental scuff, which he finds delight in for some reason.
The earrings, however—those are different. They’re vines, solid black and shiny, snaking from his piercing towards the top of his ear; Keith isn’t sure where Shiro got the idea that these were classy, as they make him feel more like some sort of goth prince more than anything. Maybe Shiro’s just gay, though.
But, all in all, he likes it. The looks isn’t bad, and he can deal with the vague discomfort that comes with clingy clothes. Nodding to himself, Keith begins to untuck his shirt from his skinny jeans.
“Hey, Keith!” A voice floats from outside of his room. “Are you done? I wanna see this outfit too!”
Oh, right. Lance is here.
He’d basically invited himself over after school, unattaching himself from his usual group of friends to run over to Keith, who’d just been trying to get into his car unbothered. And then he’d flung an arm around Keith’s shoulder, smiling wide and warm, and asked something that Keith hadn’t actually heard but automatically said yes to.
When Lance proceeded to jump into the passenger side of his car, Keith had been a little confused. But he’d rolled with it, and now he has his friend-slash-crush-slash-rival(?) at his house while he tries on clothes.
And, of course, Lance wants to see Keith in them.
“It’s really nothing special,” Keith calls back, keeping his arms tentatively on his still-tucked shirt, just in case Lance buys into what he’s saying and lets it go.
“Aw, anything you wear is special, baby,” comes Lance’s simpering, sweet voice, and Keith drops his forehead against the mirror in an effort to avoid seeing himself blush. Then he remembers that he’s leaning against a mirror, and turns around abruptly, hand covering his face.
“Fuck off,” he answers, but the highness of his voice kills any bite the response would’ve had. He hears Lance’s laughter through the door and an unbidden smile stretches across his face. He rolls his eyes. Fine. Lance wants to be disappointed by Keith’s clothes? Sure. Keith will let him be.
“I’m coming out.”
Lance’s laughter dies down into expectant silence, and Keith opens the door and steps out, spreading his arms in an almost-playful gesture of dress-up. He doesn’t look at Lance for the first few seconds, but when the mocking he was expecting doesn’t come, he chances a glance at the couch where he’s sitting.
Lance is red. There’s a hot blush coloring his cheeks and neck prettily, and his lips are parted in a small “o” that makes Keith both excited and confused. His eyes are sweeping up and down Keith’s form, catching in certain spots (Keith makes a list: shoes, thighs, shoulders, neck, earrings, lips?) and then stuttering shakily away.
“Wow,” he says, and Keith nearly stumbles back at the sheer breathlessness of his voice. “That—really suits you.”
“You think?” Keith turns around experimentally and hears a sharp intake of breath from Lance. He ignores it. “I think it’s a bit much—”
“It’s definitely a bit much,” Lance echoes, but he sounds faint and it doesn’t come across as an insult, or with the same meaning as when Keith had said it. Keith turns back around and is nearly startled into silence at the greedy, unadulterated look of hunger that Lance is giving him—that is, for the few seconds that he can see it, because the moment they’re fully facing each other again Lance seems to make a conscious effort to wipe his face clean of emotion.
The way he’s fidgeting and his still-red cheeks, though, give him away.
“Hey...” Keith begins, slowly advancing towards Lance without even thinking about whether he should or not. He’s still stuck on that look Lance was giving him. “Are—Are you okay?”
“I—” Lance swallows, crossing his legs tightly as Keith comes closer (and wincing, Keith notes with interest, gears turning in his head). “Y-Yeah, I’m fine, just, ah—you look really nice in that.”
“Do I?” Keith’s voice is quieter now, his words floating into the air and staying still between the two of them. He’s standing right in front of Lance now, less than a foot away from him. Lance is pressing himself almost desperately back into the couch, looking anywhere but at Keith’s form hovering in front of him.
“Yeah—alright, look—” Suddenly and with all the grace of a jack-in-the-box, Lance springs up from the couch, nearly plowing straight into Keith as he does. Keith catches himself, though, and manages to stay put, essentially putting them chest-to-chest. Keith has no idea why he’s doing this, why he hasn’t fled from the awkwardness yet, but the air feels heated, buzzing with electricity, and Lance looks almost painfully wired through the roof. And if Keith’s rapidly forming conclusion is correct, then Lance…Well, he shouldn’t necessarily mind being this close.
“Keith.” Lance licks his lips, a gesture Keith’s eyes latch onto and follow, quickly building heat in his own tingly body. Lance’s eyes are darting around anxiously, and he’s still got his legs bent awkwardly even though he’s standing, and Keith’s not brave enough to try looking down—thinks he might get hit if he so much as tries—but he’s pretty sure, almost certain that if he did, he’d find all the proof that he needs of his hypothesis.
“Keith, I—if you don’t let me go soon then we’re going to be dealing with a very fucking awkward situation. Please move,” Lance says, shifting from one leg to the other, and Keith may not be the most perceptive person in the world but god damn if porn hasn’t taught him anything about these signs.
He raises his hands and places them gently on Lance’s shoulders, causing the other boy to snap his head up and give Keith a quizzical, panicked look.
“You’re—You’re turned on, aren’t you?” Keith says quietly, but his voice still seems to reverberate through the empty house. Lance’s breathing gets substantially heavier, and Keith finally deems it necessary to look down, and—
Keith breathes in and out through his mouth, eyes widening. “You are.”
“Fuck,” Lance swears, shaking his head rapidly. “I—fuck, look, I’m sorry, just—sometimes this just happens and I didn’t mean to make things awkward, I’m sorry—”
Keith silences him with a light push to his shoulders, nudging him somewhat forcefully back onto the couch. Lance, albeit looking more flabbergasted with each passing second, allows himself to be moved.
Then, Keith settles himself onto Lance’s lap and Lance curses again, loudly, and the sound curls itself into Keith’s belly and stays there, exciting every nerve around it.
“Wh—What are you doing?” Lance asks, voice meek and marred with panic.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Keith keeps eye contact with Lance as he starts to grind down, ever so slowly, causing Lance to hiss and his head to fall back against the couch.
“It looks like you’re—fuck, Kogane, if this is a fucking joke—”
“It’s not,” Keith says honestly, and he means it. He reaches forward and grabs Lance’s hands, placing them against his hips and then rolling them purposefully. Lance’s eyes are blown black by now, dilated almost into darkness, and Keith has never felt so insatiable in his life—the heat building in his belly, in his pelvis, in his dick is like fire, simmering low and hot for now but just on the border of uncontrollable. He’s also never felt hotter—if someone like Lance can become this unraveled just by seeing him in a nice outfit, then god, he can’t be that bad off, can he?
“Don’t you like it?”
Lance lets out a hoarse, harsh laugh, gripping at Keith’s hips with shaking fingers. “No, of course not, I hate having a gorgeous guy grinding down on my lap, it’s my least favorite thing—” Lance cuts himself off again with a breathy little noise as Keith pushes forward in an exceptionally forceful way, and Keith grins, leaning in closer.
“I like it too,” he says, in a voice tuned low and quiet. Lance stares at him with dark, misty eyes, hardly blinking. “You can touch me, Lance. I want you to touch me. Don’t you want to touch me in these clothes?”
Lance stares at him a second longer and then, with a noise of frustration, tears his hands from Keith’s hips and presses them against his collar bones, against the roses painted onto his clothes, and then pushes his hips up into Keith, causing Keith to cry out in surprise and grapple for a hold around Lance. From there, though, Lance doesn’t hold back; he pulls and tugs at Keith’s shirt just long enough for Keith to get worried that he might tear it, and then he’s suddenly pulling the buttons apart, exposing Keith’s skin to the cold air. Keith lets out a breathless noise and presses closer into Lance, seeking warmth, but Lance surprises him by encouraging the movement, looping his hands around Keith’s waist and helping him further into his lap.
“Oh,” Keith says when Lance presses the palms of his hands onto his now-bare chest, rubbing across his skin and thumbing briefly at his nipples. Keith keens and moves his hips again, suddenly desperate for some sort of friction, sensation, anything—he’s got the same problem as Lance does, now.
“You’re really hot,” Lance says, leaning forward and up, mouth closing around Keith’s neck. Keith moans, and Lance exhales sharply against him. “You sound hot.”
“Lance,” is all Keith can say, rocking on his lap, and Lance answers with a low whine and starts kissing up his neck, to his jawline, nipping at his ear.
“H-Hey, stop me if I’m going too far, yeah?” Lance lets his head fall back into the crook of Keith’s neck and he focuses on his collarbone, now, kissing and tonguing across the skin and then—
Keith gasps and then lets out a loud noise, nails digging into Lance’s shirt, because holy shit, he’s biting and sucking now, sucking so hard it hurts, and he’s going to leave a mark—
“Fuck,” Keith swears, tilting his head the opposite direction to give Lance more access, which he takes hungrily.
“As much as I love you in these clothes, Kogane,” Lance starts, voice thick and harsh with arousal, as he gives Keith a hooded look, “I think you’re wearing too much right now.”
“I think so too,” Keith responds immediately, moving his hands quickly to his zipper. He looks up at Lance. “Y-You too, though. If you want. If that’s okay.”
“Uh, yeah.” Lance nods vigorously and starts pulling his shirt off. “I have Keith Kogane on my lap, there’s no way I’m letting this pass—”
“Keith! Tadaima.”
Fuck.
Keith whips his head around and, yep, that’s definitely Shiro’s shadow, if he needed any confirmation other than the Japanese greeting. He turns back to Lance, eyes wide, and they both stay frozen like that for two, three seconds, and then they split.
“O-Okairi!” Keith yelps hastily as he jumps and falls off of Lance, and then cringes, because that did not sound as calm and collected as he thought it would. He’s on the floor now, though, so there’s not much he can do about that; he quickly scrambles to standing position, only wobbling a little, and hurries to straighten his clothes and look as normal as possible before Shiro inevitably enters the room.
Turning back to check on Lance, Keith groans internally; he’s struggling with getting his shirt back on from the half-shed state it was in, and his body does not seem to be getting the memo that they’re done. Swearing under his breath, Keith stumbles quickly back to Lance, grabbing the other side of his shirt in an effort to help.
“Get off, I’ve got it—”
“You clearly don’t got it, McClain, I swear to god—”
  “Uh…Keith? Who’s this?”
Both boys freeze. Keith does a quick survey of the position they’re in, matched with the rosy tone to their skin and ruffles clothes, and concludes that it is very, very suggestive. Turning to face Shiro feels like the hardest thing in the world right now, but Keith bravely straightens and does so anyway.
“He’s Lance.”
Lance, finally (too late, Keith thinks bitterly) getting his shirt back on, fluffs out his hair and then peeks out at Shiro from behind Keith. He raises an embarrassed hand in greeting. “H-Hi.”
Shiro looks like he’s trying to hold back laughter. Keith hates him. “Nice to meet you, Lance. Are you one of Keith’s…friends?”
That hesitance before he said the word “friends” is going to be listed as the cause of Shiro’s death in a second here, because Keith is going to kill him.
Lance’s gaze flits, unsure, back to Keith, who answers evasively, “Kinda. I wanted a second opinion on my outfit.”
Shiro nods slowly, still smiling. “Of course. Seems like he had a very good opinion of it?”
Keith turns bright red again, but not for the reason he wishes he was. “I—Shut up! Shut up, I think he liked it, shut up—”
“Uh huh, I hear you.” Shiro saunters over to them, looking like he’s having the time of his life. “Well, just so you know, we’re leaving in about three hours.” He ruffles Keith’s hair. “Why doesn’t Lance stick around until then, eh? I’d love to get to know your friends.”
“Thank you, sir,” Lance says in a small voice. Shiro looks exhilarated. Keith wants to throw himself into space.
“Go on, change before you ruin your clothes, and we can play some get-to-know-you games.”
Feeling sullen and bitter that he just got cock-blocked by his own brother, Keith doesn’t say another word before turning around and stalking back towards his bedroom. After a moment of hesitation and an unsure smile at Shiro, Lance gets up and follows.
“Oh, you guys?”
Keith and Lance turn back, pausing in front of the doorway to Keith’s room.
Shiro smiles brightly. “Door open, please.”
The door slams shut behind them.
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mirkwoodshewolf · a year ago
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My little Panther; T’Challa x POC!child reader
*Author’s note*
The world is devastated right now. I had read the news last night and I’ve done my mourning, now it’s time for the tribute. I’ve had this on my Wattpad for a good couple of years but never transferred it to here. But hearing the loss of Chadwick, I knew I had to finally post this fic onto my tumblr so that you all can have a read of it. 
We all miss you Chadwick and you were taken away from us FAR. TOO. EARLY. But you didn’t let your cancer define you, you kept working and helped bring such an iconic character to life, as well as sharing the stories of SO. MANY. REAL. LIFE. PEOPLE (Marshall and Jackie Robinson) to screens worldwide. You will be deeply missed and will always be an inspiration to everyone. You and Stan ‘the man’ Lee are once again together in Heaven awaiting for the rest of the Avengers to Assemble.
Long. Live. King. Chadwick. Boseman.
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Taglist:
@plethora-of-things​
@waddles03​
@psychosupernatural​
@ixchel-9275​
@queensdivas​
@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels​
@platawnic​
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I was hiding within the den eating the food that my mother had collected. All I remember from my old home was fire and death, I remember running to find my parents but then I had gotten lost in the jungle. It was then I came upon a cave, well a den really of a black panther and her cubs. Ever since then I have lived with my mother and three brothers.
I ate the antelope just like my brothers, wrestled like them and slept like them curled up next to my mother's fur. Even though I was different than them and didn't look like them, my mother treated me like I was one of her own and treated me no less. I was currently being bathed by my mother when we heard something outside.
She went on the defense position and gathered me and my brothers up and pushed us closer to the den as she went outside and stalked to whatever it was that was close to our den. I know I shouldn't have but I got curious so I stepped out of the den and peeked over the log to see my mother roaring and swiping her massive paws at another black panther, but this one was different.
This Black Panther mainly stood on two legs, and its fur didn't look like fur and its eyes were not the pure golden cat eyes like my mother's. Mama roared and swiped her paw again at this intruding Black Panther and the other Black Panther backed away and submitted to my mother before turning and walking away but then I saw it look right at me.
I ducked behind the log and raced back into the den just as mother came back inside. She then nudged me towards her back, I got on and soon she led me and my brothers out of the den and we all searched for a new one. Knowing that we had been found, we couldn't stay in the same place for long. Mama always wants us to move if ever any predator found our den in order to ensure our survival.
*T'Challa's POV*
After arriving back to the palace, I couldn't help but think about that child I had seen in the jungle. It was a simple border patrol but what I wasn't aware was that I had stumbled upon a mother panther's den. I had activated my suit just in case but I didn't engage against the mother for I knew she was probably protecting her cubs. That's when I saw the child hiding within the bushes.
After that I had backed away from the mother panther slowly to show her that I wasn't a threat to her or her cubs. Once I was far enough from the den, I decided that it would be best to head back to the palace since there was no sign of trouble, but still my mind kept going back to that child. Who was she? How long has she been in the jungle? Did she have a family?
"Ther. Brother!" My sister's voice snapped me out of my state of mind and she sassed at me, "Did you listen to a word I said?"
"So sorry Shuri, I just—I was thinking about that child".
"A child?"
"Yes, while I was patrolling the jungle to check and make sure our borders were still safe from any weapons traders, I came across this child in the jungle".
"Was she Wakandan?"
"Possible, she definitely wasn't an outsider I know that much".
"I'll see if I can any records on any villages that have been attacked".
"Thank you Shuri". It was then my kimoyo beads activated.
"Ohh your girlfriend calling you?"
"Stop it!" I then allowed the image to come up and up came Okoye.
"My King" she stated.
"What is it Okoye?"
"Trouble by the river province, poachers are approaching the reserve".
"I am on my way". Okoye's image then disappeared. Before I walked out, Shuri stopped me. She then handed me the updated AMP beads.
"Take these with you, they are a much better improvement than the last ones".
"Thank you Shuri". She nodded then I took off running out of the lab.
*My POV*
After finding our new home, I was outside our new den playing with my brothers when I took notice of something shiny just ahead of me. While my two brothers were busy playing with each other and my mother was bathing my other one, I walked away and followed the shiny bright light.
I tried to catch it in my hands but for some reason it didn't want to be caught. I was so caught up in trying to catch the light that I didn't realize that someone was hiding behind the tall grass. As I caught the light one last time, I heard a shot and I was soon caught in a trap.
I cried and snarled out before three men picked me up and one of them spoke.
"She may not be an animal but she'll still sell for a big price".
"Put her in the trunk with the others" another spoke. I thrashed around and let out a cry for help to my Mama. The men put me in this large metal machine and soon took off. I kept crying and crying until I saw my Mama running just behind roaring up at me. She ran faster and faster until she lept in the car.
I tried to reach out for her but the metal trap they put me in kept me from reaching my mama. She managed to get herself in and she walked towards me and used her teeth to free me, but it was then one of the men held a gun in their hands and a loud bang was heard again. Next thing I saw was my mama rolling outside on the ground.
I cried out for her when suddenly the large machine stopped and I along with a few other animals were tossed around.
*3rd Person POV*
The poachers came out of the truck after their car broke down and crashed into a tree. They all complained to each other pointing the blame on the other when the leader silenced them and ordered them to get into defense position.
The men spread out with their guns drawn and as one of them held out his gun he heard a twig snap and turned to see nothing. That was until he looked up and saw a man in a cat suit.
Next thing the poachers, one of their men was tossed at the truck leaving a huge dent in the door. The Black Panther soon showed up and attacked another one of the poachers. T'Challa now stood before the remaining two and as the leader and his second in command were firing at T'Challa. He merely just walked towards them before striking the second in command.
The leader took out his knife and tried to stab T'Challa but he managed to dodge every swing until he grabbed the poacher's hand that was holding the knife and twisted it until he let go and heard it snap. The leader screamed in agony and T'Challa told him venomously.
"Poaching is illegal in these lands, you will be brought before the council and faced with the consequences". T'Challa then knocked the leader unconscious and walked towards the back to see the animals that were inside but was surprised to see another thing in the truck, or rather someone.
It was the child he had seen earlier today.
*My POV*
As I tried to get out of my cage, I saw the same Black Panther that my Mama faced earlier today come around into view. I froze in my spot just staring at him. It was then his panther face disappeared and it showed that he was actually a man.
He had deep dirty brown eyes and fur along his lips and chin and on top of his head. He almost reminded me of a growing lion. As he got closer to me, I snarled and hissed at him trying to be brave like my Mama.
"Easy, easy. I'm not going to hurt you". He held out his hands to me as he slowly came closer and closer to my cage. He then unlocked them and opened it up and proceeded to back away. "It's okay now, come on out now". I sniffed curiously and slowly crawled out of the cage. "That's it, it's okay. I won't hurt you". As I got out of the cage more, I looked between him and my way of escape.
Then like a shot I took off running as fast as I could with the Panther man behind me crying out for me. I raced down the trail until I came to my Mama. She was still down and there was red stuff around her head and fur. I walked up to her and nuzzled her fur and roared out to her. I shook her with my hands and bit into her ear but she still wouldn't wake up.
I roared at her as I felt wetness come down from my eyes then I curled up underneath my mama's paw and nuzzled her head as the wetness continued to come down my face. The Panther man soon came up close to me and I looked up at him and he looked at me with sad eyes.
"I am sorry". He then proceeded to come closer to me and my Mama but I stood over her growling and roaring at him. I let out a hiss but he raised his hands and said to me, "I won't hurt her, I promise". I glared at him. It was because of his kind that my Mama was dead.
Mama always warned us that ape-like creatures called Humans were always to blame for territory loss, stealing our food and killing us to extinction. Now because of his kind, my Mama is gone. But yet looking at his eyes, I felt like I could trust him. I ceased my snarling and just held onto my mama's body.
*T'Challa's POV*
As I looked down at this mother black panther, my heart sunk. She was only trying to save her cub, even though this was a human child, this mother panther looked at her like she was one of her own cubs. For her memory I decided to call this Pantheress "Kamunyak" meaning "Blessed One". I knew it would be dark soon and I had to get this child back to the palace to get her some warmth before the cold settled in.
Wakanda maybe the hottest places in Africa, but its nights are unpredictable. Some nights it would be cool enough to sleep outside, but sometimes they would be so unbearable cold. I gently touched her shoulders and could feel her fighting against me as I picked her up.
"Shhh, shh. Calm down, calm down" I told her in Wakandan. I had to get her calm because I didn't want her to hurt herself. She was raised to believe that she is a panther and I don't want her to bite into my suit and allow the Vibranium to hurt her. I placed her close to my chest and rubbed her back calming her in Wakandan. When it seemed to work, I kept her close and headed back to the jet to take her back to the palace.
When we arrived back at the palace, I had her put in a special room with a bed and warm food so that she could eat real food. And not knowing how long she has been in the jungle or when her last meal was, I took the liberty to give her the best and healthiest foods Wakanda has to offer.
As I observed her, my sister came back with some news. She pulled up on the screen as she stated.
"It turns out this girl comes from a village near Wakanda. It was attacked by some of Klaue's men and burned to the ground. She must've found a way to escape and has been living in the jungle since. How she's managed to survive for 5 years I do not know".
"A Mother panther raised her as one of her own cubs, it would seem Bast herself came down and decided to protect this child as if she were her own". I said out loud.
"You're telling me we have ourselves a Mowgli? Like that story and movie Baba showed us".
"It would seem so Shuri".
"What do you suggest then my King?" Okoye soon stated out.
"She is a child with no family to call her own, and her adoptive mother was shot and killed in front of her. This child needs the best care and only we can offer it".
"Brother are you suggesting that you are going to raise her?"
"I feel responsible for this child's mother's death. I cannot just let her die with no one to take care of her, knowing that we can teach her who she really is". I stated firmly. My general and sister looked at me then Okoye bowed her head and said.
"Just don't freeze when her feral stage comes back".
"What are you talking about? I never freeze" I stated. I then turned my attention back to the girl and decided to talk to her. I opened the door and shut it behind me. She instantly became alert of my presence and she got down in defense position baring her teeth at me. "Easy little one, I am not here to hurt you, may I sit down?" She seemed to understand me which was a good sign, at least then I knew she could understand me.
I took a seat far enough from her but kept my eyes on her in case anything were to happen.
"My name is T'Challa, do you remember your name?" She remained quiet and poked around the fruit and sniffing them like a cat would. I took a deep sigh and told her, "I know losing your Mama was hard, I lost my Baba not too long ago, and I would give anything to save him too. But I swear to you on my Baba's soul and that of your mother's, I will look after you and protect you. You will never be alone". She then looked up at me and I remained still as I saw her actually coming up towards me.
Slowly and cautiously, but sure enough she came right in front of me until she wrapped her arms around me and nuzzled into my chest. I placed my hand on top of her head and stroked her hair and slowly wrapped my arm around her to pick her up and place her in my lap and hold her in my arms as she nuzzled deeper into my chest.
Within several months of teaching and immense patience, I had given her the name (y/n) was soon learning how to be a human girl, learning how to eat properly, how to walk, learning the history of Wakanda, even learning how to speak both in English and Wakandan.
I along with Nakia and Shuri taught her everything she needed to know and were there to give her the love she deserved and needed. As night fell, I tucked (y/n) in after a long day of staying with Auntie Shuri in her lab while I dealt with some political matters after opening up Wakanda to the rest of the world. I stroked her hair and kissed her forehead and whispered to her.
"Goodnight my little panther cub". And as I turned off her light and was about to shut the door, I heard her voice say.
"Goodnight Baba". I let a warm smile take over me as I shut the door behind me and decided to turn in for the night myself.
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friendlylocalwhumper · a year ago
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“There you go, darling. You didn’t know you could scream that loud, did you?”
Their chest heaves with frantic, deep breaths. Their arms shake above their head, pulled taut and straining, holding all their weight. Soft, hoarse keens are falling from their lips in the aftermath of the longest, roughest scream pulled out of them yet. The muscles in their abdomen twitch and jump under his hand.
He smiles at them. Cards his fingers through hair once soft and gently layered with loose, bouncy curls, now limp and tangled. “Won’t you scream for me again, handsome?”
Lightning crackles from the wide, calloused palm pressed to their stomach, and Quinn’s body jolts. No scream comes, at first; their throat is locked up, breath stolen, eyes wide and brows arched with terrible pain. Their vision whites out but sensation continues, their whole body quaking with the force of the electricity crackling through them.
The screaming comes when he amps it up, making it burn worse, pushing it for too long. Quinn sucks in short breaths and howls in agony, swaying where they hang, toes scuffing against the floor.
It ends, what seems like hours later. The Hunter stands very close and watches them judder, listens to their wheezy, jagged breaths. His fist cinches tight in their hair, forcing their head back, baring their throat. Their skin tingles terribly. They twitch, still, random sharp movements putting worse strain on their arms, on their stretched ribcage.
“Can you handle more? Any more bravery tucked away in that pretty head, or do you need it to end?”
Quinn struggles to breathe, expression crumpling with desperation. They can handle more, they think - if it was their goal to hold out, to defy him, then they’d do it. But for the mission to work, they have to break. They have to make sounds for him and show emotion and be a sweet boy. And it’s just so much easier, anyway, to lean into their instinct to make it stop.
“Please, no more, I can’t, I need it to end, please let, let me down…” Brown eyes flutter, lips pulling into a thin line when he grabs their shoulder. He likes to break joints, Lux said. He likes, especially, to shatter shoulders so badly that they never work right again.
Quinn needs to keep their body working, in the long run.
But they need to succeed at their mission more. They’re willing to die, for this. Everything leading up to death - pain, permanent damage, losing control - it’s all an acceptable loss.
“I wonder what kind of sounds you’d make if I broke your shoulders and shocked you again. Your body shaking, twisting, hanging from twisted joints. I want to see it.”
Bottom lip quivering, Quinn blinks up at the ceiling, with their head forced back like this. Worth it. It’s worth it, to reach their goal.
“Ple-ease don’t,” They whisper, tremulous and frangible. He can break them. He is breaking them. And they’re not sure, anymore, how much of it is an act, and how much is just raw honest terror.
“Beg me again,” He answers eagerly. He’s soaking up all their suffering happily. They feel used.
Quinn licks their lips, nervous. “Please, don’t? I’m s-scared, I don’t - I just, wanna lie down. I-In your arms. Please?”
They can’t see him directly right now, but they shudder at his chuckle, at the knowing smile that shapes the sound. He stands closer, mouth near their earlobe, taking up all of their senses. The jackhammer pounding a frantic rhythm in their chest stutters.
“You think you can save yourself pain by being sweet? You think you’ve earned the mercy of being held? Maybe after I’ve broken enough of your body. Maybe when you’re choking on your tears. I’m in charge, you don’t get to ask for things.”
The dark, muttering anger makes their stomach drop. That’s one thing, that they can learn from - from whatever he’s going to do to them, now, for trying to shift his focus. He likes complete control. Lets it go, sometimes, to focus on a pretty expression of pain or stun his captive with comfort, but always snatches it back at the first hint of rebellion, of independence.
“I’m sorry,” They gasp, shaking again as if the lightning once more crackles under their skin. “I’m s-, I didn’t mean to-”
Tucked up against the corner of their jaw as it is, with their arms stretched above them, Quinn’s shoulder breaks with a loud crack by their ear. Their chest hitches in search of air to scream with - then the freshly snapped bone is yanked out of its socket with a thunk, and there’s the scream. A wail, really, jumping up into the register of something more like a screech. They need it to end they need it to stop, right now, please, please, but it doesn’t. His hand is wrapped around their shoulder, and he’s let go of their hair in favor of gripping their jaw, watching the tears beading in the corner of their eyes.
“I’m going to break the other one,” He says, eyes crinkled with joy, and they dissolve into shuddering sobs, begging for his mercy. The Hunter soaks it up as he wraps his fingers around their other shoulder, feels them press it against their cheek to try and protect it. “I’m going to break it worse. Can you imagine, this one being worse than the first one? You’re going to hear the sounds it makes, if you don’t scream over them. Just imagine how it’ll feel.” He waits, watching them process that, their skin sickly pale from the pain, their jaw wobbling. “You’re adorable when you’re overwhelmed, you know that?”
Hopeless, open-mouthed sobs spill out of them, in the moment before the magic comes - and then they hear a mess of snap-thud-crunch and their vision fades rapidly, nauseatingly to black.
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ineloqueent · a year ago
I’m not sure who else you write for but I keep thinking about enemies to lovers with Deaky. 😉 He kind of gives off those vibes, ya know? hehe
hello lovely! sorry this took me so long. i can literally never write anything short
hope you enjoy this!
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As a roadie, it was generally considered important to get along with the band.
And you did. For the most part.
On your first day, Freddie had clucked in dismay at the sight of your overalls and a washed out t-shirt, paired with scuffed Doc Martens.
“You’re not working as just anyone’s tech, darling. You’re working for Queen, and you’ve got to look the part.”
“Uh, Mr. Mercury—”
“Freddie, please.”
“Freddie,” you’d reiterated. “This is really the most practical thing to wear around here.”
“Hm. I suppose we do make more messes than we clean up,” Freddie conceded. “But surely, you can find something else to wear on show nights.”
“Um. Not really.” For most of your life, money had been tight, so fashion had not exactly been something that you could afford to prioritise.
Freddie looked horrified. “Well, we’ve simply got to do something about that, dear.”
And then he’d taken you shopping.
And paid for your new clothes, and insisted you come along on his future shopping trips.
You got along with Freddie.
A week into your employment with Queen, soundcheck had been an utter mess, because Brian’s guitar couldn’t be heard through any of the sound equipment, until you’d scaled a shaky ladder, crawled across some rickety scaffolding, and fixed a lead that had got loose and had disconnected everything else in the process.
Below, the other roadies and Brian had looked on in petrified silence. The rigging really was quite high above the stage, and you’d almost slipped and fallen more than once.
When you’d made it back down in one piece, Brian had called, “Drinks all ‘round!” and you’d been his most trusted sound tech from that day since.
You got along with Brian.
A few months ago, Roger had come running out of the dressing room screaming bloody murder about having put two much peroxide in his hair, the same mistake he’d made before a concert in Germany, in 1979. He’d been virtually hysterical when he’d realised that showtime was in less than an hour.
Around the room, laughter had been stifled, and no one had known what to do, but your cousin had once pulled a similar party trick, so you’d hurried down to the shops and bought a box of hair pigment stripper. You’d then had spent the better part of the remaining hour prior to the show working the stuff into Roger’s hair, because he was still in too much of a frenzied panic to manage it himself. You’d tried not to laugh, but it had really been very funny, how quickly he’d gone from behaving like a normal person to a petulant child.
Thankfully, Roger had laughed with you.
“I’m laughing in relief. This is definitely not in your job description. I owe you a drink, Y/N.”
You got along with Roger.
But you did not get along with John Deacon.
You didn’t know what it was, but he barely spoke to you, and when he did, it was out of necessity, and always in clipped tones.
You could only guess at what it was in you that repulsed the bassist so acutely.
Brian said he was just sore about Queen’s previous sound tech having left the job.
Roger said John was just overly finicky about his sound, and didn’t trust anyone but himself to get it right.
Freddie said that Deacy was just quiet, that you shouldn’t take his behaviour personally.
But though you tried, you couldn’t ignore it.
He was everywhere, because he was in the band, and because you worked for the band, you were everywhere that he was.
There was no avoiding him.
Even when you could avoid him, on your breaks, on the nights after the shows, on your days off, out of sight was not out of mind. You couldn’t shake the thought of how much he disliked you, because you had never given him reason to. And to be honest, you had never before encountered anyone who didn’t like you. It irked you that John was the first.
You’d started out by being as polite as humanly possible.
After that had fallen on deaf ears, you’d started to go out of your way to be kind and considerate toward him, offering to buy him a drink when you and the band and other crew headed for the local pub, to get him the missing lead at soundcheck, to run upstairs and grab the jacket he’d left but meant to wear. He always accepted, but he never softened toward you.
At first, his coldness had upset you, given how good friends you were with the rest of the band, but as time went on, you slipped into reluctant tolerance.
Tolerance didn’t mean acceptance, however, and the uneasiness that arose when John entered a room already occupied by you was palpable, felt by everyone.
He’d walk in, all quiet and composed, and his gaze would flick over you. Where his face remained expressionless, his eyes made up for it in their intensity, their green-grey tone casting shadows over you that could have eclipsed the sun in its entirety.
You always stared right back at him, daring him to ask you to leave, but he never did. He just stood there, twisting the diamond shaped ring he often wore, at once both hostile and pensive.
He’d break your gaze and go and sit with the others, and you’d exhale quietly, because you could never breathe when he stared at you like that. It felt as though a weight were pressing down on your sternum, your shoulders turned rigid, your skin prickled.
It was damn near unbearable.
You were unloading half a ton of equipment in Montreal when John walked past, uttering a quiet ‘good morning’ to a few roadies, nodding to others in greeting. You paused in shifting one of Brian’s many amps from the lorry, pushing your hair, matted with sweat, off your forehead.
You happened to look up as you caught your breath, your eyes accidentally drawn to John in the process.
He met your eyes briefly, but swept past without a word.
“D’you need help with that amp, Y/N?” Ratty, another tech, asked you, reaching out to brace the amp against his arm.
But you were distracted. “What the hell is his problem?” you muttered, still staring after John as he disappeared around the corner.
“Who?”
“Oh, come on, Ratty,” you set your hands on your hips. “John, obviously.”
Ratty let go of the amp, crossing his arms. “Why don’t you just ask him?”
“Ask him?”
“Yeah?” Ratty frowned with a look of puzzlement.
You scoffed. “Walk into the lion’s den, yeah, no thanks.”
Your retort was met with a shrug from the other roadie. “You’d never believe me if I told you, so I think you need to hear it from him.”
“Hear what from him?” you pushed. “What could he possibly have to say to me?”
“Many things, I’d say.”
“Well,” you said, hoisting the previously abandoned amp onto your hip, “I have nothing to say to him.”
With that, you took the amp and made for the stage. Vaguely, you could hear Ratty laughing as you left, and then his mate Crystal telling him to stop arsing about and actually help shift equipment.
Onstage, you stacked the amp amongst the others, careful not to set it too close to the floor where the bass would be overboosted.
“Y/N!”
You turned toward the sound and found Freddie joining you, smiling as always.
“Hello, Freddie,” you returned his smile. “What can I do for you?”
“Well for one thing, darling,” he said, clasping your hands in his, “you can come to my little after-show party tonight.”
You raised your eyebrows. “You think you’ll have the energy for that?”
Freddie waved his hand. “Of course, of course,” he assured you enthusiastically. “Never worry about my energy supply, dear, it’s practically bottomless. Just worry about what you’re wearing tonight, because it bloody better not be those overalls.”
You laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of wearing these outside of my working hours.”
“Good. I should think I’ve taught you something.”
“Not at all,” you grinned.
Freddie shook his head at you. “Anyway, bring your lost-cause self to my hotel suite at midnight.”
“Will do, Fred.”
The rest of the afternoon passed with an uneventful round of soundcheck, and in the evening, the show went smoothly. Of course, this was Queen, so smoothly did not quite do the show justice. Magnificent might have, though.
When the show had finished and a hefty amount of clean-up had been done, you made your way to Freddie’s as promised, knocking politely on his hotel room door.
Someone called, “I’ll get it!” and you rubbed your hands up and down your arms while you waited, a little on edge about going inside. John would likely be there. There would be no way of avoiding him.
And then, in one heartstopping moment before the door swung open, you recognised the voice that had called out.
But it was too late to turn around and flee in the other direction.
John opened the door, and almost as though on cue, the brilliant smile that had illuminated his eyes, his mouth, the whole of his face, faded.
He still was dressed in his concert outfit— a bright blue from head to toe that brought out his eyes in stark contrast— and his permed hair sat in a gorgeously soft bundle atop his head, looking like he’d just run his hands through it.
“Hi,” you hazarded.
“Hello,” he replied flatly, not moving from where he stood in the doorway. His standoffishness nearly made you squirm, it was so overbearing. “Oh,” he said after a moment of motionlessness, “come in.”
“Thanks,” you murmured awkwardly, as it was Freddie’s hotel room and Freddie’s party, but it seemed the only thing to say.
“May I take your coat?”
You whirled around to find John holding out a hand, his expression oddly gentle in temperament. Almost as though he were trying to be friendly.
You frowned in confusion, then realised how this must have looked and nodded in response to his question.
You didn’t expect him to help you out of it, but that he did, his fingers curling around your collar and skimming down your shoulders as you shrugged the coat off into his hands. His touch was light, and yet it made the little hairs of your arms stand on end, a shiver passing down your spine.
You turned around as he took the coat from you, but you’d misjudged the distance between the two of you and nearly collided with him.
Nearly. But maybe a collision would have been better.
You found that now, your palms resting on his chest, was definitely the worser option.
He’d breathed in sharply, and his hands hovered at your waist.
You pulled back your hands, a blush fanning over your cheeks as you stepped back, glancing away. You were mortified.
“Sorry,” you apologised quietly, and in your peripheral vision, John looked equally embarrassed, one hand resting over the back of his neck as his eyes bored into the floor.
“It’s okay,” he said, then walked past you into the next room. “Y/N’s here,” he told the others.
You followed John and found Freddie, Roger, Roger’s girlfriend Dominique, Brian, Ratty, Crystal, and a couple of other girls assembled around the radio that sat on the coffee table.
Hellos were offered to you in greeting, and Freddie grinned at you.
“Y/N! Just the person we need.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I’m not here to work, Freddie,” you joked.
“Nor is the radio, it would appear. And what’s a party without music?”
“You’re a band, play some,” said Crystal, and Roger elbowed him in the ribs.
You folded your arms as Freddie eyed you pleadingly.
“Can’t John fix it?” you asked, and John glanced over, seemingly surprised that you remembered this aptitude of his. “Haven’t you got a degree in electrical engineering, or something?”
John nodded, “I have. But all those years of studying and exams wasn’t enough, apparently. I can’t get it to work.”
You smiled bemusedly. “The legendary John Deacon can’t fix a radio?”
John crossed his arms. “You fix it then, smarty pants.”
“Look out, Y/N,” Brian laughed as oooohs were chorused by the others, and John stared you down.
He was always staring you down. But for once, he was the one daring you to say something, not the other way around. And say something you would.
“Alright, then. Hand it over,” you beckoned to Freddie, and he passed you the radio with a glance between you and John.
You picked up a screwdriver from the coffee table, then tiny pliers and electrical tape.
Moments late, when you switched on the radio, pop music blared loudly and clearly.
They all erupted into cheering and clapping, with the exception of John.
“Impressive,” he said but it sounded like sarcasm. Then he left.
He just left.
The others quieted, and you stared after John as he opened the door to Freddie’s balcony and went outside.
“Am I really so detestable that he needs to leave every place I go?” you demanded of the silent onlookers.
Freddie frowned in sympathy, Roger looked uncomfortable, and Brian winced as though you’d told him that he personally was at fault for John’s behaviour.
“I think you should talk to him,” said Ratty, for the second time that day.
You surveyed the room, feeling your anger grow thicker, creep up your skin in a flush of acrylic-paint red. “You know what,” you said, “I think I will.”
“Y/N!” Dominique called after you, and you turned back. “Be kind.”
You frowned in puzzlement. “Okay…” you said, without fully understanding what she meant.
Dominique nodded, and you made for the balcony door.
Outside, John was leaning his elbows on the railing, looking out over the twinkling skyline of Montreal. Tonight, the moon hung high above in a waxing crescent, like a shard of light bleeding into the sky from a rift in the universe where night was day.
The wind was cool, and you wrapped your arms around yourself in an attempt to retain some warmth.
John had yet to realise your presence; he was fully immersed in gazing out over the view, lost in thought. The lights of the city reflected in his eyes, and up above his curly head, there was a whisper of starlight. He seemed dreamlike in the way the light caught on his face, the outline of his nose and mouth rendered soft by the dimness of the balcony.
You could almost pretend that there was no hatred between you, that his presence did not turn your insides to mush, that yours did not cause him to turn away, to leave.
“John.”
He startled, pressing a hand over his heart. “You nearly gave me a heart attack,” he said, straightening up slowly.
“Sorry,” you apologised.
John only shook his head in response, and returned his eyes to the view of the city. Before he’d noticed you, you’d been content to let him stare off into the shadowy sky, but now he knew you were there, it was just plain rude of him to ignore you.
“What is your problem?”
John twitched, turning to face you. “Excuse me?”
“I asked what the hell your problem was.”
His brow furrowed. “With what?”
You couldn’t stand his confusion, the feigned innocence. It was enough to make you want to yell at him.
“Christ, John,” you said exasperatedly. “How can you ask? You hate me, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.”
John blinked. “I hate you? You’re one to talk.”
“And you never are!” you exclaimed. “You never say anything. You just— you just stand there.”
And stare at me. Like if you stared for long enough, I’d disappear. Like you want me to.
“Oh, so it’s wrong to stand still now, is it?” The easy sarcasm in his voice baited you. It was infuriating, how calm he was.
“Why are you defensive?”
“Why do you have to know everything?!” John threw up his arms, finally fighting back.
“This isn’t everything,” you protested, “this is just me asking why it is you can’t stand to be around me when I’ve never been anything but nice to you.”
John fell quiet. His voice was mild when he spoke again. “You really think I hate you?”
“Yes!” you cried.
“I don’t mean… I don’t mean to be that way.”
“Then what do you mean, John?”
“I don’t…” he drew a heavy breath, his hands going to his hair. “I don’t know. I’m just—”
You folded your arms. “Just what?”
“I’m just sick of this!”
“And this,” you muttered, “is why we can’t have a civil conversation.”
“I’m sick of you!” he shouted, before his eyes widened, like he’d said too much.
He had. You were affronted.
“Excuse me?!”
But whatever swell of anger had previously possessed him had subsided.
“You make me sick to my stomach,” he whispered, and if the wind had blown at that moment, you wouldn’t have heard him. But there was no wind, and his words hung suspended between you, curled through the air like smoke. You breathed them in, you didn’t speak.
“You’re really making me say this?”
The thoughts in your head had gone suddenly quiet. “Making you say what?” you asked slowly.
Across from you, John bit his lip. He looked at his shoes, then back up at you.
“I get fucking butterflies all the time, and god knows I don’t need them when it’s already hard enough to talk to you.”
You sucked in a breath. “Are you— are you intimidated by me?”
“Intimidated?” he laughed. “Congratulations, Y/N, you’ve made the greatest understatement of the year.”
You couldn’t believe it. John Deacon, intimidated by you.
“But… how?”
“Everything,” he said, and you noticed that his hands were shaking. “Every goddamn thing about you is so intimidating. I— I have no idea how to speak, how to move, how to breathe.”
“John,” you murmured, “what are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” he sighed shakily, “you’re rivetingly smart and you always seem to know what to say—”
“I never know what to say!”
“And there you go again,” he shook his head with a fond little smile you’d only ever seen directed at Freddie or Roger or Brian. “You’re honest. It’s so refreshing, when everyone I try to get to know just plays up their charm because I’m a bloke in a band.”
Your face twisted. “You’re saying I’m charmless?”
“No, no, not at all. You’re charming. Very charming.”
“I—” You’d opened your mouth to speak, and realised you had nothing to say.
But then he was staring at you again, for the thousandth time, only now, his eyes were soft and his head was canted slightly to one side, and his breath rose and fell in his chest shudderingly, as though he were fighting for air as much as you.
And then he leaned forward and touched his lips to yours.
Your breath caught.
Your heart rose in your chest as his hand rose to your chin, holding onto you gently, pulling you closer, kissing you in a rush of warmth. His mouth was soft and his fingers were light on your skin, and you sank into his arms, feeling the steady hum of his heart reverberate through you where your hands pressed against him.
He smelled of fresh air and soap, and for all the resolute firmness he had always treated you with, no one had ever touched you more delicately than this, with such care that you might have believed yourself a flower, blooming beneath his caress.
He paused, and when you opened your eyes, you found green-grey gazing back at you. He ran his thumb softly over your lower lip.
“You’ve charmed me,” John whispered, and his smile could have rivaled the sun.
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